One face bearing many images.

I was going through some old family photographs and did a double-take when I came across this picture.  When I first looked at this picture, I thought my cousin Rosie was standing in the middle, calling out to some friend off-camera. The young lady is actually my grandmother. It's in the eyes, somehow, and that fleeting expression. 

The resemblance to other descendants doesn't end there because in other photographs taken that day, I can see traces of my own mother and other cousins.

Storytime

Cousin R. reading "There's a Monster at the End of this Book" to her niece and nephew.

Ancestors' hearts

It was Health Fair day at my place of work.  Along with a gauntlet of booths setup by various health-care providers and campus departments, they offered free fitness screenings.  This was an amusing experience, as you had to divulge your height and weight, and in return learn about your blood pressure, endurance capabilities, BMI, and body fat percentage.  The assistants were doing everything in their power to keep my weight and body fat percentage secret in the crowded room, by turns mumbling or pointing at the information.  I could have cared less.  I weigh more than J. (165 to his 160), and have an high body fat percentage compared to his (26% to 9%).  No big deal. 

I was curious to discover that I have borderline high blood pressure, though.  I'm pretty healthy--I exercise almost everyday and eat reasonably decent meals.  I could stand to lose a few pounds, but that's the situation of a lot people.  But it's slightly unnerving to discover that there's something wrong with me in spite of the fact that I'm conscientious about my health.  This is certainly a gift from both sides of my family. 

Thanks to my ancestors!

Tea after the opera

I took my mother to the opera for her birthday.  We saw the Marriage of Figaro at the Lyric Opera and stayed the night in downtown Chicago.

Our hotel was quite conveniently within a block of the opera.

Our seats were in "Upper Balcony 2".  We were in the far back of that top balcony.

We climbed 6 flights of stairs.  That's what you get for cheap tickets. If you look closely, you can see my mother (waving a program) in the fifth row from the back

Most of my doubts about the opera experience were laid to rest once Figaro walked onto the sumptuously decorated stage.  I say most because there were times during the 4 hours of the performance when it was a struggle to maintain a willing suspension of disbelief (which is something I gladly embrace).  You don't see the Marriage of Figaro for the plot (which is ridiculously silly).

The singing was a thrill to listen to, even if they were singing about stupid things like whether or not Cherubino was hiding in the closet.  The contrast of such beautiful singing with the mundane English translations displayed at the top of the stage was amusing.  Such juxtapositions are right up my alley, and I add them to my treasury of amusing things.

You certainly gain a new appreciation for your lungs.

While we're on the topic of lung capacity, Mom graciously kept me company as we explored the Wicker Park neighborhood.  (J. and I also explored this neighborhood this past January).  There were some interesting shops: Renegade Handmade, Nina, Paper Doll.  It's a good place for people-watching, too.  We passed one fellow with a floppy metro-mohawk, shirtless under a tailored tuxedo jacket over a pair of billowing jodphurs constructed out of a flimsy silver fabric.  It was a cold, misty day and I was impressed at such dedication to fashion.

After this jaunt, we returned to downtown Chicago via the "L" for afternoon tea at the Russian Tea House.

We got their house special, "Highland Tay," which was quite good.

 The food was delicious, though we couldn't finish the sweets.  As you can see from the picture above, the sheer quantity of pastries is overwhelming.

It was a thoroughly excellent way to end a trip to Chicago.  Happy birthday, Mom!

The dog is a blur: the nature of family photographs

My first attempt at scanning pictures.  

On the back of this photograph is a note in my Great-Grandmother's handwriting: "Out for picnic with families; Tom strumming his guitar."

The gal with the pigtails in the back is my mother, with Grandma N.  Aunt Carol, Mom's sister-in-law, is lounging on the chair.  That dog is probably either Uncle Randy's or Uncle Tom's.  Mom had 3 brothers, one of whom is the cool hipster with the guitar.

This is one of my all-time favorite pictures that I've excavated while "shopping" in Grandma's house.

