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In celebration of a whole lot of things–Dad’s retirement, his military career, Mom’s retirement, the panache with which she was a military spouse, and much more–Dad and Mom gave us the Magic Kingdom treatment.

A far cry from the family vacations of our youth which involved the culinary delights of Banquet fried chicken, soy-bean pancakes, Tang, Spam, and other unmentionables and were conducted from the comfort of a pop-up trailer that Dad had tricked out in every possible way but his attempts to make it a) comfortable and b) waterproof were always thwarted; this trip involved a heated pool, comfy hotel rooms, and eating out. The best part, of course, was being together and watching the cousins have a blast.

1st magic night…Mark with mousehands…Mark and Zoe on Dumbo

our favorite cast of characters..Zoe watching fireworks…sisters reunited

lovely Meyer ladies…Becki and Jim…Mudge’s destination wedding

Alison and Henry………tourguide and assistant……goodbye mickey

the happy sponsors and their full bird herd

that’s about how we all feel. We are still a wee bit giddy.

For Valentine’s Day, the three of us celebrated Family Love Day. We did the things we love with the people we love. The photo above was taken at the photo booth set up in the basement of the Art Museum where we spent a portion of our morning. It reminds me of a song that the invincible Raffi sings, “All I really need is a song in my heart, food in my belly, and love in my family.”

Yes, I just quoted Raffi. Love’ll do that to you.

I thought I had gotten used to doing things I said I’d never do, but I managed to surprise myself today.

In an act of unbridled frugality, I added fabric to the bottom of Zoe’s favorite pants. They were the perfect kind of soft and not “too jean-sy” as so many pants are dubbed. They have pockets. And they don’t fall down from her lack of waist. They were also such high-waters that I was embarrassed for her to be seen in them–and it really takes a lot to embarrass me.

When I was young and growing about as fast as Zoe is now, my mom added fabric to the bottom of my pants. Not just straight fabric either. Ruffles. NO ONE had ruffles on the bottom of their pants. There was no question as to how uncool ruffles on the bottoms of one’s pants were. I hated them. As I wore the Laura Ingalls-esque prairie dresses that went back and forth from Becki to me with ruffles added and removed to adjust lengths (see, now it’s knee-length, it’s a whole new dress!), and tugged on the pants with their unsightly hems, I stewed in my hand-me-downs and shook a proverbial fist “I will never make my daughter wear something like this! Never!”

Heh, heh. Well, I am. And I, like my mom, think it’s perfectly cute.

Mom, you may now gloat.

We were telling some friends this weekend about our church directory photo phenomenon; how in the 6 years that passed between directory photos, Zoe aged forward, Mark aged backward, and I seem to have been completely re-styled (thank you to Emily who started the arduous process soon after this photo was taken).

“The Curious Case of the Church Directory!,” our friends (who know a thing or two about movies) said.

“Aha!” I said, “a blog post.”

Here we are in 2002… And now… (you’ll need to click on them for full effect)

Mark’s performance is Oscar-worthy. Move over, Brad Pitt.

We found out at the oncologist today that the Gemzar and Avastin are still working. The nodules are still slowly shrinking. So, we’ll continue to have the same chemo treatment every other week. And I’ll see Dr. Campbell in two months to see how I”m doing and I’ll have a CAT scan in 4 months to see how the meds are working.

While trying to wipe the smiles from our faces, Mark remarked that four months is “a third of a year.” Yep, a third of a year to relax and not worry quite so much about cancer. Couldn’t really ask for more.

And for those of you who continue to petition God on our behalf. Thank you. So much.

My friend Heather is the life of any party. Outgoing and hilarious, Heather’s stories at our our lunch and coffee dates often result in me resting my forehead on the table for a while or spitting out my coffee I am laughing so hard.

We met in college where Heather would go the coffee shop for all of ten minutes during chapel break on Fridays and emerge with a detailed list of exactly where and when we would be going that weekend. Before cellphones, Facebook, heck, before the internet, Heather was and remains the ultimate social networking device.

Now Heather lives 45 minutes away in the summer. In the Michigan winters, the same distance can stretch to 2 hours away. But she works here. SO, last night, with forecasters predicting blizzard conditions, she took me up on the standing offer of guest room and morning latte.

One would think that a sleepover with Heather would mean a night out. Back in the day, we would have been raiding one another’s closets and hippy-fying our hair at 9:30 p.m. planning to meet friends at Cottage Bar or going to a movie at UICA. But last night, when 9:30 rolled around, Heather called her husband to say good night and to gloat over the good night of sleep she was anticipating while he was home with their two kids and I gleefully popped pain-killers for the cold I’ve been fighting (when I cough I feel like I’ve swallowed glass) and kicked back a shot of cough syrup. We then, sigh, went to bed.

