tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10928743009939653022023-11-16T10:22:15.072-08:00Twin Creeks JournalThe everyday happenings at a simple Ohio River Valley family's farm. I write about the beauty that lies before us all, even though at times we are too blind to see it. This blog helps me to remember to see.The Smithshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04025890895536026714noreply@blogger.comBlogger93125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1092874300993965302.post-67014167519644421392012-01-14T11:49:00.000-08:002012-01-14T13:28:48.899-08:00An Open Letter to All Christians<div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU54o6NHuIuy_57Y9h1Cn6X5_yTtRMbgtf9i3XoJKy-yoZsfbZICM6DihyWqDm_Ydo6J0aGO-uOWj1Mq2txQGSRIa4lZJCQOekE9gsvIHgRY7V3Fw729l2S7F0s0YxmyfgWDIRIctMKREl/s1600/Sky.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 300px; height: 400px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5697582732993115394" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU54o6NHuIuy_57Y9h1Cn6X5_yTtRMbgtf9i3XoJKy-yoZsfbZICM6DihyWqDm_Ydo6J0aGO-uOWj1Mq2txQGSRIa4lZJCQOekE9gsvIHgRY7V3Fw729l2S7F0s0YxmyfgWDIRIctMKREl/s400/Sky.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size:180%;">I </span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">thought</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">about </span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">waiting</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">until</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">I </span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">felt</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">better</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">to</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">write</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">about</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">this</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">but if I do it might not get written.</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span> </div><div>So please bear with me, because we have been battling an unusually bad flu here at our house and feeling pretty lousy. And emotionally, I am a bit fragile... like most people, because there seems to be so much tension in the world. There's a lot of suffering, and I'm not talking about not being able to afford the newest iPhone kind of self pity- I am talking real life and death suffering. Nearly everyone running in the political arena seems to have left decency behind somewhere, and no one seems to be able to get along on the small decisions let alone the big ones. This week personally I have run into more assumption making personalities than I have ever before encountered. And truthfully, it's worn me out. But that's not what really got to me this week. What really got to me was perhaps the single most saddest conversation I have ever had in my life. In 41 years, I have had a lot of conversations. I knew the conversation would happen someday- and it shocked the hell out of me when it occurred last night. It's very important that I stress that it's not the conversation itself that saddened me. The content of the conversation was something I had long suspected but never had real evidence or proof that what I thought was happening was, in fact, happening. To preface, I am having a lot of personal conflict with my religion of Christianity. This has been going on with me for far more of my life than not. My Faith, however, has never ever been stronger. But this is a tough place to be. To say I feel isolated is an understatement. I should feel anything but isolation amongst my fellow Christians, right? But I do feel isolated. I used to think, it's just me. Now I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, it's not just me. In what seemed to be a statement out of left field my friend said someone she loves recently converted from Christianity to Islam. In what has been months upon months of watching the people I love in Christian faith speak so violently against another faith, I had about a million questions that had been swimming in my mind ready to be asked. But two were the most important, and I was almost sure I already knew the answers. </div><div>I began with a simple Why? Why leave Christianity for Islam? Because he felt like he was lacking something in his spiritual life he began to look at other faiths in hope of finding peace. "When his Christian friends and the churches in his community couldn't provide what he needed, the Muslim community of his town was very welcoming." I put that in quotes because it is a near direct quote, and it's a statement that hurt my very soul. Not because the Muslim community was so supportive, but because my fellow Christians had no idea how to reach out to one of their own. "While churches here are having seminars about "What is Islam?" and other things that focus on breeding fear and anger, the classes he has attended at the Mosque...and Friday night Halaqa... focus on you and your relationship with God. He may have been able to find this somewhere, in a Christian setting...and he doesn't deny that fact...but, through a series of events he was drawn down a spiritual path that led to Islam." I wanted to rewrite that last quote because, in a sense, I feel that I am openly sharing a conversation that was very personal. But I think this is a message every single person of the Christian faith must hear- and hear it loud and clear. When we cannot show the love of Christ to our very own people of faith, how on earth do we suppose we can show that love to someone struggling to find faith? Too many times I see these messages of hate being broadcast publicly, with rallying support of every Christian in the room- literal or virtual- and all the while driving the division between Christianity and the rest of the world they seek to save so much deeper than before they opened their mouth, and not their heart. Do</div><div> I get his conversion? Without a question, Yes. But that didn't answer the question that burned within me like a fire. What about Christ? What about Jesus? How could He fit into this Islam? Was there any way this man turned his back on Christ? The answer was this.</div><div> </div><div>"He always felt like his question of Jesus' divinity wasn't ever fully "answered"... he couldn't accept the "just because" of it. Islam's Jesus answered that question for him. Jesus as a prophet...as were Muhammad, Moses, Abraham. In Islam "there is no God but God." </div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">For me, that was a lot to take in. And I took a few deep breaths. If there is any major stumbling block in faith it is the acceptance of something you have no earthly means of proving. Am I lucky because I believe the miracle of the Jesus birth to be true? I don't know. But I believe it with all my heart. Is that in itself a gift from God, or is it just blind faith? I don't have those answers. </span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">What I do know is that a person searching their soul for truth should not feel an outcast amongst those of his own faith. I also know that a faith that holds Jesus on the highest pillar for the world to see is having a very difficult time showing anyone outside their church walls the love of Christ. I also know that you change no heart by attacking violently, through words, or deed, that which your so-called enemy holds dearest. Jesus came quietly, in Love. </span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">So I ask you, Are you coming to the world in Love, or are you coming to the world in anger and fear? ...Things that look an awful lot like hate. As a Christian, you represent Him. Are you representing Him and what He asked of you, or are you boastful in your knowledge of how wrong the other faiths are? </span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">In the end, our faith is between us and God. Jesus showed us the best way we could care for others. If you are a Christian, or a human who loves and has taken to heart His teachings, I beg you to think with your heart before you open your lips. I beg you to change your sermons, your classes, your efforts- back to the efforts of Jesus Christ Himself. In so many ways when you spread this hate of the Islam faith and its Muslim people, you are preaching to the choir of haters just like yourself. You are not reaching the hearts of the people you most mean to. But make no mistake, those people among you that see the discord of what Jesus said to do, and what you actually do- they will seek to fulfill that need to be near to God. Where they find that faith may stun you.</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">"For God so Loved the World...." The World, in case you missed the definition, is All of Us.</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span> </div><div> </div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span> </div><div> </div></div>The Smithshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04025890895536026714noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1092874300993965302.post-32296762453963888102011-04-04T21:10:00.000-07:002011-04-04T21:54:09.964-07:00A Long Time Gone<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Tc9IrY5adfVDCWaUG4gchPfvRUBaHKkemxWzOxh5rnL59z8vB2Z4bZrUi-xFY_sC-TxLk6P-cfRr5-PVJgrEC42uvo4tT_n7P6mIP86MUixARBPRjMJoXuQMrynls0eV7c4n9adaoXwL/s1600/IMAG0020.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591949179379007282" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 239px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Tc9IrY5adfVDCWaUG4gchPfvRUBaHKkemxWzOxh5rnL59z8vB2Z4bZrUi-xFY_sC-TxLk6P-cfRr5-PVJgrEC42uvo4tT_n7P6mIP86MUixARBPRjMJoXuQMrynls0eV7c4n9adaoXwL/s400/IMAG0020.jpg" border="0" /></a> <br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;">For</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;">the</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;">better</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;">part</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;">of</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;">a</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;">year</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;">I</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;">found</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;">I</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;">was</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;">without </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;">words...</span></div><br /><div>and in many ways, they still will not come.</div><br /><div>I woke up on January 12, 2010 my normal self. I was still <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">reeling</span> from the loss of our third child, stillborn at 5 months, but I was healing as each day went by. I was living my life finding joy in all those small moments with my children that add up to a life of complete happiness, despite any negatives that might come our way. One earthquake in the only Third World country in the western hemisphere later, I was no longer sure of anything. Certain events, whether you are physically present for them or not, can mysteriously grip your heart- and the quake in Haiti, for lack of a better description- consumed me. There were approximately 50 families missing loved ones at Haiti's finest hotel, the Hotel Montana. What moved me was not that Americans were trapped in this hotel, but that nearly every one of these people had left this country on a mission to help our hemisphere's most impoverished people. Nearly every single one of them gave their very lives to do so. I waited with these families, and cried with these families. And somewhere along the wait, I came to meet a group of people who both fled to the scene to help after the disaster, and others who lived through it to tell me about life both before, and after, January 12, 2010. I had helped raise funds for Haiti nearly a decade ago. I knew how bad things were in that country, and I am so very ashamed to say, I had forgotten enough of those horrors to push it out of my mind. Our family has not escaped the economic fallout here in the United States, but as great as our personal challenges have been, I have always been the one in the crowd saying "this could be so much worse". How much worse came roaring back into my conscious on that fateful day. It has caused me to take a long hard look at everything in my world. How we live, what is important to us, and most importantly, how we treat each other. The disaster in Haiti reinforced my feeling that we consume needlessly, we waste precious time on meaningless things, and we waste ourselves on relationships that in the long run do not better the world for their existence. A total paradigm shift took place in my heart over the past 12 months. I chose not to be burdened by possessions, I chose to make each monetary expenditure purposeful, I chose to raise my children to be the kind of people I saw lay aside their own lives to rush to the aid of people they have never met. The countless events that worked on my heart this past year are so numerous, some so painful, and others so joyful- I am not sure I can get them into the written word. But I have made a decision to try. As I go through this journey, others are going through it with me. still others began theirs with the earthquake in Chile, the floods in Pakistan, the strive in the Ivory Coast, the earthquake that shook Christchurch, and now the horrifying events unfolding in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Japan</span>. I am sad that is takes an event of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">catastrophic</span> proportions to wake us from our haze of existence here in the most affluent country in the world. But because of what I have witnessed among a few people who care enough to try to make a difference in a life on the verge of flickering out, I have an unwavering sense of hope. I hope the stories I share with you here in the coming months will renew your hope as well.</div>The Smithshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04025890895536026714noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1092874300993965302.post-86293274364389978462010-09-26T22:27:00.000-07:002010-09-26T22:39:05.649-07:00A String of Beads<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm1_hy0z-p_yZO_SuyfMZv7X1sUXtjyPa35NjdUcqWpeliuriyAkya6CHKEi2z9Te74xm4HnSpSXPO5A2-j3spRXmswd16FYsw53-m7f-jHAZnDdKGX28Fkjl5PGGSIvkbKDUfEbTwxCGv/s1600/peter.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521462706339310290" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 148px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 221px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm1_hy0z-p_yZO_SuyfMZv7X1sUXtjyPa35NjdUcqWpeliuriyAkya6CHKEi2z9Te74xm4HnSpSXPO5A2-j3spRXmswd16FYsw53-m7f-jHAZnDdKGX28Fkjl5PGGSIvkbKDUfEbTwxCGv/s400/peter.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">If </span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">you </span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">learn </span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">to </span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">pay </span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">attention, </span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"></span><br /><br />you will recognize moments in your life when one memory of an event neatly lies upon another in the future. I know what you are thinking... shouldn't that say one moment in the present neatly lies upon a moment in the past? No. The reason is that even as an event is taking place, something inside of you snaps to attention and recognizes something about what is occurring here is significant. These are the moments in your life where the string of beads you are subconsciously collecting make a sudden turn and overlap. Tonight Peter Knowles is on my mind. Specifically, I am thinking about a conversation we had some seven years ago when he was home in Naples having just arrived back from Africa. He was smiling, brilliantly beaming, that red hankerchief knotted at his throat. His white hair was longer than usual and his already dark tanned skin was even darker from the African sun. Always animated, that day he was levitating. As usual, I was struggling to hear his words beyond his beautiful accent. With Peter, I had to FOCUS. He was talking about one of our favorite topics. Sliding back into Naples after having returned from the Third World. It's one hell of a bumpy slide. He was talking about his truck in Africa. How he had to run along side it making various manuevers to get it started. He is actively making these efforts to start the truck here on my store's sales floor minus the truck, and we are gathering some stares from my other clients. I am giggling with this man I love so dearly. Then, all of a sudden, he looks at me hard and says, "Kristin, I despise my car here in Naples. I cannot stand to look at it. What it means. Kristin, I miss my battered truck. I miss Africa." Now, I happen to know he drives a black Mercedes. I understand him immediately. We just stand there looking at one another until I ask the obvious question of when his next flight back home to Africa is. It is six months in the future. I feel that old familiar silent prayer being offered up to God... "Please, just let him live that long. To see his beloved Africa again." It is like he knows my heart and he smiles. With that, he hugs me, and is off. I have strung another bead on my figuritive necklace. That day, I smile at the bumper sticker on my new Land Rover that says in black and white letters, "You are not what you own." And I know it to be true.<br />Fast forward seven years later to just a few days ago. My beloved friend Peter has passed away. At this moment he is not even in my mind's radar. Jason and I are sitting in a dealership with two squirming children trying our best to go over a final document of financing. It is somewhere in this moment I realize that I do not really care about this car... I can take it or leave it. I think this is because I now drive a minivan that we paid less for in total than even one payment on the Rover. I like this van, and in this moment, I am shocked by this reality. I do not worry about this van, the spilled drinks, the dirt tracked both in and out by the children. Something odd happens as Jason looks at me, and we both look at our cheerful new salesperson friend and kindly thank him for his time as we GET UP AND WALK OUT saying we'll think about it. We drive off in our van with both kids probably wondering what the heck THAT was all about. The beads have now overlapped on my necklace.