tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83443864756553780282024-03-13T00:07:38.265-05:00Fine & Dandy BlogJenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219091176231649598noreply@blogger.comBlogger82125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8344386475655378028.post-28687907786056937752014-10-20T12:57:00.000-05:002014-10-20T12:57:24.390-05:00Archives: Midwest Home & Garden Magazine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs0enM-o461b8KDkJ8l9cWq-K-_LgynmbGcc0ztcAnjZ8XXstlE_pYL-BFG0E28XyTOM4xLxRDOmo0Shl_fbhgRpZjiyHlWiu5jps0lOBBftaqiC0zc0R_9w2tiHo7cM30K0q-ObyGMZXg/s1600/JMooreMidwestH&G.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs0enM-o461b8KDkJ8l9cWq-K-_LgynmbGcc0ztcAnjZ8XXstlE_pYL-BFG0E28XyTOM4xLxRDOmo0Shl_fbhgRpZjiyHlWiu5jps0lOBBftaqiC0zc0R_9w2tiHo7cM30K0q-ObyGMZXg/s1600/JMooreMidwestH&G.jpg" height="640" width="494" /></a></div>
<br />Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219091176231649598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8344386475655378028.post-22833259588467008702014-07-30T19:10:00.003-05:002014-07-30T19:10:37.764-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219091176231649598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8344386475655378028.post-36487971079695468132014-07-12T20:56:00.000-05:002014-07-12T20:56:16.694-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfBGV8rhGBdO8uoxmjVAo3NFYoRpoHrRC2swg1FlBF0p5wVF0BbSp3xSo5cpkIw3_Ms2r284N9b3ioO2JyiNa8vNyvddiaeiGkJp8WXpzDv_H7NE3T_h5MvLc40BQhzkNZqa3Ume5hrAg0/s1600/Picture+3.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfBGV8rhGBdO8uoxmjVAo3NFYoRpoHrRC2swg1FlBF0p5wVF0BbSp3xSo5cpkIw3_Ms2r284N9b3ioO2JyiNa8vNyvddiaeiGkJp8WXpzDv_H7NE3T_h5MvLc40BQhzkNZqa3Ume5hrAg0/s1600/Picture+3.png" height="640" width="522" /></a></div>
<br />Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219091176231649598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8344386475655378028.post-67812648440646605592014-05-01T23:26:00.001-05:002014-05-01T23:56:34.627-05:00Dear Practically Strangers,<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQze-NFfexL_FRqVjJsJnoeOPzI0_QxkCYiAozMqw_EwMMkoNA63Smbqwk7rW4qZpvL2WKSkn87ChVeBHMmM-RWvNMdTEnxZ3jYZnP2gBZSo-CZTUF3U0Ej1pbQf_FFQl2bgPTaZFfxzCM/s1600/Picture+67.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQze-NFfexL_FRqVjJsJnoeOPzI0_QxkCYiAozMqw_EwMMkoNA63Smbqwk7rW4qZpvL2WKSkn87ChVeBHMmM-RWvNMdTEnxZ3jYZnP2gBZSo-CZTUF3U0Ej1pbQf_FFQl2bgPTaZFfxzCM/s1600/Picture+67.png" height="400" width="301" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Man in a Bowler Hat, Rene Magritte 1964</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Some of you out there, you might
just be going about your life. And then someone like me, a writer, I hear you
laugh, catch some mannerism and you stick. You standout for this reason or that
something I can't quite pinpoint, something endearing or attractive (or
repulsive because we need enemies, too.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">You get me dreaming up
concoctions and scenarios, scenes and conversations. Conversations you’ll never
have but in my writer’s made-up world, <i>fiction in the bookstore maybe
someday, baby.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I mold the real you, the one
maybe I know just a little, or more, or not at all aside from pleasantries and
greetings, observations here and there. I grasp at little
things and twist and turn and pull them and then I spit out some clone of you
which I need in written form, in this story. Some part of you will live
forever in this other world. This resemblance of you, big or small, will remain
locked amongst tens of thousands of my words, within hundreds of pages.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">So, I’m sorry if it always seems
like I’m watching you, trying to get eye contact or a few words. It’s not you,
it’s the ghost of you I made up, and I sorta need a charge of you every now and
then to remind me of so-in-so in the book.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Most people, they just give me a
phrase here, a scene, a pet name. But you, you helped me create a whole
pretend person.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Are you on to me, muses? I
think if you figured it out, you might just blush, a shake of the head, rub of
the chin. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Well, okay then. </i>A chuckle, head tilt, eyebrows raise.
