Mike is in Texas--but not yet to San Antonio, driving his truck through pounding rain. I've made sweet potatoes for Thanksgiving at Will's on Tuesday and I've made Freda's delicious kale and sausage soup for tonight.
Think I'll now just sit down and read the book, I'm Off Then--recommended heartily by Barbel, which I'm enjoying very much. It's a book written by Hape Kerkeling, a German comedian about walking the Camino De Santiago trail.
It's a beautiful rainy day in San Antonio, light rain and clouds, just the kind of day I love for having company and soup and a good book!
Friday, November 21, 2014
On Poetry--by Mark Nepo
"Poetry is the well from which all my books rise. It’s where I always go to listen, always stunned by what arrives. It’s how I remember and refresh what it means to be alive. I bring these poems back from the deep like shells from the sea that we can look at together. And so with each poem, I share the genesis of the poem, then read the poem, and unfold the lessons carried by each.
The truth is that poems come slowly. I have to sit when I’m able and try to make heart-sense of what life has been doing to me and with me. Then the poems break the surface like dolphins after long stretches of going under. Then—like wringing out a sponge—I squeeze what matters onto the page, let it dry, and see what’s there the next day. One by one, the poems gather into an instructive whole.
All this to say that by trying to make sense of my own experience, I’ve discovered a theme to our journey: that we are all reduced to joy, worn away of all excess. To survive this, we often need to hold each other up in order to discover and return to what matters. This learning program explores the essential relationships that keep shaping us."
The truth is that poems come slowly. I have to sit when I’m able and try to make heart-sense of what life has been doing to me and with me. Then the poems break the surface like dolphins after long stretches of going under. Then—like wringing out a sponge—I squeeze what matters onto the page, let it dry, and see what’s there the next day. One by one, the poems gather into an instructive whole.
All this to say that by trying to make sense of my own experience, I’ve discovered a theme to our journey: that we are all reduced to joy, worn away of all excess. To survive this, we often need to hold each other up in order to discover and return to what matters. This learning program explores the essential relationships that keep shaping us."
Thursday, November 20, 2014
Knowing
Sometimes, I say "I don't know...."
"But what would the answer be if I did know?" I ask myself.
When I asked Elena if she liked Santa Claus, she said, "I don't know." Then a beat. "I like him when his eyes are closed in the picture."
The beat between not-knowing and knowing is about four seconds, long enough to formulate something to say that will satisfy a curious grandmother.
In her life, she'll know and not-know a million things. She'll change her mind. She'll get more information, she'll change, she'll discover that some people (even Santa) aren't what they first appeared to be. She'll see and know things I can't even imagine.
At different ages, different truths emerge. When a new thing happens (say, a good person does a bad thing--or a person we've disliked does a good thing), the new knowledge can shatter us until we put the pieces of the story together in a way that makes sense.
Then, what we know is more nuanced, more complex. The line between good guys and bad guys isn't as simple as it is in the video games.
Lines between right and wrong are not as clear as I once thought. Truth is not always self-evident to us all at the same time.
What I loved about writing group tonight was, as always, that each person brings pieces of knowledge and experience that gives me more to know and understand.
"But what would the answer be if I did know?" I ask myself.
When I asked Elena if she liked Santa Claus, she said, "I don't know." Then a beat. "I like him when his eyes are closed in the picture."
The beat between not-knowing and knowing is about four seconds, long enough to formulate something to say that will satisfy a curious grandmother.
In her life, she'll know and not-know a million things. She'll change her mind. She'll get more information, she'll change, she'll discover that some people (even Santa) aren't what they first appeared to be. She'll see and know things I can't even imagine.
At different ages, different truths emerge. When a new thing happens (say, a good person does a bad thing--or a person we've disliked does a good thing), the new knowledge can shatter us until we put the pieces of the story together in a way that makes sense.
Then, what we know is more nuanced, more complex. The line between good guys and bad guys isn't as simple as it is in the video games.
Lines between right and wrong are not as clear as I once thought. Truth is not always self-evident to us all at the same time.
What I loved about writing group tonight was, as always, that each person brings pieces of knowledge and experience that gives me more to know and understand.
Mall Thursday
I usually walk big outer circles in the mall to avoid the kiosk sellers.
But after an hour in the Apple Store, I remembered that Janet O had told us at salon about a kiosk where you can buy a hair curler and get your hair curled or straightened at the Kiosk for a year. What a deal! I bought a turquoise hair straighter/curler--and they threw in two years of free styling and shampoo and conditioner.
I was walking out, feeling pretty, when Rachel from Israel stopped me to demonstrate her red-wine facial products.
She was fun--a woman who could sell anything, probably--but not to me, not today.
"See how dry your skin looks?" she asked, holding up the magnifying mirror. "You don't moisturize, do you?"
I had to admit, I'm rather lazy on that front.
Her skin glowed. "It's my product," she said. Really, it was the fact that she was twenty-something, but I let that pass.
"This jar will exfoliate all the dry skin and your skin will be beautiful like mine," she said. "And if you don't use it, the moisturizer can't work."
"How much?" I asked.
"Three hundred dollars for both," she said, "But I give you a special because it's the holidays. I give you two for $150.
"Not today," I said.
"How much you budget for your skin?" she asked.
"I don't have a budget for my skin," I admitted, sheepishly, not having known before that skin is a budget item.
Now I know.
But after an hour in the Apple Store, I remembered that Janet O had told us at salon about a kiosk where you can buy a hair curler and get your hair curled or straightened at the Kiosk for a year. What a deal! I bought a turquoise hair straighter/curler--and they threw in two years of free styling and shampoo and conditioner.
I was walking out, feeling pretty, when Rachel from Israel stopped me to demonstrate her red-wine facial products.
She was fun--a woman who could sell anything, probably--but not to me, not today.
"See how dry your skin looks?" she asked, holding up the magnifying mirror. "You don't moisturize, do you?"
I had to admit, I'm rather lazy on that front.
Her skin glowed. "It's my product," she said. Really, it was the fact that she was twenty-something, but I let that pass.
"This jar will exfoliate all the dry skin and your skin will be beautiful like mine," she said. "And if you don't use it, the moisturizer can't work."
"How much?" I asked.
"Three hundred dollars for both," she said, "But I give you a special because it's the holidays. I give you two for $150.
"Not today," I said.
"How much you budget for your skin?" she asked.
"I don't have a budget for my skin," I admitted, sheepishly, not having known before that skin is a budget item.
Now I know.
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
My Topo Chicas
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| Jennifer, Lindsey, and Mary In Victoria's studio |
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| Victoria, our artist and teacher of art-play |
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| Mike (Chef and Mary's husband) who made us this amazing dinner on Friday night-- with help from Kent, Victoria's husband. |
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| Lety and Lindsey |
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| Jennifer and Victoria |
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| Victoria and Mary |
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| Mary in her house on Friday night. Cindy led us in a terrific workshop on character development photo awaiting permission to post |
Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?
Does anyone remember the movie by that name, starring Sidney Poitier?
I happened to think of it tonight, browsing Netflix, watching a snippet of a French movie, All Together, starring--among four French actors-- Jane Fonda.
As it happens, who's coming to dinner in Texas is Mike, driving here from Georgia for Thanksgiving--which we'll spend at Kate's, a feast around her huge table with turkey and pies and all good things.
