starfish

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dance at bougival

Dearest Mama,

Last night, as I was preparing to leave the Christmas Eve festivities at the house you and Frank shared, my younger stepsister asked me to stay a bit because she had something she wanted to give me. So I did, finding it an odd request, but willing to keep an open mind.
So, most of the family has gone and I've moved things out to my car. Your first granddaughter and her husband are still there, as is her mother. I'm not sure just who else might have been there at this point. I was going to put the blue casserole dish into my car, but that's when I was called over to the living room and time just seemed to s l o w d o w n. I had walked from the kitchen into the dining room area and saw that there was a blank place on the wall between the dining and living rooms, a place which had held a painting you had loved.
After you died, my stepdad had asked if there was anything of yours which I might want. I immediately replied that I wanted the Renoir print of "Dance at Bougival". With a serious look, he said he liked that painting very much, too, then he told me, "Okay, you can have it when I die." I had smiled and said, "Well, fine, that means I'll never get it! You're gonna outlive all of us!"
Every time I came to see him and we sat there in the living room to chat, I would remind him that I still wanted "the dancers" and he would grin and tell me I would have to wait until he died. "Fine," I would say, "that means I'll never get it and will have to just visit it here." Then we would both laugh and talk of other things.
I truly did think he would outlive all of us. He just seemed to be indomitable, going strong regardless of having had COPD for almost twenty years and neuropathy in his legs for almost as long.
Apparently, I was mistaken and a simple task - doing laundry - led to a fall which led to his death. Honestly, I think I am still in a state of disbelief about that.
Back to the story I was telling you (as if you didn't already know!). So, my stepsister is standing in the living room and I realize, as I look at her, that she is supporting a painting. And I look up at the wall and see the blank spot where YOUR painting should be. And time s l o w s d o w n as I realize what is happening. She tells me that she knows her dad intended me to have this painting, this Renoir beloved by my mother, and she and her siblings want me to have it. And I start crying. I am finally getting the painting I have waited to own since 2001 and all I can truly appreciate is this fact: Frank is dead, he is truly gone, and here we are having a last Christmas Eve family event at his house and he is dead.
I'm going to have to write them a very nice thank-you note for giving me the painting. I'm going to have to get someone to help me hang it in my living room, in a space I've held reserved just for that particular piece of art, in a space where I can admire it often and feel not only your presence but also his.
But now, I'm going to go to bed and sleep and let my tears again flow.
How bittersweet to finally receive this gift.

with much love always...

sea change

This evening I had a moment of clarity. While in a karaoke club with new friends, listening to an old friend sing a Matchbox 20 favorite, I realized that maybe I was healing. I was back in my own skin again, at least for the moment.
I was finally living again, rather than going through the motions. THAT was a welcome feeling!
As you are well aware, I've been more and more aware of having been sleepwalking through the last decade. Part of it was due to Mama's death, no lie. But then having a part of me turned off became an addictive habit. I was definitely unwell.
The divorce was a shock to my system, jolting me back into this world. I wasn't quite awake yet, but I was starting to find signs of life and I reacted by bringing color into my environment, stripping wallpaper borders and painting Sunwashed Blue and Aged Mint and Valencia Violet, with some Jasmine Time. When I returned home in the evenings, the off-white walls were covered over with Maize Gold and Lifevest Orange, trimmed out with Surfboard Yellow. Warm, vibrant re-entry accompanied by cool ocean hues and a throwback to my childhood haven.
After four years of daily contact with my new colors of home, I seem to be me again.
After four years of immersing myself into different cultural experiences, absorbing knowledge in the form of film, theatre, music, art, I seem to be me again.
After four years of loss of old friends and gain of new companions, I seem to be me again.
What a long, strange trip it's been! I know it isn't over, not by a long shot, but at least I'm awake to enjoy the scenery.

morning paean

I woke up thinking about e.e. cummings this morning. One of his poems has been a mantra of mine for years and it occurred to me that I should try to write my own version of i thank You God. Within seconds, I had this paean of praise in my mind and on my lips, then had to jump out of bed to write it before it evaporated back into the thin air from whence it came.

i thank You God
for the sigh of the wind through the rustling trees
for the rush to the beach of the surging sea
for the warm kiss of the magnificent sun
and for knowing always You as the One
amen

december blues

I think I may begin shaking off these December blues now. This month was always the property of Mama, as it contained both her birthday AND her favorite holiday. Well, I've been in a funk since Thanksgiving, which was my stepdad's favorite holiday. Yesterday, Mama would have been 74 and I was pretty much useless all day long.
Last night, though, I went to dinner with a new friend and she and I had a wonderful time listening to a talented string-playing friend while dining downtown. Then we headed over to the American Legion for Christmas Karaoke - GREAT fun!! Two more girlfriends joined us, with one of them singing Three Dog Night's "Joy To The World" and the other getting behind the microphone for the first time EVER! Strut, you Stray Cat! She was good, too! We even all got up and did the "Chicken Dance" when everyone else did. I'm tellin' ya, you really should have been there!
Today, to continue the positive note, in the early afternoon I saw a film which was John Turturro's love letter to Naples, Italy. It's a toe-tapping, theatrical, musical paean to the beauty of those living on the Mediterranean coast and in the shadow of Mount Vesuvius. I am seriously considering owning the soundtrack!
Afterward, I came home to prepare for the Christmas party at the church. As I had worn my sparkly red shirt last night, I donned a glistening white top and added a red-beaded necklace and I was set! Me and my red rice arrived in fine time at Asbury Memorial, allowing me to visit with folks I don't get to spend enough time with these days. (Note to self: change that!) We all ate as much as we could stand, then a bit more, talking and laughing. After Santa and Mrs. Claus had come and gone, I did the same, realizing that I could make the 8 PM showing of "Passione" if I hustled... so I did!
To sweeten the deal, several of my friends were at this later showing of the film. Nice! And, as a bonus, one of the backers of the film was a new Italian retaurant and the owner had generously supplied fresh canoli for ALL! What a sweet treat! The film, this second time, was even better. Maybe good times are better when shared...

odds

I seem to be at odds today. I'm pretty sure it's because my schedule has been thrown out of whack from yesterday's day off.
Heck, for that matter, Wednesday was pretty much a wash for me, too. I had felt like it was Friday all day; even though I didn't have to go to work that day, I had gone briefly, then I kept my usual afternoon schedule for a Wednesday. But, no, not quite. I did have a dental appointment that afternoon, which made it Friday-ish again.
I need to have a schedule, during the daylight hours especially, to help me run on an even keel. Holidays tend to upset that schedule by encouraging me to alter my body clock, sleeping in later, staying up later. Today COULD have been a Sunday, but the only news program I watch (CBS Sunday Morning) was not on to begin my day. Ergo, this was NOT Sunday. Nor was it a Saturday, because surely that was yesterday... right? If the day before was, indeed, Friday?
I remember not having such difficulty keeping track of the days of the week when I was once a shift-worker. True, that was MANY years ago: in fact, about three decades ago. I was obviously much younger then and somehow didn't pay as much attention to the actual DAYS of the week. The schedule was 2-2-2-80 and encompassed the working of forty-eight hours (six eight-hour shifts) over a span of five days, then having eighty hours off (slightly more than three days). The eight-day schedule very much suited me, as I needed to rise early only for two days of evry eight. Better yet, I had a three-day "weekend" that rotated through the actual days, allowing me to have days off when the majority of folks were at work. That meant the beaches would be nigh deserted there in Panama and Okinawa and San Diego, allowing me to enjoy the ocean and sun and sand uninterrupted. Very nice!
So, today, on this extra Saturday-esque day, it was odd for me to feel off-kilter. In an effort to feel more "normal" and to acknowledge this period of time to be a Friday, I even worked for a while today, spending several hours completing the grading of the last of the lab reports. (Yeah!) Then I went to a movie, as I tend to do sometimes on a Friday afternoon. But I had no plans for later this evening... which made me question whether this was indeed a Friday. Sigh. Back to square one again.
Perhaps tomorrow will set me straight again. We shall see. I do hope so.

need for knowledge

In the interest of taking a step toward a better, more informed world, I donated. I encourage you to do the same.
Unbiased, ad-free sources of information are invaluable and much needed. We the people of the world and the internet are besieged by a constant onslaught of skewed "news" which reports only those items which will sell commercials to enrich the media source.
Not so with Wikipedia, shining its light of truth on a myriad of topics. No advertising, no pop-ups, just the facts, ma'am. I do so appreciate that.

thanks, e.e.