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">So, there’s that. I uh, huh, I don’t
know.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“Imitation is the sincerest form
of flattery.”</span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">So, if you ever get bored with your real life, let me know, and I can tell you about your pretend one. You sail, did you know that? You don't live here, you live in Chicago...and it goes on. </span></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219091176231649598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8344386475655378028.post-54476566079482058472014-04-24T21:20:00.001-05:002014-04-24T21:25:08.411-05:00Mostly True.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGyJ7TA1jffBn-ojgL9c3a8YhdW_jGF6n9XniIBNsm9iUI7NeeAYNQfDygtgVRe-qEPUYCZR-Etn5voPBqxDBC2FsvzJDscJnBVHzr5X6dgAWYO3QNogvbc5SpZHa8GwSIAkXvOIcfnbnS/s1600/Picture+66.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGyJ7TA1jffBn-ojgL9c3a8YhdW_jGF6n9XniIBNsm9iUI7NeeAYNQfDygtgVRe-qEPUYCZR-Etn5voPBqxDBC2FsvzJDscJnBVHzr5X6dgAWYO3QNogvbc5SpZHa8GwSIAkXvOIcfnbnS/s1600/Picture+66.png" height="464" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
I try to make the bed first thing in the morning.<br />
The rest?<br />
True dat.<br />
<br />Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219091176231649598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8344386475655378028.post-86555989053192693762014-04-10T23:24:00.001-05:002014-04-10T23:24:58.887-05:00Is Today Tomorrow?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmjVLZHR1HvzagzJT8HhJ1YqBUBRBf1VRCVxfuoZYfSXKM7S990O42crWtWoRQ90Ga-RY_vy4OCeCLUyVhk0NkFzA29MHnThUc6SS6fGq0L_dxHDzXRFSfR_c2zA-PLhftj8Ld_52ByML4/s1600/Picture+61.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmjVLZHR1HvzagzJT8HhJ1YqBUBRBf1VRCVxfuoZYfSXKM7S990O42crWtWoRQ90Ga-RY_vy4OCeCLUyVhk0NkFzA29MHnThUc6SS6fGq0L_dxHDzXRFSfR_c2zA-PLhftj8Ld_52ByML4/s1600/Picture+61.png" height="320" width="231" /></a></div>
<br />
The four year old got out of bed this morning, all warm and rosy cheeked, damp thumb and blanket still tucked close. "Mom, is today tomorrow?"<br />
<br />
And then just now fourteen hours later, same little Miss, thrusts open her bedroom door in the darkness shy of midnight. I turn and she's running down the hall to me, sobbing, frantic and confused.<br />
<br />
"I had a really bad dream," she's in my arms. "I went in a rocket ship but you were at the bottom and I was never going to see you again."<br />
<br />
<i>I'm here. I'm staying with you, my loves. Today, tomorrow, </i><br />
<i>forever and ever and ever.</i><br />
<br />
Today is almost yesterday.Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219091176231649598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8344386475655378028.post-86112798340228219272014-04-10T21:59:00.001-05:002014-04-10T22:11:49.680-05:00I'm a Sailor Seeking a Yacht to Race the Mack<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyV4M-b3SkUYHKG_SZcHpg5_KQjXu3QvrLu3GschwGsp0kYOBU3WTwxLDK45FGzh-PPeEw-tYSRUvpXrM6C7vaEka_U5UCa5mgGoGcqySE4PSvrmpgKKLn-SKUjPpVRBxtGKT17IoJ3ugI/s1600/Picture+59.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyV4M-b3SkUYHKG_SZcHpg5_KQjXu3QvrLu3GschwGsp0kYOBU3WTwxLDK45FGzh-PPeEw-tYSRUvpXrM6C7vaEka_U5UCa5mgGoGcqySE4PSvrmpgKKLn-SKUjPpVRBxtGKT17IoJ3ugI/s1600/Picture+59.png" height="292" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I did this today. All in the name of research, kids. If this book truly has some chance at being a "really big thing" I better be sure I've got these sailing/race scenes tight.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwioUouxoX4bMWgYcEs8Ww_kb9h7Wm8cpLZKr31iZRzvWCVl8r3Dcth-uhbBXQefjmVP4KEV9lDAssL3XEQ5_YuaT42IM9T6nkAVLvsTwJhNtTw2bJ6ugmwmNeoyPlaN8nHIFancOXo_5T/s1600/Picture+60.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwioUouxoX4bMWgYcEs8Ww_kb9h7Wm8cpLZKr31iZRzvWCVl8r3Dcth-uhbBXQefjmVP4KEV9lDAssL3XEQ5_YuaT42IM9T6nkAVLvsTwJhNtTw2bJ6ugmwmNeoyPlaN8nHIFancOXo_5T/s1600/Picture+60.png" height="292" width="640" /></a></div>
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My husband and mother promptly sent texts that they love me (with subtle reminders about the risks.) </div>
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<br /></div>
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I'm waiting for the phone to ring. Stay tuned.</div>
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<br /></div>
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(Learn more about the Race to Mackinac <a href="http://www.cycracetomackinac.com/">here.</a> )</div>
Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219091176231649598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8344386475655378028.post-37290456489226160552014-03-23T22:51:00.000-05:002014-03-23T22:51:58.253-05:00Time Management<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhncvDczGn2vg9yCBvsAQu3pHfNkrGd6HJf_FFF0J88RmMIzQ7gxl50IcCvFWqZikqfkoMjX8Z2bEXwwIN4v1uRP7Gf-I8bZGve2Y_BOC1DSXAyXeOCoY_eX8jyKj8eYXPKYcy5dOHRSckl/s1600/Picture+49.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhncvDczGn2vg9yCBvsAQu3pHfNkrGd6HJf_FFF0J88RmMIzQ7gxl50IcCvFWqZikqfkoMjX8Z2bEXwwIN4v1uRP7Gf-I8bZGve2Y_BOC1DSXAyXeOCoY_eX8jyKj8eYXPKYcy5dOHRSckl/s1600/Picture+49.png" height="397" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
