Owl Quilt; Proof it's Okay to Buy More Fabric

 Did I ever tell you about my Owl Quilt? If I didn't, then now would be an especially  good time.

"Why?" you ask?

Well yesterday I went with my friend H to help her buy fabric for a baby quilt she's planning.

A noble mission, right? Except that the very last thing on earth I need to be buying is more fabric. Especially as my sister-in-law decided I should take her considerable fabric stash before she returned to the North. So, in the last few weeks my fabric stash has doubled! My father-in-law's recent death brought home to me the absolute folly of buying anything in these later years that I don't absolutely need. All that will happen is that my children and husband, should he outlast me, will have to deal with it all when I'm gone. Just imagine for a moment what they might do to the contents of my sewing room........

The memorial service is over, the tears have dried up   [Gee, that didn't take long!] and now, in great trepidation,  they are opening the door to my sewing room.....Listen in.....

"Good Lord! What did mom need so much fabric for?"

"Maybe she was planning to make a special quilt for each of us?" 

[Oh dear! That must mean that I kicked the bucket before achieving that goal. What a shame.]

"So, what are we supposed to do with all this crap?"

{Oh, go gently my lovelies....It is not crap. It is beautiful fabric waiting to be made into heirloom quilts. Speak softly and with compassion. While I was alive it knew it was loved. I never referred to it in such disrespectful tones. Have a heart!]

"Well, EB, you're the crafty one. Don't you want to take up quilting?"

"Oh no! Don't be looking at me. I knit. I crochet. I read and I run..I do not quilt."

"Cali Girl then, you own a sewing machine. Don't you want to give a good home to all this lovely fabric and expand your creativity? Come on, you know you want to!"

"No, not really. This is all light-weight cotton. I don't think it would make very good horse blankets. However, Nat is very artistic and crafty....maybe she'd like to have it?"

So now they ruminate on this awhile, standing there in my sewing room, surrounded by all the lovely trappings of the quilting craft. Slight glitch in this latest idea being that Nat, as artistic and creative and crafty as she is,  is on the other side of the Atlantic.....and all these tools and fabric would probably sink the boat getting it to her. Hmmm

"Why don't we give it to charity?"

This is where their mother sits up in her grave, hissing, spitting and choking......

So, you get the idea. I need to work with what I have so that my children and grandchildren each have a quilt made for them by me, and not just leave shelves of fabric, the disposal of which would be one more headache for them to deal with when I hang up my rotary cutter.

Enough of listening to imaginary conversations. Back to the present. We headed south to "Quilts on Plum Lane." Even the name gets my mouth watering. And it had to be this particular quilt shop since I had a gift certificate burning a hole in my pocket for months. It was becoming seriously dog-eared in my purse. Time to use it before it disintegrated.

Naturally, when we got there, there was much oohing and aahing, and of course we found fabric we had to take home with us. The gift certificate served to assuage any guilt I might have felt [Irish upbringing.]

Bless me father for I have sinned, again. But in my defense I present my owl quilt [as proof that I do, occasionally, finish something, thereby somehow justifying the acquisition of more fabric----as long as what comes in is less than what went out----sounds reasonable?]

Muffin [Wo] Man ***

The sunset tonight. So beautiful.

And in the kitchen bananas. Languishing. Since Friday. Word has it that my paternal grandmother would only eat bananas when they were completely black, which means that, since she lived in Ireland, they had to have been lying around at least six months. Blech. Where is my grandmother when I need her? Here, the aging process for bananas is faster....five days from green to black to mush. Max. And, in these parts, as soon as the first freckle appears there are two options: the compost heap or muffins. Since I am a thrifty soul, the compost heap is only a theoretical option. The Bean says, s-l-o-w-l-y and emphatically, as one talking to the feeble minded,

"Mom, why don't you just cut them up and put them in the freezer," [then he'd use them to make smoothies.]

My question for the world at large is "Why can't he do that? He knows where the freezer is;  where the freezer bags are; where the knives are.....So simple!"

But instead I make muffins.

Spanish lessons notwithstanding, I was still restless on Tuesday, Monday having been a blur of work. Two batches I made, and oh, it was so satisfying, seeing them lined up on the cooling racks, glistening deliciously! One batch was Blueberry Banana, supplemented with a little applesauce, because the one thing I've learned over a lifetime of muffin making is that, if you don't have exactly the ingredients called for, improvise. In the early, by-the-book days, if I didn't have nuts, there went my baking plans. Tuesday I only had one cup of mashed bananas so I had to improvise!

...........And one batch of Sour Cream Lemon.  Mmm!

I wish you could have been in my kitchen to smell the aroma!

