Monkey Bars

June is going by so fast. I hope we're able to slow summer down this time. Many days it's been too cold and rainy for the pool, and the first week of June R went to a camp at another Catholic school. Her last day of camp, we took her to a park in Englewood that has a little petting farm and a train.

The train winds around and goes over a river.

The playground has bigger monkey bars than she's used to, and she was eager to try them.

Then she got discouraged because she couldn't hold on. She kept dropping off.
We suggested that she take a breather and play on something else for awhile.

She walked away and said she just wanted "peace and quiet" so she could think about it.

She climbed back up and tried it again.

And she fell down again. But this time she thought it was funny. If you were expecting an inspiring story about how R went back again and again until she mastered the monkey bars . . . this isn't it.

I love my funny little girl.

Hello Horsie

Although technically, I think this is a mule.

Spring break, D's mom is visiting all week. We went with R and her little cousin to the working farm at the Littleton History Museum.

Two Zoo Visits

Spring weather makes us remember the zoo, after a long winter of forgetting it's there.

We went on Saturday with our neighbor friends.

R consulted the map.

Carousel joy!

And two weeks ago, we went with my high school friend Margaret and her kids.



Margaret's son is one day younger than R. I remember her calling me from her hospital bed, to congratulate me in my hospital bed.

Santa Fe Pictures

Some pictures from our Christmas trip to New Mexico. This is the afternoon we spent in Santa Fe, at the galleries near the train tracks.

It was uncharacteristically overcast and gray. We let R pick out a puppet from the Farmer's Market, and she picked this Jack Russell terrier. She didn't let him out of her sight for weeks.




I used to walk past those train tracks, down Paseo de Peralta every day on my way home from the downtown art gallery where I worked the year after college. This is where I lived, in the upstairs apartment. It looks the same, maybe less run-down now. I wonder if they still have the old cast-iron footed tub. That place was so spectacular when the sun was just going down and all the windows filled with light. A molten gold that made the furniture look like it was on fire. That light always pops into my head when I hear the Cowboy Junkies or Glenn Gould's recording of "The Goldberg Variations." It must be what I listened to most when I lived there.

Here is some graffiti outside my favorite restaurant, La Choza. Just down the street from my old apartment.

This is outside the International Folk Art Museum on Museum Hill. The colors look different on a gray day, more variation in the blues and grays. In some ways Santa Fe is more interesting when it's not baking in the sun.

Chimayo

That was not enough time in New Mexico. My heart is still back there. Christmas is the luck of the draw each year, with D's work schedule. Then it was eyeglasses that fell out of a pocket and a day lost to replace them (a long story), my little brother's delayed flight from the east coast with all the snow, and it all meant we didn't get our annual overnight or two in Chimayo and Santa Fe.

We did have the family Christmas we all needed so badly, the long visits and going to sleep and waking up in our old house with the well-loved faces at breakfast, so, no complaints. Except that I am still longing for the two-day, peaceful interlude in northern New Mexico that recharges me for the rest of the year.

We made the most of our one afternoon and night, and after some time in Santa Fe, we got to Chimayo just at dusk. We went to the final night of the nine-day Las Posadas at the Santuario. I'll never forget it. I hope R is old enough to remember some of that night.

First they say the Rosary (only the Joyful Mysteries) inside the tiny chapel of Santo Nino de Atocha, the holy Christ child, with the baby shoes lining the walls. (The tradition is that when you leave a pair of shoes from a baby who has just learned to walk in front of Santo Nino de Atocha, you return in the morning to find the soles scuffed and worn. Santo Nino has worn them as he travels around all night doing good deeds.) Then Mary (on a real donkey) and Joseph--two high school kids from Chimayo who are descended from the original families--process to the Santuario singing Vamos a Belen. Joseph knocks three times on the wooden door with his heavy staff, and the pilgrims (los peregrinos) sing a version of the Posadas song:

In the name of the heavens
I request lodging from you,
Because she cannot walk,
My beloved wife.

From inside the church comes the reply:

This is not an inn,
Go on ahead
I can’t open up for you
In case you’re a crook.

(los Peregrinos):

I’ve asked you for lodging
Dear innkeeper
Because the mother is going to be
The queen of the heavens.

(The Innkeepers:)

Then if she is a queen,
Who requests it
How is it that at nighttime
She’s traveling so alone?

(Los Peregrinos)

My wife is Mary
Queen of the heavens
And mother who’s going to make
The divine oath.

(The Innkeepers)

You are Joseph
Your wife is Mary
Come in travelers!
I didn’t know it.

And everyone sings:

Blessed is the house
That shelters today
The pure virgin
The beautiful Mary.

Enter holy pilgrims
Receive this haven
That although it’s a poor dwelling
The dwelling…
I offer to you from the heart.

The door is opened and everyone files into the church for Mass. Afterwards there were homemade bizcochitos and hot chocolate.

It's much smaller and more intimate than I expected. There seemed to be only a couple of other people who weren't local members of the church. We waited awhile until it was time for Las Posadas to start, and walked around the grounds and went in and out of the church. The silence, the cold air, the smell of pinon fires, and the crooked Christmas lights and farolitos growing more defined against the adobe walls as the sky turns black, made my eyes well with tears. I was so happy to be there with my husband and my little girl. Santa Fe and Chimayo have always been such a solitary experience for me. I can't take off whenever I want any more, and spend as long as I want. But when I do get to go, they're with me.

While we waited for Las Posadas to start, we talked to the jolly gray bearded priest in the tiny church office who had a "Maryland" logo on his jacket. (He was from Takoma Park, and knew about my college in Annapolis. He had even spent some years of his childhood in Aurora, near Denver.) As we made one of our turns around from the river up to the church, we saw him standing outside looking up at the sky. I was too shy to walk up and talk to him. I wish I had. I wonder what he thinks about after he has talked to all the people who travel to Chimayo and he watches the seasons change and the pilgrims come and go, and daily life go back to the local families.

It was all local families pulling into the dirt parking lot in their pickups. One pickup screeched to a stop next to us as we walked to the chapel and a Northern New Mexico accent shouted "Is the play tonight? What time is the play?" It struck us funny that someone would think we would know. "Um, the internet said it starts at 6? But the doors are still locked." The grey bearded priest pulled up a second later in his own pickup "Aren't the doors open yet?" Just then everyone got out of their pickups and he said "Follow them!" He was heading down the hill to say Mass at Holy Family parish.

R is learning the Rosary this year in first grade, and she seemed to really like reciting it in that beautiful chapel. Although, among the forty and the six year old knees, guess who complained about the hard, narrow wooden kneelers? She loved the procession and seeing Mary on a real donkey. She snuck around to pet the donkey's nose while they were waiting for the procession to start, and I let her even though I had a vivid mental image of a rearing donkey and a ruined Posadas that was all our fault. It made me laugh so hard when she found herself, after the magical donkey procession and the singing, suddenly inside a church with the familiar words starting up and whispered to me in anguish "MASS? We have to go to MASS now?" I was so much older when I finally learned to love Mass and look forward to it, and I really sympathize. But what made me love it so much as an adult was the memories of hearing those words going back as far into time as I could remember, standing and kneeling and standing and kneeling, with my family next to me. So I think she'll be ok.

I will remember the voices raised in the Rosary, ragged and faltering, some ahead, some behind. Joseph pounding on the old wooden church door three times as it echoed in the icy air, and the utter silence as we filed into the church. The smiles of the ladies who had baked the bizcochitos as they handed everyone plates with Christmas napkins and two thick cookies cut in star shapes. Those are the best cookies, made with lard and anise seeds. Looking at the hole with holy healing dirt and a child's red plastic spade to scoop it out, and regretting that I had forgotten to bring anything to take some dirt home in. Turning back around to see R scooping it into the pockets of her coat and looking up at me, "For Grandma! I want to bring some home to Grandma."

As we left the church with our styrofoam cups of hot chocolate and plates of bizcochitos--(honestly, I could never bring myself to cook with lard, but after tasting those cookies, I would never fault anyone who does)-- the snow was just starting to fall. We had parked down below the church and had to walk along the river to get to our car, and R was laughing and running ahead and catching the snowflakes on her tongue. It was pitch black, no lights at all. We heard a snorting and whinny and thunder of hooves, and found ourselves up against the fence of a horse corral. We could barely make out a beautiful sorrel horse with a broad stripe of white on his nose. R was beside herself. He came right up and let her pet him. She wanted to give him her bizcochito and we reluctantly told her no. He cantered along the fence and whinnied softly. They were just enchanted by each other. Suddenly he took off, his hooves thundering in the soft dirt, galloping all around his pen. R was shouting with joy, and we were laughing at how excited she was and kind of thrilled ourselves, because horses are LOUD in the dark. The snow started falling faster, and he followed her all along the fence to the car and whinnied as she got in and she was crying because she didn't want to leave him. "Why can't we take him home? I'll feed him. I'll give him my own food! I'll never let his water bowl get empty. I PROMISE." We told her he belongs to the friendly Father that she liked so much. (who does he really belong to? I don't know.) And that Father would feel as sad if we took his horse away as she would feel if someone came and stole Charlie. She said she would write a letter to the Father and tell him the horse wants to be with her. She was mad halfway back to Albuquerque. But she told Grandma the next morning that she met a horse who really loved her but he belonged to the Father and she was going to let him stay there. I took photos blind in the dark, aiming the flash at where I heard the horse. When I saw the photos, there were crosses woven into all the links of the fence. All sizes and colors, hundreds and hundreds of crosses.

Bringing home the Christmas tree

Saturday was a short respite from the bitter cold and snow that has been most of December so far. We brought home a tree that is the only perfectly symmetrical one I've ever had. It almost doesn't look real, it's so conical and perfect. I'll post more pictures later.

Then Sunday we decorated the tree. Notice how there are no ornaments from Charlie- level on down. I hope that after his puppy year we can decorate the whole tree again. I love the Christmas tree smell. Walking down the stairs or in the front door you get hit with a wave of that familiar, sharp, cold, foresty scent. It still makes me think of a scratch and sniff book I had when I was little. Which in retrospect smelled more like Lysol than a real tree, but I loved that matte green illustration of a pine tree. I scratched and sniffed until I wore it down to the white paper beneath. The next page was a candy cane, which was almost as good.

I believe this Santa hat is on backwards. I'm not sure why R is being so prim. She might be thinking about Santa watching her behavior.

Down below zero tonight, and a lot more snow on the way tonight and tomorrow. The furnace is roaring on every few minutes. I'm dreading driving to school tomorrow. I'm going to pull the down comforter over my head and try not to think about it.

Sunday in the Park

We have a lot to do to get ready for Thanksgiving, but we took off for a few hours this afternoon.



Charlie finds it hard to relax in a park.


I love the Colorado winter sky. The blue and the rosy amber, the way it stretches out all around you.

And this is how you get over the flu

That was harrowing. Almost a week of missed school, a fever that almost landed her in the hospital. But she did get better, and we got the doctor's ok that she's not contagious any more. So today we took her to Sunflower Farm in Longmont, for a day in the sun playing with the animals.

First she wanted to make dinner for us in the little playhouse.

(These are pictures taken with my cellphone, so sorry for the quality.)


She never pays any attention to what's in her lunches or what she eats, so I was happy to see that she made such balanced pretend plastic meals. Since I'm am still getting over the tragic evidence that my fresh, organic vitamin-packed bento lunches didn't keep her keep her from getting the flu. She still looks a little peaked--I hope a day running around in the sun helped that.

Pony ride

Feeding the horses


And a stop at every tire swing, rope swing, tree fort, hay bale climbing maze, goat feeding station, duck pond, poultry coop and tractor fort on the farm. It was a beautiful sunny 70 degree Saturday. So that should put the roses back in her cheeks.

Museum Day

We took my parents to the Littleton Historical Museum.

R, Gammy, & Bam-Bam

The museum is a working farm, and also hosts exhibits. It houses artifacts from the Columbine shootings, which took place nearby.

I wasn't ready to look at them and then just move on into a regular day. I didn't have children when the shootings happened, and now I do. In the middle of a normal working day, you get the news that your child is dead. The killer is another child, a schoolmate. Maybe if I had been by myself, I would have looked more closely, and I intend to go back. I skimmed over it, I am ashamed to say, because I couldn't take it. I looked at a few photos and got a displaced and disturbing sense of things confined under glass and rearranged, that had been spontaneously placed at spots around the school. Teddy bears, plastic flowers.

My Dad was very moved by it. He started reading one letter addressed to the killers, thinking it would be an inspiring letter of forgiveness. It turned out to be an outpouring of vitriol that made him step back from the glass case in shock. He said he would never forget it. The exhibit is set up very intelligently. It asks the question, what should be preserved from tragedy, and how should it be presented?

Then you walk outside from that climate-controlled, under-glass room, where artifacts are preserved from a single day of horror that became a symbol for suburban disenfranchisement. Misery and murderous resentment, violence nurtured among the granite countertops and landscaped yards. You step outside, and there is life a hundred, a hundred and fifty, years ago. Palpable and accessible, if you stand in the fields and listen to the chickens and realize that the silence is absence of machines and traffic noise.

I wonder what it was about those farms that so moved me. I can't stop thinking about them. It might be the same old idea of prospect and refuge, what makes an appealing home, the question that made me start this blog. Inside the museum building, there was an exhibit of hooked rugs and photos and artifacts of Littleton history. A photo of workers in the early 1900s constructing wooden pipes, slab by wooden slab built up to a round shape, to move water. The amount of work to move water a few feet--staggering. But the workers looked happy and proud, straddling the pipe, their faces dirty and wet. Think of the feeling of accomplishment, for each foot of tube they laid.

There was a blown-up photo of a group of women and kids in 1903, splashing up to their knees in the Highline Canal. Maybe because the women were stripped to camisoles and petticoats, their wet hair tumbling around their faces, but they looked out at you, laughing, and any sense of "olden days" dropped away. Children splashed each other in the water and their faces were as vivid and modern as R's little school friends. I don't think I have ever seen a more lively historical photo.

The 1860s house was just a rough log cabin. Exactly what was needed to live, no more. But there was a small fenced-in yard with a well-kept garden, and the log gate opened with a welcoming creak.

There were neat rows of crockery, preserves and spices on the rough wooden shelves.
There was clean oilcloth on the table with friendly wooden chairs all around, a tidy garden, a sleeping loft up some steep and rickety stairs. The sleeping loft was the only thing that gave me an uneasy feeling. Dark, musty smelling, hairy woolen blankets on a bed that crouched in the dark. Dust motes floating past the tiny un-glassed windows carved into the logs. I thought of living in a place where animals and other people were threatening, and I would not feel safe trapped up those rickety stairs. The prospect was spectacular, but the imbalance between prospect and refuge was unsettling.

I can't forget the silence, the way the sky stretched out all around.

We definitely notice the sky more in this house than we did in our old crowded house in Denver. But standing in the middle of those animal paddocks and fields of crops on a cool June day--that is prospect. Prospect that comes with a price. Everything you see needs attention, and must be cared for with your own hands. Without your careful husbandry, your family would die. But think of the satisfaction, when you turn back and look out over your land as the sun goes down after a long day of work. Animals fed, crops tended.

Patient pregnant mare.

Those narrow wire-spring mattresses were probably as comfortable as they needed to be for people who slept the deep sleep of physical exhaustion.

By 1890, technology and the railroad had come to Colorado.

The 1890s house at the Littleton Museum is fascinating. There are houses of a similar vintage all over Denver, sturdy, filled with handmade details. Gracious and liveable. My mom liked that the 1890s house had a china cabinet with a few special things displayed behind glass. There was a flower garden surrounding the house, a comfortable kitchen with a big stove, a sunroom, a piano. We have been saving up for a piano for awhile now. The 1890s house is more civilized than ours. The china cabinet with treasures and curios reminded me of one of my favorite details in the Little House on the Prairie books when I was little, the Dresden china shepherdess that Ma carefully packed to take with her as they moved. The painted shepherdess sat on the mantel of every house they lived in, no matter how rough or wild the house and its surroundings.

Grapevines


1890s larder. William Morris wallpaper in the living room.

A very soft and civilized place to rest after a day of hard farm labor.

Looking out at the barn, from under the 1890s grape arbor.

Grand old tree.

Sun porch

The screen door off this sunporch had the most satisfying creak. The Grandma's house screen door creak, that was the most authentic detail in the whole farm.

Bedroom chair

R with her Dad and her Granddad.