On Morning Edition this morning, Scott Simon (my favorite guy on the radio) interviewed Emily Spivek about her new book, Worn Stories.
If you had to get rid of every item of clothing in your closet, and you could save only one piece of clothing or pair of shoes, what would it be?
Worn Stories is a new book in which the author asked that question to lots of people and compiled a book of their answers. Rosanne Cash, Piper Kerman, Marcus Samuelsson and others write about the meaningful articles of clothing stored in their closets.
"I asked them to look for something that they couldn't part with," she tells NPR's Scott Simon. "Something that held some memory, whether it was something spectacular, momentous, wonderful, unusual that happened to them while they were wearing that piece of clothing."
Here's an excerpt from the book:
On a brisk winter day in late 2013, I took my students on a tour of a national thrift-store chain's largest distribution center in Brooklyn as part of an undergraduate course I was teaching. The four-story building—a converted horse stable built in the early 1800s—was humming with activity. We were shown each floor's dedicated purpose in sifting through the tons of clothing, as well as bric-a-brac, electronics, and furniture, that arrive each day. Jeans, T-shirts, skirts, unworn designer wedding dresses, shoes, winter coats, and bathing suits were emptied by the truckload each morning on the first floor. Then they were sorted, priced, and hung on plastic hangers on the third floor, brought to the store on the second floor, put into out-of-season storage on the fourth floor, or taken back down to the first floor, where they were reloaded onto a truck and taken to another one of the thrift store's many locations throughout Brooklyn.
The sheer quantity of clothing passing through this facility—about ten thousand pieces per day—was astounding. Even more eye-opening was what happened to the clothes that weren't deemed worthy by the store's sorters. They were dumped down a chute, called "the hole." The mounds of clothes landed in a bin on the first floor and piled up until a machine compressed them into thousand-pound cubes. Those packages were then sold in bulk to distributors who shipped them to third-world countries or shredded them into rags.
The clothes were no longer recognizable for their function or style after they had been packed into cubes. It was hard to believe that someone had once worn them. You know when you repeat a word over and over, and suddenly the word becomes unfamiliar, strange-sounding? It was like that, but with clothes. They became meaningless stuff. Each garment had lost all attachment to its previous owner and its intended use. It had nothing to do with fashion. And there was just so much of it.
Who had worn the garment before it was donated to the thrift store? Where had it been? What was the previous owner like? Except for a lingering scent of perfume or body odor, a stain, or a movie stub in the pocket of a pair of jeans, that history, and each garment's provenance, was lost.
These are questions I was asking when I started the Worn Stories project in 2010. I was curious about our garments' histories and wanted to create a place to record and preserve these stories: first, my own; then, entries from my friends and family; and, eventually, the stories of strangers.
Our clothes are full of memory and meaning. That's why we all have garments—hanging in our closets, shoved in the backs of drawers, and boxed up in garages—that we haven't worn in years but just can't part with. And then there are the clothes we wear every day, whose stories are still unfolding.
My own closet is full of clothes; it is also an evolving archive of experiences, adventures, and memories. I began using my clothes to write about those experiences—my first concert T-shirt, a hand-me-down scarf, a handmade sweater. Quickly, three things became clear: First, clothes can be a rich and universal storytelling device. Second, I was much more interested in the clothing-inspired narratives of other people than in my own. And third, if those stories aren't captured, they disappear.
For the Worn Stories website, wornstories.com, and eventually for this book, I asked for stories from people I knew or admired—artists, musicians, writers, filmmakers, chefs, entrepreneurs, and designers. I put out a call to friends and acquaintances I'd known for years. And I solicited contributions on the Worn Stories website, from listservs, and via Craigslist. Most contributors told me their stories; others wrote them themselves. In each case, the request was the same: Select a piece of clothing still in your possession with a compelling story behind it, whether something spectacular, unexpected, weird, wonderful, or momentous happened while you were wearing it. And share what you remember. As a result, the subject matter of these tales ranges from the everyday to the extraordinary. They include recollections about clothing worn during a breakup and during a kidnapping, while accidentally tripping on acid and while taking aerobics classes, on a visit to the White House and on a trek along the Great Wall of China.
The intent of this book is simple: that these tales will not only offer a glimpse into the lives of these contributors but also prompt you, the reader, to reconsider the role of clothing in your own life—before your clothes someday wind up in anonymous piles like those I saw at the thrift store's distribution facility.
The clothes that protect us, that make us laugh, that serve as a uniform, that help us assert our identity or aspirations, that we wear to remember someone—in all of these are encoded the stories of our lives. We all have a memoir in miniature living in a garment we've worn. This book brings some of those stories to light.
Saturday, August 30, 2014
Girl in Bath
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| Who's the Girl Hiding Behind the Flowered Shower Curtain? |
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| She does her own make-up--no assistance required or welcomed |
Thursday, August 28, 2014
Filling the Void
This film shows a chapter in the life of an Orthodox Jewish family.
While the ending wasn't completely satisfying for me, I enjoyed was seeing a slice of their lives--arranged marriages (but more freedom than in some similar cultures in that regard) and the relationships among the families. Both parties to a wedding get to agree--or the marriage doesn't happen.
The question that propels the story is whether or not the young Shira will marry her sister's widower and become a mother to her infant nephew, so shortly after her sister dies in childbirth.
As I often notice in foreign films, the emotions are more muted than what we are accustomed to in American movies. And yet, the family bonds and cultural bonds are warm and memorable.
While the ending wasn't completely satisfying for me, I enjoyed was seeing a slice of their lives--arranged marriages (but more freedom than in some similar cultures in that regard) and the relationships among the families. Both parties to a wedding get to agree--or the marriage doesn't happen.
The question that propels the story is whether or not the young Shira will marry her sister's widower and become a mother to her infant nephew, so shortly after her sister dies in childbirth.
As I often notice in foreign films, the emotions are more muted than what we are accustomed to in American movies. And yet, the family bonds and cultural bonds are warm and memorable.
New Year Baby
A beautifully made documentary, New Year Baby is made by a young Texas woman, daughter of Cambodian refugees who survived the genocide. When her parents left in 1979, her mother was pregnant with her, the baby of the family.
To better understand her family and the culture of her parents, the young woman goes to Cambodia with her parents. It is a poignant and unforgettable story: the relationship between the parents and their love for their four children; seeing their extended family again after all these years; and a reminder of the horrors of Pol Pot and the two million people killed there.
Three fourths of the Cambodian population is made up of people who were born in the late seventies and later.
Her mother spent three years in a work camp, but could only bear to stay for three minutes when they revisited the place.
The relationship between the narrator and her father was especially beautiful. Although her parents were forced to marry by the khmer rouge, they came to love each other. In a rigorous journey out of Cambodia and into Thailand, the father singlehandedly saved his pregnant wife, the three other children, and an aunt.
I loved the format of this documentary--interviews spliced with animated drawings. This is the best and most powerful documentary I've seen this summer.
To better understand her family and the culture of her parents, the young woman goes to Cambodia with her parents. It is a poignant and unforgettable story: the relationship between the parents and their love for their four children; seeing their extended family again after all these years; and a reminder of the horrors of Pol Pot and the two million people killed there.
Three fourths of the Cambodian population is made up of people who were born in the late seventies and later.
Her mother spent three years in a work camp, but could only bear to stay for three minutes when they revisited the place.
