224/365 Sirens

I was asleep. I come out of sleep, still with an increasingly miserable head cold, and see Jake standing at the Jeffersonian door. Then it clicks what that awful sound is. The sirens are going off. It was unseasonably warm Sunday, with a cold front coming in. Perfect tornado breeding ground.

We listen to the Charlie Brown's teacher voice after the siren: "a....murrfurllo...awning...has...been..fissue...for the...seeveeah...St. Louis....may...felper...reeevallally."

Quiet follows. No rain or wind. I debate going back to sleep, but I tell Jake I'll go look at the radar on the computer.

It's coming, but mostly north, it seems. Our sirens go off if a surrounding county has a tornado warning. St. Louis County is shaped like a horseshoe around the city. The tornado could be many miles away and our sirens would go off. Better safe than sorry, but our siren is 50 yards from my bed so it's a little loud.

"Do you want to get the kids?" he asks.

"Not yet," I hedge. I lie back down. My mind drifts to a newspaper report on the 50th anniversary (I think it was 50) of the big tornado that hit St. Louis city and wiped out whole blocks of Delmar and took roofs off historical buildings in Lafayette Square. That one didn't hit in the spring--it was January or February and I can't get it out of my mind.

My daughters sleep under the eaves. In the attic. Below the roof.

The sirens go off again with the same incomprehensible message. I take a deep breath.

"Go get the girls," I tell Jake. "I'll meet you downstairs. At least to the living room."

We head down. I turn on NOAA weather radio in my kitchen, holding Billy who is still asleep. Jake is watching channel 5 with the perky blond meteorologist filling the dead air space with color commentary. The NOAA voice is clear and spooky and cuts through the nonsense. Take shelter now.

I look out the kitchen window at the lightning.

I walk to the front hall, look out the storm door at the street trees. Nothing yet.

And then it hits, from nowhere, here it is. Fiona's eyes are big and scared, but Daisy is asleep on top of Jake. They huddle on the couch and I come into the room to look at the radar. The storm is moving at 70 miles an hour. As fast as it arrives, it is gone. Rain, but the momentary hail and straight line wind is over. I point at our location on the radar screen. It's yellow now, not red. Time for bed.

Fifteen minutes later the siren goes off again. "The...oratio...awning...for the...ceeveeah...St. Louis...haba...canceled." I catch the last word just fine. I take a deep breath and go back to sleep.

223/365 Girl Scout Merger

My girl scout troop has roots at my parish, but is made up mostly of girls not from my parish. The majority come from our school, Oak Grove, and many of the girls live on my street but do not attend our school or the other one with a sizable number of girls, St. Fidelis.

For the most part, up until January, the differences didn't matter much. Girls merged pretty well and played nice together. But now they're older (4th and 5th graders) and the differences are becoming more apparent. I like this--I like that it isn't just an extension of the school day. And the girls do interact with each other in other realms. Several girls who do not attend Fidelis play on their sports teams. Fiona, obviously, fits into two categories, and girls know each other from different churches and neighborhood groups. So it has been good.

But as I've written on my other blog, the January camping trip was a smack in the face for me and for a big group of girls who were present. The three girls who caused all the trouble all happen to attend St. Fidelis. And I was starting to hear a lot of "Fidelis Girls" talk within different groups of girls associated with the troop. There were neighborhood girls, Oak Grove Girls, and Fidelis Girls.

Not that big of a thing, except that Bree's family is seriously considering Fidelis for junior high (Arch Street ends at 6th grade). And Zelda told me this past week that Bree has started worrying that once she goes to Fidelis, that the other troop girls (I suppose the Oak Grove girls, since the neighborhood girls will still know otherwise) will consider her to be a "Fidelis Girl" and look down at her or expect her to screw up.

So after our talent show this afternoon, we had a talk. None of the Fidelis girls, either the ones who caused the trouble or the ones who didn't, was there, but the girls who were there are savvy enough to know exactly what I was saying. We wrote a behavior contract that everyone will sign before we go on another overnight. And one of the things in the contract is that we are a troop, that no matter which school we attend or what our connection is, we are the troop first and foremost and those other delineations need to fall away.

