WiggleWood

Walking Danny...

2010-03-03T08:44:00.000-08:00

Last summer I taught Danny how to grab his leash out of a basket and bring it to me when it’s time for a walk.

I tried different scenarios: a basket with a handle was a bad idea, his head got stuck; a basket in the corner of the living room didn’t work, he nosed it all around the room. The flat basket under the piano is perfect.

All it takes is me getting a plastic bag out of the kitchen drawer, putting on my shoes, and reaching for a sweatshirt – and he’s there. All big, sloppy tongue and prancing, wiggly butt. “Awrhhnnngh!” he snorts and wiggles. “You wanna go, too?” I ask? He whines and wiggles some more. “OK, get your leash, let’s go!” Then I ask him to get his leash about a dozen more times, while clapping my hands, slapping my knees and pointing fiercely in the direction of the basket. I work up a sweat before I ever head out the door. He’s brilliant. Eventually, though, he got to where he brought the leash to me while I was putting my shoes on. And sometimes when I’m just putting some recycling in the kitchen drawer he thinks it might be time for a walk and he brings his leash into the kitchen and drops it at my feet. He’s even been known to wake out of a dead slumber in the middle of the afternoon and decide it’s time. Sometimes he just stands next to the basket, looking down at it forlornly. Like I said, he’s gotten good.

So that’s why Steve and I are a little frustrated and confused about the latest turn of events: we haven’t been able to get Danny to bring us his leash for the last several evening walks. He still does the whine and the wiggle, but the leash sits quietly in the basket. No amount of knee slapping or earnest cajoling will convince him. He will run to the plastic bag drawer, but he completely ignores the basket. Steve gets fed up and grabs it for him, but I feel like that’s a huge step backward. He knows how to get his leash—I taught him!

So last night I worked at it for quite a while. I even walked over and jiggled the leash for him, “See? Here it is, Dan! Come and get your leash, let’s go for a walk!” Back to the door I went and back he came with me—no leash. Had he been there, I’m sure Caesar the Dog Whisperer would have been appalled; even the kids meandered into the living room to watch the dog in his shameful display of forgetfulness. But I was determined. I kept at it until Danny sat down heavily at my feet, exhausted from the effort of getting me out the front door. I knew how he felt. Apparently we weren’t going for a walk.

Steve told me I was exhibiting remarkable patience. Nobody ever tells me that.

Finally I stalked over, grabbed the leash out of the basket, threw it around Danny’s neck, and yelled what a good dog he was for getting his leash. Off we went.

While we walked we discussed what the problem could be. He was getting it—he had it really—and all of a sudden he can’t do it? Strange. We decided he was just getting old. I told Steve how great it is that Danny’s been getting so much exercise lately, with Sam taking him for a run several times a week in addition to our evening strolls. “But of course Sam doesn’t use a leash, he just opens the door and races off,” I laughed. “I guess Danny is so excited to follow him he doesn’t have time to wander.”

We both looked at each other. “Sam doesn’t use a leash?” Steve asked. We kept walking while we thought about that.

I guess our dog is trying to tell us he’s ready for no training wheels. Either that or walks are more fun without a leash.

__________

The cats love it…

2009-12-16T10:40:00.000-08:00

There’s nothing like Christmas for kittens.

First come out all the new decorations and toys around the house. Stockings hang from the fireplace, with bells! Teddy bears lounge on the couches, lights surround the windows, and candles flicker on the mantel. Even the dog has a new, red scarf and a jingle bell. It all requires inspection and paw-batting and delicate sniffing.

Next comes the tree: a giant evergreen in the living room? How fun, how unusual, how fragrant! They circle and sniff and lie down beneath it; they are confused, yet content.

Finally, the tree is dressed up with more toys that twinkle and sway, hanging just out of reach. The kittens jump and paw and pull the toys off, again and again.

They are exhausted from their efforts. Better sleep now, who knows what may happen tomorrow!

(Steve has secured the tree to the curtain rods with fishing line, just in case.)

It's the little things...

2009-10-09T22:10:00.000-07:00

The other day I forwarded an article by Anna Quindlen to all my friends with children. It was her unequivocally joyful essay on having raised her children, not perfectly, not without incident—sometimes painful or embarrassing—but successfully nonetheless; raised them to adulthood and citizenship and life on their own. Without exception, my friends who replied said it made them cry. Some even admitted they blubbered. But why does the thought of a job well done make us cry? Is it the memory of good times? Is it because we worry that the best is now behind us, that the future can’t possibly hold the fierce joy we once experienced? Or is it that we remember only the one regret? One friend told me she appreciated the sentiment and was grateful to have grandchildren to give her a second chance.