I had a full day today with Miss Elena, including watching the entire Wizard of Oz. I watched that movie every year growing up, but I had never noticed that the Lion, the Scarecrow, the Tin Man and the Wizard himself were played by the four men she knew in Kansas!
I have a bouquet of flowers on the table, sent from Mike on Saturday. "Where did you get those?" she asked.
"My friend Mike sent them. Do you like them?"
"They are beautiful, Yenna! AND they are interesting."
Then she proceeded to make our lunch out of kinetic sand, rolling coils and cutting them into slices like Slice-and-Bake cookies, then putting them in her wooden play oven.
"Santa Claus and the reindeers are going to bring me flowers, too," she said. "The talking reindeers and the ones that can't talk."
She saw a picture of Nana and Granddaddy. "Is that Nana's daddy?"
I explained that he was her husband, MY daddy. "Oh yeah," she said, "I know him. He's in Heaven."
Then, after thinking a little bit about it, she asked, "Does he speak English or Spanish?"
I happened to think of it tonight, browsing Netflix, watching a snippet of a French movie, All Together, starring--among four French actors-- Jane Fonda.
As it happens, who's coming to dinner in Texas is Mike, driving here from Georgia for Thanksgiving--which we'll spend at Kate's, a feast around her huge table with turkey and pies and all good things.
I had a full day today with Miss Elena, including watching the entire Wizard of Oz. I watched that movie every year growing up, but I had never noticed that the Lion, the Scarecrow, the Tin Man and the Wizard himself were played by the four men she knew in Kansas!
I have a bouquet of flowers on the table, sent from Mike on Saturday. "Where did you get those?" she asked.
"My friend Mike sent them. Do you like them?"
"They are beautiful, Yenna! AND they are interesting."
Then she proceeded to make our lunch out of kinetic sand, rolling coils and cutting them into slices like Slice-and-Bake cookies, then putting them in her wooden play oven.
"Santa Claus and the reindeers are going to bring me flowers, too," she said. "The talking reindeers and the ones that can't talk."
She saw a picture of Nana and Granddaddy. "Is that Nana's daddy?"
I explained that he was her husband, MY daddy. "Oh yeah," she said, "I know him. He's in Heaven."
Then, after thinking a little bit about it, she asked, "Does he speak English or Spanish?"
Target Tuesday
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| You can buy a glamorous hat from the movie, Frozen. And a Santa Claus cup for your water. |
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| You can try on fashionable frames |
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| And you can buy a box of kinetic sand and make cookies and castles out of it when you get back home. |
Monday, November 17, 2014
"Tips, slips, stumbles, and leaps on the creative journey"
Check out this blog, the post about the two eggs!
It came to me from Pam this morning and it was so good that I signed up for more:
http://quinncreative.wordpress.com/author/quinncreative/?blogsub=confirming#blog_subscription-3
It came to me from Pam this morning and it was so good that I signed up for more:
http://quinncreative.wordpress.com/author/quinncreative/?blogsub=confirming#blog_subscription-3
Life Is Good
Sometimes the most simple phrases have a way of catching on and never leaving us. Like T-shirts that proclaim, "Life Is Good"--which of course it is!
Or "Life is like a box of chocolates."
Or Carlene's "Everything is tuition" or "People are different."
Or my daddy's advice teaching me to drive: "You never know what the other fella's gonna do."
When things go wrong or we're needing a wisdom or insight, we might turn to poetry or music, pow wows with friends or prayers, but we might also be sustained by the simplest sentences hanging out in our minds.
My friend Gary who died two years ago had one that did that for me. "It's a big world," he'd say--whenever someone (or some political partisan) did something inexplicably, off-the-charts, unnervingly--odd.
Never thrown off by other people's beliefs or behaviors, he'd just smile that wonderful Buddha smile of his and say, "It's a big world."
Sadly, he's been gone for these two years, but he left behind a lot of wisdom that comes to my mind just when I need it.
Or "Life is like a box of chocolates."
Or Carlene's "Everything is tuition" or "People are different."
Or my daddy's advice teaching me to drive: "You never know what the other fella's gonna do."
When things go wrong or we're needing a wisdom or insight, we might turn to poetry or music, pow wows with friends or prayers, but we might also be sustained by the simplest sentences hanging out in our minds.
My friend Gary who died two years ago had one that did that for me. "It's a big world," he'd say--whenever someone (or some political partisan) did something inexplicably, off-the-charts, unnervingly--odd.
Never thrown off by other people's beliefs or behaviors, he'd just smile that wonderful Buddha smile of his and say, "It's a big world."
Sadly, he's been gone for these two years, but he left behind a lot of wisdom that comes to my mind just when I need it.
My Topo Chicas
This has been a fantastic weekend for me, attending a three-day writing retreat, planned, designed, and led by my Saturday group, our second annual. We all enjoyed it so much we're on for another in 2015.
Last year we dubbed ourselves the Cake and Salad group; this year we've become the Rag Tag Topo Chicas--named after what was the most popular beverage of the weekend, Topo Chico sparkling water.
I'll write more and send pictures as soon as I get permission to post from my TCs....aka Jennifer, Mary, Victoria, Cindy, Lindsey, and Lety.
Last year we dubbed ourselves the Cake and Salad group; this year we've become the Rag Tag Topo Chicas--named after what was the most popular beverage of the weekend, Topo Chico sparkling water.
I'll write more and send pictures as soon as I get permission to post from my TCs....aka Jennifer, Mary, Victoria, Cindy, Lindsey, and Lety.
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| Victoria and Linda--in Victoria's amazing tree house studio |
Thursday, November 13, 2014
Diagramming Sentences
This is the weekend of the annual retreat--designed, planned, and led by the members of the Saturday writing group!
My contribution? I've been asked to do a refresher course on diagramming sentences--as we used to do in seventh grade.
People either loved it or hated it back then, but it was standard fare for teaching sentence structure. To me, it was drudgery to take a boring sentence and put the words on the right lines. But then one day, Carlene sat me down and told me it was like a game, so I decided to play. That was a smart move, Carlene! (Besides, I had a terrible crush on the English teacher, Mr. Lord--and I figure it helped to impress him.)
Mr. Lord, good lord! What was I thinking? Oh, how I cried when I heard he had a girlfriend and I didn't have a chance!
Anyway, it's been a long time and I'm rusty on diagramming sentences, so I'm reviewing it.
I just found a site that will diagram any sentence you throw at it:
http://1aiway.com/nlp4net/services/enparser/
If anyone wants to brush up on making lines and rockets, you can go here and they will show you how.
Building good sentences is like building a good piece of furniture. Diagramming them is a tool for knowing what goes where and why. Once you learn it, it never leaves you. It gets embedded in your brain. Forever after, you understand how to make tighter joints, oil up the surfaces, and sand off the rough edges.
When I used to teach Freshman Comp, I marveled at the impossible combinations of words that some students called sentences. From time to time, I'd show them a diagram and watch their eyes glaze over--just like mine did in trigonometry.
My contribution? I've been asked to do a refresher course on diagramming sentences--as we used to do in seventh grade.
