Caitlin Graduates

Another milestone has passed in Caitlin's childhood - she has graduated from elementary school.

A funny thing about endings and me: apparently I'm a sucker for them. I was ecstatic sending her off to kindergarten 6 years ago and yet immediately ready to cry the day of her graduation.

I know that everyone says time flies, and truly it does as you get older, but the proof is startling when you are suddenly faced with key milestones. That 5 year old turned into a 10 year old while I was watching, slowly but surely.

She's the same girl and yet not.

Tears started welling up in my eyes as soon as I read the opening poem in the program:

Congratulations! Today is your day. You're off to Great Places! You're off and away! You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself in any direction you choose. You're on your own. And you know what you know. You are the guy who'll decide where to go! --Dr. Seuss

It is true that she has brains in her head. I tried to get to them, but apparently I needed to work harder at it.

The song they sang after entering the hall, the words from their teachers, walking across the stage, all of it had me verklempt. The best and worst was yet to come, in the form of the video slide show that one of the mother's put together as a memento. Set to music, they had images from picture day from kindergarten morphing into the 5th grade photo. It was a very dramatic change from cherub-like cheeks and smiling eyes to longer faces and serious expressions. My mother-in-law noted that it's a lot harder to get Caitlin to really smile in photos these days, I know all about it. I think it comes from the embarrassment of ever having relatives that want to photograph you...ever. The happiest and most relaxed photos are when she's with one of her best friends.

Perhaps, like me, she has a height requirement for best friends? "You must be this tall to be my friend." It's not like we're short or anything. They are just tall! (You girlfriends know who I'm talkin' about!)

After the ceremony was over and my newly minted graduate was returned to me I squished her hard. I can't keep her from growing up, but I'll try like hell to pay close attention as she does so.

In Bloom In the Garden - Early May Edition

My mother and I were talking on the phone yesterday and she told me that she missed my blog. Clearly, I needed to get back to editing photos and writing again if even my mother was concerned! So here I am again, months and months after my last post.

I don't have a fantastic reason, or a million new stories to share, but I've finally had a couple of adventures and am editing the photos that go with them. Today, after reading a gardening magazine, I realized that I should probably go document what is currently blooming in my yard. I took pictures in April, but still haven't edited those. Perhaps this will get me started!

I have been gardening fairly constantly since the temperatures warmed up to 70 degrees in mid-March. I ripped out the majority of the plants in the Bees Below Your Knees garden and replaced them with blue and orange flowering plants and a few Blue Fescue grasses. The crazy floppiness of the 'Blue Hills' sage and the rampant wildness of the Keys of Heaven were making me feel a little twitchy. Also, I had a burning desire to see the California fuchsia's bright orange blooming near some cool blue, and started thinking of what else I could put in that 21' L x 3' W space that would look coordinated and low maintenance.

Bees Below Your Knees, now in orange, yellow, blue and purple (Not that you can tell from this picture...)! April 13th, 2012

If you click to enlarge, you'll see lavendar, knautia macedonia, California fuchsia, Johnny Jump Ups, Blue Fescue, Phlox subulata, 'Walker's Low' catmint, columbine, prairie tickseed, 'Rocky Mountain Blue' penstemon and a few leftover 'Johnson's Blue' geraniums. Considering that I just installed it in March and that the plants were all roughly pulled from locations all over my xeric garden, a good number of these plants are already blooming in May.

Here is what it looks like a month later, May 12, 2012.

I went to the Cactus and Succulent Society plant sale in late April and bought a pile of plants for my pots out front and for the deck.

Click to enlarge the above image

I'm beginning to wonder if I need a Gardening Intervention. When I saw the huge range of succulents I really wanted one of almost every type. Instead I filled a flat and called it good.

In the first image, the largest pot:

1. Starting from the back right corner: the strappy plant is a Red Yucca. It's actually a perennial that I will lift and put into the garden in the fall.
2. Middle right: Echeveria lauii.
3. Rt corner front: red sempervivum.
4. Middle front: echeveria 'Lilacina' 
5. Bottom left corner: Crassula volkensii 
6. Middle left: Graptoveria species
7. Behind Graptoveria: echeveria 'Black Knight' 
8. Behind and to the right of the 'Black Knight': Cotyledon orbiculata
9. In the center of the pot: Senecio talinoides 'Blue Chalk Sticks'

Squished in here and there are some random sedum that overwintered in a pot. They should fill in over the summer and look all spiff.

