Walking Beans

Dad turned 70 in August. We flew home to celebrate with him; a weekend at my sister’s was planned after several what-shall-we-dos were considered. In the end, it was his words at every Christmas that finalized our decision: “I love seeing all my kids and grandkids together.” We arrived a little early on Tuesday, the day before Dad’s birthday. Driving out to the farm and nearing Dad’s first bean field, I saw his truck parked in the level ditch. Together with my sister-in-law and nephew, Dad was walking beans. Pulling weeds. I nearly wet my pants, for we had just rolled into a real farming experience!

My sons’ idea of farm is so different from the reality of the farm-life that I grew up with. The farm has changed over the years from a dairy farm to a beef farm with no other livestock. No more chickens. No more butchering chickens with your cousins. No more collecting eggs. No more pigs. No more twice-daily milkings. No more holding cow tails. No more warm cow barns. No calves sucking on fingers. My visceral knowledge of “farm” is very different from my sons'.

In their computer game Minecraft, they showed me their cows. “Watch this, Mom!” Will collected a bucket, walked up to a cow, bumped her on the hip, and his bucket filled with milk. Shocked, I said, “You know it doesn’t really happen that way, right?” I was answered by an eye-ball roll. But really, he knows where the udders are, but he doesn’t know the process of moving milk from a cow to the table. Will hasn't smelled, seen, heard, felt, and tasted that experience.

Walking beans to cut volunteer corn and weeds out was my first paid job. I had many others (see About Me for my bucket list lived), but getting up at 4:30 a.m. to be in the field by 5:00 a.m.: a visceral memory.

I wheeled our car into the ditch. “They are walking beans!” I shouted. “There’s Grandpa!” my boys shouted. “They are walking beans!” I shouted. “There’s our cousin!” my boys shouted. “They are WALKING BEANS!” I shouted.

We joined the bean walkers. After walking one loop, I said, “Well, I have groceries in the car. I need to get going.” And the boys wanted to stay. I drove away, knowing they would need to finish the field before Grandpa brought them home. This wasn’t a dairy barn where they could test that hip-bump, but those were real weeds they were pulling.

My giddy smile lasted all the way to Mom’s.

(On occasion, I get to take the farmer East... "How did your crops do this year?" was the beginning of one such journey.)

The First Signs of Fall

Mmmm.... fall.  Such a visually appealing season.  From mums and cabbages...

to ornamental peppers in pots...

and pre-jack-0-lanterns.

Then there are the new witchy treats... a pair of shoes...

and a sign clearly stating who is running the holiday show.

And nothing screams fall so clearly as cool days begging for crock pot meals...Well, in fact, that's  our grill screaming, "Go find your CROCK POT!!!"

Have a lovely fall weekend.

A Reel Hairy Tale

Sunday, I crossed off a bucket list event: deep-sea fishing. My good friend Kim and I went out on a charter with Yankee Fleet in Gloucester; the boat set sail at 3:30 p.m. and returned at 8 p.m. Kim had gone on a couple trips 20 years ago, but I had never been.

We Malcolms had a relaxing Sunday at home, so around 2 p.m. I thought I should get showered and dressed. I skipped washing my hair, thinking it would just get blown to shreds on the boat. I skipped most of my make-up too. I found a cap and tossed it into my backpack; I found an extra one and tossed it in for Kim, along with an extra long-sleeved thermal shirt for her.

When I picked Kim up, I was shocked at her appearance. She had done her hair, put on make-up -- and she even smelled good! I said something like, "We're going fishing -- you know that, right?"

The boat was bigger than I expected: at least 50 ft. We staked out two PVC pipes at the very front of the bow to hold our fishing poles. Out of around 35 people, Kim, me, and six Japanese tourists were the only ones who stayed out on deck at the bow as we left the harbor. Most were huddled quietly in the cabin, looking like they were going into a coal mine: no laughter, no chatting.

We couldn't have asked for a more perfect day: sunny and only 2-foot waves. The boat glided out of the harbor toward the open Atlantic. At the mouth of the harbor, another fishing charter that was coming in tooted and waved. We waved back and seconds later we plowed into that boat's wake. And our bow created a spectacular 10-foot spray that showered us and our Japanese counterparts.

Kim's curls were washed away. I turned to look at the crow's nest, and as I suspected, this was a highlight of the Captain's day. Through my sea-water drenched hair, I saw the Captain chortling behind the window of his control tower. I told Kim I had an extra cap and shirt, but she opted for the extra layer of warmth over the cap.

An hour out and in 200 ft. of water, the Captain dropped anchor. We watched one of the ship's mates as he showed a woman across the bow from us how to get set up. Our bait was sea clams that we weaved onto the hooks with three pokes. The reels were open-fly (that's what I call them): with a flick of a lever the line comes whizzing out as the 1-gram weight pulls the baited hook to the bottom of the ocean. Back on our side of the bow, I watched Kim go through the steps of dropping the line; then I followed suit.

The Captain descended from his splash tower. "That made your day didn't it?" we ribbed him. "You bet it did!" he replied. We bantered with the Captain, the two mates, and the loveliest fisherman named Paddy, who shared the bow with us. Paddy, probably in his 70's, had his own gear, bait, and a big confident cooler to store his catch. A bit shy at first, Paddy was one of those guys who would be a great neighbor. Kind, polite, and good-hearted. Paddy gave us a couple pointers along the way, but he had the corner on big fish at the end of the day with a 2-foot codfish.

