Happy Birthday Pop.

Yesterday was my dad's birthday. He would have been 81, but he slipped through my hands in a hospital room a couple of years ago. Actually, he slipped through my hands when I was little and he left our backyard for greener pastures. My thoughts of him recently have been wide and wondering. I have thought about his deep rich voice and his love. I've thought about the unanswered questions that didn't go unanswered for lack of asking, but for the lack of clarity, depth and self-knowledge required. I have thought about his laughter and the way I often felt like he was in cahoots with me in some way of thinking or adventure.
A week or so ago, my friend John took us on a ride around the block. John is taking care of his brother's '63 VW Van (in perfect restoration). My eldest dug the backseat with the refrigerator and surfboard. And my youngest giggled with laughter, sitting in the front seat, being bumped as the very long stick shift shifted. The sound of the motor and the feel of the drive brought to mind the winter, turned spring then summer Dad restored my own VW. A '72 bright orange Superbeetle Convertible we'd bought for a song (well, actually, an aria) that went from wreck to vision in those long months. I thought about the anticipation, the updates, the long drive home when it was really mine and the music of the radio as well as the engine. I recalled the drives around the block to see how she was running and the thrill of knowing that this project would be mine.
Last night my daughter showed me the cover of her new journal, entitled "Dear Grampa." Without a word between us, she too has been thinking about him a lot lately. When she showed me the book, she explained that it's not for me to read. It is instead, a special place for her to share the things that grow in a young girls heart with the man who gave her five nicknames in five minutes, took her on her first nighttime swim and snuck candy to her from behind his back while I (kinda) wasn't looking.
So in this day my heart is full of gratitude, in the midst of oceanic loss, for the small things. And I realize with great relief, that small things drenched in the acting of love and held in our hearts, are sometimes the very big things in our lives.

The changing garden grows.

There is a beautifully written song which entered with the little littles in my life. My friend Ivan made me buy my first Raffi album: Banana Phone. Who would know it included the sweet, poetic loving song? "The Changing Garden of Mr. Bell" is a song about the relationship between two neighbors. I'm moved by the idea of this younger man learning about the older through visits to his home and garden. One of the lines sticks with me. In reply to a direct question about a photograph of the young Mr. Bell with a woman and child, Mr. Bell says, "See how the garden grows. It's always changing every day." For me there's full poetry in the sentence.

I love the literal truth of the changing garden. Since we've inhabited this old house of ours, I've planted, replanted, transplanted, placed, replaced and ultimately loved my garden spaces much. There have been years of more and less attention, a particularly hilarious weeding venture when I was eight or so months pregnant (nesting is not restricted to the indoors), help from friends and family and a year where I learned that winter gardening was a profitable method for working through my dad's passing. When I moved past the trial and error method and studied a little, I began to notice each plant's contribution to the garden through it's timing.  I learned, and left behind the thought that all the joy comes in the springing. I found myself this week waiting and waiting for the sun's move and the blooming of my Japanese Anemones (which are really Chinese). They have finally sent their blooming shoots up and buds are puffing, gestating.

The freesia will soon follow. I was plucking their stems out of the big clay pot they inhabit thinking they were volunteers from the neighbor's many palm trees. Now, I await them. The pointed leaves preceding stems that give way to the dear flowers with the tea-like fragrance. The roses are still prolific and the hollyhock spent.

My friend John, an artist, made a passionate recommendation for my Western Redbud trees when there was space for the planting. He pointed to the beauty they provide each season. The pink buds of Spring, the Summer's green-then-purple seed pods, the leaves turning and dropping in Fall, then the Winter turned-brown pods on the gray of the wood. They are green now, but beginning to hint about the browning to come. All coinciding, all contributing to the changing nature of the changing garden. 

From the literal I'm reminded of the metaphor. Here is where I'm willing to be a bit to be more aware of the wilting and blooming cycles accompanying life's vicissitudes. And perhaps, in this awareness, I can be a little more welcoming of the less productive, less beautiful parts of the cycle and trust the unapparent processes. That which contributes to the changing of the garden.

These are Japanese anemones (Anemone x hybrida) layered in front of Lambs Ear (which loves to run wild in my little front garden patch).

Holding the flavor of summer

I really have no reason to wish for summer's end. I live in a beautiful part of the country. The weather is hot and lovely, but the chief signal to the end of summer has appeared. School is back in. The trees are still green. Flowers in bloom. Pools still perfect for an afternoon swim. But a neighbor down the street has marked the change of season by decorating her door with paper fall leaves. Not I.

Dinner the first day of school was barbecued steak and  a green salad of summery crunchiness. There was no dessert planned but we behaved like we might in the middle of July and went for little cups of summer delight at our neighborhood Yogurtland (a brilliant execution of make your own frozen yogurt -western states, I hope you have one nearby).

The second night we had grilled hot dogs and fennel slaw (another brilliant recipe from my FNBFFL - Melissa D'Arabian) with corn on the cob. So as my eldest went off to do homework - it was with a heart full of family foot dragging on the letting go of our time in the season.

Last night I starred the watermelon on my kitchen counter dead in the eye and knew we had another summer extender at hand - the granita.

My first encounter with the granita was at a family coffee roaster about one hundred miles from my home. I was on a reconnaissance trip of sorts for a new business pitch for work. The first sip slayed every frozen cappucino or coffee soda I'd tried forever. Coffee, sweetened and with a mix of milky creaminess and ice crystals all throughout. Since then I've made several versions - and ventured into the full granita category even making one from applesauce*.

This one particular granita delighted our palates and our hanging on to summer hearts. Icey watermelon with just a hint of sugar to heighten the rich melony flavor and bit of lemon. The trick to the granita is attention to the forming ice. As it freezes a quick stir from the top and sides of the bowl just about every half hour makes the just-past-slushy texture perfection.

So that night, we ate our granita on the yard with the patio bistro lights. The sound of a pool splash from next door and the unspoken promise that we won't mention the word fall until it's official arrival by date, temperature and the pile of leaves on the ground from the Ginko tree across the street. 

Until then, we'll go to school, do the homework, even play the sports of fall, but we'll do it with the facing into each other of summer and a ear of corn on our plates. 

* http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/melissa-darabian/applesauce-granita-with-maple-yogurt-recipe/index.html