Limb-oh!

'Tis the season for falling limbs apparently. I was sitting with my neighbor on her porch enjoying the lovely summer evening, when we heard a rustle, a crickly-crackle and a very large crash as we watched a giant limb fall from a tree across the street - right where our neighbor and his dog had been standing perhaps 10 minutes before. It was rather dramatic when it hit and crumbled into crunchy bits. (It's very dry here.)

After a little while, it seemed like a good time to pour some wine. Randy had brought home a nice Cabernet. After a few sips, I went over to take a picture and discovered quite a bit of nesting material. No evidence of eggs or birdies, thank goodness.

Then I thought maybe I should take a pic of the limb that fell on the back of my house the other day. The one I need to call someone about. Gosh. It does look rather serious here.

But look at that nice red paint. Isn't it purty? And red?

I'll call tomorrow. I really will. 

Ugh.

Big city. Small world.

Almost six weeks ago, Lizz moved to the big city of Detroit. Or DEEtroit. Land of taco trucks and at least 40 (+41 more) fabulous things to do.

I was in Nicaragua so was no help at all in the move. But after I returned home, I went to visit. I was a bit early so decided to drive around the neighborhood to check it out. If I had continued one way down the street, I discovered a park. The other way, I pulled out, looked up and immediately saw the Fisher Building just a few blocks away. Cool. I drove around the block and found myself on Woodward Avenue and Chandler - right across from the Metropolitan United Methodist Church. Holy cow. I'd heard stories about Dad and Uncle Lee's childhood when they'd lived at 51 Chandler Street. Did Lizz really just move a few blocks away?

I thought I remembered that the house they'd lived in had been torn down, but snapped a photo of the house next to the parking lot and sent it to Uncle Lee.

Here is his response:

Your picture is very close to 51 Chandler, actually next door. On a business trip to Detroit in 1983 I drove back to the old neighborhood out of nostalgia, only to find that 51 Chandler was gone, paved over, and was that church parking lot you have in your picture. An alley used to separate the parking lot from the Metropolitan (United) Methodist Church.

The house next door to where Dad and Uncle Lee lived
70+ years ago - just a few blocks from where
Lizz lives today!

As kids we went to Friday night movies (10 cents) in the church theater and had the church grounds as our playground for hide and seek, cowboys and Indians, etc.  

Before I was in kindergarten I regularly followed after Mr. Shanks, the custodian, as he made his daily rounds. He and his wife had a small apartment in the church basement, where I was often treated to cookies and milk.

The house in your picture belonged to Mrs. Caswell, and her daughter - a budding photographer - lived with her. I was a regular visitor there by the time I was about five, and again I was indulged with homemade cookies and milk.  

Her daughter took a couple of photographs of me using, as I recall, one of those big Graflex cameras you have seen in 1930s-era movies where the newspaper photographer, with hat tilted to the back of his head, is covering the crime scene or the boxing match. I actually have one of those photos back in Maryland.

When we received Lizz's latest note and I saw the return address, I was curious whether it was close to our house on Chandler. The name rang a bell. 

Anyway, I could go on and on about the old neighborhood and how dramatically it had changed from my childhood. I could also go on about how Dad described it to me when Detroit called itself  "the garden spot of the universe." (That was before World War I!)

---

In all of the big city of Detroit, how cool is it that Lizz moved to the New Center area, just a few blocks from where her grandfather spent his early years? Small world, isn't it?

Her new-old house.

The  screened-in porch is a pleasant hangout.

Tomato drill

Julie: How was school?

Ashton: Good, mom. We had a tomato drill and had to go into the basement.

Julie: Tomato drill, huh?

Ashton: YES, MOM. THAT'S WHAT I SAID. A TOMATO DRILL!

Grilled bunny

Awww ... bunny looks like he's just taking a nap, doesn't he? She? It?

I'll get back to the All About Anne stories when I get some more photos scanned. Today, Sharon is going to tell us what happened to the bunny in this framed photo displayed in the front bedroom.

We were on our way to Chicago - just a typical trip for a long weekend visiting family and shopping. We stopped at McDonald's, then near St. Charles we saw a bunny in the middle of the road.

I remember saying, "Hurry up, little bunny!" And when I looked in the mirror, I didn't see it, so figured it must have gotten away and we kept going. We stopped once more - in Indiana - and then continued on to the suburb outside of Chicago where Jake's brother lives. We parked the car, unloaded and went inside.

