Wishful Slacker

Ellie, meet your great-grandpa

 

Distance

She was always here.  Not near, but here, thousands of miles away. 

She kneaded the dirt in her garden and hugged her grandson tight and felt the warmth of her evening tea through glazed ceramic.  You had just seen her, hadn't you?  At that family party, when she spent the day busy in and out of the kitchen, moving so fast you almost missed her.  But you knew she was there, because on the table where there had been a pork pie and sausages there was now a plate of cucumber sandwiches.  Later on there would be cakes and trifle, enjoyed by sticky fingers and rosy cheeks that deepened as the hours passed, all of us together.

Hadn't that just been 2 months before?  Before the phone call, those words bouncing  around the office as you stared at the blinking cursor, each word falling splat with finality after it registered through the vibrations in your ear drums and was mulled over by neurons, chewed up like cud, and swallowed in a gulp. 

So just like that, she went away.  But what difference did it make in your life anyways?  What changed in the way the alarm sounded in the early hours of morning, the sun breaking over Lake Michigan, lighting upon glassy skyscrapers and still alleyways? 

Nothing changed.  That was the beauty of the gift of distance.  You used to hate the distance, weepy goodbyes at airport security lines, the startling quiet of the drive home, the faint scent of lavender and Pears soap wafting from the guest room.  But now, the distance was welcome.  Nothing changed.  You still dragged yourself to the shower and washed the sleep from your eyes.  Cars bumped over potholes on Lakeshore Drive.  The waves chopped and pulled at the sand.  The world went on living. 

Yet sometimes, it caught you off guard.  As you stared out the window, watching the naked tree limbs reach out to an unforgiving winter sky, you heard a whisper, "She is gone."  Or when you saw her home in your mind, the vines creeping along the barn and the lovely sound of gravel underfoot as you walked up the driveway, you realized she wasn't home.  And immediately you turned your attention somewhere else, to the chopped onion or the bookcase that needed dusting.  Everything needed dusting.

A couple months ago I quietly marked the year anniversary of the last day I ever saw her, saying goodbye on that gravel driveway, watching her wave as we drove away in our rented minivan.  One year, and I still pretend she is there, making us tea from her kitchen, talking to my father as he leans through the Dutch door.  I think I will always pretend.

Our little soccer fan

Rooting for England with Grandpa

Remembering Anne

On Thursday afternoon, there was not a cloud in the sky.   The air, tinged in autumn gold, breathed hints of warmth that would increase throughout the day.  Sitting at work, I picked up the phone to call my mother to see how my dad was doing.  The poor guy fractured his fibula in 3 places last week after a nonsensical trip and fall accident, and was in the hospital after undergoing surgery on Wednesday.  It was a doozy of an injury, with a second surgery down the line and months of recovery and rehabilitation- not the type of thing my parents were wanting to face weeks before the birth of their first grandchild.

With my hand on receiver, I anticipated hearing about my dad's pain management and hoped that all was going well.  Not in a thousand years did I expect the news my mother presented- that my auntie Anne, my dad's sister, had collapsed and died that morning in her kitchen in Cambridgeshire, England. 

My aunt Anne was an amazing woman.  She truly was one of the most genuine and lovely people I have ever known.  She and my uncle Eric were at the beginning of their retirement, looking forward to years ahead in their beautiful cottage in Bluntisham, traveling abroad, and spending time with their children and grandchildren.  She was so vibrant and active and far from being at the end of her life.  I heard today from my mother that it has been determined she likely had a heart attack.

My sister posted the following on Facebook this morning, which truly sums up the person that Anne was:

The husband of one of my coworkers very kindly picked me up from work and drove me home Thursday afternoon.  My husband was able to join me at home soon afterwards, and we spent the rest of the daylight hours looking out at that beautiful blue sky and shaking our heads.  I created some blog posts not too recently about my family in England and our recent visit.  It feels as though a hole has been shot through us, and it's so painful to think that nothing will be the same again.  Now there is a 4 year old boy who has lost his grandma but doesn't understand where she has gone.  There is an 89 year old man who has lost his daughter, siblings who have lost their big sister, and a husband who has lost the woman with whom he was to spend his future years.  And my cousins Peter, Helen, and Simon, have suddenly lost their mother. 

Anne and I text back and forth over the past couple months.  She often reminded me to take care of myself during this pregnancy.  At her house in August she kept making sure I had my feet up.  And, just a couple weeks ago, my husband and I opened up this little bear blanket that she gave to my mother to pass along to us at our baby shower.  I've had the bear near me since Thursday, and still owe Anne and Eric a thank you card.

