Random Thoughts on "The Yearling."

 We interrupt (ir)regular blogging to bring you some thoughts on a recent read. Probably everyone of my generation who likes to read has read The Yearling by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings. Everyone except me. It had been on my to-read list for forever but kept getting bumped in favor of newer books. Maybe I had the idea in the back of my head that, since it was originally published in 1938, it wouldn't have much relevance today. Well, hat in hand, I was wrong. I often am.

So what prompted me to finally pick it up? I had sent it as a present to this young person a while back and on our recent trip to see him and his family I found it on a shelf among some of their other books. Sad to report, I don't think grandson B has read it yet though he is an avid reader and always has his nose in a book.




School had already started when we visited so there was ample time for me to bury my nose in a book. I picked up The Yearling just to read a few sample pages and could not put it down.

Why do we read? I read because I love stories and because I am constantly awed by the myriad and magical ways good writers put words together. I also love to write and, by reading the works of talented writers, there's an outside chance some of their magic will find its way into my writing. The talent of the writer is what carries the story along and I became lost in Rawlings' world of life in earlier times in Florida.

Her characters did not come to Florida for the sunshine, for Spring Break or the beaches, or to live out their declining years in air conditioned comfort. They were born here or blown here by circumstance. Life was hard and rations scarce.  The native animals struggled to survive from one season to the next just as the people did. If a hungry bear killed your heifer, life got even harder. If you were bitten by a rattlesnake you'd better hope the doc was home, and sober, and that you could get to him fast. And if a hurricane happened by it was touch and go if you'd survive to pick up the pieces. It was a lonesome existance out in the swamp for young Jody, his dad, Penny, and Ma Baxter. But he was loved, and he loved nature and all its wonders as much as his dad did. Penny had grown up working hard from early childhood and wanted to make life a little less harsh for his only son, so when Jody found an orphaned fawn, Penny persuaded Ma Baxter to let him keep it though she, of the sharp tongue, thought it was enough of a struggle to feed themselves and their animals without taking on the care and feeding of a wild creature. Penny however knew that the belly is not the only part of us that needs feeding. He knew that caring for that orphan fawn would feed his son's soul.

I had to leave the last few chapters unread when our visit came to an end, and the book was not immediately available at the library here. I have now read to the end (and wept, as I remember my middle son doing when he watched the movie as a little boy). It made us weep, but her writing is never maudlin. The heartbreak in the story was just part of life. I wouldn't hesitate to call this one of my all-time favorite books. Read it B! You'll be glad you did.

 A few days after I finished "The Yearling" I happened to read in the newspaper about another, totally different writer, Sebastian Junger, a journalist who has been a war correspondent in conflicts around the world. He directed the documentary "Restrepo" and has written a new book, "Tribe, On Homecoming and Belonging," which explores social alienation and lessons from tribal cultures. In explaining why soldiers and Peace Corp volunteers often find themselves depressed when they come home he says "... humans are social primates....wired to live and operate and feel secure in close groups. Wealthier societies are more individualized and we are not really wired for that.......As societies get wealthier the suicide rate goes up. Depression goes up........people come home and find themselves depressed..........stemming from the transition from a close, communal living situation to (an) alienated, individual one back home."


Are you with me still? I know I seem to have wandered from the point. I do have one, though it is bit woolly.Maybe because I had so recently finished The Yearling, Junger's thoughts seemed connected to what I had gleaned from that book.We are wealthier and better educated than any of the characters in the book but the fact that the story resonated with me so much tells me, as if I hadn't known this already, that many of us would forego our modern toys and conveniences for a simpler life, closer to the earth, and with deeper connections to each other.

In explaining some of the harsher aspects of living (his mother's sharp tongue, for example)to his son Penny has this this to say ---

"You kin tame a 'coon. You kin tame a bear. You kin tame a wild-cat and you kin tame a panther." He pondered. His mind went back to his father's sermons. "You kin tame anything, son, excusin' the human tongue."

