Saturday, April 30, 2016
Real Georgia Cornbread, No Flour
This past week, wanting to try my hand at a German pancake like Kate's, I noticed that I didn't have a large enough cast iron skillet--just a little tiny one.
So my mama put money in my pocket book and said, "Go get you one" and I went right over to Sunset Ridge Hardware and got me one.
Suddenly, in possession of a genuine cast iron skillet, I got to thinking about cornbread--the kind that can only be made in a black skillet preheated in the oven with grease in it. My parents used to make it all the time, and it goes something like this:
Pour some SELF-RISING cornmeal in a bowl, then pour a little oil, some BUTTERMILK, and an egg or two. Mix it up and pour it into a hot oiled skillet.
The problem is that in San Antonio, there's no SELF-RISING cornmeal. On the packages of regular cornmeal, the recipes usually include flour and regular milk (or "sweet milk" as my daddy used to call it.)
So yesterday, Pam and Carlene and I were wondering together if you have to use baking soda if you're using buttermilk.
Here's what I found on the net:
Buttermilk is ideal in baking because there's no fat and it acts very much like whole milk....If you are going to substitute buttermilk for milk in your recipes, you'll need to change the amount of baking soda and baking powder as well. This is because of the higher acid content in buttermilk. You will usually need less baking soda or baking powder.
For each cup of buttermilk used instead of milk you will want to use 2 teaspoons less baking powder and add 1/2 teaspoon of baking soda.
So my mama put money in my pocket book and said, "Go get you one" and I went right over to Sunset Ridge Hardware and got me one.
Suddenly, in possession of a genuine cast iron skillet, I got to thinking about cornbread--the kind that can only be made in a black skillet preheated in the oven with grease in it. My parents used to make it all the time, and it goes something like this:
Pour some SELF-RISING cornmeal in a bowl, then pour a little oil, some BUTTERMILK, and an egg or two. Mix it up and pour it into a hot oiled skillet.
The problem is that in San Antonio, there's no SELF-RISING cornmeal. On the packages of regular cornmeal, the recipes usually include flour and regular milk (or "sweet milk" as my daddy used to call it.)
So yesterday, Pam and Carlene and I were wondering together if you have to use baking soda if you're using buttermilk.
Here's what I found on the net:
Buttermilk is ideal in baking because there's no fat and it acts very much like whole milk....If you are going to substitute buttermilk for milk in your recipes, you'll need to change the amount of baking soda and baking powder as well. This is because of the higher acid content in buttermilk. You will usually need less baking soda or baking powder.
For each cup of buttermilk used instead of milk you will want to use 2 teaspoons less baking powder and add 1/2 teaspoon of baking soda.
Mother Stories
With the approach of Mother's Day, I would love it if those of you who read this would send me short stories about your mothers that I can post.
I'm going to share two paragraphs I loved from emails this week--one from Diana, one from Yvette:
1. May 1 (tomorrow) is Diana's birthday. I asked her what she would do to celebrate her birthday and she wrote me this:
"I have never been sensitive about celebrating my birthday, and more so ever since Mother died. I don't pay too much attention to it. Mother would always call and sing me the birthday song. If you knew how much she detested talking on the phone, you could appreciate this gesture of love."
2. Yvette has been spending a lot of time and energy caring for someone who is ill in her family. But even during a difficult time, she's gleaning life lessons and channeling the voices of her mother and grandmother to give her strength:
"The other day I fell over my own feet in our back bedroom in our home; Falling Face front, leaning to the right, partially on my knees on top of an old injury. I was by myself, started crying for only 2 seconds & suddenly found myself breaking out in a bombastic laugh. I invoked my mother & her mother. I suddenly was able to lift myself, calm myself, listen to myself & my body. I found a key! To my struggle."
A Week Before Mother's Day
Carlene, my mother, is a remarkable person--as in one whose incredible vitality is often remarked upon!
Sixty-somethings, including her daughter, are amazed at her vigor and flexibility--and one of her favorite moments is telling people, "I'm ninety" and receiving looks of disbelief. "NO, you can't be!" people say.
Her memory is better than mine, especially right now when I'm having staggering thoughts and losing words in thin air--which I attribute to lingering effects of anesthesia and/or stopping taking bottled estrogen. Her endurance and speed when walking are outright intimidating.
I'm sitting today on my porch missing her lively company. She loves sitting on the porch, reading, talking, and observing everything and everybody moving on the street. I'm sitting in her chair reading The Little Locksmith, which she already read, and looking out on my yard that is beautiful with bright yellow Esperanza (Spanish for "hope"), blue plumbago, Meyer's lemon, a caladium, purslane, and herbs--not yet placed in the ground, but scattered around the newly mown yard in black pots. The crepe myrtle and bougainvillea are about ready to start putting out flowers.
