Tripping

Jay and I are heading out to Newton this weekend. Back to the land of grain elevators, fireflys (well, not this time of year) and wheat fields. I cannot wait to get on the train and go. Part of the excitement is the train, part is a trip with Jay, but a lot of it is that I'm going back to where my mom and dad lived. My whole life we've (my mom and dad and me) spent time in that part of Kansas, driving on those old brick streets, looking at the house they lived in in the forties (614 Elm Street), the first Dillon's store my dad worked at, and stopping by friends and relatives houses. I have such a desire to be there, in that place. The last few times I've been there it's been with my sister or brother, hearing about the times before I was born, stories about my dad filling the whole, huge back yard with tomato plants or my mom, the only girl in her family to go to high school, working at Kreskies Drug and her dad picking up her pay check every Friday. I heard a quote, and I cannot remember the source right now , that goes "When an old person dies, a library burns down" and it's so true. There's so much I wish I'd asked but didn't.

Two Things That Could Save Your Life

#1 - Poetry. Not really. But it could help you like life more. See life better. Feel like other people go through the same stellar, beautiful, awkward, nasty-ass, mardigras, sublime, tragic experiences too. I think poetry helps people feel less alone. It can, in a very short span, introduce the reader to stories and feelings that are un-nameable yet familiar. Or not. I don't know for sure. But it's worth a try. Here's a picture of a random poetry stand that my friend Kate sent when she was in Oregon. What a swell idea! If you all want to write a Haiku comment, do it! Haiku - a three line poem with the first line being 5 syllables, the second line being 7 syllables, and the third line being 5 again. It's cool if there is a little twist in the last line. Jack Kerouac says this..."it has to be a simple little picture in three little lines, that tells a great big story." Here are a couple I like....

The falling flower
I saw drift back to the branch
was a butterfly
--Arakida Moritake

To write a blues song
is to regiment riots
and pluck gems from graves.
--Etheridge Knight

#2 (Which is appropriately numbered) Colonoscopy.
Getting a colonoscopy can save your life! My brother, Jerry got one at thirty-nine, had a tumor in there, had surgery, chemo, and is alive and cancer free today. Yeah! It's painless, easy, and you should do it. I'm doing mine tomorrow!! So today I'm on clear liquids all day, which is really kind of fun and challenging. I don't think about food that much but today it's ALL I can think about. I want homemade chicken nuggets with honey mustard, and a big slice of berry pie, heated up, with ice cream. I want mashed potatoes and stuffed pork chops. I want chicken, cheese and spinache tamales with rice and beans. I want a thick slice of fresh, hot bread slathered with butter. And, I want hot and sour soup and sesame chicken and beef with broccoli. YUM! Instead, I'm drinking water and ginger-ale and tonight for dinner I'll have a big bowl of chicken consomme. Then, tomorrow for lunch I'll appreciate food so much.

Chia

Yes, I know it's juvenile. But it makes me laugh.

I bought a Chia Head for Jay at Christmas and it's flawed. There's a leak at the bottom so most of the water seeps out. So, Chia guy is just growing neck hair. Eewww! And...I swear I did not do this on purpose but somehow a chia seed ended up at the edge of this guy's nose and now he has a green boog. Yuck!

Moving on....
Exciting news! Jay and I are taking the train to Newton, Kansas in a week or so. We are going have SO MUCH FUN. I love Kansas. It's where my folks were from, and there's something about all that that I need to go back there for right now. I would not move there for good (I also LOVE my town and friends and life here!) but I cannot wait to get back there for a visit.

"I finally figured out the only reason to be alive is to enjoy it."
Rita Mae Brown

Happy Birthday Jaybug

My son turned ten yesterday and I thought I'd include this wonderful poem by Billy Collins. I, of course, did not give it to Jay to read...it's the kind of poem that might be about turning ten but wouldn't be truly understandable until he's thirty.

When Jay was two he had an imaginary friend named Orban. Then came Hair, Glasses, Head Frensky and Fudd. All five of Jay's imaginary friends. Orban was the main guy, but he was killed in China a few years back (where in the heck did that come from?) and the other's have just faded away. I miss those guys! Here's a poem, for Jay....


On Turning Ten


The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I'm coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light--
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.

You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.

But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.

This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.

It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.

Billy Collins

Did You Know...

that if you click on a picture in someone's blog, it enlarges the picture?!?! Well, it does. Cool.

