Divine Secrets

Today Sandy mentioned the movie, Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood--so naturally, I'm watching it now.

Ellen Burstyn and Maggie Smith play two of the four friends-since-childhood, and Sandra Bullock plays the adult daughter of Ellen Burstyn's character.

As three of the older women are looking at pictures of themselves as young women, one of them says, "I wish I'd known then what I know now--and still had those thighs!"

Does that sum it all up or what?

To have the body of a young woman and the experience and mind of an older woman--what a great combination that would be!

Another Day in Poppy Paradise

Today Kate and Sandy and I had a date to drive to Boerne to see the bluebonnets, but we decided (given the short life of poppies)  to go to Castroville instead to see the poppies and have lunch in the Castroville Cafe.

April is my favorite month in Texas.  The wildflowers are coloring the roadsides bluer and pinker each day.  And the poppies--scarlet and pink and a few bright yellows--are stunning.

Sandy and Kate

Linda and Kate

Kate

Sunday morning news

My Sunday "newspaper" is a blog called Brainpickings.  Every Sunday morning, I get a newsletter from this site that is not about bad news; it's a collection of reviews on good books for children and adults.

If you haven't gotten on their mailing list and want to be there, check out this site:

http://www.brainpickings.org/2015/03/25/way-more-than-luck-commencement/?mc_cid=bb97b591d0&mc_eid=7940cd5ca2

Two more Ted Talks

On empathy:

https://www.ted.com/talks/sam_richards_a_radical_experiment_in_empathy?language=en

On unconditional love:

https://www.ted.com/talks/sam_richards_a_radical_experiment_in_empathy?language=en

The Three As of Awesome

I've never actually been to a Ted Talks event in person, but I often find myself going there on the screen for inspiration and insight and wisdom.

Today's talk (the link sent to me by Carlene) is called "The Three As of Awesome" and you can watch it here:

http://www.ted.com/talks/neil_pasricha_the_3_a_s_of_awesome?language=en

Neil Pasricha believes that Awesome comes from attitude, awareness, and authenticity.  He wrote a blog about Awesome, then a book--and what started as a little blog only (read by his mother) grew into a blog that attracted thousands of people every day.

Attitude, he says, is the choice to take baby steps into the future, even after you've been knocked down.

Awareness is getting in touch with your own inner three-year-old and trying to see everything around you with the freshness and attention three-year-olds show when they look at a bug or a flower or a person they've never seen before.

Authenticity: If we are real, we meet other real people who like and value things we do.  Doors open for real people that would never open if we're so busy trying to be who someone else thinks we should  be. He uses Rosie Greer as an example of authenticity: A big macho football player who openly loved needlepoint.

I'm inspired.  I think that writing down one awesome thing a day could help me see more like Elena and Audrey and Makken see.  A tape measure, an umbrella, a field of bluebonnets, or a new face: everything in the eyes of a child is remarkable and new.  Every fish and flower, every bud popping out on a tree, every seed in a pomegranate--every single thing is awesome.

Empathy

Carlene and I both watched all sixteen episodes of the series, Rectify,  and talked about it for over an hour this morning as I was driving around looking at my neighbors' yards.

Rectify (two seasons available on Netflix) is a compelling, brilliantly-acted drama from the first episode to the last.  The plot centers around a young man, Daniel,  who has just returned to his Georgia town and family after 20 years on death row.  Each character is complex,  nuanced and believable.

We have our rednecks, our self-serving senator, our family with all its love and doubt and hostility.   We have the ever-loyal sister, faith and doubt, and betrayals.  In the "good" people, there are flaws that make them human and authentic.  In the course of the weeks in which the story takes place,  we have an almost Shakespearean tragedy of truths, half-truths, and lies.  It's a riveting character study that plays with the lines between reality and illusions and different versions of truth.

It's also a story of change.  Coldness can thaw.  Silence can be broken.  The character in the adjoining death row cell to Daniel's can be the most compassionate voice of all.

As I drove around looking at houses and yards, I thought of all the potential human drama going on inside those houses--which, I believe, breaks into the fabric of all families and tribes, no matter how manicured the lawns or perfect the decor.

