little happy

summer stock

One week ago, I was invited to a lovely and casual kind of dinner by a lovely and casual kind of friend. There was BBQ chicken, corn on the cob, salad and watermelon, with ice cream cones for dessert. Everything spoke of summer and all the goodness it has to offer. Sure, you could say that some of it was the warm glow of San Diego, but I'm pretty sure it was all the food. And the lovely friend, of course.

Two nights ago, I invited another lovely friend to dine at my house, picturing the same sort of relaxed and summery evening. Except I had been down tasting the delights of San Diego for a week and had no opportunity to shop for the food. I was nearly shamed to serve a casserole, bread and steamed veggies with peach cobbler for dessert. All comfort food, to be sure, and the cobbler was good (cobbler generally is) but what was this? October? I think not. And no amount of lovely can overcome a unseasonable meal--not when there is so much freshness to be had.

First thing Monday morning I set out for the groceries with nothing but "summer" on my shopping list. I came home with staples--strawberries, salad greens, tomatoes, peppers, squash, mushrooms for the grill and dip for the carrots. My freezer is full to brimming with popsicles, ice cream and berries for the smoothies. In the cupboards you will find a fresh supply of graham crackers, chocolate bars and mallows. And on the counter, a melon.

To my sweet San Diego friend, I say: Thank you for reminding me what "good summer" is all about. I had the garden blooming and the swim lessons calendared, but I'd forgotten the best part--the food. Oh, the food. Bless you, dear one.

To my kind local friend, I say: I'm sorry, please forgive my winter-ish, bottled spread. My fridge is now summer ready and I'm prepared to dig in. Please come back and we'll do it right.

what has to be one of the greatest places to watch independence day fireworks

I present to you the decommissioned and museum-ified aircraft carrier USS Midway, docked in San Diego Bay. It has everything a girl (or three boys) could want for a star-spangled patriotic weekend extravaganza.

Refueling trucks to (pretend) drive around above deck.

Super small brig bathrooms to snuggle in below deck.

And super thick plexiglass floors so you can see straight through all the decks from top to bottom. I stood comfortably on the side, while my husband danced on the transparent and reminded me I have issues. As if I'd forgotten.

My sweet and steady Empire Red Georgia Rae KitchenAid is pretty powerful, but she's got nothing compared to her great-granddaddy who served his country right here. I tried really hard to smuggle this one out in my purse, but the veteran guards gave me dirty looks. Can you imagine how many cookies this baby could mix? I'm a little lightheaded just thinking about it.

The boys were more impressed on deck anyway.

Okay, impressed doesn't quite cut it. Jack was beside himself with glee and delight.

Taking a page from his mother's book, he decided that this Coast Guard chopper would suit his needs just fine. When no one was looking he made his move and ran for the cockpit.

Blasted plexiglass!

I mean, I was just checking her out . . . yeah, that's it . . . everything looks in order here.

The whole souveneirs-only-sold-in-the-giftshop policy aside, it's a must-see place to visit. Good history, good patriotic vibes. And I'm always up for a genuine story-telling veternan, many of whom happen to be named Jack. Even if they won't let me pinch their womping mixer.

And the view for the harbor fireworks show is un-matched. At least I imagine that it would be, had we been visiting on The Fourth. But they were sold out. And we were headed home on The Second.

So we spent The Fourth back here at home. With family. Eating bacon cheeseburgers, tossing the frisbee, playing in the kiddie pool and waiting for the fireworks that we all eventually decided were too late to wait up for. And then we blamed it on Ian. He's an excellent scapgoat for such things.

But one day, when my kiddies are all napped out and raring to go, I'm gonna get myself some tickets down there in San Diego and watch the sky light up from the deck. Surrounded by Navy planes and plexiglass and veterans. And super-sized KitchenAids. Because that sounds like the perfect place to celebrate.

remedial coursework

Finally. The house is at a point where I can stand to be in it, the car has been detailed and recovered from it's road-trip-itis and the laundry is done. I can breathe, if only for a bit. Just long enough to consider the lessons learned and the new choices right in front of me waiting to be snatched up.

