Summer Sunday in San Antonio

Thanks to my new robotic device, this has been an awesome week! I'm calling this The Change of Life--a huge relief after almost three years of foot pain.  I'm grateful to modern medicine for inventing a device that starts at the spine and moves all the way to the toes! 

I still monitor break-through pain occasionally, but the post-anesthesia fog, sciatica, and foot pain have all virtually disappeared. 

Yesterday, I made four books; the day before three! Spending less time managing and relieving pain made me appreciate the  impact of chronic pain on so many people.  This week (knocking on wood as I write that!) has made me appreciate every hour of being able to do creative things--and social things!

Last night, Jan and I--and a few other friends--attended an extraordinary concert by Agarita and Imani Winds.  Two other nights, I met friends for dinner.  For so long, my social life has been stunted and unpredictable, and it was great fun to get out in the world and enjoy my friends. 

When Carlene was almost exactly my age, she wrote a book called Random Renderings of my Rememberings. She typed out her stories on beautiful deckled-edged stationery and packed them in a pink flowery box.  I have treasured that box for years and often taken it out to read a particular chapter that spoke to me.  But now!  Now I am, age-wise, where she was when she wrote it--and it touches me profoundly, like music.  

She writes about her family growing up on a farm in Georgia--and about the comfort of being with her beloved grandmother, Cana, after her 10-year old brother died.  At the age of seven, that death impacted her in so many ways.  As she grew older, she loved going to Cana's house "in town" and being close to church and school. 

I am turning off the horrific news and spending a quiet Sunday finishing this book!  It's the mother of my impulse to write this blog, a way of saving all the treasures and life lessons along the way. 

Here is an excerpt:

A Simple Sentence

If I were a writer, it would happen in the morning. There's an interlude between waking and rising when prayers and memories mingle and merge into a story.  Then an alarm rings, "Write it!"

A few days ago, in a state of melancholy and concert about aging friends, someone asked, "Why do people have to die?"

And so, a spark appeared this morning--a time I felt the reality of the statement, "You are going to die."  Fortunately, this was not relayed by an oncologist saying, "You are going to die" or even a sermon plea from a pulpit promising "You are going to die."

With an awareness as real as the tall steel tripod that held a windmill while it did its pumping work, or the simple barrel bearing weight for a long wide board to be a see-saw, the word, are, took the shape of a fulcrum--and still moves me back and forth like a lever. 

This sentence is not something I dwell on, even now, but the thread of it that settled in me along the way, and with which my life experiences have been quilted, is the support that keeps me afloat and healthy.  Mu gratitude could fill a lake.

February 23, 2002

Grantchester

Pretty sure Geordie is on his third vicar-assistant in Season 10.  

It's never quite clear how Inspector (Geordie) Keating manages to make friends with each new vicar and drag him into the murder case, but in all 10 seasons, it's a detective and a preacher who become partners in crime solving.  

Every episode has a murder, of course--or what would Geordie do?  But the charm of this Masterpiece series rests on the interactions, romances, and collisions among the characters in Grantchester. 

We have Leonard and his partner who finally came out as gay a few seasons back.  The on-again, off-again relationship between Geordie's secretary and one of the detectives on his team. Geordie's marriage to Cathy has had some bumps along the way, but they now seem solid --just when Geordie discovers his son dressing up like a girl in this season.

And of course, there is the college of Oxbridge, site of a few random murders.

Over ten years, the vicarage housekeeper (Mrs. M) has moved from a typical homophobic woman of her times to a fiercely protective mother-figure to Leonard.  The developments in the characters along the way has made this one of PBS' best shows. 

"Error Occurred"--again.

 I'm having technical difficulties--again!

Below is a video of Elena, our rodeo girl, racing around barrels!

But you can't see it because it won't upload.  Trust me, the girl is GOOD on horseback.  

Theodore, Franklin, Eleanor, and Norwegian royalty

I'm spending my weekend with the Roosevelts, thanks to public television.  (Trump and his minions would have PBS and NPR defunded, of course, as part of his mission to make Americans as small-minded as possible.) I can't even imagine what I'd have done without these three platforms for lifelong education and inspiration. 

A pair of excellent counterpoints to the focus on our current administration (if you use that word, loosely) are these two offerings on PBS: :

The Atlantic Crossing 

and

Ken Burns' The Roosevelts, An Intimate History

In the former, "inspired by historical events," eight episodes dramatically recreate the years of America and Norway pre- and through World War II.  While the madman Hitler takes over Europe with megalomania and excruciating cruelty, all nations are in peril.   

The crown prince of Norway and his family cross the Atlantic in 1939 and are befriended by Franklin and Eleanor.  A year later, all hell breaks loose in Norway--a country who thought itself safe due to its neutrality.  

Back when history was taught as dull facts, I was never interested.  But now, thanks to the brilliance of historians and storytellers like Ken Burns and David McCollough and so many others, history comes to life.  

After watching Atlantic Crossing, I couldn't resist re-watching the Ken Burns special all over again.  I'd watched it years ago, but that was before we lived in a country with its own madman at the helm.   

I highly recommend both of these.

Nathan's High School Graduation on Thursday

 

Now that my people have gone back to their own homes, I'm residing in white space, gazing at the snapshots in my mind of the past week. The art world also calls this "negative space," the empty areas around a focal point that create breathing room. 

When I began this foray into making collages, books, and photographs, I filled the entire page, the more the better. Gradually, over time, I've realized that a close up of one person, maybe two, against a white or blurry background can have more impact than a line of people against whatever background happens to be there.  It is, at least, a different kind of storytelling.  

For the sake of convenience, all of us carrying iPhones, most of the pictures we took were not particularly interesting, just thumbnails to jog our memory of a  good week together.  We line up.  We smile on cue.  The plates and residue of restaurant meals are in the foreground. Or racks of Spurs merch--as Marcus wanted to get a Number One shirt.  Three of them blowing out birthday candles, 47, 47, 20.  Two of them celebrating graduations;  Elena giving everyone rides on their four-wheeler and her horses. 

 

We went to Fredricksburg on Saturday, texting each other when we got separated: "I'm here, where are you?"

A handsome young man saw me struggling to walk and gallantly took my arm and led me across two streets.  An example of kindness used to be "helping an old lady across the street."  Outwardly grateful, I squirmed a bit inwardly realizing what part I played in that equation!

On Sunday, my ex and I are both there, guests in Will and Bonnie's new house. For years after our divorce, we were stiff and awkward around each other.

