I woke up thinking about my grandmother. 

I cried out and pulled my knee to my chest, hopping to the nearest spot on the wall where I could easily lean without knocking anything over.  I turned my bare foot over between my hands and squinted at the sole, twisting oddly to catch the light. 

There, buried in the pink, translucent flesh was the pine needle. 

It was the stubby, dark green remnant of the redwood tree which, last month, took up a festive residence in our loft, bore our many sparkly ornaments, sheltered our prettily wrapped gifts (as well as the occasional sleepy kitty), and throbbed with a fresh, pine scent which greeted us every night on our return home. 

We loved that tree, with its upward arching branches. It made us pause with wonder in the evenings. It made us remember the holiness of Christmas.

It took Jonathan hours to chop it apart, reducing it to pieces which would fit in our green waste bin.  The floor was littered with sharp, angry pieces.  We vacuumed and swept and picked the bits up with our fingers, gingerly, having experienced the extreme sharpness of each needle and the way nothing from cotton to burlap could fend them off. 

Naturally, we missed a shard or two, but one of them found me.  

I pinched the entry wound between my polished nails.  There was no blood, of course.  The skin on the ball of my feet is tough, used to slapping around bare on concrete, tile, asphalt, and grass in the summer time, and the blood vessels are hidden way up inside. Thus, I could see the belligerent face of the culprit clearly.  He'd backed into his den and was baring his teeth at me. 

Picking, scratching, tweaking, prodding.  Finally, still straining like a one-legged stork against the wall, I squeezed my foot between my palms and let our an exasperated squeak, letting my eyes, big and forlorn, find my husband's eyes, sympathetic.   

Jonathan hopped up from his place by the computer and helped me to the sofa.  I limped like an amputee, letting my lower lip tremble for a fraction of a second, just long enough for him to notice and take pity on me.  He tilted our lamp toward us and pulled my upturned foot into the pool of light.  When his fingers found the sliver and I let out a tiny yelp, he looked up and smiled at me, stroking my naked calf and giving my knee a kiss. 

You're okay. I'll be right back. 

Before I begin, I must say that my heart belongs to a Weimaraner named Scout. Part of his story is told here, but I can't really tell it all, both because I was not privileged to know more than his first few years and because his not being with me any longer makes me too emotional to tell the truth about it. That's Scout, upside down and gazing at me. It's how I remember him best, vulnerable yet dignified... a girl's best friend.

When I was a little girl, I'd spend summer afternoons on the concrete steps of my neighbor's house.  She was a single, middle-aged woman who owned a townhome across the parking lot from ours, and she owned four cats... Rory (an extremely affectionate, extremely large yellow tabby who, later in life, was hit by a car but survived, though he lost a leg... watching him get around tripod style, without losing any weight, was impressive), Sheba (a shy, nattily groomed Persian with big blue eyes, declawed in her front two paws), Maggie (a scruffy, gentle Calico who loved sharing her fleas with the neighborhood kids), and a fourth who I almost never saw.  Anyway, I'd kneel on the steps, letting the scratchy concrete warm my bare, knobby knees, and stroke and pet and scratch those cats until they were purring thunderously.  But I still never wanted a cat of my own.

Dogs were my bag.  I wanted giant, rough-and-tumble, fetch-playing, drooling, smiling, lazy, galumphing, stout-hearted dogs.  I wanted dogs with barrels of whiskey secured under their chins, dogs who could flip their floppy ears and jowls 360 degrees as they shook water from their coats, dogs with baritone barks and ponderous paws.  I wanted Bloodhounds and St. Bernards and Newfoundlands and Huskies and Ridgebacks and Dobermans and Mastiffs and German Shepherds and Wolfhounds and Chows and a thousand other big, beguiling breeds.  You get the picture.

Cats were too quiet, too prim.  They screamed when they fought at night, and their careless claws left fiery welts on my tender skin.  They couldn't do anything but rub against my pant legs or purr into my flat palms.  No hero or heroine of literature had ever taken on the Oregon Trail, the Mississippi River, or the Pacific Ocean with a cat.  Dogs were the right choice for adventure, always.  Think of Where the Red Fern Grows.  Think of Old Yeller.  Think of Island of the Blue Dolphins.

My parents bought our first and only family dog when I was fifteen years old.  Scout was and is the loveliest, most precocious dog I've ever seen, and I loved him more than I'd loved any animal in my life to that point.  Every transgression (and oh, there were many!) was forgiven and forgotten by my family, even as Scout dug holes in the yard, scratched up our floors, urinated on our hearth, and nipped at the unsuspecting fetlocks of our visiting neighbors.

When the boys and I were growing up, Thanksgiving Week meant many things to us.  Grass stains on the already stressed knees of our jeans, the anticipation of succulent turkey, hours of football with our dad (it may have been called "touch" football, but there was quite a lot of tackling going on, anyway), and long, deliriously beautiful days without school.  But most of all, and best of all, Thanksgiving meant Grandma.

She lived in Illinois, two thousand miles from our little home in Newark, California.  But, being a good grandmother, she wanted to give the California grandchildren some regular face time, and so she flew in the weekend before the holiday and flew home the weekend after, every year.

It was our week.  While Mom worked and Dad slept (he was working the graveyard shift at a local correctional facility), Ted, Curtis and I got Grandma.  We played games, went for walks, listened to her stories.  She crocheted dresses for my Barbies and read aloud to the boys.

Then, on Thanksgiving Thursday itself, we'd all trundle out to the field for our big football game.  Grandma came, too.  She wore sweats and sneakers, had her game face on, but she wasn't a fullback by any definition.  Delicate and soft at all her corners, Grandma may have been a great sport, but she was no athlete by the time we knew her.  Dad would toss the ball to her, gently, and then charge at her, wrapping her in a giant hug, declaring her tackled.

Last week, I went for my first bike ride since I was a student living in Davis. We borrowed my parents' bikes after work and went our for a quick spin.

Jon and I buzzed down the street and flew past vineyards and cruised along under the clear blue sky.

Our helmets had little brims to shade our eyes from the sun, something the helmets of my childhood lacked entirely. Six miles went by like nothing, easy and smooth; I barely broke a sweat.

The joy of zooming around on two wheels for fun is foreign to me. I've never been a huge fan of biking. When I was little, it was the way we got to school. The distance between my house in Newark and little Bunker Elementary School used to feel like an Ironman... hundreds of leg burning miles, block after block of suburbia and traffic lights and pavement buckling above rogue tree roots. Now, of course, I find that it was less than two miles total.

Still, we had to cross Cherry Street, a massive intersection where my littlest brother, Curtis, was once hit by a truck. I remember his bike flipping up in the air and his little body crumpling as he hit the pavement. The truck driver squealed away from the scene of the crime without looking back, but many other good people stopped to help.

Eventually, Curtis was strapped to a stretcher and driven away in an ambulance... the EMTs gave him a teddy bear which he cherished for many years after the incident. Curt was fine, but while Ted and Curtis kept biking through high school without any qualms, I never got completely past that terrible day. Vulnerable little Curty on a bicycle at the mercy of a demon truck.

With the exception of a Fourth of July bike show my brothers and our friends and I put on for all the parents when we were very young, biking always seemed like such a chore. Even securing a baseball card to a place on the frame where it could snap between my spokes and mimic a motorcycle motor didn't quite make it cool.

But now I'm giving biking a go once again, and it does feel cooler than it did.

After our short excursion, we returned the bikes to my parents house and went home. Later, Dad sent me his own childhood reminiscences about bikes, and I thought I'd post them here because it's fun and funny, and because he remembers his specific bikes so fondly. (I suppose if I gave it a chance, my deep purple Schwinn Sidewinder would take up residence in some happier corner of my memory, too... but that could still take some time.)

My mom's mom, my Grandma Jean, passed away before I was born.  Taking from the scraps of memory and reminiscence and photos and memorabilia I've collected over the years, I know she was a bright, beautiful, sensitive, creative, troubled, clouded, precious soul.  In the picture at left, she's bent at her slender waist, graceful in her hospitality, looking every inch the beguiling 1960s social butterfly.  Like my mom, I wish we had other pictures of Grandma from this day. 

Last year, my uncle gifted me an old composition book that belonged to Grandma Jean long before she was a grandmother to anyone, a mother to anyone, a wife to anyone... she was little Jean Piersel, a teenager in saddle shoes, and she filled this little book with clippings about the movie stars of the 1930s and 1940s.  Her own observations fleck the pages in girlish, oblivious script.  It was a great insight into my grandmother and her youth. 

If only she knew that I share her adoration of those golden years in Hollywood.  If only she knew that I grew up gazing at a picture of her, nigh eighteen, golden hair sloping in perfect forties style and resting gently on her delicate, alabaster collar bones, and that I thought she was possibly the most beautiful human I'd ever seen.

At any rate, my Grandma Jean Campagna was a poet and an artist.  Her playful watercolors captured seasonal scenes from her little town of Moline, Illinois.  An ice skater with a blue scarf... autumn leaves in a collage on the ground...

Jonathan took careful aim and leveled a firm blow with his hammer at the circumference of the hairy, brown coconut in his hand.

The crack resounded in our kitchen and made Cindy and I giggle with wonder. Jon gave the coconut a quarter turn and whacked it again.  This time, we could hear the beginnings of accomplishment in the echo. With a twinkle in his eye, Jon hoisted the coconut up to our eye level so that we could see the crack that was crawling around the equator. He set his jaw and raised the hammer one last time.

As hammer connected with shell, thin streams of clear coconut milk began to drain into the pan we'd set on the counter. Finally, the coconut split... revealing two pristine, white, concave faces.

Cindy and I had decided that a Saturday evening would the perfect time to bake a cake, and fortunately, two dear friends had gifted Jon and me with a cake-specific cookbook at Christmastime to aid in this endeavor.  But it was Jon, eager to indulge his inner Survivalist, who chose the Coconut Cake. Never mind that it was the cake on the cover of the book, enticing in its pure, fluffy white glory. Never mind that we'd not baked a thing (besides biscuits) from scratch in our lives. The chance to split open a coconut was too exciting for Jon to pass up.

So, the four of us gathered in my recently-more-frequently-cooked-in kitchen to conquer the Great White Cake. The task before us was daunting. Cindy poured the wine.

Recently my family received an invitation to a surprise 40th birthday party for our old friend, Jennie Doering, a woman I knew when I was between the ages of ten and fourteen.  As part of the invitation, guests were encouraged to submit stories and memories of Jennie from years gone by.  Jennie, you see, is a storyteller herself, therefore appreciating such gestures all the more.  This was the perfect opportunity for me to write down my memories of Jennie. 

------ 

At eleven-years-old, I was a tall, skinny girl aching for adulthood, and much of my time was spent structuring a specific definition for the term "grown up."  My main role model was, naturally enough, my mother -- a strong, assertive business woman with a quick laugh and an incredible sense of fun.  But I sought influence elsewhere, too.  Characters in literature from Nancy Drew to Scarlet O'Hara to Lois Lenski's Strawberry Girl impacted me, as did my teachers and neighbors.

Enter Jennie Doering.

When John and Jennie moved in next door to my parents' home in Newark, they were energetic, smiley people, and seemed not to mind the curious stares of the many neighborhood children.  Jennie, you see, was pregnant at the time, and it was the first time I was old enough to acknowledge what that condition meant.  There would be a baby and, as my mother pointed out, I was soon going to be old enough to transition from the babysat to the babysitter.

