The Room Where I Write

The Room Where I Write

(A Writing Assignment)

The room where I write isn’t even a room at all.  It’s a nook.  A cutout.  A space originally designed to serve a totally different purpose.  When building our house, however, we decided a breakfast gathering place was unnecessary and so now our nook is just that:  a nook.  A desk within two walls.  A desk that houses a Mac, a much-too-large-to-be-new Canon printer, and a whole lot of each one of us. While the nook is one of the smallest areas of the house, it’s one of my favorites.  For like us, our nook reflects a life lived together.  On any given day you will find possessions belonging to any one of us strewn across the desk top.  Today, for instance I see my husband’s two green tubes of Blistex, bought on a ski trip last monday.  I see my daughter’s black spiral Science Fair Journal resting on top of the printer, just waiting for it’s big day tomorrow when it can go to school with her.  Crawling forward from behind the computer is a tangled skein of black cables, looking for work.  Some memory card to read, some Garmin bike computer with newly ridden miles to log.  There are notes from Nora’s school in every color of the rainbow, requesting money for field trips, reminding of upcoming events.    A mug Dave brought me from Sedona.  A mug I never once drank from. It’s too big, too clunky, too heavy.  Instead, it sits here holding red handled scissors, toy wands, pencils that NEVER seem to be sharp when I need one, and even the occasional screwdriver. And last but not least, there are the sticky notes. The yellow ones of mine, the white ones belonging to my daughter, all containing Top-Secret password reminders.  An antiquated security system, for sure, but one we Larsons still rely on.  Except for my husband, who has graduated to online security.  Don’t ask me how he remembers that password.  

  

The nook is mine to use freely from 9:00 to 3:30 on school days, and I can be found here in front of the big, bright window on most of these days along with Cooper, my fifteen-year-old tabby, who, likewise, loves this spot.  He sits on the window sill behind the computer screen warming himself with the heat the machine generates, watching the passersby two floors below, from his bird’s-eye-view.  

This is definitely the perfect place for me to write.  It’s in the kitchen, the heart of the house.  Where all things get done. From meal planning and cooking, to arts and crafts, to science projects.  Even when the ideas fade, the writing slows, I still enjoy sitting here.  For then I check in with the school calendar, which hangs on the wall to my right, keeping me updated on upcoming school holidays, doctor and dental appointments.  And, of course, my daughter’s eighth birthday.  Which is still two months away.  I have no chance of forgetting though.  No reason to be unprepared, as she has kindly placed a hand-written note right on top of the calendar, where I will have NO chance of missing it. The Birthday List for 2013, even comes complete with A Key.  Thus, there is very little doubt that the turtle and the violin are the most highly sought after requests, whilst the blue, toy, baking table and Nerf gun are merely just filler.

When I have been sitting too long, when the old blue throw-pillow upon which I sit just isn’t doing it’s job any longer, I can get up.  I can walk a few steps to the counter, and with the brand new Keurig my Dad just gave me, brew one perfect cup of coffee.  Or I can take even fewer steps to the fridge. I can pull open it’s door, ponder it’s contents, and think surely there must be something I can pull together using these Kalamata olives, smoked salmon and asparagus.

If I don’t feel like getting up, I can simply turn my head to the left and enjoy my “Life With Girls”  photo collage.  This collage, like the nook, started out as something else; a cork-board.  A message center.   But after the addition of a few pictures, it took on a life of its own. There was no rhyme or reason to how these pictures got placed on the wall, they were simply stuck onto an empty spot of cork.  There are pictures of Nora and I at last year’s Science Fair next to this year’s Student of the Month Assembly photo, wherein she and her classmate G- are standing proudly--- but not at all close to each other, they’re eight--- displaying their “Excellence in Mathematics” certificates.  There are pictures of Angry Birds hand-drawn by Nora for her dad’s birthday a few years ago.  This board is so full now, that many of the pictures have been partially covered in order to make room for the recent additions.  

