The other night when Jon and I spent the night in Loudoun, we spontaneously did something momentous. Meaning, we didn't have a plan but we ended up finishing a task that we have been intending to finish for years.
First Jon made dinner on the grill (up until recently we have only ever had the usual charcoal grill, but last year Jim gave us a gas grill he found or someone gave him that was a little bit broken, perfect for our Wheatland abode). We had decided we would just find our dinner out there since it is so much packing to bring breakfast and lunch and dinner and breakfast. I got some of Casey's pork out of the freezer at the stand, took a few cucumbers that Ellen had picked from her carefully tended plants in the hoop house, we ate some leftovers from various previous meals, and it was a fine meal. As happens so often, Jon cooked while I just collapsed on the hammock. Once I stop working, I am basically useless.
And then it was about 7:15, the sun was finally not so high and hot, and we thought we would go and see about putting a few lines of orchard tape (durable drip lines) in the blueberries. Last year before the wedding Jon and Stephen had finally buried a water line to the blueberry patch, but we had never used the water yet. Jon stood at the northern edge of the patch, feeding me an unkinked supply of plastic tubing, and I crawled under the bushes (branches already being pulled to the ground with fruit) and wiggled the pipe in and out of the bottoms of the plants. It was like a military exercise, wriggling on the ground pulling a line behind me. A little pokey and scratchy and really sweaty.
The point of this was to learn how to do it so I could tell someone else to finish the job. But after three rows of practice, there were only five rows left. I told Jon to time me on the next row and it turned out it only took three minutes to belly crawl to the end. I was already so sweaty, might as well keep going. We finished laying out the lines and it was just about dark.
I said, too bad it's already dark, guess we can't finish this tonight. I am going to take a shower. Jon said, I have a flashlight. So he hooked up all the lines to the manifold while I went to wash off all the poison ivy and pokey stuff. When I got back he was just turning on the water.
I wrote to Timothy to tell him that the blueberries finally had water, after all these years. He had tended the bushes for about 30 years or more before we inherited them along with our purchase of the ten acres. He responded by saying that many years ago he had pumped water from the creek in the woods, laying out pipe and hooking up a gas pump at the bottom of a steep hill. He said that the pump carcass is probably still in the creek, and that he only succeeded in watering the blueberries for a season or two before all the parts got too mouse-eaten. He said: the pump conveys.
The conventional wisdom is that blueberries need a lot of water. I cannot imagine what this patch would be like if it ever actually GOT a lot of water. Even though it is now about 35 years old, it is still producing massive quantities of berries. Timothy never kept any yield records and I imagine they are only a fraction of their past production. Some day we will plant the next section, just to the west, that Casey prepared for new bushes last year.
Now that there is finally water to the blueberries, we can plant new ones and they will grow. Next stop on the water line is the cabin so we can wash dishes and brush our teeth in running water. The blueberries came first, but we are next in line.
Saturday, May 30, 2015
Monday, May 25, 2015
Honoring Miss Edith
Nell's Mama is Miss Edith. She died quietly in the night on Wednesday, May 20 after spending about 10 days at home with her family and caregivers. Her stroke did not take away the essence of who she was, and she occasionally felt the need to direct her family from her bed (she could see her garden through the window and one day she told her son William to remove an invasive weed that was in her view -- not by breaking it off, not by pulling it, but by digging it out with a shovel). And she told them, now that it didn't matter any more, that before her stroke she had been taking advantage of the evening time after the caregivers went home to practice going upstairs (not allowed) and sometimes even took the car out. Just to show herself that she still could, and that no one else was the boss of her.
Nell will need to write a book about her Mama.
As the days went by, she gently withdrew from the conversation and slept. On her very last afternoon, sunny and lovely, her caregiver suggested they take Miss Edith out on the deck. The family was stunned, as they were being so careful not to disrupt her breathing or cause any distress, but the caregiver wisely asked, "what is the worst that can happen?" They rolled her out to her beloved garden and Miss Edith slept in a reclining chair as they soaked up the sun together for an hour.
Nell and her brother and sister had time to organize things and prepare, while Miss Edith slept through those last days. And before she faded into sleep, she told them what she wanted -- she wanted to be cremated, no funeral home, she wanted them to buy a beautiful Gulla basket for her ashes, and she wanted the basket to sit in front of the congregation while they celebrated a full church service. Mama had been active in her church for her whole life, and that was her second home.
The funeral was planned for Sunday afternoon, in the middle of Memorial Day weekend. People came from Richmond and Baltimore and Charleston and all over South Carolina and of course from right down the street. Jon and I left home early on Sunday and got to Mama's house in time for lunch.
The family had spent many days on the deck, eating barbecue, sharing stories. We were privileged to sit in the gazebo (built by Nell's father many years ago) and see all the cousins together. The cousins are the same ages as our group of cousins, and they reminded me of our kids -- beautiful in their youth, present for the occasion but also on their phones, hugging their parents, ready to engage with adults and answer all our dumb questions so politely. Very sweet to see them at their Grammy's house, probably for the last time. We have known Nell's boys since they were very small and it is hard not to feel proud of them myself, although they are not my children. I know about their victories and challenges, more than they might imagine, and it made me happy to see them looking so good even at that sad occasion.
Mama's house is a story of its own, and it isn't my story to tell. It is a large old Victorian house on the corner, surrounded by giant oak trees, with a much loved garden and many landscaping and architectural touches that were created by Miss Edith. Inside are the artifacts of generations of Southern families. Portraits, antiques, carpets, glassware. A parlor that was never used but was always ready, a music room, a dining room. All furnished carefully and lovingly. And now all soon to be dismantled and dispersed, some to family, some for sale. Miss Edith got a lifetime of joy out of putting all of that together, and now the parts will be reassembled in other settings.
I certainly learned more about Nell's beginnings. And it made me even more appreciative of the paths that she has chosen. She has traveled so far from South Carolina and her childhood home.
After lunch we went to the church down the street. Jon and I walked so we could see the houses and also stretch our legs for a minute. It felt like we were walking through "To Kill a Mockingbird." Not so dusty but very flat, with large trees and big old houses set back from the street. The town seems to be fading.
St. Paul's Episcopal Church, a one story brick building with vaulted ceilings inside. We don't know much about the Episcopal traditions, but it did seem pretty close to Catholic. Two of Mama's granddaughters played "Amazing Grace" on flutes, beautifully, and I felt tears coming. The pews were full, the family processed in behind two service leaders in their white cassocks (not sure about vocabulary) and sat up in the front pews.
The program told us: "The liturgy for the dead is an Easter liturgy. It finds all its meaning in the resurrection. Because Jesus was raised from the dead, we, too, shall be raised." And it went on with further explanation, which helped us to understand that we would be observers more than mourners in this context.
