Well, tonight is better. 

I decided to get away from it all, drove out to The Rim to buy a mirror from World Market, shopped a bit at Ross, and had a delightful patio dinner at a place called General Public.  Luci got water and scraps of my lettuce wrap and we enjoyed sitting outside people-watching and feeling the breeze.  To make it up to Luci, that she'd followed me all over the place without a solid meal, I stopped by Vallarta's and got her a fajita.  

The contractor came over and reassured me that all the issues are fixable, and Will said exactly the same thing.  I just needed to chill!  On Tuesday he's sending his carpenter over to fix the doors, whatever it takes, and he's phoned a window specialist who's going to call or come by this weekend.  Voila! 

Will and Veronica buy houses with major issues, even foundation issues, and fix them up as solid rentals.  A couple of wonky doors and bad glazing are minor in their world. I said to him on the way home and he said, "Well, for us, it's a business.  We're not emotionally involved as you are with your own home."

I am, without question, emotionally involved.  

A few glitches

As you all know, I regard this little house as my canvas, and I love the new colors for a change.  

But there are problems, as often happens with even the best contractors.  The problems are built in to a house this old--door frames are not square, the windows are those old casement windows.  I had hoped to keep the four main windows, but the man who glazed them (recommended by the contractor but not part of his team)  made a mess of the glazing. 

 I have one more trick up my window sleeve.  I'm going to find a man I know of who specializes in these old windows.  If that doesn't work, I'm going to have to get new windows--and at the moment, the thought of another big project is daunting.

Two new doors were installed, as I requested, but apparently, the measurements were off on one (there's a big gap under the door that I stuffed with cardboard last night).  The other door was installed in a wonky frame--so the gaps are on the side.

The twinkle lights around the porch edge were destroyed as was my garden hose.  So I've spent the morning at Lowe's getting a fan with a light and a new hose. 

If I had the skills to do the exterior work, I have a few ideas--like shimming the door to match the gaps, but I just made that up.  Stuffing cardboard under the door is a temporary solution for one--as the gap is big enough that mice could come right in, not to mention roaches and other small critters. 

I'm thinking nostalgically about Mike and Bob, two former boyfriends who are no longer here.   Bob used to say, "If I can't fix it, it's not broken."  Mike could figure out how to fix anything!  A project is not complete until the details are done right. 

If my house is a mirror of myself today, think deflated, discouraged, exhausted.  I'm going to take a nap and start over!

House As Mirror of Self

I  just ordered a used copy of a 2006 book I used to own:House As Mirror of Self, by Claire Marcus Cooper. 

When I read this book, it struck so many chords with the book I was then writing, but mine was from a personal perspective; hers was based on years as a Jungian therapist and personal interviews.  My book was personal and anecdotal; Cooper's book was extensively researched and brought a whole different scope to the table.

When I was accepted into Bread Loaf Writing Conference in the mid-nineties, I joined a group of writers and aspiring writers that was stimulating and exciting.  I drove to Vermont in my turquoise 1990 Acura to spend ten days with writers from all over the country and beyond.  Sue Monk Kidd sat beside me every day in our Creative Nonfiction class. Sue has published at least ten books, including The Secret Life of Bees. 

In response to my manuscript Women and Houses,   Terry Tempest Williams, my mentor, wrote, "You must publish this book.  It will be a healing balm to all women." I was euphoric with this praise, but I never published the book--even though I had the good fortune to have an agent who liked my book enough to take it on. 

Visiting her at the Ellen Levine Literary Agency in New York was its own unforgettable experience. This was the place where books were made--not physically made but adopted, or not, by people who knew how to get them to press. 

Instead of following through, I returned from Bread Loaf, decided to end a long marriage, and my energies turned to tending to all the tentacles of single life in my late forties. Suddenly, I needed to support myself--teaching as many as seven college  classes to make a living. I jumped from the peak of Maslow's hierarchy (self actualization) to the bottom rung (survival). I thought it would be temporary. 

"But knowing how road leads to road," in Frost's terms, my road led to leading writing groups and other things.  Those are stories for another day. 

This is all preface for what I'd like to write about on my blog for a while--the relationship of this now 75-year-old woman to this 75-year-old house.

Here are a few quotations from House As Mirror Of Self as prologue.  You can tell by the television references that the book was written twenty years ago: 

"We have become more self-conscious about home as a vehicle for communication and display. The neighbours, our visitors, and ourselves are the intended recipients of this communication. 

If you have any doubts about the extent to which homes communicate, think about the number of TV shows that began with the camera panning over the exterior of a home-Dallas, Dynasty, All in the Family, The Waltons, The Cosby Show, Roseanne, and the list goes on...

A child constructing a den or clubhouse under the hedge is doing far more than merely manipulating dirt and branches. He or she is having a powerful experience of creativity, of learning about self via molding the physical environment." 

If this interests you, stay tuned for more. 

Talking Southern

Being with folks from Georgia always juices up our Southern accents and memories. When talking to people from back home, wherever home is, it's like wearing your most comfortable jeans and sweat shirts. 

Even native speakers of American South sometimes mimic colorful Southern accents--there are so many variations--but when non-Southerners do it, and when most actors do it, it's nails on chalkboards to us. You have to have lived there to get the nuances and hues of it. (This is probably true of any place, but it seems to me that Southern accents are the most-often imitated-- verified by Ms Google.)