Unlike the superficial solved-in-an-hour dramas of most television drama, this series is written and acted with such depth that you can find yourself and people you know.  Problems are not tied up in neat bows.

After watching this series, I watched a series of Ted Talks on Netflix called "Love No Matter What." Collectively, these speakers talk about bullying, shame, judgment, stereotypes, and what it means to step inside the shoes of people of another culture--specifically the Muslim people of Iraq.

Empathy is the wheel that drives all good literature and film.  In the space of reading a book or watching a well-crafted drama, we step into the shoes of people who are mirrors for ourselves.  Empathy is the way to escape the traps of judgment and self-righteousness.  Empathy--as all these Ted Talks speakers say--is the only way we can ever hope to find peace in our tribes and among ourselves.

Romance

Romance starts early on Ogden Lane.

I just got an email from my friend, Jan--Makken's grandmother.

"Another attempt to impress Elena.  He tried chatting up a storm, parallel play, taking an interest in her interests (umbrellas, tape measures), throwing out a few words en espanol, being strong and brave despite bonking his head into Yenna’s big scary table, carefully pronouncing her favorite new word, iridescent, and touching the iridescent dots on her shirt, and pulling up a chair to be just inches from her beautiful countenance.  Today, he thought he’d try on some glasses to make himself look more worldly and intelligent.  Please tell him it’s working.  The boy is in love."

Who wouldn't fall in love with that sweet little face?  With a shared interest in tape measures and umbrellas, what's not to love?

Poppies and Bluebonnets on Friday

Castroville is a beautiful, quaint Alsatian town about half an hour west of San Antonio.  Today Joy and I met there to soak up the colors of poppies before they go away.

The building of The Steinbach Haus began in France in 1618,
interrupted by the Thirty Years' War,
and completed in 1648.
Twelve children were raised in this house in the late 1800s.
All the beams were shipped to Castroville in 1998,
donated by the citizens of Alsace. 

Fields of red poppies are blooming all over Castroville--
and the cemetery is filled with bluebonnets. 

Joy and I have been friends for forty years.
Here she is posing in the poppies

Getting down into a squat is challenging, but anything
for a photo op!

Three Threes on Thursday

A day is magical when you spend it with a three-year-old.  Thursday was triple magical since I spent it with three three-year-olds.

Elena and her cousin Audrey (and Audrey's mom Brenda and I) went to the zoo--where neither of these girls has ever met an animal she doesn't love. Hippos, Rhinos, Cobras, you name it--all "beautiful."

Riding the merry-go-round, each ride
a different animal

These girls are four days apart in age

Delighting in going up and down,
up and down

Audrey fearlessly touching a cobra
(with a glass between)

Posing on a metal elephant

Loving each other

When we came home, after watching Wild Kratts (Elena's favorite series on Netflix), and putting together a puzzle of the United States, precious Makken (also three) came over from next door to show Elena how to build forts out of umbrellas.  Turns out they both love measuring tapes and umbrellas.

Makken in his Umbrella Fort

l

Spring and Fudge

Yesterday, in honor of Betty's birthday afar, I made fudge--a half recipe in my small cast iron pot.  Honestly, I'd forgotten how decadently good it is!

Watching it bubble in the pot was almost as pleasurable as eating it.  When Will and Bonnie brought Elena over for the evening, Will said it brought back memories of his childhood and I sent it home with him after a couple of pieces.

Then I put Elena in the stroller and we went to the playground until dinner time.

"How did you like gymnastics?" I asked--though I already knew.

"I did not do it," she said.

There was such confidence in her wording, no contractions, no apologies, just a clear statement of fact: I did not do it.

A Crusty Marshmallow

Betty and I share many things--a childhood, for one.  We have almost identical tastes on politics, movies and books.  But she is, by her own admission, one crusty marshmallow, soft on the inside with a tougher exterior than mine.  I wish I'd collected all her savvy one-liners through the years--it would make for a great read! She is hilarious--in a crusty marshmallow sort of way.