But on this day, there were moments of laughter at shared memories of the Sixties and Seventies.  We are the elders, the only ones in the room who remember Huisache, Magnolia, and Mistletoe, 1967-1969.  Or our cabin on Beckmann Hill in Helotes before Day was born, the voice of young Willie Nelson drifting through the cedars. We are the only ones who recall riding motorcycles on the ragged hills and into deep ravines. We're the only ones who recall our dingy little shared hometown in Georgia with all its life-shaping subtexts. 

Our children and grandchildren listened, laughed along, probably less at the content of our stories and more at the improbable scene of their grandparents chatting and laughing together!  Bonnie tells her father-in-law, "I have never heard you laugh like that!" 

Little flash bulbs in our minds illuminated a past that belonged only to us. 

When, inevitably, the time comes for them to disperse, I know we've reached the completion of this week of togetherness and I miss it before they're even belted into their cars. 

As they head back to their other lives--college, work, summer plans--I'll hear echoes of all these beloved people.

I wonder if we'll ever be together in this exact configuration again: two grandparents, long divorced, one of whom has a girlfriend he's never married; the oldest of the grandchildren with a newly minted graduate degree; the youngest of the grandsons about to start college.

When they leave my house on their last night, I feel alone in empty space for a while, wondering: Now what?   I feel like texting them: "I'm here.  Where are you?" 

Birthday Night at The Pearl

Marcus is 20!

My Tech Rant

I would be so happy--

to never see another QR code

to never again receive a text from the Democratic Party

to shop with paid checkers instead of self-check aisles.

to have no need of passwords

Back in the day, late nineties, early 2k, I was reasonably tech-proficient.  I took a few classes at the Apple Store and wound up buying the first iPod on the UTSA block. Students were duly impressed to see a teacher walking around with earphones and listening to music on a little device they were just beginning to hear about!  Pretty soon they all had one, then the next year they had Mini's, the coolest tech gadgets for a minute or two.   

Now iPods are dinosaurs in the tech world, as am I!

You can't park at the Pearl or the airport (or just about anyone) without your iPhone.  Scan the Fricking QR code, then answer questions, then you're okay. 

Instead of learning HOW to do all that, I just don't go to those places if I don't have to--and when I do, I'm a mess.  I have to call the number on the posted QR code and figure out how to leave.

Even worse, so many restaurants don't even bother with paper menus.  Scan the QR code and read the tiny menu on your phone.  

As for countless yearlong texts from candidates from Maine to Florida, the Democratic Party isn't doing itself any favors--it's made me resolve never to give money to anyone online again, not even a fiver, because the damned texts proliferate like mushrooms on the phone.  I'm pretty sure that I'm not the only one in this camp.  The number of incoming texts is torture.  You can reply "stop" and block the number, but once your number is out there, it's passed around like crackers at a party; you can't get it back. 

Joanne's --the sewing and crafts store that kept human checkers up to the end--is now permanently closed.

Michael's--who has only self-check-out, is (I believe) on its last legs.  It's not fun to go there anymore, so I have started ordering directly from Amazon instead.

I would be happy never to contribute to Jeff Besos' big store again, but it's too late.  We can't roll back the time and revive the countless stores that have gone out of business and switch our allegiances back--but I wish we could. 

Winding Up May in Texas

The Virginia contingent of my family came down the escalator Saturday night wearing Texas Tech T-shirts to celebrate Nathan's high school graduation in early June.  

Tried to post photos, but it's not working out--so just saying that all four Learys and Deana are in San Antonio this week and we'll be attending Nathan's graduation party on Friday night. 

We've also celebrated Jackson getting his masters degree from VCU, Marcus 20th birthday, and Will's and Bonnie's May birthdays. 

Growing (and) Old

I am lying in bed with my charger on my back.  When the pain in my feet returned, I knew something was amiss. 

"Put it on the bullseye of the device," the company rep wrote.

But which incision is the battery? I ask him....then he tells me it's the other one.   "Ohhhh!" I write back.  "No wonder!  I've been putting it on the wrong place!" There's a learning curve here--the kind we keep getting. 

Growing older means adapting to what we can't change, and doing everything we can to change what we can.

Several  conversations with my mama and friends in the past few days clustered around issues related to aging. We talk about what we're doing, books we're reading, and what we're learning about growing, and growing older.  We decry the fact that we can only accomplish a fraction of what we had the energy for last decade, but we share what we're doing with that diminished energy. We ferret out good news stories and share them. 

Friendships like these are islands of peace in a troubled world.    

Like this: Jan insisted I watch The Quilters on Netflix, an intriguing documentary about a group of prisoners in a high-security prison who make intricate quilts for foster children in Missouri.  Most are in for life; some have spent decades inside.  "But when we're doing this, it's like we're outside," one said.  They want every foster child to receive a quilt for their birthday.

These men cut and press and fold fabrics, sometimes waking up in the night to create patterns on graph paper.  The walls of the quilting room are stacked floor to ceiling with donated bundles of fabric. Thank you notes from the recipients make these "hardened criminals" cry.  

Like this: I tell Carlene that I got scammed yesterday.  

Some scammer had tapped into the catalog of Natural Life.  I'd bought gifts for friends and summer blouses for myself, then got an all-cap notice from Natural Life that they'd been scammed.  This was not a moving sale at all.

Carlene's text: "You had the best part of the ordering!!

You got to think of each

Recipient and what they like!   As special as a gift!!

I called Chase to alert them to the scam and to reverse the charge on my card,  all the while thinking about how Carlene can find nuggets of good almost anywhere. 

Last week, she was reading a 30-year-old Anne Lamott book about her drug addiction and recovery.  "If I had read this back then," Carlene said, "I probably wouldn't have liked it.  I probably would have felt judgmental or something.  But it's SO good!"

Like: Nellie telling me about her 20-day art retreat in Italy with a friend.  She's trying to hold on longer to the peace and quiet of Italy. 

Like: Beverly telling me about Larry's lush garden filled with vegetables--and about their attending a protest march every Sunday. 

Like: an email from a book group several of my friends belong to.  Their next book is one I am definitely going to order:  Cherished Belonging: The Healing Power of Love in Divided Times. (Gregory Boyle). This book group is a marvel, a group of septuagenarians and octogenarians who have been reading together for forty years. 

Like Freda who--even with her own knee issues--volunteered to walk Luci when I was recovering from surgery. 

