Author Archives: Ann L. Carter

Surviving the Night: When Batteries Aren’t Enough

A stormy Kansas night is not a good time to be out of batteries. I should know this, having lived here most of my life. The warnings were in with high winds, hail the size of baseballs, indications of possible tornadoes–enough to make you want to find a bomb shelter and as soon as possible. But I also know that most of the time the storm passes and you’re O.K. Still, extra batteries are good. I thought I had everything under control, which actually is a sign to take cover. But I felt like I was doing good with flashlights that worked, a weather radio, and the TV turned to WIBW live radar.

Then the lights went off. Not to mention the TV and with it that reassuring picture of those dark red blotches that are just a touch to the north. But I had my computer and it was set on a weather station. Except when I turned it on it refused to refresh….ah, no internet. Never mind, because if a tornado was on the way, the weather radio had a backup battery. I went to see why it wasn’t going off with its usual irritating frequency and it was dead. This morning, in the light of day, I found that the batteries were there, just corroded. My last idea was the radio/cassette/DVD player, but the eight (mind you eight) batteries required were missing—and with the extra large economy pack needed to run its many features, no wonder I had never bought them, let alone put them in.

I lay on the couch with Jack and listened to the wind and rain. I finally decided a better idea was to go upstairs with the window open—surely I would hear the tornado coming in time to save us all, making sure all people, dogs, and indoor cats (the outdoor ones were one their own) were down in a basement I don’t even like to venture into on a good day. But really I knew better as tornadoes aren’t like trains (though they do sound like them) that give a clear loud whistle so you can get off the tracks before being run over.

At three the lights came on and I could once again check the TV radar—no more storms on the way, at least for that night. I finally fell into a restless sleep to have a dream that was like no other. My mother was going to the doctor, suspecting breast cancer. When she returned she said she was only given two years to live—it really wasn’t treatable. This was terrible news but then something much worse happened, for she turned into Rose, my 11 year old daughter. My “baby” was lying in front of me, a pleading look on her face, and she said something that broke my heart. She said, “But I want to live.” As I write this, I have a memory of exactly what happened in the dream, but thank God the memory of the feeling I had then is almost gone. For what I felt, the depth of the sadness and agony of knowing my child would die as I watched, was something I had never come close to imagining. I can only think that perhaps I experienced the horror of this in another life, for otherwise how could I know? And why was this terrible insight given me, and why now? As I try to find an answer, a poem I wrote years ago comes to mind:

Walking outside

teacup in hand

my perennials the best ever

from timely spring rains

one small thing to rejoice

in a world gone mad

a robin sitting on her eggs

her nest

built under the eves

supported by phone lines

flies out noisily

as I walk by

two tiny birds

so high I can barely see them

clinging to the top

of a neighbor’s tree

having survived the night

join in praise

to the morning.

May 14, 2002

This morning, eleven years later, I walked outside, once again with teacup in hand. There was oddly little damage from the storm. The cats took up their usual paths in front of me as I made my way around the house. The potted plants were still intact, though my mother’s glider, the glider where she used to sit and watch the school children come and go across the street from her, needed to be righted. My recent transplants, the cone flowers and larkspur and something that is like bushy sunflowers, obviously loved the rain. The blue flax by the side of the road glistened. One robin perched at the top of the tallest tree in my front yard. He looked very proud from where I stood below. Proud and hopeful, having survived the night. I had survived the night too, minus radar maps and beeping radios. And I had come face to face, in my dream and perhaps in another life, with what nobody wants to ever know. No batteries, of any size or amount, will prepare me for that.

There can be no real safely in the night, only hope that we will somehow make it through. And when we do, then like the birds, we must find a way to praise the morning.

