Check out these kids:
Sylvan, Wynona, and Cole hunt for eggs
Compare them to these little cuties.
Archive for the ‘Friends’ Category
To tide over those who await birthday letters
Posted by julie on Tuesday, 12 May 2009, 16:43Happy inauguration day
Posted by jonesey on Tuesday, 20 January 2009, 8:47
My most vivid memory from Baird and Sara’s wedding
Posted by jonesey on Friday, 19 October 2007, 19:26Baird and Sara got married five years ago today. Here’s my favorite story from their wedding.
We were eating lobster. I sat at a table that was about half lobster rookies. Growing up with frugal parents, I hadn’t eaten lobster very often, but I did grow up in Boston, so my family probably ate it about once a year. It was a Big Deal, and a Major Treat. We each, four of us, got our own lobster.
In any event, I had learned how to eat lobster. I had loads of fun teaching the newbies how to eat this truly strange quasi-insect of a food.
But that’s not my favorite part of the story. After I had eaten my lobster, I paid a visit to Sara, on whom I had developed a bit of a crush. I’m a sucker for a bride. Something about the glow, and the hormones, probably. Anyway, that’s embarrassing, and it’s not the good part of the story. I sat down next to her and made some small talk, asking her if she had enjoyed the lobster.
“Oh yeah,” she said. “This is my third.”
“What, you mean ever? Your third lobster ever?” I figured Sara for someone with vast lobster-eating experience. How could I have been wrong about this? I just couldn’t wrap my head around it.
“No, tonight. My third lobster tonight.”
My brain did a back flip. Wait, what? I had never considered the possibility that someone could, at a single sitting, consume more than one lobster. I mean, sure, John D. Rockefeller maybe, or Louis XIV, or some Roman reclining on a couch just back from a little session with a feather, but not a regular person. Not Sara.
She ate three lobsters.
My world would never be the same.
I went back to my table after a quick stop at the buffet, and I didn’t look up until number two was gone.
Mount McLoughlin
Posted by julie on Wednesday, 25 July 2007, 15:30The nighthawks had settled in to roost on the gravelly shore of Fourmile Lake after completing their graceful evening mosquito slaughter. I was sure that the lake held enormous bullfrogs, burping loudly, but it was nighthawks, pulling out of daredevil dives, that boomed through our dinner. 
The birds earned the name “boom bat” in the South for these noises (I don’t know that they’re vocalizations) and for their crepuscular flying antics. After Wendy, Leslie, Chris, and Sylvan tucked into the tents, I sat leaning against piles of driftwood, Cassiopeia to my right and Mount McLoughlin over my left shoulder. Little dark waves faded into the dark gravel as they traveled toward me. The setting first-quarter moon brightened the edges of the cloud hovering over McLoughlin, at 9495 feet almost 4000 feet higher than Fourmile Lake. If I had to miss the Polhemus family reunion on Cape Cod, I’m glad I could spend the weekend here, especially with Leslie and Wendy, two of the most patient, generous toddler companions and friends we could find.
Leslie asked us to climb Mount McLoughlin and Mount St. Helens this summer. I immediately said, “yes,†with an especially enthusiastic response for McLoughlin, which is right off the Pacific Crest Trail in southern Oregon. In 2003, I had looked forward to climbing some of the Cascade peaks while on the Oregon PCT. That proved impossible within our timeframe, unfortunately, so I still hanker to slowly chip away at the list of volcanoes I want to stand on. McLoughlin is an easy climb —11 miles round-trip with 3900 feet of elevation gain — evidenced by the 15 cars in the parking lot by 9 a.m. on Sunday morning. If McLoughlin were situated in the central Oregon Cascades, we probably would have seen 100 people rather than 20, though. South Sister, on a sunny weekend, is a misery of too much company. But you will see someone you know, if that’s your thing.
Despite his mother’s ridiculous impatience, Sylvan walked for the first 2.5 miles and 1000 vertical feet of McLoughlin’s summit trail, with a short interlude of .25-.5 mile on Daddy’s back. While we were impressed with his endurance and rock-hopping ability, it wasn’t until we walked back down over that terrain that we really recognized Sylvan’s hiking prowess. And while he walked slowly, less than a mile an hour, folks who’d passed us on the way up still sat on the summit when the women in our party summited. I want to quietly encourage my little hiker, never pushing him to love what I love, so that perhaps he won’t rebel when he’s 14 and tell me that if he never hikes another step it will be too many.
When Sylvan’s naptime arrived, Chris shouldered the little big boy, carrying him up another few thousand feet — despite the fact that Chris had run 31 miles in a row eight days earlier. Then, 50 minutes before Leslie, Wendy, and I reached the summit, Chris and Sylvan headed down because the route included some boulder scrambling (Thanks for taking one for the team, Honey.). Above the boulders, the route along the ridge climbed through some slippery scree, never with frightening runout. We passed three dogs on their way down, all leading their separate parents down the slope. Ah, to have four legs for balance.