Like Linda who called from beautiful Cape Cod this morning and we wound up talking about our prior writing and how a manuscript she wrote when she was 35, and I read shortly after in a pop up camper on Molas Lake, was the starting point of a lifelong friendship.  

Like this text from Jan reminding me of Glue Parties--Elena being the little cutie who showed up at her door to invite her and Makken and Sebastien to join our sticky little porch party. 

So it's a dreary, rainy day and suddenly the sun shines forth and you hear a tiny knock at the door and here's this bright-eyed little cutie asking if you can come out and play at a glue party.  Her hands, festooned in a shiny white "glove," are drying in the sun, in preparation for the ultimate thrill: "peeling."  That's the secret of a great glue party.  Enshroud yourself in white school glue, let it dry (you can dance and do the hokey-pokey while on this step), then peel, gleefully, with your friends.  Pure joy.

Most of my friends are in their 70s, two in their late 60s, several just over the line into 80.  Sometimes we do wring our hands over the incompetent mostly-men who are running the country.  (At this point, let me recommend a powerful six-episode series on Max, The Plot Against America, based on a Phillip Roth novel, and eerily similar to what's happening in America right now. )

Sometimes we talk about our aches and pains and help each other with food, offers to drive, and encouragement. 

But my friends and I are watching less news and try to change the conversation if it lingers too long on the horrors of Trumpism or aches and pains.  (Freda calls the latter "organ recitals").  

 

Another thing about Pinterest-- I think it changes our brains.

I can remember long afternoons on a blanket in the yard going through books I'd read, taking notes for an essay comparing themes or characters. At some point, while my kids were at school, I might drive over to the library to get more books and further my research.  Those days were delicious, underlining and writing notes and questions in the margins.

Around that time,  I also wanted to write a book called Women and Houses.  Fifteen or twenty books were splayed open to passages I'd found, all about the ways a house shaped a girl growing up, or about the kinds of spaces women created.  I read Carl Jung and copied paragraphs about the meanings of houses in dreams.  I found a quotation by Winston Churchill, "We shape our dwellings and then our dwellings shape us."

Those were the days!  Every discovery took time and legwork.  

Today I could ask Google to find me all that and she would do so in way less than a minute. 

There's something to be said for slow thinking.  Some kind of mental exercise is required for doing a search yourself. 

I may one day look back on the days I've cut down 34 x 46" sheets of paper with the same tinge of nostalgia.  

Social media has its place.  For me, on Facebook it's primarily a place to read the posts from members of the Handmade Book Club.  It would be virtually impossible to find even five book-makers in San Antonio; through the club, I can see what people all over the world are making.

Pinterest is particularly good at picking our brains and feeding us exactly what we want.  We can consume images like candy all day long.  Is it possible (probable even) that it encourages imitation?  (After you "pin" grids, you will get pages and pages of grids; somebody's copying somebody.)

Does it condition our brains to want a lot of everything fast, rather than slowing down and taking the time to find things in their original context?   How important is it that our posts get "liked" or followed? 

Back in the day (here I go again!) a whole town might get excited about a parade, a carnival, a circus, or a rodeo.  The air was electric with anticipation of what we might see together--acrobats, tigers, beauty queens, a rodeo clown. For weeks afterwards, we'd talk about it and relive the juiciest parts. 

If it was a movie we saw with friends--say The Sound of Music or Grease--we'd buy the soundtrack album and play it endlessly, together. 

Fast forward to the days social media: it isn't all that social at all.  Browsing Facebook, Instagram, and Pinterest is solitary.  In years to come, I won't remember it.   I won't even remember it the next day.  

[P.S.  As for the book, Women and Houses, I made a mistake of telling a friend of mine (a writer in New York) about it.   Before the ink was dry in my notebooks, she'd published a book of essays by her writer friends (not including me) on the same subject.  It was deflating, but even more so because she had the temerity to dedicate her book to me!]

I should-a had a V8!

Today was a day of minor achievements.  Way too hot for major ones, but I did get my organization fix.

Achievement #1

Regarding Pinterest: What the heck is Pinterest for?  Ask someone half my age and I'm sure you'll get a very different answer.  Young professionals seem to be scrolling and saving images and whatnot to "build their brand" in case anyone is looking.  

For me, Pinterest is bathroom browsing.  Millions and millions of seductive images populate this very screen in a nano-second.  The algorithm tells Pinterest what I like.  With a click, I can save my stuff to several filing cabinets, called Boards.  I don't pay attention to what board it's going in, I just save it--for future reference.  Maybe a color or a vibe appeals to me and I save it, but I rarely go back and look at what I've saved.  

Pinterest is an overload of eye candy, kind of depressing really.  Everything, it seems, has already been done.  Every possible paint color combination known to man or woman is there.  Recipes I have never once made.  Smoothies and salads.  What keeps me going back are books, not the ones a person might actually read, but how to make blank ones.

Today I spent two hours deleting pins one by one until I realized it was going to take months. Then it occurred to me to check You Tube for a faster way to delete, and sure enough the Nice People over there had made videos that saved me hours. It was very satisfying to delete 10 whole filing cabinets in less than a minute, like sweeping a floor that had never been swept.  A decade of dust bunnies is gone. 

I still don't know why anyone would want to browse the boards of other people--unless those people are posting original art work or ideas.  Why would we want to poke around the boards of strangers?  Can somebody explain that to me?

Achievement #2:

To make a book, you cut or tear down very large pieces of paper.  Each of these pages is called a folio. When you have the desired number of folios, you fold them all at once, not one by one, and that chunk of folios is called a signature. 

Then you stitch those signatures together (a book block) with a cover and a spine and you have a book.

This whole process requires some basic math, a sharp-bladed Kraft knife, rulers and a self-healing cutting mat. 

After doing that for as long as I could stand over my table today, I had a little epiphany that will save me so much time that I literally pounced my hand on my forehead thinking, "I should have had a V8!" What took me so long to figure this out?

1. Since most books are around 4 x 6, all you really need to know is that one 9 x 12 sheet of drawing paper can easily be cut into four folios, then folded into signatures.  Simple math!  No need to buy a whole roll of paper and tear numerous times if you can get the same result from one 9 x 12 drawing pad.