"I'm paying for you to have a yard man," she said. "You don't have to do everything yourself."
"How can you pay Phyllis to do your yard all the time?" her friends ask her, half-teasing--because affording isn't actually an issue for her.
"I can't afford not to," she always says. Her independence means so much to her, and she feels that she can't do everything she used to do. Yard work, which she loves, can trigger her stenosis which resulted from shingles a few years back. "Besides I have money that hasn't even been spent yet!"
When she comes we rarely cook. We both cooked three meals a day for enough years that we have decided we can take a break from cooking. We've eaten at Cappy's, Lisa's Mexican Food, the Blanco Cafe, Adalantes, Kate's porch, and Twin Sisters--some of our favorite places. We've completed a jigsaw puzzle and visited four nurseries and bought colorful plants and a little tiny tree we hope grows up tall enough to soften the view of the new house across the street.
I'm beyond lucky--not just to have a living mother at my age, but one who is as active and lively as ever, a friend as well as a mother who will undoubtedly soar past 100 one day with flying colors.
We've visited with several friends who have stopped by or invited us over for a meal, and she loves them all. Jan told her yesterday, "You're my new best friend."
Pam, who stopped by for a leisurely porch visit yesterday, commented that Carlene "gets up out of her chair faster than we do."
It's enough to make me want to start walking three miles every morning--which maybe one day I can say I'm doing, just not yet, not today.
Sixty-somethings, including her daughter, are amazed at her vigor and flexibility--and one of her favorite moments is telling people, "I'm ninety" and receiving looks of disbelief. "NO, you can't be!" people say.
Her memory is better than mine, especially right now when I'm having staggering thoughts and losing words in thin air--which I attribute to lingering effects of anesthesia and/or stopping taking bottled estrogen. Her endurance and speed when walking are outright intimidating.
I'm sitting today on my porch missing her lively company. She loves sitting on the porch, reading, talking, and observing everything and everybody moving on the street. I'm sitting in her chair reading The Little Locksmith, which she already read, and looking out on my yard that is beautiful with bright yellow Esperanza (Spanish for "hope"), blue plumbago, Meyer's lemon, a caladium, purslane, and herbs--not yet placed in the ground, but scattered around the newly mown yard in black pots. The crepe myrtle and bougainvillea are about ready to start putting out flowers.
"I'm paying for you to have a yard man," she said. "You don't have to do everything yourself."
"How can you pay Phyllis to do your yard all the time?" her friends ask her, half-teasing--because affording isn't actually an issue for her.
"I can't afford not to," she always says. Her independence means so much to her, and she feels that she can't do everything she used to do. Yard work, which she loves, can trigger her stenosis which resulted from shingles a few years back. "Besides I have money that hasn't even been spent yet!"
When she comes we rarely cook. We both cooked three meals a day for enough years that we have decided we can take a break from cooking. We've eaten at Cappy's, Lisa's Mexican Food, the Blanco Cafe, Adalantes, Kate's porch, and Twin Sisters--some of our favorite places. We've completed a jigsaw puzzle and visited four nurseries and bought colorful plants and a little tiny tree we hope grows up tall enough to soften the view of the new house across the street.
I'm beyond lucky--not just to have a living mother at my age, but one who is as active and lively as ever, a friend as well as a mother who will undoubtedly soar past 100 one day with flying colors.
We've visited with several friends who have stopped by or invited us over for a meal, and she loves them all. Jan told her yesterday, "You're my new best friend."
Pam, who stopped by for a leisurely porch visit yesterday, commented that Carlene "gets up out of her chair faster than we do."
 |
| Carlene and Pam |
It's enough to make me want to start walking three miles every morning--which maybe one day I can say I'm doing, just not yet, not today.
Friday, April 29, 2016
Puzzling
Carlene and I have spent a quiet week--working on the yard and doing a jigsaw puzzle--with a few hours help from Charlotte and Kate on Wednesday. Day gave us this puzzle for Christmas and we enjoyed every minute of it.
We found a yard man named Evan on Next Door Alamo Heights who is coming this afternoon to "mow, blow, and go" the yard and plant some things on Monday.
Here's a BEFORE picture--along with snaps of my agile mama planting salvia!
We found a yard man named Evan on Next Door Alamo Heights who is coming this afternoon to "mow, blow, and go" the yard and plant some things on Monday.