There was a moment last week when I had absolute clarity. The clouds lifted from my murky senses and left me with a perfect understanding of where I was standing, what I'd been doing wrong and what action needed to be taken. It was a defining moment that I'd sought out, but had been unable to meet until it came right down and smacked me on the head.

It came after days of worrying about getting our family pictures taken. For the first time. Ever. There's no excuse for it, I know. I'm a photographer. It should have been done before. Many times before. But it took a gift from my husband to visit the photographer of all photographers before I set aside the time.

So there was a road trip to San Diego--a work conference coordinated perfectly with the scheduled weekend shoot, and Craig would hit two birds with one 10-hour drive. I have a love-hate relationship with road trips. Love the tripping. Hate, HATE the getting ready. I will always leave something. And no matter how early I begin to prepare, I won't be ready until an hour after the time we were meant to leave. And in that hour, I start to panic.

But I whipped up an extra batch of panic for this trip. With so much on the line, waiting for us at the end of this particular drive, I determined to be extra high strung--even more so than usual--and immediately upon departure was creating all kinds of agony for the other members of my little family.

Perhaps some of it was panic that I had not properly panicked before. This was, after all, a family session with the one and only Tara Whitney. How was I not more stressed? More stirred up? I had nothing to wear and my calves were far from anything resembling toned. I decided to crank it up a notch (or two or three) just to make sure I was exhibiting the correct amount of nerves.

Then looking for the right ensemble and family style. Did we have a style? Is T-shirts a style? It was a TW questionnaire question, but I was left fumbling. Which meant planning for alternative ensembles, should the first ones not pan out. I've been told before, on more than one occasion, that my personal fashion sense is . . . um . . . lacking. So I plan for the worst. Well, I plan for the worst because it is my nature--poor fashion just adds to it.

After several mad rushes to the nearby outlet malls, laced with meltdowns from each and every one of us, there was toenail painting and shoe selection and showers and no small amount of packing. And once we were all perfectly coiffed did we head out for the 30 minute drive up to San Clemente to meet the woman who I'd clearly forgotten I can call my friend. And then she drove up and we hugged and I remembered.

Only then, as I stood there watching my three boys get the magic camera treatment from Tara, did I realize that I hadn't looked at them in days. They were beautiful. And handsome. And all lit up inside, despite their mother/wife doing nothing to add to the light. And starving, as we'd all forgotten to eat. And clamoring for attention (Jack) as I'd ignored him all afternoon in my preparation to beautify myself. And it was right then that I nearly started to cry. But I didn't, because it was still pictures with Tara. Ugly cry not allowed.

It all melted away. Except, of course, for the shame--if there's one thing I do better than stress, it's shame. Frustrated with myself that I'd made such a big deal out of the things that weren't a big deal at all. And that I'd missed the things, the many, many things that truly mattered.

After the effortless picture taking, we enjoyed our evening with the Whitney clan, watching the sky turn from grey to orange, wishing for the children's energy and their youthful rock-climbing limber bodies. And then, of course, In-N-Out on the way home--very, very hungry from all the stress were we.

We spent the next day with more friends, eating, playing, cooing, and watching the sun dip into the ocean once more.

Wednesday, in commemeration of 12 years (minus the three previous days) of happy marriage, we set out for the USS Midway. And Balboa Park. And three hours of watching Jack swim laps at the pool, in awe of his ability. And three more hours of catching up with new friends a little bit more over dinner.

By the time we'd left for home, my regrets were down to one--that I hadn't figured it out sooner, so I could have enjoyed each moment as it was happening.

The Trader Joe balloon that Ian clung to for seven hours straight.

The brand new best friend who agrees that mud is the best invention ever.

The mile long walk to find a bathroom, for a boy who's had some trouble remembering and holding.

And the rose smelling that he reminded me of along the way.

