Butterfly Tree

"...Edging the golf course of the club was a glorious sweep of glowing purple. Even before I was near enough to identify the trees, the rich, heady perfume which filled the air told me they were Bauhinias. The sight left me breathless and it was then I realised how difficult was the attempt I was making to describe in mere words the trees I know better how to paint..." (D. Cowen, "Flowering trees and shrubs of India")

I said I would never write about this again but here I am writing about it.

So, remember when I talked about that tree in the neighborhood Ham and I love, the one I took the sapling from and tried to grow for myself in a pot?  (If you don't remember click here and here.)

Well....

It has been growing....

and slowly and surely I moved up its pot size twice.

And it even started growing bark.


The end.


That would be the end of it if I planted it in the ground but I haven't done that yet. For a while now I didn't even know what it was!

But have no fear. Mr. Yardbird and I researched and researched and finally we found out... it is an....

Orchid Tree!.....or sometimes called a Butterfly Tree. Or in scientific words Bauhinia blakeana.

Which explains a whole lot.

If I'm boring you.....stop here.

I need this for my records. When I'm old and senile. When I can't remember what that cool  tree is growing in my yard. When I want my grandkids to be impressed by my weirdness...

I can pull up this blog or hopefully I'll have it all nice in a book and say yes, grandkids of mine this tree has history.

And they can nod their weary heads and act enthused.

Anyway, the Orchid tree.

From what I know, it originated in Hong Kong, but also grows in India and some subtropical areas. Some guy named Sir Henry Blake found the tree and named it "Butterfly" tree after his wife, who was an avid painter of butterflies, trees and plants. Apparently, she really loved butterflies (about as much as I do) and found them buzzing around this tree's fragrant flowers.

The leaves which are huge and remind me of elephant ears were referred to as "clever" leaves because students in Hong Kong were asked to use them as bookmarks when studying. Ham uses them as a fan for now ------>

Henry....painter.... lover of butterflies....the pea pods I found at Aunt Carrie's house, being clever?

Can there be so many things to connect me with this tree? I'm kidding about the being clever part.

But knowing the name and the history of it are only part of it. Somehow this tree ended up in my neighborhood and today I found out how.

More on that in the next post.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig

This past weekend we took a roadtrip to visit Mr. Yardbird's family. It was a welcomed relief after all the hard work that went into getting back into our family routine with Mr. Yardbird coming home after ten long, really long, months.

We have a lot to get used to.

One being the house wasn't as tidy as Mr. Yardbird remembered it. Welcome to the life of a tornado toddler. Somehow when he visited the house was always spotless, well that's because a little help from my mom allowed me enough time to clean it and if I timed it just right, Mr. Yardbird would walk through the door in the most perfectly clean, not a toy to kick over or trip over moment.

The next thing being that I couldn't locate Ham's beloved hair brush. Apparently, brushing Ham's hair is important male bonding time and I somehow misplaced it for I don't know how long. The appalled look of Mr. Y's face when I said I never really brush Ham's hair (ever) tells me he should have been the one home and I should have been the one away.

And of course, there was the getting used to someone always being there when I normally sat in silence. Yes, I used to work on my lesson plans  on the sofa on Sunday in peace with the faint sound of the game on the lowest volume it could go and I could still hear it. Now, it's loud enough for Ham sleeping self to hear it down the hall and of course, I get the play by play from across the couch. But I don't mind it because I sort of missed the play by play even if it causes me to forget what "the students will do..." or what "the teacher will say...". Who doesn't want to know that Tony Romo sucks this year?

And for Mr. Yardbird, there were things to get used to as well. Like having someone to watch tv shows with at night. Even if that someone can't decide if she is still hungry or not and insists on eating ramen noodles at ten o'clock at night while we watch a tv show on our laptop. And it doesn't seem like such a bad thing to get used to except that I accidently lost grip of that boiling hot ramen noodle bowl and set us both screaming across the room with burned arms and legs and million mushy ramen noodles splattered on everything possible. I can't help it that I'm hungry a lot. But now that he's home, he'll get used to that again.

Just like he'll get used to doing the man things around the house, like trimming up the already trimmed bushes outside and then convincing me that he could do a much better job if  we bought him a hatchet. What in the world is a hatchet? And last I checked we have a guy that comes out to do that stuff. But I won't tell him.

And for me, I have reinvested in my good old ear plugs. My new ones I mean. The ones I had to go buy again now that my snoring man is back.

It feels like we're newlyweds again.

But I don't mind.

Letters from Michael - Part 2

So, Hammy I was receiving letters from Michael, well written, beautiful penmanship, correspondence at its best, letters.

