Thursday 3/31

Next door live two remarkable little boys--Sebastien and Makken.  They live with their mother Kate and their grandmother, Jan.

Sebastien looks like a miniature Harry Potter; he's in the second grade at Cambridge in the Spanish immersion program.  Makken is an adorable four-year-old who goes to preschool at the zoo.  Both are delightfully curious, bright,  and affectionate, just like their mother and grandmother.

Today, Sebastien came over to show us his dog costume for a play at school on Friday.  While he was here, Mike gave him a box of Dreamsicles, orange with vanilla ice cream.

Later, the two boys came over with gifts for Mike--hand-made thank you notes.  Pam was here, having brought us a yummy dinner, and it turns out that Pam's great-nephew, Jack,  and Sebastien are good friends.

Makken's picture of a rainy day

Mike said these cards made his day!  What a wonderful thing for children to be grateful for such small presents as popsicles!

When everyone left, Mike said, "You have a gift."

"What is it?" I asked.

"You pick the greatest people for friends!  I just love your friends!"

I'm feeling fine--and relieved to have the surgery over.  The doctor predicted that the next two days would be less easy, but who knows?  I'm just going to take it easy this weekend and keep reading a good book Pam lent me: The Penny Poet of Portsmouth.  This was my view of the Happy Deck under further construction this afternoon--as I spent the day in and out of sleep:

Party of Many

I was lucky.  Mike had a bonus trip here for the week--the same week I discovered I had to have a biopsy and excision of a (probably benign) breast lump.  We just got back and I'm still a bit loopy from anesthesia, but I'm going to bed with a good book and nap while Mike continues to work on the bird room outside my window.

Two feeders in the front and one on the happy deck has attracted the attention of many cardinals and sparrows and big bossy doves.  We have a party of a hundred birds, at least, hopping from limb to limb to feeder.

All the medical people at Methodist were wonderful, and I particularly liked my surgeon, Dr. Cardenas, and the happy anesthesiologist, Dr. Simons.

I'll have final biopsy results on Tuesday, but he said it looked good so far.

Synchronicity

I love words! Several years ago, several of us were reading a book about synchronicities, a concept coined by Carl Jung in 1950: the simultaneous occurrence of events that appear significantly related but have no discernible causal connection.

Sometimes, I'll be writing a word and hear it within a minute or two on NPR.  Sometimes, like yesterday, driving home from lunch, I'll be thinking about someone (yesterday it was Linda Kot), the phone rings and it's Linda!

At lunch, Pam and I were talking about simplifying our lives, making more time for the things and people who matter.  Low maintenance hair styles, cars, clothes, houses.  Then I read this morning's Brainpickings, and the top article (by Erich Fromm) was about simplifying life:

https://www.brainpickings.org/2016/03/23/erich-fromm-the-art-of-living/?mc_cid=0379a5846e&mc_eid=7940cd5ca2

Today I was thinking about Janet Oglethorpe, a dear friend I haven't seen for too long a time--then she sent me this poem by David Whyte:

EASTER BLESSING

The blessing of the morning light to you,
may it find you even in your invisible
appearances, may you be seen to have risen
from some other place you know and have known
in the darkness and that that carries all you need.
May you see what is hidden in you
as a place of hospitality and shadowed shelter,
may that hidden darkness be your gift to give,
may you hold that shadow to the light
and the silence of that shelter to the word of the light,
may you join all of your previous disappearances
with this new appearance, this new morning,
this being seen again, new now, and newly alive.

These synchronicities make me sit up and pay attention!

I listened this morning to "A Way With Words" on NPR--an excellent program about the pronunciations and usages of words in different regions of the country.  Do you say "Ahnt" or "Ant" or "Aint" to describe your mother or father's sister?  Do you call the evening meal "supper" or "dinner"?  The two linguistic geniuses who host the program teach me so much about usage and the etymology of words.  If you can't hear it on the radio, you might want to check it out online.

Saturday

Some days--with this mysterious connective tissue illness--are relatively pain free, like yesterday.  Other days, like today, I feel like I have the flu--aching all over and groaning when I get out of chairs.  After all these various tests, I should have a diagnosis by April 6th.

Otherwise, today was a great day.  Pam and I had lunch at Simi's for her belated birthday.  "This is what it feels like to be rich!" she said, standing at the buffet of Indian food.

This woman loves her Saag Paneer!

I talked to a woman this morning who works at the nursery--a woman whose health, car, and house are not in good shape.  She "gets nervous driving," so she travels to and from work on the bus.  At one point, I suggested I take her to lunch at Sol Luna and she can help me identify the plants I like there.  "Lunch?" she asked, incredulously.  "At a restaurant?"

