Poetry Friday: "Be Kind" by Michael Blumenthal (and a story about peanut butter toast)

Sometimes it's hard to feel kind these days. But I keep reminding myself that even in our tumultuous country and climate, kindness is worth holding onto. 

I remember when Atticus was in the hospital a few years ago for his cancer surgery. A couple of days after the surgery, I ordered his breakfast. A few minutes later, the kitchen called his room. 

"You ordered the peanut butter toast for your husband, right?" She sounded young. And kind. 

"Yes, that's right." 

"Okay, I wanted to ask you a question. Does he like the peanut butter on the side, to put on the toast later? Or does he like it on the toast right away? Because, you know, some people like the peanut butter to get all melty, and I just want to make sure it's the way he likes it." 

I had to sit down. "He likes the peanut butter melty," I said. I took a breath. "He, um — thank you. Thank you for thinking of that." 

"Oh, it's no problem! Like I said, I just wanna make sure I fix it the way he likes it!" I could hear her smile. 

I hung up. I looked at the phone. I looked at my husband. He was asleep, recovering, moving forward one step at a time. I thought about a young woman in the kitchen, just doing her job, but doing it to perfection. Caring enough about a stranger to pick up the phone and ask about toast. 

There are such people in the world. Oh, such people!

The Peanut Butter Toast Girl, who still makes me cry.

Be Kind

by Michael Blumenthal

Not merely because Henry James said
there were but four rules of life—
be kind be kind be kind be kind—but
because it's good for the soul, and,
what's more, for others, it may be
that kindness is our best audition
for a worthier world, and, despite
the vagueness and uncertainty of
its recompense, a bird may yet wander
into a bush before our very houses,

....

(Read the rest here, at Poets.org.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Heidi Mordhorst has the Poetry Friday round-up this week at My Juicy Little Universe. 

Photo courtesy of Shutterbug75 at Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: Sustenance (and happy anniversary, Atticus)

Atticus and I celebrated our 41st anniversary this week. 

And all those skeptics thought we'd never make it, (tsk, tsk.) But here we are, and here we'll stand, and here we go, shooting for another forty-one. (Well, umm, maybe at least another 30? We'll take what we can get, I suppose.) 

Here's a poem I wrote quite a while back, one I sometimes recycle on our anniversary. 

Happy anniversary, Atticus. Thank you for the bread and promises. 


Sustenance
by Karen Edmisten 

Bread,
like marriage,
requires the promise
of leavening.

There is flour and water —
foundation — yes,
but it begs
something more:
fermentation, lather,
messiness
and growth.
It must take on life,
risk failure,
swell in size,
though never
sloppily escape
its necessary confines.

My husband
mixes flour
and water,
baking bread for me.
It is nothing,
he says.

It is everything,
I counter,
as I watch him
measure, stir yeast
and add salt,
carefully constructing a promise.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up is being hosted this week by Jan at Bookseed Studio. 

Photo credit: Giulio Perricone, Pixabay

Poetry Friday: I'm hosting! (No overthinking allowed.)

I was thinking, overthinking, and waffling about what to post. Then, as I grew tired of waffling, overthinking — and, let's face it, just plain thinking — Atticus suggested that I post "Autumn in New York." One really can't go wrong with Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong, can one? No, one cannot. 

Ramona had thoughts too. She suggested the nothing-but-poetic scene from You've Got Mail in which Joe Fox expresses the perfect fall thought.

So, dear reader, if you too do not want to overthink anything but would simply like to bask in the beauty of Ella and Louis, and the joys of a screenplay by Nora Ephron, join me:  