Good friends.

Some with new babies. Babies that were waited for and prayed here.

Dinner and talking and laughing and gushing and moments.

Other friends who will be leaving, carving out time from packing to play and grant a "see you soon" evening.

Orange Julius. Sandy bellies.

And sandy faces. Love that face.

Wasting out the day, surrounded by faces and people that I love. What could be better than that?

So many gifts. All small, all significant. I'm thirty-four years old and this concept of letting things go and enjoying the moment still eludes me. If I haven't learned to differentiate between big stuff and little stuff by now, what hope do I have?

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

My super fabulous camera lens--the one that I love, the one that I sleep with under my pillow, the one that I used to take each of these pictures--is grinding a bit with sand from the trip. And yet I'm fine. Not worked up in the least. I've found my groove, again. Let's see how long this one lasts--at least until Mr. Kew tells me how much it will cost to get the lens back in the groove, right?

life with the boy

Wandered on over to Huck Finn Days at the park Friday morning, where they'd flooded they lowland and stocked it with fish. By some wild chance, we had a net in the car and Jack was determined to catch a fish.

Even if it meant wading in.

To the middle of the pond.

He took all kinds of stares from all kinds of folks around the edges. And I'll be the first to admit he should have held to the side. But in his mind, if there's fish in the middle of the water, well then, that's where he should be.

He's got his own drum section, that's for sure, but some of the things he's been coming up with lately leave me speechless. Like how robbers should be identifiable by their black & white striped attire and the ease with which he will discuss his "pirate" parts, who has 'em and who doesn't.

But mostly, it's when I look at him. And he looks at me. And I know it's me that he's looking at and coming for. And that I am the one person in the universe that is going to have the answer/solution/listening ear that he needs. And it's in that moment that the absolute perfection of my life and daily occupation just takes my breath away.

zucchini it is

The ideas were wonderful. Many and varied. And more than a few that I will have to seriously consider. But the first to make my skirt fly up, as PW would say, was the zucchini.

Jo suggested it first, but so many of you backed it up. Like crazy, did you back it up. Ratatoille, bread, AND draining boils? Crazy I must be to consider NOT growing it.

So I bought two. And I'll be trailing them off the deep side of the garden and praying for a bumper crop. You know, so I'll have extra to draw water from my wells.

Thank you, darling Jo. I'll be dropping the book in the post (along with a long over-due love note from yours truly) and slathering it with postage so it can make the uber long journey down to you.

empty squares, with sugar on top

Wanna see my pretty garden?

It's right back here on the slopey side of my yard that has grown nothing but weeds for the last seven years.

You have to duck under the flowering crab apple and dodge the fruitless plum. Try hard not to notice the pile of dry weeds that has yet to find a place in the garbage. This is the only time of year that I fill my city-issued can three days after pickup--three-quarters green matter every single week.

There she is. Thirty-two square feet of growing green goodness.

This one has Mountain Fresh tomatoes, oregano, cucumbers, chives and walla walla onions. The petunia and verbena in the middle are to make me happy, and they're pushed right up against some ever-bearing strawberries and smattering of rhubarb (for the soup.)

Jetfire tomatoes in this one, along with beets, cilantro, basil, jalapenos, and a couple squares of carrots just for Jack.

To the left, I've got two watermelon and a pumpkin patiently waiting for me to turn up the soil and give them a spot right under the lilacs toward the back.

Never in my life have I felt so home-makey. And green and thrifty. And industrious. And independent. And eager to bottle. I'm Rosie the Riveter without the handkerchiefed hair. "I can do it." I can do anything.

Anything, of course, but make up my mind. What else is new?

I've got six unclaimed squares left, and not one idea of what to put in them. Sure I could put more of the same and I understand that this is just a wee bit of a garden, so there won't be pile of produce no matter what I plant. For me this is all a big experiment, to see what I can grow and what varieties work best and what to do and not to do in the future. The crop will just be icing. But empty squares--well, I know what those will produce. Big fat juicy squat. Never been a big fan of squat.