Kim and I waited for a nibble. I told the Captain that without a bobber I wasn't sure what to watch for. He reached out to the end of my pole and gave the line a couple little tugs to show we what it felt like when something went after the bait. With the line locked in placed on the reel, I held the line above the reel with my fingers so I could feel the line move as well as the pole when something bit.

Three feet apart on the bow, Kim and I chatted and laughed. Me with my cap and she with her now non-curled hair blowing in the wind. All rods were quiet, not much happening. We saw a small codfish come in -- only 15 inches and they need to be 19 inches to keep. Then, tug, tug. OK! Fish on my line! I started to reel it in as the Captain came in our direction.

"Where's your camera?" shouted Kim as she reached for my coat pocket. I was so focused on pull, reel, pull, reel that I could hardly talk. "Pocket!" I replied. "Which one?" Kim asked as she reached across me to the far coat pocket. You know, in my frenzy to get dinner onboard, I could not say "jean pocket." And I couldn't let go of my pole to get the camera out.

"Don't worry about the camera, Linda, just keep reeling and get that fish onboard!" directed the Captain. Then, came Kim's direction: "NO! NO! DON'T REEL! MY HAIR IS CAUGHT IN YOUR REEL!!"

Thankfully, Kim wasn't it pain. Because I would have felt horrible busting a gut if she was suffering. I was losing strength from laughter that made my whole body shake. My cheeks were so scrunched up in the fit that I didn't see how the Captain released Kim's hair. I only heard his voice saying, "OK, Linda, reel it in!" Still in a fit of laughter, I reeled and reeled and reeled and finally Kim yelled, "It's a shark!"

Yes, I had nabbed myself a dogfish. An inedible, 2 ft-long slender, shark-like fish. After a brief photo, the ship's mate, who had taken it off my line, released it. No good to eat. Paddy told us they release urine throughout their body if they aren't cleaned right, so the meat tastes like ammonia. But, he said, in England they were used in fish and chips. Unsure if there is any truth to that. Unsure of many fish stories we heard that day. But absolutely sure of the hair-in-reel one.

After the hair-in-reel & dogfish episode settled, the Captain declared, "I've been doing this for 30 years and have never seen that before." Pretty sure he was referring to the hair-in-reel part.

Paddy summed it up best, "You two girls are having the most fun out of everyone on this boat!"

Yes. We didn't catch dinner, and we came home smelling like we had been clamming not fishing. But we had a wicked good time. Three days later, we're still stretching the laugh muscles and wondering how the Captain and his mates are telling the story!

(Another adventure, this time snow-shoeing down a mountain, in the dark... Fierce Mountain Gnomes.)

September 11, 2013

The TV in the YMCA lobby was running the complete footage from September 11, 2001. The fifteen minutes I watched was the turning point: The first plane may have been an accident. Then the second plane hit. And somewhere in that city on business was Bill. And somewhere else was my girlfriend since kindergarten. And somewhere else were our fish friends, a couple we met diving. Long hours after the attack, Bill was finally able to call me. He was fine, but how should he get home? He said there was availability to fly – what did I think? We agreed. Never would there be a safer time to fly. I emailed our friends. They were all OK. Yesterday afternoon I met with my oncologist – my 48-month check-up. All was good! However, I was concerned about my blood pressure. My doctor chuckled and explained that they didn’t really look at that, after I was coming to see my oncologist! I signed my name on the dotted line for another breast cancer study. This one is looking for other possible genes that may contribute to the disease. Mine was not genetic, but since I had been tested, I qualified to be part of the study. This one was pretty easy: they just needed three tubes of blood and my signature giving them permission to rip cells apart, perhaps create a cell line if the researchers find anything interesting while looking at my cells.

From the oncologist’s office, I dropped down one floor to the Infusion Suite. Where I go every month for an injection as part of another study. One shot usually takes 2 – 4 hours. The test drug is expensive and cannot be ordered from the pharmacy until I’m present and accounted for. This gives me time to wait and people watch. And some days it’s an easy day. And some days I can feel my blood pressure rise as my body wants to flee. I see Infusion nurses and techs more consistently than I see many of my local friends. My regular nurse was out on her honeymoon, but my fill-in showed me a picture of my nurse in her wedding gown with her husband. She couldn’t have been a more beautiful bride. I should expect no less. She is a beautiful person who slugged through every round of chemo with me, and now apologizes for the poke of every monthly injection.

While I wait for the medicine, next to me is another patient waiting for his chemo. He’s probably in his 60’s, bald, and has a backwards-C scar on his head that’s a bigger C than what I can make with my fingers and thumb. His speech is slurred, but he’s still insistent on telling his nurse his identifiers without his wife’s help. It takes seconds for him to get his last name off his tongue, but his birth date flies out clearly. After my injection, I open the curtains and he is still waiting for his chemo to arrive from pharmacy. I smile at him. He gives me the thumbs-up, and I leave.

My 4-hour’s at MGH puts me in rush hour traffic out of Boston. Moving at a snail’s pace, I see several enormous half-mast flags. Stars and stripes at half-mast look like they are crying.

At 8 p.m., I have picked Liam up from our friends’ house and Bill has picked up Will from gymnastics. All Malcolms are safely tucked inside our house where Tuesday night’s dinner dishes are still on the counter. Bill and I make swoops through the kitchen before moving the boys toward the bedtime routine. Picking up the shambles of 24 hours seemed like a gift. And not as important as reading in bed with Liam and talking about the school day with Will.

Summer Puked in my Laundry Room

Without warning, summer puked in my laundry room. Fortunately, what’s in the laundry room doesn’t smell. Unfortunately, the un-confessed yogurt smoothie spill under a booster seat in the van still smells like a dairy barn on a hot, humid summer’s day. With cooler weather this week, we are in a mandatory windows-down-airing-out mode.