Birthday Girls and Pioneer Women: Another Version

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It was late afternoon last Monday and Rose and I were sitting in the waiting room of a doctor’s office. No major health issues, just a few concerns of a girl going to turn eleven in four days. The room was filled with parents and children of various ages that were mostly in amazingly good moods. A muted large screen TV hung from the ceiling corner where a perky red headed woman stirred dough in a bowl. I got excited when I realized it was the Food Network, a slightly odd choice for the pediatrician’s office. I love this channel, though the last time I watched it regularly was when I worked out years ago on an elliptical machine at a gym, watching Paula Deen add more butter and cream to her southern dishes. Although certainly ironic, I enjoyed seeing all the rich food while trying to burn up a couple hundred calories. And I can’t help but be reminded of one of my favorite female comedian lines—“Why don’t I just take this stick of butter and add it directly to my thigh.”
But back to the perky red head. She sure was happy about something. Maybe it was her fancy, spotless kitchen where she seemed to be completely alone (aside from the camera person) to peacefully cook. Or maybe it was her pride in the row of obviously homemade jam that lined the top shelf of her gleaming stainless steel refrigerator. Or maybe it was the fun of buzzing along in the dust free white pickup in the countryside a few moments later. Wait a minute….I knew who this was…it was that woman in Texas who married Marlboro Man and moved to his ranch. Who wrote the best seller Pioneer Woman and now has a blog that makes a mint of money, has published cooking books, and has her own cooking show. Huh…..no wonder she looked so happy. All that success and a Mr. Mcdreamy besides. I’ve never met a Marlboro Man, let alone married one. (Well, actually I met a sort of one—a farrier who liked to wear full leather chaps.) And if that wasn’t enough, she was now smiling down on me from the screen, back home, her sweet teenage daughter with her oh-so-polite teenage friends off to go fishing before lunch. And then, to add insult to injury, she gathered lush herbs from her garden (no signs of the drought in her yard). She seemed to be making all this food for a birthday celebration. I looked it up later on the network’s website:
Ree is hosting a dinner party for Alex and her best friends with personalized New York Style Chopped Salad with an Herby Ranch Dressing, home baked Rosemary Focaccia and the cutest Flower Pot Desserts. Happy birthday, Alex!

All these things only took minutes to make on TV, while Ree stayed perky and pleasant. The girls came back from the fishing trip (not a spot of mud on them and why didn’t at least one of them want to push another in the lakeside sludge—they do have hormone swings at 15) and gushed over the salad in a way I’ve never seen kids that age get excited about anything low in carbs and grease. And it all seemed so different than my life. I was starting to feel like a loser, wondering where I had gone wrong, when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Mom, you could have a cooking show,” Rose spoke up.
“Oh, like anyone would want to see my cooking show!” I answered.
“Well, someone would,” came her quick reply.

It didn’t take long before we were giving each other details of what that show would be like:

The rather harried (and let’s not even mention age here) looking mom puts up both hands to block the camera from a shot of the refrigerator, where jars of jam that needed to be thrown out months ago clutter up the shelves on the door. She then lets escape from her mouth a few choice words (bleeped out later) while trying to unwedge the muffin tin from a cupboard very inconveniently closed off behind a trash can, broom and dustpan—whoops, another blocked shot here as the trash lid pops open. She inspects the pan for dog hairs and, finding none, she manages a slight smile, then grimaces as the phone rings. Deciding to ignore it, the audio on the camera captures a message from the older daughter saying her boyfriend’s dog is lonely and she needs to walk him so therefore, obviously, she won’t be able to mow the yard—again—sorry! At this point the show breaks for a commercial (likely something about antacids or antidepressants), then returns to the daughter and mother trying to add dried up food coloring to icing that seems too thin one moment and too thick the next. (All right, I added some of these details later but the gist is the same.)

I started to see Rose’s point. Someone would want to watch this show. In fact, I probably would, as I’d feel better by the end of it, instead of wondering if I should just give up on my attempt at motherhood and the “pioneer” life on my little acreage of land.

The giggles in my ear had gotten louder and more frequent as this description of my cooking show continued. As the angular maturing body beside me relaxed, I knew that the doctor’s visit would be fine. And then I knew something else. I wasn’t doing so much wrong after all. Rose would have a birthday party. We would have pizza and cupcakes (made from a mix) and the guests would go roller skating. I would not look very perky but I would be kind to all the kids, and oh so grateful to those parents who decided to stick around. There would be moments when it was far less than perfect, but it would be O.K. most of the time. And there would also be a few moments, those rare but lovely moments, when things just came together to make it all seem worthwhile.

