Ode to Little Girls

They fight over breakfast

...and make-up among messes

Life is hot dogs and Kool Aid Slides, swings and dirty faces...and more joy than we could have ever imagined.

Phat!

Since I don't have a lot of time to write these days, I'm left with posting videos. This is what my crazy husband made while I was at work today...



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Jesus on Broadway

Watch for the male dance solo. It rocks.

Just for Fun

These kind of pictures (both smiling, bows still in the hair, no stains on the clothing) don't happen very often, so I thought I would post it. I love them so much it hurts.

Jackson Pollock has Nothing on Us

To celebrate Labor day, Sadie and Amelia created their first painting together.

Amelia's work on the left, Sadie's on the right, mommy's in the middle

Amelia showing sissy how it's done

Sadie kept trying to lick the brush; Dave reassures me that Crayola products must be non-toxic :)

We topped off the day with a rare, and very much enjoyed bowl of ice-cream!

Happy Labor Day!

Home

This time of year always summons nostalgia for home. I grew up in Southern California, which is synonymous with traffic, unfettered materialism and an ever-growing mass of people. But, hidden between the throbbing arteries of the 57, 22, and 91 freeways is the unique community of Orange. The city of Orange is a breath of fresh air from the chaos of urban life. It has a small town feel with its tree-lined streets of historic bungalows, the plaza with a fountain at its center, and restaurants like Felix's and Watson's Drugstore that have been around since before I can remember.

The city is also known for its traditions. Every Labor Day, Orange residents, past and present, return as if to Mecca for loukemedes, abbleskivers, and the chicken polka at the Orange International Street Fair. The Street Fair serves as an informal back-to-school social, as classes all over the city used to begin the week after Labor Day. At Christmastime, there is the city-wide tree-lighting ceremony at the plaza, and every Wednesday during the summer, there are concerts at Hart Park. Kids who grow up in Orange don't necessarily yearn to get out; they know what they have and cherish it. Many times, they return to raise their own families there.

My own memories of growing up in Orange are simple. The smell of chlorine from entire summers spent at the Orange High School pool. Long jogs ending downtown with a stroll through an antique store. Watching a quiet city at night from the rooftop of the Chapman University auditorium (illegal, but fun). Hours pouring over books at the Orange Public Library, and then riding home on my bike for dinner. The smell of plaster during ceramics class in Anka Volkelvang's basement. Peppermint ice-cream at the Pink Lady. Lying in bed at my very first apartment, listening to live music waft in the open window from the Ugly Mug coffee house next door. These are the indelible moments of a place that belongs to me, but a place to which I no longer belong.

Until recently, I had never thought about what was meant by the phrase, "you can never go home again." When I returned for a visit this past summer, I realized that, slowly and inevitably, Orange has changed. It's charm is no longer a secret. The historic bungalows that line its streets, now trendy, have been snapped up and lovingly restored by those who are able to keep pace with the astronomical housing market. The downtown businesses such as Orange Lock and Key and Orange Photo have been replaced by upscale bistros and pricey boutiques. The library has tripled in size. Chapman University, once self-contained to a single city block, has bled across Glassell Street and continues to grow. Change isn't a bad thing; the Orange of today is exponentially more hip than the Orange of my youth. It's just that it's no longer simple, and it's no longer home. I suppose if I still lived there, I would celebrate the new arrivals, but from a distance, I mourn a place to which I can never return.