tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79215184422642143332024-02-07T00:19:36.352-05:00One Penny Jumble PacketJulie Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09965401314478095790noreply@blogger.comBlogger96125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921518442264214333.post-71839927308196364512018-04-24T13:01:00.001-04:002018-04-24T13:01:02.354-04:00Feature ListingFor about nine months, I've avoided announcing our impending move to Pennsylvania, as if avoidance might alter our destiny and allow us to stay in this town that we've all come to love so much. But time marches on, and as spring drew near, we knew we'd have to list our house (which officially went on the market last Friday).<br />
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My realtor asked for a list of features, but honestly, I think the features we're interested in are completely different. I couldn't care less about the shutters or stove or fridge. I'm more interested in other things like how we live in the space we have. So I when I handed her a list, I slipped in a few oddball descriptors like "Surprising number of toilets, sinks, and outlets" just to see if she was paying attention. (She was.) My listing ended up looking like every other listing on the market, which didn't seem right. This house (which my DH and I have fondly described as being "designed by Dr. Seuss, built by The Cat in the Hat, and occupied by Thing 1 & Thing 2) should have a listing as unique as it is. Hence, today's post. This is what I think should really appear on Zillow.<br />
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As you walk up to this center-hall colonial, you'll notice the garden is looking pretty blah. Partly because this picture was taken on an overcast, still-wintery day. Partly because the front yard has a weird hot, dry micro-climate. Finally, last year, I hit on the idea of growing lavender there. It seemed to be doing alright whereas everything else sort of petered out after a few months, but now I'll never know. If you buy this house, I hope you'll give me an update.<br />
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Of course, since this is a center-hall colonial, you have to make a choice when you walk in the door. Turn left or turn right. Contrary to what you see on home improvement shows which seem to love open-concept floor plans, this is kind of a benefit for families with small kids. With open-floor plans, your mess is all hanging out in plain sight as soon as you walk in the door. Separate rooms allow for private spaces, spaces that are easier to close off and keep clean for an unexpected visitor. My house can be in shambles, but the living room is generally guest-friendly at all times.</div>
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Let's turn in there where a fireplace and comfy sitting make this the perfect spot to sit and read or listen to music on a chilly winter evening. Or if you're under 10, it's a great place to roast marshmallows.</div>
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Passing through the living room, we enter The West Wing. I think this used to be a sunroom before some additional rooms were added onto the house. This hall provides a buffer zone between the living room and the downstairs office/library & guest suite.</div>
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What most people don't realize is that the closets in here are not just storage. One of them contains a secret sink! Most people would never think they'd need a secret sink, but they would be wrong, so wrong.</div>
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As we step into the office that started out as mine, but which was quickly assumed by my DH only to be claimed in turn by my kids, you'll notice that the photographer took a photo of only one angle. Maybe she didn't like the desk view, which is too bad because that's would've been a view of the lovely bay windows. However, you do get to see my "<a href="http://onepennyjumblepacket.blogspot.com/2014/03/the-magic-stairs.html" target="_blank">magic stairs</a>" leading up to the loft.<br />
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Here's the loft where we keep our books. Or if you're my middle child playing with his friends, you try to be the first to run up here with a Nerf gun and blast everyone who walks in the room.<br />
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The bookcase appears to be overflowing, but that's not my fault. Ever since we learned 9 months ago that we'd have to move, I've been culling things for the library. At last count, we had donated about 300 books, not to mention CDs, DVDs, puzzles, etc. We're down to the essentials -- I swear!<br />
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We use the first-floor master as a guest suite because I felt it was too far away from the kids in case they got sick or scared in the middle of the night. It's a good place for guests, though, because they get a little privacy.<br />
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I haven't done much with this room because we don't use it often, but with all the windows and skylights, it's so bright and cheery that it's hard not to like.<br />
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We have to backtrack back to the front door to see the rest of the first floor.<br />
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If you head down a hall, there's a half bath, but I don't see a photo of it in the listing. That's ok. I never hardly ever go in there either. It looks ok since we had it updated in 2014; I just don't use it.<br />
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Oh wait, never mind. I did find one after all. The round silver thing hanging on the wall makes me happy. My mother-in-law brought it from Turkey. On one side, it's a hanging decorative piece. On the other, it's a mirror, but since I'm keeping it, I guess that's not really a feature.<br />
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There is also a dining room on the east side of the house, which gets used for everything except dining. Potterheads that we are, we call it "The Room of Requirement" and have utilized it for everything from starting seeds and raising chicks to rollerskating. Last year, my daughter had a friend over, and I received the best compliment ever. Livva took one look around at the chicks and plants and exclaimed, "I love this room! It's so full of life! It's like you can just feel everything growing in here!"<br />
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The kitchen is the heart of our house and the reason that we bought it. So it seems fitting that it should be featured closer toward the center of this listing. The spacious counter and double oven is perfect for baking Christmas cookies, a summer buffet or even a cub scout den cooking lesson.<br />
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And if you just want to hang out, there's lot's of space to do that, too. My DH made the couch and table when we first got married. It's a good spot to sit with a cup of tea and a garden catalogue watching the kids playing in the backyard. And when you see them starting for the house, you can head them off with popsicles.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqbiKwY5ZmIo5N6MQDvpao03IhAc_4grsBVCcnRmcvf26KzBojcAwGmTlquggJtgBWIQrDzOPOzr5JiAaOnHPRBNDBYS797YSkG_41D3OfhKP3xBFApUmwPWJWga7L3OWspqqvgq92Jyg/s1600/52Wheel_Kit5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqbiKwY5ZmIo5N6MQDvpao03IhAc_4grsBVCcnRmcvf26KzBojcAwGmTlquggJtgBWIQrDzOPOzr5JiAaOnHPRBNDBYS797YSkG_41D3OfhKP3xBFApUmwPWJWga7L3OWspqqvgq92Jyg/s320/52Wheel_Kit5.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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So that's the first floor. By this time, most people need a map to find their way back. I actually had one overnight guest walk into a closet trying to find the guest suite, but after awhile, you figure your way around.<br />
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Let's peek at the second floor. This is just the landing at the top of the stairs, but seeing the photos reminded me of a sort-of funny story about that painting in the picture below. About 10 years ago, I fell completely in love with a painting at a local junk shop in NJ. My DH thought it sweet, but he never really loved it like I did -- <i>until</i> we moved here. That's when he found out that the artist was actually fairly collectible, and my piece was worth about 10 times what I'd paid for it. Not a lot, but maybe a few hundred dollars. So then my DH got excited and bought another one. To be honest, I don't like the subject or colors in his as much as in mine, and I'm not keen on the framing either. But mostly it kind of bummed me out that mine wasn't the only one anymore, so I hung his painting upstairs where only we see it. Petty, I know, but now everyone can see it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0PqXP1soS5Z_2NtKAZc0d8zddaJ7dcvtir1fRcai-BXZAEAMzE2WJ7AyxG7gt7W3IJsWA8aAaybGCT3Xg9r7Cyqj33xq6l-CRkzjMh8VQjYOLGVsOF25p1hJeoxncVkH5w9lPX_zOXx4/s1600/52Wheel_UpHall1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0PqXP1soS5Z_2NtKAZc0d8zddaJ7dcvtir1fRcai-BXZAEAMzE2WJ7AyxG7gt7W3IJsWA8aAaybGCT3Xg9r7Cyqj33xq6l-CRkzjMh8VQjYOLGVsOF25p1hJeoxncVkH5w9lPX_zOXx4/s320/52Wheel_UpHall1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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The master bedroom is mostly functional, but it has the best, most comfiest bed ever. The secret is to crawl in under the covers after my DH has been warming it up a bit.<br />
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We finished renovating the master bath only last spring. After installing glass shower doors from Home Depot in our last house, I learned a lesson and paid extra for a custom glass enclosure with streak-resistant coating this time. It makes all the difference in maintenance.</div>
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I was going to plant live moss in a frame and hang it and make a live moss bathmat, but I never got around to that before finding out we were moving. But the greenery would've been a great complement to the Asian-influenced choices of that room. Sigh. </div>
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The upstairs hall bathroom is my daughter's. Since it shares a wall with our bathroom, we did them both at the same time. I love the color of these walls and the light fixture that looks like bubbles. Mermaids were the inspiration for this one, and I was going to stencil a huge fish-scale pattern in different colored scales like in <i>Rainbow Fish </i>all over the walls, but...<br />
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Here is the girl's room, which is NEVER, ever this tidy. Of course, our entire house has been groomed and liposuctioned for these photos. Still, I love her room. I love walking by in the morning and seeing her lost in dreamy slumber (which is a nice way of saying that she's sprawled out spread-eagle, upside-down, snoring, and completely out of it).<br />
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My office is part of a Jack & Jill suite. However, neither boy wanted this room, so we stuck them both in the other room. This used to be a game room for them with a couch & tv, but because they didn't use it often, I snagged it. I guess the photographer really does not like desks because you can't see mine either. I suppose the artwork on the easel is more interesting anyway. The girl likes to work alongside me, so there is space for her easel as well. My oldest son and I painted the table and chairs when he was 4. Even though the kids have all grown, I have trouble parting with them.<br />
