A Beautiful Sight, We're Happy Tonight...

The back deck

Rem readies for warfare

Walking as the snow falls

The park by the pool

Santa lives here. Well, sometimes. With a nod to the season, Rem now includes Santa and the Grinch among the various personalities that he espouses in a given day. Rem will wake from a dead sleep, sit up in bed (usually between Craig and me) and belt out a resounding “Ho Ho Ho”. This typically wakes us from our dead sleep and we half-heartedly bid Santa a good morning.

“I smell something,” the Rem-Santa grins. I sniff, hoping to ease into the day without having to start with major diaper duty. “It’s cookies! Santa eats cookies,” Santa says with hope. And adds another “ho ho ho” for good measure. Relieved, I get out of bed and suggest that we get the girls up for school without acknowledging the request for early morning treats.

“The elves,” Santa corrects, leading the way down the stairs, his blond hair sticking up in places.

“Wake up sleepy head elves,” Santa shouts from between the twin beds before rushing into his own room to find the snow boots and jean jacket that will announce to everyone his identity.

“Feel my fluff,” Santa encourages at the breakfast table. Unwilling elves wave their hands near Santa’s face.

“Nice beard,” one of them musters. Rem nods proudly.

Later, I wander into the living room to find Rem throwing toys under the tree. “What are you doing?” I ask in a raised voice.

“You better watch out," Rem replies rushing out of the room and back in with a basket full of Duplo blocks.

“Don’t!” I warn but to no avail. The myriad of colorful plastic rains on top of the trucks and cardboard houses, the stethoscope and hammer. “Start picking this up right now, young man.”

“Ho ho ho,” Rem answers nonchalantly. “I’m Santa.” He skirts around me and returns with a stack of books. He tosses them onto the pile. Most of them hit ornaments and they spin and wave disorderedly. Rem laughs. He looks up at me.

“I’m Santa,” he says again. “And Santa puts toys under the tree.”

“Not like this,” I begin. “This is a mess. Rem, Santa, whoever you are this has to get cleaned up.”
“Ask the elves,” Santa suggests. “I don’t pick up toys.”

Rem doesn’t like the idea of Santa using the chimney. He wants Santa knocking on the door. He’d like the reindeer to land on the porch, not on the roof. And the jolly fat man must come in through the door. We are often encouraged to reinforce the use of the door.

“As I drew in my head and was turning around,” I read, “Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Rem interrupts. “He came in the door. Read it right next time.”

When he sings Santa Claus is Coming to Town, (and he can sing the entire song), he sings “Santa Claus is coming in the door”. Just in case we didn’t get it.

We visited the Grove Park Inn last week to enviously admire the gingerbread masterpieces and wonder how we can fail so miserably with our graham cracker houses. Rem wasn’t impressed with the candy that no one could eat and preferred running down the wide hallways at the hotel until he spied the sleigh at the far end of the festive lobby. He could hardly contain himself as he sprinted to the sleigh, climbed aboard and grasped the reigns.

I rushed into action and sent the girls onto the sleigh for a Christmas picture. I snapped a few but Rem, busy guiding the reindeer and “ho ho ho-ing” at every passerby prevented any really nice shots. He insisted we call him Santa as we encouraged him to look my way, Miren and Lise doing their best to draw his attention away from the reindeer. People started gathering, waiting patiently for their own photo ops but Santa dug in his heels.

“Let’s go look at some more gingerbread houses,” Miren suggested, taking Rem’s arm to guide him.

“No.” He shook her off.

Lise stepped in. “Do you see all of the people waiting for their turn? They want to get on the sleigh, too.”

“This is my sleigh,” he retorted condescendingly. “They can’t get on my sleigh.”
I had to pull Santa off, kicking and screaming.

He enjoys having us sit on his lap and tell him what we want for Christmas. He reminds us that he’ll have to check his list but otherwise he is a kind Santa and pats our shoulders encouragingly. But when we broach the subject of going to see Santa he merely shrugs and answers, “Ha ha ha – I am Santa, silly.”

The Grinch is easy. All of the work goes into coaxing a sister or parent into playing the part of Cindy Lou Who or Max. Once accomplished, Rem leads his unwilling fellow thespian through various scenes from the Grinch Who Stole Christmas. Rem’s finger drumming is unmatched and his study of Dr. Seuss’s illustrations render a convincing villain even if his costars’ cooing like a dove resonates with aggravated pre-teen impatience as the little Who, who is not more than two finds the merry-go-round staging frustrating after playing a scene for the fifth consecutive time. The season arrives, doesn’t it? Whatever is playing out in life, it comes. And thank God for that.

Acquiring the Tree

I’ve grown to love the indigenous Frasier firs that find their way into our home every December and dot the landscape of Western North Carolina throughout the rest of the year. Small family farms along rural roads boast rows of carefully tended trees in modest patches on steep slopes while large farms, their uniformly bold greens in various stages of growth, sweep up and over the hilly landscape. The children point out the sprinkling of “Christmas” trees on hikes in high elevations that bear the scars of hard winds and frigid temperatures pausing to imagine them adorned with lights.

We usually drive deep into Madison County on the weekend after Thanksgiving to a small, picturesque farm nestled beside a rushing stream at the bottom of the steep slope of a mountain. Amazed each time that we successfully retraced our annual tracks (always after a missed turn or two) we find the place as magical as it loomed in our memory throughout the year. Rob and Mary, donning heavy jackets and work gloves, emerge from the tiny log cabin and warmly greet us by name. The exuberant dogs that followed them from the house circle the cars ready to play. The caravan unloads: my parents are often with us and my brothers and their families sometimes follow behind. My brother, Kyle, and his family eagerly drive the four hours from Atlanta to drive two more hours to this farm – the place is that special. The children disappear into the familiar landscape, some to the rushing creek or to the small, wooden bridge that sits above it. Lise searches for a stick and begins playing with the dogs. Peanut, her favorite, receives more affection than the others when the retrieved sticks fall at her feet.

After catching up on the year and SEC football, the adults begin the gentle climb to the scattered trees along the slopes. Rob and Mary share an interest in fly fishing with Craig and we usually pause on the bridge to scout for trout and listen to detailed accounts of recent trips that often trigger memories of Craig’s similar experiences. One year Dad discovered that Rob lived in the same small town in Alabama that my parents lived when first married. We continually interrupted their tales of Enterprise -past to ask for the tall pvc pipe used to measure the trees or for assistance in felling the tree. Mary once pulled out her wreath making equipment and patiently guided the interested children and my sister-in-law, Julie, through the process. She showed the children where, on the property, they could find the holly and cedar that she weaves into the fir boughs for the wreaths.

Rob remembers that Craig and I like our Christmas trees tall and skinny and guides us to the more unkempt trees that are our favorites. The children eventually follow and the little ones get lost in the lower needled branches or in the dormant bramble of berry bushes often surprising and being surprised by rabbits. We leave birds’ nests, cheerfully discovered, in the tree and decorate around them, saving them on the mantle after Christmas as a reminder of our happy jaunt weeks after the tree is picked up by the recyclers.

