You know how little kids like to get their hands and feet into everything? Well, once when I was about five, my parents visited a relative on a farm who had the pig trough right outside the summer kitchen door. I was a city girl and thought the trough a little wading pool. Sure the water was a little murky, with bits of food and such floating around, but it was a hot day and the air was dry and there was nothing else to play with.

I got in fully dressed and splashed around until I heard my mom’s horrified screams. I knew she wanted to give me a thrashing just from the look on her face and the sounds coming out of her mouth. But lucky me, I was too stinky and dirty for her to touch. A bar of lye soap thrown in my direction, and the ice cold water of the garden hose were punishment enough.

That evening the beds of my fingernails and toenails were surrounded by pus. I was running a temperature, hallucinating, who knows what else. I don’t remember much of it myself. But I do remember the red nails. And the milk baths.

For two weeks after, I had a medication applied to my nails that stained them a rasberry red, besides being forced to bathe daily in a tub-full of goat milk. Where my parents got the goat milk, I have no idea, as we didn’t have a goat. Still, my red toes peeking out of the white milk looked very pretty.  The only thing that sucks about this memory, is that to this day I cannot add any red berries to a bowl of cereal and milk, without feeling nauseous.

Only parts of this story are true. For more great reading visit

Magpie Tales.

When my Tante Marie’s husband died, she had him buried in the garden across the dirt road from her house.  Every morning, while the valley between the two mountains was still covered by a low mist, she would put on her thick coat, grab a few garden tools and make her way over.  Toward the end of that first summer without him, my sister and I were the only ones left to keep her company, the other cousins already returned to their jobs and school.

Waking up in the high bed that her husband had built, under layers of linen quilts and silver-threaded woven rugs, was always a delicious feeling. The room would be warm, on the table in front of the wood stove thick slices of bread, a pot of honey and one of butter, and a pitcher of milk awaited our hungry mouths.  We would eat, create a fantasy land of play underneath the bed, and when the mist lifted outside the thick walls of the mud hut, slide our feet in our shoes and run out, careful to close the door behind us, ever mindful of Tante’s warning of wolves and bears coming down the mountain side that was basically in her back yard.

We didn’t like going to the garden across the way.  Tante Marie had a habit of laying her body atop the mound of earth that covered her dead husband and crying out, demanding to know why he left her.  Sometimes she pulled at her hair, but mostly she just cried until she was spent. If she happened to see my sister and me there, peering out from behind one of the mulberry trees, she’d rouse herself, grab her watering can and call to us to fetch some water from the already filled well bucket, and bring it to her.  For the next several hours we’d work silently together, weeding, watering, gathering the onions, the radishes, the garlic, and whatever else was ripe enough to harvest for the following day’s market.

At midday when the sun would beat down harshly on her widow black skirts, we would stop our work and she would take us to the river where we were allowed to wade in and play, and even go across the man-made bridge to the other side.  She would watch us and hum a tune of mourning, a tune as old as the mountains themselves, before she remembered that we were growing children and must have something to eat.

That summer, the first summer that we had met our Tante, ended one evening in early September.  The light was already changing when our parents showed up to take us home.  As we started on our way, Tante Marie and her fragrant garden grew smaller and smaller, and although I had worried of what would happen to her during the cold winter months without her garden and without her husband, when Spring returned and we arrived, I learned that life and hope and love go on.
Sorry, this one’s non-fiction. For more tales please visit Magpie Tales.

A quarter of a mile up the road from our house, the woods begin.  On a hot summer day, we grab our water bottles and sweaters, and head out.  Within five minutes we’ve left the city behind, with its noise, its traffic, its suffocating heat.  We follow the dirt path that meanders through the firs, the jasmine, and the wild blackberry bushes, the only sound that of the gurgling stream, and birds calling to each other.

The deeper in we go, the cooler it gets.  We don our sweaters and button them up.  The kids race up ahead, my son gathering salmonberries, naming ferns and mushrooms, my daughter picking wildflowers she presents to me, or down to the stream looking for salamanders.  They jump from one rock to another, wanting to be the first to get to the opposite shore.  I watch, my heart in my throat, and caution them.  My husband laughs and tells me to relax.  He goes to join them, a protective hand hovering above the little one.

Finally we arrive at remains of the old Stone House.  This is our turning point.  Husband and I sit on a log, quench our thirst, and the little ones prepare to put on a show.  The old stone structure is their castle, the forest their kingdom, their dad and I, their subjects.

