Rain, rain, and more rain

How do I get myself into the most random, precarious situations? Last Friday I was at work and it started pouring rain. I laughed when my friend mentioned that she hates the rain and she wished it would stop soon. I told her that we really needed the water... grass is dying all over the place around here and they've declared a drought emergency in Maryland.

Those words came back to haunt me. I was supposed to meet my co-workers at Happy Hour at Artie's in Fairfax. They all left a little early, when the rain cleared up a bit, but I wanted to put in a full 8 hours of work. I thought if it was still raining I would grab the old CHNM extra umbrellas in the storage closet and be fine.

Unfortunately, we have a new admin who actually locks the storage closet. And it was raining hard--like crazy--small rivers forming everywhere. I had parked far far away in the student parking lot. And I was wearing a cute little summer skirt and white blouse. I sat in the lobby waiting for the rain to slow down, thinking I didn't really want to go to Happy Hour and pretend like I was having fun with a bunch of tech geeks who were drinking up a storm. Then I got into a conversation with a random lady, who offered me a ride to my car... and yes, friends, I accepted a ride with a stranger. Her name was Tippi, but her real name was Elthenia, because her mother loves names that start with E. She drove a minivan with a bunch of really great shoes sitting in the front seat. And just when I thought she was going to kidnap me and sell me to the gypsies, she actually drove me as close to my car as possible and I jumped out without getting too wet...

It's true... I'm official... I'm a Virginian

I did it... I got a Virginia driver's license and registered my car here. No more Utah Delicate Arch plates. I have to admit, I have mixed feelings about this. I embrace my East Coast identity, but I did like my Utah past. For those of you who ride in my car, you'll often hear me exclaim, "I'm from Utah!" when I am not entirely graceful in my driving or when I'm obviously lost. No more excuses now. I'm actually super excited. And the best part is that I thought I'd have to pay upwards near of a million dollars to register here in Arlington County, but I was pleasantly surprised. Virginia isn't so bad after all...

Art for Art's Sake

Sometimes I think we forget to take advantage of the things surrounding us. I am completely embarrassed to admit that in the 11 months that I have been here, the only Smithsonian museum I've visited is the National Portrait Gallery. Hello! For some reason the Potomac River has became an impassable barrier... at least for art. I go into the District all the time to meet friends for dinner, or for a movie, or to eat pizza behind the Lincoln Monument, or to go running along the tidal basin or the National Mall. But for some unexplainable reason I haven't embraced the Smithsonian.

Yesterday I met a friend in the District. We had hoped to see the exhibit at the Ripley Center on the French and Indian War, but alas, neither one of us had looked at the fine print (it closed 15 July). Instead we wandered through two museums that otherwise I probably would have never visited. First stop was the Freer Gallery--Asian Art. I loved the soothing calm of the Buddhas and the tranquil scenes on Japanese silk screens. And the James Whistler Peacock Room was incredibly rich and ornate.

Then we headed over to the Hirshorn Museum. Josh told me I'd probably hate it because it's contemporary art. Some of it, it's true, I didn't really understand. But there were some fascinating photographs and invigorating art--the kind that inspires conversation and questions and intrigue with color and texture. My favorite was this giant canvas of stripes--the colors were great and I loved the different shades and varying widths. There wasn't any more than that--but I was completely drawn in by the colors playing off of each other in very straight, linear ways.

So I really do need to take more advantage of everything around me...

Overdue Library Books and Tender Mercies

So this is a really great story... and somehow a really great tender mercy. Last semester I had a run-in with the Mason Library. I have come to depend greatly upon book-due notices in my email. At Mason, they hand you a slip of paper in the book with the due date, which I always either use as a bookmark or use as a bookmark in another book or just lose. Fall semester (and at every other program I've been in) they sent out overdue notices BEFORE the book was due. I always managed to stay on top of things. Last semester, though, there was a glitch in the computer and I had an overdue book. I tried to talk myself out of the exorbitant fine and was squashed in the face by a really mean (though young and male) librarian.

One of the great parts of the Mason Library system is that although they have a somewhat poor collection, they are part of the Washington Research Library Consortium and you can check out books from any university around, which they'll deliver to the Mason Library.

