For the past year or so now, I have felt that three-year-old curled up inside of me crying inconsolably, “I want my mommy.” I do, too. I want my mommy. I want her so bad and I can’t find her anymore. And, this time, she’s not looking for me.

When I go to her house, I open her drawers and find things arranged just as she left them. Her neat, little address book tucked away in a drawer with her pens and pencils and envelopes. I read the entries in her address book written in the neatest handwriting you have ever seen. Some addresses or phone numbers carefully erased with new ones penciled in. I try to find the most recent changes. I realize what seems like yesterday was actually several years ago. My mother. Always so neat and organized. I feel like I am peering into a time capsule. Like I am being ricocheted back and forth in time. Just a few years in time, but seemingly a lifetime apart.

I run, crying out for my mother, but she is not there. She was just there a minute ago. I just looked away and she was gone. Somebody help me find my mother. I want my mother. I want her now. I run up and down the wide aisles and I can’t find her anywhere. She is not rearranging her pantry. She is not busy decorating a wedding cake. She is not sitting quietly on the couch tatting. She’s not sitting at the dining room table carefully writing a letter to an old friend. She’s not out in the yard talking across the fence to a neighbor. She’s not bringing the clothes in from out on the line or ironing shirts or watering her plants…

When I was five, I watched my mother leave me. I was the oldest of her four children and we all had pneumonia while my father was away on a business trip. When he came home, she told him that she couldn’t take it anymore and she was leaving. And she left. I watched her from the kitchen window as she walked down the side street and away from our house. Away from me. I don’t know where she went. I don’t remember when she returned.

I’m looking out that same window now. I know where my mother is going. I know she won’t be returning to me. I want to cry out and bang on the glass, but she is too far away now.

It is not an easy thing to lose your mother.

A Proper Tea is much nicer than a Very Nearly Tea, which is one you forget about afterwards. ~A.A. Milne

As some of you may already know, I grew up with a very English, maternal grandmother and, therefore, a mother who was quite enamored with her heritage. Whenever I became ill, I was cautiously nursed along to full health with tea and toast. Tea was something everyone could drink. Even a small child could properly drink tea. While coffee was considered an adult drink that my father secretly would allow me to sip when my mother wasn’t looking, tea was almost as common as water. So common, I am afraid I quite took it for granted as a child. Of course, summers with my grandmother were spent playing croquet, going for long, brisk walks and having tea and scones. The scones were not something my mother regularly made, so tea was made somewhat special because of them. That and the fact that my grandmother collected odd tea cups and saucers so that choosing a cup for tea was always a pleasure in and of itself.

My grandmother came over from England with her family when she was a child. She and her family came in the autumn of 1909 and made the crossing from Liverpool to Boston. My grandmother’s family was from Keighley, Yorkshire, England. Her mother’s side of the family was native to the Yorkshire area, but her father’s side, being McKniffs, was from Ireland. My grandmother was just shy of ninety-four when she passed from this earth.

I grew up in New Hampshire and was quite delighted when a New Hampshire tea company offered to send me a large tin of the tea of my choice for my drinking pleasure and, perhaps, a pleasant nod to other bloggers in their direction. Through several e-mails to and from Marshall Malone, Portsmouth Tea Company’s president, I learned that he and his wife were actually “southern transplants” living in New Hampshire. Of course, this caused me to be somewhat dubious. I was uprooted from New England to the Carolinas as a teenager and had never even seen a southerner drink hot tea. On one of my first restaurant outings with friends I was served iced tea in an exceedingly large Mason jar and wasn’t sure quite what to do with it until my friends noticed my bewildered look and informed me that I was supposed to actually drink from the jar. I thought perhaps it was a quaint pitcher and that my glass would come along shortly. I smile now when I think back to those early days when I still thought a hush puppy was only a brand of shoe.

