The Hawk and the Rabbit

     This is a little story of a three-minute encounter that just took place on my back patio after I took out the recycling. I was nearing the back door and heard a high-pitched, three-note little squawking sound. Turned around to see a charcoal grey hawk of some sort in a wing-flapping landing position above the right end of my youngest's bike handle, which was leaned against the metal patio table near the shed. (It's supposed to be in the shed when she's done with it.) The hawk was in prime position to view the girls' young Himalayan rabbit, Mica, in his hutch. 
     Mica, on the other hand, was obliviously munching away on a leaf from a bedraggled Brussels sprout plant I'd just fed to him on my way past the garden.
     Monsier hawk (or mademoiselle, I do not claim to know) lingered on the bike handle, cocking its head in jerky little ways. I gauged its size as it perched there -- probably 13 or 14  inches in length, with a beautifully striped black and grey tail and flat-ish head. I wondered if its talons would make little rips in the spongey handle bar cover...

Photo by Jeff Anderson, 
Espaniola, New Mexico


      Next on le hawk's agenda was to investigate something in the pile of dry leaves behind middle daughter's crispy, cold corn stalks against the base of the 6-foot fence. Then up on the edge of the fence, facing little Mica, who continued in his devoted pursuit of consuming the last of the garden leaf.

Back to the leaf pile when le hawk, then up to the fence again. A quick swoop over the fire pit to land on the picnic table for a moment. A few more little head-twitches and off it went to the neighbor's aspen tree at the front of their house.
     Mica, be glad your visitor seemed to know that wire fencing was not worth fussing at. 
     You never know who's going to stop in to pay a visit.

Dreaming & finding

Thanks to you, my good friends, who shared the right kind of positive vibes for an end to this personal trauma of mine (see previous post). In early August, I'd been pushing very hard to juggle a couple of editorial jobs and had guests in the house for part of that time. Meal planning, hiking, hosting a few other relatives passing through, picnicking, kayaking. It was all good, but made for some very busy days.

We bid farewell to guests that Wednesday morning, and work went on as it had been for the remainder of the week. On Friday afternoon, we packed our little bags for a weekend in the city. It was the first time all summer we'd made an effort to frolic as a family of five (the kids had each had one or two particularly satisfying summer adventures, but mom and dad were due!). We parked at a light rail stop and took the train into the heart of downtown. What a little online lodging special, a big ole' hot buffet breakfast and a king sized bed will do! Add that to fun with the kids, someone else doing the cooking for a series of meals, and significant decompression was mine.

Saturday night, I closed my book and fell promptly asleep. It was sometime not long before sunrise, I believe, when I dreamed that I held one of the bird plates in my hands. The weight and the slickness of the glaze felt real. When I woke, I reviewed what I had seen in my dream and felt a solid assurance that I would soon find the lost plates. We enjoyed the remainder of the final day of our mini-vacation and got home early evening. Luggage was unloaded, and I took the time to stash away some picnic gear that had been left in the kitchen since Tuesday. Down to the basement I went, to the room where I have pantry goods and back-up kitchen items, as well as a plethora of art supplies, from acrylics and pastels, drawers full of the kids' art, to glass sheets and tools for making panels of art glass. Tidy this, sort that away (it was clear that a kid or two had been digging into paper supplies as well in recent weeks), and there it was -- the little brown bag with the twine handle, tucked against the blank canvases on an eye-high shelf.  What had been lost was found! Hallelujah :)

Needless to say, the hanging of the shelf took a few more weeks and the completion of a work-related deadline or three. So there we go. A simple thing, indeed. But a monumental simple thing in my little sphere.

 I am happy.

M . I . A .

It's been several weeks since they went missing. I had brought them home on a Sunday afternoon from Crackpots, our local pottery painting shop. And there they sat, on the kitchen table, in all of their shiny, glazed glory. One for each of my daughters, painstakingly drawn and painted over the course of a day the week before:

cardinal for spring; for Nina, my April child
goldfinch for summer; for Zoe, my busy Julymeister
chickadee for winter; for Lily, my snow-loving March child

We all enjoyed them for an hour or so, till it was time to set up for small group. We have a great group of friends from Boulder Mennonite -- twice a month we get together for potluck and sharing. One of the best things (second to the friendships, of course), is the variety of food. Seems like each person enjoys cooking and trying new things. So we have fresh, organic, homemade, distinctive, almost every time.

Here's where things get fuzzy in my memory: Folks were arriving and the table was filling up. It seemed that my little crafty show-and-tell might not be at the top of the list for the evening, so I remember moving the plates, carefully, off the table, to ..... I know not where.

It's killing me. My mother-in-law, one of life's best "diggers and finders", could not find them in my house two weeks ago. My husband has tried to imagine my thought process in that hurried moment, and he's looked in places of soft, stored linens and clothing, cabinets and the like. Nothing. I, thinking I was really on my toes, have looked in all of the same places, and also in the big wooden art "flat file" down in my shop. What more protected space could I have found?

In an act of faith, I painted the shelf my friend Tomas made for me last year to display these plates on (yes, it took me what, 10 months, to find a day to paint) ... I pray for dreams to show me where my hands placed them after I lifted them off the kitchen table ... nothing.

