It has been brought to my attention that in the opinion of one of the children, our family is experiencing relational challenges. We had a lengthy discussion about it, even brainstorming some ideas about how to address these challenges. An idea came to mind, and I decided to see how it would fly.

In the next bedroom, I suggested to my "tweener"-aged daughter that she and her sister might sit and talk somewhere, sometime, privately. "I'm just thinking out loud here," I proposed, "but maybe we could all go to Panera, and you and she could sit at one table eating bagels and sipping hot cocoa, and I could sit a couple of tables over with the others."

She nodded slightly. I wasn't sure if she liked the plan. Maybe she didn't want to have to sit with that sibling? Maybe she was feeling pressured? Or maybe she loved it and was just imagining it in her head? I continued to sell the idea, "You and she would be almost like a couple of teenagers, just sitting there talking, finding out what the other one is thinking, while I'm over there with the crazies. What do you think? Is that a good idea?"

"Sure," she agreed.

"Great," I said.

"It's just..." she stopped herself.

"What?"

"Could you be just one table away?"

My oldest daughter helped my son, who is only 4, bake some sugar cookies. When the cookies were done, we stacked them on a plate.

A while later, while I was working at the computer in one room, my son started a long explanation from the kitchen of how he wanted to surprise a friend tomorrow with those cookies. He told each step of the plan in great detail: "First, we'll decorate them with icing and sprinkles. Then we'll put them in a plastic bag that we'll get from this drawer over here. Then we'll take them out to the car and make sure we have them when we leave, and we'll drive to Noblesville and then when "Joe" gets in the car we'll let him get his seatbelt on and then we'll say, 'We've got cookies!' (ha-ha-ha!) 'Surprise!' (ha-ha) And then he'll say, 'Cookies! I love cookies!' and we'll hand them back to him and share them and it will be fun! (extra big laugh: ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!)"

It took a lot longer for him to say all of that, with embellishments that I have left out, than it did for you to read it. I think I responded, "Mm hm, sounds like fun. We'll take them with us tomorrow."

Still later that afternoon, young son wanted to reiterate part of the Grand Cookie Surprise Scheme. Seeing the uncovered plate on the counter reminded him, so he picked it up to illustrate some point, began speaking, whirled around and--whoosh! Faster than you can say "centrifugal force," the cookies spun off the plate, flew halfway across the room and dropped to the floor, breaking to pieces upon impact.

Three of us were in the room at that moment of impact. We didn't move. We didn't say anything right away, it was so sudden and unexpected. We just stared at the cookie chunks and crumbs.

Could they be salvaged? Simultaneously to this, another child was letting in the dog--the dog! "Quick! Sweep up the cookies!" Then the shrieking began, "My cookies! No! The cookies! We can't just throw them away!" The dog came galumphing in straight to the scene of the accident and began his own cleanup plan, we pulled him away, young boy is crying great droplet tears, two others are still staring, the fourth is pulling back the dog.

I swept up the remains and dropped them in the trash. As the lid flipped shut, the shrieking volume went up a notch. The oldest who helped make the cookies shook her head and shuffled out of the room muttering, "Great. I helped him make those, and now they're ruined." The dog was freed to lick up the remaining crumbs. The boy sat dejected. I offered to make more tomorrow, before we drove to pick up Joe. We had a little leftover dough in the fridge. A little dough, a little hope.

More pennies

We can thank P.W. for this link.

http://www.exploratorium.edu/exhibits/common_cents/index.html

This week was "Give the coat off your back" Sunday, when we were supposed to wear a coat to church, then during the service we would donate it to a group that works with homeless people Downtown. The idea, I think, was to keep people from donating tattered and stained coats--we had to be willing to wear it to church, so it had to be presentable. And ideally, people would go home feeling what it's like to be without a coat for a few minutes, identifying briefly with the plight of the poor.

My husband and I found some coats in good condition and wore them to church. During the service, it occurred to me that I might have left something in the pockets, so as quietly as possible I unzipped them and fished around. In a small, upper pocket I found two dollar bills. I pulled them out and handed them to Phil, whispering, "From my coat." He nodded slightly and tucked them in his pants pocket.

Soon it was time for the closing hymn, when people could walk their coats to the front of the sanctuary and place them on the steps. I sent Phil with both coats.

After church, as we got into the car, he said, "You know, as I was walking up to the front, it occurred to me that I should have checked my pockets. I thought, 'Ann found two dollars--I wonder what was in mine?' Maybe it was a credit card, or some keys."

"It's been over a year since you last wore it. If it was a credit card, you would have known it. Whatever was in there you obviously don't need. Whatever it is, it's soon to be the property of someone Downtown, so don't worry about it anymore. Besides, it's not like you to leave things in your pockets."

"I know, but it's also not like me not to check my pockets, either. But by the time I thought of it, I was up there, tossing the coat onto the pile. It didn't seem like the best time to check."

Still later, I realized I should have left the cash. I should have let two dollars become the property of someone Downtown.

One of my daughters was reorganizing her room so that we could move in a cupboard and move out a bookshelf. She sorted through the containers that were in the way and stacked them neatly in her closet.

"Come and see, Mama!" she exclaimed. "Look how I've organized them. I stacked them up and now I can close the doors and no one will even see them."

"Wonderful! That's exactly why closets exist!"

"And look," she pointed, "I labeled them, too, so I'll know what's in them."

I read the labels she had tucked in each plastic holder on the side of the containers. One after another, at least five of them, read, "Stuff."

Current Reading Material

After finishing Great Expectations, I was faced with the dilemma all readers feel--it can grow into a kind of intellectual panic for some--regarding what to read next. The list of books to read is so long, the categories so varied, it's hard to decide what to dive into and why I should choose this over that.

Before I began Great Expectations, when I was browsing the books-on-tape selections at the library, I stopped on Don Quixote. You know what they say about Don Quixote.

http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2005/01/13/print/main666701.shtml

Well, I thought, "Maybe it's time I tackle that thing." So I tossed the very fat plastic book-on-tape container into my book bag as an option. When I got home, I looked for the first tape and realized, "Oh my heavens! This is part 2 of 2!" Whew! That is one long book, if read unabridged! So I returned it and read Great Expectations.

Then, oddly enough, a few days ago a good friend wrote in an email that she and two friends were going to read and discuss Don Quixote together. Due to this surprising coincidence, especially because I was at that very moment trying to decide what title to tackle next, I returned to the library in search of the box containing part 1 of 2. I checked it out and started listening to and reading it, depending on my circumstances. I had no idea it was so funny! I don't know if I'm supposed to be laughing, but the guy who is reading it seems to be offering a humorous delivery.

I'll be at this one for a while. I think I'm on tape 5 or 6, and there are 14 in box one of the two. I'm listening as I jog or when I'm out by myself.

In case you wondered, I'm listening to Edith Grossman's translation.

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0060934344/104-9205717-7645541?v=glance&n=283155&n=507846&s=books&v=glance

Carrie Newcomer

Two friends and I drove across town to folk singer Carrie Newcomer's concert.

http://www.carrienewcomer.com/carrie_flash.html

One of my friends has been a fan for years. My friend's brother-in-law is Carrie's mail carrier, though I think this is truly a coincidence unrelated to her love of Carrie's music. At any rate, she has been trying to get us to one of Carrie's concerts for at least two years, but the timing never quite worked out until last weekend.

That night Carrie told a story that, according to my friend, she often tells at concerts. Carrie was on her way to a concert in Henderson, Kentucky, as part of a weekend devoted to promoting peace. Throughout the larger event, protestors had shown up, yes, protesting peace. With a guitar case in each hand, Carrie was hurrying up the sidewalk to the church where she was to perform when she heard one of the protestors, a woman, call out, "You!" Carrie stopped and looked around. "Yes, you!" the protestor shouted, "You are the whore of Babylon!"

"Wow," Carrie said. "The whore of Babylon! And here I thought I was just an obscure folk singer from Indiana." With a mischievous grin on her face, she added, "Things are looking up!"

How did I manage to get this far in life--especially as an English major--without reading Great Expectations?

Well, last night I filled in and tamped down this literary hole by finishing the book. It took a while to work through it, and I had to mix in a little book-on-tape to get through it, given my day-to-day limitations. Sometimes I can find time to sit and read, but most days I need to do something else requiring a different kind of concentration--such as folding laundry, or driving (don't let that scare you)--during which I can be listening to something else. Through this combination of reading and listening, I completed the book.

I approached the book as an ordinary reader rather than a former English major, and thus let each character, plot twist and chapter ending capture my attention and intrigue me. I didn't read ahead, I didn't over-analyze and categorize, I didn't speed read, and I didn't peek at Cliff Notes. I just read.

I have to say I was unsatisfied by the endings. My copy included both endings to consider. I can't say that I felt either one really fit with the rest of the story. Once I finished the book, I did eventually poke around online to see what others say. One source said that critics offer convincing arguments for each of the endings, however they suggested a third option of simply ending the story earlier. I haven't looked at that how that option would work, but I wonder if it might not be the best option?

