Category Archives: Home Making

30th Anniversary for the Royals and for Us: Everyday Magic, Day 871

1395194_10151778218117684_495372906_nA bit over 30 years ago, just a few days before we got married, Ken and I jumped up and down, screaming and hugging each other and a bunch of his cousins in a Kansas City basement. The  Kansas City Royals staged a wild and unlikely comeback to win the 1985 World Series. A few night ago,  when the Royals did it again, we leaped out of our chairs to kiss and jump around, this time in a small cabin in the woods where we went to celebrate our 30th anniversary, but not without buying a radio so we could hear the game. Helluva anniversary gift, and one that’s been making me think about marriage and baseball.

Of course, there’s huge differences. Marriage is not about winners and losers, unless that marriage is not really all about marriage. Marriage isn’t dependent on superstar power, one savior to rescue the game, but then again, neither are the Royals. Baseball is a sport, multi-million-dollar-paycheck business, and it won’t do your dishes or laundry or remind you to change the oil in the car. But both are institutions imbued with certain habits and values:

  • In baseball and marriage, nothing happens, nothing happens, nothing happens, nothing happens, everything happens.
  • Even in the nothing happens moments, there’s a lot of work to be done: throwing yourself into the wall to catch the pop-up, staying up late to resolve the stupid argument about who is more exhausted, and making contact with the ball — whatever is speeding toward us at the moment, even and especially when the pitch is tricky.
  • It almost goes without saying that working together as a team is essential in both enterprises although in marriage, it’s not so much that you’re working together against a common opposition, but for a common proposition.
  • Watching what happens with great awareness, curiosity, care, and tenderness is vital to both. If you screw up, if your partner or teammate screws up, you need to walk it off, work it off, brush it off. That requires a lot of on-the-fly forgiveness: letting go of grudges (even if they resurface later on) and aiming your attention toward what’s possible with all the strength and courage you can muster to make happen right now.
  • Celebrating the wins and mourning the losses — honoring the rituals of the life cycle as they unfold — speak at the core of marriage and baseball although I haven’t (yet) dumped a cooler full of iced Gatorade on Ken.
  • Begin again: while this is the best slogan I know for life, it’s obviously deeply inherent to baseball 12191709_10156164857440484_2573764896691263636_nand marriage. We will completely fuck up in horrendous ways sometimes. We will unwittingly hurt each other out of laziness, fear, anger, or grief. We will forget the one essential ingredient for the big meal and have to go back to town, miss the doctor’s appointment, eat the wrong thing and suffer the consequences, say the worst thing without meaning to, wear the shirt inside out when giving a public presentation, just miss the car in the lane we switched to, and give the wrong directions. Likewise, baseball players will miss the easy catch, strike out all four times at bat in an evening, get nabbed stealing a base, lose it and call the umpire a name that gets them thrown out of the game, say mean things to players on the other team or their own, and do all manner of mistakes. Each game, each day, each inning, each series, each trip into town, each night we crawl into bed exhausted — all are moments we begin again.
  • Comebacks are mysteries, but then again they’re not. My marriage, like any marriage tattered and shined up by many years, has had lows lower than I can fathom, particularly one afternoon many years ago when we were driving through desert in western Colorado, and I was sure this marriage wouldn’t survive this family vacation (then again, we’ve had a lot of lows — and outrageous highs — on family vacations).  But we found our way back to each other and through a morass made of inertia, anger, exhaustion and fear. The Royals have shown us throughout this series improbable comebacks, like the last game when, in the 9th inning, Eric Hosmer’s steal — diving into home base to score the tying run. It was composed of instinct, running fast, thinking that this was a stupid move, and sheer guts. It may not always be so dramatic with millions of fans around the world cheering when we turn back to each other for a comeback — walking into a room for marriage counseling, stopping in the middle of a fight to apologize, taking the other’s hand when we’re sure such vulnerability will break us open — but it’s a comeback all the same.

So here’s to holding it together and looking for the magic everyday in marriage, baseball, and all else that gives us the same possibilities: friendship, good work, following our passions, awakening to the beautiful earth, loving our animals, and celebrating our turns around the seasons together, alone, in community, and in our hearts.

Saved by an Enchilada: Everyday Magic, Day 858

“You were saved by an enchilada,” Kelley said to me the other day. Often profound things we stumble into become the basis for songs we co-write, but this statement landed me here where I tell you, yes, it’s true.

