9.11

I often think about how I'm going to talk to Dash about 9.11. How I'm going to describe a world that changed so drastically five years before he came into it.

When I was a girl in elementary school, Holocaust survivors came annually to talk to us about what happened to them during that war. Even then, at 9, 10, 11 years old, I understood it was important to listen carefully. To never forget the lesson they were trying to teach us: that there is powerful hate in the world, but that love and rightness can beat it.

I am hopeful that something like that will fall into place for Dash's generation. I'm hoping that by the time he's old enough to understand, some of the political detritus that clouds our vision of that day still will have settled. I hope that the person who tells his story can explain about the hate that drove the terror, but also remember the love and bravery and sacrifice that sprung up instantly from it.

We who lived that day remember, don't we? How everything became pure the instant we realized what had happened. How the only things to feel were mourning for those lost and gratitude for those safe. Anger hadn't crept in yet, and even fear was still a little ways off. Those of us who were blessed enough to have ours whole and sound looked around and felt only love and thanks.

Regular life, of course, seeps back in. We let the pettiness and greed and thanklessness sneak past our guards, and we forget the way we felt that day--the saddest day of most of our lives (God willing) but also the truest.

Maybe that's how I'll talk to Dash about 9.11. We'll make its anniversary a day to focus on two things: mourning those who were lost and thanking God for those who are safe.

25 Days, 11

It's taken nineteen months, but Josh and I are finally finding our sea legs with this whole baby-outside-of-the-house thing.

As soon as Dash arrived we went into hibernation, nearly never venturing out of the house except to run to the grocery store or for a short stroll around the neighborhood. I don't know what we were so scared of. That the baby would get cranky? That we'd screw up his nap schedule? Maybe we weren't afraid of anything. Maybe we just forgot that kids are inherently portable and that sippy cups can be pre-filled and packed into coolers.

But I think we've snapped out of it. Or are snapping. This weekend was another adventure and we all three (I can speak for Dash because I have a scar where they cut him out of my body) feel more like humans and less like bears. It's pretty astonishing what a meander around a beautiful garden can do for one's soul. Mine is both more full and lighter than ever.

Look what we found, not too far from home, and just the perfect size for a smaller-than-full-grown person:

Japanese Pagoda

Spanish Mission
bottom left, pointing to "Please keep off grass" sign;
bottom right, running to gather more pebbles to throw in fountain

French, English & Italian Gardens

Bandstand

25 Days, 10

Our first house was teensy and charming and perfect in every way except that we couldn't all actually fit in it, and it was in a bad neighborhood that was only getting worse.

But it had the most perfect backyard of any backyard. Ever. It was huge and surrounded by giant old trees. The soil was rich and smelled strong and heady. Anything would grow there, and I took full advantage of that fact. I planted an entire fence with honeysuckle and jasmine and the smell of sweet tea and my childhood wafted through every evening. Ferns and impatiens spread under tree canopies and the camellia bush exploded in so much color it was near obscene. The small basil plant I plopped down one day grew into a bush so big that guests weren't allowed to leave that house without garbage bags full of its leaves.

Our house now is bigger and has high ceilings and enough bathrooms and is in a safe cul-de-sac and a good school district. I love this house. But the soil here is better suited for pottery than gardening, and everything I plant grows slowly if at all. We've taken a few small steps toward improving the soil with compost and amenders and such. Progress is slow and time is short.

But I haven't given up. Tonight I got home with enough daylight and cool breeze left to pull some weeds and make some assessments. The soil is progressing and I even spotted a couple of worms. Maybe next year we'll have made enough headway to plant some tomatoes and squash.

But if not, I'll continue my easy strolls around the perimeter of the yard, glass of wine in hand and baby playing nearby. I'm not going to be competing at any county fairs so I can afford to be casual in my approach to gardening. I'll rejoice in my small and occasional victories over weeds and slugs, and look forward to a garden that will, one day, produce a salad.

25 Days, 9

Dinner is in the oven and we have 20 minutes to kill with a play-food picnic on the floor.

25 Days, 8

Cambria 2007

On the way up north we stopped at the landmark Pea Soup Andersen's and ate soup in 100 degree weather.

partial ocean view

view from the boardwalk

view from the water

sand-eater

brr

rescue!

crash

fellas

mama hen

bucket

lucky baby

On the way back from lunch: zebras on the side of the highway.

good day

home

25 Days, 7

I know it is such a cliche: "Oh, I have to have fresh flowers in the house at all times. Makes a house feel like a home."

But seriously:


$6 stem of hydrangea. Swoon.

25 Days, 6

We live in Southern California where it rains, maybe, three days a year. Also, when it rains (and when it don't. you know, always) we drive where we're going. Usually the furthest a body needs to trek is from the car to the door of wherever you're going.

So these are a completely ridiculous posession:


But truly the most perfect thing you could give a boy who loves shoes: