Dear Santa,
I hope this Thank You Note finds you rested and well, since soon comes that sleepless night of reindeer and sleigh-ride. How kind of you to ride the stars each year to bring an often-hardened world a dash of childish wonder and hope.
For me this year was a wonderful year. By granting last year’s Christmas wish I was able to see the world anew. A fresh start, I asked for, remember Santa? New eyes with which to see my life, I requested.
And you granted me these things throughout the year: A chance to visit friends and family across the country. Time with my children - coaching soccer, helping at school, walks in the woods and splashing in the pool. Opportunities to make new friends and re-unite with old ones. Solid ground on which to stand steady. Confidence with which to pursue writing again.
I don’t know what the year ahead will bring. But this year, Santa, I wish for others to see the things I saw this year. Smiling faces, open and giving hearts, opportunity knocking, dreams fulfilled and magic.
And again, Santa, thank you for last year’s gift.
Thank you for my silver lining.
Many holiday hugs to you and the missus,
Wendy
Friday, December 24, 2010
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Pilgrimage Passed
It's exhausting in Early November
When the leisurely pace of
Fall gives way to
The hurried bustle
Of Christmas
Poor Pilgrims have been
Forsaken this year, it seems,
A small shelf at Target
On clearance
More than a week
Before November 26
People pass by
That in between time
Crazy to be prepared for
Christmas
What are you doing for the Holidays?
They want to know
When I, myself, am still
Deliberating Thanksgiving
Chasing my calendar
Every week is exhausting
Weekends filling up with
visits and lists and to-do's
Instinctively, I resist
Rebelling, I resist
Content to watch
The last of the mums turn brown
And the pumpkins fade.
----- Wendy Pierman Mitzel
Monday, November 15, 2010
Thoughts on a woodstove
In my old house, my hundred-year-old house, the one I used to live in, the one before the divorce, there was a woodstove.
It was small and black and falling apart and a royal pain in the ass. For the kitchen in the old house never warmed in winter until that woodstove was fed properly.
That first winter I learned to order cords, properly seasoned, piles of wood dumped in the driveway. I learned to haul bundles piled high on the kids’ plastic snow sleds across the yard to both behind the garage and up near the back porch of the three story victorian.
I learned to start gathering early in the season the stray sticks and branches fallen from the stately oaks.
That first winter it took me many attempts at firing up the perfect morning heat so that when the kids tromped down the back steps for breakfast, it wouldn’t be an entrance into the frozen tundra. Eventually I learned to get up early, build the log pile just so crisscrossing the tinder-sticks with strips of crumpled newspaper. It had to be roaring in that little black box or any effort was futile. And the days it didn’t blaze I cursed that stove. That pain in the ass stove.
Back home, in Michigan, where I’d lived in the suburbs of Detroit, my friends would laugh at me during phone calls when I described my Laura Ingalls Wilder life. Hauling wood, making porridge…. No seriously I did heat up soup on to of the woodstove during a power outage that was cool.
They laughed when I said how the handle just plumb fell off one day and now I had to use a potholder to open it. And they laughed at my description of pouring the ashes over the rail into the back garden.
But then I came to love the woodstove (particularly when I replaced it with a newer model) and what it represented. This new New England life, on Main Street with a Town Green, where my children went off to school on a snowy day and I could sit in front of the fire, with my old Yellow Dog. A cup of tea. But for the occasional crackle and burst, a slice of silence. It seemed everything was going to be okay.
Today, in my new house, in my 25-year-old house, the one I live in now, after the divorce, there is no woodstove.
The little kitchen warms up nicely and stays that way, no 11 foot ceilings to suck up the heat. The radiators along the floor do their jobs and I no longer head out in my slippers and robe each morning to dirty myself with armfuls of kindling.
On many occasions I have found myself missing the quiet of the woodstove days. The are still children descending the stairs for frozen waffles, but there is no Yellow Dog since she died shortly after the move.
The kids still leave for school on snowy days, but I rarely now find the time to sit. Maybe because there is so much to do on my own. But maybe it’s just because there is no fire.
It was small and black and falling apart and a royal pain in the ass. For the kitchen in the old house never warmed in winter until that woodstove was fed properly.
That first winter I learned to order cords, properly seasoned, piles of wood dumped in the driveway. I learned to haul bundles piled high on the kids’ plastic snow sleds across the yard to both behind the garage and up near the back porch of the three story victorian.
I learned to start gathering early in the season the stray sticks and branches fallen from the stately oaks.
That first winter it took me many attempts at firing up the perfect morning heat so that when the kids tromped down the back steps for breakfast, it wouldn’t be an entrance into the frozen tundra. Eventually I learned to get up early, build the log pile just so crisscrossing the tinder-sticks with strips of crumpled newspaper. It had to be roaring in that little black box or any effort was futile. And the days it didn’t blaze I cursed that stove. That pain in the ass stove.
Back home, in Michigan, where I’d lived in the suburbs of Detroit, my friends would laugh at me during phone calls when I described my Laura Ingalls Wilder life. Hauling wood, making porridge…. No seriously I did heat up soup on to of the woodstove during a power outage that was cool.
They laughed when I said how the handle just plumb fell off one day and now I had to use a potholder to open it. And they laughed at my description of pouring the ashes over the rail into the back garden.
But then I came to love the woodstove (particularly when I replaced it with a newer model) and what it represented. This new New England life, on Main Street with a Town Green, where my children went off to school on a snowy day and I could sit in front of the fire, with my old Yellow Dog. A cup of tea. But for the occasional crackle and burst, a slice of silence. It seemed everything was going to be okay.
Today, in my new house, in my 25-year-old house, the one I live in now, after the divorce, there is no woodstove.
The little kitchen warms up nicely and stays that way, no 11 foot ceilings to suck up the heat. The radiators along the floor do their jobs and I no longer head out in my slippers and robe each morning to dirty myself with armfuls of kindling.
On many occasions I have found myself missing the quiet of the woodstove days. The are still children descending the stairs for frozen waffles, but there is no Yellow Dog since she died shortly after the move.
The kids still leave for school on snowy days, but I rarely now find the time to sit. Maybe because there is so much to do on my own. But maybe it’s just because there is no fire.
Monday, August 9, 2010
An Oda to Yoga
The goal today: Finish a 22 minute yoga segment on the DVR in the peace and quiet of the basement
It started out on target.
Yoga outfit- check. DVR on fitness tv - check.
PLAY
"Start in a kneeling position and draw in your..."
"Oh hi mom... just bringing down my sheets," says a twin tossing the sheets next to me where I will certainly take a downward dog digger if I step too far to the right.
PAUSE.
Collapse into resigned mom pose, with a smile of appreciation that yes he did get them off the bed as requested.
"Dude, think you could put it in the washer for me? Thank you."
"Sure, see ya later mom," he trots back upstairs.
"Hey, please shut the door so the dog doesn't come down, thank you!" I call up the stairs.
Deep yoga breath, PLAY
Two minutes later while comfortably swinging in ragdoll position, the basement door creaks open. Trot trot trot trot comes the neurotic canine. All smiles and slobbery tongue.
"Are we playing what are we playing am I supposed to lick you maybe knock you over huh huh what's this game?"
PAUSE
Disengage from pose, walk calmly upstairs, breathing deeply.
"Seriously, who let the dog downstairs. Guys, I can't do Yoga with the dog jumping at me."
"Ok mom," says twin #2 absentmindedly from the computer.
"Dude, where are your sheets?" I ask, now clearly off task.
"I'll get 'em mom," he says as I decide I might as well grab a water now that I'm up here.
Water - check. Door Shut in dog's face - check.
PLAY
"Flow into plank and now into updog," says my very patient instructor.
Ringggg, Ringgggg
I'll get it later, I think to myself, flowing gracefully into the next sequence.
But no, twin #1 is coming down the stairs. Any other day, nobody answers the phone around here but me.
"Yep, she's doing Yoga. Here she is," he hands me the phone.
PAUSE
A brief discussion on the trials of mom-ercise follows.
PLAY
"Plant your heels into the ground, lift your arms into tree..." she begins again.