2. If you want to reduce the size by a few inches, all you have to do is make the signatures and trim them down later.

3. If you want to add a few inches, well that's another math equation; we may get to that later, or not. 

4. A guillotine paper cutter saves weeks of hours!

Maybe the teacher started us on the long way to teach us some finer points we might have missed if she had just shown us the easy way up front?  But since I'm not inclined to do things mathematically, it took me a few months to get the obvious.

Happy Mother's Day to all the moms, stepmothers, grandmas, and aunties.

To the human mamas of fur babies. 

To those who nurture and bring to life ideas, books, art, gardens, friendships and all other living things.

And all the while knowing that many mothers and grandmothers and mentors and sisters are no longer present on earth but  present in our memories and dreams.

And that some mothers and grandmothers have outlived their children.

Peace and love to you all!

Surgery Successful!

Monday Will picked me up around 1:30 and we got home around 8:00.  The spinal cord stimulator is IN--for good.  

My test drive was so surprisingly effective at reducing foot and leg pain that getting the permanent one was a no-brainer.  I see the light at the end of a long tunnel--and just hope it's not a hallucination. 

The pain from the incisions and the wearing off of anesthesia make this a less than enjoyable week, however. Tomorrow I get to take a shower and remove the bandages and do whatever I feel like doing except for driving.

I have great friends who have brought food and Freda who's walked Luci for me.  I hope by tomorrow to be able to walk Luci and move a bit less robotically! 

Pets--and Peeves of George

Next to Luci, my favorite dog is Carma, Jan's ebullient little mutt.  Since we don't know the actual birthdays of any of our pets, we decided that May 1st is birthday to all three: George the famous and infamous cat, Luci the love bug, and Carma whose enthusiasm for life is boundless.  

Wrapped in the furry body of a dog, she is life love embodied.  Her tail wags so vigorously that you have to watch out for wine glasses and flowers that might be on the coffee table.  Even after almost four years as next door neighbors, Jan and I still find it hilarious that when we walk together, Luci walks a little behind and pees on the very spots Carma pees on.  

The two dogs have an uneven relationship, shall we say.  One minute they are kissing, the next ignoring or avoiding each other.   Carma is always ready to have a play, but Luci holds a lifelong grudge against her for growling at her once (or maybe twice)  upon a time.  

Jan found George, her cat, last summer on somebody's tire.  He was about the size of a cup of sugar if memory serves, and nobody but Jan was willing to take him in.  

Since then she has made George famous with her daily "George Chronicles"--my main attraction on Facebook.   Now that I've figured out how to move posts from FB to my blog, I may give you more, but in the meanwhile, here are two teasers and you can see them all on FB. Knowing this particular cat, I'm sure his Ma and his neighbors are glad. he won't be tomcatting around and filling the hood with kitties! 

The George Chronicles 4/25/2025: 

George’s fans continue to reach out and attempt to bring comfort to his suffering. His fan Felix Meddlesome understands the travails of hunger and the lack of understanding cats must endure when their fate is in the hands of their human captors. This caring note, accompanied by coupons for treats and other necessities, brought a few moments of joy to George. Now if his human will just hustle herself off to H-E-B to purchase and distribute the goodies, all shall be well.

The George Chronicles 4/30/2025:  

George has been receiving royalty checks for a couple of months for reasons unknown to me, and today I found out why. He had posed for this advertising photo that was used to sell thousands of drink coasters. I know that neutering must put a daunting constraint on a tomcat’s natural urges, but he could have spoken with me privately about his trauma rather than making such a big production out of an act that most responsible pet owners consider to be a community service. Sheesh.

P.S.

When Jan read this post, this is what she texted me:

I love this. By expanding George’s fan base, it ups his residuals and might even lead to an interest from advertisers. 😊 George and I are honored to be included on your blog.  And I love the 5 a.m. photos of Elena leading her horses back to the corral.  That girl is something else!

In real time

In two excellent series, The Pitt and Adolescence, the stories play out in real time.  An hour-long episode represents an actual hour.  No omitting the ordinary moments usually are left on the cutting room floor.  No music bridging or anticipating action or setting the mood. 

Both very realistic and totally engaging from start to finish.  Noah Wylie, lead actor in The Pitt, described the sounds of the doctors yelling commands to each other (unintelligible to us laypeople) as taking the place of music.  Without needing to understand the technical language of trauma surgery, the realism of it is captivating. It is indeed like staccato sounds in music, alternating with quiet reflection by the doctors and nurses as they tend to people after a mass shooting. While tending to those who are dying and those who can be saved, the conversations among doctors and nurses takes the viewer into the heart and head and muscle of one hour. 

I heard on NPR a story called Slow Television, a concept started in Norway.  There is little perceptible action and no plot, yet people are drawn to it and find it relaxing.  It might be a mama cat giving birth to a litter of six kittens or a chef preparing a meal or a family talking at night on a patio.  It sounds a bit like watching paint drying.  

At first, I thought--how strange!

But then I realized I've been doing exactly that for months.  I watch videos on book binding that are more interesting to me than carefully crafted plots on pages of published books.  

Some do not have words at all; others have voice-overs explaining what they are doing; others have quiet music. Each video captures the slow and meticulous movements of a needle attached to thread going in and out and under and around, connecting section to another.  If there is a plot, it's simply the push and pull of threads. 

While I'm watching to learn the skills involved in making a book, and while these videos might only interest those who want to perfect a skill, I'm sure there are videos like this on every subject under the sun.  

I've almost entirely given up television.  When I went to a movie in a theater recently, I noticed that the volume (for the five or six of us in the audience) was distractingly intense.  Not only that--but all the previews of "coming attractions" (now called trailers) were all incredibly loud, not one of which I'd have wanted to see.

Everything seems urgent, overblown, and magnified--just as television news does.  

So if you are looking for an antidote to all that, find yourself some slow TV.  One of the plusses of technology is that it's out there, countless little islands of quiet that soothe the weariness of soul. 

Our country girl

 On Sunday, I visited the Pritchetts.  The house is beautiful (I'm waiting to take pictures until all the unpacking is done) and the barn is as large as the house, if not larger.  The former owners had used the loft as a workout gym.  The lower portion includes a large open space, an office for Will, and a guess room. This outdoorsy family could not have picked a better place!

The house is set back from the road on their ten acres. Elena is on cloud nine and can't wait to invite all her friends over.  Veronica is hoping that her friends, all of whom live in mansions compared to their farm house, may be less than impressed.  

Elena, however, is not worried about anything.

Nathan spent the afternoon assembling a dresser for his sister, and the dogs wandered freely in the yard. 