  

~~~~~~~~~~

Mr. Linky is helping me round up this week's Poetry Friday posts, 

in his always-helpful, linky way. 

Thanks for joining us! 

Poetry Friday: "Thirty-nine Years" (wishing Atticus a happy anniversary and writing poetry again)

Last week, Atticus and I celebrated our 39th anniversary. 

(Umm, we're as shocked as you are. 

How can two people who are so incredibly young and vibrant 

have been married for thirty-nine years? It's a mystery, I know.) 

Happy anniversary, Atticus. 

Thirty-nine Years

by Karen Edmisten 

He was my first husband.
He is my now-husband,
my last husband, my only husband,
(in case you’re counting.) 

I'm counting.
Thirty-nine years and counting.
Not counting as in,
“I can’t wait for this to be over,”
but counting as in, 

I didn’t know I could count this high
in the category “Years married.”
I’m astonished and delighted by us.
We should win something on Jeopardy: 

“Alex, what is, Tom and Karen defied the odds and lasted?" 
(Now we have been married so long 

that Alex is gone.)

We married young and discovered 

what it means to weld one’s self to another.
It’s a tricky process, this welding. 
Rife with flame and light and danger
but with a distant goal in sight: 

a finished form, something sturdy and strong, 

a thing to behold. 

We have loved each other, hurt each other, 

lost each other, and found each other. 

We have died and risen again. 

We are each a Phoenix 

who learned to rise from ashes, 

discovering — this man and I —
that ashes are the stuff of life
and that new beginnings
can be shining, iridescent things,
unexpected fuel that will carry us 

on another orbit around the earth. 

Life never stops beginning.
Oh, yes, surely, it’s ending 

every moment it’s beginning 

and it’s beginning 

with each ending.
This is the beauty of the Phoenix, yes?
It keeps rising, flaming, 

swirling, changing, starting again.
It is immortal, like our marriage,
this thing that began as
an amateur piece of welding. 

We are a fusion that is somehow now 

aged and lovely in its flaws, 

sturdy as steel 

and gleaming like precious metal that is 

well-worn and well-loved.

 ~~~~~~~~~~

The lovely and delightful Laura Shovan is hosting the round-up this week. 

Poetry Friday: School's In (but not for Atticus!)

Since he usually has summers off, this season with Atticus hasn't felt particularly different. But now? Now that schools all around us are in session, Ramona's started her second year of college, and all of my husband's colleagues have returned to work? Now we're feeling it: 

Atticus is retired. 

Yup. After thirty-five years of teaching, he's retired from full-time work. (And from teetering stacks of sophomore and senior essays hauled home so many weekends.) He plans to sub here and there (so maybe it's more accurate to call him semi-retired?) but it's likely that he'll never again lead a deep dive into Hamlet, or introduce kids to To Kill a Mockingbird, or do his best to help a high school student understand gerunds or tweak a dangling modifier. 

As for us? I know we'll keep talking about those things. We'll keep discussing, learning, and sharing about literature and language, and we'll keep seeking to understand and revel in the world around us. Our hearts will still leap up, as Wordsworth's did. It's a new phase of life, but he's still Atticus. "The Child is the father of the Man." Long live the child, the man, the retiree. 

My heart leaps up. 

My Heart Leaps Up
by William Wordsworth

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The inimitable Tanita Davis has the round-up today. 

Visit her at fiction, instead of lies. 

Poetry Friday: Happy anniversary, Atticus!

Atticus and I have been married for thirty-eight years. (Yes, those-of-you-who-are-young and young-ish, numbers do take on a frightening, other-worldly quality as you grow older. How are these numbers real?) 

What we count as "the beautiful" has changed a lot over the course of thirty-eight years, but some things never change: my husband is kind, funny, intelligent, has an astounding memory for all things important, sentimental and trivial, has fabulous taste in music, is an amazing father, keeps everything afloat, and I love his cooking. 

Happy anniversary, Atticus. If I live as long as Betty White did, we'll be celebrating another 38. I know you'll still be cooking. ❤️

The Beautiful Changes
by Richard Wilbur 

One wading a Fall meadow finds on all sides
The Queen Anne’s Lace lying like lilies
On water; it glides
So from the walker, it turns

...

Your hands hold roses always in a way that says
They are not only yours; the beautiful changes
In such kind ways,
Wishing ever to sunder
Things and things’ selves for a second finding, to lose
For a moment all that it touches back to wonder.

(Read the whole thing here, at The Poetry Foundation.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday roundup this week is being hosted by Irene Latham. 

Poetry Friday: Frank O'Hara's "Having a Coke with You"

This seems like just the right poem for saying happy anniversary (our 37th last month) and happy Valentine's Day to Atticus. We've been having Cokes together for over 40 years, so I guess this thing is going to last. 