<br />That necklace figuritively rests around the mirror of our new ten year old four wheel drive that sits out front in our driveway. I'd give anything to know where Peter's truck is bouncing along in Africa right about now.<br /><br /><em>Peter Knowles was a man who had a soul brighter than anyone I have ever met. His work with small communities at the base of Mount Kilimanjaro was beautiful- teaching families to farm and providing safe water sources. One of the bad things about moving away from an area is that you never know when that last hug will be your last. Such was the case with Peter. I hugged him in the spring of 2007 and said a little prayer for his safe return to Kili, and he was gone six months later. My heart is heavy with the news and he is sorely missed. I will always remember his excitement at the Naples Drum Circle- I think it made his heart feel closer to Africa when he was home in Naples</em>The Smithshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04025890895536026714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1092874300993965302.post-6490960102361600532010-01-18T23:11:00.000-08:002010-01-19T00:29:13.153-08:00Day Seven<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNx4RtcCYkCIhygVnI7vSR9S7vL8YnDMc7x3P8II793t0-dnNmAHtQL_02glv_JcsKheFzzyIF6pnCaSti_sdxnt2PmIPl9lHs13Pv4M7HK7w0jJFWc-X00iVKHctxMv6S2z-kp-ogQIUb/s1600-h/RogerFrancois_Three-Faces_3.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 286px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428345120153911986" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNx4RtcCYkCIhygVnI7vSR9S7vL8YnDMc7x3P8II793t0-dnNmAHtQL_02glv_JcsKheFzzyIF6pnCaSti_sdxnt2PmIPl9lHs13Pv4M7HK7w0jJFWc-X00iVKHctxMv6S2z-kp-ogQIUb/s400/RogerFrancois_Three-Faces_3.jpg" /></a> <span style="font-size:180%;">Today<br /></span><div><span style="font-size:180%;">is</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">Day</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">Seven.</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">Day</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">Seven.</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div>It is the seventh day of Hell in Haiti.</div><div>I cannot get my head around it, what has happened to these people, less than 700 miles off the coast of Miami. My heart understands it completely. It is heavy, like a lead weight. My head tries to recall what Haiti was like before the Earthquake- <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">colorful</span>, expressive, happy- despite so much pain and suffering. Eighty percent of it's people were in poverty as of last Monday. Tuesday saw to it that the other twenty percent are not far behind. I remember their beautiful language of Creole being spoken on the streets of Naples, a place I called home for many years. The stories of their families being supported back in Haiti, where only one in three people are lucky enough to have a regular job. Naples was the promised land- a place where someone could send money home to care for so many. But you saw it in their eyes, they longed to go home. Despite the hardships, the sickness, the lack in so many areas. My heart today knows that Haiti has just fallen off the last rung of the ladder they were trying to climb out of poverty on. Poverty is horrible, and I do not know this personally. But what I do know is that things are much more bearable when you have the love of your family and friends. Haiti's family and friends lie dead in the streets. Those that miraculously survived the quake may not survive the infection of the wounds. Unless we can get it together as a World, this second round of death is coming full steam ahead. They know this. You can see it in their eyes. I went to bed Tuesday night looking at my children fall asleep peacefully. I thought about what our family has been through- what we are going through. None of it holds a candle to what the people of Haiti are going through. What the families of trapped tourists are going through. Their children, their loved ones are either alive in a living nightmare, dead or dying right before their eyes, or the worst of worst scenarios- trapped. Seven days. Trapped. Is anyone coming for me? Will I live? Where are my loved ones? I have had a very difficult time sleeping since Tuesday. I find myself at home in the comforts of my family... and then I realize the reality for so many... this very moment... in Haiti. It seems there are not enough prayers, not enough tears, not anything any one can do. I wish I could take a shovel to Haiti to help dig more people out of their horrible prisons. I would be yet another mouth to feed. The truth is I would be a wreck. I would be the young doctor I saw on the news today so torn apart he couldn't speak. I wouldn't survive it. What can I do? What I can maybe do is be there for others. Communication has been so hard for people waiting to hear news. Seven Days. Can you imagine? Your daughters, sons, husbands, wives- buried seven days in a Third World Country? I cannot. We sort out all the information we can in spare moments throughout the day. Monitor sites like Twitter, news reports, personal web pages, missing person lists, millions of posts. We try to give Hope. Hope that their loved one will be found. When I feel like I just cannot have any more hope, I walk away for a few hours. They cannot. They wait. For a picture, a phone call, anything that will tell them what they so badly need to hear. They are coming home to you. We try to give Hope, and yet we know. Day Seven. So many are not coming home. I pray for a miracle, another one just like the one we had Saturday night, just like the ones still happening in other areas of Haiti. People are surviving against all the odds. Haitians are singing hymns in the streets because they have not lost their faith that God will see them through. I pray that as these families that I am now <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">enter twined</span> with hear the news from all the Days ahead, that they do not lose their faith in God. The horrible irony about all of these tourists in Haiti is that they went there to help make a better life for all Haitians. They were there with pure hearts. They saw no race, no religion, no blame. They wanted to help. The words of some people behind a microphone, keyboard, or camera have stung this week. Haiti, this is my message to you... God did not fail you. We did. The World failed you because we did not do enough to help you up the ladder and out of poverty. The students of Lynn University recognized this. Compassion International recognized this. Countless others recognized this. That is why their people are trapped with yours. Life for most Americans go on <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">unfazed</span>. "What's got you down?" some people have asked. Apathy. Apathy is what's got me down. There is far too much of it. Before the Earthquake devastated Haiti Amy <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Wilentz</span> said this in the September 2009 issue of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">Conde</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">Nast</span> Traveler,</div><div></div><div><em>"Haiti is not a place you just visit, as Columbus would surely have told you (he shipwrecked there in 1492) It's not a stream into which you just dip a toe. Here, you dive in headlong. It drives you crazy- with love, with anxiety, with desire. You fall into its arms as if it's been waiting forever to receive you. It hasn't. And as with any great unrequited love, Haiti's indifference only makes you crazier for the place."</em> </div><div></div><div>Haiti, this is my wish for you. That you once again become colorful, expressive, and happy- despite all of your pain and suffering. </div><div> </div><div><em>Note: Original painting by Roger Francois.</em></div><div></div><div></div><div></div>The Smithshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04025890895536026714noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1092874300993965302.post-41248145281480511252010-01-12T23:00:00.001-08:002010-01-12T23:26:59.341-08:00Having Nathaniel Part 3<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkyTeOIC0RlDdKsBFWGALfsn2lFgG8xdQM22lPW9Vtf0GdN8CJ86RdGqsB5wZQsq-9MQXWQNVDUqOL3H41HeZA5ukIRHn0buLnNt_8dxuXSFUgYUYIcVA1qLFIWYNVLl6fBxfAV2OVWX48/s1600-h/angel3.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 189px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 264px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426116305535453826" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkyTeOIC0RlDdKsBFWGALfsn2lFgG8xdQM22lPW9Vtf0GdN8CJ86RdGqsB5wZQsq-9MQXWQNVDUqOL3H41HeZA5ukIRHn0buLnNt_8dxuXSFUgYUYIcVA1qLFIWYNVLl6fBxfAV2OVWX48/s400/angel3.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">It</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">was</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">difficult</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">to</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">figure</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">out</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">how</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">to</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">go</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">about</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">my</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">day.</span><br />It was early, about seven am, and I was expecting Daddy and the Minister around nine. Ordering breakfast seemed so trivial that morning but I knew that I had to eat something. It just seemed so unimportant. I found myself lying there in that hospital bed and though emotionally I felt a wreck, physically I felt fine. I had had enough of hospital beds. So I wheeled breakfast over to the window next to a chair. A few bites were all I could manage. All the time you were still lying in your blanket in my lap. Pushing breakfast aside, I then turned the chair around to look out of the window. It looked chilly- November chilly. Grey. Rainy. The clock was moving forward and there was nothing I could do to stop it. After the Baptism I would walk out of the hospital and never see or hold you again, at least not in this lifetime. And I was crushed by this. How could I just leave you there? How on Earth was I going to do this? I stood up and leaned against the window sill. I moved your blanket just a bit so that your face was exposed to what little light there was under the clouds. I asked for help. All of my Grandparents are gone from this Earth. All four. Not one lived to meet my children whom I know would have given them so much joy. I looked out and thought about all the things I had talked about with this little body here in my arms over the last hours. Promises I had made. One was that I would do my best not to live in sorrow. That I would Mother Wren and Dane in a spirit that also honored Nathaniel. That they would know they have a brother in Heaven. That when things got bad, and I was feeling sad, that I would look for him in the Sun and in the Moon. That I would know, in my heart, that he was with my Grandparents, looking down on us. Nathaniel's face was literally a glow. It happened quickly, the clouds had parted, the sun shown in the window upon us, and then disappeared once again. I stood there as if transfixed. Nearly two hours had passed because just a few seconds later the Minister walked in , and then Daddy. And then the nurse who had been there with me most of the previous day. We stood hand in hand after I laid you in your little <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">bassinet</span> as the Minister read the story of the First Baptism. We all cried. I had placed a picture of Wren and Dane together at your feet. I had wanted them to be there too. The Minister told the story of how Jesus had told all of the people at the Baptism that children were some of the most important people of God. He asked them to recognize this and I thought to myself how my children mean the absolute world to me. The nurse knew my difficulty and asked if we were ready. The three of us walked you down to the little room where your pictures had been taken and the nurse showed me where to place the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">bassinet</span>. I saw the two faces of my living children in the photograph at your feet and kissed your sweet little face one last time. Wren and Dane's <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">picture</span> traveled with you on your journey and that picture is part of your ashes. Hardly a day goes by that I do not lay a hand on your box just to feel you near. I feel your spirit in everything I do with Wren and Dane. It's as if Wren can read my mind when she says "Let's draw Nathaniel a picture." And, of course, I say "Yes, Wren, let's."The Smithshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04025890895536026714noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1092874300993965302.post-72409363216157068142010-01-07T21:31:00.000-08:002010-01-07T22:14:17.874-08:00Having Nathaniel Part 2<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLQDmK_G2dUvakB31CXx4S_5N4XXA62Qwk0NerQmYRfa1WKJz_WOYZYB5LLrfvg3n6WoSM0v2PWcmnI1Mnn8hLlu2bK2fZ88bi3JQmL3QJHJkt9MkTVmedyPB7rGt30X7poDojh9UAmI4z/s1600-h/noel.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 383px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424239854035394034" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLQDmK_G2dUvakB31CXx4S_5N4XXA62Qwk0NerQmYRfa1WKJz_WOYZYB5LLrfvg3n6WoSM0v2PWcmnI1Mnn8hLlu2bK2fZ88bi3JQmL3QJHJkt9MkTVmedyPB7rGt30X7poDojh9UAmI4z/s400/noel.jpg" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;">You</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">were</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">so<br />small</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">lying</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">there</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">while</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">we</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">all </span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">gazed</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">at </span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">you</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">in</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">silence.</span></div><div>We had been told you were a girl- but I saw right away that you held a surprise...you were, in fact, a little boy. You had such a serene peace about you. Your face looked as if you were simply asleep. Tiny little hands, fingers, feet, and toes were so perfectly formed. You were perfectly proportioned. When the doctor and I looked to the umbilical cord we knew immediately what had happened. One of the three vessels was formed incorrectly. It had about a half dozen areas that narrowed so thin- my heart ached when I realized you had suffered from a lack of both oxygen and nutrition. When you were so small, it had not been deadly. But as my beautiful little boy grew, this section could not keep up. I pray that you never knew what was lacking. I can only hope that you fell asleep warm inside my belly. It pains me in an indescribable way that your precious light could go out and I did not know that it had happened. We cut your umbilical cord and wrapped you in a little blanket. I wanted to hold you as soon as possible. Daddy cried. I cried. The doctor and nurses cried. You were so beautiful- and it was just so difficult to understand. As I gazed at your tiny face, I could instantly see both Wren and Dane in your features- but especially Dane. You had Daddy's brow line and Dane's nose. Your arms and legs were so long and your feet were already so big. I would spend the next twelve hours memorizing everything about you. The nurses gave you a bath and they were so sweet and handled you with such care. They covered you in baby lotion before wrapping you in your blanket once again, and then Daddy and I spent a few hours just being with you. We named you Nathaniel Devon Smith, after both your Daddy and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Grampy</span>. We also decided that we would Baptise you in the morning, and made the decision to be able to bring your ashes home with us. I wanted you to be with us always. Daddy looked so tired and there was no place for him to get comfortable. I thought too, that since Wren was spending the night with her friends, it might do Daddy some good to go home and snuggle down with Dane. It seemed like the only thing that could be of any comfort to him then was your sister and brother. And the only thing I wanted to do until morning was hold you and gaze at you. So sometime around midnight Daddy went home. I reluctantly gave you over to the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">nurses so</span> that we could make prints of your little hands and feet. I also wanted pictures of you as I am so <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">afraid</span> that my memory may fade in years to come. I took a hot shower, cried some more, and went down the hall in search of you. Cries of another baby helped to lift my spirit as I went down the hall. Though I know it to be impossible, I never want another person to experience this kind of grief. As I approached the room where you were I heard a sweet little voice. Your nurse was talking to you, telling you what she was doing, and saying such sweet things that only you and God could hear. I was so deeply touched by this that it is difficult to put into words. But it gave to me the knowledge that your little life also touched more than just ours- you were special to this other person too. I will be grateful to her till my last breath. I stayed with the two of you until she was finished. She then placed you in a little wicker <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">bassinet</span> and allowed me to take you back to our room. It was now very late and as I lay down to spend the one and only night we were given your little hands were somehow placed right under your head as if you were sleeping. I turned your face to mine on the pillow and reluctantly shut off the light. But the light from the moon and stars still showed your features and again I felt a sweep of gratitude. Your little body and bundle of blankets was so small, and your entire being nestled that night in the crook of my arm. I breathed in that scent that only a new baby has and prayed to God to help me fix it in my memory. Every few hours I woke up and talked to you or sang you a lullaby. I would unwrap a small area of the blanket and hold your hand or outline your tiny face. I was still so amazed by the peace about your face. I slept well and soundly with you in my arms and will cherish those hours with you as long as I live. Dawn broke to a gray rainy but beautiful morning- because this was the morning of your Baptism.</div>The Smithshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04025890895536026714noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1092874300993965302.post-87982662583069419152010-01-05T23:38:00.000-08:002010-01-06T00:12:47.505-08:00Having NathanielI have a difficult story to tell. But it is one that I feel very strongly needs to be shared with others. It is a story that is going to lay bare very grieving wounds for me, and for those who read it who share in our sorrow. It will also open wounds in those who have experienced something similar. My hope is that Nathaniel's story can help heal both our wounds and perhaps begin a path of healing for those who still carry deep grief within them from the loss of a child. This is part one of our journey.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9d-W8Q2K0b411ieqPw0AwOQeT5dbTwST7Kr_fJ3yJ_1zIrRcamWJy5zzUNHJ3Mzj70Am7yYryFbP1MLakTsBufB8zCxN6UTl1mzbeU1PbWwFyoXKSxSeeYEEV0W6fnq8m6WhFSOTguHQB/s1600-h/angel.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 182px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423528385187190482" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9d-W8Q2K0b411ieqPw0AwOQeT5dbTwST7Kr_fJ3yJ_1zIrRcamWJy5zzUNHJ3Mzj70Am7yYryFbP1MLakTsBufB8zCxN6UTl1mzbeU1PbWwFyoXKSxSeeYEEV0W6fnq8m6WhFSOTguHQB/s400/angel.jpg" /></a> <span style="font-size:180%;">My</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">sweet</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">little</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">boy,</span><br /><br /><p><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></p><br /><p>I am so very grateful for the courage I was given to make the choice that Monday in November to bring you forth naturally. I desperately want to know what happened to you, and needed to see your beautiful little face and hold you in my arms. I was afraid- so afraid I would not be up to being strong and facing my grief for your loss. I needn't have worried. From the moment I went into labor and delivery, I knew it should be this way and no other. Most importantly, I was selfish. I wanted more than anything else to have stolen moments with you that we could only have in this way. I was so aware of the fact that I was caught between two worlds. Your life had gone out within my body perhaps weeks ago. Though I knew your soul could no longer be found within my body, your body was my Earthly connection to you. When they found my cervix to be en tact I was again happy to have been granted a few more precious hours to carry you within my womb. Daddy and I rested with you knowing the long emotional hours that lay ahead of us. I placed my hands over my belly most of those hours just trying to memorize and feel your presence. I knew only too quickly the time would come for us to be separated and I just wasn't ready for you to leave me physically. Being pregnant with two small children in our house isn't the same as being pregnant with your first- or even second. Time flies much too quickly and it is difficult to be aware of every detail- and in a lot of ways, I resented, or more accurately lamented, this truth. In so many ways, I knew you would be my last time to carry a baby and I so wanted to relish every moment. The reality is that you struggle to get through the day- but you do because you know that incomprehensible prize of joy is waiting at the end. All the while you worry that you are taking too much on, you remember to eat healthy, and you cradle your belly at those precious times of rest when you can be alone with your thoughts of the new little person growing inside of you. You worry about the economy, the state of the world, the state of your house- and then you realize all you have to do is love and care for this little one, and that, my son, is so easy. </p><p>When the doctor gave me the medicine to start my contractions I was so sad. I was still so excited to see you but this was happening in a way that I had never imagined it ever would and I was struggling with that truth. As I was trying to come to terms with your leaving my body four months too soon, I was well aware of the next phase of my grief and that was having to give your precious little body away. I prayed for some time to calmly sit with you inside me before my contractions began and we were so graciously given that time. It gave me the courage to shun the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">epidural</span>. I wanted to experience this birth to the fullest I possibly could- even the pain. When I recognized the contractions, I began to summon up the strength to do the most difficult thing I have ever done. Whatever time has been stolen from our future, I wanted to have these hours with you- in the only way that was given to us. When the pain began to get really hard to handle, they gave me something that took off the edge. By some miracle, it wore off before the last three or four violent contractions. A short time of peace then occurred and one of intense clarity. My waters ran forth, and I felt your little body drop into position. And then, there you were.<span style="font-size:180%;"></p></span>The Smithshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04025890895536026714noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1092874300993965302.post-43757788279847603852010-01-04T13:28:00.000-08:002010-01-04T15:07:47.684-08:00Irrelevant<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE72NMsk8cB3X6B0HaWYsPY5wTaMUKNzXForAOhiF0CGbFiEYG_ZhbovW6aYkKSGpq3Lrr_4KMh9-ZO1M5apEsoZYYqasiKIwAjSZysAPfl0jpC-xV6H9QH1qjXSgzQolpJrrcfNIeRnW4/s1600-h/toggi.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 218px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423012732678337650" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE72NMsk8cB3X6B0HaWYsPY5wTaMUKNzXForAOhiF0CGbFiEYG_ZhbovW6aYkKSGpq3Lrr_4KMh9-ZO1M5apEsoZYYqasiKIwAjSZysAPfl0jpC-xV6H9QH1qjXSgzQolpJrrcfNIeRnW4/s400/toggi.jpg" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;">It's</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">just</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">one</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">of</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">the</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">words</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">I'd</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">like</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">to</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">see</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">stricken</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">from</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">the</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">English</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">language.</span></div><div>There must be days that Susy Smith does not relish opening her mail- electronic, paper, or otherwise. I imagine that being an editor is a difficult job and one that requires complete focus and precision. After following Susy at Country Living in Britain for some years now, I would say she does very very well in her career. She mentioned in her November letter that she receives quite a few harsh comments about the fashion pages which are presented every month in some form or another. They have been tweaking these presentations for years now, trying to make them "relevant". Susy states quite matter of fact that these are the reader's words, not hers. I find this <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">quandary</span> the magazine is in all together fascinating. For one, that a reader would take the time to complain about some of the most beautiful shots in the pages of the magazine- but more so that the minds of many are so closed. The fashion pages have always been absent from this side of the pond's sister publication and this has always puzzled me. The Americas have some of the most incredible lines of outdoor <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">provisions</span> in the world. Outdoor living is so dramatically woven into the lives of the British that it's <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">difficult</span> to understand the reason for the disdain of the fashion pages. Susy goes on to say that the companies whose wares they put into print have nothing but high praise to say once the issue hits the news stands. This I find not surprising in the least. We humans are a strange lot. The many forms of media which we <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">assail</span> ourselves with each day is daunting. But the Country Living reader is truly a lifestyle personality. That same reader who scoffed at the clothing pages may find themselves in the market for new riding boots a few days later. If they just so happen to purchase the pair of $400 boots pictured in this months issue, that fact may have very well been lost on them. It wasn't, however, lost on the company that produced them. You never know where inspiration will come from. If you are an artist, writer, or designer you are aware of this, and your left brain soaks in everything you see, smell, and touch quite well. Even more amazing is that the end result of your creation may not resemble the original inspiration at all- at least to other people. None the less, something moved and stirred in you the urge to create. Taken in this context very little in the world is "irrelevant". In the words of some very talented designer friends of mine who create warmth and beauty in the form of handmade clothing, "We are all knit together". Just remember this the next time you are looking upon something that seems irrelevant.</div><div> </div><div><em>Note: If you care to exercise your subconscious shopper the boots above can be had at <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Toggi</span>.com</em></div><div></div>The Smithshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04025890895536026714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1092874300993965302.post-31946756232159441422009-12-21T09:36:00.000-08:002009-12-21T20:01:57.772-08:00The Match Stick<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_0mRQqrl_K_n2A0sPH6APARGU6qM9gTMo8pWYk6V69iPoKn3XCFkssZW6LEs0wQogonyBAWr2jGfb5HdCxtWMj5tsoO3wPY71eSRz51dhZQole96y8LJlRDFIpTxpJY8iUsyKUj-f0yr7/s1600-h/matchstick.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 245px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 227px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417746072334149298" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_0mRQqrl_K_n2A0sPH6APARGU6qM9gTMo8pWYk6V69iPoKn3XCFkssZW6LEs0wQogonyBAWr2jGfb5HdCxtWMj5tsoO3wPY71eSRz51dhZQole96y8LJlRDFIpTxpJY8iUsyKUj-f0yr7/s400/matchstick.jpg" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;">This</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">has</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">been</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">a </span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">difficult</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">time,</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">for</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">us</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">and</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">for</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">so</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">many</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">others.</span></div><div>There are some things that <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">you have</span> control over, and others that are so overwhelmingly out of your own hands that all you can do is have faith that you will pull through. For us, the difficulty is heartbreak like that which we have never known. We lost our baby boy, five months into the pregnancy. I am working through the grief day by day, writing about him, and learning to live with a sense of loss which I now fully realize may never dim. My family have been the legs on which I have stood for the past four weeks, and for this I will forever be grateful. </div><div>For others, the recession in which we find ourselves in has been like being placed in a deep pool of water and told to tread. We have no idea how long we are going to have to tread water because no one knows when this thing will end. We just know that if we are to survive, we have to keep treading. The recession hit us personally too, but I think we have reached a point where we are used to it. I say this because I have found myself in a position where I worry about others <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">more so</span> than ourselves. We are struggling too, but not in the sense that I have witnessed others. So many others have already lost their jobs, their homes, and in some cases their family due to the pressure of the struggle. This last loss is the one that bothers me most. </div><div>A few months back I was reviewing a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Scandinavian</span> cookbook and the Hans Christian Anderson tale of The Little Match Stick Girl was mentioned in the book. I had not heard the tale in quite some time. Later that day, when the children were napping, I pulled the book off the shelf and read the story in its original form. It was heart wrenching. In it is the story of how a child is sent into the streets in the middle of a snowy winter with ragged clothes and no shoes to sell match sticks. She sells none and is met with a city of apathy. In vain she tries to one by one light the matches to keep herself warm. She envisions a stove, a magnificent dinner of Holiday goose, a beautiful soaring Christmas tree, and at long last her loving Grandmother- who is seen only as the little girl lights all of the remaining matches in an attempt to hold onto the vision of her loved one. The little girl dies of exposure in the streets. This is no Cinderella fairy tale with a happy ending. </div><div>I think this story struck me especially hard this year because of the plight so many families find themselves in this Holiday season. The dire situation in Wilmington, Ohio was aired for the world to see on 60 Minutes last night. This town is in our backyard here in Ohio and it has been especially hard to watch these hard working people struggle to maintain some sense of home the past year. Ten thousand lost jobs is going to take a long time to recover- if recovery is possible in Wilmington at all. I think to myself, despite all of our struggle, we have so much. I cannot help but think that this Christmas morning will be a difficult one for me to really enjoy- knowing in my heart that for so many this one will only exemplify how dire the situation is. It is awfully difficult to explain to a child why Santa did not come. </div><div>I urge you to do two things, and do them soon. Go through your home, each and every nook, and donate whatever you have that you do not need. It is best if you can put things directly into someone's hands that need them, but if you cannot, a local shelter is a good place to contact. Second, read the story of The Little Match Stick Girl. Tell it to your children and explain how difficult things are for some families even today. What this world needs most right now is a strong dose of anti- apathy. Children are the most giving of souls and if we can start with them there is always hope for our future.</div><div></div><div>Note: <em>The illustration above is from a children's book by Debbie <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Lavreys</span> and it tells the story of The Little Match Stick Girl in a way children can understand. </em></div>The Smithshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04025890895536026714noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1092874300993965302.post-85553157906463622412009-10-17T02:55:00.000-07:002009-10-17T04:03:11.865-07:00We are all Christopher Columbus<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicTSj4o7-AXrLW_I3-QVp0clhsJhJna15401Wd4dpQFJ13JcyjLa1ENKQ1TFvJbzrVO7rz5fMC6PKeaJId_DOhNFOXcRdSjKh4OzG1mDCgkYht64MK-87BN5cQ0pX5DTiGVL5m4dS6fcYR/s1600-h/columbus.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 242px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393506337187261042" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicTSj4o7-AXrLW_I3-QVp0clhsJhJna15401Wd4dpQFJ13JcyjLa1ENKQ1TFvJbzrVO7rz5fMC6PKeaJId_DOhNFOXcRdSjKh4OzG1mDCgkYht64MK-87BN5cQ0pX5DTiGVL5m4dS6fcYR/s400/columbus.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Imagine</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">you</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">are</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Christopher</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Columbus</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">and</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">it</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">is</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">the</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">late</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">1400's.</span><br />You are preparing to set sail with your three ships and all of your crew. You are the lead and the one <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">responsible</span> for all of their <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">welfare</span>. What you know is that you are setting sail from Spain and the goal is to reach India. Most of the population, contrary to today's popular belief, know with some level of certainty that the Earth is round. Aristotle, way back in the third century BC has explained this to the world after observing an eclipse. Yet the belief in some circles still persists that the sailors would at some point fall off the planet into unknown oblivion. What if Columbus himself secretly harboured doubts about the roundness of the Earth? What if he would have had a tether to the dock in Spain on some mystical level, or a self imposed limit that "I will go this far but not any further" just in case? What if he had secretly thought they might all be wrong?<br /><br />Imagine now you are a few miles from the New Continent but you cannot see it. You do not even know it is there. India's out there somewhere but your crew is anxious and worn out. You have secret moments of panic. What is out there? What do you do? What do you tell your crew?