I wish for you...

This is my favorite time of year. I know, weird. Whatever. I love the music, the crowds, the lit up trees. I love looking for the perfect gift, sitting in front of the fire, baking sweet treats. I love surprising people with gifts who least expect them.  I love bells on my Christmas socks, my Santa hat, and my Mrs. Clause dress. (of course I have one) And I particularly love irritating the hell out of all the Scrooges at work.

Anyway, I thought it might be appropriate to share with you some holiday wishes, whatever your particular celebratory habits happen to be. 

I wish for you...

joy. The real kind.

laughter. the belly kind.

friendship. the eternal kind.

peace. the inner kind.

music. the moving kind.

strength. the heart and mind kind.

play time. the rejuvenating kind.

rest. the revitalizing kind.

hunger. the motivating kind.

creativity. the problem solving kind.

art. the inspiring kind

judgement. the discerning kind.

work. the rewarding kind.

time. the plentiful kind

love. the fulfilling kind. 

and spiked egg nog. and brownies. lots of brownies. 

Thank you for  your friendship and kindness.

Giving Thanks for You

I've been keeping a gratitude journal. Sometimes, just in my personal thoughts. Occasionally, I make a list. I like keeping things to myself. I tell the designers I teach and work with to make living a grateful life their first priority. Sometimes, in classes, we have an activity where we start a gratitude journal. Surprising as it may seem, I often have to suggest that waking up and breathing can count for two of the 5 entries I request. I find that a little sad.

So, I wanted to make a quick list of that for which I am so grateful and, I too, had difficulty. Not because I couldn't think nof 5, but because I didn't know where to begin. Do I start with the big stuff, like the fact that I have not been sick for 20 years? Or something that may seem insignificant to others, like the window and light on my range? Should I wax eloquent about how I nearly burst with joy when I see how well my children turned out, in spite of my weaknesses as a parent? Perhaps I should just share a quick,witty reprise of my imitation of the Keystone Cops-esque attempts at organizing my office and getting the pre-lit garland on my bannister. (I actually spent a couple of hours on the latter task, then, upon inspection decided I didn't like it, took it down and started over. I'm still not done.)

So, what fills me with gratitude and encourages me to continue to move forward? My family, my home, my ability to reason, my right to disagree: that tired feeling at the end of a long day of hard work; being able to look myself in the mirror knowing that I lived yet one more honest day; that at least for now, I live in a country where it isn't against the law to succeed and even though there are those who would strip me of my freedom, my right to pursue happiness, my voice - they haven't succeeded yet.

Most of all, at this moment, I am grateful for those who inspire me to be more than I am. Those who, by their presence in my life, make my life better, purposeful, necessary. Many don't know of their influence and inspiration.

Rather than drag my greatly appreciated audience through a longer than necessary dreary story, suffice it to say that I am grateful for these things and so much more.

I am grateful for you.

The Divinity Within...

I like to make things. I love to play with my camera. I adore words. Here are a couple of my most recent collages. The first is a declaration. The second is a journey. Both, at least for me, were necessary. My brain seems most comfortable when it is occupied with creation of some kind. I wonder why that is. What drives one to build, create, imagine? There are those who engage in destruction and have taken even that to an art. I find that confusing as well. What compels some to scatter things, thoughts, people about and others to edify, encourage, mimic the beauty around them? As I peruse the blogs and find amazing creations - imaginations and musings played out for the world to see via poetry, essays, photos, paintings; works of art created with bits of beads, string, voice, I am reminded to be grateful. Grateful for your willingness to share; your ability to express yourself with such eloquence, regardless of the medium with which you communicate; the power you possess within yourself, and your need to share it. 

My Very First, (and only) Very Short Story

I can’t remember her face or the sound of her voice. But I remember her hair. It was long and silky and when she bent down to pick me up or hold me it would fall forward and brush my face. It was so soft, it smelled good. It was warm. It tickled. 

I don’t really remember when or why she left but the house got darker and it closed in on me. The drapes were drawn and a heavy layer of dust fell over the house and us. We moved slower and the music stopped. I remember waking up and skipping into the kitchen expecting to see her there stirring cinnamon and sugar into the grits because that’s the only thing I would eat. She would be wearing her monkey shoes that I don’t actually remember but I’ve been told that they were Curious George slippers. Instead, I was confronted by a toaster that wasn’t plugged in and a few dishes in the sink. 

I started looking for her when I was a teenager, about ten years after she left. I asked a lot of questions and got very few answers. No one knew anything and what they did know, they weren’t telling. “It’s time to move on.”, “Why are you bringing all this up now?”, “Leave it alone.” Everyone wanted me to do what she had done. 

Every moment of every day since she left, I have been looking for her. I look for her face in the crowd, in line at the grocery store, on the back of milk cartons. Every so often, I will see someone going up an escalator and the hair catches my eye. I follow - every time - just to be disappointed - every time. In my head I know it’s not her. She would be older now and if she was nearby, she would come look for me. In my heart hope lives on. 