The relationship between the narrator and her father was especially beautiful. Although her parents were forced to marry by the khmer rouge, they came to love each other. In a rigorous journey out of Cambodia and into Thailand, the father singlehandedly saved his pregnant wife, the three other children, and an aunt.
I loved the format of this documentary--interviews spliced with animated drawings. This is the best and most powerful documentary I've seen this summer.
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
Picture on my refrigerator....
The story I am about to tell you is a true and mystical one:
I recently put a new snapshot on my refrigerator: my dad (Lloyd); his two brothers, a brother-in-law, and my granddaddy, Papa--Carlene's dad.
For years we have commented on how much Tom (my son-in-law) looks like and reminds us of Lloyd at Tom's age--it's just uncanny, since these two men are not biologically related!
Elena always notices anything new in my house. When she saw the picture, she pointed to Granddaddy Lloyd (whom she never got to meet in her lifetime) and said, "Uncle Tom!"
"No, that's not Uncle Tom; that's your great-granddaddy," I said. "But he does look like Uncle Tom, doesn't he?"
Then she wanted to know the names of all the men in the picture, but kept going back to Granddaddy Lloyd, as if she knew him.
When she "had pee pee," she insisted that I change her diaper, and I did.
Lying on my bed, she said something to me in words that no one has ever said to me exactly like that before but Lloyd:
"You're so pretty," she said. (He told me that often, in exactly those words)
She didn't say it in her usual loud and confident voice; she said it almost as if she said it by mistake, quietly, and covered her mouth when she said it. I wasn't quite sure she said what I thought I heard.
"I'm so what?" I asked. "Big?"
"No!" she said.
"I'm so mean?" I asked, teasingly.
"No! she said. "You so pretty, Yenna!"
I told this story to Kate and Carlene this morning. They both said the same thing in different ways. Kate said, "She's channeling Lloyd!"
Carlene said that wherever Heaven is, maybe they'd met there before she was born. Maybe they know each other after all!
I recently put a new snapshot on my refrigerator: my dad (Lloyd); his two brothers, a brother-in-law, and my granddaddy, Papa--Carlene's dad.
For years we have commented on how much Tom (my son-in-law) looks like and reminds us of Lloyd at Tom's age--it's just uncanny, since these two men are not biologically related!
Elena always notices anything new in my house. When she saw the picture, she pointed to Granddaddy Lloyd (whom she never got to meet in her lifetime) and said, "Uncle Tom!"
"No, that's not Uncle Tom; that's your great-granddaddy," I said. "But he does look like Uncle Tom, doesn't he?"
Then she wanted to know the names of all the men in the picture, but kept going back to Granddaddy Lloyd, as if she knew him.
When she "had pee pee," she insisted that I change her diaper, and I did.
Lying on my bed, she said something to me in words that no one has ever said to me exactly like that before but Lloyd:
"You're so pretty," she said. (He told me that often, in exactly those words)
She didn't say it in her usual loud and confident voice; she said it almost as if she said it by mistake, quietly, and covered her mouth when she said it. I wasn't quite sure she said what I thought I heard.
"I'm so what?" I asked. "Big?"
"No!" she said.
"I'm so mean?" I asked, teasingly.
"No! she said. "You so pretty, Yenna!"
I told this story to Kate and Carlene this morning. They both said the same thing in different ways. Kate said, "She's channeling Lloyd!"
Carlene said that wherever Heaven is, maybe they'd met there before she was born. Maybe they know each other after all!
Muscle Shoals
What a fascinating documentary!
I lived in Georgia for the first 18 years of my life and have been back there at least twice a year since, yet I never knew about this place, four hours from home.
Aretha Franklin, Etta James, Percy Sledge, the Allman Brothers, the Rolling Stones--these are just a few of the musicians who got their start or played in the town of Muscle Shoals, Alabama. There's something soulful and magical about this place, something "you can feel even if you're blind," one said.
Ironic, that comment--because it's also the home of Helen Keller!
The photography captures the landscape I know so well--the red dirt and kudzu, the rivers and streams and view of mountains.
Even during the years of racial segregation and George Wallace saying "Segregation Forever!" and signs saying "Keep Alabama White," there was no segregation among the musicians of Muscle Shoals, Alabama. "When you're working on the common thing, it don't matter what color the skin is," one said.
I'll definitely route my October road trip to go through Muscle Shoals.
I lived in Georgia for the first 18 years of my life and have been back there at least twice a year since, yet I never knew about this place, four hours from home.
Aretha Franklin, Etta James, Percy Sledge, the Allman Brothers, the Rolling Stones--these are just a few of the musicians who got their start or played in the town of Muscle Shoals, Alabama. There's something soulful and magical about this place, something "you can feel even if you're blind," one said.
Ironic, that comment--because it's also the home of Helen Keller!
The photography captures the landscape I know so well--the red dirt and kudzu, the rivers and streams and view of mountains.
Even during the years of racial segregation and George Wallace saying "Segregation Forever!" and signs saying "Keep Alabama White," there was no segregation among the musicians of Muscle Shoals, Alabama. "When you're working on the common thing, it don't matter what color the skin is," one said.
I'll definitely route my October road trip to go through Muscle Shoals.
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
An e-mail from a kindred movie-watcher and traveler!
Good morning Linda,
As I watched the Happy Valley series I thought Linda would surely like it. Though by no means a "happy" show it was a treat for me because Tim and spent several days around Hebden Bridge, Todmorden, and Halifax.
One earlymorning we left the deep valley and drove up a long crooked road, not more than 5 miles and arrived at a little parking area and found a path leading down to the Bronte Family's Parsonage in the little town of Haworth. It was one of those magical moments - thrilling to walk around those small crowded rooms where they lived and wrote and left behind so many mementos from their lives.
The church is beautiful, the old cemetery downright spooky. Of course it mattered that it was spring time, a sunny day and the yellow gorse blooming on the heath while little new-born lambs jumped around the field right behind the Parsonage. If you ever go to England, this would be a
special place to visit. Have a nice day.
Gerlinde
P.S. Loved the colorful boats along the canal in Hebden - recognized the location in "Happy Valley"!
As I watched the Happy Valley series I thought Linda would surely like it. Though by no means a "happy" show it was a treat for me because Tim and spent several days around Hebden Bridge, Todmorden, and Halifax.
One earlymorning we left the deep valley and drove up a long crooked road, not more than 5 miles and arrived at a little parking area and found a path leading down to the Bronte Family's Parsonage in the little town of Haworth. It was one of those magical moments - thrilling to walk around those small crowded rooms where they lived and wrote and left behind so many mementos from their lives.
The church is beautiful, the old cemetery downright spooky. Of course it mattered that it was spring time, a sunny day and the yellow gorse blooming on the heath while little new-born lambs jumped around the field right behind the Parsonage. If you ever go to England, this would be a
special place to visit. Have a nice day.
Gerlinde
P.S. Loved the colorful boats along the canal in Hebden - recognized the location in "Happy Valley"!
Where is Paddington?
I have a new love--Paddington Bear.
What an amazing illustrator R.W. Alley is!
At the moment, I have several library books and a stuffed Paddington--but soon, I hope, I will be able to search for this cute little bear in Paddington Station.
In the meanwhile, Nathan and Elena are coming for dinner tonight--and I'm introducing them to the books.
What an amazing illustrator R.W. Alley is!
