tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65042599063513290002024-03-19T05:17:41.255-04:00JACK at RANDOMA wonderfully lame and tedious family record, through writing, photography and statistics.Josh Jacksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07558455153152363458noreply@blogger.comBlogger472125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6504259906351329000.post-61534796204183351192021-04-07T09:36:00.005-04:002021-04-07T09:50:02.833-04:00Nita Marie Grubb<p><span style="font-family: Didot;"><span> </span><span> </span>One of my favorite writers is a farmer and writer named Wendell Berry. He lives in the hills of Kentucky with his wife of sixty-four years, where they farm crops and sheep and a host of other animals. He was born along the Kentucky River on his family's farm and after getting his education, he moved to New York City where he taught writing at NYU. And then, suddenly, in 1965, just as his career was taking off, he decided to move back to Kentucky to farm and write, where he has lived ever since. After returning to his homeland, he wrote the following words (paraphrased):</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: Didot;"> </span></p><p class="p3" style="font-family: Didot; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><i>Much of the interest and excitement that I have in my life now has come from the deepening of my relationship to this countryside that is my native place. For in spite of all that has happened to me in other places, the great change and the great possibility of change in my life has been in my sense of this place. I have grown to be wholeheartedly present here. This is partly in being free of the suspicion that pursued me early in my life, no matter where I was, that there was perhaps another place I should be, or would be happier or better in. But it is only here that I am able to sit and be quiet at the foot of some tree in the woods and feel a deep peace. — Wendell Berry, A Native Hill</i></p><p class="p2" style="font-family: Didot; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 16px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Didot; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>One of Berry’s most profound ideas is that of being a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>placed person</i>. Someone who doesn’t just have a home, but someone who has a long history of a home, a family record. Someone who doesn’t just live on the land, but deeply understands the land, the weather, the soil, the trees and flowers, how the animals respond to the winter and the way it smells in the spring. A placed person has a thousand stories of a particular geography, stories of humor and heartache, of potential and devastation, stories that bridge the past to the present and will eventually connect to the future. A placed person often has sons and daughters and grandsons and granddaughters that continue to exist in such a place, who have their own stories to write and their own homeland to understand and cherish.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Didot; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Didot; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When I think of Grandma Grubb, what strikes me the most these days is that she was and lived her life as a placed person. She was present here. She was engaged with this land and the people who live here. For whatever hardship she endured or joy she experienced, she seemed content here. She raised four children in these hills and buried a child who didn’t quite make it. She was married to Grandpa for sixty-seven years before burying him too. She went to church here, worked at the local school here and ate at the local restaurant on Saturdays for dinner. She stubbornly hung her clothes on the line in December and mowed the lawn in the muggy August heat and could recall every time the creek ran high. If there ever was a placed person, it was Nita Marie Grubb.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Didot; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Didot; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I spent my childhood summers watching her harvest vegetables in her garden on the edge of the cornfield. She showed me how to make a bacon and scrambled egg sandwich and that waking up at 7am every single day was absolutely required if I wanted breakfast. She is the one who took me to see New York City for the first time, even though we just drove to its edge and looked in. She loved and cared for me in the way she knew best: by being exceptionally present. Whether it was tending to my poison ivy or baking my favorite cake or taking a whole gang of us to Uncle Basil’s pool on a hot August day, she was always there. She somehow mastered the art of always moving without ever seeming hurried. And perhaps most importantly, she let me roam free and run wild and deeply experience this place as my own, even though it was no longer mine. My mother was raised here but left as a young woman, and even though I never lived here, half of me was from this place. And even though I didn’t know how important it was then, the fact that Grandma let me loose here, summer after summer, shaped me for the rest of my life. As the son of two wandering parents, and as a drifter myself, I would not yet call myself a placed person in the way Wendell Berry or my Grandma were placed. But as I get older and as my children get older, I find myself desiring more and more to become like them. And so it is now, as I say goodbye, I am grateful to her for showing me the way.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Didot; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: Didot; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRdZhmOWaA1-hikEYhKZS5soxTvdUxZGeZ8FSQ8hu31rVWIWyelTw1i3ubbUl5ap_3XPlNotz1-WDyk0WslaFzAa90fa1p4Q-Foht3lnPRanLO0w0z0fFdWyv4qGvZTaWx9pJagqdgOJTT/s2048/IMG_6567.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRdZhmOWaA1-hikEYhKZS5soxTvdUxZGeZ8FSQ8hu31rVWIWyelTw1i3ubbUl5ap_3XPlNotz1-WDyk0WslaFzAa90fa1p4Q-Foht3lnPRanLO0w0z0fFdWyv4qGvZTaWx9pJagqdgOJTT/w640-h426/IMG_6567.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><p class="p1" style="font-family: Didot; 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text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Josh Jacksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07558455153152363458noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6504259906351329000.post-58291736420925920692018-01-13T01:18:00.001-05:002018-01-13T01:18:09.817-05:00Diary 002: Vivian. 10:08pm. Vivian punched me four times today. Sometimes she punches me with fire in her eyes and sometimes there is a twinkle and it feels like she just wants to wrestle. I don't know. It's confusing. She is a toddler.<br />
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She is our only child to experience regular child care. Sometimes we wonder if that has something to do with her temper and the way she can tear apart a playful afternoon or wreck a quiet evening by refusing to brush her teeth for the seventh night in a row. Two nights ago when she wouldn't let me brush her teeth, I took her four babies and threw them out the back door. Timeouts for her don't mean much but when you throw her babies into the backyard, shit gets real.<br />
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There's a hole in our ceiling thanks to the recent (but extremely rare) rains. The fireplace is literally shifting like pangea and one whole section has begun to move.<br />