We were eating dinner last night and Elizabeth looked up, a carrot in one hand.<br />
<br />
"Mom?" She paused, took a bite. "Why don't princesses wave fast? Instead of slow?"<br />
<br />
I stopped to take this in. I laughed, careful not to to make her feel bad about her question. But I pictured a fairy tale princess, a beauty queen, Will's wife Kate, waving really fast, like I would, if I were forced into a life of polite hand waving.<br />
<br />
<i>Hey, hey, hi! Gotta go, gotta run! Let's go, let's go, let's go! Kids, school, groceries, work, laundry, love, the book, life. Ta, ta!</i><br />
<br />
<i>You understand? Muah! </i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Image by Ben Van Hook found<a href="http://disneyparksphotoproject.tumblr.com/#" target="_blank"> here</a> </span></div>
Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219091176231649598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8344386475655378028.post-1778061232802412602014-02-26T22:57:00.002-06:002014-02-26T22:57:18.715-06:00All Aboard<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig3wuP1G7WHzVXLh2jeclNliPr2nVTGA3sjJmbxDkiF1zTk6nz3kXQjY2h_i77YNFAUFiZr2svCMehnmxatVvDVypdZElU9Q5TqiaMn_E12ZoOnsfeMMDwUOdyqqqyGwlv_doUeSDgLuln/s1600/Picture+29.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig3wuP1G7WHzVXLh2jeclNliPr2nVTGA3sjJmbxDkiF1zTk6nz3kXQjY2h_i77YNFAUFiZr2svCMehnmxatVvDVypdZElU9Q5TqiaMn_E12ZoOnsfeMMDwUOdyqqqyGwlv_doUeSDgLuln/s1600/Picture+29.png" height="640" width="452" /></a></div>
Dear <a href="http://www.amtrak.com/" target="_blank">Amtrak</a>*,<br />
<br />
I was 11 and it was June 1983 and our family had round trip tickets on Amtrak from Tomah, Wisconsin to Seattle, Washington.<br />
<br />
The train boarded at dusk in front of the old Tomah depot. My younger sister and I were giddy with excitement, an adventure ahead of us, a train ride on the <a href="http://www.amtrak.com/empire-builder-train" target="_blank">Empire Builder </a>headed out west. Family and friends came to see us off, everyone caught up in the excitement of our journey by train.<br />
<br />
My writer's mind can still picture the scenes that passed by, and the small towns, the wafts of summer evenings that drifted up into the cabin at every stop, pick-up trucks stopped at train gates, the train whistling hello, strangers lifting caps and waving up at us, lonely prairies, the simple thrill of walking to the dining car, the wilds of Montana and snow capped mountains, the mystery of these different worlds passing by under the comforting rhythmic hymn of the train tracks below.<br />
<br />
It is thirty years later. I write. I suppose I fall under the classification, the generalization even of a struggling writer, of course I do. I struggle because I'm a mom of three, and I work full time and writing comes at the end of every day, at 9 pm, when children sleep and crumbs have been swept up and the house is quiet and the laundry and the dishwasher hum their end of day tunes. I write past eleven, past midnight, some nights closer to one, when I glance at my word count and 48, 097 seems like enough progress. We are getting there, me and this book, this story that won't stop.<br />
<br />
That's my journey now. Another trip, alone, me and the laptop and the train, it would seem a luxury, words spinning by, adding up and up and up. I might just reach my destination. And then I'd have another story to tell.<br />
<br />
*<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.thewire.com/culture/2014/02/inside-amtraks-absolutely-awesome-plan-give-free-rides-writers/358332/">http://www.thewire.com/culture/2014/02/inside-amtraks-absolutely-awesome-plan-give-free-rides-writers/358332/</a></span><br />
<br />Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219091176231649598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8344386475655378028.post-7186661756902183162014-02-23T21:22:00.001-06:002014-02-23T21:22:26.736-06:00I need it to be Spring.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmQwGR11MJGXKGiJ0mrlGLN93RQcBhOXF6FCl02NqHAua-KNVJSWH7cOQDeE0CPUCfl4ZI4NvvmjZ4K6m3x87nH-g8xEkBA7Ioj_Q0ENhXRZH_6FY7HYW8_GVCKONpNXFE0r1BF_WcpxGm/s1600/Picture+26.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmQwGR11MJGXKGiJ0mrlGLN93RQcBhOXF6FCl02NqHAua-KNVJSWH7cOQDeE0CPUCfl4ZI4NvvmjZ4K6m3x87nH-g8xEkBA7Ioj_Q0ENhXRZH_6FY7HYW8_GVCKONpNXFE0r1BF_WcpxGm/s1600/Picture+26.png" height="400" width="397" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Like you need it to be 5 o'clock </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
or Friday</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
a mess to be cleaned up</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
the laundry put away</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
more money in the bank</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
