Reflections on the Pond

Nail, Meet Head

2011-02-16T05:30:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, LuckyzMom commented: "How is his situation different than yours? What are your qualifications?"

Talk about hitting the nail on the head! Last night I talked to another man from Match. He asked how long I've been divorced. When I told him 17 years, he let out a long, low whistle. "Whoa. You're set in your ways!" he exclaimed.

I've thought and thought about that. I'm not even sure what my ways are. I don't have set habits or things that have to be a certain way. I share my life with so many people that it's sure not "my way or the highway" around here.

But it is true that I'm not prepared to compromise more than a reasonable amount just to find someone. And it is true that some of my life and characteristics could be as much of a red flag to others as the whole "not ready" thing was to me Monday night.

Lord. This is all so complicated. Or not, depending on what you make of it.

Striking Matches

2011-02-15T05:55:00.000-08:00

My number one "thing to do before I go" is fall in love again. I've been waiting patiently, but no available man has knocked at my door, offering to join me in that adventure. It was well past time to take action. Sunday afternoon I signed up for on-line dating.

Last night I spoke to an interesting man. So far, I know he's smart and funny and loves his kids.

I also know he's a widower whose wife died about a year ago. She was his high school sweetheart, and they'd been married almost 40 years. He has not yet gone on an actual date with anyone.

Almost every story he told me about his children involved teaching them to be careful with money. He talked a lot about conserving throughout his life so he is absolutely secure for retirement.

I can't hear or see for the alarm bells ringing and the red flags flying in my head.

This man and his wife seem to have had a wonderful relationship. Being the first to date someone after a divorce almost never goes well. Dating after a death is likely to be even more intense. He's not ready -- he hasn't found his balance yet. He's lonely, and that's not good.

His focus on being careful with money may be his way of emphasizing what he considers a good quality. Or he might be a miser.

I am glad I insisted on calling him rather than giving him my number, glad I hid my number when I called. A big part of me has no intention of even responding to the email he sent this morning to tell me how much he enjoyed the conversation.

Isn't this how I've ended up single for 17 years? After a 60 minute conversation, I've written the entire story in my head and titled it Too Much Trouble.

How much of what I'm thinking here is common sense and how much is avoidance? I'd appreciate any thoughts you have.

Sleepwalking?

2011-02-01T07:17:00.001-08:00

I am working in a coffee shop. Every 30 seconds or so, the man next to me snores quite loudly, several times.

The man's feet twitch from time to time. His eyes are open. He's reading a newspaper, for goodness sake. He's also snoring like a grizzly burrowed into a snowbound cave in the mountains of Montana.

Ambien? Sleep apnea? Poor nasal hygiene?

It's a complete mystery.

2011-01-26T05:49:00.000-08:00

Two Sundays ago, I went to church for the first time in a long time. Back in Minneapolis, I went to a crazy Catholic church where we prayed to "Our Mother Who Art in Heaven" and danced in the aisles while we sang old hippie songs. All believing Christians were welcome to take communion in both forms. All were welcome in that place, in every way. Ordinary people spoke from the pulpit more often than priests.

During the years I went to St. Joan's I heard homilies from a Native American who spoke of the time when it became legal for his worship services to be performed, a man celebrating the birthday of the young woman whose heart saved his life, a fitter of prosthetic limbs in Southeast Asia, and a park ranger who believes trees hold the secret to life. I watched a man perform a Hawaiian sacred dance through the aisles and at the altar, his movement a sacred message. I saw three Palestinian women -- one Christian, one Jew and one Muslim -- defiantly hold hands and beg us to hep make sure their sons and daughters did not have to shoot at one another.

I miss St. Joan's as much as I miss anything about Minneapolis other than my daughter.

And then I discovered Unity Village Chapel. It's not quite the same, but it's closer than anything I've found. People stand and dance in place to old hippie music and the message is one of peace and love and hope. Of joy.

I have to miss services this week, and I'm sad about that, but it feels so good to have a church to miss again.

No Sweetness In the Sorrow of This Parting

2011-01-24T04:58:00.000-08:00

A member of my cyberspace work team died this weekend. Far from home and family, far from understanding, far from everything, really.

We don't know many details. We can't know for sure how accurate the story as we've heard it may be. The one thing we do know is that a brilliant and beloved young person is dead. The tragic waste stuns me.

I pray for peace for the family. I pray in thanks for the person's young life that was and in sorrow for what is not to be. I pray Light surrounds all who feel darkness.

2011-01-22T03:49:00.000-08:00

My memory is like Swiss cheese: solid in some places and nothing but air in others.

Thursday I needed to call the guy who services Paula for me. (She needs new tires. Can you believe she's already four years old?) I just picked up the phone and dialed the number from memory. I call the auto shop two or three times a year, but I remember the number. That's the solid.

The air is so much bigger, though. Yesterday I started the day on the treadmill. After several days of watching TV while I dragged my sorry butt along a path to nowhere, watching the seconds crawl by and feeling like the allotted time would never end, I dreaded more of the same. For some reason, I pulled out my iPod.

How could I have forgotten? How could I lose track of how much I love to pound along to the rhythm of my favorite songs? In my early 40s, I ran every morning, just me and Jimmy Buffet. Same tape every day. Same corner, singing, Yes, I am a pirate, 200 years too late. The canons don't thunder, there's nothing to plunder... Same joy rising as the world twirled by, and I got stronger and thinner. Every morning, I shouted over Jimmy's "I'm an over-40 victim of fate, arriving too late" with defiance -- "I'm no kinda victim of fate, never too late...NEVER TOO LATE."

Yesterday, it was the sound track from the Country Strong movie. I'm country strong, hard to break. Like the ground I grew up on.... and Even on my weakest day, I get a little bit stronger and After all these years of running round, flying high and falling down, well the time has come at last to rest my heart and ease my past.

Singing and pounding down the miles, joy rising with every step, I felt stronger and happier and more alive than I have in many months. How can I let inertia take over when that feeling is possible every day? Why can I remember rarely used phone numbers and forget that I actually like to exercise once I get going? How can I forget that feeling?

Crazy, but I stayed so long I was five minutes late to Paula's appointment. She really needs new tires. We've got so much adventure ahead.

64 and Sunny

2011-01-19T15:42:00.000-08:00

It's 17 degrees and snowing like crazy here in KC, but it's 64 and sunny in my heart.

A few weeks ago, I was asked to do a project, which I can't really name or discuss because it's confidential. I can tell you the project was more trouble than it was worth to me in dollars and cents. I can tell you I agreed to do it because I thought I could help.

I can tell you I hoped the project might lead to good things, and it has.

I spent a truly ridiculous amount of time getting the details right on this thing. I made myself crazy, and several times it seemed like I was making the people in charge crazy, too. But all my obsession with details made them believe I know my stuff. It also made them ask me to be on set for a video shoot. Or maybe a bunch of video shoots.

In a place far from home -- a place where it's currently 64 and sunny.

I'm going on an adventure!!!!!!

A Small Miracle

2011-01-10T15:35:00.000-08:00

Teagan stayed with me for a few hours today. It's snowing, so I swapped my Paula for Evan's Jeep when I picked T up. Then when Evan got off work, I picked him up and drove the two of them home.

As we crept through the snow, Evan mentioned that Kristin's car doesn't drive well in the snow. He also said it breaks down a lot and is kind of small for T's car seat.

And then...IT happened. He said, "I feel so lucky to have the Jeep."

Evan is 28 years, 7 months, and 11 days old. I have never heard him say he's lucky about anything. Ever. I couldn't count the times I've heard him moan and groan and even yell about how everything bad happens to him, how his life is so hard and so unfair, but I've never heard him call himself lucky.

I laughed out loud. When he looked at me funny, I said, "I've never heard you say that before." He sat quietly for a moment and then almost whispered, "I'm lucky about a lot of things, Mom. I just don't admit it to you."

You'd be so proud of me. Not a single tear spilled until I was back in my own car on my way home.

Evan feels lucky.

I feel blessed. So very, very blessed.

Where Is the Line?

2011-01-09T05:21:00.000-08:00

Like everyone, my heart breaks for Gabrielle Giffords, her family, and the families of those injured or killed in the shooting in Arizona. A 9-year-old child was murdered. A 9-year-old child!

Like many, I wonder about Sarah Palin's map with crosshairs and her exhortation to "RELOAD." I ask myself when and where we, as a nation, will draw the line.

I also ask myself where I should draw a line. From time to time, I work in a coffee shop close to my home. Nearly every time I'm there, so is a small elderly man who continually rants and raves about politics and the government. He's convinced "9-11 was an inside job," a statement he repeats to everyone he can engage in conversation. He is so loud and his views so ignorant, so vile, that I usually leave when he arrives.

Thursday, I needed to finish what I was doing when he showed up. In that time, he began to carry on to anyone who would listen about how Scott Roeder is his hero. Yes, Scott Roeder, who killed Dr. George Tiller because he performed abortions. This little man considers Roeder a hero and martyr to a vital cause.

I've long believed this little man to be unbalanced. Thursday I began to wonder if he's also dangerous and whether I should tell someone in authority. But what would I say? It's not illegal to be stupid. It's not even illegal to make a hero of a murderer. He doesn't make overt threats against anyone, or at least I've never heard him make any.

The suspected shooter in Arizona was well known to have strange views. He repeatedly disrupted a community college math class with "nonsensical outbursts," according to someone else in the class. He talked about "mind control" and "brainwash methods."

The words of that news story echo so loudly in my head this morning, I can think of nothing else. The little man disrupts the whole coffee shop with talk about how Americans are "brainwashed" and how their minds are controlled by the liberal media.

Did anyone speak up about this young man in Arizona? If not, could anything have been done? Can I do anything here? Should I? If anyone has ideas, I'd love to hear them.

All blessings to those killed or wounded in Arizona, and to all who love them.

A Herd of Snowmen

2011-01-08T08:59:00.000-08:00

Mom and I cook at a homeless shelter the first Monday of every month. It's easily the best day of the month. I love hanging out with these terrific folks having big fun doing good work.

Mom and I have gotten into the habit of making special treats for the children. This time, we made cupcakes and marshmallow snowmen with Fruit Roll-up scarves and gumdrop hats. Making six dozen of them took almost seven hours, but the kids' reaction was worth every single second.

And when I downloaded the snowman pics, I found this one. I'd forgotten taking it, but how great is the look on T's face?

The Line of Demarcation

2011-01-03T05:05:00.000-08:00

At what point does "I haven't shaved my legs" become "I don't shave my legs"? I glanced down at mine this morning and for just a moment thought a hobbit had borrowed my nightgown.

In one or the other of her recent books -- I've read both and don't remember which. Like Nora, I feel bad about my neck, and I remember nothing, which makes things confusing -- Nora Ephron talks about spending eight hours a week on "maintenance." I don't think she's talking about sinks, but that's the only maintenance I've done lately.

We don't need to go into the gory details of my decision to replace the kitchen faucet and garbage disposal the day before hosting my entire extended family for Christmas dinner. It's enough to tell you I could have shaved my legs, arms, face and head in the time I struggled with that mess. I could have had a manicure, a pedicure and maybe even cured a minor disease or two. I could have had my hair highlighted, if only I still highlighted my hair. Lord, I could have had a facial. I remember facials. Dimly.

Instead, I have a permanent crick in my neck from lying under the sink for hours, trying to connect faulty connections. But eventually, I had a faucet that doesn't drip and a garbage disposal that reliably disposes.

And very, very hairy legs.

Note: the photo is Mo'nique, not me. My toenails don't look that good.

New Light

2011-01-01T04:29:00.001-08:00

I can barely believe it's been more than a month since I last posted. The time has flown, filled with work and my granddaughter and the holidays. But here is January 1 and here I am, wishing us all the happiest of new years.

A few weeks ago, I came across a study done by the London School of Economics. Researchers set out a box of tacks, a candle and a book of matches and asked each subject to secure the candle to the wall in such a way that it could be burned without dripping on the wall. (They were testing the value of incentive programs, but that's not the issue here.) Quite a few people tried to tack the candle to the wall, which didn't work.

Fewer, but still a reasonable number, lit the candle and poured melted wax onto the heads of the tacks or onto the wall and tried to stick the candle to the wall before the wax hardened. That didn't work, either.

A precious few people dumped the tacks out of the box, tacked the box to the wall, melted some wax and poured a puddle to secure the candle to the bottom of the box. That worked like a charm.

Fascinated by the task, I asked a dozen people how to complete it. Only one, my sister, ever figured it out, and she got it in about five seconds. I'll never know for sure because I read the study, but I doubt I would have seen the box as anything other than the holder of the tacks.

Having coffee with Mom and Deb the day I was going to put up my Christmas tree, I mentioned that I wished my son would come over and bring up the tree from the basement. The tree box is heavy and getting it up the stairs always is a pain. My sister looked at me oddly and asked why I didn't bring the tree up one section at a time.

Sixteen Christmases. I've put up my tree alone for 16 Christmases. For 15 Christmases, I've struggled to drag the whole box up the stairs and then back down again. It never, ever occurred to me to bring the tree up one section at a time. Probably never would have.

So, in this new year, I resolve to see alternatives, to see old things in new light, to open my mind and heart to possibilities.

May this year be one of possibilities for us all.

And may we see them clearly.

Lost and Found

2010-11-20T05:24:00.000-08:00

Aquamarine is Katie's birthstone. Fifteen years ago or so, I bought an aquamarine ring and started wearing it frequently. The plan was to eventually give the ring to Katie on her wedding day as her "something old" and her "something blue." (Her dress will be new. N will provide the "something borrowed.")

Six weeks ago, I lost the ring. Gone. Gone. Gone. Not in any of the places I would mindlessly set rings when involved in some messy task. Not in the safe. Not in the jewelry box. Not in the car or my bedroom or my closet. Not in the pockets of any rarely-worn jacket.

It was with me in Michigan when I was reading those carnival letters. I remember picking it up off the desk in the hotel room, thinking how horrible it would be to lose it after all these years. And then nothing.

I pulled the washing machine apart to check the filters in case it got washed in a pants pocket. Same with the dryer. Nada. I searched my car with a flashlight. Nothing.

Panic stalked me, but every time it flared, I calmed myself with a strange faith that the ring would show up. Not that bad things can't happen, but I believed my unconscious would not let me do anything completely foolish with this ring meant for so special a mission. Several times, I considered telling Katie what had happened but held out, still hoping to find it.

Yesterday, I was in my workroom, shaping armature for a Christmas ornament I'm making. I bent to retrieve a dropped tool from under the table, and there on the floor, leaned against the baseboard, sat the aquamarine ring.

Absolutely no idea how it got there, but the lost is found. I could not be happier to find any inanimate object.

Now, I can tell Katie.

New Love

2010-11-06T05:23:00.000-07:00

Life is so full, so rich right now. My biggest challenge is fitting it all in.

Yesterday, I needed to get the house ready for Katie's visit (she got here yesterday afternoon). Also, I needed to get some work-work done and I had Teagan for the day. The end result was that I didn't write yesterday, and it leaves a hole in my world.

Do you remember new love--the ache of being away from your beloved? That's the feeling I have now when doing almost anything other than writing (except caring for T, of course). I may be working on the work that pays the bills or cooking dinner because I've made a commitment to take better care of myself or cleaning the bathroom because...well...because. But in the back of my head, I'm counting the minutes until I can get back to where I most want to be, back with the story that fills my head and my heart and my soul.

This is a new feeling for me, this obsession with finishing the book. I like it.

More Fun Than a Barrel of Monkeys

2010-11-02T20:38:00.001-07:00

Dad and Mom with Teagan and Birdie, my sister's granddaughter and a mighty fine skunk.

Bananas

2010-10-30T05:23:00.000-07:00

Kristin had portraits done of T in her costume, which touched me beyond belief. I'll post the finished pics, but you can at least get an idea from these proofs. Nothing more beautiful in the entire world. Nothing.

She's coming to my house to Trick or Treat. I have baby food bananas for her treat.

Chasing Shiny Things

2010-10-27T13:54:00.000-07:00

So, today I'm working on a scene in which my characters shop for new underwear for an 11-year-old boy. I google around a bit and learn a few useful details. I also learn that Jockey briefs, introduced in 1935, sold 30,000 pairs in the first three months they were on the market, despite the Great Depression.

Still not sure what my characters would find in a department store in 1946, I check Amazon where I discover a history of underwear offered. It sounds fascinating. My cursor is hovering over "Add to Cart" when I realize that buying a book on underwear might--just might--be the slightest bit of overkill, given that the info wouldn't show up in more than one sentence in the finished piece.

And so goes my main problem in writing and in life. I'm interested in virtually everything and find myself chasing every shiny thing rather than keeping my eye on the prize.

I'd write more, but I've got to get back to my underwear research. Did you know that in 1938 Jockey advertised their Y-front briefs by having a bride and groom dress in cellophane evening clothes for their wedding? Viral marketing at its finest.

Smokin'

2010-10-26T05:05:00.000-07:00

In a scene I'm working on, a character smokes. I don't smoke and never did. I've never lived with anyone who smoked openly. Slowly, slowly, I've worked texture and physical detail into the picture, snatching an idea here and there as it drifts by and tucking it into place. Or saving it for later.

Many of the smoking details I'm using turn out to be long-forgotten images from my childhood. My dad's business partner chain smoked in the way my character does. I remember standing on a chair, washing dishes and watching him light one cigarette from another at our kitchen table when I was 7 or 8.

My grandpa had a particular way of picking bits of tobacco off his tongue and wiping them on his pants. The inside corners of his thumbs and index fingers were stained brown from nicotine. His nails were broad and square and heavily ridged. His are the fingers I see when my smoker character holds a cigarette or spreads his fingers wide and uses them like combs to slick back his hair.

Mom's brother continually patted his shirt pocket as though to reassure himself that a supply of nicotine was available. If something interrupted him during a smoke, he stubbed out the end of the cigarette and tucked it behind his ear for later.

All those images were locked away somewhere in my memory banks. I search for details to flesh out the story and memories rise to the surface, insubstantial as smoke and just as pervasive.

My friend and teacher Crescent Dragonwagon calls her blog "Nothing Is Wasted on the Writer." (She's quoting someone, but I'm sorry to say I don't remember who.) She writes on the theme fairly often and, of course, it came up in the magical Fearless Writing workshop I attended in September.

Now that I'm writing like a mad woman, I understand "nothing is wasted" in a whole new way. All the hours I've spent watching people, observing their movements and listening to their patterns of speech, haven't been wasted time as I've always feared. Images and memories are flaring into phrases or sentences that light my story like matches in the dark--brief, satisfying bursts accompanied by sounds and smells and warmth.

I feel like a child with a brand-new toy.

Photo by: Dave Barstow

Monkeying Around

2010-10-25T04:55:00.001-07:00

Spent the weekend making a Halloween costume for my darling granddaughter. She will be the cutest monkey on the planet. I had to combine several patterns and revise my plans several times to work out something that fits her--her height is at something like 95% on those growth charts, but her weight is more like 50%. Anything that fits her around is much too short. Anything that's long enough flops around on her body. But that's why elastic as invented, I guess.

Anyway, monkey pictures to come. For now, here's a black-and-white peek at my darling. Is she not beautiful? She waved good-bye to me for the first time yesterday and I haven't stopped smiling yet.

It's a Teagan Day!

2010-10-21T07:09:00.001-07:00

Teagan and I are running errands together this morning. This afternoon, we're taking a friend to the doctor for a check-up after shoulder surgery.

Shopping with my beautiful girl is my favorite thing in the entire world right now. Every third person we pass remarks on how beautiful she is, and I get to agree and smile and be proud of and thankful for my darling granddaughter.

Kristin has started dressing T in things I've made when she's coming to my house. When someone comments on her clothes as well as her general beauty, my smile could light all the houses in the greater K.C. area.

Work-work got in the way yesterday, and I didn't hit my writing commitment until 1:00 a.m. Even so, I'm bright eyed and ready to go get my girl in a few minutes.

The sun is shining. The air is crisp. I have the day with my granddaughter. Who could ask for more?

LOVES Me Some Interwebs

2010-10-19T20:33:00.000-07:00

Tonight I realized one of my characters needs to visit the offices of the Billboard Magazine in St. Louis, MO. After less than five minutes of Googling around, I have the address of the building and photos of the interior and exterior at the time of my story. These images provide architectural details, directional orientation and info on surrounding buildings.

And I am thrilled, even though my writing includes very little direct description. Details like this mostly give me ways to let the characters interact with their surroundings. My character might leave finger smudges on the brass doors of the north side of the building or feel wary of the gargoyles guarding the entrance. His wife might browse the shops in the building's arcade while he does his business. He might join her at a 2nd floor coffee shop after his meeting. He's very likely to head straight from the meeting to the Post Office, which was then directly across Olive Street.

Right now, I don't know for sure what any of it means. I only know that tomorrow, when I peer into my 1-inch frame, the picture will be filled with life and color, richness and texture. All I have to do is watch what happens and write it down.

I have no words for the joy this gives me.

Fearing Less

2010-10-16T06:06:00.000-07:00

Since Labor Day, I have been gathering family stories and researching and writing. And writing. And writing.

The words in the books on writing have become more than theories. I get how they work. And why. Where I once "knew" about Anne Lamott's "1-inch frames," now I can peer into my own frames and see things worth describing. I'm no longer afraid I won't find the story. I just keep showing up, confident the story will find me.

This confidence was born over four magical days in the Green Mountains of Vermont at Crescent Dragonwagon's Fearless Writing workshop. Crescent will weave similar magic November 12 through 14 at the Mount Sequoyah Retreat Center in Fayetteville, Arkansas. The $895 fee includes three days of instruction from Crescent, lodging, and three meals a day.

To quote Crescent, "Fearless teaches students how to harness the anxiety generated by chaotic or unknown conditions or apparently immutable limitations as a powerful creative force."

I still have anxiety. I'm still surrounded by chaos. But now I wave to my limitations as I pass them on my way to work.

If you're interested, I highly recommend checking out Crescent and Fearless. You can find more information here.

The Voices in My Head

2010-10-15T05:42:00.000-07:00

Home. Safe.

I usually listen to audio books on long drives, but the voices in my head entertained me all the way home. The 14 hours flew so fast I drove past my last turn home--just didn't notice it until too late and had to circle around.

The letters fascinate and thrill me, but the big thing is that they inform my story with telling details. I'd been struggling with one specific transition for about two weeks. When I woke yesterday, the answer hung in the room, so tangible I could have folded it up and packed it along with my toothbrush.

In a letter to one of his girlfriends, Mr. P. gave intricate details of building a trailer and mentioned that he was going to take the trailer to have the seams welded. From that, I know the seams could erode and develop leaks. The condition of the seams of his trailer is something my character can inspect, which gives me the opening of the transition and helps me show that this once prosperous carnival is wearing out and wearing down.

The detail will show up in a mere handful of words: it may not even register with some readers. But it gives me a place to start, details to build a world upon.

More happy. More joy.

Trickety Trot

2010-10-14T02:55:00.000-07:00

I'm headed home again. I got exactly what I came for and much, much more I could not have imagined.

Two weeks ago, I tripped across the existence of a collection of correspondence from a man who traveled with carnivals and circuses for forty years. So, naturally, I got in my car and drove across four states to see it.

The man corresponded with hundreds of different people, some as often as twice a week, for years. He kept every letter, card and telegram he received as well as carbon copies of the letters he wrote. It is, hands down, the most interesting thing I've ever read.

It's also something like a giant puzzle because the letters are filed by name of correspondent, and show people changed names frequently. One central character has five different names I'm aware of so far and may have more. The letters progress through the years in each file, so cross referencing stories is a challenge. For example, he writes to a girlfriend, her husband, her mother and father, her sisters, her brother, and the brother's wife. The same stories wind through each set of letters, but the versions vary. Wildly.

Through the passage of years, you see the man transform from a young cad to a solid family man. You see him help people over and over, even when they burn him time after time. You see a kind of desperation most of us can't imagine: people whose lives turn on less than $10. Babies are born. And die. And are lost to divorce and disinterest. Men go to prison. Women wait. Or don't. Everyone scrambles to pay their bills and stay alive.

The letters fill 35 file boxes. I couldn't stay long enough to read all or even a large part of it, so I resorted to photographing one page at a time. (Photography is easier on the old paper than photocopying. And cheaper.) I'm going home with images of 500 or 600 pages waiting to be read like a vein of gold waiting to be mined. I hope to come back next spring. I may pay for copies of some of the letters to tide me over through the winter. I didn't get to the letters to and from his mother or his father or his wife. (The girlfriends were so compelling!)

I am exhausted. I worked very early and very late so I could read/photograph from 8 to 5 while the library is open. I haven't slept more than four hours a night for five or six days. Tonight I plan to sleep like a mid-winter grizzly. Tomorrow I plan to read and write. Same thing the next day. And the day after that.

Following my nose leads to the most amazing blessings. I am so grateful.

Shhhhhh!

2010-10-11T18:15:00.001-07:00

Apparently, it's my day for struggling not to make public scenes.

First, I had to take several gulps of tea to keep from laughing out loud at the middle-aged blonde with three sizes of wedding dresses in her closet.

Then, I started reading the correspondence I came here to find. OMG! OMG! OMG! I wanted to find people in the hallways and read to them. Or make them read. Just share with someone. Anyone. A couple of times, I gasped so loudly everyone in the room looked up and stared.

Tomorrow I'm having lunch with the archivist, and I can hardly wait. She's read every word and I can't wait to ask questions and compare notes and laugh. And laugh. And laugh.

It's a little crazy to drive 800 miles (1600 round trip) to read a bunch of old letters when you don't have any idea whether they include anything you need or want for a story you're not sure you're capable of writing. It's a little crazy to spend all day reading in a library and then all night working to keep up with regular work. It's a little crazy to spend time and money chasing dreams.

Except it's not. I'm going to get old if I'm lucky and die someday, no matter what. I might as well chase my dreams, even when they lead me through the Michigan woods in the dark, unsure of where I am, where I'm going, or what I'll find when I get there.

This is exactly the life I want to live.

Happy. Happy.

Dear Me

2010-10-11T05:40:00.001-07:00

Overheard @ breakfast in a hotel in Mount Pleasant, Michigan, where I have come to read an archive of letters vaguely related to the story I'm working on.

"I've gained so much weight over the years, each of my wedding dresses is a bigger size than the one before. I have three sizes of wedding dresses. (sigh)"

It was all I could do not to laugh out loud.

Stories

2010-10-04T06:37:00.000-07:00

Over the last few weeks, I've had several conversations with several family members I've never talked to beyond the basic "good to see you, how's the family" conversations at weddings and funerals.

Generally, I ask an opening question and step out of the way as a flood of fantastic stories pours forth. Every single time, I am reminded of how we all long for someone to listen.

Listening is enriching my story and my life. Between Teagan and work and writing The Story, I don't post much these days, but I am alive and well and listening to stories.

So. Much. Fun.

Living as a Writer

2010-09-30T04:45:00.000-07:00

My mother was a cheerleader. Somehow, she's managed to leave out this fascinating tidbit in the telling of her life story.

My dad looked quite dapper in his basketball uniform. He was the cutest boy in his high school class, too.

My dad was one of seven members of the last class to graduate from the high school, which was then consolidated with a bigger school nearby. Dad's class picture hangs on the wall of honor in the town's community center.