I admit the article affected me the same as everyone else. I needed tissues to read to the end. The article resonated especially because I, too, have three children who repeatedly make me proud and amazed, angered and chagrined. Each day brings something new, and I learned long ago I should try to cherish the little things.

One April 1st, Steve and I got up to find our underwear drawers had been switched. All my panties and tanks were in Steve’s drawer, all his boxers and briefs were in mine. Maddy peeked deviously from around the corner of our door, “April Fools!” she shouted gleefully. Funny, this was three years ago and we still haven’t changed it back.

The other day my fifteen year old son let me give him a hug. Not the stiff kind you get with the “Oh, mom, c’mon” drawn out along with it. But the warm kind, firm and confident, the kind a mother holds onto just a little too long.

Sometimes it’s just dinner time that makes my day. It’s not what we’re eating, but that we’re all at the table—talking together, sharing, laughing, hollering at each other.

Other times it’s the things that seem little to everyone else, but to me they are huge. I am struck by my eldest’s inability to stay in touch from his college dorm clear across the country. At my latest book club retreat, I jokingly said, “Andrew should call home more often….than never!” and Lisa was hesitant to say she hears from her daughter nearly every day. They all agreed, “That’s boys. They won’t call home, they won’t send letters, but they’ll arrive home for Christmas with a suitcase full of dirty laundry!” But that’s not Andrew, I say to myself, though I’m sure he has no idea what I do with his unresponsive silence. Is he OK? Is he really too busy? Is he overwhelmed, overworked, or just frustrated?

My better half says it’s alright that he doesn’t call. He doesn’t need to. He is confident in himself and the place he came from and the solidity of his family. We are the wind beneath his wings—he doesn’t look back as he soars over new sights and new places, because he doesn’t need to.

Andrew called home last night. It was just a little thing, but it meant a lot to me.

Memories...

2009-07-27T23:59:00.000-07:00

I’ve been looking for some blogworthy topic to add to my, as yet, insignificant collection of stories, but I didn’t want it to be schmaltzy; I’m tired of that and I’m sure you are too. On the other hand, I’m not ready for anything brutally honest either. So, I’ve been waiting.

Yesterday, my friend Lesa sent me a link to this YouTube video (and then of course my mother sent it to me again, since she is not want to read the to: line on any email message – I think her motto is, “anything worth seeing once is worth seeing twice” or even three times.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4-94JhLEiN0&feature=player_embedded

I sat down on the couch with Andrew this evening, along with the more needy of our two new kittens, Maddy’s Twila (she’s also been christened MixTape by Sam, and Andrew calls her Debby, short for Debussy; he nicknamed the more jazzy, brutish kit-sister Star, Ellington, or Ellie for short; Sam’s name for Star/Ellie is M.Schneek – I’m absolutely certain I’ve spelled that wrong) and we watched the video. All I have to say, is: Anjelica and Steven Wiens, if I had only known you then... When the groomsmen in their tan tuxes and jouncy moves started jamming down the aisle, and the ladies in their salmon-pink dresses did their best to follow with a few rhythmic moves, we were hooting with laughter and joy. “Welcome to the YouTube generation!” I shouted to Andrew. Seriously, you have to watch this video, preferably with a glass of wine.

Me, I was moved immediately by nostalgia.

In five short months Steve and I will celebrate twenty years of wedded bliss. I well remember the day. I was at the church early with my whole family, setting up poinsettias around the alter and tying rich, green grosgrain bows onto the pews (I’d learned to make them with my godfather’s sister just the week before – Dear Daisy, she ended up making most of the bows, but I was proud of the few I turned out on my own). Steve was good enough to breeze in about 15 minutes before the ceremony, going on about something with plumbing and showers at our new (fixer-upper) house. My friend Heid will remember I was a little stressed and may have flipped him a bird or two…

The men wore classic black tuxedos (it was December and Seattle blessed us with a nice smattering of snowflakes during the ceremony on Capitol Hill) and the ladies wore merlot and evergreen ensembles. I wore my Grandma’s satin wedding dress, feeling the weight of time and memory and the future, heavy around me. To the powerful tones of Clarke’s Trumpet Voluntary, we waited for our cue. (Joe, please don’t remind me how the church speakers somehow simultaneously picked up a local radio station.) It was beautiful, I remember. As we stood waiting outside the sanctuary doors, we heard the solo trumpet soar above it all and my dad and I looked at each other, “Let’s get this over with,” he said and smiled. We held hands as we walked down the aisle, the church packed full of relatives and friends, all wishing Steve and me well as we started on this big adventure at our young age.