Here's a BEFORE picture--along with snaps of my agile mama planting salvia!
 |
| BEFORE THE YARD MAN |
Day's E-mail
Yesterday was insane. Here's a snapshot, which if read with the right aplomb may be funny now:
Background: Tom is out of town. Jackson stayed home sick. Tony was at my house working. Trying to be a nice mommy to a sick kid, I went to Starbucks after work to get him a treat:
Scene: Starbucks at Giant
ME: I'll have a caramel frappacino and a peach green tea lemonade. Plus these three chocolate croissants.
CLERK: That will be $11.53.
ME: (scan ... doesn't work) (scan again... doesn't work)
CLERK: turns to prep drinks
ME looks over and sees a giant glass of iced tea.
ME: Um... is that mine?
CLERK: Yes.
ME: I don't think so.
CLERK: Yes, it is.
ME: I ordered peach green tea lemonade. That's just tea.
CLERK: I know.
ME: (inside my head: huh?) Outside my head: Where's the lemonade?
CLERK: We're out of lemonade.
ME: (inside my head: So, how were you planning on giving me peach green tea lemonade?) Outside my head: So, how were you planning on giving me peach green tea lemonade?
CLERK: We have tea.
ME: I didn't order tea. I ordered peach... (pause) green tea... (pause)... LEMONADE.
CLERK: We don't have any lemonade.
ME: (inside my head: WE COVERED THAT) Outside my head: Well, I don't want it.
CLERK: Do you want a refund?
ME: (inside my head: NO I'D LIKE TO MAKE A FUCKING DONATION TO YOUR COMPANY) Outside my head: Yes.
CLERK: sigh... okay.
ME: You know, I think it would be a bit more helpful to the customer to know you don't have an item AS they are placing their order.
CLERK: (whining) I'm sorry. I'm really really sorry.
ME: Yeah. The problem is that when I was here two weeks ago we walked through what goes in a Peach. Green tea. Lemonade. That time you gave me a tea and just didn't realize lemonade was a part of the drink.
CLERK: I'm sorry. We just ran out.
ME: (inside my head: WE'RE PAST THAT EVEN BEING THE POINT! CAN I FIRE YOU MYSELF?) Outside my head: mmmmmm.
CLERK: So, do you want a refund?
ME: yes.
Did I mention that through this entire episode I am dressed like a fucking COWGIRL? Yep, it was a spirit day at school.
So.. then I went home and entered to Jackson calling from his room. I handed him his drink, felt his forehead, put my work bag down, and then went to debrief with the builder. Dressed like a COWGIRL.
Then Marcus came home and we went to his appointment. With. Me. Dressed. Like. A. COWGIRL.
Had to stop and pick up dinner. Yep... still a COWGIRL.
The day finally ended with me sitting with Jackson, tutoring him in using quadratic equations to determine how long it takes a ball to reach 4 feet off the ground if you drop it from a 14 foot tall building and all I can think are two things:
1. If I threw that ball from across the Starbucks counter, would they have any lemonade? And 2. There is no bucking bronco on planet earth that is harder to ride than this day.
I love you.
Day
50 Great Teachers
Yesterday, we (Pam, Cindy, Carlene, and Pam's friend, Barry) were talking about teachers as Super Heroes. Then this morning, we heard a snippet on NPR that led me to this site--interviews with 50 Great Teachers.
http://www.npr.org/sections/ed/2015/07/15/420876522/mr-spider-says-goodbye-an-art-teachers-final-day-at-school
http://www.npr.org/sections/ed/2015/07/15/420876522/mr-spider-says-goodbye-an-art-teachers-final-day-at-school
Thursday, April 28, 2016
On Politics by Frederick Buechner
You can't help wondering what would happen if a person running for the presidency decided to set politics in the flag-waving, tub-thumping, ax-grinding sense aside and to speak, instead, candidly, thoughtfully, truthfully out of his or her own heart.
Suppose a candidate were to stand up before the reporters and the TV cameras and the usual bank of microphones and say something like this:
"The responsibilities of this office are so staggering that anybody who doesn't approach them with knees knocking is either a fool or a lunatic. The literal survival of civilization may depend on the decisions that either I or one of the other candidates make during the next four years. The general welfare and peace of mind of millions of people will certainly depend on them. I am only a human being. If I have my strengths, I also have my weaknesses. I can't promise that I'll always do the right thing for this country. I can only promise that it will always be this country rather than my own political fortunes that I'll try to do the right thing for. I believe in this country at its best, but I also believe that we have made many tragic mistakes. I am willing to entertain the possibility that our assumptions about the Arabs, for example, may be as wrong as their assumptions about us, and my major objective, if elected, will be to explore that possibility with them at the highest levels of government and in the most radical, searching, and unrelenting ways I can devise. I believe that the survival and well-being of the human race as a whole is more important than the partisan interests of any group, including both theirs and our own."