Having a Coke with You

by Frank O'Hara 

is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, 

Biarritz, Bayonne

or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in 

Barcelona

partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier 

St. Sebastian

partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for 

yoghurt

partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches

partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people 

and statuary

it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything 

as still

as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in

(Read the rest here, at Poets.org.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

The round up is being hosted by Molly Hogan at Nix the Comfort Zone. 

(Photo courtesy of Athena at Pexels.) 

Poetry Friday: In spite of it all, thanks

Every year, as a Christmas gift for my parents and my sister, I make a calendar. It's a winsome way to plop a year's worth of family photos in their laps, neatly laid out month by month, with context. As I worked on gathering photos this week, it was clear, of course, how quickly 2020 turned on us. I had already decided I'd be including screenshots from Marco Polo, and pictures of my parents, on our socially-distanced visits, through their sliding screen door. The calendar always doubles as a memory book; I knew that. But I wasn't quite prepared for how the sifting of photos would make me feel, how it would affect me as I considered all that we've lost. 

January's photos included our New Year's celebration, a snapshot with my parents in their apartment at their retirement community, Ramona's first time to see a Broadway touring company perform Les Miserables. (She was also looking forward to Dear Evan Hansen in March, Anastasia in June...both were canceled, of course.) In February, apparently, I took very few pictures. Were we too busy? Were we already beginning to worry? It's hard to remember. 

March's photos included teddy bears in the dining room window. 

(Remember, "We're going on a bear hunt"? That's when it felt like we were all in this together, before some people decided masks were political or controlling, rather than a simple and sound way to be kind and protect one another. Sigh. Anyway....) 

By April, pictures included things like this: 

Atticus, taking part in a video message
from all the teachers (who were at home now)
to all the students at his high school
(who were, of course, also at home now.) 

A short time after that photo was taken, Atticus hurt his back.
A slipped disc left him in pain and sent him to physical therapy
for three months. Oh, 2020. 

I somehow wasn't prepared for the tears that flowed as I worked on this annual, usually-fun calendar gift. So I let myself have a cry, and then I got back to work, looking for all the things we can be grateful for. I know how "Pollyanna"-ish such things sound, but W.S. Merwin puts it in perspective for us. It's not blind or naive to acknowledge our human nature and know that we can, we must, say thanks, even in the face of — perhaps especially in the face of — mysteries and sadness that we don't understand. Not only can we and must we ... we can't seem to help it. 

And for the record, Pollyanna gets a bit of a bad rap. Her "Glad Game" was a survival mechanism, a coping technique, and the thing that transformed her own life and the lives of others. I think W.S. Merwin would tell her thanks. 

Thanks 

by W. S. Merwin 

Listen 

with the night falling we are saying thank you 

we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings 

we are running out of the glass rooms 

with our mouths full of food to look at the sky 

and say thank you 

we are standing by the water thanking it 

standing by the windows looking out 

in our directions 

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging 

after funerals we are saying thank you 

after the news of the dead 

whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you

....

(Read the rest here, at Poets.org.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

 

Lovely Linda at TeacherDance has the round-up this week. 

Bits and Pieces of Our Days: Starting the Coronavirus Diaries

Saturday night we would have gone to Mass, as per usual. Then, on Sunday, we would have been on the road to see Dear Evan Hansen, which my girls and I had been looking forward to for months.

Those were the plans. Before everything started to shift.

At a certain point, when a few things had been canceled and toilet paper was getting scarce, I knew I'd have to be the bad guy, the one who suggested that we not go to an event as packed as a Broadway show. Not a wise move for a family with people in high-risk categories. But just a couple of days after I had that thought, the theater canceled the Dear Evan Hansen run. I didn't have to be the bad guy. The virus is the bad guy.

So here we all are, hunkered down together, working from home, teaching from home, taking French class from home. Nothing feels normal (as I know you all know.)

What did the past weekend look like instead of Broadway and Mass?

