Friday, May 27, 2016

And So It Came To Pass...



Apparently, all you have to do is express a wish on your blog and the mailman comes to your door, on a Sunday, no less, with your wish in an Amazon package.

The intrigue starts Sunday morning.  Drinking coffee, reading newspaper, lazy pace. Doorbell rings. Unfit for visitors, I sprint for the bedroom. The OC gets the door. Finds a package on the mat and the mailman disappearing down the driveway.

The mailman? On a Sunday? That in itself is mystery enough.

It's a book! For me. No note, just an Amazon label --- from whom? Had recently read "Me Before You," recommended by The Blister. Loved it. Added "After You," the follow-up, to The List. Hmmmm. But who would know that? Not the OC who shrugs and shakes his head.....

The plot thickens Monday when another package arrives at the door. A tee shirt with "Namaste" on the front. A second tee shirt arrives in the mail the next day. Three packages, not one note. I'm starting to think "magic."



Being something of an amateur sleuth, and having a keen analytical mind ( I think I hear a muffled guffaw in the background but will disregard and carry on) I drew two conclusions. One --- writing a wish on your blog will increase the chances of its coming true, and two --- because the wish was expressed in a blog post the Post Office will make a special exception and deliver on Sundays.

And there are those who say I am logic-impaired! To them I say write it on your blog and watch what happens!

Wednesday, May 18, 2016

When's Savasana?


Eldest daughter
"When's Savasana?" says the T-shirt I covet.

 I love everything about yoga, but savasana is my favorite. Years ago when we lived in Brussels, and my life was crowded with the care and feeding of children, dogs, a cat, and a  man in uniform, I dared to sign up for a yoga class at the British School. Dared because one child was taking college courses in downtown Brussels, one was in high school, one was in middle school, the youngest was in grade school, the oldest, not yet 18, was a college freshman, and lonely, half a world away, and the only time we saw the man in uniform was when he needed a clean shirt or change of underwear. It was a bit of a nightmare keeping track but a voice in my head was screaming for something that was for me only. Ergo - yoga, a daring move.

Not that I learned anything, neither poses nor breathing nor mindfulness. The main benefit was an hour's relaxation. No phones, no chattering children, no demands, no deadlines. Just me, on the mat, sound asleep - until the class ended and the instructor's tactful cough penetrated the fog. Embarrassed, I mumbled something incoherent and slunk away.

"Please God, tell me that at least I wasn't snoring,"  I offered up as I drove home.

No heavenly reassurances were forthcoming so I quit.

Besides, why would I spend my husband's hard earned money for an hour's sleep when I had a perfectly good bed at home?


Fast forward a few decades..... We've moved to Florida. The man in uniform is adjusting to being in his own house during daylight hours, the children are scattered to the four winds, at least four of the five practicing yoga to some degree, the dogs are doing their downward dog in Doggy Heaven and the Little Blister, in Ireland, is undergoing intensive training to become a yoga instructor.

As you can imagine, it's much quieter now than it was in Brussels. So, I dared again. Dared because I'm older now and so are my bones;  my joints creak --- the chances of success are dubious. But, realizing that life does not go on forever, I have, in general, become more daring.

And it worked! I can do it. Everybody else is concentrating so hard on breathing and not falling over that they don't even hear the rusty hinges creaking away on my mat.

On a visit to oldest daughter one recent summer I blithely toddled along with her to her yoga class (she never falls asleep on the mat.) In less than five minutes I knew it would be wiser to sit and watch rather than risk permanent injury. There is yoga. And then there is yoga. Twenty- or thirty-something I am not. Nor am I a pretzel.

By now, if you've read this far, you're probably wondering "Yes, but what does this have to do with "savasana"? Patience my lovelies. I think one of the reasons I started blogging was to indulge my penchant for verbal meandering which is not always encouraged in these parts, the point, and getting to it, being prized above all else.  Blogging seemed like a benign outlet.

Savasana, the relaxation pose at the end of every class, lasts from five to10 minutes. I enjoy the class, I enjoy the challenge of new poses, I'm glad that something I like to do is actually good for me. But it is the "carrot" of savasana that helps me put in that extra effort, breathe that little bit deeper. Without it I might spend a lot more time in child's pose.

Time for savasana! I gather my blanket, my eye pillow and my bolster, wiggle my tail feathers and settle eagerly into the mat.

