Sough or sounds in a foreign language

sou, suhf
noun

Courtesy of James Morton.

1. A soft, low sighing, murmuring or rustling sound.

The leader is small, thin, with eyes like black beads that flash as she cocks her head to one side and waits for a child to spread the wing of what appears to be a feathered basketball. Ten seconds pass. The basketball squawks, grows legs and tries to fly, but is stopped by the leader who has come to the child's aid.

I sit in a chilly barn, sharing the space with animals, children, other parents, who also wait. One parent reads. Another checks a smart phone. Two fathers talk. I'm the only one who knits, and I've just discovered a mistake three rows back.

The leader talks on, but I don't listen to the lesson, just the sough of her voice, rising and falling in hushed clucks -- blah, blah, blah, BLAH! blah, blah, BLAH! I unravel yarn, and wonder how, just as dogs and their owners come to resemble each other, this woman has come to talk like her chickens.

Bilocation or returning home

by-lo-kay-shun

noun

Familiar hills surround Silver Springs, Nevada.

1. The supposed phenomenon of being in two places simultaneously.

I'm thinking about home, about going home to the desert where a small trailer sits anchored in the sand and bleached by the sun. The wind has blasted off paint, exposing metal that twinkles dully like a dime on the sidewalk. I pick up the dime, rub away the dust and look for the year. It is 1980.

I place my hand on a splintered railing and climb a set of steps that lead to the trailer's front door. I'm careful to avoid the nails protruding from the old planks held together by hammer and story. This is where my sister tumbled down and deadened her front teeth. And this crack between step and trailer was where the coyote-clawed cat hid, died and wasn't found for a month.

I step inside, onto vinyl flooring whose brick pattern is patchy and in some places worn clean away by years of sand ground into it. Like those trails that cut through grass and ignore sidewalk, a serpentine path is etched into the floor beginning at the front door and winding its way between kitchen table and stove before veering left and disappearing down the hall. Here more stories lurk. Stories held in the books lined up on hall shelves, and stories held in my mind.

But I don't walk down the hall. Instead, I sit at the oval kitchen table that also shows signs of wear. The wood veneer is yellowed and faded where plates are set daily. Within arms reach of the table is the counter and drawers, which open stubbornly and if yanked too hard will tumble out and send forks, spoons and knives clattering to the floor. At this table, I'd meet my mom for late night cups of cocoa and towers of buttered toast. I'd wake and wander into the kitchen, perch on a chair with knees drawn up to my chest and my flannel nightgown tented around me. As I'd dunk toast, we'd talk. Then with a stomach full and warm, I'd wander back to bed. I don't sleep, but lay looking out the window at the stars and the dusty line of the Milky Way. A meteor burns across the darkness.

In her mother's house.

Seven hundred miles and thirty years away, my own daughter and I are sharing hot chocolate and  nighttime conversation as we drive home from a meeting. It is a moment of bilocation between mother and daughter, everything at once familiar and foreign, like when I return to the desert. The trailer is still cemented in sand, but the insides are gutted, table and floor have been replaced, dark walls are painted light. I am a different mother and she a different daughter than what my own mother and I shared, but still we're here, together, wrapped in the night. She leans her head against the car window. Outside, a star gleams dull as a dime then falls from the sky.

Maunder or writing about writing

mon-duhr
verb

1. To talk incoherently; to speak in a rambling manner.
2. To talk or wander aimlessly.

We all have favorite tools we grab when a job needs finishing. When making soup, I grab one wooden spoon out of a canister full of them because I like the heft of its handle and the shape of its bowl, perfect for slurping from before adjusting the seasoning. I drink my morning coffee from one cup, my afternoon tea from another. Again and again, I reach for the same things because they're useful, predictable, because I'm trying to recapture an experience, like the time I stirred a pot of soup that turned out fabulous, or sipped from a cup and the sun shone all day, or wrote with a certain pen and the sentences sang.

My favorite pen to write with is Paper Mate Flair with a porous point in black ink. The pen is sleek, lightweight, unadorned and unidentifiable but for the company's name stamped into the tiny metal clip on the cap. It's basically a marker, the ink is easy to read, the tip glides effortlessly across the page. The Flair once was a standard in every office supply store, where it came not only in black, but also blue, red and green, and was sold in sets of two or four. But the Flair is harder to find now and my latest box of twelve had to be ordered online for $22.