<br /><br />We all know how the story ends. But I confess I have found myself in the shoes of Christopher Columbus for the greater portion of my life...only the stake was much higher than finding India, or a few unknown continents. My struggle was with God Himself. I was educated in religion quite thoroughly, from the time I was small straight through University and into my adult life through my own studies. And yet knowing all these things about religion still left a gaping hole. I harboured a fear somewhere deep inside that at my core I was an <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">atheist</span>. It was unthinkable and horrifying to finally acknowledge. It was not the thought of a non existent Afterlife that bothered me, it was much more profound than that. It was a bigger fear of losing all that was Good in the world as I had known it. These things that are Good, if you will, are our very own Markers- those things that bring you back into Belief that there is something Greater out there in the Universe. Seeing a living creature being born or going through the stages of death are two of these Markers that can serve to make you a Believer very quickly. Nature in all of its beauty is another. So are moments of Enlightenment between you and someone you love. But as much as I Knew, I could not shake the fear that I was deceiving myself. It was much easier to Believe than not Believe. Until I ran into a brick wall in the form of a four year old.<br /><br />Death is hard. No two ways about it. Wren, who is now four, had to learn about death way before I was ready to have the conversation. We were faced with having to put one of our cats to sleep. I did not have the faintest idea how to explain this to such a young child. I did the unthinkable- I allowed her to be in the room as Gaston passed away. It may prove to be one of the best things I have ever done as a parent. It introduced very tough concepts into her world at an early age. Death. God. The Soul. Heaven. Permanence. Infinity. And there were very little worlds I could rely on to help me explain all of it to her. Over the past few years the topics have come up regularly. She is coming into full realization what the concept of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">imagination</span> is and I knew this would be a struggle for her to reconcile with her view of what God, Heaven, and Afterlife are because she cannot "See" any of those. I kept saying to myself that if only I was not so limited by my words. And it was after thinking this a few dozen times that I had a moment of Enlightenment myself. It was not that I was a secret a<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">theist</span>... it was that I would not allow myself to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">acknowledge</span> that a great part of my Faith I would never be able to put into words. I would never be able to rationalize it to anyone else, or myself for that matter. It was out of my Realm. It was God. It was all that was Good. A lot of it is beyond my scope- there, but I just cannot see it from where I stand.<br /><br />Wren asked me tonight if God Himself comes to get you when you die. Minefield. I want to choose my words so carefully now that I realize how <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">entangling</span> they can be. I answered her in the only way I knew how- that it was a Surprise. A big one- perhaps the biggest one she will ever have. She is fully aware that parents sometimes die very young and leave small children behind, and this worries her. But she also knows that there is usually a natural progression where people grow old and die after raising their families. I explained it might be God, but there was also a very good chance it could be a Great Grandparent, Grandparent, or Daddy or myself. It all depended on the "when" part of the question. How do I know this I asked myself tonight? I just do. I know it enough to realize that I do not need the tether, real or <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">imaginary</span>, to guard me "just in case". Sometimes, like Columbus, you just have to set sail.<br /><br /><em>Note: The painting above is by Graeme Wilkinson. Acrylic on canvas.</em>The Smithshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04025890895536026714noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1092874300993965302.post-29757064656999072052009-10-10T09:07:00.001-07:002009-10-10T20:40:39.474-07:00Our Little House<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvNuPSfgQs4gmnFvSuEFy7HBAwXPqFAG7gMkjZwj6nR3NuQGbQSTKTTyF22nfVwympRZulVgJHrfEl8oQEpGm9pREgAaitL-kBCXF3_n4rlysUBKUcGBiKHoBZsmfjEwf1L-JZ6j1eq3jA/s1600-h/PA100078.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391004097340772434" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvNuPSfgQs4gmnFvSuEFy7HBAwXPqFAG7gMkjZwj6nR3NuQGbQSTKTTyF22nfVwympRZulVgJHrfEl8oQEpGm9pREgAaitL-kBCXF3_n4rlysUBKUcGBiKHoBZsmfjEwf1L-JZ6j1eq3jA/s400/PA100078.JPG" /></a><span style="font-size:180%;">We</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">spent</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">the</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">past</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">summer</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">reading</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">the</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Little</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">House</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">series</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">of</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">books.</span><br /><br />Wren has adored the first four and we are saving the rest for Christmastime. Over the years I have stashed 1/4 scale dolls and accessories away in hopes of someday building a replica of the Little House home on the prairie. Finding things in this scale is quite difficult but I have found salesman's samples of household goods to work very well. Most are old, however I am always <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">surprised</span> to find that they arrive in good condition. Our plan is to gather all the items first- which may take years, and then build the house around the three rooms we complete. The original Little House had just a Keeping Room separated with a quilt for the parents sleeping area, a loft for the girls, and a lean to off the back of the house.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR4uvbiyQZAZYr4wVZ8EqqOgZHTxnqtGHPG8_quMU4Yld-PUDSmvSOrqDr_TPoOOfm7bCnmdf96qJjCUBao5KTIozdBycq8CKVwAYkRHOcNZAg9x1Ms9oKJHV4NCu0y1uN_AUKnKhUsPf3/s1600-h/PA100077.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391004088630779586" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR4uvbiyQZAZYr4wVZ8EqqOgZHTxnqtGHPG8_quMU4Yld-PUDSmvSOrqDr_TPoOOfm7bCnmdf96qJjCUBao5KTIozdBycq8CKVwAYkRHOcNZAg9x1Ms9oKJHV4NCu0y1uN_AUKnKhUsPf3/s400/PA100077.JPG" /></a><br />A lot of detail is given in the books about what the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ingalls</span> had and did not have. Originally, I had planned to do a dollhouse a lot like that of Tasha Tudor's, but I feel now that there is a very valuable lesson to be learned from recreating the simplicity of a pioneer's life. It is a dual lesson in make-do along with a reality of how hard life was for people back then. Since we use wood stoves to heat our home, Wren is very familiar with the cast iron beauties, but learning that they also were responsible for heating all the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ingalls</span> food and baking has been an eye opener for her.<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhajt9_uMNU0fnuw-VOQaRcFNdZ2xku9Do5vRLYuKcua5tdK5kXlWLxduO8JOLpJBFGBCDBiCtd0s_x4IlyAfR_qhXnKH1bV8S910soZgDlRaJtKy3SGYVOiHgRwO5ARAy1YlTygCTqBoR2/s1600-h/PA100075.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 300px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391004077815792146" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhajt9_uMNU0fnuw-VOQaRcFNdZ2xku9Do5vRLYuKcua5tdK5kXlWLxduO8JOLpJBFGBCDBiCtd0s_x4IlyAfR_qhXnKH1bV8S910soZgDlRaJtKy3SGYVOiHgRwO5ARAy1YlTygCTqBoR2/s400/PA100075.JPG" /></a> The rope bed is not an unfamiliar concept as most of our beds have been on slats, one of them being a reproduction where the holes are visible where the ropes would have been. We used a sewing machine to make a burlap hemp tufted <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">mattress</span>, surely an extravagance in Laura and Mary's day as they would have most certainly slept on hay stuffed <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">mattresses</span>. A gingham sheet and handmade patchwork quilt provide the dolls with snug evenings. We have yet to find a sixteen inch Laura doll and hope to find one in blue. We will simply switch out the girls clothes to have Laura in red and Mary in blue, just like the books. These are the details that Wren picks up on. One of the neat things about our Mary is that she is wearing a simple bead necklace, just like the one the girls make for Carrie from the Indian beads they find with Pa when walking to the deserted Indian camp.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP-z4xaIEOfEwrAp8kkwNrszg2LPci8Ah0mf7wF9D517N3HlaXUSt6oRXG0QYV1l6RjfWDBf4xeWl8BOXNIfHTbgulByhVCuAs7-Q4iP27B68CwoIKpLCwlo2ixCRPgs4hKvdKXjrseV14/s1600-h/PA100074.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391004070689799810" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP-z4xaIEOfEwrAp8kkwNrszg2LPci8Ah0mf7wF9D517N3HlaXUSt6oRXG0QYV1l6RjfWDBf4xeWl8BOXNIfHTbgulByhVCuAs7-Q4iP27B68CwoIKpLCwlo2ixCRPgs4hKvdKXjrseV14/s400/PA100074.JPG" /></a> The girls have a pair of snowshoes and old wooden skis, both familiar concepts to Wren as we love winter sports. We sometimes snowshoe up the half mile to retrieve the mail at the road, and there are a lot of times that I would much rather shoe our way out than risk sliding off the road into the ravine or lake. Winter in the country can be a hair raising affair.<br />So our next book in the series is A Long Winter as we saved Farmer Boy for next summer. I think this will be a good story for the coming winter, as I do believe we are in for a long winter ourselves.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div>The Smithshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04025890895536026714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1092874300993965302.post-82919337076992357622009-10-07T08:17:00.001-07:002009-10-07T08:42:51.457-07:00Handprints<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDzxAAZpn-lXZccbmRklsDADq7kN6L7COg31aztA6HSOnGbUOPv7_hasG88RazX8ZFrXynIkODZOXzYqgBWxIDeJn5bRNVZOQRJy05FGq7NLAhpLRDsMXTnUl3daN4mkOTNzMLSPqh0aDx/s1600-h/PA070072.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389877692779545330" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDzxAAZpn-lXZccbmRklsDADq7kN6L7COg31aztA6HSOnGbUOPv7_hasG88RazX8ZFrXynIkODZOXzYqgBWxIDeJn5bRNVZOQRJy05FGq7NLAhpLRDsMXTnUl3daN4mkOTNzMLSPqh0aDx/s400/PA070072.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;">I </span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">have</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">wanted</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">to </span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">do</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">this</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">project</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">for </span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">a</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">while</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">now...</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">and</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">there</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">is</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">no</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">time</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">like</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">the</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">present.</span></div><div>There is something incredibly precious about little hands and little feet. I have wanted to document our <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">children's</span>' hands for some time now but did not want to do the traditional print in plaster. I also wanted to be able to show them how tiny they were in both the relation to each other and to us, their parents. We had fun doing <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">simple</span> paper outlines and had to rework them a few times to get them to nestle inside of one another. Then Wren picked out the embroidery colors for each of us, and an extra one for little brother or sister who is on the way. We stitched our outlines on to a hemp burlap and left the cloth in a painted embroidery hoop. The children liked to watch me stitch this up before bedtime- it was the same effect as knitting for them, calming and interesting to watch all at the same time. We will place the other little hand inside of Dane's sometime this Spring and then it will be complete. I have been using my 1960's sewing machine a little more as of late, but still find the method of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">hand stitching</span> to be more soothing to the hands. </div><div> </div>The Smithshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04025890895536026714noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1092874300993965302.post-59341457257562263302009-10-01T14:36:00.000-07:002009-10-01T15:00:08.156-07:00An Apple a Day<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggLWdylwuwr2RZmWM5hykl0TM87YUdEPmeLyM3CKLH7lX8USziBW8uAIk8yUMCppbTutHUsDi666VtLfSU91jY_yF7wnWp8EO64fC85sECMWiXXwFHWxp80ikZyJgBr-MqVHxilDT5-msG/s1600-h/apple.png"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387749352770994690" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 395px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 391px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggLWdylwuwr2RZmWM5hykl0TM87YUdEPmeLyM3CKLH7lX8USziBW8uAIk8yUMCppbTutHUsDi666VtLfSU91jY_yF7wnWp8EO64fC85sECMWiXXwFHWxp80ikZyJgBr-MqVHxilDT5-msG/s400/apple.png" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;">As </span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">if</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">we</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">didn't</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">have </span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">enough</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">to</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">contend</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">with</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">here</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">in</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">the</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">country...</span></div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span><br /><div><br />Mother Nature has seen to it that we are being kept on our toes. What was a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">leisurely</span> day a few weeks ago turned into an all out fiasco that had my six foot five husband and yours truly doing a jig dance of some sort while trying to catch a Brown Recluse before it sprinted into the plank flooring. My husband was lying on the couch and casually glanced toward the southeast window in the great room saying there was a spider web behind the curtain. I got up to examine the situation and knew immediately this was trouble. It was huge, tornado shaped, and disappeared into the hemp curtain. What was worse, it was just inches from o<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">ur</span> daughter's play kitchen. I motioned for some help and watched my husband's eyes grow big as he saw the full view of the structure. He pulled the curtain down from its place in one swoop because we weren't going to take any chances of this thing biting us as we fiddled with the web. Now the problem was coaxing it out, which was no problem at all as the thing sprinted immediately across the floor. I screamed scaring the tar out of both Wren and my husband. We threw the curtain back over the spider and my husband's size fourteen shoes called an end to the saga. The thought of that thing getting away was hair raising. I spent the next few hours looking for more webs. We found three on the back porch last week. I nabbed one in a beautiful <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Red Ware</span> paper towel holder just this afternoon. I am over the spiders already. We have Wolf spiders the size of small rodents... this is the last thing I need. We began a quest to find a friend with Hedge Apples. We found a lucky owner and brought home a paper sack full. I was so reluctant to call an exterminator- I just hate the thought of chemicals. But I wondered about the Old Wives Tale of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">the Osage</span> Orange. Would it really work? Well, let me tell you, after today's encounter in the paper towel holder, I dug into that paper bag faster than lightening. So I am about to find out. The fruits are hard and bumpy and it took a very large steak knife to do the job of getting one into six slices. They bleed a milky substance that is like glue, though they do not have a very <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">pungent</span> odor. If the scent can be described at all, it is like that of orange cleaning solution. The slices are resting happily in the tops of the windows on the main floor. We shall see how accurate the Old Wives really are. All I know is that if I have just a few more heart stopping encounters like the ones I have had recently, I am going to be sporting <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">some</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Old</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Wives</span> white hair! Just in time for Halloween...<br /></div><div></div>The Smithshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04025890895536026714noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1092874300993965302.post-77303195661972386222009-09-04T20:58:00.001-07:002009-09-04T21:46:01.482-07:00A Wrinkle in Time<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK4rSv7h75fxJ3Rq3IWUVXo6ANT0F6fYZ4nhXzHI4rzcr7RAtYqpKKlQ8EFuVbm1t6F_5rENGcIsTTJ-scS64KXTdD9C9WVChq5qrNRwXymqYcWdOeayWocR7_YMcUqIr2MMCSEdapB7bG/s1600-h/autumn.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377828874897227826" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 299px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK4rSv7h75fxJ3Rq3IWUVXo6ANT0F6fYZ4nhXzHI4rzcr7RAtYqpKKlQ8EFuVbm1t6F_5rENGcIsTTJ-scS64KXTdD9C9WVChq5qrNRwXymqYcWdOeayWocR7_YMcUqIr2MMCSEdapB7bG/s400/autumn.