I woke up this morning looking like a chipmunk. I went to bed looking like I had an egg embedded in my neck.
It was puffy and painful, so I decided to drive over to the new ER clinic by the Quarry. After a series of x-rays, I was relieved to learn that what I have is probably a stone or a block in the salivary glands, a condition called parotitis.
Who knew? I didn't even know I had a parotid gland, and now one of the ones I do have is bloated and tender, and it hurts when I swallow, especially sour flavors. Part of the cure is a round of antibiotics and pain pills. Another is eating lemon drops to intentionally stimulate the pain I've been having--as a way of clearing the clogged gland.
In the meanwhile, I feel and look like I have the mumps. They x-rayed everything from the chest to the face, and fortunately everything (lungs, heart, etc) looks normal. The pain meds are making me sleepy--so I'm going to take a little nap until Mike arrives, any minute now.
For those of you who live nearby, I highly recommend this new clinic--part of the Methodist Hospital at the Quarry. The treatment I got there was extraordinary!
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
On Beckman Hill
This is the house I lived in when both of my children were born--received by text from Will yesterday.
From 1968 to 1979, we lived in this little house in Helotes. For $125 a month, we rented the house and 65 acres of land--from "Old Man Beckman," who was quite a character. We brought both our children home from the hospital there. And now--one of those children is snapping pictures of his wife and children by the door I know so well. It's now a walking park and the house has an engraved sign on the door, Beckman House.
We used to listen to a young Willie Nelson singing at Flores Country Store--from that porch. Friends came to visit and had to drive up a long bumpy driveway to get there. The flat area at the bottom of the hill we made into a motorcycle race track--where I drove my 250 Montessa trials bike.
Because it's so hard to get to in a car, I haven't been there in decades--so now I'll get to take a walk and see it again.
When we moved in there as newlyweds, after living in San Antonio for a year. there was a circular fountain-in-the-works in the front yard. It had a row of Mexican tile around the top, but we never saw it finished. I notice that it's still just like it was, unfinished.
From 1968 to 1979, we lived in this little house in Helotes. For $125 a month, we rented the house and 65 acres of land--from "Old Man Beckman," who was quite a character. We brought both our children home from the hospital there. And now--one of those children is snapping pictures of his wife and children by the door I know so well. It's now a walking park and the house has an engraved sign on the door, Beckman House.
We used to listen to a young Willie Nelson singing at Flores Country Store--from that porch. Friends came to visit and had to drive up a long bumpy driveway to get there. The flat area at the bottom of the hill we made into a motorcycle race track--where I drove my 250 Montessa trials bike.
Because it's so hard to get to in a car, I haven't been there in decades--so now I'll get to take a walk and see it again.
When we moved in there as newlyweds, after living in San Antonio for a year. there was a circular fountain-in-the-works in the front yard. It had a row of Mexican tile around the top, but we never saw it finished. I notice that it's still just like it was, unfinished.
Monday, September 28, 2015
Funk is gone!
I just heard on NPR that this week's moon is called a red Bloody Harvest Moon.
Three of us were talking on the porch this afternoon, telling each other where we'd been since we last saw each other, and the subject of the full moon came up. Two of us have been in a bit of a funk.
Since lunar cycles are often associated with lunacy, I wonder if I get to blame the rounding moon for my bad mood last week. If so, I suppose I should credit her with the perk up that followed.
I was up till five in the morning Sunday morning moving things around in my house, wide awake in creative waters, then forced myself to go to sleep and stay there until noon. One little idea popped into my mind and I had to get up and do it. One led to another, and soon I was on a frenzied wave.
I woke up wondering: where did all that energy come from? Why is it that creativity takes a nap sometimes, then wakes up more playful than before? And why is it that I always start with the house, as metaphor and actual canvas?
Ironically, when I woke up Sting was talking about those very questions on The Ted Radio Hour. (The program was all about creativity and included Liz Gilbert whose book Big Magic just came out this week.)
When he was a little boy in England, Sting had a lot of early morning time alone while riding with milkman father on his deliveries. Few words were spoken: A pint here, two pints there. He credits those mornings with the start of his imaginative life: "being left alone" just as the "light was coming into the day."
Being left alone: I've learned that a dip (and the despair and lack of energy that comes with it) is a way to temporarily shut down, like sleeping. I used to try to follow the advice of that old song: Smile, though your heart is breaking....(a song that rankles). Now, I say, There you are again, just be there, it will pass.
When the light comes back into my days, I see colors I hadn't noticed, colors that had been there all the time. I hear again the sound of my own voice. As I get rid of something in my house that no longer fits, I banish voices prattling in my head, telling me things I don't care to hear.
Changing one thing changes everything. Take down an unappealing mirror or picture, drag a not-right thing to the curb, and space for something new (or space, period) opens up. Put a lamp in a dark corner, turn a piece of furniture around, paint a wall, take five loads to Goodwill--and suddenly all feels right with the world.
I wish I could say I took this picture myself,
but no, I found it on the Internet.
Three of us were talking on the porch this afternoon, telling each other where we'd been since we last saw each other, and the subject of the full moon came up. Two of us have been in a bit of a funk.
Since lunar cycles are often associated with lunacy, I wonder if I get to blame the rounding moon for my bad mood last week. If so, I suppose I should credit her with the perk up that followed.
I was up till five in the morning Sunday morning moving things around in my house, wide awake in creative waters, then forced myself to go to sleep and stay there until noon. One little idea popped into my mind and I had to get up and do it. One led to another, and soon I was on a frenzied wave.
I woke up wondering: where did all that energy come from? Why is it that creativity takes a nap sometimes, then wakes up more playful than before? And why is it that I always start with the house, as metaphor and actual canvas?
Ironically, when I woke up Sting was talking about those very questions on The Ted Radio Hour. (The program was all about creativity and included Liz Gilbert whose book Big Magic just came out this week.)
When he was a little boy in England, Sting had a lot of early morning time alone while riding with milkman father on his deliveries. Few words were spoken: A pint here, two pints there. He credits those mornings with the start of his imaginative life: "being left alone" just as the "light was coming into the day."
Being left alone: I've learned that a dip (and the despair and lack of energy that comes with it) is a way to temporarily shut down, like sleeping. I used to try to follow the advice of that old song: Smile, though your heart is breaking....(a song that rankles). Now, I say, There you are again, just be there, it will pass.
When the light comes back into my days, I see colors I hadn't noticed, colors that had been there all the time. I hear again the sound of my own voice. As I get rid of something in my house that no longer fits, I banish voices prattling in my head, telling me things I don't care to hear.
Changing one thing changes everything. Take down an unappealing mirror or picture, drag a not-right thing to the curb, and space for something new (or space, period) opens up. Put a lamp in a dark corner, turn a piece of furniture around, paint a wall, take five loads to Goodwill--and suddenly all feels right with the world.
Sunday, September 27, 2015
To move or not to move, that is the question
Will and Veronica are starting to think about moving, possibly to Boerne. Today, they were floating the idea to the children. They'd like a larger house, easier to get to, and they like what they've heard about the Boerne schools. But they are concerned about causing any disruptions in Nathan's third grade year.
Nathan said, "It would be the worst thing in the world, as bad as smelling a stinky baby's diaper. It would probably take me at least two years to adjust to it. We would never find a place as good as home. Maybe it would take until I'm even twelve to like it."
Nathan, Will said, would rather be home than anywhere--and my house (it thrilled me to hear) is his second favorite place If given a choice of going to a movie or staying home, he always picks home.
Since he has to go from their home to his father's every Friday, he's not inclined to leave home when he gets there. He was sitting at the table painting as we talked about the possibility of moving.
"But if we did move, what kind of house would you like?"
"Just a place with a little bit bigger yard, big enough for me to ride my four-wheeler and hot rod and things like that. More animals."
I asked Elena the same question: What kind of house would you like?
Without the slightest pause, she said, "A colorful house."
Her parents gave me the kind of look that said: We know where she gets that!
"Daddy, do you think we could have a rainbow house? That's what I'd like, a rainbow house."
Nathan said, "It would be the worst thing in the world, as bad as smelling a stinky baby's diaper. It would probably take me at least two years to adjust to it. We would never find a place as good as home. Maybe it would take until I'm even twelve to like it."
Nathan, Will said, would rather be home than anywhere--and my house (it thrilled me to hear) is his second favorite place If given a choice of going to a movie or staying home, he always picks home.
Since he has to go from their home to his father's every Friday, he's not inclined to leave home when he gets there. He was sitting at the table painting as we talked about the possibility of moving.
"But if we did move, what kind of house would you like?"
"Just a place with a little bit bigger yard, big enough for me to ride my four-wheeler and hot rod and things like that. More animals."
I asked Elena the same question: What kind of house would you like?
Without the slightest pause, she said, "A colorful house."
Her parents gave me the kind of look that said: We know where she gets that!
