Twas the day of Halloween...at school.



My little pioneer girl was darling, but no one knew who she was...Laura Ingalls Wilder was unfamiliar too!




A little clown came home from the Halloween store with his dad last night. He is quite charming. I love his oversized hands as they squeeze his red squeaky nose and that twinkling mischievous eye!



A Renaissance mama freeze danced the morning away at my party station. Whew! Those kindergarteners' gave me a workout!

Yesterday, I was driving the "big" girls to their orthodontist appointment.

"Who is going first?" inquired Kiahra.

"I always go first," retorted Nikela.

"I know you do. That is why it is time for a change!" Kiahra proclaimed in her best politician's voice.

"Wow! When did you become a politician?" I quip. "I am convinced."

Peels of laughter. A dash to the door.

***********************

Today, Nikela asked me if I was going to be a witch for Halloween and for the Friday parties.

"Well," I responded slowly, "I think it is time to retire the witch and try my renaissance costume."

"What? You have always been a witch. You can't change being a witch. Don't listen to Kiahra. Change isn't good!"

Elevator

As I rounded the corner to the elevator, a gentleman stood there quietly waiting, eyes downcast. As he slowly looked up, I smiled and he gave a quick nod of acknowledgement. From beneath the ten gallon cowboy hat, long gray hair cascaded. The hat had been his partner for a few years. As I spoke, he listened carefully with his gentle eyes set in a face that is lined with years of work studying me. When I was finished, he was quiet a moment before slowly articulating his thoughts. I smiled. He smiled beneath his whiskers. As we talked, I fell easily into the slow rhythm of our conversation.

A man in a classy suit joined us, and I could sense his discomfort. With the quiet pauses, he would shift his weight. It was then I realized the slow pace made him uncomfortable. He was accustomed to the staccato rhythm of urban conversation.

As the doors opened, the brim of his hat tipped in farewell as his head bowed, as he waited for me to exit. As I glanced over my shoulder as I headed down the hall, I saw him looking down at the unfamiliar papers in his hand as he sauntered away in his new wranglers.

As a family that likes to bicycle, this is the attachment that creates a tandem bike for kids. This is how Chayse and I ride to school every morning.

This morning, as I continue my battle with a nasty cold that now includes an exhausting cough, we headed out. The first block was tough. I just didn't realize how sickness affects my stamina and strength. The second block, I wasn't sure I could endure the 1.4 miles. Irritated with myself, I focused on peddling. By the third block, the tandem started to sway.

"Chayse, please don't look around. Just peddle and balance," I pleaded.

"I am not, Mom."

"Well, then what are you doing?" I snap in exhaustion.

"I am peddling backwards."

AAaaaaarrrrrgggghhhh!!! Seriously? Added resistence that I didn't need? Resistence that I managed to counter (drag) to the point of making the tandem sway?

Next I am pleading in my nicest voice to only peddle forward.

Parenthood.

Some days I wonder if I will survive.

Dining out last night, the girls and I were laughing over dinner together when suddenly the entire restaurant erupted. Simultaneously, people were shouting and cheering as the waiters disappeared. At first I was puzzled by the timing...what was going on that it didn't matter where people were seated? A birthday celebration. It couldn't be. As the noise continued and escalated, I looked over at the sports bar through the adjoining glass, and at that moment I heard "Let's go, Giants, let's go!"

Aaaahhh, baseball. The Giants had pulled ahead in the eighth inning. Thanks to electronic devices no devout fan missed the home run, even if they weren't in front of the big screen, even if they were drug out to dinner.

Baseball is big here. San Franciscans loves their Giants. In one of the earlier games of the series, a very pregnant woman painted a baseball on her belly. Admittedly, these fans appear to be as crazy as Steelers' fans.

Last night, the Giants locked in their spot in the World Series. I suspect the adventures will continue.

This little piggy went to market. This little piggy stayed home. This little piggy ate roast beef...

Roast beef. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Veggies.

Ahhh, as a kid I loved to tumble in the door on a cool fall day to the aroma of my mother's roast beef dinner. Soul food. My dinner plate filled me from my stomach to my heart.

Mom's roast and potatoes have always been the best. No one else can measure up. As a farm girl, I was raised on these staples. I loved the fresh fall potatoes too. The frozen sweet corn from the summer harvest. The best. Unduplicated.

Yesterday, amidst the drizzle and gray I put a roast in the oven and baked it. The aroma drifted through the house. It brought smiles to my kids' faces when they tumbled through the door. Potatoes boiled. Succulent juices from the roast were drained into the pan for gravy. Dinner was served. It was almost as good as Mom's. Tender meat. Yummy 'taters. Decent gravy.

So, these little piggies ate roast beef until they were full.

Telephone Conversation

Hi Daddy! I miss you!

I miss you too, little bug. What are you doing? Did you do your homework?

No homework. It is all done, Daddy.

So, now what are you doing?

Playing.

That is all you do is play.

Daddy, that is what kids are made for...playing.

A different routine for our teamwork emerges when Ron is traveling. While he was trying to find a place to eat late yesterday evening, I was driving kids to various scheduled events. While he decided they must be in the hood where folks are not what they are born, I was driving through McDonald's in utter desperation to feed my children. While he finally dined, I was accelerating through the evening routine.

As I collapsed into bed, I realized that my throat hurt...really, really hurt. Kiahra brought me the medicine cabinet, and I fell into a fitful sleep. When the alarm rang at 5 AM this morning, I wanted to die. Feverish. Aching. Instead I got up.

I remember as a child being sick allowed me the comfort of lounging around. It wasn't until I reached college that I realized there is nothing like a mother to nurture you when sick. It was the first time I was left to fend for myself when I was sick. I didn't like it, but I got used to it. Then I became a mother, and suddenly fending for myself while sick seemed luxurious. I remember when we lived in Minneapolis I got sick. Pneumonia to be exact. I was really, really sick. I had three little kids under the age of 5. For the first time, I simply could not take care of my kids while I was sick. Ron came home. I have never been that sick again...gratefully. However, it was the one time when I cried because I had no one to help me. Homesick and sick.

I am definitely sick today. The fever is surging through me now, but I will go back to bed for a couple hours to try to help my body heal. I know I have no one to help me. I know I must let the laundry and dishes and chores go. I must attempt to take care of myself so I can find enough strength to take care of my family and get through the day.

This morning Kade was helping me. My compassionate little man could hear the roughness in my voice and probably see my flushed face, so he automatically just did more. He helped his little sister. He brought out the bikes. He rode slowly to make sure I was keeping up. We arrived at school, and as we pulled into the bike rack, I noticed he did not have his backpack. My heart sank. As I uttered the words, a look of horror crossed his face then tears ran down his cheeks as he hastily wiped them away. The panic of not having his work surged through him. We were fifteen minutes early, but I had to wait with Chayse until the kindergarten door opened. Kade opted to ride home the 1.4 miles unlock the door and grab his backpack and ride back 1.4 miles. I worried. I hoped he was remembering to ride carefully. I had assured him his safety was more important than his backpack. I had told him I would talk to his teacher, and he didn't need to worry instead he could just focus completing his errand.

Guilt surged through me as I stood and waited with Chayse, and as I waited for him after Chayse was safely inside her classroom. Finally, I saw him. His face was red. He waited at the light. I waited on the other side. Together we walked to his classroom. He was worried. I stepped inside his classroom, and his teacher assured me it was fine. She would just mark him tardy...it happens. I hope he heard her gentle understanding.

As I walked back to my bike, I hoped he would relax and test well. He has two tests today...and tests give him anxiety already. But I realized that I am so proud of him already today. He didn't stand by and pout or blame. He simply rode home and got his backpack. His initiative is impressive. I wanted to tell his teacher what an amazing kid he had been this morning. I wanted to tell her he took the initiative to lend a helping hand throughout the morning, and though he forgot his backpack, he simply did what it took to get it. I wanted to say it wasn't really his fault. I know that, but somehow it lessens what he did. Sometimes it is doing what is right and no one noticing...except me.

So I cannot sit here and feel sorry for myself any longer because today my son showed me how much he loves me. Ironic that in these humble moments of lifes' trials that I find I am proudest of my children.

Ocean.

It is full of surprises. In the wee hours of the morning Ron climbed aboard a fishing boat and cruised out into the ocean to go fishing again. The water was rough. The boat was full of fisherman (30). The sun rose. The whales played in the distance. Water spouting against the horizon. Tails splashing.

Soon arrival on location, the fishing began 200 feet beneath the surface where the lingcod lurked along with rock bass and redfish.

The handsome lingcod or is it the handsome fisherman sporting the largest catch of the day?

Yield

The first time I remember comprehending the concept of yielding was when learning to drive. My parents were adamant that when in doubt...yield.

Now I realize that I was learning to yield to impulses when my parents instructed me in basic etiquette. "No, don't pull your brother's hair. That hurts." Learning to yield is a basic life skill.

Anyway, I just recently realized that California doesn't have yield signs that I have noticed (and I have been watching for them).



The merge sign instead frequents freeways and byways. Until recently, I had been under the impression that one needs to yield and find an opening as one enters the flow of traffic.

No. It actually means drive faster and then at 70 yield slightly if necessary.

Sadly, I have learned this technique quickly. I drive at least 50 miles a day, and yesterday I realized that I have already found the California rhythm of driving. It is necessary for survival. The traffic never ends. Theoretically it is better some times than others, but honestly, the reality is it is always busy and traffic can stall at unpredictable moments. Thus the essential brake.

However, I refuse to utilize the California stop. Dad, you should be proud. I stop.

Posted speed limits are merely guidelines. In residential areas it is generally 35 mph. The main road through foster city is 40 mph and still frequently residential. The school zone is 25 mph. Basically, it averages 10 mph faster than any other city I have resided. As a mother, I am not a fan of this pace with children on the sidewalks. At all.

With these musings on my mind, I was reading the paper last night.

"It's true that, unlike other spots in America, we don't have the vast hardwood forests that explode in color with the first cold snap. Our tones are more subtle; the spectacle is longer lingering.

But nor do we have roads crowded with lumbering tour buses, inching bumper-to-bumper from the north woods of Maine to Virginia's Shenandoah mountains, where the brightest fall reds are brake lights."

WHAT?? First of all, Autumn is not San Francisco's strength. Subtle colors is right...I have been searching for signs of fall everyone to no avail. There may be a leaf here and there throughout the entire peninsula that turns a slight color. This morning I realized that the trees that are going to lose their leaves (which are few and far between) are just shriveling up slowly into hues of dead brown.

Admit it, Californians...this cannot even begin to compete with the vibrancy found in "other spots in America." Yield to the reality this season is not your strength, and rather than develop weak arguments touting your omnipotent magnificence focus on what is beautiful here like the truly spectacular ocean sunset along the craggy coast which is unique to you.

Secondly, "the brightest fall reds are brake lights" is California's truth...not the roads from Maine to Virginia. I have spent many fall hours driving through New York, Pennsylvania, and West Virginia not to mention the spectacular Wisconsin/Minnesota drive along the Mississippi or even Spearfish Canyon. I never saw the bumper to bumper brake lights. EVER. Until now. I want to drive out of the city to the pumpkin patch where I will drive through the limited fall foliage, but I am hesitating because I know I will travel at around 20 mph bumper to bumper to bumper to bumper...for miles and miles and miles.

Obviously, this feeble Californian attempt to compete with magnificent fall landscapes across the US has me turning red...perhaps that is why all the colorful characters are here...the landscape needs a bit o' color.

All in a Day's Work

And Ron said, "I knew I was in trouble when the biologist picked up the spider and carried it across the road."

_______________________________


Biological approval for demolition of a dilapidated shed on the job site was required, so the biologist arrived at night to check for bats. Deciding she couldn't see well enough to see the bats, she returned at 7 AM.

_______________________________




The job site sports a perimeter fence complete with mouse funnels to give the federally endangered salt marsh harvest mouse an exit, but not an entrance to the dangerous job site. Thus the bright signs marking the mouse holes. However, due to the lack of use, management is considering changing the signs to espanol.

The professional monitors of the salt marsh harvest mouse are still seeking a glimpse of the species.

In the meantime, mowing at least 5 feet from the exterior of the fence is necessary to ensure that the mouse does not climb the mustard weed and pole vault onto the job site.

Additionally, the wire cut from the rebar is a mouse hazard, as it lays on the ground the mice could potentially run by and stab themselves to death. Thus a giant magnet alleviates this safety hazard.

In response to the discriminatory treatment, the gophers have carefully created an underground railroad for the salt marsh harvest mouse and pickleweed shrew.

Columbus Day

In San Francisco this was a weekend to celebrate all things Italian...including Columbus!

The San Mateo High School Marching Band was among the Sunday afternoon Italian Heritage Day Parade line-up.

I love a parade. I remember being very young and going to the 4th of July parade with my grandparents. My grandfather would be neatly dressed wearing his cowboy hat and smelling faintly of cologne. His eyes would be twinkling, and he smiled all the way to town in anticipation. He loved a parade too. His couldn't wait to share it with us grandkids--his love was infectious as we lined up next to him. His favorite was the music of the marching band. Well, and maybe a piece of butterscotch candy.

Band music drew my grandfather to every parade for miles around (much to my delight). In the winter, I would sometimes visit in the evening. Grandpa would be reading and listening to his favorite records of band music.

I cannot attend a parade or listen to the band without remembering his passion for a good march. Over the past few years, I have been listening to a few band concerts as my children learn to play. However, Sunday was different. It was Nikela's first parade.

Kiahra participated in the morning church service, so we made a plan to drive to the nearest subway station and ride into the city. We managed to find the right train :) and arrived in San Francisco on schedule. Then we had to hike several city blocks...and when I say hike, I mean hike the hills of San Francisco. Nonetheless, we made it just as the first band was passing. Luckily, it wasn't Nikela.

On a corner in Little Italy in the shade, our family awaited. Across the street, Italian folks were enjoying outdoor dining in the sun with a bit o' vino. The entertainment never ceased.



Chayse was proudly waving her flag. She charmed a few folks as they passed.



The flamboyant floats glistened in the sun, but the quirky details entertained the kids.

Finally, the girl we had been waiting to see.



In uniform and on task!



As the parade marched on, I wondered if my smile was a bit like my grandfather's...neverending...



Then as we detected the roar of the Blue Angels over head, I felt my grandfather's patriotic pride surge through my blood. The glimpses of the Navy pilots' skill were utterly amazing. Though I will never forget watching the jet dive at San Franscico Bay and skim the surface as it swooped upward again...the blue smoke lingering as evidence that I had really seen it.

In your memory Grandpa, today I stood in San Francisco and watched your great-granddaughter march. I applauded the military men and women who marched for you...for me...for my country...for our dreams...for our memories.

The bags and bedrolls lined the curb, as weary campers waited for their individual rides home.

A big luxurious black car eased in next to the curb. The driver emerged in carefully pressed white and black. With a smile and nod, the white gloved hands picked up the bags and loaded them. Then he gracefully opened the door and the ten year old girl clamored inside.

The sleek car pulled away from the curb and slipped into the traffic and disappeared.

English Homework

Interview with an author last night. Nikela had to attend for English as the class will soon begin his Pulitzer Prize Novel, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay. Honestly, I hadn't heard about Michael Chabon until now. Interesting his first book was the Mysteries of Pittsburgh (PA) where he did his undergraduate studies after being raised in Maryland. He came out to California to attend graduate school at University of California in Irvine and never left.

The high school students were bored to tears. I loved it.

A few questions from the audience were posed at the end. My favorite was obviously a student's that went something like this..."Have you ever tried to read a book that everyone says is good and you know you should like, but you find it hard to read and you really don't like it even though you really do try? If you answer yes, I won't feel so alone."

He answered yes. Then he sought to find an author who is deceased to avoid hurt feelings. I believe he finally said he just couldn't read Crime and Punishment. Sometimes it happens to the best of us. Even UC Irvine graduate students. The reality is we all have a different style and it is impossible to appeal to everyone. It is also a humble reminder that we simply can't.

To be honest, I hadn't even heard of this Bay city author, and his Pulitzer book has been in print for ten years. Again, humility. Not everyone knows us and loves us.

The author was insightful and honest about his writing. My crazy habits and perspectives are exactly what he does. Now I don't feel so silly. He said that being a successful author is talent, luck, and discipline. The only one of the three that we have any control over is discipline. Therein lies my goal.

Now I must read his book.

"Mommy, I am going to remember this day forever!"

I smiled as my thigh muscles protested the extra fifty pounds in tow.

My littlest darling has been counting down the days until her first field trip. A ride on the big yellow school bus to the pumpkin patch!

Last night she prepared her clothes. She started with her required red shirt for field trips which she decorated. Following instructions, she added a shirt underneath so she was wearing layers. Jeans. Shoes. And her pumpkin socks.

"They are for Halloween, Mom, but I thought they would be perfect for my first field trip."

La Cage Aux Folles

Broadway by the Bay performed their final show Sunday afternoon. Nikela, Kiahra, and I were in attendance. We travelled to the French Riviera where we enter the life of a glitzy nightclub owner. Then, of course, the son returns home to proclaim he is in love and going to be married. He is going to marry the daughter of a conservative politician. Uh-oh the families couldn't be more opposite and thus begins the drama.

A fun, funny, rollicking afternoon with a musical comedy steeped in everything San Francisco.

Rite of Passage

Blustery morning. Cool. Windy. Just can't help but think of Winnie the Pooh.

My little Pooh boy left this morning for his week long camping excursion in the redwoods with his class for outdoor education. He will traverse the woods and seashores throughout the week.

He toted the giant bag his dad and he packed carefully last night with all the requirements. No electronics. No cell phones. I walked beside him this morning. He hugged me tightly when he said good-bye. The lump in my throat hasn't left yet.

He was up early this morning. He was finishing up the details. As he made his lunch, he told me he would miss me. As we drove to school, he told me this would be his first camping trip without his family. As he told me how much fun he thought he would have, he told me he would still miss me.

My little honey bear.

I assured him I would miss him too. I told him it would be the first time of many times he would explore the world without his family, but each time we would hold him close in our hearts, anxious to hear of his adventures.

Forever.