"Nevertheless...

 she persisted...."

Two years and three months ago, as a new member of the Book Club, I got it into my head that you aren't a legitimate bookbinder unless you can do the coptic stitch.  I watched the same video over and over, after creating my signatures, signature covers, and book cover, and I could. not. get. it.

I slowed the speed down so that a kindergartener should be able to follow.

I watched the seasoned members show off their beautifully bound books.  

And I decided, after a couple of months of frustration, that this stitch would forever be an enigma to me. 

Why waste monthly membership if I was going to be the only one in this worldwide club of members to fail close to the starting line? I asked myself.  

So I did what quitters do.  I quit.

A few months ago, the voice in my head wouldn't shut up.  I was--an am, increasingly--fascinated by folding and stitching and gluing beautiful papers together to make a book.  And I hadn't scratched the surface in the archive of tutorials.  So with resolve, and not even looking at that damned coptic stitch, I rejoined, intent on doing easier structures.

But the voice in my head taunted me and I began to watch coptic stitch videos on You Tube--but only after successfully completing some almost-equally difficult stitched books

I stumbled across a teacher who explained it in a way that made more sense to me.  All I needed was to grasp the logic of it, I thought, and I'd be on my way.

I took out the original pages I'd made two years and three months ago.  The holes were ragged from multiple needle pokes.  But tonight, I refused to stop until I got it all together.  Even though it was doomed to be imperfect, it began to hold together and feel like a real book!

A crooked wonky little book.  A treasure.  I'm happy. 

Stoneflowers

We probably all have a story or two that we've never forgotten.   

Mine is called "Stoneflowers" and it came to me freshman year of college from my creative writing professor,  the late John Igo.  Decades after I shared my version with countless students, I called John Igo to check the accuracy of the tale.  My version bore little resemblance to his!  By then, I'd searched online and found no mention of it. I even searched for my creative writing class notes--and nada! (Some of my college students liked the story so much they created a poetry anthology and named it Stoneflowers,  dedicated to me) 

I still prefer my version: 

A man sets out for the village for a wedding or festival or some sort.  On the way he spots the most beautiful flower he's ever seen.  He wants to pick it to put in a vase in his cottage, but he's already late, so he hurries on.  He'll pick it on the way home.

On the way home, he looks desperately for the flower, and all he sees are stones.  He reckons that the flower has turned into a stone.

What I remember is the professor's interpretation of the story: if we see something we want, and if we delay acting on our desire, it won't be there later.  A stone flower, he said, is a symbol of ephemerality.  When we love something, or someone, or some place, we should act on it because nothing lasts forever.

I've encountered stone flowers on road trips.  If someone else is driving and I don't want to ask the driver to stop so I can take a picture, I resolve to take it later, when I'm driving.  I can't count the number of roads not taken again to capture a photo.  And even if I had, the light would be different.  But most importantly, the scene (or row of trees, or children playing, or clothes dancing on a line) is ephemeral. 

I've encountered them on walks--I see a beautiful leaf on the ground; I'll pick it up on my way back.  

Thomas Wolfe's novel, You Can't Go Home Again, tells the story of a writer who writes about his hometown; when he goes "home," the people are so outraged that he's no longer welcome there.

At the time of first meeting these two stories, I was newly married, living in San Antonio, far from my home state.  The stories dovetailed with my awareness  that this was my new life and that I'd only go "home" to visit.  

Someone once said, "We don't just read books, books read us."  This is true of poems, essays, fiction, even quotations that speak to us one way when we're twelve, another when we're 30, another as we continue to age.  Our perspectives are shaped by lines of writing.  The world gets bigger as we engage with imaginative writing.  And maybe--as I did with Stoneflowers--we reshape a story to describe what we're already experiencing but have not yet put into words. 

Four Weekend Snapshots

1. 

Driving into the Container Store parking lot yesterday, I saw the most remarkable traveling trio.  A man in a wheel chair was riding through the parking lot from  busy San Pedro. 

That, alone, would have been noteworthy.

But he was being led by one dog and followed by the other--no leashes anywhere.  

