Now you owe me a watermelon.

One fateful day in 1972, my grandfather Jack answered the door to a door to door salesman. "Have you made your final arrangements?" the salesman asked. Such a question. I mean- really. So, my grandfather, in a bout of agrarian irony, bought a section of a mausoleum which was yet unbuilt for himself and my grandmother. I had not visited his burial site until this past weekend when we brought my grandmother to rest next to her love. She knew what she was getting into. I had only heard of its horrible incarnation in family legend. And what a legend it is. The place where my grandparents will, (ostensibly) spend eternity is a corrugated metal building close to the Nashville airport. The building itself boasts a replica of Jesus' tomb, complete with shroud, crown of thorns as well as exposed air vents and tubing. The halls themselves are lined with pink carpet and an appalling number of fluorescent bug zappers. I was disappointed that the 'baptist organ music' that so disturbed my dad during previous visits was no longer in use. Needless to say that these arrangements totally appalls my family, who can build, grow and fly themselves any where or anything they darn well please. My dad is campaigning to move them, to take my grandparents out of that appalling place in the dark of the night and put them somewhere properly befitting our love and respect. I know this is wrong, but the whole thing amuses me to no end.

I LOVED Nashville. I mean, where else is there music pouring out of every bar, where you can get a cowboy hat whenever your little heart desires, where you can eat at a proper, locally sourced restaurant OR have a sandwich which employs coleslaw and fries with the cheese and tomatoes? How often do you get to hang out at your dad's college dive bar? And, if that is not enough, Rotier's had fried pickles. I ate them. We all did.

So, here's to you, my family- my gorgeous, crazy, Tennessee contingent. May we always find each other, even in the very strangest of places.

I love the Avett Brothers.

But, you probably already knew that.

It is So September...

and man, do I feel it. The light is different, the sky is bluer, and I have this uncontrollable urge for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. The fall approaches, which is ok, because I think I actually accomplished everything on my 'Things I want to do this summer' list. Baseball games, check. The beach, check. I ate outside as much as possible. I fell in love with cooking again, thanks to the CSA (membership- check). I made LOADS of ice cream, I just hadn't put any food up for the winter. So, when we learned that Wes's apple tree was laden and his apples were ready for the taking, Sallie, Max, Clyde and I headed straight down to Kilmarnock with visions of apple sauce in our heads. Or pie. Mmmm- pie.



I am now the proud owner (manager?) of a huganic box of apples and really, the possibilities are very promising. I have already made one pie and several turnovers. What else? Hmmmm... I think I'll go consult the experts.

The End of an Era

You all know that I cry easily. I laugh easily too- which is (might be) an alright balance. Today has been a highly emotional day, full of more tears than laughter because one of our great forces is no longer with us. Yes, the Pathfinder has dug in its heels, and refuses to move. I knew it was coming- I have even been researching (other) cars. I have joked about the Pathfinder's 'Ghetto- ness', have likened him to a donkey and am quite sure he is ready and entitled to his pasture in the sky. I knew it was coming. In fact, yesterday, (lest you forget that I am indeed the coolest), he insisted on going through his enire throttling moan of various alarm noises while I attempted to turn the key to start the ignition. All of the horrid tones of his horn. For a very long time. This all happened WHILE I was at Lewis Ginter, an ultimately (and notoriously) silent place. The other gardeners looked on at me like stooty librarians- as if the only thing I had accomplished that day was to disturb the peace. That car roared on and protested so very loudly as I tried and tried to turn the key, and I realized that I had taken each and every easy start until now for granted. Indeed, I was not prepared for this.

Le Pathfinder, (who shall remain nameless), has over 157,000 miles on its tired frame. At an average of 35 miles per hour, that means a total of 4,486 hours I (or someone- in fact most of you) have spent behind the wheel . That winds up being about 187 days, at 24 hours a day. (Not even including the nights I slept in the plentiful back seat space while we were still and it was cold outside.) Six months (total) out of my life- 13 years including the times we were not moving. Four trips across the country. 11 house moves. Getting me out of a big sand pit in New Mexico when I took a 'short cut'. Dirt and dogs and boys. Up any fire road Colorado could put in our path. Trusty old thing. I really, really loved that car.

What is to become of him? Well, I expect he will pay my (over)dues to NPR, and that they will provide him a proper rest. I will go out in the morning, count his bumper stickers and various scrapes, and thank him for being there for me. Oh, man- I am really sad to let him go.

love, divided (like yeast)

I know it is a total cliche, but you get back what you give, and sometimes even more on top of that. It's kinda magic. The Beatles said, "The love you get is equal to the love you make" or something like that. Not necessarily advocating actually making love to random folks, but if you think of "make"ing as literally creating things for people, be it food, a place, the booze to have with the food at the place, or whatever...then there you have it.

As far as the sacrifice that goes along with either motherhood or fatherhood (or Motherhood, etc.), yes they can be a giant pain in the ass at times but it's pretty fun too. You definitely don't want to ever give to the point where you are giving up yourself, or pieces of yourself, for instance feeling like never having time to do whatever your passion is. But as long as you are not giving up yourself too much, all the other stuff isn't too important. I'm not saying to work one's fingers to the bones with never a thank you, but perhaps when you give up yourself a little bit you actually get bigger. Again, magic.

A Question for Mothers (and Fathers)

The other day, Matt sent me my life purpose report from an online astrologer. It was very sweet of him- all of my freedom has left me with a feeling of purposelessness at most, and at the very least the fear that I may have misplaced my bootstraps. So, his gift to me came at the perfect time. And what do you know? There is food involved in my life mission, (surprise!) along with fostering a sense of security and creating space for healing and support. It is an extremely feminine mission- the archetypal grandmother. I have always at once rebelled against the sacrifice of this woman while still embracing her arts. The question I am left with is one of the modern woman's role of nurturing. As third wave feminists, what does caring for others mean to us? Is fostering the needs and desires of others just terribly antiquated, by necessity entailing a sacrifice of one's own needs and desires, or could it hold the key to the healing work that the world so desperately needs?

I would love to hear what you already know day by day and practice minute by minute. In the meantime, I am going to go make some chocolate ice cream.