I just got a note from my friend Becky--who would be here tonight for writing group except that we canceled it for August. I miss my Thursday friends, but at 104 degrees, we don't feel like doing anything but staying inside and reading and writing and watching movies.
She read my post about the "ducks" and wrote this:
The 12 duckies who waddled across your driveway are not ducks. I believe they’re Egyptian geese, which have begun to proliferate in San Antonio. Notice the distinctive bubble-gum-pink legs and feet and the sexy, kohl-like eyeliner. Since we have no rain, perhaps we are becoming more like Egypt. So, why wouldn’t the geese feel good about living here?
Thank you, Becky, for that correction! I'm so happy to know that I had geese in my yard. Now I'm curious: were the two adults two mamas? Or a mama and a papa?
I'm about to Google Egyptian geese and hope that more of them show up!
I just got back from my second trip to Chick Filet for a great big iced tea and watched a beautiful movie in between: The Lunchbox.
Thursday, August 21, 2014
Two Little Girls At The Rodeo
One is holding a horseshoe--tossed her way by her daddy on his horse. "I collect them," she said. "I hang them all over my wall."
This is the age when dreams are born--when the smells and tastes and sounds of what you love imprint in your imagination for the rest of your life.
For me, it was the fairground--and to this day I love brightly colored carousels and peanut butter cups. I don't especially like eating cotton candy--but I like the idea of it.
What were you doing at six or seven? Were you sitting on a fence watching horses? Hanging clothes on the line and watching the fabrics flap in the breeze? Listening to music? Swimming or riding a bike? Helping your mama cook?
What were the carefree moments that you try to replicate now that you are a grown up?
Fourteen Ducks
Two adults and twelve baby ducks walked right across my yard, cut through the driveway, and headed over to Jan's back yard yesterday.
They were too quick to get a really good picture--so this is the best I could do. In this drought, where would a dozen baby ducks be going?
The heat factor yesterday was 104 degrees with no water in sight.
Sunday, August 17, 2014
The English Patient
After an invigorating conversation with a friend over good Thai food at YaYa's, I came home and continued watching the beautiful movie, The English Patient.
Midway, there's a bath scene flashback and a conversation between two lovers, Katherine and Almasy. He asks her four questions:
When have you been most happy? ("Now," she answers.)
When have you been least happy? ("Now," she says.)
What do you love? "Say it all."
What do you hate most? ("A lie," she says.")
Such simple questions, so hard to answer! Maybe these are the questions we should ask each other when we meet. Maybe the answers to these four questions tell us all we need to know.
Midway, there's a bath scene flashback and a conversation between two lovers, Katherine and Almasy. He asks her four questions:
When have you been most happy? ("Now," she answers.)
When have you been least happy? ("Now," she says.)
What do you love? "Say it all."
What do you hate most? ("A lie," she says.")
Such simple questions, so hard to answer! Maybe these are the questions we should ask each other when we meet. Maybe the answers to these four questions tell us all we need to know.
The Amish: Shunned
PBS brings the best of drama and documentaries. I just watched a beautiful, balanced portrayal of the Amish on PBS' "American Experience" series on Netflix.
Once, when Betty and I were on a road trip, we stopped at an Amish bakery in Pennsylvania and had a conversation with the family who lived there. Black and white and solid blue clothes hung on a very long line, from the top of the barn to where we stood. Horses and carriages were parked nearby. At the time we were both teachers, and the children of the family reacted to that fact with amazement (unlike the way most American children do). "You are teachers?" they said. "Real teachers?"
In Amish communities, the children attend one-room schoolhouses and graduate at the end of 8th grade. (I'm assuming that means that their teachers are only educated through grade eight.) They work hard in the fields, they have no electricity, and they are a close-knit community bound by strict tradition.
If members violate rules, they are shunned by everyone, even their own family members. As one of them said, there is nothing more painful than being shunned and ignored; it takes away the access to "multiple perspectives" that comes from being a part of the group.