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:180%;">The</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">early</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">bird</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">has</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">begun</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">its</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">annual</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">color</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">change.</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">One of our trees begins to show its color so much earlier than the others. At first, we thought it was just a fluke that year, but each year it holds true to being the first to turn out its glory. Autumn is such a time for contemplation, and though it is still Summer, the weather here in the Ohio River Valley suggests otherwise. I have been under the weather myself the past month or so and my <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">type pad</span> has been quiet. I have not been in my kitchen nearly as much as usual, nor out in the garden. The past month has been one of gathering my children around me and enjoying time in our haven together. More on this later...</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">The changing leaves has me thinking almost daily about an event from my childhood. I cannot put the memory into exact context, and wonder at times if the memory is not a patchwork of many days that have lodged somewhere in the deep recess of my mind. We are no more than seven or perhaps eight, and there are two friends with me when we leave my house and trudge off through the backyard of my next door neighbour. Our destination is delivering something, maybe items from a school fundraiser, to the next neighborhood over. My two friends are just along for the stroll as they are not in my class. The neighboring yard is that of one of my best friends who is walking with me. There is the faint scent of leaves burning in the air, and also that difficult to explain aroma of leaf litter and mold that speaks to your senses about the beauty of nature. Our shoes drift through the reds, yellows, and browns of leaves newly fallen and their crunch is a sound that takes me back to school days even today. We hug the back corner of my friends log cabin home and come into our secret place. A place of packed earth floor and looping overhead trees, perhaps no larger than <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">some one's</span> living room but endlessly decorated with nooks and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">crannies</span> that we could get lost for hours at a time in play. At night, this secret place was a spot you could just vanish into, your night tag friends passing within inches and never seeing you. But today we pass through and pop out into the next neighbor's back yard and make the short trek along the evergreens to the street of the next neighborhood. The two houses we are walking behind have a certain <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">cottage</span> feel and I always enjoyed looking at them. Both of our neighborhoods were true circles with perhaps forty or fifty houses around them. The people of these circles loved their gardens and in Autumn the remnants made for a beautiful setting. The house we are going to first is only a few houses down the circle. We walk up the drive which in memory is newly blacktopped, the smell of tar for some reason was quite pleasant. There is an entry porch with a rock formed wall to the right and a garden setting visible but private from the road to our left. The porch is inviting and I see slate tiles of many shades of gray underfoot. A dim light is on overhead as the dusk is coming earlier each day now. We ring the bell which goes resounding into the depths of the house. Footsteps come to the door and it is a lady in her midlife, not unlike most of our teachers at school. A warm smile and she bids us into the entry way through a wooden door and says she'll be right back after she retrieves her pocket book. The three of us say nothing- we are taking it in. The house is dark, not for lack of light, but in decoration, and it is the first time I realize dark can mean very comfortable. The smell of wood wax is in the air along with something coming from the kitchen which we can see from where we are standing. The kitchen has a lot of brick in which a huge range oven is encased and the casserole hidden somewhere inside. I notice a large collection of cookbooks and instantly recognize this woman as someone my Mother would like immensely. I associate <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">rose hips</span> and cloves and dried flowers with this brief visit, and copper pots, though I cannot guarantee any were there at all. The woman comes back with a check and we leave her the bag of goodies and promise to come back at Halloween. We left oddly satisfied walking along with a sense of the season.</span> I remember nothing of the rest of those deliveries nor the homes we went to.<br /><span style="font-size:100%;">Why over thirty years later this visit seems lodged in my memory I have not the slightest idea. I recognize on some level that I found a kindred spirit to my own Mother who created a sense of home that has stayed with me. I also think this home in the next neighborhood over, in some ways, reminded me so much of my Mother's Aunt Florence's home in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Zionsville</span></span>, Indiana. This home had a large influence on both my Mother and myself, though I never realized it until much later in life. This visit has played about my mind the past month or so with odd frequency and I wonder if my friends remember this day the way that I do- or even remember it at all. What I know is that it has somehow played a role in my subconscious... and it is the memory which has made Autumn my favorite season of all. </span>The Smithshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04025890895536026714noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1092874300993965302.post-48126369881959148622009-07-30T19:25:00.000-07:002009-07-30T19:50:06.121-07:00Puffy Eyes<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGoUrQNbE6_lQv1VUZpOJwQDm1J-21A3boflLUshTRtoL1DYjXdXRQrQDhU_2KdDIw-48URJ4f_iqEEfWzmNM_5g3M3Di7xfNj5_DoH8qcp5QwJ1WBLdhmTecaHL4kaR6ZAy0d7IUMeMo1/s1600-h/P1010858.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364445959310725394" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 299px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGoUrQNbE6_lQv1VUZpOJwQDm1J-21A3boflLUshTRtoL1DYjXdXRQrQDhU_2KdDIw-48URJ4f_iqEEfWzmNM_5g3M3Di7xfNj5_DoH8qcp5QwJ1WBLdhmTecaHL4kaR6ZAy0d7IUMeMo1/s400/P1010858.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-size:100%;">"Mama,</span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;">please</span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;">sing</span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;">Jackie</span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;">Paper</span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;">for</span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;">us."</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;">We have a ritual that if after our night time story, the children still have trouble falling asleep, I sing lullabies to them. Wren often chooses the songs in a small whisper, and more often than not, Puff the Magic Dragon is close to the top of the list. I grew up with this song sung by Peter, Paul, and Mary. I had it on a 33 and played it till I knew the lyrics by heart. Still, some thirty years later, it still chokes me up. It used to be that I could get all the way to the part where Jackie Paper grows up without my voice catching. But now that I have had Dane, it takes a lot less time to falter my voice. Wren loves this song so much. On some level, she understands it to be a right of passage. She knows that it is both happy and sad and wonders at how singing a song can make her Mama tear up so easily. Still, I sing it whenever she asks. But it always leaves me feeling a bit sad, especially now that I have my own Jackie Paper. If you haven't heard the song in a while, or perhaps never heard it the whole way through, here it is in written form. Sing it with someone you love.</span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em></em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>"Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea</em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">honah</span> lee,</em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>Little Jackie Paper loved that rascal puff,</em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>And brought him strings and sealing wax and other fancy stuff. </em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em></em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>Oh Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea</em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">honah</span> lee,</em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea</em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">honah</span> lee.</em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em></em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>Together they would travel on a boat with billowed sail</em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>Jackie kept a lookout perched on puffs gigantic tail,</em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>Noble kings and princes would bow <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">wheneer</span> they came,</em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>Pirate ships would lower their flag when Puff roared out his name. </em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em></em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>Oh! Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea</em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">honah</span> lee,</em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea</em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">honah</span> lee.</em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em></em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>A dragon lives forever but not so little boys</em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>Painted wings and giant rings make way for other toys.</em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>One grey night it happened, Jackie Paper came no more</em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>And Puff that mighty dragon, he ceased his fearless roar.</em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em></em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>His head was bent in sorrow, green scales fell like rain,</em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>Puff no longer went to play along the cherry lane.</em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>Without his life-long friend, Puff could not be brave,</em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>So Puff that mighty dragon sadly slipped into his cave. </em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em></em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>Oh! Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea</em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">honah</span> lee,</em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea</em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><em>And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">honah</span> lee."</em></span></div><div><em><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></em></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;">I have often thought about writing another happier verse to end this song, but it some ways it would miss the whole point of the song, wouldn't it? Our little ones grow up before our very eyes and this is what the songs authors, Leonard Lipton and Peter Yarrow, beg us not to miss. But... it is still so difficult to leave Puff in that cave all alone. I always hope another little boy comes along.</span></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div>The Smithshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04025890895536026714noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1092874300993965302.post-2508432493430723422009-07-23T12:20:00.000-07:002009-07-23T13:22:52.314-07:00Rescue Remedy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDsvMnUQXoyVj6hLUR8OZ3zJXhP7rckCA3rX6caiKQdyDQQJv24II00CC9gWCrT0zTShBDRPXy9IxydDPlwlAX4hkiEU6_BcgMEWdMk85zk84FouxCdfFJ8tmGZaAS40y7hJYhc1eN4rAA/s1600-h/P7230059.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361747879619011234" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDsvMnUQXoyVj6hLUR8OZ3zJXhP7rckCA3rX6caiKQdyDQQJv24II00CC9gWCrT0zTShBDRPXy9IxydDPlwlAX4hkiEU6_BcgMEWdMk85zk84FouxCdfFJ8tmGZaAS40y7hJYhc1eN4rAA/s400/P7230059.JPG" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:130%;">Being<br />that<br />my<br />husband<br />is<br />a<br />skilled<br />antiques<br />restorer,<br />all<br />manner<br />of<br />chairs<br />and<br />such<br />arrive<br />at<br />our<br />house.</span><br />It's difficult to pass up a deal, more like a steal, when you are around furniture so often. We receive all kinds of calls about antiques restoration and end up going on a lot of "go-sees" to see if we can be of help. Often times, we are able to pick up things at good prices while we're out and about on these calls, and sometimes the odd item just leaps into our truck from the curb. These little chairs we picked up in Florida for a song. But someone had done that ever popular late eighties silk stripe dining fabric upholstery and it had been sitting there ever since. The seats were in pretty bad shape, and at first glance so were the wood finishes. But often times, all it takes is a gentle cleaning and wax to bring back the luster. It goes without saying, never refinish a piece that you do not know the value of. If it's old and/ or rare you will <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">plummet</span> the value by taking away the old finish. This presents a problem when you really wish to have a painted finish or different stain, but it really is best to leave well enough alone when it <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">comes</span> to woods. My husband is called in for repairs, great and small, and all the work is done with care to add value, not take it away.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZRkAbbo6ZwrnYltA9CXdTmAHUJFWp8-kPLiousQGaVf8rDP5glN4u_7mh0h8rNf7vuOgUxPUXX1Sbv1b_V8XLVdq2RkQ1gAzwArNF7L1kpkKE8ZhjtNuQkeSuWa8tWBLcIa5krOX5-6wP/s1600-h/P7230058.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361747873864067314" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZRkAbbo6ZwrnYltA9CXdTmAHUJFWp8-kPLiousQGaVf8rDP5glN4u_7mh0h8rNf7vuOgUxPUXX1Sbv1b_V8XLVdq2RkQ1gAzwArNF7L1kpkKE8ZhjtNuQkeSuWa8tWBLcIa5krOX5-6wP/s400/P7230058.JPG" border="0" /></a> These chairs just needed a good cleaning and simple <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Williamsville</span> wax. I shed the old fabric, replacing it with a more homespun look to match our Saltbox style house in creams, eggplants, and reds. This is in part my summer education of soft restoration. I am diligently learning the trade of seat upholstery, wing chair upholstery, couch upholstery, shaker tape seating, and rush work- God help me on the last.<br />My Father in Law is a wonderful craftsman and at one time a skilled rush worker. It is like a bicycle, he can still do it, but he says it takes a great deal of painstaking time.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9dN43-HKk00O2UuGsO46lBT-oPyCdvkUF3QMqeUVCNEXXM7asUoavKG9e4rsMQoja1qhMx1BhDP-1hCgQONHsoXQs6srwj0cinCWnHsrvM_CE0eIwOGUlgs0Qccxe8ecw96K-fciZwS0E/s1600-h/P7230057.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361747870349645058" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9dN43-HKk00O2UuGsO46lBT-oPyCdvkUF3QMqeUVCNEXXM7asUoavKG9e4rsMQoja1qhMx1BhDP-1hCgQONHsoXQs6srwj0cinCWnHsrvM_CE0eIwOGUlgs0Qccxe8ecw96K-fciZwS0E/s400/P7230057.JPG" border="0" /></a> Here are the old and new versions side by side right before I get ready to tear into the second chair. These will go happily in our dining room as extra seating right next to our Windsors. I like things to compliment each other and a house put together over time never matches exactly. Next I am tackling a set of four ladder back chairs that have been in our family for ages. Their old torn rush seats are being replaced with Shaker fabric taping in evergreen hues. I cannot wait for them to come back into everyday use.<br /><br /><br /><div></div>The Smithshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04025890895536026714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1092874300993965302.post-70752177683020202862009-07-17T20:07:00.000-07:002009-07-17T23:05:21.791-07:00Close to the Clouds<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJl88T014UpPAMTCWHdO6_dwitu9OjMQeDEHpL3biDdxzo9BORqnCPZskwtiw1F7vswuFu7vuL2L_as4mV2na6L6R85zMPXlVfCKFbQapA8yx_2Hlsfy2Rw9jN35ILBHX_NYp6_pYBHIn-/s1600-h/P1010144.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359664233437307314" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJl88T014UpPAMTCWHdO6_dwitu9OjMQeDEHpL3biDdxzo9BORqnCPZskwtiw1F7vswuFu7vuL2L_as4mV2na6L6R85zMPXlVfCKFbQapA8yx_2Hlsfy2Rw9jN35ILBHX_NYp6_pYBHIn-/s400/P1010144.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:180%;">To</span><br /><div><div><div><div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">know</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">a</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">place</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">intimately</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">other</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">than</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">the</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">places</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">you</span><br /></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">have</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">lived</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">is </span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">an</span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;">exquisite</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">gift.