tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14486053276222025082024-02-06T21:28:14.074-05:00Skipping AlongKathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13934152439226656855noreply@blogger.comBlogger248125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1448605327622202508.post-24170530319993986502019-01-11T13:25:00.001-05:002019-01-11T13:25:32.812-05:00Stories of My Life by Katherine Paterson <div>
<a href="https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1413745479l/20534704.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="263" height="400" src="https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1413745479l/20534704.jpg" width="262" /></a>I'm pretty sure I have never actually recommended a non-fiction book to someone. So deep runs my love and admiration of fiction. </div>
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That being said, I'm going to do the unthinkable, and <span style="font-style: italic;">highly</span> recommend this book (by many-award winning children's author, Katherine Paterson.) So many things about this book were inspiring and encouraging to me....as a mother, as an aspiring author, as a Christian, and as someone who thinks of life as The Great Story Marketplace. </div>
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In the introduction, she was clear that this is <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> a memoir. (After all, she had promised herself to never write a memoir.) But she also realized that, with the advent of a dishwasher in their home, her children had ended up missing out on hours of family history storytelling. So she wrote these stories--snapshots of her different lives, in China and America and Japan, in school, working, single, married, the modern award-winning author, and most recently, widow. </div>
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As an author, it seems that she really started writing in earnest while she had three small children in her home. (My situation right now.) She mentioned that she started by taking a class or two and was trying to write some poetry every day. And then she thought, if she could just write a chapter a week, she'd have a whole book by the end of a year! (Which makes sense to me.) So it has been inspiring, realizing that it's ok--even good!--to start small, to practice being faithful in writing as an exercise of skill and brain power. And so, since I have children who love poems, and I have some interest in writing poems for them, Katherine Paterson has encouraged me to try writing a poem every week.</div>
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Katherine Paterson has been surrounded by Presbyterian ministers. (Her father was one, and she married one.) As a child, she grew up in war-torn China. An incredible prospect she presented: this faithful minister (her father) with his wife and five children, during the time when the Japanese were invaded China and committing unspeakable atrocities among the people. The threat of rape and murder of his entire family was very real. Twice they had to flee China, and when she got to America, Katherine felt that <i>this</i> was the inhospitable, foreign country. Between the story of her father, Maud Henderson (another missionary), and her own story of serving in Japan, I was blown away and humbled by the truly selfless and courageous love demonstrated toward the heathen people of China and Japan. As she wrote of her own journey toward Japan, Katherine mentioned that her fear and distrust of the Japanese ran deeply inside her from her childhood days in China. An yet, she felt that God was calling her to Japan, she prepared to go, and as she considered her four years there, she said that she wished everyone could "have a chance to be loved by the people they thought they hated." In similar fashion, Maud Henderson's humility and faithfulness cuts deeply in astounding ways. Her sacrifice and courage in protecting the daughters of China (hundreds that she cared for and raised in her home) as a single woman, amidst the terrors of Japanese occupation; my heart was wrenched once and again, and I felt that my own love was weak and pitiful in comparison. It's a stunning example of James' exhortation, "True religion that is pure and undefiled before God the Father is this: to visit orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself unstained from the world." </div>
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As a mother, I found great encouragement both in her desire to parent well, and in the unmistakable fact that occasionally she didn't. Living in a place were hyper-sensitive "helicopter" parents are the norm, someone who lets their kids climb anything and everything and run around barefoot in 40 degree weather is bound to stick out like a sore thumb. I know I make some mistakes as parents, but my kids are happy and healthy, energetic and imaginative, and (I hope) are learning that life isn't about getting just what they want. Which, incidentally, is exactly what I've been shooting for. So as Katherine Paterson revealed some of stories she has stumbled upon (the ones her children would "never want their mother to find out"), there's a bit of encouragement there to know that those stories will be in every family. And all we can do as we seek the Lord is parent the way we see fit, and trust that God is the one who keeps our children happy, healthy, and faithful. </div>
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There is so much more. But I think this is enough to give you a sense that, whether it's just to indulge in some interesting family stories of a world-famous (and completely admirable) author, or to be truly inspired in some area of life, <i>Stories of My Life </i>should be near the top of your 2019 to-read list! </div>
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Kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13934152439226656855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1448605327622202508.post-32861477433480594562018-12-08T12:23:00.000-05:002018-12-08T12:23:20.177-05:00On Reading Well by Karen Swallow Prior<div>
<a href="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/913ko5IofxL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="518" height="400" src="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/913ko5IofxL.jpg" width="258" /></a>This book was such a joy to read, being both interesting and easy to read as well as inspiring to immediately go out and read lots of other books! A few weeks ago, I posted about the introduction of this book, in which Karen Swallow Prior lays out her argument that reading (of the sort that <i>thinks</i> and <i>assesses</i> the content) is good for developing virtue. In the main body of the book, she takes 12 virtues (the cardinal virtues, the theological virtues, and the heavenly virtues) and considers each one in light of a particular work of fiction literature. </div>
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While we could probably take just one work of literature and consider what it has to say about all 12 virtues, I appreciate that she wanted to give the broad spectrum--this book is essentially a lesson on how to look at books from a variety of genres and how to open ourselves to be changed for the better by the goodness and badness we find. She also helpfully considers what each virtue really means and looks like, seeking out clarifications through etymology and other uses of the root words. </div>
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Also, in taking a different book to look at each virtue, Prior shows how we can apply this kind of careful reading to every genre. I certainly have my favorite genres, and she even write about two of my favorite books (<i>A Tale of Two Cities </i>for the virtue of Justice, and <i>Persuasion</i> for the virtue of Patience.) But she considers authors and styles that are widely different, which has since inspired me to look forward to trying out each of these styles, if not each of the books that I haven't yet read. The earliest work is from the 17th century--Bunyan's <i>Pilgrim's Progress </i>which is a Puritan allegory that she uses to think about the virtue of discipline. For more modern works, she uses George Saunders' short story "The Tenth of December" to talk about Kindness. In between we have F. Scott Fitzgerald, Cormac McCarthy, Mark Twain, Tolstoy (along with Dickens and Austen whom I already mentioned), Edith Wharton, Flannery O'Connor, and Shusaku Endo. </div>
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It would be impossible to even summarize the points of each virtue for each book, since that is what Karen Swallow Prior has done in this book.... and it is a <i>book</i>! I can, however, summarize some of my favorite points and mention a few things that I disagreed with. </div>
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The chapter on Faith (which looked at Shusaku Endo's book, <i>Silence</i>) was particularly helpful to me in realizing the danger of pride as we "work out our faith in fear and understanding" as Paul says in Philippians chapter 2. We conscientiously seek to know God and understand what he would have us do.... and before we know it, we can find ourselves looking at other people and thinking, "why aren't <i>they</i> doing what I'm doing?" (Perhaps not expecting them to do the very things we are doing, but we suspect that they aren't seeking God's will the way that they ought to.) I read <i>Silence</i> when I was in college and hated almost every moment of it. And in a way, I felt a bit validated in reading this chapter, because Prior speaks to the discomfort of the subject matter, as we see first one and then two missionaries to Japan apostatize and then become assimilated into Japanese culture. And the central question is, "do they have saving faith? CAN they have saving faith?" And there is no way to read the book and come out saying a positive "yes" or "no." Which is what frustrated me! But Prior points to this as the power of the writing, taking away the pride of the reader. We don't and we never will have the power to say decisively: this person is damned. But we can look at our own faith and say: is this real? And we remind ourselves that this is not our trial...but should it ever become ours, we borrow more words from Paul in Philippians and pray and ask God fervently that "with full courage, now as always, Christ will be honored in my body, by life or by death." </div>
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This chapter on faith, by the way, did <i>not</i> make me want to go re-read the book again. (Perhaps the only one that didn't do that.) I think I still have an almost visceral repulsion to this story, it is so horrifying and unsettling. But I appreciate so much that I now feel like I have gotten the <i>point </i>(or at least one of the points) that I should have seen when I read it 10 years ago. </div>
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Another favorite chapter was on the power of kindness. First, Prior draws the connection with kinship (among other things.) And through the story of Saunders' "Tenth of December", she draws out the power of treating other people like family. We love them, understand them, <i>seek</i> to understand them, and are careful about what we say (or should be), knowing that as family, we might hold more power over their emotions than we ought to. Kindness doesn't always have to go to this extreme, but there is a care and concern at the heart of it that can be directed toward anyone, even the passing stranger on the street. There is also an essential connection between kindness and truth. There is no way to separate the two. "Niceness" is different. Even the etymology of "nice" has an association with ignorance and lack of understanding. The story itself shows a meeting between two strangers in the woods--an old man who is terminally ill and preparing to kill himself, and a boy out pretending "rescue the damsel in despair". They meet, and they are kind to each other, showing concern for the other's health and basic needs. The result of this everyday sort of kindness is that the old man is revived in his desire to live (a sad irony, since he is terminally ill and now must consider the tough days in front of him.) Both he and the boy realize that they were living in a cloud, imagining things that weren't true. Because of their chance meeting in the woods and their kindness, they see the truth more clearly and are ready to meet life with their "eye's open" and ready to appreciate it.</div>
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Throughout the book, Karen Swallow Prior has a roughly Augustinian approach to virtues, understanding that they are a mean of behavior or thought between two extremes, which are considered to be the related vices. And throughout the book, I have taken some issue with this... sometimes with the extremes, and sometimes with the whole framework of a virtue being the middle ground between two vices. One example of this is the way she writes about patience. I love much of what she had to say in the chapter on <i>Persuasion</i> (it is, after all, one of my favorite books!) A helpful one-liner that I took note of was, "patience is not passivity, but perseverance." Part of her understand of patience is that it's "a willingness to endure suffering." This is linked to the following idea that if there were no suffering, there would be no need for patience.... which I don't think quite lines up with a normal/everyday understanding of patience and suffering. We have often told our kids that "Patience means waiting without whining or complaining." Perhaps if you have a very soft understanding of suffering, waiting for something could qualify.... but no, waiting in and of itself is not suffering. Now, I <i>do</i> agree that all moments of suffering require patience, but I don't think it follows that suffering must be present for a person to exercise patience. In reading Prior's assessment of the extremes associated with the virtue, I've probably become more set in my disagreement. She says that the vice of <i>excess</i> that is related to suffering is "wrath" (!) and the vice of deficiency is "apathy." And here is my objection: we are talking about patience! (not suffering) Excess and deficiency must be related to the thing in the middle! An excess of patience <i>might </i>result in apathy, but certainly not wrath and anger. And a deficiency of patience is.... well.... <i>impatience</i>. Impatience can sometimes (often does) lead directly to anger, but more closely shows an extreme selfishness and entitlement. She does end the chapter the with extremely helpful and succinct comment that "patience has often been considered a sub-virtue of courage." </div>
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In spite of my disagreement about the framework she is setting up, I have found most of her thoughts on the actual virtues to be wise and inspiring. I appreciate the many, many references she makes to other writers, theologians, and philosophers. And most of all, I have a better way of reading and practicing virtue at the same time--truly learning to <i>be</i> by doing one of the things I love best: immersing myself in fiction and literature. </div>
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Kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13934152439226656855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1448605327622202508.post-45916211850708613882018-11-28T13:24:00.001-05:002018-11-28T13:24:56.605-05:00The Vanderbeekers of 141st Street by Karina Yan Glaser<div>
<a href="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/51qiwWRZKFL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="333" height="400" src="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/51qiwWRZKFL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="266" /></a>Three chapters in, I thought this book was such a bore. But now that I've finished it, I'm looking forward to reading the sequel that came out just a couple months ago (<i>The Vanderbeekers and the Hidden Garden</i>). What changed? Instead of being impatient with a slow plot, I became so engaged with the characters that I was more interested in their own development and emotions than in the resolution of the central question--which is: Will they have to move? And where? </div>
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While I love a good fantasy book full of imagination and magic and creative settings, every once in a while I need to sit down with a real-life story about normal people with normal problems. <i>The Vanderbeekers of 141st Street </i>is just such a book, and ideal for an early grade school audience. </div>
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This book is appealing to me largely because it's clearly an homage to all lovely homes in the world. This family has made their home in Harlem in Manhattan, which is hard for me to relate to. But there's no doubt that the picture that Karina Yan Glaser paints is very attractive. The Vanderbeekers are an in-tact family of <i>seven</i> (living in Manhattan... which perhaps requires a bit of suspension of disbelief right up front): father, mother, and five kids (plus dog and bunny!). Mr. Vanderbeeker grew up in this particular neighborhood in Harlem, as did all of his kids up to their current ages, and even in this particular house for the last 6 years or so. The Vanderbeekers know everyone in the neighborhood and help take care of the elderly and thoughtfully include those around them in their lives. It's a beautiful picture of the way all people are meant to live in community. A personal favorite moment is a snapshot of how comfortable the family is with all different sorts of people when a "gentleman" in baggy pants with a rhinestone studded dog leash out walking his chihuahua who, upon seeing a contingent of the kids, greets them with, "What-up, Vanderbeekers?" (Even though I would not normally think "gentleman" when seeing a person of this description, I <i>love</i> that he is labeled such in the book, showing that the children see him that way and have a way of treating all grownups as "ladies" and "gentlemen" no matter what stereotype they might fit into.) </div>
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Of course, the family is a bit loud. How can you not be loud when there are 5 kids in one family? In fact, their noise and conspicuous presence is part of what causes their landlord to decide not to renew their lease. So the kids develop a hair-brained (and ill-fated) scheme to capture the heart of the evil Beiderman so he will change his mind and let them stay. The plan includes everything from offerings of homemade place-mats, a kitten, threats a la <i>Treasure Island</i>, and a neighborhood petition to show how Harlem would not be the same if the Vanderbeekers had to move. </div>
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The story is simple and fairly slowly developed. The whole book takes place over about 4 days surrounding Christmas. But each child, and both parents are fondly sketched--each their own delights and sorrows and dreams and memories. They are altogether charming. This book does much to affirm the goodness of a family, both for the members of that family and also for the good of the community that surrounds the family. </div>
Kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13934152439226656855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1448605327622202508.post-82494950899675276672018-11-14T23:14:00.000-05:002018-11-14T23:14:38.244-05:00A healthy diet of fiction<div>
<a href="https://www.bhny.com/sites/bhny.com/files/FightEvilReadBooks.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://www.bhny.com/sites/bhny.com/files/FightEvilReadBooks.JPG" width="320" /></a>I'm currently reading a book called <i>On Reading Well</i>, by Karen Swallow Prior. This is certainly not my usual realm (which I can confidently say is either literature or children's fiction) but rather a dabble into literary criticism with a Christian twist. This book in particular, has the distinction of being an argument for the moral benefit of reading fiction. (Which is not too common today, especially among Christian circles.) So I refrained from writing another book review this week, partly because it seemed a bit much to review books by the same author three weeks in a row, and partly because I'm well into the middle of a book about reading, that I would rather share with the world at large. </div>
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While I'm not at all trained in literary criticism, I have read other books about writing and about assessing the strength and value of the writing that we read. I'm also fairly well read, in the sense that I have read quite a lot and I can articulate both the good and bad points of the books I read. And not having been classically trained in literary criticism, it feels rather validating that in reading this book, my common-sense approach to determining what is good and bad seems to be upheld. (Though this style of literary criticism is considered, at best, quaint in these modern times.) </div>
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Good fiction makes us want to be good people. There. Now isn't that quaint? But it's true.... </div>
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This is what Karen Swallow Prior argues so compellingly in her introduction. </div>
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Virtue is desirable for a good life. And virtue comes, not from knowledge, but from practice. Knowing what is virtuous doesn't make us so.... it's <i>acting</i> virtuous that makes us good people. And how do we learn to act virtuous? By being placed in circumstances where we must choose between right and wrong and we succeed in choosing right. And how do we <i>know</i> what is right and virtuous? Perhaps a couple ways: one way is to call to mind an example that you admire of virtuous behavior. We imagine, "what would so-and-so think or say or do in such a case?" This is the benefit of <i>history</i>. We can think of a specific example with personality that inspires us and with which we can sympathize in their victories and defeats. A second way to know virtue is from <i>philosophy</i>. We think hypothetically about what is perfect and to be desired above everything else in beauty and goodness.... and we form an ideal. </div>
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This is what makes fiction so very powerful. Because fiction is the only place where the ideal (<i>philosophy</i>) can meet the picture (<i>history</i>). In reading a fiction story, we relate to the protagonist (and indeed, all the characters!) in their vicissitudes and we feel the pain of their bad decisions and the glory of their good decisions. We see with an almost omniscient eye the ramifications of their actions and the events leading to the fateful dilemmas that must change the course of their story. In essence, we are so emotionally invested that when we read a book that paints the world in strong and true colors (that show accurately the pain of 'bad' and the joy of 'good'), we are mentally practicing to make the same decisions in our own lives. </div>