If a child leaves the Amish, the family is devastated because they believe that their child will go to hell. Heartbroken parents try everything they know to bring them back into the fold, yet if the child refuses to come home, they are cast out.
This documentary shows what happens to several young people who decide to abandon the family and church and start lives of their own "among the English." Some stay--after tasting independence; some return home, homesick for their families and the simple lifestyle of their people.
Once, when Betty and I were on a road trip, we stopped at an Amish bakery in Pennsylvania and had a conversation with the family who lived there. Black and white and solid blue clothes hung on a very long line, from the top of the barn to where we stood. Horses and carriages were parked nearby. At the time we were both teachers, and the children of the family reacted to that fact with amazement (unlike the way most American children do). "You are teachers?" they said. "Real teachers?"
In Amish communities, the children attend one-room schoolhouses and graduate at the end of 8th grade. (I'm assuming that means that their teachers are only educated through grade eight.) They work hard in the fields, they have no electricity, and they are a close-knit community bound by strict tradition.
If members violate rules, they are shunned by everyone, even their own family members. As one of them said, there is nothing more painful than being shunned and ignored; it takes away the access to "multiple perspectives" that comes from being a part of the group.
If a child leaves the Amish, the family is devastated because they believe that their child will go to hell. Heartbroken parents try everything they know to bring them back into the fold, yet if the child refuses to come home, they are cast out.
This documentary shows what happens to several young people who decide to abandon the family and church and start lives of their own "among the English." Some stay--after tasting independence; some return home, homesick for their families and the simple lifestyle of their people.
The Center Cannot Hold
The cover of Ellen Saks' memoir tells us that the book is a "lucid and hopeful memoir of living with schizophrenia." Her subtitle calls it a "journey through madness."
Lucid, indeed. Saks' mind is both "brilliant" and "broken." Even during (and in spite of) her periods of "florid psychoses," she earns advanced degrees at Oxford and Yale, becomes a professor, then goes on to study psychoanalysis.
Before she finally admits that she will need meds for the rest of her life, she has all the symptoms of full-blown schizophrenia--starting as a teenager when houses talked to her. She was an outcast and very lonely in her school days, and she stopped eating--yet was advised by her parents (who were well-meaning and cared for her) to just "try harder."
When she leaves home for college, her symptoms flare in horrific ways. She babbles nonsense, she has excruciating hallucinations, and she doesn't shower or brush her teeth. She hides under desks and mutters. She finds it hard to make friends or care about her physical appearance because the voices in her head take all her energy. She is hospitalized and put into restraints a few times.
In her years of college and graduate studies, she finds it very hard to make friends. When others laugh, she's sure they are laughing at her. She believes she is evil and has the capacity to kill people. She wonders how anyone could possibly be her friend if she told them the truth about her condition.
And yet, in time, she does make a few trusted friends and finds a series of therapists--whom she sees up to six days a week. Without these people, it's unlikely that she would have survived.
I had to put the book down and take several breaks because it's painful to read. Patients with mental illness of this magnitude don't get to take breaks. I've read books by people who were strongly affected by a parents' mental illness, but this is the first time I've read a first-person account by someone suffering from the disease.
It's been intriguing (and sad, and shocking, and illuminating) to be a voyeur on her journey, one that took her decades to live and took me only two days to read. This vicarious journey reminded me that the catastrophes that befall other people could (with just a few biochemical differences in the brain) belong to me or anyone I know.
With her brilliant and broken brain, Elyn Saks achieves more than most people with normal brains do--driven by her lifelong mantra to "try harder." She winds up with a good marriage, a prestigious career, and the ability to live with and manage her disease.
Except for a few episodes of depression, I've never experienced an impaired brain. But even when minor garden-variety depression rolls in for a day or two like a heavy cloud, I have a minuscule taste of something being cracked.
Obsessing over small errors of judgment--mine or other people's; lacking the energy to do the things that are usually effortless; fading of the vivid colors of "happy things" from just a day before; feeling lonely yet wanting to be alone--these are just a few of the signs that my brain is on low-power and needs a reboot.
