Our road trip to Highlands, North Carolina

       From the time we first met in kindergarten, Betty and I were almost always together--except for a few grades in elementary school when we got different teachers.

       We lived in Cochran, a town of five thousand with a college at one end and a string of stores at the other.

       We went to the First Baptist Church and we were both in G.A.s  (Girls Auxiliary, for those of you who didn't grow up Baptist).  Depending on how many Bible verses a girl learned in G.A.s, she'd attain a certain royal ranking:  Maiden,  Lady-in-Waiting,  Princess,  Queen. On the only thing in which I ever bested Betty, I  made it all the way to Queen, and she stalled out at Lady in Waiting.

       By high school, she was the star solo twirler--and I was amazed watching her toss two flaming fire batons into the night air over the football field, dancing, twirling, never missing a beat. I never even made it to basic majorette.

       In the eyes of our piano teacher--Miss Marguerite--Betty was clearly the superior talent.  "Exquisite!" she used to say to Betty.  To me, she said, "You have a nice touch."

       Betty tells me that my IQ was two points higher than hers (we snuck a peak in the principal's files one day while he was away for the day), but it's Betty who has a steel-trap memory, not me.

       We have just spent three days together in the beautiful North Georgia mountains.  What a remarkable thing it is to have a friendship that has lasted for over 60 years! With Betty's memory, she can instantly transport us both back into the chalk-dusty classrooms of the 1950s and she can make me laugh harder than anyone, ever.

        When we were girls, we spent hours and hours sitting in my parents' car (Lloyd's and Carlene's) or in her parents' carport (Charlie's and Ethel's), talking.  We took off whenever we felt like it and walked through the woods or played at The Big Ditch or under the bridge by the college. Nothing much ever seemed to happen in Cochran, Georgia, but we had complete freedom to wander, unsupervised, all over our safe little Mayberry of a town.

         Once or twice, stirred by some revival preacher--we actually considered going to Africa as foreign missionaries, but that plan didn't last long. Another time, inspired by a movie, we fantasized about getting pink jeeps and round pink beds and matching pink poodles.

        Betty insists she can't write--she's ceded that to me.  I may be moderately humorous, but Betty is hilarious. Here's her memory of her fourth grade teacher:

       "Mrs. Garrett—here's the deal about her—she was the sort of person people liked.  It was a curious thing, Linda, that people loved her, and yet she was crazy.  And I knew both things at the same time.  I liked her and I feared her and I knew something wasn’t quite right.  I remember Kathy and I going to see her where she lived--you know those apartments up by the college? Mrs. Garrett told us about daddies who took their whole families up to the attic and chopped them to pieces and convicts coming and killing whole families.  And big birds at the center of the world who hatched babies that would destroy us all."

      As a 4th grade student who caught on fast, she was among the chosen few in Mrs. Garrett's class who were allowed to make papier mache ducks and candy houses while the slower students looked on longingly.

        "My cousin Frances Nell had had Mrs. Garrett the year before and Mother seemed real pleased that I got her.  I remember the conversation between Charles and Ethel about what a good teacher she was--based in part on the fact that Frances Nell had made As and B's all year.  Well, on my first report card I came home with three Bs--and Ethel was not pleased!  She marched right down to the schoolhouse and had a talk with Mrs. Garrett and all the B's but one got changed to As--and I never got another B."

       

Tomatoes, Testimony Cake, Jokes, and Zinnias

Here on Craig Drive, friends drop by to visit all the time--and each one brings something special.

Whenever the doorbell used to ring, my daddy's stock jokey thing to say was, "Hide the pie!"--and he said it in earshot of whoever was standing at the back door, always unlocked for them to walk right in.   Then he'd go to the door and hug whoever was there and they'd come in laughing as if looking around for the invisible pie.  He and Carlene are always happy to see people at the back door.  I'm not sure if the front door works or not--as nobody ever uses it.

Yesterday morning when Carlene and I got back from our tea run at the QT, we found a bag of tomatoes by the back door.  "Those are from Joe," she said.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Joe returned and we visited in the den. I loved hearing him tell stories about growing up and living his whole life in Lawrenceville and nearby Lilburn.  His daddy was head of the draft committee, and "that was before anybody wanted to avoid the draft."  But after young Joe had served his time and his daddy hoped he'd make a career of the military, Joe had to tell him the truth that was hard to say: that he "didn't like the military all that much."

The very next day, Joe's father died. All these sixty years later, Joe's eyes were teary telling the story (and ours were hearing it.) When he tells us that he got to kiss him on the forehead just before he died, you know that memory is as fresh as yesterday.

He told about all the years he and his late-wife Dottie (Nellie's beloved Sister-Mom) used to travel together. "One thing we learned," he said, "Is that if you see something you like, you better stop and see it because you might not get another chance."

I wondered how he's faring now that he's alone.  He starts every day at "the club," he said--"the club" being McDonalds where he meets with his buddies for a couple of hours to catch up on whatever's happening around town. What he didn't say--but what other people tell about him--is that he's quite a philanthropist.

