on the shoulder raised, elbow arched, off-beat hop of delight.

Dinner is in the oven and every window is open, welcoming fall to stay for as long as it will.   Dead center in the space where the kitchen meets the hall, she begins to build a tower with her stacking blocks.

“Are you watching me?” she asks, as if my answer will determine everything.  So clearly, I’m watching and at the top she places a picture and her toothbrush, essentials for towers, I’m sure.  Next is her signature off-beat hop, wearing one shoe, shoulders raised, elbows arched, eyes twice their lovely size.  She applauds herself and shouts,  “Yes, Hooray!”  She’s part modern day Shirley Temple and part Pippi Longstocking, with all the charm of Shirley and all the stubborn quirky fire of Pippi.

“Will you put your hands like this and clap?” she says next, never ceasing to catch me off-guard.

I am informed that this is not a tower, but a “puurade”, or as you may know it, a parade.  And that brings me to think of all things they say which I will never correct, instead hoping to collect these little bits in an indestructible time capsule for always.  You know the ones, you can add yours too, if you like.  Like, how I need to hold you is really will you hold me?  And the way her brother first said, W, that made it last for approximately 18 syllables. It’s since become regular old W, three years later, but it was marvelous while it lasted.

Sometimes, I feel like I have nothing to write, because today I drank coffee, made breakfast, washed clothes, and had a picnic in the grass, which was short lived because the bugs were extra hoppy and hungry.  We collected flowers and autumn leaves and I held these not so small creatures as we read stories about nut-brown hares, Elmo, and Jesus. We did a reading lesson and probably, I watched Friday Night Lights while my boy played a game on my phone, during naptime.  Nothing major, but everything.  I should never believe that I have nothing to write, but sometimes, I do.  For when I begin a string of words, life unravels on the page, rich with the sweet nothings of noticing and remembering. 

And now they’re dancing to that damn reindeer dog with batteries that refuse to surrender.  In the glorious September sun that casts long lines across the floor, they all sing jingle bell rock.  I think I detect a bit of quivering in the sound recording, but it’s probably wishful thinking.

 

| Linking up with Heather and all those who Just Write.|

August 23, 2013: a note

The house was silent.  I walked into the kitchen as a golden burst rose from the dip in the trees and painted the room with a radiant, good morning.  The color so rich, it could almost be heard.  I imagine it would sound like a million sparkling prisms dancing and a shop wall.

My body captivated, my eyes alive in the golden room.

Then came the grinding of the beans, the filling of the kettle, rattling as it was placed on the stove, and soon traces of a little conversation between those two.

A new day.

 

August 19, 2013: a note

The light in her eyes and smile on her face before she turns toward the hallway in what is a mesmerizing combination of flight and dance.  Never just a walk, but a fully engaged offbeat choreography. Her small shoulders rise, her feet prance, arms floating in the air to the melody in her head.  It must be the most beautiful song.  Her long hair swishes and she’s gone.  But, always the pause and the wild, knowing eyes. 

 

May 6, 2012

On Sundays, I bake or buy bread and we take communion together, in the hours past loud, when the wild things sleep.  But this week, he came home repeating pieces of the Bible lesson from church for the first time and I suggested, let’s include him too. 

A candle flickered on the middle of the table making him a captive audience and wondering where the birthday cake was.  The dishes were cleared.  Baby girl in her high chair drank juice and munched on bread and made demands for the glass that held wine.  Her demands were not met. 

Daddy took the bread in his hands and broke a decent chunk for Hudson and you could see in his eyes, he was really listening, his mouth stuffed with homemade bread.  This is my body.  We took the bread.  Glassed raised in the air. This is my blood. We took our cup and gave him his.  He raised it in the air and declared, “Thank you Jesus!”

A toast for Jesus. 

Exactly.

The little tea pot that could

Currently watching a train movie with a very similar name for the 345th time and the coffee is black as night, except, we all know night is actually blue.  Blocks are turning into trains, tall zebras, and things to throw on the floor as I sit here ready ready to witness more of the great thaw of 2012. 

