Once Upon A Fence...

Some months back I blogged about a colorful mural someone painted on their fence. I drove by the fence yesterday and I saw that they’d changed part of the mural. The artist who lives there either added to the mural or changed some of it. The vintage cars remain but someone added an underwater scene to the section facing the alley. This whole thing interests me for several reasons:

1)      Public art is awesome!

2)      Personalizing your space makes your home your own, and adds flavor to the neighborhood.

3)     Painting over your own work is a newish concept for me. You are literally removing evidence that you spent time and effort on something. In the past this would have felt uncomfortable to me but I’m starting to appreciate it. We don’t necessarily create something in order for it to last forever. Sometimes we create to illustrate how we are feeling right now.  

 

Whoever lives in this house and paints this fence uses an airbrush, which yields fast results, so maybe s/he feels fine about painting over previous work. Such quick painting may be the perfect way of expressing the artist’s own development. Like wearing a different outfit each day, painting and re-painting a fence may be the artist’s way of refreshing the environment or expressing a mood.

 

Anyway, I thought I’d share some photos of this large wooden canvas that evolves along with the artist. Instead of mourning the loss of the art that was there before, I’m digging the idea that surprises regularly will be unveiled upon this fence. It’s like a giant Etch-a-Sketch (although it’s harder to shake a fence to start fresh). The creation will change but the creativity goes on and on…

 

 

There It Goes...

I’ve been AWOL. I’m sure the whole planet has felt my absence from blogging (major sarcasm). But the small but sweet group that reads my blogs may have noticed (or not) that it’s been nearly four weeks since I last blogged, and that’s longer than usual for me to keep quiet.

It’s been an extra insane month. School started, which some parents acknowledge with back flips and the happy dance. But I have mixed feelings. Yes, there’s a chunk of time in the middle of the day when I might get a few things accomplished. But before that and after that it’s complete pandemonium, so it’s a trade-off. I like the less structured vibe of summer. You float through the morning and into the afternoon and evening and even though you’re mediating an average of 87.3 fights per day, at least there aren’t the deadlines involved with school. There’s no racing to get up and get to school in the morning. No racing to get as much as possible done while they’re gone because there’s no hope of getting anything done once they’re back. Then there’s the racing to pick them up, careening through the afternoon with reminders and re-reminders and threats about homework, making dinner (or some approximation thereof), packing lunches, finding clothes for the next day, a scavenger hunt for missing toothbrushes, herding them into bed, and collapsing into my bed with a thud, like a felled tree.

Now where was I going with all this? Oh yes…Something about how crazy September has been. School started and the kids promptly got sick. This is somewhat rare for them but I suppose grammar school always includes a fog of germs hovering around kids’ heads, and they all came down with stuff. They passed it to one another, which—in a twisted way—at least confirms that they’ve heard my lectures on the value of sharing. On the other hand, it also confirms that they have not heeded my warnings on the value of washing their hands. Constantly.

While they were passing germs around, we had three batches of relatives visit—one group from another continent, one batch from another state, and one from another city. We had a major heat wave, two family birthdays, awful news about a friend who was gravely ill, several trees-worth of paperwork coming home from school, a 25-page newsletter emailed from school (I am not joking)—which I did not read but opened just to see how pages of updates I would not read--ants in the house, my sister’s baby shower, two kids’ birthday parties to attend, Oktoberfest to reschedule once Hubby got sick, and mountains of housework (that were ignored for the most part because of the aforementioned Other Stuff Going On).

What was that multi-colored blur that raced by? That was September. And there it goes…

School Lunches 101

Samples from recent discussions with the kids while I pack lunches for school:

 

Me: R, I’m packing tomorrow’s lunch. Do you still like granola bars?

Him: No. Well, sometimes. I don’t know.

Me: Hmmmm. Well, you need energy during the school day. If I pack a granola bar, will you eat it?

Him: Maybe.

Me: Okay. Now, how about apples?

Him: Not if it is whole. Maybe if it’s cut up. But then it looks funky. So maybe not.

