Miss Lady Bird's Wildflowers

My friend, Joy Fisher Hein, a painter and master naturalist, has illustrated four beautiful books for children:

Bloomin' Tales: Seven Favorite Wildflower Legends

Sam Houston: Standing Firm

David Crockett: Creating a Legend

and

Miss Lady Bird's Wildflowers: How a First Lady Changed America.

Every page of every book is a painting--carefully researched in every detail.  It has been so exciting, over the years, to watch her sketches turn into pages, then into books that capture history and nature and people.

Check out this promotional video for Miss Lady Bird's Wildflowers:


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Nd83b9z_OA&feature=youtu.be

Conversation between Elena and her mother...

Regarding Elena's first week in pre-school next week:

Elena: "I want to go to Audrey's house."

Mom: "Audrey is at school.  Are you excited you're going to start school next week?"

Elena: "How old will I be?"

Mom: "You will be three.  You will start in a few days.

Elena then begins to cry: "I don't want to go to school when I'm three!  I want to go when I'm older.  I'm not ready yet!"

Mom:  "Audrey loves school and she's three like you."

Elena: "But she's braver than me."

Mom:  "You're a brave girl too."

Elena: "Yeah, but I'm brave to snakes not school.  School is scary.  I wish I were a baby.  Being a baby was too much fun and cute."

Grand Babies

I just got this adorable picture from Bonnie: her grandson, Marquam--taken while she's in Vermont and her daughter and daughter-in-law are visiting from Boston.

Then I got this sweet picture of my cousin Beth with her daughter's foster baby, Lola.

Lola, with pacifier in her mouth, is watching Beth work.  Missy hopes to adopt Lola.  Both foster mom and foster grandmother have fallen in love with her.  

I got this note from Pam, another grandmother--and I asked her if I could share:

I was preparing to leave when Ben arrived home yesterday evening. Claire had made a beautiful bowl of pasta and timed it perfectly to be on the table, piping hot, when he walked through the door. 

I had gotten as far as the porch and remembered my sunglasses. Unsure whether they were in my purse or the car I went back in the house. Sitting on the sofa, rummaging through my bag, I was only half listening to Ben's conversation with Claire. 

For no reason I know of, Ben left the table and came over and put his arm around my shoulder, leaned his head against mine before offering a tiny kiss on my face. No doubt that is a gesture he has seen his dad perform a myriad of times but given Ben's aversion to kisses and public displays of affection, it was a magical moment-one that won't soon be forgotten. 

Maybe I am sharing because in Brain Pickings this morning there was a piece about happiness, quotes from Willa Cather and Luis Borges and the like. As I read, my thoughts returned to small boys and the magic of a kiss...

Being Ousier

Simone Weil (from this morning's Brainpickings):  "It is a fault to wish to be understood before we have made ourselves clear to ourselves."

I think I know myself, and then--whap!--in comes some oddball talking out of my mouth, saying things the "real me" would never say.  It's not in my nature to snap at people.  It goes against the grain of being a nice person.

As I attempt to make myself clear to myself, I have to ask: So what's up?  Why are you snapping at complete strangers, out of the blue, lately? Freda's handyman.  The clerk at Valero.  And the waiter at Simi's on Friday night.

When our friendly waiter had the audacity to interrupt my meal ("Are you still working on that?"--a phrase that makes me feel like I'm on a demolition team tearing down foodstuffs) and the temerity to ask me why I hadn't eaten the cheese in my sag paneer, I felt something akin to rage! I'm still eating! It's none of your business!  You are interrupting our conversation with your chit chat!  (I don't remember what I actually said, but it was brusque and dismissive and rude.)

I would like to blame my recent outbursts on the the lunar cycle--which some say corresponds with lunacy. My most recent anger erupted under a full, golden moon. Or fatigue. Or missing Mike.

But what if I'm just turning into a mean person?  What if I'm turning into the bitchy Ousier, Shirley McClaine's character in Steel Magnolias?  (After my rudeness at Simi's,  Cecelia laughed and said,  "We are all turning into Ousier!")

When my anger spills over and makes a mess, it surprises me more than it does the person whose lap I've spilled it on. I drive home shaking, as if I'd been overtaken by some demon.

I'm not quite ready, however, for an exorcism. Anger would have served me well in the past, but it wasn't in my repertoire of emotions back then.  I could do depression, but not anger.  Maybe it was just in there, lurking, waiting to pounce?  But to a stranger, over something trivial that has nothing to do with him?

But it's also strangely liberating, even cathartic, for a nice person to step outside the familiar boundaries of who she is sometimes.   I plan to return to Simi's soon, to make amends with a generous tip and polite behavior.

