Cottage Blessings

The flowers that bloom in the spring, tra la . . . .

are not nearly as beautiful as this--five years' worth of clutter accumulated in the basement and now out on the curb:

We discovered mold growing in the basement and needed to have it removed--an expensive proposition! In the process, we were able to part with so many things we had been saving for no reason. When property is water or mold-damaged, saying goodbye is easy. Now I am overjoyed whenever I think about my clean, empty basement.

[By the way, we did not actually part with the pretty wooden kitchen set in the front--fortunately, it was salvageable!]

How do I love thee? Let me count the eggs

Not long ago, my friend Kari wrote to propose an idea so good that it left me almost beside myself with glee:

"Caroline and I would like to come watch the children on Wednesday while you do/go wherever. Will this work for you????"

Why, yes, as a matter of fact, it did work for me! And the note served as yet another reminder of what a blessing it is to have the world's most beautiful and thoughtful friends. While I was using this found quiet time, Caroline and Kari did more than merely watch the children. Caroline arrived with homemade dough, sauce and cheese to make the most delicious pizzas my homemade-dough-deprived darlings had ever eaten. (By a miracle, Marie, who cannot bear even the thought of pizza, loved Caroline's and asked for the recipe!) Kari brought jars of dye, candles, a ream of butcher paper and specialized tools to make Ukrainian Pysanky eggs. As you can see from the photographs below, the children learned a new skill, dying, waxing, and melting for hours.

If you are interested in learning the art of Pysanky, take a look at these step by step instructions or this online tutorial. I can't explain the steps myself, because while all this was going on, I was off writing a last minute addition to the Haystack!

As you can tell from the infrequency of my posting lately, life has been a whirlwind here for quite some time. This too shall pass, but in the meanwhile, we are beyond grateful for loving local friends always offering to help! [I realize that I can't link to most of them!]

Happy Easter tomorrow everyone!

Our Lady of All Patience

This afternoon, the older four girls and I went to First Saturday confession. I entered the confessional to repeat the same sin I confess month after month after month--"Father, I was impatient with the children." My pastor smiled, telling me (yet again) that he hears this from mothers all the time.

Is it any wonder that today, of all days, I came across this--a Hymn to Our Lady of All Patience (what a title!) written by none other than our beloved St. Louis de Montfort? Here it is, an anthem to Our Blessed Mother suitable for mothers everywhere:

Come to my assistance,
O gentle and divine Mary,
Come to my assistance!
I suffer and groan every day.
Be compassionate to my troubles.
Free me from them, I beg you.
Come to my assistance!

Help me,
You are most merciful,
Help me!
Everything is under your rule.
Give me then some help
Or at least, the gift of patience.
Help me!

Please click here for the next five stanzas of St. Louis' hymn. He really seems to have been suffering when he wrote it, but it is a fine testimony to his faith in Our Lady's love and care.

Christmas Eve, a photoessay

These pictures show the joy of Christmas Eve, although they leave out the visit to my mother after evening Mass. This was the first year since we have been married that she did not come to Mass with us, exchanging presents by our tree afterward. In many ways, this Christmas feels surreal and incomplete, yet, even in sorrow, there is great rejoicing--a time to laugh, a time to weep.

Daddy snapped this photo, although it would have been so much nicer if he had been in it. I love the way the little ones are tending to their crying Eileen. As you can see, I remain true to form, looking like a combination of Olive Oyl and Ruth Buzzi:

Usually, our tree is up about a week before Christmas, but this year we were putting ornaments on minutes before leaving for church:

After Mass, it was Marie's turn to put the Baby Jesus in our outdoor nativity:

We did not manage a "path lighted by candles," but our candlelight procession cast a warm glow on the cold winter's night:

The flames needed to be protected from winter wind while we sang carols:

And Marie tripped in the tangles beneath her feet, yet was none the worse for wear:

Warming up indoors, Daddy lit a fire and we exchanged our annual Kris Kringle gifts. Marie, my Kris Kringle this year, presented me with this lovely ornament:

And a picture worth treasuring:

Here is the newest tradition at our house--the Christmas Pyramid--a wonder of engineering given to me this year by Daddy and the children. It runs on the heat of three candles:

If you would like to see our new pyramid in operation, please click here: Christmas 2007. The children, right down to three year old Maureen, do a heartfelt and unrehearsed rendition of Away in a Manger. (They all think it sounds horrible, but I still love it, even with the little ones singing off key!)

Eileen's expression perfectly captures the warmth and joy we wish you this Christmas and always!

Glory to God in the highest!

Do you remember that Easter Pageant soldier?

The one who almost played the Blessed Mother, but fit the soldier costume instead?

Well, here she is again--this time beaming in blue!!!

Happy Fourth Sunday of Advent and Merry Christmas!

Eyes open

The house is not at all neat, so much so I have already announced to the children my resolve not to let the clutter get me cranky. I am going to turn a blind eye to it, remembering that a day will come when we will miss this evidence of fast-paced family life.

The tree is not up, and the large Nativity scene is not alight outside our window. Our Christmas cards are not yet mailed, and an alarming number of my gifts have not been purchased. Maureen and Eileen still need black shoes for Christmas Eve, and I have decided the Christmas village does not need to make an appearance this year.

