domestic scenes

Fold here

/ Tracy Abell

Zebu is studying in Sweden for two semesters and has been there just over a month. Phone calls are expensive so we rely on texting and Skype chats to stay connected. He’s eight hours ahead of us so our Skype sessions are usually at the end of his day. Today we talked as he folded the laundry he’d just washed and dried at the student housing laundromat.

He told me about the pick-up basketball game he played last night, in which he was (at 6′ 3″) one of the smaller guys on his team. All communication by his teammates was in Swedish, but because Zebu is taking Swedish classes he now knows how to count which meant he knew the score at all times last night.

He also shared an anecdote about his German friend who speaks nearly flawless English with a penchant for old timey expressions. Apparently this guy recently described something as “a hoot and a half,” which made Zebu and a Canadian friend bust out laughing, and then a bit later the German described something not-so-good as “no hoot, no half.”

Skype allows you mobility and we often move out of camera range as we continue talking. I started the session sitting at the kitchen bar counter but as I watched Zebu hang shirts on hangers and match socks, I felt unproductive. So I carried the laptop/Zebu downstairs to the laundry room to retrieve a load of my clothes from the dryer where they’d sat for over a week (I know, I know). Then I came back upstairs and folded in unison with my son who is nearly 5000 miles away.

Disclosure: The product placement was inadvertent and I received zero compensation from HP.

Disclosure: The product placement was inadvertent and I received zero compensation from HP.

The family that folds together, stays together. Or something like that.

 

 

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Mixed feelings

/ Tracy Abell / 1 Comment

Three years ago Zippy and I finally faced reality and replaced the shake shingles on top of our house. Our former neighbors, the ones higher on the hill than us and with a view of our roof from their kitchen, were thrilled.

We were tired of retrieving shingles from the yard every time the wind blew. Also, we were concerned the roof might start leaking.

The main reason we’d delayed action was that we couldn’t decide on the type of roof we wanted. Actually, that’s not true. We knew we wanted a steel roof because it was a more sustainable and environmentally benign material than asphalt shingles. But our budget finally pushed us toward asphalt and we consoled ourselves with the knowledge that the house had had the same roof for many, many years and that the new roof would last another many years.

Wrong.

A while back, my neighborhood was hit by a hail storm that ruined every single roof. (Except for the steel roof two streets over). Every day there’s hammering somewhere in the neighborhood. Today, that hammering is close to home.

Not my roof, but the same scenario.

Not my roof, but the same scenario.

Right now there’s a roll-off dumpster in my driveway filled with three-year-old shingles torn from the roof. Tomorrow the roofers will install a new asphalt shingle roof.

While I’m grateful for my home and the literal roof over our heads, I also feel a great sadness. We’re sending another load of waste to the landfill.

 

 

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Wildebeest migration

/ Tracy Abell

On Saturday, Wildebeest drove for six hours to come home and see his brother before Zebu leaves for ten months in Sweden. (In the time-honored tradition of all young adults, Wildebeest brought his dirty laundry with him.)

Zoey keeping watch on the clothes hamper and work shirts.

Zoey keeping watch on Wildebeest’s hamper and work shirts.

A few minutes ago Wildebeest hugged us all goodbye, loaded up his clean and folded laundry, and headed back home. He’s leaving one home for another.

I’m hyper-aware that whenever I refer to this, the childhood home we made for our sons, as HOME, I run the risk of minimizing the lives our children are creating for themselves. But I also want them to know they are always welcome here and will always have a home with Zippy and me. This is their home. We are their home. So I use “home” to refer to here and there, wherever there may be.

Wildebeest is currently on the road, migrating back to the life he’s chosen for himself. I miss him already, but will see him the next time he comes home.

Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.
~  Matsuo Basho

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Do unto others

/ Tracy Abell / 2 Comments

Yesterday I posted some photos of myself along with a few words about my uneasy relationship with cameras aimed my way. Less than 24 hours later, I took out my camera and pointed it at Zoey.
Zoey at rest

Zoey doesn’t like her picture taken, either. I know this and yet I sometimes try to coax her into looking my way. She’s a big-hearted dog who wants to please me so she usually complies.
Zoey with faraway gaze

But only up to a certain point. Then she lets me know I’ll have to settle for blurred images.
Zoey has enough

Oh, my Sweet Zotato. Thank you for not sinking your teeth into the pushy photographer.

 

 

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Butting Heads

/ Tracy Abell

Zippy and I are back home after helping Wildebeest get settled in his place. He’d sublet for a couple years to some friends who, while nice young men, are not the tidiest people. To be clear, Wildebeest is not all that tidy, either. However, he was disgusted by some of the mess his friends left behind. But the key word here is “some.” All sorts of stuff that elicited an eew from me didn’t trouble Wildebeest all that much. Or Zippy, for that matter.

My son and my mate have a much higher grime tolerance than me. On the Tidiness Spectrum, I’m closer to one end and the menfolk in my life are nearer the other. So for the last few days I tried hard to reconcile their places on the spectrum with my own. Was I always gracious and tolerant of our different outlooks? No. Did I maintain my cool and refrain from shrieking things like “How do you not see that this bathroom tile is in serious need of scrubbing?!” Um, no. Did we get angry with each other? Yes.

Head-butting did ensue.file000627435113

There were moments when it felt as if Wildebeest and I were reenacting scenes from his childhood. He and I have always triggered reactions in each other, and this week we fell back into some of those patterns. But. There was progress. This time around I disengaged and put down the sponge. Literally. I did very little cleaning and instead focused on the basic tasks I’d offered: painting and steam-cleaning. And then Zippy and I packed up, told Wildebeest we loved him, and drove home.

Where we arrived to find Zebu contentedly sitting ankle-deep in the dog and cat hair that had accumulated while we were gone.

 

 

How can you keep on moving

/ Tracy Abell

I spent the morning packing and repacking duffel bags for Wildebeest who has moved to a faraway part of Colorado. He couldn’t take everything with him when he left so Zippy and I are heading his way to deliver the rest of his stuff. Wildebeest had it all packed up and ready for us, and our plan was to fit everything inside the truck we borrowed from my brother. HAHAHAHAHA. *wipes away tears of mirth*

We needed a Plan B. So we pondered and debated the position of the roof rack and the dimensionsn of our 20+ year-old XCargo carrier:

Like this, except with more dead insects and blood from where the effing top repeatedly dropped on our heads over the years.

Like this, except with more dead insects and blood from where the effing top has repeatedly dropped on and bloodied our heads over the years.

We weren’t confident we could securely attach the carrier so then I did some research on the intertubes. And just as you’d suspect, people are very clever when it comes to hauling stuff on top of vehicles. Alas, none of those DIY ideas suited our specifications.

Then I remembered our enormous duffel bags.

Last June, Zebu flew back from Bellingham, WA, where he’d attended school. We’d moved him out there via a rented Impala (biggest trunk EVER, yo!), but didn’t want to make that trip again. Which meant he had to fly back with lots of carry-on items. Enter much online research for the largest duffel bags available that did not exceed airline limitations.

So. All that backstory is my long-winded way of explaining how very very glad I am to be getting some use out of those ginormous bags again.
Duffel bags

We’re going to put them alongside Wildebeest’s snowboard on the truck’s roof and secure everything with ratcheting straps. Hopefully, there will be enough room in the interior for the rest of his worldly possessions.

I enjoy organizing stuff and figuring out how to pack things efficiently, so it’s been kind of fun. But all morning, in the back of my mind, was the knowledge that in just a few short weeks Zippy and I will truly be empty nesters. We’ve always had at least one son living in the vicinity, but now Wildebeest is a long ways away. And in a few more weeks, Zebu will be living a really, really long ways away as an exchange student in Sweden.

It’s easy being happy for them because they’re both very excited by the changes they’ve put in motion. I’m thrilled by their happiness and passionate outlooks, because it hasn’t always been this way. So right now I’m embracing the Ry Cooder song playing in my head:

How can you keep on moving unless you migrate too
They tell ya to keep on moving but migrate, you must not do
The only reason for moving and the reason why I roam
To move to a new location and find myself a home
~  (lyrics by Agnes “Sis” Cunningham)

 

 

Friday Five: The Marcel Edition

/ Tracy Abell / 2 Comments
  1. This is Marcel.
    Marcel jpeg
    He looks like the typical cat who sleeps 18 hours per day, right?
  2. I will admit he sleeps a fair amount. In fact, he’s napping downstairs as I write this. But I’ve never lived with a cat who was better at entertaining himself. Marcel especially loves elastics, twist ties, and pipe cleaners (also my sweaty socks, but that’s a whole other blog post).
  3. The other morning as I did yoga, Marcel showed up with a purple pipe cleaner. I tried to maintain my yogic** concentration as he batted it around then snuck up on it to pounce. A few minutes later, Marcel showed up with a white pipe cleaner. After that, it was a black pipe cleaner.
    Pipe cleaners

    The white pipe cleaner is MIA, but these two remain on the floor as toys.

    If you look closely you can see Marcel’s white hairs on the pipe cleaners, (and if you have really good vision, the kind that sees across the miles and through walls, you’d see white hairs on my shirts, shoes, futons, hardwood floors, bathroom vanity, . . .)

  4. That third pipe cleaner prompted me to investigate and, sure enough, I found the source. Marcel had gone down to the drawers that Wildebeest and Zebu used way back when for storing their craft items. Marcel had opened the drawer holding the pipe cleaners.
    Craft drawer
  5. Marcel is a nappy cat, a food-obsessed cat, and also a pretty damned smart cat.

    Marcel woke up when I came down to photograph the scene of the crime.

    Marcel woke up when I came down to photograph the scene of the crime.

**Confession: I thought I’d made up a word but then looked it up and discovered I was inadvertently legit.

Tiny House Dreams

/ Tracy Abell

I live in a house with an upstairs and a downstairs.
There’s stuff in every room of the house.
Some of that stuff I use each and every day.
Some of that stuff hasn’t seen daylight in years.

I live in a house surrounded by a large yard.
There are trees and shrubs and perennial flowers in every part of the yard.
In some places, the flowers are growing out of control (day lilies, I’m looking at you).
In most every part of the yard, weeds are growing out of control.

I try to stay on top of the clutter inside the house.
I attempt to keep the weeds at bay.
But it’s a losing battle and I often feel a sense of overwhelm.
Such as today.

I’m dreaming of a tiny house and one pot of geraniums.

Wind River Bungalow

Wind River Bungalow

Friday Five: The New-to-Me Edition

/ Tracy Abell

ONE: The right headlight on our 2004 Prius went out and Zippy fixed it with a new bulb (something he’s done four times over the years, thanks to the kindness of people who post YouTube how-to’s).

New bulb in the old car.

New bulb in the old car.

 

 

 

 

 

 


TWO: We replaced our garbage disposal splash guard (taking only three trips to the stores to find the correct size), again thanks to the kindness of people sharing DIY knowledge.

My new view from above.

My new view from above.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREE: One night this week Zippy and I watched WILD, the movie based on the book by Cheryl Strayed, and an image from that film that’s stayed with me is Cheryl writing in her journal and then tearing out the page after it’s filled, and feeding it to the campfire.

WILD movie

 

 

 

 

 

FOUR: One of our two old dogs is suddenly walking like a drunken sailor and yesterday the vet told us Coco is (hopefully) suffering from “Old Dog” Vestibular Disease, so she’s now on some medication and we’re hoping she’s soon upright and back to herself.

Coco's got a new tilt to her head.

Coco’s got a new tilt to her head.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FIVE: Last fall Zippy and I dug out the raised bed on our patio that had been destroyed by our two old dogs, and replanted it with new perennials (before adding a barrier fence to keep out Coco and Zoey), and the new plants are poking through.

A new penstemon has joined the garden.

A new penstemon has joined the garden.

His Name Wasn’t Stu

/ Tracy Abell / 5 Comments

But that’s what I called him.

The name change started about the time he and my mother-in-law traveled to Alaska to visit Zippy and me. I mentioned in conversation that he didn’t seem like a Steve, but more of a Stu. So later on when we were in a gift shop in Fairbanks and I discovered a STU coffee mug, it was a done deal. My father-in-law was forevermore Stu.

Yesterday, the family honored his wishes and let Stu die. The nurses did everything to keep him comfortable, and in the hours before letting go, Stu was surrounded by his wife and four children, two daughters-in-law and one son-in-law. The last thing he said after opening his eyes and seeing us all there was “My chickadees.”

Stu had accepted, once and for all, how much his brood loved him. Following a surgery in early December, his last three months were mostly spent in hospitals and two different rehab facilities, with only a handful of days at home. His health had declined on several fronts and it was incredibly difficult for him. But the gift of those months was that Stu spent time with his family and had conversations he’d never had before. Emotionally honest conversations. Pre-surgery, there’d been a standing joke that Stu’s favorite children were the three different West Highland White Terriers he had over the years. Stu didn’t do emotions. Stu stiffly accepted hugs, but never initiated them. Stu was a rock.

Except, the evidence said otherwise.

From the start, Stu made me feel welcome in the family. Despite our vastly different social and political outlooks. Despite our vastly different dietary habits. Despite coming from such different backgrounds that we were practically aliens to one another, Stu and I had a bond.

Yes, Stu was a rock. Except for that time vacationing in Puerta Vallarta with a six-month-old Wildebeest, when Stu and my mother-in-law babysat so Zippy and I could have a quiet dinner alone. Wildebeest of the mighty lungs wailed the entire time we were gone, and Stu patiently held him and walked round and round the hotel pool, ignoring the other guests’ groans of “Here they come again.”

Stu was a rock, except when we were in Hawaii when I was pregnant with Zebu and the twisty-turny road up to the volcano made me sick and he pulled over to let me throw up in the ditch and then allowed me to drive the rest of the way, even though Stu always, always was the driver.

Stu was a rock, except when putting in hours in his woodshop making toys for his grandchildren.

Stu was a rock, except the time I overheard him telling a nurse about his wonderful family consisting of one wife, four children, seven grandchildren, and one great-grandchild, and ending it by saying he felt very bad for people who didn’t have family.

Stu was a rock, except when he confided that the one good thing to come out of his lengthy hospital stays was that he and I had become better friends.

Stu was a rock, except when he asked the physical therapist to call him Stu rather than Steve.

Stu was a rock, except when I got to his bedside yesterday and he reached out his hand for mine.

I’m so grateful I got to be one of Stu’s chickadees. When I sat down to write this, I caught a flash of movement in the pine tree outside the window. I looked closer and wasn’t at all surprised to see a Black-capped Chickadee hopping around the branches.

Not this morning's visitor, but another Black-capped Chickadee.

A relative of this morning’s visitor.

 

 

Clean Windows, Gloria Swanson, and Me

/ Tracy Abell

I’ve come to the startling realization that when life gets particularly difficult, I sometimes cope by washing windows. (Full disclosure: I also cope via cookies, beer, and Netflix.) I just spent the last few hours washing interior and exterior windows plus screens, and I actually enjoyed it. Just me, a clean rag, a bowl of vinegar-water, and a stack of newspaper.

Big deal, right?

It is kind of a big deal. See, when I was growing up it seemed I was always washing windows (and lemon-oiling the paneling and vacuuming the basement stairs and . . .) The combination of a slightly obsessive-compulsive mother and a house full of windows made for many, many hours scrubbing at fingerprints and smudges and whatever else my brothers stuck on the glass, and I resented the chore. The Wisconsin humidity made it impossible for the windows to dry correctly and I was forever battling streaks so that window washing was more often a rage-inducer than a coping strategy.

Now I’m an adult living in oh-so-dry Colorado, and washing windows is almost a zen activity. The windows dry quickly and mostly streak-free! It’s me deciding when to wash windows, not my mother! Plus, clean windows make bird and squirrel watching so much more enjoyable!

Also? These days I don’t have to worry about anyone mistaking a clean sliding glass door for an open sliding glass door. When my sons were little, Wildebeest chased Zebu through the house right after I’d washed windows and poor Zebu hit that glass door so hard he bounced back several feet as blood poured from his nose. I heard the impact all the way down in the basement. (Full disclosure: at that point in my life I probably used the incident as an excuse for letting the windows stay dirty for a good long while.)

But I’ve since adopted a new attitude. And for the time being (at least until the cats and dogs smudge them), I have clean windows and a calmer spirit.

Gloria Swanson by Edward Steichen

Gloria Swanson by Edward Steichen

” My mother and I could always look out the same window without ever seeing the same thing.”  ~ Gloria Swanson

Birdwatching With a Cat

/ Tracy Abell / 2 Comments

Western Scrub Jays are very smart birds. Today they found our newly-filled peanut feeder and quickly spread the word. Many jays have flown in to grab a peanut and then taken off again to hide the peanuts (my neighbors across the street might discover a nutty motherlode in their yard next spring). I ate lunch while watching all the activity outside the living room window.
More jays in peanut feeder 002

More jays in peanut feeder 009

More jays in peanut feeder 019

Marcel watched, too.
Scrub jays in peanut feeder 007

For the most part he’s remained calm, tail still. That all changes when one specific jay arrives and then Marcel makes clucking sounds and lashes his tail while climbing the window. I’m guessing there’s some trash-talk going on between the two of them.

Wildebeest and Susie Sweet Rack

/ Tracy Abell / 2 Comments

Wildebeest and friends drove across the country in Wildebeest’s old Subaru (aka Susie Sweet Rack) to attend a music festival. They were in Missouri on their way back to Colorado when Wildebeest’s friend drove off the newly paved, unmarked road into the dirt and then immediately overcorrected. The car spun one and a half times as a semi’s headlights approached, and then went up into the median strip where it slammed to a stop against a post. The semi, horn blaring, whooshed past them.

No one was hurt. All were shaken up, especially when they realized that the back window had shattered on impact and none of them even heard it.
Fletcher's car 007                  Fletcher's car 005
It took a while, but Zippy and I actually fell back asleep after that phone call. I’m actually pretty proud of that. Progress!

Tough Love

/ Tracy Abell / 2 Comments

A couple weeks ago Zippy and I had a bunch of people over. As is true of many things in our house, the front door doesn’t work as well as it should. In this case, it doesn’t close all the way unless you force the issue. Guests aren’t expected to know this and we weren’t paying attention.

Our two cat brothers, Loki and Marcel, are indoor cats. They’ve seemed quite content with that status. Until a couple weeks ago when that front door was left open and Loki escaped to the front yard (that is bordered by a pretty busy street, yikes!)

Following that grand adventure, Loki has taken to fits of crying at the door.
Loki 022  Loki 026  Loki 033  Loki 027

Loki 025

His looks of yearning, frustration, and disgust won’t sway me. The squeaking cries won’t break me. I love him too much to let him go. I only wish he understood.

Trivial Tuesday: Writer-in-Action Edition

/ Tracy Abell / 2 Comments

I’m reworking one of my middle-grade manuscripts and decided to change a character’s name. The girl is named after her grandmother so I wanted to use Little + Name, but when I did an online search to make sure it wasn’t already a common name in children’s literature I discovered it was, indeed, common. In the porn world. (Fortunately, the girl’s name is Spanish so I can use the -ita diminutive and drop the Little.)

Then I went to make my morning smoothie and the vibrating Ninja blender caused a wine glass to tip in the dish rack and smash against the counter top.
Broken wine glass 004Wonder if Judy Blume faces these types of challenges?

There’s Clutter and Then There’s This

/ Tracy Abell / 4 Comments

Earlier this week I took a Decluttering class. It was a two-part class and for the second session we were supposed to bring a cluttered drawer, box, or bin to work on during class. It was so very hard to choose just one clutter-filled receptacle from my home, but I ended up taking a drawer that’d been underneath our air hockey table for the past five (at least) years. I ended up dumping/donating 90% of the clutter, and also found this (click to enlarge):
Fletcher and Harlan homemade game 014

I’m not entirely sure what it’s called, but this is a game Wildebeest and Zebu created many years ago. Complete with Maps
Fletcher and Harlan homemade game 011Fletcher and Harlan homemade game 010

Tokens
Fletcher and Harlan homemade game 004

 

 

 

 

 

Currency
Fletcher and Harlan homemade game 006

 

 

 

 

 

and Power Cards
Fletcher and Harlan homemade game 003

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m holding onto this game. I know, I know. But would you be able to part with The God of All Ninjas? I thought not.

Bathroom Blogging

/ Tracy Abell / 4 Comments

So here’s something from 2014 that I feel good about: I finally went ahead and made some changes to our bathroom. For years I’ve wanted to get rid of the white plastic tub surround that was installed poorly and, therefore, buckled and pulled away from the wall along the top of the tub. It was impossible to keep clean and I couldn’t take baths because it’s difficult to relax when everything at eye level = YUCK. (When showering, I was actually grateful for my poor vision because then I could kinda, sorta pretend the bathroom looked all right.)

I knew I wanted something new but couldn’t decide what that something new would be, and decisions are not my friends. At least, decisions didn’t used to be my friends. We’re still not BFFs, but we’re doing better. Once I put in the call to the general contractor a friend had recommended waaay back in May, I made decisions Bing-Bang-Boom. Tile? Got it. Accent tile? Found it. New vanity top and sink? Check. Paint? Check again. Window treatment? Okay, that took a couple tries but not for lack of decision-making, but because of dimensions. Shower curtain? Done.

My bathroom went from feeling cold and dreary to being one of my favorite places in the house. In fact, I’m sitting on the edge of the tub right now.
Snapshot_20150101_1

Sucks Too Much to Give It a Name

/ Tracy Abell / 4 Comments

This has been a bad day for a variety of reasons I don’t need to list here. However, I wanted to document it because it’s important to acknowledge the less-than-stellar days. Less-than-stellar days can, by comparison, make the coming days seem almost shiny.

So in order to document this day, I needed a representational image so I went to MorgueFile.com where I typed CRAP into the search box (and yes, I realize I was opening the door to all sorts of eww). This is what I got:
file1291238007940Hmm. Almost looks edible, kinda like gummy dice.

So then I typed in SUCK (again, very much aware of eww potential) and found this:
KONICA MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERAMan, all that cute has drained my energy for this documentation shite. Let the record show it’s been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

On ‘Boyhood’ and My Boy

/ Tracy Abell / 4 Comments

I knew from the moment I read about Richard Linklater‘s latest film, Boyhood, that I had to watch it on the big screen. I was intrigued by the fact that he made the film with the same people over a 12-year span, and I couldn’t wait to see it. One of the reviews said it was a movie composed of universal childhood moments and emotions, moments and emotions recognizable to anyone in the world who’d experienced childhood. Hey, that’s me! I’m a former child.

boyhood movie poster 3

Yesterday as Zebu, Zippy, and I walked into the theater, I was prepared for what I was about to see. Or so I thought. In reality, I’d overlooked some pertinent facts:

  • ‘Boyhood’ isn’t only a story of childhood and growing up, but also what it means to be a parent.
  • Filming began in 2002, when the main character, played by Ellar Coltrane, was seven. In 2002, my son Zebu was six.
  • The movie ends with the main character arriving at his college dorm.
  • In two days, Zippy, Zebu, and I begin our drive to Zebu’s college where he will move into a dorm.
  • In five days, Zippy and I will fly home to our “empty nest.”

No, I didn’t bawl throughout the movie. Yes, I did tear up near the end with Zebu sitting between his father and me. Mostly, I was gobsmacked by how it felt as if our lives were playing out on the big screen. And that’s where those universal moments and emotions come into play. Because while our family dynamics have not followed anything like the film family’s trajectory, it all rang true because every single one of us on this planet is either a child or a former child. And if you’ve had parents and/or are a parent yourself, the film conjures up an additional whammy of recognition.

I’m grateful to ‘Boyhood’ for capturing the moments my family experienced over the past twelve years. While the faces and haircuts aren’t exactly the same, the feelings are spot-on.

Ellar Coltrane as Mason Evans, Jr.

Ellar Coltrane as Mason Evans, Jr.