Such began my relationship with Jennie.  She was perfectly willing to entrust brand new baby Emilie to my care, young as I was.  At first I went to the house while Jennie was home and played with Em as Jennie operated in the periphery, but it wasn't long before I was spending an hour or two alone with the little one.

On one such occasion, I put Emilie down for her nap and realized I'd forgotten my current Nancy Drew installment at home.  The Doerings and the Pancoasts lived in townhouses, side by side, so I didn't think it would be hard to run five steps to the East, grab the book, and return. What I didn't bargain on was the front door of the Doerings' house closing behind me... and locking.

Tonight, my grandmother is sleeping in a hospital bed in a retirement complex where she has lived for many years.  She barely knows the names and faces of her children.  Her memories have been scrambled so that she cannot tell yesterday from her wedding day.  And every once in a while she comes up with stories of imagined love affairs and visits from relatives and friends who have long since passed on.

My Grandma Dot is one of the most interesting and intelligent women I will ever know.  Tragically, all of her knowledge, that glittering vocabulary and sharp wit, are wrapped up inside a mind which only intermittently opens to the outside world. 

What if she has more to say?

I wonder where her stories are, now that the outlet is lost.  Or perhaps the outlet is there, but her stories are affected by her juxtaposition with reality, brought on by disease, and cannot be told.  But I know she has stories, thousands of them.  When we played cards or when I painted her toenails, she was always talking.  I knew about her jewelry and her trips to Europe and her childhood friends.  She shared about the way she met and married my grandfather, a man I never had the chance to meet.  She talked about college and Catholicism and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.  Often I wondered how any one person could possibly earn the right to be so singularly fascinating.

Jonathan and I are in the kitchen of our house, our first home, making the stuffing to take to Thanksgiving Dinner at my parents' house tomorrow.  At this exact moment, Jonathan is on his hands and knees on the kitchen floor using a dicing tool, pounding the thyme and rosemary into submission. 

These are the lengths to which we're willing to go for our now famous Sausage, Corn Bread and Chestnut Stuffing (originally a William-Sonoma recipe).  We've made the stuffing for both Thanksgiving and Christmas for the last two years.  Our fifth batch is sure to be our best yet.  After all, we've been finessing.

We know how to multi-task, whipping up corn bread and dicing herbs and washing mixing bowls between ingredients.  We've added notes to the recipe to help us in future years (because we have no intention of ever learning another dish...).

Today we were both off work early, and we've been cleaning like crazy people.  After all, guests are coming soon.  And heaven forbid they see our house in its ordinary, slightly dusty, very cluttered state.  Our downstairs is all but empty. (No real furniture... just bookshelves down here... couches and chairs are on the Life Agenda, but they appear somewhere after the flat-screen TV, the mattress set, the trip to Australia and the Eclipse Jet).  The dining room table (where we rarely eat, but where we often sort the junk mail from the fashion mags and REI catalogs) is clean, and live flowers make a cheery centerpiece.  The kitchen is sparkling.

It could be that the start of a new year isn't relaxing for anyone, or that my sporadic urges to be organized throw off any kind of momentum, but I'm tired. Fatigue seems to be born in my bones each morning. I slap the snooze button like I've always done, but because I'm resigned to the fact that I must wake up soon, I don't go back to sleep afterward anyway. Rather, I think for ten minutes about things, jumpstarting my brain like a motorboat.

Professional liability renewals, instant oatmeal, my brother's anniversary, my aunt arriving from Illinois, no gas in the car, sunglasses, keys, Jon leaving for Baltimore, traffic, receipts, cell phone, Endocrinologist, pedicure, frozen pipes, electric blanket...

My thoughts stream together at a constant rate of flow, a speed I can handle but don't enjoy very much, like a wave of lethargic fruit flies. I hear the hum, almost a lullaby. And if I didn't have the responsibilities associated with wifedom and employment to hold me up, I'd succumb to the tired buzzing in my ears and sleep forever.

Last week we took my mother to the emergency room because her headache had escalated out of control. I watched her face contort under the pressure and pain, I watched her writhe on the cot in the ER, hot and cold, tired, confused. We were there most of the night. The CAT scan revealed a tumor swelling and putting pressure on her brain. The emergency surgery took place almost 18 hours later. During that time I did not sleep. I had things to do, people to talk to. Someday I'll be able to describe the way it felt to be squeezed by anxiety and suffocated by adrenaline, but not today. It hurts.

I went 3 days with only 6 hours of sleep total. And I only cried three times. Once in front of my brother, who responded with the caring embrace of the man I am certain he will one day become. Once on the phone with my aunts when I called to let them in on the situation. And once in front of Amy, who made me hot chocolate and held my hand while we watched The Philadelphia Story; she was my angel. Jon flew home early and met me at the hospital, and he was my hero.

Here I am, one week later. No doubt I'll survive this, either. Mom is at home, healing. Jon is coming home from a make-up trip to the east coast tonight. Work is rough, but I'm rising to the challenge. At her house, Mom is surrounded by a literal garden of encouragement - almost three dozen flower arrangements from family, friends and clients. People are amazing. Miracles do happen.

I brandish my optimism out of self-defense.

No, I say to the demons who dance around me spitting what-ifs and might-have-beens at my feet. No, we're all okay, and I'm going to be a better wife because of the patience and strength I've learned, and Mom will value her life more, and my brothers will treat each other better, and...

The Positivity Sword is heavy, and if I'm not careful, it could come all the way around and cripple me when I least expect it. After all, it's a tiring thing to lie about the way I feel, about the way I expect the next few weeks to go. Hefting the words people want to hear it tough, and I've been doing it for a week now. Pat answers. Mom is better. That's true. She's not raring to go, on top of things, owning her life like a multitasking tornado. And that's what I want to see again. Mom as the boss. Mom as the pinnacle of self-reliance and personal achievement. That's when she'll be all better, and that's just not going to happen any time soon. But when I start telling myself those truths...

Last night I took a hot shower. Water pierced my hair to the root, steaming at my scalp, carving its way behind my ears and down my neck, or over my forehead and washing down, over my cheekbones to my chin. The water coaxed the tears out of me. I wept in that shower, cradling my own face in my hands. My shoulders shook, my legs gave out. I was there until the hot water was gone, and the cold took over. In a flash I was up, out, dry, and doing laundry.

Apparently the fine line between weepy mess and able homemaker is a cold shower. But I didn't laugh at myself. I didn't belittle the ten minutes I'd taken to let the scary truth take over. I didn't call it childish. The Positivity Sword was down and leaning in a corner. My mouth was closed. The dull hum of the thoughtful fruit flies had returned to my head, and I was sagging into my mattress, languishing under the warmth of our electric blanket.

... car wash, book club, Carrillo Architectural Group, additional premium, Hawaii, paycheck, grocery shopping, play practice, lint trap, dentist appointments, baby pictures, water Mom's plants in the morning, eat breakfast, The Patron Saint of Liars, cat food, publication...

And then, thank God, I was asleep.

It's been a while since I've felt sand slide under my toes, sucked playfully away by the tide.

But today I stood knee-deep in the Pacific Ocean with my friends and enjoyed the soft swirling beneath my feet. I plunged my toes deep into it and splashed in the sandy puddles. My pink toenails flickered from within the waves.

Santa Cruz, California is beautiful, of course. But not all of my memories there are good ones.

When I was about ten years old, I went to the Boardwalk for the day with my best friend, Julie, and her family. The day itself was quite an adventure. Julie's brothers buried us in the sand and abandoned us for a game of Frisbee. If a passerby hadn't sympathized with our plight, we'd still be there, wriggling under the heavy sand and frantically bobbing our heads.

Then, before we went to try out the rides, etc., Julie's mom told us we had to eat something. Fortunately, she'd packed hotdogs. Unfortunately, we didn't have a camp fire or grill. No problem, she said, we'll just eat 'em cold. Such began my worst food day ever.

More on that later. I can recall funky, silly things about that day that mean nothing to anyone but me. Julie's sister Connie was a year older than we, and she seemed so wise to the ways of the world. That morning she'd pulled out a pair of jeans and turned them into cut-offs with a few deft snips of her scissors. And boy, were they short! Too short, probably, her mom might have suggested. You're just advertising your behind to the dirty guys at the boardwalk. (She pronounced it bee-hind, which made Julie and I giggle.) But Connie, with a distinct will of her own, shrugged and pulled out a black sharpie pen. As we ambled about the arcades and carnival games we lost count of the boys who stopped to stare at her bee-hind. Of course, at that point you couldn't blame them. Across each back pocket she'd scrawled: If you're reading this, back off!

I killed at air hockey, even when pitted against the brothers. For my unabashed victories, I'm sure I was tickled and tossed in the ocean. But I'm equally sure that I loved every second of that attention. We rode all the rides, too. The creakier, the better. Over and over. And I was awfully proud of myself for my absolute fearlessness. Around corners and over steep drop-offs we whipped and wheeled, and I screamed until my throat ached.

Everyone knows, of course, that the only remedy for an aching throat is cotton candy. I gorged myself. Julie and I must have put away four whole sticky, pink helpings. Well, one might have been blue. I remember pulling away thick, scratchy clumps of it with my tongue and smacking my lips to savor the sugar. After a while my eyes were spinning in opposite directions, but I kept right on going.

The boys sought us out to display their new fake tattoos, tiny, crooked and dark green on their chests and arms. I wanted one, too. But Julie's mom, adjusting her leopard print bra straps, stopped me. Apparently only trashy women have tattoos. Had I not been completely hopped up on sugar and, therefore, incapable of constructing a coherent argument, I might have told her I only wanted to be trashy for one day. It was the Boardwalk, for Pete's sake!

Julie bounced a ping pong ball into a glass bottle and won a goldfish.
My skin was ringing like a telephone. I kept touching my arms and legs, pressing my fingers gently across my little thighs and watching the skin turn from red to white. But it was dark, and I couldn't really make out the burn. And what a burn. Vaguely I wondered how I could possibly have burned. The second we five kids had exploded from the van and sprinted to the beach, Julie's mom had snatched us by the scruffs of our necks and slathered us with sunscreen. Granted, that was only one time, and we'd spent hours on the sand and splashing in the water.

Ohhhhhhhhh.

One last ride, the boys pleaded, and their mom agreed. Julie grabbed my hand and pulled me on. It was a spinning ride on a track that whirled around. Double the spinning, double the fun. All day it had been that way. But there in that little green car, with my head caught in the clanging vice of the beeping carnival music, I felt so very very sick. On the turns I slid toward Julie, her little body vibrating with the same amount of sugar I'd consumed, but her half-Hispanic skin glowing a healthy brown after the same amount of sun. My lips were so dry.

The trashcan closest to the ride exit caught the cotton candy and the cold hot dog in reverse. Julie's mom pushed a water bottle into my hand and laughed a bit as I tried to walk a straight line. The air felt like heavy cotton. We drove home in silence, tuckered out. But as the other kids slept, my body screamed with every jolt, every pothole.

Julie wanted me to spend the night. I was in utter agony. But I wasn't sure if I could go home because it was so late. So I stayed, sitting up because I couldn't put pressure on my back, and with cold, wet wash cloths draped over every inch of lobster-red skin. It was my first big, bad sunburn. And I would have blocked that painful memory out entirely if I hadn't had so much fun at the beach. Since that time I have not touched cotton candy (it makes me sick even seeing the stuff), and I can't go on that final ride either. Funny the scars sunburns leave, huh?

