img_2389-xangaIt interests me, that all through our lives–if we seek to think about others more than ourselves–we will give and adapt and adjust in order to sustain and cultivate relationships.

Parenting demands more of this than any other, perhaps.  I suppose it depends upon our personality, as to what amount of “giving in” we need to do in our marriage, our parenting, and with friends.

And of course there’s a fine line between doing what is needed, and doing too much.

And some of it is not “giving in” at all, but just plain pride in what our loved one has accomplished!

In keeping with my tradition of supplying scotch tape to my toddler, bread twist-ties to my preschooler, and countertop space to my semi-adult son, this weekend I changed the decor of my kitchen.  It will be so for a while, anyway.





My Older Son has been taking a ceramics class in college this semester.  Given his serious passion with antiquity, he has produced all his pottery in the Anglo-Saxon style.


This too shall pass?

He has signed up for Advanced Ceramics next semester.



Our kitchen has turned into a brewery.  Yes, that’s right!  I’ve lost my countertop space for I-don’t-know-how-long.  When my oldest son was small, I used to say that when he became famous he would credit his mother for all the scotch tape she bought for him…then it was for all the twist-ties she gathered for him (even raiding her friend’s hoard)…now it will be (or should be) for all the house-space she gave him.  There’s a basement & garage filled with medieval weaponry, and now a kitchen full of medieval brew.

He has been making MEAD.  The house fills with the smell of yeast for a few days, and the brew bubbles and churns.  Then there’s a period of slowing down, and quiet contemplation until it is bottling time.

I believe this kind has pumpkin in it.

This is elderberry wine, resting amongst the bagpipes in his bedroom.

The finished mead product:  Ancient Orange


I haven’t written in my blog for so long, because I feel I don’t have anything profound to say.  But I enjoy reading about what other people are doing, so maybe I should take the plunge and see if others are interested in what happens here?

I had warriors sleeping in my house this weekend.

One of them even snored like a warrior, if I should guess what a warrior sounds like when he sleeps.

Two years ago, my older son started a local branch of dagorhir, which is a medieval fighting re-enactment group.  A cross between Tolkien’s Middle Earth and the Dark Ages, they say.

Each person gives themselves a name, and they can also take on a persona if they like, ranging from an Anglo-Saxon to an elf from Tolkien.

Rules require medieval-style clothing, but do not have to be completely authentic like they are in the Society of Creative Anachronism.  Some of them are very very nice.

My older son, in more casual Anglo-Saxon garb

This group is about fighting, and the rules are very exacting as to how weapons should be made.  Generally, they consist of foam built around pvc pipe, which creates a “safe” device for whacking people.

Each weapon is checked for safety at the start of the event

My son’s group (he calls himself Alric) hosted a battle this weekend, with 60 in attendance.  Two fellows who stayed at our house were Magnus (a Latin teacher at a prep school in Philadelphia) and Glom (a clerk at a Halloween store in Phildadelphia), who drove 6 hours to get here.  You couldn’t find greater opposites.

Here is Magnus, who is apparently dead for a moment.

We also hosted Seraphim; she is a college student from Toledo, OH.

When I stopped by the battle in the evening, to supply ice water and supper food, they cheered for me.  But I felt awkward in my mom/modern/summer clothing.  Perhaps I should make myself a tunic for the times of tending the camp?  I also really need a name when I introduce myself.  Since I’m known as ALRIC’S MOM, I am thinking of calling myself MADRA.   Any other motherly nominatives you can think of?

The Write-Away Contest hosted by Scribbit


Today after church, I slipped onto something more comfortable:  the living room couch, with a pile of blankets.

I have been doing this for a long time.  I had been raised to know that the only reason for being in bed in the daytime would be because you’re sick.  Besides, I would miss all the action (so-to-speak) if I were in another room.  So the living room couch is the place to be when taking a Sunday nap.

Lately, though, I’ve had competition.  My Older Son (who is a college commuter) has seen the appeal of the Sunday couch too, and there isn’t room for us both.

One Sunday, he grabbed it first and I had to make do with sitting up at the end of the couch and trying to sleep, which didn’t work all that well (not for me, anyway).

The next week, I leaped on at the same time and we wrangled each other from opposite ends-I kind of came out the loser on that one too, ending up with one leg on the couch and the other on a footstool.

It wistfully made me remember when he was so small and we slept on the couch snuggled together with his little face so close to my heart.  I wanted to gather him to me again, and breathe the same breath.

A large foot in the face is better than nothing.