Since I have a rumbling, misbehaving tummy, we're going to delay our mystery trip until tomorrow. While I nap and read, Mike has made eight Key Lime pies and delivered them to the women at the bank, the mechanic, the welder, the insurance agent, and several other friends.
Mike is not a writer, but he's an old-school storyteller. I wish I could capture the stories he tells just as he tells them.
He used to love to go to the magic shop in some alley in Memphis when he was a boy. Once he saw a huge plastic iguana with glass eyes and he wanted it with all his heart, so he put it on layaway. His mama disapproved of such an ugly addition to the house, but Mike wouldn't be dissuaded "even though it was very expensive." How expensive? I wondered. "Oh, about six dollars," he said.
He has the kind of memory that makes his stories sink in--I feel like I've read a book about growing up on Beale Street, I know them so well.
One of his favorite people was the principal, Mr. Barnes, who whipped him often for various transgressions. But it was worth it, he says--as he recalls the times he took a bunch of friends off campus for lunch and other rule-breaking adventures. Mrs. Barnes was the secretary and the "sweetest woman" he knew. They had two sons, one a professional football player--but both have since died, one in a car crash, the other by suicide.
He remembers being the only white boy who bought his clothes at Lansky Brothers store, the various bleaches and colors he applied to his long hair, and what he bought when and for how much. He knows the name and history of every musician and met many of them on Beale Street. Graceland was purchased from his mama's boss, a lawyer in town who let Mike answer the phones on Saturday mornings.
I think I may do a Story Corps interview of Mike on our road trip and hopefully capture some stories on audio.
Thursday, December 31, 2015
Top Regrets and Lessons from 2015
One of the main reasons for keeping a blog is to remind myself (and those who choose to read it) of the people and places that illuminate my days and "fill up my heart"--as Elena said to me a couple of weeks ago.
Another is to share blog posts, books and arts that inspire me. Pam sent me a link to 21 Secrets--a blog by artist, writer and teacher Malina Parker. Today's post was an excellent claiming of Malina's regrets and lessons of the past year:
http://www.maliniparker.com/news/my-top-five-regrets-of-2015/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+maliniparker+%28Malini+Parker%27s+Blog%29
I've mentioned Brainpickings several times this year and I continue to look forward to reading this blog every Sunday, then tracking down the books discussed:
https://www.brainpickings.org
About a year ago, I introduced Elena to sewing and fabrics. Like her great-grandmother Nana and her Aunt Day and me, Elena now loves fabrics. One of my dearest memories of this past year happened at Aunt Day's house.
Elena was fascinated by Quilter Day's cabinet filled with fabrics. Day let her choose which ones to take home. I'll never forget watching her choosing her fabric pieces and her tiny hands folding them neatly to take home. "I already have some fabrics," she said, "Because everybody knows I love fabrics."
Another is to share blog posts, books and arts that inspire me. Pam sent me a link to 21 Secrets--a blog by artist, writer and teacher Malina Parker. Today's post was an excellent claiming of Malina's regrets and lessons of the past year:
http://www.maliniparker.com/news/my-top-five-regrets-of-2015/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+maliniparker+%28Malini+Parker%27s+Blog%29
I've mentioned Brainpickings several times this year and I continue to look forward to reading this blog every Sunday, then tracking down the books discussed:
https://www.brainpickings.org
About a year ago, I introduced Elena to sewing and fabrics. Like her great-grandmother Nana and her Aunt Day and me, Elena now loves fabrics. One of my dearest memories of this past year happened at Aunt Day's house.
Elena was fascinated by Quilter Day's cabinet filled with fabrics. Day let her choose which ones to take home. I'll never forget watching her choosing her fabric pieces and her tiny hands folding them neatly to take home. "I already have some fabrics," she said, "Because everybody knows I love fabrics."
Wednesday, December 30, 2015
December 28th
Our docent made it a fascinating tour--as she had taught in the girls' school attached to the cathedral for forty-four years and knew the history of the building from personal experience. One of the dogs carved in the stone was her very own dog--"a stupid Bassett Hound" who was immortalized in the ceiling. She remembered being in the congregation there when Martin Luther King preached his last sermon, two or three days before his assassination. She remembered many inaugural services there--and let Jackson sit in the seat assigned to the president, pointing out that she remembered Bill Clinton sitting there and Hillary sitting in the spouse seat beside him. "After the next election, they will swap chairs," she said--hopefully.
(I'm still hoping Bernie sits in Jackson's chair--but time will tell....)
I'm at Mike's today and he has a surprise trip planned for the next few days--though he hasn't revealed the destination yet.
The trip to Virginia was wonderful! Carlene and I throughly enjoyed our road trip and time with the kids, big and little. My first grandson is now the tallest person in our family and I'm still getting used to his new man's voice.
Monday, December 28, 2015
Christmas 2015
This is the Christmas I've been looking forward to--seeing Carlene, my kids and spouses, and all four grandchildren in one house!
Carlene and I are staying in a nearby Comfort Inn. One of the books that has inspired me this Christmas is Humans in New York--aka HONY.
The photographer/author, Brandon Stanton, has walked thousands of miles on a "treasure hunt" on city streets, and the books that have come from his blogs are fascinating mini-stories of the people encountered in New York and other cities.
I'm inspired by the quality of his people-pictures, the diversity of his subjects, and the perspectives captured in his short vignettes and quotations about each person.
http://www.humansofnewyork.com
I love this guy! He makes me see that if you want to do something, you just figure out a way to do it! I see photo-worthy stories of faces and places everywhere I go. So often I want to walk up to the person and ask, "Can I take your picture and talk to you for an hour or so?" Unlike this bold photographer, however, I'm usually too shy to ask.
Carlene and I took two days driving here. The weather was perfect--unseasonably warm and cloudy--and the traffic light on Christmas Day. From Greensboro, N.C., we drove Highway 29, our new-favorite route to Falls Church.
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| Carlene in her kitchen on Christmas Morning |
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| Bonnie and Elena |
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| Day made Superhero capes for the three youngest kids. Here's Marcus in his |
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| And Nathan in his |
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| Elena, Marcus, Nathan, Jackson and their grandmother and great-grandmother, Nana |
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| Jackson, our teenager |
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| Day telling a story |
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| Elena |
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| Going for a walk--72 degrees |
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| Nana, Will, Day, Tom, and Bonnie |
The photographer/author, Brandon Stanton, has walked thousands of miles on a "treasure hunt" on city streets, and the books that have come from his blogs are fascinating mini-stories of the people encountered in New York and other cities.
I'm inspired by the quality of his people-pictures, the diversity of his subjects, and the perspectives captured in his short vignettes and quotations about each person.
http://www.humansofnewyork.com
I love this guy! He makes me see that if you want to do something, you just figure out a way to do it! I see photo-worthy stories of faces and places everywhere I go. So often I want to walk up to the person and ask, "Can I take your picture and talk to you for an hour or so?" Unlike this bold photographer, however, I'm usually too shy to ask.
Tuesday, December 22, 2015
Decoupage-ing Hot Rods
Mike refinished this nice old trunk thirty years ago, and I spent yesterday tearing colors out of Hot Rod magazines and glueing them inside. Here it is all finished but the Mod Podge coat and the tray:
Simplifying
I got this email from Pam yesterday and asked her if I could post it:
"Spent too many hours in the kitchen yesterday going through cabinets as if on an archeological dig. It is much improved, but only the tip of the iceberg, so to speak. Moments like this I'm grateful not to be living in a McMansion somewhere...or even a modest home larger than the one I occupy. I have too much stuff...really. Too many food items, too many books, too many pieces of paper that appear to be homeless. They need their own little tent city downtown somewhere out of my line of vision."