Once parked, I stopped to talk to him.  A recent amputee named Joe, he was happy to talk about his dogs, Dusty and Doo Dah.  Dusty was a beautiful sleek black dachshund and Doo Dah, with his copper and white coat,  could have been a relative of Luci--except that he had a scary bark on him.  

Luci was attracted to the quiet little Dusty and not particularly interested in the barker who was giving her a noisy what-for.

"He's scared shitless of everybody," Joe said.  "He just barks because he's scared.  It don't mean nothing."

I was curious.  How did they navigate traffic?  How did he keep two dogs so close to him without leashes?

He shrugged.  "They's no other way.  If I want to go someplace they go."  Dusty, his human engaged in conversation, wandered a few feet away to sniff some tires.  But all Joe had to do was say "Come on back here, Dusty" and he came right back. 

2. 

I got home with my new shelves in time for my excellent new handyman to install them.  

He showed me a picture on his phone--a project he did for one of his clients.

After he built her wall of tables, look what she did with it! 

3.

Elena's big catch--from pics sent by her dad of their weekend fishing trip, a girl after her daddy's (and her granddaddy's) heart! 

4.

The Learys at the Cherry Blossom Festival this weekend in D.C. 

Here is Day's accompanying text: 

"It was amaaaazing. There were these teams who flew kites to music and coordination with each other!  It made me cry because there was all this joy all over the entire mall even though there’s shitty politics. No one cared about anything but the wind and the beautiful kites."

I want to go there next year! 

Love-ability

As a teacher, I just-about always found lots of lovable in the students in my classes. Teaching is a profession that attracts all kinds of people, especially mama types like me--especially in public school education.  

On the first day of class, I sat them in a circle and we got to know each other, pretty sure an activity of less appeal to my math and biology colleagues. In that first hour together,  I sat back and soaked them up, taking note of what interested them, memorizing their names, knowing that to proceed we had to stumble upon common bonds to proceed with a semester--or in the case of middle and high school students, an entire year.

Over the course of our time together, there were favorites I still remember.  With a few, intimacies shared in their writing touched me and made them memorable. I loved a lot of kids along the way.

Some called teaching a profession with way more "psychic income" than monetary rewards. For mama types, fair enough at the time.  Whetting students' appetites for words, observing progress in their ability to connect them into sentences and paragraphs was rewarding.  But without partners with larger paychecks, most of us couldn't have survived on our pathetic salaries.  I often mused that the university spent more on a couple of flower beds than on the salaries of freshman comp. teachers.

Years after teaching middle school, I got a Christmas call from a former student, by then in the Navy, stationed somewhere overseas.  "I ain't never had a teacher as good as you," he said--no testament to my teaching of grammar, but when he elaborated on that point, it was clear that he remembered that I laughed at his jokes and cared about him. 

A recent episode of "Unsung Heroes" (NPR) summed up my philosophy about people back then: 

After 9/11, the speaker found that she was terrified of flying for years.  She was suspicious of strangers and terrorism and airplanes. 

One day, she had to fly somewhere.  Even before take-off, she was wringing her hands, her breathing shallow.  When the stranger sitting beside her struck up a conversation, she told him why she was so afraid. That conversation changed her life, she said. 

It was just four words, really, that changed her life: "Most people," he said, "are good."

This man probably has no memory of speaking those words, yet she said it changed her outlook and the way she parented her children.  Now, instead of fearing the terrible, she looks for the good. 

I still want to agree with Anne Frank--that "most people are basically good. But I don't rock-solid believe it anymore.  That half of our voters would elect Donald Trump, not once but twice, has shaken so many foundations that my brain probably looks like rubble in a war zone. 

I won't elaborate, or we'd be here all day.

When I'm trying to feel generous of spirit or wiser than I am, I try to imagine Donald Trump as somebody's first grader.  I try to think of him as somebody's little boy, maybe a trouble maker or a bully but reachable at least. Surely, I tell my former-teacher self, there is something to like about him. I could take him aside during lunch and we could talk about empathy and manners maybe? 

I'm not that wise or generous of spirit.  

Sunday, March 23

Getting old is filled with life lessons. My curriculum includes recognizing and appreciating pain-free moments. I plan my days around them:  

Whatever time I wake up I start my morning ritual: meds, then a lie-down until the pain in my back, legs, and feet subsides enough to walk Luci around the block.  At 11:00, like clockwork, repeat. Phone off.  Six days out of the past seven the pain has been straight-up excruciating. 

I see an excellent chiropractor twice a week and get a massage about once a week. The results are impressive for a few hours. During the breaks in pain I juggle errands and phone calls and book making.  A single hour of cutting, painting, stitching, and sorting is bliss. 

But most of my hours include lying down, watching Handmade Book Club videos and movies and sleeping.  I've watched all 12 episodes of The Pitt, four episodes of the mini series of Adolescence--both outstanding. I've watched The Miracle Club, The Year of the Dog, and Twisters.  And I've folded eight signatures for a book it will take me weeks to finish. 

I know instantly when it's time to stop standing and start reclining with ice packs, meds, and feet up.  The clues are unmistakable--a burning in the feet, heat and pain in the lower back, the whole right leg on fire.

These rituals have taught me to appreciate every moment of creativity, to regard them as vital to my sanity and joy.  Pain is a humbling teacher. 

Trump 101 in the public school

A public school teacher in Idaho made a poster saying, "Everyone is welcome."

Below the words were ten hands with hearts on them.

The teacher was ordered to take it down.  Why?  Each hand was a different skin tone.  How dare she suggest that students of all colors were welcome in her classroom?

At first, the young history teacher obeyed, but she was very unsettled by it and a few days later taped it back on the door.

She has been ordered to take it down by the end of the school year of face disciplinary action, possibly termination, due to her "insubordination." 

Home Again after Ten Days in Georgia and Virginia

It was a perfect  trip--half of it with Day and Carlene in Athens, then the other half with the Learys in Virginia.  

One of the Georgia highlights was a day trip to Madison, we three plus Luci, where we saw one shop in which every window was filled with enormous papers flowers on green covered stalks.  Note to self and Day--make some of those flowers ourselves.

One of the Virginia highlights was that Marcus, Jackson and Deanna drove from Richmond to share the weekend, Marcus on a five day trip to do sports announcing!  Day's dream is a backyard studio and we all spent Sunday afternoon measuring it out with string, 20' x 12'.  

The Leary dog, Tucker,  finding a sunny spot on the kitchen floor on a cold day. 

Day making sour dough bread

Day and Jackson by the trampoline which they are getting rid of.

Marcus measuring with string

Tom practicing a golf swing
with a studio-measuring stake 

Day and Tom in their third decade together, happy as ever! 

Jackson, Deanna, Marcus and Scout 

Before driving me to the airport yesterday, Marcus and I had lunch at Nando's. 

Nana and Day at Presbyterian Village 

My beautiful mama and I in her room. 

Jackson is winding into the last two months of his graduate program and he gets his Masters Degree in April.

Marcus--whose goal is sports-casting--is getting jobs already in his sophomore year at VCU! 

Deanna (Jackson's girlfriend) is awaiting news on her own graduate school admission, and she's working with children with autism. 

"I''ll have what she's having!"

       If you don't know Meg Ryan's most famous scene, where were you in 1989? 

      You can Google it if you like, just search for "diner scene in When Harry Met Sally"--as I just did.  The best spoken line in the scene was delivered by an older woman at the nest table: "I'll have what she's having!"

      When I feel that way, when I most want what another person is having, it's when I see artists at work in their studios, or the products of that work.  

       Growing up in a small town in Georgia, we didn't have art supplies to speak of--maybe a yellow box of Crayolas, Magic Markers, and poster paper for school projects.  No art shows or classes, and no art supply stores, unless you stretch the definition to include the fabric section of McConnell's Dime Store--which, having spent countless hours there as I child, I do.

       Nor did our small town have book or record stores or car dealerships selling suspect "foreign cars." We did have the messiest everything store called Jazzbo's where, if you were lucky, you could find the latest 45 records or a random 59-cent Nancy Drew mystery.  

