U-turn

I did it again yesterday. I was almost all the way to the Pentagon on 395 when I remembered that I forgot something vital to the day's excursion. So I got off at Pentagon City, did a u-turn, and got right back on 395 back to my house.

Thank goodness I remembered at that point, because where do you a do u-turn after that last exit before the district without crossing Memorial Bridge or 14th St. bridge, or going through Arlington Cemetery to turn around? I mean, really, thank goodness for the u-turn possibilities in Pentagon City.

Those of you who know me well know that I'm not afraid of making u-turns while driving. I try so hard to follow mapquest directions perfectly, but I often go too far--or not far enough--and inevitably I have to turn around. Just ask Janell, who actually wrote about our little adventure on her blog. Or Brad, who thinks I'm a horrible person because sometimes I disobey those pesky No U-Turn signs. For the love.

And thank goodness for u-turns in general in life. So often I am in such a big hurry to get through my never-ending list, or to accomplish the impossible for the day. So often I'm in such a rush that I forget to slow down and enjoy the journey, or realize I've forgotten something important, or, worse yet, acknowledge that I'm simply going in the wrong direction. Thank goodness for those gentle reminders, for the views along the way, for the very possibility of doing u-turns, of changing direction, of recognizing my mistakes and forgetfulness and realizing alternative modes. And thank goodness, really, for all the options to arrive somewhere... really, I'm on my way.

Yesterday I was rushing to the archives at Catholic University. As I quickly walked into the library, I turned around to look behind me and abruptly did another little u-turn, just to capture the view of the basilica framed by pink blossoms. What a view! Thank goodness for u-turns!

Easter Color

Last weekend I went shopping and came home with what I thought were some great buys--a khaki jacket, a tan linen shirt, a creamy blazer, a navy blue sweater, and a white shirt with lemon yellow stripes. Jessica took one look at me and told me I needed more color in my life. While I enjoy the safety of my blacks and browns and beiges, I agree--we all need more color.

I love Easter color. I love the way spring brings color to a drab winter--and I love that yellow is a big early spring color. I love that the freeways here are loaded with daffodils along the shoulders. You have to hand it to the little suckers--they must be a hardy flower they way they can survive all the early spring cold snaps. Last week we had a lot of strong winds and my daffodils were all sort of blown down; they looked completely defeated. With slightly warmer temperatures and no wind, they're starting to stand back up again.

One of my favorite things about our Easter dinner this year was that we all put on African shirts: bright blues and yellows, reds and oranges. I'm dying that I didn't have a camera there. I arrived at Kendall's and found Kendall, Gayla, and Dioubate all decked out in their colorful African wares, and Kendall offered me a choice from several other shirts in his closet. I picked a deep indigo piece from Guinea. As our other friends arrived, I made them all pick a shirt to wear. It was great--and I really think we underestimate color. I love that I have so much to learn and that life sort of hands out these kinds of eye-opening, color-inspiring experiences. I need to break free from my usual boring pattern and embrace color. Bring it on!

March Madness

Ok. So it's totally a distraction for a busy student who should be researching, reading, and writing--and for that matter, cleaning and preparing a little talk for Relief Society and maybe even doing some laundry. But oh, the fun of March Madness... even for someone who really has not followed college basketball at all this season.

I just love filling out the bracket. Maybe it's the part of me that loves making lists and crossing things off and seeing "progress." It just feels good and accomplished and satisfying. I love that at this time of year I constantly check the scoreboards when I should be reading about the Civil Rights movement or finding archival sources for my paper. I love choosing teams whose names sound like good, solid basketball teams because I really honestly know nothing about their statistics this season. I love choosing an underdog team or two to go pretty far--simply because I believe in the challenge of making it big against all odds, and I delight in the unexpected. Oh, the excitement of it all!

Yesterday I asked the students working in our lab if they had filled out their brackets. Most of them had no idea what I was talking about. And so, for the first time in my pretty un-athletic life, I explained the simple joys of March Madness. I printed brackets for them and tried to describe the fun in blind choosing and watching scores. One undergrad even admitted that she knew sports had something to do with balls... oh there's so much to teach!

It is all paying off. My Russian friend Nastya just came rushing in to my cubicle to tell me that she saw a score flash by on some website and one of her teams is doing well. Wahoo! I think she's converted! I don't know that she's ever even been to a basketball game, but now she's addicted to March Madness. And Maureen and Tad are also playing along, waiting madly to see how their teams do. Mission accomplished!

Next mission: how will my bracket do?!? And after that: it's a good thing March Madness ends before my paper is due...

On the Cusp

I really think it's almost here... I can smell it... I can see it... I can feel it... Buds bursting, cherry blossom festival planning, sun staying, warmer temperature... it really IS on the cusp. Today I saw cherry blossoms playing hide and seek at the University of DC. Yesterday on the way home from the gym I saw some lovely purple blossoms poking out. I can hardly contain myself...

I'm on the prowl for spring. I'm actually on the prowl for a lot of things. It's this on the prowl, on the verge, on the cusp that's so exciting. I've been working away madly on a paper for a conference, hoping I can turn it into a dissertation chapter, and at the least, the final paper for my research methods seminar. I've uncovered every stone, explored every possibility, emailed every archive and list-serv in search for that blossom, that bloom, that proof of evidence that proves my thesis.

Yesterday I went through 7,000+ images on the New York Public Library website and found a trail that I followed today at the University of DC. That in and of itself was an entirely new experience--not only was I the only white person in the vicinity (I felt like I was back in Harlem!), but the layout of the library was extremely odd--the microfilm things I needed on the 2nd floor but all the reference help on the 5th floor, and the only way in between was to go back down to the 1st floor and take the elevator up, then being passed around from Mr. Hooper to Miss Bloom to who knows what. But that small lead was everything... I'm on the cusp... it's going to burst any day now.

I love being on the cusp in other ways, too... spring, I'm ready for you!

Cutting and Piecing

A bunch of quilter friends and I are making a quilt--we all chose a fabric from the same fabric line and will make 20 of the same block, then exchange and make our own quilts. See my friends blog about their blocks: Jenn, Erica, and Julie.

I love every step of the process. I loved picking my fabric--and I even bought more of my favorite fabrics from the line to add some blocks and borders. I loved cutting and piecing, pressing and sewing again. There's something ironically comfortable about the monotony of cutting and sewing, pulling apart and putting back together in new ways. I love making my points match and seeing the final project so quickly. I can't wait to figure out the overall design with the different blocks and fabrics, then add my borders and back. It's kind of like the big paper I'm working on this semester--cutting apart, piecing together. Or so many other things in my life. So many life metaphors...