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This old house has some stories to tell.<br />
<br />Josh Jacksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07558455153152363458noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6504259906351329000.post-27386924307487963262018-01-13T01:08:00.000-05:002018-01-13T01:08:06.870-05:00Diary 001. Auld Lang Syne. Repeat. 10:53pm. <div class="p1">
<span class="s1">December 9, 2017. 10:53pm. On the purple couch. We went out for pizza before setting up the Christmas tree and decorating it with ornaments and some lights that don’t quite make it around. We decided a slumber party made sense, even though it seemed kinda risky on account of the kids getting over hyped or under slept or some combination of both. But that seems to happen on any given night, so what the hell. After watching Christmas Vacation, the kids and Kari fell asleep neatly spaced out along some mattresses on the floor. Auld Lang Syne plays on repeat. Still now. Success.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">Before the evening started we sat in the car and put our hands in the middle and I said that the only thing that could sabotage the night was a bad attitude and whining and everyone managed to do pretty well.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">Seeing my kids sleep and watching their stillness and hearing their breath is both the happiest and saddest part of my day. On the one hand, I fall in love with each of them just a little more, remembering their sweetness and innocence and how vulnerable and intrinsically connected to me they are. They are so quietly human in this moment, which is sometimes hard to remember when they are punching each other or ignoring me in a way that suggests I’m a mouse in a far away field whispering from an underground lair. And this is why I feel so deeply sad in this moment for ever raising my voice or not engaging with their needs or for all those times I’ve walked outside to throw a spoon at the backyard fence. For in this moment, it’s just us. They are my children and I am their Father.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">A friend told me recently to start writing again, but the funny thing is I’m not sure he even knew I liked to write. He didn’t know me back then, when writing was what I thought about most. I don’t know. Probably seems like a good idea.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
Josh Jacksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07558455153152363458noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6504259906351329000.post-40009171105614677742017-08-26T16:11:00.001-04:002017-08-26T16:11:27.059-04:00Jackson Annual Report: 2016 In Numbers, Charts and GraphsFollowing up on my <a href="http://www.jackatrandom.com/2016/01/data-porn-2015-in-numbers-charts-and.html">2015 Annual Report</a>, I was back at it again in 2016. Using the <a href="http://www.reporter-app.com/">Reporter App</a>, I asked myself a series of questions twice a day and then compiled all of the raw data to summarize my year in numbers. Typically my questions are centered around my goals for the year, which usually revolves around friendship, travel, books and staying active. Sometimes I'm interested in the little details, which this year included the sleeping habits of my children. All in all, after two years and thousands of data points, I enjoy the habit and the constant reminders of what is important to me.<br />
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<br />Josh Jacksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07558455153152363458noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6504259906351329000.post-39858234932540327412016-03-28T01:39:00.000-04:002016-03-28T01:39:17.075-04:00Leroy Benjamin Grubb<span style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 14px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">Grandpa Grubb is dead. He was my grandfather, my mothers father, my grandmothers husband. I feel their loss more acutely, imagining what it must feel like to see your Father laid bare, to see your husband stripped of existence. How lonely that could feel, how vulnerable to be moving through the day without such a backbone. I imagine the profound absence to be unexplainable, the mysterious connection between a parent and child, a husband and wife. For even when you leave the home and set off into a new life, a new family, a new home, for those fortunate to have a Mother and Father, they are still somehow a force, a presence, for better or for worse, they carry us in some capacity. And then suddenly they are gone and the need and obligation and duty are cut off. </span><br />
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I wasn't very close to him, both in proximity or in emotion. My memory of my summers under his roof do not serve me well. Did we converse over dinner? What was our interaction like on his farm? What we did we talk about on the numerous road trips around Pennsylvania and beyond? It is hard to remember all but a small handful of conversations we had or a single moment where we were alone together. </div>
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I have found the beauty lies in the realization that he was simply there, around the table, on the farm, in the car, steady and unwavering, as present and purposeful as he was in his work and community. He was there in the airport when I arrived by myself as a six year old. After driving twelve hours in his Dodge minivan, he was there to pick me up and take me back for an August at the farm. When my Father and I hitchhiked through Pennsylvania on our way to New York City, he was there to drop us off at a truck stop a few miles down the road. </div>
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I cannot remember much about my Grandpa before Parkinson's and age crept up on him. One visit he was walking and talking and the next he was in a home and everything had changed and when visits from across the country are sporadic, it felt like it all happened in a single week. </div>
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And now he is here, in a casket, looking young again in a suit. I move my hands over his hands, hold his face and rub his chest and I remember what a cold body feels like. </div>
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The last time I saw him was almost three years ago. I told him that he was a good man, mostly because I felt it and also because that sounded like something I would want to be told in my last years with the living. </div>
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You are a good man Grandpa. </div>
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And you know what he said to me, through tears and eighty-five years of life showing on his face? </div>
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I've tried to be. </div>
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I've though about these words over and over again, dwelling on such a heartfelt response, letting them sink in, and I find them so incredibly beautiful and genuine and remarkable. For what else more can we ask of ourselves, at the end of our lives, that we tried to be good? </div>
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Rest in peace, Leroy Benjamin Grubb. </div>