To make myself clear to myself means admitting that I carry a snarky Ousier in the Outer Version of Me.  She unnerves and frightens me when she shows up.  But maybe we'll grow to be friends if I talk nicely to her.

Can't Find My Bookmark

In An Absorbing Errand, Janna Malamud Smith writes about how we lose track of time when we focus wholeheartedly on any creative endeavor.  Working on the casita has been like that for me.

Mike means it when he says, "We can do whatever you want." and "If you don't like the color, we can paint it over."  He'a cheerful even when he's working in triple-digit heat.  He loves "making Linda happy."

Since I don't have an ice maker, he goes into the kitchen twice a day and empties all six trays into the ice bin.  "The ice man cometh!" he says, twisting plastic trays.

When he drove away in his packed truck,  I felt so lonely.  My playmate was gone!

When Kate called a few minutes later, I told her I was trying to remember what I was doing before I'd gotten so absorbed in this project.  She asked, "You can't find your bookmark?"

That felt exactly right!  I'd gotten a new camera three weeks ago and had only gotten as far as unpacking it and putting a new scrarfy strap on it.  I had things to do, to get ready for, to plan.  I needed groceries.  But I couldn't seem to find my way to the store.

(Not that I literally couldn't find the store, but I couldn't find the motivation to go to it.)

I felt like I was driving a jalopy, gears grinding, climbing the hill back to Solo, a place I know much better than Partnership-With-A-Man.

Now I'm wondering if maybe I've landed in a whole other book.

Jan and Jan

As a genuine introvert, I usually dread parties a little bit, but Jan's today is one I'll remember--a dance party with about 25 people, most novices, doing NIA together.

From Jan's teenaged granddaughter to a few our daughters' ages (including Jan's actual daughter, Sarah) to a whole raft of grandmothers, we all danced for a wonderful hour to the music of Celine Dion.  Then we went back to Jan's house for cake and snacks and champagne to celebrate Jan's turning 70.  It was one of the best birthday parties ever!

Jan, the Birthday Girl, dancing with a scarf

Jan and her brother, Bobby

Jan Jarboe Russell, our teacher, and Jan Schubert Norris

Jan, the teacher, shared with the class how she got into NIA 25 years ago--on the recommendation of Naomi Shihab Nye who told her it was great for writers' block.  Obviously, it works--as Jan's newest book (The Train to Crystal City) is now on the New York Times best-sellers list. 

I had a great time dancing with Jan and Jan--and talking to some of Jan's many friends who lit up the dance floor together.  

The Septuagenarian Next Door

Three great people in my tribe turn 70 before before the end of the year--Mike and Cindy in December, and Jan tomorrow.

Here's Jan in a vintage Luby's waitress pinafore found at a garage sale--and "old lady shoes."  Last week, she played a waitress at a luncheon for Miss Ingrid's grieving octogenarian and nonagenarian friends.  (Miss Ingrid, longtime friend, had died the week before with Alzheimers.)

I agree with her grandson Sebastien that Grand-Jan "looks much younger" than 70!  She walks every morning and every night; she goes to NIA; she cooks healthy, beautiful meals.  No doubt, she could easily wear the clothes she wore in high school if she still had them.

One of my first memories of Jan was being in a writing group together--she's a terrific writer. Another is opening the front door that first Halloween on Ogden and seeing Jan and her sweet late-husband Gene at the door, dressed in full Trick-or-Treat costumery, Jan a cat.  Many a night, Jan has knocked on my door and given me a plate of cookies or a slice of quiche or something delicious left over from their dinner.

Gene was often my first good morning of the day--as I headed out to get a coke and he was watering his lawn.  "Good morning, Lin!" he'd say.  I always liked that nickname, and Gene is the only one who ever called me that.

Now that Kate--Jan's daughter--and Kate's two adorable sons have moved in with her, we have the happy voices of children playing outside every day.

Tomorrow, thirty or so of Jan's friends will be dancing NIA together in the afternoon, then returning to Jan's house for birthday cake.

In three years, I will join the club.  For now, I'm looking at role models like Jan to see how it's done, turning seventy.

Hierarchy of the Birds

Early in the morning, the yard fills with sweet sparrows.  They know how to take turns and no one bullies anyone else.  They have themselves a nice breakfast of seeds and enjoy the spray of the sprinkler.

Then up comes the cocky cardinal and takes over, doesn't even invite his lady friend or buddies from the trees down the street.  He swoops in and makes a menacing gesture with his face and all the meek little sparrows fly away in a great big sweep of gray.

A couple of the braver ones peck around below the feeder for droppings from above, but they know who's boss in the neighborhood.

Finally, the dove, who's been caging the joint for a day without coming in for food, sails in like he owns the place.  He shakes his feathers and off flies the cardinal, just like the sparrows before him back when he was boss.

