Monday, December 31, 2012

Bring it, 2013

Our house, prior to global warming.
New Year's Eve for me evokes a melancholia, as I reflect on the story of my time here, which seems to unfold quicker and quicker as the years march on.

As many poets have said, all change is tinged with melancholy, for we leave behind a part of ourselves.

Melancholia can be a good thing, as it gives yin to the yang of pure joy, salt for the sweetness of happiness. Songs of great beauty can be written in a minor key.

Instead of looking back on the past year, I'd like to look forward to what lies ahead in 2013.

-I make absolutely no resolutions on January 1st. Wait, that's a resolution.

-Oldest turns 17 and probably gets her driving license. Many visits to colleges are in store, as we decide which university will get most of our hard earned money and quite a bit of Oldest's liver.

-frontal cortex development continues for 15 year old Trouble. Thank you, God.

-LB goes to middle school and turns 12. It is officially time to get rid of that baby weight. Ha.

-Coach and I continue to travel through our middle aged marriage together, thankful that most of my midlife crisis has passed. Waiting to see if Coach falls down the rabbit hole, but I doubt it. Give that man a football game to watch, a steady job that pays the bills and an occasional snog and he manages just fine.

-Thousands of drivers face imminent peril as they travel Maryland roadways. See comment about driver's license, above.

-our friends face tough end of life decisions as they say final goodbyes to elderly parents Questions are raised and deeper levels of faith, or a deeper disillusionment for it, follows.

-Coach and I travel to New Orleans for Jazz Fest. The kids re-create scenes from Lord of the Flies as they muddle through at home. God bless whoever plays Piggy.

- In July, we go on a family vacation to the shore with Coach's family- 7 brothers and sisters, mother, and 20 or so grandchildren.

-In August, my hangover goes away. Damn Irish.

-In September I mark the one year anniversary of Small Blue Thing. I'm thinking of having a small get together in my backyard to celebrate. All followers invited. I think I can fit all 8 of you.






Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Mary, Mary Christmas

"When [Mary] surrendered herself to God, there was indeed a miraculous New Heaven and New Earth. The Spirit entered the world- light and wisdom and love, patience, fortitude, and joy entered the human heart and mind, and in the sight of God a springtime of loveliness woke in the world."
                                                                                                             The Reed of God
                                                                                                             Carryl Houselander


For Christians, Christmas is a time to celebrate the birth of Christ. As a mom of three growing children, I find I identify more with Mary during this season. The story of a fourteen year old girl issuing the Christ child, full of the knowledge she will almost immediately lose him to the world, has always fascinated me.

Mary wasn't a woman full grown, she was basically a child. When her son was brutally tortured and crucified  she was only 47 years old, my current age. And yet, she carried this enormous responsibility with grace and dignity, a dignity that's clearly expressed in her Magnificat, a poem from Luke's gospel, one of the earliest Jewish-Christian canticles written.


My soul doth magnify the Lord : and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour.
For he hath regarded : the lowliness of his handmaiden.
For behold, from henceforth : all generations shall call me blessed.
For he that is mighty hath magnified me : and holy is his Name.
And his mercy is on them that fear him : throughout all generations.
He hath shewed strength with his arm : he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts.
He hath put down the mighty from their seat : and hath exalted the humble and meek.
He hath filled the hungry with good things : and the rich he hath sent empty away.
He remembering his mercy hath holpen his servant Israel : as he promised to our forefathers, Abraham and his seed for ever.
Glory Be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost;
As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.)
                                                                                          Book of Common Prayer


I am hesitant to think Mary actually spoke these words. But Luke's poem expresses the woman he and others living at that time knew her to be.

Over the years, I have had quite a struggle with the divinity of Christ, as told by the story of the Angel Gabriel descending to inform Mary of Nazareth she has become impregnated with the child of God.

I'm willing to bet Joseph was glad God decided to stop at one.

This doubt used to cause me great stress. For a number of years I considered myself an atheist; then, as my practice of yoga developed and I learned more about Eastern religions, I practiced a general spirituality. Reading The Life of Pi, one of my favorite fables wherein a boy decides to follow multiple religions instead of only one, further confirmed my agnosticism. I also love earth religions, such as the faiths practiced by many American Indian tribes.