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The boys' bath (and their bedroom) were next in line on our list of renovations, but it was in decent enough shape, so we were putting it off until next year or the year after. That's usually the case with us. Priority is determined by what is actively falling apart.<br />
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The boys have a ginormous room with a staircase to the outside (another reason why we put them both in the same room -- so there would be a narc in case of any funny business). Eventually, we wanted to replace the staircase with spiral stairs to reclaim floorspace. And maybe, when they were older, turn this into a studio apartment in case they came home after school. The best-laid plans of mice and men...<br />
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So that's the upstairs and ground floor. The basement is last. Wisely, our realtor skipped photos of the laundry room/pantry/mechanicals/storage/utility rooms. It's not pretty.<br />
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I do love the playroom. Most of the kids' toys are down here, so if it's cluttered (which it usually is) I just shut the door. Alternatively, I call this room "the booby-trap." There are usually so many Legos on the floor that if you were a housebreaker, you'd have to be crazy to try coming up through the basement.<br />
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Off to the side of the playroom, I have my own little sewing/craft space. When my littlest was a toddler, having it here let me keep an eye on her. Also, if I'm making something really crazy (like a chicken costume with feathers flying everywhere), no one even notices the mess.<br />
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Actually, we have another secret sink in the craft area, which is cool because if I have to iron something or clean paint brushes, we've got water. When we first moved in, I used to laugh that we had this crazy house with sinks in closets, but now, that's one of the things I like best. It's sooooo convenient having a sink within 20 steps of wherever you are. However, because this space has plumbing and electricity, we had also considered converting it into a kitchenette/bar one day after the kids had outgrown their lovies and nerf guns.<br />
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The second room downstairs is our family room. I love this room because it has two walkouts to the backyard. In the winter, when I'm too cold to plod around the house to the compost pile, I just sneak through the house. </div>
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My DH likes the sound system. He and my dad worked so hard installing the ceiling fan and in-wall speakers. It's going to be a sad day for my DH leaving those behind. :-(</div>
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My oldest kid likes this room because he never has just one friend over. There's always a herd of boys - like 8 or 10 of them - but they all seem to fit comfortably down here and stay pretty much the whole day. They leave a zillion crumbs in their wake, but it makes me happy to see my son with so many really nice friends. Besides, ever since my kids were little, I always said I wanted to have the house where kids go to hang out. </div>
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This room even has space for exercise equipment, which is purely decorative since we never use it.<br />
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Finally, if you pass through the doors near the treadmill and turn the corner, there is the 6th and final bathroom. It's not exciting, but it does have a shower, which I always figured would be awesome when we finally put in a pool.<br />
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Oh, and here's the back of the house. From this angle, it's kind of a crazy house, but it's perfect inside.</div>
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*****</div>
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Re-reading this, there is a theme emerging. The comments on the photos are not just the things about my house that I like, but all the things that it could be. That actually is the hardest part of moving -- missing out on the possibilities.</div>
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A couple of weeks ago, a good friend of mine and I were talking about our kids who have been each other's best friend since they were two. There were so many things that we were looking forward to -- them riding back and forth to each other's houses on their bikes, us taking photos of kids going to prom, watching them graduate.... As we teared up, that's when I realized what part of moving I was grieving the most -- the potential that this place had for us as a family, as friends, and as part of a larger community. I hope that the person who eventually buys this gloriously Seussian home sees that and experiences the same happiness that we've had here.</div>
Julie Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09965401314478095790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921518442264214333.post-48108601921804503652018-04-15T21:43:00.002-04:002018-04-15T21:43:30.946-04:00Resurrecting a BlogLast week, my dear friend Sarah encouraged me to do something I haven't done in quite awhile. She told me to write. (Sarah, you wonderful woman, see? This is your doing.)<br />
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Truthfully, I've missed it. Though my bee blog fills a gap, it's not the same. That's more a list of observations. Exposing one's innermost being through words is riskier -- like public skinny dipping -- but more thrilling, too.<br />
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Seeing a years-long gap in blog entries saddens me a little, and I have to wonder why I stopped. In a past life, I'd thought to write poetry [fortunately I figured out I was far too happy and not nearly neurotic - or clever - enough before getting too far down that path (less traveled)], but prose... now that's a different story (literally & figuratively). I possess an ideal amount of angst for a prose-y post.<br />
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So maybe I'll breathe some new life into this blog & see where it goes. Maybe it will get up and run. Maybe it will shuffle along - an aimless, brainless zombie. Or maybe it will just stretch out on the nearest therapist's couch for some good old-fashioned catharsis.<br />
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There's only one way to find out.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0396CPMbIBnhG2dStMAepohYasFocg0Clq7sfo2u5RSDrazPtJ5dbkgSNByWt4ZkNguRfeG1PC3Br-myQaPYbl7Rbj_vbXnHKbUSnZ8rNOOxJM7Hh9PoPFAhf32H0AJbNvG8Ywz7hhcc/s1600/IMG_6597.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0396CPMbIBnhG2dStMAepohYasFocg0Clq7sfo2u5RSDrazPtJ5dbkgSNByWt4ZkNguRfeG1PC3Br-myQaPYbl7Rbj_vbXnHKbUSnZ8rNOOxJM7Hh9PoPFAhf32H0AJbNvG8Ywz7hhcc/s640/IMG_6597.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Seeing how my office has been recently tidied and I have desk space again, <br />this seems as good a time as any to use it.</i></td></tr>
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<br />Julie Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09965401314478095790noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921518442264214333.post-57537268335202954212014-06-20T17:17:00.003-04:002014-06-20T17:19:25.712-04:00The Table Turned<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Lately, I've been busy. Most recently, our basement flooded, and so we've been ripping out carpet, taking down wallpaper, etc. Plus, we've had tons of end-of-the-school-year stuff, dance recitals, actual paid work, etc.<br />
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To recharge from the stress of the day, I've been reading poetry at night, and I've discovered that I love Wordsworth. This has come as pleasant surprise. The last time I read any of his stuff must have been a score (a literal score) of years ago. At the time, I just couldn't get into him. In fact, with the exception of Byron, I couldn't bear any poetry from the late 1600's to the 1800's.<br />
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Tastes change, though, and I'm really digging Wordsworth now. The following poem, in particular, is one that speaks to me. Apparently, it was a great favorite with Quakers, too, though that tidbit has no bearing on anything.<br />
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<b>The Table Turned</b><br />
Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; <br />
Or surely you'll grow double: <br />
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; <br />
Why all this toil and trouble?<br />
<br />
The sun, above the mountain's head, <br />
A freshening lustre mellow <br />
Through all the long green fields has spread, <br />
His first sweet evening yellow.<br />
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Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: <br />
Come, hear the woodland linnet, <br />
How sweet his music! on my life, <br />
There's more of wisdom in it.<br />
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And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! <br />
He, too, is no mean preacher: <br />
Come forth into the light of things, <br />
Let Nature be your teacher.<br />
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She has a world of ready wealth, <br />
Our minds and hearts to bless-- <br />
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, <br />
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.<br />
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One impulse from a vernal wood <br />
May teach you more of man, <br />
Of moral evil and of good, <br />
Than all the sages can.<br />
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Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; <br />
Our meddling intellect <br />
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:-- <br />
We murder to dissect. <br />
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Enough of Science and of Art; <br />
Close up those barren leaves; <br />
Come forth, and bring with you a heart <br />
That watches and receives.<br />
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<b>William Wordsworth</b><br />
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I thought about offering commentary, but it seemed too close to "meddling intellect misshap[ing] the beauteous forms of things." Instead, I'll just let you enjoy it on your own and glean from it what you will.</div>
Julie Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09965401314478095790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921518442264214333.post-84603147958560246682014-05-26T06:56:00.000-04:002014-05-26T06:56:00.798-04:00Frenemies<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My kids bicker. To me, it seems they bicker a lot. However, when push comes to shove, I know that deep down, they really do care about each other. As my middle child says, "We're frenemies, mom." However, here is that same child with his sister, and I don't think anything could be further from the truth. They were messing around, and I caught them in the act being nice to each other. I'm hanging onto these pictures. The next time one of them complains, "He/she bugs me soooooo much!" I'm going to show them proof that he/she doesn't.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1f4AyglGbMpQzGSb7iaT-CSG1mlmdI2ei4YZvgNQM2MOka_vvctFWtUntthcj0EpjQ_wkIRfrnql6LSgTWJdsJzwh7TND_DDzOFu56eETGYLq7_CaBh50mtpAxWAix1KfBbhXVFurB8M/s1600/IMG_4659%5B1%5D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1f4AyglGbMpQzGSb7iaT-CSG1mlmdI2ei4YZvgNQM2MOka_vvctFWtUntthcj0EpjQ_wkIRfrnql6LSgTWJdsJzwh7TND_DDzOFu56eETGYLq7_CaBh50mtpAxWAix1KfBbhXVFurB8M/s1600/IMG_4659%5B1%5D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1f4AyglGbMpQzGSb7iaT-CSG1mlmdI2ei4YZvgNQM2MOka_vvctFWtUntthcj0EpjQ_wkIRfrnql6LSgTWJdsJzwh7TND_DDzOFu56eETGYLq7_CaBh50mtpAxWAix1KfBbhXVFurB8M/s1600/IMG_4659%5B1%5D.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a><br />
