The Granite Man

Flash to the past: My older sister, Miriam, was visiting early last year. Over a large bowl of buttery popcorn, we hatched a plan to force our post-partum bodies into shape (James was born on August 15, and her little Max (above) was August 16. What fun those two are going to have!). What better than a nearly half-marathon on rugged mountain trails? So we both diligently trained and recruited. By the time the actual race came we had over a dozen siblings and spouses, Mom and Dad, and some loyal family friends signed up to race with us. Sadly, my sister Rivka and husband Chace couldn't make it, but were "there in spirit."

That glistening early June morning Michael, my brother David, his wife Kathryn, and Michael's brother David (above), headed to the mountains of southern Oregon, southwest of Medford. There we waited for the rest of our party to arrive. At one point a car that looked just like my sister's drove up and I made a fool of myself flagging it down. Then it stopped and a tall strange man, who looked a lot like a Burt Reynolds wannabe, jumped out and started vigorously warming up. Our party burst into laughter at the scenario, typical for me. Then the strange man jogged over to us with something like a swagger, and with a little too much familiarity asked where to go next. There was something strangely familiar about this tacky-looking fellow.

It was my father. As Miriam said in her version of events, "I should have known something weird would happen when you put more than two members of my family together." He and my younger sister, Bethany (left), had cooked up this outfit long ago. Long black shiny spandex, complete with blue flames, with short running shorts on top, nasty sheer tank top (including, for all you Office lovers, band-aids!). Bethany had sprayed his hair and moustache blackish, and the chain was donated by my brother Matt. It was sincerely creepy. Only a person as naturally dignified and dapper as my father could have pulled this one off successfully. Miriam makes a good point, that it was especially funny in the context of all the people around us, most of whom were very serious athletes wearing similar outfits.

So we invaded the Southern Oregon Granite Man for our first annual family run. David ran through the starting gate backwards; Mom and Dad leisurely walked, picking flowers, catching insects and mountain lizards the whole way and came in dead last by about 45 minutes. Bethany (who was 5 months pregnant) had forgotten her shoes, so she was running on newly purchased runners. She crossed the finish line with her husband Dave by her side and headed straight for the lake to bathe her blistered bloody feet. I don't think it was the most fun for her but she was a good sport. My sister Elizabeth (5 months post partum) and Kathryn (above) ran together, and Miriam and I crossed the finish line together, ending with a cartwheel for good luck. Five of our group earned medals for running placing times in their age groups. My brother Pietr (above, with Miriam) won first! Others should have won awards for pure grit. It was not an easy race. There was a significant climb in altitude for the entire first two+ miles, and the rest of the course was up and down. But it was completely worth it to be able to run through some of the most beautiful country in Oregon with some of my favorite people on earth.

Family Pictures

I dread family pictures with all my heart. As my family gets bigger, I begin to appreciate/understand why I can only remember two family pictures formally initiated by my mother. Those are not happy memories, and I was only the sulky teenager. Well, for Christmas I sacrificed a piece of myself for M's and my parents' sakes, and scheduled family pictures with a very talented and patient photographer friend, Keri Blue.

Me, trying to direct:

"Okay everybody, sit nicely on the floor and look at the camera..."

"I didn't say dogpile, boys. No, really. Look at the camera now!"

Everybody sort of looking straight ahead. Good enough. "Okay, time for the kids' shot while Dad recoups. Alright, all you kids sit around the bench. We'll start with Jacob in back..."

"No. I mean it. Sit down NOW and look at the camera! This is not a jungle gym! William, stop sulking. James, don't crawl off the set. Older boys, could you please help them?"

"Good enough. Okay, let's have some fun now. Everybody sit down, we're going to try something different.... Hey, stop fighting, everybody. No, it's not Clara's fault! Michael, wake up! James, Will, stop crying. You're not going to die."

"Whatever. Kids, go play. Let's do one of just us, Michael. Smile--if you still have it in you. (These are always so embarrassing.)" "Done! Thank you, Keri! We'll see you in 7 years."

(To view in larger sizes/higher resolution, click here . Will's wink is his signature smile these days. It's worth it to peruse all the excellent pictures on her blog. For family, or friends who are interested in the full monty, go to Keri's website , to galleries, to online proofing. Let me know so I can get you the password (akmallen@yahoo.com). There are some funny ones.)

James!

This little boy is a bona fide expert at tormenting his older brother. At the ripe age of nine months old I saw him deliberately licking his finger and wiping it on William to provoke kaniptions, over and over again--and smiling about it. By 12 months he was handily dodging blows, and since then it's just gotten worse. This easy going James Grey is destined to be the thorn in the not-so easy going William's side. (I'm sure Michael can sympathize, having yoked himself indefinitely to me.)

We were at the grocery store two days ago and James was making a series of squeaking noises, watching William closely for any reaction. Once he got one, James' face lit up with a grin and he made that particular squeak over and over again while Will went berzerk. As we squeezed ourselves past a kid reloading the bread aisle I had had enough. "James! You knock it off and be nice!" The guy loading the bread jumped out from behind his load with wide eyes and said, "What! I didn't...!" I looked at him startled, and he looked at me, then he sheepishly slunk behind his bread mumbling something about there being too many Jameses around here. It was hilarious! I laughed the rest of the shopping trip, in between reprimanding James for teasing his brother.

Introducing #6

Since the cat's officially out of the bag, I thought I'd formally introduce you all to Arliss Drummond Allen--sex unknown, except to Clara, who is sure it's a girl because it's due to arrive on her birthday and because "we already have too many boys!" We'll see in four months... (Picture compliments of my younger sister, Bethany, who specializes in disturbing drawings/magazine manipulations of every subject. This apparently is a gothic me, with a uterus instead of a heart. Thanks again, Jaco. It warms my...heart?)

Allen Saloon

For Christmas, somebody got a special surprise. But let's back up.

A week before Christmas we hosted our annual office party, where we had a fondue dinner. Of course, everybody knows the finest cheese fondues are made with alcoholic beverages, white wine and beer, for instance. Well, the extra wine's an easy one to get rid of since I cook with wine all the time. The beer, on the other hand, looks gross, smells gross and is good for nothing but cheddar fondue and catching slugs. Maybe I'm just not creative enough...but Mikey is.

Walking into the kitchen Christmas night, I spot Seamus the Cat staggering around on the table, and go to slap him off when Michael cautions me to "be nice to him, he may not exactly know what he's doing." Then I spot the bowl on the floor half-full of smelly browinsh brew. With a wicked grin he says, "It's his special Christmas surprise."

Merry Christmas

While flipping through a book on Norman Rockwell we came across this festive little painting. Thought we'd pass it on with our best wishes for you and your families!

And, of course, Christmas just wouldn't be Christmas without Michael's annual family poem...

Merry Christmas to you all! Love, the Allens

Our thanks to Norman Rockwell for the painting, which we thoroughly enjoyed butchering. And thanks, Keri, for helping me!

Teeth, chapter 2

This is what I heard from the nursery tonight as I changed a nasty:

"Dad, look how loose it is."

"Mmm, let's see..."

"Ooow!"

"Oh, what's that on the floor?"

Screaming and yelling and general congratulations again for the second time in one week. Isaac's definitely catching up to his friend Ethan, who is the envy of all second graders because he has lost 9 teeth already. (Never mind that they were pulled by a dentist to curb the hoof-rot he was cultivating in his mouth. Nobody really cares about those details.)

My favorite is the faint whistle he makes now when he speaks--like the beaver on The Lady and the Tramp. Below is the envelope containing his tooth, which he intends to put under his pillow for the Tooth Fairy.

I asked him why he wanted to keep his tooth. "Because it would be the perfect thing to put on the end of a spear. It's pretty sharp, you know."

The Pinenut Harvester

By popular demand I've recorded Isaac doing his squirrel call, which is apparently a prerequisite for his illustrious future career as pinenut harvester.
(See the post When I Grow Up for orientation.)

Chef Mikey Robideaux's Christmas Gift to You!