Anne began a tradition of making quilts for couples in the family who got married.  Each family created a quilt square, and then it was Anne, with the help of my cousin's wife Becca, who put them together.  In the past few weeks my husband and I decided to hang our quilt in the baby's room.  Anne also made us a wall hanging quilt with family photographs from both Jim's and my side of the family, which we plan on hanging in there too.  We had the bed quilt sitting out, and had we gotten around to the task of hanging it just a few days earlier, I could have told Anne.  In addition to giving us our quilt when they came to our wedding almost two years ago, Anne put together a little book with a page describing each quilt square.  I spent some time looking at our book today, and remembering the amazing aunt whom I will so dearly miss.




Here we are looking at the quilt, the day before our wedding in October, 2008.

Here is the quilt as we have it now, in the baby's room

It brings me such sadness to think that my daughter will never have the opportunity to meet her great-aunt Anne.  I know that she and Eric had been thinking of coming to visit in the future to see Chicago and meet the baby.  My greatest hope for my daughter is that she grow to possess some of Anne's grace and kindness.  Even if it's a fraction of my aunt's attributes, I will be so proud. 

I know this post has been too long, but it's what I needed to do today.  My sister planted a tree in Anne's memory this afternoon.  We have no dirt, so instead, I write.

My grandpa, aunt Anne, aunt Sarah, sister-in-law, mom, sister, and me, dancing at our wedding.

Anne with her grandson, on his fourth birthday.


I'll finish with this picture, which (I assume) my sister took.  It's of Anne, Eric, my parents, and me outside Kings College Chapel, Cambridge, in December, 2004.  It reminds me that, no matter where we are in our lives, we are always operating within forces bigger and greater than ourselves.  Life doesn't make sense, and so many times things happen outside of our control.  But that is how it works. 

Aunt Anne, we all love you and will miss you more than you ever could have imagined.  Rest in Peace. xo

And she keeps growing, and growing....

This has turned into a very busy past few weeks.  Less than two weeks after returning from our trip from England, one of my cousins has come to hang out with us for a couple weeks FROM England.  The weekend before my cousin arrived we seemed to run all over the place, and now with him here we're still running all over the place!  It's been very fun.  I love having him visit us and he's probably the most easy-going house guest that one can have.  We're happy to live in a city where it's so nice to wander.  Thankfully, the temperatures have also cooled down ever-so-slightly, so I feel that Jim and I are busier now just because we can once again tolerate being outdoors and want to enjoy it before winter breezes in. 

And in between trying to catch up at work and enjoying our evenings with my cousin, I continue to plan for this BABY that is due to arrive now in a little over two months!  We will reach our 30 week mark this Thursday which is truly insane.  Somewhat worrisome for me is the fact that we have filled all of our weekends already between now and the last weekend of September- which does not leave us much time to plan out and put together any type of nursery and do the rest of our nesting activities.  We have somewhat of a design challenge for our second bedroom when it comes to planning a nice cozy spot for Baby Rhodes.  I will post more details on this later, along with a call out for HELP for any suggestions!  :-) 

I am hoping to work full time until the baby arrives (and am waiting for approval of this), but it's going to be a bit trickier than I thought.  After sitting for a long period of time at my desk, my tailbone creaks and groans.  If the baby is positioned a certain way, it's hard to lean forward when I type.  And I am so zonked in the evenings!  As the week progresses, my feet and ankles get larger and larger.  It is not pretty!

What is pretty is this big belly and the wiggly baby inside of it.  She likes to spice up my day by constantly kicking and flipping over.  It's like our little secret and it's great.  I now feel what must be little arms or legs moving along and changing the contours of my tummy as I watch.  Even at 5 in the morning, when she punches me on my side (which is a really tender spot!) I enjoy giving her a nice friendly pat back. 

So, things are moving along very quickly!  Ten weeks, baby girl, ten weeks!

I really do love this city

 
After experiencing such an amazing vacation as we just did, it's really no surprise that we've been met with somewhat of a downer upon returning home.  I really love the UK, and I can imagine that I would have had a nice existence if I had been raised there.  There are so many aspects of life there that appeal to me.  Don't get me started on how nice the underwear is from Marks and Spencers.  Even news broadcasts rock- they cover Formula One racing in their sports segments, as one example!  I was so excited to hear the recap of a race on the news there!  Being so close to the European continent seems to bring that extra sense of cultural diversity that is really evident in the way you hear people reporting and discussing world events.  In America it is just so easy to be isolated.