Several of my friends share this sentiment and are in the process of clearing out clothes they no longer wear or stuff that no longer meets the "useful or beautiful" criteria. Charlotte read a book about simplifying (can't remember the title) that set off a tornado of clearing space in her closet and house. Kate, too, is hauling boxes and bags out by the truckload. Betty is watching episodes of Tiny Houses and yearning for one of her own. I talk to people all the time who are divesting themselves of projects, books, clothes, furniture, and mental baggage, wanting to simplify.
Another friend, also named Linda, recently talked about how her work as a realtor puts her in touch with houses that are jammed pack with "stuff." She said, "We imprison ourselves with things. Life is so much bigger and we can find more time to experience the large if we don't tie ourselves down to tending to objects that have no meaning." It was her birthday recently and she waved away the idea of material presents. "I don't need any more tchotchkes," she said.
If the new year is an empty bowl, what will we put in it? What will I take out of the over-filled bowl of days to make room for the new, the creative, the time I want to spend with people, just being?
I met a man yesterday (probably near-penniless) who said, when I asked him how he was doing, "I'm blessed to be alive, Sweetheart. I'm having a great day." What he was doing with his great day was standing at the door of Bojangles, wishing everyone who entered, 'Merry Christmas!" He wasn't asking for anything.
I'm imagining Pam's "little tent city downtown somewhere" where we could all put the things we no longer need or want, and hoping that someone who does will find them--and be as happy to have them as we once were.
"Spent too many hours in the kitchen yesterday going through cabinets as if on an archeological dig. It is much improved, but only the tip of the iceberg, so to speak. Moments like this I'm grateful not to be living in a McMansion somewhere...or even a modest home larger than the one I occupy. I have too much stuff...really. Too many food items, too many books, too many pieces of paper that appear to be homeless. They need their own little tent city downtown somewhere out of my line of vision."
Several of my friends share this sentiment and are in the process of clearing out clothes they no longer wear or stuff that no longer meets the "useful or beautiful" criteria. Charlotte read a book about simplifying (can't remember the title) that set off a tornado of clearing space in her closet and house. Kate, too, is hauling boxes and bags out by the truckload. Betty is watching episodes of Tiny Houses and yearning for one of her own. I talk to people all the time who are divesting themselves of projects, books, clothes, furniture, and mental baggage, wanting to simplify.
Another friend, also named Linda, recently talked about how her work as a realtor puts her in touch with houses that are jammed pack with "stuff." She said, "We imprison ourselves with things. Life is so much bigger and we can find more time to experience the large if we don't tie ourselves down to tending to objects that have no meaning." It was her birthday recently and she waved away the idea of material presents. "I don't need any more tchotchkes," she said.
If the new year is an empty bowl, what will we put in it? What will I take out of the over-filled bowl of days to make room for the new, the creative, the time I want to spend with people, just being?
I met a man yesterday (probably near-penniless) who said, when I asked him how he was doing, "I'm blessed to be alive, Sweetheart. I'm having a great day." What he was doing with his great day was standing at the door of Bojangles, wishing everyone who entered, 'Merry Christmas!" He wasn't asking for anything.
I'm imagining Pam's "little tent city downtown somewhere" where we could all put the things we no longer need or want, and hoping that someone who does will find them--and be as happy to have them as we once were.
Arriving at Mike's Barn
After three days of delicious driving and two nights and mornings relaxing in motels, I pulled into Mike's driveway just before dark Saturday night. The barn is newly painted and lights were twinkling in the windows. He and the dogs were waiting in the driveway for me. Mo Jo jumped all over me, then all over Mike, so happy. Copper with his arthritis gave a more modest welcome.
We took a few things upstairs where Mike had the table set with wine and salad and candles and I could smell his homemade spaghetti sauce with shrimp and sausage simmering on the stove.
We'd said we weren't giving each other Christmas presents, but Mike broke the rule. He'd built me a beautiful crook-neck light fixture for my back door to go with the metal awning he installed last month. And he'd driven up to Franklin to buy me a half-round table he'd seen me admiring in November. That and several cards and a warm outfit (draped with Mardi Gras beads and a gold mask) for my trip to Virginia--the man can't follow even the rules he makes himself!
Yesterday, we drove to Demorest to see Debbie, then shopped in an art gallery and had a belated birthday lunch at The Attic, a unique restaurant in Clarkesville. Tomorrow morning, I'll go to Lawrenceville to see Mama 'n Them.
We took a few things upstairs where Mike had the table set with wine and salad and candles and I could smell his homemade spaghetti sauce with shrimp and sausage simmering on the stove.
We'd said we weren't giving each other Christmas presents, but Mike broke the rule. He'd built me a beautiful crook-neck light fixture for my back door to go with the metal awning he installed last month. And he'd driven up to Franklin to buy me a half-round table he'd seen me admiring in November. That and several cards and a warm outfit (draped with Mardi Gras beads and a gold mask) for my trip to Virginia--the man can't follow even the rules he makes himself!
Yesterday, we drove to Demorest to see Debbie, then shopped in an art gallery and had a belated birthday lunch at The Attic, a unique restaurant in Clarkesville. Tomorrow morning, I'll go to Lawrenceville to see Mama 'n Them.
Sunday, December 20, 2015
The Alphabet Playlist
When I'm driving along, I put my playlist on Alphabetical by Title. It makes for an interesting juxtaposition of spoken words and music. I have songs I didn't even know I had, probably imported from someone else's CDs. And songs, like the poetic ones of Leonard Cohen, in which I hear something new each time I listen.
On one stretch of road, I heard Ram Dass (Jewish/Buddhist) fold so naturally into John O'Donahue's (Christian, Mystic) that they could have been at the same table conversing, agreeing with each other. The higher spiritual leaders are on the ladder, the more they sound like each other, and the further they move from rigid pronouncements. These two teachers throw open windows and let in fresh air-- instead of posting signs over the doors, like US and THEM, BAD and GOOD.
In yesterday's road class, John O'Donahue and Ram Dass both spoke from the tip-top of the ladder, I thought. Thanks to the magic of digital preservation of voices, John O'Donahue's living voice survives his own physical death of several years ago. Ram Dass, now 84, has suffered a stroke since he gave the talks I'm listening to--on aging and death.
We should not fear death, O'Donahue says; rather, we should "build a little raft of words to help the dying person reach the other shore."
Both consider being present with a dying person as a privilege--and both tell stories about the final hours of transformation that often happen when a person is "leaving his or her body." In the Buddhist tradition, they call it "dropping the body."
In my scattered life at home, I rarely take the time to listen to these voices. On the road, music and talks I've saved take me to higher, more vivid overlooks, just as the landscapes outside my car window change as the light and weather changes.
Years ago, I bought a set of CDs by O'Donahue: Beauty. When I listen to them now, I can remember exactly where I was when I first heard certain lines--at the gym, in Alabama on a previous road trip, driving along Big Sur.
"Beauty awakens us to the life we have been given--and tries to coax us into a new way of being in the world...." he says in his beautiful Irish accent. "Beauty always wants to break the present cage of confinement."
He quotes four sentences by the poet William Stafford, in Crossing Unmarked Snow:
The things you do not have to say make you rich.
Saying the things you do not have to say weakens your talk.
Hearing the things you do not need to hear dulls your hearing.
And the things you know before you hear them, these are you and these are the reasons you are in the world.
He talks about the mediocrity and dullness of most talk that fills the airwaves--the heated fear-based raging of certain political voices, the cliches of advertising, the noise of strident opinions. If those are the only "channels" we listen to (to borrow an excellent analogy from Ram Dass), we can start thinking they are the only ones we have.
From the well of all journeys come music and insight that inspire--as well as, unfortunately, wall-building opinions that evoke fear. Road trips are times to take a break from the latter and tune in to clearer, kinder channels.
On one stretch of road, I heard Ram Dass (Jewish/Buddhist) fold so naturally into John O'Donahue's (Christian, Mystic) that they could have been at the same table conversing, agreeing with each other. The higher spiritual leaders are on the ladder, the more they sound like each other, and the further they move from rigid pronouncements. These two teachers throw open windows and let in fresh air-- instead of posting signs over the doors, like US and THEM, BAD and GOOD.
In yesterday's road class, John O'Donahue and Ram Dass both spoke from the tip-top of the ladder, I thought. Thanks to the magic of digital preservation of voices, John O'Donahue's living voice survives his own physical death of several years ago. Ram Dass, now 84, has suffered a stroke since he gave the talks I'm listening to--on aging and death.
We should not fear death, O'Donahue says; rather, we should "build a little raft of words to help the dying person reach the other shore."
Both consider being present with a dying person as a privilege--and both tell stories about the final hours of transformation that often happen when a person is "leaving his or her body." In the Buddhist tradition, they call it "dropping the body."
In my scattered life at home, I rarely take the time to listen to these voices. On the road, music and talks I've saved take me to higher, more vivid overlooks, just as the landscapes outside my car window change as the light and weather changes.
Years ago, I bought a set of CDs by O'Donahue: Beauty. When I listen to them now, I can remember exactly where I was when I first heard certain lines--at the gym, in Alabama on a previous road trip, driving along Big Sur.
"Beauty awakens us to the life we have been given--and tries to coax us into a new way of being in the world...." he says in his beautiful Irish accent. "Beauty always wants to break the present cage of confinement."
He quotes four sentences by the poet William Stafford, in Crossing Unmarked Snow:
The things you do not have to say make you rich.
Saying the things you do not have to say weakens your talk.
Hearing the things you do not need to hear dulls your hearing.
And the things you know before you hear them, these are you and these are the reasons you are in the world.
He talks about the mediocrity and dullness of most talk that fills the airwaves--the heated fear-based raging of certain political voices, the cliches of advertising, the noise of strident opinions. If those are the only "channels" we listen to (to borrow an excellent analogy from Ram Dass), we can start thinking they are the only ones we have.
From the well of all journeys come music and insight that inspire--as well as, unfortunately, wall-building opinions that evoke fear. Road trips are times to take a break from the latter and tune in to clearer, kinder channels.
Saturday, December 19, 2015
Saturday night in Tuscaloosa
This has been a beautiful day--the prettiest winter road trip I've ever taken.
Mike and I were just in Vicksburg a month ago--the night he saved my life by turning a clump of steak into a projectile. Today, I got there early enough to shop a bit for some clothes. Not a mall shopper, I so enjoyed shopping in downtown shops.
My clerk was a cool black woman named Fanny who had a wicked sense of humor. We talked and laughed in the dressing room for an hour and I walked out with pants and blouses.
At another store, I bought a clear glass lamp with a green shade, two throw pillows and a shawl--and Regina threw in a free scarf and some fringy-things that I'll either make necklaces out of or use as they are intended--as curtain tie-backs.
Tonight I'm all set up with a chicken pot pie and salad from O'Charley's to watch the Democratic debates in my motel room, hoping Bernie knocks some socks off.
Mike and I were just in Vicksburg a month ago--the night he saved my life by turning a clump of steak into a projectile. Today, I got there early enough to shop a bit for some clothes. Not a mall shopper, I so enjoyed shopping in downtown shops.
My clerk was a cool black woman named Fanny who had a wicked sense of humor. We talked and laughed in the dressing room for an hour and I walked out with pants and blouses.
At another store, I bought a clear glass lamp with a green shade, two throw pillows and a shawl--and Regina threw in a free scarf and some fringy-things that I'll either make necklaces out of or use as they are intended--as curtain tie-backs.
Tonight I'm all set up with a chicken pot pie and salad from O'Charley's to watch the Democratic debates in my motel room, hoping Bernie knocks some socks off.
Highway 79
For nearly fifty years, I've been traveling back and forth to Georgia--and my parents used to make this trip twice a year by car. We decide each time whether to take the Southern Route (Interstate 10 mostly) or the Northern Route, 35, then 79, then I 20. Highway 79--from Hutto to Marshall--is the best stretch.
Carlene was usually in the driver's seat when they made this car trip, and she could make the whole trip, door to door, in 17 hours. I guess I got my love of driving from her--though it was my daddy who cautioned me to keep both hands on the wheel, my eyes on the road, and all the doors locked.
I got up at three yesterday, left my house around 4, and drove to Ruston, Louisiana. A drive through rural landscapes, especially during the hour when the sun is just lighting the fringe of the horizon, is magical. Even old crumbling houses and barns, unremarkable or even downright ugly in the full light of day, are beautiful against the canvas of morning sky. Mist rises from ponds and lakes, and I stop and snap pictures of reflections shimmering on the surface of water.
There's also a sad side to driving Highway 79. I can remember when these towns were vibrant and busy, but many of them have gone dormant since the advent of Wal-Mart and chain gas stations. Some are veritable ghost towns. Countless store front windows are papered and boarded over, and windows are scrawled with hand-written signs, Closed. Barber poles, neon signs, big brass cash registers, pharmacies and soda fountains--these relics have been abandoned or moved to the warehouses of collectors.
I did find one little town that is being refurbished--and I talked for a while to the man who's buying all the old buildings and turning them into restaurants and stores. He ripped the paneling from the interior of the bank and took out the low plaster ceiling to reveal an ornate one of silver ceiling tiles; he kept the original wood and marble. The lone teller there is a woman (probably in her nineties) who's been working there for sixty-five years!
I had a delicious lunch at the Pint and Barrel in old town Palestine and met the wife of the head of the Chamber of Commerce who owns a little shop of vintage treasures. I bought a piece of buttermilk pie in the Old Town pie shop and watched as the owner packaged up a huge assortment of freshly-baked pies in white boxes--lemon, cherry, chocolate, pecan, pumpkin, and buttermilk with or without pecans.
Driving Highway 79 evokes memories of a simpler and more vivid time when every town and neighborhood had its own identity, as Old Town Palestine still does, not absorbed in chain-everything homogeneity.
A black and white cow is grazing in the front yard of the white house. Horses stand still as statues in groves of pecan and pine trees. I feel like I'm driving through the past, a world hidden in the fog of time.
Carlene was usually in the driver's seat when they made this car trip, and she could make the whole trip, door to door, in 17 hours. I guess I got my love of driving from her--though it was my daddy who cautioned me to keep both hands on the wheel, my eyes on the road, and all the doors locked.
I got up at three yesterday, left my house around 4, and drove to Ruston, Louisiana. A drive through rural landscapes, especially during the hour when the sun is just lighting the fringe of the horizon, is magical. Even old crumbling houses and barns, unremarkable or even downright ugly in the full light of day, are beautiful against the canvas of morning sky. Mist rises from ponds and lakes, and I stop and snap pictures of reflections shimmering on the surface of water.
There's also a sad side to driving Highway 79. I can remember when these towns were vibrant and busy, but many of them have gone dormant since the advent of Wal-Mart and chain gas stations. Some are veritable ghost towns. Countless store front windows are papered and boarded over, and windows are scrawled with hand-written signs, Closed. Barber poles, neon signs, big brass cash registers, pharmacies and soda fountains--these relics have been abandoned or moved to the warehouses of collectors.
I did find one little town that is being refurbished--and I talked for a while to the man who's buying all the old buildings and turning them into restaurants and stores. He ripped the paneling from the interior of the bank and took out the low plaster ceiling to reveal an ornate one of silver ceiling tiles; he kept the original wood and marble. The lone teller there is a woman (probably in her nineties) who's been working there for sixty-five years!
I had a delicious lunch at the Pint and Barrel in old town Palestine and met the wife of the head of the Chamber of Commerce who owns a little shop of vintage treasures. I bought a piece of buttermilk pie in the Old Town pie shop and watched as the owner packaged up a huge assortment of freshly-baked pies in white boxes--lemon, cherry, chocolate, pecan, pumpkin, and buttermilk with or without pecans.
Driving Highway 79 evokes memories of a simpler and more vivid time when every town and neighborhood had its own identity, as Old Town Palestine still does, not absorbed in chain-everything homogeneity.
A black and white cow is grazing in the front yard of the white house. Horses stand still as statues in groves of pecan and pine trees. I feel like I'm driving through the past, a world hidden in the fog of time.
Thursday, December 17, 2015
Driving in a big, slow circle
After spending the morning visiting--in person and by phone--with several good people, I decided to take a little nap and then leave at 3:00. Bad choice.
My plan was to get through Houston before morning traffic. What was I thinking?
After two hours on the road, listening to the SERIAL podcast, I had only gotten as far as the downtown UTSA campus, fifteen minutes (normally) from home. Traffic was at a standstill and it was starting to get dark, so I turned around and came back home, stopping for puffy tacos at Blanco Cafe.
San Antonio traffic is rarely that bad. Apparently, there was a stalled 18-wheeler on the road ahead. Or maybe it is often that bad and I'm just not out there to see it.
At any rate, I've decided to get some sleep and try again early in the morning, this time taking the Austin and I20 route instead of Houston.
My plan was to get through Houston before morning traffic. What was I thinking?
After two hours on the road, listening to the SERIAL podcast, I had only gotten as far as the downtown UTSA campus, fifteen minutes (normally) from home. Traffic was at a standstill and it was starting to get dark, so I turned around and came back home, stopping for puffy tacos at Blanco Cafe.
San Antonio traffic is rarely that bad. Apparently, there was a stalled 18-wheeler on the road ahead. Or maybe it is often that bad and I'm just not out there to see it.
At any rate, I've decided to get some sleep and try again early in the morning, this time taking the Austin and I20 route instead of Houston.
Love....
I'm lucky. I have the kinds of friends who cheer each other on when we do good things--and let each other off the hook when we don't.
Yesterday, I got this quote from Maya Angelou via text from Pam: "I do not believe a person who does not love himself when he tells me he loves me." I hadn't read that one before--it's so true, so something to think about!
Pam sent me that to cheer me on to do something in the self-love department, and we talked about it some more this morning when she brought me breakfast tacos. We decided that we're going to give ourselves more love in the new year: speak up for what we want, take the time to attend to our health and get remedies when maladies show up, buy good bras, say no when we mean no--things like that.
Here's my Christmas story of the day: I gave Nathan a couple of small toys and a wallet-with-money for Christmas and a big heavy box of tools. I gave Elena a barn and lots of animals--much more flashy a gift, I noticed, when they were all opened.
I'm sure he'd been hoping for a toy in the heavy box under the tree and his disappointment was obvious, though he tried to hide it. I could hardly sleep that night and woke up yesterday morning intent on rectifying that choice. Will said not to bother. He said Nathan would love the tools after the holidays and that he'd get plenty of toys.
But yesterday, I went to the toy store and bought a Star Wars Lego set and delivered it last night while they were out. I also took a few books and puzzles from my house for both of them and scattered them around the house.
He loved it, Will said. "Yenna is awesome!" Nathan said as he tore into the package this morning. "She makes Christmas like Easter, hiding things all around the house."
Of course, I like being called awesome! But what I like even more is that I made him feel special with an unexpected, though delayed, toy on his list. I want to be among the village that makes him feel as loved as he is.
Ted and Me
So it's five in the morning and I wake up with Ted Radio Hour podcasts playing away beside me. I'd downloaded a bunch of them last night to listen to on the road and they just started playing, one after the other, I guess. No telling what all I learned while sleeping!
I'm going back to bed now, silencing Ted, but I wanted to recommend some terrific podcasts before I do:
Season 2 has just begun on SERIAL. Season 1 was a season of telling one story over several episodes, a real life murder mystery.
Elizabeth Gilbert has a podcast, MAGIC LESSONS, that expands on the book by the same title.
ON THE MEDIA, TRUE STORY, NPR Most Emailed Stories, ON BEING, THE MOTH, RADIO LAB, and UNFICTIONAL are all good ones. FRESH AIR and the DIANE RHEM SHOW are also good podcasts for catching up on shows you missed.
Once you start exploring podcasts, you'll find them on every topic--from food to music to politics.
I'm going back to bed now, silencing Ted, but I wanted to recommend some terrific podcasts before I do:
Season 2 has just begun on SERIAL. Season 1 was a season of telling one story over several episodes, a real life murder mystery.
Elizabeth Gilbert has a podcast, MAGIC LESSONS, that expands on the book by the same title.
ON THE MEDIA, TRUE STORY, NPR Most Emailed Stories, ON BEING, THE MOTH, RADIO LAB, and UNFICTIONAL are all good ones. FRESH AIR and the DIANE RHEM SHOW are also good podcasts for catching up on shows you missed.
Once you start exploring podcasts, you'll find them on every topic--from food to music to politics.
Tuesday, December 15, 2015
The Topo Chicas Celebrate Cindy's 70th Birthday
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| My Saturday Writing Group We call ourselves The Topo Chicas- after the drink we all like, Topo Chicos |
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| Mary brought this beautiful salad.... |
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| Mary and Victoria Setting up our birthday feast |
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| And here's Cindy--the Celebrated One! |
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| Jennifer brought barbecue from Boerne |
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| Cindy blowing out candles with p-zazzz! |
Early Christmas in Helotes
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| We picked up Nathan after his drumming lessons. Here we are by the Helotes Elementary Bulldog-- Both Will's former school and Nathan's present one. |
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| Precious Nathan |
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| Elena making marble paper with shaving cream and paint |
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| Bonnie and Will, Elena and Nathan |
Monday, December 14, 2015
Second Baptist Church
On Sunday, four of us white women attended a large all-Black Baptist Church service at Second Baptist--an invitation from one of the church's trustees who was among our photo subjects last week.
We enjoyed it enough to stay for four hours!
It was the 137th anniversary of the church--so after music and a rousing sermon, we stayed for chicken and dressing and a full lunch in their social hall. Church included amazing music by their choir and a dance in the aisle by a group of women. The sermon was delivered by a guest speaker, president of the Progressive Baptist Association. Although built upon a parable, the sermon was not overtly religious--it was a call to action for church people to get out on the streets and find the children of the Black community who are in trouble.
He began speaking in a quiet voice--I had to lean forward to hear. He was so calm and soft-spoken I wondered how he was president of such a large body of churches. His text was the parable of the one lost sheep. The opening pattern was contrasting "this generation" and the "previous generation" --in which parents were boss and everyone was part of a flock. With lively metaphors and examples, his voice grew louder and more musical. "This is a dangerous world for lost sheep!" he shouted. "Sheep need green pastures, not being left out there all alone with the wolves!"
By the end of his sermon, he was sweating profusely and the sermon had become almost a song, entreating his congregation to get up out of their churchy seats and go out where the lost sheep boys and girls are and bring them in. The congregation was "Amen"ing and clapping and cheering him on. It was--like Black Baptist sermons often are--cadenced and entertaining from start to finish, growing louder with each point.
The Christmas music portion of the service (including some of the songs I've recently complained about being piped into every store from auto parts to nail salons to grocery stores) was beautiful in church, and there were also many multi-verse songs I had never heard before.
Two among us were members of Temple Beth-El; one of us a former Baptist, the other a former Baptist-Catholic. "You don't have a church? Then this is your church now!" the regular pastor told us at lunch.
We felt at home there, welcomed warmly by seemingly every member of the church.
We enjoyed it enough to stay for four hours!
It was the 137th anniversary of the church--so after music and a rousing sermon, we stayed for chicken and dressing and a full lunch in their social hall. Church included amazing music by their choir and a dance in the aisle by a group of women. The sermon was delivered by a guest speaker, president of the Progressive Baptist Association. Although built upon a parable, the sermon was not overtly religious--it was a call to action for church people to get out on the streets and find the children of the Black community who are in trouble.
He began speaking in a quiet voice--I had to lean forward to hear. He was so calm and soft-spoken I wondered how he was president of such a large body of churches. His text was the parable of the one lost sheep. The opening pattern was contrasting "this generation" and the "previous generation" --in which parents were boss and everyone was part of a flock. With lively metaphors and examples, his voice grew louder and more musical. "This is a dangerous world for lost sheep!" he shouted. "Sheep need green pastures, not being left out there all alone with the wolves!"
By the end of his sermon, he was sweating profusely and the sermon had become almost a song, entreating his congregation to get up out of their churchy seats and go out where the lost sheep boys and girls are and bring them in. The congregation was "Amen"ing and clapping and cheering him on. It was--like Black Baptist sermons often are--cadenced and entertaining from start to finish, growing louder with each point.
The Christmas music portion of the service (including some of the songs I've recently complained about being piped into every store from auto parts to nail salons to grocery stores) was beautiful in church, and there were also many multi-verse songs I had never heard before.
Two among us were members of Temple Beth-El; one of us a former Baptist, the other a former Baptist-Catholic. "You don't have a church? Then this is your church now!" the regular pastor told us at lunch.
We felt at home there, welcomed warmly by seemingly every member of the church.
Sunday, December 13, 2015
Meditation on Wheels
I'm canceling my flight to Georgia on the 17th--not because I'm not going there, but because I've decided to travel on wheels.
Driving is impractical, I told myself when I booked the flight a month ago. But then I remembered: driving is well worth the time and expense. Besides, I'm not quite ready to leave just yet, having been home less than two weeks from the last trip.
Since my other home is my car, I'll enjoy exploring different roads and listening to podcasts, my meditation on wheels with no deadlines. I'll be refreshed when I arrive, ready to celebrate.
It's been a full week--filled with good times with good conversations, and picture-taking of inspiring women. But it's not complete yet, and I don't want to leave with straggly threads.
As I was wrapping my final gifts last night to grandchildren, I thought about all the years my parents and grandparents made Christmas so starry-eyed happy for me. The surprises. The delicious food spread on a red tablecloth. The sugar cookies and date bars and hot chocolate and popcorn balls. The sparklers outside. Decorating the tree with fake icicles. A new dress to wear to church. Going to Betty's house--and vice versa--on Christmas morning to see what Santa Claus left.
Like all traditions, we all tweak them a bit--but in the end, if they were good, we try to recreate the parts we can. We remember the last Christmas we spent with someone we love--not knowing it was the last. Sadness drips in streaks along with joy.
But when we were children, every Christmas was magical and whole. We believed in Santa Clause until we didn't and then we passed on the myth to those not yet in the know. It was a simpler and beautiful time--not freighted so much with the commercialism that starts now just after Halloween and Black Friday sales.
I used to think the best part was the gift-giving--and in a way, I still do. But the gifts now are the intangibles of being with people we love and wrapping gifts for children who will, we hope, feel as excited by them as we felt when we woke up before dawn to find just what we wanted under the tree.
Driving is impractical, I told myself when I booked the flight a month ago. But then I remembered: driving is well worth the time and expense. Besides, I'm not quite ready to leave just yet, having been home less than two weeks from the last trip.
Since my other home is my car, I'll enjoy exploring different roads and listening to podcasts, my meditation on wheels with no deadlines. I'll be refreshed when I arrive, ready to celebrate.
It's been a full week--filled with good times with good conversations, and picture-taking of inspiring women. But it's not complete yet, and I don't want to leave with straggly threads.
As I was wrapping my final gifts last night to grandchildren, I thought about all the years my parents and grandparents made Christmas so starry-eyed happy for me. The surprises. The delicious food spread on a red tablecloth. The sugar cookies and date bars and hot chocolate and popcorn balls. The sparklers outside. Decorating the tree with fake icicles. A new dress to wear to church. Going to Betty's house--and vice versa--on Christmas morning to see what Santa Claus left.
Like all traditions, we all tweak them a bit--but in the end, if they were good, we try to recreate the parts we can. We remember the last Christmas we spent with someone we love--not knowing it was the last. Sadness drips in streaks along with joy.
But when we were children, every Christmas was magical and whole. We believed in Santa Clause until we didn't and then we passed on the myth to those not yet in the know. It was a simpler and beautiful time--not freighted so much with the commercialism that starts now just after Halloween and Black Friday sales.
I used to think the best part was the gift-giving--and in a way, I still do. But the gifts now are the intangibles of being with people we love and wrapping gifts for children who will, we hope, feel as excited by them as we felt when we woke up before dawn to find just what we wanted under the tree.
Saturday, December 12, 2015
Photos from Thursday's brunch
I wish I could include photographs of the women who made this delicious food--but the food says so much about hospitality!
The bread in the top photograph is an Arabic bread, each strip of dough filled with an incredible mix of flavors before being coiled and baked. The cheese and vegetable tray looks like a round painting.
Friday, December 11, 2015
Orange and gold music?
Seventy-degree San Antonio in mid-December is as postcard pretty as it is in our mid-April profusion of wildflowers.
Yards are covered in orange, brown, and gold leaves, extraordinarily beautiful on these foggy mornings. The umbrellas of trees on these streets are as vivid today as New England's in October. The leaves not yet fallen make the trees stand out like bright jewels on the white fog. I love it!
I also love the lights on trees at night. Driving across the dam just now I saw a single huge tree draped in blue lights trunk to top--breathtaking!
What I don't love so much is that every store, car service department and phone-wait music has been Christmas music so long that it's getting tiresome. In my treks around town this morning to attend to my car and other things, I heard "Let it snow" about five times. It hasn't snowed here in years and I don't expect piped music to encourage a single snowflake to fall.
What I'd like to hear is an assortment of music from different traditions and geographies. What I'd enjoy for shopping and waiting would be either silence or music that features orange and gold holidays, not just the Norman Rockwell version of white Christmas.
Having spent the past few days with women of all faiths and none, I wonder: if it's tiresome to me, what must it be like for people who don't celebrate Christmas?