A couple of days ago, I asked myself why things were so scattered this year. Why is the house so difficult to maintain and all the usual Christmas preparations so far behind? Of course, I realized the answer almost instantly, ashamed to have even asked the question. Needless to say, it is because my mother is not here! How often must she have tidied up without me even noticing--and I thought things were under control because we were all so neat. How many errands did I run leaving her home reading books to the little ones--and I thought things were getting done because I was such a good planner. How many times did she show up with stamps and drop off a bundle of mail for me on her way home--and I thought my cards were out on time because our family had thought ahead!

Now this post may sound like a pre-Christmas downer, but it is not at all meant to be. I make these observations with a grateful heart and unblemished smile, laughing to realize that, grown woman though I may be, I still had a bit of childish obliviousness toward all my mother was doing around here. She would say it was nothing, but the absence of nothing would not be so keenly felt, would it?

So thank you Mom, for four decades of dedication second to none. I hope I can do half as much for my seven children as you've done for me!

Candy Cottage for Our Lady

Last year, we began a new tradition in our home--putting up a gingerbread house on the Feast of Our Lady of Loreto, a date so closely associated with Our Lady's prayerful and holy home.

Hoping to continue the tradition simply and manageably this year, I purchased a Wilton Cottage Cake Pan a few weeks ago. It reminded me of the Holy House of Loreto as depicted on holy cards and in this coat of arms:

[Loreto Coat of Arms courtesy of International Civic Arms.]

We began with plain yellow cake mix, ready-made frosting, pink and purple sugars, gumdrops, gummi bears, mini-marshmallows, and colored wafers:

Once the cake was baked, it was a snap to frost in white. Theresa gave the cake a crumb coat, and Margaret and Marie to applied the candy embellishments. This they managed skillfully [I was making dinner and let them at it on their own] in spite of the help offered by Patrick, Maureen, and Eileen.

Margaret was particularly proud of her own innovation--a chimney made of mini marshmallows:

Here is the work in progress--Marie's snowman stands to the left:

It was my bright idea to put the cake on a pedestal cake pan to keep out of the way during dinner. We left it in the dining room on the piano out of reach of the little ones.

Midway through dinner, disaster struck!

We heard a sickening thud and raced in to find our candy cottage face up on the floor:

Margaret's chimney was no more:

And look at our poor piano! [This photo was taken after we cleaned the keys.]

Disappointed, but undaunted, Margaret set about a reconstruction. The fact that we already had a picture of the cake in its original glory was a comfort to her. We talked about the Holy House in Loreto and how angels carried it from the Holy Land to Italy to prevent its desecration. Our Candy House had moved unexpectedly too! We like to think the angels helped it land face up, even though it fell face forward. : )

Every year, I save particularly beautiful Christmas cards, knowing we may eventually find a good use for them, and this image of the Blessed Mother in red was just the thing for our pretty house. I left a bit of the card edge at the bottom to stick into the icing, creating a vibrant "Loreto" cake topper:

A group of cherubs hold up the base, reminding us of the many holy card images we have seen of Our Lady of Loreto:

At the end of the day, the children gathered round, of all things, the laptop computer. We made the Consecration to Our Lady of Loreto from the wonderful Minnesota Mom. Having just prepared for the Total Consecration on December 8th, this was especially meaningful.

Before bed, I blessed the children with Loreto Oil from the Holy House, sent by my dear friend Anne for my mother. What a blessing it is to have such good and thoughtful friends!

Our Lady of Loreto, pray for us! Bless our homes and our families, and make us more like you!

Noticing the Ideal

I was sitting comfortably with the baby on my lap when Marie came in with an announcement: "Maureen and I are having a puppet show upstairs, and it is about to begin! Come see it, Mom!"

Now, when it comes to our children's shows and skits, there is a tri-fold law that must never be broken:

1. The stage needs to be set in the farthest reaches of the house, usually up or down a flight of stairs;

2. The show must begin precisely when I least feel like walking up or down the flight of stairs; and [this next point is crucial]

3. The proceedings cannot take place without Mommy in attendance, sitting front and center.

I tried buying myself a bit of time, saying "later, honey" and "in a few minutes" and "don't you two need more time to rehearse?" But Marie won me over with persistence, begging, and, as a last resort, that certain pouty look she has managed to retain from babyhood.

Little Eileen was weighing heavily on my hip as I started the slow ascent up the stairs. The effort was already beginning to pay off though--I laughed outright to find the staircase lined with homely signs scrawled in pen: "Puppet Show this way [arrow pointing up]"; "Maureen and Marie's Puppet Show"; "We hope you injoy the show!" Marie had managed to assemble all the children for an audience--even the busy older girls.

The curtain rose to reveal a china doll and stuffed lamb. From behind a chair, Maureen's thin voice rose, "Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb." It was simple and sweet . . . but extremely beautiful in its ordinary way, particularly because it was taking place in an uncluttered, painted corner of the house. I leaned over and whispered to Theresa, sending her off to retrieve my camera. She returned a moment or so later, and I snapped the photos below.

On occasion, I have heard it said that blogs do not present a complete picture of the homes they represent. We see all beauty and perfection, without the blemishes. Some would even say that these worlds of domestic tranquility are created for the camera and do not truly exist apart from the blogs. Still, I believe that this beauty does exist, and it may be found in every home.

This side of Heaven, there is no perfection, and all families are, in different ways, "mourning and weeping in this valley of tears." Yet, even in the dark valley, we are called to "wait in joyful hope." God trains His sunshine upon us, showing forth His goodness always. Just as in every home there are sorrows, there is also an Ideal waiting to be noticed.