Well, I worked, of course. (I feel lucky to already work from home. I will never take it for granted again.) I'm in the midst of The Writer's Jungle Online, one of the Brave Writer classes I teach. (I'll be teaching another one in April. The writing must go on!) I listened to a talk by a priest I'm working with on a book. I mailed some essentials to a friend. I walked the dog. We had to call a plumber on Saturday morning because a bundle of roots somewhere out there chose this weekend to cause a back-up in the bathroom. I turned to God, Atticus, and podcasts whenever I was feeling too anxious. My daughters baked a gluten-free chocolate cake. We had an art session together, and watched an episode of Gilmore Girls.

Because all public Masses have been canceled, we were home on Sunday. It's a sacrifice to not be able to receive the Eucharist, but the Church absolutely made the right decision in light of this public health crisis. And it's a sacrifice that I willingly make for my daughter, my parents, and so many other people who fall into vulnerable categories. (I don't want to become a silent carrier. What if I am right now?) "No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends." And I will willingly lay down my own spiritual comfort and the sustenance I receive from the Eucharist for the sake of my daughter and others.

(I keep forgetting that technically at our ages Atticus and I also fall into the "Stay home, you're vulnerable" category. I'd like to think that his half-marathons and my efforts to take care of myself put us in the "strong, healthy" category, but who knows?)

So, on Sunday we all gathered around the kitchen table and Atticus read the Mass readings for the fourth Sunday of Lent to us. John 9:1-41 is the story of the man born blind. I've written before about the significance of this story for Atticus and me. And as he was reading, he choked up, and couldn't quite finish. Anne-with-an-e took over the reading.

"One thing I do know is that I was blind and now I see.”

I was a little breathless at the scene before me. My husband, filled with gratitude for the gift of his faith, our eldest daughter stepping in to read a wondrous bit of beauty for her dad.

Then I reminded our girls  that before his conversion, their father had thought that he'd like to take the name of the man born blind as his Confirmation name. I don't think anyone spoke for a moment.

Then I was in tears. So many memories flooding over me, so much beauty and so much pain over the years of our marriage, our conversions, our commitments and re-commitments to one another, our newfound commitments to a God who was once a stranger to us both.

And so, on this Sunday, when church buildings everywhere were closed, God lavished graces on five little people sitting around a kitchen table in a small town in Nebraska.

"The Gospel of the Lord," says the priest.
Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ, the people reply.

Bits and Pieces of Our Days: The Catch-up Edition

The last couple of weeks have been over-the-top busy, and this past week was jam-packed, featuring four consecutive days of four hours on the road each day. But this week will be less travel-laden, and, at the moment, I have a little time to reflect on what we've been doing around here when we're not on the road.


Besty graduated from college! 

The graduation ceremony was held outdoors, on a gorgeous day and we were glowing with pride over our Summa Cum Laude graduate. All would have been well if I had remembered the sunblock, but alas, I did not, and we were all glowing in a different way later (though "blazing" might be a more accurate word.) But the important thing is that Betsy is done and is in the midst of a job hunt. Whichever elementary school snatches her up will gain a treasure. 

Atticus Ran Another Half-Marathon! 

Here he is, crossing the finish line. Betsy and I were watching his time on the tracking app, and saw him hit 13.1 miles at 1:54:50, but his officially clocked "cross the finish line" time was an hour and 56 minutes. He felt pretty good about that time, and felt even better when he saw his cancer surgeon last week (just a follow-up, no worries!) and found out that he beat his surgeon's son's time. 

Endgame!

No spoilers, in case you care and/or haven't seen it yet, but Anne-with-an-e and I had fun creating this manicure for her. I think there's a nail for every Avenger, but I won't say which nails did or didn't survive. 

Gluten-free baking! 

Paleo bread, which was a bigger hit with me than it was with Betsy. Still on the hunt for a better recipe. 

Gluten-free chocolate cake (thank you, Pamela's Products!) and homemade, dairy-free frosting. What was the occasion? It was called, "Look! We can make a gluten-free, dairy-free chocolate cake that tastes delicious!" The other occasion was: 

My birthday! 

And now we are 59. 

Well, Gumby's actually 66, but Ramona chose him as the bearer of greetings that day. We have a ritual of taking turns hiding Gumby where the other will find him. It was her turn, so she enlisted his help in wishing me a happy birthday and it was indeed a happy one! 

This is fuzzy because we took it with my phone (bleh, not a great camera), and then I cropped it (bleh, further worsening the quality), but I'm thinking of chopping off all my hair. What say you? 

