And so we make food.

It's become ingrained in me to make food in the case of big, life-altering events. If someone gives birth, make the family a casserole. If someone gets hurt, make the family a casserole. If someone passes a way, make the family a casserole.

I picked up this trait from my mother. Whenever something happened to a family at church or a friend in the community you would soon thereafter find her in the kitchen whipping up an enchilada casserole. She would take it over, visit for a few minutes, and then leave not wanting to take up too much of their time.

I had no idea that this action had become so much a part of who I am until I was in North Carolina and a woman I had known for no more than a few weeks and had spent no more than a few hours with found out that her father had passed away unexpectedly. She was the wife of another Marine that Dan worked with. When Dan came home and told me the news I instantly started making a list for all the things I needed to make enchilada.

I told her I was making this for her and asked when a good time to drop it off was. I ended up staying for some time. She was 3,000 miles away from the family she wanted to be with and company seemed a good fit at that moment.

It was the first moment I felt grown-up. It was no longer my mom making the dish and giving her condolences; my mom didn't even know these hurting people. It was me. It was my job to help in this small way.

It helps me, too. My Type-A personality needs to be active. I need to do something especially when tragedy strikes.

Well, tragedy has struck.

It's hard to watch someone you love lose someone they cared so much about. There is something so deep in me that wants to take that pain away. What can I do? How can I help? But, there is nothing I can do. If there is anything I understand about the grief I have seen in the past 48 hours it is that nothing relieves it.

It's just there. It is all encompassing.

And so, because there is nothing that I can physically do, nothing that will dull the pain or make time pass quickly, I make food.

We'll take it to the family who is hurting on a level I can't begin to imagine. It will fill only a basic need for the grieved, but it's all we can do - we make food because we have to do something.

The Playhouse

It's turning into a shed.

It's about time for it, anyway. It hasn't housed the imaginations and games of any of us four sisters in years. You could make an argument to keep it as a playhouse for the future generations that will certainly come to know this backyard well, but at the rate all of us are procreating it's somewhat less than practical.

There was talk of turning it into a cabana of sorts. The front wall would be knocked down. The grill would go there. It seemed like a good idea. Dan, the logical and unsentimental voice, suggested that we turn it into a shed for all the hundreds of various tools my dad has lying around. This idea resonated with all of us.

Yes, it was dad's.

My dad built it for us. I couldn't tell you what year. It feels like it has always been there. It's doorway always open to whatever uses we had in store for it on any particular day. The usual games were played: house, school, restaurant, office. We were Jills of all trades.

Neighbor kids would come play with us sometimes. When friends were over the playhouse was typically ditched in favor of the thrilling and deadly trampoline, but when it was just us sisters (however many at a time) the playhouse was usually full of noise.

It was a favorite place to be on my own - I was an avid reader and a quiet space was highly valued. One day I had it on my mind to make myself a reading nook. I lugged my bean bag chair and plopped it in a corner near the window where sunlight shone through. I made trip after trip carrying out my mom's collection of Nancy Drew books. She had easily 50 of the series; they were hard cover and had lived through her childhood.

I was so proud of myself as I sat down in my chair and started re-reading my favorite series. It got darker and without any electricity I abandoned my library for the night.

It rained.

That would've been fine if the playhouse was built to code. It wasn't. The rain came through the blue shutters and ruined a good portion of my mom's collection. I was pretty scared to tell her, but I did. She wasn't happy.

I don't think I would forget that even if she didn't remind every so often.

Library is one of the many names of that playhouse.

I'll never forget climbing onto it's roof from the bars of our swing set. Someone would throw the rope swing over. I would sit at the edge of the roof, put my feet on the wooden plank attached to the end of the rope, and push off. It was probably the most daredevil thing I ever did in my life. I would do it over and over, loving the rush.

I cleaned it out today. It has become a storehouse for odds and ends in it's recent years, and a safe house for spiders of every variety. I spared you before photos with the webs and creepy crawlers - you're welcome.

The shutters are gone and have been replaced with screens that have been sealed shut to keep out rodents. The walls have some holes. The floor was covered in leaves and dirt.

But once it was all cleaned out it felt just like the old playhouse. There were even some old scooters and a basketball still in there amongst the debris.

This place has so many memories and it was one of the greatest things my dad ever did for us. Now it gets to be his. A space for all his tools and ideas - his imagination and creativity gets to run wild in there now, too.

At least, that's what I hope it is for him.