Tuesday, July 7, 2020

Vogue

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1nNzwkwqH00R6icE9X2miMCZLA5X0YTld

The year was 1987. Just a few weeks after giving birth to my first daughter, which flooded my being with mama bear instincts far beyond my greatest imagination, I was invited to join a dance team.

A Jazzercise dance team. Mhmm. That's right.

The purpose of this mission, if I chose to accept it, was to perform onstage during our city's summer festival, and in a conscious effort to balance the yin of my life-changing transition to motherhood with the yang of my sassy former self, I said yes.

Thus began a summer filled with weekly Saturday morning practice sessions, as we perfected every patented 80s pop star dance move known to man. I loved every minute.

The day of the September performance finally arrived. Looking fresh in our coordinated leotards and leg warmers, we dancers had also made some upgrades to our hair and make up. At our dress rehearsal, my instructor/friend and fearless leader had encouraged us to let go of our usual work-out-worthy pony tails and fresh faces, and for the performance, lean into big hair and sultry make-up.

When I showed up back stage, draws dropped at my new look. Later, my instructor told me that she honestly didn't recognize me under my natural finger waves, dark berry lip color, and smokey eye shadow. Not that I normally looked bad, she hurriedly clarified; this was just a more glamorous kind of beauty than she'd ever seen on me before.

And so we danced.

And we totally rocked it.

I'm not normally a performer at heart. I've never enjoyed the spotlight and rarely put myself in any situation that requires an audience to look at me.

But this was different. I lost myself in the moves and the music, and forgot about the fact that the auditorium was packed. It was a moment of my life that I will always treasure.

I'll always treasure the song of that day too. Though we'd worked through the routine easily a hundred times before we got up on that stage, I never got sick of it. One line from the lyrics felt particularly like a personal message just for me:

Beauty's where you find it. 

For all the joys and blessings of first-time motherhood - and I was up to my ears in all those good things - I felt, as most new mothers probably do, somewhat less than beautiful. And I wondered, as most new mothers probably do, if I would ever feel beautiful again. 

What I learned from

this line
this song
this dance
this performance

was that music, dance, imagination, inspiration, and yes, even beauty were still within my reach. All I had to do is reach out and take them. 

I felt, then and now, a sweet rush of relief whenever I hear this song. 

Beauty's where you find it. 


* * * * *

Now, please fast forward with me through the decades and right up to today.

I was in Bellevue, a satellite city of Seattle, known for its ever-expanding high-rise skyline and an impressive portfolio of top notch corporate headquarters, but also nitty and gritty in its own right. I was on a mission at a local stone yard, definitely one of the nittier and grittier parts of town. While my husband handled payment for the patio stones I'd just picked out, my dog and I took a turn around a gravel overflow parking area at the back of the property. 

As we sauntered along this extremely inelegant lane under a tiresome hot sun, Gracie predictably headed for the tangle of blackberry vines and weeds along the broken down wire fence at the edge of the gravel. She gamely tucked her head under the prickly vines and sniffed about as I fell into deep, dark, moody thoughts about

the dirty and the ugly
the sick and the discouraged
the pain and frustration

of our world today.

Suddenly, I noticed what was right in front of my face. 

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1gRZSmVxxRM8ZIArt4E3PtY5IKzbU0u00
Look around, everywhere you turn is heartache
It's everywhere that you go

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1Xh6SmqCtYTwXxfl404L8myA22KwN9Ajm
You try everything you can to escape
The pain of life that you know

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1o0XJ36SuvSmw-kP-hFA9gX_9beSY0yc_
When all else fails and you long to be
Something better than you are today

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1AjBzodLNW4kdeI0ce6BiVqmLa47TWOBI
I know a place where you can get away
It's called a dance floor, and here's what it's for.

Wildflowers. 

Not the scrappy, scrubby run-down specimens one might expect to see in an untended city patch of gravel. But lush, colorful, charming little faces, worthy of their country cousins who might adorn a pristine meadow under a clear blue sky.

With careful framing, I realized, they would make for some lovely photographs. So I told Gracie to wait (yes, she knows what that means), pulled out my camera, and began to snap away.

And that's when I heard it.

Just as clearly as if I were back on that stage, dancing my heart out, a gentle voice in my head rang sweet and true. . 

Beauty's where you find it. 

