My Furry Valentine....

 

My furry valentine, my furry valentine, you make me smile......when:

You go everywhere with me, with very few exceptions.  Last night we met Carolyn at PF Chang's, and you sat quietly beside our booth the entire time.  People around us, like always, commented on what a calm and well-behaved girl you are.  Our waitress, like many Corgi owners we've met, thought you were a genuine Corgi!  Sure enough, she showed us a picture of her Welsh Pembroke Corgi who could have been your sister. 

Many nights, like tonight, I stay up the entire night. If my puttering interrupts your sleep, you go next door and perch between the pillows on Elena's bed.  When I go back to bed later, I hear the sound of your little paws clicking on the floor, back to bed with me.  Then you tell me--we have our own language--to please let you under the covers, your favorite place to sleep, as close as you can get.  

This week we met two Golden Retrievers.  Duke, we later found out from Allie their owner, was the grandfather of the other.  Duke is a beautiful brown dog with a kind face who licked Luci through the gate.  Then little Pollo, solid white, did the same.  Every day since, you've pulled in the direction of their fenced yard, wagging your tail, hoping to once again kiss and be kissed. 

On Thursday, I went for a massage at Cecelia's house.  You love Cecelia and her son who's visiting.  You wait on a folded blanket on the floor when I'm getting a massage--and then, soon as it's over, you jump from the floor onto the table, front down, butt up, saying okay, it's time to go now.  

Afterwards, we were the only two at Fish City Grill's happy hour.  I ordered calamari and a crab cake with salad.  Since no one else was on the patio, I gave you a few calamari--which you ate, but without enthusiasm.  Odd little things they were.  When you were done with them, you scraped up enough gravel and dirt to bury them inconspicuously under my chair.  

You rarely make a sound.  You bark vigorously at the mailman and Amazon delivery man.  How dare they put foreign objects through the mail slot into your house!   Except for the occasional door bark you are the quietest little dog I've ever met.  You don't even whimper to go outside or ask for treats--as most of my former canine valentines used to do.  You simply stare at me until I decipher your requests.  

Yesterday I had left the front door open to unpack groceries--and it was when I was putting a few things in the casita kitchen that the mailman arrived.  Instead of barking, since the door was open, you went outside to greet him without a single bark--and when I discovered you were out, I saw him kneeling on the ground petting you and you lapping it up. 

In the middle of the night when you want to go outside, you do s wild and crazy  run/jump combo and head straight to the corner of the yard from whence other creatures are apt to emerge.  We've seen foxes, skunks, possums.  You might be cautious in the daylight, but in the dark, you're a wild girl, out to show them all how big and strong and fearless you are. 

So on Valentine's Day, I'm remembering former furry loves--Tony and Ivan and Sasha and Black and Cookie and Pollo and many more--and I'm savoring every single minute being the object of your over-the-top love!  

Mystical, Magical, Musical

Of all my teachers in public school, Mrs. Murrow, a gray-haired grandmotherly teacher, was my hands-down favorite.  In the attractiveness department, she was the least memorable, but I remember her for her teaching enthusiasm, her blackboard drawings, and her whole-hearted embrace of a classroom of seven year olds.  She checked all the boxes for excellence in teaching, but she made us feel seen.  She knew us.  

I recently found anmimeographed hand-printed letter she'd written to our parents in which she mentioned every single one of us by name and noted something special about us.

She called me a day-dreamer, but not to worry about that--it just meant that one day I'd be a "writer."

Mrs. Murrow was the only teacher I recall having a sense of humor. When I bit my new ring and it got stuck on my finger,  she just smiled and took me to the girls' bathroom and soaped it up--and it came right off!

Was she married?  Did she have children, grandchildren?  I have no idea.  She didn't talk about herself, only about the subjects she was determined to instill in our minds. 

In the seventh grade, Mrs. Dykes entertained us with stories, but I can't actually remember what she taught us.  She'd walk up and down the rows of us, seemingly lost in her own thoughts, telling about her life and her opinions.  She's the teacher who exposed us to the "one drop" theory of genetics.  She also told us that if we picked at a pimple, we could get a brain tumor. 

But one thing she said that mystified me at the time stayed with me more than any sentence spoken by a teacher in my pre-college years: "I love words!" 

She didn't elaborate, or if she did, I don't remember what she said.  But I puzzled over that strange sentence.  How could a person have affection for words?

Now that I've spent a lifetime loving words, I get it.  From the enlarged font of first grade readers to the  poetry and prose that makes me feel awake and alive, I've always loved words.

Never good at crossword puzzles, I'm obsessive and quite good at the New York Times' Spelling Bee, a game in which you make as many words as you can with a hive of seven letters.  

I love the alliteration of mystical, magical, musical, maniacal, memory. 

The tipping point between acquaintanceship and friendship is discovering, through words, a shared sensibility. 

I love words that poke into predictable discourse with humor or a gem of a phrase. 

I save handwritten cards and letters virtually forever.  In handwriting, we get next-best thing to hearing the voice of that person on that particular day he or she wrote them. 

I love words that convey intimacy, vulnerability, kindness, intelligence, and rock-solid honesty. 

Nap Times

One of the best things about naps is you get two days in one!

I am so inspired by the Handmade Book Club videos that I utilize every minute of Time Real Estate to watch tutorials and then look in my stash of papers for the next book.  Sitting time is spent folding and cutting signatures--and that's what I did yesterday before and after Elena's rodeo.

Will was filming her excellent run, no barrels down, when suddenly she took that last turn and fell.  I've never seen her fall before, but her parents say she always gets right up.  Yesterday she didn't get up until Will rushed onto the arena and helped her up, then limped off with her daddy, her ego bruised more than anything.  They'd just gotten a new saddle for Yancey and it didn't fit properly--which is why, they think, she fell. 

Meanwhile, Marcus is sports announcing in Richmond and attending all the basketball games his girlfriend, Lucia from Spain, plays. 

I'm not a sports fan--unless some of my kids are playing--so Super Bowl Sunday is a day of rest and designing books.  The three I'm making later today will have leather covers, my first--one with a saddle stitch binding, one with a chain stitch, and one honeycomb.  

Screen Winners of the Month

Thanks to Netflix, we have two must-watches:

The Road Within, 2014, where have you been for the past 12 years?  I love you--you and your OCD and Tourette's and Anorexic kids taking a road trip together!  

Eleanor the Great, you made me think about grief and caring in a way I'd never thought about it before--and I thank you for that.  

The Pitt, well everybody knows by now that you're one great series!  But now you have to wait from one Thursday to the next to see the newest episodes!  Come on, let us binge!

Shrinking, your cast of therapists who are a little crazy--every one of them is so real and engaging and funny! 

I killed a bear!--figuratively speaking

 Many of my books are complex constructions that sometimes take several days to assemble--books, say, with 8 signatures of beautiful paper joined together by various challenging stitching patterns.  

This month, however, I've been obsessed with making little books out of those little board books for babies and toddlers.  

These books come in all sizes and all the thrift stores have them for a dollar, tops.  

So the first thing you do is peel of the shiny plastic pages --which in itself is quite satisfying--to get down to the raw board.  

Second, I collage all over the boards with vintage sheet music and book pages and whatnot.  

While I'm doing that, a theme emerges.  Then I print out lines of poetry or other text, cut out the lines, and glue them atop the collage.

My first one featured the Rumi poem, "The Guest House."

My second and favorite one I called HOME IS WHERE YOUR STORY STARTS (borrowed from a plaque I saw somewhere).  Then I filled it with pictures of my childhood and Carlene's.

This was my "kill a bear" book.  In all its simplicity of construction, I managed to find enough pictures to fill this little three inch tall chunky book.  No book I've ever made has ever, or likely will ever, struck such a chord as this one did with its recipient. 

She's been perusing it several times a day and texting me how much she loves it.  She's been showing it to her friends (and probably strangers, if I know her!)

"I'm taking this one to Heaven with me!" she said last night.--quite sure that one day she'll arrive there with this book in her pocket.    By then, who knows?--it may be quite ragged with age and cracked with all the opening and closing--but what a thrill it's been to have it hit all the right notes and be so loved! 

Here is one of Carlene's texts: 

In the picture of Lloyd holding Bob and I have both hands in your shoulders, look at your eyes ….. you are looking up at Bob in Lloyd’s arms …hand !  Was somebody taking your place?   I love that picture ……  

Wow!  What memories !

Another serious moment!   You are painting!  

Every page makes those memories clear and beautiful! 

 

Rodeo News #1

As the big rodeo approaches in San Antonio this February, like it does every year, Elena is training her new horse and continuing to ride faithful Yancey in local rodeos.  (I was watching Elena at the ranch's dog pen while Bonnie chose and purchased Yancey 12 years ago). 

Last night there was a big rodeo at Pedrotti's ranch (where Will worked as a teenager) and Elena (second youngest of all the contestants) won second place and a cash prize for her flawless and impressive barrel race. She even came out ahead of her trainer!

Her new horse, Clown, is not yet rodeo-ready, but Yancey, even in his middle-age, is one awesome rodeo horse, attuned to Elena's every move and careful not to knock over anything in the field.  Together, they are quite a team!

Dog Lore

 What can be more engaging than finding a book, fiction or nonfiction or poetry, that says things you already know (or maybe you know only the outline of but is filled in with delicious or unsavory details) and says those things with artistry of language?

Joy recently gave me a book like that and I'm entirely enchanted by it.  We all know Charlotte's Web for sure, but this book focuses on E.B. White's love of dogs.  I'll be writing more about that book along the way, but if you are a dog lover, go out and find yourself a copy!

White was the age of my grandfather, Papa, born in 1899.  He died in 1985, and this book is compiled of his essays and edited by his granddaughter, Martha White.  Whether you love mongrels and mutts or pure-bred uppity dogs, you'll love this book. 

A chilly Friday and Saturday

Last night Kate and I went to Elena's two-week belated 14th birthday party--a barn sleepover with twelve of her friends from St. Mary's Hall. When we arrived with two chocolate sheet cakes, one of the girls said, 'I like y'all's faces, they are so cute!"  Who expects that--at our age--from a 14 year old?

They were lovely, the whole group of them.  Will and Bonnie had assembled enough beds for them all in the barn and a big movie screen, but we left just as it was getting dark, so we didn't get to see the movie Will had made about Elena's first fourteen years.  They all took turns riding horses, with Bonnie leading the novice riders.  They sent us home with frozen brisket from the party that they didn't have two weeks ago due to Elena's being sick, and it was just an all-round wonderful celebration.

Today I went to two thrift stores looking for leather purses and jackets to cut up and make books with.  I found a beautiful maroon-colored bag for my first leather book and several name-brand men's cotton shirts also destined for book covers--just before my chariot turned into a pumpkin as it does every day around noon. 

Music by Mandy Patinkin

For years, Mandy Patinkin has sung "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," but this rendition at the inaugural of Mamdani takes the cake!  He's now a white-bearded Patinkin, his best look ever, and looks like a genuine mensch. 

Mandy Patinkin at Mamdani's inaugural

"The Guest House" in a Tiny Book.

It's been a week of getting rid of mold in my house.  Given that my attic has a very tiny crawl space and the pipes up there were probably approaching the age of the house (77 years), it was a tedious and hot and messy project for my workers, but it's done.

I'm very sensitive to mold, and already  I'm feeling some relief.  I slept in the casita while the work was being done to avoid breathing in those nasty spores, and I also bought a couple of air purifiers.

Meanwhile, my floors are all covered with curls of paper and snippets from pages I'm using to make a whole different kind of book, following the directions from last month's "Book of the Month" in the Handmade Book Club.

The first step is buying one of those board books written for small children, and peeling off all the shiny paper--which is very satisfying.

Collage papers are glued to each page.  I went for neutrals, old book pages and sheet music, dress pattern tissues and tea- and coffee-dyed papers. 

The next step is to type or write a poem.  I chose Rumi's "The Guest House," printing the lines in chunks to fit the pages.  Here's the poem:

The Guest House

Every morning a new arrival, 

A joy, a depression, a meanness, 

Some momentary awareness comes

As an unexpected visitor. 

Welcome and entertain them all,

Even if they are a crowd of sorrows 

Who violently sweep your house empty of all its furniture.

Still, treat each guest honorably. 

He may be clearning you out for some new delight. 

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,

Meet them at the door laughing and invite them in. 

Be grateful for whoever comes

Because each has been sent as a guide from above. 

One day, when it's lighter than it is right now, I'll post a photo or two of the finished book.  I am finding it such a satisfying project that I have five of them going.