You'll help me out--won't you? Tell me what I've missed--what I absolutely need to have in my garden this year and can't live without. And I'll be ever so much in your debt.

Wait--I'll do you one better than debt. Who needs debt anyway? I've still got an extra copy of this from way back in February:

Give me your ideas of what to plant and the first idea that is so great and so fabulous that I just know I'll kick myself in the fall without some to put in my mouth, that I can't live with myself until I head down to Cook's and pick one up, gets this little literary morsel delivered straight to their house. Right after I head to Cook's, of course.

And then my garden will be complete and I'll be the happiest little homemaker/gardener/non-riveting riveter on the planet. And you'll have this great book to read to your little ones to teach them all about how nice you were to help out indecisive Sister Kari and how they can "do unto otters" just like you did. Or you can read it to yourself and chuckle loudly. Cleverly written, it is, and fairly deep. There's at least one great RS lesson in there. Maybe two.

Come on. I would do it for you--you know I would.

Help me fill my squares. Please? See--that's straight from the book--page twelve.

ever notice that the word "deadline" has the word "dead" built right in there

The whole box-making extravaganza happened almost four weeks ago. Mine came together three weeks ago, today, where they've lounged in the driveway soaking up all of the late spring rain. Which, by the way, was an excellent excuse not to put them into service.

But spring rain excuses or no, I'd been feeling the loser, having boxes made and knowing that I very well might make it to autumn with those boxes sitting stacked right where they were. I could picture our massive sycamore leaves gently falling and gathering inside, followed by the snow pile balancing on the up-turned stakes, the whole structure mocking me each and every time I pulled into the garage.

And I started to get mad. Mad enough that I set myself a date. It was going to get done Saturday. Saturday or bust. Saturday was high noon and it was "plant or die trying." That's right--I was prepared to die over those garden boxes, so committed was I to overcoming my procrastination.

Ironically, completion of my gardening goals required a trip a quick trip to the afterlife.

Hello, heaven.

No photo editing required. And it's not like I went on a special day. This is what it looks like every single time I wander in here. And I always have to stop and catch my breath.

Do you need a closer look?

Wow, right? This place is magical. It can even make me love marigolds, which I don't ever really like at all. Except here. In magical heaven-flower-land.

And you there, pretty things. I can't keep you alive for more than 48 hours, but I can dream, can't I? This is heaven, after all.

Then I have to slap myself upside the head and try very hard to remember why I'm here.

Oh, yes . . . veggies.

Or salad fruit, as the case may be. I had no idea what I was doing, but followed my mothers advice and pulled a few modest plants with a few branches that could be pinched off and forced to root. (I'll let you know how it goes.)

And rhubarb. I've never been a big fan, but I must make more of that soup my friend brought me last week. And for that I need some of this. Oh, and it's pretty.

Um . . . yes, please.

And what do we have here? Chocolate? In the garden? This is heaven. Next I'll discover they're completely calorie free.

Before long, my radio flyer was full. I loaded my veggies, picked up some compost and headed home, only to discover that I'd forgotten to stop at Home Depot and pick up the barrier cloth. And I needed the barrier cloth to get done. And I was going to get done.

So back to town to get the barrier cloth, this time with Jack in the passenger seat. And wouldn't you know it--Cook's is just a stone's throw from Home Depot, so we made a second trip in as many hours.

I adore this kid. And that he loves plants as much as I do. And that he loves to help me and be a part whenever possible. And that he loves being with me as much as I love being with him. It makes my heart beat just a little bit faster.

He picked out another watermelon and begged for strawberries. Then, given free reign over the flowers he went in for pink petunias, lilac verbena and some of those very same marigolds. He feels the heavenly magic.

And we loaded it all up and headed home. And I took my time setting the first box on the slopey side of the house.

And when the baby woke up, we headed down the hill to my friend's house to pick up some more of the ingredients for the special non-dirt medley required for the boxes. And then she followed me back to my house to help me mix the batch.

