HAPPY 2019 Everybody!

I wish I knew how to send fireworks here, like Nathan does, or Home Free's version of "Auld Lang Syne" that Knoel sent, but I don't know how to post music and fireworks.

We're having a good day.  Carlene looks and feels better and her hair stylist Linh brought us Vietnamese egg rolls--delicious!

And we're getting sweet texts from so many of YOU--along with Kate's recommendations for kefir and a tea that Carlene really likes.  

Hope 2019 is a wonderful year for you all!

Georgia's First Glue Party

Jocelyn, born in 1972, has the misfortune of never having attended a glue party-- but we remedied that today!

She performed admirably for a rookie glue spreader...though the first party only included glue coverage for one palm.

Update

Carlene looks great--considering what she's been through.

She's still taking pain meds and will have PT and OT in-house this week.

HAPPY NEW YEAR to you all!

Today

Jocelyn and Carlene

TREES

I'm looking around in Carlene's back yard at trees--and found this drawing on Pinterest of bare winter trees:

It reminded me, too, of something Pam said when our more-beautiful-than-ever fall leaves in SA detached themselves from the branches.  We'd loved those orange and golden leaves, and we had oped they would stay longer.

"But leaves are as beautiful on the ground as on the trees," she said.

December 29 in Georgia

Just a quick update--and thanks to you all for your good wishes!

Carlene is doing better day by day.  She's home, where she wants to be, and maneuvering well with the walker.

The pelvic fracture is painful, and the medicine she's taking for that has its side effects, but she has an excellent nursing staff of one every day--her daughter-in-law, Jocelyn, who has amazing instincts and bedside skills!

She also has numerous friends, good Southern cooks, who bring food.  The refrigerator is packed so full at the moment that I'm not sure we could wedge in a carrot stick.

So that's my job--warming up gifts of lasagne and soup and cornbread and eating my share of honey-baked ham and Christmas cookies.  (My other job is to help Jocelyn in any ways I can--and just to be here and watch Carlene's steady progress back to movement and balance!)

Next week, she begins in-home physical and occupational therapy twice a week.  She's brave and determined, tired and optimistic, and so grateful--as we all are--that her injuries are relatively mild considering the total destruction of her little white Malibu.

Moments of Christmas

1.

I almost didn't go to the party last night after hearing about Carlene's accident, but since I'd made a cake, decided to at least stop by and deliver it.

A man-couple, these two guys had decorated their house and yard magically, a taste of Christmas Pasts and good cheer.

When I left, one of them gave me a totally unexpected gift--a big bag of treasures: hand lotion, a black and white tea pot, a peach candle, a beautiful inlaid box, a silver bracelet and a Christmas tree night light, and other things.

I took the bag home and opened it, feeling like a girl on Christmas morning, cheered by the friendship of men who had picked such lovely gifts for me.

I didn't stay long.  I was preoccupied with the news from Georgia and was listening for phone calls.  But when I left this morning, the sound of "We love you!" in my head like sugarplums, I felt I'd had myself some real merry.

2.

Instead of going to Helotes as planned, Helotes came to me--while Day and Tom and Jackson were on the phone helping me plan my trip.  I was teary, and worried that the little kids would be disappointed that I wasn't going to spend the night as promised.  (I'd already packed my new Santa pajamas!) "We understand," Nathan said, hugging me at least three extra times. "And we'll be praying for Nana."

When Veronica's dad--who speaks only Spanish--gave me a hug and said something in Spanish I didn't understand, I realized that it's not the literal words that matter so much when you're facing something hard and frightening.  It's the nonverbal expressions from one human heart to another.

3.

A man on the flight helped me lift my suitcase into the overhead bins.  A San Antonio soldier, he and his wife were traveling to Atlanta in hopes of a cure for his wife's illness, caused by breast implants.

"This disease [breast implant illness, BII] has robbed me of ten years of my life," she said. It's a common disease, they told me, bringing on severe fibromyalgia and joint pain and chronic fatigue.

Her entire face and body were etched with pain and her husband stroked her arms and held her hand.  "We're so hopeful," he said.  "We're not going to stop until we find a cure."