       I can remember my mama coming home with a bag of fabric and patterns and pins, but I find it unimaginable that she, or any other mama, would come home with non-utilitarian "art supplies."  Mamas didn't buy such frivolous things, and if they had wanted a canvas or a pad of watercolor paper, say, they'd have to get it in Atlanta. 

       In the 70s here in San Antonio, the scrapbook industry set up shops all over town and in the aisles of the big box stores, selling stencils, paints, gel pens, rubber stamps, etc. 

       I made a few scrapbooks, a legitimate frivolity because it led to documenting the family's history,  with flourishes and decorative borders.

       It didn't take long for us to find other applications for all those art supplies.  Scrapbooking, per se, seems to have gone the way of counted cross stitch, but those art supplies stayed around.  

       I was sad to see yesterday that Jo Ann's is filling bankruptcy and closing half its stores.  Luci and I will miss our  field trips there and I'll miss having so many fabric and paints under one roof. With the brutal competition of Amazonians, so many brick and mortar stores have folded. 

       But Jo Ann's? Really?  

       Online shopping provides specialty niches for artists and craftspeople, but I'll miss being greeted by clerks with "Hey, Luci!" --reminiscent of the Cheers theme song--"Sometimes you want to go. where everybody knows your name." 

Sunday, February 9

Yesterday, in a poetry/collage class, we were asked to pick a line at random from a book the class had published.  The line we picked was to be the first line of our timed writing.

This is the line that jumped off the page;

"I hesitate to call myself an artist."  

 I hesitate to call myself an artist. Not only do I have no art degree, but I married a man who had already appropriated that domain for himself. 

 I was 18, new to San Antonio.  He was seven years older with an MFA degree, teaching kids my age at San Antonio College--where I took algebra, English,  creative writing and philosophy.

One day he came home with a stack of colorful artwork from his students, geometric shapes glued onto paper. They blew me away--to borrow a 1967 cliche.

What are those? I asked, curious, intrigued, itching to know more.

"Collages," he said stuffing them into his bag out of view as if he'd been caught red-handed with pornography,

"Collage???" 

I made a mental note to look for books on the subject. As I skimmed through books in the S.A.C. library, I thought, That's what I'd have majored in if I'd known it was a thing.

 "You're a writer," he said.  "Stick to that."

 Throughout our marriage, the lines only got thicker.  Home design and decor were his domain.   "Serious artists"--I came to understand--knew Important Things that I wasn't privy to. They had degrees, credentials, exhibition aspirations.

 Those not in the high society of "real" artists  were Sunday painters, dabblers and dilettantes. 

After decades of staying in my lane, then divorcing and putting a toe in the art world,  I learned that not all artists hold what they know so close to the vest.  My artist friends are generous and share freely what they know. 

 I'm thinking of Joy, Nellie, Lyn, Victoria, and Barbel, all successful artists. They invite novices, like me,  to hop on The Art Train and go for it!

I've learned from them--as well as those who teach collage and book-making online.  The joy of making art is contagious.  

There's plenty  to go around. 

Oh, the Possibilities!

 I dwell in Possibility – (466)

BY EMILY DICKINSON

I dwell in Possibility –

A fairer House than Prose –

More numerous of Windows –

Superior – for Doors –

Of Chambers as the Cedars –

Impregnable of eye –

And for an everlasting Roof

The Gambrels of the Sky –

Of Visitors – the fairest –

For Occupation – This –

The spreading wide my narrow Hands

To gather Paradise –

*******

Today when I was looking at my art supplies, I was reminded of this poem by Emily Dickinson

Oh, how I relate to these words!  

I used to think that I was the odd one, loving to arrange my beautiful art supplies as much as making things with them.  Little bottles of ink, a row of threads for book-binding, gorgeous artisan and handmade papers, colorful stamp pads, an array of pens and brushes--all bespeak Possibilities! 

But no.  I have met many odd souls like me in the past few years. It's its own kind of house with way more windows and doors than we may ever see in actual houses or pictures of houses.  In an actual room, the eye stops at the ceiling, but Imagination is limitless as the sky!

On My Soapbox

In my pursuit of proficiency in the craft of making books, I may have put in more hours studying than I did in graduate school.  The internet is full of good teachers, and I've tracked down more than I can count.  One leads to the other.

The Handmade Book Club has guest artists every month, and of course, I follow the trails.

One video taught me how to make a book out of soap box, a class touted as a way to recycle.  I wasn't fooled by that part--especially after copying the extensive list of supplies--but I was fascinated by it and made a few.  

To make said soap box book, you need book tape or gaffer tape, a Crop-o-Dile for setting eyelets, double-stick tape, buttons for closures, a cutting mat, craft knives, and paper.  I happened to have had almost all that, but did purchase a Crop-O-Dile and eyelet and a six pack of Irish Spring soap. 

When the teacher laid out the tools and supplies, it would have been daunting for those who don't have, as I do, "enough art supplies to last until Jesus comes." (A phrase borrowed from my preacher's-wife-Aunt Audrey in referencing her shoes.)

Making tiny books can be as complicated as making larger ones.  These taught me about paper grain, setting eyelets, button closures, and extending the accordion structure as long as you want it to be by hinging the panels. 

This video showed up on a site called Creative Bug, part of Jo Ann's Fabric stores, along with some excellent videos by different book artists.  I eat them up like popcorn!

If you measure a project's viability by the standards of saving trees, soap box books don't pass muster. 

But if your yardstick is personal satisfaction and learning new techniques, book-making is (for me) a many-faceted pleasure.  We live in a chaotic and frightening time. 

As an old book of the 70s had it, we should "follow our bliss" whatever that looks like.  Music, gardens, good books, building things, making balloon donkeys, remodeling a room--whatever gives pleasure is a good road to follow. 

Weekend in the 70s.

 On Saturday, on a beautiful sunshiny day, I took a walk or two with Luci and grained all the papers in my stash.  Turns out paper has grain, just like fabric, and it has to run parallel with the spine of books.  If not, the folds can be wonky and the book may refuse to close all the way.

I also made two small paper kimonos based on one of Lyn Belisle's online class.  

Today, I went to see A Complete Unknown with Jan and Linda. We talked about how good it was to go out into the world, into an actual theater, with friends--since so many of us tend to spend most of our time alone.

Here's a link to a discussion about being alone vs. being with friends: Fresh Air podcast

The movie about Bob Dylan and the musicians around him (Johnny Cash, Pete Seeger, Joan Baez and others) catapulted us all back to the Sixties.   

Lenses

Today has been a remarkable day for me--thanks to an epidural yesterday.  The sciatic pain that has defined the last month or so has (knock on wood!) gone on its own mysterious vacation!

Instead of planning my days around chunks of time available to do anything productive, I experienced such minimal discomfort in back and feet that I was able to get my phone fixed, pick up my new glasses, spend an hour in Nowhere Book Store, make lunch for Will and Bonnie who are using the casita as an office away from home some days, get shopping done at  Target, Pop Shelf, Central Market, and watch some inspiring art videos by Sally Hirst.  

I don't know how long this will last, but the relief is deeply appreciated, Universe!  

My news lenses are sharp and clear and the frames fit perfectly.  This got me thinking of lenses in general, and how pain has become a lens through which I see things.  Physical change, as we all know, especially if it drags on for months and years, can change how we see ourselves and time and other people.  In pain states, my enthusiasm diminishes.  If I have a big decision to make, Day always says, "Don't make it in pain brain."  Pain Brain is a thing.  It colors my confidence and sense of possibility.

That said, I managed to plan a five day trip to Athens with Day in three weeks.  We found a wonderful BnB not far from Carlene's new apartment at Presbyterian Village, a place with porches and rocking chairs and what looks like some woods.  After that, I'll fly back to Virginia with Day.  

Excitement is back.  I can do this.  I can manage dog, bags, airports, and UBER. We're gonna have fun.

Mornings at 609

We got up early on Monday to take Elena to school.  Last year she dreaded waking up for school and I've heard that she was a pill to get out of the bed.  Now that she's a seventh grader at St. Mary's Hall, she is up and perky and working on her curls in plenty of time to have toast and get there by 8:00.

On the way, her only complaint was that her required uniform for Mondays feels like a tablecloth.

Luci was confused, however.  When I said, "Hop in!" meaning we're going somewhere in the car, get in, she went for her leash and brought it to me, saying, "We always do Leash before Hop In!" 

I haven't taught her to tell time or read thermometers yet, but she knows all that by heart. If it's really cold, or rainy, she knows before I do and prefers a while longer in bed.  If I get up in the middle of the night, she joins me in the kitchen, hoping it's Snack Time.  

If, after walking, I take a bath and dress for Going Somewhere, she watches me with intense interest, her eyes asking, "Am I going to get to go? Or is this one of those awful days when you're going to desert me and leave me disconsolate and depressed and anxious all morning?"

Did I mention that her doggy eyes have quite an extensive vocabulary?

Tables Turning

"I know what it is to be young.  

But you don't know what it is to be old...."

In an ancient recording I found online, a choir of young voices sings this song and the deep voice of Orson Welles speaks them. 

When talking to younger people, these lyrics are often the soundtrack running in my mind.  

On days when I'm feeling energetic, creative, socially engaged, and curious, I'm not particularly aware of age.  But most septuagenarians, octogenarians, nonagenarians, and centenarians are not always at the top of our games.  

Last week, I was having one of those days but intent on stocking up for the impending freeze, walking the aisles of HEB.  I wondered when I saw younger people how this woman (me) lacking even lipstick might look in their eyes.  Invisible, probably, but "old" for sure.  

When an adorable young man, with a brilliant smile,  approached to ask me if Luci was a Corgi, then showed me a picture of his own dog, he lingered to talk.  "She's so well behaved, so soft," he said up to me from his squat.  "Does she bark a lot?"

"Only at the postman who throws bombs through the mail slot," I said.

"You won the dog lottery!" he said.  "My dog barks all the time."  He didn't rush away, he actually wanted to talk longer. 

For hours after that surprising conversation, I felt better.    

When I was young, I wasn't like this young man.   Anyone over 50 was really old.   I barely noticed them.  They all looked--I'm sad to say--pretty much the same to me. 

That has changed.  I love observing people my age and older. Some have radiant faces, smooth skin, easy smiles.  Some faces are etched with boredom or anger or pain or loneliness.  A few--like me on good days--seem to be having a good old day at the store.  I try to meet the eyes of all people as I walk down the aisles, but am now more attracted to the faces of those in my generation and my parents'.  

When you're young, you may not know you're beautiful or brilliant or funny.  You're so cued in to what others say you are.  Now more than ever, with social media, kids get moment-by-moment assessments from their peers. 

Last week, the day before Elena's 13th birthday, she sprained her ankle in fitness class. When I picked her up from school on her birthday, we stopped for boba tea.  This time it was she who sat and waited while I delivered the tea to the table. 

"Until you hurt yourself, you take it all for granted," she said.  "Walking, running, jumping--it's all so easy." 

Throughout life, it's like that, I told her.  Until you find yourself on crutches, or limping along, or dealing with some pain or injury, you don't realize what you've taken for granted.  

She laid her sweet hands on the table and told me that her fingers were not pretty.   Some were crooked.  Some nails were weird.  To my eyes, they were perfect.  

I laid my red puffy hands beside hers and told her that my hands looked very much like her hands once upon a time, skin smooth, nails polished.  

I could have said more but didn't want to be a party pooper.  Anyway, when you're young you don't truly believe much of what is said by people who're very old.  You have forever.  You'll beat the odds.  You'll be different. 

The tunnel of Ogden Lane

Luci has a new preoccupation--building a Luci-sized tunnel under the fence between our back yard and the neighbors who live in the blue house on the corner.  For all these years of neighboring, she's been oblivious to their yard.

Apparently there's a new pet or a new threat over there.  While I can't determine what it is, I did see the tail end of it scooting under the house one day last week, something grey.

My girl, however, has taken it on as her job to attend to it from our side of the fence. To observe it for long stretches of time.  To begin the tedious and thrilling vocation of building a tunnel for herself. To occasionally express herself with threats-barks alternating with greeting-barks.

I have attempted to block the potential opening of the tunnel by throwing a rock or two into the hole she made progress on yesterday.  Then I found a board, stuck it in there, too.  But the passage to her worksite is hard to enter for a human, a narrow space behind the storage room full of pokey things. 

While she usually sleeps like the proverbial log all night, she's taken to meditating on her plan during the night.  If I so much as move, she nudges me, "Hey, Ma, I got an idea!  Let me outside!"

I'm onto her.  I know there are only so many times a day when an 11-pound mutt can pee.  Without a doubt, she has a new strategy tucked up her sleeve and the night vision to achieve it if only her human would let her get to it at 2 in the morning.

After the second trip out in the wee hours of this morning--and her reluctance to return, even for her favorite salmon jerky--I refuse.  I explain to her that her work privileges depend upon her obeying my call when it's time to come in--not to mention that the scent of skunk, cold weather notwithstanding, permeates the back yard. 

She may be a bit timid in the light of day, but in the dark, she's a hunter and a warrior, brave and strong!

 

Farewells to Jimmy Carter

The tributes to Jimmy Carter, the parade, the memorial at the Capitol, and today the funeral at the National Cathedral--all have fulfilled his stated wishes for his funeral decades ago. He chose every song, every speaker.  

Five former Presidents, Vice Presidents, spouses;  members of Congress and the Supreme Court, and his family--there were hours of unity in admiration of the 39th President, a peanut farmer from Plains, Georgia, a nuclear physicist, a writer, a builder of houses for poor people.  

My daddy knew Jimmy Carter personally, but we all felt like we knew him.  He seemed to be one of us, living in a modest Sears Roebuck house with his wife of 73 years. I remember casting my first vote for him, not because I was politically astute but because he was a good Georgia man like my daddy.  

I've mostly avoided television news since the election, but I tuned in this week to see the memorials.  On Monday, as his casket was lifted into a horse-drawn carriage for the parade, the band played "Just as I am"--a hymn every Baptist knows by heart. We joke that it has 17 verses, but that's only because its six actual verses were sung over and over in revival meetings. 

During the capitol memorial, the music included "Almighty Father, Strong to Save" (the hymn I recall from Kennedy's funeral), patriotic music, "Amazing Grace" and "Georgia on my Mind."  For Jimmy Carter, as one eulogist said today, "Georgia was not only on his mind, but in his heart."  

Today's service was fittingly religious, as Carter was a deeply religious man.  All the eulogies stressed his character and honesty.  "Character, character, character," President Biden said.  Even political opponents considered him a friend.  Andrew Young told a story of the "meanness sheriff" in Georgia.  He mentioned that man to Jimmy Carter once, and Jimmy said, "Yeah, he's a friend of mine."  The diversity of his friendships seems to be a big part of how he is remembered--quite a contrast to the divisiveness of the re-elected Trump. 

Running through it all was a sense of loss--not only for a man of peace and truth-telling in the nation's highest office--but loss of our former believing that our most basic beliefs were shared by all Americans.  

I expected Willie Nelson to sing, but instead it was Garth Brooks and Trisha Yearwood who sang John Lennon's "Imagine." 

Imagine there's no heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today... Aha-ah...

Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion, too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace... You...

You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will be as one

Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world... You...

You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one

I love the song, but was surprised that it was the one Carter chose for the last word.  No heaven, no hell?   No religion, no countries, no possessions?  

I've pondered that choice all day.  Carter was a Christian, but he was also tolerant of those who weren't.  Carter was an intellectual and a man of the earth,  He worked for peace in the Middle East and he started the Department of Education.  He was for civil rights and the rights of all people. 

He wasn't like the evangelicals of today who seek to control personal rights and who bow to Donald Trump. In choosing the Lennon anthem, Carter was also a man of his times, a man comfortable with seeming contradictions, and a man who shared the dream that one day the world might live as one. 

Artist Dates

Years ago, several of my friends and I read The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron in which she advocated feeding your creative muse by doing two things:

1. Morning Pages--3 pages handwritten to be read by no one, maybe not even re-read by you.  

2. The Artist Date: a block of time, perhaps two hours weekly, especially set aside and committed to nurturing your creative consciousness, your inner artist.

One of my friends asked me at the time, "Isn't that what you do all the time?"  

I took that as one of the best compliments ever--that she saw me as a playful person who loves poking around just for the fun of it.

We are living in precarious times, and artist dates may seem frivolous in light of what's going down in America.  I don't think it's ever frivolous to play and keep the lights on in the house that is you, or me, or us. 

If you'd like to give it a try, here are some ideas.  Go play!

Artist Date Ideas

Here are some more:

List #2

Making Books

Today I am making teeny tiny books--2 inches tall and 1 1/2 inches wide, about the size of matchboxes.  With all the mess in my living room, you'd think I'd been making masterpieces, but you'd be hard pressed to find them unless I pointed them out. 

A couple of years ago, I dropped out of the online Handmade Book Club because the coptic stitch stymied me, and still does. But then I discovered non-stitch or minimal-stitch books, and I returned. 

Someone asked me, "Are you going to give them for gifts, sell them, or what?"

While I have no intention of selling them, I'd be happy to share them once I get my techniques perfected.  Mostly it's "or what...." meaning I'm doing them for one reason only: pleasure. I find it intriguing to play with different types of paper, including gel printed pages I've made myself over the years without any idea what I'd do with them.

I've decoupaged one and half pieces of furniture with circles cut from gel prints.  And I made a scroll book early on, still one of my favorites.  Now I'm working on new structures including folded books with pockets, accordion (or concertina) books, teeny tiny books with 8 pages, etc. 

The lesson for December was making a garland of tiny books to hang on the mantel.  Some members made Christmas tree ornaments.  One, a librarian, gave tiny books to the entire staff at her school.  I'm just making them for the fun of working in miniature, often discovering that the tiny book is a prototype that can be used as a pattern for making larger ones. 

Truthfully, I have no practical need of another blank book.  I already have a couple of handmade books I've bought on trips, "too pretty to use." So while they are not utilitarian, at least not yet, they are little teachers of technique. 

Book makers in the group often make their own papers; I won't be doing that.  But the format of monthly projects (all saved in an archive to dip into at any time) focuses on technical skills.  It's fascinating to see what different people do with the basic structures. 

Kitty

Kitty is the owner, cook, and server of one of my favorite restaurants.  The only other worker there is a young man, perhaps her brother. 

She's the one who greets Luci with a big smile and follows up with a bowl of cooked chicken.  Luci loves Kitty and jumps on her legs and vocalizes her joy in seeing her.

Last night, Kitty showed me a large bump on her hand, and we talked about the possibility of carpel tunnel.  

No wonder.  She gets to the donut shop at 3 a.m to make donuts, cuts and fries and frosts them.  Then she lifts and moves heavy trays and delivers batches to a downtown location.

At 8. she goes home for an hour's nap, then to the restaurant to cook and serve until 3 in the afternoon.  Between 3 and 5. she gets another short nap before re-opening for dinner.

Probably in her forties, Kitty is young enough to have big dreams.  Somehow between all the hours of work, she manages to take an ESL class at SAC, hoping to perfect her English.  Her goal--to have her bakery someday--requires English proficiency to pass the tests necessary to start a business. 

The president-elect's words about immigrants are arrogant and cruel.  Far from being a "drain" on "our country," Kitty represents millions of people behind the scenes who contribute so much to the U.S. Many are struggling with the language and silent on the world stage. Most of them are working more hours than those born here can even imagine. 

When they are our age, without medical help, how will Kitty deal with carpel tunnel syndrome?  How will Sergio deal with his constantly aching back?  

"Do you have to work two jobs?" my dinner companion asked her.

She's helping her family in Thailand, she's paying rent, she's keeping a business afloat.  She wants to make beautiful wedding cakes and birthday cakes for those who can afford them--a worthy dream.  Yes, she has to work two jobs.  All those coming here for safety and success have to work two jobs, often more, just to survive.