A labor of love

Naming a baby is one of the fun parts of having a child, at least most of the time. The naming of our boys was fun, yes, but also a bit arduous. Thanks to a family tradition of giving children two middle names, and preferring that each name sounded good in English as well as French, it was a struggle. (For instance, I always liked Henry, but wasn’t so much a fan of Ahn-ree)
And then getting all three names to have a nice rhythm when added to the last name always felt like a complicated puzzle. After coming up with twelve boy names, and having used up most of our male family names, we were scraping the bottom of the barrel if this baby had been a boy.
But a girl name! Wow, did we have a lot of girl names stored up! The problem now was whittling them down. But the name we kept coming back to was Caroline. Not only is it elegant and classic, but we thought it was a lovely way to honor my mother, Carol- a jewel among mothers and grandmothers.
I like to consider the meaning of a name as well, but I was looking up meanings for Caroline, there were two that kept cropping up- the Italian meaning “feminine form of Charles“, and the German meaning “manly one.” That put me off a bit. The meaning of a name isn’t necessarily a deal breaker for me, but Manly One?!!
But then I found the French meaning- “Song of Joy.” Why the same name can have so many meanings, I do not know. But we are sticking with the French on this one, because it’s perfect.
Then came the middle name. We decided on breaking with tradition for our daughter and going with just one. I had always planned on using Marie. It’s my mom’s middle name as well as my own. But last year my sister decided to use that name for her daughter, and then a cousin used it for their daughter, and I started to feel like there were other names in the world that I wouldn’t mind using. I liked the flow of Caroline Marie, so I tried to think of similar names. I finally narrowed it down to Margaret, another classic and elegant name, but the hubby voted on French again.

Marguerite- “little daisy“.

So now we can’t wait to meet Caroline Marguerite. The hubby would like everyone to call her Cah-roh-leen, with a nice throaty rolled R. I am aware, however, that we live in the Southern United States, and will be content if she goes by Caro’lyn’. (I may be calling her ‘Lina’ for short.)

So now that that secret is out, I want to show you what I have been making for ‘little Lina.’ With all this name business going on, I couldn’t help imagining a christening gown as well. I made one when my oldest was born, but it was very simple. It was as un-girly as I could make a long white dress, and have used it for all four boys. But it was time for a new and more feminine looking one, and I wanted to try something a la Alabama Chanin.

I started with a supersoft white jersey, but when I saw the same fabric in a lovely pale rose, I decided to line the white dress with it.

I used a very basic, sleeveless, a -line pattern, and did a little hand stitching around the neck and arms.

Next, I wanted to stencil it, but couldn’t decide what motif to use, until we chose her middle name. Then it was decided- I designed and cut out a

‘little daisy’ stencil.

I traced it with disappearing ink all around the bottom edge of the dress.

Then it was lots of outline stitching for a while.

I decided to pull out all the stops on this one, and added little pink buttons and lots of beaded accents, so it has a nice weight to the bottom.

When it is held up to the light, it looks much more pink.

At the end, I thought it needed a little something else, so I added a simple satin sash.

And a little, pale pink sweater, just in case.

So there it is. It was so fun, it makes me want to start dress making on my shop again. I have made a lot of little girl clothes over the years, but never one that has brought me so much joy. A true labor of love!

17Mar2014

The Great, Small House Challenge

Posted in Daily happenings, Home and Garden by Climbing Vine Clothing

I don’t generally consider myself a whiner, but if there is one thing that makes me sigh and wish for better things, it is the size of my house. At 1000 square feet, two bedrooms and one bath for six people, it is just too small. I know I am not alone in feeling this. Pinterest knows I am not alone in this. Ikea knows I am not alone in this. I hardly know anyone who sighs and wishes their house was a little smaller.

On good days, I know there are advantages to the smallness. Less to clean, less to maintain, less to keep warm in the winter and cool in the summer. “Remember the pioneers!” I say. “Remember the sod houses and the one-room log cabins and the shanties on the prairie. Remember it could be worse.”

Still, I can’t help those days when I want to scream if I bump into one more crowded corner or have one more box from an over-full closet fall on my head. I get very tired of waking up from those dreams where I open a door I never noticed before and find a whole new wing to my house- empty, clean, uncluttered. I try not to think about the other big, empty house we still own, waiting to be finished…. some day.

And now I have another baby on the way. And she’s a girl. And it may be frivolous, but I have this longing to create a sweet and pretty little space for her- a place I can call “the girl’s room”. There would be flowers and ruffles involved.

I go through this cycle fairly frequently- wish, sigh, pity myself, then get sick of all that and do something about it. I think I am done moaning now, so on to the challenge! I thought I would blog about it, just to help with motivation and keep myself on track and out of the slough of despond. I have some time to complete this project since the baby will be in my room for a little while, but I am going to take advantage of that wonderful nesting instinct that tends to kick in about now and get started.

Here is what I am dealing with. I am showing you the four corners of boys room in all it’s daily glory- unmade beds, unfolded laundry, a floor that needs vacuuming and general clutteriness.

Corner #1

The closet. I can’t tell you how many times I have tried to reorganize this space. I have been thinking of trying to fit a crib etc. in this space, but I have no idea where I would put everything else.

Corner #2- The homeschool corner

Yes, my boys have a piano in their room. We used to have it in the living room, but it made everything so awkward and crowded that I moved it here, where it fits much better. I think it is going to have to stay. The top could use some rearranging, to say the least, and I am debating over the little white table and chairs. The boys do most of their school in the kitchen anyways.

Corner #3

The bunk bed. Thankfully all the boys still fit on this bed, and love sleeping together. There is literally no other space I can fit it, so it will be staying where it is, but hopefully straightened up a bit. Hah.

And last but not least, corner #4.

Currently we have a camping cot in this corner for extra sleeping space. My sister left it here when she moved and the boys love sleeping on it, but it isn’t absolutely necessary (besides which, it is just plain ugly.) We also have, as you can see, a deep freezer. Again, there really isn’t anywhere else this could go, and I really need the extra freezer space. The boys room does tend to become my all purpose room as well- the basket on the floor is some of my extra sewing stuff.

So there you have it. Is it possible to find a space for my little girl, and a girly space at that? Am I asking the impossible? Perhaps. But a girl’s gotta try. Suggestions would be welcome!

13Feb2014

The Great Cake Competition

Posted in Cooking, Daily happenings by Climbing Vine Clothing

So it’s almost Valentine’s day, and I thought I would change things up a bit in my cooking section, by posting a blow by blow account of the contest my hubby and I had against each other last weekend. We were having a Valentine’s dinner/fundraiser at our church under the guise of a cake auction. The hubby and I both decided to donate a cake, and the contest was just between the two of us to see who could get the highest bid- merely to make things a little more interesting for us, and of course, to increase marital harmony at home.

We hunted high and low for good recipes, but in the end, we both chose a cake from the same web-site- http://www.annies-eats.com/. I know from experience that her cakes not only look amazing, but taste fabulous as well. The challenge, of course, would be to imitate them. I was fairly confident that this contest would be a cake walk (pun intended) since, well, my hubby had never made a layer cake. But a few minutes into the process, I could see that he meant business.

I mean- look at that towel over his shoulder, and the perfectly greased and floured cake pans.

I had a few chances to snigger, like when I told him to be careful measuring cocoa powder because it can be very messy-

but once his cakes were in the oven and he started in like a pro on the salted caramel Swiss butter cream, I was starting to sweat.

I mean, how was I supposed to compete with that much butter?

I quickly checked my own recipe and was relieved to see that my recipe used just as much butter, if not more.

There were a few more hopeful moments, like when his caramel started to harden too quickly. But he pulled off a spectacular buttercream and slathered it generously between the layers, ready to set in the fridge all night.
(notice his forethought as well. He made himself a mini cake for sampling.)

And ladies, here is an indicator of true marital bliss. He did all his own dishes.

The next morning, I was up bright and early. It was my turn, and this was no longer a light-hearted affair.

I had decided on a chocolate cake as well.

But I had a secret weapon.

Raspberries baby.

I melted and mixed and pureed.

I mean, how can you beat that color?

And there is just something about the word ganache.

It was touch and go for a while as I assembled the three layers. But I remembered what my mother -a cake maker extraordinaire- had taught me at her knee, and I persevered.

At last, mine was ready to set in the fridge for a bit as well.

Then it was the two of us together, as we neared the end, smoothing and scraping and adding the finishing touches.

The tension in the room was palpable as I willed my glaze to gloop down the sides just so.

And then with a final flourish of raspberries on mine and a sprinkling of sea salt on his, we surveyed our handiwork.

Unfortunately, I forgot to bring my camera to the auction, and so I was unable to document the thrilling show down between our two cakes. I have to admit the thing was rigged, since my cake went up last, and who was going to outbid a pink cake made by a lady who had just announced she was having a girl after four boys? But it was a close thing, and made for a very memorable Valentine’s. Now maybe this weekend we can go somewhere for cake and actually eat it too.

6Feb2014

Inquiring minds want to know

Posted in Daily happenings by Climbing Vine Clothing

Ultrasounds always make me nervous. I have had some very bad experiences with the ultrasound machine, as
I have noted on this blog a few times before.

The first ultrasound I ever had was after the loss of our first baby at ten weeks. It was not a pleasant experience.

With my first boy, they were really worried that his head was way too big, so they sent me to all kinds of specialists, just to scare me. Turned out to be nothing.

My next series of ultrasounds were a little bit of hell on earth, ending with the loss of our little girl.

It took all of my courage to ever go near an ultrasound machine again with our next boy. He was fine.

With boy number three, everything was good until the end. And then those ominous words, “Oh dear, this baby is breach. You are going to need a C-section.”

The ultrasound for boy number four was a complete shock, seeing as I wasn’t even sure I was pregnant, and found out I was really five months along. I was numb with disbelief for a while after that one.

All that to say, I was not looking forward to this morning’s ultrasound. A little bit of nerves, a little bit of dread, a little bit of guilt for hoping it wasn’t another boy. But after my appointment, I may have to change my view of that little piece of technology, the ultrasound machine.

It’s a girl.

8Jan2014

Uncle Tom’s Cabin

Posted in Childhood, Daily happenings by Climbing Vine Clothing

One of the things that saddens me about living so far from where I grew up is the fact that I can’t share experiences with my children that made my own childhood special. They don’t know what it is like to always live near grandma and grandpa, to have access to a wealth of playmate cousins, to be surrounded by the astounding beauties of this part of the country. I am reasonable enough to know that even if I could recreate my own childhood for my children, it wouldn’t be the same. (They are all boys, for one. They are bound to see things differently.) Nor can I deny that there are things about where we live now that I prefer to my homeland. Nonetheless, when offered the chance this vacation for a short getaway to a favorite childhood haunt, I jumped at it. I couldn’t wait for my kids to experience Uncle Tom’s Cabin. (Go ahead and snicker. That’s really what we call it.)

Uncle Tom married into our very large family when I was about 8. He brought to the family things that we had never known- a speed boat and jet skis, a beautiful waterfront home where we celebrated 4th of July, and best of all, a quiet cabin on a nearby island. We spent a lot of time there as children, exploring the Puget Sound, discovering the wonders of phosphorescence on midnight boat trips, collecting shells and learning to ignore the slimy rocks and the biting cold of the water in our determination to swim.
And when we were older, it became a tradition to spend a few days there to de-stress after a big wedding. Thankfully the tradition still holds.

I was so excited for my boys to have their first ferry ride.

I was also excited that the forecast was for a sunny weekend. To my dismay, it was cool and cloudy when we got on the boat. But as we drove off the ferry, shafts of sunlight were making their way through. When we turned down the last hill towards the coast, the last of the clouds had disappeared.
Anyone who has ever lived in the PNW knows how exciting a thing sunshine can be. For the kids, it meant jumping out of the vans and heading straight to the beach for shells and wading and boat rides, no matter that it was January.

For dad, it meant finding a chair and promptly falling asleep.

And for the rest of us, it meant long hours of sitting and pondering the light on the waves,

seeking adventure in the ubiquitous tangles of driftwood,

and hiking nearby hills for the view.

But best of all, it meant someone decided to show off.

Despite a late night of sitting around the fire roasting s’mores and stargazing, I set my alarm early the first morning, determined not to miss the sunrise, and to catch some quiet moments before eleven children came tumbling down from the upstairs loft.

As I came through the living room, I was astonished by how beautiful the scene was. I couldn’t believe that a place could be more beautiful than my sometimes exaggerated childhood memories.

But what really brought the tears to my eyes was the sight of my first born, in his pajamas, standing on the steps leading down to the water, completely entranced.

I gave him a moment, then quietly went out to join him, and we shared the experience.

19Dec2013

My Mountain

Posted in Daily happenings by Climbing Vine Clothing

(FYI, there will be much nostalgia and waxing lyrical in this post. You have been warned)

I am home again. Even though in a few short years I will have lived more of my life elsewhere, the Pacific Northwest will always be home. And not just because most of my family lives here, although that is always the main draw to return. There is simply something about the land- the tall evergreens, the many fingered inlets of the Puget Sound, even the gray and overcast sky that feels a part of me.
And then there is the mountain. It is something I can never be sure of seeing when I come for a visit. It may be hiding behind the clouds- Or I may not be in the right place at the right time to catch a glimpse of it. When my in-laws came for a three week visit, they never saw it. They even drove up to the national park, and still it hid itself. I have heard visitors say it is a myth, but those same skeptics have been known to pull over to the side of a busy freeway, get out of their cars and stand with mouth agape when they are finally faced with it’s reality.
I once passed an older couple in a parking lot when I visited one summer. They were standing silent, holding each other by the hand, staring in wonder. As I passed, one of them asked me in a whisper if that could possibly be snow on that distant summit- snow in the middle of July! They were from Florida visiting family, and they had never even heard of Mount Rainier (let alone seen a hill taller than a hundred feet).I told them a little bit about it, and then left them there, still unmoved and still holding hands. I felt such a pride in the mountain, like it belonged to me, like I had some right to boast of its beauty.
I know many others who feel the same. One of my friends is quite possessive of ‘her mountain’, and when we visit, she shows us around as if it is her private property. (Granted, her ancestors were some of the earliest settlers there, so she has some right.)

On the flight home, I was keeping an eye out the window for the changes in scenery that would indicate that we were drawing near. There is usually a good chance of seeing the mountain from the seat of an airplane. I watched as we flew over the Columbia River, the dry terrain of Eastern Washington, the smaller foothills. But being distracted by restless children, I forgot to look until the captain suggested we glance out the left window. I was afraid the plane was going to tip sideways, so many passengers got up to see.

I wished for a better camera, I wished for a better angle, I wished the glass in the airplane window wasn’t so dingy, but I took as many pictures as I could. And as I snapped away, noticing Mount Baker to the left and Mount Saint Helens to the right, I began to hear people around me sharing stories of the mountains- relating the first time they had seen Rainier, various adventures they had had hiking the nearby peaks, where they were when St. Helens erupted. I was tempted to turn around and tell the people behind me that my hubby had actually climbed Rainier and that St. Helens had erupted the day after I was born (a piece of trivia I have always boasted about for some odd reason). There was a sudden camaraderie on the plane, like there often is after a traumatic event or a big storm, when neighbors who never speak to each other come outside to compare stories and damage.
It struck me what an odd thing it was, how a piece of natural beauty can draw people together like that. How the awkwardness of sitting squashed between two complete strangers in a tin can in the sky, and trying not to touch elbows can be suddenly overcome by the beauty of nature. It also struck me what a wonderful gift God has shared with all of his creatures, whether they believe in him or not. These glimpses of grandeur, of glory, of near perfection touch something alike in all of us- a longing to be near our Creator, to see His handiwork, to take pride in Creation, even though we really had nothing to do with it. It is God’s everyday gift to us all, and as my sister said, as she posted a picture this morning,
“It just doesn’t get old.”

7Dec2013

A step back in time

Posted in Daily happenings, Laura Ingalls Wilder by Climbing Vine Clothing

I’m not sure exactly what kind of post this is going to be, but I wanted to a share a bit about the enchanted afternoon we had this week. I don’t usually post photos of my kids on this blog, but I had some fun playing around with my camera, so bear with me.

We were invited, by a friend in real estate, to tour a new housing development about twenty-five minutes from home, something I was not remotely interested in doing since I am rather busy these days. I couldn’t understand why the hubby so particularly wanted to show this place to me, but he said the boys would love it, and I, as a lover of all things Laura Ingalls Wilder, might find it interesting as well. I thought this was a strange statement, seeing as we were talking about a housing development, but we packed some snacks and took off.

We headed out of the city, out into the more rural countryside that winds around the foot of the mountain near which we live. I figured the hubby just wanted to show me some cool architecture, and since the baby had fallen asleep, I planned to stay in the warm car and take a peep from the windows. We drove down a gravelly lane and through an old gated entrance that looked as if it had been there at least 150 years. After a few more windings, I suddenly felt as if we really had gone back 150 years.
The hubby was grinning as I looked around, confused. Where was this “housing development”? It reminded me strongly of a place I had seen before, and then it struck me how much it looked like the movie “The Village”. Scary forest monsters aside, the designer of this place seemed to aiming at just that- an authentic village from yesteryear. We drove past beautifully crafted homes nestled in the woods,

An “old” blacksmith shop,

covered bridges,

and an old fashioned school house (which actually serves as the main office)

We got out and walked through the quiet woods, nestled in a peaceful valley next to a babbling brook.

We crossed the brook

We discovered a small pond that could be navigated by means of an ingenious, rope-pulled boat.

So we did what must be done and pulled that rope.

By this time, it was hard to believe we hadn’t gone back in time. It felt so dream like and peaceful, and I began imagining what it would be like to live there, surrounded by quiet nature, my boys able to run and have adventures to their hearts content instead of confined to a small inner city yard. What would life for me be like? Would I have to wear a calico skirt? Learn to milk a cow? I told myself I would be willing to do those things if it meant living in a place like this- especially a place that had such an awesome tree house.

And the king of all rope swings

But not all things are perfect.
As enchanting as the little bridges were,

they made it a little too easy to access the water, as my two youngest found out to their very wet sorrow. I hadn’t thought to bring a change of clothing since I didn’t know we would be having such adventures, so daddy’s big coats had to suffice.

But there was balm even in this, since we had brought tea and cookies and managed to find the means to light a roaring fire in the big outdoor fireplace.

And what do little boys like better than fire?

If only I had thought to bring marshmallows, but I suppose they wouldn’t have had that ring of authenticity. I mean, what would Laura Ingalls Wilder say!

5Nov2013

One of those days…

Posted in Daily happenings by Climbing Vine Clothing

It all started when I awoke with that ominous little tickle in the back of my throat that could only mean one thing. The nasty cold my baby had been nursing for the past week had finally caught up with me. I took a hot shower, gargled some salt water, and plowed forward with the day, sniffling over my coffee. Breakfast went well. The boys were quiet and content as there were biscuits with sausage gravy involved, and feeling heartened, I decided it would be a good day for baking. Ever since I got a vitamix blender for mother’s day, I have been trying to grind my own flour for homemade bread. I had fallen a bit behind on that particular ambition of late, so I decided it was time to restock my sandwich bread and bagel supply.
I settled my oldest at the piano to practice, gave my second boy some math worksheets to fill out and set to work myself. My bread recipe involved oatmeal, which needed boiling first, so I set it on the stove, all the while hollering out corrections to the boy on the piano. After the third time he made the same mistake I called ,
“Don’t forget the octave jump at that part, buddy!”
“What?”
“Don’t forget to jump!”

Then my second boy had a math question, and after I answered it, I realized the piano had gone silent. I went to check, and there was my first born, jumping vigorously around the room.
“What are you doing?” I asked sternly.
“You told me to jump,” he replied, trying to look innocently confused.
Then I gave him a long lecture about being a smart aleck with mommy, and returned to the kitchen, where the oatmeal was merrily boiling all over the stove.
After cleaning that up, I got going on the bagel dough, which I decided to make a double batch since I was going through all the trouble. I was just grinding the last batch of flour when my blender died. I started panicking, wondering what I might have done wrong to break such an expensive piece of equipment. I went to check the computer for troubleshooting ideas, and I saw I wasn’t connected to the internet. With relief, I realized I must have just blown a fuse and went to the breaker box. It didn’t look like any of the switches had flipped. I called the hubby. He asked if I had checked the breaker box. Duh. He told me to check again. I did. He told me he would stop by in a bit to check it out. So there I was, three batches of bread half done, the house growing cold because the heater was connected to the same problem, and homeschool efforts out the window. There was some kind of a marble war going on in the kitchen, so I called a cease fire and declared a book reading time.
The two bowls of yeast I had proofing on the counter were overflowing by the time the hubby came by. He opened the breaker box and flipped a switch. Everything came right back on, and he made one of those pleasant statements like,
“I thought you said you checked the fuses.”
There wasn’t much point in telling him that I had, so he went back to work and I returned to grinding my flour(and my teeth). I forgot I had left the blender switch on high, but even so, that was no reason the lid should have exploded off, showering the kitchen with wheat berries, and accompanied by a horrific grating noise. Now I was sure I had broken it. I quickly turned it off, and cautiously peeked inside the pitcher. Nothing but wheat. I dug down a little deeper. Something round and blue emerged. It took me a second to realize it was ammo from the boy’s marble war- and of course it was their biggest blue masher-marble. No one was about to ‘fess up to that crime, with mommy glowering down upon them like a thunder cloud, but they did meekly go back to their books so I could finally finish my dough. Thankfully the vitamix still worked.
The oat bread was rising, as well as my first batch of bagels when I remembered I had started a load of laundry to soak and still hadn’t closed the lid. I closed it and went back to finish my last batch of dough. Two minutes later, yet another loud noise was sounding- from the washer this time. I ran and opened it up. All looked well. I poked around in the murky water and lo and behold, something blue again. But this was much bigger. It was my dust pan of course, wedged down around the agitator. And, as before, no culprit discovered.

By now it was lunch time. Everything bread related was finally in a bowl and rising, the kids were happily eating, and I just wanted to put my cold to bed. But the bread had to be done. The first batch of bagels was in the oven, but when I dumped out the dough to form the second batch, it was a heavy, yeast- less lump. I turned around and saw the other proofed bowl of yeast on the counter, still waiting patiently to be added. I had forgotten it in the midst of the washing machine, dust pan kerfuffle. I went ahead and tried to mix it in, but unsurprisingly, those bagels didn’t turn out too well.
The boys were running crazy after lunch, and in a fit of high spirits, my second boy decided to lock his brothers out of the house. I was absentmindedly telling him to let them back in when a loud crash sounded from the bathroom. Two of my boys were trying to get back in through the small bathroom window. They managed it, but also succeeded in knocking down my favorite vase, tearing down the curtain and breaking the curtain hardware. While yelling at the tangle of arms and legs on the bathroom floor, the baby could still be heard, locked out and screaming. I went to let him in, but it was too late- he had already peed his pants. I was so tired after all that, that I decided to take a nap while the last loaves were baking.

I didn’t sleep too long, and felt a little better when I woke up. The boys were begging to go to the park, since it really was a glorious day outside, so I told them we could go as soon as those last loaves were done. I went to check on them, and realized that someone ( I guess I can’t blame the boys for this one) had turned off the oven before going to bed. So I just grimaced and turned the oven back on. Unsurprisingly, those loaves didn’t turn out too well. By then, I just wanted to get out of the house, so I threw the boys in the car, grabbed some drinks and my sewing box, so I could at least accomplish something with my day, and headed to the park.

It was so beautiful, sitting in the gentle breeze, looking at the bright fall colors and stitching away, that I started to relax. Then my oldest came over and said,
“Mom, I think beautiful days must be the worst for the Devil, because everyone has to love God on a day like this.”

I thought how much wisdom there was in that little statement- how maybe the devil had been distracting me with the mundane all day while I ignored God’s beauty around me. I started to smile. Then the little sage dropped a can of seltzer at my feet which exploded all over us, and the baby got stung by a hornet. We went home.

As I fixed dinner tonight, I pondered over whether there really had been darker forces at work in my day. Or perhaps some days are just like that, even in Australia. But all things considered, I suppose it doesn’t help anything that I am also pregnant.

18Oct2013

Engagement

Posted in Daily happenings, Uncategorized by Climbing Vine Clothing

I wrote a while back about my sister, about her long road of struggle and grief, her indecision about her future, and then her sudden and unexpected romance. That romance has blossomed quickly and took a giant leap forward this week when they announced their engagement. I am so excited for them and am praising God for such a surprising happiness. I have loved hearing their tale, and if it were mine to tell, I would record it here. But all of this has caused me to take another walk down memory lane to the night of my own engagement, and I thought I would put it down here for posterity, so my boys can know what a romantic their father was.(and is)

The hubby and I met the last week I was in France (another story worth telling). We hit it off pretty quickly. I can’t quite say it was love at first sight, but it was pretty darn close. It was helpful that we were both enrolled at the same college the following fall, or we may never have gotten further than that last crazy week in France. We corresponded that summer, and then met back up at college, and were seriously dating from day one. We talked big about graduating and finding careers before we got married, but after two years of staying up way too late talking in stairwells and getting very little studying done, something needed to give. We started talking about bumping that marriage thing up a bit.
It was getting near to Christmas, my sophomore year. We were preparing hard for the annual Madrigal Dinner concert series that the music department put on every year. But amidst all the singing and holiday busyness, I started noticing my roommates acting suspiciously, whispering together, or ceasing their conversations abruptly when I walked in the room. Then my favorite ring went missing. I knew I had left it above the sink, and was worried that it had fallen down the drain. My roommates wouldn’t give me a straight answer about whether or not they had seen it. But a couple of days later it magically reappeared. I was curious.

The Madrigal Dinners ran for three night in a row, and what with finishing up classes and finals and packing to go home for the holidays, I forgot my suspicions. The first night of singing went well. Then came the friday night performance. Steve took my sister as a date that year, since I was up on stage, but I noticed he kept leaving the hall. In fact, he missed most of the dinner, and I couldn’t figure out what he was doing. My two roommates had decided not to go to the dinners that year, and asked, since they said they were feeling left out of the festivities, if we could go downtown after Friday night’s performance for coffee and dessert. I was feeling pretty exhausted, but told them we could go, and afterwards, tried to persuade Steve to go as well. He was reticent since it was so late, but a big group of people decided to go, so he joined in. We all piled into two vans and started towards down town.

About five minutes down the road, we saw flashing lights. There was a bad accident, with a flipped car blocking both lanes. We stopped, and I suggested that maybe we should wait and go the next night instead. Steve spoke up against this plan in a surprisingly vehement manner. He told my roommate to turn around and we would find some back roads. I was surprised at his determination since he hadn’t really wanted to come in the first place, but asked no questions.

We got there eventually and sought out our favorite coffee shop. It was a cold night, and I wanted to sit inside, but everyone else in the group insisted we should sit outside and enjoy all the holiday lights. I was so tired I didn’t argue, but sat talking at a separate table with Steve, sipping my coffee, and wondering about the frantic search that was quietly going on in the group. I noticed my roommate feverishly digging through her purse, and others surreptitiously crawling under tables, hunting for who knows what. But I asked no questions.
I was beginning to relax and enjoy myself as I watched the festive horse drawn carriages pass by, when one suddenly pulled up right in front of us. The driver asked politely if anyone would be interested in a carriage ride. With surprising eagerness, my roommates, sister, and everyone else in the group jumped right up and crowded in behind the driver. Then they started hollering at Steve and me to join them. I just laughed since the carriage was already ridiculously overcrowded. I said we would be fine, staying put, and Steve agreed. They all seemed really disappointed, but I kept waving them on until just then, another carriage pulled up right behind the first. Again we were offered a ride. My friends continued to urge, we continued to decline. I mean, I didn’t even know how much a carriage ride would cost, and Steve said he was pretty sure he didn’t have enough. I was a little annoyed when my friends kept hounding us to take it, and then a little worried when Steve finally gave in and helped me in to the carriage.

Off we went, clipping along the beautifully lit streets, and there I was, all the while hissing in his ear about how we were going to pay for it. He kept telling me we would figure it out, so I tried to relax. Occasionally we saw the group in the other carriage in a side street, or crossing the intersection in front of us. Every time we saw them, they were hanging eagerly out the sides, waving and watching us intently. I was still completely clueless. I can’t even remember the conversation we were having, when suddenly he got down on his knee. I thought he was joking and told him to get up, but he persisted in kneeling. And there he was, proposing, and I, like an idiot, was wondering how on earth he had a ring in his pocket when he didn’t even want to come downtown in the first place.
In all the confusion, I finally realized that this was the real thing and I managed to stammer a happy yes. As I said it, there was an audible sigh of relief from the driver! He turned around grinning and apologized, explaining that the last time he had a proposal in his carriage, the girl had said “no” and the rest of the drive had been a silent and awkward misery.
The ride came to an end as we neared the coffee shop again, and there was the other group, waiting on the curb. Steve gave a thumbs up, and they all burst out cheering. In my dimwittedness, it was only then that I realized the whole thing had been a set up- my roommates wanting to go to coffee, the ‘random’ group of people who joined us so as to fill up that first carriage, and the perfect timing of the second carriage. When we got back to campus, I discovered that just about every student and teacher there was aware of what was happening that night, but me. I’m still not sure how I missed all the clues.
Later, as I kissed my fiancé good night, something heavy fell out of his pocket. He sighed as I bent to pick it up. It was an exquisite little black wooden box, lined with velvet and containing a beautiful piece of quartz, with a slit in the center just big enough to hold a ring. The bottom of the box had fallen apart, and I looked at him, puzzled. He then explained to me why he had missed most of the dinner that night. He had been sneaking out to the carpenter’s shop to put the finishing details on the little ebony ring box he had been working on. But the wood had proved too hard for nails, and gluing hadn’t worked much better. He finally managed to get it to hold together, and entrusted it to my roommate’s purse for the drive downtown, but it came apart along the journey. Thus the frantic search at the coffee shop for a missing ring, and a broken box in his pocket.
I still have the quartz and the pieces of that lovely little box, even though it never got to serve it’s intended purpose. I take it out occasionally, just to remember the crazy, wonderful hilarity of that night and all the crazy, wonderful years that have followed, riding side by side together.

7Oct2013

Ebenezer

Posted in Daily happenings by Climbing Vine Clothing

We had a visiting pastor at church today to help our church celebrate a big anniversary. It just so happens that it was my hometown pastor and it just so happens that he reiterated many of the truths from his sermon that I posted on here a while back, about remembering God’s faithfulness as a spiritual duty. How we ought to raise our Ebenezer, our stone of remembrance, in those important places. I was thinking today about how God helps us sometimes to see those important moments, by sending us a friend.
I’ve mentioned before that I spent a year studying abroad in France. It was right after I graduated from high school. I was the mature age of 18, and it was my first real experience away from home. You might now think this is going to be a tale of how I went off to sow some wild oats in a foreign country. That after a childhood spent in a conservative Presbyterian atmosphere, I would distance myself as far as possible from such a “repressive” upbringing. But as the French say- au contraire mon frere. I loved the way I was raised- it suited me just fine. By nature a homebody, and afraid of the big wide world, I was content to imagine a life of staying right where I was, serving the church, and maybe someday doing something really crazy, like opening a bakery. It’s hard to explain what my high school experience was like, but for all intents and purposes of this story, all you need to know is that my nickname was “The Nun.”

How I ended up agreeing to go to France was the real wonder. In hindsight of course, I can see God’s hand, but suddenly, and without exactly knowing how, I was living in a seminary dorm room with two friends from my church, in the South of France for two semesters. The intent was to learn the language and broaden my horizons a bit. I’m not sure I was ready.

You see, it’s hard to broaden your horizons when you’re determined to maintain a life as close as possible to the one you left behind. And when you want to show your parents that you can be a responsible adult, even when they aren’t around. It was hard to shake the rigid self discipline I had imposed on myself all through high school. Don’t get me wrong- self discipline is a good thing, but there is such a thing as too much of it, especially when it comes to money.

I had been given a monthly allowance from my parents to cover my expenses- rent, groceries, etc. Every month my friends and I would go to the atm in the centre ville and withdraw what we needed. Rent was split between the three of us, but I decided early on that I would control the food. I picked an amount for groceries that I thought was reasonable, and I made sure that we maintained, or even stayed under that budget. I did most of the shopping and most of the cooking. I’m not sure why that control was so important to me, but it was.

So there we were in the culinary capital of the world, and instead of taking advantage of it, I bypassed the corner boulangeries and bought cheap, dry super market bread. And did we explore the wonderful world of French cheese? Nope- the most inexpensive camembert if you please- and don’t throw the rind away, it’s wasteful. I remember one of the girls asking if we could buy fresh milk instead of the strange tasting boxed milk you could keep indefinitely on the pantry shelf. I refused to spend the few francs more, and don’t even think about asking for ice cream.

I’m not sure why the girls put up with my penny pinching regime for so long. I’m pretty sure one of them kept a secret stash of goodies she could nibble on when I wasn’t looking. I do know that they were increasingly annoyed with me. When someone gave us a box of chocolates at Christmastime, I looked at the box and suggested that instead of eating them, we should save them for later. The girls looked at each other, and then tackled me to the floor, pried open my mouth and shoved a few chocolates in.

Who knows how long I would have continued imposing my miserly system on everyone around me if my friend’s sister hadn’t come to spend the second semester with us. I haven’t asked if I can use her name here, so I’ll call her “Jane.” I distinctly remember one of the first few nights “Jane” was with us. She suggested getting a couple of beers to go with dinner. I quickly let her know that beer, or anything like it, was not in the budget. She looked a little surprised, but said nothing more. The next night however, she bought herself a beer for dinner. I was annoyed.

Not long after that, we were discussing plans for a trip to Italy during one of our school breaks. I wasn’t sure I wanted to spend the money, but the girls finally talked me around.
I would have enjoyed the trip far more if I hadn’t been so worried about the money we were spending on hostels and train tickets. I remember mortifying the girls at a restaurant by stuffing the last piece of our dinner pizza in my pocket so I wouldn’t have to buy lunch the next day.

Things came to a bit of a crisis when we were in Naples. The girls wanted to visit the island of Capri, so I grudgingly called my mom to see if I had enough money on my card to buy a ferry ticket. I know, I know, what the heck was wrong with me? She said she would try to get to the bank and put a little extra in. The next morning, I went to the atm. The machine was acting up and spit my card out a few times before finally eating it. And it wouldn’t give it back. So there I was in the middle of Italy, without any way of getting money, and having a minor panic attack. I went back to the hostel, and the others tried to reassure me that I could borrow money from them until I got a new card, but this was no comfort to me. That feeling of control I had been so carefully hoarding was suddenly gone.

When we got back to France, I felt I needed to redouble my efforts to make up for lost ground, but I couldn’t get much worse without starving us to death. One evening, I was on my bed, literally counting coins and sighing with worry when “Jane” walked in, took one look at me and decided it was time to give me the talking to I needed.

I don’t remember all of the things she said to me that night as we talked about my Scrooge-like tendencies. But amidst all her kind and compassionate admonition, what struck me the most was that without fear, she called my bluff. I’m not sure anyone had ever done that before. I was “The Nun” you remember. All goody-goodiness and self discipline. She tore down all the high sounding arguments I had built up about my ‘good stewardship’ and ‘responsibility’, and revealed them for what they were- a deep selfishness towards others and a lack of faith in the providence of God. It was reproof so gently given, but it felt like a sharp slap in the face, and I’ve never been so grateful. It was the act of a true friend, a friend who was brave enough to help pull me out of that hole and set me on a better path.

I can’t say that I was a completely changed woman overnight, but it was a start. Oh, and I did go out and buy her a beer.

Climbing Vine

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Ebenezer

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