There are some great places to shop all around that area, so the next day my niece Katie and I headed out to engage in some serious retail therapy.

When we came out of the first store, there was a crowd of people gathered around the front of the car. They were all talking excitedly and taking pictures with their cell phones.

I said, "Uh oh. That can't be good."

Katie offered to take a look.

As I stood there with our packages, just another curious onlooker, Katie hurried back with the news.

"Aunt Sharon! It's a rabbit!"

Right then I flashed back to the bunny in the road the day before. And I knew. And I realized that maybe, just maybe, we might have heard a tiny little thud after seeing that bunny who later disappeared.

No more pretending. I loaded the bags in the car, then went around the front and joined the gawkers. It sort of looked like it was just hanging out, taking a nap - it was so peaceful! Then this grandma approached me and offered to take care of it. She said, "Oh honey, that's gonna stink!"

But I told her we had to leave it there because I knew my husband was not going to believe this. That poor thing was really wedged in there.

So Katie and I got back in the car and figured why go all the way back home now? We might as well go to lunch. But the whole time we were driving, people would drive by, laughing, hanging out of their cars taking pictures. At the restaurant and two other stops I tried to park far away from the other cars, but it never worked. Every time we came out people would be there gawking. So we finally headed back to show the boys. After taking photos to show the insurance man, my brother-in-law extracted the rabbit. It was the darndest thing - hardly any blood. It really did look like it was resting. But that rabbit - which had to weigh at least 10 pounds - did about $1,000 worth of damage to the car, knocking out the front grille.

This happened not long after Jake had retired a little over three years ago. One of his new daily routines was to trap squirrels and the occasional skunk in our yard and then load them in the car for a trip out to the country where he would release them. He kept a running record of how many he transported each day.

So armed with this knowledge and the story of the poor grilled bunny, two of my friends decided we were a menace to rodents. One day during a staff meeting I looked up to see a little parade of stuffed rabbit, squirrel and skunk holding "Free the Rodents" signs pass my window.

I was always so sure we would see pictures of the bunny on the Internet, with all those people and their cell phones, but we never did.

All About Anne

This is my mom, Anne. Wasn't she beautiful? I think Uncle Norman told me she was 16 when this picture was taken. She was always tall for her age - and at 16 could often pass for 21.

It was an exciting time in history, especially in Northern Virginia, when Anne was a teenager.  But one of Uncle Norman's favorite memories from this time took place very close to home.

Anne was real popular and had hundreds of boyfriends, began Uncle Norman. But we could never tell her we liked a boy or she'd go right out and pursue others. Phil was one of the ones we liked - he was just the nicest guy.

Mom Mom lived with us then, and she always stayed up late. Especially when Anne had a young fella visiting. She saw it as her job to keep an eye on things. And then she'd go through the rooms and turn off the lights, check the doors and just close up the house for the night

Oh, Anne and Phil would go sit on the swing to kiss ... just outside of Mom Mom's view. Well, and our view, too. Watching Anne and her suitors was a favorite entertainment for us younger kids - and gave us some good teasing material.

So on this one particular night we were looking out the window (and listening, of course) with Mom Mom when we heard Phil say, "Don't move!" and all of a sudden saw a mama skunk and her baby scurry past the window with the two lovebirds not far behind.

Well that was some good material for a good long while ... teasing Anne about when she and Phil scared the skunks.

Meet Norman

It's been one month and 11 days since I posted here. And since I first left my home to stay at Sharon's house. Wow. Friday was the first time since Jan. 4 that I spent the night at my house. Lizz and her roommate were home for the weekend so I got to camp out here, too. Minor crisis with a backed-up drain/overflowing washing machine Saturday just as the girls were starting to do laundry ... but a handy guy from church fixed it so we were back in business by evening. Phew.

Today I'd like to introduce Norman. Norman is my uncle - one of my mom's three younger brothers. I've been told that if I'd been a boy I would have been named Norman Paul. I think that's so cool. Isn't little Norman adorable here?

Uncle Norman - aka Uncle Looboo (I forget why - but that's what I called him when I was a kid) has been telling me some stories about my mom the past few Sundays. For many years, I'd let the stories told by my aunts and uncles just wash over me. I'd say, "tell me again about ..." but I've decided it's time to pay much closer attention and write them down.

