• the quotidian (5.7.12 and 5.14.12)

    May 14, 2012
    Quotidian: daily, usual or customary; 
     everyday; ordinary; commonplace

    iris in my window

    a mousy graveyard: the day after the babies died (for the story of that dreadful day, go here), the kids picked them out of the compost pile and put them to rest all proper-like

    making the headstone

    living on lettuce and loving it

    after a trip to the greenhouse

    my son as Alfred the Baker in a community children’s theater

    my daughter was a courtier: her dress’s skirt had six layers which made her inordinately happy

    a picture that appeared on my camera

    afternoon coffee break

    one final cuddle before everyone drove off

    a love/bargain letter to their papa: before I left for an evening of rehearsals, they presented him with this letter in which they promised to clean up the house if he’d let them watch some Tom and Jerry episodes before bed (he did)

    under-baked oatmeal bread (my fault): we ate the non-doughy parts and fed the rest to the chickens 

    playing dress-up 

     

    This same time, years previous: lemon rhubarb chicken, bald-headed baby and raspberry-mint tea
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  • one more thing

    May 11, 2012

    I’ve been a little distracted lately. Maybe you noticed? Probably, since I’ve all but ceased to post. I wasn’t completely honest when I made that list last week about all the stuff going on in my life. There was one more thing.

    Last week my older son and I auditioned for a play at the local university. And got parts.

    !!!!!!

    And then I stopped sleeping and partway lost my voice.

    I have never acted before. I’ve always wanted to act, but there was no theater program in my high school and I was too intimidated and insecure in college to give it a shot. I wondered what it would be like to be a part of a cast, to learn lines, to rehearse. In fact, a couple years ago I made up a list of dreams, and “being an actress” was the first thing I wrote down. (Not that being in one play makes me an actress, of course.)

    I’m on a steep learning curve. I’ve learned that a rehearsal time of 6:30 means you are ready to go at 6:30—signing in, getting dressed, all that stuff happens beforehand. I had to google to find out what a “green room” was (because the green room sure didn’t look all that green). I finally understand “blocking.” I’ve learned that when the stage manager says we have two minutes of break left, we’re supposed to say, “Thank you, two,” which, for some odd reason, makes me feel very British.

    I still feel like my brain is getting flipped upside down when people say “stage left” and “stage right.” The other night the director was telling us to “center down” and I had no idea what she meant. I just stood there, clueless, and then my “sister” sat down on the bench and I realized the director was telling her to “sit down.” I’m so lost I no longer even understand regular commands!

    My son is a Union soldier (and a non-speaking draft dodger) and a meeting house member. He carries a gun and tries to grab my stuff and my husband beats him up.

    I am Edith, the next-to-oldest child in a family of five kids. I am newly married and get to act 15 years younger than I really am (shouldn’t be too hard, I’m afraid). I have disturbing dreams and visions—the one bedroom scene makes me think of Tevye’s nightmare in Fiddler on the Roof (though it’s nothing like it)—and my kids love hearing me rehearse them. I’ve taken to interjecting my lines into everyday life. For example, when my husband (the real-life one) makes a comment about me being stressed, I start wailing. “It’s like a raging river ripped me from the ground and dragged me down with it!” (Also, he now calls me “Eeeediiith,” in a creaky, old-man voice.)

    I’m learning to navigate a hoop skirt. There will be corsets (and bloomers and chemises and petticoats and stockings and boots and skirts and bodices and bonnets and FLAME RETARDANT MATERIAL (though I don’t think I have to wear any, which is kind of good since my biggest childhood fear was of being burned at the stake) (though it would be rather dramatic to go up in flames, don’t you think?).

    Oh yeah, and we have to sing. There are trios and rounds and mini solos. I am not a strong singer and have never sung in a choir, so that’s all new to me, too. (Go me!)

    The other night, my brother graciously came over to help my son practice his bass lines.

    I’ve been guzzling ginger-lemon (and lime) tea like my life depends on it. (Edith’s may.)

    Performances are scheduled for the first three weekends in June. I’ll keep you posted.

    This same time, years previous: apricot pandowdy, lemony spinach and rice salad with fresh dill and feta, hummus, and rhubarb sorbet

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  • the family reunion of 2012

    May 9, 2012
    The family reunion was this past weekend. 

    People camped out on the floors and on
    sofas and on air mattresses and in beds. We made food and ate food and
    washed up the dirty dishes that held the food. We played in the rain and
    tracked in grass and  swatted flies. We talked and sang and twanged
    strings. Kids had meltdowns and squabbles and dirty diapers and migraine
    headaches and fevers and rashes. There were birthday candles and water
    balloons and trampoline jumping and basketball games and finger rocket
    battles and sewing parties.

    Babies.

    Mamas.

    My uncle built this little man. It’s actually an instrument. The musician sits on the handle of the wooden paddle and hits it with a fist while holding the wooden man right above it. The paddle strikes the bottom of the man’s feet. The man dances wildly, his feet clicking and clacking merrily along.

    Mr. Wooden Man was the hit of the show.

    The children loved him.
    (Actually, there were two of them. The other one had clothes and hair and was named Titus, I think.)

    Singing his heart out.

    My mother read us a poem about my Grandfather.
    Little Willie bit his fingers. 
    Little Rachel chewed her hair. 
    Neither one could look at Russell, 
    Brother Russell, Russell Baer.
     
    and so on.
    “Enlightened,” from Chris Longenecker’s book How Trees Must Feel. 

    Donuts, of course!

    My aunt brought me this wire ladle (two of them, actually) for a hostess gift. It’s expressly for making donuts and other deep-fried goodies—the oil runs easily off the wires. It works like a charm.

    Right now I want a donut so bad I can taste it!

    I did not make enough. We devoured the entire recipe and kids were crying for more. And to think that I had considered not making any because I thought people might not really want to eat them!

    Finger rockets—they are now, like the donuts, a new tradition.

    Hello, dear brother! 
    Why, pray tell, are you taking my children on the roof in the heat of the battle? 
    Are you insane?

    A bouncing break.

    Neigh-eigh-eigh-borly horses. 
    (Sorry.) 

    Water balloon volleyball. 

    I think you should be able to rent four-week-old babies for parties. 
    They add so much to the ambiance.

    Proud.

    Taking it all in. 

    Singing siblings. 

    Cousins.

    Lunch prep.

    Digging in: spaghetti with creamed asparagus, ham, and boiled eggs.
    We got a family picture. There were better ones—meaning, there were ones where we were all looking at the camera and smiling. But I like candids better. 
    Meltdown!

     And then they all went home and I fixed myself a drink (just with the Triple Sec) and put my feet up.
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