Category Archives: Friends

Death Tour 2014: Everyday Magic, Day 797

Portrait of the artist recovering with her cat

Portrait of the artist recovering with her cat

Within one week, I attended my uncle’s moving funeral in New Jersey, our dear community friend Maggie’s beautiful memorial service in Lawrence, and gave four Holocaust book presentations in the Kansas towns of Newton, Hutchinson, Hillsboro and McPherson. I’m beyond weary, but also inspired by the love that edged everywhere I went and most everyone I met.

The funeral for my very funny and lively uncle took place on a brilliantly blue day, where we gathered at the grave site for a short ceremony. The rabbi told about my uncle’s spirit, and his unwavering love for my aunt as the wind lightly blew and the sun brightly shone. We took turns dropping three or more shovel-fulls of dirt on the simple wooden coffin, and then the Bloom men (nephews, son, cousins, brother) continued until the grave was filled. While my trip did entail long days of flying each way, and a whole lot of driving through New Jersey, it was full of appreciation for family, great meals at diners, and laughing hysterically and mom while rolling down various highways.

The service for our friend Maggie today was sparkling with soul. Beautiful music, especially a bass solo played by one of Maggie’s nephews, and heart-opening remembrances her her brother, son and husband all culminated in the 500 or so people there standing up to sing “This Little Light of Mine” together. This is the same song a bunch of sang at her window about a month ago on a snowing March day as we sheltered our candles from the wind and leaned into each other for warmth. There’s a lot to say about the injustice of such an alive person dying from cancer at the age of only 49, but there’s even more to say about her legacy of love.

In between the funerals, I traveled with my friend Liz to a bunch of south-central communities to give presentations on my book Needle in the Bone: How a Holocaust Survivor and Polish Resistance Fighter Beat the Odds and Found Each Other. Four talks in three days meant I occasionally forgot what I told each audience, and what was left to tell. Nevertheless, the audiences surpassed expectations and numbers everywhere, especially in the small town of Hillsboro, where over 100 people came out to learn more about the Holocaust and the Polish resistance. When I showed photos of Lou’s extended family, all of whom were killed in the Holocaust, I was reminded of how, in some small way, of how right it is to remember and acknowledge these people and their lives.

Now that the week is over, I sit on the porch with Shay the dog, the wind blows fiercely, and we await whatever comes next, which might likely be another nap, with a grateful heart.

Adventures of Lenny the Squirrel Menorah: Everyday Magic, Day 749

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Lenny deciding which part of the cake he wants (he prefers to eat the part with the candles)

We have a new friend in Lenny the squirrel menorah. Born out of need and obsession, he was to symbolize the mash-up holiday of Thanksgivukkah, but as time went on, I’ve found him to be so much: an ambassador of goodwill and whimsy, a calm tender of the fire, a birthday week companion who doesn’t get headaches from drinking too much eggnog, a confidant of the highest order, and a dear friend who I feel like I’ve always known. It’s as if a very unobtrusive but highly desirable guest dropped by and, to the delight of all, moved in for life.

The cat finds him captivating too

The cat finds him captivating too

We found Lenny more than made him. Having first seen a spectacular white squirrel menorah on the internet, I immediately thought, “It shall be mine!” only find out that: 1) It wasn’t an actual menorah, but a collection of white squirrel candle holders, and 2) Said candle holders together would cost more than the value of one of our cars. So it was off to toy stores, antique stores, and many hours on the internet looking for squirrel menorahs (none out there – outrageous!) or nine small squirrel figurines to make a menorah from (I found every other kind of rodent but squirrels).

Lenny between big and little fire

Lenny between big and little fire

Then I saw Lenny sitting on a shelf in the antique mall. I brought him home for a mere $6 and put him on the kitchen table for a month while wondering how to menorah-ize him. Lucky for Lenny, a cleaning spree helped me discover little glass cubes that composed a menorah of themselves but could be rearranged around a cheerful ceramic squirrel. Ken cut a wooden base and found some strong glue, and voila! We had our squirrel menorah.

At first Lenny hung out with the cats and basically just bided his time, resting up for the show, which began on Thanksgiving eve. From there, each night, it was another adventure, with the loudest and biggest one coming, appropriately, on the last night of Hanukkah,

Thanksgiving and no one thought to give Lenny any turkey

Thanksgiving and no one thought to give Lenny any turkey

which happened to coincide with my birthday. Lenny was a champ about it all, traveling with ease, holding whatever candles we gave him, and releasing wax remnants with ease the next morning.