Suddenly I'm on a roll, flowing this way and that, breathing unconsciously becoming one with my spirit...
"Oh hi mom, here's my sheets," twin #2 drags them by, and I, with a leg in the air, quickly direct him to the laundry room.
PAUSE. REWIND
Back to leg in the air. Sweep it forward into runner's pose.
"Shooty shoot shoot," I mutter realizing I forgot to make a wake-up call to a friend and am now about half an hour late. (Good thing someone brought the phone down.)
PAUSE
Brief discussion on my ability to lose track of time follows.
PLAY
It's now been 45 minutes and I still have 5 minutes left. Warrior pose to backward reach back to warrior (which incidentally I dig that pose) circle down to runners stretch finish with yogi squat (another awesome choice) and some deep breathing.
Strangely I feel relaxed.
I can only imagine what it would feel like to do it without the chaos.
Namaste
STOP
It started out on target.
Yoga outfit- check. DVR on fitness tv - check.
PLAY
"Start in a kneeling position and draw in your..."
"Oh hi mom... just bringing down my sheets," says a twin tossing the sheets next to me where I will certainly take a downward dog digger if I step too far to the right.
PAUSE.
Collapse into resigned mom pose, with a smile of appreciation that yes he did get them off the bed as requested.
"Dude, think you could put it in the washer for me? Thank you."
"Sure, see ya later mom," he trots back upstairs.
"Hey, please shut the door so the dog doesn't come down, thank you!" I call up the stairs.
Deep yoga breath, PLAY
Two minutes later while comfortably swinging in ragdoll position, the basement door creaks open. Trot trot trot trot comes the neurotic canine. All smiles and slobbery tongue.
"Are we playing what are we playing am I supposed to lick you maybe knock you over huh huh what's this game?"
PAUSE
Disengage from pose, walk calmly upstairs, breathing deeply.
"Seriously, who let the dog downstairs. Guys, I can't do Yoga with the dog jumping at me."
"Ok mom," says twin #2 absentmindedly from the computer.
"Dude, where are your sheets?" I ask, now clearly off task.
"I'll get 'em mom," he says as I decide I might as well grab a water now that I'm up here.
Water - check. Door Shut in dog's face - check.
PLAY
"Flow into plank and now into updog," says my very patient instructor.
Ringggg, Ringgggg
I'll get it later, I think to myself, flowing gracefully into the next sequence.
But no, twin #1 is coming down the stairs. Any other day, nobody answers the phone around here but me.
"Yep, she's doing Yoga. Here she is," he hands me the phone.
PAUSE
A brief discussion on the trials of mom-ercise follows.
PLAY
"Plant your heels into the ground, lift your arms into tree..." she begins again.
Suddenly I'm on a roll, flowing this way and that, breathing unconsciously becoming one with my spirit...
"Oh hi mom, here's my sheets," twin #2 drags them by, and I, with a leg in the air, quickly direct him to the laundry room.
PAUSE. REWIND
Back to leg in the air. Sweep it forward into runner's pose.
"Shooty shoot shoot," I mutter realizing I forgot to make a wake-up call to a friend and am now about half an hour late. (Good thing someone brought the phone down.)
PAUSE
Brief discussion on my ability to lose track of time follows.
PLAY
It's now been 45 minutes and I still have 5 minutes left. Warrior pose to backward reach back to warrior (which incidentally I dig that pose) circle down to runners stretch finish with yogi squat (another awesome choice) and some deep breathing.
Strangely I feel relaxed.
I can only imagine what it would feel like to do it without the chaos.
Namaste
STOP
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Old Yeller
Tonight my 10-year-old twins are having a hard time falling asleep.
They know the end is near, nearer than anybody wants to admit, for Yellow Dog.
You see, the nearly 13year-old lab we affectionately refer to as Rufus, Yellow, Stinky, Jacka--, Old Lady, Dufus, Schmoofus and sometimes even her real name "Boise" is really starting to fail.
We've thought she was on her way out before and she fooled us. But lately, but watching her arthritic joints try to get up and go I realize they are getting up and going. As she tenuously rises from her well-used doggy bed, I can see her back leg slip.