 In the middle of my muffin making I heard the pool guy clattering through the door of the pool cage. As company-deprived as I'd been all weekend I was almost tempted to run out and throw my arms around him, but the plumber-butt vision that met my gaze as he bent to pour chemicals into the pool helped me to restrain myself. I did stick my head out the door to say hi. He always does a more thorough job if he knows someone is home....

It was a very satisfying morning, although, surveying the fruits of my labours, I did think to myself.

"In this house there is one adult female, human, on the lean side, and one adult male, feline, not so lean, but not a muffin eater. And now there are thirty nine muffins. Something does not compute."

God be with the days when the children would tumble in the door from school. No muffin disposal problem then.... However, Wednesday was a work day and the muffins were very well received there; the Bean had to make a lightening stop home for a decent night's sleep on a real bed, and some clean clothes, as the ones he had were turning crusty---so, in addition to clean clothes he took away a plateful of muffins;  and today I went to quilt group, bearing muffins, and no-one stopped me from entering, or barred the door.

 Since Granny went to her eternal reward more than half a century ago, and the smoothie maker is only here sporadically, I think I'll leave bananas off the grocery list for a while....


***When I came home from running errands this afternoon the Bean was home....Is it possible the week galloped by so fast that another weekend is already here?

The moon climbing...

Buenos Dias! Mi Nombre es Molly....

The house was deathly quiet all weekend. I moped around like a dog without a tail and eventually, to pull myself out of the doldrums, did something I've wanted to do for ages... logged on to the library's website and signed up to take an on-line Spanish language course-- - Ever since Latin classes in secondary school, I've had a notion to learn Spanish. I think it was the nuns' way of assuring us that Latin would be worth the slogging when they told us that, with Latin under our belts, we'd be able to learn Spanish or Italian in under six months,. Not sure I buy the bit about six months, but it was a very pleasant distraction working my way through the introductory lessons and finding them so easy.

 Miss Oriss understands Spanish, having lived in Argentina as a child. She watches Spanish language soap operas when she's at home, and did likewise while she stayed with me. Every weeknight at nine o'clock we tuned in to "Abismo De Pasion," a good, old fashioned bodice-ripper, complete with love triangles and conniving mothers in law, young studs hard put to keep it in their pants, and older dudes trying to position themselves to be as rich as possible while doing as little work as possible. I didn't even need a dictionary to understand the title! Thrilling stuff. Mostly I did the daily crossword or sudoku while glancing occasionally at the screen. After a few weeks though I found myself caught up in the action and actually able to follow the general thread. Of course it was all in hundred-mile-an-hour Spanish, so I had to get a considerable amount of help in the translation department from Miss Oriss.

Now that she's gone, I've fallen by the wayside. I haven't tuned in to "Abismo" since she left. I do not know if Gayel has killed Damian for stealing Elyssa away from him, or if the padre has regained consciousness and revealed who it was that ran him off the road in an effort to silence him. I may never find out. But in the meantime I can tell you, in Spanish, what my name is, where I am from, what a pleasure it is to meet you, and that I travel frequently to Puerto Rico [even though I don't.]

The OC had better watch out. Next time he drops in here he could find himself falling into an abyss of passionate, hundred-mile-an-hour Spanish.

Hasta luego muchachas!

Miss Oriss Heads for Home

She left yesterday at 6 a.m. while it was still dark. I stood in the driveway in the oozing, saturated night and thought bleakly how lonesome it was going to be without her. Since she sold her father’s house, may he rest in peace, she has stayed with me while she sorted his possessions and his affairs.  Though we’ve known each other close to fifty years, this is the most time we’ve ever spent together.

You could make the case that my early friendship with her determined the course of my life. If  she hadn’t befriended me when I was the gauche girl from Ireland that summer long ago, I would never have met her father, the Carpathian Prince, who would not then have been inspired to set his son up to accompany me to a party one night, after the last flight for Ireland had departed; and said Prince would never have landed, late one evening on my startled parents’ Irish doorstep to check my pedigree. Finding my parents, not only startled, but respectable, and without criminal records, he still railed against our plans, his next argument being that we were too young. Which we undoubtedly were.  But his son was as stubborn as he and calmly proceeded with his plans.

When the Prince saw that he was losing the battle, he insisted that, if we must get married,  it should be on his turf, in New York. As far as I knew that was for the bride to decide, and this bride accordingly dug in her heels.  Ireland or nowhere.

He threatened that he would not come.

But in the end he could not stay away, and furthermore would have had World War Three on his hands had he tried to keep his wife from attending, even though it meant she would have to worry forever more that her pride and joy  would starve to death.

And so it came to pass that, because I had become friends with his daughter, the Prince found himself in Ireland one summer, attending his son’s wedding, complaining about warm beer and the fact that a wake-up call in his Irish hotel meant that a maid came into his room and shook him!