At the moment, I have several library books and a stuffed Paddington--but soon, I hope, I will be able to search for this cute little bear in Paddington Station.
In the meanwhile, Nathan and Elena are coming for dinner tonight--and I'm introducing them to the books.
A note from Carlene
"I can't get enough of it! I love every post! Just as I write 'post', I think about posts in my life ... down the lane to get the cows at night when I was little ... holding up the fences that divided the
fields ... holding the lines for clotheslines ... holding the gates that opened to let us or the cars or animals through ... in or out ... holding the mailbox where I waited for letters from Lloyd before he came and took me with him to Memphis - W.W.2 ..."
One of the joys of blogging is getting this kind of feedback and hearing how one word can spark memories in someone reading my random thoughts and impressions.
To those of you who know Carlene and sent cards and emails for her birthday, THANK YOU! She is still celebrating with friends and getting all the juice out of this birthday, as she always does.
fields ... holding the lines for clotheslines ... holding the gates that opened to let us or the cars or animals through ... in or out ... holding the mailbox where I waited for letters from Lloyd before he came and took me with him to Memphis - W.W.2 ..."
One of the joys of blogging is getting this kind of feedback and hearing how one word can spark memories in someone reading my random thoughts and impressions.
To those of you who know Carlene and sent cards and emails for her birthday, THANK YOU! She is still celebrating with friends and getting all the juice out of this birthday, as she always does.
Road Trip Movies
I love road trip movies--Little Miss Sunshine, Nebraska, Bonneville, and Thelma and Louise, just to name the first few I can think of.
Thelma and Louise, as I recall, didn't end on a happy note. But shortly after we'd seen it on the big screen, Beverly, Mary Locke and I took a Colorado road trip, and we dubbed ourselves Thelma, Louise, and Burnelle. At the campsite, we took pictures of ourselves hugging trees.
Tonight I watched Guilt Trip--starring Barbra Streisand. (Happy Valley was last night's pick--but it had nothing to do with travel, except for the fact that it had a yellow Mini Cooper and pretty scenery around Yorkshire.)
Right away, I noted that Guilt Trip wasn't going to be a movie with high literary value. Nor was it likely to leave a lasting impression. Nor is anybody in the cast or behind the scenes likely to be nominated for an Oscar.
On the other hand, nobody gets shot or drives off a cliff or anything catastrophic. The plot is simple: A guy invites his mama to go with him on an eight-day cross-country trip. He'll pitch his product (an organic cleaner) to K-Mart and Costco; she'll just go along for the ride and stop barely short of driving the poor guy nuts.
Following closely after Happy Valley (six episodes; police story; blood and crime galore), it was refreshing to watch a movie that made me laugh out loud a bunch of times. My favorite scene was the Tennessee snow scene, in which a stripper comes out of a nightclub to help Andy and his mama with the tires then leaves calling out, "God bless y'all!" in a high-octane sweet Southern accent.
Thelma and Louise, as I recall, didn't end on a happy note. But shortly after we'd seen it on the big screen, Beverly, Mary Locke and I took a Colorado road trip, and we dubbed ourselves Thelma, Louise, and Burnelle. At the campsite, we took pictures of ourselves hugging trees.
Tonight I watched Guilt Trip--starring Barbra Streisand. (Happy Valley was last night's pick--but it had nothing to do with travel, except for the fact that it had a yellow Mini Cooper and pretty scenery around Yorkshire.)
Right away, I noted that Guilt Trip wasn't going to be a movie with high literary value. Nor was it likely to leave a lasting impression. Nor is anybody in the cast or behind the scenes likely to be nominated for an Oscar.
On the other hand, nobody gets shot or drives off a cliff or anything catastrophic. The plot is simple: A guy invites his mama to go with him on an eight-day cross-country trip. He'll pitch his product (an organic cleaner) to K-Mart and Costco; she'll just go along for the ride and stop barely short of driving the poor guy nuts.
Following closely after Happy Valley (six episodes; police story; blood and crime galore), it was refreshing to watch a movie that made me laugh out loud a bunch of times. My favorite scene was the Tennessee snow scene, in which a stripper comes out of a nightclub to help Andy and his mama with the tires then leaves calling out, "God bless y'all!" in a high-octane sweet Southern accent.
Monday, August 25, 2014
"Mama's Bank Account"
This is a story Kathy once told me as we were walking in Grey Forest all those years ago, but I hadn't actually read it until this morning.
It's the opening story in the book by the same title by Kathryn Forbes.
The family is poor. Every week, the mama divides up what money they have for the essentials--and it's always tight. When a sister needs a Girl Scout uniform or a brother needs materials for school, Mama lets them know that she hopes they don't have to dip into their bank account. One by one, the members of the family pull together so that they don't have to withdraw money from her account. One takes on an extra job, the father gives up tobacco....
She looked around at us proudly. "Is good," she smiled. "See? We did not have to go down to the Bank."
When the writer-daughter sells her first story, she takes the money to her mother and places it in her lap and tells her, "This is for you to put in your Bank Account."
Mama looked at me. "Is no account," she said. "In all my life, I have never been inside a Bank."
And when I didn't--couldn't--answer, Mama said earnestly: "Is not good for little ones to be afraid--to not feel secure."
It's the opening story in the book by the same title by Kathryn Forbes.
The family is poor. Every week, the mama divides up what money they have for the essentials--and it's always tight. When a sister needs a Girl Scout uniform or a brother needs materials for school, Mama lets them know that she hopes they don't have to dip into their bank account. One by one, the members of the family pull together so that they don't have to withdraw money from her account. One takes on an extra job, the father gives up tobacco....
She looked around at us proudly. "Is good," she smiled. "See? We did not have to go down to the Bank."
When the writer-daughter sells her first story, she takes the money to her mother and places it in her lap and tells her, "This is for you to put in your Bank Account."
Mama looked at me. "Is no account," she said. "In all my life, I have never been inside a Bank."
And when I didn't--couldn't--answer, Mama said earnestly: "Is not good for little ones to be afraid--to not feel secure."
Imagination
I've been thinking about the words, imagine and imagination.
John Lennon's song has been playing over and over in my mind:
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world
You, you may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you will join us
And the world will live as one
In everything little and big, our imaginations are like nations of images. Each person's imagination is a unique country in his or her mind, as different in landscape and topography as actual countries on the map. Everything we've ever seen, loved, known, feared, tasted, or hoped for is stored there. Those natural resources are called memories.
Einstein said, "Imagination is more important than knowledge." Imagination is infused with possibilities and potential.
Reading fiction or watching movies, I'm transported into imaginary places that I remember as I do real cities and towns I've visited. I'm so there that I forget I'm here, on this bed, in this room. I project myself so seamlessly into the character on the screen that I get tears in my eyes when she cries.
I'm also transported in time. If she is young and beautiful, so am I--until the credits roll.
When Will and Veronica first learned that they were going to have a baby, this is how they told me:
They walked in, looked at the three framed pictures on my sideboard (Jackson, Marcus, and Nathan) and Will said, "Mom, I think you better get another picture frame!"
Elena was pea-size that day, and I had no idea whether she'd be a boy or a girl. What made me cry with joy that day wasn't Elena yet (whose face and gender were still mysteries), but the blurry image starting to form in my mind and in my heart.
