family

Among the brightest of women

1 Comment

No doubt we would have been preparing to celebrate Phoebe’s birthday this weekend. While the actual date of her birth fell on February 20, her calendar of festivities filled rather quickly. I imagine this year would have been especially so, being her one-hundredth celebration and all.

Alas, she bid her final farewell at ninety-nine. And for most of those ninety-nine years, we knew nary a thing of this girl from Riverside, California  . . .

We knew her not when entered this world in 1918; when she graduated from Kuna High School in 1935; or when she attended Pioneer Business College in Minneapolis, Minnesota in 1936 . . . when she worked in military communications during  World War II; or when she married the love of her life in 1948 . . . when she lived in New York; or when she returned to Boise, into that grand old house on twenty-second street . . . when she worked for the tax commission; when she raised show dogs; when she traveled about, amassing one adventure after another.

No, we knew nary a thing of her until she joined the “old girls” at “the home.” By that time she’d be quick to shoo away a camera for fear it would make her look old; and she was more than ready to accept her boarding pass to the great beyond–to be reunited with those she loved most of all.

But unlike some who tire of this world, she rarely complained; instead, she chose to make the most of each day. And despite the years that layered one upon another, she continued to have a youthful gleam in her eye.

Perhaps its one of the things that made us fast friends.

Despite our age difference, we shared a love of laughter. We shared a love of clouds and the myriad of ways they dance upon the sky. We shared an understanding that the ache of some disappointments (never holding a baby of your own, for instance) never truly goes away; that you can (and most certainly should) make the best of the hand you’ve been dealt, but a twinge of pain continues to tug at your heart.

I imagine if we had been born in the same place, at the same time, we’d have been inseparable. Instead, she paved the way; she showed me how to grow old . . .

In the few short years we knew her, she taught us the importance of looking your best–even when you can no longer wear the shoes you love, or it takes hours to prepare; that wit remains timeless; that friends and family are your anchors–that you should hug, and say “I love you,” and accept those invitations for as long as you can; that age does not have to dim your spark.

Phoebe, brightest of women–she certainly, lived up to her name.

At her memorial service, her niece read aloud one of her favorite poems:

Life owes me nothing. Let the years
Bring cloud or azure, joy or tears;
Already a full cup I’ve qualified;
Already wept and loved and laughed.
And seen, in ever-endless ways,
New beauties overwhelm the days.

Life owes me nought. No pain that waits
Can steal the wealth from memory’s gates;
No aftermath of anguish slow
Can quench the soul fire’s early glow.
I breathe, exulting every breath,
Embracing Life, ignoring Death.

Life owes me nothing. One clear morn
Is boon enough for being born;
And be ninety or ten,
No need for me to question when.
While Life is mine, I’ll find it good.
And greet each hour with gratitude.

Anonymous

Words she obviously took to heart. And if her life is any indication, it would behoove us all to do the same.

What binds our hearts

27 Comments

Mondays get a bad rap; Fridays hint of frivolity; Saturday and Sunday stand unrivaled. But Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday? Well, I’ve all new appreciation for those days after the shenanigans of this year.

You see, it was a regular old Tuesday when a certain fellow called and asked me to dinner; it was just another Wednesday when we stopped in at the Train Depot and he asked me to marry him; and it was yet another autumnal Thursday afternoon, when we said I do in the little chapel where we first met.

Not bad for days we tend to gloss right over, no?

Since we both love autumn; and we’re certainly not getting any younger, we opted for Fall of 2017. Which means I had three months to plan. It also explains a lot about those recurring dreams I had in my thirties wherein I was frantically throwing a wedding together at the last possible moment because I was caught completely unaware.

But I digress.

Anyway, I knew we wanted to get married at the church, with a reception at the Boise Depot. As it happened, the Depot had Thursday, November 2 open. So Thursday, November 2 it was.

And I asked my friend, Chad Estes, to do what he does best on that date: to tell our story, in photos; to capture the little moments that make up a most miraculous day . . .

It began, of course, with a frenzy of activity–as weddings are wont to do . . .

Complete with finger cramps (so many buttons). . .

And pretending to be stuck with a pin . . .

The mothers were seated to I denna lijuva sommartid–a nod to the Swedes who were unable to make it back for the wedding. The wedding party walked down the aisle to the Forrest Gump theme . . .

In case you’re judging, I realize I should be holding my bouquet lower–but it was really heavy for my pathetic arm muscles.