We moved. A lot. I cried myself to sleep every night because I knew that when she came back, she wouldn’t be able to find us. I begged, pleaded and bargained to stay in that dusty, old, dark house and each one there after, to no avail. I chased people with long, silky hair up escalators and through grocery stores and crowds in many cities. 

Many years have passed since she left. The silence surrounding her sudden disappearance has grown heavy and tedious. Secrets carry their own burdens and wear away at the soul like the ocean against the rocks. So I went home. I am standing in front of the old house. The curtains are no longer drawn. There’s a fresh coat of paint, a new porch with a swing, and a new mailbox with flowers growing in one of those barrels that have been cut in half. It’s smaller than I remember. A bike is laying on it’s side in the grass and you can see depressions where someone with small feet has run through it, ignoring the sidewalk that wraps around to the back of the house. As I walk around to the back, in search of what I remember as a field for a back yard, and I see it. 

Along the back fence wild flowers are growing so thick that you can’t see what’s on the other side and , in the corner, under the tree with the rope swing, is a small well. Fresh, clear, sparkling water runs and feeds the ivy and flowers that surround it. A small bench beckons me to sit, somehow knowing the new family won’t mind. Someone who was loved very much has been remembered here and the new family has reverently revived her garden. 

After a few minutes, a woman with long, silky hair steps out of the house. She watches me for some time before quietly approaching. Not sure what to do, she sits down next to me. Her hair smells good and as I catch the fragrance wafting through the breeze, she asks if I knew the original owner of this garden. “Not very well”, I say. “But I loved her very much.” 



Copyright 2007

The Search is On…write on…

When I was in third grade, Mrs. Powell, the most wonderful teacher in the world would tell her unhappy, scowling students, “You’d better straighten that face up. It’ll stick like that.” Almost always, all the other students would start making the face too, and soon the entire class, including the grumpy kid, would be laughing.  Mrs. Powell always said, “Now THAT’S a face to get stuck with.”

There was a time when all I had to do to find some fabulous blog to read was turn on my machine and go to my favorite web site. There would appear, almost magically, all sorts of conversations, discussions, observations and the like. Some, I would read and ponder a bit. Others, I would comment on or praise for the profound thoughts or creative bent.  There was never a shortage of delightful reads or inspiration.

I don’t know what happened but the current changed. Perhaps the stars misaligned. Or maybe it was me. Whatever caused the shift in the blogosphere, I no longer easily find blogs that inspire me to participate or write. It isn’t that there aren’t millions to choose from. In fact, that may be part of the problem. An infinite number of choices often precludes finding what we are looking for no matter what we seek. Consider trying to choose paint for your walls when faced with and entire wall of paint chips.

My problem is, without interaction or feedback, it’s difficult for me to write. There is no dialogue. I still have words swimming around disrupting the cobwebs on my  brain, sporadically landing on the screen, on napkins at restaurants, on my hand. They don’t lead to anything. They are not edifying. They are not contributing. They are not culminating into something more than they were before I wrote them.

I have often said I write because I must. Audience or no, the words erupt and must be spoken…er…typed lest they crowd out everything else in my brain, preventing me from doing anything else until I set the thoughts free.  The discovery is, however, they will not burst forth. They will simply dry up and blow away until there is nothing left. What’s that phrase? “Use it or lose it.”? I never liked that phrase. Subconsciously, I must have known it’s deeper and more profound meaning. That this love of words and writing, this art form, this gift is not necessarily permanent or mine. That if I neglect or ignore the words, they can be taken from me.  That if I do not search for inspiration, I may not ever find it again. That if the dreaded case of writer’s block lasted too long, it might just get stuck like that.

 

Write on…

The Glorious Blogosphere

I’ve been watching the blogs. Some I actually read. I have been looking for a new blog home for over a year, since my original blog, and to date, the only one that was even remotely satisfying, went belly up.  It’s still there. I even went back. But the host site didn’t tune into the burgeoning environment and something much less desirable for so many has overtaken our small community and many have left in search of a more hospitable atmosphere.

We had there a group of people from all over who found each other. A writers/bloggers/vloggers group who participated in conversations spawned by one video or blog or comment inspiring another to engage. Many of us became good friends in spite of the troubles and have remained in contact elsewhere in the blogosphere. We regaled each other with humor, support, advice, feedback and friendship. Many of us were by nature, observers.

That’s one of the things that makes blogging so delicious. Those of us who prefer to stand back, can jump in, converse, contribute when we feel so inspired, and then step back and allow the conversation to continue from a distance. I can, for example, read a blog or watch a video at 2:00 a.m., comment and go do something else. I always return with enthusiasm to see if my comments had been addressed or what others had contributed. Long distance friendship is much more accommodating to reticent communicators than phones or lunch dates.

Participating in a conversation via a blog is like texting or calling when you know the recipient of your intended blathering won’t be near enough to the phone to interrupt your busy day with *gasp* a conversation. Which, incidentally, is like being caught in the undertow when a live and breathing being answers in place of the expected recording of Mae West or Elvis requesting that you leave a message. I always lose my train of thought. I have actually had people think there was no one on the line and hang up before I gathered my wandering senses enough to respond. It has been suggested that the difference between my ability to form a coherent thought when I’m expecting a machine and my ability to communicate via a key board is akin to the great abyss.

