Tag: memories

Dia De Los Muertos Memories

Posted on November 1, 2013 by

“To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.”

― Thomas Campbell

Frida Kahlo, "My Grandparents, My Parents and I"

Frida Kahlo, “My Grandparents, My Parents and I”

“We all have an inner voice, our personal whisper from the universe. All we have to do is listen — feel and sense it with an open heart. Sometimes it whispers of intuition or precognition. Other times, it whispers an awareness, a remembrance from another plane. Dare to listen. Dare to hear with your heart.”

― C.J. Heck, Bits and Pieces: Short Stories from a Writer’s Soul

Charlotte Bronte

“I think it is all a matter of love; the more you love a memory the stronger and stranger it becomes”

― Vladimir Nabokov

“Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,

Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.”

― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie

Frida Kahlo self portrait

“The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain. It’s the loneliness of it.

Memories need to be shared.”

― Lois Lowry, The Giver

Do you celebrate Dia de los Muertos? How do you share your memories?

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Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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Pandora’s Box: Preserving Her Scraps of Childhood

Posted on April 15, 2013 by

When she was little-not more than two- she was obsessed with a silky yellow and black polka dot swimsuit. It wasn’t a bikini- I shied away from the ‘Toddlers and Tiaras‘ set-instead, it was an adorable one piece tank style suit with an simple little ruffle that covered her rump.

Lily and RoseLike many little girls, she wore and wore that suit until it climbed up too high and I had to convince her that it fit better on her stuffed bear, Rosie. Carefully I placed Rosie’s long, spindly legs and arms through the swimsuit and tied a knot just below her neckline to keep it secure.  She was happy with the arrangement, and snuggled Rosie gently every night as she fell asleep.

Now, fourteen years later and several sizes larger, that memory surfaced as I was hanging up her lime green American Eagle string bikini after a night of hot tubbing with her friends. I’ve given up the battle over skin bearing suits, and trust her sense of modesty and self-confidence. Gone are the silver sparkle sneakers, the bows and headbands, and all the other innocent childhood fashions that kept her young forever.

Where has it gone?

I remember thinking that I could never survive the end of her childhood, sure that each subsequent stage couldn’t possible replace the absolute beauty of the one before. Gently I filled my pine wedding box with scraps of artwork, certificates and letters written in her childish hand. I tucked away unused diapers, baby socks and her favorite pair of red overalls, just to justify that she really was once that small. Photos, videos and journals fill boxes in my armoire as testaments to each moment, each step towards the moment I’m fearing the most right now: the one when she leaves.

She herself is hardly the sentimental type. Left to her, the memories would stay locked up inside, no tangible proof of the time she moved up from guppy to turtle in swimming lessons, or the little Colombian clothespin doll she created in honor of her great-grandmother’s heritage. Birthday cards, tied with ribbon, and letters that she wrote to ‘Jen’ professing her love mingle with newspaper clippings from gymnastic meets and ski races.

I can hardly bear to open the box right now. In fact, I can hardly write about it with my eyes tearing up with an overwhelming sense of absolute and overpowering love, tinged with a touch of sadness.

But I won’t let myself go there right now. Twelve months from now, when decisions are made, deposits placed, and the calendar ticks down to the remaining summer at home-maybe then I’ll crack it open and begin the process of unwrapping the last 18 years we’ve spent together.

Is this the way childhood is supposed to end? Bits and pieces of memories, tied together with love and tears, helping me to hold onto motherhood as I watch her grow up and away?

Is this how the Universe eases my grief? Squirreling away scraps and fragments of times joyous in the moment, melancholy in the past?

I’m fairly certain she has no idea the lengths I’ve gone to in keeping these moments alive and untouchable. But the one memory I don’t hold onto is Rosie. She was never willing to give her up, and although long removed from  under her covers, she resides somewhere close to her heart.

Maybe the time will come, twelve-or-so months from now, when she will reappear, and give me something to cling to, something to ease my grief, something to symbolize the love we created in her childhood. Until then, I’ll continue preserving her scraps of childhood, bit by bit.

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Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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Julia Child Started It All: My Cooking Show Obsession

Posted on February 15, 2013 by

julia cooking

My name is Jennifer Wolfe, and I love cooking shows.

It all started when I was a kid-it’s my mom’s fault, you see.  Along with Sesame Street and the Dinah Shore Show, I remember watching Julia Child at a very young age. I was fascinated with how she could entertain and create food right there on the screen, and my mom could copy whatever she made.  It was magic.

Once I moved out of the house and into my own apartment, my cooking wasn’t so much magic as it was a mess.  I tried to duplicate my mom’s recipes, but usually I either ended up crumpled in tears or fanning black smoke from the kitchen. I think one of the reasons I agreed to marry my husband was the way he handled my first attempt at making spaghetti sauce from scratch, and ate every charred chunk of meat without complaining.

