Recent excavations at Stonehenge in England have revealed that the site was, among other things, a burial ground. I didn’t know that. What I did know, and what pertains to our discussion here, is that Stonehenge is built so that on the morning of the summer solstice the sun’s light dawns right through the middle of one of the arches. This is one clue among many that the summer solstice had great meaning for ancient peoples.
It’s the longest day and the shortest night of the year, and as such was a time of celebration. Summer is the year in full bloom. Summertime is when, according to George and Ira Gershwin, the living is easy.
In the Christian calendar we mark the solstice on June 24 by remembering the birth of John the Baptist. Even some Christians will read that and say, “Oh, really?” Poor old John the Baptist – he gets nothing like the press and hoop-la that Jesus gets for his birthday six months later, not to mention the cultural excesses.
Christians most often hear about this John during Advent, when we hear him speak of one who is yet to come who is greater than he. He also tosses a few choice epithets at the Pharisees and Sadducees and by extension at us. For example: “You brood of vipers,” one of my favorite epithets. John is usually pictured in church bulletins as looking like an ascetic Fred Flintstone, wrapped in a short robe of camel hair, sporting a scruffy beard, his arms raised in warning: repent oh sinners!
The fact that not much is made of John the Baptist’s nativity observance either religiously or culturally demonstrates the point I wish to make about summer spirituality: everyone is busy in summer.
Whether tilling the soil, vacationing, getting married, going to or playing games, swimming, sunning, picnicking, going to summer festivals, driving the kids to various activities, et cetera, we are all basking in the warmth and light of the season. Even the homeless have an easier time of it in summer.
In December we all huddle together to beg whatever powers that be to please send the sun back because if the light doesn’t return this time we’re all going to die in the cold and dark. In the summer the terror of darkness is far away. Even rain is pleasant in the summer, because it’s warm, and bright, and it’s followed by more sunshine.
Oh, I know that you pagans are going to be out dancing on the night of the summer solstice and goddess bless as you do, but for most of the rest of us, it’s the end of the school year, the beginning of vacation time, a time of getting out and doing things rather than hunkering down to contemplate rebirth. In summer we are alive and living as fast as we can. Our spirits are more extroverted.
So I don’t have any deep thoughts regarding summer spirituality. It’s all about living in the light, with the confidence that life is with us indeed. Life is good, and it’s good to be alive in this beautiful world. That’s summer.
There is, however, a darker side of summer. As the summer wears on, and the days begin to shorten, there is a pressing spiritual question that arises, something we all must face and with which we must deal. That question is, of course, “What in God’s name are we going to do with all this zucchini?”*
*Thanks and a tip o' the hat to my writer friend Susan Bardwell down in Angleton, Texas, who got me thinking about zucchini.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Friday, May 16, 2008
Further Adventures in Parenthood
Or, the iPod at the Bottom of Lake Union
“Well, the cops finally brought my kid home,” my friend told me the other afternoon when we ran into each other in the book room at Granny’s.
“Ah,” I replied, putting an arm around her shoulder, “You are no longer a ‘having the cops bring your kid home’ virgin.”
A mother of young children who was standing nearby overheard this exchange and glanced at us with a startled expression. She said, “Something I have to look forward to, I suppose.”
Not if you are fortunate. Perhaps. There is a large club of parents who get phone calls they never wanted to get.
In this instance the (adult) child in question had not committed a crime. She had not shoplifted, or taken a car joyriding, or wrecked a car she’d taken joyriding, or wrecked her own car. Please do not ask why I am familiar with reasons why the cops might bring your kid home, or ask you to come bring the kid home.
My friend’s daughter was in a boat that submerged in Lake Union. “The boat didn't sink,” her mom explained, “it submerged. It is a Port-a-boat® and will not sink due to flotation around the gunwales.” The Port-a-boat® belonged to Mom, and was powered by a two-horse motor she had purchased for the boat the day before. Daughter was under way with her mother’s blessing and a few friends and relations.
“I was going this way, Mom,” her daughter said, pointing straight ahead, “and then I was going this way,” pointing down.
Daughter did have the presence of mind to turn off the motor when she saw what was happening.
It was a maiden voyage for the boat and the motor. Daughter and friends had piled in without stopping to spread the ballast evenly throughout the boat, and the bow was a little low. They were putting along at a strolling pace when the bow began shipping water, and pretty soon, it was under water, and right after that everyone and everything in the boat was in the water. Daughter had insisted that everyone wear life vests, so they floated, but there was a tragic loss of iPod and cell phone. Oh, the humanity.
“It was a case of mis-loading and not sitting in the right places,” Mom said.
Given that everyone was safe, not drowned, and escorted safely home by Seattle’s finest, Mom was concerned with the fate of her boat and motor. The boat, once pulled out of the water, was fine. The motor, not so much.
So she took the motor to her boat engine guy, and he took it apart and cleaned it and oiled it and put it back together, good as new or nearly. Then it slipped out of his hands and cracked its casing on the floor.
“God does not want me to have a two-horse motor,” my friend mourned.
I commiserated with my friend on this whole turn of events. It turned out pretty well, considering. Daughter did show presence of mind, the passengers were fine, the boat was fine, and the motor dealership had a supply of casings on hand because apparently dropping and breaking them is a common occurrence.
You’ve heard it before and I’ll say it again: being a parent never ends. They grow up and you’re still praying for their safety and well-being, and sometimes things happen that are not at all what you planned or expected. In fact, most of what happens falls in the unplanned and unexpected categories.
As for having your kids brought home by the cops, or getting that phone call telling you to come pick up your kid – well, if you are fortunate, that will never happen to you.
If you are not so fortunate, you will have to adjust your expectations and understanding of what raising children and being a parent can be. We are united in sympathy and understanding, so if you get that call, remember – you’re not the first, you won’t be the last, and there are a lot of people who understand exactly how you feel.
“Well, the cops finally brought my kid home,” my friend told me the other afternoon when we ran into each other in the book room at Granny’s.
“Ah,” I replied, putting an arm around her shoulder, “You are no longer a ‘having the cops bring your kid home’ virgin.”
A mother of young children who was standing nearby overheard this exchange and glanced at us with a startled expression. She said, “Something I have to look forward to, I suppose.”
Not if you are fortunate. Perhaps. There is a large club of parents who get phone calls they never wanted to get.
In this instance the (adult) child in question had not committed a crime. She had not shoplifted, or taken a car joyriding, or wrecked a car she’d taken joyriding, or wrecked her own car. Please do not ask why I am familiar with reasons why the cops might bring your kid home, or ask you to come bring the kid home.
My friend’s daughter was in a boat that submerged in Lake Union. “The boat didn't sink,” her mom explained, “it submerged. It is a Port-a-boat® and will not sink due to flotation around the gunwales.” The Port-a-boat® belonged to Mom, and was powered by a two-horse motor she had purchased for the boat the day before. Daughter was under way with her mother’s blessing and a few friends and relations.
“I was going this way, Mom,” her daughter said, pointing straight ahead, “and then I was going this way,” pointing down.
Daughter did have the presence of mind to turn off the motor when she saw what was happening.