There is Nothing Like a Good Haircut

Or at least a different haircut. The flip is gone, my friends. Gone the way of all old haircuts. I've entered the world of Posh Spice with a little Katie Holmes sass. Now my little stack is nowhere nearly as dramatic as Victoria Beckham, and my color is certainly not as blond, but it's a fun little change.

I think the best part is losing the weight of old hair. I don't mean pounds necessarily, but the fresh new feel and new outlook. Tomorrow morning when I wash my hair, I already know the shortness--even though it's not that much shorter--will surprise me. And I probably won't be able to style it exactly the same. But it's the change that's exciting and invigorating as I wait for spring. It's a new me--a fresh start.

One time I visited my sister Lisa when she lived in a little teeny town in Wisconsin. She had told me on the phone several times before my visit that she just didn't fit in there, that people would stare at her when she walked into a store or somewhere new. She felt out of place. Once I arrived in Delavan, I could see why. It was March and still very steeped in winter--and I'm sure the cold temperature had something to do with it. The atmosphere felt stagnant and old, like an old haircut. I had a brilliant idea. I wondered if these people all got a really great, new haircut, if it would change the town. I think it just might.

Name Them One By One

Last night I was grumbling to Kendall about a paper that seems to be swallowing me alive. I told him I was discouraged, to which he immediately sang:

"When you are discouraged, thinking all is lost
Count your many blessings, name them one by one
And it will surprise you what the Lord hath done."

I laughed--particularly because both he and I stumbled over the words (it's hard when you start a song in the middle and not at the beginning)--but I realized he was right. So before I jumped head first into my paper this evening, I named one by one the things I am grateful for:

1. The man who opened the door for me when my diet Coke bottle exploded.
2. That diet Coke--some days it just does a magical work on me.
3. The sun--I think it was up to 70 degrees today and I loved soaking in the sun for a few minutes.
4. Not having anything to do at work--and my supervisor is out this week--so I could tackle my paper.
5. Having the inspiration of HOW to tackle my paper.
6. All the contacts I have at various archives--I emailed everyone I could think of for contextualization information for my paper. I have to smile when I think of them because I've had such great relationships with them: my Jewish South African Lyn at the American Jewish Historical Society, my fantastic adviser Peter at NYU, my great, funny, real friends Bill, Randy, and Chad at the Church Archives, and countless others.
7. Learning that I can have graceful endurance--as Elder Maxwell teaches in "Enduring Well."
8. Driving with my moonroof open, blasting Elder Maxwell on my Ipod.
9. Going on a walk with dear Jessica.
10. Lighting my cinnamon vanilla candle and letting the flame carry away my negativity.
11. Realizing the power of my own clinical material--that I can learn and work and heal and arise and be counted.
12. Kendall and his efforts to un-discourage me.

I love that by naming my blessings, I know that I can name and be named.

Ukuleles, Websites, and my friend Tad

You may think the three don't belong together, but in this case, they do. Yesterday, my fellow Ph.D. student-friend Tad was talking about the web design skills he's learning (all the while grumbling about Wordpress trauma under his breath). Tad had a brilliant plan: he found a somewhat random and dilapidated ukulele-maker website. He hopes to approach the owner and propose a deal: he'll design a new website in exchange for a ukulele. Now I love that--not only is the picture of dear Tad with his curly red hair and hole-y jeans sporting a ukulele simply delightful (he says it must be easier than a guitar because it has less strings and is shorter), but the concept of bartering is back!

My friend Jenn recently made a beautiful quilt for a friend in exchange for a painting. I know people with kids often switch baby-sitting for each other. I love the idea that we all have abilities--quite different from other people around us. And we all have needs, also quite different from people around us. I believe that in the perfect world, our various needs and abilities should match up--and not only can we take care of each other, but we find ourselves very well taken-care of in the process.

So you go, Tad, with your cool ukulele website. Maybe you can play your ukulele for me and I can make you some cookies or something...

The National Cathedral... an experience of civic religion

Most of you know about my interest in material culture--how people create objects to illustrate their values and beliefs. I loved touring the Washington National Cathedral on Sunday with Kendall and Krista. The building itself is a testament of culture and national identity. Construction began in 1907 and followed the pattern of European Gothic cathedrals--sort of an example of American refinement. The typical cathedral pieces are all there--but done in a new, American way.
The rose window in most European cathedrals demonstrates judgment and hell. In this cathedral, the colors and light symbolize life and hope. The tour guide said that the color changes depending on the direction of the sun.

The stained glass windows illustrate both biblical stories and American stories. Three windows show the three branches of government--with the Supreme Court, the White House, and the Capital at the top, and biblical stories underneath (how appropriate that King Solomon and his wisdom goes with the judicial branch). There is a whole window dedicated to American agriculture, with one lancet including a John Deere tractor. One pane depicts the creation of the moon and the earth and contains an actual moon stone from the first American mission to the moon (the astronaut who stayed in the shuttle while the others walked on the moon attended St. Alban's school, right next to the National Cathedral).

Traditionally a screen separates the nave from the altar. In the National Cathedral, in the spirit of democracy, the screen is open so all can see and participate.
We went up to the tower and walked around, admiring the view. It was a cloudy day, but we could see the monuments and the Capitol on the National Mall, as well as the temple and Bethesda and Silver Spring. The tour guide told us about one "Americanized" gargoyle in the shape of Darth Vader. We couldn't find it, but this picture tells it all.

While we proudly proclaim a firm separation of church and state, I love that we can use both to illustrate beliefs and values. We can talk about our country at church and we can use churches to demonstrate our national identity. I suppose we should also have a National Synagogue and a National Mosque, too.

Enough Said.

I'm going to bed tonight with a big old smile on my face!

Potomac Primary

There's something about voting that makes me feel democratic and patriotic. And there's also a sense of responsibility--I really had to weigh out my thoughts for this primary. I loved that I wanted to think strategically--not only about what I believe and want for the government and the future of the country, but about what my vote will mean in the competition of the election. I love being a thinker...

And I love the process of showing my identity, tapping the screen (or the good old days in Utah of punching a card, or in New York of pulling that huge old lever--how did those votes really count?), and getting a sticker. I think my favorite was being able to actually put my ballot in a box. There's something mysterious about the ether world of the Virginia computer or the old-school New York voting machine--where do my votes go? I can't see them. I guess I just trust the process.

