Drama Queen

I wish we didn't have to lock up our virgin mothers.

I was thinking dark thoughts this week and it occurred to me that at least once in every decade of my life my heart has been irreparably broken - when I was a sad little girl, an angry teenager, a young mother, a grown-ass woman who should have known better, an exhausted almost-crone. I thought to myself, "Oh woe is me to suffer such regular, unrelieved sorrow. I really should write about it."

Then I smacked my coffee cup smartly into my front teeth, jolting my feeble mind back to reality. Heart-rending grief at least once a decade? You LUCKY bitch!

I wore my sequin dress and new glasses for a while. That's all I've got.

When I Rest In Peace

I just turned 50 in December. It is so very fine to be 50, especially when the alternative is to not be anything except, if you are lucky, a memory.

I write the following with no sense of morbidity. The first time my father almost died, I joked with him about what our obituaries or tombstones would say as he was recovering (some people might think that is a bit insensitive or odd, but it worked for us).

My mother and I have also talked a few times about what makes a great obituary. I have read a few that I loved. Mrs. G posted a wonderful obituary to her blog and this reminded me that I had been determined to make a start on my own.

It is a tremendously difficult task to create a portrait in words contained in just a few paragraphs. I do think it is a task worth undertaking when I think it may be the only "knowing" of us that a  descendant may have.

Here is my first shot at it:

Kelly is eternally grateful for the great sex, delicious food, music, books, and most ardently for her family especially her wise and beautiful children.

Her life goals included:

becoming half as good a woman as her mama

sharing the bleak Irish humor she inherited from her grandfather John Kelly with those she loved at the most importunate times

eating all the cake

being an O.K. - enough human being to merit the love of her many fine canine companions

keeping her teeth and hair

practicing patience and kindness and ecstatic mental yoga

being loud

Depending upon which of her friends or family you speak to, she was either a great success or an abject failure at achieving her goals. All will agree that she was trying.

Long Time Sun

may the long time sun shine upon you
all love surround you
and the pure light within you
guide your way on

2012 You Were Batshit or Was It Just Me?

Kisses lovers. This is what 50 looks like the day before it hits.

I squandered  49 in procrastination and sadness. How incredibly stupid.

I am  grateful everyday for my family. I have to keep my attention on fine details because the big picture right now makes it hard for me to breathe. I am trying to let go of fear. That is such a hard thing to do. I am sporadically creative and feel in my bones that therein lies my salvation. Where is the courage required to leap?

There have been years from which I ungraciously took my leave claiming I would not miss them. Hello 2009! But I will. Right now, feeling properly old (thanks Mama for the AARP membership including bright red retro fanny pack!), I see them for what they were. Opportunities squandered. And fuck that.

So, barring Mayan prophecy, 2013 will be wooed. No more waiting for perfect conditions. I'm leaping. And I know I'll land where I should. Like always, I'll land on my feet. Remind me to tell you about how I used to jump off my horse Marmalade at a run and stick a perfect landing every time just for fun. That's how I roll. I truly do love you.

Valley of the Dutch Babies and Mountains for Cowboys

I've been away. Caretaking. Driving up and down between 5800 ft and 8000 ft in the San Juan Mountains of Colorado where my father lived until he rolled his car and changed his circumstances.

One day, driving home from the hospital I saw this scene at the local Denny's. We are not in Portland any more.

I can't sort out all the emotions, ideas, revelations, and resignations of this trip just yet. Still in the midst of figuring out the fine points.

When I drove home down that mighty and magnificent Columbia river  gorge and rounded a bend to find the tip top of  my sweet Willamette Valley I could finally breathe. I tasted the moisture in the air. I drove down an everyday street in this beautiful place and saw every sort of person in every sort of dress. No cow ponies or cows at Denny's. But I did see a goat mowing a lawn and my own fine dogs dancing with joy. And, best of all, the people that I love who make this place home.

In honor of the fullness of that I made a dutch baby that my baby and I just devoured.

 

Moan at the cliche if you will, there is no denying that, for me, there is no place like home. And home is a green, wet, fertile valley that terminates at its northern border in a confluence of the Willamette and Columbia rivers and lies just a low, misty mountain pass away from the Pacific ocean.