He was not a man who liked to be thwarted.  He registered his displeasure by not allowing his daughter, my friend, to attend her only brother’s wedding. I wonder how he explained that at the Pearly Gates.....

She and I started out as a couple of innocents, full of the excitement and possibilities of being almost twenty and on the threshold of whatever life might hold. We're less excited now. Older, wiser, scarred. We've weathered it all, the good, the bad and the horrible.

And we’re still friends.

It was so nice to have her company over our morning coffee; so nice to have company at dinner, and someone to sit around with afterwards. Every day we made progress, advancing a little further in sorting all the dangling threads of a life that is over. The furniture, the linens, the china, the crystal, the figurines, the chess sets, the cutlery, the paintings, the appliances, the beautiful, hand-crocheted doilies, the suitcases, the tools, the gardening equipment, the barbeque.   Everything clean and spotless. Everything needing a home. We learned to negotiate our way through Craigslist and to place ads in the newspaper without ever leaving the couch. We learned that, mostly, people want something for nothing. We donated bags and bags and bags of beautiful things to charity and churches. And it became easier, as time went on, to let it go. We lost all interest in shopping. Who needs more stuff? Too much stuff just clutters up your house and your life. Life should be about more than the care and feeding of  STUFF.

The care and nurturing of  people who matter to us, for instance. I’m glad we had the time together that we did. She's still getting her head around the fact that the Prince is gone. My own father died thirty eight years ago and I’m still not used to it. I’m sure when she gets home she’ll miss his daily phone calls checking that she is safe and well, and giving her the lowdown on his day. She might even miss the oft-told Threadbare Tales. I wonder where he is and who he’s telling them to now?

Miss Oriss arrived home safely early this afternoon. All the boxes and "stuff" she had mailed from here were there,  waiting for her. It almost made her want to get in the car and come back.

All I have to say about that is "I'll have the coffee ready when you get here!"

Blue Moon....

Not sure how it was different than any other full moon, but, apparently, we won't see it again until 2015......so here's how it looked from here last night.

Walking On the Rine....Ireland, Day Two

It's Sunday in Florida, dull and gray and ominous. Hurricane Isaac is lurking out there, making everyone skittish. There are places I'd rather be at this moment. An early walk along the Rine for instance. That's a "church" I'd like to attend regularly! One foot in front of the other, the vast dome of sky above, no sounds but the wheeling of gulls, the buzz of bees, the occasional lowing of cattle [watch out for the cow pies!] the soundless bobbing of sailboats far out on the water........

Given the restorative powers of pints of Guinness and a good night's sleep, the cyclists were good as new the day after the "Tour," so off we went to walk on the Rine.

 I shouldn't even be telling you about it as it is the best kept secret in Ballyvaughan, part of the pleasure of walking there being that you often have it almost entirely to yourself! But I'd hate for you to go to north Clare and not know about it!  It's a little peninsula a few miles west from the village, that runs parallel to the shore. At high tide there's only a tiny bit of it visible, but at low tide you can walk all the way out to the end. Access is by climbing over a nondescript gate on the road to Black Head, easily missed, and walking down this little lane to the shore. 

   On your left is the bay, with  the Atlantic beyond, 

and on your right,

 more water between you and the coast.

I kept falling behind the main gaggle, who were busy anyway with cycling postmortems, because I was busy being a "Yank," with my camera!

 We passed a few cows, placidly chewing, completely unconcerned by our presence. The Blister once had a particularly interesting outing to the Rine with a niece of hers who was studying zoology and had enlisted the Blister's help to collect seal poop for some research she was doing! We didn't collect any seal poop and, unfortunately, we didn't see any seals. But there were rocks and cows and birds and clouds and all kinds of beautiful wild flowers. Nothing large and showy, but a profusion of exquisite tiny ones.

Utter contentment.

The Rine feeds a hunger of the soul, but the stomach is unimpressed with flowers and clouds and rocks, so, with the tide coming in, and bellies growling, we headed back to the house.

  

And now the sun's come out in Florida and Isaac seems like an improbable nightmare.

Miss Oriss has sold her father's house as she has no interest in living here, being a cold weather girl. She  hands over the keys at month's end. I never realized how much work one person's death [may the Prince rest in peace] made for those left behind! Even though everything was organized and pristine, sorting out where everything goes, and to whom, has been a mammoth task. So....back to the mines! 

 But in my head today, I'll be walking on the Rine.

Forty Two Years Later....and Holding!

Yesterday, lying in the dentist's chair, white knuckled as always, the Mamas and Papas came on the music system.

 "Stars shining bright above you,
Night breezes seem to whisper- I love you-
Birds singing in the sycamore tree,
Dream a little dream of me......."

coaxing me to relax, recalling the summer I first heard it, the summer I met the OC, the summer that sent my life off in a totally unexpected direction, and perhaps, his too.