The Ideal presents itself in any number of ways throughout each day and need not be created or staged. We find it jumping for joy as Daddy drags the Christmas lights up from the basement; we see it waiting for us with a picture book and hopeful expression; we hear its muffled shouts of fun through the glass of our back windows; and we feel its limp, dozing warmth by the armload on our laps.

When I am on vacation and see a worthwhile sight, I reach for my camera. So it is at home (the most worthwhile place of all). Marie and Maureen's performance is now in my heart's history book, and I will look at it when I am gray(er) and smile again. Indeed, it was not the only thing that happened that day--I'm sure I scaled a mountain of dishes and probably fretted over clothes and toys on the floor. That is all right and well worth it. The returning miner exclaims and rejoices over the diamonds, leaving the crags and rocks behind.

Any home where breathes a child contains more joy, contentment and beauty than the most well-crafted picture book or extensive magazine spread. And even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.

*******

Scenes from a puppet show, performed with neither stage nor puppet

The curtain is down:

Baby Eileen makes her way backstage:

And is promptly kicked out:

Cheerful programs:

Brother Patrick, program in hand, waits for the show to begin:

Maureen narrates:

"There once was a little sister. They loved her very much . . . . ":

Marie feeds Maureen her lines:

The cast assembles for a curtain call:

Related Cottage Blessings post from last year

Jesse Tree in Miniature, Jesse Tree Full-Size

Last week I mentioned we would be hunting for our Advent Cubes from last year. What I had forgotten was that, during the summer, while we were away in San Francisco, a leak in the basement had done some damage in the boiler room. Unfortunately, the advent materials (among other things) were damp and useless when I uncovered them, leaving us to begin at square one with almost everything.

Fortunately, stuffed in the closet we had an 8 inch bare tree, meant as an accessory for the Christmas village I never get around to setting up year after year:

A while back a friend of mine had brought a box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates to our Mother's Tea and Rosary. It was beautiful and beveled, with exactly twenty-five small compartments, so I saved it hoping to create and Advent calendar of some sort:

One holy card was enough to transform the box into something perfect for Advent and Christmas:

Using the pictures of last year's Advent cubes, the four older girls and I spent Saturday afternoon making tiny ornaments out of Sculpey. With five pairs of hands, this did not take long:

Here they are before baking and painting:

They fit well in the candy box, ready to be taken out each day:

At eight inches high, the Jesse tree looks as if it sprang up right outside the Mission in Miniature. The Guadalupe holy card in the background will help show the small scale of the tree:

And here is something far more wonderful, a complete set of Jesse tree ornaments created for us by the mothers from my local homeschooling group--the brainchild of my generous and thoughtful friend Leticia! They knew things would be chaotic for us this year with my mother in the hospital and made me a complete set! We are so blessed to have these friends!

And, as if that is not enough, look at the perfect Jesse tree my friend Heather gave me for my birthday--she said the bird at the top reminded her of me! Thank you, Heather!

Love2Learn Mom meets Alice in Blunderland (complete without pictures)

What was Love2Learn Mom expecting?

We had only been planning her San Francisco visit for two short months (OK, maybe three). How could I possibly be ready when she arrived with a mere two or three months to prepare? And surely, she was not expecting for the children to be dressed or for us to have food or water in the house? Where on earth was I supposed to get food and water with only three months' notice?

If the incomparably endearing and good-humored Alicia was expecting the author of Cottage Blessings to be a gracious hostess--or even a normal human being--that folly was dashed within moments of entering our fabled manse in San Francisco. We were preparing to leave town only a few days later, and to say that I had lost control of things would be putting it mildly. When the doorbell rang at our appointed hour, I was on the phone upstairs, barely aware that the morning was over and our long awaited date had arrived. I bolted down the grand staircase in bare feet, greeting my hapless guest with apologies for everything from the bedraggled state of my hair to the sundry odds and ends collected (and waiting to go in boxes addressed for home) in the formerly beautiful front hallway.

Alicia laughed and smiled, merrily enduring the endless comedy routine I automatically go into whenever things go awry. [If you have ever seen a mother bird squawking and awkwardly feigning a broken wing to draw attention away from her hidden young, you will know about how delicately I use humor to keep guests' minds off my shortcomings.] We sat chatting in the living room--feeling uncannily like old friends [complete and utter disarray will do that]--while the children appeared in dribs and drabs like dwarves to the house of Beorn.

Or perhaps more like timid munchkins: "Come out, come out, wherever you are, and greet the young lady fresh from a cable car . . . ."

Not at all surprisingly, Alicia--a San Franciscan at heart--loved the grand old house, which was still glorious in spite of all the living we had done in it. She was at once taken with our large collection of books (amassed during a three month reading frenzy on all things San Francisco) poring over them with alacrity. If Alicia noticed that the baby was undressed and covered in pen marks from shoulder to foot or that Patrick and Maureen were wearing a layer of morning cereal on their shirts, she did not let on.

Before long, she found herself riding shotgun in the big white van, rolling up and down break-neck hills and bound for Golden Gate Park. We introduced her to one of our dearest friends and sipped tea in The Japanese Tea Garden. Over cups of Oolong, I took out my trusty digital camera only to discover that the memory card was back home in the card reader!

