I have heard about several awesome cars that my Dad once owned, in the days before us kids. I don’t remember what they all were, but I do have several distinct memories of my dad and cars.

I remember that he used to get his license plates personalized with his initials, DGH. I always figured the “D” stood for Dad.

I remember him polishing his whitewall tires in the driveway, well beyond the days when anyone else had whitewalls.

I remember pretending to be asleep when our car pulled into the driveway late at night, hoping to get carried in to bed – well beyond the days I should have been carried.

I remember curling up with blankets and pillows and my little brothers in the back of the station wagon every time we’d leave Minneapolis at 4 am to drive to Grandma and Grandpa’s house in Chicago.

I remember the rhythm of the passing street lights as Dad drove us in the dark.

I remember riding backward in the third-row, rear-facing, station-wagon seat on the way to and from and back to church again. Many times.

I remember Dad teaching me to drive stick-shift in a rickety old Gremlin on the streets that circle our local shopping mall.

Yes, a Gremlin. With me jolting and lurching and stalling all over the place.

Embarrassment upon embarrassment.

And also impossible to shift.

I remember being in the driver’s seat, with Dad riding shotgun, as we headed to pick up my brother at that same shopping mall – when suddenly a tornado was coming right straight toward us and we had to take refuge under the desks of a doctor’s clinic.

I remember being barely tall enough to see into the car engine Dad was fixing when I brought him a baby doll I had just learned to swaddle in a blankie. I remember him stopping to watch my new skill.

So this weekend, for Father’s Day, Dad and I stopped to look at cars at a vintage car show. The best part of the day? All of Dad’s memories.

My friend had a car like this. One day, we were driving around a cloverleaf intersection and he decided to really punch it. Wow. That thing had some power…

My dad owned a car like this once. He wanted me to buy it from him… I wasn’t interested.

I had a friend who drove a car like this one and it was so small that every time he shifted gears he would crash his hand against the front window. You would think he would have learned…

Car after car, memory after memory.

And also a few just plain awesome cars, memories or not.

So great.

Thanks for all the memories, Dad. You’re a pretty cool pop.

xo

_

photos taken at the Stone Arch Bridge Festival Father’s Day Car Show

this happened.

Yes!

And all it took was R-girl sitting on the couch doing homework last week while I was endlessly moving all my favorite things around and around and around on top of the piano, trying to find the perfect combination.

Until R-girl said, “Mom. You need to take down that white thing and just make a collage.”

Which is something that had definitely crossed my mind. But then again that “white thing” is a priceless (free) treasure I found on the side of the road back in the days when R-girl was mortified by me picking up things on the side of the road, especially things that don’t even actually fit in the car without the back door being fully open. And it’s been a unique highlight on that wall. A piece of structure. The perfect color and size.

Can I really just move on from such a find?

Turns out, yes. R-girl was right.

Don’t you think?

Every single piece has a story. A meaning. A place in my heart.

Like the 13 rows of men wearing white, a framed estate sale pic I found at the home of a former Minnesota Gopher’s football coach. It was an actual team he had coached. I like having a little extra testosterone in the house. Aren’t they great? (Although R-girl recently pointed out that all the African-American players are in a single row, fourth from the top. Hmmmm.)

Or the vintage Kregel Studios photo frame—found at a garage sale—filled with illustrations of seashells—found in one of the many 1960s Scientific American magazines left in my garage.

The needlework flowers created by hand, with care, by people I will never know. Found and treasured by me through the years.

And then there are these two. My newest finds and, dare I say, possibly my faves:

Seriously.

Oldies but goodies!

In true high fidelity!

And a gold Reader’s Digest book!

Carved into an R!

For R-house!

Need I say more?

Oh, and after the project was done (it took three evenings) R-girl tweeted a pic to the world with the hashtag #nicejobmama.

Yeah, that felt nice. And I’m pretty happy.

xo

P.S. What do you think?

I’m so stinkin’ proud of you. Sooooo excited for you. And so super glad I’ll get to see more of you for the next few months!

I heart summer and I heart you!!!!!!!