People either loved it or hated it back then, but it was standard fare for teaching sentence structure. To me, it was drudgery to take a boring sentence and put the words on the right lines. But then one day, Carlene sat me down and told me it was like a game, so I decided to play. That was a smart move, Carlene! (Besides, I had a terrible crush on the English teacher, Mr. Lord--and I figure it helped to impress him.)
Mr. Lord, good lord! What was I thinking? Oh, how I cried when I heard he had a girlfriend and I didn't have a chance!
Anyway, it's been a long time and I'm rusty on diagramming sentences, so I'm reviewing it.
I just found a site that will diagram any sentence you throw at it:
http://1aiway.com/nlp4net/services/enparser/
If anyone wants to brush up on making lines and rockets, you can go here and they will show you how.
Building good sentences is like building a good piece of furniture. Diagramming them is a tool for knowing what goes where and why. Once you learn it, it never leaves you. It gets embedded in your brain. Forever after, you understand how to make tighter joints, oil up the surfaces, and sand off the rough edges.
When I used to teach Freshman Comp, I marveled at the impossible combinations of words that some students called sentences. From time to time, I'd show them a diagram and watch their eyes glaze over--just like mine did in trigonometry.
The hair on your head
Tonight at salon, we took pictures of ourselves at three ages--a small child, a middle-something, and a current one. What a travel in time it is to look at former pictures and watch as the lines of the face change right before your very eyes, one after the other, too fast to believe! It's enough to give me emotional whiplash.
We didn't know what we were going to do with the pictures until Kara announced the topic: Hair. How do we feel about our hair? How does it express who we are and how we feel about ourselves as women?
First, we talked about our mothers' hair. I had to admit that mine wraps her hair in toilet paper every night and sleeps on a silk pillow! She was the only one of our mothers to do that.
Then, we talked about our own hair over the years. I remembered Betty--closest person to a sister--fixing my hair for special occasions. I'm clueless about hair and have never spent much time on it. I like a cut that I can scrunch up after a shampoo and go.
Day, my daughter, has very thick and curly hair. She should have had a mother with Betty's hair-fixing skill. Elena, my granddaughter, has curly hair, too. "When mommy cut it, I had a feeling of sad," she told me.
It was fun to see everyone's pictures--from childhood to middle years to now. Salon always brings up the kinds of topics that make me think.
We're expecting a hard freeze tonight, so I'm shopping for leggings and pajamas. Our winters are so short and far between that I never can remember what I have to wear from one year to the next. But I'm glad for long hair on these cold winter nights!
Last night, I watched Strangers in Good Company again. I rarely watch a movie a second time, but this one is so good! Betty and Carlene and I saw it in Atlanta in 1990 when it first came out--the story of seven women (not actors) stranded in a beautiful place when their bus breaks down. As the women get to know each other, the film flashes into the past with photographs of them at earlier ages.
One of the most poignant scenes in the film happens between the bus driver and an 80-year-old woman who wears a wig to cover her thinning hair. When the bus driver urges her to take off the wig, you can feel the reluctance of the woman to reveal her hair, but she does--with a look of daring and courage on her face.
We didn't know what we were going to do with the pictures until Kara announced the topic: Hair. How do we feel about our hair? How does it express who we are and how we feel about ourselves as women?
First, we talked about our mothers' hair. I had to admit that mine wraps her hair in toilet paper every night and sleeps on a silk pillow! She was the only one of our mothers to do that.
Then, we talked about our own hair over the years. I remembered Betty--closest person to a sister--fixing my hair for special occasions. I'm clueless about hair and have never spent much time on it. I like a cut that I can scrunch up after a shampoo and go.
Day, my daughter, has very thick and curly hair. She should have had a mother with Betty's hair-fixing skill. Elena, my granddaughter, has curly hair, too. "When mommy cut it, I had a feeling of sad," she told me.
It was fun to see everyone's pictures--from childhood to middle years to now. Salon always brings up the kinds of topics that make me think.
We're expecting a hard freeze tonight, so I'm shopping for leggings and pajamas. Our winters are so short and far between that I never can remember what I have to wear from one year to the next. But I'm glad for long hair on these cold winter nights!
Last night, I watched Strangers in Good Company again. I rarely watch a movie a second time, but this one is so good! Betty and Carlene and I saw it in Atlanta in 1990 when it first came out--the story of seven women (not actors) stranded in a beautiful place when their bus breaks down. As the women get to know each other, the film flashes into the past with photographs of them at earlier ages.
One of the most poignant scenes in the film happens between the bus driver and an 80-year-old woman who wears a wig to cover her thinning hair. When the bus driver urges her to take off the wig, you can feel the reluctance of the woman to reveal her hair, but she does--with a look of daring and courage on her face.
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
Fragile
"Can we look at the little girls?" Elena asks, "The ones like me and Audrey?"
"You mean the dolls?" I ask.
"Not like my baby. The little girls that are fragile."
So we walk into the front room, open the secretary. She knows all their names from last time, but the one she's looking for is the one we named Audrey after her cousin, four days older than she.
When we found Audrey, she wanted to take her clothes off, but I reminded her that they were very fragile and that we'd take the clothes off the other ones, the ones that were stronger.
As she was undressing them, she said, "We have to be berry berry careful, Yenna, because they are berry fragile."
Christie, her baby, however, even with her porcelain head, is just right. "She needs me, I better take good care of her," she said.
"You mean the dolls?" I ask.
"Not like my baby. The little girls that are fragile."
So we walk into the front room, open the secretary. She knows all their names from last time, but the one she's looking for is the one we named Audrey after her cousin, four days older than she.
When we found Audrey, she wanted to take her clothes off, but I reminded her that they were very fragile and that we'd take the clothes off the other ones, the ones that were stronger.
As she was undressing them, she said, "We have to be berry berry careful, Yenna, because they are berry fragile."
Christie, her baby, however, even with her porcelain head, is just right. "She needs me, I better take good care of her," she said.
Theology in the Mini Cooper
"God is really really special," Elena said (after telling her daddy he was special.) "But nobody can see him. He's up in the sky far away."
"Actually, he's in outer space," said Nathan.
"Actually, he's in outer space," said Nathan.
The wizard arrived today!
My little doll collection is growing--and I am loving each new arrival. I wake up each morning to a tribe of small faces.
I already had Dorothy and Toto--but what's a Yellow Brick Road without a wizard at the end of it, right?
I found this little guy on eBay, and he may be the cutest one yet. I bid $16 and I won the bid--Yay!
At the thrift shop today, I found the scarecrow for 69 cents. He's not a Madame doll, just somebody's leftover Halloween toy probably, but I think he's going to work out just fine with the Oz tribe. Now all we need is a cowardly lion and a tin man, and we'll be all set.
I already had Dorothy and Toto--but what's a Yellow Brick Road without a wizard at the end of it, right?
At the thrift shop today, I found the scarecrow for 69 cents. He's not a Madame doll, just somebody's leftover Halloween toy probably, but I think he's going to work out just fine with the Oz tribe. Now all we need is a cowardly lion and a tin man, and we'll be all set.
Sunday, November 9, 2014
First catches
Fishing is big in our family--and the tradition starts early with the Pritchetts. Both Elena and Nathan caught lots of fish today.
Juice for what ails you....