Alicia took the picture below at my urging. The purple plum in the center is actually Marie's San Francisco Zoo cap. It fell off her head as she leaned over the Drum Bridge to look for Koi and seemed to me the perfect still life representing the quirky things that kept happening that day. More than once, I found myself repeating, "You know, Alicia, we are not usually like this" or "I'm not really this ditzy, honestly, this is very unusual for me." Dear soul that she is, Alicia almost looked convinced!

Perhaps my favorite line from the entire day came from my daughter Agnes--it was uttered with heartfelt sincerity and spoke perfectly for all of us: "Mrs. ___, we have only known you for an hour now, but already I feel as if I am going to miss you."

And miss Alicia we do!!!

We would like to have another day just like it in New York, but this time with Alicia's children along as well!

*******
Trivia question: While in San Francisco, we had the pleasure of seeing both the wonderful Diane and the fabulous Alicia (among other friends). What other blogging Mommy greeted the same two guests this summer?

Back to the Future

It does not seem all that long ago I was saying goodbye to Lissa in my driveway at home in New York. She and her little ones had just spent a week with us, and they were returning to Virginia before moving to the other end of the known universe--San Diego, California.

Waving farewell, I remember the heart wrenching thought that we might not see each other again until our children's weddings!

If only someone could have shown me these photos of that darling pair of couch potatoes--together again and crazy about each other--exactly one year later!

Would anyone care to guess the name of the California town that happens to be our meeting place, not only because of its central location, but also because it was the only one that could accommodate us all on short notice? When you find out, I hope you will agree that it was meant to be.

*I did not even realize it was exactly one year, until taking a look at last year's post only a few moments ago. Amazing!

Beware the Shower Door

"Yet the sound increased -- and what could I do? It was A LOW, DULL, QUICK SOUND -- MUCH SUCH A SOUND AS A WATCH MAKES WHEN ENVELOPED IN COTTON. I gasped for breath, and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly, more vehemently but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why WOULD they not be gone?"

--from The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allen Poe

One evening in the not so distant past, I was helping the girls get ready for a special event--Christmas maybe, or perhaps a Communion. Whatever the occasion, it was important enough for me to comb each of their freshly-washed heads myself. I began with Agnes, sitting her in our upstairs bathroom, carefully parting her straight brown hair and running a comb through it. This tedious process always takes a while, and before long she was absently tapping our loose shower door with her foot. Back and forth went the foot, closing the faulty door, only to have it spring open again and again. "Honey," I said, not especially liking the repeated taps, but still unruffled, "Would you please stop doing that?" "Sure, Mom," she said, immediately pulling her foot away from the door as I continued to comb.

Finishing up, I called Theresa into the room, carefully parting her straight blonde hair and running my comb through it. Before long, I heard a tapping and saw that Theresa was nudging the loose shower door closed with her foot, only to have it fall open once more. "Theresa, could you stop doing that?" I said firmly, "The noise is bothering me." "Sure, Mom," she obliged, retracting her foot as I continued to comb.

Next in the chair was (then) six-year-old Margaret, who had been playing dolls in her room with Marie. I carefully parted her strawberry blonde hair, running my comb through it. Within minutes, I could hear a tapping--a maddening, grating, inexcusable tapping. Margaret was closing the loose shower door with her foot, reclosing it each time it fell open. "Margaret!!!" I bellowed like a Bear in a Baiting, "WOULD YOU STOP OPENING AND CLOSING THAT SHOWER DOOR?!!!!"

Margaret looked dumbfounded--my sudden outburst in that enclosed space taking her entirely off guard. She did not even cry, but just stared aghast, her stark white face going red to the ears. In my mind, there was nothing for her to be surprised about--hadn't I repeatedly been saying to STOP making that awful noise?

Within ten seconds, of course, I realized what I had done. My patience had been worn thin by the tapping and the monotony of combing head after head after head. Margaret had not done anything wrong, although it certainly felt as if she had. Collecting myself, I apologized to her, explaining exactly what happened. We shared a laugh over it, and all was well again as I finished combing that strawberry head.

Every now and then, a single event shines a floodlight upon hundreds of others, and so it was with this one. How often had I lost patience with one child over something inconsequential when in reality my nerves were frayed by one or two or half a dozen other people who had just done the same thing? [This is completely understandable too, isn't it? No mother wants to yell at her kids--that Bear in a Baiting would much rather be eating blueberries placidly, or better yet snoring in her cave!]

To this day, when I feel the heat of maternal indignation rise within me, I try holding off just long enough to ask myself the question: Am I being fair, or am I giving my child "The Shower Door"?

And when, as it often does, it turns out to be the latter, we usually share a laugh over it!

Gables, Steeples, and Other Points

Well, I promised a point to those early posts about our grand lodgings here in San Francisco, and it seems my day of reckoning is at hand. The trouble with beating around the bush for a month is that sometimes, in the business of living, you realize your original impression and intended "point" were not precisely right. You find that maybe you should have taken some time before drawing (and worse, promising) a conclusion.

So here is where I finally get to my original point before admitting new facts in complete opposition to it--then swiftly reconcile the two, so that I appear to have been right all along. (Ah, that law school training finally comes in handy.)

When we first arrived, you will recall, we were impressed and even overwhelmed by the
beauty of this place. Yet, quite honestly, it left me uneasy and wound up—the way I might feel wheeling a triple stroller though a narrow-aisled crystal factory. Our son Patrick hated the place right off the bat. Victorian gables and elaborate furnishings suggest haunted houses to little boys, and he would not so much as walk from one room to the next by himself for a full month.

