On Grief. And Sparks.

 

Hello again. I've been away for a while. I know this might not be the best topic to herald my return, but here we are. 

I've been thinking about grief lately. I thought I knew what grief was, but the death of my father a little over 8 years ago drastically changed my perspective on grief. I was lucky. I had the best of friends who moved heaven and earth to be with me and get me through the time. Within a year, I repaid the favor when one and then the other lost their fathers. One. Two. Three. We each had different relationships with our fathers. Their stories aren't mine to tell, but my grief was strongly centered in feeling like my safety net had been ripped away. It left me breathless. Panic stricken. Gasping for air. I'm still "getting over" it. I don't know if I ever will. 

That change in perspective started my thinking about the heart holes people leave when they're gone. My heart's hole was different from my mother's heart's hole upon my father's death. My father's role in my life was - obviously - different than hers. 

It's little things that seem to creep up on us all that make those holes evident. For me, it was searching out sardines in tomato sauce. For some reason, he thought that was a delicacy. He was delighted when one of us found some. He'd break out some saltine crackers and act like we'd given him caviar. About three months after his death, I found myself in a grocery story thrilled that I'd found some, only to realize he wasn't here to celebrate with me. And I burst into tears in the middle of a grocery store aisle feeling like a nut job. Little things. Big heart holes. 

Not long after, I lost a college professor who was very instrumental in my finding my path in learning. He'd been young in his career - less than a decade older than his students - when I first met him. My weirdo soul found a friend in him. We'd sit at the community table outside the suite of offices he occupied, along with 5 other professors, and talk about obscure Czech punk and Dadaism. Talk about rabbit holes, we'd find them for hours on end. We'd follow each other into the abyss of obscurity and in some ways he gave me permission to be my weirdo self. 

We'd kept in touch after my graduation, but as I married and had a child, that contact lessened. But for some reason it was important that he was still out there, leading other weirdos on a learning journey, making it okay to love to learn. Heart, meet hole. Another spark gone. 

This summer, two of my best friends from high school lost their mothers within weeks of each other. These were the moms who had herded us through first periods, science projects, and school dances (all equally traumatic as a young teen woman). We'd visit each of their homes and they'd bring us snacks. They had actively raised the women who got me through high school. And they were now gone. Spark, spark.  

This was on the heels of my best friend from college losing her mother - a woman I claimed as a second mother (and she claimed me right back). She taught me to make stollen and sheltered me when I had hard life choices to make. She'd listened when I said I'd met the man I wanted to marry. She held me when I cried over the children I lost. She celebrated my son's birth.  She loved me. One. Two. Three. Spark.

Having lost my dad, I knew there was nothing you could say to fill those heart holes. There are no words of comfort that magically make it better. There is nothing you can do. At best, I could express love and stand with them as they buried pieces of their hearts. 

The weird part of losing my second mother is that I was trying to be there for my (all but blood) sister, when I was grieving myself. I just didn't realize it until the home they'd both welcomed me into was sold. Well, hello heart hole. Didn't know you'd be so big. But there you are.

Now you're kinda caught up. There's a point here, I promise. I'm getting to it. Enter Friday night. 

I'd finished a long, tough day at work only to find that two high school classmates had died on the same day. This was on the heels of the loss of another classmate, killed in a freak accident not too long ago. One. Two. Three. Again, I'd not talked to these folks for quite some time. We grew up together - two of them on the same street at different times in my childhood - but our lives went in different directions. 

Reading over tributes, I could see that I was not the only one affected by this loss. We all were. These were our people. They had made us smile. They had been leaders in their own ways. We had journeyed the pain of adolescence together and had successfully come out the other side. We'd had lives and families, and loved, and were loved, but had done so in different places. We still had that history, that commonality. 

I've been reflecting on lives lived as I work through this newest heart hole. How can I still mourn someone I've not seen for decades? Why is my heart heavy when I don't really know their partners, their children, where they lived, the communities they'd grown? 

It came to me today. 

Whether the loss is big or small, we're losing sparks of ourself with every person we bury. These are the people who knew us when we were innocent, who protected us and guided us and lived through angst with us. They knew us at our best and our worst, and now they're gone. Spark after spark, they're flitting away into the afterlife, leaving the rest of us behind. We're forced to face our mortality, sure. But we're also losing pieces of ourselves, knowing that there might be a day when we're the last to remember who we were, the dreams we had, and the experiences we shared. 

So as I'm looking through photos, looking at the firsts they celebrated with their families, knowing they probably didn't know to mark the lasts, I felt like I needed to tell their stories. I needed to share that they mattered. I needed to share that they made an impact, made this world better for a young woman from the heart of WV. Steve, Jack, Ky. Almuth, Judy, June. Bill, John, Mike, Jay. You mattered to me. 

Spark on. 

For This Child I Prayed.

It has been four years since we celebrated the best Thanksgiving of my life. At the time, I didn't know it would be the best Thanksgiving of my life. At the time, all I knew was hope, and a little fear, that what we'd prayed for would finally occur.

Now I know that it would be the last Thanksgiving my father would spend with his brother and sister and their families. Now I know it would be the last trip my brother would take with our Dad. Now I know the house my in-laws had, at the time, just purchased, a house in which we'd celebrate subsequent Thanksgivings.

But in that week, all I knew was hope. All I knew was living moment-by-moment. All I knew was prayer that at least one of the eight lives living in a lab in Rockville, Maryland would continue to grow.

That Thanksgiving week, as my brother and father spent time four states away and my mother-in-law was another four states away (in a different direction), we all waited for the daily call telling us how many lives were left, whether they'd grown. I remember trying to distract myself by shopping, getting the call that there were eight embryos - more than I'd ever had before. I remember screaming out "EIGHT, Mama, EIGHT!" in the middle of that store, both of us sobbing with joy and hugging while people hurried along around us. I remember calling my husband, sharing the news, believing together that maybe this time God would say yes to the thousands of prayers.

I remember my husband driving me to the embryo transfer, knowing that several of my babies had died, not knowing how many lives would be left to welcome into my womb. I remember the news that three babies had lived. I remember them handing us the photo of those three little lives. I remember the embryologist coming out with the syringe containing my three babies, holding my husband's hand as they transferred those babies into me, then checking to find that one had been "sticky" and was still in the tubing. I remember waiting for that sticky embryo to be brought back and transferred to me. I remember joking that this was the one - the one that would be stubborn enough to stay with Mama.


I remember gently walking to the car, knowing that nothing was going to "fall out", but still not wanting to disturb those lives nestling into my womb. I remember reclining in the seat all the way home, looking at the photo of the three embryos, talking to my husband about the possibilities ahead. And then I remember going to bed and staying still, praying for those lives inside of me, mourning the other lives lost.

I remember Thanksgiving day, a meal my Mama cooked, a meal shared with my father-in-law who had to be away from my mother-in-law while he finished up his job locally. I remember gently leaving bed only for the meal and then rushing back to make sure those babies had every opportunity to attach and grow. And I remember the prayers we offered that week in thanksgiving for life and family and provision and love.

I remember the wait, the pain of not knowing whether life had taken root. And I remember the call that told me God had said yes. I remember the tears of joy as I called my husband and my Mom and Dad and brother and in-laws to share the news we'd all hoped for: there was finally at least one baby growing inside of me. There was life.

So as we enter into this season of Thanksgiving, I'll continue to remember how that one Thanksgiving changed my life. I'll remember how my family and friends rallied around me, praying from many states away that God would answer our prayers in the affirmative. I'll remember the beginnings of that year. And I'll forever be thankful for the provision of life that was rooted in that week. From that week on, Thanksgiving has never again been the same.

The House at JoHarry

I remember the first time we went to see the house I've known as home for 40 years now. Built at the dawn of the 20th Century, I remember the basement looking like the door to a great adventure. I remember the red shag carpeting of the powder room off the kitchen. I remember sitting under the windows of the front bedroom, embracing a stuffed dog that was bigger than me, declaring THIS would be MY bedroom.

We moved into the house right before I started first grade. At the time I was eagerly awaiting my 6th birthday, and spent a good bit of my time keeping my little brother from pulling the heads and arms from my Barbies. Instead of getting the biggest, front bedroom, Mama put me in the back bedroom facing the back yard. It was the smallest bedroom in the house, barely containing my twin bed, a dresser, a desk and bookcase. But it did have a huge closet with a built in dresser that was easily twice my height.

Before the move, Mama had been busy prepping furniture for my new domain. My baby brother inherited the bed I'd slept in until the move, and I inherited new (to me) furniture. Mama had painted her grandmother's bed and dresser in a crisp, white enamel. The bed had posters and creaked when I turned over in the night. The dresser was Victorian and had candlestands, a mirror that pivoted on a frame, and a top that looked like a castle crenelation. She'd found a bookcase that would house my well-loved books and desk for future homework that she painted to match the dresser and bed.

She then took me to the Ethan Allan store and walked me through the bedroom vignettes they'd set up to sell furniture we couldn't afford on a college professor's salary. It was there I spotted the patchwork wallpaper that Mama sacrificed to make mine - in all the lime green, yellow, pink and purple glory you can imagine. She found a pink carpet fit for a princess to finish my kingdom at the back of the house.

She spent the winter making a patchwork quilt to match my wallpaper, with blocks of lime green, yellow, pink and purple gingham, and knotted with yarn that would eventually fray into pom poms. She went to the carpet store and found carpet samples in lime green, yellow, pink and purple to create a patchwork floor in my huge closet - a closet that eventually provided hours of playtime for me and my brother.

Though she had an entire house to remodel and repair, she focused on my room first. I got the smallest room in the house as a bedroom, but she made it a vision of a five-year-old girl's dreams. It was a place where we'd lay pallets and read books, a place we'd set up our record player to pretend we ran a radio station, a place where I'd sit and watch the trees sway in the breeze. Eventually, it was the place I'd redo after college to befit a young professional, the place I'd dress for my wedding day, and the place I'd bring my newborn son while my father received cancer treatments.

Though I've not lived in my home town for almost 20 years, and Mama has since remodeled the room to fit her needs, this is still "my room." The trees are no longer there, but the room still seems sheltered and safe at the back of the house. My son has adopted it as "his" room, and gets very upset should we sleep in any other. But in my mind, it will forever be my patchwork princess playground - a place where many of my dreams began.

On being different.