Each letter was more beautiful than the last. He never made a mistake, the strokes of his pen were careful and deliberate.

And each letter I intended to answer, but when I thought about it, I figured I should sit down with some beautiful paper and write an elaborate note to him that matched his.

But, that's not me.

With me there are scratch-outs and my penmanship looks more like a 5th grader's. It is not graceful or cursive, its all over the place, as are most of my thoughts when I write a letter.

So time went on and each year I promised myself I would sit down and write that perfect letter and each year there was never enough time.

And finally this year in February, I decided enough was enough and I took out some stationary and a pen and made myself do it. But how do you sum up three years, and also how do you apologize for not writing, what excuse is good enough?

There isn't any.

So, I wrote Michael and said, I'm sorry I haven't written and I know that no excuse is a good enough one..." and I carried on about how life had been. I thanked him for the letters and I brought him to speed on the birth of you. I told him about your dad's adventures through work and my decision to pursue teaching.

I included pictures and I sent it off.

But months went by and I heard nothing from Michael.

And finally July rolled around and I was really worried. One day, while you were swimming in the pool I had the strange sense that I should try to call Michael.

So, after I put you down  to sleep (thank God for your three hour day naps), I asked your dad if he minded if I made a long distance phone call to Scotland. Michael always included his number in his letters, so I had another way to reach him. Your dad said it was a good idea, without hesitation.

So I sat down and I tried and I tried but I couldn't figure it out! Ham, I'm no technology guru. I was so mad. I tried Skype, I tried to call him through Google, but nothing worked.

I gave up, at least for now. I had a stack of papers to go through in our bedroom and since you were still asleep and I couldn't call Michael, I might as well sort through, organize, and shred mail.

I started making a pile of mail to shred and I was surprised to see a letter that Micheal had written to us from before. I didn't know how it ended up in this stack. It had been so long since I had opened it that is has already resealed itself. I gently pried open the envelope and peeked inside. There was Micheal's beautiful penmanship peering out at me. I tried to make out some of the words to see what this one had been about, his kids, his grandchild on the way? But my eye's caught something else....."Hammy". Yes Ham, my eyes caught your name.

My heart started beating fast and tore open the letter. I scanned the letter so fast, it was pages long. Your name was scattered throughout it.

Micheal didn't know about you Ham! So this means, he HAD written back, but when???

I don't know how it happened but somehow his letter was misplaced as junk mail and luckily on the day I was so determined to call him, I found it.

It turns out that he received my letter on his birthday, which coincidentally is only a few days away from your birthday. He was so excited he took off and celebrated your almost mutual birthday at a pub.

I'll tell you what that is one day.

He filled me in on his life and was overjoyed with the news of you.

And never once did he say, your handwriting is awful, your scratch-outs make me sad, please find some better stationary to write on.

Because the thing is, Michael's letter wasn't nearly as perfect as his others had been. Sure it was still beautiful, but for the first time I was seeing scratch outs and the paper was just photocopy paper. And I felt sad inside realizing that none of those things mattered to Micheal either.

So Ham, I keep on writing to him, sometimes on stationary. Sometimes I typed letters filled with pictures of you and he would write back telling me "I couldn't stop fussing over the pictures you sent".

Ham,  I doubt you'll let something like stationary and penmanship get in the way of something good, but it might be something else, just take a step back and think about what really matters.

Love,
Mom

Letters from Michael - Part 1

Dear Hammy,

Here's a life lesson for you --- If you wait until everything is perfect to do something you might miss the opportunity to do it all together.

Let me give you the perfect example:

When your dad and I were honeymooning in Italy almost 3 years ago, we spent the last few days of our trip in Rome.

By our third city in Italy, I was starting to come to the realization that I married a man who wasn't the best with directions since locating each new hotel took several hours and many puzzled looks at maps. There was also the occasional "It must be over there a few streets over." "Or just behind that corner." By the time we located the hotel, I thanked my stars your dad had only allowed me one suitcase, because carrying any more would have been out of the question.

Finding our hotel in Rome was no exception. Although we didn't have to hurdle our luggage up the stairs and over bridges as we did in Venice, Rome offered the unique challenge of dodging tiny cars that seemed to travel at the speed of light. Plus it was dark and we had taken the subway to the ghetto by accident. your dad was trying his best to seem like he knew exactly where we were and that he hadn't just placed his new wife in an uncomfortable situation of wheeling luggage down a dangerous street in the middle of the night.