I'd like to know how doves got such a good reputation.  Birds of peace and all.

Birds and Flowers

This is the bird feeder that Mike built by gluing a cake plate onto a pole.

When the news bulletin went out that sunflower seeds were being served, two timid sparrows arrived.  We lured them with stale bread, then they hopped onto the feeder.  Happy with what they found, they did what good sparrows do--they shared the news with their friends and family.

Soon two sparrows multiplied into twenty.  A bright red cardinal spied the comings and goings and flew over to partake of the feast.

A hummingbird flitted about the fire cracker bush and crepe myrtles and blue plumbago.

Pony on the Deck

Mike left half an hour ago.   Before he left, Will and Elena stopped by--along with baby cousin Preston.

Elena has been riding this barber shop pony since she was a baby--and now here it is on the new back deck.   We call it our break-up present because Mike gave it to me when we broke up seven years ago.

Elena and her cousin, Preston

Mike lending a hand to the framers across the street

Last night, Jan and Mike and I were complaining about the size of the house going up across the street--a huge house with practically no yard.  The audacity--we said--of people to intrude on our little cottage district with such a monstrosity, so close to the street, with no room for a barrier of plants!

At this point, it looks a bit like a skyscraper amidst little houses, and it's going to block a big hunk or our view of the sky.  But in spite of all that, I saw Mike helping the framers this afternoon--just itching to get in on the building project!

August 25th

First, I want to thank all of you who know Carlene for sending her cards and texts and well wishes!  She's told me about every one and said she had the happiest birthday ever!

She says she feels like she's living in a flower garden.  Even her dentist gave her flowers this morning!

This is mine and Mike's last day together on this project (or so we are saying because we think it may be true this time) and we are working hard to finish every detail.

Yesterday, Jaro painted the air conditioning cover barn red as I'd asked him to do--and decided that it wasn't the right red.  The difference between the wrong red and the right red is huge.

Flirt Attack by Behr is just right

The yard now looks amazing!  We love sitting out on the deck at night looking at it.  We've planted several plants in the pots in front of the Orange Peel Casita and I had to go just now for one more.

Croton

I'm loving learning the names of plants and waiting for them to tell me where they are happy.

Marcus

In the texts flying about in my family today, I snagged this adorable picture of Marcus, presumably on his first day of school.  This kid is a true original, from the turquoise socks to the sunglasses.

Marcus wants to make movies when he grows up.  This ten-year-old has really got it going on!

Carlene's Birthday/Back To School Day

Carlene's birthday almost always coincides with the first day of school. Watching the children of Cambridge Elementary file in, all scrubbed and dressed, most of the girls wearing big bows in their hair, everyone carrying brand new back packs, I was thinking of how different it was when Carlene set off for first grade in 1930.

At least one in every first grade class will probably be in tears.  I even heard on NPR that there's a Boo Hoo meeting for the parents of first graders in the Southside district this morning--though I must say,  the parents of the kids walking to school this morning looked rather happy. Sebastien came over last night and announced that this was his first day of second grade and he was so excited.

Carlene was the first grader who cried--but she was also the first grader who couldn't stop talking.  She got to sit in Miss Tingle's lap until she could be quiet, and she loved that special attention. Little Talker Carlene got to ride the school bus from the farm to Perry and meet new friends and learn to read--the latter two she has continued loving all her life.

Today she is a vibrant 90-year-old who remembers her childhood and growing up years like they were yesterday.  People stop us when we're together (and her when she's out running around by herself) to comment on her apparent agelessness and ask her how she stays so young.  She tells them, "Gratitude."  She lives a life of gratitude for everything, big and little--for her 57-year marriage to my dad, for her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, for her many friends, for phone calls, trips, books, a beautiful yard, and good health.  She radiates joy.

She also has good genes and started life on organic farm-grown food.  She walks three miles a day.  She laughs a lot.  She loves learning, and she does the crossword puzzle every day. My favorite of her two life-mantras: "Everything is tuition," and "People are different."

Her friends at church wanted to give her a big birthday party, but she declined.  So what's happening is that she has no empty dates on her calendar.  Her birthday is being stretched out into a month of lunches and dinners with friends in ones and twos and threes.

She and my daddy used to sing together all the time--in the car and at church.  I'm listening this morning to blue grass gospel music on Pandora and can sing along with every song, remembering how their voices harmonized  as they sang.  My daddy was always so proud of Carlene (he called her Carlotta)--and would be happy to know that she's who she is at ninety!

By the time she opened her gifts from me, she had talked to five people already--and calls keep coming in.  She's loving her 90th birthday, and I'm loving her, today and every day.

