Bright Spot in an Otherwise Ordinary Day

Wednesday afternoon, as I loaded bags of just-purchased groceries into the trunk of my car, I heard music. Looking around for the source of it, I spotted an elderly man sitting in the driver's seat of a parked, faded-red pickup truck, his elbow sticking out the window, fingers tapping on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the song on his radio. The best part was that he was singing along in a clear, perfectly-pitched voice, not missing a note or a word.

The man stared off into space as he sat there singing and, I'm guessing, waiting for his wife. The movement of my car backing out of a parking space across from his caught his eye, and he glanced my way. In that moment I smiled and said, "That's a good song." He turned down his radio and cupped his ear to indicate he hadn't heard what I said. I repeated, "That's a good song."

"Yes, it is," he replied. "It's an old song," he added, a wide grin splitting his face. I nodded and waved, still smiling as I drove away.

The song was one I remembered from 1960, the year I graduated from high school. I have good memories of that year. It was easy to see that the song stirred up pleasant thoughts in the old black man in the red truck, too. History leads me to believe that my experiences in 1960 were different from his, but the sweetness of a brief moment shared in a South Louisiana parking lot in 2014 tells me that the differences between us back then weren't nearly as great as some people thought they were.

The song is "Save the Last Dance for Me," by The Drifters.

Click here to read the lyrics.

Thanks to dannypsych for posting this video on YouTube.

Four Pairs of Grooming Shears and One Paisley Walking Cane

The title of this post represents my most recent--and perhaps oddest ever--online shopping order. The shears have arrived, and (I never thought I'd say the following words) I can't wait to try out the cane.

After Levi's first and only professional grooming session blew a big hole in my budget, I decided to attempt to take on that job myself. When Gimpy joined the family, the DIY-incentive doubled. Goldendoodles are beautiful when they've been groomed professionally, and mine are almost as beautiful, at least to me, after I've taken the scissors to them. Just a little more ragged around the edges. Thank goodness they're beloved family pets, not show dogs.

My favorite grooming shears are lightweight and extra-sharp with round safety tips at the ends. As good as they are, the blades start getting dull after about two haircuts on a dog the size of mine with hair three inches thick. The big-box store where I used to buy them no longer carries them, but there they were on Amazon, so I stocked up. I've never thought of scissors as disposable, but these cost only about $8 a pair, which, compared to $120 for a professional to groom one dog one time, makes me think these shears are a good investment.

Here's Levi's "after" picture:

 
Bless his heart. His lovely, naturally plumed tail was not just matted, it was as ratted and teased as l980s mall bangs and had to be clipped down to nothing but one sad little lion-tuft at the end.

Gimpy is next. He's a lot more suspicious of the clipping process than Levi is, so I have to cut his hair in a series of short sessions rather than one, all-day one. Today's a good day to get started.

As for that cane I ordered ... I don't need it to walk, only to get started walking. My right knee now seizes up every time I sit still for more than a few minutes. As soon as I stand up again, I have to wait for gravity to straighten out the leg (a painful process, by the way) before I can go anywhere. That means clinging to a piece of furniture and balancing on my left leg until the right knee is straight enough to bear weight. I'm hoping the cane will provide better support and stability while I'm just standing there revving my engine.

These are examples of the kinds of things we have to do on a daily basis to get on with our lives, aren't they? We encounter a situation, figure out how to adapt to it, and move on.

Scents and Sensibilities

Last week's Life Writing class homework ended up as something entirely different from what I'd started out to write. Here it is, courtesy of a rather pushy muse:

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On the Internet there are pages and pages of articles about olfactory memory. In one of those articles, “How Smell Works," Sarah Dowdey wrote:  “A smell can bring on a flood of memories, influence people’s moods and even affect their work performance. Because the olfactory bulb is part of the brain’s limbic system, an area so closely associated with memory and feeling it’s sometimes called the “emotional brain,” smell can call up memories and powerful responses almost instantaneously.”

Boy, is that the truth! Except for familiar pieces of music, nothing else takes me back in time faster than smells I recognize from my childhood. I’ve made a list, incomplete and off the top of my head, of scents that embedded themselves deeply in my youthful brain, so let’s try an experiment. Whether you’re listening to my list with your ears or reading it with your eyes, pay close attention to what’s happening with your nose. See if it remembers smells like these:

• Rain, its pleasant scent especially noticeable when there was no thunder or lightning and I was allowed to carry an umbrella and walk at the edge of the street to the end of the block and back, bare feet splashing in the narrow stream of rainwater that flowed against the curb.

• Lilacs and roses, the most fragrant of all the blossoms in my grandmother's carefully tended flower beds.

• Clover, growing wild in the yard or picked by little girls and woven into chains.

• Ripe tomatoes and tall stalks of corn growing in my grandfather's garden, their separate scents as pleasing as the taste of their juices mingled with salt and butter on my plate after supper. I'd stay at the table until everyone else was gone so I could tilt my plate and drink that juice.

• Cinnamon, sprinkled on sugar cookies my grandmother baked mid-afternoon, stacked in her big, porcelain dishpan, covered with a tea towel, kept warm until my sister and I came home from school.

• Crispy, juicy chicken Mammaw fried after church every single Sunday.

• Hamburgers at Taylor's Drive-In, where Mother would take us after a show or a circus. They were made with thin, thin meat patties and dressed with mustard, sliced dill pickles and onions. Their distinctive smell must have been due to the onions, because Taylor's was the only place I'd eat them.

• Baloney sandwiches unwrapped from waxed paper in the school lunchroom; also Fritos, pulled from the same brown paper bag.

• Popcorn in downtown movie theaters--the Landers, the Fox, the Gillioz--to which we rode the city bus on Saturdays to see matinees, black and white newsreels, and colorful Disney cartoons.

• The school smells:  chalk dust, crayons, wood shavings in the pencil sharpener, white paste, oilcloth brought from home to cover desks during art projects, and purple-printed, mimeographed pages to be taken home to our parents. (Of all those items, only the white paste tasted as good as it smelled.)

