Decoupage

Today was like one of those summer days as a kid, just playing.

Day and I had seen some decoupaged paper bags in a shop last week and I spent today cutting up pages in old magazines and gluing pieces on a bag, then coating the bag with Elmer's.  Tomorrow I'll spray it with polyurethane and maybe add some more elements.

I had planned to write this afternoon, but the quiet room made me want to make something tangible, something I could finish in an afternoon.

So here it is, voila!

Tomorrow Mike and I are going to weave a bunch of old neckties into an antique rocking chair.

I feel like I'm at summer camp!

Flea Market and Spoon Music

Hundreds of tables of old tools, seven brand new blue tractors, pots and pans, figurines, old pocket watches, and kitsch of every kind--that's a flea market.  There are also treasures, which is why you go: Mike bought me a pink guitar (pronounced GIT-TAR by the man who sold it),  new sandals, some pretty German building blocks ostensibly for Elena, and two watermelons.  I felt like a rock star walking through the flea market with my pink guitar!

Among the back-of-their-truck vendors, there was much talk of the extreme heat.  "I heard a man died last week," one man told us.  "He was going in the cold house, out in the hot, then back in the cold," Then  he ventured a guess as to the cause of death: "I believe it was hyperthermia."

Then we went out for prime rib and fried fish in Greenville--and enjoyed tinny ragtime music on an antique piano, accompanied by the player's friend  playing spoons.

What a fun day in North Georgia!

Today Mike and I went to the farmer's market and crafts fair in downtown Hartwell.

You can get a large bag of the most beautiful yellow squash for a dollar; same price for three round zucchinis.  For seven dollars, a whole cherry pie that "makes you want to slap your Grandma"--as we say in Georgia when something is too delicious to describe.  People around here are obviously not much into making a profit.

Fried pies, seasoned Balsamic vinegars, baskets from Sapalo Island woven of sea grass and leaf- dyed, bird houses made of gourds--It was an extravaganza of colors and flavors!

round zuchhini

Twin Heirloom tomatoes

Mike--and Joseph the basket maker

I particularly enjoyed talking to the craftspeople, especially hearing the Gullah-Geechee accent of Joseph from Sapalo Island who was selling baskets like proverbial hotcakes.

Then we went to pick up two pair of glasses Mike bought for me--he'd ordered the frames months ago and we just got around to putting prescription lenses in them.

When we got home, the AC had stopped, so it looks like the afternoon project is to do AC repair.  It feels like ninety in the house, but I'm under the fan watching two new Masterpiece series (Crimson Fields and Poldark) while Mike works on the AC.

Jackson at Thirteen

My oldest grandson, Jackson, now talks with a man's voice--how did that happen so fast?

He's super-bright--and goes to a school for gifted kids.  He's big--taller than both his parents--and he loves wearing brightly colored sneakers.

Sneakers--that's a thing where he lives, maybe everywhere for teenage boys.  Buying them is akin to buying a car for older boys--choosing them and customizing them and finding just the right socks.

Jackson is into shoes, music, cars, and big hair this year--the latter causing his daddy to wonder how long until this stage will be over.

Last night the two brothers (who are also best friends) treated us to a viola-violin duet.  After it was over, we watched the video: "We were crap," Jackson said.  "We were awesome!" Marcus said.

Today, Jackson and his friends are spending the day at King's Dominion riding roller coasters.  Little Bro doesn't ride coasters, so he and his mama are going to the movies instead.

Marcus at Ten

Marcus and Obamy

          On our last night together, Day and I are making fabric bags, quilting them after a morning of inspiration at the quilt shop.  Marcus made one, too.

When asked what he would run back into a burning building to rescue if he had time, Marcus said, "My quilt Mama made me and Obamy."

Marcus wrapped up in his new quilt

It's so much fun to watch what interests and attracts this ten-year-old little boy.  He loves taking pictures, sewing, Lacrosse, basketball, and movies.  He wants to be a movie maker when he grows up.

This morning I interviewed him.  When asked, "What kind of girl will you look for when you're older?" he said, "I prefer not to answer that question."