I just stopped by my favorite juice bar--Urth at the Yard on McCollough--to replenish my energy with the Gremlin, a combination of kale and fruits that tastes pretty good and fulfills the seven fruits and vegetable requirement for days when I don't have time or energy to cut and dice and squeeze and blend.
The man behind the counter gave me a free Ginger Shot--and told me to just throw it back like a shot of tequila, which I pretended to know just how to do.
Wow! With cayenne and pineapple and ginger and a few other ingredients, this shot is supposedly good for allergies, digestive problems and aches and pains.
I know cedar is hitting again (already!) in SA, so if anyone is looking for a possible remedy, you might check this out. I will report later on its benefits; I'll be the guinea pig.
The man behind the counter gave me a free Ginger Shot--and told me to just throw it back like a shot of tequila, which I pretended to know just how to do.
Wow! With cayenne and pineapple and ginger and a few other ingredients, this shot is supposedly good for allergies, digestive problems and aches and pains.
I know cedar is hitting again (already!) in SA, so if anyone is looking for a possible remedy, you might check this out. I will report later on its benefits; I'll be the guinea pig.
Saturday, November 8, 2014
Saturday in S.A.
I rarely feel lonely, but sometimes, on a Saturday night, just because it's Saturday night and I don't have a date (weren't Saturdays made for dates?), just for fun, I hum this old song....
"Well, it's Saturday night,
and I ain't got nobody,
Got some money
cause I just got paid....
How I wish I had someone to talk to,
I'm in an awful way..."
Yesterday was a fun day. Garage sales and thrift shops and late lunch at Tip Tops with Kate. Kate bought pretty pasta bowls and I bought a set of little Goodwill dishes for writing groups and a pizza peel (though until Kate told me what I'd bought I thought it was a wooden chopping block with a handle.) I also bought a book by George Dawsom, a 101-year-old black man who learned to read at the age of 98: Life is So Good. Kate and I split the shrimp dinner and the delicious chocolate ice box pie. Then a long after-lunch nap for me.
Tonight, I was supposed to meet a few friends at The Cove to listen to music by Onel and the Band. I thought I was too tired, but finally decided to pull myself up and out and leave the house and join them. It's so easy to spend Saturday nights alone, watching movies on the laptop or reading or moving furniture around. Driving, I enjoyed the beautiful San Antonio skyline all lit up.
Trying to talk outside on the patio with loud music was hard--so three of us finally gave up on talking and went inside for a better listen. "We should get out more!" we all said to each other. "Saturday nights should be more fun!" It was invigorating to listen to some terrific jazz--a keyboard, two guitars, a sax, a drummer, and two vocalists.
It was beautiful to drive home under an almost-full moon, knowing that everyone was looking at the same glowing moon.
I remember once someone said that if you look at your problems up close, it's like looking at a dime two inches from your face. When you walk up the mountain and leave that dime alone, it gets smaller and smaller with each step. By the time you get to the top of the mountain, you can't even see the dime. Listening to music takes you up to the top of the mountain.
I'm resolving to spend Saturday nights in the company of friends and music more often, less talking. I'm going to sing some different tunes on Saturday nights from now on.
"Well, it's Saturday night,
and I ain't got nobody,
Got some money
cause I just got paid....
How I wish I had someone to talk to,
I'm in an awful way..."
Yesterday was a fun day. Garage sales and thrift shops and late lunch at Tip Tops with Kate. Kate bought pretty pasta bowls and I bought a set of little Goodwill dishes for writing groups and a pizza peel (though until Kate told me what I'd bought I thought it was a wooden chopping block with a handle.) I also bought a book by George Dawsom, a 101-year-old black man who learned to read at the age of 98: Life is So Good. Kate and I split the shrimp dinner and the delicious chocolate ice box pie. Then a long after-lunch nap for me.
Tonight, I was supposed to meet a few friends at The Cove to listen to music by Onel and the Band. I thought I was too tired, but finally decided to pull myself up and out and leave the house and join them. It's so easy to spend Saturday nights alone, watching movies on the laptop or reading or moving furniture around. Driving, I enjoyed the beautiful San Antonio skyline all lit up.
Trying to talk outside on the patio with loud music was hard--so three of us finally gave up on talking and went inside for a better listen. "We should get out more!" we all said to each other. "Saturday nights should be more fun!" It was invigorating to listen to some terrific jazz--a keyboard, two guitars, a sax, a drummer, and two vocalists.
It was beautiful to drive home under an almost-full moon, knowing that everyone was looking at the same glowing moon.
I remember once someone said that if you look at your problems up close, it's like looking at a dime two inches from your face. When you walk up the mountain and leave that dime alone, it gets smaller and smaller with each step. By the time you get to the top of the mountain, you can't even see the dime. Listening to music takes you up to the top of the mountain.
I'm resolving to spend Saturday nights in the company of friends and music more often, less talking. I'm going to sing some different tunes on Saturday nights from now on.
Tom the Backroads Traveller
http://backroadstraveller.blogspot.com
If you'd like to check out a blog of another backroads traveler (this one actually about what he sees, not his interior life and grandchildren and memories!) you might want to look at some of the pictures on this site.
This guy apparently does what I do (rambles through the backroads and takes pictures), but he actually writes about the history of the places he visits, like an interesting photo essay on the Amish in New York.
I was shopping for Shaker pegs and stumbled upon this site. What is it about old barns? I love them, too--and have quite a few pictures of old barns from Iowa to Georgia and back to Texas.
One of his posts is all about yellow barns.
Good chickens
Yesterday, Elena's nanny, Dalitt, found this dead coral snake in the yard--right where the children usually play. These deadly snakes (""Red on black, venom lack. Red on yellow, deadly fellow." ") are rarely seen in yards, though they are relatively common in South Texas. According to Wikepedia, they are shy, usually nocturnal, and tend to be found under logs and in leaves on the ground.
Apparently, a member of the Pritchett menagerie (two dogs, a cat, a bunch of chickens) took it upon itself to stop this one in his tracks.
Chickens kill snakes, Will said.
Who knew?
This batch of chickens was an Easter present from Elena and Nathan's Papi. Now they are big and each one has a name--like Addison and his mother Joey.
Apparently, a member of the Pritchett menagerie (two dogs, a cat, a bunch of chickens) took it upon itself to stop this one in his tracks.
Who knew?
This batch of chickens was an Easter present from Elena and Nathan's Papi. Now they are big and each one has a name--like Addison and his mother Joey.
Friday, November 7, 2014
Leonie
This film, based on the true story of the artist Isamu Noguchi's life, focuses on his mother, Leonie.
An American woman, she lived until she was sixty years old, a free-spirited woman of her time who had a brief affair with the poet who was Isamu's father.
An American woman, she lived until she was sixty years old, a free-spirited woman of her time who had a brief affair with the poet who was Isamu's father.
Loving
Love comes in so many flavors.
Love of friends is a smörgåsbord, sweet to savory, of conversations and discoveries.
Love of family is yeast bread right out of the oven with butter on it, the fragrance of home.
Romantic love is creme brûlée with raspberry sauce--or maybe pie in the sky.
I just watched my last class in Sketchbook Skool. I've gotten behind on doing the assignments, but I've liked every class. The final was my favorite because it was all about road trips. Teacher Danny Gregory took a cross country car trip and showed us different ways to capture travel memories in maps and sketches and words. He gave us the daunting assignment of sketching a personal journey in lines and colors.