"When you gone [long o sound] do your homework?" a Georgia parent asks for the third time in an afternoon. 

"I'm fixin' to...." my former self replies, "After I finish practicing piano." 

"We're gone [going] go see Mama and 'em"  some say when setting off to visit grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins.  

Whoever lives at or visits a grandmother's house--that's the "them."

No matter how much we love the daddies, no matter that they own the house along with mamas, a house in the South is always "Mama's house." It is, traditionally, Mama who picks the furniture, makes the curtains, and hangs the pictures.  It's she who cleans and cooks; the house is always Mama's, from front porch to back door.  Daddy gets the yard and the car. 

Even though we Baby Boomers and our parents tend to be excellent spellers, we often omit final G's and other letters when we speak.  From years of reading and spelling bees, we know how words are to be spelled and spoken in standard English, and we follow the rules in school.  But at home, and with other people from home, we relax into the accent we grew up speaking.

Oprah used to do that on her show.  She'd be talking in impeccable standard English, then she'd switch the register and say something in Black Southern, like "Y'all know what I'm talkin' about." 

When Nellie and I were in Italy twenty years ago, we perked up our ears when we heard Georgia-speak at the next table.  Before speaking to them, we each guessed what part of Georgia they came from, a nuance only a sister-Southerner would hear.  One of us said "Fort Valley" and the other said "Unadilla"--two tiny towns a few miles apart and three hours south of Lawrenceville.  

Later we struck up a conversation: "Where are y'all from?" we asked, knowing that they were "Y'all" people. 

Turns out one of us had guessed exactly right--though I don't remember which of us. 

Last week,Nellie and I saw a book at The Twig about pies--we say PI instead of PYE--and it sent us down the pie trail.  She found a recipe for soda cracker pie--Southern mamas made it--so I tried it out and it was delicious.  I found an almost identical recipe in my recipe box in Carlene's handwriting, but she called it Macaroon Pie. 

When Nellie arrived, I'd just found my little green leatherette diary of my first year in Lawrenceville, junior year of high school, and I read Nellie a few pages.  I used words like "splendid" and "magnificent"--most often to describe, I'm embarrassed to say, the college man I was dating--and would marry less than two years later. 

We were on two different tracks in high school.  Nellie, the red-haired cheerleader and dynamo, dated boys our age while my boyfriend was seven years older and opposed to "all that high school stuff." Even after I was crowned Homecoming Queen my senior year, we didn't go to the dance--as he'd had enough of teenagers for one night. 

"It was almost like I was..." I trailed off, and she finished the sentence, "married already."

We talk about our mamas' cooking and things our daddies used to say.  She tells me about being a childhood playmate of Art, their mamas "best friends til the day they died."  Early on, they married different people, and Art served in Vietnam as a Marine. But in 2000, they found each other again and married on the beach in Florida.

I tell her about driving around town selling donuts for a Cochran High School fund-raiser.  I was fifteen; my boyfriend was the requisite adult in the car. 

Nellie tells me that the two of us and one more are "probably the only Democrats" in our 1966 class.  My diary tells me that I played the piano at graduation to Nellie's solo, "Our work is done."  

It wasn't.  But at seventeen, we didn't know all the stuff we know now. 

Another Good and Busy Week

My house and casita have been painted grey, and I love the color!  So far, the doors and floors are all that's left and it should be a wrap on Monday.  

After numerous frustrations with handymen who didn't show up--or for whom I had to run errands--I hired Groovy Hues to do the work, and I've been very happy with their work. Trey's truck won me over: a hippy-colored vehicle with these words on the side: Peace, Love, Power-Washing, and Paint. 

When Day was here, she helped me do a color palette on her fancy iPad program, Pro-create.  I wasn't able to see the exact colors, but I could visualize the general idea.  Then we chose Grey Clouds for the main color and we're accenting it with a dark charcoal and white--quite a contrast from white all over trimmed in red and turquoise.  The new doors will all be green.

Grey clouds is appropriate for the weather we've been having.  The back yard is bursting with colors, pink and yellow and purple.  The bees and the occasional hummingbirds are enjoying all that color.  The front yard has not yet bloomed, but it's on its way.

Will and Bonnie made wonderful Pad Thai for dinner for Wednesday night and Luci enjoyed playing with her three doggie cousins.  Bonnie gave me a book I'm enjoying this morning, one I highly recommend to people who like dogs and horses and solo travel.  The true story is set in the early 50's, and the solo traveler is a woman in her sixties who travels from Maine to California--without a cell phone or credit card or road map--on horseback.

The Ride of Her Life by Elizabeth Letts 

A Delight-filled week

I met Nellie junior year of high school--a lively red-haired cheerleader.  I'd just moved from Cochran, three hours south, and Nellie took in this newcomer and made me feel welcome.  She was the life of any party and I was happy to be part of a new group of friends. 

We graduated and went our separate ways, marrying, starting our careers, and being moms.  Then one year we both attended a Christmas Eve service at First Baptist where we'd met decades before and started a grown up friendship.  Soon thereafter, I was about to lead a writing group for a week in Tuscany, and Nellie was the perfect traveling companion. 

We rented a teeny tiny car.  Nellie was tour guide and navigator and I was the driver.