Happy Birthday, Rose. I hope you enjoy your party. May you always have someone to laugh with about all those things that make up life—all the many versions of them. And I hope that some of those times I’m around to laugh with you.

Reminders of Loveliness: A Progress Report

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Spring is here and not everything is beautiful. Or so we would believe as we look around. Not to mention what I see in the mirror each morning as I say the mantra I talked about several months ago: “I accept myself, unconditionally, right now”. I don’t know if you tried it, but I’m still doing it. I can’t say I’ve noticed any drastic changes but slow progress is in the works. I even smile sometimes when I say the words and once caught myself thinking, “Not a bad face!” Slow but steady steps, or “Bird by Bird” as one of my favorite writers, Anne Lamott, would say. Come to think of it, Saint Francis might say the same. Or Sow by sow. Here is one of my favorite poems:

St. Francis And The Sow

By Galway Kinnell

The bud
stands for all things,
even those things that don’t flower,
for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;
though sometimes it is necessary
to reteach a thing its loveliness,
to put a hand on its brow
of the flower
and retell it in words and in touch
it is lovely
until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing;
as St. Francis
put his hand on the creased forehead
of the sow, and told her in words and in touch
blessings of earth on the sow, and the sow
began remembering all down her thick length,
from the earthen snout all the way
through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of
the tail,
from the hard spininess spiked out from the spine
down through the great broken heart
to the blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering
from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking
and blowing beneath them:
the long, perfect loveliness of sow.

In the next week, my first—and hopefully not last—book is to be released. It’s called Spiders from Heaven and is about my experiences with adoption and motherhood—specifically middle-aged motherhood. In all the times I’ve read it, most recently checking for typos that seem to manifest overnight like dirty dishes in the sink, I have reactions that go from “What a great story!” to “Who would want to read this and hopefully it’s not too late to use a pen name and an author’s bio that says she doesn’t live in Kansas so it’s not who you think!”

But the truth is, each time I read it, no matter my general reaction, there are some entries that make me feel like Saint Francis is in the room. Here is one of those entries:

March 5, 2001

Hi, Beth,

I forwarded a thing for NPR funding and forgot to add my name—can you add me to the list? I thought I had big news about Helen sleeping in her own bed but it only lasted one night. The second night she woke up around three and cried and so I went to get her. When I brought her back she was half asleep but reached out and touched my face and said, “You’re beautiful.” Anyway, last night she lasted ten minutes, then said she needed to sleep with me so I wouldn’t be lonely…how are you?

Love, Ann

Look in the mirror and smile at yourself. Then find another living thing and “retell it in words and in touch/it is lovely”. Progress is being made, it is spring, and there is much beauty to be seen.

Spring Cleaning for Mad Dogs and Englishmen

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Who came up with the term “Spring Cleaning” and can we find him and hang him out to dry? Yes, pun intended, though it’s possible it was a “she”. Spring is for getting outside, for gardening, for planning trips to get away from the later searing heat of summer, when all these lovely outdoor activities need to be done at five in the morning or nine at night by anyone besides mad dogs and Englishmen (I picked up that wonderful expression while living in the tropics of North Queensland, Australia, and I try to find excuses to use it).

Before I had children and while living alone on Leavenworth Street, I liked to have a clean and orderly house. I liked to walk in the front door and see all that beauty and order in front of me. It made me feel good, understandably. I still like it. Very much. The trouble is, something has to give when your life gets fuller. Some standards have to be lowered, to allow the rest in. I want my house, the beautiful country house I live in now, to be cleaner and less cluttered than it is, but I hate that I let that goal burden me, weigh me down as if the unsorted pet paraphernalia and too small sports equipment and now the boxes brought from my mom’s house (these deserve my time in the future) are actually resting on my shoulders, causing more frequent trips to the chiropractor. Why do I feel I should be telling myself that writing this blog is an “excuse” for not doing what is on my list for this Tuesday morning. Things like clean the floors upstairs, including large balls of dog hair surrounding unused exercise weights lying somewhere under the bed. Like remove at least two buckets of dog poop from back pen and throw somewhere not too close to creek (there seems to be a dog theme here). Why are those cleaning jobs somehow more important than putting these thoughts on paper?

