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.