The next two pots have Red Yucca, 2 different forms of cobweb sempervivums (Cebenese and Baronesse), a 'Blue Boy' and an 'Oddity' semper, along with more sprigs of sedum that overwintered well. I love tough plants.

Sempervivum bowl 2012.

This pot was filled and overflowing with Oddity, Blue Boy and a surviving 'October Daphne'. I pulled everything out and started over. Now it has 3x October Daphne, 4x Blue Boy, 3x Oddity, 3x Limelight, 5x Baronesse cobweb, and 1x red I-can't-remember-its-name sempervivum, plus 2x Angelonia sedum and a good looking flat rock from the garden. Did I take a picture before I ripped it apart? Of course not.

My strawberry pot of sedums and sempers got a tiny refresh as well. I'm continually surprised at just how often my plants survive despite me. Whew!

Then there are the flowers going off right now. Here's a selection.

Top: Johnny Jump Ups, Flax, Keys of Heaven

Middle: Siberian catmint, Japanese honeysuckle, culinary sage

Bottom: Columbine, 'Walker's Low' catmint, Bleeding hearts

Top: 'Johnson's Blue' geranium, phlox subulata, 'Bowl of Beauty' peony (closed since it was so overcast)

Middle: Candytuft, Prairie smoke, Spiderwort

Bottom: Knockout Rose in hot pink, Carolina Allspice, Halls' honeysuckle

I've got tons more work to do editing the long shots of the garden, so I'll get to those. I also have a story about a trip out into Colorado's prairie where I helped to fix barbed wire fences with my girlfriend. I'll get to those in the next few days.

I hope you've all been well, while I've been working away in the kitchen and the garden!

P.S. Hi mom!

The After Party

We returned to the church basement for the reception (Personally, I tend to see those as things you do after weddings, but I guess it was a reception, when you get right down to it.) and the starving hordes dug into the food that was arrayed before us. There was talk, plans for the day, discussions of who was doing what currently, how they'd all been, and how big all of the children were getting.

Time passed, pleasantly enough, and then the guests drifted away. As we wrapped up, we carted out loads of food, cards of condolences, and huge vases filled with flowers. Some were sent on to the nursing home in thanks, some went home with us. I carried an enormous vase overflowing with gorgeous flowers that were cut from someone's yard.

I didn't take any pictures of the reception, but when we got back to mom's house with our arms full of flowers, children, and food, I pulled out my camera for just a moment.

They were just so quiet and happy to be together, I couldn't resist taking the shot.

Dawn, Maddie and Emma hang out in the kitchen. 

We "adults" sat on the screened in porch and chatted. The "girls", as we refer to my cousins (Doesn't matter how old any of them will ever be, we'll always refer to them as the girls. I feel certain that my siblings and I are referred to as "the kids".), were chatting with mom about their mother when the subject of letters came up. Mom pulled out a bag filled with old letters from my paternal grandmother, Alice; letters from my father's older sister, Thelma; letters from my father to my mother.

We laughed at how Nanny and Thelma were so thrifty that they'd use every possible inch on the front and back of any postcard or letter ever sent. Words would curl around the manufacturer's name and copyright date in a clockwise manner, the crabbed handwriting getting in as much news as possible in a very limited space. They are all fascinating glimpses of times long past: the cost of stamps, the images of vacation spots here and there, the prices of common goods mentioned fleetingly.

The most amazing letters of all, though, were those from my father to my mother. Mom didn't realize that she'd handed us one of dad's letter until we started trying to read it aloud. The paper was so very thin, to keep the cost of airmail down, the paper so fragile. The script was lovely, although occasionally it was hard to decipher. Marilyn was reading the letter when she stopped abruptly. It was a private letter from my father to my mother in their year long separation from one another, after he left the island and returned to Canada at the end of his shift in Jamaica.