To make a dutch baby:

Heat oven to 400 degrees f

Grab your cast iron skillet and cut up an entire stick of butter to toss into pan

Place skillet with butter in hot oven and melt

Meanwhile:

In blender or with a whisk and large mixing bowl beat 6 eggs, then add 1 1/2 cups milk, then slowly whisk in 1 1/2 cups flour and whisk/blend for a minute.

Quickly pour egg mix into melted butter in skillet. Place back in oven and cook for 20 to 25 minute. Dutch baby will puff up and become golden.

Top this golden goodness with a squeeze of lemon and powdered sugar or jam or maple syrup.

If you are wildly inspired, during the intial butter melt, toss in a couple handfuls of thinly sliced apples and a handful of brown sugar and let this cook for a few minutes in the oven before pouring over your dutch baby mix. My oh my! how your mama doing?

In other news, this is lovely and again, not news to anyone, but such a wonderful reminder. Also, via the ever lovely, often poignant Miss Whistle our beloved Stephen Fry on Kindness something my glorious mother with her generous wisdom suggested as my mantra for the trip.

Here was the view driving back to Ouray every night for the past couple of months. Spectacular.

 

The Beauty of Brown Bears and Salmon

I always joke that I could be a brown bear. My favorite foods, foods I grew up eating in Alaska, include salmon and berries. My sister-in-law just posted a link to brown bears fishing at Brooks Falls in Alaska. It is too gorgeous not to share.

Brown Bears and Salmon. A perfect marriage. They each need the other. There is no need to root for one over the other. Neither exists without the other. May they be together always.
When I was a little girl I used to love it when my parents would take us to the restaurant at the visitors center at Mendenall Glacier where I would consume the words most delicious tuna sandwiches ( I have tried to recreate these sandwiches to no avail-closest I get is buttering both sides of the bread and spreading a very light layer of mayonnaise then piling on the tuna and adding some salt). Beside the road on the drive to and from the glacier runs a creek. I remember watching it carefully as we drove up when the salmon were running. Dear reader, you could not see the water for the fish. A creek of flashing silver as far as my eyes could see. I imagined it always had and always would be so rich with life.

I remember taking my son to see the Trask River Fish Hatchery here in Oregon one fall as the Chinook were spawning. In Oregon fourth grade public school students must do a report on a state county and my beautiful child scored Tillamook County-home to so many treasures including, conveniently, Al & G Ma's beach cabin in Rockaway.We embarked on an epic exploration of all things Tillamook from the highly recommended Historical Pioneer Museum to the Cheese Factory. We decided to check out the fish hatchery after visiting a nearby Pioneer Cemetery.

There I stood, suspended on a gangplank above the river, caught completely by surprise, sobbing at the sight of so many glorious fish. I never imagined I would ever see such a richness of salmon again after leaving Alaska. I knew it was just a small, hatchery raised group that I was witnessing in the magnificent, poignant finale of a journey as mysterious as it was epic. And there I stood weeping for the bears and the salmon and the native people and the fisherfolk and the little kids (the little me) who knew abundance and now knew that richness was gone. And I wanted my son to understand that story so desperately-to recognize those fish as life-bearers, as silver and red, exhausted gods creating whole worlds with their struggle.

Brown bears can be scary even though they most often remind me of my favorite dogs. We camped on Kodiak Island and heard stories of visitors who had  to swim for their boats as they were chased off the beach by big bears. As we hiked to our cabin, we would ring bells and sing camp songs as loud as we could so the bears could avoid us. I remember marveling at my parent's good humor when all around us prowled hungry brown bears. I was sure we would eventually be eaten but I never let it deter me from running around that island with my brothers splashing into lakes and picking salmon berries.

Silly me, I thought plump children would be more delicious to summer hungry bears than fat salmon. There is nothing more delicious than fat salmon.

On my father's first week of work as state highway engineer, one of his survey crew was killed by a bear.  I knew and respected their power even as a child. And I loved them. I love them. As ferocious as they are.

I hope they live long and prosper and send descendants out into the future to meet up with an ocean tested multitude of fat, shiny, oily, rich, beautiful life-giving fish.

Office Depot Love Letter

Email marketing rarely moves me. But to see that Office Depot teamed up with Lady Gaga and the Born This Way Foundation really made my day. And it will stick with me. Courage in the face of this bully culture some so desperately want to cultivate (I'm shouting at you Sheriff Arpaio and you Michelle Bachmann and you Westboro Baptist Church and oy vay the list!) is a very beautiful thing (You listening Domino's Pizza and Target?). So, I wrote them a fan letter:

"I have never written to thank a company for marketing emails before but Office Depot deserves applause for teaming with the Born This Way Foundation. Our country has such a divisive landscape. Our politicians happily proclaim their bigotry, racism, and sexism. People wear their hatred and fear of others as  badges of honor. It is time for all good citizens (even, perhaps especially, corporate citizens) to take a stand for justice and to defend the rights of all people to safety and self-expression without fear of violence and shame. Thank you so very much. I will never have to decide where I purchase my office and art supplies. You have made me a happy customer."

I'm off to buy some post-its and custom sharpies!

A Long Road Trip

Wow. I got no mojo flowing. The mayhem maker has us all chasing our tails as we await what will be. Cryptic enough for you?

It is hard to love people who don't love themselves. That sounds so obvious. Stupid platitude. But in practice, to love someone bent on their own destruction or even just too sick to see they are courting death, is an exhausting thing. Sometimes you want to stop loving them.You want to let them go. Sometimes you wish it was over. Sometimes you feel guilty for entertaining that thought.

I love my brothers. We are each so different. But when I feel small and vulnerable and overwhelmed, I can fall back into a time when it was we three sitting in the back of an old car listening to the radio and singing along with each other. The middle child so very earnest. The baby so affable, sweet, and beloved. And me the big sister bossing and trying to make sense of the chaos. We were together. We were not alone in the world.

This song reminds me of them just because we sang it out loud together on one of our many long road trips.





And for the one who needs it, some truth as I see it and a little hope:

Mehdi Hassan

Years ago I found your voice. If Heaven  exists, your music is it's sound. Rest in peace Maestro.

A Trip to Hulda's Garden

Ugh. Not so pretty "new" interface for the bloggists Blogger.What fresh hell? Must everything be "updated"? I am having a lot of trouble with change right now and this just looks like more bad news.

Guess I should just jump in dear reader and start where I am. On a blank page.

Beautiful time of year here in old PDX. Posie published a great list of things to do when you are in Stumptown. So go check that.

Photo by moi

Made a lovely visit to the Hulda Klager Lilac Garden with my own glorious mother and my beautiful baby boy. The gardens are open every year for a couple of weeks before Mother's Day to celebrate Hulda's legacy. When I discovered that Hulda lost everything in the floods of 1948 and had to start again at age 83, I was inspired to face my own neglected garden.

10 years ago, in a fit of rage, someone I loved took an axe to my own 100 year old lilacs in the backyard. They were at least 18 feet tall and 20 feet wide-a veritable lilac perfumed forest. I suspect they were just one more thing he could be jealous about.

My dear neighbor Hazel, who was born in the house next door, told me the lilacs had bloomed that prolifically all of her long life. My house is now at least 123 years old and the lilacs were here for most of that time. I have mourned them each spring and avoided my backyard (site of the massacre) for too long.

 My mother bought a beautiful Sarah Sands lilac, hybridized by Hulda, as a gift for me. So, I'm putting on my gauntlets and heading out to do battle with a forest of blackberry and residual heartache. Wish me luck.

For Mother's Day I painted my fingers. Early in the morning, before the temperatures climbed into the very un-Portland-like high 80's, we walked over to the Cartopia food carts on Hawthorne and ate crepes in the sunshine. It was a perfect day.

I think that you are aware my dear reader of how deeply grateful I am to have been gifted the mother I have. To share two beautiful, sun-filled days with both my mother and my son in a single week was so lovely. I do hope your Mother's Day was just as sublime.