Miss Edith's Gulla basket presided from the front. The service leaders led us through prayers and hymns. What I gleaned from the brief sermon was that the minister had not known Mama for very long, or if he did he couldn't think of very much to say. She was a nice lady, and generous, with a sense of humor and a love of flowers. Oy. Any person in that room would have been able to add to the picture that he only lightly sketched for us. But maybe Miss Edith told him not to get into it.
There was Holy Communion and everyone except the Hirsch family and me and Jon and the man sitting next to us went up for the ritual.
While the rest of us went back to the house, the family buried Miss Edith's ashes in her basket, in a hole at the cemetery that her son and son-in-law had dug the day before. And, although it was not their tradition, at Edie's suggestion they each took a shovel full of dirt and refilled the hole. This makes me happy, that they had a time to do one last thing for their Mama, without the rest of us.
The church ladies had made all the food and set up the reception, taking over Mama's kitchen and dining room and deck. They were ready for the mourners, poised to pour the iced tea, moving the empty dishes away and putting out more and more food. The crustless curried chicken salad sandwiches were delicious. The Hirsch boys posted themselves next to the fried chicken. Nell and her siblings graciously greeted everyone -- I don't think any of them got a bite to eat.
We said goodbye at about 4:30, after five hours of a crash course in Southern hospitality and Episcopalian ritual. The trip home was as uneventful as the morning ride, and we got home by 11 PM. As Nancy said by text, "800 miles of driving plus a funeral and visiting back at the house, all between getting up in the morning and going to sleep at night." It was a very good day. As I told Nell in a different text, Jon and I had trained for this marathon drive over the winter, and our skills were honed.
Rest peacefully, Miss Edith. Your family took care of it all, just as you asked.
Nell will need to write a book about her Mama.
As the days went by, she gently withdrew from the conversation and slept. On her very last afternoon, sunny and lovely, her caregiver suggested they take Miss Edith out on the deck. The family was stunned, as they were being so careful not to disrupt her breathing or cause any distress, but the caregiver wisely asked, "what is the worst that can happen?" They rolled her out to her beloved garden and Miss Edith slept in a reclining chair as they soaked up the sun together for an hour.
Nell and her brother and sister had time to organize things and prepare, while Miss Edith slept through those last days. And before she faded into sleep, she told them what she wanted -- she wanted to be cremated, no funeral home, she wanted them to buy a beautiful Gulla basket for her ashes, and she wanted the basket to sit in front of the congregation while they celebrated a full church service. Mama had been active in her church for her whole life, and that was her second home.
The funeral was planned for Sunday afternoon, in the middle of Memorial Day weekend. People came from Richmond and Baltimore and Charleston and all over South Carolina and of course from right down the street. Jon and I left home early on Sunday and got to Mama's house in time for lunch.
The family had spent many days on the deck, eating barbecue, sharing stories. We were privileged to sit in the gazebo (built by Nell's father many years ago) and see all the cousins together. The cousins are the same ages as our group of cousins, and they reminded me of our kids -- beautiful in their youth, present for the occasion but also on their phones, hugging their parents, ready to engage with adults and answer all our dumb questions so politely. Very sweet to see them at their Grammy's house, probably for the last time. We have known Nell's boys since they were very small and it is hard not to feel proud of them myself, although they are not my children. I know about their victories and challenges, more than they might imagine, and it made me happy to see them looking so good even at that sad occasion.
Mama's house is a story of its own, and it isn't my story to tell. It is a large old Victorian house on the corner, surrounded by giant oak trees, with a much loved garden and many landscaping and architectural touches that were created by Miss Edith. Inside are the artifacts of generations of Southern families. Portraits, antiques, carpets, glassware. A parlor that was never used but was always ready, a music room, a dining room. All furnished carefully and lovingly. And now all soon to be dismantled and dispersed, some to family, some for sale. Miss Edith got a lifetime of joy out of putting all of that together, and now the parts will be reassembled in other settings.
I certainly learned more about Nell's beginnings. And it made me even more appreciative of the paths that she has chosen. She has traveled so far from South Carolina and her childhood home.
After lunch we went to the church down the street. Jon and I walked so we could see the houses and also stretch our legs for a minute. It felt like we were walking through "To Kill a Mockingbird." Not so dusty but very flat, with large trees and big old houses set back from the street. The town seems to be fading.
St. Paul's Episcopal Church, a one story brick building with vaulted ceilings inside. We don't know much about the Episcopal traditions, but it did seem pretty close to Catholic. Two of Mama's granddaughters played "Amazing Grace" on flutes, beautifully, and I felt tears coming. The pews were full, the family processed in behind two service leaders in their white cassocks (not sure about vocabulary) and sat up in the front pews.
The program told us: "The liturgy for the dead is an Easter liturgy. It finds all its meaning in the resurrection. Because Jesus was raised from the dead, we, too, shall be raised." And it went on with further explanation, which helped us to understand that we would be observers more than mourners in this context.
Miss Edith's Gulla basket presided from the front. The service leaders led us through prayers and hymns. What I gleaned from the brief sermon was that the minister had not known Mama for very long, or if he did he couldn't think of very much to say. She was a nice lady, and generous, with a sense of humor and a love of flowers. Oy. Any person in that room would have been able to add to the picture that he only lightly sketched for us. But maybe Miss Edith told him not to get into it.
There was Holy Communion and everyone except the Hirsch family and me and Jon and the man sitting next to us went up for the ritual.
While the rest of us went back to the house, the family buried Miss Edith's ashes in her basket, in a hole at the cemetery that her son and son-in-law had dug the day before. And, although it was not their tradition, at Edie's suggestion they each took a shovel full of dirt and refilled the hole. This makes me happy, that they had a time to do one last thing for their Mama, without the rest of us.
The church ladies had made all the food and set up the reception, taking over Mama's kitchen and dining room and deck. They were ready for the mourners, poised to pour the iced tea, moving the empty dishes away and putting out more and more food. The crustless curried chicken salad sandwiches were delicious. The Hirsch boys posted themselves next to the fried chicken. Nell and her siblings graciously greeted everyone -- I don't think any of them got a bite to eat.
We said goodbye at about 4:30, after five hours of a crash course in Southern hospitality and Episcopalian ritual. The trip home was as uneventful as the morning ride, and we got home by 11 PM. As Nancy said by text, "800 miles of driving plus a funeral and visiting back at the house, all between getting up in the morning and going to sleep at night." It was a very good day. As I told Nell in a different text, Jon and I had trained for this marathon drive over the winter, and our skills were honed.
Rest peacefully, Miss Edith. Your family took care of it all, just as you asked.
Thursday, May 21, 2015
Sour Cherries
When we first moved into our house, we immediately ripped out the red azalea bushes that had been installed in front of every house by the developer. While I like azaleas, that color of red did not appeal to me -- probably because all the azaleas in the whole neighborhood were the same.
