I don’t recall how old I was, elementary school, but in the later years of it, 3rd, maybe 4th grade. I also don’t recall if it was his birthday or father’s day, the two aren’t so far from each other on the calendar. I always liked doing “dad” things with my pop. I was the tomboy between my sister and I. She always had her nose in a book, he and I played catch. I never had much of an arm, but I learned to keep my eye on the ball and found a deep satisfaction in the leather thud of ball falling squarely into mitt, my small hands quickly grasping to keep it from popping out again. When he would be working on some carpentry project for his restaurant, my sister and I would sit in the sawdust and glue and nail little scraps of wood together, positive we were building masterpieces.
I guess I probably got the idea from Hollywood, or maybe it was after one of his too-early attempts at teaching me to sail, the two of us on a small craft in the middle of Lake Merritt, me only able to concentrate for 5 minutes at a time, but I decided that a homemade toy sailboat was the perfect gift for a father from his daughter. The only thing was, I didn’t know how to build one, and the only person I could think of who would, was, of course, my dad. So I enlisted his help, and together we built a little wooden boat. I don’t even remember if we ever set it afloat, but I remember how lovingly I sanded the edges smooth from the cuts he’d made with his table saw. I remember I painted the base white with a thin blue stripe all the way around. I sewed a little canvas sail, and while I still didn’t understand the physical mechanisms that made a sailboat sail, it certainly looked the part. I apologized, for making him help me build his present. I felt like it was less-than, and it wasn’t until years later that I believed what he had told me when he’d said that building it with me was the best part of the gift.

I don’t recall how old I was, elementary school, but in the later years of it, 3rd, maybe 4th grade. I also don’t recall if it was his birthday or father’s day, the two aren’t so far from each other on the calendar. I always liked doing “dad” things with my pop. I was the tomboy between my sister and I. She always had her nose in a book, he and I played catch. I never had much of an arm, but I learned to keep my eye on the ball and found a deep satisfaction in the leather thud of ball falling squarely into mitt, my small hands quickly grasping to keep it from popping out again. When he would be working on some carpentry project for his restaurant, my sister and I would sit in the sawdust and glue and nail little scraps of wood together, positive we were building masterpieces.

I guess I probably got the idea from Hollywood, or maybe it was after one of his too-early attempts at teaching me to sail, the two of us on a small craft in the middle of Lake Merritt, me only able to concentrate for 5 minutes at a time, but I decided that a homemade toy sailboat was the perfect gift for a father from his daughter. The only thing was, I didn’t know how to build one, and the only person I could think of who would, was, of course, my dad. So I enlisted his help, and together we built a little wooden boat. I don’t even remember if we ever set it afloat, but I remember how lovingly I sanded the edges smooth from the cuts he’d made with his table saw. I remember I painted the base white with a thin blue stripe all the way around. I sewed a little canvas sail, and while I still didn’t understand the physical mechanisms that made a sailboat sail, it certainly looked the part. I apologized, for making him help me build his present. I felt like it was less-than, and it wasn’t until years later that I believed what he had told me when he’d said that building it with me was the best part of the gift.

(Source: principlesofaesthetics, via randomitus)

81 notes

when we were little, my sister & i used to play “library” with the shelves of books in our room. we cut up scrap paper to make little cards for each book and we stamped them with our collection of animal rubber stamps. my dad had a date stamp like the ones above, and sometimes he would let us use that one too. it was fun to roll the little rings of rubber around and around matching up the date. 

when we were little, my sister & i used to play “library” with the shelves of books in our room. we cut up scrap paper to make little cards for each book and we stamped them with our collection of animal rubber stamps. my dad had a date stamp like the ones above, and sometimes he would let us use that one too. it was fun to roll the little rings of rubber around and around matching up the date. 

(via thatkindofwoman)

you know how sometimes you’re looking for a certain picture and you end up scrolling through pages of photos, years of your life captured in digital images, and you get distracted by all sorts of thoughts and emotions about all sorts of things and people?

so that happened to me the other night.

and i found this short series of photos, 6 or 7 pictures. 

i had been visiting a friend in san diego. he and his family were going to visit his friend’s family. their mom had cancer. advanced. terminal. 

it could have been awkward. i could have been that strange girl; what is she doing here??

but it wasn’t. i wasn’t. 

