susan hayward photography

Summer Storm

Tonight it's raining. As in cats and dogs. Literally. Hopefully, it will cool down the house. At the very least, it brought our cat in, whose been laying on the porch all evening with her arms and legs outstretched, mewing passively as I walked by. I know how she feels. This afternoon I threw away a bread bag from the grocery store, thinking to myself that my homemade bread days are over for the next three or four months. With the kitchen temperature hovering around 95, I have no desire to turn the oven on. And I have no desire to cook. Strangely, though, I still desire to eat.  

Around bedtime, Jake yelled, "Everyone come outside and see the rainbow!" I was the only one who answered his call. The others lay on the couch watching the NBA playoffs, which, if you ask me, should be over by now. (Every time I ask if this is the last game, my husband and kids always answer, "Sort of. It's the last game these two teams will play, and then there's eight more games." Then I ask if that will signal the end of the season, and this is what they say: "Well, then there's seven more games after that, and then it's over." I've decided it never really ends. The NBA may take a small coffee break, but then it starts up again before you can say, "Isn't there a Masterpiece Theatre Jane Austen show on tonight?.) 

So Jake and I went outside and saw this on the west,                       and this on the east.

   
 

And then the earth rumbled and the rains came. It's really bedtime now, and the wind is blowing enough to make the chimes hanging from our deck play a few notes. In the distance I hear children playing. From the busy street outside the neighborhood a siren sounds, its whine growing more faint as the winds pick up, and the chimes begin to play in earnest. Thunder tumbles through the mountains once more and when I look up, the sky is dark. I listen for the rain, and hear its heavy drops hitting the deck outside my window. This is when I notice that the basketball game is over. The television is silent. A bug crawls towards my words on my computer screen. Upstairs, I can hear the footsteps of my family getting ready for sleep, and I look at the clock and realize that I am sleepy too. So good night. And it will be good, with the sound of rain to lull me to sleep, and the songs of birds to wake me in the morning. 

Goodbye to a Good Friend

Good bye to my neighbor J. I will miss you, but I know that you are with your husband once again, free of cancer and in a much, much better place than this one. 

My neighbor, who was also a good friend, passed away this week. Yesterday, in an attempt to console her family, I tried to make oatmeal cookies for them. But I couldn't concentrate. I stumbled around the kitchen mis-measuring and spilling everything. The first dozen cookies came out undercooked, flat, and flimsy. The second batch came out only a little better. It was the dinner hour and I had spent all my time struggling to make these stupid cookies, which at the time seemed so much more important than cooking for my own family. But clearly, the cookie idea wasn't going to work. In desperation, I spooned the rest of the batter into a pie dish and baked it until the top looked nice and golden. But when I touched the middle, it wiggled a bit, as if chuckling at me. 

I yanked the cookie pie out of the oven and stabbed it with a small spatula, hacking out the soggy middle like a maniac. Fortunately, I came to my senses before I pulverized the whole thing and realized some of it could be salvaged for the family. So I took the good parts next door.

My neighbor's brother answered my knock. "I made you a treat," I said as I handed him the goods. He looked at the shapes on the platter in the dim light, trying to figure out what I had brought them. 

"They're cookies--or cookie pie," I explained. He looked confused. I could tell I was going to mess this up. Once again, I was going to say the wrong thing. So I kept it short. "I've had a bad day in the kitchen," I said, then left. 

But that's not what I really wanted to say. What I really wanted to say was I have lost a friend. I know she's with Heavenly Father, and I know that she's back with her husband, but I miss her a lot. And you must miss her so much more. So here's what I have to give you: a sorry attempt to provide you with some nourishment as you mourn. Maybe this will make you feel better? For a minute or so? Because that's what I want to do--make you feel better. And this is the only way I know how.

I didn't say any of that, though. I know that food cannot make up for losing a friend, a sister, a wife, a mother. I know because I had eaten quite a few of the failed cookies while making them. Yet afterward, my friend and neighbor was still gone. And I didn't feel any better.

Chemo Therapy

Last week I spent the day with a neighbor while she went to her first chemo treatment. It made me grateful for my health. And for my family. And for this woman who is going through such a frightening experience with courage and grace. As I drove her home, she turned to me and said, "This is the most time we've ever spent together." 