We were lucky to have a community landscape designer in our midst. Darryl had designed the landscaping for all of Blueberry Hill, along with our neighbor Mary Harlow who devoted herself to the project. Together they chose all the bushes and trees that are now many times bushier and so much taller, all along the greenway and through the neighborhood, buffering and beautifying.
The tree that I chose first was a sour cherry. In fact we got two, plus a weeping cherry, and Darryl planted them in a row between the side of our house and the parking lot. For years they were small and we counted the cherries in the single digits, it seemed. I made one little dessert out of the entire crop, year after year.
Today the larger sour cherry tree is about 15 feet tall and has an explosion of fruit from top to bottom. The cherries are just beginning to turn red now and in a week or so they will be deep purple red and ready to pick. We will only be able to reach about half of them and the birds will get the rest.
Why did I want a sour cherry tree? For the cherries (which don't need any spraying or maintenance). But mostly because it reminds me of my grandmother, Carolyn Jones Newcomb. She had a single cherry tree on the edge of her front yard, where it was sunniest, just far enough away from all the oak trees. Every May she did battle with the birds. When she saw them eating her ripening cherries, she ran outside with two pie pans and banged them together. It was futile, but she couldn't let the birds poke holes in all the fruit without giving them some trouble.
I do the same thing with all kinds of wildlife. I will not allow Canada geese to relax in our fields, even if there is a protective coating of snow. I will get out of the car on my way home from yoga, still soaking wet, and stomp through the snow roaring at the geese until they reluctantly take off. If there is a deer inside the fence, I will chase it until it finally finds the exit (and this is the practice on this farm -- no deer goes unhounded). People ask me if I think the animals can learn anything from the experience. I doubt it, but that doesn't stop me from trying to teach them through regular harassment.
My grandmother's dear friend Catherine Moutoux lived next door at the orchard and she had two sour cherry trees outside her house. I am guessing the same person (her husband) planted the trees for both of these women. When Mrs. Moutoux's trees were loaded with fruit, she would invite us to come and pick. We would climb into the tree and pick, hands sticky and red, filling buckets and bowls. We gave her half of what we picked. She was a terrific baker and made juicy, oozing pies. No one has ever made a better peach pie in the 40 years since we were the lucky ones who lived the closest.
Right against our house, just a few feet from the cherry tree, are some daffodils that were in my grandmother's yard, along a fence line that ended at her cherry tree. Before her house was torn down, I went over with Jim and we dug up some clumps of bulbs. I am happy every spring, seeing those flowers poking up, a regular hello from Grandma. She wasn't much more of a gardener than I am -- neither one of us made flower beds a priority -- but we both loved daffodils, and luckily they do everything for themselves.
Jon and I don't seem to be inclined to have memorabilia around our house, but this cherry tree is a memento that makes me smile year round. It is so healthy and strong, the blossoms look like popcorn in April, and soon we will be scraping our shins and elbows trying to get into the top branches so we can get enough cherries to freeze. When the girls come home, they can make a tart, tasty pie for us. Our job is to fill the freezer with fruit, theirs is to come home and keep the pie tradition alive.
Grandma and Mrs. Moutoux would be glad that we remember them, every time we eat a ripe sour cherry and every time someone makes a great peach pie.
We were lucky to have a community landscape designer in our midst. Darryl had designed the landscaping for all of Blueberry Hill, along with our neighbor Mary Harlow who devoted herself to the project. Together they chose all the bushes and trees that are now many times bushier and so much taller, all along the greenway and through the neighborhood, buffering and beautifying.
The tree that I chose first was a sour cherry. In fact we got two, plus a weeping cherry, and Darryl planted them in a row between the side of our house and the parking lot. For years they were small and we counted the cherries in the single digits, it seemed. I made one little dessert out of the entire crop, year after year.
Today the larger sour cherry tree is about 15 feet tall and has an explosion of fruit from top to bottom. The cherries are just beginning to turn red now and in a week or so they will be deep purple red and ready to pick. We will only be able to reach about half of them and the birds will get the rest.
Why did I want a sour cherry tree? For the cherries (which don't need any spraying or maintenance). But mostly because it reminds me of my grandmother, Carolyn Jones Newcomb. She had a single cherry tree on the edge of her front yard, where it was sunniest, just far enough away from all the oak trees. Every May she did battle with the birds. When she saw them eating her ripening cherries, she ran outside with two pie pans and banged them together. It was futile, but she couldn't let the birds poke holes in all the fruit without giving them some trouble.
I do the same thing with all kinds of wildlife. I will not allow Canada geese to relax in our fields, even if there is a protective coating of snow. I will get out of the car on my way home from yoga, still soaking wet, and stomp through the snow roaring at the geese until they reluctantly take off. If there is a deer inside the fence, I will chase it until it finally finds the exit (and this is the practice on this farm -- no deer goes unhounded). People ask me if I think the animals can learn anything from the experience. I doubt it, but that doesn't stop me from trying to teach them through regular harassment.
My grandmother's dear friend Catherine Moutoux lived next door at the orchard and she had two sour cherry trees outside her house. I am guessing the same person (her husband) planted the trees for both of these women. When Mrs. Moutoux's trees were loaded with fruit, she would invite us to come and pick. We would climb into the tree and pick, hands sticky and red, filling buckets and bowls. We gave her half of what we picked. She was a terrific baker and made juicy, oozing pies. No one has ever made a better peach pie in the 40 years since we were the lucky ones who lived the closest.
Right against our house, just a few feet from the cherry tree, are some daffodils that were in my grandmother's yard, along a fence line that ended at her cherry tree. Before her house was torn down, I went over with Jim and we dug up some clumps of bulbs. I am happy every spring, seeing those flowers poking up, a regular hello from Grandma. She wasn't much more of a gardener than I am -- neither one of us made flower beds a priority -- but we both loved daffodils, and luckily they do everything for themselves.
Jon and I don't seem to be inclined to have memorabilia around our house, but this cherry tree is a memento that makes me smile year round. It is so healthy and strong, the blossoms look like popcorn in April, and soon we will be scraping our shins and elbows trying to get into the top branches so we can get enough cherries to freeze. When the girls come home, they can make a tart, tasty pie for us. Our job is to fill the freezer with fruit, theirs is to come home and keep the pie tradition alive.
Grandma and Mrs. Moutoux would be glad that we remember them, every time we eat a ripe sour cherry and every time someone makes a great peach pie.
Sunday, May 17, 2015
Journal Entry: May 16, 2015
I kept a journal from the seventh grade through sometime in the early days of having kids. There is a wooden box with notebooks full of daily entries, stashed under a desk upstairs. I always think if we have a fire, that is one of the first things I will rescue. Since the advent of the computer, I have wrestled with maintaining that handwritten routine, and it is basically lost. I have moved on to other record-keeping modes, mostly shared now. I still have one notebook that I write in about once every few months, whenever I get a twinge of Not Enough Journal Writing, but mostly I just use a keyboard nowadays and push the "publish" button.
This morning I woke up feeling like I should write down what happened yesterday, so I will use this postcard blog to do that, and I may use this venue from time to time as a journal.
Saturday, May 16, 2015
It gets light so early now that waking up by 5:30 is easy. Arrived at the stand before 6 and found Becky and Carrie loading the market vans, everything in order. Three vans rolled out on time and I went to visit the pigs. These pigs are so personable, I just have to go into the pen and scratch their ears almost every time I see them. Home for breakfast and to see how the preparations were going. Alissa was getting started on dessert items, Jon was making a list for shopping. I went out to pick radishes and beet thinnings that we didn't pick yesterday for Takoma Park and eventually Carrie and ML came out to join me. We finished picking all the tidbits, I picked a crate of lettuce for the lunch, delivered it to the Common House and washed it in the big sink. We got a message from Lucy saying she was all out of spinach at Falls Church so I stole three crates from the TP pile and delivered them to her, telling ML he could pick some more for tomorrow.
Went to the Common House to check on Jon. He had one big chick pea salad all finished, Becca was cutting up vegetables for tabouli, he assigned me the green salad. When Anna and Gordon arrived to set up the tables etc. I said to Anna: we forgot to think about flowers. Gordon took over the salad prep and I headed out on my golf cart to gather up some lilacs, sage flowers, chives flowers, rye grass -- not much blooming out there but enough. It was getting very hot out and I had to pick fast. Went back and filled up eight vases, put them on the tables that Anna had arranged with tablecloths and napkins. Anna set up the scrapbooking table, Jon and Gordon started cleaning up the kitchen.
Anna said I had to change my clothes because I looked like the kitchen help, so I went back home. It was way too hot for blue jeans anyway. Alissa and Rebecca were putting the finishing touches on the German chocolate cake, taking the lemon bars out of the pan, pouring a glaze over the Apple cake that had fallen (as is traditional -- last year Alissa made a "mud slide" that was delicious). We carried the dishes to the Common House where the guests were arriving.
We were on a tight schedule because Mom had to leave by 2:15 for a final rehearsal for her concert (she discovered her concert was in the afternoon, not the evening, about two days ago and we had to tighten up our party plans). There were about 45 guests who pretty much all knew each other -- over time all the circles overlap. We ate cold salmon with delicious sour cream dip, saffron rice, those salads. At 1:45 Anna banged on a glass and said that if anyone wanted to share any thoughts or birthday wishes with Mom, this was the time. In 20 minutes, lovely thoughts were shared by her personal trainer, a longtime fellow book club member, people who had worked for her, Maria who said her own children think of my mother as Grandma, her grandchildren. As ML said later, it was so nice because no one thinks she is dying or going anywhere soon, so no one had to say all that could be said -- these were appreciations that were small glimpses, not speeches. There is a longstanding family tradition of putting candles on a cake that pose an arithmetic problem (like Challenge 24) -- Alissa and Jon had decided to make it simple so Grandma wouldn't have to struggle in front of such a big crowd. They put groups of 4 and 4 and 5 and 5. We light the candles and then the birthday girl figures out how the candles get to the age (80 in this case) and then we all cheer and they blow out the candles. Grandma did the math, and Susan and Chip's grandson Julian dashed in at the last minute to help her finish blowing out the candles. Large cheer.
Minor interlude of clean-up, wrapping up the market loads (thanks to Becky and Carrie), I had a 10 minute nap on the hammock because all the cousins were filling every space in the living room.
Then we piled into a car and went to the concert. Mom and grandson Michael and Jim all sing with the Vienna Choral Society, and Michael had a solo early in the program so we had to be on time. This group has concerts four times a year which is a heavy load for both singers and family members who attend loyally. The choir director, who is wonderful, has a personal mission to make her concerts meaningful to the community. This sometimes means that her musical choices are not the best, as she tries to squeeze her mission in with the music. This was another one of those concerts. The theme was "heroes" and, as the kids all said in the car afterwards, the definition of heroes was not very nuanced. As audience members, I think the row of grandchildren was a very tough group: heavily politicized, deeply aware of current events, a bit sarcastic, and music lovers too. But loyal as the day is long to their grandmother and brother/cousin and father/uncle. My own assessment was that this program would have been perfect for a Disney cruise. The singers are all prepared, the accompaniment is great, the director is energized, it's just the music and theme this time that made us squirm.
At least it rained a lot while we were in the church. We needed the rain badly.
As soon as we got home, Jon and I left for NVHC. We were an hour late for the Silent Auction but we didn't really mind. This is the ninth auction and we now go more out of duty than out of huge interest. I did want to see how my donation was going: "Want To Learn to Drive a Tractor?" It was going great. People were trying to outbid each other up to the end. After the silent auction came dinner and the live auction. Our table was only half full, as Nell had gone back to South Carolina to be with her mother (seems these are the last days) and Libby was sick and Seldon didn't feel up to coming and Helen stayed home with him. Anyway, we had dinner and enjoyed Rob J's final round of auctioneering. He has thrown his heart and soul into that role, and it is very hard to imagine the auction without him. He is so un-humble it is amazing. In the end, we spent money on a raffle ticket (didn't win), a donation to the Forest Edge food program, and one gift certificate to a restaurant that we have been to once that was okay. I will try to find someone to give it to, as Jon hates gift certificates.
Came home to find all the cousins talking and laughing and watching movies, filling the house with their hilarious, happy presence. They get together so infrequently now that they really are intentional about the time they spend in one big pile. Only Benjamin was missing. There is always someone abroad these days.
Went upstairs and fell into bed, to the sounds of Stephen's booming laugh and Rebecca's responding shrieks. All is well in this small world.
This morning I woke up feeling like I should write down what happened yesterday, so I will use this postcard blog to do that, and I may use this venue from time to time as a journal.
Saturday, May 16, 2015
It gets light so early now that waking up by 5:30 is easy. Arrived at the stand before 6 and found Becky and Carrie loading the market vans, everything in order. Three vans rolled out on time and I went to visit the pigs. These pigs are so personable, I just have to go into the pen and scratch their ears almost every time I see them. Home for breakfast and to see how the preparations were going. Alissa was getting started on dessert items, Jon was making a list for shopping. I went out to pick radishes and beet thinnings that we didn't pick yesterday for Takoma Park and eventually Carrie and ML came out to join me. We finished picking all the tidbits, I picked a crate of lettuce for the lunch, delivered it to the Common House and washed it in the big sink. We got a message from Lucy saying she was all out of spinach at Falls Church so I stole three crates from the TP pile and delivered them to her, telling ML he could pick some more for tomorrow.