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any--lifted from the no
of all nothing--human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

- e.e. cummings

The first verse is my signature line for my emails and has been for years. Sometimes, you may even spot me walking along and speaking the words, or almost singing them from my open car window.
Try it some time.

filling the holes

This afternoon, I had two cavities filled by the gentle hands of Dr. Julie, my new dentist. When I finally went to the dentist, after a hiatus of at least seven years (long story for another time), I was quite concerned by what might have gone wrong in the ensuing period since I last had my teeth checked. To my relief, my teeth were mostly in good shape! My gums were fine (yeah!), I had one new cavity (boo!), and I had one filling and two crowns that weren't holding up to the task of grinding food into digestible bits.
Many little X-rays were taken, even pictures. The good doctor even showed all to me, so I could see the damage. Then my teeth were cleaned and I was counseled about the upcoming schedule and cost. Yeah for dental insurance! Not that the cost to me for the work itself is free, but it's about a quarter of the uninsured price.
Today was the first of the needed repairs. Two fillings, one for a new pit, the other to replace a broken bit of silver. The numbing shots were slowly administered, so nicely done that I had none of the pain I had recalled from my last time in a dentist's chair. Alrighty then! The work itself went at a quick pace and, in under an hour, I was done and gone. "No food or drink for at least an hour," were the parting words, "and then try to drink something warm."
Better than two hours later, I'm still partly numb. Perhaps I should have forewarned her that I have a low drug threshold. You better believe that I'll inform her of that very thing when I return the first of December for the initial crown work.
Tonight, I was out for a light-hearted Philippine action flick, featuring the diminutive (shorter than a yardstick) Weng Weng, at the local coffee house. My right jaw was aching slightly, so I had a cup of decaf java to sip. Sip I did, at first, then found the actual warm cup to be of more solace than the liquid it held. Eventually I was even able to relax and enjoy the movie. Nice to have that void filled, too!

fortune cookie

Ya gotta love fortune cookies. They say the damnedest things at the damnedest times, much like a three-year-old child. "A nice cake is waiting for you" is a prime example.
You think the message is garbled until subsequent events seem to prove the cookie right. I say "seem to" because the end can usually be made to fit the means, if you're a mind to do so.
Even so, sometimes I choose to lend credence to the words. For some times, I need to believe in a bit of positive in my corner. Some times are a bit rougher than others and warrant clutching at wisps of "yes" wherever they appear. This time of year can be especially cold and chill you to the bone, if you're not careful.
Most of the time, when I dine at my favorite source of massive quantities of fresh vegetables, cooked to order, I don't bother with a fortune cookie. Not that they are unavailable or hard to obtain. Oh, no. There's a jar full of them on the check-out counter, luring eyes and fingers. No, my reason for not grabbing one is this: I prefer to receive my fortunes as a random gift. If the waiter doesn't bring one with the bill, then I abstain.
My waitress this evening, a waitress I have had before, surprised me with the gift of a fortune cookie. I thanked her and decided to wait until I was home to break it open, as I was unusually full from dinner. Also, I felt the need to BE home, as I had been out all afternoon and most of the evening. So, I arrive home (the dash light working this time, so I could see my speedometer), enter my warm, lit house, and get settled in. The cookie had already crumbled in my pocket by the time I pulled it out, but the fortune was still nestled in the folds, avoiding my view. I open the wrapper, remove half the cookie and eat it as I am freeing the message.
"You will have many friends when you need them."
Nice! But how did the cookie know I had been wondering about such things?
Last night was one of those rare occasions when I felt that life was GOOD. I had gone downtown to hear Magic Rocks making rock music, as I had been invited to the gig. Ordinarily, I would have seen the 22:30 start time and opted out. This time was different, as if I were truly meant to be there. The weather had warmed such that I didn't really need a jacket, though I took one anyway. The traffic downtown was almost nonexistent; I effortlessly found parking close to where I thought I was going.
I ended up having a nice stroll whilst looking for the venue and arrived right after a large party had left, vacating several tables right in front of the band. Incredible. I had no sooner sat down than I was joined by a new friend, with word that others were on their way from a birthday celebration. Fabulous! And there we were with plenty of room for all! And the band was playing some of my favorite songs... and the waitress helped enact my request for a dance floor... and the others had arrived and we were all grooving to the music... And I realized how GOOD it felt to be surrounded by friends, beside me, behind me, in front of me, listening to great music and watching a ship pass by in the windows behind the band as they rocked out.
I spend a lot of time alone. That isn't unusual for me and, quite truly, that's the way it has been for much of my life. "Alone" doesn't mean "lonely". I have found that "lonely" can, and does, occur when others are present. But last night, I had gone out alone, but not lonely, and had been in the right place for friends to find me and join me.
I think I need to keep doing that.

birth

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celebration of women

I know this would be a project Mama would have supported. The book will chronicle the stories of twenty strong women, women who did what they had to for their families and their communities and their selves.
The book is titled "Celebrations in the Garden" and that reminds me of a piece of embroidery Mama had made when I was a kid. The embroidery consisted of a poem, with flowers and birds and a sun. She had framed it and it hung in the hallway of our home. The poem went like this:
The kiss of the sun for pardon
The song of the birds for mirth
One is nearer God's heart in a garden
Than any place else on earth.

time travel in GA

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lady in red

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you woo-oo send me, honest you do

Yesterday, I took the long way to Orlando. Why? Well, one thought led to another and the next thing I knew, I was leaving the road more traveled for the highway known as Corridor Z. That IS how these things start, isn't it? I was thinking of school, as I had just left it. Those thoughts led to ones of the lecture videos and a fictional conversation I might have with a student concerning changes that student might see in the current me as opposed to the one in 1995. I then thought of the factors which had helped me to BE that long-ago person and, quite naturally, Mama came to mind. And tears came to my eyes as I recalled how long it had been since I'd been to Grandma's grave to place the "permanent" flower. So you now have the convoluted rationale for me going about three hours out of my way to Florida.
It had been a few years since I had visited Thomas Cemetery. It's a small tract of land outside Waycross, a tract which had been in the family of my great-grandmother. Both of Mama's parents were buried there. My uncle Jimmy is also there, in a plot that awaits his widow and is near the grave of his third wife. Oh, yes, Granny (Thomas) White, my mother's grandmother, is also there, and is the one who granted passage to that bit of meadow to the other family members. (I'm sure Mama would have been buried there, as well, if not for love of, and by, my stepdad.)
So, I made it a point to visit all of their final resting places. The site for my grandparents was a bit overgrown, so I took a bit of time to clear away the crabgrass snaking its way hither and yon and resolved to put a spade and garden fork in the trunk for my next trip.
After taking several pictures of each grave, I resumed my southerly trek. The weather had been cooperating while I was grave-tending, but now it had opened back up and was again raining on me. Just as well, my car and my thoughts needed a washing!

