Aileen Jeffries

My aunt Holly gave me a gift certificate to a garden store but I’ve run out of room for plants until I manage to kill a few so I got a garden Buddha. My purchase decision was based on a design problem, not a desire for spiritual enlightenment. There was a spot in the garden - a pathway to nowhere - that needed a focal point.

Kes wasn’t enthused by my new find. He implied it might fall victim to an unfortunate sledgehammer accident. He posed a corollary, “What if you came home to a giant Jesus statue in the front yard?” I would gripe, he would explain he got it with a gift certificate, I would be forced by his unassailable logic to relent and welcome stone Jesus.

There’s something a little odd about owning a statue of the Enlightened One from a faith to which I do not adhere. Not counting Lisa Simpson (and there are good reasons not to count her; I don’t know her personally, also, a cartoon) I don’t  actually know any Buddhists. Buddhism appeals to me over other religions because I don’t often hear of Buddhists blowing themselves up in order to kill as many members of a competing religion as possible. The little sculpture exudes serenity and complacency. I could swear the corn is growing faster in its presence.

There are plenty of reasons I’ve chosen to live on the West Coast over the East (living in the flyover hinterlands is a non-starter). The summers are much better, truly wild places still exist out here and there’s an optimistic, inventive spirit in our populace that makes up for the meth problem and sky-high unemployment rate.

But, one thing the East Coast has on the West is historic architecture. In Portland’s Old Town, the buildings boast their age - 1869, 1886, etc. And for Portland, that’s old.  But in cities on the East Coast, there are houses that were built over a century before that. There’s a confidence of place that comes with age, a sense that the neighborhood has settled into a character that will remain unchanged in the decades to come.

In 2007, Kes and I visited Washington, D.C. over Labor Day weekend. We spent several hours roaming around Georgetown, between eating breakfast at a crêperie and escaping the afternoon heat with gin & tonics in an excessively air-conditioned bar.

As we walked about Georgetown, we noticed a pattern in the door knockers. Most were heavy, elaborate affairs, no doubt forged in a time when there were still blacksmiths. The ones that really caught our attention were foxes. We speculated they marked the inhabitants as members of a secret society, the kind of society that determines which countries we’ll be invading in ten to twenty years. We brought up the fox door knockers with our bartender and he dismissed them as showy affectations of the newly rich. Which is exactly the sort of thing you’d say if you didn’t want outsiders sniffing around your secret societies.

Since that trip, I’ve traversed the Internet looking for a fox knocker for our own door. I even inquired at Chown, a local hardware purveyor catering to wealthy mechanism fetishists. My search was fruitless for the first year. Undaunted, I kept checking back, secure in the knowledge that the Internet Provides All to the patient, finally finding the perfect fox knocker this May. The misspelling of “Manufacturers” in the Web site’s banner is distressing - nothing says “we’ll sell your credit card info to the highest bidder” quite like blatant typos. But, I took the chance and a short week later, my fox knocker arrived.

We installed it over the weekend, a feat that was complicated by the “hand crafted” nature of the knocker (read: nothing about it lines up and the bolts are, suspiciously, metric). Kea loves banging it. Our nanny thinks it is a little on the threatening, scary side. I’m just waiting for the emissary from the West Coast cell of the Società delle Volpi to come a’knocking.

Doors of Georgetown
Knockers & Handles

In my quest to become a Gardener, I have a few things going for me. I’m naturally messy. I have no problem with dirt or worms or compost smells. I like to eat, a whole lot, especially fresh produce that grows just a few feet from our door. I’m a designer by profession and training. I recognize the importance of framing views; of considering the foreground, the middle, and the distance in compositions. And I have friends - landscape designer friends - who know the difference between a hosta and a huchera, a hebe and a hellebore.

Of course, I also have a few deficiencies working against me. I’m impatient. I know that one day the deciduous magnolia will arch its sturdy branches over the entire back garden, with a crest of voluptuous pink petals presiding over April. But right now, it is only about 4 feet high. Grow. Faster.

I’m also limited for time. Someday soon, I will be able to put Kea’s small, nimble fingers to work pulling weeds and thinning carrots. For now, her gardening skills are limited to plucking the flowers off my euphorbia one by one and arranging these spoils in a dainty bench pile. So I hurry home from work, hoping to catch a half hour to water the garden before Kea awakens from her happy hour nap.

Gardening inspires the most hackneyed sort of pop philosophy so I’ll avoid opining on the inner peace that comes with tending my little patch of land. Instead, photos!

When we moved in, our backyard was a steeply sloped showcase for weeds and bits of refuse that don’t biodegrade. To make matters worse, it abuts the grounds of the Hopewell House Hospice which are at all times beautifully landscaped. So, our yard was even shabbier by comparison. We finally tackled this problem this spring. The retaining wall and deck from our remodeling project provided a nice canvas. We brought in good dirt, gravel and some pretty but surprisingly heavy “Pennsylvania Lavender Bluestone” flagstones. Kes wheelbarrowed most of them around the house, and we teamed up on the largest to roll them back, much like our cave-dwelling distant ancestors would have done before the invention of slavery.

I was arranging the flagstones into a pleasant seating area when I crushed my right index finger between two mammoth slabs. It promptly swelled up and turned an angry aubergine hue I don’t typically associate with living tissue.

That was the first assault on my right hand, the second coming a few days later in the form of a most-likely-not-rabid stray cat. We’ve named her Macy and she’s the mom of both of our cats. We feed her but could hardly call her our own. Bit by bit, Kes gained her trust and lured her into our house. Our plan was to take her into the vet and relieve her of the reproductive system she’s used so extensively up to this point. That meant catching her and stuffing her in a cat carrier. I should say in my defense that Macy is a shy, petite kitty - meek even. She was doing her best to make herself as small as possible, curled up near the printer in Kes’s office. I had the thought that I could just swiftly grab her and slide her little body into the carrier which in retrospect was one of the dumber ideas I’ve had. There were so many limbs, not a one of them actually going into the door of the carrier. I had to let go when she turned her sweet, small face toward me and delivered a powerful bite to my right hand.

Consulting the Internet as I do on all matters health-related, I discovered that cat bites almost invariably lead to rabies or death by bacterial infection. Best case scenario: amputation. Nervous, I headed into urgent care. The Internet turned out to be half right; almost all cat bites become infected due to the teeming village of evil bacteria that live in any cat’s mouth. But, getting rabies is actually quite rare. Especially since she had been hanging around our house for weeks looking perfectly healthy, there was little concern. So, one course of broad-spectrum antibiotics later and I’m good as new.

I am by no means a model parent. I lack patience. I refuse to wear mom jeans, I swear profusely and I exposed my baby to the music of 50 Cent while she was still in the womb.

However, I have learned a thing or two in the last ten months. Mostly, that modern technology is a perfectly acceptable alternative to hard or unpleasant work.

Without further introduction, my Top Five Mother’s Little Helpers.

The Diaper Genie II

To the uninitiated, a Diaper Genie is a bin for soiled diapers. The killer feature is (and I apologize for the choice of words here) a sphincter, through which the diaper is pushed. The sphincter snaps shut, sealing in the odor. I suppose the scat of all omnivores offends the nose but the smell of baby poop is especially appalling because it emanates from a being so lovable and innocent. How could someone so angelic unleash such great evil? I salute you, oh Diaper Genie, tamer of the fetid.

Video Monitor

We started off with the camera attached to the railing of the crib. Then Kea started pulling herself up, plucking the camera off its hook and munching on it as a pre-nap snack. This would all be very amusing to watch but the monitor system was expensive and certainly not saliva-proof so I moved the camera up, way up, above the window. It now looks over the crib, panoptic and inaccessible. Rightly so, Kea stares up at the steady green light as though it were a god.

Clothing with Ears

Every hood is an opportunity for ears. Rounded, bear-like ears. Kea is at least twice as fetching when she’s all bundled up in her fuzzy pink bear suit. What’s that you say? Annoyed I haven’t managed to select a pastry in the five minutes I’ve been waiting in line directly in front of the pastry case? But look, ears! On my baby! Impossibly cute.

Head Rest Mirror

Being under one year of age, Kea’s car seat faces backwards so I can’t check her expression in the rear-view mirror. Is she sleeping or restless? Spitting up? Contracting malaria? Molting??? These concerns are distracting. But now, thanks to a flimsy and marginally reflective disc of safety plastic affixed to the head rest in front of her car seat, I can now catch a reassuring glimpse of her chubby visage and go back to the business of driving. Peace of mind for less than $20.

Disposable Diapers

I consider myself a friend to Mother Nature. And we tried, valiantly. A few weeks into the parenting adventure, we picked up a set of G Diapers - reusable diaper covers with flushable, biodegradable inserts. There was leakage. When I tried to flush the insert there was - and I shudder involuntarily at this memory - splash back.

Now it’s all disposables, all the time. They do not leak, they wick. They’re light-weight and self-adhesive. The used ones wrap up into neat little packages of doom.

I was raised by wolves in the forest (this is true except for the wolf part). My mother had no monitor, no disposable diapers, not even a washing machine. I am in awe. Of course, she once almost allowed an eagle to eat me as I dozed under a tree, so perhaps I should not be too impressed.

In no particular order and for no particular reason, ten places I’ve never been but would like to visit:

1. Iceland
2. Argentina
3. Tanzania and Zanzibar
4. The Amazon River
5. Australia (rather vague, I realize)
6. Beirut
7. Fairbanks, Alaska
8. Cambodia
9. The Maritime Provinces
10. Edinburgh

The sort of person I want to be decorates seasonally. When Kes pointed out my bowl of antique glass hearts was two weeks past being appropriate for Valentine’s Day, I realized it was time for the Early Spring table.

Pots from Ikea, some wheat grass from the local hardware/garden store, black and white pebbles and a bamboo runner.

Personality tests and “strength” assessments have revealed that in addition to being highly judgmental, I’m an Achiever which means, basically, that I must complete a certain number of tasks each day or I’ll become unpleasant. Motherhood has complicated this tendency. I start each day with a mental list of objectives and by 11:00pm or so, when I’m exhausted and useless and Kea is catching her second wind (yes, being outlasted nightly by an infant does put a bit of a strain on my self-esteem) I’ll find that I’ve accomplished perhaps 40% to 70% of the items on my list.

I try to be graceful in my failures. I rationalize; time spent with Kea is hardly time wasted - I’m expanding her mind and teaching her how to be a human being. More honestly, I spend much of the day determining what, exactly, she’s chewing on and which contaminants might be leaching into her system at any given moment.

I’ve learned to cope by tackling projects that can be segmented into nap-length intervals. I’ll compromise and take short cuts - if my shoes are peep-toe, only the visible toenails get painted. Projects that rightfully should consume a day or at most a weekend now stretch on for weeks. The wallpapering of the closet doors in the guest bedroom is a perfect example. I’ll admit I have experimented with wallpaper before (Once! In college! There was so much pressure to try new things!) but this is the first time I’ve attempting wallpapering in a house I own and care about. Wallpaper is the really perfect hobby for me - it combines the borderline neurotic attention to detail I apply to present wrapping with the hobby knife/metal ruler skills I developed while learning how to architecture at Clemson. These skills turned out to be mostly useless in my post-graduate life so I’m happy to have an outlet.

As part of the old house, the guest bedroom is poorly insulated so we keep the door shut. Occasionally, I’ll step in, reveling in the quiet and the chill and the scarcity of toys strewn about. Everything matches but not overly so. It started with an antique iron bed frame and expanded to brocade linens and botanical prints. The perfect black, distressed dresser gleaned from Craigslist. The mercury glass candlesticks and baroque mirror. It smells like beeswax candles and lemongrass and clementine. When actual guests stay with us, I feel a tiny bit violated - it is my room.

Slowly I’m perfecting my oasis. One of the last remaining eyesores were the closet doors. Sad, common things with all the personality of a suburban strip mall. It took me four weeks, working here and there and now my doors are complete!

I have a friend who likes to go on 12-mile hikes on Mt. Hood in the middle of winter. He summits such colorfully-named locales as Misery Ridge, Starvation Creek and Resort-to-Cannibalism Cliff. He recounts with glee sinking thigh-high into the snow with each arduous step.

To me, this sounds like insanity. Not how I’d like to spend my weekends. But we all must have our masochistic fun, and mine comes in the form of Plane Travel With Small Child.