Speaking of which, I found this in my perusing for some worthwhile, or at least entertaining blogs to read:
“The Church of the Great Abyss was founded by our Mother Tiamat at 9.00 pm on the 26th. of October (according to the Rev. James Lightfoot, a notable Hebraist) in the year 4004 BC (if you accept the calculations of Bishop Ussher).”

Who knew? While I wasn’t particularly inspired to read more about “The Church” I did put some thought to “the year 4004 BC”. You never know what will ignite your imagination. I ended up spending an inordinate amount of time reading about the cultivation of rice in Southeast Asia and maize in Mexico, the wheel and Mesopotamia and particularly interesting to this blogger, the earliest writing systems, Sumerian cuneiform and Vinca Symbols. (Although many contend the Vinca symbols, while conveying messages weren’t REALLY writing because they didn’t actually encode language. After all these millennia, the devil is still in the details.

 Isn’t the blogosphere glorious?

Wish Granted

Jack of all trades, master of none. I wonder if this is a phenomena of recent history. An inclination to dabble in this, tip toe in that. Small bits of exposure to lots of interests in an adhd kind of way rather than focusing in and becoming proficient at one thing.

I see it everywhere. Over the years, I have worked with people with this affliction and been guilty of this very thing myself. I’ll do this and on the side, I’ll do that. A wee bit of exposure here, a bit of beginner’s luck there.

I worked with a woman many years ago who by any standard was one of the most intelligent people I had ever met. It was hard for her to make idle conversation with people because she was so much more intelligent than most that she just didn’t communicate well with, well, normal people.

She was constantly looking for something fulfilling in her life. She was just always a step away from finding whatever it was that she needed. Like me, she was a hairdresser with more education than she needed for the job. Like me, she had about a million hobbies. Unlike me, she had not decided what it was she wanted to do when she grew up. She enjoyed being a designer. She thrived on the creative aspect of the job, and to be truly successful in this industry, as many others, the business end of it is an often ignored but vital part of the plan. That was thrilling to her too. Planning out how she was going to reach her goals, planning promotions, ongoing education, all filled her with enthusiasm.

The problem was, she kept missing one vital component for her to feel successful. So she would keep looking. She tried every new gadget that came on the market. She tried selling her hobbies. She was, in the 3 years we worked together, a part-time photographer, free-lance writer, jewelry maker, painter, sculptor, ceramics, glass and porcelain –er, a tarot card reader, liquor store attendant and seamstress.  She also loved to cook and bake, but during the time I knew her, she had not tried making money at either of those. AND, whatever she was doing, she was talking about one of the other things.

The poor gal had an extremely difficult time making ends meet because she never made quite enough money. I suggested once that she do her own Tarot card reading and see what it said. She said that it wouldn’t work that way but tried it anyway. When I asked her about the result, she said, “It didn’t work that way.” I suspect it worked just about as well as all of her other schemes.

I was a bit like her at one time. I had to do extra on the side until I built up my skill set and clientele’ but I tried to always keep my mind on the goal. One job, five or 6 days a week, with time enough for my family and doing other things I enjoy. It took a while but I did it.

My supposition that whatever I was focused on was what I would be successful at turned out to be fairly accurate. When I kept my eye on the goal, planned and worked toward certain outcomes, I had a much better chance of accomplishing a thing or three. Whatever was forefront in my mind, and this is still true, is where I manage to move forward, make headway. Some suggest it’s the law of attraction. That whatever I put out into the universe, the universe will go to work fulfilling my desires. I call it hard work. After all, the universe isn’t going to give me anything I don’t deserve.

Un Abrazo

I love birthdays. All birthdays. Mine, yours, theirs. Doesn’t matter. Birthdays make me smile. I know a lot of people who find no joy in them at all. They see them as reminders of being older than they were yesterday. Opportunities to recount all the goals they didn’t achieve the previous year; all the things they didn’t do, didn’t accomplish, didn’t improve upon.

Not me. Where others’ birthdays are concerned, they give me the opportunity to celebrate their presence in my life. And while I should do it all year, birthdays single out a day for me to remind them how much they are loved, respected and valued. It’s a day set aside just for the sole purpose of celebration and gratitude. A day for me to say Thank you for making my world a better place; Thank you for being who you are; Thank you for who I am when I am with you.

As for my own, my birthday represents how far I’ve come. It’s a reminder of how joyful and purposeful life can be and that I only need choose a joyful and purposeful path to make it so. It reminds me that life is abundant, generous, lovely. My birthday reminds me that success is achievable, miracles are probable, happiness is a choice. It reminds me that I am better today than yesterday and growth and greatness, however personal, are possible. It reminds me that while my successes are fortuitous, they are not random.

There are those who wish people would ignore their birthdays with them. Leave it alone. To that I say, please forgive me, but I cannot. Because, you see, I need you to know how you have affected me. I need you to know that you are important, special, loved.

So, when I say to you, Happy Birthday, especially those of you who do not love your birthdays, consider yourself hugged and know that I say it with a most grateful heart for all you are and have been to me.

I will be 49 in a moment. What a year 48 has been. Many more delightful surprises than calamities. I fully expect my 49th year to be even better.

I am seldom disappointed.

Hold On

Aristophanes, (in one and my preferred version of the story) in quoting Plato told of how Humans used to be connected; Lovers, soul mates, were one being. And the world was a wondrous, loving and gracious place. But the vengeful Gods saw how happy humans were and envied them; they were jealous and dark hearted. They separated the two souls inhabiting a single form and scattered them about. Ever since, as the story goes, humans have wandered  searching for their soul mate; their split apart.

Hold on
I promise to be loyal, faithful, honest, yours
I promise to love you without condition, wholly, from the inside out
I promise to be worthy of your trust; to uphold you; to be your constant
I promise to provide you a safe haven from the insanity that is the world
I promise to overlook trivialities, focus on the pertinent
I promise to listen, to hear, to act, to defend
I promise to avoid that which would destroy us
I promise to strive to be what you believe me to be
I promise to see in you your potential, appreciate your strengths
I promise to  forgive you,  to ask your forgiveness
I promise to put you first; before my own desires, before the vanities of the world
I promise to be only yours, to protect your heart as though it were my own
I promise to laugh, to cry, to explore, and to grow with you
And should the world threaten to destroy us; to separate us; to scatter us about,
I promise to hold on

Had woman sit in my chair a while back. I got stuck with her because her regular designer wasn't there. Again. She was angry. Don't blame her. Her regular designer has been doing hair for about 5 minutes. Anyway, normally, when I visit for the first time with a new client the conversation starts out something like this;

Me - Hello. Nice to meet you, yaddah, yaddah, yaddah. So, you want a cut and color today, is that correct?
Client - Yes.
Me - Great. Let's take a look at what you have already and then discuss what you want so we can decide how best to have you looking fabulous when you leave.
Client - Okey Dokey

Then, I ask a bajillion question and look at growth patterns, condition, density, color, skin tone, eye color, etc.

Next, I offer up suggestions.

Me - Well, here's what I'm seeing...What I think you would love...and how I'd like to do that...and it will take...yaddah, yaddah, yaddah.
Client - Sounds good. Work your magic. OR What I do like...what I don't like...etc.

We come to an agreement. Never, anywhere in that conversation will you hear me say, "Tell me exactly what you want and how to do it because if you don't I won't know what to do or where to start and you'll hate it when you leave". The reason is very simple. I have been doing what I do and teaching other people how to do what I do for 28 years. I have extensive amounts of high quality, national and international education. And, I'm very good at what I do. And while I am still learning, I don't know everything, but what I do know, I know very well.

Back to the client. She sits in my chair. I step around to face her so I can look at her while we discuss what we're going to do. Before I even begin the clarification of what she's actually there for, she says this:

"I like my hair like this. I want it cut 2 inches here on a ninety degree angle. I want it tapered here but not too short. I want it over my ears, tapered at the neck. I want the top blond but not yellow. Do not use bleach on my hair. If you think you can't color it without turning it yellow, I'll wait till #$@#^ is back. I want it texturized - pause - look at stylist to see if she's listening and knows what texturizing is - I want side swept bangs and I don't want to see one single gray hair. But don't do all over color. Just highlight. Just make sure you pick up all the grays. And, by the way, my hair is very coarse and if you cut it too short it will stick straight up and I won't pay you.

I am still standing in front of her, most likely with my dropped jaw telling her much more than my silence is, and she says, "Do you think you can handle that?"

My first response to her diatribe?  "Que?"

For just a moment she thought I didn't speak English. The look on her face was worth the price of admission. And because one inappropriate comment is against my principles, I responded with;

"I've been doing hair 28 years. I'm pretty sure I can handle it."

At some point during the conversation, I told her how much everything was going to cost.

Client -  "Oh, I only wanted to spend $50". (I had looked up her previous service with the other stylist and she paid more for just the color than that.)
Me - "Ok. Well, I'll be glad to discuss what we can do for $50 then."
Client - "But I want the whole thing".
Me - "I can't do all that you've asked for $50. What I CAN do is..."
Client - "Well, I need the whole thing done. But I won't pay that."
Me - "Well, I understand completely. Give me just a moment and I'll go see if there is someone else available to do your hair".
Client - "Why can't you do it?"
Me - "I cannot do 2 hours worth of work for $50".
Client - "You can't or you won't?"
Me - "Yes. That is correct. My prices are not negotiable. This is how long it will take, and this is how much it will cost."

She decided that she would pay my "outrageous prices", made a couple more equally condescending remarks about never liking her hair and how no one listens to her. I asked her to be quiet because when she talked she moved her head. I needed her to be still. She finally harumphed and shut up.

