NA

NA: Not Applicable 

Say, you have to fill out a form for a job.  Or one of those 5-page medical questionnaires.  Or, I'm guessing, a profile on a dating site? 

I like circling NA on pages of ailments and former surgeries.  Applying for a job or describing myself on a dating app: NA. Planning a wedding, NA, world travel, NA/

By the way:

If Robert Kennedy were still alive, I wonder what he'd  think of his son's bizarre questions for anyone who wants to work in the Department of Health and Human Services--if he convinces anyone besides Donald that he's remotely qualified to lead it?  Here are a few of his terribly worded and intrusive questions: 

"I don't have much interest in having sex with another person."

"I believe many things others don't--like having a 'sixth sense' clairvoyance, and telepathy--and as an adolescent, I had bizarre fantasies and preoccupations." (Here we have five questions in one, easiest answer NA.)

"I consistently use my physical appearance to draw attention to myself." 

The relevance of these questions is laughable, but then RFK Jr. is regarded by most people as pretty nuts.  

Lately, I've been paying attention to what's NLA: no longer applicable.

Sports, for example, has never held a shred of interest for me.   I tune out when the subject comes up on NPR.  It's straight up NA.  Same with financial planning, starting a business, building a deck in my beautifully self-landscaped yard, or hosting a party of twenty. 

Flipping through a magazine while waiting in lines, I often notice how many ads and articles are NLA.   Some of them never were.

Fashion, make-up, weight loss secrets, cocktail recipes, great places to hike or bike, and cruises to Europe--these are among the very long list (getting longer every year) of things that no longer apply. 

I'd love to know what things are your lists!

Day 3: circles everywhere

Today I finished wrapping and shipping presents to Georgia and Virginia.  It's been so much fun!

Since I've been reflecting on circles, it occurred to me that several of my gifts include circular things:

A round birthstone charm

Candles

Ginger cookies in a tin from World Market

A tin of homemade "icebox cookies" for the nurses 

Round bags and pocket books

A round desk clock

A vintage compass

Red and white balloons, the colors of Texas Tech where Nathan will be going next year.

A scarf that encircles someone's  neck on cold winter mornings.

Some are wrapped in a nice thick paper I found at the thrift shop, a sturdier paper than the rolls for sale at Hallmark.  Gold circles and stars.

The ball in the point of a pen and cursive letters for making words on paper. 

Universally, all over the world, from time immemorial, the circle is the friendliest of shapes.  Children throw and catch balls everywhere.  Hoola Hoops and jump ropes in motion are circles to get inside. Birthday cakes and candle flames, Christmas lights and ornaments, Pumpkins and paper chains and helium balloons; without circles, how square celebrations would be! 

I read somewhere that babies know instinctively that circles are safe, no rough edges or sharp corners.  

Luci curls herself into a tiny circle in her backseat bed, all her parts tucked in--while I keep my hands on the steering wheel and assume the air will keep the tires fully round.  When we come home, we walk around the block, even though our blocks are shaped like a slices of  pie and shoe boxes. 

Day 2: Red and yellow leaves

One pocket full, now between the dictionary pages to flatten for a project for my Noticing journal.  I'm curious to discover if they will retain their colors if sealed under a layer of matte medium. 

To fit in with my forever CIRCLES theme, I also found this beautiful card of buttons at a thrift shop. 

Red and yellow leaves and cards of buttons, both remind me of my childhood in Georgia, along with the smell of backyard piles of leaves burning, some man wearing a straw hat overseeing his bonfire holding a rusty rake. 

Carlene made every garment I ever wore, and we spent happy hours in the fabric department of McConnels perusing buttons, patterns, zippers and cloth.  

I bought my 1982 Miriam Webster dictionary for 75 cents at a thrift shop. Before online dictionaries took over, these books were heavy as bricks and illustrated with fine little drawings and photographs.  

After folding pages for a handmade book, you need to press the signatures overnight under a brick or heavy book, and this dictionary with two cookbooks on top is my presser. 

Looking for a particular shape or color on a walk is---I kid you not!--as much fun as discovering jewels in a haystack might be.  The scavenger hunt nature of looking FOR something gives an added layer of enjoyment to walking the dog. While she's sniffing every bush and twig for evidence that another animal has been here before her, I'm collecting little treasures to take home. 

The Book of Noticing

In Winder, Georgia, I bought a beautiful journal (made in the U.K. by Sukie Company), the cover hand-marbled in teals and tans .  

Have you ever bought a blank book that was too pretty to write in?  

This one is like a potential new friend, and I've just been waiting for the right time to strike up a conversation.  

So here it is, "The Book of Noticing."  

If you want to play along, here's how it works: Pick a color or object.  Throughout the day, take pictures of it, draw it, or write about it.  

Or just wait until the end of the day and write about one unexpected thing that caught your eye or called out to you.

My first entry is about acorns.  I didn't plan it, but I returned from a walk with Luci with my sweater pockets filled with copper, brown and gold acorn tops.  Perfect little bowls, no two alike. 

          My new blue journal (and some entries here on the blog) will be about noticing. 

Here's the epigraph by Mary Oliver:

"Instructions for living a life.

Pay attention.

Be astonished.

Tell about it."

"I'm not in love with money"

Don has owned a little vacuum cleaner shop on West Avenue for forty-something years.  The only thing I've ever purchased from him are bags, but I have been there numerous times for help with my Dyson.  He never charges me--and most of the people in line.

"No charge," he says, " Just tax, which on zero for the governor is zero." 

After my several minor fixes or tutorials, he walks me out to the car and plays with Luci.  

I asked him today why he doesn't charge, and he said, "I'm just not in love with money, but I do love seeing people get something for free."

His customers leave happy, and that's what matters to him.  

I asked him how he liked Dysons, and he said, "I love them.  My repair shop is full of them and that's where I make my money, along with selling products."