Steve was waiting for me at the end of the aisle, his eyes glistening with tears. “Hey Mister,” I said and squeezed his arm. “Let’s get on with it.” And so we have. For nearly twenty years.

Jill and Kevin, I don’t know you, but hey, Congratulations to you both – and kudos to your friends and family for inviting all 9 million (as of today) of us YouTube viewers to join in the fun of your wedding. We loved it and we’ll say a toast to you as we celebrate twenty years and then some.

Oh dear. That was schmaltzy after all, wasn’t it!? I’ll do better next time, I promise.

Sorting things out...

2009-05-08T12:45:00.000-07:00

Have you ever noticed how everyone has a different way of sorting things out?

I wring my hands -- actively and figuratively. When something is bothering me, people around me know it. I talk about it, in circles; I yell about it; I belabor it. To death. Just when you thought I was over it, I bring it up again, just a few more times.

My mom makes lists. Before trips or big events, there are lists taped everywhere: on the bathroom mirror, on the front door, on the refrigerator, on the carefully stacked boxes or bags by the door (what goes to who and by when). Sometimes the list is just a single item ("shoes!"), sometimes it's several pages long.

Sam has an overwhelming need to be outside when he's troubled by something. On his busiest days -- full of homework, tests, or back-to-back events -- Sam always takes time to go outside first and shoot some hoops, throw a baseball, or just run down the street. Somehow he's able to come inside and knuckle down after that...usually.

I've noticed my Book Club Ladies can sort through an amazing array of things just by walking. We head off in a group, spaces naturally developing between us as we drift into groups of two or three. We continue a conversation, check on issues in our lives, share stories. Listening, nodding, offering suggestions, we get it done. By the time we're back, we feel good -- we're part of a tribe, we support one another.

Andrew's pattern of sorting is so predictable as to be comforting (to those of us not doing the worrying, anyway). “Mom?” it always starts... ”Here’s the thing...” and then usually, "Well...hm." Not two minutes later, the piano keys start banging, the feet start stomping and the real sorting-out process begins. The noise is loud and jarring, discordant and jangly. Soon, though, a rythym appears, notes flow together and form...music. Just as I start to relax and enjoy what he’s creating, he stops, stands up, and walks away. The process is complete, he's sorted it out.

A special day...

2009-02-16T12:09:00.000-08:00

Today is my father’s birthday, he would have been 78 years old.

Some days I know that everyone was right when they said, “Time will heal the pain.” Other times I realize they didn’t know what they were talking about.

Having someone in your life who is such a strong force, so much a part of who you are and what you do, is wonderful. I was lucky to have him—we all were. But losing someone like that is beyond sorrow, it’s a loss that lays quietly in the back of your mind and the bottom of your heart, one that hits you hard again, years later, for reasons that surprise you.

Daddy died of complications from multiple myeloma on April 8, 1996, two days before little Sam turned two years old. Andrew was almost five and didn’t understand where Großvater had gone. He ran into his room the day after and hollered in his usual commanding voice, “Großvater, where are you? Are you hiding in the closet? Are you under the bed?”

What do you say to that? How do you tell this little boy that the man who held him so competently from the day he was born, who rolled up his sleeves in the delivery room in preparation for his birth (just in case the tardy physician didn’t show); who patiently walked him back and forth while he cried in colicky pain and his weary parents lay spent on the couch; who read to him, played with him, bounced him on his knees; who introduced him to milchreis, taught him how to whistle into a pen cap, and sternly lowered his eyebrow in occasional disapproval; who beamed in wicked, grandfatherly pride as he let him sip from a beer bottle; who helped bathe and put him to bed every Tuesday night and made sure his room was carefully set up to his liking when we moved into a new house: this man is gone, Andrew.

And yet, somehow he lives on. In our memories, in his sister’s smile, his son’s laugh, in his daughter’s eyes, and his granddaughter’s shiny, dark hair. He is in a Beethoven piano sonata and the warm aroma of pflaumenkuchen. He is there behind a discussion of epidemics or space telescopes and in the tipping of vanilla sugar into whipping cream. His voice is in the waves as they crash on a rocky Washington beach and his calm hand is in the touch of moss on a rainforest hike. His name comes up in conversation and we turn wistful and joyful at the same time. He was here with us for a while and we are lucky.

There are a few wonderful people in this world, in this life. You were certainly one of them, Dad.

Happy Birthday, I love you.

__________

The snowflakes came down...