I know these things because I visited Mom and Dad's hometown yesterday, gathering research for a story. I also visited a coal mining museum and the general store where my grandfather used to take us kids. A carefully invested dime returned a fortune in penny candy at the general store back then. It's a wonder the man who ran it didn't strangle one of us or my grandfather, considering how many times we changed our minds between paying two cents for a Sugar Daddy or giving up a whole nickel for a box of CrackerJacks. (In later years, he murdered his wife then killed himself. I'm pretty sure we weren't the ones who pushed him over the edge. He hadn't been forced to spend 10 minutes listening to us waver between candy cigarettes and Sugar Babies for years by the time of the unfortunate event.)

Yesterday was a wonderful day -- the kind of day when possibility shimmers in the air, swirled with memory and loss and love and hope. I saw family folks and being with them felt as right as if 30 days had passed rather than 30 years.

After all these years of making a living with and through words, I am not just writing but living as a writer. That shift brings me joys like yesterday. In the next week or two, it's going to bring me a trip to central Michigan, where an archivist has catalogued the extensive correspondence of a carnival showman. Talking to her on the phone yesterday, I made up my mind to pack Paula and hit the road. The stories are there waiting, and I'm a writer.

Not All Dogs Bark

2010-09-15T06:30:00.000-07:00

In the Fearless Writing workshop, we created a list of words and used them in several exercises. It's challenging to work in 35 or so words into something that makes sense and tells a story in 15 minutes or so. In the first few exercises, all my dogs barked and all my shovels dug.

After listening to other folks read, I recognized the limitations of my thinking. If I'm brutally honest with myself, it is one of my great failings as a human being that all too often, I consider my first interpretation of something the only interpretation.

On a chalkboard in my writing space, I wrote "Not all dogs bark." Before I sit down to write each day, I pick a random word and make a list of ways to use it. Not all dogs are canines, and a "bark" isn't always a sound made by a dog. Truly, I am dogged about making my dog-eared lists of doggeral regarding hot-diggity-dogs and their doggone variations.

"Bark" can't make up its mind, either. Sometimes it's candy made with almonds; sometimes it's the action of speaking forcefully; sometimes it's the outer surface of a tree.

Writing Exercises

2010-09-09T20:48:00.000-07:00

We did several writing exercises at the workshop. One of them involved a word list and a title that provided a scenario. I put the words from the list in bold here.

Ella Moon, 30, contemplates an ashtray in the laudromat at 5th & Palmer in Deep Gap, NC, 2010

"Oh my hell of God," Ella cursed. "Here I am, looking like 10 long miles of bad road, and Friday is adrift under the freakin' dryer. I don't have time for this kind of crap. I need to get some color on these roots before Buster gets home."

Maybe Friday wasn't all that important. After all, the pink was a bit faded and the lace was beginning to fray right where Ella's Rottweiler, Raucous, got hold of it. But Buster preferred that she wear a day on a day, and Ella preferred not to jump into an argument the very minute Buster got back from Arizona. She knew this was now a game of beat the clock. Buster should be rolling into town in less than an hour.

Ella stomped outside and grabbed a stick from under the birch trees on the boulevard. Good thing she'd decided to hit the Suds and Duds on Palmer, the only street in town with any trees left. Back in 2008, Deep Gap had surrendered nearly every living tree and bush to an early season hurricane. The storm transformed most of the Gap, once a verdant village, into an unsettled tract, waiting for Japanese developers to figure out what to keep and what to raze.

Optimistic as always, Ella came up with a scheme to retrieve the panties without getting down on the incredibly filthy floor. She pulled over two orange plastic chairs and draped herself over them, her luscious butt facing God and her poor, tired dogs pointing at the devil. If she squirmed at just the right angle and remembered to keep her wrists cocked, she could wedge the stick under the dryer and shovel out the panties.

Right about the time her first attempt came up empty, the lights flickered. Ella jumped, sure Quentin had come to shut up the place for the night. One glance at the clock reassured her, but with closing time less than 20 minutes off, she needed to get it on.

Truth to tell, Ella didn't mind a deadline. She did her best work under pressure. Extemporaneous was her color. She called upon the Bodhisattva, all the angels, and anyone else up there willing to help her keep her happy ass out of trouble. It was a short list.

Ella's next smooth swoosh with the stick turned up one Bubble Up bottle cap, two quarters and three dried up ground cherry husks. On the third swoosh, the stick got well and truly stuck. "Damn it all," she sighed.

Back and forth. Up and down. Ella pushed and pulled, see'd and sawed with the stick, trying to dislodge whatever had settled back there, in front of or on top of Friday. When the stick broke free, Ella pulled back, slow and careful.

Friday's lace emerged first, rosy and decadent in the fluorescent lights. Tangled in the lace and elastic was a flat aluminum ashtray marked, "Relax tonight. We'll do the cooking. Call Hutch."

God alone could discern how long the ashtray had been under there. Hutch himself had been dead and gone more than a decade. Buster owned the place now, and he hadn't ordered ashtrays since the lung cancer carried his dad home to Jesus.

Ella shook out the dust bunnies, stepped into the leg openings, and shimmied into Friday. She tucked the ashtray into her purse for Buster. He could use it for target practice. He always had wanted to shoot that old son of a bitch.

Fascinating Rhythm

2010-09-07T03:19:00.000-07:00

Energy pulses like an erratic heartbeat in a room filled with 15 creative folks. People who've spent a lifetime as performers struggle to be audience. People more comfortable in the aisle seat wilt at center stage.

The last five days have been exhilarating and exhausting. Much of what I learned was re-learning but necessary relearning. I don't yet know where to put some of the new stuff.

We did yoga every day: I did a handstand with the help and support of the fabulous young woman teaching the classes.

We walked to a sugaring operation and saw how maple syrup starts its journey to breakfast tables everywhere.

We wrote. And wrote. And wrote.

In four hours, a plane will carry me back to my own life, where tomato sandwiches are topped with bacon rather than smoked tempeh, where speaking one at a time is the norm, where women rarely fart in public. I'll be glad to be home and sorry not to be here.

More...soon.

Fear Less

2010-09-03T19:41:00.001-07:00

I am trying to fear less. Today's session may or may not help in the long run. One of the other students is an attorney who worked with the Department of Justice as a Nazi hunter. He read aloud during an exercise and his language sang an aria. Mine hummed "Three Blind Mice."

I know. I know. Comparisons are odious.

(sigh)

More soon.

Wherever I May Be

2010-09-02T17:21:00.001-07:00

Things did not start well. I woke three minutes before the alarm clock. My clothes were laid out and my things were packed. Mostly. But every little detail took just a minute or two longer than I planned. It was raining. Hard. My no-traffic-at-5:00am prediction turned out to be slightly too optimistic.

When I got close to the airport, I decided to park at the regular terminal rather than the super-cheap, off-airport parking. Just didn't have the time/energy/umbrella for the "economy lot." But then I got to the airport and discovered parking is $20 a day. $100 to leave my car for five days. Great.

The security check point held another surprise: a long line. The KC airport rarely has any line at all, let alone a long line. It got within two people of the security guard with his drug-detecting penlight when an ugly thought hit me: I couldn't remember turning off Paula's lights. After 18 years of cars that turned off their own lights, I haven't quite gotten comfortable with Paula's bronze-age lighting system. Nothing to do but leave the line and go back to the parking lot to check.

I had, of course, turned off the lights.

Another 20 minutes in line. (Sigh)

My little black dress is comfortable and easy to wear, but a barely-above-the-knees hemline is not the best choice for taking off your shoes and putting them back on in the security line. Bend over with your back toward the room and you're flashing the crowd. Bend over with your back to the conveyor belt and you're flashing the security guards. No good option.

Bonus! The little restaurant where I had lunch in Atlanta had crabcakes, my favorite. Unfortunately, they must have treated the crab with sulfites, to which I am allergic. You have not lived until you've experienced...um...intestinal distress in an airplane bathroom at 12,000 feet. Twice.

My rolling bag saves my back, but others may not love my inability to roll it in straight lines. On the bus to the rental car place, I thought I'd lost my wallet. I hadn't.

The little town where I booked a room is in New Hampshire, not Vermont as I thought. I spent an hour wandering the 91, lost. A kind young man in a McDonalds explained how to get back where I needed to be.

None of this dimmed my enthusiasm. Not even a little. Not even in the airplane bathroom, with the head flight attendant sitting 6 inches from the door.

I've had a fabulous day. The place I'm staying tonight is one of the most beautiful small inns I've ever seen. My under-$100-room has two vintage brick walls, plantation shutters, an incredibly comfy bed, and a stack of books with a note saying you're welcome to take one with you. The public spaces are beyond charming. Their restaurant has an outdoor patio overlooking a small waterfall. As darkness gathered, the staff lit 27 torches surrounding the edges of the patio. I savored every sip of two glasses of pinot grigio; every bite of a salad of artichokes, roasted red peppers, white beans, kalamata olives and spring greens; grilled salmon.

Tomorrow morning I'm having breakfast at one of the 10 best breakfast places in America, according to Travel & Leisure Magazine. (I happened to read the T&L article last week and realized I'd be within an hour of Quechee, VT. Too close to miss it, right? I think so, anyway.)

And my niece volunteered to go drive my car home from the airport. No parking fees at all!

Driving through the Green Mountains this afternoon, joy swirled in me like fall leaves in a strong wind. I love being slightly lost. I love finding new, unexpected places. I love waterfalls and torches and old brick walls. I love stepping into the unknown.

Got Kleenex?

2010-08-27T19:05:00.000-07:00

Seriously. Get a hankie. Or three.

Danny & Annie from StoryCorps on Vimeo.

Hamster on a Wheel

2010-08-20T03:49:00.000-07:00

Between working and taking care of Teagan, I feel like a hamster on a wheel these days. Some interesting stuff has happened. More is about to. I'll write soonest.

Weird

2010-08-16T04:10:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you know a dress is right for you the moment it settles on your frame. That's how I felt about the dress Katie bought me last week. That buying decision took about 39 seconds, which is all we had with Teagan screaming.

Katie was concerned that the simple black dress was not fancy enough for the wedding, but I had a plan: layers of pearl necklaces. Just before time to go on Saturday, I pulled six or seven pearl and pearl/crystal necklaces from a hanger and settled them around my neck. On a whim, I pulled one strand around to hang down my back rather than over my chest.

Katie looked at me and said, "You look weird."

"That's ok," I said. "I am weird."

All night long, friends and family and total strangers told me how fun and appealing my outfit was. Personally, I think the appeal was in not being afraid to be weird.

The Times They Are a Changin'

2010-08-14T03:31:00.000-07:00

Katie arrived Wednesday night. In a few hours, we'll be off to the Missouri wine country (who knew?) for my nephew's wedding. We're driving Mom and Dad and ferrying the flowers. Should be fun.

Thursday night we had dinner with Mom and Dad at a local restaurant. Dad was sitting directly across from me, and several times I noticed a slight glint from one of his teeth. I leaned across the table and looked carefully.

"Dad, I think something is wrong with one of your lower teeth," I said.

"Yes," he sighed. "The tooth has worn away and the metal post from the root canal is showing through."

"Does it hurt?"

"Not really."

"Can they fix it?"

"Why? I'm wearing out all over. It will last as long as I do."

***

Katie and I went dress shopping the first afternoon she was here. We had Teagan with us, so we traded off trying on/tending Teagan. By the time we finished, Teagan was hungry and shrieking. I handed the dress I was buying to Katie and started digging through the stuff in the stroller for my purse.

"I'll get it, Mom," Katie said.

"Thanks. I'll get cash and pay you back when we get Teagan settled," I answered.

"That's ok. You've bought me hundreds of dresses. I can buy you one."

Is that Bob Dylan I hear singing?

Marine Corps Him

2010-08-11T04:22:00.001-07:00

My dad is a Marine. It's a central fact of his life, as much a part of describing him as saying he has black hair and hazel eyes. He taught me the Marine Corps hymn so early I have no memory of not knowing the lyrics and the tune. He taught me to count cadence before I could actually count and showed me how to do the Queen Anne salute with a stick as soon as I could hold one.

Marines are tough. I know this as surely as I know the sun rises on the halls of Montezuma and sets on the shores of Tripoli, as surely as I know the biscuits in the Army can kill you.

Yesterday Dad drove up just as I was leaving after coffee with Mom. I stopped and asked where he'd been.

"To the doctor," he said in a low, slow voice.

"You okay?" I asked.

"Yeah. Just needed her signature."

"On what?"

"An application for a handicapped parking permit."

The earth trembled on its axis. I did not know what to say that wouldn't bow his shoulders even more, would not drop his head a quarter-inch further. I concentrated on breathing. In and out. In and out.

"Cool. Can I ride with you?"

He laughed a little and rolled up the car window. I drove away quickly, before he could see the tears glistening in my eyes.

Survival and Celebration

2010-08-09T07:15:00.000-07:00

Made it through the shower for my niece. Three days of cooking and baking followed by a day of fixing, fussing, and arranging. But everything turned out pretty and delicious. Plus, I tried two new recipes to add to my 100 new recipes for my List.

"Bought" my tickets for the trip to Vermont for the Fearless Writing workshop with Crescent Dragonwagon. The air quotes on "bought" are because I used the last of my frequent flier miles from the old days. Can't think of a better way to use them and can't wait.

More later. Must get ready for Teagan now.

No Worries

2010-08-07T05:29:00.000-07:00

My cousin took the "Angry Sky" photo last week. The formation was so unusual the weather service had to name it. A new name for a cloud formation had not been required for over 50 years.

People in the area were turning their lives over to Jesus as those clouds rolled in, according to my cousin. She said even the emergency responders were out in the streets, staring and wondering what to do. In the end, no one and nothing got hurt.

