It’s Thanksgiving Day in the U.S. of A!

~ I don’t feel thankful.  I feel grumpy.  A shot of Honey Jack in my morning tea didn’t help my bad attitude either, so I put myself in time-out outside.  It’s actually nice out here: cooler than it’s been but still relatively warm, the sun is out, the air is clear.  The wind is picking up, though, and stormy grey clouds are inching their way over the mountains so we might be in for some actual weather.  That would be a treat. ~

I wrote that this morning.  It is now late afternoon.  My attitude has improved sans alcohol.  I got chilly so I went inside and cooked:  candied yams, green beans, rolls, and cornbread dressing.

piloncillo

Instead of brown sugar in the yams I used piloncillo (pee-lone-SEE-yo), which is unrefined cane sugar.  This belongs in your everything.

My mom, daughter and I cooked around each other while avoiding the various children chasing each other through a forest of mother and grandmother legs.   When the turkey was done we set up a buffet table, ate, and watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on rerun.  I just put a peach cobbler in the oven and started to feel cooked myself, so I came back out for some fresh air.

peach3

Peach cobbler: a can or five of peaches topped with a box of yellow cake mix and drizzled with a melted stick of butter. Cook 350°F for 40 minutes or until brown. Yummy spices and leftover piloncillo optional.

I can hear the wild parrots coming from the south.  I don’t know why, but every morning they fly south and every evening they fly north again.  Wild parrots are very, very loud.  Two or three together can sound like a whole flock.

(I kept looking up at the sky while I watched this, thinking the racket was coming from the video and the sky.  Nope: just the video.)

There’s still some blue up there.  Those menacing clouds continue to crawl across the sky but can’t decide if they’ll go puffy and white or stay dark and cause trouble.  In the meantime the puffy white fronts are turning orange with the sunset.  How festive!

Hope everyone has a wonderful day, whether you celebrate U.S. Thanksgiving or not.🙂

Spiders in Holland

I’m still relatively certain that if I wrote my grandmother’s book now, I wouldn’t do her justice.  After scrapping my first draft, I’m terrified that her stories will turn into mine again.  Recently, I got so frustrated with myself that I took a deep breath, put fingertips to alphabet keys, and banged out my favorite story just the way I remember her telling it.  Which makes it more mine than anything else I’ve written about her so far, but I feel like this time I’ve done her voice justice.

Yeah yeah.  I get it, you smuggy smugsters.

“Nazi Germany has occupied the Netherlands. What do you do: adapt, collaborate, or resist?” –Verzetmuseum

I was 13, so it was about a year after the bombing in the city center.  My father was working with the Resistance…well we all were, really.  My sister, Co, you know, at that time she was married and pregnant almost every year with one of the boys.  My brothers made a false bottom in the pram for guns, and we would smuggle them to the edge of the city.  Those stupid Nazi guards let us through the checkpoints because we were the ideal: blond hair, blue eyes, the perfect Arians.  Fuckin’ bastards.  They would cootchie-coo the babies and I’d think,  If only you knew what was under your  finger, asshole.  But to them we were just a perfect little family out for a walk.  They let us right through.

So right.  I was 13, and my younger sister, Yopi, of course was 12, and we were home with Moe [pronounced moo, Dutch for “Mom”].   I don’t know why we were home, but the guys were all out working, and we were home alone, just the younger girls and our mother.   Now my brother, Cor, he was a radio operator, you see.  He had a small radio that he would use at night to send intelligence to the English from the attic.  My mother hated it.  She told him to keep it out of the house but my father said it was fine.

Well, then we get a knock on the door.  And my mother looks at us, and we look at each other.  We don’t say anything but we look at each other, “Who’s that?  Are you expecting someone?  I don’t know.  Who could it be?”   So Yopi and I go downstairs with Moe to the door.  And it’s three Brownies: two younger ones, you know, and an older one, the one in charge.  And these guys were bad.  These were the real Nazis, not the German soldiers.  We called them Brownies because they wore brown uniforms. These were the ones that were taken as children and trained their whole lives to hate and kill.   If it had been anyone else it would have been okay, but the Brownies would shoot us on the spot and step over our dead bodies on their way to dinner without a second thought.