On Wednesday night, the horses had gotten out of their temporary corral. When Will woke up at 5 am on Thursday, he captured Elena (in pajamas)  riding up bareback on one horse, leading the other.  

This is our quintessential country girl, in her element, bringing in the horses to a house she wouldn't trade for anybody's mansion. 

Sleep Alternatives

As a good sleeper, I'm not plagued with insomnia as some of you may be.  I can get a hearty night's sleep and still a nap around noon.  

I do, however, wake up in the middle of the night almost every night for a couple of hours, during which I have discovered some really fun things to do:

1. I watch dachshund reels on Facebook. They are hilarious. Not only have I never had one (though I'm pretty sure I have a half-one now) but they were never the most appealing of breeds to me before.  Short legged like Luci with long sleek or long-haired bodies and soulful eyes, they are extremely attached to their owners (like you-know-who) and their faces, once you get to know them, are very expressive.  

2. While up, might as well get a snack. Here comes Luci's pitter pattering paws to see what I might share--which I do. She communicates telepathically by sitting tall and staring at me, her unblinking eyes suggesting a few options: salmon treat, sharp cheese, or meat if you have some, please.

3. I love to organize my origami papers, folded signatures, and book cloth I've made for covers.  It's immensely pleasurable to survey my riches in art supplies!  

4. I watch reels of babies laughing, particularly at sweet dogs twice their size.  Watching dogs with their big old paws draped over babies.  Watching human daddies converse with their babies.  Laughter in the night, or any time actually, is guaranteed to increase your endorphins!

5. Playing The New York Times word games.  Just got Queen Bee for the hundredth time--with a little help from the buddies after Genius. In this last lap of the game, I have learned a lot of new words so this lap turns out to be al little like a crossword puzzle.

6. Watching a You Tube video about how to dye papers with Easter Egg dye, onion skins, avocado skins and pits, and coffee and tea.  As Natasha the teacher said, "There are just so many ways to have fun!"

7. Feeling furry Luci going under the covers hoping I'll turn off the light and go back to sleep already. Is anything more pleasurable and sweet than the feel of fur on your legs for the rest of the night? Or waking up later with a tiny little set of eyes staring at you from the other side of the pillow? 

Wednesday

Today just waiting for insurance to approve the procedure and I'm all set to go.  As expected, the pain came back after the trial balloon, but I'm pretty sure it will respond to the permanent device and all will be well.

Here we have Marcus, Deanna, Jackson, Day and Tom in Richmond during spring break--and the whole clan of them will be here end of May to surprise our graduate (Nathan).

Just a little progress report....

Bandages and device removed Monday morning, now waiting for a call to schedule the permanent SCS.

This little interior tens unit of sorts just might be the answer I've been looking for.  I went to bed watching Tsunami and woke up moaning at 11--arghhh! It's back.  

I know what to take and how much.  I play Wordle and Connections on the NYT site.  After half an hour, the pain ends and I can go back to bed--or write on the blog--or make a list of things I can do on Tuesday--or fold the clothes. (Luci suggests playing with her stuffed animals.) 

I choose to make a tiny collage and organize some papers for the next book I want to make: the buttonhole stitch book.

It's not as bad as it was before the trial because now I know there's a solution on the horizon.  If the surgery happens this week, the four-week recovery will be over in time for the Learys surprise visit end of May!  Then, after Nathan's graduation, I can fly to Georgia to visit Carlene.  I'd hoped to go for Mother's Day but have to postpone until this device is installed and tweaked as needed.

Until recently, people who got this device had cords attached.  It was easy for the cords to snag on a doorknob or something and cause real mischief--bleeding and pain and ER visits.  Now it's all bluetooth, so the remote control can be set to do its thing, then forgotten about until it needs to do something different.  

In my case, it's A1 for the feet, A2 for the sciatic nerves.  Intensity can go up or down as needed. 

For almost 3 years, I've tried every therapy out there--from massage to myofascial therapy, from PT to chiropractic....you name it.  All of them help for a few hours, but it obviously requires leaving home for an hour or two. 

If I ask Luci, "You wanna go for a walk?" or "You want to go in the car?" she responds by going to her toy basket, choosing one of her squeaky animals, and running around the house squeaking it until the leash is on. That's dog for "yes yes yes happy happy happy!"

When my doc asked me yesterday, "Are you sure you want this?".....

I could imagine running around her office squeaking with that kind of happiness. 

Saturday Before Easter

 Temporary infirmities are inevitable.  As I have learned the landscape of my own, I've realized what a difficult world this would be to navigate for one who's permanently disabled in just about any way.

Today I drove to CVS, got the cane out, got the dog out, and wrapped my pocket book around my neck.  I grabbed a buggy (cart to most of you) and walked around the store looking for (A) some graduation cards, (B) a scented candle, and (C) a gallon of my favorite bottled tea.

Turns out, CVS had a terribly limited choice of cards and the tea was too low to reach.  The few scented candles they had didn't appeal to me.

I passed over anything (a) heavy, (b) too high, (c) too low--but I found a few things I needed.  With cane and canine and cart, I made it to check out, walking robotically.  

There were no humans at check-out, only two self-service kiosks.  Frustrated,  I decided never mind.  Gone are the days when a human might be nearby to help pack your bags or even take them to the car. 

About that time, Pam called and asked me to meet her at a nearby E-zee's to share a burger.  I was halfway there, so away we went.  

While Luci has never been trained to be an official service dog, I have trained her on the fly--starting during my recovery from knee surgery.  She does whatever I ask her to.  She doesn't pull in the opposite direction or rush me.  Patiently she waits and then steadies me more than the wooden cane.

She watches every step I take.  Not once has she veered or yanked or jumped; she's totally focused as if she'd been trained for the job.

I'm convinced that this silent vibrating device is audible to her canine ears as she studies my legs and feet with intense attention.  This week, I've taught her to jump up on the sofa so I can get her leash on for a walk.  

As I was walking her around the block tonight, a leash in one hand, a cane borrowed from Jan in the other, I was thinking about what it feels like to be (a) old, (b) disabled, or (c) reliant on other people. I'm not accustomed to asking a stranger for help, and even reluctant to ask a friend.

Yesterday,  I drove carefully to the Valero station and got out of the car before noticing the step (I'd never noticed before) between me and the front door. Ugh oh!

About that time, a young man walked up and I asked, "Can I please hold your hand?"

