Here’s hoping you, too, are gathering with the people you’ve missed for so long.

When my brother Bruce sent an email to the whole family telling us that this summer there would be a total eclipse of the sun visible from mom’s backyard, I thought “big whoop.”  I mean, I’d seen a few partial lunar eclipses before and they were interesting but not life-changing.  Nevertheless, a major celestial event seemed like as good an excuse as any to head home to Idaho for a few days so I booked tickets and didn’t think much more about it.

Gradually, the light dawned on me and I figured out this was going to be a Really Big Deal.  Several people recommended Annie Dillard’s essay “Total Eclipse” so I read it and was intrigued–and a little spooked–by her apocalyptic recollections of seeing a total solar eclipse.  I also read an interview with astronomer Neil DeGrass Tyson  who, when asked about one travel destination that everyone should see, replied “a total solar eclipse, wherever in the world that may take you. . .the ‘destination’ is the event, not the location.” Maybe seeing a total eclipse was a bucket list item after all.

Helen Macdonald’s essay “How to Stay Sane During A Total Solar Eclipse” convinced me that experiencing the event with my extended family was going to be memorable despite the attendant inconveniences of travel, housing, bathrooms, meals, etc.  “When you stand and watch the death of the sun and see it reborn, there can be no them, only us,” she wrote.  What better bonding activity could there be than to experience a total eclipse with my Loosli-related clan?

As it turned out, forty-one members of my family gathered at mom’s place—a farm located eight miles outside of small town Ashton, Idaho. In order to accommodate everyone a small tent city rose up in the back yard. Fortunately, only one of the tents got completely soaked by a large rolling irrigation sprinkler in the adjacent field and had to be moved at 3:00 a.m.

The night before the eclipse we kicked things off with a “Light & Dark” opening ceremony where we sang songs both sacred (“Lead Kindly Light”) and silly (“You Light Up My Life”), did interpretative dance to “Total Eclipse of the Heart” and played an eclipse-themed game of charades.  My brother Joel’s contribution was a dramatic reading from Stephanie Meyers’s Twilight volume “Eclipse” while other family members acted out the purple prose.  The program concluded with a scientific explanation by my brother Bruce, a Boeing engineer, about what we would experience the next day.

Everyone was up early the next morning to feast on Joel’s pancakes decorated with pink hearts. (Joel and his wife Barb raised four girls which is why he knows a thing or two about heart pancakes and the Twilight series.) I put on my Pink Floyd “Dark Side of the Moon” T-shirt and an eclipse necklace featuring a charcoal labrodite disc surrounded by tiny diamonds. We all pulled out our goofy paper eclipse glasses.

Bruce set up a demonstration area where we could use a colander to see moon-shaped shadows on white board and look through a telescope with special reflective coating on the lenses. We cranked up the eclipse playlist our daughter Sydney had put together  featuring tunes like “The Sound of Silence,” “Moon River,” and “Ring of Fire.” Everyone laid out blankets or set up chairs facing the Grand Tetons in the east.  We knew something was up when the cows in the nearby pasture all stood at attention and stared at Sydney’s husband Dan, a PhD candidate in atmospheric chemistry.  What cosmic knowledge were they trying to convey to him?

As we moved from the demonstration area to the driveway to watch crescent shadows filter past the leaves or arc through our interlocking fingers, we’d occasionally put on our eclipse glasses to check out the progress of the moon across the sun. The temperature grew distinctly cooler, enough so that MJ slipped on a sweatshirt. Mosquitoes swarmed at midday. The air grew matte and wavy. I wanted to clean my glasses. Or switch on the sky.

Then at 11:33 a.m., just as predicted, the last tangerine sliver of sun disappeared and the lights went out. Though not completely.  A band of orange at the horizon created a 360 degree sunset that silhouetted the Tetons. The big black hole where the sun had been was surrounded by a feathery white light and the sky beyond that was a pleasing purple—less Twilight magenta and more Crayola blue-violet.

We all cheered. Dan, normally so reserved, threw his arms in the air and spun around yelling at the ebony moon.  I, too, raised my hands to the indigo sky and cried “Wow!”  I wish I’d been more articulate, but “wow” pretty much summed up how it felt to be inside your own sci-fi movie.

Both Dillard and MacDonald wrote that their eclipse experience was terrifying.  Dillard said that “seeing this black body was like seeing a mushroom cloud. . .it obliterated meaning itself.”  MacDonald, too, referenced atomic tests and said her reaction was “shock . . . and a sense of creeping dread.”

As for me, when the heavens dimmed I was elated, awestruck, transported to another place. It seemed like the travails of this world were behind me and a new frontier lay ahead.  I’ve continued to tell people, only half-joking, that I saw the face of God.

Afterwards someone noted that none of us had been taken up in the rapture. (So what did that say about our clan?)  Everyone grinned at the sight of each other.  MJ kissed me and said, “We made it.”

A couple of family members left almost immediately to sit in the terrible traffic that everyone had anticipated for months but which didn’t materialize until the sun began to fill out again. Joel and his family were some of the unlucky travelers. “Worth it,” he texted at midnight after it took twelve hours to make his normal four hour journey back to Salt Lake. “Totally worth it.”

We toasted the eclipse with Tang. Later we’d share an orb-themed dinner of spaghetti and meatballs, frozen peas, melon balls and Moon Pies.  When I asked MJ what word he’d use to describe the experience, he said, “Something old fashioned . . . like ‘sublime.’”

Thanks to my brother-in-law David Kimball for the beautiful opening shot of the Great American Eclipse as seen from Ashton, Idaho on August 21, 2017.

Happy Thanksgiving Eve, everyone!  I hope you’re happily prepping for the holiday whether that means confirming your reservations at a favorite restaurant or harvesting persimmons to make Aunt Nell’s favorite pudding. Around here we’re baking pies.  Well, truthfully, we’re watching my mom bake pies.  Because that’s the kind of helpful children and grandchildren we are.

Actually, I was photographing and watching, trying to figure out how she so effortlessly assembles the crust and then rolls it out with nary a tear (tare) or a tear (teer.)

I always bring the pies to Thanksgiving dinner at my friend Pauline’s and I estimate it took making about a hundred pies before I actually achieved anything close to my mother’s perfect and painless pie crusts.

She makes it look so easy.  Glad you could share this Thanksgiving with us, Mom–and not just for the pies. I’m also looking forward to your creamed onions.

While your pie crusts are chilling, here are a few Thanksgiving things to consider:

Aspirational Thanksgiving recipes by state.

What we actually cook for Thanksgiving by state. (Frog-eye salad, Idaho?)

Strategies for Thanksgiving dinner table conversation.

Anne Lamott on saying grace.

A grateful shout out to Mother Earth.

Nice to learn that we grow more grateful as we age.

Happy Thanksgiving All!

The new normal is that my father-in-law, Jed Pritchett, is gone.  After a decade of mentally slipping away, his body caught up with his ebbing mind and he passed away suddenly, leaving behind his devoted wife Jackie, four living children, fourteen grandchildren, three great-grandchildren and five children-in-law, including me.

What followed was the usual flurry after a loved one dies.  Funeral arrangements were made, plane tickets purchased, mourning wear packed.

Then the gathering commenced—first in Boise, Idaho where Jed and Jackie lived for forty-some years, then on to American Fork, Utah where Jed had been raised and where he would be buried alongside his parents and two children who preceded him in death.

The services were tearful, rollicking affairs where Jed’s smart, funny children and grandchildren delivered stories of his life with an equal amount of respect and roast. Had I spoken, I would have talked about all the ways he made my life better, including the fix-it projects he did whenever he came to visit. As it was, I felt blessed to perform one of his favorite songs “Let the Lower Lights Be Burning” with my son and two other in-laws at the Boise service.

After the first service the pallbearers loaded the casket into M.J.’s brother Lant’s white mini-van to drive the six hours to Utah, making sure not to dislodge the beautiful casket spray filled with feathers from pheasants Jed had hunted over the years.

Jackie had balked at a lonely last ride for Jed by way of an anonymous hearse driver.  And so, when the mortician said it wouldn’t be a problem to deliver the body without his assistance, Lant volunteered to drive Jed home.  Jackie would ride shotgun and they’d do their best to get one last speeding ticket as a proper send-off for the fearless (and lead-footed) patriarch of the Pritchett clan.

Alas, no such ticket was issued, but the speedy delivery ensured a second service the next day where Jed was feted with further offerings of song and story before being laid to rest in the American Fork cemetery.  Cinematic snowflakes fell as his grandson Tony played “Stardust,” another favorite tune, on the trumpet.

In and around the services, multiple generations of cousins mingled.  Looking at the people who had known and loved my father-in-law I couldn’t help but note the unspoken “passing of the torch.”

Jed’s generation is gone or going.  Our generation is sobered by a clearer view of the finishing line.  And those little grandkids that used to spill out of Grandma Jackie’s dress-up closet or water-ski behind Grandpa Jed’s speedboat? Well, they’ve turned into a handsome bunch of young adults, tackling the world with the same intensity and intelligence as their grandfather.

Hard to take your eyes off them, really.  Where did the time go?

So I’ll get back to telling you about Peru and upcoming design events shortly.  But for a bit, I’ve been watching time march—no, rush—onward as we said good-bye to a beloved husband, father and grandfather. Godspeed, Jed. You will be missed.

So then there’s the day your daughter’s work and name makes it into the New York Times and you marvel at life’s unexpected blessings.

On Friday night while I was watching flashy race cars drive around in circles on a movie screen, my old Highlander Hybrid was being broken into in a nearby parking lot. Before the last championship lap in Rush was over, my back side window was smashed and a nice Herschel backpack and duffel that belonged to my son-in-law Evan were snatched.

As my friend Peggy succinctly said after she found out about the theft—“Damn!”

Evan had been staying in San Francisco all week for work and joined us for M.J.’s birthday lunch that day.  He had business to finish up in the city but sent his bags home with me  planning to join us later on in the East Bay.  We’d all meet up at a movie before picking up our daughter/his wife Claire who was flying in for the weekend.  Distracted by a work call late in the afternoon and errands after that, I forgot that the bags were still in the car when I parked near the Grand Lake Theater.

Even so, I had an uneasy feeling as I crossed the plaza that hosts a popular farmers market on the weekend. I was especially concerned when two young men called out asking what time it was and continued to try and engage me, even though I’d already shared that it was 7:00.   Just asking for the time shouldn’t seem suspect, I know, and I’m usually not rattled by such encounters—but that night something felt off.

I’ve thought in hindsight that I Should Have Known. Known that something wasn’t quite right, something could go wrong, something should be done. But instead of pursuing any promptings, I scurried on into the theater to meet the guys and that was that.

Evan was a great sport about the whole thing–willing to carry on for the weekend with a quick trip to the drugstore and a tour of his favorite menswear shops in San Francisco for a change of clothing. MJ taped up the broken window and called the insurance companies. I retreated to the kitchen and cooked up a storm of comfort food.

We filed an online police report and discovered a new-to-us term in the pull-down menu used to describe the crime.  It appears we were victims of a Car Clout or–according to this article on the language of traffic cops–one who burglarizes cars.

Today I asked the glass repair guy working on the car in my driveway if he’d seen an increase in similar car clouts break-ins.

“Definitely. Mostly around BART stations and up here in the hills,” he said, as Bohemian Rhapsody blasted out of his van. “But there’s so many people down by the Grand Lake, I’m surprised you had problems there. And these windows are so dark—they must have really been looking for stuff.”

The day after the break-in, a friend said she’d heard robberies were up everywhere because of cell phone theft.  At dinner that night my niece said she’d read that car break-ins were on the rise because internet drug orders (who knew?) had cut into young drug runners’ income.  I know that the Oakland Police Department has a dwindling budget and bigger crime fish to fry.  And, of course, you should never leave anything of value in a car. But still.

Within 45 minutes from the time the repair truck showed up the damage was corrected, the bill paid, and the receipt for the insurance collected. But forever this will be part of our family lore — remember when Evan was in town and his bags got stolen? Welcome to Oakland.

Damn!

Happy Birthday to my husband, M.J.  Well before Google was invented, he became the search engine in my world. Brilliant, clever, kind and decent–he’s provided the answers to so many questions in my life. Big and little.

Our children mock our geeky courtship–we met in our university’s honors program, competed on the same College Bowl team and got engaged amidst the stacks when he said “what will our children think when we tell them I asked you to marry me in the library?”

Thirty-three years later we know what they think.  They think we were nerdy nerd nerds. (Though I can’t imagine a more fitting and romantic place for two wannabe know-it-alls to commit to spend their lives together.)

When I tell the longer version of our story, I always say that M.J. was the most interesting guy I’d ever dated.  I knew I’d never be bored with him.  And I was right.

Happy Birthday, honey!

Here are a few other things that engaged me this week:

This elegant cast iron kitchenware.

Hand-dyed yarn inspired by duck hunting season.

Learning about the origins of one of my favorite colors—Vosey blue.

Some musings on Sunbonnet Sue and other sentimentalized quilt imagery.

Developing empathy through reading literary fiction.

And finally, painter Llius Lleo talks about becoming an artist.   Lleo on inspiration –”There’s not unlimited space in your brain. . .if you need to see more to do your work, maybe you should do something else.”

Off to make a birthday cake — Happy Weekend!

You may recall from my last post that I was intrigued by chef David Lebovitz’s extensive packing list. A few days later I volunteered to help my sister-in-law Connie, also a top-notch baker, create some desserts for my niece’s wedding in Idaho. Her packing list was equally impressive.

Connie’s mini-van was filled with kitchen implements like tools to cut and roll and form tart shells. There were jelly roll pans to make enormous sheet cakes, cutters to create perfect parfait cake circles, and whisks to make fantastic fillings. There were tiny spoons and great swaths of table decorating fabrics. There were even snacks–like freshly squeezed tangerine juice, pretzel goldfish and almonds–for the kitchen crew.

Grateful that I was just the help and not the dessert table mastermind, I was nevertheless inspired to pitch in with other meals.  After the last tart pan was thoroughly dried and returned to the van, I made this simple apple salad with walnuts and lime as part of a post-wedding dinner.  It’s one of those dishes that’s easy to execute even without the exact recipe. And for those of us who travel a little more lightly, you can use any old paring knife and baking sheet to make the salad.

In other news, my interview with Pottery Barn and Williams-Sonoma Home Executive Vice President Monica Bhargava is up over at William-Sonoma Inc.’s Designer Marketplace if you’re interested in what one of the retail world’s top tastemakers is saying about trends in furniture design. Also, find out which WSHome products Bhargava uses in her own home!

Hello again.  I’m just back from Idaho after reunioning with my family.  As our numbers swell, it gets trickier to house all the Looslis.  But this time we were lucky enough to bunk at my grandparents’ farmhouse, recently renovated by my dad’s sister Carol and her builder son Brett.   We woke to the view of the sun rising over the Tetons outside grandma’s windows and spent the days boating on the Snake River at the family cabin or horseback riding at my mom’s house on the main farm.

On our way out of town I swung by my great-grandfather Dimond Loosli’s ranch to take a look at the old weathered barn. I left feeling like I’d filled up some internal reservoir of sacred spaces, renewed to venture afield again knowing that my family’s homes still stand.

Do you still have access to the homes you grew up in and around? Does it ground you to return to them?

Over a brilliant potato pizza birthday lunch at Forge, my friend tells me that we’re celebrating my Speed Limit Birthday.  Later on I google the expression and see that there is no end to tacky “speed limit birthday” paraphernalia with a big old 55 on it.

Silly road sign cake toppers aside, 55 feels significant. I couldn’t be happier about so many things in my life right now and yet I feel an urgency to complete the things still left undone. There’s no denying that time waits for no one.  Including dawdlers like me.

That said, this week I’ve “limited” future planning and paused to acknowledge three things that I love about being this age.

1. A mature sense of self.  I can admit that I don’t like to “go fast.”  That I prefer French’s mustard to Dijon.  That I will likely never get rap–or a lot of classical music–but it’s ok if others do. That I want to rent the audio guides when I go to art museums even it costs a little more and seems exceptionally nerdy.  That I’m hard-wired to love color and textiles and plants but I’ll never develop a sense of direction. Thank goodness I was born in the era of GPS.

2. An increased pleasure in small things. My mother-in-law once said about her mother–”she’s had all the big chips in the bag and now she’s down to the crumbs.” I’ve had a lot of big chips–a happy marriage, three terrific kids, two wonderful son-in-laws, a close relationship with my siblings, parents and in-laws, great friends, career success, a rich spiritual and intellectual life.  I don’t think all the big chips are gone, but as my steady stream of Instagram photos attests, I’m savoring some of the smaller crumbs now.

3. More me time.  I have more time to myself now than I’ve had in 30 years. Do I miss the hubbub of young kids/young adults around?  Sure.  But I also love sleeping in, working late and going about my day pretty much the way I choose. I’m living the Mr. Roger’s theme song: It’s A Beautiful Day In This Neighborhood. Pretty much every day.

So  for my birthday week I’ve taken it easy and enjoyed the count-your-blessings side of 55.  Next week I’ll get back to work on what’s left to do.

Here are a few things that caught my eye this week when I wasn’t celebrating me:

1. Stephen Colbert’s touching tribute to his mother Lorna.

2.  Ruth Reichl’s recipe for smashed potatoes.

3.  A subscription service for letter-press notecards.

4. Toy Animal Corn Cob Holders.

5. And finally, the annual Garfield the Cat Birthday comic strip.  Garfield, Wallis Simpson, Paula Abdul and I all share a birthday.  Illustrious company indeed.

Happy Summer Solstice!