Goodbye Christmas, Hello Philosophy

I have put Bumble away and that can only mean Christmas is over. I love all the old Christmas shows; Rudolph, Frosty the Snowman, It's a Wonderful Life, and The Grinch. OMG, and Charlie Brown. Did you LOVE that tiny Christmas tree. And did you just well up with tears when all the kids realized what Christmas was REALLY about and, most important, that the little wilty tree was beautiful. Sigh. Then, after Christmas it all goes away in a box until next year. That's a problem with video and DVD. When I was a kid, those shows came on once a year and we all knew which night and what time at least a few days in advance. My mom would make fudge and put my hair in pink foam curlers and my dad and mom and I would sit on the (weird) green shag carpet and watch. So, to combat the instant gratification disease, I put all the movies in a box and they only come out at the holidays. I make fudge or peppernuts but I do not put my son's hair in curlers.

Speaking of Jay, Here's a bit of a story. I have these cork squares on my office wall by the computer. He was intrigued by the one that says, Laugh too loud. When people look at you, laugh louder (given to me by Maggie years ago). He asked me, What does that mean exactly? He's already mortified if I just giggle in public. He has forbidden me from car dancing and he's not too happy with my singing either. When I got that slush spilled down into my car window a few weeks ago, he just sat in the back seat saying, Can we just go. It will be fine. Do you have to talk to the manager? I try and explain to him how NECESSARY it is in life to speak out, to be yourself, to laugh too loud sometimes but he just thinks I'm a weirdo. I love that the thing that's taken me years to accomplish...the thing I'm proud of, just being myself, is the very thing that mortifies and embarrasses my dear son. When I told him what I think that card means; that it's okay to be silly in public/have fun/be who you are, he just said, That doesn't make any sense to me.

I have four of those cork squares up, here's another. I hope you can read the Bukowski poem, it rocks. The tiny button in the middle I've had for years and never seen another like it. I love it. It says, in itty bitty letters, It's so fuckin great to be alive. You know how some people's brains don't make enough serotonin? Sometimes I think mine produces too much. :P


I just took this picture out my office window. It's snowing like crazy here. There is this one very specific feeling that I love. It's being inside...inside anywhere...a car, a house, the library, all warm and dry. And outside it's snowing or raining and cold. Yum. I love that feeling. Now, on the flip side, I cannot stand to ice skate or go sledding. It's too freakin cold! I'd rather be in the lodge, by the roaring fire, reading a book with a glass of red then swooshing down the slopes outside. And occasionally laughing too loud.

Signing On

I'm back. Back from Christmas with my family in Phoenix, back from being too busy to write, back from being sad 90% of the time. I want to write. I want to be more alive. I have ideas for books and furniture and recipes and hats. I feel a weird hope that things might work out okay.

A couple things to catch up on...here are the bottles I painted for the beer I made. They were less on the creative, abstract side and more on the informative side. But the beer was quite stellar. Also, I think I'm going to buy a tiny little house in Newton, Kansas. It's on the Amtrak line so I could get on in Flagstaff and get off in Newton. They're so flipping cheap back there. Built in 1910, wood floors, nice woodwork. We'll see, but I'm seriously looking. I'll never move from Flagstaff, it ROCKS, but it would be cool to have a great place to write and go to when I need to have a change of scenery. I've got relatives back there. I grew up in Topeka. Okay, also, we're taking both my parents back there this summer and I'll be damned if I'm going to quit taking care of them now. They'll be in Hutchinson which is twelve miles from Newton so I'd be close. Plus, bonus, lightning bugs!!!! I'm a freak.

When my dad died four years ago, I cried for weeks. It wasn't like a sobbing, hysterical thing. It was more like my eyes just leaked continually. I owned a little wine shop back then and I'd wait on people and just cry and they seemed to be fine with it. We'd talk about it and I knew most of them anyway but I just couldn't seem to stop. Now, with my mom, I get sad but I feel calmer about it. I spent months crying in the elevator at The Peaks, the same leaky eye thing, after I'd go spend time with her but since she died, I feel a sense of relief. For her. When I was seventeen, she and my dad sat me down at the kitchen table and made me promise that if either of them were ever hooked up to machines...a vegetable is what they called it, that I needed to pull the plug. But there wasn't any plug to pull for my mom. I was helpless to do what she wanted.

I'm not sure what I believe about Heaven but if there is a place where we get to hang out with the people we knew before, I sure hope she's there with my dad, playing a little gin rummy and eating peanuts.

Catching Up

A few weeks ago a friend of mine made the comment, "It feels like you're out of town right now", and it DID feel that way. I think I'm heading back. The last of my family left today (bye Suz!) and it feels a bit lonely but I also need, and am ready, to get back into my life again.

The week was very surreal. My list of things to do included both *go to the mortuary* and *wrap presents*, and then, the day before my mom's memorial, my book came out. I'd been waiting for that to happen for months (years actually) and then when it did, It was tough conjuring up any excitement. But last night I sat down and looked through it and read the copyright date and the table of contents and saw that it really has an ISBN number and I realized that I have a published book. That felt good. If anyone would like a copy, there's a link on the right hand side of this blog for Two Dogs Press. There are some other wonderful books on there too so take a look.