Well as you may know, it's been a crazy couple of months for me with the end of the semester and all the family stuff going on. Sunday night I was digging through a pile and found a WRLC library book due 13 June. Yikes! If you're overdue on WRLC books, they'll give you a fine and revoke your borrowing privileges, something not too appealing while I'm still in the beginning of my program.

And here's where the tender mercies come in. The power went out at work yesterday, so I took the opportunity to run over to the library. I saw Mean Librarian guy outside smoking, so I ran in like a flash to return the book before he unleashed his fury. I apologized from the bottom of my heart to the guy in there, who told me he was not the Spanish Inquisition, and then reminded me that it had been due 13 June. He checked the computer, and there was magically no fine! And no repercussions! I like to think of it as Grandad looking out for me since I was looking out for him...

I love Experts

So this may be a bit random, but I love friends who are experts. My grad school colleague Misha used to do lighting for community theater and college theater in Washington and northern California. On Wednesday she and I went to Wolf Trap to see Camelot, a delightful experience. Not only was it a beautiful summer evening (not hot or humid! and it's July! and it only rained for 10 minutes during the intermission!), and the music and plot were great (so sad! and yet so hopeful!). I loved hearing Misha explain all the lighting and sets and back stage activity. It was like my own private tour from my grass seat without even moving. I learned all about scrims and screens and heard all sorts of stories about some very creative ways she rigged together special effects. Very cool.

Yesterday, a whole bunch of us gathered at our friend Carrie's house. She has experienced some horrible grief over the past couple of weeks, and she's now at of town at a funeral. We cleaned and repaired and planted flowers. While I think Brad was the only real expert there (he actually knows how to fix anything--and I love that I can call him for the most random repair work), the rest of us were experts in doing whatever we could to express our love and concern for Carrie. It was incredible to watch--so many trips to Lowe's to buy Magic Erasers and flowers and mulch and weed killer--scrubbing walls and the fridge and every window around. People even went the extra mile and mowed the back lawn and trimmed the neighbors' edges. The place looked incredible.

I have a good friend who is an expert at computer security, and she is coming over sometime this week to help me configure my laptop. Another friend is an amazing scriptorian, and she always seems to have the perfect scripture for my Sunday School lesson. I also draw upon amazing cooks, people with impeccable fashion sense (i.e. flashy red shoes for my birthday), quilters, web developers, and historians. I LOVE watching people in their own element and drawing from their talents.

I'll be honest... I hate mice

I used to think that I am a very clean person. I also used to think that mice flourish in dirt and filth. I used to think a lot of things, including mice come into the house in the winter. Those presumptions are all fading away...

Last night a mouse ran boldly past me and my roommate from the living room, through the dining room, and into the kitchen. It wasn't like it was sneaking stealthily from corner to corner, dodging past shadows and creeping around corners. No. It was as bold as can be, as if it had every right to parade through our nice, clean, neat suburban lives. We've had glimpses of it before, but always hoped it was just a figment of the crazed imagination. But no, folks, it's real. And it's invading my life.

During the two years I lived in New York City, I had a similar encounter with a mouse in our Harlem apartment. I had always heard stories about rats as big as cats in Manhattan, and I swear I saw them on the subway and on the streets. They freaked me out. Then we had a little mouse in the house. When the super left some fishy white "rat poison" that didn't do a thing, he threatened us that if there was one, there would be a whole pack of rats, and that the restaurant adjoining our building had closed because of rat problems. As if that didn't freak us out enough, our little rodent-visitor became a frequent sight, darting through the kitchen and under the stove or the fridge. We invested in mousetraps from the dollar store downstairs and a can of cheese whiz. We even named the little guy Voldemort--something to do with his huge ears and the coming out of the new Harry Potter book that summer. But when we actually watched Voldemort come out from under the stove, poke away at the cheese whiz on the trap, then go back under the stove, that was enough. Erin and Anne Marie guarded the stove while I ran back down to the dollar store and bought every old wooden mouse trap and sticky glue trap they had. We lined the floor around the stove with them and waited. And waited. And waited. And nothing happened.