When I was growing up in Topeka, Kansas, we lived in a small house that my stay at home mother kept fairly clean and uncluttered. Of course we had a lot less stuff to clutter up the rooms. But there was a neighbor woman down the alley, a stay at home mother as well, who couldn’t seem to keep her house clean and neat, which was even more looked down on during the Leave It To Beaver days of the 50’s. My mom liked to mention that about her, but not for the reasons you might think. She liked to tell me, “Virginia never let the state of her house keep her from inviting me in, having me sit for tea and a sweet snack, and finding time to talk about our kids or whatever. I will always remember that about her…I admired her for that.”

Helen arrived 15 years ago, or rather I went to China to bring her back, a 20 month old toddler. Then Rose 4 and 1/2 years later, only 4 months old and from Vietnam. My clean and uncluttered house on Leavenworth Street, over time, became something else.

I Miss My Old Living Room

one quilt draped
artistically
over the sofa

two novels
the current Newsweek
and drafts of my latest poem
the only things on
the coffee table

the corners with a lovely bareness
filling the room with a sense of
lightness
and space

my new old living room
has no empty corners

the coffee table so full
coloring books
math tests
cut out flowers
glued to the backs of
my used computer paper
walking by it’s easy
to cause a landslide

a large dog crate sits in the
middle of the floor
occupied by Bobcat
the injured abandoned kitten
we found at a truck stop
lured to our cardboard box
by goldfish crackers
taken to the vet school for a tail amputation

I didn’t think there was room
in this house
but here she is
taking up the only open space left
in my new old living room

I hear her soft meowing
as I sit on my sofa
covered with an old blanket
not artistically draped

and the sound filters
into every corner
and is absorbed
by the fullness.

January 8, 2004

I suppose that spring cleaning isn’t really such a bad idea and I just hope by age 62 Merry Maids can be in my budget and they’ll drive this far out of town. But when someone tells me that so and so’s house is so clean it looks like nobody lives there, I cringe and think thank goodness it’s not my place they are talking about.

And now back to getting a photo uploaded of my messy morning work space (actually a room that looks pretty good, but I do have some pride concerning public display). The two buckets of dog poop in the back pen can wait. It comes from sane dogs, and that makes all the difference in the world.

A Seed Order of Saint Flowers

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Today I checked the 10 day weather forecast, as I did yesterday, as I will do tomorrow. I’m looking for rain. Spring rain, the rain that soaks the ground, the rain that all my trees and bushes and flowers are thirsty for. The rain that will get me excited about gardening again.

It’s past time to make up my yearly seed order. The catalogs are all here, have been here for weeks. It’s a late winter ritual. I look through my favorites and circle possibilities. I add up the amounts, figure the shipping cost, recalculate to get the best for my money. I find a few unknowns or untried that can give me a rush—picturing them outside, me stooping down to admire them, picking just a few to set on the table, mixed in with white daisies and pink cosmos and yellow coreopsis and blue bachelor buttons—for in my usual late winter high gardening spirits I see all these in my garden, a lush paradise of color surrounding my house.

It’s a wonderful ritual and I’ve let it pass by. It’s never easy to garden on the prairie—not for the faint of heart, I like to say. Which makes it all the more wonderful when the things I’m growing are doing well. Last summer they did not do well. It was hot. Not just hot, really hot. Day after day after day. And it was dry. Hot and dry. Of all the packets of flower seeds I planted, only the zinnias came up. Not many and not great looking, but they came up. It’s almost as though they had a mission to make sure I didn’t give up, that I would keep up that hope of the prairie people before me. They’ve always been like that, even when my care was not the greatest.

Saint Flower

Zinnias are like some special kind of saint

smiling in the face of my transgressions.

They forgive me when I don’t water them

though the Kansas sun beats down like hell.

They accept it when I uproot them

to some godforsaken spot I need to brighten.

They keep face when I cut them down in full bloom

and let them slowly wilt on my sunroom table

while the cat nibbles at them

and the vase water begins to smell.

They even seem to nod their approval

as the compost pile becomes their final resting ground.

I see some now

from the front porch swing.

They are cheering a spot

in a made-over bed

their yellow, orange and red petals

barely faded

by dust from the road

and I have little to offer back

save the salvation they give me

on this late July afternoon.

July 14, 2007

I have opened one catalog to “Zinnia Mania”—Orange King, Cherry Queen, Purple Prince, Lilliput Mix. I likely won’t have a mania of anything floral out here in the wind and drought and heat. But I need to put that order in. Maybe this year I’ll get The Zinnia Collection—-“If you like them all but can’t decide on your favorite”. It’s true—I have no real favorite. They all are saints to me.

To Know One Robin

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No Magic Mirror for Morning Mantras

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“Looking Good”

It’s day seven of my new morning mantra. It’s a short ritual that’s supposed to change the way you think about yourself. Every day, first thing, for a month, you look in the mirror and say, “I accept myself, unconditionally, right now.” That’s it—no money (or money back guarantee that’s too difficult to ever obtain) no special trips to the health food store for all protein or no protein empowering drinks, not even a book to buy.

This idea came up when I was sitting drinking tea with two friends after our weekly Sunday walk. One woman had recently read about it.

“But I try not to look in the mirror first thing in the morning,” I said.

“Mirror? What mirror?” said the other woman.

However, after some discussion, and by the time the tea was finished, we had all agreed to try it. The theory is that after a month of saying this, you will actually start to see yourself in a more positive light, which would lead to more positive experiences for yourself and those around you. I can’t help but find a little fun in this:

“I Accept Myself (Some Conditions do Apply), Right Now”

“I Accept Myself, Right Now, But Think That Means Lowering My Standards Too Much.”

“I Accept Myself, Unconditionally, But Only If You’re O.K. With It.”

It reminds me of a self-help book first published in the 60’s “I’m O.K., You’re O.K.” This title was ripe for ridicule among young people at the time, which is not to say we didn’t read it. We just liked to have our own variations, our favorite being:

“I’m Not O.K., You’re Not O.K, but That’s O.K.”

But back to the current self-help plan. On day one I did this little mantra, feeling rather stupid and glad no one could see me. I tried to look carefully at the face before me and realized the point is not to avoid the things I didn’t like reflecting back at me. Rather, the point is to be honest about all the shortcomings you see (inside and out, real or imaged) and think, “I’m O.K.” (for the “You’re O.K.”, I guess that’s up to you). Doing this, I remembered seeing Rose, at age 7, looking at herself in that very mirror and saying, “Looking Good!” I envied her the enthusiasm that youth can bring as I was finding it hard not to grimace. Besides not being crazy about what I was looking at, I’m hardly a morning person and it’s not easy to be positive at 6:00, especially when it’s still dark outside and all the animals need feeling. But nonetheless, I have decided I might as well carry it through to the end. Otherwise, there’s no way to know if it works.

And who knows, it just might work. If I have to align myself with one group or another, I’ll join forces with the less cynical of this world. For many years I sponsored a child in Indonesian. My money supposedly went to help her buy books and uniforms so she could attend school, and I believe it very likely did, though I had no real proof other than the poorly translated letters she sent me twice a year. While in my late 20’s I told a close friend, a genuinely good person, about it and she said, “I’ve often thought about doing that, but I don’t because what if the money never gets to the child?” I didn’t say anything then but I often think about that conversation and what my answer would be. It’s the answer I always want to tell myself as well—-“But what if it does?”

There are no magic mirrors—just the belief that you have the power within you to change things for the better. Maybe that’s magic enough. Twenty-four more days to go.

Bras, Sponge Baths, and Having Enough: Voices of the Crow

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Many people believe that crows can be messengers—that they have the ability to interpret the view from above and beyond. I don’t doubt that. Sometimes I hear voices from those who are no longer here, bringing me messages.

Several years after my father died, I was sitting on the couch, holding my baby daughter. I was 50 and feeling overwhelmed with responsibilities, what I’d thought I could do by taking on two adopted children as a single mother. I remember staring out the window and wondering if there was a place where my father dwelt, and how nice it could be to share a quiet and restful space with him. It was then that I heard the voice. I heard it inside my head and it said quite clearly, “Don’t be in a rush. You have everything you need now.” It was the voice of my father, a man who knew hard times during the depression, and throughout his life constantly worried that our family wouldn’t have enough. It seemed he now spoke like the crow, with a view from above and beyond.

Several years later I was standing in front of a mirror, getting ready to go to the funeral of a dear friend’s mother. I’d known this woman since I was young, from the time I played with her daughter in their house. She was always kind to me, always offered me food and drink, but she never seemed very happy. Those were the days when being a housewife and mother was what you dreamed about and if that role didn’t fit you, then your voice shouldn’t be heard. She did play the role well, however, with a house always beautifully decorated and clean, and she always dressed in clothes that might suit an afternoon tea with a ladies group more than fixing after school snacks. But I sometimes caught a glimpse of something else—an intelligence and wit not able to come out.

The day of her funeral was hot and sticky. I had picked out a summer dress, a navy blue print, but when I got it on, my bra straps showed. I could find another dress or maybe another bra that wouldn’t show. But what if I just didn’t wear one? No one would notice, though would it be disrespectful to this woman who surely never went without, who always was so proper in her demeanor and attire? As I stood there I heard a voice. And like the voice of my father, it was quite clear, “Oh, Ann, just go for it!” It felt like a gift from her, and it made me laugh. So I took off the bra, put the dress back on, and attended her funeral.

My Aunt Lee died recently. She was the wife of my mother’s brother. No one knew how she lived so long. She was a heavy smoker and on oxygen for years. In her last years she slipped back and forth from sanity to episodes of raving paranoia. I remember when I was a child how she liked it when I sat by her in my grandmother’s sun room. She asked me questions that showed she wanted to know me and never showed judgment with my answers. But later, I forgot about that and I tended to remember her as the aunt with racks of colored blouses. There were stories that when she found a blouse she liked, she would buy one of every color and that her closet was full of clothes not worn, the tags not even removed. I heard the words “addiction” and “depression” and “medication” coming from other aunts.

My mother, who now at 98 can remember the past with great clarity, spoke about Aunt Lee during our last visit. My mother always stood up for her sister-in-law and somehow managed to see beyond the craziness, the binge buying and hair stiff with too much hair spray, the fingers displaying more diamonds than seemed right or natural to the family’s frugal Swiss-German upbringing. She’d tried to write her once a week for years but stopped when writing became too hard, when she never heard back. She talked about how my aunt never believed she was worth much but how she had given her mother-in-law, my grandmother, sponge baths in the last few years of her aging life. How no one else took so much time, so much care when doing this. How my aunt knew what it was like to take care of people. How she’d had to take care of her younger sisters and brothers. How her father had told her that was her responsibility before shooting her mother and himself in front of her.

My Aunt Lee asked that her funeral be a very small memorial service. It was attended by my mother’s youngest brother and a scattering of her late husband’s nieces and nephews. I didn’t go—it was a full day’s trip, there and back, and I hadn’t seen her in years. But if I had gone to her funeral, I might have stood in front of my closest beforehand and pondered the appropriateness of wearing one of my brightly colored outfits, something I prefer to the cheerless dark dresses expected for such an event. And while standing there, she might have spoken to me. She might have said, like my friend’s mother, “Go for it!” And I hear her saying something else as well. It’s coming from a voice that’s above and beyond, the voice of the crow. She’s telling me to remember what’s important. To not remember her for the racks of colored blouses, but by the gentle touch of a sponge bath. And to always really care about what you ask of a child.

Fresh Air for All Things Considered in the New Year

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I had a dream last night—so full of disappointment that it still hangs over me as I drink my third cup of tea (strong with milk) and watch the birds feeding outside my sun room windows. I was on a panel about adoption, a panel of twelve to be interviewed on NPR’s All Things Considered. But instead of being in a beautiful building in Washington, D.C., everything was shabby, from the motel where I stayed with my toddler (adopted?) son, to the small NPR building with the outside iron stairs, to the hot crowded hall outside the room where the interview was to take place. I never saw that room, the room that I still hoped would live up to my expectations—the brilliant interviewer, the state of the art microphones, the leather padded chairs around the table. I never saw it because I was five minutes late, along with half the other participants. The door was shut and when it finally opened it was all over—“Sorry, maybe another time, come again.” “But, hold on,” I wanted to shout, “I have something important to say—I am worthy to be on this show!” But nobody seemed to care. Not even a reprimand for being late—just a lack of interest in my lack of presence. Now I can’t help but wonder if this dream had to do with one of my many daydreams—the one of being on NPR’s Fresh Air—-“And today our guest is author Ann Carter discussing her debut book, now a New York Times bestseller. Written with wit and raw honesty, it details her experiences of adopting her two daughters. ”