When I told her that I have a ninety-year-old mother who loves her yard and flowers, she said, "Ninety? I wish I could live that long."

"We are rich, and I'm so grateful! " Pam said.  "We get to get in our cars and drive wherever we want, whenever we feel like it, and do whatever feeds our souls."  Freedom is  real prosperity.

When I talk to older women, as I did when I photographed the women in the book of Wise Women Over 80, one thing always stands out--many of these youthful older women have experienced griefs, illnesses and suffering, yet they say how "grateful" they are.  The oldest interview subject in her late 90s, a long time friend of Bonnie's, well-known yoga teacher,  recently widowed, always answers the question, "How are you?" with one word: "Grateful."

Pie

This pie is one of my favorites:

Strawberry Pie (Or Mixed Fruit Pie)

Make a graham cracker crust.  Or do as I did and copy Gerlinde's idea: Make the crust with ginger snaps.  Crush up the cookies really fine and mix them with some butter and sugar.  Bake the crust a little bit--about 8 minutes will do.

As it cools, make the filling:

1 1/2 cup cold water
6 t. cornstarch
1 t. sugar
1 small jello (strawberry, raspberry, or whatever)

Mix thoroughly and cook, stirring constantly until the mixture is thick.  Cool and then add four cups of berries, all strawberries or a mix of blueberries, raspberries, or what have you.

While it cooks and while it cools, listen to World Music on TPR, then settle in for a night of movie-watching.

The next day, top it with whipped cream--and voila!  It's a winner every time.

Some Inspiration for my Writer Friends

Linda Kot sent me an enthusiastic recommendation--to read The Fairy Tale Girl by Susan Branch of Martha's Vineyard.  The author's blog gives you a good idea of what she does, incorporating drawings and handwritten text.  I'm looking forward to landing a copy of the book, but until I do, here's Susan Branch's  blog:

http://www.susanbranch.com/

Last time I saw Elena, I was so afraid she'd have learned to pronounce "lemonade" correctly--but no. She still has one baby word left: littamade.

So I just went out and bought the ingredients to make a big pitcher of littamade for tomorrow's Easter cookout.  That and chocolate cake and strawberry pie.

I'd bought one of those large spouted drink containers at a garage sale last week, hoping to use it for making kombucha, but my teacher, Kate, said it had to be a glass or pottery container.  So today, celebrating Pam's birthday belatedly, Pam suggested I use it for Easter littamade.

Betty's Birthday Monday

Monday will be the birthday of my oldest (longevity of friendship, not years) friend, Betty.  Good fortune had it that we were both born in 1948 and both wound up in Cochran, a small town in Middle Georgia, in which to grow up.  We walked to and from school together, we had most of the same teachers and friends, and we both went to First Baptist Church every Sunday, morning and night.

One night after a revival, we sat in my parents' car, philosophically troubled by the point of the visiting preacher's sermon.

"How could it be that people who don't know about Jesus have to go to Hell?" Betty asked, outraged as she always was at injustice.

"I know!" I said.  "That doesn't seem fair at all!"

"I think exceptions must be made, " Betty said.

At one point in our young lives, we had some harebrained idea that we should go to Africa and be missionaries to the infidels, but then we got distracted by a pink jeep in some teenaged movie and decided that we'd like to dedicate ourselves to having one of those instead.

Once, we picked blackberries for a whole day, intending to sell enough to buy a $300 Singer Slant 'o-matic sewing machine.  But after one day of picking, we retired.

"The only thing I still like about that idea," Betty said yesterday, "is you and blackberries.  I detest sewing and picking."

Betty made marginally better grades than I did.  She played the piano dramatically better than I did.  We both took piano lessons from Miss Marguerite who--at the time--seemed ancient.  While Betty was playing, I gazed at the portrait over the piano, a portrait of Miss Marguerite's daughter, Jane, who had died of polio. Jane--who, according to her mother "could play like an angel"--was a formidable ghost in our shared childhood.

Betty played "exquisitely"--emphasis on the second syllable.  "Ex QUI sit!" Miss Marguerite said (ad nauseum, I thought) when Betty played. To me, she just said, "You have a nice touch."

Betty, the solo twirler at Cochran High School,  could throw two fire batons in the air and catch them every single time--while dancing to the music of the band.  I never even made the basic majorette team!

All through high school, I dated the man I'd later marry, and Betty styled my hair for dates. She (my maid-of-honor) even styled it for my wedding.  She rolled it on brush rollers, brushed it out, teased it, and then she curled my eyelashes and told me how to line my eyes and apply eye shadow.

In spite of our differences, we were best friends, always, except for a brief hiatus in fifth grade when we weren't because we both preferred Brenda Cooty.