They promised to call me when we all get back to San Antonio with updates--and their final words were, "We'll be thinking about your mom--let us know!"

4.

I met a woman at the Enterprise desk named Deborah.

Deborah travels with a group who saves elephants and trains people to treat "the smartest animals on the planet" more humanely.

In a short space of paperwork time, I told her about Carlene--and she literally got tears in her eyes to match mine.

"She's going to be okay," she said when I showed her a photo.  "She has a huge life force and she's going to survive this, I promise.  I know things."

5.

Yesterday morning, I went to Walgreens to buy some new bedroom shoes.

I also needed some moisturizer and lip balm.

But the line was too long and I left empty-handed.

When my plans changed, I decided to go ahead and open gifts from Jocelyn and Day.  Both of them give fun presents with lots of colorful and sweet-smelling things inside....

Including, this year, get this: comfy bedroom shoes, bath bombs, moisturizers, soaps, lip balms!

6.

It's a good thing I've started crying again.

So much sweetness--I've had several occasions in one day to let 'em flow, those new tears.

My seat-mate taught me how to track a flight in real time on your phone....

Fun to see that little airplane moving toward its destination while you're on it!

On Christmas Eve--was it just yesterday?--Carlene's was T-boned by a young driver who never applied her brakes.  My Christmas gift to beat all gifts this year is that she's going to be fine!  Bob said if I had seen a picture of her totaled car, I wouldn't believe that she could have survived!

I got a flight here to Georgia to help her, be with her, and just celebrate that she got out of it with only a fractured pelvis, not a break that will require surgery.  She had to be moved to a trauma center because of an internal bleed, but they were able to repair the artery and when I left her just now, she was sleepy and a bit nauseated from meds.

The fracture occurred on the left hip, but the bleeding was on the opposite side--where she says her post-shingles pain is worse than the pain of the fractured side.  She had shingles 20 years ago, but has had four recurrences of severe nerve pain as a result of it.  If you haven't gotten your double-shingles shot that promises to prevent this disease for life, be sure and get it!

I'm staying in a motel near the hospital.  I'll be able to go home with her when she's dismissed (she needs a bit of physical therapy first)  and do whatever she might need until her legs are steadier and the pain hopefully gone.

Little Sheep and Wise Men

I sat on a pew this morning with Will and Bonnie and Nathan--watching the Christmas pageant.  Nathan had elected not to participate, but Elena was a sweet silent sheep!

What IS it with me? I wondered, tears springing to my eyes again!  And then I remembered all the times I've felt like crying and couldn't.  And then I remembered that I stopped taking a low dose of anti-depressant I'm supposed to take for aches and pains when I get fibro.

So that's what those pills do?  They keep you from overflowing with joy when you see someone or something beautiful?  They numb the part of your brain that sends out tears?

For the past two weeks, I've felt moved to real actually salty tears by so many good things and sad things--moved enough to have myself a little cry from time to time.

That's a good thing.  Feeling everything feels good.

Visitors and Friends

The spirit of the house is moving.  It keeps me up all hours.  It also requires lots of help from noisy, talkative story-telling men.

Yesterday, I heard from one of them a new phrase:  "Never get high on your own stash." (I don't believe I'll ever have a need that advice, but I'm a sucker for new phrases.)

Then, another came to clean up the cans and debris left over from flooring, a tattooed-all-over big guy who's as good a craftsman as I've ever met and usually runs between three and four hours late.

It was dark by then, and he brought his 7-year-old twins and his wife to help.  As the story unfolded, I learned that not only did he have four children when he married Second Wife, but so did she.

That's 8, I figured in my rudimentary math--but no, it's actually ten.

When the twins were born, the mother of their father refused to let them go to social services when their mother was returned to prison on a drug offense and their father, her son, "didn't want them." So as soon as those two-pound baby boys got big enough to live outside NICU, Grandma took them home to raise.  But the floor man and second wife wound up keeping them most of the time, along with Grandma down the street, and they consider them their two youngest sons.

Papa had his boys picking up trash while I got acquainted with his wife in the kitchen.

"What happened to their birth mother?" I asked.

"Well, she'd already had nine babies and give them all away," Second Wife said.  "They visit with her and their real daddy sometime, but they always call us and say 'Come get us, we don't like it over here' so we always do."