One of Danny's stops was Hope, Arkansas, Bill Clinton's birthplace.
I've been to Hope. There's not much to see there. But the very name of that town brings up a memory for me. If you don't have a taste for sappy stories, you might want to just stop right here and go fold the laundry or something.
Seven years ago, in the Hope train depot (turned visitor's center) I met a biker named Mike who lives in a barn in Georgia. His hair in a ponytail, he was wearing overalls; I was wearing the incomparable air of road freedom. Nothing on that road trip felt "normal"--everything was road trip crazy, free, daring, and good. We rode through the Great Smokey Mountains on the Harley, stopped and danced roadside, poked around antique stores.
The map of meeting Mike would go from Hope to Gatlinburg to Beale Street in Memphis where we listened to the blues. A few days later, I'd go north to Virginia, Cape Cod and Maine, wending through the White Mountains of New Hampshire, Mike south to Georgia where he was building his barn. (He would send me a cell phone and we'd talk every day for two months.)
Then, after the leaf-extravaganza was over, I drove to Georgia to see Mike and to celebrate Thanksgiving with Carlene and my kids and two grandsons. Mike made Thanksgiving dinner for my family, even had a petting zoo in his back yard for Jackson and Marcus. On that day, dancing to a song called "In Spite of Ourselves," I thought we were Forever.
I stayed from November to February, then drove home to Texas. In March, I drove back to Georgia for two more months.
When we packed the Mini the last time, we both knew it was the last. We stood in his driveway, both crying. " You're the love of my life," one of us said. I drove home to San Antonio, sad to the bone.
I resumed writing groups and started new ones, and I felt (and still feel) that this life and this work and my Texas friends all add up to Home.
But....
Isn't there always a "but" in every journey story?
...After seven years, we saw each other again on this last trip to Georgia. All the reasons we went our separate ways are still there, including--This is my home; Brown Mule Farm is his. But as we all know, love--however weird or improbable it may seem to onlookers--brings out parts of ourselves that don't come out to play in most places.
Two weeks ago, when Mike and I drove to one of his favorite antique barns and had lunch in Athens, those parts I thought were safely packed up and wrapped in plastic came out again, just for a visit.
We're not riding off into the sunset together into Happily Ever Afterwards. But we've laughed again at things nobody else would find funny, and we've disagreed about the same things we always disagreed about. A week ago, we talked on the phone as I was driving through Louisiana and remembered how much fun we'd had dancing to Cajun music there.
How can I draw all this for Sketchbook Skool homework? How do you draw a rear-view mirror and keep it real? What kind of inks do you need to draw the thin curvy backroads as seen from the back of a Harley?
Being with Mike reminded us both of where our journey together began--and the euphoria of falling in love, two crazy strangers, in a town called Hope.
Love of friends is a smörgåsbord, sweet to savory, of conversations and discoveries.
Love of family is yeast bread right out of the oven with butter on it, the fragrance of home.
Romantic love is creme brûlée with raspberry sauce--or maybe pie in the sky.
I just watched my last class in Sketchbook Skool. I've gotten behind on doing the assignments, but I've liked every class. The final was my favorite because it was all about road trips. Teacher Danny Gregory took a cross country car trip and showed us different ways to capture travel memories in maps and sketches and words. He gave us the daunting assignment of sketching a personal journey in lines and colors.
One of Danny's stops was Hope, Arkansas, Bill Clinton's birthplace.
I've been to Hope. There's not much to see there. But the very name of that town brings up a memory for me. If you don't have a taste for sappy stories, you might want to just stop right here and go fold the laundry or something.
Seven years ago, in the Hope train depot (turned visitor's center) I met a biker named Mike who lives in a barn in Georgia. His hair in a ponytail, he was wearing overalls; I was wearing the incomparable air of road freedom. Nothing on that road trip felt "normal"--everything was road trip crazy, free, daring, and good. We rode through the Great Smokey Mountains on the Harley, stopped and danced roadside, poked around antique stores.
The map of meeting Mike would go from Hope to Gatlinburg to Beale Street in Memphis where we listened to the blues. A few days later, I'd go north to Virginia, Cape Cod and Maine, wending through the White Mountains of New Hampshire, Mike south to Georgia where he was building his barn. (He would send me a cell phone and we'd talk every day for two months.)
Then, after the leaf-extravaganza was over, I drove to Georgia to see Mike and to celebrate Thanksgiving with Carlene and my kids and two grandsons. Mike made Thanksgiving dinner for my family, even had a petting zoo in his back yard for Jackson and Marcus. On that day, dancing to a song called "In Spite of Ourselves," I thought we were Forever.
I stayed from November to February, then drove home to Texas. In March, I drove back to Georgia for two more months.
When we packed the Mini the last time, we both knew it was the last. We stood in his driveway, both crying. " You're the love of my life," one of us said. I drove home to San Antonio, sad to the bone.
I resumed writing groups and started new ones, and I felt (and still feel) that this life and this work and my Texas friends all add up to Home.
But....
Isn't there always a "but" in every journey story?
...After seven years, we saw each other again on this last trip to Georgia. All the reasons we went our separate ways are still there, including--This is my home; Brown Mule Farm is his. But as we all know, love--however weird or improbable it may seem to onlookers--brings out parts of ourselves that don't come out to play in most places.
Two weeks ago, when Mike and I drove to one of his favorite antique barns and had lunch in Athens, those parts I thought were safely packed up and wrapped in plastic came out again, just for a visit.
We're not riding off into the sunset together into Happily Ever Afterwards. But we've laughed again at things nobody else would find funny, and we've disagreed about the same things we always disagreed about. A week ago, we talked on the phone as I was driving through Louisiana and remembered how much fun we'd had dancing to Cajun music there.
How can I draw all this for Sketchbook Skool homework? How do you draw a rear-view mirror and keep it real? What kind of inks do you need to draw the thin curvy backroads as seen from the back of a Harley?
Being with Mike reminded us both of where our journey together began--and the euphoria of falling in love, two crazy strangers, in a town called Hope.
Thursday, November 6, 2014
Antique-ing
Imagine: getting up every single day for fifty years to hang out with old stuff: dishes, postcards, clocks, stuffed animals, silver, and crocheted tablecloths.
Charlott, owner of Charlott's Antiques on Austin Highway, has been running that store since she was 33--50 years ago--and says she loves every day of it.
Oscar and Mary were regulars there, I could tell. "I just love spending hours here and looking at things that remind me of my mother and grandmother," she said. "Everything in here is a blessing that way."
Oscar was a character. Before he introduced me to his "better half," he spent half an hour giving me ideas for what to do with the chicken coop I'm looking at for a coffee table. "Paint the floor green and fill it up with decorations," he said. "Hens and roosters and eggs, things like that. Put a glass top on it and some legs and it will be a real conversation piece."
Mary--with her radiant face and perfect skin--had trouble navigating the aisles, but when we talked, she lit up telling me about how much she loves antique-ing.
Charlott, owner of Charlott's Antiques on Austin Highway, has been running that store since she was 33--50 years ago--and says she loves every day of it.