This storybook place never disappoints. Once, we ignored our better judgment and risked icy roads to get to the farm during a heavy snowfall. Rob, waiting for us, helped the girls out of the car and onto a real sled with rudders (not the plastic kind that we use) and pulled them up slopes in pristine, untouched snow and ran alongside them with the dogs as they rushed down, the girls wide-eyed and laughing tiny puffs of smoke. Mary’s snow boots created a path toward the Christmas trees that Craig and I followed, awed by the depth of the mountains revealed by the snow’s presence as the bare trees on the distant rise created a 3 D affect with the contrasting white background. We lingered in the winter wonderland fantasy until, as the temperature began to drop, we remembered the roads and tied the naturally flocked tree onto the car and packed red-cheeked girls into the back seat. They waved long after the farm disappeared behind us.

The years revealed the future disappointment that would eventually befall on us. We began choosing trees that in previous years were overlooked. Rob cut for us the tops of trees too tall for anyone to want as the patch of trees that he and Mary carefully tended for years evolved into rows of stumps. We took hopeful glances at the opposite slope where the new saplings grew and asked again about the maturation rate of Frasier firs. Rob explained to Craig on the phone this year that they had nothing left of the old stand of trees and the new ones still needed to grow for a couple of years. Craig’s revelation left us feeling gloomy but not surprised.
None of my family even flirted with the idea of finding a new farm. We knew that other places would be anticlimactic and forever press a scarlet B (for betrayers) onto our breasts. Even my visiting brother’s family, after requesting a trip to the farm and receiving the devastating news, suggested a gas station parking lot as an appropriate alternative. We settled on the farmer’s market. The choice allowed us to patronize another local farm without the possibility of enjoying ourselves or not in its mountain setting.

And although our experience with the Yancey county farmer and his son proved easy and lovely, in typical Chenevert fashion, the bar sits high on its pedestal. It wasn’t until the tree stood in its corner of the living room, bright with lights and offering from its aromatic limbs the many ornaments we handcrafted over the years, did we fill with Christmas spirit and satisfaction. By the time Rem finished hanging and re-hanging ornaments and Miren and Lise carefully placed their favorites on the tree, Craig, as always, declared with conviction the tree our best tree ever. And with full hearts we all agreed.

Let the Holidays Begin: Part I

The holiday season approaches in all of its enchanting glory and disenchanting realities. The pre-holiday grocery trip can be either or both but is required for any holiday preparation. Even early in the week before Thanksgiving, Ingles bustles with activity and crowds. Christmas candies, stacks of boxed fruitcakes and jars of marshmallow cream greet shoppers along with painful renditions of Christmas carols. The buggy, with Rem driving the attached car and repeatedly suggesting that I buy bananas, fills quickly before I even leave the produce section.

We wind our way up and down aisles and I stop in the middle of aisle five to help an older gentleman in a black, buttoned wool coat who reminds me of my father locate the spice section. We follow the alphabetically ordered spices to the ground cloves when a phone rings in his coat pocket. He hesitates because his hands are currently filled with the cloves, a handwritten list on lined notebook paper, and the small hand-held basket with a lemon, bag of celery, and a box of brown sugar. I take the basket from him so that he can answer the phone. “She always forgets to put something on the list,” he smiles in appreciation and takes the phone from his pocket. “You are lucky I’m not in the check-out line,” he gently chides into the phone. “What have you forgot?”

Rem and I leave the gentleman and make our way down the aisle. I study the basket to see what items Rem tossed among our Thanksgiving necessities. I only notice two boxes of unwanted baking soda. Last week I purchased frozen baked potato halves with bacon and cheese. I didn’t find them until I unloaded the groceries at home. No takers for the potatoes, although I have offered and even tried to pack them in Craig’s lunch, so they sit in my freezer. Rem’s purchased large bags of shredded cheese and cartons of yogurt. He swipes these items from the bottom shelves of the dairy section - items that sit at eye level to the car that he insists on riding in for all grocery trips. I never see how they actually get into the basket but Rem often takes short breaks and cackles as he runs around the cart and then jumps into the car again.

Some shoppers angrily make their way down the aisles, older women wearing deep set frowns, filling buggies with items needed for a Thanksgiving feast, disgruntled by the crowds and the traffic jam at the canned cranberry sauce. Others seem oblivious to the upcoming holiday and purchase the usual assortment of meats and vegetables or beer and Eggos.

I especially enjoy the shoppers who arrive in clusters of multi-generational groups or committed couples infused with holiday spirit eager to help each other. Visiting mothers seem befuddled by the grocery store’s layout, shopping with daughters and grandchildren who happily meander back and forth through the store with the promise of delectable homemade pies. Kids keep moms from forgetting key ingredients like mini marshmallows while young moms ponder quantities necessary to feed twelve or more people. Couples divvy up dishes on the spot and go in separate directions to gather needed ingredients. Men push baskets purposefully and lift heavy, bagged turkeys for wives anxious to return home to welcome college kids or far flung family members.

I eaves drop on one group that keeps appearing in the same aisle as I do as we make our way through the store. One of the women, already sporting a Christmas sweater (amply filling the tree that grows from her waist to just below her chin, the real bells that adorn the tree tinkling when she walks) pushes her elderly mother in a wheel chair. The other daughter walks just ahead of them pushing the grocery basket. “Now, Mom, what do we need for your stuffing?” she asks. The older woman’s hands shake as she counts off sausage, walnuts and cornmeal. All three seem to be enjoying this stage of their holiday together. The daughters retrieve the items and they move to the next dish. The mother laughs about Aunt Joyce’s gravy and the tinkling daughter remembers another of Aunt Joyce’s mishaps. I finish before they do and find long lines at the three open registers, providing ice-breakers to those of us waiting next to each other as we all wonder aloud why the front of the store is lined with thirteen registers. (if not to use for the holidays, then when?)

I enjoy cooking for Thanksgiving and have every year that we have been in Asheville. Most years bring family members our way and for many years our elderly neighbors joined us. This year our English friends will share our table. Generally, I prepare the same meal whether we have friends and family or just us sitting around the table. Fresh, tasty oysters for stuffing, are difficult to come by unless some form of my family from Louisiana joins us but we can get by with a Carolina shrimp stuffing in a pinch. My dinners resonate with traditional dishes from my family. Sometimes I stuff mirlitons. I always bake pecan pie. This also means that my recipes serve no less than fifteen (and sometimes more). Craig marvels at the huge quantities needed for so few people. No worries. I expect my extravagant efforts at Thanksgiving to last at least a week. When we have a particularly large gathering I am stunned that by Saturday we have run out of leftovers. I want to hoard the delicious dishes and just keep reheating turkey and opening cans of cranberry sauce. No luck. My brother asks for a second piece of pie (the one I marked for Sunday night after the kids went to bed). The mirlitons really do taste like Grandmama’s and vanish quickly. Even Lise’s sweet potato balls (now tradition, I am told) disappear like candy. Perhaps because with hidden mini marshmallows in the centers of them, they taste like candy.

Now that the shopping’s done, I can roll up my sleeves, open a bottle of wine, gather my little sous chefs and get to work.

A Dog Day Morning

Rem tends to take the spotlight away from all of the other players in his life and today proved no exception. Tam fell into Rem’s imagination abyss and found herself playing second fiddle not only to Rem but to Rem’s stuffed dog, Rocky, too. Rocky acquired his name and Rem’s interest only this morning and reinforced Rem’s reign over the Chenevert household when Rocky sported a brown leather leash that, only moments before, were holding up Craig’s pants as he readied himself for work.

Tam, on the other hand, wore a worn purple leash that had spent the night on the porch soaking up the dampness from the rain. Although dangerously close to arriving late for her veterinarian appointment, Tam waited patiently at the back door while Rem decided that one of Lise’s old belts would suit Rocky better than Craig’s and carefully made the switch.

The four of us, Rocky and Rem, Tam and I, made our way to the vet’s office. The receptionist greeted us and it seemed that she knelt down to put Tam at ease but it soon became clear that Rocky needed more attention as he suddenly fell into her lap. Tam quivered through her examination and could not get off the table soon enough. She jumped the four feet to the floor as soon as the doctor stepped away. Not so with Rocky. He nearly flung himself onto the table and with Rem’s encouraging “good boy” and “good dog, Rocky”, sat through a thorough examination and rabies shot without a flinch. While Rem and Rocky accepted the praises of the doctor and all who came pouring in to watch the spectacle, Tam nervously shed about half of her fur onto me.

Imagine Tam’s humiliation as she whimpered through the usual trauma of having her nails clipped only to be interrupted at Rem’s insistence that Rocky (who at all outward appearances has no nails at all) take a turn. Not only did the two women fawn over the stuffed mutt as they pretended to clip his nails but they also rewarded him with real dog treats. Rem seemed thrilled.

Completely spent from her annual physical, Tam hovered at the door while Rocky swung this way and that in the lobby where Rem, at the other end of the leash introduced him to everyone. Apparently, Rocky is two and he likes to play in the park. The brown fuzzy dog, unrecognizable as any breed much less one as dignified as a Brittany, and his equally impudent owner sucked every ounce of attention, compassion and admiration from that office, leaving Tam with nothing. But, as always, Tam maintained her composure and, head held high, we returned home. She immediately rushed toward her crate. Perhaps she wished to sulk unnoticed. But who should come soaring over her head to land in the crate first? Rocky, of course. And Rem left the two of them to work it out together as he ran away, laughing.

Half a Lifetime Ago

The campus resonates with activity, oddly alive for a Saturday, especially now that the football season is over. Students’ thoughts focus on upcoming exams and final papers. Study groups meet on the benches in the quad and in the grass of the parade grounds to enjoy the last warm, dry days of November. Sweaters and sweatshirts wait in heaps on the ground or on laps, the only hints of the cooler mornings and evenings of late fall.

A young sophomore spends an afternoon under bright fluorescent lights on the floor of the university bookstore, confidently skimming the pages of fine print and diagrams from a psychology textbook she was unable to afford at the beginning of the semester and quickly jots notes into a worn, spiral bound notebook. She’d rather be at the typewriter working on her Heart is a Lonely Hunter paper or her paper on religious images in 19th century poetry. And she really should finish her last short story of her creative writing class but these she saves until the end, fine morsels of pleasure to punctuate the semester and savor until the next semester begins.

Architecture students, in their final year of studio, work and play on the first floor of Atkinson Hall at the opposite end of the quad from the library. An odd assortment of music wafts from the open casement windows that includes the Cranberries and Billy Joel and the students take turns singing along and tossing a ball over drafting tables as the others bend over drawings of buildings that will never be built. Colored renderings are stacked with elevations and section drawings ready to be presented to a skeptical panel of professors during the week of final exams. All energy and ease, one of the students takes leave of his friends and finds his way down the hall to the door. He walks quickly through the sculpture garden, beyond the dairy store and the classroom building to the stadium parking lot and his car.

The young woman smelled the strong sweet smell of her Milton professor’s pipe before seeing him standing in the shadows of the arched entrance of Allen Hall. He greets her through clenched teeth and then takes the pipe from his mouth to encourage her to finish reading the Milton prose because they will end discussions of Paradise Lost on Monday. She leans toward him to filter his quiet voice from the ambient noise around them and notices that she towers over him, this iconic image of professors of old, and wonders if the rumors that this is his last semester are true. They part ways and her thoughts return to the upcoming date that evening.

He arrives to her quiet apartment (her roommates both in New Orleans for the weekend) in a festive green and red plaid button down shirt and a pair of khakis. All chivalry and charm he puts her at ease before they are seated at a small table in DiGiulio Brothers, a cozy Italian restaurant down Perkins Road under an interstate overpass. He leads her to the table with his hand pressed against the small of her back and she feels his electricity through the black sweater and lace camisole long after his hand is released.

All smiles, they feed tidbits of themselves to each other over manicotti and wine. Guarded fantasies of a future beyond university life follow brief histories of their own young lives. One describes childhood haunts, places where this or that happened while the other embellishes childhood escapades. Overwhelming tales about growing up with five siblings intermingle with stories about life with one brother. A celebrated architect and acclaimed writer seem more like possibilities than whimsy. The escalated pleas of the woman behind them begging the man she is with to leave his wife result in the only lull in the young couple’s conversation. They linger at the table even when the food and the entertaining couple are gone. And linger on into a lifetime.

This November celebrates my life in halves. Half of a lifetime ago the two of us sat together for the first time in that crowded cafe. And now Craig has been a part of my life for as many years that I so quickly summed up on that first date.

Happy Halloween

We moved to Asheville on Halloween. Craig and I ate candy from the plastic jack o lantern we placed on the dashboard of the small U-haul truck that carried everything we owned and pulled the blue Tercel away from the Gulf Coast, across the Deep South into the mountains of western North Carolina. After driving what now seems a most circuitous route, we parked in front of our rental in the dark greeted by a gust of wind that sent a rush of dry leaves noisily down into the park across the street. No ghosts or ghouls roamed the streets of our neighborhood and although we hastily flipped the switch to the front porch light, no trick-or-treaters knocked to partake in the remnants of the candy that had traveled with us.

By the time we purchased the house down the street we could at least count on our neighbor Sara to stop by and show off her costume on her way to a party or at the onset of a trick-or-treating run with friends. Miren and Lise came along before the neighborhood began changing into the family friendly place that it is now where most of the houses have lighted porches on Halloween and most of the children we see are familiar faces that splash in the pool with us in summer, bike around us in the park and fill our streets with noisy play.

Craig’s mom usually makes the children their costumes, happily agreeing to both traditional and bizarre requests. She started with a devil costume that all three wore for their first Halloween outing that is comical in its disproportion to the babies that wore it. We put the devil hat on Rem the other day as we unpacked our Halloween boxes and when he saw the horns he began mooing like a cow (they are very big). Memorable costumes have made their way to parties and street gatherings as well as the neighborhood runs including Lise as a vampire with a bat-winged cape and a skeleton with an oversized skull . Miren’s bride of Frankenstein almost surpassed her fortune teller with a glowing crystal ball that rested on an attached table. One of my favorites was the evil stepmother from Snow White in her hag disguise with a hump and basket of apples. Miren had to explain herself to almost every person we encountered. Lise made a lovely toddler Tinker Bell to Miren’s Peter Pan and last year had a sidekick of her own when she and Rem dressed as pirates.

The children sometimes embrace the macabre and Craig and I enjoy helping them complete those characters. Last year Miren paraded as a rotting corpse in an old black velvet dress of mine that we cut to reveal skeletal body parts. Craig accounts for much of the vision for their requests and my talent for theatrical hair and make-up surprises all of us. This year Lise challenges me to create the snake-laden head of Medusa. Miren gave up scary in order to keep in character beyond tonight into long, dreary winter days as she becomes Jane Austen’s Elizabeth Bennett. I imagine she will have to explain herself to more than a few people tonight. Rem will sport a yellow hat and a monkey in honor of his favorite TV, storybook and all around fictional character, George. Happy Halloween everyone!

My Favorite Place, My Favorite Season, My Favorite People

Autumn: A Backdrop to Soccer

We are in the throes of soccer season at our house. Water bottles and athletic bags packed with cleats and shin guards, under armor and club sweat shirts wait at the back door each day for our daily trip to John B. Lewis Soccer Fields for one or another’s practice. Luckily, as autumn breezes in, the fields are privy to a glorious backdrop of gentle slopes that boast yellows and reds amid deep greens. The hours spent waiting and watching allow me the pleasure of observing the setting sun’s playful changes to the trees creating its own artwork of varying impressions of the same setting by manipulating the light.

Not all of the days unfold as the blissful picturesque tokens of autumn and Rem and I (and usually one sister) spend endless minutes that spill into hours sitting in the van. Rem traces racing raindrops down the windows with his fingers. Smudges will show up later, in the glint of the sun, as varying streaks in the lower halves of most of the van’s windows. He jumps from seat to seat and occasionally has to be rescued from the back of the van when he overzealously catapults himself over the back seat. I read books and hope for a parent to wander by, seeking company to help pass the time more quickly.

This week, however, boasts quintessential fall days complete with great dips in temperature at night to warm, sunlit afternoons. The pleasant practices encouraged our spontaneous trek back to the soccer fields last night to cheer Craig along during his over-40 game under the newly lit fields. Lise found a friend to kick around with at an empty goal while Miren quietly critiqued the play on the field as we snuggled under a blanket. Rem ran around us in circles stopping long enough to declare his Papa “one of the boys”. He then played with the blue Ikea bag that held our blankets and hats, hopping around like he was in a sack race, sitting in a “bowl of soup” and then running with the bag over his head, much of it dragging across the pitch as he squealed with delight.

Rem became infatuated with the referees at Miren’s last soccer game, especially with the line judge. He found Lise’s discarded bandana near our chairs and followed the line judge’s movements along our side of the field. He whipped the bandana to his right and then ran along the line near where the young man stood. Someone located a stick and tied the bandana to it so that the bandana more closely resembled the flag. Thrilled, Rem even began calling off-sides.

“What are you doing, Rem?” amused parents asked. Rem turned to them with an aggravated look.

“I’m not Rem. I’m the man!” His voice was as severe as his face. He turned back to the game.

Luckily, the line judge thought Rem’s actions funny and found us after the game to show Rem the real flag and let him play with it. For once, Craig and I could easily keep an eye on Rem and enjoy Miren’s game. I’m thinking of buying him a brightly colored striped shirt so that I can tell him that he’s the ref for the rest of the season.

Movie Madness

I am a classic movie fan from way back. I used to stay up late with my grandparents on occasional sleepovers at their home and watch their old favorites while they offered commentary that included recalling the particular theaters where they originally saw the films and who they were with. Young pictures of my grandfather reminded me of Ronald Coleman in Lost Horizon. His singing mimicked Bing Crosby, only with a New Orleans accent. My grandmother favored Vivien Leigh, in serious dramatic roles like That Hamilton Woman and Waterloo Bridge while my grandfather preferred Claudette Colbert and lighter fare like It Happened One Night and The Bride Came Home.

My mother took my younger siblings and me to screenings of old movies at the Saenger Theater in New Orleans during summer film festivals in the off-season of Broadway runs. We loved the upscale lobby and plush, albeit empty seating in the theater. The lights dimmed to reveal a lit night sky painted on the ceiling above us as the old organ rose from the floor near the stage. The organist played music from the film before the curtain rose on elaborate musicals like My Fair Lady, biblical epics like The Ten Commandments and painful politically incorrect films such as Song of the South.

I periodically review the movie guide for the classic movie channels and DVR interesting ones that I later introduce at family movie nights when nothing current looks appealing or appropriate. The index of classic films that revolves around in my head seemed innocent and refreshing. Perhaps I lumped them all into the same category as The Wizard of Oz and the Sound of Music because now, thanks to my children, I am viewing these old movies in a new light (and not all of it is good).

“My friend loves Audrey Hepburn,” MIren told me recently on a rainy week-end evening. “Did she do anything other than My Fair Lady, where I know she didn’t really sing?” (They do know their musicals).

“Do anything else? Audrey Hepburn? Are you kidding?” I check the DVR. Love in the Afternoon and Roman Holiday sit in quiet anticipation among a host of black and white movies.

“Let’s pop some popcorn.”

“Are these people in black and white?” Lise asks entering the living room with pillows and a blanket. “The movie is black and white, yes,” I answer. Lise rolls her eyes. “It just makes the movie so boring,” she complains. Happy that she is participating I overlook the dramatic eyes and negative comment.

Moments later, Lise is watching Audrey Hepburn, a young cellist in Paris, with rapt attention. The actress is young, beautiful and full of expression. I smile at Lise’s enjoyment and wait for Maurice Chevalier to break into song (of course he doesn’t, this isn’t Gigi, it’s Love in the Afternoon but he’s always the same character to me). Suddenly an aging Gary Cooper fills up the screen. He’s ruggedly handsome as the wealthy American playboy. His unapologetic and systematic approach to women in the early stages of the film is palatable only because he is Gary Cooper. That is, until Audrey Hepburn becomes the target of his affections.

Lise laughs at the escapades of the two characters as first, Audrey Hepburn rescues Gary Cooper from being shot by a jealous husband. I then find myself hoping that Lise misses the innuendoes, the smoking jacket Gary Cooper suddenly wears as Audrey searches for discarded shoes and clothes about his hotel room. He’s got to be almost sixty and she looks, at most, twenty. Lise remains un-phased, fully enjoying the game that Audrey Hepburn plays on the single, womanizing old guy as they literally make love every afternoon. I can’t believe Maurice Chevalier’s wide, approving, smile as his young daughter, not even out of pigtails (she sports some in the movie), heads off into the sunset with this guy who’s older than he is. And who has been the subject of most of his private detective cases involving jealous husbands. Why isn’t this the movie I remember?

“Great choice,” Lise compliments seriously at the end.

Within days I try my hand at another Audrey Hepburn film. Roman Holiday unfolds just as I expect and I sigh with relief. Audrey makes a lovely princess, poised and sheltered but eager to experience life on her own. The city of Rome serves as the backdrop for the brief interlude that she spends with the secretive journalist who recognizes her without letting on. Miren sits up, and incredulously interrupts the film.

“So this guy, he’s just going to keep lying to her?”

“Well, that’s the premise. You see, he knows who she is but he’s acting like he doesn’t. ”

“So that he can expose her! And she’s falling in love with him.”

“Right.”

“But she doesn’t know he’s lying to her.”

“No, that’s the point. He falls in love, too.”

“But when does he tell her the truth?”

“Keep watching.”

And then later. “He’s such a horrible man! I can’t believe he lied and they took all of those
pictures. And then he kissed her. I’m glad they can’t be together.”

“But Gregory Peck is so much more appropriate than Gary Cooper was,” I say defensively.
Lise pulls herself away from the movie and into our conversation. “They can’t be together?” she asks in disbelief.

“Well, no,” I explain. “She goes back to her life and he goes to his.”

“You said it was a romantic comedy.” Lise responds accusingly.

“It is. Didn’t you laugh?”

“But they’re not together? How can that be? If they were in love they’d be together. The whole
movie was just a waste of time!” I pause, unsure if Lise refers to the characters or to the time we just spent watching the movie.

“I’m glad they’re not together,” Miren interjects. “He’s just a big liar. And his friend was nicer, anyway.”

“But he’s Atticus Finch!” I’m still promoting Gregory Peck. The girls give me a deserved confused look and, shrugging their shoulders, leave the room.

It takes some time before I am willing to try another film. Casablanca isn’t easy to pass up and once again we find ourselves settling in for the evening. This time Craig joins us. But he falls asleep before Ingrid Bergman even appears on screen. Claude Rains is magnificent and Humphrey Bogart is typical Bogart.

The girls stop asking questions and begin to follow the story line. Bogart, distraught and disheveled, fills up the screen, the dark shadows swimming around him as he sits with a bottle and shot glass in front of him. He has just seen Ingrid Bergman for the first time since she left him waiting at the train station in Paris. His face is full of emotion as a cigarette burns between his fingers and he throws his head down onto his arms.

“Did he just die of lung cancer?” Lise asks in the silence. “Because he’s been smoking since the movie started. Is he dead?”

“No, he is NOT dead,” I tell her. I think about it for a moment. Bogart hadn’t been the only one smoking. All of the characters have smoked at least ten cigarettes a piece and we are only fifteen minutes in. I count cigarettes through the rest of the film.

I will try again. And I’ll find that either the kids or I have distorted in some way each movie that we see. But I have to admit that I never laughed so hard (or at all) during any previous viewing of Casablanca and I look forward to the unexpected in the next classic movie I introduce to my gang.

Music to my Ears

I’m sitting at the dinner table in front of the computer organizing a volunteer list for a school fundraiser. Miren hastily removes the remnants of dinner from the table as she sings the alto part from a piece her class is working on in chorus. The periodic clang of dishes falling into the dishwasher and the careless toss of the flatware into the dishwasher’s basket punctuate the repetitive phrase, “Lift up your voice, alleluia, raise your song to the glorious sky”.

I begin to compose an e-mail to my list of volunteers, orange juice and muffins on my mind when Lise begins her evening piano practice. Smiling, I pause and filter out the kitchen noise to enjoy the piece that Lise clearly also enjoys. She plays it through three times. Not only is the piece lovely but it is underscored by her desire to practice and her interest in learning to play the piano. She no longer needs me to direct her to practice or to oversee her efforts. The next piece must be new. The notes come slowly and insecurely. The beat is unsteady. This I know not because of an acute perception on my part but because of the continuous “one, two, three, four” that resonates from upstairs. Craig counts aloud as he strums the guitar on beats two and four, changing chords on every fourth beat.

If determination plays a factor in mastering an instrument then Craig will soon serenade us with intricate arrangements of campfire favorites in no time. Currently, however, Craig has reaped the benefits of only two guitar lessons and I am enjoying his adeptness at chord changes and steady beats.

The computer cursor blinks in anticipation but the screen remains blank as I struggle through the cacophony of music coming from all areas of the house. And not to be outdone, Rem rides through the house on his push car (his “vroom”) shouting his latest favorite Kindermusik song, Lukey’s Boat. He’s well versed in the first two lines but attempts to venture past “Aha, me boys!” somehow circles him back to the beginning. What impresses me is Rem’s persistent contentedness in singing two lines over and over again. Without pause. With amazing projection.
I no longer listen with admiration to the layers of musical aspirations floating through the house but only hear the collective symphonic result: NOISE!

Many times I have pondered how my life’s moments would benefit from a musical score that could follow me around. Not necessarily original compositions (I’d find myself arguing to the air with things like: A country song at the birth of my baby? Really?) I often thought Brahms a fitting accompanist to my life. I’d even go for the too-familiar pieces (but not the lullaby). I would happily walk through the park with Rem to one of the appropriate Four Seasons by Vivaldi.

A musical score could change the current mood of the entire family. Chopin’s nocturnes infusing the air around us would bring a contemplative joy to all of our faces as we folded laundry or prepared dinner. A passing kiss in the doorway just as the piano and strings first begin to crescendo in Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody on a Theme by Paganini would certainly heighten our more amorous meeting that evening when the entire piece would play.

Who would not like to hike down a footpath along a rambling stream in the Smokies to Copeland’s Appalachian Spring? (IPods do not have the same affect.) A lecture to the children about recent behaviors with Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata building in support might instill a severity to the situation that the Dragon Tales theme song playing on the television set fails to impart. Joplin’s Maple Leaf Rag, I am certain, would accentuate Rem’s off beat exuberance in his daily play. I’d certainly enjoy his marches around the park with a pinecone and a stick in his hands more with John Philip Sousa blaring around us.

Sometimes I try to create such an atmosphere. I am not above kitsch, especially at Christmas and I insist on directing scenes for our family to partake in. We decorate the Christmas tree with the lights dimmed, a fire blazing in the fireplace, hot apple cider sending bursts of spicy scents toward us from the stove and a carefully chosen score. Something like Bach’s Christmas Oratorio. Within minutes Craig needs more light to see what he’s doing and the kids beg for Burl Ives wishing them a "Holly Jolly Christmas.”

One by one the family members move on. The kitchen is tidy and a book calls to Miren. Lise closes her music books and stacks them messily on the piano before heading to the shower. Rem drives by an empty clothes basket and decides to make a fire. The concentration of finding toys, clothes and temporarily abandoned materials (like school books, cell phones, wallets and car keys) and throwing them into the clothes basket silences his circular singing. Even Craig’s chord strumming ends. He’ll no doubt want to show me his sore fingers.

A musical score does play through the course of our day. Sometimes in the lyrical conversations, the rise and fall of voices; in the adagios and allegros of everyday life; in the beautiful pianissimo of a moon-lit deck at mid-night. It’s not quite what I imagined and at times is almost unbearable in terms of decibels, but the layers are beautiful and if I compile this into a larger piece of music – the composition certainly reflects our current family life and the music resonates with life, our life. The bonfire topples. Craig’s footsteps sound on the slate stairs. I finish my e-mail.

Rain

Today the rain stopped. The slow, methodical drips that escaped from clogged gutters like the incessant ticking of clocks outside of every window ceased unceremoniously. Slippery mats of soggy leaves and grass cuttings lie strewn in spots on the deck, on the concrete steps and against the corner of the trellis where the water washed them on its constant quest for a downward escape (or for our basement). The rivers and swollen streams rush mud and debris to places beyond Asheville, leaving calling cards of makeshift ponds in parking lots and riverside parks. Rem woke this morning, amazed. "Mommy," he called from the glass door where his breath created bursts of fog. "The sky is blue." The clouds moved hurriedly, offering quick glimpses of blue as they parted and reconnected.