Last night, we took our little family to the store.  Our children laughed with puzzled faces as we tested out all the comfy looking chairs and touched interesting pieces of furniture.  Surely, they felt the injustice of being just onlookers.   We brought home of a fantastic rug in the remarkable colors of grey and yellow, no one is shocked and a new tea pot.  The latter is kind of big deal.

It was 2007. We were cute little newlyweds, living in the nicest and largest apartment that we have lived in to date (funny how that works, huh?)  After a marvelous week in the Smoky mountains, we come home to wedding gifts and our first home furnished with secondhand items galore.  It was perfection.

And we were totally and completely broke.  You know, as it should be.  Pay check was coming in few days and so began the list making of items we could not go without until that day.  Sheets for our bed. And a tea pot to boil the water for the French press. So sleep and coffee were the priority, some things never change. 

There we were standing in front of tea pots both grand and small, poor and beautiful, when we realized we had no frying pans or spatulas.  And that was the day we brought home the cheapest, smallest, little stainless steel-esque tea kettle in all of creation. (plus a skillet + spatula).

That little guy saw us through year 1, 2, 3, and half of four.  He boiled our water after two months worth of sleepless nights upon welcoming child #1 and a whole year of sleepless nights with child #2.  He traveled from our first apartment to our second to my brother’s basement to here.  A faithful friend, reliable and steadfast, always whistling the same strange tune, despite his very forlorn appearance.  Poor old guy, what a champ.

And the it was yesterday, that we were standing in that store, when my husband declared he would not be making the move with us to next place.  Without a moment of hesitation, I picked out a beautiful green thing, twice as large and five times more pretty.  I came home and tossed old faithful into the trash.

Just like that.

This morning, I must pause and pay tribute.  Thanks little guy, couldn’t have done it without you.

Memories collected in stitches: A Christmas stocking tale

And one stocking knit by mama makes four.  A {10+ hour} labor of love, of following patterns and making up my own. Every year I’ll notice the imperfections and remember the hours I spent counting stitches and how I learned to turn a heel {sounds like a dance move} and decrease for a toe.  We’ll remember my adoration of all things mustard yellow and grey, of bows and buttons.  Maybe, she’ll share those too or maybe not.

It’s unlike anything else, just like her and adds a crazy splash of bright, glowing spunk to our family lineup, just as she does.  I studied it late last night as I knit the last stitch, and it puzzles me and it delights me.  I’ve come to learn those are the best kind of creations, but something I could never explain. Maybe you understand.

To knit a stocking is something I’ve always wanted to do and I love that the first one is for her, my girl, on her first Christmas.

I see them all together, the ones we bought our first year as husband and wife (I didn’t know how to knit back them), the one I sewed for our boy from an old sweater and scraps, on our first Christmas as parents, and now…

our first as four.

Is that the reason for the timeless activity, do we knit to create a place for our memories to live?

Do you have a story about your own Christmas stockings? Please tell me.

one for the memory box: morning hello.

The baby o’non sleeper rises with the early sun.  She doesn’t need sleep, she just needs mama.  Strangely enough, mama needs sleep.  Remember when my first born child started sleeping through the night at 8 freaking.fantastic.weeks old on Christmas Eve?  The greatest gift ever. Hey, 10 months, get your act together. Is this the point in which we start comparing our children?  You know, your brother did this..

Anyways, how odd that two totally different babies would be, you know, different. So, I suppose this is payback for all the sleep I got prior to January 2011.. all those days I thought, whoa being a mom is totally easy. Fact: Everything is easier on a full night sleep.   But lately, us girls get up and drink some tea or coffee, I eat a casual breakfast, read a little or watch the travel channel. I love the travel channel in the morning. She plays contented by the fireplace o’electric .  I don’t mind so much these few hours in the morning. 