Beauty is still within our reach, my friends. All we have to do is reach out and take it. 

Sunday, July 5, 2020

Obedience

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1iUtANfw17_bRr6k99NLU3uZPUBmh-R1Y
Me: Gracie, you wanna go on a walk?
My dog: Roger that, lady.


"Your dog is so obedient."

I glanced down at Gracie as my newfound friend pulled his yapping terrier along by the leash, the dog's tiny feet scrambling across the pavement in a desperate and futile effort to breach the six-foot distance between us and say hello. 

She sat calmly at my side, heeled over to the edge of the walking path, all her attention focused on what was probably a bunny in the bushes but maybe an old Taco Bell wrapper. 

He was right. Gracie is a very obedient lady dog.

But how exactly did this happen? I'll be honest - when she first came to us, my dog was a bit of a hooligan. Although I've definitely made some efforts to establish myself as Gracie's alpha and got her settled with some basic commands, I don't think of myself as a particularly obedience-oriented human, and I certainly don't devote much time and attention to formal training activities.

As we watched man and yappy dog fade down the path, and then continued on our way, I had second thoughts. 

I do expect my dog to be obedient, I mused, but I don't have to spend a lot of time in overt training mode. Because we are together every minute of every day (no exaggeration in this quarantine lyfe) and because we are so closely connected, wired for constant verbal and nonverbal communication, my dog and I get each other. At this point in our life together, we each understand perfectly well what the other expects from us, and we have learned how to work within each other's expectations with a minimum of fuss and bother. 

In other words, during every minute of every day, I am positively reinforcing the behaviors I want my dog to choose, and after three years of life together, she pretty much gets it. We enjoy each and every day together in sweet harmony and just a little chaos, which is exactly how I like it. 

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1vllCwiXX1UmHwZiHv6sux5CMM4lvP2du
Gracie has figured out that dogs belong on sidewalks and that even one tiny step into this thing called a street causes her mother to make loud, unpleasant noises of disapproval. So she almost never steps into the street. I mean, unless there's a really good reason, like a dead squirrel.  

She's also taught herself to stop at crosswalks and wait for me to catch up before attempting to cross. I see people in cars smiling in amazement at her on the daily as she practices this maneuver. 

Which got me to thinking about an interesting situation I'd recently observed. A young family - mom, dad, and three-ish-year-old boy were eating dinner within my earshot. And boy, oh boy, were the parents ever putting Junior through his paces. Though he was already behaving quite agreeably, mom  was in full-on training mode. 

"Say, please. 
Say, may I. 
Say, thank you, daddy. 
Say, I love you, daddy. 
Sit down in your chair.
Eat your salmon burger. 
Wipe your fingers."

During this litany of commands, father made several attempts to strike up a dinner conversation about something other than obedience, but could not get a word in edgewise around her cheerful stream of never-ending orders. 

And in my heart, I understood exactly what was happening. 

Both of these parents work full time, and their son, along with his infant sister, spends his days with a nanny. And I get that no matter how rewarding the work or necessary the income, many working-outside-the-home mothers in our culture struggle 

with guilt, 
with shame, 
with the sense that they are not good-enough mothers 

because they are away from their children for many hours every day. 

From that sense of not-good-enough-ness, I see why those moms might lean extra hard into the obedience training, thinking, I suppose, that this is what 'good' moms do, and they need to work on the training that much harder during the short time that they have with their kids. 

What I wanted to do was put dad and son on pause, and pull that mom away from the table. I wanted to hug her, and then pull back to look in her eyes, and tell her that everything is going to be okay. The odds are really good that her son will not grow up to be an unwashed heathen. She doesn't have to work so hard at this. 

Model good manners without making a fuss.
Reinforce what your child is doing right.
Accept a little anarchy with grace.
And savor every beautiful moment of now. 

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1vHOU-HEFgYmfKz5Gw4cW7T7eU6g9uVDJ
Actual commands I've given to Gracie today:

"Thank you for not licking the lotion off my feet."
"You're going to take a nap under this azalea bush while I pull weeds? Good dog."
"Yes, I promise you'll get your apple after dinner. Just wait."
"Get your lips off that fresh-baked lemon pie."


Obedience - for dogs or for toddlers - doesn't need to look like boot camp or training for the Ironman. It's simply a way of life. 

The Paradox Of Liberty

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=13iuGPQOuOjCln4UyI-0KrGu_OssdRP_0

"We hold these truths to be self-evident,

that all men are created equal,
that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights,
that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness,

that to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed."

* * * * *

On July 4, 1776, a group of white men who were good and fed up with King George III's leadership from across the pond sat down and signed a statement declaring their intention to go their own way. The opening sentences of that document, drafted by Thomas Jefferson and edited by a committee of founding fathers, lay out the rights of "men." But what exactly was their meaning? Did the authors  use that word interchangeably with "humanity,' including men and women of all colors, or did they intend to more narrowly describe only white men who owned property?

We are left to wonder. The Declaration of Independence makes no specific mention of the rights of black men. Or women of any color. Or Native Americans. What a terrible paradox that led these statesmen to defend the aching human need for liberty but stop short of overtly recognizing it as a gift for all.

This paradox, my friends, should not be news to us. It shouldn't take us a Black Lives Matter intervention to get familiar with the history of our own country. If you'd like to brush up on the basics, let me recommend The History of US, a highly-respected and award-winning series considered an attractive alternative to basic textbooks. The issues of slavery and racism wind through most of the ten volumes in the series, and give the reader a broad perspective of how they have shaped American life. 

Does this mean, then, as I've seen a dozen memes imply, that Independence Day no longer holds moral significance for newly woke generations? That Juneteenth is the only true day of independence that matters? That we should kick this empty, rusted-out tin can of a holiday on down the road and onto a scrap heap of rotting ideas about white supremacy and systemic racism?

That, my friends, would entirely miss the point. 

Our founding fathers wrestled with the morality of slavery. Some, like Jefferson, understood that slavery was a deeply divisive issue with the terrible power to tear asunder the newly forming nation. Their compromise in writing the Declaration of Independence, and fully realized in the creation of the Constitution nine years later, was to leave the divisive issue of slavery off the table, to sidestep the issues of black rights whenever possible, to pay forward the terrible debt of this paradox for future generations to resolve. 

Americans ever since have wrestled to make things right. 

And we now find ourselves as a part of that struggle. We are called to advance the cause of freedom, to ensure that all of humanity - especially our black brothers and sisters who still suffer systemic oppression - are truly free.

Independence Day calls us all to the challenge of freedom, to right the wrongs of the past, to bring us back to the task that our forefathers didn't know how to resolve. 

Maybe we are the people who will finally solve the paradox of liberty. 

The very least we can do is try. 

Friday, July 3, 2020

My Kind Of Fun

"I can't imagine not working, really. I just think work's more fun than fun." -Mary Quaint 

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1IVY2L61r3oNi8SL8zcwlLV4RZWu3V2TB

On the average summer day, teenage me would show up at home for dinner after a long day with my friends spent swimming, boating, water skiing, swimming some more, and enjoying whatever other lake culture hijinx we could fit into our busy schedule. I lived a life of incredible fun.

Seated around the table, my brothers would shovel food into their mouths as my mom told us about her day. She might have cleaned something out of the ordinary, fixed something that was broken, taken on a painting project, refinished a piece of furniture, or dug around in the garden. Always, she was pumped about her accomplishments.

These activities did not sound like fun to me.

They sounded like dreadful hard work.

And truth be told, I felt very sorry for my mom, that her life contained none of the fun and frolic that mine did. Such a pity, I thought, to be an adult stuck at home on a beautiful summer day with nothing better to do than dirty, difficult chores.

"I will never be that kind of adult," vowed sweet little teenage me."I'll always have fun."

I smile just to think of that girl.

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1BqkWlRFL0i4b6imkrvy67LxXRQO_IA-d

* * * * *

Today was a lovely if typically cloudy and cool midsummer's day in the Pacific Northwest. And I spent five solid hours of this day doing what I love to do best.

Working in my garden.

Now I don't mean that I was strolling about the grounds in a floral dress, straw hat on my head and basket on my arm, thoughtfully snipping delicate flowers to fill my vases indoors while reciting poetry to the birds.

Wearing a navy tank top, black bike shorts, and a grubby pair of trainers, I dug holes, broke up root balls, and pruned major canes off several rose bushes. I transplanted several dozen irises, ripped out expansive patches of invasive grass and weeds, and mulched my beds deep with wheelbarrows full of homegrown compost.

This was a dirty, messy, sweaty affair, and I came away with dirty fingernails, wet shoes, at least thirty bloodied wounds on my hands, arms, and legs.

Those roses sure put up a good fight.

But don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. Not in the least.

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1aq9XgOJ4U3dvVP8DSfHAaOfapZCAOLuZ

* * * * *

Over the course of the afternoon, I waved off several neighbors heading out for the weekend: to the islands, to the beach, to the sunshine on the far side of the mountains. Their vehicles groaned with racks of bikes, giant coolers, kayaks on the roof, speedboats in tow, kids and dogs in the back seats bouncing with excitement.

"What are you doing this weekend?" they called to me as they slowed down in front of my sidewalk, "Just staying home?"

"Yep," I replied with a secret smile that I'm sure they didn't notice. "Staying home and working in the yard."

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1UElC58lupxY3fbmVt4mYmzpjGglo2afv

* * * * *

As the afternoon wound to a close, my patient dog set her laser eyes on me and reminded me it was time for her walk. Before we left, I hauled off every last heap of plant debris, cleaned and put away my tools, and gave the finished beds a nice watering down.

And when we got back home, as Gracie enjoyed her dinner and a long, cool drink of water on the front porch, I wandered back to look at my handiwork.

I felt deep-down delight.

My bones ached with contentment.

My soul soared at the sight of

the happy, healthy plants;
the rich, loose soil;
the familiar colors and textures of each blossom, each stem, each leaf.

Every cell of my being vibrated on a higher frequency; my body hummed with satisfaction.

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=11vxdUsaLchFsF4RuPRNsOR2RLGDYjN_j

* * * * *

I still love to swim, to ski, to paddle a canoe, to skid across the waves in a fast boat.

I still like to have fun.

But these idle pleasantries are nothing to the rewards of a good, hard day's work in my garden.

Because now I know my mother's secret: working hard is without a doubt the best kind of fun.

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1bP0Cw_AkQijibuQzOepX67U6eA21ZX7G

Refreshed

"You have to really use your imagination to refresh your daily life." Eric-Emmanuel Schmitt


As I puttered around my yard this weekend, the cold hard truth settled into my soul. 

This will not be a summer of mountain hikes, stargazing at the beach, or road trips across the Great Plains. Barring some sort of Covid miracle, I'm going to be spending the entire summer in my backyard. 

Mmm. Okay. I guess that's not the end of the world.

But an itch of unease began to creep across my skin as I felt another thought rise just behind the first. 

My backyard better get ready to live its best life. 

So. The first thing I did was to order an adult-size inflatable pool. The way I figure, it should be just big enough to fit a pool mattress, with a few inches of margin to spare. I'll close my eyes and pretend I'm at Cabo. 

So far, so good. 

As I put down my phone and picked back up the hose - I do my best thinking when I'm near running water - I had another thought. Maybe I'm just an inconsolable visionary or a raving perfectionist (check and check) but there are always little corners of my yard that drive me nuts, that fall short of my heady ideals and flash disappointment and shame into my heart whenever I walk by. 

Dramatic, I know. But that's how I feel.

So, I reasoned, if I don't want to drive myself crazy all summer long, I would be wise to attend to these places now. I don't have a big budget for expensive fixes, but with some imagination and creativity, I can certainly give it a shot. 

* * * * *

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1nLqCsSOYpFbBbBk2A0Oz4YpgM0RTDJxi
Oh, hello.

The first annoying spot on my radar is the area outside my side garage door which opens onto a narrow patio to the right, and on the left, a corral for our gigantic recycling and compost bins.

Overhead is a monster of an electricity meter that makes me want to cry. 

Several years ago, I gave this space some love by means of a small mirrored shelf that I found at the thrift store, perfect for a little potted plant to splash some green up near my eyes and pull them away from that utility box. 

But the mirror broke, the plant coasted into ugliness, the wooden shelf looked tired and it all needed help.

So here's what I did.

Grabbing a can of paint from the garage, I covered the shelf with a fresh coat of dark grey semi-gloss enamel. Intellectual by Behr. 

In my next life, I want to be the person who thinks up names for paint colors. 

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=13OA7TbM0d18Dn5hO2w1mh5wX-rQtXRwc
A long view down the side yard, taken from the vantage point of the recycling bin. That trellis doesn't belong there, but he is a story for another day. 

Searching for something that would fit on the little shelf, I looked over my collection of pots scattered here and there across the yard and found a prime candidate. He was currently providing lodgings for a succulent that had utterly overwhelmed him. Seriously, I couldn't see a square centimeter of the actual pot; it had been swallowed whole by a green leafy beast. 

I replanted the usurping plant in a garden bed where he had room to stretch out, scrubbed the pot clean, and plopped him on the freshly painted (and now dry) shelf. 

Today, I strapped on my freshly washed face mask and headed out to buy a new specimen for the pot. When I got home, I braved a chilly July drizzle to unite the two at my potting bench, and admired the finished look. 


https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1t220Hus84PsnrODau3UDwYt4QN2HOPAF
On our back patio, we keep a plastic kiddie pool full of water all year round because Gracie likes to climb in and lie down for a proper drink of water. Which means when she's ready to bring her dripping wet self inside, we have her go around through the garage for a proper toweling off. And this is the place where I meet her. 

It's a small change, to be sure. And a cheap one, too - the shelf, the pot, and the paint were all on hand, so this cost me maybe an hour of work and $4.99 for the plant. 

But now, whenever I haul my shovel and rake out of the garage, or dump the recycling, or let my dog inside, instead of cursing a shabby corner I will smile to see this simple scene.  

And over the course of what is likely to be a long corona summer, I will feel refreshed. 

Thursday, July 2, 2020

Garden Boxes

"To nurture a garden is to feed not just the body but the soul." -Alfred Austin

It's an indisputable fact of life that if you like tomatoes, you'd best grow them yourself. Store-bought tomatoes absolutely do not measure up.

Goes for other fruits and vegetables too. There are few things as satisfying to me as planting my own patio crops and harvesting them for some personal farm-to-table goodness.

Which explains why I've put up with a mess of garden pots cluttering up my patio all these years. Especially here in the Pacific Northwest, that's the price to be paid for home gardening. Because of our rarely warm days and always chilly nights, even in the throes of summer, planting directly in the earth doesn't give our food crops a fighting chance to thrive. By getting the root system up out of the cold ground and surrounding the entire plant with as much warmth as possible, our produce stands a chance of, well, producing.

But after decades devoted to a cluttery cluster of terra cotta under my kitchen window - which is the sunniest spot in my backyard - I finally came up with a better way.

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=160Wigxq1kSMYbtjPeB1qLWlTEi5KiZ2U

Raised beds.
On wheels.
Made from the wood of my old fence.

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1a_j5u3CK_cIP4YoOyVO-bGY-JBSXAv_Q

As usual, I dreamed up the concept and my husband brought my ideas to life.
As usual, he brought a layer of practicality to the project, but that's his job.

We make an effective team.

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1d1sx6BvWYXXzHbG4lKGNEb1hhMCq5On1

In Phase One, we built two boxes - 36 inches long and 18 inches deep - roughly based on these plans. The wood - fence slats and posts - was free and we spent about $100 on hardware for both boxes.

The first is devoted to to my precious tomatoes,

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=19dl2Xm4RhnrCMOiAvVLpSTFg3O9yex6U

and the second full of strawberries. No slugs allowed.

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1Fc0iYWNn3-hmIYRoFT82nf0xB7nrb9HK

Because I have a well-established penchant for moving things around and a borderline-unhealthy preoccupation with cleaning underneath things, I added wheels to our design. Granted, now that the boxes are full of well-watered soil, they put up a bit of a fight when I move them around.

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=191Fgxfu-KmoGXP7ofEVU9kOe_slw-jkP

But even with a single push with my left hand - which is attached to my still-healing rotator cuff - I can slide them around. Heavy but manageable. 

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1sya_m4pdstvB8CdsH2aiM-s5uzg66drW

We held onto enough wood to make a second set of boxes that would sit in front of this pair. The wheels would allow me to slide the two rows apart when I need to get close to my crops - say, at harvest time - but also keep them pushed tight together in the corner most of the time, out of the way of other patio accouterments.

Like Gracie's bright green plastic swimming pool.

I'd love a bit more space for vegetables - beans, snap peas, zucchini - and maybe some herbs, though I did hold on to my three pots of chive, rosemary, and mint.

We shall see.

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=18OK8hEwvEwJB01oZuhLFp2UqD8x58F54

For now, I'm entirely satisfied with my new garden boxes just as they are.

* * * * *

More stories about my food gardens, farm-to-table dining, and those lovely home-grown tomatoes:

Tuesday, June 30, 2020

My Graduating Class Of 2020


https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1YfBvb9BUxYYIqtp13hy9byY-3Vz50jvC

Of all the quirky, off-putting, not-quite-right situations going on in our Covid-crazed world right now,  cancelled graduation ceremonies are near the top of the list.

Most kids dream of the day when they'll zip into an ankle length polyester robe, put on a coordinating square hat sporting a dangly tassel, and walk across a stage in front of hundreds if not thousands to shake hands with a stranger. As their name is announced, they will be handed an empty cloth-covered case, and the crowd will roar with approval.

Alright, I'll be the first to admit that's kind of a kooky tradition but darn if we all don't look forward to such a notable act of completion, and in that respect, I'm sorry for the graduates of 2020, high school and college alike, for the fact that they are missing out. 

So all the more was my intention to be sure that the graduates in my life were properly fêted with that other time-honored graduation tradition of receiving envelopes stuffed with cold, hard cash.

Yes, as you may have guessed, the homemade graduation card is alive and well at my house, and I created quite a flock of them this year. 

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1845lzRguqzQECCwir0nQtd6yLS6_GUP0

^ First, I painted. I truly believe the psychotherapy profession and self-care industry would shutter their windows and close down forever if we all spent time every day with several shades of acrylic paint, a paintbrush, and a short stack of printer paper. This is a sublimely satisfying way to spend an afternoon, and it's no accident that I decided to make this my first step.

Rather than facing the unmasked masses, I decided to make do with the supplies I had on hand at home. I picked six pairs of similar shades of paint - two blues, two greens, two teals, two reds, two yellows, two pinks - layered them one on top of the other, and combed through them to create interesting lines. 

Yes, paint combs are a real thing, and just in case you don't believe me, I'll link you. Here.

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1uxx7pt0fYNEtMUGovweiO2msyBCta0xY

^ Though I wasn't entirely sure of my design concept just yet - I mean, let's jump in with both feet and figure out the details later, right? - I was pretty sure I wanted black covers. So I painted some more. Black and white. And combed some more too.

It's insanely satisfying. 

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1B9Cv25TSdc61Htw5e3B68kEJKMA_q5AP

^ Now that my therapy session was complete, my stress gone, and my chakras fully aligned, I started in on the math.

First, I wrote out the names of each graduate and counted the number of letters in their first name. 

Then I tallied the number of numbers. 

Wait. That's doesn't sound right. Oh math, it's so hard to put you into words sometimes.

What I mean to say is that I counted up how many graduates had 8 or 7 letters, 6 or 5 letters, and 4 or 3 letters. That number would drive how many pages needed in each book, as you will soon see.

In a first-ever situation, this year I had a graduate with a two-letter name. Boy, her card threw me for a loop. But we'll get to that later. 

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1RiVRToC8MPxYT9WznfPW7J2hfMdAwxOZ

^ Now at this point, my brain was throbbing with all these figures and I needed a break. So I cut the cardboard covers. That was easy. 

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1NvWUs4GOsfslITqrBGZT5MSmDP5YzMII

^ Next came the tricky part. Using the grid on my paper cutter to make the measurements, I cut watercolor paper to varying lengths, based on the number of letters in each name. 

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1bAe74EIjqgo6LfDwxCtNJyriEe7HKA1b

^ Then I accordion folded each strip, using a bone folder to get super sharp creases because I'm all about those super sharp creases. 

Which probably goes back to the day when we used to iron creases down the front of our Levis. I don't remember exactly when that was a hot look, but trust me, there was such a time. And this fashion statement didn't work on just any old jeans. Had to be Levis. This may have happened during the anything-goes 70s but trust me, we had standards. 

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1paxa8Qj296echZGszBK94DMpJtrBPj10

^ Now it seems that around eighteen years ago, there was another hot trend - though this one had nothing to do with ironing your Levis. No, this fashion statement was all about giving your newborn baby a name with seven or eight letters. I sure had a lot of long names crop up on my list this year. 

And since my watercolor paper was not long enough to afford me seven-or-eight-letters-long strips, I had to do some splicing. 

And I'm extremely sorry to say that it was about halfway through this splicing step that I ran out of glue sticks. So work screeched to a halt while I placed a glue stick order for pick up at Target and dug around for a clean face mask. 

It was a while before I got back to work. 

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1HFC4O_z83ppPRN4uqjpseXsO8vqRne8l

^ But eventually the day came that I had spliced all my strips together, weighted them down with some big, heavy books called dictionaries and encyclopedias that we used to read in the past but now only use for weighing down things that have been glued.

I was ready for the next step.

On each folded page, I glued a background paper. For most of these graduates, who used to be my math students, I used pages from some old algebra textbooks. Now when my students opened their cards, they would see the old familiar font of their math homework problems and be horribly triggered. And then they would remember, "Oh, right, I'm graduated now and I never have to work another grizzly old algebra problem in my life." Sadly, that's probably not true but graduation is no time to burst anyone's bubble so I won't say a word about college level math. 

But a handful of these cards are going to graduates who were not my students, so I needed a different option for them. For the boys, I found a sleek and simple design that looked kind of like a model of a molecule, and for the girls, I drew daisies. 

* * * * *

Then, in a blur of late-night sessions of wild cutting and pasting, I snipped out the letters of each graduate's name from my painted papers and glued them over the background papers. One letter per page.

I also wrapped the cardboard covers with the black-painted papers, then glued and taped the heck out of them. 

Picking a second color to coordinate with the first, I made a simple pocket to be attached to either the last page - for odd-numbered names - or to the back cover - for even-numbered names. 

And just to go the extra mile, I sprinkled a few hole punches of the pocket color across the pages with the names. I'm all about telling a cohesive color story too. 

Which probably goes back to the day that for every shirt in my high school wardrobe, I had a color-coordinated necklace. The girl in my class who won Best Dressed that year, Dee Ann Maki, used the same strategy only with color-coordinated scarves instead of necklaces. I felt, then and now, that we were kindreds. 

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1OcoIsct0_cmbxqxzSQ0-zskuOu39MXS0

^ Okay so here we are, 

accordion strips spliced and folded, 
background papers in place, 
names glued down, 
pockets at the ready.

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1G0ugLaBTqsVX1Z4V0LXHQWc8itaihX-I

This is a good time to just stop, breathe, and appreciate my work in progress. 

Besides, the next step requires ribbon. And that means another trip to the store.

So here's a question I often ponder. How long can you wear a face mask before it needs to be washed? 

And is that based on the number of wearings or the total hours worn?

Oh Covid. You're confusing on so many levels. 

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1z6CBW-FATtbaf03UGCZU9jDUKwKFMgPT

^ Okay, deep breath. We're on the home stretch.

Attach the ribbon to the inside of the back cover with a whole lotta tape. 

From the two colors used on each card, cut out the numerals 2020 (or 2018 or 2019 - I'll explain) and glue to the cover. 

Now glue the covers to the backs of the first and last accordion pages. 

On bitty scraps of paper cut to fit the pockets perfectly, write out a small note of congratulations, And run to the bank - no mask needed at the drive thru ATM! - for some cash to stuff in the pockets as well. 

* * * * *

Whew.

Ready for the final and most fun step?

On tiny strips of white paper, write a word that begins with the corresponding letter in each name and describes something special about that person. 

I love this process.

Oh sure, I could write "amazing' for every A, "excellent" for every E, and "intelligent" for every I. But what fun would that be?

Instead, I spend a fairly obsessive amount of time, poring over lists of personal characteristics online, debating the pros and cons of various adjectives - what exactly is the difference between "moral" and "mature"? - and trying to nail each graduate's personality as best I can. 

In the end, I glued the tiny descriptive words under each letter, and finally - at long last - my cards were done.

And now, may I present to you, my graduating class of 2020.

Ta-daaa!


https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1vnh91B93yt6AO-YsF7MyYbwDGgQyBLi0

^ These guys are identical twins who have been friends of our family since they were five months old. We've spent an infinity of hours with them jumping on our trampoline, baking chocolate chip cookies, and watching Finding Nemo piled together on the couch. Now they are all tall and cool and teenager-y and when I'm out walking my dog over at the high school and happen to see them with their friends, I just nod and smile and try not to make a scene. But that doesn't mean I don't love them forever. Because I do. 

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1wTPIFa6bU7bjDDUMe8lsUi4sA-Dlef5f

^ When my youngest daughter was wrapping up her career at our K-12 school for homeschoolers, there was a group of younger kids who started taking classes with me. As I went through the pangs of dealing with an empty homeschooling nest, these students stepped in and kept me busy doing what I loved to do. The oldest of that group has now reached graduation age, and Laney is one of them. Woohoo, you made it, Laney!

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1SZM64ARLGVtaiRtm2dBzRaZ4SJ1RC5cX

^ Lydia is a missionary kid who grew up in China and moved back to the States as a high school junior. Smart as a whip, she had some gaps in her math education and a big fat Algebra 2 credit that she needed to earn in order to graduate. The fates brought us together and this lady worked her tail off to wrap up the year with a solid A. Cheers, Lydia!

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1X5SNk0wakUKqWAcJkIGZG9TlQ4aGgYJa

^ Madalen was another one of the kids I took on as my own homeschooling years were winding down. You know how, when a group of kids gets wound up and full of energy, there's often one who sits quietly at work, deep in her own thoughts, and apparently blissfully unaware of the nearby chaos? Yep, that's Madalen. 

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=15kDxe94Cdp15va7lJzavLVgwlTE4Bk-a

^ In our family's homeschooling social circle was a family of ten kids and the youngest was Grace. I've known her since she was five, all big brown eyes and long brown hair, following after a crowd of older kids and silently watching the world spin around them. Now Grace is graduating from university and has found her own voice. It's been a joy to watch her unfold. 

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1qzh0j0O4jM17hDA-AGlssmodevs6M1sw

^ Lily is another long-time family friend and homeschooling buddy. Many are the hours she spent horsing around with my youngest daughter while Lily's mom - my teaching partner - and I planned classes, troubleshot problems, and talked forever, as moms do. Lily's now all grown up and graduated from college with her nursing degree, and I can't imagine a better use of her smart and spunky gifts. 

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=13Z9MwsVWPvxwRKhyA0d26fz0fuSa2mZw

^ I often teach math to multiple kids in the same family but not usually to siblings who are working at the same level at the same time. Esther and her one-grade-younger sister, Evie are an exception to that rule, and the three of us spent three years together in their living room, learning math and sharing life. I'm shamefully late in recognizing their graduations: Esther graduated high school in 2018. Evie in 2019. Both spent a year at a Texas bible school before pursuing their passions - for horses and cows, respectively - in ranch management. 

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=101hYoAAqS8q7sFrjp1hMotCHQHFKeioe

^ Quite often, I work with students who have a natural aptitude for math and work hard, but for one reason or another, just have not experienced that aha! moment when all their studies come together and ignite their brains with an explosion of algebra. Daniel was one of those students and during the year we worked together, it was a total joy to watch him catch fire. He also has a super cool gaming chair that he allowed me to sit in while I taught him lessons. Honored. 

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1RjY59vbXa6Ans4ANVtCvTvuv1ivUYK7m

^ Here is Jo, recipient of my first two-letter name graduation book, and all-around lovely person. She's the oldest of four, and while I worked with her for just a few months, I'm now teaching her second-oldest sister. So that means she's stuck with me for a while. 

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1xKPVNJ9m5HAlzsDwi5_vGXOBW0PPWZ0R

^ I worked my way through the whole Smith family: first Makenzie, who graduated from high school years ago and has since wrapped up her bachelor's degree and in 2019, a master's in education. Next comes Isabelle, who graduated university this year, and third-born Natalie who finished high school in 2018. Yippee to all three of you for your dedication to math and your amazing hard work. So glad to be part of the family!

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1tb6SHpzr4ObRyxCc65ozhIH0KdyHz6CB

^ Last but never least is this lady, the youngest bio-sibling of her family and the fourth of the four kids to pass through my program. Just when I thought I'd worked myself out of students, this family was thoughtful enough to adopt one more and hopefully he will eventually end up in my tutelage. But there will never be another student quite like Danielle - I'll always remember explaining new concepts to her smart-as-a-whip brain as she sat intently listening while stroking the little black dog curled up on her lap.  

* * * * *

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1m6cKRp-D56iFkMvd5jFJ5rt14qX74_Rm

So there you have it, my graduating class of 2020. And now that my cards have been delivered to each of your deserving hands, you may grasp your tassels, graduates, and move them from right to left. You are officially graduated!