The Need For Beauty

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For almost ten years we have lived in a home with a beautiful view from four stories including the lower-level pool. For ten years I have been trying to imagine something beautiful for our concrete wall. I finally imagined a possibility for beauty. The desire for beauty drove me to scoop shells and carry them back in overweight suitcases. It took me weeks to clean and dry the shells, all the while, my ideas were percolating. And then, like a driven artist, I smeared outdoor tile mud and created a mosaic of beauty. The satisfaction was exhilerating-- I believe, in part, because creation is a God-like endeavor. He is the creator of universe and life and when we create, even in the smallest way, we are given a glimpse into the satisfaction of a God-like attribute.

In the Land of Pomme Frites and Chocolat

I am awakened by the clip clop of a horse drawn carriage on the cobblestones below. When I pull back the red velvet curtain, my eyes delight in architecture that economic decline preserved for four centuries. If imagination could magically transport, I would be in sixteenth century Belgium.

We could have stayed at a modern hotel but we carefully chose a place consistent in character with the ancient Brugge. From internet pictures and descriptions, we picked the Hotel Rolais, a five hundred year old building with a canal view, admirable wood floors and picturesque windows. The cab who drops us off at the hotel confirms, “You’re staying at the best place in Brugge.”

Most people come to Brugge Belgium for one or two night’s stay. We have come for three—ample time to experience every secret place, every chocolatier and every french fry (pomme frite) stand throughout the city. By our second day, we have learned that it is foolish to dine on anything but chocolate and French fries, because we will never taste any that are better. We stay relatively healthy by our transportation of bikes and eating a healthy breakfast: Yoghurt, which has always been superior to America’s, topped with muesli and fresh fruit.

Our favorite fry stand is located in the Market Square. You can never get lost in Brugge because all roads lead back to Market Square. We order our frites with three sauces: yellow curry, ketchup curry, pepper sauce and loads of onions. Dinner’s finale is a truffle that requires the indulgent to stop and remain silent until every morsel is properly relished.

Truffles are not all that you find in chocolate shops. A recurring theme in almost every chocolate shop are the life size female breasts formed from chocolate. As we stood in line for our thrice daily dose of chocolate we listened as an English woman asked if the shop sold body chocolate paint. The saleswoman said she had never heard of it—surely a city that takes their chocolate so serious would never waste it on body painting.

I always say when traveling to Switzerland, France or any other country known for their exquisite chocolate that I will bring an extra suitcase just to bring home chocolate; but I have never indulged my extra suitcase fantasy. I think it is because European chocolate is more than a taste sensation. It is the counter woman who politely tolerates your French II language abilities, it is nibbling your truffel beside the canal on a tree lined street, it is the uniqueness of the shop’s display--it is the pure pleasure of riding your bike down an ancient street, stopping on a whim for a truffle and then doing it all over again on the next street. I have never brought the extra suitcase because certain things are exquisite because they don't last forever-meals of french fries, chocolate and bike riding on cobblestone streets, which are all hard on the human seat after three days.

Flexibility

Recently, while traveling through Northern California, we came to a standstill in Friday traffic leaving Santa Cruz. My husband suggested that since we weren't going anywhere, anyways, that we might as well stop for dinner. I looked up at the green board that listed the next three destinations, "Capitola," I cried, "I have always wanted to see Capitola." We veered off the freeway and found Capitola to be a beautiful beach community but lacking a restaurant that appealed to us from the windows of our car. By now traffic had cleared a bit and we traveled on taking a shortcut through Castroville. Castroville appeared to be the artichoke growing capital of California and appeared to have the flavor of a little town in Mexico. Hence, we stopped at Arnaldo's, for a little Mexican cuisine.--Where we discovered a delicious artichoke heart appetizer. We also rediscovered what all good travelers know---Flexibility and spontaneity are the keys to a joyful travel experience.

Which led me back to this visual image that I keep in my favorite photo brain file.

The girl in the tan pants with a purple belt, Breanne, exudes the idea of flexibility, both literally and figuratively. The photo is a peak through the fence slat at girl's camp: a five day retreat into the wilderness--cabins, campfires, canoeing. The girls are competing in a fire building competition and they won.

Breanne is a dancer which gives her the flexibility to bend over the fire ring. But her position is only the fruit of her enthusiastic engagement.

So, when I think of flexibility: traveling, motherhood, relationships, life in general; I think of Breanne in her fire ring plie.( Can't figure how to add the French accent on plie, but of course you don't mind because you too are inspired by her position to be flexible).

Annika and the Book

In the corner of the family room is a roomy chaise with crawl-on-access for a one-year-old. A big picture window backlights the chaise. When I walk into the room, the chaise whispers, “have a seat.” To the side of the chaise is a bookshelf and a cupboard filled with children’s books. When I sit on the chaise, I am immediately dog piled by two adorable children who see my physical presence on the green chaise as an invitation to read. Because I am their grandma with an agenda that only includes them, I sit down to read.

This love of books is not limited to the green chaise. When sixteen-month-old Annika goes about her business, it is usually with a book. Out of the chaise, up the stairs, out the back door, onto the deck, into the yard—all these movements are made holding a book. She is a version of Harold and the Purple Crayon: Annika and the book. From a book loving woman, whose mother was a book loving woman, whose daughter is a lover of books--to watch my granddaughter carry her books around with the importance of a purse, brings joy and laughter.