And, since I forgot to post it last year, here’s this:

And also:

last day of school 2011

last day of school 2010

xo

P.S. Looks like we now have a senior in the house. And not the citizen kind. (?!??!)

P.P.S. Obviously the girl has some style going on, but did you check out R-boy’s shoes?

It’s the day I know that summer has finally arrived: the first Saturday of June – garage sale day in Victory Neighborhood. My own personal Christmas morning!

So this morning I got up, lifted my bike off its winter hook in the garage, pumped up the tires and set out to cruise the alleyways, up and down and all across our hood.

Although, note to self: Next year, I might want to slap an “NFS” sign on the blue bomber – since every time I step away to browse, I turn around to find someone kicking the tires and inquiring about the price.

But, oh, garage sale day. It’s like a 40-square-block shopping mall of other people’s stuff, on clearance. The possibility of scoring that perfect find stretches out as far as you can see in every direction. As do the people you are competing with.

In years past, R-kids have been as excited to go as me, their pockets filled with just enough cash to land some pretty great loot, or at least a steady supply of home-baked cookies and lemonade. If R-girl wasn’t so swamped with end-of-the-year homework, I’m sure she would have come, but she was fighting the good fight and R-boy wasn’t interested, so I was on my own.

But not really on my own.

I could barely bike a full block without running into someone I hadn’t seen in a while. There was my client/neighbor who disappeared mid-project last week to deliver her first baby, a girl, whom I got to meet. A six day old baby, people!

There was my former neighbor who has moved 45 minutes away but who still came back with her clan of kids for garage sale day.

There was another former neighbor who moved just a few blocks away and who called me by my daughter’s name when he spotted me.

And then there was my friend from an old book club, whom I didn’t notice standing there until I snapped a picture and realized she was in it. I promised her I wouldn’t use that shot, so here’s this one instead. Imagine Jennifer standing exactly on the X, next to her daughter’s stroller, loaded with books and a huge stuffed (eyeless) giraffe.

And then, of course, there’s all the stuff.

This beauty reminded me of the restaurant tabletops I bought a few years back – dirt cheap - which have found their second life as my office desktops.

And then there was this delicious table.

And I bet you think this is an awesome retro radio.

Nosirrreeee. It’s an awesome retro radio that has been converted into a purse. Yes.

With a busy day ahead of me, I had to make today’s hunting trip much shorter than usual. My best find this year was some brand new salon products, being sold at half price by a stylist raising money to help her friend visit his dying father in Arizona. I mean, come on.

No pink appliances this year. No are-you-kidding-me perfect typewriter box. No sweet retro finds.

But I did leave with the same thought I always have, every first Saturday in June.

I love this place.

And thank God it’s summer.

xo

This was no cloudy, dull snoozer of a meeting.

It was a sunny blast of fresh inspiration. With a side of gluten-free snickerdoodles. And tea.

No walls to box us in. No glass ceiling to hold us down.

No ceiling at all. Making it a lot easier to remember that the sky actually is the limit.

Especially when the person who called this meeting had also just finished designing, building and beautifying the custom tree fort in which we were sitting.

And still had time to drag the table, chairs and treats up the ladder for us meeting participants, who had gladly accepted the call to sit in the treetops and review a manuscript on a finally sunny (but still just a tad chilly) spring day.

And who struggled to capture the full height of this invite-me-again locale.

Three writers.
One tree fort.
Dreams, egos and written words vulnerably placed on the table.

Sounds like a plot just waiting to happen.

xo

__

P.S. Jonathan and Kate. Not sure any meeting will quite top that one. But we can try!

When you are awakened by a late-night call,
just as you’re drifting off to dreamland,
inviting you to escape the next morning
for a long-weekend getaway into the north woods
with two of your favorite friends -

and your kids are away for a few days,
and you have no plans to speak of,
and you were sort of dreading your quiet weekend alone -

but you’re also a bit of an introvert,
and you don’t switch gears as fast as some,
and it’s a rainy night that kind of makes you want to snuggle in all weekend
and what will you wear
and is any laundry clean -

Do you roll over and go back to sleep?