Yet, despite the arthritis, incontinence and often bad case of flatulence; despite the myriad of pills she takes each night (see previous blog on how I got in on that action once) she is still wagging and eating.
Despite the long naps, she still remembers every morning to get to the front door and wait for it to open onto the front porch. And there she sits, paws hanging over the top step watching the kids get on the bus. It's the same at 3 o'clock each afternoon, when she limps to the front door once again waiting for the return of her family.
She's even still a little feisty. This summer, she could still destroy a hosta within minutes. She has taken to barking in the middle of the room for no good reason. And she refuses to go up the ramp into the back door without a push from behind. And at about 10 o'clock each night, she appears around the corner and plops down on the rug in front of the tv. And then she waits. And if you don't get your duff off that couch to lay down next to her for some ear scratching, she will roll over and start making the weirdest noise so you can't hear the tv.
We can barely recall the days when Yellow was a spaz of a puppy, and if you've seen or read Marley & Me you know just what I'm talking about. But I'm okay with what I have now. And for as long as I've got, I'll appreciate the loyal, sweet and loving (and okay, stinky) dog who became one of the family more than a decade ago.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Poor Children
My children are the last kids in their town to have a "DS" (that would be Nintendo DS Lite handheld gaming system).
So they say.
And I can see why they think so.
A few weeks ago we walked into a waiting room in our town and there was a little 3-year-old girl in pigtails and maryjanes playing guess what? Yep, a DS.
The Boo looked at me nearly cross-eyed with a scrunched up face and pointed (German Short-haired hunter style). "See? Even she has a DS Mom!" he groaned through his gritted teeth.
So..... the poor children took matters into their own hands. Today, two of them sat down cut out a piece of paper (I do provide scissors, paper and the occasional wedge of crayon)folded it in half, drew a screen and a keyboard and carried them around all afternoon.
See, people, this is what I'm saying: If I simply provide them with the electronic, then I'm doing them a disservice. How else do I explain their wonderful creativity!
Monday, October 20, 2008
The Sugar Buzz
When I pass the Golden Arches anymore, I can't possibly drive by. I have to drive in. I have to pull up to the speaker and order "Two Sweet Teas please."
"Anything else?" queries the voice of McOZ.
"No," I wince. "Just the tea please."
And hurry.
Because I'm jonesing for the tea. I'm not kidding. It's an addiction worse than biting my nails.
I've had more than one a day, and if you've ever tried one, you know how much sugar I will have ingested. A pound or so, I swear. Once or twice I've even had the shakes coming down from a sweet tea binge. I will even forgo a coffee for a sweet tea and that, friends, should tell you something.
I do have a cohort in crime. You see, Susi used to live in Tennessee and there sweet tea is king. So once she discovered the McD's sugary beverage she was hooked too. Thus the reason we have the pact. Should one of us drive thru MickeyD's without acquiring an additional beverage for the other, this act shall be punishable by... well, let's just say we haven't tested it out yet. Friendship and Sweet Tea is on the line. And those are two things I don't want to do without!
Post Script -- you wouldn't believe the number of people out there who blog about their addiction to sweet tea. It's a 320 calorie conspiracy!
"Anything else?" queries the voice of McOZ.
"No," I wince. "Just the tea please."
And hurry.
Because I'm jonesing for the tea. I'm not kidding. It's an addiction worse than biting my nails.
I've had more than one a day, and if you've ever tried one, you know how much sugar I will have ingested. A pound or so, I swear. Once or twice I've even had the shakes coming down from a sweet tea binge. I will even forgo a coffee for a sweet tea and that, friends, should tell you something.
I do have a cohort in crime. You see, Susi used to live in Tennessee and there sweet tea is king. So once she discovered the McD's sugary beverage she was hooked too. Thus the reason we have the pact. Should one of us drive thru MickeyD's without acquiring an additional beverage for the other, this act shall be punishable by... well, let's just say we haven't tested it out yet. Friendship and Sweet Tea is on the line. And those are two things I don't want to do without!
Post Script -- you wouldn't believe the number of people out there who blog about their addiction to sweet tea. It's a 320 calorie conspiracy!
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