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Josh Jacksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07558455153152363458noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6504259906351329000.post-70984101736034712972016-03-25T01:52:00.003-04:002016-03-25T01:52:47.756-04:00Five Years<span style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 14px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">Five years doesn't seem possible. Her mark is indelible. There isn't much to say, I suppose, after five years. What else is there to think about, to feel? </span><br />
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I used to see the redemption in her death, the changes in me, in my family, how she breathed so much beauty and complexity into our lives. How I'm a better person, more whole in some way, more in tune with the society of the suffering that surrounds me on all sides. I'm not so sure anymore, not as certain. </div>
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I think, it is what it is.</div>
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What else can you say about it? These days I no longer take anything away from her death except that she died. </div>
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Sweet daughter of mine, how I wish you were her. </div>
Josh Jacksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07558455153152363458noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6504259906351329000.post-89070168130207772682016-01-08T01:16:00.000-05:002017-08-26T16:11:44.168-04:00Jackson Annual Report: 2015 In Numbers, Charts and GraphsSo...each night before nodding off to interrupted sleep, I answered a series of questions about my day. The questions I chose for 2015 mostly fell in line with my goals for the year, which included the some micro and macro questions about travel, friends, food, hobbies and working out. By answering the same questions every day, I was able to compile all of the data at the end of year for some real nerdy evaluation and reflection. The <a href="http://www.reporter-app.com/">Reporter App</a> made these nightly question and answer "reports" quick and manageable, as well as compiling all of the data as I went along.<br />
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The black dots show where we camped and visited in 2015:<br />
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<br />Josh Jacksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07558455153152363458noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6504259906351329000.post-13495295437375535942015-12-29T11:58:00.000-05:002016-01-08T03:51:37.208-05:00Christmas Eve, 2015<div style="color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 14px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It's 11:36pm, Christmas Eve. Our home is without heat and the thermostat in the hallway registers 56 degrees. It has been the coldest winter I can remember since moving here in 2005, with nightly temperatures dipping down into the high 30's, which I know is almost laughable for those living in four season climates. But space heaters can only take you so far when its 37 degrees out and you have breezes coming in through the windows and the only thing between the dirt on the ground and your feet are 3/8" thick floorboards. </span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I need to insulate the attic, etc. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Kari is moving between the couch and toilet, hurling in only the way she can, quietly and without fanfare. There is something extraordinary about her experience with the stomach flu and hearing and watching her is simultaneously gory and breathtaking. The way she faces it head on, without fear, the way she delicately and methodically takes care of herself, the way she settles into the moment, even one as miserable as this. I lie in bed, listening to the gory details and breathe a sigh of relief that I found such a woman. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Leo has joined in on the flu party and after changing the sheets and pillowcases and all articles of clothing, we are now laying together with a small bowl between us. He pukes and I mostly catch it and I rinse the bowl and he falls asleep and I drift in and out until it all starts over again. </span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">By the time the sun starts to make its Christmas rise, the spectacle is over and we are exhausted. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It has been a great year. One of the most satisfying years of my adult life. </span><br />
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Josh Jacksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07558455153152363458noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6504259906351329000.post-23200145050482252902015-05-18T10:27:00.000-04:002015-05-18T10:27:16.320-04:00One Before the OtherIt is nearing June and I still have not finished the book I set out to finish in January and the only writing I have done has been some scattered notes on my iPhone at midnight that have all ended up in the cyber trash. <br /><br />Parenthood has taken over. I don't know if there is any other way to put it. Either my goals for the year are not reasonable or I am not motivated enough. The answer is probably yes to both of these theories. The irony of the second theory is that the very reason I don't have motivation at the end of the day to work on the essay or pick up a book is because I am a parent. By the time we have all the kids asleep, there is only one thing I would like to do. Namely, throw a party with my wife. Pour the shot, fill the glass, hit the porch and talk the night away. The Grapes of Wrath has no chance against whiskey and adult conversation. <br />Josh Jacksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07558455153152363458noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6504259906351329000.post-35186732343875524962015-03-25T00:46:00.000-04:002015-03-25T00:46:03.606-04:00FourI would mostly like a few stiff drinks, some yellow Americans and to shut the curtains and lay with Kari in the dark for the day. That's how I feel four years in. <br /><br />Josh Jacksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07558455153152363458noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6504259906351329000.post-78482189910556167082014-12-27T02:23:00.000-05:002014-12-27T20:24:03.284-05:00Vivian Lucia<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 14px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">It is 64 degrees on Christmas Eve and the sun is on its way down, hoping to clear the horizon before the dinner rush. </span><br />
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My five ear old has an ear infection, my two year old has a fever and I'm doped up on just enough NyQuil to simultaneously make myself feel better and allow me to take care of the older kids while Kari and the baby hole up in our bedroom. </div>
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The older kids. That little s on the end of kid is just about the best thing I have ever written. Such a telling implication. More than two. </div>
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I feel surprised by VIvian, by her sudden arrival into our family. We spent the better part of a pregnancy doing our best to avoid the subject, ignoring the ball of matter growing on auto pilot. It felt easier that way, like we could just pretend everything was as usual. So we put our heads down and worked and talked about our days and went to bed distracting ourselves from the present and the fear and the possibility of a living baby at the end of the tunnel. And now she is here and SHE IS HERE and I'm cramming nine months of mental and emotional preparation into a few weeks. </div>