What happened was, the same night I was to make enchiladas, I decided to start transferring all my data from an old computer to new one, which is a lot like a brain transplant but without all the blood, and with plenty more glitches of mysterious nature. I called the computer tech support person, a very kind woman we’ll call Maria who was somewhere in lovely Northern California giving me instructions. “Plug the transfer cable into the USB in each computer,” she said. “Done!” I called back happily only to realize the call dropped. Did I mention I was only hold for 27 minutes before I heard Maria’s voice?

I tried to reach her but had no luck, so I headed to the kitchen to finish sauteeing onions and mushrooms for my self-proclaimed famous spinach enchiladas, which I was making for our friend Doug who miraculously survived an horrendous car accident with his spirit not just intact, but high-voltage shining. I stirred the refried beans into the melted Alma cheddar cheese until Maria called back. Wisely, I shut off the burners and dragged Shay the dog, who would like to make the enchiladas his own way, into my office with me and closed the door.

“I’m so sorry the call dropped. Did you get the computers connected?” Before I could answer, the call dropped again. She called back and gave me her number for when it happened next. We went back to data migration land where all the highways were closed, and the map didn’t match the journey. She had an idea though, and she was about to tell me when the called dropped again. I tried to call back, but couldn’t reach her, so I returned to the enchiladas.

I turned back on the burners, and started mixing everything together with the steamed spinach and salsa into a gloppy and delicious mess. I was about to start rolling the glop into the tortillas when Maria called back. Back to the office with dog and all manner of fire off.

This time, we got five minutes before the called dropped again, and when she called back, she explained something (not a surprise to me by now) was wrong with their phones today. We continued a staccato dialogue of starting one thing, losing the call, getting re-connected, and finding out that what we started wasn’t working. In the end, it was impossible to migrate my documents, music, photos and more with the cord I had (days later, I would discover it was impossible with the cord Maria suggested instead too), and the call dropped another 5 times.

By the time it was over, there were just the enchiladas to attend to, and because I was making them for a friend who had been through such trauma and danger, I had to let go of attending any bitchfest, and instead, sing into those tortillas as I placed them, side by side, in the pan. As I poured shredded cheese and more salsa on the whole of them, I realized how grateful I was to able to escape the virtual world for the real one, which — I know because I made another tray of enchiladas for us too — tastes far better.

Pre-Emptive Empty Nesting: Everyday Magic, Day 854

FullSizeRender-1I’m an expert at the pre-exemptive. If a beloved is dying, I’m all over pre-emptive grief. If I anticipate a struggle with someone, I’m processing pre-emptive anger and/or shame (and rehearsing what I’ll say or how I’ll apologize). When it comes to vacations, I’m an ace at enjoying the planning more than the execution. So it’s no wonder that when facing an empty nest sometime in the third week of August, I’m revising the house, starting with my office.

When Natalie moved out, my inner administrative assistant rejoiced to have a place of her own to work, plan and ponder. It seemed that there were only about 10 minutes between taking possession of said office and Daniel moving back in, and taking possession bedroom he shared with Forest. Ten minutes later (or so it seemed), Forest moved out and and into Natalie’s room, and my frilly little office was man-caved. Now that Forest tends to sleep exclusively on the couch (something I don’t understand but have no power to change), and he uses his/Natalie’s/my room as a closet, I decided to reclaim the space. Add to this that Ken’s current/ my old desk is the same height as my art table — so by swapping  I could speed swivel in my chair from one to the other. Also, my/Natalie’s old desk better accommodate a big rubber ball that he would rather have as his chair. Desk-swapping is not for the uncaffeinated.

The bulk of the resorting and moving of hundreds of small and big things took about four hours. I fortified myself with cold water, and occasionally ate one of the graham crackers that Ken bought for his mom. Wisely, I started with putting a tiny air-conditioner in the window of the room, then turned it to high because most home renovation projects entail a 96-degree day. Let’s just say there were many things in many drawers, including hundreds of unsorted business receipts, dozens of packets of seeds, flash drives with unknown contents, and too many pencils. There was also a mega army of dust bunnies. The cats sat on high and laughed at me. The dog tried to help.

While the project is not quite done, it’s done enough that I’m studying the walls in the living room and music room/Ken’s office/old kid’s playroom to consider what color they should be. I know life is about to change for the better and for the worse. I’ll rejoice, once Daniel isn’t grazing on all manner of vegetables and tortillas, in finding in the refrigerator exactly what I bought earlier that day to make spinach enchiladas. I’ll feel sad, probably even a little empty at times, to not hear my sons and husband laughing loud at a video involving watermelons and a bb gun. As with any big change, I’ll probably experience emotional weather patterns I couldn’t have anticipated, but in my own way, I’m preparing: one wall, one desk drawer, one struggle to sweep up the dust while the ceiling fan spins it back out again.

