The Flying Guitar

The Matron is safely back from New Jersey and her mother? Recovering.

But a drama unfolded during her absence.

John on the phone to the Matron: "I can't find my guitar. I've looked everywhere -- each closet, every crevice, each room. It's gone. Who stole it?"

Yes, his 35 year old guitar -- a very expensive, lovely instrument -- went missing. While the Matron was driving her mother to various doctor appointments on the East Coast, John was searching the house. He looked in each child's closet. He climbed into all the storage spaces. Tore apart the workshop. That guitar was gone.

Note: John is a musician. He's written many songs and was, for a time in his youth, the lead singer in a band that toured the midwest. His main goal then wasn't actually artistic but hedonistic. The lead singer always gets the girl in the audience. Prospects always landed in the front row and found their way to him after the show. But that's another story. Remember, he's prettier than she is so his 'musical career' was fairly successful.

Now that he's an old married man without that guitar -- which brought him great luck (continuing today except maybe not so much the sex) he sat down the three children.

John: "This is REALLY important. Does anyone know where my guitar might be?"

Children in unison: "No."

Sleepless nights. Where could that guitar be? The Matron fretted from her perch in New Jersey. They both went over people in the house: could someone have taken it? Yours truly ran down the list of friends and family running in and out in the past two weeks -- impossible. Nobody would take that guitar.

Matron over the phone: "The side door is always unlocked. Someone stole it, I'm sure."

The dearly beloved was beside himself.

John: "I swear if I find that guitar I'll write four new songs in the next two weeks."

Matron: "Promise?"

John: "You know where it is!"

But no, she did not. However, any pledge toward art is held dear and she wanted a firm commitment, just in case.

Alas, no guitar materialized. The Matron returned home on Saturday and helped search the house and interrogate the children. Nothing. A friend of 35 years, gone.

Last night as John was helping Merrick (aka Meatloaf Head, another different story) prepare for bed, he paused in front of a large wooden chest that's sort of the marker of the second floor hallway.

He opened it.

There was the guitar, sitting atop the blankets and moth balls.

Let's just say there were tears and an instant song.

Merrick was witness to this miraculous discovery. He watched his dad sniffle and strum, and noted the reunion.

John: "How in the world did this get in here?"

Merrick: "Now I wemembew. I stole it fow Apwil fools and then fowgot."

Turns out that Merrick DID steal the guitar as an April fool's joke but the instrument was so heavy he dumped in the trunk instead of continuing to carry it to its final, concealed designation.

After interrogation, the Matron and her husband believed that Merrick knew he had taken the guitar but had forgotten where the instrument had landed. Still. That child kept his lips shut for five days while his father was in agony.

HWCBN came up with an excellent punishment. Scarlett had another excellent, different punishment -- both so severe that shackles and rope come to mind. Then they fought over which punishment was more appropriate.

So it's 10 pm at night. Everyone is arguing about Merrick's punishment; the culprit himself is still awake even though it's a school night and he's eight. John continues to sniffle and is completely without his senses as he ponders the discipline options offered by HIS OWN CHILDREN.

Matron: "We're done. Everyone go to bed. Parents decide consequences, not siblings, period. End of conversation."

HWCBN: "That's SO UNFAIR!"

Scarlett: "But a week without screens is the BEST thing!"

Matron: "End of conversation. Go to bed."

This morning, Merrick did indeed endure the first of three days of limited computer and television time -- okay, no computer or television time. But mom and dad made the call, not the brother and sister.

Most importantly?

John is upstairs in the family room right now, with his longtime friend, composing another song.

Here's his latest public splash . . . look for John Thompson and click 'listen.'

And the Matron is now locking the side door and happy that the one she loves is reunited with both her and his guitar. Strum away, darling. She'll watch Merrick during the desert season from screens.

What She Loves About her Children

1. They are hers.

2. He Who Cannot be Named? In-house tech support. Computer problem? Solved. Thanks HWCBN. Someone who can now reach to the higher shelves. Another man to rig open a stuck garage door. Transferring at-home argumentative skills to high school debate (and winning everywhere). The person who notices when someone is hurt or anxious and takes the time to help.

3. Scarlett? Um. . . is it bad to say that the Matron can google her daughter and get more links than for her own fine self -- and the child is 12? A young woman who can spend 12 hours a day working as a professional and still get straight A's. Someone who pauses everything to help the younger kid -- in any scenario--and who coos over babies. The girl who claims she will live on the island of Lesbos with her best friend, Eleanor, when they turn 18. Rejecting all things fast food (in theory) but falling numb at the thought of Subway ham and cheese sandwiches.

4. The little guy, Merrick? Can she just first say that when one has a 14 and 12 year old, the 7 year old is a precious commodity and unrivaled in the adorable factor, throughout the world. No child is more adorable. Perhaps that's enough? But let us consider his missing front tooth. How about the proclamation that he is "President of Dogs" and the proclivity to live out this destiny on the living room floor with as many dogs as possible? Then there's the day the Matron told him he could stay up (at a party) until he dropped --and Merrick asked "will it huwt when I dwop?" She could die now of love for this child (did she mention that youngest child bias yet?).

Today, HWCBN noted that he hadn't seen Scarlett in six days (note: read recent theater posts). There was also no school due to some teacher conferences that the Matron does not have the benefit of attending. So after picking up Scarlett for her two hour lunch break from the current theater (where she needed to arrive at like, dawn, and return to until, well, like midnight -- she just go home), the Matron stopped by the beloved Subway--to the tune of $25 for four people. What's up with that?!!

Yet upon returning home, all three children took their rare and unrivaled treat into the family room and spent an hour laughing and talking -- the first time they had been together in, well, six days. Their joy with one another -- pure and unfiltered -- is another thing the Matron loves about her children.