I found that atheism, a faith in it's own right, was not right for me. If there's one thing age has given me, it's the gift of uncertainty. I'm just not willing to bargain that my pitiful brain contains the universe's highest form of knowledge. I can't even remember the location of my car keys.

Love is a powerful tool. Too powerful, I think, to spring only from electrical impulses and nerve conductance.

These days, I am very grateful for my Catholic upbringing as I feel it provides a firm jumping off spot for the consideration of my place in the world. I am no longer concerned with my uncertainties about the stories of my religion; conversely, I enjoy the process of questions and the answers they uncover. I employ a little less logic and a greater acceptance of letting unexplainable events just lie.

A raw oyster looks absolutely disgusting, and has the consistency of snot. Yet, I find oysters delicious and completely addictive. Unexplainable. Doesn't bother me a bit these days.

As Carryll Houselander relates in The Reed of God, "The wind of the Spirit had beaten on the door, rattled the windows, tapped on the dark glass... One day a girl opened the door, and the little house was swept pure and sweet by the wind. Seas of light swept through it, and the light remained in it."

Mary may not be the Mother of the Christ; Jesus may not be the Son of God. But Jesus was a man so extraordinary, he didn't just make the world a better place while he was living in it, his presence has provided hope for many for thousands of years since his death. (Of course, horrible things have also happened under the auspices of religion. But that's a story for another day.)

Jesus' words speak of love and respect, for all, including women, a segment of the population not exactly highly regarded in his time.

Mary, of course, holds precedence over all. Jesus so loved his mother. And by many accounts never married.

It just occurred to me Jesus may have been gay. Now I love him even more.

Mary Christmas, everyone.






Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Convent Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Tis the week before Christmas
and all through the Convent,
Not a thing seems different.
Can it really be Advent?

(Oh yeah? You try rhyming convent. Wiseacre.)

As you might expect, the All Saints sisters don't buy in to the commercialism of the holidays. No lights are strung, no wreaths adorn doors. There's no tree decorated with ornaments and tinsel, and no garland on the mantel.

There's not even a trace of a blow up lawn ornament waving in the wind at the entrance to the chapel.




There is one addition to the altar- a lush, fragrant Advent wreath with fresh greens and candles as thick as my wrist.














Also present is a contemplative silence, heightened by a profound anticipation.





At the end of this week the sisters will assemble a cresh in the nave of the chapel. Constructed of wood and straw, the cresh conveys in the simplest way one of the most complex miracles of the Christian faith.

Both my house and the house at All Saints share the emotion of anticipation- theirs for the coming of the Christ child, and my kids' anticipation of their own Christmas miracles- an Ipod Touch for LB, the first season of Modern Family for Trouble, and the entire clothing inventory of Anthropologie for Oldest.

My husband anticipates an oxygen tank and a walker, as he will likely require these items after practically painting the entire house in the last week. I anticipate 50 family members descending upon our house on Christmas Eve.




I hope to be mindful of the simple message of peace and serenity offered by my friends at the convent as I rush headlong through the upcoming days.

Happy, Happy Holidays to all of my blog world friends.

"Maybe Christmas," he thought,
"doesn't come from a store.
Maybe Christmas… perhaps…

means a little bit more."
                                            Dr. Seuss

Friday, November 30, 2012

Saints Alive it's the Buddha

 This past Tuesday Catholics celebrated the feast of St. Josephat.  I started to read a bit about him and I found his history very interesting. Turns out Josephat plagiarized the Buddha.



 Jumpin' Josephat, he even poses like the Buddha.



















That's the type of nonsense that can get one kicked out of the University of Enlightenment.

The complete story of Josephat's path to sainthood can be found here. Below is Wikipedia's drive-through version:

According to the legend, King Abenner  in India persecuted the Christian Church in his realm, founded by the Apostle Thomas. When astrologers predicted that his own son would some day become a Christian, Abenner had the young prince Josaphat isolated from external contact. Despite the imprisonment, Josaphat met the hermit Saint Barlaam and converted to Christianity. Josaphat kept his faith even in the face of his father's anger and persuasion. Eventually Abenner converted, turned over his throne to Josaphat, and retired to the desert to become a hermit. Josaphat himself later abdicated and went into seclusion with his old teacher Barlaam.

Apparently this story caused a bit of a deja vu for some historians, who began to trace the story back.