My favorite notebook is the Moleskin. I carry a pocket one to jot down grocery lists, doctor appointments, the size of my vacuum's replacement bags (RR), instructions on how to knit a sock, bits of eavesdropping, books I want to read and so on. To scribble down longer thoughts, partial stories and poetry, I recently switched from a spiral-bound college notebook to a (5.25 x 8.5 in.) Moleskin Volant and am pleased. The notebook's soft cover folds in two, its pages are large enough so I don't feel cramped while writing, yet the book is small and thin enough to be tucked easily into my backpack or messenger bag. In addition, the sewn binding is far superior to the spiral, which bent, snagged and (most irritating) released its pages.

My habits met with limited success this week: My soup spoon went unused, my morning cup produced only sunny afternoons and my trusty pen maundered across lined paper -- while making fried rice (added soy sauce to my grocery list), while stopped at a red light (wondered about the different qualities of rain), and as my son nursed and napped (began an essay about school). Pages were filled with partial thoughts, bouts of self-pity, bits of truth, maybe a lie or two, but no singing, just my mind humming along, aimlessly, happily, writing about nothing much at all.

Beek or what I did on a good sky day

noun

1. To bask or warm in the sunshine or before a fireplace, stove or bonfire.

*

One son was running a fever and everyone was missing soccer, but my family hasn't come close to filling the summer camping quota, so this was the weekend to go. But then the newspaper promised days of rain and we bailed because if there's one lesson I've learned after four kids it's this: Sick kid + soggy tent = sucky weekend.

But then Saturday arrived with a sky as beautiful as an abalone shell, creamy pinks, iridescent whites and feather blues, and by the time I finished my run and returned to a house, now smelling of coffee cake and bacon, the sun was shining.

There was only one thing to do: take my coffee to the front steps and beek the sun. After swigging the last of my cup, I invited the sun in for a visit and thought you might want to come too.

Sit here.

Or here, the replacement for the couch that refused to fit through the front door (a bench better for practicing perfect posture that curling up with a book).

Look at this delicious light.

Rare shadows in the office lined with bookshelves.

After chores and the smallest son's nap, we headed out for a hike, but in the 20 minutes it took to get there, clouds had rolled in, and by the time we hit the trail home, rain was falling.

That night, while cooking spaghetti and listening to National Public Radio, the local station cut in with the next day's forecast: "And tomorrow's weather is ... wait for it ... rain."

Sigh.

First lesson learned about living in Seattle: Seize the sunshine when it comes.

Lacuna or wandering through negative space

luh-kyoo-nuh
noun

September morning, Seattle.

1. A blank space or a missing part.
2. Small cavity, pit or discontinuity in an anatomical structure.

*

There is much to say. And little. Since I put down my pen and stopped recording my thoughts, summer has slipped by, minutes ticked off in traffic, at the beach, under the dull skies and mist of Seattle, a cool summer, short on warmth and sunshine that surrendered early to autumn.

When I moved, I packed all I love and now it surrounds me -- husband and children, books and pictures -- but when I open the door to our house an unfamiliar smell greets me and I've yet to learn to avoid the squeaks while walking across the wood floor.

All images by Molly Bang, author of "The Grey Lady and the Strawberry Snatcher," a 1981 Caldecott Honor Book.

A friend sends sagebrush in the mail and I open the bag and inhale the pungent, tangy, dry scent. I pass it to one son and he buries his face in it, breathing, breathing until he blinks back tears and pinches his nose.

Oh, he says, I've missed this.

I say nothing. There is nothing to say.

"A hole can itself have as much shape-meaning as a solid mass."
-- Henry Moore

The place I love is not the place I live, and so there is a cavity, a lacuna, in my life. I mislead you if I sound sad, for I'm not, nor am I suffering from a shortage of sun (which, when it shines on Seattle, turns it into a glorious city). No, I'm just acknowledging that for which I yearn, what couldn't be boxed and loaded into the U-Haul, clear blues and burnished golds, night skies sugared with starlight, and the familiarity between old friends.

The days spent in Seattle have felt like a vacation. I marvel at the mist that soaks me, at the clams that spit and the plankton that sparkle in dark waters. I inhale the forest's smells of rotting leaves, soft moss and lush ferns. I eagerly climb aboard the bus to lose myself in the city. But I cannot return home.

Walls with windows and doors form the house,

but the empty space within it

is the essence of the house.

