Father's Day 2017

The first man I ever met showed me what a man could be.  This is the pattern he implanted:

I like men with capable hands, strong arms, and smart minds.  When I think of my daddy's hands--which mine are resembling more and more as I grow older--they are holding a shovel, planting a tree, or baiting a fishing line.

I like men who hug with their whole hearts, bear hugs with both arms, not sideways and half-hearted.

I like men who are not afraid of what I'm afraid of.

They pick up dead animals and bury them.  If something's broken under the house, they crawl under there and stay a long time and come out and tell you it's okay now. If there's a noise outside the window that scares you, they walk right out there in the dark and look for it.  They aren't scared of rats and possums.  They will say, "They are more afraid of you than you are of them."

They know which snakes are the good ones and which are the bad ones and they kill the bad ones with a hoe or something.  But they carry a snake-bite kit just in case.

I like hairy arms, clean-shaven faces, and a sense of humor.  Men who love the woman they picked, not always looking around for someone else. Men who love their children even when they are stinky, messy, acting out, or throwing up.

I like men who can cry.  My friend Gary could cry better than I can--which was always surprising and comforting.  His heart was so wide open that it spilled over when he read a line of good writing or heard a story that moved him. His heart with no doors on it made my heart feel bigger.

Every time we said good-bye, my daddy and I, we cried.

I like men who can take the blame when it's theirs to take and who can say, "I'm sorry."

I like men who don't go on and on about "fake" and "lying"--because they are by nature and character tellers of truth.  Honesty is so natural to them that they don't have to shout it or use all caps.

I admire men who would jump off the nearest water tower before they'd hit, insult, betray, or bully. Men who know what to do if you're sick or sad, who are always on your side if somebody hurts you, even the teacher or some bloke who broke your heart.

Even though it doesn't align with my feminist ideology (some would say it's wanting my cake and eating it too),  I like a man who picks up the dinner check and opens doors for me.  I'm capable of doing both, but it's the way my daddy did it, so I'm keeping that on the list.

My daddy never wanted much for himself.  When he died, his personal possessions could have all fit into one small room, but the church was full at his funeral, full of people who felt loved by him and had  stories to tell about what he'd done for them.  Most could remember his sayings--like "let the raw side drag" or "keep the main thing the main thing." Many could remember how he made  that chirpy whistle in the grocery store or elevators and have everyone looking for the chicken.

Father's Day stories on "The Moth"

A Father's Day edition of The Moth:

https://themoth.org/radio-hour/fathers-day-special-2017-fathers-daddy-dad-paw-paw-pops

If you go here, you will see that you can watch a video of the program I mentioned yesterday--but it won't be posted until June 20th.

Or you can go to this site and get a link to their audio library--or listen via podcast in your car.

The Moth as a speed control device

A few weeks ago, I got a rather substantial speeding ticket--for driving 39 in a 25.  It was a Saturday just like today, and I was listening to NPR's World Music, dancing along, as it were, happy and oblivious to flashing lights.

Music and my feet are connected.  It is impossible to listen to music without tapping.  But I have learned my lesson.

The tapping foot is also the accelerator foot, ergo the speeding ticket.

On this Saturday afternoon, only a fool would go out on purpose.  It's 103 degrees.  But I needed something from Jo Ann's, so I ventured out, before the music programming started.

This is Part 2 of my driving lesson:

If you go at 5:00, instead of 6:00, what's on is The Moth Radio Hour--wonderfully told stories by real people about their lives.  Today's stories featured fathers, telling stories about fatherhood and their own fathers.  If you're a weepy sort of person, it's best to listen at home, not driving, else you might drive right through a red light.

I drove so-o-o slowly listening to these stories.  I laughed out loud at the man who fell to his knees in Whole Foods just hours after his baby daughter had been born.  There he was in aisle seven, weeping--because the song on the radio was "Isn't she lovely?"  The PA system reported an "incident in aisle seven" and out came a manager who "looked like Rush Limbaud's angry brother," and this new father just stayed right there on the floor weeping and blubbering to the manager that his wife had just given birth to his little girl.

Then another storyteller told about the two weeks when his "ugly baby boy" turned blue--and his life was at risk for two weeks.  I won't divulge the rest of the story (because I want you to hear it yourselves online). Suffice it to say, other drivers were honking at me to get a move on.

These stories are what NPR calls "driveway moment" stories.  You cannot possibly get out of the car until the story ends, even if it is 103 degrees.  If you miss Jo Ann's before it closes, so be it.

Thursday Night

Thursday was a sweet day all around--starting with Elena's early morning pedicure in my bathroom.  We cleaned the dish pan, filled it with soapy water and essential oils, and painted her toes purple for her daddy's special day.

