We Believe

Will’s school issued iPads to all students, so occasionally I get an email from him during the day. Last week… Will: “I forgot my pencil case! The only place I will get in trouble is religion.” Me: “Why religion?” Will: “I need red and black pens.” Me: “Do you have your colored pencils? If so, use a red one and a black one for religion. If not, ask someone if you can borrow pens.” Will: “Thanks!”

This week was more complicated.

The email from Will read, “I forgot we believe for religion.”

Well, we haven’t been going to church for a while. We joined one church when we moved here 10 years ago but have since occasionally been attending another church. Mild panic. Was Will the only kid who couldn’t readily identify his religion?

I sent an email specifying what religion we are and where we have been going to church. To which, there was no reply.

While Skyping Mom that evening, I mentioned to her the dilemma Will had had at school. Will was eavesdropping and immediately corrected me. “Mom, I know our religion! I forgot my book for religion!”

“There was no mention of a book in the email.”

It was a disjointed email because Will had omitted the word “what.” However, I was able to read between the lines: “I forgot what we believe for religion.” Where would book fit in here?

“Look, Mom... I said, ‘I forgot we believe for religion.’” He showed me the book.

We Believe logo"Cap-it-al-i-za-tion, Will! Grammar is EVERYTHING!"

I would like to give the same message to the graphic artists who designed the book cover.

How to Get a Christmas Cactus to Bloom

With nights that dip into the low 40’s, the house plants that have spent the summer on our porch deck are moving inside. I only have a few plants, and I call them heirloom plants: two mother-in-law tongues from Grandma Mills, one climbing vine from Granddad Mill's funeral, one giant Christmas cactus from Grandma Murphy, and one "puppy" Christmas cactus started from that giant. The oldest of these plants is a matriarch. The big Christmas cactus from Grandma Murphy. When she left the farm and moved into an apartment in town, the cactus and the walnut stand where it perches moved to Illinois with me. Its tendrils bloomed beautifully in Grandma’s house. Bunches and bunches of pink flowers.

These are the bits of trivia I gleaned from Grandma: Give it castor oil in October and leave it root-bound. Grandma estimated that it must have been at least 125 years old. It belonged to her mother long before it moved into Grandma’s house. We did that math more than ten years ago.

In my care, I’m happy to say it stayed green and had an occasional bud in Illinois. Then, nothing. Perhaps because I didn’t believe in the castor oil tale. Or perhaps because one year I tried olive oil instead – I thought Grandma said any oil would work.

I drove this cactus and 15 other houseplants 1,600 miles to Massachusetts with Will when he was two, nine years ago. Since then it has sat stubbornly in our bedroom, braced itself through construction dust two years ago, and lived one summer on the porch deck in the shade.

Last spring, I had to do something. It didn’t look healthy. The 135-year-old limbs were wedged into the pot. Had it ever been re-potted?

I bought a pot double the size of what it was in. Then I looked at that new pot for a couple weeks. Dare I do it?  I lifted the terracotta pot out of the basket.

I was inspired.  The terracotta pot was beautiful.  In all the years I had the cactus, I had never seen this pot.  If I lost the cactus as a result of this re-potting, I still had this pot, but unfortunately, none of its history.  Had Grandma ever seen this hand-painted piece of art?

Why is the thought of re-potting more complicated than the actual job? In minutes I had dropped the root-bound old lady...

into fresh dirt and placed her on the table...

...and she still looked miserable.

Then summer happened, and she could not spew shiny new leaves fast enough! Really, really beautiful.

If she was putting all that effort into growing over the summer, I felt obliged to work out what she needed when she came inside.

Some days I don’t know where my time goes, but I know last week I spent a good hour scouring the internet trying to find the secret: “how to get a Christmas cactus to bloom.” The most concise and scientific information was from one horticulturist who gloated that if you know what you are doing, it’s really not that difficult. Light and temperature are key.

Christmas cacti rely on the light of the environment to determine when to bloom. Photoperiodism. To force blooms, and to put photoperiodism into motion, the cactus needs 12 hours of absolute darkness for 6 – 8 weeks before she will bloom. Sources give sound advice: move it into a dark closet or bathroom every night and bring it out every morning. This particular matriarch fills nearly 3 x 3 feet of cubic space. Lugging her around morning and night won’t work.

Christmas cacti rely on cool nights – ideally 50 – 55 degrees – for the same period of time that it is dark. Reading this reminded me how cold Grandma’s extra bedroom used to be. The main fall guest was this cactus.  In our house, between the baseboard heating in one zone of the first floor and the radiant heat in the other zone, temps rarely drop below 70 degrees.

Discussions were held with Bill and the Laundry Maven. Bill nor I were completely convinced we could close off a hallway for eight weeks to give this matriarch a nice dark space. Bill suggested putting her in the laundry room. The Laundry Maven bulked, saying she spends half her life in there… and now to work around this? Impossible!

The Laundry Maven’s open plan laundry room has been reduced to a walk-in & back-out galley-style laundry room. It’s like doing laundry with a happy green English sheep dog gently nudging your back side.

But allowances must be made. For 6 – 8 weeks.

Nightly at 6 p.m., I slide the hallway door to the laundry room shut in order to block the light from HRC (Her Royal Cactus).  (The Laundry Maven needs to remember to get that evening load of wash going before 6 p.m.)  I have cut, flattened, and taped two brown paper bags together trying to create a kind of blanket for her to block light from the other end of the hallway that leads to the kitchen. I need at least two more bags as this blanket only covers the top third of her. Early this morning, I saw the light from our neighbor’s back porch from the laundry room window. Can this sleeping beauty see it? Does it distract her? If only she could say… I could get a pole, lodge it between two shelves, and hang a temporary curtain.

The first night I cranked the small window wide open to give her fresh air. To make the air she breathes below 55 degrees. I closed the baseboard heater in the laundry room. When my alarm went off at 6:00, I hit a thermocline half-way down the stairs. My tired head immediately calculated adjustments to help the Malcolms and HRC acclimate to one another: crank the window shut a bit and turn the heat on in all zones. The second morning, the brisk chill was limited to the laundry room.

Where the Laundry Maven, in bare feet and summer PJ's, starts her day transferring clothes to the dryer.

Where a lovable green sheep dog – and her pup --  greet the in-direct sunlit day.

It’s Week 1, Day 5.

This grand matriarch is high-maintenance.

(Moving from my family's plants to those on the St. Maarten butterfly farm... Still Enough for a Butterfly to Land)

White After Labor Day

Have you noticed how quiet the Laundry Maven has been? She was busy last weekend.  It was the white load washed on Saturday night, to be dried Sunday morning, that made her head spin a bit.

In that load were two favorite pairs of summer trousers: khaki and white.  And as they went into the washer, she wondered if it was time to put the white ones into storage until spring.  Was it okay to wear white after Labor Day?  Sunday morning as she pulled clothes from the washer, the words “winter white” confirmed her decision: white would be perfectly fine to wear to church that morning.

Pulling out the pants, the Laundry Maven noticed a pea-sized black spot on the back of the pants.  Reaching for the stain remover, her mind easily switched to the idea of khakis for church.  It was a sign – no white today.

Mave turned the pants around to check the front and was confronted by multiple huge black blobs.  She instantly knew she had washed an ink pen.  From Will’s uniform shorts.  She hadn’t checked pockets.  And, she hadn’t told Will that she never checks pockets.

Timidly, Mave pulled item after item out of the washer and gave each a quick shake to check for more ink spots.  Nothing.  The two pair of uniform shorts came out.  Nothing.  Perfectly fine.

Bravely those white pants had sacrificed themselves and enveloped completely around that ink pen.  Bless them.  Their summer season ended as the school season began.

Mave felt incredibly lucky but sad.  The pants had only been worn a handful of times.  But the Malcolms are recyclers.  Will and Liam have grand ideas of turning them into puppets.  However, after looking through pictures from an outing to Cape Cod this summer, Mave may hand them off to the gardener in the house come spring.

Mave is checking pockets from now on.

School Lunch with a Crunch

Yesterday on the ride home from a friend’s house, Liam firmly stated that he did not want chocolate and sardines packed in his school lunch.  I agreed to his request. I had no idea what he was talking about.

I have re-vamped lunches this year. Will and Liam like foods that crunch. Their senses are centered and their focus is sharpened by goldfish, carrots, apples, pretzels, and potato chips. Liam washes down the crunch with his chocolate soy milk. Will gulps Gatorade and gets a protein hit from the insulated bag I have waiting for him in the car after school: Cheese slices snuggled up against an ice block.

They love cold, cold cheese, preferably right out of the fridge. They haven’t developed the taste for room temperature cheese. Eating sweaty cheese out of a lunch bag? I might as well be packing chocolate and sardines. Yesterday, I discovered that a slice of bologna sweats in a lunch box just like cheese does. And, sweaty bologna comes home untouched.

To decompress myself from lunch stress, I’ve taken a step back and acknowledged what history has shown. Liam might remember to eat one or two things as he’s chatting with his friends at lunch time. Starving after school, he demands food. I open his lunch box and there is his 3 p.m. lunch. As for Will, he prefers food in smaller doses. Recognizing hunger, he grabs food throughout the day and appreciates that cold snack in the van. Will & Liam eat to live.

Neither boys eat sandwiches. As a kid, I depended on that wonderful bologna sandwich for lunch. On white buttered bread with ketchup. And for pure decadence, if there were plain potato chips in my lunch, I tucked them into the sandwich, on the ketchup side.  I loved that crunch.

Crunch. That reminds me... A friend picked Liam up from school yesterday, and she offered me a kind of homemade toffee that was heavenly. To make it, she covered saltine crackers with butter and sugar and chocolate. The microwaved result was chocolate-covered toffee!

Ahhh... 0therwise known as chocolate and “sardines.”

Crunch box(Do you have suggestions for a crunchy lunch?  Please, please, find this big yellow box on my Facebook page and leave your suggestions in the comments!)

from summer to fall with a pocketful of prayer

From the outside, I may have wavy hair but on the inside, I’m sporting the Rosanne-Roseannadanna look: frizzled bushy hair standing straight out. The back-to-school factory went into full production at 6:00 this morning. Two different breakfasts, three different lunches, two fully-equipped backpacks. One bowl drawer filled only with lids. One snack drawer overflowing to the point of not shutting. Two different school uniforms all tried on -- except for one belt.

One last-minute realization that Liam had never operated a belt before left one worst-case scenario screaming through this one mother's head.

Bill left for school with Will at 7:15. I completed drop-off and flag ceremony at Liam’s school at 8:30.

One 30-minute lull before the library opened meant a cup of coffee and a heated-up omelet. In peace. That wasn’t easy, for there were two of me prattling on this morning: one wondered what I could clean-up in 30 minutes and the other told me to be still for 30 minutes.

My coffee mug has a chip out of the rim, just to the right of where I drink from it. I put up with the chip because I love the mug. Black tree branches radiate from the bottom of the handle. The branches are sparsely populated with bright red maple leaves.

We have been out on the thin end of that branch called summer. It started with a strong surge of freedom and ended with a push to the end of the branch where we splintered precariously. To get the most out of summer. Before it retreated.

With the boys both at new schools, the underlying edge is only somewhat smoothed with the first days of drop-off being behind us. The urge to swoop and rescue them from uncertainty started in my gut, raged through my heart, and stopped short of my tongue. For the last two days, at two different schools, this urge landed mysteriously as a supportive smile on my lips as they walked away. That's how motherhood flows.

As I drink my coffee, I take a walk down that branch of summer back to the stability of thicker branches at the base of the handle. And, I make a tight turn to that solid branch called fall. But my legs are still shaking from summer. Or caffeine.

I think of days when I have been strong, full of courage, and solidly grounded. Five years ago, I was moving through life with a pocketful of prayer. Today, I get that tool, use it, and put it in my pocket. Most of that prayer is still apt today. But I’ve added just a couple bits:

“Every day, may our minds grow and our hearts stay full.

And, please, let the bowl drawer, the lunch bags, and the uniforms be organized, full, and complete.”

I think He understands little things like this.

(This was inspired by Power & Prayer, written during chemo treatment for breast cancer in 2009.)

 

Books in Brewster, MA... and everywhere else...

...Mayhem at the little book shop in Boston’s South Station. Here, no one can sit on the floor or window ledges to read a book. “We could last time! They just don’t like kids!” Hand-written signs on every potential kids’ seat. I tried to explain. “This isn’t a normal book store; they want you to buy the book and get on the train, not just read books and leave.” My explanation did not squelch their frustration. In New York City, we visited an amazing exhibit of LEGO sculptures by Nathan Saway. The last exhibit room funneled us into a small, quiet gift shop where Will and Liam read LEGO books. Undisturbed for 20 minutes.

Book shops bring on a simple giddiness. They are one of the very few places where I’m not overwhelmed by choice. Perhaps it’s the freedom to choose or not to choose, unlike the overwhelming necessary choice of toothpaste and canned tomatoes at the grocery store.

On a summer morning day-trip to Brewster on Cape Cod, we scooped the kids into the van and were on the road by 6:30. I was ecstatic to be up and going so early. I was the only one experiencing early morning joy in the car… To cross the Sagamore Bridge, which connects mainland Mass. to the Cape, the Brewster Chamber of Commerce suggested timing our trip to cross by 8:00 a.m. Otherwise, with thick Cape traffic, it could take hours to cross.

An unfettered journey meant we were across the bridge a little over an hour from leaving our house north of Boston. Knowing we would be early at the Cape, we planned a stop at Brewster's Coffee Shop for breakfast. There were no lines at 8:00 a.m. We had breakfast alfresco at picnic tables. Families with dogs were particularly keen on this place. The food was good; patrons and dogs were friendly.

With time to kill before meeting up with friends late morning, we set out to explore after breakfast. Just a few minutes before it opened, we found The Brewster Book Store. Even from the outside, I could feel it was a place that welcomed drawn-out perusing. Perhaps even floor-sitting?

“Mom, look bean bags in the kids’ section!” And with that, I knew where Liam would be firmly anchored. The shop was a converted house: a room at every turn with books, stationery, gifts, and cards, including a birthday card that perfectly captured us book addicts:

“I do not want to just read books; I want to climb inside them and live there. – Anonymous.”

Yes. Like the little-remembered little people who lived behind the books on Capt. Kangaroo's book shelves. I think of those little people every time I arrange books on our shelves. And, sometimes I want to put a thimble and thread spool behind the books... just in case.