It takes a little courage to even admit to ordinary depression (I, who like to be Susie Sunshine); it must have taken Elyn Saks unimaginable bravery to tell her harrowing story with such candor.
Thursday, August 14, 2014
Humor
At salon, we talked about humor: how important is it?
When I was a little girl, my cousins, brother and I all stood in the doorway of the kitchen laughing--not because of a joke, but because our mothers were doubled over in laughter--again! We had no clue what they were laughing about and they couldn't catch their breaths to tell us anyway, but seeing them laugh hysterically was funnier than whatever it was! Still, to this day, those two can laugh harder than anyone I know.
Humor is contagious.
Last night, each person told what makes them laugh and why--while we ate delicious food and giggled at lame and not-so-lame jokes. Then Janet O. went into Janet P's kitchen and we all heard her howling! Someone had put fake kitty poop on her beautiful Pavlova dessert.
Will cracks me up telling me about practical jokes the firefighters play on each other. Betty makes me laugh recalling the "material" of our childhood that wasn't funny fifty years ago, but is now. Doc Martin makes me laugh. Friends who say outrageous or unexpected things are way funnier than sitcoms or slapstick.
I read somewhere that little kids laugh three hundred times a day--and that might be accurate. As we were riding to the pool, Nathan asked, "Yenna, can you make inappropriate sounds with your mouth?" My efforts brought peals of laughter from the back seat--and the seventh time was just as funny as the first. Bodily functions--especially poop-and-pee-and-gas ones--are hysterical to them.
"Does it tickle your bottom when you pee?" Nathan asked Elena. "Cause it does for me."
"Nathan is so funny!" Elena said.
I'm not especially funny--except to a two-year-old and a seven-year-old, but, hey, I take my audiences where I can!
When I was a little girl, my cousins, brother and I all stood in the doorway of the kitchen laughing--not because of a joke, but because our mothers were doubled over in laughter--again! We had no clue what they were laughing about and they couldn't catch their breaths to tell us anyway, but seeing them laugh hysterically was funnier than whatever it was! Still, to this day, those two can laugh harder than anyone I know.
Humor is contagious.
Last night, each person told what makes them laugh and why--while we ate delicious food and giggled at lame and not-so-lame jokes. Then Janet O. went into Janet P's kitchen and we all heard her howling! Someone had put fake kitty poop on her beautiful Pavlova dessert.
Will cracks me up telling me about practical jokes the firefighters play on each other. Betty makes me laugh recalling the "material" of our childhood that wasn't funny fifty years ago, but is now. Doc Martin makes me laugh. Friends who say outrageous or unexpected things are way funnier than sitcoms or slapstick.
I read somewhere that little kids laugh three hundred times a day--and that might be accurate. As we were riding to the pool, Nathan asked, "Yenna, can you make inappropriate sounds with your mouth?" My efforts brought peals of laughter from the back seat--and the seventh time was just as funny as the first. Bodily functions--especially poop-and-pee-and-gas ones--are hysterical to them.
"Does it tickle your bottom when you pee?" Nathan asked Elena. "Cause it does for me."
"Nathan is so funny!" Elena said.
I'm not especially funny--except to a two-year-old and a seven-year-old, but, hey, I take my audiences where I can!
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
What makes a good day?
The ingredients for a good day vary. The unexpectedness of things gives texture and joy to a day:
Going to two grocery stores to get the ingredients for lasagne, then making it--for tonight's salon.
Talking to Carlene on the way there and on the way back--and hearing her excitement over a blouse I gave her (and for which she got lots of compliments at church!) and going to look at houses with her granddaughter, Mary Elizabeth, in Athens tomorrow.
Getting a present in the mail from Sandy for no particular occasion: a copy of Outlanders by Diana Gabledon, an actual thick book with a blue cover that will be good summer reading.
Getting a DVD from Netflix: Saving Grace, the movie, not the series.
