Seedlings

Yesterday some of our family and friends brought over their dogs and we put them in the backyard to romp.  They had a great time running after their toys and chasing each other through the rhododendrons.  So we left them out there, only to be horrified a short while later. Where my vegetable garden used to be were now craters that aliens could spot from Mars. Wilted seedlings lay on the grass.  The dogs had dirty noses, filthy paws, happy doggy grins as they stood in the middle of my destroyed vegetable garden. 

Which reminded me of a time a while back we took in a foster child.  Not that she dug up my vegetable garden, but the outcome was similar.  Who could be a foster child without a suitcase full of issues?  There were a lot of them, and we diligently worked with a therapist and teachers to help this girl.  The issues were too great however, and they determined our home was not the best place for her and she moved on.  It left some battle scars upon our family.

Edna St. Vincent Millay wrote a sonnet I had to go look up both then and now.  It’s about a farmer that has lost his entire crop to a flood:

“The broken dike, the levee washed away,

The good fields flooded and the cattle drowned,

Estranged and treacherous all the faithful ground,

And nothing left but floating disarray

Of tree and home uprooted,--was this the day

Man dropped upon his shadow without a sound

And died, having laboured well and having found

His burden heavier than a quilt of clay?

No, no. I saw him when the sun had set

In water, leaning on his single oar

Above his garden faintly glimmering yet…

There bulked the plough, here washed the updrifted weeds…

And scull across his roof and make for shore,

With twisted face and a pocket full of seeds.”

Hope.  What gardener doesn’t plant with that great commodity?  Who doesn’t love children without seeing what they might become?

So I’m sitting in my chair by the window with the book of poetry in my lap, gazing out at my garden. I think a lot about that little foster child and hope no matter where she is today that she is growing and blossoming wherever she is replanted.  God bless her now and forever.

I put the book away and slip on my boots.  I’ve got packets of seeds I need to go re-plant.

How to Grandparent

I didn't have much in the way of grandparents in my life to demonstrate how to grandparent.  Two of my grandparents died before I was born, one grandfather, who I struggle to remember, died when I was four, and one grandmother, who I fiercely loved, lived until I was thirteen, but we only saw her rarely.  When I was growing up it seemed the thing grandparents did best was pop off.

My husband didn't know any of his grandparents, and I'd be surprised if he even knew their names.

So now my daughter is expecting twins and I'm wondering what sort of grandparent I'm going to be.

If our dogs are any indication they will be frantic little children.  Our dogs get spun up at the slightest thing because we can't help engaging them, talking to them, going mad with delight at seeing them when we get home.  We wear them out playing with them daily and give them treats regularly.











If our cat is any indication, the grandchildren will be petted but pushed outside to play when they annoy us.  Yucky stuff they bring home will be quietly disposed of with no more said about the matter.


If our garden is any indication, the grandchildren might have some stellar features we show the neighbors, some weedy corners we overlook, and some magical, beautiful, truly unexplained corners where fairies live.  Regular thinning and pruning of undesirable elements is something we will do as a matter of habit, but we won't mind hiring a professional if things get out of hand, and we'll work alongside to make sure things get corralled.

If our cars are any indication, oh well, they get dirty. You can always wash them.  They need to be filled surprisingly often and at great expense.

If our old sweatshirts are any indication, we'll mend them when torn, forget they are stained, and keep them forever for no reason whatsoever other than we love them so.

I think we've been practicing for years to be grandparents and just didn't realize it.

Just bought my first serger!

OK, so it is not a 5 threader, but it does have differential feed.  It's probably one of the cheapest available, the Brother 1034D model from Amazon.com.  But I'm so excited to learn how to use it.  What are some of the best books for learning how?  Got any recommendations for me?

Meanwhile, I watch Martha Pullen's TV show every week and am just in awe of the things they are sewing.

Now that we have our first grandchildren arriving in November (TWINS!) I must do the thing I've looked forward to for years, which is be a grandma and sew cute little baby clothes.  Expectant daughter and her husband are very modern, so I must curtail my historical reenactor's desire for oodles of lace.  But now I can sew knits, onesies, and soakers (Is that a historical word?  What do they say now, diaper covers?).

I hear this one comes with a CD for learning how to use it, thank goodness.  I wonder if there are some classes in the local area.  Must go check...

I ran out of kids and had to go find more

They left me, the little sweeties.  Never mind that I loved 'em, wiped 'em, sewed for 'em, worried over 'em and went to all their plays, recitals, concerts and horse shows.  They had the audacity to grow up and move on.  Fiddlesticks.  What's a career mom to do?



Find more, that's what.  Didn't take long and I was a card carrying, T-shirt wearing, dues paying member of the Sea Scouts.  

What's even better, when they grow up, there are plenty more coming along.  It is a never ending delightful gush of giggling and self-conscious teens.  They gripe, they scream, they learn, they grow, they come into the galley and tell me all their hopes and fears.  They tell me about their crushes, their mean teachers, their every little problem.  Most of them want to be photographers, screenwriters or marine biologists.  

 

 They are sweet, often lazy, often wearisome and downright lovable.  I make them brownies, cajole them into cleaning up after themselves, and watch as they learn navigation, how to sail, and how to be leaders.

But meanwhile, I get to enjoy their wild rides down life's road.  Thanks kids.  But even better, it was so fun to hear my adult biological daughter say yesterday that she loved to listen to the teenagers at work as they described things that interested them.  She nodded and smiled, delighting in their journeys as much as I delight in hers.

Maurice Sendak Opens His Arms

Years ago, a little class of kindergartners from Thomas Academy headed to a mall for a book signing with Maurice Sendak.  They had been thoroughly drilled in proper etiquette, as they were wearing their uniforms and needed to have proper decorum.  "Yes, Mr. Sendak, no Mr. Sendak, thank you Mr. Sendak."  They clutched their copies of Where the Wild Things Are.

However, way up the mall corridor, only little boy spied Mr. Sendak and burst out: "Hey, MAUR-REECE!"

Mr. Sendak stopped signing, peered over his glasses, and then sat back and opened his arms.  A flurry of red sweaters broke ranks and went running to him to be swept up in his embrace.

Maurice Sendak lives forever in those hearts.

A Disappointing Celebration of 100 Years of Sea Scouts

For the 100^th birthday of Sea Scouts of America, the SSS Odyssey was chosen to host a fete.  Consequently, 750 invitations to a party were hand printed, hand addressed and sent out.  These went to most of the maritime industry, yacht clubs and Scouting friends throughout Puget Sound, WA. A group of sea shanty singers was booked to perform, a Boy Scout executive was contacted to speak about the history of Sea Scouts, the SSS Odyssey was cleaned and draped in flags and banners.  Soup for the shanty singers was prepared, cookies and cakes were obtained for 1,000 guests, and a venue was booked.  It promised to be a festive evening of song and celebration.

The soup and rustic bread was assigned to me.  I was to arrive at the venue and have soup ready for the sea shanty singers (about 12 plus wives).  I was told they would arrive at 5PM.  I was to be at the Maritime Museum on Dock Street, a place I am familiar with.

The soup was not hard to prepare, and I purchased rolls for an accompaniment.  I had two pots of clam chowder and a vegetarian option of tomato basil and pasta.  Two roaster ovens were being brought by Mr. Robert Goux, who had spent untold hours planning this event.  There was the usual flurry of preparation and boxes and boxes of accompanying flowers, supplies and implements.

Upon arriving promptly at the Maritime Museum, I found the site gutted and under construction.  This was slightly disturbing.  I drove around the area, trying to find where the Maritime Museum might have migrated.  Alas.  No sign of it.  I called several people, most of whom did not answer.  I had a new cell phone I barely knew how to work, but managed to connect to one person who said he did not know where it was.  Then: Ah-OOOO-gah!  My phone battery went dead.

Time to switch from modern technology to Daniel Boone mode.  I needed to figure out where this place was.  Getting out my best intuition flags, I semaphored my way up the street and found the museum in a warehouse.  I came in from the back side and discovered other Sea Scout adults unloading cookies.

There were supposed to be about 1,000 cookies, but somehow, the community college that provided them got the order messed up and gave us 3 or 4 times that many.  There were trays and tray of cookies.  Which is a good thing if you know teenage Sea Scouts.  They will never go to waste.

I asked about tables to serve the soup and electrical outlets.  There were tables of various sizes and a very 

helpful coordinator named Earla.  Unfortunately she had to deal with some very dicey electrical outlets, which kept turning off anytime someone plugged something into them.

We got tables set up and tablecloths one, but had to be very creative in finding electrical outlets to plug roasters and crockpots into.  For about an hour or more, we could not get the roasters nor crockpots turned on.  I was getting panicky as the sea shanty singers were due any moment.  Blessedly, they were caught in traffic, as they were driving from 2-3 hours away.  They live on Whidbey Island, and a sunny Friday in Puget Sound meant traffic issues.  They did not show up until 6:30.  Fortunately, most of them came hungry and ate my pots of soup and rolls, which were by now warmed up.

But very few others showed up.  Only about 25 of our Sea Scouts and a smattering of parents came out of the 1,000 guests expected.  The other Sea Scout ships were no-shows, as were the executives from Scout Hall.  None of the yacht clubs, none of the maritime trade, nor anyone really, showed up. The 750 invitations resulted in not one single person coming.

The sea shanty singers were a delight however, and entertained our 25 Sea Scouts and a few parents.  

The regimental silver was polished and brightly displayed, but it was too bad to have to pack up enormous cakes and thousands of cookies because no one came.

The Sea Scouts that came however, worked like fiends packing things, carrying boxes to cars, and putting away chairs.  Then they climbing into their 90 foot wooden sailboat and went off to Opening Day of boating season up in Seattle, a 30 mile jaunt in the dead of night.  Early next morning, the SSS Odyssey was again bedraped with flags and looking spiffy.  It is a shame that the night before, no one came to celebrate this amazing program that is daily creating leaders and responsible youth.