After Will's promotion, Kate invited me over for one of my all-time favorite meals--butterbeans and jalapeno cornbread in a cast iron skillet.  Then we walked around her garden of figs, tomatoes, ginger, sweet potatoes, and all kinds of plants.

Kate wouldn't care, she said, if her sofa were the wrong color; she'd keep it. Likewise, I don't know a thing about growing plants and I've forgotten most of what I once knew about cooking.

Kate loves to sit on her porch and take callers, and I like being one of her callers. I, on the other hand, tend to be more frenetic when I get involved in a project, as I am now, riding around looking for fabric to recover my sofa (which I found), trying different lamps, taking them back, then finally seeing a pair that works just right with some goat-skin shades I found at the thrift shop.

One of the things that make friendships thrive are the differences.  But we share many things, too--like wanting to just be more, do less, live in the moment like Buddhists do.  To learn to just sit and be calm, not always measuring our days by what we accomplish or checking things off to-do lists.

We watched a beautiful episode of The Chef's Table featuring a Korean Buddhist monk, a simple ego-less woman whose cooking has been compared to that of the best chefs in the world.  She said something to this effect: to be a slave to the ego is to block creative flow.  I have to think about that one!

But watching her prepare and arrange "Temple Food" like art on the table, watching her reflection in  water in a serene landscape, we both felt calm,  quite the opposite of the agitation engendered by watching political news.

I came home with a bottle of kombucha, yummy butterbeans, fresh tomatoes from Kate's garden, and gratitude for friendship, family, and food.

Will promoted to chief

Yesterday, I attended the SAFD promotion ceremony--ten engineers, five lieutenants, two captains, and two chiefs.

Will was introduced by a chief who had been his lieutant back in rookie days.  "This is a man who, when you first meet him, you know he has what it takes to do anything," he said.  "He's the best we have."

His mama is teary at this point!

Then many of his fellow firefighters who'd taken off the day to attend the ceremony, men whose officer he'd been in two stations, came up for their own "family picture" with Will, cheering and slapping him on the back, even presenting him with a boot--one more practical joke, which firemen play on each other every chance they get.  There was hearty laughter--even though those of us in the audience of families didn't know the back story.

I've been to Will's baseball games, his college and fire academy graduations, his outdoor wedding, and every track event in high school. Having three grandsons already,  I jumped up and screeched when he walked out of the delivery room 5 and a half years ago and said, "It's a girl!"  She was a tiny premie in neonatal ICU, and I watched him watching her intently those early days,  hanging on to the words of the nurses, "She's a strong one."

We parents remember our children as babies, children, and teenagers; this little guy I watched coming into the world and have loved him for 39 years.  When our little boys are men, we rarely see them doing the work they've chosen.  We don't know all their friends and co-workers.  Yesterday was a day to meet Will's other family--his family of firefighters.

After the ceremony, the chief who had introduced him told me, "That guy has the biggest heart and he's an amazing leader."

Will was a shy little boy, but he became the quintessential extrovert. When he was in high school, I remember shopping with him and watching him strike up conversations with strangers and running into people he knew everywhere we went.

His role model was always Granddaddy--and we both wished he could have been there yesterday.  He reminded me so much of my daddy as he walked around the room talking to and shaking hands with  everyone, smiling in that granddaddy way.

Chief Hood, chief of the entire department said, "I love Will! I just love Will!"

Will's family and Chief Hood

Nathan and Elena pinning the bugles on their dad's collar

I love you, Chief! 

Rabbit Holes

Decorating a room for me is like falling full-speed down a rabbit hole.  I needed Janet to advise on color and then everything in the room took on a life of its own, telling me what needs to be done to make them happy together.

(With MSNBC on in the background), I stay up late each night studying  coffee tables, chairs and rugs on Wayfair, Overstock and other sites Janet told me about.  During the day I look at fabrics and move things around, try different combinations.  This is my happy place.  One thing leads to another ad infinitum. 

For anyone looking for great deals in upholstery fabric, go to Memories By the Yard this week.  They are selling all their upholstery material for $8.95 a yard.  I bought a quarter of a yard, brought it home, and it's perfect, so I was there when the store opened to buy the whole nine yards.

Behind the store are four metal buildings filled with fabric, all on sale.  Hot airless containers--so go before the temperature reaches 101.  Mainland is a street off Bandera. Lee, my English upholsterer, does great work at European Upholstery, corner of McCollough and St. Mary's.