• Telephone poles. I sniffed them at every inconspicuous opportunity after I discovered that their smell reminded me of the monkey enclosure at the Springfield Zoo. Only later did I learn that that smell was creosote, painted on telephone poles and the wooden posts of the big wire cage as a preservative.

• The healing scent of Band-Aids and adhesive tape and the sinus-clearing smell of Absorbine Jr. rubbed lovingly onto a sprained ankle or Vicks VapoRub spread on my chest under my cotton pajama-top.

• Ivory soap, the big bar that floated in the bath water in the claw-footed tub.

• The cherry-almond fragrance of my grandmother's Jergens hand lotion.

• The lingering smell of shaving cream on my grandfather's cheek when he hugged me soon after a shave.

• The Evening in Paris eau de Toilette I bought for my mother at M. L. Hunter's 5¢ to $1 Store--the smallest, cheapest, deep-blue bottle of Evening in Paris the store sold and the only one that fit my budget.

• The fresh smell of laundry starch being cooked on the stove to be carried in its pot gingerly, with pot-holders, down the basement stairs and poured into the tub of the old wringer washing machine.

• Sheets and pillowcases that had hung all day on the backyard clothesline to dry in the sun and wind.

********

Some things stink; it's a fact. Not all the smells that stir memories are pleasant ones, even if the memories themselves are nice. Here are some not-so-nice smells that have stayed in my brain in a good way:

• The dank mustiness of the basement when my sister and I played down there to beat the summer's heat.

• The chlorinated water of the swimming pool at Fassnight Park and that same strong chemical odor, diluted by a mere hint of urine, in the bathhouse next to the pool. Those smells meant cool water on a hot day; it was easy to tolerate them.

• My own perspiration on my fingertips after I'd sat outside on the front-porch swing in summer, arms crossed over my chest, hands tucked into my armpits. There was a time when I thought my sweat smelled like corn silks, but that changed well before junior high.

• Dirt kicked up by children's feet on dusty playgrounds. Along with bruised arms, dust in our nostrils was the price we paid for Red Rover, Red Rover.

• Lightning bugs. Their odor wasn't noticeable unless a bunch of them were collected in a jar or a lighted tail was crushed and spread around the base of a finger to make a glow-in-the-dark ring.

• Sneakers and socks, wrapped in gym clothes brought home for laundering after five days crammed in a school locker.

• Rotten eggs, previously hard-boiled, dyed, and surrounded by jellybeans and chocolate-marshmallow goodies in an Easter basket, then hidden by me for more than a week behind a rack of winter coats and a big trunk on the floor of the closet underneath the stairs. My Uncle Joe never found my basket, but I had to throw out more than he would have stolen.

********

Good or bad, smells are powerfully evocative. My sister and I once traveled together to a family reunion in Springfield, Missouri. That was in 1996, nearly forty years after we'd moved from there to Texas. About thirty miles before we reached our destination, Judy opened the sunroof and a forgotten but familiar fragrance wafted into the car and hit us right in our hearts. The scent was so compelling that nostalgic tears began rolling down both our faces. We never did find out what unidentified substance our olfactory bulbs had picked out of the Southwest Missouri air; none of our relatives who lived there noticed any unusual or distinctive scent at all. Whatever it was, it smelled exactly like home.

______________________________

One purpose of the Life Writing class exercises is to remind us of stories we might not otherwise think to write. After finishing the homework piece above, I realized that there's at least one story to be written about every item on that list of remembered smells. I may write them--using the list as a meme for blog posts--when the current class sessions end.

Now it's your turn:  What smells from your own childhood have stayed with you?

Trinkets and Treasures - No. 12

It's been over a year since I posted anything in the Trinkets and Treasures category. I guess that series had slipped my mind until last Friday, my younger daughter's 50th birthday. I wanted to give her something special to mark the occasion, and the item that came immediately to mind was this garnet ring that once belonged to my mother:

Here's a picture of Mother (during her blonde years, about 1954) wearing the ring as she sunbathed beside the swimming pool at Fassnight Park in Springfield, Missouri:

The ring was custom made for Mother, a copy of one that belonged to her grandmother, Dora Hetherington Elliott. For years after Mother's death I wore the ring on special occasions that she might have attended had she still been alive and other times when I simply needed to feel closer to her. Its gold band is so small that I had to wear it on my little finger, but it fits Kelli's ring finger perfectly--just the way it fit Mother's.

Kelli and I both cried when I gave her the ring, the photo of Mother wearing it, and a handwritten note about its history. Through her tears she said, "Did you ever think I'd get old enough to care?"

Yes. I knew she would.

La Buena Vida - 1970-1971

The assignment for the Life Writing class I'm taking was to make a timeline of important events in our lives, then write about one of those events. Here's my story (with added links and photos) about our move to Miami, Florida:

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In the summer of 1969 my husband, Richard, two daughters, eight-year-old Kim and six-year-old Kelli, and I moved back to our home in Orange, Texas after a six-month stay in Mentor-on-the-Lake, Ohio. As happy as we were to be home, it didn’t take long for us to realize at least one advantage of living away from there. Richard was my second husband. Our friends and families in Texas couldn’t resist giving us regular updates on the activities of my ex-husband or his ex-wife, reminders that plunged us momentarily into our separate, not-so-pleasant pasts. In Ohio it hadn’t been like that; new friends and neighbors there treated us like the bonded family unit we’d become since our marriage a year earlier.

That’s one reason why we didn’t hesitate to move again the next summer, 1970, when the number of East Texas construction jobs trickled down and Richard’s union spread the word that  the Turkey Point nuclear facility in Homestead, Florida, near Miami, was offering premium pay for highly skilled, certified welders. We put our house up for sale, sold it quickly, then waited around for both the closing date and my ten-year class reunion. Over the next few days we put our best furniture in storage, gave away the rest of it, then loaded up the station wagon and a small trailer, said our sad goodbyes, and took off early one morning for the bright lights and big city.