Our School Year is Almost Over! 

No more math with candlelight (it does help, a little) and just a bit more of Hamlet to read and discuss, and then ... we're done! A sweet, math-free summer awaits. We. Are. Ready. 

And Finally, Happy Day, Whether You are a Mother or Not....

It's Mother's Day, and if you're a mom, I celebrate you. If you act as a Second Mom/Beloved Aunt/All-Around Awesome Woman to someone in your life, I celebrate you. If you desperately want to be a mom, but it hasn't happened yet, I've been there, and I understand. If you've never wanted to be a mom, I've been there, too, and I understand. If you are a mom to children lost through early or late miscarriage, stillbirth, abortion, infant death, or at any stage in life, I grieve with you, and I understand. 

Let's all support one another on this day that celebrates mothers, even as we acknowledge that motherhood (and womanhood) has a million faces. 

In Which Atticus and I Have Been Married 35 Years ...

... and he sent me this:




Oh, how I love that man.

Poetry Friday: Birthdays in July

Birthdays in July 

One is sixteen. 

Sixty-one is another. 

One is my daughter. 

My husband's the other. 

© Karen Edmisten 

Ramona was, Atticus always says, his 45th birthday present. 

Happy birthday to my old man and my youngest daughter! 

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up is at Reading to the Core.

Poetry Friday: Richard Wilbur and The Time I Fell Off the Internet Because Atticus Got Cancer

Poet Laureate and Pulitzer Prize winner Richard Wilbur (who has long had his own category on my blog), passed away last Saturday at the age of 96. May he rest in peace.

I sort of fell off the internet over the last two and a half months (which have felt surreal) but leave it to my beloved Wilbur to bring me back to my blog -- finally ready, I guess, to talk.

~~~~~

This summer had me thinking a lot about cancer. All the time. In June, my dear friend Lissa was diagnosed with breast cancer. In late July, an internet friend and kindred spirit, Beth, died after a long, brutal battle against cancer. I was angry at cancer, sick of cancer, hated cancer. I didn't want to hear about another person I loved being attacked by cancer.

On July 28, Atticus got a phone call, and we went in to see the doctor. A routine colonoscopy had revealed cancer.

There are all kinds of stories to tell about the month of August: waiting for the CT scan and the MRI, which would eventually tell us that the cancer didn't appear to have spread (though, we were cautioned, we wouldn't know for sure until after surgery.) Meeting with one doctor who scared us terribly, then meeting with a surgeon we liked and trusted. Not being able to get surgery on the calendar until September 15th. Five days, four nights in a hospital two hours from home. Dissolving into tears when (as we were preparing to check out of the hospital) a young resident delivered the news: the pathology report was already back. It showed no spread to the lymph nodes. They got all of the cancer out. 

I hadn't realized, until I crumpled into my husband's arms, how the hope for that news had been holding me upright until that moment.

And so, the prognosis is very, very good. Atticus is four weeks into recovery, and is getting a little better every day. There will be close follow-up, but he's working, he's sleeping. The man who ran two half-marathons last spring/early summer is running again. He's adjusting to his post-surgery body. We can start to breathe again.

And think about poetry. And Richard Wilbur.

"The Beautiful Changes," Richard Wilbur said.

Everything changes. All the terrible, wonderful, maddening time. The ground beneath your feet shifts, something breaks, you think you're falling. Then the dust settles and you see that

the beautiful changes   
In such kind ways,   
Wishing ever to sunder 
Things and things’ selves for a second finding, to lose   
For a moment all that it touches back to wonder.

And you are thankful for that second finding, for the hope that kept you upright. You are thankful for wonder.

~~~~~

I couldn't let a Poetry Friday about Richard Wilbur pass without referencing "The Writer" (which I have posted here numerous times). It's about his daughter. It's about my daughters, the daughters and writers who love Atticus. As Wilbur did his daughter, I wish mine always "a lucky passage."

It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten.  I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.

The beautiful changes daily. Minute by minute, it sometimes seems. And so I will keep wishing what I wish for Atticus and for my girls, but harder.