My little black and white TV became my companion as I discovered Yan Can Cook and the Frugal Gourmet...every Saturday morning I would do my house cleaning, study a bit, and then fill my Berkeley apartment with the glorious images of their culinary creations.  I bought their cookbooks and began to actually be a decent cook myself.the-frugal-gourmet-cooks-italian-31087l1

When my kids were little, Martha Stewart was all the rage; somehow I thought that watching repeats of her show at 3 am when nursing my firstborn was a good idea.  When I realized that I could not work full time, parent my children and keep my house moderately clean, let alone come up with marshmallows from scratch and decorate for every season, I clicked her off.

Then, along came Food Network.  My dreams had been answered; whatever I wanted to cook, at any time of day or night, was there at the click of the remote.  Guy Fieri took me to affordable diners, Giada tempted me with her laid back California cuisine, Barefoot Contessa reminded me to minimize my butter intake, and The Next Food Network Star was perfect family reality TV entertainment. Cooking is cool again.

Over the years I’ve tried endless TV chef’s recipes, and created a binder system to store favorite recipes.  I keep a healthy Pinterest account with recipes to try, and have even checked out a Meal Planning Template that helps to plan and purchase food for a week’s worth of recipes.  Currently, I keep a white board on the kitchen wall with menu options for the week, and the kids help me choose what to eat each night. Not super high tech, but it works.

Right now, I’ve got to get downstairs and get cooking.  Watching Paula Deen today made us crave watermelon and angel food cake…and Pioneer Woman’s Fancy Mac n Cheese!

What’s your favorite cooking show? How did you learn to cook?

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Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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Spending Time in the Snow: Making Memories On the Way to Mammoth

Posted on December 30, 2012 by

I spend huge amounts of time in the snow.  I mean HUGE.  More than normal people; well,  people who don’t actually LIVE in the snow.

Last weekend, my trip to the snow started like this: left work at lunch,  loaded the car, started up some Taylor Swift on the iPod, and drove off in the early afternoon.

Lily Starbucks

Everything started off really well.  Driving up the hill, leaving the valley fog behind, we were making progress.  Only five hours to Mammoth-no problem before dark.

We even had time to pull off the road and load up on caffeine – it was BOGO Christmas drinks, after all!

This is what a trip to the snow should look like, right?

 As we drove uphill, things went downhill.  Fast.

Momentarily switching on the radio, we heard the news about Newtown.  Tears.  Shock.  Horror.

Then it started to rain.  Not good.  The Prius is a lot of things, but it is definitely not a snow car.

We checked the weather channel app – if we hurried, we’d make it over the pass and into Nevada.  It would be smooth sailing after that.

IMG_3232Looks pretty, right?  It was.  Lily quickly  grabbed the camera while Taylor boomed through the speakers.  So cheery.  A white Christmas?

Not so fast.  Chains ahead.

Highway 50 isn’t called the ‘loneliest highway in the US’ for nothing.  There were NO services, so I had to suck it up and bundle up.  My daughter was watching.  There was no one else who could do it.

Don’t be fooled by the smile on my face.  It was all for the camera.  Inside, I was starting to panic.  Prius in the snow is not my favorite mode of travel.

IMG_3238My spirits were elevated when the CalTrans chain inspectors, amazed that I did it all by myself, fist-bumped me and sent me over the pass.  It was only 12 miles-we could do it.  It was  only 4:00, and with a three-hour drive in front of us, I wasn’t too worried.

Forgoing our usual shortcut, we opted for the pass over into the Nevada desert.  I ditched the chains – again, all by myself, and as snow turned to rain, I thought we were clear.

Damn Weather Channel app.

What looked clear actually became snow.  Lots and lots of snow.  But it was flat, and as we passed through Bridgeport behind schedule, I felt nervous but confident we could make it.

Compared to 50, Highway 395 is desolate.  Flat and decorated with gorgeous rock formations and rivers, I usually enjoy the drive.  But at this point it was getting dark, I was tired, and there was snow hovering way too close to the six-inch clearance of the Prius.

Suddenly, we saw it: the one and only traffic alert sign, pronouncing our need for chains.  Now.

And like a beacon in the night, the Big Sky Motel appeared, equipped with a large floodlight.  It was the only light on the road besides mine, so I quickly pulled into the parking lot and prepared myself.

Like a scene from Psycho, the motel door opened and a grizzled, shaggy man sauntered out in his sweatpants, with an equally scraggly dog following behind him.