I can hardly believe I had the courage to drive said teeny tiny car all around Tuscany with Nellie and three other women as passengers.  The roads were curvy and none of us spoke Italian, yet we managed--even on the day that several Italian drivers blew their horns and gestured wildly at us to warn us that smoke was billowing out of our teeny tiny car.  Two women spoke Spanish and were able to cobble together words and communicate with the mechanics.  While they were fixing the car, we were told to go across the street and drink a little wine while they fixed whatever was wrong. 

The most magical parts of that trip were the days the two of us traveled from Milan to Florence and the Cinque Terre.  We so fondly remember walking the streets of Venice, Verona, and Florence, shopping at little markets, and feeling free to explore together or separately, each of us doing whatever we wanted.  We boarded trains and walked up and down steep stairs.  We lay on the beach near one of the villages of the Cinque Terre--and got Tiger Oil massages from a young Chinese woman.  

We've kept in touch through the years and seen each other a few times, and it's always like drinking something bubbly.  Nellie inspires me.  

This week, Nellie and Art went to Austin to see the eclipse and to celebrate her son's 50th birthday. 

Charlie, his wife and four children and dad, celebrated his fiftieth with Nellie and Art all these beautiful decorations made by Nellie! 

He designed the eclipse T-shirt and Nellie made the candle card and the banner of photos of him at different ages.

On Tuesday, Nellie and Art came here and spent four nights in the casita.  

Here we are yesterday having lunch at a place called Peggy's in the Old Kendall Inn in Boerne.

We had a wonderful time poking around San Antonio and a bit of the Hill Country, and I miss them both!

Z to A

Z--for Zebra

Imagine driving down some country road in Texas, the sky a brilliant blue, the roadsides blanketed with coral Indian Paintbrushes, and you see this: Eight dark brown and white zebras!  

I was driving and Luci was sleeping on some farm road around Fayetteville, Texas.  Bob and I were talking on the phone.  I let out a yelp of joy.  

These were magnificent creatures.  I could have watched them for hours.  Luci and two zebras sniffed each other through the fence, and we finally parted so I could get us home before dark. 

A--for Amaris

Today I had the most magical visit with a little girl named Amaris. Her daddy was moving a couple of things in my house and I noticed her looking with fascination at the brightly colored bird house Joy had given me, hanging in the tree.

Her mother and 3-week-old baby got out of the truck and I invited them inside.  Amaris charmed me from the get-go, such a curious little girl who walked around my house noticing every detail with pure unprompted delight.  (Neither of her parents was particularly impressed.)

She stopped on the porch to look at my potted plants, mostly succulents, and wanted to know the name of each one.  "I have my own little garden at home," she said.

She loved my wooden painted giraffes, metal houses on the wall, a jeweled ukulele Day made years ago, my big white light fixture ("It looks just like the moon!" she said),  a South American stitchery, and a recipe box Day made with a fork handle.  

Her attention to details and colors made me ask her, "Are you an artist?"

"Oh yes," she said.  "I can draw anything.  My best things are dogs and birds, but I can draw anything.  Next time I come to your house, I will bring you some art." 

"Could I open the box?" she asked.

 I watched her fingers opening the box, so I read to her the words Day had inscribed inside the lid:

"Love as powerful as your mother's love for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar...no visible sign...to have been loved so deeply...will give us some protection forever.  It's in your very skin."

                        from Harry Potter

When her parents said it was time to leave, she said, "I don't want to go yet! Can we stay some more?" 

This may be the best compliment one can ever get from a guest!  I can hardly wait until she comes back with some art--but she, herself, is a work of art who made my day. 

Last night I drove to Helotes for Elena's induction into the National Junior Honor Society; recently, Pam and I drove there for Nathan's induction into the NHS. 

17-year-old Nathan plays percussion in the high school band, raises pigs, and takes all honors classes.  Elena (12)  is a wonder on the rodeo field barrel racing. This year she also raised two sheep for 4H and plays violin. 

I'm proud to be their grandmother for a million reasons, but mostly because they are such caring human beings.  Even now that he has his own wheels, Nathan is always there to support Elena in her events. Brings her flowers when she's getting an award, like last night. Likewise, she's his biggest fan and cheerleader when the O'Connor band plays. 

e

While Luci is at the vet's for her annual check up and shot, I am washing every fabric in the house.  She went out last night to pee and was skunked--for the third time!

So the vet adding Skunk Bath--even though I washed her in the middle of the night.  After her home bath, after rubbing herself in grass and bushes, she jumped onto the furniture. The stench is hard to get rid of and it lingers.  So while she's away, I'm cleaning, spreading hot spices and orange peels around the yard. 

Spring is the time when creatures are exploring. The internet tells me to keep the outside lights on all night--which I'll start doing for the next few months.

Mi Familia de Mi Tierra

From Fredricksburg to Mi Familia de Mi Tierra,  we had four days of Texas fun.

If you're old enough to remember the original downtown Mi Tierra, this is its offspring.   It has lots of the vibe of the original, still in business, and we loved it. 

Day and I remembered going to the original when Will was hospitalized at Santa Rose.  We had Shirley Temples and tacos and a tiny break from the week of hospital walls, but we were worried about our baby--who had been born there two weeks earlier and developed, at 8 days old, a mysterious and frightening temperature of 104.  