The girls, although enamored at first, did not really fare much better. Only Agnes continued to love her surroundings without complaint (primarily because of a volume of Shakespeare eight inches thick to keep her occupied). It was clear the other girls felt stifled, as if they could not play or do anything lest something should break. Television viewing and bickering were embraced as cherished hobbies, and I began wondering if we had not entered the region of California known as “Whine Country.”

After a few days of beating up against the bars of her gilded cage, Theresa seemed to speak for one and all by exclaiming, with no small measure of disgust, “I feel as if this is a Stuck Up House.”

Now according to thirteen-year-old Agnes, there are two subjects Mommy is obsessed with and raises whenever possible—the importance of choosing a good husband (if they are one day called to married life) and the perfection of small houses. My speeches on husband selection usually take the form of pointing out potential “red flags” to keep in mind for the future, red flags being things like nose piercings, pink hair, unnerving tattoos, smoking, excessive drinking, sullenness, dishonesty, tax evasion, bad manners, a criminal record, boorishness, reckless driving, reluctance to hold doors, soup slurping, and a seemingly bottomless list of other quirks and foibles I do not wish to see in a son-in-law.

My speeches on small houses, on the other hand, are designed to help my girls become content and joyful in any surroundings. Hopefully (so my theory goes), if the children see small spaces and cottages as the ultimate in beauty and coziness, they will avoid a lifetime of yearning, covetousness, disillusion, debt, and discontent. The moment the girls grumbled about our stately manor house here in San Francisco, I felt validated. “You see?” I remarked smugly sagely, “It is just as I have always told you. Big houses do not lead to happiness! Remember this when you grow up!”

This was the point I was planning to reach in those first few posts, and I probably would have attempted to make it more delicately were it not for everyone’s complete and utter change of heart.

Once again, Theresa acted as the mouthpiece for one and all. As we sat talking about our love for San Francisco, hoping to return one day to this ethereal City by the Bay, the coiner of the term “Stuck Up House” declared (and adamantly, I might add), “If we do come back, I hope we can stay here again. San Francisco just wouldn’t be the same without this house.”

So you see my dilemma? I was trying to come to a point based on my daughter’s feelings over a month ago, and experience appeared to have taught her the complete opposite. Moreover, she had uttered my own unspoken thoughts as well. I would be lying if I did not admit to loving every inch of this place, each tasseled curtain and soaring ceiling, the front stairs, the back stairs, and all five glorious mantels. Even the reluctant Patrick has his favorite nooks and corners, perfect for pitching sheet tents or establishing imaginary zoos in which he is the naturalist in charge of all exhibits.

Mulling things over afterward, I realized what had happened, relieved to find the “point,” though off shivering in a silken-tasseled corner, still remarkably intact. No house could make us happy--WE had made the house happy! We did not love this place because it was opulent. We loved it because we had begun to fill it with family history and memory. It was no longer a looming, antiseptic, untouchable museum, but a living, breathing bower of light and life. It would forever be the fairgrounds for Margaret’s nightly “baby romps” and theatre for Agnes’ loving readings of Romeo and Juliet. It would form the backdrop in our minds for Maureen’s historic penny swallowing, Eileen’s first birthday and her triumphant maiden voyage up a full flight of stairs. In six weeks time, we had inflated this house with our laughter, sprinkled her with tears, affronted her through tiffs and tantrums, and impressed her with our lofty thoughts. We prayed many a Rosary wrapped in her embrace and transformed her trim gilded gables into steeples for the Domestic Church.

It is the family that finds its own measure of contentment, joy, and sorrow wherever it may be, and I hope the children will come away remembering this new adage: “Be it ever so humble--or extravagant--there’s no place like home."

In which we become the victims of a petty crime

[Margaret at Golden Gate Park, June 25, 2007.]

A day or so ago, I shared the story of our evening in downtown San Francisco and the homeless woman who spoke so lovingly to our son Patrick. Little did I know then that we had already become the victims of a petty crime.

Our daughter, Margaret, has a backpack she takes with her everywhere, so much so that we joke about it being the quietest member of the family. Rescued from a friend’s “things to give to charity” pile several months ago, her black backpack was the only thing she brought from New York to San Francisco, its zippered coffers brimming with origami squares, souvenir pennies, snippets of ribbon, self-authored comic strips, Sacajawea dollars, stiff cardboard dolls, and other Useful Things.

True to her faithful practice, Margaret had the pack with her the night we joined Daddy downtown for the fireworks. Dutifully leaving it in the car at my request, she did not even think of her beloved backpack until we arrived home many hours and one cable car ride later.

The next morning, we piled into the van to head to Golden Gate Park. To Margaret’s dismay, the beloved backpack was not on the seat where she had left it. She begged me to check inside the house, and I conducted a diligent search, but we knew for certain we had never brought it in. I called Daddy as our last ray of hope, but he confirmed what I already suspected—the backpack had been stolen.

As you might imagine, Margaret was devastated when I broke the news. Her face turned a dismal white, then a heartbroken shade of pink, and she sobbed, long, heaving, cries of despair and disbelief. Each moment brought a new remembrance of some trinket or treasure lost—the compact from Aunt Jenn’s wedding, a paper doll skirt made for her by Katie Barrett, the scissors Grandma mailed from New York. Trifles to all the world, but Margaret.