I posted it simply because I think it's beautiful and wondrous. Plus, I didn't have time to write. I've had Teagan a lot this week and two people are on vacation at work, so I've been taking up some slack there. The shower I'm giving for my niece is tomorrow, so I'm baking and getting things ready for that.

The faster I go, the behinder I get.

Angry Sky

2010-08-05T19:24:00.000-07:00

Simple--And Not So Simple--Abundance

2010-08-03T01:37:00.000-07:00

A dear friend pointed out that I've focused on lack a lot recently. Following principles in which we both believe, she suggested I focus on abundance instead.

Yesterday was the first Monday of the month, the day I help cook meatloaf and mashed potatoes for the homeless. It was a cookie month, and I started the day baking cookies at 5:00 a.m. When I pulled the staples from my pantry--flour and sugar and brown sugar and chocolate chips and M&Ms--the jars lined up on the counter created in me such strong feelings of abundance that I had to stop and take a picture.

I thought of my grandmothers, raising their children during the Depression. They could not count on having enough staples to bake whenever they felt like it. Sugar was rationed. Flour was expensive and butter hard to come by. Today, my pantry holds everything I need to bake cookies--or nearly anything else. Simple abundance.

Paula--my little VW convertible--has been having indigestion. (Her "check engine" light came on last week.) I avoided driving until yesterday, when the mechanic could check her out. Meantime, I fretted mightily, imagining enormous and costly repairs. The problem turned out to be with the light itself, and the bill came to $65. Simple. I have $65 to spare. Abundance.

Sunday evening, Crescent Dragonwagon emailed, offering me a partial scholarship and payment terms for her Fearless Writing workshop--the one I hoped to pay for with the grant I did not get. Turns out I have just enough frequent flier miles for a ticket to Hartford, CT. Meals are included in the workshop fee. All this makes it possible for me to go. After a brief struggle with ridiculous, stiff-necked pride, I decided to accept Crescent's incredibly generous offer. I will be spending Labor Day in Vermont in the home of a woman whose history has been distantly entwined with mine for 39 years. Not so simple, but definitely abundant.

Plowshares

2010-08-02T03:53:00.000-07:00

Karen Walrond is an incredibly talented photographer and writer whose upcoming book, The Beauty of Different, was introduced to me by Michelle O'Neil.

Over the weekend, Karen saw a CNN report about a church in Florida planning to hold a Quran burning in September. She's asking people to send her prints of peaceful images. Her plan is to pack up the photos and send them to the church. Her only rule is that the photos and messages written on them must focus on peace. She refers to this as a "photobomb."

Peace is a broad concept. I checked my photo files and found dozens that would work. I'm sending five or six later today and hope you'll join me in supporting the project.

Karen plans to beat their swords with peaceful images. Plowshares anyone?

No Grant

2010-08-01T11:27:00.001-07:00

The grant I applied for was awarded to another writer, one whose work knocked me on my butt. Brilliant. Funny. Imaginative and wise. Today, not even a sliver of any of those things feels available to me. While I honestly celebrate for her and with her, I am bereft. Not about not getting the grant--I always recognized the realistic odds of that. It's the comparison between the best I can offer and the piece she wrote that pains me.

Today, the gulf between where I am and where I want to be feels so broad, I am mired in fear and doubt. But these things I know: comparisons are not helpful in any way. The sun will rise tomorrow and if I'm still spinning on and with the earth, I'll still have opportunities to learn and grown and try. I'll keep breathing in and out, and my breath will mingle with all that lives and breathes.

I can focus on the pain of not being what I want to be or having what I want to have, or I can focus on those opportunities to learn. The Universe did not grant me that grant, but it always offers serenity. Accepting it is up to me.

What I need is a good wisdom teacher.

More Love.

2010-07-30T04:18:00.000-07:00

Love, Period

2010-07-29T17:14:00.001-07:00

Art Therapy

2010-07-27T04:38:00.000-07:00

I've been working on a logo for my 100 Things to Do Before I Go list. To tell you the truth, working on it feels a little self-indulgent, like I'm wasting time. But the thing is, playing with color and texture and shapes is like a deep breath for my brain, and, like mercy, I could use some of that right now.

Now that I've got the basic collage in place, I want to add wings to the heart and give it a title in Photoshop. I've been playing with ideas, but so far I haven't come up with anything I like. That could be because Photoshop remains mostly a mystery to me. But, like my Life List, I'm working on it.

Mercy Now--Life List Update #3

2010-07-25T05:37:00.000-07:00

Mary Gauthier came to me through the 100 Things to Do Before I Go--one of my 100 new-to-me musicians. Had to listen to this several times before I got through the whole thing. The first stanza left me sobbing the first few times.

Every single one of us could use some mercy now.

Hard Rain

2010-07-22T04:27:00.000-07:00

Dad had a CT-guided biopsy on the spots in his good lung on Tuesday. Well...he didn't quite have it. When the doctor inserted the needle into his lung, it collapsed.

Specialists were called--I imagine the scene as something out of "Grey's Anatomy," with doctors calling for instruments and nurses scurrying to "get the cart." I hope that's my imagination running away with me. In any case, they inserted a chest tube and reinflated the lung.

Yesterday, they removed the chest tube, and Dad's doing well--considering everything. He's home, playing with his doggie and letting Mom fuss over him. He says he feels much better "now that they took the 6-inch spike out of my chest."

We don't yet know whether they are going to try the biopsy again. The radiologist told me he sees no reason to put Dad through the procedure again, considering his age and general health. Apparently, knowing Dad has one fatal disease is enough for this doc. He sees no reason to go searching for another. For one thing, their treatment options are very limited, so how would they act on the information? The radiology doc believes the growth is very slow growing and not likely to compromise Dad's health further than it's already compromised.

The group of doctors who gathered yesterday at the removal of the tube don't seem to share the radiologist's view. They're going to discuss the matter and get back to us. I guess we'll discuss their recommendations and get back to them. At length.

When I left the hospital Tuesday, a storm was gathering. By the time I got on the highway toward home, it was raining like nothing I've ever seen. Biblical rain. Rain that made you forget the sun exists. Rain that clogged the storm drains and ran like rivers in the streets.

Hard. Rain.

Silver Eyebrows

2010-07-19T06:53:00.000-07:00

Heather usually waxes my eyebrows when she trims my hair, but we both forgot last week. Thursday, I lit up my 10X magnifying mirror and settled my strongest reading glasses halfway down my nose. A shock awaited me: three silver eyebrow hairs.

Three. Silver. Hairs.

At first, I was completely bummed. I am so freakin' old. Headed for the long dirt nap. Subject to creeping decrepitude. But...wait.

I have now officially entered the "I Shall Wear Purple" years. I am going to wear what I like. Say what I think. Do the things I've always wanted to do. If not now, when?

Three silver hairs in my eyebrows give me all the permission I need.

Observations from this Weekend's Adventure

2010-07-18T12:49:00.000-07:00

Best license plate, seen on an Audi A6: HAudi

Best Signage, seen on commercial building in Clinton, MO: Dull and Lowe, Attorneys at Law

This is the "Great Wall of Tomato," supported by a trellis Jeff built from timber he cut on his property.

Tomatoes like this are the reason Jeff built the trellis. Anything less couldn't support these monsters.

Jeff grows 9 different varieties of peppers. We had some of each in our dinner Saturday night. Whooooweeee.

Watermelon is the perfect desert when temperatures hover near 100. We gathered the seeds from our slices--this is an heirloom variety and Jeff returns the seeds to the seed company.

Hearts on Stony Ground

2010-07-17T03:42:00.001-07:00

Jeff (my brother) lives on a small hobby farm about three hours from KC. His garden is a thing of beauty, especially when tomatoes are in season. I'm headed down there today to weed and pick and putter. Wine will be involved. And great food made from just-picked produce. (sigh)

On the drive down, I plan to stop at several creeks to search for heart-shaped stones. I do so love heart-shaped stones. I took this picture in a stream bed in northern Arkansas in 2008, when I went to the Outhouse Races and Bean Festival in Mountain View, AR.

Pictures to follow. Have a wonderful weekend!

Caro Mia

2010-07-16T04:21:00.000-07:00

When my plans for last night fell through at the last minute, I decided to invest the unexpected free evening making one of my 100 lovely things. Although I love the Astrid sweater and look forward to making it, with the heat index hovering at 105, even the word "sweater" made me sweat. So, I decided to floof up a favorite white T-shirt.

The fabric is cotton batiste. As it's laundered, the edges of the trim will fray a bit more--at least I hope so. The ruffles actually are a series of individual heart shapes, sewn down randomly but strategically. I decided on heart shapes because the curves and points would create interesting shapes when the fabric curled up after being washed. I sewed them down one at a time, twisting and turning the pieces to fill space and create the effect I wanted. I'm really pleased with the way this turned out--especially because I had no idea whether it would work.

It did.

If anyone is interested, I can make a tutorial for the process. It took about an hour and a half, but probably wouldn't take as long without the experimentation required for a new idea.

Eggscellent

2010-07-15T18:01:00.000-07:00

Even my breakfast was happy today.

Mighty List

2010-07-15T03:57:00.000-07:00

Maggie Berry, also known as Mighty Girl, introduced the Life List concept to Karen Walrond, whose blog introduced it to me. Maggie calls her list the Mighty Life List. I made my list less than a week ago, but already I can tell you, making a life list is mighty.

Yesterday, Teagan stayed with me for several hours, which I love but means working earlier and later to keep up with deadlines and responsibilities. The weather was miserable--high 90s with humidity over 90%. By the end of the day, I was hot and tired and cranky. I had planned to go hear Audrey Niffenegger speak, but when the time came, all I wanted was a glass of wine and my comfy sofa.

I flopped on the sofa, ready to blow off my plans, but my list nagged at me. "If you're going to 100 author readings before you go, you have to get off your butt," she whispered. "It's hot. You're tired. This means you should not live your dreams?" (She's a sarcastic bitch, but I like her, this mighty list whisperer of mine.)

Audrey was a revelation: smart and spunky and...well...a little odd--in the best sort of way. She dyes her hair a shade of red definitely not found in nature and her skin is ghostly pale. She answers questions with her tongue firmly in her cheek. She chose the setting for Her Fearful Symmetry--Highgate Cemetary--because she personally loves the place and wanted to spend time there. She has not seen the movie based on The Time Traveler's Wife because she doesn't want the actors playing her characters to supplant her imaginings of those characters. She can, she says, always decide to see it. She cannot unsee it. So...not never, but not yet.

Niffenegger worked on Her Fearful Symmetry for five years. Five years: two of them before the success of TTTW. This woman believes in her self and her work so strongly that when 30 agents passed on TTTW, she kept going. So strongly that when the character she planned to build HFS around couldn't sustain the story, she invented a whole new cast of characters and a whole new story arc. So strongly that she continued to research and imagine and write for five years until the characters in her head fell silent. That's when the story is finished, she says. When the characters stop appearing on the radio channel in her head, the one set aside for a particular book or story, the book is complete.

Audrey was inspiring and entertaining and fun. I'm glad I went, and without the list whisperer, I might have missed her. So, thanks, Maggie and Karen. And Audrey. I can't wait to see what happens next.

Life List Update #1

2010-07-14T04:23:00.000-07:00

Journaling my Life List has reminded me how extraordinarily blessed my life has been.

For example, #16--Visit All 50 States. I started the journal with a brief memory of each state I've visited. Turns out I have clear memories of all but three states. Unlikely though it is--having lived in Missouri and MN most of my life--I cannot recall visiting Oklahoma, North Dakota or Nebraska. This weekend I plan to knock Oklahoma off the list.

And #55--Visit All the Great Lodges. Turns out I've already hit eight of the 16. These grand old buildings and the stories of their creation are fascinating. I look forward to learning the other eight.

The journal leaves a map for my children to follow--through my life and their own. This--having a plan, taking risks, creating and honoring memories--this is how you make a life, my dear ones.

I leave you with a message from Teagan.

Mothers of the Bride

2010-07-13T03:55:00.001-07:00

N (Katie's birth mother) and I had lunch yesterday. After some small talk, I asked what her dreams are for Katie's wedding. Her answer makes it official: She is a real mother, too. Her dreams, you see, are for Katie to be comfortable and joyous and surrounded by love. She doesn't want to cause a stir. She wants to be present but not intrusive. She wants to do whatever makes things right and good for Katie. Real. Mother.

Together, we cooked up the beginnings of a plan. She's going to attend the showers and the parties and the events leading up to the wedding. The goal is for her to meet everyone in all the families--Bill and Kathy and Kevin and Julie (Craig's parents) and all the kids and stepkids and grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins--before the wedding. If she meets everyone before the big day and takes part in the celebrations, everyone will accept her as simply part of our family. As she is.

Here's an example of N's generous spirit: I asked if she would like to be escorted down the aisle immediately before the ceremony. She would.

I asked if she'd like to sit beside me in the front row (after I walk down the aisle with Katie). She would not.

That place, N said, is for me--the mother who raised Katie. She is thrilled to be recognized as special and important but wants to honor my relationship with Katie and the life we built.

"I gave her breath," N said. "You gave her life."

We are the mothers of the bride. And we rock.

2010-07-12T07:16:00.000-07:00

Karen Walrond's book trailer and the premise of her book, The Beauty of Different, fascinate me. Both the trailer Michelle posted and a second one available on Karen's blog show many people who would not, at a casual glance in a crowd, seem beautiful in the traditional sense. But in these photos, each is beautiful. Truly. Beautiful.

In the clear focus of Karen's work--close up, shown in the best light, beauty emerges. If you look closely enough, everyone is beautiful. Deep attention creates beauty. Or, maybe recognizes is a better word.

Also on Karen's blog, I discovered a TED talk by Chimamanda Adichie about the danger of a single story--the problems that arise when we believe the one thing we know about someone or something is the entire truth about that person or thing. It never is.

