My Grandma's Gift

"Have seconds," my Grandma would urge. And I always did.

Her table was set with the most delicious food. As a young child, when I would come visit during summer, her table held seasonal favorites like zucchini bread, watermelon, orange jello salad, and blackberry pie. I remember dinners outside on her back patio. The snapdragons in bloom. The corn on the cob piping hot.

But my favorite times with her were during my college years, when I would make the four hour trek from Provo to Idaho Falls, ID to spend a precious weekend with her. She spoiled me, and I loved it. Little peas and potatoes in white sauce, a Hormel ham baked until jerky dry, homemade macaroni and cheese, and if I was lucky (which I often was) chocolate icebox dessert.

I hadn't thought about chocolate icebox dessert in a long time. And I hadn't made it for years. Then a few weeks ago my Uncle Lee mentioned it on facebook, followed by a comment from my cousin Nicole.

I immediately put in an amazon.com order for vanilla wafers (since there are none here at the stores in Jakarta). The vanilla wafers arrived a few days ago.

I opened my recipe book and made the dessert. And I thought of my dear Grandma who always encouraged me to have seconds (and thirds), and had an incredible way of making me feel loved.

Here's her recipe:

1 cup butter
1&1/2 cups powdered sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 box vanilla wafers
1/4 cup water
4 squares of Bakers semi-sweet chocolate (or 1/2 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips)
4 eggs, separated

Separate egg yolks from whites. Beat whites until stiff and set aside. In mixing bowl, cream together butter, powdered sugar and vanilla extract. Set aside. In pan, mix together egg yolks, water, semi-sweet chocolate, and granulated sugar. Bring mixture to soft boil, stirring often, and cook until thickened. Remove from heat and add creamed sugar and beaten egg whites.

Spray bottom of 8X8 glass dish. Cover bottom of dish with a single layer of vanilla wafers. Cover the wafers with 1/3 of chocolate mixture. Repeat three times so there are three layers of wafers and chocolate. Cover and refrigerate at least 2 hours (overnight is even better). Serve with dollop of whipped cream. Chocolate heaven!

Running with a crowd

Near the end of my Saturday run, I rounded a street corner and found myself in a crowd of about one dozen young Indonesian boys. They stopped what they were doing to let me run past.

They called out "Hello Missus!" and one started to run with me. Then one by one they all joined. Soon I was surrounded by the boys running, laughing, darting, sprinting. One boy at my elbow grinned as he ran beside me. "Anda capat," I said. (You are fast!) In response, he pumped his scrawny arms more vigorously. The boys called out to one another, and I was swimming in a sea of smiles.

Their flipflops slapped the pavement. Those that were barefoot had soles as black as the asphalt. Soon they trickled off, stooping to rest with hands on knees. Even the boy at my elbow slowed to a walk. His chest rose and fell as he tried to catch his breath.

When I turned around and encouraged, "Detang" (Come on!), he shook his head and said "Capai" (tired). But he flashed a smile as he waved me on.

It was the best few moments of my Saturday run.

A Room of my Own

It was a surreal experience to set up my own classroom. Butterflies in my stomach. Christmas morning excitement. And of course a few moments of nausea-inducing dread. Even though I have taught for five years, it was all at a community college. This meant that I didn't really have my own space. I had a large "bag of tricks" and my laptop that I toted to a new classroom each semester.

But now, my own space. Oh the possibilities.

Desks to arrange...shall I put them together in table-groups? Should I make a U?

Bulletin Boards. Let's just say I have become quite adept using a stapler.

A couple plants...because I love green.

Gigantic pillows for a comfy reading corner.

The first of many quotes hung in a prominent location:

You see things; and you say, “Why?”

But I dream things that never were; and I say, “Why not?”

George Bernard Shaw

And on my door an invitation:

If you are a dreamer,

come in.

If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar, a hoper, a prayer, a magic-bean-buyer. If you're a pretender, come sit by my  fire, for we have some flax-golden tales to spin. Come in! Come in!

-Shel Silverstein

Each time I walk into my room, I get that thrilling tingle. A room of possibilities. A room for learning. A room for inspiring.

I can't wait for my students to arrive. Because really, it's not just my room. It's our room.

Summer in Indonesia

The kids are screaming upstairs. Well, it's more of squealing. And until anyone comes to me crying, I will assume it is pure sounds of fun. (How's that for good parenting?)