Before I knew it, though, the UPS man was at my door with my package of Irish Breakfast tea. Preferring my tea strong and able to withstand a more than generous amount of milk, I had debated over choosing the Irish Breakfast or the Milk tea. Mr. Malone assured me that he was quite fond of the Irish Breakfast tea himself and so sent it along to me. My girls and I were quite anxious to try our newly acquired tea and, unwilling to take the time to make scones, we took out a bag of Pepperidge Farm Chessmen and set about making a pot of tea. I have to say that we were quite delighted with our tea that day. And the next day. And the next. I’m afraid we will be ordering more tea from the Portsmouth Tea Company before we know it. A cup of it sits to the right of me at this very moment.

The Irish Breakfast tea is strong, although, instead of the suggested steep time of three minutes, I couldn’t keep myself from steeping the leaves for a full five minutes. Having said this, the tea was not bitter in the least. It was full of flavor and stood up well to milk. For those considering converting over from coffee to tea, I think you will find this tea worthy of consideration. To Mr. Malone, I thank you heartily for sending along this wonderful tea. It will complement my great-grandmother’s recipe for scones quite well. Here is her recipe:
Scones

2 cups flour
3 Tbl. sugar
2 tsp. baking powder
pinch of salt
6 Tbl. shortening
1/2 cup milk
raisins

Sift dry ingredients together. Cut in shortening. Stir in milk. Add raisins.
Roll into circle about 1/2 inch thick. Cut into pie wedges. Brush tops with a
beaten egg. Place on ungreased cookie sheet and bake at 400* for 8-10 minutes
until golden brown.

On a side note, I believe that the Malones are a homeschooling family. I can’t think of a more delightful business for a homeschooling family to undertake. Unless, of course, they opened an antiquarian book shop that also served their delicious tea.

Photo Meme: Willtiful (Thursday Challenge)

Summer seems like a blur to me. A somewhat colorful blur, but a blur nonetheless. I fear that I am quite exhausted by the whole ordeal. When I attempt to wrap words around the past summer, I end up speaking in terms of events, destinations, hours on the road, loads of laundry, accommodations, flight plans, gas prices and junk food consumed.

When I was a child, summer lasted forever. Long afternoons were spent reading books out of doors with my faithful dog nearby. Days were strung together in a warm haze playing with my sister and brothers in the woods and fields surrounding our home. A week or two was spent having tea and scones with my grandmother. I felt a peaceful security while camping in the cool, New England woods in a large tent with my parents and siblings so close and the soft pine scented breezes blowing through the canvas. Every summer, we drove to visit my (great) Auntie Geri and Uncle Leon and their friends Pops and Grace at their cottages at Hampton Beach. When we wanted to go swimming we found ourselves at Sandy Pond or Forest Lake. These things filled my summer with riches I find myself inadequate to describe.

I don’t remember worrying about what I was going to wear, where I was going to sleep, or what I was going to eat, although, I will confess to wanting to know how much longer it would take before we were “there yet”. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized that I never even bathed the entire week we were camping. I just took a swim every afternoon in the cool, sparkling water of the lake.

What is the difference between then and now? I know that most of us believe the difference lies in the fact that we are adults now. We have to keep the laundry going, make sure we have reservations, feed our families while traveling. And, yes, we have to know how long it will take to get where we’re going, if for no other reason than to report back our ETA to the children every few miles. I have thought about all of this and something has become clear to me.

When I was a child, it wasn’t about where we were going or what we were doing. It was about who we were doing it with. It was all about knowing that my grandmother would play game after game of Yahtzee with me every afternoon I was with her. I couldn’t wait to go to her house and spend time with her. I always slept on a cot near her bed and woke to her musical alarm clock. “Oh! What a beautiful morning…”

I couldn’t wait to meet Pops at the Hampton Beach playground where he would let me come in and play even when I grew too tall to “officially” be allowed in. Oftentimes, I would spend the time with him talking about things I sadly have forgotten and watching the thick, sweet smoke curling away from his cigar. My Auntie Geri would take long, early morning walks on the beach with me filling my tin pail with all manner of precious seashells. My memories of the beach are mixed with the smell of fresh paint from the summer my Uncle Leon painted the cottages.