A few hours later, the golden child of slumber rises, seriously, like 9:30 or 10am.  Oh, beautiful boy after my own heart.  And I scoop up that little lump of morning lovin’ sugary sweet and we bounce over to his bedroom door.  I turn that wretched doorknob, the one I’m certain will not work one day and he will be stuck in his bedroom forever until we take an axe to it and then own the rental company 1,000,000 dollars.

And she looks around the room as fast as she can, already squealing with all the delight that 19 pounds can hold. She spots him and practically leaps out of my arms. And he’s so amused and responds, hi, pretty baby.

Hands down, one of my favorite parts of the day.

a tasty bit of grace

The day had been a  long one, heavy in the waiting and trusting, noisy in the kid department.  The kind where your energy drains faster because you are holding on to promises with all your might.

Lots of long stares into the cupboards, mostly bare, but not completely.  Lots of turned up ugly faces at the can goods and other random items, I guess to let them know how much you wish they were deep dish meat covered, cheesy pizzas instead.  Living within ones means can be a challenge and a battle of self-control at times. 

Oatmeal for dinner.

And we all sit around the table, reluctantly eating this gourmet meal, husband and I exchanging hopeful glances that could fill novels.  The baby foodie is grabbing at my bowl, as I’m breaking my rule of not holding kids while I eat.  The little boy is snacking on raisins.  Wooden Misters Elemant (Elephant) and Lion King (Lion) are walking across the table towards me.  Clip clop. Clip Clop.

“Hi Mama, Hi.  Hi Lion King. Hi Elemant. Bye.”

They march across the table in the opposite direction.

“Hi Daddy, Hi.  Hi Lion King. Hi Elemant.  Bye.”

A smile wipes across the daddy’s face.  A sparkle glows in the little boys eyes.

They march back across the table.

“Hi Mama, Hi. ”

And before he can get the rest out, my eyes catch the daddy’s and we laugh, the kind of laugh that melts away heaviness. A joyful batch of tears well up in my eyes. The sparkle grows brighter and he laughs too. Baby girl squeals. 

This is the most delicious part of the meal.

“Someday we’ll miss this” he said.  “Miss what?” I ask and he answers,  “being broke.”  (I don’t know if we will, but I wrote it down just in case.)

diy postcard calendar

Remember that baby book that you wrote in for a grand total of three weeks, the baby’s first year calendar with stickers that you decided was way too 1980’s for you, the piles of journals, and everything else you have to record beautiful moments of your life?   Well, here’s something you need that you might actually do.

I saw this diy vintage postcard journal on design*sponge and then all over pinterest.

What a perfect way to remember what you did for Valentines Day 2009 or when little Huckleberry lost his first tooth or how many times you watched You’ve Got Mail, without having to pour through seventeen journals.   {PS. I love the name Huckleberry and I’m not even making fun of it. You shouldn’t either.}

This weekend, I was feeding the baby, the remote was on the other side of the room and the television was muted, this movie came on and I started to read the dialogue (closed captions).  I had no idea what it was, but I got really into it, which is weird, because I have to know what a movie is called, I must know or else everything is crazy and the sky is falling, anyway… I kept watching, put the girl baby in her bed, and started working on my own calendar journal.  Well, the movie was Jungle Fever, circa 1991 and it was all kinds of terrible, I guess, but it was kind of good, in a bad way.  Whatever, I just wanted to set the scene for what I was doing while I was hand-writing the date of 365 index cards, because I don’t have a cool stamp like the picture above. Which brings me to my next point, I need that stamp.

I’m on the hunt for the perfect little container, perhaps a mini wooden crate,  but for now I used this case.  And I didn’t cut the cards in half, because that didn’t sound like fun, also I am  inherently incapable of cutting straight lines,  It’s one of my least favorite things to do ever….plus it gives me more room to write.

I took a little trip down memory lane and printed 12 photos that were either special memories or favorites. I changed them all to B&W because I like that and added text so that we’d always know when or where that photo was taken.  For example…

One of my favorites of the H’s. || Our trip to Alaska in October 2009

Our Wedding in Bell Buckle, TN 2007  || Our first date in San Marino, CA 2006

The only time Matt and H got to visit my grandpa’s house in Northern MN, Memorial day 2010  (Don’t worry, he just moved, he’s still alive.)  || Our first apartment in TN, 2007.