We will celebrate with Day in October with a mountain retreat in Georgia for all three of our birthdays. Carlene is a force of nature I celebrate every day--so alive and generous and loving.  I'm so grateful to get to have her for a mother and friend!

Born on August 24, 1925

Here's my beautiful mother, Carlene, on the Sunday before her 90th birthday tomorrow, posing beside the flowers Bob and Jocelyn put in the church for her.

The pearls she's wearing were a gift from my daddy seventy years ago!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CARLENE!  I love you so much!

Linda

A Fun Sunday

Today has been such a fun day!  I'm way late in coming to this, but I have decided, with Mike's expert help, that yard work is among the most rewarding things to do.

We've arranged rocks around the beds and Mike has loaded and unloaded tons of mulch, soil and rock--which I've assisted in laying about on the ground.  He's made a path from car to door with flat rocks, and I've planted grass seed in the holes left after moving some rocks that have been down for years.

We sat on the porch under a half moon tonight and talked about how good it feels to change a little front yard in one day.   After this workout from dawn to dusk, I feel I'm on the way to getting in better shape.

Many of my friends love yard work, but until today, I didn't get it.  Every once in a while, I'd say, "I can't do another thing," and Mike would say, "Yes, you can," and sure enough, I could.

I love the artistry on seed packets

Esperanzas and firecracker bushes
are much happier in a thick bed of mulch
surrounded by Arizona River Rocks

Mike keeps thinking of things that need doing--which suits me fine because I don't want him to leave!

What matters in the end

Today, Cindy and I drove to a little town called Blue, north of Austin, to attend the funeral of our friend Mary's sister, Linda.  We left at seven and GPS directed us to the wrong church right on time.

Fortunately, by the time we arrived at the right church, ten minutes away, we'd only missed the opening music, and we got to hear Mary's tribute to her older sister.  She set the tone, telling funny stories. Then people began to stand up and talk about how Linda loved animals with a passion and how she worked to bag food for children in poverty and to rescue cats, naming every stray she found.  A little girl stood up and told about how Linda had taught her and her mother how to crochet.

I remember David Whyte observing that at funerals, the eyes of the people glaze over during the sermons and listing of awards, degrees and accomplishments.  When people who knew the deceased person begin to talk about her passions and idiosyncrasies , the attention quickens and everyone sits up a little taller, nodding, laughing and crying.  We want a memorial service to celebrate the person's passions, Whyte said.

It was like that today in the little Methodist Church in Blue, Texas.  As Linda's friends and family remembered her, there was so much laughter that it made me wish I'd  known her better. Pictures flashed on a screen throughout the service--Linda riding horses, cuddling animals, and doing all the things she loved in life.

Carelessly, I had let the gas gauge go too low and we managed to make it to a station five miles after the meter told us we had zero fuel.  We stopped in a local market cafe in Elgin for Cuban sandwiches, and arrived home to see the beautiful results of Mike's and Jaro's work.

Every project grows bigger as it goes, I guess, and this one certainly has.  It's a thrill to see a place transformed from drab to colorful.  While we have life, it's so important to fill every day with the passions and people, the wheels, trips, chickens and goats, whatever, that make our days alive.   Death reminds me of this every time.

Our Girl in Her Pink Boots Holding the Chicken

Pictures of the Tractor/Street Rod

Nathan's First Street Rod

Last night, Mike and I made a little booklet to go with Nathan's "First Street Rod" made by Mike for him.  He listed all the things he wanted Nathan to learn about his new machine.

To inspire him further, I attached a picture of "Mike's Last Street Rod"--and I could tell that it made Mike sad to write the word, last. Building cars and other road machines has been such a part of his life since the age of ten!  I told Mike this was a kind of passing of the torch to another little boy who loves road machines and building things.

Since Nathan had specifically requested a "Go Cart," I was a little worried that he might be disappointed that Mike had made something that didn't match his picture of speeding down the road, low to the ground.

But there was no need to worry.  He loved it!  He hung on to every word about how to work the parts, and he rode all around the yard, driving very carefully, with a big smile on his face.  Mike had insisted that he wasn't old enough for a go-cart, and that this starter rod was just right for an eight-year-old.  Before lunch, the two of them were sitting at the table together, Nathan drawing his ideas for customizing it.

Talking to Yancey, the horse

Scratchy, the goat, loved being scratched by Mike--
as all animals do.
He hopped right in Mike's truck.

.