There are many who would undoubtedly say that such a statement is naive, dangerous, unrealistic, and un-American, and that anybody making it couldn't get elected dogcatcher. I can't help believing, however, that there are others who would find it such a note of sanity, honesty, and hope in the political quagmire that they would follow the person who made it to the ends of the earth.
~originally published in Whistling in the Dark and later in Beyond Words
Suppose a candidate were to stand up before the reporters and the TV cameras and the usual bank of microphones and say something like this:
"The responsibilities of this office are so staggering that anybody who doesn't approach them with knees knocking is either a fool or a lunatic. The literal survival of civilization may depend on the decisions that either I or one of the other candidates make during the next four years. The general welfare and peace of mind of millions of people will certainly depend on them. I am only a human being. If I have my strengths, I also have my weaknesses. I can't promise that I'll always do the right thing for this country. I can only promise that it will always be this country rather than my own political fortunes that I'll try to do the right thing for. I believe in this country at its best, but I also believe that we have made many tragic mistakes. I am willing to entertain the possibility that our assumptions about the Arabs, for example, may be as wrong as their assumptions about us, and my major objective, if elected, will be to explore that possibility with them at the highest levels of government and in the most radical, searching, and unrelenting ways I can devise. I believe that the survival and well-being of the human race as a whole is more important than the partisan interests of any group, including both theirs and our own."
There are many who would undoubtedly say that such a statement is naive, dangerous, unrealistic, and un-American, and that anybody making it couldn't get elected dogcatcher. I can't help believing, however, that there are others who would find it such a note of sanity, honesty, and hope in the political quagmire that they would follow the person who made it to the ends of the earth.
~originally published in Whistling in the Dark and later in Beyond Words
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
Monday, April 25, 2016
Blooming Things
Our sweet friend, Joy, came today--and we walked all through the neighborhood looking at plants and trees. Here they are in the community garden two blocks down, Carlene and Joy, the swingers:
Mousse au Citron with Fresh Strawberries.
Yield 4 servings
Make ahead tip: the lemon curd can be made a few days ahead and the cream folded in just before serving.
4 T. unsalted butter
3 large eggs
1/2 t. sea salt
2/3 cup granulated sugar
1/2/ cup fresh lemon juice
1 T. finely grated lemon zest
1 1/2 cups heavy whipping cream, whipped to stiff peaks
2 cups sliced strawberries (or any berries)
Prepare an ice bath in a large bowl and place 4-6 individual dessert bowls in the freezer to chill.
In the top of a double boiler or a large bowl set over a saucepan with 2 inches of simmering water, combine butter, eggs. salt, sugar, and lemon juice. Use a whisk to stir constantly until the mixture becomes thick and creamy with the consistency of a soft pudding, about 5 to 6 minutes. Place curd over the prepared ice bath and stir until chilled. Stir in lemon zest.
Gently fold the whipped cream into the chilled lemon mixture until well combined. Spoon mousse into chilled bowls, layer with strawberries and serve.
 |
| What Joy doesn't know about trees and flowers nobody knows! She even made her daisy necklace and earrings! |
 |
| Joy brought several frames of insects and butterflies.... She takes these collections for her talks to elementary school children. |
 |
| Did you know that there are more living organisms under the ground than on top? Did you know that certain chemicals (like Miracle-Grow) can do well for your plants but kill your soil? I didn't know that! |
 |
| Joy said, "You have to get to know every plant. They don't all do well, even for me." Carlene said, "Like some people? You think they're going to be good friends and they aren't?" |
 |
| Did you know that every leaf has its own fingerprint? That no two are alike? Did you know that all blooming plants need food? (I didn't--which is why my poor pomegranate tree isn't blooming this year!) Joy only uses organic plant food--like Rose Glow.... |
 |
| Here they are being trees! Joy is the big tree, Carlene is the "under-story" tree. One reason they are standing so tall, I guess, is that I fed them Mousse with organic eggs? |
Mousse au Citron with Fresh Strawberries.
Yield 4 servings
Make ahead tip: the lemon curd can be made a few days ahead and the cream folded in just before serving.
4 T. unsalted butter
3 large eggs
1/2 t. sea salt
2/3 cup granulated sugar
1/2/ cup fresh lemon juice
1 T. finely grated lemon zest
1 1/2 cups heavy whipping cream, whipped to stiff peaks
2 cups sliced strawberries (or any berries)
Prepare an ice bath in a large bowl and place 4-6 individual dessert bowls in the freezer to chill.
In the top of a double boiler or a large bowl set over a saucepan with 2 inches of simmering water, combine butter, eggs. salt, sugar, and lemon juice. Use a whisk to stir constantly until the mixture becomes thick and creamy with the consistency of a soft pudding, about 5 to 6 minutes. Place curd over the prepared ice bath and stir until chilled. Stir in lemon zest.
Gently fold the whipped cream into the chilled lemon mixture until well combined. Spoon mousse into chilled bowls, layer with strawberries and serve.
Sunday, April 24, 2016
Yummy German Pancake on Kate's Porch
We were invited to have a late breakfast at Kate's this morning--along with her brother Rusty and his wife Carolyn who is a lifetime cake decorator. She says she likes to play with her food!
Here's a sugar flower basket she made, everything edible!
And here is Kate's amazing breakfast table with German pancakes, fruit (arranged by Carolyn) and bacon. Her table looks like a kaleidoscope!
After breakfast, Carlene and I went to a nursery on Hildebrand and also Shades of Green, looking for trees for the front yard to soften the view of the ultra-modern house across the street. We didn't choose one yet--we're waiting until Joy's visit tomorrow to get some advice!
Here's a sugar flower basket she made, everything edible!
And here is Kate's amazing breakfast table with German pancakes, fruit (arranged by Carolyn) and bacon. Her table looks like a kaleidoscope!
After breakfast, Carlene and I went to a nursery on Hildebrand and also Shades of Green, looking for trees for the front yard to soften the view of the ultra-modern house across the street. We didn't choose one yet--we're waiting until Joy's visit tomorrow to get some advice!
Saturday, April 23, 2016
Friday, April 22, 2016
San Antonio Poet Laureate, Laurie Ann Guerrero
Many years ago, teaching a class in Composition at Palo Alto College, I had an extraordinary student named Laurie Guerrero, a young married mother of two whose writing had the marks of passion and talent that I sensed would one day be a solid, startling voice in the world.
In class one Saturday, we read "The Journey" by Mary Oliver. I could see on her face that Laurie loved it as much as I did. We were kindred spirits from that moment on.
The Journey--by Mary Oliver
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.
After the semester ended, we began a friendship that transcended our thirty-year-age difference. We often stayed up late talking. Something about who Laurie was, maybe even partly the age difference, surely her passion for writing--something moved us from student and teacher to confidantes and sister-travelers under sheets of clouds we both knew.
When I casually mentioned to Laurie that I'd been invited to lead a writing workshop in Tuscany twelve years ago, she said, "I'm going!"--and she did. Ten women traveled to Tuscany for the workshop that--I must admit--wasn't much of a writing workshop at all, but more of a group of writers who soaked up as much of Tuscany as we could in a week. (Nellie and I had gotten an early start already.)
Once we got ourselves settled into the villa in Montepulciano, we did a tiny bit of writing, but we were all so gobsmacked with the beauty of Tuscany, the tastes of Italian food and wine, and the winding stone streets of Tuscan villages, that we all surrendered our initial plans and gave ourselves over to a different kind of trip.
On one afternoon, I was driving a tiny rented car, and Nellie, Amanda, Laurie, and I were packed into it, all oohing and aahing, singing and laughing. "Here we are," Laurie said, "Just riding around Italy!"
I was struggling to read road signs, change gears, and maneuver the car in fast Italian traffic, difficult considering my noisy passengers. Suddenly, horns began blowing and hands began waving all around us, and we pulled off the road to discover that I hadn't released the emergency brakes. Smoke was billowing out of the car and there we were--four English-speaking women looking for a mechanic who could tell us what to do. Laurie and Amanda, with their limited Spanish, managed to cobble together some sentences that the Italian mechanic could understand. Finally, he said--in effect: "Just park it for a while and let it cool off while you drink a glass of wine." So we did, no damage done!
A year later, Laurie (then a mother of three) moved to Massachusetts for three years to attend Smith College, then back to San Antonio. Two years ago, I nominated Laurie for poet laureate of San Antonio--and attended her installation. In her acceptance speech, she read lines from the poem by Mary Oliver, and she mentioned that Palo Alto class. We both had tears in our eyes that night.
Sometimes lives diverge like those two roads in a yellow wood. Sometimes even the best of friends, who mean to keep trekking along together, wind up taking different roads. I had grown children, grandchildren and a teaching career, Laurie had young children and a passion for writing poetry. We drifted apart, as good friends so often--and regrettably--do.
Tonight, Carlene and I watched Laurie's excellent talks at Ted X and Texas Lutheran College, and I realized how much I missed her! I felt a mix of Mama-Hen pride in her many accomplishments and regret--regret that I hadn't been a closer part of her journey these past few years. I ran quickly to the laptop to write and tell her I hoped we could soon see each other again....
http://tedxtalks.ted.com/video/What-I-Learned-From-My-City-%7C-L;search%3ALaurie%20Ann%20Guerrero
In class one Saturday, we read "The Journey" by Mary Oliver. I could see on her face that Laurie loved it as much as I did. We were kindred spirits from that moment on.
The Journey--by Mary Oliver
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.
After the semester ended, we began a friendship that transcended our thirty-year-age difference. We often stayed up late talking. Something about who Laurie was, maybe even partly the age difference, surely her passion for writing--something moved us from student and teacher to confidantes and sister-travelers under sheets of clouds we both knew.
When I casually mentioned to Laurie that I'd been invited to lead a writing workshop in Tuscany twelve years ago, she said, "I'm going!"--and she did. Ten women traveled to Tuscany for the workshop that--I must admit--wasn't much of a writing workshop at all, but more of a group of writers who soaked up as much of Tuscany as we could in a week. (Nellie and I had gotten an early start already.)
Once we got ourselves settled into the villa in Montepulciano, we did a tiny bit of writing, but we were all so gobsmacked with the beauty of Tuscany, the tastes of Italian food and wine, and the winding stone streets of Tuscan villages, that we all surrendered our initial plans and gave ourselves over to a different kind of trip.
I was struggling to read road signs, change gears, and maneuver the car in fast Italian traffic, difficult considering my noisy passengers. Suddenly, horns began blowing and hands began waving all around us, and we pulled off the road to discover that I hadn't released the emergency brakes. Smoke was billowing out of the car and there we were--four English-speaking women looking for a mechanic who could tell us what to do. Laurie and Amanda, with their limited Spanish, managed to cobble together some sentences that the Italian mechanic could understand. Finally, he said--in effect: "Just park it for a while and let it cool off while you drink a glass of wine." So we did, no damage done!
A year later, Laurie (then a mother of three) moved to Massachusetts for three years to attend Smith College, then back to San Antonio. Two years ago, I nominated Laurie for poet laureate of San Antonio--and attended her installation. In her acceptance speech, she read lines from the poem by Mary Oliver, and she mentioned that Palo Alto class. We both had tears in our eyes that night.
Sometimes lives diverge like those two roads in a yellow wood. Sometimes even the best of friends, who mean to keep trekking along together, wind up taking different roads. I had grown children, grandchildren and a teaching career, Laurie had young children and a passion for writing poetry. We drifted apart, as good friends so often--and regrettably--do.
Tonight, Carlene and I watched Laurie's excellent talks at Ted X and Texas Lutheran College, and I realized how much I missed her! I felt a mix of Mama-Hen pride in her many accomplishments and regret--regret that I hadn't been a closer part of her journey these past few years. I ran quickly to the laptop to write and tell her I hoped we could soon see each other again....
http://tedxtalks.ted.com/video/What-I-Learned-From-My-City-%7C-L;search%3ALaurie%20Ann%20Guerrero
Carlene's Visit So Far....
Carlene arrived on Tuesday and she's already read Dimestore--and loved it!
Yesterday, she and Elena had a lot of time to play, Elena dressing up in a hybrid of costume parts, a mermaid with Tinkerbell wings and a joker's hat.
While I made pavlova for dessert, Carlene and Elena decorated Elena with ribbons for Fiesta, on her toes and ankles:
Because everyone is telling Elena she looks like Shirley Temple, we watched Heidi with Shirley Temple at nap time. Then we went back outside to play. When she left the porch, she asked Nana to hold her baby and let her know if the baby needed her mama:
Nana was a good babysitter. Then Elena served homemade popsicles she'd made out of wood sticks:
After school, Nathan came with his mother to pick up Elena and they had so much fun playing with Makken and Sebastien next door. For about an hour, Elena and Makken stood in chairs at the sink washing everything they could find:
Today, Carlene and I are going for a drive to see wildflowers.
Yesterday, she and Elena had a lot of time to play, Elena dressing up in a hybrid of costume parts, a mermaid with Tinkerbell wings and a joker's hat.
After school, Nathan came with his mother to pick up Elena and they had so much fun playing with Makken and Sebastien next door. For about an hour, Elena and Makken stood in chairs at the sink washing everything they could find:
Today, Carlene and I are going for a drive to see wildflowers.
Tuesday, April 19, 2016
Hearts
Yesterday I was accompanied to my cardiology appointment with Elena--so we got the good news together. My heart is fine, no issues at all! (I had the lung and heart tests as part of my CREST syndrome, and both were good.)
When I walked into the preschool to pick up Elena, she jumped up off the floor and yelled, "Yenna! Come meet all my friends!" Then she introduced me to each one. "You can talk to her!" she said to one shy little girl. "She's nice."
Elena is clearly the clown of the class.
I'd brought her the bag of books I'd gotten at my recent garage sale, and she was particularly taken with a big thick book of crafts--which we read at the cardiologist's office. On Thursday, when she spends the day with Nana and me, we will be making things--including a snow globe in a jar, a lemon pig, and a lady bird.
On some days, I feel fragile, I do. A series of medical appointments, even when the news is good, puts one in mind of her mortality. Watching little kids playing is always good medicine for anybody's heart.
I'd meant to stop for lunch between preschool and the 2:15 appointment but didn't want to wake my sleeping passenger, so I helped myself to the leftovers in her Bento box. As we were leaving the doctor's office, I said, "I ate the other half of your sandwich in the car while you were sleeping."
She grinned and held up her finger: "How DARE you???" Then--"That's my joke for when I don't mean it."
When I walked into the preschool to pick up Elena, she jumped up off the floor and yelled, "Yenna! Come meet all my friends!" Then she introduced me to each one. "You can talk to her!" she said to one shy little girl. "She's nice."
Elena is clearly the clown of the class.
I'd brought her the bag of books I'd gotten at my recent garage sale, and she was particularly taken with a big thick book of crafts--which we read at the cardiologist's office. On Thursday, when she spends the day with Nana and me, we will be making things--including a snow globe in a jar, a lemon pig, and a lady bird.
On some days, I feel fragile, I do. A series of medical appointments, even when the news is good, puts one in mind of her mortality. Watching little kids playing is always good medicine for anybody's heart.
I'd meant to stop for lunch between preschool and the 2:15 appointment but didn't want to wake my sleeping passenger, so I helped myself to the leftovers in her Bento box. As we were leaving the doctor's office, I said, "I ate the other half of your sandwich in the car while you were sleeping."
She grinned and held up her finger: "How DARE you???" Then--"That's my joke for when I don't mean it."
Sunday, April 17, 2016
Dimestore
I was listening to NPR last week and heard the last few minutes of an interview with a writer who spoke with a deep-Southern accent. She was talking about her daddy's dimestore and growing up in Appalachia. I kept listening, drawn in by the familiar cadences of her speech.
But it's not just the accent that's Southern; it's the whole voice--the rhythms, the allusions, the syntax of sentences, the structure of storytelling, the words of hymns all Southerners know by heart. Wherever we spent our childhoods shapes what writers call "the voice."
Lee Smith has written many novels, but I haven't read any of them. After reading this memoir, Dimestore, A Writer's Life, I will. Her memoir has taken me on a journey this Sunday night--her first and second marriages, her childhood with parents who loved her like crazy but were both a little crazy, her writing life, the death of her son, Josh....
The last chapter advises every writer to read The Little Locksmith by Katherine Butler Hathaway--which I just ordered. (It's an old book, one she gives to all her writing friends.)
"I give it mostly to my sister writers (because it is one of the best books ever written about writing) but also to anyone suffering adversity of any sort, especially any kind of illness or disability, for it is truly a story of transformation, one of the finest spiritual autobiographies ever written."
I bought Dimestore for Carlene and was only planning to skim a few pages, very carefully, without underlining or turning down pages, to see if she'd like it, but I couldn't put it down--so her copy is going to be pre-read when she gets here Tuesday and finds it on her bed. My favorite chapter was "Angels Passing"--in which she writes about the echoes of voices of people she has loved and lost. I had to stop reading because my eyes were all watery and the words were blurry.
Another favorite chapter is "A Life In Books" in which she writes about the books she's read and the ones she's written--and the way that writing has saved her life over and over again. It's not the books that saved her; it's the writing of the books.
In her awful grief after her son's death, she went into a deep depression.
"Finally, I started going to a psychiatrist, a kind, rumpled man who formed his hands into a little tent and listened to me scream and cry and rave for several weeks."
Then he gave her a new prescription: "Write fiction every day."
For three days, she sits in her chair and nothing comes. On the fourth day, she begins a novel.
"Of course writing is an escape, but it's a source of nourishment and strength, too. My psychiatrist's prescription may benefit us all. Whether we are writing fiction or nonfiction. journaling or writing for publication, writing itself is an inherently therapeutic activity. Simply to line up words one after another on a page is to create some order where it did not exist, to give a recognizable shape to the chaos of our lives. Writing cannot bring our loved ones back, but it can sometimes fix them in our fleeting memories as they were in life...."