I'm hopeful this will work. I'm hopeful that the girls who caused all the trouble last time will come around and be productive members of the troop. Barring that, I hope they fall away from the troop and move on to different activities. Because I'm not going to be caught off-guard next time. And I'm not going to put up with nonsense anymore.

222/365 Girl Scout Cookie Sort

It's a dance. Zelda's living and dining rooms are filled with 170 cases of girl scout cookies. We walk around taking different amounts to different piles, all identified with an individual girl in the troop. Nineteen girls and 170 cases and 12 boxes to a case and two different kinds of cookies each have the word "peanut butter" at the beginning.

Of course there are screw ups. We each gave one girl 13 of the same kind of (peanut butter) cookie. Of course we did. And then we hunted through everyone to find the extra missing cookies. And then we had too many of the lemon ones. Why? Go back and find out. Where are the missing blue thingies (the boxes are blue--can you tell our council just changed all the names)? And so forth.

But it gets sorted out in time for me to glance at my phone. "It's 3:30!" I exclaim. We are both late to pick up kids. We run out of her house and to our respective schools.

But I love sorting. Wouldn't skip it for anything.

221/365 Dead Trees

My sister Bevin refuses to believe that trees die. Trees can be KILLED, of course, by lumberjacks and utility companies and ice storms. And trees can get sick and die from bugs and fungi and whatever else creeps in to kill them. But trees do not, all by themselves, die.

They do, though, and the sycamores on my block are demonstrating, daily, seasonally, how trees die. They usually do not die gracefully, for instance. Valerie, Zelda, and I were sitting out last week when it was so pretty and watched a limb, like, the thickness of two baseball bats, drop from the sycamore closest to Grand and just land in the front yard of one of our invisible neighbors. Kaboom. Up on the other end of the block, the sycamore is in distress. The utility company came through last week and removed a bunch of branches, really hacked away, but didn't take it down. Not their job. So asinine.

It made me glad for my oak and sweetgum.

Zelda has a dead tree in front of her house, too, a young maple (I think) that didn't make it through last winter. It had some stress shoots last spring, but they didn't last. The tree is now dead. Doornail dead. It has a shelf fungus growing on it. It is now an ecosystem. I'm sure they will plant again soon and all will be well. Plus, in the winter it looks like all the others.

(Note: I don't care about the dead tree. Really. I think it's funny because it obstinately stands there, dead, but it doesn't bother me a whit).

220/365 Planting

I'm growing a garden this year. Come hell or high water (and there will be both this summer, I have read, both flooding and heat). I have some seeds started in the little pots, but I'm not counting on much there because the cats (I blame Jack) have knocked them over. I replanted and tried again, trying not to be disheartened. Dang cats.

I have my seed potatoes, waiting for the week before St. Patrick's Day. Maybe after the parade that Saturday. The old wives tale is between Patrick and Joseph (March 17 and 19) to get the potatoes in the ground. So I figure that week, I'll be set. I'm growing them above ground this year. I will report back.

Beans, tomatoes, cucumbers. Maeve wants watermelon and while I'm not confident they will actually produce, I started those seeds too. I'll pick up herbs later in the spring, when "all danger of frost has passed".

And carrots. In large pots. Never managed them before. But last year's cucumber harvest makes me bolder.

219/365 Gum

Travis sat on the steps next to Zelda. I was in front of them, half the time looking over my shoulder to chat and half the time watching Billy run run run.

He reported his findings on gum base. Cost, which purveyor, amounts. Gum base, I thought to myself. Gum base. I thought about printmaking class and gum arabic. What was he planning to make?

Zelda explained before I asked. Travis makes his own beer. He also knows how to roast coffee. He recently made root beer. And now? Chewing gum. Zelda wasn't so sure. Gum base? It sounded like a kit, like something a novice, a gum fancier, would get, not for someone who really wanted to learn how.

But Travis thought it would be fun to play with. Plus, you really can't make it yourself, he pointed out.

Pause. At the very same moment his eyes and mine both landed on my street tree, my sweetgum, my Liquidambar styraciflua.

"You could," I point at it.

"We could tap Bridgett's tree!" Zelda exclaims.

218/365 Weeknight mah jongg

"Mah jongg?" I ask Zelda as we stoop-sit watching the kids. Not every neighbor is out yet.

"Nobody really replied," she answers. We'd been thinking about playing on a weeknight this week.

"Well, I can do Monday, or tonight, or Tuesday after 8, or Wednesday. Or, really, all week."

But it takes more than two.

217/365 Story of Vince's House

"Vince wanted that house when it was for sale the last time," Roxanne tells us as she corrals their son Harry. Billy keeps making moves towards him--Billy thinks all trucks belong to him and Harry has one of Auggie's in his hands.

"Back when Drew bought it," Zelda calculates.

"Sure," Roxanne nods. "Yeah, and he thought about it but then he took a residency elsewhere and took his time getting back here. Once he did, he saw it was for sale again. It was like fate. He had it on the market a long time."

He sure did. Even rented it out a while. We didn't meet those folks either. We're a hard group sometimes, I think. Or maybe we just interact better with homeowners? That can't be it. Can it?

"Yeah, he already had ideas of what to do with the house before I knew him. And that house, though, it's all MAN."

Joy laughs. She'd described it this way when she'd walked through for an open house. It was quite the bachelor pad. Obnoxiously so, in fact.

"You could change things," Zelda suggests. "Little things, one by one."

"Yeah, but he already kind of had a vision, I don't want to mess with that."

216/365 For Sale

The house across from me is coming soon.

Bruce said he wanted to price it kind of low so that it would sell. He has no illusions, he told me.

His reclusive tenant has moved out. He's over there most days doing little odd jobs to get it ready to be on the market for real. He's thinking after spring break, whichever spring break he means by that.

So I stood there on the melting street last week, holding a sleeping baby, getting ready to cross the street and go inside, what he was thinking about maybe listing it for.

He said a number. He said a large number. He said a number, well, let me put it this way. He said a number more than 5 times the number of dollars I paid for my house. Granted, that was 13 years ago and things have changed, but he said a number that made my teeth start to loosen in their sockets. A big number.

"Everything in this house is new," he defends after I simply nod at him silently. We chat a moment about the newness, all the time I'm thinking about that number. So much for pricing it low to sell fast, to sell to someone, well, not from California. You know?

I go inside. This past week I'm sitting on Zelda's stoop and repeat that number. "Great if he can get it," Jen says, in the same way one might intone "smoke 'em if you got 'em." But Valerie sees the ridiculousness like Zelda and I do. "Carter can't wait to get inside that house and see what's happened."

We then do a critique, all of us, standing there glancing over. Things we know about the back yard. Things we assume about the interior. The front porch. Of course, I have NO ROOM TO TALK, but on the other hand I'm not trying to sell my house for an insanely large number. None of us was shocked he was trying sell. It was the number involved.

Mason comes over with his kids. He doesn't say a word, like always. Just stands there a moment. I explain about Bruce and the house and the large number.

"Great," he says. "If he can get it, great."

Which of course is true. "He does say they've gotten a lot of phone calls about the coming soon sign," I admit.

"Yeah, but that's for the neighborhood," Roxanne points out. She and Vince just moved in across the street (and were broken into before they finished unpacking, but that's old news).

We all glance over at the house, each thinking, probably, what number would be fair. And then Bruce and Lorraine pull up, presumably to do work in the house.

"Heard you talking," Zelda smiles at me.

"Yeah," I trail off.

215/365 Self-Revealing Moment

"So I put my foot in my mouth," I conclude in conversation. "In a good way."

"You?" Zelda laughs, her voice already dripping with sarcasm. "Never."

"Yeah," I admit, nodding. "I do that a lot." Jake agrees.

"But the thing about me is," I start, thinking of how to put this. "When I say something, that's what I mean, completely, right then. There are no ulterior motives. I may change my mind, but it's what I think right then."

"And I think I prefer that," Zelda tells me. "Don't have to second-guess."

My friend Mary pointed this out to me several years ago. How she at first tried to figure out what I really meant when I said something, but finally came to understand that when I said something, I meant what I said right then, right there. Any reaction was completely honest. She didn't have to worry.

It gets me in trouble, but it's always the Ramona Quimby style kind of trouble. There's never a surprise betrayal. You can always see me coming, though maybe never stop me. Even though perhaps someone should.

214/365 Missouri Trick

That's what a school parent called this brief thaw. We call the pretty summer days in October "Indian Summer" although maybe we don't call it that anymore...but I don't think there's a term for the sudden warm up in the late winter that is inevitably followed by another cold snap, usually a bitter one, too, even if it's short-lived. We dropped off Delia after a play-date with Daisy the other night and her dad called it the Missouri Trick. So that's what I'm calling it now.

But what a trick it's turned for us. All the snow is gone. Kids have played outside every night this week, running and scootering and pulling babies in the wagons. It's like old times, really, all of us sitting on the stoops and chatting. Not that "old times" really means anything--we were doing this last summer, too, but it was so hot that it didn't last as long or start as early in the day.

I get home from a conference with Fiona's lovely teacher on Friday, about 4 o'clock, and Bree is sitting on her steps. She gets up and runs over to our car because she's so happy Fiona is home. But Fiona isn't home--she went to a friend's house. I tell Bree I'm sorry, that both girls will be home about 5:30. Disappointed, she plays with little kids until Iris gets home and joins her.

But 5:30 rolls around, the car pulls up and drops off my girls, and like magnets, Fiona and Bree gravitate toward one another and head off to play. Yay.

And Bonnie Dee and her family came down, too, so Daisy wasn't a tagalong. She joined Bonnie Dee in whatever drama they created out of the air. And Billy yelled at the new little boy who moved in across the street. See, all cars belong to Billy. As Jake put it, "Billy acknowledges personal property rights as long as he's the owner."

I'm going to be smacked hard by this trick. St. Pat's Day will probably be a high of 40 with sleet. Bah.

213/365 The Other Neighborhood Kerfuffle

"Have you been reading on the neighborhood list?" Zelda asks while we watch kids run and bike and scooter up and down the sidewalk during this "Missouri Trick" of a warm February week. I thought she was talking about the nearby high school's plan to tear down one of their buildings. So I agree before I really know--I don't get those emails because that mailing list makes me crazy.

"About the drum line?" she encourages. No. I shake my head, puzzled.

"Well, there's a man named Stan Jarvis on that list, and I think Len knows him, and now I think I don't like him very much."

"What, because Len knows him?" Valerie catches only part of the conversation.

"No!" Zelda corrects. "Don't start rumors!" And we all laugh before Zelda continues. "No. From what he posted. The drum line, you know, have you heard them?"

"Oh, the drum line?" asks Jen.

"Yeah, the drum line," Zelda confirms again. "And this Stan Jarvis posted on the list that they were right outside his house and all through dinner and putting his kids to bed and they were highly annoying and he called the police TWICE!"

I try to envision what my response would be to a drum line practicing outside my house. Ah, city life.

"He really could have talked to them. The police let him know that they had a permit until 9 o'clock."

"That's amazing," I say, stunned.

"I know!" Zelda agrees. And now my whole inbox is jam-packed with messages about the drum line, about Stan Jarvis' response, about how so many neighbors were up in arms about, yup, African-American teens hanging out on the corners causing trouble."

"It's hard to break into houses when you're practicing in a drum line," Jake points out.

"Exactly," Zelda agrees.

"I mean, though," I try, "if it were outside my house every night or something? That would be a bit much."

"But would you call the police?" she asks.

I wouldn't, no. "No. I think I'd talk to them."

"Unless it was like," Valerie cuts in, pretending to play a drum, "Can't hear you! What? Can't HEAR YOU!"

212/365 Hopes Dashed: Daisy's Life

Daisy and Fiona ran home yesterday evening. Eliza had invited them both to stay the night! Daisy was old enough, the three had decided, and it was going to be a spontaneous slumber party. Jake got some dinner together and they waited for the confirmation phone call.

It came...with no mention of Daisy. Eliza invited Fiona to stay the night. Only.