Due to the geography and circumstances of our lives, we only see each other two or three days a year.  But when we talk, we collapse the miles and pick up the threads from our last conversation.  Nobody does dark humor like Betty!  She can tell the saddest stories and have me laughing my head off.

It's a great thing to have a friend who goes back more than sixty years, a friend who knew you and your whole family--and vice versa.  It's an exquisite thing to have a friend who knows every single one of your secrets,  someone who knows all the same characters of childhood and all the creeks and streets of the same drowsy town.  And here we are, friends still, a thousand miles apart, as ancient now as Miss Marguerite used to be.

The Journey of Self-Discovery

https://www.farnamstreetblog.com/2016/03/journey-of-self-discovery/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+68131+%28Farnam+Street%29

On The Road to Happy

Maybe it's the full moon.  Maybe a couple of random planets are making mischief with emotional landscapes. Maybe it's the official onset of spring.  Maybe it's the cumulative angry voices we hear on the news, especially from my least-favorite-of-all-time candidate, The Donald. Whatever it is, many of us seem to be passing through some Stuff--or vice versa.

Sad, worried, disappointed, bored, frustrated, overwhelmed, stressed, invisible: these are some of the words I've heard lately--in conversations and emails with other people and in my own head.

My day yesterday became so incredibly packed that I didn't get to say Happy Birthday to Pam until 9:00.  A malfunctioning phone--again--took an hour at the AT&T Store and the phone is still working only sporadically.  Then a long drive to and from the breathing test (which I passed) and a chest x-ray, then a 4:00 hair appointment which lasted until 8:30! (My Georgia stylist would have had me in and out in an hour, for half the cost of this marathon session.)

But the 21-year-old stylist with turquoise-streaked hair was delightful.  We talked about politics and life.  While we are on two different sides of the political fence, it was a fair and respectful conversation.  "I wish the candidates could just talk to each other instead of yelling and name-calling," she said. "Maybe both sides would learn something."

When I looked in the mirror this morning, however, I was disappointed with the results--but oh well, it's just hair, after all.

Then two hours this morning with the ophthalmologist and the hair is overshadowed by the temporary but garish turquoise dye in and around both eyes.

On the upside of all these medical tests: nothing sinister has turned up and when I fill out the reams of papers at each office, I get to mark NO on almost every ailment.  In waiting rooms with amputees, breathing machines, and walkers, I feel incredibly fortunate.

My friend Diana has been valiantly working to train her huge rescue puppy who turned out to be a Rottweiler mix.  Roz has incredibly energy and enthusiasm and doesn't know her own strength.  On several occasions, Diana has found herself on the ground with scrapes and bruises after a walk with this independent canine.  In puppy school, Roz--it turns out--does not play well with others.

In an email yesterday, Diana, Wise One, said that we are companions "on the road to happy."  I loved that phrase!

Most of us are on the Road to Happy and most days we are There, but it's not a straight, level road.  Sometimes stones show up and we trip and fall.  Sometimes we find solace in telling our close friends that we're on a detour or have hit a road block.  And sometimes, sadly, especially in waiting rooms, we encounter people so sick and broken that they may not even know that there is a Road to Happy.

Health report for my mama and friends....

So far, so good.
The cardiologist said everything looks normal, is doing an echocardiogram on Monday just to cover all the bases.  Today we just did the electrocardiogram and lots of questions.

I was so anxious about it last night I didn't sleep much, so I'm going to take a nap before getting my hair trimmed and root color freshened up.

I really liked this doctor.  He had a sense of humor, for one thing--and he liked me, for another.  He said I was cool!  I've never had a doctor comment on my coolness factor!

When I walked into the waiting room there were twin sisters, dressed identically--from their hairstyles to their shoes and pocket books!  They were in their 80s and have dressed exactly the same every day, even when their husbands were alive.  Now that they are widows, they share a house--so they don't have to call every night to decide what they are wearing the next day.

Rings and Breathing

Since the tax-preparer gave me a Monday deadline, I can procrastinate no longer.  Today is the day to write my financial story for 2015.

Pam sent me this inspiring story.  Some of you may relate to it--times when you struggled to release something you don't want to let go of, then (after a metaphorical trip to Peru) are ready to let it go:

Shirley MacLaine had a ring that she treasured greatly. At the onset of her spiritual breakthrough, she made a trip to Peru. One of the women who worked at the space where she was staying--a very primitive space--greatly admired the ring and asked to try it on. Shirley let her try on, but felt a bit anxious until it was back on her finger. 

Weeks later as she was preparing to return to her life in California the same woman asked for a ride into town with those taking Shirley to the airport. Again, the woman expressed fascination with the ring. This time Shirley had no problem giving the woman the treasured ring. The changes had occurred in Shirley. The experiences she had there had completely transformed her way of seeing, thinking, believing.

