Spring Break

Spring Break is here.

Girls are at Camp Bob rowing with their team in South Carolina.  Maverick is working in Maryland.

Watson and I slept in this morning in Virginia.

We woke to beautiful snow.

Watson did his business in the cold snow.

Then I turned on the fire.

I’m having 70 teenagers over for dinner this weekend before the next regatta. I should really clean the house, make my grocery list, and mentally prepare. But I have the house to myself. The fire is rip-roaring and snow is falling outside.

So I made juice.

My girls texted a Camp Bob photo sending me their love.

I texted my love back to them.

Determined to be productive, I stripped beds of sheets and started laundry. But then my girls sent me a link to their crew team photos and five hours later I’m still sitting at my computer.

I love this picture of Emma. Her hair looks so red. My paint brushes are calling my name.

But then she looks so good in black and white. Perhaps, I’ll do a charcoal drawing.

Seeing a smile like this on my child’s face makes my heart leap.

Love to see hard work paying off!

Meanwhile, I make coffee and decide to blog.

It is still snowing outside and Watson gets bored.  But I’m too busy pouring over crew pictures and texting my girls to notice Watson and his boredom.

He dug moss out of this pot and made pretty shapes on the floor.

And he flossed his teeth with the rug.

Then he begged for forgiveness.

After a while, I look up from the computer and find Watson sleeping sweetly in his bed. I love him. He is such a good boy.

And now I truly must start my day.  3 pm. Spring break. Snow outside.  70 teenagers coming Friday for a pasta party.

Wait….more pictures.

It’s okay. I’m off tomorrow. The teenagers will get their food.

Do clothes make the man? Does a man make the clothes?

Do clothes make the man? Does a man make the clothes?

Day one of the new year and I’m throwing out Maverick’s old shirts and maybe an apron or two.

I started at the top of Maverick’s uniform closet by thinning out neatly folded piles of t-shirts that would make a great bed for a cat. If we had a cat.

Then I found some shirts that had to go.

Dads Against Daughters Dating.  Our daughters understand this and no longer wish to be reminded.

A man approaching 40 has no business wearing this shirt.

Maverick, soon, honey. Soon.  Battle captain needs come first.

Oh, wait. Can’t throw out this sweatshirt. Maverick said I would hurt Jesus’s feelings which is a bad thing to do right after Christmas. Plus, the BCS game is next week. All things Notre Dame must be displayed.

But this jewel is out. Maverick brought this home from the Indian Ocean. He promised  there are no sister wives.

The blue apron is out.

The elf apron is in.

These are getting tossed. New rank soon. Poor guy wants to wear his flight suit anyway.

Maverick can keep the olive thinking-drinking wool cardigan. For now.

His favorite plaid shirt can stay. And the Notre Dame hat I used to scoop up a dead mouse. Only because he carries our chairs to the river so we can cheer for our girls.

He can keep the blue suit because blue suits him.

This shirt can stay, too. But next concert, I’m going.

Hawaiian shirt out. There will be more.

These shirts on my stationary bike are now hanging in Maverick’s closet. They are staying. Even the pink plaid one.

I did not throw out any of Maverick’s polos or sunglasses. But I did take down the Christmas tree, stockings, wreaths, snow globes, angels, and all things red and green. To answer the question…do clothes make the man or does the man make the clothes…..I think  with the help of a good woman, a man can do both.

May the new year bring blessings to all.

Twist and shout in the nest

Some moms cry when their kids start kindergarten. Some moms feel lost, maybe even suffer an identity crisis. They long to keep their baby birds in the nest. Return them to shells where they can incubate safely beneath soft feathers.

Some moms twist and shout silently in their heads. Five years, baby!!! I’ve fed your sticky beak for five years!  I’ve flown around looking for bugs and worms and now, it’s my turn.  I’m NOT sitting at home watching Spongebob!

I used to think poorly about the twist and shout moms. How can they be so uncaring toward their little cherubs? Their vulnerable baby birds?

College is looming for my kids and don’t think for one minute that I am not reminded on a daily basis. The application process,  the nine million fees for each packet, what to declare as a major, what dorm is the best, is there time for a sorority and sports.

A mom and dad came into my workplace to buy clothes the other day after depositing their oldest daughter to her first year at Georgetown University. They were giddy and laughing and flirting with one another while picking out clothes and trying them on. They spent over three thousand dollars that day.

“What’s the special occasion? You guys look so happy!”  I asked.

“Our daughter is starting college. One kid down, two to go!” they answered.

“Congratulations! Are you getting these sweaters for your daughter?” I asked.

They both chuckled loudly. I even heard a snort.

“No!  She can buy her own sweaters. But you won’t see her. She can’t afford this place as a college student.” answered the Dad.

Wow, I liked this Dad.

“So, you must be experiencing many changes in your home. Is it difficult to send your daughter into the real world?” I asked.

“College isn’t the real world, and no, it isn’t difficult. It is rather peaceful now that one kid is out of the house.” said the mom.

Clearly, these people were twist and shouters and hated Spongebob.

“I have teenage daughters. I’m not sure how I will react to them leaving for college.” I said while swiping their credit card and wrapping their clothes neatly in tissue paper.

“You’ll be ready. I used to think parents who rejoiced when their kids left home were  insensitive and mean. That was before I raised teenagers. Trust me, kids going away for college is a healthy thing. For everyone.” said the Mom.

“You aren’t the first to tell me that. I will find out soon enough!”  I thanked them and watched them skip joyfully out the door.

Later I went home, back to my nest and thought about the happy couple as I ate dinner with my family.

Sometimes my heart sighs when thinking of the empty nest. I won’t lie. Our nest can be messy and imperfect. The birds do not always chirp in unison. Little birds spread their wings and often leave mama bird flustered and ruffled.  Sometimes, I wake in the middle of the night worrying about the choices my little birds will make, knowing their consequences will come from life rather than Maverick and me. It doesn’t help when my own mother, who raised four birds, tells me that worrying increases ten fold when kids leave home.

I’m a big believer in listening when God speaks in seemingly random ways. I’m confident my kids will grow, flourish, and do well when they go to college. I’m also confident that God sent the happy parents into my workplace the other day to remind me to think positively.  It is okay to be a twist and shouter. It doesn’t mean I don’t love my kids.

And I think it means I get a three thousand dollar shopping spree as the nest empties, too.

Emma’s college entrance essay

My darling oldest daughter completed her college applications today.

Wasn’t it yesterday that she played Drowsie Maggie and Toss the Feathers on her fiddle in front of mesmerized crowds and beaming parents?

Wasn’t it yesterday that she lay on the kitchen floor reading Junie B. Jones books aloud while I baked banana bread? Wasn’t it yesterday that she plowed through each Harry Potter book like an eager chipmunk always announcing her predictions for the next book?

“Mom, Professor Snape is working for Voldemort but I have a feeling he really loves Harry. I think he will help Harry in the end.”

She was right. Snape helped Harry.

But, no. It wasn’t yesterday when she made her predictions.

My girl is turning 18 soon.

Shiver. Shudder. Pitter patter goes my heart.

But then I read her college essay and I am reminded of the present and how proud I am of my girl.

Enjoy!

College Entrance Essay by Emma Durband

I was born into a band of gypsies. My earliest memory was the wind; an unseen, ever changing wind. It carried me to different corners of the country, each with their own adventures and secrets that clawed at my curiosity.
The wind conjured up the storms. There were the earthquakes in California, monsoons in Hawaii, tornadoes in Oklahoma, hurricanes in South Carolina, and blizzards in Virginia. Each storm was unique to the area where it formed. They were powerful and destructive, yet caused small scale renaissances in the aftermath.

My life is run by the storms, caused by the wind. My wind is the United States Air Force. It has blown the core of my gypsy family across the face of the country. The wind comes in the form of new “assignments” and job titles for Lt. Col. Durband, the head of my house. This wind causes the storms to brew and uproot every last nail in the houses I have built up from the ground with weathered, calloused hands. Each storm is different. Sometimes they come as tornadoes that violently shred all of my hard work into scattered debris.  Sometimes they come as monsoons that pelt my skin with acid rain. Yet the worst are the earthquakes, which silently strike when my back is turned, crumbling my marble pillars of comfort and concrete beams of peace like crumbs of a cookie after being dropped on the kitchen floor.