It seems the Latin Josaphat was derived from the 11th century Greek Iasaph, which was derived from the 8th century Arabic Yudasaf, in turn derived from the 6th century Persian Bodisav, who originally transcribed the name from the original Sanskrit Bodhisattva. Bodhisattva is, of course, the Buddha. 

That is some game of Telephone. Thank goodness my kids weren't in charge, Josaphat would have ended up with some unfortunate name like Pee Pee Poopyhead.

Turns out, Josephat's story is almost identical to the story of the Buddha's childhood and young adult years.

*please hum "Circle of Life" from the Lion King here*

We're all playing the same game. Just with different names.

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Convent Tuesday, November 27, 2012


Some things in life are bad                                                                                                               
They can really make you mad
Other things just make you swear and curse                   

When you’re chewing on life’s gristle                      
        
Don’t grumble, give a whistle                              
              
And this’ll help things turn out for the best ..
.And ... (Music slides into the song)
... always look on the bright side of life ... (Whistle) 
Always look on the light side of life ... (Whistle)
                                                                               Monty Python
                                                                              

Although I have gotten a bit better at looking at the bright side of things, I am genetically programmed to see the glass as half empty.

It's been a bit of a struggle, fighting a natural pessimism, one driven by an overactive thought process. Life would often hand me lemonade and I would make lemons out of it.

Sometimes good karma disguises itself- by the time you realize it was in front of you, you've moved it to the side.

It can be difficult to stay out of your own way.

Thank God, with age came wisdom. Well, first came anxiety, then bitterness. I believe I am moving into the wisdom stage. Baby steps, baby steps.








Today the convent is bathed in an icy rain, drops dripping off of leaves, railings and rooftops.












It's easy to recognize blessings when I'm here, somehow they are clearer, brighter, much easier to see. I look out the window at the hazy mist and can not be more grateful for the day God has given me.


There's no questioning why I'm here, or wondering what I should be doing instead to better myself and my situation. I still handle some real life work on my Convent Tuesdays, but emails that might normally cause hours of anxiety are handled with a polite out of office reply.

All that anxiety can wait until tomorrow, and by tomorrow the problem may well have resolved on its own.

That lemonade is lookin' mighty tasty.

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

Convent Tuesday, November 20, 2012


It's very quiet at the convent today, the rooms hushed and still, the silence broken only by the occasional squeak of the sisters' rubber soled shoes as they travel the lengths of the halls.

I asked Mother what everyone was doing for Thanksgiving. She looked mildly amused as she informed me that the sisters would be doing the same as the general U.S. populace- gorging on turkey and lapsing into food comas.

"But wouldn't the sisters want to go home for Thanksgiving?" I innocently asked.

"They are home," was her gracious reply.

Well played, Mother E.

The kitchen sister, who is responsible for preparing an entire Thanksgiving feast for 13 nuns and assorted beasts of the field, was running in and out of the convent all day on forays to the local grocery stores.

One thing these women do not have a problem with is remembering to give thanks. I'm sure Thanksgiving Day at the convent will be full of small blue things, tiny moments of gratefulness piecing together to form a  blanket of warmth and love.

The sisters normally take all of their meals in silence, but Thanksgiving Day offers a break in the routine. I believe the din may be deafening as the sisters dig in to a well-prayed over Tom and all of the trimmings.

I certainly give thanks for being a small part of these women's lives.

From a Small Blue Thing-  a Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours!




Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Convent Tuesday, November 13, 2012

"A person who has not done one half his day's work by 10 o'clock runs a good chance of leaving the other half undone." Emily Bronte

Given the fact that their day begins at 5:30am, it is certain that the nuns of All Saints are in agreement with Miss Bronte's thoughts on the value of early morning labor.  Each of the sisters here is assigned a task, or several tasks, to complete each day. For most of the sisters the task involves one area of the house- for example, the kitchen, office or shipping. Thus, one gets used to seeing a particular sister in her own particular domain throughout the day.

Sister H is one of my favorite nuns at the convent. She has been a religious for many, many years, entering the Order in her twenties and staying within the same Order for the last 40 years or so. She is extremely gentle and soft-spoken, truly one of the kindest individuals I have ever had the pleasure to know. Her capacity for caring is huge, and she often surprises me by inquiring after someone who I may have mentioned in passing weeks or months before.










Sister H's domain is the laundry room, which is located in the bowels of the convent. 











