Not only have there been twenty new digits to examine in detail…
… but there’s also been a fresh head in town that needed to be thoroughly sniffed and smooched.
There have been poignant maternal moments to absorb and lock in…
… stories to share*…
…and the privilege of a four-generation gathering to enjoy.
There have been giggles to prompt and family resemblances to sleuth out.
But most of all…
…there have been those precious moments that make a lifetime that needed to be caught and tucked carefully away in our hearts.
Plus, about three weeks ago the shower curtain AND towel rack crashed down violently in the bathroom within about seven seconds of each other, leading not only to a mild heart attack, new towel rack, lighting fixture, and toilet paper holder, but also to new drapes, bed linens, and a complete re-painting of two whole rooms and several miscellaneous walls throughout the condo. The rest of the walls and all the carpeting are next.
Like I said, we’ve been busy.
*Thanks for the beautiful photo, Great-Aunt Sandi!
“You guys drive FIFTEEN hours in one day to get back and forth between Teton Vally, Idaho, and Half Moon Bay, California?! Who DOES that?!”
Well, for starters, it’s probably people who really love both places. And each other. And in their better moments, they probably remember and remind each other that every day is a gift not to be wasted, so wherever you find yourself, be there.
They have to be willing to soak in that last sunset, then go straight to bed. O’dark:30 a.m. comes sooner than one even expects it might.
And they have play “team driving” well as they push through the black night for a couple of hours, all four eyes straining forward into the dark, searching just beyond the high beams for seriously stupid deer who decide that a highway is a better place to look for grass than, say, the field they were just in.
But once the sun starts to come up…
… and the alien beauty of the generally disdained scrub between Twin Falls and Wells reveals itself…
… you start to settle in and leave the deer to their own stupidity and let your mind and the conversation wander.
Unexpected opportunities for reflection appear through the mist. Sacred moments that ask “what?” and “why?” and “for whom?” of your singular and collective life.
And then the heat burns off the moment, and the light shifts, and you wonder if anyone’s going to believe that you didn’t futz with the saturation of the photo.
And then you’re pretty sure they won’t.
And then you’re certain.
And once you’ve chatted about how to think about new carpeting for the condo, and what gives rise to spontaneous democratic movements, and, do you remember which exit in Elko has the best grassy patch for the dog?… It’s about then that you notice the mid-day clouds clamoring for their turn in front of the lens.
We’ve done the drive dozens of times now, and last week was the first time we’ve ever seen the Hogwarts’ Sorting Hat descend on the mountains, leading naturally to a discussion about which house best suits the various individuals in our wide range of friends and acquaintances. Threads of this type are good for at least 12 minutes, and can be a surprisingly confirming and aligning team-building exercise. (While we had some variety of opinion on the candidates for Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, we were totally in synch on those we assumed would be sorted to Slytherin.)
And now we’re fully half way there, which is a good thing, since not everybody totally enjoys spending one of their precious days on a road trip. There’s always someone in the back seat asking…
At minimum, we love the downstairs bathroom because the door to it no longer opens directly into our dining room.
When we renovated our wee farmhouse, we took the opportunity to relocate the doorway to the end of the hallway and adjacent to the new french doors, thereby bringing to a quiet end* decades of awkward moments and inconveniently located line-ups.
Of course, some things will always be the same.
Like, the moment the door closes, someone else decides they’re in a dreadful hurry — and what the heck are you doing in there, anyway?
These kinds of social interactions are made slightly more complicated for modern sensibilities due to our decision to maintain as much of the old farmhouse as we could in the renovation process. For instance, we preserved and re-used all the old doors and hardware.
Meaning that until we find the key that got misplaced somewhere in the garage during the renovation, there are no locking interior doors.
However, there are wonderful old-fashioned keyholes to peer through and a resurrection of the time-honored tradition of “knock-before-entering.”
To further the movement, we’ve retrofitted a privacy guardian-angel door knocker.
Keeping the door closed is actually less of a challenge than keeping it open when the facilities are not in use. For this, we employ a hefty metallic Mr. Rooster.
(Believe it or not, until I got down to eye level to take this photo, I hadn’t even noticed that there is also a Mrs. Rooster. Note to self: take photos of all the stuff in our house to see what’s really there.)