He then showed me the cordless vacuums he likes best, and when it's time for a new one, I'll go to Don's.

"I'm living a happy life," he said.  "I have forty acres with three ponds on it and my grandchildren love to go there.  I have everything I need."

Sometimes an encounter with one generous man (who still loves his work after all these years) is the icing on the the cake of a beautiful day.

Blog is Back

Since July, this blog's door has been closed. Finally, today, Day spent an hour or two opening the door. 

This is a scattershot blog without a theme--though I'm thinking up a few possible ones.  It began 11 years ago when I celebrated turning 65 by driving solo in my Mini Cooper to the west coast.  By the time that trip was over, I'd already moved in here with all its comfy furniture and open windows, so I just kept writing.  

Gerlinde Pyron has been one of my most loyal readers, and she often wrote me notes responding to posts. Because of that, I always had her in mind as I wrote.

I was so saddened to learn from our mutual friend Barbel that Gerlinde died two weeks ago. The two of them had been friends for almost 60 years. Both moved here from Germany when they were  young--around 17 or 18--and neither spoke English. Both learned the language and built careers and friendships in Texas and beyond.

Gerlinde was a wonderful writer.  She published a memoir about her childhood: Shadows and Joys of a Life in Bavaria.  She also wrote long and newsy emails that I treasured and re-read each time one landed in my box:

Here is an excerpt from a recent email:

One of my go-to’s while being so troubled by this mean-spirited political climate is to go back to the past, all the way to 1776 and read histories that give me some perspective and understanding to make sense of this time. The most helpful to read at this point is Joseph Ellis’s enlightening and wise book: “American Dialogue”.  I also loved the Hamilton book which is so fascinating. Particularly when you read how hateful Jefferson and  Madison were toward Washington’s protégé and trusted friend which  Hamilton was for him.

While English was not her native language, she--like Barbel--mastered it impressively.  (I could never beat Barbel in Scrabble!). Gerlinde and I shared a love of reading and often discussed books via email.

During the last few years, she rarely met friends for outings, as she devoted every day to caring for Tim, her husband.  She drove him to doctors' appointments and took care of him at home as he fought cancer and dementia.  In spite of everything, she said he never departed from his characteristic kindness and easy-going nature. 

Gerlinde loved flowers and nature.  Last spring she sent me this photo of her backyard filled with poppies.  A lover of books, painting, gardening, cooking, and a Christmas tree loaded with ornaments, Gerlinde was a memorable creative and generous friend.

Homefulness

Nothing brings to mind homefulness quite as much as being a welcome visitor in the homes of people we love. 

  

I could name everyone reading this  right now (those of you who have invited me into your house for beans and cornbread, or elaborate recipes that take all day to make, or a half-glass of wine on the porch.) The flavors inside someone else's kitchen, the welcoming smells of soup and bread: is that Heaven or what?

I rarely need to sleep in anyone's guest room in San Antonio, having a bed of my own there, but when traveling or visiting a friend, it's a treat to sleep in guest rooms, unencumbered by the weight of to-do's at home. Waking up to the sounds of people stirring in the kitchen, the indecipherable words downstairs that sound like sleepy hums announcing the new day is waking up? Conversations about the art other people choose, a framed portrait of a grandmother, the plants in the yard, the various pets--all the conversations that take more time than those in coffee shops, sometimes late into the night. 

If I were to name names, I might err on the side of making this post too long--because everyone reading this has been a sister-traveler or a giver of hospitality.  But I could name names. 

I could tell you about a visit in a friend's second home in Connecticut, walks on the beach, sleeping in a bedroom bigger than my whole house, and feeling so cozily at home.  I could tell you about my Cape Cod friend who has  invited friends over to celebrate my visit, and best of all, gives her so-fortunate guests wonderful candle-lit massages in a blue upstairs guest room. 

When I recently complained to a friend back home--that I need extensive dental surgery but left my house in mid-remodeling stage because I thought I'd be back in a couple of weeks--she said, "You can stay at my house!  If my grandson is in the guest room, we can kick him out!" Another friend, heading soon to Vermont for two months, offered me her whole house!

My remodeling man meant well; he promised that when I come home, it would be like one of those programs on HGTV (when the homeowner leaves for a week and comes back to a total gasp-worthy transformation) 

But he got sick and was unable to finish.  Right now, my home is just sitting there with a bunch of new windows, the furniture still covered in protective sheets to keep everything clean during the messy finishing up. Right now, I'm more worried about his health than the house.  

Then a casual dental appointment revealed the need for shock-worthy dental work.  My remodeling friend and I have been texting back and forth about his illness and my teeth, and there's nothing to be done about either right this minute.  

I'm lucky in that I have a back up house, the casita, for sleeping and recovering, if I have the surgery at home.  I'm so fortunate to have this spacious house and yard (Carlene calls it "our house") to relax in for as long as I need it if I have the surgery here.  

I feel rich in friends and family who could and would take me in if needed--just as my casita would be there for them if the tables were turned. I've already had my new next door neighbor--a Palestinian woman who owns a restaurant--offer to make me soup and soft foods.  

Homefulness (a word I just coined that auto-correct wants to change to "hopefulness") is the best possible way to feel when your body or soul or mind is vulnerable.  To feel welcome to share another's house--an extension of that person--is, in my opinion, better than any medicine.

Or, as Frost wrote in his poem, "The Death of the Hired Man"---

Home is the place where, when you have to go there,

They have to take you in....

I'm likely to stay here--not the house filled with childhood history as the Cochran house was, but overflowing with memories of all the decades between my first leavings (for college, then a year later for Texas) and now.  I know where all the light switches are, I can still play the piano they bought when I was in third grade, and Luci loves tracking critters in the big yard. In my memory, all of us, all our younger selves, are still present around the big round table. 