on the way from here to there

So, I'm driving down I-95, heading south to the home of Disney World and SeaWorld and the Wizarding World of Harry Potter and all of the other fanciful places made physical. I had traveled as far as Darien, driving and singing and letting my mind drift. Then, both of the stations I was following went into commercial breaks, car commercials - quite possible the SAME commercial. So, I shut off the radio and my mind snapped back to class this morning. We were on the topics of chemical equations and moles and molar ratios, topics I had covered for years, including back in the fall of 1995. The difference was the setting: for that particular quarter, the department experimented with the distance-learning format and I had agreed to participate in this preliminary venture.
One of the classes I taught was ten weeks of general, organic, and biological chemistry. This was a class in which the students were introduced to an incredible variety of concepts and terminology, but a class which did not require any lab performance by the students. Usually, I compensated for this lack of lab by having demonstrations during my lectures. The class was deemed perfect for this trial in which I would be simultaneously teaching on two campuses which were physically about seventy miles apart.
By the second day, I had brought a VHS cassette to be inserted in the transmission electronica. I had asked the power that be if there might be any way to tape my classes for the viewing benefit of students who might miss a lecture. The man in charge had replied that if I supplied the cassettes, they would be glad to oblige, as all the necessary apparatus was already in use for the class. And so it came to pass that almost all of my lectures that term were recorded for the first, and thus far only, time in my teaching career. I loved it!
I asked the library if they would keep the cassettes available for my students and they set up a system for the tapes to be checked-out for in-house viewing. For several years, my students enjoyed the largess of that one-time experiment. Eventually, the library returned the tapes to me and I carefully stored them away.
At the end of last fall, I again asked the library for help. I had begun teaching full-time and I thought my current students might benefit from these past lectures. Could the tapes I had be transferred from VHS to DVD so they could be uploaded online? Yes! Yes, they could! And so they were.
Then the task of getting the files online could, and did, begin. I spent part of my summer with a woman in the Information Technology field and truly could not have accomplished the task without her (Thanks, Jennifer!). She spent many hours getting the data into iTunes for my review. And then she spent more hours performing the changes I requested. Anything I asked to change, she did. Could we make the lectures into smaller, bite-sized bits of knowledge? Yes, yes, we could. Would it be possible to link the end of this lecture with the beginning of the next to make one coherent topic? Why, sure! Could I design the picture for the lecture icon? Absolutely! Might we split the material into two sections to coincide with the split of the material into two separate courses? You bet!
She and I have miles to go before we complete this journey, but I am quite proud of our accomplishments. We managed to get some key topics set up for my students this term and I have been awaiting the time to share the "old me" with my new students. So, here we are at the halfway point in this term, which only covers general chemistry, and we have finally reached the right time. After my Wednesday night lecture, one of my older students told me how helpful it was to have my lecture on iTunes. He added that he wished ALL the professors had their lectures online, as it allowed him time to fully understand the material. Nice! I had indeed noticed that most of the students seemed to follow the lecture better than on Monday and I attributed the improvement to my posting the videos online for them and alerting them to the videos with an email on Tuesday.
So, on Friday, at the end of the lecture, I recalled my conversation with that student. I had noticed the typical ennui of that class, which is composed mostly of teenagers. I asked if anyone had yet gone to the iTunes website and viewed my old lectures. One of the young women - of the 43 students in the class - smiled and nodded and said she had. She is usually attentive in class and also keeps up with my online postings.
I thought she might have wondered about my transition in the 17 years since those videos were made. If she had asked, I would have replied that there was a lot of water under that bridge. That bridge of time, standing over land which had been subject to many floods, was still recovering from the flood caused by Mama's death almost eleven years ago.

losing my religion

I've done it again! Having contributed to the delinquency of adults this past summer in the 24-Hour Playfest, I'm now doing so for a film. One of the best things about doing so? I'll have a film that I can share with others who may, in turn, help fund other creative efforts. That's a win-win for everyone!

i'm coming home

There's nothing like going home after a long hospital stay, whether one is human or turtle. Truck, a 75-pound loggerhead turtle, was released on his own recognizance today and he RAN into the surf of the low tide at Great Dunes Beach on Jekyll Island. What a great pleasure to watch his joyous reunion with the ocean he holds so dear!

sky talk

Look up! That's my message today. I find myself looking up at the sky often these days. It's a habit I once had as a child and as a younger woman, lying on my back in the grass or on the sand of a beach, watching the shapes and stories in the clouds. I find it to be a reassuring pastime, especially of late, especially since I read the sign language at Daytona Beach.

Crazy Dog says...

Crazy Dog told me this morning to write down three things that I felt strongly about and had felt strongly about for some time. Crazy Dog then listed three examples that didn't really speak to me - however, they did prompt a thought: I miss my mother and resent not having her.
Crazy Dog's advice was the basis of every change-your-life program in the world. If you cannot change what is causing your distress, CHANGE YOUR ATTITUDE TOWARD IT. YOU have the power to make yourself happy, YOU and you alone. No one else can change your life (which is simply a reflection of your mental outlook)but YOU. Money, fame, popularity, purchased goods - it's all just STUFF, and stuff can be taken away or lost.
So, I have to find a way to truly accept this loss in my life. I acknowledge the loss, I do, but I also acknowledge my resentment. Mama had her mother (my Grandmama) in her life until she was 59 years old. Mama died when I was only 42. As I see it, she "owed" me at least another ten years, right? Maybe even 15?
But she left this world, and ME, early. And she used alcohol to do so. Alcohol. I wish I had never told her about that Nicholas Cage movie. I had emphasized to her that cirrhosis of the liver was a painless way to die for the one who had it, that it was a disease that only hurt others in that person's life. At the time, we were all dealing with family members who allowed alcohol to rule their actions, their lives, their brains. I kept trying to impress upon her a need for tough love, a need for the enabling to cease, a need to let them sit in jail and dry out. Maybe so.
Mama developed something wrong with her blood. After a typical woman's life lived on the edge of anemia, her body was now manufacturing too many red blood cells. The doctors couldn't seem to pinpoint the cause, but to treat the symptoms, Mama had to go have a pint of blood withdrawn every other month or so to keep her blood from becoming too think for her heart to pump. The doctor cautioned her that the condition would cause alcohol to be especially toxic to her liver and so, for a while at least, she curtailed the cocktails.
Then, about a year before her death, she started drinking more. Meanwhile, she was still allowing others to bring their alcohol-induced troubles and pile them up on her. And I kept preaching tough love, tough love. And I didn't acknowledge that I was pushing her away.
Now, I cannot count the times I have wanted to call her and share some news. Now, I cannot count the times I have wanted to hear her voice. Now, I cannot count the times I have wanted to hug her and tell her how much I love her. Now, I cannot and I feel so guilty for having let her down, for allowing her to feel that she couldn't talk to me about how distressed she felt because she knew I would say she had to use tough love.
What stupid things people say sometimes. What stupid tings I, me, myself, have said sometimes. Like now. I'm still trying to accept blame for Mama's death because of things I did say or didn't say, as if my words meant life or death.
That's CRAZY. I have no control over the actions or thoughts of others. NONE. Maybe that's the lesson I really still need to learn: I ONLY HAVE CONTROL OVER MY THOUGHTS AND ACTIONS. So, if I have thoughts which are distressing me, I am the one who has control over the effects of those thoughts. I am the one who can CHOOSE how I allow those thoughts to affect me. Damned invisible trees, again.
Perhaps Crazy Dog just might know what he's talking about.

keep on truckin', baby

After the jazz film, I decided to take a little drive. You see, my odometer had been creeping up for the past few days, edging toward 100,000. I had been watching, doing a little math in my head for distances I knew and trying to estimate when that numerical threshold would be passed. Well, when I left the film downtown, my first thought was on dinner and getting some, as it was already 10 pm. Then, as I'm driving along, an image registered in my mind: the mileage on my 2001 car was going to be turning in another fifteen minutes or so, and I did NOT want it to be finalized in the morning traffic tomorrow. NO.
I decided I wanted to mark the occasion by cruising out toward the beach. I doubted that I would reach the Sugar Shack, but that would be my goal! So, there I am, cruisin' in the dark, listening to the radio and singin' along, keeping one eye on the road and the other on my dashboard. Thank God the traffic was light!
I had wanted to be able to pull over and take a picture of the odometer reading as the 9's became 0's, but it wasn't to be. A taxi began chasing me as I cruised, forcing me to pay full attention to the task at hand - driving! - and distracting me from my mission. I had hoped to make it to the beginning of the pass lane, near Fort Pulaski, before all of my 0's shifted, but, as the evidence bears out, I did not. Still, I had a nice drive and have this little tale to mark the passage of my vehicle officially into its old age. Good enough for me!