We talked a long time this morning.  After reading about my cookie binge, she made fudge.  

We like fudge.  When we were girls, we made it frequently, often while watching a soap opera.  Once, we forgot the steps in the recipe, but we remembered the ingredients. So we put in the butter first, then the sugar (the butter is supposed to go in last) and we wound up with fried chocolate sugar.  We did this at her house, using her mama's cast iron skillet

Betty has less personal freedom than most women of our age.  ("Are we 67 or 68 this year?" I asked her; "Don't you dare add a year!" she replied.)

She has taken on the role of mother to her now-16-year-old granddaughter.  She has been a mom way longer than most of us, and is now busy every day checking homework and taking her daughter to music, drama and dance lessons and performances.   Most of us our age are having lunch with friends, seeing grandchildren occasionally, and proudly showing pictures of the little ones--but then we go home and relax.  For Betty, educated as a teacher and therapist, second-time-around mothering is a full-time job.

This week's project for Betty is mastering a power pose.  Here is what she wrote to me:

"Have you watched the Amy Cuddy Ted talk about power poses?  I'm reading one of the Achor books on happiness and find it interesting how the body and brain work together.  One of the power poses is standing with feet apart and hands on hips.  This is exactly the pose my mother struck when she was angry with me.  It's also the one I assumed with my own kids just before I started wagging my pointer finger at them.  Since I don't enjoy confrontations, it seems to me that might be a way to prepare myself for one.  According to the research, holding the pose for two minutes causes testosterone (power) to rise and cortisol (fight or flight) to lower.  I suppose I'll always find human behavior fascinating."

How's it going? I wondered.

She's decided to link her power posing to teeth brushing--since both take two minutes.  I'm smiling picturing Betty standing in her pose, projecting her power, while brushing her teeth!

"Maybe, since I have to use one hand to brush my teeth, I could do half a pose at the morning brushing and the other half at night."

This could work.  If we all followed her lead, maybe we could charge half-power in the morning, and just when it's about to run out, we could recharge the other half, thus preparing ourselves for confrontations--or half-confrontations at a time!  

Mike still believes in the Easter bunny--just as he did when this picture was taken.

Sweets and presents, without extracting promises for good behavior, and probably female?  What's not to love?

I always thought the Easter bunny was okay, too--though not nearly as lavish in his gift giving as Santa Clause.

We usually woke up to a basket of Cracker Jacks, candies, sugar eggs and a big stuffed bunny rabbit, then went off to church, me and Carlene in dresses she'd made herself the day before.

Here's a picture Betty's daddy took of us one Easter morning.

Marching to the beat of a different drummer

I never made the majorette team--but my best friend Betty was the star solo twirler.  She had nimble fingers and coordination big time and could throw up fire batons and catch them--always providing a spectacular half-time show at the high school football games.

I didn't watch the games, but I was mesmerized watching Betty perform.  She didn't date a college boy like I did at fifteen and sixteen, but she came over and fixed my hair for special dates, even on my wedding day in 1967.

We took piano lessons together on Tuesday and Thursday morning before school.  I sat in Miss Marguerite's overheated living room and listened as the teacher oohed and aahed over Betty's playing.  "Exquisite!" she said--about Betty's musical talents.

My responses from Miss Marguerite? Well, let's just say they were more measured, more tepid. I had, she said, "a good touch."

I didn't make the majorette team or the cheerleading squad, much to my dismay.  But I did--by some stroke of luck--get to be homecoming queen.  Here I am the night I got my rhinestone tiara, standing beside the man I'd marry a year later.

I had a bit of reputation in those days for having "two left feet."  I never believed it until I discovered this photo of myself.  I don't remember this parade--but it must have been an open-to-everyone pre-high school marching event.

I can't help noticing that my left foot is touching the pavement in the parade while everyone else's right foot is touching.

Thoreau wrote, "If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he is listening to the beat of a different drummer."

I guess that's true for girls, too.

Symborska poem, "Possibilities"

You can hear this poem read aloud, if you like, on this week's Brainpickings newsletter:


POSSIBILITIES

I prefer movies.