We knew why they were there:  Cor’s radio.  Moe pretended to be polite.  “How can I help you?”  But they pushed past her and went upstairs.  The three of us followed them up.  The commander told the other two where to search.  We were poor so we didn’t have much to go through, but they turned over mattresses and dumped out drawers, anything they could search.  Moe knew better than to ask questions.  One wrong move and all three of us were dead.  So we just stood in the corner in silence and watched them tear our little apartment apart.

The commander saw the attic door and ordered Moe to open it.  In German, you know, but Moe didn’t know any German.  I did, because we had to learn it in school, see.  So I translated.  And I had a good accent even though I only knew a year’s worth from school, but I had a talent for it.  German was so close to Dutch it wasn’t difficult for me at all.  So the attic door.   Moe opened the attic door, and the commander ordered the three of us to go up before him.  He wanted to search the attic personally.  I knew what he was doing: he would find the radio and shoot the three of us himself to show off to the younger officers.  Bastard.  I was so angry I didn’t even want to look at him.

He grabbed a bag of rags we kept up there…fabric scraps, you know, for patches and things like that…and I suddenly felt cold.  I didn’t know why, but something in the room changed.  I looked out of the corner of my eye at Moe.  And she had gone completely pale.  Now, my mother wasn’t afraid of anything, but she was as white as a sheet, so I knew something was very wrong.  I looked over at the commander.  He had a handful of rags.  And hanging from the bottom was a radio cord.

I wasn’t afraid, but I immediately walked over to him and put my hand on his arm.  He had patches on this sleeves, and patches, you know, on his chest , the ones that tell his rank and such.  So I put my hand on his arm, on the patch on his sleeve,  and I said in perfect German, “Oh!  These are so pretty!  What are these for?”  That fuckin’ bastard was so full of himself.  He puffed himself up and said something like Ach, Liebe! These are for such-and-such.  I don’t even remember what they were for, something about his rank.  And I knew I had him.  So I made my voice even sweeter, and I touched the patches on his chest and batted my eyelashes, and said, “Really!  And these, too?  They’re such pretty colors!  What do these mean?”  That disgusting old fucker.  He was so flattered that a pretty young girl would be interested in him that he put the rags, with the radio, back into the bag so that he could point out each patch and tell me what it meant.  I pretended to be fascinated.  “Gosh, that’s so interesting.  You must be so important!”

When he was done, he left the attic with the biggest shit-eating grin on his face.  He told the other two that the radio wasn’t there and ordered them to leave.  He turned around to wave at me before he left.  I batted my eyelashes and waved good-bye.  When the door was closed and my mother was sure they were gone, she collapsed onto the floor and sobbed.  My mother was a rock.  I had never seen her cry in all my life, and I never saw her cry again.  But that day…she said it was the closest she had ever come to seeing her family dead.

When my father came home, ho ho!  Moe chewed him out good, and Cor’s radio left the house.  Eventually he was taken off the street and put into a labor camp.  My father, too, and Adrian.  One night they just didn’t come home, and we knew.  No, I wasn’t afraid.  Moe said they would come home, and if Moe said it was so, well, that was it.  Moe’s word was law, you see.  She told us not to be afraid, so I was never afraid.  I’m more afraid of a spider in America than I ever was of a Nazi in Holland.

Brenda, and Babies

Let us recall this picture from my last post, of our dear family friend, Brenda,

Brendie meeting Ava.

Brendie meeting Ava.

and how she came to see us despite being so very ill.  Fortunately it’s hard to see in this shot, but she literally looked like a corpse:  blue skin, purple lips, black fingertips, skeletal frame, all signs of her late-stage degenerative lung disease.  Just after this picture was taken I quietly left our gathering to have a small cry on my step-mom’s shoulder.

Illness notwithstanding, her lack of oxygen, and subsequent lack of coloring, were partially her own fault.  The tubing in the picture was for her oxygen supply.  As you can see she needed to breathe through her nose in order to get that oxygen.  Brenda the Chatterbox, however, couldn’t suffer silence in a room full of people, not even long enough to inhale through her nose every so often.  Eating dinner was downright impossible:  eat, talk, and breathe at the same time?    No way.  Nothing is more humorous to Brenda than her own shortcomings, so we shared a good laugh at her inability to get any of that oxygen sitting right there on her face.  As she left, my dad made sure we each actually said the words “good-bye” to her, because, he said, we’d never see her again.  Pessimistic, and a little mean, as it sounded, he was right. She succumbed to her illness a month later.

The world is duller without her bubbly personality, her easy conversation and sense of humor.  She is sorely missed, but undoubtedly in a place of comfort and peace.  <3

I forget that I am not friends with the entire world on Facebook.  While this is a good thing, some people are missing out on the pictures I often post of our little beauty.  So get your smile ready.

Playing at the park.

Playing at the park.

Too big for the dumb carseat.

Too big for the dumb carseat.

Baby selfies!  Not really...she just wanted to eat the camera.

Baby selfies! Not really…she just wanted to eat the camera.

Ava and Oma.

Ava and Oma.

More Oma and Ava

More Oma and Ava

Uncle Andrew making sure Ava doesn't have to play alone at 1 am.

Uncle Andrew making sure Ava doesn’t have to play alone at 1am.

Our sleeping angel.

Our sleeping angel.

Mommy and Ava in head scarves.

Mommy and Ava in head scarves.

She is 5 months old now and thriving.  She is very active, Doc says she is even a little ahead in development. I think she’s just impatient.  She gets frustrated with her own limitations.  She’s learned how to get herself where she wants to go through a series of wiggly maneuvers, however, so her frustration level is less than it was.  She can almost sit herself up.  And everything that can be grasped goes straight to the mouth.

Oooo I have another treat, too.  (If you know this family, don’t tell them that you saw these pictures. There might be more coming.)

Smushy!

Smushy!

Sweetheart!

Sweetheart!

Eeeeee!  I love those little faces!

While looking for pictures for Brenda’s memorial, my step-mom found some from when Jess was about a year old.  Check this out:

My grandmother with Jess, 1994, and Ava, 2014.

My grandmother with Jess, 1994, and Ava, 2014.

Ava did not inherit those big brown eyes: she has her Daddy’s almond-shaped green ones.  She does, however, have Jess’s nose, mouth, and chin.  My grandmother loved that I inherited my dad’s mouth.  I always thought it was an odd thing to appreciate, but now that I see it on my progeny I allow myself the same oddness.  Especially because we all inherited this feature from my grandfather, so it’s fun to see it perpetuating.

Brief update on school:  it’s going.  This semester I have English 1C, officially called Intermediate Critical Thinking and Analytic Composition or some such nonsense, and English Lit (round 2).  It’s rough, but it’s been rougher, and I really like both of my professors, so I’m pushing through.  I spent the day reading Charlotte Bronte’s Villette for English 1C.  Not a bad way to pass a weekend, I say.

Yikes!  It is 5 am!  I should go to bed, yes?  Good night good people.

Noncation 2014

I fully planned to do my usual Noncation timeline this year.  Every time I work on it, however, I quickly lose interest.  So I’ll just skim over the highlights.  I hope you don’t mind.  I won’t change it if you do.  So there.

The folks left Sunday morning for points unknown.  As it turns out, their vacation, which is my noncation, was really more of a stay-cation.  Their first stop was a beautiful Hindu temple about an hour away from home.  Their last stop was the city of San Bernardino, also about an hour away from home.  Bold, these people.

In the meantime I rented a car, loaded it with a small entourage, and drove to my grandmother’s house to introduce her to Ava. Finally!

Ava and her great-great-grandmother.

Ava and her great-great-grandmother.

And her great-grandpa.

And her great-grandpa.

The surprise of the day came when family friend Brenda joined us.  She is very ill, so her presence was extra special.

Brendie meeting Ava.

Brendie meeting Ava.

She had a difficult time of it, but she wasn’t about to miss out on meeting Ava.  We were so grateful that she could spend the day with us.

Incidentally, Miss Ava is 3 months old now.  She’s a perfectly beautiful little thing who is entirely too sassy for her nonexistent vocabulary.

Ava Grace at three months old.

Ava Grace at three months old.

Five generations:  me, my grandmother, my granddaughter, my dad, and my daughter.

Five generations: me, my grandmother, my granddaughter, my dad, and my daughter.

With all the people and excitement, Ava spent the day over-stimulated.  We thought she’d fall asleep on the way home, but we thought wrong.  We thought so very wrong.  She wailed the entire time.  We stopped twice to calm her down, but she resumed her crying as soon as she was back in the car seat.  Nothing like three hours of cacophonous baby fury to sap the energy out of you.

On Monday Ava’s parents had a home maintenance problem to repair, so I babysat all day.  Normally I have my youngest sister with me to help, but since she was away on the epic stay-cation I was flying solo.  Sunday must have ruined Ava’s thirst for adventure, because she screamed every time she was in a car.  By the end of the day my nerves were frayed.

Some calm in the storm came when we visited my sis-in-law and her two babies.  Ava took a nice long nap in a swing while I had a serious conversation with this angel:

The calmest baby in the world.

Smushy’s new sister!

She is only two months younger than Ava, and Smushy is only a year and a half older, so I have a feeling the three of them are going to be thick as thieves.  This new one is the calmest baby in the world.  I can see Ava bossing her around.  So I talked to her about not being a doormat to her cousin.  She stared at me smiling the whole time.  And then slept like a log.  Her mommy said I wore her out talking so much.  I think I bored her to death.

Tuesday was blessedly uneventful.  I went grocery shopping and cooked dinner.

On Wednesday Drew started back at school.  Tenth grade!  I forgot to take pictures.  He looked so nice, too.  :(  In order to stay in Drama he has seven classes this year, which means school starts at 7:00 am.  That is soooooooooo early!  *cry*  We made it on-time, though. 

At about noon I noticed there were phone messages.  One was from the high school, left the day before, saying the first day of school started at 9:15.  Whoops!  Drew said it was okay:  he found a friend whose parents also failed to get the message. Freshmen had to be at school by 7:30 for orientation, so Drew and his friend occupied their time by sizing up the fresh meat.

Later in the evening I sat at the kitchen table, eating dinner by myself, watching a recorded TV show, enjoying the peace, minding my own business, when our intrepid stay-cationers arrived home unexpectedly.  Not that I expected them on any particular day, but I had hoped we’d get an extra day of peace.  Alas, it was not to be.  My sister marched in and said my car was in their way, Mom asked why I made dinner, and my step-dad wondered what this country is coming to when a little girl in Tennessee gets in trouble for saying “bless you” to a sneezing classmate.

Thus ended Noncation 2014.

At least I got a souvenir.

At least I got a souvenir.

Sunflower and Hollyhock Seeds

How do you know when a sunflower is ready to harvest?

The bees won't tell you.

The bees won’t tell you.

The ladybugs won’t tell you.

The passion vine masquerading as a tree won't tell you.

The passion vine masquerading as a tree won’t tell you.

The grubs don't know.

The grubs don’t know.

The four o'clocks don't care.

The four o’clocks don’t care.

Sahara's not talking.

Sahara’s not talking.

The silk floss stumps might know, but who can understand their accent?

The silk floss stumps might know, but who can understand their accent?

The marigolds think you should figure it out for yourself.

The marigolds think you should figure it out for yourself.

The branching sunflowers, they're too pretty to be bothered.

The branching sunflowers, they’re too pretty to be bothered.

The cut sunflowers have more important problems.

The cut sunflowers have more important problems.

Sahara still isn't talking.

Sahara still isn’t talking.

The ripe sunflowers themselves might give you a hint.

The ripe sunflowers themselves might give you a hint, but…

It's the squirrels.  The squirrels will let you know.

…it’s the squirrels. The squirrels will let you know.

How do they get the shells onto the TOP of the flower?!

How do they get the shells onto the TOP of the flower?!

So several of the sunflowers that Jess planted in Ava’s garden have been harvested and laid out to dry. She didn’t get much into the garden before she got too big to dig anymore.  The sunflowers and a smattering of marigolds, that was it.  We tried spreading a wildflower seed mix but nothing took.  I started some new seeds in peat pots this week, so hopefully those will give us a little color before the summer is over.

Speaking of seeds and color, I harvested a ton of hollyhock seeds.  I started to put them into packs of 40 seeds each, which worked alright for these

hollyhocks 3

The purply ones

and these

hollyhocks 11

The whitish ones

since their seed heads took longer to mature.  However I had literally over a thousand seeds from this one:

The pretty pink one

The pretty pink one

Instead of counting out seeds I just threw about 100 seeds into each pack, and stopped after 12 packs.  I went through the plants yesterday and collected roughly another thousand seeds (pink and some white).  Please, if you’d like some hollyhock seeds email me your address and I will give you more than you can use.  Bees love love love them.

And in a month or so I’ll have some sunflower seeds to share, too.  Giant Greystripe, I think.

And last but not least, a gratuitous pic of Ava looking like the sweet babydoll she is.

And last but not least, a gratuitous pic of Ava looking like the sweet babydoll she is.

“You have a body, it works now,” said Ava’s mommy. “Use it!”

On Tuesday morning, Dr. Preema made it happen.

Introducing Ava Grace

Introducing Ava Grace

Here she is!  6 pounds 11 ounces, 21 inches long.  A far cry from the 8+ pounds Dr. Preema predicted, but a very healthy size for a newborn.

Sleeping angel.

Sleeping angel.

She is so very precious.  Of course we have to think our children are precious; otherwise we’d wise up and eat them while they’re young and tender, before they get smart mouths and body odor, before they even think about repeatedly making poor decisions from which we must repeatedly bail them out, only letting a select few rise to adulthood for the sole purpose of perpetuating the species.

Not that I ever thought about it.

Jess and Ava

Jess and Ava

Still, my first grandchild is a terribly wondrous, beautiful little human.  I think we’ll forgo the barbecue and let this tiny girl perpetuate.

Jess is doing great.  She’s glad she had a cesarean; the epidural was the worst part, and if you’ve ever experienced or witnessed childbirth you know that in a regular delivery the epidural is the BEST part!  She is still restricted for a couple weeks but she is up and about, trying to deal with hormones that flip-flop like a slinky descending stairs.  Daddy has been doing a great job of taking care of them.  He’s clueless, of course, and so is Jess for that matter, but they are doing well so I bite my tongue.  Ava is in good hands.

Ava and Oma

Ava and Oma

I have been an Oma for four whole days, and so far I love it!  I knew stuff I didn’t even know I knew, ya know?  Like how to calm our little Ava down even when she’s in the throes of a hot red anger.  Or how to keep her awake to eat.  Or how to keep my Jessie from becoming a panicked mama wolf pacing the room whenever her baby cries out of reach. And how to do these things in the middle of the night with no sleep.

The new family

The new family

The new family went home last night, to Daddy’s house since this house is a madhouse and, with this horrid weather, a hot house.  I thought it best, since he has been doing such a good job, that she spend the weekend there in the A/C. I’ll take care of them Monday when Daddy goes to work.

And so will Uncle Andrew.

And so will Uncle Andrew.

And Great-Aunt Shelly

And Great-Aunt Shelly

And Papa Joe

And Papa Joe

And Grandpa will visit.

And Grandpa will visit.

And Great-Grammy

And Great-Grammy

And Godparents

And Godparents

And lots of other people I don’t have pictures of.  Jessie and Ava will be well cared for.

Being born is hard work!

Being born is hard work!

.