When Mike was a little boy, his mother was a legal secretary in Memphis. While she was working, a feisty and caring woman named Laura kept Mike and his brother--along with her own sons, Jessie James and James Jessie. "She was so strong she could pin any one of us to the floor if she had to," Mike said.
One day, James and Mike (nicknamed Pancho) and James' big brother, Jessie, did what they always did on summer days--walked through the ditches collecting bottles. Then they walked to one of the two little stores in the neighborhood to buy strawberry and peach Nehi drinks with their bottle money. If they had enough pennies, they'd also buy peanut butter logs. On the most profitable bottle days, they bought a Snickers and divided it three ways.
People weren't allowed to hang out at Bishops' Store, but at Peake and Belle's, townspeople sat around outside talking. Pancho and James were sharing a Nehi and Jessie was inside when a bully came up and tried to wrest their bottle from them. (Mike can't remember whether the bully was white or black because he hadn't yet noticed the difference in skin color.)
Suddenly, big Jessie came out yelling. "You leave Pancho alone!" he said. "He's my nigger!"
Five-year-old Mike was impressed. "I'm your nigger?" he asked, proud of his new moniker. "Can I tell people?"
When school started, he didn't understand why they went to different schools.
During the fifteen years that Laura "raised" the boys, Mike noticed that Jessie's and James' books were the ragged leftover books from the white school. As Laura followed along with the boys' homework, she taught herself to read.
Saturday, July 30, 2016
Gratitude
One day last week, Sebastien, my little neighbor, came up and said, "Hey, Linda! I'm eight today!"
On that particular day, Mike and I were too flattened by the heat to go shopping, so we delivered a card with money in it.
The next day we received this card, picturing Mojo, Sebastien and his brother Makken (who's four). Makken is delighted that his brother drew him upside down jumping on the trampoline with Sebastien and Mojo.
These little brothers wake up happy every single day, their mother and grandmother just told me as we were standing in the yard talking.
It is rare and beautiful to get a hand-written and illustrated thank you note from a child. I treasure this note and it's taken up permanent residence on my refrigerator.
On that particular day, Mike and I were too flattened by the heat to go shopping, so we delivered a card with money in it.
The next day we received this card, picturing Mojo, Sebastien and his brother Makken (who's four). Makken is delighted that his brother drew him upside down jumping on the trampoline with Sebastien and Mojo.
These little brothers wake up happy every single day, their mother and grandmother just told me as we were standing in the yard talking.
It is rare and beautiful to get a hand-written and illustrated thank you note from a child. I treasure this note and it's taken up permanent residence on my refrigerator.
Friday, July 29, 2016
Healing and Love
“I think that modern medicine has become like a prophet offering a life free of pain. It is nonsense. The only thing I know that truly heals people is unconditional love.”
― Elisabeth Kübler-Ross
These words from a well-known physician: the only thing that truly heals is unconditional love.
That says it all, I think, but I could write a lot about this subject, and probably will another day.
But for now, I need to vacuum up MoJo fur and clean the house and go to the bank and....well, all the things one does after a two-week vacation.
Mike is in Birmingham helping his friend Jean--who has vertigo so badly she's bruised from falling. He left last night at 8 and drove all night to help her get to a doctor's appointment.
It was sad watching these two guys drive away, but I'll see them soon when I fly to Georgia for Carlene's 91st birthday on August 24th.
Tuesday, July 26, 2016
Froggie went a'courting and he did ride...
Mike had to go back to YeYa's one more time to see Mario, one of his best buddies.
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| Mike and Mojo and Mario |
Mario told us about the best upholsterer in town, then we went to the upholstery warehouse on Mesquite Street to choose fabric and leather for his chair. The upholsterer was from England, his wife from Spain.
Could he do it before Mike leaves on Thursday? "I'll do it straightway," he said.
We had lunch at Mr. and Mrs. G's Soul Food on WW White Road. It was pretty good but not up to our Shirley's in Georgia's standards.
Of course, Mike and Mr. G talked for half and hour and he invited him to come visit in Hartwell.
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| A mural across from YeYa's |
Monday, July 25, 2016
Words from David Whyte
"We learn, grow and become compassionate and generous as much through exile as homecoming, as much through loss as gain, as much through giving things away as in receiving what we believe to be our due." David Whyte
I found that quotation this morning when I was searching for one I didn't find. What I was looking for, having attended a funeral yesterday, was one I know almost by heart:
"When the list of accomplishments and degrees is read, the eyes of the people glaze over; when the people who loved the deceased talk about their loved one, the change in the energy in the room is palpable." (an approximation of his words from memory)
When the son of the man who had died spoke about his father, and when his old friends spoke, there were tears and laughter. When the officiator spoke, our eyes glazed over.
A few years ago, a group of friends designed our own "going away parties." We didn't want buildings or any of the usual funeral fare. We wanted our last parties to be expressions of our lives and loves. We made playlists of the music we wanted. We hoped no one who didn't know us would pop in with a reading of our resumes and a pastiche of generic funereal cliches.
In death and in life, we want to know how people were exiled, what they gave away, who they loved, and all the big and little ways they left their footprints in the world.
I found that quotation this morning when I was searching for one I didn't find. What I was looking for, having attended a funeral yesterday, was one I know almost by heart:
"When the list of accomplishments and degrees is read, the eyes of the people glaze over; when the people who loved the deceased talk about their loved one, the change in the energy in the room is palpable." (an approximation of his words from memory)
When the son of the man who had died spoke about his father, and when his old friends spoke, there were tears and laughter. When the officiator spoke, our eyes glazed over.
A few years ago, a group of friends designed our own "going away parties." We didn't want buildings or any of the usual funeral fare. We wanted our last parties to be expressions of our lives and loves. We made playlists of the music we wanted. We hoped no one who didn't know us would pop in with a reading of our resumes and a pastiche of generic funereal cliches.
In death and in life, we want to know how people were exiled, what they gave away, who they loved, and all the big and little ways they left their footprints in the world.
Aloha, Sharon and Van!
I've never been to Hawaii, but am keeping up with my friend Sharon and her husband Van as they are spending three weeks there. It's so beautiful.
Sharon and Van have been to Hawaii many times and have lived there, so they know it well. Van's health isn't good but he was determined to travel with his best traveling companion on this summer's trip.
Sharon looks like a Chico's model, doesn't she?
They are such a beautiful and sweet couple! Every time Sharon comes to writing group, she brings flowers and food and Van comes along and stays in my house so she can be here. She's as wise and sassy as she looks!
Sharon is a writer, dog-lover, former teacher, and gardener extraordinaire. Their place at Canyon Lake is a paradise of flowers and plants.
Sharon and Van have been to Hawaii many times and have lived there, so they know it well. Van's health isn't good but he was determined to travel with his best traveling companion on this summer's trip.
Sharon looks like a Chico's model, doesn't she?
They are such a beautiful and sweet couple! Every time Sharon comes to writing group, she brings flowers and food and Van comes along and stays in my house so she can be here. She's as wise and sassy as she looks!
Sharon is a writer, dog-lover, former teacher, and gardener extraordinaire. Their place at Canyon Lake is a paradise of flowers and plants.
Sunday, July 24, 2016
Sunday Night Church
When we were growing up, we went to Sunday School and church at First Baptist, then at night, we went again--first to Training Union, then to church again. In Training Union (aka BTU) we sat around in a room of kids our age and each of us had a part to read out of the manual--about two paragraphs each. Then we talked about it and had punch and cookies and walked over to the sanctuary for church, just like morning church but better because there was more singing.
