Growing pumpkins

Here's what I want to know:  What happened to these little pumpkins?

October 1999, Alexandria, Virginia

Seriously, where did they go?

Because, back then, we would take this kind of fall weekend and go on a hayride.  We would pick out pumpkins and take long moseying walks. We'd stomp through the leaves and then pick them up and look at their veins and make crayon rubbings of them. Maybe someone would throw a tantrum, maybe not.  But life had a bountiful, easy quality; what we lacked in emotional regulation we made up for in time.

Those squishy cheeks. The little buttons I helped fasten. The chirpy, high voices. The feathery gosling hair.

It's enough to make a gal's womb ache. 

This weekend is beautiful--I know this because I have seen a lot of it through the car windows as I shuttle people hither and yon.   A small sampling of activities: Last night G and Sam went to the ward campout in New Hampshire and the girls had a high school football game. Today Maddy is off early on a seminary field trip to Vermont and Lauren is taking her final SATs. After picking up everyone, they come home for a bit and then all have plans tonight in various places.

Where's the justice? Just when they get so interesting and potty-trained (okay, that was a while ago) and hilarious and can make their own sandwiches, they are almost suddenly scarce around here. It's true what they say: the (early) days are long but the (later) years are short.

In the meantime, I guess I'll head to Costco. They do, after all, still manage to eat quite a bit around here.

p.s. I'm totally going to make them recreate that photo sometime soon. Humor a mama, kids. 

. . .

Listen:  Ashokan Farewell  ~ The Civil War documentary

Nancy Drew reporting for duty

[First of all, today was a blast. Once I wrapped my head around the fact that this was really just a series of conversations with people who might be able to use the information I had to give (and once I realized that most of the staffers on the hill are slightly older than my eldest daughter), I was okay.  Excited, in fact.

I met with Senator rhymes-with-Frown and his staffer, the child and family issues legislative staffer for Senator rhymes-with-Harry, and Congresswoman rhymes-with-Songbus and her staffer. A full day, great conversations and possibilities for more, and I made it through without hyperventilating.  I almost fell down the marble stairs of the Russell Senate Office Building once, though. I'm so classy.]

. . .

At one point, I was sitting on the grounds of the Capitol between appointments, contemplating collecting leaves for Maddy's 50-leaf science project (that dreaded, infamous freshman science rite of passage), when I heard a big crash. Some guy in a white SUV had backed into a red porsche.  The sound of the crunch made it obvious that there was damage. The guy looked in his rearview, glanced around, and put the car in drive & left. I was appalled! He pulled past the guard booth at the edge of the Capitol grounds and stopped at the red light.

Suddenly all of my Nancy Drew indoctrination kicked in. I pulled out my phone and noted his license and dashed over to the guard booth. "Sir!" I yelled, galumphing across the grass gracelessly. (Isn't it awesome how sophisticated I can be?) "Stop that car! He just backed into that Porsche and left!" The police guy ran over and waved the hit-and-runner back. And then I called Ned to go meet for a milkshake. And then I remembered I wasn't Nancy Drew.

Every time I passed the lot for the rest of the afternoon, there were a swarm of police and the poor guy was in big trouble. 

I felt like such a tattletale. 

. . .

Which leads me to relate the following bad memory (cue backflash music): 2nd grade, ancient Mrs. Olson's class. Someone broke the rules on the playground and I was very concerned for the (a) fairness and (b) safety of the situation. I went directly to Mrs. Olson and reported the crime.  

Much to my dismay, Mrs. Olson did not appreciate my vigilance. She seemed not to even care about the rules. Not only did she not thank me for my whistleblowing, she required me to WEAR A TATTLE TAIL for the rest of the day.  As in: a paper tail, pinned to my behind, all day long. Have you ever heard of such a thing? Oh, the shame.

I can't help it. I'm an oldest child and we believe in following the rules. If that means reporting infractions now and then, so be it.

Nancy Drew do-gooder, tattletale. Such a fine line. 

. . .

Listen:  Stay Don't Go  ~ Spoon

Don't be hesitant

Last night Maddy and I stayed up too late. I had been at book group and when I returned a little before 11 she was at the kitchen table, homework spread in front of her. In tears. Tears are fond of 11 p.m., have you noticed? Some of it was the new workload of high school honors classes, pace, and deadlines. Most of it was the elections.

Ninth grade elections. Is there anything more slippery and unpredictable than high school politics? Maddy decided to run for class president and is experiencing the full emotions of putting yourself out there: hope, betrayal, affirmation, doubts. Middle school maintained a come one, come all approach to student leadership so these are their first real elections. It shows. Apparently one girl is promising doughnuts to everyone who votes for her and that has been a very successful campaign strategy. Gotta love the short-term thinking of ninth grade brains. 

. . .

It's hard not to keep remembering my own first attempt at elected office. I know our children aren't necessarily destined to experience the same fates we encounter (and that it's not all about me!) but I can't help feeling this vicarious nervous feeling for Miss M. No question, those nerves are rooted firmly in my memories of that first election saga.

It was 1982ish. 7th grade? 8th grade? I was the oldest child in my family so I was navigating new, unfamiliar terrain at the junior high but I nevertheless decided to make a run for class president, coasting on the feel-good spillover from my elementary school years. When I look at this picture of myself from that year, I just want to hug her. Oh, Annie, honey. (This is the infamous beauty-school-student, old lady perm.):

In addition to giving a speech and making posters, we had to do a skit. I assembled as many people as I could and invited them over to my house for brainstorming and practice. Lacking any great ideas (I know, fantastic president material, right?) I went with my mom's idea: since my name is Annie, why not a skit around the musical Annie? (Are you feeling sick to your stomach with dread yet?)  So she helped rewrite some words to the music Tomorrow ("Vote, Annie! Vote Annie! Vote Annie for president. She's only your vote away") for everyone to sing.  Then I would come out in my little curly perm with a red dress on and give my speech. I thought it was pretty great.

The morning of the skit, I was really nervous in my little Annie getup. We were somewhere in the middle of the line-up and it became clear pretty quickly that the reigning theme was "cool."  As in: not trying too hard. Lipsynching Foreigner. Spoofing Saturday Night Live (did I even know what that was yet?). Sporting a rainbow shirt or izod. Not wearing a red dress impersonating Little Orphan Annie with earnest lyrics*.  When it came our turn, my posse just kind of muttered rather than sang. We made it through, though, and I am grateful that no one outright heckled.  And, hey, all the teachers seemed to really like it. 

During last period they made an announcement on the intercom. Under the stares of my classmates, I listened as the office of president went to Denise Kidm@n, a tall cool girl who had four older teenage sibling advisors on all things cool. I accepted the condolences of my classmates with a brave smile, burning eyes, and a red dress crumpled up at the bottom of my bag.

. . .

So, you see? I have election baggage.  I want to help but I know I have no idea what the formula is for achieving high office in this generation's 9th grade. Apparently it includes doughnut bribery. I am proud she is taking the risk, putting herself in the ring, and offering to serve and lead. Don't be hesitant, Maddy.

What say you? Do you have election stories? Any ideas or memories of a fun, memorable student election speech? 

*I do want to say: This was not my mom's fault. She was wonderful and supportive and helpful. She made the handouts. She fed the volunteers. {Thank you, mom.} It just goes to show adults really can't predict the recipe of coolness that determines junior high/high school election success. What worked in the 60s didn't work in the 80s. What worked in the 80s, whatever that was, won't work now. 

Climb + jump

When G and the girls arrived in Utah, Sam and I had already spent a blissful week+ with my parents, both at the wedding in California and in Logan at their home. I absolutely loved the time there with them, seeing movies, lunching out, sorting through treasures in the basement and garage.  Sigh. Everyone should go home again now and then for an unhurried span of time.

Once the five of us were reunited, it was off to a W family reunion with Greg's whole clan at Bear Lake.  We stayed together at a big cabin and spent our days at the beach, getting sunburned (wow! you are really close to the sun up there), water-skiing, eating raspberry shakes, going to a hilarious family dance, picnicking, going for walks.  And I'm happy to report that we did not repeat the urinal incident of 2008.

My favorite: one day when we decided to do something a little different and headed north to hike to Bloomington Lake. I've always wanted to do it and have heard so many stories about the glacier lake at the end, complete with rope swing for jumping into the (I'll say it again) glacier waters. It lived up to its hype.  I got swept up in the excitement and actually even jumped in myself. It was fa-reezing but worth it.

 

 

Stop and marvel at the snow in the background and at what a great sport I am!

Climb and jump might be good words to remember the next time I'm lingering at the edges, watching from the beach, and defaulting to bystander status.  That was fun.

. . .

Have a wonderful weekend!

Listen:  Pamplamoose ~ Another Day

The wedding at the end of the tracks

The train took us to Los Angeles for a happy reason: my cousin Erik was getting married. At this point in our family, these weddings only happen every so often (and I've missed the last few) so I was determined to go celebrate and see everyone. We spent time with my parents and my sister and took the chance to enjoy Santa Monica pier,

and movies and eating and even Disneyland along the way.

The wedding was lovely and dreamy: cousin Erik married Vivi on a yacht in Marina del Rey at sunset. All of my aunts & uncles (except one) and many cousins were there. Somehow I neglected to bring my camera so these photos are snagged from facebook. 

 

It's a pity they are so unattractive, though. I really feel bad for their future children. It will be hard to be saddled with those long-legged, white-toothed, chiseled-bone-structure genes. Poor things. Let's take up a collection, shall we?

. . .

Listen: The Book of Love ~ Rose Polenzani & Rose Cousins (Magnetic Fields cover)