Cottage Blessings

A Step Back in Time

The Roman city of Pompeii, suddenly decimated by the wrath of Mount Vesuvius, is, as you know, a perfectly preserved example of an Ancient Roman town. There to this day you will find uncracked eggs gathered in a bowl, a leashed dog curled in endless sleep, pots and pans left set to boil upon the fire--the precise and permanent picture of life as it was at a distinct moment in time.

This was exactly the way we found things here at home upon our return from San Francisco.

The truth is that I had done no preparation for our three month trip, hurling some clothes in a box to be shipped to our destination one or two days before leaving New York and that's about it. Upon our return, I was amazed to find the house exactly as we had left it, the perfect time capsule of our life back in May. A script from A Midsummer Night's Dream sat splayed on its spine; a Scrabble game in progress awaited a next move on the coffee table; a pitcher of pink peonies drooped forlornly on the mantle, the centerpiece from our almost forgotten Rhododendron Tea.

The Mary Garden outside, long neglected and left to nature, reminded me of Sleeping Beauty's Castle, the green things embracing Our Lady so that we could hardly find her. Full grown melons we had never planted huddled beneath the hostas, their vines and yellow blooms crocheted in a chain stitch throughout the unruly bed. Tomatoes sprang up mysteriously, the evidence of a child's afternoon snack all those months ago.

It was only yesterday--believe it or not--that I entered the learning room in the cottage for the first time, surprised to find scrap paper, books, blocks--all left in their places since May. I reached for a garbage bag, tossing the useless papers indiscriminately, when my eye fell upon a bright yellow sheet covered in numbers. It was Agnes' scrap paper from last year's foray into Algebra. Words were written on one side that made me laugh out loud--the "doodling" of a student whose mind was evidently more on Shakespeare and A Midsummer Night's Dream (not to mention escape!) than anything else.

Here is her simple [she's only changed a few words from the original], yet amusing, parody of Nick Bottom's speech to the "Wall" from Pyramus and Thisbe, the play within a play:

O grim-look'd math! O math with print so black!
O math, which ever art when play is not!
O math, O math! alack, alack, alack,
I fear my mother's promise is forgot!
And thou, O door, O sweet, O lovely door,
That stand'st between the smaller house and mine!
Thou door, O door, O sweet and lovely door,
Show me thy pane, to blink through with mine eyne!

Thanks, courteous door:
Jove shield thee well for this!
But what see I?
No recess do I see.
O wicked door, through whom I see no bliss!
Cursed be thy wood for thus deceiving me!

*******

I must admit to enjoying this visit to our lives as they were in May.

Still, I think it may be time for a bit of spring cleaning to bring us back into the present!

[This is the 500th Cottage Blessings post.]

Sun-bleached bones, gargoyles, and one unlucky elk

can only mean one thing:

One of my favorite people in the world has a brand new blog!

And the memorable stories are just beginning to pour in!

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?

Pink blur captured on film

Give the people what they want

"Nothing is a waste of time if you use the experience wisely."

--Auguste Rodin

By popular demand ("popular" meaning, at least one or two people), I give you Rodin's Thinker in cream cheese (circa 2001):

"The modes of expression of men of genius differ as much as their souls."

--Auguste Rodin

I usually work in cream cheese, but bronze is nice too

Several years ago, Brigid O'Neill and I were emailing each other back and forth commiserating. Our local homeschooling group was supposed to be having a "World's Fair" of sorts. The details of this ill-fated event are unimportant now--suffice to say the Fair was canceled at the last minute because of Chicken Pox. Ever the clever one, Brigid emailed me a photograph of the project she had been working on to represent France--an enormous Eiffel Tower made entirely out of sugar wafers! This marvel of icing and engineering--looking for all the world like a collaboration between Leonardo and the Keebler Elf--would never see the light of day.

Eager to make Brigid laugh, I showed the pictures to dh, asking for his help. What if we were to make something huge, I suggested, say, an Arc de Triomphe out of kitchen utensils, photograph it, and email it to her? It would make her chuckle no doubt. Dh, oddly enough, was not keen on a massive (and almost pointless) building project at eleven o'clock at night.

With the muscle behind the operation headed off to bed, practically no materials or ideas, and a desperate, overwhelming need to make Brigid laugh, I turned to the only thing in the house still humming at that hour--the refrigerator. Swiping a cold block of cream cheese from the door and slipping it out of its silvery case, I set to work smoothing and pinching and poking and giggling to myself until I had a pint-sized replica of Rodin's Thinker. Photographing it from all angles, I wrote to Brigid triumphantly, "You think you're disappointed? Look what I was going to bring!"

It was absurd and ridiculous and hysterical, of course, and Brigid wore out her L-O-L keys responding, printing the photos to display in her kitchen from that day forward.

Now, it is a little known fact that, in order to appreciate fine arts and sculpture fully, one must first replicate it in cream cheese, so you can imagine my great joy when we stumbled upon San Francisco's famous statue of the Thinker at the Legion of Honor Art Museum. (Of course, Rodin's piece was not as sensitive and unique as mine, nor can it be served on a bagel, but it has its merits too.)

Our happy discovery took place a little over two weeks ago. The children and I left home early with no definite plans other than a stop at Peet's Coffee. Sipping my latte in the car (life here is so hard), we mulled over possibilities for the day--the San Francisco Zoo? Golden Gate Park? The Muir Woods?

I suggested a patch of green on the map called "Lincoln Park," and the children were eager to try it, hoping for slides and a swingset. The park is an easy drive from our house, yet, for some reason, it never even occurred to me to go there, perhaps because the lure of Golden Gate Park has always been so great. Imagine my surprise to find a rolling golf course overlooking a panorama of the Pacific Ocean and Golden Gate Bridge. In the center of this verdant kingdom of grass and golfballs sat Rodin's Thinker, contemplating his next stroke and enthroned in the columned courtyard of an architectural jewel of an art museum. The Legion of Honor is crammed with works by Monet, Reynolds, Rembrandt, Durer, El Greco, Manet, Bougereau, Rodin, and others, not to mention one of the largest and most stirring collections of religious artwork we have ever seen.

I was thrilled, feeling as if we had just landed with a thump at the end of a rainbow, though it was bittersweet finding the pot of gold so late in our trip. There had been many afternoons and mornings we would have spent wandering the hallways of that museum if we had known of its existence. Joining as members, we began making up for lost time, visiting at every opportunity--not only to the Legion of Honor, but also the de Young Museum, its sister in Golden Gate Park--so much so that the curators and docents now smile with recognition everytime they see us.

Apparently, they appreciate a young family fond of the arts--then again, perhaps my reputation precedes me. Can't you just hear them whispering in awed tones, "There she goes--New York's Cheesiest Artist!"

[Amended to add a link to the photos of The Thinker in cream cheese: Give the People What They Want]

[Please click here for a few more photographs. I put them on a separate page so this one would not be too hard to load.]

[Most of this post was written on August 7, 2007.]

In a double stroller

[San Francisco Zoo, July 31, 2007]

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!

A quick little story before I go play with my son

Moments ago, I was sitting at the computer, when five-year-old Patrick tried to squeeze in on my lap. I was just finishing something and space was tight, so I responded absently, "There's no room, honey." To this, he let out a dejected sigh, lamenting in the most pitiful voice, "Oh, I wish I were the wipes box!"

It was only then I noticed for the first time that the box of wipes was in the coveted spot, with my elbow resting on it.

Needless to say, the boy is on my lap now--and I'm signing off!

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."