Went to the Common House to check on Jon. He had one big chick pea salad all finished, Becca was cutting up vegetables for tabouli, he assigned me the green salad. When Anna and Gordon arrived to set up the tables etc. I said to Anna: we forgot to think about flowers. Gordon took over the salad prep and I headed out on my golf cart to gather up some lilacs, sage flowers, chives flowers, rye grass -- not much blooming out there but enough. It was getting very hot out and I had to pick fast. Went back and filled up eight vases, put them on the tables that Anna had arranged with tablecloths and napkins. Anna set up the scrapbooking table, Jon and Gordon started cleaning up the kitchen.
Anna said I had to change my clothes because I looked like the kitchen help, so I went back home. It was way too hot for blue jeans anyway. Alissa and Rebecca were putting the finishing touches on the German chocolate cake, taking the lemon bars out of the pan, pouring a glaze over the Apple cake that had fallen (as is traditional -- last year Alissa made a "mud slide" that was delicious). We carried the dishes to the Common House where the guests were arriving.
We were on a tight schedule because Mom had to leave by 2:15 for a final rehearsal for her concert (she discovered her concert was in the afternoon, not the evening, about two days ago and we had to tighten up our party plans). There were about 45 guests who pretty much all knew each other -- over time all the circles overlap. We ate cold salmon with delicious sour cream dip, saffron rice, those salads. At 1:45 Anna banged on a glass and said that if anyone wanted to share any thoughts or birthday wishes with Mom, this was the time. In 20 minutes, lovely thoughts were shared by her personal trainer, a longtime fellow book club member, people who had worked for her, Maria who said her own children think of my mother as Grandma, her grandchildren. As ML said later, it was so nice because no one thinks she is dying or going anywhere soon, so no one had to say all that could be said -- these were appreciations that were small glimpses, not speeches. There is a longstanding family tradition of putting candles on a cake that pose an arithmetic problem (like Challenge 24) -- Alissa and Jon had decided to make it simple so Grandma wouldn't have to struggle in front of such a big crowd. They put groups of 4 and 4 and 5 and 5. We light the candles and then the birthday girl figures out how the candles get to the age (80 in this case) and then we all cheer and they blow out the candles. Grandma did the math, and Susan and Chip's grandson Julian dashed in at the last minute to help her finish blowing out the candles. Large cheer.
Minor interlude of clean-up, wrapping up the market loads (thanks to Becky and Carrie), I had a 10 minute nap on the hammock because all the cousins were filling every space in the living room.
Then we piled into a car and went to the concert. Mom and grandson Michael and Jim all sing with the Vienna Choral Society, and Michael had a solo early in the program so we had to be on time. This group has concerts four times a year which is a heavy load for both singers and family members who attend loyally. The choir director, who is wonderful, has a personal mission to make her concerts meaningful to the community. This sometimes means that her musical choices are not the best, as she tries to squeeze her mission in with the music. This was another one of those concerts. The theme was "heroes" and, as the kids all said in the car afterwards, the definition of heroes was not very nuanced. As audience members, I think the row of grandchildren was a very tough group: heavily politicized, deeply aware of current events, a bit sarcastic, and music lovers too. But loyal as the day is long to their grandmother and brother/cousin and father/uncle. My own assessment was that this program would have been perfect for a Disney cruise. The singers are all prepared, the accompaniment is great, the director is energized, it's just the music and theme this time that made us squirm.
At least it rained a lot while we were in the church. We needed the rain badly.
As soon as we got home, Jon and I left for NVHC. We were an hour late for the Silent Auction but we didn't really mind. This is the ninth auction and we now go more out of duty than out of huge interest. I did want to see how my donation was going: "Want To Learn to Drive a Tractor?" It was going great. People were trying to outbid each other up to the end. After the silent auction came dinner and the live auction. Our table was only half full, as Nell had gone back to South Carolina to be with her mother (seems these are the last days) and Libby was sick and Seldon didn't feel up to coming and Helen stayed home with him. Anyway, we had dinner and enjoyed Rob J's final round of auctioneering. He has thrown his heart and soul into that role, and it is very hard to imagine the auction without him. He is so un-humble it is amazing. In the end, we spent money on a raffle ticket (didn't win), a donation to the Forest Edge food program, and one gift certificate to a restaurant that we have been to once that was okay. I will try to find someone to give it to, as Jon hates gift certificates.
Came home to find all the cousins talking and laughing and watching movies, filling the house with their hilarious, happy presence. They get together so infrequently now that they really are intentional about the time they spend in one big pile. Only Benjamin was missing. There is always someone abroad these days.
Went upstairs and fell into bed, to the sounds of Stephen's booming laugh and Rebecca's responding shrieks. All is well in this small world.
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Pen Pals
I don't seem to have any good stories to tell these days -- and if I do, they are so brief and farm-centered that they don't seem worthy of a retelling. This is what happens when the days are filled with thinking about work lists and logistics and moving things from one place to the next. For example, this morning I woke up early so I could make something for our farm lunch and then pick some mint and dandelion greens for market and then head down the road with Carrie so we can join the crew to pick in Loudoun... Not very interesting to most people.
However, I am connected to an interesting story through texts and emails. A little over a week ago Nell's mother (who is referred to by her children as Mama) had a serious stroke. She is 87 and had been in a slow decline for the last few months. She has maintained her Mama-ness through each small loss, resisting some of the inevitable changes but being gracious to the caregivers who come each day. Mama lives in South Carolina in a tiny town, and she has firmly insisted on remaining in her big old Victorian house -- not moving to another town, not moving to an apartment, not losing her sense of place. She loves her garden and she loves her house. She has poured all of her energies into making those spaces beautiful for most of her adult life.
Anyway, she had a stroke and her caregiver was there and knew exactly what to do. Mama was taken by helicopter to a hospital in a much larger city, everyone was alerted, and Nell packed her bags and drove south. Mama lost her ability to swallow and her speech is fuzzy, but she did not lose her essence, and that is a blessing.
Over the next few days, Nell and her siblings wrestled with the choices that were available and they eventually decided that their mother would most want to go home. She would not want a stomach tube, she would not want to go to a care facility with strangers, and she would only want to live out the rest of her days in the place that she had created and inhabited and loved since the early days of her marriage. After much work and many important conversations, they moved Mama back home with her original caregiver and a hospice team. The family is spending time together at home.
I have not had any phone conversations with Nell -- we don't talk on the phone, in general. For almost 20 years, Nell and I have been pen pals. Of course we see each other a few times a week, usually, in one context or another, but most of our conversations are done by correspondence. We discovered long ago that we both love to write letters and we really love to get letters. And we are so incredibly lucky that someone invented the internet just for us. It is the most wonderful tool for those of us who love sending and receiving real mail. Our two other best friends have been dragged into this practice, sort of, but they are not the letter-writing fiends that we are. They do other things with their very rare free time.