I prefer cats.

I prefer the oaks along the Warta.

I prefer Dickens to Dostoyevsky.

I prefer myself liking people

to myself loving mankind.

I prefer keeping a needle and thread on hand, just in case.

I prefer the color green.

I prefer not to maintain

that reason is to blame for everything.

I prefer exceptions.

I prefer to leave early.

I prefer talking to doctors about something else.

I prefer the old fine-lined illustrations.

I prefer the absurdity of writing poems

to the absurdity of not writing poems.

I prefer, where love's concerned, nonspecific anniversaries

that can be celebrated every day.

I prefer moralists

who promise me nothing.

I prefer cunning kindness to the over-trustful kind.

I prefer the earth in civvies.

I prefer conquered to conquering countries.

I prefer having some reservations.

I prefer the hell of chaos to the hell of order.

I prefer Grimms' fairy tales to the newspapers' front pages.

I prefer leaves without flowers to flowers without leaves.

I prefer dogs with uncropped tails.

I prefer light eyes, since mine are dark.

I prefer desk drawers.

I prefer many things that I haven't mentioned here

to many things I've also left unsaid.

I prefer zeroes on the loose

to those lined up behind a cipher.

I prefer the time of insects to the time of stars.

I prefer to knock on wood.

I prefer not to ask how much longer and when.

I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility

that existence has its own reason for being.

Wheels

Our first family car

Nine months old, beside my first set of wheels

Four years old, first tricycle

Our second car

1970, riding the Helotes trails on my 250 Montessa trials bike

On Mike's Harley, the week we met, 2007.

A snapshot by Mike in my first Mini--as I was driving away toward New England

1952

Thumbing through Mike's photographs, I found one, only one, picture of Santa Clause.  As it happened, it was taken the same year of my own only Santa shot.

As we are reconstructing our past years and telling each other about the years before we knew each other, we often discover that we were swirling in the same places and times, almost meeting a couple of times.

For example, I was in Memphis visiting cousins in 1962, and my older cousin took us to a record store.  Mike was a semi-permanent customer in that same record store that summer. My parents lived in Memphis the year he was born--though his family hadn't yet moved there.  Close calls, we say.  Close but no cigar.

And here we are, in adjoining states, in 1952, sitting in the laps of two different Santas, two moments in time preserved by photography, as moments are.  From a single photograph, we can weave all kinds of stories.

Mike and Santa, 1952

Linda and Santa 1952

Notice that my little-sweetheart-before-I-knew-him was quite jovial, as he still is, looking Mr. Clause right in the eye.  Santa, I'm guessing had just asked Mike what he'd like for Christmas and Mike was telling him about some cars he had his eyes on.  By the look in his jolly face, I'm guessing Mike's Santa was the real McCoy, mine a stand-in.

Just after this picture was snapped, Little Mikey was asked if he would be a good boy.  "I don't want anything quite that much!" Mike said.

I was less happy with my encounter.  My Santa was spookier, with his hand on my knee, and I didn't like him one bit. I see Elena in my face--the exact expression she wore last week when we took her to her first gymnastics class and she refused to play.

What did I want for Christmas?  I wanted a doll and some wheels, I imagine.  But mostly I wanted to hop out of his lap and leave that North Pole outpost and get on home.

Sweet Nothings

Let's say things are going bumpy in the night.
Or you're feeling lonesome, misunderstood, betrayed, confused, or depleted.

Let's say you weren't invited to the party--or that you were, and it wasn't fun.

Let's say it's time for something to change--and you don't want it to, and you dig in your heels and try to hold back change, and your heels ache like crazy from all the digging in.

When a cluster of unsettling bumps show up at once in my psyche, instead of politely spread out over a few weeks or months, I tend to resort to middle-of-the-night cookie eating.

I will show you a picture of the empty box, hoping that all those of you who know what I mean will raise your hands in solidarity and let me know if we should start a support group.

These comfort-food cookies remind me of my childhood.  Carlene used to make "Nabisco Pie" for special occasions and the lemony filling was congealed under a layer of crushed sugar wafers.

You cannot purchase these in the state of Texas, as far as I know--and I've looked far and wide.  But for the premium price of $5.19, you can purchase a box in the state of Georgia.  You can purchase as many as you want and bring them back.

I have done this.

And when things go bump in my nights, I have been known to eat one of these "stay fresh packs" inside this Box of Three at one sitting.

Not only do my scales and jeans reflect my Bisco binges, but the sugar cycle is like a big industrial dryer on steroids, round and round it goes, rounder and rounder goes me.

The nutritional value of Sugar Wafers is nil, nothing, nada. I know this. But somehow, certain edibles transport us all to simpler times before we had to make choices, speak up, admit confusion, pay taxes, let go, resolve conflicts, and call Customer Service and talk them into reversing the late fees.

Last night, I was on a roll--speaking of round white things.

Mike was patiently listening, not interrupting, and offering words of wisdom.  After recounting the weightier things that were on my mind, I threw in a couple of minor ones for good measure.

"Are you insane?" he asked--to lighten the mood.  "Go look in the mirror and say that.  If you're smiling when you say it, you're fine.  But if you're serious, you might as well call the authorities and have yourself committed."

I love that man!
He makes me laugh.

But it was on my way to the mirror to check on my sanity that I spied that box of sugar wafers--and, well, it wasn't pretty.

Hands Unfolded

Check out this morning's short Story Corps interview between a young boy and his father:

http://www.npr.org/2015/03/20/394061800/dad-to-son-live-with-hands-unfolded-release-your-gifts-to-world

When the little fourth grader interviews his dad, he asks him, "What are your dreams for me?"
and the father replies: "My dream is for you to live out your dreams. There's an old proverb that talks about when children are born, children come out with their fists closed because that's where they keep all their gifts. And as you grow, your hands learn to unfold, because you're learning to release your gifts to the world.

"And so, for the rest of your life, I wanna see you live with your hands unfolded."

Bluegrass Music: Wood, Wire, and Words

It's fitting that on my daddy's birthday, Terry Gross (NPR, Fresh Air) interviewed Norman Blake this morning.  I walked into the house and heard a voice that sounded like my daddy singing and picking and I perked up my ears as I listened to the entire interview.

Norman Blake and his wife Nancy are featured on his new album Wood, Wire and Words.  They had a lively music career for a long time--playing with Johnny Cash and Bob Dylan--and he traveled with June Carter Cash for a while.

Although known as one of the most prominent acoustic guitar flatpickers, Norman Blake is a multi-instrumentalist and vocalist. Other instruments he plays include the mandolin, 6-string banjo, fiddle, dobro, banjo and viola.

For a while, he and Nancy divorced, then re-married.  Terry asked him why.  "Well, our divorce just didn't work out," he said.

If you like bluegrass and want to hear that familiar background music on Nashville Skyline, you'll enjoy this interview!

Pop Ups From Nowhere

I just noticed that I had a blog post about bit coins.  Last week, it was life insurance.  Next week, you may see unsavory ones offering you reductions and enlargements or one day offers on merchandise, but I have no idea how they sneak into my blog.

What I'm happy about this afternoon is the pop out of new buds on the crepe myrtle and the the popping up of new growth brought about by two days of light rain.

Spring is here in South Texas!

In Memory of Lloyd Harris' birthday

Today my daddy would have been 93.  I'd have called him and he'd have sung, "Happy Birthday to Me" on the phone as he always did. If I'd been there, or if he'd been here, I'd have made him a pound cake or banana pudding, his favorites.

He died at 80 of pneumonia, a healthy, strong, and handsome man to the end.  He and my mother had been married for 57 years.

As Carlene is nearing her 90th birthday, she often says that she's "honoring him by continuing to live a healthy life," enjoying  the memories they made together.

My daddy was a wise and humble man. He made the sound of a chicken in the line at grocery stores and in elevators, causing women to shriek.  With a constant twinkle in his blue eyes, he told great jokes and stories. He loved "making pictures" and he loved making people laugh.