</span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;">For me, this place of intimate knowledge has been the area around Park City, Utah. For some years before I had children, I had the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">privilege</span> of traveling into Salt Lake City in the Spring and again in the late Summer. I cannot say which is my favorite time of year- it is impossible to choose. I love traveling there alone, and I love sharing its infinite beauty with others close to me. My last trip there was special as I was three months pregnant with Wren, and figured it would be one of my last visits for a while. All the different times spent there blend into one long wonderful memory and it is sometimes a challenge to separate the visits into neat little chapters. Places you love do that to you...they increase your good feelings to such a height that it is almost as if you spend your time there in some sort of emotional nirvana. I would rush to the airport at the earliest flight time catching the plane at an hour before which I was usually ever awake just to make it into town by lunchtime. Once in that plane seat it was like my mind completely renewed itself because it knew what lay in wait. I stayed at the same little inexpensive inn every time I went. I adored the owners and it was right in the city of Salt Lake seated neatly below the university. I would fall into bed exhausted there and rise with an urge to run out the door and do it all over again. Most times coming off the plane I would pick up a four wheel drive vehicle and head straight out to Park City not bothering to even drop off my bags at the hotel. My usual lunch spot was always the same that first day- Main Street Pizza and Noodle for their <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">bow tie</span> pasta in a vegetable cream sauce. It was just the thing to energize a quick stroll through town and not heavy enough to prevent my indulgence in the most enormous caramel apple you ever laid eyes upon. A huge copper cauldron of hot liquid aroma lures you in from the sidewalk at the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">RMCF</span> (Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory) in front of Dolly's Bookstore. Apple in hand, the stroll down Main Street is just that much sweeter. The altitude can get to you on the first day off the plane, especially when coming from sea level. I always try to get a good nights sleep and return to Park City the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">next</span> day to meet up with a guide at Red Pine Adventures. There is no better way to explore the area around the Canyons than on the back of a large but gentle horse. </span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih9j6MTYPBRewauEyT-dBJz9iO6Lzqu31N5qF6pHlhh9SI4_mvHqiO8s3XlS2u3fC7l_O82uX-lo3jOfuUKln2IlqdhPABoWMrBannousGOfuSgJzSHuwLwQ7Ut1RgCpjF83o6ZERepyJG/s1600-h/P1010141.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359669511491941890" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 299px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih9j6MTYPBRewauEyT-dBJz9iO6Lzqu31N5qF6pHlhh9SI4_mvHqiO8s3XlS2u3fC7l_O82uX-lo3jOfuUKln2IlqdhPABoWMrBannousGOfuSgJzSHuwLwQ7Ut1RgCpjF83o6ZERepyJG/s400/P1010141.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><div>There are numerous footpaths that run along the mountain sides right in Park City. I developed an intense love for Utah's wildflowers along these paths and would often walk them until the sun began to fade away. Indian Blanket Flower, Columbine, Lupine, Indian Paintbrush, and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Stone crop</span> dance like an impossibly intricate Impressionist painting everywhere the eye falls. A quick jaunt up Main Street and out of town brings you to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Guardsman</span> Pass. Breathtakingly beautiful, it delivers you right up into the clouds. If you have a good vehicle this road will take you all the way out to Brighton and Big Cottonwood Canyon. Then just a few miles outside of Brighton is a little shining jewel. I never could pass Silver Fork Lodge without stopping in for a meal. Small in size but large in ambience, Silver Fork Lodge is a place frequented by true Alpine Lovers. It is a bit of the old Utah prior to the mayhem of the Olympics and the serious obnoctiousness that has become the Film Festival. Both Big Cottonwood and Little Cottonwood Canyons offer unbelievable scenery and the chance to hike, boulder, and climb your way into physical exhaustion...the good kind. Keeping the windows down allows you to hear the rushing of the snowmelt in the creeks, and provides the opportunity to stop and watch the dance of a flyfisherman casting his line above the sparkling water surface.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuiuvDTDyqB944qx3IUV67ueSmUswOfkifVYlZ_jgMoy_95y4dCJkTwZ0BEgsoTy0-8G-KIass90TOqbW_xl_ROw32dbJFTMJAyG7wgQqcC_JfkTvWJ3ddxaYJGUTtGPPe-xDv3IvwBXby/s1600-h/P1010219.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359664216635093154" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 299px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuiuvDTDyqB944qx3IUV67ueSmUswOfkifVYlZ_jgMoy_95y4dCJkTwZ0BEgsoTy0-8G-KIass90TOqbW_xl_ROw32dbJFTMJAyG7wgQqcC_JfkTvWJ3ddxaYJGUTtGPPe-xDv3IvwBXby/s400/P1010219.JPG" border="0" /></a> My permanent choice of staying at the City Creek Inn was made after the first time I checked in. It lies at the heart of everything. One route leads out of town and toward Park City, another leads into that heavenly drive along the Cottonwood <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWLpWIb73D1Nh_uSn2wxzklOiPeHOyVQz8JlG13XjpvAnXBHFKHJxA5NjTGDo5dZveUyQNfs1MSkJ1_JKPLWWfj6v-fnZj2PreKq8nBH0lgJXJtO0hL6c08FK3mMwUvwQyWMmlTFxgWob4/s1600-h/P1010219.JPG"></a>Canyons, and yet another leads to the impossibly beautiful <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Sundance</span> Resort owned by Robert Redford. It is possible to travel to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Sundance</span> along two routes, one being the highway which takes you past amazingly high waterfalls and a lazy floating river. The other, and it is a bit of a secret, is to travel the back route in summer via the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Timpanogos</span> Cave winding road. You will be stopped at a certain point well into the route and it is extremely important to tell the Ranger that you are just passing through. Otherwise they politely tell you to turn around. It is an incredibly remote road which is closed at first snowfall until well past Spring, and passes right through a private camp before landing you on the entry into <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Sundance</span>. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVk1bLHcD4nrp1k36H1GICIfBbFLiLS09St3nvIXT1PGJtotH0Vhu346nVtx0fXdm1CoS3ju_7d4TTdKDNiVKRNMb1umFj-uPbyygmJXZsbgQp4IIADCFB84caxR-qu3Zy7EsrWNZRz1Ha/s1600-h/P1010222.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359664221430469010" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVk1bLHcD4nrp1k36H1GICIfBbFLiLS09St3nvIXT1PGJtotH0Vhu346nVtx0fXdm1CoS3ju_7d4TTdKDNiVKRNMb1umFj-uPbyygmJXZsbgQp4IIADCFB84caxR-qu3Zy7EsrWNZRz1Ha/s400/P1010222.JPG" border="0" /></a><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Sundance</span> in the summertime is a marvel, and far too beautiful to put into words. Lunch at The Foundry is a perfect way to ease into the day. Wood fired pizza can be devoured and the extra wrapped up neatly in your knapsack. The chair lift will take you to the top of the mountain, but I much prefer to hike it along Stewart's Falls and into the valley of Mount <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Timpanogos</span>. This valley is remote in every sense of the word and I fully expect to come nose to nose with an ambling black bear here someday. The valley leads into a thickly forested area along a winding path, from which if you know what to look for, you may catch a glimpse here and there of Mr. Redford's main house. I think he is fully aware hat he has landed in heaven a bit early. From here, you can catch the chair lift down or simply follow in the well worn paths of the mountain bikes. I have not been as lucky as my friends whom I have sent to Sundance, who on their first day were served ice cream from the Sundance Kid himself and asked to join him at his table for dinner. Their German heritage was a plus as Mr. Redford's wife is of German descent, and he was grappling to learn her language. I have to say this made a huge impression on my friends who on the same trip bought an alpine house up the road from Sundance. I think he, and the place, have this effect on people.<br /><br /></div><br /><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN3k0-4bpl2L_3pFUjaBxg7-N1ekwEt_CwG25K_7Whl2X-Cyz1PsEkm5PCgY3lab3rk3Z5jtyt0wE95d2S3SD9_D_8T9gAC7Qe_ET1mRxq2s2uwDB5oclWZa84twjivxPgviJVaBtRwiLr/s1600-h/P1010184.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359664207324128178" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN3k0-4bpl2L_3pFUjaBxg7-N1ekwEt_CwG25K_7Whl2X-Cyz1PsEkm5PCgY3lab3rk3Z5jtyt0wE95d2S3SD9_D_8T9gAC7Qe_ET1mRxq2s2uwDB5oclWZa84twjivxPgviJVaBtRwiLr/s400/P1010184.JPG" border="0" /></a>I have hiked areas in the Wasatch Mountains that make you feel like you may just be the last living person on Earth. You may see and near no one, or you may come around the bend and find yourself in the company of a Mama moose and her little one. I met these two way up in the mountains above <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Jordanelle</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Reservoir</span>. I had heard of the dangers of moose, but this one seemed <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">unfazed</span> to share the trail with us. Nevertheless, I gave her a lot of space. Each trip into the wilds here demands that you prepare to be there for days, even if your intention is a few hours. Weather here in the mountains can change on a dime leaving you stranded in a pair of shorts at freezing temperatures if not careful. It is this <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">volatility</span> that makes the area so rugged and awe inspiring. It is also one of the main reasons I will wait until my little ones are a little older to return to my beloved Utah. I once foolishly asked a Ranger if there were accidents with children along these impossibly steep and high altitude footpaths. Only a few times came the reply, but that was enough for me.<br /><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>The Smithshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04025890895536026714noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1092874300993965302.post-55502787926575561162009-07-13T09:13:00.000-07:002009-07-13T09:46:21.308-07:00Mid Summer<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ7kVRzMrPWPlnKbTv1VmY0mBBwRXAfLcE57s9WlwvUvzI16QVfUL5urJ3_zV8g711VumvdxEVkK0okeEz15OUQ9L3Ly6B_wUexSDa6v8BwBAzzeEoiHLZmaKhp0nL3_-5Pr002imFTfKb/s1600-h/P7120061.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357979372717321234" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ7kVRzMrPWPlnKbTv1VmY0mBBwRXAfLcE57s9WlwvUvzI16QVfUL5urJ3_zV8g711VumvdxEVkK0okeEz15OUQ9L3Ly6B_wUexSDa6v8BwBAzzeEoiHLZmaKhp0nL3_-5Pr002imFTfKb/s400/P7120061.JPG" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:180%;">As</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">I</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">walk</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">the</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">acres</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">these</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">long</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">days</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">of</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">summer</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">I</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">notice</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">so </span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">much</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">that</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">needs</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">done.</span><br />And while it can be <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">overwhelming</span> to take it all in, because I know not all of it will ever really get finished, it is hard to be <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">disatisfied with</span> the beauty that is everywhere I glance. There is quite a bit of painting to do on garden accessories that have been weathered and worn, but then it occurs to me that their patinas really look quite nice. To the back of the list it goes. I notice a furry bee climbing about the metal bees on the red wood heart. How appropriate, a bee house in a bee.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1tSomORJBmIpRagMMsJWP0ZM1xdqfK58QLoDywr4xnxiEOcyWrryTOyi7kP7f1ATQ766JvJnPBPbcc1g_n3yyTCj-Vzvs-6MIgP0tXyjz1CBJoNy-RFOXNKACUzvfFDQcCYZzqboOGuY1/s1600-h/P7120065.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357979366785713602" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1tSomORJBmIpRagMMsJWP0ZM1xdqfK58QLoDywr4xnxiEOcyWrryTOyi7kP7f1ATQ766JvJnPBPbcc1g_n3yyTCj-Vzvs-6MIgP0tXyjz1CBJoNy-RFOXNKACUzvfFDQcCYZzqboOGuY1/s400/P7120065.JPG" border="0" /></a> The <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Gay feather</span> has opened in its <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">characteristic</span> top to bottom fashion and its cheery purple flowers are keeping the sandbox company. At their feet is the fuzzy Lamb's Ears that the children love so much to touch. Children of yesteryear used the soft leaves as bandages on scrapes and cuts. Wren tries to convince me to try this each time we need a bandage.<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_clkESPYY_YjMahcIG2onqtmynWlQEVV6qliTrFQZiSSJd8jqeeH0wWDxbzgQG0-lTAPLF7S27mTjxW6jmyUBoLs6gWsFu356y-qDtDVXvzOw7_B_xpusAgZy8c47JkEzU8TQGDZ4GN1z/s1600-h/P7120060.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357979360543248546" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_clkESPYY_YjMahcIG2onqtmynWlQEVV6qliTrFQZiSSJd8jqeeH0wWDxbzgQG0-lTAPLF7S27mTjxW6jmyUBoLs6gWsFu356y-qDtDVXvzOw7_B_xpusAgZy8c47JkEzU8TQGDZ4GN1z/s400/P7120060.JPG" border="0" /></a> The Day <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Lillies</span> are still putting on their spectacular show, though their gardens need weeded yet again. We manage to pop off the wrinkled blooms as we come and go sending them back to the soil to provide nutrients for next years blooms. I notice the fishing net in the rocks of the drive and think of the three eager faces peering out from the glass in Wren's aquarium. We "borrowed" them from the pond after returning our last critter to the water. We will miss him, as he was a large snail, and did a superb job of keeping that aquarium crystal clear. I believe our new friends are tiny baby bluegill. They'll visit for a few weeks and go back home to grow as large as their friends.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQWf48krQ-Qq9-Rkqck3bIeqP5K2JIS0QovvxhUqUvGaCUKk8Ss_NN5j3fSqtBi5e_EGI_GOrkd9tR0OhcOsRC-WuwT0lTWmhgRxrINsFkKTepIu2hekqsffo0WIxV-dhiuCWkOqmjkn2x/s1600-h/P7120064.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357979351138153954" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQWf48krQ-Qq9-Rkqck3bIeqP5K2JIS0QovvxhUqUvGaCUKk8Ss_NN5j3fSqtBi5e_EGI_GOrkd9tR0OhcOsRC-WuwT0lTWmhgRxrINsFkKTepIu2hekqsffo0WIxV-dhiuCWkOqmjkn2x/s400/P7120064.JPG" border="0" /></a> White Zinnias have bloomed in a sky blue crackled pot. More are coming into bloom and I am hoping to see that beautiful shade of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">chartreuse</span> that only a Zinnia can <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">conjure</span> up. Huge dinner plate sized Dahlia's are reaching for the clouds behind them nestled in the tall green grasses. The day we see their flower buds will be an exciting day.<br /><br /><br /><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Purple <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Cone flowers</span> that were planted after the deer ate so many of the seedlings are coming into flower all along the path to the herb garden off the southwest corner of the house. The little seedlings that were not eaten are still so small. Perhaps they are putting down roots and we might see this display <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">multiply</span> greatly next year. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJZFtwfHkgjdS-m03DVAzQ7bMs9MlTMHKrlObhaNskoF99dbuqyxI4xqFl7-KzSOPMMUTjs-08_Te-36SlGo5st3dhWqBI7rgUFluS3Pi9rt3S-_hWoNnQ-Ldg1pa5yuAivnDS08AC9UAn/s1600-h/P7120063.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357979347744480626" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJZFtwfHkgjdS-m03DVAzQ7bMs9MlTMHKrlObhaNskoF99dbuqyxI4xqFl7-KzSOPMMUTjs-08_Te-36SlGo5st3dhWqBI7rgUFluS3Pi9rt3S-_hWoNnQ-Ldg1pa5yuAivnDS08AC9UAn/s400/P7120063.JPG" border="0" /></a> The first blooms were those huge cones that measure two to three inches up in dome shapes with their pale purple petals pointing slightly downward. The sight of these always makes me think of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Thumper</span> in Bambi. Our own little <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Bambis</span> are enjoying the green beans and carrot tops in the garden. There are lots and lots of deer this year after many months of hardly seeing any at all. Their shy manners and coy stares make everything here in the land seem in balance once again.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div></div>The Smithshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04025890895536026714noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1092874300993965302.post-50496496641130971822009-07-09T19:30:00.000-07:002009-07-09T20:08:38.990-07:00Birthday Dreaming<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkvZaWXpGGgI9KWpQz1GuLSnB2fsmwfhqZdzfqb6h0aQb9Er4O12nHrM6ebXkpR43PBjRYYOOUcDvQV7c7Yk9LK_FQqM2CW-N2J73_HQCFxjMnk3a8cyvWN0N50eG3TDDyYaPn3x7BWShk/s1600-h/P1010462.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356655147723877106" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkvZaWXpGGgI9KWpQz1GuLSnB2fsmwfhqZdzfqb6h0aQb9Er4O12nHrM6ebXkpR43PBjRYYOOUcDvQV7c7Yk9LK_FQqM2CW-N2J73_HQCFxjMnk3a8cyvWN0N50eG3TDDyYaPn3x7BWShk/s400/P1010462.JPG" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:180%;">It</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">hardly</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">seems</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">possible</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">that</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">yet</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">another</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">year</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">is</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">flying</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">by...