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Vivian Lucia. Life and Light. <br />
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Josh Jacksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07558455153152363458noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6504259906351329000.post-23904853418430209212014-08-14T13:56:00.000-04:002014-08-14T13:56:29.038-04:00On Turning Thirty-FiveIt’s 9:37am. I slept in, which is arguably the best gift I will receive today. Kari whisked the kiddos out of our bed at the headache time of 6:30am. The curtains were left shut, the fan was turned on high and the covers were pulled over my head. There is no better sleep than getting to sleep in, without consequence or guilt, after you become a parent. <br /><br />Speaking of gifts, I received $30 from my parents, which feels like such a kind gesture when you’re halfway to seventy. I have been wearing socks with holes in them for a solid four months now. There are two pair in which my big toe just slides right out into the open. Another pair has the heel worn out. Some days I have opted to simply go without socks altogether, knowing the callouses that have emerged on the balls of my feet would get me by just fine. And I knew this day would come and I knew my parents would faithfully send me $30, so I waited until now and bought five pair of socks from REI. They are ready to be picked up at the store today. Shipping to my home would have blown out my budget. <br /><br />Thanks to my sister, I will take Kari out for my birthday, on a proper date, which would actually win the argument for best gift. We will arrive to dinner and have two whole hours before the movie starts. We will converse and eat, at whatever pace suits us. I will dip my fries into a gourmet sauce slowly and defiantly, one at a time, and feel like everything in the world is going to be okay.<br /><br />+++<br /><br />Happy days like today have a sadness about them now. Like the happiness you’re supposed to feel actually accentuates the sadness. As good as dinner and a movie sounds, and as sweet as the drawing is that Stella will no doubt give me, the truth is, I would equally like to skip out on the rest of the day and grab the framed picture of my missing daughter and hold it close and pull the blankets back over my head and cry until it’s no longer my birthday. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m super excited to pick up my socks. It’s just different now. <br /><br />+++ <br /><br />I feel so lucky to be alive. Thirty-five years is a long, long time to escape death. If there is one gift I could give myself today, I would beg and plead with the universe that my kids and Kari and I could stay alive for a good long while. That would be really nice. <br />Josh Jacksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07558455153152363458noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6504259906351329000.post-89868799721428585102014-08-06T10:29:00.000-04:002014-08-14T23:09:06.458-04:00Starting SomewhereWhat if I just kept a journal, somewhat, from time to time. Maybe that would liven this place up again. I don’t know. <br />
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There are birthdays gone missing. She turned five. M turned three. He turned two. There were parties and photos and cake and tears. All undocumented. <br />
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We bought a house. We are doing things to it, at least on the outside. There are gardens and chickens and a working furniture studio. My grandfathers garden tools hang on recycled redwood on the outside of the shop. It didn’t take long to make, but I like the way it looks. <br />
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Three camping excursions. A trip to Minnesota. A wedding. Eleven thousand cavities. <br />
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All of this is missing from the record that I like to keep here.<br />
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The funny thing about it is, at some point in the near future, I know I will actually go back through our photos and record some of these events. I will even time stamp them back to when they should have been posted. So in five years, or ten years, or whenever, it will be like they were never even missed. <br />
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Truth is, I haven’t had time. Josh Jacksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07558455153152363458noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6504259906351329000.post-78299151758702307912014-03-31T10:58:00.002-04:002014-03-31T10:58:50.717-04:00Letting GoMy final short essay for Glow In the Woods, writing about Letting Go. You can go <a href="http://www.glowinthewoods.com/home/2014/3/31/letting-go.html">here</a> to read it. Josh Jacksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07558455153152363458noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6504259906351329000.post-59301388401590210862014-01-24T03:07:00.002-05:002016-01-08T03:52:31.380-05:00Two Thousand Thirteen The sort of year I'd like to remember fondly, but I'm still too close to the chaos of what it was.<br />
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I will remember my sister.<br />
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I will remember her taking my four year old out dancing until 11pm, as if she was nineteen, sneaking her into the club, busting moves to whatever the kids are dancing to these days. I will remember all of the late nights talking and scraping floors and rolled organics and road trips West, North and East. I will remember watching her run a marathon through the hills and neighborhoods of the twin cities, driving frantically from mile marker to mile marker in hopes of catching a glimpse and cheering her on. She is one beautiful and dedicated and independent woman if there ever was one.<br />
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I will remember my Dad returning from trips this way and that, Africa or Turkey or Columbia or who knows where, and the way he looked at my children as if it had been a whole year since he saw them last.<br />
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I will remember my mother and her condo in the city, a refuge of cleanliness and padded carpet and tenderness that was our home away from home.<br />
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Dear, beautiful, like minded friends, who we stayed up late with and shared Thanksgiving with and fixed gutters with. You don't think it's possible to make deep friendships anymore, like there isn't room in life or your good fortune has run out, and then you move to a new city and introduce yourselves and then it happens.<br />
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And my kids. Taking in stride their parents crazy whims, taking baths in plastic bins and moving from place to place, room to room, bed to bed, while we shuttled around the house to the repetitious tune of fixing and cleaning, fixing and cleaning. Having one parent a day, five or six days a week, mom till 3, dad till bed. They made friends and explored and grew up and neither of them will probably remember much of it.<br />
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I will though. Our crazy year spent fixing up a broken old house, etc.