May Richard Wilbur rest in peace, and may my beloved Atticus live as long and beautiful a life.

~~~~~

You'll find the Poetry Friday round up at A Day in the Life. 

Bits and Pieces of Our Days

As Imperceptibly as Grief, the Summer Lapsed Away....

~~ Emily Dickinson 

No one can nail it quite like my girl Emily. 

~~~~~

I didn't mean to let the last few weeks slip by without writing. It just sort of happened, in the midst of a crazy late-July/early August. Some of the craziness had us dealing with some hard stuff (I don't mean to vague-blog...I'm sure I'll be able to say more soon), and some of it was just the busy-ness of life.

Atticus, for example, is already back at work. He started on August 9th. And, as happens every year, I'm scrambling to remember what it's like to think about making dinner every night. Can't remember where on Facebook I saw this, but it is the perfect new header for my "What's for Dinner?" chalkboard:

Pros and Cons of Making Food 

Pros: Food 

Cons: Making it 

~~~~~

This is one of our baby swallows. They nest on our back porch every year, and this year we were privy to every step of the fledglings leaving the nest. The girls and I were enchanted. 

~~~~~

I think Ramona should be a picture book illustrator. Here's her rendering of Ten and Rose. 

~~~~~

I love having a daughter who loves to bake. 

~~~~~

One of the highlights of every  month for Ramona: a new ScrawlrBox. Worth every penny for my teen artist. 

~~~~~

This cup? 

When my girls were little, it sported a Cookie Monster design. Over the years and through thousands of washings the design faded (as imperceptibly as grief, Cookie Monster lapsed away.) 

The cup has remained in the cupboard but this week it's going with Betsy to her first apartment.

Serve her well, Cookie Monster cup. We'll miss you. 

Bits and Pieces of Our Days

Umm, where did the first half of 2017 go? Kinda sped by, no?

~~~~~

In May, Atticus ran his first half marathon. He'd run the distance before, but had never signed up for a race. A dear friend, who runs a couple of races a year, asked if Atticus wanted to run with him, so he tried it and loved it. Then he ran another half a couple of weeks ago. After we cheered his start, the girls and I went out for donuts and coffee. To my credit, I walked a lot that week. Really. I blame my aversion to running on bad knees that run in my family. (So to speak.) At least, that's what I tell myself ever since that time when I tried to run and my knees hurt. 

Anyway, now Atticus has plans for a third half-marathon in the fall. I see more coffee and donuts (and walking! Really! And podcasts while I walk!) in my future. 

~~~~~

My Brave Writer Kidswrite Basic class ended on June 16th, and I miss those kids! It was a fantastic and fun six weeks. I'll be teaching Kidswrite Basic again from September 25-Nov. 3rd. Registration for that session opens on July 31st.

~~~~~

Ramona's been busy and so was happy to get some down time the last few days. She helped with skits and music for VBS, took a cake decorating class, had a fun week with the Missoula Children's Theater, and did some citizen science one morning at a youth discovery camp. Whoosh! Time for a good book. 

~~~~~

Speaking of good books, Betsy has been revising her NaNoWriMo novel from last year. She's expanded it to about 72,000 words and I can't wait to read this first in-depth revision. I'm so happy for her! 

~~~~~

Speaking of revising, Anne-with-an-e has been helping me revise our books shelves. It's the Summer of the Great Bookcase Declutter. We're trying to be ruthless. It's not easy, but we've sent at least a dozen grocery sacks of books out the door. We are proud of us and we usually reward ourselves with an iced coffee and some reading time. 

~~~~~

Speaking of reading time, I need to pull a book post together. I recently read Marilynne Robinson's Gilead for the first time and it's become one of my favorite books ever. Beautiful. 

How to Play TelePictionary

Yesterday I mentioned TelePictionary. It's a cross between Telephone and Pictionary, and if you don't know how to play it, I'm here to remedy that for you.

What you need:

Paper
Pens or pencils
Complete disregard for your drawing skills

Directions:

1.) You just need a few players. We've played with three or four or more. Everyone gets a stack of blank papers equal to the number of people in the game. Five of us played, so we each started with five pieces of paper in front of us. (We cut printer paper into fourths, or we just use scrap paper.)

2.) On the first sheet, each person draws a picture of something. It can be anything -- an illustration of a common saying, a movie title, or just whatever occurs to you. Don't look at each other's drawings.

3.) Everyone passes their stack to the person on their right. When you get the stack, interpret the drawing you're looking at, move it to the back of the stack, and on the next piece of paper, write down your interpretation. Pass the stack again.

4. Read the previous person's interpretation, move that paper to the back, then draw your version of what was said.

5. Continue the steps until you've gone through all of the pieces of paper in the stack, and after the final passing, you should have your own drawing back, and it will be on top of the stack.

6. Now you can show everyone your original drawing, tell them what it was, and see how close everyone came to drawing/interpreting it.

7. Laugh until you gasp or pass out.

Here's an example from one of our rounds:

Ramona* drew this:

Anne-with-an-wrote this: 

The Niffler has stolen money and jewels. Eddie Redmayne is very concerned.

Atticus then drew this: 

I interpreted his drawing this way: 

A man is shocked that a blind pig has SWAG. 

In response, Betsy drew this: 

