Family Reunion

I've worked at the birth center for about a year and a half now, and although most women are thrilled with their birth experience, nearly every woman I've met immediately after delivery swears she is never going to do that again. And then, of course, she is back a year or two later again in the throws of labor. Post-delivery, there are two pieces of Jill-trivia that I like to tell women at the center: 1) My husband weighed 12 (yes, twelve) pounds when he was born, and 2) My maternal grandmother is one of 16 (yes, sixteen) children, all single births. This makes my great-grandmother some sort of fertility-goddess made flesh. No wonder I grew up to be a midwife. Birth was in my blood.

Although my immediate family is pretty small, as an adult I'm touched by the unique experience of growing up with such a large extended family. There are literally hundreds of us on this earth because of the union of John and Jennie Hall at the turn of the century, and I have many cousins I've yet to meet. Every summer, for as long as I can remember, the Sixteen (or what's left of them) meet for a week at a WV state park, their children and grandchildren (and sometimes great-grandchildren) in tow.

My memories of childhood are punctuated with weeks spent at "Camp": my flamboyant aunts and uncles playing practical jokes on each other and the kids; white-elephant sales; dimly-lit late night treks through the forest, "haunted" by my older cousins; square dancing with my uncle Louie - a champion caller who taught me to Texas Two-Step to "Amarillo by Morning". I have memories of my Aunt Oleta and her daughter Naomi, both bosomy women who would miraculously pull two or three metallic tubes of lipstick out of their ample brassieres, my uncle Blaine and his foul-talking parrot Zeke, and most of all - hours and hours of my great-aunts lounging in chairs under shade trees, shelling pole-beans, laughing until one of them had to get up to pee.

Oh, and the food. The food. What an singular pleasure it was to spend a week with my relatives, briefly pulled together from the four corners of the world, and share the foods that linked us all as a family. My grandmother, an unrivaled home-cook, makes hot rolls worth fighting over. My Aunt Norma owned a Dairy Bar (like a Dairy Queen) and would bring her chili con carne, Aunt Dee (from NY - she married in) made 6" high cheesecakes, and Aunt Jessie, who married Italian Louie, simmered vat upon vat on spaghetti sauce. We pot-lucked al fresco, sometimes nearly 200 of us, and as a child it seemed as if the banquet tables went on forever.

My favorite Camp tradition was watching my aunts and uncles make huge kettles of applebutter. It was a colonial scene: a copper pot large enough to boil a small child, a wood fire, and a large paddle to stir the mellow, spicy mixture. In the hot June days, a group would form around the kettle, everyone taking turns with the paddle. A batch took all day to create. The applebutter was poured into Ball jars, sealed, and then distributed to the family.

I haven't been to camp in a long time...the tradition carries on, even though many of my dear aunts and uncles have passed away and the cousins I looked forward to seeing all year are grown with families of their own. Three weeks ago my grandparents came to visit and brought me a jar of 'Camp' applebutter. Eating it is a little like a sacred ritual for me. I can taste in it the summers in the woods, the laughter of my aunts, the soul of my family. I love to share it with Andrew, knowing that with every bite, he's more a part of the generations before him.

So, here's to the 16: Lela, Lola, Oleta, Mary, Margaret, Leslie, Ivan, Blaine, John, Norma, Jessie, Virginia, Kathleen, Charles, William, and Helen.

101 Degrees of Procrastination

I am useless. Just take me out back and shoot me.

Every bit of mojo I've had to do even the slightest thing is gone, partly because of the oppressive heat, and partly because I've spent a lot of time at the birth center lately and am just knackered. The birth center work is intense, but I challenge you to find a more delicious sensation than nuzzling the hair of a 30-minute-old baby. I just melt into one big puddle on the floor.

I've been wanting to post a pic of the pillowcases that I made for my niece's birthday. I've had them done for a while, but since she just had her birthday I didn't want to ruin the surprise. This is an old Vogart pattern and it was just about the cutest thing. I don't know if you can tell or not, but I downloaded the font from DaFont and it looks like rope. I tied the package up with a little birthday cake I had crocheted...I think she really liked it.

So let me tell you - if you thought I was bragging about the depression glass, you ain't heard nothin' yet. Pete and I will be celebrating our 5-yr anniversary on Friday and so on Monday evening he comes up to me all serious and says that since we've been married for 5 yrs, he has a treat planned for me every day for the 5 days leading up to the 17th. Kind of like the 12 days of Christmas. Except that my true love gave to me one fabulous book (Monday) and two beautiful earring with wood inlays (Tuesday). Oh - and he gives me a little clue earlier in the day to get me thinking. What a man. I told him that I thought this was a wonderful tradition because by the time we're married for 50 years, it will be solid treats for almost 2 months.

And they said we wouldn't make it....

The Queasy Need not Read

Stephanie, one of my dearest girlfriends, one of The Most Succulent Women of All Time, Living or Dead, came to visit on Thursday with her family. I was at her son's birth almost 4 years ago and have not seen him or his lovely mama (or papa or little sis) in 2 whole years. The thought of it brings a tear to my eye.

Alex, age 4 (almost)

Ruby, age 2

Stephanie's birthday was on Wednesday and I promised to continue the celebration onto the next day, as all birthday celebrations should rightly proceed. I decided to make her Nigella's chocolate cheesecake, a treat befitting the Queen of Succulence. Unfortunately, I didn't have a chance to make it to any good grocery stores around here so after dinner I headed off to our local place, the Food Lion. Or, as it's known in this house, the Hood Lion. We actually live in a pretty nice neighborhood, but this grocery store is pretty rough. Pete and I joke about it. Por ejemplo:

• If your checker-outer is named Destynie and her fingernail length prevents her from ringing up your items correctly, you might be in the Hood Lion.

• If the person in front of you has 4 children and has placed on the belt 12 2-liter bottles of grape soda and an extra-large bag of generic Cheetos, you might be in the Hood Lion.

• If the guy behind you starts to cuss a blue streak because he left his wallet in his pick-up and can't purchase a case of Milwaukee's Best Beer, you might again be in the Hood Lion.

Not very sweet of me, eh? But I digress. When Stephanie and her delicious family showed up at my door I had to choke back tears and I thought my heart would burst. A few times in my life I have had the experience of not seeing a beloved in a long time, and then once I see their face in person it's like a familiar shock of recognition - like they're just so completely vivid and vibrant and there.


Even though I am a nurse-midwife, anyone who knows me will tell you that I defy some midwife-stereotypes. I, for example, am only crunchy-granola on the inside. I don't smell of patchouli, wear Birkenstocks, or smoke pot. Stephanie is intimately connected with all-things childbirth (a childbirth educator, doula, lactation counselor, infant massage therapist, birthed her second at home) yet is even less crunchy than I am. She lives in Boca Raton, for goodness sake! I had to teach her how to bargain shop! This girl is full of contradictions. So when she parked the car, hugged me and Andrew and then thrust a small cooler in my hands, I could only assume what was inside. Her placenta from her last birth. Frozen. She's in the process of moving from OH back to FL and was transporting it. The cooler looked very official - like there might as well be a beating heart or some corneas in it.

I am loathe to tell you, less you think I am a complete freak, that I too have my placenta stashed in my deep freeze. Not to ingest or anything, just to maybe plant a tree over (although the threat of it does come in handy when Pete complains there's nothing to eat). I knew that I could not let Steph's visit pass without documenting the crunchy just oozing out from us. So here it is, the birth-junkies and their frozen placentas. (they're in bags - don't worry!)


The visit was far, far too short, but my home has such lovely residual energy from her family's visit. Miss you, miss you, miss you, girl.