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Julie Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09965401314478095790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921518442264214333.post-46906876120986437032014-05-07T09:49:00.001-04:002014-05-07T09:49:14.190-04:00De-Cluttering<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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My middle child has been complaining for weeks that his iPod won't download anything. I'd tell him to get rid of apps he doesn't use. He'd delete ONE app and then continue complaining. Finally, I sat down with him, and we must have deleted at least a dozen apps. Then we started in on photos. He had <i>forty two</i> pictures of... wait for it... <i>toast! </i><br />
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Anyway, after half an hour of clearing things out, everything is hunky dory. His device is operating smoothly again, and he's playing Plants vs. Zombies to his heart's content.<br />
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I hope he remembers this lesson about getting rid of garbage, unused junk, and dead weight when he's older because it applies to just about everything.</div>
Julie Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09965401314478095790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921518442264214333.post-22040857567768745392014-04-15T16:26:00.003-04:002014-04-15T16:26:56.126-04:00Mom! Mom! Mom!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I woke up at 3:00 am this morning to look at the eclipse. Wouldn't you know it, it was nowhere to be seen from my yard -- too many trees and clouds. But I was already awake, and it seemed a shame to miss out on a full eclipse. So I did what any irrational person would do; I grabbed my car keys and drove around town in a bathrobe hoping to find a good open view. Darn it all, after trying a few parking lots, I still couldn't see the moon. Peeved, I finally headed home around 3:30 am and fell into the guest room bed (didn't want to wake up my DH). Restless, I tossed and turned for several hours until falling asleep.<br />
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I'm not sure how long I dozed, but I awoke to my oldest son nudging me. "Mom! Mom! Mom!" Exhausted, I barely opened my eyes. He wanted to ask about downloading some game.<br />
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I croaked, "Ask Daddy."<br />
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"I can't," he responded. "Dad's sleeping."<br />
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I laughed, "Oh, ok, so that's why you woke me up!"<br />
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*******</div>
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It has occurred to me on a number of occasions that I am generally the go-to parent. If the kids want a snack, or a toy, or a game, or anything really, it's always, "Mom, I'm hungry, I'm thirsty, can I have that?" If they want to go to a movie or to a friend's house, it's, "Mom, will you take me..." If the kids are bickering, it's, "Mom, he did... he said..." If they're bored, it's "Mom, will you play... can we go..." If doesn't even matter if Dad is two steps away from them, they will hunt me down wherever I may be for whatever they want. D. H. Lawrence wrote about a house that constantly whispered, <i>"There must be more money!" </i>If my house could talk, I think it would screech, "Mom! Mom! Mom!"<br />
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Often, it's inconvenient being the go-to parent. Sometimes, it's nerve wracking. Some days, all I want is an hour or two to be entirely alone. A lot of moms can sympathize, I think. A friend of mine once told me that her daughters kept crying, "Mom! Mom! Mom!" all day, and out of exasperation she finally said, "Enough! You are not allowed to call me mom anymore today!" One daughter gave her a confused look and haltingly replied, "Ok... uh... Georgine?"<br />
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I was thinking about this today as my younger son asked me to keep him company in the basement while he played a video game. He didn't actually want me to play (it's a one-person game). He just wanted me to sit there with him. So I did; I worked on a quilt while he played. That's when I decided that being the go-to parent has certain advantages. Yes, I get to deal with arguments, tantrums, and unending requests. However, when the kids want company, they always ask for mom first. When something great happens at school, they run home and yell, "Mom! Guess what!" If they're happy, mom gets hugged first. During movie night, they snuggle up on the couch next to mom. I came to the realization that being there for the tiring stuff is what brings my kids back for the good stuff. I don't get the "better" until I take the "worse."<br />
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I had more thoughts, but I think I'll cut them short because even as I type, my kids are pestering me to get in the kitchen and make cookies. Even though I really, really, really don't like making cookies, that's ok. Tonight, they'll ask me for a bedtime story or want to tell me something funny. It'll be worth it then.<br />
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Just to be clear, I don't want this to sound like my husband ignores the kids. I also don't mean to imply that the kids don't love their dad. They do, and they have their own relationship with him that's different from their bond with me. I figure they come to me first because they're just used to mom being the one who takes care of their immediate needs. After all, I'm home while their dad is at work. However, I wouldn't be at home if it weren't for him.<br />
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Julie Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09965401314478095790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921518442264214333.post-31943347638536549192014-03-09T16:50:00.001-04:002014-03-09T16:50:01.390-04:00The Magic Stairs<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I don't collect shoes or purses or jewelry. However, I do have a thing for books, and it was a torture in my old home to not have them out because of a lack of shelving. For seven years, we talked about built-ins, but my husband was always so busy with work that he never was able to get around to it.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sad books confined to boxes and yearning to be free</i></td></tr>
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When we bought our new house, one of the features we fell in love with was an office with a loft -- perfect for a library. However, rather than wait for time/energy to install built-ins, we took the easy way out and got inexpensive bookcases from Ikea.<br />
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<br />The tricky part was getting them (as well as a few pieces of furniture and a stereo) up a very narrow spiral staircase. I'm still not sure how we did it, but we managed.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Everyone needs a chair for reading.<br />Even if DH didn't get to make the shelves, he did make the other furniture.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Some music if you like.</i></td></tr>
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It was heavy, dusty work, but it was a labor of love. Although we're already out of shelf space, I can't help feeling <i>satisfied</i>. Every time I even glance at my books, I feel like Maureen O'Hara's character in <i>The Quiet Man</i> the morning she gets her dowry.<i> </i>For the past two months, I've been up and down, excitedly poring over novels that I haven't seen in ages. It's like meeting up with my best and oldest friends. Pure giddiness. Finally, I have my things about me.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A quilt I made will hang above the stereo. <br />I have another quilt planned for the opposite wall.</i></td></tr>
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Last week, my son had some friends over, and they were playing up in the library. (Kids seem to gravitate to that space.) Anyway, one of them came bounding excitedly into the kitchen. Breathlessly he asked me, "Do you know that you have <i>magic stairs?!"</i><br />
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It was such a wonderful way to describe, I thought, those twisty stairs climbing up to my happy space. All I could say in reply was, "Yes, yes, I do."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Our magic stairs.</i></td></tr>
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Julie Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09965401314478095790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921518442264214333.post-63853063863390108472014-02-17T07:28:00.001-05:002014-02-17T07:28:16.978-05:00Battling the Frost Giants<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I would be lying if I said I liked winter. I don't -- not even a little bit. In fact, I'm not keen on fall either, and spring is welcome only because it heralds the end of winter. Of course, there are nice things about all of these seasons -- sledding in winter, apples in fall, crocuses in spring. However, I'd give them all up in a heartbeat for perpetual summer. Summer with its flip flops, popsicles, and beaches is the season for me. What can I say? Some like it hot.</div>
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So forgive me if this post is crabby. I'm crabby. In the past two weeks, ice demons have dumped over two and a half feet of snow on my roof. Despite constant snow raking (something this hothouse flower from Florida has never even heard of before), I have ice dams all over the place. Even worse, we have nonstop dripping, like Chinese water torture, through the kitchen ceiling.<br />
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My poor DH was out on the roof clearing snow and ice from the area above the leak. That's where the roof over a sunroom-turned-breakfast nook butts up against the siding for the main portion of our house. It's also, we discovered, where some numbskull didn't install any flashing. Aargh! </div>
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During this miserable polar vortex, I try to console myself by recalling Tolkien's story in <i>The Silmarillion </i>regarding the creation of Arda. In this tale, Iluvatar gathers the Ainur and declares his plans to them. Then he asks the Ainur, whom he has kindled with the Flame Imperishable, to make a Great Music, thereby bringing his vision into being. Iluvatar listens with pleasure to the flawless music as the Ainur express their gifts until the haughty and overly ambitious Melkor begins to sing his own discordant tune. The noise spreads ever wider until the Ainur's melodies founder in "a sea of turbulent sound." Eventually, when Melkor's noise assaults Iluvatar's very throne, Iluvatar has to step in, restore order to the song, and console the Ainur. This is the passage that I always remember in winter:<br />
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And Iluvatar spoke to Ulmo, and said: 'Seest thou not how here in this little realm in the Deeps of Time Melkor hath made war upon thy province? He hath bethought him of bitter cold immoderate, and yet hath not destroyed the beauty of thy fountains, nor of thy clear pools. Behold the snow, and the cunning work of frost! Melkor hath devised heats and fire without restraint, and hath not dried up thy desire nor utterly quelled the music of the sea. Behold rather the height and glory of the clouds, and the everchanging mists; and listen to the fall of rain upon the Earth! And in these clouds thou art drawn nearer to Manwe, thy friend, whom thou lovest.'</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Then Ulmo answered: 'Truly Water is become now fairer than my heart imagined, neither had my secret thought conceived the snowflake, nor in all my music was contained the falling of the rain."</blockquote>