Now that Hanukkah and Thanksgiving are over, and there’s only a small

Lenny hangs out with my birthday loot. He especially likes the maple syrup.

Lenny hangs out with my birthday loot. He especially likes the maple syrup.

baggie of stuffing left in the refrigerator and a few errand Hanukkah candles left, I could assign Lenny a room in the basement with the other menorahs, which seem much more like the inanimate object they are. But Lenny tells me otherwise, maybe with his eyes that truly follow me wherever I go while pretending to look straight ahead (Lenny has superb peripheral vision) and surely with his heart. Besides, I’m curious as to what Lenny’s next adventure might be, and like the troll in the film Amelie, I wouldn’t be surprised if he turns up at the Pyramids, Roman ruins or in the refrigerator, all the time reminding me how, with the right squirrel, all things are possible.

The Party’s Over, The Dog Is Back & The Nest Is Emptying: Everyday Magic, Day 748

DSCN2222By 11:52 last night, Daniel was on the long, sonorous train heading southwest, less than six hours before the prodigal dog, once again vanished for a walkabout, returned home. Within a day, Natalie flies north, Forest starts classes again, work encapsulates a lot of our daylight, and the leftovers from so many gatherings ebb to crumbs. It’s the end of one wildly-vast holiday helping and the beginning of the regrouping, just in time for another bout of holidays later this month.

There’s something very satisfying about having done it all, then waking to a quiet, mostly still-clean house with a lovely bowl of local persimmons on the counter left by one guest and some handmade potholders left by another. There’s a sense of plenitude and saturation, all in the aura of fellowship that filled our house, first for Thanksgivukkah, then for the Hanukkah party with parties and festivities elsewhere in between. Mostly, there’s the lovely ease of having nothing to do but drink coffee, eat some oatmeal, and later, take a walk or take in a movie.

P1030903The weather helped with so many days bright and shining, temperatures making it easy to wander in the fields or through town. So did the company: a mash-up of friends from 30 years ago traveling through along with more recent friends, family threading together, new and old pals from different worlds overlapping over heapings of latkes, and finding Mama Stamberg’s cranberry relish everywhere we went.

DSCN2236Now is the time to remember conversations about true sabbaticals into the wild, how being a turkey mama is a free pass to being accepted by the animal world, forging forgiveness with people who haven’t a clue, watercolor tattoos, the impending arrival of bluebirds, the wonders of Brussels sprouts, and animal adventures. Speaking of which, the post-adventuring dog snores loudly by my side while the chickadees begin to make the cottonwood branches tremble a bit with their weightless weight. So much to be grateful for, not the least of which is the time to be.

Are You Holding Onto Your Seat? One Wild Day in August: Everyday Magic, Day 728

Some days the ride spins faster, and the bottom drops out only to find yourself caught in the arms of an unsuspecting stranger……or something like that. Today was such as day.

First thing up was a bone density scan, to be followed with a right phone meeting about one of my book projects possibly deflating, a worry that had me on tenter hooks (which literally means a nail with an upward curve to hold wet clothes so it can dry). By the time the scan was done, I was pacing in the food co-op on the phone, finding, to my happy surprise, that the the book project was on relatively solid ground. With great relief, I bought more coffee, put in sugar and creamer this time, and had some breakfast.

After lunch with an old friend, we found — much to our thrilled astonishment — a wedding gown for her at the first place we seriously looked, Calamity Janes in downtown Lawrence or, as many of us call it, the Stevie Nicks clothing store. I happily marched in the heat and humidity to the local library for a phone meeting, only to get a call from the doctor’s office. I had “significant bone thinning.” WTF? I’m built like a pottery mug. How could this be? Hearing from a friend that she had a similar diagnosis, and it wasn’t a major deal relieved me.

Then Ken asked if there was any chance this could be related to my cancer 11 years ago. A little dangerous research on the internet later, plus adding in various other real or imagined symptoms, brought me into quick and wild trepidation. So I started calling doctors, and by the time the nurse of my primary doctor assured me that it was “only” osteoporosis, I let myself exhale. Repeatedly. A longer talk with my oncologist calmed me more (although we will look into it because that’s the way we roll).

Now Ken naps on the bed, Shay naps on the floor, and Sid the cat naps in the bathroom sink. I consider making dinner and wonder what ups and downs might continue to toss me to my chair or lift me off the ground.

What DOMA Repeal Means Up Close and Personal, and How I Got a Kitten Out of It: Everyday Magic, Day 715

936492_10151731767950907_14429982_n“Courtney and Denise went to Iowa, and all I got was a kitten,” I joked to a friend, riffing off the old, “My parents went to Paris, and all I got was a t-shirt.” But what really matters here is why Courtney and Denise went to Iowa, and what this says about change that seemed decades away just a dozen years ago as well as changes sorely needed right now.

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The wedding procession in 2001

On May 6, 2001, I conducted my very first (and so far, last) wedding for my dear friends and our kids’ godparents. Courtney and Denise had been together for years already, and they were ready to wed. “But I’m not official,” I told them when they asked me to do the ceremony. “Like it matters,” Denise answered, and we all laughed. When I think of that moment now, I feel like crying because it should have mattered, and actually, it now does, at least in some states.

1003435_623354997676929_1330304895_nBack in 2001, the notion that gay marriage would be legal anywhere relatively soon was beyond what I thought possible. I thought that maybe in my life time, like when I was in my 90s and pushing a walker, marriage rights and privileges would be extended to my gay, lesbian and trans friends. But when change starts its road trip to justice, pit stops aside, there’s no stopping it. When I told a very elderly relative, who previously opposed gay marriage, about Courtney and Denise getting married in Iowa, she said, “Of course they should be able to do that.” Who knew how fast such opposition would transform itself? An insightful article in Time Magazine, “How Gay Marriage Already Won,” released weeks before the Supreme Court’s decision to throw out DOMA (the mean-spirited and unjust Defense of Marriage Act) illustrates the speed of our current culture shift.

With that Supreme Court decision, however, change crossed state lines just as my dear friends Courtney and Denise, who drove to Iowa, where gay marriage is legal, on Tuesday to get officially hitched. No matter that they have a son (our godson), a family business, a house, a stand at the farmer’s market, and a whole bunch of goats, dogs, and even some new pigs at their ranch. Married as much or even more than any married straight couple I know, they were now getting a marriage certificate so that they can partake of the kind of benefits straight marrieds like Ken and I take for granted (such as health insurance and federal tax benefits).

1045174_628850360460726_1634515464_nThey drove, along with their son and mine, and my son’s girlfriend, to Sidney, Iowa for the courthouse wedding. The official marrying them told them how brave they were and said many other wonderful things while both of them cried. Afterwards, everyone went to lunch (oddly enough at a place called Whips) and headed back over the border to Kansas.

downsized_0709132200But a funny thing happened on the way. At a truck stop near St. Joseph, MO, they happened upon meowing under their car: a hot (it was 102 degrees), thirsty, abandoned kitten. By the time they back to our town, I had a new kitten with the proud name of Sidney Iowa Lassman.

More importantly, Courtney and Denise have a new legitimacy even if it’s quite possible that Kansas may be the 49th state or so to acknowledge gay marriage. This, for them and tens of thousands of others, is far more than about health insurance, survivor benefits or tax breaks. It’s about collectively shedding the cloak of invisibility so that people can live out loud as who they are. It’s about acknowledging that love cannot be put in a box and labeled legitimate or not, and that the mystery, challenge, craziness and strength of committed relationships crosses all manner of boundaries, even state lines.

Drive, Hives & Still Alive: Everyday Magic, Day 689

Snow drifts on the drive were twice this high

Snow drifts on the drive were twice this high

That was yesterday, which included getting the van stuck in dog-high snow drifts, a doctor’s visit for stress-related hives, and narrowly escaping a speeding bullet of a car. It was also the Passover Express, the day to get everything set up for the big night of liberation at our annual no-holds-barred sedar.

In the beginning, there was snow. Despite only about 5-6 inches of the stuff in town, just five miles south, where we live, there was a foot, some of which melted and re-froze. Because I needed a big vehicle to pick up rental tables and chairs for Passover, which had been wisely (thanks to Ken telling me, “No, no, no, no, no!” about having people attempt to make it up our long and twisting snow-packed drive), I got in the van. Going forward and uphill didn’t work out so well, and going backwards led to inertia too. I pulled the snow shovel out of the van and went to work, freeing myself enough to go further down the drive, only to have it do it again. Within 40 minutes, I was exhausted and stuck in snow drifts. Rocking the car back and forth might work, but I was also on the edge of drifting off the driveway and down the hill. So I got out and walked to my mother-in-law’s home and borrowed the farm pick-up truck.