Listening, and Getting Rid of Stuff: Everyday Magic, Day 847

Thunder, then a long stretch of wind shaking up Cottonwood Mel outside my window. A plane overhead from faraway heading faraway. The dampened drone of the highway in the distance while my sons sleep, the dogs snores, and Miyako the cat performs another one-act play about killing a mouse cleverly disguised as a hair tie.

It’s been too long since I’ve been able to listen to the sounds in between and around rather than the sounds coming straight at or straight from me. Not surprisingly, this replenished ability to stop and enter the clearing — instead of focusing on the trail — comes more easily to me after I’ve been moving things out of the way, specifically lots of little and big things in drawers and shelves. Yesterday, I cleaned out my desk, which doesn’t sound like much work, but indeed it was. I sorted hundreds of objects: coins, paperclips, stamps, greeting cards, and so many pens, markers and pencils I tested to see who was still up to the challenge of making marks on paper. Hauling bags to the car — what’s to find its way to the city dump, what will end up on some thrift store shelf, what’s to land in the home of a friend or family member — I felt quieted, also tired.

Everything I’ve been reading about clearing clutter lately rings through my body with a kind of freedom. Freedom to give up waiting to fit into something that, at the moment, makes me look like a multi-color stuffed sausage. Freedom to acknowledge I will never use the piles of holiday cards I never send. Freedom to say, “I have enough” to the worlds of colored paper. Freedom to release myself from the not-reading of books I bought by mistake and the not-fixing of broken flashlights. For weeks, in between travel and presentations, I’ve been hauling out the old stuff not to make room for the new, but just to make room.

In the end and in the beginning, there’s room for this listening that makes me feel like I’m just a cleared-out drawer of treasures in one of the many houses of the universe, and all I hear is a kind of music.

Slowing Down for Sabbath: Everyday Magic, Day 840

The linguine boils happily beside the meatballs and vegetables in tomato sauce while just below them, the garlic bread warms up in the oven. On top of the water cooler, the salad waits beside the baggie of parmesan cheese, both out of the reach of the dog who will eat everything. In one bedroom, Natalie watches “House of Cards” while multi-tasking on music business stuff. In another, Daniel naps, and in the basement, Forest does things involving Reddit that I can’t quite comprehend. But the kitchen table is relatively clean, and soon they will pour around it along with Ken for our Sabbath dinner.

It’s been awhile. With everyone’s varied schedules, our young adult children living far away or moving back in for short stretches, and the general morphing of families dinners into catch-while-catch-can, we don’t get to do this much. Years ago, when the children were children, Sabbath dinners were the norm, complete with a healthy dose of sarcasm as the sweetheart babies and toddlers turns into Simpsons-quoting tweens and teens. Our regular ritual of having each person at the table say something they appreciate about everyone else turned into a chance to say things like, “I appreciate my brother for not being such a big jerk all the time this week.” Still, it was a ritual, and rituals have their power for marking off one time from another and bonding people, even in bad jokes and thinly-veiled insults.

Moreover, the Sabbath is about slowing down and savoring time, place, people, and obviously, food. This is something that continually challenges me to step gingerly over the fence of being a fierce do-er of many things to the land of being. The first few steps always feel a little shaky, but then I fall back in love with watching the sky, writing by hand in my journal, read a book with a cat asleep on me or walk with the dog. Of course, I do slip off into my computer and associated work here and there, but over time I’m tilting more toward this slowing down for a few hours or minutes or even part of a day.

Just as I’m about to close this post and drain the pasta, Ken calls: he’s running late and tells us to go ahead and eat. No, I tell him, we’ll wait.

A New Throne for the Queen: Everyday Magic, Day 818

photoSome people call plumbers. They don’t live in my house. When something goes wrong, we fix it ourselves, which means that if Ken doesn’t get to it quickly, I try, mess up, then Ken — who was raised with tools and big education on how to use them — steps in. My propensity for household adventure is matched only by my aversion to reading instructions.

So today I decided to fix our toilet — the one in “my” bathroom, a place I’m very fond of. Even Ken, who was out of town for the weekend, thought it was plausible I could remove the toilet, turn it upside down, and shake out whatever was stuck within (we suspected a tiny bottle of essential oil).

I actually read instructions, which I rarely do, and even watched a youtube video on how to successfully remove your toilet. Equipped with a sponge, bowl to catch water once I disconnected the toilet from the wall, cloth to stuff in the hole in the floor to avoid sewer fumes, and several wrenches and pliers, I headed confidently into the bathroom. I also brought my phone in case I got trapped in there. At first, it was a textbook removal. Surely, I thought, I would be done with this whole deal, and be reattaching the toilet within 20 minutes. Then I would drink a gin and tonic on the veranda, no matter that I have no veranda and don’t drink.

