Sometimes Miracles Happen

I have wanted something for years, and it just happened.

Sometimes miracles happen.

At the beginning of April, a friend (who is really my brother) and I tackled the last corner of my yard that has been an eyesore forever.

We turned over the ground (with Mia and Benji, too) so it could be the new home of the garden.

We (that's the royal we, cuz it was Brian) dug out the slate pavers that ran along the back side of the what-was-currently (then) the main section of lawn and replaced them as a border along the side of the new garden plot.

Then began the process of rebuilding the new lattice (Brian again), and we began leveling the old garden space to make way for sod.

Last week we spent three evenings doing prep work: getting out all the spring weeds, digging back a whole section of crabgrass and shaking as much of the dirt out as we could, and then raking.  We relocated the rhubarb plant, and my was that an experience.  I had never seen the underside of a well-established rhubarb plant before, and in a disturbing way it kind of reminded me of an octopus.  The root system that plant had was incredible, and in just six short seasons since I planted it, its rich roots were thick like huge, spongy, orangish-red carrots.  

It was a bit freakish.

Then, last Saturday, we finished the prep work of raking and leveling, and then put the new sod down.

And I haven't been able to stop staring at it whenever I've been in the yard since.

It seems surreal and somewhat miraculous that I no longer have a big, weedy patch of earth in my backyard that totally overwhelmed me.

And the real thing of things?

I've decided that miracles are the hands and hearts of those who love you.

They give, when there was no way it would have happened if you'd tried alone.

They offer without expecting a thing in return.

They ease the burden.

They make you laugh.

They help you create something beautiful.

They are the miracle.

The baffling, beautiful, surprising miracle.

And I feel completely undeserving, along with a whole heap of gratitude in my heart every time I look at that little piece of green out there.

And also, rhubarb makes a yummy pie.

Just sayin.

Late Night Note

I'm making my way through the last season of Parenthood.

Man...I love that show. I've laughed and I've cried throughout the whole series.

Love it enough that I bought the whole entire thing.

I watched a couple episodes last night, one of them being the episode where Zeek has open heart surgery.  Something about it triggered a memory about my dad when he was sick, one I hadn't thought about for a while.  

After midnight, I decided I was going to hit the hay.

I came upstairs to do a few things I always do before turning in.  

I walked through my house in the quiet and then went downstairs, pulled out the leather bound book by my bed, and wrote a few lines to my dad:

Was watching something tonight that took me back to the night you came home from Cape Cod and a friend brought you home and I was waiting at the house for you.  I came out to the car and you were waiting for me, leaning on the passenger door.  I put your arm around my shoulder and we slowly made our way up the back walk, the backyard lit from the little yellow light on the west side of the garage. It's crazy, Dad...it all happened so fast and I couldn't believe we were on that speeding train.  Made me remember how tender and difficult and unbelievable all of that was.  

I went outside tonight to turn out deck lights and twinkle lights in the yard on the garden shed.  When I came in and walked through the house, making sure doors and windows were locked, I looked around at the things in my entryway and front room -- the pictures on the walls, the china hutch, the things -- and so much of it -- almost all of it has sentimental value, ties me to my parents and grandparents.  You are all here, in my front room, in my heart, in my life.  I feel so aware that so much of me is you, that the love you all gave to me is my strength today.  I carry all of you with me.  I've got pictures of both sets of grandparents and the print Ellen did of the house, stuff you brought back from various travels, a brass pitcher of Grandma Vera's, a gift from Sarah, the china hutch, filled with Grandma's china and candles, the clock that was in the living room all growing up, the painting I chose from Dan Moss, years ago, the picture of my hands clasped with Mom and Grandma Vera's that symbolizes my motherhood to me.  It's all very humbling and beautiful to realize how many lives make up your life.  I remember that our family home was full of photographs of family long gone, but not gone.  I feel so aware of that now.  They're not gone.  They're still as much a part of you as they were when they were physically here.  I'm so grateful for that.  So very grateful.  

I love you, Dad. 

xoxo

Crackly China

Yesterday I went to go and pick up this old beauty.  

It has been in storage for several months because I didn't have a place to put it.  

It's an iconic piece from my childhood home.

I love everything about it.  

The rich dark color.

The small little windows on the front.

The drawers that always had candles and salt and pepper shakers and coasters from Switzerland tucked inside.  The warm, distinct smell it has.

The way it was filled with crystal and china that we pulled out for fancy dinners.

Last night, about midnight, this is what my kitchen looked like.

I was awake, unwrapping piece after piece of my grandmother's china (and some other iconic crystal pieces from my childhood).  

My favorite pieces are the ones that are like this, where the china appears crackly.

I lit candles on my mantle and had Christmas carols on as I worked.

It felt almost like a Christmas morning.

The hutch and the china take me to happy places in my memory: that china on top of a blood red tablecloth, and laden with all kinds of yummy.  

Holiday dinners and Christmas Eve morning breakfasts as we listened to A Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols, live from Cambridge, England.

Dad used his mother's set every time he prepared a fancy feast, and I can look at it and remember how he always talked with great affection when he spoke about his mom.

I look at it and I can hear beautiful music in the background, and smell any number of delicious things cooking: turkey, Dad's pork tenderloin with mushroom sauce, pies, bread, mashed potatoes, bread puddings.  You name it.