And then the clouds started to threaten and I said something like, "let them threaten--I have a deadline."

And then the clouds made good on their threats.

Within minutes it went from spitting to flash flood.

And we sat in awe of Mother Nature for something like a record ninth day in a row.

So we made some soup and waited for it to pass, as we knew it would. This one also loves the thunder and lightening. The first few rounds shook Ian a bit, but when he saw his big brother wasn't too concerned, he decided to stick around and see what all the fuss was about.

And it did pass, considering it's essentially the tropic of cancer around here these days. And the blue sky came back and it was a gorgeous evening. Just enough for us to run dinner to the working men and return to set the other box and mix the special non-dirt dirt.

Around eight-thirty it started to rain, again, but I told Jack to stand his ground. "But it's raining and I'm getting wet," he contended. "So?" was my mother-of-the-year reply, "grab me something from the box and let's get them in the ground." And then he grinned from ear to ear, knowing this was one of those moments. And I smiled, too, because it was.

He moved quickly, gathering the vegetables and holding them up to ask what they were. I'd look up and say, "those are carrots" to which he would exclaim, "I LOVE CARROTS!" and then he'd find them a sectioned square and drop them for me to plant. Then it would be "those are jalapenos" and he would respond, "I don't know if I like those, but we should put them here by the carrots, because I love carrots." Mmmm--love that kid.

By nine o'clock we were soaked. But we were finished. And for the first time, in a long time, I was pleased with myself. Complete. Whole, again. Dirty nails, freezing cold, sore back and elated all at once. It felt good.

But maybe that's how you feel when you beat death.

breakfast in four square feet

Besting our dinner making by nearly a square yard.

Love the baby licking his daddy's leg to get him to drop some food. And the dog wishing that she could employ the same tactic. My favorite is the roller skates--I don't remember helping him put them on this morning, so it's possible he slept in them.

All very typical. Nothing new to report.

thumbs up

"You're going to make how many boxes?" my father asked.

"Twenty," I answered, like it was nothing at all.

"And you need how much wood?" Again, with the voice that told me he was going somewhere important and obvious with his questions.

"Eighty 2x6 planks, 92 5/8 inches long." No biggie.

"Kari. Seriously? Have you thought about this? Let's say a 2x4 is roughly 10 pounds, and a 2x6 is going to be heavier, you are talking about more than 800 pounds. You're talking about a half ton of lumber. No--it won't fit in your Pilot."

"So, I can borrow your truck?"

It's my father. Of course, he said yes. And not long after I told him that I would be cutting all 80 planks myself with a handsaw, he rolled his eyes at my wild claim and, probably against his better judgment, threw his chop saw into the deal.

And then he gave me a frightening lecture on how to keep my thumbs. It actually induced nightmares--Jack's afternoon jump into the deep end of the pool and me trying to rescue him without thumbs made for quite a night. Then, like a lunatic, I repeated the manta, "check your thumbs" over and over, under my breath, until the next evening when I had all the lumber cut to suit.

It was a whole lot of lumber to purchase and haul and move and chop. But we did it all. And then, as a larger group of ward sisters (with the spontaneous help of a few sweet men) we made twelve of those boxes, to produce veggies for our families this summer, with nine more going home to be made in the coming days. A week later, I purchased wood for myself and a friend, and we made four more. I was an expert by then.

Now, the talk of the neighborhood is all about "where did you get your dirt?" and "can I pick you up some dirt when I get my dirt?" It's very satisfying to see this diverse group of women, setting out to do something, starting way back with sprouting spring seedlings and finally having somewhere to put them in the ground.

It may seem naive, to think that we could just randomly meet and put together boxes that none of us had assembled before. With power tools. And hammers. With many women who have never fashioned anything of wood using power tools and hammers. In truth, it was a feat.

But it was not unexpected. Nothing that I do with this presidency of women ever is. They set their hearts on what needs to be done and it gets done. They say, "let's try it," and it works. They make a decision and watch it fly. They give and love and serve and give a little more. It's more than a little magical in the way it all works.

Girl power, you might call it. But it's a power much higher than that, I just know it is. And this little group of women with whom I work have that magic in abundance.

On Sunday, as a group, we were released from our callings. And then, as a complete surprise to most, including me, I was named Big Cheese. With a handful of new sisters and a priority to find a new blend of magic all our own.

I've spent the last two days crying, at the thought of losing my dear friends. And the times that we laughed and cried and witnessed together. I'm overwhelmed. And heartbroken. And overwhelmed, some more.

And now, after two days of crying, I'm also ready to move on and get to work.

"It's all in the attitude, babe," my dad said. I'm sure that he's right. After all, I still have my thumbs.

at peace with my choices. except for those pumps, of course.

Last Sunday, after I'd had my fill of meetings, I traded my shiny, new black patent leather peep-toe torture devices for these mushy water treds (purchased ironically at the same recent sale) and hopped in the 4WD.

I wasn't entirely sold from the beginning, thinking that they made my feet look fat. They were Keens, they were in my size and they were on sale. Enough said, right? I think there's a law. But after five hours in three-inch pumps, I was raving about how my feet couldn't possible be happier.

And then, we drove to what is rapidly becoming my favorite spot.

Luckily, I'd found some flip-flops in the car so Jack could go wading. I'm pretty sure that mouth of mine is saying "Hold your horses, Tonto--give me five seconds to sit down and take off this Snuggli and I'll get your pants rolled up so you can get them soaking wet." Ian's thinking, "Dude. This is why I don't walk. Too much drama."

That's why Abbie Jane doesn't bother with pants.

Within ten minutes, we had to take a little time-out so that Abbie could catch her breath. The water was pretty high and swift and Abbie has a strict no-stick-gets-by-me policy. I'm always worried that he ankles will give out and I'll be forced to use my life-saving skills to get her out of the whirlpool.

Not that Abbie thinks any sort of break is necessary.

This one just enjoys the show. Watching the wet dog, joining in the applause when Abbie gets her stick, practicing his camera cheese.

Eventually, a stick run was called for (due to the fact that Abbie will always grab the stick, but she rarely brings it all the way back to the shore.)

We had to turn over a few logs, as well.

See? Awesome bugs.

And mint, which was ever so plentiful.

Finally, we returned.

With many a great stick found.

An excellent afternoon. In great shoes. Even if they were a little mushy after tromping through the water.

Ahhhh. Mucho better.

But wait . . . is that . . .

It is. Purple toenail polish. Right there for anyone, including the woodland animals, to see. 

Seriously, who am I trying to kid.

In fact, if I look through my relatively small collection of polish, you'll find a shocking pattern.

Shimmery purple, electric blue, red, deep raisin, purple mauve, and, my new color, torrid (which is purple.) In a purple edged bag, no less. I got the red for the fourth of July last year, but haven't worn it since, due to the fact that taking it off makes my toes look all bloody. And the electric blue was for Jack.

When it comes to my toes, I'm a purple girl, through and through. Setting patriotism aside, it's the only color I go for. Ever.

So . . . I give up.

This morning, I hit yoga in my plum pants.

Came home to don my favorite sweater. Aubergine, I believe.

And finished the ensemble with these periwinkle shoes. Again, with the shooting purple--these are twelve shade lighter and purpler in real life. I've had them for four years. For four years, my favorite shoes have been purple. Sure I'd have preferred them in another color, but this was all they had. And I bought them. And I love them. And I wear them. More than the patent leather peeps, that's for sure. These babies have clouds built right into the arch.

I won't even mention the other purple that I'm wearing today, but let's just say that if you haven't read Emily recently, you should, here and here. Know that I have similar pictures of Ian, except he likes to wear my lilac skivvies on his head.

Oh, that feels so much better. Letting it all out. How do I love thee, purple? Let me count the ways.