David Whyte

Human beings cannot quite believe the depth, drama and even the disappearances involved in even the average human life. Each one of us grows almost against our will into a steadily unfolding story where the  horizon gets broader and more mysterious, the understanding of loss and mortality more keen, the sense of time more fleeting and the understanding of our own mistakes and more omissions more apparent.  In the midst of this deepening we are summoned to the resonant life: there is no other life than the one of constant beckoning, this invitation to the fiercer aspects of existence. ~ David Whyte

Coca Cola

Mike and I were just remembering last night these aluminum drinking glasses.  Back when we were kids, we didn't have cokes in our refrigerators at home; we bought them from machines at the gas stations occasionally.  "Do you want to split a coke?" Carlene would ask Bob and me.  For years we thought cokes were called Split-a-Cokes. 

Mimi, my sweet grandmother, used to buy Coca Colas for our visits and serve them over ice in these cups--along with Oreos.  Maybe this is where I got my love of bright colors--as carriers of sweet drinks on hot days.

Nothing was more special than floats in these glasses--a coke or ginger ale with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. 

Elena's pink shoes

Here's my girl trying on pink shoes--this came in a text today from Will, saying she's inherited my style!

Monday at the casita

This week, we're building a narrow Saltillo tile patio in front and a deck on the back. We hired a terrific helper for a couple of days, so I'm mostly the go-fer--and relieved to be just that for a couple of days.

This morning, running on low fuel, I went to Lowe's to get pavers to support the deck.  Everyone in every department seemed grouchy.  I felt grouchy myself.  And then I met Jim.

Jim loaded the car for me and was cheerful to the point of ebullience.  It was his third day and he "loved" all the customers and all the other employees.  About the woman who had been particularly grouchy, he said, "She's such a sweetheart."  About his customers, he said, "Home improvement people are just wonderful."

It made me think: perception is everything.  This happy man is so intent on seeing the best in people that it's all he sees.  Maybe what we see on a given day is what we are.

The flea market

Overall, the huge flea market was a disappointment--but we found some great plants--lavender bougainvillea, purslane, Mexican birds of paradise and a white camellia that grows in Texas.  The plant man recommended putting coffee grounds and rusty nails in the soil around the camellia to make it more acidic.

Looking and Finding

We pass by so many things everyday that we don't really see.  But it's remarkable how seeing works when you're looking for something.

Tonight, we took a load of things to Goodwill.  Mike had said earlier that it would be good to get a great big sun for the wall.  We weren't looking for the sun; it just appeared.

Any other day, I'd have passed right by it.  Naming things matters.  Once you name what you're looking for, it usually shows right up.

We still have a tile patio and a few other decorative things to do, but here's a before and after of the front of the casita.

Before

After

A spot of yellow

I couldn't resist adding my two-cents worth to the painting effort--sitting in a chair and catching drips--but Mr. Hardheaded Mike is painting on.  He pointed out that the men across the street are working, and then I pointed out that they are half our age.  "Age has nothing to do with anything," he said.

"You know Debbie would say that wall needs a second coat," he said--gazing at the slightly streaky first coat.  So there you have it--we agreed--Paint Lady's word goes!

I'm looking forward now to opening the casita as a part-time Air BnB soon--as the outside is going to be as fun as the inside, bright yellow with some accent tiles and other things.  Mike wants to add a huge eyeball to be seen from the street, but I nixed that idea.

We got some beautiful light fixtures from Nando's place, a turquoise chicken, and a big pot for plants.  And a chance for Mike to pet horses and goats and the dog.

So now, I'm going to take a nap and hope that he comes in before the sun knocks him down.

This is the most fun building project I've ever done--whether I make money on it or not.  It's like designing a play house with someone who says, "Go for it!" to every idea I have.

A spot of rain

Well, I just got back from the chiropractor--with this neck that I pulled out of place moving a bed a couple of weeks ago. And a little bit of a hernia situation caused by too much lifting of children and paint cans.  I'm out of the painting game today, while I warm up my parts with a heating pad.

We had about half an hour of rain during the night and the plants are grateful, all perked up.  Nature, even in her brief wet visits, does more to plump up sad leaves than my water hose.

We talked to our design and decor advisor, Debbie, last night and told her we were getting bracelets made that say, "What would Debbie do?"

Now I'm heading out to supervise for the morning and keep the painter-man hydrated.

Wednesday

I throw away food after its expiration date--much to Mike's ire.  Wasting anything, no matter how scuzzy, must be one of the seven deadly sins in his book, if he had a book on sins.

Some men hunt ducks, some hunt deer.  Mike, the animal lover, does neither.  Hunting embedded in the DNA of men, Mike's prey is--bargains!

Not that I'm complaining--he's saved me tons of money.  But show him a flea market or Habitat Store and he sets his site on bargains and nails one every time.  More likely, a cart-full.

I buy one thing at a time.  He buys half a dozen.  He has enough shampoo and soap, for example, to last him two lifetimes.