Let me just pause for a moment to say there are those who love to be the center of attention. I am not of their number . . .

I was, however, told I had a look on my face as if to say, ‘look at me’ (which appalls me to no end). So, apparently, I have a good poker face.

Nonetheless, I’m happy to report we made it; without medication or passing out . . .

Maybe this is the look they’re talking about? I don’t know, but I don’t like it. I do, however, love this photo of my mama.

Then there was that special moment between my aunt and I. You see, when we went in for a hug, the adornments on the front of my dress, got stuck in the lace of my aunt’s, in a most unfortunate position. Let’s just say I feared we were destined to be bosom buddies for the remainder of the evening . . .

Thankfully, we broke free. And continued on to the reception . . .

See that bench? That’s where Dustin proposed. Chad asked us to sit down and carry on a conversation, as if it were just the two of us. Here’s the thing: we both hate our pictures taken; we’re completely awkward. With a camera pointed our direction, we couldn’t act normal to save our lives. So Dustin started being goofy; I started laughing. Which, now that I mention, is pretty much normal for us . . .

We had a cake of pink champagne; a vintage bride and groom amid a sea of flowers stood atop. Those wee cake toppers first made their appearance at my grandparent’s wedding, October 15, 1943 . . .

Funny story: Once my aunt offered to lend me the cake toppers, I contacted the florist to let her know we wouldn’t need as many flowers for the top. Alas, I failed to tell the baker some of the flowers were for the bottom of the cake. Ah, well; que sera, sera.

There were cupcakes, too: Saigon cinnamon roll (Saigon cinnamon cake, cinnamon cream cheese filling, whipped brown sugar buttercream); Southern gent (milk chocolate cake, bourbon caramel buttercream, bourbon caramel drizzle, crushed pretzels); and Summer pint (Blue Moon infused vanilla cake, cardamom custard, orange buttercream frosting).

I thought they’d be easier to send home with people when all was said and done. Alas, nary a one made it to the end . . .

The food, oh the food . . . I’ve never tasted anything quite so divine. That, my friends, is a direct quote. And from the two brussel sprouts and quick bite of slow braised beef I managed to stuff in my mouth, I quite agree . . .

We were lucky enough to have “our” DJ join us; he’s provided the soundtrack to my mom’s fiftieth birthday, my grandma’s eightieth birthday, and now, our wedding.

Dustin chose the song for our first dance. Thankfully, he played the song for me ahead of time; as a matter of fact, he had to play it three times before I could stop crying (Randy Newman’s Feels Like Home, in case you’re curious) . . .

As for the father-daughter dance, my dad was super nervous to dance in front of people. He grew up Assemblies of God, don’t you know–wherein you’ll go straight to hell in a hand basket if you dare trip the light fantastic.

Our solution: invite other fathers and daughters to join us, which was at once less stressful, and completely adorable . . .

And let’s not forget the bell tower, which was open for viewings. We managed to sneak up all by our lonesome for a few minutes (we may have sneaked in a few kisses, too) . . .

All that, and it really came down to our friends and family. The people who have been by our side for the good, the bad, and the ugly. Those who have laughed with us, and cried with us. Those who have built us up, and (when needed) knocked us down a peg. You know, our favorites . . .

Even still, I find it hard to express just how much it meant to have others share in our excitement. All the sweet greetings and congratulations. Those who traveled and took time off work (at the last minute, really) for a Thursday wedding; those who helped setup and tear down; those who raised a glass, cut a rug, and otherwise celebrated along with us . . .

Because a celebration, no matter how grand, is nothing without those you love by your side. For it’s friends and family who lessen our burdens, and quadruple our joy . . .

::::

As you might imagine, it was important to me that we support small businesses in our big to-do. Here are the ones that made our celebration great . . . 

Photography: Starry Night Media

Flowers: Wildflower Florals & Events

Food: Wild Plum Events

Cake: Boise Cakery

DJ: A Sound Choice DJ Entertainment

Party favors: Apropos Roasters

“Teenie” gifts

5 Comments

This week we bid adieu to the “office manager.”

It took us aback, really. We were not at all prepared for her rapid decline. Not that we should be surprised, mind. She was notorious for doing things her way. When she wanted something, she didn’t mess around–from the moment she first opened her eyes.

You see, fifteen years ago my brother brought home a stray cat in heat. Dream gift, no doubt.