more time more time more time.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I need it to be Spring.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I need to smell the earth at work</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
feel the tickle of a breeze</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
see some change, like green of leaves.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
So let's hurry it up, I'm ready to start over</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
let's skim past 10 degrees, more snow</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Been there, done that</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
moving on and now...</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
23 days the calendar right here says so.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Spring you hear that?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Come on, let's go.</div>
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/130565134/road-to-spring-landscape-vibrant?ref=sr_gallery_15&ga_search_query=paintings+cherry+blossom&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_ship_to=US&ga_search_type=all&ga_includes%5B0%5D=materials" target="_blank">Original painting by Kristina Wentzell available to purchase on Etsy here.</a></span>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219091176231649598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8344386475655378028.post-16313391163836089282013-12-06T20:43:00.001-06:002013-12-06T21:55:38.306-06:00Monkey BreadI showed Vivie the moon tonight as we headed into her room, into the rocking chair I've been ending my daughter's days in for the last seven years.<br />
<br />
"Moon on, Mom! Tiny bit, moon." She paused. <br />
<br />
And then again, in a whisper. "Moon on."<br />
<br />
Yes, I nodded. "Pretty, isn't it?"<br />
<br />
Yes, she nodded.<br />
<br />
She asked me to sing Jingle Bells. I sang the chorus.<br />
<br />
"Bed," she said. My first child didn't sleep through the night until she was eighteen months old, thirty-six hours after we'd plunked down $500 at the sleep clinic. The second child, fifteen months. My third one tells me to put her to bed.<br />
<br />
I tucked in her tightly, <i>that room is so drafty</i>. <br />
<br />
We exchange<i> love yous, </i><br />
<i>sweet dreams, </i><br />
<i>God bless.</i><br />
<br />
Door shut behind me, I padded down the stairs, into the kitchen, where I microwaved a stick of cold butter from the fridge.<br />
<br />
A loaf of frozen dough, unthawed, just starting to rise.<br />
A bowl of brown sugar.<br />
A bowl of cinnamon sugar.<br />
A dash of vanilla to the warm, soupy butter.<br />
<br />
And then I broke apart the sticky, puffy dough, deflating it a bit. Gumballs of dough, dunked in butter, then brown sugar, a coating of cinnamon sugar.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>It's good, this. </i><br />
<br />
I looked out the kitchen window into the darkness on the other side, white snow glowing.<br />
<i><br /></i>
The quiet house.<br />
This winding down.<br />
<br />
Dough.<br />
Dunk.<br />
Gooey.<br />
Roll. <i> </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I arranged the little chunks in a circle in the bundt pan, twice. A little itch on my cheek, and I nudged it with buttery fingers to stop.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I should be rubbing butter all over my face, maybe I wouldn't look so haggard...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
This concoction will be good in the morning, waiting for us, a little present to start the day. The house will smell cozy. My daughters will taste the love. They will remember it when they're in college and eating cereal for most meals. When they're thirtysomething and have little ones of their own. They'll be able to make it without calling me. <i>I think she just...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I hope.</i><br />
<br />
Vivie is singing in her crib. The dough is rising again, up through the sugar and butter.<br />
<br />
Moon on.Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219091176231649598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8344386475655378028.post-43946997558046375932013-12-01T21:25:00.000-06:002013-12-01T21:25:09.226-06:00(hey, hey...)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpuad5im1TPT18n2o0A9QxpqgkcdHRfDInWeY9OLZ4ky6z3s_u4B4b85XG-pugJb42h5lYhI_D8q_Pnfs3sTaIcFl5T_ZYfDrX3mcD6OcC_blu3qrrF8m7mmErZW_iAxXTgnyE1cnMiOnX/s1600/Picture+10.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="365" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpuad5im1TPT18n2o0A9QxpqgkcdHRfDInWeY9OLZ4ky6z3s_u4B4b85XG-pugJb42h5lYhI_D8q_Pnfs3sTaIcFl5T_ZYfDrX3mcD6OcC_blu3qrrF8m7mmErZW_iAxXTgnyE1cnMiOnX/s400/Picture+10.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219091176231649598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8344386475655378028.post-71350207398591032702013-11-25T21:42:00.002-06:002013-11-25T21:42:57.310-06:00A Saturday in Our November<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw5wTgoQaMeR9gVYhlVMbuWXS97CV2iunx6o9PBhyb79DekY-JrS6lPXVd36rRZ44ztS3xo6G3263YdSHCxSdsPiOF0f-65jiI7MmFjfxar4HQ5s0huyoPJ1BCmllAaS2XqXywutFJworO/s1600/IMG_2939.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw5wTgoQaMeR9gVYhlVMbuWXS97CV2iunx6o9PBhyb79DekY-JrS6lPXVd36rRZ44ztS3xo6G3263YdSHCxSdsPiOF0f-65jiI7MmFjfxar4HQ5s0huyoPJ1BCmllAaS2XqXywutFJworO/s320/IMG_2939.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
