Some Words About Brothers

I know this is the third sappy family post, but bear with me. I have two brothers, both of whom are exceedingly talented.  Zach comes home later this summer from England, where he is finishing his masters at Oxford in something highly intellectual.  He also takes amazing photos. Zach is a force that cannot be stopped and must be followed. When Zach started rock climbing, the whole family took to the mountains. When Zach started eating mushrooms, we all admitted that we had loved them for years. When Zach dove into photography, we all started studying cameras and taking pictures and insisting that we had always wanted to be photographers.

Lyman was always the baby brother who got dragged along on his big siblings’ adventures. But then sometime during my first year at college he shot up 8 inches and got a beard. Now he is in college studying economics, leading organizations, and writing poetry in his spare time. How did I get such wonderful brothers?

Recently I found one of Lyman’s poems that I love. It is about the creek that we have grown up playing in, and it made me think about Kentucky summers. It made me think of driving in the car with my brothers and Zach making us stop to take photos, of sitting outside, and hiking down creeks, and capturing perfect summer moments. So here are two photos from one brother and a poem from the other.

On Hiking Down Indian Creek

Flowers grow on the carriage road

 To Harrodsburg. I saw them, wild and violet,

Suffering my tread. The old road where no one goes

Has growing things upon it; saplings among the mile-stones.

Where a bridge had spanned a creek, I walk

Across the Cataract, alive at last, in the wreck

Of unravelled roads shorn of travelers.

And the water is coursing, the same, I know it;  

 I am old in water-years, having seen droughts    

 And floods, tumbled banks and sediment. But

That sentiment is a little thing, for the road is old,

And even the woods around it whistle still

With the blooming of youth in the spring.

So in the place where the steps of men

Made flat the ground of Kentucky hills,

A memory of humanity makes garden plots

For God, and the old ways will walk again. 

 

 

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Family Ties

I wrote already about the reason for my family all getting together, that of celebrating our grandparents’ 60th wedding anniversary.  Today I wanted to devote a post to the rest of the celebration. Initially, my grandmother was worried that no one would be in town for their party, but we decided that would ultimately be ok because we were so thrilled to be together as a family. Growing up, we assembled the whole posse in Colorado every other year for a reunion.  But then college came, and summers were consumed by internships, jobs, travels, and it just seemed impossible. Getting all the Coleman children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren, together proved a task, but my mother is a party planning fiend and she made it happen.

There is something special about family ties, something that makes us overlook or embrace the eccentricities in each other because we are family. Generations blend when the whole family is together and I found myself catching crawfish in the creek in between my government engineer uncle, chic New York hair stylish cousin, and bubbly 5 year old second cousin.  We picked mulberries and watched videos accomplishments from this past year. Everyone rode horses and swam until we were duly sunburned.  There were always arms to hold the baby, or chase down a little one.  We all got Tony and Guy hair cuts from the New York cousins.

I insisted on a family photoshoot, as the likelihood of getting everyone together again soon seems slim. First, the oldest Coleman child, Alathea, her husband Jim, their children and grandchildren, Whitney, Peter, Mabel and Emerson. Next is my mom and dad and Zach and Lyman. Unfortunately, Zach is still in England so we grabbed just two family shots before I went back to photographing everyone else. (You can see more Stone family photos from our Christmas impromptu photo shoot here.)Last is my Uncle Jimmy, the baby of the family. He and my Aunt Shirley have a fun pack of 6 kids. In order from oldest to youngest they are Juliana, Josh, Elijah, Isabelle, Abram, and Sophia. They usually roll up in matching Hawaiian shirts for these sorts of gatherings, but I requested the more subdued red. Maybe this was how it was supposed to be, families staying together and having different generations to pick up the slack and fill in the gaps. I know that our mobile generation makes this virtually impossible, but I think it is the best idea, the happiest plan.  So here is a tribute to endless trains games, mulberry smeared faces, ice cream parties, late night stories, family photos, matching shirts, sticky hands, messy houses, loud laughter, summer cookouts, quarrelling children, muddy feet, marco polo, rope swings, and family.

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60 Years Together

Today is my grandparentss 60th wedding anniversary. 60 years. I can barely fathom that. The whole extended family is in town (minus Zach, who was sorely missed) and this is the first time in 6 years that we have all been together, as we are spread out between Texas, Georgia, Kentucky, and New York.  The past couple days have been a mirage of swimming, hiking, games, cookies, water fights, photo shoots, and stories. The stories are the sweetest part, the part that makes it worth the travel and planning. Last night we threw an ice cream social party for my grandparents and I met the friends that they have talked about for years.  After everyone left, we sat inside and my grandparents told stories from their first three months of marriage.

There was the story about my grandfather walking out of the Methodist conference refusing to cooperate, or them spending a night of their honeymoon on benches in Union Station in DC, or them traveling to revivals in dirty churches. We heard about his exciting acceptance to Princeton, and multiple moves where my grandmother fixed up little houses and parsonages for them to call home. But my favorite story is the one my grandfather tells about my grandmother’s wedding dress.  Her college roommate made the dress, hemming all the yards of ruffle by hand, and my grandfather had heard stories of how beautiful it was to be.  He describes seeing the church doors open and my grandmother walking towards him in yards of white satin “without spot or blemish.” This is how his love was at that point, he explains. He told us that over the past 60 years he has learned much more what it means to love, but in that moment, as he saw her in her perfect dress, he felt that he loved as perfectly as his young heart was capable.  He said that his vows were beautiful because they proclaimed that love to world.

Last week I took photos of my grandparents to put on display at the party, and I wanted to share some. These are the most beautiful people I know. On June 3rd 1951, these two people took vows that have been tried by job demands, moves, illness, and the chipping away at love that comes with growing older. But today, 60 years later, they can still claim to be in love.

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Summer Goals

Summer is here. True, there are those purists who claim that summer starts sometime in mid June. But those people have forgotten the youthful truth that summer begins the second that you exit school on the last day. To be technical, there are approximately 20 freshmen finals and a day and a half of in-service standing between me and total liberation, but these are minor details.  I started my summer with a morning at the farmer’s market. Nothing says summer like hipsters walking around with their poodle crossbreeds (ok, I actually do really want a golden doodle) buying overpriced produce that has been shipped in from Amish farms and marked up.  Regardless of this charade, I love the sounds and colors of the farmer’s market, the bustle of summer shoppers.

I love to do lists. I love putting things on them after I have already done them just so I can check them off. I love them even when they are unnecessary, like during summer. So here is my summer to do list.

  1. Sleep in. It really is my favorite thing.
  2. Read good books. Starting with To Kill a Mockingbird, but looking for suggestions for what comes next.
  3. Try to tan. This is a feat that is difficult for pasty redheads. Will attempt to accomplish goal #3 while doing goal #2 after completing goal #1. This will make for wonderful summer days.
  4. Ride horses more. This hobby has taken a hiatus during the past year.
  5. Paint something. Another pastime that has been too long absent.
  6. Go to the farmer’s market enough to recognize the people who [re]sell beautiful produce.
  7. Find an apartment in DC that isn’t going to bankrupt me / endanger my well being due to its dicey neighborhood.
  8. Spend time with my quirky family.
  9. To be continued as I think of more wonderful ways to spend my summer . . .
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Banana Bread with Donna

Freshmen college roommates can be interesting. You can often end up with a person with whom you would never have considered even being friends, only to find out that you are now to share a very small cinder block space.  My freshmen year of college I was put with someone who, on paper, could not have been more different from me.  Donna was tiny, dark haired, quiet, laid-back, unwilling to raise her voice, and would always choose jeans and a t-shirt over skirt and heels. I am the opposite. But for some reason, we clicked, and spent our first year a Hillsdale as the dynamic Donna-Hannah Duo. Donna did the laundry, I cleaned the room. Donna came home with me for holidays, I brought her soup during all nighters. And together, we baked.

Our dorm boasted a kitchen that was little more than a closet with an oven, but that didn’t stop us.  For some long forgotten reason, we started making baked goods for our brother Bible study every Wednesday night, and for three years this tradition held.  There were the staple seven layer bars, the disastrous éclair cake, and many dishes that could be made primarily from ingredients stolen removed from the cafeteria.  One such ingredient was brown bananas, in which no college cafeteria is ever lacking.  I would routinely snag piles of ripe bananas that Donna and I would then bake into rows of banana bread.Recently someone was ready to toss out a bag of over ripe bananas at school and I saw the chance for an evening of banana bread. I strongly believe that the best recipe (though certainly not the healthiest) for any baked good is often that of Betty Crocker, and banana bread is no exception.