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If people become virtuous through practice, reading fiction is a way to practice making good decisions alongside the characters that we read about. Of course we recognize that we aren't <i>really</i> in the same situation.... and yet, we think through the decision as if we were. That's why it's a practice! And it helps train our minds and our hearts to desire to do well and to be worthy of greatness in the real world. Karen Swallow Prior also suggests that even though we aren't <i>truly</i> living out these situations requiring a turning toward right or wrong, we often aren't <i>fully</i> living out our own scenarios even in real life! Yes, we're living, and actually making decisions. But we often <i>don't </i>see (as we do when we're reading) the ramifications and ripple effects of the decisions we're making. We don't see all the movements around us that have brought us to this place. We don't see the history of many years condensed into a mere hundred pages that we have perused over the last couple days to give us a rounded and broad understanding of the virtues and vices that have come this moment to war over our souls. But! The more fiction we read, and the more we practice seeing these things in the books we read, the more we are ready to consider the story of our own lives with greater wisdom and discernment. </div>
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This has certainly been true in my own life. I can easily rattle off a half-dozen fictional characters that have literally changed the way I think and live simply because I have read and re-read and loved the books in which they are cast. And now, in being reminded of the value of their example, I'm once again inspired to search for more, and to be reunited with my old heroes that have brought me to my current place and still have much to teach me. If you don't have fictional heroes, you are missing out on a very great blessing and help toward finishing your own story well. </div>
Kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13934152439226656855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1448605327622202508.post-52509968694322144532018-11-07T12:00:00.000-05:002018-11-07T15:13:46.073-05:00Ghosts of Greenglass House by Kate Milford (book review and character summary)<div>
<a href="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/61mPXSBC8PL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="333" height="400" src="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/61mPXSBC8PL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="266" /></a>A new mystery, a new search, and a new bunch of crazy people--<i>Ghosts of Greenglass House </i>is everything you would expect of a sequel to Kate Milford's award winning <i>Greenglass House. </i></div>
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The craziness begins anew when, just a couple days before Christmas, the Wait's show up at the front door of Greenglass House. Who are the Waits? A mysterious and slightly creepy caroling group. They wear outlandish costumes covered in bells and holly and mistletoe and they carry a "hobby horse"--an animal skull bedecked with ribbons and bells and candles. But then, for some reason, everything starts going wrong. The cleaning of the chimney is a complete disaster, filling the air with soot and grime. One guest seems to get poisoned by some punch (someone put Christmas berries in with the spices!) Two other guests are whacked on the head by an unseen molester. </div>
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It seems impossible that all this is coincidence when only the day before, Georgie and Clem showed up at the Greenglass House seeking a low-profile haven after a job gone wrong. And sure enough, the same evening that the Waits are spreading chaos over the Greenglass House, Georgie and Clem both find that they have been robbed. As far as they can tell, the stash they brought wasn't particularly valuable--just special because it once belonged to Violet Cross, the famed smuggler who supposedly did the impossible and mapped the ever-changing Skidwrack River. Such a map would be an invaluable treasure! It doesn't <i>seem </i>like the map was among the things they found in the old hideaway, but if it was.... things could get a lot messier than a bit of soot on the Christmas tree! </div>
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To complicate matters even more, there's another mystery guest: Emmett Syebuck. He appears to be at the house as an artist obsessed with the stained glass windows. But is he really who he says he is? He clearly has some skill. But his interest in Clem and Georgie when they arrive is more than a little suspicious. Is he the another thief? Is he working for himself? Is he a customs agent? </div>
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In contrast with the first book, Milo learns to use his emotions (instead of ignoring or dampening them) to strengthen his understanding and intuition of those around him. Like the first book, this story draws on the uses of a role-playing game (Odd Trails) to help Milo adapt to new situations and learn how to be a more capable, calm version of himself. And like the first book, there are several side-stories told by the characters--and it is for the reader to determine just how relevant they are to the mysteries at hand. </div>
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All in all, <i>Ghosts of Greenglass House</i> is a fun and fast read that follows well in the footsteps of <i>Greenglass House. </i>Stay tuned for my thoughts on <i>Bluecrowne--</i>the Nagspeake companion novel about the magical first inhabitants of Greenglass House (the Bluecrowne family.)</div>
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For those who have taken some time in between reading the first and second book, it might be helpful to have a refresher of characters and summary of what happened in the first book: </div>
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<i>Milo Pine (and parents) </i>- Mr. and Mrs. Pine, with their adopted son Milo, live at Greenglass House and run it as an inn. While not actively participating in smuggling activities, it's generally understood that Greenglass House is a relatively safe haven for smugglers to lie low for a while. The first book revealed the unique history of the house in being owned by one of the greatest smugglers in Nagspeake history (<i>Doc Hollystone</i>). </div>
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<i>Meddy</i> - Milo's friend from the first book, who is actually the ghost of Doc Hollystone's daughter. Her real name is Addie Witcher, but adopts the nickname of "Meddy" when Milo mistakenly thinks that she is the cook's younger daughter. She helps Milo gain confidence and introduces him to the role playing game (Odd Trails) and helps him solve the mysteries of Greenglass House. </div>
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<i>Georgie and Clem</i> - two girls in their twenties who show up in the first book. They are both consummate thieves, specializing in different techniques. In the sequel, they return to Greenglass House as a haven after attempting a "job" together which went badly. </div>
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<i>Owen</i> - a minor character, but meaningful to Milo. This is the man whose affections Georgie and Clem were competing for in the first book. (Clem won.) More significantly, Owen has a tie to Greenglass House because his middle name is the same as the ancient family name that used to belong to the house: (<i>Lansdegown</i>... or Bluecrowne.) He's Asian and adopted, and at least in the first book, knew nothing about his birth family or Asian heritage. Because of the similarities in their situations, Owen becomes something of a mentor to Milo. </div>
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<i>Mr. de Vinge</i> - he has a fairly minor role in this sequel, but does show up. The Deacon and Morvengard agent who was deputized with the Customs patrol who was originally responsible for Doc Hollystone's capture and death. He proves himself ruthless in the first book, and conniving and double-crossing in the second. </div>
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<i>Lizzie and Mrs. Caraway </i>- minor characters. The cook and her daughter, but still safe people and affectionate family friends. </div>
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Kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13934152439226656855noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1448605327622202508.post-57299759670038544122018-10-31T12:00:00.000-04:002018-11-07T15:13:21.904-05:00Greenglass House by Kate Milford<div style="border: 0px; color: #383838; font-family: gotham, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
<a href="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/51cZKEM4eRL._SX334_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="336" height="400" src="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/51cZKEM4eRL._SX334_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="268" /></a>Part of the inspiration to re-read <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Greenglass House</em> came from enjoying <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Winterhouse</em> so much, and being reminded in many respects of Kate Milford's novel from 4 years ago. Both novels are set over Christmas vacation in an inn-like setting, featuring boy-and-girl teams that search for clues relating to the house in order to secure the safety and future happiness of the in/hotel and the family that runs it. However, for all the similarities, Kate Milford wins the honors hands down for delivering a better book on the whole. </div>
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In <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Winterhouse, </em>Ben Guterson developed a great mystery and fun puzzles. But Kate Milford took her characters and story many layers deeper. In <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Greenglass House</em>, she (seemingly) effortlessly draws out the personal struggles that everyone has faced to greater or lesser degrees. Milo is an adopted son from China with decidedly white parents. He clearly has some kind of OCD. So the story is not only about these kids solving a mystery, but also about how Milo learns new skills to keep his cool when confronted with unexpected, startling, and unpleasant surprises. Who doesn't wish to keep their cool under fire? Isn't that half of what makes James Bond so appealing? </div>
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So Kate Milford weaves these stories of discovery together: discovery of the history of a place and discovery of the character of a person.... almost the <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">creation</em> of a character of a person, because (as she illustrates in her story) we may not control where we came from, but we can absolutely control where we're going and who we are going to be. This is part of why the inevitable comments and facial expressions make him uncomfortable--the one's that say "one of these is not like another." But even more discomfiting is his own tendency to wonder about his birth parents and the endless "what if" questions that haunt his perception of "what might be" and "what might have been." Who hasn't had those thoughts? <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">What if I were born into a different family? What if I had a family that looked like me? What if I had siblings... or if I looked different... or if someone else were the adopted kid and I wasn't? </em></div>
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Not being someone who has ever struggled with OCD, I appreciate that Kate Milford is able to illustrate (without explaining) some of those struggles and delights. Seeing Milo almost lose it because someone touched his stuff helps me to accept that it's a pretty big deal for someone with OCD. Caring for my friends who have OCD means understanding that their security and safety and peace of mind might often rest in having a complete understanding of what is going on around them (both physically and emotionally.) At the same time, she also illustrates the delight they have when they DO understand and have confidence in that understanding--as when Milo goes in his room, shuts his eyes and relishes the plop as he drops his things in the middle of his desk. Then he turns, eyes still closed, and free falls backwards onto his bed, relaxing completely into the confidence that it is exactly where he knows it to be. </div>
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Milo meets a friend and she introduces him to a role-playing game, Odd Trails. But they don't exactly play the game. They enjoy the elements of pretend to imagine the person or character that they would like to be--and then they think about how they can be that person when their "real" self would be an incompetent mess. For example, with Milo's OCD, he can tell even if the slightest thing is out of place. But when he's being Negret (a sly and stealthy reconnaissance sort of guy), he's more occupied in gathering information and understanding the movements of people around him...so occupied that he doesn't have time to be bothered by the fact that something is out of place.</div>
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And what do you know? This imagining and pretending helps Milo to see how <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Milo</em> (and not his pretend persona, Negret) can live with more confidence, charisma, and generosity. I realize that there are plenty of ways where playing pretend in the real world is dangerous and unhealthy. But in this case and for this purpose, it's a great thing! We could all benefit from a little more imagining of who we wish we were... the heroes we admire, the thoughtful friends who have touched us deeply, and then "pretending" in real life to be that. This is the kind of practice that eventually makes something real. It's the idea behind "<em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">do</em> what you know is right until it <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">feels</em> right." However, all along it's most important to keep checking and making sure that the person you are practicing to be is <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">actually</em> someone good and admirable. And now, with the role-playing game, Milo can address some of those questions and actually wonder about them without feeling guilty for even thinking them. Of course it's natural for him to wonder about his birth family. It's doesn't mean he's being disloyal. It doesn't mean he doesn't love his parents. He does! He doesn't <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">wish</em> to be in a different family or home, he just.... wonders. </div>
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And I think this is another thing Kate Milford does excellently in the context of <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Greenglass House</em>. This is an extremely unusual case of a story with a complete, in-tact family. Parents and child have a good relationship. The parents seem to have a good relationship with each other. They make it through the chaos and uncertainty of the winter holiday with relative cool. After all, they had FIVE guests show up on the same night in a season that typically yields almost no customers. That, coupled with Nagspeak's history of smuggling (and ruthless customs officials) would put anyone on edge, not just the OCD boy who's resenting the intrusion on his Christmas holiday. Mr. and Mrs. Pine divide and conquer with admirable teamwork, and both of them pursue one-on-one time with Milo, genuinely concerned that he has a good Christmas break and knows that they are there for him, even when they are obviously "snowed under" with customers.</div>
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But there's no getting around the fact that parents and kids have things to work through even if they have a good family dynamic. In a world where the majority of families are broken and everyone in the family is hurting and distrustful of the others, it's easy to look at those kids who have both parents and actually <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">like</em> being with them and say, "what's <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">your</em> deal? How can you have any problems? You have both parents. You're not being abused. You have it so easy...." And yes. In a way, those families do have it easy and should be thankful for that. BUT. Those families are not perfect, and there is miscommunication and worries and unmet desires and, well, things to work through and figure out. But I'm thankful to see this side of things in a modern children's book: Children protagonists (and <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">real </em>children) do not need to be abandoned or lonely or unsupported by their parents in order to grow and strengthen their character. And to have a whole and loving family is a beautiful thing to be desired and relished whenever and wherever we see it (even in a story.) </div>
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Kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13934152439226656855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1448605327622202508.post-49055904297582985042018-10-24T15:22:00.002-04:002018-11-07T15:12:50.828-05:00Winterhouse by Ben Guterson<div style="border: 0px; color: #383838; font-family: gotham, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
<a href="https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1506704482l/29540876.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="385" data-original-width="255" height="400" src="https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1506704482l/29540876.jpg" width="263" /></a>Ben Guterson's debut novel from early this year, <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Winterhouse</em>, calls to mind many well known and beloved mid-grade mysteries. With and orphaned protagonist (Elizabeth Somers), a beautiful but mysterious holiday abode (The Winterhouse Hotel), various clues and puzzles, a friend and partner in solving said puzzles, an elderly benefactor who has an evil twin.... all of these and more conjure up memories of <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">The Mysterious Benedict </em><i style="line-height: 1.57143em;">Society</i>, <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">The Westing Game</em>, <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Escape from Mr. Lemoncello's Library</em>, and particularly <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Greenglass House. </em>For those who have read and enjoyed any one of these books, I can unreservedly say that you will enjoy this one immensely. </div>
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Elizabeth Somers has a relatively miserable existence living with distant cousins of her father's (whom she calls Aunt and Uncle.) An unexplained mystery (no doubt the theme of future sequels) is the disappearance of Elizabeth's parents. Elizabeth herself, was only 4 at the time and has only vague and troubling memories of some kind of violence...but which never seem to line up with her Aunt's story of what happened. Her Aunt and Uncle are sufficiently selfish to not be at all suspicious when some anonymous donor bequeaths $5,000 for them to take a vacation, and tickets and lodging for Elizabeth at the world-renowned Winterhouse Hotel. They and she make their departure for 3 weeks surrounding Christmas, and Elizabeth begins her journey into a jaw-dropping setting: a 13 story hotel on the edge of a lake full of regal splendor and luxurious comforts--the kind of place only millionaires would pay for. So there's no doubt that her aunt and uncle couldn't possibly have arranged her stay, and Elizabeth is haunted and puzzled by the circumstances bringing her to Winterhouse, even as she enjoys the best weeks of her life. </div>
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And they <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">are</em> the best weeks aside from a few odd things... the creepy and sinister couple who also ride the late bus to the hotel, the owner's mysterious midnight visits to the library, whispered conversations, seemingly unsolvable puzzles all over the hotel. But she does make her first "real" friend, Freddie Knox, who is just as keen on word puzzles as she is! He's reluctantly curious about the goings on at Winterhouse, and Elizabeth (through some trial and error) learns that when you have friends, it's important to not be too pushy or to assume that they share all your own interests. </div>
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The location itself is my favorite element of the story. The building is glorious, with an enormous dining hall for meals (complete with nightly magic stunts by the illustrious owner, Norbridge Falls), museum-like rooms full of generations of family paintings, a swimming pool and movie theater, world-famous candy, an enormous library; and sledding, skiing, and ice skating for outdoor fun. And, it's full of interesting people, all pursuing various relaxing holiday activities. In short, a fabulous place for almost anyone. </div>
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The mystery is fun and exciting, with some magical and ghost-y elements. It kept the action going at a fast clip, and I finished <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Winterhouse </em>in about three days. It's lively in its characters. It's beautiful in its setting. It's totally worth going to, even in (especially in!) your imagination. </div>
Kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13934152439226656855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1448605327622202508.post-40418183387319287902018-10-17T12:00:00.000-04:002018-11-07T15:12:37.141-05:00Orphan Island by Laurel Snyder<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Orphan Island</em>, Laurel Snyder has woven together an intriguing mixture of unique characters, Utopian setting, and unanswered questions. The result is captivating, thought provoking, and you should read it. Without being didactic, it teaches its lesson well: S<span style="line-height: 1.57143em;">ometimes you have to obey the rules even if you don't know why. Sometimes you have to work with and care for people you don't even like. Sometimes you have to move on and leave behind the things you love even if you try your hardest to hang on. And you won't ever know all the "why's", but someday you'll see enough to be okay with it. </span></div>