Other rabbit holes for decorating frenzies are ETSY (vintage and handmade everything) and Pinterest.  You look at one thing, which takes you to more.   A far cry from the day when you went to the local furniture store, the local lamp store, the local fabric store.  You can now purchase whatever you want and survey ideas from all over the world with a tap of your finger.

Flash Fiction by Trina

Last night at writing group, we made a bowl of words.  Each person drew six or seven words and used them in a seven-minute writing.

Trina wrote an excellent piece in the genre of Flash Fiction--a short story with all the elements of longer fiction compressed into one paragraph, a beginning, a middle and an end, along with great descriptions.  I asked her if I could share it here and she said yes:

         She hobbled to the bathroom and groggily peered into the mirror above the porcelain sink.  Her face was a bloom of spectacular bruises.  Black faded to purple faded to green and finally yellow.  Her right eye was swollen shut.  Her busted lip puffed out and she touched it gingerly, wincing as she did.  The blood from this injury was a smear on her nightgown, its lacey ruffle torn and hanging from the hem.  She turned from the sink and looked back into the bedroom.  The aftermath of their argument had reached a new level.  The room looked as bad as her face.  Broken furniture, carpet blotted with blood, clothes strewn everywhere.  And he was sleeping like a baby in a bed with no sheets.  God only knew where they were.  Limping to the nightstand on his side of the bed, she decided she was going to end this chaotic life.  She pulled the gun from the drawer.  The exhilaration was still coursing through her body when she called the police to confess.

One little doll.

Here's my story for the day:

I drove to Lowe's this morning to buy a medicine cabinet for my bathroom.  The back of the car had a  lamp and a box of things to donate to Boysville.

When the young man came outside to put the cabinet in the car for me, he said, "That's a nice doll you have there."

It was a little Madame Alexander doll I'd bought somewhere for about ten dollars, a pretty doll dressed in green with a cape.

"Do you have anyone you'd like to give it to?" I asked.

"My mama," he said.  "I gave her a little doll once and she was so happy she cried.  I took a picture.  She was one of sixteen children and she grew up in Appalachia and it was her first doll."

When I drove away, he was cradling that doll like a treasure and snapping on the cape.

Fibro and a New Chief's Helmet

This "fibro thing" (which is shorthand for whatever aspect of CREST I have that causes all-over body pain) stays in hiding most of the time, thank goodness.  Then suddenly and without prior announcement is comes back for a day or two or three.  Yesterday, gone.  Today, back.

I always wonder: is it something I've eaten?  Was it the sugar in blackberry cobbler? Did I forget to take Vitamin D or B or probiotics or what?  I have a chest-full of remedies: Massage and physical therapy help.  A hot bath and yoga seem to help--though today I didn't feel like doing yoga.  Sleep is the best immediate remedy of all--along with ibuprofen.

I took a long nap this afternoon so that I can lead writing group tonight.  Woke up to texted photographs of Will's new chief's helmet.  His official promotion ceremony is Thursday, and I'm so proud of him!

Gruene, Austin and Blanco

When I met Deb sixteen years ago, she was a student in a night class I was teaching at Concordia.  It was her first year of college, and she was just beginning to fulfill her dream of getting a college education and being a writer.

As we introduced ourselves that first night, Deb and I had an instant connection.  She had grown up in Georgia and we had the same accent.  It's rare that you meet a student from Georgia in Texas, but we both remember a series of coincidences that let us know we were kindred spirits in that first-year college class.  (We used to say "freshmen" but that's changed--as only about half of first year students are men!)

For one thing, we wore similar jewelry and shoes and carried almost identical pocket books.  Georgia women don't have "purses" and "handbags."  Anything we carry with our stuff in it is called a pocket book.

Deb is 14 years younger than I am.  Since we met, she has not only completed her bachelor's degree (another antiquated term for a four-year degree), but she has completed her Masters (But Mistress doesn't work!)  and Doctorate and is now teaching at UTSA.  Her rigorous graduate studies kept her busy the last few years and we'd not seen each other for way too long until she recently signed up for my newest writing group.

We had a wonderful day yesterday, browsing and eating in Gruene, on South Congress in Austin, and Blanco for the last five minutes of the Lavender Festival.  Enoteca was closed for lemon panna cotta at three, so we missed that heavenly concoction.  We had blackberry cobbler instead.

She looked at me on the first bite and said, "Don't call this cobbler!  It has a cake batter poured over it and that's not how we do it in Georgia.  We do it with pastry and it tastes sort of like dumplings."

Some of our Southernness is baked in too deep to change at this late date!

For those wishing to browse South Congress, we both recommend going on a weekday.  Both Austin and Gruene are packed with traffic on the weekends.