Josh Jacksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07558455153152363458noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6504259906351329000.post-44572116236002177312013-12-25T01:06:00.000-05:002014-12-27T21:04:01.079-05:00Christmas Eve IIIIt's our third Christmas without Margot.Thirty-one Christmas eves before and three after. <br />
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My life, before her. And after. <br />
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Time shifted in March 2011. A new beginning by which all events and experiences are measured as they are remembered in my mind. <br />
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The 85' Bears. Before.<br />
Middle School. Before.<br />
Indianapolis. After.<br />
The apartment on Euclid. Before.<br />
Christmas Eve, 2013. After.<br />
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The Christmas Eve after she died was spent in our car, in the In N Out parking lot, eating hamburgers and listening to Judy Garland, Stella jumping from front to back, hopped up on the lethal combination of Christmas and a chocolate milkshake. There was no tree that year.<br />
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Their are four of us now, living, huddled around mattresses in the living room, listening to Judy Garland, dancing and laughing by the light of the tree. There is happiness here in the after, a trace of innocence, a steadfastness in the present.<br />
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We have muddled through, somehow. <br />
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<br />Josh Jacksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07558455153152363458noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6504259906351329000.post-38752314944969050672013-11-07T10:32:00.000-05:002014-12-27T21:06:25.776-05:00The House: Part 09: To Our Mandala, GoodbyeWe sold our house to the first people that looked at it.<br />
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Eleven months of grunting and sweating and arguing and guessing our way through the restoration of an old beauty. Forty-one thousand, seven hundred and sixty three dollars and thirteen cents of our savings poured into every inch of our tiny plot of land in the city. Living an Indiana life that was the upside down version of our California life, trading time together for time on the house, trading leisure for stress, trading family evenings and dinners for Kari working five nights a week. <br />
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And then, suddenly, the house was finished and two days later the house was listed and one day later the house was sold. And that was that.<br />
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I sit here now in my living room, days away from closing. It really is a beautiful room. The poplar floors are something out of the old world, full of colors so rich and original that it's nearly unmatched. The ten foot ceilings have never become commonplace. The eight inch baseboard and window trim are made from solid oak and the curves and lines that make up the molding are incredibly precise and complex. The two pocket doors creak and hiss as they open and close but these gigantic five panel doors were one of the reasons we bought the house and they have captured my historical imagination ever since.<br />
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I see this one room and remember scraping the floors till my back gave out and caulking the cracks and meticulously sanding and refinishing all of the trim and I am not sad to say goodbye.<br />
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The sand mandala is an ancient Tibetan Buddhist tradition that involves several monks all working tirelessly and meticulously on a concentric structure, with no beginning and no end, made from crushed stones that are carefully dyed with colored ink. They work from the center and move outward, using funnels and scrapers and other small apparatuses to place each tiny stone in the proper place. Some of these larger mandalas can take a team of monks several weeks to finish.<br />
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When these beautiful pieces are complete, they dismantle them, shape by shape, symbol by symbol, color by color, until there is nothing left but a jar full of sand. And then, ceremoniously, this sand is released into a river or a body of water as a symbol of impermanence, a non-attachment to the material world.<br />
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We have often thought of this house as our mandala over the past year, knowing this would probably be a temporary home for our family. And as the months trudged on and the to-do lists grew and the physical and emotional demands of a broken house intensified, the more appropriate the metaphor seemed.<br />
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I do not feel sad about leaving this house. I do not feel happy to leave it. My relationship with these walls is complicated and I'm not quite sure how to process everything this house has meant to me, both in the anger and joy and exhaustion it has brought. But as we pack our bags for California, I do feel grateful. I am grateful for what it taught me both practically and mentally, grateful for what it revealed to me about perseverance and grief, grateful that it has helped heal my broken heart. <br />
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And yet, it is time to move on. This place is temporary, impermanent. I'm ready to walk away, releasing it to the river. <br />
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<br />Josh Jacksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07558455153152363458noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6504259906351329000.post-50735815693557838702013-11-03T00:02:00.000-04:002013-11-03T00:02:46.705-04:00The House: Part 08: UpstairsFinally getting down to the end of the before and after pictures! Only one more post left. :)<br />
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The first task upstairs, which used to be the upper floor of a duplex, was taking out all of the garbage that was left up there for decades and hauling it to this huge steel bin. I'd guess 75% of what's in this bin came from the upstairs. <br />
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From there, we scraped and sanded the original pine floors, which laid beautifully under several layers of paint, tile and in a couple of rooms, plywood. Then we ran new plumbing to the bathroom, updated all of the electrical and began taking steps to restoring each room, slowly and painfully.<br />
