My mother

When the Hatlady was little she was a handful. Her nickname was the Vitamin Kid.

When she was around three years old she bit my grandmother in the butt. When my grandmother asked about it my mom replied “Neil did it.” Neil was an infant at the time.

When she was a little older she made an attempt to cut off Neil’s tongue. The idea was planted in her head by something she heard at church, she was sure she was helping him. Neil had to go to the doctor.

When she was in elementary school two boys unscrewed the salt shaker lid and she poured salt all over her mashed potatoes. The lunch lady told her to scrape off the salt. At recess she punched on of those boys in the gut. They never bothered her again.

I sometimes think she got it all out of her system when she was younger, she doesn’t bit or cut or punch people anymore. She dresses everyday as if she were going to meet the queen of Sweden, she is rapidly running out of shelf space for all her books, and she is turning into a grandmother. But every now and then I see her stand up to defend what’s right in her life; her methods may have changed, but deep down she’s still the Vitamin Kid.



(But SB, I don't think she would go bowling with you, unless you manage to convince her it was a viking game recently discovered or something like that.)

Magic from my childhood, a tribute to my teachers

The journey to B and L's happened almost daily in the summer. By bike or walking, never in the car. Even when my mom would come with me it was never in the car. The decision to bike or walk depended on a few factors.

1) How quickly I had to get THERE.
2) How quickly I had to get AWAY.
3) The cats.
4) The weather.

If It was a lazy day and the hot, sticky summer boredom had set in it was usually a rambly walk. Mooing at the cows as I passed The Farm, stopping to pet the horses by the Quonset hut. Never going too fast.

If I was angry at anyone in the house it was a stompy, steam-blowing walk. With just the right amount of time to loose the bad mood somewhere between the Quonset hut at The Farm and the turn onto B and L's driveway.

If it was a day to be DOING something it was a hair-flying, legs-pumping, quick-as-possible bike ride.

If it was a lazy day spent on the deck with the cats, and the cats wanted more and more and more and more attention, it was a race-down-the-driveway-without-a-backwards-glance, over the hill and... coast kind of bike ride.

However the journey happened it always took the same route. Over county road 3; past the park with the communal bonfire pit that used to be a dime store; down the dirt road and past The Farm (waving to Chip, Jay or Aunt Marge); over the hill that opens up the view to B and L's.

There must be magic at the top of that hill. The anticipation grows because at the top of the hill the property appears. The goats, the grain sheds, the gardens, the studio, the house, and, depending on the year, the cats, Bozo or Hattie and Floyd.

My eyes would scan the property looking for signs of life, maybe L walking over to Clarence's or B in the garden or studio. At the top of that hill your eyes play tricks with you, you can't trust them. They tell you 'yes, they're home,' and 'no, they're not' at the same time. Seeing a vehicle doesn't mean anything, I would need proof. Proof in human form. Proof that the portal HAD opened for me. Ready to take me to that day's Adventure.

Some days it was sitting in the studio watching B throw pots for hours. Watching her hands as they expertly molded a lump of clay into whatever shape she had in her mind, as they painted bugs, birds, and patterns onto finished pieces. When I was little she would let my sisters and I paint clay tiles and she would fire them in the kiln. They would come out with the same picture we had painted on them, but with a glossy sheen that made it seem like the magic was something we could take home with us.

Other days it would be helping L with house projects. Any project would do as long as he was willing to have a tag-along helper. I learned how to shingle a house, drive a back-hoe, and put in tile flooring, all before I was 16. I could spend days following L from house to garage to Clarence's and back again, learning whatever he would teach me, hoping that at some point we could stop in the house for soda and snacks.

B and L moved to Idaho a few years ago, but their property will always be magical for me, the place where childhood always lives, where anything is possible and inquisitiveness is practically required. I hold the feeling of that property with me, carrying it so that when I need to be a child again I have the magic inside, easily accessible. Easily sharable with the people in my life who need to have a little bit of childhood given back to them. Magic stemming from two of the most important people in my life. Magic that I can share and pass on to the next children who need a little magic in theirs.

First birthday photos

A few photos, please stop looking now if you do not like incredibly cute babies.

Yes, we dressed her up like Yoda. We know we are geeks.

There was a birthday party

Last weekend was the party. It was, well, it was a party, for a one year old. I still don't get why it's such a big deal. Am I crazy, or is it everyone else?

It was exciting for Goosey, being at her Grandma's always is because there is so much new stuff to terrorize and get into. Like all the breakable things and collectible dolls that are all over the floor (yep, all over the floor. It takes eagle eyes to hang out over at the Shopping Queens house.)

Goosey made out like a bandit with the presents; toys, clothes, books, a collectible precious moments doll. Yes, that's right someone gave her a collector doll. When I opened the box I read the tag that said 'this item is NOT a toy...' and the advice began. "You should put her hairnet back on." "Keep the box, you ALWAYS keep the box for collectible items." "I gave Goosey's cousin one collectible doll every year until she was ten." "Our mom would let us play with our special collectible dolls twice a year." I had no idea what to say, I believe that toys are meant to be played with, not to sit on shelves. I pretended to really take the advice to heart, and put the doll back in the box. What else could I do with all of Mr. NH's family giving such great advice about it.

There was Pooh cake with pink icing, and not the good kind, but the stuff that tastes terrible. Goosey got her hands in it, but didn't like the sticky feeling. So rather than eat most of it, she flung it on the floor.

The most exciting thing, wasn't the birthday or the presents or the cake, but the dog. Goosey followed her around the kitchen in circles trying to pet her. It was a nice break for me.

The things that excited me most at the party included these conversation tidbits:

d: "Whatever happened to giving asexual toys to kids?"
s: "It's because girls need girl toys and boys need boy toys. Girls should be at home learning from the mother, like cooking and cleaning."
(I didn't say they were all good exciting...)

f: "Can you look at my foot and tell me what's wrong with it?"
Mr. Nh: "Ok, but is it clean?"

f: "Netty pots are messy and don't feel good."
m: "Have you used one?"
f: "No, but it sounds like it would be messy."
d: "S would be using one every half an hour if she got one, she always has sinus problems."
s: evil, evil glare to her husband d.

me: "Goosey, you want to hold your cousins hand?"
cousin: "I'm not holding her hand, too much frosting."
a: "Wimp."

And the conversation with the Spiritual Mother about the final transition of changing from calling her son Rachel/she to Trey/he. I could see Mr. NH's aunt trying as hard as she could to pretend like she wasn't listening to the conversation. She is a staunch christian who believes in everything the bible says, especially about marriage and lifestyle 'choices.'

It was a nice enough party, but I am so glad that it's done.

One year old Yoda girl.