And so, I ask myself whether everyone is ugly, just as we all are beautiful. This might sound uncharacteristically negative, but I hope it's true. I know for a fact that I am ugly--inside and out--at times. If everyone has ugly moments, it's easier to accept them in myself. I don't mean it's acceptable to behave badly or to be unkind. Not at all. But I find it comforting to believe everyone has dark moments, times they have to talk themselves off the ledge, times they don't make the most loving choice. I even find it comforting to think that--like me--everyone has moments when the dark circles under their eyes resemble caverns and their hair looks like a rat's nest.

Capturing and reflecting beauty is a worthwhile endeavor. The reminder that we're all beautiful is welcome. But how reassuring might it be to remind ourselves we're not alone in our occasional ugliness? I'm not sure how that could be accomplished, but it would be equally fascinating.

100 Things to Do Before I Go

2010-07-11T06:00:00.000-07:00

Blogging not only rocks. It rolls.

I introduced Michelle to Laura Munson who led Michelle to Karen Walrond. Michelle posted Karen's book trailer, which left breadcrumbs to Mighty Maggie and her life list.

This idea grabbed me and wouldn't let go. As both Karen and Maggie note, the point is not that you have to do all 100 things before you die. The point is that writing them down forms a commitment with your soul to reach further. To live bigger. And smaller. To remember that we all go. To recognize the time is now.

My list kept me up until 1:00 am and woke me at 5:45. I haven't finished, but I'm posting it here and now. I am committing to my self. I am committing to others. I am saying yes to life.

In no particular order...

100 Things to Do Before I Go

1. Fall in love again.

2. Ride my bicycle across Tuscany.

3. See the Grand Canyon.

4. Visit Yosemite.

5. Walk my daughter down the aisle.

6. Teach my granddaughter to swim.

7. Write a book from my heart.

8. Stomp grapes at a vineyard.

9. Attend Crescent Dragonwagon's Fearless Writing workshop.

10. Fly a kite on a beach.

11. Take a barefoot sailing cruise.

12. Return to the Bay of Fundy.

13. Spend a weekend in Kinsale, Ireland.

14. Drive the Pacific Coast Highway.

15. Learn to bake good bread.

16. Visit all 50 states.

17. Take dance lessons.

18. Sleep at the Beagle motel.

19. Meditate at the Joshua Tree

20. Take a barge trip down the Seine.

21. Learn photography.

22. Make jam from strawberries I grew myself.

23. Volunteer for Habitat for Humanity.

24. Take a moon bath in the full moon.

25. Bike Mackinac Island.

26. Finish or give away all unfinished projects.

27. Make the Astrid sweater.

28. Take painting lessons.

29. Make 100 lovely things.

30. Sleep in a treehouse.

31. Get an essay accepted by the NY Times

32. Spend a summer in a small house by the ocean.

33. Spend a summer in Bayfield, Wisconsin.

34. Volunteer with a theater group.

35. Make pasta from scratch.

36. Find a spiritual home.

37. Hike in a fern glen.

38. Drive the Going to the Sun Road.

39. Stay at the Plaza when I visit my publisher.

40. Ride the Katy Trail from one end to the other.

41. Take my granddaughter to Disney World.

42. Learn 100 new words in English.

43. Waterski again.

44. Try 100 kinds of tea.

45. Donate 1000 books to a library.

46. Hike Kitchen Mesa.

47. Create a comfortable, funky workspace for myself.

48. Read 1000 more books.

49. Attend 100 local festivals.

50. Dance from dusk to dawn.

51. Watch the Leonid Showers from a desert or forest

52. Attend a concert at the Sydney Opera House.

53. Listen to 100 new-to-me musicians.

54. Make giant bubbles with my granddaughter.

55. Visit all the Great Lodges of the National Parks.

56. Spend a long weekend in Mendocino, CA.

57. Record my father's carny calls.

58. Attend 100 author readings.

59. Learn to stand on my head.

60. Recycle at least 50% of all garbage I create.

61. Hug a redwood.

62. Learn Tai Chi.

63. Meditate 100 days in a row.

64. Buy a book at Over the Transom in Fairhope, Alabama

65. Get a story published in Glimmer Train.

66. Attend the Erma Bombeck Writer's Workshop.

67. Read 1000 poems.

68. Post a YouTube video.

69. Make an illustrated book of my favorite quotes.

70. Swing for 30 minutes.

71. Write a six-word novel.

72. Write a 10-word personal ad.

73. Take fly-fishing lessons.

74. Make 100 angels.

75. Make my own Pandora radio station.

76. Find 100 heart rocks.

77. Make my blog look like me.

78. Donate 100 warm hats to Micah Ministries.

79. Can really good salsa.

80. Journal my progress on this list.

Edgy

2010-07-10T05:02:00.000-07:00

I've slept 5,739* nights since the divorce, most of them alone. And despite my efforts to switch sides or move to the center, I cling to the edge. Of my bed.

Last night I stirred, started to turn over, and realized that if I moved even a hair, I'd fall off the bed. I had to move the dog and my pillows to adjust myself in the slightest. This morning, I woke on the edge again.

One of the things I do for my major freelance client is review the work of the 110 editors assigned to me. Writing each review is a laborious process that often involves making retroactive corrections and emailing various people on various matters. When I started in this position, my manager explained what needed to be done and how. I had no idea how many reviews I was expected to complete each week. I did some calculations and came up with what I thought they would expect. I've stayed up half the night, night after night, meeting this expectation that I made up. Earlier this week I discovered the rest of the team had been given a target. And that target is exactly half what I'd been driving myself crazy to accomplish each week. Half.

For this same company, I sometimes edit when the backlog gets too big. I'm not required to do this, but things get complicated for everyone when the system backs up, so I pitch in when I can manage it outside my usual hours. In an attempt to encourage editors to catch up, the company promised a bonus to the top 50 editors in terms of volume for a 30 day period. Yesterday I received auto-notification that I would receive the bonus. My "help when I can" habit put me in the top 50 producers out of 1200 editors--for a job that is not mine.

So often, I plug along, trying to keep up, only to discover that what seems normal to me appears excessive to others. Could this be why I've slept alone for 5,739 nights? The reason I'm on the edge? It's truly something to think about.

*No worries, folks. I don't keep track--I did the math just for this post. I'm working on my writing, and 5,739 says so much more than "a long time."

Teagan Day!

2010-07-08T08:04:00.000-07:00

It's remarkably difficult to take good pictures of a baby by yourself. You really need someone to hold the baby while you take her picture. Out of the dozens I took yesterday, only these reflect any portion of her gorgeousness.

My darling granddaughter, ready for our first walk together.

My darling granddaughter, after our first walk together.

My Teagan is coming today!!!!

I get to take care of her for a couple hours this afternoon. Pictures to follow.

Stopping

2010-07-07T04:21:00.000-07:00

Today is Ringo Starr's 70th birthday. Seriously. RINGO frickn' STARR turns 70. Today.

I was 10 years old when Ed Sullivan me to introduced the Beatles. Sure, I knew the lads from Liverpool were adults and I was a child that Sunday night. But somehow I'm shocked to discover Ringo is closer to my father's age (79) than to my own (56).

Last night I took part in an open forum on Laura Munson's blog. Laura, the author of This Is Not the Story You Think It Is, led a discussion of "stopping." As in stopping to notice, stopping to celebrate the beauty around us. As in stopping to buy lemonade from a child's stand.

The conversation included talk of surrender. It evolved to a discussion of saying yes to the Universe. Now that I've had time to think about it all, I don't think we drifted from the topic.

Stopping is surrender. Surrender is saying yes to the Universe. Something inside us--that spark of God that connects us all--wants us to notice the glorious gifts we're given. Every single day. Jack Gilbert wrote, "The treasures hidden inside you are hoping you will say yes."

It feels like a few years ago that Ringo Starr was a skinny, mop-haired boy launching a musical revolution. Today, he's 70. And still on stage. Still saying yes to the gifts he was given. He still can because he still does.

Ringo has asked that everyone stop at noon today (each in his own time zone) and wish the world "Peace and Love."

Please say yes to that.

Open Sesame

2010-07-06T06:35:00.000-07:00

Managing daily tasks on the computer and Internet requires user names and passwords and secret phrases. Transferring money from one account to another--within the same bank--means I have to remember a user name and three passwords. Getting online to work requires two. Paying my utility bills requires three more. Secret words and phrases fill my brain, and accessing them at the right moment gets more and more complicated.

I've been waking in the night again. Words circle me in the dark, phrases begging to be written down. I want to tell these stories. I want to be a disciplined person who writes 500 words every day, no matter what. I want to step forward, believing the path will appear. I want to plug into the current that flows through me when I write from my heart.

Part of what holds me back is the idea that I have to find a magical combination of words that will open all doors. Anne Lamott believes in "shitty first drafts."

Maybe that's the password.

Fearless

2010-07-04T03:17:00.000-07:00

Some of you may remember my fascination with Crescent Dragonwagon, about whom I have written several times, including here and here.

Dragon, as she calls herself, briefly attended the same high school I did, although I can't say I knew her. Tremendously colorful and mysterious, she remained my most unforgettable character for decades. In the mid-80s, I ran across her work via the suggested reading list for a curriculum product I was editing. In 1993, she popped up again in various articles about Bill Clinton's inauguration. In 2002, my brother-in-law gave me Passionate Vegetarian as a Christmas gift. In 2008, I came across her blog, Nothing Is Wasted on the Writer.

Her presence is a recurring theme/dream.

Crescent runs a workshop called Fearless Writing. For years now, I've longed to attend one. I'm finally back at work on a "real" project these days. My biggest issue, as always, is the uncertainty, the not knowing where the story is going. Thus we circle back to Crescent and her workshop and fearlessness.

My major freelance client offers a monthly grant to help writers realize their dreams. I am not working today. I am not playing. Today, I am writing an application for the July grant. If I receive it, I will immediately sign up for the Labor Day edition of Fearless Writing. I will go to the Green Mountains of Vermont and meet Crescent again, for the first time. (She's changed. I've changed. We never really knew one another.)

In one way, this seems an impossible dream. In another, it feels like destiny. I can't know which is true. I can only write the best grant application possible and turn loose of the outcome.

Wish me luck.

* Green Mountains in fall. Photo from University of Vermont website

Planning a Lunch and a Wedding

2010-07-01T04:00:00.000-07:00

N (Katie's birth mother) and I are having lunch next week. We haven't seen one another since Mother's Day 2009, which is far too long. She's a lovely woman.

As the wedding planning ramps up, I realize how complicated this could be. My nephew and his bride-to-be are going crazy trying to mollify two two-parent families. Katie has four sets of parents in addition to her extended family, step-family and birth families.

Danger, Will Robinson!

My dream for Katie is that her wedding be peaceful and joyous. She will be at peace only if her families are. The night she asked me to help her find her birth mother, she said she wanted to know her well enough to have her at the eventual wedding. The eventual has become the actual. She has the dress, the guests, the cake, the whole darn thing. We're supposed to sign a contract for the reception location today.

I want to know Nancy's dreams for herself and the wedding. All final decisions are Katie's, of course, but I can influence the course of our ship of dreams. Knowing what N wants gives me a sort of star chart to work with. Katie is careful to be respectful of my feelings, and I appreciate that more than she'll ever know. Even so, I don't want the two of them to miss out on things they'd like to share. If I know enough to make the right suggestions, Katie won't have to worry about hurting my feelings, and she won't have to worry about disappointing N.

And so, I've asked N to lunch. My hope is that we'll talk and laugh and share our dreams for our daughter. My job here is to compromise. To make room. To live my love for my daughter. Come to think of it, N's job is pretty much the same.

We have a lot in common.

Grandma News

2010-06-28T05:25:00.000-07:00

After saying they wouldn't be there, Evan and Kristin and Teagan came to the shower yesterday. I was thrilled.

The highlight was carrying Teagan around, introducing her to friends and family. Teagan is, of course, a particularly beautiful baby, and she looked darling in a little yellow dress embroidered with tiny cupcakes. I even got to give her a bottle. (Kristin had expressed milk so she wouldn't have to breastfeed during the party.)

This grandma thing is a good gig.

Finding My Grateful Heart

2010-06-27T04:45:00.000-07:00

As Dad tells stories, one of the things most present to me is how blessed we--his children--have been. Through intelligence and hard work and love and loyalty, he and my mother transmuted our lives. The timing of my nephew's text about the limousines was ironic, to say the least, and I couldn't stop thinking about the metaphorical distance between the childhoods of my father and my children.

Those of you who've been reading a while know that my former husband can be...difficult. And loyalty is not his strong suit. And...well...you know. But the challenging things about him are not the whole of him. The truth is, he is part of the reason our children will never live in a boxcar. His intelligence and hard work have contributed to our family's journey.

Thursday morning, after a night of fitful sleep and constant thought-loops about all this, I called him. Very briefly (he hates to hear me talk) I outlined the story of the boxcar and the limo. And then I thanked him for his part in the safety and comfort our children enjoy.

He did not say a word. I waited a moment, and then said, "That's all I need to say. Just 'thank you.'" More silence. "Good-bye."

In a voice so tight you could feel his vocal cords vibrate, he choked out, "Thank you for calling."

We hung up without another word.

Friday, he called to ask me to find a way to get Evan fitted for a tux for a wedding in his step-family. "If I just ask him to do it, nothing will get done. Can you help?" After receiving the emailed measurements on Saturday, he called to thank me. He was gracious and kind.

We've exchanged more pleasant words this week than we have in some years since our divorce.