I signed the summit register, touched the tip-top rock, and scree-skied down, trying to make it down quickly because I understand the loud unhappiness of a nap-skipping toddler. I know that it’s easier to deal with that unhappiness in the company of another adult who will make faces, laugh uproariously, and generally mimic all of the toddler’s bad manners. Toddlers love that. Actually, ours does. Silliness almost always wins.
I told my sister that I’d climbed McLoughlin on her 28th birthday, and I said I was surprised at how strong I felt, like I really am bionic. I haven’t been running much, yet I hardly noticed that little climb. She said, “That’s what I’ve been waiting for. I keep asking you if you feel different since your surgery, and, finally, you do.â€
No Good
Posted by julie on Thursday, 31 May 2007, 22:26
Can you imagine this trio in fourteen years? That’s Wynona (18 months), Cole (22 months), and Sylvan (20 months).
Snow Frolic
Posted by julie on Monday, 7 May 2007, 13:31
While the temperature climbed to 70 degrees in Eugene yesterday, Wendy, Chris, Sylvan, and I decided we should celebrate the last of the snow. My requests: views, snow, and real exercise. We found all three. From Willamette Pass, we hiked straight up the mostly melted-out ski runs on the south side of the mountain, over the still-matted grass and scrubby, blooming manzanita. We gained 1500 feet in about a mile, not including our personal switchbacks. We found one frisbee golf disc, one black glove, one full bottle of Mirror Pond Pale Ale, a dozen or so empty beer cans, one Tactics Board Shop sticker (used), one Skoal container (mint flavor), and two piles of elk droppings. Chris, who said he was feeling “tired,” carried the 25-pound boy with his 10-pound backpack, along with five or so pounds of other stuff. When the slope increased up the double-diamond run at the top, I ducked into the trees; the Plavix is throwing off my equilibrium, and gazing down the ski slope didn’t help.
Poor Sylvan, whose parents don’t take care of him, told us that he was developing snow blindness. “Sunglasses,” he pleaded. “Too bright.” Well, Sylvan has never kept sunglasses on, so, although we had some in the diaper bag in the car, they were, well, in the diaper bag in the car. Good thing Wendy is nicer than Mom and Dad; she offered Sylvan her sunglasses: “I have brown eyes; I’ll be fine. Sunglasses bother me anyway.” Sylvan said thank you in his usual manner, five minutes later. The true thanks were in the very real appreciation he demonstrated by keeping the sunglasses on.
We picknicked at the conveniently-located picnic tables at the top of the chairlift, feasting on Wendy’s corn muffins with raspberries. Yumm. Sylvan stretched his legs, walking quite assuredly over the snow. And he ate peas. He didn’t notice the views to the south: Diamond Peak, who never showed her summit through the clouds but allowed us to see her ski-able-looking lower reaches; Odell Butte, Cowhorn Mountain, and other assorted small mountains – Lakeview, Red Top, Sawtooth, and many we didn’t identify; and Odell Lake, host to enough motorcraft that we may have missed a fishing derby.
Then, yippee-skippy!, I slid down the mountain! Well, I butt-glissaded down three slopes. Gosh, I love that. But I might have to invest in some Kevlar-seated trousers. We headed down some southeast-facing slopes, still covered with snow. Wendy and Chris snowshoed down to the base, but the snow was firm enough that I didn’t sink without snowshoes, and, occasionally, I could run and sli-i-i-i-ide.
Sylvan wants to share a couple of his experiences with you. There were puddles in the parking lot! And a frontloader! And he saw a waterfall on the way home. A waterfall! He said it was “hot” because the mist at the bottom looked like steam. He also wants you to know how tall you have to be to ride the carnival rides.
Some Recent Photos
Posted by julie on Wednesday, 25 April 2007, 14:18
Annalena is three days older than Sylvan, and, like Sylvan, she enjoys using her words. Annalena and Sylvan sat side-by-side on the heater in the library lobby, paging through the Danielle Steele novels they’d grabbed off the “Free Book Exchange” rack. Words are words. Here, Annalena enjoys the parachute at our last Birth to Three meeting; that’s her Mom, Shelly, smiling behind her.
When five and a half inches of rain inundated New York early last week, my Mom walked out her front door and took this photo of the neighbor’s house. This house was flooded back in the late eighties, too, when our friends, the Freilers, lived there. The
Tenmmile River is on the left in the photo, blithely overflowing its banks. This time, my parents didn’t have much time to become anxious; the river rose quickly, flooding houses in Dover before folks had time to respond. My parents’ house has been spared again, but it might be time to move to higher ground.
Sylvan’s cousin, Nicholas, who will be one in June, got a Burley bike trailer for his ten-month birthday! Not until we saw the photo of this super-cutie enjoying his new wheels did we realize that Sylvan is on the cover of the tag that comes with Burley trailers.