From Anne Lamott

Carlene sent me a link to this paragraph this morning, a quintessentially-Lamott quotation I thought all of you Over Forties might like to read:

"Fabulous" by Anne Lamott, from Traveling Mercies:

I have this beautiful feminist friend named Nora who once said, “I’ve been thinking about killing myself, but I want to lose five pounds first.” I was remembering this recently when I started liking a new guy. He liked me back but was just getting out of a relationship with a young woman. Young young—she was ten or something, or maybe she just looked that young in the photo he showed me one day. She was tall, coltish, alive, thin, raven-haired. Right around the time I began to think about this guy in the biblical sense, I was at my most incredibly unyoung. I was tired, squinting, jet-lagged, stressed. Of course, I told myself, there is beauty in being older, being a mother, there is beauty in the wise steady gaze. But I kept thinking of this young woman and how beautiful she was and how undilapidated. Later that same day, I went to a mirror and looked for a long time, trying to see the timeless glory of crow's-feet, the resplendence of having survived. Instead I saw a woman in her early forties who grew up playing all day in the sun. Who knew? Then I saw a woman who had had just a few thousand too many social drinks, and then there was the woman who became a single mother. And the long and the short of it is that I looked like a fabulous woman who was on sale at the consignment store.

Tuesday and Wednesday

On Tuesday, Day and the boys and I went to Tyson's Corner--where Jackson (all about sneakers this year) shopped for shoes and Marcus (still all about Legos) chose Lego kits.  We had lunch at Marcus' favorite place, Wasabi's.

A thunderstorm came up while we were having dinner at District Tacos, and we came home and watched a movie on Netflix.

On Wednesday, Tom took a day off and we five drove to Gettysburg.  At the visitors' center, we watched a film about the battles and walked through the museum and saw the cyclorama--one of only two in the U.S.

It was a pleasant day, but we decided that a more thorough tour of Gettysburg should take a couple of days, cooler than June days.  Still, the day inspired me to learn more.  Day and Tom recommended I read Killer Angels and see the film, Gettysburg.  We watched the first hour tonight and will watch the rest tomorrow.

Sunday: Arrived at Dulles

I was a crazy lady on the drive from Hartwell to Greenville on Sunday morning.  In my panic, I realized that I do not handle close calls well.

Mike knew what he was doing, leaving at 8 for a 10:20 Greenville flight.  But in my world, I like to arrive at the airport at least an hour before departure, and I was a big, furry ball of anxiety all the way.  Indeed, as promised, I'd have made it on time--but by the skin of somebody's teeth.  After all that wringing of hands, arriving at the gate at ten,  the flight was delayed, giving me half an hour to breathe.

When I landed a tad after noon on Sunday, I was so happy to see my Taller-Than-Both-Parents oldest grandson, Jackson, and Big-Blue-Eyes Marcus for the first time in almost a year.  We five went to True Food Kitchen in Falls Church.

I hope that this restaurant (Andrew Weil's)  one day makes its way to San Antonio. The food and juices were delicious.  I had a Kale-Aid on ice (Kale, Apple, Cucumber, Celery, Lemon and Ginger); and a Chicken Chopped Salad (Cranberry, Date, Jicama, Manchego, Farro, Sprouted Almond, and Champagne Vinaigrette.)  These two, along with the Caramelized Onion Tart, were amazing!

On Monday, we went to Barnes and Nobles, but I felt inexplicably awful: body aches, no energy. We  wound up coming home and I spent the day on the sofa reading magazines (Flow and Bella Grace)  Day had bought and watching her finish the quilt she made for Marcus.

Arrived in Georgia Wednesday Night--Leaving for Virginia this morning

Carlene gave me the gift of fried squash when I arrived--along with pork chops, fresh tomatoes, and butterbeans.  I told her I could eat a whole bowl of that squash--it's my favorite.

You slice yellow crookneck squash, cover it with cornmeal and fry it in oil until it's real brown, turning it with a spatula.  I ordered more Thursday night, just squash and tomatoes, and it was delicious.

During the day, like everyone else, we were absorbed with the grim news of South Carolina. It's unimaginable how one small man with a gun can take nine large lives in a matter of minutes.