This is where all the babies and then children and then grown-up children remember so many Christmases and summer vacations.  It's where my dad napped in this blue lounge chair I'm sitting in now.  It's where bad news bruised us to the core and good news was doubled and tripled and more--by sharing. 

At this moment, awake and writing in the middle of the night, I feel settled in here, yet also so connected to my friends back home.  

I'm also resolved, when I go back to my own house, to start making soup and cornbread and inviting friends over.  I don't have to do gourmet.  The house doesn't have to be perfect (it can be like me--messy and incomplete).  

This is my homage to homefulness and my gratitude for all the hospitality and love I've felt from each of you!

International "Travel"

Today I got a facial from a lovely Israeli woman who has also lived in Kuwait and Jordon.  

Moon and her sister Moony (new window friends at McDonalds) are from Bangladesh; one wears an orange head scarf the other a green one.  

My next door neighbors are Noreen and Martin, she from Palestine.  First thing every morning and last thing at night, I get a text from her with lots of hearts. On Monday, we're hoping to have a playdate for Tessi and Luci. 

Last week, Bob and Jocelyn enjoyed a good Greek dinner at Noreen's restaurant, Real Olive.  The hummus and baklava were the best I've ever had. 

Shopping for sunglasses, I met Tanja, a woman who moved here from Germany twenty years ago and taught herself English. We bonded--as happens at least once a day--over our shared love of little dogs. 

Will, Bonnie, Nathan and Elena just got back from a three week trip to Spain, Portugal and Morocco, so I'm just trying to do a bit of humble traveling in Gwinnett County.  

I know, I know, it's not the same, but it's wonderful to explore my old hometown much changed. When I left Lawrenceville in 1967, it was a pretty. homogenous town. Now it's a mini United Nations. 

One advantage of living in someone else's house is detaching from my obsessions--changing decor or colors or even simple switcheroos of chairs.  

Living in someone else's house is also a study in the art of differences.  It's a pleasure to visit or sleepover in a house very unlike one's own, but it's a whole other thing to actually take up residence, meet the neighbors, and get to know the town a little better. 

Carlene keeps everything.  Furniture stays put.  She files operating instruction and keeps the boxes. In my house,  I couldn't lay my hands on either as they have long since gone into recycling.  

If I stacked all the greeting cards Carlene has kept, it would be floor to ceiling several times over.  Same with  photos.  

She gave me carte blanche to organize, and that's my jam!  I sat on the floor for hours reading cards, many of which my children and I sent to "Nana and Granddaddy."   I see Mimi's  (her mother's) handwriting, so tiny I can barely decipher it. 

One day, I chose a few cards and bundled them to take to Carlene's apartment and she loved the short visits from the past as much as I had.  I've found packets from old film stores I mailed her decades ago  (Remember Foto-mat?) and wondered why I had needed to capture every expression on my baby Day's face--the way we do with first babies. 

I don't make huge changes. Mostly I just re-stack and re-sort, kind of like editing a piece of writing.   

This morning she was reading her college magazine and she saw that her college roommate had died.  Her name was Helen, but she went by her nickname, Illy--because, Illy said, she was "illegitimate." 

A name from the past, it made us laugh.  A word, a line of a letter--it's like a needle that pulls up threads from all over the place. 

Another fun bit about living in someone else's house is that when you go out, you hear the words and expressions you don't hear at your other home.  "Can I get you a buggy?" a clerk asks in a store.  Not a shopping cart, a buggy.  

I'm not a party person, neither is Bob.  Carlene is the most extroverted one in our original family of four.  Her door is always open.  People can stop by without calling first, just open the door and call out, "Hey!"  She's a good listener and her visitors love that.  Everyone wants to be listened to. 

She's made her new apartment home and every night she tells me about conversations with people at lunch or breakfast. Her new friend whose surname is also Harris is blind from glaucoma, and Carlene enjoys pushing her back to her room and getting to know her better.  She likes listening to their stories, just as she's done for decades at this home.  

Good Morning, Moon!

I always start my day with my equivalent of your morning coffee, a senior Diet Coke from McDonalds. I drink about half of it, but it gets my engine running.  "Forty seven cents at the first window," the speaker says. 

Here in Lawrenceville, the second window (the pick up window) frames the face of a young woman wearing an orange scarf and smiling.  She is Bangladeshi.  

In the beginning Carlene was always with me, so she always asks about "your mama."  When she hands me my drink, she reaches out to shake my hand.

One day, I asked her how she spelled her name, Moon.  I had assumed, with her accent, her name might be spelled differently.  

She smiled and spelled it out M-O-O-N.

In the last week, she has started saying "I love you" to me.  And adding "Say also to your mama when you go there." 

This morning I asked her, "Have you ever heard of the book Goodnight Moon?"

She nodded yes, but I'm not entirely sure she understood me. I will order a copy of the book for her. But in the meanwhile, I will see her every morning and often my first words of the day--unless I'm on the phone with my mama--are, "I love you."

After she reaches out to shake my hand, she blows me a kiss and I start to drive away.  I say, "Love you too" and "See you tomorrow." 

"Not tomorrow," she says, "Is my day off."  Then she hands me an extra drink, for free, to cover Monday Missing Moon.

Wednesday on Craig Drive

I am temporarily living in the house I came home to from college and Texas.  We'd just moved to Lawrenceville from Cochran the year before, and my 1966 high school graduation coincided with. moving in here.

At the time, soon-to-be-husband was completing his master's degree in Athens, and I moved there for the first half of my freshman year at the University of Georgia.  Then he moved to San Antonio to start his four years in the Air Force before getting drafted. 

On the night before my wedding the following summer, three of us (bride and bridesmaids) slept in my full-sized bed, two in Bob's bed. The next day, we drove our new Volkswagen to Texas, planning to move back to Georgia when he'd finished his Air Force stint. Obviously, we never moved back. 