When I haven't gotten what I hoped for, or when I've been shattered by disappointment, it's the imagination that ultimately reminds me, "There are other things...." or "Get up, get moving, make something."
Imagination also has a dark side--the anguish of picturing the unbearable. When I hear of brutal acts, such as the execution of James Foley, an American journalist, I think, "I cannot imagine!"--and yet it's because I can that I am haunted by it.
One minute, James Foley was one of us, living, doing his work, writing, speaking English sentences. One minute he had a voice and a self and was somebody's child, somebody's brother. The next minute, his life was over--and in a way that I still call unimaginable.
John Lennon's song has been playing over and over in my mind:
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world
You, you may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you will join us
And the world will live as one
In everything little and big, our imaginations are like nations of images. Each person's imagination is a unique country in his or her mind, as different in landscape and topography as actual countries on the map. Everything we've ever seen, loved, known, feared, tasted, or hoped for is stored there. Those natural resources are called memories.
Einstein said, "Imagination is more important than knowledge." Imagination is infused with possibilities and potential.
Reading fiction or watching movies, I'm transported into imaginary places that I remember as I do real cities and towns I've visited. I'm so there that I forget I'm here, on this bed, in this room. I project myself so seamlessly into the character on the screen that I get tears in my eyes when she cries.
I'm also transported in time. If she is young and beautiful, so am I--until the credits roll.
When Will and Veronica first learned that they were going to have a baby, this is how they told me:
They walked in, looked at the three framed pictures on my sideboard (Jackson, Marcus, and Nathan) and Will said, "Mom, I think you better get another picture frame!"
Elena was pea-size that day, and I had no idea whether she'd be a boy or a girl. What made me cry with joy that day wasn't Elena yet (whose face and gender were still mysteries), but the blurry image starting to form in my mind and in my heart.
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| Here she is today in Picture Frame #4--a little cowgirl. |
When I haven't gotten what I hoped for, or when I've been shattered by disappointment, it's the imagination that ultimately reminds me, "There are other things...." or "Get up, get moving, make something."
Imagination also has a dark side--the anguish of picturing the unbearable. When I hear of brutal acts, such as the execution of James Foley, an American journalist, I think, "I cannot imagine!"--and yet it's because I can that I am haunted by it.
One minute, James Foley was one of us, living, doing his work, writing, speaking English sentences. One minute he had a voice and a self and was somebody's child, somebody's brother. The next minute, his life was over--and in a way that I still call unimaginable.
Sunday, August 24, 2014
The kindness of one stranger
Today I went to the big colorful Central Library and found the books in the series Carlene recommended, The Walk--by Richard Paul Evans. I went there because they had a copy of my favorite-all-time childhood book, Mama Hattie's Girl, by Lois Lenski, and I wanted to re-read it and see why I loved it so much when I was ten.
As I was checking out, the librarian said there was a note on my card account--that someone had found and turned in my lost car keys from June! Thank goodness I'd had a library card on my key ring. I now have my pricey key back in my possession and I'm happy!
Ironically, the books I went for deal a lot with the kindness of strangers--as the main character starts walking from Seattle to Key West shortly after the death of his wife, the loss of his business and his house. Over and over, kind strangers show up on his walk--just as I discovered they do when I travel solo by car.
It's a little big thing: a stranger taking the time take lost keys to the library. It's a little big thing that the Landa Library saved them for two months and put a note on my account to let me know--since the phone number they had for me was an old number.
As I was checking out, the librarian said there was a note on my card account--that someone had found and turned in my lost car keys from June! Thank goodness I'd had a library card on my key ring. I now have my pricey key back in my possession and I'm happy!
Ironically, the books I went for deal a lot with the kindness of strangers--as the main character starts walking from Seattle to Key West shortly after the death of his wife, the loss of his business and his house. Over and over, kind strangers show up on his walk--just as I discovered they do when I travel solo by car.
It's a little big thing: a stranger taking the time take lost keys to the library. It's a little big thing that the Landa Library saved them for two months and put a note on my account to let me know--since the phone number they had for me was an old number.
The Thing About Thrift Shops....
In my earlier macaw post, I was wearing a $3.00 blouse--which I like very much. It's so soft I actually fell asleep in it last night and have it on still.
I hadn't done any fun thrift shopping in ages, but on Friday when I ventured out of the house to get groceries, I had to stop by The Green Door--where I perked up my wardrobe with three great finds, and got change back from a twenty-dollar bill.
When Kate and I used to thrift shop together (not that we're done, just on hiatus from shopping at the moment), we'd try on something and ask each other, "How do you like this?"
"How much is it?" Kate would ask.
"Three dollars."
She'd turn her head this way and that and say either, "Get it," or "Too much. Put it back."
The thing about thrift shops is not only money; it's a treasure hunt. When you're tired of your treasure, you simply take it to the women's shelter or Goodwill and let someone else have the pleasure of finding a treasure.
I hadn't done any fun thrift shopping in ages, but on Friday when I ventured out of the house to get groceries, I had to stop by The Green Door--where I perked up my wardrobe with three great finds, and got change back from a twenty-dollar bill.
When Kate and I used to thrift shop together (not that we're done, just on hiatus from shopping at the moment), we'd try on something and ask each other, "How do you like this?"
"How much is it?" Kate would ask.
"Three dollars."
She'd turn her head this way and that and say either, "Get it," or "Too much. Put it back."
The thing about thrift shops is not only money; it's a treasure hunt. When you're tired of your treasure, you simply take it to the women's shelter or Goodwill and let someone else have the pleasure of finding a treasure.
What are you reading?
In San Antonio, where it's presently too hot to do anything but stay inside my cave and read and watch movies, I have four books going at once:
Carlene recommended a five-book series, a novel actually, starting with The Walk. I'm halfway through the first. A man in Seattle loses everything--his wife, his house, his business--and sets out walking across America, heading to Key West as his ultimate destination.
Then there's Shooting Yourself--a book about taking "selfies with attitude"--which I plan to use in writing groups as a stimulus for autobiographical writing.
Map Art is a book about making maps as art--just as the title suggests. I've been wanting to play with maps, realizing that until recently I haven't consulted maps much, and now I'm finding them fascinating. I love Googling places on the map and looking at satellite views of places I've been.
And Outlanders, my gift book from Sandy, is the first in a series of nine books. I'm halfway through the first of that book as well.
Reading fiction and nonfiction, back and forth, with my phone turned off (because I stayed up tip 2:00 reading) and a napping sign on the door, I am going to spend today working through my stack of books and traveling back and forth from Seattle (where The Walk starts) to Scotland (where Outlanders begins.)
I read the Kindle sample of Round House last night and am putting that on my library reserve list as soon as I finish these. Louise Erdrich is an excellent writer and this is a book that has often been recommended by my reading friends.
Ah--what a delicious way to spend a Sunday morning!
Carlene recommended a five-book series, a novel actually, starting with The Walk. I'm halfway through the first. A man in Seattle loses everything--his wife, his house, his business--and sets out walking across America, heading to Key West as his ultimate destination.
Then there's Shooting Yourself--a book about taking "selfies with attitude"--which I plan to use in writing groups as a stimulus for autobiographical writing.
Map Art is a book about making maps as art--just as the title suggests. I've been wanting to play with maps, realizing that until recently I haven't consulted maps much, and now I'm finding them fascinating. I love Googling places on the map and looking at satellite views of places I've been.
