BEACHING THE BOAT….

 

Beaching my boat…..

It came to me several bed-times ago. It was a blazing, full on coloured, screaming in the night…..nightmare.

I had lost my way. Essentially, I was lost and fighting my way back to being found.

There are some events in life we  can attempt to control. Conscience. Controlled. Choices.

Which ice cream to buy: light, churned, no fat-no-taste OR get out the churn and help me herd the cows into the milking parlour.  So-help-me I won’t tell if you won’t.

Knickers today. Or, NOT.    Again…I won’t tell if you don’t.

Turn right. Turn left.
Stand still or stand in the middle.

In other words and worlds…small, uneventful choices made everyday with little thought, academic concern, or magnanimous care. Daily life caught up in the waves but with oars in the water.

Then there is the other stuff…the major stuff.

Stuff that is going to count…or be counted…or needs to be counted.

Major stuff  that could possibly swamp the boat if more care isn’t taken to keep the oars moving, the horizon in sight, and safe harbours sussed out should the need arise.

With My Reader’s help…I’m beaching my boat for a while in a safe harbour.  Seems to be a good time to lay in the sand and look at cloud formations….

…and rearrange the barnacles that have been ignored.

The oar slips need repair and a paint job is in order. Might take a while.

My Reader wants to know when I’ll be back.

In good time.

KILLING ME SOFTLY…

*gasping* times two…this just isn’t helping me at all and I don’t mean to sound ungrateful because I am. My Reader is beginning to nod affirmatively over the plethora of awards to be awarded, award “badges” (similar to Girl Scout achievements…however not to be sewn on to any body part…and Warned: DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME caveat), award thanks from recipients and soon-to-be-receivers, plus all the resulting fallout to the “awarders” and the “awardees”…*gasp* *gasp* plus,  one *gulp*.

Girl Scout in uniform (Photo credit: Wikipedia) I used to look like this without the glasses...but had waaaay more badges. This GS obviously is NOT badge-motivated. Just sayin'.......

Need I say more? Yes, apparently.

Rules are important. Necessary…yet…made to be dare I say broken?

My Reader is going to have to deal with…changed.

I’m Not Lost, Just Weird and jensinewall bestowed upon JOTS the KREATIVE BLOGGER [award] and the I’M IT [award].

Jots is thanking both NoZ and Jensine  posthumously…as opposed to anonomously…because *gasp* you are [true story] killing me softly…

TIME FRAME:
Hour 1:    Read award. Shower off sweat. Read award again. Print out.
Hour 2:    Read award. Curse. Curse again. Sweat. Shower. Read again.
Hour 3:    Figure out rules. Curse. Throw away print-out of rules.
Hour 4:    Print again. Change rules. Curse. Make new rules.
Hour 5:    Break for lunch. Take much needed nap.
Hour 6:    Interesting answers (about me)to KREATIVE BLOGGER questions:
1.    Yes, most of the time.
2.    Never…but sometimes.
3.    All of the above so far.
4.    Voracious.
5.    Right is always left. Left is sometimes right. Depends.
6.    Perhaps.
7.    All of the above.
Hour 7:    I’M IT answer to favourite artist and why:
1.    Vermeer. Nothing extra is always more.
Hour 8-15:    I kid you not…linking, cutting, pasting, editing, drafting, re-writing, re-cutting, accidentally deleting, re-writing and….
lots and lots of  cursing. Over. The. Top. Cursing.

Hour 16-36: Post first draft. Repeat hours 8-15.

TODAY:     Post final copy.

P.S.            My Reader is hoping  JOTS gets black-listed for rule breaking and changing and other major infractions.
P.P.S.        Pleeeeze………………

BREAKING RULES…

I already know that My Reader is not going to believe what I’ve done to keep from writing this much-needed award recognition from: I’m Not Lost Just Weird, jensine, Zen and Genki, and last, but not least, BASED ON A TRUE STORY.

Below is a bone fide list of “working avoidance tasks”  I’ve used and  perfected to keep from sharing the fact that I’ve been given the following awards: LIEBSTER BLOG AWARD

and THE SUNSHINE BRIGHT, SPARKLEY YET SHINEY AWARD….

KNOW THIS TO BE TRUE: Weeks later am now responding to the nice words and  affirmation showered upon me.  Instead of timely groveling gratitude straight away I, JOTS,  have done the following:

1.    Watched for falling trees. Potted trees. On balconies.
2.    Dug holes. Close to, near by but especially in cemeteries.
3.    Re-washed and re-dried clean laundry.
4.    Napped.
5.    Rearranged furniture at A Furniture Store.
6.    Turned the calendar page back to March…..

“Why?”  My Reader asks, “Why the angst?”

WHEREASS: It is down to those pesky rules, and because I don’t do rules very well…but do so enjoy breaking them….

HOWEVER:  Please do consider this my act of supreme contributory contrition and confirmation of contrite conduct…

THEREFORE:  

1.    Favourite colour:    Mark Rothko, Vermeer, Van Gogh, David Hockney, Mary Fedden and Michael Morgan…to name a few.

2.    Favourite number:  It’s a crap shoot…

3.    Passion:    Music…not the least because I’ve just acquired a new piano in celebration of my upcoming birthday, which means I have to practice more  and  live a long, long time even if it is [just] to rationalize the expense.

4.    Favourite flower: Sweet-Peas…when they wave in the wind they remind me of   noisy children on a playground at recess.

5.    Favourite place:    I know my soul was born in England. Every time I return, my heart remains.

6.     Favourite pleasures:    Breaking rules, et al…….

...and of course a cuppa shared with My Reader.

LIEBSTER LORE….

Frogs (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It was a sad day in the forest so dark and dreary

The Princess Frog was crouched, leap-less and teary.

She’d lost her warts and found life less cheery

So gave up the search to find her Prince Deary.

“I’m not lost nor weird just wartless,” Herself cried with chokin’.

“NoZ enriched my life with this crappy-happy-thought thinkin’.”

“He worded of honour to find me a Dude way hot and smokin’…

But Instead replaced love (and coffee) with a  LIEBSTER BLOG AWARDIN’.”

Fractured Fairy-Tail  dedicated  to Nowan Zen.

Here’s to filled Dance Cards, Filled Cups of Coffee, Marshmallows & Campfires….

The Liebster Blog Award Rules:

1.Thank your Liebster Blog Award presenter on your blog.

2. Link back to the blogger who presented the award to you.

3. Copy and paste the blog award on your blog.

4. Present the Liebster Blog Award to 5 blogs of 200 followers or less who you feel deserve to be noticed.

5. Let them know they have been chosen by leaving a comment at their blog.

My Favourites Great and Small:

1   bakerbettie.wordpress.com  – Treats, Cakes and Sweets with droolin’ no foolin’ photos.

2. ooobop – Nimble fingers with thread and an English Miss with loads of fashion talent.

3. monicawantstodraw.wordpress.com- Beginning artist from Singapore. Stunning and thoughtful.

4. zhongguojumble.wordpress.com-We have our pianos in common, plus enjoying exceptionally Aisan gourmet!

5. hilaryschaffnerphotography- Want to see where I live? Hilary is good….really good!

ABOUT RUTH: The Mother Before

I’m going through old photographs looking for clues of a life now almost gone. I can see that The Mother was a beauty, but not the 1940’s Hollywood type beauty. Yes, the pleated and wide-legged slacks, fitted-waist peplum over-blouse, the burnt-red henna hair but not quite the Lucille Ball colour, the bright red lipstick. All there. The effect, however, was not the same as the fashion magazines or the cinema posters or the movies that dictated women’s  fashions for that era of U.S. history that was in the process of winding down two terrible wars. Or was it three?

The missing element…necessary element…to The Mother’s fashionable and coveted opulent lifestyle was, of course, money. She was straight from the sagebrush hills of backwoods Southern California. Poorer than most. Basic high school education. And a haughty flirtatious personality that defied good taste. She was rough around the edges but liked being noticed.  The center of attention was highly prized and hard fought.

She shared a home and a life with a hypochondriac, mentally unstable mother, an overworked father bent on providing for his sickly wife and the much younger other daughter…a cripple with cerebral palsy that required all his time and all the earned money.  Lack of money and lack of attention brought out the worst  in The Mother.  Even then. She acquired the projection of a style  necessary for a young woman who  desperately wanted to get out on her own…to get out on her own.  To get a job. To just get out and away from destitute, low-brow parents and a physically destitute sister. Most of all, though, The Mother wanted to get out and away from her own  perceived destitute life.

I don’t know much about the early years when The Mother left home and went to work at  an aerodynamics factory supplying the government with airplanes, but I heard about that job. Over and over.  It was a story she liked to recount with wide smiles and much gusto. With bravado would be another appropriate describer.  In my imagination I can see her running up and down steel mesh stairways with important papers to be signed and inventories to be taken.  Her high heels. Her Kathrine Hepburn slacks and form fitted twin sweater sets. Permed and colored hair. Lips the colour of a blazing red fire engine. Life was good and damn it all…she had the world on a ball of string that seemed to have no end.  Life was very, very good.

So. What happened?

The Mother was deeply in love. Himself was being shipped to Texas for basic training. She was waiting for Himself’s proposal letter to arrive but instead, in those short weeks away from her and their proposed life,  received a letter from Himself stating he had married…another.  The Mother’s endless ball of good-time and great-life string snapped.  The Mother took and received consolation from her best friend‘s brother-in-law…he being shipped out to conquer or clean-up a Pacific island. Conquer. Clean-up. It didn’t matter.  Nothing mattered.

After all, it was still considered war-time in the late 1940s.

I try to guess…and attempt to put short conversations over heard at family gatherings together and in some sense of time order.  Not easy. These conversations amongst family and friends have always been in  hushed tones. In secret. Especially  around me.  The stares. The empty smiles. Everyone and I do mean everyone seemed to have been threatened and sworn-to-death secrecy.  I was, much later in my adult life, to find this account of sworn-to-death secrecy to be a true story.  The Mother had holding power over many, for years and years.  Therefore, putting the pieces of those whispered snapshots together of The Mother’s life was and is similar to assembling a one thousand piece puzzle on a too-small table top. Not only are some pieces missing but the outer edges, the ones that create the boundaries and hold all together,  fall off the edges of the table.  I can only guess at the vacant pieces and where they should be placed but I also need to find peace within this life, The Mother’s and mine, that continues to do battle in the now ever-present over the loss of what should have been had other choices been made.