In the last week, all four of us have been in constant contact through brief texts, long messages that Nell laboriously pokes out on her phone, and substantive emails. If we hadn't already been in the habit, those of us who are not in B-ville would be entirely out of the loop. Nell would have done all the hard work that she is doing, but we would have missed its day by day process, and we would never have had the chance to keep sending our (virtual but very real) support.
So now I am even more convinced that people need to learn to write letters again. In the olden days, that was the practice for everyone who was apart (if they could write, of course -- I am generalizing hugely). I have thought for years that if there was one course that I would like to teach to high school kids, it would be the art of letter writing, and the importance, and the historical value, and the incredible meaning that comes from communicating regularly through writing.
I was born before this instant communication became an option, of course, so my letter-writing habit was started in the days of the Pony Express. I have to say that I have had only three boyfriends in my life, and all three of them became regular correspondents while we were entangled. Even boys can learn to do this. Even Jon. So I know that with the right inspiration, just about anyone can learn to think to someone else through the written word.
I am so thankful right now that Nell is such a faithful pen pal. I can't be in that Victorian house with that family and their Mama/Grammie, and I shouldn't be, but I feel like I am practically in the next room, waiting for the next postcard to slide under the door.
However, I am connected to an interesting story through texts and emails. A little over a week ago Nell's mother (who is referred to by her children as Mama) had a serious stroke. She is 87 and had been in a slow decline for the last few months. She has maintained her Mama-ness through each small loss, resisting some of the inevitable changes but being gracious to the caregivers who come each day. Mama lives in South Carolina in a tiny town, and she has firmly insisted on remaining in her big old Victorian house -- not moving to another town, not moving to an apartment, not losing her sense of place. She loves her garden and she loves her house. She has poured all of her energies into making those spaces beautiful for most of her adult life.
Anyway, she had a stroke and her caregiver was there and knew exactly what to do. Mama was taken by helicopter to a hospital in a much larger city, everyone was alerted, and Nell packed her bags and drove south. Mama lost her ability to swallow and her speech is fuzzy, but she did not lose her essence, and that is a blessing.
Over the next few days, Nell and her siblings wrestled with the choices that were available and they eventually decided that their mother would most want to go home. She would not want a stomach tube, she would not want to go to a care facility with strangers, and she would only want to live out the rest of her days in the place that she had created and inhabited and loved since the early days of her marriage. After much work and many important conversations, they moved Mama back home with her original caregiver and a hospice team. The family is spending time together at home.
I have not had any phone conversations with Nell -- we don't talk on the phone, in general. For almost 20 years, Nell and I have been pen pals. Of course we see each other a few times a week, usually, in one context or another, but most of our conversations are done by correspondence. We discovered long ago that we both love to write letters and we really love to get letters. And we are so incredibly lucky that someone invented the internet just for us. It is the most wonderful tool for those of us who love sending and receiving real mail. Our two other best friends have been dragged into this practice, sort of, but they are not the letter-writing fiends that we are. They do other things with their very rare free time.
In the last week, all four of us have been in constant contact through brief texts, long messages that Nell laboriously pokes out on her phone, and substantive emails. If we hadn't already been in the habit, those of us who are not in B-ville would be entirely out of the loop. Nell would have done all the hard work that she is doing, but we would have missed its day by day process, and we would never have had the chance to keep sending our (virtual but very real) support.
So now I am even more convinced that people need to learn to write letters again. In the olden days, that was the practice for everyone who was apart (if they could write, of course -- I am generalizing hugely). I have thought for years that if there was one course that I would like to teach to high school kids, it would be the art of letter writing, and the importance, and the historical value, and the incredible meaning that comes from communicating regularly through writing.
I was born before this instant communication became an option, of course, so my letter-writing habit was started in the days of the Pony Express. I have to say that I have had only three boyfriends in my life, and all three of them became regular correspondents while we were entangled. Even boys can learn to do this. Even Jon. So I know that with the right inspiration, just about anyone can learn to think to someone else through the written word.
I am so thankful right now that Nell is such a faithful pen pal. I can't be in that Victorian house with that family and their Mama/Grammie, and I shouldn't be, but I feel like I am practically in the next room, waiting for the next postcard to slide under the door.
Thursday, May 7, 2015
Meandering Mumbles in May
I know I haven't finished the story of the Denver weekend, and I will make sure to polish that off, but I have been so absorbed by all that happens in May on a farm when the sun is shining. This week Jon and I were in Loudoun more days than we were at home, and this is new. The balance has tipped. We are nomads.
As long as we can get cleaned up at the end of the day, it is all manageable. I had a lovely shower at the Loudoun farm last night -- outdoors where the newest young workers will be taking their showers starting next week. It felt so good, after a full day of grubby work. Then we gave up on trying to stay awake past about 9:30 pm, even though we both had plenty of things to do. Jon meant to do work for Al, I had computers with me so I could write, I had a book to read. Never mind. We headed off to Timothy's cabin which currently looks like a storage shed with bird netting filling one end of the room, tools and tubs all around, various appliances that will eventually be installed. No electricity, no running water (yet) and no kitchen (yet). The bed is absurdly high, built-in on the southeast corner of the shed, right against a window with only a screen, no glass. The other night when I tried to climb into this bed (which is about five feet up), I climbed on the stool and did my best to pull myself up onto the mattress but the stool broke and I fell on the floor in the pitch dark. That night Jon was still up in the worker kitchen working on his computer, so I lay there on the floor assessing the damage, one bone at a time. Just some scrapes. Climbed back up into bed and looked out the window at the full moon.
This morning I finally, finally understood why the bed is so ridiculously high. It is because you can see out all of the windows and the view is stunning. If the bed were lower, it would be a total waste of everything. You would be sleeping in a storage shed amongst the bins of clippers and paper plates. There are wide windows all along the west side of the cabin -- you can see sky and mountains and trees and a huge open field and horses on the western edge of the world. Sometimes there is fog, sometimes the dew is so heavy you can see it dripping off the grass blades. At night soon there will be thousands of blinking yellow lightning bugs, sprinkled over the whole dark canvas.
Those moments are a brief holiday before we head back to the work of growing vegetables (in my case) and building stuff (in Jon's case). As I have said before, I am working with people who are truly young enough to be my own children. They are far more flexible and spry than I am and they think nothing of climbing on and off a pickup truck bed. I stay on the ground. I do climb on tractors, but it takes both arms. I have to admit that I am wondering if this body will ever actually get used to working this hard again. In recent seasons, I have been allowed to do more thinking and less bending. This year I do both, and the backs of my legs complain loudly after just two hours of morning mulching.