Rental place dog rug

Rental place dog rug

The snow sensation made me late for the doctor, and lateness translated into a very long wait. After round three of hives, I sensed it was time to go beyond deep breathing, antihestamine, and watching comedies about asteroids destroying the earth. It was time for steroids, which I now have and which make me feel capable of cleaning every closet in the house. I’m easily resisting though.

After the doctor, the rental place, where I once again climbed over the massive rug of sleeping dogs, rented my usual amount of tables and chairs for Passover, and then headed toward Rick and Amy’s to turn their living room-dining room into sedar central. Telling myself to relax — I was on Prednisone, Ken would DSCN1055come home early to dislodge the van from the snow, all would be right in the world — while crossing 6th street, a speeding white car soared toward me. Thanks to quicker reflexes than usual (thanks, steroids), I slammed the brakes and avoided that car impacting the driver’s side of the truck. The driver, a woman maybe a decade or two older, froze in the middle of the intersection when she realized she had run a red light.

“You’re still alive!” Rick told me as we unloaded the chairs. Still alive, a little itchy and sore, but I was also very awake. Which may relate in some way to the theme of Passover, or not.

Aafter Ken saved the van and bladed the drive so that now it’s just a big mush of mud and snow, we had a wonderful sedar. We sang loudly, banged the table with panache, marveled over the matzo balls and the very intense flourless chocolate cake, and laughed so hard it hurt. Everything shone in the light of the candles, many glasses of so-bad-it’s-good wine, our new and old friends, and the gleam of the mashed potatoes topping the shepherd’s pie. I felt gratitude and even some liberation, the daily kind all too evident yesterday.

I hope today isn’t nearly so exciting.

A New Place, An Old City & Some Sweet Rewards in Tennessee: Everyday Magic, Day 683

This evening, we wandered downtown Knoxville, home to our son Daniel, but a brand new city to me. I was instantly enamored with the old buildings packing surprising archways and hand-carved doors, and bDSCN0945etween them, slim alleyways where coal used to be stored for warming homes long morphed into warehouses, office space and swanky loft apartments. Although I was running on the fumes of only five hours’ sleep (nothing like pre-trip excitement to catalyst insomnia) and too much coffee, the cure was within reach: each step landing in this new place, cold air on my face, the approaching corner where I would turn toward a view I’ve never seen before.

There’s a lot about Knoxville that sings out to me in the familiar tune of east coast city: the age of the buildings; the spidery ways streets are laid out, some wide boulevards and others intersecting at close quarters; the sense of time aged and changed as this city reinvented itself again and again. Living near Kansas City, which to me always signifies the beginning of the west (and

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Erica and me below a sign that says “Chocolate Gelato.”

western cities), and coming from a very old eastern city, I feel a kinship to places where the buildings speak the language of my origins.

The rewards were more than sweet. Besides the glimpses of this place — a tiny cabin on top of a tall building, the shadow where a torch used to hang although the carved candle still hangs -I got to see more of my son’s life, hang out with his delightful new friend, and eat outrageously good food. Fried green tomatoes? Yes, and truth to be told, a few of these delicacies of the great beyond both at lunch and dinner. Freshly-madeDSCN0939 biscuit? Oh. My. God. With homemade blueberry jam. Pickled okra. Some kind of fried, sauced, smothered and amazingly still light chicken too. Sometimes there are amazing awards for waking up too early and getting flung through space at 30,000 feet until you can land in a brand new place.

Missing Hadassah: Everyday Magic, Day 681

Two weeks ago, I got the call from Hadassah’s son: she only had a few hours left, and since she gave me her funeral wishes, could I send those now? I was in Vermont, in the middle of a residency, right between the opening reception in a warmly-lit cottage of a room and a film I was about to see. I forgot about the film and ran to my computer to send the information they needed, crying a little, stunned a lot.

Hadassah has been my friend for 30 years, both of us arriving in Lawrence around the same time, she for graduate school and me for love. We met at International Folkdancing, and although she was from Leeds, England, by way of many years living in Israel, and I was from New Jersey and Brooklyn, we spoke the same language: no holds barred, fast and direct. We understood each other instantly, and joined together in slow, mournful Israeli dances such as “Mana Vu” or fast, twirling ones, such as “Haroa Haktana.”

Years ran or moseyed by. We talked quick and happy whenever we saw each other, but it wasn’t very often. Hadassah was wild-busy in her passionate work as a speech pathologist, who did particularly powerful work with children. She could lure an autistic kid into words and help his/her parents keep the language flowing. I was busy with popping out babies, going graduate school work, doing dishes badly, writing and working. I saw her occasionally at folkdancing, the Jewish center for holidays or when she read the names of the dead with Ron each Yom Kippur. We always hugged, said it had been too long, and we should see each other more.

Seeing each other more came to pass when she was diagnosed with advanced lung cancer this summer. Because Ken is an occupational therapist who runs a wheelchair clinic, and is able to build a wheelchair on a dime (literally) and position people for comfort and mobility, we were called in early to help. Hadassah’s daughter Merav and brand new granddaughter also were welcoming, and we spent time with them in early autumn, me holding the baby while Ken adjusted the wheelchair he had built for her. There was an excited run to the hospital one night, me hauling our big labaraner and the wheelchair in my van along with the baby and Merav to get the wheelchair to Hadassah in the hospital. Merav and I joked about what order was best for unloading things without letting the dog out, and that evening, I walked in the pale dusk of the parking lot, rocking the baby, singing to her and telling her about her grandmother while everyone else was with Hadassah.

Hadassah got better, a long (but not long enough) reprieve, and we lost contact for a while, mostly because of my travel, and run of sinus infections I didn’t want to share with the family. When she started to struggle again, we were there. “We’re the opposite of fair-weather friends,” I told her. She said she didn’t care, and she herself was a foul-weather friend and appreciated others who were. Besides needing Ken to occasionally help her with positioning, she was interested in having me type up some of her life story, which was one of the most fascinating ones I began to hear.

The last time I saw her, she decided her life wasn’t a narrative but a collection of songs, each other unfolding a moment of vitality and adventure. She also went over with me again the plans for her funeral I was to co-lead her with our friend Jack. Yet she also thought she might have a year or more left and had already worked out, in detail, arrangements. I felt a gut punch that it wouldn’t be that long as I hugged and kissed her goodbye, told her again that I loved her. “I love you too” were the last words she said to me.

Four days later, she had a stroke, and Hadassah, who never did anything half-way, didn’t linger. She stayed alive until all three of her beloved children were around her, and for some hours, Ken also, who went over there to adjust her positioning so as to lessen the pain. I heard in his voice, as he stepped away from her bed to call me back late that night, the sorrow that she was dying. Early Friday morning, she stopped breathing. The funeral, held a few days later, was beautiful, according to Ken and others who told me about it. I sent a poem, which Ken read at the service and wished like crazy I could be there.

Now that I’m back in Kansas, taking in the vast white sky and snow-clung fields, it’s starting to land in me. Hadassah is gone. I looked through a bundle of photo albums for a photo of her, sure I had one somewhere of her at her wedding in 1985. She was wearing a brown corduroy blazer, a skirt, brown boots, and she was half-turned around, laughing. While I couldn’t find the photo, I find pictures of her in my mind, all of them so alive. I’m grateful to be part of the end of that life, but I also miss my old friend.

Last Morning of the Year: Everyday Magic, Day 665

1231121026The snow falls steadily. The dog races out the backdoor, we realize a moment too late, to chase the coyote into the woods. The birds funnel out all directions from the feeder. The fire hums along in the pellet stove while Daniel sits at the counter, playing a computer game and his siblings sleep down the hall.

It’s the last morning of 2012, a year that doesn’t translate for me easily into a phrase or two. It was hotter than hell. The drought did and continues to do extensive damage. A dear friend, and subject of one of my books, died in January. The presidential race was a panoramic whirl of soundbites, attacks, humor, despair and many daily visits to fivethirtyeight. I traveled by foot, plane, cruise ship and car, sometimes on my own, sometimes with friends, and often with family to the northern shore of Minnesota to stare at Lake Superior, across the Gulf of Mexico to watch the ocean gleaming in late afternoon, through long trails in the fern-feathered woods of Vermont in between meeting students and faculty at Goddard College, and down roads revisited after 30 years to give readings. Books that came out this year reunited me with old friends, and brought me new ones — my youth group advisor I hadn’t seen since the late 70s, students past and present, the daughter of one of the people I wrote about, a spirited commander at Walter Reed, a friend from high school and college, an old roommate from my University of Missouri days, and a woman who mentored me in the early 80s in grassroots organizing. The road repeatedly led me home.

Our family and home got a little older, settling into what unfolded. Daniel moved to Knoxville for Americorps, Natalie crossed over into her senior year at McNally Smith where she studies singing while balancing many jobs and gigs with her band, and Forest and I began pumping iron at the local gym with our respective trainers while he settled into his final year of high school. Ken burned prairie, commuted another year to Topeka to work with people living with severe developmental disabilities, and wrote a lot of columns and updates about the seasons and cycles. A rambunctious and loving big brown dog came to our front door in February like he always lived here, and soon he did. The kitty slipped outside a few times only to roll around on the sidewalk until we gathered her back in. Our very old labmation persisted, and even yesterday, amazed us by 1231121027walking with Daniel and Shay all over the hill. We saw a lot of movies, ate the wonderful lentil soup at Aladdin’s often, and washed dishes, windows, laundry and floors, only to track in mud and heat up leftovers again. We filled the bird feeder in the morning only to find it empty by night fall. I painted the bathrooms and cleaned the basement. Our gardens withered.

Now one ending eases into another beginning. When I was younger, my wishlist was long and varied. Now it comes down to the simple wish for health and safety for all I know and love, all I don’t know and love also. Health and safety are really about life: being here, being able to take in the gifts given to our eyes at each moment, like right now as the snow clings, one flake to another, on the deck ledge up close and the cedars across the grass the dog passes on his way back to us.

Wishing everyone deepest blessings and brightest joys for 2013.

The Morning After the Party: Everyday Magic, Day 664

1230121058Let’s just say the first party was a sparkling cider with a dash of white wine and a big paper plate full of latkes kind of affair. The second party was pomegranate vodka all the way. In either case, now is the morning after, and those of us who just indulged in the first party, which started about 5 p.m. and was over by 9 p.m., are wide-eyed and bushy-tailed (as my husband’s grandpa used to say). Those of us who indulged in both, e.g. my young adultish children, are fast asleep in their beds.

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Mariah, worn out by sleeping through the parties

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Shay, worn out by not sleeping through the parties

The morning after the party has always been a time of curious calm and delight for me in the quiet of who’s still sleeping. As a child, I loved rushing downstairs after my parents’ parties in our narrow Brooklyn triplex, aiming myself with great speed toward the silver bowl of leftover Wise potato chips and small dishes of M&M remnants. It was lovely to sit on the plastic-covered couch, eating the dregs, and imagining what the adults talked about, which I knew induced explosions of laughter, usually after my dad told a joke I was forbidden from hearing.

I was kind of a loner as a child, and not by choice. My intensity tended to drive off the other kids, and bursting into renditions of Barbra Streisand’s “People Who Need People” in the school yard didn’t exactly win me friends. So parties seemed especially magical to me, mystic explorations of joy on steroids in my book. I told myself as a kid sitting on that couch that one day I would become an adult and throw parties. I would be the one pouring potato chips into bowls and putting out bottles of seltzer and chocolate milkDSCN0256 so we could make our own egg creams.

It’s all come to pass, even the egg creams one year. Our annual Hanukkah, and on inauguration years for Obama, Obamakkah party, has overflowed my childhood cup of wishes decades ago. I’ve also learned, for the most part, not to let the party planning or prepping wear me out too much, a lesson tested yesterday when Ken and Daniel were out burning the prairie (for planting of prairie flowers into the tall grass) while Natalie, Forest and I were cleaDSCN0263ning the house. There were a few challenging moments — such as when Ken called us to say, “Get out here to help now. The fire is heading toward the house” and later, when I was scrubbing the bathroom floor only to have a neighbor call to say he had my puppy dog — but all in all, I felt happy, peaceful and grateful when our friends began arriving.DSCN0276
Now it’s the day past, the food processor (the new one) ready to go into hibernation for a while, and all is shining. I have muffins in the oven and coffee ready for those-who-must-not-be-disturbed (who surely will wake before mid-afternoon). The fire burns brightly in the pellet stove. The dogs snore lightly.

The party’s over, and all is well.