The Prince disapproved vociferously, though he had introduced us; his wife disapproved because we "were too young" which we were; my parents, in their diffident way asked "Are you sure?" Who's ever sure? We certainly thought we were! We were younger in this picture [that's a sixteen year old Blister beside us!] than even our youngest child is now....and I  would certainly disapprove if he announced he was getting married next week!

But here we are, against all the odds, forty two years later, still dreamin'! "Love" is almost too trite a word, the way it's bandied about these days. We survived it all, together.

 Here's to you J and at least a few more!

Ireland, Day One

Above---the Blister, her friend and her sister-in-law, all of them quite mad, went off cycling ridiculous distances in the Tour de Burren, along with their assorted, equally mad, menfolk. Being somewhat saner, I elected to mind the house, staying warm and dry, curled up in the cozy kitchen with "Major Pettigrew." As the cyclists disappeared into the early morning mist I settled in with my book and my cup of tea.

By mid-morning the drizzle lifted, so off I ventured, up the lane,

 across the fields,

 past curious cows,

 past the castle,

and finally, not finding the path that would take me upward to the rocky landscape for which The Burren is famous, I climbed over a farmer's gate, pretending not to see the No Trespassing sign, and legged it, fast as I could, up and up and up. 

The higher I climbed, the rockier it became. I think it was Oliver Cromwell, whom the Irish have no reason to love, who said of this area that there was "Not enough soil to bury a man, not enough wood to hang a man and not enough water to drown a man." I think he was wrong about the water. There's plenty of it but much of it flows underground. As I sat, with my back to a rock, I could hear the trickle behind and below me!

People come to this area from all around the world, geologists and botanists especially, to study the limestone terrain and the unusual flowers that grow in the crevices, protected from elements that would normally mean they would not thrive at such a northern latitude

 In no time at all I was up high enough to see all of Co.Clare, and Galway Bay to boot---quite a spectacular view and well worth the huffing and puffing!.

I sat a while and breathed it all in. Such a beautiful place. Easy for me to say. It's beauty meant that land owners here had a hard life, trying to eke a living from the rocky soil. Many had to leave and seek a better life in America when the potato famine meant there was nothing to eat. You cannot feed your children on rocks and pretty, exotic plants.  Thank God for tourism.

Sitting on a rock, looking out at this sweep of Irish countryside and letting my mind wander, I wondered at life, the places it takes you, the twists in the plot....When I'm here I feel I belong to this place, Ireland, and it to me, but among the people [except those closest to me] I feel like a stranger, an outsider---maybe even a traitor.  Somebody , I don't know who, said you can never go home again. And someone else I read recently said---once you live away from Ireland you'll never belong there again.

I  just know that this place stirs something deep in my soul, maybe subconscious memories of past generations, and no matter what anybody says, I know that when I'm here I'm home.

Note: click on the photos for a larger view. Also, notice the castle to the right in the last picture, the same one I passed on my upward climb. It is now a college of art.

Another note: I just realized this is a bit repetitive----and I had the nerve to make fun of the Prince for retelling, ad nauseum, the Threadbare Tales. Looks like I'm working on my own set of Tales. Mea culpa.
But at least, with this [re]telling, you get photographs.

To EveryThing There Is A Season.....Last Rant on The Prince

Note: Found this, half done, in my drafts. Now that I know the ending, I decided to finish it. It might help to explain the prolonged silence from this little corner of  Blogland.

I know, I know! I promised there'd be no more "Prince" rants here. I didn't mean to, but I lied. So here's your chance....Turn back now before I get started!


Having been here, dancing attendance for more than a month, Miss Oriss returned north in mid-May, to take care of some business, say hello to her life and her garden, celebrate her daughter's birthday, and, last but not least, to maintain her sanity. The Prince seemed like he'd manage fine without her for a while. Not only did he rebuff all her efforts to manage his medications for him --- "My body may be veak, but my brain is still sharp!"   Right. He is certainly entitled to his opinion. It also seemed that she was putting a crimp in his social life. Overheard snippets of telephone conversations ---

 "We can meet for dinner after my daughter goes home...."  or

 "I'll call you when my daughter goes back to The North."  And to her----

"So, when are you going home?" Wanting to know the date and the hour. So she did what any angry, frustrated person, who does not like Florida much anyway, would do. She went home.

Fast forward a week.

 Ring, ring.

"Molly, I'm not doing so good."

He pauses for the gravity of this announcement to sink in. I roll my eyes but don't let it reach my voice.

"What's wrong now?" I ask, trying not to emphasize the "now."

"I think I may have to go to hospital." Dramatic pause while he catches his breath ...."I'm very veak....."