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<em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Orphan Island</em> is a kind of coming-of-age story. It's a fairly simple setup. There's an island with only 9 orphans. Every year (approximately) a boat comes bringing one more child--the new youngest, and immediately taking one away--the oldest. The one who comes is the Elder's (the new oldest's) Care, which essentially means that in the intervening time before the Elder steps into the next boat, he or she has to teach their Care the ways of the island--what's safe and what's not, but always including the three essentials: how to swim, how to read, and how to cook. At the same time, the Elder is responsible for teaching the Elder-in-training about what to do with their Care with the boat comes again. </div>
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We're introduced to our protagonist, Jinny, right as she becomes the new Elder. She watches her best friend, Deen, step into the boat. Simultaneously, she loses her best friend and comfort and receives responsiblility for a snot-nosed, whimpering toddler, who declares her name is "Ess." Jinny does less than a stellar job through her year as Elder. She loves Ess very much, but Jinny struggles with following the rules that were laid out on the island, passed down for who knows how many years..... and we always come back to "why?" Why are these nine children on an island? Are they truly orphans? When did the whole thing start? Why only nine and no more? Why do they always have to be the same ages, leaving at a certain point to be replaced with another youngster? Why. . . ? When. . . ? Who. . . ?</div>
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Jinny has her fill of questions, frustrations, and doubts, and when it comes time for her to step in that boat and ride away from the only life she's known to.... who knows where... she rebels. She pulls the boat up on the beach, and for the second half of the story, it's an experiment in what happens when one person decides that she doesn't have to follow the rules. And the story is set up to show--to prove, in fact, that no human being has the ability to just stay where they are. Time keeps moving forward, and children keep growing up. And even when people try to hang on too long, it affects and warps the relationships all around them. No one can just make decisions without them affecting other people. Each of the other children on the island has their own jobs and personalities, and it's peaceful and harmonious while Jinny is operating within the normal setup of the island. But as soon as she goes off the book, each of those relationships changes in a significant way. </div>
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In the afterward, Laurel Snyder admits to writing a back story, a preface that was deleted from the final printed copy. So there <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">is</em> an explanation for many of the questions we're left with. But--oh so true to life--we don't actually get to know what it is. This is the point of the story. We don't get to know everything. We don't get to have everything explained. And yet the world is still SO beautiful. Do we need to have everything explained to enjoy it and love it the way that it is? Can we not just trust that the rules are there for a reason and follow them, and encourage others to follow them because life is good that way? My 12-year-old self would have both loved and hated this book.... it summons courage for those fearful of a new stage in life, which I certainly needed and would have appreciated. But as always, I would have hated the teaching that "the rules" apply to everyone, including me. I, like Jinny, prefer to decide on my own what to do.... but also like Jinny, I've learned that life isn't about what I want. It's about obligations and duty, other people, finding and relishing the delight around us, cultivating the world and ourselves to be more than we were (and in my version) to the glory of God! </div>
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This is a great book. I'll be reading it again, and in about 5 years, my own kids will start reading it.... hopefully, by then, I'll have reconciled myself to them entering a more complicated world outside their homey and childish pursuits. </div>
Kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13934152439226656855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1448605327622202508.post-25099763267838520922018-10-10T12:00:00.000-04:002018-11-07T15:12:25.811-05:00Theophilus North by Thornton Wilder<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Theophilus North</em> is essentially a collection of short stories or sketches that share the time and place of Newport, Rhode Island in the early 1920s. The book is named after the protagonist--and yet, not so much the protagonist because he is the voice, the author of the book. And his stories are about those he meets during the summer he spends in Newport after he quits his teaching job. The reason he is there is fairly tangential, but we see right at the beginning, he has both a fascination with Newport as a town and also with people in general. He has theories about the trees of Newport and how and why they come from all over the world. He considers the "9 cities" of Newport (like Troy). Some are historical, some modern, some intersecting, some autonomous. (Like the servant's city. Or the aristocratic city....) Straight away, we see his interest in the people around him, and it is not surprising that when he shifts his narration from the 9 cities of Newport and describes the 9 ambitions he has pursued at various points, it is not surprising that we see a theme of understanding people---from anthropology to detective work. </div>
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When someone wins multiple Pulitzer Prizes for literature, he is, indisputably, an excellent writer. So I don't need to tell you that Thornton Wilder is a great author. But what might come as a surprise is that his work is so easy to read. Almost page-turner quality, not because there is fighting and suspense and action, but because he paints a picture of truly interesting people, each unique and real to the reader. We turn the pages because we care about what happens to them. </div>
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I took 15 years in between readings of this book. All that I remembered from the first time was that I enjoyed it very much. Now, I can tell you <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">why</em> I enjoy it. Without being preachy, Theophilus (Teddy, as he prefers to be called) teaches the reader about the delights of caring about people. He occasionally goes about it in some questionable methods, telling the most outrageous lies... so he is not in any way a moral role model. But he's admirable in many ways, and these shine through his various stories as he inadvertently pursues his ambitions (in spite of the consistency of being a tennis coach and getting odd jobs reading aloud) and wanders through the social strata of the 9 cities of Newport. </div>
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One thing that might be important to note is there are two chapters in which the story revolves around sexual themes. This is certainly not a children's book. But I wouldn't say that it's <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">in-</em>appropriate for high-schoolers or older. The fact of the sex is there in the background, but there are no details, no description... it is not erotic in the least. It's seems as if his approach is respectful pragmatism, as if he's thinking, "these are the kinds of stories that some people have, and this is the best way to tell that story." It would also be very easy to skip those chapters, since the whole book reads like a string of short stories, each chapter is fairly autonomous. When I was younger, I believe I must have skipped over these chapters, which perhaps helped me love the book well enough to want to return to it again later in life, when I had better context for digesting the more adult-themed chapters. </div>
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Upon reading it again, I remembered that one thing that has stuck with me over the last 15 years is the sense that each person has his own unique, fascinating story. And if we only take the time to be truly curious, we will find our curiosity well rewarded with a story worth telling. This, I think, is one small way in which this book has shaped my life. More recently (in the last 3 weeks or so since I finished it the second time), I've discovered a new adjustment in my life--a direct result of reading <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Theophilus North. </em>In the story, Teddy is decisive and clear in making his plans. He considers his schedule, and says "here is the time I can meet with you." I found myself slightly in awe, that someone could make plans and schedule things with such apparent ease. And I thought to myself that I should try this method.</div>
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The last several years, my scheduling has most resembled the sort of haggling one sees at a Turkish bazaar. "Here's my best time to meet, and here are 3 other options." And the other party responds, "Your best time is equivalent to my 4th best time.... here are my top three options." And it goes on and on, half the time resolving itself upon the first time suggested, and the other half of the time coming to nothing.... simply petering out with a general assent from all parties that any conjunction of our schedules was doomed from the first. So now, in the last few weeks, I've tried this new way: someone asks some time of me, and I offer them my one best time. So much simpler. This is not in the least an element in the book that it put forward as something admirable or even noticeable--it is not the topic of any story.</div>
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But this is the lovely part of <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Theophilus North </em>and Thornton Wilder's writing. The stories are fascinating. And the characters interesting. And what is admirable shines through whether or not it was the point. There's no artificial highlighting of The Important Thing. Each chapter is a story well told. The important things come through on their own. </div>
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Kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13934152439226656855noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1448605327622202508.post-52646741398111724272018-10-03T12:39:00.002-04:002018-11-07T15:12:11.596-05:00The Penderwicks At Last by Jeanne Birdsall<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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For me, this book was "okay." It was a sweet conclusion to a series where each sequential book was told from the eyes of the current 11 or 12-year-old in the family--this time, Lydia Penderwick. </div>
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In the first couple books, the older 3 sisters, being close in age, played a large role in each other's stories, and we saw some character development with each of them. But with these last couple (<em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">The </em><em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Penderwicks in Spring</em> about Batty, and this newest release) are more about the one sister, with some minimal interaction with the older sisters. </div>
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As with all Penderwick lovers, I had hoped for more development of the older Penderwicks, but considering the trajectory of the previous books, I felt that this was not Jeanne Birdsall's MO and figured that in a sense, she wrote each book as a "stand alone" story, each a "companion" book to the others. Since the main character is different, the other sisters whom we have grown to know and love are more tangential, little more than names that are mentioned here and there. This expectation was confirmed, and I was disappointed.<br />
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It is perhaps understandable that Jeanne Birdsall might not wish to tread the dangerous ground of trying to take some truly beloved characters and age them so that they are as empathetic and charming as they were when children. (Honestly, even Anne Shirley was supplanted by her own children as main characters in the last several books of the series.) </div>
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However, I was at least prepared to be disappointed of a glimpse into the older Penderwick's characters.... but I had hoped for a slightly more substantial story. I do want to give credit for fabulous writing style--each of the books is an absolute delight to read. I'm pretty sure Jeanne Birdsall could write a book about dryer lint and it make it interesting or at least insightful. However, some of her books have much more history, character development, and 'interesting or insightful' events than are displayed in this story. What did take place was described and narrated with fabulous wit and style. But I felt like there wasn't actually that much taking place. Many of Lydia's adventures with Alice (and Ben) felt like filler events in between wedding preparations. </div>
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And I also am happy to go on record saying that I never expected or hoped Jeffrey and Skye to have a romance.... they are completely wonderful as friends and would be terrible as a couple. Batty is a much better option for Jeffrey, considering her grown up persona (I should note, as a caveat to my previous criticism, that we do see a substantial amount of Batty in this book, which is nice.) And it's also nice that Jeanne Birdsall left the romance as an open suggestion at the end of the book, allowing the reader to fill in the future. </div>
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So to summarize: my disappointment is centered around my own lack of interest in the characters. And that stems from simply watching them doing things that I don't find terribly interesting, and without feeling like I really understand the depth of their characters. However, that is as far as my disappointment goes. Even without understanding the characters, I enjoy reading about them and am fond of the family and the aura of the series as a whole. There is no doubt in my mind that I will continue to re-read this series, and not omit this one at the end, in spite of it's probably being my least favorite. (And I DO, in fact, omit re-reading books in a series if I don't like them enough.)</div>
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I love this genre; I love Jeanne Birdsall's writing; and I unreservedly recommend the whole series to any girl looking for a good read. </div>
Kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13934152439226656855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1448605327622202508.post-1906452471490944862016-12-14T15:52:00.002-05:002018-11-07T15:11:52.288-05:00The Girl Who Drank the Moon by Kelly Barnhill<div>
<a href="https://books.google.com/books/content?id=aF93CwAAQBAJ&printsec=frontcover&img=1&zoom=1&edge=curl&imgtk=AFLRE72PGYpi91Los0jLYzez40Ys2a92OQfQ3IpUgfetDITgOu55VeFcU71aZPbbTSy0sfEKzU8HnLd02tYlLoYi8M2rSM1_ao45k4GvBg5thP4g9PM1AUJ4vZvCiI_1XKg2H-oqCLY2" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://books.google.com/books/content?id=aF93CwAAQBAJ&printsec=frontcover&img=1&zoom=1&edge=curl&imgtk=AFLRE72PGYpi91Los0jLYzez40Ys2a92OQfQ3IpUgfetDITgOu55VeFcU71aZPbbTSy0sfEKzU8HnLd02tYlLoYi8M2rSM1_ao45k4GvBg5thP4g9PM1AUJ4vZvCiI_1XKg2H-oqCLY2" width="211" /></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">This book is such a fun, wild ride. It starts off with a dystopia narrative: evil leaders of a small secluded town keep control over their people by inventing an evil witch who demands their youngest baby to be left for her on the same day every year... but the twist! There actually IS a witch. And every year she comes and rescues the poor babe who is left on the edge of the wood to die. She takes the babies on the harrowing journey across the woods and to the "free towns" where they are adopted and loved. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Throughout, there is magic spun through the story in beautiful, fantastic ways. It causes a contrast between the dark and gloomy town and the other side of the story--certainly not a utopia by any means, but it is bright and loving and exotic and full of joy and adventure. This perhaps wasn't always the case, but one year the witch (Xan) is distracted by the baby she is rescuing and feeds her moonlight instead of starlight--a dangerous thing to do, since moonlight is highly magical, and for a baby to eat SO much of it... well, Luna became a truly magical child. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Surprisingly, this was also Xan's experience, being enmagicked as a child. So we see that it is not only a joyful, powerful life that Luna is given, but also a heavy burden of hundreds of years to try to live well. Xan and Luna are opposites in many ways. Luna wants to know everything, while Xan has a passion for forgetting things. Luna is young, Xan is impossibly old. Kelly Barnhill weaves her story around this pair and surrounds them with a superb cast of side characters (some of my personal favorites of the book) that make the book well worth reading. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My one disappointment of the book is the ending. It wasn't a bad ending by any means. It merely could have been much better and more meaningful. The last several scenes are all about love--love expands your heart and your mind and forgiveness and makes things expand to infinity. It heals! It creates! etc. . . But there were so many other things that I wanted to see in the conclusion of the story. The love theme is great, but it needed more, considering the complexity of the story and the characters. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There were SO MANY opportunities for Barnhill to connect pieces of magic and story hundreds of years apart, and it seems like she missed them, or at least didn't exploit them in the meaningful way that I hoped for. The importance of forgetting and remembering should certainly have returned in the end. The mantra "Don't forget. I mean it," is repeated many times. (This being a message from Xan's mentor to her.) It seemed obvious that the purpose of this message would be explained in the conclusion. And I expected Luna to take up Xan's mantle and remember (or learn for the first time) the things that Xan insisted on forgetting. But no, there's no ultimate explanation of what that message meant. Luna doesn't go off to search for the missing stone doors to the hidden castle that Xan's mentor protected in his dying hours. The door and the castle seemed to play an important role in the story, but we never find out exactly what it's all about. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Why not? Because in the end, love is enough? Because Luna found her crazed mother and is trying to heal her? Because they rescued the town from its evil rulers and Truth is becoming known? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Maybe. All those things are good, and I enjoyed reading about them. Nevertheless, it makes a mediocre end to an otherwise fabulous book. The first 43 of the 48 chapters made me think this was going to be a read-every-year, favorite book of 2016. And then the last 5 chapters were so full of love and so lacking in explanation, it left something of a disappointed, flat taste in my mouth. As it is, I will probably read it again sometime, but not every year. And though I like it very much, it's not my favorite book of 2016. But I will certainly recommend it to many people. I might even put it under the tree this Christmas! It is after all, a fun, wild ride. </span></div>
Kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13934152439226656855noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1448605327622202508.post-9221380663323745152016-12-05T11:39:00.000-05:002018-11-07T15:11:21.129-05:00The Inquisitor's Tale by Adam Gidwitz <div>