People are invariably willing to help.  While they are helping, they also relate stories of their own.  The young (50-something) man told me that he understood, that his wife had recently had back surgery.  

This morning, I spoke to a man who walks his little white dog in the neighborhood.  He's never been particularly chatty.  He was raking his yard and I commented on how good his lawn looked, then Luci decided to grace his newly raked yard with poop!

While I always carry a bag for these occasions, I hadn't bothered today.  I can't bend down.  I apologized to the man for not doing the neighborly thing and he said, "No problem.  You bend down and you'll find yourself in the ER."

Which is true.  The downside of this week of "test driving" a spinal cord stimulator is that a fall or a twist could be devastating.  The leads are bound up in a bundle along with the device the size of a man's hand, and all of that is wrapped in bandaging.  Everything staying exactly where it's supposed to be takes constant vigilance.  

Two more days of this and the apparatus will be removed and we'll set a date to replace it with a permanent one, placed inside like a pace-maker.  I'm so ready! 

 During my recovery, I'm not doing much that's blog-worthy.  My legs and feet are vibrating.  Sometimes I feel that I'm about to take off, just lying on the bed!  I control the intensity of the vibrations with a remote control, and the wires attached to the spine do what I command them to do.

So far, my feet feel better, way better--maybe 80-90%, especially in the early hours of the day.  

But I'm not allowed to bend or reach or lift--so there's not a whole lot I can do until the temporary device is removed on Monday and the decision is made about when to install the permanent stimulator.

But just down the road, a lot is happening.  Will's family moved into their new Southside Home (with ten acres of land for horseback riding)!  It's closer to me, closer to St. Mary's Hall for Elena, and a beautiful house according to photos.  (I hope to go there and see it on Monday!)

Spinal Cord Stimulator

Today Will and I were at the hospital all afternoon, me getting a trial spinal cord stimulator.  It's like having a tins unit inside my body, vibrating from hip to feet.  I'm very hopeful.  

The anesthesiologist was my age or older, a character.  

My pain management doctor did the procedure--I like her very much!

In one week, it will be un-installed and we'll decide whether the level of effectiveness warrants a permanent one.  The temporary one is a block attached to my back with leads going into my spine.  The permanent one is all inside, sort of like a pace maker.  

Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice

I've been perusing a book Jan had planned to donate to a neighborhood library box.  With these clues, can you guess what book this might be?

1.  It is over 400 pages long.

2. Published in 1982, every page has been typed--on an actual typewriter. 

3. Here is one foot-note in the book: From the church bulletin, 1925: "None of our members, of course, should hold picnics, go to picture shows and ball games, and attend bathing parties on Sunday.  Our religion will be weak and ineffective and our influence will be exceedingly hurtful as long as we do those things." 

4. Another: From the church bulletin, 1925: "The pastor preaches this Sunday morning on Backsliding and Sunday night on The Need for a Revival.  You should hear these messages.  They will be delivered in plain English and he will doubtless call your number." 

5. All contributors to this book are women (though they are called ladies).  Not one of them uses her own first name (except sometimes in parentheses); she is Mrs. Leon Wallace, Mrs. Frank Simmons, Mrs. Mike Slaton.

Did you guess?

Entitled Yesterday, Today, and Forever 1882-1982, this book is a centennial cookbook assembled by the members of the First Baptist Church of Mineral Wells, Texas. 

In it, I'm finding recipes identical to the ones I grew up on and that were published in regional cookbooks all over the South.  Almost all vegetable dishes are cooked with Campbell's soupa and crushed crackers.  Maybe they have a bit of onion or celery, but all cooked in one dish and called casseroles. 

Most "salads" are congealed--with many variations on the theme: Jello; crushed fruit; Dream-Whip, or canned milk; chopped nuts; marshmallows.  I love these--but they are more dessert than salad. 

The largest section of these First Baptist (and all Baptist) cookbooks?  Can you guess?

Sweets!  Cakes, fruit cobblers, brownies, cookies, and pies. 

I can imagine why.  Early Baptists were not allowed to dance or play cards.  Ball games and picture shows were forbidden.  So what pleasures were left?  

Southern mamas were creative with all the possible pleasures inherent in  sugar.    

"Nevertheless...

 she persisted...."

Two years and three months ago, as a new member of the Book Club, I got it into my head that you aren't a legitimate bookbinder unless you can do the coptic stitch.  I watched the same video over and over, after creating my signatures, signature covers, and book cover, and I could. not. get. it.

I slowed the speed down so that a kindergartener should be able to follow.

I watched the seasoned members show off their beautifully bound books.  

And I decided, after a couple of months of frustration, that this stitch would forever be an enigma to me. 

Why waste monthly membership if I was going to be the only one in this worldwide club of members to fail close to the starting line? I asked myself.  

So I did what quitters do.  I quit.

A few months ago, the voice in my head wouldn't shut up.  I was--an am, increasingly--fascinated by folding and stitching and gluing beautiful papers together to make a book.  And I hadn't scratched the surface in the archive of tutorials.  So with resolve, and not even looking at that damned coptic stitch, I rejoined, intent on doing easier structures.

But the voice in my head taunted me and I began to watch coptic stitch videos on You Tube--but only after successfully completing some almost-equally difficult stitched books

I stumbled across a teacher who explained it in a way that made more sense to me.  All I needed was to grasp the logic of it, I thought, and I'd be on my way.

I took out the original pages I'd made two years and three months ago.  The holes were ragged from multiple needle pokes.  But tonight, I refused to stop until I got it all together.  Even though it was doomed to be imperfect, it began to hold together and feel like a real book!

A crooked wonky little book.  A treasure.  I'm happy. 

Stoneflowers

We probably all have a story or two that we've never forgotten.   

Mine is called "Stoneflowers" and it came to me freshman year of college from my creative writing professor,  the late John Igo.  Decades after I shared my version with countless students, I called John Igo to check the accuracy of the tale.  My version bore little resemblance to his!  By then, I'd searched online and found no mention of it. I even searched for my creative writing class notes--and nada! (Some of my college students liked the story so much they created a poetry anthology and named it Stoneflowers,  dedicated to me) 

I still prefer my version: 

A man sets out for the village for a wedding or festival or some sort.  On the way he spots the most beautiful flower he's ever seen.  He wants to pick it to put in a vase in his cottage, but he's already late, so he hurries on.  He'll pick it on the way home.

On the way home, he looks desperately for the flower, and all he sees are stones.  He reckons that the flower has turned into a stone.