</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">and our baby will be four. This time last year we were so busy preparing for Wren's third birthday party. We had a Winnie-the-Pooh party and there had been so much to do. I really cannot imagine doing something like this every year because of the time required to prepare, but we had so much fun that I know we will do it again in the near future. We kept the party smallish, having about eight children and their families. Each child- and this was really the fun part- received a hand embroidered Rabbit with his or her name and a hand embroidered little tee shirt with one of the Hundred Acre Wood characters. We had found iron on tee shirt decals in pastels and cute little Winnie the Pooh material gift bags to hold them. The Rabbits have adorned our Easter baskets since the birthday. </span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3lm-FdKXT2Nd11cPson3PO_VvvngIHuYZKcLR7xaYCTalRAf79SDq1HPwOVfhrYIZhKi9zsStX5vdq4DmHeaqihpdV7IviUSRnlaVJGuQUrN3tR55sHEBsXaaH4OY8GkPq8LHVXQN_Us3/s1600-h/P1010452.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356655139815560562" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 299px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3lm-FdKXT2Nd11cPson3PO_VvvngIHuYZKcLR7xaYCTalRAf79SDq1HPwOVfhrYIZhKi9zsStX5vdq4DmHeaqihpdV7IviUSRnlaVJGuQUrN3tR55sHEBsXaaH4OY8GkPq8LHVXQN_Us3/s400/P1010452.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />Wren and I made the pinata in the design of a honey bee after some trial and error and literally stuffed it full of candies for the big day. We painted the bee, and also a large <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">tag board</span> of Eeyore for a Pin the Tail game. Little braided tails were made out of knitting yarn and tied with red bows just like in the Pooh stories. Kids drew Pooh sticks to see who would go first. Eight children ranging in age from one to six were hilariously funny to watch during the games and most were played in some fashion other than what was planned which made it all the more humorous. Kids also took home a handmade coloring book with all the Pooh characters to remember the day. We had stacked up quite a few Winnie the Pooh items from the bargain stores and I was amazed at the prize bags that each child was able to take home. It had hardly cost anything at all to put those together and yet the children had so much fun with them.<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwq2ypwiLtQgsSXJ8nxfox8Aa6tA1zR9uF_6-rYLn7CvSrUh-Kr_iBCbDn0Er88m6bGz-cmQ1dQEYadYmMRQWtZQuMFxJJp_IJaOfxaBYaDxV40VsmoIQ5OcktSktQZCuPgVmx7ZacSs3I/s1600-h/P1010466.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356655154032300226" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwq2ypwiLtQgsSXJ8nxfox8Aa6tA1zR9uF_6-rYLn7CvSrUh-Kr_iBCbDn0Er88m6bGz-cmQ1dQEYadYmMRQWtZQuMFxJJp_IJaOfxaBYaDxV40VsmoIQ5OcktSktQZCuPgVmx7ZacSs3I/s400/P1010466.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />Wren wore a vintage 1970's Sears Winnie the Pooh dress that was nearly identical to one I had as a child. She still calls it her Pooh Party Dress.<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidAARz3ut-Pfniqndo7-K7SXCLlHB2DD6C5HsbirLT2YX2fHXL7E42w2Cb1ZajfyKf9mMJdl1gcJMpr9cO7ZlRp_DHM3tJKCSFLqfzHfhURXW0x1TEwBTrMff0Lf_cuvIzyAfCrTAyGM2x/s1600-h/P1010458.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356655134589920802" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidAARz3ut-Pfniqndo7-K7SXCLlHB2DD6C5HsbirLT2YX2fHXL7E42w2Cb1ZajfyKf9mMJdl1gcJMpr9cO7ZlRp_DHM3tJKCSFLqfzHfhURXW0x1TEwBTrMff0Lf_cuvIzyAfCrTAyGM2x/s400/P1010458.JPG" border="0" /></a> The cupcakes were lemon and chocolate flavored with <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">lemon drop</span> bees atop. A super <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">chocolaty</span> cake was served for the adults and the recipe came from the Pooh Party Book which was published in the 70's. The ingredient list was downright scary with cocoa, chocolate syrup, and chocolate bars but it all seemed to bake right into one of the most moist cakes I have ever eaten.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMnYZVxVNmreGET6ZSpWWRh6zA4jtPMUmIHl2XUPX4A74jXS2fB8ylF-c6xDoH6uXv78PiUoFEOkysjJUjxW43EbJ6WZ2up_jhPvvofZIdxzHya4fUtZmJouEO47L2g0-XpW_550N7ulvo/s1600-h/P1010457.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356655126863624866" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 299px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMnYZVxVNmreGET6ZSpWWRh6zA4jtPMUmIHl2XUPX4A74jXS2fB8ylF-c6xDoH6uXv78PiUoFEOkysjJUjxW43EbJ6WZ2up_jhPvvofZIdxzHya4fUtZmJouEO47L2g0-XpW_550N7ulvo/s400/P1010457.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />An <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">over sized</span> Winnie the Pooh was at the helm of the sweets table. Winnie's signature red balloons were throughout the house and a vintage child's Pooh <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">bed sheet</span> made a wonderful table covering. </div><div></div><div>We spent a lot of that <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">glorious</span> day outdoors eating chicken salad croissants and potato salad. The sounds of the children laughing that day is something I will always remember. This year we are taking Wren someplace special for the day. It will be her choice- the zoo, aquarium, museum- in either <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Cincy</span>, Columbus, or Indy- the city is also up to her. I just cannot believe she will be four in one month. How time flies when it is spent with such special little people.<br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div></div></div>The Smithshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04025890895536026714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1092874300993965302.post-35019779911417242722009-07-03T21:42:00.000-07:002009-07-23T13:23:05.252-07:00Home Away from Home<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ48aenyKy0ZXYzeW7qzeIuHaYhH4OP2Sl0s58oNgThD9YE6XkT970j5eWPddcrvAVxPA8bltlRm7wLeQ3KWsAPbj-bXJMf3OZEzABspJTGo9zjfKNQAyUsoX6sc52vcvVzDFu1Luj0vvm/s1600-h/sargent.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354460795470952322" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 254px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 230px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ48aenyKy0ZXYzeW7qzeIuHaYhH4OP2Sl0s58oNgThD9YE6XkT970j5eWPddcrvAVxPA8bltlRm7wLeQ3KWsAPbj-bXJMf3OZEzABspJTGo9zjfKNQAyUsoX6sc52vcvVzDFu1Luj0vvm/s400/sargent.jpg" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:180%;">It</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">is</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">a</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">place</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">that</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">exists</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">only</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">in</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">my</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">mind.</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">Sometimes it is a difficult thing to go back to the places of your childhood. Decades pass and things change... it is inevitable. One of my best childhood friends had a campsite at Sandy Pines in Michigan. She would take turns taking all of her friends up there on summer vacation, though I have to say I went a lot. I may have had more than my fair share of turns, and boy, I am grateful. Sandy Pines is etched in my memory for so many reasons. Back then, in the late 1970's, Sandy Pines was a place of dirt roads, limited electric use, and small campers. Sure, there were those members sporting double slide outs on their <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">motor homes</span> and they seemed to be camping in expansive luxury. But back then most of us were sleeping in campers that were designed for people who really liked each other. Once you arrived at your campsite after driving what seemed like days, the car pretty much stayed put. We walked a lot more back then- miles even along those dirt roads that were more like sheltered paths under green canopies. If we were lucky, we got the golf cart. This was like being allowed to drive the family car without a license! Our site was on the far end of the resort. We had the best of both worlds because we had the outdoor pool, the huge dangerous hill that was a thrill to race down with the golf cart rattling the whole way, and- and this is a big one- that wonderful feeling that you had to take some huge adventure if you needed to do the slightest thing like run for <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">marshmallows</span> after nine pm. It meant one heck of a long scary golf cart ride clear to the other side of the resort where the general store and gas station were. We volunteered to run every single errand back then. My favorite part of that long trip to the other side occurred as we shot out of the woods and into a clearing that jogged around Lake <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Monterrey</span>. Light played off the surface of the water, and the road here was always a little more sand than dirt which made it appear oddly pink as the sun went down. The little chapel stood on the shore here and it was always so peaceful. Life was so incredibly simple on these days at Sandy Pines. Breakfast was eaten on the run, lunches were often hot dogs or grilled hamburgers eaten on those few minutes out of the pool or lake, and dinners- well, this was a whole other story. My friend's Dad was one heck of a cook. I marveled at these dinners made in this tiny trailer by this huge man who looked every bit the part of Yule Brenner in<em> The King and I</em>. I tasted foods on those trips that have become some of my favorite foods today as an adult. Back then I suffered my way through it but I knew on some level that someday I would appreciate these strange things that showed up on my plate. At night we would unroll what seemed like fifty pounds of sleeping bag that had belonged to my friend's older brothers when they were Scouts. Bless those poor souls for having to hike with those bags because they had to have weighed in as much as the kids. Those bags were Army green cotton with flannel plaid linings. We'd get in them and pray for rain. There was nothing like going to sleep with the sound of rain hitting a metal roof just inches over your dry head. Those sleeping bags smelled musty and I can sense it just sitting here writing about them. Our prayers for rain were often answered and I am sure that is mostly to blame. "Yule" was a loud snoring sleeper and having to get up and go to the bathroom at night was a terrifying experience. You had to navigate your way to the end of the camper through a path that couldn't have been more than ten inches wide. Getting past the snoring gentle giant in the complete dark was scary indeed. No matter what you did in that camper it was so easy to wake people up, and I knew if that snoring stopped I had <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">interrupted</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">some one's</span> nice deep slumber. What fun those days were. We were so young and carefree. Bug bitten and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">sun burnt</span> and so happy. My friends parents are now gone as is the campsite. But life is odd, truly. One of my favorite aunts decided to get a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">summer place</span> in Michigan a few years back. We had talked about all the work they were putting into their place and how much they were enjoying their summers. What I didn't know until later was that my aunt was spending her summers at my childhood haunt. It is her place now. So much has changed. Paved roads, lots of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">entertainment</span>, and even condos were built. But I am sure the essence remains the same. She has asked me up for a visit and I cannot wait for her to show me around. My Sandy Pines is gone, but hers is very much alive. And like good family genes, her present Sandy Pines will have enough of the old Sandy Pines to stir up all of those old childhood memories that I hold so dear. To you Floyd, Ruth, and Kristina- thank you for all those days in the sun.</span><br /><p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size:100%;">Note: The above painting by Paul Turner Sargent captures the Sandy Pines of yesterday with amazing clarity. </span></p>The Smithshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04025890895536026714noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1092874300993965302.post-58274816097195877112009-07-02T07:22:00.001-07:002009-07-02T07:49:47.865-07:00One Beauty Finds Another<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqoi3t1GaSAM9geSrt8YMviVnmQJnzxlPNKCogRWQXYugjiZ9SkdEVZyYmTlCz7ZoD_2OOlr8EIhhGEGy_jE69bNYvuI5tffpvYJK2eAcIsrOWtMhwAobER65QKrKmmBPj5VBe98GCuSGF/s1600-h/P7010049.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353868283602561906" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqoi3t1GaSAM9geSrt8YMviVnmQJnzxlPNKCogRWQXYugjiZ9SkdEVZyYmTlCz7ZoD_2OOlr8EIhhGEGy_jE69bNYvuI5tffpvYJK2eAcIsrOWtMhwAobER65QKrKmmBPj5VBe98GCuSGF/s400/P7010049.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">As </span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">I</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">slid</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">the</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">screen</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">door</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">open </span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">I </span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">heard </span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Wren</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">gasp,</span><br />"What's that?" she whispered. I gasped too. It was beautiful, almost too pretty to be real. With a wingspan of over 4 inches across I thought it was a paper toy at first. Then it fluttered. Oh no, had I caught it in the door? I quickly bent down and looked the critter over for injuries, and luckily found none. But it seemed disoriented and unsure of where to go. It seems as if it had spent the night lodged between the door and the screen and was working out some wing cramps. We marveled at the colors and patterns at play on the wings and the fuzzy orangeness of its large body. As I snapped a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">photograph</span> it suddenly took flight. What was it? I felt sure it was a moth. A quick reference check turned up that our critter was a Tulip Tree Silk Moth. The markings were <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">unmistakable</span>. Ours seemed to be a male. They search out females in the evening hours in order to mate. What a treat it was to be able to see one of these creatures up close. I imagine he is off looking for females somewhere and trying to find a less dangerous place to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">recuperate</span> after another <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">amorous</span> evening!The Smithshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04025890895536026714noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1092874300993965302.post-44537816460788046832009-07-01T07:57:00.000-07:002009-07-23T13:23:22.776-07:00Lily Love<span style="font-size:180%;">Something</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">quite</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">magical</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">is</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">happening</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">around</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">here.</span><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRD7Q7RoCZJxUiHU-ahzWFQAurF4-iy1k30dk0Kkz0h_983C8e_iHWuT2pht8JLeu6qZp9q4whTWCZZj6Emqu0uGQnjxMVP6Nx6l2sfvdtvHnbc_sLH50Xt99eRdd5nUz3_BELyNWe3yVQ/s1600-h/P7010047.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353507869285002962" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRD7Q7RoCZJxUiHU-ahzWFQAurF4-iy1k30dk0Kkz0h_983C8e_iHWuT2pht8JLeu6qZp9q4whTWCZZj6Emqu0uGQnjxMVP6Nx6l2sfvdtvHnbc_sLH50Xt99eRdd5nUz3_BELyNWe3yVQ/s400/P7010047.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGUA7iiT7tlyI9qzL3RxR69PdEAYrkfdqfP2ZU-GOXf1wLR7eW_bR_Xw1rRAhn3_ZsZ9AyeJrbWjzF2FKoyHSgHfE-A0HgXFiU2l6rfZGWhhUbLNRpjD5NEdmMr4CeeW_YSKxWEZnERL2T/s1600-h/P7010045.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353507868866925058" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGUA7iiT7tlyI9qzL3RxR69PdEAYrkfdqfP2ZU-GOXf1wLR7eW_bR_Xw1rRAhn3_ZsZ9AyeJrbWjzF2FKoyHSgHfE-A0HgXFiU2l6rfZGWhhUbLNRpjD5NEdmMr4CeeW_YSKxWEZnERL2T/s400/P7010045.JPG" border="0" /></a>For the past few years it seemed like the only lilies we had were the common orange <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">day lily</span> found along every roadside here in the Ohio River Valley. We had a yellow peek through here and there- that was until the whole clump of yellows was <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">accidentally</span> hit with a golf cart last year. Whether it is some blessing in the weather this year, or some unknown garden tonic bestowed by fairies in the night, we cannot for our lives figure out where all these colorful lilies have come from. What was once an orange display of beauty is all of a sudden a rainbow of different shades of reds, yellows, whites, pinks, and oranges. It is simply amazing.<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg71TYeEsNTtNG_SXmqAUtoQOpGOT56LTXR6ldYqUKyGQTTeHLl-MZxCyPDe-bypQgjXfz_6_gzfdxFSFzzdlK8M7ANf6M_z_cpBaw3QzmDPHG5_KmdlxBRufDtkZg0j7dI7qL7q9G0emT8/s1600-h/P7010041.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353506610346433794" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg71TYeEsNTtNG_SXmqAUtoQOpGOT56LTXR6ldYqUKyGQTTeHLl-MZxCyPDe-bypQgjXfz_6_gzfdxFSFzzdlK8M7ANf6M_z_cpBaw3QzmDPHG5_KmdlxBRufDtkZg0j7dI7qL7q9G0emT8/s400/P7010041.