The rain was more a mist. The day was grey.<br />
<br />
The trees bare now, upside down broomsticks sweeping the dusty sky. The dog didn't want to get wet.<br />
<br />
There was roast chicken in the oven and the house smelled of butter and thyme. The trimmed brussels sprouts, so green, reminded of another season, gone. The firewood was ready, old newspapers rolled, companions.<br />
<br />
The kids were restless, not enough energy burned today. <i>Oh boy.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
The dough for dinner rolls had risen too much and we laughed<br />
<i>These will be some big buns!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
And then,<br />
<i>There goes that cuckoo clock again,</i><br />
Twelve chirps at 6.<br />
Always the 6 o'clock hour, never earlier, never later.<br />
<br />
<i>We should really get that fixed.</i><br />
Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219091176231649598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8344386475655378028.post-9747410796711814192013-11-14T22:17:00.000-06:002013-11-15T23:02:37.768-06:00Last Dance (make it last)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
November 13<sup>th</sup> sunny and clear autumn blue sky and
the Oak leaves were falling so slow, thoughtfully as if not to disturb. <i>Shhhh,
I don’t wanna make a big deal, let me just go. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>(He just raked you know?)</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Three times throughout the day, it caught my eye, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turned expecting to see someone
walking to me, waving <i>Hey! </i>but no. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Oh my goodness. </i>A. Leaf. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Flitter. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe like this, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(testing) see and like….that…weeeeeeeee </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a giggle <i>Awwww I don't want it to end</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Enjoying its last dance.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I saw each of those three waving, slow dancing, silly leaves through to the finish. To the earth.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Goodbye. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Bye! </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We have to rake again on Saturday.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.etsy.com/shop/TheRedBerry" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">French Watercolor painting via Etsy</span></a></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219091176231649598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8344386475655378028.post-31040553571580592612013-11-13T11:01:00.000-06:002013-11-13T12:23:49.429-06:00The Summer of Three Turning Four<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Maren’s peep toe pumps are done. But I can’t bear to part
with them. I wish I could paint a picture of them, to me they are worthy of an oil
painting that I would hang over the mantel. We went in May to get summer
sandals. Her sisters chose sandals. Sandals they could go hiking in or wear to
the beach. Maren didn’t want
sandals. These were $28 and had a ½” heel and I tried to talk her out of them, they just weren't practical, I tried to sell her on another idea, but she wouldn’t have it, she had tears, <i>she
had an idea, these could be like sandals. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>The store clerk cut off the tags and she wore them out the
door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maren wore these almost
every single day all summer and into fall. To school with socks, to the store,
on long hikes over rocks and roots, to the beach, fireworks and parades, in the
water, through mud puddles, for dancing and running and canoeing. These peep
toe pumps ARE the summer of three turning four. They are my Maren. The $40 Keen sandals her sisters agreed to will be passed down, will be worn by someone else next year. But they don't send me spiraling down through our summer memories. They don't make me cry.<br />
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</div>
<br />
<!--EndFragment-->Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219091176231649598noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8344386475655378028.post-40242420731114088142013-06-22T23:00:00.000-05:002013-06-22T23:00:06.903-05:00Horizontal Author (me too, Truman.)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD0fW7y5wfXTVR-En8ywD0TUTsUcody1uFo0_ndt_-imdvXbkJAlg8As2GgG65z9VNvTEaq7JXZEbS4EtAtbfwYKuLNKDUPmpXXFEGQJnzuBCvSJdkCkHW-V5SVMmQbEQ7cUdjwUMMTEln/s1600/Picture+30.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD0fW7y5wfXTVR-En8ywD0TUTsUcody1uFo0_ndt_-imdvXbkJAlg8As2GgG65z9VNvTEaq7JXZEbS4EtAtbfwYKuLNKDUPmpXXFEGQJnzuBCvSJdkCkHW-V5SVMmQbEQ7cUdjwUMMTEln/s400/Picture+30.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
(Minus the cigarettes and cocktails.)Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219091176231649598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8344386475655378028.post-48782566544882132662013-06-03T22:39:00.002-05:002013-06-03T22:39:52.280-05:00Dreams<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
The reality is: it's awfully hard work. But, we're plugging away. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219091176231649598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8344386475655378028.post-11782213013960401292013-03-01T21:18:00.000-06:002013-03-01T21:18:39.862-06:00Open the Door<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.lonny.com/magazine/January+February+2013/n0gZ2qHN5cu/1#78" target="_blank">via Lonny</a></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
I am feeling stuck. I need Spring so badly. I need fresh air. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
I need the lake and warm sun on my shoulders. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
I need change.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219091176231649598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8344386475655378028.post-88036136882915577202012-09-18T22:24:00.002-05:002012-09-18T22:24:26.319-05:00Two words: Teething baby. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf_DkhXciA56raUcZ_gbuJ34RH5q-26EfETBRy1EoHybmVEsznLNwPPa8HNKsX8H3MIaj_x4E-w-4zsJOCAB-zDenMsWQMpZaEK32Cpmqf-chTTCiKAjQMDwwfswftwZTwdMmnjhapI70u/s1600/Picture+103.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf_DkhXciA56raUcZ_gbuJ34RH5q-26EfETBRy1EoHybmVEsznLNwPPa8HNKsX8H3MIaj_x4E-w-4zsJOCAB-zDenMsWQMpZaEK32Cpmqf-chTTCiKAjQMDwwfswftwZTwdMmnjhapI70u/s640/Picture+103.png" width="476" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Available to purchase, <a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/70479057/we-need-to-sleep-more-typographic" target="_blank">here</a>, on Etsy!</div>
<br />Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219091176231649598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8344386475655378028.post-88414329400180817742012-08-29T23:19:00.000-05:002012-08-29T23:19:15.182-05:00Advice for Myself<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">via Pinterest</span></i></div>
<br />Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219091176231649598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8344386475655378028.post-92175512687615057462012-08-27T23:48:00.001-05:002012-08-28T11:40:36.624-05:00I See the Moon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Early on, when B and I lived across the country from one another, when neither of us knew what was ahead, before iPhones and texts and emails--<br />
<br />
<i>Yes, before.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
--the state of the moon was this connection, this link, that seemed significant at that time.<br />
<br />
We talked on the phone most every night. Our phones had cords and were connected to the wall. We'd converse for hours. My listening ear would get hot and sweaty, our necks would ache, fingers would cramp from clutching.<i> Hold on, I have to switch ears. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>There. </i><br />
<br />
"Did you see the moon?"<br />
<br />
"Ya,<i> </i> I can see it from here."<br />
<br />
"Me, too." Laughs. "From here."<br />
<br />
Whenever I see the moon for the rest of my life, I shall think of those long calls and that falling in love. <i>I wonder how many billion people we share that in common with?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
That's the thing about the moon.<br />
<br />
There when you were born, there when your grandma died at 94 in the middle of the night and there all the nights of her life too, and there when you were a teenager crying, driving to nowhere in Dads car, wondering how to find yourself and get out of this damn town and there on the drive to Spring Break with your four college besties snoozing when it was your turn behind the wheel in Indiana and there watching over while you walked home alone at 4 am and there connecting back to this man who you'd marry and stargaze with from mountaintops and there on the drive to the hospital the night your water broke, and there in broad daylight fading away when your keen five year old spots it hiding.<br />
<br />
Still there when you just need some fresh air at midnight amongst heated words over nothing, there to to be seen and watched, to help you pause and remind yourself of the love, not a <i>to do</i> not done or an opinion not appreciated.<br />
<i><br /></i>
Have you seen the moon tonight? It isn't quite full, but it's beautiful.<br />
<br />
<i>Isn't it?</i><br />
<br />
Goodnight.<br />
<br />
And goodnight to you, Moon.<br />
<br />Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219091176231649598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8344386475655378028.post-59115729224780421802012-08-23T21:58:00.001-05:002012-08-23T21:58:47.206-05:00I Saw a Unicorn<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhebLg9ENVHTeRqxxlmWFONMJzNk_ZbEtvHWZenMtI9d1tEgAbDd8kNDw0mVU3hD24a7jVmBPeSRyA5CifrOW3ARAxIwnPpAGKCd1Y1iFwdA6ht8T4wrWQvC3ebljYyKZ8Vzok_79eHW_6Z/s1600/Picture+95.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhebLg9ENVHTeRqxxlmWFONMJzNk_ZbEtvHWZenMtI9d1tEgAbDd8kNDw0mVU3hD24a7jVmBPeSRyA5CifrOW3ARAxIwnPpAGKCd1Y1iFwdA6ht8T4wrWQvC3ebljYyKZ8Vzok_79eHW_6Z/s320/Picture+95.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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I'd had a day. It wasn't perfect. I took the deepest breath at the stoplight, saw my chest rise to the sky and then I exhaled all that bad energy out. ONE. I had done my best TWO with what the day THREE dealt me, solved problems, FOUR eased concerns from coast to coast. FIVE What more can I do? SIX It's all good, just exhausting some days SEVEN. That day is done. Goodbye.<br />
<br />
Deep breathe in. I didn't feel capable of a sentence when I walked in the door.<br />
<br />
We gathered our trio and went for pizza. A glass of wine. Everyone cooperated. I settled back in, resetting. We went for a walk to the park. The clouds were big and tall like they've been for weeks. It made me think of living near mountains.<br />
<br />
The girls bathed and went to sleep so easy. I cleaned up the days messes. I felt content but maybe still in a haze.<br />
<br />
On the art table, this. A happy unicorn who flies and is also a race horse and who likes to eat hot dogs and loves unequivocally.<br />
<br />
Thank you, my oldest. I needed a unicorn.<br />
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<br />Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219091176231649598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8344386475655378028.post-60818986974668218432012-08-22T22:40:00.004-05:002012-08-22T23:20:07.262-05:00The Poetry of the Earth <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4QLS3MEjGxsWIx18G0mDKv-UYXgolkfu_nRtgAmDJ4fsvQLUKLXKtZntVVaXyz7HKgcabnGQs0VYUHeFzxXHqdoRdWzcnJhiIz44M3jyq39gKl8SroH439j6rx6TNZgbSTAfELMqccTKk/s1600/Picture+94.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4QLS3MEjGxsWIx18G0mDKv-UYXgolkfu_nRtgAmDJ4fsvQLUKLXKtZntVVaXyz7HKgcabnGQs0VYUHeFzxXHqdoRdWzcnJhiIz44M3jyq39gKl8SroH439j6rx6TNZgbSTAfELMqccTKk/s400/Picture+94.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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Laying in bed, last night.<br />
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No lights, windows open. Just the fingernail clip of a yellow moon keeping an eye on things.<br />
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And a serenade by the end-of-summer choir of crickets.<br />
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"How many crickets do you think we are hearing? Like 100? Or 14? Or like a million?"<br />
<br />
"I don't know."<br />
<br />
"I wonder."<br />
<br />
I send a thought out of my 2nd story window, down and into the night, the dark, through the old oak tree branches, slipping to the dewy grass, into the crevices of the tiger lilies.<br />
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Goodnight, sweet crickets, constant in this night, rocking me to sleep. Your song nearly makes me weep, carries me softly back thirty years of summer eves.<br />
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<table align="CENTER" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="color: #000020;"><tbody>
<tr><td></td></tr>
<tr><td>THE POETRY of earth is never dead:</td><td><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8344386475655378028" name="1"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td> When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,</td><td><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8344386475655378028" name="2"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td> And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run</td><td><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8344386475655378028" name="3"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td>From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;</td><td><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8344386475655378028" name="4"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td>That is the Grasshopper’s—he takes the lead</td><td align="RIGHT" valign="TOP"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8344386475655378028" name="5"><i> </i></a></td></tr>