Some other things from the last month that I have not blogged about but might have.....I brewed a good beer, and ESB, and bottled it. Pictures of the bottles to come later, this is the beer (the wort) boiling away. It's pretty darn good. Also, it snowed 20 inches here and is flipping cold (single digits at night). And also too, when I was at Sonic drive-in, the girl who delivers the food dropped a large slush into the window crack of my car. And I mean INTO. My window was open all the way and the slush cup fell apart as she was handing it over. So it went down into the door and now, when I open the window, it makes a sound like a very masculine cat having it's toenails removed with tweezers. I made the manager write a note regarding the slush incident and sign it so after the holidays, I'm going to deal with THAT.

My mom's memorial was beautiful. My brother and sister both spoke and told stories about her, and two of my friends read poems. I read this passage from The Prophet, which is my quote for the day....

On Joy and Sorrow
Kahlil Gibran

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

Some of you say, "Joy is greater than sorrow," and others say, "Nay, sorrow is the greater."
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits, alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.

Warrior

My mom died Saturday, yesterday, morning at 8:13. I just finished writing her obituary. Both Thursday and Friday were really hard. She was struggling. I so wanted her to go the same way my father had - easily, in her sleep and peaceful. So Thursday and Friday were not what I expected. It was scary for me. Her face was so sunken and her body had become so small. Her breathing was labored and her movements were erratic. I did not take Jay up there. But I held her hand and was with her those days. I kept asking them to give her more meds. Frantic about it. By Friday night, she had stabilized and was breathing better. But I kept seeing her struggling. At first I was so saddened by it. Man, it was hard to think about. It was so hard to see. Then yesterday, after I sat with her, after hospice came and the man from the mortuary, after I walked the stretcher down to the van, after I said my very last goodbye to the body and was driving home alone, I realized that she had had her warrior face on. How silly of me to think she was going to go easy! She was fighting to stay in this world. My dad was so ready to go. He had told me so for a year before his death. So he closed his eyes in the hospital and left. But my mom, she wanted to stay. I realized how okay it all was. That she didn't want to go. I was proud of her, even in dying. I thought she was saying (this woman who I can only remember cussing ONE time when I was a child) "fuck you death" on her way out. I thought that that's how I'll be. Fighting to stay here. And I have so many memories of that wonderful mama smiling and looking so happy and content that I don't mind the memory of her warrior face. I want to hold that one close too. She was a warrior and I want to honor that in her. I was so frightened and afraid for her, and she was most likely afraid too...of the unknown and the moving on. But she fought a good fight. I'm going to miss her so.

Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
--Dylan Thomas

Still here

I wasn't going to write again until my mom was gone. But I've had some hard days and writing seems to be one thing that ties me to the world still. She is wavering. I've been spending all my time with her, gladly, and seeing those little mommisms from time to time. A smile or the way she raises her eyebrows up or her mouth in a perfect little "oh" like she used to do a decade ago. So, I've been holding on to those. Yesterday, though, it was obvious that she's suffering. I wanted the "go to sleep and never wake up" kind of passing for her. Hospice thought she needed to be on heavy meds to be able to relax into the going and I'm the one that needed to okay that. So when I was up there yesterday, I saw the last of her mom mannerisms. I had to choose not to see those things again. Because the only real thing I wanted then was for her to not feel pain. It was really hard. But now she is sleeping, under, relaxing, and I know it was the right decision. It is a weird thing though because I keep having these irrational thoughts. I have a rational, detached mind that mulls over when do I go to the mortuary, and then I have this irrational, emotional side that thinks things like, if I had just fed her better two months ago she'd be fine. I know what the truths are; it's just difficult to believe them when the letting go is so darn sad for me.

One of the hospice caregivers gave me this little book called "Gone from my Sight". There was this one passage in it that was really good. In an earlier post, I talked about how I told my mom that I thought it was going to be like getting on a boat, with me here and dad at the other end. And then someone hands me this little book. Here is the passage from that book....