It's been too long since renowned cajun chef Mikey Robideaux has delighted us with his recipes. He comes to you now live from the dismal kitchen of the Allen family to share a little known secret that is GUARANTEED to change your life, and certainly your Christmas! "No need to plan ahead to enjoy the fresh home-cooked rolls your whole family looks forward to. Just give yourself 30 minutes! This roll recipe came from my grandma (or actually a friend, but whatever) and is so easy and fast even a baking moron can't mess it up. That's why I've recommended it to Mrs. Allen."

Quick Rolls (makes a dozen)

prep time 30 mins.

1 c + 2 T warm water

2 T yeast

1/4 c sugar

1 egg

1 t salt

1/3 c oil

3 1/2 c flour

Add sugar and yeast to warm water. Set aside until double in bulk (10 mins. or so). Add oil, egg, salt and 1 c flour. Mix, then continue to add rest of flour. Knead 5 mins. or until smooth. Shape into rolls (any shape you like) and let rise 10 mins. Bake 10-12 mins @ 350.

Merry Christmas and bon appetit!

Problem Solved

Come to think of it, Meredith, I'm pretty sure that stylist was a terrorist, destroying the happiness and security of innocent Americans one haircut at a time. And Kathryn, yes, I do have a mullet wig exactly like that haircut. Now it can be a joke again...

(Please excuse the pictures--Megs did her best. You get the idea.) As of yesterday, Locks of Love is one long pony tail richer (inspired by Andy Atwood during the dental school days), and I'm free of the mullet! My neck is cold now, but it's the lesser of the evils. Okay. No more hair posts.

Teeth

Poor little Isaac has felt the second grade version of emasculation this last year as he's watched all his friends loosing teeth. But not him. People were starting to talk... However, last night he and Michael spent some serious time in the bathroom and this session finally produced results! This boy, who's been left off the tooth graph every year because of his inability to loose teeth, has finally arrived!
After a few minute's celebration, Isaac happened to see the bloody tissue staunching his wound. He went pure white, began swaying and knocking into walls, so Michael had him sit down, head between knees.

Still feeling queasy.

Recovered, and elated again!

This was definitely a family affair, complete with cheering and predictions regarding the Tooth Fairy's generosity. Michael educated the kids on the anatomy of a tooth. Who knew they were so interesting!

Hair Question

Could somebody please tell me why I seem to provoke in all hair dressers this undeniable temptation to cut my hair like a nasty 80's rock star? I don't get it. Is it the heavy black eyeliner that throws them off? Could it be the microphone hanging out my back pocket? Or maybe I'm just not clear enough in my description of what I want and they've misconstrued it: "Could you please trim an inch or two off the bottom, some light layering with the shortest no shorter than my jawline. But whatever you do DON'T GIVE ME A SHAG! I HATE shag styles and I don't want to look like an 80's rock star. No mullets either, please."

Let's compare and contrast, shall we?

What can you do but curse? Several kind friends have tried to console me by saying that "it doesn't look so bad from the back." Nice. I'm thinking something drastic is going to have to happen. Either a dramatic change of career, or a dramatic change in style...

Thanksgiving, Or Something Like It

Thanksgiving found our little family participating in a long-held Allen family tradition of going elk hunting in the wilds of Eastern Oregon. Above is our cozy (or cramped, depending on people's moods) dwelling for the week, along with those of several other family members. The week consisted of lots of mud, freezing weather, happy children with wet pants, mud, broken heaters and flat tires, dead generators and dead animals hanging from trees, mud, and other such novelties. It was definitely a man's/child's paradise. Despite the relatively hellish circumstances for Mom, there were funny moments that dotted the bleak and muddy landscape. Let me tell you about a few.

I laughed the whole week after Michael came out one morning saying, "Did these pants shrink?" I turned around just in time to see him pulling some skin-tight jeans up over his thighs, trying desperately to wiggle his little beezer into the top. "Um, no Honey. Those are mine."

Jacob Dead-Eye had a particularly fun time playing endless games with cousins, shooting guns, and climbing so high up trees that Grandma got nervous. At one point after a dry day of elk hunting, Jake told me that, "it's okay if we don't catch an elk, there's plenty of catfish to eat in the pond." Then he and his cousins devoted the next 48 hours to breaking ice in a nasty pond nearby and fishing out half-frozen catfish. Those boys got pretty good at it too (and muddy!).