Well worth twenty-five dollars. Actually, don't let her even touch that checkbook.

Meditation

Yesterday, the Matron spent much of her time in the company of children. Expanse and energy abounded! There were a solid dozen of these spirits, racing through the yard (with hula-hoops, balls, rackets and joy) and making theater.

She spent some sober moments over a cut on the finger. It was an important finger ("Mary, this finger is my BEST useful") belonging to the world's clearly most adorable child, a seven year old girl with wire rim glasses, long hair, big eyes and a serious inclination.

Then there was the worry about rigging the curtain for the fifth annual backyard theater production. Here are highlights from last year. It is a full throttle all family, all friends and neighbors event involving many children, set design, audience, costumes, choreography and more. Every afternoon and evening, a bevy of young people come to produce, stage, design and star in their own theater show. On Saturday, over 100 people will gather for the performance.

The Matron, bless her, is in charge of food and leaves all that other stuff to Scarlett.

But yesterday, Scarlett and her friend Elle spent some time pondering the expanse of the curtain, how it draped and fell and shaded, what was right and needed perfecting. This took more time than yours truly had imagined. The girls felt the need to discuss all this with the Matron, who was chomping at the bit to get 'back to work.'

Then there were the problems with overalls for orphans in Annie (that's the play). Many needed alteration and device, pins and thread and needles. Again, time stalling as the parents attended to the whims and worries of children.

In the midst of all this -- while the Matron was, admittedly, impatient and determined to move on with life instead of tending to children and the massive family centered, kid-focused theater event she helped create (and now slightly dreaded) -- she noticed her across-the-street neighbors returning home.

From a funeral.

These are people who build stuff for a living. They do film and commercials -- the wife is a creative director and the husband builds sets.

The Matron has lived across the street from them for seven years and never once seen the man of the house outside of wardrobe completely utilitarian. Here is a man who hauls, hammers, cements, envisions and builds not only for a living, but when he's home. He's a truck and boat kind of guy, the person you want at your back when your car is under five feet of snow. When he's not in a t-shirt and jeans building stuff at work, he's doing the same at home. Their yard is a beautiful jungle, an adventuresome collection of foliage, flower and construction.

Yesterday, she watched as this couple emerged from a truck (no way would they have a car) after saying good-bye to someone they loved, deeply. He was in a stunning, impeccable gray suit; she was similarly outfitted. They were quiet and internally focused; they didn't notice the Matron pause while refilling water balloons for the 15 children running through the front yard.

She was sobered by the juxtaposition: here, in the midst of chaos, children, delight and energy, all possibilities unbound and optimistic and there, just across the street, the march toward the death we all face and the interminable loss of those we love.

Then the husband opened the back of the truck and hauled out a box full of shrubbery and flowers.

"Back at it?" he called to his wife.

Of course, she said.

That's life. The future, the moment, the unimaginable end. The getting on with what's in front of us.

This realization allowed the Matron to return to the play, cut --the useful finger--the curtain and all the rest with new appreciation, and a wee bit of joy and an awareness of her own brevity.

The Matron vs Commerce + He Who Cannot Be Named

Yes, the Matron had several complete psychological breakdowns during the two and a half week epic family road trip, totaling 27,400 miles (not that she's counting) and seven states. Most of these schisms were directly related to the volume in the back of the van, where children were arguing--not a lot, really, but just enough to make her want to rip someone's scalp from the bone.

She was calm that way.

But the one organic, completely internal psychosis involved chain stores. At every stop -- and there were many -- sat a McDonald's, Subway, Wal-Mart, Target, Radio Shack, Super America, Burger King, Wendy's, Arby's and more.

Merrick: "Can we have Buwgew King?"

Scarlett: "MOM, DAD!! THERE'S A SUBWAY!! I WILL DIE WITHOUT A SUBWAY SIX INCH SANDWICH."

He Who Cannot Be Named (HWCBN): "Hey!! Hey! One more McDonald's. I can't believe we've been on the road for five days and I haven't eaten at McDonald's. Man."

Matron: "HWCBN, I would consider that statistic a source of pride rather than a bone of contention."

Merrick: "Does 'c-tention' mean we get to eat at McDonald's?"

And so on. The Matron put her pretty little foot down on commerce: no franchises, no chains, no big business. If they had to put food in their bellies? A mom and pop place, even if it meant waiting more than four minutes and eating lard (that happened). In NYC? NO chain stores. Only the hole-in-the-wall delis and local restaurants.

However, halfway into the trip, she relented and allowed the family into the Gap on Times Square. After half an hour of bad music while staring at sterile jeans and white walls, she fell to her knees in rage and cemented her resolve: no big commerce.

And there was none.

HWCBN, yesterday: "Mom? I haven't been to a Target in about three weeks. This is very disorienting. I feel a little queasy."

Matron: "Hearing that observation from you? Me too. The queasy thing."

HWCBN: "You should get off the grid if you feel so strongly, Mom. Seriously. We could grow our own food and generate electricity by solar power. I'd help. It wouldn't be too hard. We could have solar panels, compost all our garbage, raise chickens--maybe a goat or two -- and burn wood. I could learn to sew. It would be completely do-able if we're committed."

Tick-tick, tick, as the Matron considers how much she likes her hair dyer, movies, espresso, shopping, bookstores, air-conditioning, heat and minimal attention to how these things are made possible. She thinks about how she doesn't know where a sewing needle is at the moment and how happy that state makes her. Chickens? Aren't those white lumps in bags at the grocery store? Don't the other, live kind make noise and - poop?

Matron: "Actually, Target's not that bad. We can totally go to one."

HWCBN: "Your predictability makes my life so much easier. Thanks for that."