-- Taoist philosopher Lao Tse

As a stranger, I invite in all that's foreign, opening the windows of my brain to the morning fog, which smudge the names and places that leave me smarting with loss. This move erased me around the edges and I've yet to fill what is empty.

One morning I run through damp streets and discover where the world ends. Road and sidewalk meet grass, then fence, then blackberry bush, then cliff, then tree in the woolly tangle of gray that whispers the secrets of salt and gull and the growl of fishing boats. And for a moment I imagine leaping off, tumbling through negative space, that part of the world that lies around and between things, the pause, the gap, or, in Japanese the ma, falling through the muted world until I'm snared by the brambles' thorns where I'd stay, eating berries and crunching tiny seeds.

Tenebrous

The pinewood derby cars are anything but ...

ten-uh-brus or tuh-neb-ree-uhs
adjective

1. dark; gloomy; obscure

*

The first car Max built for the annual Cub Scout pinewood derby race never crossed the finish line. The lesson learned, painfully and publicly: Never paint the wheels.

Scouts are all seriousness when it comes to the pinewood derby. A week before the event the cars are weighed and impounded into the hands of the den leaders. Now these men, bedecked in badges and bangles, were standing watch over cars, rechecking the race list and running time tests on the metal four-lane track, which is elevated at one end and runs the length of the American Legion Hall. The track is wired to a computer that shuffles the entrants so each car is raced four times, once in each lane, to guarantee a fair race for all.

The cars are a testament to individuality: Colors rival the rainbow, decorations range from the ubiquitous flame to a glitter, while some cars even sport a driver. Max's car was roughly chiseled and painted a dull black, but its lubed wheels spun free and fast. He had high hopes for this year's car.

About 15 minutes into the derby, Max's name flashed on the screen, his car was lined up against three others and he watched as it zoomed down the track.

It finished fourth.

Moments later, his car was called up again. Another fourth.

His brother's car raced, winning two seconds and two firsts. Then Max's black car was back on the track, this time squeaking over the finish line and snagging a third.

Max wandered over to where I was watching, his shoulders stiff, his brow tenebrous, his eyes pooling. I put my arm around him and squeezed. There was one more race.

It was a personal best.

Quotidian

Minutes before our daily walk.

kwoh-tid-ee-uhn
adjective

1. Occurring or returning daily
2. Of an everyday character; ordinary; commonplace

*

It was a rainy morning meant for comfort, for rocking chairs and baths followed by menthol rubs. It was a morning for letting go, so that a mountain of clean clothes rose up from the couch, dirty dishes stacked like stalagmites in the sink, while chicken bones simmered on the stove.

It was an afternoon of sunshine, of snow melting, water running in rivulets down the driveway and into the gutter. The drip, drip, drip beckoned us outside, so despite runny nose and cough, we took off on our daily hike, a wander down city streets, some days here in the neighborhood, other days far from home.

The quotidian nature of the walk disappears with a 2-year-old on my back, and this sleepy suburb trembles with possibilities. Look! A dog barks frantically at the window. Smell! Fumes from a city bus whip around us. Listen! To the promise singing from the ice cream truck outside the school. To each exclamation, I murmur the appropriate response.

Then, I slip.

Boots slide through slush. Feet splay and throw me off balance. The twenty-five pounds on my back shifts too far to the left and I throw out my arms as snow, sidewalk and a pile of steaming, thawing dog shit come racing toward me. In a split second, I will fall or balance will be restored.

Then, our walk continues.

But like my son, I am certain: Today is not commonplace. Today is not routine. Today, I am lucky.

Billet-doux

bill-ay-doo
noun

1. A love letter or note. In French, billet-doux means sweet note or short note.

*

I am one lucky woman. My billet-doux came on Valentine's Day, but the gifts piled up though the week. First to arrive were two books from the Best American series I had on my wish list: "New Voices" and "Nonrequired Reading." Fittingly, the first two short stories I read from "New Voices" were about love, the loss of it and the attempt to regain it.

The editor, Dani Shapiro, promises the stories will be "daring acts of both head and heart -- the intellectual high wire of craft combined with that elusive thing: the capacity to make the reader feel something." With such expectation, I launched into the first two stories. "Bethlehem is Full" by Boomer Pinches is about a man deeply disturbed by his girlfriend's abortion, while David James Poissant explores a father's mistake and the monster he must set free in an effort to set things straight in "Lizard Man."

