Yes, Magic Sand!

Out the window

It's crisp and cold this morning, the sky a sharp blue, the air showing off the warm breath of the workers across the street. Around 8:30 a.m. vast amounts of lumber arrived, all perfectly cut and stacked in piles like flat Lincoln Logs. Since it's so early, the door to the bright red port-a-potty near the house owner's mailbox swings open and shut. All of the workers are trying to "take care of business" before the Main Event: Cement!

The cement mixer is expected any minute. We know it is coming because my sweet neighbor is very organized. A typed sheet is delivered once or twice a week that outlines what will be happening and, sometimes, what we need to do to be ready. Today, we all had to park somewhere else so the giant mixer could fit down our little street. It will dump it's soupy grey load in the pre-built molds and trenches that have been dug around the little old house, expanding its 1954 footprint so that (at the very least) man and woman can have separate places to pee.

The workers wear their uniforms, all similar, yet none the same. Clothes chosen because they are warm, washable and soiled through. Thick sweatshirts, scuffed leather boots, dented hard hats in all colors. And of course those jeans. Pants fulfilling their original purpose, with little pockets for screws and bolts, belt loops for hammers and keys and phones, deeper pockets for bandannas, electrical tape and chilly, chapped fingers. One man stands out with wearing a bright white T-shirt and new silver helmet. Temp worker, I'm guessing.

The mixer is here! It is huge and white with bold red letters that swirl around as it spins, "RIGHT AWAY REDY MIX." Oh dear. All of the other spellings must have been trademarked. I have heard that it must keep turning like that or the cement begins to set, and the truck would be ruined. The chute in the back is directed into a smaller type of vehicle. My husband says that this other machine mixes the concrete with water and such, then pumps it into the allotted location. The two men that arrived with the cement mixer seem cocky and sure of themselves. Checked shirts and baseball caps. They are above the fray, just dropping off, don't get attached to us, and thank you very much.

Watching the cement pour out, I am reminded of a strange product from my early toy-selling days. It was some sort of sand-based toy. You let wet sand dribble down and built odd underwater towers by directing its flow with your fingers. Magic Sand? Hmm. I will google it later.

I envy these workers. I envy their tasks, their focus, their camaraderie, and those comfy work clothes. Most of all, in this time of ,"who am I and what am I going to do with my life?" I envy what I project on to them, on to anyone who has a job. I envy that sense of purpose and accomplishment.

Jack the cat has propped himself against my body, resting his head on my left hand, making it difficult to type. But he is so docile and soft I hate to disturb him.

So for now I say goodbye.

Funny about squirrels and the recession…

Here we are, my husband and myself, struggling financially in the most awful way. Really frightened for the first time in our lives. No work in sight. Hope draining away. And there are those goddamn squirrels out back. Day in, day out, gathering 4-inch acorns that just keep falling, falling, falling.

If we lived in the wilds, growing food, caring for animals, harvesting sunshine, would we be in these desperate straights? Do we need to abandon our ways and plummet backwards? And what then? Will the acorns fall for us, too?

I do not have this knowledge.

I wish I did.

An Email to My 19-Year-Old Baby in Paris

Hi Sweetie!
Well, I had a hard day at the bookstore. Worked my first all day shift and my back feels like poop. So let's take a stroll down memory lane to cheer us up... :-D

In July of 1990, when you were just 7 months old, we took our first family trip. We rented a cabin right outside Yosemite Valley. It was snug and cozy, with warm wooden floors, and lots of windows. The house was surrounded by tall pine trees, and the bone-dry ground was carpeted with fragrant pine needles that crunched underfoot. During the day, we took little jaunts to all of the "not-to-be-missed" sites in the valley. Each evening, after a day of adventures and exploring, I would bathe you in the large kitchen sink with lovely warm water and golden baby shampoo until you were squeaky clean. You splashed and poured water from the bright plastic nesting cups we brought from home. I remember the soothing sound of dad playing lute while we were busy at the sink a few yards away. One night, you decided it was time to crawl. This was a very exciting development! As with many children, you crawled backwards first. So there we were, in a cozy cabin, fire crackling in the hearth, and sweet little Miss Molly, crab walking backwards around and around the two worn out sofas.
I especially recall a day by the river, both of us "girls" in our swimming suits, you playing quietly with rocks and sticks in the sand, me reading some good book. After a few hours, and some yummy snacks, we both got sleepy and snuggled together on our blanket under a big rainbow umbrella. Sheer bliss.
When we went to see the Giant Sequoias, Daddy wore the baby backpack with you perched way up high. As we hiked along, you bounced happily, all three of us enjoying the enormous trees. You had such round rosy cheeks and big saucer-sized blue eyes that looked and looked and looked at the world.

You are still that baby, plus all of the other "Mollys" that have come and gone, changed and grown. You are my best girl, and you are such a joy!

I love you.

Sour Cream Blackberry Muffins

Sincerely, sometimes all you need is a really good muffin.

Gather together:
2 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 Tablespoon baking powder
2 large eggs
1 cup sour cream
1 teaspoon milk
2/3 cup sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 stick melted butter
2 cups blackberries
(About 50 fresh berries, rinsed and patted dry on paper towels)

Preheat oven to 400°F.
Line 12 cup muffin pan with paper cups and spray top of pan with PAM.

BOWL 1) Mix flour, baking powder and salt.
BOWL 2) Whisk eggs, sour cream, sugar, milk, warm butter and vanilla.

Fold wet ingredients into dry until the dry ingredients are moistened. You will still have some dry mixture showing. The batter should be very lumpy. Fill muffin cups 1/2 way, add 4 or 5 berries, then top with more batter. Or you can just poke berries into the top of filled cups. Fun and messy for kids!

Bake until a toothpick inserted into the middle comes out clean
15-20 minutes. Let cool a bit before devouring.

Fly

My life is way too fragile,
A teeming world contained,
Like an inner thriving pond,
Threatened by loss or gain.



How can I construct,
A better growing place,
Balanced and unaffected,
By my life’s own embrace?

Do I have the tools,
Using hands, mind, wit,
To tinker with my engines,
Making all the pieces fit?

It’s time to leap ahead,
Trusting in those wings,
I always knew were there,
Yet never dared to spread.

On the Fence

Moving away from a community where you're completely settled is like yanking out nose hair. Or in my case, just deciding to move away. I keep tottering on the edge: Go forward. Stay still. Go forward, stay still. Those words are chugging around in my mind like train wheels. The fear of change is paralyzing. I love our life here. Family, neighbors, too-small-house and all. But we moved to this town when my child was 5 in order to improve her chances for a better education. It was a gift from the gods to find this house, this life. Now my baby is grown, brilliant, and happy—and we are in debt above our eyebrows. It was the right choice, but it can't continue. Recession. Work is disappearing for me, and since my husband is also freelance, we must do what was referred to in Persuasion (my favorite book) as "retrench."

So, I think the decision has been made for us by the current housing market and recession. We must move, and there are very few places we can get what we want for how much we'll have and still... Stay within 2 hours of my family, have a bigger house/some acreage, be within 30 minutes of a Kaiser. And Auburn looks like that place. So I need to get off the fence. CAN SOMEONE GIVE ME A GOD DAMN PUSH???

Lack of kinfolk

My sister recently shared with me that she was feeling a "lack-o-kinfolk" and I must agree. Our family has always been small, and in the past few years we lost our last grandmother, and a dear aunt and uncle. Even if we got it together and had a reunion, there'd be less than 20 people there.

There is something so appealing about the notion of an extended family. A stepping stool of different ages, a crop of oddball cousins, an ever-changing slew of nieces and nephews. And some extra people—an interesting variety of "spares" to fill in and round out parties and whatnot.

Though I can't change my bloodline family, I am trying to bring those I have closer. My future hope is that our move to a smaller town, which is scheduled to happen in the next year, will provide a place where my sister, my husband and myself can meet new people and join a community that will bind us in the velvet ribbons of heart connections.

We just have to make it so.

The Flu Upgrade

I had the flu last week. Not swine or anything, just regular terrible headache, feel-like-shit, no energy type. It lasted much longer than I thought it would, and I became sick to death of everything—yes, even my main man, Perry Mason. My head hurt so bad that every light and sound was intolerable. Two things got me through it: My new iphone and clean sheets. I admit I did not think I wanted the iphone. I don’t like change and the word “upgrade” makes me cringe, but oh-my-god. I LOVE MY iphone! It can do anything. I was able to download free books to read, listen to my itunes, watch youtube and play a vast assortment of really fun games. Yes, I can do those things on my laptop, but the phone means I could be curled up in fetal position, under covers, away from the world, and still read a new mystery. With a tiny swipe on my finger I could adjust the light emanating from the screen. Another minute touch and the page flipped in a wonderful curly motion. I could check on ebay items, visit facebook and even (hold your breath) make PHONE CALLS! But after two days in bed, surrounded by my dog and at least four cats at any given time, the bed was not so inviting, even with this god-sent wireless contraption. I took a hot shower to try and break the ache, and my sweet Baboo remade the whole bed for me. Oh the deep pleasure of clean, 400-count sheets against tired achy flesh. I slept 12 hours a day what with naps and such. Today I woke up pain free and ready to roll. The body is an amazing self-righting machine. Oh—and God Bless Apple.

OPEN IT!

I have always loved bugs, spiders, newts, salamanders, toads, lizards, and snakes. Also birds and mammals—humans are iffy. I think it helped that my dad was a scientist. He lived with us for the first 6 years of my life, and during our many jaunts into nature, I learned to investigate and engage all of these critters without fear.

My dad had an immense roll top desk filled with all things natural. Cubbies and wooden boxes erupting with shells, fossils, seed pods and rocks. My favorite thing was a giant 3½-inch potato bug floating in a 4½-inch bottle of formaldehyde. When it was my turn to hold it, I had to stay right by the desk and stand very still. Something about “busy little fingers” and “deadly poison.” Anyway, I remember feeling slightly resentful. I wanted to take it everywhere with me, but Mr. Potato Bug lived inside my dad’s desk, something to ooh and ah over, a sacred object.

By the age of 1 1/2, I had decided that when I was outside, anything of interest would be on the ground, usually underneath something else. There are dozens of photos of me at that stage, wearing springy little floral frocks, bent completely over. Thank God those lacy diaper cover-ups were all the rage in the 1960’s. Dad took us on nature hikes, usually up to Tilden Park. My trouble was I just didn’t have the muscle to turn over objects like logs and rocks, which is where the wild things dwelt. So I used two words I had recently learned—probably at Christmas—and getting my father’s attention, I would point to various objects and order: “OPEN IT!”

The results were amazing.

Hidden worlds appeared before my eyes. Live creatures nestled amid the flotsam of leaves, sticks and dirt. Orange centipedes, blue-bellied lizards, roly-poly beetles, chocolate brown salamanders, all leading secret lives right along side of us! I learned which things could be picked up, and which could only be watched. I learned that any rock or log that was moved must be carefully lowered back in place. I learned never to curl my hands underneath the object I was turning over. This lesson was brought home when at the age of two, I rolled over a rock that housed a large scorpion, and dad realized I could’ve been stung. I was stung by the strength of his anger, but in retrospect I understand. Consequently, I was able to pass his wisdom on to my own daughter in a gentler fashion.

Last week when my daughter was home from college, we took a walk in Briones Open Space. Climbing over (or in my case under) a barbed wire fence, we wandered through an abandoned walnut orchard strewn with fallen branches. As we quietly turned them over, I was a child again. We discovered huge red-bellied newts, a baby ring-necked snake, a striped skink, a potato bug (of course!) and a fluffy little Field Mouse. Together we carefully put each “top” back on these magical hidey-holes teeming with live treasures. Leaving behind what, to the rest of the world, looked like a field full of dying trees.

Metamorphosis

Tangled sticks bud softly into blossom-laden boughs.

Birds gather tufts of pampas grass in finicky beaks.

Black clumps of fur dot an over-vacuumed rug.

Bare white feet slip on well-worn flip-flops.

Plump rabbits loll in the fleeting sunshine.

Morning light inspires hands to plant.

Frog eggs evolve in a sleepy pond.

Pink clothes plead to be worn.

Sky surprises with blue.

Pollen falls thickly.

Life begins.

Spring!

Raindrops keep falling on my blog

The rain has been outrageous. Here in the Bay Area, rain is our extreme weather. And every 5th year or so, we get some thunder and lightning, which triggers immediate emails and calls, "DID YOU HEAR IT?" "Naw, are you sure it wasn't just a plane?" This morning around 7am I heard thunder. Twice. I nudged my snoring husband and said, "Did you here it?" Response: "Snoffzzgggl plane." I turned to one of the three cats perched on my body, "Thunder!" They all agreed with me. (Another reason to keep them around.)
An hour later I looked out the front door. To the West the clouds were a deep angry grey with a touch of green. I haven't seen a sky like that since one Kentucky summer 30 years ago. Standing on my porch, I felt my lungs start to shut down. For some weird medical reason, my asthma is triggered by barometer changes. I'd have been a great asset on a sailing ship in the 1600's... Anyway, within the next hour, we got BIG rain. Couldn't see across the street rain. Or as I like to call it, Rain Dance rain. During our last drought, as the garden lay decimated by winter, I decided to make a real effort to "call the rain," so yes, I did a little dance in my backyard, and yes, there was a little song, too. The flooding raged on for weeks. I'm not saying it was my fault but, shit. I leave those things to Mother Nature nowadays.
All in all I love the rain, except for the poor drowned worms. And the billions of tiny muddy pawprints. And the way hard rain can knock down delicate blossoms that had big plans to become fruit. But the birds keep on keeping on, eating the seed I dash out and give them between downpours. And the squirrels just curve their tails over their heads like built-in bushy umbrellas as they sit smack-dab in the middle of the feeder bowls, scarfing seeds and chewing away thoughtfully.
Mainly for me though, rain is a sign of the coming Spring. Green bits start sprouting everywhere, the wrens check out the nesting boxes under the eaves, and I begin to feel like planting, painting, writing, and joining the living after a lengthy hibernation. So rain on baby. (This is NOT a dance cue.)

Goodbye Aunt Loris and Uncle Claud

There were six of us cousins growing up. Three Padgett’s and three Mann’s. We spent every holiday together: Ripping open colorful packages and squealing with delight, playing hide-and-seek in those amazing Berkeley houses, and searching our enchanted gardens for elves at twilight. That’s how I remember it, because I was the youngest and was doted upon, looked after and spoiled. Mom, Dad, Aunt Loris and Uncle Claud pretty much left us alone to enjoy our childhoods. But somehow I knew they had woven a cocoon around us that kept us safe.

When I was my most troubled, around age 13, I would leave home at the drop of a hat, furious with life, running away. I smoke, drank, and wore too much make-up. We had moved to the suburbs after “The Divorce” and I did not fit in, so I often ran away to roam the streets of Berkeley. I remember turning up at the Domingo house where my Aunt and Uncle lived, and being given food and drink and comfort. I especially remember Uncle Claud focusing on me, just me. Praising my abilities, never a critical or harsh word. I could almost see myself through his eyes, and that was enough to keep me going. So different from my own father, whose comments left me fighting tears with slumped shoulders.

Uncle Claud was different. For one thing, he was a star—working for Channel 2 news, reporting all through the tumultuous 60’s and 70’s. There he was on TV, looking so handsome at 10 pm. He had the ability to make anyone feel good about what they were doing. I have never met anyone else who was as genuine, generous and caring. Not ever. What a remarkable gift.

My Aunt was a mystery to me as a child, smelling of exotic perfumes and wrapped in soft jersey, jewels sparkling at her ears and throat. Like Lauren Bacall, she had a dark, smoky beauty. (partially because all the rooms were hazy, since everyone smoked!) There were all sorts of subtle wonders that I absorbed as a child because of my Aunt. I recall lovely paisley shawls and big books on art, quotes from famous writers and wonderful parties where sherry was served in jewel-toned glasses.

Later, as a young married adult, the slightly twisted Padgett humor emerged from me (thanks for that, Dad) and linked up with my Aunt’s razon-sharp wit. I began to appreciate that we shared something very special and personal. From then on we always laughed when we were together, usually at someone else’s expense. Nothing was verboten—god, what a relief that was! I will miss that more than I can express.

I can still feel the warm glow of magic these two people wrought in my young life. They are part of who I am, and I am a better person because of them.

Uncle Claud's Obit:
http://www.legacy.com/SFGate/DeathNotices.asp?Page=Notice&PersonID=108304948

The Big Ears Solution

When my daughter was a baby she needed me to do it all: Make breakfast and mud pies, schedule doctor visits and play dates, and manifest a myriad of activities that were both interesting and safe. Then she learned to ask for what she wanted: Can I go to Chelsea's? Will you bake cookies? Find my blue bear? Watch me dance? Kiss my owie? I was the Happy Fulfiller of her wants and needs. I loved this job. It fit in my soul and made me happy—and even allowed me time for a "money job" on the side.

Then one day when she was around thirteen, I GOT FIRED. Just fired from my Mommy job. Oh, not in those words, but dismissal was extremely clear. "Mom! Don't tell me what to do!" "You can't make me!" "You don’t understand me!" Well, hell. What was I suppose to do now? I refused to reenact my mother's role during my own hair-raising adolescence. I would not be the enemy—it left too many scars. Without a role model, I turned to the facts: I loved my daughter, and I believed in her innate honesty, integrity and intelligence. She was going through massive changes, and my parenting style wasn’t working anymore.

After much reading and talking with my husband, mother, sister and dog, I had a new goal. I wanted to be rehired as Trusted Advisor for this emerging creature that was my rosy-cheeked sweet pea just yesterday. In response, I became a head with a gigantic pair of ears that listened and nodded, listened and nodded, without comment... no really! I kept my mouth glued shut until the silence came. And it always did. Then, I would utter a very sincere, "That sounds really hard for you. Let's see if we can figure it out together." Or something similar—and bing-bang-BOOM! I got the job! No resume required. No background check. No drug testing.

Here’s how it worked: If her mood was black, I would throw my agenda of homework, shopping or chores out the window. Ensconced on my bed, doors closed against the world, (and the cats) the stage was set for a heart-to-heart. A few mild questions would often elicit tears, followed by a Big Ears session. We did not emerge until the dilemma was wrestled, pinned, and called by its name. Sometimes we made a follow-up plan, other times it wasn't that big of a deal. I made some missteps, yet learned quickly as all Mother/Advisors must. Unsaid rules included: No smiling or laughing, no half-listening, and no opinions before the silence. The listening part gave me plenty of time to think of what I wanted to say, and how to phrase it so that it could be heard in a non-critical way.

By putting my daughter’s everyday issues under a magnifying glass together, I began to appreciate this sensitive, blooming person who shared my house, and she began to see that I could still be there for her. Watching my daughter gain confidence in her own judgment, make informed decisions, and stand up for her beliefs was a privilege. Right before my eyes (and those big listening ears) she grew from a confused tween to a thoughtful young woman. In retrospect, I know that I was actually getting ready to say goodbye, and I desperately wanted those transition years to be rewarding, love-filled years. They were.

BUT WAIT!

...or trying desperately to do that stupid silver lining thingy…

A box (containing computer junk we can’t afford) was delivered today.
But wait! It’s from Small Dog Electronics and every box they send contains two little rubber dogs—just like crackerjacks. Mmmmm crackerjacks.

It’s freezing cold, there are no flowers or leaves on the trees, and I spend too much time at my computer or watching TV.
But wait! I see the birds clearly on the naked branches when I bother to look up from my screen. Oh, and Perry Mason is still God.

No work this week.
I gotta be honest, I got nuthin’ here.

Wolfy

Everyone in the whole kingdom agreed,
That the Big Bad Wolf just had to leave.
"He's BIG and BAD and MEAN and TOUGH,
We fairytale friends have had enough!"

Little Bow Peep won't stroll in the park.
All the King's men are afraid of the dark.
Remember that sweet old Gingerbread man?
He's tired of running as fast as he can.

Bah Bah Black Sheep lives in dread,
That he'll be gobbled up in bed.
And the Three Little Pigs will stand for nothing,
Like stinky Wolf breath or huffing and puffing.

So they asked advice from someone Good,
(You may remember, Miss Riding Hood?)
And brave Little Red set a trap to lure,
That Big Bad Wolf right back to her.

In a handwritten note she promised him sweets,
Like cookies and candies, fruits and treats.
"Come to my house at twelve o'clock,
And I will leave the door unlocked."

Now, poor Mr. Wolf, it must be said,
Was sad and sick and nearly dead.
But when he got Red's kindly note,
It brought a lump to his dry throat.

Wolfy thought, "It's so very exciting,
That Red should do such kind inviting!"
"Oh dear," thought he, quite scared and shy.
"Will there be friends and gooseberry pie?"

He pulled a comb through mangy hair.
"I'll need a clean white shirt to wear."
He brushed his teeth—there were just two,
(Which made it very hard to chew.)

And shuffling across the forest floor,
He softly opened the cottage door.
Then BAM! Red grabbed him from behind,
While Grandma tied him up in twine!

All the fairytale creatures gathered 'round,
To see the Wolf— now safely bound.
They yelled at him, right in his ear,
"You're BIG! You're BAD! You can't stay HERE!"

Everyone hollered—except Wolfy himself.
(Did I mention he's shy and in very poor health?)
"I'm sorry," he whispered, with a dry little cough.
"If I seemed to be mean or acting too tough."

I was hungry and lonely and not feeling well.
I had no idea it would make you all yell!"
"I'm frightened of pigs. I don't eat gingerbread.
I assure you the sheep are quite safe in their beds.
And all of my huffing and puffing about,
It's just how I breathe—'cause I'm not very stout."

The fairytale friends took a good look at him.
Poor scraggly thing—he was very thin.
Living alone with no Wolf mom or dad.
Perhaps he wasn't so BIG or so BAD.

Then Red spoke up and the whole group agreed,
"My dear Mr. Wolf, you ought to be freed!
We're terribly sorry you've been all alone,
With no Birthday cards, or chats on the phone."

"Pleeease" squealed the Pigs, "Won't you come dine?
I'm sure that our brick house will hold up just fine."
"And this is for you," said Bah Bah Black Sheep.
Handing the Wolf his wool coat—to keep!

Wolfy could hardly believe his own Great Big Ears.
His Great Big Eyes filled with Great Big Tears.
And wrapped inside the Sheep's snuggly skin,
He allowed himself ...one Wolfish grin.

The End




©2005 Mary Clasen