In the afternoon, we had visits from three of Carlene's closest friends, Margaret, Mary and Marlene.

I knew Margaret would bring food.  She brought her chocolate "Testimony cake" and a bouquet of zinnias.  The Testimony cake is so named because she, a Southern Baptist, had to come up with a reason to be in the liquor store when she shops for vodka and Kahlua for her cake.  "If the preacher or somebody from church sees me coming out of the liquor store, I'll just have to tell them I'm in there to give my testimony!" she says with a grin.

Mary brings jokes.  She could have her own comedy show!

I love visiting with Mary and Marlene because they both knew my daddy.  Tomorrow will be the 12-year anniversary of his death, but he's still alive in the many friends who loved him.

Marlene always tells me I look just like him.

Mary likes to tell me about how he'd call her up and say, "Carlene's gone now, Mary, you can come on down!"

Betty is coming over today and we are going to the beautiful North Georgia mountains for a day or two.  I better get dressed so I can hide the pie before she gets here!

On the Road Again

“Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.”
– Jack Kerouac

A Postcard from Salem, Virginia

Carlene and I  drove to Day's via I85 and I95--and stopped in Lavonia, Georgia

And took pictures of ourselves by the murals

         

Then we stopped in Chapel Hill--home of The Sun magazine/
Here I am with a metal goat

In Northern Virginia: Carlene, Marcus, Day, and me

Marcus in the kitchen

Day and Marcus

Day is always making things and the rest of us are learning new techniques.
One of her favorite projects is buying clothes with possibilities, adding ruffles
and embroidery--and doing "altered couture." 

Jackson--our Almost-Teenager

         Today--Sunday morning--we're on our way south again--driving Highways 66 and 81--through Staunton and Lexington and Roanoke--then Bristol, Tennessee and Asheville, N.C.

Monday night in North Carolina

Nelle headed back to Florida--and wrote this note to me just now from Albany, looking out her window at Ray Charles sitting on a piano bench and rotating next to the Flint River:

Thinking of you and your road trip. Today we left L Ville  and headed south. Decided on back roads and have discovered that the soil through here produces three p's:  Pecans, peaches, and preachers.... At least it seems so with all the groves, orchards and Baptist churches....

I'd never thought of it so alliteratively--but it's  true! You can hear some lively preaching while you're eating your juicy peaches and pecans if you take a stop on the back roads of red-clay Georgia!

Carlene and I drove through some heavy rain today and decided to stop three hours south of Washington for a good night's sleep.  We had a great visit with Mary Elizabeth, my niece, in Athens before heading north and stopped today for a walk-about in Chapel Hill, NC--a beautiful town where The Sun is published.  I went by the headquarters for The Sun--wanted to meet the people who put together such a beautiful magazine.

A faded snapshot: Me, M.E. and Carlene

Mary Elizabeth Harris

I got a text from Will: Elena thinks every smallish colorful car is a Mini Cooper!  I have indoctrinated her well!

We're having a terrific road trip--and look forward to arriving at Day's tomorrow afternoon.

Sacramento Airport....

Thanks to you, Linda Jordan, for sending me this!  It must be the same artist!

Artist Inspirations

When I arrived in Atlanta yesterday, Carlene and her "chauffeur" Alan picked me up and we drove the hour's drive back to Lawrenceville.  It just so happens that Nellie--unbeknownst to me--was visiting her brother-in-law just a few blocks from here.

Carlene made us a delicious pork chop and vegetable dinner--she who "doesn't cook"--and then we sat on the porch and Nellie inspired me all over again, as she always does!  An art professor in Melbourne, Florida, she's always doing exciting things in the arts and in theater.  Recently, she played the leading role in an Edward Albee play and has been taking online art courses that sound fascinating.

I looked through her sketchbook and got all fired up to start one of my own--though I've always held to the belief that I can't draw.  Here's the course she recommends for me:

http://www.sketchbookskool.com.

It's a six-week course taught by six different artists.  After seeing an excerpt from one of the videos, I'm sold and can't wait to sign up and get started.

Likewise, Nellie's going to write a piece to submit to The Sun for September's topic, First Love. We only had a few hours to visit--as they had plans for today and Carlene and I leave tomorrow to start our road trip--but we could have talked for days!

Suitcase sculpture

At the San Antonio Airport.

Clothes

Each month, The Sun Magazine has a section called Reader's Write, and readers write short autobiographical essays around a theme.  If your piece is chosen, you get a year's subscription to this excellent ad-free literary magazine.  I've had two pieces published here in the past, and my subscription is running out, so I wrote the following short essay and popped it in the mail.

If you're interested in doing this, the topic due August 1st is Clothes; the topic for September 1st is First Love. They want it sent by snail mail, double spaced, to:

Readers Write
107 North  Roberson Street
Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27516

                                                           Clothes:

I spied the doll at the pharmacy, posed beside the cash register. My heart leapt in recognition; she was exactly what I’d ask for the next Christmas. My daddy was dropping off a roll of film and a prescription, but I made sure he noticed that this was the exact doll I wanted more than anything in the world.