Her loss. Her circumstances. Again, her choices.

She was single.

She was  broken hearted…and she was now pregnant.

My name is Ruth.

The above is a private conversation between the writer and subject, RUTH.  Unauthorized use and/or duplication of any Jots from a Small Apt. material without express and written permission from this writer is strictly not an option. Give me credit when and where credit is due. Otherwise, don’t even think about using my stuff as yours.

ABOUT RUTH: The Lost Family

As those two memories go they are sharp and clear because they happened on the very same day. That is what cemented both. Into solid childhood ground. I think The Reader has, probably, had some incidents or events that they can almost smell because they’ve remembered them so well, and for so long? I’m hoping so,  because when I say cemented  I do mean just that.  Cemented.

Made firm.

Solid.

Event One:  In a fair and honest second grade recess game of marbles, Ruben won my favourite steely marble from me, plus my lucky-lavender cats-eye.   It didn’t matter, actually it did matter, because he was a much better shooter than me and I had no business risking my collection to a second-grade marble-shooting professional. Ruben’s mindset wasn’t on me, the seven-year-old girlie tom-boy wannabe.  It was my huge bag of marbles he was after. He not only got my favourites…but most of the others, too.  I was heart-broken and had only myself to blame. I knew that.

Knowing didn’t make it better.

What I didn’t know was that my day was only going to get worse.

The second event happened that evening while we were eating dinner.  I can see the images clearly. Firm and solid. Everyone is sitting around a long, rectangular table.
The Father at one end;  The Mother at the other; Little Brother next to The Father on the right; then me next to Little Brother. Across the table was Older sister next to The Father on the left, with Middle Sister next to her…which places Middle Sister directly across from me. The Mother is next to me, on the end to my left.

I can see where we all are. What I can’t hear is exactly what started the conversation that became in my mind The Lost Family. This Family I thought was mine. This Family that  belonged to me and that I belonged in. I’ve recorded this memory in visual and audio cement. I can see now, not then, that  losing a steely and lavender cats-eye marble seems small in comparison. But then, I was small. I was only seven when I lost my marble collection.

And, My Family.

Older Sister:            Daddy is not your Father.
Me, Little Sister:    What do you mean Daddy is not my father?
Older Sister:            He’s not your Daddy or your real Father.  He adopted you for a quarter so your last name would be the same as ours.

Which, I’m both happy and sorry to say…explained a lot.

It explained why my Older,  Middle Sister and Little Brother resembled each other. It explained why the immigrant Genoan Italians at all the “family” reunions looked at the small, freckled-face reddish-blond Irish looking girl child with more curiosity than acceptance. It explained why The Mother couldn’t tell me my nationality other than “Heinz-57”. So for the longest time I figured having ketch-up in my blood wasn’t so bad.

At least it was red.

It explained (and confirmed) the feeling of being on the outside. Of not fitting. It explained why I always felt there were some pieces missing. Don’t ask me how or why I knew.

I just did.

It also explained why The Father, now The Step-father,  showed me secrets and treated me so special. More special than Older and Middle Sister.

I have to stop now because this is Ruth’s story to tell. Not mine.  

She asked me to write this beginning for her. Ruth hoped you’d understand about childhood, memories, family, belonging, but mostly about…cement and how it keeps things together.

Sometimes a life.  Sometimes for a whole lifetime.

Ruth said she’d be back but only when she’s ready.

Essential Note to My Reader: I have to believe Ruth will continue her story…but only when she’s ready to unload some of that heavy cement that’s been weighing her down.

I sure hope so. Cement, like some memories, can be heavy.

Too heavy to handle without…A Family.

…and, on another Note…

This is for posterity. This is for My Children when they decide to sell my piano at the garage sale…for free. After I’m dead. I hope.  This is, also,  to let My Children know that “No,  I did not nor do I love My Piano more than I love them, My Children”  and…since they aren‘t here…they can’t see my fingers crossed, and hidden behind my back.  My Reader, still The Putz, will more than likely tell them I’ve lied. Again.

You’ve heard this before since it accompanies the I walked 400 miles to school in 90 feet of snow daily for one thousand years story, but…I have,  actually, played piano since I was three.

Which means?

Nothing to My Reader. However,  to me,  this is where the very personal part begins to play…

What it means to me is this:  I’ve taken lessons, practiced, accompanied others, dueted many, given lessons, recitaled myself into nervous paralysis, practiced some more, dusted key boards,  polished, practiced again and again, played beautiful music  and…hauled an enormous piece of furniture up and down the west coast and half-way around the world and back.

That’s  one huge and never ending Mayflower moving van bill.

My last move resulted in My Children throwing away the Where Ma’am Lives Now page in their address diaries…and also asking to be dis-inherited.

Now you see why I lie to them….

The Piano. MY piano…is 100 years old. Each time it moves it has to be tuned. My current piano tuner is, by the way, completely normal. I’ve had some real doozie-crazies in my house playing with keys and tuning strings, and finding Mark was…well…refreshing. When it comes to piano tuners I do believe “normal” is rare but very, very  good.

