Gray sweatshirt

We had the most wonderful Honeymoon. It was a three week road trip up the east coast from Florida to Maine and back. We stayed in every state along the way accept Vermont where we only ate lunch and enjoyed the greenness.

We drove our green Pathfinder loaded up with camping gear and suitcases, but we left plenty of room for what we might find as we scavenged the coast for treasures. In the end we did come home with a bench made from reclaimed wood and old theatre seats, a handful of skeleton keys which I had to have b/c they were old and elegant, 3 maple syrup catching tins from an antique barn in rural Maine, chocolate covered cranberries from a haunted Bed and Breakfast we stayed in for a few days, a corner cupboard (that doesn't actually fit in a corner b/c it has a strange angle) from an art/funky furniture store in Asheville, NC., and many more random things, but one of my best memories is conjured up each time I wear my touristy gray sweatshirt that says: "Nantucket" across the front.

Have you ever had a time where it was so ridiculously comfortable in that moment that the only thing messing up the moment was that you knew it couldn't last and that realization made it kind of painful? Nantucket was like that for me. It was like a time warp. Perfect weather in July, beach, town, art, great food. Wonderful. Christo and I rented bikes (which is hell on a cobblestone road) and we went into the town for ice cream. We sat on a bench and I just laughed at how everything was so wonderful right then. I could eat strawberry ice cream on a warm and sunny day, on a bench , in Nantucket , with the love of my life, every single day for the rest of my life and that to me would be Heaven.

The comfort of the moment did pass and we have not been able to get back there again, but I am painting this piece of my heart now. My canvas is sketched and needs paint and other junk on it, but it will get done and hang over that bench from Maine one day, right next to the wall with the key ring hanger, where the skeleton keys will be, and I will have my little honeymoon shrine and we will sit on that bench and eat ice cream from Publix and it won't feel the same, but it will still be sweet because what made Nantucket and that day so wonderful wasn't any of that stuff....it was him.

Memories of my Earth Mama

One of my earliest memories of my Mother is also one of my favorite memories. She has always been the kind of girl that stops to smell the flowers, literally. She loves to garden and look at birds and squirrels and turtles, knowing each by their proper classification name. I never really took to her intense love of the animal and plant kingdom, but have always cherished this in my Mother.



Some may think that traveling around town with two little girls and a large pair of garden shears in the backseat, could be a dangerous situation. Not my mom. If we were to squeal, "look mom- all those beautiful wildflowers!" the car would come to a halt on the side of a road and she would be out in the field, armed with her shears, gathering a bouquet for our table. My sister and I would watch cautiously from the station wagon windows, hoping simultaneously that she would not get hit by a car, and that she had clipped enough. When she returned to the car, she would take a napkin dipped in water and wrap the cut stems up in them and put the flowers in a plastic bag to keep them fresh and hydrated. We thought she was amazing.



She loved this pair of cut off jeans that were rather holey. They were very short, but due to her Arabic heritage, she has a great year round tan and trim legs so they looked great on her. She always lent a helping hand to those who needed her most and this was one of those days. I remember the car screeching to a stop and the next thing I knew, she was out in the road, in her tiny shorts, carrying a massive turtle out of harms way. Nose pressed to the glass, I looked at her as if she were a heroine. My mom, friend of turtles.



More recently, Christo and I brought home a plant from a sale at someones farm. On our way home, we heard squeaking sounds coming from the car. Were we going to break down? Were the kids choking? We moved the plant around in the backseat and the squeaks ceased. It was definitely the plant. When we got home, I was thoroughly afraid of what was lurking under the green leaves. Could it be a mouse? Was it a snake? Do snakes squeak?



I was frantic and Christo began to try to jimmy the plant out of the pot. As he worked on it, it became evident that it was a bird's nest and there were several baby birds inside. The pot broke because we felt compelled to save the birds and not the plant. So what do we do now? I was not ready to be a mom to baby birds. I did not need a case of "Are You My Mother?" with 3 little humans to care for as well. So I call mom. She rushes over, gives them the appropriate mixture of sugar water in a dropper she brought from home. Then she established the kind of birds that they were. She created a makeshift habitat with the right kind of newsprint and remnants from the destroyed nest. Once again I stared with awe. She is my Mom, Saviour of baby birds. She took them to the bird rescue: Mission Accomplished!



It turns out my Mother is not only looking out for me- She is a true Earth Mother for all.

Collecting

photo by Catherine Jamieson

I have a few collections.

I collect snow globes that are tasteful, not gaudy.

I collect books- too many to count.

I collect buttons and vintage sewing "findings" such as measuring tapes, spools, old ric rac, fabric etc.

I collect cancelled stamps that have already been somewhere. They have seen a few states or countries. They have a story to tell. They have a history. Some of them date back to the early part of the 20th century. They are old and I am young.

I collect old photographs and postcards, some familiar and others strange to me.

But, my most valuable collection cannot be gathered and displayed. It cannot be framed or used in any art project. It will never be covered in dust. If a fire destroyed the contents of my entire house, the collection would not be singed. If I wanted to take my collection to an auction house, they could not offer me enough money to make it worth my time.

My most valuable collection consists of things that cannot exist without me. I must be here, or they have no curator. No one to take the edge off. No one to deal with the ugliness that some of them wear as a banner. Oh, and they have power. The power to hurt, heal, make happy, and destroy. Each little piece of my most prized collection has it's own zeitgeist. It's own frame of reference. It's own possibilities.

I have a collection...I collect memories.

A Long Lost Friend

photo: vintage by cagedbirdy

Sometimes you meet someone and you know that you are kindred spirits. There is just some connection that goes beyond the basic, "I like Pearl Jam." "Me too! OMG!"

I have been blessed to have many people throughout my life that I had the chance to recognize this connection with. One such friend however, has been long ago lost from my communication reach. She is probably one of the most free-spirited people I have ever known and so it makes sense that she has left my radar.

God had put us literally in each other's backyard. Our parents' houses were connected by a large span of grass that became a perfect meet-up place for two teenage girls who could not yet drive.

We both loved to read and write. We both have red hair. Eat entire cans of black olives. Anne of Green Gables marathons. Listening to music by candlelight and the list goes on. The quirky thing that took a little warming up to find out was that we both coveted long white nightgowns. Maybe we thought we were Jo March. Perhaps we wanted to connect to the bygone years when the white nightgown was the only acceptable night clothing around. When we had sleepovers we took out our long white nightgowns and pranced around the backyard in the middle of the night. I don't think anyone suspected.

I still own an entire drawer filled with beautiful white nightgowns. My mother even brought one back from Germany for me. She found it at an antique flea market. It is actually old and thus authentic! Most teenagers I knew at the time, wore long t- shirts with baggy thin pajama pants to bed. They even wore semi-sexy camisoles with boy underwear /shorts. But not us- "Clary Mama" and I donned the nightgowns with innocent glee. We lit candles and played pretty music and talked about interesting things and read poetry aloud. Sometimes our own and sometimes not. But we both have husbands now and I wear random things to bed.

I just noticed while typing this that I am wearing a white nightgown. It was given to me by my dad and stepmother a few years back. It is from April Cornell and is just beautiful. I love it because it makes me remember and I am in a remembering mood.

Hopefully somewhere out there, my long lost red headed friend is remembering too and will send out her radar. Perhaps we shall meet again, dressed like Victorian ghosts at midnight in the backyard someday.

Why did you name it that?

photo by ardenstreet

So, this morning as we sipped tea with stevia and ate pitas stuffed with kalmatas, my husband told me that perhaps I need to explain my blog's name.

Is that like naming a baby something obscure and then feeling like you MUST justify it by defining it? For example, my son's name is Summit and in the past, after receiving strange looks and "come again" a million times, I would explain away the reason we chose his name and the love story behind it, but then who really cares about my love story except for myself and the man I love.

Suffice it so say, I eventually stopped giving in to the disconcerting stares and obviously disapproving murmurs about how "interesting" my child's name is. I no longer let them in on the reason we named him Summit because it is strangely akin to "throwing pearls before swine" in my book.

On another note, I thought it quite satisfying and humorous, that the very person who requested that I explain my blog's name is my husband. I cannot tell you how many high school afternoons we drove around in Sunnie, his 1970 Volkswagen Bus, with the windows down, music blaring, red and blond curls flying around until they were in dreadlocks. When we were forced to slow down due to red lights, the engine would quiet down and we could actually hear each other talking. My most common point of discussion would go like this " why is this band named------"?

(You fill in the blank because you know that band names are typically ridiculous and if they do not seem this way to you then you are either: A.) in a band with a funky name or B.) you actually read all of the books and have seen all of the movies that refer to these random titles, so YOU GET IT. ) My high school sweetheart and now husband would reply to this seemingly juvenile question with " why do these bands need to explain themselves to you? Why do you feel the need to have to understand the band name? It is poetic, it is artistic etc..." He was sooo "deep" (don't you love that word) and he still is. He is also a musician and has been in a band with a random name so he is one of those that "GETS IT."

I still catch myself every now and then trying to figure out the band names and attempting to make sense of obscure lyrics in an effort to better understand them.
So, I will explain the name, because it is only fair to people like myself who cannot handle not knowing "why." But not right now. You have to wait. And no this is not a giveaway blog- but it could be when my 1800 sq ft organic garden starts producing.

Always Late

photo by try-whistling-this

Here I am. Finally entering this vast domain.

I am always late with electronics/technology. For Example-In 3rd grade I got a red WalkMan for Christmas with an Arrested Development tape. I was so pumped about that and then, just when I had finished reading the instructions, CD players came out and I refused to learn the new technology and thus carried that red tape "deck" into my middle school years (not cool).

Nevertheless, high school made popular the "mixed tape" and I was "in" all over again. I had stacks of mixed tapes and still have many of them in a box somewhere. If you got in my momivan right now you would see tapes- (yes, my "wheels" sport a tape player AND a CD player- which I rarely use.)

Fast forward from high school and enter college with me...I learned how to email in my junior year by FORCE in the campus computer lab. I had no plans to ever do the email thing and then, after 5 semesters of college bliss, a single syllabus REQUIRED it. I was so scared I would fail and so I caved and after the 6th week of skating by on open forums, the professor escorted me to the lab and got me set up. Just to show a little rebellion, I picked a boring name, my own, not something cute and clever, and of course the Prof. could care less. But that is how I dig my heels in...I try and not get crafty.

But as you will see as I blog more, that hurts only me and no one else. So here I am forcing myself to face these technological demons and blog myself into the cosmos. I still need to figure out the picture thing and get some pretties on here and set up some housekeeping, but in the meantime, I want to share what is wandering around in my heart, brain, life and of course my home and hopefully get some creative discussion going!