 We have not changed from the times Rawlings wrote of. We all yearn to belong. Ease and comfort don't make us as happy as we think they should. We miss our tribe. Even though Jody, Penny and Ma Baxter teetered on the brink of poverty most of the time, they were not depressed. They were too busy staying alive, too tired at the end of each day and too happy to have made their way successfully through it to be depressed. They also had wealth beyond the material. They had the love and support of each other, mutual respect and co-operation with their neighbors, and an appreciation of, and respect for, the boundless beauty and natural resources of the world we live in. In today's fractured society how many of us are that well off?

Smoky Mountains' Majesty

Scenic view from the highway - Smoky Mountains

The usual pace around here is sedate. The OC is retired. The most urgent things on his agenda are taming the encroaching jungle, mowing the lawn, and regularly beating the covers off little white balls on the golf course.

 All this tends to make a guy sweaty and hungry so stinky laundry must needs be done and nutritious meals prepared. And what's a guy to do then but repair to the couch, crossword in hand, feet up, to watch football/golf/soccer/hockey/olympics, you name it. If there's a ball involved he'll watch it and, most likely, fall asleep, at which time the sport of the hour turns into a lullaby. But, woe betide anyone foolish enough to change the channel or, perish the thought, turn the blasted thing off. You may hear gentle snoring, but one ear is always alert for such dangers.

Fortunately I am not without options. My favorite hideout is the sewing room wherein also lies my computer and a satisfying array of books should I opt to hole up in there for an extended period. Meanwhile, phone calls to and from the far flung children, a vast selection of half-finished sewing projects, writing the occasional blog post and attempting to organize decades of photographs all conspire to fill whatever waking moments remain. And there is always yoga to stretch the bones and quiet the mind.

A fairly typical description of life in retirement? As mentioned above, you might call the pace of such a life sedate. Dull even, though, having marginally survived the raising of five children, whom, I hasten to add, I dearly love, dull is a very good thing.

That's how it usually goes down around here.

Old Mill Reflection

August, however, was not a usual month.

August we turned into gadabouts.....

Friends visited from far away and we crisscrossed the state showing them our favorite places and exploring some new ones, and when they left we made our annual road trip to visit oldest daughter, son-in-law, and alarmingly tall grandsons. All of which makes for good blog fodder. But first it has to sit in the pot and age a while.

 The Little Blister and I made a commitment recently to blog at least once a week. She is excused temporarily due to an exciting, life changing event which I will leave to her to divulge. A little pencil chewing was called for. What to write this week?. Hmmm.  Before I choked on the chewed up pencil, the cavalry arrived in the form of my cousin, who, having seen one photo from the Smoky Mountains, wanted to see more. So, Aislinn, these are for you. And for anyone else who cares to spend a few more minutes here.


Our annual trek north takes us through the Smoky Mountains. Since that's about the halfway mark, we usually stop for a day or two. This year it was rainy so most of these pictures are from last year. But it is equally beautiful any year! You could spend a month or more, hiking around, taking a billion photos, but I got what photos I could in the time available, many snapped on the fly, through the car window. Asking the pilot to land on the side of the road every five minutes is not conducive to peace within the vehicle.

Cade's Cove is a beautiful part of the park. We had started out early in a blanket of mist....

Breakfast in the morning mist

 and gradually, as the mist burned off, every curve in the road brought a picture perfect scene into view.

Someday, maybe, I'll spend more time there --- me, my camera, a raincoat and a pair of stout boots, but no complaints. It was great to be there at all. Having seen it, briefly, a couple of years in a row, I know it's a place I want to go back to for a longer spell.

We spent a week visiting with daughter, son-in-law, grandsons and the fearsome hound who protects them from marauding bunnies and cheeky squirrels.

We are back now to the usual routine, though the past week has been anything but dull due to the ugly weather. Lots of debris around the garden had to be picked up before the lawnmower-meister could do his thing, but we had no flooding, and no damage, though not all FL residents were so lucky. And now the sun is finally out, the sky is once again blue and the pace has returned to "sedate."

On The Road with Molly and the OC

I spend too much of my life away from the present moment, something the practice of yoga is helping me cure. If I'm living in the past or speculating about the future I'm depriving myself of the present. And aren't we always hearing that the present is all we have?

We've been on the road the last few days, making our annual trek to see oldest daughter and family --- grandsons who will soon be taller than us --- and I'm no midget!