Tejana makes me smile
Posted by julie on Tuesday, 13 February 2007, 22:23Tejana, all wide smiles and dancin’ legs, 
visited today for a couple of hours. She’s a month and a half younger than Sylvan, but she’s always seemed older than her months – very engaged and communicative. Since Sylvan is getting big, scary molars and has been sick, I was concerned about how two toddlers would treat a tired Mom. They handed each other crackers, stole each other’s water, one of them ate sand, and the other had a short tantrum when I told him he couldn’t go down the slide by himself. They were really fun, and, although I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for Tejana, she managed to massage that spot even a little more. She grabbed my hand when we walked down the sidewalk, something I can’t convince my little independent to do (which means I end up carrying him like a writhing sack of potatoes across the street). And, tonight, at our Birth to Three meeting, after we’d been apart for two hours, Tejana, the 20-pound linebacker, barreled right onto my lap, sitting with me to sing songs.
A couple of weeks ago, Tejana illustrated an important point about baby development, namely that all babies develop differently. Something I find interesting is the diversity of ways in which similarly-aged babies gain language. Some sign frenetically, making amazing conceptual leaps when they need to figure out how to say words for which they don’t yet know signs. Some pick up many, many verbal words very quickly, most of which don’t really sound like English but all of which mean something specific to the baby; these babies might also frequently mimic the sounds of words they don’t know. Other babies say very little, but if you ask them to “please take the shoe to Daddy,” they’ll do it without a problem.
Sylvan is an immediate mimicker, so he is the master of a large vocabulary that I don’t always understand. Tejana, however, sat on my lap a couple of weeks ago as I read her a story about a cow, which, I told her, said “moo.” That little girl stared at my lips saying “moo” for probably two minutes while she figured out what she had to do to make that sound. Then she got up, said “moo,” and walked away. Tejana makes me smile.
Ruby-crowned kinglets are here
Posted by jonesey on Tuesday, 28 November 2006, 11:22There are ruby-crowned kinglets outside my office window this morning. I usually don’t know whether they are golden- or ruby-crowned, but one of them was just showing off his large red crown, but only for a few seconds. I think they’re excited about our annual snowfall (half an inch on campus, some of it still unmelted).
Stay Puft at Benson Lake
Posted by julie on Sunday, 5 November 2006, 1:02The road followed the McKenzie River, winding through the school-bus- yellow big-leaf maple leaves standing out against trunks that are finally almost black with rain. The soundtrack for the scene is a mix CD that Patrick made when he lived in Hanover – mostly country, with some zydeco and late-80s alt rock thrown in because it’s Patrick. Patrick. He’s getting married tomorrow, marrying Sibel, who is smart and beautiful, but, most of all, good to Patrick. And we won’t be there. Chris can’t leave work this week because his employees are at a conference through Wednesday, and I simply couldn’t imagine traveling to South Carolina alone with Sylvan and enjoying a wedding while chasing around a toddler. I can’t believe we’re missing Patrick’s wedding, though. After all these years!
Patrick loved living in Oregon. Listening to his music, driving through the rain and the autumn colors, I started thinking about all of our great friends who are scattered across the country, many of whom we rarely see, and I wondered if I truly appreciated being with them when we spent every day together in high school, college, or grad school. Then I think about the amazing places out there that I’ll never see – places right outside my back door and places half a world away. What kind of cruel joke is a dinky 90-year lifespan (if I luck out and follow in my grandmoms’ footsteps)? Okay, maybe that was a leap, but that’s what I was thinking about. I spent 2.5 hours driving today while my one passenger and listener slept, so I did a lot of thinking.
I looked in the rearview mirror at Sylvan, his lips puffy and pursed with sleep. I love it here, too. I wish my family weren’t so far away. Aside from that, I just want to hug this place every day. Sylvan and I were headed up near McKenzie Pass today to hug a place before the snow came and closed the road for the season; Chris said that the snow level is supposed to come down to 3000 feet on Tuesday, which means that Sylvan and I were probably the last folks
to hit Benson Lake without skis this season (and my guess is that the ski up the highway is a little much even for dedicated winter campers). It also means that, yippee!, ski season is right around the corner. After some time spent playing in the parking lot puddle, we set out for a little 1.3 mile walk up to Benson Lake, which was gray and rippled with wind. As you can see from his gravelly fingers, the beach was a hit. Sylvan stomped and splashed in the water (thanks for the hand-me-down boots, Silas) and had a full-blown, arched- back toddler screaming fit at Benson Lake. Was he too cold? Hungry? In need of breastmilk? Frustrated that I insisted on helping him in the water? I don’t know, but I layered him up with a puffy jacket under his hunter orange rainsuit, breastfed him in a rain shower while conducting all my heat to a hunk of basalt that darn well better have appreciated it (Yes, the rock, not Sylvan. I know what I’m modifying here.), and shared 5 ounces of tasty sharp cheddar with him. He smiled his charming smile and agreed to happily chatter with me for the first half of the 1.3 downhill miles. Then he conked out, not falling over in the backpack because, with his layers, he resembled the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.
In the parking area, at an old quarry, the leftover boulders proved a good hiding place for pikas. One eeped at us as we stripped off our raingear. I explained that pikas are related to rabbits, that they cut, dry, and cache plants for the winter, and that I’ve rarely heard them in Oregon. Sylvan just wanted to get into the car, point at the lights, and devour Cheerios.