One Bad Thing After Another

The Matron really cannot always blog about her children and their lives because, well, the operative word is 'their.' Their lives, not hers.

But she will just say this: her poor little family is battling one major disappointment after another. Boom! One kid hit. Boom, crash, bang. Same kid hit more. Ping! Another kid hit. A third bites the dust with his/her own disappointment (and trust her, some of these are BIG) too.

Sigh. . . . what do you do, parents?

She's already dreading college and the Ivy League applications and, most likely, rejection letters.

Send her good juju, folks. Those creative juices are residing somewhere in the Bahamas, too. She is trying to buy a plane ticket for their return but no luck. Maybe all that volcanic ash in Iceland somehow floated into and clogged her own operating systems. . . .

Armed and Dangerous

The Matron has a good friend (firmly on her feet these days) who went through a rough patch. This is the kind of friend who wouldn’t want her dramas writ large, so the briefest description of ‘rough patch’ must do: your 32 year old husband drops dead of a completely out-of-the-blue unknown heart defect, leaving you pregnant with an unexpected (but very loved already) fourth child (the oldest is seven), no college degree, no job, no life insurance AND that’s not the worst thing that happens.

Okay then.

So the Matron went through a period of feeling very protective of this friend and her children, one of whom, Christina, is Scarlett’s soul sister and forever best friend – then and now. Family legend is that the two girls bonded even before birth –two big pregnant bellies with babies bumping out to hold hands.

But after the husband’s death and her friend’s subsequent complete and total anxiety in the face of unrelenting other crises, if Christina and Scarlett were at a playground with the Matron, the Matron was all about KEEPING THAT CHILD ALIVE and intact.

Matron: “Honey, are you sure you want to climb up that tree? How about sitting on a blanket with a book and a cookie?” She wanted to add: How about playing with a first aid kit inside a bomb shelter? With a helmet and knee pads? Speaking of which. . .

Matron: “Hey girls! Everybody wears bike helmets. That’s so yesterday! How about body armor while biking? I just happen to have some.”

The Matron could not put this child in a car without first debating which seat would be safer in an accident. Guess whose child was strategically crushed several times in the Matronly mind – her own!

One memorable Saturday afternoon during this period—when the girls were about three—the Matron handed parenting duties to her husband. Flagged sentence, reader! John was in charge! To blame! Threat to Christina!

Those girls were very quiet for a long afternoon upstairs; indeed, the bedroom door remained tightly closed and by Scarlett’s later admission, they were also further barricaded in the closet. Instead finding alarm in this situation (when was the last time three-year olds productively entertained themselves for hours in silence?) John found time to finish the laundry, mop the kitchen floor, take out the garbage, fix Stryker’s bike and read the newspaper. Admirable endeavors indeed, but let’s note here that women are capable of doing all those things AND keeping an eye on the children. Just sayin’.

And after a long, quiet afternoon, the girls emerged from the bedroom: bald. Okay, not quite, but oh Lordie, sheared. Completely disfigured. Partners in crime, they found scissors and discovered just what blades could do! Big huge patches of scalp shining through on the left, large strand left on top right, half inch razor fuzz near the crown . . . . you get it: we are talking three-year olds working on those heads for nearly two hours. They looked like chemo patients with different treatment phases playing out on each part of the head. It was ugly. Frightening.

Scarlett already had notoriously bad hair. Christina? Thick perfect blonde hair that had rarely been cut—hair that defines a person, that stands out in the room, gleaming health and beauty.

Now, the Matron understood that Christina was still alive. No limb had been severed. But this was just under a year after her father’s death. Her mother’s daily existence was so structured by a huge series of new unanticipated problems and crises – along with the old stuff—that this friend had no psychological wiggle room. None. You can’t control a child nearly dying and a husband who does but you can make sure your three-year old’s hair looks good. Right? Not when she’s at the Matron’s house.

After the Matron peeled herself from the ceiling (where she took her husband as well) – at least the kitchen floor was clean – she nervously steeled herself for her friend’s arrival. Jeanne arrived and the Matron wheeled out the girls, who were still pretty pleased with their artwork if not with its reception.

The Matron waited for the breakdown, the anger, the weeping. Whatever. This was a woman on an edge and her beautiful child now looked like a dying monkey.

Jeanne: “Oh Mary. All the signs were there.”

Matron: “Hey, you’re right. They’ve been cutting Barbie hair for three weeks!”

Jeanne: “Then there was that fascination with scissors, the incident of the dog hair cut, the talk about boy hair and girl hair. The signs were all there.”

Small pause while both mothers considered.

Jeanne: “Well, let’s hope we do better with crack.”

And they both laughed until they cried, sort of a lot, and it was about a buncha things.

The Hotel

In 2002, when the Matron was pregnant with Merrick, John stumbled across their dream house!

This house has hidden treasures, starting with its deceptively demure appearance. It's big! Here's the back view.


And the view from the back? Breathtaking, year round.



Imagine the Matron, five-months pregnant with an agent awaiting a novel, touring this house. She could not fathom being so lucky as to live here! Or how in the world she would actually manage the move!


Everywhere she looked, there were good lines and gleaming wood.




And a beautiful garden!


But the very best part? She would have her own office! A room of her own.



There was a brand new kitchen, just waiting for John to clean and care for (ahem).




This house was also near a regional park - a place to play and a fine expanse for the daily run.



So the Matron and her husband miraculously secured this house! As they prepared to move in, there was just one problem. And it had nothing to do with being increasingly hugely pregnant while moving, writing a novel, and caring for a four and six-year old.

It was this:



That's the picture the Matron surreptiously took this very morning. She can't stand in front of the house and snap with abandon, because its front lawn is littered with people. Clearly and substantially medicated people.

This alarmed the Matron. She loved her new house. Loved the neighborhood. But one block down was clearly some kind of group home peopled by a large number of adults fueled by thorazine. The Matron wondered what type of problem these people had? Were they mentally ill or simply disabled? Dangerous to children?

She moved in and made it her quest to scour the neighborhood for knowledge. Surely, one of her new neighbors knew the exact nature of the home. For an entire year, the Matron inquired. "Do you know what kind of disability or mental illness they're licensed for?"

Not one soul knew. Indeed, at parties and potlucks and neighborhood gatherings, everywhere --everyone confirmed: not one person had any inkling about what kind of residents lived next door.

There was a whole lot of this: "Wow, isn't that strange that nobody knows!" and this "funny that we don't know. But there's never been a problem there" and "can't say that anybody ever has asked. Those folks keep to themselves pretty much."

Yes -- from the people living directly next door to those two blocks down--the neighborhood demonstrated a general sense of ignorance and incredulity at said state.

So the Matron, a bit obsessive and fearing pedophiles and ax-murderers who could potentially 'wake up' from their slumber, did a little research and saw that the property was owned by the state of Minnesota. A few more steps and she found the appropriate state agency to call. She even secured a phone number to call for the exact scoop on what kind of folk resided down the street.

But just as she was set to hit that 'dial' button? She could not bring herself to call! Who was she to mess with neighborhood karma? The control freak Matron put down that phone. She felt like it was the destiny of the house and neighborhood to not know. Trust her. This attitude does not come naturally. She was probably shaking when she set aside that phone.

And nearly seven years later? Not one negative peep or red flag waving from the big huge house.

Yesterday, when one of the residents embarked upon a two hour somabulist shuffle up and down the street (as they sometimes do), Merrick simply moved his scooter out of the man's way and said this: "It's nice to make woom fow the people from the hotel because they can't weally walk wight."

Part of what's normal around here.

Certifiably, The Matron

Here and there, the Matronly post hints at the intensity of this household. Hers are not a quiet people. Once, the Matron was talking to a friend who is a child psychologist and the friend said this: "Mary, there are children alive who are laid back, mellow, low maintenance."

Matron: "Ha! Good one. Now I'm buying that swampland AND the authentic Louis Vuitton bag from the guy in the alley!"

Psychologist Friend: "Really. I'm not joking."

Matron: "Oh my."

While the Matron was shaking her fist at the gods, tricking her so, her husband reminded her: "Uh, they take after you, honey."

Not that again! She hates to be reminded that her little apples are not falling far from the maternal tree. Sort of makes the whole nutty situation her fault.

Did you know that a child's boy gun can shoot TicTacs? At this very moment, Merrick is outside in the 90 degree weather in a black turtleneck, camouflage pants and mirrored sun-glasses -- which is the outfit he's been wearing for nine days, ever since Stryker appointed his baby brother to the post of personal Body Guard. So now Merrick is on his belly, shooting TicTacs at Stryker's potential assassins, with a fellow body guard, Jack shooting alongside (apologies to this mother!).

Merrick is the child the Matron describes as 'laid-back.'

During last night's Tornado Watch, the Matron could not peel her screaming, hysterical daughter from her neck. Like a wind-up doll, Scarlett screeched, closed windows, called friends and family members on the phone to alert them of danger, wailed and ran through the basement until the exact minute the damn watch ended. Then she stopped, just like that and said, "When's dinner?"

The fine line between hysteria and God-given dramatic flair will be sorely tested throughout this coming week.

On Saturday, July 26 at 4:30, Backyard Productions presents its Third Annual Show: Peter Pan. Yes, it is time for Scarlett to once again drag her whole family through back yard theater. This year's show has a cast of over 30 children!

On Saturday, the 9th Annual Matron-John Block Party follows the performance. Block party is a misnomer. About 200 people show up. There is a band. The fire department brings a truck for the children. There's a pinata, a GIANT pinata. Every attendee brings food! It is the world's largest potluck!

Wait! Read the first line of this blog post again. Point made yet?

If not, consider this. From Monday through Friday, those 30+ children will be rehearsing, set-building, costume-making, sound system establishing, choreographing, dancing, EATING (a lot) and singing from 6-8:30 in her back yard.

The mermaids will need a lagoon and the pirates, a ship. How to evoke Neverland with all its whimsy, promise and peril? Walking the plank has been bothering Scarlett all week, not to mention the whole issue of flying. Stryker's worried about how the Crocodile suit will be created. Merrick is already working on his four lines. If they could create stars for the journey to Neverland, wouldn't that be great? And is there formal wear for the parents as they prepare for the party?

On top of all this, Captain Hook's aunt tragically died and that child is at this very moment on his way to Oregon. We're sorry, Tommy. The Matron hopes every reader gives a prayer and moment for that lost life.

But now she needs a Hook!

So for the next week, she will be navigating Scarlett's dictatorial and dramatic psychological terrain. She will be surrounded by hordes of painting, hammering, sewing, singing and dancing children in circumstances that will undoubtedly dissolve into utter chaos most of the time. In her spare time, she will be preparing army-size portions of food -- and driving to Home Depot and Ax Man and thrift stores for more white sheets or pirate hats or wire or whatever comes up.

Not only will her entire family be caught up in the proceedings -- the programs! the tickets! the sound system! --- by day 3, she knows that other families will too. By Friday night, the house will be teeming. There will be other parents hard at work under their child's direction (because the kids are in charge of everything regarding the set/show and the grown-ups help materialize that vision), hammering walls and eye-patching pirates.

She will be a total wreck!

And, surrounded by all this chaos and community and art her family has created? Doesn't get much better than this.

Addendum! The Matron just got a call from the set of the film Scarlett is shooting, where that child has been for seven hours. They're going longer. While writing this post, the Matron actually FORGOT about that film, which conveniently shoots during the day, this entire week.

She thinks perhaps she should take bets and money on who will crack first.

Comfort Zone? Where ARE you?

Yes indeed, the Matronly comfort zone is SO far away that Siberia looks downright next door.

Now, do not misunderstand. She is having--despite her urban inclination--a fabulous adventure. But adventures of any sort, particularly the fabulous, by definition require leaving the living room and the routine. The comfortable, comfortable routine.

First, the Matron is staying with her scientist friends (parents of Merrick's best friend and future husband, Lachlan) at the University of Minnesota's Lake Itasca Research Station. This would be an alien compound, full of cabins for students living on the lake doing all kinds of projects in even MORE cabins with foreign labels like "Neuroscience Lab" and "Entomology."

Get a bunch of these students with her professor-scientist friends who mentor and teach them--say, get them together for evening fish fries and swims and children's birthday parties--and you enter a strange, alien land (at least to the Matron) where people joke about lake scum and discuss the fine art of extracting parasites from fish brains. You know, regular old cocktail conversation, among very very very smart people who actually know what a microbe is.

Here would be the Matron: "Excuse me, excuse me! I've written two books?! I teach English? Anybody read anything good lately?"

Yes, they did, and it would have been science.

Nature also shook things up when one of these lumbered across her path during her very first run:

Of course, she was convinced that porcupines have projectile potential, so she stood way way back and watched that chicken cross the road. And yes, the scientists all reassured her that porcupines cannot shoot. Okey dokey.

She saw several of these.

Indeed, one stood in her path and stared so long that the Matron said: "You should go home now, sweetie." It did.

But aren't the best journeys psychological? (she has to say that because she's never been to Paris or China or very much anywhere else for that matter, so all of you world travelers, just give her this, okay?)

Ahem. So, journey of the spirit!

Today, the Matron and her husband decided it would be 'fun' to rent a couple extra bikes and take the entire family for an easy 17 mile jaunt around Lake Itasca.

Before continuing, please pause and consider:

Stryer, who is not really interesting in going.

Scarlett, who once bumped her elbow during a ski lesson and swore of Sport for all eternity, who has never ridden a bike with gears, who (unless this is a theater) is not a trooper, and who is prone to hysteria.

Merrick, who is slated to ride tandem behind John and has never been on a bike for more than his city block. But wild horses could not stop Merrick because he has learned there is a Fire Tower at mile 11 and he's all about that! The fire tower!!!!

The weather, with a forecast of occasional showers.

The bike path, which becomes a one way street about a quarter of the way in. Once you're in for 5 miles, you're in for the whole shebang.

Ding, ding, ding go the starting gate bells! It is 10:30 am.

Off they go! Within a mile, the Matron understands that hers are a loud people.

"MOM. HOW DO YOU MOVE A GEAR?"

"I CAN'T DO THIS! I CAN'T GO THAT FAST!"

"WATCH OUT! ANOTHER BIKER IS COMING!"

"MOM! MY BUTT HURTS!"

"MOM! MY HANDS ARE BLISTERING!"

"HOW LONG TO THE FIRE TOWER?"

Scarlett starts weeping and wailing smack dab at the half mile mark. You see, she cannot possibly withstand the stress of shifting.

There are general squabbles and complaints and gentle light rain, here and there, and stops at the Headwaters and later the Gift Shop and one million thousand billion mosquitoes until they turn the corner of commitment onto the one-way trail of No Return and then they get this.

Occasional shower?


The skies part and the wrath of the Lord-Allah-Buddha-Oprah pours down upon the Matron and her children (John too, but he's a Man and can take it).

They are not even halfway through.

Rain like this means the Mosquito Feasting Invitational. They bike through hordes, visible as buzzing humming moving clouds. They bike up up up hills and down. Back up, up, up. At one point, Scarlett stops her bike on a hill and sobs (genuinely): "Mama! I can't make it!"

But she could. Indeed, the family had a Power Conference, during which love was declared for all and everybody agreed that nobody wold die and we would help each other get through this, no matter what. Indeed, even Scarlett started calling out encouraging words to Merrick!

And when they finally got to Mile 11 and saw the fire tower was another 2000 feet off the bike trail (reachable only by foot), even Merrick said he didn't want to stop: "Please don't make me!"

And then, finally! They emerged from the deep vale into civilization! A block ahead, the Visitor's Center, a mere 3 miles from the Bike Rental and the beloved, dear sweet savior van. Just as she was going to lead the battle cry for the last miles, the Matron turned back to see Merrick sobbing and blue, hanging on for dear life with one hand and holding the dam of his penis with the other, pleading for the bathroom.

The rain stopped. The Matron left Merrick and John in the Visitor's Center, where kindly staff immediately inquired about assistance? Not that the exhausted wet weeping, filthy, bug-bitten children looked bad. Her baby was wrapped up tight in warm blankets and waited, while the Matron and the big kids drove the final miles to the van.

At 3:30, the ride was finished. Not only did Merrick remain blue and peaked when popped into the van, the entire family decided they were STARVING. After 17 taxing miles and a missed lunch time, they were.

They descended like locusts on the local Inn and Restaurant.

And while they watched their locusts feed and start to retell each other stories about the day--how brave they were, the miles they rode, the ordeal they endured! -- the Matron and her husband smiled and held each other's soggy bitten hands. A fabulous adventure. Who needs Paris?

Road Trip

See that cow? This would be the convenient Bonegue Creamery, located smack dab in the middle of nowhere. Creamery would indicate ice cream, milk, butter. Yup. But there was also plenty of this fine fare:



But wait! She digresses. Back to the cow. Notice the dark clouds developing?

Now, the Matron has weather credentials, friends. She has survived one tornado, a lightening strike and a 15 ton, 100 foot disaster that gave real meaning to the word 'tree house.' Hers was.

Friday's trip to Marshall offered just one more chance for weather to finally kill the Matron!


Does that look like a tornado, bearing down upon the Matron? It sure did to her. The Matron was driving her children through the vast open spaces of farmland when a terrible, dark storm appeared on the horizon into which they were headed.

Scarlett screamed.

The Matron did not mess around with instant black sky and ominous feeling. No, she turned the van and went back half a mile to the tiny little piece of humanity she had spotted, the creamery.

As she gathered the children, she knew that inside she would find the Bonegue Creamery proprietors. She imagined them warm people, Lake Woebegone-ish and somewhere in their 50's or 60's. Experienced with tornadoes, violent storms, nervous mothers and such.

So when she walked in and said hello to the two giggly 15-year olds behind the counter ("oh! is there a storm coming?! cool!") she realized that if a tornado were indeed to hit, she would be all alone, saving the lives of five children, instead of just her three. All in a day's work, isn't it, Mamas?


The tornado didn't materialize but a damn fine thunderstorm with 60 mile an hour winds and hail, did. Enough to keep them in the creamery for nearly 40 minutes. Just enough time to get Merrick real sugared up.

Now, a dear friend had given the Matron blessed salt to sprinkle in her van as protection and prayer for their travels. Now, the Matron is a big big believer in protection and prayer but she had never heard of blessed salt and couldn't quite remember the instructions about what to do with it.

So before they left, she had sprinkled liberally throughout the van and then brought along the whole can to ride shot gun, just in case!

As they waited out the storm, Stryker said: "So much for that salt, I guess."

The Matron: "I'd say it's working perfectly. Here we sit, eating ice cream, safe."

Thanks, Stephanie!

Once the weather cleared, there was plenty of bright blue sky and small town. That would be a smiley face on the water tower for a teeeny tiny town called Sacred Heart.

Stryker: "Mom? Did you know that half the towns here have less people in them than my new junior high school?"

That gave the Matron pause, both about the magnitude of a junior high with over 700 students and the flavor of life in a town with even fewer. And they have to find their way through long winters, just like she does, but with fewer options.



Once in Marshall, the children had a wonderful time with their New Jersey cousins! See how easy it is to take perfect pictures of five children?


The Matron did not exactly turn into a toddler on meth while around her mother but there are a couple of stories, coming later.



Throughout the short trip, her brother's sons each wore nice, clean pants and shirts that matched. Her children did not. That's a stripe and camouflage theme Merrick has going.



The five inch hole in Scarlett's shirt isn't visible here (but it was to the Matron).

Matron: "Scarlett? Do you have any clothes that are dirty or torn?"

Scarlett: "Why? Should I?"

The Matron likes to be sure someone holds up the low-brow end of the family and she guesses that job is left to the offspring she's producing.

Uncle Dean has power tools and knows how to use them. Merrick pretty much never left his side or wiped that adoring look from his adorable face.


After one full day of fun and family, they got back into this and drove home. Safely.


But the question of the day is why the Matron found a jar of BBs -- as in BB gun -- in Merrick's room?

Merrick: "I found them."

Matron: "Where?"

Merrick (with big smirk on face): "I don't knee-member."

The likelihood of not remembering where one found something as unusual and precious (to a five year old) as BBs would be about zero. Although the Third Child Syndrome persists, at least it did not fell Merrick -- or the Matron -- in front of her family.

Death Grip

That would be the Matron's hands on the steering wheel during yesterday's hour-long drive to her mother's house.

In the far back of the van, silence prevailed. Scarlett read. Stryker bounced and mouthed to his iPod.

Directly behind me, a thought popped into Merrick's head. And stayed there. Took on new dimensions even as the original retained staying power. Developed nuance and flair.

Merrick: "Mama? When I am going to die?"

Matron: "Not for a long, long time -- nearly 100 years probably so you don't have to worry about that right now."

Merrick: "Could we get hit by a truck and killed, right this minute?"

Matron (who takes hurtling down the freeway at 70 MPH inside a shaky ton of steel very seriously): "Theoretically. But that won't happened today, I promise." Grip, grip.

Merrick: "Daddy will die. Everyone in California will die. Texas, too. Thurston's dead. Grandma Mary will die. You could crash and we will die. Today if you crash."

Matron--who is very superstitious and here, disaster has been introduced into her aura to sit all heavy and dark-- has no response. Turns out there's no need for one.

Merrick: "My fwens will die. I think that truck might hit us. See that? We would so die. Mama? I am just going to sing the Dead Song."

Which he does--for the entire drive. This upbeat ballad weaves through history, geography and space to encompass pretty much every word he's heard and person he's met (or heard of, like all those people in California) in order to link all sentient creatures to their inevitable demise.

As the Matron guided the death-mobile down the treacherous freeway, she experienced virgin emotional territory: she could not wait to get to her mother's house.

Finally, we arrived.

Merrick: "We didn't die yet. Maybe tomorrow. Grandma Mary will die. I'm gonna tell her. Then I'm gonna die."

Matron: "Remember, you don't have to worry about dying for 90 years!"

Stryker, exiting the van: "Don't listen to her, Merrick. She fed me that story, too. The average life expectancy for a man is 77.6 years which means I'm nearly 15% finished."

The Matron officially lost any sense of encouragement and cheer.

In that spirit -- and in celebration of Stark Reality -- here is one of my favorite poems about death, once again brought to you by Joyce Sutphen.