"Daddy, do you think we could have a rainbow house? That's what I'd like, a rainbow house."
Still Life
I just finished watching the most extraordinary movie--from the U.K.--called Still Life.
John May, 44-years-old, works for a department that investigates deaths of people who have no family or friends. He keeps meticulous records of these people, based on what little he can gather in their houses--photographs, jewelry, letters, record albums, etc.
When it's clear that the person has no one to attend the funeral, John May writes the eulogy and plans a funeral, himself the only one present but the priest or rabbi. At home, he keeps a scrapbook of all the many people whose funerals he's created.
This movie moves so slowly that it almost puts you into a trance, yet it's quietly compelling to watch. I found it intriguing to watch this lonely man (also without family or friends) walking or riding the train, eating alone in his sterile apartment, moving meticulously, almost expressionless, as he did his job.
Clearly, his work was more than a job. It was his life.
The photography and music create a film-version of a still life painting. There are rarely more than two people in a scene and the conversations are deliberate and sparse. The street scenes and landscapes are sparse, often symmetrical, and fascinating.
Rarely do I see a film I want to see again right after it's over, but this one is one I'll see again. Not tonight, but soon. Of course, the plot won't surprise me, but the effect of watching was that it took me into a place of stillness like no film ever has.
John May, 44-years-old, works for a department that investigates deaths of people who have no family or friends. He keeps meticulous records of these people, based on what little he can gather in their houses--photographs, jewelry, letters, record albums, etc.
When it's clear that the person has no one to attend the funeral, John May writes the eulogy and plans a funeral, himself the only one present but the priest or rabbi. At home, he keeps a scrapbook of all the many people whose funerals he's created.
This movie moves so slowly that it almost puts you into a trance, yet it's quietly compelling to watch. I found it intriguing to watch this lonely man (also without family or friends) walking or riding the train, eating alone in his sterile apartment, moving meticulously, almost expressionless, as he did his job.
Clearly, his work was more than a job. It was his life.
The photography and music create a film-version of a still life painting. There are rarely more than two people in a scene and the conversations are deliberate and sparse. The street scenes and landscapes are sparse, often symmetrical, and fascinating.
Rarely do I see a film I want to see again right after it's over, but this one is one I'll see again. Not tonight, but soon. Of course, the plot won't surprise me, but the effect of watching was that it took me into a place of stillness like no film ever has.
Saturday, September 26, 2015
First Family Guests at La Casita
Will, Bonnie, Nathan and Elena spent the night last night--Will and Bonnie in the casita, Nathan, Elena and I in my bed.
This morning Bonnie and Will both ran in the SNIPSA race--which started and ended a block from here.
After the race, Nathan made an art show on my bed--with prices on each piece. I bought a ten-dollar painting--and Elena was so excited when she paid 20 cents for hers.
This morning Bonnie and Will both ran in the SNIPSA race--which started and ended a block from here.
 |
| Nathan and Munkey |
 |
| Bonnie and Abbey coming in for third place in her category |
 |
| Will coming in a little later, Met by a big red bird |
 |
| Elena wanting to adopt a puppy |
After the race, Nathan made an art show on my bed--with prices on each piece. I bought a ten-dollar painting--and Elena was so excited when she paid 20 cents for hers.
 |
| Coming home from the race |
 |
| Nathan bargaining for his asking price |
Friday, September 25, 2015
Post Cards and Scarecrows
Here's when I know the blues are over--my creative and observational juices start up again.
In The Artist's Way, Julia Cameron suggests that everyone should have an Artist Date--a day to just ramble around and follow whatever trails we choose, solo, for a whole day. I can't remember whether she advocated doing this weekly or monthly. One of my favorite compliments was from my friend Bonnie who was then teaching a class based on this book: "Don't you do that every day?" she asked me.
Well, I can't claim to do that every day, but as often as possible I like to carve out time for poking around.
A couple of days ago I bought ten vintage postcards--sepia toned studio prints of French
children, hand-tinted, probably taken during the twenties or thirties.
"What are you going to do with these?" the clerk at the antique store asked me.
Maybe incorporate them in collage? Maybe frame them? Maybe give them to my friends for presents? I don't know--I just couldn't leave the store without them.
I love the tinting, the colors, the composition, and the clothes. They reminded me, too, of going to the Olan Mills Portrait Studio in the fifties, and posing for pictures with changing backdrops and props.
I don't have many pictures of Carlene as a girl. A house fire destroyed most of them. While these children are French, I'm guessing the girls are about the same age as she.
From the postcard rack, I went to Jo Ann Fabrics and found a starter for my scarecrow. Nathan and Elena are spending the night tonight, so we're going to dress this guy. All he has now is a foil hat I found in a thrift shop.
Fall is in the cooler air and light outside is changing. Two doors down, four huge bougainvilleas are growing so close to each other that it looks like one enormous plant--purple, coral, white and pink flowers in profusion.
David Whyte said, "When the eyes are tired, the world is tired, also."
The converse of that is certainly true, too.
In The Artist's Way, Julia Cameron suggests that everyone should have an Artist Date--a day to just ramble around and follow whatever trails we choose, solo, for a whole day. I can't remember whether she advocated doing this weekly or monthly. One of my favorite compliments was from my friend Bonnie who was then teaching a class based on this book: "Don't you do that every day?" she asked me.
Well, I can't claim to do that every day, but as often as possible I like to carve out time for poking around.
A couple of days ago I bought ten vintage postcards--sepia toned studio prints of French
children, hand-tinted, probably taken during the twenties or thirties.
"What are you going to do with these?" the clerk at the antique store asked me.
Maybe incorporate them in collage? Maybe frame them? Maybe give them to my friends for presents? I don't know--I just couldn't leave the store without them.
I love the tinting, the colors, the composition, and the clothes. They reminded me, too, of going to the Olan Mills Portrait Studio in the fifties, and posing for pictures with changing backdrops and props.
I don't have many pictures of Carlene as a girl. A house fire destroyed most of them. While these children are French, I'm guessing the girls are about the same age as she.
From the postcard rack, I went to Jo Ann Fabrics and found a starter for my scarecrow. Nathan and Elena are spending the night tonight, so we're going to dress this guy. All he has now is a foil hat I found in a thrift shop.
Fall is in the cooler air and light outside is changing. Two doors down, four huge bougainvilleas are growing so close to each other that it looks like one enormous plant--purple, coral, white and pink flowers in profusion.
David Whyte said, "When the eyes are tired, the world is tired, also."
The converse of that is certainly true, too.
Thursday, September 24, 2015
Incidents and Stories
Liz Gilbert, in the essay, "Speak, Memory," says, this:
An incident is an event that happens in real time, with real consequences, usually involving real (and raw) human emotion. A story is what you make out of it later.
I'm reading Joyce Maynard's memoir--At Home in the World. I can't put it down, except long enough to watch several interviews and talks on You Tube.
The incidents of my life and Joyce's life are not the same, but the story is so familiar that I often sit straight up in bed as if someone were describing my story.
The facts of our lives are not the same, but the milieu is the same--same television programs, same pre-feminism attitudes about girls and women, same political messes. Joyce grew up in a very different geography and family, but the ideas that shape a generation of women cross those lines.
At seventeen, she was already a published writer--and she had the courage to ask major magazines for assignments. She spent a year at Yale, then dropped out to live for a year with J.D. Salinger, author of Catcher in the Rye. She was 18; Salinger was 53. She never completed a college degree.
The book (one of the 15 she's written) tells the story of that relationship and how it impacted her life as a young girl.
This video is a great companion to the book. She briefly recounts the incidents of her time with Salinger, but she speaks powerfully also about the power of telling the truth as a writer--not glossing over the hardest things to tell.
"How long did it take you to write the book?" one audience member asks her.
"One month!" she says--as if the book literally poured out of her. Then she pauses. "One month--and the 25 years before I had the courage to tell the story."
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VRd8PTsquHI
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Shk0nEAF5lU
An incident is an event that happens in real time, with real consequences, usually involving real (and raw) human emotion. A story is what you make out of it later.
I'm reading Joyce Maynard's memoir--At Home in the World. I can't put it down, except long enough to watch several interviews and talks on You Tube.
The incidents of my life and Joyce's life are not the same, but the story is so familiar that I often sit straight up in bed as if someone were describing my story.
The facts of our lives are not the same, but the milieu is the same--same television programs, same pre-feminism attitudes about girls and women, same political messes. Joyce grew up in a very different geography and family, but the ideas that shape a generation of women cross those lines.
At seventeen, she was already a published writer--and she had the courage to ask major magazines for assignments. She spent a year at Yale, then dropped out to live for a year with J.D. Salinger, author of Catcher in the Rye. She was 18; Salinger was 53. She never completed a college degree.
The book (one of the 15 she's written) tells the story of that relationship and how it impacted her life as a young girl.