So now with Bob, Jocelyn, and Carlene in Athens, I'm living in this house with a great big yard and a magnificent little dog who loves it rolling in the grass and listening to birds.

Luci has been scratching fiercely since we got here, so I took her to a nearby vet, a young woman named Rain.  She advised me to stop "open feeding" and to feed her only twice a day.  And to stop feeding her people food!  

To that her nurse said, "Miss Luci is about to have an existential crisis!"

A lot of things have happened in the lives of some of my friends and family and me, some tragic, some unsettling and scary.  I am both here and there, all the Theres where people are suffering.

I've made friends with a young woman in the neighborhood whose mother died a month ago and who likes to spend time with me because I remind her of her mother and have "such mama vibes." Today she texted me that she thinks her "mom sent me to her." 

My medicine for the hard things today was reading lots of doses of Anne Lamott.

The house was cleaned yesterday for the visit from Carlene and Jocelyn and Bob--who went to her appointment with the pace maker doctor.  He gave her a promise that her pacemaker would last for seven more years!  

After our visit, she was happy to go "home"--where she's made new friends among the staff and other residents and is kept busy every day with activities and meals she enjoys.  

"I've gained five pounds, though," she said.

Jocelyn said it's because she's getting three good meals a day, and we all agree she looks so relaxed and happy! 

Strawberry Everything

Lily Gladstone (Academy Award winner, Killers of the Flower Moon) stars in another powerful story, Fancy Dance, 2024, playing the part of a Native American woman whose sister has disappeared.

Without spoilers, I just want to focus on one scene that was so impactful I had to scroll back and watch it again.

When her niece starts her first period, she wakes her up to tell her.  "Auntie, I got my moon."

"The first one?"

"Yeah."

Long pause....."okay."

After a small ceremonial bonfire and washing her hands with ash, she takes her niece to a diner and tells her to order everything she wants.

"Really?"

"Okay, I'll take the strawberry pancakes, the strawberry waffles, the strawberry blintzes, and whatever that one is."

"Crepes?"

"Yeah, crepes.  And oh, do you have anything like cake or pie or dessert for like when you're celebrating a big event?"

The waitress asks, "Oh is it for your birthday?"

"No," she says, smiling, "It's for my period."

The waitress says, "Oh, I ain't never celebrated that a day in my life but I'll see what I can do."

Watching that scene, while girls and women I know are passing through puberty and pregnancy and menopause, I couldn't help thinking how good it would be if these rites of passage were celebrated like this with the help of women who have been there! 

 

Sunday in Athens

Yesterday, Luci and I visited Carlene in her new apartment.  We shared a lunch in the dining room and walked outside in the courtyard and sat by the fountain for as long as we could stand the heat.

I met one of her favorite nurses, Pennie.  They share the same August 24th birthday, but 60 years apart. 

"We're twins!" Pennie said. 

Like all the staff-members I've met (director, food servers, nurses, chaplain, servers of meals) Pennie treats the residents with so much respect and affection. 

At lunch, I enjoyed meeting some of th 31 residents in ASU--"All Seniors University," to use Carlene's college analogy.   Roberta, who's been there the longest, three years, knows everyone and can tell stories about all of them.  The man I sat beside is a champion ping pong player and former golfer.  Ray, the second oldest person there (Carlene beating him by a year) is a retired Louisiana history professor.  

The woman at the end of the table, was living in a mountain town and her husband "up and died" so she decided to move to a senior community. Another is blind with glaucoma, but Carlene tells me she has a wicked sense of humor. 

"Who misses cooking?" I ask everyone at the table.

"Not me!" they answer in unison.  "Or grocery shopping!" another answers. 

 

   

Sloping Floors

     Day was horrified when she finally got to see the house Marcus and his friends were "SO excited about" renting for sophomore year. "It's beyond awful," she said, "Over a hundred years old, the shabbiest house in the neighborhood.  There are no countertops in the tiny kitchen.  And the floors slope at least six inches from one side to the other!" 

     "Why would three 19-year- old boys choose it?  Why am I the only parent of said 19-year-olds who's scared it's going to burn down?  Even Tom says it's going to be fine."

      "You've just described exactly the house I lived in when I was nineteen," I said.  Newlyweds, we rented a shabby little house on Mistletoe for $75 a month.  It holds so many good memories!" 

     I didn't know how to mop back then,  One day I poured water onto the kitchen floor and it ran all the way to the other side of the house.  The floors sloped wat least six inches.  I mopped up the puddle with towels, then walked to a pay phone to call my mama and daddy (collect, as always) for a mopping tutorial.

     I improvised fruit crates to serve as a pantry, filled mostly with boxes of Chef Boyardee Pizza--since I hadn't yet learned to cook anything but brownies and pound cakes. For a countertop, I bought a little table.  We left the doors unlocked.  When brownies were cooking, neighbor kids would come in and ask for some. 

     "They are just kids," I said,  "They don't care about sloping floors or kitchen counters. This will be part of their education."

     "That's pretty much what Tom said," she said, disappointed that I didn't share her horror.

     When I drive past the Mistletoe house now, a flood of happy memories whooshes in: 

     *The neighbor kids returning to get another brownie "for Grandma." 

     *Mark refusing money from my parents (who were probably horrified that I was living in such a terrible place) just before the dilapidated chair he was sitting in collapsed to the floor with him in it--all four of us laughing at the irony.  

     *Having friends over for pizza, beer, and pound cake and eating on the blue rug--the only furnishings a stereo and a curbside-find coffee table holding a vase colorful Mexican paper flowers.  

    *Listening to our three albums: Bob Dylan, Janis Joplin, and Miles Davis.  

    *Selling some wedding silver to buy a spirited German Shepherd puppy ($65 from a breeder!) whose value to us was beyond words! 