I also included a few recent family photos and one of each of the kids when they were born, with the date and city on it.

Everyday you just write the year and one line about what you did that day. Just imagine what memories it will hold after five years, recording everyday pieces that would soon be forgotten.

While I was choosing the photos I thought of a dozen ideas of what you could use to separate the months…

• Postcards, of course. Vintage or from your travels.
• Collect images of places you wish you visit and when you do, write down the date of when it happened.
• If you are into scenery, select your favorite photos from your adventures, be sure to include the place and date.
• If you are all scrap-book-y, you could create 12 little pages.
• Photos of all the front doors where you have lived. (OR houses or whatever)
• Favorite quotes printed on card stock
• Cutouts of vintage calendar pages
• Little notes that you have written to each other.
• Write little messages to you & your family in the future, be sure to sign and date.
• Dreams, wishes, goals you have for your family.  How great would it be to look back on them years down the road?
• Favorite Scriptures
• Copies of your favorite album covers, movie posters, etc.
• A random collection of photos of meaningful heirlooms or keepsakes
• You could use envelopes and store little treasures that you wish to save or pass down.
• A yearly photo of your kids, which you’d add throughout the years.

This might make a darling shower gift. Include a list of ideas for the recipient and insert fun little cards or paper in between the months, then they can choose whatever they want to do.

I keep it on the shelf next to my bed and every night right I just jot down one thing.

Yesterday, I wrote, 100 degrees, built a ford inside with H.

 

Would you do something like this?  How would you make it uniquely yours?

snapshots

Little glimpses of my days. Tiny moments to treasure.  Everyday goodness. So much goodness. 

“Memory is the treasure house of the mind wherein the monuments thereof are kept and preserved.

John Fuller

I don't hate Charleston

Oh Charleston.  Thank you for the most amazing trip, filled with sunshine, iced coffee served in mason jars, patio lunches, beer ketchup,  long strolls, endless laughter, incredible moments turned instant memories with some of my dearest on this planet.  I fell in love with you, the beautiful, inspiring, lovely city that you are… I miss you already.  Minnesota has nothing on you.

… except my two boys, which is pretty huge.

I’ll be back soon with many stories and photos, but right now we have back to back visits from family, and I’m still soaking in all the goodness from the past few days.

And… I’m still in denial that I can’t wear my flip flops and sundresses. I don’t want to talk about it.

evergreen branches dripping with sweet memories

Growing up, I remember decorating the Christmas tree with my family every year.  Sometimes, we’d just have to go out into the woods behind the house and chop it down, but on occasion, the tree would come home to us, tied on top of the car.  No matter how it came to us, it was always real and smelled of sweet pine.

My dad would string the lights and the rest of us would cover the tree in all of our favorite ornaments.  I’m sad to say that I do remember a few years when those musical, twinkling, dancing blue lights hung from the branches, but I blame the ‘90s.  Beyond those crazy little things, I know we had colored lights, large and small, and white ones too.  I didn’t know better then, but now I’d have some objections. 

But the best part was all the ornaments, with a family of five kids, you can guarantee that a majority of them were Sunday school projects and naturally, these beauties wouldn’t win any contests, but that didn’t matter because we made them.  Each of us had certain ones that WE had to put on the tree, every year, it was serious ordeal.  Then there was a mix of ornaments that my mom thought were pretty, you know, the kind of  things that moms think are pretty… but no one else does,  we never fought over those.  However, no ornaments were rejected on our wonderful eclectic tree covered in years of memories.  That’s the way we liked it.

Looking back, I can say that my white felt dove from Sunday school was probably a bit disfigured and the macaroni angels that started looking haggard and worn after a few years, but I still loved them all.  I loved the stories and memories that covered our tree every Christmas season.  It was perfect.