Almost 20 years ago, I moved from my home state to Washington, DC where I found that I was a bit "different" from most of the people I met. I already knew I was different. It had been driven home to me time and again from childhood. My family didn't vacation the same way others in my community vacationed. We didn't play the way others in my community played. Heck, I didn't even color the way other kids colored (Mama gave us any art supply we asked to have but we NEVER, never had a coloring book). But coming to Washington, DC drove my differences home more solidly than ever before.
My father was a history buff, and particularly loved 18th Century history. I think his love of the Lone Ranger and Tonto morphed into a genuine passion for learning about Native American culture, and that dovetailed into stories of "frontier life" in the 1700s. Our region was rife with history from this era. Our home was the frontier, the battles happened virtually in our back yard.

When I was about six years old, Daddy became involved in a project to rebuild an 18th Century refuge fort, called Prickett's Fort. Mama made us period appropriate costumes. Daddy spent 400+ hours making a historically accurate muzzle loader, and started practicing his knife and tomahawk (not to be confused with an axe) throwing. We started going to rendezvous, where others dressed in 18th Century garb, camped in authentic campsites, and competed in shooting, as well as knife and tomahawk throwing. The days would end with campfires and singing of historically appropriate music playing historically appropriate instruments.

I would imagine there are very few people who think it "normal" to regularly dress in 18th Century costume, there is probably a more select group who learned to weave "linsey" on a 200 year old barn loom, spin wool on a 150 year old walking wheel, and cook in a fireplace with a cast iron pot. I doubt many spent their summers listening to the beat of a tomahawk repeatedly hitting a target, even fewer who'd been taught how to throw tomahawks as a child, and I may be the only person I know who had an ex-boyfriend chased off the property with a tomahawk. But this was my family's normal.

While other of my classmates were heading to the beach or an amusement park, my family was heading to another fort, historical site or rendezvous. While other families went hunting for venison, my Dad begged the skins of the deer to make buckskin britches. While other fathers were winning sales awards, my Dad was named State Champion in knife and tomahawk throwing. And Mama and I spent many an hour looking for red fox pelts to make Daddy's fox hat (instead of the oft seen coonskin cap).






My high school science project was on the effects the pot had as a mordant in natural dying (copper pots made the prettiest dyes). While other girls were dressed in 80s neon, I was graduating from shift and mob cap to English bodice and lace cap. And one of the most enjoyable parties I threw in law school involved showing a group of friends how to hold and throw a tomahawk - in the Nation's capitol, just off one of the main thoroughfares.

Somehow, somewhere along the way, my family had taught me an important lesson: embrace who you are. As I grew older, it became easier to be okay with the fact that we were just different, and that there were many other people out there who were also different - in a different way, but still different. Eventually, I found those different people, embraced those different people, and called them friend.

Today, I live in Alexandria, near Mount Vernon, where it is assumed if I'm in 18th Century costume, I'm probably giving a tour nearby. I have a son who's already outgrown his first 18th Century costume - the one he wore with his (proud) Grandfather to a rendezvous at 18 months.

One of the larger challenges I have facing me as a parent is to encourage my child's different self in a way that will encourage him to embrace who he is with confidence. I don't think it will be easy because I know conformity is a much easier path. But what I CAN do, is point to those people I've called friends - some of whom I can claim almost a lifetime of friendship - and say, "See? THIS is what makes you rich. THIS is what makes life good. THESE are the people who will celebrate life with you." And I will thank my "different" friends for embracing the different in me, while I celebrate their different with them. All the while I will know: my life will always be richer for embracing the different.

Stairwell Update: The big reveal

As promised, after two days of painting and wallpapering, here's the big reveal for my Stairwell Update.

The walls and ceiling are now the same color. The shelves are uniform and I added storage I had around the house to keep together like items - dog stuff with dog stuff, diaper stuff with diaper stuff, cleaning stuff with cleaning stuff. Things finally have a place!
  
From the basement, things look clean. I'm thinking about adding some hooks under the bottom shelf t,m,; o hold things like the diaper bag, the backpacks and other things that can hang here rather than clutter up the living room. 

 Despite having to freehand the black paint here on the stairs, they look better than the dirty grey - and little feet apparently approve. All said and done, this project cost about $100, including painting supplies. Had I been able to get only a quart of porch paint, I'd have been able to drive that cost down. The most difficult part was waiting the three days to walk on the stairs!

Stairwell Update: Wallpapering

After painting, I still had that terrible strip of paneling that showed through the paint. In past renovation projects, when you don't want to drywall and you really can't patch a wall, we've put up wallpaper. I'd decided not to use my paintable wallpaper on the front of the stairs, and this became a perfect solution for covering up that nasty paneling place.

I carefully measured my wall space, leaving a little extra for cutoff at the top and bottom. I then measured out my wallpaper, cut it in a straight line at the end, and rolled it up so the pre-pasted side was facing out rather than in (as it comes on the roll). I then filled my son's baby tub with water, dipped my roll in so that as I unrolled the pre-pasted side faced out and got a little wet. I folded my paper in half with the pre-pasted sides facing each other. This allows the paste to activate and allows for even wetness. I had to be very careful not to let the wallpaper tear as it was very fragile in the non-design parts.