I have boxes of pictures of him--and countless ones in my memory.  He was a fisherman, a family man and a friend to so many people, especially all the women in the church and neighborhood who liked to pretend-flirt with him. He was friendly, funny, and frugal.

When he died, one of his friends said it best: "We've lost a giant of a man."  His daughter feels the same way every day.

Another little book of wifely charms

This little booklet, which I bought a few years ago for 15 cents, was published in 1948 in Paris, the year I was born.

Conversation.  Allow him to talk and listen carefully.  You may learn something interesting.  Say little...especially about yourself. Don't inflict him--even if he asks for it--with your life story.

If he insists, say the first thing that comes into your head, and break off quickly to ask him about his own childhood.  Carried away by the subject, he will think your silence charming.

The cover says it all: fingers to lips.  Don't talk, just listen to the man talk. Silence is charming.

What he likes. Naturally, everything that increases his material comfort: a well-run home, good meals at the proper time (which is when he wants them!), well brought-up children, accurately-kept accounts, his personal belongings in order--everything connected with the household, for which you have accepted responsibility, under control.

He also has an urgent need of moral support. You are the person who has to approve of all he does. 

Listen carefully when he tells you about his work, his worries, and all that interests him. If you don't understand very well, listen with your heart rather than your ears....and don't interrupt him....

You may not always be in sympathy with one another.  Love is everything to a woman; it fills her entire life. But...man also wants to read the paper, listen to the news on the wireless, have a hobby. Don't make too many sentimental demands on him.

The subtext on every page: Men are more important and smarter.  Devote your entire life to fluffing up his ego and denying any shred of intelligence you might have. But  don't expect any unreasonable attention in return:

Don't expect much sympathy when you are ill. He will most likely tell you not to think about yourself. Hard advice--but good. 

I remember reading all these same sentiments (written by men, no doubt) in magazines for teenaged readers in the Sixties.

Don't think of yourself, ever.  Don't presume to know anything or have interests of your own.  Never make any demands on the Man.  Don't speak--or if you do, speak quickly and change the subject. Approve of all he does. (And if you don't, act like you do.) Be a good girl, invisible and compliant.

No wonder it's taken years of collective therapy to dismantle the effects of this kind of advice.

How to Cook Husbands

Diana loaned me the strangest little book on Sunday, and I read it last night in one hour--a 200 page book, a little tiny book, with about 150 words on each page.

How to Cook Husbands  by Elizabeth Strong Worthington is book Diana found on her mother's bookshelf.  It was published before the turn of the century--the previous century--and it has the following charming qualities:

A--a real book on paper (with yellowed pages that turn as you read)
B--the gentle humor and quaint language of the period
C--a book that reads like the author just sat down and wrote it in one sitting without an editor
D--an enjoyable narrative voice
E--a mix of plot (will she marry as all her friends insist?); recipes; and observations of nature

I suspect that--given the names of the characters in the book--Strong and Worthington are made up names, but who knows?  The narrator seems strong-headed and worthy--of a husband, that being what she everyone wants her to hurry up and get!

The plot is interwoven with recipes--or advice to wives about how they should be "cooking" their husbands. As a "spinster" in her mid-thirties, she observes the marriages of her neighbors and offers advice as to how those wives should treat their particular husbands.  She muses on whether or not she even wants one--given how much she enjoys her freedom to walk about and do what she chooses.

     "It is far better to have none, unless you patiently learn to cook him. A preserving kettle of the finest porcelain is the best, but if you have nothing but an earthenware pipkin, it will do, with care."

     "See that the linen, in which you wrap him, is nicely washed and mended, with the required amount of buttons and strings, nicely sewed on. Tie him in a strong kettle called Comfort, as the one called Duty is apt to be weak.  They sometimes fly out of the kettle, and become burned and crusty on the edges, since, like crabs and oysters, you have to cook them alive."

     "Make a clear, strong, steady fire out of Love, Neatness, and Cheerfulness.  Set him as near this as seems to agree with him. It he sputters and fizzles, don't be anxious; some husbands do this until they are quite done. Add a little sugar, in the form of what confectioners call Kisses, but no vinegar or pepper on any account...."