"You're throwing that OUT?" he asks,  incredulous, whenever I toss something in the trash.  We can use it for rags.  We can use it to paint one more coat.  I could build something out of that. We can use it sometime, some day, I'm sure. If you don't want it, put it in the truck.  I'll take it home with me.  

Do we really need two dozen paint brushes from Harbor Freight?  Do we really need a screen that fits no windows?  Do we really need to squeeze one more day out of a ratty paint roller?

"I'd be happy with just peanut butter sandwiches and fruit every day," he says.

He's exceedingly generous with his time, but our attitudes about food and money are on different pages in the attitude book, if we had an attitude book.

He likes to play music the minute he wakes up.  I like  NPR.  People, as Carlene says, are different.

Today we painted from seven to eleven, took a nap, then took a trip.

If you're looking for Saltillo tiles, Reeso's on Vance Jackson is your place:

 If you're looking for pots and other  yard art from Mexico, I highly recommend Veronica's dad's place on 1604 at Bandera: Mexico Linda

Mike and Nando petting goats

I get a nice family discount at Nando's place, but his prices are already way less than other places selling mirrors, pots, and decorative pieces.

If after all that shopping for things from Mexico, you want the best Mexican food in a hole-in-the-wall place, we recommend Taqiero Vallarta on Blanco Road.

Mike pronounced this his favorite meal ever--though he says that at every meal.

It's been a good day and we're calling it a day, getting up at the crack of dawn to paint again.

Elena's new desk

Elena came over to spend the morning while her parents went to a meeting.

Here we are at Beto's, each of us wearing a pair of my glasses.

I have a little wooden desk that once belonged to Day--a present from Nana and Granddaddy.  She wanted to take it to her house so she can "make art every day"--and I let her take it.  I wonder how many three-year-olds have sat at that very desk and made art.

Humor in the morning

Okay, here we go, launching our Mike-Wants-It-Just-Right Project--and Linda does too.  I hear him already loading the big girl bed into his truck to return the antique store.

A while back, I was having dinner with the Pritchetts and Nathan asked, "Do you think Mike would make me a go-cart?"

"Let's ask him," I said, and called Mike on the phone.

"Sure, I will.  I'll start looking for parts."

That's all it took.  This trip Mike came in his truck so he could deliver Nathan's country-boy-bumpy-road go cart.  For a man who's built who-knows-how-many cars out of parts, a beginner go-cart made on a lawn mower base was easy.

Mike wakes me up everyday laughing.  He never tells jokes, but he tells stories that are hilarious.  Throughout the day, he makes observations  that crack me up.  I love laughing--don't do enough of it!

So this morning I thought I would tell him a joke, the only one I know.  Alan told me the joke in Georgia and I remembered it well, acted it out--I thought--to perfection.  Got all the details right. It was about a monkey who could do sign language.

At the end of the joke, Mike asked, seriously,  "Is that the end of the story?"

I flopped in my joke-telling, apparently.  I shall move on to other careers, as I would never make it as a stand up comic.

I will, however, assist Mike for two weeks on projects and I hope the results are not too funny.

Another Fun Monday in Paradise

Well--okay--it's not exactly paradise at 102 degrees, but Mike and I made it a fun day, going to Habitat Store and Home Depot for some supplies to use on the casita, putting up my new bed, deciding it was too big for my tiny bedroom, taking it down again to return tomorrow.

On the way, we stopped by Urth Juice Bar.  Mike said there was nothing in that store he wanted, but Evan and Madison talked him into a watermelon orange juice he pretended to like.

Evan and Madison at the Urth Juice Bar

We're worn out from all the shopping and work on this hot day, calling it a day--going to bed early so we can rise at six and start work before the heat barrels in full force.

Maybe next trip we can socialize with our friends--but this two-week visit is all about work, looks like.

Looking in the open windows of Juliet's Life

If I wait long enough between reading a book the first time and the second time, I can forget what happens in the book!  What I don't forget is that when someone gives me their copy (mine long gone to someone else)  I recognize it like a good old friend.  Or I remember that the plot and characters weren't  entirely satisfying, that the book isn't one I care to read again.

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (definitely in the good friend category,  was written by co-authors, Mary Anne Shaffer and Anne Barrows, though Mary Ann died by the time the book was published.  It's an epistolary novel, filled with letters to, from and about our main character, Juliet, beginning in 1946 just after the War. I was reminded of how much I enjoyed a similar format years ago in A Woman Of Independent Means. I also love books of letters, like the one I'm reading of Carson McCullers' and William Maxwell's letters to each other.

Guernsey is an entertaining  thread of letters that tells the story of several people during the occupation of the Channel Island of Guernsey--as well as humorous and everyday correspondences between Juliet, the writer, in London, and her friends.

If you're looking for a good summer read, this is definitely one.

