2013 was one of lots of changes. Eli grew at least half a foot, his voice deepened dramatically and he has even taken a razor to his upper lip. Once. Whenever we notice these things he makes loud noises to block out our voices and says "Don't talk about it! Write it down if you have to. Keep a journal. Then give it to me. And I will burn it." Too bad that my journal is electronic.
Theo is going through his own changes. He's growing a bit in terms of height. But his feet. Good lord. Huge. And his confidence. It grows daily, delightfully. He is on his fifth trip through the Harry Potter books. This time he finished book 7, took at least an hour break and then settled back into a bean bag chair with book one. It astonishes me that he has new insights each time he reads this series. Lucky kid.
We are busy changing the layout of this old house of ours. We thought long and hard about moving instead of fixing up this one. But as we looked around, we realized how much we really like about this house- the fireplace, the deck, the garden...the somewhat spacious yard for St. Paul (ok, my yardstick of comparison is small), neighbors, location. We looked at lots of places that had pieces, but then decided to make some changes and stay here. We started with a plan to turn the 3 season porch into a yearround space as a way to get the office out of the dining room. In the end the porch will remain a porch, but we gutted the kitchen and are putting a room and a bathroom in the basement- hopefully to lure teenage friends here so that our boys have a place to hangout that is safe and warm and somewhat 'private'. And the office will probably still be in the dining room. But we're excited about more light, more openness, and yes, another bathroom. Maybe the most exciting thing is that a plumber got into our upstairs bathroom and for the first time in our decade-long residence on Brimhall Street, you can flush the toilet willy nilly. No waiting 30 minutes. No filling the tank from the bathtub. It's lovely.
Jon and I still toil away at the same jobs, but we like them. At Avalon we are figuring out ways to get more involved in the school reform movement, which keeps things lively. And for Jon, the Central Corridor is about to go 'live' which should be exciting for both him and the rest of St. Paul.
We are looking forward to 2014. To a completed house project. To a winter full of skiing, and archery tournaments where I have to be quiet, which is hard, but worth it. To a spring of Ultimate Frisbee on sunny afternoons, watching the boys run around while we chat with lovely parents. To another season of History Day and whatever that may bring. To a lovely trip to Yellowstone with the Sage Clan to celebrate the fact that my parents have been married for 50 years. 50 of them. To summer number 12 at Dunord, where Eli will turn 15. 15. Holy moly. I can't wait for it to all unfurl.
Monday, December 16, 2013
Home again home again, jiggety jig?
Well, we spent the weekend before moving back home cleaning this place from top to bottom. The dust was so thick that it instantly was in my mouth, eyes. But by the end of the weekend it seemed livable. We then retreated back to Hudson for a few more days of cleaning out there. Unfortunately, after getting my parents' mostly cleaned up we had an epic toilet back up. It involved some cursing on my part. Ended with a call to a plumber who quickly fixed it up and handed us a bill. Worth it, however.
Our timing was not ideal. As I was putting the last few bags in the car out in Hudson, Jon texted to say that the crew was just finishing blowing in insulation and we should stay out of the house for the next 24 hours. Really? I had a car load of all our gear, it was about 0 degrees, the boys were on the bus headed toward Brimhall, and my parents were moving back into their house that afternoon. I tried to stay calm but my recently acquired case of hives indicated that I was stressed. I think I was about 70% covered by the time I pulled up in front of our house. I quickly unloaded the car, agreed that it smelled bad and we shouldn't stay there and awaited the boys. They were excited to be home, so not so excited when I told them to quick pack an overnight bag, we were headed to New Brighton.
But now we are in, at least for the short term. It's crowded and cold and dusty, but the fireplace works, we put up a small tree, and we are working out some systems. Boys have been wonderful so far about trekking down to the dark dusty basement to help out with dishes. And as they love quesadillas, our griddle/microwave fare has not bothered them. Yet. The laundry drying rack gets moved from room to room as we change our position throughout the day, and the lack of water on the first floor is constantly surprising. Not sure why.