On the other hand, Dickens was quoted as preferring the "happy"--or at least pleasantly ambiguous--ending over the shorter one. Part of me feels that we ought to lean on the ending that most satisfied the author himself.

Now that I've finished Great Expectations, I have a huge dilemma:

What next?

http://start.earthlink.net/article/nat?guid=20051115/43796b50_3421_1334520051115882191032

This link summarizes the story about the kid from Pennsylvania who killed his girlfriend's parents, then escaped with her and ended up in a high-speed chase in Indiana, where his car slammed into a tree. They crashed directly in front of the church I attended when I was a young girl.

Overflowing toilet
dead spider on the pillowcase
crash of tumbling Lincoln logs
dump of megablocks
shatter of sugarbowl
homework tears spilling
brush your teeth
socks dyed dirt
emptied milk jug
soured load of whites
pink shorts blotched red

sauce-splattered paper piles
toothpaste-blobbed sink
half-hidden, under-bed candy wrapper pile
new knit blouse wadded in a corner
vaccinations

cavities
orthodontia
forgotten, fermented apple juice cup
carseat french fry
bent umbrellas
Monopoly Scottie wedged under fridge
bottom-of-purse Cheerio circles

cracked frisbee

snot-smeared sleeves
did you take your shower?
stingers
splinters
stickers
spit
Spiderman shoes
milkshake moustache
syrup smears
tire-plucked Matchbox Porsche
clay-stained carpet
paint-smeared hand towel
lost science book
lost lawnmower key
found glasses
found CD player
boxes
stains
piles
all
in
just
one
day

When I'm jogging
I often see pennies
glint on the pavement in the afternoon sun.

I pick them up and stuff them in the tiny pocket
stitched into my running shorts.
Once home, the penny mingles with the darks,
until I hear it clinging against the dryer door.

Once in a while—not usually on a run—I find a wheat penny.
I drop it into a cut glass dish
I keep on my dresser.
They remind me of a time
when everyone saved a tin can
an old tire
rubber bands
and pennies.

A few days ago I was jogging in the evening.
As I rounded the asphalt path that curves around the playground,
I spotted several teen-aged boys
sitting in the shadows along on a stone wall,
swinging their legs.
I could hear them
flinging something at an SUV.
Ching. Clink. Ting, ting, ting.

They were throwing coins,
laughing.

I drove by that spot today,
too lazy to jog.
Afternoon sun angled across the parking lot,
lighting the bright silver surface
of a quarter.

I stuck it in my pocket,
brought it to my bedroom
and dropped it gently among the wheat pennies
slowly filling the bottom
of the cut glass dish.

© 2005, Ann Kroeker

George Lucas

Last week I went out for coffee with friends at a crowded Starbucks in a trendy part of town.

Where we sat, my back was to the cozy leather sofas by the fireplace. I could see a guy with a cell phone snapping pictures with his photo feature, and I was aggravated. I thought he was taking pictures of several people, including us. It seemed obnoxious and invasive.

Then one of my friends asked, "Is it just me, or does that guy look like George Lucas?" My other friend nodded and laughed. "He does!" They urged me to turn around subtely at my convenience, though subtlety has never been my strong point, and look at the cozy leather sofas.
I shifted around awkwardly toward the fireplace, and wow! It sure did look like George Lucas! He and the cool guy sitting next to him were staring at a computer screen, commenting, pointing, considering. The George lookalike wore a bold, high-end sweater with a big Superman "S" logo on it. The other guy looked like a model. No wonder the cell phone guy was snapping pictures!

On our way out, we had no choice but to exit behind them--really!--so we checked out their computer screen as we passed and noticed they were looking at headshots of models or actresses, further reinforcing the possibility that for some odd reason, this really was George Lucas and he was in our city for some reason other than the Star Wars Convention. It's conceivable that he might ask someone, "What's an interesting, trendy place to hang out tonight?" and they would answer with the place where we were.

Was I sitting in the same room with George Lucas last week?

Was he in our midwestern city for some reason?

Does it really matter?

The Contemplative Dog

I wish you could have seen our four-month-old pup this morning: he contemplates.

While other four-month-old puppies might pounce on falling leaves and leap at them in mid-air, our puppy merely sits and observes. He looks toward the sky to ponder, say, a bird flying overhead, and he does this unexcitedly, calmly, contemplatively. Leaves rain down and he watches, neither panting, barking nor moving, not even flinching. He sits for long periods like this, straight and tall, head turning slowly now and then to take in some new sight.