Throughout the years, Mi Tierra was where we took guests--just across from the mercado.

https://www.tripadvisor.es/Restaurant_Review-g60956-d19409577-Reviews-Mi_Familia_de_Mi_Tierra-San_Antonio_Texas.html

Mama doesn't drink much, maybe one half a beverage a year.  But since Day was driving, I enjoyed a half of a raspberry margarita--and a yummy seafood plate.

One of my new favorite places is the Hill Country Herb Garden in Fredricksburg--where we had lunch on Friday;

https://www.hillcountryherbgarden.com/

The best part of all of it was spending time with five members of mi familia--Day and Tom (their first trip without the boys) and Will, Bonnie, and Elena. 

Long story short, packing the most we can into four days!

 

Sisters in the Curl World 

Herb Farm in Fredricksburg

"It's been a quiet week at Lake Woebegone," to borrow the famous phrase of Garrison Keillor. 

Busy, but quiet.  Getting the house ready for Day and Tom's arrival tomorrow.  Postponing painting the exterior due to mold testing--which came back as normal.  Moving into the casita to free up the house for Day and Tom.  

I mentioned a few posts ago the book, The Kingdom the Power and The Glory/ American Evangelicals in an Age of Extremism by Tim Alberta, an excellent book that traces the decades of planning to turn American into a "Christian nation." 

"I'm a proud Christian Nationalist," said Marjorie Taylor Green in the Ron Reiner documentary, God and Country.  Trump--seemingly not a religious man of any stripe--did not start this movement, but he gave it its scary microphone.  He claims to be "chosen by God" for the United States presidency.  Far right evangelicals have "anointed" him as their king, savior, strong man, you name it. 

It's heartening to see so many Christians saying that "Christian Nationalism" is a perversion of Christianity and a threat to Democracy.

The far right claims that we've "always been a Christian nation," that the framers of the Constitution prayed when they gathered to write this document.  Many current and former Christian leaders reject these as false.

Bishop William Barber says they are "so loud about what God says so little about and silent about what God says a lot about"--giving examples of many myths passed on as facts.  The Bible, for example, says nothing about abortion or homosexuality or book banning--yet these are the talking points and obsessions of the current MAGA party.  

A Different Road, A Change of Scenery

For several months, I have begun every day at the New York Times. I'd scan the news, then move right on to the word games.  

While I enjoyed the games, they activated my obsessiveness and gobbled up countless hours. So I decided to do my version of  joining Word Gamers Anonymous and admit that I was an addict. I canceled my subscription entirely, even the news--thereby also banishing print reminders that there is Trump in the world. 

What I'm doing instead is re-joining the Handmade Book Club. We're doing a challenge this week that sends us classes and zoom links every day.  Ali Manning is an excellent teacher if you like learning everything there is to know about creating and binding books--which I do.

I also found inspiration in a gift from Nellie that arrived in the mail yesterday--a beautiful tiny book about hummingbirds.  I'll ask her if I can photograph and share it with you in a later post.

Sometimes it's revitalizing to abandon some things to make space for others.  Here it is two in the morning, and I'm stacking paper and getting ready for a few days of cutting and gluing, punching and stitching.  

The Handmade Book Club  is only open to new members four times a year, and the challenge is the time to join.  For $25 a month, members have access to a tremendous archive of classes, some taught by Ali, some by guest bookmakers. 

Retreat at Port Aransas

Three friends and one little dog spent three nights at Port Aransas, another in a long line of retreats over the past fifty years, at least for the three humans--Beverly and Mary Locke and I!

Tom and Mary Locke are putting their beautiful beach house on the market next month, so we wanted to squeeze in one more get-together before someone buys it.  We picked the perfect time.  Wildflowers in pinks and purples and yellows are blooming in profusion, roadside quilts.

Luci was afraid of the stairs.  No way she was going to descend that long staircase, no matter what!  For the first two days, she cocked her head and looked at me like I'd lost my mind when I asked her to come down or go up. 

Until Saturday night, when we went out to dinner, leaving Luci in the upstairs apartment.

When we returned, Luci heard my voice and bounded down two flights of these scary stairs lickety split, all the way to the street! That's how it is with dogs--no obstacle is steep enough to keep them from  their people. 

We watched two movies (The Holdovers and American Fiction), we shopped at a boutique we've liked for years, we walked on the beach, and we refilled our tanks with delicious seafood and conversations.   

Purple

A Poem By Jenny Joseph

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people’s gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

********************************************************************

Shortly after this poem was published, women all over the country started wearing purple dresses and red hats and lunching together.  They called themselves "The Red Hat Society."  

They were taking Jenny Joseph's poem literally.  If you ever saw ten women around a lunch table sporting purple and red, you know that it was a sight to behold, but too contrived to be interesting. 

The point of the poem was not that we all should wear purple dresses and red hats, but that old age might be a good time to flout conventionality and wear and do and be all the things we always secretly desired. The Red Hatters were, in my humble opinion, simply creating a new conformity, all dressing to match.

The reason this poem came to mind is that I'm picking paint colors for the exterior my house.  One of the colors I considered briefly was some shade of purple, trimmed in vanilla.   Maybe a hot pink door and yellow shutters.  

