We enjoyed lasagna, green salad, and sage and parsley garlic bread elbow to elbow around the Saarinen. In a departure from my usual French drama, we drank Famiglie Montepulciano d’Abruzzo 2020, with a nose of sweet leather half-buried in the garden, mouthfeel like butter, and a grape jelly finish. After dinner we walked to the retaining pond, collecting Exceptional Sticks from the woods along the way.

A hike back up the hill and then we were home, singing around a homemade, lopsided, Dr. Seuss-looking lemon and wild blueberry cake with fluffy lemon buttercream frosting. After they’d gone the house fell quiet and felt empty again.

Laura Lucia Roberto Anderson

born March 20, 1918

died March 15, 2010

*
*Her nickname was Ruby. She and my grandfather posed for this picture after Mass one sunny Palm Sunday on Long Island. Maybe they stopped by the bakery on their way home that day. I imagine my mother and her two brothers riding in the back seat of the car, holding their buttered rolls and watching the buildings blur through the windows.

A cold Sunday afternoon with friends. We caught some serious air on the jumps, Jack. We sledded until dark, and then fifty percent of our family fell asleep in the car on the way home.

• I could barely believe the beauty of Manhattan Beach. Lemon trees and succulents in nearly every front yard, warm and fragrant breezes, my feet in soft sand after a painfully long winter.

• I’d never before attended a wedding held outside in the rain, but now I can heartily recommend it: huge smiles peeking out from under dripping raincoat hoods and umbrellas, steam rising from the pavement, the sound of water all around.

• I made a cake, sewed a colorful bunting and watched a newly minted teenager dive into blue water over a long weekend.

• Bonum est praestolari cum silentio salutare Dei.

We take the Metro to the National Mall to watch the Arsenal of Democracy World War II Victory Capitol Flyover. We walk to the western slope of the Washington Monument grounds and stake our claim. A black dog sits nearby and pants in the bright sun. We eat our simple picnic lunch on a blue plaid blanket in a dense forest of legs, lawn chairs and tripods. My girl passes the strawberries around, one eye on the sky.

The first warbirds appear just to the right of the Lincoln. He raises his binoculars to his eyes. I hear the clicks of a thousand camera shutters. Veterans and distinguished guests are gathered for a service at the World War II Memorial below. The public address system shouts sentiment, fills in the space between flyovers. I feel the engines in my chest, and close my eyes to imagine war, death, and life, the sound of victory rattling my ribcage.

When the last formation passes, the speaker asks the crowd to stand for Taps. All of the chatting and clicking stops, and we are hushed and reverent as we listen. As the last note falls away, I sweep one finger behind my sunglasses to wipe my eyes.

On our way back to the Metro station, we wander through the farmer’s market and make new friends. We cool off underground as we wait on the platform for our westbound ride home. As the train heads towards Rosslyn I say we’re under the river now, so they can imagine the car full of fish and current.

The tender friendships one gives up, on parting, leave their bite on the heart, but also a curious feeling of a treasure somewhere buried. ~Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Southern Mail, 1929, translated from French by Curtis Cate

The truest, most loving friends in the world helped us pack our truck and clean our house on a Friday night. Kids raced around, got underfoot and played hot potato. Crazy Phil discovered some 20 year-old homemade pickles in my basement. Despite the corroded lids, despite the fact that the pickles were floating around in a murky, green water filled with unidentifiable objects of plant origin, he ate them. Then he passed them around. Video of that disgusting event here. There was pizza and a little drinking and my girlfriends washed my bathrooms, packed my food, washed my fridges, and slipped care packages of new toys and goodies into the truck for us to discover on our arrival. Their acts of kindness that night filled my heart to overflowing.

Even more blessings awaited us at our new home in Virginia. Our new housemates had vanilla candles burning in every impeccably clean room, more dear and devoted friends helped us unload what we had loaded just hours before, and we shared a meal of very good Chinese food in our dining room to celebrate this new beginning. The next morning, running on adrenaline, I dug into the work of creating a home, but had to pause to satisfy a mysterious craving for fresh salsa. And as expected, eventually the migraine came, forcing me to bed and to rest. But we’re here, and we’re loved, and will forever be indebted to our dear ones.

Three things that remind me of you:

the Hillstreet Blues theme song

plum eyeshadow

seashells

You were the first, the first one to push through the membrane between our worlds. I touched the soft stretch marks on your belly after you’d gone, while you were still warm. Hours later in the shower, I stood helpless under the water as your final minutes repeated over and over again in front of my unseeing eyes.

Now each loved one that crosses to the other side thins the barrier between us by degrees, and I feel myself half there with you these days.

I registered to become a bone marrow donor last month, the gift of time to another daughter, maybe. Happy Birthday, Mom.

My gift wrapping this year started with a walk in the woods to gather bits and ended with brown paper packages tied up with string. All of our gifts were handmade, out of necessity and also just because. I’m feeling super-inspired by Mary Jo Hoffman’s STILL project lately, so much so that I just ordered a plate for my tripod, and have plans to finally learn how to use my bounce flash once and for all.

Oh, and that last gift is a bottle of my daughter’s favorite barbecue sauce that the local stores have inexplicably stopped carrying. Because that is how I roll.

We returned to Woods Edge farm for our third annual bonfire on Saturday. Angelina‘s non-profit hosted a camp for Native American youth this summer, and many of her campers returned for the day. So many sounds: Johnny Cash coming out of the barn speakers, horses neighing, a leaf blower making a giant pile for jumping, laughter, native flute.

I spent time in the chilly upper pasture trying to get a good shot of the boy horses grazing. The only way I could keep them near me was to sing, so I made up the most ridiculous, operatic songs about horses and belted them while setting up my shots. Just when I thought I had the perfect picture, the horses were spooked by a squirrel. A SQUIRREL. So much for the power of opera.

https://youtube.com/watch?v=https://www.youtube-nocookie.com/embed/DNZGlcfXM14

The above photo was awarded an Honorable Mention by the judges of the 2013 Mobile Photo Awards. This shot will be part of a show being held at the Soho Gallery For Digital Art in Manhattan from February 22-28. Opening reception is this coming Friday night and Lord willing I will be there to take it all in. We’ve needed an excuse to drive up to NYC and this seems like a pretty good reason to make the trip.

My sous-chef drizzled the maple sugar on the scones with more skill and style than I’ve ever brought to bear. My return to work weighed heavily on my heart and mind all day.

Spent the morning with my loves at a cozy coffee shop in Arlington. I wrote in my journal about 2013, about my hopes for renewal and rebirth. My girl began writing in her tiny purple Moleskine, too. Tonight we will light candles, share our writings and craft a family vision for this year to come. Then we will pop popcorn and play a game, and then we will blow out the candles and nestle down into our covers. And when we wake, it will be a new year.

Pre-dawn whispers (I stuffed my head under a pillow and went back to sleep).

Presents opened before the eight o’clock hour.

Hot coffee from the Chemex.

Sweet, soft challah French toast eaten continental style by a bad piggie.

Organic, fresh-pressed juice to cut through the sweet.

Beautiful music streaming through the house.

Gentle, quiet focus on a new art.

For the first time, my girl helped braid the challah, her small fingers gently moving the ropes and curling in ends. We used the knife as a chisel and popped chunks of Callebaut in our mouths while we worked.

The challah baked up quick. We left the hot loaf to cool on a wire rack and drove to church, where I sat on the edge of my seat as our pastor hit all the high notes in O Holy Night. Once home I sat in my bent wood chair under my mother’s cable-knit afghan and stared at the lights on the tree.

Three of my photos have been selected to be a part of the InstantDC Mobile Photography Show 2011, sponsored by the DC Ad Club and APA and in partnership with FotoweekDC. Opening night is Wednesday, November 9th at Interface Media Group, 1233 20th Street, NW, Washington, DC. I attended this same show last year as a wannabe. I moved from grouping to grouping and wondered if I’d ever be “good enough” to have anything of mine hanging next to anything of theirs. Crazy stuff.

Happy December! I’m downloading lusselatter recipes and making lots of plans for the month. I’m also listening to **Silje Nes** obsessively.

A sign hangs at the beginning of the long driveway, but I only catch the first word, Woods, white painted letters on dark pine. We pass fenced pastures dotted with small barns and stands of tall trees, only tufts of orange and brown leaves left at their very tops, their bodies spare streaks below. The horses lift their heads as we pass. We park under an old maple and haul folding chairs, blankets, and backpacks holding flashlights and sweatshirts past the farm house and into the back yard where the gathering has started.

This is Angelina’s farm. She is a former lawyer turned farm-owner. Her long, black hair hangs down her back, almost brushing her thick leather belt. Many of her family are here, and friends, and friends of friends like we are, standing around the food tables or sitting in small groups. Children run through and between the barns, jump into the leaf piles and then pull poking leaf bones from their hair and pockets. The sun hangs low. Thick rays skim the tops of the dry branches piled high in the fire pit. The air smells of horse and hay, salad dressing and vegetable stew, grass and sun-warmed wood.

We eat and laugh. The men pick up guitars and try out a tune or two. The grey mare gives rides to the little ones, circling in the pea gravel until the passing three wheeler spooks her to a standstill. The sky deepens and the barn darkens as the children take turns swinging blindly at a pinata hanging from a cross beam. One final crack of the broom handle and candy pours from the fatal wound onto the cement floor.

The moon is round and orange. The sweet mares whinny for attention and carrots from their fences. We sit near the fire and watch the bats make laps around the horse barn, passing in front of the floodlight with each go-around. We circle little limbs and pull blanket corners down and around body edges. A flashlight hunt for a lost belonging takes place in the giant leaf pile; we hear a shout of victory and know that what was once lost is now found. Sparks fly upward.

Four cousins who had never met became fast friends. The brothers gave a free concert to the frogs in the pond, and the frogs gave a free concert back to the brothers. And I floated barefoot throug[…]

Last week we sat together on a single chair at Starbucks, waiting for our Frappucino. I piled her long limbs into my lap and circled her with my arms, holding in her angles and big feet. I rubbed my nose into her hair, and she closed her eyes. “You two are so in love,” said a woman to us in passing. “That’s so rare to see.”

She lingered in the kitchen with me all of this morning while I made scones and coffee. She slipped out for a few minutes, then returned and handed me this card. I whispered my thanks into her sweet, soft neck.

This night I watched a man at the bar stroke his wife’s hair over and over again. I watched women and men stumble around the makeshift dance floor in front of the band. I watched my husband strain to hit some high notes while nailing most of them. I crouched in corners behind my camera. If life was a spectator sport, I’d be world champion.

I made a world for them. When I couldn’t find the perfect bunny house for sale, I glued wood and moss and stone, late into the night. I crafted grass, and a pond, and a path between the two bunn[…]

I love you.

I believe in you.

I am so happy to be your mommy.

We’ve decorated our tree (suffering only a few ornament casualties) and had a jolly Saint Nicholas celebration, with our favorite sour cream coffee cake taking the place of the Dundee cake of old. We are reading our favorite Christmas stories. When the kids are at school I am quite busy crafting presents in between bits of “real” work. So much to do yet.

It’s very strange to see my name in a magazine. But I’m not complaining.

Our neighbors have an awesome deck, a welcoming firepit, and a killer fashion sense.

We had a lovely Saturday night date during a big snowstorm: sandwiches at The Blue Tusk, followed by a $5 movie at The Palace Theater. I wish I had known that The Palace doesn’t actually heat the theater in winter. I watched most of the movie sitting sideways in my seat, my stockinged feet in John’s hands and the rest of me buried deep inside my down jacket.

A cold Sunday afternoon with friends. We caught some serious air on the jumps, Jack. We sledded until dark, and then fifty percent of our family fell asleep in the car on the way home.