Today, at twenty three years of age, I spent several fun hours in Santa Cruz. But my favorite fifteen minutes were those with my toes stuck delightfully deep in the sand. I really ought to go to the beach more often, especially now that I have control of my own sunscreen. SPF 45.

"My stepdad's gonna kill me! It was his ball."

"So?"

"So, some lady signed it."

"Okay, Smalls, this is important. What was her name?"

"I dunno. Ruth. Baby Ruth."

"Babe Ruth?! Ahhhhhhhhhh!"

In 1993, Benny "the Jet" Rodriguez got a lesson from his idol. Heroes get remembered, but legends never die. How cool do you have to be to say something like that? As cool as Babe Ruth, the Legend himself.

Because our father was and is a huge fan of baseball, my brothers and I grew up knowing all about the Sultan of Swat (and his buddy, my personal favorite, Lou Gehrig). Dad's Murderer's Row t-shirt got passed down as pajamas through all of us, and I'm pretty sure I cried the day it got shredded to be used as cleaning rags.

Anyway, even as I admit I could probably fit all that I know about baseball and homerun records on the head of a pin (I was Big Mac's biggest fan during his race... man, was that really eight years ago?), I understand the ambivalence which fans of America's favorite pasttime are currently feeling toward Barry Bonds.

A gentleman on the news tonight really summed it up for me when he said, "[Bonds] was probably the best in the game before he decided to resort to steroids. It's actually kind of sad." And it is sad. Baseball is a game, a sport, a pasttime. It's not life or death. It's not worth cheating to get to the top.

The Babe set the bar and athletes today can't touch it without drugging themselves, bulking up like animals (and I think I can reasonably say that McGuire isn't to be left out of either category). That's what bothers me. Hank Aaron got death threats for being a black man chasing the record... Barry Bonds shoots up and we're all supposed to look the other way.

I could watch Field of Dreams over and over again, listening to James Earl Jones speak deep and slow about the best game in our history, smelling the grass, eating the hot dogs. "People will come, Ray. People will most definitely come." Or, Pride of the Yankees... "Today, I consider myself... the luckiest man... on the face of the earth." Or, A League of Their Own... "Are you crying? There's no crying in baseball!"

And to me, that's what baseball is, fun and idealism. Something that involves hotdogs and honor and absolutely no crying. My brother, Ted, caught a foul ball at an A's game four years ago... and it remains to be one of our happiest pictures together as a family, Mom, Dad, Ted, Curt and me. I remember the sparkle of the fireworks that night as we all sat on the field and stared straight up, watching the heavens reaching for us. Beautiful. Perfect. Family.

So, I wish, I wish, I wish that people (hey Barry, that means you) would think about what the game of baseball meant to people in decades past... and then play accordingly. The incredibly gifted athletes who dominate now might just squeeze a bit more enjoyment out of play time if they were brightening the days and months and Springtimes of happy-go-lucky fans nationwide.

Today I wore a brand new blue shirt to work. It was a present from Jon. And while I am one of those lucky girls who receives occasional gifts-at-random from her hubby, this time he had a reason. You see, today I turned 23.

This is the twenty-third birthday I've celebrated (though only the 19th that I can remember). Unfortunately, I did have to go into work today. Still, my mother, the woman who gave birth to me, is my boss. I suppose I'm lucky she likes to celebrate this day... when it remains to be a fairly painful memory for her. Hehe.

To celebrate, she took me to lunch in downtown Pleasanton. We had lots of options, but on a whim we headed for The English Rose. It looked like an antique store from the outside, and we were very surprised at what we found within. A delightful, cozy dining room with antique furnishings and soft music playing. It was a real tea room!

Our afternoon tea was delicious! We opted for the Queen's menu: finger sandwiches, "a variety of savories," scones with clotted cream and lemon curd, and tiny desserts (including petite fores!). The hostess offered a very, very wide variety of teas. I'm no daredevil, so I chose the house specialty, an English Rose blend. Mom went the British Colonial India route. Yummy!

So, that was a sweet way to spend the first afternoon of my twenty-third year on earth. We went back to finish out a long day at the office.

At home I curled up with Jonathan on the couch. Together we sat very still. I could hear his heart beating, the cat purring. All was right with my world. (Yesterday I received my final grades from last quarter... A-,A,A-... OH YEAH!) Then, after we'd unwound enough to be witty and cute again, Jon and I shared about our respective days. His was productive, too.

But the night wasn't over. We got all spruced up and headed to Santana Row in San Jose for dinner. Jon got us reservations at Left Bank, a French restaurant that sounded sufficiently romantic and memorable. As we strolled down the pretty street, arm in arm, the misting rain settling on our hair and eyelashes, I had to sigh.

Left Bank was all it was cracked up to be. The waitstaff was friendly and quick to get us seated and fed. The menu included everything from duck to lamb to sausages and apples (Jon's pick). I ordered the special, airline chicken cordon bleu. Scrumptious! The portions were just small enough to leave us wanting dessert. Chocolate fondue for two. We skewered homemade marshmallows and slices of strawberry, dunked them in the succulent melted chocolate... and decided we'd wandered right into heaven. Fondue and true love? Can it get any better than this?

(I submit that it cannot!)

We're home now. Jon is stretched out in the recliner, dreaming about binary numbers and the superiority of Windows to the other lame operating systems (i.e. Linux... I just like the penguin). Our cats are happy we're home; it means that they get dinner soon! And I have my favorite German raspberry candies, another treat from Jonathan, to enjoy before bed time.

Hooray for turning twenty-three!

Meet the newest Mr. and Mrs. Pancoast! Yes, on January 14, 2006 my brother donned his dress blues and vowed to love and cherish his sweetheart, Heather Martin, forever.

The wedding day was hectic and rainy, but everything pulled together. Friends and family showed up in droves. And not even the January rain could hold back the love and joy! Ted didn't see Heather in her wedding gown until she came down the aisle. I got to see her before that, and she looked like an angel.

On the groom's side were his closest buddies, Ian, Donnie, Steve, Jake and, of course, Curtis. Ladies on the bride's side included her sister, Courtney, her mom Lisa and Heather's best friends. Pastor Herb Pedigo acted as officiant and Chet Hall dealt with all the music. Weddings bring out the absolute best in people, espcially in family. My Aunt Mary and Aunt Pam flew out for the occasion and handled the rehearsal dinner preparations, the clean up, set up and tear down practically on their own! It was a load off of my parents' minds during such a busy weekend.

At the rehearsal I was asked to coordinate the ceremony. Hmmmmm... handing the reigns over to Audrey? Naturally I dug the power, but mostly I was nervous. This was my little brother's big day! I didn't want anything to screw it up. How anyone is supposed to keep the show a-goin' without a headset is beyond me.

We managed. And, aside from a minor lighter mix-up during the lighting of the two candles, the ceremony went off without a hitch. I helped the bridal party line up, waited for the cues, timed their entrance... a very much understated version of J-Lo as "wedding planner". A complete exaggeration. Still, I felt useful. Jon took as many pictures as he could, intermitantly stopping to squeeze my hand and give me loving looks as if to say, "Wasn't it fun when we married each other?!"

I won't gush. But I will say that I couldn't have been more proud of Ted as he repeated the vows. Oh, he meant them. And the sweet sincerity in Heather's voice as she did the same was hard to miss.

The reception was quite a party! Heather's dad opened his beautiful house in the hills up near Morgan Territory just for the occasion. And, of course, our home church, Cedar Grove, in Livermore was the only place for the wedding. For Jon and me it brought back lovely memories. At 10:00am Jon and I went to the church and wrapped the trees at the alter in white lights, put up the pearly unity candle and set up tables for the guest book and the gifts.

After good food, the guests got their groove on... including my parents and my aunts. And me. Jon hates to dance, especially not to the funky songs. Apprently in his family, "Josh got all the funky". Still, I sweet talked him into a couple of funky dances, and he twirled me 'round to a few more comfortable slow songs.

For the bride and groom, the choice was country music. Not my favorite, but it's nostalgic. And I have to say that, as they opened the night with their first dance as husband and wife to Brad Paisley's "Little Moments"... I got misty. I think it is their love that made the song so romantic. Really, when you boil down the lyrics, it's not a beautiful song. It's not genteel or passionate or classic. But it is real.

However, I didn't cry until the end of the night, when we were called out to the dance floor to watch my brother, my little brother, sing that same song to Heather. This wasn't any bashful, half-hearted, stumbling hum-along either. He belted out the words into the microphone, never taking his eyes off her. And she swayed to the beat, holding his hand and laughing.

Sweet. I've placed the lyrics here to give everyone who couldn't be present for all that we saw this weekend, so that you too can see what binds the newlyweds so entirely together.

Little Moments

Well I'll never forget the first time that I heard
That pretty mouth say that dirty word.
And I can't even remember now what she backed my truck into.
But she covered her mouth and her face got red,
And she just looked so darn cute
That I couldn't even act like I was mad.
Yeah, I live for little moments like that.

Well that's like just last year on my birthday,
She lost all track of time and burnt the cake,
And every smoke detector in the house was goin' off.
And she was just about the cry until I took her in my arms,
And I tried not to let her see me laugh.
Yeah, I live for little moments like that.

I know she's not perfect, but she tries so hard for me.
And I thank God that she isn't, 'cause how boring would that be?
It's the little imperfections, it's the sudden change in plans,
When she misreads the directions and we're lost but holdin' hands.
Yeah, I live for little moments like that.

When she's layin' on my shoulder on the sofa in the dark,
And about the time she falls asleep so does my right arm.
And I want so bad to move it 'cause it's tinglin' and it's numb,
But she looks so much like an angel that I don't wanna wake her up.
Yeah, I live for little moments
When she steals my heart again and doesn't even know it...
Yeah, I live for little moments like that.

When nothing makes any sense at all, people go gray and hard like stone, but their hearts keep right on pounding. Isn't it interesting that all of the words we use to decribe the action of the heart, our life organ, are violent words? Pounding. Beating. Thumping. The pounding heart sends a painful rhythm to the dreary brain and exhausted body... a Morse code reminder... "You're still alive!"

I'm entirely aware that this entry is confusing to all. Including me. After a terribly long day, school, sad news, a riveting book about the prison camp at Auschwitz, I didn't feel bad. I was numb.

On the way home this evening I stopped by my parents' house while Jon was at his book club. The folks enticed me with a donut. But I would have gone over anyway, because I like them an awful lot. We get along. In fact, we more than get along. We thrive around each other. It's a happy, loud reunion every time. Curtis practiced his harmonica and Teather updated all of us on wedding plans. There was an overall warmth in the scene. Rockwellian, even.

And yet I wanted to go home. I can be as excited and animated as possible, and you've all seen me like that. It's my knee-jerk reaction to society: ENTERTAIN! But that's okay. If nothing else, it burns calories. Bottom line, the one place where I don't absolutely have to entertain is home. With Jon.

That is not to say that I don't do things to make Jon laugh. If he isn't chuckling because I'm a klutz, he's tickling me or making faces at me, or I'm telling him crazy stories or imitating our favorite comedians. And he totally gets my quippy sense of humor. Even my Bob Hope references usually get him going. Somehow, though, I don't ever have to work as hard. Maybe that's because he's my complement; he is on my same (sometimes humorous) plane, ready for what I'm about to say or do, and he starts laughing with me before I can even get there.

I started off this entry in a depressing way. Primo Levi's book about his time in Auschwitz is earth shattering. He wrenches his reader's gut by illustrating the true "banality of evil" exercised by the Nazi guards over their captives. His tale is told in the present tense to lend a sense of urgency to each story. Will he make it? Will he be one of the half a percent who survive?

That's what led me down a dark path first. But my folks are funny. And my brothers are funny. And Jon is funny. And, heck, I can be funny, too. So when there's a chance to laugh, why allow myself to wallow in the ugly, smelly mud for a second longer than I have to? There's no reason. As long as I can compartmentalize and give Levi's story the utter respect and honor that his memory deserves.

I'm not numb anymore. My heart is beating loud and clear, but it sounds and feels more like a happy pattering of rain or something. And there's more than one heart beat to make me smile. Jon's heart has always been a comfort to me. He's so healthy. What a weird thing to say, you might think. But really, because of his health, his breathing is deeper than mine, which is soothing when my head is on his chest, rising and falling with each swell of breath. And his heartbeat is low and steady, strong. Hmmmmm... the Entertainer is so easily entertained herself!

After three rowdy games of Taboo with the folks and Ted and Heather (whom I am hereafter going to refer to as "Teather"... because it's cute and oh-so-trendy... also, Jon's idea... and better than calling them "Hed"...), I am sleepy but happy. I love that Jon enjoys playing games with my family. And he's competitive, too. Not in the crazy, red-hot way that I get, or my dad gets. Just strong and necessary competitiveness. Thankfully he's smart enough to pull that off. We had fun. But now it's time to recap s'more. About our December. Where was I?

I've mentioned that Jon has been traveling a lot this month. Part of the reason is a potential job opening on the east coast. Exciting! Just a temporary, one to two year gig, doing some cool stuff and gaining experience. Plus, we'd have a whole new coast to explore. Probably based in the D.C. area. Anyway, he's been going everywhere to deal with this stuff!

So, when we came home from our four day vacation in Disneyland on the evening of Tuesday the 20th, and landed in Oakland at 9:00pm, Jon followed me to baggage claim, helped me out to my parents' car, kissed me and walked back into the airport to catch the red eye to Chicago, and then on to D.C.! That night! Bummer.

He was only gone until Thursday. While he was gone I used some of my newly acquired spare time to make our house more Christmas-y and to get in touch with the Ya-Yas (also done with school and available). Amy and I drove to SJ to see Cin and, over a heavy-handed game of Egyptian War and grape-flavored Smirnoff Ice, we caught up. *sigh* It felt good to talk about girly things.

Then Jon was home!

Christmas weekend was brimming with activity. But I particularly loved the way we started it off. Early on Christmas Eve morning we grabbed a basketball and our present for the Youds, delivered the gift (and stopped in to see all of Dave's new toys... including his brand new digiridu), and headed for the courts. I don't want to brag, but I kicked Jon's butt at HORSE. Okay, we both played miserably and I barely edged out ahead of him. Then we played some tetherball... again a victory for me!

For lunch we bumped into our friend Chris at Quizno's. After a quick stop at the grocery store for our new famous Sausage, Cornbread and Chestnut Stuffing ingredients, we hurried home. But this time we took the short cut, hopping the seven foot wall between the market and our house! Right behind Subway, using an old crate and some good, old-fashioned guts, we scaled the wall. That's right. BOTH of us! I haven't climbed a wall since I was a kid! Very cool. I'm still young.

We loaded Bronwyn for our trip to my parents' house. Christmas Eve is my family's tradition, and Christmas Day belongs to the Camps. So far that's worked out great!

Under a fabulously lit tree we piled our sparkling presents atop the existing enormous bright piles of wrapped boxs and pretty bags. But, of course, we couldn't actually open presents until we'd had quality family time. This year we didn't have Teather for long, as they needed to head to her family's get together. After they'd gone we played pool, boys vs. girls... and that was awful! Me especially. Afterwards we expected the traditional half an hour of singing carols our of key. But mom got rid of her piano over the summer (something I believe she now admits was a big mistake) and so we were spared. Although I did feel a teeny bit of a void when I realized we weren't going to experience the ninety verses of Good King Wenceslas bellowed by my dad.

Present time is slow and lovely. We take turns, opening gifts one at a time and appreciating what is given and received by others, taking time to be very grateful of what we're given, throwing away discarded paper and neatly piling our new treasures. Very un-Pancoast-like.

I received wonderful things from everyone. Beautiful sweaters and a soft, leather purse, several books, Audrey Hepburn movies, See's lemon truffles (my favorite candy!!!), board games, perfume... and I gave wonderful gifts. My father, though he grumbles about the sheer length of the book, loves the Doris Kerns Goodwin biographical account of President Lincoln and his unique presidency. Mom is flying through the DaVinci Code.

Best of all, though, Jon got things he wanted and needed and... I surprised him! I love doing that! It almost never happens. The guy is so on top of things.

Christmas Eve was terrific. And there's more to tell. Boring though all of this may be. At least I didn't forget to write tonight. Didn't realize there was going to be a Part III. But apparently...

I haven't written in a really long time. And it's not entirely because I'm so busy with the end of the quarter and work and everything else... I also can't think of anything else interesting to say. In the last three weeks I've written three papers... and by Friday I will have two more ready to turn in! Oh, the insanity!

But as a quick update (and in the hope that the words will once again flow from my keyboard):

Jon has been traveling a lot in the last two weeks. Washington, D.C. and then Albuquerque. How exciting! First he got to climb at a new gym and brave the cold, then he got to eat a lot of salsa! Of course, we missed each other like crazy. But his being gone gave me a chance to get things done. (I'm distracted by my cute husband and all his silliness when he's home... you understand.)

When he was home last weekend we made sure to go out and pick up our Christmas tree. No wasp stories this year! We'd run quite a few errands during the day, pausing to join my boss (Mom) and her husband (Dad), my coworker (Denise) and her special someone (Elmer) for our first annual company Christmas dinner! Fun, and fairly relaxing considering that we knew all the parties present like family. Er... they were family. I'm lucky.

Time came to trim our tree (which, by the way, is the most perfect, fragrant Christmas tree ever dreamed up by God), and Jon had a wonderful idea. Before we began, he set up the camera to take a series of photos... one every ten seconds to be exact. As we put up the lights and the garland, smattered the canvas with sparkling bulbs and our favorite sentimental ornaments, the camera captured every other move. In the end we had a perfect record of our second Christmas tree and how it attained all its glory.

While Jon was gone, my brother, Curtis, was kind enough to stay at our house with me. It's not easy to admit, but I don't sleep so well when Jon is traveling. Having Curtis in the house made me feel better, and I was able to sleep between the times I was at work or writing my papers.

At one point Cindy and I went to see the new Pride and Prejudice. How I loved it! Beautiful cinematography, beautiful soundtrack, beautiful Keira Knightley.

As of now, Jon and I have trimmed our tree, wrapped our gifts, enjoyed holiday music, mulled cider and added an extra blanket to our bed because of the chilly winter nights. Of course, there are still quite a few Christmas traditions to partake in before the big day.

For instance:

*Hanging our stockings
*Find, hang and use mistletoe
*Build gingerbread houses
*Go caroling

But the best are:

*Going on our annual holiday Disneyland trip
*Reading "The Gift of the Magi" together

We're really in the swing of Christmas here at the Camp household!

It would be very cliche for me to make my Thanksgiving Day entry a list of things I am thankful for. But, thankfully, this is my first Thanksgiving as The Girl Behind the Red Door. Hence, I will exercise my right to be cliche for this year only. Who knows? I may run dry before this time next year! Probably not. Just in case, here is my list, completely lacking, though it is, for I could never begin to name all of the blessings in my life. No harm in trying, right?

Both necessary and useful...

* My Jon
* My family
* My job
* My school
* My bed

Sounding selfish? I'll go more general...

* Shelter (and that it's such a cute house!)
* Transportation (Brownwyn first, of course.)
* Health (no cavities, baby!)
* Love
* Charity
* Those who adopt
* Those who rescue doggies and kitties from shelters

Now to think globally...

* President Bush (he makes up words and gets locked into conference rooms, but he is a good man)
* Our troops overseas, and those here
* Our allies
* Technology
* The Internet
* That the fourth terrorist in Jordan couldn't detonate her explosive belt
* Unemployment is down in the U.S.A.
* All the missionaries, ministers, and good people who are spreading both the Word and all the little things others might need.

Random...

* Disneyland
* Socks
* Carmex
* Dry cleaning
* Lower gas prices
* Honey on toast
* Knowledge of all kinds (also intangible)

And intangible...

* The kindness of strangers
* Faith and free will
* Liberty
* Holidays like Thanksgiving
* Romance
* Happiness
* Abundance
* Humility

Things the list couldn't be complete without...

* Raindrops on roses
* Whiskers on kittens (especially Disney)
* Bright copper kettles
* Warm, woolen mittens
* Brown paper packages tied up with string

Moving on...

* Baby pictures
* Indian summer
* Washing my hair
* Literacy (both mine and yours, hehe.)
* Sunglasses
* Work ethic
* Smiles
* Mariska Hargitay

May your Thanksgiving be as pretty as a Norman Rockwell painting, and as memorable as you and your loved ones can possibly make it!

The nice thing about being wifely in this day and age is that everything can be made by simply adding water. Like today, Jon and I started the process of making our Thanksgiving contribution. It called for corn bread. Corn bread! Who knows how to make corn bread? Well, Jon's grandmothers, my grandmother, probably any American girl who can both open a cookbook and read it. That last really ought to be me. However, some genius out there has developed a lovely thing called "corn bread mix". Let the fun begin!

Pour corn bread mix into a bowl.
Add 1 1/2 cups of water.
Mix until all the lumps are gone.
Pour into baking pan.
30 minutes.

Hello world! I can cook!

Okay, I know that's going a bit far. I know that it doesn't actually count as baking. (I also know that I'm blurring the lines between baking and cooking... but, I didn't burn the bread, so cut me some slack, people!) After popping the pan in the oven, I stopped to open my recipe box. No one will be surprised to hear that it isn't exactly bulging with potential cullinary masterpieces. There are the recipes I received at my bridal shower, all neatly written on cards that match the apple-decorated box. Then there are some smaller, bordered cards with recipes from William-Sonoma (mailed to me as a "Congrats on being a bride" thing... girls, look forward to it!).

But last, and neatest, are the slightly yellowed cards, laminated, covered with tiny, spiraling script. They belonged to my grandma. A few months ago my aunt mailed them to me. "Dear Audrey, I thought you might like to have these." She was right.

Today I took out a card labeled "Ice Box Cookies", and as I turned it gently in my hands like a wish, I thought about all the times she might have made those cookies for my dad, when he was a little boy, and his brothers and sister. And how maybe she made them so often that she didn't even need to read the recipe after a while, but she would place the card near the stove out of habit.

Unfortunately I can't tackled the "Ice Box Cookies" until I figure our the conversion equation between Oleo and butter. I barely know what Oleo is!

The best part of having these little pieces of Grandma's past is reading the notations she'd made years ago, reminding herself of possible substitutes or extras. Like on the card marked "Butterscotch Coffee Cake", below all the ingredients, it reads:

In case of emergency, use 2 c white sugar, mix with other dry ingredients, add 1/2 c golden brown molasses. (Thank God! An answer to the inevitable three-alarm sugar crisis!)

Thanksgiving isn't just a day, in my opinion. It's a season, even a state of mind. Right about now we begin mulling over all the things we're thankful for. My parents and brothers and I never lived near our extended family. I don't remember the very few times we all got together, noisily in Grandma's dining room, awaiting a next course of fabulous, home-cooked food. I never stood on my tiptoes in the kitchen, leaning slightly over Grandma's shoulder as she taught me just the right way to test and see if the turkey was done. I don't associate cooking or baking smells with my grandmother.

But I also don't resent that I didn't have any of that. Today I am thankful that I have been entrusted with a precious part of who my grandmother was, as a young bride, young woman, young mom... and I hope that, in time, I will be able to do justice to her fudge, or "Mother's Oatmeal Crispies". (And I have a sneaking suspicion Jon is hoping for the same thing!)

Tonight we gathered at my parents' house to celebrate Mark Edward Pancoast's 48th birthday (Did you hear that, Ted? 48. Not 50. Great card, though.) Anyway, it was a fun-filled night. After all, it's not every day that a man over the age of 40 gets an IPod for his birthday.

Yes, Mom bought Dad a shiny blue IPod mini. And I am happy to announce that the new addition to the family has been christened: Old Blue.

The really good news is that while Jon installed software and plugged everything in, I led my folks through a little tutorial on the use of the IPod. Wait, no, the REALLY good news is that Dad caught on to everything quickly, and he got a big kick out of it.

So, between delicious cake and the IPod-inspired enthusiasm, the evening was a lot of fun. Oh, and Jon was introduced to Dad's favorite song. The classic "Dead Skunk" by Loudon Wainwright III. Never heard of it? Don't let Dad catch up to you when he has his handy-dandy IPod... he'll tie you down and make you listen!

"Deeeeeead skunk in the middle of the road, stinking to hiiiiigggh heaven!"

Ew. The smell and the song. But Dad's birthday was happy, and that's the important thing. Happy birthday, Dad.

Kindergarten was a good year for me. I made some wonderful friends that year. And the one who has really stuck be me, remaining my best friend for seventeen years and counting, is Julie Michelle Vaughan (formerly Valent-Bolduc... far right in the photo).

Living so far from a friend is hard. In this age of email and cell phones communication is definitely easier, but prioritizing as a young wife and college student and employee is still tough! We don't talk nearly enough. But when we do it is just as if not a moment had passed. She's wearing pigtails and I'm sporting stretch pants. Children of the early nineties... that's us. Yet, we aren't playing house anymore. We have homes of our own. We work and learn and cook and clean and support and love like real women do. Aren't we lucky to be doing this at the same time?

We were in the same class but didn't get to know each other until recess. The story goes something like this:

Two little girls energetically playing separate games collided on the playground. In the nurse's office they shared a cot. From that moment on they were inseparable.

Julie and me, buddies always. She was sweeter than me. I was louder than her. We balanced one another out. I knew her whole family, too. Her mom, Debbie, worked at our school and I saw her daily. Julie's brothers and sister were all just a few grades above us. With my brothers also at the same school, occupying the grades below us, education was a family affair.

Soon she was spending lots of time at my house after school and on weekends. Playing "pretend" is so much better when you have a friend to do it with. As I thought up exotic locales, exciting characters for us to play and insanely intricate stories for us to act out (dogsledding orphan sisters in the yukon protecting our late father's gold mine from evil con men... singers advancing quickly from night club acts to broadway... friends on the oregon trail fighting off indians, bears and typhoid... descendents of egyptian royalty hunting for the treasures in the tombs of our ancestors... etc.), Jules put her heart into the game every time.

Our birthdays are a mere ten days apart; Julie is the oldest. So each year our parties landed withing a week of one another, and both usually included an Easter theme (to take advantage of the discounted candy, no doubt!). Not that we kids had any idea that our parents were seeking to cut down on the expense of our celebrations. We were too high on all the sugar! Julie's mom always managed to make up the best Easter egg hunts, too!

I remember our first "crushes", if you could call them that. Being aware that boys were indeed different, finding them cute, doesn't really count as anything. We didn't know these boys at all really. But Jules had the advantage of having an older sister. Connie liked boys and they liked her. She dated first, kissed first... and we took notes. While I was head over heels in love with Dennis Miller, Julie latched onto David Childers. Each of those affairs lasted a few months before we let our affections move on. Chris Gray, David Dickerson, Travis Armenio... we loved them all alternately.

Once she dated Matt. My Matt. I'd staked that claim so long before! But he and I were only friends. Oh, the intricacies of girlhood. Their "relationship" lasted three days and my friendship with both of them survived somehow. Aren't I dramatic? The boys we dated had almost nothing in common. Sometimes I did worry about her choices when it came to men, but everything worked itself out eventually. Most importantly we continued to value friendship above relationships always.

We did have a falling out once. Of the two of us I usually take on the leading role, and I immaturely resented it when anyone else swayed Julie's opinions. Over the summer after eighth grade I had embarked on my Christian walk, accepting Jesus Christ as my personal savior, and I was intent upon bringing everyone I knew and loved with me! They didn't have a choice... if you asked me. Julie didn't agree. She didn't like my new "holy roller attitude"... the limited selection of music I would listen to (I remember a particularly bitter feud over Alanis Morrisette), etc. In my haste to wash myself clean I almost lost a friend.

Thankfully we're bound at the heart, Julie and I. Even after I moved to Livermore we kept writing to each other. Unfortunately she didn't have email or even a very permanent address. But I was at her graduation ceremony and the party that followed! I beamed when she accepted her diploma. My sister had made it!

Julie's life has never been as easy as mine. Life has thrown her curve balls that even experienced adults would have trouble dealing with. And she was still a kid at heart. Over time she developed street smarts that I'll never understand. But they were necessary for her. Sometimes I worried that she had developed a hard exterior that blocked all her sweetness and light. Then she would visit me and all of that would melt away. Above all we found a common plane no matter what life situations we currently and separately occupied. We owe that to the magic of friendship.

That magic was something I often likened to Anne Shirley's relationship with her neighbor and "bosom friend" Diana. Julie and I were kindred spirits from the moment we met. I would have done anything for her, and vice versa.

She has always supported me. When I got engaged and began planning my wedding, I knew that it wouldn't be perfect unless Julie was at my side. My oldest friend. She knows me deeper than anyone else can understand. While the rest of the world sees what I am, Julie knows what I have become, all of my varied layers, my past. So much of my essence is caught up in her. Thankfully she made it to every event of the wedding planning process. At my wedding she walked down the aisle on my brother's arm, ready to help give me away to a man she'd grown to respect and love. Julie, too, gave her blessing to the union. She knows what is best for me and wants me to have it more than anything.

So when she called to tell me that she also had become engaged, I shrieked with joy! Her fiance, also named Jonathan (confusing... you don't even know!), is a good man, too. I felt blessed to be invited to reverse our roles. I became bridesmaid to her beautiful, blushing bride. Jon and I drove out to Boise, Idaho, where Julie now lives with her husband, to be at the wedding. It was a joyous event, full of fun and activity. I felt as she had felt mere months before for me. Lucky sisters.

I thank God that Jules found her Jon. He loves her so truly. At this point in time we're each in a good place, a thousand miles from each other though it is. I pray that this kinship lasts our lifetime, eternally strong no matter what we go through. The fact that it's lasted this long is a testament to us both. I miss her.

He was born almost 18 months to the day after I was. He came sporting the same freckles, the same pearl white skin. But his fluff of baby hair had a red tint to it, a slight curl. And, oh, his voice was deep! People used to stare at my brother, Ted, as he romped across the playground thinking he was so big. It was his manner, that wide-eyed, mischievous, mud-pie-making grin that he plastered all over his freckled face, that disarmed people. He looked like the subject of a Norman Rockwell painting: an entirely American boy ready to play, to get grass stains.

But sometimes he did cry. And when he cried, he howled! I used to kneel next to his baby rocker and tuck him under the chin with my finger, mimicking our mom, and say, 'What'sa mattah, Teeeeeeed?' in my high, big-sister voice. Not that this always worked, but it made the grown-ups laugh, and it's a good memory.

I loved my little brother. We stuck up for each other. On the playground a boy in my grade poked me until I cried. Ted, little Ted, ran up and wrapped his chubby arms around the bully, picking him up into the air and dropping him on the ground. When both of us were hauled into the Principal's office, we stood our ground. It's a sibling thing. Later on, much later, when bullies were actually mean, when Ted's ears stuck out and his feet were too big, clunking around at the end of his long, skinny legs, I was able to do the same for him. Nobody was going to mess with my brother.

I'll never know him as I did so long ago, when I sang him to sleep after a scary movie, or when I told him stories, or when I pretended to count and name each of his freckles, or when we'd play football one-on-one in the parking lot (Dad was permanent QB). Ted had these giant hands, always. And Dad coached him to catch the ball softly, cradling it and bringing it home to rest under his arm, safe from me. I think of these times and I smile because a brother's love is a strange, beautiful thing.

He called me ugly, stupid, mean, rotten. He hit me, hid from me, tattled on me, hated me. But I did all that to him, too, and sometimes more. I could talk faster. I could think of more things to say. It was later, after the fight had died down, and we became friends again, that love shone. We danced together. I made him dance with me. But secretly he liked to pick me up and twirl me like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. We imagined. I made up a game and he would pretend to be anything I needed him to be. We raced. I ran faster. He ran further. Though you could not meet two people more opposite than we, deep down ran that same love that will be there, red like blood and strong like steel, until the day we die.

Everyone goes through an awkward phase. Ted's lasted a while, but he grew into his feet and his ears, ditched his glasses and embraced his freckles. My friends all had crushes on him at one time or another. He was my best friend's first kiss, something I was conflicted about. It happened in my parents' hot tub, too. Thank God I didn't actually have to see it. The Ya-Ya he didn't kiss, he did take to junior prom a couple of years later. We're a tight knit bunch. How do we not feel weird about all this? You've got me.

School didn't click with Ted the way it did with me. Academic achievement wasn't his goal, nor was it a byproduct of his choices during high school. And when graduation came and he scraped by, you'd never have guessed it. In his vibrant green cap and gown, holding his diploma, he was proud. Relieved, too, of course. But proud. We have one particular picture of Ted, after graduation, with his best friend, Don. They are cheering and laughing at the same time, bellowing like the Marines they were both destined to become. When Mom snapped that photo she caught a glimpse of Ted without trouble or confusion or the lack of options. In that second he was poised for absolute joy.

The rest of Ted's life so far is too entwined with the Marine corps for me to understand. Much of it has been kept from me. I'm sheltered. After a year on a tour in Japan and in the Philippines, where Ted rose to the challenges he faced and literally fed the hungry and sheltered the homeless, my brother learned about manhood. The control of the military grated on him, though. He longed for home. History was being made, however, and after a short leave he was shipped to Iraq. I knew vaguely that he drove any and every vehicle on his base. He transported troops and supplies, food and oil, across vast stretches of dangerous territory.

My brother has seen men die. I can't wrap my head around that. When I look in his eyes I know that he has seen more than I could ever have feared seeing, he knows more of suffering and pain and conquest. Yet he doesn't understand it. There is still a boyish innocence there, behind those big blue eyes of his. All he has seen has not quite been able to harden the hope I knew when we were children. There must, he believes, be a reason for it all.

We've come quite a ways from our games of hide-and-seek in Newark. Along the way we lost touch. Not just after he joined the Marines. It was before. When I chose my path, he took a completely different one. In my worst moments I have screamed at my brother, telling him that he chose wrong. Choose again! I implore him. You'll see I'm right. But really, when my loudness and self-righteousness took over, when I screamed, I was really just calling for my little brother. Follow me. Everything will work if you come this way. And if you don't, I can't protect you.

While Ted was in Japan, I met and fell in love with Jon. While Ted was in Iraq, I got engaged and then married. I sent him pictures and letters, of course. I thought of him, too, on that day. And while I was getting my hair done that lovely morning, Ted called me. I cried as we spoke. Because every conversation we had while he was over there had an element of desperation in it. This, I knew, we all knew, could be it. More than anything I just wanted my brother home, safe, to meet my husband and be my brother. Simple things.

Tomorrow, September 29, 2005, Corporal Theodore Edward Pancoast will be 21 years old. He is currently stationed at 29 Palms in Southern California. May God bless and keep my brother.

Today I had a really great afternoon. In celebration of Labor Day, my boss (Mom) had my co-worker (and surrogate aunt, Denise) over for lunch. Beyond the yummy sandwiches, complete with feta cheese, the best part of the afternoon was a Show & Tell. Denise brought over her high school yearbooks and her late husband, Lefty's "annuals" (same thing). Mom pulled out her books to share and soon we were reminiscing like crazy.

Well, they reminisced and I sat there with my chin propped up in my hands, like a child at story time. Seeing Denise's flawlessly coiffed beehive hair-do (circa 1965, and not a hair was out of place!), her giant pom-poms and pleated skirt, was so fun! And it was sweet how she remembered each detail of her try out for the cheerleading squad.

Mom, of course, claimed to "hate" her senior portrait. Which is ridiculous because she was very pretty, big blue eyes and soft, curly brown hair. But all girls hate their senior pictures. Anyway, mom showed us her Contemporaires team picture (not sure of the spelling... it's a fancy way to say "better than the cheerleaders"). Meanwhile the pictures surrounding my mom's were full of people with very, very, very '70s hairstyles.

Between Lefty's, Denise's, Mom's and my Grandma Jean's yearbooks we spanned four decades of trends, styles, teen idols and world events. I think that my favorite ended up being grandma's book.

My Grandma Jean was beautiful and sweet. She reminds me of Ginger Rogers. The book cover shown above is hers: Moline High School, 1945. Amazing, isn't it? The caption next to her picture amuses me. I'm sure that Jean was intelligent and talented; I'm sure she did other stuff besides date and dance. But you'd never know it here, huh? Still, I love paging through this book and seeing the calf-length plaid skirts, feminine sweaters, fraternity pins... *sigh*. It was a simpler time. Oh! And saddle shoes!

Quickly I'd like to give equal face time to my dad's mom, my Grandma Dot. Here she is, my ravishing grandmother, Dorothy Bercher, in her senior portrait. Thankfully I have had twenty-two years with Grandma Dot, and she's been an amazing example of intelligence, wit and gentility.

More than anything I appreciate the value of history and it's impact on our life today, our culture. Between Jean and Dorothy, I was blessed with some great genes. And I felt very honored today when Denise counted me in her circle of closest and dearest friends because, she said, while I am very young, I am "an old soul". It's true.

Although I was recently told that "yummy!" is a juvenile expression, only used by teeny boppers who believe they're frozen in the 1950s, I am determined to bring the phrase back into vogue. After all, so many edible items in this world are too casual, home-style, cozy to be termed "delicious" or "scrumptious"! Think homemade bread, hot and squishy from the oven... or blueberry muffins... or strawberry jell-o. Again, I am a fan of "yummy!", and I refuse to have my vocabulary dictated by the times. Friends, as of now, with the upcoming list of my favorite treat-type foods (not the most original blog idea... sort of a first date convo starter, though), "yummy!" is back.

Okay, let's get the Hostess Cupcakes out of the way. We've covered that one.

But a sentimental favorite of mine, very similar to the cupcakes (probably made from the same material minus the brown dye) are Zingers. Just the thought of the slightly chewy yellow-flavored, solid sugar frosting makes me tear up a little. I remember one road trip with my dad and my brother, Ted. We'd taken the train to Grandma's house (not making it up), and there we bought her maroon Buick La Sabre (where the cliche ends) and drove home via Mt. Rushmore, Badlands and Yellowstone. I have a point. In one bargain motel we stayed in during the drive West, the three of us were very hungry in the middle of the night. Nothing left in the cooler (on trips like this we usually lived exclusively on bologna sandwiches, pretzels and juice), we switched to plan B: a midnight excursion to the nearby 7-11. Dad returned heroically bearing a box of Zingers... which we polished off in 15 minutes. Ahhhh... to be young again. Good memories.

Wow, that was a lot of time on Zingers. Next up... Junior Mints. Don't argue with me. They're like mini York peppermint patties. And they're perfect for the movie theater. Though the last four mints wind up wedged at the bottom of the box, and you spend several minutes straining desperately, twisting your index finger every which way, hoping to dislodge them. But that's my point. They are worth even that effort. Small, sweet, refreshing.

My next favorite is also a horrible choice of food for any woman over the age of eighteen. Cheese croissants... especially from Donut Wheel (Ben, if you read this... note the reverence). Flaky croissant on the outside, some indistinguishable combo of cream cheese, sugar and... come to think of it, I don't know what that mixture really is. Better not to think about it. Ignorance is tasty! (Errr... YUMMY!)

I suppose I have to mention 3 Musketeers... even though they are a rather nondescript candy, actually. But they aren't that bad for you. And that's a major factor now that my hips vary in width in direct relation to whatever I had for dessert.

Anything with filling is usually a keeper for me. Lemon filled donuts, McDonald's apple pies, Home Run chocolate pies (I believe those are or were my brother, Curtis', favorite, too. He'd eat them by the truck full when we were younger). Caramello candy bars and the boysenberry truffles we always pick up in Glacier National Park. The definition of YUMMY!

This entry wouldn't be complete without a tribute to See's. Jon isn't with me on this (one of the few major disparities in our relationship), but I looooooooooove See's Candy. Whenever I went to work with my mom when I was a little girl (on National Mother Takes Daughter to Work Day... now I go with her every other day... but the tradition has stopped), we'd make a lunchtime pit stop at the See's Candy across the street from her office in Redwood City. (Which we now refer to as "HH". We don't like her old office. Use your imagination.) It remains to be a fond memory and an easy way to gain a quarter pound on a Tuesday afternoon. Lemon truffles are my biggest weakness.

Honestly, I could go on. But my mouth is watering, as I'm sure yours is, too. Sleep calls. May your next meal be completed with a very YUMMY snack... and may you never be too proud to say the Y-word.

Summer makes me think of many things, but most of all it makes me think of my best friend, Matt. We met in fourth grade, sitting across from each other in Mrs. Bauhaus' class, coloring a generic black and white outline of a sun. I, the teacher's pet, was filling in the white space with a gloriously soft yellow. Staying inside the lines, of course. I was concentrating, the tip of my tongue pressing diligently against my upper left canine tooth (as it continues to do today whenever I take anything really seriously).

"My sun is a lunatic!"

We knew each other already, of course, but just then, as he held up his sun, complete with crazy green hair and bloodshot eyes, I fell in love. It sounds crazy (like the sun), but it's true.

Matthew and I became best friends. Everything was about running and hiding and seeking and finding and playing and laughing and enjoying our youth. Being ten years old seems so far away. But when I'm with Matt I feel my heart start skipping like I'm that young again. Simple, that was our friendship.

Today I had a terrific memory. Freshly cut grass clung to my wet toes. Matt and I skipped through the sprinklers, our white shirts stretched against our skin. Youth pushed us in and out of the white, wonderful stinging spray. We were beautiful. I spun with my hands straight out, letting the droplets of silver swirl off of my fingertips in concentric circles.

At the time I thought Matt looked exactly like Tom Cruise in Top Gun. He pretended to hate it, teasing me right back. But he loved me. Probably because I didn't scream and run when I saw a bug, like the other girls did. Or maybe it was because I could beat him in a race, or in tetherball. We stuck together.

Of course, I was nursing a baby crush on the kid. Ten years old though I was, I knew the difference between boys and girls. I also knew that life wouldn't be the same without him. But I didn't tell him what I felt; I didn't even know how to say it aloud. Little did I know that he felt the same way about me.

Over the years we did everything. Tennis, swimming, baseball... we watched movies, took long walks, played long uneventful games of Truth or Dare.

And yes, he was my first kiss. Our freshman year of high school we went to see Lost In Space at the theater that was down the street from where we lived. Afterwards he walked me home, something he always did. The evening fell lightly over the trees, darkening Joaquin Murieta (our street). Beneath a street lamp, in the grey-yellow circle of light, we stopped. A perfect first kiss that tasted like rootbeer, that was mine.

But we were always just friends, perfect friends. We didn't have issues (although he never liked anyone I dated, and vice versa... shocker!). Even after I moved to Livermore, after he was no longer the boy next door, we remained close. He even wrote me letters! What a good guy.

On my sixteenth birthday, the day after junior prom, Matt showed up at my house for my party. I was wearing my red prom dress to church that morning, so when I swung the front door open to greet my buddy... his jaw dropped. It was the first time he'd ever seen me in a dress! I don't mind saying that he liked what he saw. But to this day he still manages to picture me in a pony tail, shorts and sneakers, knees scratched and fingernails dirty.

When I met Jon, Matt knew something was different. He made an effort to meet Jon and to get to know him. I've never been so proud. Even though there had always been a hope in the back of both our hearts, in the minds of people we knew, that we two would have a future together... Jonathan Camp had taken my heart completely. He was my future. And Matt was wonderful about the whole thing.

Matt now lives in Arizona, working hard and being near his Mom's family makes him happy. But he misses California and, of course, me. He did make it out for my wedding last year, which meant the world to me. And he made a valiant attempt to catch the garter... but our pal Jeremy kept his record alive and snagged it before Matt could get close. How many is that now, Jeremy?

After the wedding I said goodbye to so many people, but I'll never forget saying it to Matt. He was so proud of me. He loved me so much. When we hugged, he squeezed me close like a brother would do to his sister. Eleven years of friendship had seen us sweep through all the stages, braving shadows and rising to the right moments. That memory, just before I grabbed my husband's hand and drove off into our future... the one I shared with my best friend, is precious to me.

Jonathan is truly my best friend now. No one knows me like my soul mate for life. But nothing will ever unravel or diminish the twelve years Matt and I have. And one of the amazing things about Jon is that he appreciates that. Friendship is golden, and we cherish the relationships we forged before we met each other. Matt, like me, admires Jon for that and for many other things.

Today I called Matt to wish him a happy 23rd birthday. We talked for an hour. And in the end we both wished we could go back to the tree-lined avenue where we first met, to dance in the sprinklers, to sit in the back of his dad's parked pick-up (the orange one with the slightly rusted tailgate), to drink Dad's Rootbeer and skip pebbles down the street, to toss popcorn playfully at one another during a movie... to find that simple time.

Happy Birthday, Matthew Jonathan Carlisle Planer.

My cousin is getting married. Ben and his fiancee, Melissa, were engaged last year. They made a point to come out to our wedding in August and we hope we can return the favor and share their joy and their own big day this October! Melissa also participated in the shower my aunts and grandmother threw for me in Illinois last summer. She's a terrific gal, so much fun!

All who know me are unsurprised to see me hurl myself into the midst of all the excitement and act crazy in order to have fun and entertain. I don't even hesitate to do so in front of my relatives. Few others, though, outside the Pancoast clan can work up the wherewithal to do the same when they're with us. After all, we're pretty intimidating. Mis is an exception. She fearlessly allowed herself to be dragged into being a model in our "Toilet Paper Bride" game. Oh! And I have pictures. Ben is a lucky guy.

Of course, I'm a big fan of Ben. He and I kept touch over the years by way of email and instant messaging. In high school I depended on him for encouragement and friendship even though he lived thousands of miles away. So Melissa is lucky, too, and that's the way it should be with true love. Everybody wins.

Today I got the chance to do some shopping for them. Unfortunately I have to miss Melissa's bridal shower, thrown at my Aunt Mary's home in Illinois (the same place we had mine). It happens to fall on the same weekend Jon and I had booked reservations in Las Vegas. But I'll be there in spirit, cheering her on as the toilet paper is wound around the unsuspecting guests, silly games are played and yummy food is eaten.

My shower was such fun! I couldn't believe how excited everyone was to be there sharing my experience with me. My aunts made sure they covered every detail. Perfectly lovely. Cousins and aunts from both sides of my family joined to celebrate. I hammed it up, of course, singing into the egg beaters (microphones) I was given, wearing my bouquet of bows as a hat. But I also tried hard to express my appreciation. Two of my mom's closest friends were able to attend. Her Ya-Yas. And of course her big sister, Aunt Kris. Oh everyone was there! Mostly I think I'm using this entry as an exuse to put up this picture. Hail to Grandma Dot, the Queen of Bathroom Tissue!

Searching through their registry at Crate & Barrel brought back some wonderful memories. Jon and I had such a fantastic time registering for gifts. And, thanks to the generosity of our friends and relatives, we received almost everything on our list. So much stuff! My kitchen is red. The brightest room in the house by far. I was overjoyed to see that Melissa had wisely chosen to register for the same bright red Kitchen Aid mixer that is now our kitchen's centerpiece. Honestly I've probably used it less than twenty times. But even that is a lot for me. Pumpkin bread, biscuits, the occasional angel food cake... easy stuff. Someday I'll get around to pushing the mixer to its full potential. Or will it be the other way around? Either way it was one of my favorite gifts from the wedding. That and the matching red toaster and mixing bowls. I'm getting excited (and hungry) just thinking about them all!

A note to all who ever plan to get married: don't underestimate the fun of the registering process. Naturally it's not the most important part of getting married... or even the wedding... or the wedding preparation. Okay, so it's a teensy part of the big picture. But sometimes it's easy to forget to have fun as you stress over the gown, the music, the food, the pastor, the venue, the flowers, the bridal party, the photographer... see what I mean. Take time to register. Dream big and perfect! Enjoy it together. And don't forget to add your own big, red mixer.

Congratulations Ben and Melissa!

So I've missed a week. Why? Illness. Totally valid. A personal type of illness, too. Yuck. But I'm getting better, slowly. Every day a little more. I can stand upright, talk, enjoy eating, drive. It's been a long week. What's new?

I'm still working at Banana Republic. Still haven't opened a single card account. Ugh. Still love the clothing. But I'm kind of hoping I can find a job that involves less selling clothes and more consistant hours.

In the last week I've been fortunate enough to spend a little time with the Ya-Yas. Not a lot. But we ate some good food (Spaghetti Factory... amazing!) and got in some good chatting. Ya-ya!

Jon has been a model husband/caregiver in the last several days. Midnight runs to the pharmacy, taxi to doctor's appointments (I couldn't drive... sleepy drugs), lots of hand holding. Poor guy. He badly needs his sleep.

His parents recently adopted a new kitten, Claude (as in Monet... not Jean-Claude Van Damm). What a cutie!

Tonight we put on a golden oldie (by Jon's standards, not mine, but an old favorite for me as well) to enjoy. A Few Good Men. "My client's a moron, Dave; that's not against the law." Wonderful! Young Tom Cruise (Was Katie Holmes born yet?), tough Jack Nicholson, Kevin Bacon, Kieffer Sutherland, Demi Moore. What's not to love?

Today was Jon's Grandma Wilson's birthday. Steak dinner at Black Angus made my 8-5 BR shift melt away into a baked potato oblivion. And after ice cream I got the chance to look at an old photo album from Grandpa Wilson's childhood. Such fun! Terrific black and white pictures. While lacking in clarity, cryptic in their description, these photos were perfect in their nostalgia. Being allowed to stroll down memory lane, recalling the names of cats who lived and played in the 1930s (Mickey) and how many guests were at his parents' wedding (2) made me feel very blessed indeed.

Tomorrow is Jon's folks' anniversary. July 2. Happy Anniversay Mom and Dad in Law!

'Ohhhhh, my leetle geeeeeel!"

No, you may not understand that comment. I do, though. It makes me laugh. You see, my father, the big, ominous "tough guy", always has been the best baby talker around. Let me translate. "Oh, my little girl!" By dropping certain consonants, elongating the vowel sounds, elevating his voice to a high, precious pitch... Daddy used to make me laugh!

Father's Day has come and, since I offered up my creativity to sing the praises of my Mother in early May, I really ought to do the same for my dad now. So let's see if I can sum up my love for my father in this short space.

Dad wanted a boy. Oh, he may deny it now, but as an extremely talented athlete in high school, he hoped desperately that he'd be able to share his love of sports and all things sweaty and grass-stained with a son. But Mom gave him me instead. The way they tell the story, the doctor handed me, all slimy and squirmy and female, to a 25-year-old Mark Pancoast... and the man fell in love.

I was his "leetle geel", his "jaybird", his "munchy minchin" and a thousand other equally and inanely sweet nicknames. At the age of three I beat him at Candy Land (now he swears he let me win, but we all know the truth... I am the master), and I received a trophy for my efforts. It was one of his old baseball trophies. We both beamed with pride. He bought a book that came highly recommended for teaching children to read, and he sat me down one afternoon to begin learning. By the end of the night, I could do it! Magic? Good parenting? Pure Audrey genius? A little bit of all.

On the playground I was living up to my potential, too. Daddy had hoped and prayed for an athlete, and God had granted him one. I picked up sports quickly, even as he drilled. He'd take us kids out to "play baseball" in the nearby field. That meant a little bit of batting for each of us, and then one monstrous "at bat" for Dad while his litter spread out to shag the balls he sent for miles in every direction. We all won.

And he took me on my first date. I don't remember it as vividly as I used to, but there is a picture of the night that helps me. I was five-years-old, I had on a little mint green dress and white tights and shoes, and I carried a little purse with a turtle on it. Dad put on a suit and tie for his "number one girl" and we were off to dinner. I think we went to the mall? Do you remember, Dad? We went on many special "dates" over the years. The best was to an old-fashioned ice cream counter for a malt. My friends were all very jealous of my time with my Dad. He worked nights and weekends, so he was the one driving me on field trips and spending time with my brothers and me after school. "Your dad is the coolest!" my friends used to rave. But I don't think I told him that; it might have gone to his head.

Things weren't always so perfect, though. Dad had forgotten, in his list of things for God to include in the design of his firstborn, to ask that I not turn out exactly like him. My temper and my stubbornness are all his, too. Fighting was interesting once I was old enough to know my own mind. Not only did I choose to believe and say the exact things that would make my dad the angriest living human, but I stuck to my guns just as hard as he stuck to his. Head butting over issues like my future career, capital punishment, communism, racism... every day occurrences.

Usually these episodes ended with the classic "go to your room!" We rarely reached a resolution peacefully the first time around. Sometimes I was called back downstairs and given a chance to change my mind, to repent. Hah! Now I wonder how much time I wasted arguing things I knew nothing about, how many times I was actually right, how many miles of stairs I walked after all the up and down and up agains.

Always, though, I thought my dad was probably one of the smartest people around. He was always reading, always talking about important things. He worked hard to put himself through college when we were little kids and he was still working full time. He treated my mother very well, always loving her aloud.

The best possible thing my dad did for us growing up was to take our family on great vacations! He was a teacher, so each summer he'd pack the boys and me and all our camping gear into the car. We'd drive all over, usually winding up in Yellowstone National Park. Along the way we developed a love for nature and her bounty. Dad kept us entertained with history and stories, everything he knew he shared. That made the trips twice as fun!

Now, here I have to stop and mention that the info he passed along wasn't always brand new. After a while he began repeating some things. The boys and I pretended not to notice. Maybe in the beginning we really didn't know. But then, as is the Pancoast way, we gave Daddy a hard time about it.

"Kids, do you know what formed that valley over there? Hundreds of years ag..."

And we'd overwhelm him with a chorused: "...ago huge glaciers carved out the valleys as they melted and froze over and over..." Poor dad, breeding such smart alecks.

I think I made him proud as an athlete in high school. I swam, played volleyball and basketball. After showing a lot of potential in all three sports I narrowed them down to my favorite, volleyball. Dad came to my basketball games during my freshman year. He cheered me on, up and down the court. Of course, it wasn't all cheering, per se. Some was criticism "Don't dribble so high, AJ!", some was advice "Keep your head up, babe!". Some was pure incredulity. "What are you doing??!!!" And my father, bless his heart, was born with a deep voice that resounds everywhere, especially in a gym. At the end of the game the big joke my coaches would pass along to me was, "I heard your dad was at the game tonight! Har har har har!"

As a deeply sensitive teenage girl, I desperately wanted the teasing to stop. And having to do the play-by-play with critique once I got home wasn't all that fun, either. So I asked my dad not to yell during my games. When he balked at this idea I, in a moment of what my dad would term "boneheadedness", gave my own father an ultimatum: If you have to scream at me, I don't want you at my games at all."

Well, I should have known how that would go. He didn't come to any more of my games. Finally, my senior year, he began showing up at my volleyball matches again. And boy, was he proud! Then, at the award ceremony at the end of the season, he was my date. I relished his booming cheers then, as I accepted my trophy for being the Most Valuable Player of 2001.

In high school I didn't make my parents worry much. I was a good kid who kept to her curfew, did most of my activities with the church and had nice friends. The night I graduated from high school, my dad gave me a charm for the charm bracelet he'd given me and had helped me build for years. It was a tiny silver acorn. I hadn't fallen far from the tree. Daddy was misty, but he let me go off to my parties and to the rest of my life.

Dad has been my compass, my teacher, my standard for men, my protector (I've always felt safe) and my friend. He's whetted my debating skills and helped to nurture my sense of humor. Giving me away in marriage was no easy task for Daddy. He always swore he wouldn't cry "if the day ever came". But he did, a little. And just as the song we danced to that night proclaimed, I find our relationship as father and daughter to be amazing and unforgettable.

A long time ago I was inspired by an Eavan Boland poem. I sat and wrote this about my father:

wise things

My father took my hand
and we soared up the steps
of a place of words and wisdom
bound into books,
row upon row of the written thoughts
of those much wiser than me.

Oh, how I thirsted for that wisdom.

I would leave the hold of my father
in his sage green coat,
and find my corner.
I would huddle there and search for
the meaning of life, the solutions to
so many mysteries.

I sought counsel.

And then I turned around
and turned around...

He was gone.
It took me a second to realize
I was old enough to make it
home on my own.

When I was young I studied words
and their definitions.
These led me to understand
much of what life is made of,
but something else brought to light
the meaning of irony.

I will always be reminded that I was
in those hallowed rooms of learning
with my father,
with my back turned towards him,
searching- oh irony!-
for wise things.

-Audrey Pancoast, 2003

We get along. We make each other laugh. A few days ago I received an email from my dad in which he told me that he had been watching Anne of Green Gables with his class, and that it made him miss "his Anne". Me. Aren't I a lucky girl? To have a father who believes I am smart and beautiful and successful, a father who has told me that since I was very young. Indeed.

Happy Fathers Day!

Today I am bouncing with happy energy. *singing* No more teachers, no more books! *done singing* Yes, I finished my last class tonight at 5pm and promptly drove home to have dinner, pizza naturally, with Jonathan. And when we saw each other there was this sigh of relief in unison... apparently the poor boy had been going through sympathy stress for me.

But now it's over (with the exception of my finals... next week... three days in a row...), but if I think about those things this rosy feeling might leave. So, instead, I'm going to take my cue from Julie Andrews and share, with you dear friend, a few of my *singing once again* faaaaaaavorite things!

I promise, no more singing.

Let's start with cute kittens. Mine, l'il Disneyface, is the cutest of all. To me. And to Jon. And to everyone else who has ever seen his squishy face! We decided to put him up against the judgment of the world. Kittenwar is exactly what it sounds like. May the cutest kitten win! Well, so far at least, Disney is about 50/50. But what does the rest of the world know? One of the "winningest kittens" is this one... SQUEE!

How cute was that? Awwwwwww. Just be careful when you do visit the site. It's addicting. If you're really geeky (or you really love me) you may want to update yourself as to the current battle standing of Disney, Crypto and/or Disney and Crypto (our tag team attempt at knocking out all competition using both Crypto's weight and Disney's adorableness).

Continuing with my list... last week I got the chance to visit San Jose with the Ya-Yas! Our mission? To see the newly released Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. A girl flick to be sure, but a terrific one. I kid you not, though I entered the theater expecting it to be cheesy... when the end credits scrolled I was overcome with happiness. What a wonderful movie, full of everything that a good story needs. I won't give it away. Everyone should see it.

That same night Jon entered a bouldering competition at a nearby rock gym. He took first place in his division. I am sooooo proud of my climbing hubby!

And then the other night I invited my mom over for some dinner and girl time. I prepared Mexican food and margaritas, used my most colorful dishes, and played oldies. Casa del Camps! Mom and I had a great time just talking about everything under the sun. It's a little rough not living with her anymore, but we still get the chance to catch up every once in a while.

On Monday I received a card from my grandma! During my battle with the insane Human Development project that wreaked havoc on my life over the last few weeks, I felt compelled to reach out to her and let her know how much I appreciate everything she's ever done for me. I wanted her to know that she is a successful woman and a loved grandmother. (And what a grandmother! Here she is with all her grandkids except Ted... impressive. We're cute!) Her card expressed the same feelings to me and to Jon. She gave me wifely advice, told me some stories about her family history, enclosed a few black and white photos I'd never seen (very cool! I am such a sucker for old pictures!). It's neat to be penpals with my grandmother. She's got so much to share.

And on Monday we received a gift. Jon's mom, my mother-in-law, Debbie, is a very talented artist. As a wedding present she painted a portrait of Jon and me. It's a very unique painting, gorgeous! Jon and I are in our wedding attire, dancing and gazing at each other lovingly, but in the background is a nighttime setting of deep green hills and dark blue sky. Atop the highest hill is a fairy tale castle. Debbie included a bible verse in antique-style lettering, roses around the rim, so many very personal touches. She gave us an heirloom we're proud to possess, and will be proud to pass on someday. If possible I'll show it on here at some point.

At some point in the last week or so I've spoken to many of my close friends. Dan Burkhart is graduating from UCLA this coming weekend. Ryan Densberger is still hard at work. David Giusti is working and coaching basketball, too (I'm jealous! What an amazing experience it is to coach young people!). Erica Woehrle will be working at summer camp again this year. Jen Fraser is going to have a baby in just a couple more months! We're all in these very special, important places in our lives, and still we make time for one another. I'm amazed sometimes how close we've all remained. The Ya-Yas, to be sure, are the closest to me. But all of them have a special place in my heart. They help to make my little world a better, happier place.

These are a few of my favorite things. I feel wonderful. The summer is here, bringing sunshine and free time to Livermore and me. Over the next few weeks I have so much planned! Rodeo parades, work, Jon's travel, Vegas, camping, baseball games... OH SO MUCH! Thank God that school is out. I can breathe again! Hope my happiness has rubbed off on you, too.

She fed me, clothed me, tickled me, comforted me, and strategically covered my baby-nakedness with wash-cloths in pictures. My mother, ladies and gentlemen. Leslie Ellen Pancoast. It may be cliche to offer up my blog entry to my mom on this date, but who cares? And who, really, can stop me?

Mom has been so many things to me, it's only fair that I give her some space here, in the open book that is my mind. Short, maybe. Sweet, definitely. Plus, I guilt-tripped her only this morning about not reading my stuff more often... so I'm sure to get her attention this time! (Besides, she's probably the only person who can name the movie from which I pulled the title of this entry.)

In 1983 my folks were young, happily married, and getting ready to start their family. I was on the way. St. Patrick's Day was my due date, and my grandmother flew out from Chicago to be present at my birth.

But I wasn't quite ready to be born. Nope. I liked being all wrapped up in a ball, warm, floating, having my every need met. I was already spoiled! So the seventeenth came and went without so much as a move from me. My mom is a patient person, but only to a point. Finally, almost a full two weeks after the 9-month mark, she and my dad calmly drove to the hospital to have labor induced. My entrance to the world was fashionably late, painful... but much anticipated. When my mom held me for the first time, she knew she'd never love any little girl more than me.

So many of my childhood memories are happy ones, filled with balloons and smiles. Mom taught me how to bake (and to lick the spatula!), how to play cards (particularly one magic trick that no one else can figure out), and how to do gymnastics. There was one year, and this is the only time I'll ever admit it, that I attempted to be a cheerleader because I wanted to follow in the footsteps of my esteemed cheerleader of a mother. I failed, both regretfully and thankfully. Valiant effort. I kept forgetting to snap and stomp!

We fought, bickered, played the mind games, got lost in the maze that falls in the generational gap. Yet she was one of my best friends when I was in high school, and she's always been my supporter. Most of all, though, she is my role model. Considering her work ethic, ambition, success and command of respect in her field of work, and also her long, stable, happy marriage... there are few others in this world I could point to as better examples of people who have lived well. I'd count myself lucky if I turned out just like her.

Mom proudly stood by my side with my dad when I was recognized as the Most Valuable Player on my varsity volleyball team. She was there when I graduated from LHS. She helped me move into my first apartment in Davis (and she hugged me as I cried when I left home that year). She clapped and danced when I called to tell her I was engaged. She helped me immensely as I planned my wedding. She generously gave of her time and energy, money and bargaining skills. And on my wedding day she held my hand, kissed my cheek, told me I looked beautiful.

There has never been a moment when I didn't know how much my mother loved me. God blessed me to be sure. Sometimes I really don't feel I deserve it, either. And I miss Mom when I am home in my house with my husband and my cats, a "grown-up"... a "married lady"... She gives me valuable advice when I call to ask for it, but she never pries or pushes. The perfect mother. Nowadays we meet for lunch every once in a while. Less often now that she has her new job. I'm so proud of her.

We'll always have our inside jokes. When I graduated from high school she took me to London as my grad gift. The memories we keep from that trip alone are priceless! Life may get crazy, at some point I'll be a mom myself (a scary thought, and one I won't consider for quite a while yet so please... no pressure), but Leslie Pancoast will still be there for me whenever I need her. My rock, my love, my friend... my Mommy.

Happy Mother's Day!

Suddenly my blog has a name. It was Jon's idea first, I admit. And I love it. Accuracy is important here, especially since the only readers right now are Jon and me, and we can tell if we're not being completely honest. So why did I choose this name? It all began with an old house and the eccentric folks who lived there...

Anyone who has met my parents understands that they are complicated, intriguing people. But they certainly aren't stodgy or boring. Yes, Dad can go on for hours about glacial movement and erosion, or Manifest Destiny, or even the defining characteristics of fabrics. And yes, Mom deals with insurance. Yet they collectively have a charm about them that allows for knee-jerk understanding on the part of us all when they do things we otherwise might find odd, even crazy.

Case in point: The Advent of the Red Door

After finally being able to move the family to Livermore, CA and out of a rapidly decining area in Newark, CA, my folks were beside themselves with joy at the idea of owning their first house. And the house itself was perfect. Large and roomy, lots of wall space, a dining room that we ate in all of three times because the kitchen eating area was much more convenient, a big back yard with full-grown trees and a rose garden, an in-ground pool, a master suite. The list goes on.

The one drawback to the house was its being a "track home" (as almost ever house in Livermore is). My parents wanted some uniqueness, a touch of character in their first house. First they tackled the inside. The family room almost buckled under a deep outdoorsman theme. Wall-to-wall flyfishing paper, Wild Wings paintings, a creel and rod, dark green couches and, to top it all off, the head of a deer mounted above the brick fireplace (we named him Cal, by the way).

And so my mother moved her wallpapering frenzy methodically through the house, putting personal touches in each kid's room, the kitchen, the laundry room, bathrooms, hallways. But walking up to the big gray-blue house at the end of the typical suburban court, no one could tell our house from the zillions of others.

Dad bought the red paint with Mom's blessing. By noon the next day our front door, clearly visible from the street, was a vibrant tomato red. It shouted our originality into the neighborhood.

That's what gave me this idea. Because, after all, people were still getting to know me at the time. I was a sophomore in high school, defined by my place on the volleyball team, my participation in my honors English class, and the fact that I was "the girl who lives in the house with the red door". Simple.

Being the hopeless romantic that I am, I like to think that my association with the red door carried some sense of mystery. Who is she? Where is she from? What can she do? Perhaps I was extraordinary.

Now, though, the red door symbolizes so much more than that. Behind it lies my destiny, my path, my potential. Red is my favorite color because it seems to indicate life:

Blood running through veins, blushing in the face of flattery and pride, the sin of Adam and Eve, the nail polish I wore on my wedding day, the ribbons I wore during D.A.R.E. week when I was eleven years old, strawberries in the summertime, the bricks in stately old buildings, the cotton-rich earth of Tara, the flag flapping at an old bull to induce a charge, firetrucks, stoplights, roses given to me by Jonathan on Valentine's Day, Christmas, Disneyland, sticking my tongue out at my little brother behind my dad's back, ketchup on hot dogs and the reason Hester Prynne was forced to wear the letter A.

To junior prom I wore a beautiful red silk dress. From that moment on red became a color I was associated with by friends and family. I like it that way. When Jon and I were registering for gifts for the wedding, I carefully chose all red kitchen accessories. For some people red is terrifying, a step outside their comfort zones, too noticeable to be relaxing. But red soothes me.

And so I choose the red door as a symbol of the vivacity I hope to embody the rest of my life. I am many things, some of which I don't yet know of, let alone understand. But for now I will continue to be the girl behind the red door.