What I wanted to say was;

"I appreciate the fact that you may have, in the past, had to tell people how to do what they do. However, I am licensed, experienced and good at what I do. The only reason you are in my chair is because I had a last minute cancellation. The reason that is important to you is this. I don't take orders. You are welcome to tell me what you like and what you don't like. However, unless you are prepared to do this service yourself, you are not in charge here. I am the master of this particular universe. Feel free to tell me what issues you are having but you are not free to order me about, tell me what to do and how to do it, and you certainly are not free to threaten me. If you continue to be condescending and disrespectful, you can get your ass out of my chair and find someone else to be your bitch. The reason you 'never get a good haircut or color" is because you tell people what to do and how to do it rather than allowing them to do their job. And, by the way, if you don't sit still and quit moving your head, I'm going to charge you double."

When I finished, she actually liked her hair. Though it was painful for her, she thanked me and asked for my card. I thanked her, suggested that she enjoy the rest of her weekend and promptly went to the computer and added a note to her file. It read,

"Do not, ever, under any circumstances, for any reason, put this woman on my books again."

They haven't.

Politicians, Zombies and Other Treasures

politicians, zombies and other treasures

My first day off in two weeks. I head for the bookstore. I love the bookstore. The one closest to me happens to be Books-a-Million. I can't decide if I like the name or not. What I do enjoy is wandering about hoping to find a treasure. I left with a bag; although I'm not sure any of my choices could be considered treasures. Unless you count the pen with the light up Skull on it. You hit it on the counter and multi-colored lights flash for a minute. It writes and it's fun banging on every hard surface I encounter.

As I was meandering I found myself making mental notes of some of the titles. Did you know there is actually a book called Freemasons for Dummies? True story. And another one called The 48 Laws of Power. You can also get Zen Meditation Balls (complete with chime balls and a pouch. And, while we're in the philosophy section, no  library would be complete without Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.

Here's another beauty: If You Meet the Budha on the Road, Kill Him and for some reason Freedom from the Known made me laugh out loud. There's probably some deep seated meaning behind my mirth and I'm fairly certain there's a book ready to explain it fully. I decided to check. I didn't find anything. I did think a book called Questions to Cheer You Up sounded promising. Nothing like being relentlessly grilled to elevate your mood. Then I discovered it actually said "Quotations" rather than "Questions". Not nearly as entertaining so I moved on.

Perhaps the History section would prove interesting. I found World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War. See what you miss when you go to school in a small, southern town?

And who could boast being well read without Uncle John's Bathroom Reader Plunges into Ohio, just one in from Uncle John's Bathroom Reader series?

For you self-helpers out there, there's The Four Hour Work Week, How Not to Act Old: 285 Ways to Pass for Phat, Sick, Hot, Dope, Awesome, or at Least Not Totally Lame and People are Idiots and I Can Prove It although I have my doubts about how helpful this last one may be.

I originally went in looking for a book about food. In that aisle I found Soaked, Slathered and Seasoned and looked up to make sure I was still in the cooking section.  There was I Loved, I Lost, I Made Spaghetti, that one put a giggle in my grin until I found Babycakes: Vegan, Gluten-Free, and (Mostly) Sugar-Free Recipes.  I didn't even get past the title on that one. To that I say "Why bother?" One, however, that did get my attention was In Defense of Food: An Eater's Manifesto My enthusiastic "RIGHT ON!" caught the attention of a nearby employee so I put the book down and looked around to see who was making all the noise.

On my way to the register I made a cursory run through the politics aisle. Now, there's some entertaining reading. I found What in the World is Going On, Catastrophe, Windy City, (I expected this one to be about Washington, D.C. - it wasn't), The Swamp, Pay to Play, and one I ALMOST bought, Why Women Should Rule the World. Interesting how the titles seem to mimic how I feel about politics and politicians at present.

I bought 5 books.  Tonight I'll be cuddling with Pride and Prejudice and Zombies The Classic Regency Romance - Now with Ultraviolent Zombie Mayhem!

 And I said I didn't find any treasures.

The Homecoming

In the late 60’s we lived in Memphis. My father was active duty navy and spent a lot of time on aircraft carriers. He looked quite handsome in his uniform and he was my hero. He was stationed at Memphis for instructor duty. We used to go to the base and I got to get in the flight simulator that they used to teach sailors how to fly.

One of the memories that gets stirred up every year at this time;

The first POW’s were starting to come home. I remember my parents telling me as we were bundling up one evening to go out that we were going to go see something miraculous. I wasn’t quite sure what was going on. I didn’t really know what a POW was. My father was on aircraft carriers in the Mediterranean. He never served in Vietnam even though he was active duty. I remember quite clearly asking him what a POW was. He knelt down to me and explained without hesitation that a POW was someone who had been away at war and the enemy had captured him and kept him. Sometimes they didn’t come home, but that day, one family and one base community was celebrating the return of one of it’s own. We were there to celebrate a hero’s homecoming.

As we neared the flight deck, cars were everywhere. It was cold and it was already dark. We had to park and walk. There were more people than I had ever seen in one place. My dad kept hold of my hand so I wouldn’t get lost in the crowd. People were milling around, talking, laughing, and celebrating. It was like a big party. We got hot chocolate and my mom handed me a small American flag. She had one too. Everyone did.