Another friend--who prefers to remain blog-anonymous--is traveling in another country and enjoying unspoiled landscapes and big water.    In an email this week, she wrote that much of life, as in literature, is about stripping away illusions.  "I took a large gulp of air and realized that the breaths of air we have ahead are limited."

Then, Linda (Cape Cod Linda) sent a sweet remembrance of my daddy--whom she knew well--on his birthday.

What a gift it is to have amazing friends on this wobbly part of the journey!

More from Liz Gilbert on "Living a Creative Life"

http://ideas.ted.com/fear-is-boring-and-other-tips-for-living-a-creative-life/

Now, my own tips:

1. If you are suffering from writer's block, malaise, sadness, depression or angst, go spend an hour in a nursery--either the kind that has little kids or the kind that has plants.  I did the latter today--my version of Julia Cameron's "The Artist Date."  Looking at growing green things shifts my perspective and juices my creative fruit and weeds.

2. Don't badger yourself during your solitary down time, as that only adds to the malaise.  Go with the flow of it.  Enjoy it even. Watch a series on TV (I'm watching The Americans right now) until suddenly, one day, you're finished with it, bored with it, or tired of sitting.  Crochet.  Paint something. Clean the bathroom.

3. Go to a thrift shop or real store and buy yourself a new blouse or two, maybe a piece of jewelry you can tinker with.  While you're there (if "there" is a thrift shop; Macy's won't want them), drop off two or three bags of clothes you no longer wear.

4. Buy some birthday cards for friends whose birthdays are coming up.  Write something a little cheery on them, even if you're not feeling all that chipper.  This is called "acting as if" until you find that it's actually happening.

5.  Watch and enjoy birds' antics around the feeder.  Order a birdbath from Amazon.  Fill the feeders with sunflower seeds.

6. Pick up the phone when people call to check on you, even if you're not in the mood to talk.  They will cheer you up--as you will cheer them up when their turn comes.  Be happy that people love you even when you're feeling unlovable and frumpy and out of circulation for a while.

7. Notice that one day the malaise will end.  You'll know it because you'll start taking interest in the projects you've been putting on the back burner--or entirely new ones.

8.  Take a little kid to the Hemisfair playground and just sit and gaze at the creative moves of kids with pails and shovels in the sand.  If you don't have a little kid, pretend you do and go and gaze anyway.

9.  Serve yourself refreshments--whatever you like.

10. Be brave.  You "can cry and be brave, both."  Take a lesson from my favorite four-year-old on this one.

The flower girl

My mother, Carlene, her sister, Dot, and their mother, Mimi, used to say, "Put my name under that"--referring to any treasure one had that the other liked a lot. It was a jokey way of saying, "When you're gone, I want that."

Once, Mimi, 46 years older than I, asked me to put HER name under something of mine--her typical optimistic way of assuming she might be here forever!

None of us actually puts a name under a chest or table or picture, but it's a family tradition to say that as a way of complimenting each other on good choices.  Maybe it's our way of acknowledging, obliquely, what we really don't want to talk about--the reality that death will inevitably take us and leave each other with tangible reminders of these good days we have together.

Carlene will say, "You can have this when I'm through with it,"--which means essentially the same thing.

I thought of saying it to Elena yesterday about the watch: "You can have it when I'm through with it." But for now, I can't part with Lloyd Harris' not-real-gold watch.  I wore it to his funeral service, even though the time had stopped.  I brought it home with me and keep it in different rooms in my house so I can look at it and hold it and feel a closeness with him.

My arm will never get "big enough" to wear it all the time, but I love having something in my hand that he treasured and refused to trade for a better watch all those years. Just touching something he touched is a connection to the man who loved with all his whole big heart.

All of those thoughts hung in the air, unspoken, when Elena asked me for Granddaddy's watch.  She rarely asks for anything outright, but she expresses such gratitude for every little thing I give her--as her daddy used to do when he was little.  I wanted to say, "You can have it when I'm through with it"--but I didn't want to frighten her (or myself) with the idea that one day I'd be someplace else just yet.

She admired a jar of flowers Joy had delivered to my porch this week.   Then at the park, we ran into a noisy inebriated man who said, "Show that little girl the purple flowers."  She walked right into the flower bed to smell the flowers up close.  "They smell so beautiful, like shampoo," she said.  "I love flowers, all colors."

Later, she asked me why the "man at the flowers" yelled so much and "talked crazy."  I told her he'd been drinking too much and she wanted to know what he drank "cause I drink a lot of water and it doesn't make me talk like that."

"My doctor at my four-year appointment told my parents not to let me drink too much milk," she added--still working out the connection between drinking and crazy.

"Why?" I asked.

"So I wouldn't have to get too many shots, I think," she said.  "When she gave me my shot I was brave.  My daddy gave me a present because I was brave, but I did also cry.  I was brave AND I cried, both."

When she asked if her great-grandfather loved her from Heaven, what I really wanted to say is, "You have no idea! He wouldn't be able to keep his eyes off you!  You would be the light of his life!"

Like her daddy was. Like Aunt Day was. Like Yenna and Nana were.

Elena Wearing Granddaddy's Watch

Today was the first time Elena has been in my house since her birthday--January 16th.  Whenever she comes to my house, she notices everything that has changed or been moved since her last visit. What she noticed right away was my daddy's watch on the yellow table.  It's one of my treasures, one of the few things I can't give away--though she knows that she can have almost anything of mine.

"That's what I want," she said, zeroing right in on the watch.  "I love it." 

I told her the story of the watch--how I gave it to Lloyd one Christmas and how he wore it all the time.  I showed her pictures of him.  "I didn't get to meet him?" she asked.  "Does he love me still, from Heaven?"

I assured her that he did.  "Can I just put it on?" she asked.

It was a perfect moment--two days before what would have been her great-granddaddy's birthday, March 19.  

I offered her a watch of my own, but no.  "I don' like red as much as gold," she said.  "One day when my arm gets bigger I can have this one?"

We explored the wonderful new playground at Hemisfair park all afternoon, then waited in long lines to go up into the Tower.  Some bigger kids at the park had told her it might be scary, but she told them, "I'm not scared of towers."  From the top of the city she said, "If my parents were here, they would say this is awesome." 

"I can see your country from here," she said, looking out over the lit-up city. And Mommy and Daddy's country too."

I gave her this little smocked dress.
"I love it because it has flowers on it," she said.

Hemisfair Playground

From Blanco Cafe to YeYa's

Today I finally roused myself from  bed and movies and went on a field trip with Kate, Charlotte, and Gerlinde.  We had breakfast at the Blanco Cafe, then we visited a fabric warehouse Gerlinde wanted to show us, then we wound up at Feed the Pig and YeYa's looking at junk.  Charlotte drove--and does that girl know how to drive!  She drives with speed and sass!

Here we are, each posing in a sign frame at YeYa's.

Charlotte

Kate

Gerlinde

Me

I wanted to see the house where Charlotte grew up, on Rosewood near Trinity, so we did.  Then Kate showed us the house on Huisache where she lived 13 years ago, where I had visited back when the two Siamese cats were kitties.  I showed them where we lived in 1967--on the other end of Huisache.

Kate and Charlotte both grew up in San Antonio and it was fun to hear their memories of growing up here just before I moved here , 1967.  They both played at Landa Park and both remember certain places that are no longer here, but they went to different schools and didn't know each other then.  They are, however, like two peas in a proverbial pod--you'd think they were sisters.

Gerlinde grew up in Germany, I grew up in Georgia--but we both moved to San Antonio in the late Sixties.

I remembered walking the 8 blocks to SAC from the Huisache house, and I remembered that awful year when two men who dubbed themselves the Thieves of Bagdad terrorized our neighborhood, two of our best friends among their victims. Shortly after that, we moved to Helotes--where I lived until 1997 and where my kids grew up.

In spite of a stiff neck (getting a steroid shot for it next week), it was fun poking around this hot, humid city with  good friends today!

Happy Deck

Not every day is a happy day.  In fact, I have had a stream of rather funky days lately.  One of my antidotes has been watching the very enjoyable Mozart in the Jungle on Amazon--recommended to me by several friends.

The other is gazing outside my bedroom/movie-room window.  Mike has dubbed the new deck and wall the Happy Deck--appropriately named. It brings me so much pleasure to watch the countless birds flying and scampering outside the window eating sunflower seeds and serenading me with chirps and birdsong.

So far, I'm calling them rather generic names--as I'm not sure yet what they are all called.  There are little brown speckled-winged birds, cardinals of the boy and girl variety, at least one blue jay, and a whole bunch of doves.   Tomorrow I will make hummingbird nectar and hope to attract some tiny guests to the Happy Deck.

Doubt and Questions

If you're tired of the shouting and name-calling; if you've heard all you can take of cliches, fights and boring, repetitive rhetoric; if you're hungry for intelligent and thought-provoking and non-political discourse, a good alternative is Ted Talks.

In this talk, Casey talks about belief, advocating for re-evalutating what we believe and how it impacts the world.

http://www.ted.com/talks/casey_gerald_the_gospel_of_doubt

A Sentimental Journey

Recently I stumbled upon a series on Amazon called The Americans.  I watched the first three episodes (probably won't keep watching)--and spied an actor who looked familiar.  Is that Richard Thomas? I wondered.  Sure enough--there was John Boy on a spy movie!

That sent me down the Rabbit Hole of internet searches: What has happened to Richard Thomas, Ralph Waite, Will Geer, and Michael Learned? I watched several short interviews on Youtube with Michael Learned who played Olivia, the mother of the seven kids, who talked about their on-screen life in the multigenerational household near Charlottesville, Virginia,  from the Depression to World War II.

When my children were little, we didn't have a TV for several years.  Then I discovered The Waltons on somebody else's TV and my parents bought us a television so we could watch it.  My kids and I went to K-Mart to buy the big, heavy boxy TV, rushed home and unpacked it, and watched my then-favorite program.  Every Thursday night at seven, we three watched it.  As the end of each episode approached, Day and Will looked at me grinning, knowing I'd be in tears!

In the Seventies, that was the life I wanted--that big house, grandparents and children all living together. I wanted to be Olivia, married to John.  And I wanted five other children to go with my two!

If I watched the episodes again, I doubt I would cry--but I'd watch closely to see what made me teary all those years ago.  Each episode was always a story in which conflicts were resolved, everyone working together to solve the crisis of the week.   John Walton was the epitome of kindness and fatherly wisdom.  At the end of the day, you could hear all the children and parents saying, "Goodnight" to each other.

One of the clips I watched last night was a speech by Ralph Waite at a Waltons reunion. He talked about the fact that his real life was in disarray (too much drinking, divorce, bad behavior on his part) when he began playing John and how his role in The Waltons inspired him to be a man like the father and husband he played on screen.

During my sentimental journey, I learned that Will Geer (Grandpa) had the same birthday as Nathan--March 9th.  Both Grandpa and Grandma have died.  And even John--Ralph Waite--died in 2014.  If Day and Will had been here, they'd have noticed I had tears in my eyes!

March 9th

Today was the day to complete the photography portion of the book of interviews of wise women over 80 in San Antonio--a book by Bonnie Lyons and Deb Field.

Our final photo subject was the San Antonio artist, Marilyn Lanfear.  I'd met her many years ago when Freda and I went to see her work--elaborate portraits made of buttons.  Because she is in the process of moving, her house was filled with boxes, but I was able to get a few shots of her artwork not yet packed.  She has lived in the house she's leaving for 16 years--a quaint old house in River Road.

The house Marilyn is moving into is a house I lived in for almost a year, 16 or 17 years ago.  When I first saw the Anastasia house, I thought it was the hands-down most adorable house I'd ever seen.  But when the house I'm now living in became available, I was ready to let go of Adorable for More Space, and I happily moved back into the Ogden House.  (I had lived here for a year before moving to the white and turquoise Anastasia house.)

The Anastasia House

Today is also the birthday of my third grandson, Nathan--HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NATHAN!  I wasn't there when Nathan was born, but when Will and Veronica met each other again as adults (having been high school sweethearts), Veronica  had this brown-eyed little boy with the contagious laugh and we all fell in love with him.

Nathan is Nine!

The Ogden House: Home

Tuesday

I always need a wee bit of transitional solitude after Mike leaves, a time to shift gears and return to whatever I was doing before. My transition this morning was plenty solitary, breathing softly and following directions: don't swallow, don't cough, don't move, and don't go to sleep.

After filling out the usual stacks of paper--no, I don't have metal inside me, no diabetes, no high blood pressure, nothing--I entered the growling MRI machine and let it take pictures of my neck.

The results aren't in yet, but I'm pretty sure it's going to confirm what the x-rays showed--garden-variety osteoarthritis.  The man behind the glass treated me to his soft and forgettable Muzak for 45 minutes.  I began to itch; I couldn't scratch.  Otherwise, it was a perfect place to cocoon and consider my mortality.

Medical machines make me feel reflective, cold, lonesome, and detached.  When I finally leave, another woman is waiting her turn.  She's wearing the same blue gown I'm wearing and about to take off.  I carry my key to the locker and collect my things. The man who guides me through the labyrinthine office space asks me--what else?--to fill out a survey form about their services.  Were they friendly?  Efficient?  How was check in procedure?  How long did I have to wait to be seen?

Seen indeed.  If we met on the street, none of us patients and technicians would recognize each other.

Everyone who sells us any goods or services wants feedback, stars, ratings.  The surveyors of my bones wanted to be surveyed, fair enough trade I guess.

SATURDAY IN SA

What we decided--as we drove around to garage sales in the Deco District this morning--is that it's not the things stacked on tables in other people's yards we want or need so much, it's that it's a fun Saturday morning treasure hunt, an excuse to drive through neighborhoods, funky and otherwise, to explore and talk to people.

Some typical lines from Mike:  "There's a 1952 red Cadillac!" "Look at  that old filling station."  "Weren't those the nicest people?" "I could live on this street!" "Look at those palm trees, wow!" "We like looking at things, don't we, Babe?"

At the end of the day, as we were sitting at Tribeca Happy Hour and enjoying pizza and calamari (my diet delayed another day), I said to Mike: "If you'd asked me what you probably bought at a yard sale, I'd never have guessed a pink panther.  Fifty cents.  Plastic."  I bought two beautiful turquoise lamps with brown shades, ten dollars for the pair, and two aluminum bar stools, even though I don't have a bar. "They are so cheap you can't not buy them!" Mike says.  "We'll paint them Linda Harris colors."

Tribeca is dog-friendly and we three enjoyed sitting on the patio as the day ended, and now we're going to watch a movie at home.  Mike has decided not to leave until Monday morning.

The truck is loaded with more old wood to complete the bird/squirrel sanctuary outside my bedroom window on Mike's next trip to Texas.

We skipped winter this year, and the trees and plants are all blooming.  Orange trees in the Jefferson area are heavy with oranges. It's been a beautiful day!

Outside my Bedroom Window

This is the wall Mike built outside the bedroom window--and the green triangle was meant to feed birds.  At this point in the morning, the birds and the squirrels are all eyeing it cautiously.   "Squirrels need food, too," Mike said.

We found these old doors at YeYa's and this old wood from a reclaimed salvage place on Hildebrand. At some point, Mike is going to build a partial roof over it and do the sides; right now, it's just a beautiful free-standing wall with a deck--but we'll finish the project his next visit.

Food

I have just completed an experiment--eating whatever tastes good, along with my partner in crime.   A biscuit here, a cinnamon bun there, a bite of donut just to be sociable, doncha know--and I ache all over and am very tired all the time.

I have a new friend who has an autoimmune disease: "After 13 doctors, many tests and a biopsy it turns out I have dermatomyositis." She reminded me of  the importance of eating like the Greek do--fish, vegetables and olive oil.  When she eats sugar, flour, or red meat, she can feel it in every joint.

So here goes: kumbucha from Kate and elsewhere, vegetable juice from the Urth Bar, and steering clear of sugar and other good tastes that apparently are toxic to my body.

When Mike goes back to Georgia, I'm going back to yoga and the gym.  I don't care if I lose weight or not, but I am determined to do all that I can do to feel easy in the joints.  I'm writing this to remind myself of the importance of eating unprocessed food and drinking more water.  Today my experiment with sweet rolls and bread is over, the results are in, and it's not good.

Sainthood in San Antonio--and everywhere else

Mike would be the first to say, "Don't be making me out to be a saint or nothing....cause I'm not!"  In fact, I believe he did say those words, verbatim.

Saints don't always look like saints, use perfect grammar, or wear an embroidered sash or turban. Sometimes they use socially unacceptable or politically incorrect phrases.  Sometimes they wear overalls and braid their hair; sometimes they dress in fashionable shoes and have bleached hair, fake eyelashes and tattoos.  Sometimes they are homeless, wearing pink sunglasses, and they yell out, "Share the love!"--like the woman we just talked to on the street. You never can tell, they're everywhere.

But in my effort to be a better person, I try to emulate good qualities when I see them.  Like tonight: At Earl Abel's--Donald Trump was on TV and I didn't say one negative thing!

Mike and I are laughing at our precious next-door neighbor, 4-year-old Makkin, who speaks in a very slow cadence: "Rememmmmber when you brought MooooooJoooooo to our house?"

Probably all children are saints.  They don't hold it against a dog if he pees on the brand new wood floor. They hardly hold anything against anybody.

Kindness

Last night we had barbecue at Big Bibs--a place on Austin Highway that serves delicious ribs, brisket, pulled pork, chicken, and catfish. Mike says it's hands down the best Texas barbecue. It's made right there, sliced there, and served with homemade collard greens, sweet potatoes, green beans, and baked potato casserole.  

When a young soldier walked in and found no place to sit,  Mike invited him to eat with us.  He was from North Carolina, shy, recently divorced, with a five-year-old daughter back home.  He seemed lonely.  Mike engaged him in a conversation about college basketball and they swapped stories of coaches and players.   When we left, the young man thanked us for the company.

These are the kinds of things Mike does every day.  He talks with people in wheel chairs and the men bussing the tables and the women who clean the rooms.  He seems to have a sixth sense about anyone who's lonely or in pain.  In fact, that's why he's here--on the planet and in my house right now.  I was going through a challenging week and he and MoJo got in the truck and drove here.  "MoJo loves coming to see Mama and them," he says, laughing.  I think I'M now "Mama and 'em" 

Mike loves my friends.  "You have a treasure chest in all your friends," he says. 

Mojo, who's usually a perfect gentleman of a dog, however, transgressed when we went over to Jan's the other day and peed on her floor! I was mortified, but Jan made a joke of it, cleaned it up, and let it go. 

Like the Dalai Lama who says, "My religion is kindness," Mike's religion is kindness.  

I'm remembering that night at a rodeo when  Nathan walked up to me and asked, "Do you think Mike would build me a go-kart?"  

"I don't know, let's ask him," I said--dialing Mike's number.  

"Will you build me a go-kart?" Nathan asked--to which Mike responded, "Yes, sure, I'll build you one."  The next trip to Texas, he had Nathan's go-kart in the back of the truck.

"Ask and you shall receive," it says in Bible and in the bible of Mike's religion.  All of us who know Mike well know that all we have to do is ask and he'll do it.  

"Unique Brushstrokes in the Art That Life Is"

I just got back from Barnes and Nobles where I found a copy of the March issue of Bella Grace.  It's a thick no-ad, colorful magazine of articles and photographs--a beautiful magazine to hold in your hands.   Here is my daughter Day's article, "The Kindness of Teenagers."  Her mama is so proud of her!

     At a neighborhood party someone asks me what I do for a living.  I say, "I teach high school English."  The neighbor shifts her weight, looks at me sympathetically, and moans, "Woah!  Teenagers, huh?'  I respond, "What?  They're wonderful!  They're hilarious and unpredictable and earnest, and most often they are far kinder than you could possibly believe." Her face relaxes, hopeful to know we all may be in good hands after all, but she wants proof.  So, I pull out one of my hundreds of stories and share.

     Bradley (not his real name), 21 and with a receding hairline, is a student in our center for physically and intellectually disabled teenagers in our area.  His disability is obvious.  He walks with a cane to compensate for his incredibly poor vision; he limps and holds one arm in a permanently bent position.  His super-ability is also obvious: He is perpetually happy and interested in other people.

     Scott is an athletic college student.  He is tall and poised, already confident and funny, a future leader of a company or head of a pediatric hospital.

     One day last January, my colleague and I took our classes to the Swedish Embassy for an anti-drug rally that focused on teaching students to use performance poetry to express the truths they see on a daily basis.  Neither Bradley nor Scott would likely be susceptible to drug use, and yet they both sat transfixed as a surviving parent of a  victim of synthetic marijuana told her story of senseless loss.  Afterward, the large group of students was broken into smaller groups to write poetry to reflect that pain, poetry that they might later share with their peers at the rally.

     Nervously, I let Bradley leave my side and join his group, knowing that anyone from our school would be able to help him, or come get me if his needs were greater than their comfort level. I had no idea what would happen in that room, but I knew I could trust Scott and the other students from my school to love and serve their friend.

     The door closed, and I hoped for good things.

     As it turned out, some other kids in Bradley and Scott's group attended schools where they were not exposed to disabled students at every single school event.  As a result, they were confused by Bradley's clear difference.  They could see his crooked arm, his cane, and his limp, but a few moments in a small group didn't allow them to see his genuine excitement about life.  Instead of understanding, one of the less mature kids started pointing and laughing at Bradley.  As often happens, his peers joined in the joking.

     Bradly, confused by the bullying, leaned over to Scott and said in a quiet voice, "Scott, why are they laughing at me?"

     Scott glanced over to his inexperienced, fearful peers, looked back at Bradley, and lied, "Oh, They're not laughing at you, Buddy.  They're laughing at me and the crazy shirt I have on."

     Bradley smiled sympathetically, put his loving hand on his friend's arm, and said, "I'm sorry they're laughing at you, Scott."

     "It's OK," Scott replied.  "I can take it."

    And he did.

     That's the kind of fierce love and kindness teenagers can show.  They can leverage their own gifts in the service of others.  They can see what is right and do it.  They can feel each other's pain.

     My goal, each an every day I go to work, is to find a story of surprising kindness or hilarity or beauty, a story that helps me see all humans, not just the teenaged ones, as unique brushstrokes in the art that life is.  And when I remember the stories, and share them, like so many generous writers have done in this very magazine, then I offer my neighbors the opportunity to see the beauty too.


*****

Day Leary calls herself a potential-olinator, pollinating potential wherever she sees is.  She is a mother, wife, sister, teacher, quilter, writer, dancer, hinder, reader, and all-around seeker of moments of inspiration and flow.