Inside Out, Outside In

Back in the late 90s, the way to get into the Bread Loaf Writing Conference in Vermont was to submit 20 pages of an unfinished book-in-progress. Mine was Women and Houses. 

I'd been encouraged to apply by my then-editor Hope Harris (no relation) who was trying out Texas with her husband. She was at the time a real editor in New York and didn't stay long in Texas, but long enough to start a writing group in Boerne--which I attended with Joy. Not only did she plant a seed in me to start writing groups in San Antonio, but she liked my writing!  

When I got my letter of acceptance in the category of creative nonfiction, I was overjoyed!  I would drive there so I'd have my own car to explore New England. My mentor would be Terry Tempest Williams.  

Bread Loaf

I remember long conversations with Terry and other writers on the lawn of Middlebury College, sitting in the grass or in Adirondack chairs.  On one of my one-on-one conversations with Terry about my book, she asked me, "What is the difference between questions we ask in inside spaces and the questions we ask in outside spaces?"

When I don't know how to answer a question, it reverberates in my mind for years, like a zen koan, as that one does.  Terry was (and still is) an outdoor-space writer; I was an inside-space writer.  What were the differences?

I'm still pondering that....

As I get older, I think about the differences between the outside version of a person and the inside version.  When I was younger, I might worry about a pimple or a bad hair day or some other defect on my outside self. As I get older, I'm much more interested in the inner self.  The outer persona reflects, for good or ill, all the good and bad habits and attitudes of all the preceding years. 

My mama, Carlene, at 101 is the best example I can think of: loving to walk for decades, eating an orange every day, and avoiding habits that damage the skin.  She also has a lifetime optimism and laughs more than anyone I know. 

Yesterday I went to Walgreens to get my passport picture taken. In the bright light of the flash, the picture was a shocker.  One eye was way bigger than the other.  My nose was wider and flatter than it is in the mirror at home.  My eyelids were puffy.  Lines and wrinkles, sallow skin--the camera wasn't kind!

Had I seen that picture of myself a few decades ago, it would have made me run home and pull the blankets up to cover my unfortunate face!  But I didn't have time or inclination to do that.  I had places to go and people to see, and the impact of the moment was short-lived.  

I went about my day.  The thrift shop, the grocery store. 

I ordered a pocket book online--imagining myself carrying it while wearing some of my favorite jackets and pants, with a passport inside of course, off on an international adventure.  The pocketbook (handbag or purse to some of you) was a bit of a splurge and I knew it would make me look chic as all get out!

Truth is, I don't spend a lot of time tending to how I look.  

In real life, what excites me is looking, more than being looked at (or not) by passing strangers. 

In our older years, the tables of our 20s and 30s and 40s are exchanged for entirely different tables: observing, watching, conversations that light us up.  

We're like houses, old houses, with many rooms.  The exterior may be shabby, paint peeling, in need of repair.  Eyes are like windows, bringing the outside in, and revealing the inside to passersby.  

If I could go back and continue that conversation with Terry, I'd say this:

Just as you were shaped by the wide open spaces and landscapes of Nevada, I was shaped by the interior of houses.  We didn't have expansive vistas in Cochran, Georgia, but spent time in our own homes and those of grandparents and cousins and friends.  

My writing never was about houses, per se.  The house has always been a metaphor for the Self.

First Weekend of Fall

I have to say: I live in an incredible neighborhood.  I know it has a stereotypical '09 reputation but what I know of it on Ogden and Argo and Abiso is altogether wonderful, down to earth people helping each other out and creating our own little community inside Alamo Heights. 

When the storm hit and felled trees, my neighbors across the street (who had no damage at all) rented a huge trailer and got busy cleaning up, attracting helpers up and down the street.

Last night, Jan knocked on my door after one of those in-bed-most-of-the-day days, calling out "Meals on Wheels!" She brought a glass of wine and a bowl of deliciousness featuring roasted garbanzos and vegetables!  Then she took Luci on our nightly walk with her and Carma.  If that's not stellar friendship, I don't know what know what is! 

Because of Luci, I've been walking the neighborhood for the past five years and have met friends of all ages.  Sydney and Phillip are in their twenties, lovely people, with two little children.  Sydney worked as a nurse before having James and Rowen, both under three.  Last week she asked me if I knew anyone with a sewing machine she could borrow, and I told her, "This is your lucky day!  My mom gave me her Bernina so I have two."

It's hard for me to ask for help, but she and Julian have always  said they are happy to help if I ever need anything.  Yesterday I needed something heavy moved and they were here--with Shannon, the man who lives next door, in a flash--and it was done.

Will is here for the weekend, speaking at a conference and finishing up a few sales on the property they are selling--the house closes in a couple of weeks.  He spent the morning coaching me on the use and safety issues of the scooter.  I've been waiting to use it until I had someone to walk me through it--and he's a great teacher.  I finally feel like I can maneuver the neighborhood without problems, so it's like a brand new toy! 

Day and I are taking an online class called Making Zen--taught by several fiber and mixed media artists. We'll be dyeing fabric, embroidering, and learning new skills involving needles and thread. Every afternoon next week, we'll both be getting six classes, with a lifetime library of classes to watch whenever we like.  I'm psyched about it!

For some unknown and unknowable reason, my foot and leg pain decreases when I hang out with family in Georgia, in Virginia, and in Colorado.  After three days in a row of being practically bed-bound, I'm going to tell my kids: "If this keeps up, I'm going to move to Colorado or Virginia.  Which of you wants me?" 

For the foreseeable future, this house stays my home base--where else would I find this many friends in such close proximity?  But I'll hopefully manage to go to Georgia, Colorado, and Virginia more often and stay a couple of weeks in each place instead of only 5 or 6 days.  .  

Where in the world, at this age, would I ever find a neighborhood as great as this one?  

Meanwhile, in Colorado, Elena attended her first homecoming dance at her new high school.  She wore a short black dress and cowgirl boots and looks like she had a blast with her new friends.  They are definitely all in their happy place and I couldn't be happier for them!

By the looks of it, the getting ready for and dressing up together were the highlights of homecoming:

PIcnic and Party at Palmetto Park

This foursome friendship is priceless!

I'm the youngest by a smidge but following close behind my three dear friends who have already (or in Sylvia's case, about to) moved into The Eighties. I'm so grateful to have had these three lively, vibrant, loving, reading and writing friends for over 50 years.  

Sylvia brought stacks of our "newsletters"--which we created years ago to reflect together on "life its own self" (ML) long before blogs and email accounts and social media. 

Each month one of us suggested a topic and off we went to our typewriters to write a page or two.  Over the years those pages became boxes of pages.  Beverly and I wish we had the energy now to arrange them all, along with stacks of photos) into a book!  We built a connection the likes of which you just can't get over cigarettes, martinis, and bridge.  

Beverly is the queen of celebrations and meaningful rituals and retreats.   Yesterday she brought Mary Oliver poems and we read them aloud.  Larry made and sent two chocolate birthday cakes for my upcoming 78th birthday and Sylvia's 80th. I told her one of my favorite ever birthdays was my 50th.  She and Larry hosted six friends at their beach house in Port Aransas, and Larry grilled shrimp for us. It was a magical weekend on the sand! 

Mary Locke and Beverly brought a picnic, presents, and party favors. Mary Locke described us as a group this way: "we're all still full of curiosity and zest for life!" I love that--because I, too, see passion and curiosity in each of us.

Sylvia is about to turn 80?  When we all met,  she and I were in our late twenties.  While the others of us were already mamas, Sylvia was glamorously single and happened to live in an upstairs apartment that is now the upstairs of Jan's house right next door! 

Back when I lived in Helotes and didn't know this neighborhood at all, we went to Sylvia and Peter's wedding party at Allen's house across the street from where I live now. (Feels like a few lifetimes ago!) 

Mary Locke, Beverly, Linda, and Sylvia 

Sassy and fun-loving as ever, Sylvia make 80 look wonderful!

Sylvia and Mary Locke by the river

What is that attracted us to each other and bound us into a group so long ago?  That we were all Southern Baptist girls growing up?  That if anyone sang the first three words of any hymn from the blue hymn book, we all knew all the words?  That we had similar sensibilities?  Loved stories?  Were fascinated by the inner lives of ourselves and each other and strangers? That we loved deviled eggs and pimento cheese and black eyed peas and cornbread?  

Who knows?

Some of all that--and more. Here's to friendships that flourish for over fifty years!

Post Script to Jan's "Life Lessons"

        I know you must look forward to my daily reports because they are so uplifting. So today I bring you the household horror news of 9/23/2026: my small floor vacuum, which is only a year or two old, has breathed its final breath. No warning. Just death. And so I shall resort to the old fashioned ways of my mother and haul out the straw broom to do my chores. What more might go wrong, you ask? Let’s not go there.

         While we all have experienced a dying appliance now and then, it’s the continuing saga of these curses that might warrant concern. Is there a poltergeist lodging at 611 Ogden Lane who is trying to dislodge the current landowner?

I Swear

..... is a not-to-be-missed movie based on a real life story of a boy with Tourette's Syndrome.

The acting and story are phenomenal! 

I loved it so much I bought the book as well.   

"I Swear" is available on Netflix. 

Life Lessons

In the past couple of weeks, my saint of a friend next door, has been besieged with trouble:

Two of her last pecan trees have lost enough of themselves to block the street and are now on their last legs.

George, her innocent-looking little kitty, chewed all the vents while hiding from humans behind the dryer, turning her laundry room into a sauna.

Her alarm system broke--again.

Her $40 Fit Bit died right in the middle of doing its job, counting her steps. 

Her hot water heater also died.

As did her AC, requring her to "spend her children's inheritance" to replace it.

Add to all that, the final blow: her hopeful pomegranates have all turned out to be duds.

If you saw her walking down the street, sassy as ever, her gait lively, her moves evidencing her loyalty to yoga, you'd never know that she's survived a Biblical attack on her sanity and bank account.  She looks on the bright side: her computer, car, and  phone all seem to be doing what they came here to do.  She still has food and water and a roof--which she will remind us is not available to so many. 

A motley crew of love

I've now watched both seasons of 

My Family

It's a beautifully written and cast movie about love and honesty, forgiveness and openly expressed anger, acceptance of differences, and so much more.  

One of my favorite lines:

"We're not exactly a family; we're a motley crew of love."

This one, in my opinion, is going to win some awards.  It's a not-to-be-missed story.

Wonderful Series on Netflix

An Italian film called My Family.

Usually, I prefer to watch a foreign movie with subtitles, but this one is very well dubbed, so I'm listening to it in English.  

Just beginning Season 2 on September Friday night.  

I've got the blues!

 Out with the red, in with the blues!

SO I bought my first and last red car in February 2025, right after the election.  Carlene gave Bob and me each a portion of the sale of her house (each our bedroom, she said) and I chose a cool Honda HRV Sport.  Four wheel drive. Black interior.  

I had two long road trips in it and it handles very well.  But it wasn't....

BLUE! 

I wanted blue. I always want blue.  I made an impulsive decision to go with the red, and after a year and a half, it just didn't feel like ME.  

So after seeing this little powder-blue Volkswagen Taos, I went over to the Alamo Heights VW dealer and took a test drive, fell in love! Tonight it came home with me and Luci in it. 

My salesman, Cameron Harris, was wonderful!  Today was his 34th birthday and he shared his red velvet birthday cake and lots of easy-going no-pressure conversations.  I considered buying Blue's big sister, a dark-blue Tiguan, but Jan and I decided the lighter blue would be less hot on these summer days.

My three favorite cars have all been blue:

My first car-of-my-own was a 1990 turquoise Acura Integra--a beauty. 

My second Mini Cooper was Easter-egg turquoise. 

And now we have Blue, a gorgeous 2026 Taos. 

What a thrilling day to get the BLUES! 

Live Love Laugh

On childhood trips to Daytona Beach, Bob and I could hardly wait to stop at a restaurant called The Green Frog.  Not particularly for the food, but for the toys and trinkets you could get there.  

Traveling in other directions, say to Chattanooga to see our Harris relatives, we were just as excited to stop at Stuckey's--wtih their signs and jingles, "Just wait til you get to Stuckey's; Stuckey's is not very far...."

Backseat kids must have been the target audience for these food stops.  Stuffed and plastic animals, bows and arrows, and all manner of cute things created a festive air of expectations and it was worth the wait.  

The super gas stations of today are Stuckey's on Steroids.  You can buy anything you want: kitchenwares, sweat shirts and jerseys, deli foods, toys, you name it. Roadside stations big and small feature a wall or two of rhinestone pocket books, fringy blouses, crosses, flags, and inspirational quotes on distressed wooden plaques. 

Inevitably two signs are always in on the wall: 

Believe

Live Love Laugh

Believe what? I always wonder.  Believe in.... the Easter Bunny, Santa Clause, the Tooth Fairy? 

America the Beautiful?  Jesus? Yourself? It could be anything you like, just believe something. the soggy seems to say. 

"Live Love Laugh" is printed, painted, stitched, and stenciled on wood, paper and fabric millions of times a year.  

The book I'm reading now is entitled Live Love Laugh--written by Kristin Kobes Du Mez  a scholar and historian of religious movements in American for the past two centuries. It's subtitled: The Secret History of White Christian Women and the World They Made. 

Live Love Laugh

Six years ago, I read her excellent book, Jesus and John Wayne--that traced the shift from gentle lesus in the Gospels to big strong tough John Wayne Jesus.  A big segment of the Christian communities of the time yearned for a more "badass" Jesus.  An Alpha Jesus.  Jesus with big muscles and a gun. 

In this her most recent book, she traces the long and bumpy road to the changes in religious sentiments that have led to the current political climate.  

it's a fascinating read!