Happy Easter!

Pepper on her way to to Grandma and Grandpa's for a family Easter dinner.

Kites!

Pulling and dipping and soaring.

And these guys, first ones up out back.

Laughter

Yesterday, I woke up early with Anna and we read  Matthew 27 as the darkness turned to blue mist outside. Later,  I went to a church with prayer stations and walked from room to room, station to station, and prayed and wrote and picked up a nail and taped a seed and tore out a heart and added to a list on a wall.

Later, Anna and I went into work so I could hand off a translation. The man from Chad brought his wife, smiling and beautiful with shiny silver on the hem of her scarf, and we laughed in French as I gave them some coupons for the Vera Bradley outlet sale, telling them about the enormity of the event, the Americanness of it, how it's so big that you are given maps of the tables.

Then Anna and I went to lunch and Half-Price books, where she bought a few manga, and I found Vincent Van Gogh notecards so I can write notes on actual paper to friends.

We headed over to my parents' place in New Haven, where my brother and his son are visiting from Terre Haute.

And I laughed.

Anna with the beginnings of her tricolor Colombian flag-inspired egg.

My brother makes me laugh. From yesterday morning when he called to verify plans and let me know that they had gone ahead and painted the eggs, and we could come over and help dry them, and I told him it was good to have him back in town.

Putting on the smiley face.

To when my mom panicked, "Don't touch it!" as my nephew held onto the egg as he lowered it into the coloring instead of using the wire egg holder, and we laughed about the dye not being poisonous.

Grandpa in the background, about to lend a hand and save Julius from Easter egg dye poisoning.

As Jack watched and lent a hand and made video of the coloring of the sixteen eggs.

My kid brother

To when my mom picked up the phone when her sister called and her first sentence was about a colonoscopy and I put my fingers in my ears and started singing.

A little colonoscopy chat

To when my mom said she wouldn't be using the colored eggs for deviled eggs. And we laughed about the eggs that had been left at room temperature and put in our Easter baskets when we were kids and eaten, at room temperature, in the days that followed. But were unsafe to make into deviled eggs.

As she took out an egg to peel to make her point, that the dye would have stained the egg, and I said she couldn't use my egg, the blue polka dot one, and Steve said not to use Julius' special one with the smiley face, and she rolled her eyes. And Jack and Steve and I  watched and laughed as she peeled an egg, and it was white inside.

To when we played cards, and I mostly lost until the end. And laughed about cupcakes and dating and combovers and everything else.

We laughed. And it was good.

Good Friday

Good Friday

Early morning

Blue fog

Matthew 27

Paragraphs and Pictures

I finished a book a couple nights ago that brimmed with beautiful paragraphs about a year in Paris, Paris in Love by Eloisa James (Mary Bly's pen name). 

The book got me thinking about what it would be like to write one paragraph a day--capturing an image, an event, or a feeling. I thought about pictures too. I know people who have done one picture a day. But then I hesitated. I'm terrible about doing just about anything everyday except for what is necessary for my family and my survival. What if I miss a day...

So. I'm not committing to one amazing paragraph, and amazing picture, or daily posting. I'm just committing to noticing more and sharing here.

Day one...

My neighbor and her dog, Charlie, came by yesterday evening. Charlie is Pepper's best friend from puppy days when we would meet at a nearby field and laugh as they bounced and rolled around on the grass. While the dogs raced around the yard, my friend showed me pictures she had taken earlier in the day of her baby at a nearby park. He was pulling himself up, grabbing footholds on the climbing wall, squinting against the sun. This was one of our first warmer days and the first day for my friend at this park. It will become a part of their lives in the next few years. I'm sure she'll take hundreds of pictures on her cell phone. I was happy to see the first ones.

My favorite part of this picture is how the focus is pretty much on the dogs. Which is totally typical for us when we let these guys play.

A Walk in the Park

On a weekend this March when Scott was out of town and the temperature was above freezing, I hauled the kids and the dog out of the house, drove to Foster Park, and gave the camera to Anna for the first half of our walk and to Justin for the second.

It was one of those in between winter and spring days, where it either looked like spring...

...or winter, depending on the shade and where you put your camera.

The weather on some of these crisp and clear days this month reminds me of winters in Nice (minus the snow).

As we drove to the park we had passed a section of the river full of massive chunks of ice that we wanted to photograph, but the path towards that area was flooded. The river along our path was clear, less dramatic, but nicely reflective.

We thought this tree looked especially stunning against the blue sky.

And this...

Reflections...

And Pepper, always thankful for a walk with her people.

There's a Mouse on my Wall.

There's a mouse on the wall.

Cat and mouse game.

I wondered why the kitties were hanging out by the bookshelf, so I moved it away from the wall.

Cat, mouse, and Pepper.

And this little rodent ran up the brick wall.

Switching positions.

We didn't have mice in Nice.

Close-up.

We have many here.

Another close-up.