So tomorrow we'll begin the All About Anne series. And maybe along the way we'll learn a little more about Norman and some other members of our family.

Fire up the grill ...

... and throw on some memories.

Just found this photo of my grandfather the other day. Doesn't he look the happy grill-master?

"How do you take your steak? Yeah. You'll take it medium-rare and be glad about it, bub."

I'm happily installed at Sharon's for a week or so. What a day. Feel like I moved my entire house. But I'm looking forward to spending quality time with my sister ... and picking her brain for some good childhood memories.

OK ... Isn't that just the cutest apron? I love this picture.

Speaking of ... when I did the Casa al dente post last month, I mentioned photos of that house. I guess the photo I found is not so much house as me (on my 21st birthday - with my Dirty Dancing hair). I know I have another pic of the interior somewhere - but maybe this will keep you occupied for a while. (Oh! Nurse Lizz just called. She's back at school all safe and sound.)

Perfectly balanced meal

Tangerine, pomegranate, pear, cheese and popcorn. Yup. A perfectly balanced meal.

See? Three kinds of cheese even. And cookies for dessert. Calcium, Vitamin C, antioxidants, fiber ... we're pretty well covered, wouldn't you say?

I'm going to get used to this new schedule. Sleep in until 8:30 (or 9:00), breakfast in bed, naps, reading, watching movies, more naps, dinner served in the living room (fashionably late - after a loooong late-afternoon nap).

Snifffffffff ... a crustless green onion quiche is coming out of the oven now for New Years Eve brunch. Oh, my nostrils are in heaven. I am so blessed!

My Christmas Break

For those of you who haven't already seen these and commented on Facebook ... here are those non-gory photos I promised yesterday.

This is post-surgery. The doc said I had a bimalleolar fracture. And no ligament tearing as I was initially told. So that's good news!

Now going back to the ER, here's my ankle right before I went off to X-ray. I made Sharon take photos. It doesn't look so bad, does it? Just a tiny little bump. Whaaa ...? Not supposed to look like that? The X-ray tech wouldn't tell me what she saw in the X-rays, so I asked if ... there were more pieces and parts than were supposed to be there. She glanced furtively around the room and whispered, "there are more pieces." Oh.

And here's a close-up of the medial surface. Just a tiny scratch, eh? Still, the abrasion and swelling here impacted the procedure. If you want details, please post questions in the comment section below - or e-mail me.

Not this leg! The other one! Part of the pre-op package is a sterile pen to write on the body parts the surgeon is to leave alone. The nurse only marked my left ankle. I was thinking I should write a big "No" on my forehead. But I didn't.

My yellow-orange Oompa-Loompa leg post surgery. How the heck do you get that gunk off?? Ew. I so need a pedicure.

Word is I'll be released today for the long recovery at home. I learned how to use crutches yesterday and then got my own fancy set. Did you know crutches have lots of auxiliary uses, too? Oh yeah. But thanks to my new tools I can go to the bathroom all by myself. It's like I'm two all over again.

So many lovely visits and calls and messages yesterday! I am truly blessed to be so loved. Thank you, everyone!

I just had ice cream. Not my idea - my feisty 77-year-old roommate suggested it when the nurse was in here. I thought about it for about two seconds and said, "Sure! Why not?!" We both are all messed up on our sleep schedules. Do you think Lizz will bring me Chunky Monkey or Whirled Peace at  4:30 a.m.? When I was pregnant with her I used to get up in the middle of the night and eat nonfat yogurt with honey and granola. I don't think they had the ban on honey for expectant moms back then.

Hey, "Non-traditional uses for crutches" and "weird things pregnant ladies and/or patients do in the middle of the night" might be fun topics for Shiny Things. Hmmm.

Benched for the season

So the good news is that I'll have lots of time to reminisce with family over the next few weeks and populate Tuna on Wheatley with tons of great stories.

This one began on the second day of Christmas.

Toward the end of a beautiful walk with my neighbor's son's dog, I descended the steps of the court house and promptly did a fancy little dance on the ice that landed me flat on my well-padded backside. I heard a lovely snap-crackle-pop type sound and felt a painful twist. While I'd had twisted ankles before, this was kind of different from anything I'd experienced in my fracture-free 43+ years.

As I was lying there gazing at the sky, being thankful that I hadn't whacked my head and yelling for the dog, whose leash I'd let go, I noticed that my foot dangled at an especially odd angle above me. Not too sure why I held it over my head,  but I soon discovered that this was about the most comfortable position. Except for that dangling part.

