Time is Fleeting

Two hour professional driving lesson is complete, so Nikela's permit is officially activated.

15 minutes later she is headed to the mall with her father...expecting to drive.

I kissed Ron good-bye.

"You can start on my obituary..." he quipped as he walked down the sidewalk.

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

Earlier we were standing in line behind a woman with a baby.

"Wow, where do the years do?" Ron commented as he watched the little bug snuggle into his mother's shoulder.

"Yeah...our baby is at her driving lesson," I murmured apprehensively.

Pippi

Meet Pippi Longstocking. Isn't she darling? Her distinct sense of fashion stood out amongst the princesses, but the clever girl can hold her own!

The costume box creates all kinds of fun at my house. Though I suspect it is the bane of Chayse's existence because we don't leave the house to shop for costumes anymore. (Sigh...the neglected youngest child)

Footnote: The first grade held their Halloween party today because there is no school on Monday.

Ribbons and Bows

As I painstakingly stitched the pretty satin pink shoes, I remember my mother.

I remember her because I realize that my daughter will not understand for many years the love with which I was sewing...that the tenderness in my fingers carried to my heart.

I know because my mother lovingly stitched dresses just for me. As a little girl, I loved the beautiful dresses that that made me feel like a princess.

Only years later, would I really appreciate the hum of the sewing machine late into the night, but as a little girl, I would drift off to the comforting hum, dreaming of my new dress. The hours and hours that it took to create the masterpiece is understood now. A labor of love.

My mother sews beautifully. She is an artist with fabric and thread. I loved exploring the fabric stores with her because she would take a piece of fabric I hadn't even noticed and transform it into something amazing. I learned to embrace my creativity by watching her.

Sewing is hard work. My mother patiently taught me to sew. She guided me and challenged me, as I uncovered the art of sewing. A gift that I will always have because I can sew well. Though I cannot tailor the fit like she can, but I am practicing.

The aforementioned ballet shoes require satin ribbons and elastic to be hand-stitched to withstand intense use without fraying and falling off. Of course, I had to experience a few failures and ask myself what mom would do before I discovered the best pattern for my stitches.

Affectionately, I tell Kiahra I am going to teach her "grandma's way".

Shaking It Up

8:16 PM. October 20, 2011.

Ron stopped listening to me abruptly, and I could see his eyes darting. Then I heard the rumble. Ron felt the earth shaking.

The earthquake originated on the Hayward Fault near Berkley, CA across the bay from us.

It was the second significant quake (3.8--the first was 4.0) at that location today. Very unusual.

Every 150 years there is a big quake on the Hayward fault. It has been 143 years.

Perhaps it is time for me to complete our earthquake kit. The news crews and geologists are reiterating the importance of preparedness. The words are not "if" but "when."

The irony of the day...it was the great California Shakeout Drill today. Schools across the state participated in earthquake drills.

Pumpkins

Pumpkins are fall. Pumpkins are Halloween. Pumpkins are pumpkin bars (yummmm!).

Pumpkins are tradition.

A few years ago, our annual trek to the pumpkin patch began. Bundled toddlers climbed into the wagon and down the dirt road we went to the wondrous world of orange orbs. The crisp Montana air meant rosy red cheeks and noses.

The years slipped by and soon we discovered that fall in Pittsburgh is warm and picturesque as we clamored aboard the hay ride on our way to the pumpkin patch.

Now, in the coastal fog of pumpkin country the kids have definite ideas about what they are looking for in a good carving pumpkin. It is serious business...except for our littlest bug where bigger is better.

Like the vibrant changes in the leaves in the fall, my kids are emerging into their own colors.

Across the Waters

The Angel Island Immigration Station was established to help enforce the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882. Nestled in North San Francisco Bay, it operated from 1910 to 1940.



After arriving at the Immigration Station, I stood where the wharf once stood and gazed out at the bay. After weeks of sailing, the immigrants poured off the ship onto land. Finally feeling the solid earth beneath their feet, the imposing buildings of the immigration station greeted them, as well as the officers whose job it was to screen the Chinese immigrants.

My heart fluttered as I thought about the little Asian lady whose first stop was here where she would wait, hoping to join the husband she had married months earlier in China.

