Remembering Kim

Teagan found a flag at the playground this afternoon.  It was small, missing its stick, and frayed on the edges.  He began to fold the flag with his chubby fingers.  He folded one edge over the other, making little squares as he folded.  Seeing him take such care to fold his miniature flag over and over again brought back memories on this Memorial Day.  

I remembered sitting in a small, stark briefing room with three other Air Force Captains.  We were "escort officers" and we were "escorting" the remains of our friends, our fellow crew members, our squadron-mates who had died in a C-130 crash.  This tradition goes back to the Civil War, where a friend in the unit would bring a fellow soldiers' remains home to their family.  It was a supreme honor to do this.  

I was there for my friend, Kim.  We were pilots together at Dyess AFB, Texas.  As an "escort officer," I learned the protocol of folding the flag and of how to present it at the end of the funeral service.   With precision, you fold it tightly and it ends up in the triangle shape.  It was a long, sad journey to her final resting place at the U.S. Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, Colorado.  

My charge was to ensure all the military protocol was followed on her final journey.  At one point I had to insist on being allowed to climb into the cargo belly of a United Airlines plane to render the ceremonial salute...they had loaded her casket without letting me carry out the salute on the tarmac.  I would not let the plane depart until they let me into that cargo belly.  And being in my service dress skirt and heels did not slow me down from scurrying up the baggage loader while the ground personnel debated the legality of it.

I always think about many friends on this day.  Today, I am remembering Kim.

First Dip and such

First Dip

Calling all locals to the Art Center tonight.

Opening 6:30-9pm, good eats & treats.

And just for fun, here are my images from the previous juried shows at this spot:

Mystical Peace

Whatsoever is True

Breakfast

Catch!

Tales of Tails

Fans of Spring

This crisp Spring morning, we rode our bikes to school as usual.  Looking down as we rode, we discovered a kind of magic carpet--our sidewalk was covered in white Japanese flowering crabapple blossoms.  The gentle breezes from the lake blow these flowering petals off the trees that line our path.  Up to this point, I had experienced Spring in postcard form only.  Living most of my life in Florida and Texas, I've known Spring as that glorious two-week window when you can spend all day outside without sweating yourself into a dehydrated, red-flushed state.  Now that we have endured our first 'real' winter, we get to enjoy the beauty, bounty, and yes, reward, of Spring.  

I learn new things about where I live everyday.  I never knew that Spring brings not only the visual delight in everything colorful and lush--from tall tulips to meadow buttercups--but also the sound and smells that ring-in this season's arrival.  Buzzing honey bees pollinate right outside my office windows.  Sweet fragrances waft inside our kitchen with every breeze. Basketballs pound on asphalt in the playground.  Wake-up calls come early each morning outside our bedroom from birds returning to the North Shore.  And the choruses of play erupt with every recess bell.  

And baseball.  I know that I am truly a Chicagoan when I herald in the season' s arrival with the first pitch!

This is also new territory for my boys.  After school one day, L. lamented, "I want to be a Cubs fan. Mom, oh Mom, I wish I were a Cubs fan."  He went on and on, sounding as though he were being denied some essential pearl in life.  The baseball talk was obviously in full swing among the 4-6-year-old crowd, yet some basics of team worship were clearly eluding him: the fan's choice, for one.

"It's okay," I reassured him.  "You can be a Cubs fan."

"How, Mom?"

"You just say that you are--and then you are."

"What?" 

"You just say, 'I'm a Cubs fan!'  And then you become one."

What ensued next was one of the longest talks I've ever had in my life about any single sport! And at long last, his angst faded.

Yes, Spring in all its green glory and over-sized mitts is here.

"Oh happy day"

"Sons are the anchors of a mother's life."

-Sophocles

botanic garden bliss--brunch and tulips with my boys

Molo Mama

Continent: Africa.

Every month my son's class studies a different continent.  Parents are invited to volunteer their time to help the 3 to 6-year-olds explore a new continent.  

I have not been to Africa, but thankfully I could call upon my sister Caitlin, who spent a summer in South Africa volunteering with children.  She suggested I first teach the boys and girls how to say "hello" in the South African language of Xhosa--"Molo" and "Molweni." Hearing their sweet chorus of high voices echoing "Molo" and "Molweni" in perfect unison, I felt the oceans that separate us grow smaller for just a moment.  I also felt the instant intersection of contrast and connection--two continents with more than the separation of physical distance; two sets of young children whose sweet voices melt your heart, no matter your culture.

We sang a little melody in Xhosa that Caitlin had taught me.  But the highlight for the children was letting loose on all the instruments I brought to class.  I had envisioned the room coming alive to the beat of the African music playing in the background.  And alive it was: once those little hands hit the drums, there was no hearing anything but the loud, louder, and even louder drum beats.

I found all kinds of great African recipes to cook with the kids.  Spinach stew, lentils and rice, and couscous were at the top of my list.  When I relayed these options to L., his face looked identical to the time I gave away raisins for Halloween.  Not wanting to always be That Mom, I decided to go for a South African cookie, much to L.'s delight.  We added bananas and peanuts to the plates, reminding them of where some of "our" food comes from.

Here's the crowd, eating the "crunchies"  and drinking iced rooibos tea.  After the children patiently listened to the very long African folktale, "Where Stories Come From," one question remained, "Was that true?"

Images from our inspiration,  "Aunt Cait-Cait's" South African trip as a Warren Wilson College Worldwide participant.  Caitlin worked in Nynga Township with pre-school children, in a community affected like so many others by HIV/AIDS.

Bringing things full circle, as I write this post, our Aunt Roxie has joined a Florida hospice team trained to comfort terminally ill South Africans.  For this moment in time, it feels as if All roads lead to Soweto.

"Tell them I'm a knight," Mama.

Wouldn't it be great to have the inhibitions of a three-year-old again?  Then, when we needed a little boost to our day, a little more confidence on the playground of life, we could merely reach for that magic red cape and presto: another leap in our confidence meters.

T. can be spotted all around town in his notorious red cape.  From the train station to the library--countless mothers and grandmothers tell me all about their son(s) who would wear an equally treasured cape everywhere.

He has been asked on many occasions, "Are you Superman?"

He looks up at me.  Now, I no longer require a prompt.  I simply reply, "No, he's a knight."

Boys in Bloom

This morning, L. calls me into the bathroom for help before school..."Mom, how do I get this to work?"  He says this, holding up my blow dryer and looking at his wet locks in the steamy mirror, trying to figure out how to dry them after his shower.  The terry towel wrapped around his nimble waist trailed behind him onto the floor like a full length bridal veil.

Just to top off this week of independence, L. instructs Daddy to dismantle his training wheels after school on Friday.  Once wheels are off, he jumps on, and wobbly rides away.  By the time he comes back down the street, his ride is smooth, controlled.  He looks like a two-wheel veteran.

In a parallel way, this week mirrors my motherhood journey...many seeds of parental preparation, many nights of wondering, and then in the roar of the hairdryer, they are off...

and every cliche about growing up overnight echos in the clanking of the little silver wheels that take their resting place as they fall to the asphalt driveway.  

I can hardly take it all in before I'm barrelling down the street, trying to catch up with the fearless pedaler.  

Thank goodness for a three year-old in the house. 

T. loves Great-grandfather's trains.  

And he loves painting with pine needles.

And the full-body, full-sensory experience of it all.

Since everyone around me is full of firsts and creative spark, I tried something new this week, too.  I took a photo and tried turning it into a painting.  I spent waaaay too long in Photoshop only to create something that now looks like an out-of-focus, extremely low resolution file.  

I think my time might be better spent riding my "two-wheeler."