It reminds me of the holidays -- candles burning, Christmas trees lit up, a warm fire bringing cheer and warmth on a snowy night.

I see the little cut glass crystal bowls (pictured above) and immediately think of tapioca pudding.

I remember pulling out the dining room table and adding extra leaves to make room for guests, how we had to stand at opposite ends of the table and pull.

I think of us around that table -- plates laden with mouth-watering food, and all the hours of talk.

My family loves to get together and talk.

I hear us laughing or getting a scientific explanation from Martin or playing cards.

It makes me sad, but in a happy sort of way I guess.

I came upstairs and opened the curtains this morning and looked at the china through the glass, tucked away.

I looked around at my newly arranged front room (since the table was moved out).

I see fall on my mantle, but I've been planning all week for Monday---when Christmas will replace it.

I've got a wreath to make and decorations to haul down from the attic.

We'll go and buy our Christmas tree.

I'll have carols on again, long into the quiet hours at night, warm lights twinkling in the background.

I'll pull out more of my family's history with decorations that are as much a part of my childhood as that hutch.

But.

Last night?

Those cream pieces took me to people I love, to a warmth that will never leave this heart,

to love and happiness and joy that will sustain me all my days.

(Next week I'll be blogging about a fall activity to do with your kids and holiday recipes. 

And, of course, about Christmas decorating -- which should actually be expressed like this: !!!! 

my heart.)

Home

Today, these boys are 8 years old.  I'm not sure where the time has gone, or where I have gone with it, but here we are.  

I was just in the kitchen, chopping up stuff for their favorite meal.

I picked up balloons earlier and hung birthday streamers.

There are wrapped presents on the table.

This is the first birthday with a big difference -- in that their dad and I aren't together any more.  They are all gone with him right now, having lunch and hiking, and it gave me quiet time to prepare for celebrating with them this evening.

I was listening to an mp3 sent to me of a favorite Christmas piece (I know...it's September), playing it over and over and over.  I have been a little sick for my dad the past couple of weeks.  

He has been on my mind a lot, and I have pondered on his influence and love and the sweet relationship that I share with him. 

And for some reason, as I stood there chopping, I started to think about the sounds of home.  My childhood home recently sold, a home our family had for 35 years.  

So much of me, so much of what molded me, took place in that space.  

What were the familiar sounds?

Hearing the back door open and close.

Working in the kitchen and hearing the quiet of night and crickets outside the open back door.

Frequent fire engines and ambulances, since we lived on a main thoroughfare in town.

Brahms Intermezzos.

Bubbling water from the canner on the stove, full of something yummy.

The fire crackling on winter nights.

Indigo Girls.

Christmas carols.

Pinochle bidding.

People talking around a warm and tastily bedecked table.

Talk of ideas.

The music of Bach.

My mother's voice, reading to me as a child.

Box fans in the window of my childhood bedroom, hearing the cars drive by below and watching the lights from the headlights drift across my ceiling.

Rakes swishing across the lawn and through leaves as I worked with my father on fall nights, raking in the cold.

Hearing the lawnmower on a Saturday morning and smelling the grass through my window.

Laughter.

Quiet plodding in the earth outside, planting food, harvesting food, admiring its beauty.

Hymn singing.

And there are other things...

The smell of candles.

The aroma of apple butter in the fall, filling the house with cloves and cinnamon and making you feel as tho you were wrapped and comforted in a lovely sweater.

Food, always food.  Growing up in a house with really great food is about more than just the eating, enjoyable though it is.

Purple bathroom tile.

Traditions.

Christmas time.

In my little house now, the sounds are frequently noisy and busy, and not a lot of quiet -- which I tend to crave.  

But.

What will my people remember about this place?  

What will be significant to them about home?  

It's funny -- 
I am a very flawed, very imperfect mother, trying hard to create something beautiful, to create food and warmth and work and memories that they will hold onto.  
In some ways, the home I came from was broken.  I remember, during the time when my parents were struggling and before their separation, feeling as tho I might not ever feel happy again.  I didn't know if it would ever feel okay.  

Now, looking back, I see a lot of beauty in that broken.  

I see a lot of love and dedication.  

I see my beautiful parents, who were living their lives with courage and strength and doing the best they could under heavy, trying loads.  

I feel the lessons, deep inside, that I have learned from them -- both in conversation, and from observing them living their lives.  

This makes me want to shout with gratitude, in the same way that it fills me with nostalgia and emotion, because it's tender.  

I see five children, who have a love for each other today that is tight-knit and palpable, sisters who love to be together.  

I see so much that is formative and beautiful.

It was home.

It still is home.

I still find myself there, and understand myself better in her company.

I continue to be schooled by that famous statement by Pres. Harold B. Lee: “The most important...work you will ever do will be the work you do within the walls of your own home.” 

I know I am imperfect; broken, even.  

And this is a noisy, crazy, busy, sometimes pulled-in-too-many-directions-and-stresses time, in some ways.  But my growing-up-house must have been that way too, at some point.  And today, in the quiet, that isn't what I remember.  I remember all these reminiscences, and more.  The meaning is tangible and starkly highlighted.  

In the trying and the traditions and continual planting, I find my greatest joy in home.