Or improve on the current stark white with a prettier white trimmed in charcoal and gold, with a door that matches pomegranate seeds...you get the picture.  

There's also the question of how my house speaks on the street.  She doesn't have size or architectural impressiveness on her side.  So she relies on colors around her, on her skin, and inside to express herself. Hot pink crepe myrtles soon.  Purple mountain laurel, now budding.  Yellow Esperanza. Blue plumbago.

Inside, a party of those same colors, rendered in paint and fabric.  So what is the costume for this season on the outside?  It's a sleep robbing decision, but it's mine to make. It starts next week, so I have a few days at the beach to decide. 

No one else but Luci and I will drive up to it every single day and notice--and according to research a dog's visual acuity with color is not her sharpest feature.  Passersby will either love it or hate it, if they notice it at all.

How I dress my house is important to me.  I hope I do her justice. 

One Day

The art show was inspiring, colorful and just delightful to see what so many artists do with ostrich eggs!  Joy's two were Best in Show if I were the judge, but there were no judges, just a roomful of artists and art-lovers having a good time admiring beautiful transformations of eggs!  I'll post pictures when I get some good ones. 

It's so unusual for me to be out at night mingling with friends and people I hadn't met before that I'm too jazzed to sleep.  I may be up all night. It's four in the morning and I'm halfway through an intriguing series on Netflix.  

One Day follows two people, Dex and Emma, through twenty years, each episode focusing on one single day.  It's based on a novel by the same name.  I love it.

Dex and Emma begin a friendship on the night of college graduation.  The plot, the music, the characters--it's so emotionally rich with yearning, anger, heartbreak--and whatever is yet to come.  No spoilers here, just a link to a song that you'll remember from back in the day: 

Anyone Who Knows What Love Is, Irma Thomas

Meandering on a March morning

According to expert dog trainers like Cesar Milan, I break all the rules Dog Mamas should observe. I am not the Alpha around here; I've never been stellar at Alpha.  

For Luci, a walk is not a Walk Walk, it's' a Meander.  We are so slow no other dog walkers would care to walk with us.  Luci stops to savor the scents of whatever interests her.  Poles, fire hydrants, flowers--I never know what's going to set off her doggie nose and send her into a few moments of sensory delight. She was born knowing it's good to "stop and smell the roses."

She glances at big dogs with mild curiosity and caution. When she sees little dogs like herself, she whimpers with excitement and pulls the leash forward for a sniff and a greeting.   

This morning she and Marfa were mutually thrilled to see each other, tails wagging and both bounding happily in the direction of the other like old friends.  How do dogs know which dogs they want to get to know?  Marfa is a mid-sized mix of blue heeler and border collie twice Luci's size, but the vibe must have been right for a potential friendship.

When Luci takes the lead, I meet so many people.  I liked Marfa's dog mama, Riley as much as Luci liked Marfa.

Then we chatted with another neighbor, mama of Louie, and she mentioned she was off to vote.  Turned out we were on exactly the same page, politically.  The dogs don't care either way, but we're planning to celebrate together if our party wins. 

At intersections, Luci has started protesting the direction I had in mind and pulls in another direction.   We go her way.  

We walk past lots of houses with Alamo Heights High School mules and signs, announcing the sports the kids play or the instrument in band.  A new-to-me house this morning has a cement Christian saint in its yard along with two faded flamingos.  Next door, a garden Buddha and a "stop gun violence" sign.  Across the street, two giant lemon yellow bunny rabbits in the window and a big felt shamrock on the door. 

As we walk, I think about Cosette, Mia, Val and Leo.

It's because they enrich our lives in so many ways that it's so terribly sad to say good-bye.  I can't even think about that day coming and I hope it's way far away.  For now,  I savor all the moments I have with this tiny little being who's my constant companion.  

The Rainbow Bridge

In the last few months, four beloved dogs, belonging to three of my friends and their families, have crossed the Rainbow Bridge: 

Cosette (Mary Locke and Tom's), 

Mia and Val (Janet and Bill's) and

Leo, just a few days ago (Bonnie and Grant's Airedale.)

We love our own dogs, and we love each other's.  It's unspeakably wretched to lose a pet who's loved us without conditions and brought so much joy.

In the Disney movie, Coco, celebrating the Mexican Day of the Dead, or Dia De Los Muertos, the theme is family. As long as we remember and talk about those who have crossed over the bridge, they live on and on.

March and Arts

On Friday night, "The Fantastic Egg Show" is opening at Incarnate Word.  Joy Hein and other artists will be exhibiting art works, the theme of which is, of course, eggs!  I'll be there with Joy and others to celebrate the fantastic.  

If you haven't heard Agarita, please check out this site and learn more about this amazing chamber music group: Agarita

All concerts are free and open to the public, but their concerts are very popular and well-attended, so plan to be there early.  You can sign up for their free newsletter and know when and where upcoming concerts will be. The next concert is also Friday night, March 1st. 

Scraps, hard candies, flowers and strips

Near Selma, Alabama, there's a community of African American quilters.  I haven't been there, but plan to go on my next road trip to Georgia. 

Quilts of Gee's Bend

The company, Galison, has produced a beautiful 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle featuring forty of the quilts at Gee's Bend, and I have finally unboxed this one given to me as a gift.  I'm going to take it on!