Thanksgiving 2009

We went to Alabama to spend Thanksgiving with J.'s sister and her brood of animals (3 dogs and 2 cats).  J.'s mother and sister are excellent cooks, so the thanksgiving feast was a  pleasure to eat.  I never liked (and couldn't really stand the sight of) green bean casserole, which was usually composed of a variety of canned items (limp green beans, gelatinous cream of mushroom, sickly looking crunchy onions) until J.'s sister transformed my opinion.  She makes things from scratch, and I got to observe as she personally carmelized the onions down to sweet brown yumminess, simmered mushrooms in real cream, and combined the whole lot with fresh green beans into one pot where, under the powers of her alchemical cooking prowess, they somehow transformed into a dish with a complex, richly layered taste.

Our time in Alabama was a lazy conglomeration of sleeping in late (or, in my case, trying to), chatting, eating, cooing over Walter, J.'s sister's sweet King Charles spaniel (and the rest of the animals, of course), playing video games, eating and more eating, losing dogs and regaining them, chatting, and more eating.  The ladies tried our hand at embroidering, and the results didn't turn out too bad. J.'s mother felt inspired by this post at Posie Gets Cozy and wanted us to try it out.

A good time was had by all.

My better half

I'm not a very affectionate person, usually.  I'm rather reserved and, for all I know, it probably looks like I have the emotional range of a toad.  But I do have feelings, and they break through the wall of reserve occasionally.  It's usually through my writing, but sometimes it surges out verbally.  J. is usually the recipient of these outbursts (I'm married to him after all).

This is what I've told him: "Don't ever die."

While this might seem like obsessive neediness (depends on how you look at it), those three words encapsulate how keenly I recognized at that very moment how much he means to me.  Those moments come and go, ebbing like the tide.  The last time I told him this was during the closing credits for "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button,"  a movie about the lifelong love affair between a woman and a man with an unusual handicap.  The actors must be exceptionally good, to cause such a verbal outbreak from me.

So, obviously, I love J (and I tell him this, far more frequently than "Don't ever die," in case you're wondering). I tell people that when we met, we started talking, and we haven't stopped.  It's been eight years so far (five of those in holy matrimony).  While we have our differences (he just can't quite understand the right-brain view of things; for an example, see this post), all that's done is to ensure that we're always learning from each other.  There is no stasis in the relationship, only room to grow.

That's my ode of thankfulness for J., who is my better half.

Cousins

Today I am thankful for my cousins Rosie and Jenny.

We three take after the Nyberg side of the family: tall, big-boned, big brown eyes, long feet (you see the theme emerging here). While growing up, we were inseparable, our friendship a force to be reckoned with.  Even now, when we see each other only two to three times a year, we easily slip back into our camaraderie. I have no stories to relate from our long friendship; there are too many, and what significance do they have for my readers, who were not there with us?  Suffice to say that our bond runs deep.

My memories of our times together are tinged with woodsmoke, the sharp slice of prairie grass, whispered conversations at midnight, a ribbon of creekwater, stacks of books, bare feet on grass, afternoons lazy with sunlight, snow crunching underfoot, uncontrollable laughter, coffee cups scattered on tables, cats slinking round the door, the tickle of long hair as we hug each other farewell.

These memories are part of my talismans against forgetfulness.  When you move from the place of your upbringing, it is all too easy to forget where you came from.  Home inevitably fades once you are no longer able to see or touch it.  Memories keep the amnesia at bay.  These memories, with their tangible associations, are particularly powerful talismans against the fog of forgetfulness.

Dad

Today I am thankful for my father.

Dad and I have a lot in common.  We write really sloppy, have big heads and big bones.  We have flat feet and walk a little duck-footed.  We devour fantasy/sci-fi books and tend towards reticence (getting an opinion from us can be like pulling teeth). 

Our way of spending time together whenever I pop home for a visit is to go see a "Laura and Dad movie."  These movies are generally over-full of action-adventure stunts aided by cgi, in which the plot begs for your willing suspension of disbelief, the heroes are good-looking, and the villains villainous: what you would call bad movies.  We love them.  Ever since we saw the enjoyably stupid movie "Anaconda," we have been on a quest to find a movie even worse than it.  We're still looking.