This morning I glanced out my bathroom window and saw the pup in a thoughtful pose, then he looked so far up that his neck was almost in an S position, if you can imagine that: his chest puffed out, his long neck stretched far back, and his muzzle pointed straight up in the air. Then I noticed my daughter perched on a plastic picnic table, headphones on, watching the dog.

I spent several minutes leaning against the window ledge contemplating my daughter, who sat contemplating the dog who contemplated his surroundings.

This is part of life as a contemplative mom.

Halloween Faux Pas

We may have had 50 or so kids come and go from the front door. I never know what to expect. Sometimes I have far too much candy; other times I have to be stingy and say "One piece" or just drop one miniature Tootsie Roll in their bags like a sugar-miser. This year we estimated fairly well. I only had a few left in my big bowl.

Of those 50 or so kids, I spoke to very few other than the standard "Happy Halloween" or "Ohhh, very scary monster" or whatever. I said hello to the toddler boy and his mom who live at the end of our cul-de-sac, asked her where she got his flannel Frankenstein outfit and how he was handling the evening. Other than that, I only really addressed one mom. This is what I asked: "Now, where is it you live?" I didn't recognize the dark-haired princess in front of me who was waiting for a Snickers bar. "Um..." the mom gestured with her flashlight to point directly behind where she was standing, "right there." It was the house directly across the street. They are our across-the-street neighbors, and I managed to pick them, just them, to ask where they live. I said something like, "Oh, my, she has grown up so much I hardly recognize her! How old are you now, honey?" This attempt at distraction did not account for the fact that the mom was standing right there. She can't have changed that much in a year.

They keep to themselves, and maybe we do, too. I try to respect people's privacy. If they don't want to socialize, I try not to push it. They've never really made many overtures so we haven't, either. Maybe we're both trying too hard to respect the other person's "clues." Maybe she really wants to be known? I don't know. All I know is that I was pretty embarrassed to look this woman in the eye and realize that I don't know her at all, not one bit, yet I've lived directly across the street from her for six years.

This is American Suburbia. It seems there are two extremes--either the neighborhood has block parties and cookouts and organize Christmas socials and cookie exchanges and progressive dinners; or alternately people drive into their garages, hit the button on the garage door opener, and hole themselves in to watch TV. Or maybe they rush back out for kids' lessons or games. In those cases, it's hard to know and be known. What really goes on behind closed doors? Are we suburban dwellers all like that show "Desperate Housewives," with secrets and escapades of all kinds going on in our four-bedroom family homes?

I don't know. I can tell you there isn't much going on here. The dog is chasing around an empty plastic juice bottle, I'm thinking about what to fix the kids for lunch, and I'm considering giving away a few books. Just a few. I can't bear to part with very many. We watched no TV last night. Our computers aren't networked properly and I can't print anything from my laptop. The kids are about to start up piano lessons again after a long break. A homemade pinata is hanging from my kitchen light fixture, drying. I ate too much Halloween candy last night. I have to gather library books in a moment and run that errand. What for lunch? Maybe ham sandwiches.

That's what's going on behind these doors.

Indian Summer

Unexpectedly warm days keep the dread of winter at bay a little while longer. They call it an "Indian Summer," which I hope has pleasant etymological roots. I hope it has to do with Native Americans taking advantage of the warm temperatures and sunshine to pack up a few extra things before moving south; or for those staying put in longhouses, maybe they stacked a few more ricks of firewood with their shirts off, sweating. An Indian Summer is like the grace of undeserved goodness. A gift. A surprise.

Two weeks ago we put away the kids' summer clothes, assuming that the end of it was here and Fall was upon us. We folded the striped shorts and worn Old Navy T-shirts and placed them in boxes marked "Spring/Summer 2006." We stacked them on closet shelves with resignation.

Then the warmth comes, the gift. We are tempted to pull down the boxes, but instead find an extra pair of shorts in the bottom of the laundry basket and pull them on. We run, jump, climb and laugh.

I secretly hope for an Indian Summer each year, but never count on it. When the weatherman shakes his head and announces it's going to be in the 70s Farenheit this week, I grin. I packed up the kids' shorts, but I didn't pack up mine. Maybe I do count on it? I know I hope.

Tomorrow, the day when it should reach 70, I may pull down a pair of tan shorts, and even if I'm a bit too cool, I'll wear them during the sunniest part of the afternoon. I'll listen to the kids swing and laugh and shriek like they did on summer evenings catching fireflies and lighting sparklers. Maybe I'll go on a jog. We could go to the park. We could play tag or soccer in the back yard. Shoot, we could just sit on a chair in the sunshine and feel the warmth pour over our faces. We could make lemonade or iced tea.

We can be warm.