And then one year came the heresy of all heresies, brace yourself, it gets bad.  My parents came home from Lowes with some supplies for another  project around the house and something else that can only be described as a terribly, impulsive purchase.

A white artificial Christmas tree. 

It gets worse.

Along with that “tree” were boxes and boxes of bulbs, strings of beads, ribbons, and glass ornaments that were ALL iridescent and purple.  All of them.  White tree. Purple lights and perfectly matching, obnoxiously matching ornaments. 

We were outraged.  I mean, outraged.  Who buys a fake tree?  Don’t you know trees are green, not white?  Why do we need matching ornaments? What about all of the ones that we made and love?  How could you do this to us?  Don’t you love us?  What kind of Christmas will this be with your new fake matching tree?  What do you mean there’s no Santa?  You ruined Christmas.

I can’t be sure, but it probably went down something like that.  But, they thought it was pretty and I guess pretty was more important than ruining Christmas forever.

I like to think that we were super convincing because even after bringing that monstrosity into our home, we still got a real tree and covered it with our beautiful creations of felt and glued together, glittery noodles.   Their “tree” went in the family room downstairs, while our tree reigned victoriously upstairs for all to see.  I think we even insisted that gifts be opened around our tree too, but I might be making that part up, it’s all a bit hazy.

I even remember at some point the moment that our dear mother broke our hearts by saying that our childhood ornaments weren’t ever really as pretty as her new purple ones.  Perhaps, she thought we were old enough to handle such a cruel and damaging statement, but she was wrong and every year I remind her of this wound when I see that fake, all- matching tree.  I suppose one day, I should let it go, but I can’t say I see that happening any time soon. Besides, it’s kind of fun to bring up every single year. 

Oh, how our childhood affects us so.

My husband never had a real tree growing up, but he quickly agreed that we would be  a real tree family.  I sure picked a good one.  For the first three years of our marriage, we bought a small tree and only added a handful of new ornaments each Christmas.  This year, we bought our first big tree and it's covered with a collection of beautiful and random pieces.  I write the year on each one, so that one day we’ll look back and remember the ornaments we bought for our first Christmas or the ones that H helped pick out when he was two.  Each year, we find at least one photo frame ornament to capture that time in our lives, our family just as it was.  2007 shows just the two of us, our first Christmas as Mr. and Mrs.  In 2008, there were 3.  Next Christmas, our little frame will contain a picture of four.  If a picture is worth a thousand words, imagine the volumes that will spill from those branches in twenty years.

I guess what I’m saying is that I love my real tree that smells of decadent pine and covers the floor in hundreds of little green needles.  I love how our tree says something about our family, with Santa riding on trains and sailboats, shiny silver snowflakes, Starbucks ornaments, and even a funny little bird in a striped red and grey hat.  And this year, you’ll find the ornament that H chose, a wooden zebra sitting at the very top of the tree, at first as a joke, but after a while it was clear that would be his home for the Christmas of 2010.  Each treasure hanging from the branches is more than ornament, it’s a memory and a celebration of our little family and to me that is what makes Christmas so magical.

So what about you?  We don’t all have to be the same.  What does your Christmas tree say about you?  Real or fake?  All matching? A color scheme? Covered in vintage, eclectic ornaments? Ribbons? White lights or colored?  Whatever the case, what do you love most about it?  What makes your tree so special and so magical to you?

{Liv}

a weekend at grandpa’s. part four: conclusion.

This is part four of a series of posts on my recent trip up North to my grandfather’s house, the last time before he would be moving away from his gorgeous lake house to an assisted living home.  If you missed any of the posts, start  here.

I really enjoyed recording the memories from our weekend trip to my grandfather’s house.  Living  a life of beautiful moments and priceless memories is very important to me, so I believe that no event is too insignificant to remember, because too many things are forgotten. 

As I get older, I am beginning to see that all those silly people who said, “time goes by so quickly, don’t wish it away,” were annoyingly right.  It goes.  Quickly.  So, remember, cherish, love, and live intentionally. 

To conclude these posts, I want to share a few last words.  These are not my own, but I’ve already shared my best.  These words are beautiful, honest, and true.   I leave you with these thoughts from my amazing husband, Mr . Moore.

My wife's Grandfather is 89, and his name is Fred. Fred lives in Minnesota, in an unusual house, on a lake. He built the house in the 1980's to help welcome him and his wife into retirement...his wife, Irma, my wife's Grandmother, passed away recently, and the house that love built has been sold to another couple, nearing retirement. Grandpa Fred is moving to an assisted living home... We spent the night in Fred's unusual house, heard stories, saw loneliness...indulged in sentiment. I will always remember the house that Fred built, not for it's unique charm, detailed craft, nor energy efficiency...I will always remember the house that Fred built for it's warmth, and the man who built it.
Age comes like a thief and takes...but the unusual house that Fred built stands as a testament to the purpose it served...and the accomplishment of one man with great vision and skill to accomplish something great.

 

-Liv

a weekend at grandpa’s. part three.

This is part three of a series of posts.  Find the rest here.

Part One.  Part Two

“Tell them the story about how you met mom, Fred,” said my mother, as the four of us sat in the cozy living room, a straight relic of the 70’s, clearly untouched by time, in the quiet of the evening hours.  The commotion of the day had ended, the tormenting toddler was soundly asleep, and my sister and cousin were watching Twilight from the laptop in the loft, sharing a pair of headphones, occasionally giggling and swooning—as girls do.

Out of his gentle mouth came the first sentence that shifted our attention to the reality of loss; the very reality of why he was moving out of his beautiful home. 

“Oh, well she would have been able to tell that story much better than I can.”  His composure remained strong, but in the inflection of his words, we heard both the loneliness he was now feeling  and the sweet love  of those memories. 

This is their story.

He was born in 1921. He remembers the great depression well.  He fought for our country in World War II.  He spent most of his adult years caring for his mother, never marrying.  He was the head supervisor of the successful box plant in town, a position and reputation that many respected.

Jump ahead about forty years, my grandmother, Irma, had recently become widowed, her children were grown and out of the house.  Fred and Irma both attended a wedding of someone from town.  Her son-in-law was playing in the wedding band. He was kind, gentle, and shy.  She was bold and opinionated.  She asked him to dance.  He was unsure of his dancing abilities, but agreed.    It all started there and months later, she was also the one who suggested they get married.  They did.

Both in their sixties, they had found love, a first of sorts for both.  For him, it was the first time being married.  For her, she finally found a loving, gentle, and kindhearted man who would fill her life with joy and goodness, much unlike the years prior.  My mom being seven months pregnant, with my brother and living in another state missed the wedding, because the doctors cautioned against travel at that point in her pregnancy.  She regrets it still.  It was a simple wedding and my grandmother wore a yellow dress.  Yellow was her favorite color.  My mom hates yellow.  It’s one of my favorites. 

Nearing retirement, Fred started construction on the beautiful lake house that would be their dream home.  It was finished by 1989, every detail so precise and full of fine craftsmanship, accompanied by the beauty of the blue Minnesota waters and grand trees.  It was their own haven.  In their home, little changed but time did not stand still.  Their children aged.  Their grandchildren started their own adventures to adulthood, marriage, and families and now the great grandchildren are coming and growing with each new day.  The world around them changed, but so much stayed the same here.   The decor looked  just the same as it had ten years before, with only the photographs being updated to announce the times.

As time continued, their age and its affects came too.   It happened first to her and it came in the form of a stroke.  And then another.  While his mobility wasn’t what it used to be and his vision was fading, they took care of each other the best they could as she attempted to rehabilitate and get well.  Things didn’t improve and in 2008, they said goodbye.

Death is certain and life is precious, and they shared both.  They just got a later start on it than most. 

As my husband and I sat in the living room with my mom and grandpa, listening to the sweet beginnings of their story, we squeezed each other’s hands, perhaps to hold back our own tears… perhaps to say, never go away. 