Then I understood. Someone’s husband and daddy was coming home. Like mine always did. I remembered when my dad would come home from a sea duty tour. Sometimes, we would go to the docks and meet him. We would watch for him in the sea of sailors in their white hats as they debarked the ship and we always were able to pick him out of the crowd.

There are certain things that stand out in this memory for me. I remember everyone was having a good time. Suddenly the crowd got quieter. Not still or reserved necessarily, but reverent, respectful. My dad put me on his shoulders so I could see. I was 9 or 10 but was about the size of a 5 or 6 year old. The plane was coming. It had touched down and was making it’s way toward us. You could feel the anticipation in the air. Officers and other military personnel began gathering around where the plane would stop. It pulled up like a limousine pulling up to valet parking. The military personnel all in their dress blues lined up on either side as they rolled the stairs to the plane. The entire crowd, I believe, was holding it’s collective breath. The stairs were carefully placed, the door swung open. The pilot and co-pilot were at the door. We couldn’t see anyone else but they saluted for what seemed like a long time.

Down on the tarmac, military personnel had lined up to give the POW a hero’s welcome. His wife, stood off to the side. I thought she looked very brave and a little unsteady. She wore a light blue pantsuit, white boots and a scarf to protect her perfectly coiffed hair. I worried that she was cold but I doubt she felt much of anything at that moment. Just then, A man in dress blues, who didn’t quite fill the opening, stepped off the plane and onto the stairs. I stole a quick glance at the hero’s wife. Someone was next to her holding her arm. Her hands went to her face but other than that, she did not move. Not like me when my dad got home. Once we found him in the crowd I would jump and run and giggle and get to him first to get my homecoming hugs and kisses long before Mom could. She always waited patiently on the sidelines like the lady in the blue pantsuit. The man saluted again, and the crowd went wild as though the Beatle’s themselves had just stepped off the plane. He started down the steps. As he hit the tarmac, he saluted each and every officer in that line. It seemed like dozens though it was probably more like 6. He did not flinch. He did not waiver. He did not look away. He took a step and gave the finest salute I had ever seen to each and every one. I heard someone say something about respect. I don’t know if he even noticed the crowd. As he got closer to the end of the line his wife had started inching closer across the tarmac. She took very long, broad, tentative steps and I remember thinking she looked like she was running, only in slow motion. Her pant leg would ride up a bit because her stride was so long and I could see her boots. As she got within about 3 car lengths, by a little kid’s estimation, her arms started reaching toward her husband. He stood strong and proud. Once he had reached the end of the reception line, he turned, ever so slowly and caught a glimpse of his wife inching toward him.

As he stepped toward her, almost as a cue, her slow motion edging turned into a full gallop and in seconds they were in each other’s arms. I remember feeling such relief that the lady in the blue suit finally got to hug her husband. No respectful salute for her. They held onto each other for a long time, surrounded by military personnel and their families and cheering onlookers waving their little American flags, seemingly oblivious to their surroundings. I forgot about how cold it was. I forgot about my hot chocolate. Tears filled my eyes for reasons I would not understand for many years. I waved my flag and cheered till my throat hurt.

Finally, the hero and his wife were escorted to a waiting car and a long procession proceeded to move down the tarmac. People in the crowd were hugging. Women and men alike were wiping away tears that I would later recognize as tears of joy, gratitude and also sadness for those who would not make it home. As I clutched my little American flag and counted stars out the car window, we inched our way through the crowd and rode silently home.

Beggars and Choosers

I was riding the bus once, several years ago when we lived in the city. As often happened, a conversation started up between several people. One of the other buses earlier that day had been involved in a fender bender with a truck. Even though it was a mild tap, no one saw it coming and several were thrown from their seats. No one was actually hurt and the passengers were picked up by a second bus that completed the route.

One of the passengers said, “Man! I wish I had been on that bus! I’d have been yellin” my head off and grabbin’ my neck! I woulda’ never had to work again!” To which another passenger responded, “Girl you ain’t never worked anyway!” “Hell no, I ain’t never worked! I”d lose all my benefits!” Laughter broke out. I continued reading my Tom Clancy novel while musing to myself about how people are not only glad to cheat, lie, steal, and live dishonestly, but they are proud of the fact that they do it and get away with it.

Rather than asking themselves, How good can I be? What positive, honorable choices can I make today?  What can I do to contribute? What can I do to leave the world just a bit better than I found it? They wonder, “How bad can I be and still be ok? As long as someone else has done something worse, it doesn’t matter what I do today. They justify their bad behavior by blaming their parents, society, anyone who opposes them or expects them to live within limitations.

These kinds of people astonish me. They wreak havoc where ever they go. The leave destruction and refuse in their wake, and then wonder why squalor follows them.  They hate those that have more than them ignoring the fact that what other’s have was probably earned. They demand respect yet they treat every one with contempt and do nothing to deserve it. They expect to be taken care of, cared for, supported, yet they contribute absolutely nothing.

People who think like this do serve a purpose, however.  They remind me to appreciate the aches at the end of a long day. They remind me to live a grateful life; to live so that at the end of the day, I can look myself in the mirror without shame or remorse. They remind me that reaching my potential is not only a worthy goal but a formidable challenge. They remind me how important it is to be an informed voter. And they remind me, that in the end, I wish to leave the world just a bit better than I found it.