In one letter, Juliet tells her editor, Sidney, on the 21st of July, 1946:

"Night-time train travel is wonderful again!   No standing in the corridors for hours, no being shunted off for a troop train to pass, and above all, no black-out curtains.   All the windows we passed were lighted, and I could snoop once more.  I missed it so terribly during the war.  I felt as if we had all turned into moles scuttling along in our separate tunnels.  I don't consider myself a real peeper--they go in for bedrooms, but it's family rooms in kitchen and sitting rooms that thrill me. I can imagine their entire lives from a glimpse of bookshelves, or desks, or lit candles, or bright soft cushions...."

There's a name for that: crystoscopophilia--the love of looking into other people's lit open windows.

When I learned the word, I was happy to know that my penchant for looking into open windows is common enough to have a name.  Reading, after all, is looking into open windows on the page, isn't it?

Losing

I hate to lose things.  A couple of months ago, I lost my favorite purse, a birthday present I'd used every day since October.  Everything usually in it was in my car--the wallet, keys and phone--but the Maraca fabric purse, brown with swirls of gold, was gone.

Of course, I called every place I'd been that day, and no one had seen it.   But a week ago, I went to one of those places, and asked, "Are you sure...?--and there it was, on the hatrack, right next to the register and phone!  To recover a lost thing--well, I was giddy for the rest of the day.

I even hate to lose lesser things.  If I misplace a receipt or a list or an address, I stay awake for a long time looking for it.  Almost always, the next morning, I jolt out of bed knowing right where it is.

Once I lost my car keys at a restaurant (because I had set them on the table instead of putting them in my purse)--and had to wake Jan next door to get a spare key so I could get into my house.  A year later, I went to the library and there they were, in Lost and Found! Some good soul had found them--with my library keychain card attached--and turned them in.

Far worse is losing people.  They move out of your orbit to another town or country.  They lose interest in what you used to do together.  Maybe they want a divorce--or a divorce-equivalent. Maybe they don't like you all that much anymore.

Even if you make room for other people, and even if you come to love the new people just as much, or more, or not quite so much, nobody takes the place of anyone else.  When someone "goes missing"--as they say on the news (much to Betty's annoyance every time she hears that phrase)--it's hard.

When someone we love dies, we still reach for the phone to call sometimes, only to realize all over again that we've lost forever the chance to hear that one particular voice on the other end. (Some rankle at the word, loss, when we're talking about death. Once on TV, I heard a grieving mother say, "Don't tell me you're sorry I lost my son.  I didn't misplace him.  He died.")

On Wednesday, my friend Mary's sister died.  I had only met her once. When she visited our writing group, she brought pretty crocheted scarves for each member of the group. Mary sat beside her sister in hospice for hours playing music and talking, even when it wasn't clear whether or not her sister could hear.

When I mentioned this to another friend, she said, "I can't help but think about my sister and how she has been a part of my life since I was three and a half.  She drives me mad, but I can't imagine life without her."

We can't imagine, but we sort of do--which is why we feel vicarious sorrow. We hardly know what to say. As we write the cards or make the phone calls, we shuffle through all the mental clichés that come to mind: "She's in a better place," or "She's no longer suffering," or "I'm sure she would want you to...."

Language feels paltry at times like these. What, really, can anyone say to someone who will never again hear the voice of that one person who's known her since she was three, or seven, or twenty?  How can words touch a loss that big?


“Here is one of the worst things about having someone you love die: It happens again every single morning.”
― Anna Quindlen, Every Last One

Debbie, the Paint Lady

Debbie is the friend of Mike's I told you about--or I think I did.  Unlike me, Debbie can fix a car, plant trees, do plumbing and electricity, and build or remodel a house.

She took the most decrepit house in Demorest, Georgia, and--almost single-handedly,  turned it into this:

Everyone who saw it said she just tear it down!
Look at it now!

A beautiful three-color front door, flanked by a
couple of San Antonio presents from Mike

I love her sense of color!  When she lived in Hartwell,  head of the Home Depot paint department, everyone called her The Paint Lady.

On the 4th of July, she wanted to put up a flag, and Mike and I went there and watched as she dug the hole for the pole he'd made for her.  She can work a post hole digger like I can work a.....well, spoon or pen I guess.

Will has a post hole digger, too--he calls it his Redneck Ph.D.  I can not operate this tool in air, much less in soil.

Debbie digging a hole, Mike looking on

This morning, when I told Mike I'd like to do the same color on the apartment as he has in his kitchen and bedroom, he said, "Call Debbie and ask her for the formula."

