scout.

Merry

 

Above:  1. Sock thief, 2. Untitled, 3. Dalecarlian sweater, 4. thinking about past Christmases...

Below:   Our snowy house.

Christmas Eve at last. Which is really better than Christmas Day when you think about it. It is all anticipation and glow. Now is not the time to talk about harrowing work-days, or icy drives. Now is the time to climb under the covers. To wish you the happiest, merriest of holidays, whatever you choose to celebrate, full of warmth, friends, family, food, and a healthy dose of eggnog. So on the tenth snowy day in Portland, from all of us here at Scout, myself, Aaron, and the furry pup, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukah, goodwill to men.

All love,

*Andrea

The ninth day.

So. Apparently anal glands don't care so much about the weather. What? Too much, too soon? Probably. I also doubt my dog is thrilled that I am talking about his intimate parts with the universe (modest as he is), but there have been two constants in my life the last few days and that is a.) snow and more snow on top of that snow, and b.) my dog's rear-end. It was something of a battle between the two, when on Sunday we realized we were indeed snowed in, did not own an appropriate shovel, and our dog needed to have his poor little posterior examined immediately. (Thank you, terribly impacted and thusly exploded gland.) Sweet guy was miserable. We somehow gathered our already exhausted wills together to hike the many blocks to the Vet in knee-deep snow, dog in arms, and then back, in knee-deep snow, dog in arms, with the addition of a shiny new cone of shame. It was the kind of comedy people would pay for but no one would believe. If I had a nickel for every time some yahoo on cross country skis used the phrase, 'snow cone,' well, I'd have a lot of nickels. And then we dug our home and yard and car out of the snow as best as we could with a garden shovel, a feat which took the better part of two days, and spent the rest of our time napping in front of the fireplace, fighting over who's turn it was to wear the Wigwam socks, who's turn it was to clean the dog's behind, and consuming vast quantities of hot beverages.  But through it all there was Johnny. Stumbled upon while hunting in the spare closet for clothespins. A little dusty, but I knew it was meant to be. I called my mother.

 'Mom, I found your record! The Johnny Mathis Christmas album. Just wanted you to know we were listening to it.'  

'Have you found the skips yet?'

'They're everywhere! But White Christmas is barely playable. '

'Oh yes. That would be my doing.'

It was December and my mother was twelve. She never wanted to leave Iowa. Never ever ever. But there they were in California, the whole family. A whole new life, cramped track home, palm trees everywhere, completely foreign. No white shingled house, no friends, no extended family, no snow, nothing but a Johnny Mathis record brought from home. She cried herself to sleep every night listening to 'White Christmas' on repeat. Her sisters still laugh about this. She had a flair for the dramatic. But I understood her completely, which might be why, some fifty years later, she gave me her precious record, scratches and all. And why on one snowy night in Portland, the eighth snowy night to be exact, I found myself listening to it, letting it skip, thinking of her, remembering to be grateful. 

It's going to be a white Christmas, friends. Nine snowy days and counting.

All love,

*Andrea

I, Polonius.

Okay. I am so behind on blog posts right now that I'm pretty sure anything other than a bullet-style entry would turn into a novella.  So. Sweet bullet style re-capping it shall be (with lame captions to boot!)...

Narnia.

First, it is snowing in Portland right now. I am sitting on the couch with the snoring dog and a bowl of miso soup, watching the prettiest flakes float past the window. I should repeat this. It is SNOWING. And has been for days, and will be for days, and oh my gosh you guys that has not happened in this town for almost a decade. This is awesome for a million reasons, but mainly because, I am home, and not at work, and magically landed on the list of, 'People who get sent home for personal days because their neighborhoods are ridiculous and icy and besotted with steep hills.' In other words. SNOW DAY!

Letting the task gradually overwhelm me.

I am nearly finished with the quilt of doom. I can't wait to show it to you, and then send it far, far away. Hopefully the recipients will be pleased, and not horribly confused...because I started this thing April, and the last time I checked it was DECEMBER. There is a story here waiting to be told, but at this point, I must resist the urge to blame this thing, single-handedly, for throwing me off my sewing game for the last eight months. If it comes out of the dryer intact (fingers crossed), I may just heave a few sobs of relief. 

Tanenbaum, indeed.