On our way back down, I offer up a little prayer of gratitude.  For my beautiful family, for the magic of childhood, for the trees, and the flowers, and the sun, and the air we breath.  I am amazed and moved to tears.  It is in the midst of nature that I feel closest to God.

Walking barefoot through the dew drenched grass is one of my favorite ways to start a summer day.  Years ago when I still lived at home with my parents, and then after, when we had a lawn of our own, I used to love waking up early on summer mornings, sometimes as early as five, to curl my toes in the grass, inhaling the early morning scent of the roses climbing the side of the house, before settling on the doorstep with my steaming mug of hot milk or coffee, and a side of half a loaf of crusty French bread.

Any child can tell you that very few things taste better than bread smeared with butter and honey and dipped in milk, first thing on an empty stomach.  Add a handful of sun ripened raspberries and the melody of chirping bluebirds, and it is blissful heaven.

When I was a kid we had egg laying chickens, and it was my job on summer mornings to go and fetch the still warm eggs.  The chickens terrified me and I used to take a stick with me to swat at them should they come flying my way.  I don’t remember them attacking me, but I do remember having to shove them off the eggs.

If there were enough for all of us, my dad would peel a few potatoes, wash them well and cut them into strips for frying.  He’d fry the eggs too, just enough to be considered cooked, but still soft yellow and runny, and make a fresh cucumber and tomato salad on the side.  We’d eat them hungrily, wiping our plates clean with leftover bread, that last taste of all the flavors soaked into its crust, the most delicious of all.

But my favorite start to a summer day, is when I awaken sandwiched between the bodies of my little loves, their gentle snores singing in my ear.  Perhaps it is the early morning light that wakes them and brings them to our bed.  I hold them close and breath in their sweet scent, wanting the moment to last forever.  Their daddy and I watch them sleep and whisper our love for them, the joy they bring to us, wanting so much to be perfect parents to these two blessings entrusted to us for loving and raising.  Only after we are all awake do we make our way to the kitchen with its many windows and refrigerated bounty for a hearty breakfast only daddies know how to prepare.

Our little family of four has a ritual on Saturday mornings.  Waking up early, the kids crawl in our bed and proceed to wake us with kisses and tickles.  We linger in bed, all of us beneath the sheets, laughing and hugging and talking about what dreams we dreamt.  Without fail, our daughter’s dreams are about Hello Kitty.  Our son’s about some sort of invention, for he wants to grow up and be an inventor.  Hubby’s about things he can’t remember but little snippets of, and mine about all sorts of crazy and unrealistic things (such as gorging on croissants and losing weight instead of gaining).

After much analyzing of what they could mean, and a few more kisses and hugs, we get up and get ourselves ready to head out to a hearty breakfast.  We need fortification for the morning calls for walking and more walking.  We are lucky to be able to live within walking distance to some of the best restaurants and shops in the city.  And so we walk, whenever the weather and little legs permit.  In the Pacific Northwest, sunny summer mornings are the most splendid of all.

Invariably, I end up having either an omelette with sauteed wild mushrooms in butter, or a fantastic oversized waffle with fresh berries and cream.  Sometimes I order both and split the waffle with hubby, who never refuses.  The kids, of course, order the chocolate chip pancakes with vanilla ice cream and cream on the side.  Because it is Saturday, ice cream is allowed with breakfast.

Claiming they are too stuffed to walk, we give in to the kids pleas and take the car to the open-air market in the university blocks.  What a sight greets us!  Baskets of peonies and vibrant dahlias in every color.  Fragrant lavender tied with ribbons.  Strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, blackberries… berries, berries and more berries.  Cucumbers, radishes, green onions.  And earthy, aromatic wild mushrooms that smell of pines and oaks and damp forest grounds.  All of them tucked between stalls of breads, cakes, cookies, and pastries, and those of cheeses, sausages, and wines.

Despite still digesting our breakfast, we don’t refuse samples of any of them.  The pervasive smell of fresh herbs and root vegetables stir at our appetites, and sooner rather than later we find ourselves starving.  After an hour or two of ambling between stalls, sampling the goods, buying the ingredients for the day’s dinner, petting dogs, and chatting with neighbors we run into, we find a seat, get a coffee and some mouthwatering food from one of the few vendors, and listen in to one of the bands playing, thankful for our little family and our lovely life.  For it is these little things, these little rituals that make us the most grateful and bring us the most happiness.

You know those families that only get together for Thanksgiving and Christmas?  Well, our family isn’t one of those.  Our family welcomes any opportunity to gather up and sit down for a loud, opinionated meal, and we make all sorts of excuses to come up with a next meeting.  Unless, someone is out of town, our family Sundays start soon after noon when church let’s out, and they last for a good four to five hours.  We meet in our parents home, the house we grew up in, ushered in from the outside cold by the aroma of soup on the stove and a roast in the oven.

The lady of the house (my mom, or sometimes myself, as I go earlier to help) is responsible for the soup and the main course.  The rest bring the bread, the beverages, the salad makings, the dessert, and the flowers.  We set the table, without skimping on the details, and sit ourselves down with much deliberation as to who sits where.  Somehow we always end up in the same seats we had occupied the Sunday before.

After generous compliments to the chef and a word of grace from the oldest grandchild, we start our meal.  And what do we talk about?  All sorts of things, really, but we especially love politics.  Some of us are liberal, others more moderate, and yet others conservative.  However, we agree to disagree because we love each other, and regardless the heat generated by our discussions, we respect the other enough to listen and concede when the other is right.  The one thing we all cannot stand though, is the moronic repetition of the closed minded.  Every subject brought up needs to permit logical scrutiny.  There’s enough unexamined thinking everywhere without adding on more to that pile, isn’t there?

A couple hours into the meal, we retire to the living-room where we deposit our stuffed selves on the velvety couches and chairs, or prop pillows under our heads and roll ourselves out across the floor, cushioned by the thick persian carpets.  The discussion by this time is much lighter.  We recount stories of our childhood and jokes, and grandpa (my dad) hands out a weekly allowance to the grandkids that has been in effect since the first grandchild was old enough to know what money’s for.  The little kids are quite enthralled with grandpa’s method of throwing money up in the air.  They scramble this way and that to get their little hands around the floating dollar bills.

It often appears that time has quite stopped while our laughter and merry voices ring out the opened windows. And when it’s time to leave we do so with a bit of sadness.  These intergenerational repasts sustain us all in the week to come, and as we leave and pack ourselves in our respective autos, toting plates of leftovers, and buckling children into their car-seats, we call out to each other, “What are you doing this week? Let’s get together for coffee!”

I would like to announce that this Mother’s Day Sunday, my house has officially become the Sunday dinner house for us all. I am so very lucky that my husband does the majority of the cooking. He is really one of the most naturally talented cooks. Ever. Thank you, baby!

The witch lived a few houses down the street.  She had red hair, a loud laugh, and her eyes commanded to be looked into.  As a little girl, my mom warned me against her.  I was never to speak to her, let alone meet her eyes.  The woman had placed a cursed hair in the walls of our house. That was why my parents argued far into the night.  That was why mom cried and cried.  That was why no baby boys were born.

When I was five we moved to a blessed house.  A house on the opposite side of town, on a pretty cobblestoned street, with a private courtyard no one could peer into.  It had a well in the middle of the back yard, with a pail attached to a chain, a pail my dad lowered twice a day to get our drinking water.  There were also rows upon rows of vines my grandfather had planted when my mom was a little girl, and they produced the sweetest grapes.

The awaited baby boys were born there, one after the other, and my dad was proud that he had the heirs needed to carry the family name.  The arguing between the adults diminished.  My mom came out one day and watched us at play and she was smiling from ear to ear, and although I was only six, I stopped in my tracks and stared at her surprised.  I had not seen my mom smile before.

The cursed house continued to curse its inhabitants with sickness and poverty for many years.  One early morning it caught on fire and a group of party goers on their way home from a night out, rushed in and saved the family before the roof collapsed.

Slowly the house was rebuilt. It was blessed and its walls prayed over, and the family within it who had lived for so long without so much, suddenly found themselves wealthier than they ever imagined. They bought luxury cars, and even an airplane.  They grew and they prospered.  The spell had been broken.

Sometimes when I glance around my curio cabinet of a house, my thoughts inevitably stray to my mom and how difficult it must have been for her to up and leave, not just her sisters and friends, but her home, the home she had known since infancy. I look through my collections, and while they are hardly of the expensive variety, they are priceless to me.

There’s that entire row of my journals from my mid teens on. Then there are boxes of china, some chipped here and there, and silverware picked up at fleamarkets. Paintings by unknown artists picked up on our travels, old books, love letters and cards between hubby and I, and mirrors that have witnessed somebody else’s story as well. And then there’s the stuff I cannot imagine not passing on to my daughter: linen embroidered by my grandmother, rugs woven by my great-grandmother, fragile lace made by aunts and great-aunts, my grandmother’s hymnal in which she writes in her schoolgirl text: “Lord have mercy on me,” signed, “a sinner”. How many times have I run my finger over the faded letters and wondered what sort of sins a twelve year old could have committed?

I imagine having a suitcase per family member. What would I stuff it with? Would it be filled with daily necessities, or sentimental frivolities? My mom did not worry too much about the necessities. After all, we were coming to a land of plenty. She filled our suitcases with linen and quilts and paintings and books. She filled them to capacity with our history, and the history of our people.

What would be in your suitcase?

Across the street from us, in a lime plastered, ivy-covered house, lived the shoemaker and his wife. As children, we loved to play in their rose filled garden, or sit with him at his workbench, eating bowls of stew with homemade crusty bread, and watching him cut the myriad colored leather for the shoes ordered. His wife always had gold foil wrapped chocolates for us, in the many pockets of her apron.

They were old and stooped. The only child they had ever had, long dead of some childhood ailment. Children had a tendency to die back then, the old shoemaker used to say, his eyes filling with tears. And because I cried easily as a child, I would tear up alongside him. His wife would hear me crying and come rushing out of the kitchen, scolding the old shoemaker for saddening children with his stories. She would take me in the cool, dark kitchen with her, where she was always pickling or making jams, and give me a blue velvet covered box out of an old walnut armoire, to look through.

It was a treasure box of sorts, with mementos of their child and the trips they had taken while newlyweds. Amidst the smiling photos, train ticket stubs, and christening gown and bonnet, there was also a teddy bear. A small, skinny one with a chewed paw. It bore the importance of having belonged to their baby. Out of respect for the old shoemaker’s tears (or most likely, because I was afraid to touch the plaything of a dead child), I didn’t touch it, although my young fingers craved to.

The ivy-covered house with its fragrant rose garden is no longer there. In its place is an ugly concrete building with shuttered windows. The people within are silent and secretive, and the only time one sees them is when they back their car out of their gated yard.

Yet, the bittersweet memories of childhood remain deeply rooted in my mind. A treasure box of them, that I’m determined to document before old age sets in, and I forget. Colors and textures, and sounds, and sensations. Life lessons learned at a young age.

(Daughter holding a ballerina keepsake box created by the amazing, multi-talented Pamela of #mce_temp_url#. Please go and check out her enchanting site.  Just don’t forget to come back!)

I have been spending a lot of time with my children lately, and paying close attention to the little things they do and say. There’s such growth and change from one day to the next, and I want to catch that moment of transitioning and record it down, so that I can look back and say that I remember it happening.

For the first three years of my son’s life, I made periodic journal entries about his progress, my thoughts on motherhood, and my hopes and dreams for his future, and our future as a family. Reading through the leather bound journal now, I either cringe in embarrassment at my naivety as a young mother, or am impressed at the insight I had into specific situations (mostly I cringe). 

When my daughter came along, I meant to repeat the process, and bought the perfect journal for it. Needless to say, the journal gathered dust on my bedside table for a long time. Then one day I read in a magazine about how a family writes things down as they occur, on pieces of paper, which they then drop into a box to read at the end of the year. As bits of paper are always fluttering around my house, I decided that this is what we must do.

The only problem? None of the boxes I had were worthy of their soon to be contents. But I knew what just would. I had been eyeing a collection of gorgeous vintage apothecary jars at a local antique store, hoping to find a justifiable reason for making them mine. They were five in all, and, of course, could have been individually bought, but I felt they had to be displayed as a group in order to be fully appreciated. The price was a bit steep, but as a house of transitory moments in my daughter’s life, nothing else would do.

I saved the tallest for my daughter, and filled the remaining four with fleeting objects from nature. They glint and sparkle, and fill me with joy almost as much as my daughter’s being does. Occupying a prominent place in the family room, they’re a daily reminder to record what I see and hear, and enjoy my life with my children to the fullest.

How do you keep track of the memories you or your darlings are making?