"But doesn't their mama want them back now that she's out?" I asked.  (And their real daddy who's now her boyfriend again? I wondered)

"I'm mama now," she said.  "She had nine other babies before them, all with different men, and give them all away.  She don't hardly know these boys."  By then, the boys had come inside and were listening to the story they know by heart.

"Eleven babies?" I asked.

"Yeah," one of the twins said, getting into the story he's heard often enough to know verbatim.  "And she was only 39 by then."

So these two little guys walked around my house and noticed everything, especially things had been made by hand.  One asked me to tell him how to make paper mosaics, and I did.

"They aren't identical," the mom told me, pointing to the thin one.  "This one we call crazy eyes cause he's always doing crazy things with his eyes, like rolling one one way and one the other."

"And this one," she said, pointing to the chubby tummy of the other one, "This one we call gordo cause he's, well, healthier than the other one."

Then my phone rang and I watched the four of them getting into their big windowless, dented-all-over primer-painted van and drive away, on their way to Floresville at that hour to install some floors.

Now it's Sunday morning and the house is quiet.  Thanks to Edward, the windows are washed, the blinds clean, pictures hung, new rug unrolled and placed under the table--all extras he tacked on while I was out running errands, "because it's Christmas and we're friends."  Which we are.

Friday Night

Okay, I am officially exhausted!  I like men and all, but this many, all the time--I'm ready for some order.  Since I don't believe in magic, I've been working all day to organize my stuff.  I'm right in the middle of  the chaos before the calm.

One worker built a door for inside the closet today and I told him it wouldn't clear the lightbulb and there was no opening for changing the AC/heater filter.  He fired off a tirade of expletives, not at me but at himself, and I know him too well to interrupt.  After he blows off steam and calls himself every name in the book, including "stupid crackhead" (neither of which he is), he calms down and figures out how to fix it--tomorrow.

Today's Science Friday Interview

If you felt a twinge of pleasure when the Donald was captured by the "fake news" with real, actual toilet paper on his shoe, you had what is called schadenfreude, a little joy at someone else's misfortune.

Science Friday's discussion with Tiffany Watt Smith on her newest book, Schadenfreude, is worth a listen.  Usually, she says, it's the little things that give us this fleeting pleasure.  If you like the person to which the unpleasant thing happen, and if that same person hasn't done you wrong, you tend to feel bad for him or her; if you don't like the person, or if you see that person getting his or her comeuppance, you probably feel a certain glee.

Having seen our embarrassing White House dweller push other world leaders out of the way, I'd be off-the-charts happy to see that reciprocated, but most other world leaders are too savvy to push and shove in the world playground.

 

Home!

Yesterday, I left the Best Western and drove to Helotes to see Elena's dance recital. Her class danced to only one song, but by the end of it, her daddy and I were both wiping away tears.

The song was "Have yourself a merry little Christmas," a song I will forever associate with the dancing of beautiful little girl, especially the dearest one to me, Elena.

She was graceful and gentle in her movements and the pure goodness of it all made me cry.  She ran to hug each of us in turn, Papi, her daddy, me, her mommy, and Tita.  Then she came back to give me a second hug: "I see your eyes are red," she said.  "Just overflowing with love for you," I told her.

Afterwards, her parents went to a dinner party for a friend and Elena and I went to El Chaparral's, still my favorite Mexican restaurant anywhere.  "This is a five-star restaurant for sure," she said, eating her puffy bean and cheese tacos while I devoured my spinach enchiladas.

I told Elena that El Chap used to be just the one room, across from the booth where we were sitting.  I told her how I used to put her daddy in a high chair there when he was a baby in blue seersucker overalls I'd made him.

Old soul Elena stroked the old wood and said, "Just imagine.  People you love might have touched this same wood before."

On the way home, she told me all about the elf on the shelf and how it had eaten all the gumdrops on hers and Nathan's gingerbread house, imagine that!

"What does he do after Christmas, this elf?" I asked.

"He goes back to the North Pole and tells Santa who's been good and who's been bad," she said.

"What do you think he says when Santa asks about you?"

"Well, it's kind of bumpy," she said.  "Sometimes Elena is really good and sometimes Elena can be bad.  But she tries really really hard to be good."

Then, driving down Scenic Loop to her house, the same Scenic Loop I've driven thousands of times when my own children were growing up, we passed the driveway where her other grandpa lives, where we all used to live, a driveway that evokes memories of decades but not the total joy and ease Elena feels heading toward her own driveway.

"If you're ever nervous when you're doing a performance," she said. "Just imagine that everyone in the audience is your family."

Profound words come from this little girl who still believes in elves and Santa and who is wrapped up tight in the love of her family, her parents, her brother, and the grandparents who came to watch her dance.

"If everyone could have that kind of love," I said to Will today, "There would be total peace on earth."

The Velocity of Being

Maria Popova, creator of Brainpickings, has edited a book (with Claudia Bedrick) of letters to children--about the importance of reading: The Velocity of Being.  On Vimeo, we get to see the the editors of the book and to some of its contributors.

One is a hundred-year-old Holocaust survivor who risked her life in concentration camp by reading aloud to imprisoned girls.

https://vimeo.com/306022843?mc_cid=ea933a9230&mc_eid=7940cd5ca2

Each letter is paired with an illustration from Maria Popova's favorite children's books--not "sugar coated" or "darkly moralistic" ones, but those that "distill" some timeless wisdom that speaks to children as well as the "child inside" us all.

Because the book was eight years in the making, some of its contributors (like Ursula Le Guin) are no longer alive--in the usual sense of aliveness.  But the common and very-much-alive thread among them all is the desire to encourage what art and literature can offer children--empathy.

I've seen plenty of snippets good-guy/bad-guy fighting video games and movies meant for children, and have overheard enough sappy cartoons--along with my share of news--to be be passionate about children being exposed to the alternatives to current and arbitrary lines of good and bad. This book is important and these voices inspiring!

"How The Other Half Lives"

When we were kids, people used to say--when they observed others buying expensive cars or taking luxurious trips: "Well, that's how the other half lives."

Tonight, I'm recalling that same line, but with a different spin on it--realizing now that I'm among the fortunate, prosperous half--as are we all.

1.

The desk clerk here is a smart, handsome man in his twenties.  When I walk in or out, he says, "Hey Linda!"--and I call him by his name.

After I gave him a Christmas card, he's been even more talkative.  "How are your floors going?" he wants to know.

"Another delay," I say.  "Looks like I'll be living here a few more days."

He smiles.  "Well, I'm sorry about your floors, but I'm glad you're staying longer."

Tonight when I went down to get ice, I asked him about his career goals, and he told me he only had an associates degree, but he wanted to be a fitness coach.  "You can't do much with an associates degree," he said.  "And the course for training would be $700, at least, maybe more."

He only makes $800 every two weeks at the motel, and his 3-hour-a-day Uber driving gig has a downside: the cost of wear and tear on his car has made it worth less than he could get for it if he sold it.

"There's something I can tell you about me that you don't know," he said. "I usually don't tell people this--well, I guess because who cares really?--but I want to tell you."

He pulled up his pants leg.  "Both my legs are prosthetics," he said.  "I was born with a birth defect and had to have both legs amputated as a baby."

He can't stand for more than 45 minutes--so he can only work jobs that allow him to sit when his legs start hurting.  And he wants to be a fitness coach!  He has a friend who mows lawns for $60 a yard, and he wishes he could do that.  Maybe, he says, if he could mow lawns or do physical labor, he could make enough money to get his training.

2.

We had to stop talking so he could check in the next guests: a mother with three children. When I got into the elevator with them, I noticed that each of them had neatly combed hair and that the youngest girl had a soft but almost pleading look on her face.  I thought she wanted to talk.

Instead of suitcases, they each carried a white plastic trash bag filled with clothes.  The little girl had her own flowered pillow and a stuffed animal.

"Where are you from?" I asked the little girl.

Her one-word answer and the pained look on all their faces said it all.  "Here."

Clearly, they were escaping something dangerous at home, finding a night of respite at the Best Western.

3.

After I gave the housekeeper a little money in a Christmas card, she started leaving me notes: "Where did you buy these shoes?" "Thank you very much for the present." "I won't be here tomorrow so someone else will clean your room but I will miss you."  "I like the things you are making."

I can tell that the notes are carefully and painstakingly written by someone not accustomed to writing.

4.

The "other half" includes people doing menial jobs to pay the bills, families running away from danger, clothes stuffed into trash bags, young men who can't afford  the training they need to follow their dreams, a young woman leading a stranger to her room, a recent immigrant from Mexico who smiles all the time and "loves" his job of washing sheets and towels.  

"Your Christmas card," the desk clerk said, "Is probably the only Christmas for me.  My mother doesn't speak to me anymore ever since I caught her stealing some of my money."

Making Things

The scrapbook industry made a plethora of arts and crafts materials available to us all.  Before that, art students and professionals had serious art stores, but the novices (like me, if I had even been a novice back then) had access to way fewer tools.

Most of the speciality stores for various have seemingly been eaten alive by the big box stores like Michaels and Jo Ann's which have it all in one place.

The only problem is that novices like me usually don't know what to do with all those embossing powders,  pens, papers, and paints.  The big box stores sell virtually everything, but they don't have enthusiasts of each craft available to answer questions.

There are so many good online classes--Sketchbook Skool, Udemy, and Bluprint among others, that teach design and techniques,

The beauty of these classes is that you can take them right at home, in your living room or on your bed--and even in two-plus-week motel rooms.

Here we have our model holding Tray #2

Dictionary by Elena

"So what does 'redneck' mean?" Nathan asked Will.

Elena promptly interrupted with "Oh, I know that one!"  Saved by the bell, Will was--as he was struggling to come up with a definition that would satisfy Nathan.

"So what is a redneck, Elena?" Will asked.

I can just imagine her rolling her eyes as she does: Everybody knows that!

"It's a man driving too fast in a pick up truck with no shirt on and tattoos all over him."

"How did you know all that?"

"It's what Mommy called that man who cut us off in traffic!" she said.  Obvious, right? 

Stamping, stenciling, and gluing

BLUPRINT--formerly Craftsy--offers some great classes in paper crafts, quilting, photography, crochet, and other fun things.

I'm currently watching a paper crafter,  Marjie Kemper, who's teaching me how to use all these cool inks and distress ink pads, and it's inspiring to learn new techniques and what to do with different kinds of inks and paints and adhesives.  I'm taking notes so I can teach Elena.

This class is called Inventive Ink: Colorful Mixed Media Effects.

Lunch at Adelante's

Today, I had the great pleasure of  having lunch at Adelante's with Will, Veronica, Kent and Victoria.  After Will heard Kent's tales of fishing and boat building, he quoted a line from a movie  that he thought of asking but didn't:  "Are we best friends now?"  They fish all the same waters in Colorado yet had never met before.

I so enjoy introducing people I love to each other!

Victoria and Veronica both speak fluent Spanish--Victoria originally from Panama, Veronica from Mexico--so the conversation was lively and fun all the way around.

This lunch plan was born when Victoria gave Elena and me an inspiring and fun bird class recently.

Elena--her parents tell me--is spending all her free time researching birds online and getting ready for her cockatiel.  Victoria, lifelong bird lover, has given us and Santa Clause invaluable advice on birds safety and training--and has given Elena so many bird toys that I can't wait to see the excitement on our little almost-seven-year-old's face on Christmas morning!

Tuesday morning

Kate just called at 10:30 and I was just waking up!

If they weren't so brown and ugly, I'd steal these room-darkening drapes.

To be fair, to myself, I did get up early, as always, and worked on my current tray while watching the news to see if he's been impeached or indicted yet.  I hope we've all been a good enough girls to get that for a Christmas present!

Creativity is a messy and wonderful thing.  It gets on everything around you.  Making these mandala-like trays is very meditative.  At some point, every one of them looks sort of "off" and I just keep cutting circles and gluing more until they look right to my eyes.

I also made Christmas cards for Sergio, Maria, Jeni, and Cody--the four new friends at the BW.  And read some.  And now I have a long list of things to do today, so I'll get all the way up and start doing them.

The floor layers are at my house--or supposed to be--laying floors.  I'm hoping to move back into my house on Thursday.

The Book of Awakening

This lovely book by Mark Nepo (subtitled "Having the Life You Want By Being Present to the Life You Have") has a reading for every day of the year:


                                                        December 11:


                                                       Inside gravity

          Inside gravity,

          the same things happen,

          just slower.


          When a plate breaks, we call it an accident.  When a heart breaks, we call it sad.  If it is ours, we say tragic. When a dream breaks, we sometimes call it unfair. Yet ants drop dirt and manage more and birds drop food and peck again. But as humans, when we drop what we need, philosophies and complaints abound.

          It's not just that we moan, but that we stop living to hear ourselves moan. Still, stars collide and histories begin. In our world, something is always letting go and something is always hitting the Earth. Often that which lets go survives by releasing, bu not holding on until that which needs to go is ripped from it. Often that which is hit survives by staying soft, by allowing that which hits it to temporarily shape it as stones shape mud.

         As humans, we take turns letting go and being hit. Love softens this process, and peace slows it down, until in moments that are blessed, we seem to play catch with what we need.

The Green Book

This movie is excellent!

Here's something we rarely talk about--what we know, how we learned it, and what made us the peculiar and pretty-smart people we are.

It happens all the time: a friend says something brilliant or comes up with the right way to do something I've been doing wrong, and I wonder, How did you know that and I didn't?

When just-knowing-somebody moves into friendship, the outer bubble gets punctured, usually by one of us saying something smart or vulnerable or silly, and the other one thinking: Wow!  I like her!  How did she get so smart?  Did she have a really amazing 6th grade teacher or what?

In school, I learned to diagram sentences, make an apron and lemon meringue pie, type on a blind typewriter, and do basic algebra. (The most useful was keyboarding, the least useful algebra.)

Extracurricularly, I learned to fall in love a few times (what else was there?)  to play hymns on the piano, and to be friendly enough that the senior class at Central voted me "Friendliest."  I never learned to twirl well enough to be a majorette, didn't make the top ten in the only beauty contest the seniors made us 9th graders enter for their fund raiser, and my only solo was a bomb in front of the whole Cochran Elementary School auditorium--"First there was a little ole ant, thought he'd climb a rubber tree plant...."

We don't often talk about what we learned and how we learned it, what dogs (and sometimes people) bit us or bruised us.  We don't often talk about what scared the bejesus out of us (rats for me) and how we learned to avoid anything that looked remotely like them. We rarely share--except with our closest friends who promise not to tell--the most embarrassing life lessons.

But--as we say down South--I'm fixin' to do just that, starting with year one at the University of Georgia.  I was seventeen, and the sprawling tree-shaded campus and all those ancient brick buildings made me feel smart (or at least potentially smart), like a hopeful piece of new in a world of antiquity and knowledge.

When faraway boyfriend in Texas got word that I was spotted talking to another boy, the proverbial excrement hit the proverbial fan.  To avoid the spray from the fan, I transferred to a small junior college in our hometown--big big mistake.  I "learned" to obey, to avoid conflict, to please a man.

Fortunately, I've un-learned a lot of that and am learning new ways of being in the world every day.

I'm glad for all the really good teachers I encountered along the way, especially the ones who taught me to love and read literature--starting with my mama and continuing through graduate school and beyond.  I'm also sometimes a little bit glad for the bad teachers, the biters, the mean people--who taught me what to avoid if I wanted to live a happy life.

Why I Love the Best Western Resort

1. Sergio and Maria clean my room--every day.  (Sergio's ever-present smiles are Room-Lighter-Uppers.  He greets me in the elevator, in the hallway, at the door, always happy. Yesterday I ran into him in the lobby.  Holding bundles of sheets under each arm, he said, sincerely, in new-to-him English, "I love my job!"). "Ju need anything I take care of you."

2. I'm close enough to my real home to crash Jan and Kate's kitchen table from time to time, experiencing such delicious novelties as golden beet soup.  (And after they've gotten me suitably drunk on half a glass of wine another afternoon, they give me crackers and boiled eggs to sober me up before the drive back to the resort.)