Our first bit of bad luck occurred about four hours into our trip when the station wagon broke down as we passed through a seamy-looking, industrial section of New Orleans. Richard managed to get the engine going again long enough to coax it to an auto-repair shop, where he parked and unhooked the trailer at the side of the lot. The family parked in the non-air-conditioned shop office, spending an entire afternoon and a hefty chunk of our savings there.

Upon our eventual arrival in Miami, we checked into a motel and settled in to stay for a few days. The next morning, after a Waffle House breakfast, Richard left to locate the nuclear plant, where he was tested for the better part of the day and hired to begin work the following day. Meanwhile, we began searching the newspaper for a furnished house in a good school district. The cantaloupe-colored, stucco-sided, two-bedroom house we found and rented was owned by a Cuban lady, Mrs. Phelps, who had recently moved to New Jersey, leaving behind cupboards full of dishes and an attic full of Christmas lights and decorations. The house was on a corner in a neighborhood of similar stucco, pastel-colored houses, the elementary school within easy walking distance. A fruit-laden mango tree grew in one corner of the backyard near a cluster of other small trees on which Mrs. Phelps had cultivated beautiful orchids.

Kelli and Kim in backyard of Miami house.

On our first full day in the house Richard went to work, I got busy putting the house in order, and the girls went outside to play. Moments later I heard a scream and looked out to see Kelli flat on the ground. She had tried to climb a tree in the front yard and had fallen from its branches. She was unconscious for a brief moment, her thoughts noticeably confused after she came around. I was panicking inside but tried to remain calm. We had sold our second car before the trip; I had no way to drive Kelli to an emergency room, even if I’d known where to find one. Our telephone wasn’t due to be installed for another day or two, so I couldn’t call for help, and we hadn’t yet met a single neighbor. All I knew to do was pray silently, put an ice bag on the bump on her head, and watch her constantly to keep her from falling asleep. As I remember it, she recovered long before I did.

On Richard’s first day off work we couldn’t wait to explore the tropical paradise we’d call home for the immediate future. We put our bathing suits on under our clothes, jumped into the station wagon, and drove over the bridge across Biscayne Bay to spend the day on glamorous Miami Beach. We were disappointed to discover that most of the beachfront property was inhabited by high-rise hotels and restricted to their guests. Finally, after driving around for a while, we spotted a stretch of beach that was accessible to us. Amazingly, it wasn’t even crowded. We undressed in the car, picked up our blanket, towels and picnic lunch, walked across an asphalt parking lot into the sand, and got our first clear view of the Atlantic Ocean. We were filled with excitement as we dropped our bundle and raced knee-deep into the gently lapping waves. The girls squatted down to immerse their bodies in saltwater up to their necks, and Kim stood up again almost immediately, saying, “Look! I found a balloon.” Kelli popped up right behind her: “I found one, too!” Each of them was holding up a used condom. Richard and I gaped at each other for a split second before he ordered, “Drop it and get out of the water; we’re going home.” Our first dip in the Atlantic Ocean had been in a stream of raw sewage from a nearby posh hotel. I don’t remember how we explained our sudden departure to the girls.

Things got better after that. The girls made friends in the neighborhood and more friends once school started. I was Kelli’s first-grade room mother and did my share of walking the same path they walked to school, usually with cookies or cupcakes in hand.

We quickly established favorite places to go in Miami: the Steak & Brew restaurant for Saturday night family dinners that included unlimited pitchers of root beer; the rock quarry where the girls could swim in clean, crystal-clear, fresh water; and, best of all, the grassy inlet where we could wade out and surf fish in saltwater. We baited our hooks with long strips of mullet and caught two-foot-long, hard-fighting barracuda, one right after another. Richard cleaned them on the spot, storing thick fillets in an ice chest to fry when we got home. We left those fishing trips feeling tired but happy. Richard drove while I rode shotgun with my bare feet on the dashboard and sang along with the radio about "me and you and a dog named Boo.” In the backseat the girls munched on fresh peaches, the dripping juices leaving trails in the dirt on their arms. We fished that same spot many weekends, abandoning it only after staying there till nearly dark one evening when Kelli got her line tangled on her last cast and Richard slowly inched it back in to find a five-foot shark on the end of it.

Kelli and Kim in crystal-clear waters of rock quarry.

We visited the popular tourist attractions, too, mostly when friends from Texas came to see us. Unenlightened in those days about the plight of dolphins, we thoroughly enjoyed their leaps, spirals and splashes at Miami Seaquarium. We visited the Serpentarium, fronted by the towering head of a giant, concrete cobra, and made numerous trips to Parrot Jungle & Gardens, a mecca of tropical plants and brilliantly colored birds where we took turns being photographed with parrots on our heads and outstretched arms. We went several times to the real tropical beach, the kind we’d expected in the first place, at Crandon Park on Key Biscayne. We’d alternate playing in the ocean and resting in the sand, frequently treated to Calypso rhythms on drums and guitars played by dreadlocked musicians set up under a tarp a little way down the beach. We also enjoyed watching the ever-present Limbo dancers: young, suntanned men and women who threw their heads back and laughed as they competed to answer the challenge: “How low can you go?”

Top to bottom: Kelli, Kim and Linda at Parrot Jungle

Kelli and Kim on the beach at Crandon Park

One day we traveled north of Miami into the Everglades National Park to show Kim and Kelli the wilderness, a place untouched by time (if you don’t count the wooden boardwalks with railings to keep fools and children from falling into the swamp). We took off once for a weekend mini-vacation in Key West, driving seemingly endless miles across narrow roads and bridges to see sea turtles and spectacular sunsets. Another day we woke the girls up before daylight and drove to Cape Canaveral (called Cape Kennedy then) to see the launch of Apollo 15. A lot of other people must have had the same idea, because what I remember most about that event was a vast sea of parked cars that stretched interminably around us. We waited and waited, in and out of the car, and finally saw in the distance a big puff of smoke that obscured the rocket-ship headed for the moon. 