Oscar and Mary were regulars there, I could tell. "I just love spending hours here and looking at things that remind me of my mother and grandmother," she said. "Everything in here is a blessing that way."
Oscar was a character. Before he introduced me to his "better half," he spent half an hour giving me ideas for what to do with the chicken coop I'm looking at for a coffee table. "Paint the floor green and fill it up with decorations," he said. "Hens and roosters and eggs, things like that. Put a glass top on it and some legs and it will be a real conversation piece."
Mary--with her radiant face and perfect skin--had trouble navigating the aisles, but when we talked, she lit up telling me about how much she loves antique-ing.
Riding
I'm seldom a passenger in a car, almost always the driver. Yesterday I was driven to lunch by my firefighter son in his yellow rescue rain jacket.
Elena was sleeping when they arrived, so we sat in the parking lot to let her get her nap out, then had a delicious Beto's meal, just right for a rainy day.
On the way home, we went to Bird Bakery, then stopped by the Doll House shop on Broadway. Elena wasn't particularly interested in the doll houses, but she loved those German-made animals, and she could name them all in Spanish. I'd planned to drive to the doll hospital in Seguin today, but the Doll House people said they could re-string my three loose-jointed dolls--and just a few blocks from home.
Later, as we were sitting on the floor painting a cardboard crown, Elena said, "Remember Nana?" Yes, I said. What made you think of Nana? "Because her is a really good good person," she said. "Does Nana know I go pee pee on the potty?"
Last night, I met a friend for another Beto's meal, just as delicious as lunch! My birthday continued with conversation and posole--a wonderful day!
Before bed, I watched the three-episode mini-series, South Riding, ending with these words by the school--mistress to the graduating students of her school:
"Those of you who are leaving will find the world a lot more complicated than it looks. As you get older, you know fewer things for certain, not more. You've heard me say before, Question everything. Question authority. But open your ears, your eyes, and your hearts, too. Above all, enjoy your lives and live to the full. Please don't ever be afraid. The future belongs to you...."
Elena was sleeping when they arrived, so we sat in the parking lot to let her get her nap out, then had a delicious Beto's meal, just right for a rainy day.
On the way home, we went to Bird Bakery, then stopped by the Doll House shop on Broadway. Elena wasn't particularly interested in the doll houses, but she loved those German-made animals, and she could name them all in Spanish. I'd planned to drive to the doll hospital in Seguin today, but the Doll House people said they could re-string my three loose-jointed dolls--and just a few blocks from home.
Later, as we were sitting on the floor painting a cardboard crown, Elena said, "Remember Nana?" Yes, I said. What made you think of Nana? "Because her is a really good good person," she said. "Does Nana know I go pee pee on the potty?"
 |
| Elena in Daddy's rain jacket |
 |
| Lady Liberty washing dishes? |
 |
| First, you paint your crown. Then you glue on sparkles. Then you ride in your chariot. |
Before bed, I watched the three-episode mini-series, South Riding, ending with these words by the school--mistress to the graduating students of her school:
"Those of you who are leaving will find the world a lot more complicated than it looks. As you get older, you know fewer things for certain, not more. You've heard me say before, Question everything. Question authority. But open your ears, your eyes, and your hearts, too. Above all, enjoy your lives and live to the full. Please don't ever be afraid. The future belongs to you...."
Monday, November 3, 2014
Aging
Every writing group is unique. Sometimes everyone is in a jovial mood, other times more mellow. Each person brings a certain energy, then it all gels in some unpredictable way. I don't often write about that, but I always notice it and love the alchemy of different people turning a few hours into gold.
Last night's meeting was very meaningful for me. A theme emerged in the timed writings, then continued in the writing each person had already written--as if we were already on the same wave length before we all showed up. (Or did I superimpose a theme after the fact? I don't know.)
It's as if Aging and Death were characters in the wings last night, and each of us poked at or pulled back the curtain in a different way.
For a timed writing prompt, I asked the question, "What age are you in your mind?" The range of answers (all of us between sixty and sixty-six) varied from 25 to 95! That was a surprise, so we followed that trail, talked about why.
Hearing their candid answers and saying my own, it occurred to me that we are all bearing witness to what it feels like to grow older. Don't we all wonder what will happen to our journals when we die? Aren't we at an age when that could happen, hard as it is to imagine the world going on without us?
One is re-reading her many journals and typing a few pages for each writing group--which gives us a glimpse into her life and voice of the year in which those pages were written. While ostensibly an exercise in mining old journals to decide what to keep and what to destroy, it seems to me that taking the time to re-read and listen to what her former selves have to say to her (and us) right now is a kind of life review, standing back and listening to what insight the younger self might impart.
Sometimes, what one writer describes what we all have felt but never put into words. When one wrote about aphasia (her frustrating inability to think of the word she's after), we all knew exactly what she was talking about. After a certain age, reaching for a word and not finding it sets off an alarm: "What if this is the beginning of Alzheimer's?"
When one person writes about the fall-down-gut-punch of a heart break, it's like hearing a piece of music we all know. One of us (not me) said, "I feel ageless." I do, too--sometimes. Maybe that's because we carry all the younger parts around inside these sixty-something selves.
And then there's the unmentionable character lurking in the wings: Death. It once was a hypothetical figure in the distance; now it's closer, even if decades away.
One of us--not present last night--is a grief counselor. One is a hospice social worker who asks her dying patients to tell her their love stories. One has been to four family funerals in a little over a year. One is a drug rehab counselor; recently, two of her patients were in a terrible crash and one of them died. As for me--I just returned from my Uncle David's memorial service in Atlanta and came back to San Antonio to realize all over again that my friend Julianne is gone, absolutely gone, even though a text from her is still on my phone.
Janet--what a great kindness!--went to Julianne's funeral for me, since I couldn't be here. At the end of writing group, I listened to Julianne's eulogy on Janet's cell phone. Her son said exactly what she would have liked. He loved and admired his mother. Even though he's a Baptist preacher, he didn't make it "too religious"--and she would have liked that.
I had an eerie thought at the end: "I want to call Julianne and tell her what a perfect memorial it was."
Death may bring its own lessons for those who are dying. But to the living, the lessons keep showing up, too. We wish we had done more, said more, been more attentive, more present. It was at the moment of saying that very thing that her son showed most emotion: "There are so many things we wish we'd said that we never said."
Last night's meeting was very meaningful for me. A theme emerged in the timed writings, then continued in the writing each person had already written--as if we were already on the same wave length before we all showed up. (Or did I superimpose a theme after the fact? I don't know.)
It's as if Aging and Death were characters in the wings last night, and each of us poked at or pulled back the curtain in a different way.
For a timed writing prompt, I asked the question, "What age are you in your mind?" The range of answers (all of us between sixty and sixty-six) varied from 25 to 95! That was a surprise, so we followed that trail, talked about why.
Hearing their candid answers and saying my own, it occurred to me that we are all bearing witness to what it feels like to grow older. Don't we all wonder what will happen to our journals when we die? Aren't we at an age when that could happen, hard as it is to imagine the world going on without us?
One is re-reading her many journals and typing a few pages for each writing group--which gives us a glimpse into her life and voice of the year in which those pages were written. While ostensibly an exercise in mining old journals to decide what to keep and what to destroy, it seems to me that taking the time to re-read and listen to what her former selves have to say to her (and us) right now is a kind of life review, standing back and listening to what insight the younger self might impart.