Now, now, don't worry.  I am not defecting.  I love America, and being an American.  I cherish the relationships that I have here and thank my lucky stars that I fell into situations that led me to my husband, friends, career and, heck, even my cat.  I don't look at my parents as having let me down by their choice to raise me in the US instead of England.  And, as I miss my English relatives to bits, I would have been in just as much anguish as a youngster having to separate from my grandparents in Michigan if I had grown up in England.  There's really no good way to go about being split between two countries with a giant ocean and expensive airfare in between.  Somewhere along the way someone is going to be missed.

But anyways, after spending almost 2 weeks with family, and being in a country that you really respect and enjoy, it is difficult returning back to your normal life.  I understand that part of this let-down definitely revolves around the fact that I have to get up and WORK here in Chicago, whereas in England I was on VACATION.  That is definitely a confounding factor in acclimating back to this life and coming to terms that our trip is over!  It also does not help that here in Chicago we are close to setting the record for the hottest summer since 1955, and of course it's happening during the summer in which I am pregnant.  I am in a bit of weather shock after so thoroughly embracing the comfortable 60s and 70s we encountered in England and France.

I had to leave work a couple hours early today for a doctor's appointment downtown.  The children's hospital where I work has a shuttle bus service for employees that takes them downtown to the Northwestern University Medical Campus, which is not too far from my doctor's office.  So I hopped on and we set off down Lakeshore Drive into the Magnificant Mile of Michigan Avenue.  Gleaming alongside Lakeshore Drive was gorgeous Lake Michigan, hazy in the heat.  Lazy boats bobbed in the gentle waves, bikers and joggers moved along the lakeshore path, and families relaxed on the sandy beaches.  And straight ahead of us was that beautiful Chicago skyline, so stoic and majestic against the recreational freedom of the lake.  We passed open-top tour buses stuck in traffic along Michigan Avenue.  Their top levels were full of tourists, just like the tour buses we took in London and Paris. 

Whenever I ride a tour bus through a new city, I observe the taxis and the bikers and the men and women in business attire heading to work and wonder what life must be like for them- what they had for breakfast, where they bought their milk, or how stressed that meeting or phone call would make them and how they would unwind in the evening.  A couple years ago I had a job to which I drove each day along Lakeshore Drive, and when I passed those tour buses it occurred to me that in the eyes of those tourists I was that native dweller.  People up in that top level might have looked down at me in my 1999 Honda CRV and wondered where I was off to, and what life must be like for me in Chicago. 

Just one week after spending a full day on board a tour bus in a foreign city, I was back living in a city that people tour.  There was a wonderful breeze coming off of the lake down there, and I allowed it to flow past my open fingers.  It just felt so good.

A pregnant woman was exiting the large office building where I was headed.  She was further along in her pregnancy than I, but when she turned the corner and saw me on the sidewalk she looked at my belly and exclaimed, "Congratulations!"  And with a smile I told her thank you and gave her a congratulations as well. 

A couple hours later I was on the train home.  My connecting train was busy at rush hour, and there were no seats.  I moved inside and stood in front of a sideways-facing bench, on which were perched three children.  I held onto one of the support bars and the oldest sibling, a very sweet girl about 10 years of age, leapt to her feet and said to me, "Would you like to sit down?"  Her offer was so genuine and lovely, and I chuckled to myself at the thought of squeezing into the seat with her brother and sister.  I told her that I was alright, and by then another woman had tapped me on the shoulder from behind and said, "Please, take my seat." 

I really, really love this city.  I really love Chicago. 

 

We're home

It looms ahead of you for months, months of thinking in the back of your mind, "we're going to England this summer!"  Months of saving.  Months of growing anticipation.

And then you go on your vacation, and see your beloved family members, and have such a wonderful time.  But 12 days of fun go by quickly, and next thing you know, you are back home.  Back home, with your happy cat and your own bed and shower and washer and dryer.  Which would be perfect, except you are back to being far away from your grandfather and cousins and aunts and uncles.  Rats.   

It's always been this way for us.  My father moved to the United States at the age of 28 to marry my mother.  They met on a teacher exchange.  For a fall semester in the late 1970s, my dad lived in my mom's apartment and taught her students in Michigan.  Meanwhile, my mom was in Nottingham, England, living in my dad's flat and teaching his students.  The exchange took months of preparation, during which time they wrote and met each other.  And just like that, at the end of the exchange, they were married.