    *Rewiring a cage from the Mexican Market to hold two finches.

     *Learning to mop and clean up puppy poo on the blue rug.

     *Making a hanging light with papier mache on a big balloon. 

         At nineteen, I didn't care what we didn't have. Sloping floors were immaterial.  What we did have (like still loving each other and having a dog and music) seemed like wealth. We only lived in that house for 3 months.  How could one little decrepit house hold so many good memories, so many life lessons? 

     And so it goes.  The circle of life. 

     Carlene moving into a luxurious apartment with all the amenities she could ever want,  

     Jackson and his girlfriend and another friend moving into a very nice Richmond apartment for his first year of graduate school. 

     Marcus moving into his first house just a few blocks from his brother.  

     And me--playing house in Carlene's for the summer.  

Jackson and Tom in Jackson's new Richmond apartment

Marcus and his two roommates, both named Ben

What She Forgot

My mother, 99 in August is remarkable!  She's waited for almost a year for her slightly-assisted living apartment in Athens, and Monday was move-in day.  

She's meticulously planned: where the furniture will go, not to take her television or computer, which CDs (piano hymns) to take.  While I was at the lake in Virgina, Bob and Jocelyn moved and unloaded furniture, pictures and linens, so that when we walked in and she saw it, we were all teary with delight. Her apartment is beautiful! With two large rooms and a bathroom, it's colorful, uncluttered and homey. Four of the many stained glass pieces she's made were hanging in the windows, and Jocelyn had made her a welcome cake.

I'm staying at her house and using her car,  and we talk a few times a day.  She is SO happy, going to activities and meals with a notebook to help her remember the names of staff and residents. 

As for me, I'm organizing the house with fewer pieces of furniture, getting it ready for the cleaners to do the heavy cleaning. I love organizing,so it's like playing house. I even have art supplies on the back porch so that I can do gel prints and collages. 

First Look

She didn't forget her night-gown, toothpaste, or positivity.  She didn't forget her enthusiasm, her cane, or a few books and jewelry.  Her paperwork was organized in neat folders.   

In this last picture, we were just leaving the house she's lived in for sixty years.  

As we were driving out of her neighborhood, she said, 

"Oh, I forgot to cry!" 

Luci's first swim

Our week at the lake has been so much fun!

Day and Tom rented a wonderful house on Smith Lake, and Day brought pre-made meals for our dinners, sandwich fixings for lunch.   Tomorrow night I'm taking us all out for dinner. 

The first night I got eaten up by some invisible bugs. I never felt a sting, but welts rose up all over my legs and feet and hands, one huge one on my neck.  For the first few minutes, the skin rises up like a hard marble under the skin, but it doesn't itch intolerably like bed bugs do. (I know whereof I speak--a few years ago, I slept in their attic guest room and woke up with a maddening itch. This led to a complete remodel of the upstairs, after they discovered bats.)

Tom drove to the nearest store, about 20 miles away, and bought Benadryl and calamine lotion.  But to this third day, no one else has been bitten and the bugs continue to bite me. 

Today I was on a float and Luci on the pier.  She cried for me, then jumped off the pier and swam to me, sat down on my float happy as could be.  

Traveling Through the Mountains Today

Yesterday, Bob and Jocelyn brought the U-Haul and two expert movers, longtime friends of theirs, and we watched them load and drive away.  Carlene's house has plenty of furniture to choose from, so they left the Lawrenceville house looking good and plenty.  We sat in the carport and watched the move, Carlene truly excited about her next adventure!

I took a wee nap, then packed up her Malibu for my lake trip. 

I made it to Clayton before the Main Street Gallery closed and Luci and I maneuvered the main floor, the lower floor and the upper floor of my favorite business in Clayton.  I bought two gifts (one for Jan's birthday and one for Day's) and a new pillow for  my sofa.  

Since I got a late start and meandered in Clayton a bit, I only made it as far as Franklin where I found a pretty ragged pet-friendly motel. Had a lovely dinner at Cafe REL, an Italian restaurant Mike introduced me to years ago. I had a Caesar with scallops--delicious--and Luci had a bowl of water and lots of attention from other diners. 

Note to self: learn to use the FIDO app to find better pet-friendly accommodations on the way back.  Day and Jocelyn can show me easier ways to find lodgings. 

So now we're off--for a beautiful drive through the mountains, only five hours to go to get to Smith Lake!

Carlene and I are enjoying these wonderful breezes and sitting outside.  There are so many trees here that it never seems unbearable in the summer--as it does at home in Texas. 

Today friends came to visit--Valerie and Sylvia--who are celebrating their 60th birthday this weekend.

Tonight, Rose and her boyfriend (whom we've not met yet) are coming for dessert after Carlene and I go for a mid-afternoon dinner at Longhorns.

The furniture movers--Bob and his friend David--are coming tomorrow to deliver her bedroom suite, table and chairs, lamps, etc.  Then she'll be ready to complete the move on Thursday.

As for Luci and me--we're heading to Smith Mountain Lake tomorrow to spend a week with Day's family.  The suitcase is packed and Luci knows something's up.  She won't get a foot away from me!

Carlene trying out her new purple rollator

Val feeding Luci by hand--the little diva won't eat it from a bowl! 

New Adventures Begin

We had no doubt about it, but Carlene got accepted into her new Athens home.  Bob and Jocelyn and I went with her to measure her new apartment for furniture and had lunch at one of our favorite places, Amicis. 

The actual move will be within the next couple of weeks.

Meanwhile, we're enjoying visiting on the porch and all the rooms of Carlene's home for the past 60 years!  

Back home, my new friend and excellent builder/carpenter/painter Fabian is installing windows and assures me I'll return home to tranquility and finished projects. 

1985: Blues, Soul and Rock and Roll.

Today would have been my 57th wedding anniversary if I were still married.   