11 september

I did go see the documentary at Muse Arts Warehouse, joined by a friend. I had questioned the host to ensure no media-frenzy pictures would be present and he assured me the film was free of such crassness. So, I stayed. And, even though I cried through almost all of it, I must attest to its truth about grief: everyone has a different way to deal with the stages and everyone has their own pace. Overall, I would recommend it for counselors everywhere as a helpful tool to show those grieving that there is more than one way to work through the pain of loss.
Truly, time is the most healing factor, provided the griever is able to give themselves permission to stop grieving. That last part is hard: to finally reach a point where you have to forgive yourself for not being there at the right time or not doing a particular thing or not saying the right words. To forgive yourself is to acknowledge your own mortality and faults. To forgive yourself and accept the loss is to give yourself permission to live again.
Afterwards, I went to my beloved beach, shedding the dress I wore and revealing the swimsuit beneath. The northern beach was lovely, sparsely populated, with a sky featuring one lone rainbow kite fluttering its tail. I walked along the shore, in and out of the surf, until I reached the rocks at the end. I sat a while in the deserted lifeguard stand, closing my eyes and letting the words of the great ocean fill my mind with reassurances and calm, then walked back down the shoreline, collecting two broken shells along my journey. Such peace!
Eventually, I returned to my Saturn, duly waiting where I had left her. I returned a call to a dear friend and we dined together, enjoying each other's company, with no talk of the day's date. Upon my return home, I called my dear cousin and told her of my day and she sent love and love and love along the telephone line into my ears and into my mind and around my heart.
She's always had a knack for that very thing...

decade-anniversary of horror

My dearest cousin sent me a PowerPoint file today, titled "World Trade Center." The following is my reply to her.

"I couldn't bear to watch it. I am surrounded by invitations to 10-year anniversary events for the horror of Sept 11, 2001. I despise hearing it trivialized as 9/11, some catchphrase coined by the media. I remember well where I was when I heard the news: I was at work, having a normal morning, when one of the guys called to tell me the news. The next thing I knew, the word was all over the radio, the airwaves, all around. The tv kept showing the horror over and over that evening, so I left it off. I simply could not keep those images from my mind and crying, yet I was surrounded by media cashing in on the bad news.

I tried to concentrate on the outpouring of love from THE WORLD during that time. So much heartbreak being soothed by those who did not live in the USA, so many words of concern and hope for a better tomorrow, so much reassurance that we were not alone in this distress and terrible loss of life.

THAT is what I would dwell upon, NOT the evil wreaked by twisted minds."

That said, I may attend one of the events tomorrow. The film is titled "Rebirth" and features five stories of lives forever changed. Brought here by the Psychotronic Film Society, for a one-day-only showing at a favorite venue run by folks I love and trust, and attending with friends I consider family, I tentatively intend to attend the early showing. Should the film prove to be too much for me, I'll leave and flee to the beach, to allow the sound of the waves and the embrace of the sun and the kiss of the sea breeze to comfort and restore my soul.
Actually, I shall PLAN to go to the beach afterward. As a favorite quote by Isak Dinesen reminds me, "The cure for anything is saltwater - sweat, tears, or the sea."

don't stop me now

Thanks, Google, for reminding us.

killing zombies

I have discovered a video game: The House of The Dead. Woohoo!!! I felt a need to destroy SOMETHING, but I didn't want a shooting-at-humans game. Dave & Buster's set me up right! Not just ONE zombie-killing game, not just TWO, but THREE machines, each with a different weapon to use. Oh, yeah! I didn't care about the points I amassed or the levels of play attained - oh, no, not me. I delighted in watching the zombies become headless masses, holes blown in chests, blood splatter all around. Destruction!!!
No, I do not own a gun. Games like this remind me of WHY I don't own a gun. My seven years in the Navy first convinced me that I should not own a gun, and so I do not.
But I sure did enjoy destroying zombies on the three variations of The House of The Dead available to me. In fact, I enjoyed it SO much that a song composed itself as I drove north along I-95, a song which I sang several times on my way to Jekyll Island, singing with great glee and joyfulness. Here it is:

If killing zombies is wrong,
I don’t want to be right.
In the House of the Dead I can slay at will
And I do so with all my might.
With pump-action shotgun
Or hair-trigger Magnum,
It matters not to me.
As long as I can blow their heads clean off
That’s the way it should be.

If killing zombies is wrong,
I don’t want to be right.
If killing zombies is wrong,
I don’t want to be right.
I don’t want to be right
If it means my slaying is over,
I don’t want to be right
If it means the zombies take over.
I don’t want to be right
If killing zombies is w r o n g,
I don’t want to be right.

(To the tune of “(If Loving You Is Wrong) I Don't Want To Be Right”)

sign language

The sky told me "I love you" today. I was walking along the water's edge at my beloved Daytona Beach, walking away the blues from my step-dad's death. On this lovely, warm day, the sky was incredibly blue and seemed to reach out into the Milky Way for wisps of white to paint across its wide expanse.
There I am, walking alongside the ocean, trying to think of nothing, listening to the gentle song of the waves. I had been watching the tiny birds skittering in and out of my path as I, in turn, skittered in and out of the path of children's flying feet. The sun beamed down on the glittering sea, on the lifeguard stands, on me, drawing my eyes upward, upward, to enjoy the blue.
And there it was. I stopped in my tracks to take in the message, holding out my right hand to look at the image there and then back to the sky's clear vision. I looked around, sure that others must also see the love writ large - but I was the only one cognizant of the scene above our heads. I brought forth my cell phone's camera, to see if its eye could find the same image as my own. Miraculously, the air stayed gentle, allowing me to take a couple of pictures before the inevitable shifting of the canvas dispersed the lovegram from heaven.
I was able to enjoy these clouds for quite a while as I continued my walk, my spirits revived, my faith restored.
I had not forgotten those who had moved on, nor had they forgotten me.

perspective blogathon!

Oh, yeah, THIS sounds like just my cup of tea! A Juxtaposition Blogathon! I don't consider myself a film connoiseur, but I am assuredly an aficionado and, as such, have been known to enjoy a movie or two on many an occasion. In fact, if you add the word "festival" after "film", I am ALL OVER IT. I just can't help myself and I blame Mama for my love of movies. I tell you, if she had the chance to move us to Los Angeles or New York to be closer to filmdom, she would have.
I've not yet had the pleasure of participating in a blogathon, so this will be another NEW experience. Yeah! Who knows, maybe I might host a blogathon on my own someday - doubtful, that - and this will gain me some modicum of knowledge about such an event. Barring that, it's a great opportunity to share my reviews on TWO OR MORE movies with other fans of cinematic offerings. Also, I very much look forward to reading the offerings of others to see what direction THEY will take the topic.
Perspective, as I have said many times, IS everything. I was recently at the opening talk for this year's Common Read. The speaker opened the topic, providing background on the selected book for those who might have not yet read it. She then brought forth on the stage a panel of twelve and allowed each to state which aspect of the book was the most meaningful (and each gave discourse on why they chose that aspect). Then, when all had a turn and the floor was opened to questions, a member of the audience with yet another viewpoint was invited to join the panel onstage. At the end, including the speaker, there were fourteen members of society who had spoken of the very same book. EVERY ONE OF THESE PEOPLE HAD A DIFFERENT MESSAGE THEY HAD GARNERED. Every single person, with their different knowledge bases, their different life experiences, had read the same words and yet focused on a different central idea. I found the discussion to be extremely interesting and an awesome example of how unique the mind of each person truly is.

Barton: A hero's final flight | savannahnow.com

Barton: A hero's final flight.

"By Tom Barton
Posted Aug 17, 2011 at 1:22 AM

Want to know what sheer terror feels like?
It feels like falling.
It feels like one long blast of cold air rushing against you. It feels like you don’t have a prayer, as the ground that’s thousands of feet below you is coming up fast.
Your only hope of salvation is a tenuous one - a jumbled up wad of nylon and rope. But it’s all you’ve got. So you give it your biggest bear hug possible.
This pile of fabric and string was once a neatly folded parachute, Not anymore.
As you crawled through the fuselage of your crippled B-17 “Flying Fortress” bomber, where you served as a ball turret gunner in missions over Germany during World War II, the chute pack had worked itself open. About 20 feet of parachute had unraveled inside the doomed aircraft.
Several of your buddies had already jumped. Now it’s your turn. But you can’t repack your chute. There’s no time.
So you do the next best thing. You gather it up in front of you, much like grabbing a big armful of heavy linen from the ground. But you can’t push yourself through the tornado that’s rushing through the open door. You don’t have extra hands. So you ask one of the last guys on board to give you the boot.
Then you’re falling into the abyss. You’re wondering whether your handful of chute will sprout into angel wings when you finally let go.
“At about 10,000 feet, I decided, let’s have done with it,” Frank Barry said.
“I threw up my hands. It blossomed like a balloon. It was the prettiest thing I ever saw.”
I hadn’t heard Frank’s war story until Tuesday. That’s when I finally listened to the DVD he gave me several months ago. The disk contained interviews that Barry and another World War II vet from Savannah, George DeLoach, a former B-24 pilot, had given at the Mighty Eighth Air Force Museum in Pooler as part of its oral history program.
God bless the museum for this project. Stories of bravery, service and sacrifice never grow old. But if you don’t write them down or record them, they’re gone forever. A terrible loss.
I came to know Frank through Blessed Sacrament Church, where he was a member. He always sat in a back pew, usually at the 8 a.m. Sunday Mass. He was small in stature, walked slowly with the aid of a cane and typically was by himself. In the winter, he kept his head warm with a jaunty tam-o’-shanter. A flat-top haircut didn’t do the trick.
We’d occasionally meet for early coffee at the McDonald’s on DeRenne Avenue near his house. We’d talk college football (he was a huge Georgia Tech fan, his only failing), current events (he devoured the newspaper) and family (he knew my daughter through one of his grandsons). But he seldom talked about himself. Or the war. He was that kind of guy. Humble. Unassuming. Gracious.
As it turned out, his dullest stories trumped my best every time.
I did learn from Frank that he was a Depression-era child who grew up in an orphanage in Washington, Ga., then moved to Savannah to live with a sister when he was 14. He joined the Army National Guard in 1939 when he was 17. The few extra dollars were a godsend. After Pearl Harbor, he tried to become a pilot and washed out, but was sent to gunnery school to learn how to shoot from a ball turret. He had the perfect build for that cramped and dangerous quarters.
What I didn’t learn from Frank I picked up Tuesday on the DVD. I learned he shot down a German fighter on his first mission. I learned his own plane was shot down on his third mission after the bomber dropped its payload on Berlin. I learned he landed in a pig pen on a farm somewhere in northern Germany, and angry civilians carrying shotguns, axes and pitch forks captured him.
This may be the scariest part.
I learned he and hundreds of other allied prisoners spent 86 days on a forced march from one prisoner-of-war camp to another during the dead of winter with no food. The only thing they had to eat was what the guards would let them scrounge from roadside farms. Barry said his weight plunged - from 165 pounds to a skeletal 85.
“I was never so cold, so hungry in all my life,” he told his interviewer.
He was liberated from the camps after 15 months. But when his saviors offered him a sandwich, he couldn’t eat it. The same went for cereal. “I was so hungry I was nauseated. I gave it away.”
Like many servicemen who returned after the war, Frank went to college on the G.I. bill. He earned a degree in industrial management at Georgia Tech and went on to a long, successful career at the Union Camp plant in Savannah. He got married and had kids. He retired from his job in 1986.
Last November, Frank attended the dedication ceremony for the World War II monument on River Street. It wasn’t easy for a slow-moving, 89-year-old man with a cane to negotiate the cobblestones. But he had to be there. It was a proud moment.
Francis Ignatius Barry died Saturday. He will be buried with full military honors today in the Greenwich section of Bonaventure Cemetery.
It’s a pretty place. A much better landing than a pig pen. I’m guessing his soul was again snagged by an angel.

Tom Barton is the editorial page editor of the Savannah Morning News and blogs on savannahnow.com. tom.barton@savannahnow.com."

I had heard these stories from Frank's lips, so I know them well.
Still, it's good to see them in print and know that his words, and his voice, will carry on.
A balm to my aching heart, as was the graveside military entourage and salute yesterday.
My gratitude to all.

death and life

Today was my stepdad's last day on Earth. The vessel he left behind will become ashes in the next day or so, then be interred in the plot which holds my mother's ashes and stepsiblings' mother's body. This is how much he loved my mother: he split his side of the plot and agreed to be cremated so she could still be by his side. Even though he is Catholic and, as such, had always intended to have a buried body.
The last few days, we have all spent a lot of time together at the hospital. We have talked of many things, many diverse subjects. Births of children now in their twenties, having children of their own. Weddings in the near future and weddings in the past decade. Favorite movies, favorite ringtones, favorite television shows. Songs we love, songs we hate. Boxers versus briefs versus both simultaneously. Bras and when to wear them and when to shed them.
Along the way, we've regained some of the sense of family we had in the 1980's and 1990's when Mama was alive. She and my stepdad were the heart of the family and we were all expected to enjoy each other's company frequently. For Labor Day, Memorial Day, the Fouth of July, we all descended upon their house for cookouts, bringing spouses, children, side dishes. For Thanksgiving, naught would do but to come to their house for the huge family feast of food and conversation and post-game napping. Christmas Eve, the house was filled with food to nibble and gifts to unwrap and children to be thrilled!
After Mama died in 2001, the family traditions did, too. The bridged family fell into nuclear units (I can just see my stepdad smile and say "I knew you would get some chemistry in there!). Sure, we still all reunited for Christmas Eve, but it was an abbreviated affair. No more of folks coming together all afternoon and mixing and mingling. Now we met at the house at 6 pm, made ouselves some sandwiches and gobbled sweets, quickly opened gifts in a madhouse, then packed up and left.
No more cookouts on the weekends of Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day. We all had our own cookouts and somehow didn't invite the others. We all moved into different and new "family" units with longtime and new friends. Sure, part of that is to be expected as the children grow older, as we ourselves grow older. It's certainly good to have "family" that we have CHOSEN, not been born into. The downside, though, is we have all drifted apart, losing sight of our relationships to each other.
His time in the hospital brought us all to one location for an extended period of time. His few short days led to long discussions and much contact between those he was leaving behind. His death has reunited us as a family.
I know Himself would have been pleased.

well, hell

My stepdad is unconscious. He has been that way since late yesterday afternoon. All because he fell and broke his hip on Friday morning.
In truth, he didn't actually break his hip, but he shattered the head of the femur where it fits into the hip. He had been washing a load of laundry, as he has done many times throughout his 89 years of life. Apparently, he had finished and was taking the clean clothes into the house when he got tripped up and fell in his carport. He finally managed to attract the attention of a neighbor, then spent all day in the emergency room while options were discussed. Finally, a choice was made and he was moved to another hospital to have a partial hip replacement. The plan was to have the surgery Saturday morning, get him up and on the new hip on Sunday, then return him to the initial hospital for two weeks of physical therapy.
Instead, after the surgery he developed a fever three degrees higher than body temperature. The doctors then had to find out where the infection was and determined he had some pneumonia present and had perhaps had it for a while. Throw some antibiotics at it and all would be well. He spent a lot of time sleeping on Saturday, but had good color in his cheeks when I saw him.
On Sunday, when I saw him in the early afternoon, he was fairly chipper. They had, indeed, gotten him up on the new right hip and he had even sat in the chair for a bit before moving back into the bed. The fever was only one degree higher than normal temperature. Progress! We chatted a bit, then he threw me out so he could take a nap.
On Monday, things took a serious turn for the worse. He had been up and walking around and then sat in the chair, same as the day before. This time, however, when it was time to move back into the bed in mid-afternoon, he passed out and scared everybody to death. Good thing he's a man of slight build and the on-duty nurse was a young man who caught him and kept him from breaking any other bones. He was moved into an Intensive Care Unit room for monitoring and tests. A CT scan revealed blood clots in his lungs, so now they would have to determine what new course of action to take.
By the time I saw him late that evening (approaching 9 pm), he was panicked from the oxygen mask covering his face. He reached for my hand as I entered the room and I took it and calmed him while the nurses got his heparin drip going and checked all the tubes going into him. The charge nurse then prepared some ice water to soothe his aching throat (oxygen gas has zero moisture and is quite drying) and she even swapped out his mask for the cannula tubes. Ah, relief! Now he felt so much like Himself that he even joked a bit and flirted with the nurses. Much better! After he was all set for the night and sent me home, I went, feeling much better about the situation than when I had arrived.
Things went straight to hell on Tuesday morning. Because his oxygen levels weren't high enough, the mask was put back on. No one seemed to recall that he was a World War II veteran who had spent two years in his early 20's in a German POW camp and that he was terrified of having his mouth and nose covered. Sigh. When I saw him that morning, he was extremely agitated. Meanwhile, nothing happened while we all waited for the primary vascular surgeon to consult another about the best option. Late that afternoon, they put him under to vacuum his lungs and to place a filter in his femoral artery to block any clots coming from the hip surgery site.
That course of action was apparently not the best for an aged man with chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. It's Wednesday and he is still unconscious and is lying in the bed, intubated - meaning a tube has been pushed from his nostrils into his lungs to carry oxygen. They are unable to insert a feeding tube because he has a hiatal hernia. This means it is simply a matter of time until his organs begin to fail. Man cannot live on glucose alone.
When I saw him early this afternoon, he looked as pale as a marble statue. I held his hand while I spoke to him and he was completely unresponsive. No hand movement, no eye movement, no movement of any kind. I don't intend to go into that ICU room again. I don't want to remember him that way and I know damn sure he wouldn't want that, either.