I sometimes played the piano for Sunday Night church--which is one reason I still know all those hymns by heart. Usually while our parents talked on the lawn, Betty and I sat in the car and philosophized.
Tonight, Mike and I are feeling puny from the heat. He worked in it all morning and while I went to a funeral, and it was 115 in the car when we set out to buy the matching chair we'd agreed to buy, but the owner called to say he wanted to keep it, so we came home and listened to an Audible book I'd been saving for Mike.
My Southern Journey by Rick Bragg is terrific--especially if you listen to it with another Southerner who knows the funny parts as well as you do, stories about preaching and aunts and dogs and food and cars and pocket books.
I'm sure the book is good, but listening to it in Rick Bragg's own voice is way better. Nobody but a real Alabama man can do Alabama talk--and this book takes Mike and me down the red clay roads we know so well. This is Sunday night church when it's too hot to go anywhere but into the voice of a storytelling man.
"It's the Mona Lisa of redneck living," Mike said.
It is that, sort of, but better. Bragg manages to tell the stories without caricaturing the South or turning it into a cliche. Maybe you had to grow up Southern to love it, but we did and we do.
I sometimes played the piano for Sunday Night church--which is one reason I still know all those hymns by heart. Usually while our parents talked on the lawn, Betty and I sat in the car and philosophized.
Tonight, Mike and I are feeling puny from the heat. He worked in it all morning and while I went to a funeral, and it was 115 in the car when we set out to buy the matching chair we'd agreed to buy, but the owner called to say he wanted to keep it, so we came home and listened to an Audible book I'd been saving for Mike.
My Southern Journey by Rick Bragg is terrific--especially if you listen to it with another Southerner who knows the funny parts as well as you do, stories about preaching and aunts and dogs and food and cars and pocket books.
I'm sure the book is good, but listening to it in Rick Bragg's own voice is way better. Nobody but a real Alabama man can do Alabama talk--and this book takes Mike and me down the red clay roads we know so well. This is Sunday night church when it's too hot to go anywhere but into the voice of a storytelling man.
"It's the Mona Lisa of redneck living," Mike said.
It is that, sort of, but better. Bragg manages to tell the stories without caricaturing the South or turning it into a cliche. Maybe you had to grow up Southern to love it, but we did and we do.
Sunday morning church
The Sunday morning service on Austin Highway begins at 5 a.m. with communion--that would be two Shipley's donuts for Mike and one for me.
Then gospel music by Willie Nelson, followed by a sit-down in my living room (a room that at the moment looks like a chair store). The congregation of two weaves through all the chairs (three going to Pam's today) and finds my new chair with ottoman (the one Mike and I both wanted but he insisted I get) and talks about changes in life and decor.
We like that subject, talk about it all the time. I get ideas and Mike makes them happen, then we admire what we did.
"You are evolving yourself; that's why your atmosphere has to evolve." Mike said, as he pronounced the new chair the comfiest one he's ever sat upon. "When we finish this room, it's going to be pretty, mighty pretty."
"Amen," I said.
He said a whole bunch of other interesting things as he is prone to do when he gets philosophical early mornings, then I gave him one of my favorite quotations by Winston Churchill:
"We create our dwellings; afterwards, our dwellings create us."
Seeds are planted in our psyches from infancy--faces and spaces we are attracted to. When we create our gardens and rooms, we're working on patterns that are ours alone, unique expressions of desire and aesthetics. The colors that fit earlier incarnations of ourselves may no longer fit. In my case, I'm into wilding it all up with color. Maybe that means I'm growing wilder.
A house as canvas of self-expression is filled with souvenirs of travel, gifts, pictures and treasures we find and create that say, "This is who I am, where I've been, and where I'm going."
I call Mike my "Redneck Buddha." While he may appear to be a redneck, and sometimes talks like one on purpose, he's wise in ways that are not readily apparent to everyone. Sometimes he wears holy (and holey) overalls and his University of Tennessee T-shirts, sometimes he wears brightly patterned shirts and beautiful boots. But when he gets philosophical--which he does with me and vice versa--he just may be the best preacher in Texas.
Then gospel music by Willie Nelson, followed by a sit-down in my living room (a room that at the moment looks like a chair store). The congregation of two weaves through all the chairs (three going to Pam's today) and finds my new chair with ottoman (the one Mike and I both wanted but he insisted I get) and talks about changes in life and decor.
We like that subject, talk about it all the time. I get ideas and Mike makes them happen, then we admire what we did.
"You are evolving yourself; that's why your atmosphere has to evolve." Mike said, as he pronounced the new chair the comfiest one he's ever sat upon. "When we finish this room, it's going to be pretty, mighty pretty."
"Amen," I said.
He said a whole bunch of other interesting things as he is prone to do when he gets philosophical early mornings, then I gave him one of my favorite quotations by Winston Churchill:
"We create our dwellings; afterwards, our dwellings create us."
Seeds are planted in our psyches from infancy--faces and spaces we are attracted to. When we create our gardens and rooms, we're working on patterns that are ours alone, unique expressions of desire and aesthetics. The colors that fit earlier incarnations of ourselves may no longer fit. In my case, I'm into wilding it all up with color. Maybe that means I'm growing wilder.
A house as canvas of self-expression is filled with souvenirs of travel, gifts, pictures and treasures we find and create that say, "This is who I am, where I've been, and where I'm going."
I call Mike my "Redneck Buddha." While he may appear to be a redneck, and sometimes talks like one on purpose, he's wise in ways that are not readily apparent to everyone. Sometimes he wears holy (and holey) overalls and his University of Tennessee T-shirts, sometimes he wears brightly patterned shirts and beautiful boots. But when he gets philosophical--which he does with me and vice versa--he just may be the best preacher in Texas.
Saturday, July 23, 2016
107
The heat in San Antonio is oppressive; nevertheless, Mike and I have had one of our best weeks ever. (We always say that, I know.)
The temperature today as we were out driving was 107. I don't know if that's a record, but it feels like it.
We shopped for antique chairs and sofas, didn't find a sofa, but found great chairs--I'm thrilled. One is ugly at the moment, but we can see colorful potential with new fabric and buttons.
We also bought a new Mission Style chair and ottoman and rocker that had been custom made in a Denver Amish factory and look brand new. On the way home from the chair mission (we found them in Universal City) we had a delicious and diet busting meal of pot roast and chicken fried steak and cherry pie.
Pam brought us dinner last night and saved us from having to get out in the heat--which was doubly great because we haven't yet installed the new stove.
The temperature today as we were out driving was 107. I don't know if that's a record, but it feels like it.
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| Mike with his new boots Mojo goes into all the stores with Mike. Neither one of them gives a hoot about rules! |
We shopped for antique chairs and sofas, didn't find a sofa, but found great chairs--I'm thrilled. One is ugly at the moment, but we can see colorful potential with new fabric and buttons.
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| This super comfy chair cost us $14.91 |
We also bought a new Mission Style chair and ottoman and rocker that had been custom made in a Denver Amish factory and look brand new. On the way home from the chair mission (we found them in Universal City) we had a delicious and diet busting meal of pot roast and chicken fried steak and cherry pie.
Pam brought us dinner last night and saved us from having to get out in the heat--which was doubly great because we haven't yet installed the new stove.
Navy days
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| Lyle Harris (L) and Lloyd Harris (R) 1943 or '44 |
The three Harris brothers from Chattanooga, Jimmie, Lyle, and Lloyd, were all in the Navy at the same time. Maybe Jimmie took this picture at some point when the three of them met on a break? Carlene thinks this was taken in San Diego or New Orleans before Lyle shipped out and before my daddy got his uniform.
After a super-healthy, but too-short life, my daddy was admitted to the hospital for stomach pains fourteen years ago. Eight days later, July 30th, marks my saddest anniversary ever, the day he died in Intensive Care from pneumonia caused by aspirating fluids during emergency surgery.
He was eighty years old and my parents had been married for 57 good years.
It's a wonderful thing to be the daughter of a man who never raised his voice, a man who loved telling jokes and making quips, a man who always had his arm around one of us--as well as anyone else he liked. Like me, he always took a nap after lunch. "I don't care if the President walks in, I'm taking my nap!" he said. But if the President had walked in, he'd most likely have woken up to say, "Hide the pie!" even if there was no pie to hide.
Mike and I are playing the music he loved and dancing. He's never far from my heart. I wish he were here in person, though, to meet Mike. I wish he could see this waif of a little house he and Carlene bought for me when I was newly single, a house now filled with bright colors, music and memories of him. I wish he could see how tall and full the crepe myrtles he planted have grown, bright pink and beautiful.
Friday, July 22, 2016
The Gold Mine
On Wednesday night, Miss Kate made the best Thai food to celebrate a bunch of things--Maggie's return from Australia, Mike being here, the bathroom remodel almost done and who knows what all.....and we five, Charlotte, Maggie, Mike and me, had dinner in Kate's happy kitchen.
Mike and I were a bit late because my long-lagging oven finally gave up the ghost over key lime pie and the gas leak in the whole house called for an emergency visit from city people, but all is well now and we're setting out this morning in search of a new gas range.
Yesterday, Frank and Joy came in from Medina Lake for lunch, a trip to YeYa's, and the Coney Island exhibit at the McNay. It was so much fun to see these two "brothers from a different mother" comparing notes on their restorations of toys and other rusty treasures--and poking through dusty things at Mario's. Mike bought an old Playland Park poster to go with the rocket ship from there he'd bought from Frank and is now restoring, and I bought a box of broken up dishes for mosaics.
Mike said, "You have a gold mine in friends here. No wonder you could never move away."
Mike and I were a bit late because my long-lagging oven finally gave up the ghost over key lime pie and the gas leak in the whole house called for an emergency visit from city people, but all is well now and we're setting out this morning in search of a new gas range.
Yesterday, Frank and Joy came in from Medina Lake for lunch, a trip to YeYa's, and the Coney Island exhibit at the McNay. It was so much fun to see these two "brothers from a different mother" comparing notes on their restorations of toys and other rusty treasures--and poking through dusty things at Mario's. Mike bought an old Playland Park poster to go with the rocket ship from there he'd bought from Frank and is now restoring, and I bought a box of broken up dishes for mosaics.
Mike said, "You have a gold mine in friends here. No wonder you could never move away."
Wednesday, July 20, 2016
Old Stuff--and Us Tuesday
Another fun day of antique-ing. Mike brought back his big Mission-style chair and a little tricycle and folk art quilt for me.
This is the horse he bought on the way here--which he will restore to mint condition. Remember these horses? They used to stand in front of grocery stores and you could put a dime in the box and have a ride.
We talked to an 82-year-old upholsterer who was off to play a double header of softball. She was agile and strong and told us she could run the bases fast. The coach suggested that she could walk because of her age and she said, "No way!"
We met a man Mike liked a lot--a retired clinical psychologist--who tried hard to sell us a Vespa.
Shopping is fun with Mike. He likes the people we meet more than the stuff. Every stop entails a mutual sharing of life stories.
This is the horse he bought on the way here--which he will restore to mint condition. Remember these horses? They used to stand in front of grocery stores and you could put a dime in the box and have a ride.
We met a man Mike liked a lot--a retired clinical psychologist--who tried hard to sell us a Vespa.
Shopping is fun with Mike. He likes the people we meet more than the stuff. Every stop entails a mutual sharing of life stories.
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| I bought this tray of dried paints and took photos of dolls |
Monday, July 18, 2016
Monday
Today, Mike and I drove Barbel to Boerne to meet her friend, then shopped in a few antique stores for the Mission-style chair he's been looking for, which we found in Comfort. What a fun and friendly little Texas town! We're going back tomorrow to pick it up and look for a sofa for me.
If you go to Comfort, be sure to have a delicious lunch at High Street Cafe--the chicken salad, crab cakes and key lime tarts are excellent.
Mojo went with us everywhere, even the cafe--what a sweet dog! He walks politely beside Mike, no leash, and likes everybody he meets.
It's very hot here, but the clouds in the sky made me want to sing "Texas, My Texas," but (not having grown up in Texas elementary schools) I didn't know all the words. It's been a terrific day under the big Texas sky!
If you go to Comfort, be sure to have a delicious lunch at High Street Cafe--the chicken salad, crab cakes and key lime tarts are excellent.
Mojo went with us everywhere, even the cafe--what a sweet dog! He walks politely beside Mike, no leash, and likes everybody he meets.
It's very hot here, but the clouds in the sky made me want to sing "Texas, My Texas," but (not having grown up in Texas elementary schools) I didn't know all the words. It's been a terrific day under the big Texas sky!
13 year old opera singer
Thanks to Tomas for introducing me to this....
http://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=america%27s+got+talent+young+opera+singer+2016&&view=detail&mid=D7D118DBE7937716089AD7D118DBE7937716089A&FORM=VRDGAR
http://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=america%27s+got+talent+young+opera+singer+2016&&view=detail&mid=D7D118DBE7937716089AD7D118DBE7937716089A&FORM=VRDGAR
Saturday, July 16, 2016
Saturday 102 degrees in the shade
Mike and Mojo have made many new canine friends today. Kate, Mike and I went to garage sales this morning until the heat pooped us all out, then we had a delicious lunch at Ray's drive-in over on 19th Street--delicious puffy tacos. Then Barbel arrived on the bus from Houston and she and Freda and I went out for Thai food at Tong's.
These pictures came from Day's family in Virginia, enjoying their new porch and house remodeling:
These pictures came from Day's family in Virginia, enjoying their new porch and house remodeling:
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| Jackson, Day, and Marcus |
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| Marcus, Jackson, and Tom |
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| Day's toes and the new porch |
Tomas and the Linkin Bridge
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bwt3om9iQKc
Tomas is my new hair guy--friend and twenty-year-hair-guy to Cindy. Yesterday, I had my day all planned out, groceries, kombucha, cleaning the house and casita for Mike's arrival last night and Barbel's later today. I had reserved 30 minutes for a hair cut that turned into an hour and a half.
Tomas is not your regular stylist, however. He has a Buddhist heart and he likes to take his time, enjoying every moment, like Mike does. I like men like that.
At one point, I was annoyed that he was taking his time, but into the second hour, I realized this is fine, this is good. He stopped cutting several times to show me performers he liked on America's Got Talent. "I want you to leave happy," he said, putting his scissors down each time.
I'm a clock woman on a busy day, checking things off my list. When I got stuck in traffic, I realized I'd be five minutes late, so I called him. This was before I knew it didn't matter.
He loves to talk and he's a good listener, too. Like Mike.
Linkin Bridge is an accapelo group of four amazing singers who, at first glance, look like gangsters, but they brought the house down with their music. Their longtime friendship with each other shone through the music, as did their shared dream of "changing the world" with music.
In light of the recent deaths of young black men--in neighborhoods like theirs--it was particularly poignant to watch them. When I showed Mike the video this morning, he said, "Let's invite Tomas out to dinner. I'm going to like him."
Tomas is my new hair guy--friend and twenty-year-hair-guy to Cindy. Yesterday, I had my day all planned out, groceries, kombucha, cleaning the house and casita for Mike's arrival last night and Barbel's later today. I had reserved 30 minutes for a hair cut that turned into an hour and a half.
Tomas is not your regular stylist, however. He has a Buddhist heart and he likes to take his time, enjoying every moment, like Mike does. I like men like that.
At one point, I was annoyed that he was taking his time, but into the second hour, I realized this is fine, this is good. He stopped cutting several times to show me performers he liked on America's Got Talent. "I want you to leave happy," he said, putting his scissors down each time.
I'm a clock woman on a busy day, checking things off my list. When I got stuck in traffic, I realized I'd be five minutes late, so I called him. This was before I knew it didn't matter.
He loves to talk and he's a good listener, too. Like Mike.
Linkin Bridge is an accapelo group of four amazing singers who, at first glance, look like gangsters, but they brought the house down with their music. Their longtime friendship with each other shone through the music, as did their shared dream of "changing the world" with music.
In light of the recent deaths of young black men--in neighborhoods like theirs--it was particularly poignant to watch them. When I showed Mike the video this morning, he said, "Let's invite Tomas out to dinner. I'm going to like him."
Monday, July 11, 2016
1960s Magazine--My Love Secret
Day found this magazine in an antiques store and it arrived in my box today. "I've read it!" I told her.
Well, maybe not this actual magazine, but I read plenty of similar ones-- the kind of magazine you'd find in the beauty shop where we got our permanents.
For 15 cents, teenagers got love and dating advice from a magazine subtitled "A Magazine for Modern Girls."
Advice like "Teen Marriage: Is it the answer for staying out of trouble?"
And "heartbreaking" stories like "I had to marry the wrong Boy!"
And haunting questions after a "necking party": "Will I ever be a nice girl again?"
The cover tells it all, but I am going to read it cover to cover and savor all the juicy details. I'll share as I go along. Hold your noses!
Good Art Bugs
Soon Joy Hein's new menagerie of insects and butterflies will be for sale in the gift shop at the Wildflower Center--and can be ordered directly from Joy.
Each one is an adorable rendering, just the right wardrobe touch for nature lovers as pendants or pins. Here are four of her many colorful creatures. I've already ordered a ladybug for Elena.
They range in size from about 1 to 3 inches in length, made of a polymer clay in bright colors with metal antennae, legs and other details. I can imagine them on camera bags, back packs, and hiking hats. Hey, maybe they will discourage the landing of outdoor bugs upon one's person.
Elena's newest bug bites are triggers. She has triggers on her "privates," she says. I don't know if chiggers are large enough to make into jewelry, however.
Each one is an adorable rendering, just the right wardrobe touch for nature lovers as pendants or pins. Here are four of her many colorful creatures. I've already ordered a ladybug for Elena.
They range in size from about 1 to 3 inches in length, made of a polymer clay in bright colors with metal antennae, legs and other details. I can imagine them on camera bags, back packs, and hiking hats. Hey, maybe they will discourage the landing of outdoor bugs upon one's person.
Elena's newest bug bites are triggers. She has triggers on her "privates," she says. I don't know if chiggers are large enough to make into jewelry, however.
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| Scorpion and Bee |
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| Red Ant and Fire Ant |
Sunday, July 10, 2016
Sofa Shopping
Sofas are the problem children of the furniture kingdom.
Having sold my white leather one in favor of a soft, fabric, cushier one, but not yet having found said cushy one, I spent Saturday morning shopping estate sales to no avail. Either they are huge overstuffed sofas that remind me ominously of the padded interior of caskets, or they are tufted with large buttons, or they are ultra modern and way too big for my space, or they are too fussy.
I checked out Stowers, and found expensive and over-sized ones, but nothing in my color palette. Same at Five Broads on Broadway.
At an upholstery shop, I found many colorful fabrics and people who can build a sofa from scratch or re-build vintage sofas. I like Bohemian design chairs and sofas covered in two or three different fabrics, so maybe I'll make one up and have them do it.
At an estate sale yesterday, I bought a whole bolt of beautiful upholstery fabric for $30, and two upholstered chairs for $12 apiece that I'll use until I find the sofa. At least there will be comfortable chairs to sit upon when all my children are here in August, albeit rather ugly ones in their present state. After the tsunami of Elena crafting, the room is now so messy I can't quite decide what goes where, especially after the delivery of the beautiful blue hutch I bought at the last estate sale, now the dominant piece in the room to work around.
Going from one craft to another, Elena said, "I love your house because you don't have any rules!"--so now I have a no-rules reputation to uphold. That may rule out white for a sofa until Elena grows out of the glue and marker phase.
Rooms take time to grow, as we all know, and once you change one thing, everything in the room has to change. I'm thinking about finally getting rid of my popcorn ceiling and cheap molding and upgrading the whole space.
I did reinforce yesterday what I already know: I prefer pieces with creative potential to expensive furniture store or online offerings. I like old made new. And second-hand shopping is way more fun than shopping in high end furniture stores.
Having sold my white leather one in favor of a soft, fabric, cushier one, but not yet having found said cushy one, I spent Saturday morning shopping estate sales to no avail. Either they are huge overstuffed sofas that remind me ominously of the padded interior of caskets, or they are tufted with large buttons, or they are ultra modern and way too big for my space, or they are too fussy.
I checked out Stowers, and found expensive and over-sized ones, but nothing in my color palette. Same at Five Broads on Broadway.
At an upholstery shop, I found many colorful fabrics and people who can build a sofa from scratch or re-build vintage sofas. I like Bohemian design chairs and sofas covered in two or three different fabrics, so maybe I'll make one up and have them do it.
At an estate sale yesterday, I bought a whole bolt of beautiful upholstery fabric for $30, and two upholstered chairs for $12 apiece that I'll use until I find the sofa. At least there will be comfortable chairs to sit upon when all my children are here in August, albeit rather ugly ones in their present state. After the tsunami of Elena crafting, the room is now so messy I can't quite decide what goes where, especially after the delivery of the beautiful blue hutch I bought at the last estate sale, now the dominant piece in the room to work around.
Going from one craft to another, Elena said, "I love your house because you don't have any rules!"--so now I have a no-rules reputation to uphold. That may rule out white for a sofa until Elena grows out of the glue and marker phase.
Rooms take time to grow, as we all know, and once you change one thing, everything in the room has to change. I'm thinking about finally getting rid of my popcorn ceiling and cheap molding and upgrading the whole space.
I did reinforce yesterday what I already know: I prefer pieces with creative potential to expensive furniture store or online offerings. I like old made new. And second-hand shopping is way more fun than shopping in high end furniture stores.
Saturday, July 9, 2016
Ravens
Nellie (my artist friend who lives in Florida) just sent me this picture of her latest creation--a set of ravens. I just love these colorful birds!
In 1974, when Day was three, we were camping in Vermont. One early morning, I left for a bike ride around the campground. A raven stood beside the picnic table watching me. Then he picked up a ballpoint pen on the ground and brought it to me as deliberately as a person might do! And then, after I'd put the pen in my pocket, that big raven hopped up on my handlebars and went for a ride with me, I kid you not!
Ravens are very intelligent birds, according to my online research tonight. While they are often associated with death, they are symbolic of much more than that. In many different cultures and traditions, they are highly respected as oracles.
Some believe they can foretell the future. Some believe the raven is a messenger, often communicating deep mysteries. According to Norse legends, the raven is symbolic of mind, thought and wisdom.
"There are some Greco-Roman legends that say ravens were once all white. And, because the raven couldn't keep a secret to save its life, Apollo punished the raven by turning its bright white feathers black after it divulged too many secrets. There's also a version that said the owl replaced the raven by Athena's side as her associate of wisdom because of raven's blabber-mouthed tendencies."
"Raven color changes are also mentioned in Christian lore when Noah sent a raven first to confirm the receding floodwaters. When the raven did not return, it was said God turned its feathers black for its failure, and Noah sent a dove out to do the raven's job."
"Other Native North American tribes saw the raven as the bringer of light. In fact, southwestern tribes (Hopi, Navajo, Zuni) felt the raven was flew out from the dark womb of the cosmos, and with it brought the light of the sun (dawning of understanding). Consequently, the raven is considered a venerated bird of creation, for without the raven, humans would forever live in darkness."
"Dr. Carl Jung believed that the raven symbolized the shadow self, or the dark side of the psyche. I very much like this. Why? Because by acknowledging this dark side, we can effectively communicate with both halves of ourselves. This offers liberating balance, and facilitates tremendous wisdom (something the raven would be very pleased with)."
Thursday, July 7, 2016
Sometimes a girl needs to be alone to cry
Elena is probably the happiest person I know--delighted by everything. We just spent the last twelve hours together at my house, and she only cried when it was time to leave.
At four and a half, she loves to pretend she's animals in a pet store--a unicorn, a lion, a baby cow alternately--and my job is to choose her and buy her. After she's taken on the identity of the animal, she stays in character for a long time, correcting me when I forget and call her Elena.
Today, we tie dyed fabric and made a tent, then made chocolate chip cookies and a snow globe. After dinner, she started talking about how sad it makes her that Nathan has to go to his other house for a whole week. "I'm having to squeeze back the tears because what I'm talking about makes me sad."
I told her it was okay to cry if she felt like it, but she just wanted to sit in my lap for a while. "I can just put my head on your shoulder and cry? Because I can tell you anything?"
As it turned out, the impulse to cry passed and she wanted me to buy her one more time, this time as a cheetah.
"Sometimes I just want to be by myself for a little while so nobody can hear what I'm thinking."
"I get that," I said. "I do too." I told her about the times when I was a little girl and went to my tree house to be alone.
"How long did it take until you didn't want to cry anymore?" she asked.
At four and a half, she loves to pretend she's animals in a pet store--a unicorn, a lion, a baby cow alternately--and my job is to choose her and buy her. After she's taken on the identity of the animal, she stays in character for a long time, correcting me when I forget and call her Elena.
Today, we tie dyed fabric and made a tent, then made chocolate chip cookies and a snow globe. After dinner, she started talking about how sad it makes her that Nathan has to go to his other house for a whole week. "I'm having to squeeze back the tears because what I'm talking about makes me sad."
I told her it was okay to cry if she felt like it, but she just wanted to sit in my lap for a while. "I can just put my head on your shoulder and cry? Because I can tell you anything?"
As it turned out, the impulse to cry passed and she wanted me to buy her one more time, this time as a cheetah.
"Sometimes I just want to be by myself for a little while so nobody can hear what I'm thinking."
"I get that," I said. "I do too." I told her about the times when I was a little girl and went to my tree house to be alone.
"How long did it take until you didn't want to cry anymore?" she asked.
 |
| "I thought this giraffe was taller than me." |
 |
| Loving on the giraffes |
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| Making chocolate chip cookies |
Wednesday, July 6, 2016
What IS the world coming to?
I never planned to become an old fuddy-duddy who asked "What's the world coming to?"--but sometimes I feel those words right on the tip of my tongue. When informed that school children are no longer taught cursive writing even though it's been shown to contribute to brain development, even though it's a second nature pleasure to those of us who use it every day, I got as far as "What's the..." and stopped myself.
I was horrified at this loss of a perfectly easy skill to learn--in favor of keyboard preference and test scores that only cover "measurable" skills. I waxed nostalgic about all those days in hard wooden desks in third grade copying those letters from the Palmer Handwriting Manual.
I can't throw away handwritten notes and cards. There's something heartwarming about the recognizable humanity in the handwriting of people we love, like a different kind of snapshot. You'd have to use a microscope to read Mimi's letters. She had the tiniest script I've ever seen, and her handwritten letters are still intact. Carlene has a smoothly consistent handwriting, beautiful lettering. My daddy's was a sort of hybrid of print and cursive. Will's is tight, Day's is loose. Linda Kot can write backwards! And I can tell my mood of the day by my handwriting.
When my elders asked that rhetorical question, "What is the world coming to?" when I was little, I was puzzled. Coming to? Where had it been?
In the late 60s, there was a rock concert in Georgia (near Mimi and Papa's house) as large, maybe larger, than Woodstock. I remember going there on the last day--after bikers had crashed the gates and made it, literally, a free-for-all. People were walking around sunburned, dazed, and half-naked (some altogether naked, actually). I remember a skinny girl about my age hawking mescaline in small baggies.
The grounds were littered with beer cans, trash, diapers and food containers. The bands had already left that Sunday afternoon, their massive audience reduced to ragged little tents of people who'd been there all weekend, red-eyed and stoned. Here and there you could hear music on boom boxes, but nothing live.
Papa, my granddaddy, had heard rumors about it. "What's the world coming to?" he asked, shaking his head. On that occasion, since I was by then a mature sixteen-year-old, I sort of wondered the same thing.
Later that year, my daddy forbade me to see "Joy in the Morning" showing at the Vogue Theater downtown--although Betty and I had already seen it with our mamas. Hollywood was taking us down a dangerous road, he said. Carlene was ironing when he said that, and she didn't look too worried.
"Joy in the Morning"was tame by today's rating standards, but after years of watching couples on TV saying polite goodnights from one twin bed to the other, it was scandalous, seeing even subtle suggestions of sex on the big screen.
What came down the road along with it were "Where the Boys Are" and "A Summer Place." Still no actual nudity or sex scenes (the cameras averted their eyes just in the nick of time) but they got closer than anything we'd ever seen, ending with messages about the frightful things that could befall a girl should she cross that dangerous line.
In "Where the Boys Are," the one girl who did, on the Spring Break trip to Florida, lost her virginity, then her mind. The movie closed with a scene of the bad girl walking aimlessly down a deserted street, disheveled and dazed.
The road has become the Information Highway bearing trucks of all sorts, some filled with trash, some with treasure. We have ads for Viagra and mini-narratives about erectile dysfunction advising us to call the doctor if the success of the drug lasts for more than four hours. We have Ted Talks, podcasts, and streaming movies; blogs and YouTube and Pandora.The road goes on forever, as Robert Earle Keene's song has it, but only time will tell where it's going to end up.
.
I was horrified at this loss of a perfectly easy skill to learn--in favor of keyboard preference and test scores that only cover "measurable" skills. I waxed nostalgic about all those days in hard wooden desks in third grade copying those letters from the Palmer Handwriting Manual.
I can't throw away handwritten notes and cards. There's something heartwarming about the recognizable humanity in the handwriting of people we love, like a different kind of snapshot. You'd have to use a microscope to read Mimi's letters. She had the tiniest script I've ever seen, and her handwritten letters are still intact. Carlene has a smoothly consistent handwriting, beautiful lettering. My daddy's was a sort of hybrid of print and cursive. Will's is tight, Day's is loose. Linda Kot can write backwards! And I can tell my mood of the day by my handwriting.
When my elders asked that rhetorical question, "What is the world coming to?" when I was little, I was puzzled. Coming to? Where had it been?
In the late 60s, there was a rock concert in Georgia (near Mimi and Papa's house) as large, maybe larger, than Woodstock. I remember going there on the last day--after bikers had crashed the gates and made it, literally, a free-for-all. People were walking around sunburned, dazed, and half-naked (some altogether naked, actually). I remember a skinny girl about my age hawking mescaline in small baggies.
The grounds were littered with beer cans, trash, diapers and food containers. The bands had already left that Sunday afternoon, their massive audience reduced to ragged little tents of people who'd been there all weekend, red-eyed and stoned. Here and there you could hear music on boom boxes, but nothing live.
Papa, my granddaddy, had heard rumors about it. "What's the world coming to?" he asked, shaking his head. On that occasion, since I was by then a mature sixteen-year-old, I sort of wondered the same thing.
Later that year, my daddy forbade me to see "Joy in the Morning" showing at the Vogue Theater downtown--although Betty and I had already seen it with our mamas. Hollywood was taking us down a dangerous road, he said. Carlene was ironing when he said that, and she didn't look too worried.
"Joy in the Morning"was tame by today's rating standards, but after years of watching couples on TV saying polite goodnights from one twin bed to the other, it was scandalous, seeing even subtle suggestions of sex on the big screen.
What came down the road along with it were "Where the Boys Are" and "A Summer Place." Still no actual nudity or sex scenes (the cameras averted their eyes just in the nick of time) but they got closer than anything we'd ever seen, ending with messages about the frightful things that could befall a girl should she cross that dangerous line.
In "Where the Boys Are," the one girl who did, on the Spring Break trip to Florida, lost her virginity, then her mind. The movie closed with a scene of the bad girl walking aimlessly down a deserted street, disheveled and dazed.
The road has become the Information Highway bearing trucks of all sorts, some filled with trash, some with treasure. We have ads for Viagra and mini-narratives about erectile dysfunction advising us to call the doctor if the success of the drug lasts for more than four hours. We have Ted Talks, podcasts, and streaming movies; blogs and YouTube and Pandora.The road goes on forever, as Robert Earle Keene's song has it, but only time will tell where it's going to end up.
.
Tuesday, July 5, 2016
It's genetic!
When Will and family were here on Sunday for lunch, he said, "Elena is just like you. She was lying in bed the other night looking at things on her wall in her room and said, 'Let's move these things from this wall to that wall. They will look better there.'"
I'm often teased about my love of moving things around in my house all the time when "everything was good the way it was," but that's my hobby, I guess, my creative expression, my joy.
Looks like Elena got the bug from me! We all care differently about our spaces--what goes where, what colors, how large the lamps, etc. When my house is in disorder (as it is right now having sold a sofa and not replaced it yet), I lie awake at night moving things around. It's a good thing I have a small canvas, not one even a foot larger!
Speaking of houses:
Janet O. recommended a book that looks really good that I'm going to see if the library has: A Manual for Cleaning Women--short stories by the late Lucia Berlin.
I'm often teased about my love of moving things around in my house all the time when "everything was good the way it was," but that's my hobby, I guess, my creative expression, my joy.
Looks like Elena got the bug from me! We all care differently about our spaces--what goes where, what colors, how large the lamps, etc. When my house is in disorder (as it is right now having sold a sofa and not replaced it yet), I lie awake at night moving things around. It's a good thing I have a small canvas, not one even a foot larger!
Speaking of houses:
Janet O. recommended a book that looks really good that I'm going to see if the library has: A Manual for Cleaning Women--short stories by the late Lucia Berlin.
Monday, July 4, 2016
Me and My Girl
Watching Gilmore Girls reminds me of being a daughter and being a mom. So while I'm watching it, I cry a little and laugh a lot and wish I'd been such a cool mom--even though Gilmore Mom is clearly made up to make everyone feel like that.
It's all totally unrealistic--girl gets pregnant at 15, gives birth to her baby girl who turns out to be her best friend, and winds up the well-enough-to-do manager of a swanky inn in Connecticut, single and happy.
My daughter is older than the mom in the series. I'm missing her. While watching GG, I get a series of texts from her, one of which is to check out this site:
https://www.ayoungmansfollies.com which I do and it's really interesting, a series of letters and photographs someone found in a trunk at an estate sale.
Then she sends me a picture, labeled LUNCH:
It's all totally unrealistic--girl gets pregnant at 15, gives birth to her baby girl who turns out to be her best friend, and winds up the well-enough-to-do manager of a swanky inn in Connecticut, single and happy.
My daughter is older than the mom in the series. I'm missing her. While watching GG, I get a series of texts from her, one of which is to check out this site:
https://www.ayoungmansfollies.com which I do and it's really interesting, a series of letters and photographs someone found in a trunk at an estate sale.
Then she sends me a picture, labeled LUNCH:
Followed by a text that reads: Picture of My Day
Followed by a text that says:
"Take a picture of something near you"
So I send the following:
Then she says, "Now it feels like we are together."
And I get all teary.
From my movie-in-bed, I send her a picture of my lunch:
Then she sends one final picture, along with a note that says
"It is pouring here now for the rest of the day."
The Gilmore Girls
Here it is the 4th of July, and I'm wondering what you all are doing--sailing from Cape Cod to Martha's Vineyard? Seeing a play on Broadway, listening to opera or grilling on the grill you use every two years or so? Listening to NPR or watching fireworks at Woodlawn Lake? Watching the parade, swimming, eating out with friends, quilting on the porch, hot-rodding, or answering the messages you posted on a dating site? Braving the heat and taking advantage of 4th of July sales?
Jan and Kate (next door Kate) told me about a seven-season series on Netflix that I'm entirely enjoying, so I plan to spend the 4th watching Lorelei and Rory's days, a cool way to stay out of the heat. I love their repartee and word play. Probably nobody in real life talks like this, but the banter, arguments, and quick-come backs, studded with literary and popular culture allusions, (because I suck at all these endeavors) is strangely liberating to listen to.
See? I even used Rory's word, sucks--feeling all independent and devil-may-care! I get a vicarious thrill watching scripted rapid-fire dialogue, just like watchers of sports must get when they watch athletes throw, catch, run, and score.
In conversation of the Lorelei/Rory style--sometimes even including the uptight narcissistic grandmother who lives by rules and her own opinions--everyone always has a comeback and delivers it without a nanosecond's hesitation. When Lorelei (the mother) finds herself attracted to Rory's (the daughter's) private school English teacher, the banter and word play between Lorelei and Max is as snappy as a game of ping pong.
Jan and Kate (next door Kate) told me about a seven-season series on Netflix that I'm entirely enjoying, so I plan to spend the 4th watching Lorelei and Rory's days, a cool way to stay out of the heat. I love their repartee and word play. Probably nobody in real life talks like this, but the banter, arguments, and quick-come backs, studded with literary and popular culture allusions, (because I suck at all these endeavors) is strangely liberating to listen to.
See? I even used Rory's word, sucks--feeling all independent and devil-may-care! I get a vicarious thrill watching scripted rapid-fire dialogue, just like watchers of sports must get when they watch athletes throw, catch, run, and score.
In conversation of the Lorelei/Rory style--sometimes even including the uptight narcissistic grandmother who lives by rules and her own opinions--everyone always has a comeback and delivers it without a nanosecond's hesitation. When Lorelei (the mother) finds herself attracted to Rory's (the daughter's) private school English teacher, the banter and word play between Lorelei and Max is as snappy as a game of ping pong.
Sunday, July 3, 2016
Synchronicity
Synchronicity: "the coincidental occurrence of events and especially psychic events (as similar thoughts in widely separated persons or a mental image of an unexpected event before it happens) that seem related but are not explained by conventional mechanisms of causality —used especially in the psychology of C. G. Jung"
I've not thought of Ghost Busters in over 30 years. Haven't thought of the song, the logo, anything. That movie, until yesterday, was not on my radar. I saw it in 1984 with my children (looked up the date of its release to tell this story) and all I remembered was the catchy jingle: "Who Ya Gonna Call? Ghost Busters!" which I mentioned in a blog post yesterday.
Out in Helotes, unbeknownst to me until today, on the very day I was humming that song in my head, Elena and Nathan were doing an elaborate dance to that very song! When Will showed me a video of it today, I was startled by the coincidence.
When someone calls and you've been thinking about that person, it's just a coincidence--especially if it's near the time he or she usually calls. If the call comes from someone you're thinking about whom you haven't heard from in twenty years or more, it's a Big Coincidence, so unlikely that it grabs your attention and seems freighted with meaning.
Synchronistic events are like flashlights that shine a beam on something, making it larger by doubling it. They make me suspect that the Universe, for all its seeming-seriousness, has a sense of humor.
I've not thought of Ghost Busters in over 30 years. Haven't thought of the song, the logo, anything. That movie, until yesterday, was not on my radar. I saw it in 1984 with my children (looked up the date of its release to tell this story) and all I remembered was the catchy jingle: "Who Ya Gonna Call? Ghost Busters!" which I mentioned in a blog post yesterday.
Out in Helotes, unbeknownst to me until today, on the very day I was humming that song in my head, Elena and Nathan were doing an elaborate dance to that very song! When Will showed me a video of it today, I was startled by the coincidence.
When someone calls and you've been thinking about that person, it's just a coincidence--especially if it's near the time he or she usually calls. If the call comes from someone you're thinking about whom you haven't heard from in twenty years or more, it's a Big Coincidence, so unlikely that it grabs your attention and seems freighted with meaning.
Synchronistic events are like flashlights that shine a beam on something, making it larger by doubling it. They make me suspect that the Universe, for all its seeming-seriousness, has a sense of humor.
"Won't you be my neighbor?" (Mr. Rogers)
I have the best neighbors in town--Jan, Kate, Sebastien and Makken.
They have brought me magic soup, blueberry cookies, and a wonderful vegetable pasta dish. I licked the bowl and plate clean and returned the dishes.
Cooking is fun for foodies like Jan and Kate. I used to be a cook, but I'm out of practice. I thought I'd gotten everything I needed for cream of celery soup, but halfway in I realized that while I had gotten parsnips (totally new to me!) I had forgotten the one little potato and garlic clove called for, so I went back over to Jan's to borrow from her pantry.
My menu for lunch today was creamed crab in puff pastries, salmon with dill, guacamole, and a big puffy pavlova with strawberries for dessert. Will, Veronica and Elena came for lunch, then Kate Mangold (not Kate next door) joined us for dessert.
My blood pressure is now in low-normal range, so all is well on that front. Gerlinde brought me a machine so I can test it at home if I ever start yelling at strangers again and need something to blame it on.
I wonder now how Mimi, my grandmother, used to put on the spreads she did in her 80s--fried chicken, butterbeans, potato salad, macaroni and cheese, sliced tomatoes, fried okra, and pie. I, Linda, am "plum worn out"--as I hear echoes of Mimi saying (or feeling) after standing in the kitchen for hours cooking all that.
They have brought me magic soup, blueberry cookies, and a wonderful vegetable pasta dish. I licked the bowl and plate clean and returned the dishes.
Cooking is fun for foodies like Jan and Kate. I used to be a cook, but I'm out of practice. I thought I'd gotten everything I needed for cream of celery soup, but halfway in I realized that while I had gotten parsnips (totally new to me!) I had forgotten the one little potato and garlic clove called for, so I went back over to Jan's to borrow from her pantry.
My menu for lunch today was creamed crab in puff pastries, salmon with dill, guacamole, and a big puffy pavlova with strawberries for dessert. Will, Veronica and Elena came for lunch, then Kate Mangold (not Kate next door) joined us for dessert.
My blood pressure is now in low-normal range, so all is well on that front. Gerlinde brought me a machine so I can test it at home if I ever start yelling at strangers again and need something to blame it on.
I wonder now how Mimi, my grandmother, used to put on the spreads she did in her 80s--fried chicken, butterbeans, potato salad, macaroni and cheese, sliced tomatoes, fried okra, and pie. I, Linda, am "plum worn out"--as I hear echoes of Mimi saying (or feeling) after standing in the kitchen for hours cooking all that.
Saturday, July 2, 2016
Ghost Busters
None among us got a guide book to this life--though having had one could have saved us a lot of trouble, I guess. But where's the fun in that? Instead, we get to write our own, making it up as we go. Just when we think we have it all figured out, something changes and we have to do a rewrite.
That's one reason I love reading--poetry, novels, memoir, and books by wise people who have figured out some things I'm still working on. Good books are like good friends--you hate to see them leave.
Ever since Kate recommended Hauntings, I've read a little bit every day and underlined about half of it. It's a little book by a Jungian psychologist, but some paragraphs take three or four readings to take in. As I near the end, I think I'll start re-reading from the beginning.
At 2 a.m., I woke up with some peculiar symptoms, probably due to steroids bouncing around in my system. The first thing I did was wash the dishes left over from last night (if you get sick, someone may come and see how messy your kitchen is, and we can't have that). The second thing was to imagine driving myself to the ER. The third thing was to text Mike: "Are you up?" (I did all these things in about ten minutes). Mike said it was probably reflux and talked to me until the ghost of Possible Catastrophe went away.
According to Hauntings, ghosts show up in many forms--including voices from the past, beliefs, and symptoms. Often these motley ghosts bind us so tightly to their opinions that we have to struggle to silence them to hear our own voices.
My lifelong mantra has been "To thine own self be true..." from Will Shakespeare. What makes it a mantra is how hard it is to be true to the ever-changing self who needs constant reminders. Be true to...which self? The Self people tell us we are? The Self we used to be? The Self we wish we were?