I drove from Lawrenceville to Hartwell on Thursday and Mike greeted me with flowers in his bright yellow kitchen.  That night,we continued to watch the news, as families of the South Carolina victims talked about their loved ones, as whites and blacks made memorials together outside the church.

Time Lapse Photography

Driving across East Texas on Monday, I took this picture of an abandoned house by the railroad tracks:

I knew it looked familiar.

It turns out, I had snapped the same house in winter:

Arrived at Carlene's late yesterday afternoon--and she'd made pork chops, fried squash, butterbeans, and cornbread.  Delicious!

The best laid plans...

Visiting Natchitoches and Natchez didn't work out.

The clerk in the lobby (whose baby was due three days ago)  let me know that it was pouring rain in that direction, so I took the tried and true Interstate--all the way here to Meridian, Mississippi.

After stopping for an hour in West Monroe to poke around in Antique Alley, I kept driving through Louisiana and Mississippi. The motels in Jackson were full, and it took three tries here in Meridian to find one that was okay.

The Mississippi Bridge in Vicksburg

GPS says that Carlene's house is only five hours away--so I should make it there tomorrow, no problem.

This has been one of those rare road trip days that make me question my usual bravado about traveling solo!

I got a refresher course today in what I already knew:

1. Stop and find a room before dark--or call ahead and book one, if you have phone service in the car.

2. Take the time to eat a healthy meal in the middle of the day.

By the time I ended up in this odd little town (or is it just odd after dark, with all its confusing two-way frontage roads?) I was so hungry and exhausted my brain was fried.  Looking for a place to eat, I got lost in a downpour in the deserted downtown and had to stop and ask directions of two inebriated  old men drinking outside at the convenience store. (They must have been regulars; the clerk said, "Ask them.") They gave me directions, but then one of them asked if he could ride back to Texas with me.

What a day!  I'm glad it's over..

You know you're not in Kansas anymore when

* The first five stations on the radio dial are super-conservative religious ones--and NPR is nowhere to be found.  The podcasts you brought on your phone are not loading for some reason.

* The liquor store/gas station where you go to get your morning Coke is lined on two walls with alcohol and the other with plaques and pocket books and huge rhinestone crosses.

* Few places are open on Sundays and Mondays.

* Phone service can be non-existent between towns.

The first day's drive was pleasant but uneventful. I started out toward Houston, heard news of a possible storm, and moved north, taking the old Highway 79 route  through East Texas.  Today I'll be starting out here in Jacksonville, Texas, and heading eastward via Natchitoches, Louisiana, skipping Henderson/Shreveport.

Natchitoches (pronounced NAK-e-tesh) is the oldest permanent settlement of the Louisiana Purchase, established in 1714.

It's said to be one of the prettiest little towns in Louisiana (drawing over a million tourists a year), but I've never been there.  It's part of the parish of Natchitoches in which the author Kate Chopin (The Awakening) lived for four years with her husband and six children and where she wrote stories about bayou life and managed a plantation before her husband died. I hope to see the Kate Chopin house if it's open, then drive on toward Nachez, then toward Lawrenceville, getting as close as I can tonight.

San Antonio to Georgia

Every time I start out on a road trip, I remember the time my optometrist asked me, "How long does it take to get to Georgia?" and I replied, "Three or four days, maybe five."

His response: "Did they move Georgia?"

I informed him that Georgia had not been moved, but that the length of a trip depended on what there was to see along the way.   I imagined that he--an eye specialist--might get it, the pleasure of seeing things.

But he was, after all, a man.  "That would drive me nuts," he said.

Most men--thankfully not Mike--seem to believe that the best route is the quickest and straightest line between Point A and Point B.  For me, the pleasure of the trip involves stopping whenever I feel like it, looking around, taking pictures.  I love long stretches of back roads, listening to podcasts and music.  I look forward to lunches in little Mom and Pop cafes, talking to local people, and sleeping in motels.

After filling Blue with gas, I'll decide which route to start out on--Interstate 10 or Interstate 20.  I know them both by heart--and if I decide to, I can make it in two days.  But what kind of road trip would that be?

A rainy Sunday in June

Here's Elena last night at her first rodeo!  I wasn't there--because it looked all day like she wasn't going to be able to ride.  She had had a fever and a "bubble" in her throat. But I see there's a blue ribbon attached, and her daddy said she did great.

During the rodeo, Suzanne and I had dinner together, and she re-introduced me to Ted Kooser's poetry, which I love.

Here's one, from the book she gave me, Delights and Shadows:

COSMETICS DEPARTMENT

A fragrance heavy as dust, and two young women
motionless as mannequins, dressed in black

The white moth of timelessness flutters about them,
unable to leave the cool light of their faces.

One holds the other's head in her hands
like a mirror.  The other leans into the long fingers

knowing how heavy her beauty is. Eye to eye,
breath into breath, they lean as if frozen forever:

a white cup with two lithe figures painted in black
and the warm wine brimming.



Today we got a generous rain, just the right amount to soak the yard and flowers really well before and during writing group.

Sharon brought flowers, Diana and Peggy brought munchies, Cecelia wore her mother's amethyst ring, and Knoel brought herself all the way from Austin in a downpour--along with writing about our recent floods.

Today I read three Kooser poems and suggested that we all pay attention to moments like these that show up in our everyday lives--at the beauty shop, in the doctor's office, in stores, on the street. Revelations often occur in the tiniest and most ordinary-seeming moments, if we are looking for them.

I love writing groups!  I love hearing well-crafted stories read aloud--and the questions and conversations that spring from them.

A birthday party for art

Today, the Topo Chicas (Saturday writing group) got to celebrateVictoria Suescum 's Heading-To-Panana art show in her studio!  It was a magical day!

Before she paints each canvas, she sets up a still life of folk art, flowers, birds and other objects on colorful patterned vinyl.

Before taking the canvases off the stretchers for transport, Victoria wanted a kid-like birthday party--and that's exactly what we did, with balloons, sparkly wine, snacks, and a delicious cheesecake!

THANK YOU all for coming to my studio today. You brought such good karma and I truly feel like we celebrated creativity. Creativity is such a delicate creature. Creating this series has been a roller coaster ride and I have worked SO hard I needed to be treated like a kid. If I'd had ice cream in a cone melting down my arms and all over my face that would not have been too much celebration. I wanted to celebrate the innocence with which we create....

Jennifer was taking this selfy, therefore we only got half
of her face.  Behind Jennifer: Cindy, Victoria, Mary, myself, and Yvette.

Kindness

Kindness

By Naomi Shihab Nye

Before you know what kindness really is

you must lose things,

feel the future dissolve in a moment

like salt in a weakened broth.

What you held in your hand,

what you counted and carefully saved,

all this must go so you know

how desolate the landscape can be

between the regions of kindness.

How you ride and ride

thinking the bus will never stop,

the passengers eating maize and chicken

will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,

you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho

lies dead by the side of the road.

You must see how this could be you,

how he too was someone

who journeyed through the night with plans

and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,

you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.

You must wake up with sorrow.

You must speak to it till your voice

catches the thread of all sorrows

and you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,

only kindness that ties your shoes

and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,

only kindness that raises its head

from the crowd of the world to say

It is I you have been looking for,

and then goes with you everywhere

like a shadow or a friend.

Embracing What Is

I remember a phrase--was it in the Seventies?--"Just embrace it...."

IT could be fat, crankiness, forgetfulness, aging, or big mistakes.   I thought of that phrase this morning when my body didn't fit into something that fit well last summer: Just embrace it.  Or--the related phrase: "It is what it is."

And so, while I'm attempting to shed these unwanted pounds and ripples, I'm going to a writing group  birthday party this afternoon where cheesecake is going to be served.  Do I hold back?  Do I embrace the cheesecake as it is going into my mouth?  Do I Just Say No?

Victoria (the hostess of the party) just sent us all a Getting Ready email:

The party is not going to be a party for a person's birthday; it's a birthday party for art!  Victoria is leaving soon for Panama for an art exhibit of her wonderful paintings, and we are all celebrating the "birth" of this body of work!

While I am sort of half-heartedly embracing my own fatness, I'm wholeheartedly embracing the creative spirit of Victoria!

Making Things

When I was a little girl, my favorite book was the McCalls Make It Book.  It had a shiny hard cover and inside were directions for making things.  It was a gift my daddy brought me back from a work-related trip to Kentucky.

We didn't have Amazon or even book stores in my town, so we mostly read books from the library.  The Make It Book was one of my few hard-cover books, and I loved it because it was big and full of possibilities.

Today (between car maintenance and hair maintenance and phone calls)  I painted a large mirror red.  With chalk paint, I can paint over and over the same thing until I get the effect I want.  Red (my color of the year) is this mirror's third incarnation.  I used the same Emperor's Silk used for much of La Casita.

Speaking of which: the sign over the front door (La Casita)  was handmade by my friend Linda Quintera, an artist who recently moved to Hondo.  It sets the tone for the interior--lots of barn wood, weathered tin, and antique pieces, accented by bright reds and greens.  Handmade coconut masks from Mexico cover the bright green kitchen wall.

Most of the objects in my house were made by people I know, including lots of colorful things by Day, who shares my love of many colors on one thing.

When we make things, we're kids again--playing with paint, cloth, wood, paper, or recipe ingredients.  We start, make mistakes, and start over, learning from each attempt to get the thing we're making to match the image in our minds--or to be surprised by something new that shows up on the imagination trail.

For several weeks, I loved watching Mike making things.  If something went awry, he was never discouraged, just kept the music playing, and made it work.  Sometimes, he'd "sleep on it" and wake up knowing the solution.

Last night, Nathan asked me to text Mike and ask him if he would teach him how to make a Go-Kart. His eyes lit up when Mike texted back, "Yes!  I'll start looking for the parts."  Mike would love nothing better than to teach him how to use tools and build the Go-Kart he has in mind. Isn't that the legacy of makers--not to make the Go-Karts for the boys, but to teach them how to make their own?

I won't live long enough to make all the things I want to make.  I watched a Ted Talk tonight while painting that made me wish I could build a house out of bamboo--which I have neither the skills, the time, or the patience to do.  But it's so inspiring to watch people making beautiful dwellings and objects out of natural materials. Even if I never build a bamboo house, I'll treat those fast-growing stalks showing up in my back yard with more respect from now on.

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

Rodeo Practice Thursday Night

Elena, riding solo, practicing for the Saturday night rodeo

Will and Nathan

Yenna and Elena

Riding around the corral beside Papi

Nathan and Elena sitting on "horses' butt stools"

Two Hearts Yoga

I love gentle and restorative yoga at Two Hearts studio.

Today's class was easy and relaxing--except that we had so many props that the room looked like a slumber party.

Blankets folded four different ways, a big orange bolster, blocks, straps, and eye pillows were strewn around each yoga mat.

By the end of it, I was relaxed but tired from all the folding, arranging, stacking and strapping.

As we were relaxing into Savasana at the end, the teacher led a guided meditation: Imagine your body melting into the earth; listen to the sounds inside your body; do not judge them, just listen.  Now listen to the silence.

One of my hearts was annoyed: How could I listen to the silence while she was talking?

The other was--as directed--expansive and warm, radiating compassion and love toward all womankind--and the one man in the class.

We ended by saluting each other, Namaste.  The fire in me honors the fire in you.  Every time I do that, I think of my first and favorite yoga teacher, Mary Frances Weathersby, many years ago.  She often ended a class by singing and then bowed toward each student: "Namaste: the divine in me sees the divine in you."

Mary Frances and Esther Vexler were the mothers of yoga in San Antonio.  Esther continued teaching into her nineties--a force of nature!  Mary Frances, unfortunately, is no longer teaching--as she is now in a Colorado nursing home with Alzheimers.

The best thing said in class today, for me, was this: "Thank you to all my teachers and all my teachers' teachers." I sent a telepathic thank you to the mind of Mary Frances, below where it's broken, to the place that still knows she's loved and remembered. She was someone who made an enormous difference in my life twenty and more years ago.