Mark suggested  after the “first-after-the-move-tuning“, he return in several weeks and give My Piano a good cleaning. Probably hadn’t been done in a while…I’m guessing forty years or more…so it sounded like a good idea.

While cleaning, Mark found a hidden signature on the bass-clef A Key, at the very end of the key board. It was signed Marshall, H. and dated Sept. 1912…which after reading THE PIANO SHOP ON THE LEFT BANK by Thad Carhart, is not unusual or rare, especially in small piano-making workshops. My piano came from  a small family owned piano workshop originally located in Yorkshire, England.  It was brought to America on a steam ship, was owned by one family, and passed down through three generations. It still  has a sweet-mellow tone, and a light key touch.

My Piano now has my name “autographed” on the bass-clef A Key right next to Marshall, H. and the date 2012.   

My Piano is one hundred years old.

It is mine and it is…home.

Piano at Home.

   

STILL IN…LOVE…LYLE LOV… PART 2

Yesterday was one of those delirious yet delicious happy days. Therefore, this is going to be one of those delirious yet delicious happy stories that may not go down well especially if My Reader woke up this morning in a bad-ass mood and  is not  in a delirious-delicious happy receiving mindful place. I’ll be kind and ask My Reader to leave the room so as not to ruin it for everyone else.

Just leave and don’t slam the door. (My Reader…such a puttz.)

Alone. At last.

Yesterday and two days prior…we received not inches of rain but yards of rain. Rivers in the streets. Flood watches.  Moisture records set.  It is green and lush here for a reason but to receive three months worth of wet stuff in three days is almost asking too much of Northwest Humankind.  Be patient. This isn’t the happy part.

Yesterday.  It’s raining.  I’m on my way to meet The Daughter for lunch. I’ve just come from the doggie wash . Dog is in the back looking clean, fluffly and white-on-white but smelling like the rotten egg damp dog that she is.  Life is good. So very good.   The wet dog smell?    Not so much.  

Clean, fluffly, white-on-white dog.

Here’s the beginning of the happy part…

…..it stops raining and (here’s the happy happy part) the sun comes out!!! Traffic practically stops.

No kidding and true story.

Traffic. Stand. Still. Stop.  Now aren’t you glad you waited for this…

Enter Lyle Lovett*.

Cars stop long enough for me to dig through the dog biscuits in the console and find the Lyle Lovett and His Big Band CD. Sun is still out. Zowie. Glorious sun. Windows rolled down…in hopes for a quickie left- arm tan line. Music begins and I’m in love all over again….I’m dreaming Texas-Two Step dancing’ with Lyle (he‘s leading)….singin’ harmony (she’s the alto-tenor) with Francine.

I’m just a peachy-keen-smiling‘-and-feelin‘-that-sunshine-singin‘-fool!   Lovin’ it Maximum!!

I LIKE CREAM IN MY COFFEE…FLOUR TORTILLAS…CHEESE BURGERS…
…DOES THIS MAKE ME A SHALLOW PERSON…HERE I AM….

I’d just forgotten  how, on an  albeit brief sunshiny day,  Lyle made that sunshine last just a bit longer… and how I’m still very much in love with him.  The understanding: in a non-obsessive sort-of way.

The rain (and some predicted snow)  returned.

My Reader returned and snidely commented that I’d forgotten to mention another favourite Lyle song…

IF I HAD A BOAT

…which makes My Reader so much more than a puttz…

Francine, Sweet-Tea, can you give me a call?  Let’s talk…..

*I’ve previously confessed my love (not to be confused with an obsession) with Lyle in a previous story.
It‘s around here somewhere……………..

MOTHER CALLED TO SAY…

I was born in southern California and lived about as close to the Tijuana border as possible. Three feet of seven stretchable acres of my grandfather’s farmland was taken to the “other side” when the border fence was built. Our family farm was also located so close to the Pacific Ocean you could smell the surf but not hear the sound. Which brings me to…snow. The weather kind.

It doesn’t snow south of San Diego seven miles from the beach. Nor does it snow on that inland sandy patch of ground called the Tijuana Valley used for growing tomatoes, onions, radishes and all things green above and below top soil level. If snow happens (the weather kind) it happens in a blink. Is gone in less. Of course, I’m remembering from a long time ago and perhaps things have changed. The weather. The occurrence of snow in and around the Tijuana Valley of southern California. I rather doubt it.

I moved north not because it had more snow and southern California didn’t have much if any, but because that was where we were going to make our new home. I didn’t know about the bonus of snow until it happened. I thought it happened a lot. Which meant it happened more than…never. Which is what I knew. Maybe it didn’t snow every year. It just happened a lot more than I had ever seen. Ever. It was a big deal to me.

A huge and very big deal.

It was exciting and I’m not ashamed to admit (confess) I absolutely went over the moon when it snowed. Then. In the early days.

And now. Still. To. This. Day.

Which brings me to my Daughter. She was born here and knows about all that snow stuff. “It’s only weather, Ma’am,” she tells me.    But I know. I know she is as excited as I am about this white weather stuff called snow. Know how I know? Because she calls me.  No matter what hour day or night. The telephone will ring and I will answer.