All I NEED is a New Camera

I started researching new cameras several months ago, upon the realization that my Fujifilm was no longer sufficient. What that means is, I had played with all the bells and whistles and was ready for some new, cooler ones.  I had narrowed my desires down to two. (NO small task, mind you). A Nikon and a Canon. Not very imaginative, I know but there’s a reason Nikon and Canon sell a lot of cameras. So, I peel through page after page online; stop and look at every single camera in every single store; pick the brain of every brainless sales associate this side of the Mississippi.

Ok, so not ALL of them were brainless. The guy at Nebraska Furniture Mart, actually knew a wee bit about cameras. Often, I would end up telling them a thing or two and I’m an amateur for sure.

When the moment finally presented itself and I couldn’t stand the thought of reading yet one more review, with the Nikon in one hand and the Canon in the other, I tried to figure out how I could manage to get both when I spied an Olympus that looked interesting.

I mused, pondered and compared in my head, ran a very nice, cooperative and uninformed sales lady absolutely ragged; looked up info on my blackberry and finally walked out of the store the proud new owner of an Alpha series Sony.

It’s definitely a big girl camera. I am learning very quickly when I need to change lenses ( that is so cool), remove the sun shield, turn off the flash. I am often found out back at the edge of our property line shooting thistles, butterflies, bees, and various weeds that precede the tree line. I have learned to sit very still for a very long time and have become the favorite in the staring contest with more than one bird.

Travelling for work affords me many opportunities to photograph weeds in other places and when I get a day off, I take my camera just in case. I have two lenses, my favorite being a 75 – 300 mm f/4.5-5.6 zoom lens. Now, all I need is a fish eye wide angle, a macro and a larger camera bag.

It’s always something…

Here’s a few practice shots. Hopefully, soon I’ll be able to show some more finished looking work.

 

Your Dinner is Looking at Me

One of the things the military does for people being stationed in a place like Spain is assign them sponsors. Sponsors correspond with the newcomers before their arrival, giving them helpful information as to what to expect, and help them make arrangements for their arrival. This is particularly helpful for people who have not traveled much. Once the newcomers arrive, the sponsors are available to help them get settled. Often, they will help them get acclimated, take them out to eat, show them around and teach them a bit about local customs. Moving to a foreign land is not for the weak of heart and sponsors help make the transition friendly. 

Since Americans typically have an intimate relationship with food it is common, customary and appropriate to take the newcomers out to eat and help them find their way around a typical Spanish menu. Every person I knew was subjected to the not particularly funny “onion rings” joke. They would tell the newcomers they were ordering onion rings and laugh with delight when they actually bit into a calamari. I never really understood why anyone fell for this. Calamari is a common enough dish at American restaurants but the fact that someone may NOT know was, I suppose, too tempting. While I don’t particularly love seafood, I do like calamari so the people that tried it on me had to resort to plan B. 

Sometime during the first month or two after I had arrived some friends from the naval base and I were at a local “Tapa bar” trying out some of the local fare. My new friends asked me if I liked tortillas. “of course” I replied. To my surprise they ordered ONE. The look on my face said it all. They began to laugh and explained that Spanish food is European, not Mexican, so the “tortillas” are much bigger, and assured me that one tortilla would be plenty. We also ordered several other dishes including snails. When the food arrived, much to my surprise, I did not receive a basket of tortilla “chips” and salsa, which I expected. The tortilla was instead, of all things, an omelet made with eggs and potatoes and served room temperature. They were right; one was plenty and it was delicious and a dish I still enjoy tremendously to this day. I did not try the snails. They were tiny, shell-less and in a small juice class with some brown, brothy, salty, icky looking water. A dish I have not tried to this day. 

A friend of mine named Belinda, a Mexican-American was surprised by the tortillas too. The first time she went to a café in Spain she requested, in Spanish, a dozen tortillas. The waiter questioned her and she assured him that she did in fact want a dozen tortillas. Imagine her surprise when the waiter and a couple of helpers started for a table a while later with 12 omelets. 

I was also introduced to paella, a saffron flavored rice dish that prior to moving to Spain had never heard of, much less tried. Typically, the paella comes to the table in the pan it is prepared in. Everyone is given small plates but the first time and many times thereafter, the paella did not come with a serving spoon. One of the strangest food related experiences I ever had transpired over a pan of paella. 

I was with a group of new Spanish friends and my Spanish was not great yet. I knew they had ordered the rice but did not understand much of anything else. A paella pan almost as large as the table arrived. With great pride and ceremony, the waiter dramatically places the pan on the table and waves his arm over it as though he’s presenting a treasure to baby Jesus. Amongst ooh’s and ahh’s of appreciation I look down and gaze upon what it is that has everyone all aflutter…and I see it…my friends have ordered a seafood paella complete with mussels, shrimp, small whole fish, and horrors to this non-seafood eating American, tiny, whole, complete with eyes, squid; little tentacles popping out of the rice like it’s trying to escape. It makes me shudder to this day. THEN, to make things even more disturbing, they didn’t dish the paella onto the small dishes we were given. They all ate out the same pan. The dishes were, apparently, for catching the droppings or looks or Americans. I’m not sure which. 