Luckily I just finished reading Half the Sky, about oppression of women around the globe, so I am able to realize that while this situation is mildly uncomfortable and frustrating, we are still extremely priviliged. Hoping to be able to concentrate on that over the next few weeks and get to the other end of this minor disruption with some grace.
Our timing was not ideal. As I was putting the last few bags in the car out in Hudson, Jon texted to say that the crew was just finishing blowing in insulation and we should stay out of the house for the next 24 hours. Really? I had a car load of all our gear, it was about 0 degrees, the boys were on the bus headed toward Brimhall, and my parents were moving back into their house that afternoon. I tried to stay calm but my recently acquired case of hives indicated that I was stressed. I think I was about 70% covered by the time I pulled up in front of our house. I quickly unloaded the car, agreed that it smelled bad and we shouldn't stay there and awaited the boys. They were excited to be home, so not so excited when I told them to quick pack an overnight bag, we were headed to New Brighton.
But now we are in, at least for the short term. It's crowded and cold and dusty, but the fireplace works, we put up a small tree, and we are working out some systems. Boys have been wonderful so far about trekking down to the dark dusty basement to help out with dishes. And as they love quesadillas, our griddle/microwave fare has not bothered them. Yet. The laundry drying rack gets moved from room to room as we change our position throughout the day, and the lack of water on the first floor is constantly surprising. Not sure why.
Luckily I just finished reading Half the Sky, about oppression of women around the globe, so I am able to realize that while this situation is mildly uncomfortable and frustrating, we are still extremely priviliged. Hoping to be able to concentrate on that over the next few weeks and get to the other end of this minor disruption with some grace.
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Home
Last night at the Moth Story Hour I learned that next month's theme is 'Home' which is appropriate as we are temporarily (and by choice) without one.
But my story about home would not be about this temporary dislocation because although it is a small irritating burden- there really is no story there.
This is the story I'd tell about home:
20 years ago my husband and I joined the peace corps. We had recently graduated from college and gotten married and they sent us off to live and work on the small island of Antigua in the Carribean. Small place- Antigua. Drive 10 miles in any direction and you hit the sea. We moved into an apartment in the capitol city and tried to settle in to our new home. But it was hard. The people we lived and worked amongst did not immediately open their arms to us- they kept a distance- treated us as tourists who were just stopping by. On the streets, in the market, on the buses- we were offered tourist prices and tourist comments, even as the days turned to weeks turned to months.
At my school, I was introduced as Mrs. Sage-Martinson. But I had this little feminist-y heart beating in my chest and the title Mrs didn't sit right with me. So I went on a quiet compaign to turn the Mrs into Ms. Change is hard, and my colleagues and students had trouble. Eventually though it caught on. Mrs became Ms and I was thrilled. Only before long, Sage-Martinson got changed to something easier to remember-- into White Lady Teacher. But at least I was Ms. White Lady Teacher!
But outside of school, change was harder to drive. Even after going to the same stall in the market time after time, I was given prices I knew were reserved for tourists. I was touchy about hawkers shouting out to me to buy their wares, and to hurry up before my boat left town. This mistaken for tourists was really a thorn in my side. One day I was on a bus heading toward a beach when the man next to me hds a grand mal seizure. First thing I hear is "someone move that tourist out the way!" And I think, Yeah! Move the tourist! No room for one here in this emergency. Imagine my surprise when I am lifted up and moved. Set in the far corner to watch the drama unfold. The whole bus moves together as if a chorus. You, FatHead, (name of driver- emblazoned on his windshield) stop the bus! Windows pop open, women rip open the seizing man's shirt. You- in the yard, throw me one those limes! Lime picked, thrown, caught, cut open. Rubbed on the seizing man (a lime cuts a fever, helps stop a seizure, did you know? I didn't). Man slowly recovers, lime thrower is thanked, shirt is rebuttoned, man is caressed. FatHead told to drive on. And I cower in the corner- in awe of this community who just helped this man through his troubles- after physically removing me.
Then one day I was walking through the market on my way to the basketball court in the center of town. I had recently made some connections and had won a place on a women's basketball team. So there I am walking through town in my purple and yellow basketball uniform- the team name blazoned on the front- some local bank sponsored us. And as I pass by a tshirt stall the woman behind the table yelled out for me to get my tshirt- to hurry hurry before the boat left. What? What kind of tourist gets off the cruise in a purple and yellow full on uniform? Sponsored by a local bank? I look at her, only to have my surprised tripled! The vendor calling to me was none other, than Mrs. Mathews, the teacher I sat right next to in the staff room during my prep. So I call back, "No Mrs. Mathews, my boat doesn't leave for a while yet." This stops her and she looks at me close. Sees me. Chuckles. Says, "Oh, it's you Ms. White Lady Teacher." I walk away, beaming. Recongized.
And one day- I'm heading toward my regular market stall, hoping to grab some fruit before heading home. I pick up some grapefruit. "You don't want those. Your husband just bought some." I reach for guavas, "No, he got those too- but he forgot bananas, here take these." And the price is low, is right.
And one day, I'm riding the bus after work to our new house in the center of the island. We've only lived there a few days- a hurricane had passed over the island and destroyed our in-town apartment a few weeks earlier. The crowded, hot bus lures me to sleep. I drift off, jammed between two women who are singing Carribean Queen along with Billy Ocean on the radio. When the bus stops I jar awake and panic. Is this my stop?? I start gathering my goods and making noises like I want to get off. But the women pat me back down into place. "No no- not your stop. Settle." So I settle. Two minutes later FatHead stops without me calling out. The whole bus turns to look at me and they smile. Here. Here is my stop. They usher me off the bus. FatHead does not drive on. My busmates lean out their windows- they point down the dirt road- the only road in sight. They smile, nod, "That way honey, that way." I thank them and head off down the road. 50 yards later I look back. The bus is still there. People are leaning out, pointing to the left- "Turn there honey! Turn there! Almost home!" I smile, wave, and someone gives FatHead the command to drive on. He does. I turn left, walk down the lane, and I am home.
But my story about home would not be about this temporary dislocation because although it is a small irritating burden- there really is no story there.
This is the story I'd tell about home:
20 years ago my husband and I joined the peace corps. We had recently graduated from college and gotten married and they sent us off to live and work on the small island of Antigua in the Carribean. Small place- Antigua. Drive 10 miles in any direction and you hit the sea. We moved into an apartment in the capitol city and tried to settle in to our new home. But it was hard. The people we lived and worked amongst did not immediately open their arms to us- they kept a distance- treated us as tourists who were just stopping by. On the streets, in the market, on the buses- we were offered tourist prices and tourist comments, even as the days turned to weeks turned to months.
At my school, I was introduced as Mrs. Sage-Martinson. But I had this little feminist-y heart beating in my chest and the title Mrs didn't sit right with me. So I went on a quiet compaign to turn the Mrs into Ms. Change is hard, and my colleagues and students had trouble. Eventually though it caught on. Mrs became Ms and I was thrilled. Only before long, Sage-Martinson got changed to something easier to remember-- into White Lady Teacher. But at least I was Ms. White Lady Teacher!
But outside of school, change was harder to drive. Even after going to the same stall in the market time after time, I was given prices I knew were reserved for tourists. I was touchy about hawkers shouting out to me to buy their wares, and to hurry up before my boat left town. This mistaken for tourists was really a thorn in my side. One day I was on a bus heading toward a beach when the man next to me hds a grand mal seizure. First thing I hear is "someone move that tourist out the way!" And I think, Yeah! Move the tourist! No room for one here in this emergency. Imagine my surprise when I am lifted up and moved. Set in the far corner to watch the drama unfold. The whole bus moves together as if a chorus. You, FatHead, (name of driver- emblazoned on his windshield) stop the bus! Windows pop open, women rip open the seizing man's shirt. You- in the yard, throw me one those limes! Lime picked, thrown, caught, cut open. Rubbed on the seizing man (a lime cuts a fever, helps stop a seizure, did you know? I didn't). Man slowly recovers, lime thrower is thanked, shirt is rebuttoned, man is caressed. FatHead told to drive on. And I cower in the corner- in awe of this community who just helped this man through his troubles- after physically removing me.
Then one day I was walking through the market on my way to the basketball court in the center of town. I had recently made some connections and had won a place on a women's basketball team. So there I am walking through town in my purple and yellow basketball uniform- the team name blazoned on the front- some local bank sponsored us. And as I pass by a tshirt stall the woman behind the table yelled out for me to get my tshirt- to hurry hurry before the boat left. What? What kind of tourist gets off the cruise in a purple and yellow full on uniform? Sponsored by a local bank? I look at her, only to have my surprised tripled! The vendor calling to me was none other, than Mrs. Mathews, the teacher I sat right next to in the staff room during my prep. So I call back, "No Mrs. Mathews, my boat doesn't leave for a while yet." This stops her and she looks at me close. Sees me. Chuckles. Says, "Oh, it's you Ms. White Lady Teacher." I walk away, beaming. Recongized.
And one day- I'm heading toward my regular market stall, hoping to grab some fruit before heading home. I pick up some grapefruit. "You don't want those. Your husband just bought some." I reach for guavas, "No, he got those too- but he forgot bananas, here take these." And the price is low, is right.
And one day, I'm riding the bus after work to our new house in the center of the island. We've only lived there a few days- a hurricane had passed over the island and destroyed our in-town apartment a few weeks earlier. The crowded, hot bus lures me to sleep. I drift off, jammed between two women who are singing Carribean Queen along with Billy Ocean on the radio. When the bus stops I jar awake and panic. Is this my stop?? I start gathering my goods and making noises like I want to get off. But the women pat me back down into place. "No no- not your stop. Settle." So I settle. Two minutes later FatHead stops without me calling out. The whole bus turns to look at me and they smile. Here. Here is my stop. They usher me off the bus. FatHead does not drive on. My busmates lean out their windows- they point down the dirt road- the only road in sight. They smile, nod, "That way honey, that way." I thank them and head off down the road. 50 yards later I look back. The bus is still there. People are leaning out, pointing to the left- "Turn there honey! Turn there! Almost home!" I smile, wave, and someone gives FatHead the command to drive on. He does. I turn left, walk down the lane, and I am home.
StorySlam
A couple years ago I heard about this organization called "The Moth". It was based out of NYC and it's mission was to grow the art form of story telling by hosting Story Slams- storytelling events based on the poetry slam model. People gather together, a few volunteer to tell a story in a finite amount of time and then they are judged. There is a storytelling winner.
Well, I like story telling and I like competitions, but I never dreamed those two interests would overlap. I mean, competitive storytelling? Who would have dreamed. But it is a reality- and now there is a satellite operation here in St. Paul. I took my dad to one of the events last spring as the theme that night was 'fathers'. It was sweet. A sold out event- people paying money to come together and listen to everyday joes tell their tales. And then judge them. That night the stories were poignant and funny. My dad and I laughed and cried and a few times laughed until we cried. I decided that someday I would return and put my name in that hat to see what would happen if I got picked to go up on the stage.
Last night I did just that. Amy and I bought tickets for the November event- and I learned that the theme was "Planes, Trains, and Automobiles." Wow. Right up my alley seeing as I have a tale (or two) about a certain large orange van that went travelling down the highway without me. But I was nervous. The room was full. My estimate is 300-400 people. And even though I'm quite comfortable in front of a classroom full of teens- adults scare me. But I threw my name in that hat and listened nervously through the first 6 storytellers. There was one who really stood out- the rest were nervous and lost their threads here and there. Then my name was called and I got up there and did it. I only had five minutes- and that's not much time to tell a bunch of strangers about how your parents abandoned you, twice. But I got it in. Made people laugh. Had some laughs myself. And ended up with a second place finish. I do believe I may do it again.
Well, I like story telling and I like competitions, but I never dreamed those two interests would overlap. I mean, competitive storytelling? Who would have dreamed. But it is a reality- and now there is a satellite operation here in St. Paul. I took my dad to one of the events last spring as the theme that night was 'fathers'. It was sweet. A sold out event- people paying money to come together and listen to everyday joes tell their tales. And then judge them. That night the stories were poignant and funny. My dad and I laughed and cried and a few times laughed until we cried. I decided that someday I would return and put my name in that hat to see what would happen if I got picked to go up on the stage.
Last night I did just that. Amy and I bought tickets for the November event- and I learned that the theme was "Planes, Trains, and Automobiles." Wow. Right up my alley seeing as I have a tale (or two) about a certain large orange van that went travelling down the highway without me. But I was nervous. The room was full. My estimate is 300-400 people. And even though I'm quite comfortable in front of a classroom full of teens- adults scare me. But I threw my name in that hat and listened nervously through the first 6 storytellers. There was one who really stood out- the rest were nervous and lost their threads here and there. Then my name was called and I got up there and did it. I only had five minutes- and that's not much time to tell a bunch of strangers about how your parents abandoned you, twice. But I got it in. Made people laugh. Had some laughs myself. And ended up with a second place finish. I do believe I may do it again.
Monday, November 25, 2013
Living with Kato
Sometime in the past few weeks Theo and I got into the habit of trying to sneak up from each other. I spent 10 minutes the other day trying to stifle my giggles in a closet as I waited for Theo to come into his room after a shower. And in the end I missed my chance. He came in and left again and I had to come out. But it was still entertaining. And I got him later. I can't tell you how many times one of us drops out of view and starts crawling. About 98% of attempts are unsuccessful, but when you do get a good one, it's so worth it. I do admit that it doesn't mix with bedtime so well, but I don't let that stop me.
Think before you act
At an event at the boys' school we were supposed to write on this paper 'something you are good at'. Faced with that question, a marker, and a line of people forming up behind me waiting for their turns, the only thing I could come up with was 'squats'. Really?
Still loving my kids' school!
This fall I admit I was a little nervous that my little sixth grader was going to be in a 'crew' (homeroom on steriods as it has been described by OPEN teachers) with high schoolers at OWL. But the first day he came home and declared how much he loves it. He eats lunch with a mixed-aged group and loves that the high schoolers know he exists. And yesterday he was rambling on about school and said, "Then there's Frances (11th grader). What I love about Frances is that she is not afraid to tackle social and racial issues head on. She is always looking for solutions." Wow. What a great thing to notice about a fellow student- and how cool that she is friends with my 6th grader.
The other day I dropped the boys at school at 7:30 am. Jon was set to drive them back out to Hudson at the end of the day- around 2:30. But Theo wanted to stay and help out at the open house for prospective students. So, after school he went to archery for a couple hours and then he helped set up for the Open House. Around the dinner hour a group of ninth graders tucked him under their wing and took him through the skyways to a food court where they all got some dinner. I picked him up, tired but quite happy, at 8:30pm. Can't believe I can leave my youngest downtown St. Paul for 13 hours and know that he is in good hands the whole time. Love it.
The other day I dropped the boys at school at 7:30 am. Jon was set to drive them back out to Hudson at the end of the day- around 2:30. But Theo wanted to stay and help out at the open house for prospective students. So, after school he went to archery for a couple hours and then he helped set up for the Open House. Around the dinner hour a group of ninth graders tucked him under their wing and took him through the skyways to a food court where they all got some dinner. I picked him up, tired but quite happy, at 8:30pm. Can't believe I can leave my youngest downtown St. Paul for 13 hours and know that he is in good hands the whole time. Love it.
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