Surrounded by noise and heat, H works in this room every day, processing an endless succession of black and white habits; washing, drying and ironing each piece. No surprise that the finished laundry exiting this room looks and smells heavenly, as the attention paid to each piece surpasses the attention I pay to my own children.




At the end of a long dark hallway filled with pipes and steam, the laundry room is not a place one would normally expect to find spiritual fulfillment.


H believes, as her fellow religious do, that any task performed, no matter how small, should be performed for the glory of God. She applies herself to what most people find to be an endlessly boring chore with a sense of fulfillment I rarely derive from any area of my life.









Through her patience and the tangible sense of contentment exhibited by every gesture, Sister H has taught me that true grace is not found through the greatest acts, but rather in the seemingly menial chores that fill our every day lives. You never know where you'll find a small, blue thing.

Monday, November 12, 2012

A Guy Named Joe

My dad Joe was a small man with a big personality. By small I mean small, maybe 5' 3" on a good day.  He married my 4' 11" mother and they produced a tribe of Keebler elves, of which I'm the last.

When Joe entered the Navy in 1942 at the age of 19, he did so willingly. This seemingly brave act, enlisting at the height of WWII, was not performed out of a sense of patriotism. Simply put, my dad was hungry. For food. The Navy offered three squares and a nifty white uniform. The possibility that said uniform might someday be soaked in his life's blood was a risk he was willing to take.

In fact, Joe's entry into the U.S. Navy did not mark the beginning of the end but rather the start of a new life. Through the Navy he met a friendly Italian fellow named Frank. Frank introduced Joe to his baby sister, Jean, thus unlocking a series of events ultimately culminating in the development of the great Maryland Elf dynasty mentioned above.

But that is the story of my beginning, which will have to wait another day for its telling. Today I speak of the end of my father's tale.
As I have already mentioned, Joe was vertically-challenged, a fact that did not go overlooked (pun intended) by his superiors. He was given the job of radioman, a perilous position which meant he had to  inhabit the tiny front seat of a two seater surveillance plane for many, many hours at a time.

One of my dad's main jobs was to make sure his plane was immediately hooked to the ship upon landing in the sea. In those days, this type of plane always landed in the sea behind the ship. A cable was thrown into the sea. One end was attached to the plane and it was then dragged alongside the ship.

Joe's job was to haul himself out of the cockpit, crawl along the wing and look for the hook. Once he spotted the hook floating in the ocean, occasionally surrounded by sharks, he would attach the hook to the plane. While the seas of the Atlantic heaved around him. And enemy ships circled. And my father's ship floated away from him on the 10 foot swells.
Perhaps Joe might not have minded climbing out onto the wing if he knew this little lamb chop awaited him.

















Not an easy job for anyone, much less a man whose sense of self-preservation once caused him to accidentally push me out of his way while rushing into the house during a lightening storm.



Think Bilbo Baggins in a military aircraft. You get the picture.






But God had something different in mind for my dad, one which did not involve a brave military death in high seas. My dad survived the war, and traveled to the one room Bronx apartment his friend Frank shared with his sister and parents. He swept my 99 lb mother off her tiny Italian feet, and whisked her away to start of a shiny, new life in a decrepit mobile home nestled in a trashy suburban NY trailer park.
Yes, Dad survived the War and went on to live a full middle class life. He took great advantage of the opportunities afforded him by the military, finishing four years of college in three and going on for a master's degree, all on the G.I. bill. After completing his college courses, he and my mom moved from New York down to Baltimore, to a Cape Cod house in the small town of Catonsville. In short succession three daughters were born. Nine years later (oops!) I came along to complete the picture of the American dream.

58 years after the end of WWII my father died after a 2 year struggle with Alzheimer's disease. He was laid to rest in a U.S. military cemetery outside of Baltimore. He was 80 years of age.

At the time of my father's death, a WWII veteran was being buried every 10 minutes. We had to wait 2 weeks for internment, and were not allowed to have a service at the graveside because of the instability of the soil from the newly dug graves surrounding his.




Today I visited my father's grave.






It was a beautiful day and I sat for a long while contemplating my surroundings. Row after row of stone slabs marched before me, each stating the identity and rank of the man or woman slumbering beneath.







Here and there others visited loved ones.

A son brought his mother, coaxing her from the car to stand over her husband or son.










A woman spread a blanket to lie next to her beloved husband, son, brother or friend.