One recent class, at savasana, we had a guided meditation. We were to imagine ourselves on a beach. No problem. I've never been to a beach I didn't like. I lay listening to the crash of waves on the shore and the whispered "shhh" as they flowed back out; listening to Mother Nature inhaling, exhaling .

The  instructor's soothing voice told us to imagine a balloon in our hand. Into the balloon, one at a time, we were to put all our troubles, all our worries, all the things that keep us awake at night. One by one I mentally stuff all those things into my balloon (which is red, just so you know.)

The voice continues, telling us to lift our balloons up, to let the wind catch and carry them away, off into the blue. I lie there, in a dream, watching my red balloon drift higher and further 'til I can hardly see it at all.

Too soon the beach fades. Class is over, time to roll up the mats. But this time I'm not embarrassed. I feel calm (all that mindful breathing!) and happy to have sent all my worries off into the ether. They're not gone forever. I know they'll be back but, at least for now, yoga has brought me peace and serenity. What's not to love?

Namaste!


Monday, May 09, 2016

The Serious Business of Cutting Grass


We live in trying times. Just opening the newspaper is a recipe for depression. Between The Trump Chump, The Dragon Lady and the lunatics at large in the world you'd wonder where we're headed. There is, however, one business about which we can rest easy --- the business of cutting grass.

Many people, when they move to Florida, dispense not only with snow shovels and woollen underwear but also with such household standards as work gloves, lawn mowers and hedge clippers, preferring to sit sipping cool beverages while watching paid minions do the actual sweating involved in growing and taming a lawn and garden in the heat of a Florida summer.



But not in this particular corner. Lest any of you were lying awake nights fretting about the care and minding of lawns hereabouts I thought I'd drop in to reassure you that all is well. The subject is getting top level attention. Meetings have been held, machines have been oiled, edges have been sharpened (you can resume breathing now.) The whole business is being taken care of, one blade at a time.


I know you are relieved to hear this and I am delighted to be the bearer of such joyful tidings.

You're welcome.

Sleep well.

Tuesday, April 05, 2016

To Each His Own Playdate




Thought I should drop in here to reassure the dwindling faithful that I have not, once again, fallen off the cliff. Best excuse? Company. My sister-in-law's been visiting but she went home a few days ago. There was a twenty four hour period in which I wandered around missing her. You know how it goes.You're ready to be back to regular programming but you can't quite remember (after a three week hiatus) what regular programming entails. Just one more sign of impending dotage. The following day the OC had a play date with a friend to go chasing little white balls and driving fast cars. It would have been a shame to waste a house-to-myself day in moping so I pulled myself together and arranged a playdate of my own --- with my recently neglected sewing machine. Nobody but myself to please from first light to last. The bliss! I almost felt I could purr.

The laundry had all been done by the visiting uber-hausfrau, the dust bunnies banished to their burrows, the floors vacuumed to dust free perfection. It was as though my mother-in-law, may she rest in peace, had blazed through. I'd even planted the flowers we'd bought for the garden as per s-i-l's departing instructions. With ant bites on my ankles to prove it.

There were lots of "shoulds" making noise in my head --- phone calls I should make, projects I should finish, writings I should read, fabrics I should sort, closets I should organize, but I turned on Pandora and pretended not to hear them. Today I was going to play.

I went in my sewing room and built a house. Not just an ordinary house but a Splendid Sampler house.




Serious business, deciding which fabric to use for the roof, the door, the light in the windows, the walls. I should've been an architect. I stood back and looked at it. And was happy. So much cheaper than therapy.

I wandered to the kitchen for a second cup of coffee, and, while there, popped a loaf of soda bread in the oven. Domestic goddess, that's me, in the kitchen at least, if not on the dusting and shining circuit. I had an extra batch mixed up from last time, just needed butter, buttermilk, and bingo! Heavenly aromas. Mind you, the bed was not yet made and I was still in my pyjamas(at 3 p.m.!) but what are you looking for --- Martha Stewart?

I love having company but, after a few weeks, I get twitchy and want to sneak off to the sewing room to stitch a bit, or hide in the bathroom to read a few chapters of my current book (and it's a good one --- "Me Before You" by Jojo Moyes, recommended by the Little Blister who never steers me wrong), or plant myself in front of the computer and write a blog post.  I begin to long for time alone with myself; to miss my own sloppy way of doing things; to fantasize about letting the laudry pile up 'til there's a full load; about letting a little dust accumulate so there'll actually be some satisfaction when I do get around to it; to not feel inadequate because I'm me. We live hours by plane from most of our family so I really do love when company comes. But, no matter how fond I am of them, I also love it when they leave.


When the OC returned from his day's adventures he had a glow about him, the glow of a man who'd been hitting little white balls and driving fast cars all day (everyone has their own definition of bliss) topped off by plenty of nibbles and adult beverages so no feeding or watering required. He had a shine in his eye like a 16 year old. Fast cars and dimpled white balls will do it every time.

To top off my beautiful day I sat reading in bed long after my eyes wanted to close. Next morning dawned grey and dreary. Without even getting out of bed, I reached for my book again and read to the end.

And sobbed my eyes out. Not just a sniffle but serious sobbing.

There's the Pulitzer and the Booker and any number of other prizes for writers, but the one that's most important to me is the Molly Bawn prize for Riveting Fiction, awarded to any book that so absorbs me that I forget who and where I am and become part of the world the author has created. I won't even try to explain what it was about. Sufficient to say --- an unusual love story --- funny, sad, and heart breaking. Go read it and you'll understand. Fortunately there was fresh soda bread and marmalade in the kitchen for comfort.

Who could ask for a better day? Thus fortified, I'm ready. Bring on the "shoulds!"



Friday, March 11, 2016

All the Pretty Golfers.....


.............in their Under Armour shirts and their fashionably skinny trousers, with their carefully manscaped mini beards!

You may find this hard to believe but I went to a major golf tournament yesterday, and, second surprise --- lived to tell the tale. It was a back-handed sort of invitation. The OC had lucked into some tickets but his usual golf buddy couldn't go. With his best SEG he turned to me and asked if I'd like to go, knowing full well I'd probably prefer to stick pins in my eyes, or stay home reading, sewing, or even chasing dust bunnies. Since it couldn't be for my singleminded devotion to the game, he could only be asking me for my scintillating company. How could I say no?

I had to arise and shake myself a little earlier than usual but after a shower and some coffee I was ready. The course we were headed to is a beautiful one. In addition to famous golfers I knew there'd be beautiful trees so I packed my camera along with sunscreen, a book (in case it turned out to be incredibly boring,) lip balm and a comb.

The OC was poised and ready,

"Let's go!"

"Hang on a sec! Which hat should I bring? A big floppy one or a gardening one?"

A sigh from the OC while I go to select a hat, end up taking both. When in doubt, take two.

"Oh. Wait! I have to go!" Should have passed on the coffee, but then I'd still be asleep.

Patience was wearing thin. Teeth were grinding. Toes were tapping. The OC was probably weighing the benefits of my scintillating company against the irritation of my usual three trips back into the house before I was actually ready.

Finally we were on the way and he could relax. If I'd forgotten anything else I'd just have to manage without.

We picked up our tickets and a sheet of instructions.....

No cameras allowed...? Boo, hiss! Taking pictures was what I'd been looking forward to the most! No purses, no backpacks, unless they were see-through --- who on earth goes around with see-through purses and backpacks anyway? No food, no water bottles...so much for the apple slices and water in my (not see-through) backpack.

But then we turned our attention to the golf. And, surprise, it was really interesting. For one thing, I was familiar with most of the big names because of the constant barrage of golf from the television at our house. Whether I'm actually listening or not, it seeps into my brain. And I have occasionally, in the spirit of "if you can't beat 'em join 'em," sat down with the OC and watched some of the tournaments. And for another, unlike baseball or football where I truly have no earthly idea what's going on, I do have some idea how golf is scored. Learned early in life when I used to walk around the course with my dad, caddying for him (mar dhea) when he went golfing..... Everybody's darling, Jordan Spieth, was there, along with the slew of new, really young, outstanding golfers.

Watching one of them, up close, hit his drive off the tee I whispered to the OC "What is he, sixteen?"
I overheard some young men nearby whispering to each other "Well he's a trust fund baby you know..."
Probably had his first set of clubs while his peers were still riding tricycles and mastering the monkey bars.
And all these young professional golfers, with very few exceptions, looked like they'd just stepped out of an ad in Esquire or Gentlemans' Quarterly. My sons only dress so spiffily when forced to. I wondered if these guys liked being dressed up like dogs' dinners, the better to promote sales of their sponsors' wares, or if they longed for baggy cargo shorts and loose cotton tees. I guess when they play at this level they're handsomely compensated for any such "sacrifices."

Wherever there is money and fame and handsome young men there too will be gorgeous young women dressed to attract all of the former. While the OC carefully watched the technique of each golfer in turn, making notes and filing them in a special corner of his brain, I too watched them with interest. But I was also watching with equal interest the multitudes of fans and their varied fashion statements. Sensibly shod in my sneakers, I was nonetheless impressed by some of the attendees' footwear choices. Sneakers were my choice. Walking shoes, or even sturdy sandals, would also have worked, but, faced with the prospect of traipsing around all day on uneven, grassy terrain the last shoes I would have chosen would have been (if I even owned a pair) four or five inch heels. It must be my age.....

I could make fun of such a fuss being made, worldwide, of grown men trying to hit little white balls into ridiculously small holes....but then I'd probably have to defend my own habit of buying perfectly beautiful fabric and cutting it up into small pieces only to painstakingly sew them all back together again....so we won't go there today!

We walked and walked until I could, not only feel, but actually hear my knees creaking. Later in the afternoon we found some bleachers overlooking the sixteenth green and sat in the shade and watched the action in comfort, sipping water and licking ice cream.

We had a good day. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, the shady trees providing frequent relief. I was happy I went. The OC was glad of the company, scintillating or otherwise. He's gone back today. But not me. Today I'm staying home reading, sewing and chasing dust bunnies. And yes, of course, writing.



Note: no photos for reasons mentioned above. Again --- boo, hiss! Especially when everywhere we went at the tournament there were people snapping away surreptitiously with their cell phones! 

Wednesday, March 02, 2016

Of Boston Ferns and Passion Vines



Oh here she is again, hat in hand, sheepish grin, more excuses for why it's a desert here, a parched, treeless, wordless, empty wasteland. And we're tired of hearing it. All those promises of mending ways, of discipline, of "write every day," even if its rubbish, if you keep writing down words they'll eventually sort themselves into coherence. Yawn.

No more excuses. A recent other social media experience sent me flying to the phone for damage control. I had tried to post pictures of a few quilt blocks and suddenly, unbidden, all my photos were laid bare for the entire world. Excuse me?

"What did you do mom?" my daughter chortled, "post naked selfies?"

 I was not amused. Here I was, on the edge of a heart attack and she laughs? But she sorted it and once again air flowed smootly into my lungs and out again. Me and social media? Like giving matches to a toddler. The wise old woman in my head nodded sagely. Stick to Blogger," she said.  So here I am.


 I bought a house plant when we first moved in here fifteen years ago. It failed to thrive in the house, possibly due to my penchant for forgetting to water.... so I tossed it out among the trees and palmetto palms --- organic --- it could only help enrich our sandy soil, right?

 Lo and behold, it came back to life! Decided this was a much more congenial environment --- the cool shade of trees, protection from the sun and, most importantly, from the water-withholding mad woman inside. I was happy that it was happy so I gave it an inch. But it got greedy and wanted a mile. Soon it was colonizing the entire shade area, bullying the mild mannered azaleas and sneaking out into the grass with a view to taking it over as well.

Yesterday the jig was up. I headed out to the shade garden and started yanking. The OC came out to join me.

" See what I've done?" I announced triumphantly with a sweeping gesture towards the pile of uprooted ferns.

"Why'd you do that?" he queried querulously. He liked the ferns and their pushy ways, had notions of encouraging their plans for garden domination....

"They were choking the azaleas," I said. "And anyway, you can be sure of one thing. They'll be back. But now, for a while, the azaleas can breathe."


"Hmm," he said.

"Hmm, yourself,"  I thought and waded into the palmettos to tackle the next project ---beating back the          passion vine that aims to do up in the trees what the Boston fern was doing below --- take over the world. We call this area our "shade garden" but what it really is is a clump of naturally growing Florida natives that was left untouched when the rest of the lot was cleared to build our house. It was the Bean's vision that saw what it could be. Over the years we cleared paths through it, plied it with mulch, trimmed the plants that lived there and introduced a few of more. An umbrella plant that the Bean added years ago is thriving there, cheek by jowl with native grasses, scrub oaks and palmetto palms. Maintaining it is more about controlling the abundance than coaxing it along.

Passion vine was an experiment. We planted it, just to see if it would grow, and when it did (with knobs on) I fell in love with its gorgeous blossoms.

But now that relationship has turned to love/hate as the passion vine struggles to take over the world and we struggle to confine it. It climbs up trees and weaves them together to form a dense canopy; it reaches out and wraps its tendrils around anything that doesn't move; it wends its way in and out of the rails of our neighbors' fence. The young stems look so frail and tender but give them their heads and they turn into wrist-thick ropes.

Yesterday was Come to Jesus day for the passion vine. We hacked and chopped and pulled, yards and yards of it, down from the trees. Me Tarzan, you Jane! The sun filtered through, casting it's warming rays on the azaleas' backsides which had not felt such balm in years, covered as they were in britches of darkness by their swaggering mates.

Tarzan and Jane stood back to admire their handiwork. The ferns have been beaten into submission, the jungle has been tamed, the azaleas have room to wiggle their toes and the sun can reach the floor. No more beautiful passion vine blossoms for a while but no more choked trees either.

Bring it on Spring! We're ready!

Saturday, October 10, 2015

Old Ladies Behaving Badly/Part One



We recently watched Redwood Highway, a movie about an angry woman, roughly my age, living in a retirement home in Oregon. Marie's granddaughter is about to be married. She's invited but refuses to go. Her son tries in vain to persuade her. She's angry that the granddaughter's young man has long hair and makes his living as a drummer. She'd be a fool to marry him, Marie declares, and someone needs to tell her so!

But that's not the only thing she's angry about. She's angry at life; angry that her husband died young; angry she had to raise her son alone; angry that she's in a retirement home; angry that people seem to think she's losing her marbles; angry that they might be right.

The granddaughter loves her grandma and is hurt that she won't be at her wedding. She leaves an angry phone message saying fine, I didn't really want you there anyway. Dad made me do it.

This sits in Marie's head for a while and next thing we know she's in the breakfast room at the retirement home surreptitiously stuffing her backpack with apples, bananas and rolls. She hoists the backpack onto her shoulders, glances furtively around, then sneaks out the door and hits the road. To where we don't yet know. Nor does anybody else.

While Marie is plodding along, refusing lifts but yelling at truckers who pass too close and too fast, all hell is breaking loose back at the retirement home. Consternation. Where could she be? The police are called in and a big search begins. Meanwhile, blissfully oblivious to the mayhem, Marie makes friends along the road, a succession of people who see her as a spunky and stubborn, if somewhat whacky, woman on a mission, not as the person of diminishing intelligence and abilities she believes her family consider her to be.

I did not like the character very much..........

but!

 I've seen the rolling eyes, the indulgent smiles, the "Oh mom"s" from those who once thought I had the answers to all of life's perplexing questions. I didn't, still don't. But it was a nice little fantasy while it lasted.

So our hair is white; we're not as svelte or as agile as once we were; our bones creak when we bend our knees and even louder when we straighten them again; we wish people would have the decency to avert their eyes as we try to struggle out of our cars; we don't recognise the people in our passport photos or on our driver's licenses or in our mirrors and worry that we'll be apprehended for identity theft; there are funny brown patches on our skin that we can no longer persuade ourselves are beauty marks and, the ultimate indignity,  shopgirls young enough to be our granddaughters call us "Sweetie" and "Honey."   Excuse me? I'm not your sweetie, or your honey either. But then, I realize I should be grateful --- their parents taught them to be kind to the elderly.

So, it was instructive to watch Redwood Highway. It reminded me to be positive; to mind my own beeswax and keep my nose on my face where it belongs. And, if I should ever decide to stuff my backpack and take to the roads, I will at least leave assurances that I have all my marbles with me, in the backpack, along with the apples and the bananas. I'd stop short of revealing my exact whereabouts though ---  because what would be the fun of running away if everybody knew where to find you?

I thought Marie was being self-centered and selfish. Spoil a granddaughter's wedding? Hello Sweetie! It's not about you! Show up with love in your heart and a smile on your face, give the long haired drummer a hug and quit misbehaving!

Which is what she did in the end.