Wake Up, Wilson Street

One of the quietest, loveliest books that we read to the girls is out of print – Wake Up, Wilson Street by Abigail Thomas with illustrations (really paintings) by William Low. A grandmother and her grandchild sit and look out the window in the early morning and watch Wilson Street awaken. The sun comes up,…

Many Moons – Once upon a time…

When the girls were little, I never missed an opportunity to read James Thurber’s Many Moons to them.  It is the story of the Princess Lenore who “fell ill of a surfeit of raspberry tarts” (something we wish we could all relate to in the dead of winter) and takes to her bed. The king,…

In which we begin…

This holiday break we were the house of critters.  We dog walked, kitten entertained, fish sat, and hosted Po the bunny for the duration of the break. Po is a cute little guy, and I had no idea that I would find him so darn entertaining to have around.  The first day he was at…

Prunish

a poem – by me Prunish A dear friend brought me one hundred and eighty one plums. She counted them. Dark purple, dusky, Italian plums. Blue plums. Prunes. A huge responsibility, not wasting them – I remembered this happened to my mother – suddenly a lug of plums in her possession. She paid someone else…

Garden – intentional and accidental

The garden report for the day includes these details: Our compost is never hot enough to breakdown seeds, and this year the compost itself sprouted. When the rabbits took out huge sections of our intended crops, we said, “Why the heck not?” and moved a bunch of things from the compost to the beds.  What…

Varnishing

It has been a long time since I sanded and varnished as much as I have these last few days. The impetus to woodwork comes from a number of directions. It has been oddly mild this year, so August weather has allowed long days in the yard, on the driveway, working. My oldest daughter is…

When the theatre makes me cry

My children know that I am a sucker for a sad movie or television show. I cry when watching The West Wing, I cannot watch a film about a dog. Or a horse. Or a dog or horse equivalent. I cry. I cry EVERY TIME I see The Iron Giant. But theatre does not make…

My new metaphor for not giving up: Carrowkeel

On our way to Sligo, we made a side trip to Carrowkeel, a megalithic passage tomb cemetery on a hilltop. Here is the cool stuff you might want to know about Carrowkeel. But that is not what I want to write about. I want to write about not giving up. At every obstacle there was…

Driving on the left side of the road

Sunday in Dublin is quiet – so we decided to chance the line at the Trinity College library and their illuminated manuscript, the Book of Kells. Now it’s a pretty cool thing, I will say, and I’m a big fan of illuminated manuscripts in general. The line was a bit daunting. But as it was…

Dublin, our first day in Ireland

As flights go, ours technically was flawless. Off on time, arrived early, lovely weather. We made some young woman’s day when she discovered that the two people on either side of her (us) were happy to take the center seat. We did have the screamiest child ever in the seat right in front of me….

The terracotta girl

We’ve been working hard on the yard this year. After Paris, my yard and garden felt like an unmade bed, and although I will never achieve that level of espalied and manicured plants, I thought that I could do a better job of balancing the purposefully planted to wild flower (read weeds) ratio. So I…

Today I was twelve again

Today I attended a teacher workshop – day three of the five introductory days to a year-long exploration of American Art in the humanities classroom. The topic is fascinating, the scholarship formidable, and the cohort small. Twenty four of us. They are doing a fair share of modeling instruction techniques, and we start each day…