At some point we did get a second car. Having the station wagon always available made my life easier, and the little blue Corvette (used) that Richard had fallen in love with was perfect for him to drive to work and for the rare nights we went out dancing. Those were the days when hot pants were in fashion, so I’d put on mine, either with go-go boots or Roman sandals with long straps that wrapped around my calves and tied behind my knees, and Richard would wear his striped, flare-legged pants and a gauzy shirt that had puffy pirate-sleeves and a big, pointed collar, leaving the shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He’d pick up the kids’ favorite baby sitter, then we’d head out in the Corvette for a night on the town. Miami was known for its nightlife, but it was expensive. Most of the nicer clubs had a three-drink minimum, and we limited ourselves to that. Fortunately, I never acquired a taste for liquor, so we’d both order bourbon with Coca-Cola on the side. I’d drink all the Coke, and Richard would drink the bourbon.

Linda, Kelli & Kim with Richard's blue Corvette.

Linda, posing with Flamenco dancer at Miami Beach nightclub. 

There were plenty of ordinary days in Miami, too. Richard worked from four to midnight, so I slept in shifts. I’d stay up until he got home around one in the morning, fix him something to eat while he unwound and we shared the news of the day, then we’d go to bed. I’d sleep for a few hours, get up to get the girls off to school, then go back to sleep another hour or two. After a while it began to feel normal. We had a house to clean, grocery shopping to do, dentist appointments to keep, all the things people need to do wherever they live. Somehow, though, surrounded as I was by dense greenery, vivid flowers and bright sunlight, I didn’t mind those chores and errands as much as usual.

In Miami I felt alive, almost electric, with a grand sense of freedom and adventure. We lived there for just over 18 months. When the nuclear expansion became operative and Richard’s job ended, we moved on to new places and new adventures, but I don’t think we were ever again as carefree as we’d been during our Florida days.

I’ve been told that Miami has changed in the forty-plus years since we were there, that it’s a harder, harsher place to raise a family now, not as safe as it once was. I guess that’s true of most places.

Time Marches On...

...and while each second or minute of time might be finite, the life that we live during any given amount of marching time is not predictable nor orderly like a John Philip Sousa number; rather, it's more like a march played by a New Orleans street band: a little extemporaneous, a little messy, doesn't always hit right on the beat, but always, always pulls us deep into its rhythm and keeps us moving along from milestone to milestone.

Yesterday was a milestone for my younger daughter, Kelli: her fiftieth birthday. She neither looks nor feels fifty, and if I hadn't been present for her birth, I wouldn't believe she's already racked up half a century. She's certainly a young, vital fifty.

Her husband, Troy, threw a birthday party for her last night, ably assisted by her daughter, Kalyn. It was the first party I've attended in years where dancing was on the agenda and, boy, did they ever dance! I knew Kelli had rhythm (she always did), but I had no idea my buttoned-up, to-do-list-making son-in-law could move like that. Wow!

Troy and Kelli danced together; so did other couples. Also, fathers danced with daughters, mothers with sons, brothers with sisters and sisters with sisters. Friends with friends. Lots of women and a couple of self-assured men did line dances. More often, instead of dancing with partners, a large number of individuals danced all together in a loosely defined circle so they could watch each other. They danced the Dougie, the Bernie and the Wiggle like their white selves had been doing hip-hop moves their whole lives, and they laughed and laughed and laughed.

Near the end of the evening my grandson's girlfriend came to where I was sitting and tried to pull me out onto the dance floor. It wasn't as easy as she'd thought it would be; I'd been sitting for a while and my right knee was locked up tight. "Shake it out! Shake it out!" she encouraged, holding my arm while I literally shook my leg so it would straighten enough that I could walk; then, there I was, on a dance floor for the first time in ages. I couldn't do what the fifty-and-under folks were doing, but I moved feet and hips to the rhythm for nearly ten minutes. It was terrific fun but also a little nostalgic as I faced the realization of how far I've left my best dancing days behind me. That's what happens when time marches on: we hold on to what we can, let go of what we must, and fill the gaps as well as we can with interests and activities more closely matched to our evolving physical and mental conditions.

The party was a huge success. It touched my heart to see Kelli and Troy, their grown-up kids, extended family and good friends interacting with so much joy and enthusiasm. I came home with a heart full of love and a mental tape of the evening's music playing in my head. Most of the songs were fast and loud, but I specifically remember a moment when a slow song gave the room an intimate feeling. Only one or two couples were dancing, but they weren't the only ones involved in the music. I turned around and saw that all the people sitting behind me were watching the dancers and softly singing along with the wistful music. It was a sweet moment--almost as sweet as Tupelo honey.

The song is "Tupelo Honey," performed by Van Morrison.

Thanks to neo16280 for posting the video on YouTube.

Click here to read the lyrics.

Ice, Ice, Maybe?

As many folks around here might put it, "There ain't no 'maybe' about it; that there is ice!" (It's itty-bitty South Louisiana ice, though; you might have to click on the photos to see it.)

See these pretty blossoms I photographed on Monday?

Here are those blossoms today:

And remember that grapevine that's in most of my sparrow shots?

No sparrows in today's icy tangle!

I did spot a small flock of larger birds in a tree two backyards away:

The thin coating of ice is pretty. It gives all the trees a soft, enchanted-forest appearance:

Especially since everything else (including Oliver, who photobombed this shot) is unfrozen and still in living color:

In the time it's taken me to post these photos, the ice has begun melting. Thank goodness! We have things to do and places to go.

A Cooling Off Period

Yesterday the temperature here reached 81°F; this morning the "feels like" temperature was back near the freezing point. "Enough!" I say stridently, my lips pressed together in a thin line, brow furrowed for emphasis. Who is screwing us over weather-wise? Are enemy agents manipulating U.S. air masses, their scientists testing ways to bombard us with snow and hail and slide us all into one another to gridlock our highways? Have the Tea Partiers, those right-wingers who have tried to interfere with so many other human rights in the name of God, found a way to tinker with the weather and freeze the hell out of the rest of us? I've been cold for too long, and I really, really want to blame it on somebody.