She was eighteen-inches tall, and she and a pre-Barbie shapely grown-up body, like a miniature Miss America. She wore high heeled shoes and a string of plastic pearls. Her eyes were auburn to match hair that fell softly over her perfect plastic complexion.

On our next trip to the drug store, she was gone. I still believed in Santa, or pretended to, and I never doubted that she’d find her way to my house.

What I didn’t expect, what thrilled me more than any Christmas gift ever, was a red metal trunk filled with doll clothes.  A wedding gown, silky pajamas, and an entire wardrobe of tiny clothes, each garment hanging on a metal clothes hanger.  I buttoned and unbuttoned every dress, changing her attire over and over. I loved that doll and her clothes!

I pretended not to notice that some of the dresses were made of fabric exactly like dresses my mother and I wore. I pretended not to notice little bits of rick-rack and leftover buttons beside my mother’s sewing machine.  The grown-up doll with breasts even had a dress quite like my recital dress—blue taffeta with a net skirt.

The following summer, our church asked each family to invite orphans from the Georgia Baptist Children’s Home to spend two weeks in our homes.  We got Margaret and Emory, a girl playmate for me, a boy for my brother.  The idea was to give them a taste of family life.

Margaret had a speech impediment, but she insisted every night that we try calling the town her mother might still live in and ask the operator to find her.  “Say Baxley, Georgia,” she pleaded, as I dialed information in search of her mother.  Since I wasn’t quite sure she was pronouncing the name correctly, I called every Georgia town that started with a B, or could even remotely sound like Baxley. As I dialed, Margaret looked on with pleading eyes while dressing and undressing my grown-up doll.

She gently pulled the doll’s arms into the sleeves, then smoothed the bodice over the breasts and smoothed the hem.  “Maybe she’s moved,” I said, when over and over the operator said, “There’s no one with that name in the book.”

“Try again,” she said.  “Maybe you didn’t say the name right.”

I never found Margaret’s mother, but on the night before she was to return to the orphan’s home, I had a sudden burst of inspiration and spoke before I’d asked my mother for permission. “You can have my doll and all her clothes,” I said.  I expected her to be euphoric, but she wasn’t one to show strong emotion.  She simply began packing the clothes into the trunk and snapped the latch closed. At that moment, I desperately wanted to retract the offer, but it was too late.


The next day, I couldn’t quite read the expression on my mother’s face when she saw Margaret packing up my doll and treasured trunk of clothes.  Was she proud of my generosity or did she think I’d gone too far?  What she didn’t know—what even I didn’t know—was that it was the only way I knew to give Margaret any semblance of a mother was to give her a closet full of clothes.

My trip to the beauty parlor

In preparation for my trip, I just spent three hours in the beauty parlor--as we used to call them in Georgia.  I wanted to have my roots touched up, but the new stylist threw in a few extras: like waxing my lip and chin and texturing the hair. By the time she had finished, I was starving and scarfed down a Bill Millers Poor Boy in about three minutes flat.

Do you ever feel suddenly aware of how much you don't know--even about yourself?  I always bump up against strange questions at the beauty parlor and doctor's office and I do my best to make up something plausible.

"Have you been having any particular problems with your hair?" she asked--and I say,"Just that my bangs are in my nose all the time, affecting respiration."

"Do you have sensitive skin?  Dry skin?"  I don't know.

"What kinds of product do you use on a regular basis?" Shampoo and conditioner, I say.

I showed her a picture of Helen Mirren--one that Sandy suggested I copy--but I said I wanted it less blonde.  I suggested that she might find another place for my bangs so that I can dispense with scrunching them into rubber bands like a two-year-old.  Even Elena has found my little twiggy appendages rather ridiculous--and once removed my rubber band herself.

I look nothing like Helen Mirren, I must say--not even remotely so. But the hair is less blond and full of "product": Moisture Builder, Moisture Boost, Flow Maker, and Shape Spray, to name a few, none of which I chose to purchase for future styling adventures at home.

Georgia and Virginia in Two Days

On Friday morning, I'll be flying to Atlanta, visiting with family, then leaving for Virginia on Sunday morning, Carlene and I, driving, to spend some days with Day, Tom, Jackson, and Marcus!

After that, we'll return to Atlanta and I'll see Betty--and we hope to have a couple of days to play.  Then we'll go to Columbus to visit with Carlene's sister, Dot, and my cousin Mary Beth, whom I've not seen in decades.

I'm excited!  I'm SO ready for a road trip and seeing everybody and enjoying the road from Georgia to Virginia with Carlene.  Thanks to Gabi's amazing body work (NKT), I feel able to drive again and that is WAY better than the alternative I was considering a month ago: a new knee.

I'll be back in San Antonio on August 2nd.

Finding Hope

Many years ago--was it twenty?--Joy and I drove to Boerne to our first writing group.  We sat in a circle of chairs in a downtown coffee shop, holding fresh notebooks, waiting to meet our leader--a woman named Hope who had recently moved here from New York, where she'd been an editor at Harper and Row.  (I'm thinking of the tone used in the Pace Picante commercial: NEW. YORK. CITY?!")