Sometimes, what one writer describes what we all have felt but never put into words. When one wrote about aphasia (her frustrating inability to think of the word she's after), we all knew exactly what she was talking about. After a certain age, reaching for a word and not finding it sets off an alarm: "What if this is the beginning of Alzheimer's?"
When one person writes about the fall-down-gut-punch of a heart break, it's like hearing a piece of music we all know. One of us (not me) said, "I feel ageless." I do, too--sometimes. Maybe that's because we carry all the younger parts around inside these sixty-something selves.
And then there's the unmentionable character lurking in the wings: Death. It once was a hypothetical figure in the distance; now it's closer, even if decades away.
One of us--not present last night--is a grief counselor. One is a hospice social worker who asks her dying patients to tell her their love stories. One has been to four family funerals in a little over a year. One is a drug rehab counselor; recently, two of her patients were in a terrible crash and one of them died. As for me--I just returned from my Uncle David's memorial service in Atlanta and came back to San Antonio to realize all over again that my friend Julianne is gone, absolutely gone, even though a text from her is still on my phone.
Janet--what a great kindness!--went to Julianne's funeral for me, since I couldn't be here. At the end of writing group, I listened to Julianne's eulogy on Janet's cell phone. Her son said exactly what she would have liked. He loved and admired his mother. Even though he's a Baptist preacher, he didn't make it "too religious"--and she would have liked that.
I had an eerie thought at the end: "I want to call Julianne and tell her what a perfect memorial it was."
Death may bring its own lessons for those who are dying. But to the living, the lessons keep showing up, too. We wish we had done more, said more, been more attentive, more present. It was at the moment of saying that very thing that her son showed most emotion: "There are so many things we wish we'd said that we never said."
Voting
Tomorrow is, officially, election day.
It feels like every day is election day. With at least ten incoming emails a day from my party of choice, I'm experiencing election fatigue. The day after every election, we start up on another.
I'm going to vote tomorrow for my party, but not with the passion and hope I felt in the last two elections. I'm not sending twenty dollars for a chance to meet the president. I'm not signing petitions or liking anyone on Facebook. I'm not putting a bumper sticker on my car.
I've lost interest in the whole national football game (and I borrow that analogy from a friend--it's perfect!) No more pom poms, no more cheerleading, just one quiet vote, for whatever it's worth.
Someone on NPR said that many young people are "political agnostics." I guess that's true for a lot of us older people too. I prefer one party over the other, but not with the zeal of a true believer anymore. The money machine, the morals machine, the fighting and attack ads--it all adds up to something too big, too unwieldy, too mean-spirited to know how to get into the conversation.
Every time I turn on the news, I hear more political fighting. I'm bored with it all. I'm thinking of changing my email address so that I can get off everybody's lists.
In the fifties, as I remember it, elections were dignified and private and patriotic. I doubt that my parents even knew how their friends voted. When President Kennedy was assassinated, the whole nation grieved--not just the Democrats. We were, back then, all Americans.
I wish we could return to being Americans who vote for our choice, then move on to something else, let the winner do his or her best.
As I was writing this, I got an email from Team Wendy. I'll vote for her, but not with a megaphone or money, just with a quiet little check mark beside her name. The players may think Team Politics is the only game in town, but the voters have a lot more to do to make the world better than to attend, 24/7, to the outcome of popularity polls and the personal failings of the players.
It feels like every day is election day. With at least ten incoming emails a day from my party of choice, I'm experiencing election fatigue. The day after every election, we start up on another.
I'm going to vote tomorrow for my party, but not with the passion and hope I felt in the last two elections. I'm not sending twenty dollars for a chance to meet the president. I'm not signing petitions or liking anyone on Facebook. I'm not putting a bumper sticker on my car.
I've lost interest in the whole national football game (and I borrow that analogy from a friend--it's perfect!) No more pom poms, no more cheerleading, just one quiet vote, for whatever it's worth.
Someone on NPR said that many young people are "political agnostics." I guess that's true for a lot of us older people too. I prefer one party over the other, but not with the zeal of a true believer anymore. The money machine, the morals machine, the fighting and attack ads--it all adds up to something too big, too unwieldy, too mean-spirited to know how to get into the conversation.
Every time I turn on the news, I hear more political fighting. I'm bored with it all. I'm thinking of changing my email address so that I can get off everybody's lists.
In the fifties, as I remember it, elections were dignified and private and patriotic. I doubt that my parents even knew how their friends voted. When President Kennedy was assassinated, the whole nation grieved--not just the Democrats. We were, back then, all Americans.
I wish we could return to being Americans who vote for our choice, then move on to something else, let the winner do his or her best.
As I was writing this, I got an email from Team Wendy. I'll vote for her, but not with a megaphone or money, just with a quiet little check mark beside her name. The players may think Team Politics is the only game in town, but the voters have a lot more to do to make the world better than to attend, 24/7, to the outcome of popularity polls and the personal failings of the players.
Sunday, November 2, 2014
Playing
For the last few months, I've been collecting dolls--some from Carlene's house that I used to play with when I was little, some from thrift shops, some online.
Most of them are 8 inch Madame Alexander dolls, but there are a few no-brand dolls. This one I brought home from Carlene's was dressed in a Girl Scout uniform, but the firefighter outfit I had bought on eBay fits her perfectly.
She's standing atop the little oak desk that used to be Day's. I cut her hair to make her appear more boy-like--as my collection only had two boys so far.
This morning, I tried to stay awake to listen to the whole Super Soul Sunday online, but slept the morning away. Finally, I feel rested!
I did hear a snippet of it, in which Marianne Williamson said "We should all be beginners at something." To be a beginner rekindles our sense of play and wonder.
Here's the doll I bought in Opelika at an antique store called Angel's. Brand new in the box, for $12!
Most of them are 8 inch Madame Alexander dolls, but there are a few no-brand dolls. This one I brought home from Carlene's was dressed in a Girl Scout uniform, but the firefighter outfit I had bought on eBay fits her perfectly.
This morning, I tried to stay awake to listen to the whole Super Soul Sunday online, but slept the morning away. Finally, I feel rested!
I did hear a snippet of it, in which Marianne Williamson said "We should all be beginners at something." To be a beginner rekindles our sense of play and wonder.
Here's the doll I bought in Opelika at an antique store called Angel's. Brand new in the box, for $12!
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| Angel from Opelika |
Seeing
For the past five weeks, I've been taking an online drawing class. I should say "taking" in quotation marks because I haven't been keeping up with the assignments. But I will catch up. I will.
From my first "successful" drawing (measured by someone asking me to copy and sign it--not by its actual quality) I have pretty much just been watching the videos. It's a little hard to draw and visit and travel all at the same time, at least in a concrete way.
But watching people draw and show their drawings has inspired me, nevertheless. I'm fascinated by the differences in the way the five teachers sketch and talk about their work. I love seeing the more experienced students' drawings.
Drawing, like writing, is about seeing. It's so easy to get caught up in the constructs of our minds and make abstract statements about things, how things are. To draw or to write clearly, we have to look at one thing at a time, really look, without comparing it to something in our minds. To see the isness of a thing, what it is.