Alone she walked down the plank. Alone she faced interrogation in a foreign language. Alone she gazed out across the bay probably not even aware that she could not even see the distant shores of her new home, San Francisco.

The administration office would have been her first stop. Afterwards, she would have climbed the steep stairs to the barracks carrying all her belongings in a small suitcase.

Fred and I too began our walk at the wharf, though the adminstration building burned to the ground in 1940, so we saw the foudation footings that were creatively replaced by the park.



The tour began here, and then we walked to the immigration station barraks (in the background) where the immigrants stayed. A daunting flight of stairs greeted us. Fred could not climb that many steep stairs, so I asked about handicap accessibility. There was a wheel chair ramp that zigzaged up the hillside, but there was no wheelchair to borrow and the path was too long in its design to be accessible either.

Fred stood at the bottom of the stairs unable to to take the tour. Ironically, one hundred years ago his mother climbed those stairs...unable to join her husband in San Francisco. I wanted to cry.



Sleeping quarters.



Interrogation room.



Meticulously carved poetry on the walls. Words of hope. Words of despair. Words painted over by the army during WWII.

As Fred and I sat in the warm sun waiting for our ferry to take us home, a gracious Chinese lady introduced herself to Fred and me. Immediately she expressed her acute disappointment that Fred had not been able to take the tour. She understood the significance of our trip, as she too was exploring the Chinese history in San Francisco on her visit to the city.

Her visit had revealed new history to her about her family, information that made her face glow in utter delight.

The respect she had for Fred brought a warm smile to his face. I love the respect the Chinese have for their elders.

She shared that never knew her grandparents. Nor did Fred.

Soon I could hear them sharing the locations of their villages in China. I smiled.

Fred was delighted to meet her. He chatted readily. His eyes twinkled. His heart opened.

When we boarded the ship back, he chose to sit with our new friend and the banter never ceased.

Though Fred was not able to tour the barracks, I know the moments he shared with his new friend more valuable to him. Though strangers on one level, an unknown history bound them. The emotion welled in my heart as I listened to their connection of the heart.

As Fred's mother stood on the dock that day I wonder what she thought. I wonder if she ever imagined that 100 years later her son would stand there, an old man, and meet a new friend...another woman who ventured to America with her family as a little girl. I wonder if her heart was squeezed as tightly as mine--flooded with the emotions of dreams, fear, hope, rejection that I could still hear in the voices today.

I can almost feel the courage Fred's mother found in a her heart to face the challenges before her...and with the positive energy her son so fondly remembers.

Tunnels

Digging is a slow process that requires perseverance.



Tunneling increases the challenge, but creating a tunnel brings utter delight!



Tunnels pique the imagination.



Now for a little r & r.



The water table is high, and the engineer studies the problem...see his reflection?



And I wonder...if my son will follow in his father's footsteps and create tunnels too?

Sandy Fun

A green pail and matching green fingernails make sand castles stylish business.



Castles tumbled down as a friendly football game ensued.



At each launch, someone was ready.



It was serious business.



For everyone.

In the background, roaring waves crashed to the shore and swooping pelicans dove in and out of the ocean.

Reading

Gone with the Wind.

"On came the blue lines, relentlessly, like a monster serpent, coiling striking venomously, drawing its injured lengths back, but always striking again."

Margaret Mitchell describes the Yankee attacks with vivid creativity. I am enthralled. I read every moment I get. Mitchell strikes an amazing balance between descriptive details and moving the story forward. It is a difficult dance to achieve particularly in a long story (and yes Gone with the Wind qualifies).

Despite my diligent reading, I did not meet my deadline. Kiahra did several days early.

Forgive me as I keep reading, because as "God is my witness" I will finish this book!

Swirling

My mind is swirling like snow at Christmas...because I will be hosting the holiday at my house this year...with my nephews and at least one niece...oh, and I guess their mother is coming too. And my mom and dad.

Crackling fire. Twinkling lights. Garland wrapped banister. Bow covered tree. Glow of the winter village. Stockings...lots of stockings hung by the fire.

Then the flavors of the holidays...and the visions of food dance in my head.

And a hint of San Francisco with the trolley, the Golden Gate, Chinatown...I can see the sparkling curiosity in my nephews' eyes already!

Swirling, swirling, my mind dances at the possibilities and my heart sings.