And that's about all I have to say about that. 

This morning I watched a segment on Sunday Morning about the musicians of our era who created and performed "We are The World" to raise funds for those dying in Africa due to famine and diseases. 

Stevie Wonder

Bruce Springsteen

Bob Dylan

Willie Nelson

Ray Charles

Smokey Robinson

Paul Simon

Kenny Rogers

Tina Turner.....and others

It was Harry Belafonte's idea. He enlisted Lionel Richie and Michael Jackson--(and also Stevie Wonder, who was late returning the phone call)  to get it off the ground. It was hard.  Musicians' schedules are booked long in advance.  But they decided to do it after the American Music Awards, since most of the musicians would be there. 

The Netflix documentary (The Greatest Night of Pop Music) is about the process of getting the artists, sound engineers and camera people all in one place to produce the unforgettable song, "We Are The World." 

Packing practice and performance into one all-nighter, in a hot studio, after an awards ceremony, hosted by Richie, led to the song known all around the world.  

It was poignant watching everyone interact with each other. When Ray Charles arrived, someone said, "It's like seeing the Statue of Liberty walking in."

Bob Dylan had a deer in the headlights expression on his face throughout the hours of practice.  (He wasn't a group singing kind of guy.) When Stevie Wonder (known to be an incredible mimic)  began to imitate Dylan's singing while playing the song on the piano, it was the first time Bob Dylan actually smiled!  He got it. 

After hosting the awards and winning many himself, it was "We Are The World" that meant the most to Lionel Richie.  Thirty years later, he returns to that room for the documentary. He points out where  the singers had stood: "Michael there, Bruce there, Cyndi over there..." 

He compared returning to the place where they co-created the song to going back home after the people who made it home are no longer there. 

"This room," he said, "is my house, my home." 

Paper furniture

Carlene, born in 1925, grew up in a small farmhouse. Papa was a hard-working farmer, and they ate mostly what they grew--"organic before organic was a thing."  Mimi was an excellent cook and made clothes for herself and her five children.  When times were hardest, they even made clothes out of flour sacks. As I was searching for pictures taken during the 20s, 30s, and 40s, it struck me--how smart, frugal and resourceful they were!

Dot and Carlene learned to sew, knit, and crochet. Mimi always said, "My girls are better seamstresses than I am." 

Carlene altered dresses a "friend in town" gave her.  Town girls were better off in those days than country girls.

While in high school, Carlene worked in a dry goods store in downtown Perry and was able to buy fabrics and patterns.  Looking at these pictures, I'm amazed at the variety of clothes she made and what fashionable wardrobes were created in hers and Dot's shared bedroom.  By then, they had indoor water, a utilitarian indoor bathroom (no tile), and a hall closet shared by the whole family. 

She yearned for a room of her own.  Maybe, she thought, her daddy could make her a room in the attic. Even though that room never came to fruition, she loved designing it, cutting out furniture from construction paper. 

Times were still not easy financially, but her parents, seeing her dating years coming, painted the living room and got a sofa and a blue rug. They saved to send her off to college. (She had been valedictorian of her high school class--or would have been had the principal not rearranged #1 and #2 to give that honor to his daughter!) 

In 1944, she did an unusual thing for a farm girl--she saved enough money for her own car, a 1940 Chevy, for $1070.  (The next year she married my daddy, a Navy boy, and teased that she "married him so he could help her pay off her car.") 

The love of her life, Lloyd Harris, was a Tennessee boy.  While she was in college.  he was a radioman in the Navy, stationed in Memphis. They married (eloped) on September 16, 1945, even though she had to wait a month to move in with him in Memphis. 

Here she is at GSCW--Georgia State College For Women---with some college friends. 

Yesterday I got a text from my remarkable mama that hearkened back to her cutting out furniture from construction paper. 

I just today put my paper furniture on a room chart and making the round table with the 4 captain blue chairs and they will double for company if need be.   Excited about furnishing my new haven!!!   Will use my entire bedroom suite in BR - it’s so pretty and I am still thrilled over getting it 50 plus years ago....   

Thank you for helping me be happy!!!!!

A Letter from Anne Lamott to Kids (of all ages)

 

Going Off To College for a Ph.D

 Luci is ready to go!

As soon as I start packing, she jumps into the suitcase as if to say, "Don't even think about leaving ME!"

We have good news from Presbyterian Village in Athens--Carlene can move in this month!  "It's going to be like going to college," she says.  "This time I'm getting my Ph.D--in life!"

"It's time," she says, having had almost a year on the waiting list to get prepared.  No more cooking, no more cleaning, no more washing of clothes even--she's going to live luxuriously, and she is so excited about it. 

Luci and I are flying to Atlanta next week, then Day will join us on the 15th, and we'll work with Bob and Jocelyn to get her packed for her initiation on Wednesday.

I'd thought about driving, but in this intolerable heat dome, in which heat factors are 106-110 in early June,  I didn't want to risk car or foot issues on the road.  So we got a one way ticket for Tuesday and will play it by ear from then.

In the meanwhile since my return is unknown, I'm packing big--including a swimsuit for a week ini a Southern Virginia lake house with the Learys.  I'll keep you posted....

Music Medicine

Since Nathan was a freshman, I've seen his outstanding band play at football games, Fiesta's Battle of the Bands, and competitions. 

Their choreography is impressive, the music wonderful. I always wonder how a band director can take in newbies, teach them to play their instruments, and blend the newbies in with the older students, and actually produce music for the first football game of the season.  Band camp takes up much of their summers, and by the opening of school, they are a kind of school family.

First year, I noticed that Nathan and an adorable girl, both front row in percussion, were grooving to the music exactly the same.  Over their heads you could see a cartoon bubble, filled with tiny sparks, not words.  Her name, Elena told me, was Ava. 