Soon enough he decided to call our hotel quest quits and he flagged down a cab. What a relief it was for us, when we got in and saw a young hip girl driving it. Maybe she could help us. But we ate our words and the dust as she floored the gas petal and zipped between cars in what could only be described as Roman drag racing.  By the time that we got to our hotel which was nanoseconds, I nearly hurled myself to the ground to kiss the cement in appreciation that our lives had been spared.

Thankfully, Rome daytime was a nice departure from ghetto Rome nighttime.

During the day we explored the city, its museums, the colosseum, and threw down some bruschetta, expressos and a few gelatos here and there. At night we tried to find a hole in the wall local place to eat using our trusty Frommer's Guide. When we returned to the hotel, we would stop by the hotel bar to have a night cap and talk about the day's adventures.

One night we decided on the Ristorante del Pallaro. We hailed a cab and circled around forever before we finally eyed the name of the restaurant on the street we insisted it was on. Our driver had never heard of it, go figure. Once we were there we were served 8 courses of whatever they felt like feeding us that night. It was hands down the best food we had while in Italy. Your dad and I were in heaven.

Fun fact about Pallaro is that the owner claims that the restaurant rests on the site where Julius Ceaser was assassinated. It has been disputed, but it still adds to the restaurant's intrigue.

Before we left we hightailed it to the kitchen where we were able steal a picture with the owner and cook, Paola Fazi.

When we got back to the hotel, we decided to stop by the hotel bar for a minute to relax.

That's when we met Michael.

We were sitting at the bar, musing over the food and experience we had at that really neat local restaurant, when Michael caught my eye.

Michael was an older man, in his seventies. He was sitting alone a few chairs over, sipping on a glass of Brandy.

Since I'm not shy, I turned to him and asked him if he was American.

"No, I'm Scottish." he said, smiling.

We told him all about the restaurant we just went to and about our trip so far to Italy.

Michael explained the reason for his trip to Rome. It was a group trip with other folks about his age. He had lost his wife a few years before from cancer after a year long battle with it. He took care of her in their home in Dumfries. (When he talked about her, you could tell he missed her tremendously) In the past few months, he thought it might be the right time to start traveling so he booked a spot with a group trip to Rome. He wasn't particularly fond of the group he was traveling with - they were a bit boring for his taste.

He bought a glass a Brandy for your dad and the two of them sipped while I continued the conversation.

Before we knew we invited him to dinner with us the next night. We didn't know where we were going to go, but we would really love it if he would come with us.

At six thirty the next day, Michael greeted us in the lobby, hopped in a cab with us and joined us for dinner.

We continued our conversation over dinner and Malbec wine. I ordered something really awful to eat. I don't remember what it was but I mostly pushed my food around my plate while I told Micheal all about our lives back at home.

We talked about his kids, life in Scotland, how he lived in a town that was only twenty minutes from the town our town was named after. What are the odds?

Anyway, when we got home we parted ways agreeing to write to each other. I took down Michael's address and he took down mine.

Each year that followed Michael sent Christmas cards and one or two letters a year.

But Hammy here is the thing: I never wrote him.

Not for three years.

Let me tell you the ridiculous reason why.


To be continued...

Who do you think you are?

Today I got to go to church by myself.

It was amazing. I was able to sit back, enjoy the music, pray, and  catch everything that God was trying to tell me.

All without having to redirect a toddler, apologize to the surrounding parishioners, and without having to think of new ways to keep my son peaceful.

I love my Hammy but he is not ready for church yet.

I sort of accepted it, last week when he went and sat with another family for the entire mass. And though they were good sports about it, he did, in fact, eat every bit of their kids snacks and nearly break their toys. I thought it might be best to try this a little later on.

Nevertheless, this week I sat alone and though I thought of the little guy often, I enjoyed some me and God  time.

And as we went through the Gospel and the priest's homily. I sort of had the feeling this Gospel was really something that I needed to hear.

It was John 6:41-51.

You know the one - where Jesus has been preaching to the people from his village for a while and he finally tells them that He is the Son of God and his friends said something like "Whoa, wait a minute....Who do you think you are?...You are the son of Joseph!". Everything up until that moment is going great and then Jesus decides to challenge their thinking with this idea. And He basically  says "Accept this from now on". But it was really hard for them, because they were so used to how things were.

This is what our priest talked about - how hard it is for us to accept God's challenges.

And I sat there and I thought about how many times, while driving in my car and thinking about the challenges that God doles out to me, do I say "Whoa, wait a minute....Who do You think you are?....Don't You think we have enough going on, enough to think about?"

I'm not talking about spilt milk or dropping an egg carton on the floor. I'm talking about the bigger things, the things you don't have control over.

But the priest said something that really struck me. He said, "If you don't learn to accept the challenge and stop trying to hold on to the way things were, you will never receive all the graces God wants you to because of it."

It's pretty weighty.

But I look at all the good things that have come out of those challenges. New friendships and ones that maybe I needed to be let go of. More time with loved ones and learning how to swallow my pride and accept help when its needed. And maybe I understand a little bit better the why.

Maybe things that seemed obviously bad where actually the setup for something really good.

So I drove home and I told God, I do know who He is, maybe not exactly what He's doing. But I think I have a rough idea of where He is going with this. And well, maybe He should scratch some of the things that I said before.

I like to think He did, since He's so forgiving and all.

Murphy's Law

It's been the kind of week that:

• You drop a brand new egg carton on your concrete driveway as you attempt to carry in too many groceries at once. (All 18 eggs break)
• You drop a whole gallon of milk on the floor and the cap flies off and by the time it all registers and you grab it, half of it has poured out.
• In some strange way you manage to knock your coffee across the bathroom with your blowdryer wire (and you only had three sips of it)
• Your kid busts his head on your second to last toe in some freak of nature accident.
•  Surprise! Your kid has pnemonia. That cold that lasted all summer, the one the doctor said "hey it's no big deal, wheezing is okay". Well turns out its not okay.
• And your flowers you just planted from Home Depot kicked the bucket. And who said Vincas are hard to kill?

But that's okay because at least this week, our air conditioner is working and we have found other things to smile about like mismatched pajamas and a hand-me-down push car that is super fun to ride in.

The pain was incredible.

Last night I was a nervous nelly. Checking my alarm ten times and asking not one but three people to call and check with me in the morning to make sure I was up.

It was my first day of student teaching.

Waking up early is not my thing.

Especially 5 am.

But nevertheless my weary eyes popped upon when my phone alarm went off and I dragged my feet over to turn off the other alarm I set across the room.

It was a miracle.

I'm one of those light sleepers except when it comes to the sound of my alarm. The minute it goes off, my mind automatically tranforms it into the voice of someone in my dream. And for some strange reason I accept the fact that someone in my dream has resorted to speaking in beeps.

But today, I was able to combat my sleep disorder.

I made myself a fresh cup of coffee.

As I'm filling my Kuerig K-cup, I hear the faint sound of some super trendy pop song drifting from the living room where my sister sleeps which I'm guessing is her phone alarm and I shake my head because there's no way in heck that would ever wake me up. And who knows why her alarm was set this early anyway.

I sip my coffee, sit down for a minute and think what do people do in the morning, watch the today show, read the newspaper? take the trash out?

I have no clue.

Instead, I take a shower, start blow drying my hair and in one clean inexplicable sweep of the blowdryer wire send my more than half full coffee cup across the bathroom coating the entire bathroom in coffee. Fantastic.

The school day went fine. Except that I locked myself out of the school when I went to get my lunch out the car and I had to break into the cafeteria kitchen to get back in. It was sort of embarrassing for my first day.

And when I got home, I told Ham to help me find his shoes so that we could take my sister back home. I was relieved to be home, tired even. A visit to my mom and dad's would be nice. Plus we could stop for snowballs on the way.

Just when we got to the hallway, one of Ham's feet tripped over one of the three brooms he likes to pull out and leave as booby traps on the floor, forcing one of his feet up in the air, his other leg buckled beneath him and of course, his head came crashing down to the floor. It seemed like it happened in slow motion. In my head, I thought "nooooo.... Hammy's head!"

But not to worry. Since I was so close behind him, I attempted to save the day. I put one foot forward and tried to scoop down to save him and that's when his head came crashing down on my toe and I howled in pain. Ham was unscathed. Thank goodness.

My toe, sad and broken.

Every minute that passed the pain got worse. As my dad would say, "The pain was incredible."

I called Mr. Yardbird while I searched for Ham's shoes. "My toe, I think it's broken." I explain what happened. "It looks kind of weird."

"But that's how your toes look."

Thanks. Seriously? he had to go there? I'm no foot model, but sheesh. So what if my first two toes look like two fingers making the peace sign. So what if the rest of them are midget toes. It's quirky and fun, different, unique. Right?

I show my sister as I hobble out the door. "You see, doesn't it look bad?"

"Oh yea," she says, shaking her head. "It looks REAL bad."

I look up at her and I realize she's not looking at the right toe. "Wait a minute. Which toe do you think it is?"

She points to my second toe. I grimace a little. "No, Anna, it's not that one."

"Well which one is it?"

"The one that's screaming!" I say with desperation. "That one!"

"Oh, well um....it's hard to tell."

Thanks ya'll. I'll never show my feet again.

So I survived my first day of school, but my foot did not.