And Outlanders, my gift book from Sandy, is the first in a series of nine books. I'm halfway through the first of that book as well.
Reading fiction and nonfiction, back and forth, with my phone turned off (because I stayed up tip 2:00 reading) and a napping sign on the door, I am going to spend today working through my stack of books and traveling back and forth from Seattle (where The Walk starts) to Scotland (where Outlanders begins.)
I read the Kindle sample of Round House last night and am putting that on my library reserve list as soon as I finish these. Louise Erdrich is an excellent writer and this is a book that has often been recommended by my reading friends.
Ah--what a delicious way to spend a Sunday morning!
Saturday, August 23, 2014
Love to Carlene--on her 89th Birthday!
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| Carlene with Day, her oldest grandchild, in Virginia this summer. |
Carlene slept her early weeks in a dresser drawer!
Such a humble boudoir beginning boded well. Carlene sleeps like a rock. "I fall asleep the minute my head hits the pillow," she says.
But first she covers her face in Ponds Cold Cream, puts in her eye drops, and wraps her hair in toilet paper, a long strip of it anchored by two silver clips. Then she falls asleep on her tiny satin pillow that she prefers to big fluffy ones. (She also prefers skimpy, threadbare wash cloths to thick ones.)
When she's asleep, she's sound asleep; when she's awake, she's all the way awake, always ready for whatever might pop up to do: eating out with her friends, working on stained glass with a friend, or getting in the car with whoever stops by and ask her to get in!
Here she is when she married her sailor boy in 1945, her lifetime sweetheart, my daddy, Lloyd:
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| When Lloyd died at the age of 80, they had been happily married for 57 years. |
She gets up early to walk three miles every morning and she likes working in her yard--though she has a touch of sciatica and has had to cut back a bit on shoveling and planting. Lloyd used to call her a "whirlwind"--an apt moniker.
When I was a child, I was always amazed at how many things she could do in a day: working at a part-time job, teaching me to diagram sentences, planting flowers, cooking three meals a day, visiting with neighbors, talking books for hours with Bea, shopping and laughing with her sister Dot, and sewing every garment either of us ever wore! For relaxation, she'd do crossword puzzles or cross-stitch in the boat while Lloyd fished.
A combination of good genes, growing up on healthy farm food, laughter, exercise, and a gift for friendship--these are the ingredients for agelessness. Carlene is my model for growing older in years without growing older in all the ways that matter most. Happy 89th birthday, Carlene!
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| Here we are at Will and Veronica's house on Easter this year |
A blue and gold macaw at the Pearl farmer's market
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| This is Nova, one-year-old female macaw |
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| Novs was rescued by these two young women at the age of three weeks, and they like to take her to the farmer's market to socialize her. |
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| NOVA loves to sit on shoulders-- but you have to remove your glasses--or she will! |
From Japan to....Saudia Arabia
Netflix has been my medicine and my travel guide this summer--as you might guess by the content of my blog posts.
Wadjda ia the first film made by a Saudi woman--an inside look into the culture of women in Saudi Arabia: covered faces in public and waiting weeks for their husbands to return between other wives. In this film, we get to see a girl inside her house listening to music, eating on the floor, and polishing her toenails blue. Everything outside the house is dictated by men.
Wadjda is a spunky little ten-year-old girl who lives with her beautiful mother and wants a bike more than anything. But bikes are strictly for boys. For a girl to even wish for a bike is unthinkable.
One of her classmates brings her wedding pictures to school and is congratulated by the teacher. The girl is about ten; her husband twice her age.
Wadjda's goal is to win the prize money from a Qur'an-reading contest at school. No spoilers here--just this line, as a teaser, from her mother: "I want you to be the happiest person in the world."
I can relate--happiness and having one's own wheels are closely connected!
This film will be a contender at the Oscars, no doubt--it's a beautiful story of bravery in a world in which women's desires are considered trivial and where a girl child is not even worthy to be named on the family tree.
Wadjda ia the first film made by a Saudi woman--an inside look into the culture of women in Saudi Arabia: covered faces in public and waiting weeks for their husbands to return between other wives. In this film, we get to see a girl inside her house listening to music, eating on the floor, and polishing her toenails blue. Everything outside the house is dictated by men.
Wadjda is a spunky little ten-year-old girl who lives with her beautiful mother and wants a bike more than anything. But bikes are strictly for boys. For a girl to even wish for a bike is unthinkable.
One of her classmates brings her wedding pictures to school and is congratulated by the teacher. The girl is about ten; her husband twice her age.
Wadjda's goal is to win the prize money from a Qur'an-reading contest at school. No spoilers here--just this line, as a teaser, from her mother: "I want you to be the happiest person in the world."
I can relate--happiness and having one's own wheels are closely connected!
This film will be a contender at the Oscars, no doubt--it's a beautiful story of bravery in a world in which women's desires are considered trivial and where a girl child is not even worthy to be named on the family tree.
Okay, enough already, of the heat!
Barbel sent me these pictures just now with the subject line, No Caption Needed:
Like Father, Like Son
Imagine that you have a seven-year-old child who is--like you and your husband--quiet and disciplined. He has thick black hair and a beautiful face. He is (and will be) your only child. You adore him.
One day you get a call from the hospital where your child was born. You learn that he is not your biological child; he was switched at birth with another baby boy.
You meet the parents of your child and their three rowdy children--one of whom you gave birth to. You take outings with the other family and you visit in each other's homes. They live in a crowded and noisy apartment, and are more playful than your family, less focused on success and achievement. You live in a large, attractive apartment and are devoted to your child's getting in the best schools.
At times, the two families take snapshots together and the son you have loved for seven years is the one whose shoulders your hands are on--even though you know you are not his "real" mother. He is the one you watch out for.
This is the heartbreaking story of the Cannes prize-wining Japanese film, Like Father, Like Son.
Ironically, the questions at the center of this film are related to the ones in the documentary, Stories We Tell. Both involve parents who love children who are not biologically "theirs." But in the Japanese film, you have the additional and excruciating question: do we exchange our children and get back the one that DNA tests tell us is our own?
The father who raised Sarah said, in effect, that he was grateful to her birth father for the gift of his daughter; he couldn't imagine his life without Sarah, exactly the Sarah that she was. Had he been her "real" father, Sarah would have been someone else.
Imagine exchanging your child for a stranger, no matter that he "shares your blood"--as the Japanese father says? Imagine telling your child that he is now to call another woman "mother" and another man "daddy." Imagine packing up all his drawings and clothes and toys--for his move to the rowdier, more playful, home, where he will have no need for his piano and no space for it.
Your blood-son is a boisterous boy who loves video games, pounds on the piano and turns objects into guns--yet he looks like you and your husband. In his original family, he has a father who can fix things and make kites, but who cares little about making money. He is accustomed to being an only child in a well-ordered home; he moves into a family with siblings and a mother who sells fast-food.
An American version of this film is in the making. I see how dearly my son loves his stepson--who is in every way his "real" son. Versions of this story are being repeated in families all over the world, with foster and adoptive parents loving the children with whom they may share everything but blood.
One day you get a call from the hospital where your child was born. You learn that he is not your biological child; he was switched at birth with another baby boy.
You meet the parents of your child and their three rowdy children--one of whom you gave birth to. You take outings with the other family and you visit in each other's homes. They live in a crowded and noisy apartment, and are more playful than your family, less focused on success and achievement. You live in a large, attractive apartment and are devoted to your child's getting in the best schools.