Daisy was crushed. Absolutely crushed. Eliza wanted Fiona over right away--they were going to order pizza--but Jake was smart and told Eliza that we were going to talk as a family. (When I say "we" I don't mean it. I wasn't there--I was at the cat trivia night). Fiona was torn, Daisy was crushed. So hard.

Jake called Gretchen and explained the situation. Eliza hadn't even mentioned Daisy when she'd talked to Nick and Gretchen. Oops. Gretchen apologized, said Daisy would be welcome another night, and said she'd call back.

Eliza called back. Apologized. Daisy was welcome to come over and play until bedtime. Jake offered to watch a movie and make popcorn, too, instead...Daisy went with the playtime. She came home around 9:15 and went to bed ok.

I got home from the trivia night and got immediately on Facebook to find Delia's mom's page. Sent her a message. Can Delia come play this week? She wrote back immediately: Wednesday would be great. Whew.

Daisy will be fine. But it's a lot of disappointment when you're the little sister.

211/365 Melt

It's melting.

The north side of the street is covered in ice and snow. The street has two tracks, like skis, down the center. But my yard actually has some dead grass showing through.

I hate this. I love spring, I love the crocus and the hopeful silly daffodils and the fresh wet smell and feel to the air. But I hate the thaw. I hate the dead leaves and grass and dirty nasty crusts of ice and grime.

I sit on the stoop with Zelda and Travis, watching as Auggie, in shorts and flip-flops, picks up a handful of old crusty snow. And eats it.

210/365 A Winter's Winter

I'm stealing the title from Indigo Bunting. Because when she said it, I thought to myself, "that's exactly what it's been."

In St. Louis, we don't always have true winters. Sure, it gets cold, we usually have a bit of snow and a bit of ice and some warm January days when you think maybe you could get the shorts out...and then two days later it's back in the parka you go. My friend Mary from Kalamazoo says that's the problem with St. Louis winters. You never really embrace them--they are hesitant, just out of reach. In Michigan, or Chicago, or Vermont, you hunker down and settle into the idea of winter. Not here. We keep trying on spring for size or wistfully looking back to autumn.

Not this winter.

I don't know what our snowfall totals have been but they are above average. Way above average. When I walk across my front yard, where of course there is snow, I don't sink because there's also 3 inches of sleet there. Do I still have grass? I don't know.

It is also cold. Today's high is 17 and getting down into low single digits tonight. This has been pretty typical: snow once a week and some other minor precipitation and a cold snap. I miss the St. Louis standard of snow on Monday gone by Wednesday.

The street is a sheet of ice. The kids aren't playing outside anymore. They are snow fatigued. We've sledded and built snowmen and forts and taken photos and gone to the park.

We're done.

Sunday's high claims to be 50. I'll believe it when I see it but I hope I hope I hope.

209/365 Missed You

"You keep saying that!" I catch Fiona saying to Bree as they walk into Zelda's kitchen.

"Fiona, be nice," I remind her. Good advice.

"I was just saying I missed you," Bree says.

"She did," Zelda says to me.

"Especially be nice," I tell Fiona again.

208/365 Easing Back In

Went to Florida. Came home.

First stop: Travis and Zelda's house for a superbowl party. Great chili, even better shrimp and blue cheese garlic bread, and while I'm sure there was good beer, I had some pink lemonade.

We wound up playing mah jongg, just a three-hand game with Zelda, Gretchen, and me. Tara sat and chatted but didn't play. We used 2006 cards which is fun to mix it up. And talk ranged from Irish dance to school choice to Bridgett Putting Her Foot In Her Mouth. Yup. I was home in St. Louis for mere moments and managed to trip over myself. Badly. I've already apologized. But I've felt like a total ass all day. School choice. Always a tricky subject and I let myself get a little more flippant than even my usual bitchy self. And Zelda got quiet and the conversation died. I didn't catch it at first--it was later, once I was on my way home with the girls (Daisy was fine, but Fiona was crying because she wanted to stay to the end of the football game. Which she wasn't watching, of course).

It's hard sometimes for me, for anyone, probably, but especially for me, to watch my mouth. It's always how I get in trouble. There's no way I'm going to steal a car or commit adultery. But I'm going to open my mouth and that's when it happens. Crap.

So now I get to ease back in in several different ways.