I'll be home for Christmas, the song says--and I will indeed be driving to Georgia and Virginia for the holidays. But what about the many people who are homeless and the people whose family members are no longer there to see? No wonder--against the backdrop of happy Christmas music--there's an epidemic of the blues during the holidays.
I know--I sound like the grinch! But even as I write this, I'm wrapping little presents for my writing group tomorrow and making a cake.
Yards are covered in orange, brown, and gold leaves, extraordinarily beautiful on these foggy mornings. The umbrellas of trees on these streets are as vivid today as New England's in October. The leaves not yet fallen make the trees stand out like bright jewels on the white fog. I love it!
I also love the lights on trees at night. Driving across the dam just now I saw a single huge tree draped in blue lights trunk to top--breathtaking!
What I don't love so much is that every store, car service department and phone-wait music has been Christmas music so long that it's getting tiresome. In my treks around town this morning to attend to my car and other things, I heard "Let it snow" about five times. It hasn't snowed here in years and I don't expect piped music to encourage a single snowflake to fall.
What I'd like to hear is an assortment of music from different traditions and geographies. What I'd enjoy for shopping and waiting would be either silence or music that features orange and gold holidays, not just the Norman Rockwell version of white Christmas.
Having spent the past few days with women of all faiths and none, I wonder: if it's tiresome to me, what must it be like for people who don't celebrate Christmas?
I'll be home for Christmas, the song says--and I will indeed be driving to Georgia and Virginia for the holidays. But what about the many people who are homeless and the people whose family members are no longer there to see? No wonder--against the backdrop of happy Christmas music--there's an epidemic of the blues during the holidays.
I know--I sound like the grinch! But even as I write this, I'm wrapping little presents for my writing group tomorrow and making a cake.
Thursday, December 10, 2015
Three Stories
Three unrelated stories of my life before 11 a.m.
First, I found a charge of $325 dollars on a Visa card I never even use--a phone order to Amazon that I didn't make. Fortunately, I caught it in time to report it as fraud and Chase cleared it up. So, be careful to check your card balances.
Second, we just did another photo shoot--this time of an 84-year-old Muslim woman. She brought out tea bags and a red tea pot, and I thought: how nice, she's made us tea. But then she showed us the spread of foods on her dining room table! They were not only beautiful but unbelievably delicious--I'll post pictures later.
Third, on my way home, Will called to tell me that a group of young carolers showed up at the fire station to sing Christmas carols to the firefighters--only to have the firefighters sing back!
Now I'm heading to a Chinese acupuncturist to see if she can fix my neck issues, then to another photo shoot, then to a dinner party tonight.
I can't wait until this book comes out so I can send you a link and you can, if you like, meet all these amazing women in print!
First, I found a charge of $325 dollars on a Visa card I never even use--a phone order to Amazon that I didn't make. Fortunately, I caught it in time to report it as fraud and Chase cleared it up. So, be careful to check your card balances.
Second, we just did another photo shoot--this time of an 84-year-old Muslim woman. She brought out tea bags and a red tea pot, and I thought: how nice, she's made us tea. But then she showed us the spread of foods on her dining room table! They were not only beautiful but unbelievably delicious--I'll post pictures later.
Third, on my way home, Will called to tell me that a group of young carolers showed up at the fire station to sing Christmas carols to the firefighters--only to have the firefighters sing back!
Now I'm heading to a Chinese acupuncturist to see if she can fix my neck issues, then to another photo shoot, then to a dinner party tonight.
I can't wait until this book comes out so I can send you a link and you can, if you like, meet all these amazing women in print!
Wednesday, December 9, 2015
Women in their ninth and tenth decades
Yesterday, I did photo shoots--to borrow a phrase from the real professionals--of four women. I'm an amateur photographer, but I have a rather professional-looking camera. I'm learning as I go--taking pictures of women in their houses, surrounded by art and books, photographs and memorabilia and other tracks of their decades of living. It's part of an exciting project I'll say more about later, and the credit for this project goes to the two who started it and invited me to take pictures.
I loved being behind the camera for a day, observing. All of these women and the three we've done previously (one a personal friend, the rest new to me) were older than I am by a decade or two. All of them are role models of vitality and enthusiasm. Some of them are retired from their former careers; some are still working; some are enjoying doing things they always wanted to do. Some are married, others are widowed or divorced or single.
I saw an extensive collection of art from one woman's travel and a house filled with years of art-making in another's house. I heard snippets of their stories, including some that were very sad and difficult. They all seemed happy and active and busy, women who've lived long lives and are busy looking forward to more great years.
As I was doing this, my mother (who just turned 90) sent me a picture of her with her sister, Dot, 84.
Carlene drove the three hours to Dot's house and the two of them have been galavanting (as they call it) for the past three days, shopping and eating out and walking.
I loved being behind the camera for a day, observing. All of these women and the three we've done previously (one a personal friend, the rest new to me) were older than I am by a decade or two. All of them are role models of vitality and enthusiasm. Some of them are retired from their former careers; some are still working; some are enjoying doing things they always wanted to do. Some are married, others are widowed or divorced or single.
I saw an extensive collection of art from one woman's travel and a house filled with years of art-making in another's house. I heard snippets of their stories, including some that were very sad and difficult. They all seemed happy and active and busy, women who've lived long lives and are busy looking forward to more great years.
As I was doing this, my mother (who just turned 90) sent me a picture of her with her sister, Dot, 84.
Carlene drove the three hours to Dot's house and the two of them have been galavanting (as they call it) for the past three days, shopping and eating out and walking.
Tuesday, December 8, 2015
Home
So much of literature turns on the question: What and where is home? So many travelers spend years trying to "get back home." Frost writes in "The Death of the Hired Man," "Home is where/when you have to go there/ they have to take you in."
The film, Brooklyn, is all about the experience of one Irish immigrant to the United States, 1952. It's haunting to follow her into a strange world (America), then follow her back to Ireland--where the question that propels her is Which place do I choose as home?
Yesterday's episode of Fresh Air was an interview with Rick Moody, author of Hotels of North America. I haven't read it yet, but will. The entire book is written in the form of hotel reviews.
Terry Gross asked Moody to read the section of the book that has to do with home:
Home is the place your enemies would wish to avoid.
Home is the place your former lovers are troubled by.
Home is where you can sit at the quiet table in the morning.
Home is the place you sometimes hate but you also love the second you leave it.
Home is any address that causes you to tear up.
Home is near the metal box that has your surname on it, where nearly every postcard you have ever received has been delivered.
Home is where the government of your nation believes you live.
Home is where your mother or father brought you the second you no longer lived in the hospital.
Home is where you first sang whatever it is you first sang.
What "welcome" means you first learned there, as well as "home."
Home is where your bedroom was and is now.
Home is where you sleep more days than you sleep anywhere else because if it were otherwise, you'd renegotiate the application of the word, home.
Home is what you will describe in your masterpiece, either home or the leaving of home.
If you say you have no home on earth, then what you mean is that there was trouble at your home.
Home is where you go right before dark.
Home is where you go when you are recovered;
When work becomes impossible, you will long for home.
It is possible that in your life you have had multiple homes, a sequence of homes, and that each of these has required a transition. For example, when you were in a car that carried you to a home where both your parents had lived together to a house where only one of your parents lived even during that car ride there was still an idea of home.
The film, Brooklyn, is all about the experience of one Irish immigrant to the United States, 1952. It's haunting to follow her into a strange world (America), then follow her back to Ireland--where the question that propels her is Which place do I choose as home?
Yesterday's episode of Fresh Air was an interview with Rick Moody, author of Hotels of North America. I haven't read it yet, but will. The entire book is written in the form of hotel reviews.
Terry Gross asked Moody to read the section of the book that has to do with home:
Home is the place your enemies would wish to avoid.
Home is the place your former lovers are troubled by.
Home is where you can sit at the quiet table in the morning.
Home is the place you sometimes hate but you also love the second you leave it.
Home is any address that causes you to tear up.
Home is near the metal box that has your surname on it, where nearly every postcard you have ever received has been delivered.
Home is where the government of your nation believes you live.
Home is where your mother or father brought you the second you no longer lived in the hospital.
Home is where you first sang whatever it is you first sang.
What "welcome" means you first learned there, as well as "home."
Home is where your bedroom was and is now.
Home is where you sleep more days than you sleep anywhere else because if it were otherwise, you'd renegotiate the application of the word, home.
Home is what you will describe in your masterpiece, either home or the leaving of home.
If you say you have no home on earth, then what you mean is that there was trouble at your home.
Home is where you go right before dark.
Home is where you go when you are recovered;
When work becomes impossible, you will long for home.
It is possible that in your life you have had multiple homes, a sequence of homes, and that each of these has required a transition. For example, when you were in a car that carried you to a home where both your parents had lived together to a house where only one of your parents lived even during that car ride there was still an idea of home.
Saturday, December 5, 2015
Art Day
My friend Pam should be a docent of art-events in San Antonio. She picked me up this morning and took me to a pottery sale by a local potter, Dudley Harris.
Dudley is a retired doctor who makes pottery because he loves it. Every December, he opens his beautiful Japanese-inspired studios and sells bowls and vases and pots, each year for a different benefit. Today's proceeds go entirely to Texas Public Radio, which is so much a part of my daily conversation that it's like a personal friend.
I asked Dudley where his people come from, and he said Tennessee--same as my Harris/Cherokee paternal grandfather. But beyond that, neither of us knows much. For all I know, we're cousins.
I loved the simple beauty of his house, grounds and studios, and I enjoyed handling and buying a few of his bowls for Christmas presents. I like the spare architecture, the Japanese rice paper screens that make his studio look more like a meditation center than a work space. The pottery sale continues next weekend and I may go back to look again.
After the pottery exhibit, we were going to SAMA for the annual Pottery Guild show, but the traffic around The Pearl took us so long to get through that we decided to check that off our list and go to Hecho A Mano instead. In former years, it's been a great show, but we were disappointed this year--so we quickly walked through, then went to Simi's for Indian food.
Elena will be here at the crack of dawn and staying with me while her mom runs a marathon downtown, so I'm turning in for the night, winding down watching episode 5 of River--a brilliantly-written and acted series on Netflix.
Dudley is a retired doctor who makes pottery because he loves it. Every December, he opens his beautiful Japanese-inspired studios and sells bowls and vases and pots, each year for a different benefit. Today's proceeds go entirely to Texas Public Radio, which is so much a part of my daily conversation that it's like a personal friend.
I asked Dudley where his people come from, and he said Tennessee--same as my Harris/Cherokee paternal grandfather. But beyond that, neither of us knows much. For all I know, we're cousins.
I loved the simple beauty of his house, grounds and studios, and I enjoyed handling and buying a few of his bowls for Christmas presents. I like the spare architecture, the Japanese rice paper screens that make his studio look more like a meditation center than a work space. The pottery sale continues next weekend and I may go back to look again.
After the pottery exhibit, we were going to SAMA for the annual Pottery Guild show, but the traffic around The Pearl took us so long to get through that we decided to check that off our list and go to Hecho A Mano instead. In former years, it's been a great show, but we were disappointed this year--so we quickly walked through, then went to Simi's for Indian food.
Elena will be here at the crack of dawn and staying with me while her mom runs a marathon downtown, so I'm turning in for the night, winding down watching episode 5 of River--a brilliantly-written and acted series on Netflix.
Flying Day
I can remember when the now-sprawling Atlanta airport was one building. When we were about 12, Patsy's daddy parked in front of it so we could watch the planes taking off and landing, one at a time, with long spaces between.
I remember, years later, the sight of my parents' happy faces at the gate--the actual gate!--when I arrived from Texas. Arrivals were so exciting, departures so sad. When the Georgia visit was over, too soon, we sat in the gate area together dreading saying good-bye.
Once, when Little Girl Day was flying home from Nana's house alone, Carlene remembers her asking, "Nana, will you listen for me?"--so she wouldn't miss the announcement to board her plane.
Once, when Little Girl Day was flying home from Nana's house alone, Carlene remembers her asking, "Nana, will you listen for me?"--so she wouldn't miss the announcement to board her plane.
Yesterday, in the multi-terminal airport, I felt like a relic of another century! After a very long line at security, I sat at Gate C22 eating my Atlanta Bread croissant. There were no festive arrivals. Many of the travelers were plugged in to earphones and most of them looked serious, efficient, and exhausted.
Carlene and I got up at five yesterday morning, drove through the "parking lot" that is Interstate 85 traffic, then got to the MARTA train station by seven, still sobered by yesterday's news of the shootings in San Bernardino. I remember driving through that city in the mountains of Southern California two years ago, how peaceful it was--and now the news is dominated with yet another terrible mass shooting there.
Although I don't always take the train to the airport, I've taken it often enough. Yet the space between trips is long enough that I never quite remember how to use the ticket vending machine. Younger, more mass-transit-savvy travelers walk up to the machine, insert cards, tap here, punch there, and walk away with their Breeze cards, easy easy.
I was stymied by the machine and I had to ask for help from a traveler standing nearby. I felt inept, ridiculous, klutzy--and old. Carlene tried to help me carry one of my bags into the station and wound up inside on my Breeze tap while I stood outside, gate snapped shut. A kind passenger exiting the gate helped me re-load my card and someone else let Carlene out. Gates only allow one passenger per tap, we learned.
We said good-bye, then I tried to balance my two suitcases and carry-on to get on the escalator. Luckily, I mounted without dropping anything, and I stepped onto the southbound train a nanosecond before it lurched on the tracks and departed.
I found a seat—not the one reserved for seniors with three bags (those were taken up by twenty-somethings listening to music on their phones), and I managed hang on to my bags in the aisle while the train raced through Atlanta. All the while, I felt out of it, like a little old lady who didn't know beans about what to all the other riders was second nature.
I made it through Marta and the packed Plane Train and security, shoes off, laptop in its separate bin, but it took me a while to get over feeling rattled by my ineptitude with the Breeze machine.
The world has grown too fast, too packed, too dangerous, I thought--remembering the events of yesterday in California. Travelers seem isolated in their own heads, and I, too, feel isolated. I keep hearing the words, "high alert," and I'm noting the difference between today's wariness and the sense of expectancy and connectedness we used to feel among other travelers at airports.
But then I thought of the people I was leaving and the people I was on my way to see and the caring stranger at the train station. I sat for a while and remembered how connected I am to so many people. I was glad Kate was coming to pick me up.
On the plane, I found a seat between a woman and her husband. Her face was all-over bruised and the skin on her tiny hands was paper-thin. We talked cheerfully throughout the flight--mostly about children, grandchildren, and books. While I never learned for sure, I suspected that she was ill.
Her husband--a retired doctor--was caring and sweet and on his way to run a marathon in San Antonio. After returning from the bathroom, the wife caught the thin skin of her hand in the seat belt latch and her husband reached across me to release it, but a large blue bruise formed instantly. "I bruise easy," she told me.
Later, standing in the bathroom line with her husband, the flight attendant asked us if we could remember who'd written and sung "Sandman, Bring me A Dream," but neither of us could. "Do you like running?" I asked him.
He shook his head. "I just needed to get out of the house," he said, grinning. "I had too many opinions about how she should run the house and she told me to get out of the house and do something, so I decided to run. That was four years ago. I was 72."
Back at our seats, we listened as the flight attendant sang "Sandman" on the speakers--changing the words to make it about Southwest Airlines. Then she announced that the man in 11 B had a birthday. She turned off all the lights and asked us to turn on our call lights (LED candles) as we sang Happy Birthday. Suddenly the cabin in the sky was like a flying birthday cake!
The flight attendant put a crown on the birthday man's head and he blew--and we all turned off our call lights together, flames out.
The marathon runner helped his fragile wife down the aisle, carrying both his bags and hers. The birthday man disappeared into the crowd. I texted Kate that I'd landed.
We all dispersed after baggage claim, leaving the parenthesis of air travel and returning to our own stories on the patch of ground we know.
The world has grown too fast, too packed, too dangerous, I thought--remembering the events of yesterday in California. Travelers seem isolated in their own heads, and I, too, feel isolated. I keep hearing the words, "high alert," and I'm noting the difference between today's wariness and the sense of expectancy and connectedness we used to feel among other travelers at airports.
But then I thought of the people I was leaving and the people I was on my way to see and the caring stranger at the train station. I sat for a while and remembered how connected I am to so many people. I was glad Kate was coming to pick me up.
On the plane, I found a seat between a woman and her husband. Her face was all-over bruised and the skin on her tiny hands was paper-thin. We talked cheerfully throughout the flight--mostly about children, grandchildren, and books. While I never learned for sure, I suspected that she was ill.
Her husband--a retired doctor--was caring and sweet and on his way to run a marathon in San Antonio. After returning from the bathroom, the wife caught the thin skin of her hand in the seat belt latch and her husband reached across me to release it, but a large blue bruise formed instantly. "I bruise easy," she told me.
Later, standing in the bathroom line with her husband, the flight attendant asked us if we could remember who'd written and sung "Sandman, Bring me A Dream," but neither of us could. "Do you like running?" I asked him.
He shook his head. "I just needed to get out of the house," he said, grinning. "I had too many opinions about how she should run the house and she told me to get out of the house and do something, so I decided to run. That was four years ago. I was 72."
Back at our seats, we listened as the flight attendant sang "Sandman" on the speakers--changing the words to make it about Southwest Airlines. Then she announced that the man in 11 B had a birthday. She turned off all the lights and asked us to turn on our call lights (LED candles) as we sang Happy Birthday. Suddenly the cabin in the sky was like a flying birthday cake!
The flight attendant put a crown on the birthday man's head and he blew--and we all turned off our call lights together, flames out.
The marathon runner helped his fragile wife down the aisle, carrying both his bags and hers. The birthday man disappeared into the crowd. I texted Kate that I'd landed.
We all dispersed after baggage claim, leaving the parenthesis of air travel and returning to our own stories on the patch of ground we know.
Friday, December 4, 2015
The Real Santa Claus
When I got this picture from my cousin, I kept thinking of the words to the song, "Christmas Was Meant for Children."
This Santa looks like the real deal, the one we used to see in storybooks as children. And this little girl, abandoned by her mother at birth, has found a happy home with my cousin Missy and her mom, Beth.
Her grandmother--my cousin Beth--makes her the most beautiful clothes and hair bows--and Lola's nickname is Sassy. We're all hoping (and crossing our fingers) that she will be officially adopted by the 17th and that she'll be all set to have a string of merry Christmases in the only home she's ever known.
This Santa looks like the real deal, the one we used to see in storybooks as children. And this little girl, abandoned by her mother at birth, has found a happy home with my cousin Missy and her mom, Beth.
Her grandmother--my cousin Beth--makes her the most beautiful clothes and hair bows--and Lola's nickname is Sassy. We're all hoping (and crossing our fingers) that she will be officially adopted by the 17th and that she'll be all set to have a string of merry Christmases in the only home she's ever known.
Thursday, December 3, 2015
The Power of Music
"Alive Inside" is an excellent documentary on Netflix: a study of dementia patients who are revitalized by listening to music of their younger years on iPods. While demented patients in nursing homes are given expensive drugs that do little or nothing to change their condition, the relatively inexpensive iPods, filled with music tailored to each patient, yields striking results. They sing, some of them dance, and memories surface even in those who minutes earlier could not remember the names of their own children.
I used to visit nursing homes and Alzheimers units when my friend Gary played the piano there. I remember how animated the patients' faces became as they listened to the tunes of the Twenties and Thirties, and how--occasionally--one of them would stand up and sway to the music. One woman always asked for "Some Enchanted Evening."
Likewise, in this documentary, we learn that music--like nothing else--stirs memories of enchanted evenings. Faces become happier and more expressive, bodies move to the rhythm, and the perpetual mental fog of dementia seems to lift.
I used to visit nursing homes and Alzheimers units when my friend Gary played the piano there. I remember how animated the patients' faces became as they listened to the tunes of the Twenties and Thirties, and how--occasionally--one of them would stand up and sway to the music. One woman always asked for "Some Enchanted Evening."
Likewise, in this documentary, we learn that music--like nothing else--stirs memories of enchanted evenings. Faces become happier and more expressive, bodies move to the rhythm, and the perpetual mental fog of dementia seems to lift.
Wednesday, December 2, 2015
Visiting with Mama 'n Them
Carlene and I loved the movie Brooklyn yesterday--a beautiful story about a young Irish immigrant to America in 1952.
Today we saw Spotlight--a disturbing but well-done film about journalists in Boston who exposed the cover-up of pedophile priests.
Carlene has said she's over cooking, but the delicious lunch she made today for Bob, Jocelyn, and me proved otherwise--pork chops and green beans, corn and rice and corn bread. I made dessert--Nabisco Pie, an old favorite from Cochran. It's one of those childhood-memory comfort foods I can only make in Georgia because no one in San Antonio stocks the original Biscos brand Sugar Wafers. I could have eaten the whole pie by myself!
Here's my mama (four years before she was my mama) in a photo in her 1944 college (Georgia State College for Women) yearbook, Camelot. She was the literary editor of the college magazine and Flannery O'Connor was her assistant!
Carlene is in the white sweater, seated; Flannery is the one standing in the corner wearing black.
Before I left Mike's, I completed his 70th birthday present, a collage of two-inch photographs of parts of classic cars--headlights, tail lights, steering wheels, mirrors, etc;
Heading back to Texas on Friday--to see these two little munchkins (and their parents) and their new tree.
Today we saw Spotlight--a disturbing but well-done film about journalists in Boston who exposed the cover-up of pedophile priests.
Carlene has said she's over cooking, but the delicious lunch she made today for Bob, Jocelyn, and me proved otherwise--pork chops and green beans, corn and rice and corn bread. I made dessert--Nabisco Pie, an old favorite from Cochran. It's one of those childhood-memory comfort foods I can only make in Georgia because no one in San Antonio stocks the original Biscos brand Sugar Wafers. I could have eaten the whole pie by myself!
Carlene is in the white sweater, seated; Flannery is the one standing in the corner wearing black.
Before I left Mike's, I completed his 70th birthday present, a collage of two-inch photographs of parts of classic cars--headlights, tail lights, steering wheels, mirrors, etc;
Heading back to Texas on Friday--to see these two little munchkins (and their parents) and their new tree.
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