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />The name <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">day lily</span> implies that the flower only lasts a day, and despite having read this on numerous occasions, I can say with certainty that the flowers last much longer.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4AmyhyphenhyphenJmzr-N9yKraAjs41-AmgbCOv4zDr9GWT_IqBrlJsp3c0xNOnJr1VS44gE1JoXkbEkRe2L9K9fU87iwE8wR4VwQKTPgDrsi1DSYxJoxzUhHSGuPVTRYXwhl4Td04BMlo-AeOJDm4/s1600-h/P7010044.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353506605927411970" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4AmyhyphenhyphenJmzr-N9yKraAjs41-AmgbCOv4zDr9GWT_IqBrlJsp3c0xNOnJr1VS44gE1JoXkbEkRe2L9K9fU87iwE8wR4VwQKTPgDrsi1DSYxJoxzUhHSGuPVTRYXwhl4Td04BMlo-AeOJDm4/s400/P7010044.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />The colors are endless in how they combine. This one with its creamy petals and maroon center tinged with <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">chartreuse</span> is a favorite.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu7_2vRR0OxMGGKz_2VliHJXfUKfpBMQwYNsgG5mQogW6V3fHZ1xJ83UVF7RXIMIHw_1pGCGPMYDIqngpsyJ57JNr9DXcEBvWuz0XfBGL-s0HohAEKVQEHWDoG1OFkZ9dexU9HP2H1obL2/s1600-h/P7010042.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353506599986724354" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu7_2vRR0OxMGGKz_2VliHJXfUKfpBMQwYNsgG5mQogW6V3fHZ1xJ83UVF7RXIMIHw_1pGCGPMYDIqngpsyJ57JNr9DXcEBvWuz0XfBGL-s0HohAEKVQEHWDoG1OFkZ9dexU9HP2H1obL2/s400/P7010042.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />This was our more common color, and still the orange variety is our most <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">prolific</span>.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixC-9ffCSu0nKqvtlYe9M6XQnPy8BChLyhox-kS71YYij2jFyZ9EYZffBIIEfJRO5P1FXrApuKpoDfAq8UxsTIxAr7LY0S05DYrq0fCtsdBVD-aMC3AHYL5o8bCBIDE1ababjazyJUm-PQ/s1600-h/P7010043.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353506594162740274" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixC-9ffCSu0nKqvtlYe9M6XQnPy8BChLyhox-kS71YYij2jFyZ9EYZffBIIEfJRO5P1FXrApuKpoDfAq8UxsTIxAr7LY0S05DYrq0fCtsdBVD-aMC3AHYL5o8bCBIDE1ababjazyJUm-PQ/s400/P7010043.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />A buttery yellow specimen.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlFU9U8gLqi2X5pN98QPj1-39FWP64deDCL586Zc0E8z9gGUUbV9S0v4g7ixounF7UvgGWJTXo7QkbggU2CbkEGzZ04HoVDanC9B3E4fnrFr7wzF8feY-GSg_mnrERrfKEoP4IVyAs3oOj/s1600-h/P7010040.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353506589892883762" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlFU9U8gLqi2X5pN98QPj1-39FWP64deDCL586Zc0E8z9gGUUbV9S0v4g7ixounF7UvgGWJTXo7QkbggU2CbkEGzZ04HoVDanC9B3E4fnrFr7wzF8feY-GSg_mnrERrfKEoP4IVyAs3oOj/s400/P7010040.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />This one is magic, such a deep maroon that it nearly appears black.<br /><br />Whatever has happened with the lilies this year, we hope it continues. It is wonderful to come and go along the walkway and see such a wide array of flowers. I think I'll just go on letting Wren think it was the fairies. Who knows, maybe it was.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>The Smithshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04025890895536026714noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1092874300993965302.post-3783743234692937782009-06-24T22:17:00.001-07:002009-07-23T13:23:58.175-07:00My Angel FaceWren had her first role in a special wedding last weekend. She shared the honor of being a flower girl with her cousin who is just about the same age. The girls were so precious and took their jobs so seriously. Pictures from the day tell the whole story of how the girls felt like little Princesses in their twirly dresses. Wren's favorite book of the summer is Angel Face by Sarah Weeks and David <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Diaz</span>. I couldn't help but think of this story as I gazed upon this sweet face throughout the day.<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9ouSNt3ncKymZhC1sHyGIXoyUauHqITqHBYsSI8TIroxl-OBkBkX1c57bM9dxWf5hCI2qaHbjbx0wDDD8yFioE_B-gALQhH-aSgZ954Pm-5N-HIXzstQuS6dRJ6ZwW-0HBVyY3kk0hhFq/s1600-h/angel.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351130235957405106" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9ouSNt3ncKymZhC1sHyGIXoyUauHqITqHBYsSI8TIroxl-OBkBkX1c57bM9dxWf5hCI2qaHbjbx0wDDD8yFioE_B-gALQhH-aSgZ954Pm-5N-HIXzstQuS6dRJ6ZwW-0HBVyY3kk0hhFq/s400/angel.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;">"<em><strong>Angel's eyes are dusty almonds, </strong></em></span></div><div><em><strong><span style="font-size:100%;">Angel's mouth's a mango sliver, </span></strong></em></div><div><em><strong><span style="font-size:100%;">Angel's skin is steeping tea, </span></strong></em></div><div><em><strong><span style="font-size:100%;">Angel's hair's a rushing river. </span></strong></em></div><div><em><strong><span style="font-size:100%;">You would know it any place...</span></strong></em></div><div><em><strong><span style="font-size:100%;">my Angel's Face."</span></strong></em></div><div><span style="font-size:180%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBktIwJGp0UIvt5TdHIjIgFsS01Ys2pKN_WPLkc52OfKTbMngzSl11nBNT79kt9vljjbfAVc6PAsm34QD-DwFX9rpwSzZjMnPi6auKwV7x7mU0Q_PP9Z8NzHjwDlUSQSpYzqN4T8GO9_FX/s1600-h/angelface.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351130232409569186" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 111px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 111px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBktIwJGp0UIvt5TdHIjIgFsS01Ys2pKN_WPLkc52OfKTbMngzSl11nBNT79kt9vljjbfAVc6PAsm34QD-DwFX9rpwSzZjMnPi6auKwV7x7mU0Q_PP9Z8NzHjwDlUSQSpYzqN4T8GO9_FX/s400/angelface.jpg" border="0" /></a></span></div></div>The Smithshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04025890895536026714noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1092874300993965302.post-13191515795434748282009-06-18T10:41:00.000-07:002009-06-18T11:29:21.060-07:00Reflecting on Tasha Tudor 1915-2008<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTDoyLNZ1xf_BTIvTRSpcNREAFURnWdC7HTmztaYyzyzNSwbrlJ9U1iugdxhStp3xzWtPy-k6kkNW0bRZ4-xxCXdsXZI4KR3PZmoie4cKcdZPooBp4jcgBQ0puyJqAWGAxeVt0BDDOcoMw/s1600-h/tasha.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348728492998383250" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 306px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTDoyLNZ1xf_BTIvTRSpcNREAFURnWdC7HTmztaYyzyzNSwbrlJ9U1iugdxhStp3xzWtPy-k6kkNW0bRZ4-xxCXdsXZI4KR3PZmoie4cKcdZPooBp4jcgBQ0puyJqAWGAxeVt0BDDOcoMw/s400/tasha.jpg" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:180%;">As </span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">always,</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">she's </span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">been</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">on </span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">my</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">mind </span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">a lot</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">lately.</span><br />I found I had a difficult time choosing a picture to accompany this letter. So many of Tasha's photos depict her in the Autumn years of her life after she had gained so much <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">notoriety</span> in her art. And though I greatly admire Tasha's art, it is her life than I admired most. Not the life of travel when she was promoting her work, but the life I can only imagine that happened when she was alone or with loved ones. This is the most intimate portrait of Tasha that I have ever seen, and can only think Nell <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Dorr</span> to be the photographer. I can hardly imagine anyone else so close to Tasha to capture this picture of a young nursing mother. It is such a rare depiction of her life and must have been taken in the late thirties or early forties of the 20<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Th</span> century- which is in itself somewhat astonishing. Which of the four children this little beautiful babe is I do not know. But it is heartbreaking in so many ways with everything the family is going through with settling the estate of Tasha Tudor. What is evident to me is this. No matter what happened to cause the family to break apart as it has, Tasha loved her babies. It is written all over her face. The stress and trials of bringing up four children after she left her husband, I cannot even <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">begin</span> to imagine. Her art paid the bills. Perhaps this is the reason I feel more attached to her daily life than her art. In my head, it seems that for her it was a means to an end. Tasha was extremely protective of her private life and had a very structured life. To the casual onlooker it may not have seemed so, but for any modern person to shun all outside forms of media takes great discipline. No television, radio, or Internet. No reading other peoples Blogs, joining <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Facebook</span>, or writing emails. It may seem like she didn't care about the outside world. To me, it seemed like she cared about her inside world more deeply than to let the outside world get in the way. This is the notion that has been tumbling about in my head for the past months. I write on this Blog to those I care deeply about, and maybe to those who find some sort of shelter in a common soul. I can relate on so many levels to Tasha wanting to shun the outside world. Sometimes contact with people outside your protective circle can be more hassle than what it seems worth. The bottom line is that we often do not see the world the same way. These can include people we do not know, but it can also include those who should be most close to us, but for one reason or another are not. I would like to be the type of person who could overcome any transgression. I can forgive any hurt, but I cannot say I am able to readily give the other cheek for another slap, so to speak. Maybe this is how it was for Tasha and her family. Whatever is said or written, one thing I believe is true. Her family and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">home place</span> were her world. Taking care of her gardens, animals, and art left little time for wasted energy. Those who loved her knew where to find her. I wonder at her feelings of sentimentality towards the end of her life. Was this the reason she entrusted one child to the bulk of her life? In her heart, was he the one who <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">most</span> understood her? I did not know her so I cannot say. But I can say that we can empathize with someone we do not know, and I think this is entirely possible. A home takes a lifetime to build up and can be torn to pieces in a matter of months with the right attorneys. If you think I am speaking of brick and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">mortar</span>, think again. What is at stake here in Tasha's world is much more than her <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">home place</span>. It is a way of life that thousands cling to for strength in navigating a world far to concerned with the lives of other's. She remains a strong reminder for many of us that our life happens in the rituals of each and every day. If we become too engrossed in the lives of others, or in world events, we find ourselves at risk of losing touch with our own. Take Peace, dear Tasha. We miss you.<br /><span style="font-size:180%;"></span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ0lD9c1ZBrPVk5MOx0yI7PPI34FdScciPbW-BAnbnM9wu4QtgjzU3nAkvZSUnJfM1GoAPk7mkijvHI7_J3pwG0O76Veb0eSULisFeZYDsBjQkvRbTsfe7czlehlEbR5CYBiwTi6Y_J2mZ/s1600-h/tasha.jpg"></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxvyXZAVWq4Rtj5hKPKIxcZ2mhnzHW9kfHx_G-KZZdrnqPrik44EeDlpCBfZbYhB2AZjF2EDRtnlr3WU5naKQTIg2qXBUx6Mnfyv4-aIz6f0ZK79t6Brcke2ALTjmV2epFFAAAYbgAbVoo/s1600-h/tasha.jpg"></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXp-csg7Y8Re4GFNydffFzWdnjBB_MQUJcFs446zMiGgl_NwhOXpNzs9Zl1aICO6DTZKTB9Beyh3pGhApZGBpV6sOMXwFoJcFLZjh6NeiRiOqaaTOIkzH5f12ehkMlz5Mw8EaoyKpMGKy1/s1600-h/tasha.jpg"></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div>The Smithshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04025890895536026714noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1092874300993965302.post-91028332219728859232009-06-12T11:00:00.001-07:002009-06-12T11:34:44.226-07:00Paring Down<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn6qIyWP4RvlHt4Dfpr7yorvMOBhqHeBuS7RReBnOEYHoL_HpmDkRYHjwZGVRrw6K-ianzXxfocWQ7HgqNj5ZqhldeBoD7soT26VQ1UUnW7pdvi2JK7hr5Ue-8AuxZZGpMH1nEV8You1wk/s1600-h/P6120015.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346503601846803154" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn6qIyWP4RvlHt4Dfpr7yorvMOBhqHeBuS7RReBnOEYHoL_HpmDkRYHjwZGVRrw6K-ianzXxfocWQ7HgqNj5ZqhldeBoD7soT26VQ1UUnW7pdvi2JK7hr5Ue-8AuxZZGpMH1nEV8You1wk/s400/P6120015.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Lately I am </span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">finding</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">that what</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">I want</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">most for</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">my family</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">is room</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">to breathe.</span><br />I have had this vision of emptying the house down to the bare walls, putting everything out into the yard, and slowly putting only what we need and regularly use back into the house. For months now we have been cleaning out corners and cupboards and letting go of things. Once you have a little space that is pared down and feel the openness and simplicity, it <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">becomes</span> fairly an obsession to spread the effect around. Decorative things have been the first to go. If we cannot use it for something as well as admire its beauty, it is out the door. What is left is taking on greater meaning as we finally begin to notice things. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBQNfOTvKVLXuBlKLz69QpTZFnYbi9hHc51nNtYn6idBxkKlhqnlUhDlItqVvnAJheE6WC8zxXNAxNj6m2f7S8ICm46oM4ucbCTCqjRNjjCYqYglTC_5yysafT1ByPYbffy0ev1OuhXAkm/s1600-h/P6120019.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346503599343122322" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBQNfOTvKVLXuBlKLz69QpTZFnYbi9hHc51nNtYn6idBxkKlhqnlUhDlItqVvnAJheE6WC8zxXNAxNj6m2f7S8ICm46oM4ucbCTCqjRNjjCYqYglTC_5yysafT1ByPYbffy0ev1OuhXAkm/s400/P6120019.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />We had curtains in the great room that were Colonial swags. They did not match our saltbox, and worse, they did nothing. They offered no protection from light or cold as they could not be lowered or drawn. I had a roll of fabulous hemp fabric just sitting around in a closet and we are in the process of changing over all the curtains to a simple rod pocket and iron pull back style. The one window that is finished is blissful! Wren can play in her kitchen in the hot afternoon sun and barely notice the glare from the windowpanes.<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRkMypjvGE1NTEgMGRl71nXNtyJvvG4_uJwi79rsI5CApKIloSObmBn7kgi5svH8fLGgFsf9UB97aw6LdgQstJ138jrdf8Gyu5_OnoiJ9Ih_9d6uqvk6VDHvIXKggal90cJtiMhNLw5Zix/s1600-h/P6120016.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346503595707809954" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRkMypjvGE1NTEgMGRl71nXNtyJvvG4_uJwi79rsI5CApKIloSObmBn7kgi5svH8fLGgFsf9UB97aw6LdgQstJ138jrdf8Gyu5_OnoiJ9Ih_9d6uqvk6VDHvIXKggal90cJtiMhNLw5Zix/s400/P6120016.JPG" border="0" /></a> We had a lot of pottery displayed about and it was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">collecting a</span> lot of dust. If we cannot bake with it, put flowers in it, or <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">store</span> something in it, for the most part it left the house too. What we are left with are small groupings that work well together and get a lot of use. I appreciate the workmanship a lot more and notice how the colors change throughout the day.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLxKJudmbSUHVI4Q256kV-G5tgwvHnYrBV8-K8XrVdgzLs7bmBq_-q3099oZubrelsqpnj4P5eBu484Z6Vrz7akqHfQnTPE6NNTnbFpanQwbW9ynZDOn9IwOe2RUzaXoXP33jwn9HpwD7h/s1600-h/P6120017.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346503593596034898" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLxKJudmbSUHVI4Q256kV-G5tgwvHnYrBV8-K8XrVdgzLs7bmBq_-q3099oZubrelsqpnj4P5eBu484Z6Vrz7akqHfQnTPE6NNTnbFpanQwbW9ynZDOn9IwOe2RUzaXoXP33jwn9HpwD7h/s400/P6120017.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />All of a sudden I see things differently. I love old worn leather and the pieces we have are so comfortable. They now stand out in the room as main focal points because so much of the other clutter has been cleared away.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2edq2g1bikCNPtKWyrWDeEbaSGCF9EwWfYaM86Nk6UM8ueMwxy5DNDviPpJzt3VPI-ny6JMBTxeTT4eOAF3inm-98yauaSDVe44eNPz-9osYKdHM1Nip2KmHaXRHIaf7f5QhkQRK1Kbk3/s1600-h/P6120020.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346503592556417490" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2edq2g1bikCNPtKWyrWDeEbaSGCF9EwWfYaM86Nk6UM8ueMwxy5DNDviPpJzt3VPI-ny6JMBTxeTT4eOAF3inm-98yauaSDVe44eNPz-9osYKdHM1Nip2KmHaXRHIaf7f5QhkQRK1Kbk3/s400/P6120020.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />A hat stands ready at the front door stair banister and a little saddle pouch hangs over the rail. Wren likes to take these items and put her little treasures in the pouches and play cowgirl in the hat. An old saddle sits atop an ottoman nearby and every child who comes to our house loves to ride this <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">imaginary</span> horse.</div><div></div><div>I am amazed by how little we need these days. We have always needed so little...we just got a bit lost along the way. I still have months of cleaning and giving away to do, but there is light in the tunnel now in so many areas of our home. It feels wonderful with each new day of paring down and my burdens are getting lighter and lighter. It gives me time to think about those things in my home that matter most...my three family members. I hope they remember these times of letting go of things and I hope it sticks with all of us. What we enjoy more than ever nowadays is our time together, and that's something worth collecting.<br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div></div></div></div>The Smithshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04025890895536026714noreply@blogger.com1