I've watched them at their drums and marimbas and cymbals over the years.  Now Ava is a senior and Nathan a junior and they went to the senior prom together--proving I didn't imagine that bubble of sparks. 

Wednesday night's percussion concert was extraordinary and even more enjoyable than whole-band performances.  I'd had a ragged day, but within minutes, I was transported into music and rhythm, totally engaged, forgetting what had derailed me earlier in the day.

The percussion teacher opened with some heart-felt and funny commentary about how proud he was of his kids.  And then, a girl moved to the front of the closed curtain and played a mesmerizing marimba solo .

The curtain opened and an ensemble played, and this pattern continued for over two hours--solo, ensemble, solo, ensemble.  

If I'd seen this teacher on the street, I'd never have figured he was a musician  Dressed in a plain brown suit,  he didn't look the part.  But when his kids played, and when he told story after story about them during the breaks, you could feel then magic between teacher and kids. 

He told us about the ones who, instead of leaving campus for lunch, stayed in the band room to practice.  About the awards they'd won.  About the senior who plays with YOSA, the Youth Orchestra of San Antonio.  

It was clear that the percussionists love that teacher and vice versa.  

At the end, he introduced all his graduating seniors, telling us about their contributions to the band. When he called Ava's name, she ran from the back of the stage to the front, arms up, smiling--a genuine rock star! 

Music is medicine.  It takes us places way beyond everyday worries.     

On my long drive home, Fresh Air was on the radio.  Just a few lines in to the interview, I recognized the man being interviewed, the famous cellist Yo Yo Ma. Not only did his interview round out my night of music, but the two back to back made me resolve to find more spaces in my life that music could fill. 

The home health check up

I posted this on Wednesday, then deleted it--because I was embarrassed about not handling it better.  Day was horrified that I invited this man into my house and that he wouldn't leave when I told him I was done, but her antennae for scams is way keener than mine.  Then she called Tom (in Rome now) because he's an expert in health care and he said they are a legitimate company, but that I should report this for how it was handled by this particular doctor.  I'm going to re-post it now as a warning to anyone who may be considering this.   Ask lots more questions beforehand than I did. 

*****

Until yesterday, I avoided the home health check-ups the insurance people keep calling about. For some inexplicable reason, probably to get them to stop calling, I said, okay, it's just one hour, right? 

(note to self: never again)

First of all, home is private space.  Unless I actually need help (in an emergency) I will never again invite medical equipment, questionnaires, or advice-givers into my personal space.  It felt like an invasion when--in Hour 2--I was still answering questions I could have done on paper in half the time. 

"I can save you some time," I'd already told him.. "I only have two concerns--neuropathy in my feet and an auto-immune condition."

But the doc--in his white coat and mask, calling me "Mam" over and over--didn't want to save time. 

"What is your pain level now, Mam?"

"Four."

No, I've never had a heart attack or stroke, no I don't drink alcohol, yes I smoke.....(Should have lied on that one as it inevitably brings on a lecture and lectures are unwelcome in my house!); yes I had a minor breast cancer a few years ago, no I can't recall the year, all's well now; no falls in the last year, no, I don't need help bathing;  my hearing is fine; no I have never considered suicide (but at the moment, I'm considering knocking you on the head with a hammer) 

As Hour 3 was starting, I felt an anxiety attack coming on. "This has to stop.... I can't do this any more."

"Just a couple more, Mam, and then we'll do the weight and blood pressure and...."

After the cognitive test,  he thought he would decrease my anxiety with a compliment.  "Put this on your refrigerator, Mam, and tell your friends," he said.  Yeah right, I thought, I would never put a medical report on my refrigerator, please go. 

Finally, he rose to leave, but he had one more question: "What is your pain level now?"

"After nearly three hours of sitting here answering questions, it's an eight."

As he walked out the door, I lit a cigarette.  

Lessons learned: 

1. Nothing is more dull than two and a half hours of answering questions about myself.  It left me feeling deflated, like a conglomerate of bones and vessels and tissue. Like what I was to him--his "first Medicare patient of the day." 

2. Medical conversations should take place in medical facilities. At home, I'm not a "patient."  

3. If a doc calls you "Mam" (or "Sweetheart"), you know that no real conversations are forthcoming.

4. I can take advice by my actual doctor.  She knows me and my history. We like each other and she talks like a regular person, no white coat, no patronizing.  But never again inside the advice-free zone of home.

Two more

Ken Burns' graduation address to the graduates of Brandeis....on You Tube

And for a light-hearted series to watch at bedtime, a British show called Trying.   My favorite line in it so far:  "Don't get too attached to the idea of the life you're gonna have." 

Discoveries and Riches

1. National Public Radio: 

My radio is set to 89.1.  It's company, information, book reviews, news, travel, the arts.  I'd definitely count public radio as one of the riches of my world.  Here are two paraphrases of lines I've heard this week: 

Astronaut Ed White born in San Antonio in 1930, said: 

"From space there is no line between Russia and Ukraine.  There is no line between the reds and the blues in America.  Why can't we all get along and save this planet and ourselves?"

"I believe that anyone who runs for office in any country should first take three trips around the planet...."

Rick Steves, travel guide writer:  "The best way to travel to other countries is to go off-season if you can and avoid the popular tourist destinations."  Americans, he said, love to go where everybody is, where everyone has posted on Facebook and Instagram.  We want that picture, that experience, rather than seeking our own. 

2. Boba Tea

Elena introduced me to these drinks this week--tea and milk mixes of various flavors with fruity little tapioca pearls that burst with flavor in your mouth as you drink through a fat straw.

I love the passionfruit green tea with mango pearls so much that I ordered seven-pounds of mango pearls from Amazon so I can make my own. 

Kung Fu and other Boba Tea cafes are all over the city serving these drinks that originated in Taiwan in the 80s.  Such a refreshing discovery!