When it's 2 degrees outside and I'm dressed like a cabbage in five layers of clothing and still cold, this passage is my go-to memory, reminding me that even in the bitterest situation, something wonderful and lovely can be born. But even the wise and optimistic Tolkien is not working for me at the moment. Right now, I'm really feeling Scandinavian mythology in which Odin deluges Niflheim, that world of mist and chill and ice, with blood and destroys the frost giants. (Man! Those Norsemen knew how to wreak some proper havoc!)<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnZPTc29bjWEuv9ktGxH8zxteBUyv6KVHNeI3TUnLjjiQ58-a0h3ZiNm5P9nh2nbXOz81aaj_YFSgq1UH6NxrGTTl3EFoeGrnBqoUpqn7Gr0wtrRTgx3iC6b7LTrRf-XeGWRrE4yPqXBI/s1600/IMG_3755%5B1%5D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnZPTc29bjWEuv9ktGxH8zxteBUyv6KVHNeI3TUnLjjiQ58-a0h3ZiNm5P9nh2nbXOz81aaj_YFSgq1UH6NxrGTTl3EFoeGrnBqoUpqn7Gr0wtrRTgx3iC6b7LTrRf-XeGWRrE4yPqXBI/s1600/IMG_3755%5B1%5D.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Al fresco summer meals are a distant memory.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Roofers seem to be in short supply right now, but we have one coming to fix things today. Until then, though, I think I'll try drowning my misery in a flood of tea (and maybe something stronger). How many cups do you think it will take?</div>
</div>
Julie Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09965401314478095790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921518442264214333.post-51664821315034514952014-02-10T11:21:00.004-05:002014-02-10T11:21:53.063-05:00A Museum Activity with Kids<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
On Saturday, I made a huge tactical error.<br />
<br />
As far as art museums go, the <a href="http://www.thewadsworth.org/" target="_blank">Wadsworth Atheneum</a> is not large or well-known, but it has some very nice artwork. It also runs a delightful family program called Second Saturday. The second Saturday of every month, they open their doors to the public for free and provide family activities such as a craft, music, book readings, etc. All of this is meant to foster art appreciation in young children. We attended for the first time last summer when they had a beach theme, complete with a surfer rock band. It was so much fun that I scheduled a Cub Scout field trip to the museum for this past weekend.<br />
<br />
So back to my story. Here is where I went wrong. In addition to my own three children, my oldest son brought a friend. Normally, this would've been ok, but my husband couldn't go with us, so I was outnumbered 4-1. However, my youngest one is very fast, and the last time we went to the museum, she tried to sit in a Stickley chair before my husband grabbed her. She should really count as 2. Make that 5-1.<br />
<br />
Thankfully, I didn't have to keep track of the other Cub Scouts since they were accompanied by their parents, but my own were more than enough, thank you very much. I won't go into the details of the day, but "herding cats" is the most appropriate description I can think of. Fortunately, the kids all kept their hands (and bottoms) to themselves, but I'm a one-track kind of person, so keeping tabs on everyone in a building filled with expensive, one-of-a-kind artwork was a harrowing task, and I collapsed into a heap on the couch as soon as I got home.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdA5fDdNdHtYk0if6wN0UWaTxvI5DRd94ybmUIwYhm2nljeCJLWWK76oSL9rW91fu1M4SM3KrjxVd-O6eoPI56PIFKVCtceV1ZjIY0bQZj6KIiL4JxiX8xap6TUmE_gYpRDd-EpFRvhWE/s640/blogger-image--844018596.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdA5fDdNdHtYk0if6wN0UWaTxvI5DRd94ybmUIwYhm2nljeCJLWWK76oSL9rW91fu1M4SM3KrjxVd-O6eoPI56PIFKVCtceV1ZjIY0bQZj6KIiL4JxiX8xap6TUmE_gYpRDd-EpFRvhWE/s640/blogger-image--844018596.jpg" /></a>However, I did have one bright idea (it happens once in awhile) that I thought I'd share in case you have a child you'd like to take to the museum.<br />
<br />
My experience with young children is that they tend to get bored quickly in museums. So for my Cub Scout Den, I put together a scavenger hunt at the last minute (literally 2 minutes before I left the house -- just enough time to write and copy it). Basically, it was a list of items to look for in the museum -- generic things like an apple, lion, battle, arrow, etc. Next to each item, the kids had to write the name of the piece with the item and the artist. Kids and parents all split up for about 30-45 minutes to explore the museum; then we reconvened to see how many of the list items they had found. Everyone who completed it (and they all did), got a prize (a chocolate bar).<br />
<br />
I'm not delusional. This was not so much an exercise in art appreciation as it was a desperate attempt to keep the kids from whining, <i>"Can we go home now?"</i> However, it did force them to look. I even got to discuss some artwork with my kids. For example, there was one painting that looked, at first glance, like a battle between cowboys and Native Americans. On closer examination, we discovered that the figures were actually cooperating on a buffalo hunt.<br />
<br />
My Cub Scout den is 7-8 years old, so I kept the list short. I wanted them to have enough time to find the objects and write the info down in the allotted time. If I had older kids, I might modify the list so that it included a number of specific pieces to look for and a series of questions about each one. I can even imagine an interesting math lesson on statistics -- maybe kids figure out some statistics for art subjects by period and type.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I will make a confession. Although I love art (I was just one class shy of minoring in Art History), my boys couldn't be less interested. However, much to their dismay, I persist in dragging them to art shows and museums every now and then. Even if they never come to enjoy art as I do, I hope they will learn to appreciate beautiful things, and I think that it's paying off.<br />
<br />
I remember taking my oldest son to the Philadelphia Museum of Art when he was a toddler. On his first visit, he attempted to wade into a fountain in the Impressionists wing. Then we had to hustle him out of a piano concert because he fell, split his lip during, and wailed like a banshee. We took him upstairs where he tried to shake hands with a coat of armor. Then he attempted to slip through the guardrails on the 2nd floor balcony. By that time, our hearts were pounding, so we took him to the French Cloister because it's quiet, dark, relaxed, and there were no balconies to fall from. We watched as he toddled around the courtyard, perfectly happy. Then he waddled up to us bearing a sign that read "Do Not Touch."<br />
<br />
By contrast, he was beautifully behaved last weekend, and he even studied a carved desk for about 60 seconds. It may be small progress, but I'll take it. </div>
<br /></div>
Julie Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09965401314478095790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921518442264214333.post-10654488666842045562014-02-10T09:58:00.000-05:002014-02-10T09:58:02.635-05:00Full Disclosure (Almost Full, Anyway)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A few weeks ago, a line from an article in <a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2014/01/how-to-spot-a-narcissist-online/283099/" target="_blank">The Atlantic</a> caught my attention:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 23px;">The Internet offers both a vast potential audience, and the possibility for anonymity, and if not anonymity,</span><span style="background-color: #ffd966;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 23px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 23px;">then a carefully curated veneer of self that you can attach your name to.</span></span></blockquote>
As someone who maintains two blogs, I've been considering this idea for awhile. Through the power of the Internet -- Facebook, my blog, online forums, etc. -- I've cultivated relationships with people who know me only through these venues. While I appreciate these connections, I sometimes feel that they are based on false pretenses. <br />
<br />
Naturally, when I create a post, I'm not going to write about my miseries. I usually pick positive topics, subjects that make me smile or feel good. However, as a result, I think an idealized version of my life emerges. In that way, I'm kind of like a bag of potato chips -- highly processed (and maybe even half-baked). Likewise, the eternally sunny, heavily edited version of me that people encounter online has transformed her annoyances, dismay, shock, horror, irritation, anger into something laughable or profitable -- or even into something that can be ignored altogether. Blog Julie is as unlike the person typing this post as a chip is unlike a humble spud. They might both come from the same place, but one has a hard time believing it.<br />
<br />
Blog Julie is sweet, unflappable, maybe even funny or smart at times, and usually has it all together. Real Julie wakes up with messy hair and bad breath.<br />
<br />
Blog Julie gets to dance, sing, and play all day. Blog Julie's children are immaculate and perfect in every way. Blog Julie has moments of quiet reflection and peaceful activity. Real Julie scrubs toilets and folds laundry. Lots of toilets. Lots of laundry. Actually, Real Julie dances and plays, too, but all the spinning makes her motion-sick. Real Julie's untidy, unkempt "crumb bums" love each other, but they also can't seem to go one afternoon without bickering over something. As for quiet reflection and peaceful activity, HA! Real Julie wakes at an obscenely early hour just to get a few moments alone each day. Of course, her DH (who may be reading this post), is perfect.<br />
<br />
Blog Julie is a saintly devoted mother. Real Julie would never even be a consideration for Mom of the Minute. To illustrate that point, here is a true story. Real Julie has one gregarious boy whose amp goes up to 11. Her days are full of reminders to him to "use an inside voice" or just tuning out. However, remember that Real Julie rises between 4:30-5:30 am, and as the day wears on, her patience sometimes wears out. Toward the end of one busy day full of nonstop shuttling, Real Julie was stressing over being late to skating lessons (oh yeah, she's obsessive/compulsive regarding time). Meanwhile, Boy 2 was barraging her with questions at the top of his voice. <i>Why is ice cold? Who invented ice? What if the world didn't have any ice? What if I fall? What if I'm the worst skater? What if I'm the best skater? Why is it winter? Why do these laces have to be so tight? etc. etc.</i> Ever blithe Blog Julie is too patient, too indulgent to be phased by this kind of thing, which in the grand scheme of things, is nothing. Real Julie cracked under her self-created mental strain. To her eternal shame, she exasperatedly burst out, "Please, <i>just stop talking </i>until your skates are on. I've had a noisy day, and I need a couple minutes of quiet right now." The other people in the room were probably thinking, "Whoa! Should we call Child Services?" Yeah, Real Julie is not a shining example of motherhood, but this post is about full disclosure.<br />
<br />
What else can we say about Real Julie?<br />
<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>She possesses a phenomenal talent for saying precisely the wrong the thing at the wrong time. </li>
<li>She's rubbish at keeping house. </li>
<li><span style="background-color: white;">There is one day every month when she doesn't want to see, hear or speak to anyone. If you happen to spot her on this day,</span><i> run away</i><span style="background-color: white;">.</span></li>