Ruh roh.

Rummaged in my pocket and pulled out the cell phone - hooray for cell phones! Didn't think this was 911-worthy, but was pretty sure a visit to the ER was going to be necessary. So I called my sister - and while she was on her way to rescue me - the neighbor, who I figured was beginning to wonder where I was. I did not want her to come out, because keeping her from risking slipping on the ice was the whole point of my walking the dog (C is recovering from knee surgery).

While waiting for dear sister Sharon, who seems to always be rescuing me in some way or another, I dragged myself from the foot of the steps to the parking lot and a bench where I could pull myself up. I'd quickly discovered back there by the steps that I couldn't put any weight on my right foot. And I didn't want Sharon to walk across the slippery pavement.

While I was in the middle of my dragging, yelling for the dog, who'd gone off to Hoover up all the pet poop and other goodies in the vicinity, a woman in a nearby parking lot yelled over to me, asking if I was OK. I told her I'd slipped on the ice and my sister was coming to take me to the hospital. As she approached to help me, the dog came between us, which I think scared her a bit ... so she yelled "be right back!" and disappeared. Moments later, right after I'd pulled myself up on the bench, she reappeared with a man in blue in tow. Was surprised to see blue and not brown (I live nearest the sheriff's department, plus the court house, bail bondsmen, bars and a zillion churches). At almost the same moment, C-who-was-supposed-to-stay-safely-in-her-house  pulled up and leaned out the window dangling a bag of meat to help lure the dog back. And as we all yelled for the dog, Sharon pulled up.

While the police officer helped C with the dog, Homeless woman? Jesus in street clothes? Lots of speculation about the nameless woman. But whoever she was helped me to Sharon's car. The police officer then came over to assist with loading my functioning and non-functioning parts. And then he disappeared. How odd ... thought for sure he'd want to do a report with the incident on county property and all. Wouldn't you think? Though he'd asked what happened, he didn't even take our names.

Off to a surprisingly unbusy ER. Couldn't believe it - a slippery Saturday night in Saginaw. I looked pretty interesting on arrival. Leaning to the left (I'd discovered that if I supported my damaged ankle against the good one, it stabilized it just enough to minimize the sharp, shooting pains going up my leg.) My entire left side and backside were wet from the great snow scooch, making it look like I'd peed my pants, which I promptly announced to all that I had not. While they were checking me in, a nurse asked what was on my face. I reached up and felt the dried paint from the face painting part of my excursion with the small people earlier in the day. Yep, with the mismatched socks I'd hurriedly pulled on before taking the dog for her mid-day walk earlier the same day and my greasy handprint decorated wet pants, my whole ensemble was pretty priceless.

Here are the high points of the 24 hours that followed: X-rays, diagnosis of some sort of bimalleolar fracture (or similar), admission, ORIF (open reduction internal fixation) surgery ... and learning to successfully use a bedpan.


See all the fun ahead as I fill in the gaps and then continue the story the next few months? So much to look forward to! When I was told last night that I couldn't walk or drive for two months, I got into Scarlett O'Hara mode: We'll think about that tomorrow. Which I guess is today. 

Benched for the season. There go all those nice plans for daily walks, sledding, ice skating and more. But this story is already chock-full of to-be-continued potential, and especially God moments. Plus we have non-gory pictures to share, which Lizz is uploading .... so stay tuned!

Casa Al Dente

I'm probably mixing two languages there, with that headline.

When I was in college - the first time - at Michigan State University, I moved a lot. But the place I lived the longest was an old house I shared with several friends. It started with four of us and then grew to seven at one point, I think.

Anyway, it is this place where my family remembers visiting me.

I had read that a good way to tell if pasta is done was to stick it on the wall or the ceiling. If it sticks, it's al dente. The perfect tooth-fulness of done-ness.

College students practically live on pasta. It's cheap. Beyond the culinary implications, my housemates thought plastering kitchen surfaces with pasta was a perfect decorating technique. So we had all shapes and sizes of pasta hanging from the ceiling and stuck to the wall near the stove. The entire time I lived there.

The last time I was in East Lansing I drove down our old street to see if the house was still there. I was sort of amazed to see the ramshackle dwelling still standing and wondered if the post-1987 tenants continued the tradition we'd begun.