But never in plain view scurrying across the living room wall.

And we wait.

I'm unnerved.

Dreams for My City

It was three years ago today that our lives shifted in an afternoon. I went from planning to stay in France forever, to being open to moving back to the US sometime, to looking at house listings. Within about six hours. We've been here since July of 2012.


Fort Wayne is fully my home now. I get the morning paper, meet people from various pockets of the city through my job, and I don't foresee leaving any time soon. I'm planted here. I've been processing and praying about work and meetings and articles and experiences over the last weeks. Today, I thought I'd share some of my dreams for Fort Wayne. Some what ifs...

Vera Bradley Closing

I read this week that Vera Bradley is closing its New Haven factory, putting 250 employees out of work. This follows their August decision to end the factory's second shift, which terminated 150 jobs. Here's a quote from the article in The Journal Gazette,

New Haven Mayor Terry McDonald has been in contact with the company and stands ready to help those losing jobs.

“We will work aggressively to market and find a company to fill the campus,” McDonald said in a statement. “The elimination of any jobs is of great concern, and we will work with our partners at Northeast Indiana Works and the WorkOne Northeast Center to assist affected individuals.”

But local labor leader Tom Lewandowski wonders how much typical assistance programs can help this particular group of workers, many of whom operate sewing machines or cut cloth. Lewandowski, president of the Northeast Indiana Central Labor Council, AFL-CIO, has met several times over the past few years with groups of Vera Bradley’s New Haven workers.

Traditionally, the workforce has included a large number of native Burmese and Spanish speakers, he said, adding that he doesn’t know the current percentage.

“Many of them don’t have enough English skills to work for other employers in our local labor market,” he said.

Lewandowski would like to see a fund created to help the workers become more employable. He believes that Vera Bradley owes the workers – and the community – such a gesture because the company has saved millions over the years in economic development-related tax breaks and training grants. The displaced workers, he said, also should have a voice in how such a fund would be used."

My dream today is that the community would work especially with those who may fall through the cracks here. What if Vera Bradley gave their machines, the upstairs of the Rialto theater was renovated, those with American business skills partnered with the skilled workers, and products were sold through networks devoted to fair trade and community development? What if some people were able to work from home? What if language classes and friendship with English speakers was a part of weekly work life?

Barriers

My sister, niece, and I attended last weekend's Fort Wayne march commemorating the march in Selma fifty years ago.

I'm struck by the words of Reverend McGill to a journalist after the march, “We can’t just use whether it’s the Martin Luther King holiday in January, these kinds of things, I think we have to find opportunities and almost excuses again to turn to one another. To be such a small city, we still are kind of segregated and segmented if you will, not just racially but socially. We have to find more creative ways to force blacks and whites, Hispanics, Burmese to really get in one another’s face and one another’s space and understand that the real issue is not race, but finding a way for all of us to be working on a positive pace. Finding ways to push one another together is what we’re going to have to do more creatively and more often in the days ahead,” McGill said.


So, what if there were places where we did this--found opportunities to turn to one another? At the simulcast of last month's IF Gathering, we watched a group of diverse women sit around a table and talk openly about race. Some of these women have been meeting once every six weeks to sit and talk and build friendships. They made a resource available for free, you can download it here(you fill out your name and info at the bottom of the post about bridges). What if several groups in Fort Wayne began meeting together, processing events and feelings in a safe place, within the context of growing friendship. What if real partnerships and trust was developed? 


Welcome

Yesterday, a refugee died in Fort Wayne without family--they were still in his country. He was in hospice care and was not left alone. Yet. He did die lonely.


Yesterday, a man from Africa came for a driver's license translation from Arabic. We were able to do it quickly thanks to an Arabic translator who I think delayed his lunch break to do the translation and send it back to me. The man will be taking his driving test this afternoon. He and his wife are educated and have small children. They have some English and have been welcomed warmly and given practical help by at least one American family, but they need and want more American friends.


Yesterday, a man from another African country came for the last of many documents that we have translated for him as he prepares documents to request asylum for family members caught in a war. If they come some day, they will have help from the refugee settlement organization here, Catholic Charities, and there are many other service providers that will step in over their first months and years. They will have family here to pave the way. 


I see goodwill in Fort Wayne. And I don't think anyone should die alone. Or live alone, for that matter. It seems to me that people don't naturally gravitate to those who are different. What if neighborhoods, cultural groups, and faith communities trained their members in crossing cultural barriers? What if a group of friends or a Sunday school class or a bridge group or group that has had a volunteer experience oversees had a way invest in long-term friendship with a refugee or immigrant family or individual who is looking for friendship? 


As someone who has moved often throughout my life, I can say that most of us new to a place are wanting friendship--we're just shy about it sometimes, and language and cultural barriers, like the ones we experienced in Africa and France, mean that others need to take the first step and be a little extra patient over time.


So. Those are my what ifs (at least some of them--I have more) for my city. My home.

