Apple Red Happiness

It was our last free Saturday for weeks. Determined to seize every opportunity to vacate the house, drink in the warmth of the sun's rays and experience the beauty of these limited, glorious, summer-like days before Mr. Frost awakens and our winter incarceration commences, I hatched a plan to visit the local apple orchard at Stone's Apple Barn. Typical to our family, it was no easy venture actually implementing my idea. Admittedly (my husband insists I add this), I was terribly crabby. My nasty disposition had nothing to do, I am sure, with the mounds of laundry sprawled upon the basement floor, the interminable number of food stains, dirt marks and crumbs decorating my kitchen floor, or the stink of day-old bacon grease fermenting in a pan on the stove. While I was tempted by the allure of staying home, politely requesting that Jared and the children all disappear and undertaking a mass cleaning which undoubtedly would cause my poor attitude to improve, I chose rather to turn a blind eye to these household burdens, wipe off the sticky pancake crushed upon my foot and spend the day with my boys.

And our day was truly wonderful. Together we picked (and ate) Jonathans, Golden and Red Delicious, Fujis, and Macintoshes, descending off the hay rack which transported us throughout the fields to pick our fill. Not surprisingly, Russell was the first to enjoy a juicy snack. Elliot, well, Elliot kept picking up apples from the ground, taking a few bites, and then tossing them back. And even Thomas, whose experience of apples is strictly limited to apple sauce, decided to throw caution to the wind and try a few bites before passing the remainder on to Russell. We left with 20 pounds of apples (the minimum we could buy), and in a moment of utter weakness I suggested McDonald's for lunch. (Clearly, I was intoxicated by the day.)

The bag of apples sits on my kitchen table, probably soaking in some spilled syrup. The laundry is folded, though still on the floor; the diapers are washed. The children are napping (or I will pretend they are); lasagna for dinner; a cold Corona in the fridge (it is almost five); Django Reinhardt is playing; and a whole lot of apple sauce making in my immediate future. It's so good.

I Taste A Liquor

I fell in love with Emily Dickinson and her poetry primarily while in college. With a wardrobe strictly limited to black and shades of gray, a lust for life mixed with dare I say a healthy amount of angst, and my share of unrequited love, it seems apparent why Miss Dickinson's life and poems would have so deeply resonated with me. Though I hate to admit that it has been quite some time since I have read her works, today, while leafing through a poetry anthology I recently attained, I came across this winsome verse. Enjoy!

I Taste A Liquor Never Brewed

I taste a liquor never brewed,
From tankards scooped in pearl;
Not all the vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an alcohol!

Inebriate of air am I,
And debauchee of dew,
Reeling, through endless summer days,
From inns of molten blue.

When landlords turn the drunken bee
Out of the foxglove's door,
When butterflies renounce their drams,
I shall but drink the more!

Till seraphs swing their snowy hats,
And saints to windows run,
To see the little tippler
Leaning against the sun!

Remembering

I do not want to remember. I would rather forget. Forget that a few minutes after eight on that Tuesday morning as I was readying to head out the door for my walk to work, a female reporter interrupted NPR's morning program and in a voice echoing confusion and disbelief announced that a plane had just flown into one of the Twin Towers. I would rather deny that after dashing to the phone to call my mother, I pressed the power button on our television to find out what horrific thing had just happened in NYC. I would rather squish my eyes tightly shut and replace the image that is indelibly tattooed upon my memory, the image of a plane shattering into the second tower, with blackness. I would rather stuff my ears full with my fingers and scream at the top of my lungs until I became mute in order to forever silence words and phrases familiar to that day and the days which followed: "the Pentagon has been hit," "a plane crashed in Pennsylvania," "the second tower fell," "terrorist attacks," "war."

But I cannot forget and should not forget.

"Take trouble to pray," Mother Teresa once wrote. And so today, as we individually and collectively remember and mourn the devastation of that terrible, terrible day eight years ago, I offer up St. Francis of Assisi's prayer for peace.

Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace,
that where there is hatred, I may bring love;
that where there is wrong, I may bring the spirit of forgiveness;
that where there is discord, I may bring harmony;
that where there is error, I may bring truth;
that where there is doubt, I may bring faith;
that where there is despair, I may bring hope;
that where there are shadows, I may bring light;
that where there is sadness, I may bring joy.

Lord, grant that I may rather seek to comfort than to be comforted;
to understand than to be understood;
to love than to be loved.

For it is in giving that we receive.
It is in forgiving that we are forgiven.
It is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

Memory Eternal the servant of God Paul and all those who departed this life on September 11, 2001. May the Lord God remember you in His kingdom always now and ever and unto the ages of ages. Amen.

Labor of Love

Five years ago, thanks to the gracious offer to use their cottage from our dear friends, Greg and Marian, Jared and I headed up north to Wisconsin for our last hurrah as a couple without children. Nestled amongst trees and snuggled close to a lake, the cottage was a haven offering us a place away from the city to relax and spend time together. Throughout our week, Jared and I slept late, drank several cups of uninterrupted hot coffee, took long walks in roads lined with corn, hit a local thrift store more than once, read, took naps, and even ventured out on the Lambert's canoe. In hindsight, we should have stayed for two weeks rather than one.

In recent years, the Lamberts' cottage has metamorphised into a meeting place for those of us who left Chicago to live in smaller, quieter venues. Last year, nine adults and nine children crowded into the two-bedroom cottage over Labor Day weekend and as sleeping bags, games, books, and sand littered up the space I grasped the beauty of casting aside thoughts of yesterday and tomorrow and truly living in the moment. In the presence of pure mayhem, I treasured the laughter which often resulted in tears, the stories told and retold, and the bond of friendship which exists between these precious people in my life.

For various reasons, our family was the only one able to return to the cottage with Greg and Marian this Labor Day weekend. Besides the homemade Cubs birthday cake awaiting Thomas upon our arrival, the Lambert's insistence that Jared and I go out while they baby-sat the children, and Marian and I's Saturday garage sale excursion which resulted in some new treasures, when I think back to this particular vacation I will most remember Elliot's and Russell's cries for "MiMi." I will recall the way Thomas, who tends to be reticent in demonstrating his affection, enthusiastically offered generous hugs and kisses to both Greg and Marian. I will remember the sight of Greg and Thomas huddled together, thick as thieves, playing Star Wars guys per Thomas' instruction (trust me, this is no small feat). I will recollect Russell and Elliot snuggled on Marian's lap as she read them stories. But more than any of these memories, I will never forget the sacrifices made on our behalf and the abundance of unconditional love these warmhearted people have for my zany family. Greg and Marian, thank you so much; we love you too!