I'm not allowed to talk about what was in that letter. I'm also not allowed to read all the rest of those letters until my mother passes away (A million, billion years from now.), and my kid sister suggested strenuously that I shouldn't even want to read them then. I, however, look at it very differently.

This letter, the way it was written, the very formal wording used, the script displayed upon it, and the very carefully relayed feelings it talked of are the very reasons we should get to read them, way into the future. The paper was so amazingly thin, it's called onion skin. It felt almost like parchment, or a stiff tissue paper. I had never seen a sample of my father's script before. All my life I only remember his heavy printed handwriting. The letter never talked of love. It never mentioned that my father was missing my future mother. The language was so incredibly formal that it could have been in one of Jane Austen's books. It was impossibly romantic in way that I never expected. It opened my eyes to a piece of my family history that was never mentioned, never talked about. It felt beautiful, delicate, and mysterious. My parents love story.

We had heard the stories about how he serenaded my mother; how he referred to her as his wife brazenly in the bank waaaaaay before they were ever dating; how she thought he was a "stuffed shirt"; how he fell into the pool filled with icy mountain water at her house, but the time between his leaving Jamaica and sending her the engagement ring is still a mystery.

Only my mother knows what happened and she's not telling. She promised we'd get to have the letters eventually, but not now. The mystery will have to wait. Piecing together their love story, and epic love story it certainly was, will wait. I only regret that by the time I find more pieces to the puzzle, I'll just come up with more questions and there will be no one left to answer them. (Let's face it, I'm the defacto family storyteller. My curiosity trumps all others. Besides, I've learned how to continue typing while crying and that takes skill, baby!)

Setting aside the 45 year old letter, I turned back to the folks on the porch. As they started making leaving noises, it struck me that many of my cousins were leaving that very day. I was about to miss my chance at any photos if I didn't hop to it. I shook off the sleepiness that was creeping up on me, there on the sun warmed porch, and grabbed my camera.

Nancy holds the letter in her hands. The paper was so thin that the script on one side interfered with reading the other side of the letter. We had to pore over it for quite awhile to make some of the words out. Everyone exclaimed over the beauty of it.

Some of the girls pose for a picture before they take off.

Marilyn, Ruth, Dawn holding Maddie, Mom, Cindy and Nancy the Younger down in front.

I got in on the act before my opportunity was gone.

Pat (on the left) and George (on the right). 

Pat is the man that brought the engagement ring from my father in Canada to my mother in Jamaica. My dad just handed him a package in a completely unassuming manner, never revealing what was in it. Pat was stunned when my mother opened it up and found the ring tucked inside a folded piece of cardboard. He says he retroactively panicked over the fact that he hadn't taken any great care with it when carrying it, not realizing how important the contents were.

My dad was such a stinker.

My cousin Ron.

More talking and reminiscing went on after the first wave of friends and family left. Naps were had by young and older not quite as young more mature alike. The day was emotionally draining, yet uplifting at the same time. I hardly ever get to see my cousins and the stories they told that day broke my heart, made me laugh, and helped me to know my father a little more. Each one has their favorite story about my father. Each one a different perspective, another facet, holding another piece of the puzzle. They talk about sneaking in to peek at my gorgeous, exotic mother napping on the sofa in their house, in the days before the wedding. How dad would light up their mother and their whole house when he walked into it. How he'd taken them fishing and hunting. How he'd bake for them, making a huge mess in their mother's kitchen.

We wandered down into my mother's garden, filled with gorgeous blooms indifferent to the importance of the day. Peonies, roses, daylilies. Explosions of color and scent. Hummingbirds zipped along, sipping nectar.

It was a beautiful day. A day filled with warmth and sunshine; the sky clear and blue; the air warm and still. It was the day we buried my father. It was a good day to be alive and to love one another, just a little more, just a little while longer.

Life can't always be filled with pathos. Pain and suffering and illness eventually come to an end. Remember to sniff the roses. If not for yourself, then for those that have gone before.

As ever, my love to you.

Into the Earth

Today would have been my parents 45th wedding anniversary. My gift may be slightly macabre, but it's been rattling around in my head and freezing my hands for months. Here's what happened on July 6th, 2011.