~~~~~

And that is how you play TelePictionary. 

You're welcome. 

~~~~~

* She asks you to please not judge her on her New Year's Eve scribble methods for TelePictionary. 

I'm So Predictable

I wrote this in 2005, my first year of blogging, and have rerun it a number of times since then. My girls were then ages 12, 9, and 3.

I'm posting it again, because that's part of what makes me so predictable. 

It's all still true, except it's been a long time since we needed a babysitter, ages since Ramona squirmed through Mass, and over the years our Christmas traditions have grown up along with our children. 

But the ending?

Predictable.

********

I'm So Predictable 

My husband and I have a holiday tradition. Every year, close to Christmas, we get a babysitter, go out for Chinese food, and buy all the last-minute stocking stuffers. In the process, we generally fall in love all over again -- with each other, with our children, and with the magic of Christmas. We talk about our days, about holiday travel plans, and about how we'll keep the youngest child happy and calm during the long Christmas Eve Mass. And we talk about how we can't believe how drastically our Christmases have changed over the years.

You see, when we married, we didn't want children. Children were nice enough for other people, but not for us. We didn't want the mess, the commitment, the responsibility. We were happy to be "child free" as opposed to "childless."

Then something happened. I became a Christian.

Oops. Short-circuit in the selfishness department. I began to long for a child. Soon, Atticus's heart caught up with mine in the procreation debate, and we set forth to create a family. After some heartbreaking miscarriages, we had Anne. But only one child, Atticus said. One child is enough.

Then I became a Catholic.

Oops. Short-circuit in the "openness to life" department. We had Betsy. Then several more heartbreaking miscarriages later, God awarded us with Ramona, and here we are. Falling in love again at Christmas time, and crazy, head-over-heels in love with our children.

And all because of of a Child born in Bethlehem two thousand years ago.

Had Mary said, "No, thank you," to that child, I would be childless. There would have been no short-circuit, no conversion, and most certainly, no child-fueled joy. How do I thank God for that?

I always seem to do it in the same old, tired way.

I cry.

May you, too, shed some tears of ineffable gratitude this Christmas.

Poetry Friday: Fall, by Edward Hirsch

On Facebook yesterday, I posted this picture, a sampling from Atticus's garden, and I said: 

I'm not a gardener. But on a cool September morning, when I'm picking vegetables, feeling grateful for my husband's love of growing things...there's no place I'd rather be than in that garden.

The calendar may still call it summer, but the season is changing here. I'm reminded of Emily Dickinson (As imperceptibly as grief, the summer lapsed away) and Edward Hirsch knows it, too. 

Fall
by Edward Hirsch

Fall, falling, fallen. That's the way the season
Changes its tense in the long-haired maples
That dot the road; the veiny hand-shaped leaves
Redden on their branches (in a fiery competition
With the final remaining cardinals) and then
Begin to sidle and float through the air, at last
Settling into colorful layers carpeting the ground.
At twilight the light, too, is layered in the trees....

(Read the whole thing here, at The Writer's Almanac.)

~~~~~

Amy Ludwig VanDerwater has the round up today at The Poem Farm. 