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The old kitchen was arguably the worst. The ceiling was caved in, the wood floors were a uneven and couldn't be salvaged and there were gas and water lines running everywhere. After ripping out most of the ceiling, we added insulation and then drywalled the ceiling and one wall. We removed existing water and gas lines and, laid down a new pine floor, updated electrical, added baseboard and quarter round and finally, painted. <br />
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While this room is one of the smallest in the house, the transformation and ample light makes it one of my favorites. <br />
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The origina bathroom was full of pink appliances and a green and white checkered floor. One of the windows was broken and falling out and laying inside the window was a dead bird. Suffice to say, it was a mess. Some friends replumbed the entire bathroom, installed new shower, toilet and sink and then laid tile. We took it from there with electical work, caulking, new windows, fixed doors and new lights and mirror.<br />
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The last remaining work upstairs were in the two bedrooms. After restoring the original pine floors and installing new windows, we went to work on refinishing all of the beautiful oak woodwork around the windows and floors. All of it needed sanded and re stained and some of it needed replaced. Lots of drywall patches, updated electrical, paint and new ceilings fans rounded out these huge rooms. <br />
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This room has now become Leo's room, who has the entire upstairs all to himself. :)<br />
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The front bedroom needed the least cosmetic attention.<br />
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<br />Josh Jacksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07558455153152363458noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6504259906351329000.post-12272304315389891272013-10-25T10:36:00.000-04:002013-11-11T08:43:46.606-05:00The House: Part 07: Outside! Exterior! I should start by saying that it took two full days of plowing and digging and raking and shoveling in the back yard to even realize we had a beautiful brick patio. TWO DAYS. In the end, the outside took three weeks of work (spread out over the year) to get it to where it is now. We removed several trees, built a new deck and fence and tirelessly dug down 6" in nearly every nook and cranny of yard space in order to rid ourselves of fifteen years of mad ivy takeover and gobs of poison sumac. The final piece to the yard puzzle was seeding in September and building a fire pit. <br />
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As for the exterior of our house, the work was extensive and thankfully, most of the big ticket items were contracted out. :) We had a new roof put on, asbestos siding removed, insulation blown in, our maple was trimmed away from the house and new siding installed. I installed new windows in much of the house and we painstakingly updated the porch by removing lead paint, replacing rotten posts and painting the door, posts and porch ceiling. There was also a mess of an awning that adorned our sidewalk entrance, which was a delight to smash down and then reuse to build Stella a small tree house. A little landscaping went along way. <br />
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This is what our house looked like when we first laid eyes on it (siding caked with asbestos, half of the window trim was rotted out, layers of lead paint caked on everything and missing gutters). It's hard to believe we could fall in love with such a mess. </div>
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Some progress shots: </div>
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And the finished version...</div>
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Josh Jacksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07558455153152363458noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6504259906351329000.post-78026261880619902692013-10-21T22:28:00.000-04:002014-12-27T21:09:31.525-05:00Saying Goodbye To the Jackson Cottage<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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He poured the foundation slab on Halloween night, 1979, three months after I was born. Two years later, my grandparents were able to call their cottage in the woods complete, though when I asked my Grandpa how long it took to finish the house he laughed and said thirty years.<br />
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I have spent my entire life heading up to Grandpa's house, back when they had horses in the barn and scooters in the garage. The inside is just about the coziest place you can imagine, with a huge fireplace, beautiful windows, thoughtful carpentry and a loft full of books and treasures my Grandma has collected over the years.<br />
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Their home sits on 10 acres of pure Northern Michigan goodness, and the woods and isolation and hills have always been a playground for my sisters and I. And when you add my loving, generous and happy grandparents to this place, well, it feels like such fortune.<br />
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Sadly, they are selling their cottage in the woods, thirty-four years after construction began. My sister and I took the older kids up this past weekend for one final visit, to experience with our own kiddos what we have been doing for all of these years. <br />
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Au revoir, happy cottage. I'll miss the popcorn and card games and fires and getting freaked out by the basement. Josh Jacksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07558455153152363458noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6504259906351329000.post-24951870589345085272013-10-02T09:13:00.001-04:002013-10-02T09:13:32.149-04:00These TwoThey are starting to really play together, interacting in the most primal ways, with hand gestures and grunts and facial expressions. Today she set up a fort and he knocked it down and she said <i>good job lee</i> and that was that, as if that was her intent all along. She tickles him. He lights up when he sees her. You can see the evolution taking place, slowly, week by week, as his awareness reaches new levels and his coordination begins taking shape.<br />
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You can't really call it fighting, but they are definitely starting to push buttons and wear on each other. He steals her juice. She lords over his food intake in the back seat of the car. She says no, he screams. They are working it out though, one dilemma at a time. She never looks at us for intervention, and I hope he learns to do the same.<br />
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After a year of Leo struggling and crying, with the dominant mood being needy, I treasure almost every hour of this boy's happiness. He is as happy as I can imagine a kid his age being, which is something six months ago that I couldn't imagine. He is playful. He jokes. He wakes up satisfied, eats like a boxer and cuddles and kisses his lovey in a way that suggest some kind of mysterious real friendship.<br />
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She is tough. Independent. Comfortable in her skin. We knew these things about her, but they seem to grow in sync with her own growth. Her vocabulary, the way she strings certain words together, has been surprising me almost daily recently. When she couldn't sleep a few nights ago, she picked out a learning book and spent most of her time solving math problems, shouting out <i>six!</i> and <i>three! </i>as she added numbers together. I can already feel her slipping out the back door sometimes, heading off into the night for some grand adventure. I treasure the hugs and afternoon waltzes and the way she looks at me when she tries on a new dress. <br />
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6504259906351329000" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>I am reminded these days how little actually matters to me. As my two living children roam the house together, searching for climbing mechanisms or lost toys, I am at peace. <i>This is enough</i>, I think to myself.<br />
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<br />Josh Jacksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07558455153152363458noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6504259906351329000.post-7692245651036472472013-09-04T19:12:00.003-04:002013-10-01T00:35:25.718-04:00Stella + NYC<i>At around 2:20pm we could see Manhattan. I got really excited. I hope to live here someday. </i><br />
<i> </i>- my hitch-hiking journal from 1995<br />
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<i>So what did you think about New York? </i><br />
<i>I want to live here. </i><br />
- conversation between Stella and I as we left the city.<br />
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It only happens once in your life. That moment you see the city from the distant freeway, those skyscrapers, all of those giant buildings, scrunched together in lower Manhattan and then towering up again in upper Manhattan. And then you arrive INTO the grand metropolis and it's nothing like you could even dream of from a distance. Suddenly you're inundated with pedestrians, couriers hustling on bikes, smells wafting from every nook and corner, lights upon lights and the beautiful cacophony of noises from horns and sirens and coats swishing and music blasting. It's simultaneously marvelous and overwhelming and there isn't anywhere in the world quite like New York City.<br />
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I remember my first time. Thing is, I remember almost all of the trips I've taken into the city. I remember the time my friend and I, fresh out of tenth grade, got lost in Brooklyn. I remember hitchhiking into the city on the back of a big pick-up truck, right over the George Washington Bridge. I remember asking Kari to marry me, in the basement of a jazz club near 41st and 7th Avenue. I remember strolls through Central Park and Yankee games in the Bronx and standing on top of the World Trade Center with my Father. This is what New York does to you, no matter how old you are or how many times you've been there. You don't forget. <br />
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In the months leading up to Stella's first time in the city, we spent many days talking and looking at pictures and dreaming of subway rides and baseball and street vendor hot dogs and elevators that stretched into the sky.<br />
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By the time we arrived into Manhattan via the Holland Tunnel, she was chanting NEW YORK CITY and I HAVE TO PEE at record level volumes. Our first stop was in an illegal parking zone in SoHo, where she happily relieved herself, right next to a sidewalk full of new yorkers who looked at me slightly horrified. From there we saw a Baseball game, climbed to the top of the Empire State Building and spent the evening strolling Battery Park with our dear friend <a href="http://melbarlowandco.com/melbarlowandco.com/Mel_%26_Co._Index.html">Mel</a> (who, thankfully, snapped some photos for us!).<br />
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<br />Josh Jacksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07558455153152363458noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6504259906351329000.post-3510378962260462672013-09-02T00:20:00.001-04:002013-09-02T00:20:04.760-04:00The House: Part 06: Reclaimed Wood Kitchen Before and AfterThis post has been a long time coming! We started the demolition on the kitchen on June 4. And just finished on August 22, after nearly three months of working full time. The kitchen needed the most work of any room in the house, and we basically had to demo it all the way to the studs and start all over. The floors needed scraped, sanded and refinished. Old cabinets and countertops were recycled. The walls needed gutted to make way for new drywall. New electrical and plumbing were needed. New fixtures and sink. Half of the trim around the windows needed replaced due to rotten boards. New paint throughout. New baseboard and quarter round. And, of course, we had to install new cabinets and countertops and everything else that goes into a kitchen.<br />
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I was able to handcraft the entire kitchen out of reclaimed oak that came out of a hundred year old barn thirty miles from our home. This was by far the most labor intensive part of the kitchen remodel. Twenty 4X4's and several hundred board feet of reclaimed oak were milled and carefully crafted and joined to make this kitchen what it is. The kitchen island features oak from the same barn. The only thing left is a small cabinet that will go above the washer and dryer. Other than that, this kitchen is complete!<br />