they welcomed me with open arms and i equally embraced them. i walked with the mom’s as the guys sat on the beach. my friend’s mom was pushing the other friend’s mom in a wheel chair. she looked like a cancer patient, she was losing her battle…and yet somehow…she glowed. her smile was so warm. her soft voice so loving. she had found peace in the nest of love that had gathered around her. 

she asked me about myself. how did i know this friend. where was i from. what did i want to do with my life. this was about 5 years ago, i hadn’t even applied to medical school yet, but i already knew I was interested in oncology.

as we got back to the area where everyone else was she decided she wanted to walk to put her feet in the water. as we waited for the boys to come over to walk with her she looked up at me and smiled that sunshine radiating smile, that soft maternal smile that makes you feel like you just got a really cozy hug. i don’t remember her exact words, but she told me that she thought i would be a good doctor, that she was glad i was going into medicine. 

i took pictures of them as my friend and his brother walked with her down to the water’s edge. 

.

when i found them the other day i realized perhaps i’d never sent them to the friend of the friend, the one who’s mom it was. i’d heard that she’d died within a week of that day. i’d kept in loose touch via facebook and the occasional, “hey i’m in the bay area" email. 

i sent him a message. hey, how’s it going, congrats on this life event blah blah, so i have these pictures, i don’t know if i ever sent them to you, i thought you might want them.

he did want them, of course. he said it was a bit shocking to see her looking so sick but that he knew she was happy, surrounded with love. he said they were the last pictures ever taken of her as that night she went to sleep and didn’t wake up. he thanked me for reaching out and sending them on.

he wished me luck on the boards and said that if i was having a party to celebrate finishing he’d better get an invite. 

when i was 17 i used all of my birthday and christmas money from my childhood and went on a summer educational europe trip with my english teacher and 5 of my friends. 
all of it was amazing. 
all of it. 
but florence was perhaps my favorite. 
Boticelli’s Primavera has always been one of my favorite paintings. we only had a few hours left in the city and the line into the Uffizi was at least 2 hours long. my friend’s said they’d wait outside and try to make sure the bus didn’t leave me behind. i ran ahead of the line, periodically calling out, “Dad! Dad?” as if trying to catch up with a father (who wasn’t really there). everyone let me by. i paid my entrance and tore down the hallways pausing briefly here and there to take in a particularly striking piece. i arrived in the hall where Primavera hung and just stood in awe. i looked at the edges and the brushstrokes and the size and weight. i drank it up with my youthfully eager eyes. for about 10 minutes i just stood there and appreciated that art. i felt myself in that time and i felt the past when it was painted and the future when i knew i would look back on that memory.

when i was 17 i used all of my birthday and christmas money from my childhood and went on a summer educational europe trip with my english teacher and 5 of my friends. 

all of it was amazing. 

all of it. 

but florence was perhaps my favorite. 

Boticelli’s Primavera has always been one of my favorite paintings. we only had a few hours left in the city and the line into the Uffizi was at least 2 hours long. my friend’s said they’d wait outside and try to make sure the bus didn’t leave me behind. i ran ahead of the line, periodically calling out, “Dad! Dad?” as if trying to catch up with a father (who wasn’t really there). everyone let me by. i paid my entrance and tore down the hallways pausing briefly here and there to take in a particularly striking piece. i arrived in the hall where Primavera hung and just stood in awe. i looked at the edges and the brushstrokes and the size and weight. i drank it up with my youthfully eager eyes. for about 10 minutes i just stood there and appreciated that art. i felt myself in that time and i felt the past when it was painted and the future when i knew i would look back on that memory.

(Source: nakamagome2, via randomitus)

bad-postcards:

BEAUTIFUL REHEBOTH
Rehoboth Beach, Delaware 
Beautiful.

I once spent a summer living with my cousin in MD. I was 19 years old and doing an internship at the National Cancer Institute.
My cousin was in her fifties, and while she was warm and generous, the summer was socially stifling. She tried to find “young people” for me to go out with. Her secretary was one such person. My sister mailed me her ID so I could get into bars.

My cousin had rented a beach house in Rehoboth and we spent a few weekends out there, she and I. One such weekend I won $100 in the Delaware Powerball. I took my cousin out to dinner with my winnings.  

bad-postcards:

BEAUTIFUL REHEBOTH

Rehoboth Beach, Delaware 

Beautiful.

I once spent a summer living with my cousin in MD. I was 19 years old and doing an internship at the National Cancer Institute.

My cousin was in her fifties, and while she was warm and generous, the summer was socially stifling. She tried to find “young people” for me to go out with. Her secretary was one such person. My sister mailed me her ID so I could get into bars.

