Basement

My Grampa Avery's birthday tonight. He's the best, my Gramps. I've never, in my whole life, walked out of his arms without him telling me he loved me. Sometimes even two or three times. In a word of arguments, grudges and misunderstandings, it's always been a loving, unconditional constant for me. I felt, growing up, and still, that in my grandparent's eyes, I could do no wrong. Not that they didn't scold or discipline us as children, but always, they loved us harder than one would think is even possible.

At Gram & Gramp's, I went downstairs at some point this evening, half to get a drink out of the 'fridge in the cellar, half to escape my mom...who chooses to believe that when dogs tussle under people's feet annoyingly, it's my fault, and snapped that I put them outside. (My own dog was at home, mind-you, but apparently since I own a dratted dog, I am responsible for all dog's displeasing behavior, world-wide. Or it was my fault because obviously my own dog taught these other dogs to be jerks in his long career of being a trainer of jerky dogs. Duh. For whatever reason, if it's dog-related, I usually get yelled at.) Anyhow, that wasn't the point...my being cranky. The point was the basement.

Ah, The Basement. Maybe this sound silly, but their basement is my favorite smell in the universe. I nearly hyperventilate when I'm down there because I'm trying to breathe as much of it in as possible. I've heard your sense of smell is the strongest sense, evoking forgotten memories, swaying your emotions powerfully, and I believe it. There are a lot of smells I love...Lilacs, hay fields, clean sheets, peaches, vanilla, fresh turned dirt, campfire smoke, Fall, but truly, nothing comes close to The Basement.

What makes this smell? If I could somehow recreate it, I would...let's see...it's a mix of perpetually damp floor, fresh wood-working projects, and potatoes in the root cellar. Aged canvas life jackets, turpentine, the wall of canned pickles. Laundry hanging over the washer, a huge chest freezer from 1960, home-made lawn chairs and a canoe. It's sixty years of kid's skis and bikes and sleds up on the ceiling. It's love.

The stairs leading down are so rickety, they rock back and forth like a suspension bridge when you descend, but I've never worried they will fall. I don't really think of them at all, because as soon as I start down, the smell overpowers me and I'm happy and safe.

The basement is about Popsicles and beloved antique tools, it's about learning to drive the ancient Cub Cadet lawn tractor when I was ten. It's about the black rotary dial telephone in the corner, and the wooden toboggan. It's about hidden Christmas gifts, and storing extra holiday platters of food. It's about making the bouquets for my sister's wedding, hauling out the sprinkler, and Gramp in coveralls, oil-undercoating his car. It's a little bit of everything. Half the memories I hold dear, brought to life in a single whiff.

The dogs can wrestle, folks can bicker, children can run amuck, I'll just take in few more wonderful breaths and then, when I head back on up, I'll get another hug to top it off.

Award Wining Weekend!

A very exciting weekend...the boys were in their first horse show, such fun! The fancy-schmancy Icelandic judge was impressed with, and had wonderful things to say about both my tiny riders, so of course, I loved her. And a beautiful couple of days to boot. Who could ask for anything more?

Lambs, and Toddlers and Ticks, Oh My!

And so summer starts. A weirdly jinxed week/weekend. Fights abound, zero creative juices flowing (as evidence: this lame post), end of school closing-circle was punctuated by cloud-to-ground lightning, and sheets of freezing downpour, a cold, drizzly rain most days since, and an emergency room visit. I had...ummm...yeah, it's always something embarrassing with me...a teensy-weensy tick in my...oh geez...I'm just gonna say it...in the underside of my damn nipple. I've religiously checked us all out every evening, and I thought I had been especially vigilant since we had gone on an after-dinner hike in tall grass, but the darn thing found the perfect hiding place and stayed overnight. Not that my breasts are big enough to hide much, 'cause we all know they ain't, but...that was probably the only spot I couldn't see. Cripes. Yuck. Seriously grossed out. I started sobbing in the bathroom at one point, after I'd pinched myself silly with the tweezers to no avail. Anyway, I couldn't get it out, and the surgeon on call had a tough time of it too. Now I get to wait two weeks and see if I've got Lyme Disease. Yippie. The kids, and Justin and I have been doing nothing but crabbing at each other for days. Nobody's sleeping well...Ira says that ghosts are scratching him in the night, and Eli says he can't stop thinking. Excuse my whining. I usually make it a policy to try not write when I'm grouchy or negative. Because I went through a period, (or many periods) with this blog where I did nothing but complain, and I HATE that, looking back, but whatever...we all get to be in a bad mood sometimes, I guess.

We DID have a great evening at Myra and Jim's this weekend, another gorgeous storm while we were there. It's so lovely up on that hill, their flowers were amazing, even more so when rain-soaked, and Oliver's a funny little midget, zooming around on his bike with a Viking helmet on his head. I'm just putting my kiddos to bed, they are tired wrecks. I had a decent night at Zumba, the crowd was huge, which is always awesome...so at least that angle is terrific! Fed Bumble, who has started chasing the dog and head butting him in the side today, he now stays up on the picnic table to escape her. She also likes to give her bottle a good head-butt, right as she starts to drink, just to make sure her feeder is sufficiently sprayed with hot, smelly, lamb formula. It's an early night for all. Ira seems to be running a bit of a fever. Hopefully, we'll sleep away our blues, things will turn around, and the sunshine comes back tomorrow!

Memorial Day

Not much for pictures from this weekend, which is a shame since everybody looked sweet. But with horses, lamb and kids to deal with during the parade, I just didn't have a free hand left for my camera. Eli and Rose rode with the Icelandic Horse farm, so big and proud looking, I could have cried seeing how grown up and capable they seemed, up high on those giant beasties. Justin and I walked the minis, and Ira led the lamb up front for a ways, but then she laid down mid-parade route and wouldn't budge. Ira shrilled "We are the LEADERS!!!" at her, but nope, nothin' doing...had to pass her off to people on the sidelines. Next a picnic on the fairgrounds while Jelly very accommodatingly gave pony rides, followed by heading to Will's for ice cream, and lastly: the summer's first swim in a friend's pond. Exhausting but fabulous day.

Honey...I'm home!

Just returning from a trip to Prince Edward Island! And yes, I'm one of those irritating people who reads every sign out loud in a singsong voice on road trips. I think it's a recent thing actually, something that happened as we started making these sixteen hour drives a half dozen times a summer. Saw some signs I just didn't GET, no matter how I read them. One sign in Canada somewhere, outside a grocery store said: 'SAVE $10 ON FROZEN UTILITY TURKEY!' At least we passed several miles laughing outrageously about it. Once you are crazy-hysterical-tired, and sick to death of being in the car, really strange things seem funny. Stopping for a late breakfast in a diner, the kids were beyond excited, inexplicably, about those dinky, little packets of butter they give you with your meal, only the waitress didn't bring nearly enough to cover their enormous pancakes... When packing up the 'fridge in the cabin before hitting the road, we put a giant block of leftover butter in our cooler. Example of over-tired hysteria: Justin suggested we go out to the car and get OUR butter for the pancakes...and I said it was a BYOB restaurant, (Bring Your Own Butter, obviously)...and then I cracked up, and spit my orange juice everywhere. Christ. Get me home. Where signs make sense, and the butter isn't funny.

Ira must have remembered that he used to get horribly carsick, so there were quite a few fun/vomit-filled stops on the drive, using up entire containers of baby wipes and all of our towels. We almost turned back at one point, but he wouldn't let us.

The vacation week was lovely otherwise. Still cool on The Island, but there was sun, and mostly nice, mild days, unlike back here in Vermont where Mother Nature gave you the smack down, so we heard. We did plenty of beach walks, the boys donned wetsuits and went in the water some. Lots of sponges washed up, and the wind was salty and brisk. I found a smooth, bleached, driftwood rootball that Justin created a chandelier out of. The coastline seems so rugged with the big red rocks, but it was ravaged by the winter, so much erosion this spring, with trees tipping out of the cliffs. We filled our pockets with treasures, as usual. Stones that are prettier when they are wet, shells with rainbows glossed over their interior, foggy bits of beach glass. Young seals kept popping up, curious as to what the boys were doing. Scuffed our toes in sand that sings as you walk.

Drove up to East Point and explored. Justin wanted to tour a new distillery up that way. So bizarre, how tiny and rural everything is when you get away from the touristy sections, we drove through one village that was named, no joke, "Five Houses". Can you imagine living in a town actually called Five Houses? Our neighbors have said, in the winter months, only a few cars drive by all day long, and they can tell, just by the sound of them, who it is. Very neat. Passed a field of windmills built up over several abandoned, decrepit farmhouses, interesting...the mix of yesterday and tomorrow. The Island is almost entirely powered by wind which is amazing.

In some ways, the place appears behind the times. Through the Acadian areas, women still wear skirts and nobody has ever left home. Islandwide, everyone goes to church on Sunday, (all stores close even) they farm/fish for a living, fashion is unheard of, no high speed Internet, teeny schools, etc, but it's like they've picked and chosen the areas of life that really MATTER and moved out to the front of the pack there. They are light years ahead of us when it comes to the environment. Mandatory composting, they recycle EVERYTHING and make almost no waste. Every community has shared farm equipment, they rotate crops by law to protect the soil. People drive fuel efficient cars. The Island prides itself on being self sufficient, they raise their own food and are so close to being entirely independent power-wise. Also it's CLEAN and pretty. They award money to people who have the nicest yard/flowers/gardens yearly...I suppose that's because of the whole tourism thing, but it's admirable to see such a tidy, picturesque place. People are all (well, the ones we've met anyhow) incredibly welcoming, and such characters! I love it.

Our friends and neighbors, Ethan and Lila have become surrogate parents/grandparents when we visit. I can't think of anything they haven't offered us...extra beds, huge, homecooked meals, showers, allergy meds...sweetest folks on the planet. They watch out for our cabin all year. Ethan even mows our lawn, not that we asked him to...he just does it. They have four children around our age, spread across the globe...China, Cuba, Toronto and...I forget where the other one is right now. Good people. We're lucky to know them.

Let's see...what else did we do...? Built a new bed with a trundle beneath for the boys. Our cabin is adorable, but when it rains, the kiddos seem like huge, noisy beasts, far too big to contain in such a wee house. Hopefully expansion coming in the future. It feels necessary to spread out a bit more. It IS such a cozy cottage now though. We had the potbelly wood stove humming in the evenings, with cocoa heating on top, of course. Lots of simple things, that are beautiful to me there. I love laying in bed and watching geese and gulls shadow the curtains in early morning light, and seeing the sun set over swayback ridge-poles of sagging, shingled barns. The way the fog rolls in and hides the sea out the front window. The ferry horn, long and low, right as we fall asleep. I needle-felted gnomes in candle glow, and whenever the weather was iffy.

And here we are, home, with birthday parties, barn chores, bills, laundry and the Memorial Day parade to be reckoned with. Part of the Island charm may be the fact that those things don't really exist to us there! But...Cest la vie. A busy summer ahead, and hopefully another trip in our near future. As we came down the hill in Chelsea, after sitting in the car for a zillion loooonnnnnng hours, I was thrilled to sing out, in obnoxious opera style..."Tunbridge...6 miles!!!!" after spotting the beloved road sign. Home again, home again, jig, jig, jog.

Welcome Bumble

Well, our little "farm" which thus far has included one dog, two horses, nine chickens, an evil rooster, and a big batch of new chicks, expanded yesterday to include a lamb. A bottle-baby, gift from our friend John, to be a gas-free lawn mower this summer. My favorite joke of the week: when we went to pick up the lamb, waaaay up on the hill, in the middle of Tunbridge-nowhere, we pulled our rusty Honda into the driveway, right next to John's Honda, and he remarked "Ah, good, a Honda Accord is THE prefered truck of Vermont sheep farmers". So, I guess we're sheep farmers now. Kids are excited and in love with her. She's a very pretty Romney, the kind with spiraled wool locks and pretty eyelashes.. The original deal was: how about she goes away in the Fall?...but, you know, maybe not...Bumble could be the start of something. Yesterday was also Justin's birthday, so in between bottle feedings, we made a cake and apple pie... and only a LITTLE of the lamb's milk formula splashed in while I was baking. Whatever, it's not like we'll grow woolly ears or anything. It's been a rainy week, the plum trees are spectacular but the bees are no where to be seen as of yet. Feeling giddy about Spring and Life and Lambs and Blossoms.

Summer Lovin'

You people who know us well enough to know our dirty, little secrets, know this about our family: fitness freak that I've turned into, we still go to Will's Store EVERY NIGHT in the summer for Creamees. I don't mean we go sometimes, or a lot, or often...I mean EVERY NIGHT. Unless there's an act of God preventing us, the woman who runs the register expects us to walk in around quarter to eight, the rusty cowbell over the door jangling as we enter, and order two baby sized cones, one small, and one medium.

The Creamees aren't the only thing I love about Will's. The place is like something out of a movie...but one that hasn't been made yet. An old brick store where the fishing bait sits next to the Yankee Candle selection, ammo next to the aspirin, along with incredibly bad wine, toys that have been on the same shelves since 1979, movie rentals, yellowed postcards, beef jerky, knick-knacks, a surprising variety of great books. They also make their own terrific hard ice cream, a fact that few people care about because the Creamee machine reigns supreme, commanding the front of the store, most folks don't even venture further in than that, never wander to the back where you can find paperclips and glittery resin figurines of wolves and bald eagles. Their loss. But on rainy days we roam around back there with our creamees, finding odd merchandise, stuff we've never seen before, every time. If we're lucky, the side door will be open and the Chelsea Town Marching Band (which is really just five people, one of them Will himself, wheelchair bound, but who says marching has to mean MARCHING?) will be practicing on the covered ramp.

There are a couple women who alternate nights working at Will's, we call them "Good Jimmie Lady" and "Bad Jimmie Lady". (Not to their faces, obviously, although the kids have let it slip a couple times and we've had to fake a coughing fit.) Good Jimmie Lady takes your ice cream and boldly plops it down in the container of sprinkles, rolling it around and COATING it with either chocolate or rainbow. Right on! Bad Jimmie Lady holds the cone over the sink, and kind of gingerly flicks some sprinkles at it with a spoon, while she gives you the evil eye for ordering sprinkles in the first place. The result is: a sink full of delicious, wasted jimmies, and an ice cream with seven actually stuck to it.

This has been going on for a few years now, with the entire universe afraid to speak up to Bad Jimmie Lady.

The most awesome, miraculous thing happened as this summer's creamee season began...Good Jimmie Lady gave Bad Jimmie Lady a crash course in proper jimmie application! No more wondering if we'll have to pay that extra 15 cents for a whole lotta nothin'. No more agonizing on the way over to recall whose night it is behind the counter. It doesn't even matter. Now that they're BOTH Good Jimmie Ladies, I think we'll ask them their real names. Summer's here, the marching band is tuning up, and all is right in the world.