His wrinkled, kind face smiled a most tender smile and he said, “We would have been married 30 years this month,” and he paused, “I hope they were good years for her.  I know they were good for me.”

 

---

We squeezed each other’s hands again, even tighter this time… but this time, it didn’t stop the tears.

 

{Liv

 

{Tomorrow, the conclusion of this week’s posts on our weekend at grandpa’s.}

a weekend at grandpa’s. part two.

{Find part one here.}

After a full day of exploring the house, seeing relatives,  playing in the lake, and dealing with an angel of a toddler who had rejected his entire afternoon nap, we executed an early bedtime for  him  and escaped to the dock with fishing poles in hand, just us.  The sun was gracefully setting and the world around us was still except for a few loons who softly glided across the water signing out an enchanting tune. 

A handful of eager little fish practically jumped on our lines at the promise of a tasty worm.  I named them all.  It was fun, we laughed.  I impressed my husband with the fact that I could bait my own hook and remove my fish from the line.  Our hands became covered in worm slime and fishy smells.   But most of all, those moments of fishing were serene and refreshing as the commotion around came to a pause and a cool summer evening happened upon us.

Dark, silent clouds rolled across the blue water, increasing the levels of grey in the skies and intermittently little showers poured out onto the earth.  Have you ever watched the rain dance on the lake?  It’s mesmerizing.  It’s like a soundless orchestra playing a beautiful symphony.  You can’t hear anything, but your eyes take it all in, the rhythm and notes of heaven’s song. 

These moments of  reveling in the beauty of the cool air, the still water, and the majestic sky eased my busy mind.  For most of the day, I sifted memories of being a small child who traveled a great distance with my family for a visit to the grandparents house.  My world was so different in those days.  I was so different, but I suppose, so much the same.  Yet, here I was, no longer the child, but an adult in this place flooded with memories of my past, a place equally familiar and foreign.  Or perhaps, this place remained familiar and I had become foreign?  This place knew nothing of who I had become, only who I had been.     These quiet minutes momentarily merged this place of my childhood with the person who I am today. 

-Olivia

Stay tuned for part three.

Photos by Matthew Moore, a.k.a. the husband.

a weekend at grandpa’s. part one.

This weekend we traveled North to a small town in Minnesota to visit my Grandfather, (my mom’s stepfather, her father died before I was born).   It was the very first time that my husband and son ever met him.  It was the first time I was able to show them his house, which I have always admired.  Sadly, this was also the last opportunity that we’d be able to visit him at his lake front, dome shaped home. 

My grandmother passed away last year and he is eighty-nine.  He still lives alone.  His vision is very poor and it’s too much work to maintain the place and he’s starting to need more help with daily activities.  The beautiful home  that he built in 1988  has been sold and he is moving within the next month to a sort of assisted living place.

It’s the saddest thing to know that he won’t be there for much longer.  It’s a place that feels so familiar, but ironically, before this weekend, I can’t remember the last time I visited.  The past few days were such a mix of nostalgia and bizarre unfamiliarity, I wonder if these words will do my thoughts justice.

The truth is that I’ve never been close to my grandparents.  I never lived by any of them.  I never rode my bike to their house after school.  I never visited for the ritual Sunday dinner.   We’d see each other on rare special occasions and we would receive birthday cards and Christmas gifts in the mail each year, but I can’t say that I really felt close to them.   Both of my parents moved away from their small hometowns and never really looked back.  I knew they were good, kind people.  I knew small pieces of their life stories.  I know they always loved to see us (and still do, of course), but our relationships don’t go much deeper.  I admit it sounds a bit depressing, but that’s all I’ve known.   

This weekend, I was so excited that Matt would be able to finally see in person, all the stories that I’ve told him about this place.  Then, I literally spent a good part of the four hour drive, trying to remember all the “memories.”  I counted five.

1.  I remember an old photograph of my parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and some of us older cousins (who were not so old then) all sitting on the grass and playing in the lake.  I was a baby, so it’s not my memory, but I remember the picture.  I am certain that was a wonderful day.