We had a hailstorm in the middle of one night last week that was so loud it woke us up and made us think the roof was about to fly off or cave in. Kim and I actually gathered up all four dogs and huddled in the center of the house until it stopped. It didn't have the reported freight-train sound of a tornado--more like a fleet of masked jackhammer operators attempting to break in through the roof--but we huddled anyway for lack of a better idea. The news the next day reported baseball-sized hail in our area.

In the days since then, two different roofing companies have called, saying they would be in the neighborhood and would be glad to stop by to do an inspection and give us a free repair estimate. I declined but was pleased later when my son-in-law came out to inspect it for himself and found it intact. This is the new roof we got last July; I wonder if the old one would have come through as well.

At this point it appears that the only damage may have been to the dogs' psyches--at least my two dogs, especially Gimpy. They were not the least bit storm-phobic before that night, but we've had thunder and lightning twice since then, and it's clearly made them nervous. Levi poked me awake with his nose the first night it thundered, I guess checking to see if I thought it would be a good idea for us to get in a huddle again. Gimpy did the same thing last night, waking me up, following me to the bathroom and standing by my knee until I finished, then, when I went back to bed, lying on the floor right next to me instead of in his own, more comfortable bed. They must have sensed my own fright on the night of the hailstorm. Shame on me for showing it, but it was scary.

This afternoon, leaving the Life Writing class, one of the ladies remarked that she bet there wouldn't be too many women baring their tatas for beads at Mardi Gras tomorrow in this cold weather. Another lady answered, "Well, if they do, the people who see their pictures will be able to tell how cold it was." Hahaha! Witty people like that could almost make me forget about my animosity toward enemy agents and Tea Party extremists.

School Days Again

Earlier this year I enrolled in two courses: a third series of the Life Writing classes I've enjoyed so much and Drawing 101, taught by the talented instructor of the Acrylics Exploration class I took last year. Those two, two-hour courses started last week, and they, along with their homework assignments, are eating into my blogging time in a big way. But I love them. God, I love school. Always have.

The first two Life Writing lessons have focused on research skills, which we certainly need to know, but I hope we'll soon get back to writing exercises. I'm always fascinated by the diversity of stories generated by different individuals' interpretations of an assigned topic. If my life had been more interesting, perhaps I'd consider writing a book about it, in which case the research skills would come in handy. Unfortunately, my life is best described in a series of anecdotes that skip over all the boring parts.

I decided to take the Drawing 101 class to gain a better understanding of how to use light and shadow, perspective, and other techniques that will help with painting. I haven't painted a single time since the end of last year's classes, but I intend to take it up again soon. (I even ordered an easel yesterday, mostly to make my order large enough to get free shipping, but I do think an easel will help me keep my sleeves out of the paint.) Anyway, we've only had one drawing lesson, and I've already decided I like painting better, mostly because paint covers the surface a lot quicker than pencil marks do. I do have to give our instructor credit and say I'm impressed by how much she taught us in just one class. About half an hour into it, she handed out realistic plastic oranges and asked us to sketch them. Here's my rough attempt:

I realize this is too long for an orange, but that's what it is:

an orange with lights shining on it from several directions.

For the next half hour she talked to us about lights and shadows, how to give a drawn object dimension, and what kind of pencils and other tools to use for different drawing tasks. Then we tried drawing the oranges again:

Still not a great-looking orange, but

definitely better than the first try.

After further explanations and demonstrations, she assigned us homework: "Go home and get a fruit or a vegetable--something your brain is already familiar with--and draw it." Here's the vegetable drawing I did this morning:

I'm kind of pleased with this bell pepper. It's a long way,

from perfect, but I think it shows a lot of improvement,

especially after only two hours of classroom instruction. 

Do you see why I like school? Learning something new is so much fun, no matter how old you are.

Promises of Spring

I cannot adequately express how happy I am to type the following short sentence: It's warm today.

In fact, it's in the mid-70s. Earlier this afternoon I sat out on the patio, leaned back in a chair, closed my eyes and let the sun beat down on my face for several long minutes. What bliss! Then I opened my eyes, took a good look at Levi and Gimpy, and marched them one by one to the driveway, where I could hose the mud off their legs without creating more of it in the yard.

The man who cuts my grass called yesterday to ask when I'd like him to start again. We agreed I'd call him when everything dries up enough that his lawn tractor won't get bogged down. As expensive as lawn maintenance is, right this minute I'm looking forward to the kind of weather that hits me hard in the pocketbook.

Remind me of that when I start complaining about heat, humidity, and grass allergies, would you? Until then, these birds and I will sing in praise of warmer days.

"That Window You Never Fixed"

Before I retired in 2009 I frequently took CDs to the office so John, my boss and good friend, and David, another attorney in the office, also a good friend, could listen to one song or another I thought they mght like. They did the same thing sometimes. Later, with the advent of YouTube, we graduated to music videos. John wasn't much into computers, but even before he learned how to send an email, he mastered accessing his favorite tunes on YouTube.

Sometime in the last few months of work I heard a bittersweet Ryan Adams song that strongly reminded me of John, but I never played that one for him. The "Dear John" of the song title was deceased. Even though I loved the poignancy of the lyrics, John was going through major health issues at the time, and putting the thoughts and feelings of a widow in his head wouldn't have been kind.

John had excellent skills as an attorney and as a sportsman but readily admitted that household repairs were beyond his capabilities. I'm not sure he could have hung a picture on the wall by himself if his life had depended on it. Like many of us, I imagine, he excelled at the things that interested him and chose not to bother with those that didn't. More even than the fact of his name in the title, it was this verse of the song that brought him instantly to mind:

"Ten years pass

And I ended up with a house full of cats,

But most of them went missing

Through that window you never fixed,

The door you never latched."

Some parts of the lyrics don't apply at all (is art ever perfect?), but isn't it interesting how our brains can override the non-applicable parts and focus like a laser on the words that matter to us?

After the sad events of this week, this one was destined to be today's Saturday Song Selection:

The song is "Dear John" by Ryan Adams.

Thanks to Macfae for posting the video on YouTube.

Click here to read the lyrics.

A Day for Hearts and Flowers

Happy Valentine's Day!

Best. Funeral. Ever.

John's funeral today was not a traditional one. There was a visitation service from 10:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m., followed by an hour-long celebration of life. By the time I arrived at the funeral home shortly after noon, the noise level of the visitors had reached a buzz that could be heard clear down the hall. There was a steady procession of people milling about, all talking at once, catching up with old friends, telling stories, hugging, shoulder-clapping. If there'd been drinks and hors d'oeuvres, you'd have sworn you were at a party.
I'm sure things would have been more subdued if there'd been a body there, but John had requested that he be cremated.

So many people: lawyers and judges in suits and ties and younger men, those whom John had taught to hunt and fish, wearing camouflage in his honor. His own hooded camouflage jacket was hung up and displayed with a handful of his duck calls, reminding me of the quacking noises that frequently emanated from his office when I least expected them. His life was well represented among the family and friends who loved him and who gathered in that large chapel.

There was no priest or pastor leading the service, using the opportunity to indulge in seemingly obligatory soul-saving amid a few brief remarks about the deceased. That's okay if you like that, if you want that, but it's always kind of bothered me. It's almost always seemed insincere--like a paid advertisement for Jesus at an event where people need healing, not to be reminded that their mortal souls are in jeopardy.  

Instead, John's son, Charlie, had written a beautifully moving tribute to him which was read aloud by a friend at the beginning of the memorial service. In it Charlie expressed what his dad had meant to him and why and recounted the life lessons John had taught him. Among those, reinforced by specific anecdotes, were the importance of living life honestly and honorably and the equal importance of living it to the fullest.

John's best friend, Ralph, gave the eulogy. He began by saying how honored he was to have been asked to do so. He said he'd started to write a speech, then thought, "Wait a minute! If I had died and John was going to give my eulogy, what would he do? He'd wing it." And so Ralph did. He spoke from his heart about John's love of his family, his passion for hunting and fishing, his forthrightness, his love of a good argument, his contrariness--all the facets of his personality that made him a unique human being. "He was a character," Ralph said. That he was.

For the first time ever I left a funeral feeling uplifted instead of mournful. I walked out of there with a keen awareness that I'm alive and that it's up to each of us to pay attention to all the possibilities that are open to us, to make the best of the time we have left. I feel energized and inspired.

What a gift!

I loved this celebration of life and love. I know John would have loved it. And I'm pretty sure God would give it an A+, too.

John

Yesterday I lost a good friend. His wife, also my friend, called early to tell me that he had died in the wee hours of the morning. As far as anyone knows so far, the cause of death was a heart attack. Ironically, it's been almost seven years to the day since the first and only time I wrote about his heart condition, and he's had his ups and downs since then. Lately, I'm told, he's had mostly ups.

He was a good man and a successful, well-liked lawyer. He cared about the clients who could pay him and the ones he knew probably never would. Unless he was scheduled for court, where a suit was required, he showed up for work in starched, neatly-ironed jeans. It was common to walk into his office and find him kicked back with his cowboy boots up on his desk, a big stack of law books on the floor beside him and another book open in his lap. He liked to listen to music while he worked, everything from opera to zydeco, and it makes me smile to remember how many times he cussed the CD player when he couldn't make it play what he wanted to hear.

On slow days we had time for long talks about hunting and fishing (he talked, I listened), dogs (his and mine), books, movies, and other people. We argued sometimes (which lawyers like to do and so do I) when we veered into discussions about various aspects of politics and religion. More than a few times we speculated about whether or not there is an afterlife. Today I find myself oddly envious of the fact that he now knows for sure.

He had called me Christmas morning. We spoke for only a few moments then (he said he still had his brothers and others to call). He asked about my family, I asked about his, and he laughed as he told me about the new love in his life, a Yorkshire Terrier that had recently joined his family. He sounded really good.

He's touched a lot of lives, and a lot of people are going to miss him. As sad as it is, I felt much better yesterday after going to his house and spending time with his family. The stories about him were already flowing there, stories about things he's said and done over the course of his lifetime, enough of those stories to keep everyone who knew him laughing for years. We'll shed tears every time it hits us anew that he's gone, but when we remember him, when we think about who he really was, it'll be impossible not to smile through the tears.

You were one of a kind, John. I hope the hereafter was ready for you.

A Labor of Love: The Owen Poems

My granddaughter, Kalyn, will turn thirty this week, and just over a month later her son, Owen, will turn four. When Kalyn was Owen's age and spent the day or night with me, I loved making up silly rhymes and singing them to make her giggle. She thought they were funny enough that they became a routine part of our time together. To this day she remembers all the words to one song that started out simply as lunch menu suggestions:

You can have pimento cheese

Or ABC's & 123's,

I'm begging you on bended knees,

Please don't make me eat green peas.

Actually, I love green peas; she's the one who didn't.

I don't get to spend as much time with Owen as I did with Kalyn, but during the recent holidays I saw him enough to know that he's developed a pretty good sense of humor. The boy likes a joke. I could tell that by the way he laughed uproariously every time he used the words, "chicken eyeball," which he did repeatedly on Christmas Day.

A couple of weeks ago it occurred to me that one way to build a closer relationship with my great-grandson between visits would be to send him letters. That was the start of the Owen Poems. Since then I've been making up short verses and "borrowing" photos from Google images to illustrate them. My plan is to send him a new poem--or something--every week or ten days until he loses interest.

With a little help from his mama, a clearly excited Owen called me after he got this first one:

You'll have no trouble guessing what the illustration is on this next one I'm mailing today:

Owen Poem #2

Owen Asks the Body Question

Owen suggested, "Pick only one thing:

From your hair to the tips of your toes,

What part of your body do you like the best?"

Claire answered, "My eyes, I suppose."

Nicholas said, "I would pick my right arm

Because of the cool way it throws."

Jonathan said, "I can wiggle my ears,

so I think I'm gonna choose those."

Emily's choice was her curly red hair,

And Anthony? He picked his nose.

Rounding out the first three (all I've written so far) is this one:

Owen Poem #3

Up and Down

A dog named Up and a duck named Down

once walked together into town.

They walked along a railroad track

and didn't bother looking back

until a whistle made Up shout,

"A train is coming! Down, look out!"

The train was moving very fast,

but just before it roared on past,

the friends did what they had to do:

down Up jumped and up Down flew.

What about the pre-schoolers you know? What kinds of things do they find funny?

Five Things I Really, Really Like

1. Saturdays. Who doesn't?
2. Piano music. This goes back to my childhood. When I visited my Grandma Audrey, she would let me spend hours picking out "tunes" (at least in my mind they were tunes) on her upright piano. I never learned to play, but I've always loved the piano.
3. Ethereal voices. Those light, airy, haunting vocal instruments that run their fingers up and down my spine. 
4. Nashville, ABC's nighttime soap opera about the music industry. I wait for it from one Wednesday night to the next, caught up in between in a gnarly ball of characters and plot lines, looking forward to the next twist in the story and the next new song.
5. One particular song from the 1/29/14 episode of Nashville. With rare exceptions, all the Saturday Song Selections featured on this blog are ones I've bought and paid for, either through iTunes or on CDs that I've converted to MP3s to include them on iTunes playlists. Today's song is so new that it isn't even available for purchase yet. I know, because I've checked on it every single day since that episode aired to see if I could buy it. Instead, I've listened to it on YouTube enough times that it's now playing virtually non-stop in my head -- in a good way, not an earworm way. 

So, here are all five things wrapped up in this week's Saturday Song Selection:

The song is "Black Roses," performed by Clare Bowen.

Thanks to Kou Vang for posting the video and lyrics on YouTube.

Color in a Box

It had been a long time since I'd worked a jigsaw puzzle, but I bought one recently when I knew we were going to be iced in for a few days. I was at the store to buy soup ingredients and other food to tide us over for the duration. A shortcut from the dog-food section to the grocery aisles took me past the toy department, where puzzle boxes were stacked at the end of an aisle. The colors in this one just reached out and grabbed me:

The after-effects of working a jigsaw puzzle never fail to delight me. While I'm putting it together, and for a day or two after I finish, I see the world differently. Instead of trees, I see the varied colors and shapes of leaves. I notice individual shingles on neighbors' rooftops, smaller ones at the peaks, larger (closer) ones near the eaves. I see shadows, grasses, flowers, woodgrain, chips in paint, spots of rust--all the little details needed to properly place a single, small piece of scenery into its surroundings. It's magical for a brief time, then it fades, and I go back to seeing only the big picture.

Right now the big picture outside my home is mostly shades of beige and gray, some drab greens clinging to the live oaks and long-needle pines, and the sky such a faded shade of blue that it looks as though it isn't even trying. If this scenery were a puzzle, there would be no joy in working it.

That'll change. I browse through my photo files and see pictures of beautiful, bright-colored flowers, shots I snapped in late January and early February in previous years, and they give me hope. They're there, I know, ready to break through the soil as soon as the time is right. All we need is a little stretch of typical Louisiana weather, a few days in a row of warmer temperatures. I think I can wait.

In the meantime, I'll find my color in a box, one piece at a time.

What I've Been Reading

My tried-and-true method for choosing a book is to read the first page--or maybe two, if I'm still undecided at the end of the first. If a story hasn't reeled me in by then, I pass it up. It's certainly possible that I've missed out on some good books that way, but I haven't often been disappointed in the ones I've chosen.

Here are the books I've snuggled up with during our recent cold weather, every one of them a good read:

Funerals for Horses

by Catherine Ryan Hyde

Walk Me Home

by Catherine Ryan Hyde

The Goldfinch

by Donna Tartt

Until Tuesday

by Luis Carlos Montalvan

War Brides

by Helen Bryan

The Patron Saint of Liars

by Ann Patchett

To read a description and reviews of any of these books,

click on its image above.

Bits and Pieces

ENOUGH!
This is the view from my backdoor day before yesterday:

I expect to see a similar view as soon as I take a shower, do my hair, put on makeup, get dressed and step outside to go to the grocery store. If you click on the picture to enlarge it, you can just barely see that it was pouring down rain. Who needs more of that?

********

GROSS!
This is what I found on the den floor yesterday, about an hour after the dogs spent a few minutes outside:

All the dogs were sleeping when I found the dead lizard, so whichever one had caught it must have tired of it quickly. Dead lizards are not good for much.

On the other hand, over in East Texas a couple of days ago, my niece's dogs killed a cat that had strayed into their fenced-in yard. She found it on her porch, where her sleeping puppy was snuggled up with it.

We dog lovers tend to forget that our precious pets are natural-born predators. I wish they didn't have such a gruesome way of reminding us.

********

BOTHERSOME!
While Kim and I watched TV last night, we heard a strange noise and couldn't identify the source of it. A few minutes later, we heard it again and got up to search it out. The refrigerator was...er...snoring. I'm not kidding; it sounded exactly like this. It makes that noise half a dozen times spaced a couple minutes apart, stops for several hours, then does it again a few more times. Otherwise, it seems to be working fine. If my car were making that noise, I'd take it to a mechanic, but I think I'll wait to see what happens with the refrigerator. It might stop cooling, but at least it won't leave me stranded.

********

SAD...JUST SAD
On a serious note, I wrote the following on April 1, 2006: "...I can’t say enough good things about Philip Seymour Hoffman, who starred in the role of Truman Capote.  He’s been in so many movies that my daughter and I have joked about it for several years.  One of us will ask, 'Who’s in that movie?' and the other will answer with a list that always ends in '...and Philip Seymour Hoffman.'  He hasn’t been blessed with leading-man looks, which may be why he’s had time to hone his talent in supporting actor roles, but I think he’s brilliant!  It’s about time a movie came along that allowed him to shine."

Rest in peace, Philip Seymour Hoffman. We will miss you deeply, but your star will continue to shine.

The River Ain't the Only Thang Runnin' Deep Around Here

Here we are on the first day of February already, also the first day of Black History Month, which might have skipped my notice if I hadn't just finished reading the local library's monthly bulletin. Despite my lily-white heritage, I do have a deep interest in African-American history, as demonstrated by many of my favorite reading and movie-watching choices over the years. I've always been inspired by stories about overcoming adversity. If that theme is prominent anywhere, it's in black history, where so much has been accomplished--and there's still so much to be done.

I was reminded of that last fact earlier this week on the night of the State-of-the-Union Address. Because President Obama was a few minutes late starting his speech, a Facebook friend referred to him as "arrogant." I know from the trend of her other posts that what she really meant was "uppity," and I'm still steamed about it. Don't like his policies? That's fine by me; we can agree to disagree. But I detest racism, no matter how someone tries to pretty it up.

Okay, enough ranting. I'm glad you're here, regardless of which side's Kool-Aid you've been drinking--mine or another flavor.

Today also happens to be Saturday, time for a Saturday Song Selection. (I totally forgot about a song last Saturday, because I totally forgot that last Saturday was a Saturday.). The old spirituals seem well suited to this particular post, so I'll choose one of the many that touch my heart. I dare you to listen to the first few bars of this and see if you can remain unmoved by the soulfulness of it.

The song is "Deep River," performed by Mahalia Jackson.

Thanks to StudiosHawaii for posting the video on YouTube.

Click here to read the lyrics.

Snow Stories

This week's cold weather (almost over) produced lots of ice but no snow. The mere possibility of snow, however, was enough to bring back memories of my childhood winters in Missouri:

*****

In the 1950s Missouri schools didn't close because of snow, and when it did snow, those of us who usually walked to school put on our rubber boots and walked in it--uphill both ways, of course. I remember one day walking past a thigh-high drift of snow and deciding to test its actual depth by plunging one booted foot into the drift. Unfortunately, when I pulled my leg out, the snow held on to the boot, and the boot held on to both my shoe and sock. To reach the buried boot I had to stick my arm down into the drift and feel around with my mittened hand, which meant leaning far enough forward that my chin was in the snow. At the same time I had to balance on one leg to keep the other, barefooted one as high and dry as possible. You might think this would have ended my curiosity about snow, but it didn't.

*****

Following one winter storm, I set out from home mid-afternoon to walk about eight blocks to a friend's birthday party. The sidewalk, which was broken in several places, had a thick coating of ice over it. Several inches of snow on the ground had leveled out the appearance of the sidewalk so that the broken places weren't obvious, and each time I happened to step on one of those tilted pieces of concrete, I slipped, tossing the cheerfully wrapped present into the air as I fell. Falling on concrete hurt, even if it was covered by fluffy snow. After several hard falls, I started to cry. I arrived at the party with tears frozen on my face, a scraped knee inside my leggings, and the most bedraggled gift I've ever personally delivered. Happy birthday, my derriere.

*****

One year it snowed on Halloween night, but the big, wet flakes didn't stop us from trick-or-treating. My little sister was about three or four at the time and low to the ground. As the snow fell and piled higher and higher, it eventually reached her low-hanging, brown-paper Halloween bag, gradually wetting and weakening it until all her candy fell through the bottom and sank into the snow. My sister sobbed, and Mother walked us straight home after that. I didn't make a habit of empathizing with my sister in those days, but even my own hard heart could relate to the trauma of losing candy, so as soon as we got home, I willingly divided my candy and gave Judy half.

Okay, all the best stuff probably stayed in my half, but still...

*****

Back to that curiosity thing: Walking home from school one afternoon, swinging my book bag and happy that the sun was out for a change, I noticed a patch of yellow snow near a bush in a neighbor's yard. I'd seen those yellow places from time to time but hadn't given the matter much thought until that very moment. We made snow ice cream all the time that winter and must have made some in the recent past, because my first thought was not, as you might expect, why is the snow yellow? It was what does yellow snow taste like? 

I was happy to report to my family that evening that yellow snow tasted a little bit like pineapple. And not so happy after they explained the reason for the yellow snow. Today, sixty-some-odd years later, I'm glad to be able to tell you that yellow snow won't kill you.

Brrrrr!

The thermostat in the hall tells me it's a cozy seventy degrees in the center of the house. I wish that thermostat could take a walk into the den and sit where I'm sitting, near a couple of windows and a door, and reassess the situation. Even the keyboard I'm typing on is cold to the touch.

I'm wearing an old fleece "jogging suit" (the quotation marks are because I've never jogged in it even once) with a sleeveless T-shirt under the top to keep out the draft, and I have a big plush throw wrapped around my shoulders. Heavy socks on my feet, of course. I'm still chilled to the bone.

The predicted "wintry mix" at our house contained sleet, not snow, with just enough moisture mixed in to turn it into solid sheets of ice.

Most of the driveway is coated in ice.

At the fence line there are pileups with leaves

and other things frozen inside. Is that a worm

in the bottom right-hand corner?

The patio chairs are all stuck in place.

I wonder if heat loss from the house is responsible

for that unfrozen path on the right side of this photo.

With temperatures in the low-twenties and wind chill temperatures nearing single digits, we've had to leave a faucet dripping for the last three nights and two days. It seems impossible to me that the forecast calls for temps in the mid-seventies on Saturday--three days from now. Say what? I'll believe it when I feel it on my skin.