A few decades ago, back when we were in our thirties, Betty and I were at a Christmas crafts fair in Comfort, Texas.  

Betty picked up something engraved with "Everything's Bigger in Texas" and smirked that smirk she does, especially when she's seen the same thing for the hundredth time in one day.  

"Texans sure are proud of themselves," she said.

Texans do, maybe more than most states, enjoy heavy doses of self-congratulation, equating bigness with best.  

The obsession with bigness tends to be evident in certain types of males, and the current resident of the White House is a caricature of it.  They build tall towers and talk in superlatives: the best, the biggest, the greatest.  Could they be compensating for a sense of littleness in themselves?  

One of the things I love about Rita (and it's hard not to conflate this series with the character of Denmark as a whole) is that big is no big deal.  The two teachers in the story are devoted to their little school.  They live simply and share. 

While they may occasionally tell a little while lie ("Have you been smoking?" "No, it's the new nicotine mouth wash I've started using") they are all basically truth tellers who don't need to inflate themselves. When they mess up, they apologize--but not profusely.  Students call teachers by their first names and freely express their opinions to adults.  People seem humbler, less needy of accolades and hierarchies. 

Texas may be the most self-congratulatory state, but a tendency to claim being the best, the biggest, the greatest, is baked into the national personality.  The biggest guns, the biggest military, the obsession with money and power, the "great big beautiful wall," the biggest crowd ever, the best words, and the never-ending stream of ads that tout bigness as best-ness.  

Quality and value rarely come in extra-large.  And watch out for the Trump and Falwell types who tell you how great, how good, how right/moral/honest they are--dead give-aways for being the opposite.  

The series, Rita, is so refreshing!  The unspoken motto is not "Be Best," but Be Real.  

Inside the House Again

It feels like I've been on a long trip and am seeing things I forgot I had.  The pink Balinese giraffe is still overlooking my bedroom, a reminder of the 13 years since I brought her home from Johnson City, Tennessee. After moving a few mirrors from room to room, I'm seeing them as if they are brand new. 

I had forgotten how comfortable my mattress is, too.  I watched the entire Season 5 of Rita, a story about a free-spirited Danish schoolteacher.  I hadn't watched the first four seasons in a long time, and this was a perfectly wonderful finale--if it is a finale. I love the characters, and I love the way everyone lets everyone else be exactly who they are. 

I also love my new bathroom with its shiny blue floors and yellow door.  Tony fixed the plumbing problem today and all we have left to do is patch the hole in the shower tile that had to be made to fix the faucet. 

My niece, Mary Elizabeth, and I have been texting back and forth all day about dogs.  She has two dogs and a cat, and here's McSweet, the newest member of her clan.   He's a Shih Poo and she's crazy about him--as am I just from his photograph.  Is he adorable or what?

Sunday Morning

I could have moved back into my house today, without a working bathtub, but I want to extend my casita vacation a bit longer. 

Except for retiling a section after Tony the plumber comes to fix the problem in the wall, Carlos and Pedro are almost finished.  They left the bathroom clean, moved furniture and rugs, put the Murphy bed back up, hung mirrors, and left everything shipshape.  I'm going to miss them.

So I made a pallet on the floor and slept well--though the steroids in my knees have run out. It takes a while and some gymnastics to get up and down.  I'm actually looking forward to my shots on Wednesday, at least the after-effects of them. 

Until this morning's Tramadol takes effect, I'm planning a relaxing morning in the casita, watching movies, reading and napping.  

Jan's Birthday

August 29th is Jan's birthday--I won't divulge the number except to say that she's just a smidge ahead of me.  

Pam and I sat on the porch steps--and neighbors gathered all around the yard to celebrate, eat cake, listen to oldies, and sing a scattered-about Happy Birthday to her.  Even in triple-digit weather, it was a sweet party, with Sebastien and Makken serving cake.  Lorraine and another friend had hung a pink birthday banner on her porch this morning. 

Here's Jan showing me her broken toe.  On the day she broke it, she also ran over Ginger, the feral cat her family has fed for years--an unfortunate lead-up to her birthday, but all things considered not an altogether bad thing for poor demented Ginger whose good days were long over. 

Saturday 3:15 a.m. to 5:30ish

The moon is egg-shaped, golden, magical. 

Tired as I was, I couldn't sleep--even after some artsy videos and milk--so I took a drive and had myself a little moon party.  I highly recommend the night world, though it doesn't do a great deal toward making me perky in the morning. (I've put up a do-not-disturb sign on my door and hope to sleep til noon!) 

I'm trying to be positive after the wreckage of the last week. But I couldn't get it off my mind: what if the detestable current occupant of the White House got a second term? then what?  Who are these people (90% of his party, I heard) who still approve of him in spite of his showing us who he is for nearly four interminable years, who is taking us to climate and health catastrophes by his focus on himself? 

I was feeling the weight of all these things as I drove down Austin Highway.  The moon fixed nothing, but it was a quiet and beautiful balm in the darkness. 

Friday afternoon

This is what school looks like--multiplied by millions across the country.   Nathan's band class is on his back porch and Elena's 3rd grade class meets in the dining room.

Meanwhile, Day and family are shopping for desks this week for Marcus and Jackson.  Jackson is doing his first year at the junior college, then going off to college next fall.

Desks, Day says, are hard to find.  They are hoping to find something at IKEA tonight.

As for me: I had to return a toilet and buy another, then found out from Tony the plumber that Carlos is going to have to re-do a section of tile because the shank for the faucet is too deep into the wall.  

So today has been a series of runs to and from stores, re-doing a few of the things I thought were already done.

Here's a cool shot from the week.  Carol Ann, Carlene's friend, sent me this--a photo of Carlene (Carlotta to my daddy) standing beside Carol Ann's husband's car, 1925, same vintage as my mama!

Autobiographer of a painter

Here's where it all began, at the University of Georgia in Athens.  (Well, actually, it was my daddy who was a student there and we were living in this fashionable apartment in "Married Housing."). Wearing saddle oxfords and a dress, I loved watercoloring my hands. 

First grade caused a detour of many years.  In my first attempt to paint the post office next door to the school (the outlines drawn on a mimeographed page by the teacher), I was chastised for coloring outside the lines, not using "ladylike" faint strokes, and making the red courthouse purple of all things!

The seed for my love of painting went dormant for decades. 

When I met friends who were painters and collage artists, I was fascinated.  Joy gave me watercolor paper and pencils.  Nellie taught me how to collage on playing cards. 

A couple of years ago, I started taking online classes and buying art supplies.  Victoria gave me a blank journal and an afternoon class for me and Pam and Jan.  I loved it so much. 

For quite a while, I was timid around art supplies.  What if I messed up?  What if I wasted them?  

Unreasonably, I figured I'd save them all until I got good enough to justify using them, especially the more expensive ones.  (Then one of the teachers online said, "Don't save your tools and supplies.  Even as we speak, more are being made.")

So now, a few weeks shy of 72,  I am obsessed with gel plates, watercolors, acrylics, water-soluble crayons, Posca pens, and spray inks.  It is such a thrill to wake up and see vibrant pages made the night before.  (This morning's thrill was seeing pages made last night by blowing fluid paint around the page with a drinking straw!) 

All I need now is a pair of saddle oxfords. 

Playing, Potatoes, Pizza and Pam, and Puppies

 On Saturday night, Pam got pizza and invited me over to share.  We sat in her yellow living room with purple trim and art all over the walls and books on the coffee table--and I thought, "Hey, this feels like real life for a minute!" 

During this COVID time, I've shared very few meals and each one has been memorable--two dinners at Jan's, a couple of meals with the Pritchetts on their porch, and spontaneous meals with Kate some days and Pam other days.  It usually starts out with "I'm cooking, want to come over?" or "I'm hungry for pizza; are you?" 

Those are among the happiest memories of this pandemic.  Talking.  Eating.  Laughing.  Looking around their houses.  Flipping through their books. Feeling normal again. 

My house smells like concrete and men are working here all the time, so I have mostly had simple meals--chalupas and barbecue and other quickies--in the casita. While playing with paint.  Painting pink potatoes.  Looking online for puppies, preferably black, preferably small.

I found this little guy named Ivan, but unfortunately he had already found a home--as had every single puppy on the site:

Janet and Joy and other sensible dog lovers have suggested I get a dog who's already house trained and over the chewing stage, but I have to tell you: If I saw this little blue-eyed furry baby in person, I couldn't walk away, no way! 

Looking online at dogs must be sorta like online dating.  You go in thinking you know what (or what sort of who) you're looking for, and then suddenly Mr. Right shows up and you're smitten. 

If you want to take a look at Ivan and Georgia and Vinny (just a few I know by name), check out crocketdoodles.com.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CARLENE!

Happy Birthday to my mama, Carlene! 

It's just past midnight, Georgia time, so if I write real fast,  I'll be the first to wish you a Happy 95th birthday on the actual date. 

Here we are celebrating 94 at O'Charley's, just a year ago.  With all that's happened since your last birthday, it seems so long ago! If the virus hadn't  happened, I'd be there today. 

Here you are with Richard, Dot, and David.  Check out that fancy skirt!  Since you made all your clothes, this is no doubt one you designed and made yourself.  

This is your college picture, the one my daddy carried in his wallet when he was in the Navy. 

And here you are, finally back together after the Navy--1945.  Since you eloped, you always said, "I didn't get the wedding I might have wanted, but I got the man I wanted!"

"Why did you elope?" I asked.

"Because it was wartime and we were crazy," you said. 

Ninety five candles, ninety five years--and here you are, wearing those years incredibly lightly! 

By the time I wake and ring you, you'll already have walked around the block a time or two.  But I'll find you. You'll have your phone in your pocket and you'll be listening. 

I love you!

Linda

Progress Report

Looks like I'm on an alliterative run of Ps, so I'll keep it up....

Here are Carlos and Pedro grouting the bathtub tile, then they will go on to grouting the floor.  I'm loving it!

Possibilities

The shrinking of possibilities is one of the most sobering realities of aging.  What was easy ranges from hard to impossible. 

Squatting comes to mind.  As does getting down and back up in a finite number of muscular moves.  

When Will squats to fix the pump or when I see a younger woman squatting to pick up her baby with ease, I find myself staring longingly at those (formerly, to me) possible moves. 

High heeled shoes, bikini anything, falling in love all over again--well, you get the idea.  Even things you never actually did when you could have--at least once upon a time were possible. 

I looked at my hands yesterday and thought, "Whose old hands are those?"  Truth is they match the other parts, but I rarely actually scrutinize the other parts.   But hands--the crooked index finger on my right hand, the resemblance to sausages in hot weather (okay cold weather too), the splotches--I see them every day.  It always comes as a shock that I have hands this old.  If it happened overnight, it would be grotesque, but it happened slowly while I was busy doing other things, a cell and a second at a time.

There are compensations, however.  The trick is to find them and get so immersed in them that we temporarily forget the possibilities that have slipped away while following the new ones. 

When I'm watching art videos or trying out things I never knew were possible before, age is a big nothing.   I may not look as young as I feel in those moments, but how I look isn't the yardstick anymore. 

Prosperity

Once when a group of friends were talking about prosperity,  Janet quipped that she "feels rich" if she can order guacamole on her taco at Chipotle.

This morning, she told me she had painted her bedroom five times in seven years.   I love that about Janet. What she does, she does full on, and there's no stopping her--whether it's activism or painting rooms for herself or her friends.  

Whenever I need a color consult, I call Janet.  She knows every color in the Sherwin WIlliams fan like a personal friend.  

I showed her pictures of my new tile and she suggested Stardust (not a SW brand but one they were able to match for me) --which is almost identical to the color I'd picked myself: a light blue-gray.  So I came home with primer and two sample quarts and tonight or tomorrow, the results will be revealed. 

Prosperity means true friends,  family members who are friends, naps, colors, changing things around just because I want to, good books, sharing meals (which is now very rare), kindness wherever it pops up, a new art teacher online who inspires me, phone calls, and yes, guacamole on your tacos. 

Yesterday I discovered Jane Davies on Pinterest, followed the trail to her website, then found many terrific videos on You Tube.  On one, she picked up a chicken from her yard and put ink on his feet and let him walk around on her paper! Elena would love her!

Speaking of chickens and grandmother riches: I got a letter from my pen pal Elena today with four chicken feathers enclosed. 

August 21

When I first moved into my 400-square-foot digs, I packed a laundry basket with three changes of clothes--which I've been rotating all these weeks.  In different times I might say "outfits," but that is way too generous a label for these mismatched and paint-friendly rags I wear. 

When I first moved into the casita, I would go into the house and get a dainty dip of ice cream; now I  eat straight from the carton.  

I used to take long hot baths; now I take showers.

When I go into my house to check on the progress, it's like visiting someone else who isn't home--except for Carlos and Pedro in the evenings working on tile, two men who always smile.  

On Wednesday, I was preoccupied with trying to figure out why my irrigation system wasn't working and plants were dying. After hand-watering the back yard in 105-degrees, I went to get a drink and backed into Pedro's car parked across the street.  I apologized profusely, then got in the car,  screamed one big therapeutic scream, called State Farm, and started crying because Jacob at State Farm was so kind. 

Pedro was his usual sweet self about it.  "I can fix it," he said. "No worries.  Nobody got hurt."  If it weren't times of COVID, I'd have given him a hug.  I did get him a phone number and a claims number, and he'll get it fixed. 

While I was in mid-cry, Will called.  He was his sweet self, too. "Don't worry about it, Mom.  I'll come over after work tomorrow and fix the water."  (He did and he did.). He also told me about all the times the fire truck drivers run into the bay door or something.  And that Bonnie has knocked  his mirrors off the car more times than he can count. 

Carlos called after putting the pencil tiles around the shower to tell me there weren't enough; together we realized that he'd used the ones intended for the floor molding.  "Can you fix it?" I asked.  "Of course," he smiled. "I can fix anything." 

Lots of things have changed during COVID.  Big things, little things. But we've just had a remarkable convention and people in my orbit are wonderfully kind. Unlike so many people in America, I have insurance and all the essentials, even in a tiny house.   In those ways and many others, I feel lucky.  

The 70s? or the 80s?

 I love this photo-booth picture of Carlene and me:

I'm pretty sure it was taken in the 70s when she was here for a visit.  She had a little gray hair, I had none.  And neither of us is wearing glasses--so it must have been before she was 40.  

On Monday, my mama turns 95.  Her text for today: "I got your gift delivered to my door.  You could have snagged a flight for what you paid on postage--but I'm worth it!"

We must have been out shopping because I'm holding something that I can't identify. Looks like a wagon bottom, but I can't imagine why I'd have bought a wagon bottom.

The 80s

 In the 80s a friend invited me to go to a Southern Living event in downtown San Antonio.  It was a big deal with cooking demonstrations, etc., but I don't remember a thing about it--except this:

Sherry introduced me to a friend of hers this way:  "This is Linda, the one I told you about, who doesn't have an air conditioner, a dish washer, a microwave, a paved driveway, or a garbage disposal.  Until recently she didn't even have a TV."

That was the first time I'd been defined and introduced by what I didn't have so it was memorable.  

I'm taking a Time Traveler class taught by three of my favorites in the gel printing world.  The first, Marsha Valk, is starting the class with a time travel back to the 80s.  I'm trying to remember that decade, though as far as pop culture is concerned, I'm drawing a blank.

So last night during the convention, I texted Day and Will to see what memories came up for them.  They had me laughing out loud so hard as they fired memories to me by text that I couldn't keep up.  (I may share a few of them in a later post.)

You might like to try this with your kids during this time of distance.   You may discover some things they never told you at the time!  

This is me, 1980, when I was a Brownie leader for Day and her friends and we all dressed up like clowns for the Corny-val parade.

Summerland

I just discovered the most remarkable movie on Amazon!

It's so good you'll feel like you're at the movies again.  Make popcorn and turn off the phone and enjoy! 

The Tree

High dose flu shots are now available at CVS.  My doctor recommended getting one as soon as possible, especially during this pandemic.  

So yesterday, I got mine--as did Carlene last week. Today I feel slightly dizzy and achey, nothing major, but I've turned off the phone and spent the day relaxing, watching a terribly acted movie (The Tree)  that interests me because it's about an 88-year-old woman who set out on an ill-advised 600-mile road trip in an old car.  

Her goal is to see her best friend from childhood.  In flashbacks, the friend calls out to Dorothy Jane, "I'll meet you at the tree."  

I'm reminded of all the times Betty and I met and sat in my "treehouse"--which was really only a couple of planks--a great place to read and talk and disallow younger brother and sister visitors' entrance to our private tree house.

Neither of us climbs trees anymore, but we love looking at them, especially the fall orange, red, and yellow trees in the North Georgia mountains.  We won't get to take our fall road trip to North Georgia and North Carolina this year, but as soon as this pandemic is over, I see a road trip on the horizon.

Being adorable

It's hot in Texas. Dry. Intolerable unless you're swimming in a river or lolling about in air conditioning. 

Which is why I love night hours.  It's cool in the casita, sweet, filled with memories of writing groups and friends and good conversations.   It's also filled with art supplies, almost as if I had planned on an extended time of isolation.  

Like me, everyone I know is riding his or her own roller coaster of emotional ups and downs, energy pops alternating with fatigue; happiness fading into the blues and back again....

The battery in my car died, so I was grounded until Carlos bought and installed a new battery, now I'm ready to go, just don't have viable options for destinations.  

I had a delicious dinner next door tonight.  Jan and I decided to get lasagne and pizza from Sorentos and sit at opposite ends of her long table for a rare shared dinner.  

I end the day--as I often do-- savoring reports from Will about Elena: 

Elena was invited to a birthday party of three today--one cousin, one friend.  She was thrilled to be picked as the "friend."   To top it off, the birthday girl announced, "We're not having a birthday cake, we're having donuts."  Elena said, "This is going to be the best party ever!"  [If you ever want enthusiasm personified at your party, Elena's your girl.]

"I always have good friends my age," she told her dad.  "But girls a little bit older don't want to be my friends."

"But you have a lot of grown up friends," Will said.

"Yeah," she said, "because I'm a little girl and I'm....[here she paused to imitate adults] adorable!" 

Let's all be adorable in the eyes of those who want to be our friends.  

Let's all see our friends as adorable!

Kamala Harris!

 

So many little girls are happy today to have this little girl,

all grown up, as a role model,

to help them see themselves as future leaders!

I am among the countless women who are cheering her own,

a brilliant, tough, articulate, "ambitious"

senator Joe was wise to pick as his running mate! 

I haven't been this excited about politics since the election 

of Barack Obama! 

Life Class

Diana Athill's book (I'm about midway) is reading pleasure and writing inspiration. 

Her memoirs are such candid invitations to conversation--the kind of book you keep wanting to stop reading for a few minutes to write your own--that you feel like she's right in the room with you telling you what life was like for her. 

One of the things I love is how authentically she renders people, never painting anyone as saint or villain.  Nobody, including (and maybe especially) Diana herself, is idealized.  If pertinent to the story, she tells the kinds of things about herself that most writers (and ourselves in normal conversation) would leave out.

This book dovetails with a collage project I'm working on.  Lyn Belisle's class on "Postcards to Myself"  was a game changer for me and makes me see how similar visual composition and writing are. 

In this class, she teaches us to just glue images and shapes onto a large mat board without thinking  about where it's going.  There will be ugly patches and messy bits, keep moving.  Don't overthink, don't try to control.  (This is the hard part for me as I tend to over-think every single thing.) 

Then you stop at some point.  You take a pre-cut 5 x 7 mat and move it around on the big piece to see if you can find parts of the whole that click.  And voila! you find some.  You get your craft knife and cut them out, and then you keep looking and looking, thinking, "I made that!" 

I was always drawn to art, but for a variety of reasons only put one toe in that river and never got as deep as ankles.

Now here I am,  living in my cozy little cave filled with art supplies, rarely going anywhere, staying up all hours gluing and painting and cutting.  The bed, the floor, the sofa, the bathroom--every surface is covered with giblets of paper. My hands at this moment are splotched with burnt umber and green, white tempera paint on my nails.

Somewhere in this thick book of Diana Athill's  (I wish I could find it), she says something like this:  There is no greater pleasure than making something that without your doing it never would have existed.

The sun will soon be up and the skunk outside will be gone and I'll take a  trip to get my morning Diet Coke from Percy and Andy at the Whataburger window.  I'll be riding along so happy about Kamala, collages and chapters! 

Good Trouble

Hannah Watters: the Georgia high school sophomore who posted photos of crowded halls in her school, 90 % unmasked. 

Betty told me that when she was asked why she did it, she echoed John Lewis: "Sometimes you just have to get in good trouble."

She's receiving death threats but she's not backing down for the good trouble that got her suspended.  

This fifteen-year-old is a true teacher of courage to her teachers, school administrators, fellow and sister students, and the rest of us. 

I'm getting to feel quite at home in the casita, cozy as a bug in a Turkish rug.

I've spent this week-end working on a little art project.  I threw away my first five or six efforts, overwrought as they were, but finally it's taking wings and I don't want to stop.  

That and some phone calls and a long texting session with Elena and watching some movies--it's been a good and relaxing weekend.  

"I can't wait to see you and hug you!" I said to Elena.

"Daddy said we can't because of this stupid virus," she wrote back.

Then she said she had to take a shower.  "Don't forget to wash your knees and elbows," I said.

She immediately fired back with an emoji of a face with one raised eyebrow: 🤨 --as if to say "Whaaaaat?" 

"I'm laughing," I said.  "I can just see your face doing that."

To which she sent me a quick selfie doing the same face:

This girl is hilarious, even in texts!

She can imitate an emoji!

Goodnight, Sweet Girl!

You made my day!

Two very good movies this weekend, both on Amazon

 I've Loved You So Long-- starring Kristin Scott Thomas who returns home after 15 years in prison 

and

The Love Part of This--a documentary about two women named Grace, Gloucester, Massachusetts--beautifully done! 

One of the times Mike and I broke up, I got rid of a lot of pictures-- like a teenager in love who "hates" her ex--so I only have a few to go with the story of the best of times.

He wasn't the first man in my life, but he was the last.  We had two chapters, several years apart, the second when I was 65. Both chapters had bumpy endings. But at this point in my life, I mostly remember the dance of the good times. (He's such a good dancer he made me feel like I was--which I'm not)

I remember that night in Arkansas pulling out a cigarette and smoking it.  He didn't smoke and I rarely saw him drink, but it was a test: I didn't want to fall in love with a man I couldn't be my whole self with so I wanted to lay it all out.  But Mike's mantra was "No rules, Baby."

We rode on his Harley and in his white truck, all over the place.  If I saw something I wanted to photograph, he'd do a U-Turn before I could get the words out.  He was, I gotta say, my favorite  boyfriend ever.  

This is one of my favorite photos of Mike--in Chapter One, about 12 years ago.  He never saw a dog he didn't pet.  This was one he encountered somewhere in Mississippi as we were driving from Texas to Georgia, or vice versa.  He didn't get down in a squat and talk doggie talk; it was more natural than that.  He saw a dog, any dog, and he reached out.

This is a photo he took of me as we were saying good-bye the first time. (I was heading to Cape Cod, he back home to Georgia.)  Me in my first Mini Cooper, still in my fifties--how young we were, how happy, how free! 

A Ford 150

 Yesterday, I was waiting in the cash machine line.  Ahead of me was a white Ford truck with a little dent in the bumper.  I got a little jolt when I saw the arm reaching out of the Ford's window, then saw the driver's all white hair.  

From that angle, truck, arms, and hair, it could have been Mike--except there were no UT stickers on the back window and the white hair wasn't braided in back. 

Just for a nanosecond, I wondered if Mike was in Texas? 

When I met Mike in 2007, he was driving the same truck.  Those trucks were meant to last; he's driving his still, though without MoJo now, his favorite dog ever who died this year. 

I was traveling solo, just getting started on a long road trip to Cape Cod, when I took the Hope, Arkansas exit, and went into the train depot-turned visiting center....

The brief sighting of a stranger yesterday took my mind on a whole other trip.  I might write some more about that trip today....

Carlos, Pedro, and The Blues

 Today has been a Saturday.  Here's where we ended to the day--with lots more to go.  I was going to try not to look before it was finished, but I couldn't help myself.

Thanks to Kate, I got Carlos, Pedro, and the plumber, Tony--and it's moving along swimmingly as I putter with some art projects and end each day reading in the casita and eating grapes and cheese.

I also feed the kitty.  She's not mine, I think Jan and I share her.  So far, she's not letting me pet her, but she comes a little closer each day and meows her gratitude.  

The Lost and Found Doll

Thanks to Lorraine for this story this morning!

At 40, Franz Kafka (1883-1924), who never married and had no children, was walking through a park in Berlin when he met a little girl who was crying because she had lost her favorite doll.  She and Kafka searched for the doll but could not find it.

Kafka told her to come back the next day and they would look again.  The next day when they had not yet found the doll, Kafka gave the girl a letter “written by the doll” saying...”Please don’t cry, I have taken a trip to see the world and I will write you about all my adventures.”  

Thus began a story that continued to the end of Kafka’s life.

During their meetings he read the letters from the doll carefully written by him about her travels, adventures and conversations. The little girl loved the letters and news from her beloved doll.

One day Kafka bought a new doll and told the little girl that her doll had returned to Berlin. 

“It doesn’t look like my doll at all.” said the little girl.

Kafka handed her another letter in which the doll wrote: “My travels and adventures have transformed me.  But I’ve missed you and I’m so happy to be with you again.”  The little girl was so delighted, she hugged the doll and happily took her home.  

Kafka died less than a year later.  They never saw each other again.

The little girl grew up and kept the doll safe. One day she took the doll off the shelf, fondly remembering the old man and the letters. While examining the doll she found a note tucked in between the head and the body. It said: “Everything you love you will eventually lose, but in the end your love will return to you in a different form.”

Coming Together Day

After all the planning and buying, today is the day when the coming together of all the parts reveals itself.  The tiles are going up today!  Carlos was here until late last night prepping and he will be back this morning to start mixing grout and arranging tiles.

I'm a little nervous when any project gets to this point.  Up until now, it's all been shaping up in my mind, but now it's time to see if what's in my mind matches what shows up on the walls and floors!

Becoming Astrid--on Amazon

If you or your children loved the red-pigtailed Pippi Longstocking, you'll love this biographical drama about her creator, Astrid Lindgren.  

Astrid was a spirited Swedish girl who grew up working on her family farm, a talented writer who was asked to do intern work at the newspaper.

The story of her childhood is interwoven with the voices of children who wrote letters to the aging Astrid telling her how much her stories meant to them.  "You understand children so much," one wrote.  "How can you know so much about children when it's been so long since you were one?" 

A poignant story with remarkable actors (young Astrid herself and a boy who is two-years-old), it's wonderful from start to finish-- a few scenes of which are after the credits roll. 

Monday Night

RAIN--we had rain today!  Not a lot but enough to do that thing rain does to one's energy and mood. Rain seems to infuse me with something that lifts my spirits every time.  Some say it's negative ions, but it feels like happy juice. 

RE-ARRANGING--Getting back to making things I always start by rearranging.  It's part of the process. Move this art table there, move this desk here, fold up all the random tablecloths, sort the pencils and brushes.  Now I'm all set for a day of painting.  The background sounds are lessons I've already watched but wanted to watch again to remind me of techniques that work with different materials. 

ORDERING--I ordered a light fixture and a Talavera sink from Etsy.  Actually, I ordered two Talavera sinks because Rosalinda said I could return whichever one I like least.  They've already been shipped from Laredo and will be here on the 5th--same day I pick up the rest of the tile. Not only are there infinitely more choices on Etsy, but the prices are better than stores in town.

TALKING TO PEOPLE--Will and Bonnie and the kids called from Durango, where they would like to live someday.  They've rented a jeep and explored mountain passes around Silverton (exactly where we used to do that when my kids were kids), hiked, spotted a black bear, kayaked, biked, and cooked fish they caught at Molas Lake.  Reluctantly, they are heading back to Texas heat on Wednesday and Thursday. 

FORGETTING--I forgot I was supposed to go get my blood work done today, so we re-scheduled for Wednesday.  Since March, I haven't kept a calendar because there's so rarely any event or appointment I have to remember. 

Monday Morning

Good morning, Everybody!

My blog space has been closed for a few days, and I was surprised this morning to find it open. This platform has a whole new look and I'm not quite familiar with it, but I'll find my way. 

Gerlinde delivered a book to my porch last week:  Life Class/The Selected Memoirs of Diana Athill.  

This is an extraordinary collection of four memoirs by Athill, all written during her eighties.  I'm reading the first one this week and thoroughly enjoying it. 

From the introduction by Ian Jack: 

"...While the memoir genre abounded in accounts of youth--the 'coming-of-age narrative' is a literary cliché of our times--very few books have let us know about life at the other end of the road....Writers have been shy of the subject of just being old, as if shame and indignity had replaced wisdom and experience as the best-known qualities of great age." 

and this:

After Diana called herself an "amateur" writer, Ian Jacks reflects:

"I thought of her self-description--'amateur'--as I went down the stairs, and began to walk across Primrose Hill.  Really, we should have more of them.  More people who write only when they feel they have something to tell us; more writers driven by the scrupulous need to make us see clearly and exactly what they have witnessed and felt."