<li>She frequently doesn't shower until noon. </li>
<li><span style="background-color: white;">She measures time in half-</span>hour blocks. 1:01 is almost 1:30. 1:31 is 2:00. <i>(I told you she was neurotic about time.)</i></li>
<li>She has an annoying habit of saying "I told you..."</li>
<li>She procrastinates.</li>
<li>She doesn't like sweating, but she'd rather be slightly sweaty than cold. Unfortunately, 75% of the time, she's freezing.</li>
<li>She refuses to run. At all. Ever. For any reason.</li>
</ul>
<div>
<br />
I could go on. The point is, dressed-down, unedited Julie is an entirely different creature than her online counterpart. And I suppose this is where I circle back to my original musings. Is the everyday woman whose day is spent on mundane activities and details the real person? Or is the woman who writes about her inner life the real one? Which version is the real one? </div>
</div>
Julie Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09965401314478095790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921518442264214333.post-15811545915219692702013-12-07T08:56:00.000-05:002014-01-17T06:59:38.315-05:00I've figured out which superpower I want...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A couple of weeks ago my 3-year old and I were getting ready for a playdate, and she kept insisting that, "We have to go <i>now!</i>"<br />
<br />
"No, your friend won't be home until 1. It's only 11 now."<br />
<br />
"Hold me," she exclaimed. When I picked her up, she gestured to the oven. I carried her over, and she began jabbing at the 1 on the oven clock.<br />
<br />
Frustrated, she cried, "It won't change to one!!!"<br />
<br />
I tried explaining that even if one changes the clock, one can't change time -- it doesn't go faster, slow down, or even rewind. It was a hard sell, though, and I'm still not sure she entirely believes me. Apparently, though, I have the maturity of a 3-year old because I think that would be an awesome super power. <br />
<br />
The last few weeks have been crazy busy for me. This year, I decided to pick up some freelance work, and it's started pouring in lately (which is brilliant timing, btw, with Christmas coming up, so no complaints here). I've also been dealing with the aftermath of <a href="http://happyhourtopbar.blogspot.com/2013/11/disaster-strikes-again.html" target="_blank">a tree falling on our house a few days before Thanksgiving</a>. (Do you have any idea how hard it is to get work done between Thanksgiving and Christmas? Everyone is on vacation!) Of course, this is all on top of all the other business of being a mom to three kids, and I would love the ability to manipulate time. I'd add about four more hours to the day, I think.<br />
<br />
How cool would that be? Instead of a day planned around and dictated by alarms, appointments, and deadlines, I could plan activities around when I actually felt ready for them! How great would that be in the morning! No more hitting the snooze button.<br />
<br />
So this got me thinking. If I could gain an extra few hours, what would I fill the moments with? I wish I could say I would do something wonderful. Maybe read a novel, sew a quilt, go for a hike. Knowing me, though, I'd probably pull a Hermione Granger with her Time-turner, turning back time only to fill it with more work. In my case, more projects around the house, more laundry, more scrubbing. What a waste of time! Alas, I'm probably better off without any super powers.<br />
<br />
How about you. If you had a superpower, what would you want?<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Julie Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09965401314478095790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921518442264214333.post-3491356277677418672013-11-06T19:41:00.000-05:002013-11-06T19:41:06.241-05:00The Life of a Leaf<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In high school, one of my teachers observed that most people she knew were either leaves floating idly along the river of life or motorboats with speed, direction, and purpose. I used to think that was a motorboat, but I was wrong. I'm a leaf.<br />
<br />
Tonight, my kids and I were going through some photo albums, and a realization hit me. Most of my life, so many of my favorite memories are just products of chance. Jobs that I've taken, places I've visited, people I've met... They've all been strange, random twists of fate.<br />
<br />
I recall that I had a plan once long ago, but it was derailed, and I never bothered to make a new one. Since Baby #3 was born, I don't think I've ever been able to stick to a plan that extended later than dinnertime.<br />
<br />
My husband -- I met him through a bizarre chance of fate. He didn't even live in the same city, but his mother and I worked at the same school. He was there to visit her, and I bumped into them in the teacher's lounge because I was changing to go running. That may sound pretty normal, but I <b>never</b> run. Never. Ever. Not for fires, not for shoe sales, not for anything... I was on a train in Paris once when we got a bomb threat. Sirens were blaring; the <i>gendarme</i> were whizzing through the cars to evacuate us. I didn't even break into a trot. What in the world possessed me to go running that day, that one day of the year that I would meet him? Any other day, I would've hopped into my car parked near my classroom and missed him altogether. As I recall, I didn't even like him at the moment, but here we are, nearly two decades later.<br />
<br />
Those oft-quoted lines from Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken" come to mind:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—<br />
I took the one less traveled by,<br />
And that has made all the difference.</blockquote>
Most people infer that the road less traveled is the superior one, but I'm not so sure. Sometimes, I think that's just an elegant way to say "I've made a hu-u-u-u-u-ge mistake."<br />
<br />
My father has wisely stated, "A lot of things could've been, but I don't bother thinking about them because there's no point." Sadly, I lack his placid temperament, and I often wonder what life might have been if I'd stuck to a definite plan. Easier? More focused? More profitable? For sure, I'd be doing something more productive than posting blog entries between bouts of ring-around-the-rosies.<br />
<br />
On the other hand, if I'd been more goal-oriented, I'd have missed out on some of the best memories I have, like karaoke-singing on the Champs Elysees and "The Lebanese Detective" (that's another post maybe). Heck, two of my children were complete surprises, and I can't imagine life without them. These memories, these people that have come in and out of my life -- a motorboat would've missed them, but they really are the details that make all the difference.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Julie Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09965401314478095790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921518442264214333.post-5280536131560161422013-11-04T15:33:00.001-05:002013-11-04T15:33:09.659-05:00The Pikmin and the Princess<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Ok, I know Halloween is over, and this post is late, but I still wanted to post a pic of my kids this year.<br />
<br />
Anyone who knows me, knows that I have a blast making the kids' Halloween costumes. It's so much fun listening to the kids' ideas for what they want to be and then trying to figure out how to make that happen. It's not always easy, but I definitely learn a lot.<br />
<br />
This year, we had a Pikmin and a princess.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkDrYE12DcbSJolB_8dqB33hODQtd1u28u_RFF57TodzOsoH2Fh28hqcmXVNoicr-3-BkEK3IZrb8P4tPj9eJgxOkBgJdaVsq2b5zsIUSfqpkjNcUsB1C8UuB3WaEhQSVh5QIgZvf-ldY/s1600/pikmin_princess.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkDrYE12DcbSJolB_8dqB33hODQtd1u28u_RFF57TodzOsoH2Fh28hqcmXVNoicr-3-BkEK3IZrb8P4tPj9eJgxOkBgJdaVsq2b5zsIUSfqpkjNcUsB1C8UuB3WaEhQSVh5QIgZvf-ldY/s640/pikmin_princess.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
For Baby Girl, I confess, I did nothing. She grabbed a dress from out of the play clothes pile, and we were done. (Totally lame, Mom.) However, I beg for leniency this year because my sewing machine was in the shop for some much needed TLC most of October. In fact, I sewed my son's Pikmin costume by hand because I wasn't sure Hester (my machine) would make it home in time. Thank goodness trick-or-treating is done in the dark because the stitching is pretty bad and very uneven.<br />
<br />
For the costume, I used McCalls pattern M5508. Oddly enough, I also used the overalls part of this pattern several years ago for Mario and Luigi costumes. I guess this has been a great pattern for us!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://mccallpattern.mccall.com/filebin/images/product_images/Full/M5508.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://mccallpattern.mccall.com/filebin/images/product_images/Full/M5508.jpg" width="303" /></a></div>
<br />
I modified it a bit by omitting the pocket and adding a stem on the hood. The stem has a wire in it (cut from a coat hanger) and polyester filling to help it keep its shape. The weight of the stem kept pulling the hood off, so I also added a couple of snaps to help keep it on. Probably a light stretchy fabric with a hood fitted very closely around the face would've helped the stem stand straighter, but my son loved being cozy in his fleece on a chilly Halloween night.<br />
<br />
Originally, I planned to do pants, too, but my fingers were too raw and sore to go on. If you look closely at the photo of it, you might notice that I didn't even bother hemming the bottom of the garment. My fingers had had enough!<br />
<br />
Actually, as I stitched, all I could think of was my mom. When I was in high school, she made me a gorgeous dress once and hand-stitched hundreds of lovely flowers on the skirt of it. As much as I loved that dress then, I have sooooo much more appreciation for what she did now. It must have been a royal pain in the rear. She was a good mom.<br />
<br />
Of course, nobody over the age of 10 knew what my son's costume was. At first, when asked, he would go through a long spiel about what pikmin are. (Pikmin are characters from a video game. There are various pikmin types that possess different abilities. He was a water pikmin... etc., etc.) After three or four houses, though, he boiled the speech down to, "A video character."<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://images1.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20130629222013/pikmin/images/thumb/f/f5/Pikmin_types_-_Flower.png/300px-Pikmin_types_-_Flower.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="193" src="http://images1.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20130629222013/pikmin/images/thumb/f/f5/Pikmin_types_-_Flower.png/300px-Pikmin_types_-_Flower.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Image of pikmin from:<br /> </i><a href="http://pikmin.wikia.com/wiki/Pikmin_family">http://pikmin.wikia.com/wiki/Pikmin_family</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
However, when we passed a large group of trick-or-treaters on the street, several seven-year-olds cried out, "Ooooh! Look! A pikmin!" This gratified my son to no end. I decided that seeing him so happy and proud of his costume was worth a little blood sacrifice.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
*****</div>
<br />
P.S. For those who may be wondering, I do indeed have three children, though only two are pictured today. My eldest son has decided that he's "too old for baby stuff." No doubt, he's figured out that pounding the pavement for sweets is for chumps when he can sit in the comfort of his own home with dad -- right next to the candy bowl.</div>
Julie Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09965401314478095790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921518442264214333.post-43058568236919913712013-11-04T10:20:00.004-05:002013-11-04T11:26:15.082-05:00Super Frog<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amigareviews.leveluphost.com/pic/superfrog-3.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.amigareviews.leveluphost.com/pic/superfrog-3.gif" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Image from: <br />http://www.amigareviews.leveluphost.com/superfro.htm</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Yesterday, we had such a good laugh that I feel compelled to share. <br />
<br />
On our way to church, my kids were practicing their memory verse for Sunday school, which was taken from the book of Philippians. This is what Boy #2 recited:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Amphibians 4:13." </i></blockquote>
Of course, this is from the same child who, around age 2 or 3, insisted that, "God is not a person. He's a turtle... and a scientist."<br />
<br />
Seems to be some sort of pattern going on with him. LOL!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Julie Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09965401314478095790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921518442264214333.post-16056748273563394872013-10-29T08:58:00.001-04:002013-10-29T08:58:41.291-04:00My Perfect Child<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A few days ago, the Little Girl and I were in a store when she spied a Hello Kitty Jelly Belly candy dish.<br />
<br />
Actually, I think I need to back this story up. My daughter LOVES to shop. She's only three, but she approaches the activity with the dedication and perseverance of an Olympic athlete. If I want her to jump up and get ready in the morning, all I have to do is mention that "We're going to the store." It doesn't matter what store, and she wants EVERYTHING. My husband thinks I spoil her and cave to her every desire when we come home with some small trinket, but he has no idea how many gazillion requests I may have actually turned down during the same trip.<br />
<br />
A few weeks ago, I got her a small purse and wallet, and I'm starting her on a tiny allowance so that she can learn how to spend and save her own money. Now when we go to the store and she asks for some <i>tchotchke</i>, I simply reply, "Do you have money for it?" This strategy worked with my oldest child when he was the same age, so I've been hopeful that it will take with Princess, too.<br />
<br />
So back to the Hello Kitty candy dish. She begged and pleaded and pleaded and begged. I told her she could buy it if she had money, but it was $10, and she only had $2 left this month. Sorrowfully, she left it on the shelf.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/31x6rxgou4L.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="210" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/31x6rxgou4L.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Jelly-Belly-Hello-Kitty-Bean-shaped/dp/B00FFGQ10M/ref=sr_1_11?ie=UTF8&qid=1383050160&sr=8-11&keywords=hello+kitty+jelly+belly">http://www.amazon.com/Jelly-Belly-Hello-Kitty-Bean-shaped/dp/B00FFGQ10M/ref=sr_1_11?ie=UTF8&qid=1383050160&sr=8-11&keywords=hello+kitty+jelly+belly</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
As we were paying, wouldn't you know it, but there was another candy dish just like it at the register. I noticed her eyeing it, but I was busy chit chatting with the cashier. It wasn't until we left the store and my darling announced, "Mommy! I have jelly beans in my bag," (as if they had simply jumped in there) that I realized I had a budding kleptomaniac on my hands. Sure enough, a search of her bag revealed a stolen Hello Kitty candy dish.<br />
<br />
After explaining how wrong it was to steal, I marched her back inside to return the item and apologize to the cashier. Poor thing. I could tell she was a bit scared and ashamed as she whispered, "I'm sorry for taking this," to the cashier.<br />
<br />
The cashier and her supervisor are both Indians from the old country, and in true Auntie fashion, they both started wagging their heads somberly and clucking at my criminal child. "Oh, no. Stealing is very, very, very wrong. This is very, very serious. You should not take things that are not yours." Even another elderly shopper at the register got in on the action. "No, no, little girl, you must never, ever steal. That is not a good thing to do!"<br />
<br />
The ladies were awesome doing me a favor and backing me up with their sober faces and gentle admonishments. Inside, I was cracking up until I saw Baby Girl's face. She looked so miserable and ashamed. Huge guilty tears were welling up, and her little bottom lip was quivering repentantly. I decided she'd learned her lesson and we could all relent, so I ended her lecture with, "I know you're very sorry, and you'll never do it again. Right?" "Yes," nodded her tiny sensitive head. After we walked out of the store for the second time, she broke out into a full wail and wouldn't let go of me for the next half hour.<br />
<br />
Later that evening, I recounted the event to my DH, and we thought were going die laughing. There is something so precious about this age. I melt over these little hearts that are quick to repent, that hold nothing against you for disciplining them, that want you to comfort them afterward, that want to be kissed and held. How could anyone not love them? They're perfect.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
*****</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Then Jesus called a little child to Him, set him in the midst of them, and said, “Assuredly, I say to you, unless you are converted and become as little children, you will by no means enter the kingdom of heaven. -- Matthew 18:2-3</i></blockquote>
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Julie Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09965401314478095790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921518442264214333.post-33374775346023715622013-09-30T14:42:00.002-04:002013-09-30T14:42:20.041-04:00Eating Goober Peas<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/RBOxw6vbDyo" width="420"></iframe>
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<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Peas! Peas! Peas! Peas! Eating goober peas!<br /> Goodness how delicious, eating goober peas!.</i><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i>From a popular Civil War song</i></div>
</blockquote>
We left the South about 11 years, and while we love being up north, there are some things that we miss. Naturally, our families, sunshine all year, and lower taxes top the list. However, boiled peanuts are also pretty high up there for me, too.<br />
<br />
Down south, you can find big advertisement signs (my favorites being the ones that say "Boiled P-nuts") all over the place -- gas stations, truck stops, roadside stands... In certain places, even grocery stores will have big pots of them simmering. Usually, you get a choice of peanuts. There is the tried and true version boiled in simple saltwater. There is also Cajun-style for the bolder palate. Additionally, you can choose a small or large styrofoam container of nuts. I always go for large. And usually buy one container of each kind because I can't see limiting myself.<br />
<br />
When most people think of peanuts, something crunchy comes to mind. Boiled peanuts, though, couldn't be more different. Texture-wise, they are much more like cooked beans, so it seems understandable that most people either love them or hate them. I'm most decidedly a lover. There is something irresistible about cracking the shell with your teeth and then sucking out the salty brine before nibbling the delectably creamy peanuts inside. The spicy, lip-numbing Cajun-style peanuts are even better.<br />
<br />
To make boiled peanuts, you need green peanuts. I've heard you can use the raw peanuts, too, but they take a lot longer to cook (like 24 hours). I don't know about that because I've never tried. Actually, green peanuts are also raw, but they differ from "raw peanuts" in that they are fresh from the field. "Raw peanuts" are dehydrated. Green peanuts are not. In the South, I think I remember seeing them in stores during the summertime, but I've never seen them up here in the North. At least not until this past Friday when I scored big time at a local Korean grocer's.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1XRB3zag_hq-9LWsiBYuVOT91dNgg3-diVwuhDBP8j3N6gW4CK85vksfhOJ9n2Ky0qopagdJtIOyMHYq5cbyKn79GCCUzw0ZH5f4o9kJXwoK09ilAoOoBzglpnCG4DO1Of-tafDMx5tg/s1600/IMG_3053%5B1%5D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1XRB3zag_hq-9LWsiBYuVOT91dNgg3-diVwuhDBP8j3N6gW4CK85vksfhOJ9n2Ky0qopagdJtIOyMHYq5cbyKn79GCCUzw0ZH5f4o9kJXwoK09ilAoOoBzglpnCG4DO1Of-tafDMx5tg/s320/IMG_3053%5B1%5D.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Green peanuts</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
If you want to try making your own boiled peanuts, here's a basic recipe:<br />
<ol>
<li>Wash the peanuts in their shells to make sure there isn't any dirt on them. Rinse until the water coming off of them is clear.</li>
<li>Put your peanuts in a crockpot. Fill the pot about 1/2 to 2/3 full, leaving plenty of room for water.</li>
<li>Add water to fill the pot. </li>
<li>Add about 1 Tbsp for every pint of water you add. (The water should be about as salty as the ocean.)</li>
<li>Cook the peanuts on high until they are tender inside and have a consistency that you like. </li>
<li>At this point, you can turn the crockpot to warm and snack on them all day. Or you can take the nuts out of the pot and put them in the fridge. However, the longer you let them soak, the more flavorful they will be.</li>
</ol>
Altogether, the cooking time is probably around 6-15 hours depending on how tender you want the nuts. (Around 12 hours is how I like them.) But they are so worth it! Especially since the crockpot does all the work for you.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC6xBmVUo9V0WFQ8UJXG1yYYst1MDo_I70KOi0jMrTSkslRzGzCitNhmrApDWaC_S1mSbas-lqOCfRpYakH6Oe4aBWfWdAGqjX78EIE1HJFUKHmdtBh-7Eymi83cNy2XEn5JS8bbY96WQ/s1600/IMG_3056%5B1%5D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC6xBmVUo9V0WFQ8UJXG1yYYst1MDo_I70KOi0jMrTSkslRzGzCitNhmrApDWaC_S1mSbas-lqOCfRpYakH6Oe4aBWfWdAGqjX78EIE1HJFUKHmdtBh-7Eymi83cNy2XEn5JS8bbY96WQ/s320/IMG_3056%5B1%5D.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Ready to cook. When they're done, the peanuts<br />start to fill up with brine and begin to sink down<br />into the water.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
If you want Cajun peanuts, add some crab boil seasoning, garlic powder, red pepper flakes, and cajun seasoning to the pot along with the salt. Some people add jalapenos, too. If your Cajun seasoning contains salt, though, adjust the amount of salt accordingly.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIGE-1BsbLnlpZg6F7tD1adlael-HtWdOM8ldZpzjR65_uIFC-1ZNTDpeD6OUGAwmpGHmh8VIe-k5av9hqUTw5H0kc5eyC3mH1s54_qSDilDmT6hgCjo4IEW_KAt7AEQ5CEQ8VDiI-KdU/s1600/IMG_3148%5B2%5D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIGE-1BsbLnlpZg6F7tD1adlael-HtWdOM8ldZpzjR65_uIFC-1ZNTDpeD6OUGAwmpGHmh8VIe-k5av9hqUTw5H0kc5eyC3mH1s54_qSDilDmT6hgCjo4IEW_KAt7AEQ5CEQ8VDiI-KdU/s320/IMG_3148%5B2%5D.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Ready for shelling!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
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Julie Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09965401314478095790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921518442264214333.post-38079269675859394192013-09-11T11:13:00.002-04:002013-09-11T15:43:40.172-04:00Love and Puke<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's official. My daughter is the world's heaviest sleeper.
