Make A Garden

Today was an Elizabeth day. Most Wednesday mornings are. We kicked things off with a round of "the picture card matching game", followed by a reading of Who, Who, Who Lost a Shoe, and had some snacks. Teeny pretzel sandwiches with peanut butter on the inside. whoa! After that I suggested we go outside and see what was popping out of the ground.

The minute we stepped out we heard a lot of swoosh swoosh swooshing going on. The sound was close by, but for the life of us we couldn't figure out what it was. Then we saw them; twenty-four wild turkeys, (we counted them!), dragging their tiny turkey feet through the dry leaves in the neighbor's stand of trees. Elizabeth and I crouched down and watched them peck their way to the back of the woods, meandering towards Joan and Arnold's backyard. I love wild turkeys. But I'll save that for another piece.

Elizabeth said, "Dirt piles, Bean," and pointed to the street. So we made our way to the wooden bench under the apple tree at the end of my front yard. I put my arm around her. We snuggled and listened to the birds singing like crazy. And we stared at the piles of dirt that Frankie, the new neighbor, had dumped before the last whopping snow storm.

At first, I didn't really notice them, the dirt piles. Or maybe I did, but for a while they looked like fluffy mounds of pretty white snow. Now they're just dirt piles filled with chunks of rocks and small tree stumps, spilling over onto the street. I'm sure Frankie has some kind of plan for the piles. He's going to smooth them out, grow grass, plant an orchard, right?

But in the meantime, Spring is one of my favorite seasons and it's getting ready to give birth in a big way. I am panting for daffodils and crocuses, poised for all things blooming.

"I don't know, Elizabeth, I'm not liking these dirt piles."

"Make a garden, Bean," she said, nodding her head.

She never elaborates. It's just what she says every time I start complaining about the damn dirt piles.

Clearly, I need work on my creative visualization skills. I may be rusty, but I'm a willing student. Tomorrow morning when I get up, I'm going to look out my picture window, sigh and say, Oh look! What a pretty garden.

Changing Channels

Click on radio.

"North Korea's army is threatening to blow up South Korea's army...This is NPR news..."

Click off radio.

In the middle of the day, my house is quiet. But upstairs there's the constant sound of water flowing in the turtle tank in Claire's room, where Washington, her red-eared slider, lives. It's a fairly simple life; lean towards the light by day, curl up in the dark nest of stones under the bridge at night. Pull head into shell and sleep when Claire turns off the basking lamp for the evening.

In the morning, the turtle gets fed, teeth get brushed, we go to the bus stop, the day begins. If I'm writing upstairs, sometimes I'll sneak down the hall and find Washington sunning himself under his basking lamp. There's a certain elegance in the way his head tilts up towards the light, with one back leg curving behind him in an arabesque. I stand in the doorway, barely breathing, not wanting to disturb his reverie.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway used to make him leap from his bridge and scurry into the water. These days he doesn't disturb quite as easily. Now I can tiptoe into Claire's room and he'll stay on his bridge, as long as I pretend to not see him. I can pick up the teddy bear sprawled on the rug and marvel, from a distance, at his face straining towards the light, his mini-sun.

As The World Turns...

Today marks the one week anniversary of This Being Alive. In lieu of sounding completely corny, logging in every day to write has made me feel very alive. Three days this week I raced out the door to pick Claire up at the bus stop because I spaced out the time; I was so involved on my computer and jotting things down in my notebook that I simply lost track. Losing track when I'm writing is a happy place for me.

I want to shout out to my friend, Susan Featro, the techie queen, who emailed me directions to get my photo of snowdrops on the post page, rather than floating around in space. That's why you are getting snowdrops revisited. Thanks, Susan. You can expect more questions, no doubt.

Here's to Penny Ross, artist extraordinaire and one of the shiniest people I know, for figuring out how to get her beautiful smiling photo on the followers section. She wrote me and said, "I don't want to be a shadow person." You can find her next to my husband, Michael Collins, who talked her through the process via email. He's the guy with the clown nose. Don't ask.

To top off the week, my friend, Anne Walker, made this an international blog by becoming a follower from Melbourne, Australia. I would love to see more faces, more countries. No kidding, we could all hold hands and sing, It's a small world after all! It's the six degrees of separation thing; send this on to someone you know, and they can send it on to someone else...right? Here's to the land down under! I love you, Anne, and all the rest of you who have logged on to This Being Alive. I can't thank you enough.

It is my intention to write about this sweet, ordinary life, every day. I hope you'll tune in.

Look Under Foot

It's Oscar night. Claire and I are curled up on the big bed, checking out the stars in their designer gowns, sharing our critiques. It's a wonderful night, fun and fancy. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little envious because gee, who wouldn't want to be there! But here's the thing. After the awards and the all-night partying, those beautiful people are going to be so happy to get home to their own bed and slip on a pair of sweats and that twenty year old t-shirt tucked under their pillow. And to get out of their Jimmy Choo shoes. Really, how do they walk in those things?

So, in the spirit of art and creativity, here's one of my favorite quotes. A simple reminder to look under foot and remember that the great opportunity is where you are and yes, every place is under the stars.

The lesson which life repeats and constantly enforces is" look under foot". You are always nearer the divine and the true sources of your power than you think. The lure of the distant and the difficult is deceptive. The great opportunity is where you are. Do not despise your own place and hour. Every place is under the stars, every place is the center of the world.

~ John Burroughs

Here's to the start of a beautiful, new week.

A Claire Story

When Claire was just out of diapers, she would beg for what became known as Claire stories. One of the best story-telling places was when she was in the tub. I'd sit up on the counter, cup of tea by my side and try my best to come up with an exciting story for my three year old. Here's one that I wrote down. I think yesterday's snowdrop sighting has me on a roll.

Claire said no to Mommy all day

until finally it was bath time and

then Claire said yes.

In the warm water she began to sing,

the bathroom filled up with all kinds

of birds; toucans, parrots,bright red cardinals,

even a bald eagle came and perched on the

edge of the tub.

Then came the butterflies, blues and purples,

yellow spotted, and fish filled the tub, bright orange,

and red, skimming by Claire's round thigh,

under her finger tips.

They made her laugh and sing.

She began to sing and flowers bloomed,

purple cone flowers, snapdragons, and

sunflowers filled the bathroom.

Now, go take a tub and make up your own story ~

Two Purple Things

Yesterday was a good, purple kind of day.

First, there was Elizabeth and her purple rubber band.

And then Dad arrived wearing an oversized, camel-hair coat

and his purple beret. I don't know, it felt like a sign, the two purple things.

And the fact that she's three and he's eighty-three, and he's her great-grandfather. You can see where I'm going with this, right?

The joint was jumping with signs yesterday.

Dad is eighty-three years young, with a thick head of white hair, a beard, blue eyes. He smiles way more than I do and often bursts into song, Go tell Aunt Rhody, go tell Aunt Rhody...

"Back by popular demand!" he shouted, as he came through the front door, arms out to hug me. He is skinny and a bit wobbly when I hug him anymore. But still, for all intensive purposes, the man is a solid hugger.

It runs in the family.

He had driven down from his mountain home; my grandparent's summer cottage so many years ago. The dirt road, named Jackson Lane, weaves up through the woods passed old stone walls. At the top you break out into the light and open fields. There's the leaning barn, the ancient apple tree, and Dad's cozy house with the big picture window.

"Everything's fine up here at the assisted living care funny farm!" he says when we talk on the phone. This busts him up every time.

I've got a closet full of stories about my father, and the old farm where he lives. But right now, I am holding this sliver of a moment in my mind's eye:

He is sitting on the landing of the stairs in my house. I am on the step above him. Out of his pocket he has pulled an old wooden top, the kind of toy that children used to play with before DSI's and other such games. With his old, veiny hands he drops the top and it begins to spin on the wood floor between us. We are both laughing while it's spinning. When it topples to a stop, I take a turn. The wood is smooth to the touch. I curl my fingers around the top, feeling its small point. With a twist of my wrist, I drop it and it begins to spin again. We are laughing like two small children.

Elizabeth and Bean

I started the morning banging around in the proverbial paper bag.

Well, more like thrashing. Wildly. This sent my husband to his office earlier than usual. One might use the word, scurry, to describe his exit.

After a second cup of tea and some world-class sighing, I went to get my three year old grandaughter, Elizabeth. We spend Wednesday mornings together. This has proven to be way cheaper than a therapist, trust me.

Our first stop was the Dunkin Donuts drive-through. I splurged and got her three chocolate-glazed munchkins. The kid is happy with three. All for a whopping sixty-four cents. Next we hit the library where we played with farm animal puzzles and those things with the beads that slide over the twisty wire. She sat in the blue chair. It's her favorite color. We didn't read a thing. A little boy in brown corduroys kept walking over to us with a book in his hand.

"Book?" he'd say.
Elizabeth didn't give him the time of day.

After the puzzles, we climbed the big staircase to look for some books for me because we always do that. Elizabeth loves climbing the big staircase. Just for the record, I steered clear of the self-help section even though I was still feeling oddly desperate. Every now and then she'd lift her arm up to show me the rubber band hanging loosely around her wrist.

"Look Bean."
That's what she calls me. Bean.
So I marveled at her rubber band and her grin, and the way her pink boots clunked along the ground when she walked. And then I wondered why I was such a banging around in the paper bag kinda girl when obviously all I needed was a good rubber band to kick my moody middle-aged blues to the curb.

The bad news is her rubber band snapped when I was buckling her into the car seat. The good news is that I keep a small stash of rubber bands in my silverware drawer.

The minute we walked in the door Elizabeth said," Rubber band in drawer, Bean. Please."
Sure enough, nestled in near the teaspoons we found a pretty purple one, thicker and sturdier than her first one. I know this is way overused to say her face lit up, but it did. It lit right up when I slipped that rubber band on her wrist.

So here was the moment:

Elizabeth, daughter of my daughter, and me, her Bean, standing in the kitchen grinning at each other over a purple rubber band.

Simple, right?