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[this is what the kitchen looked like when we arrived. full of fake wood and cardboard countertops and LAYERS of linoleum on the floor and walls. and lots of GREEN] </div>
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[carefully scraping the floors, inch by inch, and then sanding, and eventually refinishing. the remaining cabinets and sink you see here are what we lived with from february until june]</div>
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[ripping the rest of the cabinets out. started to gut the walls down to the studs. this corner is the same corner as the picture above. thanks to scott for helping me gut the kitchen!] </div>
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[about to rip off walls and plumbing]</div>
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[another angle before ripping down the walls. this angle is the exact same as picture #1] </div>
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[several of the floor boards were rotted out. we ripped them out and then i milled down reclaimed poplar to match the existing poplar flooring] </div>
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[this is about halfway through the remodel. some of the cabinets are installed, but we're still testing paint colors and where we will put the appliances. for example, the stove in the corner was replaced by the fridge. this angle is the same as picture #2 and #3]</div>
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[finished! similar angle as picture #1 and #5. butcher block top kitchen island is on wheels for mobility. farmhouse sink from ikea. all appliances found on craigslist. everything else handcrafted. :) ] </div>
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[this shows the other side of the kitchen. i built this wall to sort of separate the laundry a little. above the laundry will be a small cabinet made of the same reclaimed oak. i think that will really finish the room off. the metal cabinet was a thrifted find and acts as a pantry. light fixture from lowes. the door is the back door of our house that leads to the yard and garage] </div>
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[wanted to show another angle, similar to pictures #2, #3 and #7.] </div>
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<br />Josh Jacksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07558455153152363458noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6504259906351329000.post-30578026330118537282013-08-29T12:47:00.002-04:002013-08-29T19:47:30.870-04:00Woods and Wild Animals and Magic: A Trip To Nova ScotiaWe ended up in Nova Scotia because it's always sounded so magical and remote, like right out of a pirate tale, The Great North of hunters and woods and wild animals. The kind of place you'd see two bears high fiving on the banks of some rushing river. The capital city alone, Halifax, is a name that beckons my adventurous heart with the likes of Anchorage and Whitehorse and Helsinki. <i>Don't worry</i>, I would tell my young soul, gazing at a map of Canada. <i>You'll get there.</i><br />
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We got here at this moment because our generous friend <a href="http://www.kateinglis.com/">Kate</a> and her beautiful kiddos kindly offered her newly re-built cabin to us, a miraculous gem of wood and windows and decking that's somehow simultaneously in the woods and by a stream and near the salty waters of the North Atlantic. It has a bed and some chairs and a desk, all dressed in white with darkly stained wide plank pine floors.<br />
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She made this with her own hands, crowbar and hammer, scrapers and brushes. Apron around her waist, sleeves pulled up to her elbows. Dismantling, rebuilding. A cabin for her, a refuge for others. She's gifted but down to earth. Cooks mussels with ease. Liam and Margot, our grief shared as easily as the meals she prepared for us. Courageous, twice. There is a poem that hangs in her bathroom, the words painted on canvas, and I think to myself that is her. And us. <br />
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So we embarked upon Nova Scotia with a map and a cabin and the knowledge of a local and found ourselves some trails and lakes and rivers and set out on our seven days without children.<br />
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[ we ate LOTS of haddock ]</div>
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[ queensland beach + scots bay ]</div>
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[ halifax public gardens ]</div>
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[ hiked out to cape split for stunning views of the bay of fundy ]</div>
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[ wine country + cape split ]<br />
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[ one night stay in a cozy cabin near keji national park + LOTS of canoeing ]</div>
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[ the delectable lahave bakery along the north atlantic coast ]</div>
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[ morning coffee, dockside ]</div>
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[ fishing village on bush island ]</div>
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[ hike in keji national park seaside ]</div>
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Josh Jacksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07558455153152363458noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6504259906351329000.post-14362692199913464592013-07-17T11:59:00.000-04:002013-07-17T11:59:42.058-04:00JunebugI never thought of Junebug.<br />
<br />
She has always been M, but I sometimes wonder what her name would have evolved into as she aged and showcased her personality.<br />
<br />
Stella quickly became Stella Bella.<br />
<br />
Leo is still Leo, but I'm waiting for something else to emerge. <br />
<br />
But Junebug. That is it. <br />
<br />
I read it recently from a mother. Her daughter's middle name is June. And she referred to her as Junebug and my heart burst into applause and then collapsed into grief.<br />
<br />
<br />
I feel so helpless. Ten thousand Junebugs left unsaid. <br />
<br />Josh Jacksonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07558455153152363458noreply@blogger.com7