In many ways, it’s just a normal Idaho bathroom. Sink, industrial-strength hand moisturizer, toilet, shower…
Normal, except for the exquisite craftsmanship of, for instance, the Ecuadorian tile master who happened to be in Teton Valley that month subcontracting for Cole Kunz, our miracle working general contractor.
We bless Cole and the tile maestro every time we take a shower.
But as amazing as their work is, it’s the small details that others probably wouldn’t even notice that make this such a sweet space in our home.
There’s the mirror I sort of accidentally bought on eBay a few years ago, draped with the faux grape vine that reminds us of the warmth and romance of Sonoma County, and the dried roses from 09-09-09 in the window.
The watercolor by Peter Chope mainlines memories of autumn…
… while this sweet painting by Rick to the right of the sink always slows me down in a renewed amazement of how paint works in the hands of someone confident enough to let loose happen.
There are other works of art on which to reflect in light of what was, what is… and what will be.
Is it inappropriate in a post about our downstairs bathroom to say how much I love the dust of Rick’s ponies…
… and that the co-creation of this room, this home, and our life brings me great joy?
Signed,
Kathy Schmidt Jamison
*The author of this post wishes to apologize for all the potty-humor embedded in the word choices made throughout the piece. She hopes everyone will just chalk it up to youthful exuberance. Thank you in advance.
We’ve finally figured out the practical advantage of Winnie’s soft curly hair.
Aside from the fact that it doesn’t shed, is wonderful to the touch, and is relatively easy to comb burrs out of, he was going to need a shearling parka.
Winne LOVES the snow and spends as much time as he can cultivating that “sugar-frosted puppy” look.
Apparently, one of the most fun parts of wearing confectioners sugar is how easily it can be removed when the time comes. It appears that the trick is to start the shimmy from the front…
… and let the ripple effect work its magic towards the rear of the enterprise.
The technique is almost 100% effective.
Almost.
Excuse me. I must go hose down the camera lens now.
Ever watch people at the beach sauntering along the wave line–occasionally bending over to pick up something out of the sand–and think, “What a waste of time!”?
Think again.
Or better yet, try it.
Let your eyes wander over the smallest details of that amazing place called “the beach,” and discover gems of glass, edges softened by the pounding surge.
With such a simple task assigned to your eyes, the rest of your body, mind, and spirit is free to simply soak in all the beauty and healing that can be absorbed there.
Plus, it makes for a great team sport.
It’s especially wonderful when you find exactly the right hunting grounds that are ripe with gems for the harvest, allowing you to get your fingers wet while not putting you in the line of fire for a class-A soaker in your new boots.
Actually, I got the soaker anyway about ten minutes later while taking this next shot.
That kind of thing can sneak up on you when you’re concentrating on aperture settings and composition.
Not all the treasures we find are cool shells, rocks, and glass bits that can be tucked in a pocket and taken home.
At first, Rick thought this was a sponge. At the size of a large tangerine, he didn’t expect it to be a HUGE ball of fish roe. We left it there, on the theory that the incoming tide might take it back out to sea and give those 1467 seedlings a shot at life. But trust me, the opportunity to take it home and conduct experiments with $1467 worth of generic-brand caviar was a grave temptation indeed.
Sometimes the free gift is an unexpected opportunity to strut your ability to fly in front of your new friends, MiniMe and MicroMe.
Winnie can be such a show-off.
Occasionally the prize is an exquisite pendant just waiting to be strung. This one even came with a pre-drilled hole.
Coming across a piece of brilliantly polished glass gleaming happily against the neutral tones of sand and gravel is almost as good for the constitution as an out-of-control belly laugh.
Rick and I aren’t the only ones who enjoy beach combing. Can you see what Winnie was keeping an eye out for?
As in all other things, the joy of discovery is in the eye of the beholder.
While he doesn’t display much enthusiasm for glass bits, he seemed delighted by his free hacky-sack.
We try to keep an open mind on what counts as “cool.” Anyone know what that stone might be?
All the baubles and sunlight and beauty aside, the very best part of walking the beach together is the together part and knowing that the gentle hand and guitar-calloused fingers holding out 10-minutes worth of poking around in the tidal pools belong to your best friend.
Before this Christmas season we had never made the connection between the introduction of the potato to Europe from the Andes in the 16th century and where Tilamook cheese comes from.
That was before our recent holidays afforded us both the opportunity for another great road trip and the time to watch some movies, in particular “The Botany of Desire,” a fascinating documentary by Michael Pollan on plants and our relationship with them.