There are pictures of my beautiful college girl, when she was still a high-school girl, wearing her sparkly blue Show Choir dress and heavily applied stage makeup.  And there we are, the three of us girls, at her Backyard Graduation Picnic, still tan from our trip to Maui. Mixed among them all are old love notes that I will NEVER be able to get rid of.  Take this beauty for instance; Dear Mom, Love Nora, You are pritty.  You are cool.  I love you verry much.  I love you like your my puppy.  I love you as much as Jack.**

So try as I might, I can just never get this nook organized as well as I’d like.  It’s always messy.  There is always too much stuff here. But when you live with others, your life, too, becomes a collage.  It gets messy.  You overlap, you share, you collide.  

Writing Assignments

I am taking a writing course.  A Writer's Workshop.  It's online so I never have to leave home.  I can write in my jammies, with messy hair, with unbrushed teeth.  You know, just like when I'm blogging.  And I'm really enjoying it, although every time I have to "take a quiz," I panic wondering if I've read the material enough.  If I really know it.  (ridiculous)  Anyway, because I am overly obsessive, I spend far too much time on these "little" assignments.  So for a few weeks, these projects may become part of my blog.  I mean my blog is all about me.  And now, I'm writing.

Oh boy, and now I'm rambling.

Enough said.

Writing Assign. #2

A Candle...or Two

I love candles.  I have them in every room of my house, even my oldest daughter’s bedroom.  At least I did, until she packed them up and took them off to college with her. And presently, my pantry and linen closets are stocked with replacements, just waiting for their turn to light up a room.   What’s important to note, however, is that all of my candles are scent-less.  They have to be; I can’t tolerate them otherwise. Those overly perfumed blends of linen, or gardenia, or vanilla just make me nauseous.  Secondly, my candles are all white.  So they will go with everything.  And boom!  In a matter of a few sentences, you get a glimpse of the inner-workings of my personality.  Practical, structured, dare I say rigid?  God no, that sounds horrid!  But, in my defense, WHO  lights candles in the middle of the day?  It’s 12:19, for heaven’s sake. That’s just plain wasteful. I’m not looking for ambience at this hour.  I’m not looking for calm.  I’m trying to get things done, like laundry and writing assignments.  However, to prove to myself that I can splurge a bit, that I can be a rebel, a rule-breaker, I lit one.  Make that two; I was feeling crazy!   And one of them is even brown!  A brown one that had been long forgotten. Hidden on the floor of the pantry behind plastic grocery bags,  the dusty crock pot, and rolls of paper towels.  Lord knows how long it’s been sitting there collecting dust.  And just like that, in the middle of the day, I lit them!  With the little, red Bic-lighter I found wedged in the sofa cushions this summer after an out-of-town trip that left my nineteen-year-old in charge.  But it was all I could find at the moment.  The clicker is out of fuel and the matches that I was supposed to buy at the grocery store this morning, were somehow forgotten despite the numerous times I checked and double-checked my list.  And now they are burning, both of them, just like they’re supposed to.  My little glass-encased white one is going strong, just like I knew she would.  The wax is melting evenly, on all sides, the yellow flame flickering wildly in every direction.  So wild, that I feel compelled to look around for an open window, anything that would cause such spastic movement.  Her partner, the much bigger, much browner one is struggling.  Although twice the size of the Harlem Shaker, Brownie’s flame seems tiny, reserved, afraid to burn strong or high.  So I pull her closer to me, right next to the keyboard, much to the dismay of Whitey, and tell her I’m sorry.  I’m sorry I’ve kept you locked in the pantry for so long, with The Ugly Ones, only to be brought out in times of emergency.  I spin her around and around yet, still, she burns quietly, calmly.  I even blow on her, gently encouraging her to rise up.   But she does not.  She seems content, happy to let her much bolder neighbor outshine her.  And I sigh.  I know what it’s like to be out-shined.  To hide inside yourself, your walls.  But not anymore.  Today is your day Brownie.  And I blow out the raging flamer behind her, put her back on the round coffee-table in the living room, where she can smoke and fume and smolder all she wants.  Her time is up for the day.  Then I push Brownie back, just a little.  Just far enough away that I don’t bump her with my arm as I type.  And there she’ll stay, even though it’s the middle of the day, keeping me company, while I finish my writing and my daily chores.  And when dinner-time comes, and darkness rolls in, I will place her Front and Center, in the middle of the dining room table, so she can show me, and everyone else, that it’s her time to shine.  