But as it goes with most household repairs, plans changed. Once I hauled the big, heavy canister of porcelain out to the back deck and turned it over, I discovered that even a modest amount of shaking didn’t make the toilet hiccup up the essential oil (rose, I believe). I was wondering what to do next when I noticed a big crack in the tank, one I put there by shaking it. Ken was on his way back to town when he got a call instructing him to meet me in aisle 8 of Home Depot, where the proud new toilets wait for adoption.

Ken took the new toilet in stride, selecting with me not the very cheapest, but the next-to-the-cheapest one, which was wicked heavy to lift into the back of the CRV, and even heavier to lift out and up the back deck to the bedroom door. Ken  installed the beautiful new toilet while I read the instructions aloud, occasionally losing the English pages and trying to figure out what the Spanish was saying about the washers. It was complicated, much more than it should have been, and involved counting a lot of screws and plastic do-dads.

As I drove the old toilet to town to gingerly place near a trash bin before scurrying away, I thought about my time with all that porcelain. We moved to this house when I was nine-month’s pregnant with triplets, or at least that’s what people said I looked like. I was actually six-month’s pregnant with Forest, and let’s just say the toilet and I became fast friends. This was my refuge of choice when I had trouble with chemo over a decade later, and over the years, I’ve parked myself here to read a great deal of powerful poetry and pore over photos of evening gowns in People magazine. The toilet reigns as the most private seat in the house, something very exciting when I had three little kids underfoot.

The new toilet is stunningly attractive with its gleaming curves. It’s also a little higher and bigger. “That’s a big-ass toilet,” I told Ken, who wisely just nodded. The new toilet, and I know it’s just the way it’s made, smiled warmly at me.

A Mouse in the House: Everyday Magic, Day 816

It was after 1 a.m., and I was struggling to fall asleep. “Go to sleep,” I told my sleepy body and rushing brain. I did my usual trick of inhaling for a count of 4 and exhaling for a count of 6, hoping to slow my thoughts down enough for them to fall off their tracks so I could rest. It was working. Almost. But then a meow, a very loud meow, the kind that says, “I have something I’m about to kill. Behold the might feline hunter!”

Usually, the meow is from tiny Miyako, and usually she has successfully maimed a hair tie, carrying forth its stretchy hot-pink corpse so we can share in her glory. This time, both she and Sidney Iowa Goldberg were doing that hunter-on-the-loose meow-yell, so I turned on the lights.

The kitties were in our bathroom, where they cornered a small mouse. The most adorable friggin’ mouse I ever saw: velvety gray with big ears and an agile (but not agile enough) body. It wasn’t a full-grown mouse, but it was bigger than a child mouse, so I’m guessing it was a tween. In any case, its days, or more accurately, minutes, were numbered.

“Ken, the cats have a mouse, and it’s so adorable. What do I do?” I called out.

“Get a shoe and kill it,” he answered.

Moi? Kill the most darling mouse in the world just because my cats were playing badminton with it? “I can’t kill it. It’s too adorable. What other options do we have?”

By this time, he was getting up, telling me there were no options unless I wanted this mouse to reproduce, and for its babies, grown one day into aging and ruthless hipsters, to chew up my favorite blouse and eat my best books. Someone had to kill it, and it had to be one of us.

Within minutes, Ken with a mop in hand (the kind with the sponge), both cats, and Shay the dog stood at the mouth of the bathroom. Ken turned to Shay first. “Shay, go get the mouse,” he said. Our 90-plus pound dog pressed his scared head into my thigh while stepping backwards. Miyako stretched out to watch the spectacle.

And so it went: Sidney doing his best to chase the mouse out of corners, then looked up at Ken and in cat ESP, communicated, “Get him, Dad! Kill him dead!” I tried to watch, but then I saw the mouse’s sweet velvet ears, and heard his terrified chirp-squeaks, so I went to sit on the bed with Shay, both of us trembling.

Ken, despite Sid just playing with (and not killing the mouse), got the cats out of the way and did the deed, and then he flung the results outside, telling me that I really needed to learn to kill mice too. It’s part of life in the country, keeping balance in the ecosystem of the house, and cuteness shouldn’t bias me so much.

It was after 3 a.m. when I finally got to sleep, irrationally sad that “too cute to die” doesn’t apply when it comes to a mouse in the house.