What I remember is the professor's interpretation of the story: if we see something we want, and if we delay acting on our desire, it won't be there later.  A stone flower, he said, is a symbol of ephemerality.  When we love something, or someone, or some place, we should act on it because nothing lasts forever.

I've encountered stone flowers on road trips.  If someone else is driving and I don't want to ask the driver to stop so I can take a picture, I resolve to take it later, when I'm driving.  I can't count the number of roads not taken again to capture a photo.  And even if I had, the light would be different.  But most importantly, the scene (or row of trees, or children playing, or clothes dancing on a line) is ephemeral. 

I've encountered them on walks--I see a beautiful leaf on the ground; I'll pick it up on my way back.  

Thomas Wolfe's novel, You Can't Go Home Again, tells the story of a writer who writes about his hometown; when he goes "home," the people are so outraged that he's no longer welcome there.

At the time of first meeting these two stories, I was newly married, living in San Antonio, far from my home state.  The stories dovetailed with my awareness  that this was my new life and that I'd only go "home" to visit.  

Someone once said, "We don't just read books, books read us."  This is true of poems, essays, fiction, even quotations that speak to us one way when we're twelve, another when we're 30, another as we continue to age.  Our perspectives are shaped by lines of writing.  The world gets bigger as we engage with imaginative writing.  And maybe--as I did with Stoneflowers--we reshape a story to describe what we're already experiencing but have not yet put into words. 

Four Weekend Snapshots

1. 

Driving into the Container Store parking lot yesterday, I saw the most remarkable traveling trio.  A man in a wheel chair was riding through the parking lot from  busy San Pedro. 

That, alone, would have been noteworthy.

But he was being led by one dog and followed by the other--no leashes anywhere.  

Once parked, I stopped to talk to him.  A recent amputee named Joe, he was happy to talk about his dogs, Dusty and Doo Dah.  Dusty was a beautiful sleek black dachshund and Doo Dah, with his copper and white coat,  could have been a relative of Luci--except that he had a scary bark on him.  

Luci was attracted to the quiet little Dusty and not particularly interested in the barker who was giving her a noisy what-for.

"He's scared shitless of everybody," Joe said.  "He just barks because he's scared.  It don't mean nothing."

I was curious.  How did they navigate traffic?  How did he keep two dogs so close to him without leashes?

He shrugged.  "They's no other way.  If I want to go someplace they go."  Dusty, his human engaged in conversation, wandered a few feet away to sniff some tires.  But all Joe had to do was say "Come on back here, Dusty" and he came right back. 

2. 

I got home with my new shelves in time for my excellent new handyman to install them.  

He showed me a picture on his phone--a project he did for one of his clients.

After he built her wall of tables, look what she did with it! 

3.

Elena's big catch--from pics sent by her dad of their weekend fishing trip, a girl after her daddy's (and her granddaddy's) heart! 

4.

The Learys at the Cherry Blossom Festival this weekend in D.C. 

Here is Day's accompanying text: 

"It was amaaaazing. There were these teams who flew kites to music and coordination with each other!  It made me cry because there was all this joy all over the entire mall even though there’s shitty politics. No one cared about anything but the wind and the beautiful kites."

I want to go there next year! 

Love-ability

As a teacher, I just-about always found lots of lovable in the students in my classes. Teaching is a profession that attracts all kinds of people, especially mama types like me--especially in public school education.  

On the first day of class, I sat them in a circle and we got to know each other, pretty sure an activity of less appeal to my math and biology colleagues. In that first hour together,  I sat back and soaked them up, taking note of what interested them, memorizing their names, knowing that to proceed we had to stumble upon common bonds to proceed with a semester--or in the case of middle and high school students, an entire year.

Over the course of our time together, there were favorites I still remember.  With a few, intimacies shared in their writing touched me and made them memorable. I loved a lot of kids along the way.

Some called teaching a profession with way more "psychic income" than monetary rewards. For mama types, fair enough at the time.  Whetting students' appetites for words, observing progress in their ability to connect them into sentences and paragraphs was rewarding.  But without partners with larger paychecks, most of us couldn't have survived on our pathetic salaries.  I often mused that the university spent more on a couple of flower beds than on the salaries of freshman comp. teachers.

Years after teaching middle school, I got a Christmas call from a former student, by then in the Navy, stationed somewhere overseas.  "I ain't never had a teacher as good as you," he said--no testament to my teaching of grammar, but when he elaborated on that point, it was clear that he remembered that I laughed at his jokes and cared about him. 

A recent episode of "Unsung Heroes" (NPR) summed up my philosophy about people back then: 

After 9/11, the speaker found that she was terrified of flying for years.  She was suspicious of strangers and terrorism and airplanes. 

One day, she had to fly somewhere.  Even before take-off, she was wringing her hands, her breathing shallow.  When the stranger sitting beside her struck up a conversation, she told him why she was so afraid. That conversation changed her life, she said. 

It was just four words, really, that changed her life: "Most people," he said, "are good."

This man probably has no memory of speaking those words, yet she said it changed her outlook and the way she parented her children.  Now, instead of fearing the terrible, she looks for the good. 

I still want to agree with Anne Frank--that "most people are basically good. But I don't rock-solid believe it anymore.  That half of our voters would elect Donald Trump, not once but twice, has shaken so many foundations that my brain probably looks like rubble in a war zone. 

I won't elaborate, or we'd be here all day.

When I'm trying to feel generous of spirit or wiser than I am, I try to imagine Donald Trump as somebody's first grader.  I try to think of him as somebody's little boy, maybe a trouble maker or a bully but reachable at least. Surely, I tell my former-teacher self, there is something to like about him. I could take him aside during lunch and we could talk about empathy and manners maybe? 

I'm not that wise or generous of spirit.  

Sunday, March 23

Getting old is filled with life lessons. My curriculum includes recognizing and appreciating pain-free moments. I plan my days around them:  

Whatever time I wake up I start my morning ritual: meds, then a lie-down until the pain in my back, legs, and feet subsides enough to walk Luci around the block.  At 11:00, like clockwork, repeat. Phone off.  Six days out of the past seven the pain has been straight-up excruciating. 

I see an excellent chiropractor twice a week and get a massage about once a week. The results are impressive for a few hours. During the breaks in pain I juggle errands and phone calls and book making.  A single hour of cutting, painting, stitching, and sorting is bliss. 