wonderworks

I had SUCH fun at this place! It's a hands-on science museaum, in an "upside-down" building. I made this tree on a hill using a huge frame with plastic pushpins. I even managed to get this photo before a kid hit the reset button!

thought by the volcano pool at Cypress Pointe

If you regard palm trees as a Seussian flower, they are rather pretty.

lazing on a Sunday afternoon

Starting my last break before school resumes by taking a side trip to Daytona Beach to watch the Cubs play against the Hammerheads - and win, 3 to zip! "Go Gnats!" Oops! "Go, Cubs!"

you can't go home again

Here's the trouble with time travel: in order to get what you want, you have to DO what you DID. Past choices are the path followed to today, like it or not. Any change in those past choices will affect your present day. Your high school sweetie turns out to be a hound dog, so you choose to NOT sleep with him on your birthday and NOT get knocked up? Congratulations on the loss of the future daughter, and subsequent son, who you love so dearly.
I watched "Peggy Sue Got Married" this afternoon, in lieu of going to a local cinema. Partly I chose to stay home because I didn't want to go into the tire-melting heat of the summer day. But that wasn't the only factor. I've had this movie beside my computer for several days now - maybe even more than a week! - so I could see Nicholas Cage sing.
Mama and I had gone to see the movie when it first came out in 1986, while I was still attending college here. We had both loved it and loved seeing Nicholas Cage and Kathleen Turner. So, I bought the movie when it was released on VHS and she and I watched it again. Then I purchased it -for a final time?- when I was switching over to the dvd format, so we could watch it any time we wanted.
Why the sudden desire to see Cage's performance again? Well, one of my favorite songs on Tom Jones' "the lead and how to swing it" is titled "A Girl Like You". The beat is hypnotic and sensual and rhythmic... well, you get my drift, right? Coupled with that singular Welsh voice, the song makes for great company. I had a copy of the cd quite a few years back, but it was lost along the way; perhaps it was borrowed and never returned? I only know that when one of my friends posted some lyrical phrases from one of Sir Tom's songs, I simply HAD to have that cd once more. The folks at eBay were kind enough to allow me to 'win" it.
Meanwhile, as I was waiting for my "prize" to arrive, I started searching youTube on the off chance that the song had ever had a video... and it did!!! Not by Mr. Jones, no indeed. That would have been quite the find! But, no. Instead, I found several DIFFERENT songs by that title, songs which were good but not THE song. Then, success! I found the actual video by the original group, The Wolfgang Press, a group who so impressed Mr. Jones that he had asked them to write, for him, another song for that same album (cd). They complied, giving him "Show Me", another strong single, to me at least. I don't know that any of the songs ever made it to the radio.
So, what's the connection to the movie??? Well, the lead singer reminded me of Nicholas Cage. Just superficially, mind. Right height, right build, right smoky eyes and smokier voice. Oh, yeah. And I remembered that Cage had sung a couple of songs in the movie, so I wanted to compare, see how well I was remembering. I was SO off! In the movie, his voice was such a kid's voice through much of it, not yet having mellowed with time, smoke, and drink until his later years... but his singing voice was just fine. There was something about the way he looked while singing, while holding the microphone, and THAT was what had triggered the memory while watching the music video.

time, time, time is on my side

Yes, it is! I've been cleaning house for several years now, with the help of eBay and craigslist. I've discovered there are plenty of folks worldwide willing to take possession of things I no longer want or need. Some things get snapped up the first time proffered. Others languish for a few months, dropping off the list only to be reposted again and again.
Why the disparity? Why doesn't everything put forth get readily grabbed up by another? Well, it's all a matter of timing. I post an item I no longer need. Someone looks for an item they want. The trick is having the two events coincide. And that, dear, is QUITE the trick.
In many regards, selling online is akin to fishing. You drop your line in the deep blue, trolling a tasty-looking morsel through the cool water, and you wait. Elsewhere in the sunlit sea, a fish rides the currents in search of a seafood dinner. If you are patient, the fish might eventually swim nigh and spot your offering. If you are patient, YOU are awarded the seafood dinner. Yum!
So, I try to be patient. Some items I post try this patience mightily, making me despair that I will not find a new home for them. Then... surprise! Someone in Oregon or the Netherlands or even Australia has eagerly accepted them! That, to me, is part of the fun - being able to travel vicariously to other parts of this lovely Earth. Very nice.

choices

Choices come with baggage
they do not come alone.
You think it's just for the moment,
but they always follow you home.

Have a drink too many
and get behind the wheel
You put yourself and others in harm's way
no one else gave you that raw deal.

Have sex with someone special
but a condom is a bother.
Then the sheriff's at your door
and someone is calling you father.

And that may be the best it brings
but the surprise may be another -
if the baggage is full of AIDS
it could kill you, brother.

Yes, choices come with baggage,
so give them careful thought.
The choice you make this moment
might later make you distraught.

Choices come with baggage
so be mindful of your next,
for it may bring you naught but woe
and steal your self-respect.

---- This is a work in progress, in preparation for the Spitfire Slam coming up on the 30th of this month. I had considered sharing "hotdogs 4 breakfast", written a year after Daddy's death. Or maybe even the untitled poem included in the next day's post. But the one here just wrote itself as I was on my way to dinner with my stepmom and my paternal aunt. I actually had to pull over at one point so I could physically write down the words engraving themselves on my brain. Wild.

postscript

Timing is everything. This morning, on the only news program I watch, Tom Jones was featured. They even showed concert clips of him doing all three of the songs mentioned in my last post! He's 71 now, so Mother Pat would have been 70 in March.
His look is different now and seems to have changed shortly after we saw his show. He's allowed himself to show his age, gray hair, gray beard, and it becomes him. I still think HE is a "sex bomb" and I'd still like to see him in concert again. Tom has a new album - oops! I mean, CD - out and the songs are quite different, with several old traditional standards and folk tunes. I had seen him at the MGM Grand, one of the cornerstones in Las Vegas, and apparently he still performs there. Maybe I can plan a trip to coincide with his in the next year or two.
Although the sound of the new songs is more serious, this isn't the first time he's delved into vastly different material. He did the same in 1994 when he released "the lead and how to swing it", one of my favorites. Take a listen. THIS is what being mid-fifties is all about for me. He was 54 in this video, recorded at the House of Blues in Los Angeles in 1994. I'm 53 now, still vital, still dancing, still.
Thanks to the tomjonesintl.com site for the video and the information! I had wondered about the title of the album and I like it even more now, knowing it was a tribute to Sir Tom's dad. Now, if I could only find a video for one of my favorites on the CD, "A Girl Like You". That would be so fine! Meanwhile, the original by Wolfgang Press will do nicely.

it's not unusual

‘Doc, I can’t stop singing ‘The Green, Green Grass of Home.’ ‘That sounds like Tom Jones Syndrome.’ ‘Is it common?’ 'Well, ‘It’s Not Unusual.’ =)

The above joke was posted on a friend's facebook page and made me smile. As I replied to her, "OMG, Tom Jones is soooo fabulous!! When I saw him in Las Vegas in 2007, he sang "Sex Bomb" to ME! Yes, he did! (swoon!)"
Seriously, he DID! I had bought the tickets in December of 2006 and snagged front-row tickets for my husband and my mother-in-law for his show. Incredible! Even more so, the concert was on Mother Pat's 66th birthday and I knew she was going to love the show at least as much as I would. THAT was very important to me. You see, the trip to Las Vegas was a last hurrah with her, as she had Stage 4 colon cancer and was doing very poorly. We had no idea just how poor her health was until we saw her. She had become considerably weaker since the Christmas visit and would actually die a month after the trip.
The trip to Las Vegas was one she had been trying to get us to take with her for years. She had retired early and had nothing but time, whereas we both worked and were lucky to get two weeks of paid vacation a year. To go to Las Vegas would take at least most of a week, leaving us little time for anything else. So, going to gamble with Mother Pat kept getting pushed to the bottom of the list. A real shame, in hindsight. She truly enjoyed the place, as do I, and she knew how to get around and where to find the best, and cheapest, entertainment.
I think the next time I go there, I'll have to find a place where her name can become part of the city.

fortune cookie says...

"You're not afraid of storms, for you're learning to sail your ship."
Seriously. That was the message received with lunch today.
I was dining with my middle brother on this beautiful, blue-sky, hot summer day. I had chosen this restaurant because it's one of my favorites and we happened to be right there, as we had first gone to the drivers license office. Asian Buffet always has a wide assortment of sushi rolls and nigiri sushi, as well as some dim sum and other goodies, and more traditional fare, too.
He was enjoying the cheesy mussels - he had seven! - and I was getting my fill of several different types of sushi rolls. I tried twice to let him taste, but he couldn't get past the taste of the algae, so that was that.
We had a good lunch together, getting caught up with happenings in each other's lives, eating good food, taking our time. After all, it was a fine Saturday of a holiday weekend and we had no agenda at hand. Very nice lunch and good conversation. Then my fortune came and it read like it was meant JUST for me.
Mind, when the check came with the two fortune cookies on the tray, I had touched the cookie closest to me to move it so I could read the total on the bill. Having confirmed the total was correct, I had placed the cookie back on the tray. I then waited for him to select which cookie he wanted and, when he had not chosen for several minutes, I went ahead and picked up the cookie I had returned to the tray.
That cookie was clearly meant for me. Am I not learning to sail my own ship? Yes, I may be foundering from time to time, but 'tis my own ship and mine alone. If it runs aground occasionally, so be it. I'll make the most of the delay as I wait for a high tide to lift me up and away again. Then I'll be catching the breeze in my sails and searching for that next bright star to steer her by.
Lovely image, that. How did the fortune cookie know?

midnight in Paris

Tonight, I drove out to a new cinema to see a movie. I didn't know much about the film, and this is the only cinema showing it. Mostly, though, I was escaping my hot house, in hopes that night air would cool it enough that I could sleep. The air conditioner was on the fritz and help would be coming the next day, but not tonight. So, partly to cool off, partly to see the movie before it left town, I left town to catch it.
"Midnight in Paris" is a movie about appreciating the time in which you live. In other words, ejoying the present, not mourning the past or yearning for the future. Time only moves forward, one fraction of a second at a time, and no amount of human pining will alter that pace or direction. To have regrets of time lost in the distant or near past simply robs an appreciation of the time at hand. To wish for a time not yet come to pass in the near or distant future is to miss the richness of the time all around.
What a fine message for this last day of the first half of 2011! This was a fine message for me, indeed, given the many changes brought about in this short thirty-day span of time.
For now, it's a hot house, with anticipation of a cooler night to come.

what a long strange trip it's been

Yesterday was a merging of friends past and friends present. Who can say who will be friends future?
I went to the wedding of my ex's best friend yesterday evening. My ex had come to town and was there as his best man. The mutual friend who had introduced me to my ex so many years ago was also there.
Playing music at the reception site was a new friend from one of the social groups I have been part of since the divorce. There was also another new friend from another social group I have been part of since the divorce. Both of these folks know the groom and one of them also knows my ex. Small world.
As you know, I've had to start over with my social life, AD. The friends I had before the marriage, who never left my side, are still with me, though they are scattered geographically around this continent. Almost all of the friends I thought I had during the marriage have scattered away, though they still live in this very town. You would have thought divorce was contagious. And perhaps, in a way, it is. People in marriages, relationships, couplehood, find themselves shining a harsh spotlight on their spouses, partners, significant others, searching for any hint of a fatal flaw that might unravel the threads binding them together.
A bit of questioning is a good thing. Any truth, belief, credo, which cannot withstand close scrutiny is not worthy of being a truth or belief or credo. So much of what we hold to be true is based on partial knowledge and subjective perception and not on verifiable and objective facts. My favorite definition of truth is "conformity with fact or reality". It's close to being a scientific law, which is hailed as being a rule held to be true in every instance... but is it? Those laws are based on the outcomes of repeated experiments, but usually have some caveat added in. For instance, all the laws concerning the behavior of properties of gases include the phrase "for an ideal gas" - of which there is nonesuch. Still, the gas laws do give scientists a starting point for understanding and predicting how a real gas will respond to various stimuli.
Perhaps that is how personal truths are of best use. If those beliefs are held to be guidelines, not nonmalleable facts, then those beliefs help make some sense of this world and the people we meet. Guidelines. "Indications of a future course of action", by others known and unknown and by oneself. THAT is helpful.

hasta la vista!

Until my next trip out to the other coast, my love and a piece of my heart stays with my li'l' sister and her family.
My elder niece wondered one evening why they had not flown over to my beach. I explained that the trip was rather expensive and that it would cost them five times as much since there were five of them.
That would mean they would spend $2800 JUST on the flight. That would not include food on the plane (no more free meals) or in the airport between flights, checked baggage fees, or parking fees. This time, for me alone, the trip was $560, round trip. (Of course, the websites make it sound like less, but those posted prices don't include the various fees and taxes.) I also spent about $35 on meals in the Dallas terminal (Pappasito's Cantina, Gate A28, highly recommended!) and $40 to retrieve my car at the Savannah airport (parked in the Economy lot for $8 per day). Two years ago, the same flight was $549 total. Different airlines, but quite similar in price and in baggage allowances. Hopefully, that price will be about the same when next I travel in that direction... or some few years later when she is old enough to fly out to see me.

Glitter Bomb!

Glitter Bomb, aka my elder niece in San Diego, is phenomenal on roller skates! As a trainee of the Starlettes, she shows great promise, fearless and fast. I sm so blessed to have been able to see her in action!

penny souvenirs

Most of the time, I don't bother with buying souvenirs. At least, not for me. I may purchase an occasional item which I think will appeal to someone with a birthday coming or to save for Christmas or such. Rarely do I purchase something specifically for ME.
The exceptions are these little stamped pennies, which cost me two quarters each. I delight in choosing the image I want to be imprinted form the three or four possibilities. Then I find just the right penny to serve as the raw material. I try to select an older penny, one of those which are pure copper and not simply copper-clad. I firmly believe the solid copper gives a more legible image.
Anyway, when the coins have been placed in their designated slots and the image desired has been aligned in the machine, then, and only then, is the coin slide inserted into the machine. I turn the crank, trying to maintain a constant speed for the penny's progress, then scoop it out of the drop slot while the coin is still slightly warm. Success!!! And a low-cost memento is mine!
I have introduced my California angels to the souvenir penny phenomenon. Good! Something to remind them of their Aunt so far across the North American continent! I fortunately had enough quarters AND pennies for the three of them and myself. That was incredible! So I showed them how it was done and allowed the youngest to help produce mine. Then they each made their selection and grabbed them up to run outside and show mom. Look, look!
I managed to snap this photograph at just the right moment, as the newly-imaged copper was taken into a small hand. Timing this good is pure luck!