Pretty crazy, eh?

Having relatives across the pond has always been pretty cool.  How else would we have been allowed so many visits to the non-tourist avenues of England?  We woke to unfamiliar bird calls and the rustle of curtains in the breeze.  We were coaxed from bed by the scraping of butter on toast and the sound of our grandpa setting out cereal boxes and milk in the breakfast room.  We hung our laundry to dry in the back garden and stared at family pictures hanging on the wall.  We took turns going to the homes of my father's siblings and my cousins, enjoying tea and a myriad of cakes, scones, and shortbread, while talking as though we just saw each other the previous week.   

Of course, the downsides with each of our visits to the UK are the many goodbyes that loom ahead.  It rolls out in phases as we move through the week, when we realize it will be the last time we'll see a cousin or aunt or uncle.  My lovely cousin Lizzie was our first goodbye, and we only got two days together.  After five years of separation we enjoyed two days of togetherness, and then were faced with another goodbye.  That's where having family far away can seem like the most unfair situation in the world.  It crushed me when I overheard my grandfather tell my mother that each time he says goodbye to us he considers that it could be the last time he'll ever see us.  My whole life, even as a little girl, I have always thought of this when saying goodbye to my grandma and grandpa.  You can pretend to ignore that possibility, but it is really how it is.  And after saying goodbye to my grandmother after our visit in 1996, it was.

Thankfully we don't let this get us down during our visits, and truly attempt to make the most of every single minute.  And on this trip we really had a blast.  It was fantastic for my sister and I to make the journey with our partners, so that they could finally meet many of our family members and see England for the first time. 

Another very pleasurable part of this trip was the weather.  During our time in England it was in the 60s, and it got into the mid-70s during our big touristy day in Paris.  Glorious.  If I could spend every summer day carrying along a long sleeve option for when the sun went away, I would.  And, I think that the insect population in the Midwest USA must outnumber that of the UK and France 5,000 to 1.  Imagine keeping your windows wide open, with no screens.  Imagine sitting outside into the evening hours without being bit to shreds by mosquitoes.  Nice thought, isn't it?  Now I am sitting at home in hot and humid Chicago refusing to drag my 27 week pregnant body out of doors if I don't have to.  Next week it is going to be even hotter.  For future pregnancies, I must consider living in England for the summer duration.  I'm sure work would understand...

We took literally thousands of photographs, and I've found a small handful to post here as a brief summary of the visit.

Let's see, where to start?

I learned how swollen a pregnant woman's ankles can get on a trans-Atlantic flight (like my fashionable support hose?)

We were able to see some pretty amazing sights in York, the Yorkshire Dales, Cambridge, London, and Paris.  It was very enjoyable getting to observe my husband's and sister-in-law's first viewing of these spots.

Sunset viewed from the upper windows of Grandpa's house on Axholme Road in Doncaster

 

Yorkshire Dales

York Minster

King's College Chapel, Cambridge

Random view in London
Paris

One of the couples in our group was lucky to have a terrace with this view! (hehehehehe!)

Hmmm, and how can I forget some of the food pictures?  I weighed myself yesterday and learned I gained 7 pounds over the holiday.  But seriously, could you pass these things up?!




The best part of the trip was the big family weekend, when everyone came to my grandfather's house.  We posed for our traditional family reunion picture.  Here we are back in 1985

And then in 1996

And now present day!
 
And with partners and my grandfather's great-grandson added :-)



As you can see, it was a wonderful 12 days.  To Grandpa, Anne, Eric, Pam, Chris, Richard, Lynne, Sarah, Pete, Peter, Becca, Oliver, Helen, Giles, Simon, Liz, Craig, Dave, Stephanie, and the Fidler chickens Charlotte, Anne, and Emily- thank you for allowing us such a wonderful time.  We miss you and can't wait to see you all again (and hopefully soon!).  And for my mother and father, thank you so so so much for all the planning and organization that went into this trip!!!  Thank you thank you thank you!  And for my sisters and husband, thanks for being such fab traveling buddies.

Through the dining room window

The night of the giggles

Preparing for vacation

My whhooollleee family is taking a two week trip to visit my grandpa, aunts, uncles, and cousins in England (with a 3 day side trip to Paris) this summer.  The trip was planned and booked a long time ago by my parents, and suddenly it's only 2 1/2 weeks away.  For once in my life, I am not doing much preparing for this visit (I know, I know, it's really hard to believe!).  Rather, it's my husband who is doing all the researching.  We'll be sitting on the couch and he'll turn to me and say, "Everyone at the Parisian hotel where we're staying speaks English." 
"How on earth do you know that?" I'll ask. 
"I looked it up."
"How do you know where we're staying?"
"Because I looked at the ITINERARY." 
"Oh."