<br />
<br />
Last night, I awoke to a horrible retching sound and found Babygirl lying on her back, in bed, puking up bucketfuls. I was terrified that she might choke, but she never even woke up. She just continued sleeping. Even when I roused her, she barely opened her eyes, and she was still half asleep when I put her in the bath.<br />
<br />
Of course, while she was soundly in bed within seconds of her bath, I couldn't sleep the rest of the night. Between cleaning sheets, floors, tubs, toilets, sinks and a general insomnia, I've had hardly forty winks since yesterday.<br />
<br />
I suppose I got two lessons out of this. The most obvious one is that mom is always the one who deals with dirty stuff in the middle of the night. The other lesson took me a bit more time to figure out.<br />
<br />
There was vomit in Babygirl's hair, on her face, all over her body. She was swimming in it, completely oblivious, and unable to help herself. Although I tried to be as gentle as possible and to keep her comfortable, she looked so <i>pathétique</i> shivering in in the bathtub, vomit swirling around her feet and encrusting her small body. My heart was moved with pity for her as I bathed her tiny shoulders and washed the puke out of her hair.<br />
<br />
It seems obvious that one would feel compassionate toward a sick child. The truth, though, is that she stank so much I thought I would be sick, too. Every muscle in my body wanted to run away and leave her in the tub! (How is that for a maternal instinct?) It's only love that made me stay.<br />
<br />
So I've kind of taken the long way around to my point, but here it is. Lately, I've seen a lot of young girls (and boys, for that matter) in church, on the streets, in the media, etc. who are metaphorically covered in puke. They've made some really bad choices and have been met by one of two responses. Either, society (in the name of love) castigates them until they can adhere to a certain standard of acceptability. Or it views them (in the name of love) with a lack of involvement that kindly casts no judgment at all, but this kindness leaves them to follow a path of self-destruction.<br />
<br />
Real love, I think, is somewhere in the middle. Indulge me for a moment if I compare love to a stray dog. Would Love see a stray and leave him outside the door until it could clean itself up? No, that would be harsh. Would Love drown a stray to get rid of its ticks? Of course not, that would be unreasonable. But neither would Love adopt a stray and leave it with all its fleas and bad habits. That would be foolish and ultimately untenable. So it saddens me to see young people who are being destroyed by these two extreme responses. There are the well-intentioned who nitpick at and punish young people until they drown in criticism, and there are the well-intentioned who don't want young people to "feel bad" so they approve of everything. But nobody is doing these kids any favors. The critic loves his own opinion. The "tolerant" person loves creating a persona of benevolence. Nobody is truly loving these kids.<br />
<br />
Anyway, Babygirl just woke up, and I see I missed some icky spots in the dim lighting last night. So we're off for another bath, but I leave you with these words from C.S. Lewis who always says everything a hundred times better than I could ever hope to.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Love, in its own nature, demands the perfecting of the beloved; that the mere 'kindness' which tolerates anything except suffering in its object is, in that respect, at the opposite pole from Love. When we fall in love with a woman, do we cease to care whether she is clean or dirty, fair or foul? Do we not rather then first begin to care? Does any woman regard it as a sign of love in a man that he neither knows nor cares how she is looking? Love may, indeed, love the beloved when her beauty is lost: but not because it is lost. Love may forgive all infirmities and love still in spite of them: but Love cannot cease to will their removal... Of all powers, he forgives most, but he condones least: he is pleased with little, but demands all.</i> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: right;">
<i>from the Problem of Pain by C.S. Lewis</i></blockquote>
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Julie Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09965401314478095790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921518442264214333.post-73928553724637046142013-09-07T21:44:00.000-04:002013-09-12T14:25:40.354-04:00Two Different Pestos<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Growing up, I have always loved radish leaf kimchi, a type of Korean pickle made with the young leaves of daikon radishes. As a result, I've often wondered what I could do with the leaves that come attached to the red radishes one buys at the store. Now I know -- radish leaf pesto.<br />
<br />
A couple of weeks ago, I found a great recipe for <a href="http://belloebuono.wordpress.com/2011/03/18/pesto-di-foglie-di-ravanello-radish-leaf-pesto/" target="_blank">radish leaf pesto</a> online, which I'll recap below:<br />
<br />
<b>Radish Leaf Pesto</b><br />
<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>very fresh, bright green leaves from a bunch of radishes </li>
<li>a clove of garlic </li>
<li>a handful of pistachio nuts (btw, I prefer the kind you have to shell to the pre-shelled kind)</li>
<li>extra virgin olive oil </li>
<li>a pinch of salt </li>
<li>grated Parmesan cheese</li>
</ul>
<div>
First, I cleaned the radish leaves and removed the tough stems. Then, I put everything except the cheese into a blender and pureed it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Of course, I can never leave a recipe alone, so I also added some tender young mustard leaves and an additional clove of garlic. Then I removed it from the blender and set aside some pesto without cheese for me. I stirred the cheese into the remaining pesto for my DH.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It was fantastic! The pesto was such a vivid, gorgeous shade of green, and the flavor was light, but pleasantly piquant. Delicious! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sadly, we devoured it before I remembered to take photos, so I'm showing you a photo from the blog where I got the recipe. Mmm...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_147294464"><img border="0" height="393" src="http://belloebuono.files.wordpress.com/2011/03/radish_leaf_pesto.jpg?w=600" width="640" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image of radish leaf pesto from:<br />
<a href="http://belloebuono.wordpress.com/2011/03/18/pesto-di-foglie-di-ravanello-radish-leaf-pesto/">http://belloebuono.wordpress.com/2011/03/18/pesto-di-foglie-di-ravanello-radish-leaf-pesto/</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Sorrel Pesto</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
A few days ago, I had a <b>huge</b> bunch of sorrel. I used half of it to make a potato and sorrel soup. (Divine!) Then, since the radish leaf pesto was such a success, I decided to make pesto with the remaining half. Basically, I used the same recipe as for the radish leaf pesto, but I also added in a tiny bit of lemon peel to complement the lemony flavor of the sorrel. Another homerun!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
If you try either of these recipes, I hope you'll let me know how it turned out! Buon appetito!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
</div>
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Julie Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09965401314478095790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921518442264214333.post-18063468598769633062013-09-07T20:09:00.000-04:002013-09-07T20:09:03.106-04:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>One day I wrote her name upon the strand,<br /> But came the waves and washed it away:<br /> Again I wrote it with a second hand,<br /> But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.<br />
Vain man, said she, that dost in vain assay<br /> A mortal thing so to immortalize!<br /> For I myself shall like to this decay,<br /> And eek my name be wiped out likewise.</i><br />
<i>from Amoretti, Sonnet 75 by Edmund Spenser </i></blockquote>
</div>
<br />
I love underground and offbeat tours, so when we visited Montreal a couple of weeks ago, I was all over a visit to the <a href="http://www.pacmusee.qc.ca/en/home" target="_blank">Pointe-à-Callière Museum</a>.<br />
<br />
One description read:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Pointe-à-Callière is a national historic site rising above the actual remains of the city's birthplace. It takes visitors on an authentic archaeological tour from the 14th century, when Natives camped on the site, right up to the present. They'll see Native artefacts, the city's first Catholic cemetery, its first marketplace, and lots more. Cutting-edge technology and a multimedia show bring Montréal's past to life in a whole new light. The Museum's contemporary building is linked by an underground passage to the Ancienne Douane, Montréal's first Custom House, leading through an archaeological crypt safeguarding more than six centuries of history, beneath the raised portion of Place Royale.</i></blockquote>
<br />
It sounded really cool -- go underground (literally) and view remains of the city dating back to the 14th century. We couldn't wait.<sup>1</sup><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVR1TxuQ4YmbuS9du2pcFbdwbmVwfI6kih8vl9Re7g8JFMLj4eJalD9Wl-a7wONbmgh7Mijpx8hLIJezQHuwadRAkZXeRaeZ9wd-ExTbSRmzq3vWQinZYOfgDtO9NBibhHP-V2h2nfupU/s1600/IMG_2650.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVR1TxuQ4YmbuS9du2pcFbdwbmVwfI6kih8vl9Re7g8JFMLj4eJalD9Wl-a7wONbmgh7Mijpx8hLIJezQHuwadRAkZXeRaeZ9wd-ExTbSRmzq3vWQinZYOfgDtO9NBibhHP-V2h2nfupU/s640/IMG_2650.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
The remains of one of the buildings struck me particularly. It was the broken foundation of a building described as a house that was once five stories high. I could imagine it -- quite a grand house for its time. Quarrying, cutting, and moving all the stone used to build it must have been a monumental task. I wonder about the man who ordered its construction. To build a house that big, he must have invested a lot of time and care in designing and building it. And now, a few centuries later, there's almost nothing to show for all his effort.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT_4U3PSb4CKMlHwZfkc0uEzBL9pGtKnJIx5iVJ1oBwPyOzSFY-g1r5ddZY2NfFwrcmHkjlb462ZhDNGM1XN5JFqu0aJUb8gQx12eGEreWGzH5Qxj-DsBkjhpsKiOYszw3AW2tga1KLeE/s1600/IMG_2651.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT_4U3PSb4CKMlHwZfkc0uEzBL9pGtKnJIx5iVJ1oBwPyOzSFY-g1r5ddZY2NfFwrcmHkjlb462ZhDNGM1XN5JFqu0aJUb8gQx12eGEreWGzH5Qxj-DsBkjhpsKiOYszw3AW2tga1KLeE/s640/IMG_2651.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Seeing the rubble, it made me wonder what exactly it is that I'm building with my days. I've never even attempted to undertake a project even a fraction as grand as that house must have been. Most of my time is spent so mundanely -- packing lunches, wiping fingerprints, mopping messes. The efforts I make rarely last even thirty minutes. I might as well be writing my name in the sand. The tides can make my pains its prey because I don't feel like the wise man building on the rock. More like the fool. <br />
<br />
I suppose that every mom goes through the blahs like this. The sun will probably come out tomorrow.<br />
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<sup>1</sup> Now that I've made the museum seem like some kind of great experience, I feel compelled to provide a caveat to the would-be traveller. If you plan to see it, don't. Overall, it was not nearly as awesome as I'd hoped. In the museum's defense, we opted to skip the guided tour because it's really hard to keep a 3-year-old patient and non-disruptive. Possibly, a guide would have made it much more interesting. Exploring on our own, though, we concluded it was indeed the dullest, most uninteresting museum we've ever visited. They had a Beatles exhibit as well, which was lame. Seriously, how does someone make the Beatles boring? I was so disappointed I actually considered asking for my money back.<br />
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Julie Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09965401314478095790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921518442264214333.post-24640878272622559142013-08-30T10:11:00.003-04:002013-08-30T18:06:25.353-04:00The Smell of Happiness<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>Another entry I forgot to post. Oops.</i><br />
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The Arbor Day Foundation sent me some free forsythia with my order of dwarf cherries. So <a href="http://onepennyjumblepacket.blogspot.com/2013/04/my-inner-control-freak-is-freaking.html" target="_blank">despite having a broken leg</a>, I dared to disobey doctor's orders and take up a shovel. In the middle of planting, I noticed a tree that I couldn't name.<br />
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Recently, identifying neighborhood flora has become something of an obsession with me. I'm trying to figure out what kind of forage is available for the bees month-by-month. So naturally, I clipped a twig and went to <a href="http://www.arborday.org/trees/whatTree/" target="_blank">The Arbor Day's online field guide</a>.<br />
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Unfortunately, I couldn't find it in the guide. Maybe it was because the leaves were still too small, but I had trouble answering the guide questions.<sup>1</sup> I was about to give up when I happened to peel the bark and a whiff of root beer and menthol surprised my nose. It wasn't sassafras, because I'd know those mitten-like/dinosaur-print shaped leaves anywhere.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/1/12/AbbotV1Tab02A.jpg/220px-AbbotV1Tab02A.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/1/12/AbbotV1Tab02A.jpg/220px-AbbotV1Tab02A.jpg" width="291" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sassafras illustration from Wikipedia<br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sassafras">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sassafras</a></i></td></tr>
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No, it was sweet birch, and its fragrance hinted at some sunny activity in the fringes of my memory. I don't know what it is -- maybe a picnic, a walk in the woods, I don't know. I can't remember exactly what happened, but I know this secret scent of a nearly forgotten delight. It's there "filling me up with rainbows" to borrow an expression from my son. It reminds me of the description of Wendy's mother from <i>Peter Pan.</i><br />
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<i>“She was a lovely lady, with a romantic mind and such a sweet mocking mouth. Her romantic mind was like the tiny boxes, one within the other, that come from the puzzling East, however many you discover there is always one more; and her sweet mocking mouth had one kiss on it that Wendy could never get, though there it was, perfectly conspicuous in the right-hand corner.”</i></blockquote>
For a few weeks, the memory (or lack of it) nagged and nagged at me. I couldn't place it. Couldn't file it away neatly where it should go. It was just there, just out of reach -- fresh and green, wayward and flighty. But now I've come to prefer it that way.<br />
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At the risk of sounding like sour grapes, maybe the memory isn't so great after all, or it might be more indelibly printed into my brain. However, whatever it is, I've begun to think that recall might come too close to possession or cataloguing. Trying to hold on to it or bring it up at beck and call might make the magic fly away like Peter Pan. As it is, I'm happy to let myself be beautifully, enchantedly happy that something this wonderful exists.<br />
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<i><sup>1 </sup>If you were wondering why the leaves were so small when we're already into summer, it's because I started this post back in May. Of course, the leaves are full-size now.</i></div>
Julie Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09965401314478095790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921518442264214333.post-61053786602884541052013-08-30T07:56:00.001-04:002013-08-30T07:57:44.437-04:00Watery Melon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>I write posts (or start them), but then I forget to publish them. This morning, I noticed this particular post. There is nothing special about it, but it's too weird to not share. (Sorry about that awful music in the background. I think it got added automatically somehow, but I don't have time right now to edit it.) Cheers!</i><br />
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Yesterday, we picked up a watermelon from Costco after church. It seemed fine. Nice dull sound when knocked. Yellow (not white) spot where it had been sitting on the ground. Light ridges when we ran our fingers over it. After we brought it home, we put it on the kitchen counter and just left it there.<br />
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Later that evening, I noticed that someone had spilled ketchup all over it. So I wiped it up, and the watermelon continued to sit there. About an hour later, there was more ketchup all over it. Weird. I wiped it up again.<br />
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Another hour passes, and I'm putting dishes away when out of the corner of my eye, I see a squirt of red oozing out of the melon. I press on it, and there is a huge squishy spot on it.<br />
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Now I've never seen a melon fountain before, but my kids thought it was hilarious. So for your pure entertainment, here is what we saw.<br />
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Julie Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09965401314478095790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921518442264214333.post-49794990328361422722013-07-26T08:54:00.002-04:002013-07-26T20:55:27.988-04:00The Road Home<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Last week, the kids and I took a roadtrip down to Virginia with my parents. It was a lovely trip, and we really enjoyed it. But when we started our return trip on Monday, the kids and I were glad to be going home.<br />
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For the most part, our journey took us north on I-81 and then we took I-84 up into Connecticut. As we approached the junction of those two interstates, a huge road sign read I-84, New England.<br />
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I can't explain it, but I got a thrill seeing it. Although we were still hours away from home and it seemed like the trip would never end, there was this notice that we were on the right track. Home might be out of sight, but it was not out of reach, and we would reach it eventually.<br />
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I guess that sometimes the road home starts a long way off. But if you stay on it, you'll get there.</div>
Julie Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09965401314478095790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921518442264214333.post-6285287432545043932013-07-10T09:17:00.001-04:002013-07-10T09:17:49.774-04:00Introducing a New Blog<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Poor DH claims he's become a bee widower and that he's going to get yellow and black suit so that I'll pay attention to him. (pobrecito!) It is kind of true that I do like to go outside frequently and watch the girls. However, I don't want to tire anyone out with my goings on about the bees.<br />
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So in the interest of keeping things interesting, I'm moving all the buzz on bees to a different blog.<br />
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<img border="0" height="103" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigc2hlESneJuGXJmdJ6tQ5A5HkidoCQrcP-vZAFTIFu24H9QY-DU_ULg-rVf1UPFNzA8HVAfV09YkzxBY9BEsVQ1AedPBV__IiLeewuFy2cD8eVsGXdPILFLykL2AFMvCff5ZZrhBy3ak/s640/header1.gif" width="640" /><a href="http://happyhourtopbar.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">http://happyhourtopbar.blogspot.com/</a></div>
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Some elements of the new site are still under construction -- like I've got to come up with a better graphic -- but it is open for viewing and happy hour has started.<br />
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Cheers!</div>
Julie Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09965401314478095790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921518442264214333.post-25461023001163774582013-07-01T20:06:00.000-04:002013-07-01T20:06:23.701-04:00Book Review: A Book of Bees by Sue HubbellIn recent months, my family has accused me on a daily basis of being obsessed with bees. So I've been trying not to write too much about them, but I <i>just can't help myself</i>. They're right, so I'm going with it.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://bks7.books.google.com/books?id=qYfpEGWUWM0C&printsec=frontcover&img=1&zoom=1&imgtk=AFLRE70pqp8LbuMOrxkH-bw8766-oJg0-s-i6zynydL3QPebEIAI6Y_nMyyEbvyamtRtc1e-KLBkpYdX6dg8MmTf9-BgcZ4WmOCTR5RsmDiO0LaPnjKxGXFyKv-90vge44SA-L64yR8u" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://bks7.books.google.com/books?id=qYfpEGWUWM0C&printsec=frontcover&img=1&zoom=1&imgtk=AFLRE70pqp8LbuMOrxkH-bw8766-oJg0-s-i6zynydL3QPebEIAI6Y_nMyyEbvyamtRtc1e-KLBkpYdX6dg8MmTf9-BgcZ4WmOCTR5RsmDiO0LaPnjKxGXFyKv-90vge44SA-L64yR8u" width="216" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://books.google.com/books/about/A_Book_of_Bees.html?id=qYfpEGWUWM0C" target="_blank">image from Amazon.com</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
A couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine gave me a book called <i>A Book of Bees</i> by Sue Hubble. I cannot rave enough! Even if she had picked fleas as her subject, I think I still would've been riveted.<br />
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Hubbell certainly covers the tasks that a beekeeper performs throughout the course of the year, but this is no dry manual or scientific treatise. It's really more like a journal or memoir in which a solitary woman explores her relationship with her bees, with the land, and with her community.<br />
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Her style, as she covers nature's rhythms, is elegant, wry, understated, humorous, intelligent. She mixes in poetry, myth, scientific observations, and casual conversations from a diner -- and it all works so seamlessly.<br />
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There are so many passages that I'd love to quote (but won't just in case you decide to read it). However, this is one of my favorites because reading it, I had such a vivid impression of this woman, and I think we would be very good friends if we lived next door.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>It is silly to talk to bees -- for one thing, they can't hear -- but I often do anyway. I tell them encouraging things, ask them for help and always thank them for doing good work. It is said that when a beekeeper dies someone must go and tell his bees about his death or they will fly away. Whittier wrote a poem about the practice, which dates back as for as long as humans have kept bees. In the West Country of England, the custom also requires tapping on the hive giving the news with each tap. If this ritual is not observed, someone else in the beekeeper's family may die within a year. It all sounds very superstitious, but I like the courtesy toward bees implied by the custom; I hope someone remembers to tell my bees when I die.</i></blockquote>
Of course, if you can't take my word for it that this is an awesome read, the New York Times Book Review listed it as a Notable Book of the Year when it was first published.<br />
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If you've read it (or plan to read it now), let me know what you think! Did you have a favorite passage?<br />
<br />Julie Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09965401314478095790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7921518442264214333.post-13255010183999908922013-06-28T22:24:00.000-04:002013-07-08T06:50:25.995-04:00What Do I Really Want?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Nearby, there's a small farm with a petting zoo that we like to visit. No matter how often we go, there is always something new to see. Last week, it was a pregnant goat that had escaped her pen.<br />
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Attracted by my daughter's cup of feed, she head-butted the bottom rail of her fence until she broke out. At that point, she followed my little goatherd everywhere, led by the promise of grain in a plastic cup.<br />
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We were delighted, of course, by the goat's interest. However, I also found it very odd that she should want that feed so much. Now that she was out of her pen, she was surrounded by the most succulent greens like clover, dandelions, and plantains. By comparison, the grain seemed so unappetizing. I felt a bit sorry for her -- I mean, it seemed terribly sad to be so conditioned to having those dry, dusty pellets that she couldn't recognize a far better option when it was presented.<br />
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But the goats, it seems, are not the only creatures on the farm that don't know what they really want.<br />
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Whenever we visit the farm, I also get a kick out of observing the "city folk." I admire them for wanting to expose their children to the joys of non-human creatures, but at the same time, their reactions to the farm and its livestock sometimes make me laugh. (Sorry if that seems condescending. I don't mean to be snobby, but I can't help but be tickled. After all, if I may quote Mr. Bennet from <i>Pride and Prejudice, </i>"for what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?'')<br />
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On another recent visit, I watched one such carload of people unload just as we were leaving the farm. Their teenaged son raced toward a fence and began yelling. "Hey, I want a horse! Are you gonna buy me a horse?" When his mother (I assume) replied in the negative, he started whining, "How come? If dad were here, he would get one for me. Dad gets me anything I want!"<br />
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This sort of badgering continued for a couple of minutes when suddenly the boy's attention was distracted. He exclaimed, "Oooh! That's the one! That's the horse I want!"<br />
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I glanced toward where his outstretched arm was pointing -- <b>at a llama.</b> At that point, I ducked quickly into the car. After all, it seemed rude to laugh so loudly out in the open.<br />
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But these incidents have me thinking. I know what I want, but do I know what I <i>really</i> want? Sometimes, I'm not so sure, but I'm glad there is a Good Shepherd who knows what's best.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>The Lord is my shepherd;
I shall not want. </i><i>He makes me to lie down in green pastures;
He leads me beside the still waters. </i><i>He restores my soul;
He leads me in the paths of righteousness
For His name’s sake. </i><i>Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil;
For You are with me;
Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me. </i><i>You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies;
You anoint my head with oil;
My cup runs over. </i><i>Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
All the days of my life;
And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. </i> </blockquote>
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<i>Psalm 23</i></blockquote>
Julie Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09965401314478095790noreply@blogger.com0