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until, at length, she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.
Then someone at my side says, "There, she is gone!"
"Gone Where?"
Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side and she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port. Her diminished size is in me, not her. And at that moment when someone at my side says, "There, she is gone!" there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout; "Here she comes!" And that is dying.
--Henry Van Dyke

The boat

Thanksgiving night. My mom is heading out soon. She has taken a turn for the worse over the last week. I've been with her a lot. This may a be graphic as far as death and dying go, so read ahead if you'd like. She's so tiny now. Thin as a rail, something she might have said, and it's exactly true. I can encircle her upper arm with my hand, thumb to middle finger. She doesn't eat now. Well, actually she had a bit of food yesterday. She had a cup of Dairy Queen vanilla ice cream for lunch(Jay and I stopped and had a lunch of hot fudge sundaes there ourselves and got a cup to go for her) and then for supper she had the filling part of two pieces of pumpkin pie. Her body is tight and stiffening. Hospice is good and the caregivers at The Peaks have been wonderful. A couple nights ago I laid down with her and snuggled her up. I just talked to her about how much we all love her, and how I think it will be like getting on a boat...that I'm here, seeing her off at the dock, and my dad will be there at the other end, waiting for her to arrive and go on to the next adventure. I don't know how it will be but I like to think of it that way. I told her she can go, and to enjoy the boat ride. I love being with her. I still can't imagine not being able to touch her face or her hair, or to hold her hand. She still has the tightest grip ever. She's just holding on for all she's worth. She stays horizontal now mostly. Occasionally, over the last few days, she's looked into my eyes, focused for a few seconds and then her eyes drift up above my head and she focuses again, at something above me. I like to think she's seeing into that other world. Tonight, before I left her, she was in bed and her arms, small and skinny as they are now, were held up in the air in a perfect hug. I said, who are you hugging missy? and she smiled for a brief flash of a second. I walked down the hall to talk to one of the caregivers and when I came back in her room, she still had those arms wrapped around someone. I sat next to her on her bed for a while and put her arms down, one by her side and one around that baby she loves to hold, kissed her, said I love you, and headed home to wait for tomorrow.

Life is a great sunrise. I do not see why death should not
be an even greater one.
--Vladimir Nobokov

Bridges

Here's a picture of my mom with her baby. I took it yesterday. I just think she is beautiful. For a while, when she was on about 14 pills a day, she had that look in her eyes of someone lost. Vague, never focused. Now, off meds, she'll look right into my eyes, so intent and mind-loud. Very serious but quite aware. She does sleep a lot. She's having trouble fighting off infection. She's had c-diff (an intestinal infection) 4 or 5 times since the broken hip. She can't really speak and can't walk. But when she looks me in the eyes I swear she's saying something to me. I like to think she's on a bridge right now, between two worlds, and she's trying to tell me about the next one.

I have a little story.....
When I was seven she took me to the dentist. It was probably 8 am as she always made the first appointment of the day. I had to get two teeth filled (I was a cavity prone kid) and I was a little worried. I was seated in the dental chair, my mom was ushered back out to the waiting room, and the dentist came in. The assistant was getting all the equipment ready and dropped something on the floor. The dentist, Mr X, cussed at that girl. I was mortified and the girl was quiet. He started working on my teeth. He was rough. I think he was mad and tired and who knows what. It hurt! I was a shy, timid child (me?) but finally I involuntarily yelped out an "ouch!". He said, loudly, "Goddamnit shut-up". My mom came flying through that exam room door like a super hero. Hands on her hips, she said, "Do not EVER speak to my daughter that way. She is seven years old! You should be ashamed of yourself, speaking like that to a
child" and she got me out of that chair and we left. I always felt good that she stuck up for me and got me out of there. I felt protected and part of a team.

One more.....
When I was two I got this coat for Christmas. As you can see, I was very happy. I wore it all the time. It had a little muff to go with it that hung around my neck and I could put my tiny hands into to keep warm. It was the softest, wooliest, warmest coat in the world. I loved it so much I used to want to wear it to watch cartoons. One of my best memories is sitting on the living room floor in my coat, watching Loony Toons, my mom ironing clothes behind me while we both watched the Road Runner escape Wiley Coyote and just the both of us laughing away. And I still have that coat.

"Ordinary riches can be stolen: real riches cannot. In your soul are
infinitely precious things that cannot be taken from you."
Oscar Wilde, 1891

Stale Pears

Today when I got up, my son, who was already up and watching cartoons, informed me that Archie smells bad...like "stale pears". This initially made me happy because to describe a smelly dog with the words, "stale pears" makes me think someday he will surely be a writer. Then, it made me think eeww-w-w, because Archie walked right up next to me and yes, he did smell like stale pears.....stinky, old, moldy pears. He got a bath today, his first, and now smells like shampoo and Milk Bones...the way a dog should smell.

Writer's Block

The weirdest thing happened. I think I got blog-writer's-block. For over a week I was unable to blog. I thought about it during the day...hmmmmmm, what should I write about today? I carried my camera everywhere thinking I might be graced with an amazing incident or cool experience that I could capture and write about. No deal. Then, weirder still, I started to feel boring. Yes, BORING. As in, I have nothing to say and no way to say it. As in, nothing EVER happens to me (whine....).