2009-02-01T19:07:00.000-08:00

I committed the last act of de-Christmasizing the house this morning. I know, it’s February, you’re probably rolling your eyes. My dad used to leave his tree up until his birthday, though (February 16th, but since he was German and they don’t put their trees up until Christmas eve, unlike we Americans who rush out the day after Thanksgiving looking for the perfect evergreen, it’s not as bad as it sounds). We absolutely had to take down the outdoor Christmas lights earlier because Maddy plugs them in every day when she comes home from school and soon we were the only house on the block crazily blazing. After January, it seems, well, unseemly.

But I didn’t have the heart until this morning to take down the paper snowflakes that we taped up all over the dining room windows this year. Somehow they signified more than Christmas for me – they were part of a good memory, part of a season of friends and good times and simple gifts.

It all started with our annual visit to a local nursing home for Christmas caroling, which turned out kind of special this year. The kids always invite several friends along and some diehard parents come, too (I love you, Kim!) and then everyone comes back to our house for hot drinks and cookies, and people come and go as the evening winds on. It’s the beginning of Christmas for us, the end of school for two weeks for the kids, and it’s quickly becoming my favorite tradition.

As I said, this year was special…

First, there was the snow. It started the night before and came down like I hadn’t seen in years (not since I was a kid and we used the Sand Point Country Club’s golf course for toboggan racing!). It stuck and then it snowed some more. At first I considered canceling the event. Schools were closed and Seattle was pulling its usual scared-of-the-snow routine. I assumed many people wouldn’t be able to get here. But then I realized that those folks in the nursing home weren’t going anywhere, not today or any day really, and since we are so close we would just walk. Sure, we’d be a smaller group, but we few would just sing louder. So, I called the activities coordinator at Park West Nursing Center and told her we were still coming. “Good!” she said. “The tap dancers before you have canceled, so the folks will be in need of some diversion.” Next I called all the friends we had invited, “Singing is ON, please come if you can.”

Now, Sam is 14 and he thought he’d outgrown singing at the nursing home. He told me he wasn’t inviting anyone this year, none of his friends would be interested anyway. I said fine, but he still had to be there and sing. Steve had left early that morning under the motto “The University never shuts and neither does its real estate office,” I guess. He said it wasn’t likely he’d be able to get back here by 3:00 for singing. Andrew said Diane was sick and couldn’t make it and two of Maddy’s friends said they wouldn’t be coming either. Humpf, small group indeed. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

But suddenly, somehow, both the phone and the doorbell started ringing. “I’m coming!” Kim hollered, “Jan’s on his way, too!” Suzanne called to say that both Max and Gabe were walking the two miles in the snow, they’d be here shortly, and we should watch out for Tizo, who really wanted to sing. Linda said she and Kirsten would make it (four-wheel drive) and could she pick up anyone else on the way? My mom and Bear, recently moved from Whidbey Island to High Point’s new development in West Seattle (and finally able to be around for these kinds of events!), were bound and determined not to let a little snow stop them, “We’ll be there!” So I found myself throwing mittens and scarves at various people as we all headed out the door and into the snow around 2:30. I walked along with Kim and we marveled at how much all the kids had grown since we started this singing tradition nearly ten years ago. Andrew, Jan and Max are young men now, with low voices and plans for post-high school and Maddy is no longer riding on my hip. And Sam…

As we neared Admiral Way, I heard some kids yell from across the street, “Sam!” It was Toby and Nick and Alaine. Turns out Sam had invited friends after all.

We were more than twenty people packed into the elevator and pouring out to sing to the residents on each floor. And, just when I thought I would burst from the warm feelings I had for all these young kids and old people, my throat tight with emotion and unable to join in for our 5th rendition of “Let it Snow” (a particular favorite that day), the elevator door opened and out walked Steve. When he caught my eye and smiled, my day was complete.

We all arrived back at the house, red-cheeked and happy, and consumed glühwein and hot cider, cookies and crackers with cheese. Soon, Sam and Maddy and their buddies disappeared wherever they go, down the street for sledding, down to the basement for gaming. Andrew’s crowd and we adults were left sitting around the table, chatting and eating and drinking. “Hey!” I said, “Let’s make snowflakes!” Everyone grinned and, I swear, not one person said it was one of my harebrained ideas. I threw several pairs of scissors and a pile of white paper on the table.

I had no idea how creative these people were. Suzanne produced a line of dancing mermaids on one “flake” and next she made one with a circle of cats, tails almost waving in the air. Linda’s looked as if they’d been intricately etched out of lace and I had to check her scissors to be sure they weren’t somehow different from the ones I was using. Jan fashioned a twin set of grinning frogs when he mistakenly cut through two pieces of paper instead of one. Steve forgot you had to start with a square to get a circle, but his elaborate rectangles turned out to be crowd pleasers. The rest of us muddled through, creating something beautiful out of paper in spite of ourselves.

As fast as we could make them, Kim taped them up on the windows until we were surrounded by our artwork on the inside, while Mother Nature’s own handiwork continued to fall softly outside.

I was hooked. From that moment on, everybody who walked in our front door during the entire Christmas season had to make a snowflake. “Come on,” I cajoled Thomas, who eventually surprised himself with his unique design; Jeremy obliged me at Christmas dinner, producing two of my favorites, which we taped one over the other creating a double snowflake; and Papa sat down to cut his very first snowflake at age 69. Each one joined the others on the windows until there was no room for more.

It was fun. It was something different in our typical rush of Christmas hecticity. And I smile as I look at all the snowflakes, conjuring up each person in my mind. I didn’t want to take them down today, but I decided we could just do this again next year. In fact, I might think of something else that people can do when we gather together, maybe impromptu haiku or interpretive dance.

So, watch out if you’re planning a visit any time soon, I haven’t lost my touch…

On purpose and Hope and getting started…

2009-01-19T16:25:00.000-08:00

Should a personal story blog provide perspective on events going on in the world around us or simply add levity to counteract the drama? Or both? You’ve probably already noticed I’m going with both.

I haven’t posted in a while, but it’s not because good (and funny!) things haven’t been happening, because they certainly have.

For instance, I planned to write about a walk I took the other night with Steve, Maddy and Danny, a story I think you’ll find almost as entertaining as I do.

I hope to share some impressions from my friend Steven’s wedding, a moving and memorable event.

I wanted to write about the simple act of kindness in friendship and my gratefulness for Suzanne (who turns our teenage-rearing problems into hilarious stories, and who buys me hard-to-find Tove Jansson books and fresh croissants from Bakery Nouveau) and Nona (who recently drove me all the way to Ocean Shores and back in one day, just to pick up my laptop, and even provided homemade snacks, an attentive and discerning ear, and her own car for the trip!) and Anjelica and Emily (who make it so easy for me to be with them that no matter how many months go by I can still settle in for an evening of Firehouse Red, good stories, and belly-aching laughs that make me feel young again) and Lisa (who calls just to ask if I’d like to see a movie and persists with the planning around our busy schedules until it happens). Good people, good friends.

It’s hard to write about the good times, though, amidst all the bad things that are happening. The latest flooding in western Washington was sobering. We drove through the devastation on Highway 12 from McLeary to Elma and beyond, and witnessed boats tied up to front porches, livestock standing forlornly in drowned pastures, houses surrounded by muddy havoc. I hear daily reports of home foreclosures, financial ruin, and layoffs that come increasingly closer to home. I watch as new and angry outbursts of violence and retaliation erupt around the world. In my coursework for school I read about failed social justice programs and misguided public policy. Things seem pretty bleak.

And yet, is there Hope?

Tomorrow people will look up for a moment and focus on the changing of the guard. All eyes will be on a man who has promised much and, it seems, may have the capacity to deliver. Our nation’s future and our confidence rest on the ideas and courage of this man.

Or do they? And should they? Many of the problems we’re currently facing are a result of our own indifference and lack of care in our own affairs and those of people around us. Can we each honestly say we’ve been diligent and thoughtful with our learning, our buying, our saving, our helping of a neighbor? I’m afraid I can’t.

It is time for difficult decisions and broadening horizons. An aggressive agenda for progress and unity has been set. We will watch how our new President handles the inevitable political maneuverings for compromise that will attempt to pull him to one side or another. But it is we who believed him, we who elected him, and we who will now have to help him.

Be strong, Mr. Obama, in your resolve to be a President for us all, for a United States of America.

It likely won’t be quick, it certainly won’t be easy, and it may not be exactly what we Hoped for, but we will help you get started.

Tribute to a good neighbor...

2008-12-22T23:42:00.000-08:00

We try to encourage our children to be independent. Combined with a little creativity, this can be a good thing.

Recently, Andrew had a gig with Active Ingredients and Sam had a black belt ceremony to attend (not his). Around 6:30, Steve and I decided to head for Ballard and the annual NW Harvest fundraising concert by NW Chorale, to put us in the holiday spirit. Maddy was working on a Mr. Ferris Project that might or might not get done by the Monday morning due date, so we left her home with strict instructions.

Keep the doors locked. Don't light candles, don't use the stove. The dog stays with you. Finish your report. Sam will be home by 8:00. Keep the doors locked.

That's the abbreviated version.

We drove away with some gray, foul-looking clouds on the horizon, found the church on the 2nd try, and slipped in, completely unnoticed, to the back row of the tightly packed sanctuary. I waved at my godfather Sam, who sings in the chorale, but he didn't wave back.

The concert was just what we needed. Short, sweet, fun, musical. Steve was handsome, the pew was comfy, the acoustics were fine, I was pretty happy. When we left, the streets were already covered with a heavy dusting of fresh snow, and everything looked perfectly Christmas-like.

The mischievous look that Maddy met us with when we arrived home set me on edge. "How'd you make out?" I asked (my kids hate it when I ask that). "OK, but I locked myself out on the deck," she said.

We have a history of getting locked out on our deck. All five of us, plus various and sundry friends and relatives, have done it. The deck sits suspended high above the back yard with no external stairs, sort of like an eagle's nest. Once you're out there, if the doors to the dining room are locked, you're out there.

"Ugh. What happened?" I groaned. "Well," she said "Don't worry, I was creative..."

When the snow began to fall, Maddy watched it from the window for a while. Snow at Christmas time is always wonderful, especially for a kid, and Seattle gets very little, usually gone by the next morning (usually!). She couldn't stand it, so she opened the deck door and held out her hand to feel the flakes fall cold and soft. Next her toes needed to feel the chill. As Danny nudged her heels, she stepped all the way out onto the deck and closed the door behind her. Click.

She quickly tried first one door, then the next, jiggling the knobs energetically. Both were locked tight. Danny sat helpfully on the other side of the glass. Dressed only in jeans and a short-sleeved t-shirt, the novelty of being out in the snow soon wore off. She looked over the side of the deck. Quickly, she scaled the railing, stepped onto the side of the monkey bars (which her father wisely built for her beneath the deck boards) and flipped herself deftly down 10 feet, into the new snow. Cold! She scuttled over to where we keep a spare key, but instead of the key, a tired old spider with knobby grey knees came shuffling out of the hole. Maddy debated for one second and then raced up the path, around the fence, and straight to Patty's house next door.

Our neighbor Patty is good as gold. Better really. She's the kind of neighbor people dream of having when they first move into a house. She knows everyone on the block and all their stories. She keeps a tidy home and a beautiful, fragrant garden. And she and I routinely engage in some good, old-fashioned, neighborly sharing. I have been known to borrow eggs, milk, oil, cumin, recipes, dishes, garden tools, plants, books, and luggage, over the years. And she borrows...well, once she asked me if I had any bottled smoke flavoring that she needed for a new recipe she was trying out. I didn't have any. But, if she ever needs anything else, I'm sure she knows where to come.

We provide Patty with an endless supply of neighborly entertainment, too. She doesn’t mind Sam’s drumming one bit (except maybe not past 10 PM, please), and when Danny was just a puppy, he ran next door and stole her sandwich, right off her plate on the patio table! That was good fun. Once, Danny snuck in through her kitchen side door and ate every bit of cat food in the dish, freaking out both the cat and Hank, who thought it was an intruder. That was entertainment for Patty, Hank, AND the cat, sort of a three-for-one deal. She doesn't mind baseballs in her roses, leaves falling into her yard from our hopeless cherry tree, or dragging out our garbage and recycling cans when we go on vacation. Good as gold.

Patty opened her door and found Maddy, with a big smile, arms hugging herself tightly, and her bare toes turning bright red. "Hi Patty, isn't this snow just great? Can I borrow our house key? I seem to have locked myself out." Maddy said she knew Patty would be upset by her lack of shoes, socks, coat, hat, key, and parents, so she kept things very positive and upbeat.

Oh my.

It's good to be independent and creative. But still, we probably won't get parents-of-the-year award this time around...

Family gatherings...

2008-12-11T10:34:00.000-08:00

Two weeks ago I sat down to Thanksgiving dinner with 28 members of my family.

Whew.

One 20 lb turkey in the oven, one 10 lb turkey on the bbq, and a large ham in the crockpot. 15 lbs of potatoes, two types of stuffing, one vat of gravy, several varieties of vegetables, baskets of bread and rolls, bowls of cranberries (canned and otherwise), plates of stuffed mushrooms, five pies - and lots and lots of wine...

We don't do this every year, but once in a while it's worth all the fuss - even necessary, I'd say - to gather together and talk to each other, see what we're up to and how much we've grown! There's only so much bonding you can do over telephone, email (or blog!)

Some of us live here, others have moved away. Some drove down from up north, others flew up from down south. But everyone eventually arrived and somehow we had room and food for us all. Four generations, all packed in the house, and laughing...

grumbling, cooking, bumping into each other in the kitchen,

shrieking, eating, sitting and watching, cleaning,

playing dress up, playing cards, playing ping pong, playing music,

sleeping, climbing, smoking, drinking, talking,

singing, smiling, spilling, washing, crying, loving,

and laughing...