School Supplies, Serendipity, Ice Cream, and Tears

Last night I told my sister a story she'd never heard before. We were talking about the ways God sometimes seems to drop someone into your life at the right time, and about how beautiful and surreal it can feel, how it often leaves us speechless.

The following story is from ten years ago this week. Anne-with-an-e was 12, Betsy was 10, and Ramona was 4.

Enjoy ... and cry ... and hold on tight to someone you love:

~~~~~

Yesterday we went shopping for school supplies. After picking up a few essentials, and because we were celebrating the fact that none of us had cavities (this was a known fact, not a guess, as we'd been to the dentist in the morning) I decreed it to be an Ice Cream for Lunch day.

We stopped for our treats, and settled down to enjoy them. As the girls were slurping their way through Oreo and Reese's Peanut Butter Cup-laced concoctions, an elderly man approached our table.

"I just wanted to say," he said rather slowly, "that you just have some very nice girls there, and you all remind me of our family a number of years back. We had three girls, too."

I responded with something like, "Isn't that nice?" and said it was kind of him to compliment the girls. Then he went on to say, "I've got kind of a sad story, though ...."

Oh, no, I thought, who are you, and what's coming next?

"We, um," he said, looking troubled. "We lost our youngest daughter to cancer."

Oh, my. I was jolted but managed to relay my sympathy. I asked when it had happened, thinking it must've been years ago.

"Just last month," he said, tearing up. "She was 41. I was there when she died. And it just ...."

He trailed off, as tears filled his eyes. (Mine too.)

"I'm so sorry," I said feebly. I looked at Anne, who was also tearing up.

He continued. "She had the Lord in her life and she told me that. She said she wasn't afraid ... so, you know, that's my consolation. But," he choked, "it just tears you up inside."

"I can't even imagine," I whispered.

The surrealness of this scene didn't occur to me at the time. Somehow it seemed perfectly right that I was sitting there, listening to this stranger who stood next to my table as he shared his grief with a family who was willing to listen.

He shook his head, as if to collect his thoughts, and said, "I just ... I really wanted to stop and say something to you, because I just saw that you look like such a nice, happy family. I saw your three girls talking and laughing, and I thought, 'Why there's Suzanne and Maureen and Ginger!' Just like my girls ...."

He shook his head again, and since I seemed unable to say anything at that point, he finished up by saying, "I just wanted to say that you all just reminded me of our family, and I could tell that you have somethin' special. You know, not everyone has that these days ... it's a rotten world, and not everyone has what you have ... and so, I just wanted to say that."

Through a few more tears, I thanked him. I told him again how sorry I was that he had lost his daughter, and that I appreciated his kindness in taking the time to stop and talk to us.

"God bless you," I said softly, feeling once again that my words were sorely inadequate.

When he left, Anne-with-an-e was crying. I comforted her and said that although his story was a sad one, and that he missed his daughter very much, it was so comforting that they had their faith, and that we have ours. I told the girls I was glad we were there -- glad we could listen to a man who needed to talk about the daughters he loves so much. But, also, his little visit to our table was a gift to me, I said. I was touched that he could see how much we love one another, and touched that he took the time to say it.

When we got home, I told Atticus about it -- about how it felt as if an angel had stopped to talk to us. This angel reminded me of our abundant blessings, our abundant love for one another ... of all that's really important.

Then, Atticus said, "Do you remember that last phone call we got for the Rosary Crusade? It was about a month ago. They asked us to pray for a couple who had just lost their 40-something daughter to cancer."

I had forgotten, but Atticus was right.

Though I can't know for certain, this stranger who had felt compelled to approach an ice-cream-eating mother and her three daughters was quite possibly the man for whom I had prayed anonymously last month.

And once again, I feel awed by and unworthy of the love and mercy of such a God as we have. He intertwines our lives in ways we cannot predict, often do not see, and most certainly cannot fully comprehend on this side of heaven.

Serendipity? Such a lovely and whimsical word for grace.

Father's Song by Gregory Orr

Father’s Song
Gregory Orr

Yesterday, against admonishment,
my daughter balanced on the couch back,
fell and cut her mouth.

Because I saw it happen I knew
she was not hurt, and yet
....

(Read the whole thing here, at Poets.org.)

Happy Father's Day, Atticus!