My mind wandered back to a time in the eighties. I was a freshman in high school and had my first real pocketbook, a blue and white striped cloth shoulder bag. It was jammed full of all my worldly possessions—a battered hairbrush, a velcro wallet stuffed with photos of classmates, a wedding photo of my parents, a black and white Woolworth’s shot of myself with my father (taken when I was still young enough to have blonde hair), a Pacman key chain, expired lift tickets from a memorable ski trip, a John Lennon button. It was all gone—stolen from my side at a fast food restaurant. How I mourned for it, shedding bitter tears over things with no value to anyone but me.

Margaret was still crying and receiving words of consolation from her sisters when I pulled into the local shopping strip. We were on our way to the park, and bagels and coffee were in order, theft or no theft. Margaret grieved for each item as she remembered it: her Klutz Paper Fashions (a year’s worth of labor, lovingly organized in a bright red binder), her four-colored pen from the San Francisco Zoo, her mechanical pencils. I left Agnes and Theresa in charge as I quickly ran in to place our order at Noah's. Standing by myself in line, I pondered the circumstances, realizing that pain and disappointment are a part of growing up. There is not very much a mother can do to avoid sorrows for her child. Life can be difficult at times, and we all need to learn it sooner or later.

My mind wandered back to a time in the seventies. The blonde-haired baby to my Sunshine Family set was missing—stolen by a little girl on my block. It had an identifying (and thereby incriminating) fuzzy spot on the top of its head, yet she was claiming it had “turned up” in her room. My mother listened to the sorry tale and had one swift and decisive response, “Get in the car, Alice. We’re going to the toy store.” By the end of the afternoon, I had a smooth-haired Sunshine Family baby in a plastic faux wicker bassinet. By the end of the week, "Smoothie" was reunited with her fuzzy-headed twin, thanks to the ingenuity of my best friend across the street. (I'll spare you the details!)

By the time I stopped thinking about those Sunshine Family "twins," I was on line at the "5 and 10" next to Noah's. In my basket was a set of sparkly pens, a star-studded binder, sheet protectors, watercolors, glue, scissors, origami paper, stickers, colored pencils, and one spang new red and white backpack. (I had already run into the adjacent bookstore for Klutz Paper Fashions, snapping up the last set with glee.) Life would have its disappointments for Margaret, and there would not be a blessed thing I could do about them, but on the morning of July 5, 2007, there was still something I could do, and I would do it--with a glad and grateful heart--just as my own mother had thirty years ago (and perhaps a bit more recently too).

Margaret has thanked me every day since then, the two of us even managing to steal down to the kitchen to admire her newly created Paper Fashions over a cup of tea. Blowing on a spoonful to cool, she looked at me very seriously and said, “Mommy, I’m not happy the backpack was stolen, but one thing makes me very happy—now, I’ll go home with a backpack and a story to tell!”

How very true, Margaret. How very, very true.
[Margaret at Golden Gate Park, July 6, 2007.]

Would the dear angel please stand up?

Yesterday morning, the children noticed a large package poised tantalizingly on the front steps. After tearing it open (in a scene reminiscent of Christmas morning), we found this:

Clearly, one of you darling friends saw our saturated (and brand new, I might add) GeoSafari Talking Globe and came to the rescue! Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I am overwhelmed and deeply moved.

Now the question is: WHO? : ) : ) : )

Would the thoughtful darling please stand up?

Learning Room Lament

What good is having a blog if you can't look for sympathy on a daily basis? : ) : ) : )

As you can see, I wasn't kidding when I said things are looking worse now!

The floor is pretty frightening as well!

Cottage Catastrophe

Friday it was cold, extremely cold, mind numbingly, bone chillingly cold.

Saturday it was warmer, cheerily warmer, ice thawingly, mud meltingly warmer.

Today it was Springtime, bright blessed springtime, birds singingly, pipes burstingly springtime . . . .

That's right dear friends, the theme for this week is: MASSIVE DESTRUCTION.

It seems, horrified readers, that a pipe froze on Friday, thawed on Saturday, and proceeded to rain down on our furniture and books for, oh, about a day and a half.

The girls had been looking for a diversion this afternoon and asked permission to go next door to the cottage to make fairies. Moments later, the ill-fated party returned bellowing and breathless, barely coherent with cryptic ejaculations of "hissing sound!" "ceiling down!" and "sopping books!"

Dh and I sprang to our feet and were standing amidst the wreckage in a trice, not believing our eyes. Part of the ceiling had collapsed, the paint on the walls was bubbling, my wooden furniture was peeling, and our school books, notes and projects looked like noodles in a can of Campbell's. I think if the Superintendent of Public Schools could have shown up at that moment (preferably toting a chainsaw, or maybe just a really rusty pencil sharpener), we would have had all the elements of the perfect homeschooler's horror movie.

Here are some spine-tingling previews of the would-be flick now:

Here is a bit of melodrama for you: Do you see the soaking white pouch on top of "The Wheels on the Bus"? (Bottom Left.) It is one of the bags from "A New Beginning."

This Hail Mary Angel was a gift from our beloved neighbors when we moved from our old house. With a bit of cleaning up, she will return to her rightful place of honor in our learning room:

The funny part is--and I do not know why--this does not bother me! Yes, I was sorry to lose the books, particularly the children's projects (a year's worth of Agnes' artwork for example, not to mention a book of religious poetry inherited from my father), but isn't this really why Our Lord said:

"Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and decay destroy, and thieves break in and steal. But store up treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor decay destroys, nor thieves break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there also will your heart be." Mt. 6: 19-21.

