the mud

For several months now, I’ve been noticing a new word in my children’s lexicon.   Stop.   I can ask the simplest of questions and the only response I get is Stop.   If I ask one question too many, like “How was Physics?” the word that I hear is Stop.   It means I have crossed some invisible line of communication, some term of agreement we had that I can only ask two, maybe three, questions when the kids get in the car or we are sitting at dinner, or maybe at breakfast the morning after they have been out with friends.   “So what did you eat?”   “Stop.”      I even try to follow their lead.    My son will explain to me something about a car that he knows a lot about, but if I ask that extra question to show my interest, he looks at me sideways, and “Stop.”   It’s become a joke, because I can predict when it’s going to happen and we all laugh when I say, “Can I just ask one more question?”   Then they usually just walk away.     It’s funny because I know I used this word a lot when they

We are reading about the First Thanksgiving in first grade.   Every year at this time I find myself reading to my students about the harvest and the hunters and the gatherers and I think to myself, “Thankfully I would  have been a gatherer ; I would  not have been a hunter .”   It sounds much more peaceful, much more humane.   Gather, bring in, bring together, collect.   That’s the way I want to live.   I think I earned a Girl Scout badge in Collecting.   Then I think about myself at this time of year, searching for gifts as if they were prey, getting to the store early just to hunt down the product that inevitably will be devoured in some insignificant way and never thought of again, hunting down the ‘best’ price, even if the cost is rising out of bed at some ungodly hour!   Even with Thanksgiving dinner, I find myself fantasizing about the perfect food with the perfect presentation from the perfect restaurant - and Pinterest doesn't help! I have to remind myself that It doesn

We headed back to Rowe this year for Old Home Day.  Such a wonderful time.  So absolutely glorious!  We packed a little lighter this year - just 4 short days.  No tennis rackets, no dog, no food - we would buy groceries when we got up there.  When we walk in we walk right to the large picture window that overlooks the lake - it summons us to come directly there - do not unpack, just kick off your shoes and go directly to the porch.  We had forgotten the color of the sun and the light through the pines and the reflection of the mountains on the water, the clouds that create dark shadows in the middle of the day.  We had lost track of the way the days unfold so easily and so effortlessly until it's time for dinner.  We had almost forgotten.  But there is always that piece of home that we take with us when it's time to go and it is rekindled when we return - Yes, this is what it was like.  This is what I was missing.  This is what it feels like to be home. And then it was time to

Summer afternoon, summer afternoon, ... to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language. - Henry James I don't know if I've used this quote before, but it is one of my favorites.  I completely agree.  Summer. Afternoon.  It conjures up images of laying in my grassy backyard, watching my brothers in the pool, playing on the front porch, going down the stairs to the coolness of the Haddon Heights Children's Library and gathering up books, and of course, earning swim bands.  We didn't belong to the pool. My cousins did.  But a few times a summer they took us along.  The Oaklyn Swim Club.  I still drive past and I'm amazed at how it has shrunk over the years.  When I was young it was like a mecca for kids ages 5-15.  I wasn't a part of the swim culture there.  So when I first arrived I usually stayed near the baby pool, with the little cousins and the moms and would "help" get the food ready because we always packed fo

For some reason my alarm clock is set for 5:30am, despite the fact that I always hit the snooze button. For some reason the snooze is set for 9 minutes.  Not ten, not fifteen, not five, but nine.  It must have been some preset.  Regardless, I usually just need 5 more minutes.  I just kind of want to savor the feeling of the warm bed, I want to stay oblivious just a little bit longer, and then I can face the day - sort of.  Some days, and even weeks, are worse than others and I will hit the snooze button more than once.  I just can't face it - whatever it is - a person, a problem, the unknown of the day.  I just want five more minutes!  "Can I just have 5 MORE MINUTES?"  It reminds me of my kids at birthday parties, or their grandparents house when their cousins are there, or the worst, the beach.  I remember a birthday where I had taken all four kids to McDonald's.  I told them 5 more minutes. A woman next to me, who was a grandmother of another party-goer, looked at

Hello, friends!  Thank you for reading my blog.  It has been over 5 years since I began and I appreciate you taking the time from your life to read what I have written.  It brings me great joy to know I can share the journey with you despite the fact that we all have busy days or may be far away. I finally updated my page and I'd love your feedback.  Charlie is no longer 9 and it was time to get rid of my kindergarten picture.  I hope you find time to spring clean - not with cleansers, but with some project you've been meaning to get to!  Happy Spring Break!

We have a lot of changes going on in the Miles house.  Our kitchen is packed entirely in boxes on the back porch so that we can make way for a new one.  Since the old kitchen cabinets were from 1940, it was time to let it go.  The funny thing was how the process started.  We gradually packed the canned food and took it down the basement.  The dishes that we never use were easily loaded up and carried away. And then the pots and pans.  Then the plastic ware.  Then the glasses.  Then the water bottles. Then the plates were replaced with paper.  It happened over days, not all at once.  We had our last dinner in the dining room, our last cooked meal in the old kitchen.  But we just can't let go of the bowls.  Or the spoons.  The dining room table sits in the middle of the living room with a tray in the middle piled with the paper products and a "spooner," which holds a bunch of spoons and was a wedding present from my wonderful friend Cathey, who grew up in the South and intr

Today's weather forecast:  8 degrees above normal. There will be a high pressure system moving in that will blanket you with sunshine.  You will smile and breathe deeply because it feels so good to get out there in the sun and the warmth.  It will feel like a little gift. But then you will say, "Wait, this is February.  This is not normal."  You're right, about 8 degrees above normal.  And that's not just the weather. It seems like our world is now operating at 8 degrees above normal. Can we just go back to normal? It's February.  Normally a blanket of snow would cover the ground.  You would be making hot chocolate and cherry pie for President's Day.  You would light a fire and a candle and snuggle up with a book.  But with that sunshine and high pressure also comes the compounding guilt of lying on the couch.  "Get up, get out, get busy, get moving," it screams.  And you can't.  You. Can't. Move. Because for the last 6 weeks since Ch

I grew up in a family of seven, five kids and two loving parents. But I also had a large extended family of grandparents, countless cousins, and aunts and uncles. We had our share of heartaches like any family. I remember books lying around with titles like, When Bad Things Happen to Good People and I'm OK, You're OK and If Life's a Bowl of Cherries, What Am I Doing in the Pits? Our kitchen table was a constant host to not just family, but also friends of my mother, who shared stories of joy, pain, and conflict about all of life's ups and downs. As she said, "My teapot is always on", and the back door was always open, literally. Friends would gather to lend an ear, share worries, or offer support. My brother was the frequent topic of conversation, sad conversations about his health and questions about his recovery from the next round of treatments and surgery. I can remember images from when I was very young of my mother crying in a teacup. Yet wheneve