Four Days to Portland!

In exactly four days, Dave and I will be saying goodbye to T-Town and heading to Portland for TWO WHOLE DAYS!  Initially, this grown-up getaway was going to take us even further south, to sunny southern California.  But our air miles proved much less valuable than first thought, and coordinating flights and child-care was proving overwhelming.  But this mom and dad would not be swayed.  We opted for somewhere closer, got the dog scheduled to ship off to Grampa's, got big sister scheduled to come home from college for the weekend to look after little sister and are now ready to go.  It may not be the sunny destination we were dreaming of, and yes we may encounter rain and wind, but we will be doing so without having to be responsibile for anyone but ourselves.   Instead we will be eating, drinking and making merry.  Okay--we may not be doing too much drinking, for if I do I won't be doing any merry-making, just a lot of sleeping, and snoring, and probably drooling.

Here's what's on the itinerary:  Should we choose to follow it:

1. Sleeping in late....you know, until at least 7:00 (hopefully)

2. Going to Peets for fancy lattes

3. Eating, at least once, at the Lucky Labrador Pub (What can I say, we'll need to get our "dog-fix")

4. Drinking wine (okay maybe at least one IPA, it is Portland, after all) but really probably mostly just      wine....... and probably not that much either... See above

5.  Cruising on two-wheels

6.  Shopping at Title-9 Sports

7.  Perusing a bike shop or two 

Here's what we will NOT be doing:

Standing in the cold, outside of Voo-Doo Donuts....

Been there, done that....and for what?  A maple bar with bacon?  Why would they ruin the perfect donut with bacon?  No thanks.   I'll just wait til I get home and go to the best: Pao's

So the count-down has begun.  And I am excited.  It's not often, it's not even remotely often, that Mr. Larson and I get away together.  Just the two of us.  And I feel like Christmas is coming.  They way I felt when I was a kid and Christmas was coming.  Not like now, as an adult, when you just want it all to be over.  And then, like that, it is.  

Timer

My First "Official" Writing Task

(Note:  Not an Assignment, Apparently They are Different)

Go:

I set the timer.

I put the fake-cheese topped Triscuit in my mouth and shut my eyes.  I started to think and chew and think.  But mostly chew.  It's pretty hard to hear one's thoughts while chewing Triscuits.  

Finally, the chewing is done.  That "cheese" did not taste good.  Is it really even cheese?  More importantly, is this even a "real" writing task?  

Am I following the instructions of a "real" teacher?  Or merely playing The Fool.  This is my first on-line course--ever--mind you.  And is my teacher REALLY who her picture says she is?  Or am I taking instructions from  a bunch of college students.  English Majors, who are right now laughing their heads off because they actually "got another one" to fall for this.

Can my neighbors see me right now?  If so, what are they thinking?  Do they think I'm praying, sleeping?  Do they think I've had a stroke and can't move?  

God!  How LONG is one minute?  

I really want to open my eyes.  I can feel them fighting me to stay closed.  

I caved.  I peeked.

Oh my God!  I never hit start!

On Becoming Self-Reliant

Yesterday could have been the day. Yesterday SHOULD have been the day. The day I took my recently acquired skills and became The Self-Reliant Cyclist of my dreams.

But it wasn't; because I panicked.  

Half-way through my second lap at the park, I heard it.  The sound that had put off making its arrival for so long.  So long, in-fact, that I thought I'd been blessed: one of The Lucky Ones.  No such luck.  The sound I was hearing, the sound I was trying my best to ignore, to wish away, was most definitely the thu-ud, thu-ud, thu-ud of a tire going flat.  

I even tried to fool myself into believing it was "just the wind," muffled through my headband.  Though the ears may lie, the fingers do not.  And my pointer-finger was definitely leaving an impression on my oh-so-soft back tire. 

Of course--it HAD to be the back tire.  The tricky one.  The one with the derailleur.  The one we did NOT practice removing in our "Fix Your Flats" class at the bike shop. But that's okay.  I had practiced this a little at home.  In my garage.  With Dave standing nearby.  Not that any of that practice served me well yesterday, because, as I said, I panicked. 

Instead of calmly assessing the situation, I called Dave and requested a ride home.  Because, I claimed, I wanted to change it in the garage; where I'd feel less anxious, where I'd be away from the doubting eyes of passing cyclists.  Even the nice ones who offered me their spare tube.  

"Oh no," I replied all smiles.  "I've got one.  I'm good."  But I wasn't.  I was five miles away from home and it felt like the other side of the world.  

"Even after all that practice," he asked, through the phone?  Which was really his way of telling me not to be such a baby.  It's just a flat tire.  And he was right. I had practiced.  I was being a baby.  

"Ya, I'll just do it at home.  With the big pump."  I wasn't fooling either one of us one bit.  But I pressed on, and after I reported my location, he said he was on his way. 

Instantly, I felt better.  And just as fast, I felt even worse.  What was I doing?  It wasn't too cold out.  It wasn't raining.  I had a nice patch of green grass to myself, somewhat removed from the road traffic.  Heck-I even had a nice view of the water if I craned my neck a bit.  And so I began.

I removed my wheel, laid my tools out on the grass, and got to work.  And with only one tire lever, I did it!  I fixed my own flat!  I couldn't believe it.  Maybe I am a real cyclist.  Despite my back-up crew that was currently en route, maybe I am self-reliant.

Then he rolled up, my roadside hero.  But, upon seeing my handiwork, he didn't gush congratulations.  Instead, he asked, "well, why am I here?"  

And from beneath my drooping head band, from behind the sunglasses I didn't really need, but was so glad to have at that moment, I mumbled, "to put my wheel back on, apparently."  Because, for some reason, I could NOT get my wheel back into the frame correctly.  No matter how hard I tried.  Or how hard I banged it around.  Which probably didn't help matters, but I was pretty frustrated at that point.  

So that's what he did.  In about ten seconds.  Maybe less.  It was that fast.  Then he offered me a ride home, which I declined.  I needed to ride.  I needed to find a big hill and ride up it--repeatedly.  I need to show myself I'm not a baby.  Although, I had to admit, I really just wanted to get home.  This was my first repair and I wasn't really all that confident it would hold.  So I thanked him again and pedalled away, humiliated.  

While I waited for that dreaded moment when he'd catch up with me, ask if I  was okay, if I needed anything else, I decided to stop at the mini-mart on the way home to pick up a Kit-Kat for him.   King-Size!  He earned it.  Then he was there.  I tried not to look at him, looking at Jack, his trusty steed, instead.  Jack, who was looking at me with a confused expression.  Wondering why I wasn't in the trails.  Why HE wasn't in the trails with me.  And why I wasn't getting into the car.  (oh, by the way, I can read my dog's mind--we are THAT tight)

"Still holding air," he asked?

"Yep.  Thanks!  See ya at home!"

And then they were gone, turning left where I'd turn right. 

Ah... Self-Reliance...it's a process.  

Pedal on....
S-

Another Round of I Heart Thursdays

Yesterday was a good day.  So good, in fact, I feel like reporting about it:

1.  I didn't have to pack a school lunch because it's Thursday.  And as I've reported previously,    Thursdays are the only days NJ will buy lunch, because they serve PB&J.

2.  I wrote.  I wrote on my blog (obviously) and I started my Writer's Workshop

3.  I ate lunch.  With Dave.  We had Cream of Potato Soup (that I didn't make)

4.  I made brownies.  And then I ate brownies.

5.  I took my kiddo to the library (to re-check-out "The Hobbit") and to the toy store so she could spend her hard-earned money (okay not really hard-earned) on a new figurine--to add to her collection of figurines.

Sometimes I just LOVE Thursdays

The Patron Saint of Cyclists

I decided this year would be the year I advanced from "casual-neighborhood-coffee-shop-rider" to that of "real cyclist."  The time has come for me to log some real miles, climb some real hills.  Heck, maybe even a mountain!  I'm ready to stay on Dave's wheel, rather than draft from afar because I fear sudden stops and painful collisions.  Finally, I want to overcome my fear of hard left turns precariously placed at the bottom of a hill. Again, for fear of crashing.

I'm not sure what prompted this decision. I'm not exactly sure how, or when, anyone knows when it's time to  bump up their game. Is it determined by miles logged? Making it up Owen's Beach Hill?  Finishing the STP or Ramrod?  Or is it simply by becoming a subscriber to Bicycling Magazine?  The answer is  probably different for everyone.  At any rate, I knew I was ready for a new challenge, and since my running is still hit and miss, the timing seemed right.  

Like many people, I learned how to ride a bike when I was a little kid, so, technically, I haven't been a newbie for a long time.  But riding as a kid was different.  Back then I simply rolled up my jeans, hopped on my bike, and away I went. I never worried about my chain coming off, repairing a flat, or wondering if I had enough Cliff Shots in my back pocket.   I don't even know if I wore a helmet, probably not. 

In order to make this leap now, I knew I needed to do two things: first, become a self-reliant cyclist (one who can fix her own flats, thereby increasing her  confidence on long, solo rides away from home) and second, buy new shoes, of course. So to get things rolling, (no pun intended) I "enrolled" in Tacoma Bike Shop's "Mechanic Mondays."  I don't think they actually titled these classes, but, hey, it sounded catchy. Nor did I actually "enroll," they weren't that formal.  I did, however, RSVP on their Facebook page.  And, despite my fear of being the only girl in a very male-oriented environment, I went.  Every Monday in January I went.  Sometimes alone, sometimes with Nora, and finally, with Dave.  But really, he just came to  the last class to hear M.B. talk about his travels, and for the wine.  And I am SO glad I went.  I enjoyed every minute of them.  I learned how to change a flat tire, adjust my brakes, and even deal with some other mechanical issues on the road.  And all for free!  

So with my new skills in hand, I was ready to move on to Step Two. Admittedly, I had been pretty happy with my old shoes.  The shoes my friend Chuck sent me from the bike shop he works at in Worcester.  However, since they started this cycling journey with me last year, I felt a little sad about dumping them.  We had logged a lot of miles together.  They carried me up the big hill at Point Defiance, and eventually (with encouraging words from Dave) up the hill from Owen's Beach.  They have carried me to Steilacoom and back, pushing me up Chambers Creek Hill, or dragging me along depending upon the day, so often Dave now refers to that loop as "Sonja's Ride."  They endured the rollers when I was too wimpy it was too cold for me to ride outside.  They took me to the Starbucks in Dupont for my very first DD (even though I could not, should not, would not, partake in the drink this ride is named for.  I will never be that tough.) They took me up and down the snow-covered hills of Bainbridge Island last year during my first Chilly Hilly.  They were with me in Chelan as I rode the Cycle de Vine.  Which was a beautiful ride, by the way, AND came with a certificate for free wine!  After the ride, of course. They were with me on my birthday: 45 miles on my 45th.  And, finally, they were with me on that beautiful day last summer when I rode my first 50 in The Tour de Peaks.  Everything about that day was perfect. The sun was out, the sky was blue, we rolled through beautiful farmlands on perfectly smooth country roads. We rode past barns, cows, fields of flowers, and then returned to my riding partner's house where we waited for the slowpokes (those 100 milers) to show up as we sipped on Coronas while cooling off in her pool.  So, yes, those old shoes have been good to me. 

Despite our history, though, it was time.  Dave said so: "They aren't real road shoes."  Enough said.   So with him in tow, and my Smartwool socks in my bag,  (to make sure the new shoes fit with my "warm socks" on)  off we went to the bike shop. And then it was right back home so Dave could "fit them" for me.  Then, with his trusty black Sharpie and a few strips of masking tape, he very scientifically proceeded to locate the ball of my foot inside a shoe that I have decided feels akin to wearing a ski boot.  The bottom is so stiff and hard, if I hadn't put my foot in there myself, I would not have believed it was in there.  But it was.  And somehow he worked his magic, getting my cleats attached.  

Finally, I hopped on the rollers to try them out.  Oh my gosh! These were not like my old pedals at all.  I couldn't even get unclipped!  I was going to be stuck in Dave's smelly, old, man-cave forever!  Thank Gosh he recently put a TV in there. 

"Just keep practicing," he said.  "They're just new."  This from the man who has been cycling from birth. Heck, probably in the womb.   

When the next day dawned, blue-skied and sunny, I knew it was going to be The Day.  The day I prove to myself that I can do it.  I can get my foot out. I can get a few laps in at Pt. Defiance without falling over sideways onto the Five-Mile-Drive right in front of God, deer, rabid-looking raccoons and--heaven forbid--another cyclist.  I would be a Real Cyclist.  

Despite my complete confidence in my mechanic's husband's abilities, I was a little nervous about this ride.  I still felt I needed a little help from above.  Surely there must be someone watching over us cyclists.  Someone whose job it is to keep us safe from potholes, foul weather, nasty drivers who don't believe in sharing the road.  Not to mention those afore-mentioned pesky mechanical problems.  So, of course, I ran to the computer.  

Meet Madonna del Ghisallo, aka Our Lady of Ghisallo and Madonna of Ghisallo.  The Patron Saint of Cyclists.  

According to legend, and Wikipedia, the Medieval count Ghisallo was being attacked by bandits when he saw an image of Virgin Mary at a shrine. He ran to it and was saved from the robbers. The apparition became known as the Madonna del Ghisallo, and she became a patroness of local travellers. In later times, Madonna del Ghisallo (the hill) was made part of the Giro di Lombardia bicycle race.

A local priest, Father Ermelindo Vigano, proposed that Madonna del Ghisallo (the apparition) be declared the patroness of cyclists. This was confirmed by Pope Pius XII. Nowadays the shrine of Madonna del Ghisallo contains a small cycling museum with photos and artifacts from the sport. There also burns an eternal flame for cyclists who have died. 

Immediately, I felt better.  I kissed her--right through my IPAD--because that's what you do right?  You kiss the statue, the shrine when you wish to be blessed?  I'm Lutheran, so this is a bit out of my league.  At any rate, with her blessing, I was off.  

And she took good care of me. There were no crashes, no falls, no embarrassments. As a matter-of-fact, the only thing she could have helped with was my spitting. Despite my years of running, and now riding, I have yet to learn how to spit like a man. Honestly, though, I don't blame her for choosing not to intervene.  As my jacket now clearly demonstrates, spitting is disgusting.  

Then, before I knew it, I was back home.  Safe and sound.  So, thanks Madonna!  For keeping me safe, for keeping me upright.  And thanks, too, to Dave.  For working his magic like always.  

S-

P.S.  I do know that my confidence as a cyclist will only come from practice, miles logged.  Not from what I wear, or how I look.  But it is kind of fun to play the part, even if I am probably the least flashy cyclist on the road.  And there are some "pretty flashy ones" out there.  Let's just say I have seen jerseys that make my head spin.  As for the shorts, I can only say--just black.  Always black. Never anything but black.  Got that boys?

The End of a Chapter

While Anna was home from college at Thanksgiving, she and I went to see "Twilight: Breaking Dawn, Pt. 2." Now, before you guffaw my taste in movies, let me explain.

As mothers (parents) we all strive to find things to do with our kids as they grow, to keep that mother-child connection strong.  These activities are different for every family, but they can come in the form of sports, crafts, shopping.   For Anna and I, it's always been books and movies. When she was much younger, she got hooked on the Harry Potter series.  Because of her enjoyment, I tried (a little) to engage in them as well.  However, after reading the first one, I just knew they weren't for me. I did, however, continue to purchase all the books for her, and, over the years,  sat beside her in the theaters watching them come to life on the big screen.

I watched Harry grow into a fighter, all the while maintaining his humility. I watched him become a good friend, a good student, and a young man who cared about his world.  All of which I am now witnessing in Anna as she transitions from young lady to full-fledged adult.

While these movies were certainly not my favorites, and probably nothing I would have ever watched if she "hadn't made me," today I can say I'm so glad she did.  For those movie dates were our time to connect, to chat, to just enjoy each other without any of the middle school, high school, teenage distractions getting in the way.  Okay, maybe I'm making more out of those movie sessions than she would.  I know I was really just "the bank,"  there to pay for the tickets and the heavily buttered-popcorn, but I loved those dates--more than anything.  I loved how she watched wide-eyed, making sure they got it "just right."  Mostly, though, I loved it when she put away her cell phone, shutting out the whole world, for just a little while, except for me and Harry.

So as we walked out of the theater last summer, after saying our final goodbyes to the all-grown-up Mr. Potter, I felt a bid sad.  I felt as if I, too, was walking out of the theater with a much different, much more grown-up version of Anna.  And, although she's been at college for a year and a half,  it still felt like the end of an era, her childhood era.

I know there will be other films, other books that we will share, because that's what we do.  That's our thing.   But none of them will evoke those special childhood memories.  None of them will bring to mind the sweet, little, blonde girl who would sit outside--for hours--on the front step, completely engrossed in her latest book.

Anna--The Reader

Or the girl who had to drag her books everywhere we went, even if it was just a five minute trip to the grocery store.  Or the little girl who begged me to take her to the midnight showings of the afore-mentioned movies.  We never went.  I may have been the buyer of many, many books, but I was a stickler for bedtime.

But kids grow up.  That's what they do.  Although her coveted collection of HP books still reside on her book shelf,  Platform 9 3/4 is, for us, officially closed.  And the poster she gladly accepted that day last summer (despite being an official adult) hangs in her nearly empty bedroom.  A sign that her time with us, too, is coming to a close. 

This says it all

Thus, watching the final "Twilight" movie, evoked similar feelings in me.  And as the credits rolled, we were both surprised to see the names and photos of all the actors who had played a role in making this one of the most sensational movie series ever.   It was a sweet trip down Memory Lane, Twilight Style.  As the last name scrolled off the screen, I almost expected to see the name "Anna Larson" on the list.  Just to let me know (in case I somehow missed it) that my teenage daughter has, in fact, grown up.   So when Anna turned to me and said, "that was so nice of them to list all their names, but sad too.  As if they won't be a part of us again."  I could only agree.

S-

P.S.  Surprise!  Platform 9 3/4 hasn't officially closed after all.  Nora is now a huge fan having read all of her sister's hand-me-downs.  And the movies are still getting played fairly regularly.....whenever Anna comes home from school, or we take a long drive in the car.

The End... Already?

I just read that next week is the season finale of "Downton Abbey!"  

Already?

How can that be? 

Didn't it just start? 

Last night's episode was SO good! And I  have to say I am so happy that Bates is out of prison, even if he is way too old for cute, little Anna.  I was getting tired of that story and I could never understand what they were saying through all that muttering, down-low, prison-talk and the laying the knife to the throats of one another.  Akk! 

And poor Thomas, I almost felt bad for the old fellow.  No, I did.  But he really did go about it ALL wrong....sneaking in like he did, like a thief in the night.  Just so wrong.  

Back in Action

Nora Jane has been home sick--for three days!  

She had the fever, the coughs, the sniffles, (the endless sniffles), the purple under her eyes.  In short, she looked like crap, and felt like crap.  

But as of last night, all that was gone.  And Nora Jane was back in action.  She even felt well enough to make herself a duct-tape purse!  

modeling her latest creation

And when that was done, she made her dad a VERY BIG wallet, and made me a bag for my knitting needles.  Then this morning, she made her BFF, Meredith, a smaller version of her own purse.  And she couldn't wait to give it to her.  But when I asked her if she was going to take her purse to school, she replied, "nah, I don't have anything to put in it."  

Nora's really more about "the process," than the outcome. 

Keep well :)

S-