Cuppa Jo is MOVING!

The Cuppa Jo will be moving to www.thecuppajo.wordpress.com by January 1.

In fact, I'm there now, but still living in two homes. Any NEW posts will be there. All archived content has been transferred. I've yet to move my domain name. So use the address above for the next 12 days.

And I did it all by myself.

Shhh.

This kind of stuff is challenging for me.

I still have to tweak a few things, so give me some time to play around and redecorate.

Looking forward to seeing what all the fuss is about over at Wordpress . . . especially considering that for the past week I've been unable to edit any content here at Blogger, and have thus LOST two posts. I took that as the kick in the pants that I needed to finish a 2011 goal:

Move to Wordpress.

Done.

See you there! Come on over. Bring an appetizer!

(So, as of this posting, the editing feature here at Blogger seems to be working again. Sadly, it was too late - after being unable to edit two posts, which then ended up disappearing altogether, I'd had it. Had it, as in, time to teach myself something new today: Wordpress.)

Old Home Week

(Sigh)

That is all I heard from Harper upon driving away from her former elementary school during a weekend trip to Evanston.  A glance in the rear view mirror revealed Harper fighting to keep the tears from exploding.

"How do you feel?"

"I miss my friends."

We had just experienced the most beautiful, "could only have been orchestrated and crafted by God" moment at Lincolnwood school where we had made an appointment to spend some quality time with the BEST first grade teacher ever in the history all of first grade teachers in the world.  No, this is not hyperbole.  Please.  Until you get yourself some Ms. Beckstedt, you have NO IDEA of the truth I speak.

After chatting away with Ms. B, we stepped outside and received a gracious gift from above.  ALL of Harper's old buddies were on the playground.

Ok, if the statement about Ms. Beckstedt was hyperbole, THIS isn't.

Amidst screams of "HARPER!!!!!" and "You're back!!!!!" were hugs and laughter. Harper held court  for 45 glorious minutes.

We took ample photos.  I witnessed many sprints across the playground as Harper spotted and ran to hug one friend after another.

My heart was full.  And heavy.  For I knew we'd have to leave shortly.

As we drove off, the car became silent.

Thankfully, we were on route to Izzy's house (a stellar piece of planning on my part).  Izzy and Harper are approaching 10 years of friendship. Yes, those friends at school who lavished so much love on my girl are special and unique and will always hold a place in Harper's heart and memory, but how do you describe the beauty of HISTORY to a 9 year old?  For this gig with Izzy?  It's the real long-term deal.

I felt the same sentiments upon visiting our old condo building late one night during our trip (thank you Bernstein's for the midnight playdate).  For this was where our family began.  This was where Harper and her friend Alli (only three weeks apart) grew both in and out of the womb. Running up those stairs to visit with Alli and her parents was completely like "old home" week.  HISTORY.

How do you explain to a 9 year old, who as my friend Judie put it, "lives for each moment", that the lasting friendships, those that matter, will always be there? The Izzy's.  The Alli's.  Couple that with the fact that George and I actually have a relationship with both girl's parents spanning back 10 years, and, well seriously?  These peeps are solids.

Unfortunately, I think it took me 40 years to "get" friendship.  And as I chatted with girlfriend after girlfriend during our visit, I was warmed inside.  No, we don't live in Evanston any longer, but not once did my conversations with old friends seem choppy, uncomfortable, or stilted.   I came home to Beaver knowing that my friendships, the HISTORICAL ones still had depth.  What are miles?

I made a commitment to Harper to let her email friends once a day AFTER all other homework and chores have been completed.  I also challenged her to use the phone more often (she can't stand it).  I must remain committed to assisting her in keeping these friendship alive - just as I have worked so very hard to do for myself.  For me, Facebook, texting, this blog - they are connections to the people I love.

As we pulled into Beaver, I wondered what type of reaction Harper would have.

"We're home!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

No tears.

It was a defining moment.  For I now know, without a doubt, that she feels planted here.  And while there are roots in Evanston that will forever connect her to Chicagoland, she does indeed feel at home.

Here.

And Through Door Number Two?

As I continue the process of unpacking bit by bit everyday, I realize that I've not shared that my attic office has a twin.

Attic #2.

Or. The catch-all space.

Our home was built in 1909, so we have closets from, well, 1909. They are not large. They are the complete opposite of a walk-in. One closet, in our guest room, is not even deep enough for one to hang shirts. It was 1909 - a time of wardrobes and huge dressers.

We have no dressers.

We do have Ikea wardrobes. We're soooo 1900's. In a Swedish kind of way.