<tr><td> In summer luxury,—he has never done</td><td><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8344386475655378028" name="6"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td> With his delights; for when tired out with fun</td><td><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8344386475655378028" name="7"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td>He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.</td><td><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8344386475655378028" name="8"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td>The poetry of earth is ceasing never:</td><td><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8344386475655378028" name="9"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td> On a lone winter evening, when the frost</td><td align="RIGHT" valign="TOP"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8344386475655378028" name="10"><i> </i></a></td></tr>
<tr><td> Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills</td><td><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8344386475655378028" name="11"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td>The Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,</td><td><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8344386475655378028" name="12"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td> And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,</td><td><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8344386475655378028" name="13"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td> The Grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.<br />
<br />
<div align="right">
<i>John Keats, December 30, 1816.</i></div>
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<br />Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219091176231649598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8344386475655378028.post-10480024869762617832012-08-13T22:54:00.002-05:002012-08-13T22:54:47.620-05:00Unpacking...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyK2x-CSHuXP1M226As4v3-27wNq1V8MHd5lp_88eywmLC89MYCzlK3X_bDYVcHzJ2__wAV_IyeLRoxrUgNINvTZWfhz7wTrkqzInclpLtp9rIr07qQAKmoJv47t6Jlo5eFC_Iyxn3CLxW/s1600/Picture+89.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyK2x-CSHuXP1M226As4v3-27wNq1V8MHd5lp_88eywmLC89MYCzlK3X_bDYVcHzJ2__wAV_IyeLRoxrUgNINvTZWfhz7wTrkqzInclpLtp9rIr07qQAKmoJv47t6Jlo5eFC_Iyxn3CLxW/s400/Picture+89.png" width="392" /></a></div>
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<br />Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219091176231649598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8344386475655378028.post-68582750943224427602012-08-08T21:15:00.002-05:002012-08-08T21:15:52.704-05:00The Good of Down<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN4F98DMlGGI7f40GoXHt7movHE_M47TjNX7JglrBOuI-8ofUzEWvM3tsGdbDKnuIcjAkXijt8fq-UD2fQz69Tbqc0xnhJo4xbrNoy9-9Q4yTn8sPTXgBb_zDSfi3nqE76_oj02orY9xMR/s1600/Picture+87.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN4F98DMlGGI7f40GoXHt7movHE_M47TjNX7JglrBOuI-8ofUzEWvM3tsGdbDKnuIcjAkXijt8fq-UD2fQz69Tbqc0xnhJo4xbrNoy9-9Q4yTn8sPTXgBb_zDSfi3nqE76_oj02orY9xMR/s320/Picture+87.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Today. Me and the girls slept in until 7:28 and that is
early but it felt late.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Today. I caught a glimpse out of the cottage window of
Elizabeth, a smile on her face, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
her head bent back, eyes squinting, watching
the bubbles she blew through the wand fly up </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
and up </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
and up </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
And away. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
And
then I was watching too and leaning out the window </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
looking up and wondering…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
To
where…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Today. We spent a hazy August day at the beach and three
hours wasn’t enough time for my five year old to catch waves and my three old slithered
in the muddy wet sand like a snake and my one year old waded into Lake Michigan
like she had been on this earth far longer than a year. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
At days end, after an afternoon thunderstorm that had
ushered most of Ellison Bay into slowing down, suddenly whoots! And whooshes….and
a handful of kids from up the hill were biking down the road full speed and
shouting joy and carefree, the happy giggles of being say 9 and 11 and 13 and
riding matching white cruisers down the Lakeview hill road after a rain. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I sat
on the porch, wanting to join them, to feel the mist and grit on my legs from
the wet road and the thrill and tickle of downhill fast, and then to speak it
and shout it out. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Oh man, the good of down!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Back up again and again and again</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
for the good of down. </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Image <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/60843067@N02/5860441486/">here.</a></span></i></div>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07219091176231649598noreply@blogger.com0