Today's highlight, in addition to planting peppermint, pineapple mint, and CHOCOLATE mint (who knew?!) was a kind comment left by one of my longtime blog-crushes Janelle from Ngorobob House: Life From the Hill. You, my dear reader Red Tara, can imagine my fan-girl excitement! She had posted to her blog this morning after a bit of a break. Reading her post made my morning, so I stopped by hers to let her know.

Since the day I gave up monkey muffins, I have relied on writers who deliver the goods for my morning indulgence ( huge latte with honey and a google reader chaser). Janelle's blog is a favorite treat.

Another eagerly anticipated blog is Tania Kindersley's, Backward in High Heels. Like me, Tanya adores horses. She recently brought her red mare home to the far north  of Scotland. I have been planning to write about her experience with a commenter who suggested that readers were bored with her new found passion for the red mare. That she was too single-minded in her posts.

I tried to leave the following comment on her post:

Tania I wish I had commented on yesterday's post. All day my mind was humming with sympathetic joy for you and the red mare and the pony and the pigeon. I don't have an eloquent way to express it, but this coup de foudre has been what finally grabbed my attention and made me a daily reader after a long time of just occasionally visiting.

I am fascinated by people's passions. Especially those of women, as we have for so long been told to keep quiet about personal delight lest we call too much attention to ourselves.

I, too, have loved a horse and part of the joy of these posts has been the stirring of my own sweet memories. But greater than that has been the (admittedly voyeuristic) pleasure of following along as you throw caution to the wind and ecstatically follow your heart's desire. We should all be so brave and so lucky.

Thank you for such tremendous pleasure and for the honesty of your work on the blog which has come to feel like a delicious present I get to unwrap each day.I am so grateful.

For some reason I couldn't leave the post but I wanted to put it someplace to remind myself that what we love, what we are moved by, is the fuel of life. I feel so bogged down in the 'shoulds', the 'what-ifs', and sometimes even, oh the shame of it!, the 'what will they think of its?' that I need reminders and fuel.

To the women and men who write about their lives and passions and everydays I can only say thank you. And, I love you.

That's all for tonight. I'll figure out this new blogger trip another day.

I am working away on some new projects. If I can tear myself away from reclaiming my land, I'll be back to fill you in on the details.

Saint Patrick's Day

Happy Saint Patrick's Day - one of my Poppa's favorite holidays. I am a proud descendent of John Kelly. I take my name from his. It means warrior. My beautiful mother, his fine daughter, sent me greetings and she closed with: "May the most you wish for be the least you get; may the best times you ever had be the worst you will ever see." And love, always love.

Noirin Ni Riain



And from Sinead

The Things You Do Endear You to Me

Oh you know I will.



I love you Valentine.

Oh Girl

Ah dear Sinéad Marie Bernadette O'Connor,

Universal Mother. I have loved you long time. We had our babies around the same time. I danced my beautiful son around our dark living room to the Lion and the Cobra when he couldn't sleep. I felt you there with us, your magic so real.

I see you tweeting sweet darling girl. I want to reply, to remind you that you wrote the anthem (the one I sang and played over and over to my daughter hoping to immunize her from the dangers of a self-immolating desire):

I never wanna be no man's woman
I only wanna be my own woman
I haven't traveled this far to become
no man's woman

Now, I know for all of us (especially you, me, and my girl) that doesn't mean we don't like blokes. We are more than we seem, like all women. We are glorious. We must remember.

Peace is Every Step

My luminous mother and I once did the Portland Marathon together. I know! Can you believe it dear reader? What's more fantastic is that we finished! I do not enjoy trudging uphill. Some might call this laziness. I don't look at it that closely.

The marathon course is pretty hill-avoider friendly except for the approach to the St. Johns' bridge which offers a hill challenge, albeit a minimal, modest, most people wouldn't notice yet present hill challenge. On my way up I alternated between whining at my poor mum ("Are we there yet?"), singing James Brown's "I Feel Good!" breathlessly, and reciting this lovely poem by Thich Nath Hanh, which, along with my glorious madre, was companion to me on almost every step of the 9 months of training we did to prepare:

Peace is Every Step

Peace is every step.
The shining red sun is my heart.
Each flower smiles with me.
How green, how fresh all that grows.
How cool the wind blows.
Peace is every step.
It turns the endless path to joy.