Jigsaw puzzling can be a form of meditation for me.  First, I look for all straight-edged pieces and make the border.  Then I put the pieces in a bowl according to color.  The beauty of this grid of quilts puzzle is that every quilt is its own mini-puzzle, a museum in a box as it were. 

The more you look at puzzle pieces, the more you see nuances of colors.  Some look like pieces of candy, others flowers.  It's very satisfying to click two or more pieces together, then search for others by color family and shapes.  

I started a puzzle of rainbow tigers last week--also 1000 pieces--but gave up on it.  After I got the tigers in place, the rest was a numbing exercise in putting trees together. 

This one takes me online to research the people and the place where African Americans, in hard times, expressed themselves in the art of scraps.  If it's satisfying to click cardboard shapes into place, I can only imagine how thrilling it must have been to turn strips and squares of outgrown clothes into beautiful quilts.  

Fever in the Heartland

I'm reading a disturbing book called Fever In The Heartland--the story of the birth and rise of the KKK. Prize-winning author Timothy Egan takes the reader to Indiana of all places where Klan groups spewed hate toward anyone who wasn't a white Anglo-Saxon Protestant.  

White Supremacy infiltrated churches, schools, politics, and business.  While making a big show of charity toward poor (white) orphans by day,  Klansmen donned their robes and pointy hats and committed atrocities at night.  They hated Blacks, Asians, Jews, Catholics, Mexicans, and, well, all immigrants from anywhere. 

While many of the leaders were womanizers, alcoholics, woman beaters, and generally sleazy by any standards, they pretended to be all about morality--no drinking, no card playing, no dancing to immoral jazz.  They were often church members of large Protestant churches, pious, angry, hate-filled good ole boys

The seeds of the Christian Nationalism and White Supremacy we see today were planted by the Klan a hundred years ago in Indiana--the largest Klan membership in the country.  To the leaders, truth never mattered; if a lie were told often enough people would believe it.  

Even then, a hundred years ago, the goals of White Supremacists were to fill congress, courts, and law enforcement with KKK members.  Klan judges and police  looked the other way if anyone bothered to report hangings or beatings.  One judge said, after a particular cruel torture of a man who'd done nothing wrong: "He probably deserved it."

Meanwhile, Klan leaders became rich and powerful.

I'm not even to the middle of the book yet, but I'm intrigued by the subtitle:  "The Ku Klux Klan's Plot to Take Over America, and the Woman Who Stopped Them." 

"Our Little Rock star rodeo girl"

That's what Jocelyn called Elena after watching the live feed of yesterday's rodeo.

The family camps out on the ground along with other families of riders.  At night, the stands are filled with fans of music and rodeo, but the afternoon events are all for kids.

Freda and I went yesterday and saw the barrel race and I watched the pole event online afterwards.  In poles, Elena placed 2nd out of 50 riders!  Between events, we watched an adorable dog show, the dogs trained to jump through hoops and weave around barrels.

The question before the house

At Middle Georgia College--where I attended for two quarters before my wedding--we had a political science professor who began every lecture with these words: "The question before the house is...."

After his memorable opening lines, he droned on and on for fifty minutes. I remember nothing but his opening lines.

As I work on house and home, the voice of Professor Uruquart often comes to mind:

One question before the house is: to what extent will these changes affect how I live in the house?  Will having a dining table that seats eight transform me into a person who invites people over for dinner?  Will I recapture my lost love of cooking? 

Does what's in a house determine what one does in a house?  

Will these colorful Kantha quilts I ordered from Etsy have the desired effect when I sew them into curtains and tablecloths?

Sir Winston Churchill said, "We shape our buildings, thereafter they shape us." 

Fantasies of who we will be when....(when we settle, when we finish, when we move, when we marry or stop being married)...are like creating a stage set for a play.  But who knows?  Maybe I'll never write the play.  Maybe I'll continue working on the stage set just for my own amusement.  

I used to use the word, artist, sparingly.  A real artist was one who exhibited paintings and sculptures in galleries.  At that time I was influenced by the man I married.  I was young, I didn't know better.  "Sunday painters" and "dilettantes" and "crafters" were disparaged.

When I look around now at so many of my friends and acquaintances, I see artists everywhere.  Some are professional visual artists, photographers, and illustrators of books.  Others are artists of home decor, gardens, cooking, and design.   

I'm a passionate devoted dabbler.  An amateur--a word that literally means one who "loves to do." I love to do.  Sometimes I order three rugs and send two back.  I spend hours choosing the right chairs for the new David Marsh dining table I ordered this week.  Rearranging what I have and finding replacements for the pieces I sell on Facebook Marketplace has taken up my blog writing time. 

While I've made a few collages (and intend to make more) I realize that my most enjoyable and sustained efforts involve playing house.

Flipping through my digital photos, I see my house in all its iterations over the past twenty five years.  When I found the house, it had an orange and avocado kitchen.  The walls looked like they'd been painted by stoned teenagers.  Brown carpet covered all the floors, and the entire house smelled of bottled cherry intended to mask the smell of made by numerous cats owned by the previous renter. 

I loved it even then.  I loved the leafy neighborhood and I didn't mind the concrete block exterior of the ugliest house on the street--mine.  What I loved most were the prospects of change, a project that would engage me for decades.  I needed the palette of a downtrodden house and my house desperately needed some artistry.  

So that's what I've been doing the last two weeks, polishing up the 2024 iteration of the happy little house I live in. 

Farewell to Little Mia

Janet--dog lover of all dog lovers--held her precious little Mia in her arms as she died yesterday.  Then she and Bill buried her beside Murdoch in their yard. 

Aunt Jannie found Luci three years ago and she and Bill have always made her feel like part of their family. I'm convinced that Luci remembers it was Janet who rescued her from a scary place and found her a home because she always greets her with a heartfelt whimper of pure love. 

All day I've been grieving for Mia.  Words fail at a time like this, but Janet's words come close: 

We were lucky to love her, and be loved by her, for as long as we did. My belief in the rainbow bridge brings comfort, but not enough.

Tell Me More

 KLRN is for me--as probably for many of you-- my go-to station.  I often wonder what we would do without public television and National Public Radio.  No yelling or pontificating or interrupting, these stations bring voices to the table that are quietly powerful. 

I've just discovered Season 6 of "Tell Me More"--wonderful interviews by the writer, Kelly Corrigan.  I love her interviewing techniques and the ways she makes her subjects feel seen and heard.  

Today I watched her interview with David Brooks, the journalist, former Republican, scholar and writer of the new book, How To Know A Person.

What are the three things every human being needs most? she asks.

Here are his answers:

A sense of dignity, of mattering.

A container, a tribe, trusted people.

Movement--knowing that you are "going somewhere," not just marking time.

My takeaway is that Kelly Corrigan's style of questioning gives the interviewee all three, and her intentional and active listener provides a space to reflect on their mattering, the people they trust, and where they are going. 

Now I'm beginning her interview with a pain scientist, Dr. Rachel Zoffness.  

Check it out if you don't know this show already.  You'll get to know some remarkable and interesting people, and you'll see an extraordinary interviewer at work.  

The warmth of family

We've enjoyed our time together so much that I'm feeling sad today, their last day--so I'll just post a few pics.

Bob and Jocelyn took Elena to spend some of her birthday cash at James Avery last night--and now her bracelet is jingling with charms.  They played cards together and filled up the casita with laughter and silliness.   

I always dread the last day of a visit, but it's been a long-awaited and wonderful visit in spite of the cold. 

Four generations
Carlene born 1925, me 1948, Will and Bonnie 1978, and Elena 2012. 


Carlene liked this chair in my house so much we ordered one for her
for her new apartment at Presbyterian Village in Athens--hoping
for an apartment space to open in the spring. 

The Deep Freeze With Family

Bob, Jocelyn, and Carlene arrived for this Arctic freeze!  

So far, the only person we've seen is sweet Jan.  We're enjoying just staying in by the fire, playing games and talking.  Today is Elena's 12th birthday, but we had to miss the party.  Hopefully we will see them on Wednesday or Thursday for dinner.

I made Spanish Chicken (King Ranch to you Texans) and Jocelyn has made us two delicious Italian meals. 

I hope you're all staying warm and have plenty of water.

Tim Alberta and Russell Moore

You've probably seen Tim Alberta being interviewed on news stations this month.  He's the author of The New York Times bestseller,  The Kingdom, The Power, and The Glory/ American Evangelicals in an Age of Extremism.  

You've probably also seen Russell Moore, author of Losing Our Religion.  Moore was a Southern Baptist preacher who rose to the highest ranks in the Southern Baptist Convention.  But he was hounded by other members for not supporting Donald Trump.  Finally, he decided that his church home was no longer home.

The two men know each other--as do so many devout Christians who have left the church after being treated badly for not rubber stamping the choice of many evangelical Christians. 

If you've ever wondered why evangelical Christians are so devoted to Donald Trump--despite his being as far from a Jesus figure as you can imagine--these books artfully explain the historical lead up to their obsession with him.  They want--according to the pastor of Dallas First Baptist--(and I paraphrase): "Not a sweet turn-the-other-cheek kind of guy but a real SOB to save our country." 

Both books are excellent, (Alberta devotes an entire chapter to the charismatic Russell Moore).The Kingdom, The Power, and The Glory is one of the best of several books on this mystifying marriage of America and Church I've read. 

Fighting a cold

I passed the COVID test with flying negativity, also the flu test administered by my doc's PA.  I'm downing allergy pills, steroids, Mucinex, and Advil, trying to drink enough orange juice and water.  An "upper respiratory infection" or one of many viruses going around was the diagnosis.  Whatever it is, steroids should send it packing by time time Carlene, Bob and Jocelyn fly in on Saturday. 

In other personal news, I'm mainly resting, reading, and watching movies.  The hot water heater needs repair or replacement.  That will happen tomorrow.  

The best movies I've seen on Netflix have been American Symphony and Elvis--though I've also watched a few mediocre films to pass the time.  And I signed up with Paramount Plus to watch the Golden Globe awards.  

The doc said all kinds of viruses and infections are happening, so I hope that everyone reading this is free of all of them.  

American Symphony

I can't recommend this film highly enough--it's now showing on Netflix. 

As you watch, you'll get glimpses of Suleika--who's dealing with a second bout of leukemia.  You'll hear that she's just written a memoir about her cancer, a book called Between Two Kingdoms. 

I've read the book today and it's....

Well, finishing that sentence is going to take me days, so let's just say To Be Continued....