3. There are many dining options nearby --none as good as Jan and Kate's on Ogden, of course, and none offering the hospitality and friendship back in the 'hood--but last night's speciality was a yummy blackberry cobbler at the Cracker Barrel next door, and I don't regret saying yes to ice cream on top, not even half a bit,

4. I don't have to go outside in the rain and cold to have my after-dinner smoke. I can smoke in my own bathroom, just like at home. (More run-of-the-mill accommodations have rules posted right on the door bragging that they are 100% smoke free, but BW has a more liberal policy.)

5.. Maria, the other housekeeper, met me in the hall yesterday complimenting the things I make in my room and she took notes on the process.  ("I was wondering what you were doing with brushes and paints and now I know!")

       Here, I'll show you the first of two trays I've made here at the BW.  I cut out wrapping and origami paper in circles with a one-inch cutter purchased at Michael's, then glue them onto wooden trays, topping it off with Mod-Podge. (Normally I would then spray them with polyurethane, but I don't want to push my luck here at the BW.)

6. And the view!  Words don't do them justice, but I'll send you two  photograph to whet your appetite:

7. At the BW, I don't have to do one thing except what I feel like doing--no washing clothes or dishes, no cleaning of dusty surfaces.  So I'm watching "The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel" on Amazon, writing, and punching circles....

Wednesday Night

Tonight I drove to my class at the SoL Center and snapped these pictures--across from the Landa Library.  Having watched the funeral service of George Bush today, I couldn't help thinking about "a thousand points of light."

The class was cut short by a medical emergency, EMS was called, and we all shared a few moments of fear. In the end, the person affected was able to walk to her car with assistance and someone was driving her home.

From the parking lot, I called Will.  Besides needing some insight on what had just happened, I wanted to commend the two paramedics for their kindness and professionalism.

Driving back to my motel, I  passed the beautifully lighted trees again, sobered by the fragility of life and tearfully thankful for five of thousands of points of light--five uniformed good men from station 8 on Russell Street.  

Nathan's First Band Concert

Last night I drove out to Garcia Middle School to attend the Christmas concert of our little drummer.

This made my day:

He called his mom asking who'd be going to his concert.  Before his mom could answer, he said, "Well, I know Yenna will be there.  She never misses anything important!"

Whenever Nathan performs, we family take up almost the entire front row--last night it was five grandparents, an aunt and two cousins, his parents and sister!  Whatever he does--to those of us who are crazy about him--is important!

Kate's Birthday Lunch at Cappy's

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KATE!

Celebrating Kate at Cappy's--the  Drop-Outs, Janet, me, Kate, Charlotte, and Gerlinde....

Next up: Gerlinde's birthday in January and a celebration of the upcoming publication of her book, Shadows and Joys of a Life in Bavaria!

Having read some chapters of this book, I will be excited to tell you when it's published, any day now!  The cover design is beautiful--words superimposed on one of Gerlinde's paintings.

Penicillium

Is not the same as the drug, penicillin---but it's the only thing (besides pigweed) that I am allergic to, no foods, no airborne stuff.

As for asbestos, it can only be handled by people wearing Haz-Mat masks, as it is very toxic when disturbed.  This is what is happening today by the floor men, after which the air will have to be tested to make sure no asbestos is floating around in the house's air.

According to the doctor and my internet search:

Penicillium causes food spoilage, colonizes leather objects and is an indicator organism for dampness indoors. Some species are known to produce toxic compounds (mycotoxins). The spores can trigger allergic reactions in individuals sensitive to mould. ... About 200 species of Penicillium have been described.

FAT SALT ACID HEAT

I'm going to have to go to Italy again after watching the first episode of this delightful documentary!  I'd heard an interview with Samin Nosrat on NPR and it piqued my interest.

Nellie and I went to some of the places featured in episode one.  Samin observes (and participates a little) in the harvesting of olives and the making of olive oil (Liguria).  She helps in the making of beautiful foccocia.

Olive oil, I learned, has an expiration date and doesn't age well like wine does, but I'm sure everybody else already knows this.

We see healthy pigs before and after slaughter, and we learn about the parts of the pigs we carnivores enjoy.  We watch an Italian woman making pesto with a mortar and pestle.  And we get to see how real pasta is made, how it's been made for thousands of years, no fancy machines needed.