When I get to his house he has summoned a nurse's aide he met at his breakfast joint. She tells me his pulse rate is very high.

She's new to his games. I don't tell her that Sir Laurence would look like an amateur here...

So what to do? He likes to get as many people weighing in on the debate as possible.

His new friend is anxious for him to go to the ER. I tell him if he goes he has to stay long enough for them to do something for his problem. No checking himself out when the memories come flooding back--of the less than five star service; of the regular disturbances [imagine! In a hospital!] for blood pressure checks; of the inedible food; of the nerve of the roommate who keeps the TV on at maximum decibels....all day[!!]; of the doctors/nurses/cleaning ladies' lack of interest in the Threadbare Tales. Fascinating as they may be....they have work to do.  He starts to waver. Maybe he should wait and see.?

And so it goes.

Back and forth throughout the day.. Finally, he decides he should go. Miraculously, there is no waiting. They take him right in. And the man whose heart was racing, who could hardly catch his breath earlier, regales the nurses, who are only looking for short answers, with the epic version of everything; the version that starts way back in World War Two.

Two days later, dripped full of vitality inducing fluids, armed with a new prescription, he's back on the street, but "very veak."

So Nellie the elephant packed her trunk and off she went to the circus.....And Miss Oriss, dutiful daughter, who had just unpacked her trunk up north, packed it again, put away her trowel, kissed her garden goodbye, winged her way back to Florida and danced attendance for another month.

Meanwhile, I left for Ireland. The Fourth of July approached. The Bean winged it north to play golf with the OC. Miss Oriss, having satisfied herself that the Prince was well enough to be left alone for a week, accompanied him to the airport, and also winged her way north.

Three days later, with all of us out of his way, the Prince of Carpathia died.

 At home.

 No poking or prodding.

 No loud TV.

 No inedible hospital food

No one to comfort him either,or hold his hand as he exited this world.

We were always at loggerheads, but I never would have wished for him to be alone at the end.


May he rest in peace.



Postscript: The devil in me wishes I could have been a little spider, sitting in my web, in a corner of the Pearly Gates when he arrived. Imagine St. Peter hesitating to let him in.....? The outrage.....

 "Young man, do you know who I am?"

"Yes sir...."

"Let me speak to your supervisor!"


He's probably got his lawyer handling the whole affair.


I hope the lawyer can cut him a deal.

Memo From a Cool, Green Island.....

It hardly seems like it, but I've been here a week already! It is blissfully cool compared to Florida. We've had clouds and rain and fitful sunshine, none of it slowing us in our tracks at all! The Irish could teach the rest of the world to appreciate sunshine....A sunny day makes the whole country giddy with delight!

The Blister and GB cycled in a big cycling event in The Burren last weekend, he in the 100km, she in the 60 km. Various  friends and relatives also did the cycle, so there was a cheerful crowd. The day started wet and drizzly, the kitchen full of upside down bikes and people in lycra! Not being much into masochism, I was very happy to be staying behind in the big, warm, dry kitchen! I had excellent company in Major Pettigrew's Last Stand [by Helen Simonson] and a fine big mug of tea!

After a few chapters though, I noticed that the clouds had lifted and the sun was making a valiant effort. So I set off for the mountain behind the house. Not finding a path off the narrow lane to take me upwards, I climbed over a farmer's gate [after a furtive look around] and struck off across the fields. I was climbing as I went, and soon was on the typical limestone rock of The Burren, and still making tracks up the mountain. It is a breathtaking sight when you get up high enough. All of North Co. Clare is laid out before you, the rocky limestone stretching for miles, little cottages and farms, and Galway Bay off out to the west! I took a gazillion photos but you'll have to wait until I get home and organize them. Meanwhile, just close your eyes and picture a misty blue and green slice of heaven!

There were  lots of hungry people 'round the table that evening and plenty of lasagne and curry for everyone. Then a walk to the village, to the pub which was full of more cyclists and everyone hail- fellow-well-met with everyone else!

It's very nice to be home!

Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven......

"Bring your winter woollies," the Little Blister said.
Summer was last month in Ireland. This month it's "piddling rain and bloody freezing!"

"Bring your winter woollies," said Brit-Boy and the Lovely Natalie.
Summer came in the springtime to the UK. Now it's "piddling rain and bloody freezing" there too.

The Bean came home at the weekend and felt the tension the minute he walked in the door. Invisible, but tangible. It makes him want to turn and run!

"You're freaking out already mom, aren't you?"

 Not really. Pacing a lot, raking my fingers through my hair, avoiding the bedroom where my suitcase lies, open and empty on the floor, demanding to be filled. There was a cat in it for a while. When I freak out he freaks out. He catches the vibe when I still think I'm calm. He knows better. He can tell by the pacing, and the suitcase on the floor. The empty suitcase. A suitcase on the floor never bodes well. It means there's about to be an upheaval of some sort and El Gato dislikes upheavals of any sort. He feels if he climbs in and makes a nest he can alter the disturbing course of events. But he's been evicted and banned from the bedroom. I don't need every stitch I eventually pack covered in cat hair.How do you pack for "piddling rain and freezing" when it's 90 degrees in the shade? Under such conditions, long sleeved, cotton T-shirts start to look like winter woollies.

I'm tense, excited,  nervous....It's not the travelling that bothers me. It's the "What ifs." With the OC in the Far North and The Bean only here on weekends a little voice in my head starts up.....

What if there's a hurricane and large trees fall on the house?

What  if it's so hot the water evaporates from the pool to an extent that makes the pump explode?

What if it rains so hard the pool overflows? [next life, no pool.]

What if unmentionable, scary things happen to people I love while I'm off, swanning around Ireland?

What if I were to take a deep breath, as I've been learning to do at yoga? Because I know that all the fretting is futile.  I know this, but that little voice in my head apparently never got the memo!

I have a list as long as my arm of things to do before Thursday.

You'd think I'd be doing them.

But no. I've been in the sewing room, puttering---to take my mind off the impending need to be organized.

Stress relief.

In a way, I actually am organized. Those piles on the floor?

All the essentials are there: the pounds, the euros, the passport, the flight information, the camera, the chargers, something to read, something to write on and with, something to stitch.  When I do start to put stuff in the suitcase [and it had better be soon] first in will be the legendary ladybug quilt. Legendary for how many years it took to finish! The incentive to do so was the opportunity to hand deliver it to Little Brit-Boy who is already three [!!] and an expert on all things creepy crawly.

And now it's no longer Tuesday. To assuage my guilt at abandoning Pat for so long I went to work today. I left early, at her urging...."Go home and pack!"

Standing, wringing my hands doesn't seem to be working, so I've called on S-I-L for help.She needs a break from The Prince anyway! She'll be by as soon as he is fed and watered, and between us we'll wrestle those winter woollies into that suitcase!

California Dreamin'

Thought I'd better pop you all a line or two before you erase me from your memory! There are about sixteen feeble attempts on my dashboard. Blogger dignifies them with the title "Drafts!" Hmm.....

So I thought " Drafts be damned! I'll just pretend I'm writing a letter!" Part of the "draft" problem is that there is nothing earthshaking or profound going on...... About which I'm certainly not complaining. I've had my fill of "earthshaking," and it's hard to be profound when you're going in five directions at once.

Speaking to the Little Blister on the phone the other day, I asked if she was still writing. It's not as if she has the time or anything, what with teaching yoga, and water aerobics, the recent death of her beloved Larry [R.I.P.] and the care and feeding of the queen in the aftermath. But still, she's good at it, was going to a writing group, but not at the moment, so the short answer was "no." And apart from time, she doesn't have inspiration.

 "Maybe I'll have to start blogging again," quoth she! I'm not holding my breath, but that is a direct quote! Maybe we'll inspire each other, when I see her in a few weeks. 

 There's a strange, white haired, older woman lurking in the mirror these days. I find that, if I pretend not to notice her, I can carry on being thirty five and she can carry on being whatever age she is, and nobody gets hurt..........I'm a year older now than when I last posted. I have reached that venerable age immortalized by the Beatles. God only knows if he "still needs me" but he does "still feed me," and even, once in a while, takes me out for an airing, most recently to California. Since the OC couldn't  be home for my birthday he hatched a plan. We'd meet in Sacramento, hop in a car and drive, drive, drive, north, to visit our California
Girl.

 Last time I saw her was seventeen months ago, so a visit was long overdue.

We accompanied CG on an expedition to the vet one day. And I do mean expedition. It reminded me of when our children were younger. At one time we had a van. It was quite an adventure if all the children had to be rounded up and taken somewhere together! The fact that this time it was a horse trailer, not a mini van hardly matters. The logistics were much the same. The stallion went in first, with longing glances back to the mare in the pasture-----

"Parting is such sweet sorrow!"

But he was a good boy and stood quietly while CG put his socks on.....

But then, Oh joy! She went and brought the mare, who had been whinnying after her man.....

Next into the trailer were her "teenagers" who seemed comfortable with the whole situation since their elders weren't kicking up a fuss!

Here's the vet with his arm buried up to the shoulder, James Herriot -style, inside Maggie, trying to ascertain if there's the beginnings of a foal in there. Sadly there was not.

All the grand-animals got their shots and while the OC helped CG load them into the trailer again, I had time for some random photographs...................This was the scene from the vet's parking lot..............

 The lilies at the top were growing in a ditch at the entrance to the farm where CG boards her horses. Such exquisite perfection growing unheeded in the ditch!

Alongside the lilies was a tangled profusion of wild flowers..........I happily risked falling into the rather wet and messy ditch to bring you this picture...........

 The OC is a restless man, though he would call it  "busy." We can agree to differ on that!  He likes to keep moving, likes to "leave'em begging for more," believes that "fish and visitors stink after a few days......" Well you know all that......

Bottom line: I was not ready to leave after the few days he had planned.

 Wail! "I just got here!"

I was back here before I was fully convinced I'd gone at all. I'd forgotten how beautiful, and vast, California is......

Next time I'm staying 'til I'm kicked out!

California Girl and I even picked out a cottage for our dotage.....but I'll keep that for another post!

Om........

YOGA @ WORK, a photo by P1nc on Flickr.

A long time ago, in a country far, far away, I signed up for yoga lessons. It was at the British School, down the road from where we lived in Belgium. The biggest advantage was that the instructor was a native English speaker. Since I expended tremendous amounts of mental energy "speaking in tongues" every time I left the house, I didn't have any reserves to use on figuring out what a yoga instructor was saying----unless she said it  in English. Buying bread at the bakery, or vegetables at the village market, or cheeses from the delicatessen  all necessitated "speaking in tongues," my own special blend of French, which I'd learned in school, German, which we'd learned while living in Germany, Flemish, which was the official language in our village, mime which I made up on the spot, and a generous helping of  Gibberish to balance everything out. I had even taken the extreme measure of signing up for Flemish lessons in our village. What made this move extreme was that the only flemish classes available were taught in French....as if I didn't have enough chaos in my head already! But I was determined that it was worth a try.  As for my forays to the market, the bakery and the deli, believe it or not, I usually arrived home with exactly what I had set out to buy. But it took it's toll. My clothing would be damp and clammy, and my face scarlet from the combination of my linguistic exertions and acute embarrassment.  Not the effect I was after in a yoga class.

And that was only the half of it. We still, at that time in our lives, had a full house which included a black lab with escape-artist tendencies, a Belgian Malinois puppy one of the children had brought home from the nearby stables, a supercilious Himalayan cat, a pair of chinchillas, an ever changing parade of lizards, frogs and geckos, and several young humans at various stages of development. Getting activities and meals and schedules organized so that I could go to yoga was, in itself, a major feat. I was usually dashing out the door, calling last minute instructions over my shoulder to whichever child I was leaving in charge, and skating in on one heel, after everyone else was already breathing deeply on their mats in preparation for the start of class. Mumbling incoherent [but English!] apologies, I'd flop down onto my mat and fill my lungs with air, then exhale, slowly, until my lungs were as empty as I could get them, then fill them up again.........

And then I'd wake up.....

 ......to the sounds of everyone around me rolling up their mats and gathering their belongings. Almost every time I'd fall asleep after those first few breaths. I must have slept quietly, no snoring, since no one ever poked me in the ribs to either wake me up or shut me up. The instructor never called in the janitors to remove the unresponsive body. She might have been miffed that someone would sleep in her class, or, if one of the purposes of yoga is indeed to relax, she might have thought me her star pupil.....I was too embarrassed to stick around long enough to find out, but scurried off while her more actively enthusiastic students engaged her in after class chit-chat. And while each class was a restful and relaxing experience, I didn't come away from them with any greater knowledge of yoga than I'd had at the outset. So my yoga career was shelved indefinitely.

Until now.

 A few weeks ago, having had it in mind for months, I finally went to a yoga class. And stayed awake the entire time! I seem to have finally reached a point in life where I am, absolutely, ready for this. No use crying over the fact that if I had started a few years ago I might have been much better equipped for some of the curve balls life has thrown this way recently. No matter.  No amount of knowing you should do something, or having someone else tell you how good it would be for you, can make it happen. The only way it happens is to pick the day, ascertain that a class is offered on that day, rummage in the closet for something to wear that is comfortable, cool, and not too ridiculous looking, then get in the car and GO! There's even the added bonus of learning some words in yet another foreign language!

I'm loving it! Even if it is sometimes a hassle to fit it in around everything else, I'm always glad I made the effort. If you have even the slightest inclination to try it I'd say don't wait another day. I've already felt the preamble to rigor mortis---in my lack of flexibility, or the creaking that goes on when I bend my knees. Yoga can change all that, strengthen our core muscles and restore flexibility, and if you find it all a bit strenuous at first you can breathe deep and take a nice, restful nap. I promise not to tell.

Divinity Fluttering By.....

IMG_0946, a photo by Mollybawn on Flickr.

It really is true that the nuns haunt me still. So much of how I think and feel and live hinges on things they taught me, even after all these decades.

Number Three: "Remember that thou keep holy the Sabbath day."

 Way back in Senior Infants we learned the Ten Commandments. Does it count as reverence for creation if this butterfly, spotted outside my window, makes me gasp in awe?

Even God rested on the seventh day. And He was a pretty important guy....

And I don't think He ever made phone calls that ruined someone's otherwise perfectly pleasant Sunday. Of course not everyone had nuns as teachers, so they might have missed the memo on the Sabbath, and the one about maintaining some civility when speaking to others.Words are so powerful. Once they're out of their cage there's no calling them back. Much better to give some thought to which ones you want to release.

While we're being Biblical, another phrase pops into my mind.

 "The meek shall inherit the earth."

 Hmmmm. I may not be inheriting the earth in that case. Since meekness is out,  maybe I'll just turn off the phone on Sundays.

Meanwhile I'm focusing on that beautiful butterfly.

Bird Watching, the Best Therapy

I often think if I have to come back again, and live another life, and another and another, to try and get it right, please God, let me come back as a bird! How lovely to fly above everything, to drift along on invisible currents, changing direction with the merest tilt of a feather. I could fly to the tops of the tallest trees and have a ringside seat every evening for the setting of the sun.

There's a lake a stone's throw from the house and I've been going over there evenings, an hour before sunset, with my camera, to spy on the birds.

On good days I'll see several kinds of wading birds.  Sometimes they're difficult to spot, standing so still, listening so intently......But this evening I met a very lively fellow.

 He hardly stopped moving the entire half hour or so that I watched him. He danced and skipped around in the water with what I can only describe as exuberance, at being alive, and having so many tasty morsels, right there for the catching.....

 Want to learn how to focus and "live in the moment"? Watch the birds!

Forget television, and the pesky procedure of pushing this button, and that, in some ritualized sequence that makes no sense to me. When I need entertainment I grab my camera and walk to the lake. Three minutes on foot and a different performance every evening!

Beaches and Sunshine....and Things that Slither

We went for a walk in the Wildlife Preserve a couple of weekends ago when the OC was home for a few days, and found this fellow, sunning himself along the side of the trail.......I kept my distance as the OC thought he might be a water moccassin.  I had no desire to have a close encounter with a snake of any kind, especially not a poisonous one. We were enjoying the beautiful afternoon and he was too. I was not always so chill about snakes, and I am chill now only by comparison to how I used to be. Our older boys loved snakes and begged to be allowed to have one as a pet. But if that had happened I'd have had to move out.....and they needed a mother more than they needed a pet snake.

Then along came The Bean. From the time he learned to walk he loved anything that ran on four legs, or swam, or flew.........

Or slithered.

Some day I'll have to write about Lauren, the little mouse he brought in from the garden and made a nest for in his room....When he brought home long strings of frog eggs in a bucket I was, at the same time, repelled and fascinated. Because of his persistence I gradually lost [some] of my heebie jeebies and could [to a limited extent] appreciate the wonders of the reptile world. In kindergarten he was an authority on dinosaurs. In middle school he had a subscription to Reptile magazine. The child who wasn't interested in reading stories devoured every word, every month, of that magazine.

Since I had my camera with me I couldn't resist taking a few pictures, brave only because there was a rescuer at hand, should things turn ugly! When we showed the photos to The Bean he confirmed the OC's suspicions. Since this is Florida, and the snakes and the gators were here thousands of years before we moved here, I figure I can be generous, I can share. Live and let live....

Except when I walk out to the patio and find one of their kind in my space! As happened this morning. I headed out the door, crossed the deck and reached to open the pool cage door. Something at the base of the door moved, slithered in fact!

I moved too---three feet, straight up into the air. Didn't know my old knees had it in them! When I landed I very gingerly opened the door to let him out, but he didn't appreciate my kind gesture and started rattling his tail at me. Neither of us was happy at this point. Heart in mouth, I decided I needed a broom to nudge him in the right direction.

 The door was right there, wide open, but we had a merry dance before he twigged it and raced off  into the grass. [Mental note: don't walk barefoot in the grass!] He was just a black racer, nothing dangerous, but still, not welcome that close to the house!

You'd think that was enough excitement for one day....but there was more. After watering some plants outside, I was coming back into the house when I heard a rustling sound from the back corner of the garage where I had thought there was nothing but inanimate objects. Something is alive back there and I'm too spooked, with snakes so recently on my mind, to investigate alone. I'm also not confident that I could move with the alacrity that might be required........It's the weekend though and The Bean should be home this evening................In the meantime I'll be watching my step. Stay tuned!


Note: You'd think that if Zoombrowser is going to put the date on my photos it could at least get it right!