We finally decorated our Christmas tree, and it is the Best Tree Evaaaaaah.  Pictures forthcoming. I was really keen on having some new, more natural looking ornaments this year, similar to our old garland...but it being our first Christmas in the new house and all, that was not exactly in the budget. Actually, nothing was in the budget. We decided months ago that this would be a gift-free Christmas, and while that decision has been totally liberating, I so wanted our first tree to be special. Thanks to Ikea, sweet Uncle Paul, and a little elbow grease, I was able to put the whole thing together for $25 bucks. Huzzah!

Meek, yet festive!

I had grand plans to make a million soft trees this year, but somehow ended up making a little wintery lamb instead. (photo above) The pattern is from the current Martha Stewart holiday issue, and was a cinch to hand-sew in a few hours. The legs are a bit wobbly. Next time, I think I will add an extra dart all the way down his belly, or possibly make a slit for the stuffing and slip-stitch it closed underneath. Regardless, I am very fond of this sheep and his fancy neckwear.

My dog is a beat poet.

Bradley is making progress. Thank you all so much for your suggestions! Once we accepted the fact that he is indeed much smarter than we are, and could not be contained in any way shape or form, everything improved. He still doesn't like being left alone, but now that he's free to roam around, I've found him asleep on the couch every night when I return. On another, ickier note: who knew that an eleven pound dog could produce his own body weight in snot on a daily basis? Really. I am in awe. Until he gets over his bout with kennel-cough completely, I am toying with idea of covering the whole house in plastic, old lady style.

Where I plan ahead by accident.

On Saturday I got the gumption to stock up on groceries and firewood, and clean the house top to bottom (see aforementioned snot) and low and behold, when the snow rolled in on Sunday, we were able to enjoy it completely. It was blissful. The entire weekend was spent reading, cooking, playing outside, stoking the fire, and decorating the house. For hours I watched the white world from my beloved rocker, and finished the final ties on the quilt (of doom). I plan to do more of the same in the days ahead, but throw in a heavy rotation of baked goods and chocolate. 

Dear Portland,

You know that as a loyal and devoted resident,  I love you to pieces, and I think you are especially beautiful under your blanket of snow, but you really have to cut the crap already. SALT THE ROADS. This gravel-only thing is bat-shit crazy. Yes, I have known much colder, snowier climes, and by comparison, this is nothing.  I understand that protecting our river is a priority. But since it snows only once every few years, we don't have plows, and because the snow inevitably turns into solid ice, and as I type this sentence, a sedan just hurled itself into a parked SUV across the street, I think, just this once, you should maybe reconsider the salt. I am lucky enough to be able to drive my husband's 4WD this week (thanks, honey!), but I am still not looking forward to the 7 am, clenched-teeth, white-knuckled commute down the ridge, on my very own personal ice rink of death. 

-fin-

I will return soon with actual paragraphs, segues and coherent thought, friends, but for now, ice, snot, and quilt-binding are clamoring for my attention. Oh joy!

All love,

*Andrea

The will of the Bradley

Never underestimate the will of the Bradley. Or the brain of the Bradley. Or the ability of the Bradley.

We are in the throws of it. Love with a healthy dose of worry. Our dog is smarter than we are. Superdog. Faster than a speeding bullet, able to leap tall buildings and all of that jazz. He is also the most gentle, docile, and eager to please pup in the universe. But we've got one crazy case of separation anxiety on our hands here, folks, and a dog who has figured out how to open (and in one case destroy) the doors of solid steel kennels, climb four foot high kiddie fences (did I mention that he's 5 inches tall?), and a whole other host of obstacles that would confound your average human (including me), but then have NO idea what to do with himself once his mission has been accomplished. We are totally stumped. The Bradley cannot be contained. We will just call it an 'adjustment' period, and thank our lucky stars that he has no inclination to chew or destroy anything. And if he's playing Bach on the piano when I come home from work, that's it, I'm hiring a trainer.

All love,

*Andrea

 

Dear you,

If you live to be a hundred, 

I want to live to be a hundred minus one day, 

so I never have to live without you.

-Winnie the Pooh

Even though it was yesterday, I just can't let an anniversary go by without saying, to anyone and everyone who will listen. I love you. Words fail me. I love you.

So let's go eat some cupcakes. And introduce everyone to Bradley.

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