So now I need a cadre of dedicated friends to join me in wishing, hoping, praying, that these missing objects of my affection will exit the fog they have been under for the past month and bring me joy once again.  Until they do, this is what I've got: a fuzzy cell phone photo (prior to glazing and firing). Woe is me...

Power - Love - Forgiveness

THIS IS THE REAL DEAL, people. Take a few minutes and read.  Then wear or surround yourself in something orange, Chloe's favorite color. And feel the love...

Teen sentenced for negligent homicide

Posted: Wednesday, Jun 15th, 2011
BY: JULIA WILSON

ALAMOSA — District Judge Martin Gonzales said the sentence of Kyle Stotsky would not bring the Weavers’ daughter back but he could send a message to others that there are consequences for one’s actions.

He sentenced Stotsky to 45 days in Youth Track with credit for six days already served; two years supervised probation; fulltime employment or fulltime enrollment in an educational institution; 500 hours of useful public service; and restitution of $3,881.77 to victim Chloe Weaver’s family and $4,000 to the Victim Compensation fund. The court gave all parties 90 days to finalize the total amount of restitution.

Chloe Weaver, 20, Nederland, and a friend, Craig DenUyl, 24, Kalamazoo, Mich., were out for a Sunday afternoon bicycle ride headed north on County Road 108 when Weaver was hit by a truck driven by Stotsky.

Weaver and DenUyl, members of the Mennonite Volunteer Service in Alamosa, worked at La Puente and on other community projects.

Stotsky fled the scene and was later located at his home.

Originally charged with leaving the scene of an accident, a class three felony; criminally negligent homicide, a class five felony; and careless driving, a traffic offense, he plea bargained and plead guilty to negligent homicide, a class five felony.

The sentencing hearing started with Herm, Cindy and Hope Weaver, Chloe Weaver’s father, mother and sister, giving pre-sentence statements.

Addressing Stotsky, they each expressed the wish that he would become a person who would be dedicated to improving the plight of his fellow men “to continue the work Chloe was doing.”

Their statements were filled with compassion and hope.

“I want you to have the courage to take responsibility for your life and actions, honestly and humbly,” Herm Weaver told him. “I want you to carry on, in some small way, the work Chloe came here to do, to make it a better world.”

District Attorney Dave Mahonee told the court how difficult the case has been.

“It’s clear the life lost was a beautiful life,” Mahonee said. “She was a beautiful young girl who cared about life.”

He said the meeting between the Weavers and Stotsky was incredible.

“The love they showed for Kyle almost brought me to tears,” he said. “It showed the strength of their faith. They don’t want to see Kyle incarcerated but they do want him to have consequences.”

Mahonee suggested 2,000 hours of community service so Stotsky could continue the work Chloe was doing.

“I don’t want him to work with La Puente, they knew Chloe and we don’t necessarily want them to have to deal with Kyle,” he said. “I would like him to be helping people. That was what Chloe was doing.”

Public defender Dan Walzl also expressed the hope that Stotsky could be sentenced to probation and public service. He said substantial public service would “honor the victim.”

Stotsky, in tears, spoke to the family and the court.

“The accident changed my life,” Stotsky said. “I would never intentionally hurt someone. All I can ask for now is forgiveness.”

Gonzales spoke to Stotsky.

“You are 16,” Gonzales said. “The forgiveness of the family has reverberated throughout this case. I am not sure you realize the seriousness of the case. A lack of understanding based on a lack of experience.”

He commented on the victim’s family.

“You have had a shield around you of forgiveness and love by the victims that is phenomenal,” Gonzales said. “They have been your guardian angels. For that you should be thankful. All too often I see victim’s families consumed by hate.”

He talked about the consequences of the accident.

“This is a minor ripple in your life compared to the ripple in the victim’s family lives,” Gonzales said.

“You are remanded to custody.”

another link to read:

* http://www.alamosanews.com/v2_news_articles.php?heading=0&story_id=20996&page=74

Lilacs & Cottonwood

Spring is here. And even on the high plains of Colorado, the weather has warmed enough to get all kinds of juices flowing in trunks and stems and leaves. We've got 11 year-old landscaping in the back yard and I must say, the lilacs (Chinese and Korean dwarf) have filled out and grown so large that with the unusual moisture we've had this spring, the blossoms are lingering and wafting a most heavenly scent across the back yard. I am finding excuses to sit out there to complete tasks -- any kind possible. I know it will end soon, and I'll be missing them again till next year.

On the other hand, we've got the most MONSTROUS cottonwood tree just to the north, at the neighbors. Rumor has it that the developers 30+ years ago were instructed/required to plant only the "cotton-less" variety -- but what did they care? Who would know? A year or two later, they'd be long gone and the rest of us would have to deal with it... Every year it produces an amazing profusion of lofty white fluffiness that sticks to everything -- it walks in with you on the bottom of your flip flops and balls up on the carpets. It plants itself next to the broccoli in the garden and puts down roots right along with the tomatoes and nasturtiums, it floats into the cars and blows into your nostrils whether you kept your windows closed overnight or not... Last year this same neighbor had piles of it a foot deep on her deck. I'm guessing some of our mulched corners easily matched that, plus a yard speckled with chicken-like "feathers" sticking into the dew. Walk out if you dare!