Pepper and the Possum

One evening a couple months ago, Pepper was out of control barking in the back yard. We went out and found a possum walking on top of our fence. We gathered around (kept our distance of course), Scott took few pictures, we hauled Pepper back in the house, and that was that.

Possum on the Fence

But the possum took up residence under the deck where she and Pepper were separated by two inches of wood, practically nose to nose. So, Pepper barked. We hauled her in. Pepper barked. We hauled her in.  When temperatures fell below zero, Pepper left a little pond of ice from her barking and drooling that marked the Possum's spot for days.

We talked about pouring water on the possum, but the weather was harsh with temperatures below zero, and we're soft-hearted about animals. We like possums.

Then one day the Possum had enough of Pepper's barking, and made her way out from under the deck, and then scrambled over under this old garden bench where they confronted one another.

The Encounter. I love how Pepper blends into the leaves. Note to self: must repaint groovy garden bench.

 Mammal to mammal.

Not to worry, Justin wasn't this close to the possum. He used the zoom, and I cropped the picture. We kept our distance.

Pepper's barking took on a new level of frenzy, we gathered around, and Justin took pictures. Then I hauled Pepper in, and Scott commenced to encouraging the Possum to rehome herself.

The woodpile is now gone. Plenty of fires these days.

Miss Possum hissed and scooted, hissed and scooted.

The red flannel shirt and faded jeans are a nice touch to the whole story. Shout out to Scott for the woodsmanlike wardrobe choice.

Off the woodpile, through the snow, toward the gate.

Shuffle. Shuffle.

Hissing all the way.

Move it along, nothing to see here.

Anna laughed the whole time.

I think it was around twenty degrees. No one wore a coat. We're hardy that way.

Scott shuffled Possum down toward the creek, I think. And secured the gate.

But now, she's back. The gate being closed doesn't make much difference if you're already a fence climber. There really must be a major lack of good housing options for her to be willing to hole up here with Pepper drooling and barking on top of her roof. Next step is a live trap and a car trip before Pepper goes completely berserk.

Sunday pictures

I anticipate that every winter I'll be taking the same pictures and posting them. Just because.

The camera we've had for years petered out, and we replaced it a couple months ago. Still getting the hang of macro.

There's something about small clumps of snow and ice...

And something about this...

Here's Anna on our mini sledding run...

...and climbing the woodpile...

One day last week before heading out to work...

Justin's been experimenting with the camera...the picture in the back is one I drew way back when in my art days. It's kind of big and creepy--ideal for the basement by the pool table.

And Justin masters the macro....

Here's the possum spot under the deck, for any of you following the Facebook saga of the Pepper/possum stand-off. It continues. Daily.

And Eddie, posing before my office window where he spends a lot of time bird watching since I hung a bird feeder on the bush just a couple feet from the window. I've never paid attention to birds, but in the last few days, I've been identifying several with Anna. She uses the Birds of North America guide and I use an online bird identification site. So far, we have finches, chickadees, jays, cardinals, titmice, juncos, and mourning doves. There's also a hawk that keeps his distance, but does perch in our tallest front yard tree sometimes.

And here's Rocky, Anna's fish. Or Jasper. Anna's other fish. Two fish, two tanks. This is one of them.

A Cold Day at Home

Well, it's up to three degrees out there now. The kids are working on their e-learning, I'm writing about France, and the pets are bored.

I ended up with a crockpot at our family White Elephant this Christmas. We have an upscale White Elephant. There's a $20 max, but some motivated family members hit the post-Thanksgiving sales. 

I've used a crockpot about three times in my life. By the time I figure out what I want for dinner, I usually need a fast-cooking method, not a slow one.  But this one is so cute, and today is so cold and I've been wanting split pea soup for a while.

Lovely, isn't she?

I've been thinking and writing about France so decided to have socca for breakfast. Socca is a salty chickpea flour pancake. Recipe: one cup chickpea flour, one cup water, a tablespoon of olive oil, and a teaspoon or two of salt. Pour it into a skillet. I tilt it around for a thin pancake. Flip. You can spread it on a cookie sheet too and bake it, but I prefer it in a skillet greased with plenty of olive oil. I eat it with tomatoes, just because.

I should have used an orange or red plate. Next time.

This is what I'm avoiding today, except for the many times I've taken Pepper out today. She's having some digestive difficulties. I won't say more. We desperately need a way to access the back yard that doesn't involve five steps from the side garage door to the gate. With more snow, we could build a tunnel, igloo style.

In the bleak midwinter

I bundled up and took Pepper for a walk yesterday when it was a balmy eleven degrees. She got excited today when I got out my camera, perhaps thinking we were going out to photograph the winter wonderland.

Pepper's happy stretch.

Most Christmas decorations are still up. I think the lights and decorations should stay up through the end of January. January in Indiana needs light and cheer every bit as much as December. And we're in the season of Epiphany.

Goodwill snowmen. Cute and cheap.

Both the above snowman and the cow below were found on the floor, on their backs, victims of the kitties' nighttime romps in December. Both made me laugh.

I inherited this guy from my mom when she was downsizing her Christmas decorations. He cracks me up. Especially when found on the floor, legs splayed.

 Now, a cup of Earl Grey tea and back to schoolwork.

School stuff.

That Kind of Immersion

On my way to work this morning, I listened to an interview with Rush's Neil Peart on Morning Edition. I'm not a big Rush fan, but I have a son who is a drummer, so Peart is on my radar.

I thought of Justin when I heard this, "...when he does pick up the sticks today, you can still see the intensity on his face. In the documentary Rush: Beyond The Lighted Stage, you can see the work of a craftsman in action. Peart says that his mom wonders why he doesn't smile, but jokes, "Mom, it's hard!"

Peart says, ""I tend to define it as grim determination, because it is very physical and painful," Peart says. "The exertion level is very much of an athlete level, so when I see myself, I see a stone face. But it is that kind of immersion." 

Justin has a look that he gets on his face when drumming that hasn't changed since he was two, drumming out rhythms with straws in church. There's a slight pursing of the lips, a certain look in his eye. I don't know, maybe he gets the same look when he's diving to keep a soccer ball out of the goal.

My friend from Ashland, Krista Christensen, had her essay, "Traction" published in Hippocampus magazine this month. The essay describes her husband in his element as a chef. She writes, "as he’s seizing the pan and swinging the food inside up and over onto itself, he’s maneuvering his mouth in a symbiotic grimace, in and out and in and out with the pan’s motions. These contortions are subconscious, like a child’s tongue protruding in concentration during shoe-tying or long division."

Her husband's grimace, Peart's intense look, and Justin's pursed lips--all images of complete engagement and focus. I wonder if I ever get that look.

I forgot...

In my New Year Zeal to post yesterday, I forgot a couple things, which is completely in step with the way I live my life. I spend time every day looking for something I've misplaced. Most days it's just my keys and phone. Scott gave me a remote key finder for Christmas--the perfect gift for me.  I've only used it a few times so far since Justin has become my chauffeur. He actually hangs the key on the key hook. But once he's back in school, and I'm driving on my own again, it will get plenty of use.

Today I have looked for three misplaced objects -- a book I need to write up in the next week for class, the two essays that I printed out and read and now need to have feedback ready for Monday, and a checkbook.

So, here are the forgotten things...

This picture.

Anna in the best Christmas present ever (besides my key finder). It's a Totoro cape. It even has whiskers. Miyazaki fans will be jealous. The rest of you need to check out some Miyazaki anime. Then buy Totoro capes.

How could I forget my most looked-forward to book this year? I was sad when I came to the end. I will reread Gilead, Home, and Lila (though I've misplaced Gilead. Maybe I loaned it out? Maybe I gave it to the library in a stack of returned books like i did with Lila).

I felt the same sadness when I finished Don Quixote years ago. I had read it leisurely, over the course of a year. Ending it felt like the end of a friendship. I actually looked for it a couple weeks ago, but, of course, I can't find it. Maybe it didn't make the cut to get shipped here from France. Though seeing how the cat made the cut, I would think Don Quixote would have...

Rescued from the library lost and found.

That's all that I forgot, but you can't have just two pictures on a post, so here's  Pepper in her reindeer costume that she will be happy to see packed away for the next eleven months.

Pepper, oh so happy that her family cares enough to dress her up for the holidays.

A New Year

Today, in honor of the new year, I'm writing on resolutions, my classwork, books, and anything else that comes up.

New Year Resolutions

My friend Tracy posted these New Year's reflections at her blog, Traveling Clues. She writes, "Our lives take on the most value, purpose and meaning when we practice the discipline of reflection. To examine the choices we make and why, to evaluate the values by which we want to live, to consider the relationships in our lives, and such."

Anna's Christmas sweater

I wrote down answers to her questions this morning and looked through some sparse notes that I had taken at conferences and from my reading throughout the year.

I wrote down over a year ago, during a rare few hours of quiet and reflection at Pokagon State Park with a friend, "May I be faithful in the small things and not afraid to do the big things."

That's still where I'm at. What's small and what's big is not always clear, but I do want to be faithful and not afraid.

My knitting niece

It's been two and a half years that we've been back in the US, and I find that I'm resisting the striving that is in the air we breathe here. I feel like I am surrounded by messages to want and be and do something more. Much of it is good--health and relationships and caring for the world.

Notice Justin's ugly Christmas sweater.

But it can lead to a dissatisfaction that is permanent and strips me of the peace and joy of now. Joy that is independent of my weight or the state of my house. Peace that faces messy relationships and mistakes with grace.

And my brother's classy Christmas sweater

Grad School

I'm about to enter my second semester of my master's program in creative non-fiction at Ashland University. My writing for my coursework is focused on our time in France. I have four chapters done and will end with a book-length project that will hopefully become a real book when it grows up.