I remember sitting around the campfire in the dark of night roasting marshmallows with my parents and siblings. Later I would listen to the night noises outside our tent and the snores of my father a few feet away from my cozy sleeping bag. I would wake to find my father cooking scrambled eggs and homefries over the fire.

My sister and brothers and I would spend rainy summer days playing in the enormous attic of our old, Victorian home scaring one another, getting reacquainted after months spent in classrooms separated from each other. In good weather, we would tramp through fields of grass taller than we were playing hide and seek. Occasionally, we would find a bobolink’s nest in the deep grass.

When I was a child, it was about the people and relationships I had with them. I know that I can’t become a child once again, but I think that, if I blink a few times and clear my eyes, I can see the people and not just the sandy suitcases and the prices at the pump.

It would be so much easier if I could find a poem that could tell you of the ache that is in my heart, but that would be too easy. It wouldn’t be creating something that was mine to turn over and over in the sunlight and in the rain. Such things as this may seem like silliness to most readers and, indeed, I keep reminding myself that it is silly to cry over such things. Yet, still I weep.

I have two beautiful girls. While crouching around in the cramped, hot attic today trying to find the boxes of summer clothes for my girls, I stumbled upon a great cache of little girl clothes. I have been handing down my girls’ outgrown clothes for years, but I knew there were a couple of boxes still up there that I could never seem to locate. Today I found about five boxes of clothes. Big boxes. They were right there like they were mocking me for not having seen them before. Boxes full of baby and toddler clothes. Sweet little church dresses, colorful play dresses, little bubble outfits with snaps for easy diaper changing. Oshkosh overalls with little flowers embroidered into the material. And matching shirts. Onesies and thick, cotton training pants. My little girls’ clothes.

How did these manage to escape the grand parade of handed down clothes that is still marching out our door and into other homes? I know. I know all too well and therein lies my heartache. These were clothes for my next baby. For the one to come. For that sweet little child that would smell of something not quite of this earth. Something like the smell of warm sugar cookies and that heavenly smell that you aren’t sure whether it begins with you and ends with the baby or begins with the baby and ends with you. Or if it has a beginning or an end at all.

When I first found the boxes and brought them down from the attic, I was so happy for my friend. She just had her sixth child and I knew that the hand-me-downs were starting to get tattered in that family since the last five babies were all girls. I kept telling my friend that I thought I had some stuff up in the attic. And, of course, I did. I said it casually since I have been handing down clothes for years without too much thought. I have seen God bless me in so many ways that it wasn’t difficult to know that he would always provide for me and my family. Everything I have is God’s and I often consider the fact that he might redistribute things at any time, but I don’t worry about it. Why would God quit taking care of me now? This doesn’t have anything to do with my faith that God will provide for me in any situation. If I were to tell you of all the ways God has blessed me and carried me through the storms, I wouldn’t be able to finish this post. Perhaps I should think of posting about such things in the future. It certainly would keep my blog more frequently updated.

My sorrow comes from the fact that, as I sort through these clothes, I see my babies nursing, cooing, smiling, crying, rolling over, sitting up… Looking back at me with their sweet blue eyes and chubby cheeks. My sorrow comes from the fact that ten years ago I had my last baby and I didn’t even know it. She was born on Fathers’ Day. There was no sorrow that day. I woke up a little after nine that Sunday morning and four hours later, I had a ten pound three ounce baby girl. Chubby little Clara. A little sister for Lily.

I wish I could be as happy today as I go through these clothes. Some of them still smell vaguely of the soap I used back then. That’s just not fair. But it is what it is. I am washing them for my friend. Washing out the smell of my babies. Some things you just can’t get back.