Betty Crocker Banana Bread

1  cup  sugar

2  tablespoons   shortening

1   egg

3/4  cup milk

3 cups  flour, all-purpose

3 1/2  teaspoons   baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

1 cup bananas — mashed

3/4  cup chocolate chips (optional)

Mix all ingredients in a medium mixing bowl. Place in greased loaf pan

(9x5x3) Bake at 350F 60-70 minutes until golden brown. A toothpick inserted

will come out clean when the bread is done.

Optionally, the batter can be split between 2 smaller loaf pans. cooking

time will be reduced to approximately 45 minutes

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Kitten Stories: Belle and Sebastian

You might have been wondering what ever became of our Foster Kitty experiment. Well, after Felix’s successful run at our home and subsequent pawning off onto one of my students, we welcomed into our home Kitten #2, affectionately referred to as Mouse. There has never been an uglier kitten.  Not only was she every color of the rainbow with a tale that resembled that of a possum, she also had smell issues that were never quite figured out. After returning one day to find that Laura had Fabreezed the cat in a desperate attempt to eradicate the stench, we decided it was time for a break from parenthood. Janna, however never wavered in her love for our noble project, as is evidenced by her love even for crazy Mouse, whom she routinely wore around the house as shown.

But spring arrived, and with it, kitten season. Yes, there is a “kitten season,” who knew?  And we decided to have a final go at kittens. Thus we welcomed Belle and Sebastian into our home, twin balls of fluff small enough to fit in a coffee mug. Despite the fact that my obsessive need to cuddle them against my face has created puffy allergy eyes, they are perfect.  Our apartment is alive with fluffy balls of striped fur that attack each other, try to sit on any foot that has paused in walking, want to be held at all times, and coo like baby birds when they try to meow.

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May Day and Miniature Lemon Poppy Seed Scones

While at college, my roommate Bethany introduced me to that joy abundant that is the BBC miniseries. Nothing so calms the American soul as 4-6 hours spent watching our mother nation have perfectly scripted intrigue in period drama attire.  There is a security in the predictability of a BBC period drama, a contentment that it will finish conclusively, even if not perfectly.

During the Endless Snow that was Kentucky’s past winter, I introduced my good friends Rachel and Susannah to the perfection of a BBC miniseries. We spent many of my snow days bundled on Rachel’s couch eating Magee’s pastries, drinking tea, and watching the BBC women of old. On one particularly cold day, we watched part 5 of Cranford, in which the ladies of Cranford turn out for a May Day celebration. We turned our cold faces to each other and decided instantly that we MUST hold a May Day celebration if the snow ever thawed.

And eventually, it did, and spring came, and everything was all right again.

When May 1st rolled around, we were finally ready, and our party would have made any traditional May Day gathering proud. Susannah designed beautiful paper invites (invites? They’re those paper things people sent out to get you to come to a party before facebook came along with its pesky invites.), Rachel made centerpieces of spring flowers in mason jars, and I made yards of pale bunting to string through the trees along with the numerous Japanese lanterns remaining from Susannah’s wedding. Little sandwiches, tiny vegetable skewers, and gorgeous cupcakes sat on white lace table clothes, and ice cubes with mint leaves frozen inside chilled lemonade and sweet tea.  The boys in bowties played croquet or badminton, while girls with flower crowns ran around with our miniature hand-held  May Day poles. In a word, it was perfect.  Susannah, whom I have mentioned before is a fantastic wedding photographer, did an entire photo spread on the event and you can see it here.

Of course, you cannot pay homage to the British anything without scones. These were our May Day scones, adapted liberally from a recipe on Smitten Kitchen for cranberry sweet cream scones.

Miniature Lemon Poppyseed Scones

juice and zest from 2 lemons

additional 2 table spoons lemon juice (more if you really like lemon)

3 cups all-purpose flour

1/2 cup sugar

1 tablespoon baking powder
 (yes, a full Tablespoon)

1/2 teaspoon salt

3/4 stick (6 tablespoons) cold unsalted butter

¼ cup poppy seeds

1 large egg
1 large egg yolk

1 cup heavy cream

the remaining egg white (for brushing)

  1. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper and preheat oven to 400.
  2. Combine zest, flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt. Cut in butter until mixture resembles coarse meal. I usually grate the cold butter on a cheese grater and then work it in with my hands.
  3. Combine cream, egg, yolk, and lemon juice. Lightly whip and then add poppy seeds. Add to flour mixture and stir until just combined
  4. On a well floured surface, pat dough into 1 inch thick rounds about 6 inches in diameter. Cut across three times to make 6 triangles. Arrange triangles 1 inch apart on baking sheet, brush with remaining egg white, and bake until pale golden, approximately 10-14 minutes (15-20 for regular sized scones).

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Easter in Arizona

These last couple weeks of the semester have found me with almost no time offer any updates from my life. My evenings are consumed with final grades, end of the year functions, trying to find an affordable apartment in DC (something rivaled in difficulty only by say, quantum physics) and the delightful gatherings that early summer ushers in.  But it is at last an uncluttered Sabbath, a day to nap on the couch, enjoy a mother’s day lunch after church, and post some new pictures on the blog.

Over Easter weekend I traveled to Scottsdale, Arizona, to spend several days with some dearly loved friends and second family. This long awaited and much anticipated trip did not disappoint.  Our 3 days were filled to the brim with laughter, delicious food, sun, the gorgeous southwest landscape, shopping, one shared floppy brim straw-hat, and the joy of being among old friends. Because no words can express the colorful kaleidoscope of joy and emotions that was our trip, I leave you with a collage of perfect moments.

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La nature éphémère des fleurs/ The Ephemeral Nature of Flowers

Recently I have been ruminating on my upcoming month long trip to Paris this summer.  I become giddy just thinking about being once more in the midst of this city, surrounded by the colorful blend of beauty, history, and passion that is uniquely Paris. I find myself going through photos from my year there over and over, looking forward to revisiting my favorite spots.  I was doing this recently on a flight to Arizona and I stumbled across this picture.  For some reason I didn’t really notice it much before, but I have fallen in love with it afresh.  I love Paris flower shops. Contrary to many American flower shops that just cram lots of flowers and tacky cards into a space, the flower shops of Paris are in and of themselves things of beauty, museums of ephemeral perfection.

 I took this picture once on a wander through one of the more chic neighborhoods.  They had a snooty sign on the door asking that only customers intending to buy enter, so I snatched a quick shot from outside, with the opposite street obscuring a clear shot of most of the flowers. Recently I noticed the tagline under the shops name “le Magicien de l’Éphémère” – the Magician of the Ephemeral.  This is indeed the job of every florist, the purpose of every flower: to exist for one perfect moment in beauty. And isn’t their temporality that the very thing we cherish about flowers?  Were they to last forever, they would not be worthwhile; we would not stop to appreciate them because we could always put it off to a more convenient time.  Flowers, all of nature in fact, bid us pause and savor the joy that is passing.

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Change of Plans

Remember those fantastic students I like to brag about? Here they are, in all their glory. This was from a recent performance of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.  In my opinion (which is only slight biased), they are the most talented group of students imaginable, so the performance was a smashing success.  The choir director at our school is beyond gifted, taming the rowdy bunch of high school boys into a flock of singing angels. For proof of this statement, I invite you to watch this video. The boys are currently working on a rendition of Toto’s “Africa,” and when I hear 80’s pop songs being sung by these perfectly harmonized voices, I will indeed be happy.

I was able to help with the musicale, which amounted to me safety pinning pyramids together during intermission, taping props back together back stage, glue gunning glitter letters onto flags, fighting with zippers, and yelling lots of things like “Remember your musical face – you SHOULD look like an idiot to the person standing next to you!” It was a joy to see these students revel in their element and watch a whole different side of them emerge when my interaction with them didn’t depend on homework grades or verb conjugation.  (On a totally unrelated side note, I recently referred to something as “posh” and my students informed me that they don’t know what that means because no one has used it since the 90s.)

As I drove home from the last performance, welling over with love for my students and my school, I cried a little. This might sound dramatic, but I knew then that the week after the last performance, I would be signing a contract to start a graduate program at the University of Maryland and I would be leaving the kids who make my job a joy everyday. After a year of indecision, stress, and applications, I have decided to move to the DC area to be near to my boyfriend and start a MA program in French Literature at UM.  I finally had the courage to tell my students 2 weeks ago, and while some presented all the apathy of typical high school students, some seemed as upset as I.  I know that they will probably forget very quickly next year, but for now their sadness is some affirmation that we have both relished this year together.

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