I was poking around my computer the other day and came across this little thing I wrote during my first year in college.  We may not tell each other "I love you," very much (that's a little embarrassing), but the bond is there.  I think you'll see it in this little bit of writing.  Here it is, completely unedited:

The man of no affection hugged me today, long and hard. The barren, cold room surrounded us, hovering over our shoulders, eyeing me flat against my face as I rested my chin on my father’s shoulder and reveled in the warmth of his familiarity. Nothing else was familiar; all was strange and heartless in that room – my room for the rest of the year. The mottled brown carpet, the pasty white wall, the flimsy closet door – they all stared in solemnity at the tearing of family bond in their midst: this happened every year. How can this painful break be so commonplace? Thousands go through this every year; thousands weep and thousands shiver in nervous anticipation. Such a break is commonplace only in the statistics; it is a whole other thing for flesh and blood. Life as these thousands know it is no more, has altered dramatically. In that little room, my future home, a part of my being was being wrenched away and shut up in the vaults of memory. I could not return to the safety of childhood. And my father, the very person (and often the only person) who had been the one encouraging my departure from home, my baby steps into the real world – he was the one who held me long and hard today, on this cold and barren day.

Two generations

Grandmother and granddaughter

Keeping the earth populated

Congratulations to my dear friend and cousin and her husband, who had a baby boy this past Thursday.

When I was home this past weekend for a wedding and this potential arrival, my cousin and I went to Lowe's and walked up and down the aisles in an effort to get the labor going. While all the employees eyed her belly nervously, we admired the tiles and woodwork. I think perhaps the baby grew tired of this (he's a boy, after all), and decided to get out of there. Hence, he joined the fold.

Home is where one starts from.*

These are some things I always do when I go home to visit:

• eat Swedish pancakes for breakfast at the Stockholm Inn
• have long early morning conversations with my mother
• drive one or more of Grandma's secret ninja routes (she has elaborate backroad ways to avoid turning left at busy intersections)
• visit with my dear friend and cousin Rosie
• see a bad movie with my father
• cuddle the terror of the house for a few moments before the fangs come out
• go shopping in Grandma's basement
• wander through Poska's (a bohemian shop with an antique-y flair) for inspiration
• walk around the backyard and think of Bear, our late dog

If I included everything, the list would be too long and you would be bored and wondering why you still read my blog.

One of the reasons I like the Harry Potter books is because I can entertain the notion of apparating--do a graceful turn and show up 500 miles north in my parent's kitchen, much to the cat's consternation. Visits home are too brief.

*T.S. Eliot

For the mothers

Happy mother's day to my mother, whose love and patience continue to amaze me even today.

Happy mother's day to my mother-in-law, whose warm heart envelopes everyone around her.

Sorry for the Hallmark expressions, but sometimes those are the best.

Too short

Thanks to my folks for putting up with a disordered house and even more disordered hosts. Hopefully, the next time will be more restful!

At least my library was partially up. Mom and Dad made frequent trips into that room, so it was nice to see it being used. Mom suggested setting up the library shelves in rows, rather than against the wall, for more of a library effect. I'd do it, just to see what it's like, if it weren't for the weight of books.

As always, their visits are too short.

People grow up

I went home for a spell--what better way to spend the break between my old and new jobs? Not much happened while I was North, which is the way I intended. I spent lots of time at the house, scrapbooking and reading and pestering the new cat and watching cable (I got addicted to these shows: "It's me or the dog," "Jon and Kate plus eight," and "What not to wear"--I know, I'm pathetic).

In addition to spending time with the folks I love--my parents, Grandma, my dear cousin Rosie with whom I grew up (I treasure a photograph of all us baby cousins piled on the floor, where Rosie is staring, open-mouthed, at something off camera, and I am transfixed by her open mouth, reaching my pudgy fingers out, determined to have a look-see), I ran into some old friends from the high school years: Keelan McMorrow and Salem Barker.

I am blown away by how they turned out, maturing into full-fledged artists with art shows in the Chicago area. When we were all younger, I would never have seen them turning out this way; yet, looking back with hindsight, I can see clues scattered along the years that point to their unfolding as artists.

Keelan McMorrow does paintings:



Salem Barker does wood sculpture:

The naming of names

I hope you have noticed my new profile picture. That is my lovely grandmother Juliette, who I get my middle name from. You can't see it at this size, but there is a "Love Juliette" note scribbled in the lower right-hand corner. It must have been a picture she gave my grandfather, probably during WWII.