My friend A. Todd Jones emailed me yesterday. I love that every time we talk he tells me that he votes for me. There's nothing like a vote of confidence--even if it is from a man who considers himself the president of himself. He even has that printed on his checks. I love the fact, though, that we can express our hope and confidence in principles, in a democratic system, in people, and in relationships. I vote for trust and loyalty and love and hope and the future.

Whether the Weather be Good...

When I was a kid, our family went camping once at Mesa Verde. We attended the ranger campfire program and learned this little campfire song which my mom still sings to this day:

Whether the weather be good,
Whether the weather be not,
Whether the weather be cold,
Whether the weather be hot,
Whatever the weather, we'll weather the weather
Whether we like it or not.

Do not ask me why I remember that song. It's random. Very random.

The other night, though, I was so grateful for a little weather tender mercy. Kendall and I planned to go on a walk on the National Mall one evening. He had worked late and I had been reading all day with a lengthy, boring research methods class where the professor simply went around the room to each of the seven students and hashed out their dissertation topics (except when he got to me he announced he was sick and closed the class). At any rate, we both needed a walk. The weather called for torrential downpours and thunderstorms, 100% chance, right at the time we planned on going. While there's something fun sometimes about being caught in a rainstorm, it's not necessarily true when you're tired and just need some fresh air.

Well, as luck or tender mercy would have it, the rain didn't come until much later. It was a great night--warm (like 63 degrees in February!), clean pre-rain air, and of course beautifully lit with the monuments. Nice. It was just the little break I needed, in a lot of different ways. And for the record, I CAN weather the weather. I think it takes rain to really appreciate dry.

Shout Out to JBrink

Happy, happy birthday, Jennifer dear,
Happy days will come to you all year!
If I had one wish, then it would be,
A happy, happy birthday to you from me!

Today is the birthday of a dear, dear friend: Jennifer Brinkerhoff. She has been an incredible tender mercy in my life, and I am so very glad that she was born! We were roommates for two years in Tempe, Arizona. I can't tell you all the crazy things we did together, nor can I number the times she asked me, "What are you going to tell your kids about me, your crazy roommate?" I don't think I've laughed or cried as much as I have with her. I've attached a few pictures here to illustrate the beauty and wonder that is JBrink. (Please know that most of these pics were taken over 8 years ago... but boy, did we have fun!)
I still remember how excited I was to go camping with our ward. I had only been in the deserts of Arizona for a short time and I couldn't wait to get back into the mountains! We arrived after dark and opted to sleep out under the stars. When I woke up in the morning, I saw that we were still in the desert, and if it hadn't been for JB, I would have cried. She made my desert experience bloom as a rose.
We were so not excited about our new University ward after the boundaries were reconfigured. I think we were the oldest in the ward. We decided to get all decked out for the ward Christmas party--black velvet, hot rollers in our hair, and the best part: our black joker glasses. We acted as if it were completely normal. We had a great time--but we did refuse to sit on Santa (the bishop)'s lap.
One summer a group of us hiked down to Havasupi falls. It was an incredible experience--between the beautiful water falls and playing in the water, to great company (remember singing Primary songs with Greg & Hopie, and how Greg insisted he had been in Honors Primary because he didn't know the songs we sang?), to pretending the bats in the horrible outhouse were butterflies. Ah, those were the days.When Jen came to visit me in Utah, I met her at the airport in disguise. She did not even recognize me. We loved dressing up. Too bad I don't have pictures of us doing yard work in our floppy hats, or laughing so hard at the thrift store when buying clothes for our 80s party, or dressing up as the four seaons one year for Halloween.Ah, the Nutcracker 5K. We had to run in tutus. What fun!

Happy Birthday, my dear friend! Here's to a great year of peace, joy, and delight!

We ever pray for thee, our prophet dear

What a great man... Gordon B. Hinckley. I love his optimism, his hope, his candor, and his deep devotion and commitment to the cause. Particularly right now in my life, I love what he has to say about furthering education to build the kingdom. Here is a sweet slideshow depicting our dear prophet, whom I love. I will miss him, but I will try to emulate his teachings.

Mixed Metaphors: Lost and Found Pearls of Great Price

The other night I wore a pair of simple pearl earrings. I haven't worn them in years, but there's just something about pearls that I find soothing. I love their creation--the idea of sand and distress and conflict producing something so clear and precious and smooth and valuable. I love their simplicity and their enduring classiness.

When I went to bed that night, I discovered that one of my earrings had fallen out. I thought I heard it fall on my oatmeal Berber carpet, but I couldn't find it anywhere. We all know that one earring is no good without its match, and I was a bit disgruntled... but what to do?

This morning as I rushed off to yoga, my eye caught a glimpse of my lost pearl earring under the corner of my bed. Suddenly I was reminded of a random but significant tender mercy:

As our dear Emmeline Wells says: "Nothing is irretrievably lost." I sometimes doubt that statement--I have several missing socks to prove my point. But some things are important and others aren't. I know I could easily replace my pearl earring with another pair that probably looks exactly the same, but there is just something about finding my lost pearl. I really believe and hope that in the grand scheme of things, that which is lost and of value can and will be found. It is known--its location, its worth, and its rescue. I believe.

Read Your Eyes Out, or, Tender Mercies in School

It's going to be a crazy semester. I have to write a chapter of my dissertation (which means I need to magically know what my dissertation will be!), and I have to read a book a week for my American women's religious history readings. My 2oth-cen. readings class has 2 other MA students and we'll only meet once every two weeks. We all have to read two books for each meeting, but then I get to read two extra books because I'm a Ph.D. student. That means on those weeks, I'll have to read four books and then another book for my other class due the next day, not to mention the periodical writing assignments for my dissertation. Yikes.

I've already acknowledged that I won't be able to read everything. I'm all about being honest. I can't physically do it all. I've tried to work out a system where I read the first and last chapters, then the first and last paragraphs in the other chapters, then I read a couple of reviews on the books. That way I can generally get the main idea and methodology and critiques. It sounds like a good plan, right?!?

Unfortunately, one of the books for next week is a collection of essays by different people--not something you can just skim through for the main idea. However--and here is where the tender mercy comes in--the introduction is very thorough--covering the essential theme of the book and a very good summary of each essay and how they run together. Done and done. I'll take every one of these quick readings I can get.