It's a mouth-watering, earthy, sensuous, lovely show--with upbeat Italian music and lots of beautiful shots of markets and landscapes in Tuscany!

Monday

Today was a lovely day, weather-wise and otherwise. I drove by my house and saw that the roof installation is well underway, and that the floor men had removed most of the old wood and are about to start scraping some old asbestos tiles that I didn't even know were under the wood.

The dermatologist burned off a spot on my nose, then I met at with my drop out friends who've formed a sort of birthday club, this month to celebrate Kate--happy happy!

I'll post photos later--as I'm having iCloud issues and need to call Apple for first aid....

Writing the Unthinkable....

Nellie sent me a link last night to a Ted Talk by Lynda Barry, the writer and cartoonist: "Writing the Unthinkable."

"Who was your first crush?" she asked.  Audience members were asked to call out the initials of the name of that person.  A noisy response.

"Who was your third crush?" she asked.  Not so noisy.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GjofUnKK20M&feature=youtu.be

It was four in the morning when I watched it, and I'll watch it again later today after a doctor's appointment and a HAPPY BIRTHDAY lunch for Kate's birthday.  (Happy Birthday, Kate!)

But for now, ask yourself: "Who WAS your first crush?  Who was your third?"

And what does the vividness of a memory have to do with "writing the unthinkable"?

Night Two of my San Antonio Vacation

Night One was just a place to sleep, too brown.

But Night Two has been way more fun--me in my temporary digs, fourth floor, freedom to do anything I want and freedom from the mess of my house with sticky and sawdusty floors.  I'm having a whale of a good time making a gift or two, reading The Untethered Soul alternately with the first of the Louise Penny mysteries, Still Life, dozing, waking up.

My little house is being productively battered this week from the roof to floors, and I'm camping out in a most deliciously dark and quiet room, no news of the world.

The roof I'd recently hired novices to repair--and they botched (more tuition)--needs re-doing, and the casita requires an entirely new roof. The mold man used his mold machine to test for mold--the results of which will be back from the lab in a week.

I was listening yesterday to an On Being podcast, an interview with Alain de Botton.  One of the things that struck me was his comment that what we listen to--especially now in an environment of so many lies and so much unkindness--has an impact on us that is more damaging than we realize.  So I've opted to close the window into that world, not even turn on the TV during my solitary camping trip.

This room is clean and boring in its decor--and there is no view worth opening the window for. I'm absorbed in reading and reflecting and decoupage, and none of that matters; in fact, the anonymity (plainness bordering on ugliness)  of this room is a perfect little studio for making things and letting my mind roam. Annie Dillard described this dynamic better than I can:

a funeral

I remembered today something David Whyte said--or was it John O'Donahue?--about funerals, something to this effect:  When the religious bits are being said, when the list of degrees and accomplishments are being read, the eyes of the people present glaze over.  When someone talks about what the person loved and gave her passion to, the people listening are waked up, their attention quickened.

I thought of this today sitting at the funeral of a dear friend.  It was a simple funeral, and it was religious, as she would have liked.  But what stirred me most was a letter read aloud from her beloved and only grandson who is incarcerated and couldn't be there. 

The letter was a few pages long and in it, he told about how he, as a little boy, had watched his Nana typing without looking at the keys.  He told us that he was similarly typing the letter we were hearing, mailed from prison to be read aloud.

"My grandmother was never ashamed of me," he said.  "She called every day for the last six years and told me, 'I may not always like what you do, but I will always love you, no matter what.'"

I was there the day of his sentencing.  I will never forget his grandmother's agony.  The sentence of 20 years seemed extreme to all of us, but was unimaginable to Nana.  "I won't live to see him free!" she said.

But she did drive to the prison to visit him every week until her illness, and she called him every day.  She sent him money and helped him start his online degree.  She sent him books from book stores.  And she called him--every single day for the past six years. 

The last time we had a meal together, she showed me a belt buckle he had made in the prison shop and she told me he was doing really well.  She was proud of him.  

I wish she could have heard the letter we all heard today.  "My Nana was the closest thing to an angel anyone has ever known," he said.