But the storms are a part of my gypsy life. I am a traveler. I know the rocky shores of California, the sunken marshes of South Carolina, and the endless plains of Oklahoma like the creases in my palms. Each new place the wind happens to send my family is a new chapter in my life, a new adventure to be had. I was born with the gypsy restlessness set in my bones and flowing in my blood. Like a disease passed down through the ages in my family, I am haunted by my thirst for adventure; whether in the form of joining a band of traveling fiddle players in the old churches of Charleston or racing with a motley crew of hardened rowers through the green waters of the Occoquan.

Though this lifestyle is not simple or carefree, I can see with clear, unsheltered eyes how life works. Every human body is driven by a wind. They come in all temperatures, shapes, sizes, colors, strengths, and directions. They can rip a 500 pound oak tree from the earth with a gust of brute power, or delicately sweep a snowflake gracefully across a winter sky. The strength at which it moves us is different for everyone at all stages in life. However, one cannot harness the wind. Gypsies learn the crucial lesson early in our travels that anyone who tries to control the wind will end up lost and scattered. You must accept the wind in its indiscriminate, unconstrained forces.  If you do not, it will knock you down with the force of Helios’ Chariot and you will be swallowed up by the dark, foreboding clouds of the storm.

Yet the sun always warms my weathered skin after waiting out the storm. The prospects of adventure soon become reality when I begin to build a new house, brick by brick in my newly assigned corner of the country. The darker moments of the moving process are washed away as I become accustomed to my new environment by seeking out smoky jazz venues to sing at or enrolling in a new boathouse to row at. Slower, more peaceful pockets of wind also move my body towards new friendships and relationships that will be forged in each new place. Although the stronger winds of change have caused me to bid farewell to childhood friends that I ventured out with to build elaborate sand castles on the beaches of South Carolina and the friends who I camped out with underneath the starry Oklahoma night sky, I know in the deepest niche of my mind that each new place the wind carries me, I will blossom into a new world of opportunity and take the change in stride.

Finally, cooler weather.

Hard to believe I saw my nephews one hot month ago. Charlie, dressed in his mohawk helmet, turned seven and his younger brother, Nick, turned five and is now ready for his first rock performance. These boys belong to my sister.

God gave me girls.

When they were young, they played store, wrote and performed skits, and built tall houses with every book we owned so their dolls could have spacious rooms.

My nephews ride big wheels down my parents’ concrete driveway and slam into cars.

I miss my nephews.

My plan is to see them again at Christmas.

My girls started school. My oldest is a senior. Yes, I know. I don’t believe it, either. But it says senior on her new schedule, so I guess it is official. That means my youngest is next. And I’m moving back in with my parents.

GUESS WHO STARTED HIS NEW JOB??????????????????

I’ll give you a hint. He is not sitting in his spot on the sofa. Where he sat for the past year sending me these texts.

“Only 75 more pages to write for my thesis.”

“My teacher loves me.”

“I’m going fishing.”

“Sarah grounded again. Her room looks like there was an explosion”

“You’re my special lady. I’m gonna bake you a piece of chicken.”

“Good run. 18 miles. weather makes a difference. now exhausted.”

Yep! Maverick is back in the game. Had to give up his bench.

Cheers to Maverick in hopes that he loves his new job.

What does this mean?

Girls at school. Then crew. Maverick at work.

It means a quiet house. Cooler weather. Order has almost been restored to the universe.

I can open the back door and let in cool air.

Sit on the deck with green tea and read.

Wear boots to work.

Bake apple bread.

Do pull ups by the lake.

Just kidding. I don’t do pull ups in public. Or in private. But I did run around this lake with Maverick, yesterday.

And I read these three books in five days.

I endured Fashion Night Out last week in our DC store. DC is not New York. And DC and New York aren’t Tennessee. And I’m not fashionable.

But I love this sweater in our store. It reminds me of Charlie Brown and the fabric is so soft. Perfect for cooler weather.  It can be yours for $495. Call me.

Hiwassee River and University of Tennessee

We funyaked the Hiwassee river last week. Maverick, my sister, my oldest girl, and me. Working in D.C. causes my innards to yearn for nature. Not the nature that is boxed between congested roads and tall buildings but nature as God intended. The Hiwassee River in east TN is just that. Cold rippling water cascading between thick ripe forest. The scent of damp moss mixed with rhododendrons. Rocks. Big, small, flat, fat rocks. Invisible rocks that hold funyaks hostage. It truly was a perfect day.

My sister joined us in the journey. Usually, she speaks german and builds Volkswagens, but she chose funyaking in nature. It was a pleasure sharing a funyak with my sister. We laughed and gossiped and paddled and got stuck on phantom rocks.

My parents came out to watch us launch the funyaks. It’s nice to have a fan club.

Maverick and Emma with their war faces. They thought they would beat us down the river! Pulleeze.

So much for war faces, huh, Emma?

Here we are calling a truce while drifting the calmer waters. But it did not last long. My sister and I smoked them. Until we decided to take our time and allow Maverick and Emma to pass us. We chose serenity over war.

The next day we took the girls with my parents to tour the University of Tennessee. Not via funyak. Although, we very well could have funyaked on the Tennessee river because it backs up to the University. My youngest girl planned and made reservations for the tour. She has a knack for planning ahead. She has been looking at colleges since she was in middle school. During the past year she only looked at colleges in California. I said I would be happy to home school both her and her sister for college. We have six computers and four iPhones in the house. Hello the internet. Who really needs college?

My mother let it slip that she would help the girls with food and laundry if they attend UT. She mentioned spending money too. I told her to stop bribing the girls. They will be perfectly fine being home schooled.

I know I could do it. I can teach. I can lecture. I can grade papers. Prepare a syllabus. Help research. Share pencils and papers. Swap books. Highlight favorite parts in yellow. Order pizza at three in the morning. Isn’t that all there is to college anyway? Academics. Right?

The answer in this picture from Maverick, “Um, yeah. College is all about academics, honey.”  From Sarah, directly behind Maverick, “But, Mom, don’t you remember telling us about that fraternity? Which one was it?” From Emma, beside her sister, “You’re crazy, Mom. College is about rowing.”

College smollege. All that money. And time. Years spent away from real adults who love them and could home school them. Rowing? We can paddle the Hiwassee in nature any day. Fraternity? For boys, only, dear sweet GIRL.

What happened to the first grade school supply list at Target? Both girls used to jump with glee after purchasing school supplies.  We could do that if we homeschooled. We could have our very own school supply list. At Target. Just like the good old days.

But if they insist on college, I suppose the University of Tennessee is a fine choice. I’m going with you. Just know that.

Rook

Rook has been a part of our family for generations. My grandfather used to whistle when the bird landed in his fingertips. My grandmother would scold him for cheating. “Port, I’m not gonna play another hand if you keep this up! I’ll call a 180 misdeal if you whistle one more time!”  He whistled again and again. But somehow my grandmother managed to beat him.

Although my grandparents are no longer with us, Rook is alive and well in my family. Not much has changed. Four people gather at the table. We eat a lot of snacks. Popcorn. Cookies. Apple Pies. Smoothies. Chips. One person might have a glass of red wine. Ahem. Maybe even two glasses if the bird doesn’t visit often. Ahem.

This is how it went down last week.

No that is not Dick Cheney. It’s my Dad shuffling the cards. He was happy. He and Sarah were beating Mom and me.

Mom was our diligent score keeper. Then she did something to make Dad angry.

This is not Dick Cheney pouting. It is my Dad. He was irked. Because Mom gave me a small hint that she had the rook. She flapped her arms like a bird or rather, a pterodactyl.

Sarah saw her but did not care because she would have flapped her arms, too. From excitement because she never gets the rook. Ever.

I saw her and did my best to suppress laughter. Mom flapping her arms with false discretion is funny. Plus, I was glad to know my partner would support my amazing hand.  Dad saw her, too. He may have increased the volume of his voice a tiny bit causing blood to rush to his face. But then, Mom just looked at him with innocence.

“I don’t even have the rook! I was stretching my arms! Can’t a woman stretch when she needs to?”

They went back and forth in disagreement until Mom finally admitted her error.

“So I gave a little hint. It’s no big deal. It is my only counting card. So what? Let’s play!”

But Dad was finished. He decided he would not play with arm flappers.

Perhaps, my grandmother was watching from Heaven and managed to get inside Dad’s head. “Don’t take it, son! I put up with your father’s whistling for years! You don’t have to put up with an arm flapper!” But if my grandmother is in Heaven, she would not encourage ill feelings. She has likely forgiven my grandfather for whistling and she would say to all of us, “Enjoy the game!”.