This video is a great companion to the book. She briefly recounts the incidents of her time with Salinger, but she speaks powerfully also about the power of telling the truth as a writer--not glossing over the hardest things to tell.
"How long did it take you to write the book?" one audience member asks her.
"One month!" she says--as if the book literally poured out of her. Then she pauses. "One month--and the 25 years before I had the courage to tell the story."
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VRd8PTsquHI
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Shk0nEAF5lU
Tuesday, September 22, 2015
One Cure for the Blues
When Funky arrives at my door, for no particular reason, I try to stop her in her muddy tracks. Usually, she doesn't make it inside, or--finding me inhospitable--disappears with just a whiff of the blues, not a lingering presence.
But sometimes, like these last few days, she means to stay a while. I can tell because, on Day One, she dumps the contents of her lumpy bags all over my bed--things to worry about, resent, fear, or obsess over.
By Day Two, I'm foggy-brained and lethargic.
By Day Three, if I had the energy to sing, I'd be singing, "Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, going to the garden to eat worms..."
Experts tell us that there are many ways to banish the blues--including pharmaceuticals, exercise, hydration, vegetable juices, various therapies, funny movies, or conversations. But if she sneaks in under cover of darkness, my psychic doors unlocked, she digs in her heels. While waiting for and hoping for her quick departure, I put up the Napping sign and go to Netflix, losing myself in other people's stories.
This week I watched all 22 episodes of Madame Secretary, a series about a brilliant 46-year-old Secretary of State who confers daily with foreign dignitaries, averts wars, brings down rogue operatives, and un-rufflles big fat feathers all over the globe. Her maverick ideas always work out for the good of the country.
I've enjoyed the plots, the interactions among the characters, and the intrigue. But most of all, I've enjoyed listening to scripted dialogue, sharp and snappy--a continent away from the outpourings of my own muddled brain.
Nobody in real life talks like these people! All the characters--including the teenaged children--are articulate and lightning fast with retorts. They don't mull over slights, they pluck them out by their roots in a nanosecond, with humor and good will. Their conversations are peppered with literary allusions and quips that (in real life) would take several drafts to come up with.
At the end of Madame Secretary's long days, she returns home to her unerringly faithful and supportive husband and banters brilliantly with her three kids. Even when her oldest daughter turns a cold shoulder and stops speaking to her ex-CIA-mother, Bess doesn't obsess. She doesn't call her best friends and seek counsel. (Actually, with her top-secret clearance, she doesn't have that kind of best friends....)
Instead, she goes to bed with her perfect husband and they talk and frolic like honeymooners until the inevitable middle-of-the-night call summoning Bess to the Situation Room.
Henry, the Perfect Husband, could only have been created by a woman--as indeed he was. And the director must have counseled him to look at Bess with adoration every second of every scene.
If anyone transgresses, the apologies are quick, sincere, and balanced. "I owe you an apology," she says--taking full credit for her misdeed.
"Oh no, it was my fault," he says--followed by her demurring, "No, no, I was wrong...." and so on.
Here's where being a writer really comes in handy. If you're slow or halting or lacking in confidence, you can write up an alter-ego who's quick, definitive, and powerful. If you've never found the perfect man, well, you can just make him right up.
So nobody believes he's real, so what! For 43 minutes, every female viewer gets to enjoy the vicarious experience of being admired by a brilliant, adoring, generous man. Sometimes, he's so perfect it makes you want to gag a little, but gagging, too, is good for banishing the blues.
But sometimes, like these last few days, she means to stay a while. I can tell because, on Day One, she dumps the contents of her lumpy bags all over my bed--things to worry about, resent, fear, or obsess over.
By Day Two, I'm foggy-brained and lethargic.
By Day Three, if I had the energy to sing, I'd be singing, "Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, going to the garden to eat worms..."
Experts tell us that there are many ways to banish the blues--including pharmaceuticals, exercise, hydration, vegetable juices, various therapies, funny movies, or conversations. But if she sneaks in under cover of darkness, my psychic doors unlocked, she digs in her heels. While waiting for and hoping for her quick departure, I put up the Napping sign and go to Netflix, losing myself in other people's stories.
This week I watched all 22 episodes of Madame Secretary, a series about a brilliant 46-year-old Secretary of State who confers daily with foreign dignitaries, averts wars, brings down rogue operatives, and un-rufflles big fat feathers all over the globe. Her maverick ideas always work out for the good of the country.
I've enjoyed the plots, the interactions among the characters, and the intrigue. But most of all, I've enjoyed listening to scripted dialogue, sharp and snappy--a continent away from the outpourings of my own muddled brain.
Nobody in real life talks like these people! All the characters--including the teenaged children--are articulate and lightning fast with retorts. They don't mull over slights, they pluck them out by their roots in a nanosecond, with humor and good will. Their conversations are peppered with literary allusions and quips that (in real life) would take several drafts to come up with.
At the end of Madame Secretary's long days, she returns home to her unerringly faithful and supportive husband and banters brilliantly with her three kids. Even when her oldest daughter turns a cold shoulder and stops speaking to her ex-CIA-mother, Bess doesn't obsess. She doesn't call her best friends and seek counsel. (Actually, with her top-secret clearance, she doesn't have that kind of best friends....)
Instead, she goes to bed with her perfect husband and they talk and frolic like honeymooners until the inevitable middle-of-the-night call summoning Bess to the Situation Room.
Henry, the Perfect Husband, could only have been created by a woman--as indeed he was. And the director must have counseled him to look at Bess with adoration every second of every scene.
If anyone transgresses, the apologies are quick, sincere, and balanced. "I owe you an apology," she says--taking full credit for her misdeed.
"Oh no, it was my fault," he says--followed by her demurring, "No, no, I was wrong...." and so on.
Here's where being a writer really comes in handy. If you're slow or halting or lacking in confidence, you can write up an alter-ego who's quick, definitive, and powerful. If you've never found the perfect man, well, you can just make him right up.
So nobody believes he's real, so what! For 43 minutes, every female viewer gets to enjoy the vicarious experience of being admired by a brilliant, adoring, generous man. Sometimes, he's so perfect it makes you want to gag a little, but gagging, too, is good for banishing the blues.
Friday, September 18, 2015
Collage typewriter
If you like this, check out this link:
https://www.brainpickings.org/2013/08/20/art-made-from-books/
Beans and Healthy Chocolate
Kate knows a lot about a lot of things, so I take notes.
She knows how to feed a houseful of people for Thanksgiving, and how to take little tiny cuttings of plants and turn her back yard into a profusion of green living things. She knows how to sit, really sit, on the porch, hosting those of us who show up to sit with her--and she lets her company have the hammock swing!
And something always smells good in the kitchen.
Last night it was beans. I don't know how to cook beans, never have. They are either tough or tasteless. Kate's are delicious. We sprinkled tortilla corn chips and cheese over them, with an avocado on the side, and it was tastier than anything at the Mexican restaurants.
She also makes kumbucha, a drink of fermented tea that's supposed to have a lot of health benefits--so I brought home a new bottle to chill..
I asked for her recipe for beans and she gave me her chef's secret, which I will attempt today. If you add beer, cilantro, and jalapeño peppers to the basic bean recipe, you have borracho beans.
In return, I promised Joy's Chocolate--which it's hard not to eat all of in one sitting:
Put a jar of coconut oil out on the porch until it's liquid.
Stir in 1/3 cup of it with one teaspoon vanilla, a dash of salt, 2 T. honey, and 1/4 cup of cocoa.
That's it!
You can roll strawberries in it and leave it in the refrigerator to harden, or you can put a handful of almonds and/or coconut in it and you have yourself a healthy Almond Joy.
She knows how to feed a houseful of people for Thanksgiving, and how to take little tiny cuttings of plants and turn her back yard into a profusion of green living things. She knows how to sit, really sit, on the porch, hosting those of us who show up to sit with her--and she lets her company have the hammock swing!
And something always smells good in the kitchen.
Last night it was beans. I don't know how to cook beans, never have. They are either tough or tasteless. Kate's are delicious. We sprinkled tortilla corn chips and cheese over them, with an avocado on the side, and it was tastier than anything at the Mexican restaurants.
She also makes kumbucha, a drink of fermented tea that's supposed to have a lot of health benefits--so I brought home a new bottle to chill..
I asked for her recipe for beans and she gave me her chef's secret, which I will attempt today. If you add beer, cilantro, and jalapeño peppers to the basic bean recipe, you have borracho beans.
In return, I promised Joy's Chocolate--which it's hard not to eat all of in one sitting:
Put a jar of coconut oil out on the porch until it's liquid.
Stir in 1/3 cup of it with one teaspoon vanilla, a dash of salt, 2 T. honey, and 1/4 cup of cocoa.
That's it!
You can roll strawberries in it and leave it in the refrigerator to harden, or you can put a handful of almonds and/or coconut in it and you have yourself a healthy Almond Joy.
Thursday, September 17, 2015
Lea Glisson
Lea, author of two books, has been my friend for fifteen years--and a member of a long-standing writing group for almost that long.
So when I was asked to be the photographer for a book of interviews including Lea, I wanted her to be the first. For one thing, she's camera friendly and lively and fun: for another, I've taken pictures of her through the years and I knew I'd feel comfortable on the other side of the lens with her.
This project is the brainchild of two other friends, Bonnie Lyons (professor of English at UTSA and my teacher once upon a time) and Deb Field (who owns the Yellow Rose Bed and Breakfast in the King William District.) So far, they have interviewed thirteen women, and I'm lucky to get to go along for the ride.
At lunch after our photo-shoot, we three (Deb, Lea and I) talked about a lot of things, including this project. What to tell about ourselves, what to reveal? A couple of the women--when they read in black and white something they've said--want to edit out what they said.
Deb said, "I think what makes us all lovely are our quirks."
If all interviewees are as candid and refreshing as Lea, I could do this all day long! I've been studying f-stop, shutter speed and focal this and thats for weeks, but in the end, I decided not to get too distracted by dials, and just try my best to let the essence of the person come through.
So when I was asked to be the photographer for a book of interviews including Lea, I wanted her to be the first. For one thing, she's camera friendly and lively and fun: for another, I've taken pictures of her through the years and I knew I'd feel comfortable on the other side of the lens with her.
This project is the brainchild of two other friends, Bonnie Lyons (professor of English at UTSA and my teacher once upon a time) and Deb Field (who owns the Yellow Rose Bed and Breakfast in the King William District.) So far, they have interviewed thirteen women, and I'm lucky to get to go along for the ride.
At lunch after our photo-shoot, we three (Deb, Lea and I) talked about a lot of things, including this project. What to tell about ourselves, what to reveal? A couple of the women--when they read in black and white something they've said--want to edit out what they said.
Deb said, "I think what makes us all lovely are our quirks."
If all interviewees are as candid and refreshing as Lea, I could do this all day long! I've been studying f-stop, shutter speed and focal this and thats for weeks, but in the end, I decided not to get too distracted by dials, and just try my best to let the essence of the person come through.
Hand Made Things
About twelve years ago, Day made clip sticks--one of the many things she made to sell at a crafts fair. They were made for children for displaying their art work, and she personalized them with the name of each child. On the back, she wrote a message to the child about being an artist, and she signed her name, Day.
Now she is teaching high school English in Falls Church, Virginia. One of her students announced that the above clip stick, which has been in her room since she was about five, was made by her new English teacher!
This is Debbie's bird house--made by a man in Hartwell and painted by Debbie. The maker of the houses has decided to retire, but Mike asked him to make one more--which I'll be getting for my birthday.
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
First Night Out With The New Camera
Tonight I took my new Nikon to Helotes--where I was sure to find a willing subject. To leave Nathan to finish his school project, Elena and I took a little Walkabout:
Today would have been my parents' 70th anniversary. They didn't actually have a wedding, Carlene always says, but they had the real-deal marriage.
Nathan was working on his The Cereal Box Autobiography:
Today would have been my parents' 70th anniversary. They didn't actually have a wedding, Carlene always says, but they had the real-deal marriage.
Nathan was working on his The Cereal Box Autobiography:
 |
| "What's a quotation?" he asked-- since he was supposed to supply one for his box. |
 |
| Will told him HIS favorite quotation was from Granddaddy Lloyd: "Keep the main thing the main thing." I told him mine:: "To thine own self be true...." |
 |
"I Like the one Will said," Nathan said. So he completed his box, featuring Granddaddy's words |
Joy
When Joy drives into San Antonio, she appears at my door like sunshine. It takes her a while to unpack all the gifts and food she's brought. Yesterday she brought an early birthday present, including an Italian candle holder that shimmers at night with the vibrant colors that take me back to Tuscany.
She brought me some of that excellent chocolate she makes, too, my new healthy morning and evening treat--made of coconut oil, honey, and cocoa. And little succulents for the pots we bought in Castroville, and--as always--flowers, blooming ones and a packet of poppy seeds--which I'll plant today in this misty rain.
After opening my month-early birthday presents, we sat on the porch and talked, then she had to leave too soon. "I love, love, love what you and Mike have done!" she called out from the car as I was checking the mail. In the mailbox was an Oprah magazine--a gift that comes every month as part of her last year's present. I held it up to her car window and said, "Another gift from you!"
Recently, she made a painting of a bright sun face that she'd sent to the CBS Sunday Morning program that features different suns each week. They wrote back that they loved it--so it will soon be among the Sunday Morning Suns.
Joy is an artist of all things--including food, flowers, and friendship. Whenever I'm working on or planning a project, Joy brings, as her name implies, such great enthusiasm.
She brought me some of that excellent chocolate she makes, too, my new healthy morning and evening treat--made of coconut oil, honey, and cocoa. And little succulents for the pots we bought in Castroville, and--as always--flowers, blooming ones and a packet of poppy seeds--which I'll plant today in this misty rain.
After opening my month-early birthday presents, we sat on the porch and talked, then she had to leave too soon. "I love, love, love what you and Mike have done!" she called out from the car as I was checking the mail. In the mailbox was an Oprah magazine--a gift that comes every month as part of her last year's present. I held it up to her car window and said, "Another gift from you!"
Recently, she made a painting of a bright sun face that she'd sent to the CBS Sunday Morning program that features different suns each week. They wrote back that they loved it--so it will soon be among the Sunday Morning Suns.
Joy is an artist of all things--including food, flowers, and friendship. Whenever I'm working on or planning a project, Joy brings, as her name implies, such great enthusiasm.
Elena on her way to school
She saw a truck like the one her daddy drives--a 1985 red truck they call Old Red, which was passed down to Will from my daddy.
She saw a truck like that near a construction site. "Mommy, I just saw Daddy's truck!"
"Where?" Bonnie asked.
"He stopped to help a construction worker."
When she got to school, she had a picture she had drawn for the teacher's assistant, Miss Heidi. When her actual teacher, Miss Rebecca, saw the picture, Elena said, "I made this for the fancy teacher."
Presumably, the assistant teacher is fancier than the real teacher!
She saw a truck like that near a construction site. "Mommy, I just saw Daddy's truck!"
"Where?" Bonnie asked.
"He stopped to help a construction worker."
When she got to school, she had a picture she had drawn for the teacher's assistant, Miss Heidi. When her actual teacher, Miss Rebecca, saw the picture, Elena said, "I made this for the fancy teacher."
Presumably, the assistant teacher is fancier than the real teacher!
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
The House of Colors
The new American poet laureate, Juan Felipe Herrera, interviewed on NPR, is the child of Mexican immigrants. In the interview, he talks about his childhood, saying, "It was like living in literature all the time."
"You have a poem to offer/ It is made of action." This line comes from a poem he wrote about the victims of the shooting tragedy in South Carolina.
Excerpt: Notes On The Assemblage
Poem by Poem
— in memory of Cynthia Hurd, Susie Jackson, Ethel Lance, Rev. DePayne Middleton-Doctor, Rev. Clementa Pinckney, Tywanza Sanders, Rev. Daniel Simmons Sr., Rev. Sharonda Singleton, Myra Thompson Shot and killed while at church. Charleston, SC (6-18-2015), RIP
poem by poem we can end the violence
every day after
every other day
9 killed in Charleston, South Carolina
they are not 9 they
are each one
alive
we do not know
you have a poem to offer
it is made of action — you must
search for it run
outside and give your life to it
when you find it walk it
back — blow upon it
carry it taller than the city where you live
when the blood come down
do not ask if
it is your blood it is made of
9 drops
honor them
wash them stop them
from falling
As his first project as poet laureate, Herrera is writing an epic poem, La Casa De Colores, in which all Americans are invited to contribute lines.
"You have a poem to offer/ It is made of action." This line comes from a poem he wrote about the victims of the shooting tragedy in South Carolina.
Excerpt: Notes On The Assemblage
Poem by Poem
— in memory of Cynthia Hurd, Susie Jackson, Ethel Lance, Rev. DePayne Middleton-Doctor, Rev. Clementa Pinckney, Tywanza Sanders, Rev. Daniel Simmons Sr., Rev. Sharonda Singleton, Myra Thompson Shot and killed while at church. Charleston, SC (6-18-2015), RIP
poem by poem we can end the violence
every day after
every other day
9 killed in Charleston, South Carolina
they are not 9 they
are each one
alive
we do not know
you have a poem to offer
it is made of action — you must
search for it run
outside and give your life to it
when you find it walk it
back — blow upon it
carry it taller than the city where you live
when the blood come down
do not ask if
it is your blood it is made of
9 drops
honor them
wash them stop them
from falling
As his first project as poet laureate, Herrera is writing an epic poem, La Casa De Colores, in which all Americans are invited to contribute lines.
Monday, September 14, 2015
Jaro's Paint Bucket
Today I got the funniest response ever to this blog. In reading the two-posts ago entry about Jaro's paint bucket, Nellie said she actually Googled Jaro's Paint Bucket! Made me laugh--and also made me think of what a good title for a book that would be: "The Paint Bucket."
Someone famous (I forget who) said, "Color, like light, feeds the soul"? Amen! Finding the color you're after can be a soul journey--as every nuance of color evokes certain associations and responses.
Mike and I had painted my bathroom orange, yellow, turquoise and green. At first, I liked it a lot, then I decided to take away the yellow and go for turquoise on two walls--and it imparts a much more tranquil feeling in the bathroom.
Once upon a time, in 1967, my then-husband and I were living in an apartment on Magnolia Street. We had hardly any money, as he was in the Air Force by day and teaching at San Antonio College at night. We made just enough money to pay for his college loans (he'd just completed an M.F.A.) and rent and payments on our Volkswagen. I was a sophomore in college at the time, and my parents paid for my tuition all four years.
He had a lyrical nude painting over the couch that he'd hauled to Texas from Georgia on top of the VW. He wanted to continue making art, but lacked the money to buy materials. Every day, he'd come home from work and add another few strokes of black ink.
One day an encyclopedia salesman came and tried to sell us a set of books. We knew from the start we weren't going to buy, but he gave us a memorable and entertaining afternoon. "All you're paying for is ink, string, paper and glue," he said.
While he talked, my husband kept adding strokes to the painting, standing back and looking at it through the frame of his hands. The nude figure got more and more rigid in the process, finally looking more like a hulky androgynous figure than a female. Every day he added more black--until, finally, the entire canvas was black.
I often think about that day and that painting. It seems to speak to the tendency to over-do when you have only one canvas. I've done that in other ways:
A few years ago I bought a large mirror, framed in silver ceiling tiles. Over the years, I have painted it so many times that it must weigh a ton in paint. Perfection (satisfaction, at least) eludes me.
I wrote a book once upon a time, too, but by the time it was finished, it was over-edited and revised, and the story itself had changed. The freshness of the original draft was eclipsed by too many changes, too much input--and I lost interest in it.
The process of coloring a page or a wall or a mirror can be exciting--but the final product may or may not ever click. When it does, I feel euphoric. When it doesn't--no matter what anyone else may think--I have to decide whether to try one more time or put it in the closet for a while, just in case a solution shows up.
Usually a nap helps. I saw a notebook at World Market this morning with this on the cover: I feel less guilty about taking a nap if I call it "Pursuing my Dreams."
Someone famous (I forget who) said, "Color, like light, feeds the soul"? Amen! Finding the color you're after can be a soul journey--as every nuance of color evokes certain associations and responses.
Mike and I had painted my bathroom orange, yellow, turquoise and green. At first, I liked it a lot, then I decided to take away the yellow and go for turquoise on two walls--and it imparts a much more tranquil feeling in the bathroom.
Once upon a time, in 1967, my then-husband and I were living in an apartment on Magnolia Street. We had hardly any money, as he was in the Air Force by day and teaching at San Antonio College at night. We made just enough money to pay for his college loans (he'd just completed an M.F.A.) and rent and payments on our Volkswagen. I was a sophomore in college at the time, and my parents paid for my tuition all four years.
He had a lyrical nude painting over the couch that he'd hauled to Texas from Georgia on top of the VW. He wanted to continue making art, but lacked the money to buy materials. Every day, he'd come home from work and add another few strokes of black ink.
One day an encyclopedia salesman came and tried to sell us a set of books. We knew from the start we weren't going to buy, but he gave us a memorable and entertaining afternoon. "All you're paying for is ink, string, paper and glue," he said.
While he talked, my husband kept adding strokes to the painting, standing back and looking at it through the frame of his hands. The nude figure got more and more rigid in the process, finally looking more like a hulky androgynous figure than a female. Every day he added more black--until, finally, the entire canvas was black.
I often think about that day and that painting. It seems to speak to the tendency to over-do when you have only one canvas. I've done that in other ways:
A few years ago I bought a large mirror, framed in silver ceiling tiles. Over the years, I have painted it so many times that it must weigh a ton in paint. Perfection (satisfaction, at least) eludes me.
I wrote a book once upon a time, too, but by the time it was finished, it was over-edited and revised, and the story itself had changed. The freshness of the original draft was eclipsed by too many changes, too much input--and I lost interest in it.
The process of coloring a page or a wall or a mirror can be exciting--but the final product may or may not ever click. When it does, I feel euphoric. When it doesn't--no matter what anyone else may think--I have to decide whether to try one more time or put it in the closet for a while, just in case a solution shows up.
Usually a nap helps. I saw a notebook at World Market this morning with this on the cover: I feel less guilty about taking a nap if I call it "Pursuing my Dreams."
Joy in Smurf-Land and Other Places
My friend, Debbie, the Paint Lady, has been so helpful to me in tweaking the final color decisions on the house and casita. Sometimes I get the color right on my own, but other times I have to see three or four samples painted on a piece of house before one of them clicks. Or a particular color might look fine in one place and look entirely wrong in another.
Blues are particularly difficult to get right, she told me. Get them one notch off and you can have a Smurfy color--as I did with last week's sample. Debbie steered me away from too much of the particular blue (Behr's Brilliant Blue) I kept trying to make work, saying that it was likely to make the house look like Smurf Village.
With her expert eyes on the snapshots, from a thousand miles away, I've been able to find the right blue finally. When Jaro and I stood back and looked at it, we both said, "Yes, that's it!"
I asked Debbie in an email what I could do for her in return, and she said this:
What you can do for me..... be joyous in heart and soul, and love your creation!! It is wonderful to watch from afar :)
These are words I'd like to post in every room and on the wall of the casita for writing group: Be joyous in heart and soul and love your creation!
Jaro is joyous in heart and soul. As he paints, he is intent on the brush and roller strokes, but he's almost always smiling. I commented on that the other day and he said he'd given up a boring, but higher paying, job to do what he loves. "You wouldn't want your house painted by an angry person!" he said.
His wife, also from El Salvador, taught him that. "Never eat anything cooked by an angry person," she told him. "The food will make you sick."
Blues are particularly difficult to get right, she told me. Get them one notch off and you can have a Smurfy color--as I did with last week's sample. Debbie steered me away from too much of the particular blue (Behr's Brilliant Blue) I kept trying to make work, saying that it was likely to make the house look like Smurf Village.
With her expert eyes on the snapshots, from a thousand miles away, I've been able to find the right blue finally. When Jaro and I stood back and looked at it, we both said, "Yes, that's it!"
I asked Debbie in an email what I could do for her in return, and she said this:
What you can do for me..... be joyous in heart and soul, and love your creation!! It is wonderful to watch from afar :)
These are words I'd like to post in every room and on the wall of the casita for writing group: Be joyous in heart and soul and love your creation!
Jaro is joyous in heart and soul. As he paints, he is intent on the brush and roller strokes, but he's almost always smiling. I commented on that the other day and he said he'd given up a boring, but higher paying, job to do what he loves. "You wouldn't want your house painted by an angry person!" he said.
His wife, also from El Salvador, taught him that. "Never eat anything cooked by an angry person," she told him. "The food will make you sick."
Sunday, September 13, 2015
Another Planet
I discovered this planet as I was playing with my camera this morning. This is the iPhoto version because I haven't moved the new ones to my computer yet.
Each photograph captures a different ocean or land form. Each photo shows the swirl of movement and different casts of light.
And, conveniently for me, they all exist in Jaro's paint bucket. I just noticed them and clicked.
Saturday, September 12, 2015
How is Saturday doing?
Five stars!
I finally settled on just the blue I want for the trim and the facia is almost done! Navy blue.
And I found a pair of great screened porch chairs at a garage sale--was looking for an antique brass floor lamp, which I didn't find.
And for the first time in many months, I bought myself some new lingerie and four pair of pants at Soma and Chico's.
For the afternoon, I'll be studying my camera manual for a project I agreed to do--a book about women over 80.
Would I recommend this day to my friends?--definitely yes!
Would I do another like it soon?--definitely yes!
Would I LIKE it on Facebook?--assuredly so.
I finally settled on just the blue I want for the trim and the facia is almost done! Navy blue.
And I found a pair of great screened porch chairs at a garage sale--was looking for an antique brass floor lamp, which I didn't find.
And for the first time in many months, I bought myself some new lingerie and four pair of pants at Soma and Chico's.
For the afternoon, I'll be studying my camera manual for a project I agreed to do--a book about women over 80.
Would I recommend this day to my friends?--definitely yes!
Would I do another like it soon?--definitely yes!
Would I LIKE it on Facebook?--assuredly so.
How are we doing?