The mess in the laundry room happened last week as I was making space for the morning race back to school this week. Intuitively, that mother’s reflex kicked in, and I held out my hands to catch what summer was throwing. But two week’s worth of piled up vacation mail sifted through my fingers and splashed to the floor. And the remaining deluge followed.

But I steered it away from the mudroom floor and the morning launch pad. And out of the hallway. And I made sure it veered away from the kitchen counters. So what may visually appear to be a failure to the untrained eye is pure and simple… success.

It’s good to be back. Happy Friday.

Random Summer Thoughts

Hump Day isn’t always on Wednesday, particularly in the summertime. Headline: The picture of me on this website is outdated. (Click here for a look.) For the last six months, my hair has been straight. Only two obstinate curls remain on humid days. One in the middle of my forehead and one at my right temple. As long as I have these two curls, I’m keeping my website title “From cornfields to Korea through chemo to curls.”

Today I had a visit with my breast surgeon: I’m over 4 years out from diagnosis. That’s good. And my doctor is great. She’s a lovely person with skills far exceeding her surgical abilities. She too struggles with time limits on electronics in her house. She too gets exhausted from the negotiation. Today, I needed to hear that. Today, I would’ve paid a $100 co-pay to have someone be on my team with that one. I didn’t need her skills in the OR today. I needed another human to be on the same page with my crazy-ass summertime restrictions on electronics. Between my doctor and her nurse, today, my surgeon’s office was the place to be for hugs and thoughtful conversation.

My birthday was nearly three weeks ago, and my birthday cake woke up a sweet tooth. In turn, that brought this little motto about: “Life’s too short not to eat ice cream during New England summers.” I’m taste-testing every “birthday cake” flavored ice cream I come upon in little side-of-the-road ice cream stands.

I climbed up and down a local high school’s bleachers 26 times today. I want strong knees, flexible hips, and a healthy heart... and no birthday cake ice cream accumulation.

“Hey, Mom,” said Harrison apologetically at the beach during an unexpected evening stop for swimming in clothes and sand castle building. “I’m so sorry… I forgot to wear underwear today!!” And you are just noticing this at 9 p.m., dear child?

“Olivia, please change out of your pj’s so we can go out.” And with that, Olivia peeled off her pj’s revealing a full set of yesterday’s clothes underneath. A look, a shrug, and she was ready to go.

Happy Summer.

The Back End of a Boat

The slip'n'slide is out on the one strip of grass we have amongst the construction rubbled backyard. This morning I came in from an early run to the van and then ran back out to snap a picture of our deck draped in beach towels. The sight reminded me of my 29th birthday. Bill and I sailed with friends on the Ionian Sea off the coast of Greece. We bareboated but hooked up with a flotilla of around eight other sailboats most evenings.

Bareboating means you do everything: captain, navigate, cook, crew. No hiring of anyone else to do these things for you. However, with a flotilla, there was a lead boat whose captain determined where you would meet up in the evening. At the end of the day, the lead boat would anchor or moor, and the rest of us would tie our boats up along side, creating a raft -- hence we were "rafting" for the night.

Before we departed in the morning, the crew of the lead boat would give us a little direction on where we would be going next, what tavernas to look for, and where to find water for the boats' freshwater tanks. Our crew of four had bareboated in the British Virgin Islands and the U.S. Virgin Islands in the years previous to our Greek excursion. Never had there been so much concern about fresh water as in these daily briefings.

On the third night joining the flotilla, we worked out the importance of water. The sailors on the other boats dressed for dinner. We sailors on the boat named "Sophia" did not. The others in the flotilla showered onboard their boats. We did not. We jumped into the sea only to cool off and freshen up, for we had given up on soap: it didn't suds up in salt water. By the end of the 10-day trip, we were well preserved by sea salt -- never as fresh as those who lathered up daily in their onboard fresh-water claustrophobic shower stalls.

Near the end of the trip, the captain of the lead boat took his dinghy out to take pictures of our boats all rafted together. From the back, the flotilla looked crisp and the boats looked identical, like the linens the well-to-do English sailors wore to dinner. All but Sophia.

Sophia looked like a hobo. She had big bold beach towels hanging off the bimini top and swimsuits hanging limply in the minute breeze. Little Sophia, the dinghy we pulled with us, was hitched up the back of Sophia. Little Sophia looked like she was trying to climb out of the water onto Sophia's deck. (I believe we hiked her up there so there would be less drag while we were underway.)

Yes, 18 years ago this week, I was happy with a swim in salt water, a towel hair dryer, and recycled clothes before dinner. Last night, I was happy for the slip'n'slide, beach towels, and day-old pajamas. Will and Liam had been thoroughly rinsed and summer-air dried. They looked a little campy, just like the crew of Sophia several years ago. Happily campy. And the stern of our house looks like a hobo.

When the Headlights Came Looking for Me

The humidity of the last couple weeks reminds of the two times in my life I recognized the headlights coming down the gravel road as Dad out looking for me after dark. Thirty-two years separated those two summer evenings. The first time I was 17 and a senior in high school. I wasn’t home by the time I said I would be, but I wasn’t getting into trouble. I ran into a friend, started to chat, and lost track of time. Once on the gravel road leading to our house, I recognized the headlights and Dad recognized mine. We both slowed and rolled down our windows. “Get home.” That’s all he said. Remembering that evening still sends waves of guilt through me.

The second time I was 45 and had the boys with me in Iowa during a hot, humid summer visit. We had been in town picking up a few groceries and visiting my brother and his family. When we left town, I told my brother we were heading to Mom and Dad’s. It was so brutally hot I had picked up a gallon of ice cream at the grocery store for our neighbors. I thought they might enjoy a little cool treat the next day, but as I was driving down their gravel road at 8:30 in the evening, they were all still up and sitting outside, begging for a slight breeze.

I braked, reversed, and pulled into their driveway. My friend Mary saw it was me and walked over to the car. “I thought you might like some ice cream. I was going to bring it over tomorrow, but since you’re still up…” “Oh, my gosh, thank you so much!” The word “ice cream” put a cool energy into everyone: one of the kids disappeared into the house and came back with several spoons, and they passed around the gallon of vanilla ice cream.

The boys and I plopped on a picnic bench to visit. We had just stopped at Dairy Queen so didn’t need another helping of ice cream. Liam studied everyone eating ice cream then broke his silence and pointed at Mary’s brother-in-law, Ben. “Hey, are you from Little House on the Prairie?” Fortunately, it was pass dusk so no one could see my cheeks burn red. Ben wore a long beard, plus suspenders and a work shirt very much like Pa’s. “Yes, Ben does look a little like Pa from Little House on the Prairie, doesn’t he? But he’s not. Mary and her family are Amish, and they dress differently than we do.” As I was explaining away, Ben interjected, “Oh, do you read those books? We love them!” As it happened, we had been reading them – and making homemade butter.

Liam and Will went off with a few of the kids to look at the kittens. A few minutes later, Liam came back to show me a kitten. He had a firm grasp of it. Around the neck. I jumped up to save it. “Sorry, he’s never held a kitten before!” I explained, drawing a few puzzled looks. “Really? Come here, Liam, let me show you how to hold a kitten,” Ben offered. In seconds, Liam was cradling his first kitten in the nook of an arm, petting it with his other hand. How to hold a farm kitten is innate when you are 5 years old and live on a farm.

With full darkness settling in, we said good-night. We got into the car, cranked the AC, and headed down the road. And there were those headlights. I was 17 again. We met. We rolled down the windows. “Where have you been?” “At Mary’s.” “We have been trying to call you!” “Oh… My cell phone was in the car. I didn’t hear it ring. Sorry, Dad.”

Sorry, Dad, but I was in one of my favorite spots: visiting with friends without a cell phone or a computer. We started to chat and lost track of time.

(Another hot Iowa summer memory: Walking Beans.)

Camp Mujigae

After Grandma's funeral in Iowa, the boys and I flew to Albany, New York, last Wednesday for a Korean culture camp: Camp Mujigae. In Korean, Mujigae means "rainbow." Will and Liam each attended half-day camps with kids their respective ages: 9- and 7-year-olds. Each age group was grouped into six kids per counselor. It was a chance for the boys to get to know other kids who were adopted from Korea and for us adoptive families to meet, chat, laugh, and well-up. The experiences are best summed up from the Harrisons, Olivias, and Moms at camp. (Have you met Harrison and Olivia yet?) One slight adjustment: they are no longer preschoolers.

“What do you think, Harrison?” Mom asked after the first day of camp. “I like it. I’m not the odd man out. Everyone here was born in another country.”

"I finally get to spend time with my friends!" said Olivia. Mom was confused as Olivia had just had a playdate with a good friend from school, but camp was different. Korean friends were different.

“Good luck finding your kids tomorrow at camp, especially from behind!” said Mom who has brought her kids to camp for several years. First-time Camp Mujigae Mom nearly yelled at a boy for not responding when she called his name… He wasn’t her son. From the back, all the boys had the same black hair, were the same height, and wore the same colored shirts. (Groups of kids in the same colored shirts are problematic for this particlar Mom... See Mother's Day from a Non-Soccer Mom...)

“Mom,” proclaimed Harrison, “I’m average! Everyone in my group is my age and I’m about the same size they are!”

Shared stories between adoptive Moms... "Olivia said, 'I’m not celebrating my birthday any more. It’s too sad to think of my birth mother being sad that day.' I said I really didn't think her birth mother would want her to be sad on her birthday.

“As for me, I have a lump lodged in my throat every year on Olivia’s birthday. What a painful decision her birth mother made to let another family raise Olivia. This beautiful girl, my daughter.”

There. Another adoptive Mom said it aloud. I’m not alone shedding tears on birthdays.

Facing the Wall

Obstacles. Fences. Walls. Roadblocks. Diversions. Challenges.

We maneuver around them daily. Sometimes with great skill and confidence. Sometimes bumbling along, bouncing into the roadblock headfirst a few times before working out a path to the other side.

When going through chemo, I felt fenced. In December 2009, my third month of chemo, I got through one treatment with a Hungry Cow Mentality. Head down, with a few strong kicks.

This week I faced a Wall. Working out with my team at the YMCA, we took on the challenge of climbing the rock wall; it soared to the ceiling of the gym. I have quietly wanted to attempt this since I turned 40; then I thought at 45 I would try it. But I was working on the aforementioned fence around that time. And since then, I have what I affectionately term a chicken arm: The underside of my upper arm has no feeling and the entire arm is slightly swollen. From surgery to remove lymph nodes, the nerves were shuffled around, so that wiggly part that most women hate, I can’t feel. I look at it and see a lifeless chicken wing.

Dressed in our team’s neon yellow shirt, I arrive early with my team mates. This is good, I think to myself. I will hoist this body with this arm at least two feet up the wall, see what it feels like, identify what muscles need to grow to make the climb to the top possible in the future. I did it! I made it two feet up the wall! My grips were strong, so I went a bit farther. I made one stretch with my left arm that was a little too big, but I had three other appendages firmly attached to the wall. I reversed that move and looked for a closer rock for the fingers of my chicken arm to latch onto. Holding that position for a bit, I let the sting of over-extension subside. I adjusted my sights and focused on the rocks that were comfortably within my reach. I saw the top three feet away. I felt a scrambling sensation. I felt my muscles twinge. I felt strong.

I slapped the top of that wall and yelled, “I DID IT! I MADE IT!” With the anchor man holding me in my harness, I clamored down the wall.

My body was shaking when I made it to the bottom. My fingers from the gripping. My legs from the energy they put forth. My biceps, both of them, from exerting power.

Focused on the weakness of my chicken wing and slightly swollen arm, I had not given much thought to the potential power in that arm: the bicep, the forearm, and my fingers.

Hidden strength. Combined strength of the whole was bigger than the weakness of one part.

Staying strong, Linda

Grandma's Funeral

Grandma passed away last Thursday, four hours after I sent Scrabble Grandma. Bill and I made the decision that the boys should go to the funeral, so I took them to Iowa last Saturday. The visitation was Sunday afternoon and the funeral was on Monday.

When I got the news about Grandma, I waited 12 hours to tell the boys that Grandma had died. It took that long to work out what to say to them. Grandma lived a very long time and her body was worn out. We were going back to Iowa for Grandma’s “funeral” – a celebration of her life. Grandma’s soul was in heaven, but Grandma didn’t need her body in heaven. The funeral is one way for people to say good-bye to Grandma’s body. Grandma would look like she was sleeping in a box called a casket.

How did Grandma die? Grandma’s kidneys failed. The kidneys are a major organ and those organs need to work together. When one fails, they all begin to fail. Did it hurt? No, the doctors gave Grandma pain medicine so she wouldn’t hurt. She died while she was sleeping – but only because her major organs were worn out. You can live without a leg like your other great-grandma did: a leg isn’t a major organ. But kidneys, heart, and lungs, those are.

“What about a mandible, Mom? (Tee hee…) I think that’s somewhere on the head, Mom.” Liam had built up his anatomical vocabulary in a weekly human body workshop at school this spring.

At the funeral home, the flowers around Grandma’s casket weren’t flat funeral flowers. Mom said they asked the florist for garden flowers. Three bouquets of summer’s best, from roses and lilies to iris and daisies, were in perfect full bloom.

The visitation started quietly with just the immediate family before the doors opened to extended family and friends. At 95 years old, Grandma did not have many friends at the funeral. They were already waiting at the Scrabble board. Yet over 200 people came to give their condolences: family and friends that bloomed from one matriarch.

Grandma taught school before she became a mother. And long before she became a grandmother and a great grandmother to 43 grandchildren. At the visitation, I visited with cousins that I had not seen in years, and I needed introductions to their children and significant others.

Will chose not to go up to see Grandma in the casket. By the end of the day, he was walking by the casket, but he never approached it. Liam wanted to see Grandma. I was with him on the first visit when the young undertaker came over to talk to us. On bended knee, he pointed out Grandma’s pink cheeks and immediately put one hand up above his own head and one down low. He explained to Liam that he had put blush on Grandma’s face because when the heart stops pumping, blood stops circulating. After that 30-second explanation, the undertaker held his hands side-by-side: the one that had been above his head was white the one down low was very red. Liam was impressed.

Then, Liam reached out to touch Grandma’s hand. My whispered “D” in “Don’t” was overshadowed by the undertaker’s matter-of-fact, “Sure, you can touch Grandma.” So Liam touched her hand. Another time at the casket, my aunt joined Liam. They chatted a bit, and my aunt walked away. From 10 feet away I saw Liam’s mouth say, “Are you really dead, Grandma?” Later my aunt said that he told her he thought he had seen Grandma’s chest move like she was breathing. My aunt confirmed that she wasn’t alive, that she was with God. “So, it was like an optical illusion?” Liam checked in at the casket throughout the day. I followed him up a few times and ultimately decided he was just curious and didn’t need more explanation.

After the visitation, Liam confided in me some information for which I needed an oxygen mask to drop down from the heavens: “You know, Mom, I couldn’t get Grandma’s mouth open.”

After murmuring “Thank you, dear Lord,” and really meaning it, the definition of mandible hit me. Mandible… the bottom jaw.

Once a teacher, always a teacher. Grandma, thanks for that one last lesson.

 

Scrabble Grandma

My grandma, Mom’s mom, has started her journey Home. Grandma is 95 years old. She was ill in April but beat two rounds of lung infections and then a bout with an intestinal virus. Today, her body is tired. My cousin calls Grandma “Apple Grandma” because they often made apple pies together. I remember making pies with Grandma too. But, to me, she is “Scrabble Grandma.” After Sunday dinners is when the Scrabble board would come out. With a dictionary.

The shadow of time smoothens over the Sundays as they progressed through the years from her Scrabble tile rack shared with me; to my Scrabble rack shared with her; to our individual Scrabble tile racks with a bit of help at the end of the game; to pretty fierce competitors each manning our own tile racks right to the end of the game.

Through my year of breast cancer, I savored the moment when Grandma and I could sit across the table and play Scrabble again. But by the time I traveled back to Iowa after all of that, Grandma’s Scrabble days were done. Since then I have looked at Scrabble boxes with selfish anger.

Until spring break when the boys and I went back to Iowa for a belated Easter celebration. With the dinner dishes done and adults wandering around at loose ends, I found Mom’s Scrabble box, dusted it off, and rallied together four players: my sister-in-law, my sister, my mom, and me. When those letter tiles jiggled in the bag, they drew my three nieces to the table: 6-, 5-, and 2-year-olds.

Our game in April was not about the biggest word or the most points. It was about a 2-year-old counting and pulling tiles; a 5-year-old dumping the rack as she rearranged tiles; and a 6-year-old reading the word aloud that was to be played the next round. And I realized what incredible patience Grandma drew from a very deep well as her grandkids’ small fingers rummaged through her Scrabble rack throughout the last 40 years.

Grandma’s 10 fingers weren’t present at the table in April, but 70 fingers from three generations were carrying on that Sunday afternoon tradition.

Triple Word Score for 48 points, Grandma. “Heaven,” with the “H” on a Double Letter Score. May the Scrabble board be waiting.

(Grandma passed away four hours after I wrote this.  We went to Grandma's Funeral -- a whole other story that will make you smile.)

68 years

There are 68 years between the youngest member of our family, my two-year-old niece, and my dad. With every new grand child, we get to see our parents and our kids bond. Each one a little differently. During the Easter egg hunt at Mom & Dad's, my niece soon sorted out the path to many an egg: Grandpa.

While Grandpa may have started out leading the way, he was soon working to keep up with her. I followed them snapping pictures. They were in their own little world, youngest and oldest. Both enjoying the thrill of the hunt, they were wide-eyed looking for the eggs.

My niece on little feet that bounced over the ground. My dad in work boots that lightened as he followed her bounce. When she spotted an egg out of reach, she turned, put her arms up, and Grandpa lifted her to the egg. Her big blue eyes spoke to his soft blue eyes with an occasional, "Up Grandpa!"

And when it came to counting the eggs and checking for the goodies, Grandpa was just as serious about the business as my niece was. With a few hundred miles between us, I'm not often privy to those little connections between my parents and all their grand kids. I don't know what their "thing" is. But on this day, it was Easter eggs.

When my boys were two, Will looked for surprises in Grandpa's bib overall pockets, and Liam learned how to hold a pencil under his nose by curling his lip up. While 50-pound Will doesn't sit on Grandpa's lap often to dig through those pockets, Liam still runs for a pencil when Grandpa is on Skype.

I don't remember my grandpa's voice. But I still have the little red pencil he gave me the last time we talked. I was 10. I remember walking through the barnyard with him looking for all the materials to make a corncob pipe. And I can nearly taste the Dairy Queen vanilla cone that we rode 10 miles in his Oldsmobile to get after school.

Happy 4th Monday in a Row

Hello, who are you today? Is this a Hump Day-less week? I can’t bale over the hump. I’ve been in four Mondays slid together.

The Laundry Maven is a wreck searching for a black shirt because the only thing clean is a black bra. And that makes absolutely no sense because today it’s going to be sunny and 98 degrees with 97 percent humidity. Imagining a hormone-less woman dressed in black dripping with sweat as she stands outside on a beautiful, sunny day makes the Laundry Maven cringe.

The school volunteer can’t get traction on the ground and is flying like a hovercraft crashing into year-end activities and trying to avoid the 8 p.m. question, “You need a WHAT for tomorrow?”

The baseball and soccer mom… well, she never really did exist… but the stand-in is counting down the last few games and trying to orchestrate better management of baseball belts, gloves and hats. She scored BIG last night though with an ice cream run for end-of-practice treats. Maybe she can just be the ice cream Mom next year.

“MOM!! MOM!!” has given up on verbal directions and calls for action. If she wants something done, she posts bribery posters: “Surprise! If you clean out the van, empty the dishwasher, pick up the toy room, pick up your bathroom, and pick up your bedroom, you can have ½ hour of electronics this afternoon!” This is so effective she’s pounding her head on the wall for all the words she has been draining into a black hole. Plus, Surprise Posters are much easier to manage than bribery star charts for a week. More pounding as she thinks of all those star magnets in her jeans pockets that the Laundry Maven has pulled from the washer and dryer.

The short-order cook is looking for the right sign to post in the kitchen. Something to the effect of take it or leave it, but don’t complain about it. And, eat protein. It’s brain food and you are a mess when you have too much sugar. She hasn't quite gotten the wording down on that one yet.

Linda Malcolm is screaming, “Hey, you stole my day!” at all of them. She gets all in a tizzy when she can’t empty her mind on paper.

All of this… like grabbing a galloping horse’s mane as it flies by or sitting in the back car of a roller coaster with my heading beating side to side and pushing my earring posts into my skull. Yes, that’s more like it. Because that is where I close my eyes and scream for the duration.

But it’s coming… Can you feel it? All this build-up? The energy whizzing in the air? All this magic we parents are making happen?

Summertime. When the living is easy. Er. Theoretically.

Happy 4th Monday in a Row.

(When summer finally arrives, so does my Hillbilly Joe.)

Explicit Instructions for a Rainy-Day Kid Challenge

Rainy, dreary days ahead?  Try this with the kids for a few hours of entertainment. You'll need some space. About 6 - 8 feet between Point A & Point B, preferably out of any public walking paths. I chose a smooth, flat surface. Like this bench: Or this path between a footstool and barstools: Haul out boxes of building sets. No hesitation just grab the boxes of favorites and the boxes of stuff they never play with.

Set up the build site. The start: The finish: Write a few instructions. For some reason my kids prefer reading directions over hearing my voice. Let 'em at it. If I do this with my sons, I give them different paths to work on. (See Big Ben Build set-up photo above: start points at the ends & end point in the middle.) To me, a rainy day is not the setting for constructing a shared vision with your brother the ramp maker when you are an ivy grower. Here's the ramp maker's beginning build: And after he decided to add a moving part -- a ramp for a ball to roll through: Here's the ivy grower's build: Have a pocketful of added challenges. Do they think they have completed the challenge? Incorporate one can of play dough. Add movable parts. Put 5 popsicle sticks in. Build a bridge. Create a canopy. Again, best written down: Give them a camera. Let them take pictures so the tearing down -- in three days -- is more bearable. Take note on what they don't use. Any materials not used can leave your house. See the cool multi-colored 3-piece climbers in this shot? That's my contribution to the build, hoping to gain interest in these colorful builders that I love. They have absolutely no interest in them. Go. Start the build. Let them build. Then, come back here and share ideas in the comments!

Great to Be Alive

I’m still making my way in this “stay-at-home” mom role, not knowing what exactly that job description should entail, but striving nevertheless to be really good at it. That usually means constant movement through each day, normally to fortify the Malcolms and keep them afloat. I needn’t list the tasks, for we all have them. And perhaps like me -- no longer a farm girl who can count bales of hay put up or fields planted at the end of the day -- you have no idea where the day went or what you actually accomplished. Over the last few weeks, I’ve done things a little differently: put an “X” through two days a week to focus on writing; started a 21-day sugar detox; and exercised nearly every day. As a result I see more of what I haven’t done: 8 loads of dirty laundry scattered in the hallway and laundry room; more dishes and pans in the sink than normal; a loaded countertop of mail, packages, and breakfast dishes at 5 p.m.

After a bike ride Monday, I’m more OK with all of that today. With a goal of riding 112 miles over two weeks, I organized a bike ride for the four of us on Sunday. We rode 7 miles. Thinking I could get at least 25 miles done on my own, I drove out to the same bike trail Monday – really looking forward to knocking out a quarter of what was left. After 1 ½ hours, I dragged my pedaled-out legs and sore bum to the van, anxious for the total mileage. TWELVE miles? No. Surely more than that…

Red-faced and sore, I kicked the gravel stirring up some dust. I had parked near the bike trail in a quiet area of Groton, MA. Sunday the gravel lot was empty, but Monday several buses were parked next to a bus garage. They must have been on the road the day before. My quiet brooding over my lackluster accomplishment of 12 miles was snapped to halt when a bus suddenly revved up its diesel engine. I jumped and looked toward the roar. This is what I saw. Sometimes when I'm cussing under my breath while doing laundry, I lift my head up out of the sorting basket too quickly and catch it on the sharp, sharp corner of the cupboard. I take that as a sign: Less complaining. More grace. "GREAT TO BE ALIVE" was like that, only less painful.

I get it. Generally, most of us have been in tougher places than where we stand today. Considering three years ago this week I was focused on recovering from chemo and radiation, I would say 12 miles biked is pretty darn good.

Great to be alive. More bus ticker signs... fewer sharp cupboard corners. Please.

(Need a little inspiration? Try Baggage.)

An English Field of Flowers

At the end of last May, we were in England for Bill's mum's 80th birthday, which happened to coincide with the Queen's Jubilee. Along with the mouth-watering roasted potatoes, sausage rolls, and wheels of fabulous cheese...

 I drink my coffee with thick English cream when on the other side of the pond. Just the thought of it, wets my taste buds. The best cup of coffee I've ever had was at June's house some 15 years ago. Neighbors and friends were over one morning to visit. We sat on the patio outside in the sunshine and conversed over morning coffee: French pressed with English cream.

I was a little shocked last May to find no cream in the small English fridge when we arrived. Bill's family had been buying a lighter version of cream with lower fat. It just didn't work for me. It was missing that soft velvety thickness. I'm not in England often. I bought cream and allayed the guilt with an occasional walk.

Bill's family lives in a relatively new housing estate which backs up to a lane leading to farm fields. Set up for a walking nation -- or so it used to be -- public footpaths meander throughout the countryside, edging private property, including farmland. The first time I climbed over a stanchion and landed into a pasture where cattle were grazing, I fretted. "Is there a bull?" Apparently the English haven't met a Holstein or Herford bull. Or perhaps English bulls are of calmer ilk than Iowa bulls. On these paths, farmers are responsible for keeping paths clear; walkers are responsible for respecting property.

At the end of the lane and past a cluster of trees, a field opened up like a solar glare on this cloudy English day. Occasionally seeing this crop covering rolling fields, I only knew it had the unfortunate name of "rape." After this photographic outing last May, I tucked myself away in our bedroom overlooking June's garden and researched this crop a bit. The name is derived from the Latin word rapum, which means turnip. In the UK, farmers use it as a winter "break crop," it enhances the soil for the following rotation of wheat.

The leafy green stems shoot up spikes that blossom out buttercups. Like pumpkins, strawberries, and soy beans, the flower matures and the "fruit" begins to grow. In this case a pod of seeds forms and continues growing long after the flower has fallen off the end of it.

The leafy green stems shoot up spikes that blossom out buttercups. Like pumpkins, strawberries, and soy beans, the flower matures and the "fruit" begins to grow. In this case a pod of seeds forms and continues growing long after the flower has fallen off the end of it.

The raw oil from this crop, which is high in erucic acid, is used in industrial oils and lubricants. In the 70's, through cross-breeding, Canadian scientists created a version of rape with low erucic acid and low gluclosinates. A Canadian low acid oil suitable for human consumption and quite the hit due to being low in saturated fat. Now comes the puzzle: From that last sentence, can you piece together what this oil is called? Canola! (Canadian low acid oil)

Throughout the holiday, I continued my occasional walks after coffee. Each time the healthy cream and the real cream came to the table for coffee. Wanting to know what made this alternative cream healther, one day I read the ingredients. Full circle: rapeseed oil -- canola oil -- was one of the main ingredients. No wonder my taste buds rejected the lighter version.