And I sat on the cool ground, absorbing the waning November sun, engaging in a one-sided conversation with the best men I ever knew.

I lay back so I could take in Dad's view of things.

Not a bad spot, as final resting places go.  The guys on either side look like a pretty feisty bunch.

As I headed back to the car I thought of how proud I am of my father, for his service to our country, and for the life he carved out for himself and his family, one paycheck at a time.

I thought of the lessons he learned from a difficult childhood, the forthright manner in which he tackled adulthood, and the quiet joy that shone from his entire being every time he visited with one of us girls in his later years.

Happy Veteran's Day, Dad. Yours truly was the greatest generation.






Tuesday, November 6, 2012

Convent Tuesday, November 6, 2012

What a slaggard. Only a month or so back into the blogosphere and I've already missed a week.

In my defense I've been a bit busy the last few weeks, what with going away every weekend,









Halloween with the kids,















and Hurricane Sandy, which had a bit of a temper tantrum in my backyard.

Let me explain by starting with a  bit of back story. When we moved into our house thirteen years ago one of our first homeowner dilemmas we faced involved the siamese oak tree growing in the backyard. Joined at the roots, this behemouth was truly two independent trees that had decided to share a space and life together. We loved the joined trees but were concerned they might be unstable. Our dilemma was solved by an overpriced tree "expert", who looked up at the branches, pushed his baseball cap back, scratched his forehead, and declared the trees safe.

He also informed us that both trees were male, a pronouncement that made me immeasurably happy. What can be better than a backyard guarded by two mature trees in a loving gay relationship?

For thirteen years the trees and our family have shared joint ownership of our yard, and our children have grown up under their spreading branches.  Alas, this past Sunday tragedy struck, as Hurricane Sandy caused one half of the pair to completely lift up from its roots and crash to its death.

Those two creatures in the tree are LB and a friend.
Hurricane Sandy must be a religious conservative. I'm assuming she did not vote for Marriage Equality in today's election.

 But I digress. The demise of a loving tree partnership was not the end of the tragedy, as the falling oak also decimated our decrepit swing set ( unless my home insurance agent is reading this blog, in which case, er, I meant to write "brand new" swing set), took out a third of our fence, and crushed one of our bee hives.  

Little bee zombies were probably stumbling all around the yard on All Hallows Eve.




The remaining tree still stands, but is emotionally distraught, leaning listlessly to one side, and moaning quietly into the wind.

I believe it may be drinking heavily.











Today I sit at the convent, gazing at the lovely forested land around me and mourning quietly  the loss of one, and possibly two, of my long limbed friends. I will miss the gift of their shade, and the home they provided to the backyard fauna and my children as well.


Most of the trees at All Saints Convent were unaffected by the storm. Of the trees shown here, six are heterosexual.

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Convent Tuesday, October 23, 2012

I have a real affinity for libraries. Fiction, non-fiction, children's, periodicals, you name it, I can get absorbed in any section for hours.

As a child, my best friend and I would ride our bikes to the library at least three times a week to take advantage of the books and the blessed air conditioning. We wouldn't speak for hours; she in one corner intent on the latest trials of the Black Stallion, and I in the other corner immersed in Nancy Drew, her closeted gay friend George and her speedy yellow roadster.

Oh, the epithets Hannah Gruen must have muttered under her breath as she prepared midnight snacks for the overprivileged white folks in the front room.

As an adult, I've been on the board at my local library for many years and have donated countless volunteer hours.







Heck, I even had my wedding reception in a library.














Everything about a library engages my senses in the best way. The sight of the books marching neatly down the stacks, and the sound of the silence, interrupted only by an occaisonal voice, laptop keypads, and the rustle of turning pages.

But, oh the best part is the smell of the books. Organic and musty with a slight hint of binder's glue. If they bottled it I would wear it every day.

Eau de Geek, by Lancome. Henry Kissinger could be the spokesmodel.


The library at All Saints Convent is one of my favorite libraries. Not large in its physical dimensions, but immense in the sense of contemplative anticipation it bestows on any who enter.








Don't be fooled- the library mainly contains religious texts, most dealing with Catholicism, but these books are not for the faint of heart. Some of them are pretty exciting.

Don't mess with monks on the warpath.




As in most libraries, guests are expected to be silent. However, unlike most libraries, the silence that cloaks this room is joined by a spiritual peace as well. On a rainy day, I never want to leave.