Death Becomes Me

Death has been checking me out,
making himself at home in my body,
as if he needed to know his way
through the skin, faintly rippling
over the cheekbone to the hollow
beneath my eyes, loosening
the tightly wound ligaments
in the arm, the leg,
infirming the muscle
with his subtle caress,
traveling along the nerve,
leaping from one synapse
to the next, weaving his dark threads
into the chord that holds me tall.
Death is counting my hair,
figuring out the linear equation
of my veins and arteries,
the raised power
of a million capillaries,
acquainting himself with the
calculus of my heart,
accessing the archives
of memory, reading them
forward and backward,
finding his name everywhere.
Death comes to rest in my womb,
slaking away the rich velvet
of those walls, silently halting
the descending pearls,
as if he could burrow in
and make himself my mother,
as if he could bare my bones
and bring me to that other birth.

Straight Out of View
Holy Cow! Press, 2001

The Matron's Super Bowl Sunday

Morning

Me (in the spirit of Participation): "Do you guys want to buy special snacks and watch the Super Bowl tonight?"

Hey--spending money and watching television! What a good American I'd be.

Stryker: "Not really."

Scarlett: "What's the Super Bowl?"

Stryker: "The world's biggest baseball game."

We are so tapped into the cultural pulse.

Afternoon

The children and I spent most of the day at my mother's house. Much commentary on that tomorrow. For now, suffice it to say I was treated to driving, cooking, and parenting lessons, nonstop.

On the ride home, I tried to reach John--on three different telephone lines--for nearly an hour.
Utterly exasperated, I tossed up my hands: "Why doesn't Daddy ever answer his phone!"

Stryker: "He's probably seeing someone else."

This is quickly disproved (I checked when John finally answered).

Me: "Stryker. There is no other woman."

Stryker shrugs: "Not yet"

He's eleven. Doesn't my future loom, exhausting?

Evening

We attend a Super Bowl party where most of the guests struggle to place a team with a color: "Who are the blue guys?" "What's a 'down'?"

The guest list? The hosts are Syrian, another family Palestinian, a third Israeli Jews and then the Matron and her bunch. Politics or football: which do you think we batted about?

On the way home, Scarlett said: "Who won?"

Stryker: "New Jersey, stupid."

More On The High End Offspring I'm Producing

Merrick came tearing into the kitchen, bursting with pride. Pop! Pop!

"Look at what I can do!"

Before the Matron can exhale or encourage, his pants and Batman underwear are on the floor and he hangs a rubber band on his penis, where it stays, wobbling.

More on the Matron's Issues

I love this line from a Mary Oliver poem: "What will you do with your one wild and precious life?"

Yesterday, we discussed the Matron's special relationship with a pair of very important jeans. She has other psychic black holes as well. Look at the Parental Bed! How tidy! How spare! Someone--and that would be the Matron herself--knows her way around a mop and broom. There's a pleasant firm tuck to those sheets, too.

The Matron cannot tolerate clutter. If there are piles of junk around the house--say globs of backpacks, boots, coats and shoes abandoned by the front door or a living room transformed into a fort city, complete with several large cardboard structures or days of the dreaded Science Project on the dining room table --- well, if these conditions develop (and of course, they do) the Matron's brain cells ignite and then actually abandon ship. This is a bad thing.

The Matron is inflicted with a rare and obviously untreatable condition in which her own brain sucks in the clutter around her and stops working. Focus, clarity, intellectual acumen: gone.

There can be dust bunnies. Dirt is allowed to accumulate. After all, the Matron is not entirely insane. She neither likes nor dislikes cleaning. It is simply a task that must be done. Now that the children are older, they have developed relationships with sponges, 409 and dish soap.

But clutter is another thing entirely. Junk on the floor is evil. The mangle of firetrucks, crayons, dirty socks and half-eaten apple next to the couch will eventually rise up and kill the Matron. See the expanse of space here? All that beautiful wood with nothing on the floor?! That glint you see is Happiness, raw and pure.

Alas, children shed clutter like dog hair. Drop drop drop: batman underpants, gold toe socks, bubble gum wrappers, freezie wrappers, bowls of cheetos, Samantha's Pink Party dress, book book book book, Pikachu card, yellow dump truck, matchbox police car, walkie talkie, spent batteries, unscrewed pen and accompanying contents, Spelling book, final reminder about lost library book, note from teacher, lunch box, best friend's bandanna. This is the mother of all endless lists.

Friends inquire about my day: "What did you do today, Mary?"

Me: "I moved items from where they were dropped to the place they belonged."

The Matron spends 80% of her wild, precious life moving things around her house. Floor to closet. Couch to drawer. Countertop to appropriate shelf. Stairs to coat rack. Repeat.

She often wonders why she is the only one in the entire house who seems to have this skill.

One member of the household causes the Matron particular pain. Remember dear Peanuts' Pigpen? Poor guy stood in a circle of dirt. So does Scarlett. She emits clutter like radiation. Junk flies off her and cavorts around the house.

The Matron and her daughter have engaged in some dark Freudian battles over the bracelets and leggings and bookmarks that travel in Scarlett's wake. You see, the Matron can close a bedroom door and pretend that room does not exist. This is called hoping one's untreatable and rare Clutter Brain Suck doesn't infect children and that the Matron herself is not the complete and all encompassing focus of all future theraputic needs.

The Matron's solution is to gather Scarlett's debris from around the house, put it in a pile and close the door. Look what her talented child can strew about the house in the slim hours before going to bed and leaving for school the next day. She's got game, that girl. This is a fresh pile, newly begun. When the pile gets large enough to tax the family oxygen supply, Scarlett is required to disassemble.

Incurable Clutter Brain Suck finds some relief in Pinot Noir. When this state cannot be induced, the Matron moves stuff. Book, plate, peanut butter. This wild and precious life, bound.