I'm not overly interested in the on-going disputes between this healthy lower fat oil vs this non-healthy modified toxin. What I am certin of is that when in England, I want my English cream from those cows in the pasture, not from canola oil fields behind the house where I burn off some of those cream calories.

These are the sources I referred to in writing this story:

http://www.wisegeek.com/what-is-canola-oil.htm http://www.ukagriculture.com/crops/oil_seed_rape.cfm http://www.snopes.com/medical/toxins/canola.asp http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/canola-oil/AN01281 http://www.gmo-compass.org/eng/grocery_shopping/crops/21.genetically_modified_rapeseed.html http://www.examiner.com/article/is-canola-oil-dangerous http://www.grainscanada.gc.ca/canola/cm-mc-eng.htm

(Back to the fields in Iowa... Spring's Gate Girl.)

English garden inspiration

With the house addition/renovation finished, it's time to fix up the flower beds outside. For inspiration, I've looked back through pictures I took  in England. Some of these were growing in lanes and some in various gardens. Some may be weeds rather than flowers, but if it's a pretty weed, it gets a good solid chance in my garden. Happy Hump Day...

(Here's a close-up of An English Field of Flowers.)

Mother's Day from a Non-Soccer-Mom

Since I became Mom, one of my most memorable Mother’s Days was when I explicitly laid out the day: Take the morning to go to church by myself. Go to a café with my scrapbooking bags and create Will’s life book, his story from birth. Have my three boys plant a Magnolia tree plant in the front yard. Eat one of Bill’s delicious dinners. That was the year I took the time to plan it. It was gorgeous – for all involved. One of my first Mother’s Days as a Mom I spent in Iowa at my sister’s with her kids and my mom. Three moms together. I don’t even know what we did. It didn’t really matter because we were together. And I love that picture of us – family – together on Mother’s Day.

No plan for this year. I’m avoiding the creation of a delicate balance: quiet time for something I enjoy on my own vs time together with the family. I haven’t made a plan. Planning is not my strong suit this spring. As much as I try, I miss the details and make mis-assumptions when making plans. Case in point: a recent non-soccer-mom day taking Liam to his 8 a.m. practice.

Arriving late for the 8 a.m. soccer practice, I scope the field for the team with the same dark navy blue t-shirt as Liam has on. (Bill took him to the first practice, so I don’t know who the coaches are or what they look like.) Scanning Field 1… Field 2… Field 3… Field 4, it’s soon apparent EACH of the FOUR teams is wearing the SAME color shirt! This age group wears the same color shirt. Little League is much more sophisticated: each team wears a different color.

I approach coaches on Field 1 & Field 2 to see if Liam is on their roster. No luck. I notice that each team has a different sponsor name on the back of their shirt. I peek inside Liam’s jacket and see “Harry’s Donuts.” Rather than stopping the practice of the other two teams, I look for the sponsor name. No where. I ask the coach on Field 3 if Liam is on his team, and I mention the fact that I can’t see “Harry’s Donuts” on anyone’s shirt.

At which point, Liam starts to sob, “This is last year’s shirt! That’s not what’s on this year’s shirt!!” We find the manager who happens to be English and happens to know Bill. “Hey, Liam! Come on over buddy! Here’s your team!” On Field 4.

I, non-soccer-Mom, cower at the far end near Field 1 – well away from Liam. With me out of sight, he will have a better practice.

Yes. Please. I want a break from the word “plan.” Yet by not making a plan that puts stress on the rest of the family to please me. How about I make a list of options and let the fam do the plan?

Here goes… Buy perennials Work in my new flower garden Bill’s pork paprika for dinner Homemade cards from the kids A walk on the beach Skype with Mom Read a book in the middle of the afternoon Watch “Julie and Julia” with Bill at 8 p.m. Skip brushing Will & Liam’s teeth before bed

A few of those will happily fill my Mother's Day.

Hugs to all moms, particularly one 1,600 miles away. I wish we were planting flowers together.

High Waters

On this beautiful spring day, I have just a couple minutes to gulp air before diving back into this race our family is running between rainy, snowy spring and hot, humid summer. For us, that race started right after spring break, and it’s a short powerful sprint to the last day of school in mid-June. Some race highlights:

The sun sets later making me yearn for summer nights. (“I’m NOT going to bed. It’s NOT my bedtime. The sun is still shining and you are trying to trick me!”)

I’ve moved away from cozy crockpot cooking and cleaned off the grill. We will start looking for Thursday afternoon ice cream treats rather than Dunkin’ Donuts. (“Here are your donuts, ma’am. Your food will be out in a minute.” Served up with distinct emphasis on “food” not “your.”)

More leisure time to do the things we love on the weekends. (“This isn’t fair! I don’t want to play baseball this early in the morning. I don’t have enough time for myself!” Tell me about it.)

I’m caught between the refreshing newness of spring and the cynicism brought on by this craziness engulfing spring. I must bail myself out. After all, I just told my son that sarcasm doesn’t look good on a kid. And I should model good behavior.

Alas, I say it all with a smile. For I must smile. We all smile when we realize we have been sending our children to school like this, right? ("Wow, look how much you have grown this winter!")

A problem that will be resolved with the first 75-degree day and a good pair of scissors to convert them from short pants to long shorts.

I can hear it already: “Cool, Mom!” (And that I will interpret as "Cool Mom!")

Happy Hump Day Short!