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<a href="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/6106IM1sYgL._SX332_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="334" height="400" src="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/6106IM1sYgL._SX332_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="267" /></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It should not be surprising that <i>The Inquisitor's Tale </i>is about the Dark Ages, when the Inquisition rooted out and punished anything that the Pope determined was heresy. It is also not surprising that Gidwitz would employ a style of storytelling reminiscent of Chaucer's <i>Canterbury Tales</i>. Each chapter is a tale told by one or other patron of a local inn in rural France. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">What <i>is</i> surprising is that Gidwitz, with six years of research under his belt, does not try to write a history book for children. Instead, he paints a deeply informed picture of the Dark Ages that is also interesting and accessible. He taps in to the corner of the imagination that transcends time and allows someone in the modern information age to truly understand a few of the difficulties and delights of a life 800 years ago. You can trust the background details to be true and accurate of the time period. Yes, the Kings and Queens had a corner of the banquet hall designated for their bladder relief during mealtimes. Yes, peasants slept with their cow at night for warmth. Yes, people from all stations of life gathered at inns to drink ale, warm themselves by a fire, and swap stories till past their bedtime. (Some things never change!) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The thing I loved most about this book is that I knew I was learning so much about the Dark Ages without even trying. I didn't have to memorize dates or names, but I now know who the king of France was during that time period (and his mother and wife too!) After reading this book, I have a much better sense of what life was like back then. We've gained almost everything. (It was the Dark Ages, after all.) But we've lost things too. Who knows herb lore and which plants can have which effect on the body? (I know some do, but not many!) Who has seen or used a handmade, illuminated book? Who has seen a book that took 40 years to make and was a work of art worthy of sitting next to the Mona Lisa? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The three children of this story could not have been more unlikely friends. William is a giant of an oblate (basically a monk's understudy) who loved books and learning. Jacob is a Jew which was almost equal to the Devil in that culture. And Jeanne is a peasant girl who has fits in which she sees visions that often show her something of the future. Even so, they are thrown together and they do miracles. ("Really?", you say. Well, it all depends on your perspective, just as it did in the Dark Ages. Maybe they were just normal people. Maybe they were heathen witches. Maybe they were saints doing the work of the Almighty.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Gidwitz cleverly weaves together truth and tale and produces a legend. A wonderful beautiful legend, illustrating perfectly the Biblical principle: God uses the weak things of the earth to shame the strong; He uses the humble things of the earth to shame the proud. Through the story, he weaves in elements of more Biblical principles: Forgive, love, and care for your enemies. Trust that God sees more than you see, and that there is a reason and maybe even beauty in the pain we experience on earth. (The Troubadour's Tale got it right when he said that God was singing the song of the world. The pain of life and loss of loved ones is never beautiful, but the song that is telling the story might still be....will we trust that it is?) Truly, these are the hard questions of life--not just life in the Dark Ages. They are questions of life now, where terrorists murder, and political battles are full of hatred and blindness, and people are afraid of showing too much of themselves to others. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">William, Jeanne, and Jacob experienced these things in their world. People murdered without reason. (Jacob's parents died this way.) Political battles were blinded by hatred. (William saw the horror of thousands of books being burned and knowledge lost just because the Christians hated the Jews.) And Jeanne. She was afraid of her shadow--the shadow of her fits and dreams and of the people that would burn her as a witch because of what they did not understand. At any rate, these unlikely friends protect each other and comfort each other through loss and loneliness. And together, they make the hardest choice of all: to do what they believe is right no matter the consequences. This is still a decision children (and adults too) have to make. But back then no one had any "human rights". There was no "social justice." There was no "due process" of law and order. In the culture of the Dark Ages, "Might made right"...with a bit of superstition thrown in. So the rule of the land was more like: "Might makes right and saves your soul from eternal fire and torture where bloodthirsty demons will shred the flesh off your living bones." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There's something admirable and stunning about someone following truth when "Might" is on the side of the lie. The way these children do. The way we could. Admirable. Or crazy. Either way, it makes a good story. </span></div>
Kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13934152439226656855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1448605327622202508.post-46174433246716690882015-10-02T14:54:00.002-04:002015-10-02T14:54:55.084-04:00Sylvia's First Birthday<div style="border: 0px; color: #383838; font-family: gotham, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
Sylvia, Extreme.</div>
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Sylvia's birthday was relatively uneventful. Kate was grateful for that. For one day to outshine a year of change, growth and transition would be overwhelming to the extreme. But Sylvia's birthday was uneventful also because of the down to earth reality of the day. </div>
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It was Sunday and hot. The day before, they discovered that their car, the mostly indomitable White Rabbit refused to start. Something was up with the igniter. And the hood didn't close all the way. As unlikely as it seemed, the first thing Kate thought of was that someone had tampered with the car. At any rate, they weren't going to walk a mile to church in 90 degrees. And poor Sylvia had a nasty cold, anyway. To inaugurate the beginning of her second year of life, she contracted her first bad cold and also her first case of nasty diaper rash. She was a sloppy, goopy mess, oozing out of both ends. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjESLzkSycPg8ly3ymfEUD7-55JbbdhPiVgeXefOYugrkKJM8MjeskHyOcaek8IWJevFj1tFLKUJ81JGTlb37DBh51CvvFv_EBi9nCzd7nXv-TekMkv5GpR-xPw0oKRZuETtnCHjq3pzYGC/s1600/P1040301+%25281%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjESLzkSycPg8ly3ymfEUD7-55JbbdhPiVgeXefOYugrkKJM8MjeskHyOcaek8IWJevFj1tFLKUJ81JGTlb37DBh51CvvFv_EBi9nCzd7nXv-TekMkv5GpR-xPw0oKRZuETtnCHjq3pzYGC/s320/P1040301+%25281%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a> And yet, with some tylenol, baby powder, and Gouda (which makes everyone happier), Sylvia was her usual cheerful and slightly demanding self. She wanted to walk so badly, and only the day before had taken her first steps all on her own. Kate and Mister sat on the floor and let her walk back and forth between them. Step, step, step, <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">poof</em>. A small cloud of baby powder rose in the air every time she sat down. </div>
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When she wasn't walking, she wanted to be held and read to. Her particular favorites at the moment were all the "color" books. Sylvia requested <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Brown Bear, Brown Bear</em> so often that Kate made various adaptations to keep her brain from disintegrating.</div>
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"Brown bear, brown bear, what do you see?"</div>
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"Raaaaaaawwwwr."</div>
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"Uh-oh. Brown bear wants to eat the red bird!"</div>
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"Red bird, red bird, where will you go?"</div>
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"Tweet tweet....(red bird has a friend, the yellow duck. He's got connections. Quack.)"</div>
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Teddy enjoyed the books (and variations) as well. Sometimes they disagreed over which book to read, and the ensuing brawl of book whacking often sent Kate hiding behind a barrier of pillows. But on the whole, Kate was pleased to see that both her kids had an approximately equal interest and attention span for books. And even when it wasn't books, they often played well together--though Teddy had the predictable problem of possessiveness. </div>
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Kate thought back and realized that he had come a long way in the last year. When Sylvia was only days old, and Teddy began to investigate the new creature that had invaded his territory, he quickly lost interest when he discovered that he couldn't chew on her, or sit on her, or whack her with his characteristic enthusiastic arm swings. Gradually, as Sylvia started interacting more--smiling, vocalizing, and grabbing things--Teddy wanted to interact with her too. Kate had been surprised at how easily he learned to be gentle, and she was completely charmed every time he would run up to her after getting up from his nap and put his forehead against hers, or lean over and softly pat her downy head. </div>
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Now, they tried to chase each other, shared food and water bottles, try to wear each other's clothes (usually around their neck), and of course, fight over toys and books. The non-sharing season would be tough, Kate knew. But every once in a while she saw beautiful glimpses of the fun in store. Sometimes she heard raucous laughter when they woke up from their naps and were entertaining each other. Sometimes they sat close to each other, ignoring the pile of toys around them, babbling back and forth and chuckling. Sometimes they even took themselves away to the play room upstairs, where they would play happily (but not quietly) for 20 or 30 minutes at a time. Then Sylvia would get bored and scream to be carried down the stairs. She could go down the stairs on her own. But there were many of them, and Sylvia was timid about falling or bonking into things. </div>
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Oh, Sylvia was fearless when it came to climbing. But going down was a different matter. Once, when she realized she wanted to get off the couch, Kate watched her creep to the edge, then gradually maneuver around on her stomach so she could swing her legs down first. In the process, Sylvia slipped and then caught herself. She didn't fall, and she didn't bonk into anything. She was on the couch where she had started. But Kate watched her think and when Sylvia realized how <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">close</em> she had been to falling, her face melted and the tears flowed. </div>
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In spite of this, Sylvia loved to walk (with help) since she was about 9 months old. Only extreme tiredness would keep her from accepting a proffered hand for a jaunt around the living room. She was even fairly good at cruising along the coffee table, bookcases, or couches, walking along with one hand stabilizing on the furniture.</div>
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The coffee table was invaluable. It was a great height for both kids, perfect for snacks, toys and games, lessons in coloring, and (if you were a Teddy) standing on to look out the window or running along to jump onto a couch. One day, Kate gave them a usual snack of cheerios scatter along the outside of the coffee table. And Teddy, who wanted to play with them by making piles, didn't want to share. He sat in the middle of the table, while Sylvia cruised along the outside. Just as fast as he could gather up the cheerios and move them to another side of the table, Sylvia marched around and snatched a couple. Teddy gave dismayed squeals as she appropriated "his" cheerios, and with a dramatic flare, would follow her hand with his own all the way to her mouth, in the hopes of retrieving his stolen property. When the cheerio disappeared between those impenetrable doors, he hung his head and whimpered as if to say, "lost, lost, all is lost." It's hard to say if Sylvia noticed any of Teddy's drama. If so, they didn't phase her a whit. But that wouldn't have been surprising either, since stubbornness and single-minded purpose were already obvious facets of her character. </div>
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There was no doubt she was her mother's daughter, Kate and Mister agreed. Even from a few weeks old, they could tell she was a baby of extremes. When she was happy, she was <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">very</em> happy. When sad, <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">very</em> sad. When impatient...<em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">so</em> impatient that she hardly realized when her request had been granted. Even her face was extreme. It was cute, certainly, but so are most babies. Sylvia's was a special cuteness--she was a <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">beautiful </em>baby, like a doll, with deep, shiny, jewel-like blue eyes. (Such phrases characterized the compliments of everyone who saw her.) And then she would open her mouth and say, "Ma-ma-ma-ma-ma" in a deep, throaty gremlin growl. Even after almost a year, Kate was still surprised by the contrast of such a growl coming out of such a face. </div>
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And Kate had no doubts. There were many more surprises ahead.</div>
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Kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13934152439226656855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1448605327622202508.post-76280318220055558782015-09-30T11:51:00.002-04:002015-09-30T11:51:51.024-04:00The Beach<div style="border: 0px; color: #383838; font-family: gotham, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
The Beach (Aug, 2015)</div>
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Even before moving, Kate and Mister had agreed that one good way to try to learn about New Jersey and New York City would be to have weekly outings--either into the city or some other notable excursion. Before they left on their travels, they had time for two such outings, which were to Central Park (a visually overwhelming experience) and the Staten Island Ferry (busy, but fun--especially chancing upon a jazz band in a park on the way home.) The entire first week they were home after their trip soared into the upper 90s, and both Kate and Mister agreed that it would be a good opportunity to investigate the beaches nearby. </div>
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There were a number of beaches, but there was one about an hour away that sounded nice, and Kate and Mister made plans to go in a couple days, on Thursday. First thing in the morning, they gathered everything they could think of--umbrella stroller, parasol, towels and blanket, camp chairs, food and milk, sunglasses, and of course sunblock. Even so, before they reached the end of the first block, they thought of something else they had forgotten. Mister drove around the block (they lived on a one way street), and Kate ran inside to get a book to read aloud on the drive. </div>
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In spite of some audible discontent in the backseat, the drive south was smooth. Instead of going to the state park, they decided to park off a side street for free and walk up to the beach. Sylvia was in the stroller with an absurd number of bags hanging from the handles and swinging around on either side of her. Kate and Mister each carried more bags, and Kate chased after Teddy, who was eager to run into the middle of the road. It wasn't until they made it to the boardwalk that Kate realized it must have been too easy...free parking place, easy beach access...must be too good to be true. They approached a ramp over to the beach, but at the entrance sat a bored teenager with a flawless tan. There was an entrance fee--$10 each. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">What! </em>Kate scoffed in her mind. But then she looked down. Teddy was wriggling. Her bags were sliding down her arms to her wrists, Sylvia's stroller was so laden down, they could barely steer. She sighed. Expediency was definitely becoming more valuable--yet another evidence of her old age......err....maturity. </div>
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The beach was lovely and clean. And in spite of the heat, the water still felt quite cool. There was also a terrific breeze, which kept you cool and gave the ultimate sandy experience. Kate and Mister spread out a blanket and dropped a bag on each corner. In five minutes (or less) there was sand in their hair and diapers, at the bottom of bags, covering snacks and bottles, and also the proper place--between their toes. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZIaeMwDDELEp1-3rIAibgl0hd0RljqNMaEvSWppjEVFV7fU7F4eSwmn_prJra0GtdNy-RZMKh9rfz-i08ba14QWye5XYoNZyZYIXn9L3xBxBN9Q-jw5rzTi5fLaVoEWphpkMdIl_e52Sl/s1600/20150730_122542.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZIaeMwDDELEp1-3rIAibgl0hd0RljqNMaEvSWppjEVFV7fU7F4eSwmn_prJra0GtdNy-RZMKh9rfz-i08ba14QWye5XYoNZyZYIXn9L3xBxBN9Q-jw5rzTi5fLaVoEWphpkMdIl_e52Sl/s320/20150730_122542.jpg" width="180" /></a> For the next 2 hours, the kids played in the sand and the water, running back and forth and digging and getting their feet wet. (Sylvia would walk as far as anyone would help her!) Then they took turns returning to home base for a sandy snack, a sandy bottle of milk, and a quiet rest time buckled into the stroller. Kate fashioned an ingenious (and invaluable!) little shelter from the wind by hooking her little parasol around the back of the stroller. They didn't actually take naps, but were certainly better for having a short rest and were ready to go again for another hour after they were done. In spite of the obvious lack of naps, the sand, and the wind, Teddy and Sylvia clearly had a fabulous time. There was no crying or complaining. Even the seagulls were entertaining when they crept up within kicking distance in order to steal some abandoned crackers. </div>
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Finally, Kate and Mister decided it was time to head home. They packed everything up, dragged everything through the sand back to the boardwalk, changed babies, got fresh bottles, and loaded up the car. All in all, Kate felt like it had been a very successful trip--though it still rankled her that they had paid $20 to go to a beach which had half a zillion lifeguards <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">and no bathroom! </em></div>
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In the coming days and weeks, Mister was less enthusiastic about their "successful" trip to the beach. He had put sunscreen on his shoulders, but in the flurry of taking care of the kids, he had forgotten to ask Kate to cover the middle of his back. Twenty minutes after they got home, he approached Kate with a sheepish grin, "Do you know if we have any aloe vera gel?" Kate looked at his back and was horrified--truly, a lobster red; the worst burn that she had ever seen made an interesting map-like design across the middle of his back. A week later, when the worst of the itchiness was finally subsiding, Kate tried to remind Mister that it actually had been a <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">good</em> and <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">fun</em> trip to the beach. </div>
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"Remember how the kids didn't complain at all? And they slept so hard and so long that night?" </div>
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With a noncommittal grunt, Mister assented that the <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.57143em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">kids</em> had a good time, but there was a meaningful silence afterward. </div>
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Kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13934152439226656855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1448605327622202508.post-35178823488012792222015-08-31T14:15:00.002-04:002015-08-31T14:15:42.114-04:00Kate and Crew 37: Early Arrival<div style="border: 0px; color: #383838; font-family: gotham, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.571428em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
37. Early Arrival (Aug 29-30, 2014)<span style="line-height: 1.571428em;"> </span></div>
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Kate drained the water from a huge pot of boiled potatoes. It was 9:30 at night. The kids were in bed, Mister was at the men's retreat, and Kate's mother had just gone into the basement to get ready for bed. Surely, Kate was tired. But she vigorously chopped a red onion and put it in salt water. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.571428em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Perfect time to get something done! </em>she thought. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.571428em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">This is one church potluck that I WILL contribute to! </em>Somehow she always managed to forget when they were. Or she and Mister didn't plan on staying for the potluck after the service...and then changed their minds. She thought about the other ingredients: <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.571428em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">olives in the pantry, capers in the fridge, olive oil-pantry... </em>she looked at the clock. 10 PM. All of a sudden, she felt a strange wet trickle down her legs. </div>
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<em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.571428em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Ugh. What IS that? </em>she thought to herself. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.571428em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">I wonder if my water is breaking. Does that happen before labor? </em>With Teddy, her water hadn't broken until long after she was at the hospital and had been in labor for hours. For Kate now, labor still appeared to be days away. </div>
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She grabbed some rags and went to ask Laurie's opinion. They weren't completely positive, but water-breaking seemed the only reasonable explanation. </div>
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"I guess I should call the doctor?" Kate mused. </div>
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"Well, do you have any contractions?" </div>
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"No. That's just it though. I'm definitely not in labor, but the pamphlet said that if I tested positive for Strep B (which I did), that I needed to call in if my water broke." </div>
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"I guess you'd better call then." </div>
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"Fine." </div>
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The doctor on call managed to convey that Kate and her baby could be in a life-threatening situation if she didn't make it to the hospital in the next ten minutes. The hospital was fifteen minutes away. </div>
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Kate hung up and sat for five minutes in a daze, wondering what she should do. She called the number that Mister had given her, and left a message. Then she called a friend to see about a ride to the hospital. No response. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.571428em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Who can I call? Who can I call? </em>she mused. She absolutely refused to wake Teddy up to go to the hospital, and obviously it was impractical to drive herself. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.571428em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Though I probably could, </em>Kate grumbled to herself, <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.571428em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">'Come in right away' my foot. This baby's not coming anytime soon.</em></div>
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<em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.571428em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </em>Her phone rang and startled her. It was from her pastor. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.571428em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Wait. He's at the men's retreat too...</em><em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.571428em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">what goes on, anyway? </em></div>
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A happy, energetic voice called out on the other side of the line, "Kate? How are you? Everything ok? Look, can we do anything for you?" </div>
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Kate shrugged. The men's retreat was two hours away. What could they do? "Well," she said, "I need a ride to the hospital." </div>
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"DONE! My wife will call you in two minutes." </div>
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Kate couldn't help but laugh. "Ok. Thank you." </div>
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Less than two minutes later, Kate got the call. A large group of ladies was having a pow-wow at the pastor's house, and after a query, one lady jumped in her car and started West. The pastor's wife got Kate's address and texted it to the friend on the road. </div>
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About half an hour later, Kate let Dee in the door. She was quivering with excitement. </div>
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"Oh my goodness!" she exclaimed. "You're standing. Are you okay? Do I need to get a wheelchair? I've never done anything like this!!!" She sounded terrified and thrilled and a little crazy all at the same time. "I thought maybe I should call the police...do you need a police escort?" </div>
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Kate chuckled. Dee was more excited than she was! "No. I'm quite alright." Then she thought about the last hour. The half dozen or more phone calls just to get her to the hospital. This delivery was turning into a church production. (Their friend, John, later said, "It's a surprisingly freeing feeling...tossing one's keys to a man whose wife is about to have a baby. Not something you get to do every day.")</div>
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Kate laughed again. "This is quite a circus," she said. </div>
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Dee's eyes widened. "Oh my goodness! A circus! Is the baby coming?!"</div>
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"Um, no." </div>
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"Oh. Well, goodness sakes, girl, let's get this circus to the hospital before she comes!" </div>
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It had taken so long to find a ride and actually get to the hospital that Mister joined her only five minutes later, a little after midnight, as she was giving her information to the nurse. This was so much easier than with Teddy, when the contractions were rolling close together and the nurse was asking her social security number. Kate still had enough mental capacity to be irked though. "Honestly," she complained to Mister when the nurse left, "they already <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.571428em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">have</em> all of this information. What's the point of filling out the pre-admission form if you just have to answer all the questions again when you get here?" </div>
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"I don't know, dear." </div>
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"Can't they keep <i style="line-height: 1.571428em;">anything </i>straight?" </div>
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"I don't know..." </div>
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Kate looked at Mister and smiled. "Sorry. You must be tired." </div>
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Actually, Mister was beyond exhausted. It had been a full day of basketball and swimming, and food, and worship, and then a two hour drive in a friend's car while wondering if his daughter was being born. Even so, Mister agreed to walk the halls with Kate in an attempt to start labor naturally. They talked about their days--what a long day it had been since their breakfast date that morning! They talked about family and travel and traditions. It was 2AM. </div>
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Finally, they agreed to start some pitosin. Kate had heard that the contraction-inducing drug could make for a horrible labor. But no labor meant no baby and probably no sleep. The next three hours were horrible. Contractions and the pain with them increased, but Kate still had a <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.571428em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">long</em> way to go before being ready to deliver. And she and Mister were both so tired. Kate requested an epidural--she wanted to hold off "as long as she could", since she didn't like being immobile, but it ended up being a little too close to "<em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.571428em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">longer </em>than she could." </div>
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But rest settled in around 5AM. She was relaxed on her back, reading Julia Child's <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.571428em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">My Life in France. </em>Mister slept next to her on the pull-out chair. The rest of the night was peaceful. At 7AM she was around 7cm. At 10AM, the nurse called the doctor and told Kate that the baby's head was showing and it was time to push. Kate got into position and starting pushing. </div>
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"Stop pushing!" The nurse yelled. "Stop pushing. She's going to come out. Wait until the doctor comes."</div>
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A few moments later, the doctor came, Kate pushed, and the baby came. She was a beautiful baby girl with eyes open and almost perfect coloring. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPmW2azyGhJTNFGIDnARwHuEcyOY1ciqKbzLJ1PbELeKq79pij8Lm5KS1vT8CMkqMjcjw5ZG6qJUhD6F3s3GRn5O7VsXZW1pJNK0_l0M8prOWbS8mPq1pceXVq3Sl8uDAoukQtVxjpx-Wk/s1600/20140830_141931.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPmW2azyGhJTNFGIDnARwHuEcyOY1ciqKbzLJ1PbELeKq79pij8Lm5KS1vT8CMkqMjcjw5ZG6qJUhD6F3s3GRn5O7VsXZW1pJNK0_l0M8prOWbS8mPq1pceXVq3Sl8uDAoukQtVxjpx-Wk/s400/20140830_141931.jpg" width="225" /></a> "Sylvia." Kate whispered in wonder. Here was a new person. Living and breathing on her own. Kate had nourished her and sustained her for nine months, but there was no effort, no planning behind it. Kate had never said, "Now, little baby inside me, let's make your bones" or, "Time to make your eyes" or "Keep beating, little heart. Remember, twice as fast as mine. Keep beating." Who knew how to do those things? Who could make a baby come from cells and be born a living, breathing being? This was a miracle of God. </div>
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"That's a little miracle baby, right there" said the doctor as he handed her to Kate. </div>
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Kate instantly agreed. But later, weeks later, she wondered. And she asked him why he had said it just that way. The doctor explained. "The placenta had already partially detached before she was born. That's where all the blood came from. If you had had to push longer, or she had taken longer to come out, or...well, if <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.571428em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">anything</em> had been different, you would have had an emergency C-section, and your baby might have had serious complications." </div>
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And Kate sat still, in awe before the Lord. The Lord God, who knew to a moment when and how things should happen; this was a God to whom she could entrust her children. In the coming weeks and months, Kate would watch her daughter grow and change. Sylvia would learn things, things that Kate had no power to teach. And sometimes she felt breathless with gratitude, knowing that God was teaching her baby how to grasp and chew and swallow and making her grow and keeping her heart beating on time.</div>
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Sometimes she felt that it was unfair. How a parent has all the responsibility to <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.571428em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">raise </em>a child, but no capability to <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.571428em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">make</em> a child grow and learn. But at the same time she felt humbled. No other place in life, she felt, was it so obvious how God was daily involved in their lives. She had a front row seat to view God's incredible power to sustain her family...and the rest of the world. </div>
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Kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13934152439226656855noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1448605327622202508.post-77007058714367475292015-08-28T13:52:00.001-04:002015-08-28T13:57:15.416-04:00Kate and Crew 36: Waiting<div style="border: 0px; color: #383838; font-family: gotham, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.571428em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
36. Waiting (Aug 2014)</div>
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The first couple weeks of August, Kate frantically tried to finish everything on her many lists. One day, after spending Teddy's entire nap time cropping pictures and slapping them in a scrapbook, she declared to Mister, "I've got to get this done now! After this baby comes, I'm not going to be able to do <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.571428em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">anything. ever. again!</em>" </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXsr9djzheGAtFScfVd7yZkcvKJv4HVkzTBB8RlHTZUgeXJabmJ83a34PYdOqBsKMky9F0CEpcmMbOWYvkjHW7xPEbUmFqkUIWuO1dHCQvNm8E11rA75-UY9iJlZnap3n9_zL-d_VhzxO3/s1600/2014-08-15+16.44.37.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXsr9djzheGAtFScfVd7yZkcvKJv4HVkzTBB8RlHTZUgeXJabmJ83a34PYdOqBsKMky9F0CEpcmMbOWYvkjHW7xPEbUmFqkUIWuO1dHCQvNm8E11rA75-UY9iJlZnap3n9_zL-d_VhzxO3/s320/2014-08-15+16.44.37.jpg" width="320" /></a> Mister just laughed, "That's what you said last year, remember?" </div>
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"Yes, I know. But this time it's true!" </div>
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But soon, Kate was running out of projects. She had finished her wedding scrapbook. She finished Teddy's first year scrapbook--as far as she could, at any rate. She had organized the baby clothes and resorted them multiple times. She rearranged the babies' room. And her own room. And probably would have done the living room and basement as well if Mister hadn't had that skeptical you're-just-going-to-make-me-move-it-back-again look. She had been working on learning to make Indian food and pizza. There were 25 freezer meals in the chest freezer. And one day, three weeks before her due date, she found herself wondering what she should do. </div>
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All this free time--Kate just <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.571428em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">had</em> to come up with a way to use it before the baby came and she wouldn't ever have another chance! She thought about a new list of projects to work on. Cleaning and organizing...they always went on the list first, and never seemed to come off. Her regular scrapbook of their life together was woefully behind. She could work on that. And she could work on her writing and journaling. She looked lovingly at the baby quilts she had made and considered. </div>
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"Mister," she asked when he walked by, "What do you think about me making a big one of these for our bed?" </div>
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He gave her a blank stare. Was it a trick question? "Uhm," he said, with the sort of caution that instantly told Kate what he thought. "wouldn't that be kind of a big undertaking?" </div>
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"Yes, I suppose it would." Kate felt deflated, their bed suddenly denuded of its pending glory. </div>
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"And you were trying to cut back or finish up big projects, right?" </div>
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"Yes, I suppose so."</div>
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"And you were trying to clean things up and not make more scraps and messes?" </div>
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"Welllll," she said, sensing some logical flaw in what she was about to say, "it could be a kind of roundabout way of picking up. If I <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.571428em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">make </em>something with the fabric, I don't have to put it away or store it!" </div>
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"Hmmmm." Mister wasn't buying it. "And how long would this project take?" </div>
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Kate was stuck there. "Probably a few years? It could be for our tenth anniversary!" (They were coming up on their fifth.) </div>
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Mister just laughed. "How about," he said, offering his own suggestion, "you go for a walk, and then read or lie down for a little while before making dinner?" </div>
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Kate sighed. "Yes, I suppose that would be better..." She just felt so antsy, wanting to start and finish things. To make lists and more lists and accomplish them. Not a day too soon, Kate's mother, Laurie, arrived on the 19th, just in time to provide some extra company and balance and save the Miller household from a major overhaul. </div>
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Laurie helped keep Teddy in line, helped Kate at the grocery store, helped with the dishes, and generally...helped. She distracted Kate by reading Peter Wimsey novels aloud, and dreaming up extravagant plans for future girl-dates. </div>
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"Just think!" She would say, "Little Susie will stay home with us and drink cocoa and knit while Teddy goes hunting with Papa!" (She never seemed to run out of "S" names to guess, ever since Kate and Mister had revealed that the initials they had chosen were S.A.M.--in part an homage to their Best Man and Maid of Honor, who were both named Sam.) </div>
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Kate would ignore the stream of names unless her mother pointedly asked (as she often did), "<em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.571428em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Is</em> it Susie?" </div>
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"No," Kate would reply almost instantly. </div>
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"How about Stephanie?" </div>
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"No." </div>
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"Sarah?"</div>
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"No."</div>
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"Sadie?"</div>
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"No."</div>
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"Sylvia?"</div>
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Kate paused. "Yes, that's it." </div>
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Laurie looked up, but saw only Kate knitting away on her latest project. "Really? You're just teasing me!" She accused. </div>
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Kate laughed, "No, you actually guessed it. I admit, I didn't think you would..."</div>
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"I guessed it! I guessed it!" Laurie crowed. She was supremely pleased with herself. "And <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.571428em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Sylvia</em>! What a beautiful name! Oh, I'm so excited. I can't believe I guessed it!" </div>
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Friday morning, the weekend before the due date, Mister took Kate out for brunch at a stellar new breakfast place they had discovered. It was perfect, and delightful, and they couldn't help but talk about children the whole time! They even talked about talking about children. It was especially nice to get a date in, since Mister had once again planned to be gone the weekend before the due date. Last year, he went to Atlanta to be in a wedding. This year was not so extreme--he was driving an hour away for the church's men's retreat. Kate didn't expect any problems. After all, last year, she delivered Teddy a week after the due date. </div>
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That afternoon, Kate got a call from a strange number. It was Mister. </div>
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"My phone doesn't have service out here," he said. "I just wanted to give you this number, in case you need to call. Are you feeling okay?" </div>
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"Just fine. I'll let you know if anything happens, but otherwise I'll just see you tomorrow evening. I hope you have a good time!" </div>
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Kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13934152439226656855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1448605327622202508.post-71982624578926237152015-04-04T15:32:00.000-04:002015-04-04T15:32:57.839-04:00Trinkets<div style="border: 0px; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
Almost daily, I look around our house and think to myself, "Is that a trinket of frivolous utility?" </div>
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Being married to an economist (and an Adam Smith scholar to boot) does come with some advantages, one of which is a fountain of fantastic and useful phrases from Smith's incredibly eloquent writings. It interested me that Smith's category of "trinkets of frivolous utility" includes many things that people spend their whole lives pursuing--large houses that they then have to maintain, expensive or gas guzzling cars that are more trouble than they're worth, he even goes so far as to say that "wealth and greatness are mere trinkets of frivolous utility." The lifestyles of the rich and famous...they ever fail to give fulfillment. </div>
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So I have found myself, as we prepare to move this summer, gradually packing up boxes and wondering how many things in my house are trinkets of frivolous utility. </div>
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Trinkets, I've decided, are things of small ultimate value. So something might be expensive in dollars that is not truly and ultimately valuable. Likewise, something might cost very little, but be immeasurably valuable to me. In fact, some things, the most valuable things cannot even be considered in terms of money--money then, is surely not the best gauge of value. ('Utility', by the way, is the economist's word for an individual's reckoning of 'value'.) I am reminded of the passage in Isaiah 55: "Come, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; and he who has no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money, and without price." How valuable is this water? Or this wine and milk? There is no price, and there is no money... how then do we decide? </div>
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I have come up with a list of questions based off of what we value as a family in order to help me determine what is <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">not</em> a trinket...and the rest are generally assumed to be frivolous. Here are a few of the questions: What does it remind me of? Is there a special memory in this thing--one that is worth remembering? Does this thing make me thing about God, and his glory, and does it engender gratitude and thankfulness in my heart? Is the thing useful for our family, helping us maintain order and peace at home and to be hospitable? Is it a thing of beauty that never fails to delight me? Is there a high cost to storing or keeping such a thing? </div>
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There is an astonishing, appalling number of things in our house that are both <span style="line-height: 1.428571em;">cheap</span><span style="line-height: 1.428571em;"> </span><em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">and</em><span style="line-height: 1.428571em;"> </span><span style="line-height: 1.428571em;">frivolous </span><em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">and </em><span style="line-height: 1.428571em;">have storage costs! (By which I mean that they take up valuable space and crowd my brainwaves with their clutter.) I've found (and since disposed of) heavy paperweights that I've never used and never thought particularly beautiful or meaningful! I've found books that I've half read and didn't like, but kept because I categorically like books. I've found clothes that I got for free in college and never fit me very well, and I've worn once in the past eight years. But not everything has such an obvious answer. There are things I'm still undecided about--what about the basket of seashells we got from Paul's grandparents in Florida? They remind me of them and their house. They are beautiful in and of themselves. And yet they take up space and get dusty, while there are other things that remind me of our grandparents. I have a small trophy from winning an honorable mention in a piano competition in high school--only a couple years after I starting taking piano lessons. Is it worth keeping? </span></div>
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For these last examples, there are both pros and cons to keeping them. For both, I can think of what God has done or given me, and his steadfast love and faithfulness, and be grateful. And yet I might say that they don't cause that train of thought instantly, when I look at them. (<em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Do</em> I look at them? Good question to ask...) I am still unsure of how valuable certain memories are...they are certainly not all equal in value!</div>
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But it is a helpful question to keep asking: "Is it a trinket?" Because even if I am not sure of the answer now, if I keep asking, then either I will someday see the thing as very valuable and rejoice over it; or I will finally acknowledge that it has served a purpose and now is not worth keeping. I hope (and expect) that I will continue asking this question as we move into a new place, as our family grows and changes, as our eyes become more and more fixed on our Heavenly home. This is the goal. That which draws my eyes toward Heaven, and firms my resolve in trusting the One that will bring me there safely, will also show me more and more clearly the trinkets of this world for what they are. Such are the things worth keeping.</div>
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Kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13934152439226656855noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1448605327622202508.post-82145433674453101262015-01-19T10:00:00.000-05:002015-01-19T11:13:33.699-05:00Kate and Crew 35: New Foods35. New Foods (July/Aug)<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Over the summer Teddy gradually started eating more and more solid foods. His first experience with blueberries was a gigantic success (almost as big as the stain.) His first encounter with broccoli was an equally gigantic failure. On the whole though, Kate was pleased to find that he en</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 1.428571em;">joyed trying new things and usually liked them--if not the first time, then the second or third time. (He did eventually start loving even broccoli!) He at bread and cheerios and crackers like a machine; he </span><em style="border: 0px; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">adored </em><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 1.428571em;">any kind of fruit; even veggies were good--</span><em style="border: 0px; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">especially</em><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 1.428571em;"> tomatoes. She felt a little bad, taking Teddy to a church potluck. He was still pretty limited by texture, and there was a veggie tray with cherry tomatoes...and over the course of the meal, she was sure that she took almost all of them for Teddy. (And all the while, felt like Kathleen Kelly would appear over her shoulder, scoop them back onto the tray, and say "That caviar is a </span><em style="border: 0px; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">garnish!</em><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 1.428571em;">")</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> With only a month or two left before their little girl appeared, Kate wanted to accomplish a couple more projects--in the kitchen this time. She had long since wanted to learn about Indian cuisine. And now she had the perfect opportunity! When a friend moved away, she gave Kate three of her Indian cookbooks, and since being back home, Kate had been diligently reading them. She studied the introductions and made an extensive list of spices to stock in her pantry. One book had a list of Indian stores in each state across America. For the state of Virginia, there was only one listed...and it just happened to be right next to her OB doctor's office! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> The first time she went, she loaded up on $40 worth of spices. And she got her money's worth or more--the spices filled up two large grocery bags! The boy at the counter in the store (a family business) chatted with her and asked what she was going to make first. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">pakoras with mint raita</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> "I don't know." Kate said, suddenly feeling self-conscious about her lack of knowledge. "Probably an appetizer, like pakoras." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> The boy nodded, "Pakoras are good...so are <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">samosas.</em>" He said the word with longing. "My mom just went out to get some more because we ran out." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> That evening, true to her word, Kate fished out her recipe book and found the page for pakoras. They are a fried concoction made of chopped veggies (onion, pepper, potato, and eggplant) mixed with water, chickpea flour, and spices. Kate had already studied this recipe several times a day for the last week. Normally, she didn't even use recipes! But this was how she learned a new style...<em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">this </em>was a satisfying way to cook: being able to make something that she would order in a restaurant. She imagined herself back in the kitchen of a cozy family restaurant and she dexterously chopped and mixed and went the extra step of making some spicy Mint Raita for dipping. Having no idea of what she was doing, she scooped a blob of the mixture into the hot oil and it instantly started sizzling and turning brown. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Ha! </em>she thought. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">It looks just like in the book! This is FUN! </em>she congratulated herself with a smug smile and took a bite of the first one after she pulled it out and let it cool. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Mmmm...Indian food, here we come! </em></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPhmfRzhGdB1kiJP067vCt_OLco_4o5u9MrzST2osBO2fBXw3yGop7G4HfL8vrZ1dKO7PJzsZeePrT1uue4rpLU8DtzUshkgMI-5dfKlAHv6mGtX1pASKz5DvGMp0hWWjK5H0JTWoDz4Bf/s1600/20140724_180130.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPhmfRzhGdB1kiJP067vCt_OLco_4o5u9MrzST2osBO2fBXw3yGop7G4HfL8vrZ1dKO7PJzsZeePrT1uue4rpLU8DtzUshkgMI-5dfKlAHv6mGtX1pASKz5DvGMp0hWWjK5H0JTWoDz4Bf/s1600/20140724_180130.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">one of many chicken dishes</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> The true delight of the evening, however, was Teddy's response. Even though the pakoras were spicy, he held his arms and legs out and waved them around in his characteristic gesture of approval (and begging for more.) Pakoras were followed by a number of chicken dishes with exotic combinations of spices that Kate would grind or roast herself. Each was delicious and wonderful, and Kate made plans to stock up on her spices before moving away. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Another cooking milestone that Kate wanted to achieve was pizza--completely homemade pizza. Kate and Mister had a favorite restaurant in Fairfax where they always went to get the Greek Pizza. Oh, it was glorious! She must have had it at least a dozen times, and she never got tired of it. It was both inspiring and daunting. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Anyone can put toppings on a bit of bread dough</em>, Kate considered. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">But I want to make my crust like this. Airy, flavorful, with enough crunch and stiffness to be able to pick it up. </em>There was nothing to do but try. When they were in Williamsburg at the beginning of July, Mrs. Mortte gave her a recipe for pizza dough--but it was a bread machine recipe. Kate used it nonetheless, she combined the ingredients using Tess Kiros's method (author of <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Falling Cloudberries</em>) and found that it worked well. Week after week, every Tuesday night, Kate made pizza. She gradually learned. Each week she found something that made it a little better: letting the dough rise just so, baking at 400 to get the stiffness in the bottom of the crust, sprinkling garlic over the dough instead of mixing it into the tomato sauce, the magical chemistry between red peppers and peppe </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 1.428571em;">roni, and eventually she put the </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 1.428571em;">pepperoni partly on top of the cheese and found an extra roasted flavor that it didn't attain underneath. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Most weeks, they would have someone over to share the pizza with them. And every week, the partakers would have to pay the "Teddy tax"--a portion of crust donated to feeding the hungry...baby. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> In the midst of all this eating and cooking and grocery shopping, Kate would often look around a store and marvel at the shear magnitude of available food. Canned goods, baked goods, produce, and meats, not to mention other household items. Wall to wall, products ready to make meals varied and interesting, and to make life functional, easy, and relatively clean. The same sense of wonder would come over her as she made her meal plans or sat down to eat. A typical week would include salmon, pizza, Indian, stir-fry, and soup. She had an almost endless variety and supply of spices, produce from every part of the world was available to her, and she couldn't help but be awed by the fact that, on a grad-student's funding, they could eat better than kings did in ages gone by. It was ineffably humbling. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> Thank you, Lord,</em> she prayed time and again. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Thank you </em><em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">that we don't have to eat rice every day, meal after meal. Thank you for fruit and for meat and for spices and colors and flavors. For refrigerators to store things. For freezers to preserve things. For stoves and ovens to cook things. Thank you that you not only sustain us with food everyday, but that everyday food can bring such delight and interest. Thank you for such a strong daily reminder of how creative you are and how well you provide for us in all ways. Thank you for your variety and abundance of blessings, they truly are too numerous to count. </em></span></div>
Kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13934152439226656855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1448605327622202508.post-1349250186422803142015-01-16T11:17:00.002-05:002015-01-16T11:20:48.033-05:00Kate and Crew 34: July 4 in Williamsburg<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">34. July 4 in Williamsburg</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf99coaAHPrOIt-id_NDExkoyESlmJJYykLC6MKMdbyhOkBI9owurtClGMDOol2FRP99rYcAjfl7t6gwb7xUl5n8crtkoq5T5YzUrmWojtFEvoXI9m_wqUFMnUIml0laV3c79BMO1g941L/s1600/IMG_4148.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf99coaAHPrOIt-id_NDExkoyESlmJJYykLC6MKMdbyhOkBI9owurtClGMDOol2FRP99rYcAjfl7t6gwb7xUl5n8crtkoq5T5YzUrmWojtFEvoXI9m_wqUFMnUIml0laV3c79BMO1g941L/s1600/IMG_4148.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> On July 4, Teddy turned 10 months old. Kate and Mister were staying in Williamsburg for a few days with their dear friends, the Mortte's. It </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20.6349143981934px;">was</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20.6349143981934px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14.4444446563721px; line-height: 1.428571em;">truly their home away from home. The house and furniture were familiar. Kate helped around the kitchen, scrapbooked a little, took naps when she could, tried to take some walks and played the piano. She felt enormous, and the baby kicked often. She found herself grateful that Teddy was starting to walk. She knew it wouldn't take long for him to be zooming around and getting into things, but she felt that would be easier to deal with than having to </span><em style="border: 0px; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14.4444446563721px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">carry</em><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14.4444446563721px; line-height: 1.428571em;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14.4444446563721px; line-height: 1.428571em;">him everywhere! </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Iu717UIOO64xJqY1FGI1Uwp1DvNG_IvqsRPItUL4fDPC74ZMUS6JS0HuxGvX1kETgC6e090mN01EwZcR2w2aNqYO59_06F74Awpo6FBl7btBCDCGpZb7plfo7U8GwicJ9EJHj6IswFhW/s1600/20140704_191648.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Iu717UIOO64xJqY1FGI1Uwp1DvNG_IvqsRPItUL4fDPC74ZMUS6JS0HuxGvX1kETgC6e090mN01EwZcR2w2aNqYO59_06F74Awpo6FBl7btBCDCGpZb7plfo7U8GwicJ9EJHj6IswFhW/s1600/20140704_191648.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> The Mortte's invited Kate, Mister, and Teddy to join them for the fireworks and concert in Colonial Williamsburg in the evening. At first, Kate was skeptical. She remembered their first July 4 in Virginia--2010, it was. They had walked over to the big hill by the Netherland's Carillon which provided a good view of the National Mall...they and about ten <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">thousand</em> other people. It was 9:30 PM, nearly 90 degrees out, zillions of people everywhere. Horrible. That's what it was. It was all she could think of now, people everywhere, hot temperatures, being stuck <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">and</em> pregnant! But her almost bottomless love of fireworks won out in the end, and the whole crew drove over early to the lawn in front of the Governor's Palace in CW. The found a spot (barely!) squished between blankets and chairs and set up their own modest accouterments.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Kate watched with tired eyes as Teddy instantly started investigating their neighbors. To the right was a family with a couple teens playing Dutch Blitz. Teddy watched in awe as they picked up and slapped down their colored cards. She tensed as he scootched closer and closer... until Mister scooped him up. Kate closed her eyes briefly. She <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">should </em>be enjoying this. Of <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">course </em>she was enjoying this. The weather was, in fact, absolutely perfect. The sun was up, the air graciously cool. Her son was adorably cute, and her husband was doing all the running after him that needed to be done. Nevertheless, she had a vision of her life a few months ahead, and it made her feel tired, maybe even incompetent. <i>No! </i>she insisted, <i>I</i> <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">need</em> <i>to enjoy this</i>. This, the beautiful life that God had given her, was meant to be loved and appreciated. She would seek the joy, and she was confident that somehow, God would grant it even in the midst of tiredness. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">After all</em>, she reasoned<em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">, one CAN be tired and joyful at the same time...even if it's not ideal.</em> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg26W7skyOfyFsKHrgaUOJXsUc4GiA1VQCUr1NkdBj3jEXO_ShO0m5MHnHU0qMwcRgTWWZGUC8q2Uibk5PMgeRVZYdf8I3jMYR6flr5Tma-Qk9t6PUxYy4mCRKKQACU60-BKfpjENWqBjud/s1600/20140704_204550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg26W7skyOfyFsKHrgaUOJXsUc4GiA1VQCUr1NkdBj3jEXO_ShO0m5MHnHU0qMwcRgTWWZGUC8q2Uibk5PMgeRVZYdf8I3jMYR6flr5Tma-Qk9t6PUxYy4mCRKKQACU60-BKfpjENWqBjud/s1600/20140704_204550.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> In front of their carved out territory, sat a pair of stout over-tanned grandparents. They cooed at Teddy as soon as they saw him, and exclaimed over his beautiful blue eyes. He obligingly batted his lashes, grinned up at them, and patted the grandmother with his hand. Kate tensed again as she reached over and picked him up. Should she object? It felt awkward having strangers pick up her baby. She felt instinctively that she was being silly--after all, she was sitting close enough to grab him away without even getting up! And of course it was fine--the lady bounced Teddy expertly and talked about her own grandson, and Kate was relieved that there were so many child-friendly people around her (another element lacking in their first Virginian July 4 experience!)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> They talked and waited and watched Teddy play and then the concert started. There was a <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">concert</em> before the fireworks! American music, of course...the best of Copland, John Williams, Sousa, and a few folk songs thrown in. Kate sat in a blissful trance as the family melodies rolled over her and the sun sank lower and the faces around her began to be shrouded in twilight. Then, at the final chords of "Stars and Stripes Forever", the first fireworks exploded in the sky. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Watching Teddy was almost as fun as watching the fireworks themselves. It was well past his bedtime, and the music had almost put him to sleep; but at the first crack, he was completely entranced. Each subsequent explosion was better than the last. Kate's favorites were the starbursts that left long golden tails as each bright dot drifted toward earth. But they were all wonderful--each many-colored sparkle burning brightly for just an instant against the black sky. Motherhood had given Kate a heightened sense of symbolism. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">These are the joys of my life</em>, she thought. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Bright, brief, coming in quick succession, and always changing. I must not be wishing for the ones I had before. I need to focus on what's now, in front of me, and is completely delightful. </em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Two more months of an aching back and stiff joints and being kicked in the middle of the night didn't sound completely delightful. But on the other hand, the kicking <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">was</em> special in its own way. Teddy, of course, was special in <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">every</em> way, growing and changing </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14.4444446563721px; line-height: 1.428571em;">so fast. And Mister...well, he was incomparable. In this difficult season, he was always serving and loving faithfully. And God gave her this blessing to share adventures with him, side by side! </span><em style="border: 0px; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14.4444446563721px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Well,</em><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14.4444446563721px; line-height: 1.428571em;"> she amended her previous insight, </span><em style="border: 0px; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14.4444446563721px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">I suppose not ALL my joys are changing. </em><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14.4444446563721px; line-height: 1.428571em;">Mister was always there, dependable and steadfast, a bright explosion of dust all over her life. </span></div>
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Kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13934152439226656855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1448605327622202508.post-47589423145746918652014-10-25T10:00:00.000-04:002014-10-25T10:00:01.820-04:00Kate and Crew 33: Teddy's First Steps<div style="border: 0px; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 14.4444446563721px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
32. First Steps (July 2, 2014) </div>
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He was <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">supposed</em> to be napping. That is, Kate and Mister both wanted to nap, and it was the proper time in the afternoon for Teddy's nap. Kate was lying down on the loveseat on the cooler middle floor, but Mister was upstairs, trying to nap in the room next door to the disagreeable, not-interested-in-napping beast. Eventually, the wild banshee screams (alternated with wide, blue-eyed flirtatious smiles) convinced Mister that he was serious about getting up and playing downstairs. </div>
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Fortunately, once he got his freedom, Teddy could write a book (or he could once he learned a few things about language) on how to be a low-maintenance baby. Mister brought him down and deposited him on the living room floor in front of Kate and then went back upstairs to continue his nap. </div>
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Kate turned her head and stretched out her legs into a more comfortable position on the couch and said, "Hi Teddy." He stood by the edge of the couch, gave her a toothy grin and babbled, "Gaga-baou-ba-GA-ga?" Gosh it was cute. But Kate was too tired to get up and play. She lay on the couch and watched him crawl back and forth, popping up on the couch like a little jack-in-the-box, and then sitting down just as abruptly to crawl somewhere else. Sometimes, he'd walk along the couch, but inevitably, the couch would not be going where he wanted to go, and in such cases, he'd stand for a moment, undecided. Then, when he didn't just crash over in his haste to move onward, he would carefully and thoughtfully lower himself down to an almost-sitting position and then pop forward on his knees to take off again. Occasionally, Teddy launched himself forward before his arms were ready, and Kate couldn't help but laugh at his over-enthusiastic and terribly awkward inchworm scramble.</div>
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But at one particular moment, Kate noticed Teddy's bright gaze on her. He was standing with one hand on the couch kitty-corner to her own, where he had been investigating a binder. He gently lowered himself a few inches, paused, and farted. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Charming. </em>Then he stood again and gave Kate a delighted giggle. Kate lifted herself slightly and motioned to him. "Come over here," she called, "you can do it. Come here, buddy!" And, as if it were just what he'd always done, Teddy lifted his hand off the one couch, and walked five steps forward to the other. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">delighted to walk outside<br />(about a month later)</td></tr>
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Kate was stunned. He did it so naturally! (Of course, so many people do.) He wasn't instantly a proficient walker, but this was the breakthrough. Several consecutive steps--that's what he needed to get his confidence up to keep trying. And Teddy certainly was pleased with himself. He stood giggling by Kate's head and drooling onto her arms as she praised his success. Tired as he might be, there was now not the remotest possibility of a nap. Teddy was ready to practice walking all afternoon. Up, down, up, down, crash, and roll, he kept at it...and though sometimes he got a couple consecutive steps, he never had the same success as that first time. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHtowOtgURGHvSXCzhsoIkLJsyh74nrmf9GxEHhOCwsAlEJPIeG0wltQDhP6_j6LoWbSqroPh0eN8ly0FrDGinaVtwo3yysJp6NbmMpWbQ-RDYkAL1CSVN97Vzo3bSkHcNNYqHfRR8SPsT/s1600/2014-08-12+16.50.10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHtowOtgURGHvSXCzhsoIkLJsyh74nrmf9GxEHhOCwsAlEJPIeG0wltQDhP6_j6LoWbSqroPh0eN8ly0FrDGinaVtwo3yysJp6NbmMpWbQ-RDYkAL1CSVN97Vzo3bSkHcNNYqHfRR8SPsT/s1600/2014-08-12+16.50.10.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a> As Teddy passed Kate again, on yet another round about the room, Kate scrunched her nose. "Whew! You're <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">stinky,</em>" she accused. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Hm...</em>she thought, as she felt body pressing heavily into the couch, <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">I hope it can wait until your Daddy gets up from his nap...</em></div>
Kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13934152439226656855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1448605327622202508.post-19392579014021537962014-10-17T12:47:00.000-04:002014-10-17T12:52:26.483-04:00Kate and Crew 32: Country roads, take me home...<div style="border: 0px; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 14.4444446563721px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
32: Country roads, take me home (June, 2014)</div>
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The morning of the Millers' departure arrived far too early for Kate. She awoke Sunday morning with a queer feeling in her stomach. Being too sleepy to discern what was wrong, she decided to give the bathroom a try--thus demonstrating her possession of a quick and intuitive brain since she subsequently retched for the next ten minutes. Usually throwing up makes one feel better. Unfortunately, "usually" is a far cry from "always." Kate felt horrible. She was too tired to get up, and too uncomfortable to go to sleep. She felt hungry, but the thought of eating was disgusting. At least Teddy was sleeping! She eventually decided on a change of scenery and went to the kitchen to make herself comfortable sitting on a living room couch with a cup of tea and watch the outline of Pike's Peak slowly emerge from the darkness.</div>
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Later in the morning, she and Mister watched <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">The Philadelphia Story</em>, and Kate even laughed at Tracy's outrageous impression of a high-handed and glib heiress. But they barely made it halfway through before Kate resigned and said she just wanted to lie down. Things were serious when not even Katherine Hepburn could keep Kate distracted from her physical ills. Mister scrapped their travel plans and heroically devoted himself to Kate's comfort and rest.</div>
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Monday morning, Kate felt somewhat repaired--enough, she claimed, to make a go of the journey to St. Louis. With the lovely weather, and the windows rolled down, the fresh air boosted Kate's spirits and she felt better and better by the hour. It had been one week shy of two months since they left Virginia, and though she wasn't exactly looking forward to being back, she <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">had</em> missed their home and their bed! They spent a brief and uneventful night at the cousins' house in St. Louis (who weren't even there!) and left the next morning for the journey home. Kate prepped for the day of air-conditionless driving by fixing her hair in what she called, "French Piggies." She was feeling almost all better, and hopped into the driver's seat for the first leg.</div>
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By sunset, Kate had returned once again to the wheel and zoomed through silhouetted hills of West Virginia. She irrationally loved West Virginia. All day, the noise of the open windows made conversation difficult, but now she didn't even mind. Kate was an idealist at heart, and had never been in a place more suited to its theme song (the one she assigned to it). She hummed as she drove, "Country roads / take me home / to the place / I belooooong / West Virginia / mountain Mama / take me home / country roads." Of course, if they ever <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">stopped </em>in West Virginia, she might not like it so much. But she loved driving in the evening, where there were hills and little traffic. And she had these beautiful open drives and pleasant times in the car with Mister has her sole West Virginian experience. She fondly remembered their first excursion through the state, getting lost on the lane-less back roads, alternately talking with Mister about philosophy and playing "Cow!"</div>
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"Cow!" was a simple game, but none the less amusing for it. One rolls down one's window when passing a field inhabited with the appropriate ungulate, and calls their vernacular name (experienced contestants use a variety of methods from belligerent yells to charming calls). For each cow that looks toward the passing vehicle, the contestant receives 1 point. For each cow that <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">responds</em> (generally with a "moo") the contestant receives 2 points. The game's one limitation is that it generally only supports two contestants--one for each side of the vehicle. But it does support the possibility of team play, as long as the contestants are in an optimal seating arrangement. Kate was by no means a "Cow!" prodigy, recording a grand total of <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">zero</em> points that day (and for no lack of opportunity!). But it was fun, and her view of West Virginia was even boosted by this first experience of enjoyable failure. </div>
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Kate and Mister arrived home in the wee sma's of Wednesday morning. And when they walked in the house, Kate reaped the full benefit of the hard work she put in the week before they left. The tile was beautiful, carpets were spotless, granite countertops in the kitchen sparkled. Everything smelled good. There were no leaks or mold or bugs. It was beautiful, even at 2AM, which is one of the ugliest times to be awake. Kate and Mister relished their own, familiar bed and pillows until noon (with some minor interruptions from Teddy.) And then...what, but Mister had to turn around and pack again! </div>
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Only just arrived home, the following afternoon would take him away again for the rest of the weekend to a teaching conference in Baltimore! Kate hardly knew what to think--she had known it was in the schedule, but something being <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">written down</em> is very different from it actually <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">happening. </em>But the weekend itself went by in a flash. Kate had plenty to do to fill her time. She had another baby shower to prepare for on Saturday (and another baby blanket to finish!) She pulled out her scrapbooks and finally finished their wedding album and started on Teddy's first year album. And of course, there was lots to unpack! And <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">this</em> time, they were staying put. With no pending flights and holidays at home, the suitcases could be relegated to the basement! For Kate, this brought both relief and some confusion. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">What will it be like?</em> she wondered. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">I'm not sure that I've spent even two months together without either traveling or having a big group of guests! What if I go crazy?</em> This possibility made her consider. Could living at home for more than two months at a time without travel make one slip off their proverbial rocker? <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Hmmm...</em>, she amended,<em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> What if I'm already crazy?! </em></div>
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Kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13934152439226656855noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1448605327622202508.post-3059284607471785922014-10-09T16:49:00.000-04:002014-10-09T16:50:18.306-04:00Kate and Crew 31: Celebrating Life<div style="border: 0px; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
31. Celebrating Life (June, 2014)</div>
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One of the delights of Kate's summer was that she got to spend lots of time with her dear college friend, Emma. She and her husband were now living in Denver, and <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">they</em> were also expecting a girl--and Emma was due a mere 4 weeks before Kate! When they got together, they did a little bit of hiking, a little bit of walking, and a whole lot of talking about everything ranging from college memories and theology to baby development and piano students. Now that they were back from the mountains, Kate only had a couple days to finish the baby blanket she was making for Emma's baby shower. She felt a compulsion about finishing it before they left--it was one more project to cross of her list! She had plenty of time to work on it, but she ran out of yarn in Wyoming and...well...it was sheer foolish procrastination, and now she felt stressed about it. And the stress was compounded by the fact that she had <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">another</em> blanket to make for a shower the <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">following</em> Saturday, back in Virginia. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">'Tis the season...</em>Kate thought, considering all the expectant couples she knew.</div>
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The shower was Saturday morning, the day before Kate and Mister were starting on the trek home. Kate was thrilled to be able to go and encourage her friend. But baby showers had the same emotional effect of graduation parties and weddings. It was the large crowd focused on one person, who wants to visit individually with everyone but sometimes doesn't get in more than a "thanks so much for coming." They weren't too awkward, but Kate generally left with feelings of vague dissatisfaction, wishing she had made more of the time by speaking encouraging and meaningful words....while at the same time wondering if she had spoken too much and sounded too solemn on such a joyous occasion. Kate tried to convince herself that it was meaningful just to go and she was glad she was able to. So for the next couple days, she knitted constantly and mentally prepared herself for too many new faces and not enough time with Emma.</div>
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When Kate pulled into the drive, she had a stunning wave of memories. Emma was living with this family when she had gotten married over five years before, and Kate had stayed here with her for the week beforehand. What a splendid time they had! They did everything together--packing, organizing, running last-minute errands, and belting favorite while driving with the windows down.</div>
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Kate walked in the house and said hello. She remembered only a few faces from the wedding, but she instantly recognized the house. Outside, she spied the trampoline where she had spent long, sweet phone conversations with Mister. (By that time, they were very serious even though they had only dated for a couple months. And there he was, spending spring break in Florida and missing out on her first meeting with his family! After Emma's wedding, Kate planned to join the Millers on their drive to St. Louis, and then hitch another ride back to Hillsdale.) Inside the house, she remembered eating breakfast at the kitchen counter...the letter blocks on the hutch...reading her Bible on the couch...the scented candles in the bathroom...the room where she stayed...the table where Emma's lavish bridal shower brunch had been hosted. Kate nodded her head and smiled. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Oh yes</em>, she remembered, <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">These</em><em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> people do know how to do parties! The food, decorations, games...they take the standards and put on the ritz!</em></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHsUoYJ0O_MoamSuYMi9fkHPCC3Xx6aF33JrYngiBoSy6r4r0f6zudSHXjtZZyvO92motRjnfzVduS1esGpb4mhnxIGMAWVtWpwqpC4EdZtgY1o1NhLCzcIQiVebtUZjKArmqHvGN1DEgW/s1600/10380068_675650489556_3337474586882795685_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHsUoYJ0O_MoamSuYMi9fkHPCC3Xx6aF33JrYngiBoSy6r4r0f6zudSHXjtZZyvO92motRjnfzVduS1esGpb4mhnxIGMAWVtWpwqpC4EdZtgY1o1NhLCzcIQiVebtUZjKArmqHvGN1DEgW/s1600/10380068_675650489556_3337474586882795685_o.jpg" height="220" width="320" /></a> And so it was. Kate followed Emma outside to a gorgeous, sumptuous brunch buffet and felt like she had just walked onto a movie set. The sun was shining, the clouds were perfect, the tablecloths were white, the grass was green, and Emma fit the picture perfectly, looking model-like with her curled blonde hair, stunning smile, and bright pink maternity dress. Kate sighed. She felt frumpy and enormous. She was due a month later than Emma, but felt obviously bigger than the guest of honor. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">It doesn't matter,</em> She scolded herself. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Nobody cares about how big I am. I'm here to celebrate Emma's little girl. </em>Kate watched <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizHlM5FcI5-UzfagbShAFlO-wehHTusav3kdLC_Scj9CwjgXlTys90sQJiCuLxIU1kx0_VofZL7J4MNj6Qkubp22q_ag2rmxM1o3ifNQGmrHP9abwp5hL3YfzSM2cCs4Jn2vj1F4-91YUr/s1600/DSCF3896.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizHlM5FcI5-UzfagbShAFlO-wehHTusav3kdLC_Scj9CwjgXlTys90sQJiCuLxIU1kx0_VofZL7J4MNj6Qkubp22q_ag2rmxM1o3ifNQGmrHP9abwp5hL3YfzSM2cCs4Jn2vj1F4-91YUr/s1600/DSCF3896.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
Emma, trying to forget about herself for a moment and concentrate on Emma's motherhood. She quickly got into the mood, thinking, <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">She'll be such a fun, creative mother! </em>Kate remembered Emma enthusiastically exclaiming over a wide variety of new discoveries--from plants and flowers to books on ancient history! Kate thought of her own current experience with Teddy, <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">With a baby, she'll get to discover things all over again. And of course, an extra month feels SO LONG right now, but our girls will be so close in age! I hope they'll be great friends... </em></div>
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Kate held her friends' children close to her heart, hoping they would be good comrades for her own kids. But she couldn't help but feel that this would be unlikely unless Mister was able to find a job relatively close by, which wasn't <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">necessarily</em> unlikely, just unknown. She hardly knew what to expect from this coming school year--a new baby, a new degree (for Mister), a new job, a new home. All exciting, life changing events; all at the same time! </div>
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The baby shower was fun in its own way. But Kate left (as she expected) feeling vaguely sad. She said goodbye to Emma with a big baby bump hug and hopes that she would return again soon. And the sadness was greatly mitigated by the confident knowledge that she and Emma had used their time well. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">We've</em><em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> had almost two months together!</em> Kate reminded herself. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">We've had lots of special conversations and fun</em> <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">adventures</em>.<em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">The last time we were at this house together, it was the night before her wedding. Now, over five years later, I get to celebrate her baby! And we have shared so much in between.</em> Kate finally realized that she didn't need to say anything more meaningful than what she had already lived.<em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> This time didn't need to be, and couldn't have been, anything more than it was--a shared celebration of life. </em></div>
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Kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13934152439226656855noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1448605327622202508.post-13483474427509095092014-09-22T16:44:00.000-04:002014-09-22T16:44:00.233-04:00Kate and Crew 30: The Mountain Date<div style="border: 0px; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
30: The Mountain Date (June 18, 2014)</div>
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Fortunately, only a few days after Kate and Mister's arrival back in Colorado, Kate's cold subsided to a mild stuffiness. They and Mom and Dad Miller drove to Frisco to spend a few days up in the mountains. This was starting to be a sort of tradition--Kate couldn't think of a time when they had visited Colorado and <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">not</em> gone to spend some time in Frisco. This year, it was special blessing because it was hot in the Springs where the Millers had no air conditioning, and absolutely perfect in the mountains, where one didn't <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">need</em> air conditioning. While they were there, Mister planned a date with Kate to take her up one of the ski lifts.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfSuiXmpixSeR6iUoQr-_rMAKtu6w-ivBEglhX6C4S6rD1IolEjvAN1iNf3bz1cT71gJ2AxSHVmf7rluZKQvb2y2gt3NbULDR3auBuW3RXZtqwI98aaqZKw13gW-V6cEUNT1JoNFHF6vHD/s1600/20140618_135020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfSuiXmpixSeR6iUoQr-_rMAKtu6w-ivBEglhX6C4S6rD1IolEjvAN1iNf3bz1cT71gJ2AxSHVmf7rluZKQvb2y2gt3NbULDR3auBuW3RXZtqwI98aaqZKw13gW-V6cEUNT1JoNFHF6vHD/s1600/20140618_135020.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a> The day was perfect--sunny, with a nice breeze, and pleasantly cool in the shade. They chose Breckenridge over Vale or Copper, since it was closer and Kate had never been there before. They knew that Lift 7 was running, but getting up to the lodge at Lift 7 was another matter entirely. After looking at their map, Mister took a turn leading steeply up the mountain. At each switchback, Kate breathed a little more heavily of the cool air through her open window and clutched her door handle a little tighter. She had always been prone to car-sickness, but this sort of wooziness was almost unprecedented. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">I'm just FINE</em>, Kate tried to convince herself, <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">I just need to think about something else. </em></div>
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"These houses must have such a great view!" she said, attempting to sound cheerful and interested in her surroundings. "I bet they could just walk out and ski down the hill any time they want!"</div>
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Mister made a non-committal sound, and eventually replied. "Hmmmm. I don't think this road connects to where we want to go. It does on the map, but...not here." He looked over at Kate, who gave him a weak smile. </div>
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"Okay." She said gamely, "Let's go back and get the right road." </div>
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They drove back down the windy road, only to pick another, equally sickening climb. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">We're going on a DATE! </em>Kate reminded herself, <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">This is FUN! Right...FUN! I'm having FUN!</em> Kate felt genuinely ill by the time they pulled off into the dirt parking area. She got out of the car and just stood to get her bearings while Mister grabbed their bag with sandwiches and water. </div>
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"I'm sorry, Dear." Mister said as they started walking toward the lodge, "This is definitely not starting out the way I had hoped." </div>
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Kate smiled at him. "It's okay, I'm already starting to feel better, and after I find a bathroom, I'll be good to go. Don't worry, this will be fun." </div>
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After hitting the restrooms, Kate and Mister lunched out on the patio of the lodge, looking up at the <span style="line-height: 1.428571em;">ski slopes and surrounding mountains. Truly, the day was absolutely perfect for such an outing. Kate </span><em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">loved </em><span style="line-height: 1.428571em;">ski lifts--the height, the motion, the feeling of the open air blowing against her face. She impatiently waited for the attendant to explain how to get on and off the lift. As if they didn't already know! But she was surprised at how different it felt to get on (and especially off) the lift without any skis or slippery snow to help! On their way up, Kate and Mister marveled at how different it felt to ride up a lift without heavy skis and boots and wearing summer clothes! The views were postcard worthy--green stretches of ski runs, huge evergreens, picturesque patches of snow--Kate relaxed as she looked around. She felt as if time slowed down in such places to give ample opportunity for one to appreciate every detail. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvnJHiRe-9KiHxwX69A2qKierWK8k2YQh42us68XzASLo6iCNN6mkW7HlUyhukhDvQkyxM8sAGyMSZubyXSEAsf2XyRTy1gBl1UY34HGmrqBbGZG1p0HlcxF8v8LWZ-dmRNP2jvgIN4Gyc/s1600/20140618_142359.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvnJHiRe-9KiHxwX69A2qKierWK8k2YQh42us68XzASLo6iCNN6mkW7HlUyhukhDvQkyxM8sAGyMSZubyXSEAsf2XyRTy1gBl1UY34HGmrqBbGZG1p0HlcxF8v8LWZ-dmRNP2jvgIN4Gyc/s1600/20140618_142359.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">our special discovery</td></tr>
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At the top, the ground was still surprisingly snowy. There was a rough road that one could walk along, but that was hardly Kate's style (nor Mister's!) They were explorers, and as explorers they were duty bound to scale the snowy summit! Of course, this didn't happen, though it was briefly considered. The snowy summit was at least a couple hours away from being scaled, and both Kate and Mister were tired and in search of a more relaxed form of exploration. They tromped across a large patch of snow and were mostly successful in staying atop the firm crusty layer. On the other side, and over a small rise, their efforts were rewarded by the stunning view of a snow-lined mountain bowl, surrounded on all sides (except where they entered) by beautiful peaks. Kate and Mister stood on the large mound and simply looked. Curious rocks dotted the mound. Marmots scattered in all directions. The green moss, black rock, white snow, and blue sky were a gorgeous combination, supplemented by a fragrant breeze bearing the scent of melting snow. </div>
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They spent a leisurely time exploring the area, exclaiming over this or that, and generally doing something. Finally, they both admitted that they should probably be getting back. They held hands on the way back over the patch of snow...until Mister broke through the sturdy top layer and sank two feet into the cold. Back on solid ground, Mister asked, "So, was that a good date?" </div>
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"Fantastic!" Kate exclaimed. Then she was unsure because of the query. "Was it nice for you too?" </div>
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"Absolutely." Mister affirmed. </div>
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"What makes a good date anyway?" </div>
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"I don't know. Good conversation. Maybe being outside. Being relaxed and leisurely with you." </div>
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Kate grinned. Then it was <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">definitely</em> a great date. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUUEFKnj08ZJ7DhOtvbMOlTu2F33jSHd7ZBr-k5S86RnaKJxJlMgHcMDJ1mfHXw2OFNW2Ic5N0rvnVL2AIL3_8RSclZWDcggwc3tv2PCzrTTbFhLBM1NoEb5ZCp2Dmyatw9bBlzEUSzIWq/s1600/20140618_144917.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUUEFKnj08ZJ7DhOtvbMOlTu2F33jSHd7ZBr-k5S86RnaKJxJlMgHcMDJ1mfHXw2OFNW2Ic5N0rvnVL2AIL3_8RSclZWDcggwc3tv2PCzrTTbFhLBM1NoEb5ZCp2Dmyatw9bBlzEUSzIWq/s1600/20140618_144917.jpg" height="640" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">our best attempt at a self portrait</td></tr>
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Kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13934152439226656855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1448605327622202508.post-17230357396539771152014-09-17T16:32:00.000-04:002014-09-18T11:04:57.408-04:00Kate and Crew 29: Rendezvous in Denver<div style="border: 0px; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
29. Rendezvous in Denver (June 13, 2014)</div>
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Kate was excited. Tomorrow, she would see Mister again! It had been almost two weeks (far too long) and Kate knew that both she and Mister had been suffering from various forms of exhaustion and bad sleep. Of course, she would be sad to leave Louise and her family, but it would be a momentary sadness that would pass as she got nearer to the airport. And she was hopeful that Teddy would sleep well this last night--he had eaten lots at dinner, played hard, and gone to bed easily. With this auspicious beginning to the evening, Kate and Louise lingered after all the guys had gone to bed...talking and playing Taboo and pretending it was any old night. It was quite late when they finally went to bed. (Which, in their married motherhood, meant around 11PM. In college, they would have had another 3 or 4 hours to party!) </div>
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After Louise said goodnight, events took a turn for the worse. Before Kate had even finished brushing her teeth, an evil, milk-crazed fiend took over her son's body and loudly demanded to be fed...and again...and again. 2AM, 4AM, and 6AM, Kate tried in vain to pacify the creature, but even in between feedings, there was little peace. He grumbled and whined and sometimes sang to himself in that loathsome, toneless way typical of such fiends. In the middle of the night, Kate sought refuge in the living room couch, which ordinarily was quite comfortable...but under the circumstances, even its soft embrace could not block out the complains issuing from the bedroom and lure her into sleep. Eventually, she went back to bed and at last fell asleep...about fifteen minutes before a rather-too-cheerful Teddy re-inhabited his body and decided it was time to get up. Kate bought herself an extra fifteen minutes by scratching her finger on the side of the pack-n-play netting, dozing while Teddy tried to touch his finger to hers. But eventually she forced herself to sit up with a groan. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">At least</em>, she thought, <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">I don't have to leave till this afternoon. I'll have to be sure to get a nap when Teddy sleeps.</em></div>
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But the morning was full of organizing and packing and Kate felt compelled to continue working through nap time to be sure to be ready to go when the time came. She had so many mental checklists, she knew she wouldn't fall asleep even if she <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">did</em> lie down. Items floated in her brain--<em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Make sure I have ALL Teddy's bottles...get our stroller out of the van...camera?...water bottle?...did I leave anything in the bathroom? </em></div>
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<em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </em>By the time she said a tearful goodbye to Louise and Company, it was nearing the hottest part of the day. Kate got in the car, rolled the windows down, and set her ice water between her knees for easy access and the cooling effect. She felt terrible, but tried to tell herself otherwise...<em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Considering just how badly I slept, </em>she thought, <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">I feel AMAZING! Of course, </em>she admitted, <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">that's not saying much...BUT who cares anyway? I'm on my way to see Mister. </em>And that brought a smile. As she drove and her water warmed up and her throat began to feel scratchy, she fixed Mister's arrival at the airport in her mind, and hung on to the image of him walking out the doors.</div>
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She passed mile markers and landmarks that she remembered from her drive North. The little town where she had stopped for gas and a bathroom, the exit to Cheyenne, the Colorado border, the huge dirt-bike park... at each site, her throat hurt worse, and she felt more and more tired. Should she stop for a break? But Teddy was peacefully sleeping in the back, and she felt in no condition to deal with a screaming baby if he awoke and for some reason didn't want to get back in the car for another hour. She approached Denver and the turnoff to the airport...the gas was getting low, but there should be enough to get to the airport, pick up Mister, and back to a gas station. She didn't know if the flight was early or late, but if it was on time, she would be arriving the ideal 10-15 minutes later to pick him up without worrying about waiting. The approach was slow, and Mister's airline was at the very end of the line. She pulled over and called his phone. It was off. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Bad, bad, bad....</em><strong style="line-height: 1.428571em;"> </strong>She waited nervously, knowing that sooner or later, an airport policeman would come tell her to move along. </div>
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She made the long round once...twice...it was 45 minutes later and the gas looked really empty now. On her third drive round the airport, Kate fretted about the gas. Would they run out before they got to a gas station? And then a sudden thought struck her: <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">I forgot the stroller! I can't BELIEVE I forgot the stroller! How COULD I have left it in their van?! Gaaaaah....</em> She could have burst into tears right then and there. Everything was going so horribly wrong. </div>
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Driving slowly, to take up as much time as she could, she gradually made her way back to the pick-up spot. She sat for a moment, called to check on Mister's progress, and then got out to make Teddy a bottle--ever a good stalling technique. Kate was just dumping the formula into the bottle when a lady in an officer's uniform walked over. Kate felt like screaming, but decided in favor of a more mature response--ignoring her.</div>
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"What are you doing?" asked the officer, in a tone that assumed a pregnant lady making a bottle of formula was clearly up to no good. </div>
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"Making my baby some formula." </div>
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"You can't just park here." </div>
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"I know." </div>
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"If you're not picking someone up, you have to leave." The officer was practically trying to corral Kate back into the driver's seat. </div>
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"I <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">am</em> picking someone up." </div>
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"Well, where are they?"</div>
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And a beautiful, deep, resonant voice piped up from the other side of the car. A voice that practically said, in fearsome and awe-inspiring tones, 'Leave my wife alone!' Mister opened the door, set his bags in the backseat with Teddy, and strode to Kate's side. "I'm right <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">here</em>," he said to the officer. Kate clung to him for a moment and whimpered into his shirt. "Come on, Dear," he said after a kiss, "Let's get out of here." </div>
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Kate and Mister did, in fact, make it to a gas station on the remaining fumes in the tank. And there, Mister ate heartily of the pulled pork and baked beans that Kate had brought in her cooler bag. He relieved Kate of the driver's wheel and drove back to the Springs. Kate felt terrible. "I'm so sorry," she sighed as they drove out of Denver, "I wanted to be excited and cheerful for you, and instead I'm an absolute wreck!" Mister murmured something encouraging about it being a long day for everyone and sleep helping her outlook. But by the time they pulled into the driveway at the Miller's, Kate knew it wasn't just exhaustion. And the next morning confirmed it. She had a terrible, awful, raging cold. </div>
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Kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13934152439226656855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1448605327622202508.post-8606804956388755272014-08-26T10:00:00.000-04:002014-08-26T10:00:00.058-04:00Kate and Crew 28: Ice Cream and Projects<div style="border: 0px; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
28. Ice Cream and Projects </div>
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One day, Louise took Kate to Casper, ostensibly to show her around their favorite sites, but mostly just to go to a particular ice cream shop. They had a leisurely lunch, and then went in search of their <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">real</em> sustenance...the cool, creamy sweetness always so acceptable in pregnancy. And <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">this</em>, Kate realized when she walked in,<em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </em>was no ordinary ice cream shop. The room was bigger than many restaurants she had been to, and the ice cream counter stretched on and on, featuring literally dozens of flavors and many of them quite exotic. She browsed the selections, pausing by usual favorites and intriguing new possibilities: Black Cherry with Chocolate, Triple Chocolate Fudge, Boisenberry, Espresso, Salted Caramel, Coconut Swirl, Lemon Cheesecake...her list of potentials grew too long to keep in mind. She tried some samples and got a small cup of something berry-ish. Creamy berry ice cream with chocolate chunks had never failed her yet. And this shop knew what it was about--the quality of the ice cream was fantastic, the portions large, and the prices lower than anything Kate had <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">ever</em> seen before.</div>
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An intriguing neon green called to her from the counter, and she went to sample the Green Apple and Gummy Bears flavor...and promptly got a dish of the same (to share with Louise, of course.) <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">I'm not sure I've ever had ice cream I liked so much! </em>but even as she thought it, she remembered special ice cream shops she had been to--in Alaska (oh, that Ginger ice cream!) and in Cincinnati (mmmm, the Black Cherry with Chocolate fudge!), and in Germany (oh, the Kiwi gelatto!)... But Casper would definitely rank among her top ice cream destinations. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">S</em>he felt a ridiculously desperate love for ice cream. She knew it was absurd... but even so, she found herself wondering how many universities were in the Casper area and if there were any economics positions available. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">I could live here. </em>Kate thought as she took another heavenly bite and feeling a little bit like Esau, selling his birthright for some delicious stew. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">I could definitely live here...</em></div>
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<em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> </em>On the drive to and from Casper, which was about 30 minutes one-way, Kate worked on finishing a baby quilt she had started for Teddy over a year before. She dared to start a second, with more girly colors, even before the revealing sonogram that justified such an action. But this was not the only project in hand. She had a knitted afghan she was working on. It was turning out to be huge and rather a liability in a car, but she was close to being finished with it. And it would feel like huge accomplishments to finish all three of these projects (though Baby Girl's quilt wasn't even close) because they were creations made from scraps and leftovers and supplies that were lying around, lonely and forgotten and unmarked for any particular use. Whenever Kate was able to take such things and make something beautiful and useful, she felt particularly accomplishing and virtuous. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga-EBPr3JoMmejVERTm0NdBPcZ7_UkxQDXic_y10YekW1SjNS96ohIIaaSoXFNJZ9MmIPFudHcsHDy-pxyraI8luS2l6tOYTFfjnYU2_ap2sWWKw3meGu21p3F_SBBcTTJNiWzw1BvmBUO/s1600/DSCF0398.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga-EBPr3JoMmejVERTm0NdBPcZ7_UkxQDXic_y10YekW1SjNS96ohIIaaSoXFNJZ9MmIPFudHcsHDy-pxyraI8luS2l6tOYTFfjnYU2_ap2sWWKw3meGu21p3F_SBBcTTJNiWzw1BvmBUO/s1600/DSCF0398.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the view from the precipice</td></tr>
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And yet, she still had her doubts. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">What real good does this kind of knitting and sewing really do for anyone?</em> <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"></em>she sometimes questioned. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Maybe my time would be so much better spent doing something else. Am I just procrastinating? Ignoring the things I ought to be doing in order to "accomplish" something that's really just fun and relaxing for me?</em> These questions haunted her, not just as she knitted and crocheted, but also as she worked on their scrapbooks--three of them. The first, their wedding album, Kate was determined to finish before their fifth anniversary. The second was a baby album for Teddy (a gift from Mrs. Mortte in Williamsburg) in which Kate planned on preserving memories and pictures only of the first year. The third scrapbook was their family scrapbook, which was woefully behind and documented their married life together until an abrupt stop at a major hike in Alaska the summer of 2012. If she didn't press on and try to catch up before the baby came, all posterity would wonder what happened to Kate and Mister after those pictures taken on that daring precipice... </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnOrNLDNnqxqsJYaQv5xMX1t9KK84iazZiwPBg_e0XrnpyL3fBNjTvQ_bDbWLSFEsTeL5vswEIaY2HpXR_wBOfESlyhCwYRoo3UqmVGWfrr8vMKdMK7NnIsTPr5ZQOmcFxUOcvM1kP0ZiE/s1600/DSCF0405.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnOrNLDNnqxqsJYaQv5xMX1t9KK84iazZiwPBg_e0XrnpyL3fBNjTvQ_bDbWLSFEsTeL5vswEIaY2HpXR_wBOfESlyhCwYRoo3UqmVGWfrr8vMKdMK7NnIsTPr5ZQOmcFxUOcvM1kP0ZiE/s1600/DSCF0405.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">on the precipice</td></tr>
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Kate had baby blankets to work on too, for two baby showers coming up in consecutive weekends. She had plans to learn how to cook Indian food. She wanted to read the books on her shelves that she had never read before. How contrary the mind is! These desires and plans, current and future and hypothetical projects all conspired <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">against</em> Kate's sense of self-worth and accomplishment. In her more despondent moments, she abhorred her own shallowness, that she could think that such things somehow really mattered. What kind of accomplishments were they...<em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">really?</em> </div>
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One evening while in Wyoming, Kate took a walk while she was talking to Mister on the phone, and she voiced her concerns. </div>
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"Sometimes it all seems so meaningless," she complained, "I can't help but think there must be something <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">important</em> for me to do, and that I'm just sitting around knitting and ignoring it." </div>
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Mister thought for a moment, trying to gauge the seriousness of his wife's self-accusation. "Kate," he finally replied with gentle firmness, "the things you do <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">are</em> meaningful. They <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">are</em> useful and beautiful and improve and enrich our lives in so many ways." </div>
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Kate grew quiet and stopped on the sidewalk where she stood. "Do you really think so?" she asked, knowing that he did, but needing the extra reassurance. </div>
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"Yes, I do." He paused, wanting to give full understanding to her emotion. "I also think that very occasionally, you do use your projects as an excuse to avoid doing some other chore, but you also are perfectly aware of it each time. You don't need to worry about being blind to your duties." </div>
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Kate laughed in assent and relief. She felt like she had been going crazy with indecision. </div>
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"Work on your projects when you have good time for it," Mister encouraged her. "And enjoy the time that you get to spend doing something both enjoyable and useful. And just make sure that you're not neglecting Teddy or Louise and her family, or those other things that you already know you need to do." </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8ZTKPWFn6XBx-OeOVBkKVa4XGhrfoGW_s91-hUlh1_tLG9hsKKg_ql5vK70BNC7krYK1QhP7Ut4id0RHf7Cq4tpCpEAeF0Urj30H2W8meaLDKnR3-nAbWSV5blq5K9dJCTwXADsTA_5qL/s1600/DSCF3907.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8ZTKPWFn6XBx-OeOVBkKVa4XGhrfoGW_s91-hUlh1_tLG9hsKKg_ql5vK70BNC7krYK1QhP7Ut4id0RHf7Cq4tpCpEAeF0Urj30H2W8meaLDKnR3-nAbWSV5blq5K9dJCTwXADsTA_5qL/s1600/DSCF3907.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teddy's quilt</td></tr>
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Fully affirmed in Mister's value of her creations, Kate cheerfully moved on to talk about the excitements of the day. A few days later, when she had finished the afghan and Teddy's quilt, she saw what Mister saw--beauty and usefulness. She could hardly understand what her problem had been. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">How could I think that these things are a waste of time? </em>she wondered<em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">. Especially since I usually only work on them when doing something else already, like watching a movie. And of course I'm not blind to my duties...as long as I want to please God and do what He wants, I know He won't make it hard for me to know what that is. Life is good! </em>she exulted. <em style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.428571em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">One can't miss...</em></div>
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And once again, the sometimes sinister pregnancy hormones magnified both the doubts and the confidences that Kate encountered in her everyday life. One day, everything she did was meaningless, and the next, each moment was fraught with meaning. Without Mister around to anchor her every morning and evening in the firm reality of humanity's significant smallness, Kate reeled between her emotional extremes and often wished that life could just slow down (or even stop) for a genuine, deep, and delicious rest. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCw9xfLq3KtvVfmygkBrtH0ha1xsg8O0Hb5VnQ49edez2PViLfWMgonc5qJGWUj6UYyF9wOQ_5gsRGNaiqqI34iOT8ROsBAhA_V8jdDdx2aLefhQRY2A_ZtkxHE4hMgun0nCAGaR4Ga692/s1600/DSCF3905.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCw9xfLq3KtvVfmygkBrtH0ha1xsg8O0Hb5VnQ49edez2PViLfWMgonc5qJGWUj6UYyF9wOQ_5gsRGNaiqqI34iOT8ROsBAhA_V8jdDdx2aLefhQRY2A_ZtkxHE4hMgun0nCAGaR4Ga692/s1600/DSCF3905.JPG" height="476" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the large afghan, with alternating cables and 4-strand braids</td></tr>
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Kathrynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13934152439226656855noreply@blogger.com1