“It’s snowing,” she’ll say with a smile. She can hear my own smile through the whiteness of the day or night. That unspoken binding declaration between Mother and Daughter of I’m-going-to-call-you-when-it-snows.

Which brings me to my Mother. My Reader knows about my Mother because I’ve mentioned her before. She’s in that in-between memory place. She calls when she needs something. To complain. To be grumpy. She doesn’t think about the weather. Mother remembers my phone number but often not my name. I got a very early morning call last week. Too early. I figured the worse.  I answered the telephone. Mother called to say…

“It’s snowing….”

SWEARING IS LIKE EATING SUGAR…ONCE YOU START IT’S HARD TO STOP

Really Old Building...but Not My Building.

I live in an old building. Old being built in 1922 for apartments, converted and sold as “new and improved” condominiums in 1976. It is now 2012. The only date My Reader needs to remember is: OLD.  Nine floors of oldness: old wiring, old plumbing, old elevators, old toilets, old creaks and groans and every now and then…old gripes retold with renewed but loud spirit.

One does not live in this building unless one really, really, really loves all things OLD…

Which brings me to yesterday, Sunday. Typically a day of rest with or without religious content.  Typically.

[Now is a good time to insert primary vital information: the building manager is out of town. We are, all nine floors of us…on our own if something breaks in our very old building.]

I’m going to keep this simple and to the point.

All hell breaks.

The elevator won’t move past the first floor. Or anywhere. It just sits. Still. In place.

Water Water Everywhere

The toilet in the “guest room” springs a leak. No flushing. Please.

The steam radiator on the 8th floor is leaking and water has soaked the       8th floor lobby carpet and is now a problem on top of another problem.

There’s a security issue: an unknown woman wants in our old building. Voluntarily wants IN and not OUT?

That was yesterday. Sunday.

Today is Today: Monday

Building Manager remains in that foreign country, Dallas, Texas. I applaud her travel sense and wish I were there, too. Texas? Maybe not.

Telephone calls to repair peeps have been made.

Plumber Dispatcher Peep-Guy calls.  Wants information on leaky toilet and I explain in factual plumbing language:

The water hose that comes out of the wall and connects to the main shiny part just below the horizontal flusher that sticks out on the left side is squirting water out of the end of the hose that goes into the main shiny part.

Long pause.

Is this a one or two piece toilet?
One piece…you know…like a prison toilet but probably older. The toilet. Not the prison

.
Make of toilet?
Crane. Sante Vitroware. Old Italian toilet. Like in an Italian prison…a really old prison. It’s white. The toilet. Not the prison.

Pause.

(To myself….Shite what’s with the pauses?  Is he writing this down or what?)

He’s back…

Is there a water shut off on the wall?
No. There is no as in none water shut off coming from the wall.
Another pause. Longer one.  Then…
You realize we may have to shut off the entire building water supply in order to fix this toilet?

[Now is a good time to insert secondary vital information: The visual and audible memories of our recent non-scheduled all building water shut-off…are at best…ugly. Really ugly. It is a true-story bad (did I mention ugly?) event and to do a rerun…so soon…is unthinkable.]

[Insert: words that came out of my mouth and into the earpiece of the Plumber Dispatcher Guy’s telephone.]

Oh, no. And, then…
Oh, damn.
Thinking that I may have overstepped my vocabulary bounds with this peep-stranger on the phone trying to help us…I pulled in the expletive reins and said,
Oh, crap.
Then I forgot myself completely as the memories flooded (ha!) my mind with visions of death-to-the-water-shut-off-messenger as the building community geared itself up for the early morning starting the day shower ritual…and reverted to:
Oh, shit!

Silence from Plumber Dispatcher Guy on the other end of the telephone.

Oh, sphuck…disguised f-word…what have I just done?

…to be continued…

FIGS IN SPACE….

On the FBI’s scientific methods…

“This shows what we’ve been saying all along:

that it was all supposition

based on conjecture

based on guesswork,

without any proof whatsoever.”

Paul Kemp, Lawyer

 

Or….it could mean that scientific methods used by the FBI could be compared to or with  NASA sending….

...FIGS IN SPACE.

FALLING OFF THE EDGE…

I think my last post was…well, it was some time ago. This is not an excuse for not writing…but since that last post I’ve dedicated a lot of hours reading other web postings, and have tried to find a happy medium between my own thoughts and…others.  I’ve thought of it as gathering seeds. Of weeding through the rubble. What to talk about. What not to share. I wouldn’t want to give the combination to the lock that secures the storage unit, nor divulge my post office box location, but I would enjoy the admiration of My Reader.  A twee bit of adulation would work, too.

What a challenge.

My Reader is very particular. Bores easily. Actually, My Reader is a boring narcissistic sod. Has a potty mouth. Likes to have the last word, but mostly always pays the bills on time. Having said that…I’ve almost convinced myself into believing that this sharing thing via posts or blogs is an inventor’s gigantic joke on those who take life as a serious condition. “And”, she whispered, “Those who don’t.”

