• an evening together

    Late Sunday afternoon, my whole family—or those of us who are living on our local “commune” (we missed you, Little Bro et al!)—got together for a doggy roast.

    We sat in the shade of the giant evergreens on the grassy hill in my brother’s backyard, and roasted hot dogs and ate not-quite-cooked-all-the-way potato salad (from yours truly) and spinach salad and weird pickles (again, from me). Along with everything else she contributed, my sister-in-law cracked open a jar of pickled onions with cilantro that totally rocked my dog. Why have I not done this before? And there was ice cream, too, of course.

    We lolled about on our blankets and teetering-over lawn chairs and talked about mortgages and dentists and retirement accounts (we’re an exciting bunch) while the kids blew bubbles, rode trikes and bikes, bugged us, picked peas from the garden, and jumped over bushes they weren’t supposed to jump over.

    My older son hung out with the adults the entire time, but my older daughter disappeared into the car with a book. After a while I called her back over and gave her orders to “be sociable.” She complied for a bit, but soon sidled off to read again. Does this mean she’s officially a bookworm? I think yes.

    Just after sunset, we hurried home to do the first strawberry picking. I hulled the berries at the kitchen sink while the kids (and Papa!) played a made-up game of trampoline dodgeball in the early dark.

    This same time, years previous: losing my footing, the quotidian (5.27.13), spicy cabbage, the quotidian (5.28.12), one dead mouse, the ways we play, just the tip, and rhubarb tea and rhubarb tart.    

  • the hard part

    Have you heard the Fresh Air interview with Sally Mann? She’s a photographer specializing in black and white photos of life in the South, her family, decaying human bodies (from a forensics lab), a series of photos of her husband’s withering body, and—what got her a lot of negative attention from the media—photos of her young children, naked. Her pictures are stunningly raw and intimate.

    Terry Gross opened the interview with the controversy surrounding Mann’s photos of her naked children. Terry painted a word picture of several of the photos, including this one: a young, naked girl leans against a bed, one hand on her cocked hip, the other hand touching her chest. Another child is in the bed under the covers. Immediately, all my red flags went up. How was this not child pornography?

    But Mann was neither ruffled nor defensive. She simply explained the situation: their family lived in the deep South with not another human for miles around. It was so hot that her children rarely bothered to wear clothes, and they pretty much lived in the river all day long. That particular day, the older daughter was sick in bed. The younger daughter, the picture of health, was standing beside her, defiantly flaunting her good fortune over her laid-out sister. That was it: two sisters—one healthy and one not—juxtaposed.

    I find it disturbing that I (and everyone else, apparently) was so quick to sexualize the children. And I am both fascinated and dismayed by how far my perceptions were from the truth.

    Art in context makes sense. The risky thing about art, though, is that it’s rarely in context. It’s one person’s experience put out to the world for interpretation. In a sense, we’re all artists, shaping our lives, editing its meaning, curating our existence, longing for appreciation. No matter how carefully we craft ourselves, we are received differently, depending on the person.

    That’s what I got out of Terry’s interview with Sally Mann: to approach people as I would art. To appreciate art—to appreciate each other—I need interest, open-mindedness, a few questions, and the time to listen, the only agenda being to hear what the other person wants to say.

    It’s so simple, really. Remembering to do it is the hard part.

    This same time, years previous: the quotidian (5.26.14), questions and carrots, we love you, Wayne, and de butchery.

  • the quotidian (5.25.15)

    Quotidian: daily, usual or customary; 
    everyday; ordinary; commonplace


    For breakfast: toast and a book. 
    Breakfasting with Khan Academy: a biology/ecology lesson.

    For me, a week of lunches: roasted broccoli, baked brown rice with chard (from ’09!), 
    sunflower seeds, Feta, craisins, and a lemon-olive oil dressing.

    Broccoli procrastination.

    After getting bucked off and kicked in the hip and arm: mad as a hornet and back in charge.

    Reading nook.

    Taking Amazon to a whole new level.

    Nosy.

    Murches use much mulch. 

    This same time, years previous: Shirley’s sugar cookies, the basics, more on trash, rosa de jamaica tea, down to the river to play, the reason why, savoring Saturday’s sun, through my daughter’s eyes, deviating from my norm, chocolate-kissed chili, strawberry shortcake with milk on top, ranch dressingAunt Valerie’s blueberry bars, and asparagus, goat cheese, and lemon pasta.