My mom says that I must have been about four, when on a train trip to visit cousins in a distant town for a few days, I shamed her into rethinking her manner of disciplining her children.  Red was my favorite color and it being autumn, I was wearing a pretty red cape with a hood, and showing it off, imagining myself as Little Red Riding Hood.  The train was an old fashioned sort with private seating compartments which could fit 6 to 8 people on two benches facing each other.

As a side note, I love trains.  And trips on trains.  There’s something about rolling images of dark villages, their windows glowing like honey, steep slate roofs with smoke curling out the chimneys, the humming of the tracks as the train rushes along, and the cobbled train stations where people anticipate the arriving and departing trains with as much excitement as though it were Christmas.  I can’t imagine a more romantic way to travel.

Anyway, sitting together in our compartment was a newly-wed couple, the wife very much pregnant.  I must have been very shocked at the size of it, because I remember the big belly to this day, although, I am sure I just assumed she was very, very fat.  Back in those days, babies came from storks.  The husband and the wife were talking to me, asking questions, who bought me the cape, and so forth, and while at it they asked the oft repeated one, of who my favorite parent was.

Without any hesitancy on my part, I picked my dad.  Oh?  Didn’t mom buy me the pretty cape?  Well, yes she did, but she also had hit me.  But before I go on, I must say that my parents certainly didn’t spare the rod.  None of the other parents that I know did.  Such a thing was basically unheard of in our subculture, if not the culture as a whole, at that time.  After all, little ones often were unruly and how else to keep them in line?  No one really knew, or thought much about it.

They pushed on.  Well, what was wrong with that? My mom says that she herself was curious as to what I would say.  And I told them that she had hit me with the broom.  Mom was mortified.  The people laughed and said that I must be a good little girl, if I didn’t want to be so punished.  Naturally, mom became defensive.  She had been sweeping the floor and I wouldn’t move.  She had barely tapped me to get out of the way.  I don’t know if anyone heard, or cared, but she explained herself anyway.  And that was the last time the broom was used for anything other than sweeping.

they say that pretty yellow building is the birthplace of Vlad Tepes (fictionalized as Dracula)

When I was a child I was afraid of every shadow.  Maybe it was cultural, maybe it was generational, but the adults related to me thought it important to threaten me with either kidnappings by gypsies, monsters (babau), or goats (apparently they liked to eat little children and came out at night), anytime I wanted to do something they didn’t feel like. Certainly, one of those three was out to get me, waiting until I was all alone and then snatching me quickly and throwing me in a sack they carried for just such an occasion.

I was a timid child and maybe not so bright, because I must have been twelve when I finally figured out that it was all a big, fat lie.  Still, the damage was done and I continued sleeping with a night light on for many more years.  To this day, to be alone in complete darkness raises my hairs on end, and every little creak is a monster’s footstep.

When the movie Psycho came out in the nineties I went to watch it with my husband, thinking that I was an adult and to be scared of something make believe was indeed silly.  Maybe I actually thought that or maybe he insinuated something to that effect, because there I was popcorn and pop in my lap, waiting for the movie to begin.  And was I brave?  Let’s just say that for weeks after I only took a shower if my husband was home, preferably standing there and talking to me.  Even now, if I am on a trip somewhere alone, that shower image pops in my head and I choose to bathe instead.

The funniest thing about this is that I am around people that die all the time.  I am right there when they pass from this life to the next, and I often am the person who takes the pulse and listens for that last heartbeat.  And did I mention that the house I live in has been used as a hospice at some point?  Yet, none of these things frighten me.  I go through the house at night and feel no fear.  There’s nothing lurking in the shadows.

But ask me to watch a scary movie and I will have a month of sleepless nights.

It is a beautiful autumn day in the Pacific Northwest.  Sun is shining brightly, the air is crisp, and there’s a scent of woodsmoke in the air.  Hubby and I are driving along.  I’m marveling at the fall foliage out of the corner of my eye, and because I’m actually seriously listening to what he is saying, I don’t want to be rude to point it out the beauty rolling by.  At the back of my mind though, runs a thread of an earlier subject we discussed.

“Well, that’s how they are.  You should know by now.  Don’t let it get to you.”  I say when there’s a break in the conversation.  Hubby gives me an odd look.  ”What are you talking about?”  ”You know,” I say as though it should be perfectly obvious, “so and so.”  He raises his eyebrows and shakes his head.  ”Didn’t we talk about that 20 minutes ago?  Have you been listening to anything I’ve been saying since?”

Of course I have.  It’s just that I do this all the time with my sisters and my girlfriends and they have no problem making the connection instantly.  Naturally, I don’t say anything to him about this.  For one thing he won’t believe me, for another I don’t really feel like having a discussion.  I suppose it’s just another way women are wired differently than men.  But it drives him crazy.

My mom says than when I was a young girl, my favorite thing to do when going into town, was to point out the shoes and outfits of the women passing by.  When her girlfriends came by and she’d serve them her delectable pastries and coffee, I’d take a seat at the table and study their dress and manner in detail.  After they left, I’d bore her with my observations.

My darling daughter is a chip off the old block.  I often watch her out of the corner of my eye studying my clothing in detail, or if out and about, the attention she gives to the clothing of the other females in the vicinity is astounding.

As evidenced in the photo above, she was barely able to walk, yet she knew what she liked.  I wasn’t home when this photo was taken, but my hubby says that she found the shoes in her closet, had him put them on her tiny feet, and ran into our bathroom to check herself out in the big mirror.  I adore that expression on her face!

In all honesty, she doesn’t take just after me.  In my approach to fashion there’s a hint of wariness.  I’m not the person who sees an image in a magazine and goes in search of identical garb.  I prefer quality over quantity, yet I am not brand crazy.  And I consider any article of clothing with the logo front and center on it, tacky.  There’s something to be said for good taste.  Well aware of my body’s strengths and weaknesses, I aim to dress in what I know looks the best on me.  Trial and error.  Plenty of it.

There’s none of that hesitancy with my daughter.  She is fearless!  Although she may only be three, I cannot get away with buying clothes for her without her being present.  She knows what she likes and she demands to wear it.  And that she takes from her dad. He has a style all his own. Timeless and classic, and just a bit on edge.

Not long ago the two of us stopped in at Target to get some essentials.  While I was searching for parking she asked if we were there to get ‘fashions.’  I explained that we weren’t, we had to get gift wrap and a few other necessities for home.  We were in a hurry and we had to get to a birthday party.  ”But really quick mommy, can we look at fashions?  Please, please, please!”  It didn’t take much prodding and I gave in.  We ended up buying colorful tights, and another ballerina skirt.  As I buckled her in, she thanked me saying, “You’re the best mommy in the whole wide world!  Wasn’t Target fun?”

We’ve been quarantined in the house since about Thursday, each of us in various stages of this head cold/flu thing.  It’s a good thing the house is large and there are plenty of rooms to run through and hide in for the kids.  Hubby, who’s finally gotten better has been on endless missions to get cupcakes and milk, chocolates and fresh fruit.

With the exception of going to a reading given by Nicholas Kristof on Friday evening, I’ve stayed in.  That was an amazing experience, yet sadly I was too drugged up on Sudafed to carry an intelligent conversation with anyone, or remember much of what was said by others.  His book, Half the Sky, that he has co-authored with his wife, is an astounding read into the plight of women worldwide.  You can read about it on my friend’s blog:#mce_temp_url#.  Ligia, herself, is dedicated in bringing awareness and empowerment not just to the women of her native Costa Rica, but also to all she comes in contact with on her many travels and speeches in South America, North America, and Europe.

But back to me.  The only thing I’ve accomplished other than lounging around and moving from the bed to the family room couch, book in hand, was eating exorbitant amounts of sugary foods.  For the moment at least, I like to pretend the scale does not exist.  I try to avoid the bathroom it resides in for fear of it gravitationally pulling me toward it, and then having no other choice, climbing on it and watching the dreaded digital numbers go higher than they’ve been in a very long while.

After everyone’s asleep, I plan to go and clean out the fridge and the pantry.  No more overindulgent wallowing.  Tomorrow is back to eating right, exercising, and homeschooling… even if we don’t leave the house for more than a short walk in the woods.

beluca

One of the best things about homeschooling is that we can have as many sick days as we want, and nobody is owed an explanation.  Hubby had been plagued with a bad cough and runny nose since Monday, and the rest of us had tried to keep our distance so we wouldn’t catch his bug.  The big thing this year is that H1N1 thing.  I am sure you’ve all heard.  Not sure if it’s a real threat yet, or just propaganda.  I have a tendency to be skeptical.  I am also a big believer in conspiracy theories, but that’s another post for another day.  Either way, I do not want it around me.

the best bed in the world... mine!

This morning though, I woke myself up sneezing.  Usually this happens if I fall asleep with my hair wet, but this time I couldn’t blame that.  I had patiently dried it thoroughly, and turned up the heat before I dived under goose down covers for the night.  Okay, so I know the majority of the old wives’ tales out there are just that, yet I personally can’t help but believe a few.

Soon after, my daughter woke up in a cranky mood.  Although I usually attribute that to her being a female, and just a tiny bit dramatic, this time her little nose was runny and her baby cheeks were flushed.  Poor baby had a horribly restless night.

crepes with nutela, toasted almonds, powdered sugar, and whipped cream.

After very little consideration, I decided that today we’ll pamper our little bodies by eating our favorite foods while in bed, and our minds by reading for pleasure all day long.  Outside, the chilly wind has died, and while it hasn’t rained, there’s an autumn mist in the air.

a bit crowded I know

There’s a stack of books by my bedside that I can’t wait to devour.  Let the dishes and the laundry pile up. Tomorrow is another day.  Now let’s see… which of these should I start reading first?

Hmm... which will it be?

I’ve been sitting here at the kitchen table eating biscuits and gravy, trying to decide how comfortable I am with self promotion.  And I’ve concluded that I am not.  Modesty is what I’m comfortable with, even if sometimes I come across as anything but modest.  However in this instance, I am not being modest and I admit it.

As plenty of you know, I am in daily contact with people who are at that stage of life where the eternal is but a step away.  Many of my friends who are in the line of work dealing with the elderly and those on hospice know, we are constantly blessed by their presence in our lives, and no matter the duration of our acquaintance, they have made an impact.  Now here comes the boasting.  I feel really appreciative that the online magazine Blog Nosh has decided to use one of my posts that deal with death, today.  You can read more about it here: #mce_temp_url#.  It is titled Embedded in Time.

Thank you for allowing me to brag a little.

Shopping at our local Farmers Market for this:

and this:

and this:

and this:

is one way hubby, the kids, and I love spending our weekend.  I married an imaginative, inventive, fearless man who takes that same passion he has for life and applies it to the dishes he puts together.  Someone once said to me that she has no exact recipes for anything, and so she rarely replicates her dishes.  Hubby, however, is blessed with the most advanced visual memory of anyone I know.  He can remember the details of a meal prepared years ago, as well as the exact ingredients used, the people partaking, the music playing, what we were wearing.  Needless to say, whenever he makes something it turns out superb.

Yet this past weekend was spent in another sort of market.  I look forward to this Autumn event all year long not just because this is how I get my celebrity fix, but also because these celebrities are the only celebrities that matter to me, and not just that, I consider them the most intelligent people I may ever meet.  It thrills me to know that I am in the same room with them, for hours!  One of my sister’s and I (who is just as obsessed with reading as I am) talk about it in advance and we clear our schedules with our husbands and kids in preparation of pampering to our love.

Attending readings, getting books autographed, chatting with the authors, browsing the exhibits… What fun!  I was a little nervous and feared that I’d ask silly questions.  They were all so gracious, yet I still worried about coming across as a lunatic.  A small handful of the authors present were: Jeannette Walls, Julia Glass, Debra Ollivier, Laurie Sandell, and James Ellroy.

How did you spend your weekend?  What interesting things did you do?

As teens, my sisters and I would roll our eyes whenever my dad or mom would bring forth the subject of their courtship. It seemed such an old fashioned concept, and we were more than slightly embarrassed by it. Normal people’s parents had dated, not courted. According to my dad, mom had quite a few suitors and she couldn’t make up her mind between them. One night she’d meet one of them for a walk down the linden city center streets, stopping somewhere for a beverage or dessert, and the next together with her girlfriends she’d run into another at an ice cream parlor.

Apparently these meetings carried on for a while, and dad was losing patience. Christmas was approaching, and he was playing the trombone in a brass band that visited the surrounding village churches. He would be gone for a while every Saturday and Sunday and those were their designated days to walk the promenade, coyly flirting, my mom in her tailored miniskirt and kitten heels and dad in his well cut suit. On a cold November Sunday he demanded that she choose between them. Who would it be?

I can just imagine my mom looking up at him surprised. What was his hurry, she had probably murmured in her soft voice. My mom is very soft spoken. She couldn’t be rushed, she had most likely added. She was just twenty-one. And so my dad did what every honorable man of his time did. He paid a visit to my grandparents, laden with gifts, and asked for my mom’s hand in marriage.

The only problem was that another of her suitors had beat him to it, and while she hadn’t been promised (as the decision was solely my mom’s), my grandparents were faced with an issue they hadn’t foreseen. Although she does not admit it, claiming she does not remember, I believe mom may have had an inkling of it. What to do? She liked both of them, for different reasons. They were both good men, from good families. She couldn’t make up her mind. Grandmother and grandfather prayed that God would lead her to choose the kindest of the two.

Mom finally decided that she would pick the one she would first encounter, unplanned. She got herself ready, her long dark tresses in a topknot popular in those days and went to meet a girlfriend. And whom should she meet on the way there? My dad, of course. Was it planned, a coincidence perhaps, or was it really a sign from God? No one’s telling. And my grandmother had a saying she loved to repeat over and over whenever I pressed her about it: God speaks clearly and he doesn’t play magic tricks.

A month later my parents were married, and almost two years after that I came along, the first of five children. Now, as they are preparing to celebrate another anniversary together, I am praying for their long, happy marriage to continue, in good health and love, side by side.

Congratulations on being picked by random.org to be the recipient of my second giveaway!  I will contact you via email for your mailing information.  Enjoy!!!

Thank you very much to everyone who participated and commented on the posts.  I always have a ton of fun reading your responses and getting to know you all better.