And, today you sent this dear reader, to remind me how much I love the monk and the world:

The Great Bell Chant (The End of Suffering) from R Smittenaar on Vimeo.

Here is to peace.

I'll Be Banging Pots With Wooden Spoons

Everyone is loving on this right now.

Happy New Year Dear Reader. I hope that 2012 is a kind and gentle year that brings to each of us what we need. I love you.

Merry Christmas with Bells On

Granny's Cookies

It's my birthday! So far so good. Start as you mean to go forward, so I took a long shower. Washed all the worries I am not carrying forward away. Now I am all shiny and new and ready for adventure.

Just before it struck midnight (and became MY BIRTHDAY!!!) I was making three batches of Granny Kelly's cookie dough. My mother's mother-Granny Kelly- must have learned the recipe from her mama. All my life, every Christmas my family gathers and we make Granny's cookies. We roll them out. Pick out our favorite cookie cutters (I am partial to the scotty dog and the bunny). Cut them out. Bake them. Sneak a few while they are warm. And when they have cooled, we whip up some butter cream frosting (never royal icing) and tint it whatever colors we want. Cover the table with waxed paper. Put out every sort of sprinkle, colored icing sugar, silver dragees, cinnamon red hots, bowls of frosting and get down to business. It can take hours. The youngest decorators sometime lose interest and wander off only to be drawn back to the table because it is covered in delicious sweet stuff.

Tomorrow after school my nieces will come and we will start the process. Then their parents, my little brother and sister-in-law, will show up, followed by my daughter and her sweetheart.  My son will be working but he will be home in time to eat many a cookie. And a birthday party of my favorite sort will ensue.

Down in Reno my littlest brother and his family will be making Granny's cookies this weekend too. I suspect my mother, who is spending the winter warming up in her desert home, will make a batch to give to holiday visitors.

We will all be together in spirit,gathered around the kitchen table, feeling lucky, remembering our Granny and Poppa and all the love that flows through us generation after generation.

Granny's Cookies

from the kitchen of Florence Kelly to the kitchen of her daughter and grandchildren, and now her great grandchildren

1 Cup Shortening
4 Cups Flour
1/2 t Salt
2 Eggs beaten
1 Cup Sugar
1/4 Cup Milk
1 t Vanilla
1 t Baking Soda

Sift flour and salt together. Cut in shortening (I use my cuisinart sometimes, sometimes a fork or pastry cutter). In a separate bowl combine the eggs, sugar, milk, vanilla, and baking soda. Add in flour/shortening mixture until just combined. Don't beat up the dough. Cover and chill overnight in the fridge. When it is time to bake, preheat your oven to 400 degrees F. Roll the dough out on a lightly floured surface to about 1/4 inch thickness and cut out with cookie cutters befitting the holiday (I make them sometimes for Valentine's Day and Keenan's Day too!).  Bake until golden, about 8 minutes. Cool on wire racks.

When cookies are cooled (after you've had pizza and salad and sung a round of happy birthday to me) frost and decorate. We make the frosting with varying amounts of butter, powdered sugar, milk or cream, vanilla, and a pinch of salt. Use a recipe you love and don't make it too thin because that is just mean.

As I will be making these later today (after I sleep) I don't have a picture to show you. Wait! I think I have an example from my son's birthday party 2 years ago. He decided he would rather have Granny's cookies than a birthday cake. Let me look.........





There they are. His auntie made a portrait of him being grumpy. His cousins have always called him "deeda". He isn't always grumpy. You can see we are very fond of sprinkles.

Transitions and Perfection

I adore Roseanne. She is unapologetic. This is too rare in female form. Her show was a blast. I remember laughing to wonderful dialogue like this:

DAN: Ah man, we're screwed.
ROSEANNE: No Dan. We are so far beyond screwed that the light from screwed will take 1 billion years to reach the earth. 

Roseanne isn't hung up on perfection. Life is what it is and what you make it in her universe. As a recovering perfectionist, I find this so inspiring. If you have breath and love, you are rich. You have it all. 

I ran across a recent quote that made me smile. I was comforted to know she is still trailbreaking with the best of them.


"I am old now: gray, wrinkled, tired, and bloated, and my joints ache, too. But I am ready to come into my full destiny—as my childhood dreams predicted—as a Neo-Amazonian Pirate Queen of my own vessel: firing cannonballs at the worldwide culture of patriarchy in the name of all that does not suck. I no longer fear moving on to a better existence than this one, which is, of course, no existence at all. Oblivion will be fucking sweet after a lifetime at the mercy of my hormones and my biological clock and the twisted logic that produced the craving for a dominant male sex partner. I’m quite thrilled to say that at this late hour, in my autumn years, I have at last found a man who is more savant than idiot, and with whom the sparse occasions of physical enjoining of souls is quite sublime."

- Roseanne Barr on life post-menopause

We need more unapologetic, fierce, and female voices in this world. Bless your brave soul Ms. Barr. You are a treasure.

As I approach my last birthday in my 40's, I suppose I am seeking out role models for the uncharted (by me) territory ahead. I have, of course and hallelujah, my glorious mother as torch-bearer. She gleefully reminds me that at 50 I can become a member of AARP. And then she laughs. I have another year and not quite a month until that milestone. When, the universe willing and all systems go, it comes I will be grateful. To be here is the gift.

The Pleasures of Home

Beatrice Wood the Mama of Dada

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am so grateful to be spending Thanksgiving with both of my children. My kids are so cool. Funny, wise, loving. They are my favorite people. I love them so. The rest of our family is spread out over the west this week and we alone are home in Portland. A quiet day, a feast, laughter. How lucky we are.

Also, to my dear reader Red Tara a million thanks for coming to my rescue armed with pledge, windex,paper towels,elbow grease, and a vacuum to get me over my fear of tackling big things. Before you arrived I saw landmines everywhere and could not find a place to begin. I was overwhelmed. I can not believe we did it. In one day everything shifted and I feel at home again. Thank you so very much.

Beatrice Woods lived an extraordinary life- one she claimed was fueled by young men and chocolate. This quote has always encouraged me when I fret over decisions and failure, "My life is full of mistakes. They're like pebbles that make a good road." She loved her home and studio in Ojai living there for the last 50 of her extraordinarily rich 105 years. By example, she taught me to romance my own creative life into being. I feel like anything is possible. Wow.  I just wrote that. I believe it too.

Happy Thanksgiving to you.

11.11.11 Today She Would Be Four

Photo of Maddie by her mama Heather Spohr

Today is Madeline Alice Spohr's 4th Birthday. Every day Heather and Mike have to navigate the treacherous waters of grief because their glorious girl with the golden curls is not with them. A birthday must be so very hard.

I have written a bit about Maddie and something of what I have learned from her brief and shining life. I love her parents. They are courageous, funny, honest, loving people. Together they created Friends of Maddie  to honor the life of their firstborn. You can visit Maddie's site  to learn about how you can team up with Maddie's people to make the world better for premature babies and their parents.

This year in honor of Maddie's birthday Mike recorded a song, "You are the One".  Heather sings backup and Madeline's little sister Annabel was in attendance in the recording studio to cheer her parents on. Buy a copy! It's a wonderful song written by Mike. 100% of the profits from sale of "You Are the One"on iTunes/Amazon will go to Friends of Maddie to continue Madeline's legacy as a brilliant light in the lives of so many. For the links and more information please visit The Spohr's Are Multiplying.

Mike wrote to Maddie (on the occasion of her 4th Birthday),  "So tomorrow I will try not to be sad. Instead I will focus on celebrating the day you brought color into my life. And while 11/11/11 won’t be as joyous as I had imagined when you were alive, there will be joy. Because it will be a day about you."

For everyone celebrating Maddie it is a day about a delightful little girl, a lovely family, unimaginable loss, and the exquisite joy of the day her parents met their beloved child. I will never forget her. Not ever.