Ripping the heart out of your chest and bleeding on yourself by telling all to more-than perfect strangers, or making snarly comments on or about whatever is in or out of social media..or media-media…is what? Could it be possible that others’ might enjoy that particular read you’ve just posted? Or. Not. ??? And…what to share if you have a particularly dry, crappy via scrappy off the beaten path sense of humour? Say you find yourself in left field? This is not in the figurative left field but… could be. My Reader would think this would be in the literal left field…albeit the fringes. One of the Oh, yes..I know that field but hide yourself on exceptional days but especially those Friday nights, weekends, holidays and pretty much all ways. In short: Don’t even go there.

Really?

My Reader knows that some writers are better game players. Better home-run hitters when it comes to connecting. The consummate crosser of i’s and dotter of t’s. The gravitational pull to those who seem to have something important to say and have a great  need to have you listen…are what? Funnier? Funniest? Serious or serial? You know them and most likely want to be one: the Award Winner, The Honoured Medal Collector, The All-Expenses-Paid Recipient.

The Best Pie Baker.

What.  Ever.

Know what it feels like trying to get there? What it really feels like? Feels a bit like that old high school popularity contest. Inane yet so damned important. At the same time so blah-blah. So forgettable. Insane. You can’t possible count all the winners and all the collectors of honoured medals. Their numbers are too many and their names will be forgotten faster than their faces at that third year reunion. Bet on it.

Really?

Yes. Really.

Falling Off the Edge...

Forget everything I’ve just said.

I want what they have.

Quick before I change my mind….

Sign me up.

MY BRA IS TOO TIGHT…

I’m on my way to see my Mother and Step-Father at the assisted living facility where they have lived for the past three years. I’ve taken great care in dressing this morning since I’m meeting with an administrator to discuss their care: past, present and future. Actually, since they will both be 89 years old this year, I think of their care needs only  in three-month time periods. What will be discussed today is not to be considered long-term.  It will be for…a while.

Passage

Their home is about 60 miles away from where I live. On a good day the drive is about 1 ½ hours long. On a bad traffic day it can take three hours coming or going. Or more. I take my dog, Babe, with me on these visits. She is excited that she gets to come because, well just because she‘s a dog. She thinks that anytime she’s in the car our destination is going to open avenues of adventure and be great fun, not only for her but for me, as well.  Today perhaps not so much.

Thirty miles into the drive I notice how tight my bra has become. That’s strange because it wasn’t uncomfortable when I dressed this morning. Question to myself: what did I have for breakfast that made me assume a weight gain of 10 pounds in what…less than a day?  No.  Make that just hours?

Not a clue. Thought  is dismissed. Comfort level remains constricted.

My Step-Father’s memory is slowly sinking into that abyss of darkness feared by many: Alzheimer’s Disease. His daily needs are wearing my Mother into the ground as her attempts to keep him with her physically and mentally are failing.  The physical-ness of moving a large man around a small apartment, especially getting him to the toilet on time, is now more than she can manage.  There are other things. Himself talking to me on the telephone but holding the phone upside down.  Not being the fun and exasperating man he used to be.  The fun part is gone. The exasperating part now magnified.  Trying to keep him with her mentally is exhausting.  She can see him but he can’t see her. He was once so vital and still is, but in an empty way.  Mother perceives his slide into that place he cannot share with her, and is now fearful of her own unknown.

Himself has forgotten that he did not want to die first leaving Mother all alone.  This is her fright now.

I’m not going to be able to alleviate most of her fears today. What is going to happen today is to try to make Mother’s life more…simple. It will get less of a life soon enough. Eventually, and all on it’s own.

I think I’ve figured out why my bra is too tight.

I’m trying to keep myself together.

WILL YOU STILL LOVE ME WHEN…

Will You Still Love Me When I'm Sixty-Five?

I turned sixty-four last year…which means, by the sequential rules of maths, I will turn sixty-five this year.  My  birthday is several months away but My Reader knows and understands that the light bulb has been glowing but has not been fully illuminated to the albeit dimly lit, soon-to-be reality of the happy sixty-five birthday to me event.   However… I received my government issue Medicare card in the mail last week.

My Reader can now forget dimly lit. Think strobe lights. Add sirens.

My thinking on turning sixty-five is this: the last nail to completely seal the coffin is not the same as using finish nails to complete the house that Jack built. Honestly, I don’t think I even know a Jack but the analogy serves to illustrate the point. Which. Is.

Turn on those strobes and crank up that volume!!

I’m far from done.

JUST PASSING BY….

OVERHEARD: two women, seated, waiting for their afternoon bus to arrive…one is knitting furiously talking to a seatmate who is watching her and has commented on her obvious talent,

“….I guess I get it from my Mother, although she didn’t knit….”

NOTHING TO WRITE ABOUT.

I bet you are thinking I have meant to say “Nothing to write home about.” You’d be wrong. I have said what I meant to say, that I really have nothing to write about. This is after 16 hours of reading blogs written by other…people…you other guys.  I’m going to call you those people only because my Mother once said I’d burn in hell if I weren’t nice to people I didn’t know.  You successful writers know who you are. Mother was never right about much of anything but I’d hate to think that at her age she’d somehow hit a lucky streak of informed righteousness.

Everyone, and I’m again talking about and to those people… who seem to be better informed than me. You write clever things. Sound smart. Are sometimes funny and even make me laugh. I’m so envious of your humorous anecdotes and writing skills.  I try not to laugh so hold it down to a wide smile. A lot of the time not laughing but wide-smiling hurts my face because there are a lot of you good writers floating around in coffee cafes looking for inspiration and probably, a safe guess here, the loos.

This loos for you.

Whatever is working for you is not working for me.

My Reader says I shouldn’t worry.

A lot My Reader knows. An example of true-blue success is if one has more than two hundred and forty-three other clever and informed,  advice giving people following your every move and mood via the written word. Such a gift. Such resoluteness and tenacity it must take to keep all two hundred and forty-three others entertained. Personally, I’m more than happy with the three subscribers I have earned, and earned the hard way. My children and My Reader have asked me not to name names.

All My Reader does is give advice which for some…those people again…seems to be quite…quite…adviceful. Giving advice doesn’t work for me. I know because I tried it once. Maybe twice. When they were young my children became my practice “advice dummies”… similar to the crash dummies the Car People invented to show us drivers how to crash safely. But this advice dummy application was different. Sort of. The upshot was my children no longer take anything from me, but especially they do not take advice from me. During many of my profound advice giving moments they would plead with me to Get. To. The. Point. Mom. Before. I. Die. Please.

They do, however, take money.

It is only eleven, almost twelve days into 2012 and I’m beginning to feel the pain and pressure of early writing failure.

My Reader might say that I haven’t wasted any time.

But then again My Reader might not.

I would emphasize the not…

ENGLAND SWINGS….

It is a dark and rainy night. It was also dark and rainy today. Portland “gets” 120 inches of rain supposedly in a three-year span. In case you, My Reader, are interested…forget the three-year span and think…today. Rain coming down in sheets. From above. From the side, back and front. No matter. Which makes being green (as in colourful flora, foliage and all ferny-things) all worth it.

Today? Maybe not so much…

Tomorrow? More. Of. The. Same.

Crumbs!

Which brings me to a twee-bit of English eye-candy…

Salisbury Cathedral from Old Sarum

Branscombe Teahouse

Regent's Park

Green Canoe..with Others

Chimneys with Thatch

Framed

Field of Greens

Three Degrees of Separation

Best Friends. Forever.

ENGLISH COFFEE, TEA and…

It wasn’t as if we starved while on holiday in England which resulted in a serious loss of pounds…as in weight-pounds,  not money-pounds. Safely said,  we walked off all the clotted creams, lattes, teas, sweets, cakes and chocolates we consumed. Our walks along the South Devon Coast not only afforded us stunning vistas of Ladram Bay, Otterton, Exmouth, Branscombe, Axminster, but quarter-way-there park bench breaks gave ample opportunity to eat the lunch we packed early that morning. Our destination, always with a cafe or pub at the half-way mark was set upon with good cheer…for sustenance and the loo. Call it fortification for the hike back to the ranch. Not really the ranch. More like a rose-covered cottage with front and back gardens, patio with table, pear trees. No partridge.

We four became quite good at eating ahead…usually several days ahead.

There were four of us in our “consumption of food” group, which gave a plethora of choices to be made whether eating in (which we did a lot) or eating out (which we did occasionally). Sharing individual choices, especially desserts was never questioned: “Four spoons, please.” Echo. Echo. Echo. Echo.

The following snaps show a few of the meals we prepared ourselves, a couple of bench top feasts, and of course, the refreshing and much-needed afternoon tea/coffee repast.

Fresh Fig and Pear Salad

Sunday Roast with Yorkshire Pudding

Janie’s Everyday Plum Cake with Honeycomb Vanilla Ice Cream. What can I say…..?

Afternoon Tea. No Eccles Cakes…..

More Tea.  No Cake.

Not chips…..cake. Cake. Cake!!!

Finally. Eccles Cake.

My Reader is pleased that we were never-ever at a loss…for eating. Period.

ALL THINGS ENGLAND…

It didn’t occur to me that I was homesick until I went home. Having once lived in England, and having once left good and valued friends, only made coming home so very natural. My recent holiday  to that island half a world away and travelling with left-behind girlfriends, their husbands, chatting hours and hours with missed sister-sisters over cuppas of coffee and sweets, was three glorious weeks of good fun, good food (yes, really good food!), especially brilliant weather,  lots of laughter and a few tears thrown in because I cry at both hellos and good-byes, and sometimes tears for…just because.

The sounds of friends loving every minute of being together would be, at best, most difficult to capture except in the moment. The nattering exchange of everyday talk, the loitering-like walks, serious discussions about our children, politics and/or government, slogging walks along the South Devon Coast in search of a pub,  anything and everything led us all to a sense close friendship and well-being.

Of never being apart.

It was lovely. Simply. Lovely.

From cathedrals and churches…

Salisbury Cathedral, Salisbury

St. Mary's Church, Amesbury

Winchester Cathedral, Winchester

St. Paul's Cathedral, London

Even a few cemeteries. Just a few….

Branscombe Church Cemetery, Branscombe

Branscombe Cemetery

Branscombe Cemetery, Branscombe

There’s more but for the sake of the ghoulish-shivers this may give My Reader, I’ll quit while ahead.

HOLDING THE LINE….

LEAVING ON A JET PLANE.

I KNOW WHEN I’LL BE BACK AGAIN.

TOO SOON. 

FEAR vs. FACTS

I read a lot of books. My favourite are mind-numbing mysteries that help me wind down at the end of a hectic day. Book characters can and do reveal much of what an author wants to say whether time [and I refer to present time in this instance) appropriate or not.

Author Peter Steiner’s L’Assassin was not written yesterday but his character’s definition of fear could have been written, if one is cognizant of media offerings….this morning. Or, for that matter, any recent morning.

There is a curious quality, more a failing, really, that all humans share, even the most intelligent and reasonable among us. It is this: fear and uncertainty can, and usually do, overwhelm even the most unassailable facts. Fear and uncertainty are stronger and more compelling than factual evidence can ever be, especially when the evidence is ambiguous, as evidence almost always is. And the weight of evidence has a peculiar way of turning in the direction in which fear directs it.

Touche’, Mr. Steiner.

Point well taken.

REQUIRED FIELDS….

There is, at long last, something to be said about all those pesky required fields I neglect to fill out..or in…as the case may be.  After spending (what seems like) hours filling out forms, ticking box after box, and also having gathered numbered and coded personal information needed to supply and satisfy all supposed rules and regulations to meet all requirements…I discern that what all such forms really need or really want is my gender, age, yearly income and weight…well, perhaps not weight but did I mention yearly income? All of which I’m reluctant to provide for very excellent, and might I add obvious reasons. Such tosh.  Really?

Yes. Really.

 

 

 

HALF TRUTHS…

My friend Bill has quite a wonderful way with words. He writes “musings” every now and then and distributes them… I’d like to think to very special people. I’m on his distribution list which confirms…how very special it is to receive from Bill. In his own words, “In writing these Musings, I know that not everyone will agree with my views, but it is my intention to write with historical integrity as I look at current issues with the eyes of faith.”  Bill is a retired minister and I think everything he looks at is through faith. Write on.

Bill’s “Musings” always give me pause for thought. This issue, No.B-27, was no exception. It dealt with integrity and truth. Integrity as in  truth in words.  Or, as in Colbert speak...truthiness.        It seems we haven’t been getting enough truth lately even though there is, I’m sure, plenty to go around. If you haven’t guessed by now I’m talking truth in words with priority given to our national level of rhetoric and information.

I’m worried and My Reader should be, too, for I do believe omission can be and most often is a form of betrayal. I’m talking about views that have been coloured to make us feed good about what is…truthfully…not so good. I’m talking about the plethora of information that provides the tools that allows us to colour and arrange our individual world in a schematic that is comfortable, secure and safe. When, in truth, it is not.

What happens when some of the necessary tools to create a better life  for ourselves and perhaps others are altered? Omitted? Altogether? Somewhat?  What if the tools provided to us aren’t all the tools we need to decide what kind of future we want for ourselves?

I’m worried and My Reader should be, too.  I know that we as world citizens have been betrayed in the broadest sense.  We have come to believe a truth that has been altered to colour a new world order  based on personal power and greed.  We have come to believe that what was once unacceptable  on a world-wide level is now acceptable.  We have also come to believe that  destruction is the only tool to combat fear and terror. This is what I know for sure:  we have come to believe that what was once ethically and morally wrong… is now right.

I’m knowing about the Sureness of Me that knows right from wrong. I’m knowing about the Sureness of Me that inherently knows when someone is not telling the  truth. The whole truth. I’m knowing about the Sureness of Me that begs for a truth.  What if I know that that truth gives me a  false or coloured truth.  What then?

I’m worried and My Reader should be too that we have been silent for too long a time.

It is time to be loud. It is time to stand tall.

Half truths…make whole lies.

Always.

STILL IN LOVE WITH….

I’ve got a confession to make:  I’m in love with Lyle Lovett. I’m fairly comfortable  making this  declaration out loud in writing  because  the only visitor to my post is on holiday.  I do so hope Tonto remembers to bring me a present.

You must realize by now that Lyle and I have a long distance relationship. Very long distance.  He lives in another state. I live here. He’s on stage somewhere. I’m still here. It’s not the distance that gets in the way. It’s the fact that we’ve never met. Tonto might say that could be a problem. He may be right. This time.

There’s probably not much I don’t like about Lyle. I love his hair and the way it curls straight up. I’m not sure if that’s natural…straight curls…but it looks like he’s always in a good mood because his hair is so…tall. I imagine walking into a room and Lyle saying “Oh, I’m so happy to see you’re still here!”  but his hair says it first. Tall hair. Hair that shouts genuine surprise at seeing someone in love with you. A good thing. (Don’t tell Tonto I said that.) And I like the way he stands. Straight and tall. Like his hair. Tee-shirts. White tees under button-down collar shirts. I like how he wears them. I just like how he wears.

I  like the way he shows up in movies. Out of the blue. Through a door. Around a pick-up truck. There he is. Like a gift.

Speaking of gifts. Lyle’s words spoken in melody and sound are my undoing.  It’s his gift of thought.  I told you I loved him. Now you know why.

I don’t have a pick-up truck but I do have a front door. He hasn’t shown up. Out of the blue.

Standing straight and tall.

Silently asking to come through.

Yet.

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