The day we buried my father finally dawned on us. It was sunny, clear, and warm. Considering it was early July the warmth shouldn't have been surprising, but since it had been relatively cool all of the days prior the warmth was unexpected.

We got all dressed up in our fancy clothes and headed to the church. There we met up with my passel of cousins, young and not quite as young. As happy as we were to see each other, we were a little stilted and withdrawn. Do you perk up at the sight of someone you wouldn't even be seeing if your common relative hadn't died? I do, but it came and went in waves. I was pleased to see everyone, but it was hard to continue accepting condolences. Lining up, shaking hands. Who are these people? Church members, old friends, members of the choir all shuffle into the church and greet us using sad, tender voices.

After we greet the crowd, we wait in a small room with my cousins until the witnesses? audience? attendees are all seated. I took a few pictures to keep from thinking too much. The brightest spot of the whole ordeal was right here:

Maddie was as cute as a button.

Emma was fascinated by the 7 month old Maddie and spent a lot of time holding her tiny hands and stroking her soft cheeks.

Smooches for Maddie.

One portion of my cousins. An initial serving, as it were. These are the children of my dad's eldest sister, Thelma. These are the cousins I grew up knowing and they knew all of the best stories about my dad.

Marilyn, holding Logan, Ron, my own dark self, Nancy standing next to/behind Eric, who is holding Emma and Caitlin.

In the waiting room waited another serving of cousins, my brother and his sweetheart.

Ian, Deb, Maddie in the stroller, Ruth in the background, Nancy (the younger), and Marilyn again.

The priest and the undertaker sorted out their business and stepped to the front of the procession. We fell into line behind them and solemnly walked in, all eyes on the stainless steel urn held by the man at the front of the line. We finally made it to the front row, where all of the family spread into a thin, dark line and seated ourselves.

The formalities began.

Here's the part where I will be honest with you: I really couldn't concentrate on the funeral. I wasn't crying. I'm not sure if anyone was. I felt disjointed and distant. It wasn't a mass, since dad wasn't Catholic, but it was filled with singing songs I didn't know and some readings I didn't recognize save for one. I felt twitchy, overly warm, and out of place. I don't know if it was the kind of service he would have chosen for himself if you'd asked him. It seemed way too formal, bound by odd church strictures and laws. It did, however, begin to tell me what kind of funeral that I'd like, when that day comes for me.

Imagine a garden, my garden of the future, maybe. Perhaps a gorgeous park. Somehow I'm assuming I'll die when it's warm, but that may just be because of the current circumstances. A few concentric rings of chairs and a table with my urn on it in the center.  I'd like to be flash frozen and shattered instead of cremated. I'd become instant compost. (In fact, the process is called corpse composting. Eco unto death, that's me.) The group of folks would then tell stories about me. No singing, unless someone really wanted to. No music, unless it would make the mourners feel better. Instead, a circle of friends and family, telling stories, laughing and crying. That's what I want. Outside the circles, food and drink, photos and the rare video of me. Maybe. When the party is over (and it is intended to be a party), my remaining family gets to take the package of my remains home. Put me up on the shelf with the ancient remains of my long dead cats. Put me out in the garden and let me feed a beloved tree. I don't know. I don't care. But don't bury me in a box, in a hole in the ground, and walk away from me. For some reason, that image makes me deeply sad. Plant a new tree, just for me, and bury me under it. Toss my dust out over a forest, but make use of me in some fashion that helps the Earth and the plants I love so well.

Finally, back in reality, the service is over and the majority of the family and my dad's closest friend Joan, pile into cars and head over to the grave site. Here's the plot that mom had purchased. An undistinguished section of grass with a small, rectangular hole cut into it. "Grass" carpeting covers the pile of soil next to the hole. Note that it's big enough for 6 cremains...apparently mom is planning on throwing an eternal party there in the ground. The undertaker pulls out a blue velvet bag, puts dad's cremains into it and lowers it into the hole. Then he pulls out a second bag that holds the purple cloisonne urn that contains all that remains of my maternal grandmother. Mom had her on the mantel at home and had been waiting to bury grandma with dad. There's room in this spacious plot for mom, one day far off into the future. She's planned ahead, my mother has.

The priest says a few more things. I think the line ashes to ashes comes up, but I can't remember now.

Suddenly, the first note of a bagpipe hangs in the air, and the funeral party turns, as one, in surprise to face him. I have no idea what song he's playing, but this might be a close match.

And damn! but didn't every single one of us who hadn't cried in the church and had been toughing it out, we all started to cry. Me, my cousins, my sisters, all of us. My mom turned to Joan, and they hugged and laughed through the tears. It was Joan's idea to have a piper, just as she was the one who arranged for a piper at Cindy's wedding, years before. It was beautiful, haunting, sad and just perfect. One small thing. A man alone in a graveyard, playing a haunting tune.

When it ended, we wiped our tears away and leaving my dad and grandma there in the plot meant for six, we drove off to the church.

To the after party.

Well, what else do you call the part where you get together with the other mourners and eat food at banquet tables in the basement of a church? That, my friends, is an after party.

The funny thing is that there was an after, after party back at my mom's house afterwards, but I have to run. I'll finish this post and include those pictures tomorrow. I just didn't want to break my monthly posting "streak".

My love to you.

Thanks, Mom!

Today we celebrate the 36^th anniversary of your 29^th birthday and I've come a very long way to tell you the same thing I tell you every time I talk to you on the phone:

I love you.

Not such a big surprise that. It should be pretty obvious that I do, but it always helps to hear it, doesn't it? See, you've been telling me that all my life, but I hadn't noticed a lot of those ways as a kid. Now that I am a mother, I notice it a LOT more. I thought the first time you told me you loved me was when you took me to Colorado to drop me off at University. Getting on an airplane with me and leaving me in Colorado was probably one of the harder things you ever had to do for me. I know it was hard for you because years later a little bird told me that you missed me terribly while I was gone. But instead of telling me that and reinforcing my homesickness, you sent me on my way and encouraged me whenever I called.

But I was wrong. That was just the first time I remembered you telling me that you loved me..

What I didn't notice was all the other ways you'd been telling me (and Dawn, and Cindy, and Ian and Dad) all the rest of the time.

You taught me that food can be love. Not in the “I just ate an entire chocolate cake for breakfast” love replacement sort of way, but in the “It's your birthday! I'll make all of your favorite foods!” sort of way (Lasagna and NY style cheesecake, for those of you taking notes.). Thanks, Mom!

You taught me to love plants by surrounding us with them as we were growing up. I imagine you were surprised when I took your love of plants and ran with it. Now I have a full blown gardening obsession. Thanks, Mom!

You taught me to love reading by filling our house with books. While many of them were goofy romance novels, there were plenty of Readers Digest Condensed Novels, too. I read everything I could get my hands on. Clearly I've passed that love of reading on to my own children, since every night, without fail, we have to drag a book out of Caitlin's hands and turn off her light. Well past her bedtime. Thanks, Mom!

You told me something, the other day that really struck me. You said that I'm the “emotive one”. I think you're right. I watch as events unfold, I observe, I feel and then I talk about it. Or I write about it. It may be something that you've thought about, but never actually said out loud. But I will, because you also taught me to be confident and to believe in myself and to share my thoughts with others. Thanks, Mom!

Unfortunately, that skill? That ability? That curse? Being the emotive one, means that I'm the one that breaks your heart repeatedly. And for that I'm sorry. But you also taught me forgiveness as you've forgiven me, over and over again for all of the stupid things I've done or said over the years. I know I've broken your heart – repeatedly – and yet each time I do, you still love me for who I am. Thanks, Mom.

I've noticed though, that I seem to have taught YOU a thing or two. A couple of years ago, around Mother's Day, you explained that you never seemed to get what you wanted and I asked if you'd ever told Cindy and/or Dad specifically what you wanted. You said “No” and that they should just know by now that all you wanted was to be taken out to dinner. I said that you should just tell them and that it would guarantee that you would get exactly what you wanted.

You seem to have taken that idea to heart since it was YOU that told Cindy that you'd like a big party this year and lo and behold! Here we all are! With you. Celebrating.

It seems you CAN teach a...mature...mom a few new tricks.

And for that, and for so many other things, I just want to say: I love you.

And thank you, Mom.