Over the weekend, Kea and I flew down to Nashville to surprise a friend from my Clemson days at her baby shower. The trip was a big success - my friend was duly floored by my appearance and Kea was her usual charming self for most of the weekend.

The flight home wasn’t ideal, however. Apparently, freezing temperatures came as a surprise to Frontier Airlines. In January. In Denver. So, our last flight from Denver to Portland was delayed by 1.5 hours. All seats were occupied, the overhead bins and underseat storage overflowing with the belongings of passengers trying to avoid the $15 fee for checked luggage. Being a budget airline, even nuts and berries were exorbitantly expensive, adding hunger to the list of scourges afflicting my fellow travelers. Kea, who seemed to intuitively understand that commercial aircraft are powered by the screams and tears of babies, did her best to get us home as quickly as possible. She cried, she squirmed, she refused to be pacified. No number of Kix could quiet her. At times, she would close her eyes, raising my hopes that she might pass out (at midnight, this did not seem like an unreasonable wish) only to rise again with renewed vigor and vitriol. College students glared at me, parents cast me sympathetic glances. Three hours crept by at the pace of an elderly snail.

But in the end, of course we made it home. In the morning, Kea arose with her usual sunny smile as if to say, what plane ride, Mom?

Babies Birthed: One

When 2008 arrived, I was busy growing a baby. She went easy on me, both for the nine months I hosted her and the one exciting day in late May when she came into this world. Three hours of I’ve-had-Pilates-hangovers-that-felt-worse pre-epidural contractions, half an hour of actual pushing. Like I was made to have babies or something. Seven pounds, 15oz, with a head circumference and length both in the 95th percentile. Now at seven months, Kea is refining her crawling skills, eating anything she can get her chubby mitts on and, in my entirely biased opinion, cuter than a baby red panda hugging an otter pup. Traffic accident causing cute. Ovary-ripening cute. High school boys comment on how cute she is.

Change in Number of Cats: Zero

Nordstrom, like James Dean, died too young. Just in his second summer, he fell victim to a marauding cabal of coyotes. He is survived by his brother, Saks. Not long after the Departing, we discovered a litter of kittens in a neighbor’s back yard. One of them came to the live with us. He is clearly related to Saks; either his half-brother or nephew or possibly both (the strays in our neighborhood aren’t choosy about their bedfellows). A fluffier, smaller, less symmetrical Saks. We have named him Nieman.

Number of black BMWs in our driveway: soon to be Three

This seems like a bit of a ridiculous number, doesn’t it? So far, Kes has managed to remain faithful and true to me in our three-year marriage. The same could not be said for his cars. There is always a shinier, newer, more powerful model out there. Big Love, Bavarian style. It’s the Hoffmeister kinks. Who could resist? Not Kes, apparently. We went to Munich in October for European delivery on a 135i. At this moment, it’s on its way to Portland from the port in L.A. Assuming the delivery truck can make it through snowy Grants Pass, Third Wife will be here by Christmas.

Significant construction projects: 1.7

You know what’s more fun than being nine months pregnant in a heat wave? Living in a construction site. All worth it though - our backward (literally) and exceedingly drafty little 1890’s farm house was transformed into a larger, well insulated, 4 bedroom home. Favorite parts: the dining room with the mango wood table that’s big enough to seat ten. The new gas stove. The architecturally incongruous Moorish arch that picks up a detail in the hearth tile. The moonlight that spills through Kea’s windows into her crib. No longer having to wear down parkas indoors or seeing my breath as I cook breakfast.

So, where does the .7 come from? It is a long story, but my mom is building a cabin on Mt. Hood on land inherited from her brother. We’re calling it Hank’s Ranch. Winter set it hard last week, effectively ending the construction season before they could finish it up.

Holidays hosted: 3

Thanksgiving for 34, Christmas morning just for 8, New Years Eve for anyone who has nothing better to do and subscribes to the theory that New Years is for amateurs and that it is best to lower expectations as much as possible and avoid public gatherings. Also, must have a fondness for cheap champagne.

Maximum body weight: 178 lbs.

Toward the end of my pregnancy, a morbid desire crept into my mind to see how big I could get. Turns out, about the heft of a large Great Dane. I think this is impressive for someone who used to eat pints of Ben and Jerrys in the winter in an attempt to gain enough weight to avoid hypothermia.