Every time we buy anything or go for services, we get these frustrating emails asking us to answer the question, "How are we doing?"
When the barrage began, I could imagine some customer service person reading my response and caring and passing on any objections I might have raised to the top of the organization.
I'm tired of rating and critiquing everything! I'm not going to do it anymore.
Scott Simon, my favorite NPR guy, talked about this very thing, and he said we have "feedback fatigue." Exactly!
I'm out of stars and opinions. If I have a bad experience, I'll write a letter or something--or just chalk it up to someone having a bad day. Or if I'm having a bad day, I'll just tell them on the spot if they are rude!
When I go to a store, they ask me to join their group on Facebook or LIKE them there. When I check out at Home Depot, they want me to rate them every time: which one? the person who helped us? checked us out? met us at the door?
Here's a five-star video that made me smile--sent from Linda Kot. This little guy asks all the right questions: who made it? this is not a joke, right?
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/british-boy-has-cutest-reaction-to-learning-hes-going-to-be-a-big-brother_55df4455e4b0e7117ba920ae
When the barrage began, I could imagine some customer service person reading my response and caring and passing on any objections I might have raised to the top of the organization.
I'm tired of rating and critiquing everything! I'm not going to do it anymore.
Scott Simon, my favorite NPR guy, talked about this very thing, and he said we have "feedback fatigue." Exactly!
I'm out of stars and opinions. If I have a bad experience, I'll write a letter or something--or just chalk it up to someone having a bad day. Or if I'm having a bad day, I'll just tell them on the spot if they are rude!
When I go to a store, they ask me to join their group on Facebook or LIKE them there. When I check out at Home Depot, they want me to rate them every time: which one? the person who helped us? checked us out? met us at the door?
Here's a five-star video that made me smile--sent from Linda Kot. This little guy asks all the right questions: who made it? this is not a joke, right?
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/british-boy-has-cutest-reaction-to-learning-hes-going-to-be-a-big-brother_55df4455e4b0e7117ba920ae
The Power of Photography
http://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/interactive/2013/may/19/power-photography-time-mortality-memory#sean-ohagan
The above is a series of writings about the power of photography in their lives.
On that note, my friend Gerlinde told us about an art show opening this week at the Briscoe Western Art Museum--featuring John Langmore, her son-in-law, and his father Bank Langmore. It's called The Cowboy Returns and it runs from September 12th through November 29th.
Bank was a photographer of the American cowboy in the 1970s, and his son, John, a celebrated artist in his own right, spent the last three years photographing many of the same people and ranches his father documented over 40 years ago.
https://www.briscoemuseum.org/exhibitions-collections/the-cowboy-returns-langmore-exhibition
The above is a series of writings about the power of photography in their lives.
On that note, my friend Gerlinde told us about an art show opening this week at the Briscoe Western Art Museum--featuring John Langmore, her son-in-law, and his father Bank Langmore. It's called The Cowboy Returns and it runs from September 12th through November 29th.
Bank was a photographer of the American cowboy in the 1970s, and his son, John, a celebrated artist in his own right, spent the last three years photographing many of the same people and ranches his father documented over 40 years ago.
https://www.briscoemuseum.org/exhibitions-collections/the-cowboy-returns-langmore-exhibition
Friday, September 11, 2015
Starting School
After Day One at school, Elena went home and had a nightmare--that the teacher was making her "do boring things." When I saw her Wednesday night, she was having a meltdown.
By last night, she was over it and was her happy self again.
As she listened to the story of Charlie, she was obviously making the connection between Charlie and herself. "A little girl at school wanted to play with me, but I said no because it was time for my mommy to come get me," she said--with a look of regret on her face.
I told her she'd have plenty of time to rectify the situation, that she could ask the little girl on Day Two to play with her.
I wasn't there today--but this picture came by text and Will said she loved school now!
September 11 on NPR
NPR aired an incredible story about the artist Christopher Saucedo, whose younger brother--a firefighter-- died in the September 11th attacks.
Christopher and his brothers remembered watching the Towers go up when they were boys and ironically it was in trying to save people in the aftermath of the attack that his brother--who loved being a firefighter, as all firefighters do--tragically lost his life.
Later, Christopher and his wife moved to New Orleans--where their house was flooded and destroyed by Katrina. They moved back to New York and their house was then destroyed by Hurricane Sandy. Listening, I thought of the story of Job--as the string of tragedies seemed too much to bear.
For the full story of Christopher's artistic responses: http://www.npr.org/2015/09/11/439236972/after-sandy-katrina-and-sept-11-this-sculptor-finds-art-in-survival
Later, as I was driving to get some primer, I heard snippets of Science Friday and will listen to the whole story on my laptop later today--a discussion in which the founder of Brainpickings discussed the importance of reading to children to build their brains.
http://www.sciencefriday.com/segment/09/11/2015/the-science-of-story-time.html
I've often wondered how we'd manage without TPR's programming. I remember listening to it on September 11, 2001, as I was driving home from UTSA, frantically wanting to get home and call my kids. Tom had recently left his job at the Pentagon, Will was a firefighter, and Day was pregnant with Jackson and on bed rest. I felt I had so many points of connection to the victims of that tragic day, imagining the plight of young mothers whose husbands died and feeling anguish with the families of the firefighters who died.
Christopher and his brothers remembered watching the Towers go up when they were boys and ironically it was in trying to save people in the aftermath of the attack that his brother--who loved being a firefighter, as all firefighters do--tragically lost his life.
Later, Christopher and his wife moved to New Orleans--where their house was flooded and destroyed by Katrina. They moved back to New York and their house was then destroyed by Hurricane Sandy. Listening, I thought of the story of Job--as the string of tragedies seemed too much to bear.
For the full story of Christopher's artistic responses: http://www.npr.org/2015/09/11/439236972/after-sandy-katrina-and-sept-11-this-sculptor-finds-art-in-survival
Later, as I was driving to get some primer, I heard snippets of Science Friday and will listen to the whole story on my laptop later today--a discussion in which the founder of Brainpickings discussed the importance of reading to children to build their brains.
http://www.sciencefriday.com/segment/09/11/2015/the-science-of-story-time.html
I've often wondered how we'd manage without TPR's programming. I remember listening to it on September 11, 2001, as I was driving home from UTSA, frantically wanting to get home and call my kids. Tom had recently left his job at the Pentagon, Will was a firefighter, and Day was pregnant with Jackson and on bed rest. I felt I had so many points of connection to the victims of that tragic day, imagining the plight of young mothers whose husbands died and feeling anguish with the families of the firefighters who died.
Being a Tourist for a day
Today was so much fun--my "Artist Date" as Julia Cameron calls it. I went to the mercado and looked for tiles.
But I got there too early, so I had a little Mexican breakfast and walked around in the quiet of Market Square before the real tourists arrived.
I love this city! When I first moved here in 1967, I was delighted by the colors everywhere. Fiesta flags hang year round, as well as mosaics of tile and colorful tabletops.
I love the food, the colors, the people, everything about San Antonio. I could spend a day just taking pictures downtown, but here are a few to entice friends and family to come here!
But I got there too early, so I had a little Mexican breakfast and walked around in the quiet of Market Square before the real tourists arrived.
I love this city! When I first moved here in 1967, I was delighted by the colors everywhere. Fiesta flags hang year round, as well as mosaics of tile and colorful tabletops.
I love the food, the colors, the people, everything about San Antonio. I could spend a day just taking pictures downtown, but here are a few to entice friends and family to come here!
Charlie
Last night, as we were having our gourmet meal, the birds were having theirs in the yard. We watched them from the window.
Elena has always loved birds. As we observed the twenty-something sparrows, a dove, and a couple of cardinals pecking away, I improvised a narrative, changing my voice for the different birds. It went something like this:
"Charlie, why don't you come eat these seeds with us? Why are you standing over there by yourself pecking on that old pancake?"
Charlie, in his shy high-pitched voice: "Because I'm new here and I don't know you all yet. I like to stand over here by myself right now."
"But we like you. We want to be your friend. We have plenty to share."
Then Elena--who is presently dealing with shyness around her new friends at school--asked, "Which one is Charlie?"
I pointed to the one I was calling Charlie. It may or may not have been the one who inspired my tale, but it didn't matter. She was captivated.
"I wish I had a pet bird like you do, Yenna! You are so lucky!"
Elena has always loved birds. As we observed the twenty-something sparrows, a dove, and a couple of cardinals pecking away, I improvised a narrative, changing my voice for the different birds. It went something like this:
"Charlie, why don't you come eat these seeds with us? Why are you standing over there by yourself pecking on that old pancake?"
Charlie, in his shy high-pitched voice: "Because I'm new here and I don't know you all yet. I like to stand over here by myself right now."
"But we like you. We want to be your friend. We have plenty to share."
Then Elena--who is presently dealing with shyness around her new friends at school--asked, "Which one is Charlie?"
I pointed to the one I was calling Charlie. It may or may not have been the one who inspired my tale, but it didn't matter. She was captivated.
"I wish I had a pet bird like you do, Yenna! You are so lucky!"
Thursday, September 10, 2015
Gourmet Elena
Elena invented a new dish--frozen vegetables as entree.
She asked me if I had frozen peas and I said I had a bag of mixed vegetables, thinking we were going to steam them. On no--she wanted to eat them right out of the bag, frozen. She ate almost all the veggies in the bowl.
Serves One.
Prep Time: 30 seconds for opening the bag and whacking the frozen clumps into smaller clumps.
She asked me if I had frozen peas and I said I had a bag of mixed vegetables, thinking we were going to steam them. On no--she wanted to eat them right out of the bag, frozen. She ate almost all the veggies in the bowl.
Serves One.
Prep Time: 30 seconds for opening the bag and whacking the frozen clumps into smaller clumps.
Wednesday, September 9, 2015
Making Things Work
I decided--while I have Jaro the Terrific available--to extend my renovation project and paint the house as well. In two days, it's been power washed and painted, all but the trim, and I love it!
People often ask me why I paint so often, and I just think, "I wish you knew my friend Janet!" If Janet O paints a room and doesn't like it, she paints it again the next day. She's my inspiration. Her house is an ever-changing canvas.
Or someone will say she liked it the way it was. I liked my pink house, but now I also love my not-pink house. It feels like a brand new canvas: white with facia a shade or two darker than my car.
We used a sample of the trim color on one portion of the house today and it wasn't quite right. I couldn't figure out why until I called my friend Debbie, the Paint Lady. Debbie has a great eye for color and knows all the colors in the Behr palette like old friends. Turns out the first blue I picked had too much red in it and the eye read it as purple.
I learned this: If you are using two shades of the same color, they should be in the same color family. How did I get this far without knowing that? What a revelation! I've always just held up the paint chip and done the eye-squint test.
I also learned that you need to take paint chips out into the sunshine instead of choosing them inside the paint store.
At first, when I see the not-quite-right color, I panic a little. I really like to get it right the first time.
What gets me through every blunder are Carlene's words, "Everything is tuition." I pretend I'm in the graduate school of color, and every day is a pop quiz.
One change changes everything--and doing this has been (I'm guessing) like making a painting. A color in isolation is very different from the same color next to another. And a tiny paint chip is never enough of an indicator by which to color an entire wall. I have to be willing to "fail miserably"--I believe it was Brene Brown who advocated this--to get where I want to go.
Painting is my journey of this year.
People often ask me why I paint so often, and I just think, "I wish you knew my friend Janet!" If Janet O paints a room and doesn't like it, she paints it again the next day. She's my inspiration. Her house is an ever-changing canvas.
Or someone will say she liked it the way it was. I liked my pink house, but now I also love my not-pink house. It feels like a brand new canvas: white with facia a shade or two darker than my car.
We used a sample of the trim color on one portion of the house today and it wasn't quite right. I couldn't figure out why until I called my friend Debbie, the Paint Lady. Debbie has a great eye for color and knows all the colors in the Behr palette like old friends. Turns out the first blue I picked had too much red in it and the eye read it as purple.
I learned this: If you are using two shades of the same color, they should be in the same color family. How did I get this far without knowing that? What a revelation! I've always just held up the paint chip and done the eye-squint test.
I also learned that you need to take paint chips out into the sunshine instead of choosing them inside the paint store.
At first, when I see the not-quite-right color, I panic a little. I really like to get it right the first time.
What gets me through every blunder are Carlene's words, "Everything is tuition." I pretend I'm in the graduate school of color, and every day is a pop quiz.
One change changes everything--and doing this has been (I'm guessing) like making a painting. A color in isolation is very different from the same color next to another. And a tiny paint chip is never enough of an indicator by which to color an entire wall. I have to be willing to "fail miserably"--I believe it was Brene Brown who advocated this--to get where I want to go.
Painting is my journey of this year.
When the Body Talks
Sometimes, the body purrs, sometimes it growls. With the help of my friend and eclectic healer Gabi, I'm asking, "What's really going on here?"
By the time I left Gabi's place, I was calm, relaxed, and happy, and my neck had stopped growling. Today it whimpered off and on, but it's on the way, I think, to recovery.
What is my body saying to me?
Sometimes we all hold on to old emotional patterns when we already know, deep down, they don't serve us. I'm thinking of Maya Angelou's words, "When we know better, we do better."
Years ago, I read a book by Louise Hay about self-healing. In that book, she talked about the metaphorical meaning of pains and dis-eases. A "pain in the neck" or a "break-down" or any other description of pain can be regarded as a message that the mind can't grasp until the body speaks.
The person suffering from a malady can take a pill and mask it--or she can let the pain be a teacher.
Louise Hay, the 88-year-old teacher and writer, said, "The gateways to wisdom and learning are always open, and more and more I am choosing to walk through them. Barriers, blocks, obstacles, and problems are personal teachers giving me the opportunity to move out of the past and into the Totality of Possibilities."
Wednesday
Today was a good day. Charlotte invited Kate and Gerlinde and me to have lunch at her house-- a delicious summer salad and conversation!
Mike had called this morning to say that he'd found a bed on Craigslist that he wanted for himself or for me, a brass and iron bed we'd been looking for. So I borrowed Will and Bonnie's truck, drove to Austin, and picked up the bed. It's beautiful. The owners had bought this hundred-year-old bed in the seventies and built a platform which makes it work for a queen-sized mattress. I have a feeling it wants to stay at my house.
The man selling the bed was a retired school superintendent. His wife--a beautiful white-haired woman with a sweet smile--had Alzheimers and stood in the driveway watching as we loaded their bed into the truck.
"Honey, I just sold our bed," he said to her. She held the hand of her caretaker and looked on pleasantly, saying something about the bed "going around and around."
Mike had called this morning to say that he'd found a bed on Craigslist that he wanted for himself or for me, a brass and iron bed we'd been looking for. So I borrowed Will and Bonnie's truck, drove to Austin, and picked up the bed. It's beautiful. The owners had bought this hundred-year-old bed in the seventies and built a platform which makes it work for a queen-sized mattress. I have a feeling it wants to stay at my house.
The man selling the bed was a retired school superintendent. His wife--a beautiful white-haired woman with a sweet smile--had Alzheimers and stood in the driveway watching as we loaded their bed into the truck.
"Honey, I just sold our bed," he said to her. She held the hand of her caretaker and looked on pleasantly, saying something about the bed "going around and around."
Tuesday, September 8, 2015
Nikon 5500 for Dummies
Well, if I'd ever told myself I'd read an instruction manual cover to cover, I wouldn't have believed myself! My method of learning has usually been either (A) ask an expert to show me, or (B) just keep pressing buttons until something works.
So here it is past my bedtime and I'm engrossed in the Dummies book for my new camera--in preparation for photo shoots I agreed to do for a book before I realized what a steep learning curve I was embarking upon.
The iPhone camera is quite good, but since I want to do things beyond the smart phone range for this project and future snapshots of people, I decided to purchase this Nikon. And since I've been too busy until now to really study it, it's still a virgin camera--except for the pictures of my feet and bed I've taken while doing what the book tells me to do.
What the Apple people tell you is true: the best camera is the one you have with you. And we all have our smart phone cameras with us at every moment of the day.
But when I see what this camera can do, I'm inspired to try everything--from outside bulb shots at night to switching the focus and aperture for different effects and lighting situations. I still have 90% of the book to go, but I'll be keeping Elena on Thursday night and she loves to be my subject. What a ham she is!
This morning at Twin Sisters breakfast we were all trying to put a positive spin on tomorrow, her first day of school. Later, her mom said, "I'm sure you won't cry tomorrow because it's going to be so much fun"--an opinion Elena quickly put to rest: "I am going to cry, Mommy!"
At times, reading this book, I feel a little bit like crying--because it's rather daunting to hold so many different options in my mind at once: touch screens and menus, lens settings and editing controls. But each step gets a tiny bit less scary as I go. As the video tutorial guy said, "If you stay in automatic mode, what you have is a very expensive point and shoot camera."
So here it is past my bedtime and I'm engrossed in the Dummies book for my new camera--in preparation for photo shoots I agreed to do for a book before I realized what a steep learning curve I was embarking upon.
The iPhone camera is quite good, but since I want to do things beyond the smart phone range for this project and future snapshots of people, I decided to purchase this Nikon. And since I've been too busy until now to really study it, it's still a virgin camera--except for the pictures of my feet and bed I've taken while doing what the book tells me to do.
What the Apple people tell you is true: the best camera is the one you have with you. And we all have our smart phone cameras with us at every moment of the day.
But when I see what this camera can do, I'm inspired to try everything--from outside bulb shots at night to switching the focus and aperture for different effects and lighting situations. I still have 90% of the book to go, but I'll be keeping Elena on Thursday night and she loves to be my subject. What a ham she is!
This morning at Twin Sisters breakfast we were all trying to put a positive spin on tomorrow, her first day of school. Later, her mom said, "I'm sure you won't cry tomorrow because it's going to be so much fun"--an opinion Elena quickly put to rest: "I am going to cry, Mommy!"
At times, reading this book, I feel a little bit like crying--because it's rather daunting to hold so many different options in my mind at once: touch screens and menus, lens settings and editing controls. But each step gets a tiny bit less scary as I go. As the video tutorial guy said, "If you stay in automatic mode, what you have is a very expensive point and shoot camera."
Monday, September 7, 2015
Grain Brain
My chiropractor recommended that I read Grain Brain. I downloaded it last night and am reading it today. His argument is compelling, as he explains the connection between diabetes and Alzheimers, and overconsumption of carbohydrates and gluten.
We are not eating our grandmother's grains. Our genetically modified grains contribute to inflammation, the major risk factor in the upsurge of so many diseases.
While we should cut way back on carbohydrates, Dr. Perlmutter says that we should eat more healthy fats: avocados, olives, coconut and olive oils, and lots of nuts.
http://www.drperlmutter.com/about/grain-brain-cookbook/
We are not eating our grandmother's grains. Our genetically modified grains contribute to inflammation, the major risk factor in the upsurge of so many diseases.
While we should cut way back on carbohydrates, Dr. Perlmutter says that we should eat more healthy fats: avocados, olives, coconut and olive oils, and lots of nuts.
http://www.drperlmutter.com/about/grain-brain-cookbook/
Sunday, September 6, 2015
Recipe for a Reboot
There are so many recipes--but here's the one I chose:
After a nap, I went to Spa D'Santi and had an amazing massage focusing on my neck. I'd planned to get one this week, but I needed the knots out NOW--and the young therapist, Nick, did a terrific job. I walked out feeling like a new woman, and I liked her better than the old one.
Right next door, at Sky Nails, where they play instrumental music instead of TV, I got a much-needed pedicure and nearly fell asleep in the chair. A pedicure is--next to a massage--the best way I know to reverse frumpy.
Then I went solo to Cappy's, my favorite restaurant, just to close out the day on their deck with the best iced tea in the neighborhood, and watched the sun going down.
Today was all about solitude and pampering.
All of this set the tone for tomorrow's creative venture--learning the camera so I can take pictures and post the casita on Air BnB.
After a nap, I went to Spa D'Santi and had an amazing massage focusing on my neck. I'd planned to get one this week, but I needed the knots out NOW--and the young therapist, Nick, did a terrific job. I walked out feeling like a new woman, and I liked her better than the old one.
Right next door, at Sky Nails, where they play instrumental music instead of TV, I got a much-needed pedicure and nearly fell asleep in the chair. A pedicure is--next to a massage--the best way I know to reverse frumpy.
Then I went solo to Cappy's, my favorite restaurant, just to close out the day on their deck with the best iced tea in the neighborhood, and watched the sun going down.
Today was all about solitude and pampering.
All of this set the tone for tomorrow's creative venture--learning the camera so I can take pictures and post the casita on Air BnB.
Incredible Things
Elena stayed late both Saturday and Sunday, to my delight, but she's not yet ready to spend the night. We swam, ate dinner at Beto's with Freda, made a painting for her mommy, and watched a few episodes of Wild Kratts and The Einsteins. I introduced her to Dr. Suess and she thought "Cat in the Hat" was hilarious, interrupting every few pages to ask, "Why won't he just try it?"
Wild Kratts is her all-time favorite Netflix series--all about animals and their individual "creature powers." I highly recommend it if you have small children around who want to watch movies on your laptop.
"You know what I saw last night when I opened the door?" I asked. "A big fat raccoon was in the bird feeder, eating all the leftover sunflower seeds!"
"That is incredible!" she said. Then, after a pause, "Another incredible thing is that Mommy saw a huge porcupine on her run yesterday."
I asked Freda if Elena reminded her of her granddaughter at three. "Jessica wasn't nearly so chatty," Freda said. Neither was my Will. But Aunt Day was exactly like Elena in her chattiness. I used to have to bribe her with an Oreo to stop talking for five minutes. Elena, like Day at her age, has many opinions and stories to share, and she likes to contribute a great deal to adult conversations.
If she gets sufficient attention, she will embellish her stories. "Sometimes I slide off the saddle and fall on the ground and everybody thinks I'm dead," she said. (This has never happened.)
She had a meltdown, Will said, at her Meet-The-Teacher day last week, so we're all wondering how she will fare when she's dropped off on Wednesday for her first day in the company of a roomful of terrifying three-year-olds. I think she'll wind up liking them--especially if they have animals to tell her about. If she doesn't, that will be incredible.
Vulnerability and Wholeheartedness
I began my day in a quandary: two last minute cancelations for writing group left us too small a group to meet for our lift-off to the new school year, so we four who were left on board decided to postpone our opening meeting until October.
My first thought was, "Now what?" I'd planned for something, looked forward to it, and had to change course--just like on a road trip when you encounter unmoving traffic or a road block.
"Doing nothing" is not a comfortable response. So I returned some broken things to Lowe's, washed all the sheets and towels, and cleaned the casita. But with an aching neck, I was forced to stop, to do nothing after all, and go to bed with an ice pack and ibuprofen. I read my Sunday School material--Brainpickings, which is wonderful. And this week's post linked to another favorite, "On Being With Krista Tippet" in which she interviewed Brene Brown. The interview lasts an hour, I fell asleep ten minutes in and will have to rewind to hear it all.
With my chronic neck issues of late, along with a few other things, I have been feeling vulnerable. I've always hated to admit it when I feel a negative feeling--like vulnerability or depression. I want to be perpetually sunny, positive and strong. I shrink even from talk about vulnerability or shame (Brene Brown's subjects), and have therefore not been an enthusiastic reader of Brown. But this morning's piece on Brainpickings, along with the interview changed my mind:
She's right. As soon as I admit feeling vulnerable, or whatever, that feeling usually begins to dissipate as I turn my focus to something creative.
My first thought was, "Now what?" I'd planned for something, looked forward to it, and had to change course--just like on a road trip when you encounter unmoving traffic or a road block.
"Doing nothing" is not a comfortable response. So I returned some broken things to Lowe's, washed all the sheets and towels, and cleaned the casita. But with an aching neck, I was forced to stop, to do nothing after all, and go to bed with an ice pack and ibuprofen. I read my Sunday School material--Brainpickings, which is wonderful. And this week's post linked to another favorite, "On Being With Krista Tippet" in which she interviewed Brene Brown. The interview lasts an hour, I fell asleep ten minutes in and will have to rewind to hear it all.
With my chronic neck issues of late, along with a few other things, I have been feeling vulnerable. I've always hated to admit it when I feel a negative feeling--like vulnerability or depression. I want to be perpetually sunny, positive and strong. I shrink even from talk about vulnerability or shame (Brene Brown's subjects), and have therefore not been an enthusiastic reader of Brown. But this morning's piece on Brainpickings, along with the interview changed my mind:
A common denominator Brown found in those able to rise strong from their facedown moments is an active engagement with the creative impulse, whatever the medium — a physical practice integrating the intellectual, the emotional, and the spiritual:
Creativity embeds knowledge so that it can become practice. We move what we’re learning from our heads to our hearts through our hands. We are born makers, and creativity is the ultimate act of integration — it is how we fold our experiences into our being… The Asaro tribe of Indonesia and Papua New Guinea has a beautiful saying: “Knowledge is only a rumor until it lives in the muscle.”
She's right. As soon as I admit feeling vulnerable, or whatever, that feeling usually begins to dissipate as I turn my focus to something creative.
Saturday, September 5, 2015
Elena and Tella
Tella is Elena's very soft girl monkey.
Elena wanted to make a costume and glasses for Tella.
Jan overheard the request for glasses and brought us jewelry wire--which made perfectly good monkey glasses.
Then we went swimming with Freda, but not Tella--who was in the car worrying that she had no dress. So when we came home, we got out the sewing machine and, to Elena's great fascination, made a monkey dress.
I hadn't used the machine in a long, long time. "Can it make a raccoon costume?" she asked.
Taking pictures of each other at the pool:
Elena wanted to make a costume and glasses for Tella.
Jan overheard the request for glasses and brought us jewelry wire--which made perfectly good monkey glasses.
 |
| Tella's Portrait by Elena |
Then we went swimming with Freda, but not Tella--who was in the car worrying that she had no dress. So when we came home, we got out the sewing machine and, to Elena's great fascination, made a monkey dress.
I hadn't used the machine in a long, long time. "Can it make a raccoon costume?" she asked.
Taking pictures of each other at the pool:
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