I've loved the required reading. My two favorites so far are The Empathy Exams and The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.

I totally beat these guys at the game in between preparing roasted sprouts, my new favorite food.

Publications

My first published essay, Life in the Infertility Belt, was published at Eclectica this summer. InterVarsity's The Well published three articles this year--Gifts to Empty Places, Ebola, and Louie Zamperini and Loving the Other. I have a few essays out that I've waiting to hear back about, and one almost ready to send out. This new one, which has been percolating for a year, is about issues of race and safety that I've struggled with since preparing to move back here.

My brother performing feats of strength with my nephew.

Four Books

I still haven't finished two of my favorite books this year--Christena Cleveland's Disunity in Christ and Lewis Hyde's, The Gift: Creativity and Artist in the Modern World. Cleveland makes startling statements like, "People can meet God within their cultural context but in order to follow God, they must cross into other cultures because that's what Jesus did in the incarnation and on the cross." Then she backs it up. 

Pepper at the family Christmas party. It's not her favorite.

It was at the Word and Words Conference in Louisville this October that I heard of The Gift. I know exactly where I am in The Gift, page 121, because pages 1-120 are underlined in red and black pen.

Pepper opening her Christmas present--a rawhide bone from the pantry.

Here's a random underlined quote, "When either the donor or the recipient begins to treat a gift in terms of obligation, it ceases to be a gift, and though many in such a situation will be hurt by the revealed lack of affection, the emotional bond, along with it's power, evaporates immediately." It is crazy how much this book has influenced my thinking on writing and life these last few months.

Christmas kitties.

I first heard of An Idea Whose Time has Come about the passing the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Though politics is not my strong suit, it was helpful for me to understand the myriad factors involved in getting significant, life-changing legislation passed.

I'm looking forward to seeing Selma in a few weeks. One criticism of the movie is its depiction of Johnson as against the Civil Rights Act. The book depicts Johnson's role honestly and fully. Very worth a read.

All dressed up for Christmas Eve.

Last favorite book of the year was Unbroken. I saw the movie last week. My take is that the movie is fine, but the book is excellent.

I think people walk away from the movie with a great appreciation of Louie Zamperini's endurance and story. The same is true of the book, but the book pushes further into the story of Zamperini's struggles post-war and the prison guard's escape from any kind of punishment.  I had to deal with my own feelings of injustice in the face of a man who committed terrible acts, was unrepentant, and then forgiven.

Ok, this is a wonderful thing. We have missed cheese fondu here. I usually made it once or twice a year in France. I priced the cheese I would need last year, and it would have cost a small fortune to have enough for the four of us to have our full fill of melty Emmental, Gruyère, and Comté cheese. But, at Costco, I came across this carton of the magical three cheeses, bought it, and melted it in its container in the microwave.  It was so good. It wasn't cheap at $8, but it wasn't $40 either . Now I just need them to stock frozen French pastries for me to pop in the oven, and all will be well.

Happy New Year to one and all!

Putting up the Tree

Eddie the cat seems to have napped through our Christmas decorating today, but Sparky was super enthusiastic about the new scratching/climbing post.

Sparky in Christmas tree

Yes, the tree is super tall and on the skinny side. It came with the house. And this was pre-fluff.

Going higher.

 This doesn't bode well for any breakable ornaments this year.

And higher

 This was inevitable, really...

What we found after we took a break from decorating.

Fortunately, before lights and ornaments, so mostly funny.

Rotten kitten.

Ok, so really funny.

Instagram version thanks to Anna.

I don't know if Pepper really likes Christmas.

Unimpressed Pepper with a Build-a-Bear Santa hat on.

But she does rock the reindeer suit.

Resigned Pepper in her reindeer suit.

The Mouse

Yesterday evening, I was alone in the house. Well, not exactly alone. Pepper, Eddie, and Sparky are ever-present companions.

I had decided to make a batch of roasted brussel sprouts. Notable, because I had bought brussel sprouts for the first time in my life earlier in the day, and I have never liked brussel sprouts. But the recipe from Veganomicon (a vegan cookbook that I have though I am neither a vegetarian or a vegan) assured me that it would be good.

In the kitchen, just about to prepare the little sprouts for roasting, I heard a rustling behind the refrigerator. Creepy. The cats have been very interested in that area lately, but I hadn't heard or seen anything suspicious.

I shoved the refrigerator out, peeked over the countertop, and saw a  plump mouse, interrupted in its act of making a nest out of a piece of turquoise paper. We stared at each other in a standoff for long seconds. I could do nothing. I didn't have anything within reach to throw or use to whack at it. 

I had just taken the "Would You Survive the Hunger Games?" test on Facebook earlier in the day. I chose the food from the cornucopia and negotiating to share the jug of water. I chose a cosy cave to sleep at night. and found that I had a zero percent chance of surviving. 