Honestly, I am not at all trying to sound saintly or sanctimonious. (Truth be told, much of my calm comes from the naive belief that a good portion of this will be paid by our insurance company. Believe me, if my photo albums had been on those shelves I would have cried like a baby.) Still, maybe I am becoming a bit more mature. Perhaps, after thirty-nine years of seeing objects come and go, I am finally figuring out how not to put too much of my heart into things that are passing away with all speed. Seeing my husband set to work hauling and hefting, mopping and airing, all I could think about was the blessing it is to have a sturdy and steadfast husband--my prayer is that our problems may always be this inconsequential!

As for the books, I was starting to feel that our curriculum lacked pizzazz this year. There is no doubt--none whatsoever--that, freed from the bondage of certain Math, Language Arts, and Spelling standards, we will have more time to pursue the things we *love,* and learning will go on. It will flourish like a tree newly pruned.

I am seeing lots of Montfort, Montgomery, Shakespeare, Homer, Comstock, Caroll, and Keats in our future. Rejoice with us!

*******
A word to MacBeth: Do you see that sopping pile of books? The ones on the very top of the right hand bookshelf in the first picture? Well, that's the Jacques Cousteau trilogy you sent home with Patrick last Halloween. We will not be returning them, but I think you will agree that at least they met a fitting end.

Most hilarious phrase choice of the day: A dear friend called to see if we would still be getting together tomorrow. I told her my sob story, and she was very understanding. "It's OK," she said, "we'll take a rain check!"

The Coffers of Grace

That picture says it all, doesn't it?

It happened a few days before Christmas (the 22d of December to be exact), but I hesitated to write a forlorn post just before the celebration of Our Savior's Birth. Here is my tale of woe:

Anyone who has been to our home cannot help but notice our statue of Our Lady of Fatima. Displayed in the most prominent corner of our family room, it has been our centerpiece, inspiring us through countless family rosaries, May Crownings, and First Holy Communions, a vivid reminder that the Mother of God is Queen of our Home and Hearts.

Every year, we make way for the Christmas Tree, temporarily reassigning our lovely statue to a less crowded room. She was in an odd spot on the floor awaiting the yearly move when Patrick bounded in from the living room. I was getting a few surprises ready for him and his sisters, so I said, "No, honey, don't look! These are meant to be a surprise." In his five-year-old simplicity, he decided to avoid seeing the surprises by hiding, hastily thrusting the couch forward in an effort to dash behind. It all happened in an instant, but the couch tipped into the statue, knocking it off balance. It felt as if I saw Our Lady falling in slow motion for ten minutes. I called out, "No!" but it was too late. Down she crashed with an unspeakable and sickening thud.

The girls streamed in from all directions, and Patrick looked dazed. Instantly, our jovial Christmas mood lied in ruins with our statue, and we stood dumbfounded, gazing upon the poor forlorn pieces in disbelief. A few of the girls began to sob, and I hastened to remind them that Our Lady was still with us, even if her image was beyond repair. They knew it already--that was plain--but it was the kind of comfort one gives to the victim of a flood who has just lost her wedding album. At least our dear Patrick was consoled when I assured him he had done nothing wrong, particularly because the poor boy was only trying to obey me.

Throughout that night and the next day, the optimist in me yearned to find some joy in this tale, but my thoughts seemed to fall flat. Grasping for something that would give meaning to the loss, I thought about Our Lady making way for her Son--she always steps aside for Him and would have gladly done so to help us prepare for Christmas--placing her new born Babe to the center where He belongs. Still, remembering the Mystery of the Assumption and knowing that Our Lord did not allow His mother's pure body to undergo corruption, a shattered statue seemed an imperfect symbol, at best. I pondered and sought, but my thoughts and and musings seemed in vain. We had a broken statue, and that was that.

Then, while reading late last night, I found this:

"God the Father gathered all the waters together and called them the seas or maria. He gathered all his grace together and called it Mary or Maria. The great God has a treasury or storehouse full of riches in which he has enclosed all that is beautiful, resplendent, rare and precious, even his own Son. This immense treasury is none other than Mary whom the saints call the 'treasury of the Lord.' From her fulness all men are made rich."

--St. Louis de Montfort, True Devotion to the Blessed Virgin

It seemed St. Louis de Montfort was showing me how to think about this story. Our broken statue became the symbol of the Treasure that is Mary--abundant and bursting with graces for mankind--ready and waiting to be broken open so that she may dispense jewels and riches upon all those who ask. It may sound silly, but I began to see our battered statue as an earthly representation of the Heavenly Piggy Bank of Grace that is our beautiful Blessed Mother, and she seemed to be reminding us yet again (as she instructed the children at Fatima) that we must not neglect to ask for our share of the wealth.

*******
In spite of a hard landing on the brick fireplace surround, Our Lady's face and hands remained beautifully intact, and we will save them forever. Margaret begged, through tears, to be allowed to keep the hands and wrapped them lovingly in a flower-flecked piece of fabric. The rest of the pieces will be buried in our garden. A friend told me recently that St. Joseph of Cupertino, the reluctant saint, once broke a statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary, but saved the head always. Perhaps he may become a family patron.

If you have a moment to look at some old photos, you will see a few memories of our statue. I purchased her for our very first May crowning (well, at least our first May Crowning with a crowd of friends) in 2001. The statue arrived the morning of the event, and, as you will see in the next two pictures, three year old Margaret was enamored of it. All while our guests sang hymns and processed with flowers, she stood transfixed in her blue flower-sprigged dress, unable to remove her gaze from Our Lady's face:

It was Theresa's turn to crown Our Lady that first year, and she managed beautifully.

Seeing our old living room brings a smile to my face, and I remember the theme for that first Crowning--To Jesus, Through Mary: Our Mother always leads us to Her Son:

Beginning with Agnes, our First Communicants have all crowned the statue directly after Mass. This photo shows Theresa (with dh) in May of 2003, the second of our three oldest girls to have the honor of crowning the statue on her First Communion Day:

Cottage Blessings readers will recognize this photo of our most recent May Altar:

And Our Lady was in the background during that expectant Mommy shot last Easter:

We have dozens of photos like this one, images snapped by the children with the digital camera. After all, if you get your hands on Mom's digital camera, why not photograph the most beautiful thing in the house?

Oh, and the story has a happy ending, friends, so do not feel too sorry for us. My mother immediately and insistently offered to replace the statue as a family Christmas gift. Theresa and I tried to purchase a new one this past weekend, but the face on the one in the store did not seem as beautifully painted as our cherished statue, and the new one seemed much smaller somehow. We decided not to bring it home just yet, but hopefully, we will be blessed to unveil a new beauty in time for May this year!

The Short Long Winter

Mom: So, Patrick, do you like The Long Winter?

Patrick: Nope.

Mom (surprised): Really, why not?

Patrick: It's long!

*******
Life imitated art in the cottage tonight.

To begin with, I served the family a meal to mirror the one we had been reading about in The Long Winter by Laura Ingalls Wilder--pot roast, pan gravy, mashed potatoes--it was everything a snowed-in pioneer family with dwindling provisions could desire. The girls, bless their hearts, instantly recognized my purpose, entering right into character. With one or two pointed remarks about "running low on flour," "the train from the east" and "burning straw," dinner was passed most pleasantly, although we all missed Pa who was apparently out in the stable tending to the stock.

Later on, Ma was washing up with Mary and Laura, when Mary remarked upon how determinedly cold the kitchen seemed. (Blindness sharpens the other senses.) The indefatiguable Laura looked wide-eyed and shivery, and even Ma had to admit that the sink water was running rather icily.

Sure enough, our heat was out--in real life--and no crisis has ever been better timed!

With all the gravity and unflappable level-headedness of Ma, I told the children we must pass the time as best we could until the heater could be fixed, ordering them to wear their warmest nightclothes. [They change into pajamas every night--why is it that tonight the process seemed--and was--magical?] They were back in a flash and all smiles, with Marie sporting an ensemble that could best be described as a "get-up": a too-short red plaid nightgown, stray ballerina pajama pants, and a lamb-studded pink button down sweater. Crowning the effort most emphatically was mommy's brown felt hat, absurdly cute when worn by a seven year old and tilted just so. Our intrepid girl looked as if she could have held out until Spring and quite possibly intended to do just that.

Still in character as Mary and Laura, the older girls swaddled Maureen (our Grace) in toasty blankets, and we all huddled together in the big four poster bed upstairs to read. The advancing chill added to the ambiance, so that it was a joy to begin each new chapter--The Wheat in the Wall, Not Really Hungry, For Daily Bread, Four Days' Blizzard--surrounded by those bright-eyed blanket-bound listeners. Patrick and Maureen dozed on a pillow next to me, and the older girls lounged comfortably on all sides. I half expected to hear Pa's fiddle ring out in the distance or perhaps the windswept whir of a storm brewing, but the next sound we heard was a smart rap on the front door.

No, gentle readers, it was not Mr. Edwards or even Almanzo Wilder, but only the oil burner repair man. The moment his unmistakable poundings met Ma's ear, she thrust baby Grace (by this time played by understudy Eileen) to the nearest empty-handed girl and bounded off to let him in, returning to 2007 by way of the front stairs and ending our little fantasy for the night.

But, oh, it was fun while it lasted!

A Cautionary Tale

If you ever find yourself thinking, "Oh good! There is a boy baby in our new paperdolls set! I will give him to my brother so he won't feel left out"--think again.

Or you might end up like Tony.

Poor kid, never had a chance.

Sisterly Love

This morning, I was cuddling Maureen (2) in my arms and couldn't resist gushing, "You are adorable! God was so good giving you to me!" Without skipping a beat, she replied, "And God was so good giving Eileen to me!"

Seeing Maureen's heart so full of love for her baby sister has been such a joy. Two days ago, I brought the two babies to the doctor for well visits. Maureen was affronted to receive a pair of shots, one right after the other. Moments later, it was Eileen's turn. As the doctor made ready to administer Eileen's vaccination, I noticed Maureen watching solemnly from her chair, her two great blue eyes still red from her own traumatic experience. When she realized Eileen would be getting a shot, she blessed herself in a left-handed toddler triangle, folded her hands, and began praying for her! It was all I could do not to run past the doctor and scoop Maureen up into my arms right then and there to cover her kind little face with kisses.

Baby Eileen could use a few extra prayers, by the way. She has a long dent in her head where two plates do not seem to be joining evenly on both sides. The doctor thinks it will probably be just fine, so I am not all that worried, but he is going to