Today was a "rest" day. We went exploring around Smoky Mountain National Park. The pilot was on his game but the navigator was found wanting --- seriously wanting. Forty five years later you'd think I'd no longer have to keep turning the map upside down to know where I'm going, but hah! You'd be wrong! And don't even get me started on navigating with Mr. Google's assistance. And what is that saying about doing the same thing over and expecting different results?Obviously there's insanity in the air! Tempers were a little frayed but we managed to suspend hostilities and enjoy a delicious supper at The Pottery House, a lovely little restaurant we come back to every year.

Arriving back at our room we kicked off our shoes to relax. But I decided more stodgy sitting was the last thing I needed. Armed with thick towels as a mat substitute, I headed out to our little balcony for some surreptitious yoga. It turned out to be a mixture of stretches do-able in a small space and sitting, gazing around, being, you guessed it, in the present moment.

We're in the Smoky Mountains. The air is velvety, the sky a pearly gray, the movement of the air hardly a breeze, merely a whisper, and deliciously cool. The grass in front of me is emerald, raindrops balancing tremulously on the ends of each blade. The rain makes steady music in the downspout nearby. A cat moves sinuously into view, barely discernible in the fading light. He emerges from some bushes below me and stands a moment surveying the scene. Gracefully he lowers his hind quarters to the ground and looks around. Making a decision, he rises and sets off down a grassy embankment and disappears. I return to contemplating the layers of trees of multiple shades of green, some even fading, already, into yellow.

I watch the famous Smoky Mountain mist descend over the treetops and and breathe in the peace.

A good sleep tonight,then onward to those gangly, beautiful grandsons. The navigator is retiring.

The GPS should be able to handle it from here....

Whacky Wednesday

We came down to the water to watch the sunset. The parking lot was full so the OC dropped us off and went to find parking further away. A man pulled up beside us, saw that there was no parking but, nothing daunted, turned his SUV around and maneuvered it neatly into position under this sign, climbed out and hurried off towards the water. He was seventy-ish, distracted, and alone.

I hope he never goes here......

When God Made Time......

 "When God made time He made plenty of it." I heard that so often growing up it took root between my ears. I don't like to rush. I don't like to race from A to B with blinders on, focused solely on getting there. I like to smell the flowers along the way, pause to admire a gnarled tree, gaze at the moon, spy on lizards and frogs, chase butterflies with my camera.

This relaxed attitude towards time has gotten me in plenty of trouble. My dad was a patient man. On Sundays he'd issue the five minute warning, calling it up the stairs to me. Then he'd give me a bonus of another five. But when I still did not appear, he'd slowly start driving up the hill so, when I did emerge, I'd have to run to catch up, hair and coat flying. Not the best way to prepare for church. The OC is not so patient. "Same day rules," he cautions when we're preparing to go anywhere. "But wait!" I say. "I just saw a lizard eating his lunch, I'll be there just as soon as I take a picture...." He sighs. I'll train him yet.

 I'm trying to be a more consistent blogger and to post at least once a week, but time got away from me last week. I'm thinking that, for this life at any rate, there might not be as much of it as there used to be!

While I was busy chewing the end of my pen, Riseoutofme surfaced after her three year sabbatical. We have an agreement. We'll each post once a week. And I'm sure the world will not screech to a halt if we're off by a day or two. She has informed me it's my turn,  no pressure of course.

It's been quiet around here. No shootings to report. If you want to read about that sort of horror you know where to find it, plenty of it, sad to say.

But not here. This is a horror free zone.

We watched an interesting film at our creativity workshop at the library recently --- Being In The World, a philosophical guide to a meaningful life.

We'd all like a lead a meaningful life, but I've always considered philosophy the business of intellectuals. Since I don't belong to that club, I was a tad apprehensive. Not being one for pondering the mysteries of the universe at great length, I expected it would be a struggle for the old brain cells. And I did have to pay close attention and stretch cerebral muscles that don't often get a workout. We didn't solve the riddle of who we are, or why we are here, but, I was delighted to find that the film was about real people, not just academics spouting incomprehensible theories.

I'm not about to climb on a butter box and expound on the nature of knowledge, and quite likely make a fool of myself, but, as we watched and listened to people who live fuller and more interesting lives as a result of their "mastery of physical, intellectual and creative skills," I wondered if most of us travel through life only half living.