Last night, Elena asked me to unroll my yoga mat so we could do yoga.  I showed her the dog and the cow and the cobra poses, and she did them all.  Then she made up her own.  "I am a cow," she said, right leg up in the air.

On The Way To School

When American kids go to school, it's rarely with joy on their faces.  American kids go to school in a parent's air conditioned car or on a school bus, either plenty comfy.  Alas, when they get there, they might be subject to bullying--or at the very least, a barrage of state-mandated tests and a very competitive atmosphere.

We tease about our collective parents saying, "I walked three miles in the snow barefoot to go to school,"--though that's actually probably an urban legend.  My parents never walked three miles in the snow--not in Georgia or Tennessee.

"On the Way to School features Jackson, the Kenyan; Carlito, the Argentinian; Zahira, the Moroccan; Samuel, the Indian, four children who live light years away from each other and who have never met but who have a common point. They have to cover tremendously long distances to reach their school. On foot, on horseback or in a wheelchair, but all with an extraordinary determination."

What strikes me about this documentary is the kindness of the children, the parents, and the teachers.  When Samuel arrives at school after an arduous trip, pushed and pulled by his two beautiful brothers, his classmates run to meet him and carry him into the school in the white plastic yard chair attached to a frame (his homemade wheelchair.)

The parents send them off in the morning knowing they have a dangerous trip--in one case warning them to avoid being trampled by elephants.

All of these children have their dreams--to become a teacher, to become a pilot, to become a doctor "who helps kids like me walk." They are male and female.  They go on foot (and in one case on horseback) for hours to get to school on time.  They wash their clothes by hand to prepare for school.

In spite of meager food and material poverty, these children radiate joy, a love of learning, and a sense of friendship and caring for each other.

Tuesday Night

After trimming the bougainvillea so I could back out of the driveway, Suzanne dropped by--what a happy surprise!  Then Will and Bonnie and the kids came over, so we six went to dinner together.

Nathan says, "Suzanne looks too young to be married."

Suzanne's husband Ryan and Will are both firefighters--so they had lots to talk about.  This was the best kind of party--unplanned, spontaneous, altogether fun!

The kids pounded each other with new pillows for a couple of hours, giggling nonstop, then we went outside, turned on the twinkle lights, and Nathan and Elena did a play: The Whacky Man and the Little Girl, directed by Nathan.

Here's Jackson at his National Junior Honor Society induction, with his little brother Marcus.

Marcus and Jackson

It's a packed week, getting ready for a road trip to Georgia and a flight to Virginia: doctors'  and other appointments, car stuff, packing.   Off now to yoga, and to check a few things off my To-Do-Before-Leaving List.

June 9, 1967

What do you call an anniversary, if what it commemorates no longer exists?  I sometimes say (when I think about it) that today "would have been my wedding anniversary...."

Today would have been my 48th wedding anniversary.

When I was younger, I liked looking at pictures in the newspaper of couples celebrating 50th anniversaries.  It was often remarkable how the two people had come to look so much alike. It made me wonder: Did they always look something alike and were drawn to each other because they saw some feature of their own in the other?  Or did they grow to look alike because of shared habits of living, diet, geography?

Did one mirror the other's smile so often that it became a shared way of smiling?  Or frowning, for that matter?

The marriage that began on June 9, 1967, lasted 28 years--if you count all the calendar days from start to finish.

The 18-year-old bride

Playing the piano on my wedding day,
Betty my maid of honor

"This is a storybook romance," said my groom's mother.

"We get 'em young and raise 'em right," said his father--to my 25-year-old groom.  (Arghhh!)

It was a story alright--but not exactly the one his mother had in mind.  Each marriage is its own story.

What I got from that marriage were a lot of life lessons, San Antonio, two children, Day and Will, and four grand grandchildren: Jackson, Marcus, Nathan and Elena.

May 1978 with Baby Will

October 1971 with Baby Day

                                                     Fast forward four-plus decades:

Day and Tom, married since 1997

The Leary Boys,  Marcus and Jackson

Will and Veronica (Bonnie) married for four years

Nathan and Elena