“Want a room?  Only $69,” he croaked.  I smelled something – he must have been enjoying himself in the motel lobby.

Although I desperately wanted to say yes, I declined, but when he offered to help with the chains I jumped on it.

Ten minutes later, we were off.  Until the chains broke.  In the dark.

At this point, I felt like Wonder Woman.  Faster than she could spin into her costume, I jumped out and pulled those suckers off.  I was muddy, exhausted, and determined to make it before dawn.

We did.

This is the next morning, enjoying coffee in our favorite funky coffee joint, Stellar Brew.

                   IMG_3242

And this view…what a reward.

Mammoth morning

She didn’t even mind spending the afternoon in the motel room, studying for finals.

IMG_3254

IMG_3263

And despite the struggle, the frustrations, and the hours and hours of driving – not to mention the ski race that was canceled, we ended up with a white Christmas after all.  And a whole bunch of memories, too.


Mammoth Lakes on Dwellable

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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Christmas Tree Traditions: Another way kids rocked my world

Posted on December 5, 2012 by

I used to be a freaky mom.  Sixteen years ago, when I had my first child, I thought I could do it all.  Control it all.  Be the perfect parent.  I certainly had seen enough examples of what I considered ‘bad parenting’ – those kinds of adults who would make excuses for their kids, send them to school without their homework, and blame their teachers and the school for everything wrong in the world – plus some.

I waited to have a child.  I had a husband, had finished college, had a career I loved, and we even bought a house.  American dream, huh?  And then she came along and rocked my world.
She was a summer baby.  Sweet and tender and absolutely perfect.  She kicked and rolled furiously for the last five months of pregnancy-I should have known it would be a battle for dominance.  According to her father she was an angel; never cried, never fussed.  I believe otherwise.
After six months of bliss (no sleep, aching limbs from carrying her ‘just so’, and a complete refusal to eat according to my schedule), we entered the holiday season.  Our favorite time of year, really – we loved the traditions, the music, the crisp change in the air….and couldn’t wait to share it with our baby.
Enter the Christmas tree tradition.  With visions of how it is supposed to be, we strapped baby into a backpack and headed out.  The first problem arose when we realized that in central California, Christmas trees don’t grow the way the look in the movies.  Here, our 100+ degree summers produce scraggly, misshapen and downright ugly pine trees.  At least the ones we saw.
Humbled, muddy and on our last nerve, we loaded back into the car and headed for Target.  The price was right, and the Christmas carols over the speaker system did add a certain festive charm.  If Charlie Brown could do it, so could we.  It would look better with decorations, we decided.  30 minutes later we shoved the tree in the car and headed home.  Mission accomplished.
Year after year, we tried it all.  Not ready to give up on our Norman Rockwell vision, we lugged both babies (eventually #2 joined the quest), confident we would ultimately find the perfect tree and the perfect tradition for our family.  Each year, we managed to bring evergreen home, struggle with burned out lightbulbs, and smile with satisfaction as we gently and carefully placed each ornament of  our growing collection onto our tree.  We started ornament collections for each child and ourselves, adding specially chosen symbols of the previous year.
Somehow, we finally realized that Home Depot was our spot.  No mud to trek through, no saws to negotiate, no tromping around with crying babies, hungry toddlers, or frustrated parents.  My dreams of a traditional Christmas tree expedition had shifted just a bit.  Instead of hiking in the hills, we were tossing the Nerf ball in the parking lot, unwrapping tree after tree, spinning them around and tripping over ourselves to find the perfect  one.  We were laughing, smiling, posing for photos and breathing in the fresh pine scent.  We were just doing it on asphalt, not a mountain top.  We began worrying less and less about how it happened, and more and more about the hours we would spend together once we got it home.
I realized then that so much of parenting is not about hanging on, but letting go.  Step by step, we navigate the path together, no guidebook to tell us where to go or how long it will be before we get there.  We plan, we prepare, and we persist in creating the dreams we’ve held since we first became parents, but we do so gently, cautiously, and oh so carefully – for it’s not the exact replication of the mind’s picture of the ‘perfect’ moment, but the creation of the moment that means the most.  We might not do it the way other families do, but we do it the way our family does.
And so our tradition continues.  Each year we load up in the car, blast the Christmas music on the radio and merrily sing our way to the Christmas tree lot –this year, with my newly licensed driver behind the wheel.  We bundle up, pile out, and this year we agreed on the very first tree we set our eyes on.  My kids smiled.  They giggled.  We high-fived our speedy decision-making process, headed inside to pay, and loaded back up in record time.
An added bonus?  We bought lights, a gingerbread house kit and a tree, finishing in an hour-all the more time to spend together at home, where Christmas traditions really matter the most.

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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