When she walked in, Joy and I looked at each other and one of us said, "She looks like she's from New York!"--as if New York women were fundamentally different enough to have defining features.  She wasn't wearing Texas casual or tennis shoes, that I know for sure.  She was glamorous, and she wore dark flowing clothes and lots of silver jewelry, though I could possibly be embroidering on the jewelry point.

Joy and I were shy and a little giddy that first night; we were in a writing group and we loved our  leader from New York City!

Hope and I have the same last name--though at the time, mine was buried between my first name and my then-last name. We called each other Sis.

One night, full of trepidation, I left her some pages I had written about "women and houses." I was a nervous wreck--as I waited to hear her response, far more so than I'd ever been turning in a paper for grading in a graduate school class.

I will never forget the euphoria I felt when she called to say she loved my writing! I would have  parachuted out of a plane if she'd told me to--but what she said was this:  "Put those pages in an envelope and mail them to the Breadloaf Writing Conference right this minute! You'll be accepted." I did and I was!

When I gave up my land line, I saved the answering machine because it still holds the message Hope left for me when she read my finished book all those years ago.

Hope moved back to New York and I visited her twice in her home in the Hamptons. We spent my 46th birthday on Shelter Island, and I visited one of her writing groups and thought: this is it, this is what I want to do!

Leading writing groups, I so often think of Hope--who gave me the idea to do this work I love so much!  There's always a sliver of regret, though, that I didn't follow through and publish that book--I wish I had done both!

When I found her online Sunday night, I was so excited!  On our first phone call in years, she asked, "So what have you been doing for the last ten years?"

Certain people make profound differences in a life--sometimes without even knowing it.  Hope is one of those bright lights in my life, and I'm over-the-moon happy to have found her again!

Post #400: Proust

As an English major and avid reader, I should have read Proust years ago, but I never managed to do so.  I did once read a book called My Year of Reading Proust (by Phyllis Rose)--which I might have remembered with more clarity had I actually read Marcel's own words first.

Marcel Proust has been called one of the best (some say the best) writers of the 20th Century.  I've read enough about his writing that I can use the word "Proustian" in sentences, knowing more or less what it means--though I quickly scuttle away from the topic before revealing the superficiality of my acquaintance.

I was talking to a friend today with whom I enjoy literary discussions and one of us said, "Proustian" something or other--and somehow, in the circuitous conversation-- we both shamelessly admitted that we'd not actually read a page of Marcel Proust's own writing!  So we have decided to begin at the beginning, reading Remembrances of Things Past. (After writing this line, I had a talk with my friend Hope who suggested we save it for a winter read--as it is rather tedious for Texas summer reading.)

A couple of weeks ago, I watched all three seasons of a series on Netflix called The Killing, starring the beautiful Mireille Enos as the obsessive homicide detective:

When asked what book had made a difference in her life, here is what she said:

"Proust's multivolume In Search of Lost Time took me three years to read--an amazing journey that reminded me why I love being an actor.  Acting enables you to explore the strangeness of humanity, to get past all the armor and defenses and learn to be compassionate, to have more generosity toward the people around you.  Proust's Narrator always felt alien in the world.  He has a broken openness that makes walking through life painful for him, yet he's always striving to be more vulnerable, to be more understanding.  I believe that's the key to being an actor--the ability to put yourself in another's shoes and not judge."

Wanderlust

It's been a great weekend with writers!

After watching an episode of Masterpiece and thinking how I love British dramas and novels, I decided to order a Paddington Bear book for Elena (remembering a Paddington umbrella I should have gotten for her when I saw one in a museum gift shop in California last year) and then reading a few pages of a really good novel by Penelope Lively  (a new-to-me British writer) and then taking a little night drive in the Mini, it occurred to me that I should take a trip to England.

I'm picturing driving through the countryside, hanging out at Paddington Station and looking for a bear in a yellow raincoat, visiting Port Isaac in Cornwall where Doc Martin is filmed, going to museums, walking around London, and hopefully getting to drive one of those tee-nincy vintage Minis--if I can get the hang of driving on the other side of the road.

Correction: last post.

I just got an email from Linda--aka Dr. Linda who helped me with my aching leg in September and who made me feel so welcome in Southern California.  Here's a portion of her email regarding my last post:

That would be Bob Seger singing Old Time Rock 'n Roll, not Pete Seeger. He played the banjo and sang about trains and stuff, a folk singer.

I saw Chris Botti and Chris Isaak at the Hollywood Bowl.Love that place, the best of LA for sure. But I took the subway and walked from the stop on Hollywood Blvd where there are tourists and all kinds of characters.

She advised me to get to know Chris Botti--and I'm going to iTunes right now to discover him!

Thanks, Linda, for the correction!

Full Moon, Full Circle, at the Lightning Creek

Thirty years ago, Helotes

         My children grew up in Helotes, not far from where a young singer named Willie Nelson got his start--in Helotes.  This bridge filled with children--my two and friends with whom they grew up--was on our seven-acres on Scenic Loop.  Two miles down was the curvy little township of Grey Forest--where my friend Kathy lived.  (Kathy's two girls are at the end, next to Will; my daughter Day is the tallest with the red socks)

         Every morning, Kathy and I woke at five and walked those streets of Grey Forest in the dark, talking nonstop, then we'd wake up our kids, get them off to school, and start our work days.  I always remember these long morning walks with such fondness--and haven't had the discipline (or the walking partner) to walk that early since moving into San Antonio 18 years ago.

         Last night, knowing I wouldn't see a rodeo for three weeks, I headed out to Helotes.  Will and Veronica were packing for their trip (they are leaving today to fly to Virginia to see Day and her family) so I picked up Elena and took her to visit my friend Kathy and her five-year-old granddaughter, Maggie.  Then we four all went to the rodeo together.

       Maggie looks uncannily like her mother Erin used to look;  here she is with the newest of their dogs, a Great Pyranees they recently rescued. With all the dogs and cats and a little girl to play with, Elena felt instantly at home. She wanted to swim in  Kathy's pool, but we'd forgotten to bring her "swim soup."

Maggie and Mercy

        To see Elena and Maggie playing and sitting together in the bleachers gave me deja vu: reminding me of the years their parents played together 30 years ago.

        This wonderful country rodeo happens every Friday night in Pipe Creek at 8:00--and it's pure Texas, pure Americana. The announcer plays classic western music and tells corny jokes.  It's a foot-tapping and happy place to be. And of course, there are the camels and  ostrich and donkeys and sheep and bulls....all residents of the Lightning Ranch.

        As the white horses pranced around and the Star Spangled Banner played, I felt a bit teary and nostalgic.  As I walked around the rodeo field with my friend to get cotton candy for the little girls, the full moon shining, I felt it again--so lucky to be here, more or less intact, and walking happily along to the sound of "That Good Old Time Rock and Roll."

Elena and Veronica getting ready for the opening rodeo parade

           Bob Seger's song was playing--from the announcer's stand:

                            Still like that old time rock and roll

                            That kind of music just soothes the soul

                            I reminisce about the days of old

                            With that old time rock and roll. 

Chicken

After three days of not eating, I just now enjoyed a bowl of chicken soup--made by the chefs at Central Market.  It was delicious, full of orzo and spinach and chicken and celery!

Carlene and I have both officially retired from cooking, but from time to time, we get inspired for a day or two.  Just got this recipe today--sent from her iPad to my Inbox--and since she says it's good, I'm sending it along to you all:

I can't believe I am the one sending a recipe!

Baked Chicken Salad
2 cups cooked diced chicken 
2 cups chopped celery
1 T. grated onion 
1 small jar pimiento, drained and chopped 
1 can cream of chicken soup
3/4 cup slivered or chopped almonds
1/2 cup mayonnaise
1 t. Lemon juice

Topping 
1/2 cup grated cheese
2 cups (I use a little less - more like 1.5 cup)  crushed Ritz crackers

Mix all ingredients together and pour into a 2-quart casserole dish, lightly greased.
For  topping, mix grated cheese and Ritz crackers and sprinkle on top.
Bake uncovered 350 degrees for 25 minutes.

Love Y'all
Carlene

Sent from my iPad

Bed, bathroom, and beyond

Well, it's been a quiet week in Lake Wobegone....as Garrison Keillor always says.

I've been struggling with either a stomach bug or the downside of some forgotten tasty morsel eaten a few days ago.  I plan to be well mañana.

Last night, five wonderful women had salon in the apartment out back, and I--the intended hostess--wasn't able to make it.  I could feel the buzz all the way into the house and didn't like missing--but I've heard from several today that it was another great night in Salonville. The topic was "Letting Go."



 

The recipe

Bake pie shell at 425 degrees for seven minutes
Heat skillet and coat with 4 T. oil
Add onions and sauté 4 minutes
Add next six ingredients.  Cover.  Cook 5 minutes
Uncover and cook 5 minutes.
Cool 10 minutes
Dribble with oil and parmesan and olives and bake at 375 for 25 minutes.

Ingredients:

1 9" pie shell
6 T. olive oil
1 minced onion
4 diced tomatoes
2 large cloves garlic
1 t. basil
1 t. thyme
1 and 1/2 t. miso
dash pepper
3 eggs
3 T. tomato paste
1/4 cup chopped parsley
dash cayenne or Tabasco
8 black olives
1/2 cup Parmesan

Who can resist falling in love with these guys?

The mama panda holds and plays with her baby
much as a human mama does, picking it up
in her arms and cradling it, not with her mouth as
dogs and cats do. 

Bamboo, of course, is his favorite food.
It's almost impossible to tell the gender of a baby panda.

There are now 12 Giant Pandas in the U.S.
3 in Atlanta, 3 in Washington, D.C.,
2 in Memphis, and 4 in San Diego



Just ordered this children's book for Elena:

You Tube has adorable videos of pandas in action.

Tuesday in Texas

After lunch at Adalantes with my friend Chris and her friend, Caroline,
 I came home to find this
special handmade postcard in my mail slot--from Nellie!
"You said you liked postcards," she wrote on the back.
This one--like her Christmas bird--is a treasure, soon to be framed! 

While I was napping, Linda Quintera--
who's busy packing for her upcoming move to Hondo--
delivered this plaque and left it on the front porch.
Two gifts from artists in one day!  I feel so lucky!


Here's Jackson arriving at the airport after his week-long trip to Colorado!
His little brother, Marcus, as you can see, is thrilled to have his best friend back!

Capping off a day of good things,
Jan (and her two grandsons)  brought me leftovers from their dinner--
and I have nothing to do now but relax and finish reading the Panda book.

Ruth Harkness and Baby Su-Lin

When a baby panda is born, it is a furless little animal that weighs about a-fourth of a pound.  Imagine a stick of butter--to a mother who weighs about 200 pounds.

The capture of the panda and Ruth's maternal feelings for it as they make the journey to the U.S. make this book an excellent read.  I'm rushing to finish the last pages before my writing group arrives tonight.  

Many pandas have been killed in the wild, stuffed, and taken back as trophies, but this little guy was fed formula from a baby bottle and treated like a human baby and delivered safely (in spite of Ruth's flu and countless red tape obstacles) to the U.S. where it could be viewed by thousands.

Not only was the Giant Panda considered the "most valuable animal in the world," but it is universally loved for its human-like baby features: the big head, the rounded body, the big eyes. I remember learning at the Washington D.C. Zoo that pandas are not sociable animals, that the males and females only meet briefly for mating, then are indifferent to each other and other pandas. 

Su Lin looks like the quintessential teddy bear in this picture, snuggling up to his mama. 

Giant Pandas and Teas: Made in China

My number one regret is not traveling more, more widely, and in a more informed manner.  I don't see myself as a rugged explorer by any means, but it is thrilling to travel vicariously with Ruth Harkness to the hinterlands of China in pursuit of this amazing animal.

What a fearless woman she is--to brave diseases and hardships and bandits in the western mountains near Tibet!  She is so exhilarated by gentle good people she meets and the vistas--not to mention the challenge of finding the Giant Panda--that she is not afraid.

Geography and history--as taught in my elementary schools--was so boring that I never got a sense of the countries we "studied."  If only we had had teachers who had traveled, teachers who had stories to tell, pictures to show, I believe I would have been an avid student of the creatures, people and natural beauty of remote areas of the world.  As it is, I'll continue to be a vicarious traveler through books and films.

Isn't it amazing how learning about anything opens doors to other things?

Lately, I have been enjoying the delicious teas I've discovered at a shop at the mall called TeaVana.  Now I have my little tea catalog out beside the book, The Lady and The Panda, and am matching teas with provinces in China described in the book. As the expedition nears Tibet, the explorers see young girls carrying hundred-pound baskets of tea and herb diggers wearing turbans and brilliant blue gowns who "knew these mountains in a way no one else could." For the first time, I have a sense of where my tea comes from--and a deeper appreciation of the people who harvest the leaves and berries.

These teas are said to be rich in antioxidants and other nutrients and their flavors are amazing--fresh and fruity and flowery.

The first face I see in the morning....

Is the face of this blue-eyed doll who sits beside a white lamp on my dresser.  She was one of those spontaneous gifts to me from Mike seven years ago as we were walking through flea markets and antique stores in North Georgia.  

He was always trolling for treasures: neon signs, crockery, juke boxes, anything from the 1950s to add to his mind-boggling collection.  He's created and lives in a virtual Fifties museum packed with a lifetime of finds. He re-builds vintage cars, makes "sofas" out of salvaged front seats of old cars, and has built a pristine Fifties Shell station with old gas pumps he's refurbished.  

I'm not a collector of anything, but from time to time on our trips into Things Of The Past, I'd see something and pick it up, and--before I knew it--he was buying it for me.  

This doll's head is crookedly attached to her body; it droops and wobbles if she's not leaning against the  lamp. Her fingers are cracked and her dress is so threadbare that it probably wouldn't stand up to washing.  But there she is, timeless, peaceful, an emblem of eternal childhood. 

The Lady and the Panda, by Vicki Constantine Croke

          This book is not my usual genre of choice. I rarely read biographical adventure stories, but this one is so compelling it may open up a whole new reading path for me.

         The Lady and the Panda tells the true story of an American socialite, Ruth Harkness, who in 1936 took over her dead husband's expedition to the border of China and Tibet and captured the first giant panda to be seen in the West.   In chapter 2, the author describes the city of Shanghai with such colorful stories and details that I feel transported back in time and across the miles to "a place of serious debauchery and vicious crime." 

          One of the many men who pursue the attractive widow [when she arrives in Shanghai]  is a young journalist, Vic Keane who becomes her guide.  

          He was the picture of the suave, good-natured American in Shanghai.  He lived amicably away from his wife, while win a large, handsome apartment he kept a beautiful and possessive White Russian mistress, whom Harkness described as "a really entrancing creature who speaks practically no English, but enough, I gather to make his life fairly miserable.  When he had to make trips out of town, his wife not only took over the reporting job for him but also assumed guardianship of the mistress, who was "as helpless as a kitten...."