At least once a month for the last thirty-five years, my mother, aka, Annika’s great grandmother, has received a book in the mail from her Book of the Month Club. When I was a child, she would perch herself at the edge of the snack bar, indulging her joy but still readily available to her children. I always received a book or two for Christmas and birthdays. My mother bought books and took us to the library, a legacy that continues with my grandchildren: books from the library, books from book fairs, books from the bookstore, books for birthdays, books for fun, books galore for everyone!

You can never spoil a child with books; you only spoil them when they are not surrounded by books.

Fight the Beetles( not a rock group)

Almost every year for the last twenty years, I have had the joy of attending Camp MIA Shalom with a group of 12-18 year old girls. Like its name suggests, it is a place of peace. It is a place of towering pines and spruce, aspen families, wild flowers and patches of early summer snow on the north facing slopes. It is the place where we race canoes, sing around the campfire, and learn how to build fires. On a ridge overlooking the camp is where we hiked with bags of concrete and a wheelbarrow of water to place a plaque commemorating the life and death of a young woman who once reveled in the joy and peace of Camp Shalom.

Last year, the caretakers of the camp warned us about the absence of trees that were cut in an attempt to curtail the destruction caused by a native bark beetle. The trees, weakened by drought were left vunerable to the beetle invasion. It wasn’t so bad because we were still surrounded by life and its color of green. But this year, the destruction was so prevalent, the colors of gray and brown, I could hardly look at the surroundings without a feeling of deep remorse.

Camp Shalom rests in the Fairview Canyon Mountains in Utah. Utah’s forests have been hard hit by this bark beetle. When pondering the investment of a cabin, a friend warned us to buy in the Aspen forests and not the pines because of their probable destruction.

In the Brianhead ski resort, my sister-in-law owns a cabin that sits peacefully in a grove of skyscraper fir trees. But her cabin is the exception. The previous owner paid to have her cabin property sprayed with insecticide and the trees were saved.

Beetles have not been content to only ravage our forests. The Japanese beetle a non-native species, was recently cited in the center of my small city, Orem Utah. I read of its arrival in the bill that I receive for my water and garbage charge. An intense pesticide spraying is planned in the next month. “Ok,” I thought, “they’ll spray and all will be well,” but the information was followed by the consequences. Fruits and vegetables in the infested area could not be harvested for 3 years.

I learned today that my friend who lives twenty minutes away in Sundance (film festival and of Robert Redford fame), is part of an effort to place pheromone traps among the trees that for now, deceive the dastardly beetles. She prompted me and my neighbors to contact the forest service and project a plan for next spring to protect our priceless trees, the raspberries I pick every morning, the grass I so enjoy beneath my bare feet.

I am unsure of the right way to fight an insect invasion. I fear the use of pesticides but I fear the loss of forests, trees and landscapes. I believe that awareness is a key to preservation and my thoughts are a small but crucial contribution to awareness.

Here's To Good Sons-In-Law

I didn’t raise them; I didn’t choose them. I knew they would eventually enter my life, but imagining their existence, was as impossible as grasping old age when you're a twenty-year-old. Unlike hindsight which holds memories, hope and experiences for future application, foresight is imagined images and what-ifs that flutter in and out like a butterfly through the yard.

I remember praying once (only once?) that the boys, who would someday become mine by marriage, were becoming good men. Were their mothers teaching them to be gentle, responsible and kind? Were their fathers showing them how to work, love and care? Were they learning from their mistakes? Did they think about my daughters in the abstract kind of way in which they were thought of?

~~~

In hindsight, it might have been difficult for my sons-in-law to want to be my sons-in-law. I try to see this from their point of view:"She did not raise us and we did not choose her. We fell in love with her daughters. We never even thought about a mother-in-law."
Pre-marriage, I was a little hard on them. I wanted them to marry my daughters because they couldn't imagine life without them, not because they had a great mother-in-law. My reasoning is a bit self-centered but it was important that these young men loved and married my daughters in spite of their mother.
There was one man in particular who needed a family and we were his substitute. The relationship between him and my daughter lasted longer than it should have--because he had become a part of our family. As a result, my reticence towards these sons-in-law was a test as old as the knight in shining armor who must pass through the roadside quicksand, the poisonous trees in the forest and the fire breathing dragon(me).

I just spent the weekend with my daughters and sons-in-law and I really like them —these sons-in-law. Unlike love, which is a requirement and a natural spring that flows from a good mother, like is not a requirement—it is a bonus in the familial order of things. And I like them for more reasons than the all encompassing one of treasuring my daughters. I like who they are, what they do, how they love and how they respond. I can never underestimate the value of a good son-in-law.

Sister, Will You?

Sister,

Sister, will you? Let me be the princess, keep all my secrets safe and sound, be my best friend forever?

When I saw these words painted on the wall of a bedroom shared by sisters, my heart eclipsed my age and all the vulnerability, loyalty, trust, responsibility and dependance of being and having sisters, returned.

It was only the first 18 years of our lives that we shared intimately with each other. That is, in the same house, with the same parents, the same trips to Disneyland and Yellowstone, the same Sunday afternoon trips to Baskin-Robbins, the shared memories of Christmas presents, cousins and dachsund puppies.

It has now been 27 years that I have shared the house with my husband, the dinner table, clothes and hair brushes with my own daughters. Time spent with sisters are weekends, holidays, or milestones: mother's upcoming 7oth birthday party-- yet there is always a place in my heart for my sisters.