Monday, October 22, 2012

Water Wisdom

This past weekend I had the great pleasure of visiting with friends at a house on the bay in Chincoteague, VA. No husband, no kids, no dog, cat, guinea pig or bees. The friends I visited are lifelong, some dating back to Ms. Giles' 2nd grade class at Catonsville Elementary School. Might I say, none of us have physically changed one bit since high school, at least in my eyes. Unfortunately, some of us haven't had much mental development either.

Theresa and her husband Dan own the house in which I stayed, a home that is as gorgeous as it is welcoming.
It is possible, when the sun is setting, reaching brilliant fingers of light across the bay, to experience soul calming happiness in this place.

"Find ecstasy in life; the mere sense of living is joy enough." Emily Dickinson

Normally my slightly cynical nature would find Emily's post a bit too full of cheese, but in this instance, girlfriend is right on.

I love spending time with these friends, although their ability to drink into the wee hours is often more than my liver is able to bear. This weekend they put up with my deficiencies with gracious hospitality, allowing me to escape as needed to my room, where I read my book by the light of a bedside lamp. Comforting sounds of the water outside and the drunken singing within lulled me to sleep. I dreamt of shorebirds and shots of tequila.

On Saturday we attended the famous Chincoteague Chili Chowder Festival, in which the toothless and toothful alike gather at the carnival grounds to witness a fierce chili and corn chowder battle between professionals and amateurs. Chincoteague oysters are also offered for sale. Perfectly salty and slimy.










Festival goers get to sample all of the offerings. The line that formed in front of the Road Kill Chili booth was long, a testament to the chili's award winning status. I found the taste of possum a bit too gamy for my liking.











People watching offered astounding opportunities, as the locals walking around were often spicier than the chili. Here's a picture of my friend Lisa with one of them:
 This gentleman's t-shirt read "I'm not a gynecologist...but I'll take a look". His hat identified him as a "Boob Inspector". He offered his services free to both Lisa and I. We declined.







The libations offered were not nearly as entertaining as the festival goers, but I thought the plastic taste of both the bottle and the cup offered a pleasing chemical addition to the palate.








After the festival we headed by boat to a small island near the mouth of the bay.






Theresa brought their dogs, who love to chase porpoises as much as they do cats. Max had to be restrained from jumping aft. He seemed to quiet down nicely once offered a cold cup of Viognier.















We were lucky to have the island to ourselves, except for a few defensive inhabitants.
We offered this guy a drink, but he had to decline. The absence of opposable thumbs made the Solo cup a bit too difficult to handle.



The day was breathtakingly beautiful. We sat under a cerulean October sky, with our toes in the sand and our spirits in the heavens.


My friend's little girl was busy, busy, busy, unaffected by the somnolence that overtook the rest of us as we sank into a bed of sand and sun.



Saturday evening I sat again by a window facing the bay, watching dusk dissolve sharp details, leaving behind a softened seascape that somehow seemed even more complete.


 "...But sound is never half so fair
As when that music turns to air
And the universe dies of excellence." 
Thomas Merton












Friday, October 19, 2012

LB turns 11

Last night LB invited 16 of her closest friends over for an EXTREMELY LOUD party to celebrate her 11th birthday. 





Seriously, air space around our house had to be cleared because of the sonic boom created by the screaming from this crew.









We surprised LB with a moon bounce for the evening. I watched the girls, without cessation, go from moon bounce, to bonfire, to dance party, to moon bounce, to dance party, to moon bounce... you get the picture.

The wax moustaches added a nice touch, I thought.

I hope the 5th grade boys are o.k. with dating hirsute chicks.

Eventually the party moved indoors for pizza and presents and EXTREMELY LOUD conversation.






The sugar in the soda caught up with LB- at one point she was standing on the table opening gifts.











So many presents, so many tchotchkes. Of course, LB immediately gravitated to the statement pieces.


A clown nose is always appropriate, in all situations.



The party lasted much longer than its scheduled 3 hours. The last straggler grabbed her goody bag and headed out the door near the end of hour five.

The whole evening left me feeling decidedly melancholy; the baby of the family is now 11, and time keeps marching forward.

Coach and I cleaned up the detris, not getting to bed until midnight or so. As LB aptly stated "This party was a rager."

A rager. As verified by the state of my face at the close of the evening: