Hogwarts 2014, The Yearly Howler

13 June 2014

Dearest Ramona,

Just when I thought you would make it through a complete term at Hogwarts without me having to send a HOWLER, I woke up this morning, stumbled into the bathroom, and saw in the mirror that MY HAIR HAD TURNED BRIGHT GREEN.  

I hear from your professors that you are quite skilled at changing the color of people’s hair  - and I am very proud of your talents - but it seems this particular spell went amiss.  Perhaps you were practicing at home last night and thought you were aiming the spell at one of Zola’s stuffed animals but you got me instead.  

Apart from the green hair I discovered that MY CHEST HAIR IS BRIGHT ORANGE.  And while that’s easy enough to cover up, the green hair is presenting a bit of a problem.  For of course it’s not St Patrick’s Day, or Mardi Gras or even Halloween.  It is simply June 13th and people are wondering about the green hair.  I certainly can’t say I did it in honor of the 1191st birthday of Charles the Bald, known for being a late Roman Emperor, can I?  

My sources tell me that today is, it turns out, World Okra Day, and so I guess I will just have to tell people that I really, really, love okra.  I just don’t know if they’ll buy it, especially when it was just two months ago I had to pretend it was World Extra Limbs Day when another of your mishaps gave me an extra left arm for the day.  So I may lose my job or get shipped off to the loony bin.  When you visit, please remember to have ready the counterspell.  I tried everything and so far nothing has worked.  

Love,

Dad

PS - Hunca Munca has a frugal mind.

Happy New Year

About a month ago Ramona asked me what I would be if I couldn't be a teacher. I told her I would be a coach or a youth leader at a church or a camp counselor. She told me that all of those things were the same as teaching and that I needed to choose some thing different. So, I told her that my back up to teaching would be writing. She ask what I would write. Unsure, I told her that I'd write it all. "Young Grown-Up books," she inquired, having seem Sumner looking in the Young Adult section at the library. "Sure," I told her. And picture books and essays and novels and other stuff--like a blog.

In the month since Ramona asked me that, we had a baby. Zola Lily was born on November 30, 2010. Her first month has been wonderful. So why re-start blogging now? Shouldn't I just log into Facebook every once in awhile? Or open a Twitter account? Or just call a friend so that catching up with me isn't so one-sided?

Why is blogging appealing again?
Is it because I saw "Julie and Julia" on Netflix?
Is it because Marroni called us "everyone's favorite family" on Facebook and I owe the world some news?
Is it because Zola's birth has out me in a reflective state of mind?
Is it more time on maternity leave?
Is it that I am focused on the family and need to process it all?

I can't really tell you everything anymore. Sumner's a nearly 12-year-old middle schooler and Ramona is a nearly 9-year-old with a reputation. So I can't reveal all their dirty little secrets. Zola doesn't do or say much yet. Phil's pretty private. So that leaves my mom to pick on...and me. And blogs seem so self-indulgent.

But I feel like putting my toe back in. I'm testing the water.

Happy New Year

Make a Smilebox scrapbook

Lessons Learned

Alex wants me to blog. She says, "The great thing about blogs is it just takes a couple of minutes to write."

Suzi says, "You can have it all. Just not at the same time."

So even though it just takes a couple of minutes to write on my blog, I have twenty things that just take a couple of minutes to do. Thus, I have not been blogging. I stop putting "blog" with a few apropos subjects/titles on my To-do list. To-do lists need to be Able-to-do lists, not Guilt lists.

But now, I think, I can blog a few minutes.

The Parts of Me

Ramona: Mom, I am a little bit of you, a little bit of Dad, and a whole lot of me.

Sumner: Mom, I have your body and Dad's brain.

Literal Bob

is what we are calling Sumner these days.

I said, "Sumner, can you please go and pick up your room because your cousins are coming and we don't want them to think we are messy."

Sumner, without a hint of irony, puzzled, "But, we are."

What is it?

For the twenty-two months that I have lived in New Orleans, I have been searching for an answer. I keep asking myself: Why do I want to make my home in New Orleans? When someone asks me what I like about the place there are some obvious answers: We live near family. I like the food and the music, the flavor and the costumes. I like how all it takes to make a party is people and simple food--you don’t really need a house or decorations or invitations or even a planned menu. In fact, before I ever set foot in New Orleans my friends knew me as flavorful person who liked to dress in costumes and throw spur of the moment parties. I fit in here. I also like dilapidated, old stuff that other people want to throw away. New Orleanians like old stuff; they prefer refurbishing things to getting new ones. They’d rather renew than redo. Perhaps that’s why this whole rebuilding thing just might work out.

But all that is not why I like to live in New Orleans. I could live by family, eat well, dress up, have parties, and pick up furniture from the curb in a number of different places and avoid the crime, the litter, the poor public services, and the ever-imminent hurricane. So the question remains: Why do I want to make my home in New Orleans?

My Uncle Kent, who was visiting from Oregon, articulated the answer for me this week. While I haven’t spent a lot of time with Uncle Kent mulling over my life’s big questions, it was clear when he visited our home that we come from the same people. I felt connected by much more than old photo albums and unique Christmas gifts he had given to me when I was a child. We are connected by a shared sensibility—an openness to make your life something that is grounded in what you really want to do, not what anyone or anything has told you, you ought to do. My relatives on that side of the family are painters and senior-citizen motorcyclists and letter-to-the-editor writers and dairy farmers and world travelers and adoptive parents and so on and so forth. We share a confidence that we can do just what we want to do, no matter how odd.

So Uncle Kent talked with the kids, saw the house and shared a meal of crawfish and a bowl of gelato. Then he and I sat and visited over a cup of tea. On the drive to his hotel, as we approached a decrepit housing project that pains me every time I drive by it, he asked me if we planned to make New Orleans our home after Phil finishes his residency. Like an apologetic, I began to tell him why, yes, we planned to make our home here. I mentioned the art and the food and the friendly people. I think I probably was trying to tell him that there is good here, even though it doesn’t look like Oregon. Halfway through my homily, I realized that he wasn't my mother and didn't need convincing. He likes New Orleans and began to explain what he finds enchanting about the city. He reminded me of the neighborhoods. Yes, most neighborhoods are close-knit communities, I confirmed. He talked about the writers and musicians. I talked about how for an urban public school teacher and a doctor interested in community-based primary care, this is the place to be: it is Boomtown, a great experiment, the possibilities are endless. I tried to continue my ongoing brainstorm about why I am here, now. He listened and simply stated, “There’s something about living here that is like facing reality.”

That’s it. Living here is like facing reality. You cannot get away from it. You don’t have to watch a documentary or read a “If the world was 100 people” email to remind yourself that you are part of the broken world and that there’s work to be done. Don’t get me wrong, it still is easy to hide in your hobbit hole in comfort and warmth and fill your time with meaningless worries of thinner thighs and undone homework and who the last Lost survivor might be. It is just a little harder to stay there if you live in New Orleans.

At Home

When I lived in NYC I ate lots of take-out and it seemed normal. After living in Phoenix for a while having a tan and spending a lot of time in malls seemed like a good idea. In Oakland I was the second one of the parents in our parents' group to ween my baby (at 18 months), I felt like an outsider because Sumner slept in a crib, and Phil was one of three stay-at-home dads who's wives and I worked together. In Boston, I felt self-conscious that my winter coat wasn't big and puffy (until I bought a new one).

So what next? I think of this stop as much more than a layover. We are within spitting distance of the two year mark. I've always said that it takes two years for a place to be home.

Here's what's happened so far:

I no longer feel like giggling when I say that I am going to the Winn Dixie.

I feel naked if my toenails aren't painted (even when I have shoes on).

I always wear earrings.

I wear ironed clothing. Often.

Costuming is a verb.

50 degrees outside is very chilly.

15 minutes is a commute.

Recycling is no longer reflexive--it is a disciplined project.

I think of summer as a rainy season full of indoor activities.

Basementless houses are no longer an oddity to me.

Popeye's isn't a treat.

Seeing rotting, flooded houses with overgrown yards everyday no longer gets me in the gut.

Book Covers

Dad actually emailed this true story to me:

Here is a quote from a GC [Grinnell College] applicant I found yesterday:

Q: How did you first learn about GC?

A: I spoke with 1 of your representatives at an otherwise disappointing college fair. The booth caught my eye on our way out. Not being familiar with GC, it was solely the man’s attractively unique personal presentation that drew me to your college; a balding head, thick black glasses (not unlike my own), and a pair of fiery orange eyebrows—a smart guy, a real character. Our exchange was, obviously rewarding. For once, the cover was an accurate representation of the book!

Ramona on Commercialism

Ramona likes to keep up posted about products that she learns about on T.V. Whenever I am fumbling through my purse to find my keys she reminds me that I can buy a purse that has a place for everything, "You can even find things blindfolded for $ 29.95." The other night at dinner she told us about the Evert-Fresh "green bags." She flatly told us what she had witnessed (on T.V.), "Bananas in the green bag stay fresh for 10 days, bananas out of the bag get black and spotted."

We follow-up these info-sessions with anti-commercialism rhetoric. We talk about need and want and the fact that a purse with more pockets won't magically organize me and that we eat our bananas in less that 10 days so we don't need another thing to keep our bananas fresh (although that banana hook I got at Target years ago does help). She listens without a word. We talk at her about marketing and how people who make ads want to convince you to buy stuff.

The other day she and I stopped by the drug store to pick up a few things. We meandered into the shampoo aisle and she jumped to attention. "Mom, I know that all of these are from advertisements," she reported, using her whole body to indicate an entire shelf of one brand of shampoo. "I am sure they are from advertising," she repeated and pointed with concerned big eyes and raised eyebrows.

"Should we get that one Ramona?"

"No, Mom. They are trying to trick us into buying it," she mimicked.

Lesson learned. Neurosis born.

What I Learned from Amy's Labor

My dear friend Amy labored for over 60 hours last Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday and had a beautiful boy on February 19. I was with her and husband Marlow for about 50 of those hours. Amy and I have been there (or nearly there) for the major milestones in our lives from the time we were about 13. Those 50 hours are one of the greatest gifts she could have possible given to me.

Many things happened in that time and most of it will only be of interest to those of us who were there, but I know that part of my job is to remember this birth so that I can tell Elijah about it when no one else remembers, because I will.

I learned...

Patience is a virtue.

You can't get a six-pack of normal size Diet Cokes (they sell the little ones) at Rouse's and Amy's mother-in-law, Mimi, is being so careful as to not offend us-Louisianans about our ass-backwards ways that when she asked someone about why she couldn't get a regular sized six-pack, she didn't use the word normal.

Brittany thinks that Kevin slept with her mother, but she didn't. Brittany is paranoid.

Marlow eats a lot of sausage and tic tacs and prefers sausage to bacon and toast to grits.

Naomi was in labor for 36 hours, as was Anna. Mimi was 12 with the first, 6 with the second. My mom was in labor for 4 hours with her first. We should not mention these stories to Amy.

Labor can go one for more than 2 days and still not make the world record.

Rolly stools are for hospital staff.

Mimi prefers to call Rouse's Rouse because she doesn't like all of these commonly-misspelled possessive store names.

Marlow thinks that's fine as long as she realizes that that's not what the sign will say.

Marlow is not dogmatic about how to make a tuna melt, but Mimi and I agree he is about other things.

Drugs can make a contracting, tired lady sleep.

You can die of pants.

You can be beautiful in labor. Amy was not only graceful in pregnancy, but after 52 hours of labor she was still composed.

Bubba burgers don't have to be defrosted to be cooked.

Cannons is not crowded on Monday nights.

Marlow is really committed to Bikram yoga.

Mimi wants to be called Mema and CNO (Chief Nutritional Officer).

4 of the 5 Happy Baby S's are shushing, swaddling, side-jiggling, and swinging, but not in that order. The guy who invented these S's gets them right, but need to tear up a few phone books.

How to make a hearty sausage-squash-kale (minus that kale) soup and it is easy to make German brick bread.

Mimi likes to know what's going to happen next in a movie.

Marlow gave up sweets for Lent and I gave up giving up alcohol for one day during labor.

You can get warm muffins at 6AM at Oschner.

Amy is a champion. So is Marlow.

The cleanest place to sleep in a waiting room is under the T.V.

"Eye of the Tiger" and "I Would Walk 500 Miles" are good labor songs.

Labor is labor.

Childbirth is one of the only things that makes Erika effusive and quick to return calls.

I want to write.

I am one of Amy's people.

Pinewood Derby

This one is for you, Alex.

Today was a beautiful day. There were sibling spats and family members grouching on each other because they can, but it was also full of friendship, familiarity, and possibility. I like that.

The best moment of the day was this afternoon at the Cub Scout Pinewood Derby. If you ask me how Sumner did, I'll tell you that he won the Pinewood Derby for his den, which has about 10 kids. If you ask Sumner, he will tell you that he came in third place for his pack, which has about 50 kids. He will also tell you that he made friends with the kid who won, Josh. Josh happens to be the newest kid to the pack. He happened to join one week ago just in time for this event and he happens to be an orthodox Jew, wearing a yarmulke and out on shabbot to race cars. The Pact Leader, who I like to call the Den Master because it rhymes with Zen Master, called Josh his "sleeper."

The Pinewood Derby is a rite of passage for many boys in America. There is a lot of family lore surrounding the Pinewood Derby in our family. There was my cousin Matt, who built his car with Grandpa Art, because his mom was a single mom. The story goes that he worked tirelessly on his car, doing most of it himself. Grandpa Art helped him with one aspect of the design, as the rules specified he could. When the big day arrived, Matt was crushed because his car didn't match up to the father-built cars his cohorts raced. He cried. There was my brother, who built his car with his Grandad A.J. because our dad hardly prefers newspapers to sandpaper. His car looked good, but it was slow. And, of course, there was Phil's cars. He won the Pinewood Derby two years in a row, because his father paid careful attention to every aspect of the car and made it without much help from Phil.

Sumner knows these stories. So this week, as Phil scrambled to find the time to help Sumner finish his car between two hospital on-call cycles, Sumner was trying to make sense of the family legacy. They were up early in the morning--sanding and painting--and working on it before bedtime--planning the detail work. Sumner and Phil were determined to make this car Sumner's work, but Philip was also determined to support Sumner to have a competitive car.

Last night when Phil and Sumner were putting the final touches on the car just before the weigh-in Sumner told Phil not to be such a perfectionist, "It's going to be just fine, Dad."

Today I was snapping some pictures of Sumner posing with the five den winners and I could see that he was trying to smile, but that he wanted to cry. As soon as the photo shot ended, he made a b-line for me and said that he wanted to go "right away." I was pretty sure that he was going to cry because he didn't make best in show. As we walked out of the cafeteria, I asked him is he felt like crying because he came in third place. He shook his head and said, "No. I'm just so proud. I made this car myself."

That's a good day.

Tooth Fairy Literacy

Sumner had two teeth pulled today to make room for his other teeth. When he got home he opened a word document and compose the following letter in 18-point Jokerman font:

Tooth Fairy, please bring me Pokemon cards instead of money because I like them way more than wealth and there is a 50 % chance that I could get an e.x., maybe even a Lugia! Anyway, I’d like Power Keepers or Diamond and Pearl. Oh yea and if you can control what’s in it all please get me some really good cards.

Then he asked Phil and I if the Tooth Fairy could read. He told us that he remembers his Kindergarten teacher, a real authority, once told them that the Tooth Fairy sometimes bring toys instead of cash.

The Tooth Fairy wrote back to him:
I not cen reed guud. Sary. -Toof Hairy

She also left him two dollars.

Survival

Ramona said, "You have to fart to live." It's kind of like breathing.

The Bottomless Pit

Phil has a call month this month. He's working 80+ hours a week. I have the end of the first quarter, Spirit week, and a Homecoming dance to pull off. The grandparents are in Spain. We're making out okay, but...

Needless to say, issues of work-family balance (or a total lack thereof) are surfacing. They are taking a toll. We both feel that we are doing more than the other parent. The truth is that neither of us is a martyr, we're just doing too many things. So, Phil's a little intense about little things and impatient. I need to cry a few more times a day than I usually do.

Lots of crying can wear a man out. Today I asked him to "listen to me [cry] more." He said he couldn't--he's not a bottomless pit--it wears him out. I laughed. I told him that he was not where near a bottomless pit. He's a ditch. He just absorbs a little bit of the overflow.

Do parents lie?

As summer turns to autumn, before we have even chosen our Halloween costumes, questions of Christmas are troubling my children.

Sumner asked me the other day if parents lie. I told him that parents do lie--some parents. I also asked him why he asked. He wanted to know the real truth about Santa. He said about half of his friends believe and half do not. I dodged the questions about Santa by asking him if he believes. He said he does. Maybe.

Tonight at dinner Sumner told us that he doesn't believe in magic, but he believes in Santa. He said that he thinks we put a ladder in our chimney for Santa to come down and that Santa has a jet sleigh. The reindeer aren't magic, they are robotic reindeer that look realistic. The elves are just "little people" who had plastic surgery on their ears. And the toys? Well, there's a machine with a "little bit of magic." When I mentioned that I think a little bit of magic is still magic, he protested and said that it is just "mechanical magic." The toys come from a giant thing with lots of parts and all of those parts can make up any kind of toy and the toys shoot out of the machine. Oh, and by the way, there is one girl toy-tester and one boy toy-tester waiting to test each gender specific toy as it pops out. But there's no real magic involved at all.

I was taking notes during the whole monologue. When Ramona realized that I was taking notes, she chimed in, "Santa is fat and old." When she saw fat and old on the page she told me to cross that out. She didn't mean that. I think she thinks fat and old are put-downs. Then she started dictating to me, slowly, so I would get it all down. It turns out Santa is very kind and he would be a good Lusher student and he likes and respects people a lot.

At this point Sumner interjected, "How does it all work?"

"I think his reindeer are beautiful. Some are girls and some are boys."

"How do they fly?" Sumner insisted.

"Well, fairy tales just trick us. They want us to think Santa isn't true. This is what happens. The reindeer just walk. I think Santa has magic and he puts it on his nose and his reindeer and his sleigh and it makes them shrink. Then they slide under the window. No, Mom, cross that out. They slide under the door."

Parents don't need to lie. They've got it all worked out.

The Secret

"How do you do it?" Brad asked.

I was at the copy machine, trying to make copies (in two minutes or less) of a test I had just finished writing for my students to take right away. I was rushing so that I could leave the test with a sub, freeing me up to take Sumner to a doctor's appointment.

Brad chatted with a frenzied me. He doesn't have children. "Tim and I were talking this weekend and we just don't know how people with kids get it all done. I mean our weekends are crazy. By the time we clean up and grocery shop and run a few errands and grade papers, we're beat and it is time to start a new week. And it is just the two of us. I just don't know how parents do it." He gave the obligatory slow head shake, right to left, twice.

I looked at Brad and said, "I'll tell you the big secret. Parents just don't get 'it' done. You can't. Not in the same way. Crazy things happen. For instance, you find yourself driving to work and you think: I didn't brush my teeth. And then you think: I guess I better chew a piece of gum so I don't smell. That's the big secret: you just don't get it all done."

Russian Cake

There are lots of little things in New Orleans that only happen in New Orleans.

After the big day at our school yesterday, I came home with a huge bag of kettle corn. This morning, I put it in containers and tried to parcel it out to the neighbors.

When I got to one neighbor's house, she offered me some Russian Cake and I accepted. She said, "I won't be offended if you hate it."