"My" side of the family, with Gram on the couch in the middle, surrounded by four daughters, ten grandchildren, and eight great-grandchildren (and that was only some of us!)

One week before that, we drove up to Camano Island for a pre-Thanksgiving dinner with more family, Steve's folks and sister's family and grandmothers.

Nani and Papa opened their beautiful home, spread out the food, cranked up the fireplace (for me!), put on the aprons, and cooked up a storm for us. Their house always looks lovely, with Nani's quilts and the views of the Sound, and soon the walls were ringing with kids laughing and playing pool, the girls' cell phones ringing, Jay and Andrew animatedly discussing, Sam and JJ and Maddy hollering, the grandmas reminiscing, Papa and Steve expounding, and Nani, Shelly, Gina, Glenda and I gossiping and solving the world's problems. Oh, and Danny alternately snoring and whining...

The two "Greats" flanking their four grandchildren and six great-grandchildren, with Nani and Papa in the middle, back row (that's the snoring whiner in the front!)

Yes, somehow it's all worth it, these family gatherings. We are fortunate.

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Well, this is embarassing...

2008-12-03T13:06:00.000-08:00

Steve and I joined a coed soccer team about a year ago, at his suggestion. He thought it would be something fun for us to do together, other than play house and worry about kids and bills.

Trouble is, I don’t play soccer. But he does and he loves it – he loves the physicality of it, the being outdoors in the mud and rain, and the way his body hurts all over the day after (mine usually hurts for about a week). He says it makes him feel alive. I don’t mind it, really. I like the team – nice, fun, young folks (not one of them over 35, I’m sure) with interesting jobs and busy lives and maybe one child between them. I bet they each have a Facebook page, too.

It turns out, while I’m not in love with the sport – and certainly don’t exhibit an inclination toward a promising future – I’m remarkably adept at not getting injured. Which is saying more than it sounds like, really, because we’re chronically short on women players and the rules require at least five on the field at all times. It’s more often than not that we girls play the whole game, while the men have the luxury of subbing out as often as they need, shouting encouragement and suggestions liberally from the sidelines.

Unfortunately, Steve doesn’t have my built-in ability to avoid injury. He was out more than in for the first season, with ripped hamstrings and torn quads, and his knees (both have had arthroscopic surgery over the last couple of years) were iffy at best. But, he persevered and came up with a stretching routine that has been working fairly well. Until last night, he was on a pretty good injury-free streak. Until last night.

Steve came running...

(I love to watch him run: he keeps his head and chest forward and his arms churning rhythmically at his sides, with long, even strides – though, because he’s big, and let’s face it, old, he often churns right on by the ball and his opponent, who jukes it past, around, or through his legs. Did I mention how Young these folks are?)

...up to the ball, intent on an amazing defensive play in front of our goal, and he never saw The Beast approaching. This guy had to be 6’ 5” tall and 230 pounds, big guy, and agile, too. For his throw-ins, he first did a round-off flip, flinging the ball a full 50 yards, I’m sure. Steve and The Beast met the ball and each other in mid air, and Steve did a fancy pirouette and flipped to the ground, landing square on his hand, wrist bent back. To the rest of us, it looked like they’d konked heads, but I guess not. The Beast lumbered off and Steve was out of the game for a while. He came back in towards the end of the game, until he got kicked in the calf…

On the way home, we examined the rapidly swelling tissue on his right hand. “Looks like you sprained it,” I said. “It hurts,” he grinned. After a beer and some Aleve, he went off to bed with several ice packs, snoring blissfully.

This morning (pay attention, this is the embarrassing part), Steve got up as usual at 6:15 am to make the Two Ungrateful Boys their lunches. As he headed downstairs, he called over his shoulder, “I might need some help, Rin, I can’t move my hand.”

Humpf. It’s not really my thing, getting up at 6:15 am to help with lunches. Instead, I sometimes take on wardrobe patrol: “Where’s your coat? It’s raining, you need a coat. I bought you three coats over the last year and you can’t find one of them? Why don’t you wear my coat then, it’s hanging up over there. You need a hat. What’s wrong with that hat? Then pick a different one, this one looks fine and it’s warm.” It’s exhausting, but I can be pretty helpful in the mornings.

I got up to help. Now, I said I’m immune to injury, but last night I got my toe stepped on by The Beast, and it was pretty sore this morning. I did make the trip downstairs, but it hurt to stand at the counter and wonder what to make for Andrew, and I wasn’t even really up for the wardrobe game with Sam. Back to bed. Steve made the sandwiches by himself and, a little more slowly than usual, got ready for work and off he went.

I just got a call from Steve. He said his arm is broken and he’ll be in a cast for six to eight weeks.

The worst of it is, he won’t be able to play in the championship game next week, but I will. Me and four other girls, likely.

There’s a bruise building on my big toe, I swear.
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Still figuring it all out...

2008-11-23T22:01:00.000-08:00

Andrew's been looking over my shoulder.

He won't say he's interested, he just wants to "help." We bought him a bunch of web design software last Christmas, and he made some awfully creative pages with it, but he doesn't have a website or a blog -- yet. He's a little too busy for his own good, poor kid, and he's in need of a vacation (aren't we all?).

But, this is my sandbox, Mr. Berry, go find your own.

Eventually, I'll get the hang of the gadgets and widgets, the options and the code. For now, I'm just messing around and enjoying myself.
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It just occurred to me...

2008-11-21T21:00:00.000-08:00

The description at the top of this blog says I am a would-be sector switcher.

But, it's not really a switch, it's more like a merge, or better yet a convergence.

The thesaurus says converge = meet, join, touch, unite, come together. I like it.

It's true, I'm trying to break into the nonprofit sector. I'm knocking at the door of the do-gooders and asking, "Won't you have me?" But it's hard. It's not a lateral move, because you have to learn the language, prove your passion, earn your spot -- you have to bleed some.

But it also shouldn't be a do-over, a totally new beginning. I have amassed some knowledge (skillage, as Sam says), I have something to share. I'm attempting to take the experience I've gained over the past 20 years and join with an organization that works toward positive social change in the community around me.

In the readings for my MPA courses at Seattle University, I'm learning about new methods behind efforts to improve our world. Social innovation, say researchers at Stanford University, is the new vehicle for change. And these "innovative social solutions cut across the traditional boundaries separating nonprofits, government, and for-profit businesses."

Aha!

Furthermore, "...innovation blossoms where the sectors converge." I love it.

As I narrow in on what it is "I really want to do when I grow up," I've decided I'm not a switcher. I'm a joiner, a toucher, a uniter.

Social innovation is the new thing. Sector converger is the new me.

Read the whole Stanford article here...
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A little family history...

2008-11-20T11:15:00.000-08:00

I let my youngest, Maddy, read my first blog post. She said, "How come I'm not on there?" I told her it wasn't about her, it was about me. But then I realized that she is a huge part of me and who I am, what I'm doing, and where I'm going. Kids have a way of pointing out the obvious.

So, who am I? And who are these people who make up my life?

I met Steve when I was 12 years old in 7th grade at King's High School. He was a magnetizing combination of handsome assuredness and shy dimples. He had me, "sink, line, and hooker," as I like to say. We dated on and off through high school and beyond. He let me fly off to find myself for a year, with no guarantee he'd be there when I returned. But he was, and I did, and now we are. For the most part, happily so. We married in December of 1989, just so we could say "the 80's" to our grandchildren.

We bought a little fixer in south West Seattle the summer before our wedding and we christened it with the bite marks of our new golden retriever puppy, Fezzik. She became Steve's constant companion as he transformed that little shack into a cozy home. I made the daily commute to Microsoft, where I learned about Word, email, team management, and friendship.

Andrew came along in May of 1991 to a roomful of adoring family (there were 17 people present at his birth, including the doctor! I guess that story will have to be a blog post all its own). He's now 17 years old, 6'1" tall, and embodies all things academic, musical, and non sequiturial. We can't keep up or contain him, so we just smile, listen, and wonder.

Sam followed in April of 1994 at 2:00 AM, all quiet and content. Since then, he's calmly observed the world and the people around him and decided he's not afraid to try anything, and relishes doing just about everything. At 14, he keeps the family laughing as we happily follow along, picking up the constant trail of his belongings, unwittingly coddling our golden boy.

Things were balanced and stable, one parent to each child, so of course we had another baby. Maddy arrived in September of 1998 and immediately became my best friend. Anything they can do, she can do better is her motto, and she keeps The Brothers K on their toes. She's 10, alternately going on 5 or 20, depending on her mood.

After Fezzik died, we added a neurotic chocolate lab, with a severe case of allergies and separation anxiety, to our family and called it good.

These are my people. They help make me who I am and they represent the best of my life's work, so far.

And it is work, living with people, isn't it?

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First time is a charm...

2008-11-19T13:09:00.000-08:00

It's time I did it.
After all, I've done any number of other seemingly scary things: walked into the ocean before I could swim, ran away from home, went in a haunted house, kissed someone, loved someone, explored faraway places, got married, had a baby, got a job, watched someone die, quit my job, went back to school...

Today is the birthday of my blog.
Visit early, visit often.
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