I ate a lot of bread that night. 

weeds in the toilet

There are times when I sit down at my computer, lay my hands on the keyboard, and thoughts form, words appear on the screen, ideas flow seemingly out of nowhere.

Other times, I stare relentlessly at a blank screen like I’m in a blinking contest. I always blink first. The words just are not there. They do not flow. They do not congeal into productive thought patterns. They do not grace me with their presence at all. It doesn’t matter how long I stare at the screen.

Generally, when that happens, I try to find something to inspire. Or prod. Lately, I have been making jewelry and playing with my new Sony DSLR. While neither of those activities have goaded a decent blog out of me, I have considered the time well spent.

Today, I went out into the back yard and took some shots of the weeds. I like weeds. Actually, it’s the wild flowers that I like. One year, I bought my mother, who is by all accounts the hardest person on the planet to buy for, a wall hanging. I think it was acrylics on an old piece of wood. Across the top it said “Grow where you’re planted.” Below, was a very simple buy lovely garden of wildflowers.

When I gave this piece to my mother I was quite pleased with myself for about a minute and a half. Until she sat it down on the floor, said she’d find a place for it and forgot about it. Ultimately, it ended up on the wall above the commode in the extra bathroom. That was as good a place as any I thought.

Not long after it had taken it’s rightful spot in the throne room, I caught my daughter looking it over quite closely. I stood there waiting to see what her 10 year old appraisal would be. She turned, looked at me and said, “My teacher said weeds are just flowers growing where people don’t want them to grow.”

I’m not sure if that meant she liked the painting or if she meant that weeds in the bathroom were appropriate.

I didn’t ask.

dirt roads and movie stars

Recently I went to Des Moines, Clive to be exact, to teach a couple of classes. I had never been in that part of the country so I began asking clients about what to do, where to go, points of interest. The resounding theme was, Des Moines is a good place to pass through on the way to somewhere else. I thought, surely there’s something fun to do there. I have a new camera, I’m easy to entertain, I’ll find something.

We arrived on Sunday evening, checked into our hotel, and set about looking for a place for dinner. It was 10:20 p.m. Apparently, with the exception of McDonald’s, the good citizens of Clive, Iowa roll up the sidewalks at dusk. We found a brewery who would be open for another half hour and if pizza was ok, we were more than welcome to come in. It was, we did.

I had been told about one Mexican restaurant that had “The World’s Best Margaritas”. We went. They didn’t. The food was good though.

Originally, the plan was to stay an extra day. Instead, we headed home Tuesday afternoon. So we grabbed some lunch at the clown’s drive through and hit the road. It was sunny, windy and warm. The traffic was light as we started noticing the signs for Winterset. Madison County. It’s claim to fame, not only the bridges, but also birthplace of The Duke.

We detoured and for a couple of hours tooled around Madison County, Winterset, Iowa. We visited several bridges, John Wayne’s birthplace, where for $6 they’ll give you a personal tour of the 4 room house, and got sodas and Blue Bunny ice cream at the Kum and Go. Most of that time, we were on dirt roads although Winterset is home to a most charming “Down Town” which looks like it just fell off the page of a book from 50 years ago.

As we were driving through town, back on asphalt, we stopped at one of the few stop lights in town. Facing us was an old, beat up, beloved, cam-fire-am-ish car being driven by a teenager. A boy who looked to be about 12 walking, said to the boy in the car, “Hey Joe! You  missed it last night. We had a bonfire!” The car kid said something I couldn’t hear and the news was repeated jubilantly. “Yeah! a bonfire! It was awesome!” They both smiled and waved at each other just in time for the light to change. It brought rushing back many memories from my high school years in small Clarksville, Tennessee. Clarksville, even then was bigger than Winterset, but still, bonfires, lazy days fishing at the river, hay rides, all qualified as big news along with high school football games and ridin’ on Friday nights down Madison and Riverside Drive.

I haven’t lived in a small town for a long time. I had forgotten what it’s like to know every one, feel safe leaving doors unlocked, allowing children to play outside while I fixed supper. While I do love the city and all it’s civilized trappings, I think I could be very happy in Winterset. With their dirt roads, bonfire’s; ice cream, soda and gas from the Kum and Go. And of course, the tiny four room birth place of The Duke where I would happily pay $6 to see the inside time and again; Where you see more American flags than foreign language signs directing strangers to the nearest rest room and more trucks than Beamers. Where people smile, wave and offer help before you ask rather than avoid eye contact and hurry on with their busy, important tasks.

Where you see people sitting on their front porches rather than burning rubber out of their drive ways and more kids playing outside, video games saved for rainy days.  With skies clear enough during the day to actually  look blue and night time skies blanketed with stars, far from the 24 hour lights, sights and sounds of the city,  I can almost hear the crickets chirping and the wind rustling the leaves lulling me to peaceful sleep.

Yes. I could be very happy in Winterset.