Popcorn

Did you know that popcorn doesn't always come in a microwavable bag?  Did you know that you can pop it in a pan on the stove?  Just a little butter in the bottom, then a bit o' popping corn, and patience is all you need with an occasional shake of the pan.  Burned popcorn would never do.

Grandpa uncovered the secret when he was visiting here at Christmas time.  He made his grandchildren the "best popcorn ever."

Now his grandchildren are making the best popcorn ever.  As a matter of fact, they are even noticing the difference between brands of popcorn kernels.    Now, when we need more popping corn, I hear "get the kind of popcorn grandpa bought, Mom."

The giant fluffy popcorn is evidently the best.  Seriously?  Who knew I was raising connoisseurs of popcorn?

Nonetheless, it makes me smile.  As a child I loved the familiar clatter of the pan as the popcorn popped.  Often it meant an evening gathered around the living room as mom would read to us--often of Laura Ingalls Wilder.  She would laugh and cry with us as life unfolded for the precocious little girl.

So often it is the simple things in life we love most.

On March 16, a fifteen year old girl was walking to her morning bus stop just barely a block from her home.  She sent her last text just minutes before she should have boarded the bus.

But she never got on the bus.  In the early evening, a call from the school notified her mother that she had been absent, and suddenly the family realized she had disappeared.

Within hours the rest of the Bay area was on alert.

I remember gazing at the girl's photo.  She was beautiful with a precocious smile.  Her brown eyes were soft, framed by her dark hair.

Shortly, the community poured out their support and spent hours searching--even the famous came quietly.

Then the news came on last night.  An arrest was made...for murder.  Her body has not been found yet.

A wave of nausea rolled over my body.  A stranger abduction and a Taser.

As I lay in bed, I could not close my eyes.  I could only see the sorrow in the faces of her family as they cling to hope that there has been a mistake and she is still alive...somewhere.

A living nightmare.

In the first days of her disappearance, I remember wondering how something could have happened in the two minutes before she got on her bus and sent her last text.  I remember my husband quietly commenting anything could have happened because she wasn't watching her surroundings as she tapped out her final message.  I hadn't considered that and immediately realized that I am all too often distracted myself, as are my daughters. I don't know if the teen had been watching instead of texting if it would have changed anything...probably not, but I have to admit it is a good reminder that when we are distracted we are targets for crime.

My mind spun late into the night with my heart heavy with sorrow for Sierra and her family.  I wanted to somehow rewrite this haunting story...

Trivia

As a little girl growing up on the prairie, I loved Laura Ingalls Wilder's stories...still do.

I have read and reread all her books.  I thought I had read everything she had written.

Then I discovered  a collection of letters published under the title, West from Home--Letters of Laura Ingalls Wilder San Francisco 1915.  Longing to see her only daughter and curious to learn how to write stories, Laura Ingalls Wilder made the trip West from her home in Mansfield, Missouri.  Arriving in August 1915, Laura was met by her beloved daughter in San Francisco.  Here Rose Wilder Lane was working as a writer.   For three months Laura explored the city and surrounding areas of California while practicing her writing which is evident in the descriptions of her adventures which she lovingly writes home to her husband.

Seventeen years later, Little House in the Big Woods was published.

So it was here, where I live, that Laura learned to write stories by watching and working with her daughter.

Letting go...

I have a hard time letting go.  My oldest daughter had her driver's license for four days before I would let her drive by herself.  And then (if I am honest) it was only because I was leaving and she needed to get to school without making it more complicated for the world...

Ron and I boarded a plane this weekend without the kids for a Montana wedding.  I planned and organized for weeks trying to make sure everything would be okay without me.  Ten years ago my sister watched the kids overnight for our anniversary.  Then she stepped up to the plate again for the interview in Pittsburgh four years ago.  So, this was the third time in sixteen years that we have left our children...and the longest from Friday to Monday.  Admittedly, I had to refrain from calling frequently because I really did know they were fine without me...maybe even flourishing!

The irony is that for the past sixteen years I have been preparing my children to fly on their own.  I hope they soar.  And now, I have discovered it is harder to let them fly than I ever dreamed, but if I don't let them go--they will never soar!

So a little at a time, reluctantly, I am slowly practicing letting go--even though it tugs at my heartstrings

Typically, I am not a shoe girl.  I have a few neutral pairs that I wear all the time, even when it is probably time for a new pair.  Honestly, I have fewer pairs of shoes in my closet than my husband does.

However, I am going to a wedding this weekend, and I found a cute navy blue dress.  Striking in its simplicity with classy lines, it fits me perfectly!

But what shoes to wear put me in a quandary.

Then I found these.  Absolutely perfect.  Granted, I seldom wear heels like this, but in the name of fashion,  I am going to try to rock these shoes.

My mother would be so proud of me--she is a shoe girl!

On Monday mornings, as I scramble to get the kids off to school with minimal catastrophes, I sometimes lose focus.

So today as I peddled my bicycle out of the driveway, I breathed deeply and looked at the world around me.

Silhouettes of the mountains across the bay stretched familiarly across the horizon.  The tide was out.  The birds soared overhead.  My skin quickly absorbed the warm rays of sunshine.  The vibrant pink and yellow blossoms were opening to greet the day.

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

As the sun rose higher in the pale blue California sky, temperatures rose into the 80s.

By late afternoon, our daughter was cruising over to the DMV for her driving test, and she appealed to her father..."It is so hot today, especially without any air conditioning in the car.  I may not even be able to pass my test because the person testing me will be so unbearably hot and uncomfortable!"

Well, the tester evidently did not want to endure another hot trip because he passed her.

Clever argument nonetheless.

Driving

For the past two school years, I have been driving my life away.  Generally, I leave at 6:30 AM to deliver my oldest to the high school by 7 AM--unless it is a day she starts at 8 AM then I must leave at 7 AM to be able to return home to pick up the rest of the kids by 7:55 AM.  Five to six lanes of freeway traffic gets ugly around here quickly.  Anyway, then I go to the junior high and circle around my suburb to the elementary school.  I am usually home again by 8:30 AM.

And it doesn't get better after school...

Thus I have been dreaming of the day when my oldest could drive herself.

Until today.

She drove to school this morning, as usual.  I sat in the passenger seat, as usual.  We chatted, as usual.

She is scheduled to take her driving test next week.

Suddenly, I realized our usual time together is going to be gone when she pulls out of the driveway by herself.

And I find myself feeling a bit like I did when she anxiously boarded the bus to kindergarten, and I stood watching...lingering...pausing at the bittersweet moment knowing my little girl would no longer be home with me all day.

The moment I thought I was anticipating with great joy is making my heart ache.

Just a few more days to treasure our morning ride...