Faves, Part 2

Thanks to Bonnie Lyons, the first one who responded to my ask for "favorite things" --

What I love to do so much is READ. Right now I am lost, happily lost,, en rereading Louise Erdrich's "love Medicine."

One of the many bonuses of having friends who love to read is remembering exactly where I was when I read the book mentioned (Love Medicine 25 or so years ago in Grey Forest) and getting introduced to new ones. 

Knock on wood: thanks to the brilliant body work of massage therapist Gabi Marcus, I have enjoyed two glorious pain free days!  

I can't recommend her highly enough for anyone dealing with pain in your back or neck or wherever.  I've been seeing Gabi for years and she's amazing, as is her work. 

The sciatica/lumbar pain has been so strong the past few weeks that I rarely go anywhere except to the grocery store, so yesterday Jan and I were able to enjoy a couple of pain-free (for me) delightful (for all of us)  hours on Lorraine's roof in the sunshine! 

On the way home, Jan introduced me to a Middle Eastern grocery store where she buys pita and other things, then to a baklava bakery in the same shopping center. Glass cases showcased shelves of artfully decorated sweets, pure eye candy. We bought samples of three different kinds of incredibly delicious baklava, and we'll definitely be going back there. 

I'm awake in the middle of the night--not with pain this time, but watching a newly discovered New Zealand artist who demonstrates gel printing techniques and collage making.  On today's video, she tells her story about being given away by her birth mother 50 year ago and her "journey home" to New Zealand from Australia in the past five years.  

Froyle's Gel Printing

This is where I can lose all track of time: learning new techniques for mono printing on a gel plate.  Of all the things I've explored, gel printing is the most engaging and absorbing, unpredictable and full of surprises. 

Jan loves it too.  Occasionally she takes a break from the color-filled quilt she's making and joins me in brayering paint and pulling prints.  With gel printing, you never know what you're going to get; the pleasure is in the unrepeatable surprises. 

Favorite Things

Before I start going on a bit with my post-midnight thoughts, I'd like to ask you a question:

What is your favorite thing to do (alone or with someone else) so enjoyable that when you do it, you lose all track of time?  Furthermore, it's something  you're good at, really good at, at least on your best days of doing it. 

I'm pausing now for you to raise your hands and tell us. 

What?  No one is answering?  

Okay, Plan B: I'm giving you a couple more minutes to write it down--then you can read it to us. Don't be shy, I'm telling you, because everyone is good at something, really!  It's not bragging if the teacher makes you write it. (And bribes you with extra credit for participating)

I am literally waiting for you to write now.  I see your pens moving on paper.  I mean,  I see your fingers typing on your iPads. 

"Are you thinking of something?" I say to a boy on the middle row who is writing, fast, with unexpected enthusiasm. 

Wait.  

He's telling me he's writing an email to his girlfriend.  One of his girlfriends, he says with that look on his face you see on the faces of boys of a certain age.  (I'm pretty sure I can guess what he thinks he's good at.)  The class is giggling.  

So how about you,  Miranda?

I'm just going to stop writing right now, I'll tell you mine later.  (I wish this were an interactive page and answers would fly in all at the same time like in a real class, but it's not.  If you wish to send me your answers via email, I'll be happy to post them.)

What do you love doing so much that you forget what time it is?  AND you're good at it--by your own infallible judgment, which is, really, the only opinion that matters right now. 

A sofa story

I recently sold a beautiful sofa I'd bought at Stowers.  It was almost perfect--comfortable, great color, nice shape.  But I knew the minute it was delivered that it was too large for my small low-ceilinged house.  My friend who bought it has a large airy house with lots of light and the sofa looks in her house the way I imagined it when I bought it. 

I searched the stores and internet for a good quality low-profile sofa.  All deliveries were three and four months out.  When I found the "perfect" sofa at Joybird online ready to ship in two weeks, I took that as a sign and ordered it.  They promised "white glove delivery."

After two canceled deliveries, today was finally the day it arrived. 

When it was delivered, I saw no white gloves, no leather gloves, no mittens. Two men unboxed it in the street and walked it into the house without wrapping it.  Even as they were coming up the driveway I could see what looked like grimy spots on it.  When they came inside, they rubbed it against the turquoise door.  

Sure enough, there were visible signs of dirty hands--or something--along with a splotch of green.  

"No problem," they said.  "We can leave this one here until a replacement comes in a few weeks."

I sat on it.  My feet could only reach the floor if I sat way forward.  The cushions were hard and uncomfortable.  "No thank you," I said.  "You can take it back."

And so, voila! Not-Quite-Perfect Sofa went away.  

My favorite chair is a red rocker, vintage 1940s, purchased for $14 at a used furniture store, then re-padded and upholstered in red fabric.  It's sturdy and comfortable, and I have about $450 in it. 

For that price in today's furniture, the best I could hope for would be a chair made of MDF with cheap fabric stapled on it, made to last for a couple of years tops.  

Furniture back in the day was made to last: good springs, thick filler, solid wood frames.  If I ever do get another sofa, it will either be a good solid vintage sofa, or one that I can actually test in person.  

But maybe today's sofa will be my last.  I'd always wanted a white fabric sofa and now I've scratched that itch.  For about five minutes, I had one. 

Let's Dance--by Mary Powell

I asked Joy if her friend and Texas writer, Mary Powell, would allow me to share this poem with you.  It beautifully captures a lovely relationship between a girl and her father swaying to Big Band music of the Forties--and the world ahead and challenges he would never have imagined.  

Let’s Dance

“Let’s dance,” he said

and reached down to  lift me 

into place, white-stockinged feet

positioned on shiny black oxfords.

And I wanted to dance away.

“Wait, wait,” he said,

“First we sway to the music.”

A big band played on the radio.

Slowly he stepped out

his arms and body guiding,

showing me the pattern

embracing the rhythm.

And when I wanted to go faster

he whispered this reminder,

“A lady never leads,” he told me,

“You always follow your partner.” 

He taught what seemed right to him,

something a daughter should know,

never imagining the world ahead

the challenges that lay in store

dances without partners

music without melody

partners gone astray

ladies leading.

I’ve danced across a lifetime since - 

tapping on stages, waltzing with beaus, 

Folk dances, Latin, The Monkey, The Fox Trot,

partnered and alone, following, and leading.

I’ve celebrated weddings, full moons, birthdays, and rain,

filled with the irresistible joy of moving to the beat, 

recalling the wonder of his feet, beneath mine,

praising whatever Gods may be for this precious gift.

I learned to dance at my father’s knee,

my white-stockinged feet nested

firmly on his shiny black oxfords

while we swayed to a big band 

that played from a small box radio.

“A lady never leads,” he whispered,

“You must always follow your partner.”

He taught me to listen to the music,

until my feet could hear the beat,

to stand tall, inclining toward him,

mirroring arms, shoulders, and hips.

He broke the dance into pieces for me,

into tiny bites of something so rich

I would savor it for the rest of my days.

My rodeo girl on Sunday.

Her mom also sent me some great videos of her event but I can't figure out how to post them.  As her non-horse-skilled grandmother, I am amazed at how she weaves around poles and barrels on that horse!

What can you do with a Post-It note?

Elena's 4th grade teacher uses them for warnings.  If a student commits a particular offense, said student is given a Post-It note: Warning.  

What do you do to get one? I ask.

Mostly talk, she says.  I have a lot to say seems like.

I tell her about how I was just like that at her age and had to write "I will not talk" a hundred times almost every day.  It never worked, obviously, or I wouldn't have had to write it so many times.  

I tell her how I used to make a vertical row of Is, then wills, then nots, then talks.  That's a stupid punishment, she thinks.

"But I say in my head," she continues, Lady, I'm not scared of Post It notes. 

At precisely 3:15 every morning, my leg wakes me up.  I was awake until 7:00, so I'm not going to make it to the 9 am rodeo.

Instead of going out to the playhouse in the cold, I watch some Jane Davies' tutorials, get inspired, get up and make toast and chocolate milk, take some pills, turn off the phone, and try really hard to go back to sleep.  

And think of ways I can use Post-It notes in collage later, after a long nap with Luci.  We're not scared of Post-It notes. 

A Saturday Morning in Texas

This is what one Texas family looks like:

You get up when it's really cold and get your horses and tack ready.  You load them in the trailer and head for Rose Palace rodeo grounds.  Almost everybody goes--both parents, an aunt and uncle and cousins. a granddaddy who's a lifetime rider; two grandmothers.  

Bonnie and Elena both do the same events today.  It's  a course of maneuvers, very slow and precise.  Each rider is given a chart with visual representations of the moves: when to trot, when to slow down, and how to tackle each of the challenges.  A non-horse person like myself cannot tell how well they did, but by all accounts Tia Titi and Mom and Elena all do well. 

Elena's brother can't be here until later; he's busy rebuilding his pig's pen.  The auction is Tuesday.  "I miss Nathan!" she says when she gets the word that she did a successful run.  So she calls him on the phone and he promises to come as soon as they are finished.

Tomorrow's event is similar to today's, but faster.  

Happy 10th Birthday to Elena!

 

Five fourth grade girls, a few boy cousins, six horses, a pony and three dogs came to this much-anticipated birthday party in Bandera--trail rides at the Hill Country State Natural Area.  

It was a beautiful day and I drove there to deliver my present and give a hug to my girl, then drove back home when the trail ride began.  

 This has been a busy week, a good one.  I'm trying not to watch the news, and have found instead some comfort food movies to watch at night instead.

All Creatures Big and Small is wonderful, in the vein of Call the Midwife.  It's James Herriot's memoir of being a farm vet in the early 1900s.  It's so relaxing to watch an episode or two before bed--as there is no conflict and all the characters are just so good. 

A movie I enjoyed on Amazon was The Tender Bar--the story of a precocious young boy who wanted to be a writer.  His single mother was determined he'd go to Yale in spite of her lack of funds--though she hoped he'd become a lawyer.  He had a deadbeat father he rarely saw, but a wonderful Uncle Charlie who owned a bar and treated him like a son.

Real Time in the Play House

The Casita just had a name change: The Play House.  "Studio" seems pretentious for what I intend to do.  I want to start back with colors and pencils without any grand expectations. As a novice, I give myself more freedom if I call it what it is--play. 

Making things teaches me a lot.  One of the things I've learned is that  I generally prefer playing on single pages instead of pretty journals.  I'm something of a perfectionist and if I don't like a page, I will tear it out or abandon the journal. If it's just one page, it's less precious, more friendly, easier to discard. 

I have been re-organizing my art supplies.  I have enough art supplies to last for the rest of my life.  

Most of the tutorials on You Tube speed up the process, especially when the process gets repetitive. 

What I'm looking for are not videos that turn me into an artist, but those that show me how to use materials to achieve certain effects.  I may not entirely love their finished products, but I gather elements that interest me.  Last night I discovered videos by Suzanne Rose Art.  She chooses to do her lessons, slowly, in real time, not editing out pauses and repetitions.  Her voice is very calming, and her tutorials are relaxing for 2 a.m. people like me. 

Real time also takes me to a different place--to relaxation while learning.  During the pandemic (and especially post-surgery)  I have lost my mojo.  Time seems to have changed since going into virtual isolation.  I'd have expected that a time like this would have stretched out time in a beneficial way, but it hasn't done so for me--maybe because of the recurring nerve pain that sometimes wakes me up at night.  (I will be resuming physical therapy on Monday, hoping that it will help as it did before.)

My days are unpredictable.  Some days are less affected by sciatica than others.  But most often, whatever I'm doing stops around 11:00 in the morning due to the pain, then resumes after a pain pill and a nap.  It takes three days to do what I used to do in one.  

Watching interesting content in "real time" is like a refreshing meditation.  It grounds me and inspires me at the same time.  

Yesterday I ventured into the Play House.  I realized that I had actually forgotten what some pens and markers could do.  So I'm doing an inventory of tools.  Which ones are water-soluble?  Which ones make marks that are re-activated by water?  Which ones are not affected by a top layer of water-color or straight water? 

So as I begin my re-entry into the Play House--and the wealth of papers and colors therein--I've decided to reserve my mornings for play, to avoid or abbreviate phone calls, appointments, texts, and emails on mornings I wake up with a burst of energy.  

I'm also going to try out all the materials at my disposal: markers, crayons, pastels, pens, brushes, stamps, and stencils.  I have no talent for drawing.  But I want to start with making marks and colorful papers and then turn them into collages. 

To play more, to experiment more, every morning--that's  as close as I can get to a New Year's Resolution.  

1/6/22

A year ago on January 6th, Janet called me to tell me she had found my dog at SNIPSA, but I was so down-hearted over the insurrection that I turned her down.  The sky was falling.  Where would I find the space for a dog? 

Nevertheless, she persisted!

Janet had kept her a couple of nights and had fallen in love with her.  Would it be okay if she drove over, just for a look?    Okay, I said, I'll meet her--and if I don't take her, Jan might; she wants a dog too.

I had all my reasons at the ready.  I'd have to get a fence built.  What if I didn't like her enough--or vice versa?  What if she chewed my rugs and furniture?  Would she be a barker?  

Janet had sent me pictures, but I was surprised by how tiny she was.  Jan held her first and I could tell she'd adopt her if I didn't.  So okay, let me just hold her, I said.

She had just been spayed and was quiet and lethargic, possibly in pain, possibly still wondering how she got from where she used to be to this porch with these three strangers.  She barely moved when Janet put her in my arms.  

Within a couple of minutes, she put her head on my shoulders and I knew she was--as Janet had predicted--"my dog." My questions and doubts vanished. She followed me around like a shadow and never wanted me out of her sight.  

When the fence-builder came, I teasingly said, "Who needs a fence for a dog who won't get two feet away?"

At that exact moment, as if she understood what I'd said, she took three rip-roaring laps around my house, the fastest little runner I'd ever seen.  When she gave out of gas, she stopped and looked at me as if she meant to make a point.  

A year in, she gets better and better.  I took her to a thrift store yesterday and one woman said, "She's so clean and soft!"  (I never bathe her; she grooms herself like a cat.) 

Then Freda texted to ask if Luci might like a walk in the sunshine.  I can't mention Freda's name until I see her in the driveway because Luci jumps about three feet off the floor in glee. 

January 6th is the anniversary of a very dark day.  

But January 7th, 2021--that's the day that some serious sunshine showed up. 

Did you know that the skeleton of the human body remodels itself every ten years?  

According to Nathan, a font of such facts, he's on his 2nd skeleton; I'm on my 8th. 

We Old Bone people didn't grow up with screens that span the earth's data base so fast it makes your head spin, but Young Bone people don't know life without the Internet. My grandchildren teach me how to ask Siri a question, how to change the wallpaper on the Home Screen, and remind to save battery life by closing all the open windows.  

Old Bone People asked their parents questions or--if they were busy--asked encyclopedias or dictionaries.  Wallpaper was something my mother used to cover walls in the bedroom.  Windows were the openings in those walls we ran to close when it rained.  

The only screens we had were the ones in the windows that kept out flies and mosquitoes because our houses were not air conditioned. And, of course, the glass on the one black and white television in the house.  Telephones were attached to the wall with a cord, practical black rotary things, and only smart enough to call people who lived in other houses, like me calling Betty 6627. 

"Siri, take me home," command young drivers.  And Siri, bless her heart, gives them turn by turn directions.

The few times I've tried to address Smart Siri, she says, "Sorry, I didn't get that."  Must be something related to the age of my bones.  That or my slightly-Southern accent?