Oh well, I'm back, making myself push through the muck that's in my brain, trying to stay right on the edge of boring but not topple in. So, I thought I'd start off with my stomach flu experience. October 30, 1:25 am, I wake up from a wonderfully sound sleep with that feeling of, holy crap I better get to the toilet. After one delightful hurl (sorry), I remembered that I had this prescription for not-vomiting, It's called phenergan. I fumbled around in the make-up drawer, throwing hair ties and lip gloss everywhere, and opened the child proof bottle (score!). Pop one down and, I kid you not, in five minutes I was stellar, all nausea gone, all stomach spasms dissipated.....and so tired I had to crawl to bed. But it works. But man, what a sleep. I was down. I slept until 4:25 pm the next day (Halloween). You may thank me later that there are no pictures on this post :)

Halloween night - totally uneventful as I was still groggy. The usual m.o. is tom and jerry's (the drinks, not the cartoon) as we moms walk the kids around the neighborhood. Instead I had a teeny tiny taste of the infamous drink (thanks Tim) and walked until I could walk no more, acted grouchy toward friends, and went home.

Since then I've gone on an awesome field trip to Jerome with my son's fourth grade class. We camped and looked at old buildings and learned about mining. The kids really loved it but mostly enjoyed visiting the gift shops. And I found a great book called Soiled Doves - Prostitution in the Early West by Anne Seagraves. It's really interesting damnit. It's historical! I was going to state next that I'd just like my life to be a series of field trips, but then I realized that it kind of IS a series of field trips.

My own book is at the printer's. I should have a copy by Christmas. Cool. I haven't been writing much poetry. It's kind of like when I was twelve and did a walk-a-thon. Twenty flipping miles. I did it. Got pledges, kept on a walking, drank Gatorade (ewww), finished all twenty miles. I was beat! Never went on another one of those. Done. Been there, done that. I haven't written much since I found out my book would be published. Damn. I will though. I've been collecting titles in my head. Not telling any of them yet. I like to write the poem after I have the title.

Whew! It looks like I've broken through. No pictures (which is a first), but a scant amount of writing spewed (I shouldn't use that word in this post) forth. Of course, a little fun and super eventful times over the next week would certainly help.

I really like this following quote but I cannot for the life of me figure out why it was said by the Dell Crossword.
Success is not permanent. The same is also true of failure.
--Dell Crossword

Good Omens & Scaryness

Archie would like everyone to know that his ear is fixed. It appears that when dogs are teething, one ear may become a bit droopy and when they are done teething, they return to their original position. That is weird. What could cause the ears to be tied to the teething process? There are so many interesting wonderments out there. Also, I found this nest. It was hanging off our ornamental plum tree. It was just hanging by a (literal) thread. I think it was the home of hummingbirds as it's very small and there were hummingbirds flitting about that tree all the time. I'm going to set it in the Christmas tree. My mom used to have one in our tree when I was a kid and supposedly it brought good luck. I'm a proponent of good luck. I eat black eyed peas on New Years Day, put heads up pennies in my shoe, and am constantly on the look out for good omens. Some examples of good omens from the past are; having a hummingbird or butterfly bathe in the water spray from the hose as I water the garden, or seeing a double rainbow that is unbroken. There are also wishes everywhere. Such as, you can make a wish when you take that first bite from a piece of pie, the pointy bite at the front. I'm not sure where I learned that one but it sounds good to me. You can wish on gray horses if you lick your thumb and then stamp your hand. It's endless. I also like black cats and feel good about the number thirteen. The only thing that I would ever see as bad luck is walking under a ladder so I never do that. Speaking of black cats, we carved a pumpkin today. We have two more to do before Wednesday. I find the bright orange insides to be just beautiful, in a gross, slimy way. And the seeds...what's up with that? I always cut out the recipes for roasting them, and they always look so yummy in the pictures, but when I make them they kind of taste like salty, shredded bits of kindling. Jay carved his first all-on-his-own jack-o-lantern. It looks quite traditional and has mean eyebrows and fangs. I've decided that I'd like a nice, small electric saw to carve mine with. I see all these very cool, creatively done pumpkins on the Internet and in magazines as I'm in the check-out line but I can never get past the triangle eyes, triangle nose, and toothy grin. I've decided I must just need more tools.

Here are my picks for good, scary movies....The Devil's Rejects (Rob Zombie film). Of course, Halloween one. Silence of the Lambs. The Shining. Those are all fairly old. Ghost Story. I love scary movies but I can see from my list that I need to peruse the local Blockbuster soon. Now, take this guy. He's one scary ass m.f. (Did I just write that?) That's why I cut off his head. Hehehe. Okay, true confession, tonight when I went outside to take the picture of the pumpkin, I was totally scared standing on my own front porch. I heard spooky noises (coming from decorations I put up) and everything was all dark and there were two frightening ghouls (that I stuffed this afternoon) sitting in lawn chairs. But it was STILL scary! Can't wait till Halloween.

I looked for a scary quote and this was one of the scariest I could find....
"It's clearly a budget. It's got a lot of numbers in it."
--George Bush

Green Eggs and Chairs

So, say that you want to make an egg salad sandwich. You put three eggs into a sauce pan, fill it with water and set it on the stove. Turn it to high and let it come to a boil. Turn the heat down, set the timer for 20 minutes. We're fine up to this point. Then, say you go out to the garage where you're building a little workshop because you want to be able to work on painting furniture in the dead of winter so the garage needs to be tightened up. Holy schmoly, you forget about those darn eggs! Well, here's what happens...while you're in the garage, the water totally disappears. Then the eggs explode. Yes. Explode. Across the whole flipping kitchen. I had egg shell five feet from the stove. Egg shrapnel, if you will. Thank god there was no one standing in the kitchen. Of course, had there been someone there, they might have just taken the sauce pan of eggs off the stove and this all could have been avoided. Unfortunately, I cleaned it all up before I thought of taking pictures for my blog.

I've been a little remiss in my blog upkeep. One week! Without a blog! I will do my best to not let that happen again. I think it was the garage obsession that threw me off track. With my furniture painting going strong, I realized that with the coming cold weather, I'd have no where to work. I've been painting out doors and the garage was so filled to the brim with STUFF. Not wanting to give up the creative endeavors of late, I had to make some changes. So, I rented a small storage unit to put boxes in so I could set up a small workshop in the garage. Now, after four days of packing the car up, taking stuff to storage, spending hours going through boxes of pictures and cards and paper minutiae, sorting, re-boxing, throwing away, finessing the work bench where I want it, moving the scroll saw, I have a nice little work area. Many of the boxes were full of stuff from my dad and mom so I spent hours pouring over old pictures and letters and bouncing from elated to depressed and back to ecstatic. I was able to get rid of a lot that I hadn't been able to when I packed those boxes three years ago when my dad died so it was a good, purging-yet-keeping-the-meaningful-crap kind of experience. Just not one I'd planned on six days ago.
I am including a couple pictures of my chair, which started out as a bulky trash item in front of someones house and is now a piece of art (to me). I have a quote on it, of course, along the back (Earth's Crammed With Heaven by Elizabeth Barrett Browning), and there is a star hanging off the back rest. It's sturdy and comfy and I have no idea what I'm going to do with it now. I think I recently wrote about having too much stuff and now I'm in the process of making MORE stuff to have too much of. Next I plan on making a small end table and then, since I have a couple child size chairs, I thought I'd do a "time-out" chair (idea courtesy of Ms. K. Lasley, thanks!). Not that I have any small children around the house, aside from my wonderful/stubborn nine year old son, but I certainly could use a time-out chair myself on occasion. In the picture of the chair it's difficult, if not impossible, to see that all the blue is outlined in plum, along with the bottoms of the back rungs/pillars/whatevers. I have, and have had for years, this desire to paint furniture (where does something like that come from?) and I had the very best time sitting in the sun, painting, picking out colors, screwing up, and spilling paint on the driveway. I get immense joy out of the whole of it and it remains still another thing I can do and not get paid for. Wait, wait, I was not going to go there. I still have seven months of opus so I don't get to stress until then.

My mom is still my sweet girl. She's eating a lot of pudding and drinking her cranberry juice. Ahh-h-h, the real reason for my opus. Spending time with my mama. I took Jay up there with me on Sunday and she just held on to his hand. She's got quite the grip. Next time I go up I'm going to take a picture of the your-guess-is-as-good-as-mine lunches. I did taste a bit the other day and it's not too bad. I believe it's possible to puree anything. Not that I'd want to, just that it's possible.

"Keep on sowing your seeds, for you never know which will grow -
perhaps it all will."
Ecclesiastes, 11:6

Stuff Galore

I have too much stuff. Things I just don't know where to put, or what to do with, or if I should just chuck them all. Like my "Best of Show" ribbon. Do people keep these? And where? Do I need to build a glass case? Put it in a scrapbook? What's up?! It was certainly a thrill walking into the County Fair exhibition building and seeing the damn thing on my artwork, but what now? Am I allowed to throw it away? If I do, does it get recycled or tossed in the trash? If I'm not going to keep it, do I even deserve the chance to enter again? And I have these three statuettes that were my dad's. He ordered them because they were in Parade magazine and made by Lenox. He had no interest in ivory two-inch-tall figurines in the shapes of an elephant, a swan, and a dolphin. But I imagine he saw them and thought that Lenox was a good brand so, what the heck. Now, I have them. I don't want them but I'm unsure of what step to take next. I think they might break if I put them in a grocery bag and drop them off at Goodwill. They ARE Lenox, after all. I can't imagine anyone I know wanting them. They WERE my dad's. Keep them, give them away, or dump them? I don't know what to do. And then there's this cool pen that my son got at a birthday party. It has a tiny car in a little cage on the top that I can take out and, by pushing a button on the side of the pen, it will race around the kitchen floor. Jay doesn't want it, I certainly don't need it, but it's so fun. And if I get rid of it, can I throw it away? There's nothing wrong with it, it's not broken. Auuggghhh. This type of thought takes up way too much of my time.
We went camping again last weekend. Chilly, yet beautiful. I'm now a total pop-up tent trailer advocate. Camp food, beautiful view, crackling fire, wilderness AND no sleeping on the ground. The night was really cold, I have to admit, and campy time will soon be over for the year but with a warm sleeping bag it is much more fun than I ever thought it would be. Here's a recipe to make your own tasty breakfast burritos!! Scramble one dozen eggs with one cup shredded cheddar/jack cheese mix. Add a dash of salt, pepper and cumin. Fry up a little bacon. Put egg/cheese mixture on a large flour tortilla, add a slice or two of bacon, then salsa or sour cream if you'd like, roll it up tucking one side in so it doesn't all fall out *learned this from experience* and YUM. Good protein, some carbs, and no plate necessary!
At night, I can sit in that trailer, out of the wind, making hot tea on the mini stove (or shaking up a fine martini) and curl up on a mattress in utter coziness. And I did invest in one of those new fangled dish washers....the Archie Clean-Deluxe.
Regarding the previous blog where I bemoan the horribleness of my hand painted beer bottles, here is the evidence. Not to worry, I have already been working on new techniques. I found that using spray paint was not the way to go, aside from the base coat. So, I'm currently experimenting with better ways to do this.
Plus, I'm really not a great painter so my intricate designs (of circles and stripes, just to name a few of the more complex ones) look messy and not AT ALL art like. And, strangely enough, the paint is actual liquid and it runs down the side of the bottles in places I don't want it to. Although I have found that, most of the time, painting is a very satisfying and calming experience. Sometimes.

I have no special talents. I am only passionately curious.
--Albert Einstein

Here I am

This is the cover of my book. My book. Silly. My book comes out in a month or so. People, if they desire, can read my poems. In a book. Weird. Okay, I don't want to talk about it. Okay, I'll talk about it. On one hand, I want everyone in the whole world to read my book. And then, I don't want anyone to read it. The "not wanting anyone to read it" is temporary. It's a strange feeling of "now everyone will know who I really am." Aaccckkkk! Oh well, at the same time, I relish that thought. I think, in my early years, :), I was different people with different people. What I've aspired to, in the last ten years, is to be JUST MYSELF with everyone. Authentic living, so to speak. Everybody basically gets the same me. No more being one way with some people and another way with other people. Geez, I hate it when I talk about me. (I have realized, however, that in a blog, that's just what happens...I talk about me occasionally)

Moving on. I went to Vegas last weekend. I LOVE Vegas. Sit me at a Roulette table for 6 hours with fifty bucks and I'm a happy gal. It's a very weird, glitzy, surreal place and I love it. Took my boy, and we met Suzy and her two girls. Three kids, two moms, swimming, nice digs (thank you brother John), and a nanny on Saturday night. We took the kids to see Stomp and made breakfast burritos in the morning to be frugal. Great vacation. And I was happy to get home.

My mom is wonderful. She gets coke floats everyday. She does not have to eat her spinach if she makes a face after one bite. She has these "mom" mannerisms that have resurfaced after the cease in meds. That seroquel has its place but can sure flatten a person out. She still inspires me every day to be alive. She smiles and gives these little laughs. Here's a funny story about her. She came into my bedroom once when I was about eleven. She was not a kidding/jokester type mom. She stood in my doorway and said, "You know those round toothpaste drops that you always leave in the sink? I was reading in Reader's Digest that you can pop them off the porcelain and use them as mints." I just sat there, quite unsure how to react. Really?!, I thought. She just smiled and walked back down the hall, and I thought, "wow, she's kidding. My mom made a joke." I had a totally new and impressive view of my mom after that day.

And finally, on the creativity front; my chair is going well, the drawer is shaping up nicely, I'm writing a poem here and there, and the hats are being knitted. I do have to say, however, that the bottles being painted to bottle the ESB beer that we're brewing came out horrid. (Pictures of all of this will appear shortly). I've only done three so far but they look absolutely stupid. I was looking at them today and thinking -- wow, yuck, bad job. So, I'll just have to start over on THAT project. But I did get a perverse thrill out of knowing that sometimes creativity is just f**ked up.

Funny quote of the day....
"When I die, I want to die like my grandfather--who died peacefully in
his sleep. Not screaming like all the passengers in his car."
--Author Unknown

Well,

I am doing creative things today and don't have time to write about it. I'm hand painting bottles to bottle the ESB beer that we're brewing. I'm working on a chair. I'm doing a hat with really weird yarn. I worked on a poem.

The life cycle of a dead tree

It began by dying, the green
of its life draining quietly
from the roots and tips of limbs.
The birds still came but the leaves
stopped renewing in the spring.

It looked harder and tougher
when dead
than when alive but it wasn’t.
Inside the trunk, decay was busy
working.
Budworms gnawed
within and woodpeckers
worked from without
to destroy the bones
of it all, until one day

it fell, whooshing
through the air past the blue
of sky and the soft petals
of clouds. It fell hard,
groaning into the damp
debris left of leaves and stems
and beetle bodies.

The people hidden within
their winter houses, glancing
from their windows, noticed only
the absence of the limb
the lone blue heron sat on
in the summer, the reach of brown
jutting into the moonlight
at night.

In Spring
when children fly from the house
like small birds
the tree became the ship,
the castle, and the dragon to slay
while the discarded branch
became the sword.

In a hundred years, its dust
will feed the clover.

Remember?

Remember about a month ago when I went berry pickin and got a big 'ol Tupperware full of blackberries? Man, that was a fun day. It was still summer, I was with friends and kids and getting scratched to bits by brambles. Well, tonight I made a blackberry pie from the berries I picked that day. And, although it looks to be a whole pie in the picture, I just finished having myself a big slice with a huge glass of milk. Ummmm. Those berries are so sweet and luscious. I am not always the successful pie maker. In fact, more often than not, the inside is thin and the crust is slightly underdone. But this one is yummy! I believe I will be having another piece for breakfast.

Remember when I grew those eggplant? They were getting big and then that damn frost came? But I still got four, you nasty old frost. Hehehe. And now...fried eggplant! They were sooo good. Small and tender and, of course, anything is just scrumptious when fried. The garden is history. I still need to blanch some tomatoes this week and I think I can make one more batch of zucchini bread but that's about it. I am so building a greenhouse next year.

Remember when I said I was going to be creative for four hours a day. Not. I'm getting in about two. But I'm trying to be okay with two for awhile. Wait until I show you the chair I'm working on! But I was shooting for four and I just can't do it right now.

I have a some mom stuff. My mom is now under hospice care. They've taken her off all meds and the focus is comfort. They are all so wonderful. She gets to stay at the memory unit where she's been for three years, in a nice room with people who love and care for her. Today I went up for lunch and she had a huge bowl of "your-guess-is-as-good-as-mine" and she ate most of it. She had vanilla pudding for dessert. I took this picture of her today. I LOVE feeding her. I have an insane love for it. I get to just sit, for an hour, and feed her and talk nonsense and mush and comb her hair with my fingers and help her eat. I like all the residents and the caregivers and it feels so good to just be there. The dining room holds about 5 or 6 tables with 2-4 people at each table. She smiles on occasion, (Tangent story here - on the hospice application I had to check all these things, nine of them, that she still could or could not do and the only one I could check "yes" to was - can she still smile? I loved being able to check that one) says a few words and holds my hand tight. This is the cool/weird part...once they take the meds away, she's become more lucid. Feeds herself a little, says more words. Shoots me looks and facial expressions that I remember from years ago. It's nice to have her doing more "mom" behaviors for a little while. And she doesn't have to swallow a dozen pills every day now. Hospice helps with baths and care and medical issues. They are good, caring people who have an amazing attitude about the dying process. My mom has a stellar view of the peaks and when she's lying down in her bed she is usually looking out the window. I asked her the other day if dad comes to see her much and her eyes got all big and she said, very loud and clear, "Oh yes."

This is how I see my life right now metaphorically:
Remember those cakes, the 9" x 13" rectangular ones that, after baking you could poke holes in with a straw. It was from a commercial for Jello brand pudding. Then, you'd make the pudding and pour it on the cake and pudding would seep into those holes. I feel like my life is the cake, and grief is the pudding, and it just kind of seeps in and touches most of the cake. But, even with the grief, my life is still cake.

Look on the bright side.
-Anna Divine
(my mom, who said this an unnerving
amount of times when I was a child,
but meant it, and lived it, and passed it on)