3. Streaming movies

My pick of the week is Robert Duval in The Judge.

4. Estate sales

I love treasure hunts, whether in thrift shops or garage sales, but I find the best quality in estate sales.  This weekend's find was a Bose sound system to replace the one I used for 25 years.  Estate sales are bittersweet, for obvious reasons. 

5. Stretch and Flex classes at Gold's gym--or "yoga for older people." 

6. Spelling Bee and other word games in online The New York Times--along with news and feature stories. 

7.  Podcasts--like On Being, 1A, The Moth,  and This American Life--for road trips. 

On Will's Birthday

Forty six years ago today, we got dressed for a day at the Kerrville Arts and Crafts Festival--Day, her dad and very-pregnant me. 

Day had been almost two weeks late on the day of her birth (almost seven years earlier), so I assumed Will would be on time or late.  Due in early June, he decided that May 26 would be his birthday. 

I've been doing what moms do on the birthdays of their kids--going through old pictures and seeing how things have changed.  On the day he came home from the hospital, Nana and Granddaddy were here--of course.  All the adults were sitting outside, me in the hammock.  Day was inside admiring her new baby brother.

Turns out she was changing his diaper and dressing him in one of his new outfits. 

A lot has changed in 46 years, but one thing never has--the sweet bond between these two!

Looking into Windows of Other People's Houses

1.

Crystoscopophila: the urge to look into other people's windows when passing by.

I am a crytoscopophile who glances in open windows at night.

I don't go out of my way to look.  I don't stand at the window like a peeping tom.  But if the windows are open to passersby, I'm  curious.  

2. 

Sometimes a bite of cake, a gesture, three notes of a song--just about anything--can unearth a memory so deep in the bank that it's almost totally forgotten.  This happened to me last night when I moved a lamp from the bathroom to the kitchen.

It wasn't the lamp, per se, it was the way it reflected in the window glass.  It looked kind or romantic and mysterious, like the lamps you might see passing by.  

3. 

As you can see, the windows are installed but not yet framed.  The installer has been sick all week and the job is in limbo. For a week, the front rooms have been virtually empty, me keeping the space ready for  completion.  Sheets have been spread over the furniture, concrete dust coating the floors. 

Messiness makes me crazy.  So after Jan's arborist hauled away enough sad limbs from my driveway to build a whole new tree, I asked Sergio, the yard man, to help me put everything back in place.  And then I mopped and dusted and peeled the stickers off the glass.  The lamp was the final touch.  

4.

The memory that evoked goes back 36 years--when I rode with a "friend" to pick up her daughter from the swimming pool at the end of my street.

To get to the pool from her house, we had to have driven past my current house.  

5.

It was dark already. As usual, I couldn't resist looking into the windows of houses as I passed by.  Every window had a story to tell--or offered a piece of my idealized fantasy of happiness. 

So it's entirely possible that I glanced at the lights glowing from the windows of this very house.  I might have seen lamps lit in Jan's house--long before it was Jan's house. 

I remember saying out loud: this is exactly the kind of street I'd like to live on!  I loved that all the houses in the "cottage district"( when they were actually cottage-sized) were all different colors and styles.  I was intrigued with the concept of a neighborhood--and with the peacefulness of these quiet tree-lined streets.

6.

My marriage was unraveling  that night she drove me down Ogden Lane.  Lots of walking on eggshells.  Lots of long silences.  

In my imagination, every house was a happy house--families talking amiably over dinner, couples starting first homes.  All was cozy, easy going, nobody walking on eggshells.  

A single lamp in a window could illuminate my imagination, could flesh out the picture of the life I might have on this very street. 

7.

Ten years later, another friend was helping me find a place to rent.  Just as we were passing this house, the owner was putting a For Rent sign in the yard.  We turned around to take a look. My hands were trembling as I signed the lease on the ugliest house on the street.

The rest is history.  A short-term rental became my permanent home, my play house, my forever changing canvas.

8.

Without knowing it yet, the woman whose daughter was a swimmer was more than just a colleague to my then-husband.  I thought she was joking when she said she "had a crush" on him. 

After our divorce, they no longer had to pretend otherwise. 

Over the years I've seen them together at birthday parties, recitals and rodeos.  They never married or  moved in together, but she bought a house next door to his.  They share a dog and go places together.  

For years, I avoided her.  I stood as far away as possible and couldn't even bear to make eye contact with her. 

8.

After a while, the burden of anger got too heavy and I let it go.  I had built a life that was a way better fit for me than the one I had before.  I didn't want the one they had. Or the seven acres and the house he'd built.  I wouldn't  have traded places with either of them.  

They seem reasonably companionable, she walking behind him (not holding hands or walking side by side) just as I used to do.  

9. 

This all bubbled up when I snapped the reflection of the lamp.  I wondered what a passerby might imagine if she glanced inside.  

Mi Familia

A  few things going on with my family:

Nathan, a junior, attended his first prom with his girlfriend Ava, a senior.  His dad is helping him adjust his first tux. 

Day and Tom have just had two parties in a row: Marcus' birthday on the 17th, Jackson's college graduation party on the 18th:

Day and Tom's mom, Kathy, are donning matching temporary tats. 

Carlene socializes more than I do! Here she is with her friend Mandy at a graduation party.  Still on a waiting list for Presbyterian Village, it's looking like she may still be on Craig Drive for her 99th birthday in August. 

Elena has spent a night with me and I've spent a night with her this past week--while her parents have celebrated their 13th wedding anniversary.  At her house, I got to watch her feed the four dogs and two horses before bedtime and first thing in the morning.  And she introduced me to my new favorite drink--boba tea with mango pearls.   Here she is with her rambunctious new puppy Marlow:

Bob and Jocelyn were here for almost a whole week, and we had a wonderful visit before the heat hit full on: