Kwaheri Than

Kwaheri - is swahili for goodbye, or literally for joy. My cousin Than, who has been doing grad school in Missoula for the past two years (and spending a great deal of prime studying time at my kitchen counter streaming Manchester United games and drinking highly sweetened chai), moved from Missoula today to return to Kenya. He has been a regular part of life at 706 Howell over these past two years, a sometimes soap-employee, a master at the grill, a great uncle to the boys and a willing wrestler with them, a cheerful pusher of the jogging stroller on our runs. When next I'm hiking with the kids and have to carry both boys downhill, I will miss my walking companion and fellow pack horse - just as I will tomorrow when I set out only one mug for midday chai.

So, Than, if you read this, all joy to you, kwaheri. You'll be missed. The kettle is on. Rooney just scored for ManU. We'll see you soon, Mungu akipenda.

Our Fair City

Missoula is a happily situated town, the beauty of which seems to present itself when one gets a bit above it. Tim and I took the boys hiking up Mt. Sentinel last weekend. The trail leaves from the University and in a series of steep switchbacks climbs toward a huge concrete "M" - the city's most obvious landmark (could there be a more literal use of the term?) - fixed to the mountain's side.

Mount Sentinel is the far eastern boundary of the Missoula Valley and the town spreads out, ambling west, below the pitch of the mountain. The view from there is a good one and the boys had a great time picking out parts of their known world - the airport in the distance, the bridge over the train tracks near our house, the park they like to frequent, and the river winding the length of the valley. It is good somehow to see our world from above, to see how expansive the land and how nestled the town, to see the valley bend away in the far west where our vision cannot follow.

My boys on the M

Missoula's north hills are tinged yellow with arrowleaf balsamroot, a bright, silver-leafed member of the sunflower family. It grows in squat clumps all over the hills and is in full and glorious bloom on south facing slopes. Today I took a run and saw the lupine are soon to follow. At this time of year I can't keep away from the hills. I tell Tim I'm going to take a short run, I'll be back soon, but then I find myself veering toward the hills expectantly. Next week, when whole hillsides are full with deep blue spires of lupine blooming aside bright and broad arrowleaf balsamroot, when the meadowlarks are singing, and the rain is pulling across the far end of the valley in dark squalls, I might just have to sit down and give the rest of the day up for loss (or gain).

In other news - Tim invested a hefty sum in the Flowbee last year. You may remember the flowbee commercials from the mid 80s. This special "As seen on TV" item is a hair cutting system that requires the use of your vacuum. I was skeptical, but now after having more than made our money back by not spending on numerous children's haircuts (and several adult ones as well), I have converted to the Flowbee way of life. Thursday night was hair cutting night at this house - the boys all got fresh dos as did Than. So there's my product testimonial - if you have squirmy kids and a good vacuum, make the investment.

Flowbee

Happy Easter

A bright Easter here in our corner of the world:

Egg hunting:

A Corin moment:

A Seth moment:

Ice cream break:

Seth with his princess posse:

Spring break has just passed us by. On Wednesday, I was on the phone with my friend Ann watching a squall dump sleet on our doorstoop and making plans to meet up somewhere indoors when Ann said, through a sigh, "This is such a misnomer. It is neither Spring nor a break." All week long, we dodged intermittent snow storms and drizzle on our outdoor forays. And Seth spent the later half of the week dodging in and out of a fever and sniffles.

This weekend however, made up for it in spades with a glorious, long awaited, riot of sun. The whole town seemed to be trying to restock on vitamin D in one compact weekend as people with winter-pale legs donned shorts and hit the trails, nodding to each other with wide, giddy grins. We took a picnic to the park, broke out a yardful of sports equipment (soccer balls: 4, wiffle bats: 3, wiffle balls: 7, batting tee: 1, bikes: 4, frisbee: 1 bright orange cones: 6) and generally moved between sunny patches.

While the boys played tackle frisbee in the yard, I made good use of Saturday afternoon's sun by running up Waterworks, along the ridgeline, and down the other side to drop in on Kara for tea. Along the way, I saw mountain bluebirds flitting bright against the straw-colored roll of the land, and stopped to watch a red tail draft upward. Later, Kara and I walked up the side of the hill behind her house, and watched the evening creep across the valley. Somewhere near us, a western meadowlark trilled its lilting song, leaving me foolishly, dreamily, happy. More sun is forecasted for the week, as is school for the children. Two facts which tickle me with their promise of an embrightened return to routine.

Indoor Camping

Watching a Bald Eagle

Gray Day at the Creek


Seth bidding adieu to snowman remains

March Snow

And so it snows.

Pictures and more

I just spent this evening with my dear friend Ruth. We looked through photo albums from Choteau, Montana where Ruth was born in 1909. Our friend, Patricia, unearthed the albums, an ancient suitcase, and an exquisite handbag from Ruth's attic today. So tonight, Ruth and I looked through one of the albums. She had not seen it in years. In this album, all the photographs were taken in Choteau between 1903-1913. It was interesting to sit with Ruth as she looked through pictures of her hometown, the jail was here, she'd say, we lived down this street, over there. The pictures were full of men on horses, men posing in front of a herd of sheep, men sitting atop a wagonload of wool, a dozen horses harnessed and ready to pull out of town (25,ooo pounds of wool was written below the picture in Ruth's mother's careful hand). There were photographs of Charlie Russel paintings, pictures of Flathead Indian encapments, and landscape photos of gulches and canyons, waterfalls and peaks.

It was incredible to open this book with Ruth and see bits of what she saw, see the care her mother had taken in composing shots and laying out the album. When I came home, I started back to work on an essay I've been fiddling with about growing up in Ipswich and, while trying to think of the way to describe the pleasing simplicity of First Period houses, found myself thumbing through photos. I hadn't meant to mimic with myself what I had just witnessed with Ruth, and, oddly enough, didn't think about the concurrence until later. But the activity of looking at scenes so familiar made me realize the odd impossiblity of ever communicating the fullness of what is meant by we lived down this street, over there.

There is not much to report from our wing of the world. Seth continues in his pursuit of all things sport, while Corin continues with craft projects and imaginary play (the living room was a zoo today and Seth a rabbit - you can guess who the zookeeper was). Yesterday, we marked Corin's half-birthday and, this morning, he was pleased to find he could still fit into his nook on the counter despite now being five and a half. Since he was proud of his half birthday he decided it should also be the birthday of his current favorite stuffed animal, Stripes the Dragon. Corin proceeded to host a birthday party for Stripes complete with party hats he made and several presents wrapped in the majority of his beddding (which somehow had migrated to the living room). Despite my protestations that the cupcakes I baked were for St. Patty's Day, Corin somehow transformed the evening into a celebration of Stripes and by the end Than, Kara, Tim and I found ourselves chorusing Happy Birthday to a stuffed animal. We drew the line at lighting a candle for Stripes to blow out, relying on the logic that, as a dragon, Stripes blows fire and thus would have difficulty de-flaming the wick. And so goes life with a child gifted dually with a full-bodied imagination and the powers of persausion to draw us all along.

Stripes' Birthday Hat

On Saturday, Seth was lent a skateboard from his buddy Marquez and has spent every day since his prize borrow practicing the technique. So far, he seems to be gaining a knack for powering it along and has completely mastered the art of the dramatic fall. Recently, Seth also built a bike trailer for his indoor trike, which is useful for giving Eeyore rides. Between the two of my boys, I am continually amazed at what they come up with and how they are each so entirely, unmistakably, themselves. Besides keeping me on my toes, they keep me full of humor (most days!) and always in fresh wonder.

Boarding

Bike Tralier


The Biking Man

Midwinter spring is its own season...

....There's a little Eliot for all you fans of Four Quartets. And as the good Thomas Stearns wrote about this season, "Between melting and freezing/ The soul's sap quivers." We have indeed landed in the season full of betweens. We wake one morning to hearty frost flowers and the next finds us hatless, tromping through melt and mud. Robins have joined the waxwings and, from time to time, I hear a honking overhead and find Canada geese passing high and away, tending north.

Today, the boys and I walked with some friends along the river. The trail was a patchwork of thawing snow, muddy ground, and gravelly patches. The northhills, lit against a deep slate sky, seemed straw colored, gold-like, rather than frosty, and all the red-twigged willow along the riverbank flared brightly. The soul's sap does seem to quiver in these days, reaching toward spring and all its attendant renewal. Though I love the winter palette and the snap of cold that makes me sit up and pay attention, I start feeling like an animal pacing its pen after awhile. The relentless melt and freeze, the sodden mud of the turning season demands a sort of amiability with transition that I can only sometimes muster. Our friend, Jack, calls this season Sprinter. And while indeed a unique hybrid, the name with its intimations of swiftness is a bit misleading. We had snow in June last year and not a freak storm but the tail end of months of near daily rain/snow/hail squalls, so perhaps this stretching, in between sort of season should be called Marathoner as it does indeed demand endurance.

The kids too are feeling the midwinter spring in their own ways. Seth clamors regularly to ride his new bike, a business which depends on me standing about on the sidewalk to push him every few meters. Thus, his riding and my having the time and mental clarity to stand in front of the house for half hours on end must coincide, and when they don't he stamps his feet and pulls at the door before turning to ride his indoor trike like a terror across the house.

Meanwhile, Corin, my perpetual nester, hunkers on our wide window seat, known in our house as the Owl's Nest, and plays CDs at full volume while coloring pictures of rocketships. At this point into our partial thaw, I could paper the boys' room and half the hall with rockets depicted in various space scenes (It's a rocket and the sun. It's a rocket and Jupiter. It's a rocket and Saturn. It's a rocket and Pluto [pronounced Plu-doo in this house]). Mostly I have been heartlessly papering the recycling bin. The other day, my mother called me from the far end of a closet cleaning project to ask if I wanted any of the artwork I had produced as a young child and which she had saved, lo, these thirty years. "Mother," I replied (horror cracking my voice), "Don't you dare."

But, whether or not the sun has come out to play, we try to pile out of the house, finding that any outing is good for us. Yesterday, the sun was gloriously out, and while the east coast was being pounded with snow, we had fifty-three degrees with high blue skies. The boys and I drove up to the local farm where Than works. We stood on hay bales listening to the pigs grunt around their slop, then walked the muddy two-track to the hoop house. Inside, 300 heritage breed chicks scuttled around heat lamps and water dispensers. Outside the chick nursery, a squadron of bees buzzed about the grain grinder, their dark bodies zigzagging near us before veering sharply away. Corin, hatless, coatless, and muddy-shoed, surveyed the bees like a man in a dream. When he caught me watching him, he smiled and said with a happy hush: "Just like summer!"

Hockey Guy

A game of chase in the North Hills


Out for a walk