My cousin had rented a beach house in Rehoboth and we spent a few weekends out there, she and I. One such weekend I won $100 in the Delaware Powerball. I took my cousin out to dinner with my winnings.  

50 notes

when i was little there was a halloween party at the daycare my aunt ran. my mom made carmel apples with little cardboard razor blades decorating each one. apparently some of the other parents thought it was in poor taste. i, even at that young age, thought it was brilliant. i am, after all, my mother’s daughter. and halloween is supposed to be spooky. 

when i was little there was a halloween party at the daycare my aunt ran. my mom made carmel apples with little cardboard razor blades decorating each one. apparently some of the other parents thought it was in poor taste. i, even at that young age, thought it was brilliant. i am, after all, my mother’s daughter. and halloween is supposed to be spooky. 

(via cupcakesoftheday)

164 notes

sylvi-culture:NOM NOM NOM
when i was about 13 i went to this girl’s slumber party in sf. my friend and i stayed up almost the whole night with this cute boy named Caleb. we laughed and played awkwardly shy and mild mannered truth or dare. we skated in our socks on the expansive kitchen floor. and we snuck into the fridge and snuck cream puffs off the left over cake. we got in trouble the next morning, but i remember thinking, even as we were being scolded, that those precious secret midnight moments, that freedom we had in that moment and the luxurious indulgence of those chilled contraband cream puffs, that it had all been worth it and i wouldn’t have chosen to live that night any other way.  

sylvi-culture:NOM NOM NOM

when i was about 13 i went to this girl’s slumber party in sf. my friend and i stayed up almost the whole night with this cute boy named Caleb. we laughed and played awkwardly shy and mild mannered truth or dare. we skated in our socks on the expansive kitchen floor. and we snuck into the fridge and snuck cream puffs off the left over cake. we got in trouble the next morning, but i remember thinking, even as we were being scolded, that those precious secret midnight moments, that freedom we had in that moment and the luxurious indulgence of those chilled contraband cream puffs, that it had all been worth it and i wouldn’t have chosen to live that night any other way.  

(Source: heyrainbows)

137 notes

freshphotons:

Click Source for next panel.

i used to have these educational computer games way back in the day…like dot matrix style back in the day…reading rabbit and math rabbit. i thought they were so fun. like really really. i loved doing math and spelling words and watching the little animations and the feeling of achievement when i beat each level. fortunately we didn’t have any levels as hard as the one this kid finds when you click through. 

freshphotons:

Click Source for next panel.

i used to have these educational computer games way back in the day…like dot matrix style back in the day…reading rabbit and math rabbit. i thought they were so fun. like really really. i loved doing math and spelling words and watching the little animations and the feeling of achievement when i beat each level. fortunately we didn’t have any levels as hard as the one this kid finds when you click through. 

(via freshphotons)

34 notes

She’s dynamite!

funny story…well..not really that funny…but a story all the same;

When I was studying Tropical Biology in Costa Rica (as you do) there was a writer tagging along with our class. (He’s all kinds of lovely and wrote a book about Calvin and Hobbes’ creator Bill Watterson - as you do…)

Somewhere along the line he and one of my classmates decided they’d write a comic book about us (as you do). We would be Hell’s Belles and the Jungle Rovers

While the comic book itself has yet to come to fruition, we were each given a character name and role. I was dubbed Dynamite - demolitions expert

(Source: greenvertigo)

so I just got this email:

 

LinkedIn

Daniel S******* has indicated you are a Friend:

Hi, are you the Julia I met in Italy in ‘03? 

If not, apologies for bugging you. 

- Daniel S*******

And I totally am that Julia!

We met in Cinque Terre. I was traveling by myself. So was he.

We also met a brother and sister from Ohio. The four of us slept on the beach because we didn’t want to pay for an expensive hotel. I got permission from the carabinieri. It was cold so he opened his sleeping bag and shared it with me like a blanket.

The next morning we hiked the trail between the cities. It was breathtakingly beautiful. 

He’s South African but was living and working in London. A week later, on my way back through London, we met for a pint.

He was impressed I knew who the Springboks were and told me of a sports shop where I could get my [ex] a jersey. I got one for myself too.

A few years passed. I was on my way back to London and somehow was able to dig up his email. We met for another pint and watched a futbol match at a pub in the financial district. I think that was in 2006.

 

11 notes