The joys of aging

The very first thing I do every morning---The New York Times word games; Connections, Solitaire and Wordle.  Then Luci and I take a walk.  The rest of the day unspools in various ways, but right now, it's all about finishing some house projects for the new year and for the much anticipated visit of Carlene, Bob and Jocelyn in January.  

I've wrung my hands and cried a few times over what my daddy used to call jackleg handymen.  They cancel at the last minute; they lack the tools, they charge more than they said they would.  So I have discovered an app called Task Rabbit that may be the solution.  In this app, you can request specialists in hanging, painting, moving, lifting heavy things, etc.  Then you can read the reviews and profiles of several men and women in the area who can be hired to do that one thing. 

I have learned this: if you ask the yard man (who may be excellent) if he can paint or hang pictures or do plumbing, he will always say yes!  He can spread paint, yes, but he may not use a drop cloth or tape.  He can install a new shower head, but he may lose a few parts to make it work properly.  

So I'm optimistic.  My Task Rabbit is coming on Friday--and he sounds competent and punctual based on his reviews.  

But back to word games. The word of the day is AGING.  Ironic because I have five close friends who have recently turned eighty--or will before 2024 is over.  When we visit, we often talk about that lurch into the 80s. 

It seems. not so long ago that we were all learning to spell septuagenarian.  Octagenarian is upon us. 

Age goes with us everywhere.  It's a fact.  Will we make it to ninety?  More importantly, will something we think worse than death cut our living short?  Are we--or our spouses and friends--just absent minded or beginning mental decline?  Will we lose people we love?  And how do we go forth after that? 

My friend Bonnie and I agreed that what we do now is live every day to the fullest and partake of anything that brings us joy.  

With war and unrest making news on almost every continent, with immigrants fleeing their homes and coming to America in record numbers, all on top of climate change and the great fear of Trump's possible re-election, we hardly recognize the world we live in.  

We do what we can, but we are determined to live our lives as fully as we can for as long as we can. 

I may be 75; some jobs may take twice as long as they did a decade ago, but--as I told Luci--I can still do hard things. 

She looked at me doubtfully, probably noting that I cannot run or squat or keep up with her when she's pouncing around the yard.  

Look, just watch me, I said.

I rolled and wrapped a defective 8 x 10 wool rug that needed to send back to Wayfair.  By rolling the wrapped rug vertically, one step at a time, I got it to the car and hoisted it in.  All this would have taken a man about five minutes, I know--but it wasn't easy.  I was proud to just get it into the car. 

Then I picked up a heavy box containing a large medicine cabinet.  Same rolling procedure, I got it to the car, lifted the hatch, and pushed it inside--all the while hoping a strong man would walk by and offer to do it for me.  It wasn't easy, but I got it done. 

This morning I've driven to Helotes to meet the new puppy, Marlow.  I've found a mirror at Papi's Mexican import store.  I've taken Luci in for her vaccines.  And now I'm going to do one of my favorite things--get in the bed and finish a good book.

My morning coke run this morning corresponded with a wonderful interview with an indigenous Canadian musician named Jeremy Dutcher, a singer and classical composer a Wolastoquiyik member of Tobique First Nation.  With a gentle voice, he spoke about reviving the music, stories, and language of his people.

This line stood out (and I paraphrase): "I always knew I danced with the rainbow; from the time I was a child, it was undeniable."

Before the coming of the Europeans, he says, his people were inclusive of all people, all tribes. While Jeremy always knew he was gay, he wasn't labeled or marginalized by his tribe.  

I wish it were so in this country of immigrants who did so much to destroy his culture.  

This interview was aired on 1A, and you can find it as a podcast. 

***

I just watched Elvis on Netflix, the best and most gut-wrenching telling of the Presley story I've ever seen.   Tom Hanks plays "Colonel Parker," Elvis' abusive agent; Austin Butler brilliantly portrays Elvis as a young man and also as an aging burned out musician. This film is no doubt destined for awards.

The young Elvis was  a gentle Tennessee boy and man who found his inspiration in church music, especially Black gospel music, and the rhythm and blues musicians he knew on Beale Street in Memphis.  

The pace of his Vegas concerts and the drugs it took to keep him on stage at any cost speak to the greed that robbed him of his family and many of his dreams.

He died thinking no one would remember him, yet he had perhaps more influence on music in America and worldwide than any other.  If his dreams had been allowed to flourish in their own way--instead of usurped by Parker and others--he might still be alive today to finish his story. 

Happy 2024!

As 2023 turns to 2024, I'm not sure what to say, just that I want to connect with everyone and send out wishes for a good new year.

New neighbors are punctuating the change with loud yells at fairly regular intervals, fireworks exploding nearby.  Mostly the sounds from the old house next door are men's voices, one's a little boy.  The women and girls may be inside or watching whatever game the men and boys are playing.  Everyone else on this street is probably sleeping, or--like me-waiting for the noise to subside. We are not a street of celebratory screams.  

Dogs in houses are taking their cues from their people: should we be afraid?  Is all this noise okay?  Are strangers invading our quiet life?  Will this ever end?

So now the neighbors are all screaming as the clock changes to 12:00.  Fireworks are getting louder, closer.  

And now it is 2024.

Best wishes to you all as the new year is now here!