Or, while day dreaming in the car, I'll say to him, "You will love the Eurostar train that takes you through the Chunnel to France."
"Now we're taking that to France but flying back to England, right?" He'll ask.
"No, I think we're taking the Eurostar both there and back..."
Then, the next day, he'll say to me, "By the way, you were wrong.  We're only taking the EuroStar to Paris.  We fly out of de Gaulle airport."
"Really??? How do you know that?"
"BECAUSE I LOOKED AT THE ITINERARY!"

My mom emailed out the itinerary probably about 3 months ago.  I have it tagged but, well, haven't really looked at it.  I think the whole "working 10-11 hour days" and "preparing to have a baby" and "being pregnant and puking all the way up until just a month ago" has kind of gotten me out of whack.  There are six of us traveling together.  I plan to just go with the flow.  Perhaps I'll have my dad walk with a giant yellow umbrella overhead so I can follow him, even when we're just in my grandpa's back garden.

One thing we did try to attempt was to learn a little French.  I went to Paris with my family 5 years ago, and even with my dad knowing some French there were moments when people really did treat us like crap for being American or English.  I think it would be nice if my husband and I could break away from the group for a couple hours and venture out on a little date (when we brought up this idea to my mom, she responded, "Oh, you mean with all six of us?"  Errrrrr...ummm....).  So we downloaded a podcast called "Coffeebreak French" that is really fun (seriously, check it out here.  It's cool).  The man and woman who run the podcast are Scottish so it is entertaining no matter what language they are speaking!  The podcasts are arranged in short 20 minute segments, and Jim and I got through the first nine on our last trip to Michigan. 

Mark and Anna (our Coffeebreak French friends) began by leading us through general pleasantries and numbers.  For me, the most valuable phrase I learned is "Je suis fatiguée."  Then, as we got to the podcast on family members, my husband suddenly began blurting out the French words for "mother" and "father" BEFORE Mark could even feed them to us.

I couldn't believe it.  "YOU KNOW FRENCH?" I screeched.  He then admitted that he had taken French in high school.  Just when you think you know everything about a person.  He assured me that his knowledge was limited, and sure enough we both seemed to learn together once we got to the later podcasts.  For a moment there I really felt like I was on an episode of "Punked."

Jim has since rounded out his French education by learning to say "Don't F**K with me" (pardon my French).  I figure that no matter what phrases we are able to remember during our 3 days in Paris, as long as we hold on to that one, we should be okay :-)

Here is Jim's triumphant grin when I realized he knew some French!

 

Moving Right Along

It's getting kinda weird being pregnant.  And that is because, like some magic trick or experiment, I suddenly have a preggo belly.  I knew it was coming, starting a few weeks ago when I realized the days of buttoning my pants were over with.  But I didn't look pregnant.  Instead, I looked like a woman who has been eating far more fatty carbs than she would ever feel comfortable admitting (dudes, seriously, I HAD to in order to not puke every other hour!  I swear!).  People looked at me and likely thought, "Oh, so that's where all those cheeseburgers went!" 

But suddenly, this past week, it changed.  With the dawn of my 16th week I looked in the mirror and thought, "could it be...that one might look at me now and conclude, based on my belly, that I AM pregnant?  Without needing to be told???"

Wow.  How 'bout them apples?

This morning in the elevator, Jim's and my "on our way to work" jabber went like this:
"Do my thighs look fatter?"
No.
"What about my face?"
No.
"I hope you're being honest.  It's okay, you can be honest."
I am.

It's odd to be in a position to just throw your hands up and leave it all to nature.  I'm still not exercising ONE BIT (though I have walked home a couple times from work- that's like 2 lovely miles, folks!) because I am honestly still dealing with queasiness.  But even if I WAS exercising, it's weird to think that my body would still get bigger! 

In the process of writing this, I've eaten 3 chocolate coconut clusters from Michigan's Morley Candy Makers.

I am going to switch gears a bit and talk about eggs (not my eggs, but those coming from a chicken).  Since I was a little girl, I have loved runny fried eggs, over-easy or over-medium, depending on my mood.  My affinity for brilliantly delicious yellowy yolks developed the summer my grandma and grandpa Walker came and stayed with us when I was 7 years old.  My grandma used to make me a soft-boiled egg, propped upright in its special little egg cup.  She would help me crack away at the shell, exposing the warm and steaming egg white beneath.  After we sliced off the top, the soft yolky middle looked so gorgeous.  Next to the egg my grandmother set a plate of "toy soldiers," strips of bread for dunking.   

My grandma lived in England, while I lived in Michigan.  I have such fond memories of her yummy cakes and other things during our visits, but especially treasure my memory of the soft-boiled eggs, as this was a dish that she made just FOR ME.  This was love.   

My parents were not as invested in soft-boiled egg-making, but my taste buds soon became attuned to the soft-boiled egg's cousin, Mr. Fried Egg.  The past few years, I've whipped up fried eggs as a snack, similar to how someone might pour themselves a bowl of cereal midday.  I've gotten pretty adept at getting my eggs just the way I like them, and with a small sprinkling of salt and pepper they are good to go.  After the first slit is made into the yolk, the yellowness spills over the whites and onto the plate, moving with the fluidity and brilliance of lava.  And I still dunk my toast into it.  And my bacon, while I'm at it. 

Here's where I reach the sad part of this story.  Friends, during pregnancy, you're only supposed to eat things that are FULLY COOKED!  That would not include an over-medium fried egg.  Or a soft-boiled egg.  Many women would tell me that I can afford to be lenient on these restrictions, and I'm sure I could.  But this is my first pregnancy.  And for now, before I start the soon-to-occur process of going insane as a first-time Mom, I'm going to play by the rules while I have the discipline. 

I walked home from the train with an extra skip to my step, because it's Friday, and thank God it's Friday, and we're supposed to get thunderstorms tonight, and YIPPEE I love thunderstorms!  Then I reached into our mailbox only to be blinded by this magazine cover.

Now how cruel is THIS, I ask you???!

Creating Our Family Wall

My dad is from Doncaster, England, and my experiences with his family involve happy spurts of togetherness surrounded by years of separation.  I have not been there in 5 years, yet in my mind I can walk from room to room in my grandfather's house, passing through the yellow kitchen, glimpsing into the dining room and lounge, and walking up the red carpeted stairs to the bedrooms on the second floor.  I can even capture the comforting smells of the house- hints of floral and spring that linger on the wrapping paper used for our Christmas gifts and remain in our guest room for days after our relatives return home after a visit to the States.  As a child I would frequently sneak into this room after my grandparents' departure, allowing that scent to surround me as I mourned them gone.  Now as an adult I accept the distance between us and our family for what it is, and possess the confidence to know that, despite our infrequent meetings, I remain a part of them. 

My grandfather's house is the museum of the Walker family, and through this role it seems to have developed its own soul.  Strolling from one room to the next you are surrounded by a history captured in picture frames- from my grandparents in World War II to my blond-haired father as a school boy, standing behind a pram with his older sisters.  There are pictures of my cousins, squinting into the sun on the day of their college graduations, and the line of Walker dogs properly remembered- Skip and Rex and Basil and Dusty. Photographs of my grandmother hang prominently in the lounge, alongside her needlework.  Interspersed among the family pictures are watercolor paintings of Snowdonia, Caernarfon Castle, the city of York, and the Dales, along with slate wall hangings and Welsh love spoons.  To know and understand the elements of life that held meaning for my grandparents requires that you simply walk through their house.  There is such a beauty in that.

Many, many miles away, my grandparents' house influences my thoughts on the home that I would like to create.  And while Jim and I have yet to find ourselves in our permanent home, we at least can still pound some nails in the wall!  We had a family wall in our old apartment in Lincoln Park, and a couple weekends ago I started to recreate this space in our new home in Roscoe Village.  I decided to place the pictures along the wall that is at your back when sitting at our desk.  That way we can glance at the wall when entering the room and sitting down at the desk to work, but can go ahead and be productive without continuously staring at everyone's picture (I'm not sure if Jim would do this, but for me, I would find myself staring off into space if I had all those pictures within view!). 

We have a LOT of wall space in this new place, and I wanted to share the feline portraits that we now have framed in our kitchen.  The black and white cat was Oliver.  I actually drew that with magic markers 3 years ago and hung it near his litter box (I'm a total weirdo when it comes to our cats- I understand this).  I could never find it in my heart to get rid of this picture, and on a whim I framed it.  Then I thought, well, we now also need a picture of Major!  So I sat down with the markers and created Major's portrait.  It's okay if you think we're both bizarre for hanging these, but we love them.  Major is pleased too.