So last night Jessica and I pulled out two of those dollar store mouse traps and seeing as how we are much too refined to own any cheese whiz, we slathered on some peanut butter. I of course used the rubber gloves and set the trap off a bunch of times on my rubber gloved fingers (those are mighty powerful springs there). Every time I walk into the kitchen I hope against all hope that the trap will be sprung and we'll find a mouse. Jess even became the bigger person by promising to take care of the fellow--only with careful thought of the shovel in the shed and the fact that we don't need to keep the used mouse trap.

Please, oh please, oh please...

Hooray for Grandad!

Publish PostA. Harold Goodman

14 July 1924 - 25 June 2007

My dear Grandad peacefully passed away a week ago, and we buried him yesterday. I have some very tender memories running through my mind and heart and am eager to share them here.

Families are as big as their family stories. As a budding historian and a graduate student, I have been trained to search for accuracy, to verify facts through primary sources. As a member of a beautiful family, I realize that our family stories may not be entirely verifiable--and if they are, often they lose a bit of their drama and power. These family stories provide me with a couple of important things: a sense of belonging--an identity with a larger group; an understanding of important family values--expectations, hopes, dreams; and an opportunity to participate--both in hearing and in telling our stories. Elder David A. Bednar said that "the home is the place where we cannot hide from who we really are," that home is potentially the most natural, most effective setting for learning the gospel because we find the truth about ourselves and we cannot hide from it. I want to share stories told by Grandad and about Grandad. These are stories that we will tell our children and our children's children. These are the reasons why we celebrate Grandad.

Last Sunday night, just hours before Grandad passed away, my dear cousin Arian had a dream. She dreamed that we were all gathered to say goodbye to Grandad. We believed we would see him unresponsive on a hospital bed, as he had been for the past few days. How surprised we were to see him come walking out the door, followed by GranNomi and our parents. He was beaming--full of light and life and beauty. We were so surprised that we shouted for joy. He had been healed! We celebrated this miracle, just as we celebrate his life.

Hooray for Grandad and sports. Although Grandad was only 5'8", he was a basketball star in high school with a strong jump shot. When he tried out for the University of Arizona Wildcats team, the coaches seriously doubted his ability. They required him to make 10 free throw shots, and he made every single one. They asked him to do it again, and he made every single shot. He made the team and soon became team captain. The newspapers dubbed him Buzz Bomb because of his ability to win a game from half court on the buzzer. The team participated in the 1946 National Invitational Tournament at Madison Square Garden. I love hearing stories about him sneaking into Uncle Gordon's high school basketball games at a time when it was embarrassing for a parent to be there. He always left early or waited afterword so as not to be caught.Grandad always planned baseball games at our family reunions and encouraged us in our sports--like the time when he allowed Marilee 5 or 6 strikes, even though Jennings threw down his glove in protest. My favorite sports memories of Grandad are the creative games he planned for us. After one Thanksgiving dinner when the grandkids were all a little too rambunctious for our tired parents, he would hold contests to see who could hold their breath the longest, or he offered a dollar for whoever could hold his or her nose to the floor the longest. We all immediately fell asleep. And the hours of playing dominoes, Hand-and-Foot, and the sometimes violent game of spoons. Grandad was our champion.

Hooray for Grandad and education. We loved hearing stories of his adventures at Duncan Union High School and the song, "Duncan Punkin' Rollers." Grandad's experiences at the University of Arizona and USC, where he earned his doctorate in music, have inspired many of us to pursue advanced degrees. We love hearing about the time an old professor got all mixed up and walked out the classroom door--into the closet--then all the students pretended to leave just to see what he would do. After hearing the sound of footsteps, he popped his head out and received applause from the class. Especially inspiring was his dedication and determination to make it through his oral exams.

Hooray for Grandad and music. We love the stories about how Grandad started violin lessons at the age of 8. When a boy at school called him a sissy, Grandad put down his violin case, punched him in the stomach, and said, "I'm not a sissy." At his first teaching assignment in Snowflake, the rough and tough high school boys considered him a sissy music teacher. Grandad took off his shoes and played football with them in an alfalfa field--beating them all. They all joined the band that year. Grandad used to come home from college to play his favorite violin piece for his mother--"Meditation from Thais." Great Grandad would say, "Harold, why don't you play something I'd like to hear, like "Turkey in the Straw." As a child, I remember going to my first concert at the DeJong Concert Hall with Grandad conducting. I was 3 and Lisa was 2, and when she saw him come out on the stage in his tuxedo tails, she yelled out, "There's Grandad! What is he wearing?" I received my first violin from him at the age of 3, and I loved our violin lessons. He organized the Stadium Avenue players for all the budding musicians in the neighborhood, and we had recitals once a month. I loved hearing stories about Grandad and his music service for the Church. One time, President Kimball asked him to direct the Tabernacle Choir. Grandad told him if that's what the Lord wanted him to do, he would. But, he said, there were more qualified people, and he would be happy to help find one. He did direct the Choir for an event at the Smith Field House. As chair of the Church Music Committee, Grandad headed the effort to put together the 1985 hymn book. He often told us stories about particular hymns and how they got in. After the first printing, all the mission presidents were gathered for a seminar at the Assembly Hall on Temple Square. The MTC missionaries came marching in, singing "Called to Serve," a stirring new anthem. Elder Packer leaned over to Grandad and said, "I'm sure that's in the new hymn book." Grandad said, "It will be!" They had to reprint and renumber everything.

Hooray for Grandad and the family. I grew up next door to Grandad and GranNomi, and we both had an acre of land and countless yard work. Grandad had an old green Dodge pick-up to take the prunings to the dump, and we always accompanied him with a stop at 7-11 on the way home for a treat. On our birthdays, he always sent a card with carefully transcribed music notation for the Happy Birthday song. I love the story of how many years ago, Grandad and GranNomi took their family camping with Aunt Nita, Uncle Ben, Melvin and Barbara. In the middle of the night, a bear attacked the tent. Grandad stepped out of the tent with his hands outstretched, scaring the bear away. He always protected his family. Always. Grandad was a fixer--when I was little, I thought he could fix anything. As I gerw, I realized his tools of rubber bands, crazy glue, and duct tape didn't always make everything as perfect as I thought they were. He also tried to fix relationships in his own kind, loving, forgiving way. We didn't always want to be fixed. The older I got, I realized that even if Grandad couldn't fix everything, I can. Grandad alway planned family reunions--with a baseball game, a hike, and a BBQ. We always had a testimony meeting. Following the example of patriarchs such as Adam, Abraham, and Lehi, Grandad always shared with us his belief in God and Jesus Christ, and eternal families. The Lectures on Faith teach us that after Adam became acquainted with God, he taught his posterity. Elder Bednar said, "Father Abraham was given the promise that through him and through his posterity, which is all of us, all the families of the earth would be blessed. How? By our bearing this ministry, which is the responsibility to proclaim the gospel, and this priesthood, meaning the saving ordinances of the gospel of Jesus Christ." We knew that family always came first for Grandad.

Hooray for Grandad and missionary work. Grandad had a larger family story--that we are all brothers and sisters and we have a Heavenly Father and Older Brother who love us. He wanted to share this with everyone he met--the security man at the airport, the postman, haircutter, and neighbors. Ezra Taft Benson said, "The Lord works form the inside out. The world works from the outside in. The world would take people out of the slums. Christ would take the slums out of the people and then they would take themselves out of the slums." That's how Grandad worked. I loved hearing stories from his time as mission president in London. One time he was assigned to drive President Benson and his wife from the Gatwick airport to the Heathrow airport. He practiced the drive to make sure he had it right, but the night of the appointment was dark and rainy. President Benson talked the whole way, with his face in Grandad's. GranNomi was in the back seat with Sister Benson, and she tried to engage President Benson in conversation so Grandad could find his way, but with little luck. He finally made it. I remember when they returned from their mission and spoke in church, he invited all the returned missionaries there to stand and recite D&C 4. I was completely impressed with the missionary spirit. As a result of his missionary stories, his grandchildren have served in England, Italy, Russia, Germany, Washington, and Idaho. He would send us cards with money in our currency, and we shared his stories with our investigators.

Hooray for Grandad and the temple. When Grandad served in the Provo Temple presidency, they had to do without his paycheck. They sold one of their cars and walked to the temple. When he walked past our house for his 5:00 am shift, he would always wave. The garden provided them with food--and as grandchildren, we always remember delight in the cherries, raspberries, blackberries. Josh and Grandad would always go to the garden to peel and eat a fresh turnip. Grandad taught us at an early age about temple meaning. I remember him teaching Lisa and me all about the meaning of the temple. We always heard about his experiences at the Atlanta Temple as he served part-member families and testified of eternal truths. He taught us the importance of temple marriage--first with his own example with GranNomi, his sweet bride. He sealed nearly all of my cousins. I gave him special instructions to find my husband and give him a gentle nudge, and to attend my own sealing one day.