There was the chef from a New Orleans restaurant of whom those who knew her said "she doesn't use recipes, she is the recipe!" My mother-in-law was like that - a smidgeon of this, a soupcon of that, more or less if you think it's needed. I used to follow her around the kitchen, frantically trying to measure her smidgeons and soupcons. It made going out to eat something of a let-down as nothing ever tasted as delicious as what she made at home.

 Then there was the Japanese master carpenter who reminded me of my brother who can "talk" to wood and make it "talk" back, both of them so in tune with their tools and materials. Just by the grain of the wood, its texture and its smell, they can tell how old it is, where it came from and, most importantly, if it will work for the project at hand. When they use a tool, the tool seems less a tool than an extension of their body.

Likewise with the musicians, their music a love affair between player and instrument. And once again, regret that, even though I grew up in Ireland, for heaven's sake, I never learned to play the harp, the flute or the fiddle. Something to do with my mother being tortured with piano lessons as a child......I have mastered one instrument though --- my voice. And while I'm not much in demand for singing engagements, I will happily talk to anyone.  Instead of applauding and encouraging me though, there are those who believe I talk too much. Imagine!

 I feel their pain, but not enough to be silent.

When we lived in Belgium a man at our church played the tin whistle. I would sit and listen, spellbound. You could not tell where the whistle ended and he began --- they were one. He was world class, even on such a humble instrument, and hidden away in a small Irish church in Belgium. Excited at the prospect of producing such heavenly sounds, I bought a tin whistle, but, alas, the only sounds I've ever coaxed from it are those of a crow being strangled.

Watching the musicians reminded me of a little six year old Japanese girl who was a first grade classmate of my oldest son. She had learned to play the piano by the Suzuki method, and at the school's end of year concert you could hear a pin drop as she played. She had the advantage of lessons, true, but she was six! There was something more at work - genius perhaps? I wonder how many Mozarts are wandering around out there, oblivious to the the talent buried within them? How many Fontyns? Hemmingways? Picassos? How many Flatleys? YoYo Mas?

We didn't watch the entire film. We paused frequently for discussion. One thing impressed me and it was that to be an artist, or master of any craft, after the study and the apprenticeship and the practice, practice, practice, the really great ones take an extra leap. My mother-in-law took that leap - off the pages of cookbooks, into an understanding of the nature of food. I'm a better cook now than early days but I still need those pages!

My brother was apprenticed for years to master cabinet makers. He soaked in everything they had to teach him and became an expert craftsman, but he had such a passion for his work, and was so electrically alive when absorbed in it that he too made that leap. People came to him from miles around, dragging their dilapidated antiques, and he restored them to their original splendor.

And so with writing. We're not all as disciplined or as talented as the Shakespeares and the Hemingways who write for hours, every single day, no excuses. They carry notebooks everywhere so when inspiration strikes they can capture it, cage it and take it back to their desk. They practice, practice, practice and, for every hundred pages they write, ninety nine go in the rubbish bin. Maybe it's that constant practice, that striving for perfection, that finally makes them soar above the rest of the scribbling world into the rarefied reaches of masters of their craft.

And way below in "the misty flats" us bloggers slog sluggishly along, hoping to, once in a while, evoke a smile of recognition at a shared thought or experience. Considering ourselves lucky if we can scratch out a few words at least once a week, give or take a day or two.

 We're not all destined for greatness but, as they say in Ireland when God made time He wasn't stingy. Everyone can live a more meaningful life. We all have the option to use the time we have, while we have it ( it might be gone tomorrow,) to pursue what we love, be it painting or writing or chasing butterflies, and become great at it. The trick is discipline, and practice, practice, practice. A trick I'm still struggling to learn..


It was a thought provoking film, great discussions, everyone went home happy

Even if we still don't know why we're here!

On Blogs and Frogs and Flirty Lizards

It dawned on me recently that it's been ten years this summer since I started blogging.

Ten years --- holy mackeral! One sixth of my life.

Sometimes the ideas fall over each other inside my head in their haste to get to the page. More often it looks like the Gobi desert in there and I wonder "Why am I doing this?" The answer is always the same. Desert or rain forest, I have found that if I just get all the gobbledygook down on paper, where I can see it, and slowly move the words around, they will eventually  make sense. The Little Blister and I were talking a few days ago, I mentioned this and, to my guarded delight (she's made similar noises before,) she is about to administer CPR to her blog. Since that ten year milestone has inspired me to continue into my dotage it would double the fun (or is it torture?) if she were scribbling alongside me. She started after me and, for a year or two, we egged each other on, but life got hectic and her blog was one of the casualties. So, fingers crossed!



There's a little lake in our neighborhood, a couple of gardens over. You can't see it from here but me and shank's mare can get there in three minutes. It's a great place to think, to stargaze, to read a good book, to play at being a photographer, and a stellar place to just sit and think.




 Molehills were turning into mountains one day recently so I came to the lake to sit awhile and clear my head.



Lizards flicked to right and left as I walked along the boardwalk. They have the place mostly to themselves so they get pretty territorial about it.

They move just far enough not to get stepped on, then sit and watch me, all the while flexing their muscles and doing pushups. But I'm bigger than you, Squirt! Unimpressed. I think this little guy was flirting with me. He made a great show of stretching out his colors for me to admire. "Go find a lady closer to your own age and size," I advise him.

The sun is low behind the trees, glowing golden between their trunks. Great banks of dark clouds, sitting along the horizon, are fading from grey to a taupe-ish pink but, don't close your eyes 'cause it changes every minute. There's whispering in the pines as a breeze wanders by.

Suddenly the air is rent with raucous honking.  A trio of sandhill cranes prepare to land in the rushes but, oh-oh, they've changed their minds. Warned off by honking from others already settled in those reeds, they climb again skywards as two more fly overhead, squawking loudly. Must be a crane convention going on.

Meanwhile, piled high in the west, more grey clouds shot through with pink, the color of a rose.  The reflection of an old, fuzzy jetstream zig-zags through the ruffled water,. Straight out from where I'm sitting at the end of the boardwalk is a raft of waterlilies, no flowers yet but beauty enough in the leaves alone.

What looks like an old brown leaf appears among the ripples, dark, almost black against the water's grey. As I watch, it moves, then ducks beneath the surface and I realize, that's no leaf, that's a turtle!

Belly down on the raft at the end of the boardwalk, I watch this tiny spider catching the last rays of the sun.....

Big blue dragonflies zoom about, intent on going --- where? What's on the to-do list of a dragonfly?Does her nest (if dragonflies have nests) get claustrophobic so she feels she must get out and come to the lake to clear her head? And while we're at it --- why is the sky blue? If I had such beautiful, irridescent wings I'd fly down into the rushes where the water is squishy and brown and spy on those frogs who make such a racket and sound as large as dogs but are, somehow, invisible.

Guess I should go home while I can still see the way. The silver jetstreams high above have turned pink now, the clouds in the west are an even darker grey, and, best of all, my head is clear. The cranes have resumed their inelegant song and the wind is whispering "go home! Go Home!"

I went back to the lake last night to take some photos. It was earlier, and sunnier, so no dramatic clouds but all the usual suspects were present. Those loud, invisible frogs were as noisy as ever and I wondered idly who decided that frogs say "ribbit"? Sounds more like chirping to me. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe those loud, invisible creatures are not frogs at all but birds that hide under water! The sandhill cranes were having another domestic dispute but the sun was sinking and they sounded halfhearted.

You never know what new drama Life has up her sleeve so it's comforting to come to the lake knowing it will be different every time but reliably and serenely the same.

Such an ordinary place but, when you sit and think and watch, you find ordinary places can be full of extraordinary peace and beauty.

Peonies ..... and Life

Sometimes I think it would be good to lock myself away in a windowless cell for a few decades like the Buddhist nun I recently read about. I wouldn't have to hear of the appalling things human beings are capable of doing to each other, and regularly do. I wouldn't have to see pictures in the newspaper of handsome young men, fathers of children, and mothers too, who can gun down innocent people who have done them no harm and feel that they are the heroes. I wouldn't have to twist my brain into knots trying to understand how a person could evolve from an innocent baby to a gun- or explosives-toting killer. I saw a poster once of a down-at-heel homeless man wandering the streets of Paris. The caption said "We All Come From Lovers." The puzzlement is in how the love gets lost and the baby grows up to be a psychopath.


I got peonies for my birthday last month. I know that must seem like a non sequitur but I hope to show you that it is not. At first this post was going to be just about the peonies.....and then things happened and......it wasn't.

 They looked like dirty little golf balls on stems when they arrived. But, the card assured me, follow the instructions and they will blossom into beauties. I followed the instructions and was rewarded with this -

It was like an extravagant explosion of pink. My eyes drank them in. My nose o.d'd on the heavenly scent. I placed them where I could see them no matter where I was --- cooking, or cleaning, reading, or watching television.

They were beautiful. 

Each morning I changed the water, clipping the bottoms of the stems to keep them fresh. They lasted for several days but each day was like a different decade in a human life ---

--- the newborn stage when they were first delivered, looking like old golf balls;

--- the unfolding into the unblemished beauty of childhood;

--- the full flowering of youth;

--- on into middle age, still beautiful but drying out a little;



And then the inevitable dropping off of petals.
         

Finally, all that remained was a bowl of crispy remnants that are nevertheless still beautiful and retain much of the beauty of their first day of flowering.


And how does this relate to my opening paragraph? It made me reflect on life. I'm older now than my own parents lived to be. It is sometimes tempting to groan at the prospect of another birthday, to grimace at the bathroom mirror when faced with the incontestible proof of time's passage, to bemoan the dryness, the sagginess, the bagginess, the long-in-the-toothedness, the wrinkles.

The peonies reminded me of what I knew all along  --- that each phase of life has its own beauty. No moaning or ollagoaning* this year. I'm too busy embracing each minute, with all its creaking joints, and multiple blessings. I'm too busy being grateful for my life and its few remaining petals.  I'm sure the victims of  recent events on the world stage would gladly accept a few sags and bags, creaks and aches, if they could only have lived to evolve into them from their snatched-away youth.

As our teacher says at the end of yoga class --

"May you be well,

May you be happy and peaceful

May you be free from all danger,

May you be filled with loving kindness."

(And treasure all your petals no matter what stage they're at)

Namaste.

Notes:

 # 1. Thank you Tigey!

 # 2  Mr. Google failed me in that I could not find an official spelling (or even acknowledgement of it as a real word) for "ollagoaning" which was in common use in Ireland when I was growing up as a synonym for "wailing."  This is my own, unassisted by Google, effort at writing it phonetically...

The Return of Sir Hiss

Have I mentioned Sir Hiss?

He came to live with us oh, maybe eighteen months ago. We found him on the porch. I love to sit on the porch and read. Fortunately, I was not sitting when I found him. I had just lifted a cushion from one of the chairs to shake off some leaves when --- Surprise! There was a snake coiled up on the seat, keeping himself warm no doubt. After the initial discovery we were careful to check under the cushions before sitting down. To sit and, too late, realise something reptilian had bagged that seat before you --- well, the mind boggles!

 I sat there reading a few days ago, my mind on my book, not on the possibility of an encounter with Sir Hiss. In fact I'd forgotten all about him. My chair was nestled into the corner, a window on my left, a wall on my right. Suddenly something black flicked by from behind me, on the ground, not on the chair. Had it been on the chair I'd be writing this from my hospital bed --- on account of the heart attack. No heart attack, but I did leap with youthful speed and agility out of the chair. He stopped at the corner and looked back at me, then off he slithered along the front of the house.

I galloped inside for my phone and gave chase.

He was proceeding at a leisurely slither and I noticed how he'd grown. No longer the skinny juvenile we'd met last year, he was now as thick as a rope and five or six feet long. He stopped as I approached and turned to look at me.  "Wanna a piece of this, Lady?" he seemed to be saying, holding his head up regally with the rest of him in langorous loops beneath. For added emphasis he rattled his tail. He's a black racer so I wasn't really scared. He keeps lizards and rodents from taking over the world. Humans are not on his menu and he'd obviously been dining very well on our local lizard population, none of whom were in evidence, though we're usually tripping over them this time of year. Smart. They'd scarpered up the walls and into the trees. I dropped back to a more respectful distance and followed him around the side of the house. He stopped again by the barbeque to check my progress. I maintained my distance and clicked away, wishing I'd had time to get my real camera and not just my phone.

As he advanced across the patio I crept along behind, not spooking him but trying for a better shot. Eventually he tired of me and slithered off out the back. I puttered around in the garden for a while and eventually made my way back to the front porch, remembering my abandoned book. All thoughts of my book evaporated  when I looked at the front door. Not to be deterred by the presence of humans Sir Hiss had circled 'round and stretched himself out the full length of the threshold. No picture for obvious
reasons. Whatever alarming noises I made they were enough to scare him off once more into the bushes.

 

It was an instructive encounter for me. I tend to forget that we share our habitat with reptiles, not all of them as helpful and benign as the racers. Today we were picking wild blackberries out back, a mission the OC likes to accomplish with military precision. He likes to be thorough. I flit. Between us, nevertheless, we had gathered up a fine bowl of shining black jewels.

I was AWOL, off behind the bamboo, having a last gander at some outlying straggler bushes when I spied a slinky blackness slither in among the canes and disappear. Sir Hiss, I presumed, and backed off to safety. Or perhaps it was Lady Hiss this time. Whatever. The bamboo is way back behind the house. A much better location for Hiss and his ladies than on the porch chairs or across the front threshold.

 Florida's been home forever to snakes, lizards, tortoises, alligators, panthers and all manner of creeping, crawling creatures --- and, in recent times, humans. I feel bad for these critters that, because of us, their habitat has drastically shrunk. I respect their right to their space; I'll stomp, shuffle, sing, whatever it takes to give them fair warning to vamoose when I'm picking blackberries out back or just wanting to enjoy the shade of the bamboo. However, it is difficult to sing while reading, and I can't follow the plot if I'm dancing so I hope that Sir Hiss will stay off my porch for the rest of the summer so I can read in peace.

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!

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!

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.

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!"

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! 

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!

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.

Busy Morning at the Bistro

 Retirement is all about having the time to try new things. We've recently taken the plunge into the restaurant business. We've opened a bistro. Nothing fancy, just two flower pots and a shepherd's hook, but business has been brisk.

Our patrons all live in the neighborhood. Many of them are natty dressers with a preference for shirts in shades of red. The red shirts are a bossy bunch, preferring to have the place to themselves and are not above bullying the other customers. The management tolerates them as they add a dash of color and character to the establishment, but we like to encourage, and cater to, a diverse clientele.

A newcomer today --- our fame is spreading.

 It makes drinking our coffee in the mornings so much more entertaining. 

The patriarch of the red clan wears the brightest shirt and, if he's at the head table, everyone else waits at a respectful distance in the nearby trees.  He will allow his ladies, recognizable by the duller red of their shirts, to dine at the other table (it's a small bistro), but any strangers passing by would be well advised to wait 'til he's had his fill. He's always armed. 

I, for one, would not want to be on the business end of that beak.

Waiting for a table...

I was walking by the bistro last evening and the red shirts were swooping by, dangerously close.

Whoa! (I thought) Knock it off. I'm not some big peaceful dove you can push around. Neither am I one of those wee fellows in the grey suits with their black heads and sporty quiffs!

The cutie in the grey suit

Well, came the response (I have an active imagination in which I have conversations with birds) You can't expect to be kept on as manager of this joint if the service is as poor as it is tonight!

Oh-oh! I'd forgotten to fill the pots!

Abject apologies sir, I said . I'll speak to the servers right away. And, to make up for the inconvenience, your Eminence, I'll throw in an extra handful of sunflower seeds.

So I did. And this morning there's been a steady stream of customers. Mr. Red Shirt and his harem have been by several times; the little guys in the grey suits with their spiffy quiffs dart in and out; the peaceful doves had a table for a while but scattered when the woodpecker dropped in for a quick bite.

Size and loudness gets you the best table, quickly.

We haven't been awarded a Michilin star yet and it's highly unlikely we'll be reviewed in the "Taste" section of the newspaper, but, as we drink our coffee each morning and watch the customers lining up, we're counting our new venture a roaring success.