           In the Chinese parts of Shanghai, Harkness saw beauty and a vibrant history.  "All of China, eating, sleeping, living, and loving there as they have for thousands of years--all in the dirty, and airless streets," she wrote.  Harkness pressed on, game to infiltrate even the most wretched dens.  With her newspaper chum as guide, she made her way into a filthy ramshackle building, where the air was redolent...with the sweet and sickening scent of opium. The Westerners stayed to observe a Chinese man and woman as they lay on couches smoking long pipes filled with the drug.

         The writing is excellent; reading these first fifty pages has been like taking a meandering walk into the city, then backtracking a century to the Opium War--and the devastating consequences of that war to the Chinese people. 

         By 1930, it [Shanghai] possessed more prostitutes per capita than any other city in the world. Here, the most depraved people from all walks of life came to satisfy their urges.  One particularly twisted warlord...a six-foot-seven manic with a shaved skull, loved to sweep into Shanghai surrounded by soldiers numbering into the thousands.  Fond of decapitating enemies and posting their heads on telephone poles, [he] played as hard as he butchered....

         Having recently visited Chicago, I'm also interested in the fact that the panda wound up in the Chicago Brookfield Zoo--where he attracted 53,000 visitors in one day, more than any other animal before or since in a single day.  Ruth Harkness and her panda made the front pages of the Chicago Tribute for a nine-day stretch--something no one but a president had ever done before. 

          But I'm getting ahead of myself.  So far, she hasn't even left Shanghai--and I'm already jumping ahead to Chicago!

Another good movie

After the Wedding is a Danish movie starring the same actress who plays in the series, Borgen.

Both are excellent.  Borgen is not available streaming, but I believe it's available on Netflix if you get DVDs.

After the Wedding is a story that connects a wealthy family in Denmark with an orphanage in India. Highly recommended!

Grandparents

        Linda and I met half a lifetime ago.  Our families were both camping at Molas Lake, a little piece of Colorado heaven between Durango and Silverton.  She shared with me a manuscript of a book she'd written (which I read on a rainy day in our pop up while she took my children on a hike) and we discovered so many things in common that we knew we were destined to be friends.  Our parents had the same wedding anniversary; we both had a flower girl in our weddings named Tammy; we both had a brother named Bob.

        Beyond that, we were both reading the same book the day we met: Prince of Tides, and we were on the same page!  And on the way to Molas Lake, we'd both read the same children's book to our sons.  The coincidences kept unrolling, like the film on our old cameras, and we took pictures of each other, knowing we'd keep in touch when they went back to Cape Cod and we went back to Texas.

        Letters written on paper continued until the advent of e-mail.  When we both got set up to start e-mail, Linda resisted.  I assured her we'd keep sending letters by snail mail, but I was wrong.  Like almost everyone else, we moved into the electronic age, and now--except for birthday cards in June and October, our letters are all e-letters.

       Today I got an e-mail from her that described her special relationship with her grandparents and I asked her if I could share it here.  Next to animals and people, one of the things Linda loves most is riding roller coasters.  Reading this letter, I'm reminded of where that love of coasters began--with her Nana and Grampa:

      I loved the photos of Nathan and Elena with the flags. I can't wait to hear about the day Nathan spends with you, "Just you, nobody else."  I loved that he was able to express that.  It's so important to create individual time for each grandchild.  

      My grandparents were great at that.  They seemed to know our individual interests and needs without even having to express them.  Even when it came to Christmas shopping.  They would set a night to take the four of us shopping in downtown Worcester.  It was glorious in its heyday, lights and amazing storefronts, creche on the common, carols singing, bells ringing, and of course my glasses fogging up every time we went into a store from the cold air.  

        I especially loved Denholms with the big revolving door and escalators, and of course Santa was always there just waiting for us to have our photo op with him!  But what I loved was they would split up, each taking turns to let us shop for every member of the family with our nickels and dimes, usually at Newberry's or Woolworths, so we could afford our trinkets and treasures we wanted to give.  We'd meet back up and knew we held secret gifts in our bags, smirking at one another with knowledge the others didn't have.  

         Nana and Grampa knew I loved macaroni and cheese and the boys liked Chinese food...so Nana and I would go to Waldorf's for their famous mac and cheese with pimiento, and the boys and Grampa would go to Chinx, the Chinese Restaurant close by.  

          Summers we enjoyed at their summer camp and the beaches in New Hampshire and Maine.  Hampton Beach, Wells Beach, and Old Orchard Beach.  Old Orchard was famous for the amusement park and pier over the water.  Riding the ferris wheel high up looking at ocean waves was always a highlight.  Grampa would take the boys on the roller coaster, I was only big enough for the small one back then.  Nana and I would  play skeeball in the arcade.  

           Each one of us knew, without a doubt, that we were uniquely special in their eyes.  They were our anchors and safe harbors and the biggest mentors you could ever ask for.  

     

Lemon Posset

Because Charlotte shattered her wrist (dancing, spinning, joyously, by the way), Steve and Janet invited her (and me, thank goodness) for dinner on Wednesday night. Steve grilled delicious pork and Janet made two fresh and beautiful salads. The final course was a dessert Steve made for us: Lemon Posset from Picnikins Patio Cafe.

It reminded me of one of my favorites--lemon panna cotta at Enoteca on South Congress in Austin. I'd drive ninety miles for that dessert any day if it weren't for the cost of gas added to the price of the lemon panna cotta! This could be the same recipe; it tastes exactly like it. Steve added cut-up strawberries to the top and it was heavenly.

Ingredients:

2 cups heavy cream
3/4 c. sugar
1/3 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice, strained
Mint or berries and powdered sugar to garnish.

Bring cream and sugar to a boil in a stainless steel pan.  Reduce heat to a simmer and whisk for 6 to 8 minutes.  Remove from heat and add lemon juice.  Pour into small glasses or bowls and place in refrigerator to cool for 3-4 hours.  Garnish with mint or berries.  Dust with powdered sugar before serving.

Thanks, Steve, for sharing this recipe!

"The Apostle" with Robert Duvall

For anyone who loves Southern Gospel music, or for anyone who grew up in the South or ever visited a "Holy Ghost Church," this movie is for you.

Robert Duvall is spot-on perfect as the East Texas/Louisiana preacher, Farrah Fawcett his wife, and the whole congregation and radio man so authentic that you figure they aren't actors at all but people pulled right off the street (or should I say right out of the pews?) of some bayou town in LA.

On a road trip once upon a time, Deb and I heading to Florida to see Nellie, we went to one of my favorite towns in Louisiana, Breaux Bridge, not far from the state line and Lafayette.  Zydeco music and dancing on Saturday morning, white chocolate bread pudding in Cafe Des Amis.

"If you don't want to be on the devil's hit list, you better be on Jesus' mailing list," shouts the preacher.

"Now hug somebody's neck," he says, and the people do, and say Amen.

Duvall captures the spirit of those old time preachers and then some.  He's had himself a zigzaggy past and he has some history as a "womanizer"--which ultimately leads to his downfall "in the eyes of the world," but he's got himself a Heaven-bound airplane and is unstoppable.  He can fight and fix cars and "yell at Jesus" when he's mad at him.

I loved this movie!

"Happy Birthday, America!" by Nathan

At the pool today, there were flags outside, 

and Nathan wanted his picture taken with one.

So here they are, Nathan and Elena, 

holding flags and Nathan making up a song:

"Happy Birthday, America!"--Elena singing along.  

"I'd do anything for my country," he told me on the way home. 

 "That means you are patriotic," I said. 

"What does that mean?"

"It means you love your country."

"Is that good?" he asked.

Happy Fourth of July, Everybody!

from Yenna, Nathan and Elena

Beauty

A conversation can be beautiful.  I'll start there.

Because I'm a Libra, some say, I'm attracted to symmetry and balance.  A balanced conversation has potential for beauty, both people on the same track, or close.  Beauty in conversation includes sparks of insights, surprises and nuggets of wisdom and things to think about.

Dancing can be beautiful.   I got a text from my old flame, Mike, at 5:00 this morning: "Can I have this dance?"   He's the kind of dancer who, when I danced with him, I felt like a beautiful dancer--which, actually,  I'm not.

So many books have beauty--from the cover to the feel of the pages to the stories that unfold on their pages.

A human personality can certainly be beautiful: nuanced, funny, warm, affectionate, wise, mysterious.

Betty said that what makes her heart sing are sunsets and mountain views.  We've shared so many beautiful mountain views on our shared road trips in the past thirty years.

Houses and yards--even ragged ones--can be beautiful if they bear the imprints of the people who live there, especially if they are places of hospitality and friendship.

The happy faces of children, innocent and full of wonder--that may be the most beautiful of all.

Favorite Things....

What fun it's been to get two emails about favorite things in one day!


Diana wrote:

Bookmarks.  I can never pass up a rack of them.  I select for myself and to give as gifts. From my collection I can always find the perfect bookmark for each book I read.

Bottles of nail polish. All colors.  I haven't worn anything but clear on my fingernails for years, but my toes always have a color.  I feel so daring, picking out a new shade. Then find it's the same or similar to all the ones I already have.

Raindrops running down a glass window.  I love to watch them merge and flow together or make their
solitary way down the glass.

Shorty pajamas.  I don't own any, but every time I see some on racks in the store, I remember my sister as a skinny child, fresh out of bed, chasing a noisy guinea hen around the yard in her shorty p.j.s because it woke her too early.

Linda--my California friend--wrote:

 I like all animals, but almost any puppy is adorable. I also like baby squirrels, so much fun to raise, and I am fascinated by the tiny baby turtles that pop up from the sand and and head for the big blue ocean. How resolute and brave they are. Snorkeling among fish is hypnotic, loved all the varieties in Hawaii. Love my car, that's an easy one!