But most of my hours include lying down, watching Handmade Book Club videos and movies and sleeping.  I've watched all 12 episodes of The Pitt, four episodes of the mini series of Adolescence--both outstanding. I've watched The Miracle Club, The Year of the Dog, and Twisters.  And I've folded eight signatures for a book it will take me weeks to finish. 

I know instantly when it's time to stop standing and start reclining with ice packs, meds, and feet up.  The clues are unmistakable--a burning in the feet, heat and pain in the lower back, the whole right leg on fire.

These rituals have taught me to appreciate every moment of creativity, to regard them as vital to my sanity and joy.  Pain is a humbling teacher. 

Trump 101 in the public school

A public school teacher in Idaho made a poster saying, "Everyone is welcome."

Below the words were ten hands with hearts on them.

The teacher was ordered to take it down.  Why?  Each hand was a different skin tone.  How dare she suggest that students of all colors were welcome in her classroom?

At first, the young history teacher obeyed, but she was very unsettled by it and a few days later taped it back on the door.

She has been ordered to take it down by the end of the school year of face disciplinary action, possibly termination, due to her "insubordination." 

Home Again after Ten Days in Georgia and Virginia

It was a perfect  trip--half of it with Day and Carlene in Athens, then the other half with the Learys in Virginia.  

One of the Georgia highlights was a day trip to Madison, we three plus Luci, where we saw one shop in which every window was filled with enormous papers flowers on green covered stalks.  Note to self and Day--make some of those flowers ourselves.

One of the Virginia highlights was that Marcus, Jackson and Deanna drove from Richmond to share the weekend, Marcus on a five day trip to do sports announcing!  Day's dream is a backyard studio and we all spent Sunday afternoon measuring it out with string, 20' x 12'.  

The Leary dog, Tucker,  finding a sunny spot on the kitchen floor on a cold day. 

Day making sour dough bread

Day and Jackson by the trampoline which they are getting rid of.

Marcus measuring with string

Tom practicing a golf swing
with a studio-measuring stake 

Day and Tom in their third decade together, happy as ever! 

Jackson, Deanna, Marcus and Scout 

Before driving me to the airport yesterday, Marcus and I had lunch at Nando's. 

Nana and Day at Presbyterian Village 

My beautiful mama and I in her room. 

Jackson is winding into the last two months of his graduate program and he gets his Masters Degree in April.

Marcus--whose goal is sports-casting--is getting jobs already in his sophomore year at VCU! 

Deanna (Jackson's girlfriend) is awaiting news on her own graduate school admission, and she's working with children with autism. 

"I''ll have what she's having!"

       If you don't know Meg Ryan's most famous scene, where were you in 1989? 

      You can Google it if you like, just search for "diner scene in When Harry Met Sally"--as I just did.  The best spoken line in the scene was delivered by an older woman at the nest table: "I'll have what she's having!"

      When I feel that way, when I most want what another person is having, it's when I see artists at work in their studios, or the products of that work.  

       Growing up in a small town in Georgia, we didn't have art supplies to speak of--maybe a yellow box of Crayolas, Magic Markers, and poster paper for school projects.  No art shows or classes, and no art supply stores, unless you stretch the definition to include the fabric section of McConnell's Dime Store--which, having spent countless hours there as I child, I do.

       Nor did our small town have book or record stores or car dealerships selling suspect "foreign cars." We did have the messiest everything store called Jazzbo's where, if you were lucky, you could find the latest 45 records or a random 59-cent Nancy Drew mystery.  

       I can remember my mama coming home with a bag of fabric and patterns and pins, but I find it unimaginable that she, or any other mama, would come home with non-utilitarian "art supplies."  Mamas didn't buy such frivolous things, and if they had wanted a canvas or a pad of watercolor paper, say, they'd have to get it in Atlanta. 

       In the 70s here in San Antonio, the scrapbook industry set up shops all over town and in the aisles of the big box stores, selling stencils, paints, gel pens, rubber stamps, etc. 

       I made a few scrapbooks, a legitimate frivolity because it led to documenting the family's history,  with flourishes and decorative borders.

       It didn't take long for us to find other applications for all those art supplies.  Scrapbooking, per se, seems to have gone the way of counted cross stitch, but those art supplies stayed around.  

       I was sad to see yesterday that Jo Ann's is filling bankruptcy and closing half its stores.  Luci and I will miss our  field trips there and I'll miss having so many fabric and paints under one roof. With the brutal competition of Amazonians, so many brick and mortar stores have folded. 

       But Jo Ann's? Really?  

       Online shopping provides specialty niches for artists and craftspeople, but I'll miss being greeted by clerks with "Hey, Luci!" --reminiscent of the Cheers theme song--"Sometimes you want to go. where everybody knows your name." 

Sunday, February 9

Yesterday, in a poetry/collage class, we were asked to pick a line at random from a book the class had published.  The line we picked was to be the first line of our timed writing.

This is the line that jumped off the page;

"I hesitate to call myself an artist."  

 I hesitate to call myself an artist. Not only do I have no art degree, but I married a man who had already appropriated that domain for himself. 

 I was 18, new to San Antonio.  He was seven years older with an MFA degree, teaching kids my age at San Antonio College--where I took algebra, English,  creative writing and philosophy.

One day he came home with a stack of colorful artwork from his students, geometric shapes glued onto paper. They blew me away--to borrow a 1967 cliche.

What are those? I asked, curious, intrigued, itching to know more.

"Collages," he said stuffing them into his bag out of view as if he'd been caught red-handed with pornography,

"Collage???" 

I made a mental note to look for books on the subject. As I skimmed through books in the S.A.C. library, I thought, That's what I'd have majored in if I'd known it was a thing.

 "You're a writer," he said.  "Stick to that."

 Throughout our marriage, the lines only got thicker.  Home design and decor were his domain.   "Serious artists"--I came to understand--knew Important Things that I wasn't privy to. They had degrees, credentials, exhibition aspirations.

 Those not in the high society of "real" artists  were Sunday painters, dabblers and dilettantes. 

After decades of staying in my lane, then divorcing and putting a toe in the art world,  I learned that not all artists hold what they know so close to the vest.  My artist friends are generous and share freely what they know. 

 I'm thinking of Joy, Nellie, Lyn, Victoria, and Barbel, all successful artists. They invite novices, like me,  to hop on The Art Train and go for it!

I've learned from them--as well as those who teach collage and book-making online.  The joy of making art is contagious.  

There's plenty  to go around.