Hooray for Grandad and his testimony of Jesus Christ. My favorite story about Grandad was when he was 19 and suffered from a ruptured appendix. He lived in southeastern Arizona and it took a long time to get him to the hospital. He suffered from peritonitis and was deathly ill for 3 months in St. Mary's Hospital. He was often unconscious and felt very alone, particularly at night. He would often sing the hymn, "Abide with Me, 'Tis Eventide." The chorus said: "O Savior, stay this night with me; Behold 'tis eventide." It was then that he felt the presence of the Savior with him, and he committed his life to serving Christ. I felt Christ with him as I spent time with him at the end of his life. I treasured the opportunity to care for him, to strengthen the feeble hands and the bending knees. I, too, felt the presence of the Savior as I learned how Christ served.

Hooray for Grandad. We have a champion on the other side. We are his champions here. Some of my favorite Grandad sayings are: "What's mine is yours and what's yours is mine." "We're all in this together." And most importantly, "A deal's a deal." We celebrate Grandad and we celebrate our family. As Grandad would say, quoting Moroni 9:25, "Be faithful in Christ; and may not the things which I have written grieve thee, to weigh thee down unto death; but may Christ lift thee up, and may his sufferings and death, and the showing his body unto our fathers, and his mercy and long-suffering, and the hope of his glory and of eternal life, rest in your mind forever."

If you have memories of Grandad, please share!

Blind Dates and other such nonsense...

You always have to try. You do--simply because you have hope and you know the Lord works in mysterious ways...

Alas, last night was just mysterious...

My cousin and her husband and boys moved to Springfield on an Air Force assignment in DC about six months ago. I've loved having family so close. Their good friends from their assignment in Italy live in their neighborhood and they've loved reconnecting. Well, because my cousins know me, a single Mormon female, and their friends know a single Mormon male, they thought for sure it would be a match.

I only agreed to it if we could all have Sunday dinner together. It was lovely--I enjoyed meeting this family that I've heard so much about, and I love playing with my "nephews"--Arian's Benjamin and Bryce. But the guy... he dated my roommate and I've heard many not necessarily pleasant things about him. We were all civil and enjoyed the evening with grace, but it was a bit awkward, for both of us, I think.

Here is what I've learned about being set up:
1. Many people think that if you have one thing in common, it would be a great set up:
They're both single.
They're both LDS.
They're both short (NOT KIDDING. THIS HAPPENED ONCE--I WENT OUT WITH A SHORT GUY WHO MAKES GUNS).
2. Blind dates can be extremely revelatory. You see what other people think about you by the people they are clamoring to set you up with. Sometimes that can be very painful.
3. It's always best to require a double date with whomever is setting you up. That way they can actually see the dynamics.
4. Often you can at least scratch it up to a GREAT story (and boy, do I have many!).
5. Sometimes you can meet some interesting people and at least expand your social circle.
6. Other times you just wish you could crawl into a hole.

They should move that rock...

This weekend I went to the Shenandoah Valley with a bunch of friends--many adventures. Many adventures--involving deer and headlights on dark, windy country roads, turning around several times ("I think we've been here before!"), NOT playing Twister ("I'm not old; I'm mature"), a near-midnight tavern run (It WAS the only food around--and it was good), star-gazing, s'mor stuffing, and pancakes with chocolate and strawberries.

The highlight, though, was hiking Old Rag. It was incredible--especially the boulder scampering. At one point we got stuck behind a rather large group of Japanese-Americans who for the life of them could not seem to figure out how to get up a rather precarious rock formation. I became a little impatient and said something under my breath, and the Indian guy behind us actually suggested that someone should remove the rock so people could get up the mountain. His comment floored me--does he want a tram and an ice cream stand at the top? Are national parks supposed to be Disneyland?

At any rate, I pushed and pulled and heaved and LOVED the physical exertion, the scampering, the conversation, the friends, and the view at the top. What a day! I even picked some more wildflower weeds to add to my gloriously-blooming peonies. Here are some photos to prove we made it. I'll post more when I get them from my fellow hikers...

I love Fireflies

There is a brief window of firefly season here in Northern Virginia. I didn't see any at all when I moved here last August and I was so disappointed--I grew up in the West without the magic of fireflies. I remember the first time I saw them when I visited my grandparents one summer in Atlanta and then years later in Missouri. And I loved them in Central Park on summer evening walks in New York. Apparently the show up here in the early summer, and I love them.

There is something remarkable about the haphazard flashes of light--unexpected and unpreservable. They are so temporary that their light produces a little burst of excitement and wonder. I feel like a little kid again, staring into the air, hoping and being so pleasantly surprised to see fireflies pop back and forth in the dusk. I want to bottle them up so I can draw upon their light later on, but I know it's to no avail. The firefly reminds me to live in the moment.

We are the Rising Generation

So I had a crazy opportunity on Friday... my good friend Laurel was in charge of an event here in Fairfax and needed help. I offered to act as a shuttle driver for the presenters, and Friday afternoon I found myself picking up Ardeth Kapp at the Dulles airport to drive to her hotel. It was sort of a surreal experience... I remember my golden days of Young Women when she was at the helm as the General YW president. I thought she was the greatest thing in the world--she had this amazing perception and vision with a sound foundation. I remember singing in the YW choir for the first Young Women broadcast in 1985 in the Tabernacle, and I remember being flooded with the Spirit and feeling one of my early first testimonies in a very powerful way. I also remember the balloon launching celebration--I even stayed home from a family vacation to attend. And I remember the bell-ringing celebration.

So after introducing myself to her, and hearing about her recent trip with her sisters to Canada where her brother received an honorary doctoral degree, I told her how much I admired her and that I was part of the famous broadcast. She gave me a hug right there in the car as I negotiated traffic on the Lee Highway and said, "Oh! You're one of my girls!" We talked and talked the whole way to the hotel, and I hope she didn't know that I had absolutely no idea where we were or how I was going to find the Fair Oaks Marriott.
Later that afternoon I drove Ardeth and Heber, her husband, to the venue, and we again chatted the whole way. Heber even offered some marriage advice: "Marry a rich man," he said. "Heb, did you marry me for my money?" Ardeth asked. "No," he said. "But it would have been much better." "What do you mean?" she asked. "What do you think about our marriage?" "Well, it just would have been better if we'd had money."

Making Weeds into Wildflowers

Last week I was in Missouri visiting my dear grandparents. Things are not looking so good there--my grandfather as a very aggressive cancer and is home with hospice, and my grandmother is struggling to keep up with her new nursing responsibilities as well as grappling with what the future holds for her. As I went running one morning along the country roads, I struggled with my own emotions and physical condition. But I began to see the weeds all around me in their color and fine detail. I got back to the house, grabbed a pair of scissors, a bag, and some gardening gloves, and I cut flowers as far as I dared wander into the thick undergrowth full of snakes and chiggers and ticks.

I really believe that when we can open our eyes to find beauty, we can participate in actually creating it. We invite it in. We need it, and we allow it to heal and to refine. Thank goodness for weeds that become wild flowers.

Braving the Cold

On Saturday morning we woke to snow--kind of crazy with all the blossoms and flowers everywhere. And the temperature plummeted. I think it was 80 on Tuesday, and then down in the 30s and 40s the rest of the week. Jess and I braved the cold to go to a baseball game Saturday night--the Nationals and the Diamondbacks. We don't need to really discuss the score, but we do need to discuss the fact that the D-backs have new uniforms. Who knew they decided to join the rest of the free world (or at least the league) and have red and white? While I'm not a fan of purple and turquoise, I rather liked the effect with the scary diamondback snake.

At any rate, we bundled up--layers of thermals, wool sock liners, big blankets, hats, gloves, turtlenecks, scarves, coats--and thanks to the hot chocolate that Jess had to walk all over the ball park to find, we stayed relatively warm. It was grand.

You're all worth it!

I am suffering from the worst allergies of all 32 years of my life. It started a week or so ago, and I figured the sneezing was kind of funny, but it quickly progressed to major congestion, headache, and a sinus infection. Well, $100 later, loaded up with Zyrtec, Nasonex, and Z-pak, I'm on the road to recovery... right?!?

So this morning to celebrate my road to recovery, I overcame my shortness of breath (yes, I run out of breath just by standing up and talking! I feel so old!), and my roommate and I went to see cherry blossoms! The jewels of Washington DC--and well worth the price. It was incredible... so many white ways of delight. We wandered along Haynes Point, then parked and walked along the Tidewater Basin. It was kind of chilly-but incredible. I guess only 20% of the blossoms are out right now, which means I must go again later this week. My favorites were the weeping white blossoms, but all of them were incredible. I even told the blossoms, with my plugged up nose, "You're all worth it!"

I'm including pictures of the great flowers in front of our house... and you'll see where the squirrels have wreaked their havoc on my tulips. If you know ANYTHING about how to stop squirrels, please, share!

Golda

My car's name is Golda, named after her color (a nice champagne) and the character on Fiddler on the Roof. She's great.

Well, was great. Last week Golda began sounding deep and throaty--you know--the good morning voice (thankfully without the breath), the congested feeling. I figured it was the muffler, but my pretend-mechanic friend figured it was the air filter. We tried all sorts of tricks, but nothing worked. He said not to worry about it, but poor Golda's voice haunted me.

Of course, I worried about money, how to find a trustworthy mechanic, and time. I discovered that another friend had a family friend from Vietnam who conveniently works at the Honda dealership. I took Golda in early this morning, and sure enough, Abee showed me the rusted out hole in the muffler. It looked horrible. I wonder if it's from all the road salt.

At any rate, within 45 minutes, Abee had replaced the muffler and given me his employee discount on parts, charging me only half for the labor. Bless his Vietnamese heart. I guess he only works one day a week now that he's back in school, and Wednesday just happens to be the only day I don't have class, so it worked out perfectly. I love that there are honest mechanics, that there are people eager to help and serve, and that I'm in the right place at the right time.

And Golda runs like butter now. Don't you all wish you could have a ride?

March Madness, or Spring Break JennyReeder style

I love filling out NCAA brackets. Every year I fill one out, and I don't really follow college basketball. I love choosing names and circling winners and striking losers. I love that it's all a game for me. My friend has two brackets: one by the head and the other by the heart. Another guy lets his son fill out a bracket according to mascots (who would win, a panther or a duck?). It's good times.

This week is my spring break. Instead of an exotic vacation to the beach somewhere, I decided (well, I like to think I decided when really it was more like a decision made for me in my graduate-ness--no money and the doom of 4 papers/projects due the first week in May) to stay here and work like a maniac. I did take a day off and went to Philadelphia with my friend Kelli. We hit the King Tut exhibit (definitely NOT worth $35, unless you count maybe $1 for every object you see!), then the small Rodin museum (which reminded us both of Paris--ah!), and up the steps of the Philadelphia Art Museum. Then we walked down to all the historic sites--Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell, etc.

Being the week before St. Patrick's day, we encountered a strange phenomenon: random runners wearing green prom dresses. We had to snap some shots. When Kelli asked what they were running for, they looked at her like she was crazy for not knowing and said, "We're running for Green!" The security guard at the Liberty Bell shook his head and said "They'll be drinking all the way through St. Paddy's."

The highlight of the trip, and the TRUE March Madness for me, was the Philadelphia Flower Show. I cannot express how much I love flowers. I love the color, the smell, the design. This show was amazing--apparently it's on the list of 1,000 things to do in your lifetime. The theme was Ireland, so many of the displays revolved around quaint Irish gardens. Some were a little over the top (one had wacky glittery shoes hanging in a dead tree with a leprechaun poem and another had a wedding party in the middle of a pond). I loved the window boxes, the lamp flowers, the variety and texture. I felt alive--grateful for God's creations and for what people can do with those creations.

2nd Grade Groundhogs Day

I have a very vivid memory of Groundhogs Day when I was in the second grade. My teacher announced that we would be making a little groundhog village out of paper. Being the little overachiever and perfectionist that I am, I immediately freaked out. I didn't know how to make a groundhog village! What was she thinking? I was only in the second grade, after all! How was I magically supposed to know how to actually create a groundhog, let alone a groundhog village? The audacity of it all! I believe tears were shed in my consternation.