The arrows sang as they flew through the air and landed with a resounding thwack! in my heart. I'm in love with this book and was deep into it when my husband came home from his woodworking class and offered me the third gift: A freshly planed, routed, sanded and oiled piece of wood.

"It's the most beautiful thing I've ever made," he said. "Beautiful and functional."

The cutting board is solid, smooth as satin and striped with walnut, maple and eucalyptus. I'm a bit shy about cutting on it, so, instead I used an old board -- stained red where strawberries had bled and scarred by many knives -- to make him Pile-it-On Chili as one of many thank yous for the Valentine's Day that lasted an entire week.

In the bowl:

Pile-it-On Chili
Serves eight

2 pounds stew meat, cut into 1-inch cubes
1/4 cup oil
1 teaspoon cumin
1 teaspoon oregano
2 teaspoons garlic, chopped
1 teaspoon salt
3 cups onion, chopped
4 ounces green chili, chopped
15 ounces tomatoes, diced
4 cups water

refried beans
cheddar cheese, shredded
cilantro
green onion
jalapenos
salsa
sour cream or toasted cumin seed crema, if you're feeling fancy
peanuts (I kid you not. Before I had a son with a nut allergy, I'd toss a handful of peanuts on top. It was good. Really.)

In a large pot or dutch oven, brown meat in oil. Set aside. Toss onion, cumin, oregano and garlic into the pot and cook until onions are softened. Return meat and juices to the pot. Add the green chili, tomatoes and water. Bring to boil and then lower heat and simmer for at least an hour, two is better.

Shortly before the chili's ready, heat the refried beans. In a bowl, plop some beans, ladle chili over it and then pile on the toppings.

Aubade

February shadows on the Huffaker Hills' Western Loop Trail, 1.4 miles.

noun
oh-bahd

1. A song or poem greeting the dawn.

2. A composition suggestive of morning.

*

After a rough night, sleep was a shawl that I struggled to shrug off, making the morning discordant and confused. I yelled goodbye to the three older kids from the bedroom where I was discovering that my neglect of the laundry would force me wear mismatched socks and my husband's underwear.

Sigh.

Usually, the morning is synchronized, with my youngest son and I heading out the door for our morning walk at the same time the older kids leave for school. But today my two-year-old stood, jacket and boots on, waiting as I fished for a pair of jeans from the stuffed laundry hamper. I knew I should stay home and tackle the mountain of clothes, but instead we grabbed backpack and camera and headed for Huffaker Hills. (Here's a PDF of a Truckee Meadows trail guide, which includes this hike and others.)

The morning walk -- sometimes a 3o-minute loop around the Sparks Marina, other times an hour or more on a city trail -- sets the mood and melody of the day. It is my aubade. I need this conversation with myself, occasionally interrupted by the chirps and chatters from the little boy on my back. I guess walking is my physical form of writing, if that makes any sense.

Given the day's start, today's walk was critical, so I sought out the gray and empty desert. I needed the vast expanse of sky, the city far off on my horizon, the trail's rocks and mud demanding my concentration. We were enveloped in silence. We heard not a bird, saw not a soul, and although the rumble of a semi-truck and the whine of an airplane pressed against us, it didn't shatter this peace. I wrapped it around my shoulders and felt renewed.

Ursine

/ur-seen/

adjective

My first cub and her ursine hat while sledding on Mount Rose, which has become a yearly trek and measure of time passed.

1. Of or like a bear

Ten years later:

Chaja.

We stuff kids, sleds, hot cocoa, lunch and armloads of boots, jackets, hats and gloves into the car, drive for 45 minutes, trudge up the hill in knee-deep snow while listening to complaints of hunger, exhaustion, cold and the need to pee, and I think: My God, I am a fool. Here I am, another year, and I'm doing this again. Why?

I climb on the back of a sled and hold tight to my daughter. Snow sprays, I scream, a hat flies, so does a boot, and Chaja and I are at the bottom. I stare up at the empty blue sky, gasping, laughing, my heart pounding against my chest, and find my answer.

This year we left my husband and my 2-year-old's jacket at home, but brought extra layers and friends with infectious attitudes, so although the day started out cold and grumpy, it ended on a warm note.

Sam and Max.

Annie.

Shannon.

Succor

suhk-er
noun and verb



Our world has so many needs. How will you provide succor?

Noun
1. help, relief, aid, assistance
2. a person or thing that gives relief, help etc.

Verb (used with an object)
1. to help or relieve

Gallimaufry

gal-uh-maw-free
noun

From the top: Max and Sam sing, Chaja walks and the Big I enjoys his chocolate.
All photos by Dance in the Kitchen.

The weekend was a gallimaufry of holiday happenings that included caroling, a parade and chocolate letters from Sinterklaas. I, for one, am happy for Monday!

1. A hodgepodge, jumble, a confused medley.

Returnee

ri-tur-nee, -tur-nee
noun

Thanksgiving. Courtesy of the Chivers family.

My sister Molly greets her husband, a returnee from Afghanistan. Welcome home, Luke!

1. a person who has returned, as from travels or a long absence.
2. a person returning from overseas duty in the armed forces.

Origin: Americanism, 1940-45.

Petrichor

pet-ri-kuhr
noun

Bring on the rain! Photo by Dance in the Kitchen.

Darkening clouds and a breeze carrying petrichor sends Sam into the house for an umbrella. When the rain arrives, he's ready.

1. The scent of rain on dry earth.

In 1964, two Australian researchers were the first to use the word to describe the smell of rain. The oil from plants, absorbed into clay soil and rocks during dry spells (and there are many of them in Nevada), is released into the air when it rains. The word petrichor originally referred to the fluid that flowed in the veins of Greek gods.

Carom

kair-uhm
noun

Chaja at the weekend soccer tournament. Photo by Dance in the Kitchen.

Like a ball on the soccer field, we caromed from home to field for five games this weekend. After seven hours of soccer, kids' eyes were glassy and crazed, and parents' judgment failed: We rented "The Wiz." But before we became punch-drunk from bouncing about town all weekend, here are a five things we learned:

1. The driver digs RJD2's song "Ghostwriter."
2. Girls run differently. Some are tough and solid as bears, some are so graceful they take my breath away. Some look fierce. Others as if they're on the receiving end of that pain. But they're all beautiful and strong on the field.
3. Ponytails are wonderful to watch and photograph.
4. $725 can buy cool uniforms, matching duffel bags and a coach with a British accent, but not a championship.
5. Which makes our girl's victory that much sweeter.

Video by Marcel Levy.

1. A rebound following a collision; a bouncing off.
2. A shot in billiards in which the cue ball successfully strikes two other balls on the table.
   

For another parent's take on the soccer-soaked weekend, visit Earthy Crunchy.

Diktat

dik-taht
noun

Photo courtesy of Dance in the Kitchen.

Oops goes the flour. Out comes the vacuum. One is never too young to understand the diktat: Clean up the mess.

1. A harsh settlement unilaterally imposed on a defeated party.
2. An authoritative decree or order.

Celerity

suh-lair-uh-tee
noun


Chaja reads in twilight, courtesy of Dance in the Kitchen.

She read with celerity, devouring the teen-age vampire story in two days and craving more.

1. Rapidity of motion or action; quickness; swiftness.

Tyro

ty-roh
noun


Courtesy of Marcel Levy. For notes on the animals, go to Chaja, Master Showgirl.

In the Nevada State Fair's master showmanship competition, kids compete by showing every animal featured in the fair: rabbits, guinea pigs, chickens, dairy cow and steer, horses, swine, market and dairy goats, and, finally, sheep. The competition is open to the first-place winners in all the individual showmanship events.

My daughter, Chaja, took second in the rabbit competition, but with only two hours before the master showmanship, she discovered she had to step in for the first-place winner. She quickly learned how to show all the other animals, then she showed her stuff to the judges. The result?

A tyro turns champion.

1. beginner in learning; a novice.

Crepuscular

kri-pus-kyuh-lur
adjective

In the day, the web is empty.
The spider sleeps, safe and snug, in a crack in the wood.

But in the crepuscular gloom, the spider awakens
and skitters down a long strand of web.





The children watch
it stitch its torn web under the darkness of night.


All photos courtesy of Dance in the Kitchen.
Final two photos by Marcel Levy.

1. Of, pertaining to, or resembling twilight; dim.
2. (Zoology) Appearing or active at twilight.

Ephemeral

ih-fem-er-ul
adjective

"Morning kitchen" by Max Levy at Dance in the Kitchen.

1. Beginning and ending in a day.
2. Short-lived.

Three cups and a wicked case of jitters later, the ephemeral taste found in my first morning coffee continues to elude me, and so by the afternoon I've switched to tea.