After allowing that to set for a few minutes, I unfolded the wallpaper and positioned it on the wall. Start at the top and work your way down the wall. If you need to re-position the paper, just pull it up and start down the wall again. Work from the vertical center of the paper, feathering out your wallpaper brush or a wet rag to work out your bubbles and to smooth the edges down to make sure they stick. Then take a straight edge and boxcutter and trim off the top and bottom of your paper along the wall and floor or trim.

Please note: old houses are notorious for not being square - i.e., you can't count on a wall or ceiling being straight. Because I was only putting up one strip, I eyeballed the distance from the wall to position my pieces. Ideally, you should take a level and draw a vertical line (pencil or chalk) on the wall as a starting place to ensure you start with a straight line.

Because it looked weird to have one wall papered and the other wall plain, I papered the mirroring wall in the same manner. I decided to leave it unpainted because I like the contrast of stark white to the Antique White of the paint. The good thing is that I have the option to paint it in the future if I decide to do so!

Stay tuned for the big reveal!

Stairwell Update: Painting

When painting, it's important to prep your area before you begin. Paint will not stick to a surface with dirt on it, so cleaning your surface before painting is important. I used a scrub brush and rag dipped in a Lysol/water mix on the stairs to get them ready to paint after I'd used that same mix and rag to wipe down the ceiling, walls, shelves and other trim.

While my clean surfaces dried, I gathered my painting supplies. I prefer to use a 4" roller because it doesn't suck up as much paint and doesn't get as heavy as you continue to paint. I think the ease of use makes up for the smaller surface area with each stroke. I also used a small, plastic paint tray. Normally, I'd have used a larger paint tray that could be cleaned up and used again, but having a 1 year old has severely limited my time. I needed a quick, easy clean up, which also meant a cheap brush to do my trim work.

Please note, because I used a cheap brush on the trim for the white, I had to buy a new brush to use on the black - the first brush was a mess and there was no way I was going to get an edge on the stairs with that blown brush. Moral of the story? Use a good brush from the beginning.

I began by painting the Antique White. I worked in small sections, painting the trim and corners first, and then filling in with the roller. Working in small spaces helps with blending between paint brush strokes and paint roller marks. It makes for a cleaner finish if you transition from the brush marks on the trim to the roller while the paint is still wet. Because I was painting the ceiling the same color as the walls, I didn't have to tape off the ceiling. Keeping the paint color the same from walls to ceiling helps make a space look bigger.

After 24 hours, I started taping off my space to start the black paint. I had decided earlier that I was only going to paint part of the riser black along with the tops of the stairs. Because the white was freshly painted, I was careful of the type of tape I used. I tried the FrogTape(R) for delicate surfaces because it is made for newly-painted ares. I found, however, that it wasn't sticking well because my surface was uneven - 60 years of use will do that I guess.

I ended up free handing the black paint along the edges because the paint wasn't working as well as just carefully using the brush. Again, I had to use a new, more expensive brush for this trim work to help keep the lines straight. I was also able to keep a good line with my roller as long as I didn't have a ton of paint on the roller. By just adding pressure to the outside, I was able to keep the line straight. I then feathered that in with a brush and used the roller to fill in the center.

As I painted the stairs, I painted every other stair so I wouldn't get caught in the basement. I allowed the paint to dry for the prescribed 3 hours (check your paint can for a repaint time) and then finished the job with the remaining stairs.

Stay tuned for the wallpaper finish!

Stairway Update: Choosing Paint

My family and I started renovating my home in 2006, and finished most of the renovations in 2007. There was one space, however, that had not been touched in that time. It's a utilitarian space - used to get to the basement, but also to store some of my extras - like formula and household goods I need to keep away from the baby.

The steps were a dirty grey - who knows when they were painted last. The handrail was pretty, but looked like it had 60 years of dirt embedded in it. The walls were an amalgamation of cream, peach, unpainted drywall and paneling that had been patched together. My first thought was that if we could just get it all one color, it would look 100% better.

After doing some extensive Pinterest research, I decided to do an antique white and black combo. I initially bought some paintable wallpaper that looked like a tin ceiling to put on the riser part of the stairway, but when it got down and dirty, I realized it wouldn't look right given each of the risers has what looks like a framed area on them.

I chose Antique White from Behr's Premium Plus in Antique White, and decided on a semi-gloss finish for the walls. The paint store will usually steer you away from this finish, saying the shine will show blemishes in the wall. But this is a hallway that will get hand prints going up and down, and the only light is at the base of the stairs. I wasn't worried about blemishes showing. And a semi-gloss finish is really easy to clean.

For the stairs, I wanted a paint that could stand up to wear and tear as well as one that was easily cleanable. I went with Behr's Porch and Patio Floor Paint in Belugah I knew I'd probably only use a quart of this, but Home Depot only sells this in the gallon size.

Stay tuned for painting and wallpapering steps!

Easy Recipe: Quick, Healthy Pasta Sauce

I don't know about you, but by the time I get home from work I'm pretty fried. I'm always looking for quick dinner ideas. Tonight I'm throwing together a quick pasta sauce. Here's what you'll need:
1 large onion
1 28 oz. can diced tomatoes
1 pound lean ground beef (I use 92% fat free)
1 14 oz. can mushrooms
1 package frozen spinach
1/2 tsp. Italian Seasonings
1 tsp. Garlic Salt
Pasta
 Salt
1 tsp. Olive oil
(Optional Parmesan/Romano Cheese)

When I say easy, I mean easy. Chop the onion into large slices and throw it into a large skillet with the ground beef to brown. After breaking the ground beef into smaller pieces, I put a lid on my skillet to help it cook faster. Tonight, I took that time to get my 1 year old settled and check the mail.

