Blue Skies

When Seattle skies are blue and sunny, something magical happens. My spirits soar, and the sky seems to be a great big canvas upon which I can write my hopes and dreams. I feel optimistic, invincible, and full of limitless options.

I feel the same way about photos of the sky. I love to shoot one image after the next, capturing the field of blue, the fluffy heaps of harmless white clouds, and random bits of earthly objects. And then I am fascinated with editing them to my heart's content - shifting the shades of the colors, increasing the contrast to reveal the shapes of the clouds, playing up the natural sun flares, and occasionally creating some highlights of my own.

It's not to say I don't appreciate the natural beauty of a gorgeous Pacific Northwest sky. But when I use my imagination to playfully reinvent them, I appreciate those blank, blue skies of possibility more than ever.

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Other stories of hope, offered from me to you:

It's Also The Thing With Feathers

Finding Your Way Home

Stopping For Poppies

Down In DEE-Troit

The Importance Of Ugly Places

San Juan Islands: The Beautiful Letdown

Cheers To Tuscon

November Rose
One White Crocus
White And Clean

Portrait Of A Watermelon

I love this photo; please let me explain why.

For the past week, my home has been abuzz with conversations about the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator.

In short, the MBTI is a way to measure and categorize the way people perceive the world and make decisions. By evaluating a person's responses to a series of questions, the MBTI identifies one of 16 types for that individual, and describes the unique characteristics of that personality type.

Last weekend, everyone in my family took the test, if we hadn't already, and identified our own type. Then we read the descriptions out loud together, discussing whether or not the particulars fit with the person in question. Now I don't believe in horoscopes or crystal balls, but the MBTI seems to be spot-on in identifying what makes people tick. At least for my family, the descriptions were so uncannily apt that we found ourselves laughing out loud at the pinpoint accuracy with which each of our personalities were described.

For example, I'm an INFJ, and here are a few quotes that describe my type:

"INFJs place great importance on having things orderly and systematic in their outer world."I'm a stickler for organization and tidiness. Some might say a fanatic. As we read this, I was in the middle of overhauling my not-really-all-that-messy pantry, down to painting the walls, sanding and refinishing the shelves, and restocking all of my basic supplies. As one of my daughters recently said, "There's clean, and then there's Streicher clean." 

"They are not good at dealing with minutia or very detailed tasks."Oh gosh, around our house, I'm definitely the project manager who envisions an overall goal, sorts out all the tasks and timelines, then sets everyone else to work. My most commonly procrastinated task is calling to make routine dentist or doctor appointments. And I'm very bad at searching for lost things - I  always rely on my precision-oriented family members to help me in that arena. 

"They are usually right, and they usually know it."This one made everyone laugh. Let's just say that within my family, I've got a reputation for being confident.

So yes, I'm a believer in the MBTI.

And my fourth-born is fascinated by personality types as well. She's an INTP, through and through, and this is one description of her that is particularly fitting:

"(INTPs) see everything in terms of how it could be improved, or what it could be turned into."
Yes. My INTP daughter is the one who came up with the brilliant idea of buckling our watermelon into the seat belt for the trip home from the grocery store. It's a perfect, precise, and delightfully particular manifestation of her personality

And that is why I love this portrait of a watermelon.

Ranger Approves

Whoop, whoop, I've got a new coffee table!

It's made from a pallet, a throwaway hunk of wood found at the receiving dock at my husband's workplace. He dragged it home for me last winter, upon my instructions, and waited for me to come back from Malaysia to figure out what the heck he was supposed to do with it.

When I returned from my adventure, I sat him down in front of a Google image search for "diy pallet coffee table" till he got the general idea. Then I sent him out to the garage to tinker and jimmy with it until he came up with a workable design. 

The biggest challenge was to make the pallet suitably tall for a coffee table. He jacked it up a few inches with some leftover 2 x 4s and a set of heavy duty casters from Home Depot, and you know, it works. 

I absolutely love the big wide acreage of the table top. Compared to the cramped rectangle of my previous, conventionally-sized table, this model gives us lots of space to spread out.

And this is a busy place in our home. This is how the table looks on a clean day, but more often than not, you will find art projects, gaming devices, board games, nail polish, and dishes of food spread hither and yon.

I love that this table will stand up to all the abuse. It's sturdy and no-nonsense, but still interesting and full of character. I love the random holes in the wood.

Also, I love the little compartments that allow things to be tucked inside the table. I'm still deciding exactly what I want to stash in there, but there is some solid hiding potential.

And while the table is still a bit low, Ranger thinks it's just the right height for him to keep an eye on the whole room. 

And you know what? If Ranger's happy, then I'm happy. So cheers for our new table!

Father's Day Musings About A Bad Dad

Not every dad can be a good dad. But even the bad ones 

can shape our lives in positive ways, and I'm thankful for that. -me

Today, as my Facebook feed jammed up with the many heartfelt messages and sentimental photos my friends posted in celebration of Father's Day, I contemplated once again the confusing role my father has played in my life. 

By any objective measure, Melvin was a bad dad.

For the first decade of my life, he tried to live the life of a family man, but failed dismally. He would disappear for days, even weeks, at a time, and return home offering no explanation. He cheated flagrantly, not even bothering to deny his series of affairs. His behavior provoked violent fights with my mother, at all times of day and night. He drifted away from his children until I lost any sense of connection to him.

When I was eleven, my parents divorced and my father moved to a different state. I was glad to see him go.

During the second decade of my childhood, he visited me a total of maybe three times. These reunions failed, mostly because of his attempts to "parent" me, which struck me as hypocritical and hollow. His checks for child support were few and far between; he took no interest in or responsibility for my life.  

And just to be clear, Mel was not a dumb guy. He was a gifted academic, working as a mathematical researcher, first at University of Michigan and later, MIT. He had plenty of money, and a fairly healthy role model in his own father. There are no excuses or contributing factors for his failure as a parent.

So what can I possibly find to celebrate on Father's Day? Surprisingly, quite a bit. Here are the top ten reasons I'm grateful for my bad dad:

10. I've been biologically blessed with a healthy body and a sound mind, and he gets 50% of the credit for that. 

9. As an infant, I suffered from colic and cried miserably. I'm told that he spent a lot of time rubbing my back, which stopped my crying and calmed me down. 

8. During the first few years of my life, when I was busy forming attachments and learning how to trust other human beings, he must have done a decent job of loving me because I'm a relatively emotionally stable adult. 

7. His dishonest behavior and lack of integrity taught me a lot about the value of trust, and drove me to be a more honest person. Even at the age of 5 or 6, I was afraid that if I told even a tiny lie, I would end up just like him.

6. As a teenager, I was driven by a desire to succeed in life, to show him that I could make something of myself without his help. That stubborn urge to show him up kept my young life on course, and probably steered me away from of a lot of trouble. 

5. Because his conduct so clearly lacked any belief in moral absolutes, I learned to define and live by my own moral code at a relatively young age. As a teenager, I knew who I was and what I stood for.  

4. His lack of compassion for his own children helped me become a more caring, empathetic person, with a special place in my heart for children who might feel overlooked. 

3. His ineffective parenting taught me volumes about the kind of parent that I wanted to become. Rule Number One: no fighting in front of the children. 

2. To this day, he will not admit that he ever did anything wrong. His arrogance - or inability to clearly assess his own behavior - taught me to be humble, and to apologize when I mess up. Especially to my kids. 

1. By failing to love me as a father should love his daughter, my bad dad taught me that of all the things in life, love matters most.

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Stories about my less-than-perfect dad:

Father's Day Musings About A Bad Dad

My Mother And Me

Spinning God Out Of Straw

Fresh Air

Hockey Night In Canada

Primary Colors

Ranger and I went on a walk today. We marched along the very same path we take every day, and I'm not gonna lie, sometimes our well-traveled route gets a little boring. 

But today, I was bound and determined to see something interesting and look what I found. 

Colors! Bold, primary colors that pumped me up and made me smile. Thanks, world, for surprising me once again with your interesting details.

You're A Grand Old Flag

When I was in third grade, my teacher had an affinity for patriotic songs. Every morning, after we said the Pledge of Allegiance, Mrs. Campbell would kick off our day with the rousing strains of America the Beautiful, or This Land Is Your Land, or The Battle Hymn of the Republic. We had quite a repertoire to choose from. 

I found myself strangely stirred by these songs. I didn't necessarily embrace the melodies or lyrics; sometimes I barely understood what the song was trying to say. But I drew from this experience a strong surge of emotion. Now, as an adult, I suppose I would call it patriotism, but as a child, I just felt happy when I sang those songs, and very proud to be an American. 

I especially loved songs about our flag. Of course, The Star-Spangled Banner is the granddaddy of U.S. flag-related songs, but I had a different favorite: You're A Grand Old Flag. The words, clearly etched in my memory, go like this:

You're a grand old flag

You're a high-flying flag

And forever in peace may you wave. 

You're the emblem of

The land I love

The home of the free and the brave. 

Every heart beats true

For the red, white, and blue

Where there's never a boast or brag

Should auld acquaintance be forgot

Keep your eye on the grand old flag!

I love that cheerful, bouncy, high-spirited song. 

I love the tender waves of passion it stirred up in my child heart. 

I love my nation's beautiful flag, and all that it symbolizes. 

And I love that, on June 14, we have a special if rarely discussed holiday to celebrate our grand old flag. Happy Flag Day!

The Tale Of The Tantalizing 'Tater Chips

I cooked up a great big bowl full of homemade potato chips for dinner tonight. They were delicious. I proceeded to eat way more than my share, giving myself a first-class stomach ache. You may decide to applaud my culinary ingenuity or laugh at my astonishing lack of self-control. The choice is up to you.