I'm thinking today of the theme song of that old movie, Ghost Busters: "Who ya gonna call? Ghost Busters!" I called Mike. Actually, I texted him, and he called right back.
The movie I watched yesterday was a perfect companion to this book. Empire Falls, based on the Pulitzer novel by Richard Russo, is about one good and likable man (played by Ed Harris) whose life is haunted by things that happened when he was a child. As the plot moves forward, we see flashbacks of his childhood and feel the gravitational pull of Little Miles' childhood on his adult life.
Literature is like that. The characters are a lot like us and everyone we know. They have hopes and dreams and plans, but something or someone stands in their way. We keep reading because we want to find out how the character banishes his or her ghosts and breaks free.
That's one reason I love reading--poetry, novels, memoir, and books by wise people who have figured out some things I'm still working on. Good books are like good friends--you hate to see them leave.
Ever since Kate recommended Hauntings, I've read a little bit every day and underlined about half of it. It's a little book by a Jungian psychologist, but some paragraphs take three or four readings to take in. As I near the end, I think I'll start re-reading from the beginning.
At 2 a.m., I woke up with some peculiar symptoms, probably due to steroids bouncing around in my system. The first thing I did was wash the dishes left over from last night (if you get sick, someone may come and see how messy your kitchen is, and we can't have that). The second thing was to imagine driving myself to the ER. The third thing was to text Mike: "Are you up?" (I did all these things in about ten minutes). Mike said it was probably reflux and talked to me until the ghost of Possible Catastrophe went away.
According to Hauntings, ghosts show up in many forms--including voices from the past, beliefs, and symptoms. Often these motley ghosts bind us so tightly to their opinions that we have to struggle to silence them to hear our own voices.
My lifelong mantra has been "To thine own self be true..." from Will Shakespeare. What makes it a mantra is how hard it is to be true to the ever-changing self who needs constant reminders. Be true to...which self? The Self people tell us we are? The Self we used to be? The Self we wish we were?
I'm thinking today of the theme song of that old movie, Ghost Busters: "Who ya gonna call? Ghost Busters!" I called Mike. Actually, I texted him, and he called right back.
The movie I watched yesterday was a perfect companion to this book. Empire Falls, based on the Pulitzer novel by Richard Russo, is about one good and likable man (played by Ed Harris) whose life is haunted by things that happened when he was a child. As the plot moves forward, we see flashbacks of his childhood and feel the gravitational pull of Little Miles' childhood on his adult life.
Literature is like that. The characters are a lot like us and everyone we know. They have hopes and dreams and plans, but something or someone stands in their way. We keep reading because we want to find out how the character banishes his or her ghosts and breaks free.
Over and Out...
Just now listening to Norman Lear on "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me." He's the quick-witted and lively 93-year-old producer of such programs as "All In The Family."
When asked his secret for healthy longevity, he said, "Two words: Over and Out."
The past is over; let it go. Then go on out to the next thing.
Those two words, he said, should have a hammock in between. That's the present moment.
When asked his secret for healthy longevity, he said, "Two words: Over and Out."
The past is over; let it go. Then go on out to the next thing.
Those two words, he said, should have a hammock in between. That's the present moment.
Eat, Pray, Love....and
I woke up this morning to news that our Elizabeth Gilbert (Of Eat, Pray, Love) and her husband of 12 years are going their separate ways. He was the find at the end of that earlier journey and she wrote a book about marriage after that, though I never read it. Most recently, I read her Big Magic and listened to related podcasts.
But I had loved her memoir of travel so much that I felt (as all women probably did) that I knew her. So when I got Pam's email I checked it out on Facebook and read what she had to say about it.
She included this poem by Jack Gilbert (no relation):
Failing and Flying
BY JACK GILBERT
Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.
It's the same when love comes to an end,
or the marriage fails and people say
they knew it was a mistake, that everybody
said it would never work. That she was
old enough to know better. But anything
worth doing is worth doing badly.
Like being there by that summer ocean
on the other side of the island while
love was fading out of her, the stars
burning so extravagantly those nights that
anyone could tell you they would never last.
Every morning she was asleep in my bed
like a visitation, the gentleness in her
like antelope standing in the dawn mist.
Each afternoon I watched her coming back
through the hot stony field after swimming,
the sea light behind her and the huge sky
on the other side of that. Listened to her
while we ate lunch. How can they say
the marriage failed? Like the people who
came back from Provence (when it was Provence)
and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.
I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,
but just coming to the end of his triumph.
But I had loved her memoir of travel so much that I felt (as all women probably did) that I knew her. So when I got Pam's email I checked it out on Facebook and read what she had to say about it.
She included this poem by Jack Gilbert (no relation):
Failing and Flying
BY JACK GILBERT
Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.
It's the same when love comes to an end,
or the marriage fails and people say
they knew it was a mistake, that everybody
said it would never work. That she was
old enough to know better. But anything
worth doing is worth doing badly.
Like being there by that summer ocean
on the other side of the island while
love was fading out of her, the stars
burning so extravagantly those nights that
anyone could tell you they would never last.
Every morning she was asleep in my bed
like a visitation, the gentleness in her
like antelope standing in the dawn mist.
Each afternoon I watched her coming back
through the hot stony field after swimming,
the sea light behind her and the huge sky
on the other side of that. Listened to her
while we ate lunch. How can they say
the marriage failed? Like the people who
came back from Provence (when it was Provence)
and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.
I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,
but just coming to the end of his triumph.
Friday, July 1, 2016
Friday morning
A few years ago I was engaged with an independent publisher who was going to publish my book entitled A ROAD OF ONE'S OWN. We broke up over the title. "Nobody is going to buy a book with that title," she said.
So imagine my surprise when Linda Kot sent me a link to a book called A MIND OF YOUR OWN....
that, according to Amazon is selling quite well. Granted the ONE'S is not the same as YOUR, and MIND is not the same as ROAD, but we are both echoing Virginia Woolfe's words--that "every woman writer should have money and a room of her own."
A MIND OF ONE'S OWN is about depression and I just ordered a sample on my Kindle app; the reviews are quite good. I think the title is excellent!
Just got back from the Alamo Heights Fire Station where they tested my blood pressure; it's down from 188 to 158 but still very high for me. I'm parking myself in my bed for the day before I do any more verbal damage out in the world.
This morning, I was mean to the washers at Car Wash for leaving trash in the car and vacuuming badly. "Well, you could buy the super wash for $50," they said.
To that I replied, expletives deleted, "Every $20 car wash should be a super wash."
So imagine my surprise when Linda Kot sent me a link to a book called A MIND OF YOUR OWN....
that, according to Amazon is selling quite well. Granted the ONE'S is not the same as YOUR, and MIND is not the same as ROAD, but we are both echoing Virginia Woolfe's words--that "every woman writer should have money and a room of her own."
A MIND OF ONE'S OWN is about depression and I just ordered a sample on my Kindle app; the reviews are quite good. I think the title is excellent!
Just got back from the Alamo Heights Fire Station where they tested my blood pressure; it's down from 188 to 158 but still very high for me. I'm parking myself in my bed for the day before I do any more verbal damage out in the world.
This morning, I was mean to the washers at Car Wash for leaving trash in the car and vacuuming badly. "Well, you could buy the super wash for $50," they said.
To that I replied, expletives deleted, "Every $20 car wash should be a super wash."
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