Tam ventured trepidatiously away from the house as though stepping from the ark for the first time. Together with Rem she made a path of wet footprints through the house. Rem returned to the deck for more puddles but Tam seemed to want to let things dry before committing more time to the outdoors. Or perhaps she needed to recover from time spent couped up in the house with Rem and the unwilling moments of playing sidekick to a toddler sick with cabin fever.

Those in the know on the local television station dangle the promise of a bright, colorful autumn to soften the news of devastated apple crops. Rain remains in the forecast like an unexpected dinner guest who won't leave. Gloominess still hovers and the humidity dampens all of our moods. Craig's newfound guitar chords play a melancholy accompaniment to our restlesss evening of homework and chores. I need some sunshine.

Fun with Family

I watched the children from the living room window play under a blue Atlanta September sky. Andrew orchestrated the game of ball to eager followers. Brenna and Rem danced around the periphery with their own games, content to be a part of the group without participating in the structured play. Hours passed and I ended the happy afternoon with the need to get on the road towards Asheville.

Our initial purpose to visit my brother and his family centered on watching Andrew play a football game. Unable to coordinate our schedules for a home game we attended an away game that wasn’t far from my brother’s house. The game held many perks: Andrew was a captain, the home team didn’t have a marching band so his school’s band performed at half time, and my sister-in-law brings her pom poms, noisemakers and exuberance to both home and away games.

Rem cheered for his linebacker cousin when the defense lined up and I tried to point out number 45 to him. We listened for the home announcer to call Andrew’s name and waited through the long pause between first and last names as he struggled through the pronunciation. My brother leaned over from where he stood at the top of the stands against the chain link fence along with Craig to explain that even the announcer at Andrew’s school had a little difficulty with the name at the beginning of the season. “Of course he got a lot of practice and now it’s not an issue,” he smiled with pride and nodded his head in affirmation of his own statement.

Rem cheered for Andrew when the offense lined up and Andrew sat on the bench, resting, the back of his head dark and shiny with sweat. His team looked smart and well-disciplined but could not overcome the size and athleticism of some of the players on the opponent’s seemingly disorganized team. The parents continued to cheer, the band played with spirit and my sister-in-law shook her noisemakers until the end.

Rem cheered for Andrew when the band took the field at halftime. He cheers for Andrew every time he sees a football player on TV. He asks for stories about our week-end. First a story about Andrew, then one about Lauren playing with him in the car. Brenna stories get lumped with Rosco, the dog. He corrects me if I misspeak about something that happened and giggles with delight when I tell him how much his cousins love him.

My children share a strong, innate connection with their cousins. Time, distance and age create no boundaries to the easy, genuine bond that reveals itself when our family gets together. My children yearn to hang out with their cousins and demand sufficient time with their Abita Springs cousins to make trips to Louisiana worthwhile. And when together, there is no acclamation period, no time spent getting reacquainted. They get down to business. Miren will go hide with Lauren for awhile. Or Lise will head outside with Koby in an attempt to ward off the performance that Miren will con them into later. Andrew walks in the door, sweaty and tired from a long game and scoops Rem up into his arms without pause. Kate sighs, knowing that Rem will follow her every move for the next hour or two and hopes that Brenna is there to divert her attention. The friendships that the children foster among themselves soothes some of the loneliness that I feel for my siblings and their families as our busy lives in various parts of the country allow fewer and fewer times together.

Upon Learning of an Unexpected Death

…any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee. – John Donne from Meditation XVII

I have reached the age where I know death. No longer does it sit quietly on some illusive shelf, a token memory of a beloved elder. I wade in its reaching waters, part of the murkiness, the ugliness and sadness that death encompasses. And the finality.

In this year alone I watched death take my grandfather, scared and angry. Already totally lost to the world that staged his life and unable to recognize the people who filled the scenes death cruelly rendered him unrecognizable to those very people. Alone, weeks later, my grandmother followed and due to the proximity of one death to another her body lies in an unmarked slot in an unfamiliar mausoleum some distance from the tomb she and my grandfather had chosen that bears their names.

My aunt who also bore the title of my godmother died near Easter, the church where she lay awash in white lilies. A small town of people who knew and loved her filled the church and shared their grief with my inconsolable uncle (and godfather) and his children. Children, while grown (and some of them with grown children of their own) demonstrated the difficulty of breaking the interwoven strings that tie a mother to her children at every age.

During the course of the week or the month I learn about people who have died, people younger than I am, with families and seemingly good health. Sudden heart attacks or quiet ends to long struggles are included in the banter of every day conversation with friends. Deaths of familiar people from the community are discussed on a busy sidewalk downtown or in the grocery aisle between the coffee and the cereal. Random, unexpected accidents splay their fingers just far enough away from me that my mundane daily routines remain uninterrupted but I know death hovers. I have reached that age.

My Dad

My dad’s played a major role in my thoughts lately, in part because he is scheduled for back surgery on Wednesday (and I won’t be there) and in part because with the start of school I am trying to organize my family of five into a relaxed but efficient routine. Three children overwhelm me most times so I occasionally revisit my memories of Dad’s overwhelmed moments. These moments, while rare, demonstrate a human vulnerability that even the most easy going, worry-free, big hearted man can succumb to now and again. To give credit where it’s due, Dad’s moments often came on days when he worked from mid-night until eight in the morning and had to deal with six kids on very little sleep. My moments just come.

Dad liked to declassify himself from the family when things aggravated him when I was a kid. “You people,” he began, referring to all of his children but creating a wide berth between himself and his offspring, “live like pigs. You people are going to clean this house now.” I really disliked being referred to in such a manner but now I love using it.

“I don’t know who you people think is going to pick up your dirty dishes off of the table,” I say to my own children. The reference reinforces the strangers that sometimes replace my typically considerate, well-mannered children. And it’s difficult for a nine year old to quickly respond with a biting remark of her own. I remember.

According to Dad, we were the most energy-sucking, wasteful consumers on the planet. Like most children we enjoyed air-conditioning the neighborhood, leaving lights on just for the aggravation factor and purposefully depleting the water heater of hot water just to watch the electric meter spin as it heated more. Dad demonstrated with his thumb and forefinger (almost touching) the appropriate amount of water required for a bath.

“Yeah, if we displaced as much water in the tub as you do we wouldn’t use much water either,” we’d snicker. He showed no amusement and continued with his pursuits to keep us in check.

He made up for the water usage when he chose to do laundry. Mounds of dirty laundry accumulate quickly in a large family (and in an average family, I’ve learned) and Dad washed clothes in giant, unsorted batches. Dad washed but didn’t fold and after a long day at school and a hot walk from the bus stop Dad invited us to a clothes folding party. These solemn occasions included gathering your clothes from a huge mountain of washed garments and hoping that at least one of your school blouses or pairs of socks wasn’t a new shade of pink but remained white.

Dad cooked, too, in his larger than life manner. He knew how to make a good chicken andouille gumbo and served it with a warm, onion-filled German potato salad. When pressed for time Dad would quarter an onion and bell pepper with some ground meat, put it in the oven and call it a meatloaf. He turned a bunch of uneaten, over-ripe bananas into a mega dessert that, if enough willing people could be gathered to eat rotten bananas with vanilla wafers and vanilla pudding, would serve 50.

My parental skills in homework assistance will soon be tested by my middle schooler. Again I look into my past. Unfortunately for Dad, none of his children showed any real proficiency in math. A natural talent in all forms of mathematics Dad could not reduce concepts to a level that I could understand. I’d ask for help, producing a sheet of paper with a problem and a pencil and stand next to the brown rocking chair that clicked when he rocked waiting for instruction. Dad looked over the paper, took the pencil and scribbled out some numbers.

“Well, how did you get that, Dad?” I’d asked just as perplexed as when I first looked at the problem.
“It’s the answer,” he responded matter-of-factly.
“Yes, but we have to show our work.”
“What do you mean show your work?”
“You know. Write down all of the steps to get to the answer.”
“What steps? There’s the problem. There’s the answer.” He poked the paper with the pencil tip.
“But…”
“It’s the new math. We had a problem we put down the answer. All of this new math. I don’t get it.”

I’m going to play the “new math” card when Miren brings me a problem I can’t help her with.
“It’s the new math,” I’ll tell her, shrugging my shoulders. “We didn’t do it like this in my day.”

I’m giving Dad a hard time but really, he’s as good as they come. He thought nothing of taking a trip to Albuquerque for three weeks to play Alice to my brother’s Brady Bunch while my sister-in-law healed from a broken foot. He’ll babysit in Abita Springs or in Atlanta if asked. He’s spent many an hour at my house tearing down walls, putting up sheetrock, framing twelve on twelve pitched roofs or whatever menial tasks Craig hands him on our various house projects. He’s willingly played Captain Hook, Mr. McGregor and the Grim Reaper for my children’s various parties. He continually gives advice that calls us to not worry insisting that everything will work out. And he’s usually right. So, in Bob Marley’s words that echo Dad’s – good luck on Wednesday and
“Don’t worry about a thing Cause every little thing gonna be all right
Singing don’t worry about a thing Cause every little thing gonna be all right
Rise up this morning Smile with the rising sun
Three little birds Perched on my doorstep
Singing sweet songs Of melodies pure and true
Sayin, (this is my message to you-ou-ou)
Don’t worry about a thing Cause every little thing gonna be all right
Singing don’t worry about a thing Cause every little thing gonna be all right!”

- Love you Dad - Kara

Turning from Summer

We said good-bye to summer under a grey sky among the low brush of wild blueberry bushes at Graveyard Fields off of the Blue Ridge Parkway. The girls and I diligently picked berries while Rem picked and ate in complete imitation of his favorite storybook character, Little Sal. A few other people dotted the fields gathering berries and it took some searching at this very popular spot for ripe berries. Deep into the clumps of bushes, away from the footpaths and close to the ground sat deep blue juicy berries and we soon filled our bags. Rem moved toward the water content with his afternoon snack of blueberries (and, despite my warnings, red ones). Although the children had hoped to end the day swimming at the lower falls the crisp air and drops of rain sent us home after a brief wade in the frigid water.

The park sits empty and quiet this morning and except for the rhythmic pulsing music of the insects, Rem and I alone disturb the silence (Tam noiselessly chases a squirrel). The refreshing change of seasons, from summer to school, creates an energy that rejuvenates our family and puts me to rights again. Our schedule, although more rigid and with a great amount of chauffeuring, sits pre-determined throughout the week and offers a sense of organization that vanishes from our home during the summer. Rem returns to mornings with plenty of individual attention and together we chat about grass and bugs as we walk toward the swing and I notice how Rem’s vocabulary has grown.

“I am King Max,” he announces as I lift him into the swing and I push him in and out of weeks and over a year toward the wild things. Later, I will greet my fourth grader who approached the new school year with a maturity and excitement that both surprised and pleased me. She arrived at the piano first in the darkness on Tuesday. I traditionally sneak out of bed and to the piano to rouse the family with an exuberant (albeit painful) rendition of “Oh What a Beautiful Morning”, for the first day of school. Miren and Lise typically echo the verse from their beds and join me by the first chorus but only Lise showed up yesterday. Together we sang through three verses and choruses before the new middle-schooler added a sleepy voice to ours. (The father didn’t make a showing at all until minutes before they all trudged out the door loaded down with pristine notebooks and boxes of Kleenex).

Middle school feels like a new world to this parent. I take my cues from my daughter who acts nonplussed and at ease with the transition. And so will I, hoping all the while that this world is good to her and for her. A new chapter begins.

Architectural Travels

Recently, I stood under the wide, cantilevered carport of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Usonian gem, the Pope-Leighey house with Craig and the children and a handful of other tourists waiting to tour the 1400 square foot residence. Although not far from Falls Church, Virginia where the house originally stood the house has been rebuilt twice and is currently situated at the bottom of a gentle slope on grounds also owned by the National Trust for Historic Preservation and the early 19th century home, Woodlawn, offering a unique, juxtaposed study of the definition of home.

The Usonian house does not follow an expectation of architecture that can be found in Wright’s larger masterpieces where throngs of tourists marvel at Wright’s design and innovation. Even the clients who eagerly bought into Wrights idea of good design for the masses and were willing to implement them into their own lives were typically intellectuals of modest means - university professors, newspaper men - who understood Wright’s intent and subscribed to his philosophies wholeheartedly.

The people who gather at these poetic odes to organic simplicity resemble those individuals who sought Wright sixty, seventy years ago. Everyone wears with pride the other Usonian homes that they have visited. “Hanna House” rings from one end of the group before a couple lists a number of homes in Michigan and draws sighs with their finale, “Goetsch – Winkler.”

“My favorite,” Craig whispers.

Tours consist of numerous observations that compare and contrast various other Usonian homes to the current one. These groups also contain at least one young, idyllic, Natural Home quoting architect. Tour guides preach to the choir. No one seems bothered by the less than adequate (by today’s standard anyway) kitchen but all marvel at the play of light in the living spaces and the seamless connection the home has with its natural setting.

We packed Miren and Lise as babies into the car and drove them to Florence, Alabama for a personal, early tour of the Rosenbaum house renovation. They played contentedly under the carport while Craig studied every facet of the renovated home (including perusing through the large trash bins that held the construction debris from the process). They laughed with me at their father as we sat in the car in various places, Jackson, Chattanooga, the Mississippi Coast (pre-Katrina) and watched him knock on doors. We showed surprise and excitement as the owners graciously allowed Craig to show us the exquisitely simple living spaces.

Always willing participants on our architectural jaunts, Lise and Miren now display an interest that makes our explorations more fun. At first graciously, then more genuinely, they study the details of the Pope-Leighey house pointed out to them by their father. The horizontal lines that span the length of the house and converge into shelves for books on one side of the public space and for dishes on the other side warrant a quick discussion about visually expanding spaces. A quick lesson on the composition of flat roofs becomes tolerable with a gentle swing of the rain chains that hang nearby.

Perhaps the children and I enjoy the youthful exuberance and passion that Craig exhibits on such occasions more that the houses themselves. I see Craig and his work from many angles and to know that his love for architecture is so deeply rooted and intense enables me to see his designs (from sketches to built projects) with a deeper understanding. And more tolerable of the various design projects that occur to our ever evolving home.

Saying Good-bye to Karlota

With heavy hearts we bade Karlota good-bye today. The weeks that she spent with us flew at an unusually rapid pace and we spent a good bit of time last night in shared disbelief that our time with her was over. The tears only stopped after a hasty and difficult good-bye at the Charlotte airport when Rem continued to wave at every plane he saw in the sky shouting, “Hello, Karlota!”

Our good fortune began with our favorite international liaison, Sr. Marina. She beamed that her affection for both our family and her cousin’s daughter lead to the pairing. Once this young college student from Spain arrived in Asheville we felt additionally flattered that Sr. Marina thought to unite us with such a special young woman. Yet again, this beloved family friend ingratiated herself to us in her thoughtfulness.

Miren and Lise have already declared this summer the best ever. Miren pointed out the many firsts that this summer provided her, among them Sliding Rock and white water rafting. Firsts, that when brought to mind, will also recall Karlota who so willingly partook in everything we presented. Lise relished the independent afternoons spent at the pool, three girls just hanging out (under Karlota’s watchful eye and undivided attention). Rem appreciated having an extra actor around to play Hook to his Peter Pan. He enjoyed Karlota’s willingness to wear the necessary accessories and the enthusiasm she exhibited at every duel.

Karlota fell easily into our family routine and her presence with our family became natural. She lingered in conversation at the dinner table with Craig and me long after the food and the children were gone. She shared stories about her life and in them revealed a deep love for her family and the Basque country. Karlota good-naturedly endured Craig’s long love ballads for Spanish soccer and encouraged our silly attempts at Spanish.

The days may have sped by but the impression Karlota made on all of us will endure and now we look ahead to the fulfillment of the parting words, “I hope to see you soon”!

Spooky Tree by Miren Chenevert

There is a vast hill that my family always passes on our many journeys

to and from the soccer field each week.

The hill is green and lush in all seasons and sits, composed on the rich Biltmore soil.

This hill was too lovely that something eerie had to be cast upon it.

And this eerie thing is the reason we ever noticed the vast hill.

The spooky tree.

Back through precious passed time I have a memory. I was eight maybe, at the most, and taking the déjà vu drive back from soccer.

My head was resting heavily on my hand, my soccer hair was let loose on my shoulders.

I gazed blankly out of the unclear window at the shadowy landscape.

Then something, something on a hill caught my eye. It wasn’t the way the sun was setting on the hill.

Or the majestic light it cast on the tall green mound, but what sat on top of it.

Making everyone jump by stirring the silence I spoke. “Look at that tree!” I pointed to an old dead tree.

A dark, rotted layer of bark covered the tree.

Its long, twisted arms stretched spookily out of its body and remained still.

An outcast in the Biltmore landscape.

My family stared at the tree until the car swiveled and our eyes remained on the road.

When we were almost home I declared that I had named the tree “Spooky Tree”.

No one asked, “What tree?” or “Why?” They just agreed and the name stuck until today.

Years went by and we’d always wave to the spooky tree.

We’d point it out to family and friends who’d look at us with queer faces.

“Spoooooooky tree” we’d chant each time we drove by, adding more ooos as we repeated it.

The spooky tree was an inspiration not only for our imagination but for soccer and other things.

Little did we know how big a part of our life it was until today.

Today somebody, without the smallest thought, cut the spooky tree down.

Chopped it to pieces and swept away all traces of it except for what remains in our minds. The spooky tree is gone now.

Now it’s just a beautiful hill. Nothing spooky about it. Nothing interesting.

Sometimes I glance over toward the hill, expecting to see it or I start our chant.

But all that’s left is a charming hill basking in the sunlight.

Spooky Tree.

Summer

“In a somer seson when soft was the sonne…” –William Langland

Today, in the middle of July, I sit chilled by the open window behind my chair and think how marvelous this summer, this soft summer of breezy days and long carefree hours. This summer where we watched a pair of doves nest in our trellis amid flourishing jasmine. Each day we passed often under the precarious nest to take our lunch out on the deck or to linger during the cool evenings when dusk meets dark. We watched and waited, not near as patiently as the mother who never left the nest (that we saw) but moved ever so slightly this way or that until at last we spied the downy feathers of two baby birds.

A summer of blue skies and long picnics hastily prepared and slowly consumed before spectacular mountain backdrops. Days filled with long walks in the woods or short jaunts to the park where Rem might fall asleep to the rhythmic rocking of the swing. Afternoons spent lazily beside the pool waiting for the sun’s rays to penetrate deep enough to warrant braving the crisp water where Miren and Lise swim tirelessly with Karlota and Rem runs in the shallow end shouting “I’m swimming! I’m swimming!”

The days that flow endlessly into each other provides such pleasure that patience prevails in long tourist lines for the girls’ first trip down Sliding Rock (and then again for their second) or to traverse that abode of excess that draws people from more modest places to gawk and imagine themselves sleeping here or eating there. The gardens, in full bloom with the brightest of colors and endless varieties of roses, quickly fade the recent maze of rooms and crowds until only nature’s beauty abounds as we marvel at the orchids that line the wall in the greenhouse.

Mornings begin slowly with large cups of coffee and conversations about life in the Basque Country and the Canary Islands that extend beyond the breakfast muffins Miren made and require a second cup of coffee that Lise expertly brewed. Karlota steps easily into our pattern of lazily passing the early parts of the day while Rem whizzes into the room and out as a pirate or a princess. Often precipitated by late nights, Miren’s slow start quickens when asked about the book that forced her eyes open beyond mid-night.

Books lie scattered, temporarily abandoned or too quickly finished with characters still so alive that the readers could not place them back on a shelf among the anonymous titles. Ghost stories and humorous essays are devoured along with classics. I pass books along and read the ones that get passed to me. Karlota easily reads the books the girls pass to her. Rem sits in Grandmama’s rocking chair and pages through his favorite books alone and content in his room for brief spells.

Time passes and no one can remember the day or the date but the black-eyed susans are blooming and the basil boasts enough leaves to make pesto. Miren climbs in bare feet to the top of the tall hemlock at the corner of the yard that our neighbor struggles to keep alive with the others that line and shade her back yard. Lise decides to plant a flowerbed with unmarked seeds she found in a bag once put aside with purpose. Garden tools appear and she begins breaking up the dirt. Later I see Lise and Miren working the soil together and soon they are watering the small patch of dirt that they lined with rocks found around the yard.

We think nothing of committing an afternoon just to stand atop the summit of the highest mountain peak east of the Mississippi River or to thrust our feet into an icy stream beneath a waterfall. Hours slip away as we leisurely locate the sculptures that mark the urban trail along the streets downtown. We burst into Craig’s office in the middle of our quest to say hello (a reminder of how these carefree summer days come to pass). Our wanderings enable us to rediscover how much we enjoy each other’s company and how lovely life at a slower pace can be.

The pulse of activity beats faintly as our minds shift every now and then to the upcoming school year and the busy schedules that will ensue. But for now, I listen to the leaves rustle in the trees amid the unlikely cool, cool breeze at mid-day and I think how splendidly passes this summer season under the soft sun.