At times, the two families take snapshots together and the son you have loved for seven years is the one whose shoulders your hands are on--even though you know you are not his "real" mother. He is the one you watch out for.
This is the heartbreaking story of the Cannes prize-wining Japanese film, Like Father, Like Son.
Ironically, the questions at the center of this film are related to the ones in the documentary, Stories We Tell. Both involve parents who love children who are not biologically "theirs." But in the Japanese film, you have the additional and excruciating question: do we exchange our children and get back the one that DNA tests tell us is our own?
The father who raised Sarah said, in effect, that he was grateful to her birth father for the gift of his daughter; he couldn't imagine his life without Sarah, exactly the Sarah that she was. Had he been her "real" father, Sarah would have been someone else.
Imagine exchanging your child for a stranger, no matter that he "shares your blood"--as the Japanese father says? Imagine telling your child that he is now to call another woman "mother" and another man "daddy." Imagine packing up all his drawings and clothes and toys--for his move to the rowdier, more playful, home, where he will have no need for his piano and no space for it.
Your blood-son is a boisterous boy who loves video games, pounds on the piano and turns objects into guns--yet he looks like you and your husband. In his original family, he has a father who can fix things and make kites, but who cares little about making money. He is accustomed to being an only child in a well-ordered home; he moves into a family with siblings and a mother who sells fast-food.
An American version of this film is in the making. I see how dearly my son loves his stepson--who is in every way his "real" son. Versions of this story are being repeated in families all over the world, with foster and adoptive parents loving the children with whom they may share everything but blood.
Thursday, August 21, 2014
Stories We Tell
A woman named Diana was the first Canadian woman to lose custody of her children due to infidelity. She was married to a man who was very wealthy and, by some accounts, very controlling. She had two children she loved, but she also wanted to pursue her dreams of acting--which she gave up when she married young.
She was described as a loud, funny, warm person who exuded a sense of joy, attracting people "like moths to a flame." According to her children, friends, and husband, she had a contagious personality and people loved her.
Her divorce from her first husband made front page news in Canada:
She has allowed her desire for a career to overtop her domestic duties. She is unrepentant. Her association with her lover is physical.
This sounds like it could have been written in the 19th century, but this was 1967, the same year in which I married.
She then married Michael Polley-though they couldn't have been more different. Diana was the quintessential extrovert, Michael the brilliant introvert. (One of her children compared her to Lucille Ball.)
When Diana was offered a part in a play, she left Michael and her children for a few weeks, during which time she had a love affair. When she returned home, she discovered she was pregnant--though since Michael had also visited her once, she thought the baby could possibly be his. She kept this secret from her husband all her life, then she died when the baby girl, Sarah, was eleven.
Her close friends knew the truth--as Diana had a habit of telling her friends everything. Michael didn't know for three decades. In her twenties, Sarah sets out to learn the truth.
But what is truth?
And how does one find "the" truth when there are so many different versions of it?
Sarah Polley explores these questions in her documentary: Stories We Tell. The five brothers and sisters answer questions and share their memories of their late-mother, Diana. Her husband Michael, the lover who is Sarah's biological father, and Diana's many friends--all are interviewed. The film is a patchwork of different details and versions.
"All these years, Diana wanted me to write," Michael said. "She thought I was a brilliant writer, but I never devoted the time to do it. But now! Now that I know the truth, I have something to write about and intense energy for writing it. I have a whole new lease on life." (A loose paraphrase.)
I recommend this film; it's the second time I've watched it. Here are the opening lines, by Sarah's father, Michael Polley--who is, we now know, not her biological father.
When you're in the middle of a story,
it isn't a story at all, but only a confusion,
a dark roaring,
a blindness,
a wreckage of shattered glass and splintered wood,
like a house in a whirlwind,
or else a boat crushed by the icebergs or swept over the rapids,
and all aboard are powerless to stop it.
It's only afterwards that it becomes anything like a story,
when you're telling it to yourself or someone else."
She was described as a loud, funny, warm person who exuded a sense of joy, attracting people "like moths to a flame." According to her children, friends, and husband, she had a contagious personality and people loved her.
Her divorce from her first husband made front page news in Canada:
She has allowed her desire for a career to overtop her domestic duties. She is unrepentant. Her association with her lover is physical.
This sounds like it could have been written in the 19th century, but this was 1967, the same year in which I married.
She then married Michael Polley-though they couldn't have been more different. Diana was the quintessential extrovert, Michael the brilliant introvert. (One of her children compared her to Lucille Ball.)
When Diana was offered a part in a play, she left Michael and her children for a few weeks, during which time she had a love affair. When she returned home, she discovered she was pregnant--though since Michael had also visited her once, she thought the baby could possibly be his. She kept this secret from her husband all her life, then she died when the baby girl, Sarah, was eleven.
Her close friends knew the truth--as Diana had a habit of telling her friends everything. Michael didn't know for three decades. In her twenties, Sarah sets out to learn the truth.
But what is truth?
And how does one find "the" truth when there are so many different versions of it?
Sarah Polley explores these questions in her documentary: Stories We Tell. The five brothers and sisters answer questions and share their memories of their late-mother, Diana. Her husband Michael, the lover who is Sarah's biological father, and Diana's many friends--all are interviewed. The film is a patchwork of different details and versions.
"All these years, Diana wanted me to write," Michael said. "She thought I was a brilliant writer, but I never devoted the time to do it. But now! Now that I know the truth, I have something to write about and intense energy for writing it. I have a whole new lease on life." (A loose paraphrase.)
I recommend this film; it's the second time I've watched it. Here are the opening lines, by Sarah's father, Michael Polley--who is, we now know, not her biological father.
When you're in the middle of a story,
it isn't a story at all, but only a confusion,
a dark roaring,
a blindness,
a wreckage of shattered glass and splintered wood,
like a house in a whirlwind,
or else a boat crushed by the icebergs or swept over the rapids,
and all aboard are powerless to stop it.
It's only afterwards that it becomes anything like a story,
when you're telling it to yourself or someone else."
Once Upon A Time...
We gave Carlene a doll for Christmas and she named her Christiana--because at the time, I had a student at U.T.S.A. with that name and she liked it. My dad got her a beautiful wicker baby carriage and Christiana has been in that carriage all these years.
About a year ago, Carlene (Nana) sent the wicker carriage home so that I could give it to Elena--who has loved pushing her dolls and her live Easter chicks around in it. I put the doll in a large plastic box to save for her when she's older.
Yesterday I took her out of the box and put her on my dresser, and when Elena came, it was the first thing she spotted.
"This is your doll when you're at my house," I told her.
She loves Christiana. She calls her Christy. Elena set a place at our tea party table for Christy and she took off her hat and booties and put them back on, over and over.
After lunch, she said, "I'm mommy," and Will said, "No, you're not Mommy; you're Elena."
"I'm the baby's mommy!" she said.
About a year ago, Carlene (Nana) sent the wicker carriage home so that I could give it to Elena--who has loved pushing her dolls and her live Easter chicks around in it. I put the doll in a large plastic box to save for her when she's older.
"This is your doll when you're at my house," I told her.
She loves Christiana. She calls her Christy. Elena set a place at our tea party table for Christy and she took off her hat and booties and put them back on, over and over.
After lunch, she said, "I'm mommy," and Will said, "No, you're not Mommy; you're Elena."
"I'm the baby's mommy!" she said.
Geese! That's even better!
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.
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.
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.
Monday, August 11, 2014
Minis Take the States
Starting on July 26th and continuing through today's finale, thousands of Minis have been on the road in a motoring adventure--from San Francisco to Boston. It's called Mini Takes the States.
I wonder what it would be like to drive those thousands of miles with all these Mini Cooper fanatics, but I hope to find out next summer, for all or part of the trip.
Check out their great mosaic map: http://www.minitakesthestates.com/visuals/mosaic
Day just texted me from Boston--where they are spending their vacation--that the Minis are about to cross the finish line of this event and arrive in Boston any minute. I'd love to be there!
I wonder what it would be like to drive those thousands of miles with all these Mini Cooper fanatics, but I hope to find out next summer, for all or part of the trip.
Check out their great mosaic map: http://www.minitakesthestates.com/visuals/mosaic
Day just texted me from Boston--where they are spending their vacation--that the Minis are about to cross the finish line of this event and arrive in Boston any minute. I'd love to be there!
Friday, August 8, 2014
I love this photograph!
My friend Suzanne Ohlmann has a blog called The Daily Chalupa. (Check it out: thedailychalupa.com)
She posted this photograph of Fu last week and I asked if I could snag and share it on this blog.
Here's what she wrote under his picture:
"I want to see the world the way Fu does in this picture. Though his likeness reaches out to him through the window, he looks past himself to the world outside."
Today and Yesterday
Today I painted Elena's fingernails and toenails with the only nail polish in the house--Sinful Blue. For her tiny fingers and toes, I probably could have done a better job with a toothpick.
Today, when I put on my swim suit (or as Elena calls it, a "swim soup"), Nathan told me my arms were jiggly at the top. He was right.
After our swim, Nathan asked me, "Do you know how to make chocolate milk really good?" and I said I'd give it a try. I mixed cocoa and sugar and hot water, then poured in what little milk was left, then added ice and put it in the blender to make enough to fill the glass. He drank it politely but said it was a little too puffy.
Today Elena was playing with letter stickers and found a "W." "Hey, Yenna, Will Pritchett!" she said. "This says Will Pritchett!"
Today Nathan said he didn't want to go to the pool, but I told him we'd already promised Elena and she was all dressed in her suit. "I guess I'll take my swim suit in case I change my mind," he said, emptying the swim bag on the floor to find his googles and his water toys. "But the only condition is I'm not wearing sun screen and we can only stay 39 minutes."
Not only did he change his mind, it was as hard to get him out of the pool (after two hours) as it had been to convince him to go.
Today, Elena wanted to punch holes with my hole punchers--fancy ones I bought years ago when I was making collages. Some of them were hard to press into the paper, even for me. "They aren't hard for me!" she insisted. "I will show you, Yenna."
As she put her whole body weight on the fancy hole punchers, I heard echoes of yesterday: a day 34 years ago when her daddy was the age she is now, playing under the bed:
"Come under here, Mommy!" he said.
"I can't," I said. "I'm too big."
"I will show you, Mommy," he said.
Today, when I put on my swim suit (or as Elena calls it, a "swim soup"), Nathan told me my arms were jiggly at the top. He was right.
After our swim, Nathan asked me, "Do you know how to make chocolate milk really good?" and I said I'd give it a try. I mixed cocoa and sugar and hot water, then poured in what little milk was left, then added ice and put it in the blender to make enough to fill the glass. He drank it politely but said it was a little too puffy.
Today Elena was playing with letter stickers and found a "W." "Hey, Yenna, Will Pritchett!" she said. "This says Will Pritchett!"
Today Nathan said he didn't want to go to the pool, but I told him we'd already promised Elena and she was all dressed in her suit. "I guess I'll take my swim suit in case I change my mind," he said, emptying the swim bag on the floor to find his googles and his water toys. "But the only condition is I'm not wearing sun screen and we can only stay 39 minutes."
Not only did he change his mind, it was as hard to get him out of the pool (after two hours) as it had been to convince him to go.
Today, Elena wanted to punch holes with my hole punchers--fancy ones I bought years ago when I was making collages. Some of them were hard to press into the paper, even for me. "They aren't hard for me!" she insisted. "I will show you, Yenna."
As she put her whole body weight on the fancy hole punchers, I heard echoes of yesterday: a day 34 years ago when her daddy was the age she is now, playing under the bed:
"Come under here, Mommy!" he said.
"I can't," I said. "I'm too big."
"I will show you, Mommy," he said.
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
The Circle of Life
In 1988, my family was camping at Molas Lake in Colorado--between Durango and Silverton. This is still one of my favorite spots on earth--a beautiful mountain lake where we parked our pop up camper and ate fried fish for dinner right out of the lake.
Up came another camper and parked right next to us--and it was Linda and Steve Kot and their children Lauren and Dan, traveling cross-country from Cape Cod.
One day it rained and I had a sprained ankle and stayed in the pop up while Linda and Steve took all the kids on a hike. Will had a little puppy named Spike that year and he wiggled out of the pop up during the night and trotted over to the Kot's pop up where any dog would be sure to find love.
The first year after we met, Linda flew to Texas (Day's senior year of high school) and went with me to the Miss Helotes pageant where Day got first or second runner up.
Ten years later, Day and Tom married in Washington, D.C., and the Kots came to their wedding. Several times I have visited them on the Cape and "got the sand in my shoes."
Day and Tom honeymooned in Cape Cod 17 years ago, and here they all are this week on their vacation in Cape Cod: Steve, Linda, Jackson, Tom, Day, and Marcus in front in yellow and orange.
This picture makes me smile--thinking what a serendipitous thing it is to meet friends at a campsite and stay friends all these years; thinking about how they introduced Day to Cape Cod and what a special place it now is for her whole family.
The summer we met, our children (all but Day) were younger than my grandsons are now. On the way to Molas Lake, Linda was reading a book called RIBSY to her children--which is exactly the book I had just read to Will the night before.
As we shared a fish dinner at the picnic table one night, Linda and I both had paperback books we were reading. Turned out we were both reading Prince of Tides! Not only that--we were both on the same page!
Up came another camper and parked right next to us--and it was Linda and Steve Kot and their children Lauren and Dan, traveling cross-country from Cape Cod.
One day it rained and I had a sprained ankle and stayed in the pop up while Linda and Steve took all the kids on a hike. Will had a little puppy named Spike that year and he wiggled out of the pop up during the night and trotted over to the Kot's pop up where any dog would be sure to find love.
Ten years later, Day and Tom married in Washington, D.C., and the Kots came to their wedding. Several times I have visited them on the Cape and "got the sand in my shoes."
Day and Tom honeymooned in Cape Cod 17 years ago, and here they all are this week on their vacation in Cape Cod: Steve, Linda, Jackson, Tom, Day, and Marcus in front in yellow and orange.
This picture makes me smile--thinking what a serendipitous thing it is to meet friends at a campsite and stay friends all these years; thinking about how they introduced Day to Cape Cod and what a special place it now is for her whole family.
The summer we met, our children (all but Day) were younger than my grandsons are now. On the way to Molas Lake, Linda was reading a book called RIBSY to her children--which is exactly the book I had just read to Will the night before.
As we shared a fish dinner at the picnic table one night, Linda and I both had paperback books we were reading. Turned out we were both reading Prince of Tides! Not only that--we were both on the same page!
Saturday, August 2, 2014
Traveling Light and Heavy
"Traveling solo" is a misnomer for this blog/open diary/letter to friends. Every trip is a mix of solitude and conversation with other people.
When I need time alone, it's usually when I sense a crossroad coming up and need time to discover which way to go. Or after a time of Too-Much, when I need to just be with a fresh, quiet new canvas. I call that kind of travel a journey.
Other times, like this last trip, I prefer being with a great road trip companion so that we can share the scenic views and sleep in the same room and make happy memories together.
Nothing is more refreshing than travel--even though it takes a while to settle back in after a trip. The first night after air travel, I feel wilted, weary from a day of lugging baggage through trains and terminals, saying good-byes, being careful not to lose balance on escalators.
It would be a good idea to keep a small suitcase packed at all times, just in case a journey calls. If flying, the suitcase should be large enough to hold the minimum needs for being away from home and battered enough that you don't mind checking it. I always have this fantasy of walking around the airport unencumbered and free--though in reality I feel more like a carrier of stuff, intent on getting to my destination.
Carlene drove me to the Chamblee Marta station yesterday morning--the easiest way to get to the Atlanta airport. While waiting for the train, I stood with dozens of people dressed up, all wearing badges that announced in Spanish that they were Jehova's Witnesses attending a conference: Testigos de Jehová.
Even the smallest boys of two and three were wearing suits, as were the men and older boys. The women and girls were dressed up in their church clothes, lacy skirts and shiny shoes, the girls with bright bows in their hair. As we traveled south, others got on at every stop, all wearing the same badges, and I enjoyed watching them--gentle, friendly people--all the way to mid-town where they all got off the train. I took a seat and balanced my three bags, feeling frumpy among these fresh-faced and cheerful people.
When I got on the plane, I made a list of things to take Next Time I Fly--including advice to myself to mail home anything heavier than a post card should I be tempted to buy souvenirs. I reminded my future traveling self to take minimum toiletries and no real books, to leave the laptop and extra camera at home and take the iPad and E-books instead. "Travel lighter next time!" I wrote in my new sketch book.
When the hundreds of convention-goers got off at mid-town, I missed them. I sat beside a young African-American boy jamming to the rap from his earphones and across from a young girl with braids and swollen eyes who made eye contact with no one.
At the airport, starting on the escalator and continuing on the train to the terminals, I talked to a young man who's just finished a nine-month tour in Afghanistan. He started the conversation by telling me he'd missed the plane he was supposed to be on because he'd left his debit card in the car and was having to take a later flight.
"Do you have family here?" I asked. "Or are you on your way home?"
Between Terminals A and D, he told me his whole life story, details in rapid fire succession, without emotion.
"I ain't got no family," he said. "They all deceased."
His mother died when he was in high school, then his grandparents and two uncles. After his step-father abused his sister, she committed suicide. One brother died "over there," and another from a drug overdose.
I can't stop thinking about that boy with large eyes who'd seen more tragedies and deaths in his twenty years than I'd ever known anyone to have in my whole long life. Talk about a different kind of baggage! I got the feeling he'd told the facts so often that he'd memorized them, almost as if they belonged to somebody else.
When we parted, he said, "Talking to you made my day, Mam"--though I'd barely said ten words. Maybe all it takes is asking one right question of each other to lighten our loads--if only for one day.
When I need time alone, it's usually when I sense a crossroad coming up and need time to discover which way to go. Or after a time of Too-Much, when I need to just be with a fresh, quiet new canvas. I call that kind of travel a journey.
Other times, like this last trip, I prefer being with a great road trip companion so that we can share the scenic views and sleep in the same room and make happy memories together.
Nothing is more refreshing than travel--even though it takes a while to settle back in after a trip. The first night after air travel, I feel wilted, weary from a day of lugging baggage through trains and terminals, saying good-byes, being careful not to lose balance on escalators.
It would be a good idea to keep a small suitcase packed at all times, just in case a journey calls. If flying, the suitcase should be large enough to hold the minimum needs for being away from home and battered enough that you don't mind checking it. I always have this fantasy of walking around the airport unencumbered and free--though in reality I feel more like a carrier of stuff, intent on getting to my destination.
Carlene drove me to the Chamblee Marta station yesterday morning--the easiest way to get to the Atlanta airport. While waiting for the train, I stood with dozens of people dressed up, all wearing badges that announced in Spanish that they were Jehova's Witnesses attending a conference: Testigos de Jehová.
Even the smallest boys of two and three were wearing suits, as were the men and older boys. The women and girls were dressed up in their church clothes, lacy skirts and shiny shoes, the girls with bright bows in their hair. As we traveled south, others got on at every stop, all wearing the same badges, and I enjoyed watching them--gentle, friendly people--all the way to mid-town where they all got off the train. I took a seat and balanced my three bags, feeling frumpy among these fresh-faced and cheerful people.
When I got on the plane, I made a list of things to take Next Time I Fly--including advice to myself to mail home anything heavier than a post card should I be tempted to buy souvenirs. I reminded my future traveling self to take minimum toiletries and no real books, to leave the laptop and extra camera at home and take the iPad and E-books instead. "Travel lighter next time!" I wrote in my new sketch book.
When the hundreds of convention-goers got off at mid-town, I missed them. I sat beside a young African-American boy jamming to the rap from his earphones and across from a young girl with braids and swollen eyes who made eye contact with no one.
At the airport, starting on the escalator and continuing on the train to the terminals, I talked to a young man who's just finished a nine-month tour in Afghanistan. He started the conversation by telling me he'd missed the plane he was supposed to be on because he'd left his debit card in the car and was having to take a later flight.
"Do you have family here?" I asked. "Or are you on your way home?"
Between Terminals A and D, he told me his whole life story, details in rapid fire succession, without emotion.
"I ain't got no family," he said. "They all deceased."
His mother died when he was in high school, then his grandparents and two uncles. After his step-father abused his sister, she committed suicide. One brother died "over there," and another from a drug overdose.
I can't stop thinking about that boy with large eyes who'd seen more tragedies and deaths in his twenty years than I'd ever known anyone to have in my whole long life. Talk about a different kind of baggage! I got the feeling he'd told the facts so often that he'd memorized them, almost as if they belonged to somebody else.
When we parted, he said, "Talking to you made my day, Mam"--though I'd barely said ten words. Maybe all it takes is asking one right question of each other to lighten our loads--if only for one day.
Back in San Antonio
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| Arrived home today--and Kate picked me up from the airport and visited on my bed while I unpacked |
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| North Georgia Mountains near Clayton. I'll be going back in October to see the fall foliage at its peak. |
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| At a Scenic overlook, I snapped this picture of Betty. "I love you, Betty!" I said to my friend who hates picture-taking. "At the moment, that feeling is not reciprocal," she said. |
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| Marcus, like his mom, is always making things. Here he is painting his cap. |
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| Here it is all finished! |
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| Jackson looking spooky |
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| Day making headbands |
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| Carlene--back home in Georgia--trying on her new earrings and liking them |
Friday, August 1, 2014
My Georgia family
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| Bob and Jocelyn Harris |
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| Jocelyn and Bob and Carlene |
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| Jocelyn, Bob and Me In Carlene's Yard |
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