Reading a draft of a friend's amazing book.
Getting an invitation to swim tomorrow--and waiting now to hear if Elena and Nathan can go with us--or whether or not I'll visit the kids in Helotes and meet the new horse for which they traded the kicker pony Jack.
The handyman canceling just now for today--which gives me the whole afternoon to read and get ready for salon tonight.
Getting a copy of a book I ordered from Amazon: The Art of Whimsical Lettering.
Time to take a nap. Feeling peaceful and grateful. Wishing we'd gotten more rain--but the basil is once again standing up in its pot and the grass is a tad less crunchy after last night's rain.
Going to two grocery stores to get the ingredients for lasagne, then making it--for tonight's salon.
Talking to Carlene on the way there and on the way back--and hearing her excitement over a blouse I gave her (and for which she got lots of compliments at church!) and going to look at houses with her granddaughter, Mary Elizabeth, in Athens tomorrow.
Getting a present in the mail from Sandy for no particular occasion: a copy of Outlanders by Diana Gabledon, an actual thick book with a blue cover that will be good summer reading.
Getting a DVD from Netflix: Saving Grace, the movie, not the series.
Reading a draft of a friend's amazing book.
Getting an invitation to swim tomorrow--and waiting now to hear if Elena and Nathan can go with us--or whether or not I'll visit the kids in Helotes and meet the new horse for which they traded the kicker pony Jack.
The handyman canceling just now for today--which gives me the whole afternoon to read and get ready for salon tonight.
Getting a copy of a book I ordered from Amazon: The Art of Whimsical Lettering.
Time to take a nap. Feeling peaceful and grateful. Wishing we'd gotten more rain--but the basil is once again standing up in its pot and the grass is a tad less crunchy after last night's rain.
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
Rain! At last!
I should know this by now: rushing around is counterproductive! I am now taking a deep breath--inhaling--relaxing--reminding myself to slo-o-o-w down!
The traffic was heavy as I drove toward Pipe Creek at rush hour--where I'd planned to watch the rodeo practice. It's a long way from here to there, north to Pipe Creek, twenty miles past Helotes, about 50 or 60 miles from here.
In Helotes, I stopped at El Chaparral's, intent on getting a spinach enchilada--but they were out of spinach. Realizing I was late, I left the restaurant without my cell phone, which I didn't notice until I arrived at the rodeo gate. I turned right around and raced back to Helotes--where, thankfully, my server had found and held the phone for me!
Earlier, I'd gone to Steinmart to look for sheets--and I thought all the way home that I must have left my sunglasses there. Fortunately, I just found them in the back seat of the car.
It's been a frenetic evening--but the good thing is that just as I walked into the house, a pounding rain started--for which all our crunchy lawns are grateful. Thunder and lightning and rain--what a wonderful sound and light show right now!
I hope it rains all night!
The traffic was heavy as I drove toward Pipe Creek at rush hour--where I'd planned to watch the rodeo practice. It's a long way from here to there, north to Pipe Creek, twenty miles past Helotes, about 50 or 60 miles from here.
In Helotes, I stopped at El Chaparral's, intent on getting a spinach enchilada--but they were out of spinach. Realizing I was late, I left the restaurant without my cell phone, which I didn't notice until I arrived at the rodeo gate. I turned right around and raced back to Helotes--where, thankfully, my server had found and held the phone for me!
Earlier, I'd gone to Steinmart to look for sheets--and I thought all the way home that I must have left my sunglasses there. Fortunately, I just found them in the back seat of the car.
It's been a frenetic evening--but the good thing is that just as I walked into the house, a pounding rain started--for which all our crunchy lawns are grateful. Thunder and lightning and rain--what a wonderful sound and light show right now!
I hope it rains all night!
At Home, At School
I dreamed I was teaching at U.T.S.A., standing in front of a class wearing blue jeans, a T-shirt and Birkenstocks. I was in my element--including the most elemental attire. In the dream, I was about the age my daughter is now--early forties, with two children.
Teaching was, and always has been, one of my Happy Places.
When my students turned in papers to be graded, I took them home and read them and wrote encouraging personal notes along with suggestions for their writing. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say I probably spent more time on their papers than they did. I used the usual English teacher shorthand: CS for comma splice, MM for misplaced modifier, FRAG for fragment, etc.
One of my students, now a friend, later told me that she thought all those MMs meant Umm--as in yummy! She is now a teacher at U.T.S.A. as I was then, and she's almost completed her Ph.D. We always laugh at the memories of those MMs.
Teaching in those years was a bit like being on stage. I might have a script of sorts to get me started, but I improvised according to the mood of the audience. I walked into the rows of desks, or I pulled the desks into a circle and sat with them. At the end of the day, I was spent, having put every teaching trick I knew into my ninety-minute gigs.
At the end of the month, my paychecks were probably less than theirs--waiting tables and working at electronics stores. As very few of them chose teaching careers, I'd wager that they all earned more on the job the first year out of the hatch than I did, but I'll never regret choosing work I loved.
After retiring from teaching, I launched a second career--leading writing groups in the little apartment behind my house. I saved the best for last!
Members of writing groups become friends--mine and each other's. We recommend books we love to each other.
Here are some of the books recommended by the members of two groups this week alone:
Journal of Best Practice
The Center Can Not Hold
The Fault in our Stars
Mad Adam--and the other books in the trilogy by Margaret Atwood
The Round House
Saving Fish From Drowning
The Dog Stars
Room
The Enchanted
The Painted House
Where else can I go where people love reading and writing as much as I do? Where people bring food and drinks and pretty party plates whenever they feel like it?
Diana brought me the most delicious lasagne on Sunday, my lunch on Monday--which I ate with gusto beside a little pot of yellow roses Sharon brought. I'm going to try my hand at this yummy veggie lasagne for my contribution to salon tomorrow night.
All this--and in my own back yard! I feel rich in spades today thinking of how lucky I am to do "work" that leads to play and friendship, a place where we are all students, all teachers!
Teaching was, and always has been, one of my Happy Places.
When my students turned in papers to be graded, I took them home and read them and wrote encouraging personal notes along with suggestions for their writing. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say I probably spent more time on their papers than they did. I used the usual English teacher shorthand: CS for comma splice, MM for misplaced modifier, FRAG for fragment, etc.
One of my students, now a friend, later told me that she thought all those MMs meant Umm--as in yummy! She is now a teacher at U.T.S.A. as I was then, and she's almost completed her Ph.D. We always laugh at the memories of those MMs.
Teaching in those years was a bit like being on stage. I might have a script of sorts to get me started, but I improvised according to the mood of the audience. I walked into the rows of desks, or I pulled the desks into a circle and sat with them. At the end of the day, I was spent, having put every teaching trick I knew into my ninety-minute gigs.
At the end of the month, my paychecks were probably less than theirs--waiting tables and working at electronics stores. As very few of them chose teaching careers, I'd wager that they all earned more on the job the first year out of the hatch than I did, but I'll never regret choosing work I loved.
After retiring from teaching, I launched a second career--leading writing groups in the little apartment behind my house. I saved the best for last!
Members of writing groups become friends--mine and each other's. We recommend books we love to each other.
Here are some of the books recommended by the members of two groups this week alone:
Journal of Best Practice
The Center Can Not Hold
The Fault in our Stars
Mad Adam--and the other books in the trilogy by Margaret Atwood
The Round House
Saving Fish From Drowning
The Dog Stars
Room
The Enchanted
The Painted House
Where else can I go where people love reading and writing as much as I do? Where people bring food and drinks and pretty party plates whenever they feel like it?
Diana brought me the most delicious lasagne on Sunday, my lunch on Monday--which I ate with gusto beside a little pot of yellow roses Sharon brought. I'm going to try my hand at this yummy veggie lasagne for my contribution to salon tomorrow night.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)