2007: The Summary

I had a long day and didn't find the time to craft a very compelling post about names (babies, pets, dolls, you name it!). Look for that tomorrow. In the meantime, here's the Holiday Letter we sent to family and friends--using actual stamps and paper! If memory serves, my last Holiday Letter was a memo from Extreme Family Makeover denying our family a slot on their show. Poor us.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Year's End

It is time to return to the tale of Feminist and King Charming. Remember the unlikely union? He with decidedly Male Ways and thirst for music; she with motorcycle jacket, sneer and single response to Song, all sort. “Is that the Beatles?” But potion and charms have wrought magic: the union remains, lo these sixteen years, strong. King Charming gallantly shoulders responsibility for failing to mail last year’s forsaken Holiday Missive, which Feminist dutifully penned. A nod to Freud, as said Missive was actual scroll of Kingly Shortcomings.

The Kingdom stands strong. Houses exchanged hands and the Royal Coffers remain well-stocked. And music filled the castle! King purchased Incomprehensible Technology and began Original Composition once more. Indeed, King grappled with Community, composing Song for public radio program. Being King, he was featured on said radio show for unusual Artistic Flair. Against Feminist’s anguished cries for Professional, King gutted bathroom and took up Remodeling, proving Feminist to be of small faith and great panic. Transformed, the Castle now boasts Best Basement Bathroom in Kingdom.

Feminist continues Pursuit of Prose and can claim New York Times byline as pathetic Moment of Fame (so far). Thoroughly masochistic The Royal Astrological Chart encourages, so she persists in Creation, with new book underway. She now freelances and teaches writing full time—and portends that soon Adjunct Professor at Community College will be deemed Highly Desirable Status. No stranger to the Invisible Volunteer Cape, Feminist magically transforms into Hard Worker for schools and left-leaning causes, all sort.

Indeed, Feminist and King took on a variety of aliases. The King of Commerce dubbed the pair “Evil Roadblocks to Pleasure.” The Castle popped and sizzled, so full of Electronics, Gadgetry and Game. As antidote, The King of Commerce spent three weeks at Staggeringly Expensive Summer Camp in Wisconsin where he could run free through Nature, and generally commune. The heir apparent spun his way to one throne (First Place in Age Group) in National Yo-Yo Competition. He took up Hammer and created, while fondness for Thick Book endured. The “Evil Roadblocks to Pleasure” preened and plumped when The King of Commerce’s sixth-grade teacher, Despairing, offered the bored Royal Einstein’s Theory of Relativity as private reading project. Alas, now said Royal counters “Evil Roadblocks’” Restrictions and Counsel with: “Yea, but have either of you two read Einstein?”

No, but “Evil Roadblocks” can drive and aren’t afraid to go into the basement at night (mostly).

And when Diva became fatally infected with Audience and refused to leave Spotlight, our brave Feminist donned alias steeped in Stereotype and Angst: “Stage Mother.” The Royal Carriage wore thin with Eye-Popping Transportation Needs to auditions, rehearsals, and performances, including Late Night. Diva secured adult-like possessions, as in Head Shot, Resume, and Salary. “Stage Mother” learned to keep Mouth Shut when around others of this ilk and pretends she has Done the Deed She is Postponing when Diva asks (daily): “Is my agent a boy or a girl and when do I meet them?” Significantly (?) common thread of VERY low social status runs through Diva’s roles. She's pictured here as Shoeless Dirty Irish Waif in "The Home Place" at The Guthrie.

When not on Official Stage, Diva creates own. The first two annual Thompson Back Yard Productions have offered The Sound of Music and Annie to well over 100 parents who smiled (annually) in Uncomfortable Beating Sun as Offspring sang and scampered. Lest the countryside fail to appreciate, sound systems, deftly constructed Set, dozens of thespians and one week of Entire Family Devotion are involved.

The King of Commerce doth protest! His royal exploits garnered a single paragraph whereas Diva warranted two. Just more proof of Who Gets All the Attention and Nothing Is Ever Fair in This Castle.

Not to be outdone, Prince Charming took up Unpleasant Interest in Weaponry, all sort. Even Santa bears arms. Yet none outshine young Prince when he’s handing out swords or sacrificing Self for four-year old comrades: “No, Lachlan, you take the shot gun, really.” Whether due to Wisdom or Exhaustion, Arsenal grows in the Castle. Yes, Feminist and King Charming have become “The Oldest Experienced Parents” in Prince Charming’s social milieu, where offspring are still being created and Kindergarten (as opposed to junior high) is Topic at Hand. Yet “The Oldest Experienced Parents” pleasure in Prince Charming’s Penchant for Lap, Cuddle and Kiss. Of course, Prince Charming falls steady prey to the whims and wiles of Siblings, whose delight in Illicit Tutelage have afforded Prince Charming precocious mastery of Swear Words, all sort.

Alas, Tragedy, long foreseen, did strike the Castle. Beloved Royal Dog, Thurston, died in August, just shy of 15^th year in the Kingdom. His regal life was long extended by Diligent Constant Care, especially by the King, who slept at Thurston’s side and tended to Difficult Bodily Needs. In October, The King of Commerce, always in Purchasing Mood, spotted peasant pup in need of good home. Thus, Scruffy The Knave was tapped as scourge to the Ancient Regal Jekyll (whose days are defined by Pursuit of Long Nap). But the Kingdom still mourns, changed

Although Feminist and King Charming would prefer new monikers in 2008, those touched by art, politics, career and financial gain, they understand their current Place on the Planet as Parents, with Categorization, that sort. They extend heartfelt Royal Wishes for Good Fortune for all Family and Friends in 2008, Sweeping Political Change and a lot more Peace on Earth.