I had a friend ask via email how my summer has been since getting home. I have been so busy recording our trip (and it is taking me much much too long), that the rest of our summer has drifted into oblivion...at least blog-o-sphere oblivion. So let me take a short intermission of trip-blogs to write what we've been doing the past three weeks.

We have been swimming. Since Jakarta is not very conducive or cooperative to outside playing at parks or long walks, we try to go to the pool as often as possible. And oh the imagination games that occur when there are no waterslides or lazy rivers to entertain us. Titanic, mermaids, and Shark-Attack!! are some of their favorites.

We have been celebrating. I woke up absolutely panicked (heart-pounding, gasping for breath) one morning after a vivid dream. The nightmare? In my dream all my children were all grown up. The panicked feeling remained with me for a good part of the morning. I had some serious reflection moments and realized that this nightmare is going to come true...just not for a few more years. And I felt strongly that I needed to make this summer count. Make some memories. Enjoy childhood. Enjoy my children. That sort of thing.

So we've had a camping day where we set up the tent inside and roasted hotdogs and marshmallows over the gas burner.

We had a Christmas day where we listened to Christmas music, ate cinnamon rolls for breakfast, made snowflakes, and had a special ham dinner. Today we are celebrating Pioneer Day, and this Friday we are having a 4th of July re-do day.

We have been playing boardgames and reading chapter books. We are doing fun things and enjoying the non-scheduled, laziness of summer. I guess you could say I've just been trying to live this summer to its fullest. And in my home, that means making the most of the quiet times, surviving the crazy times, and holding on to memory-making as though I were wielding a sword used to fight off the vicious passage of time.

Oh how grateful I am for summer.

Grandma and Poppy

My parents have taken me to many amazing places. I had the priviledge of spending part of my childhood in beautiful Sitka, Alaska. And instead of normal summer vacations, our family had "adventures." Some of these included float plane rides to remote lakes with Forest Service cabins. During my teenage years, they took me to Cape Cod, MA where I fell in love with Boston and East Coast autumns. We continued the tradition of adventures with ski trips to Nestlebrook Inn and winter/summer drives out to P-town and the Coast Guard beach.

Then when I was in college, Mom flew out to meet me in England. We had the craziest, most wonderful time together walking to St. Peter's Cathedral, seeing "Oliver," and taking a train ride up to Scotland. We quite enjoyed flanking a Scottish guard in a kilt. And we were reprimanded by the local police for attempting to hike up a hill that had clearly been blocked off from public use. Oops.

Adventures. Stories. Memories.

So it seemed a special, full-circle kind of moment to have my parents join us in Italy for more family adventures.

Of course, I realize my parents were not just there to see me or Italy. The grandchildren were a large draw! And oh how my kids loved their "Grandma-Poppy-time." Grandma held Amelia's hand on all of our walks (taking breaks only to wipe the sweat off - it was hot!), Tman wore his hat, purchased by Poppy, with extra pride. Leasie loved driving the four-person bike with her grandparents. One of Madi's favorite outings was seeing Michelanglo's statue of Moses with just her Mom and Grandparents. And CJ hugged each of them any chance she got.

And my favorite moments with my parents? It would have to be my morning runs with Dad, our double-date dinner with the Colosseum looming in the background, and watching the sunset for the last time on our roof.

So Mom and Dad, thank you for all the adventures. All the stories. All the love!

Until our next adventure...

Naples

 It is funny to me that my favorite day in "Rome" was actually the day we took the train to Naples to see Pompeii. Perhaps it was the break from the routine or the thrill of seeing the Mediterranean sea, but I just loved it.

We had assigned seats on the train and we were split up between 3 different compartments. But CJ was extremely entertained by spending 60 minutes with me, 30 minutes with Grandma and Poppy, and 30 minutes with her Dad.

The most fortunate part of the day occurred when we got off the train. A man approached us asking if we were trying to get to Pompeii. He was a tour guide and his 10AM tour group was a no-show. He promised us transportation to and from Pompeii in an air-conditioned van and a tour of Naples afterward. We consulted and though nervous of a possible scam, we decided to do it.

The drive was lovely. With the Mediterranean shimmering on our left and the rolling hills leading up to Mt. Vesuvius on our right, I rode grinning ear to ear. At one point our guide said, “I have a treat for you! This is my voice on the CD” and sure enough he began singing along. He explained that for thirty years he worked as a singer on the cruise ships. So there we were in Naples being serenaded to popular Italian songs “That’s Amore!”