I apologize for the absence of an image on this post. I know I have photos of that old house ... but WHERE did I put them? I'll look again later ... gotta get ready for work now.

Bunches of Muffins

When I was a very small girl, my brother and sister had a dog named Sandy. I don't remember Sandy much, other than what I've seen of her in pictures. (Click here to see Sandy in my sister's arms.) Then when I was maybe 8 or 9, I was given my very own dog. Her name was Muffin.

I loved Muffin, but I quickly learned that owning a dog was hard work! Just managing all that input and output is a huge job. And I was in charge of both ends.

Muffin was 110% mutt. (Honesty time: The photo above is of my friend Brillo. Muffin was a bit more mutt-like and larger.) She was high-strung. Loved to runrunrunrunrun all around the house. And always peed on the floor when Dad got home. I think he expected Muffin to behave in a calm, civilized way that was counter to her nature, and that made her extra nervous.

Muffin was medium-sized and, I thought, perfectly suited for riding. She didn't mind playing dress-up. She was cuddly and snuggly and my best friend.

Other than peeing on the floor, and chewing up our shoes and escaping and making us chase her down the street a few times a day, she was a very good dog.

Some months after we got Muffin, we went to Virginia to visit family for a couple of weeks. For the life of me, I can't remember if it was at Christmas - or if it was a summer visit. But what I do remember is missing my dog the whole way home. I remember bursting into the house and yelling, "Muffin! Muffin! Did you miss me? Come out, girl!" I looked in all her hidey places. And then, someone - my dad? my mom? my sister? told me that Muffin had gone away. She'd been taken to a nice place in the country where she could run and play outside and have a wonderful time and we wouldn't have to worry about her being hit by a car. Oh, I was furious. F.U.R.I.O.U.S. I felt betrayed. And incredibly alone.

Perhaps a month or so later, we got the news that Muffin had been hit by a bus on a country road.

So that was Muffin no. 1. My first pet and only dog. A series of hamsters and guinea pigs followed over the next several years - bunches of Muffins.

Stitches in Time

When I was about three, I woke up one drizzly spring morning and decided I needed to wear a cape. And test my super powers. I cannot tell you why a three-year-old dressed in a polka-dotty dress and a calico cape was able to walk out of the house (and around the corner) without adult supervision. Perhaps mom was painting? The point is, I did. (I don't have a fat lip in this photo, so I think it was the Christmas before the events in this story took place.)

I have this surreal misty memory of opening the back door and stepping out into the cool drizzle. And skipping around the corner to my friend Kristine's house. Where we proceeded to jump off her porch into the bushes, testing out our capes. I think hers was a blue towel.

On one of my flying leaps I apparently slipped. And somehow caught my lip on a big nail somewhere. Ohhhh ... it was nasty. And loud. Kristine was screaming bloody murder. I probably was, too. I remember her mom running out of the house with a towel over her shoulder (she'd been washing the dishes). She took one look at me,  clamped the towel over my bleeding lip and ran around the corner with me in her arms to my mother. We only had one car, which my dad had taken to work. So another neighbor had to drive us to the hospital so I could get stitches.

This is where the memory gets a bit fuzzy. I remember the numbing stuff they put on my lip was very very bitter. I remember freaking out that the doctor was going to use what looked like a GIANT CURVED KNITTING NEEDLE to sew my lip back into place. And it was going to hurt and I thought maybe I would be just fine as is. I think my sister was on duty at the hospital that day and somehow found us in the ER. I also vaguely remember my brother being in a car accident and being wheeled in on a gurney right next to me. And my sister had to run frantically back and forth, tending to the two of us. But that might be mixed up with another memory. Perhaps they can help me sort that out? I was very young, after all.

My mom had - and a dear aunt has - stitches in the same spot - scars on the same side of our mouths. Connecting us like stitches in time.

Hooked on Bonnets

When I was in second grade - at least I think it was second grade - our teacher read us Little House in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I was instantly hooked. I wanted to be Laura Ingalls.

My mom, who always nurtured my imagination, created for me two very authentic calico dresses with matching sunbonnets so that I could dress like Laura. My sister bought me 100-year old lace-up boots that had been re-soled. This was not just for dress-up time. This was my wardrobe. If Laura had just two dresses, I could be fine with that, too.

If you can imagine, I was an odd child. So I had no qualms trotting off to school dressed like a young girl from the prairie in the 1800s. For Christmas one year my amazingly gifted mother created a life-size Laura doll for me. Seriously - she was exactly my size. Here she is - a bit bedraggled today - but isn't she cool?

Look at her little booties with the vintage leather and buttons! Look at her little bloomers and heavy leggings (I'm sorry, Laura, had to hike up the dress a little to show your fans). The elastic is shot ... actually, poor Laura needs an overhaul. Sadly, I did not inherit my mother's sewing talent. Or her sticky tuna fishes or whatever Cathy said today. When I had to sew the patches on Lizz's Girl Scout sash the night before her fly-up ceremony? I used staples.

Poor Laura spent a few years in a plastic tote, but she's out now, stirring up memories. Laura was the little sister I wanted. My companion. My confidante. I even took her to school for a while and my teacher let her have a desk near me!

Oh - I have to find those photos from the Sesquicentennial when our whole family won Best Dressed Family or something like that. I found those not too long ago when cleaning out my dad's house. Now where did I put them ...?

Out from under the rock

Since this is the family story blog, I've been searching the archives for memories. Then I came across the About Me thing I did on Facebook ... thought that might be a good start. What I really need are all those good juicy stories about my mom and other family members out there ... hello, fambly: Are you listening?


Let's see ... how do all good stories begin?


Once upon a time, a small girl child was found under a rock in a city called Saginaw. Her first 5 years were filled with magic and wonder (and a few visits from firemen and trips to the E.R.). She had three imaginary friends to keep her company during the day, but they went away when she started school. 


The little girl's first glimpse of real life was at the age of almost 11 when her mother died. In the decades that followed, she was surrounded by the love of her family, made many friends and learned many good things - hitting a few rocky patches along the way. Went to college, studied life, changed her major about a dozen times, brought a beautiful baby girl into the world, held 27 jobs ranging from bartender to lab assistant to art studio manager and truck driver to copywriter. Finally went to Europe and bought a house (in the U.S., not Europe) at the age of 39. Also began the reverse aging process.


Story to be continued ...


P.S. My mom and dad always said they found me under a rock when I asked where I came from. Thought that was kind of gross --- under there with all the slugs and slimy things. But sort of cool at the same time. Where did your parents find YOU?

Going Crackers

I have no reason for inserting this photo except that I just found it. It's a little figure in my backyard - used to be the base of a birdbath - that I discovered the first spring in our house when I was tidying up our secluded, tangled Secret Garden-esque retreat. There's another little cherub that was tipped over with just its little hand poking out of the ivy. Kinda freaky.

Anyway, I pulled out my "raw material" notes from my sister's ramblings earlier this year. Here are her recollections of the Cuban Missile Crisis.

We were at the Buckingham Apartments in Arlington during the Cuban crisis. One day, mom came home quite agitated. It wasn’t a payday but she said we needed to go to the drugstore.

We bought a transistor radio and batteries.

Then, we had a treat - a grilled cheese and soda at the counter. That was the kind of treat we usually only got on payday.

Soon after, big military trucks came to our apartment building. Our building had been designated as one of the shelters. The trucks brought food and water for our complex - cases of crackers and barrels of water.

The storage area was fenced in with chicken wire and had a door and a lock. Mom was trying to explain that we were going to war. I always associated this with the turquoise transistor radio.

Well, those crackers stayed there forever and it eventually attracted mice and rats.

In 2000 when people were freaking out about Y2K I thought about those boxes of crackers from when I was a little girl. So what'd I do? I bought crackers every time I went to the store. I had at least 10 boxes at one point. Then they got stale so I fed them to the birds.

Photo Evidence

Gosh, it's been more than six months since I've posted here. Kind of disturbing that the most recent post has that lovely photo of me in labor almost 20 years ago, below.

Since this is the place for me to tell the family stories, I'm moving the update on the upstairs bathroom/bedroom painting project on over here. Get caught up here first, and then come back and see the pretty photos. And to learn more about my fine home repair skills, read this story.

All caught up now?

Now, you may enjoy the "after" photos. I seem to have no control over where they show up on the page. Sigh.

Eric Schantz is the artist who painted the giant irises here. He's been in the news a fair amount for his public paintings around Saginaw - painting boarded up buildings, Arson Watch signs, murals and more. Just Google his name with any of those key words. I just told him I wanted to eradicate the ugly wallpaper here - and to paint some flowers. I came home from work one day to find floor-to-ceiling irises. It's even more impressive in person.

Here's Eric's bathroom ceiling/wall masterpiece. See? You can't even tell were the giant crater was. The blue on the ceiling is the blue I used on the door. I shouldn't just say it's "blue." It had some really fun name, like Serendipity. In fact, the paint names were key selection criteria.

I replaced the old yellowed plastic switch covers with porcelain ones. It's the details ...

I have no idea what happened to the lighting here. The golden glow is lovely, isn't it? That's the original sink. The cabinet and little shelf were probably installed in the 70s when the last owner bought this house. There's a lot of evidence that they did a ton of work then - like new wiring, refinishing the woodwork downstairs, installing new windows upstairs, painting trim throughout the house SAGE GREEN ...

Current status of project:

Still need to put a doorknob on the little cabinet below the sink. This requires me going ALL THE WAY to the basement to get the drill. Or something. (Didn't John B. do a fabulous job on the little cabinet? If you need a carpenter, I highly recommend him. That man is a master craftsman - and does amazing technical drawings, which is how I first met him through my job. While he was helping me with various projects around the house I learned that he grew up in my neighborhood AND was one of my dad's students. I'm sure there's a story there ... in any event, dad would be so proud.)

Need help hanging the light fixtures I purchased. Yes, Virginia, I had all summer to do this. Lizz knew better than to point it out more than 27 times. They look fine in their boxes, I think. The time will come ... Oh, I might want to have someone help me re-hang the door. It won't shut all the way. (Refer to fine home repair skills and bathroom doors above.) I painted the door blue, by the way.

I think I need to hang the other porcelain towel hook somewhere.

There are a few other miscellaneous to-do's that aren't really worth mentioning. We'll just sweep them under the rug ... oh wait, a rug would be a nice touch, wouldn't it? I saw the cutest Pottery Barn monkey rug the other day that has just the right colors. There's a simple geometric design with a stylized happy monkey face in one corner ... not Curious George or anything like that.

Always looking for family stories to share here ... I picked Sharon's brain earlier this year and have to revisit those notes. It might be time to bring out her memories of the Cuban Missile Crisis.

My Favorite Gift

I always get a little weepy and nostalgic on March 16. At 7 p.m. or so, I'll remember the night I bent over my giant pregnant belly to tie my tennies before going for a walk. Then feeling like I just peed my pants. I remember thinking to myself: "Oh great. Just lost bladder control. Swell." And then: "Oh! This is it!" Because 19 years ago on this night I went into labor. And early on the morning of the 17th brought a beautiful baby girl into the world.

Last night I was e-chatting with a friend and mentioned that my daughter's birthday was on St. Patrick's Day and she told me I should buy myself a gift. Her thinking was I should get a gift in celebration of my anniversary of being a mom. I like this friend.

Oh - note the time in the picture above. I found this picture tonight around 10:40. Freaky, huh? Of course, it got me rummaging around in the photo box, so was not able to post this post immediately, but that would've been cool. I was in full-blown labor at that time 19 years ago. And do you think I can find any photos of the sweet little baby? Not tonight. But I'll keep looking. I think the really cute ones were pulled out for the graduation party display and I'm not sure where they are now.

So back to the gift thing. I went to a kitchen gadget-type party earlier this evening at another friend's house, and with the economy and all really had no business buying anything, yet figured I'd been given permission to give myself a little gift! I bought darling little prep bowls so I can pretend I'm famous and my sous-chefs chopped and pre-measured my herbs and veggies for me. And I bought pink Himalayan sea salt.

As much fun as that was, my favorite gift of all time is the one I've given to the world. I'm unabashedly proud of her, and am looking forward to spending the evening with her tomorrow in Ann Arbor.

The Big Boo-Boo

A couple of us have been joking at work about being butterflies ... alighting ever so gently on the surface of projects rather than digging in and questioning as we typically do. Of course, you do know about the potential impact of a butterfly flapping its wings.

Thinking of butterflies made me remember the butterfly costume mom made for me one year. I keep hoping I'll find it because it was really really nice.

Our Girl Scout troop always had a contest at Halloween for the best costume. One year, mom had this great idea. She would make me a butterfly and she would be the cocoon and I would fly out and make an entrance at the party.