Friday, April 15, 2016
Cute Stuff
I followed a sign advertising a garage sale this morning--unusual for a Friday. It said, "Cute stuff!"--and of course, I had to check it out.
Three young women--forty-something--were selling all kinds of things that Elena and I would love, so I bought her a mermaid costume and a big stack of books, and bought a bag of quilting fabric for Day.
"I love your polka dot sunglasses!" one of them said.
"My boyfriend bought them for me," I replied. (I never know quite what to call Mike--Manfriend? Husband-equivalent? Boyfriend? Traveling companion?)
Well, they thought that was funny--a woman my age having a "boyfriend" who buys her polka dot glasses.
"You are so cute!" one said--which raised my spirits quite radically.
We talked on about other things--that I lead writing groups, etc. "I want to join your group and be your best friend," one of them said. "You are so cool and hip!"
Let me tell you--cool and hip are exactly the opposite of how I've been feeling lately--so I decided to try to live up to the compliment and be cooler and hipper!
We traded phone numbers and I lugged my two bags of costumery and reading material to the car. They were heavy, but I wanted to be sure to carry them jauntily so as not to mar my reputation as hip.
When you're young, you're really cute. Everybody is. It's in their nature--but they don't know it.
Then, you pass through a couple of decades of being invisible--especially to younger people who are still actually cute.
Then, when you get pretty old, you get to be cute again--just because you've reached a certain age and still do fun things, like going to garage sales and buying mermaid costumes and other cute stuff.
Today was a great day--starting with the garage sale, then going to Camera Exchange to sign up for a photography class tomorrow, then wandering around La Cantera (to take back a thing or two) and going to Happy Hour at Perry's and listening to a singer/pianist and saxophonist play oldies. I liked it so much I bought the CD for Mike, my boyfriend who buys me polka dot glasses!
Three young women--forty-something--were selling all kinds of things that Elena and I would love, so I bought her a mermaid costume and a big stack of books, and bought a bag of quilting fabric for Day.
"I love your polka dot sunglasses!" one of them said.
"My boyfriend bought them for me," I replied. (I never know quite what to call Mike--Manfriend? Husband-equivalent? Boyfriend? Traveling companion?)
Well, they thought that was funny--a woman my age having a "boyfriend" who buys her polka dot glasses.
"You are so cute!" one said--which raised my spirits quite radically.
We talked on about other things--that I lead writing groups, etc. "I want to join your group and be your best friend," one of them said. "You are so cool and hip!"
Let me tell you--cool and hip are exactly the opposite of how I've been feeling lately--so I decided to try to live up to the compliment and be cooler and hipper!
We traded phone numbers and I lugged my two bags of costumery and reading material to the car. They were heavy, but I wanted to be sure to carry them jauntily so as not to mar my reputation as hip.
When you're young, you're really cute. Everybody is. It's in their nature--but they don't know it.
Then, you pass through a couple of decades of being invisible--especially to younger people who are still actually cute.
Then, when you get pretty old, you get to be cute again--just because you've reached a certain age and still do fun things, like going to garage sales and buying mermaid costumes and other cute stuff.
Today was a great day--starting with the garage sale, then going to Camera Exchange to sign up for a photography class tomorrow, then wandering around La Cantera (to take back a thing or two) and going to Happy Hour at Perry's and listening to a singer/pianist and saxophonist play oldies. I liked it so much I bought the CD for Mike, my boyfriend who buys me polka dot glasses!
More Elena--I can't help myself!
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A girl after my own heart, camera attached |
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| At the poppy garden "Nathan says you can't pick blue bonnets unless they are in your own yard." |
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| A budding photographer at the butterfly house |
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| "This carousel is a hundred years old," I told her. "That's even more older than you and Nana," she said. |
So far, I'd have to say that it's the best mattress I've ever tried--pure memory foam with a gel layer. Elena and Kate broke it in, Elena a bit more vigorously with lots of jumps!
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| Elena and my bear at the poppy garden down the street |
Fiesta starts tomorrow, and all us Texas birds are happy!
Let's cut up some "mazz-a-genes."
This little golden-eyed girl is a butterfly-watcher, a bird-rescuer, and now a photographer. I let her use my Nikon and she actually got some great shots, as her brother Nathan used to do when he was four!
She has only two baby words left--"littamade" and "mazzagines." She laughed with pure delight when I let her use my paper cutters, her favorite being one that made a one-inch circle. So then we started cutting circles out of catalogs with shiny pages. "These mazzagines don't mean too much to you?" she asked.
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| She loves it when butterflies land on her hand. |
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| She loves her new purple panda from the zoo shop. |
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| And she loves chocolate ice cream. |
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