My wise teacher kindly and patiently heard me out and quietly encouraged me to just try. Through my tears I scribbled out a little groundhog and then made a little house. Suddenly I realized that I could do better, and I added several features, like a mailbox and a windowbox. Before you can pause to see your shadow, I had caught fire. My groundhog village took off--I made a groundhog school, a groundhog hospital, a groundhog post office, a groundhog store, a groundhog library. By the end of the day, my teacher had to pry me away from my now expert groundhog village.

I've been feeling that same second grade panic again as of late. I have to create a website? I ask my digital history professor in sheer panic. But I don't know design! I don't know CSS! I don't know how to manipulate curves and levels in Photoshop! I just want to be a historian! How can you expect me to know what colors go together and how to create gradients and masks, how to use the right typeface to create an inviting ambiance and represent my time period?!? The audacity! I also have to write papers and read and complete assignments and maintain a busy social calendar and life a life of culture! How can you expect me to drop everything and EXPERIMENT? Who has that kind of time?

And yet there's a secret part of me that really does revel in color blending and texture--after all, isn't it like quilting? And I secretly could spend hours playing with fonts. So maybe my fear is really that I've found a new activity, one that I know I'm not very good at yet, but that I could be good. I'm afraid that I'll have to buy a new computer (no! not a Mac!) and the newest versions of Photoshop and Dreamweaver. I'm afraid that I will get sucked into hours spent hunched over my keyboard, digging through websites, creating digital groundhog hospitals and libraries. Who knows what this could start?

If only I had the energy of a second-grader... and my construction paper and crayons for tools...

Footloose, but not fancy free

After a restless night of tossing and turning (so many papers and readings and decisions running through my head), I finally got up this morning, anxious to get to work. I was planning on squeezing in time to go to the gym--at times like this I can be found with my latest reading, my head bobbing on the elliptical or the bike as I breeze through the pages and try to pump my body at the same time. But when I emerged from my basement room and saw such perfect running weather outside, I took off on foot.

It had rained all night and was supposed to rain all morning, but the sun was peaking through heavy gray clouds and warmed up the temperature all the way to 57 blessed degrees! Everything was wet--the trees glistened with tiny drops and I stomped through puddles in my old running shoes, the muddy water licking my lily-white legs. As I shed my long-sleeve T, I felt liberated and ran faster and harder. If only I could shed my other troubles... at least I got some great respite on the road.

Sierra rocks my world

This little note from my dear niece Sierra says it all. The crazy thing is that I know she just sat down and did this all by herself--no prompting or anything. Honestly. My sister, her mom, was just like that. I remember her writing these crazy entries in her journal when she was probably 8 that went something like this:

Today is MY day. Today everything is going MY way.

And she would go on and on. I love the confidence, the excitement, and the love in this style of writing--the firm expression and delight and hope in life.

And I'll scan and post the valentine Sierra sent me this year. It seriously made my whole month, just like this card.

Translation: Dear Jenny You are beautiful as spring time flowers! And as refreshing as the rain! Love Sierra!

There is nothing like the Finish Line Flourish. My roommate Jessica and I ran the George Washington Birthday 10K on Saturday. We laughed about paying $22 to run in 19 degrees cold, up and down, up and down a stretch of Eisenhower for 6. whatever miles. The course was supposed to wind through Old Town Alexandria or somewhere cool or something, but the recent snow storm created problems and left ice everywhere. So we literally ran a double loop up and down. It made things with the fast runners a little interesting--two police escorts created a nice path for them in the middle as they finished the race.

My favorite part is always the finish line. I don't know where the energy comes from--somewhere deep inside me--whenever I see the finish line. This course was a little tricky because I saw the finish line twice, but it was only the REAL finish line the second time, so the finish line flourish didn't happen until then. But this surge of energy comes literally racing out, and my legs just start moving and the rest of my body has to keep up with them. The blood courses and the oxygen pumps and I feel like a mighty moving machine. It really takes a lot of energy, usually when I'm the most spent, and I sometimes wonder if I'll be able to keep it up all the way through to the end. But I always do. And I'm pleasantly surprised at how strong I am and fast and how real my hidden energy reserves are. If only I could pull those out in the other areas of my life...