It was a maiden voyage for the boat and the motor. Daughter and friends had piled in without stopping to spread the ballast evenly throughout the boat, and the bow was a little low. They were putting along at a strolling pace when the bow began shipping water, and pretty soon, it was under water, and right after that everyone and everything in the boat was in the water. Daughter had insisted that everyone wear life vests, so they floated, but there was a tragic loss of iPod and cell phone. Oh, the humanity.
“It was a case of mis-loading and not sitting in the right places,” Mom said.
Given that everyone was safe, not drowned, and escorted safely home by Seattle’s finest, Mom was concerned with the fate of her boat and motor. The boat, once pulled out of the water, was fine. The motor, not so much.
So she took the motor to her boat engine guy, and he took it apart and cleaned it and oiled it and put it back together, good as new or nearly. Then it slipped out of his hands and cracked its casing on the floor.
“God does not want me to have a two-horse motor,” my friend mourned.
I commiserated with my friend on this whole turn of events. It turned out pretty well, considering. Daughter did show presence of mind, the passengers were fine, the boat was fine, and the motor dealership had a supply of casings on hand because apparently dropping and breaking them is a common occurrence.
You’ve heard it before and I’ll say it again: being a parent never ends. They grow up and you’re still praying for their safety and well-being, and sometimes things happen that are not at all what you planned or expected. In fact, most of what happens falls in the unplanned and unexpected categories.
As for having your kids brought home by the cops, or getting that phone call telling you to come pick up your kid – well, if you are fortunate, that will never happen to you.
If you are not so fortunate, you will have to adjust your expectations and understanding of what raising children and being a parent can be. We are united in sympathy and understanding, so if you get that call, remember – you’re not the first, you won’t be the last, and there are a lot of people who understand exactly how you feel.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Going Sixty Beautifully
Going Sixty Beautifully
“Hey, Beautiful Cousin,” my cousin Nancy began, “I have a week off at the end of April. Let’s go down to the Oregon Coast.”
Note: My cousin and I call each other beautiful as often as possible. I have friends with whom I do this as well. We’ve learned that greeting someone as beautiful, and being greeted as beautiful, makes you feel beautiful, and actually lights up your true beauty. You might want to try it, if you haven’t already.
Back to our story.
So began the celebration of my sixtieth birthday, which is still a few weeks off. Nancy said we would begin the celebration early because this was the only time she had off.
She took the train over to Seattle last Sunday, and we began our week by having brunch at Ivar’s Salmon House. This was unintentional – we meant to have lunch, but it turns out that Ivar’s has a rather famous buffet brunch it serves every Sunday morning. We did not complain. It was good, if overwhelming. The American dilemma – too many choices.
We came out to the island so Nancy could see our new house, and we stayed the night here at home.
Monday, we beat feet south to Longview, where we met up with my beautiful friend Sonya, who had taken the train up from Vancouver, and my beautiful friend Jan, who lives in Longview.
When you’re traveling, even as short a distance as a couple of hours down the freeway, it is a great thing to have someone who knows the city you’re in to show you around, and Jan is all hospitality. She gave us a choice of three Great Places to Eat. We started at a place (whose name I cannot remember) that served boba tea (tea with large pearls of tapioca in it) and great panini. I had the grilled avocado melt. Yum.
She then took us on a tour of Longview’s cultural high spots. OK, she took us to the library, where she works, and drove by her church and her house. We ended up at the British tea room where Jan told us the story of the traffic ticket she got in Arizona.
She and her mother and sister (all beautiful) were on vacation when Jan got pulled over for doing 72 in a 50 mile an hour zone. This was a $200 ticket. But Jan is so charming, beautiful, and obviously decent that the officer decided to give her a $30 ticket instead, and wrote her up for “the abuse of finite resources.”
Let us savor that phrase: “the abuse of finite resources.” It rolls around in the mouth with all the flavor of a chunk of grilled avocado melt. Aah.
After a marvelous few hours together, Jan had to go to work and Sonya had to catch the train back to Vancouver. We all parted at the train station and Nancy and I headed out Highway 30 to Astoria, Oregon.
On the way we passed the remains of a mud slide which closed the road during last December’s flood rains – whoa. I remember seeing this on the news at the time – there was a house that had been transported by the mud right down across the highway. The road is open now, but when you’ve said that, you’ve said it all. The slide and much of the damage it did is still there, including wrecked buildings and half-buried cars. If you want to get a glimpse of what a little mud can do, drive out Highway 30 sometime.
Tuesday, we drove around Astoria, enjoying the views. Astoria was the jumping off point for lumber logged for John Jacob Astor. The lumber was loaded up here and was shipped to Astoria, New York. My friend, Alice, who used to live in Astoria, New York, told me this.
The superfluity of lumber (I love slipping words from the Book of Common Prayer into ordinary speech) meant that Astoria was built with all the Victorian flair that 19th century builders could muster. So the town seems to consist almost entirely of Victorian mansions, or at least large and beautiful Victorian homes, complete with gingerbread. Many have been fixed up and given fresh paint; some have not, and show the wear and tear of many decades of coastal rain.
What Astoria has besides gorgeous Victorian architecture is a superfluity of views of the Columbia River. You almost have to work to find a place without a view, and from the ridge at the top of the hill you can gaze out at the mouth of the Columbia, and the Washington coast going north and the Oregon coast going south and the Pacific Ocean out to the western horizon. There are people living up there who can see this view from their homes every day. Imagine getting up and having your morning cuppa while contemplating this vast expanse of earth and water.
We drove up to the Astoria Column, which is located on top of the second and taller hill behind Astoria. On my 50th birthday Nancy and her sister Charlotte and I visited Astoria, and discovered that a fellow named Electus Litchfield had a hand in building the column. He knew how to do the murals which spiral up the column, depicting scenes from the Lewis and Clark Expedition. There is a lot of Lewis and Clark awareness out on the Columbia.
Being Litchfield descendants, we decided we had to see the column.
Charlotte and I climbed the Astoria Column’s interior staircase that time, just to prove to ourselves that we could. Ten years later I had no intention of climbing the Column again, but they’re building a new staircase so no one is climbing the Column at present. Don’t you love it when you can’t even be tempted to do something you don’t want to do?
We drank in that view and asked a nice young woman to take our picture with our cameras. She was a professional photographer, carrying a camera with a lens the size of a (large) Dachshund. She was a little confused by our simple snapshot cameras, but she graciously took our pictures.
After that we drove around town some more. We drove by the elementary school featured in “Kindergarten Cop,” but we couldn’t find the house featured in “The Goonies.”
When we decided we were done with Astoria, we drove south. We went to Cannon Beach, a town which seems to exist solely to delight the tourist eye and pocketbook. It is lovely and cute in the extreme, and I am sure that many people enjoy it immensely.
We ambled south to Tolovana Beach, to a public beach with restrooms and a parking lot, and we parked there looking out at the ocean, watching the waves roll in. We talked about our lives, our family, and the one ship we could see out on the horizon, most of it hidden beyond the curvature of the earth. We sat there watching the waves for at least an hour.
This was the high point of the trip.
Then we drove back to Seaside where we got a room with an ocean view and watched the waves a while longer. Had dinner in the hotel restaurant, where a waiter named Franklin treated us like queens and brought my dessert with a lit birthday candle. Oh, yeah. We were celebrating my 60th birthday.
Wednesday, we sampled the fleshpots of Seaside, which were fairly quiet as the tourist season has not launched yet. Seaside reminds us of the Boardwalk in Santa Cruz, where we spent many happy hours as children. We ate lunch at the Pig ‘n’ Pancake, and then decided to mosey back north so Nancy would catch her train home the next day.
We crossed the bridge over the Columbia at Astoria and drove back to Longview on Highway 4. No spectacular mudslides, but many beautiful views of the Columbia and the countryside, and at least one Elder Hostel, of which I made a mental note. Sonya has reminded me that once I turn 60, I qualify.
Once you’re on I-5, you’re just driving, and that’s what we did, all the way to Puyallup, where we made a stop at the casino. I made my contribution to Native American prosperity, and walked out broke. Nancy walked out with $50, but we will gloss over lightly how much she contributed to Native American prosperity before she hit that whooping slot machine that sent us into the night giggling.
By that time it was so late that we wouldn’t have been able to get back to the island until 2 a.m., and then we would have had to turn around in the morning to bring Nancy back in to the train station in Seattle. So we stayed the night at a Howard Johnson’s where the heat didn’t work, the flush handle had fallen off the toilet, there was a big hole in one of the bedspreads, and we were awakened early by a leaf blower. This was not the worst motel room I’ve ever been in, but it reminded me of the worst room.
Our last day we moseyed up Highway 99 to Seattle, hit my favorite yarn shop in West Seattle, had lunch at Ivar’s (in the best seat in the house, the southwest corner looking out at Lake Union), and then I dropped my Beautiful Cousin off at the King Street Station.
So ended our trip to the ocean, and the first chapter of my sixtieth birthday celebration. We had fun. I am exhausted, and realizing I was wise to call off the trip to England that my friends Tara and Becky were planning for this month. I’m almost over the mono, but not quite. Maybe England next year.
Sixty feels like an auspicious age. I find myself thinking of all the people I knew who have not made it to sixty. I feel obliged to live life to the full, to try to make up for my friends’ absence, not to mention my own sense of how blessed I am to still be here.
I invite my dear departed friends to watch the waves through my eyes. I am happy to be here, pain and all. I intend to go on abusing my finite resources as long as I can.
“Hey, Beautiful Cousin,” my cousin Nancy began, “I have a week off at the end of April. Let’s go down to the Oregon Coast.”
Note: My cousin and I call each other beautiful as often as possible. I have friends with whom I do this as well. We’ve learned that greeting someone as beautiful, and being greeted as beautiful, makes you feel beautiful, and actually lights up your true beauty. You might want to try it, if you haven’t already.
Back to our story.
So began the celebration of my sixtieth birthday, which is still a few weeks off. Nancy said we would begin the celebration early because this was the only time she had off.
She took the train over to Seattle last Sunday, and we began our week by having brunch at Ivar’s Salmon House. This was unintentional – we meant to have lunch, but it turns out that Ivar’s has a rather famous buffet brunch it serves every Sunday morning. We did not complain. It was good, if overwhelming. The American dilemma – too many choices.
We came out to the island so Nancy could see our new house, and we stayed the night here at home.
Monday, we beat feet south to Longview, where we met up with my beautiful friend Sonya, who had taken the train up from Vancouver, and my beautiful friend Jan, who lives in Longview.
When you’re traveling, even as short a distance as a couple of hours down the freeway, it is a great thing to have someone who knows the city you’re in to show you around, and Jan is all hospitality. She gave us a choice of three Great Places to Eat. We started at a place (whose name I cannot remember) that served boba tea (tea with large pearls of tapioca in it) and great panini. I had the grilled avocado melt. Yum.
She then took us on a tour of Longview’s cultural high spots. OK, she took us to the library, where she works, and drove by her church and her house. We ended up at the British tea room where Jan told us the story of the traffic ticket she got in Arizona.
She and her mother and sister (all beautiful) were on vacation when Jan got pulled over for doing 72 in a 50 mile an hour zone. This was a $200 ticket. But Jan is so charming, beautiful, and obviously decent that the officer decided to give her a $30 ticket instead, and wrote her up for “the abuse of finite resources.”
Let us savor that phrase: “the abuse of finite resources.” It rolls around in the mouth with all the flavor of a chunk of grilled avocado melt. Aah.
After a marvelous few hours together, Jan had to go to work and Sonya had to catch the train back to Vancouver. We all parted at the train station and Nancy and I headed out Highway 30 to Astoria, Oregon.
On the way we passed the remains of a mud slide which closed the road during last December’s flood rains – whoa. I remember seeing this on the news at the time – there was a house that had been transported by the mud right down across the highway. The road is open now, but when you’ve said that, you’ve said it all. The slide and much of the damage it did is still there, including wrecked buildings and half-buried cars. If you want to get a glimpse of what a little mud can do, drive out Highway 30 sometime.
Tuesday, we drove around Astoria, enjoying the views. Astoria was the jumping off point for lumber logged for John Jacob Astor. The lumber was loaded up here and was shipped to Astoria, New York. My friend, Alice, who used to live in Astoria, New York, told me this.
The superfluity of lumber (I love slipping words from the Book of Common Prayer into ordinary speech) meant that Astoria was built with all the Victorian flair that 19th century builders could muster. So the town seems to consist almost entirely of Victorian mansions, or at least large and beautiful Victorian homes, complete with gingerbread. Many have been fixed up and given fresh paint; some have not, and show the wear and tear of many decades of coastal rain.
What Astoria has besides gorgeous Victorian architecture is a superfluity of views of the Columbia River. You almost have to work to find a place without a view, and from the ridge at the top of the hill you can gaze out at the mouth of the Columbia, and the Washington coast going north and the Oregon coast going south and the Pacific Ocean out to the western horizon. There are people living up there who can see this view from their homes every day. Imagine getting up and having your morning cuppa while contemplating this vast expanse of earth and water.
We drove up to the Astoria Column, which is located on top of the second and taller hill behind Astoria. On my 50th birthday Nancy and her sister Charlotte and I visited Astoria, and discovered that a fellow named Electus Litchfield had a hand in building the column. He knew how to do the murals which spiral up the column, depicting scenes from the Lewis and Clark Expedition. There is a lot of Lewis and Clark awareness out on the Columbia.
Being Litchfield descendants, we decided we had to see the column.
Charlotte and I climbed the Astoria Column’s interior staircase that time, just to prove to ourselves that we could. Ten years later I had no intention of climbing the Column again, but they’re building a new staircase so no one is climbing the Column at present. Don’t you love it when you can’t even be tempted to do something you don’t want to do?
We drank in that view and asked a nice young woman to take our picture with our cameras. She was a professional photographer, carrying a camera with a lens the size of a (large) Dachshund. She was a little confused by our simple snapshot cameras, but she graciously took our pictures.
After that we drove around town some more. We drove by the elementary school featured in “Kindergarten Cop,” but we couldn’t find the house featured in “The Goonies.”
When we decided we were done with Astoria, we drove south. We went to Cannon Beach, a town which seems to exist solely to delight the tourist eye and pocketbook. It is lovely and cute in the extreme, and I am sure that many people enjoy it immensely.
We ambled south to Tolovana Beach, to a public beach with restrooms and a parking lot, and we parked there looking out at the ocean, watching the waves roll in. We talked about our lives, our family, and the one ship we could see out on the horizon, most of it hidden beyond the curvature of the earth. We sat there watching the waves for at least an hour.
This was the high point of the trip.
Then we drove back to Seaside where we got a room with an ocean view and watched the waves a while longer. Had dinner in the hotel restaurant, where a waiter named Franklin treated us like queens and brought my dessert with a lit birthday candle. Oh, yeah. We were celebrating my 60th birthday.
Wednesday, we sampled the fleshpots of Seaside, which were fairly quiet as the tourist season has not launched yet. Seaside reminds us of the Boardwalk in Santa Cruz, where we spent many happy hours as children. We ate lunch at the Pig ‘n’ Pancake, and then decided to mosey back north so Nancy would catch her train home the next day.
We crossed the bridge over the Columbia at Astoria and drove back to Longview on Highway 4. No spectacular mudslides, but many beautiful views of the Columbia and the countryside, and at least one Elder Hostel, of which I made a mental note. Sonya has reminded me that once I turn 60, I qualify.
Once you’re on I-5, you’re just driving, and that’s what we did, all the way to Puyallup, where we made a stop at the casino. I made my contribution to Native American prosperity, and walked out broke. Nancy walked out with $50, but we will gloss over lightly how much she contributed to Native American prosperity before she hit that whooping slot machine that sent us into the night giggling.
By that time it was so late that we wouldn’t have been able to get back to the island until 2 a.m., and then we would have had to turn around in the morning to bring Nancy back in to the train station in Seattle. So we stayed the night at a Howard Johnson’s where the heat didn’t work, the flush handle had fallen off the toilet, there was a big hole in one of the bedspreads, and we were awakened early by a leaf blower. This was not the worst motel room I’ve ever been in, but it reminded me of the worst room.
Our last day we moseyed up Highway 99 to Seattle, hit my favorite yarn shop in West Seattle, had lunch at Ivar’s (in the best seat in the house, the southwest corner looking out at Lake Union), and then I dropped my Beautiful Cousin off at the King Street Station.
So ended our trip to the ocean, and the first chapter of my sixtieth birthday celebration. We had fun. I am exhausted, and realizing I was wise to call off the trip to England that my friends Tara and Becky were planning for this month. I’m almost over the mono, but not quite. Maybe England next year.
Sixty feels like an auspicious age. I find myself thinking of all the people I knew who have not made it to sixty. I feel obliged to live life to the full, to try to make up for my friends’ absence, not to mention my own sense of how blessed I am to still be here.
I invite my dear departed friends to watch the waves through my eyes. I am happy to be here, pain and all. I intend to go on abusing my finite resources as long as I can.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
The Chamber of Commerce Is Going to Love Me
Dear Hearts and Gentle People,
It's another cloudy sunny rainy haily snowy spring day on Vashon. The entry before this one is all about the weather these days, if you want to keep reading. That's my column for this week's Loop, which comes out on Friday, April 25.
This piece is one I wrote for "Destination Vashon," the local annual summer tourist guide that is published by the Beachcomber, the island weekly. It will be an insert in a coming issue of the Beachcomber, and then will be available at island places of business and on the ferries for the next year or so.
Two people have pronounced the piece "lovely." It's all about what we love about the island - Leslie, the editor, asked me to avoid the negative, and I did, absolutely.
If you used to live here, it might make you a little homesick. If you live here now, you might say, "Yeah, but wottabout..." I left out the wottabouts. Tourists don't need to hear about wottabouts. We who live here will deal with the wottabouts, just like everyone does in their home town.
In the interest of brevity, I cut out a nod to Austin, Texas, where I believe the "Keep (insert your home town) Weird" bumperstickers started. My writing pal Susan down in Texas says it's ok, because Austin isn't as weird as it used to be.
By the way, you can read Susan's column this week at:
http://www.weeklyjournal.net/content/6/roses-by-any-other-names.shtml
She writes as the mother of two grown sons, and I really related.
Also by the way, Susan and I are the founding mothers of the Fat, Sarcastic, Average Ladies' Guild. We were talking one day about how we wanted to be tall and skinny and elegant when we were young, but, "I turned out to be fat, average, and sarcastic," I mourned. Susan picked up the ball from there. We are now the Guild. No rules, no officers, no meetings. If you're a member, you just know.
OK, on to this lovely piece - blessings & all
Mary
What Makes Vashon Weird?
You may have seen the deceptively subtle little bumper sticker: “Keep Vashon Weird.” Why is this sentiment appropriate, and why do people smile when they see it?
First, Vashon’s an island. OK, it’s two islands, Vashon and Maury, connected by a thin portage. There is something romantic about a place you can’t get to unless you get on a boat, and the inconvenience of an island is what attracts, and repels, people. Residents allow one to three hours to get someplace on the mainland which we could get to in twenty minutes if we lived over there. We live with inconvenience because we feel so privileged to live here. Islanders have a deep sense of being a people apart.
Second, Vashon is an island populated by eccentrics, even now when the internet has made the island less isolated. The character of a community is the sum of the characters that live there, and Vashon has always had a high percentage of capital C Characters. Perhaps living surrounded by a moat is what attracts, or makes, unconventional personalities.
Third, Vashon is beautiful. At every turn you see a view of the water, evergreen forests and stands of alder and Madrona trees, and of mountains, including Mt. Rainier, when the clouds part to reveal it.
In spring, the roads are bordered with dogwoods and their elegant, waxen blooms, and wild cherry trees in blossom. As they fade, the riotous yellow of Scotch broom and the purple and white foxglove come out. Wild sweet peas and purple larkspur bloom as the summer progresses, and wild blackberries ripen in August. Yum.
Not to mention the rather spectacular gardens and landscapes which people have created and tend here. Other manifestations of the human hand: a pond in the shape of a deer; a bicycle embedded in a tree; the exotic murals at the Island Theater painted in the early 1950s by a 17-year-old artist named Jonathan Tabor, who changed his name to Jac and went on to work for Disney; murals on the sides of buildings; and a lighthouse with guided tours, for starters.
As you bike or walk or drive around you might see bald eagles soaring overhead, or blue herons standing at the water’s edge. While walking on the beach you might see a pod of orcas swimming up the Sound. Once in a blue moon you might spot a mink, a descendant of escapees from the mink farms that used to be here.
Deer are everywhere. On odd occasions a bear swims onto the island, but only on odd occasions, and the bear is usually scared to death and looking for a more bear-friendly atmosphere, and swims off the island again.
Finally, Vashon is a small town. People value the sense of community and connection we have with one another. When you become a member of any group on the island, you will experience the overlap of a small town. We tend to disagree about practically everything, but we get along, mostly, because when you live on an island, you will run into that person again.
Come and visit. We welcome you, but guard your heart – as you watch the full moon coming up over the Cascades, or watch the sun going down behind the Olympics, you might feel like you’ve come home, and you might want to be a capital C Character, and help keep Vashon weird. It could happen. Ask anyone who lives here.
It's another cloudy sunny rainy haily snowy spring day on Vashon. The entry before this one is all about the weather these days, if you want to keep reading. That's my column for this week's Loop, which comes out on Friday, April 25.
This piece is one I wrote for "Destination Vashon," the local annual summer tourist guide that is published by the Beachcomber, the island weekly. It will be an insert in a coming issue of the Beachcomber, and then will be available at island places of business and on the ferries for the next year or so.
Two people have pronounced the piece "lovely." It's all about what we love about the island - Leslie, the editor, asked me to avoid the negative, and I did, absolutely.
If you used to live here, it might make you a little homesick. If you live here now, you might say, "Yeah, but wottabout..." I left out the wottabouts. Tourists don't need to hear about wottabouts. We who live here will deal with the wottabouts, just like everyone does in their home town.
In the interest of brevity, I cut out a nod to Austin, Texas, where I believe the "Keep (insert your home town) Weird" bumperstickers started. My writing pal Susan down in Texas says it's ok, because Austin isn't as weird as it used to be.
By the way, you can read Susan's column this week at:
http://www.weeklyjournal.net/content/6/roses-by-any-other-names.shtml
She writes as the mother of two grown sons, and I really related.
Also by the way, Susan and I are the founding mothers of the Fat, Sarcastic, Average Ladies' Guild. We were talking one day about how we wanted to be tall and skinny and elegant when we were young, but, "I turned out to be fat, average, and sarcastic," I mourned. Susan picked up the ball from there. We are now the Guild. No rules, no officers, no meetings. If you're a member, you just know.
OK, on to this lovely piece - blessings & all
Mary
What Makes Vashon Weird?
You may have seen the deceptively subtle little bumper sticker: “Keep Vashon Weird.” Why is this sentiment appropriate, and why do people smile when they see it?
First, Vashon’s an island. OK, it’s two islands, Vashon and Maury, connected by a thin portage. There is something romantic about a place you can’t get to unless you get on a boat, and the inconvenience of an island is what attracts, and repels, people. Residents allow one to three hours to get someplace on the mainland which we could get to in twenty minutes if we lived over there. We live with inconvenience because we feel so privileged to live here. Islanders have a deep sense of being a people apart.
Second, Vashon is an island populated by eccentrics, even now when the internet has made the island less isolated. The character of a community is the sum of the characters that live there, and Vashon has always had a high percentage of capital C Characters. Perhaps living surrounded by a moat is what attracts, or makes, unconventional personalities.
Third, Vashon is beautiful. At every turn you see a view of the water, evergreen forests and stands of alder and Madrona trees, and of mountains, including Mt. Rainier, when the clouds part to reveal it.
In spring, the roads are bordered with dogwoods and their elegant, waxen blooms, and wild cherry trees in blossom. As they fade, the riotous yellow of Scotch broom and the purple and white foxglove come out. Wild sweet peas and purple larkspur bloom as the summer progresses, and wild blackberries ripen in August. Yum.
Not to mention the rather spectacular gardens and landscapes which people have created and tend here. Other manifestations of the human hand: a pond in the shape of a deer; a bicycle embedded in a tree; the exotic murals at the Island Theater painted in the early 1950s by a 17-year-old artist named Jonathan Tabor, who changed his name to Jac and went on to work for Disney; murals on the sides of buildings; and a lighthouse with guided tours, for starters.
As you bike or walk or drive around you might see bald eagles soaring overhead, or blue herons standing at the water’s edge. While walking on the beach you might see a pod of orcas swimming up the Sound. Once in a blue moon you might spot a mink, a descendant of escapees from the mink farms that used to be here.
Deer are everywhere. On odd occasions a bear swims onto the island, but only on odd occasions, and the bear is usually scared to death and looking for a more bear-friendly atmosphere, and swims off the island again.
Finally, Vashon is a small town. People value the sense of community and connection we have with one another. When you become a member of any group on the island, you will experience the overlap of a small town. We tend to disagree about practically everything, but we get along, mostly, because when you live on an island, you will run into that person again.
Come and visit. We welcome you, but guard your heart – as you watch the full moon coming up over the Cascades, or watch the sun going down behind the Olympics, you might feel like you’ve come home, and you might want to be a capital C Character, and help keep Vashon weird. It could happen. Ask anyone who lives here.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Global Warming, Local Confusion
Dear Hearts -
Just came home from a friend's place, driving through sun, hail, and snow. All at the same time. The weather has gone from changing every ten minutes and every hundred yards to doing everything all at once. So I thought I'd get the latest Smart Aleck onto the blog now, while the weather topic is hot, cold, and everything in between. So here it is:
Global Warming, Local Confusion
As I write I’m listening to the weather forecast on the radio. The forecast is for snow. We’re coming into late April, and the weather forecast is for snow, and rain, and hail. With occasional sun breaks.
Now I’m as ready as the next bleeding heart liberal to believe that global warming is a fact, but the weather this spring has me confused.
Last week a friend driving home from Spokane was held up for an hour and a half on Interstate 90 while the state crews did avalanche control at Snoqualmie Pass.
Two days later we had an eighty-five degree day that gave all the trees and shrubs a burst of growth and bloom. Summer! We got out our shorts and tees.
Two days after that I drove into Seattle and landed in a hail storm-cum-cloudburst. Within a few minutes the gutters were running with several inches of water, and the water had large bubbles caused by rain and hail pelting it, and on the higher ground hail collected like snow. This kept up for ten minutes or so, at the end of which lightning flashed and thunder boomed, and then the rain slowed to a spit, and the sun broke through.
We’ve always said, “If you don’t like the weather, wait ten minutes,” but it has never been as true as it is this spring.
Over forty years ago when I was a freshman in college, I had to take Biology 101, a general education course. The teacher felt that the only real major anyone should have in college was chemistry, and that it was his job to wash out as many non-chemistry majors as he could. You could tell he had no patience with our unformed, unscientific minds. He taught us with the gloom and despair of a prophet destined to reveal truths that no one wanted to hear. He told us about the greenhouse effect and global warming. He told us that we ignored what we were doing to the environment at our peril. It sounded horrible and fantastical, like science fiction, back then.
He was right, and nobody listened. No wonder he was always in a bad mood.
When I moved to Los Angeles in 1969 and experienced smog, I began to see his point. I could look up in the sky and see what looked like solid earth floating above the LA basin. That was air pollution. If I drove with the windows down on a hot day, my eyes stung and burned. I found out that sensation was caused by sulfur compounds in the air combining with the tears in my eyes to make sulfuric acid. In my eyes.
There were daily air quality alerts. Sometimes children were not allowed to play outside because the air would poison them.
That was my first observation of humans pooping in the nest. LA has cleaned up the air quite a bit since, but I continue to be amazed at how short-sighted we are regarding the effects of our behavior and actions on the world we live in, and how little we apparently care about what we leave for our children and grand children, especially if there’s a buck to be made in the short run. Shortsighted. Pooping in our own nest.
There is so much we don’t and can’t know. Is this snowy, icy spring a result of global warming’s upsetting the earth’s equilibrium? Is it the fault of La Niña? Is it an isolated quirk of nature? Is it the last days, as many fundamentalist Christians would like to believe, despite the gospel’s assurance that no one will see it coming (Luke 12:40)? Have Pinky and the Brain finally taken over the world?
Heck, I don’t know. Hand me my jacket, will you? I have to go break the ice in the dog’s water dish. If this is global warming, I’m confused.
Just came home from a friend's place, driving through sun, hail, and snow. All at the same time. The weather has gone from changing every ten minutes and every hundred yards to doing everything all at once. So I thought I'd get the latest Smart Aleck onto the blog now, while the weather topic is hot, cold, and everything in between. So here it is:
Global Warming, Local Confusion
As I write I’m listening to the weather forecast on the radio. The forecast is for snow. We’re coming into late April, and the weather forecast is for snow, and rain, and hail. With occasional sun breaks.
Now I’m as ready as the next bleeding heart liberal to believe that global warming is a fact, but the weather this spring has me confused.
Last week a friend driving home from Spokane was held up for an hour and a half on Interstate 90 while the state crews did avalanche control at Snoqualmie Pass.
Two days later we had an eighty-five degree day that gave all the trees and shrubs a burst of growth and bloom. Summer! We got out our shorts and tees.
Two days after that I drove into Seattle and landed in a hail storm-cum-cloudburst. Within a few minutes the gutters were running with several inches of water, and the water had large bubbles caused by rain and hail pelting it, and on the higher ground hail collected like snow. This kept up for ten minutes or so, at the end of which lightning flashed and thunder boomed, and then the rain slowed to a spit, and the sun broke through.
We’ve always said, “If you don’t like the weather, wait ten minutes,” but it has never been as true as it is this spring.
Over forty years ago when I was a freshman in college, I had to take Biology 101, a general education course. The teacher felt that the only real major anyone should have in college was chemistry, and that it was his job to wash out as many non-chemistry majors as he could. You could tell he had no patience with our unformed, unscientific minds. He taught us with the gloom and despair of a prophet destined to reveal truths that no one wanted to hear. He told us about the greenhouse effect and global warming. He told us that we ignored what we were doing to the environment at our peril. It sounded horrible and fantastical, like science fiction, back then.
He was right, and nobody listened. No wonder he was always in a bad mood.
When I moved to Los Angeles in 1969 and experienced smog, I began to see his point. I could look up in the sky and see what looked like solid earth floating above the LA basin. That was air pollution. If I drove with the windows down on a hot day, my eyes stung and burned. I found out that sensation was caused by sulfur compounds in the air combining with the tears in my eyes to make sulfuric acid. In my eyes.
There were daily air quality alerts. Sometimes children were not allowed to play outside because the air would poison them.
That was my first observation of humans pooping in the nest. LA has cleaned up the air quite a bit since, but I continue to be amazed at how short-sighted we are regarding the effects of our behavior and actions on the world we live in, and how little we apparently care about what we leave for our children and grand children, especially if there’s a buck to be made in the short run. Shortsighted. Pooping in our own nest.
There is so much we don’t and can’t know. Is this snowy, icy spring a result of global warming’s upsetting the earth’s equilibrium? Is it the fault of La Niña? Is it an isolated quirk of nature? Is it the last days, as many fundamentalist Christians would like to believe, despite the gospel’s assurance that no one will see it coming (Luke 12:40)? Have Pinky and the Brain finally taken over the world?
Heck, I don’t know. Hand me my jacket, will you? I have to go break the ice in the dog’s water dish. If this is global warming, I’m confused.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Buying Things Is Fun
Perhaps you recall that after 9/11, we were told that the best thing we could do to fight terrorism would be to go shopping. Keep that American economy perking away. That’ll show ‘em.
Now, seven long bloody years later, we are being told once again to go shopping. We (those of us who qualify) will be receiving checks from the government this spring. An “economic stimulus” it’s called. We are not to think overmuch about where this money is coming from, only that we are to use it to go out and buy something for ourselves.
I’m thinking I’ll use it to pay down my credit card debt, or some other bills. Which is what the gummint is telling us not to do. No, no, no, no, no! Don’t pay off what you owe! Buy something new! This is meant to be CPR for our moribund economy.
Let’s face it, kids, $600 these days is chump change, an amount of money that will evaporate faster than a water drop on the wood stove in January. Or April, the way our weather has been lately. I say this from the perspective of having a procedure done at a hospital recently and spending one night in said hospital. $600 would barely make them notice I’d put anything on my tab.
I’m not saying it won’t be nice to be handed $600, since it is coming. I’m not saying no. I’m just saying that putting the country deeper into debt while encouraging us to get deeper into personal debt sounds like a dim strategy.
I’ve read and heard for years that we are a consumer society, and that we are addicted to spending and overspending. We keep trying to buy happiness. You can’t buy happiness. You can, however, purchase a little temporary mood elevation. As my son says, “Buying things is fun, and then you get to keep the stuff!”
I’m not talking about consumerism as an outsider. I have yearned for and bought cars, computers, guitars, clothes, and one house; I have spent happy hours on the internet looking at fantasy houses and vehicles, among other things. So I’m not saying that buying things or wanting to buy things is bad.
I will say that I’m up to my neck in crap I bought, inherited, accepted, or found. I’ve acquired enough stuff in my life to have tipped to the evil side of consumerism – the point where happiness would have a better chance around here if I got rid of most of this stuff.
I keep thinking about the big picture here – the one where you can see the American dollar falling in value, and the balance of trade being wildly off-balance. I’m thinking about one more action by this strange administration which has done so much to bring this country to its knees and disgrace it in the eyes of the rest of the world, not to mention in the eyes of over half its own citizens. Now we’re all being handed a quarter to go to the candy store while the administration makes out with our big sister. The candy may be sweet in the mouth for a few seconds, but that won’t keep us from realizing how much has gone sour.
So enjoy that internet cell phone, or a few minutes’ peace of mind from paying down your credit balance, and get ready: we have work ahead of us as a nation, and it may involve things other than shopping.
Now, seven long bloody years later, we are being told once again to go shopping. We (those of us who qualify) will be receiving checks from the government this spring. An “economic stimulus” it’s called. We are not to think overmuch about where this money is coming from, only that we are to use it to go out and buy something for ourselves.
I’m thinking I’ll use it to pay down my credit card debt, or some other bills. Which is what the gummint is telling us not to do. No, no, no, no, no! Don’t pay off what you owe! Buy something new! This is meant to be CPR for our moribund economy.
Let’s face it, kids, $600 these days is chump change, an amount of money that will evaporate faster than a water drop on the wood stove in January. Or April, the way our weather has been lately. I say this from the perspective of having a procedure done at a hospital recently and spending one night in said hospital. $600 would barely make them notice I’d put anything on my tab.
I’m not saying it won’t be nice to be handed $600, since it is coming. I’m not saying no. I’m just saying that putting the country deeper into debt while encouraging us to get deeper into personal debt sounds like a dim strategy.
I’ve read and heard for years that we are a consumer society, and that we are addicted to spending and overspending. We keep trying to buy happiness. You can’t buy happiness. You can, however, purchase a little temporary mood elevation. As my son says, “Buying things is fun, and then you get to keep the stuff!”
I’m not talking about consumerism as an outsider. I have yearned for and bought cars, computers, guitars, clothes, and one house; I have spent happy hours on the internet looking at fantasy houses and vehicles, among other things. So I’m not saying that buying things or wanting to buy things is bad.
I will say that I’m up to my neck in crap I bought, inherited, accepted, or found. I’ve acquired enough stuff in my life to have tipped to the evil side of consumerism – the point where happiness would have a better chance around here if I got rid of most of this stuff.
I keep thinking about the big picture here – the one where you can see the American dollar falling in value, and the balance of trade being wildly off-balance. I’m thinking about one more action by this strange administration which has done so much to bring this country to its knees and disgrace it in the eyes of the rest of the world, not to mention in the eyes of over half its own citizens. Now we’re all being handed a quarter to go to the candy store while the administration makes out with our big sister. The candy may be sweet in the mouth for a few seconds, but that won’t keep us from realizing how much has gone sour.
So enjoy that internet cell phone, or a few minutes’ peace of mind from paying down your credit balance, and get ready: we have work ahead of us as a nation, and it may involve things other than shopping.
Monday, March 24, 2008
A Couple of Smart Alecks Discuss 60s Rock Stars
Well, dear hearts,
It's the day after Easter. We made it through Holy Week. I took the coward's way out and didn't attend any of the Holy Week services. The week before I overdid and suffered a mini-relapse of the mono tiredness, so now I'm back to napping or at least lying down in the afternoon for a while, and trying to remember that if I don't take care of me, no one will.
The latest essay is about a new friend I have made via the internet, Susan Bardwell. She writes a column (among other things) for The Angleton Journal, an online publication...well, I'm getting ahead of myself here.
The Angleton Journal publishes on Mondays, and I just read Susan's column and found that we both told the story about how we became friends this time. I, being a coward, quoted her extensively in my column; she, being a Real Journalist, did not quote me, although I noticed my name is spelled wrong.
Oh well. Years of newspaper articles and funny checks have taught me to be tolerant of misspellings of the name. I always said I married Rick so that it would take less time to misspell my last name(Tuel), but then I ended up pretty much keeping my maiden name (Litchfield), so the opportunities for spelling errors abound. It's OK. Hear me, Susan? IT'S OK. Life improved so much after the "Richfield" gas stations went away that I don't care anymore. Up until then I spent a lot of time telling people, "Litchfield, with an 'L.'" As in la la la.
So, for a good time, check out Susan's column. Web link included in my essay. I don't know if it will post as a weblink - you might have to copy and paste the address. It's worth the effort. She's fun.
Sometimes I wonder why Texas looms so large in my life. My mother was born in Texas (Corsicana) and grew up there (El Paso). I've never been there myself, but I know I have relatives there whom I've never met, and I have friends there and friends from there. I'm going to have to go someday. The farthest south I've ever been is Albuquerque (yes, Peter and Trylla, I mean to go there again, too).
I've been singing this morning, playing guitar, working out chords to a song I wrote 24 years ago that changes from G to A flat in the last verse, and every time I play it I have to figure out the chords for the last verse anew. I only performed it once in public, on piano, and didn't change key. It's a good song. You'll hear it someday. Then I moved to the piano and sang a couple of airs from "The Messiah," alto pieces and one soprano piece to stretch the lazy vocal cords a bit.
Also took the dog for a short walk this morning, about halfway down the incredibly steep hill that comes up to our neighborhood and back up. He ate a lot of grass. I called him a lot of names because he kept getting tangled up in the leash and getting me tangled up in the leash.
And right now I'm going to go have lunch, a bean soup that was supposed to be chili but isn't.
Bean Soup that isn't Chili
Put 2 T. olive oil in a cast iron skillet, turn on low - medium.
Chop up an onion and saute it in the oil until it is transparent and limp.
Add one-two pounds of ground beef or turkey (mine was beef) and fry on medium, stirring the while, until meat is all crumbly and brown.
Season with one tablespoon of chili powder and two teaspoons of cumin, and mix.
Now you can do whatever you want with the meat/onion/spice mixture. The first night I made tacos. But to make the soup:
Put the leftover meat/onion/spice mixture into a soup pot. Add:
1 can of kidney or black beans (rinsed and drained)
1 can of garbanzo beans (rinsed and drained)
2 small cans diced tomatoes (no flavoring)
1 can of water, or as much as needed to make it all liquid
Stir, heat, and eat. Gets better as the hours go by. I ate mine with Solenas tortilla chips and little chunks of avocado.
Life is so damn good.
My friend Alice is having surgery today; it's serious. Please keep her in your thoughts and prayers. Thank you.
blessings & love & hugs & grace & peace
Mary
A Couple of Smart Alecks Discuss 60s Rock Stars
One of the great things about the internet, besides keeping in touch with friends and family far away, is making new friends whom you might not have met otherwise.
The last few months I’ve had a crackin’ good correspondence with a woman named Susan Bardwell, a writer who lives down in Angleton, Texas. She is a friend of Laurie Heath, who is the daughter of David and Jane Shepherd, who were my sons’ band and first grade teachers, respectively.
Dave and Jane thought that I might enjoy reading Susan’s stuff, so they gave me the link to her column in the Angleton Journal, an online publication that Susan and her husband Micheal put out down in Angleton, Texas. And yes, that is the way Micheal’s name is spelled, and yes, I do enjoy her stuff, and you will, too. Here’s the web page address:
http://www.weeklyjournal.net/index.shtml
Scroll down to Susan’s smilin’ face, next to which you’ll see her byline, S.K. Bardwell. Click, read, and enjoy.
Besides being smart aleck writers, we are close enough in age to compare and contrast cultural icons. I mentioned that I used to dance to Grace Slick’s original band, The Great Society, in San Francisco during the summer of 1966, and I didn’t think Grace Slick was that slick of a singer.
Susan wrote: “What I remember most vividly about Grace Slick was seeing her on a televised New Year's Eve concert many years ago…It was awful, I was embarrassed for her. Her voice was OK, but never struck me as being awesome, and evidently it didn't hold up well. Janis (Joplin), of course, is still big in Texas. Beaumont, which was evidently quite glad to see her leave when her career started, has a statue of her now. I never was mad about her, and I didn't care much for Jim Morrison, either. Loved Hendrix but when he died, I was just kind of put out - couldn't someone teach classes to these people on how to do your drugs without dying?
“The only star I ever wept for was John Lennon. “
Mary replied: “Grace Slick never was that great a singer, I thought, so I suppose it's not a surprise that she isn't one now. Janis Joplin: maybe you had to be there. Recordings never captured the power of her live performances. I've never seen anyone more electric. Jim Morrison: another electrifying performer (I saw The Doors at the Avalon just before their first single, “Break On Through to the Other Side” hit the charts), but as a person he was kind of an oaf, and I enjoyed the hits but never loved him like I loved Janis. I still don't get why so many people thought he was a great poet. I thought he was a legend in his own mind, and a lot of people bought it for some reason.
“Hendrix - a freakin' guitar genius. Saw him at the Monterey Pop Festival in June 1967, when he returned from England and began his conquest of the states. The most delicious part of that came years later when I was watching the video Monterey Pop with my two sons, and Hendrix's performance came on, and when it got to the part where he put the guitar on the floor and set it on fire, I said, ‘I missed this part because everyone jumped up on the chairs and I didn't move fast enough, so I was stuck on the ground looking at everyone's back.’ My sons' two heads swiveled around and they stared at me goggle-eyed, and one of them said, ‘You were there?’ Well, yeah, I was.”
That was one of the sweeter moments of parenthood.
John Lennon – ah, what a loss. I could weep still. There is nothing I can say beyond that. So I’ll stop there.
If you want to know how Dave and Jane Shepherd are doing down in Hollywood as Jane pursues her acting career, check their blog:
http://home.mindspring.com/~shepherd2/sheptrek/index.html
It's the day after Easter. We made it through Holy Week. I took the coward's way out and didn't attend any of the Holy Week services. The week before I overdid and suffered a mini-relapse of the mono tiredness, so now I'm back to napping or at least lying down in the afternoon for a while, and trying to remember that if I don't take care of me, no one will.
The latest essay is about a new friend I have made via the internet, Susan Bardwell. She writes a column (among other things) for The Angleton Journal, an online publication...well, I'm getting ahead of myself here.
The Angleton Journal publishes on Mondays, and I just read Susan's column and found that we both told the story about how we became friends this time. I, being a coward, quoted her extensively in my column; she, being a Real Journalist, did not quote me, although I noticed my name is spelled wrong.
Oh well. Years of newspaper articles and funny checks have taught me to be tolerant of misspellings of the name. I always said I married Rick so that it would take less time to misspell my last name(Tuel), but then I ended up pretty much keeping my maiden name (Litchfield), so the opportunities for spelling errors abound. It's OK. Hear me, Susan? IT'S OK. Life improved so much after the "Richfield" gas stations went away that I don't care anymore. Up until then I spent a lot of time telling people, "Litchfield, with an 'L.'" As in la la la.
So, for a good time, check out Susan's column. Web link included in my essay. I don't know if it will post as a weblink - you might have to copy and paste the address. It's worth the effort. She's fun.
Sometimes I wonder why Texas looms so large in my life. My mother was born in Texas (Corsicana) and grew up there (El Paso). I've never been there myself, but I know I have relatives there whom I've never met, and I have friends there and friends from there. I'm going to have to go someday. The farthest south I've ever been is Albuquerque (yes, Peter and Trylla, I mean to go there again, too).
I've been singing this morning, playing guitar, working out chords to a song I wrote 24 years ago that changes from G to A flat in the last verse, and every time I play it I have to figure out the chords for the last verse anew. I only performed it once in public, on piano, and didn't change key. It's a good song. You'll hear it someday. Then I moved to the piano and sang a couple of airs from "The Messiah," alto pieces and one soprano piece to stretch the lazy vocal cords a bit.
Also took the dog for a short walk this morning, about halfway down the incredibly steep hill that comes up to our neighborhood and back up. He ate a lot of grass. I called him a lot of names because he kept getting tangled up in the leash and getting me tangled up in the leash.
And right now I'm going to go have lunch, a bean soup that was supposed to be chili but isn't.
Bean Soup that isn't Chili
Put 2 T. olive oil in a cast iron skillet, turn on low - medium.
Chop up an onion and saute it in the oil until it is transparent and limp.
Add one-two pounds of ground beef or turkey (mine was beef) and fry on medium, stirring the while, until meat is all crumbly and brown.
Season with one tablespoon of chili powder and two teaspoons of cumin, and mix.
Now you can do whatever you want with the meat/onion/spice mixture. The first night I made tacos. But to make the soup:
Put the leftover meat/onion/spice mixture into a soup pot. Add:
1 can of kidney or black beans (rinsed and drained)
1 can of garbanzo beans (rinsed and drained)
2 small cans diced tomatoes (no flavoring)
1 can of water, or as much as needed to make it all liquid
Stir, heat, and eat. Gets better as the hours go by. I ate mine with Solenas tortilla chips and little chunks of avocado.
Life is so damn good.
My friend Alice is having surgery today; it's serious. Please keep her in your thoughts and prayers. Thank you.
blessings & love & hugs & grace & peace
Mary
A Couple of Smart Alecks Discuss 60s Rock Stars
One of the great things about the internet, besides keeping in touch with friends and family far away, is making new friends whom you might not have met otherwise.
The last few months I’ve had a crackin’ good correspondence with a woman named Susan Bardwell, a writer who lives down in Angleton, Texas. She is a friend of Laurie Heath, who is the daughter of David and Jane Shepherd, who were my sons’ band and first grade teachers, respectively.
Dave and Jane thought that I might enjoy reading Susan’s stuff, so they gave me the link to her column in the Angleton Journal, an online publication that Susan and her husband Micheal put out down in Angleton, Texas. And yes, that is the way Micheal’s name is spelled, and yes, I do enjoy her stuff, and you will, too. Here’s the web page address:
http://www.weeklyjournal.net/index.shtml
Scroll down to Susan’s smilin’ face, next to which you’ll see her byline, S.K. Bardwell. Click, read, and enjoy.
Besides being smart aleck writers, we are close enough in age to compare and contrast cultural icons. I mentioned that I used to dance to Grace Slick’s original band, The Great Society, in San Francisco during the summer of 1966, and I didn’t think Grace Slick was that slick of a singer.
Susan wrote: “What I remember most vividly about Grace Slick was seeing her on a televised New Year's Eve concert many years ago…It was awful, I was embarrassed for her. Her voice was OK, but never struck me as being awesome, and evidently it didn't hold up well. Janis (Joplin), of course, is still big in Texas. Beaumont, which was evidently quite glad to see her leave when her career started, has a statue of her now. I never was mad about her, and I didn't care much for Jim Morrison, either. Loved Hendrix but when he died, I was just kind of put out - couldn't someone teach classes to these people on how to do your drugs without dying?
“The only star I ever wept for was John Lennon. “
Mary replied: “Grace Slick never was that great a singer, I thought, so I suppose it's not a surprise that she isn't one now. Janis Joplin: maybe you had to be there. Recordings never captured the power of her live performances. I've never seen anyone more electric. Jim Morrison: another electrifying performer (I saw The Doors at the Avalon just before their first single, “Break On Through to the Other Side” hit the charts), but as a person he was kind of an oaf, and I enjoyed the hits but never loved him like I loved Janis. I still don't get why so many people thought he was a great poet. I thought he was a legend in his own mind, and a lot of people bought it for some reason.
“Hendrix - a freakin' guitar genius. Saw him at the Monterey Pop Festival in June 1967, when he returned from England and began his conquest of the states. The most delicious part of that came years later when I was watching the video Monterey Pop with my two sons, and Hendrix's performance came on, and when it got to the part where he put the guitar on the floor and set it on fire, I said, ‘I missed this part because everyone jumped up on the chairs and I didn't move fast enough, so I was stuck on the ground looking at everyone's back.’ My sons' two heads swiveled around and they stared at me goggle-eyed, and one of them said, ‘You were there?’ Well, yeah, I was.”
That was one of the sweeter moments of parenthood.
John Lennon – ah, what a loss. I could weep still. There is nothing I can say beyond that. So I’ll stop there.
If you want to know how Dave and Jane Shepherd are doing down in Hollywood as Jane pursues her acting career, check their blog:
http://home.mindspring.com/~shepherd2/sheptrek/index.html
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