This is the text she sent back:

"Tell them you want Behr premium exterior in satin color code S-G-290.  Before you paint the orange peel put a good coat of Kilz premium primer.  Without that you can put on 4 or 5 coats of orange peel and it will won't be quite right.  The trim will be best done in Behr premium exterior semi-gloss ultra pure white, but have them add 2/48 of an ounce of black per gallon and shake it.  This helps reduce streaking and actually looks brighter white.  If you want to see if they know what they're doing just tell them you want B-2 in our ultra pure white semi gloss base...see if they get puzzled:-)  Make sure that you double check what they are adding.  2/96 or 2/384 is no good.  Must be 2/48!"

Who knew that painting a door or a wall was such an exact science?  I'm going to have to take this recipe with me to Home Depot tomorrow--and see if I can pull it off.

Linda and Debbie under the flag

The Minutes

On first glance, you wouldn't know it, but Mike is something of a wise man, maybe a mensch.  He believes in "enjoying every minute" for one thing.  And he'll stop whatever he's doing if a neighbor or friend needs something repaired or a ride to the airport or whatever.

This morning, he was repairing an old pocket watch and he said, "I wondered where all those minutes went. When they are gone, you can never get them back."

He's right.  I can never get my strong legs and flexible joints back--the ones that served me well in motorcycle riding days:

Age 23

And even with gourds in my T-shirt (this picture taken by Mike seven years ago), some parts of my body are not quite as perky as they used to be:

2007 at Mike's place

But the minutes of this day are good!

I hope yours are too!  It's not what we used to have that matters so much, I guess--it's what we do with the minutes we have this very day.

Fun Friday

Mike has left Hartwell and is heading toward Texas!

I spent the morning shopping, instead of going to yoga as planned.  My friend who owns a consignment store is back with her original husband, living next door, actually.  "I've been alone for over twenty years," she said, "And I want to keep my own space and do whatever I feel like when I get home from work."  She seems very happy.  "We are not the same people we were," she said.  "Now we are great companions."

A few years ago, she bought a little weekend house in her hometown to serve as a weekend retreat.  "I think we all wind up going back to where we started," she said.  "Either to live or be buried."

But it's not the same town it was--what with all the fracking and oil-business traffic.  "Everyone I knew is moving away," she said.  So she sold her weekend house and built a little cabin at Medina Lake, right next door to her original husband.  "I told him when he left me for another woman 23 year ago that he'd be back," she said.  "I was right."

At Boysville Thrift Shop, I found two big down-filled European style pillows, covered in linen, brand new.  I like Boysville--and what their money goes toward, so whenever I have bags of donations or am looking for something myself, I go there first.

A little girl about Elena's age was trying on her clothes in the dressing room.  Her mother, aunt, and grandmother were all standing outside waiting, speaking to her in Spanish, everybody smiling.  

When the little girl came out of the dressing room, she modeled her new-used outfit (a pink T-shirt that said Love, and a denim skirt)  and said, "Ta-Da!" with as much enthusiasm as if it had been a designer outfit.  I loved that!

My sweet mama (Carlene) also bought me a beautiful cheery sleigh bed I'd been looking at over at Carmen's Antiques on Hildebrand.  I sent her a picture on the phone, just to see what she thought of it, and she decided right then and there that it should be my Thursday present.  This will be the first time I'll have had a bed with a headboard AND a footboard.  Some little kid will one day find my bright red headboard at Boysville and be as happy about it as I am my new grown-up real bed!

Whatever day of the week it is, if Carlene buys a present, and it's not a birthday, she calls it a "Thursday present."

The only hitch in this otherwise perfect day is a flare up of my self-diagnosed "fibromyalgia" --aching all over like I have the flu.  It's probably the "minor scleroderma"--an inflammatory condition that seems to go underground and then pops up again, depending on what I've been eating.  The young man at the Juice Bar suggested a ginger shot; unpleasant as it tastes--it has helped in the past and maybe it will again.  Ginger and tumeric--he says--are the best things for aches and pains.

In the meanwhile--104 degrees outside--I'm going to take some Ibuprofen and settle in for an afternoon of In-Bed reading, starting with some in  the big stack of books I brought home from Gerlinde's.  

First, a re-reading of  The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, then A Thousand Country Roads--epilogue to Bridges of Madison County.

Happy Birthday, Joy!

When Carlene was in Texas, Joy and Carlene had a little shared 

 August-birthday celebration at my house.

Joy and I have been sister-friends for forty years--

since motorcycle days in Helotes, and  cookouts

and birthday parties with our little kids. 

For two months; we're the same age.

Joy is catching up with me!

Nathan and Elena on the way back to Texas

Looks like we have some drama, comedy and music from these two on their way back from Colorado.

Elena's favorite song is "Let it Go" from Frozen.  My guess is she's belting it out in the restaurant and Nathan is less than impressed with her rendition.