Based on other tree work we've had done over the years, the size of this engorged behemoth alone (estimated height 100 feet with multiple trunks at least 2 feet in diameter) would run close to $4,000 to have it removed. In the meantime, guess what my husband has just discovered? Cottonwood lofties are highly flammable. At first he used the word "explosive", but I think that was just his testosterone talking. At first he simply made use of the propane lighter but now, I see he must have run to the hardware store, he's cruising the lawn with something called a Bernz-O-matic power cell . I've never seen such a thing. (Please, hide it from the children!)

I don't want this season to end. But I cannot wait for all the cotton fluff to ball up, get soaked down, become one with the lawn and preferably get mowed down to size if each little seed ball has plans for grandeur and long-term growth. We'll be weeding or torching the rest.

We are still here :)

I know, throughout history there have been many folks who've figured out just when it's all going to end "as we know it". Jesus will return, and those left standing on the soil will have a hard time of it until it all goes up in fire, smoke, and an earthquake bigger than the wildest one ever before.

So, bless little Rev. Harold Camping's heart -- I know he's yearned for this since way before his last failed prediction -- but the birds are still singing and the sun is still shining and the worms are still tunneling in my unshaken yard today.

We've been told that it's not up to us to know, not on our job description.

So, as you go to sleep tonight, thank God all around that Love still surrounds us in this familiar garden. And if we're lucky -- no, still blessed -- we'll have a new chance tomorrow at taking another step closer to the garden of color and light and music and joy. We've a little more work to do right here to create a family of justice and peace that includes all people, as well as the earth and sky.

No better time to start than right now.

Self-imposed motherhood

Some days I've got to ask, "why?" Those of you who are parents know what I mean. And those of you who were ever kids of parents, if you've got any ability at self-reflection, you know what I'm talking about. Seriously.

It's not for the wadded up sock-balls I see on the side table as a neighbor sits to visit, and it's certainly not for the warped wood where my kid's friend chose to set her wet swim towel on the top of the piano, or the little slick band-aid wrappers left lying by the hardened toast on the kitchen counter next to the jelly smear. Nor is it for the sass-back that revs up shortly after 4:15 every weekday afternoon, when child is through with holding it together at school all day. I am certain that I could live without the mysterious sticky patches on the kitchen floor, or the milk cup left to fester by the heating ducts in the family room.

Then, why? Some days I'm not so good at seeing past the ornery, messy stuff to something else. But every now and then, a bit of light shines through to my dimmed senses.

Those revelations that flash in an instant; the joy when they're little as they excavate something simple or new with their eyes -- how the gears turn in their brains. It's a deepening of curiosity and a widening of wonder, that if you're not guarded against it, can trickle over. It's the laughs, the odd tweaks that strike at sometimes inopportune moments. It's the satisfaction in seeing this independent, unique small person grow into someone bigger who comes to see outside herself. When the self-absorption begins to fade and she begins to dig wells of her own filled with empathy, expertise, or passion. It's color and dynamics and music of one sort or another, thrown into a familiar noisy mess that is this family. On the best days, it's a bonding that somehow happens with all of these independent units going their own ways, but rooted in something deeper.

It's perhaps for the satisfaction of tender fears squelched. Or horizons stretched. A side-by-side that begins to happen and can, on those good days, bring another fleeting vision that the world is as bright and limitless as I once believed it to be.

low tech, high satisfaction

I'm a child of the '60s, so of course when the Sony company marketed its "Walkman" in the late '70s, it was perfect timing for me. Off to college, you know? Independent, portable life. I can't tell you how many walks I took with mine -- my favorite tunes on tape, or the radio option for the news of the day. No doubt I fast-walked to monotonous updates on the Iran-Contra "affair" (the whole miserable, covert operation and judicial proceedings swallowed 10 years of history). More than a few "Car Talk" episodes, and the culture-shattering rise of the home-based computer.

Just recently I was caught with a set of audio tapes of Marguerite Henry's 1953 book, Brighty of the Grand Canyon. By the time our family spring break was ending, no one else wanted to listen. We'd managed Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island (1883), and C.S. Lewis' Voyage of the Dawn Treader (1952), and a contemporary diversion about a kid from a disfunctional family who needs his meds to stay focused on the simple tasks of daily living (Joey Pigza Loses Control, by Jack Gantos, 2001).

After a few brief attempts to play Brighty in the final hours of our long drive back, I gave up trying to convince the others. The following Monday, I dragged out the old "boom box" cd/audio cassette player from one of the kids' rooms and plugged it in. Pushed a few buttons, flipped the tape, nothing happened. I was psyched for some serious bagging, boxing and moving stuff out and I needed a tape player; Brighty was waiting. Suddenly I remembered ye old Walkman, tucked away in my active togs drawer, behind the sweats and the sports bras. Ah! But the plastic waistband clip was long gone and, given the weight of the thing, I had to find a way to carry it.

My fortuitous outfit for this day of dedicated domestic cleansing was jeans and a white t-shirt under a flannel shirt (think, 50s, 70s or 2010, it's all how you look at it.) Knot up the flannel shirt tails, button a few up from the knot, and I had the perfect Walkman hammock. I was ready. More than one task got accomplished that afternoon and I only had to stop from time to time to sip a little seltzer and "fast forward to the end of each tape before turning it over to side B". Dear Marguerite created an engaging, if a little long, story of sincerity and simple living in the old western frontier. Between an early murder based on greed for a sweet, old prospector's mine and the book's bad man finally will get punished ending, Brighty lived a life of wild burro freedom to come and go as he pleased, while chumming up from time to time with kindly settlers and even President Teddy Roosevelt. Themes were solidly based in the culture of the late 19th century: resource extraction, a full-time lion killer hired by the government, the domination of once-unreachable natural places. It's all the stuff of serious adventure to young kids shortly after World War II. 

Professional audio drama, history, cultural commentary, and a serious dent in the domestic stuff-pile, all in one day! Can you do that with your Kindle? Just asking.

Tidbits I gleaned:

• A portable personal stereo audio cassette player, called Stereobelt, was first invented by the German-Brazilian Andreas Pavel in 1972. (Wikipedia) You can guess that the Sony company fought his claims to rights for a good long while, too, with several millions of dollars in the pot to shush him up. 
• Sony stopped making the audio cassette Walkman last fall, except for a small allowance for die-hards in China. A number of newsy blogs can be found on the subject, including Liz Goodwin's at http://news.yahoo.com/s/yblog_upshot/20101025/tc_yblog_upshot/sony-walkman-rip 
• If you've got an extra 20 minutes (!) to skim this morbid outline, CNN has a timeline of the Reagan/North/Bush operation in Nicargua and Iran: http://www.ibiblio.org/sullivan/CNN/RWR/ps174/icontra/ictimtxt.htm

Detritus

Di TRI tes  Not a word I use regularly, but every now and then it pops up in my thinking. This afternoon it did, as I was raking dead plant matter from the ground covers and shrubbery that encircle my back yard. The bright green starts of sweet woodruff and the day lily stubbins breathed more deeply, I thought, and the upper reaches of the lilac roots had their first glimpse of sunlight since the broken leaves of November crammed themselves down like napping pillows in the corner of the couch.

Loose bits of stuff created from the decay of other things.  Disintegrated parts.  That’s detritus.  It’s the particular bend in the circle of life that allows newness to be fed and to blossom.

A friend is rounding the corner eight weeks after a systemic bacterial infection took him to the brink of death.  He lost his left arm and segments of his skin died away.  After keeping him sedated in intensive care, urging his organs to return to full function and grafting newness onto the parts of his flesh that had died, this week the medical team has just given him clearance to begin rehabilitation and move up to a new room.  To work at talking again, standing, strengthening the muscles that had been kept quiet while the medical magic, and the celestial miracle, were taking place.  Today he is up, with fire and light, ready for a new season.

Detritus.  Not all raked away, but remnant feeding the vigor and the color and the life-breath of spring.

Hallelujah!

muscari

Bye bye ball pits!

Toddlers of the '90s used to get together to crawl around in ball pits while their mothers (and dads) floundered beside them at the neighborhood indoor play gym. I know this to be true, because my older kids experienced these vinyl-padded play zones from time to time. You know, the hippest preschoolers would be found there, clinging with their little sockless toes to the netted "walls," some trying not to get dragged down into the colored-globe abyss. Once the grip was lost, though, they were goners. The watchful parent had to stop yakking to the other kid's mom long enough to grab an appendage and yank the child up before they were gone from sight completely. (No socks allowed in those days, recalls Eldest. No one wanted to fish around for them after they fell off your feet.)

For some reason, the subject came up today and Youngest bulged out her eyes in my direction and said, "Ball Pit? What's a ball pit? I want to see one!" Caught me off guard, though, since the safety-police part of my brain filed away those ball pits (indoor play zones in general) sometime shortly after Middle kid contracted pneumonia and RSV and was hospitalized a day after playing hard at the play zone in the mall. Yes, she'd had a mild fever for a couple of days prior and was, I thought, free and clear. But that's all that poor kid needed and ZAM! She was under a medical team's 24-hour care for two and a half days in the pediatrics ward. Those were the days! (Youngest wasn't born at the time. Been there, done that, in my mind, so I feel like saying "sorry kid, they don't make those any more." Do they?)

Google the phrase and you'll get one of several parent chat sites -- Paraphrased First mom: "desperately seeking play zone options for child's birthday" -- Another mom: "Don't go there, don't you know that people were leaving syringes on the saggy floors underneath all the happy rainbow balls?" Third mom: "What about feces, vomit, plain old invisible, nasty germs?" Snopes.com will tell you that a story of a 3 year old dying after getting pricked with a heroin needle in a ball pit is false. Other sites suggest vague "safety concerns" and Wikepedia claims that Chuck E. Cheese discontinued offering ball pits, as balls would wind up in little kids' personal belongings and leave the building. Ain't no fun in a too-shallow ball pit, now is there? No point whatsoever to the pit-ball belly flop or hide and go seek if your hair's sticking out where someone can easily spot you!

But they're such a clever idea. Fun for all ages! Hygienic nightmare, for sure. So these days, I guess some parents order mini sets for their little ones to play in at home. (Let's see - how many small children would enjoy a 32-inch wide, plastic fence thing? (Only $200 more for 1,000 3-inch "crushproof" balls to fully cover a little tyke) There's also a nylon tent-like thing available with at 19-inch diameter tunnel connecting the two taller ends. Sounds small to me. And it could be rather tricky getting a little person out of the middle of the tunnel part if something would go wrong. Does it all fit in the washer if someone has an accident?

No, these days the closest we can get to something like this is the indoor, inflated bouncy town across the city from our house. And if you don't bring a clean pair of socks for your feet, they make you buy theirs out of a shiny glass case. We've come a long way since the late '90s, wouldn't you say?

I won't speak this idea aloud at home, just yet, but why don't we convert the storage room into a padded ball pit area just for the family? Christmas 2011 could be a bunch of fun when we lead the kids from a gift-less tree down to the basement. Surprise! Only 5,000 balls and $1,000 later (not counting the vinyl padding on the walls), won't we be having a very jolly holiday? But the neighbors can't come, sorry to say. Too many safety concerns.

NE Arizona March 2011

Once we crossed into Arizona on Interstate 40 heading west, the signs along the north side of the road were relentless. Some were weathered and decades old. Others were brightly printed in high contrast, new and appealing. Nearly all attempted to draw travelers into a variety of unique shops where handmade art, pottery, and jewelry awaited. Our family has driven this route at least five times in the last 10 years and in all those times, we’ve maybe stopped at one of these draws. I would love to pull over more often, honestly. I picture eager vendors and beautiful work in many cases, although I have an equal imagination for dingy, tape-plastered front doors, non-communicative clerks who wish for a more distinctive way to make a living, or items that look like a thousand I’ve seen before. My personal visuals have nothing to do with this region of the country, necessarily, but more to do with the hundreds of stops I requested as a child to wander through “destination” souvenir shops or gift venues of my own choosing. They can all look fairly much the same, if you think about it.

But here, in the land of petrified wood and native hand crafts, the draw for me is particular. I know little about these cultures of the Hopi, the Navajo, and the other ancient tribes who've lived within the boundaries set, and in most cases, whittled down and re-set, for them years ago. I have wished it were different, but without an “in”, my own European forbears and early (persistent) government policies pretty much ruled out a long-term connection to peoples whose more fertile lands were coveted and stolen outright. Clear separation followed near-total decimation. The legacy determined 150 years ago has made my generation the worse for it, no question.

We drive rapidly past these vast and scrubby lands, dry sage and grasses under a vast blue sky. Away from these easy pull-offs, deeper into the “reservations”, are communities and families, cultures of beauty and rhythm, depth and history. Around them, boundaries have been etched with fences, emotions, economics. Overgrazed land, few opportunities for satisfying, creative labor, the distractions, perhaps, of a larger culture's things and lifestyle held largely out of reach, but made to seem desirable. How does any of this figure into the idea of a land of opportunity? Of forward motion for any of us? Were I to stop, would my ripple be any more than that of a small flat stone skipped across the surface of the cool, deep sea of these peoples?  I sigh feebly, knowing I need a higher education even on how to move forward with these thoughts.  

One particular sign makes me ask myself. just how many years has it hung to the north of these speeding cars headed west to warmth and adventure? If the native, handmade wonders – the turquoise, silver, vessels and kachinas, stone pendants and intricate sand paintings do not entice – consider instead the offer of a broad array of ancient, stony tree trunks, or better yet, in this land of mystery, one can’t do better than to find a piece of reality from beyond our own atmosphere.  In this case, this sign that made me ponder longest was a blur of peeling paint proclaiming a whole new world of wonder:  “METEORITES 50% OFF”.

For how many has that claim been nothing more than another flaking, plywood distraction against the multi-tiered mesa horizon?

How many have stopped to see a chunk of the heavens come down to earth? 

lil' Muncher

Sorry for the distortion, but this is a photo of Lil' Muncher in an isolation vase. It's not a friendly, neighbor-type of fish. He's a green puffer. Little dude, maybe an inch and a half long at the moment. Middle kid purchased with her father a couple of nights ago because "it was cool" and drew their attention from the cat litter aisle. So, into the community tank it went before bedtime. Spiffy color. Very exotic. Look how its eyes kind of swivel. Ooh, yeah, and it moves forward, backwards, sideways. Very cool.

I get online after those light go out...something in me says "freshwater?" that doesn't sound right. So I become  educated and find out that yes, some puffers are. Some are brackish water creatures (a mix of salt and fresh) and some are pure salt water. That's pretty neat, too. I read on.

Sharp teeth. ... "It should be fed snails and unshelled shellfish (such as crab legs, mussels etc.) regularly, in order to maintain its sharp teeth."  In all the tanks I've kept over the years, I've never had a swimming member who came with a warning over "sharp teeth"... But, cheap pet stores will tell you (or in this case, not tell you) anything to make a sale.

Intolerant ... "the green puffer is not a particularly good community fish. It will often harass and nip the fins of tankmates" ...


Crushing ... "interesting adaptations. They are one of the few fish that can actually blink or close their eyes, which only serves to add further charm to what is already a fish with bags of character. ... beak-like mouth parts, ... used to crush shelled invertebrates, the favorite food of most puffers." 

A few of these words get my goosebumps rising, and I print out the descriptions for the kid to read at breakfast time. I fall asleep with brief, mostly happy thoughts of the albino loach, the long-finned black angelfish, the cute little African frog.

First day - no big deal. Mom's overly concerned internet research is skimmed. It's fine, Mom, see for yourself. Work ... school. Mom and Dad head out on the second evening. 


Second night? Big deal. I get a text from 45 minutes away that at home there's a "life and death" situation. Middle kid's favorite loach has now been munched (well, I can last almost a whole day before I get really hungry, too!). Tail fin nibbled down to nubbins, side fins no where to be seen.

Lil' Muncher is moved out of the group home. I'm trying to figure out if I'm up for this. Do I ask the dad to return said "community" fish? I read online again... "Tetraodon fluviatilis is a true brackish species. Despite this, it's often seen for sale in freshwater, but should be acclimatized to brackish if it's to survive long term."


The long term part keeps me re-reading. Brackish tank would be needed. What am I thinking? Long-term? This would make tank number three and it'd only have one little mean, prima don(na) fish in it. Well, with snails and other little crunchies to keep someone's sharp teeth from over-growing.

What to do?

Why am I even contemplating keeping this thing?

Neurotoxins ... "Many parts of the body of puffers contain the deadly neurotoxin tetrodoxin. This is the same poison found in the notorious blue-ringed octopus. ... no known antitoxin and to humans it is over 1000 times deadlier than cyanide."


This is crazy. Back it must go. But what really ticks me off is that some un-informed pet merchandiser will keep it listed as a freshwater/community and some other people's fish will suffer, and ultimately, so will the little green meanies. I'll send along a print out of the condemning descriptions. They will have to scrape up some kind of conscience, I suppose, to make it right.


Thanks to the folks at http://www.seriouslyfish.com for giving me some important info -- that wasn't in my books -- right when I needed it!

Oh, did you notice bit about the "third tank" up there? "First tank" is a different story. Has something to do with a bargain-priced goldfish that turned out to be a large-edition pond koi. Or something. I'll have to tell you that one another time.

Mr. Balloon Man

I have never thought much about "balloon men" before. Until last night, anyway. There was a largish ballpoint pen drawing on youngest kid's left palm. I asked to see it. She showed me. What I saw as a happy little face with a tuft of hair on its ovalness had something else -- an elongated vertical line coming out from its base. The line went all the way down her inner arm to her elbow. Now, notes of what to remember to bring home from school I have seen. Someone's telephone number, I've seen that too. This was totally new.

"And this is?"

"Mr. Balloon Man. I can tell him my problems."

"I see!"

And off she went with her confidant.

So I thought about this. Mr. Balloon Man is just an ink pen away. Who have I been pulling aside lately to tell my problems to? To whose have I listened? I can think of a few, both ways. And the past weeks I've been feeling low with weighty thoughts from a couple of worlds on my heart...uprisings in Egypt, Tunisia, Lybia. Regular folks protesting and chanting for their freedoms. In Lybia the battle has become militarily heavy-handed. Bloody sacrifices for freedom. Our own citizens in the U.S. battling for workers' rights in Wisconsin and elsewhere -- the brave ones standing up for what's right and what's just. The fuel of freedom-wishes coming to flame in the streets. I cheer with you people, pray for your safety, and am grateful for your sacrifices. But my prayer is for change without violence.

Then just a few short days ago, Japan suffered terribly when the 8.9 magnitude earthquake hit and tsunami quickly followed. Thousands confirmed dead, more homeless, living out of public buildings, their regional nuclear power plants heating up, burning, leaking radiation. I think of dear ones still struggling in Haiti, their earthquake woes continue after more than two years. Then today, an hour ago, I got the news that another beloved child has died -- a 9 year old in the outer circle of our family's circle. The inner circle of that family's circle. I feel that wound deeply, it is raw each time, as I have been lost in that dark inner circle before myself, as a mom.

All of it can be so overwhelming.

And when I hold my thoughts at arm's length long enough, I can acknowledge my own balloon man. Mine can seem invisible till I see him in someone else's eyes, or in another person's pain. Very present. Willing to listen, needing to be listened to. He doesn't exist to make the problems disappear, but to give me perspective on what matters in the long run, and to find relief in dumping them in his lap for a while. There are problems that can be resolved when I, balloon man, and others team together. This can take a very long time, longer than my lifetime, but is, as some say, "doable". I must keep taking "look up" breaks in times like this when the weight of human existence keeps pushing me down. Lie on my back and look at the clouds, maybe, whether they're white or gray or orange.

Hmm.

Have you ever noticed how often, in Curious George stories, there seems to be a balloon man? How we could all use one in our corner, on our street, when we're looking for a fast, upward escape.

Melting pot of Mennonite Cookery

A little gem of a book is the Melting Pot of Mennonite Cookery, which my husband brought into the marriage (lard is a common ingredient - it's comic relief as much as anything). A classic for its little summaries of history of various Mennonite peoples and their immigrations to the North American continent. Following each brief history of ...

Chapter 1 - Pennsylvania German/Amish Mennonites

Chapter 2 - South German Pioneers in the Prairie

Chapter 3 - The Coming of the Swiss

Chapter 4 - Swiss Galician Mennonites

Chapter 5 - Swiss Volhynian Mennonites

Chapter 6 - The Hutterites

Chapter 7 - The Netherland Mennonites

Chapter 8 - The West Prussian Mennonites

Chapter 9 - The Polish Mennonites (broken into Michalin and Ostrog, even!)

Chapter 10 - The Russian (Low German) Mennonites

...are collections of culture-specific recipes for foods like "Church Cookies", "Berry Sturm", "Weisse Pfeffernuesse", "Cornmeal Mush", "Rode Kool", and "Bobbat with Sausages" - and a description of daily life for families in various locations of resettlement. In many cases, these dear folks were escaping wars, or conscription into wars (these are people of peace, remember -- no killing for the followers of Christ, who set an example of brilliant, Creator-directed, non-resistance and the unifying of people from all walks of life), and carried with them their old world recipes for low-budget, sustaining provisions to their new homes and farmlands.

It is here that I went searching for something akin to a simple, fried bread that a woman at our church had made to share with our family on summer nights when we'd get together to munch on ripe watermelon and have seed-spitting contests across the back yard. (Keep your toes behind the edge of the patio. If your seed passes the sand box, you've got real skill!) When those nostalgic, food-related urges hit, you've got to follow 'em, right?

So far I've tried three of the eight (six if you don't count those labelled only as "roll kuchen") cross-cultural recipes for "crullers"... You know I'm serious about my gustatory research when I make a special trip to the store to purchase three large cans of solid Crisco (yikes!) ...

I'd say the "Swiss Galician" recipe gets closest to my taste bud memory, so far. (I'll keep you posted.) What I thought best, though, was when my Mom said she'd try to connect with the source who'd been the maker of the perfect watermelon complement from my youth! Here's hoping!

Modern life continues, with a more standard fare till that day when I delve into a series of things-fried-recipes again. And thanks to the dear women of the Bethel College (KS) Women's Association for the production of this book back in the early 1970s. Quite the chore! So, thank you, Honora, Mildred, Clara, Helen, Neva, Alma, Grietje, and friends. For the history, and for the classic, old-world eats.

P.S. Anyone wanting the instructions for "Sill-Flaesh" (head cheese), let me know. All you need is "a cleaned pig's head, ears, and nose -- with a little of the rind" and a vinegar brine soak for 2 to 3 days. Sounds fairly easy, really, if you've got a thick crock the right size, but I won't be trying it.

Plaid versus Plaid

I would have a picture of this, except that I'm not as "in your face" as I would have needed to be to procure one. Large 5-inch wide bands of bright aqua and coral on top, colors against a light cream background. That was the jacket. Black-backed plaid on the bottom - the slacks, and bright but skinnier bands of red and green crossing through it. After a momentary shock, I found myself smiling 'cause what the world needs now, besides love, sweet love, is a few more folks willing to put themselves out there with color. (Matching schmatching - they were both plaid, weren't they?) This picture, and glimpses of a few other folks that came across my natural viewfinder at the grocery store, made it a very worthwhile side trip this afternoon. A little dose of life in the not-so-big city, and I am reminded that I'm glad I'm here. Got any good visions of life from your neck of the woods, lately? ;)

Amish furniture

I had an opportunity this past weekend to wander a bit in one of my favorite types of showrooms. I found the Amish Furniture Gallery on University Boulevard in Littleton, just north of County Line Road. I’m always amazed at how deeply affected I am by the beauty of this craftsmanship. I steep myself in the rich brown tones of the wood, the slick-smooth finish of the table tops, the solid, simple lines of Shaker and Mission styles, along with soundless solid wood gliders with upholstered seats. There were a good number of more contemporary angles and undulating table sides and chair backs, too, with intricate slats, ladders, and cross pieces. And when the creators combine two richly toned types of wood, I can only sigh. Such elegant, practical works of art.

This particular store had an array of Quoitzel art glass lamps as well, and the making of glass panels has been a strong love of mine at points in the past 16 years. Yes, it’s been many moons now since I’ve found the time, but oh – what a balm it was to see so many in one place. One that particularly caught my eye was the most simply designed – it was built with thin trapezoidal pieces in various veiny shades of natural jade.

My brief wander through the store (Did I trace my steps a couple of times to try a different chair or look again at the name of a table style, pull open a drawer just to sense its smooth slide on perfectly-placed track hardware? I most certainly did!) was like a mini-vacation, inspiring, and restful. My natural assumption was that my own creative output in my current routine would be multiplied one hundredfold if I could surround myself with such creations. Yes, I’m almost certain it would.

As I walked away from the store in the cold, though, I wondered something else. Obviously, this kind of artistry calms and rejuvenates me, makes me wish I “could make something as beautiful.” Whether it be two-dimensional art, an essay, or another panel of glass work in my own basement shop. I insist that full-time “regular” work and family obligations keep me from the attempt of such things; where’s the time? However, the real barrier to my own attempts could be the fact that I believe that what I might accomplish in the time I have would most certainly be inferior to these specimens of crafted artistry. My guess is that the folks who conceive and built and finish these pieces aren't part-timers. But, is my failure to even attempt it because I believe the result can’t be exquisite?

Therein lies my dilemma. How many of us hold ourselves back from whatever would bring us a deep, satisfying joy with that kind of reasoning? I’m among them, minority or not…

I’m most grateful, though, that the artisans who spend glorious days shaping trees into hands-on works of household art have found a way to do just. The rest of us – slackers – can benefit. May these dear Amish artisans live many long and productive days and enjoy quiet evenings with their feet up and the satisfaction of a job well – marvel-ously – done.

I left a note about that...

A couple of young friends checked in on the cats while the fam and I were away this weekend. I left a note about water, food, and the disposal of output. These are great kids and always happy to be helpful around the house and in the yard in warmer seasons.

The cats were fine, no issues there. One scooper was left in the middle of one of the two litter boxes. Okay, no big deal -- they had second location if that little hurdle threw them off. But one tiny issue caused a sudden sensory overload as I started to unpack my suitcase...here's how our conversation went when these dear little friends showed up shortly after our return...

I entered the kitchen with my bathroom trash can in tow. "Hi guys! Thanks for keeping the cats safe this weekend!"

"You're welcome!"

I lifted the trash can. "Do you want to smell the trash from my bathroom?"

(pause, glance) "NO!"

"Why is there cat poop in this trash can? Did you see the note?"

One said, "We didn't see that note until the second day."

I said, "So after you saw the note, why didn't you take the poop outside?"

They just shrugged and grinned.

I handed it over and said, "Now would be a good time."

Two said, "She was the one who..."

And I said, "I'm thinking there's probably a second trash can you can carry?"

Out they went through the back door. (Still smiling, I think?)

Payment was fulfilled, as was a lesson learned, I trust.

I'm thinking happy thoughts that it was just a three-day weekend.

Flash Cards

Life moves too fast most of the time, and as I get older, it's speeding. How many thousands of times have I heard "old" people tell me that would happen? I know I probably just chuckled to myself and thought 'how pathetic, to fall into that old cliche!' But guess what, there are many hours when my conscious can't keep up with what (or who) is right in front of me. One prime example was pointed out to me before breakfast this morning. Middle kid came downstairs, evidently after having had a little interchange with my spouse's current level of consciousness.

"Mom, Dad and I are having a flash card session tonight. You have to join."

"What kind? Do I have to study math?"

"No, I'm planning to make a pile of photo flash cards with pictures of me and my sisters on them." Her hands illustrated the depth of said "pile"... It was about 14 inches thick.

"Your pictures?"

"Exactly. I will lift them one at a time and you tell me whose picture you see. You and Dad have NO excuse for calling us by the wrong names! You seriously need to practice."

Maybe so. But I drove her crazy until she left for middle school by calling her name over and over and over and over again as she went back and forth through the kitchen gathering her stuff. And I got it right every time!

Planting ...

One sunny afternoon last summer, my youngest and I were enjoying some freshly shaved roast beef sandwiches in the van with the side doors wide open. A young woman came across the parking lot from the credit union, pushing a stroller. It was a double stroller with both seats occupied by little ones, and two older boys walked beside. My first glance made me wonder – wow, she’s young to have four kids. Maybe she’s a nanny, or a family friend just out with the kids. A glance at her face showed fatigue, no emotion. One of those days? Or longer than a day? I dug a little deeper in wonder: Trying hard not to be negative, so saying nothing?

She took the stroller across a strip of grass, just to the left of a line of newly planted shrubs, bumping over the mulch, toward a sidewalk. The older boy came along after her to the right, oddly, I thought, as he was aligned with the closest of the small bushes. Tromp. One foot went right to the center of the young plant. One solid crunch, and on he went. In the fleeting instant that followed, as I was baffled by his evident need to be musher of the universe, the younger walking boy backed up from where he had already passed in the wake of the stroller, and made a forceful effort to align himself in his older brother’s footsteps. Literally. He didn’t have the height or clearance of the older boy, so he took two forceful steps through the plant, sending its little branches splaying to either side with ugly bounces. There was a clearer path to the left, or even a narrower one to the right, for that matter, but these boys chose the tough way through the little green leaves.

It had all happened so fast, I wasn’t sure if my own child had seen what I had seen in those few short seconds. We looked at each other. “Did you see that?” I asked. She had. “Why did they step on the plant, Mom?”

I recalled the woman’s face. I saw the blueness of the sky and recalled the tiny flash of joy that fragile greenness brings to me. To so many people.

“I have no idea,” I said, “but it makes me so sad.”