Due to storage limitations in our closets we have chosen to keep our wardrobe boxes from the move to house all our winter clothing in Attic #2. We'll upgrade from corrugated cardboard hanging boxes to sturdier hanging wardrobes at some point, in order to provide better protection for our clothing, but for the time being this arrangement will work.

Attic #2 is also the lucky home for banker boxes filled with files, art boxes containing years of Harper and Zane's work, boxes filled with stuff from my theater days, boxes from college, luggage, what we like to call "keep for memory" boxes, etc.

We also have a coal storage room in the basement, which we aren't using for coal. That room also has stuff. Lots of stuff.

Stuff we don't need on a daily basis. And perhaps will never need. Stuff that just stresses me out.

Makes me wonder if I would have noticed had these items gotten damaged or lost during the move. It's funny to see what I've chosen to keep on the main living areas of the house and what items haven't made the cut and thus remain in boxes in their new home in Attic #2 and the basement. It's that stuff in particular that is driving me crazy.

It's incredible how stressful our "stuff" can be. We've always been purgers. If we haven't used it or needed it during the year, we give it away. I filled an entire box of clothes this week alone to take to our local thrift store - and that's AFTER filling a few bags and boxes before we even left Evanston.

I can't wait to get my hands on Attic #2, organizing it into sections for each member of the family, purging items that are just completely unnecessary and creating a space to hold items that rotate in and out throughout the year.

Of course I need to wait on this project until I, Mom, am completely unpacked, which I'm not. I also have a home office set up, a laundry room to rearrange, and the family room/toy area to get up and running.

Then, and only then, will I tackle door number two.

I hate knowing that it's there. Untidy. In disarray. So right now I choose to close the door and ignore its presence. Give it a good dose of denial.

Hmm. I think I just stumbled opon a metaphor which carries weighty spiritual significance. Care to comment on that?

A Room at the Top

I may not have the funky beads, or the sink, but I, like Greg Brady, now have an attic room.

Why the reference?

It was the day after the movers unloaded all of our boxes that I began to feel a surge of Brady.

Having come from loading our Evanston split-level home, Tony, the lead guy on our move was a real trouper as he and his partner now unloaded boxes on 4 levels of our 1909 structure. (I promise that photos are forthcoming. )

I figured that they had the hard job. The hot job. The exhausting job of hauling in my life and leaving it in piles from the basement to the attic. So I supplied them with a good lunch, plenty of Gatorade, and a hefty tip.

Then came my turn.

Remember how Marcia, in an attempt to get Greg to relinquish the attic bedroom by fatiguing him, set up a Brady scheme of having him phoned several times one evening so that he would have to descend two flights of stairs over and over just to reach the telephone - which of course had no one on the line when he arrived in the living room, at which time he would climb back up the two flights to his funky '70's attic space? (Sure, it speaks to the mystery as to why the Brady's didn't have a phone upstairs, but rather one in the living room and one in the tiny family room off the back of the house, but that is so not my point).

Ok, Greg had nothing on me, for I also have a basement.

Back to the day following the unload. I must have climbed to the attic and back down to the main level of the house at least 2,374 times. That number may be a little off. Plus, there were a few trips all the way down to the basement. Now, life won't always be this way, as currently I'm in the process of having to unpack and decide where my belongings will land, which means a ton of stair climbing, but sheesh, Greg! Seriously, dude, I have so many more stairs to climb than you ever did in that house that only had two bathrooms for the 8 of you (well, maybe three, as I think Alice had one).

But I do get how important that attic room was to you.

For here I sit, a gentle nightly breeze coming through the window, writing in my own space. A space full of boxes yet to be unpacked, but a room for which I have prayed.

My latest idea for the space along with it being my writing area, and Mary Kay office?

To take one wall (as I have several nooks and crannies) and fill it with photos of my friends. A visual prayer wall, if you will. That way, I can see all of you as I pray for you.

It was an exciting but exhausting day here which included a city-wide Orienteering activity, sponsored by the library, during which Harper and I literally ran the town with a map in hand looking for the locations listed, hitting a yard sale, more appliance purchases (we were left with some duds), a trip to Aldi, and arranging the living room and dining room. So, after all this, I escape. Here.

Just as I'm sure Greg did before The Brady Bunch "jumped the shark" and added cousin Oliver to the show - a feeble attempt to save a sinking ship once Greg and Mr. Brady jumped overboard. I'm sure you can read all about this in some Brady expose.

First Sunday at our new church tomorrow . . . I'm thinking there won't be any Brady references.