Or do you set the alarm for “early” in order to get packed in time?

Yes. That is correct.

You say, “What time are we leaving?”

And – after a leisurely road trip of spontaneous antique-slash-junk-sale stops – you arrive at a lakeside room that is infinitely more luxurious than you ever envisioned.

And you whip up some appetizers to eat on the patio, using the new wine glasses you scored along the way ($2 for 4).

And you smile.

And maybe also cry. Just a little.

But you also laugh.

A lot.

No, seriously.

A lot.

Until you are spitting out your drink on the granite countertops.

And you also sleep.

A lot.

And when you wake up, you eat breakfast at the best place in town.

And you explore.

And you bike.

Twelve miles.

With a stop halfway
at the local Supper Club
for cocktails.

And you sit on the beach with a book that makes you laugh out loud
until your friends get sunburned
(but not you because you’ve been tanning-for-sanity all winter long
and also because your friends are wearing tank tops
while you are still wearing three layers
and a scarf).

And you have steak for dinner
and scotch for dessert.

And you hashtag everything “#upnorth.”

And your tummy
and your heart
are both as full as they could possibly be.

And you pretty much can’t believe you just got that lucky.

Yep.

That’s exactly what you do
when you get that call.

xo

(P.S. Kristin and Jenni, here’s to plate gardens and single moms and next year. You rock.)

toward the basketball hoop.

It’s a jump shot I’ve been dodging for weeks—while making dinner, eating dinner, washing dishes, watching TV, and generally living in R-house—as R-boy has been attempting to reach the ceiling with his hand.

Mom, do you think I can touch it?
I can.
How much do you want to bet?
How close am I to touching it?
Wait, that one didn’t count.
Watch again!
Oh man, that was close – did you see that?!
How come I can touch the ceiling at Daddy’s house but not here?
There’s just not enough room to get a running start.
Wait, watch this.
This is it.
Watch.
How much will you pay me if I make it?

Me: How much will I pay you???

R-boy: Yeah! This will be a big deal! How much will you pay me?

Me: Ummm. How about a dollar?

R-boy: A dollar? No. How about $1.29.

Me: ??

Something like this:

Well, guess what?

Tonight, I am $1.29 poorer.

R-boy reached his goal. With the tips of his fingers.

And while he bounced around with pure joy and said, “This is the best day of my life,” I thought, ok, wow.

Wait? It is?

Until he started playing this perfect song.

And then he checked me to see if I was crying.

xo

__

P.S. R-boy had already introduced me to the original version of that song, which chokes me up for all kinds of different reasons…

this color existed

in my dreams

but not

in my world.

Words…

cannot…

express…

xo

They pound.
They melt.
They swell.
They burst.
They break.
They bleed.

They keep your breath coming
while simultaneously
also

taking it away.

Here’s to hearts.

Those blossoming.
Those fading.
Those coming back to life.

xo

__

See my bleeding hearts of yesteryear:
2012
2011
2010

__

Check out my stop-the-bleeding song that’s playing on an endless loop here this week. Click below to see the most amazing version of it:

when the beating of your heart
echoes the beating of the drums
there is a life about to start
when tomorrow comes

xxoo

A little hanger-on
to what once was.

And visions flashed through my mind

of waking up to discover
that the size 4T shirt that fit R-girl last Sunday
was now creeping awkwardly up
her belly button,

or the shorts that were just the right amount of short
for R-boy last month
were now Richard-Simmons-short.

The kind of scene that has replayed itself day after day.
Month after month.
Year after year.
On an endless loop
that is not done yet.

I have often wondered
what these growing bodies will look like,
on the day they stop growing.

Sometimes I can hardly wait to find out.

But finding that mini hanger made me remember
what an absolute pleasure
and privilege
it is
to do life with people
who are growing.

To know that who you see today
is just a glimpse of
who they are becoming.

To watch them outgrow
the old
and take on the new.

To not yet know the end of the story.

And I realized

I hope that moment never arrives.

That moment
when my children
have stopped
growing.

__

Happy Mother’s Day!

xo