When we were in Denver last weekend, we all just forgot about our normal lives. We spent a full day hanging around the house, eating, napping, talking, cooking. We did have our 7:30 AM meeting and we went through the whole booklet of "Five Wishes," answering most of the questions and discussing our answers with each other. We got off on some tangents but in general our responses were pretty much the same -- we will trust our designated Health Care Agents to make sure we are not allowed to last too long in a state that we didn't ever plan to be in. It is impossible to be specific but we talked about various scenarios, and Anna says that as long as these conversations have been witnessed, we have done our job as best we can. And none of us wants to be embalmed and we don't want to go through a funeral home. Since there is already precedent in our family, we just want to be buried (after our useful organs are taken). Our level of squeamishness varies -- Anna wants to be buried in a box, Gordon doesn't mind the idea of being wrapped in a sheet, no box. We agreed that I will pursue the task of selecting a space for a family/community cemetery out on the Loudoun farm -- a task I have started several times and never finished.
But we have a lot to do before those are the questions that need to be answered. I know that pretty soon the age of 55 will seem youthful to me. Or to put it another way, everything that hurts now will be hurting a lot more in future years. Best not to think about that, but also best not to fall off of stools too often. (Yesterday I was glad there was no one to see me teetering on top of yet another stool trying to dislodge a hose that was tied to a piece of rope that was hanging from a rafter in the barn. I knew this could be bad, but somehow I managed to get the hose down and it was just right for attaching to the transplanter tank so we could water the mint. See? Yoga is keeping me from losing my balance when I do stupid things.)
When I listen to the radio and hear about all the horrible things that are happening all around, I know that we are extremely lucky in every possible way. We cannot take any of this for granted. And all of the work we do, we choose to do. At least we don't grow strawberries. While the backs of my legs may be complaining, they have no idea how lucky they are. And with any luck, they will be able to keep on complaining for a very long time.
As long as we can get cleaned up at the end of the day, it is all manageable. I had a lovely shower at the Loudoun farm last night -- outdoors where the newest young workers will be taking their showers starting next week. It felt so good, after a full day of grubby work. Then we gave up on trying to stay awake past about 9:30 pm, even though we both had plenty of things to do. Jon meant to do work for Al, I had computers with me so I could write, I had a book to read. Never mind. We headed off to Timothy's cabin which currently looks like a storage shed with bird netting filling one end of the room, tools and tubs all around, various appliances that will eventually be installed. No electricity, no running water (yet) and no kitchen (yet). The bed is absurdly high, built-in on the southeast corner of the shed, right against a window with only a screen, no glass. The other night when I tried to climb into this bed (which is about five feet up), I climbed on the stool and did my best to pull myself up onto the mattress but the stool broke and I fell on the floor in the pitch dark. That night Jon was still up in the worker kitchen working on his computer, so I lay there on the floor assessing the damage, one bone at a time. Just some scrapes. Climbed back up into bed and looked out the window at the full moon.
This morning I finally, finally understood why the bed is so ridiculously high. It is because you can see out all of the windows and the view is stunning. If the bed were lower, it would be a total waste of everything. You would be sleeping in a storage shed amongst the bins of clippers and paper plates. There are wide windows all along the west side of the cabin -- you can see sky and mountains and trees and a huge open field and horses on the western edge of the world. Sometimes there is fog, sometimes the dew is so heavy you can see it dripping off the grass blades. At night soon there will be thousands of blinking yellow lightning bugs, sprinkled over the whole dark canvas.
Those moments are a brief holiday before we head back to the work of growing vegetables (in my case) and building stuff (in Jon's case). As I have said before, I am working with people who are truly young enough to be my own children. They are far more flexible and spry than I am and they think nothing of climbing on and off a pickup truck bed. I stay on the ground. I do climb on tractors, but it takes both arms. I have to admit that I am wondering if this body will ever actually get used to working this hard again. In recent seasons, I have been allowed to do more thinking and less bending. This year I do both, and the backs of my legs complain loudly after just two hours of morning mulching.
When we were in Denver last weekend, we all just forgot about our normal lives. We spent a full day hanging around the house, eating, napping, talking, cooking. We did have our 7:30 AM meeting and we went through the whole booklet of "Five Wishes," answering most of the questions and discussing our answers with each other. We got off on some tangents but in general our responses were pretty much the same -- we will trust our designated Health Care Agents to make sure we are not allowed to last too long in a state that we didn't ever plan to be in. It is impossible to be specific but we talked about various scenarios, and Anna says that as long as these conversations have been witnessed, we have done our job as best we can. And none of us wants to be embalmed and we don't want to go through a funeral home. Since there is already precedent in our family, we just want to be buried (after our useful organs are taken). Our level of squeamishness varies -- Anna wants to be buried in a box, Gordon doesn't mind the idea of being wrapped in a sheet, no box. We agreed that I will pursue the task of selecting a space for a family/community cemetery out on the Loudoun farm -- a task I have started several times and never finished.
But we have a lot to do before those are the questions that need to be answered. I know that pretty soon the age of 55 will seem youthful to me. Or to put it another way, everything that hurts now will be hurting a lot more in future years. Best not to think about that, but also best not to fall off of stools too often. (Yesterday I was glad there was no one to see me teetering on top of yet another stool trying to dislodge a hose that was tied to a piece of rope that was hanging from a rafter in the barn. I knew this could be bad, but somehow I managed to get the hose down and it was just right for attaching to the transplanter tank so we could water the mint. See? Yoga is keeping me from losing my balance when I do stupid things.)
When I listen to the radio and hear about all the horrible things that are happening all around, I know that we are extremely lucky in every possible way. We cannot take any of this for granted. And all of the work we do, we choose to do. At least we don't grow strawberries. While the backs of my legs may be complaining, they have no idea how lucky they are. And with any luck, they will be able to keep on complaining for a very long time.
Saturday, May 2, 2015
Sibling Retreat, Extra Large
It is 5 AM, Denver time, and I have this entire floor to myself. I am sitting in the living room at Charles and Lee Lee's and all is quiet, even the bunny in its cage. Upstairs my mother and Michael are sleeping in the master bedroom, Anna and Gordon are in Hugh's room, Lani is in Ella's bed. Downstairs Charles and Lee Lee are in Tillie's bed and Tillie is in the guest bed. Ella is away at a friend's, probably so all of this could work. I woke up partly because most of the air in my mattress had leaked out over night and partly because it is really 7 AM for me. (Jon is in North Carolina at a small reunion of college roommates and Hugh is at Oberlin.)
Back at home, if all is going well, there are four separate teams at four separate markets. At this moment they may be putting up tarp frames, setting up tables, bagging spinach. We don't have much to sell this weekend, especially since we are spreading ourselves across so many markets for the first time this year, but we have plenty of spinach for all. It is gorgeous.
Anyway, we have gathered here to celebrate Charles' 50th birthday. It is possible that we were all here for his 40th, but I don't think so. It was a big party and apparently it took him months to recover from the shock of being at the center of so much attention (he seemed fine at the party but it took a lot out of our introvert brother and he didn't want to do that ever again). So this time we decided to bring the Saturday Family Dinner to him.
It won't be a very interesting part of the story later, but since we have only just arrived, our travel stories are still newsworthy. Anna and Gordon came out to Denver a few days ago and they were already situated and available to make the multiple airport runs that would be necessary to collect us all up. Lani arrived first, without incident, and hung out with Anna and Gordon. We rarely see Lani at a family dinner, so this is a coup. I dropped off my mother at Dulles at 7:20 yesterday morning for an 8:30 flight. She got through security and arrived at the gate in plenty of time, but it ended up being the wrong gate and she missed her plane. It took her all day to get on another flight, but she finally succeeded. I had no mishaps on my flights but we had to circle around for a while waiting for the thunderstorms to clear and the airport to reopen. Michael was coming from Seattle where all the passengers had to disembark due to some mechanical issue and get on a different plane. In the end, the three of us were retrieved together even though we were originally scheduled to arrive at inconvenient two hour intervals.
As we sat around the dinner table, we noticed that every single one of us had graduated from Oberlin except for Tillie who is in high school and still has potential. Not only that, but both my mother and Anna had married twice and each of their husbands were Oberlin graduates. Consistency is supposed to be the hobgoblin of small minds, but I don't think that applies to this particular family.
In addition, we noted that 7 out of 8 of us have the same last name, despite a variety of marital statuses. Anna recently went back to her original name and Gordon is officially one of us too. What a funny family.
This morning we have a date at 7:30 to sit down together and go through the "Five Wishes" exercise. We meant to do this at Anna's birthday but we forgot and this is better anyway because the group is more complete. I will report on this discussion later.
Lani and Anna and Charles and I have an erratic tradition of weekend retreats together, started about 15 years ago, I'm guessing. We got the idea from Betsy who also has three siblings -- they used to go on sibling retreats before their brother moved to Prague and made it rather impractical to plan a casual gathering. Every one of our retreats has been memorable. We used to be more ambitious and go camping (could tell long stories about each of those trips) and sometimes we rent a cabin in a remote park and sometimes we all stay in one motel room together. We always eat our favorite childhood foods, we laugh a lot, we have important and non-important conversations, and we usually do something mildly athletic. Once Anna and Charles went downhill skiing while Lani and I stuck to cross country skis. Once we nearly killed ourselves snowshoeing at 10,000 feet elevation (we were in no danger except that there wasn't enough oxygen available for me and Lani). Once we went all the way to Mexico and went snorkeling. Three out of four of us threw up on that boat trip.
Anyway, we have long talked about bringing others with us on our retreats. It is hard to make that happen because it is already hard enough to organize ourselves to get away. It takes us at least a year to identify a three or four day stretch that we can all set aside simultaneously. My siblings are impossible. I am the only one with a seasonal work life (which means that our retreats are almost never in the summer) and they are always busy, year round. SO, here we are on our Extra Large sibling retreat, sans Jon and Kathy. There will be a follow-up report, now that the stage is set.
Back at home, if all is going well, there are four separate teams at four separate markets. At this moment they may be putting up tarp frames, setting up tables, bagging spinach. We don't have much to sell this weekend, especially since we are spreading ourselves across so many markets for the first time this year, but we have plenty of spinach for all. It is gorgeous.
Anyway, we have gathered here to celebrate Charles' 50th birthday. It is possible that we were all here for his 40th, but I don't think so. It was a big party and apparently it took him months to recover from the shock of being at the center of so much attention (he seemed fine at the party but it took a lot out of our introvert brother and he didn't want to do that ever again). So this time we decided to bring the Saturday Family Dinner to him.
It won't be a very interesting part of the story later, but since we have only just arrived, our travel stories are still newsworthy. Anna and Gordon came out to Denver a few days ago and they were already situated and available to make the multiple airport runs that would be necessary to collect us all up. Lani arrived first, without incident, and hung out with Anna and Gordon. We rarely see Lani at a family dinner, so this is a coup. I dropped off my mother at Dulles at 7:20 yesterday morning for an 8:30 flight. She got through security and arrived at the gate in plenty of time, but it ended up being the wrong gate and she missed her plane. It took her all day to get on another flight, but she finally succeeded. I had no mishaps on my flights but we had to circle around for a while waiting for the thunderstorms to clear and the airport to reopen. Michael was coming from Seattle where all the passengers had to disembark due to some mechanical issue and get on a different plane. In the end, the three of us were retrieved together even though we were originally scheduled to arrive at inconvenient two hour intervals.
As we sat around the dinner table, we noticed that every single one of us had graduated from Oberlin except for Tillie who is in high school and still has potential. Not only that, but both my mother and Anna had married twice and each of their husbands were Oberlin graduates. Consistency is supposed to be the hobgoblin of small minds, but I don't think that applies to this particular family.
In addition, we noted that 7 out of 8 of us have the same last name, despite a variety of marital statuses. Anna recently went back to her original name and Gordon is officially one of us too. What a funny family.
This morning we have a date at 7:30 to sit down together and go through the "Five Wishes" exercise. We meant to do this at Anna's birthday but we forgot and this is better anyway because the group is more complete. I will report on this discussion later.
Lani and Anna and Charles and I have an erratic tradition of weekend retreats together, started about 15 years ago, I'm guessing. We got the idea from Betsy who also has three siblings -- they used to go on sibling retreats before their brother moved to Prague and made it rather impractical to plan a casual gathering. Every one of our retreats has been memorable. We used to be more ambitious and go camping (could tell long stories about each of those trips) and sometimes we rent a cabin in a remote park and sometimes we all stay in one motel room together. We always eat our favorite childhood foods, we laugh a lot, we have important and non-important conversations, and we usually do something mildly athletic. Once Anna and Charles went downhill skiing while Lani and I stuck to cross country skis. Once we nearly killed ourselves snowshoeing at 10,000 feet elevation (we were in no danger except that there wasn't enough oxygen available for me and Lani). Once we went all the way to Mexico and went snorkeling. Three out of four of us threw up on that boat trip.
Anyway, we have long talked about bringing others with us on our retreats. It is hard to make that happen because it is already hard enough to organize ourselves to get away. It takes us at least a year to identify a three or four day stretch that we can all set aside simultaneously. My siblings are impossible. I am the only one with a seasonal work life (which means that our retreats are almost never in the summer) and they are always busy, year round. SO, here we are on our Extra Large sibling retreat, sans Jon and Kathy. There will be a follow-up report, now that the stage is set.
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