I'm learning this morning to capture gestures and body language with pencils. The teacher is advising us to look at the person and draw quickly, capturing the movement with our pencils on paper. I'm watching her do that with two live models. I'm observing the fluid movements of her pencils and pens and brushes.
I'm remembering a quotation from Joseph Conrad:
"My task which I am trying to achieve is, by the power of the written word to make you hear, to make you feel--it is, before all, to make you see. That--and no more, and it is everything."
From my first "successful" drawing (measured by someone asking me to copy and sign it--not by its actual quality) I have pretty much just been watching the videos. It's a little hard to draw and visit and travel all at the same time, at least in a concrete way.
But watching people draw and show their drawings has inspired me, nevertheless. I'm fascinated by the differences in the way the five teachers sketch and talk about their work. I love seeing the more experienced students' drawings.
Drawing, like writing, is about seeing. It's so easy to get caught up in the constructs of our minds and make abstract statements about things, how things are. To draw or to write clearly, we have to look at one thing at a time, really look, without comparing it to something in our minds. To see the isness of a thing, what it is.
I'm learning this morning to capture gestures and body language with pencils. The teacher is advising us to look at the person and draw quickly, capturing the movement with our pencils on paper. I'm watching her do that with two live models. I'm observing the fluid movements of her pencils and pens and brushes.
I'm remembering a quotation from Joseph Conrad:
"My task which I am trying to achieve is, by the power of the written word to make you hear, to make you feel--it is, before all, to make you see. That--and no more, and it is everything."
Saturday, November 1, 2014
Changing of the plans....
One of the many things I love about children is that they shake up my plans and show me ways to do things better.
Nathan, for example. "Can I have these marshmallows?"
"No, we're going to make Rice Krispy treats."
"But I don't like Rice Krispy treats, I like marshmallows. I just want you to play Legos with me."
"Okay," I say--relieved that he's getting what he wants and I'm off the hook for making treats nobody is likely to eat anyway.
Then he opens the secretary and looks at my ten Madame Alexander storybook dolls that will ultimately be Elena's. "Are these all for my sister?" he asks. I'm afraid I detect a note of jealousy (what can I collect that a boy might like?) so I stop what I'm doing and introduce him to each one.
"That one is Elena!" Elena says, pointing to the one in the red dress we named Elena.
Nathan wants to play with them. I hadn't planned on letting little ones play with them, but I tell him that he can pick one to play with, just him, because they are fragile and he knows how to be careful with fragile things.
He picks Dorothy and spends the next hour enacting the story. We run around the house finding stuffed animals and less-fragile dolls to play the parts of the other characters. He casts Harriet (a doll from Nana) with my voice-over as the Good Witch.
I had planned to clean the house and dress up like a witch to get ready for the party, but I let go of my plans for perfection and enjoyed the magical moments of Now instead. By then, cleaning was not an option anyway--as Nathan's Legos and Elena's toys were scattered all over the floor.
Later, as he was skating through the house on socks, he told me that my kitchen floor was a mess--which it was, covered with marshmallows and leaves and assorted toys. Children tell you the truth, unvarnished.
But sometimes the definite truth of one week is abandoned the next. For a couple of months, Nathan has been saying he doesn't like his picture taken, so I've tried to hold back. Yesterday, he had a sudden change of heart and wanted me to take lots of pictures of him.
Elena is her own hundred-percent-Elena self. When her other grandmother came, Elena wanted to show her around the house and apartment. She opens the apartment refrigerator and asks Tita, her other grandmother, "What would you like to drink? We have juice and water and these things Yenna likes..." (pointing to canned sodas.)
The house never did get spruced up; I'd barely gotten unpacked from my trip. I never got around to putting on my witch's hat or make up. But no one noticed or cared.
When Will donned some awful plastic rotten-teeth Margaret had sent for the party, the kids took it all in stride, no big deal. When he attempted to give Veronica a kiss, she seemed politely less than eager to kiss back:)
Kids and grown-ups notice different things, I guess.
Nathan, for example. "Can I have these marshmallows?"
"No, we're going to make Rice Krispy treats."
"But I don't like Rice Krispy treats, I like marshmallows. I just want you to play Legos with me."
"Okay," I say--relieved that he's getting what he wants and I'm off the hook for making treats nobody is likely to eat anyway.
Then he opens the secretary and looks at my ten Madame Alexander storybook dolls that will ultimately be Elena's. "Are these all for my sister?" he asks. I'm afraid I detect a note of jealousy (what can I collect that a boy might like?) so I stop what I'm doing and introduce him to each one.
"That one is Elena!" Elena says, pointing to the one in the red dress we named Elena.
Nathan wants to play with them. I hadn't planned on letting little ones play with them, but I tell him that he can pick one to play with, just him, because they are fragile and he knows how to be careful with fragile things.
He picks Dorothy and spends the next hour enacting the story. We run around the house finding stuffed animals and less-fragile dolls to play the parts of the other characters. He casts Harriet (a doll from Nana) with my voice-over as the Good Witch.
I had planned to clean the house and dress up like a witch to get ready for the party, but I let go of my plans for perfection and enjoyed the magical moments of Now instead. By then, cleaning was not an option anyway--as Nathan's Legos and Elena's toys were scattered all over the floor.
Later, as he was skating through the house on socks, he told me that my kitchen floor was a mess--which it was, covered with marshmallows and leaves and assorted toys. Children tell you the truth, unvarnished.
But sometimes the definite truth of one week is abandoned the next. For a couple of months, Nathan has been saying he doesn't like his picture taken, so I've tried to hold back. Yesterday, he had a sudden change of heart and wanted me to take lots of pictures of him.
Elena is her own hundred-percent-Elena self. When her other grandmother came, Elena wanted to show her around the house and apartment. She opens the apartment refrigerator and asks Tita, her other grandmother, "What would you like to drink? We have juice and water and these things Yenna likes..." (pointing to canned sodas.)
The house never did get spruced up; I'd barely gotten unpacked from my trip. I never got around to putting on my witch's hat or make up. But no one noticed or cared.
When Will donned some awful plastic rotten-teeth Margaret had sent for the party, the kids took it all in stride, no big deal. When he attempted to give Veronica a kiss, she seemed politely less than eager to kiss back:)
Kids and grown-ups notice different things, I guess.
Mike's Street Rod
After he built it custom designed the interior, he had the body painted with many coats of metallic orange and silver--so it shines.
The body is a 1951 Chevrolet Belair hardtop on a 1977 Chevrolet Monte Carlo chassis. The grille comes from a 1957 Corvette, the light-up hood ornament from a 1951 Pontiac, and the tail lights from a 1959 Cadillac.
The hubcaps come from a 1959 Dodge Lancer and the custom bucket interior includes a 1960 Impala steering wheel.
Here you have a man who gets up every morning excited about a day of working on his projects--building a car or adding pieces and new buildings to his Brown Mule Farm. If anyone is traveling through North Georgia and wants a great big taste of the Fifties, you should visit the Brown Mule Farm.
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| He built this beautiful Shell station before the barn. Inside, there's a barber shop, a soda fountain, working jukeboxes, and all kinds of Fifties memorabilia. |
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| Here I am, sitting on a "sofa" he made out of another old car. |
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