Oh, my costume was fantastic – wings of lavender silk left from the mother-of-the-bride dress mom wore for Sharon's wedding, probably. She painted on colorful spots and I think there may have been a bit of glimmer and glitter. I wore a black leotard and tights, slipped my arms into the straps on the back of the fancy wings, then donned fancy deely-bopper antennae. Smashing.

But the cocoon just wasn’t turning out the way mom envisioned. She made an armature out of chicken wire and tried various approaches with brown netting. Finally, frustrated, she said “I’m just going to be the big boo-boo.” So she made a nifty sign saying just that and hung it around her neck.

I won the prize for the best costume and mom won the booby prize.

Leaping Lee's Landing

It's now been over a year since I said goodbye to my dad. After several intense months of doctor visits, ER trips and hospitalizations, moves from his home of 38 years to assisted living to "rehab" to a memory care facility ... and then his unexpected death and all of the accompanying plans, tasks, memories and emotions, I jumped back into a life that hadn't had the courtesy to slow down and wait for me to catch my breath. I suppose that's a good thing in many ways - a reminder that life doesn't end with a death.

So in the year that I've had to brew and stew, I've reflected often on the many little bright spots and even humor our family found during what was a really tough time but also an opportunity for joy, celebration and great healing.

On the morning of Dad's funeral, I was enjoying a pleasant conversation and cup of java in the kitchen with Uncle Lee, his brother. I remember thinking how lovely it was to be surrounded by Martins in the Martin House. Especially on this day. I've always adored Uncle Lee and I'd always thought the two siblings were polar opposites. But I was beginning to believe the bond and the similarities they shared were much greater than any of us suspected.

Leaning to look out the kitchen window but not noticing the hidden first step down to the back door and basement (who designed this place?!?), Uncle Lee lost his footing and tumbled down the five stairs to the landing. For about a nanosecond, I stared in horror at the little pile of uncle crumpled there. He'd had a knee replacement a few years back and a hip replacement after a motorcycle accident in France when he was a teenager (many decades ago). And due to a heart condition, he was taking blood thinners. All-around, not a good combination for falling down stairs.

So after a brief freak-out in my head, I yelled for help, we got him off the floor and I remember Sarah shouting "Nancy broke Uncle Lee!" (I think to nurse Betsy in Texas, whom we quickly consulted). Once we determined he could walk and nothing seemed to be broken, there was a collective sigh of relief and we resumed getting ready to go to church for the service. Swelling and internal bleeding were our big concerns, so anti-inflammatories were pushed and he sat on bags of frozen peas and edamame at opportune times throughout the day.

My sister and brother and E and I were all overwhelmed at the outpouring of love from friends and family who came to pay their respects and who surrounded us with their love and care in the weeks prior to and the months following Dad's death. At the funeral, I shared aloud a reflection that I think surprised many people. And I'll never forget the priceless looks on their faces when the Hallelujah Chorus played (Dad would have been so pleased - he requested it).

The day after the funeral, Nicholas and Brandon ripped out the old subfloor under Lee's Landing (not related to the fall - the floor had rotted in places and needed repair even when I bought the house). I was so touched that my nephews would do that for me. And it adds to the specialness of that little 3x3 piece of floor.

One evening during the funeral weekend, E tucked Ashton into bed and then climbed in with him to share Great Grandpa memories, and so Ashton could ask E great theological questions. Like how Great Grandpa fit in that little box he'd built that now held his ashes. (And how he could be there AND up in heaven at the same time.) The wise 3-1/2 year old didn't seem to question the truth of these things, he just wanted an explanation.

Fast forward about six months, I finally finished the new floor of Lee's Landing, and had a sturdy gate and railing installed to facilitate getting up and down the kitchen stairs ... and to help reduce the potential for loved ones young and old leaping unintentionally like Uncle Lee.

Figuring it was an occasion for a party, I held a viewing for the local family members and we christened Lee's Leap and Lee's Landing with cocktails and juice boxes. Molly and Sammy put the gate to the test by standing on and shaking it wildly with their feet wedged between the rungs, while they threw stuff down the stairs.

As I sit here sipping my coffee, I think of all that surrounded the naming of Lee's Landing, the months leading up to Leap Day and all the years before that. I miss my dad more than I'd ever thought I could (especially when I was a teenager and was certain I really didn't need him at all), but I'm preparing myself to leap to the next thing life has in store ... with a few more detours here and there to reflect on all that has helped me land where I am today.