indie rock reunion on the back deck

Amelia, thanks for the afternoon cooking story. I am also wondering: ever do vegetarian, Meagan-style meals in your slow cooker? You may remember when I bought a slow cooker, years ago in Lancaster, in a fit of desire for all things cozy and warm and nurturing. I don't regret the purchase one iota, but I have a hard time adapting it to our beans-and-grains based diet. Seems better suited to pulled pork.

And now onto today.

I was reminded - yet again - that anytime I have a goal in mind for a kid activity that has to do with a product (vs process) I run into trouble. I had a vision of papier mache maracas, much like one I made as a child at summer camp. So during Gabriel's nap Frances and I filled old plastic easter eggs with chick peas and lentils, taped them onto sticks, and slathered them with sticky strips of newspaper, now drying out on the kitchen table.


The thing is, what Frances really wanted to do was squeeze the paste through her fingers, pretend to eat it, smell it, fling it around, and use it as a prop in one of her imaginative kooky scenarios. I should have just made the gooey flour and water mixture and let her go wild. There would have been a lot less friction along the absurd lines of:

M: Are you going to dip in some newspaper? Do you want to do this or not?
F: YES, Mama, yes but let's pretend we're washing our hands in the paste some more!
M: Keep it IN THE BOWL, Frances. IN THE BOWL. Please don't fling it on my shirt.
F: Mmm, have a bite Mama!
M: DON'T EAT THAT.

etc.

Eventually I heard myself sounding so humorless - downright ridiculous actually - and backed off. So she had a good time, lost in sensory world. (Includes smell: I used some cinnamon in the paste, per an online suggestion, which she loved, and when we were all finished around 2 pm she asked for a bowl of oatmeal with 'alotalotalotalot of cinnamon please' and polished the whole thing off). And eventually we made the maracas, because she actually did want to make them. I was just being weird and pushy and I really really wanted a cool maraca. For me.

There was an added sensory element to our crafting, and I think it helped me back off and give the girl some creative space. Milena loaned us a bunch of fantastic kid music/storytelling CDs, including an album by Elizabeth Mitchell. I didn't recognize the name. Frances and I took it outside to listen to while we worked. Unusual, sweet covers and folk songs and little ditties, all sung with simplicity and even, dare I say, kindness. Her voice was strangely familiar. I liked it immediately and found myself singing along and even near tears until finally I had to check online and see who this person was.

And here we finally come to the title of this post. Elizabeth Mitchell is also a member of the band Ida. Edith, does this ring a bell? I listened to Ida in college. I liked them so much, I asked them to headline a Rock for Choice concert I organized at Swarthmore in 1996. And they agreed! I felt utterly triumphant printing out the little posters advertising the show...then 3 or 4 days beforehand, one of the band members' grandmothers died and they had to cancel. I spoke with Elizabeth and she was sincere and apologetic, and she quickly sent many many CDs for us to sell, to raise a little extra money for the cause.

I went home the day before the show to be with my family. My dad was dying of cancer and had deteriorated rapidly that week. In fact, he died Friday morning, and the Rock for Choice show was that night. Needless to say, I missed it, and forgot about it in the middle of my world falling apart. I may be making this up, but I am almost positive Elizabeth somehow found out about my dad and sent me a note a couple of weeks later. This was truly meaningful to me at the time.

I haven't thought about her or Ida since, until today. Thirteen years later, listening to her sing a sweet song about birds flying through her window, accompanied by a small child (her daughter?), sitting on my back deck in the yellow autumn light with this frustrating and extraordinary four year old girl who perhaps came from outer space to come live with us. Our hands covered in goo. Do you feel me?