Now, I've been down this road long enough to know this isn't a storybook happy ending. We will not ride off into some rosy sunset. We will not hold hands around campfires, singing Kum Ba Yah. But it is a crack in the wall of bitterness and anger between us, an opening in my own heart as well as his. Because, as much as I've worked on forgiveness, as much as I've tried to let go of resentment, the best I've ever managed is a shaky kind of inner detente. I may not dwell on the old anger, but I certainly leap to new irritation when his present actions confirm my beliefs about him. And the thing is, Anais Nin was right. We see things not as they are, but as we are.

A grateful heart is a fine filter through which to see the world. I'm working on it.

Photo courtesy of Haiyen

Buster Brown Gets Busted

2010-06-26T04:03:00.000-07:00

So, get this. Grandpa and Uncle Forest were driving their truck through a small town in Indiana when some sort of incident stopped traffic. They were sitting in a railroad crossing, waiting for the problem to be resolved, when they heard a train in the distance.

Uncle Forest (not known to be a tactful sort) jumped out and screamed at the driver of the truck behind him to back up. The driver, who must not have heard the train coming, took exception to Forest's language or his tone or his attitude. He backed up, but only a few feet. Forest backed the truck as far as he could, trying to maneuver around the other truck. When the other driver recognized what was happening, he leaped from his truck and ran for cover.

Forest was still trying to get his truck off the tracks when the train hit them. Grandpa, snoozing in the sleeper, was oblivious to the situation until the train hit the cab. After that, he was oblivious to everything for a while. Family legend has it that Grandpa's habit of sleeping with one pillow beneath his head and another over his face was the only thing that saved him. I have trouble seeing how a pillow protected him from a 150-ton locomotive, but maybe that's just me.

Anyway, Grandpa sustained a concussion and an impressive assortment of bumps and bruises. Shorty, Forest and Grandpa's guard, was not seriously injured. Forest was trapped in the burning truck. Good Samaritans finally managed to free him, but his body was broken and badly burned. After a week or so in a local hospital, he was transferred to a larger hospital in Indianapolis, where doctors amputated his leg to save him from the gangrene that set in.

Here's what I want you to picture: Grandpa and Forest were carrying a load of Buster Brown shoes. The train dragged the truck nearly three-quarters of a mile before it got stopped. The impact ripped the canvas cover off the back of the truck and scattered shoes for almost a mile. As darkness gathered, townspeople scuttled over the tracks and through the ditches, trying on shoes.

That just knocks me over. There, in middle America during the heart of the Depression, some of those people probably hadn't had new shoes for years. A shower of Buster Browns must have seemed like manna raining down from Heaven.

Can you see it? A crumpled truck. A derailed train. Flashlights dancing on the ground like fireflies as people searched for matching shoes amid the smoking wreckage.

Damn. Somebody ought to write a book.

photo: Jeremy Brooks on Flickr

From Boxcars to Limos

2010-06-25T05:02:00.000-07:00

Working in the basement again last night, Dad was telling me stories of his life. Some I knew. Others I'd never heard.

Before Dad was born, his mom and dad and two older brothers lived in an abandoned boxcar for a while, probably during 1929 or 1930. Grandma baked pies and made sandwiches that Grandpa and his brother sold to men working in the train yard. Grandpa must have rigged up some kind of metal box Grandma could bake in over a campfire, because she sure didn't have an oven in the boxcar. Or a sink. Or a bathroom.

Eventually, Grandpa got a job driving a truck for Globe Cartage, and they were able to rent a small house. Times were so desperate that driving loads of valuable cargo--cigarettes and liquor--required two drivers and an armed guard. Grandpa and his brother Forest took turns driving/sleeping in the sleeper cab, and their guard Shorty slept in his seat with a shotgun in his lap. They once were highjacked, a story I'll write in detail later. That job ended when the truck got hit by a train, badly injuring Grandpa and costing Forest one of his legs. Grandpa used his $700 insurance settlement to buy a house, the first he ever owned.

While Dad was telling this story, my nephew sent a blast text to the 116 people coming to his Caribbean-themed wedding shower on Sunday. Not enough parking is available in my sister's neighborhood, so they've arranged permission to park at a nearby school. Limos will carry guests from the parking lot to the catered party, which is being held poolside.

He has no idea about the boxcar. His is a limousine life.

Come On In

2010-06-24T04:55:00.000-07:00

As we were growing up, Dad sometimes sang while he worked around the house. More often, he "barked," in the sing-song, cajoling tones of a carny. "A winner every time for only a dime. One thin dime, a winner every time. Come On In."

Dad's father chased success from the bottom of an Iowa coal mine to the hills of Snohomish County, WA and back across the hills of Missouri and the farmland of southern Iowa. His favorite book was Think and Grow Rich. He never stopped believing his next idea would be The One. Handsome and charming, he could have been successful at most anything if only he'd stuck to it long enough. But no matter what he was doing, when some other idea glittered in the distance, he chased its sparkle, with his wife and five children bumping along behind him.

Dad was 15 when Grandpa dragged the family from St. Louis, Missouri to Bothell, Washington, where he started building houses. They nearly starved for a year or so, but Grandpa built good, solid houses, and his reputation got around. In 1946, babies and houses were booming. The family loved Washington, and they had a little disposable income for the first time in their lives. Until....

Grandpa came home one day and announced that he'd bought a cookhouse and some game booths and committed the family to traveling with a carnival. Dad and his brothers argued. His sister and mother cried. But in the end, they packed their belongings into a 1.5 ton 1941 Ford truck and struck out for the MidWest. For two years, they lived in that truck, cooking over a campfire and bathing in ponds or creeks. "Hot and Good and Good and Hot. Come On In."

Grandma and Grandpa cooked hamburgers. Well, to be more accurate, Grandma fried hamburgers inside a steaming tent under the summer sun of Iowa and Missouri. Grandpa stood outside, luring people to the counter. "Half a Cow on a Bun for One. Come On In."

Dad ran a string game. "Oh, these strings. These lucky strings. One thin dime. A winner every time. Come On In."

After that first summer, Grandpa rented a dilapidated old house and garage in Exline, Iowa for the winter. The garage gave him a place to work on the equipment he was building for the new and improved carnival he would roll out the following summer.

Mom lived in Exline. She and Dad met in school. The rest, as they say, is history.

Cleaning out the basement yesterday, Dad picked up a worn wooden stool. It had come, he said, from the carnival cookhouse. When they finally quit the carnival, his mother wanted nothing from it, so Dad gave the little stool to my mother's mother, whom he adored. Mom's mom used it in her kitchen and on her porch until her death, and then Mom's dad continued to use it. Dad claimed the little stool from the junk pile when Mom and her brothers and sisters cleaned out their father's house after his death.

And now it's mine. "Every Time You Play, You Win. Come On In."

Unlikely Angel

2010-06-23T05:05:00.001-07:00

Walked into Mom and Dad's house yesterday and followed the sound of the shop vac to the basement. Found Mom on her hands and knees, sobbing as she sucked up sawdust from under a large piece of woodworking equipment.

"What are you doing, Mom?" I asked.

"I've got to get this cleaned up. Your dad's got someone coming here tomorrow to buy all this stuff," she answered.

I asked what stuff she meant, and the whole story tumbled out. Over the last few months, Dad has asked each of us if we wanted any of his woodworking stuff. Each of us has answered in some vague, "I don't know what I'd do with it" manner. What we meant was, "We want your stuff in your shop where it belongs."

Dad, you see, is a woodworker. Through the years, he has built tables and chairs and cabinets for Mom and for each of us kids. But the real treasures that emerged from his workshop were the toys. Each of his grandchildren has toys the likes of which most people have never seen. Each girl has a handmade miniature Queen Anne dining table and chairs along with a matching china cabinet. Both boys have drop-leg desks. Each child has a rocking horse. Each child has cars and trucks and tractors. Evan has dinosaur pull toys. Katie has a dog pull toy. Now adults, the kids have pieces of their grandfather's love to share with their own children. And their grandchildren after that.

Dad has not been able to work in the shop for quite a while now, and it's been on his mind. "I am not leaving this mess for your mother to deal with," he said yesterday. "It took her brother five years to take his wife's robe off the bathroom door. What in the world would she do with the tools I collected over a lifetime?"

And so, Dad placed an ad in a woodworker's forum. Someone responded immediately, of course. Dad made arrangements to sell all his equipment--the table saws and the band saw and the joiners and planers and the drill press--for mere pennies. More painful to me and to Mom, he planned to give the man all his hand tools. The big equipment I could stand, but not the Jorgensen wood clamps, daubbed with glue and stain from decades of use. Not the brace and bit--one of the first tools Dad owned. Not the hand plane or the chisels or the calipers. Not the things he wrapped his hands around as he worked his magic. Not the things that the bear marks of his living and his loving.

Just before I arrived, Dad had run to the store for a bolt. Mom was in the shop alone, vacuuming and sobbing. She did not want to let these things go. We talked and cried. I promised to keep this thing from happening, grabbed my phone, and drove home to make calls in private.

My brother doesn't want the tools and didn't have time to talk about it. My nephew got defensive. In desperation, I called my former husband.

"Don't let him sell his tools to a stranger, Jerri," he said without hesitation. "I'll buy them. Whatever the man offers, I'll pay more. I'll drive down and pick them up. I'll come whenever he wants. Please, don't let your dad's things just disappear. At least, if I have them, they're still in our family."

We've been divorced for 16 years.

Bill has a full shop at his home. He has no actual need for a single one of these tools. For him, as for me, it is simply too much to think of Dad's things in the hands of a stranger.

When I thanked him, and Bill said, "I love your dad. I always have. And I respect him as much as anyone I ever knew. I don't want strangers to have his tools."

When I told Mom and Dad that Bill wanted the tools, they both broke down in tears. Dad called the man to cancel the appointment. He sobbed as he explained that his kids wanted his things to stay in the family.

Mom picked up the phone twice yesterday afternoon to call Bill to thank him. Both times, she ended up crying so hard she hung up before she could finish dialing. She plans to try again today.

The growths in Dad's good lung are growing. He's having a PET scan on the first and we'll get the results from that as well as a battery of other tests on the 12th. He's known this for a couple weeks but didn't tell anyone until yesterday. All this flurry of activity, this press to get rid of his things is his way of trying to soften the blows headed toward us all.

Please pray or hold him in the Light or simply hold space for the great heart of this good man.

Goose, Goose, Grey Goose

2010-06-22T05:04:00.000-07:00

The noisiest goose in the world has lived on our pond for three years. The goose wars drove off all the Canadian geese, but this lone grey goose stayed. It honks at all hours of the day and night, the loudest, most plaintive cry I've ever heard from a fowl.

Seven weeks ago, her silence woke me in the night. Her cries had waked me at least once a night for three years, so her silence was palpable and a bit alarming. A few days later, a glimpse of her at the edge of the pond reassured me. In the last two or three weeks, I've neither seen nor heard her. Yesterday, my neighbor happened to be outside when I was out with Cassie, and I asked her about the goose.

"Oh, she's here," Carolyn said, pointing to the corner.

That poor goose has been sitting on a nest of eggs for seven weeks. She's now rail thin and cannot manage even a bleat. I got fairly close to take this picture. Her beak opened. Her tongue fluttered. No sound came out. She is literally dying to become a mother.

I recognize her desperation.

This Is Not the Story You Think It Is

2010-06-20T05:24:00.000-07:00

Laura Munson is one of us--a seeker and a thinker; a wife and a mother. She is a writer, one who had not found her way to being published despite 20 years of dedication, 14 completed novels and reams of "good' rejection notes in her office.

And she decided to stop suffering. Just in time, too. When her husband announced he no longer loved her and may never have loved her, she was given an opportunity to practice non-suffering. A big time opportunity.

Munson says, "It is possible to commit to non-suffering in a time of crisis. To let go of outcome. To truly live in the moment as a way of survival, not just as spiritual preference or practice. When we are living like that, we are living in freedom."

As a writer, Munson did the only thing she knew to do in this uncharted territory: She wrote her way through it. On August 2, 2009, her essay "Those Aren't Fighting Words, Dear," was published in the NY Times "Modern Love" column. The response almost crashed the paper's servers--they had to shut down comments to slow the overload. Within 48 hours, Munson had a contract for a memoir, a book she had written as the story unfolded. "This Is Not the Story You Think It Is" was published in April, 2010.

Munson's book is worth reading. And rereading. And reading again. She is a woman who lives her belief in people and principles. Despite her husband's "dis-affection," as she calls it, she loves and believes in him. Despite 14 unpublished novels, she believes in herself as a writer. Despite the tidal pull of anger and bitterness and reactionary choices, she believes in the freedom of choosing not to suffer. She doesn't paint this as easy or herself as a saint. She simply keeps putting one foot in front of the other on a path to peace.

Her path did lead her to peace and to being published and to living the life she imagined.

Long may it wave.

Unexpected Pleasures

2010-06-17T05:20:00.000-07:00

Driving home from MN yesterday, I stopped in Des Moines for lunch and wifi to catch up with work a bit. Settled in with my ice tea and an electrical outlet, I zoned into the rhythm of work correspondence.

Katie called, just to check my progress on the drive, to make sure I was safe. When she makes the drive, I ask her to check in at the quarter, half, and three-quarter points. I feel better knowing where she is on the road, knowing she's still safe. She now asks the same of me. This slight shift in our relationship brings tears to my eyes. She feels protective of me, too.

Just before the three-quarter mark, Katie calls. She is at her second job and struggling. For the last two months, she has worked noon to 4:00 at her new corporate job and 4:30 to 11:00 pm (or later) at her old room service job at the hotel, four days a week. Fridays she works only at her corporate job. She is tired beyond tired.

She is, she says, thinking of turning in her resignation at the hotel. When I ask what the benefits are, she breaks into tears. "I just can't do it anymore," she says. We work through the list of "pros" and then the list of "cons," and she makes a decision.

"I knew you'd help me think clearly," she says.

20 miles pass before she texts: "Thanks for the guidance, Mom."

At dinner with just the two of us last Friday, I reminded Katie that I am, always and forever, radically on her side. This sometimes means telling her hard truths, but mostly it means helping her hear herself, helping her accept what she already knows.

I wanted babies and children so much. I looked forward to all stages of my children's childhoods. I looked forward to being a grandmother. What I didn't anticipate was the pure joy of being a witness to their emergence as adults.

It is monumental, this joy. And all the sweeter for having been so unexpected.

A Very Good Day

2010-06-13T06:03:00.000-07:00

We bought Katie's wedding dress yesterday.

The wedding dress store is housed in four older homes in a beautiful part of St. Paul. We had a dressing room and an assistant to ourselves. The assistant pulled a curtain across half the room while she and Stephanie (Katie's maid of honor) helped Katie into each dress. When they were set, they pulled back the curtain to reveal the loveliness.

I cried every single time.

The sixth dress was THE one. Everyone in the room--Katie's prospective mother- and sister-in-law, Stephanie, me, the assistant, and Katie--knew we'd found it. And wonder of wonders, it was within my budget and available in plenty of time.

In the evening, we were invited to Craig's aunt and uncle's house, a truly gorgeous home on Crystal Lake in Minneapolis. Their yard is so beautifully maintained it looks like a park, and their house is stunning. Not enormous exactly, but spacious and gracious and comfortable. We had wine and rustled up some simple food. We talked and laughed and cried.

Dianne, the aunt, recently lost her mother. When we talked about her mother's death, Dianne told a lovely story about Katie and Craig. When they heard the news, the kids showed up at Dianne's and started getting ready for the activities that were sure to follow. They went to the grocery store and liquor store and Target. They got ice and toilet paper, two things you always need when a crowd gathers. They ran errands and answered phones.

"I feel bad that I've never written them a thank you note, but how do you thank someone for that?" Dianne sobbed.

Later, I pulled Katie aside and told her how proud that story made me, how much I love her. She hugged me and smiled, and we went back to the group. Later, as we were clearing the table, Katie stepped close and put her arms around me.

"I didn't think anything about the things we did that day. You show up. You do what you can. You help. That's just what we do. That's who you raised me to be, Mom. It's what you taught me and showed me all my life."

All in all, it was as good as day as any one could ever hope to have.

Love.

Navel Gazing

2010-06-10T04:30:00.000-07:00

Got to hold the baby for a little while yesterday. She's so beautiful. Evan and Kristin were squabbling and tense when they brought her over. For me, all that disappeared the moment I pulled T from the car seat. We walked and rocked and sang. I read Good Night Moon. It was all good.

And can we talk about what the miracle of the belly button? Both my kids had belly buttons before we met, so I've never watched that transformation. T's stump kind of scared me when she first was born. It was black and had a weird texture. That clamp looked fierce, and I didn't know what to do with the top edge of her diapers when I changed her.

Now she has the most beautiful little navel. It's amazing to me that belly buttons simply right themselves over time.

Lots of things work out unto good when we give them enough time, light, and air.

Something I need to remember.

No Answers

2010-06-09T06:27:00.000-07:00

At 6'4" and nearly 300 pounds, his body is not built for blending in. His clothes do not help: a Mizzou golf shirt with bright gold stripes from his underarms to his waist. From the moment he appears in the cafe area of Barnes and Noble, he seems to be trying to fade into the background.

Mizzou-guy doesn't bother with coffee or even a cookie. He picks a one-person table and shifts the chair to position himself behind a nearby column, facing the back of the store. He takes off his glasses and sets them on the table, then opened the hot-rod magazine he carries. He can't see the magazine with the glasses and can't see the object of his attention without them, so he reads a moment, puts the glasses on to check whatever it is, then takes the glasses off to read. Periodically, he leans a bit more to the right, putting more of his body behind the column, and then peers around it toward the back of the store.

Fifteen minutes into this peculiar dance, Mizzou-guy leaps to his feet and practically runs toward the back of the store, abandoning his magazine. His belly, hanging down at least 5 inches over his belt, ripples from the sudden movement, something like the water in a pool after a teenage boy's cannonball.

What or who was he watching? Where did he go? Why is a tired looking, middle-aged man hiding in plain sight in the cafe of a suburban bookstore?

I'll never know, but I've got the itch to make up a story for him.

When the Rainbow Isn't Enough

2010-06-08T05:34:00.001-07:00

At a coffee shop the other day, I met a lady dressed--head to toe--in yellow and orange. From her feet to her ears, she matched and coordinated: yellow and orange caftan, orange earrings/necklace, yellow bracelets and watch, amber rings, orange shoes, orange and yellow purse. She seemed to be 80 or so, and the vibrant colors washed out her pale skin and hair. She looked like she was wearing a "costume" instead of an "outfit."

She saw me observing her, so I smiled and said, "You have such an eye for accessories."

Thrilled, she explained that she saves time by choosing a color theme for each week. On Sunday morning, she enters her walk-in closet, which is organized by color and laid out like a rainbow, and picks the week's theme. Then she selects her accessories for the week and the week's first outfit. For the next six days, all she has to do is choose an outfit from the right section of her rainbow--she wears the same accessories until she "resets" the following Sunday.

I wanted to hear more. Not just how she does this, but why. What is the story of an 80-year-old woman who can't go outside her bedroom without perfectly matched jewelry, shoes and purse? What chaos is she holding back with her rainbow? Does she see herself or only all the colored plastic?

She was meeting a friend, who arrived while we were talking. Otherwise, I might still be sitting there, asking her questions.

Photo: Photo-Fenix.com

A New Song Waiting

2010-06-05T03:27:00.001-07:00

I saw Letters to Juliet last night. The story was just as predictable as expected, but I loved the movie. I may go see it again today and will surely buy the DVD. Not for the story, but for the chance to see the hills and valleys, the trees and hillsides, the golden glow of Tuscany.

I am meant to go to Tuscany some day. I'm interested in many places in the world, but only Tuscany calls to me in the night. Something waits for me there, and when the time is right, I'll find my way to it. This, I know.

On Thursday, I worked from 6:00 am to 2:00 am Friday. I did go to a local coffee shop for a few hours of the marathon, but mostly I sat in a chair with my nose pointed toward the screen of my laptop and the deadline in front of me. This is of no particular importance other than this sort of leaden lumpiness is the exact opposite of the feeling I have for Tuscany.

As I knew it would, the scenery of Tuscany lifted me, gave me a frisson of my favorite feeling in the world, that of being in alignment with the Universe. It has happened to me a handful of times, always when I've stepped beyond my normal boundaries and risked something, always when I've followed my heart to places my head would not lead me.

Maybe it's because being in alignment is about vibration and sound is a vibration, but every one of these experiences has a sound track, a song so present I feel as much as hear it. I've written here about the 4th of July I rented jet skis and screeched across White Bear Lake, screaming along with Tom Petty's voice in my head...and my bones and my heart. "I'm free...free falling...."

Lindsay Buckingham and Fleetwood Mac reverberated through the Wrangell Mountains, telling me to "go my own way" as I meditated on a rock in the middle of an honest-to-God tundra during a break from a bike ride across Alaska.

Kenny Loggins boomed from my radio early one morning, assuring me I was right where I belonged as I rounded the curve down to the harbor of Duluth, MN. The man I was dating was running Grandma's Marathon, and I got up that morning wishing I could see him cross the finish line. The kids were at their dad's house for the weekend, and I rattled around the house a bit, vaguely dissatisfied and sad. As though my fairy godmother touched me with the wand of understanding, all at once, I realized I could go, I could just get in my car and drive there. It was a revelation, a recognition of freedom.

I had only the vaguest idea of where Duluth was (north), and no idea where the marathon was actually run, but I followed the highway signs 154 miles, got off on an exit that "felt right," and parked in a church parking lot. The first person I passed was kind enough to explain that the path of the race turned for the finish line about two blocks away. "Right where you belong," Kenny echoed in my head.

Everyone I passed smiled broadly and went out of their way to be kind and helpful that day. It might have been because I was the only woman in the crowd dressed for a tea party: a beautiful steel blue linen dress with buttons the color of old pennies, ankle socks and shoes to match the buttons of the dress. Oh, and a flower on my lapel. And a copper-colored straw hat. Even so, I think it was because they could see or sense that I felt at home in my own skin, sure of what I was doing. Free. Holding the tail of a cosmic kite.

I didn't recognize my love crossing the finish line--not consciously, anyway. But I did cheer and hoot and holler for strangers accomplishing this tremendous thing. And I made friends with a family sitting next to me on the street. Together, we wandered the street fair down by the harbor and ate snow cones. It was one of the most wonderful days of my life.

The scenery of Tuscany in "Letters to Juliet," evokes sense memories, a phantom hum throughout my body. Not Tom or Lindsay or Kenny, but a new song waiting to be heard, a new adventure waiting to be lived.

My jar is open. Time to fly. I can't swing Tuscany right now, but next weekend, I'm going to Duluth.

Point of View

2010-06-02T05:58:00.001-07:00

Read an essay in which a writer describes writing the same story from several different points of view, just to get down the details. Then she actually writes the story.

Umm...wow.

The story I submitted, the one I've been obsessing over, is the story of the day I met Katie's birth mother. Most of it was posted here at the time. It's written in first person, as it was lived.

By that, I mean--I didn't give a thought to what was in Nancy's mind as she walked up to or through my front door. I wrote about my nerves, my self-talk. I did not mention hers because I couldn't. I have no idea what it was.

What an exercise it would be to write that day in third person, to put on the hat of omniscience and imagine the view from the far side of the mother equation. Of course, it would be pure fiction. But, in its own way, so is the story I wrote, which kind of presumes that mine was the only heart breaking that afternoon.

Damn. AFGO*

*another freaking growth opportunity

Glimmers of Hope

2010-06-01T05:27:00.000-07:00

Since mid-May, every morning, I've logged onto my account at the literary magazine where I submitted my story. Every morning, I steel myself for what I will see. So far, all I've seen is "In Process." I choose to see it as very good news that they've had the story for over a month without rejecting it.

Last night I read an interview with one of the magazine's editors. She says she reads the first page of every story submitted, right off the online system. She responds right away to the immediate "NOs." She marks others for continued reading, and then weeds out a bunch more from that stage. Some, she prints out and reads in full. From that group, she passes on a smaller number to her co-editor, who winnows down further.

From this, I deduce that my story was not an immediate "NO." I base this on nothing but supposition. And ego. Let's not forget ego. But seriously, it seems likely, after five weeks, that she surely has read at least the first page and judged it worthy of further consideration.

Evan and Kristin went home Sunday. Kristin is not supposed to be doing the stairs yet, but they were very anxious to get home. They actually stayed here only a few days, and then Kristin went to stay with her grandmother. We had no drama, and no cross words. They just left. I haven't seen Teagan since Saturday. Katie drove 1000 miles to be here for the weekend and saw the baby for a total of 30 minutes.

Teagan has not yet worn even one of the outfits I made for her. In fact, Evan and Kristin haven't taken a single piece of it home with them, not even the quilts. When I tried to pack those pieces up for them, they said, "No. She's going to need some things here." I choose to see that as positive, an indication that she will, in fact, spend some time here.

Every day, I log into the magazine's system and see I haven't been rejected yet. Every day, I am relieved and happy for an instant before reminding myself not to get too comfortable. Just because I haven't been rejected doesn't mean I won't be.

And so, I wait to see what will happen.

In process.

Learning From the Past

2010-05-22T14:37:00.000-07:00

My darling granddaughter should be here later this evening. Evan and Kristin will be staying with me until Kristin can navigate the stairs to their apartment--probably two weeks.

I am thrilled. And I am scared. Most of you probably remember how difficult Evan finds it to be around me for long stretches of time. He didn't speak to me for several months after he moved out a couple years ago. I'm hoping things go better this time.

I am a slow learner. Bill was here for a few hours the day after the baby was born. I made a special effort to take pictures of him with the baby and to give him lots of time to hold her and rock her. He was his most charming self, joking and laughing. I thought we might finally be learning to make all this work.

The next day, Bill called. Without preamble and in his fiercest, most demeaning tone, he demanded: "Where are my photos, Jerri? I checked both my emails and I have nothing. Why didn't you send them like I told you to?"

His voice transported me from the fairy tale I'd constructed--the one where we're cooperative grandparents and get along well enough to do major celebrations and holidays together--and dropped me smack into reality. And the reality is, he does not want to co-parent or co-grandparent with me. He is no kinder and no gentler than he ever was.

Forgiving is good. Forgetting is not.

That's as true of the situation with Evan as with Bill. Meeting him halfway is the goal, not turning myself inside out.

Wish me luck.

So Much to Say

2010-05-20T05:44:00.000-07:00

I am a grandmother.

Strange to say, but this is one of the things I wanted most while struggling with infertility all those years ago. I wanted to be part of the great Circle of Life. I wanted children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren--the whole messy, imperfect, loud, beautiful, loving, crazy lot of it.

My son's arrival was the beginning of a miracle. The moment I took Teagan in my arms, I felt a "click" within me and throughout the Universe, another piece of my miracle snapping into place.

Our lives are not without challenges. I didn't ask for perfection. I only asked for the chance to tangle myself with the lives and loves of a tribe I could call my own.

Yesterday, I unfolded Teagan's blankets to change her diaper for the first time. She caught one of my fingers and wrapped her little fist around it. Blinking away tears, I realized this little soul had joined the band of folks for whom I would unquestioningly give my life.

And so it goes.

Meet My Granddaughter

2010-05-19T13:13:00.000-07:00

OH, BABY!

2010-05-19T07:01:00.000-07:00

Teagan Michelle

8 lbs. 2 oz.
19 inches long

Haven't seen her yet, but we've seen pictures, and she's beautiful. BEAUTIFUL!