Isaac walked in to the trailer one afternoon and with all sincerity said, "Mom, do I have something on my face?" I burst into laughter, then cursed as I spent the next 20 minutes fiercely rubbing soot off every inch of him. The picture just doesn't do it justice.

The first elk was shot the first day we were there by Grandpa, the mighty hunter. This was a fascinating anatomy lesson for our kids as they watched the quartering and skinning of this huge animal. In the process the forelegs were cut off, and guess what happend to them.... Isaac. He had a leg in his hand for the next 6 days, showing people the tendon that peeked out and hid as the leg was bent and straightened, breaking ice with it, sword fighting, using it as poker for the fire, a walking stick when it was frozen in the mornings. I even saw him getting an itch on his back once. It completely grossed me out, and that, my friends, is saying something.

Clara was always present for the skinning and quartering of the elk, walking in circles to inspect the job, holding up skin when necessary, holding lights when it got dark, and offering tips here and there. One evening while Uncle Brian was skinning his elk, she announced informingly to all present that Uncle Brian would be trading in this skin at the love-maker's shop. "No dear, it's the glove makers. Don't make that mistake again, please."

William got the short end of the stick because his mother made sure that he, no matter what, got a nap each day. I'd lay by him until he fell asleep, then go about my business. But each time he'd wake up and find me not there, put on his hat and boots, go outside and tell everybody in accusing tones that his mom had lost him. Even if I was right outside the trailer door I'd get stink-eye for the next three hours for having "lost him."

Sweet baby James reached a landmark on this trip. He discovered how to walk just two days before we took off his cast. He especially enjoyed the thump his cast would make on the floor every other step. Then on Thanksgiving day, appropriately enough, we took it off, and the poor boy had to relearn all over again for the third time. Don't feel too badly for him though. He's made up for lost time, and I enjoyed the month off.

Michael likes to call me Annie Oakley. I don't know why. Probably because I can shoot mosquitoes out of the air with my BB gun.

The view outside our trailer and a little boy anxiously waiting for his clothes to dry.

Siblings to the rescue after baby took a plunge off the couch head first. They didn't leave him until he was giggling again.

The bon fire was a nightly ritual, and one the children heartily enjoyed. It was especially fun eating Thanksgiving dinner round a monstrous fire. And that dinner itself was superior in my humble opinion.

These socks were allowed to stay on inside because, sadly enough, they were considered very clean compared to their companions. Mud everywhere!

Auntie Anna and several of the gaggle of cousins going on a scouting excursion so we could "tell the dads where to go to find their elk." The kids looked for all sorts of elk sign and nearly burst with excitement at each discovery. Too bad it's not that much fun finding the neighbor's dog sign in our yard.

This trip was a good experience for me. It taught me to be more grateful for my many luxuries. So what am I thankful for? While my home's not necessarily palacial, it's bigger than 250 sq ft. I'm thankful that the heat works regularly. What more could a girl really want? In summary, a wonderful time was had by all for whom the trip was intended. And I am thankful to be home sleeping in my own bed...

Hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving day full of happiness and no mud!

When I Grow Up...

While taking Jacob to Scouts I asked each of the kids what they wanted to be when they grow up. I do this periodically because it changes frequently, and it always makes me laugh in that "these people are delightfully strange" sort of way. Here were tonight's answers:

Jacob: "You know what I want to be, Mom--a professional mascot (inspired by Matt Nelson's brother). Or if I can't do that because, let's face it, you only need so many mascots, then I want to be a veterinarian."

Isaac: "Well, I did want to be a garbage man, but not anymore. Now I want to be a pinenut harvester and I can call squirrels like Mr. Weathers (our house painter) taught me. [Proceeds with mad squirrel sounds.] Or maybe I could be someone who saves people's lives at the swimming pool...

Clara: "A kid protector. Like, if a little kid is lost I'll protect them and help them find their mom. I also want to fly airplanes."

William: "I'm going to be a lissard. I will be named Fire Pixie. Everybuddy will play with me or else I will be angry and I will nether, ether invite them to my berfthday party..."