That's not usually what people say when they give you cake. Well, I soon learned that Russian Cake is an acquired taste. After a day of asking every local I know about it and reading about it on the internet, I learned that bakeries (and apparently a local convent-homeless shelter that has a secret deal with Tastee Donuts) in New Orleans take their leftover cake, cookies, and pie crust and make it into something new: Russian cake. They cut it all up into little bits, then heat it up and pour some sort of cherry flavored syrup or liquor on it and rebake it. Then they put a layer of fresh cake on the bottom and top and frost it and put sprinkles on it. Yuck.

Good thing she won't be offended.

Proud to be home

As I have told many of you, this year has not been easy. Quite honestly we moved here because we like New Orleans, we wanted to be a part of something, and we wanted to live my family. Well, we've been here and we like the town, but sometimes it is hard to see progress and feel like you are a part of something.

Today was different. Teacher, parents, students, and administrators at my school came together and did something. And it was beautiful.

Check it out.

Sustainable life is possible here.

A real hamster

When I was little, my cousin's wife (now x-wife) began to design stuffed animals. These animals are not your basic beanie babies or some sort of stuff-a-bear-in-a-mall thing. These animals look real--really real. Back when I knew her, she was just starting out and her living room was always full of rabbit pelts that she was cutting up and refashioning into new animals. Her latest gig is to make stuffed animals that are replicas of real ones. Its better than taxidermy. She makes stuffed animals to look like real animals. I'm not kidding and I admit I think it is creepy. I located her after a quick google search. You may want to check out her website; it is not for the faint hearted, but this story will be even better if you are familiar with her work.

Anyway, one of the things she made for us long ago was a finger puppet that has the shape and feel of a teddy bear hamster. She might have made this puppet because Jacob had a series of hamsters who all died over a three or four year period. There was Ben, then Teddy, and then Wes, who it is suspected my mother coldly euthanized with a paper bag one rainy Oregon day. Perhaps this finger puppet was meant to soothe his loss. I am not sure what the truth of this matter was, but I like to imagine my cousin's x-wife, misty-eyed, threading her needle, getting ready to re-craft a bit of rabbit into a stand-in pet for my sensitive little brother.

Whatever the reason it was created, this tiny puppet looks really real. I think it is made of rabbit fur, it has black beady eyes, and little pink ears and a nose made out of suede. It is really quite amazing and if you put the puppet on your index finger and then wrap your other hand around the base of it, it looks like you have a real hamster. When we were in middle and high school Jacob and I used to trick our friends with it and on one occasion we so petrified Mom, she screamed bloody murder for at least 20 seconds without a breath. A giggle still rises up in me when I think of it.

FAST FORWARD 16 years. My children love to tease my mom about her fear of rodents. Nearly every time they talk to her, they mention a rat or a mouse or some such thing. They plot together (as Jake and I used to) ways to scare her and she gladly plays along--shrieking and shivering as much as possible.

So to carry on their little joke, in one of my mom's most recent shipments of my childhood junk to New Orleans, I found a lumpy, sealed envelope addressed to Sumner and Ramona. Since I always sort through these junk shipments from home when the children are not around--I fear they will lay claim to things that I think are rubbish--I was the one that found the envelope. I opened it and played with it for a few minutes one night, looking forward to showing it off to them the next morning.

As always, Sumner got up first. I was sure that he would be very excited to see this rodent replica. I imagined he, Ramona, Phil, and I using this hamster puppet to play practical jokes on all of our friends. I was sure that Sumner would find this rediscovered toy a pure delight. I was wrong.

At 5:45 the following morning, he got up and made his way downstairs to find me checking my email or making their lunches. I slipped the puppet on my finger as soon as I heard him on the steps and when he got to me I announced that we had a new pet, a hamster. Then I waited for him to examine the specimen. He looked confused and then asked, "Really?"

I directly offered to let him hold it and I put the puppet in his hand to let him discover the truth. He was puzzled and slightly disturbed.

"Grannabelle sent it," I told him. "It's a hamster puppet. Isn't it real-looking?"

He picked it up between two fingers and, looking over his glasses at me, asked, "Did they just hollow out a hamster to make it?"

That is a replica for you. Too good to be true. Or real.

I felt that old giggle rise in me again.