This morning Heather was up with the birds as usual and halfway out the door before I even got a warm latte into her hand, but we had enough time to crow over how well we slept while Mark compared my medicine mixing skills to that of Jimi Hendrix (it will be the first and last time in my life that Jimi and my skills have ever been compared). It was about then that Heather and I looked at one another in mutual wonder–this is what it’s like to be 37? No weeknights out? Not even a movie? Just a good night’s sleep and we’re euphoric?

I know what Heather would say to that–her Blackberry in constant motion and her virtual Rolodex busting at the rings–“Hey, even the life of the party needs to sleep sometime.”

True. But at 9:30?

Apparently.

Zoe and her Grandma Turner have a lovely Christmas tradition: making a gingerbread house together. As Zoe has grown, so has the project. This year, Jane even made the gingerbread from scratch!

Here’s the lovely abode:

And the one they worked on two years ago:

And the ongoing threat to any gingerbread that enters the house:

I have this contractor. He works for coffee. He supplies all of his own materials. He is fastidious. He treats his clients to lunch. He babysits. He doesn’t mind if you say you’re going to work with him and then end up lying on the couch. He works in any kind of weather, inside or out. He designs, fits, paints, re-fits, and installs custom storm windows in old homes. He does everything. But, sorry, he only does it for his kids.

This fall Dad made and installed 30 custom storm windows (mostly interior) for our leaky old house. Dad is well acquainted with storm windows having hauled them around his own house every year. When Dad was painting his own windows with his perfectionist eye, I was only 4. He would pay me a nickel to tell him stories while he worked. One day, Mom snapped this picture:

Last week, when Dad and I finally put up the last of the windows here, Zoe snapped this picture:

And today, we had the family over for dinner to thank Dad, and I sang the following song. To the tune of “The Brady Bunch.” Thank you, Dad. My favorite colleague. My favorite contractor.

Here’s a story
about a man named Galen
who was busy with a “vineyard” of his own
his retire-ment meant putzing at his own house
If his youngest kid would just leave him alone.

Leave him alone. Leave him alone. If his youngest kid would just leave him alone.

Here’s story
about his kid named Tasha
who said “Dad, here’s what I think that we should do”
“we should make custom storms for all my windows,
and by “we” I guess I’m really meaning “you”

I’m meaning you, I’m meaning you, and by we I guess I’m really meaning you.

So then Galen, gave it a good thinking
Wondering if outsourcing could fit the bill
After talking to just one window installer
It was clear these shoes were meant for him to fill.

For him to fill, for him to fill. these were shoes that really only he could fill.

Here’s a story
About a ton of windows
Made with care to fit precisely to a “t”
There are 30, yes 30, altogether.
Windows must just be his special-ity

Speciality, Speciality. Windows must just be his special-ity

Here’s a story
how his daughter helped him
Doing the really really real important jobs
Like sharpening pencils and changing out the drill-bits
And pointing out the cuteness of the dog

Cuteness of the dog, cuteness of the dog. She gladly pointed out the cuteness of the dog.

Here’s a thank you
From a grateful daughter
Who still thinks her father must have hung the moon
If he didn’t, well that would be just nonsense
Have you realized there aren’t drafts in any room?

In any room, in any room, have you realized there aren’t drafts in any room?

So thank you, Dad,
For this lovely gift.
We are awed, inspired, and ecstatic
It’s so lovely but we have just one small question
What do you think of working on the attic?

The attic, the attic, shall we move on to the project of the attic?

We spent Thanksgiving at our family Happy Place this year–the Veal home. My sister’s family put us up in style. And, while we did plenty while we were there: IKEA trip, a peek at Jim’s new school, adults only dinner, plenty of thrifting, and a complete turkey dinner; it seems I only brought my camera along when we climbed Stone Mountain while our turkey was in the oven.

The kids, who had been running around the house before our departure, suddenly became fatigued when it was clear that we were planning to walk up the mountain. You’ll see them draped dramatically over rocks in the photos below. They miraculously recovered once at the top and found the descent downright enjoyable.

We simply could not have had a more lovely Thanksgiving break. Thank you Jim, Becki, Ramona, Josie, and Ike!

And thanks, Mom, for a lovely gift!

Beth and Jamey tied the knot and took up permanent residence on McCleod 9. We couldn’t be happier–and the wedding was gorgeous. A few favorite photos from their wedding photographer…