CA angels

Fun with bubbles on a sunny afternoon during "June gloom" in southern California. Beautiful! Giggles and smiles all around! And later, I was treated to a three-act floor show starring these nieces and nephew. Sign language, dancing, and singing!!! Wow!

serendipity

Serendipity is defined as "the act of making desirable discoveries by accident" at dictionary.reference.com, one of my favorite websites. A word not in existence until 1754, the man credited with first use defines it as "discoveries, by accident and sagacity, of things ... not in quest of". One of the best examples would be Alexander Fleming's research of bacterial growth and finding a contaminant that had ruined one of his samples - a contaminant that would become penicillin.
As told elsewhere, Alexander Fleming's start into bacteriological medicine came from an unlikely string of events. After playing water polo with his brothers and Scots during the Boer War, he returned to England to an inheritance and no particular goals. Based on good test results, a brother's advice, and a chance water polo game, he selected St. Mary's Hospital, in London, as the medical school to attend. After graduation as a surgeon, Fleming decided to forgo a surgical career and stay on at St. Mary's, to work in the Inoculation Service. WHY? Because the captain of the rifle club wanted Fleming on his team. So, Fleming was doing postdoctoral research in a field not his major, at a place first chosen for its water polo team and then selected for its rifle club. And today, because he was in the right place, and he took notice and PUBLISHED the scientific problem he had witnessed, we have penicillin. Serendipity!
My love of theatre, as a participant both on and off the stage, are part and parcel of my love of teaching. I knew before my days in the Navy that I enjoyed being on the other side a classroom desk, shy as I was. During my senior year, I volunteered to be a teacher's assistant to two sophomore English classes, as that was preferable to taking two study halls. (I had completed all my course requirements except senior English, but was required to be on campus for half a day; hence, I was enrolled in senior English, two study halls, and senior Spanish.)
That teaching experience led me to work at the now-defunct Savannah Science Museum, where I did odd jobs which included being the snake handler and voice-altering storyteller for children's parties there. That choice of employment my senior year was also a direct result of the love of science nurtured in me by participation in the STERI program (Student-Teacher Environmental Research Interaction) my junior year. This program had included trips to the marshes, to the beach, and on shrimp boats to study the variety of life in those environments.
While working at the Science Museum, I was introduced to what life would be both as a sailor and working with electronics by the maintenence technician. Fun! Biology, physiology (we had a walk-in model of the human heart!), physics, chemistry, history - what a place for young minds!

that bird has flown

Well, not completely. My bird and I have parted ways, both now admittedly "single", still friends. He and I have not been quite right for the past few months and our time in Virginia, the state which is advertised as being "for lovers", pretty well cinched it. The sputtering spark has flickered for the last time.
He is such a good guy and I do wish him well. When I broached the matter last Friday by stating that "I don't think of us as a couple anymore and haven't for a while." he was as relieved to hear it as I was to say the words. He agreed that he had felt that way for some time, too, but he didn't want to be the one to put an end to things. He was patiently waiting for ME to gain the courage to say the words. I'm sure it must have been quite a strain on him, but he waited. It was important to him that I be the one to formally end what we had. How very considerate!
I think this has been a good learning experience for me. I have found that I am definitely not ready for a relationship, for a commitment to another person. I am certainly more at peace with myself, thanks to the Mississippi plum, that's for sure. And I feel that one day in the distant future, I will once again be ready for full-tilt boogie immersion in love... not any time soon, but perhaps in a few years. Time will tell, as it always does, as it always will.
My heart has found a beat again, not in rhythm with another, but a rhythm of its own.
Thank you, my friend.

another year older

I am beginning my new year by having lost some items I have been holding onto for, perhaps, too long. Much as earlier this year I gave away the futon I had in my life since 1981, I now have other longstanding items no longer in my possession. These items were not consciously remanded to another. No.
The first items were my eyeglasses and their case. I had this pair of glasses since 1978 or so, perhaps a year earlier. They had large frames that matched my hair, being a tan tortoise-shell pattern. I had different lens prescriptions fitted in over the years, of course, adjusting for aging eyes as needed, but continuing to use those same frames. The latest set of lens were polycarbonate, shatterproof for use in the lab. The left lens had been damaged by continuous exposure to tears after my mother died in 2001.
I knew the glasses had run their course, and run it long and well, but I could not - would not - put them aside. I had already purchased new eyeglasses, with a new prescription, in December of 2007. The new glasses waited, unused, while I continued to use the old pair. Now, almost four years later, my well-worn glasses, and the soft case in which I kept them, are gone. Somewhere in Richmond, Virginia, a little over a week ago, the glasses' case didn't make it into my purse, and I didn't catch the loss until the next day. I thought about calling my friends in Richmond, to ask them to search their home, search their yard, search their car. I considered asking them to return to the restaurant and ask if my glasses were perhaps still there.
But I did not. I already have new glasses waiting at home and I have purchased a pair of reading glasses to use whilst away. I decided that this was as good a time as any for change - and I feel good about my decision. After all, I am beginning a new year of my life and change is warranted at such a time.
Then, two days ago, I accidentally erased all the text messages in the "inbox" of my phone. I had thought I was in the "sentbox" and I was trying to free up space to send pictures from my phone to elsewhere. I had quite a few pictures to send, as I use my phone as my camera, especially when on vacation and with sister-friends, as I am currently.
My phone had told me it was out of memory, so I meant to remove those images which were duplicated in my "sentbox". You know, the pictures I had already sent away for safekeeping. But the hour was late and I was not in the "sentbox" but my "inbox". I didn't even realize what I had done until I tried to send out more pictures... and again received the "out of memory" response. And when I rechecked my "sentbox", I realized my error, too late.
My "inbox" had preserved the last three text messages from Sam Johnson, dead these past two years. In one message, he wrote his support after meeting my bird on April 10, 2009. In another, he had forwarded a joke: "These guards won't let me see you in the zoo. I have peanuts." or some such silliness. That one was around April 14, 2009. The third, and final text was sent on April 17, 2009, and read: "@ comicbox. wanna meet for dinner b4 steeds?"
I had held on to these messages. He didn't seem so permanently gone as long as I still had words he had written specifically for me... right? Maybe, maybe not. Perhaps it was time for me to let go of that grief and my subconscious mind took over and caused that mistaken elimination of those messages. However it happened, the end result is the same: those text messages, as well as a few others I had saved from other friends and family, are gone, vanished into the ether from whence they came.
And I'm good. I have even been gracious in my acceptance of the loss of these items. And now that I have documented them, and their loss, in this ethereal space, they don't seem lost after all. They are simply put away for safekeeping for all to see as well as more deeply into my memory.
And that is better and a good way for me to begin a new year.

it's a ... PLAY FESTIVAL!!!

This year, I'm commemorating my birth month by giving something back to the community. Specifically, I'm supporting the creative spirit in this lovely city near the sea. I do adore Shakespeare and the very thought of helping to bring new life to his works is - is - mindbogglingly exciting! I am so excited about June 10th and 11th!!!

here we go now!

As Ozzy would say, in "Flying High Again", here we go now!
April, thank God, is O V E R at last.
I seem to have gone through this same overwhelmed, terribly sad thing last year, too, with the madness blowing out the window with the sweet spring breezes. I know this from my blog. My very first entry in May is back to gratitude for the changes in my life, rather than mourning for people and times lost in the past.
Again, I say, THANK GOD.

talking to the moon

Bruno Mars, a very talented singer with a bluesy voice, has this song about death, "Talking to the Moon". Very wistful, hopeful, and sad.
I can totally relate.
Here are the lyrics:

i know you're somewhere out there, somewhere far away
i want you back
i want you back

my neighbors think i'm crazy, but they don't understand
you're all I had
you're all I had

at night when the stars light up my room
i sit by myself
talking to the moon
trying to get to you
in hopes you're on the other side talking to me too
or am i a fool who sits alone
talking to the moon

i'm feeling like i'm famous, the talk of the town
they say i've gone mad
yeah, i've gone mad

but they don't know what i know cause when the sun goes down
someone's talking back
yeah, they're talking back

at night when the stars light up my room
i sit by myself
talking to the moon
trying to get to you
in hopes you're on the other side talking to me too
or am i a fool who sits alone
talking to the moon

will you ever hear me calling

cause every night i'm talking to the moon
still trying to get to you
in hopes you're on the other side
talking to me too
or am i a fool who sits alone
talking to the moon

i know you're somewhere out there, somewhere far away

---------------------------------
"Talking to the Moon", Songwriters: Bruno Mars;Jeff Bhasker;Ari Levine;Albert Winkler;Phillip Lawrence

What can I say? Easter brings out the melancholy in me...

2 years ago today

Two years ago today, Daddy drew his last breaths of Southern air. Here's a memory of a much happier day for me, for him, and for my stepmama, Bonnie.