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.

Rem

Rem embodies a vast array of imaginary characters. He enjoys switching personalities, too. He will slip his little Fred Flintstone feet into a pair of my shoes and declare that he is Mommy. A pudgy finger then points my way and he pronounces me Rem. If there is a stick or a hose wand nearby he will become King Max and stomp around mischievously like the boy in the book. A foam sword immediately changes him into a pirate, more specifically Captain Hook. He’s taken a great liking to little Sal from another favorite bedtime story and while he typically prefers her as a companion, sometimes he IS little Sal instead, especially if there are some rocks (blueberries) that he can throw into a pail (anything within a five foot radius). An odd television character, a bald boy of about four who is apparently very naughty is another favorite if there is someone around to narrate his activities. “Caillou is jumping on Mommy’s bed. Mommy doesn’t like Caillou to jump on her bed. Mommy doesn’t like it when Caillou hits his Mommy. Mommy is very sad that Caillou laughs at her when she is fussing him.”

Lately he has been Cinderella. He likes a long cape; his yellow baby blanket suits him if someone ties it in a knot around his neck. And he needs a partner to dance with so that he can flip the cape this way and that and twirl so that it flares out before settling back onto his shoulders. He even dances on his tip toes as if he can feel the glass slippers under his feet. Although they introduced Rem to Cinderella his sisters are disturbed by this latest impersonation. They try to call him Sir Drella but he doesn’t like it and insists on the Cinderella that everyone can plainly see he is.

My focus is to try to move these characters along, often because I am continuously a part of the set for these theatrics. Sometimes I am only required to stand there and be a tree. Other times I can get away with providing background music but having to enact lengthy scenes side by side with my little thespian gets laborious. “Bong, bong,” I start just as Cinderella arrives at the ball and Rem will run to his rocking horse in an effort to get home before the clock strikes twelve. I am Peter Pan when he is Captain Hook or vice versa. Sometimes Lise steps in. He likes to be called a codfish so more times than not he is the pirate. “Hiyah, hiyah,” he shouts as his sword swings my way. He now has a pair of dueling foam swords, weapons I would have previously declared banned from our home but now seem the safest choice since weaponry in the form of sticks and construction debris kept creeping in and putting us all in danger.

When Rem isn’t playing one imaginary role or another he becomes fiercely attached to his name. No endearments are acceptable: no “love” or “sweetheart” or” baby” or” my big boy”. Only Rem. “I’m Rem!” and with a swipe of the hand he shuns the sentimentality that I try to pour out.

(Lately, he’s decided to play peacemaker in our family. Essentially, he tries to keep me from correcting or fussing his sisters. He interrupts with relish my explanations of why beds have to be made or the importance of the completion of chores. He raises his voice above my own raised voice to say: “Stop it Mommy. Look, Lise is happy. Look, Imi is happy. Okay guys?” And in front of their pouting faces he looks up with the goofiest smile so that we all end up laughing. Of course the girls enjoy this hiatus from another lecture but I somehow feel cheated!)

Cataloochee

Cataloochee Valley in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park calls to me from time to time. And because I continue to return to this unique niche of the park with its remnants of community life, abundance of wildlife and picturesque stream-lined trails I bear witness to the valley’s continued evolution of place. My shared history began much later than the Woodys’ and Caldwells’, the Hannahs’ and Palmers’, leaving their family cabins and homes to make way for the national park although I have encountered some of these families gathered for a reunion outside of the small white clapboard church in the small, green cut field that spreads from the road to the church. Once, starting out on a hike I met a man whose family had lived in the valley and his earliest memories, though scant and vague, recalled life in Cataloochee.

My introduction to hiking began in the valley. Intrigued by trails named Boogerman Loop and Pretty Hollow Gap and inspired by the spectacle of golds, yellows and reds that in autumn burst from the valley I repeatedly returned. Few people traveled the road then that wound its way past abandoned cars and farm equipment, packs of barking dogs and modest homes along its dusty one-lane and peaked at the gates to the national park. The small, intimate campground always had sites waiting for us and we would hike all day and only cross paths with one or two other groups.
The elk returned and changed the face of Cataloochee. People came and formed spontaneous parades that crept along the valley road hoping to catch a glimpse of the animals and then finding the whole herd grazing and people watching. We learned the tag numbers of the elk and tracked the antler growth of the male who bore the number one. We watched as calves, protected by a group of cows joined the herd and lamented the deaths of some of the original pioneers. Impatient tourists, anxious to cross elk sightings off of their vacation to do lists drive the valley road quickly, missing the deer at the edge of the woods or the turkeys feeding in the long grass. Others enjoy the valley at a more leisurely pace and wander through the settlement’s abandoned structures and dip their feet into the icy waters.

Craig and I brought our own children to gawk at the elk and carried them on our backs through the woods and into coves. We taught them to rock hop across narrow forks and encouraged them to test their skills in deeper, fast-moving waters. The heavy scent of galax mingled with the sweet, damp smell of the forest permeated the air where we walked sometimes at the snail’s pace of a tired toddler. The children, coaxed with m&m-laden trail mix and the possibility of a bear sighting managed longer and more difficult hikes. Once, misjudging the daylight hours and the time it would take us to hike the Boogerman loop, we finished the last two miles in darkness under a moon-lit sky. Lucky for us that the last leg of the trail followed Cadlwell Fork and that a full moon shone down on us. Craig carried Lise on his back over log bridges with missing handrails and our friend Tom carried Miren on his shoulders and together they looked for bears. The evening ended magically when we finally emerged from the trail to the open field of the valley. All of the cars and people had gone and we enjoyed in awed silence the silhouettes of the elk grazing under the white light of the moon.

Craig once proclaimed a beautiful, straight, short-leaf pine, an elder of his clan, who stands along the road into the valley his favorite tree. Each time we drive back down into the valley the children race to be the first to see it. We are known to risk our lives after a heavy snow while Craig navigates the icy road to the park gates. Relieved, we park in front of the closed gates and carry our sleds into the untouched snow. Craig’s tree is more amazing in person and we stop to admire it on our way down the road and use it as a resting point on our walk back up (now cold and wet and walking uphill pulling tired kids behind). The dog circles it before darting energetically after scents.

A recent clear, crisp summer day called us back and we hiked into Little Cataloochee and down to Big Cataloochee with the family, a friend of Miren’s and Karlota, a Spanish college student who is spending the summer with us. The cabins along the trail served as elaborate sets for young girls imagining themselves as mountain homesteaders. Karlota marveled at the differences between the Basque Country of Spain that she calls home and the Smoky Mountains, both beautiful but so foreign to each other. Karlota is not so foreign to us. Her easy going nature and general loveliness has already found a place in all of our hearts and she feels like family. Rem enjoys his ride in the backpack for the first three or four miles or so and then leaves it for the freedom of walking. I remind Craig that at least we did our climbing before Rem decided to set our pace.

We linger along a creek, rhododendron blossoms floating in the water and watch the children brave the cold. Craig skips rocks and Rem does, too by throwing handfuls of rocks in the same direction. Miren and her friend continue a conversation that started hours ago with few breaks during the five mile hike. Lise moves from Craig, to Karlota, to Rem to me. So much of her experiences are in the sharing. Cataloochee is perfect for that. Each visit brings something new but also calls forward our shared history, even if it is only a speck in the timeline of these mountains.

The mountains are like my children, breathtakingly beautiful, ever changing. They are familiar yet surprising and I always want to be with them, studying their uniqueness, enveloping myself in their unpredictability, seeing them and loving them in the moment and knowing I will always want to be in their midst.