When that's brown, turn down the heat to medium and throw in your spinach, mushrooms, and tomatoes and sprinkle on your Italian Seasonings and Garlic Salt. Cover it and let that simmer until your spinach is unfrozen and warm - about 5 minutes - while you start your pasta water.

Put water, the oil and a generous dash of salt into a saucepan for your pasta. Once that boils, throw in enough pasta for your family to have a meal. I used angel hair - also called cappellini. Allow the angel hair pasta to cook for 6-8 minutes to taste. The longer you cook the pasta, the softer it will get. Mama's trick for knowing whether it was done was to throw it against the fridge - when it sticks, it's done (and it really works).

While your angel hair is simmering, stir your sauce and let that simmer another 3-4 minutes. Stir in about 1/4 cup of your pasta water into the sauce before you drain your pasta. Layer the sauce over your angel hair (add cheese if you like) and voila! Meal in about 20 minutes.

Boston.

The TV is blaring the news. Stories of tragedy. Stories of heroism. Stories of things we don't want to think can happen in the world.

A year and a half ago, it wouldn't have affected me the same way. We live near the President. We're always a target. It's a risk we're willing to take for ourselves to do what we do - to live the way we do.

But today I hold my baby boy in my arms. His breath is warming my shoulder. His strong little limbs - limbs that are just now taking wobbly steps - are quiet in his sleep. I feel the softness of his skin, his little body heavy in my arms. I feel differently.

I think of a mother who once held her little boy just like I am today, his weight heavy in her arms. I can imagine her smelling his head, breathing in his baby smell. I can imagine her pride as he took his first steps, and her joy as his personality formed. I can imagine her heart swelling at his sweetness, his kindness, watching him march for peace - asking for "no more hurting people." I imagine her watching her boy watch the runners, and the horror that must have followed the explosion.

I think of her loss today, as she recovers in the hospital. How she has to teach her little girl to live without a brother, and to live without legs. Who told her he is gone? Does she even know the extent of the loss?

We think of IEDs as an instrument of war, far away, not in our cities, not on American soil. We think of strong soldiers, fighting for our freedom, who face these deadly devices in a sun scorched desert across the world. It's not supposed to happen here. But war has, once again, come to our shores.

Today we have a choice. We can hide our son away, never taking him to the many historical sites just down the road, never taking him to the many festivals or activities on our doorstep. We can live in fear and try to protect him, praying he never has to know these things happen in the world, constantly vigilant. Or we can put our trust in His creator, and believe that there's a purpose for his little life,  pray that life is long,  and that this kind of tragedy is the exception, not the rule. We can tell him the stories of people who rushed to help the injured. We can teach him about those who dedicate their lives to protecting his - whether first responder, soldier, IT specialist, doctor or just a neighbor or friend. We can teach him to be a helper, to be courageous, to be kind.

As I filter for my grief for that mother, tears rolling down my face, stories flitting over the screen, I have a choice. And today, I choose faith. I choose trust. I choose to believe there's more good in this world than bad. I choose to continue to live, and try to live without fear. And I continue to pray for those parents who can no longer hold their child's firm little body, who have to learn to live with their injuries, and who somehow have to find the strength to trust again.

Dreaming Through the Wavy Glass

I have a love affair with windows. I particularly love old windows. They don't have to be fancy. They don't have to be perfectly painted. I love traditional, paned windows with chippy paint. I love large windows that dominate a wall, with their sheets of sunlight that travel across the floor as the sun travels the sky. I love little windows - the kind that look as if they were an afterthought - that offer little slips of blue as you wind down an attic stair.

My love affair with windows probably started in my childhood. I watched the world through the hand-poured, wavy glass of my bedroom windows. The tall trees would wave and sway on the other side of that glass, budding and greening in the spring, their outstretched arms filling through the summer, shedding in showy pleasure in the fall only to ice over with delicate fingers in the cold of winter. I watched the birds fly far, far away in the sky or nest in the arms of those trees, while the chipmunks foraged in their roots - the slight distortion giving the scene an otherworldly quality. I'd lay in the floor under those windows, sunning myself on a pallet as I read book after book and dreamed of foreign lands. In many ways, my dreams began as I watched the world renew, grow and soar through those windows.

Today, I have a tiny baby boy. He's not very old, but he's got a Mama who's a dreamer - and who's not too bad a planner either. I saw a picture the other day that sparked an idea fanned into a flame by my love of windows. And now my head is full of dreams and designs for a tiny house of windows where I hope he, too, will learn to love windows, look at the world a little differently, and dream great dreams.

I'm starting young. Because if a Mama doesn't dream, how will her children ever learn to let their dreams take flight?

Miracles.

December 19th, I posted the following on Facebook: "Just saw a miracle - the tiny little heartbeat of our baby. Go baby go!" After 4 fertility treatments, 8 (known) embryos and nearly 4 years of trying, our miracle came to life.

The next week, my parents were visiting and I posted this: "So incredible to see the changes in the baby in a week - and to share them with [my mom] (who cried for about an hour after). This morning saw the heartbeat again (146 bpm), the big ole head, the little tail that will be the hinie, a tiny Swider chin (like Daddy) and some long, long legs!! Can't believe how much is developed at 7 weeks 3 days! Keep praying folks, we're watching a miracle unfold! So, so thankful!!" That day my Mother saw years of praying come to fruition with tiny, tiny kicks showing us this kid was a fighter.

This week I face D-day. It's been 9 months of watching for everything that could go wrong in a pregnancy. We've had test after test, monitoring appointment after monitoring appointment, doctor's visit after doctor's visit, and the answer stays the same, "Pregnancy seems to agree with you." Given they're estimating a 9+ pound child, pregnancy apparently agrees with my son as well. And with every visit, with every kick, I'm reminded of this little miracle. He's a tiny ray of hope for more than one person in this world.


You see, it's not just the people I see on the street who give me big smiles when they see my big belly. It's not just the joyful ladies in the restroom who want to know details on whether it's a boy or girl and relate stories of their pregnancy. It's not even the frowning people I see in Lowe's whose faces light up in apparent memories of the times they were expecting their children that have made me realize just how much hope there is in expecting a child. It's the hope I see in the journey my father has taken in the last 9 months.

Daddy was diagnosed with stage 4 t-cell lymphoma in March of last year. He went through several rounds of chemo and we thought he was cancer free as of last August. In fact, when I went through that last fertility treatment, found myself pregnant and celebrated with them the news of impending birth, we thought cancer had been beaten. In fact, the week my parents visited and Mama got to see the baby with me, we knew something was not quite right with Daddy. And as much as we hoped it wasn't so, a doctor's visit a week later showed the cancer was back with a vengeance.

Daddy is now going through chemo in anticipation of a stem-cell transplant that will happen roughly a month after his first grandchild is born - a child for whom HE prayed.  The miracle of my son is just the first of the miracles we're expecting in my family this year. We're also believing in the miracle of remission.

Remembering SHHG July Guild Fair.

I found this in my Facebook feed this morning and the memories flooded my mind:

Craft Fair of the Southern Highlands

Wishing safe travels for all those making the journey to Asheville for Craft Fair set up today. The Show begins at 10am Thursday morning and we are all looking forward to a fabulous weekend!

Things would really start heating up about a month before the July Fair. Mama would feverishly work to finish up a new round of character dolls, working into the night with her modified sculpting tools that included a coffee can lid with bolts sticking out of it (for use in firing) and toothpicks and dowels of various sizes that she used to sculpt and shape each unique face and set of hands. For days at a time, we'd wake up to a new set of head and hands that would soon be attached to a cloth body, costumed and given an identity for it's debut.

There would be days where she would just make bodies - put together wire armatures to be inserted into a cloth form and stuffed before waiting in rows to be hand sewn onto waiting heads and hands. Some days would be "hair" days where she would painstakingly create wigs out of wool roving - including tiny curls wrapped around toothpicks and stuck in the oven to set just like you would in a beauty salon. Other days would be sewing days: cotton dresses for apple pickers, choir robes for church choirs, overalls for a grandpa waiting to sit on his handmade chair.

We did what we could too. Mama taught us how to weave chair seats to scale with tiny pieces of reed. Those were the days your hands would have little nicks and cuts from weaving wet reed. I also became pretty good at sculpting and painting fruit and vegetables - I would be happy to demonstrate by making an apple or peach or squash if you'd like. We'd sit on the back patio on a summer's morning weaving or sculpting until we had a line of accessories ready for use. It's not really the work I remember, it's being together, working toward a common goal. We were getting ready for the July Fair.

Pretty soon the week would be on us. We'd be in a frenzy to pack up displays, finish up projects and get the car ready for that trip. We'd load the booth and a carpet remnant on top of our Toyota Tercel, pack up the apple crates that served as display pieces, carefully wrap the character dolls Mama had painstakingly made in the months prior and somehow fit ourselves and the luggage into that tiny car. Whoever sat in the back seat always had to share it with an apple crate or two and pray the air conditioning would miraculously manage to blow that far. We'd set out on the windy road through the mountains to Asheville, NC, the headquarters for the Southern Highland Handicraft Guild, to begin the weekend that marked the zenith of our summer.

We'd arrive, tired from a day's travel, to the Convention Center that had been opened up to allow cars to drive through to unload stock into designated spaces. We'd search the floor for our "space" - usually indicated with pieces of masking tape on that Convention floor - and off would come the rug that would mark the floor of our booth. From the top of the car we'd pull off the posts Mama and Daddy had cut and stained to create the sides of the booth. We'd pull the copper rods that held the curtains (becoming walls), and would begin to build the structure that would become our home for several days. At last we'd pile all those apple boxes full of stock onto the floor in front of our booth before Mama would pull the car back into the designated parking lot.

Stephen and I would set up the tables, lay out the tablecloths and generally set the stage for Mama to return. Mama would then work her magic: carefully unwrapping each of her creations, putting apples in the apron of the apple picker, carefully setting a woman with her sewing basket into her rocker or arranging the choir in perfect accord as if they were breaking out in songs of praise. Only when everyone was in place could we find our hotel room and get some sleep before the Fair began.

The doors would open that first day and people would rush through - something like 10,000 people per Fair if I remember correctly. The main floor would start with a trickle and move to a flood. And the questions would inevitably come, "Are these those apple dolls?" "Are they made of fudge?" Then there was my all time favorite request, "Come on, you can tell me what she uses to make these. She'll never know." Mama's clay "formula" that gave her dolls' skin a translucency like no one else working in the medium was, and still is, a state secret. To this day I don't think anyone has figured it out. But that didn't stop many, many people from trying!

For days my brother and I would take turns alternately talking to folks, volunteering to cover breaks for other craftspeople and sleeping under the table. We got very good at making pallets out of blankets, which worked pretty well until someone started snoring. Given the customers were looking at a table full of lifelike dolls, we had a startled look or two when that happened.

It seemed like every moment we anxiously awaited a sale. Would this be a "good show" or a "bad show"? Would we make expenses? We knew anything over covering expenses would go to braces or winter coats or school supplies.  And if we were really lucky, and the show was really good, we knew we'd have a "vacation" day on the way home where Mama would treat us to an extra day of sightseeing somewhere along the way home. Those sales always brought a rush of quiet celebration behind the scenes.

No matter how many people I talked to at those shows, I never made a sale. They always wanted to talk to Mama. Somehow talking to the artist was like taking home a piece of her, and she'd readily give a piece of herself knowing that every sale would allow her to do something more for her family. Through the weekend she'd talk until she's almost lost her voice, hoping to make just one more sale.

The end of the show would approach. Those final hours were full of anticipation, always wondering whether just one more person would take home just one more doll. Somehow those last chance sales were the greatest, the most grounded in hope. Then the Fair would close, we'd carefully wrap up what stock was left, stack the apple boxes and tear down the booth. Mama would pull in the car and we'd hoist the booth and carpet onto the top, tie it down with clothesline using the knots Daddy had taught us to keep it on top through the winding mountain roads, finish packing the rest and fight over who had to sit in the back.

Mama would make deals with us that final night. "If we can tear down in an hour, we'll go to a movie." Generally, that was a good show. "Let's see if we can tear down in time to hit the hotel pool." That may have been a not so good year. I guess you can say Guild Fair taught me a lot about how economics trickle down, how to talk to people, how to remain professional in disappointment and a lot about how to work hard for the good of the team. I also met some of the finest craftspeople in the world, learned from the experts about heritage crafts and even picked up a skill or two that I've used later in life.

So this weekend as they're celebrating another Guild Fair, I'll have memories running through my head of all those years we were a part of that experience. I'm blessed to have known those artists, those giving people who were always willing to share and show their skill with a young kid curious about how the world worked. And today when I go to my office in DC and randomly drop a fact about something like Raku pottery, weaving or marbling, I'll smile as I remember all those years traveling to Guild Fair, living a life only a lucky few will ever know. And I'll send silent wishes for it to be a "good show" this year.

On nesting.

Every weekday I drive past a house that has three stands of decorative grass separating their house from the busy road. These variegated, decorative grasses grow all year long and are about 7 feet tall. These are not small blades of grass.

One morning this week as I was driving by, I saw a little bird swoop down to pick up a piece of grass. This piece of grass was easily three times the length of Mama bird, but she was determined to grab it and fly. She swooped in, picked it up and flapped her wings like crazy to get it off the ground. She had a little moment of hesitation once she was airborne, just a little swoop, but she flapped her wings harder and off she went with that huge piece of grass clutched in her mouth. Can you imagine the nest she's building? Talk about the super deluxe model!

I had a "moment" watching this determined Mama. I felt like I know a little bit about how she feels. I'm sure if birds had doctors, they'd tell her to be careful lifting things and would probably be horrified that she thought she was able to lift this exceedingly large piece of grass. If she had my doctors, she'd be hearing about how "high risk" this kind of behavior is. She'd be hearing about all the things that could very well go wrong with her pregnancy, and all the precautions she should take. I'm sure she's (in relative terms) younger than I am, so she's probably never heard she's a little OLD to be having babies. But whatever her circumstance, whatever her path, she was determined. She pressed on. She knows she has to build a nest. It's instinctual. And she's building the best darn nest she can.

You see, I'm building a nest too. I'm building a nest for our miracle baby. I'm building a nest for a baby who has beaten every odd that's been put against him. A baby who's growing faster than the average baby is supposed to grow - even though he's supposed to be lagging in growth because of the unusual nature of his existence. So despite all the warnings, despite all the circumstances, despite all the battles, I'm building my nest. Because I believe our miracle baby is going to continue to beat the odds set against him, showing all those doctors, with all their warnings that the God who made him can defy all their odds.

So you see, I too know I have to build a nest. It's instinctual. And you can bet I'm building the best darn nest I can.

Inspiration Thursday! On the subject of hearts.

The tiny white dot in the center of this picture has changed my life. I know saying something changed your life is a bit overused ("This new face cream changed my life!"), but it really changed my life. When I first saw it, it was a little white light pulsing on a screen... flashing, flashing, flashing. I wasn't even sure what it was I was seeing... flashing, flashing, flashing.

Then they said, "there's the heart."

And my life changed.

- Baby Swider @ 6 weeks

DIY Monday: We Three Kings

It's November. This year has blown by me and I can't quite believe it's here. November brings memories of holiday preparation and the excitement of Christmas pageants to come. I guess that's why things like random bits of trim and fabric catch my eye.

It usually happens like this: I'm rummaging through a box and I see a piece of fabric, braid, ribbon or trim that would make a great costume. You see, I was trained this way. I can't really help it. I spent my childhood rummaging through the bargain rooms of fabric stores looking for fabrics, trims or ribbons that would make a good costume. And this time of year it usually had something to do with a Christmas concert at church. Whether a chiffon head scarf for Mary or a striped fabric for Joseph, we were always looking for things that would create the illusion of Biblical times. Fake leather became a Roman officer's uniform. Silver fabrics were turned into helmets. We were always watching for "period appropriate" fabrics for outer robes for the disciples and a piece of rope was often called into service as a belt.

And so as I was rummaging through a box at an estate sale, this beautiful trim caught my eye. I could just see it on Herod's crown - because from the audience the gold, red and green would sparkle like jewels. And Mama thinks my compulsive organizing is a sickness....

Vintage Wednesday: Barkcloth

Recently I found a pair of curtains made of barkcloth. Barkcloth is a fabric that has a crinkled texture like the bark of a tree and takes it's name from a cloth popular at one time in Asia that was actually made from tree bark. You can find an interesting history of that here.

Barkcloth was a popular textile in the 40s, 50s and into the 60s. Vintage textiles often had tropical flowers or birds or abstract prints. Fabrics from the 50s often incorporated "atomic" designs. My favorites have bright bursts of color.

Barkcloth was often used for upholstering, curtains and accessories, but was also used in clothing. It can still be found in fabric stores today. The colors and patterns are still bold, but to me there's nothing like a vintage piece of barkcloth fabric.

DIY Monday: Krylon Looking Glass Mirror Paint

It's been a while since I first learned about this paint, and it took a little time to find. I wasn't successful finding it at my local craft stores, so I had to order it online. Since it's a little pricey, I have been waiting for the perfect project to try it out.

I changed the quilt on our bed about two months ago and since then I've been looking for the right art to put over our bed - as anyone will tell you I'm of the belief that "white space" is great in an ad, but not something I like in my home. So having a stash of old frames I found one that I think will work with the other things I'm pulling together and tried it out.

First I cleaned the glass thoroughly on both sides. Then, following the instructions I used a well-shaken can to put on the first, thin layer of paint. I shook a little more while I was waiting the directed minute between layers (to let the solvents evaporate) and then sprayed another thin layer. I repeated this 5 times and sure enough on the 5th layer I could see that the paint had pretty much turned opaque by that last layer.

Emerging a little light headed (the smell is very strong), I put the glass in a place where it could safely dry. About 12 hours later, the result is an antique mirror-like finish. I wouldn't say it looks like a new mirror, but there's definitely a reflection that looks a lot like some of the older mirrors I have that have been dulled by time.

I think in the future I may use this paint to spruce up some of the old metal frames I find at estate sales. It's not chrome shiny, but it'll add just the right finish to frames that others may be tempted to just toss. Overall, I think this was worth the time to track down and try!

Vintage Wednesday: Tobacco Flannels

I was recently lucky enough to find a tobacco flannel at an estate sale. The guy checking me out shook his head when I walked up with the flannel - not expecting that I'd know what it was. In a way, I didn't as I'd always called them cigar box flannels. After doing some research, however, I've found that the correct name is probably tobacco flannel or tobacco felt. It seems cigar box collectors have challenged the thought that they were included in cigar boxes, though they really are the right size!

These were included as incentives for buying tobacco in the late part of the 19th Century into the early part of the 20th Century in the U.S. I understand that popularity waned with WWI, which makes sense given trends at the time. They come in different shapes and sizes (this one is one of the larger ones I've seen). Flags were a popular theme, but I've also seen butterflies and even a beaver.

I imagine the reason I knew what this was is that I'd seen them used in quilts. Industrious women apparently saw the beauty in these long before I graced the planet. I've also seen some beautiful example of silk cigar ribbons made into quilts or table covers.

I'm not sure what I'll do with this little beauty yet, but I sure am glad I found it!

Inspiration Thursday! Missing home.

It seems like I just wrote about our vacation - stealing those last warm, sunny days - and fall blew into DC. I'm not complaining, mind you. Fall is one of my favorite seasons. Fall is when I acquired new school supplies in anticipation of a new school year. Fall is when the air becomes crisp. Fall brings the kind of sleeping weather where you can leave the windows open and wake up perfectly snug in a quilt.

Although I've lived in the DC area for 15 years now and have a home of my own, I tend to long for "home" this time of year - West Virginia is the home I long to see. When I was in college, our choir sang "My Home Among the Hills." There's a land of rolling mountains, where the sky is blue above. And though I may roam, I hurry home to the friendly hills I love... there autumn hill sides are bright with scarlet trees....

That's what I miss the most in this season, the rolling mountains of color. It's a sea of reds, greens, yellows, oranges or the harder to define colors like a coral or chartreuse that give my hills life in autumn. The color blankets the hills in undulating waves that coat the Appalachians like my quilt covers me in warmth. Although it's the end of their cycle, those leaves give a last burst of life that even now I see in my mind long after they're dust on a forest floor. It's life. It's comforting. It's home.

And so as it turns chilly, my feet itch to return to my home among the hills so I can tuck away another WV autumn in my heart.