Pompeii was Hot and Dusty. And we had a stupid map. We spent much too long trying to figure out where we were and what we were seeing, when really we should have just let the kids run and explore. I realized this a little too late, and so the kids only had about forty minutes of good exploring.  But I loved seeing the Roman baths, the tavern, and the amphitheater.

I was struck at how big Pompeii was. I had imagined a small village. But this was a city that spread as far as I could see. After our three hours there, I would estimate we had seen only an eighth of the ruins.

We hopped back in the van for our Naples tour. We drove by the opera and the pub where Puccini wrote his operas. My favorite fifteen minutes were the stop at the pier. An old fortress created naturally protected swimming areas. Local Italians swam and sunbathed on the rocks and on anchored boats. Madi and Elise scrambled over the large orange tinged rocks to dip their toes in the water. How I longed to jump in or take a boat ride on the sparkling turquoise water.   

The Pieta

"What is a Pieta?" Leasie asks as we sit around the living room with our big Michelangelo book open on our laps.

"A Pieta, meaning pity, is a piece of art that captures the moment when Mary is holding Christ's body after he has died on the cross." The words catch in my throat as they leave my mouth; the emotion of the them reaches my heart. We move to the office where I pull up pictures of the Pieta on the laptop. And there, surrounded by my clutter of papers, bookshelves, and art supplies, we have a tender moment. 

This was months ago. All the way back in February. And from that moment, I have looked forward to seeing the Pieta at the Vatican more than any other site on our trip.


On Tuesday of our Rome week, we pay for a tour of the Vatican hoping to "avoid the lines" as advertised. We meet our Rome Walks tour guide, Valeria, across the street from the Vatican museum entrance. She is pleasant, informative, and patient with the five children. She is also extremely pregnant, and by the end of the tour I can tell she is exhausted from the heat, crowds, and walking. She also has a strange habit of snorting in place of a laugh - a bit distracting, but very memorable.

The Vatican is shoulder-to-shoulder crowded. We enter the museum at the same time as huge groups from a cruise ship - ugh. I do my best to keep CJ entertained (stickers, fruit roll, lolly pop), but after an hour of riding in the stroller, basically looking at the people's legs, she is cranky and uncomfortable. At one point, she hops out of her stroller and starts hiding behind some statues. A horrible picture flashes in my mind of a statue tumbling over, crashing in domino affect onto the next statue.

After that, my husband and I take turns holding her. She falls asleep in one of the statue rooms, and I utter a silent Hurray!

I have to request to see the Rafael rooms, and am glad I did. They are much less crowded. The older kids enjoy the School of Athens painting. And I enjoy imagining Rafael and Michelangelo peeking in on each others' progress.

Unfortunately, the Sistine Chapel is incredibly crowded. The whispers of thousands of people remind me of wind on a stormy day. The barking of the guards to "be quiet!" and "no pictures!" makes it difficult to have a peaceful moment. So while I appreciate seeing Michelangelo's painted ceiling, it is not a soul-moving experience.

However, I know the Pieta is still to come. And I am hopeful.

Leasie is the first to spot the statue. She tugs on my arm just as we enter St. Peter's Basilica and points to the right. There in a small alcove protected behind a glass wall is the Pieta. 
 
We make our way through the crowd until we are as close as we can get. I am struck by the gleam of the polished marble. Of the folds of Mary's fabric, so fluid with movement. I remember reading that Michelangelo's Pieta is a departure from traditional Pietas in that instead of focusing on the pain and gruesomeness of the crucifixion (normally depicted with blood and looks of terror on the subjects' faces), he has created a moment of peace. There is no blood. The wounds on Jesus' hands are so small, they can barely be seen. And instead of appearing stricken, Mary's face holds an expression of peace mingled with sadness.

Mary is cradling Jesus, just as she must have done when he was a small boy. And I for a few minutes, I forget that it is a masterpiece, even that it is a statue, and I commune with the holiness of Mary's heart-wrenching motherly moment. This moment when His work was finished. And Mary, who had kept all things in her heart, could hold Him.

Tears stream down my face freely as I lean over my own children. We exchange hushed comments and observations. This experience of seeing Michelangelo's masterpiece captured in stone is eclipsed only by witnessing the reaction of my children at seeing such a tender sight. Both Leasie and Meya are moved to tears. And I am grateful beyond words to have traveled thousands of miles if for nothing but to share this moment with them.