Such expectations, such dreams, such disappointments. On my third match.com connection, I imaged Macadamia Man (not his real name) to be as funny and intelligent and caring as his emails made him sound. I had daydreams of anticipated weekend rendezvous, of visits filled with shared cooking and country walks, of quiet times on my screened in porch, drinking gin and tonic on summer nights, good scotch on warm autumn afternoons. And always, always in these dreams, he made me laugh. But it didn’t end well and I chided myself for my fanciful self, for my crazy and unlikely imaginings. Were the dreams worth the disappointment?

Since starting my encaustic series, I think a lot about birds and I have no reason to believe they don’t have emotions too. I can see it in the robin at the top of this post. I can see the way he’s dreaming—of spring to come, of the rains that bring out the worms, of the sweet blue eggs that his mate will hatch. And I look at all the birds outside my sun room windows on this cold winter day, the cardinals and chickadees and sparrows and my current favorite, the tufted titmouse—all working so hard to keep themselves alive, their dreams alive. And I know that I’m not yet ready to give up mine.

So NPR, here I come, with book and children in tow. I can see it clearly. We have been staying at an old but classy hotel. I am wearing an artsy outfit and one of my “signature” hats. We walk by the reflecting pool of the Lincoln Memorial and then along the Vietnam Memorial Wall, a stone wall inscribed with the names of so many to remember, names that held dreams and disappointments of their own. And I think about the young woman who designed this, a woman with a grand dream of what could be, in spite of all the obstacles she faced.

When we get to Constitution Avenue, we hail a taxi for the studio (with plenty of time to spare). And now I see a man with us. He is taking Rose’s hand as we get in the taxi, and winking at Helen (who is not sure she really wants to be here). And in the taxi, headed to the Fresh Air interview about my bestselling book, this man turns to me and says something that makes me laugh.

Trimming the Tree—Ornaments of Discord and Deliverance

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Tonight we trimmed our Christmas tree. From the photo above (not to mention classic movie scenes) you might imagine us gathered round the green boughs, voices raised in song, sipping hot cocoa and eating frosted angels. Well, we did have boughs, so prickly Wayne had to get out his work gloves, and the tree had a strange tilt that got corrected, but not before I thought it was going to tip and spill water all over the floor and electrical outlets, setting the house on fire (my mother’s influence here). We had voices raised, though not in song. We had angels, as in “my angel goes on top or I’m not putting up any more ornaments”. Oh, and no cocoa but half way through I opened a bottle of wine (right after Rose said something particularly irritating and Helen mouthed “I’m going to hit her” in what’s known as a stage whisper).

Wayne seemed to take the evening much better than me and even took photos by the tree, not stopping until he more or less got us all smiling at once. He also managed to get me to throw out five old strings of lights by using a touch of sarcasm when I said they might work one day: “Well, then, Helen, put them back in the box so you can get them out and not use them next year.” He’s now watching TV with Rose to calm her down while Helen works with boyfriend Josh on an American Government essay on the death penalty (for or against and explain why) which is due tomorrow morning. As I sit on the couch with my second glass of wine, our two dogs beside me as usual, I start looking at the ornaments more closely.

I see the one that Helen made in first grade, a straight-edged triangle tree with a gold star on top, blue sky surrounding it. I see a clay cookie in the shape of an R, a present to Rose when she was still a baby. I see a photo of Helen and me on a road trip to Wyoming, now enclosed in a cardboard snowflake. And as I look at these ornaments, they manage to deliver me from my disappointments about this evening. It wasn’t all I had hoped for, all I would have liked it to be. But we still got the tree trimmed, as a family, with the ornaments that remind us of what we’ve done together. And they remind me of something else. At least for tonight, my daughters are alive and safe in our warm house. And for that I offer up a prayer of thanks.

Life is short and oh so fragile. May there be peace on earth and good will to all, and especially, especially, our children.