I love aspen trees. When I was a child, my dad often traveled on business and came home with gifts for us. I have abalone jewelry from New Zealand, traditional clothing from India, and coins and pottery from Guatemala. But one of my favorite keepsakes came from a place much less exotic.
When I was eight or nine, my dad came home from Colorado with an aspen leaf pendant for me and each of my sisters. Nothing flashy, just little rust-colored leaves preserved inside a clear coating and dangling from golden chains.
The necklace my dad gave me
I had never seen an aspen tree, so the gift didn’t initially hold any particular significance for me. It was pretty, and it was from my father. I liked it.
But it came to mean something altogether different to me when I was 11, and my father took us to the aspens.
Partly because Sam just sent me this awesome collage postcard from Hawaii:
Is that me waving from the surf?
And partly because the Fenimore Art Museum recently announced that in April they are opening an exhibit called: 50 Years, 50 Works, 50 Reasons. Maurice Sendak: The Memorial Exhibition
And partly because the word of the day is “lovingly” and this post has that word in it —
I’m reposting something I wrote in May 2012.
As a side note — I DO do New York City now, very sparingly. By bus.
When I stopped to see my mother on Tuesday, she was in New York City. Well, not literally, but, they were having another travelogue for the residents. Instead of Hawaii, however, this week’s destination was New York City.
I don’t do New York City. Every time I’ve driven someone to JFK, I’ve gotten lost, not getting there, but getting out. I’ve ended up in downtown Manhattan on more occasions that I care to think about. I am a country bumpkin through and through. I don’t do big roads. I don’t do big cities.
But my mother was in New York City in the safety and comfort of The Manor. Maybe I could handle that.
Anyway, I didn’t get to see her. My kids said, “She won’t know the difference anyway.”
Maybe that’s true, but I know the difference.
Since Maurice Sendak died, I’ve been thinking about Where the Wild Things Are. Little Max is so naughty that his mother calls him a wild thing. He’s not even remotely contrite about his naughtiness, yelling at his mother, “I’ll eat you up!” So she sends him to his room.
And off he goes, not only to his room, but to where the wild things are, and where he’s king, and where there are wild rumpuses and such. But he wants to be where someone loves him best of all.
Can you picture his mother tiptoeing into his room, after all his naughtiness? No, wait, backtrack even further. Can you picture his mother lovingly preparing a tray of food for him, things that smell good and are good to eat, making sure they are both delicious and hot?
She tiptoes into his room, but he’s not aware of it because he’s off where the wild things are. She leaves him a tray of food, a tray that says I’ll always love you.
She didn’t do all that so that Max would see the tray and say, “Wow, my mother loves me.” She did it because she loved him.
That’s what I want my children to know. I don’t go visit my mother because she’ll understand. I go because I understand, and because I love her.
So I stopped in to see my mother the other day, but she was off where the wild things are — New York City. I should have left her a tray of food.
I found myself looking through old pictures on this blog and trying to decide: Is it Art? Or, is it Craft?
Philip scribbling on a coloring placemat, about age 2.
I’d guess at art, although craft is certainly an element of coloring pages.
Philip water-colored a picture.Owen water-colored himself.Two artists
Or should I have captioned it “Two craftsmen”?
No — I think art is the right choice here.
Quilted pillow Mary made for me.Mary’s quilted purse
Is quilting an art or a craft? So much artistry goes into quilted objects, but it’s probably a craft because it’s a functional object and reproducible.
A baby picture of Laurel that I tried to paint.
I dabble with watercoloring for a while — obviously never got very proficient. I shudder to call this art.
Hand carved stamp thingy
Made at Laity Lodge. I drew the daffodil, copying from a picture, and carved it, making lots of mistakes. Craft?
Teenage boy activity in church. Definitely art.
Mary’s elephantLaurel’s elephantMy painting — mama Elephant and her baby
Elephants painted in art class. We’re copying Eli Halpin’s style — but still art, I think.
My place-cards. I loved making these. Craft. And Art. I put my mind into these, but also some heart.
There probably isn’t a clear delineation most of the time between art and craft.
The artists exercise craft, and the craftsmen use art.
I’ve been there to watch the sun rise, and I’ve been there to watch the sun set — and I’ve been there at all hours in between.
It is peaceful and strong and restful and restorative. Who knew that a piece of art could do all that?
I probably have hundreds of photographs of Threshold — from close-ups of insects climbing on the limestone to all-encompassing shots taken from a distance as I walked around it to shots taken with her walls.
In Threshold, I recognize Psalm 48. I have numbered her towers – one – and considered well her ramparts. It’s not Zion, but it points me in that direction.
Looking out from Thresholdlooking up from inside ThresholdOne of my favorite people soaking in Threshold’s goodness
“Oh, please” and an eye-roll are my usual responses. If only they knew.
The best advice I ever received came from my mother-in-law. She had 13 children of her own and raised a 14th, just for good measure. I asked her once how she did it.
Yesterday the home health aide came but Dad didn’t need a shower (at that point) and didn’t want his nails done. I was home so she didn’t need to make his lunch. She made his bed and then came to me.
“I need to do something,” she said to me. “Can I clean?”
Can you clean?!? Can you clean?? I couldn’t believe my ears. Yes, I was thrilled.
I worried that my response would be too over-the-top so I took a deep breath, smiled, and said, “Sure! That would be great!”
I showed her where the vacuum cleaner was, which was the first thing she asked for. She wheeled it into his bedroom and I heard its hum as I went to find Laurel to help her with her math.
We were deeply ensconced in the back room studying ratios when she came looking for me again.
“I’d like to dust his bookshelves,” she said. “Do you have any spray?”
I couldn’t remember the last time those shelves had been dusted. No, I am not a housekeeper.
But I knew there was some Pledge or something around.
We started looking.
And looking.
And looking.
It wasn’t anywhere.
When something is missing, I often say, “It’s always the last place you look.”
Mary hates that saying.
“I’ll just use a rag,” the aide said and headed back to his bedroom.
I went back to ratios.
Look behind Philip’s head. There’s the Pledge!
Then I saw it. On the bookshelves in the backroom. We had dusted when we got the room ready for Christmas, but left the can of Pledge sitting out on a shelf.
See? I told you I’m not a cleaning person. I don’t even clean up the cleaning supplies.
I was delighted to hand the can to the aide, who, in turn, seemed delighted to clean my father’s bedroom.
Among my “don’t likes” —
(cough, cough) this scent (so sorry)
— smoke de cigarette
This summer I hope to go on my very first every mission trip.
With a team from my church and beyond, I’ll be working alongside a family to help build a house for them. A Muslim family.
On the interest sheet, it says I need the ability to:
Carry heavy blocks (check)
Walk up hill (check)
Abstain from alcohol for the time in Bosnia (check)
Tolerate cigarette smoke (cough, cough – check)
I’m not a fan of cigarette smoke. There was a time in my life when it didn’t bother me, but sometimes now I feel almost hyper-sensitive to it.
It’s not just that it hangs in the room like low-lying cloud. It’s not just that it stings my eyes and makes me cough. But it sticks to my clothing and my hair. It lingers.
When my brother passed away, I had to stop at one of his friend’s apartments to get a key — and a cloud of smoke escaped when they opened the door to let me in. Once inside, in the smoke-filled the room, I felt my eyes burning. We talked in their tiny living room and I had to fight the urge to cough.
But I reminded myself that these were people who Stewart loved and that loved Stewart. Because of that, I could tolerate — I would tolerate — the cigarette smoke. Love makes so many things possible.
When I think about my trip, I find myself almost looking forward to that lingering smell, too. Afterwards, when I get back home, will I pull something from my bag that smells of cigarette smoke, put it to my nose, and smile because of some memory it evokes?
Beleaguered Truth walked slowly into the public square.
Tired hands held the pole which was seated in the cup of the worn strap around her neck. No longer was her flag high and proud. Her arms, so very weary, could not keep the staff close to her breast and so it dipped.
TRUTH — the tattered flag proclaimed.
And Truth herself walked slowly in amongst the crowd.
Few stepped back to make way.
Some stopped and pointed and jeered.
Still she walked.
Eyes down.
So weary.
Her knuckles were dry and cracked, weatherbeaten.
Her robe, once white, was now dingy, like January’s snow in March.
She walked into the square, heading for the center, to stand where all could see.
Someone stuck out a foot — to be funny, to be mean, to earn a few guffaws and high-fives.
Somebody stuck out their foot, and Truth stumbled.
The sound of the pole clattering on the stones silenced the crowd, but only momentarily.
A few years ago, I came home and found this in the bathroom:
No one could accuse my daughter of not being resourceful.
The toilet wouldn’t stop running, so she repurposed a shoe.
Okay, maybe it was Aunt Jeannie’s shoe that she left at our house, but it was a shoe nobody was wearing and it did the trick. (Warning to visitors: don’t leave your shoes at our house.)
I’m not sure which I like more, the shoe holding the float up or the sign.
The necklace my dad gave me 
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Hot Dogs and Marmalade 