2. I remember my whole family, maybe six of us then, crammed on a small paddle boat fishing on the lake.  I remember catching a fish and naming him George.  He was small and I couldn’t keep him.  I gave him his freedom.  I’m sure he went on to live a wonderful life.

3.  I remember my Grandmother telling me that a banana would spoil my dinner.   I remember feeling so hungry and that it took eternity for dinner to actually be ready.

4.  I remember as a child sleeping in the loft, above the living room, which I thought was the coolest space ever.  They had the evening news on below, quite loudly and my Grandmother told me that I had to sleep instead of peering over the edge.  It was too loud, I told her, but she informed me that I still must go to sleep.

5.  I remember the house.  For some reason, this has been my favorite of all the memories and I’m trying to understand why.  It’s just a place, a rather spectacular home on a lovely lake, in the middle of Minnesota nowhere.  This home doesn’t fill my mind with wonderful stories of the best moments from my childhood; it is a small side note in my story.  It’s somewhere I visited a handful of times in my life.  Yet, I love it there. 

Now, I have a sixth memory to add to that last. 

This weekend. I loved sharing this place with my husband, this place that I cherish so idyllically.  I loved watching our son call after the ducks and throw sticks in the yard.  I loved listening to the story of how my Grandfather met my Grandmother and how this month they would have celebrated 30 years of marriage, if she was still alive.   I want to share those stories with you this week, because they are memories worth sharing. 

While it’s easy to understand why this new arrangement will be so much better for him, it’s still sad to know, he won’t be there, in this place that I remember so well and at the same time, so little.

What about you?  Is your childhood full of memories of days spent with your grandparents and relatives?  What are you favorite memories of those times?

-Olivia

mug shots #1- honeymoon mugs

As promised, here’s the debut of a new series of posts called Mug Shots.  What is mug shots, you ask?  Well, it’s a bit of a writing exercise/self-analysis/glimpse of a person through their coffee mugs.  I know you have that favorite mug that you reach for every time you enjoy a nice warm beverage.  You may not be a coffee drinker, tea or hot cocoa may be your drink of choice, and that’s alright, but if you let me, I’d convince you that you should be .  It’s a proven fact that both of my college roommates and the husband have become serious addicts, it’s probably my fault, and I’ll take the credit for that.

Previously I shared that the husband and I started a tradition on our honeymoon of buying a pair of coffee mugs from Starbucks every year.  Maybe one day we’ll get them somewhere else, but so far, I don’t see that happening.  We’re big fans, which of course, you didn’t know.

|Card available from Palette theory via Red Bubble here|

Here’s a picture of our honeymoon mugs. They obviously are not identical but they were from the same line, just like Matt and I were two different people starting our lives together, but sharing the same purpose.  They are rather elegant as far as design goes, perhaps this speaks to all those notions of having all the nicest things and making the most perfect little house resembling something out of a catalogue, rather than the reality of having used furniture and some nights, you’ll eating cereal for dinner.  {But really, cereal can be just want you want for dinner sometimes, right?}  I love the combination of two different color schemes and patterns, but complimenting each other just the same. 

I love that besides these two mugs, the only other thing we purchased on our honeymoon was season two of The Office.  We had some seriously limited funds, but we loved every second of our  cabin escape to the Smokey’s.  Since that week of September 2007, we’ve used those mugs and watched that season more than we can remember, talk about quality investments.

So, there you have it.  As I share thoughts and pictures from years 1 and 2, you’ll see part of the development and growth of our marriage.  It’s so obvious and hilarious to us, maybe you’ll notice too.  Oh and incase you are wondering, we never, ever use each other’s mugs.  It’s just a his and hers kind of thing…. and truthfully, we only allow other people to use certain ones.  I’m not even lying.  We’re funny like that.

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I’m still waiting to hear from you.  Send me a picture and a few paragraphs about you and your mugs.  Maybe you have more than one favorite, don’t worry, so do I. 

I’m off to make some coffee and restart Baby Einstein for the 100th time.