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| “Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.” – Jack Kerouac |
Sunday, July 27, 2014
On the Road Again
Saturday, July 26, 2014
A Postcard from Salem, Virginia
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| Carlene and I drove to Day's via I85 and I95--and stopped in Lavonia, Georgia |
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| And took pictures of ourselves by the murals |
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| Then we stopped in Chapel Hill--home of The Sun magazine/ Here I am with a metal goat |
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| In Northern Virginia: Carlene, Marcus, Day, and me |
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| Marcus in the kitchen |
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| Day and Marcus |
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| Day is always making things and the rest of us are learning new techniques. One of her favorite projects is buying clothes with possibilities, adding ruffles and embroidery--and doing "altered couture." |
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| Jackson--our Almost-Teenager |
Monday, July 21, 2014
Monday night in North Carolina
Nelle headed back to Florida--and wrote this note to me just now from Albany, looking out her window at Ray Charles sitting on a piano bench and rotating next to the Flint River:
Thinking of you and your road trip. Today we left L Ville and headed south. Decided on back roads and have discovered that the soil through here produces three p's: Pecans, peaches, and preachers.... At least it seems so with all the groves, orchards and Baptist churches....
I'd never thought of it so alliteratively--but it's true! You can hear some lively preaching while you're eating your juicy peaches and pecans if you take a stop on the back roads of red-clay Georgia!
Carlene and I drove through some heavy rain today and decided to stop three hours south of Washington for a good night's sleep. We had a great visit with Mary Elizabeth, my niece, in Athens before heading north and stopped today for a walk-about in Chapel Hill, NC--a beautiful town where The Sun is published. I went by the headquarters for The Sun--wanted to meet the people who put together such a beautiful magazine.
I got a text from Will: Elena thinks every smallish colorful car is a Mini Cooper! I have indoctrinated her well!
We're having a terrific road trip--and look forward to arriving at Day's tomorrow afternoon.
Thinking of you and your road trip. Today we left L Ville and headed south. Decided on back roads and have discovered that the soil through here produces three p's: Pecans, peaches, and preachers.... At least it seems so with all the groves, orchards and Baptist churches....
I'd never thought of it so alliteratively--but it's true! You can hear some lively preaching while you're eating your juicy peaches and pecans if you take a stop on the back roads of red-clay Georgia!
Carlene and I drove through some heavy rain today and decided to stop three hours south of Washington for a good night's sleep. We had a great visit with Mary Elizabeth, my niece, in Athens before heading north and stopped today for a walk-about in Chapel Hill, NC--a beautiful town where The Sun is published. I went by the headquarters for The Sun--wanted to meet the people who put together such a beautiful magazine.
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| A faded snapshot: Me, M.E. and Carlene |
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| Mary Elizabeth Harris |
I got a text from Will: Elena thinks every smallish colorful car is a Mini Cooper! I have indoctrinated her well!
We're having a terrific road trip--and look forward to arriving at Day's tomorrow afternoon.
Sacramento Airport....
Thanks to you, Linda Jordan, for sending me this! It must be the same artist!
Saturday, July 19, 2014
Artist Inspirations
When I arrived in Atlanta yesterday, Carlene and her "chauffeur" Alan picked me up and we drove the hour's drive back to Lawrenceville. It just so happens that Nellie--unbeknownst to me--was visiting her brother-in-law just a few blocks from here.
Carlene made us a delicious pork chop and vegetable dinner--she who "doesn't cook"--and then we sat on the porch and Nellie inspired me all over again, as she always does! An art professor in Melbourne, Florida, she's always doing exciting things in the arts and in theater. Recently, she played the leading role in an Edward Albee play and has been taking online art courses that sound fascinating.
I looked through her sketchbook and got all fired up to start one of my own--though I've always held to the belief that I can't draw. Here's the course she recommends for me:
http://www.sketchbookskool.com.
It's a six-week course taught by six different artists. After seeing an excerpt from one of the videos, I'm sold and can't wait to sign up and get started.
Likewise, Nellie's going to write a piece to submit to The Sun for September's topic, First Love. We only had a few hours to visit--as they had plans for today and Carlene and I leave tomorrow to start our road trip--but we could have talked for days!
Carlene made us a delicious pork chop and vegetable dinner--she who "doesn't cook"--and then we sat on the porch and Nellie inspired me all over again, as she always does! An art professor in Melbourne, Florida, she's always doing exciting things in the arts and in theater. Recently, she played the leading role in an Edward Albee play and has been taking online art courses that sound fascinating.
I looked through her sketchbook and got all fired up to start one of my own--though I've always held to the belief that I can't draw. Here's the course she recommends for me:
http://www.sketchbookskool.com.
It's a six-week course taught by six different artists. After seeing an excerpt from one of the videos, I'm sold and can't wait to sign up and get started.
Likewise, Nellie's going to write a piece to submit to The Sun for September's topic, First Love. We only had a few hours to visit--as they had plans for today and Carlene and I leave tomorrow to start our road trip--but we could have talked for days!
Friday, July 18, 2014
Clothes
Each month, The Sun Magazine has a section called Reader's Write, and readers write short autobiographical essays around a theme. If your piece is chosen, you get a year's subscription to this excellent ad-free literary magazine. I've had two pieces published here in the past, and my subscription is running out, so I wrote the following short essay and popped it in the mail.
If you're interested in doing this, the topic due August 1st is Clothes; the topic for September 1st is First Love. They want it sent by snail mail, double spaced, to:
Readers Write
107 North Roberson Street
Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27516
Clothes:
I spied the doll at the pharmacy, posed beside the cash register. My heart leapt in recognition; she was exactly what I’d ask for the next Christmas. My daddy was dropping off a roll of film and a prescription, but I made sure he noticed that this was the exact doll I wanted more than anything in the world.
She was eighteen-inches tall, and she and a pre-Barbie shapely grown-up body, like a miniature Miss America. She wore high heeled shoes and a string of plastic pearls. Her eyes were auburn to match hair that fell softly over her perfect plastic complexion.
On our next trip to the drug store, she was gone. I still believed in Santa, or pretended to, and I never doubted that she’d find her way to my house.
What I didn’t expect, what thrilled me more than any Christmas gift ever, was a red metal trunk filled with doll clothes. A wedding gown, silky pajamas, and an entire wardrobe of tiny clothes, each garment hanging on a metal clothes hanger. I buttoned and unbuttoned every dress, changing her attire over and over. I loved that doll and her clothes!
I pretended not to notice that some of the dresses were made of fabric exactly like dresses my mother and I wore. I pretended not to notice little bits of rick-rack and leftover buttons beside my mother’s sewing machine. The grown-up doll with breasts even had a dress quite like my recital dress—blue taffeta with a net skirt.
The following summer, our church asked each family to invite orphans from the Georgia Baptist Children’s Home to spend two weeks in our homes. We got Margaret and Emory, a girl playmate for me, a boy for my brother. The idea was to give them a taste of family life.
Margaret had a speech impediment, but she insisted every night that we try calling the town her mother might still live in and ask the operator to find her. “Say Baxley, Georgia,” she pleaded, as I dialed information in search of her mother. Since I wasn’t quite sure she was pronouncing the name correctly, I called every Georgia town that started with a B, or could even remotely sound like Baxley. As I dialed, Margaret looked on with pleading eyes while dressing and undressing my grown-up doll.
She gently pulled the doll’s arms into the sleeves, then smoothed the bodice over the breasts and smoothed the hem. “Maybe she’s moved,” I said, when over and over the operator said, “There’s no one with that name in the book.”
“Try again,” she said. “Maybe you didn’t say the name right.”
I never found Margaret’s mother, but on the night before she was to return to the orphan’s home, I had a sudden burst of inspiration and spoke before I’d asked my mother for permission. “You can have my doll and all her clothes,” I said. I expected her to be euphoric, but she wasn’t one to show strong emotion. She simply began packing the clothes into the trunk and snapped the latch closed. At that moment, I desperately wanted to retract the offer, but it was too late.
The next day, I couldn’t quite read the expression on my mother’s face when she saw Margaret packing up my doll and treasured trunk of clothes. Was she proud of my generosity or did she think I’d gone too far? What she didn’t know—what even I didn’t know—was that it was the only way I knew to give Margaret any semblance of a mother was to give her a closet full of clothes.
If you're interested in doing this, the topic due August 1st is Clothes; the topic for September 1st is First Love. They want it sent by snail mail, double spaced, to:
Readers Write
107 North Roberson Street
Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27516
Clothes:
I spied the doll at the pharmacy, posed beside the cash register. My heart leapt in recognition; she was exactly what I’d ask for the next Christmas. My daddy was dropping off a roll of film and a prescription, but I made sure he noticed that this was the exact doll I wanted more than anything in the world.
She was eighteen-inches tall, and she and a pre-Barbie shapely grown-up body, like a miniature Miss America. She wore high heeled shoes and a string of plastic pearls. Her eyes were auburn to match hair that fell softly over her perfect plastic complexion.
On our next trip to the drug store, she was gone. I still believed in Santa, or pretended to, and I never doubted that she’d find her way to my house.
What I didn’t expect, what thrilled me more than any Christmas gift ever, was a red metal trunk filled with doll clothes. A wedding gown, silky pajamas, and an entire wardrobe of tiny clothes, each garment hanging on a metal clothes hanger. I buttoned and unbuttoned every dress, changing her attire over and over. I loved that doll and her clothes!
I pretended not to notice that some of the dresses were made of fabric exactly like dresses my mother and I wore. I pretended not to notice little bits of rick-rack and leftover buttons beside my mother’s sewing machine. The grown-up doll with breasts even had a dress quite like my recital dress—blue taffeta with a net skirt.
The following summer, our church asked each family to invite orphans from the Georgia Baptist Children’s Home to spend two weeks in our homes. We got Margaret and Emory, a girl playmate for me, a boy for my brother. The idea was to give them a taste of family life.
Margaret had a speech impediment, but she insisted every night that we try calling the town her mother might still live in and ask the operator to find her. “Say Baxley, Georgia,” she pleaded, as I dialed information in search of her mother. Since I wasn’t quite sure she was pronouncing the name correctly, I called every Georgia town that started with a B, or could even remotely sound like Baxley. As I dialed, Margaret looked on with pleading eyes while dressing and undressing my grown-up doll.
She gently pulled the doll’s arms into the sleeves, then smoothed the bodice over the breasts and smoothed the hem. “Maybe she’s moved,” I said, when over and over the operator said, “There’s no one with that name in the book.”
“Try again,” she said. “Maybe you didn’t say the name right.”
I never found Margaret’s mother, but on the night before she was to return to the orphan’s home, I had a sudden burst of inspiration and spoke before I’d asked my mother for permission. “You can have my doll and all her clothes,” I said. I expected her to be euphoric, but she wasn’t one to show strong emotion. She simply began packing the clothes into the trunk and snapped the latch closed. At that moment, I desperately wanted to retract the offer, but it was too late.
The next day, I couldn’t quite read the expression on my mother’s face when she saw Margaret packing up my doll and treasured trunk of clothes. Was she proud of my generosity or did she think I’d gone too far? What she didn’t know—what even I didn’t know—was that it was the only way I knew to give Margaret any semblance of a mother was to give her a closet full of clothes.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
My trip to the beauty parlor
In preparation for my trip, I just spent three hours in the beauty parlor--as we used to call them in Georgia. I wanted to have my roots touched up, but the new stylist threw in a few extras: like waxing my lip and chin and texturing the hair. By the time she had finished, I was starving and scarfed down a Bill Millers Poor Boy in about three minutes flat.
Do you ever feel suddenly aware of how much you don't know--even about yourself? I always bump up against strange questions at the beauty parlor and doctor's office and I do my best to make up something plausible.
"Have you been having any particular problems with your hair?" she asked--and I say,"Just that my bangs are in my nose all the time, affecting respiration."
"Do you have sensitive skin? Dry skin?" I don't know.
"What kinds of product do you use on a regular basis?" Shampoo and conditioner, I say.
I showed her a picture of Helen Mirren--one that Sandy suggested I copy--but I said I wanted it less blonde. I suggested that she might find another place for my bangs so that I can dispense with scrunching them into rubber bands like a two-year-old. Even Elena has found my little twiggy appendages rather ridiculous--and once removed my rubber band herself.
I look nothing like Helen Mirren, I must say--not even remotely so. But the hair is less blond and full of "product": Moisture Builder, Moisture Boost, Flow Maker, and Shape Spray, to name a few, none of which I chose to purchase for future styling adventures at home.
Do you ever feel suddenly aware of how much you don't know--even about yourself? I always bump up against strange questions at the beauty parlor and doctor's office and I do my best to make up something plausible.
"Have you been having any particular problems with your hair?" she asked--and I say,"Just that my bangs are in my nose all the time, affecting respiration."
"Do you have sensitive skin? Dry skin?" I don't know.
"What kinds of product do you use on a regular basis?" Shampoo and conditioner, I say.
I showed her a picture of Helen Mirren--one that Sandy suggested I copy--but I said I wanted it less blonde. I suggested that she might find another place for my bangs so that I can dispense with scrunching them into rubber bands like a two-year-old. Even Elena has found my little twiggy appendages rather ridiculous--and once removed my rubber band herself.
I look nothing like Helen Mirren, I must say--not even remotely so. But the hair is less blond and full of "product": Moisture Builder, Moisture Boost, Flow Maker, and Shape Spray, to name a few, none of which I chose to purchase for future styling adventures at home.
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
Georgia and Virginia in Two Days
On Friday morning, I'll be flying to Atlanta, visiting with family, then leaving for Virginia on Sunday morning, Carlene and I, driving, to spend some days with Day, Tom, Jackson, and Marcus!
After that, we'll return to Atlanta and I'll see Betty--and we hope to have a couple of days to play. Then we'll go to Columbus to visit with Carlene's sister, Dot, and my cousin Mary Beth, whom I've not seen in decades.
I'm excited! I'm SO ready for a road trip and seeing everybody and enjoying the road from Georgia to Virginia with Carlene. Thanks to Gabi's amazing body work (NKT), I feel able to drive again and that is WAY better than the alternative I was considering a month ago: a new knee.
I'll be back in San Antonio on August 2nd.
After that, we'll return to Atlanta and I'll see Betty--and we hope to have a couple of days to play. Then we'll go to Columbus to visit with Carlene's sister, Dot, and my cousin Mary Beth, whom I've not seen in decades.
I'm excited! I'm SO ready for a road trip and seeing everybody and enjoying the road from Georgia to Virginia with Carlene. Thanks to Gabi's amazing body work (NKT), I feel able to drive again and that is WAY better than the alternative I was considering a month ago: a new knee.
I'll be back in San Antonio on August 2nd.
Finding Hope
Many years ago--was it twenty?--Joy and I drove to Boerne to our first writing group. We sat in a circle of chairs in a downtown coffee shop, holding fresh notebooks, waiting to meet our leader--a woman named Hope who had recently moved here from New York, where she'd been an editor at Harper and Row. (I'm thinking of the tone used in the Pace Picante commercial: NEW. YORK. CITY?!")
When she walked in, Joy and I looked at each other and one of us said, "She looks like she's from New York!"--as if New York women were fundamentally different enough to have defining features. She wasn't wearing Texas casual or tennis shoes, that I know for sure. She was glamorous, and she wore dark flowing clothes and lots of silver jewelry, though I could possibly be embroidering on the jewelry point.
Joy and I were shy and a little giddy that first night; we were in a writing group and we loved our leader from New York City!
Hope and I have the same last name--though at the time, mine was buried between my first name and my then-last name. We called each other Sis.
One night, full of trepidation, I left her some pages I had written about "women and houses." I was a nervous wreck--as I waited to hear her response, far more so than I'd ever been turning in a paper for grading in a graduate school class.
I will never forget the euphoria I felt when she called to say she loved my writing! I would have parachuted out of a plane if she'd told me to--but what she said was this: "Put those pages in an envelope and mail them to the Breadloaf Writing Conference right this minute! You'll be accepted." I did and I was!
When I gave up my land line, I saved the answering machine because it still holds the message Hope left for me when she read my finished book all those years ago.
Hope moved back to New York and I visited her twice in her home in the Hamptons. We spent my 46th birthday on Shelter Island, and I visited one of her writing groups and thought: this is it, this is what I want to do!
Leading writing groups, I so often think of Hope--who gave me the idea to do this work I love so much! There's always a sliver of regret, though, that I didn't follow through and publish that book--I wish I had done both!
When I found her online Sunday night, I was so excited! On our first phone call in years, she asked, "So what have you been doing for the last ten years?"
Certain people make profound differences in a life--sometimes without even knowing it. Hope is one of those bright lights in my life, and I'm over-the-moon happy to have found her again!
When she walked in, Joy and I looked at each other and one of us said, "She looks like she's from New York!"--as if New York women were fundamentally different enough to have defining features. She wasn't wearing Texas casual or tennis shoes, that I know for sure. She was glamorous, and she wore dark flowing clothes and lots of silver jewelry, though I could possibly be embroidering on the jewelry point.
Joy and I were shy and a little giddy that first night; we were in a writing group and we loved our leader from New York City!
Hope and I have the same last name--though at the time, mine was buried between my first name and my then-last name. We called each other Sis.
One night, full of trepidation, I left her some pages I had written about "women and houses." I was a nervous wreck--as I waited to hear her response, far more so than I'd ever been turning in a paper for grading in a graduate school class.
I will never forget the euphoria I felt when she called to say she loved my writing! I would have parachuted out of a plane if she'd told me to--but what she said was this: "Put those pages in an envelope and mail them to the Breadloaf Writing Conference right this minute! You'll be accepted." I did and I was!
When I gave up my land line, I saved the answering machine because it still holds the message Hope left for me when she read my finished book all those years ago.
Hope moved back to New York and I visited her twice in her home in the Hamptons. We spent my 46th birthday on Shelter Island, and I visited one of her writing groups and thought: this is it, this is what I want to do!
Leading writing groups, I so often think of Hope--who gave me the idea to do this work I love so much! There's always a sliver of regret, though, that I didn't follow through and publish that book--I wish I had done both!
When I found her online Sunday night, I was so excited! On our first phone call in years, she asked, "So what have you been doing for the last ten years?"
Certain people make profound differences in a life--sometimes without even knowing it. Hope is one of those bright lights in my life, and I'm over-the-moon happy to have found her again!
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