eleven year old boy – Page 2

Rough Road

August 5, 2014August 5, 2014 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Divorce Diary, Mommy Mind3 Comments

It’s stressful driving at the moment. The countryside is changing rapidly from familiar to foriegn, the road is getting trickier to navigate, and there have been more than a few unanticipated detours along the way. But on I drive, hopeful that there’ll be a light in the window and food on the stove when I finally reach my destination. For now, that’s still a way off, so I need to stay awake and alert. I need my eyes on the road and a firm grip on the wheel.

The week hasn’t gotten off the best start possible, as there was a minor incident on Facebook last night between my ex and me, but hopefully my private email to him made better of it. The date of Elihu’s arrival home has changed a handful of times since we began to make plans months ago, and I expressed my frustration at it. I’d thought nothing of it in fact – it was tossed off as an FB shout out in the manner of any other mundane affair of everyday life… Most recently he had moved his return up a day. He says it’s been on the books for a couple of weeks (it’s one man’s word against the other; my date book tells me otherwise). Secondly, he took a last-minute job on Friday which precluded his staying here with Elihu and me for a couple of days, something our son had dearly hoped for. I didn’t even learn it from my ex himself – but rather from the woman with whom Elihu was staying as a guest for a couple of days (while dad had a gig out of town). My ex felt it a low jab that I expressed my disappointment on Facebook, and vehemently asserted that it did not accurately reflect the truth.

And so here we are, about to see each other in person for the first time in many moons, and bitterness hangs in the air. Nothing to do but be as civil as possible – sadly it won’t be the happy reunion of a family I’d hoped for, but there it is. He’s not happy with my blog because he feels that I air our private affairs here. (Kind of ironic, as it’s been quite a while since I’ve had much to say about him, and today it’s the very topic that kicks off a post.) My ex cites my previous mentions of him in this blog as inflammatory – as well as an example of bad parenting, because he points out that Elihu will one day be free to read all of it for himself. Yes, I agree, he will. And I have no problem with that; I don’t see that as bad parenting. I have never once asserted that my ex doesn’t love his son – nor have I proclaimed him to be a bad father. I have, however, expressed my experience of this divided family as I have seen it from my own perspective. He’s welcome to start his own blog on the subject if he feels so motivated. (If it means he spends less time scrutinizing this blog for perceived attacks, I’m all for it!) Now, back to life here at the Hillhouse… Plenty of nail-biting scenes here, no extra drama necessary…

At this moment, we’re all poised in a bizarre holding pattern as we wait to learn more about a planned intervention for my alcoholic brother. One childless day left in which to strike, and a narrow window in which to pull it off successfully. This eruption of anger from my ex at this particularly delicate and stressful moment in my life has succeeded in raising the already high-alert level of stress around here. I’ve tried to shake it off as best I can so that I can turn my attention back to this critical moment in my own inner circle.

It seems the stars have aligned themselves almost flawlessly in our favor; the motor in the minivan that Andrew drives is shot on account of having run dry of oil. It doesn’t seem it was Andrew’s fault – the car was old and leaked oil badly. Now it’s no more than scrap. Thankfully that leaves him without the ability to kill someone in a drunken, late-night drive back from Martha’s. In the past his routine has been to assist her with her nightly routine and to see her safely in bed, after which he hits her liquor cabinet and then drives home. I’ve long been sounding the alarm, but with no one else to take care of Martha, and mom having ownership of the vehicle and not wanting to make waves, I’ve been virtually powerless to stop the situation. Every day that’s gone by without incident has been, in my opinion, a minor miracle. This past week I spoke up on the subject once again, heeding that persistent internal nagging that had begun to grow louder in my head of late. Thankfully, this time it ended differently than it had in the past; in addition to the van becoming undriveable, my new friend and retired state trooper threw his hat into the ring and offered a sobering perspective on the potentially ruinous legal implications of a drunk-driving related incident. This tipped the scales – it got mom’s attention, and I immediately contacted a local hospital and began familiarizing myself with the process of detox and rehabilitation. Talk about timing. Everything seemed to be falling into place.

Introduced to me by a mutual friend on Facebook, Ken and I first met over a sandwich and coffee just about a week ago – and then proceeded to spend the next three days together. There’s no reading between the lines to be done, we’re simply friends and there’s been no romantic interlude taking place (despite the potential that might have to drive an exciting new story line. !) Rather, Ken and I have become as comfortable with each other as if we’d been friends since ‘back in the day’. Just a year apart in age, that alone gives us a lot in common. We’re both parents (each with an eleven year old son), both living in the wake of a long-term relationship which has come to an end. And the potential for humor in many a situation isn’t lost on either of us – the sight of a large, bald black man and me – a woman who doesn’t really keep company with anyone save her chickens – might be cause for a double-take or two in this neck of the woods. Yeah, ordinary situations have the potential to become comedic acts with my new friend hanging around. And thankfully, in addition to a good sense of humor, he comes with some experience in law enforcement, and he kindly offered his assistance in our plan to get Andrew help.

As Ken and I studied the situation and began to consider the many different ways in which to handle an intervention with Andrew, he cautioned me that his major concern was safety. He wondered if Andrew might have any weapons in his home, and went on to posit some possible scenarios that might unfold. I hadn’t really considered all the many ways in which things might escalate. But my brother is full of rage, and if anything threatened to push things to a head, this was it. When Andrew was at a doctor’s appointment a few days ago we decided to do a little reconnaissance on the matter of weapons – but learned that he’d kept his door locked. As serendipity would have it, I suddenly remembered a key I’d saved – not because I thought it was of any use, but because it was attached to a tag on which my father had written something. I’d tossed it in the junk drawer as a matter of sentiment, but when we tried it on the remaining door – it worked! (Thank you, dad.) Inside my brother’s house was a sight so decrepit that even this seasoned vet admitted to having seen few homes worse off.

How to explain it? If you’ve ever seen some of the currently popular shows on hoarding you may have some idea – but truly, it’s not possible to convey the filth, the state of decomposition of things organic, the layers upon layers of paper underfoot everywhere, the lack of space, the claustrophobic feel of tiny rooms cramped with piles upon piles… The walls were coated in sheets of cobwebs, each darkened with years of dust, black mold crept up over the walls, the air itself was more than oppressive, it was caustic, and Ken couldn’t remain in the place any longer than necessary, as his eyes began to tear and he soon became congested. We took a couple of photographs in case we needed evidence of some sort, he satisfied his concern for hidden weapons (of which there were none), and we retreated the way we’d come in.

As I write this, the events of tomorrow are uncertain, and the situation continues to change. Enter Chris, a man about my age who’s been friends with my family – and Martha too – since his childhood. A longtime member of AA and potential mentor for Andrew, I contacted him for advice on the situation. He graciously stepped up and reached out to Andrew just this evening, resulting in a near two-hour long conversation with my brother. There were tears shed, and thankfully, at the end of it all Chris felt there was a hint of hope. He said he’d seen a ‘light’ in Andrew’s eyes… Although we’d planned on an intervention the following morning, Chris urgently asked me to trust him – to give him a week with my brother. He insisted that Andrew had agreed on going to an AA meeting each night this week, and Chris felt this would create a better platform from which to appeal for Andrew’s participation in rehab. While I put my faith in him and gave him my approval for the week’s plan, my heart began to sink a little when Chris went on to say that Andrew ‘might not even need intervention after all’. Good Lord. Was Chris himself fooled by Andrew too? I know unquestionably – more than 100% so – that Andrew cannot live successfully on his own. Had Chris himself not warned me of the phenomenon known in AA circles as ‘the Pink Cloud’? (The point at which a recovering alcoholic mistakenly thinks he or she ‘has it’ and can now live without any help or back up because they feel so good again, so normal.) Had we not had that discussion? My ex husband and I had hosted Andrew in our home for a year and seen him recover, only to tank even more profoundly when he stopped taking his meds. Shit. It seemed we were gaining a toe hold here, I prayed we could continue the progress.

No news is good news sometimes. Guess that’s what I’m to take away from the lack of communication from mom this evening. As things stood a half hour ago, we were hoping that Andrew was going to an AA meeting with Chris this evening. Andrew must be driven to Martha’s, and as of this moment in time, he hasn’t shown up at mom’s in need of a ride. Mom will end up tending to Martha if Andrew goes to the meeting; no matter what, we’re both on the ready for whatever needs to be done… So as I sit here writing, I have no idea whether Andrew has gone to AA, or drunk himself into a stupor inside his shithole of a house. I’m gonna guess the former, but honestly I can count on nothing. As a relatively intelligent person I’m often tempted to think that I know what’s going on around me, but clearly I’ve missed that boat before. Lived for years thinking I knew what was going on in my marriage when in fact I hadn’t a clue. I’d like to think Andrew’s introducing himself to a room of fellow alcoholics as I write this now, but Lord knows things could’ve just as easily swung the other way. For the time being, I know nothing.

Still, I continue to hope for the best in spite of what history has shown thus far. There’s a lot more road ahead, and I mean to drive right on through this next challenging stretch – and then watch it disappear in my rear view window. There’s just gotta be a reason we’re all on this confounded, circuitous path, and I won’t pull over til we get there, goddamit, cuz I’m still convinced that the destination will actually be worth this crazy, unpredictable ride on this long and rough road.

Off Balance

June 15, 2014June 15, 2014 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Farm Life, Growing Older, Mommy Mind2 Comments

Since Madeline’s been gone, it’s just felt different around here. Elihu’s noticed it too. The small flock that remains is a rather dull bunch, as something about the attack on the coop the other night has the birds behaving a bit less like themselves – and ironically, perhaps in some cases, a bit more like themselves – than before. For the most part the gals all meander about as they’ve always done, only we notice they’re not quite as brave as they used to be. They don’t take over the porch (a frustrating but endearing activity), they don’t seem to make it as far as their once-favorite flowering quince bush, and in general they stay uncharacteristically close to the house most of the day. Austin, our slightly neurotic guinea fowl, deprived the past few months of his best pal Maximus, has been acting quite nasty to his coop mates, challenging poor Baldy, pulling every last feather from his royal rear end, as well as running after the hens in fruitless circles as they cluck in distress. And since Madeline – the one rather calming element in the the group – has been gone, he has become something of a bully. Elihu and I both know we need to get him some hens, but emails to local chicken friends turn up no prospects. He’s becoming a drag on the flock, and his bursts of incredibly loud calls of ‘chank chank chank’ (I suppose him to be expressing some inner conflict – at least he can get it out, good for him in that regard) that sometimes last for five minutes at a stretch and permeate every closed window with ease – well, this is becoming much more than an occasional nuisance.

The absence of our goose Maximus has changed things too. We hadn’t lost any hens to predators over the past two years, the time since we’d had him. But with the coming of warm weather, we’ve had a handful of losses. No coincidence. I guess a two foot tall white gander made an impression on the neighborhood fox and raccoon. With that imposing figure no longer standing guard in the door of the coop at sunset, the critters have nothing to dissuade them. And no one to slow them down, either. Poor Bald Mountain did his regal best the night we lost Madeline; he had put up something of a fight with the attacker, and was covered in new, open scratches and was limping even more than before (in the past he’s lost a spur and returned home quite beaten up after fending off potential invaders). The back half of Baldy’s comb had been bitten off, and though the wound was beginning to clot, he was covered in fresh blood when we first saw him.

We came home shortly after dark to a message on our phone machine from our neighbor. He had discovered Bald Mountain on his front door step. Putting the story together it seems that after the confusion of the attack, he’d ended up fleeing, running through the woods and across the field to our neighbor’s house, where they found him on the stairs of their front door, seeking safety. Neighbor Chad was more than a hero, and wrestled the rooster onto his lap, driving him home on his four wheeler. But by then the damage was done. Madeline had been lost in the skirmish, and Azalea, as we later came to learn, had hunkered down in the darkness for her survival. What a good boy is our Bald Mountain, what a fight he must have given. How stunned and impressed we were at how far he’d traveled to save himself (it is quite a distance). And that he sought out a house, a light, something he clearly recognized to represent the safety of home – it all has us even more grateful for our poor old fellow. Now, if only Austin, that damned nuisance of a guinea, would let poor Baldy alone.

It occurs to me, as I look about at my tail-less rooster, my psycho guinea fowl and my frantic hens, that this is no longer a harmonious homestead.

It’s also becoming a drag to go out these days. To get dressed, to make myself presentable enough to go before people. Somehow I made it through the last few weeks of school, but these days, like a blossom bursting forth overnight from a tiny bud, I too seem to have expanded my own previous dimensions in a very short time. Regret mounts when I think back to last summer; I inhabited a body of a sexy size 10 (for me this was a huge personal victory) and yet now I find I’m surfing Ebay at 2 am searching for fat shirts with empire waists and stretch waist pants, some even size 16. Sixteen? When the fuck did this happen? I ask myself over and over as I find myself unable to button the waist on the few remaining ‘fat’ pants I find in some long-forgotten storage bins. Seriously, how did I get here? Oh, I know how. The stress of this past year really got to me – the new music I’ve needed to learn and play, the unpredictable and horrific panic attacks I’ve suffered with (yes, they are no mere annoyance, they are irrational yet real experiences of pure terror) and the relentless nature of single motherhood have called for a deep soothing, one that only entire tubs of hummus and double portions of curry chicken with a half bottle of red wine can provide. Yeah, I’ve been riding this train for a while now, and now it’s finally arriving at its destination.

The kid”ll be gone on Tuesday for a good month and a half stretch, and finally I won’t have to concern myself with the preparation of three meals plus snacks all day long. I have no new music to learn, no one to perform for. ‘Me’ time is finally here. But then there’s that catch – the one my astute child himself brings up when I talk about how much ‘progress’ I intend to make in his absence. “I know what you’ll end up doing, Mommy” he says, his voice dripping with cynicism, “You’ll say how fat you are, you’ll look at all the work you have to do at the Studio and all the stuff to do around here, you’ll feel sorry for yourself and then drive to Stewart’s and get a bag of chips and a bottle of wine. Then you’ll tell yourself it’s just for tonight. But it won’t be.” Really? Am I that bad? I wonder. Am I that obvious? Crap. With a month to myself stretching before me, I feel hope and despair rising up inside of me all at once. Ich.

I haven’t done my taxes yet this year either. Filed for an extension. But I’ll need to file for another soon. Plus I need to re-apply for food stamps, something which in of itself is very much like filing taxes. This is support we desperately need at this point; living these past three months without that help has been pretty brutal. Between having to eat and wanting things such as a bike, a bike rack to carry said bike, orthodontics and bass lessons, it’s been tough. Time’s been at a premium too, as with all the outside work my new job requires, I just haven’t had the time to sift through a year’s financial information. So this too is something I have on my growing to-do list for the time ahead. And then I remember the bag of chips, the bottle of wine… Yeah, this kind of a desk-bound project is likely to inspire a desire to consume empty calories. When you’re at this end of the spectrum, it’s kinda hard to remember what it was to live at the other end of it – it’s almost impossible to remember what it was like to be the super diet-conscious, portion-conscious, yoga class-attending person that you once were long ago. But I’ll find my way back, eventually. I hope.

There is also the garage to deal with. Looks like a bomb went off inside. The detritus of a long, unforgiving winter. My office is filled with bins marked ‘to file’, ‘to archive/scan’, ‘to do, medium importance’, ‘to-do, urgent’ (now that’s kinda funny, the bin’s been sitting there for months, untended), piles of Elihu’s art need to find a home, piles of clothing I can no longer fit into sit, waiting, while mice leave tiny turds all over them and begin to pull at the threads… Water continues to seep into my basement, and a white, fluffy mold has burst through my paint job of a couple years ago, sending a funky smell (and millions of funky-smelling spores too, no doubt) into the air. Piles of hand-me-downs sit, waiting to be put away, as well as do a thousand other tiny artifacts of our life. I know that my situation is not so far from most folks, and certainly I am not the only single parent with an extra heaping of life on their plate. But still… I just shake my head in deepest wonder…. How does everyone else do it?

Elihu and I spend a fair amount of time on the streets of Saratoga, watching the people walk past. He busks, I sit on a bench, read and watch. And I wonder about each one of these people. They all look so well-tended, so healthy. They wear trendy clothes, they sit outside at the hip restaurants and spend $200 on dinner without batting an eye. How do they do it? What do they do for a living? Do they have bins of un-filed crap at home like me? Yes, they’re out strolling the boulevard, looking fine, but are they happy? What kind of thoughts do they have? What motivates them? Do they feel fulfilled? Empty? Searching? If one didn’t ask these questions, it would seem that everyone is doing just fine, doing exceptionally well, thank you. I search their eyes for answers, I lean in to overhear bits of conversations in hopes of finding answers. They give no clues away. Perhaps their basements are moldy and full of piles too. Maybe not. They just look so good on the outside, there’s no telling.

I think back on the chapters of my life in which I felt the most promise, the most fulfilled, the most in balance. And, ironically, for all the moaning I’d done last year about turning 50, I can in retrospect say that for about half that year I felt the best that I had in a long time. And the time before that in which I remember feeling really good about things was when Elihu was a toddler – I’d successfully lost 55 post-baby pounds, I had a husband, a child and a home I loved, I was singing regularly in front of a top-notch, swinging big band, and life felt wonderful. Before that, it was a time in Chicago when I was playing in tons of bands, on the move all the time, making music I loved and being nearly constantly in the company of dear friends. These were the times I felt things to be most balanced in my life, and thank goodness I have those memories – they remind me of how it felt, how it might feel once again, if all goes well. It may take a little alone time to consider the new recipe I need these days to find myself living a balanced life once again; it’s my hope that a little reflection will re-invigorate my quest and bring some answers to light.

I know it’s important that I use my time wisely and get stuff done – but I also know it’s important to find peace in doing simply nothing at all. And, somewhere in between, lies that perfect balance. Here’s hoping I can come close.

Pokemon Party

June 13, 2014June 14, 2014 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Mommy Mind, Pics3 Comments

School’s out, we’re still saddened by our recent loss of Madeline, and Elihu will be leaving home in a few days for the summer, so we needed something to lift our spirits. Given the drug-like hold this silly Pokemon culture currently has over the fifth grade boys, I thought it might be nice to give em a chance to really get it out of their system – trade and play and talk and strategize until they were sick and tired of it all and could finally give it a rest. (Yeah, right.) Plus the mother who’d banned us from her child’s life granted us a respite for this ‘special occasion’ and allowed her son to attend. I guess she felt safer in that her child would be in a group. I also think it made her feel safer because our intended activities were limited to Pokemon. So when Phoenix and Sawyer asked me if I’d fry up some bugs for them, you can imagine I was more than a little concerned that this might be construed as a ‘bad parenting choice’ by this woman. She’d already cited three violations of mine in the parenting department – this blog included – and I was on parole, as it were, so I didn’t want to blow it. But then again, heartbreaking as it has turned out to be for my son, her son will no longer be attending the Waldorf School, so this child won’t be part of our daily lives in the future; the bug thing probably won’t even matter in the end. Plus she’d made it clear to Elihu, when he asked her about it the other day, that this party would likely be the last such occasion on which the two boys would get together. (I do believe she softened just a bit this evening when she retrieved her child, but who knows. This is a person who went five months politely turning down our invitations to play dates, each time blaming very likely-sounding culprits. She only told me the real reason when finally pressed in an email from my ex. Who knows. She always acts just nice as you please, so it’s impossible to read her. This time she seemed to have gotten past our history, but again, I can’t know anything for sure. Ich.) Still, I do hope the bug thing won’t come back to haunt me. We did manage to keep this particular guest downstairs and busy with video games while three of us fried up some bugs in the kitchen, so I’m pretty sure he was none the wiser. I hope.

I hope also that all the boys felt today was a success, and that this same group of seven boys can do it again later this summer after Elihu returns. I really hope so. Elihu and I will both keep our hopes modest and our expectations low, because we both understand that life doesn’t always turn out the way you expect it should. And as natural as the friendship between him and his one pal may be, it just may not be in the cards for them. (Pun not intended, but cute anyway.)

Here is a little window into our rainy afternoon with seven boys and some two thousand Pokemon cards…A drawing of Charizard on the door tells em – yup, this is the joint.

Table’s clear and ready.

Elihu’s getting warmed up…

Phoenix, too!

Elihu and Sawyer get down to it right away.

The pretzel rods were a hit. Very cigar-like, don’t you think?

The paraphanalia is serious.

I mean really serious.

Thomas presents a gnome card. Perhaps very Waldorf, but not very Pokemon.

A little break for some jamming…

…after all, Pokemon or not, they’re still Waldorf kids

Serious gaming, but still lots of fun and laughs going on.

Intrigue, too.

Bug break!

Just as delicious as Phoenix remembered them to be. And this time he has an easy convert in Sawyer, who also gave fried grasshoppers a resounding thumbs up.

Bugs, however, were not on the menu for supper. Wish I could say this was our chicken – but ours are all so skinny and measly – plus after reaching a certain age they’re also kinda tough and stringy and really only good for a pot of soup. Here we’ve got spicy, Cajun-esque chicken on the left, oregano covered and vinegar-marinated Greek style on the right. Both super tasty, and served in pocket pitas with lettuce, cukes and hot sauce. Thankfully, the crowd was pleased.

Wrangling up the gang and getting them to actually sit for supper was a feat. But we did enjoy a nice little moment together. Good eaters and happy boys. Pleasant dinner company.

A little post-dinner media time before moms come to take the boys away. We hardly ever use this wonderful new tv – it made me happy to see it finally being enjoyed.

A heartfelt hug good-bye. Not sure when, or if there’ll be another visit.

Bye, stay dry!

Now to the three boys remaining. The twins will be spending the night. They’ve enjoyed this extra bit of time as I’ve put this post together. But it’s waaay late, and I know damned well that just getting them to get into their pajamas and then getting them to brush their teeth and then – whew – finally getting into bed, this itself will likely take another half an hour. Lest I piss off another set of parents with my less-than-optimum parenting choices, I’d better sign off and get those kids settled down for the night. This is my first time hosting a sleep over. It feels rather like a rite of passage. But it aint over yet…

Ok, so I got em in bed. But now how do I get them to actually sleep? Caught em in the act here being silly goofburgers. I’m not sure I quite know how to do this sleepover thing yet. Think I’ll be asleep before them…

Sad for Madeline

June 11, 2014June 12, 2014 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Farm Life, Mommy Mind, Pics2 Comments

Ok, so we’ve had probably a hundred birds by now, most of whom have had names, most of whom have daily provided us with a generous supply of fresh eggs, and most of whom have ended up on the stove in a big pot surrounded by carrots and onions. So we know what it is to experience loss. Knowing that it’s coming makes it easier, and bonding less with the gal or guy who’s destined for the freezer makes it easier still. And conversely, knowing those certain, endearing qualities peculiar to one chicken alone, and having both named and loved that particular animal perhaps just a a bit more than all the others, well, that is another story. That makes it hard to see em go. Really hard.

We both just kinda thought our eldest and most beautiful hen Madeline would live out a long and happy life here with us. We knew that one day she’d die, yes, of course we did. But we always thought it would be us to find her, years hence, one morning, lying lifeless in a corner of the coop on a bed of hay. Having evaded a good dozen or more animal attacks and weathered hundreds upon hundreds of cold, wintry nights (some five years of em), we just always thought that our dearest Madeline would be the last to leave, and the least likely to succumb to disaster.

The funny thing is, she probably met her maker just about as I was insisting to our friends last night that yes, when it got dark our chickens were honestly in great peril – and especially these days, as we’d both seen for ourselves the enormous resident raccoon trying his skill at the seal on the feed bins. We had to get home, it was dark, and it was becoming more urgent that we get going. We knew we were pushing it. But we’d pushed it before – I guess just not so recently, and certainly not since our new neighbor moved in. Elihu and I have tortured ourselves with a million ‘if onlys’ over the past twelve hours. And until a couple of hours ago, we continued to hold out hope that we’d see her once again, just coming around the corner as usual, as if nothing at all had happened.

Sometimes that does happen. And in fact, it happened this morning. Last night, when we got home, we discovered two hens missing – Madeline and Azalea. We’re not terribly attached to Azalea; she’s a rather run-of-the-mill red sex link (her coloration linked to her gender), and she isn’t from the original bloodline here. And this morning, when I went out in hopes of experiencing one of those rare moments when one girl finally returns from an overnight hiding spot, sure enough, Azalea came around from the far side of the garage, sputtering and making out of the ordinary sounds, approaching the flock with caution. Azalea came, but not Madeline. My heart sank and I felt shame for my instant disappointment. Where was my savvy survivor Madeline? Why was Azalea coming back and not our treasured Madeline?

Now our surviving flock is rather mundane looking. Only two remain that are related to the first matriarch, Molly. All the gals we currently have are red, black or white. (We cannot forget or overlook our common-looking but delightful favorite Thumbs Up). Ah, but our Madeline – she distinguished herself from the very start as a unique bird. From the eye makeup she wore to the beautiful spangled pattern on her rust-red feathers to the tiny, compact rose comb atop her head – all that plus an aloof, queen-like quality, modest and dignified but yet practical and street-smart too. Sometimes the entire flock would be scattered far and wide in the aftermath of an attack, some bloody, some missing feathers – some just plain missing – and yet there Madeline would be, perched on the very highest rung, safe, quiet, keeping her cool in the eye of the storm. We had such faith that it would always be thus. That it no longer is – it’s simply too much for us to understand. It brings to mind all sorts of existential questions, from whether or not we should even be eating meat to how this afterlife thing might work for animals to lessons we might learn from our loss. We want to memorialize our eldest hen by learning something important from this heartbreak. But what?

Elihu doesn’t cry often, and it took him an hour or so to process what had happened. Finally, he sobs. Me too. Even our flock seems to feel the loss in some way as they all huddle as closely together as possible on the lawn chairs. We both know that the raccoon was just doing his job, that he too needs to eat. That all things happen as they should. That Madeline is at peace. Yeah, we know all this, and we go round and round trying to convince ourselves that it’s all ok. Finally Elihu pounds the bed with his fists and screams. “Damn that raccoon! I do want him dead! I do!” He tells me that he wants to eat the animal. That it’s symbolic. And important. “Look it up, please” he begs me. And I do. I find a video of a fellow cleaning and cooking – and eating – a raccoon. And why not? If it’s a healthy, wild animal, why not? Certainly I can understand Elihu’s need for vindication – and perhaps even connection with his treasured hen. After all, we’ve always believed that an animal should not die in vain. We’ve always felt that eating an animal was in some way honoring it. And since the raccoon ate the chicken, well, I guess Elihu feels he’s showing her his respect. And until this raccoon is on his plate – and in his tummy – I don’t believe my son will feel the matter closed.

“You could just cut off his tail and save that“, my mother suggests, hoping her grandson might accept the gesture instead of the culinary adventure. “Yes, ok” Elihu agrees, “…and then I’ll eat him”. This is a kid who had me fry up crickets and grasshoppers for him last summer and went on to ponder the benefits of a planet that might choose bug protein over large animals… There’s no changing his mind. Now exactly how we achieve this act of revenge I’m still not quite sure. I do begin to hatch a plan: a humane trap and a visit to the local farmer who does in his own hooved animals. This guy hunts too. He likes Elihu and might even get a kick out of helping him out with his project. I don’t know. It’s just so much, so soon. I’m up for the adventure that Madeline has set before us, but still, it doesn’t make this day any less sad. Elihu might just be searching for a way to ease the heartbreak, and for all I know he may cool to the idea in a day or two.

You know the way some things are just such a part of your everyday life that you never bother to record them? You don’t take photographs of that smiling fellow at the dry cleaners who’s been a part of your life for years now, you don’t snap pics of the same places you pass every day on your commute that help to make it the familiar part of your life that it is… There are so many things one just takes for granted. For heaven’s sake I kept dozens upon dozens of journals as a girl, and while I was studying piano with the most interesting and iconic woman for much of my youth, I didn’t so much as even mention her in passing in any one of those journals! How is that possible? All I wrote about was being young and misunderstood. Ich. And while I snap my share of pics – hundreds, in fact – I find that as I go thru my archives, I have very few of Madeline. I guess I just always thought she’d be around. Just yesterday Elihu and I admired her as she nestled down into the ground for a comfy dust bath. I’d thought briefly to get the camera, but then decided not to, as I’d have all summer to get a picture of her doing her thing…

Dear Madeline,

Thank you for being such an important part of our homestead. Beautiful, demure and smart from the start, you’ve fed us and charmed us and kept us happy for years, and for this we thank you and promise to keep you in our hearts forever. At last, no more endless, cold winters or traumatizing animal attacks for you! Hope wherever you are now, you have a flock to keep you company, delicious bugs to keep you fed and cozy dust bowls in which to relax. We love you so and miss you like crazy. The Hillhouse will never be the same as when you ruled the roost.

Love, Elizabeth & Elihu

P.S. This is a really crappy way to begin summer vacation. Sigh.

Our Madeline.

She may have seemed cool and indifferent at times, but she always did the right thing. Here she’s taking a turn on the coop’s clutch of eggs. You can see her pretty spangled feathers. She has a black ring around her eyes too, perhaps not easy to see here, but trust me, she was a looker. If it can be said of a chicken, she had a great sense of self; she was a no-nonsense hen. Were she a human, she wouldn’t be getting as sentimental over all of this as we are. Oh, dearest girl, we shall miss you for a very long time.

Shifting Time

June 8, 2014 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Birding, Low Vision Life, Mommy Mind, Pics, Waldorf Life2 Comments

We’re two days away from the end of school. Tomorrow morning Elihu’s class will move to their new, sixth grade room, the symbolism unmistakable to us both as they move downstairs to join the middle school-aged children, leaving the younger grades upstairs. Elihu’s teacher is also leaving, and a new one (whom, btw, we are both incredibly excited about) is arriving. Lots of shifts going on in a small amount of time. Plus the seasons have changed now too; Spring feels to have formally concluded with a glorious and moving graduation ceremony for the Waldorf twelfth graders on Friday night. The days are finally clear and sunny, neighbors buzz over on four wheelers for impromptu visits, frogs can be seen each night hopping across the roads, and gone is the ever-present demand on us to fulfill academic commitments. And man, it feels friggin great.

Still in his pajamas at breakfast, Elihu enjoys wearing the comfy, cozy socks that he knit for himself in handwork class. I am so impressed. I can make a killer Halloween costume, but textiles, threads and such leave me confused and intimidated.

Elisabeth multi-tasks; talking on the office phone while ringing the school bell to start the day. It makes the most resonant and lovely sound (it does not induce stress as the mechanized ones in large schools do) and if my wishes could be so easily granted, all schools everywhere would have em.

The fifth grade visits Congress park to identify and draw some trees.

Turns out the eleventh grade is here too, studying cloud formations.

Elihu and a pal refer to their tree guide.

Elihu shows a giant seedpod and guesses it might be from a Catalpa.

At the end of the trip, fascination with ducks takes over.

Back at school in the morning light. By nine o’clock the kids here have already done a lot, and yet the other area schools aren’t quite started for the day. We start early, but we also end early. In the beginning I dreaded the new and earlier schedule, but as it turns out I really like it better.

Elihu gives his book report, his final large work for the year.

The second to last eurythmy class I’ll play with my son for a while. I don’t play for the sixth or seventh grades… Phooey. I’m getting sentimental.

Same room, new event. The twelfth grade will give a performance for all the other grades. Seating is tight – and creative, as every available spot, window sills included, are used.

Have never enjoyed playing another piano more. Smooth and rich like butter with just the perfect amount of high end.

And look what I found on the piano one morning this week – along with two chocolate kisses! It was so very touching – and no one is copping to it. Wish I knew who to thank…

A performance of a poem about a wizard and a lizard.

And again, another use of the room for the weekly school assembly in which all grades come together and sing.

At recess Cally draws horses and dragons while Fiona chats and Elihu dreams.

This is the other building where the high school meets. Complete with pond and ducks!

It’s time for the children’s final formal goodbyes to the graduating class.

The event takes place in the high school’s eurythmy room. On the left is the fifth grade, making their presentation gift to the seniors, seated on the right. Abigail was also their teacher – from first through eighth grade – so this is a particularly sentimental occasion.

Another bittersweet moment as Abigail says her final goodbye to Elihu in the fifth grade classroom as his teacher.

After school it’s back to the park for more duck action. See how easily he just picks up this baby.

Is there anything cuter than a duckling??

He can never get enough.

Of course he always shares his finds. He is ambassador to the bird world.

A sweet little snippet of the duckling’s release and the girls’ response.

My legally blind child spots the mama duck on her tidy nest under a tree, something I and every other person (and dog) in that park seemed to have missed. Hiding in plain sight, I guess.

Happy ending – we learned yesterday that her clutch hatched successfully!

The historic Canfield Casino, which stands in the center of Congress Park. The Waldorf graduation ceremony is held here. (The duck pond is just beyond on the right.)

A view from across the pond of Elihu catching ducks, and an audience stopping to watch. There’s a little-known song by Cole Porter called “Municipal Park”, the refrain of which extols the virtues of a pleasant, picturesque city park. I can never help but sing it over and over to myself when we linger here. This place really is kinda like something from a storybook. So perfect it’s almost comic.

The view Eastward of the Casino from the duck pond. My father’s Festival of Baroque Music performed Bach’s B minor Mass in the great hall many summers ago.

This place is silly idyllic.

Elihu peeks into the almost completely hollow ancient willow tree. He tells me he sees something. I, of little faith, take a picture and confidently declare there is nothing inside but a few pieces of trash…

…but a closer look proves him right, and me wrong. I shoulda known. (Look more closely at the dark spot. It’s a duckling.)

Two of my favorite colors together. In fact, when I first learned that Elihu had not only low vision but was also completely colorblind, I sat in the lobby of Children’s Memorial Hospital in Chicago, sobbing because my son would never know what it was to see magenta and spring green next to each other. Kids without hair on their heads were walking past me, wheeling their IV poles alongside them, and there I was, crying about something so ridiculously petty by comparison; something which actually turned out to be entirely irrelevant to my child’s ability to thrive in the world. Without benefit of color, my son probably notices the beauty around him more keenly than most people. It may even be part of the reason he is so observant. Life if full of paradoxes and irony.

Later that evening, we head back to town for the graduation ceremony. It appears Saratoga is seeing some of its summertime residents return again for the season.

We run into a large rabbit en route. Strange.

Little Cooper lost a tooth during the ceremony and shows off the new hole.

The class of 2014.

Richard leads everyone in a verse of the school song (which he wrote and arranged).

Julia and Alex play and sing a piece for their contribution.

Eryn sings. Of course. !!

And so does the whole class, most of whom have been together since first grade. Not a dry eye in the house.

Eryn receives her diploma from Abigail.

So Eryn. Yay!

The reception.

The Casino is possibly the most elegant venue I’ve ever seen.

Elihu and Eryn, both children of teacher Abigail.

Elihu hangs with the big boys – these eighth graders will be in high school next fall. Wow.

Ahmed surprises Elihu with this maneuver. He is a charming, spirited young man.

Before we joined grandma for supper, Elihu and I stopped to hear this awesome duo rocking the hell out of their portable truck bed setup. My batteries died right after, but I was able to get a couple of seconds of their sound… pretty cool, I think…

Short, but kickin, right?

We wrap up the night with some busking. Rule of the street is if you sit in with someone you don’t put out your jar – you do it for the joy of a jam. After some scouting around for his new spot for the year we were given a good suggestion by a magician we met who was packing up for the night. After sitting in with these folks, Elihu ended his night in the new spot and made a good take. Thanks, Aaron, kind of you to suggest it!

I can never seem to judge just when to end these short vids. Ended just as the guy was getting Elihu’s name… that can sometimes be a train wreck, so I stopped it there. As it turned out, he got the pronunciation right and thanked him for joining them.

So, how do you pronounce this crazy name? El ih hyoo. Not as intuitive a pronunciation as you’d think. Even to me it kinda looks like it might well be ‘El I hoo’. And that dipthong – the ‘hyoo’ part – that has many folks whose first languages aren’t English rather confounded. His Pakistani grandfather still calls him ‘El ee hoo’. I kinda thought I’d simply avoid the whole thing and he’d just be an Eli in ‘real life’, but he himself told me at the age of four that Eli was not his name. His name was Elihu. And he meant it.

It seems my son knew himself pretty well for a four year old, and he still has a good sense of self for an eleven year old kid too. Good thing, because it will serve him well as he continues to navigate through the many shifts yet ahead in his full and wonderful life.

May Begins

May 4, 2014May 4, 2014 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Farm Life, Mommy Mind, PicsLeave a comment

“Whoah” Elihu laughed, looking around, “Did I sleep here last night?” He was truly surprised to be waking up in my bed. I told him that late last night, as I’d been sitting in my chair at the computer, he stomped into the room, grunted, and then proceeded to get into my bed – and on my side, no less (if he’s to share a bed with me, he knows I’m pretty particular about me being on my side). Instantly, he was deeply asleep. More like he was asleep the whole time; he can get fairly animated while sleepwalking and talking, but this was dramatic even for him. But there was no use making an issue of it, this night I wouldn’t be sleeping on my chosen side, so I just slipped into bed on the other side and turned out the light. We spent a little time after waking just goofing around, making our hands into characters, inventing silly scenarios and goofy little jokes. It made me so happy to see him the way I’d always known him. There was no hint of the offended eleven year old who’d been hanging around the house this past week. In fact, even the night before had been entirely delightful. Mom, Elihu and I had gone to the fancy Wishing Well restaurant for his annual birthday dinner of frogs’ legs and had had a wonderful time. (Man, he gets so fired up each year for em, and I don’t think there’s any dish on the planet he relishes so.)

It had been a pleasant evening the night before, and it looked like we’d have a nice, easy-going day before us too. His old pal Keithie was coming over, and we had little planned. I had some practicing to do, some work in the garden and a few domestic chores inside, and the idea of having a house full of inspirational young boy energy appealed to me. The weeks to follow are going to be chock-full of end-of-year projects, plays and assemblies. It all kinda starts tomorrow, and I can’t really say I’m energetically there yet. Hopefully this weekend will be restorative enough that I make it through relatively stress-free. There is, however, one major event that is approaching for which I can hardly wait – one which I hope will change my life in a very important way: we are having a dishwasher installed!! It’s a Christmas gift from my mother, which has now become my birthday gift. The thing arrives tomorrow, and on Wednesday, my 51st birthday, carpenter Josh will install it. I still don’t believe it. I’ll miss my junk drawer for sure, but I won’t miss wasting upwards of two hours a day doing the blasted dishes. This is literally a dream come true for me. Seriously, where would I be without my mom? I cannot wait to see how life feels post-install…

Elihu waits all year for these delicious delicacies…

He requested escargot, too

Please, mom, no pictures now. Let me enjoy my food here.

Dark shot, but here we are. Our hostess, Ganna, who is from Ukraine (and who remembered us from our visit to the Wishing Well this past New Year’s Eve), took our picture. We ate in the living room of the old house-turned-restaurant, carpeted and cozy and lined with bookshelves.

After dinner, Elihu played his djembe for a bit with the gal playing in the piano bar. Mom looks on.

Bartender David (known to patrons as “Hook”) is a drummer and surprised us by joining in on the bongos.

A little mandolin in the morning

and then some fun with the two chicks…

Elihu has stereo chicks – each one nestled up close to an ear. It tickles!

Elihu and Madeline regard each other

Madeline is one of the oldest. She was hatched on Elihu’s 8th birthday. She is the only hen with eye makeup. She looked a lot like a sparrow when she was born and still has a distinct look. Unlike Thumbs Up, Madeline always retains her dignity and composure and does not allow herself to be treated as a mere plaything.

In the current vernacular of the fifth grade boys: this is just so wrong.

I cannot imagine a time that my counters won’t be covered in drying dishes, but it’s coming soon!!!

Time to March past April into May!

The Hillhouse

The Journey of a Mother and Son

Tag: eleven year old boy