Me: Hmmmm. Will you eat dry cheerios in a bag?

Him: Nah.

Me: Carrot sticks?

Him: Not sure.

Me: Pretzels?

Him: Only the small twisted ones. No pretzel sticks. They taste different.

Me: What? They’re made from the same dough. So, do you have bag of twisty pretzels?

Him: Yes, but it’s empty. I finished them. I was starving. I’m a growing kid!

Me: Since you hate milk, should I pack water?

Him: Yes, but not in a plastic water bottle. It tastes weird. Only a metal water bottle.

Me: We don’t have one anymore. Could you make do with a plastic bottle for one more day?

Him: (Sigh.) Okay. But don’t blame me if I come home dehydrated!

Me: (Sigh.) Where’s your sister? Oh, there you are, S. Let’s talk lunches. Will you eat pretzels?

Her: No.

Me: French bread?

Her: Maybe.

Me: Turkey Pepperoni?

Her: Eeewwww, gross!

Me: You loved it last month.

Her: It’s revolting, stuff that pigs in a pen wouldn’t consider consuming.

Me: Fruit leather?

Her: No.

Me: Carrot sticks?

Her: Never.

Me: Apples?

Her: Only if the peel is removed, it’s sliced and the green part in the center is carefully removed from each slice.

Me: Oh, please. There will be only ¼” of apple left if I remove the center and the peel. String cheese?

Her: Depends. Is today’s date an even or odd day?

Me: I have no idea. My brain stopped working two years ago.

Her: I have a solution. I’ll buy from the lunch truck every day.

Me: Not going to happen. Occasionally, yes, but not daily. You need healthy stuff, and variety.

Her: French fries are healthy, right?

Me: Healthier than pop rocks candy, I suppose. But not at the top of my list.

Her: I don’t want to bring a lunch at all. I don’t need lunch.

Me: You’re a growing kid. Your brain needs food while you’re at school...Now, what happened to the lunch boxes? They were here a minute ago...

 

Let There Be...

Sometimes a hair crisis strikes out of nowhere and I can’t wait even one more minute before changing it. That was how I got bangs a few years back.

A few days ago I realized that the back of my hair was getting puffy--an intolerable state for shorthaired Sarah.

So I did some cutting...

Then I did some finger painting...

Let there be red!  

Oh Canada

Part 3 of 3

Have you heard the Canadian national anthem? It is beautiful…The tune and the lyrics blend perfectly and it makes me emotional when I hear it. It’s a love song. Every national anthem should inspire this kind of pride. (I love the American anthem, too, but this post is about Canada…)

I was on Canadian soil just yesterday, and I could not stop humming the anthem while I was there. It was a mini trip—three nights only—but packed full of memorable moments. I hummed the anthem in the pharmacy. I sang it as we walked in the parks. I belted it in the shower. It’s called “Oh Canada,” and it is a love poem that you sing. It was the backdrop to our trip…

The song is a pretty one, but my connection to Canada makes it even more meaningful to me. Dad was born there and returns every year to see his extended family. My first visit was when I was five and I still remember it. I remember lots and lots of water, bays and islands everywhere. Tall trees in all directions. Picking blackberries. Family.

Three of us made the trip this time. My middle child, my dad and I flew to Vancouver. Even before our plane touched tarmac I noticed those tall fir trees everywhere—confirmation that I was in Canada.

I don’t know if you’ve heard, but they get a lot of rain in Western Canada. Stuff grows. Not only fir trees one hundred feet tall, but other trees and hedges and flowers and corn. And don’t forget blackberries. In addition to taking lots of family photos, I took a lot of pictures of nature. I also did a drawing at sunset while we were at a park. It’s just a quick sketch, but it made me happy to do it. I used crayons and the back of the hotel note pad. (I’m very picky about materials, clearly!) The way the sun shone through the trees was beautiful and I wanted to capture that moment.  

 

Oh, Canada. You put on a great show. Thanks for your hospitality and for welcoming us with such beauty…

Toto, We’re not in Kansas Anymore…

Part 2 of 3

I began my list within minutes of landing in Canada. The list of differences between America and Canada. This list is not a complete list by any stretch of the imagination. But it includes things I noticed while visiting my relatives up north. And it may be a helpful list for anyone visiting Canada. Seriously, I should email this list to the Vancouver Chamber of Commerce. This should be handed out on the airplane, along with Customs forms.

 How You Know You Are in Canada:

 

1.      The airport in Vancouver has Totem Poles, a seven-foot tall stuffed Black Bear, maple sugar everything and lots of smoked salmon for sale.

 

2.      Airport signs are in English, French and Chinese.

   

3.      In Canada, it’s a washroom, not a bathroom or restroom.

 

4.      In Canada, words like center are spelled centre.

 

5.      They call parking lots “car parks.”

 

6.      “Eh?”

 

7.      Seaplanes.

 

8.      Geese on the roadside.

 

9.      Kilometers, not miles.

 

10.   Fire hall, not fire station.

 

11.   Minutes outside of the airport I saw a young man carrying a hockey stick.

 

12.   At my dad’s cousin’s place I saw an old hockey stick holding up a tomato vine.

 

13.   Tim Horton’s doughnut stores. Very Canadian.

 

14.   Blackberries growing by the side of the road, and those of us with the US passports are the only one picking them!

 

P.S.  Let’s revisit #3 on the list above: “washroom.”  Am I the only one who doesn’t like it when someone refers to this room as “the toilet?” I run the risk of sounding prissy but I suppose I like the slightly more genteel version, like “bathroom.” Yes, we all know there is a toilet in there, but calling the whole room “the toilet” just sounds crass. The Canadians may have settled on the most accurate name with “washroom.”  After all, when you use the bathroom you don’t always take a bath. Nor do you rest in the restroom. Not that I’m picky about words or anything. Not me. I just like accuracy.

Except, of course, when I’m exaggerating for effect…

 

Lucky Lady

Part 1 of 3

Just last night I returned from a mini trip to Canada, where we celebrated a very lucky lady. She’s my dynamic great-aunt Kay and she has lived an extraordinary life. Her four children all have children, and one branch of that family even boasts a great-great grandchild. On Aug. 16 she turned 104. Yes, 104. I was very lucky to be one of the guests at her party.

 

On Saturday more than forty of us gathered to sing “Happy Birthday” to Kay. The guest of honor was the oldest one there, and her 2-year-old great-granddaughter was the youngest present. We all took photos with Kay, congratulated her and chatted. She held my hand as we talked. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon in a park outside Vancouver. Fir trees and blackberries bordered the park. My dad’s cousin (in her mid-70s) threw a football with her grandson. We laughed and hugged and afterward, two of us picked blackberries. (Hey, they don’t grow by the side of the road in San Diego. We have to grab our chances when they come. For us, that’s an essential part of a trip to Western Canada.)

Kay isn’t physically as strong as she once was, but her spirit is bulletproof. This dynamic woman lived on her own until age 99, just months before her 100^th birthday. What a lady. She inspires all of us with her longevity and with her character. I asked her years ago (when she was a mere 95) what her secret was. She thought a moment and said that she just didn’t worry too much. (At that moment I knew I was doomed. I worry! It’s part of being firstborn. Of course, Kay’s revelation led to my worrying that I worry too much. Which is hardly going to help me in my quest for longevity. Oh dear…)

Kay’s voice is soft and quiet now as she asks about the family back in California. She needs a wheel chair to get around, but that hasn’t stopped her. On Saturday she smiled and greeted her guests from her sparkly red wheelchair. So many family members came from different parts of British Columbia to see her. Several of us came from the states. Others came on ferries from islands in BC. This woman has fans big and small, each one in awe of a white-haired lady named Kay. There was so much love at her birthday party in the park. We all love her, and wanted to help her celebrate this milestone. What a lucky lady she is.

Yesterday, as I left Canada, I felt filled with gratitude for family. I’d had a meaningful visit with my amazing great aunt.

I feel like a very lucky lady, too…