First, let’s talk cheese.
We spent the Christmas holidays with Kathy’s folks on beautiful Vancouver Island and drove back to California via coastal Highway 1 through Oregon. The route took us through the town of Tilamook at precisely the time we were both a bit road punchy, the puppy needed a pit stop, and the Tilamook Cheese Visitor Centre appeared through the rain with its huge grassy dog run and picnic area.
Perfect! Who doesn’t enjoy an impromptu food factory tour? After all, as fascinating as farmers markets are, factories contribute a MUCH greater proportion of what shows up on our plates.
Plus, there are usually samples.
Quick Photography 101 note: sometimes shifting a color photo to black and white allows you to see things you might otherwise miss, like the relationships between shapes or just how much machinery is involved in the creation and processing of a “natural” food like cheese.
Are the machines helping people make cheese? Or are people helping the machines make cheese?
It was clear that the people were helping the machines.
These two ladies were weighing the blocks the apparently untrustworthy cheese-o-matics were creating. If a block was on the heavy side, they sliced a little off the top, tossing the leftovers into nearby plastic tubs with the precision of an NBA all-star. If light, they corrected by slapping an extra slice on top and sending the new and improved block rumbling along its way.
I kept expecting to have one of those faces turn up to face the viewing windows and it be Lucille Ball.
It’s interesting to be of the generation in history where we think of Lucille Ball and the industrial revolution as being sort of the same thing…
… which is a ridiculously clumsy segue to the story of the humble potato and the Tilamook Cheese Factory.
To sum up:
Spanish conquistadors decided that 1532 was a great year to check out Peru, discovered the potato, and gradually spread the robust plant throughout Europe to unimpressive levels of acceptance by the general population by the late 1600’s… ish.
Potatoes were either an exotic garden novelty, a grotesque tuber from a heathen land, or a member of the nightshade family and thus a manifestation of the devil.
Turned out, however, that they grew almost anywhere, had the potential to be prolific food for the masses, and relieved enough people from the fields — where they were focused on food production — to move into the cities to work in the factories that fueled the industrial revolution…
… which we had forgotten about until the dog needed to pee in Tilamook.
Remember how we gave such great thought to what we should name this little pootz before he came to us?
In their helpful book, “The Art of Raising a Puppy,” the monks of New Skete Monastery devote a full five paragraphs on the serious undertaking of naming your puppy, thus our grave deliberations in the weeks prior to picking up poocher from the rescue saints.
And I quoth: “We should select names that speak to a dog as a dog yet respect her own dignity and uniqueness.” They suggest short, two-syllable names that are easy for the pup to understand and for you to pronounce, and are clearly distinguishable from obedience commands. Also, they recommend avoiding “… excessively sweet or joke names totally inappropriate for a dog. Dogs are remarkably intuitive; they sense when they are being made fun of or when they are the objects of suffocating sentimentality.”
All right, then.
Given the breed, we anticipated our standard poodle puppy would, at minimum, grow into a big dog and would need a name that could carry the weight.
Check.
At five months, the dog weighs 45 pounds and–surprise!–is chin-level with the bathroom counter while on all fours. Because of Rick’s previous experience with the breed, however, we did have a few expectations beyond bulk.
He would be highly intelligent and constantly attuned to the presence and needs of his people, often going first (if permitted) on border patrol.
He would move through our lives with grace and a confident inquisitiveness…
… yet be companionable…
… good-natured…
… and noble with an air of natural authority.
We named him “Winston.”
And then we watched a few episodes of the TV show, “The Dog Whisperer” with Cesar Millan, noting the sharp hissing “sstt!” noise he makes when rebuking a dog. As in, “Hi there, good buddy WinSSTTon!”
Talk about your mixed messages.
Yup… Every time we called our dog by name, we were accidentally making a noise that, apparently, translates into “BAD DOG!”
Perhaps the monks and Cesar should hang out for an afternoon and share tips before they write their respective next books. Or maybe they could just co-host a TV show called, “The Dog N’ Chanters.”
Anyways, we’ve shifted to “Winnie,” which is more dog-friendly and an actual nick-name for those named “Winston.”
And, as it turns out, it’s perfectly apt for this incredible gift to our family: caught mid-hop, you can clearly see that we’ve been blessed with the living incarnation of the legendary Golden Bear of Kansas, Pooh-style.