Snow Plows at the Ready

This morning as I drove from the temple to school, there was a hint of rain in the air. Just a hint. The forecast called for a bit of slushy precipitation with snow further to the west and north. And sure enough, there were six or seven snow plows on the shoulder of the beltway, engines running, ready to meet the storm.

My first reaction was to laugh. I often mock the fright and fear of snow in the DC area. The threat can pull anything to a screeching halt, which can be somewhat disruptive.

But the more I thought about it, the more I loved those crazy snow plows. I loved that they were at the ready--anything to alleviate the headache of traffic on the beltway, even at 12:30 pm.

I believe in snow plows at the ready. I also believe in ministering angels, in dear friends, in kind words, in tender mercies. I believe that our paths are guided and that promises can be verified in every particular. I believe that our hearts are softened and that perspectives change and that love heals.

My Inner Tree-Hugger

It started yesterday. Actually, it started last week when the signs were posted along the street, warning of no parking over the next few days. Then the big white Xs appeared on the trunk of an old tree on the corner. The end was imminent. Yesterday they chopped off the big limbs off the top, and this morning when I came home from the gym, the trunk was almost level with the ground.

I feel like I'm losing an old friend. Not that I've known this tree for very long--but it was very old (maybe it saw George Washington march through to Mt. Vernon?), and it was quite friendly. I love the way these old trees cover the streets of my neighborhood. Their leaves shade from the summer sun, produce brilliant color in the fall, and hold white slivers of snow in the winter.

A couple of months ago during a freak windstorm in the middle of the night, a very large branch broke off a tree directly across from our house, landing just in between two cars and causing a huge ruckus. The sound of the cops pounding on our neighbor's door, trying to arouse her from her sleep to tell her that her car had been hit, woke us up. The limb took up the whole width of the street; someone said it had been rotting for quite a while but the city wouldn't cut it down. I know, I know, these kinds of imminent dangers require careful preventative planning, but to cut down the whole tree? The corner feels so naked and bare now.

But I guess the whole idea of pruning is painful but true. Kendall reminded me of Hugh B. Brown's story, The Gardener and the Currant Bush:

In the early dawn, a young gardener was pruning his trees and shrubs. He had one choice currant bush which had gone too much to wood. He feared therefore that it would produce little, if any, fruit.

Accordingly, he trimmed and pruned the bush and cut it back. In fact, when he had finished, there was little left but stumps and roots.

Tenderly he considered what was left. It looked so sad and deeply hurt. On every stump there seemed to be a tear where the pruning knife had cut away the growth of early spring. The poor bush seemed to speak to him, and he thought he heard it say:

"Oh, how could you be so cruel to me; you who claim to be my friend, who planted me and cared for me when I was young, and nurtured and encouraged me to grow? Could you not see that I was rapidly responding to your care? I was nearly half as large as the trees across the fence, and might soon have become like one of them. But now you've cut my branches back; the green, attractive leaves are gone, and I am in disgrace among my fellows."

The young gardener looked at the weeping bush and heard its plea with sympathetic understanding. His voice was full of kindness as he said, "Do not cry; what I have done to you was necessary that you might be a prize currant bush in my garden. You were not intended to give shade or shelter by your branches. My purpose when I planted you was that you should bear fruit. When I want currants, a tree, regardless of its size, cannot supply the need.

"No, my little currant bush, if I had allowed you to continue to grow as you had started, all your strength would have gone to wood; your roots would not have gained a firm hold, and the purpose for which I brought you into my garden would have been defeated. Your place would have been taken by another, for you would have been barren. You must not weep; all this will be for your good; and some day, when you see more clearly, when you are richly laden with luscious fruit, you will thank me and say, `Surely, he was a wise and loving gardener. He knew the purpose of my being, and I thank him now for what I then thought was cruelty.'"

Some years later, this young gardener was in a foreign land, and he himself was growing. He was proud of his position and ambitious for the future.

One day an unexpected vacancy entitled him to promotion. The goal to which he had aspired was now almost within his grasp, and he was proud of the rapid growth which he was making.

But for some reason unknown to him, another was appointed in his stead, and he was asked to take another post relatively unimportant and which, under the circumstances, caused his friends to feel that he had failed.

The young man staggered to his tent and knelt beside his cot and wept. He knew now that he could never hope to have what he had thought so desirable. He cried to God and said, "Oh, how could you be so cruel to me? You who claim to be my friend—you who brought me here and nurtured and encouraged me to grow. Could you not see that I was almost equal to the other men whom I have so long admired? But now I have been cut down. I am in disgrace among my fellows. Oh, how could you do this to me?"

He was humiliated and chagrined and a drop of bitterness was in his heart, when he seemed to hear an echo from the past. Where had he heard those words before? They seemed familiar. Memory whispered:

"I'm the gardener here."

He caught his breath. Ah, that was it—the currant bush! But why should that long-forgotten incident come to him in the midst of his hour of tragedy? And memory answered with words which he himself had spoken:

"Do not cry. . .what I have done to you was necessary. . .you were not intended for what you sought to be,. . .if I had allowed you to continue. . .you would have failed in the purpose for which I planted you and my plans for you would have been defeated. You must not weep; some day when you are richly laden with experience you will say, `He was a wise gardener. He knew the purpose of my earth life. . . . I thank him now for what I thought was cruel.'"

His own words were the medium by which his prayer was answered. There was no bitterness in his heart as he humbly spoke again to God and said, "I know you now. You are the gardener, and I the currant bush. Help me, dear God, to endure the pruning, and to grow as you would have me grow; to take my allotted place in life and ever more to say, `Thy will not mine be done.'

January Thaw

That's right, friends, we are now experiencing the January Thaw. This morning Jessica and I ran outside in shorts and t-shirts. I sat outside on the back patio working this afternoon, soaking in the 70-degree sun. It's that moment after the holidays and before the months of frozen bitterness ahead that makes me really grateful for the present. My crocuses are poking their stems up through the ground and I'm already planning for pool time. I know, I know--I have ample opportunity to wear sweaters and coats and boots and scarves, to suck the cold air into my lungs and allow it to invigorate my bloodstream, to peep through the frost on my windshield while I wait for my defrost to kick in, to cuddle under blankets, to inhale hot chocolate, to proudly defend myself against the cold, all of which I can do and of which I have lots of experience. It's just nice, now, to curl up for a brief moment in the sun and save up.

Light and Life to All He Brings

I love this nativity clip (click on photo above). I love the tender music--you can feel the sweet spirit and the powerful reverence for the birth of the Savior. I love the diversity of the nativity scenes--the multiple cultures and media through which to adore the Christ child--the wood, the beads, the stone. I love the expressions of love and peace and hope. I love the different camera angles revealing the different personalities, emotions, and deep worship. I love the connection, the draw to baby Jesus. I feel like I can be there with the shepherds and Mary and Joseph. I love the line, "and fit us for heaven," because this, too, is my deep hope.

NBA and quilts

What do the NBA and quilts have in common, you might ask? Well not a lot. I just turned in my last paper of the semester yesterday, and it happened to be on quilts commemorating war. I can tell you a whole bunch of great stories about quilts and the Civil War--like the one about the family who loaned some quilts to Confederate soldiers in their town. The soldiers returned the quilts but one was loaded with typhus germs, and the parents of the family died within four days. But they kept the quilt to tell the story. Go figure.

Jessica swung us some tickets to the Wizards v. Timberwolves game last night at the Verizon Center, and then Stacie got us visitor passes to see their friend Mark Madsen who plays for Minnesota. So what kind of conversation do I have for an NBA player? All about quilts. Nice. Jess had told him about many of my quilt stories because that's all I've been talking about lately. It was a fun night, even though I felt like a groupie watching the team come out. I loved how Mark introduced all of his teammates with some unique fact about each one. He's all about the team.

Christmas Harmony

I love Christmas in Washington, D.C. My roommates and I waited in line at the Kennedy Center in the wee hours of the morning on Saturday for tickets to the traditional Messiah Sing-along on Sunday. It was an incredible event. I have always loved performances of the Messiah--I've seen it performed with a boys' choir at St. Paul's and another performance at the Barbican in London. One old roommate even loaned me a cd of Harlem choirs rocking out to Handel. But there is nothing like participating in the event, surrounded by music instead of music just coming out at you. I had a strong bass on one side and an enterprising soprano on the other. The conductor was delightful; the soloists were wonderful (I loved how the contralto really rejoiced as she sang); and the trumpets certainly sounded. The concert hall was alive that afternoon. As for me, I stumbled around my notes, but when I hit right on, I could feel the reverberations run through my soul. I thought of Grandad singing the Hallelujah chorus along with us and I sang with all my might.

On Friday night, Kendall took me on a Christmas tour. We saw the trees at the Four Seasons Hotel--decorated by big interior designers to be sold for thousands of dollars at an auction for charity. Some of them were a little over the top--a decoupage of flora and fauna, or crowded with peacocks, or wrapped with an electric train all the way up the tree. Our favorite had glass bubbles. Then we stopped at the Elliptical to see the National Christmas Tree and the Pageant of Peace. Deeee-lightful!

Oh, the Joys of Eating Spaghetti with a Spoon

I am my mother's child. She has always taught me to make do with what I have--and to have a fun time doing it. Last night I had dinner in between work and class. For the past week or two, we've been out of plastic forks, so I've made do with a spoon and a knife. Generally I eat a sandwich or a yogurt or something like that, so I'm fine. Well last night I brought sesame chicken and noodles. Have you ever eaten spaghetti with a spoon? I mean, I did eat linguine with pesto on Saturday night and I admit, I used a spoon to scoop the pasta into my fork, as I always did in Italy. It was delicious. But it's much different when you don't even have a fork. It slides right off and spills all over everywhere. I made it work last night, but I also laughed my head off and thought of my mom. She would have LOVED it.

Lights at Antietam

Last night Kendall and I drove up to Sharpsbursg, Maryland, for the annual Memorial Illumination. The battle of Antietam on 17 September 1863 was the bloodiest day in American history--over 23,100 men were killed on one day. There was one candle for every soldier, spread out over the acres of farms and fields. It was quite the sight--the vast scale of the event. I can only imagine.While it was a long drive (an hour and a half) and an even longer wait along the road outside the park, the lights were beautiful. And Kendall even got out of his car to check to see if they were real candles--they were. We saw a couple of groups of reenactors dressed in their Civil War uniforms, gathered around fires. It started to rain as we drove away, and I wondered how that would affect the candles. But I guess that's part of the reality of the actual day.

Let There Be Light!

There is something magical about those four words... not only In the Beginning, but In the Interim. I think light is a tender mercy on several different levels. Tonight Kendall and I went to the temple lighting ceremony at the Washington, DC temple, an event for dignitaries from around the world. Of course the count-down to hitting the switch and the different colored lights suddenly illuminating the dark night was breathtaking in and of itself. I love the colors and patterns and deep relief they provide. And of course I love the deep, pure white of the temple. There is something about light in the darkness that is so comforting and peaceful.

And I love the light in people. I loved greeting people from all over--the Ukraine, Barbados, Germany, and, particularly my new friends from Argentina and Uruguay. I loved the light in their eyes when we recognized each other in a huge room of random people, and the way we kissed on the cheek. I loved the way their children ran down to sing with all the other children and the delight these kids from everywhere found in singing "Jingle Bells" and "Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer." I loved the Mormon Choir of DC and the light their music brought into that theater, and of course the light of the Apostles who were there with that mission.

But I think in particular tonight I am grateful for the light of understanding, of coming to a shared belief--of seeing in the same light. I love the phrase that when you learn something new, a lightbulb comes on. It's a wonderful event, especially to recognize that the light comes from outside of you. It is a blessed tender mercy to come to this light.

Thanksgiving the Second: A Report

Thanksgiving adventures delivered as promised. The day opened with a brisk Turkey Trot. Janae led the pack and Jessica and I held our pace at 27:45 along the Potomac River. It was the perfect running day: in the 60s with a slight breeze. Who ever thought I would run on Thanksgiving day in shorts and a tanktop? We loved watching the people dressed in pilgrim hats.On to the feast. The food was divine--the most moist turkey I've ever had, the smoothest mashed potatoes (served in two scoops: one for gravy and one for noodles, which were surprisingly good! Who knew?!?), cornbread stuffing (thanks, GranNomi!), Dubatei's rolls (yes--we had to run to the store for yeast at the last minute. How does that work, you might ask? And how does one turn the Jesse Smith Relief Society bread recipe into rolls? It's all magic--African magic), delightfully tangy cranberry salad, green bean casserole (no, I didn't try it--I'm still anti-bean), and of course pumpkin and pecan pie (the crust was Aunt Nita's recipe, made by Gayla, and the filling was the Moss family recipe, made by me--a good combination). Mouthwatering goodness. In the photo: Carmen (Chilean), Dubate (African), Javiera and Paula (Chilean), Kendall, Jeff (Ferril's son), Pablo (Chilean), Gayla (Kendall's sister), Ferril (Gayla's husband), and Lori (Ferril's daughter). We had Jessica's beautiful cornucopia and Kendall's colorful African tablecloths and napkins, with Gayla's Currier & Ives dishes and her great grandmother's turkey platter--which turned out to be the same dish as my grandmother always used!

The Spoons game did not disappoint. The Chileans and the African loved it--although it was very hard to explain to Dubate that he only needed four cards in his hand at a time and that he did not need to match the design. Unfortunately he got the Donkey. Poor guy. We learned a Chilean card game suspiciously similar to Phase 10 (I lost big time), and then we rounded it all off with a rousing game of B.S. (or Liar, or Dubbio as they say in Spanish or French but all I know is Italian).

After the Chileans left we watched a low-budget documentary film, Hands on a Hardbody, all about some crazy people in a very small Texas town involved in a contest at a car dealership. Everyone had to keep a hand on the prize truck for as long as they could--whoever held out the longest won the truck. We were all rooting for the lady without teeth, then the man afraid of rain, then Benny, who had won a two years previously, then the evangelical lady who accidentally took her hands off to praise the Lord and clap her hands with joy. All in all, it was a delightful day... so much to be thankful for: good food, great friends, and big laughs.

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving is probably my family's biggest holiday. We usually gather from all around-- Hawaii, California, Missouri, Colorado--usually to a cabin in the Utah mountains, where we eat, play Spoons, watch football, talk, laugh, and enjoy each other immensely. I love just being together and enjoying each other. I love hearing stories and laughing so hard we cry and getting into intense Spoons battles. And the food--there's always GranNomi's stuffing and Mom's homemade rolls, not to mention the turkey and everything else.

I can only count three years in my long life when I've not been with my family for Thanksgiving: one when I was on study abroad in London, one on my mission (the second Thanksgiving Mom met me in Italy and we celebrated together in Florence with a roasted chicken!), and one when I lived in New York and couldn't afford to fly home. Well this year will be my fourth Thanksgiving away from the family. They're all in California this year at a beach house. My sister even called me yesterday and said, "Don't feel bad or anything, but we're all at the beach and it's incredible and we wish you were here." How do you think I felt?Well today was one of those incredible fall days, where all day long people say, "can you believe this day?" It was 70 degrees with a glorious sun and beautiful leaves and I was outside almost all day with Kendall's family, touring the monuments. Not quite the beach, but basking in the sun at the World War II memorial was invigorating in a different way.
So this year I'm thankful for new Thanksgiving adventures. Tomorrow we've invited people from the Chilean embassy over for their first American Thanksgiving. Apparently the Texas tradition is to have noodles with your mashed potatoes. I'm making GranNomi's cornbread stuffing. Gayla, Kendall's sister, brought her Currier & Ives dishes and her great grandmother's platter. I'll teach everyone how to play Spoons the Foster family way. And Saturday we'll all be at my house to watch the BYU-Utah football game.

Here's to Thanksigiving Washington D.C./Texas/Chilean/Utah/California style...

Falling for Fall

I think one of the greatest things about living along the Mid-Atlantic Eastern Seaboard is long seasons. Day after day after day I drive to school or through my neighborhood and I see a new tree in full color and I must say that Fall is a tender mercy. I love how the trees change at different speeds on their own time. I love the vibrant color and how it burns and then fades away. I love how the different shades blend together--from the green to the new colors to the vibrant burning to the fade-outs to the trees with bare limbs.

On Saturday I went to Eastern Market in the District to buy a birthday present for dear Stace. It was one of those quintessential fall days--the air was crisp and clean. I wore my scarf and my red jacket, and I scuffled through the leaves on the streets. I love that neighborhood--the row houses, the tree-lined streets just east of the Capitol, the distinct architecture. Families were out with their kids, and I saw an older woman who had just purchased her fruits and vegetables from the farm stands there, sitting down to rest on a bench before she continued on her way home. She had the biggest grin on her face--I know it was because it was such a beautiful day and she was just so happy to be alive--just like I was.

So I came home yesterday and did some fall housecleaning. I put my winter quilt on my bed, aired out my down comforter and fluffed it up, changed my sheets, and vacuumed and dusted. And I'll tell you what--my sleep last night was delicious. I've fallen for fall (it doesn't hurt that there's a great man around, too!).

A little bit of ice cream goes a long way

There is something magical about ice cream. As cold as it is, it sometimes warms you up like nothing else. Sometimes, even when it's freezing cold (ok, so it's not freezing cold outside today, but I think I was freezing inside), you should just have ice cream. I remember fondly living in Italy and really needing ice cream. Almost every day. It was perfect for when we'd spent the day with doors slammed in our faces, being spit on, or rocks thrown at us. That little bit of frozen bliss--whether it was fragola or frutti di bosco or nocciola or (!) nutella--just sort of spread through my blood stream and enlivened me.

One time I had one of those yucky doctor's appointments. One that you do not look forward to and one that you never want to repeat. Needless to say, I felt raw and slightly violated. I went back to work and asked my boss if she would go get some ice cream with me. It was the perfect answer--a little splurge of toffee crunch softened everything. My friend Maureen had the same experience last week, and I marched her right up to the Johnson Center for some ice cream. She (and I!) felt much better.

I've had great moments of frustration today at work. My one respite: ice cream. I ran up to the Johnson Center for a cup of my favorite chocolate vanilla twist. And I tell you what: that same frozen bliss spread through me and calmed me down. It's going to be ok. A little bit of ice cream goes a long way. Thank goodness!

American Anthem

I've sort of been obsessed lately with the new Ken Burns documentary, The War. Part of my interest stems from my fear of my oral exams covering all of American history and a serious need to utilize even my non-reading time to inhale all the history I don't know. So watching documentaries has suddenly become a part of my personal entertainment and date nights.

Last week I went to a lecture at the State Department with Ken Burns and Lynn Novick, producers of The War. They talked a bit about making the film, then they showed a couple of montages about Iwo Jima, the Battle of the Bulge, opening several concentration camps, etc. The most touching, though, was the piece with Norah Jones singing "American Anthem" set to photos and live film.



The words keep running through my head... "Let them say of me, I was one who believed." I loved listening to people comment about the personal connections they felt to the War--their fathers and uncles had served, and they gained a new understanding not only of their own family, but of their country and their civic responsibility and patriotism. I loved being in that auditorium with those people who have dedicated their lives to the diplomatic mission of the United States. Amazing people doing amazing things.

And in the spirit of Jennifer Brinkerhoff, Happy Veteran's Day.

Joshie & Jill, or, When Little Brother Grows Up

When Joshie's hair first started really growing, he had these amazing luxurious golden curls. We were enamored with them--my two sisters and I had long brown hair that our mom wrapped in pink sponge curlers every Saturday night to get that kind of boing. And then little Ben had scraggly brownish-blond hair. Joshie was a novelty.

And then Josh grew up. He seemed to have a fascination with his hair. He caused extreme panic in my mother's heart when he decided to bleach his hair platinum the night before Lisa's wedding. Mom marched him down to Kelli's Kuttin' Korner and pled with Kelli to work hair magic. The wedding pictures show him with this odd reddish-brown cut.

There were a few other experiments with color and skater afros as Joshie skied and skated through the adventures of his life. Then there was the bungie-cord accident that nearly blinded him at age 16. Mom is convinced that that's when his hair started turning gray. I think Josh has had a lot of those kinds of experiences--for a while there it seemed like he was always in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong friends.Then something happened: Josh met Jill at physical therapy, back in April. There was something about her in her quiet, unassuming yet confident way. Josh really wanted to date her, but she insisted that she would only date a clean, honest, active Mormon boy. That's when Josh began to clean up his life and turn things around. One thing led to another and next thing you know, Josh and Jill are officially engaged. They're getting married in May in Montana.
I'm delighted. I have been amazed at the person Josh has become. I loved watching him take Jill to meet Grandad before he died, and ended up staying for a week to help out (and that Jill went along with it so cheerfully!). I love that Josh is taking into account the responsibilities of life--that he is anxiously trying to clean up and grow up. I love having conversations with him on the phone and feeling his concern and love for me and for our brother and sisters. I love his jokes and his passion for climbing and river running and now for church. I love Jill for her patience and ability to see Josh's potential. I'm delighted that she will be a part of our family. She is an angel.Josh's hair is still a little wild--that's how I know it's really Joshie in this adult body. I love growing up.

Country Dancing in Sweet Home Alexandria

That's right, friends. Those of you who know me may know that I'm not a huge country music fan. Well, not really at all. But in preparation for an event with people from the Chilean embassy at Nick's, the local country dancing establishment here in Alexandria, Kendall and I went for a practice run last night. And I have to admit: it was GREAT. I loved the live band--Taylor Made from West Virginia--who sang songs of their own creation, like "Sweet Home Alexandria." I loved watching the most random couples in their cowboy get-up--one woman was outfitted in a crazy red dress like a bar lady. It was great. I loved the women in their cowboy boots and spurs, jangling on the floor, and the men with their western shirts. And I loved swinging around the floor in the two-step. I'd love to learn the West Coast Swing--that looks like a lot of fun times. But only if your partner knows what he's doing and he doesn't swing you off into the middle of the room. Not that that happened, but it's just a bad idea.

Roy Rosenzweig, 1950-2007

My professor and the Director of the Center for History and New Media where I have a fellowship, Roy Rosenzweig, passed away yesterday due to lung cancer. He was a wonderful man--brilliant at his specialty. He led the vanguard of digital history and opened to the world countless possibilities for public history in accessing the masses. His scholarship was sound and his efforts were astounding. He has probably impacted the way every historian has become involved with the Internet.

And he was also kind-hearted. He was a quiet man but he smiled often and his eyes twinkled. He made such conscientious decisions in our assignments at the Center, and he was supportive of our ideas and our efforts. He was eager to hear our opinions and to use our talents. I loved that in his effort to teach our PhD colloquium this semester, he wanted to know what we as students wanted to learn. His sincere desire was to help us. I remember walking with him from the last class he attended back to the Center. His steps were slow and his breath was labored. And yet he wanted to know how my semester was going and where my research was taking me. I'll never forget the last concern that he had with my life: that I not take a job that would improve my financial situation because it would hamper my studies and my scholarship. He believed in me and for that I honor him.

The Beauty of Eating

I was just scolded kindly by my Russian friend Nastya for eating a sandwich while we walked to the library. I explained that I don't seem to have time to sit down and just EAT, and she told me that it was bad for my stomach. It reminded me of living in Italy, where people constantly chided us for eating on the run, whether it was a slice of piping hot pizza or a fresh calzone or an impromptu sandwich of prosciutto and formaggio on a bun from the market. Italians couldn't understand our rush to get to appointments.

I do miss the eating culture of Italy. I love that offices and schools and stores close for two hours during pranzo, and that this becomes a sort of sacred time for family and friends to gather and eat. It's not just eating really great food, though. It's partaking of each other's company and time--of being together. It's sitting through several courses and talking and laughing and singing together.

I have so many memories--drunk Italians singing "So This is Christmas," the only English song they knew to sing to two young Americans in Sicily on Christmas day. Or the time we peeked into the kitchen before dinner and saw a live octopus in a tub of water, caught just an hour before. I think we escaped before being tortured. Or the evening with Mario's family--this huge family living out in the country, with all kinds of food and my first try of calamari and laughing and people. Or what about the Gerentano family and the basketball size bowl of spaghetti that made me cry when we left--although hearing their 2-year-old sing along to Pavaroti on TV to perfect pitch certainly made me laugh. Or eating pears and cheese after Sunday dinner on the patio overlooking the mountains of Cosenza. So many great memories...

On Sunday we had a lovely evening. We grilled shishkebabs and ate out on the patio--coconut rice, homemade bread, and salad with gorgonzola cheese, pears, and craisins. We sat out there with the citronella candle burning and talked and laughed for quite a while. I loved being with my friends--enjoying their company, listening to their perspectives, and feeling a part of something. It was a beautiful tender mercy.

You just never know what you're going to find when you walk around the corner...

So I've felt just a tad bit anxious as of late... part of it has to do with papers due, an unexpected job opportunity that just might change my entire career trajectory, recent undertakings of an old colleague, blooming social opportunities, and the cusp of a changing season.

That said, I loved coming in to work and school just now. I usually circle around trying to find a spot in the parking lot closest to my class that gets out at 10:00 pm, and I usually end up driving all the way around campus. Well today I stumbled upon someone leaving right away, so I got a very close spot. There's nothing like good parma (ME-ese for parking karma).

Then walking onto campus, I saw the funniest thing: a very sharply-dressed guy was wearing a nice navy blue double-breasted blazer with gold buttons. He carried a leather briefcase and was holding hands with a beautiful woman. Here's the kicker: he was wearing salmon pink pants that were an inch too short. It was great. Classic. I thought I was back in Italy. I loved it. It made me smile.

Then as I rounded the corner past the library, I heard some suspicious shouts and found a crowd of onlookers gathered around Fenwick. There were 3 army guys repelling off the building. It was great. It looked like fun until the one on the ropes lost his balance and bounced into the wall back first. He did make it down safely.

Who knows what will be around my next corner?

Shoot the Moon

It's been a full moon lately, and I have LOVED watching it move across the sky and change light and color. There's something about the moon... I think its cool and sometimes uneven surface is comforting in a strange sort of way. I love how the clouds can cast both an ominous and a warm shadow over the moon. Sometimes the moon looks angry--it casts an orange color. Sometimes it looks cold and slightly sad. And sometimes it's warm and inviting--like you want to do something crazy in the light of the moon.

I remember living in Arizona, where the moon can loom so much larger over the horizon than it does in other places. I would want to follow the moon out into the desert where it looked like I could drive right up to it.

My grandmother told me the other night that when she was young, when it was a full moon, they used to climb to the top of the haystacks on the farm and sing to their hearts' content. I can just picture it. I love that. I want to find a haystack in Virginia and sing to my heart's content.

Baby steps... making bread and entertaining dignitaries

So I've always joked that the reason why I'm not married is because I can't bake bread. Ask any of my former roommates. I have tried and tried. I have ruined Rhodes Frozen Rolls and I've messed up bread maker bread. I have even had problems with those stupid Pillsbury biscuits in a can in the refrigerated section. I do not know what is wrong with me. I am a strict follower of instructions. I go by the rules precisely. And yet nothing seems to work out. I can bake cookies and desserts and I can grill. I can crock pot and I can make ice cream. I can also quilt and clean. So I've decided that I'm not married because I can't bake bread. And that may or may not be a problem with my secret desire to entertain dignitaries (but that's an entirely different story...) There's always a reason, right?!?

On Friday my dear roommate Jessica walked me through making some crescent rolls for our book group. She literally watched me do everything from the yeast to the rolling to the baking. And, friends, I have some wonderful news: the rolls turned out incredibly! They were flaky and melted in my mouth. They were even good two days later!

So last night I felt a little more confident when my roommate Janae planned a big pizza dinner. She had invited 14 people and made plans for all these gourmet pizzas--goat cheese and spinach, BBQ chicken, mozzarella/tomato/basil, and pepperoni. But then something came up and she didn't make it home to prepare. I gathered all the courage I have and rolled out the dough as people started arriving. I assigned one person to be my souez chef and another person to be my facilities manager. Someone else was the table arranger and someone else became the head pizza chef. Another person started the ice cream maker. Despite problems of pizzas cooking slightly unevenly, we had success.

So bring it on, baby. I need MUCH more practice when it comes to really entertaining dignitaries, and while I did make some good crescent rolls, I still need to perfect the actual bread experience. But baby steps... baby steps...

"I'm doing exactly what I want to be doing"

I love that sense of confirmation. Yesterday on my way to class I ran into my friend Patrice who used to work at the Center for History and New Media with me. She got a job teaching second grade and is working on a master's degree. I haven't seen her since school started. She was absolutely glowing last night as she left campus. I asked her how things are going with her class and she beamed as she told me how she wakes up excited every day because she loves what she's doing. She even got her first love letter from a second grade boy yesterday:

"Mrs. Mortson, you're the best teacher ever!" with hearts all over. How great is that?!?

When I worked at BYU I had the same feeling. Most days I couldn't wait to get to work because I loved what I was doing. That excitement has worn off a little bit as I've marched through graduate school--the late nights and long readings sometimes take their toll. But the sense of confirmation--of being at the right place at the right time makes all the difference. I'm in the middle of the process right now, but I'm doing exactly what I want to be doing.

I love what Mother Theresa said once when she was asked if things were better in Calcutta as a result of her efforts: "It doesn't matter that we're successful as long as we're faithful." Therein lies the contentment.

These are a few of my favorite things...

I admit it. Yesterday I was feeling a little grouchy (yes... it happens... especially when I get pulled over because my windows are tinted too dark. What, you might ask? Yes, it's true. The cop even told me my car wasn't registered in my name, but then it turns out he punched in the wrong number. Hmmmmmm....). So on the way home from class last night I turned on my Sound of Music soundtrack and blasted "My Favorite Things" with my windows down and my sunroof open. Then I sang as loud as I dared. I decided I didn't care what other people thought of me.

It sort of reminded me of one of my favorite JB things--her depression sunglasses. She had this totally old school HUGE 1970s sunglasses that she kept in her car and when she was feeling a little depressed, she would whip out those babies and put them on, then smile and wave at all the folks. I love it. Wreckless abandon of fashion sense and what other people think, singing at the top of your lungs... these are a few of my favorite things...

What are YOURS?

OBX and the End of the Summer

I know, I know, it's been a little while since I've blogged, but since school started last week I've been reading like a wild banshee (I hope they read--they should). So how great was Labor Day weekend at the Outer Banks? It was my first experience at Duck Beach and it was almost magical. I loved it. LOVED it. And yes, I was a total nerd and toted a bag full of books to read on the beach.

If you've never been to the beach in North Carolina, I think you should make it a point in your lifetime to go. I've been often to the beach in California and even a couple of times in New York (I'm not sure Coney Island counts--but it's an experience all its own--and Fire Island was grand). But nothing compares to the Outer Banks, where the water is warm, the body surfing is exhilerating, the sun is pleasant and the sea breeze is invigorating. We experienced the beach at all its finest hours: early in the morning for a quick run, throughout the day, biking in the afternoon, in the evening at sunset, and at night scrambling from sand crabs and ocean foam. Oh--and the lighthouse!We rented a big beach house with about 20 people--complete with a pool and a hot tub, across the street from the beach. It was all about cards and food and BBQs and talking and lounging and ME dancing. It was the perfect end of the summer, and now it's time to really buckle down and hit the books.