Weirder than a three dollar bill, we dubbed her Newman and put her under house arrest until she could be fixed. Alas, she succeeded in a daring escape, returning weeks later, knocked up–ultimately leaving us for good, with a passel of kittens in need of good homes.

Thankfully, kind and lovely friends came to our rescue–and the smallest of the bunch hissed at every single one. Oh dear, we’d say. She never hisses–she’s really quite sweet. But our friends would take one look at the runt of a calico hissing in the corner and opt for another.

So Teenie Longfellow became our own.

For the past fifteen years she has been a faithful companion–the one hogging the office chair, supervising housework, and lounging about whilst watching action movies (her personal favorite).

She was always near.

But Sunday, for the first time in years, she was not sitting outside my door, waiting to usher me in for coffee. Sunday afternoon, she could no longer jump up on her favorite chair. Monday, I knelt down beside her, whispered my love, and kissed her head goodbye.

As you might imagine, I’ve cried more tears than I’d care admit. But friends have shared the burden: a co-worker brought in a wee bouquet of bright, cheery flowers; friends took Teenie and buried her on their property; my love gave me a box of chocolates, with the kindest of cards + a handwritten note (a handwritten note; seriously, I love that fellow).

And you? Well, I hope you might fill the coming days with a few of Teenie’s favorite things: lounge about and nap; eat as many treats as you can possibly get away with; give kisses–lots and lots of kisses; and spend your time with those you choose to call your own.

xo

Family food

1 Comment

Last Friday marked our first annual family cook-off.

The rules were simple: each family brings two dishes, each serving 8—anything from soups to breads, appetizers to desserts. Food items will be judged according to the following categories—children (up to age 16) and adults.

Initially I planned to make Swiss potatoes: shredded potatoes, lounging about in a sea of Gruyere, heavy cream, whole milk—a splash of butter, a hint of garlic and nutmeg, all baked to a golden perfection. I’d made something similar years ago . . . then promptly lost the recipe.

So Friday morning of the big to-do, before rushing off to work, I reviewed the new recipe. And that’s when I saw it: Serving Size: 2. Two!

Just as well.

As the day wore on, shredding 4 pounds of potatoes sounded about as appealing as gnawing off my own digits. Since I already spent half my paycheck on gruyere cheese, I found a mashed potato recipe that called for that particular item. Simple fix, that.

Explaining my choice proved a bit more difficult . . .

Co-worker: So, what are you making for the cook-off?

Me: Mashed potatoes.

Co-worker: *blank stare*

::::

Uncle: What’s under those mashed potatoes?

Me: Mashed potatoes.

::::

Cousin: What did you bring?

Me: Mashed potatoes.

Cousin: *hysterical laughter* You weren’t kidding when you said you were low-balling it this year!

For the record, they were fancy mashed potatoes. Specifically, they were Rachael Ray’s Potatoes with Gruyere and Dijon (pronounced with a French accent, naturally). If you’re curious, they are creamy and quite delicious. They are a grand accompaniment to red meat. They are even an innovative addition to shepherd’s pie.

They are not, however, winners.

E. and her crab dip won the title of grand champ-een . . .

winner (2)

Not only did she win the children’s category, she received the most votes overall.

By the way, choosing a winner proved entirely too difficult—too many delectable dishes, too much variety. Next year we’ll do a side + dessert, or maybe a soup + dessert.

And we’ve an entire year to decide what we might contribute . . .

Who knows? Maybe next year I’ll go with carrots. After all, you best not show your hand at the start of the game . . .

A good day

1 Comment

061

Today is a very good day.

For you see, it was November 25, 1953, that a baby girl was born in a little hospital, in the middle of the sagebrush. They named her Debra Kaye—Debbie, for short—and she would grow up to be my mama.

Even though she was scheduled to be a Christmas baby, I’m certain it was no coincidence she was born so near Thanksgiving. She does, after all, top my list of things for which to be thankful.

There’s a whole slew of reasons why. In a nutshell: we share a love of sweets, good stories, and laughter. Needless to say, we’re rather easily amused. Good thing, since we both managed to pick up that wretched bug that’s going around. But don’t you fret—we won’t let that stop us. No sir, we intend to celebrate. Who knows? We just might party until 8:30 tonight!

With that, Happy Birthday, mom! I’m so very thankful you were born.

To the moon and back, with love and good wishes . . .

amy