We just had a thunderstorm pass over here and there is a mist rising up from the ground. It is evening. Someone is grilling. I can smell the sweet smell of cooking meat mingled with the smell of damp moss and tree bark. I’m alone at home. Will has taken the girls to a baseball game with several other families from our congregation. Time alone is a rare commodity for me. And, yet, my heart still feels a tug towards my children and my husband when we are apart.

One of the nice things about being alone is that I get to listen to “mommy’s music”. Right now, I am listening to the Guster album Keep It Together. I’m eating a banana and drinking orange juice. Is life really supposed to be exciting? I surely hope not because I don’t know if I could handle it. I take comfort in the peace. In the familiar.

Now I am wondering where that mentally retarded man went to. The one who used to ride his bike to the curb across the street from our house and merrily ring his little bicycle bell. He had a nice smile. I haven’t seen him in quite awhile.

Things are always changing around me without my consent. Sometimes without my knowledge. I suppose this is for the best. Maybe God just likes to step in and remove some of the clutter for me while I am otherwise occupied. I do this to my children’s rooms every so often. They don’t really need to form a bond with their Happy Meal toys. Sometimes they remember something, though. Something that wasn’t a cheap piece of plastic, but I cleaned it out anyway knowing that there was another child out there who needed it more. I wonder if that is where that man went. To another one of God’s children.

I suppose that is part of this life. Time keeps moving me forward and I lose things without even noticing. Some people spend their lives striving for something they can’t quite put their finger on. I know what I am striving for. I just keep misplacing little things along the way. Funny how I assume they were really mine to begin with.

When I first started this blog, I wanted it to be an outlet for the side of me that I felt I had been neglecting for too many years. In my younger years, I had dreams of becoming a writer and a photographer. I preferred writing poetry to prose and I loved toting my Pentax K1000 around with me wherever I went. I have a few poems and many photographs that are near and dear to my heart from those years. As the years flowed forward, though, I quit taking the time to write down the little word songs in my head. I always thought that I would remember them later, but with two small children running around my thoughts were nearly always replaced with more necessary mental and physical activity. Fortunately, the camera was never so displaced during those years. I have beautiful shots of my children as they experienced the world for the first time. I am thankful for these.

As my children have grown a bit older, though, I have found myself wondering and longing for the dreams of my youth. Of course, they seem so much more enchanting than climbing mountains of laundry, collecting tumbleweeds of dog and cat hair, disrupting the natural cycle of dust in my home and other such futile tasks. I wanted to create a place where I could separate myself from these things. A place where I could be “me”. And, so, here I am.

The problem is, I am not only more than a mountaineering, tumbleweed-collecting, dust displacer. I am the mountaineering, tumbleweed-collecting, dust displacer. I have been cutting myself into parts that are never equal to the whole. The simplified and idealized version of myself doesn’t acknowledge the parts of me that are just as valuable and create a clearer picture of who I really am.

Why did I ever want to create an outlet for only a part of me? I know that there is that part of me that has been neglected for a long time, but it has been by necessity. It does not mean that it is dead or that I have to separate it from the whole for it to survive. How on earth, could it survive without the whole?

So, today, I am here to tell you that I am a homeschooling mom of two beautiful girls. That I am a wife. That I engage in seemingly futile work like laundry, vacuuming and dusting. That my house is never clean and I am more often teaching math lessons than taking photographs. That I am more likely to write a grocery list than a poem. That you will find me more often at our church building than at a photo gallery or a poetry reading. That this is not just a photo blog or a poetry blog or homeschooling blog or a mommy blog. That this is about my life and, from now on, it is as real and complete as it can be.

For those of you who’ve decided to read along, here I am. I have a terrific headache and my children have been bickering for most of the afternoon. I can’t wait for spring to arrive. Being indoors is about to do me in. Lily has finally decided to work on her hook rug and Clara is playing her lap harp. Unfortunately, she is playing Christmas songs. *sigh*

Well, I have put up a gallery for my photographs and added a link to it over there to the left, for future reference. There are some pictures that I took with my trusty, old Pentax K1000 and had to digitize, a couple taken with my newly acquired Canon EOS 20D, but the bulk of them were taken with my Epson PhotoPC 3000Z. I have had my Epson for four years and my Canon for only a few short months, so most of my favorite digital images are from my Epson. I am anxious to take more pictures with my new Canon, though. The images are so much better in quality.

Something that has become quite apparent to me is that I take an awful lot of pictures of children. This has given me cause to think. (As if I needed one.) Among the obligatory pictures of birthday parties, holidays, vacations and visits to relatives, the ones that tend to jump out at me are the ones of the children. I shouldn’t be surprised since I have always enjoyed being with children. I taught in a Montessori school and worked as a nanny before I had children of my own. The thing is that I think it goes even deeper than that.

When I was a child, I was considered quite serious, anxious and shy. I now attribute that to the fact that I was almost overwhelmed with sensory input each and every day of my life. My seriousness came out of the fact that I was in a constant struggle to maintain myself in the face of what amounted to a cacophony of sights, sounds, smells and feelings. Even though I was the youngest in my class, I was considered more mature than my classmates mostly because of my silence.

I have always had a very detailed memory of my childhood from the time I was about two until I became an adult. I don’t believe the people who claim that you cannot remember anything earlier than three or four years of age. I remember things that had nothing to do with my parents and my parents are often surprised to know, so they are not family memories that were somehow implanted into my memory later in life. I am so familiar with my childhood that it often seems as though I can time travel.

Before I had children of my own, my photography seemed to revolve around attempting to capture what ended up being almost haunting images. It was like I was trying to capture the way I perceived the world because I knew by then that most people didn’t experience things the way I did. When I had children, suddenly I was completely absorbed by them. I took pictures of them constantly trying to capture them in little time capsules. Taking pictures of them seemed to be all that really mattered, as far as my photography was concerned. Recently, though, I have come to realize that I am blending my desire to capture the world as I’ve experienced it with capturing the experience of childhood itself.

One of my favorite photographs is of my nephew wrapped tightly in a hammock while we were on a camping trip in New Hampshire. I see myself in that photograph more than most. His small, serious face. The comfort of being wrapped cocoon-like in a quiet place. The way the sun dapples his face in warmth. A place to daydream uninterrupted. I am still trying to find these things.

Diarist.net Spark

What would your motto would be for the place you’re at in your life right now? Is it different than it would have been five years ago? 10? 20?

I thought this writing prompt was interesting because of my instant response to it. My first response was what it would have been five, ten or twenty years ago. I immediately thought of the Rolling Stones song You Can’t Always Get What You Want. When I was between eighteen and twenty-eight-years-old, I remember feeling comfort in the chorus,

I even remember riding around my college campus in my roommate’s red Mustang convertible with the top down, this song blaring and me singing right along. During this period of my life I always felt acutely lost.

When my husband and I married, I no longer felt lost, but our first ten years together were quite difficult and I often felt very much alone. Marriage is a difficult thing. I remember still clinging to the chorus of this song during this period like it was almost a spiritual anthem for me. I could sing along and gain not only comfort, but strength from the words and music.

A little more than five years ago, though, I started feeling like I not only didn’t have what I wanted, but I wasn’t getting what I needed, either. I remember dancing to Paula Cole’s song, Where Have All The Cowboys Gone? with my young children nearby and feeling totally disconnected. Completely lost.

Today, though, I was listening to the Jars of Clay remake of America’s Lonely People and I couldn’t help but think that my life is so good today. My husband and I will have been married sixteen years this summer, we have two beautiful children and I no longer feel lost or lonely. I think this would come as close to a motto or, perhaps I should say an anthem, as anything for my life today.