Cruising into Summer

The Golden Gate Bridge view from the water.  It was my first cruise under the bridge--which is even more impressive from this perspective.

From San Francisco Bay, the city streets are clearly visible.

My first glimpse of Alcatraz perched on the famous rock.  Someday, I will plan ahead and book the island tour too.

Amidst the whirlwind of tour activities, we are embracing summer with friends and sharing the city we first met two years ago in our cross country move.  Of course that means walking the famous hills which my sister affectionately dubbed Lori's bootcamp; however, last week it was renamed the death march.  I am tempted to find steeper hills...or perhaps leave my "soldiers" to their own defenses in the middle of the city.  Or I may just keep my sense of humor...

Speaking of humor, yesterday we paused for household chores (yeah the humor was definitely limited with this announcement).  Anyway, I came across the freshly cleaned floor and hesitated--it was a skating rink.  My son had used the swiffer cleaner, but unbeknownst to him it was furniture polish.  (When will boys start reading the fine print??)  So the gleaming floor looks good, just proceed with caution.

The Little Ballerina

Once upon a time long, long ago a little girl loved to twirl and dance and dream.  She loved to listen to the stories of  little dancers.  Her favorite book was worn to tatters...Little Ballerina.

Little Ballerina performed last weekend...

with grace, poise, and beauty.

"The Little Ballerina danced the steps of the dance as if she'd known them always, as if she'd learned them in a dream." (Ross 28)

And no matter what...always my little ballerina she will be!

Our week in review.

In the beginning, I was altering ballet costumes and buried with my sewing machine in satin and billows of chiffon.

In the California sunshine, Kiahra graduated with 305 classmates.

Pausing often to share moments with friends.

Then she went off to the dance...no longer looking like my "little" girl (after a photo shoot with her big sister.)

With enough sass to dominant the palm tree towering overhead?  America's next top model are you ready??

Not sure I am ready...

but amidst the fleeting years...

we paused to toast to 20 years...and a bit o' grey!

 

Remember my new shoes?  Love them!

School is finally out!  Watch out summer--here we come!

20.

"I Said My Granddad's Still In Love with My Grandma
I Said My Dad Still Thinks My Moms the Sweetest Thing He Ever Saw
You see I Come From A Long Line of Love 
When the Times Get Hard, We Don't Give Up
Forever Is In My Heart and In my Blood
You See I Come From A Long Line of Love" 


I love this song--Paul Overstreet penned and recorded this tune.


You see this morning, I was thinking about love because merely  20 years ago I was a bride.


Recently, a special aunt and uncle quietly celebrated 50 years together with their family.


This fall my parents will mark 45 years together.


Both of my grandparents surpassed 50 years before my grandfathers passed away.


Of course, love is fleeting too...


In my dining room an old upright piano sits silently this morning, but long, long ago before the marks and wear of the years, it was a new present to a bride.  She would later die in childbirth, but my great-grandfather would bring it farther West with him when he left.  Later he married my great-grandmother who homesteaded next to him on the South Dakota prairie.  Eventually, the piano came to rest in the family home for 80 years.  


With love in the air on our wedding day, we paused beneath the cottonwoods near the river and listened as friends sang Dolly's song...


"Love is like a butterfly
As soft and gentle as a sigh
The multicolored moods of love are like it's satin wings
Love makes your heart feel strange inside
It flutters like soft wings in flight
Love is like a butterfly, a rare and gentle thing"


Today, I appreciate that rare and gentle love that still flutters strong in my heart for my husband...the man who has become my partner in life.  Through the years that love has aged like fine wine-- rich with complexity and depth that only maturity can bring.

Barnyard Boots

"Those boots look like you have have been kicking around the corral," I can hear hear her grandfather say after quietly studying them. He doesn't appreciate the "distressed" style properly. His granddaughter loves it.

Plus she completely rocks the look.

For weeks, she has been browsing for the perfect boots to accent her lace dress for eighth grade graduation on Thursday.

This morning, I finally got on board and realized that what she was looking for would be found in a Western store--plus boots there come in a variety of widths (very important for this little gal that sports a EE width--does that sound familiar, Grandpa?)

 I suspect her spunky style will stand alone amongst the 350 graduates.

Blog Police

My little sister called me and demanded to know why I haven't been blogging regularly.  (Yes, my word choice is intentional--you know how little sisters can be...)

I mumbled something about being busy.

Still displeased with me, she continued her admonishment and informed me that she needs to regularly read the stories of our lives since we live so far away.

Humph...I am still quiet.

If she were anyone else, I would proclaim she hadn't blogged since January.  How does the little sister silence us??  Seriously, she is the youngest and the smallest.  How exactly does that work?  My husband claims it is the swift kick to the shins...

In a conversation with her today, I listened as she told her daughter to sit properly in her car seat.  Her darling little girl was sitting upside down with her feet in the air, carefully buckled and utterly delighted with herself.  Her mother didn't even crack a smile in her voice.

I didn't even dare laugh, but I am now!!!!

I love my spunky niece.  She is darling--more so because she belongs to my little sister :)

For you...lil sis...I still love you!

My wall of jasmine lines my front yard to my door. There is no sweeter greeting than this sweet fragrance.

I breathe deeply, and suddenly the soaking wet paper in my hand doesn't irritate me--or at least until I get inside.

Once inside I speculate how the paper ends up in the range of the sprinklers that are running in the early morning as the paper is delivered. Though I am not sure what is worse because on the days it isn't wet, it is beneath my Suburban which requires a child's retrieval  (luckily I have children handy).  A conspiracy theory crosses my mind, and at this point, I realize I have had enough.

Suddenly an electronic paper seems like a good option...but then the kids can't fight over the comics!  I settled on a call to the paper.  In the back of mind, I am worried where my paper will be in the morning?  The roof?

When I am old, I want to sit in the quiet of the morning next to the jasmine vines with my cup of tea and read the paper...wherever that may be...

Grandma Farwell slipped quietly away from us into the night.

A quiet lady with a warm smile and soft eyes, she made me feel like I had been part of the family forever even when I was a new bride nearly 20 years ago.  I always treasured our visits to Wyoming--as newlyweds we would chat and dream on our drive, and then Grandma would greet us at the door as the aroma of fresh baked bread wafted out--Ron's favorite.  Later lunch would fill her little table.  I still remember her flavorful soups. She knew how to feed the soul.

As a young bride, I confided that I needed recipes.  She delivered.  As a matter of fact, when I learned that she had slipped away, I found myself reaching for my cookbook...for her handwriting...for the recipe cards from her kitchen.  Then I remembered the delightful stew she made for us a few days after Christmas in 2010.  Nothing made her happier than watching all her "grandkids" fill their bowls and listening to the banter around the table--even as her hearing was starting to fade.

Plus she was the wife of a miner (like me) with five children (well, I only have four).  She knew about unpredictable metal markets.  She knew about tramping from mine to mine.  She knew about grimy clothes and mucky lunchboxes.  She never complained, and I know her life was hard.  But she had a spunky spirit I admired.  She loved to laugh.  She had a great sense of humor that would sneak up on you--maybe even a bit like my husband's...as a matter of fact, that may be the source of his...

Many years ago grandma looked at me from her favorite rocking chair and told me that I should write.  She told me she loved my creative letters.  I remember my utter shock, and years later I remember daring to let my thoughts drift to writing...maybe the germination of the little seed she planted?  I am not sure I will ever bloom like her flowers and garden once did, but maybe it is time to explore the possibility.  

 I need to find my voice in memory of those who have loved me.