Which means that even if I did have a broom or pan in hand, I probably wouldn't have had the heart to attack the mouse. When I looked at the mouse, I thought of Jonathon Frisby from Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH. I thought of Mrs. Frisby and her sick son. That's what comes of too much reading of animal stories. The mouse wins.

I moved the refrigerator out so Pepper could get back there. She's a catcher of squirrels, so I trust her rodent catching abilities and drive. I hauled the kittens out of their napping spots, and the three animals stood on alert for a while.

Then Sparky gave up and went back to his nap on top of a cardboard scratching pad. Such a slacker.

Here are Pepper and Eddie, being diligent. The good pets.

Animals earning their keep

Later on, we all gave up. I made my brussel sprouts, which were surprisingly good. Justin came home and was disappointed that I had made a panful of brussel sprouts for dinner (in defense of my feeding of my fifteen year old son, there was leftover homemade pizza. I'm not cruel).

Old picture, but same pose as last night.

Pepper growled at Eddie when he tried to cuddle up, but eventually gave in. Eddie was undoubtably separated from his mother too early. He has abandonment issues and doesn't like to nap alone.

I woke up this morning thinking about what kind of mousetrap to get. The nasty back-breaking ones are probably the kindest. Immediate, with no suffering. But they're nasty. We've used the sticky ones before, but that's gross too. Lots of stress and panic for little Jonathon mouse.

Out in the living room, I found Sparky, the slacker cat, playing with the decidedly dead mouse. In terms of stress and ease of passing on for little Jonathon mouse, this was not the best way to go, but for me, getting ready to have twenty-five family members over for Thanksgiving, this is wonderful.

So here's Sparky, fearsome hunter. He's the kitty with a weird respiratory system. His purring is annoyingly loud and in spite of medication, he sneezes, loudly. But he has definitely increased his household status.

Autumn pics

Since it snowed yesterday, I figured I'd better post the fall pictures I took last week before fall gets raked away...

The kittens are getting humongous, and they like perching on my desk hoping the glass and screen disappear. We don't let them outside. It was part of the deal with the SPCA, but also our very strong desire to avoid the trauma of having a pet run over again. So they have to dream of eating the birds that hang out in the bush right outside the window. I don't put anything breakable in this spot.

Good thing Scott blew all of the leaves off the deck last weekend. On the other hand, they're easier to rake and blow if they're not a foot deep, right?

Pepper on alert for any squirrel or chipmunk movement. She's got camouflage working in her favor, but she's not so quiet.

Scott's handiwork...

Fire pit. Still looking inviting...

Leaves against bark. This is where I'm missing my camera. It's not working, and I've been using my phone for pictures. But I can't get the same close-ups. Annoying.

Our burning bush. Last year it turned bright red and the leaves fell off about two days later. This year they're sticking around.

Some roses still in bloom...

Happy pumpkins on the porch.

And Anna showing off her handiwork, a cape for Sparky that he's not uber thrilled about.

Happy November!

Pepper Pictures

For lack of energy, brain-power, or will to do anything else, I'm posting Pepper pictures that I've taken with my new phone in the last couple weeks.

Here she is not leaving my side in the days after my return from Ashland. She's laying on my running shoes as I cool off on the deck after a run. It's hard to cool off with a large stuffed animal leaning against you.

This is one of Pepper's Happy Places--Grandma and Grandpa's house. Justin was trying to catch a fish.

Napping with Justin, whose last nap was probably when he was three. Start of school + intense soccer practices + a bad cold = teenage nap.

And now a few artful photos...

I call this one, "Pepper in Profile."

 "Wistful Pepper."

And, "Can we be done now?"

And, "Do you Really have to leave for Work? I'm so lonely when you're Gone."

Btw, the kittens are growing and filling up the litter box at an alarming rate. Here they are wrestling on top of their tower.

Back to Pepper... Post-bath humiliation...

...which is equalled by the humiliation of having a kitten try to find where to nurse in all that fur.

Changes

Yesterday, I returned home after my two week residency in Ashland, Ohio. I've never been gone for that long, and I've come home to some changes.

The most obvious is the three-tiered cat tower in the living room. I had said no to investing in cat furniture for the kittens before I left, but Scott trash picked this one. Fair enough. It's wouldn't be my first choice in living room decor, but the kitties spend a good deal of their time on it. 

Scott and Justin have fun new phones. Our contract was ending, so they got me one too, but  I haven't done anything with it yet. I need to gear myself up for the learning curve. Anna is lamenting her new boring phone. It's hard to be the kid without income.

The resident stuffed animal, aka Pepper, is very happy to have me back (which is not really a change since we all know she loves me best). But I don't think she was laying on my feet very often  before my departure. 

My friend got married yesterday in spite of the rain (which is not technically a change that happened while I was gone, but I had to get the picture on the blog somehow).

Speaking of yesterday, last night Justin played the guitar while we sang together. It was verry pleasant. And a change since the kid didn't play the guitar two weeks ago. I'll have to say that the guitar is a much more social instrument that the drum. When he's downstairs drumming, he has on headphones and is behind a shut door. I never venture down to try to sing along.

This guitar thing though...I'm kind of liking it.

Happy to be back!

10 Ways InterVarsity's NISET Writing Workshop was Awesome (You won't believe number 8!)

1. I found an encouraging, supportive writing community.

I learned the value of having several people speak into my work. Reading my work to a group who then responded to my writing was a new experience for me. I loved it, and my work was better because of the interaction and input from other writers. 

I found beauty in our differences. Each of us had a unique style, voice, and message; and each was valued. Our writing was honed together, in community.

NISET Writing Group July 2014

2. Food Trucks

Need I say more? Had a delicious Indonesian lunch for $7. So many food trucks. So little time.

3. Writing a Book

I came away knowing that I don't have to be famous or be able to prove that I can sell 100,000 copies to write a book. Which is good, because I'm not and wouldn't. I got to know some authors, regular people, who had good ideas and simply (or not so simply) took the time to write. 

4. Running along the lake in the morning.

I ran every other day at around 7am. The lake was beautiful, the wind cool and lovely. It was easy to push myself to running past three miles.

5. Staying in a hotel across the street from the capitol building.

Hotels are beautiful things. Having someone else come in and pull my sheets and bedding tight while I'm off at meetings was lovely. Having a white dome against blue sky as the view from my window was perfection.

 6. Quotes about writing littering our tables

“I’m writing a first draft and reminding myself that I’m simply shoveling sand into a box so that I later I can build castles.”  Shannon Halt

Chocolate was piled on top of the quotes later in the week to add to the inspiration.

7. Madison's Saturday morning farmer's market.

Flowers, fruits and vegetables, eclectic people, glorious cheese curds, and more.

Cheese, glorious cheese.

Purses made of discarded upholstery samples.

I would buy fresh flowers through the summer if I lived in Madison, which I won't because they have winter.

8. Friendship

Nothing like sharing in-process work to encourage vulnerability and friendship. Sharing gourmet Wisconsin ice cream helps too.

Serious workshopping

Serious ice creaming

9. Lunch with friends I haven't seen in a while...

I hadn't seen Renée since our debriefing in October of 2012...

and about eight years since I last saw saw Shannon at our Spain debriefing.

10. And a finished article that went online this week as a cherry on top.

I worked on three pieces during my week in Madison, and one of them, Louie Zamperini and Loving the Other was published at The Well, InterVarsity's blog for women in the academy and professions. 

When I started working on the article, I got stuck and thought I wouldn't be able to write it. So I left it and worked on another piece. During a morning run, I decided to work through it in my head and was able to get it down during writing time that day. The process reaffirmed the value of pushing through even when writing doesn't come easily. Inspiration is important for me; it's how I get started. But discipline is how it gets done.

Whatever Befall

It’s after ten o’oclock at night, and my friend calls. We’re new friends, sharing carpooling duties for our daughters’ summer swim team in the mornings. Still, it’s a little late for a carpool phone call. She asks if I’m already in bed, and I laugh. Our friends, Sanders and Denise and their two children are staying with us, and our son has a friend staying the night. In the boys’ fifteen year-old enthusiasm, they’ve just challenged Denise and me to a game of euchre. So, I laugh, “We’re nowhere close to bed.”

“Michelle, I think I just hit your cat. Is your cat black?”

For years, I have laughed about knowing only two jokes. One joke starts with a man running over a cat out in the country, knocking at the door of the nearby farmhouse, and saying, “Ma’am I think I just ran over your cat.” For a split second, the joke comes to mind. I quickly push it away, lower my voice, and step outside.

“Yes, she’s black.”

“Michelle, I’m so sorry.”

I’m thinking there’s another black cat in the neighborhood. Thinking that if it’s ours, we can make an emergency vet run. A woman stands at the end of our driveway with her small dog on a leash. “Is it your cat?” she asks.

“I think so. Where is she? Is she still alive?”

“No, definitely not, I’m so sorry.”

Our house sits surrounded by trees on a corner in our suburban neighborhood. I make my way past our mailbox, then down around the corner. Using my cell phone as a flashlight, I throw the beam along the curb. My initial hope, that I would find her injured, but fixable, curled up by a tree, is gone. I am just hoping that she’s not flattened on the pavement like the squirrels that stain our neighborhood streets this summer.

I find her, lying on her side against the curb. Even in the dark, I see the pool of blood around her head. I see the white fur along her stomach.

As I walk back towards the house, the lady with the small dog, offers apologies, again. I’ve never seen her in the neighborhood before this night.  I appreciate that she is there, a witness.

 I call my friend back to confirm, and I reassure her that it’s ok, that this will be hard, but we’ll get through it. I ask her to pray, especially for my daughter, Anna, who is twelve. The cat goes to sleep with her at night.

I step into the house, and Denise is there, my visiting friend. The teenage boys are there too, gearing up for the card game. I take Denise’s arm, and simply say, “Come.”

We’ve had the cat for six years. Before moving to our house on the corner, we lived in Nice, France, in a small city apartment. The kids clamored for a pet. A dog was out of the question, but we could do a cat. I checked online sites and found an ad from a Spanish woman moving overseas who couldn’t bring along her much-loved three-year-old cats. They were pampered cats, who had already lived in three countries. We agreed to take one.

Negra arrived with her Spanish owner in a convertible.  She had her own black canvas kit with combs and brushes and lotion. She had higher quality grooming gear than I did. She even had her own passport; pets need them to travel in the European Union. Her owner gave advice, told about how Negra was more like a dog than a cat, running to the door to greet her when she came home from work everyday. She cried as she drove away.

Negra, or La Negrita, as her owner called her, was shiny black and regal, except for her white belly, which flopped back and forth when she walked. She adjusted to us easily, and didn’t seem to mind when we didn’t brush her regularly or feed her top quality food. She was aggressively friendly, jumping up into unsuspecting laps and headbutting us until she got attention.

When we moved back to the U.S., I didn’t want the loss of our family pet to make the move any harder for the kids. They were leaving all they knew behind, bringing the family pet along would make the transition less painful.

Denise and I step out onto the porch, and I tell her. Her hand goes to her mouth, her eyes shine with tears. We bring Scott out, telling Anna, who is curious about why the  adults are standing in the driveway, that it’s just an adult powwow. It’s well past ten, and she needs to get to bed. She has trouble sleeping anyway; there’s no way we can tell her tonight. In low voices we talk through how and when to tell the children as we do what is required. What do we put the body in? Should I clean up the blood? Do we tell Justin tonight?

Scott carries the cat to the garage in a bag, we layer newspaper in a large blue bin, and he places her in. It’s important that she look peaceful, so he tries it again. She’ll look like she’s sleeping on her side, except for the smear of blood on the newspaper under her head. I take a large plastic pitcher of water out to the street, twice, pouring the water over the blood before it stains the pavement. Rain is in the forecast in the next few days, but not soon enough.

When I was a kid, about ten, we lived in Texas. There I had a cat, named Tabitha. One morning, I awoke to her staring at me, intently, as a dry, fuzzy kitten mewed at me knees. She had chosen my bed as her safe place to birth her kitten. Months later, my parents were packing up our U-Haul; we were moving to Ohio.

The truck was packed up, and it was time to go. And we couldn’t find the cat; she had slipped out. We drove around the neighborhood, we called for her, but finally, we had to leave. I wept for hours, silently, in the cab of the U-Haul as we drove north through the night.

I was willing to spend money to move Negra with us to the U.S. I wanted to spare my children, especially my ten year-old daughter, the trauma of leaving behind a beloved pet. I wanted her to be able to hold onto the cat as she grieved the life she was leaving behind. I wanted the cat to die of old age, when the kids were out of the house. When her death would be a brief sadness, a matter-of-fact phone call, and a sharing of cat stories.

Instead, here is my son, falling to the floor on his knees, weeping, in the dining room where we tell him. Here I lie in bed at one in the morning, unable to stop my tears. Here is my daughter, weeping in the morning, choosing the corner of the house a few feet away from her bedroom window as the burial site. And Negra, wrapped in a pink and red IKEA blanket, is buried with her cat toy, an empty tin of cat food, a flower, and a five-by-seven picture of our family, taken during a visit to Paris months before we moved to Fort Wayne. 

 “Be Thou My Vision”, plays through my mind. As we stand around the grave, sharing our memories of Negra, I resist the urge to sing it. She’s only a cat. You don’t sing hymns at a cat’s funeral. But it plays in my head.

Be thou my vision, O Lord of my heart;

naught be all else to me, save that thou art;

thou my best thought, by day or by night,

waking or sleeping, thy presence my light.

 Be thou my wisdom, and thou my true Word;

I ever with thee and thou with me, Lord;

thou my soul’s shelter, and thou my high tower;

raise thou me heavenward, O Power of my power…

High King of Heaven, my victory won,


May I reach Heaven’s joys, O bright Heav’n’s Sun!

Heart of my own heart, whatever befall,

still be my vision, O Ruler of all.

The move from France to the U.S. was not too painful for the kids. They have loved the house, having a dog, the schools. Maybe they would have been fine if we had left the cat behind. Maybe I would have been fine. Maybe that kind of leaving would have been better than a fresh grave outside the house. Maybe my effort to protect them backfired.

Whatever befall.

Life befalls. I plan and protect. I pray for wisdom and protection. But my kids’ hearts aren’t safe. Neither is mine. Despite our best efforts, they will be broken, time and time again. Negra’s grave, with Anna’s large gravestone pushed into the mound of dirt, marks this home, still new to us. It marks us.