It's true. Though we've lived next door to each other for seven years, we don't know each other as well as we could. We've always said hello at the mail box, waived from our cars as our garage doors closed, and often had pleasant conversations while hauling in our garbage cans, but I haven't kept really good track of how she and her husband were getting along. We live yards from each other but once we go inside our houses, we're in our own worlds. 

In October, this same neighbor limped over to my house to give my kids treats for Halloween. When I asked what was wrong with her leg, she replied, "I think I've pulled a muscle." I watched her slowly navigate my front porch steps back to her house, thinking that it might be more than that. Arthritis, or maybe a fracture. Then I closed the door and didn't give it another thought. 

Then around Thanksgiving, I met her again, trying to bring in her garbage can with one hand while holding a crutch in the other. "How's your leg?" I asked as I took the garbage can from her. 

She began to cry. "I've got cancer," she said. I let go of the garbage can and hugged her. It was the only thing I could think of to do. I didn't expect her answer to be cancer. And I suppose neither did she.

"You call me if you need help, all right?" I told her. She nodded vaguely. That's when another neighbor came over and said, "The problem is, she won't do that." Her tone was sharp, directed at both me and our sick neighbor. "You'll have to knock on her door," she added, "or she won't let you know she needs you."

So I took her advice and knocked on my neighbor's door recently. That's when I met her brother, who had been at the house for a week (I didn't know that either.) I gave him our number and begged him to call us. Then I closed the door and prayed that somehow we might be able to help. 

Later on I actually got a call. Through tears, my neighbor asked if I might give her a ride to her first chemo treatment because her husband is in the hospital and can't help right now. Of course I said yes. But there's nothing special about that. My neighbors across the street have offered to do the same. And the neighbor who told me to knock on the door rather than wait for a call has been helping too. We're all desperate to do something. 

As my neighbor and I headed home, I thought of all I'd learned that day. I learned that my neighbor is a fan of Sue Grafton novels, BBC mysteries, and ice cream. I learned that she's the middle child, that her aunts make excellent pies, and she wouldn't mind living in Oregon or Washington, though she likes it here, too. I also learned that though we may not know each other very well, it doesn't matter. Because sometimes neighbors stay strangers. And sometimes, neighbors become friends. And sometimes it takes a crisis for the one to turn into the other. 

   

Digital Thanks!

Recently, a bunch of people have brought over some lovely stuff. It started with Alisa Sperry, my amazing gardener friend, who brought me a plant on Mother's Day. Alisa is the mother of seven, and she's giving me a Mother's Day gift? Who does that? "I know so many amazing mothers," Alisa told me. "I just felt like giving them a gift." Alisa is a pretty amazing mother herself. If I had that many kids, I'd be one of those crazy women you see downtown, walking around in rags and talking to myself. Wait a minute. I already do that. 

Thanks, Alisa!

 

My mother-in-law Dana Openshaw also gave me a gift for Mother's Day, some marigolds to plant in our yard. This was really generous considering Dana has already given me the gift of my husband. As she handed my husband the flowers to give to me, she assured him that I "couldn't possibly mess up marigolds." Dana has more faith in me than my past gardening endeavors deserve. Luckily, my husband is more handy with gardening than I, and he planted them the next day. Under his care they are thriving. Thanks, Dana!

 

Then, Alisha Jensen brought over a cheery note and this delicious bundt cake. I set the cake on the counter and went to get my camera. By the time I came back, my husband had a fork ready and was about to dig into the cake. "Wait!" I told him, grabbing his wrist, "I'm going to take pictures of that." He scowled at me. "Take a picture of the side I don't eat," he suggested. Yeah, right. 

The cat also wanted a bite. "Back off, Sister," I said, giving her a little love kick before she could lick the frosting. 

In the end, I chose this picture of a single slice (Sorry, Rick. You could have had a taste after all!). After taking the picture, I devoured this piece, and it was really delicious. Thank you, Alisha!

Shortly after the bundt cake, some cookies arrived, courtesy of our back-yard neighbor Teanna Hermanson. I did not get to try these, as my children devoured them all within minutes. Teanna has also given us brownies. Those were also devoured before I could get sample. In my house, you have to get what you want the minute you see it--and hide it if you arent' going to eat it right then. Also, it's wise to eat with two forks, one with which to put the food in your mouth, the other to stab any stray hands trying to sneak a bit of your stash.