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

T Day

2010-05-19T05:11:00.000-07:00

At the hospital, waiting for the surgery to begin. Evan is pacing like the proverbial caged tiger. Kristin remains unflappable. They packed every newborn outfit they have for Teagan, which is dozens.

I have a book and magazines and my computer and phone. All I can do is pray.

48 Hours

2010-05-17T09:59:00.000-07:00

I'm wound so tight these days, if you bounced a quarter off my brain, it would rebound higher than Bango, the Milwaukee Bucks mascot.

My heart beat sings, "Please. Please. Please."

Less than 48 hours until my granddaughter arrives.

Over the weekend, I went to Springfield to watch my 48-year-old cousin graduate from college--summa cum laude--after eight years of night school. Laura is living proof it's never too late to be what you might have been.

Miracles happen. One is scheduled for 7:00 am Wednesday morning.

No News Is Good News

2010-05-11T14:11:00.000-07:00

Kristin is scheduled for a C-section on May 19 at 7:00 am. She's holding her own and the doctors say the baby is fine. She will go to the doctor again Thursday, and I'll post any news that comes from the appointment.

Kristin is amazingly brave and incredibly calm. Evan is not quite so calm. He's counting the minutes.

Holding Her Own

2010-05-04T15:39:00.000-07:00

Teagan refused to turn--she's still breech. Kristin had a lot of contractions following the procedure, but after two shots of terbutaline, it looks like things are under control.

The doctors plan to do a Cesarean, probably on May 19.

Stay tuned.

Thank you for your prayers.

An Even Shot

2010-05-04T04:20:00.001-07:00

The odds are about 50/50 that my granddaughter will be born today.

Teagan is breech right now, and Kristin will undergo a procedure meant to turn her later this morning. We've been told that about half the time, the procedure ruptures the waters and the baby is born with 24 hours.

Please take a moment to hold my girl in the Light. Her mother, too. Although I'm anxious to meet her, I'm not exactly hoping for her to be born today.

The word "safe" thrums through me like a heartbeat. Safe. That's all I ask. Just keep them safe. Whenever. Whatever. Just please, keep them safe.

Ready or Not

2010-04-29T09:30:00.000-07:00

I submitted a story to a literary magazine this morning. Took about 5 minutes to complete the process.

Well...5 minutes plus two years of dithering.

Two years ago I set the story aside, thinking it wasn't ready. Over the last few days, I changed about 12 words . This morning I pressed "Send."

The story may not be ready yet. I may never know where a story is going or how to get it there. But writing makes me feel alive, and leaving my stories in a digital file gathering virtual dust makes no sense.

I've missed the last few Wednesday night bike rides. Too busy at work, don't you know. Last night I was pressed for time to start with, then the brakes on my bike failed, the road I needed to take to the park was closed, and the wind was blowing 30 miles an hour. I stopped, took off my helmet, and wondered why in the world I persisted despite all the obstacles. I pulled my phone from my pocket and toyed with the idea of calling my dad to come pick me up, thinking I'd just forget the whole thing.

A cloud scudding across the sky caught my eye. I decided it didn't matter how long it took me or how hard the wind was blowing. I was outside. The sun was shining. Exercise is good.

I walked the bike half a mile down the torn-up road and headed to the trail. Two hundred yards down the road, I knew why I didn't give up. The juice is in the doing, in the trying.

This morning, I tried. I sent the story. Stay tuned.

Reviving the Color

2010-04-27T07:43:00.001-07:00

I opened one of my old stories last night, one I wrote when I was working on being a Writer instead of working as a writer/editor/word flak.

My first impulse is to say I don't remember how to write like that, but the truth is, I never knew. All I did was open myself to it and wait. It's more accurate to say, I no longer remember how to open myself to the gift.

I do remember how it feels. I remember the pulse of energy, the rush of being pulled into and through myself by something larger and stronger and wiser. I remember electric prickles when something beautiful arrives on the screen, something for which I am the conduit but not exactly the creator. I remember the deep blue surprise and the blood red joy.

Working too much at making a living and not enough at doing the living has faded the colors of my life. I long for that rush, that connection. I long to see a story emerge from the great beyond.

The answer, of course, is to make the time. My acceptance comes and goes, but the giver never falters.

Maybe

2010-04-26T05:30:00.001-07:00

My garbage disposal broke Friday night.

When I flipped the switch, the sound it made told me something was stuck in there. When I flipped it off and back on, it made no sound at all.

Resetting didn't work. I whipped out the special Allen wrench, but the impeller wouldn't turn. On Saturday, when I pulled the unit off and disassembled it as much as possible, I discovered a little screw had fallen in and gotten stuck between the impeller and the wall. It took forever, but I finally managed to pry out the little screw. Then I reassembled the unit and reinstalled it. Shortly after that, I was back in business, grinding up little bits of leftover food.

Year ago, my garbage disposal died, and I replaced it. Katie--then about 8--and her friends watched me struggle for hours, trying to get the new one in place. When I finally got it working without leaks, the girls and I danced around the kitchen, singing "I Am Woman" and dancing. We tossed old bread and a couple floppy carrots into its maw and cheered with abandon when it ground them up and washed them away. We had ice cream to celebrate.

Saturday, there was no dancing. No singing. No ice cream.

Sometimes I wonder if being so able to take care of myself and my home is a blessing or a curse.

Before the shower for Evan and Kristin, I power washed and resealed both decks and did a little maintenance on them. My neighbor came outside at one point, and watched me go up and down a 10-foot ladder about 100 times. When I came down from driving some screws to secure a loose spindle, she looked at me and smiled.

"Honey," she said, "you need a boyfriend."

Maybe if I couldn't tighten my own spindles and repair my own garbage disposal, I'd have one. Maybe I'd be more assertive or less picky. Maybe the Universe would be more cooperative. Maybe.

Part of Me

2010-04-09T05:01:00.000-07:00

I dreamed of an infant in the back seat of my car. I would see her and think "Oh---I must take take care of that baby!" Upon arrival at my destination, I'd get swept up in the usual whirlwind of activity and forget. When next I heard her cry, I'd be overcome with remorse and promise myself to do better, then promptly forget about her when I reached my destination and got sucked into what the people there needed/expected from me.

The baby's name was Lorraine (the name of a cousin who died of SIDSs when I was 10). After days of this, I got into the car and realized Lorraine was near death--dehydrated, emaciated, nearly catatonic. My greatest concern then was how to get medical help without letting anyone know I'd forgotten her for so long. I wasn't afraid of being prosecuted--I was concerned about what people would think of me.

Lately, I've been working too much and at the wrong things. I edit furiously, 12 to 14 hours a day, and do the best possible job I can. I want to earn a full-time, permanent job with this client. From time to time, I think of my stories, the ones inside, longing to get out. Sense memories, the feeling of the act of writing arises and drifts away like a runner's breath on a cold morning.

And can we talk about my obsession with what others thing?

Know what I've been doing in my "free" time? Power washing and sealing my decks. I'm hosting a shower for Evan and Kristen a week from Saturday, and I've been obsessing over every inch of the house, including the decks and arbor. Three days in a row I edited from 7:00 am to noon, worked on the deck from noon to 7:00 or 8:00 pm, then edited until 2:00 am or later.

All this so no one looks at my decks and thinks I could use some help now and then.

What part of me is the baby in the back seat, slowing starving to death?

Out of Steam

2010-03-26T05:06:00.000-07:00

I am home, safe and sound. Katie is recovering well.

My blog has been silent for long periods lately, only because I've run out of steam. Between working too much, sewing for my granddaughter-to-be, and getting ready for the shower I'm throwing for her, every day is crammed from morning til night. Throw in a couple elderly parents, an aunt with Parkinson's, a friend fairly well immobilized by a knee injury, and it's time to stick a fork in me. I'm done.

I may not comment often, but I read your blogs and I miss you all. I'll be back some time soon.

Love.

My Favorite Martian

2010-03-18T06:11:00.001-07:00

Yesterday, Katie's fiance called at 5:30 am to say she was heading to emergency surgery to have her appendix removed. An hour later, I was on the road to Minneapolis.

She's fine. Sore, tired and cranky, but fine.

Katie worked Tuesday night. By the time she got home, she didn't feel great. By the middle of the night, she was in major pain. Craig googled her symptoms and decided she needed to go to the hospital. Katie was not in favor of the idea, but Craig insisted.

By the time the ER docs saw her, she was not in good shape. They prepped her and took her appendix before it burst, thank goodness.

Craig called me as soon as the docs made the decision. He checked in with me as I drove. He stayed with her until he absolutely had to leave for work, about 30 minutes before I arrived.

Men may be from Mars, but Craig now lives smack in the middle of my heart. He is so good to my daughter.

No Time, No Type

2010-03-11T04:52:00.000-08:00

I'm baaaaack.

Everything's fine here, just exceptionally busy. I've been working like a wild woman and bouncing from helping one person to helping another. My dad's only sister is expecting a great-grandson in a few weeks. She wants handmade gifts for the baby but has Parkinson's and very limited vision. I spent all last weekend designing and sewing special outfits for him, and now I'm working on a quilt to wrap him in love when he arrives. That may sound crazy given everything else, but this woman has extreme health challenges and a husband with Alzheimer's. They lost their only child to a brain aneurysm about 14 years ago. It won't kill me to get up a little earlier and stay up a little later to make help her welcome her great-grandchild.

Besides, I'm sleeping better these days. Well...not exactly. But I expect to soon.

Remember the goose wars? The bottle rockets and air horns and slingshots? Well, the geese are trying to return and the goose haters are on full alert around the pond.

Funny thing is, one goose stayed through it all. For two years, no other geese dared land on the pond, but this one intrepid bird stuck it out. Unfortunately, it nests right under my windows and it has the loudest, most plaintive cry of any creature on God's green earth.

For two years, I have not slept through the night because IT has not slept through the night. Something rouses it and it screams for an hour. I wake, mentally shush the goose, and try to drift back to sleep despite the racket. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't.

All Monday afternoon, I felt unsettled. Something was wrong, but I couldn't tell what. Finally, I stopped work to pace at the windows and realized the orange-billed goose was gone. Not under my windows. Not on the banks of the pond. Not in the water. Gone, along with its incredible voice.

The first two nights I woke several times, waiting for the goose to call. Last night I slept through most of the night but woke in the wee hours, listening for the goose.

I did not love this goose. Truthfully, I hated its noise and didn't understand why the same guys who shoot off bottle rockets at the Canada geese couldn't capture this little orange-footed beauty and relocate it. Many, many times I cursed that goose under my breath during the night.

But now it's gone, and I wonder if it's all right. A silent night sounds good, but not if it's purchased at the price of an innocent goose's life.

Think I could have Stockholm Syndrome?

Ask and Ye Shall Receive

2010-02-21T06:06:00.001-08:00

Thanks for all your support around my previous post. Your comments and emails mean a lot to me.

You all probably can guess what happened. I never would have believed it.

At the stroke of 9:00 am yesterday, Mom called to ask me to go with her to the store where she buys embroidery supplies. She wanted me to pick out colors for an outfit for Teagan (my granddaughter-to-be). She also wanted me to pick out some embroidery patterns.

We spent the afternoon putting designs on onesies for Teagan.

Maybe the reason Mom always presumes I can handle things on my own is that I do handle them on my own. I don't ask for help. I wait. I hope. I rarely--very rarely--ask.

The message is loud and clear, and it's not restricted to this small issue or even my relationship with Mom. This is a Life Lesson.

Hiding my weaknesses has never been a successful strategy. Perhaps it's time to give it up.

Stitches in Time

2010-02-19T08:41:00.001-08:00

It's gray outside (again), but the sun is shining in my soul.

I spoke up.

I said what I needed to say.

To review: Evan and his girlfriend are having a baby and that they're not in a good financial position to raise a child. I started making blankets and shoes but have moved on to sleepers and tiny gowns. My mother has been making bibs and changing pads and other darling little things.

Newsflash: My niece is pregnant. 25 and not married, she faces an uphill sled. The baby's father is 35 and not very involved in her life. She's barely supporting herself at this point.

Immediately, my mother kicked into high gear preparing for this baby, who isn't due until the end of September. Things she had been making for my granddaughter were pushed aside into drawers and boxes. The two of us went to Babies R Us yesterday, and everything she bought or looked at was for my niece's baby.

When my kids were small, their clothes were works of art. We embroidered and smocked and appliqued and painted on every single piece. Except the "we" was actually "me." My sister had three children; I had two. My sister was always in the middle of some crisis or another. When we got together to sew, I worked on things for my children. Mom and Deb worked on things for hers.

Debbie's children have heirlooms mine do not--beautiful pieces with shadow work and smocking and hand applique lovingly stitched by their grandmother.

Twenty-some years ago, I said nothing. Not when Mom smocked dresses for all the girls but Katie. Not when she spent weeks making Christmas outfits for all the children but mine. Not when she made entire spring wardrobes for Deb's kids and asked what I planned to make for mine.

All these years later, the same situation is developing. From the get go, Mom is pointing out the reasons my niece's baby will need help more than Evan's. Evan has the trust fund, so his basic expenses are covered. Last week, the trust administrator agreed to pay for the baby's health insurance and some other expenses, which is a load off my mind. My niece has no such back-up.

I understand and agree my niece needs help. To tell the absolute truth, years ago I understood why Deb needed help. I am willing to help. I am not willing for my granddaughter to miss out on heirlooms from her great-grandmother.

Today I told Mom this, quietly; graciously; emphatically. I mentioned how precious these heirlooms are and said I wanted my grandaughter to have them, too.

It might sound like a small thing, but it's enormous in my world.

E. Nor. Mous.

If You Learned It...

2010-02-15T15:19:00.001-08:00

This makes me happy: