Long Hollow

Connections

     "We cannot live only for ourselves; a thousand fibers connect us to those who are present and those throughout the generations."

-Violet George

     I think we are all related. Not just connected, but actually related. Family.

     A few years after I started researching my genealogy, I wrote a speech about it for my Public Speaking class. I went through my notes and made a list of the last names of everyone I was related to at that point. I can't remember the exact number now, but it was enough to fill three pages with three columns each. One of my family names is Baggett, and there was a student in my class whose last name was Baggett. So I made it the point of my speech - he and I could be related.

     I haven't had time to work on my family history in years, but recently my cousin Pat caught the fever. Online, she met a distant cousin who told her about an upcoming family reunion in Goldthwaite. So last Saturday she and I walked into the Family Life Center of the First Methodist Church in Goldthwaite and introduced ourselves to a bunch of new cousins. They are descended from my great-grandmother's grandfather's brother, which means we all share the same grandfather and grandmother, with varying numbers of 'greats' before them: John Sumner and Sarah Reed Clary.

     Last year Pat and I visited their graves. They are buried in a small cemetery in Temple, Texas that is enclosed on two sides by apartment complexes and two sides by a subdivision. We got turned around a few times trying to follow the Mapquest directions, and then had to walk through a field to get to the gate. One corner was overgrown with giant ragweed, but there they were: the simple obelisks marking the resting places of my great-great-great-great-grandparents who moved from Arkansas to Central Texas more than a century ago. They died in the 1860s.

     At the reunion, it was easy to spot the geneology geeks. We were all huddled around notebooks and laptops on one side of the room next to a 4ft.x6ft. family tree chart that one of the cousins had printed from her computer and taped to the wall. Pat and I added our lines - our "fibers" - that connected us to this family.

     I'll admit it - I was a little intimidated. It was obvious I wasn't in the same league as most of the other geeks. All of my notes are scribbled on paper, and the charts filled in by hand. The others, who were all even older than I am by at least one decade, had most of their information stored in their computers. They were discussing the latest geneology software and scanning photos.

     Photos are what makes a name become family. They reveal stories and personality. The dry facts are interesting, and discovering a new name on the tree is exciting, but they don't match the joy I felt in finally having a face to go with the name of my great-great-great grandmother Jane Wyatt Clary.

     I love the history part of geneology, but in this day and age, I also love walking into a room of fifty people I have never met and knowing they are family. It makes me wonder...have I met them before, perhaps passed them in the grocery store or sat by them in a movie theater?  I think about all of the hundreds of other cousins I have out there that I've never met.

     I wonder...if we all treated each other like family, would we be nicer to each other?

If only I hadn't...

Up until recently, I maintained the philosophy that I shouldn’t regret any “bad” decisions I made – that my mistakes helped make me who I am, that everything worked out for the best, the way it was supposed to, blah, blah, blah… Now that fifty is around the corner, I realize I do have some regrets. Things would have worked out (probably better) even if I didn’t make the mistakes, and I could have learned the same lessons. (I think it was Eleanor Roosevelt that said “Learn from the mistakes of others; you don’t have time to make them all yourself.”) So here are a few of my regrets…

Quitting college – I could have met Tom at Diamondback and known all the guys at the plant and experienced what I experienced, at least most of it, as an engineer. Now that my kids are in college, I realize just how valuable that full scholarship was, and therefore, how really, really stupid I was to throw it away.

Not backing up my files – Tom recovered some of it, thank goodness and bless him, but I know there are months of work frozen in that hard drive that sits optimistically in my drawer until we have the money to pull them out.

Not spending more time with Mam-ma, my grandmother, in those months before she was diagnosed with leukemia and died - I took her for granted as if I thought she’d always be there. It was hard to imagine she wouldn’t. But I let myself get too busy with other things. Less important things, I realize now.

Not going to Cozumel years ago when I bought two tickets, but then my boyfriend wouldn’t go. So I didn’t. Stupid.

Not going into the Louve when Donna, Laura, and I were in Paris with the Foreign Study League because it wasn’t air-conditioned and Europe was experiencing a record-breaking heat wave that summer of 1976. I thought I’d be back soon.

Of course, these are just fleas on the dog. I've made many bad decisions, but for some reason these have been on my mind.I'll have to remember what St. Teresa of Avila, my patron saint, said: “Every part of the journey is of importance to the whole.”

Speaking of journeys, I will be focusing on my family for the next couple of weeks, so I won’t be able to post much. I’ll miss it, but I think it’s good to change up your routine every now and then. I just wanted to mention it, so if anyone is actually reading this, they don’t think I’ve gone away for good. I’ll be back…

To My Jersey Girls...(and my other Lago Girls...and my Deer Park co-horts...)

    I dedicate these ramblings to my Jersey girls, Kimmy and Mary Kay. I enjoyed the Chinese food, wine, and friendship tonight. You are better than “Sex in the City” any day. What would I do without you? Thank you for listening to me, and I hope you know I’m there for you anytime.

“Listening is a magnetic and strange thing, a creative force. The friends who listen to us are the ones we move toward. When we are listened to, it creates us, makes us unfold and expand.” (KARL A. MENNINGER American physician, 20th century)

     Isn't this the truth? What a beautiful and accurate portrayal of the gift of friendship. It reflects on many things that have been happening in my life this past year or so. I've made new friendships, re-kindled old ones, and watched a few drift away. I've thought a lot about friendship.

     Are there any hard and fast rules? If you don't talk to a friend in a defined amount of time, does that mean the friendship is over? If you don't confide everything right away to a friend, or they don't confide in you, does it mean the friendship isn't true? I don't think so.

     However, some friendships grow and others become dormant; they don’t necessarily go away – the feelings are still there - but it’s more of a sentimental friendship, like a souvenir of a past closeness.

     I hope I'm the kind of friend that listens, that helps others ‘create, unfold and expand’, as they have helped me. But the problem with friendship is, it’s not always a two-way thing or an even give-and-take. Rarely are friendships perfectly balanced between two people. The need shifts back and forth, like a see-saw. Allowing your friends to listen to you is as important as listening to them.

     What happens if you stop being listened to? The challenge is not to let it deflate you or fold you back up into yourself, but to hold on to the gifts that linger, even if the friendship itself fades away.

     I noticed that Menninger says "friends" not "friend" in his quote. I don't think it's fair to expect one friend to meet all the needs of another. Just as there are many sides to each of us, we might connect to different friends in different ways.

     The picture above is of my Lago girls on our annual retreat (recharging, renewal, reawakening) to Port Aransas (left to right. Jackie, Kim, Cheryl, Mary Kay, my sister Brenda, an honorary Lago girl, me, Conni, and Nancy. Karen couldn't come this past year.) When I moved to Lago Vista thirteen years ago, it was scary. I had lived within twenty miles of my childhood home and friends all of my life. But within a few short months, it was home because of these and other wonderful friends who took me into their hearts.

     But I'm also blessed to still have my friends from elementary, junior high, and high school (some of them in the photos below.) Even though we graduated thirty years ago, we've clung to and even strengthened our connections with each other, by sharing and listening, laughing and praying, mostly through emails but also with periodic get-togethers. They've helped me rediscover sides of myself that I had neglected or even forgotten about. I hope my friendship has meant as much to them.

This was taken at a St. Patrick's Day/Mike's birthday party at Rae's (left to right, Chris, Randy, Gina, me, Todd (kneeling), Mike, Rae, and Rick.)

This was at my birthday celebration at Darla's (left to right, Donna, Leslie, Larry, Todd, Darla, me, Ann.)

Purple flowers

A patch of small purple flowers blooms on the edge of our road where it dips and curves. I’m not sure when they first staked their claim in that spot. The first time I really noticed them, there was frost on their delicate petals, but it didn’t diminish the purple color, still bright and vivid and fresh.

     All winter, I kept watch, every morning expecting to find them killed by the cold, but they held on. When spring arrived and the days warmed, they thrived, spreading into the ravine next to the road, joined by a few sprigs of different yellow flowers that quickly faded.

     They continued to hold on, despite construction equipment that came in late spring to build a driveway. Somehow they dodged the bobcat that cleared the area and the tires of the trucks that pulled off to park there.

     According to my Texas flowers book, they are prairie verbena. It’s not a very pretty name, but otherwise I think it fits. The word “prairie” conjures images of tough pioneer women, determined to overcome one hardship after another to make a life for themselves and their families.

     Even now, when the green around us is fading, the mountain pinks are drying up, and the Mexican hats bordering our front path have lost their orange and yellow brims, even now when rain is just a memory, there is still a small patch of prairie verbena down in the curve.

      I want to be like these purple flowers that stubbornly hang on despite the turmoil around them, that continue to bloom and be beautiful and brighten up someone’s day.

Two's company

Do guineas make good house pets? I'm wondering about that right now because Frankie is sitting on the woodpile outside the window, looking in at me, watching me at the computer.  He pecks at the wood looking for bugs every once in a while, but mostly he's just peering in, and sometimes cocking his head as if he's enjoying the Dixie Chicks' song playing on www.pandora.com.

So I've been taking little breaks from my writing to talk to him. He's good, quiet company. I wonder if he's missing Ruthie and this is easing his loneliness a little? I hope so. My kids tell me I have an overactive imagination. I blame it on my exposure to Black Beauty, Call of the Wild, Tarzan, and other books like that at a young age. Maybe they did warp my sense of reality, but who cares?

I better get back to work on my children's book...I might have to add a guinea character...

Update on Frankie or If I Could Only Speak Guinea

      Frankie, the neighborhood guinea widower, has been coming by every other day or so. He divides his time between our house and our neighbors'.

     If I see he's here, I scoop up some bird seed and scatter it on the ground under the trees so he can make a hasty retreat if my dogs, who seem to be ignoring him right now, take a more sinister interest in him.

     I talk to him a lot. My excuse is that he is lonely since the 'passing' of Ruthie, and he is obviously a very social creature. When I step outside, he scurries to me, especially if I have the afore-mentioned cup of birdseed.

     But he's not just interested in us for the birdseed. This morning, after I scattered the seed and he began eating (and chirping in between bites), I told him good-bye and turned back to the house. He set in  squawking and following me, then flew up eye-level onto a horizontal branch in one of the oak trees, chatting nonchalantly and pecking at the bark for bugs.

     Poor little guy. What could I do? I had to stay and visit with him. And later, when I spotted him in our little courtyard, I took a break, sat on the front porch and visited with him some more. We had a nice conversation - I just wish I knew what he said.

God bless the check-out boy

     Coming back from the doctor this afternoon, tired from the weekend and too little sleep, and feeling depressed because I always believe the worst-case scenario when something is wrong, I stopped at HEB. 

    "How's your day going?" the check-out boy asked. He was only about seventeen, tall, thin. Shaggy-ish brown hair.

      "It's great," I said, but he was still looking at me. His question had been a real one, not just an automatic greeting. "I'm just a little worn out," I added.

      "I thought so. I see it in your face."

     I couldn't bear to spread this "down" that had taken control of me, and especially not to this sweet kid. I was ashamed that I had let it get to me - I have so much to be grateful for. I smiled at him. "Every day is a great day."  That's what I believe, even if can't always feel it.  But he made me remember. So...I said a prayer for him on my way out.

     God has a way of dropping gifts in our path. Somehow, he knows just what we need. God bless that check-out boy.

Traveling Solo

     I enjoy trips with Tom and all the kids (in general), but it's so therapeutic to hit the road alone. I'm in my own little world and don't have to worry if I'm driving anyone crazy by constantly scrolling through stations on the radio until I find one I like, then scrolling again if the DJs start talking or a commercial comes on or some song I don't like.

     I love to sing along - loudly. I can't carry a tune, but I enjoy trying, especially when I know the words.

     Driving highways for hours alone gives me time to think. My brain can zoom along as fast as my van. I reminisce, my memory triggered by whatever I'm passing or the song on the radio, or I just think about what's going on in my life.

     I can stop when and where I want to, and stay as long as I want, knowing Tom doesn't already have the van running and the kids rounded up, waiting for me.

     So yes, I enjoyed this fast trip to see my parents, and not just the part when I was with them.

Happy Father's Day... a little early

     I'm going to see my Daddy this weekend. He's a little older now than when this article was written - he's the cute highway patrolman standing on the left. My sister Brenda found this a few months ago in some of our grandmother's things.

     By the time I was born, he had left the highway patrol to become a Pasadena policeman, and then left that to work at a chemical plant on the Houston Ship Channel. Policeman back then had to work two or three side jobs to make enough to support a family of five with one on the way. He could make that much and more just working at a chemical plant, plus better benefits and a bowling league.

    He has always been that way - doing whatever it takes to care for his family. When he met my mother, she was working as a night waitress to support herself and her young son from her first marriage. Daddy adopted her son, my oldest brother Buster. Even though Buster's birth father came around every once in a while, to Buster, my Daddy was his "real" daddy. Even years later, after Buster was a quadriplegic and Mama and Daddy were divorced (they remarried after just four years apart), we would take Buster to Daddy's apartment to visit. It was pretty comical watching Daddy and my brother-in-law trying to carry Buster's six-foot limp body up the stairs.

    Just a few of the other magnificent things Daddy did include...

     ...when Brenda was about six, she dislocated her hip and had to be in a body cast for months. Daddy homeschooled her before homeschooling was "in."

     ...he coached my brother Donnie's baseball team and helped start the Deepwater Optimist Club that supported the baseball leagues.

     ...he let me tag along on errands around town with him. My favorites were the bank where he'd give me pennies to throw in the fountain, and Sears where my first stop was always the snack bar in the middle and I had a hard time deciding between warm, roasted cashews, or chocolate malted balls that were the best I've ever eaten.

     ...he tried to teach me how to bowl and how to play golf, but I was too stubborn to listen and learn. He persevered in teaching me how to drive, bless his heart. I wasn't a nice student. Even though I gave up trying to learn how to play, I'd go with him to the golf course just to walk around and see the squirrels. He would also drive me and my friends all over Houston to watch our high school basketball games. He took us to the movies (most memorable was "Gone With the Wind" after which Donna threw up buttered popcorn and we all stuck our heads out of the windows of the old Chevrolet to avoid the smell.)

     ...he taught me how to win at ping-pong.

     ...when I wrecked my brand new car at the end of my senior year of high school (by running into the end of a parked truck!), he never even raised his voice with me, which made me feel even more sorry and ashamed.

     ...when I tossed aside my scholarship in chemical engineering by dropping out of college and going to work as a welder's helper and then a chemical plant operator, like him, he never voiced disappointment. That's one of the reasons that even to this day I'm taking classes, trying to get my degree. I have to make it up to him. I'm not sure if he'll live long enough to see me graduate, but he knows I haven't given up. At least he got to watch my oldest son walk across the stage to receive his diploma. It's not that I have to do anything to make Mama or Daddy proud. I can see in their eyes when they look at me that all I have to do is exist to make them happy - not just me, but all of us. They would brag about the way I walk or breathe. That's the kind of parents they are. And it feels good.

     But that's also why I feel the need to finish what I started, to do what he expected me to do years ago. I know I don't have to do it for him to love me.

     I'm grateful I still have my Daddy. I wish I had more than a day to spend with him right now, to just hang out and watch TV. This will be a quick trip to Houston and back in one day, but I don't want to pass up the chance to tell him on Father's day to his face what a wonderful father - Daddy - he is.

Lucky 13

     "Happy Anniversary," Tom told me this morning. I had to stop and think - what anniversary? It's not August or September. Then I realized it was the 13th - a Friday the 13th.

     We got married on a Friday the 13th. It was supposed to be on September 25th,1982, the one-year anniversary of the night we met in Kenny Stabler's Diamondback Saloon in Houston. But Tom's dad worked at a bowling alley back then, and he couldn't get away during league season.

     We tried to move it to Saturday, August 14, before leagues began playing. That turned out to be a Holy Day. So that's how we ended up getting married on Friday, August 13, 1982. Ever since then, we consider  Friday the 13th a lucky day. Every one of them is an anniversary.

     Still, I'm surprised that Tom thought about it today. In the very beginning of our relationship, he soared way above the top of the scale as far as being romantic and affectionate goes. He asked me to marry him (and I said yes) just two weeks after we met. He hid my engagement ring in a box of Cracker Jacks, for goodness sake. On our one-year anniversary - the September 25th one - I came out from work one evening to find my car newly waxed and filled with flowers, cards, and even a beer chilling in a bucket of ice. He loved to surprise me. He loved to be with me. He thought of me when we were apart.

     However, over the course of our twenty-six years together, he has slid nearer the bottom of that scale. I guess it's only to be expected in a marriage. There are so many things to think about - work, kids, health issues, money, bills, car and house maintenance, money, bills, kids...money...

     He'll still surprise me every once in a while: for our anniversary a couple of years ago, I came home and found him playing a set of drums in the livingroom. I didn't think he had even heard me when I said time and again that I wanted to learn to play before I turned fifty. Once our house was built, and there was no space for a drum set, I figured that was one dream I would have to scratch off my list. But he had been keeping an eye out for a set on Craig's List. I still consider that one of the most romantic things ever done - is there a contest somewhere I could enter him in?

     This past summer we held a big party for his fiftieth birthday, inviting all of our friends and family. Our house was overflowing. He surprised me by making it a party for our twenty-fifth anniversary, also. That was a very sweet surprise, but it turned a little sour when, two months later on our actual anniversary, he had absolutely nothing planned except going to visit a friend of his that had come in town. He didn't even give me a card. I knew we couldn't afford a cruise or even a weekend away, but couldn't we have had a nice evening out by ourselves - dinner or dancing? We used to go dancing all the time - I love to dance. After all, we met when he asked me to dance. I wouldn't have given him the time of day if he hadn't known how to two-step.

     In all fairness, I didn't plan anything for our anniversary either, although I'm pretty sure I gave him a card. And I know he doesn't enjoy dancing because ten years ago he was in a head-on collision. He broke a rib, his hip and his foot, and the steering wheel sliced his face down the middle. You can barely see the scars, but he feels the aches all the time. It makes dancing hard, but he'll still two-step with me - a slow one - if the occasion arises.

    So his "happy anniversary" was a nice surprise this morning. It feels good to know that, even though he tends to ignore me most of the time, he still considers Friday the 13th a lucky day.

     I know I do.

    

Heaven is a library...

I am a book addict. I try to control it, but I just can't sometimes, especially around classics, old books, books by certain authors, books about philosophy, books of quotes, books with beautiful covers, books with catchy titles, or books about Texas. Oh, also history books - fiction or nonfiction. And biographies.

I guess I should narrow it down to what I CAN resist - paperbacks. Unless they are old Tarzan books or science fiction classics. Or any of the above.

So when I ran into Goodwill this weekend to drop off a couple of bags of spring-cleaning-culled clutter, Kinky Friedman's Guide to Texas Etiquette called to me from its seductive perch on the top of the shelves. I knew it would be mine at first sight: how could I resist that flashy cover with the circa 40's cowboy kissing his girl (I love circa '40's cowboy stuff.) And look at that title: Guide to Texas Etiquette or How to Get to Heaven or Hell Without Going Through Dallas-Fort Worth (the last part written in rope letters!) Heck, I would have bought it just because the word "Texas" is in the title, but the whole package set my heart to racing.

The strange thing about this addiction is that if I had spotted this book in, say, Barnes and Noble, it would have attracted me, yes, but I could have easily walked away. The $22.95 pricetag would have been like a splash of cold water on my passion.

It's when books get to places like Goodwill or my local library's book sale room that I succumb. I think it's the combination of cheap, cheap prices and my desire to rescue things. Books that no one wants end up in dumpsters. (I know this from my year as an elementary school librarian. All of the books I had to weed out from the shelves due to age or damage came home with me - I just can't put books in dumpsters.)

Unfortunately, I haven't yet even opened my Texas Etiquette book, nor the ten other books I couldnt live without that I found in Goodwill that day. They are sitting on a makeshift shelf in my "library" (Tom has promised to build bookshelves, but in the meantime, most of my books are in boxes stacked downstairs.) I want to read them - I love to read - I LOVE to read - but right now I can only spare a few minutes a day for reading - usually just snatches while I'm eating or waiting in a doctor's office. If it's just my kids and me eating dinner, it's a quiet meal - we all have a book open, devouring two things at once. But Tom, the husband, doesn't like us to read at the table (he's not a reader like us and just doesn't understand.)

A friend gave me Nora Ephron's I Feel Bad About My Neck back in April, and I started it right when I my last class finished up in mid-May. I love it, and I'm almost through with it now, but it's been almost a month and the book is only half an inch thick! I confess I'm also reading a biography of Thomas Merton, but that's just for a few minutes in the morning while I'm eating breakfast. I've been whittling on it for about a year now. And there are a couple of magazines I try to keep up with.

But I love books inside and out. It makes me feel good having them around. So I'll continue to rescue strays and maybe, just maybe, one day I'll actually read them all.

Sleep, baby, sleep...

TG is sleeping. She had her wisdom teeth removed this morning. I have the kitchen timer set so that every twenty minutes, I pull a frozen gelpack from the freezer and wrap it in a towel. I gently lift her head to remove the warm one, then rest the coldest one on the opposite side of her face to reduce the swelling, per doctor's orders.

Back and forth I've gone for hours, every twenty minutes.

I'm glad she's sleeping. When we got home, she cried just from the pain of swallowing ibuprofen tablets. And TG doesn't cry much - from the time she was born she's been the epitome of tough. People say it's because she has two older brothers, but I know better. She was usually the one picking on them, not the other way around.

It's been a long time since I've played nurse to her like this. She's tough AND independent. So I'm relishing this while I can - watching her sleep, making her feel more comfortable. I hope she feels better quickly, of course... but until then, I'll enjoy feeling like "Mama" again, because lately I've been second-guessing myself. Have I been a good mom? Have I been too easy? Too brusk? Too overprotective? Should I have let her go to that party...stay out that late...stay all night?

Tom and I don't argue about anything except our kids, but those arguments nearly tear us apart. Perhaps it's because we were brought up so differently. He is the third of nine boys in a military family. By necessity, his parents had rigid rules.

I am the youngest of four by five years - two boys, two girls - and my grandmother lived with us. There were rules and not much money, but lots of flexibility.

Until TG was born, Tom attended college on the GI Bill and I worked twelve-hour shifts as a hard-hat-wearing operator at a chemical plant on the Houston Ship Channel. By the time she arrived, he had graduated and gotten a job.

The first day I returned to work following maternity leave, I surprised everyone, myself included, by immediately quitting to fulfull my dream of being a stay-at-home mom. My oldest was already missing a lot of days at preschool with his asthma and I was being hassled about using any of my three weeks of vacation to care for him.

So for seventeen years now, my life has revolved around the kids' lives; by my own choice, my hobbies and part-time jobs have taken a backseat to everyone else's needs. Now that my oldest is on his own following college graduation, my middle one is in college, and Kendall is a senior in high school, I'm digging out some other old dreams and dusting them off, preparing for the time in the near-future when I can spend focus on them. 

I don't anticipate suffering from empty-nest syndrome.

However, to do something for that long, to try so hard to do your best, and yet feel like it just wasn't good enough...it's a tough feeling. It's hard not to let it color everything else in my life, to think I'm not a good mom...friend...wife...daughter...sister...writer...cook...or whatever else I've tried to do.   

But today...this is a part of motherhood I know I'm good at. Taking care of sick babies. All three of mine have asthma; many of those early days of motherhood were spent trying to keep track of who was nebulized when and what time the next dose of whatever was due. A friend gave us an extra nebulizer - such a blessing on those days when I was nebulizing all three.

Looking back on it now, I have no idea how I did it. It seems a nightmare to me. I've never understood those moms with Munchausen Syndrome  - making their kids sick so they could take care of them and get praised for it. I hated seeing my kids sick and couldn't wait for them to be well enough to go swimming or ride their bikes.

It's time to switch ice packs on TG's chubby, swollen cheeks again. She opens her eyes a little,  looks at me, and says "Ugh-hmm." (Her mouth is full of gauze.)

"You're welcome," I tell her, my heart swelling a little.  Anything for you.

Texas Hill Country morning

Just wanted to share these pictures from my morning walk...

I love the sky all the time, but morning skies are especially gorgeous...

Below is one of my favorite wildflowers - the Mountain Pink. They pop up at the beginning of summer just when everything else is fading, like splashes of pink paint or a perfect little bouquet for a June wedding. I noticed the first bunch yesterday. I love how they just scramble up out of the rocks to show off among the weeds. I had to take several pictures. Here are just a couple...

My dogs were feeling lazy this morning, I guess. They must have had a rough night.

I walked all the way to the curve before I realized they weren't with me anymore. On my way back, I caught Max taking a break. Charly was waiting, but headed home as soon as he saw me coming. He' s hard to see; his caliche-colored fur just blends into the road...

They Call the Wind...

     I love the wind. The wind reminds me that I'm alive. I can feel it all over, inside and out. It's palpable passion, the strength, the invigorating feeling it gives. It makes me want to run, energizes me, makes me feel all things are possible, that I can do anything I want. Ideas pop into my head. It does the same thing in a fire that has cooled down - just open a vent to let in some wind, and the cold ashes are blown away to reveal the hot coals underneath - with the touch of the wind, they flare up, provide warmth, come alive again.

     I love the wind. I love its energy, how it brushes my skin, roars in my ears, and whips through my hair. On my morning walk yesterday, it swept me and my dogs down the dirt road. The wind felt full of life, like a child eager to play. It invigorated me, filled me with optimism and ideas.

     It continued all day: a playful shove each time I walked out the door; a stealthy thief trying to pickpocket loose papers from my purse; a guest sneakily rearranging plastic chairs and cushions and anything else not bolted down on my back deck.

     At dusk, it was still roaring down the road when Tom and I took a walk to check on the progress of a future neighbor’s house (one of the hobbies we share - snooping around new construction.)  It will eventually be an underground, or rather “inside hill”, house, but right now there are just piles and piles of dirt that have been scooped out near the top of the hill, where there is little to block the wind. Dust devils danced in the clearing.

     I gazed down at our little hollow, full of junipers and oaks bowing to the wind’s will, and realized…I also need to fear the wind. This part of Texas outside of Austin is much like California on windy, dry summer days like this – a wildfire heaven of hollows and dry trees. I know from experience clearing junipers off of our property that they explode when tossed on a bonfire. Our house is made of polystyrene blocks filled with concrete, topped with a metal roof - it would probably survive a fire. Probably. But not without damage even if it does remain standing; it is surrounded by junipers and oaks. And what about our neighbors' houses, the animals, trees, wildflowers...? I had to stop thinking about it.

     After dark, I sipped wine on the back deck while feeding the dogs, listening to the crickets sing (whoever said the country is a quiet place never experienced it at night), and watching the crescent moon flirt with me behind a veil of fast-moving gauzy clouds. The wind still rushed down the deck, strong enough to move the dogs’ not-quite-empty bowls.

     I still love the wind, but I have to remember it can be an impish child – one who sometimes likes to play with matches. And we know what happens then…

   

Slow down, summer!

    Here are pictures of my kids. The first is of my oldest son Tommy, newly graduated from college, and  my 'baby', Kendall. The next is of Tommy, his best friend, and my younger son, Daniel (in the middle, appropriately since he is the middle child.)  Daniel just finished his first year of college. And today is my daughter Kendall's last day of 11th grade. Since she is my baby, it is my very last day of 11th grade, as well. Summer starts today.

I remember how I used to feel on the last day of school - ecstatic! Free! Hours, days, weeks of unstructured time stretched to the horizon ahead of us. I loved it when I was a kid, and I loved it when my kids were kids. We had so much fun - going to the beach, to museums on their 'free days', to the zoo. We swam, read tons of books, watched movies, played games.

But as I think ahead to this summer, I realize every day is already filled. Those free summer days are gone. I can look forward to two heavenly weeks traveling to and from Montana, and celebrating my husband's brother's birthday while we are there, but the rest of the summer looks like this: getting up at the crack of dawn to teach Kendall to drive, shuttling her to and from her job, and going to my job. Household chores and errands will fill in any cracks.

But I refuse to lose hope. I will do my best to accomplish the following goals....

1. Finish my children's book and begin the process of finding an agent.

2. Write here.

3. Continue learning to play the drums, or at least play around with them.

4. Learn more about photography.

5. Transfer our old family VHS tapes into DVDs (I bought a burner for this purpose...)

6. Get all of my loose photos into albums.

7. Visit my mom and dad.

8. Read!!!

9. Spend fun time with my kids (Daniel's introducing me to South Park right now - I know, I'm behind the times, but I wouldn't have watched it with him when he was younger, anyway.

I think that's enough. Wish me luck!

Ruthie and Frankie, Gypsy Guineas

Ruthie and Frankie in happier days ...

 

 

Life...and death...in the country

     I discovered Ruthie’s body yesterday morning – what was left of it – near the birdfeeder in our little front yard. A pile of her soft white feathers lay among the wildflowers, along with enough other parts for me to know she was gone. She was one of a pair of wild guineas that had adopted us a couple of weeks ago, wandering over from our neighbor's property. The guineas annoyed them but we liked them.

     Ants and flies had already begun their work. I had to be practical and not give in to the sadness I felt building inside. Her body had to be moved before the smell got strong. But where was the damn shovel I used for scooping up dead things the dogs drug back to their beds, like the half-baby deer (I think coyotes actually got it) and the dried up armadillo? I needed to move her delicate remains into the woods away from the house.

     That’s when I started crying. Ruthie hadn't been just another poor, nameless wild animal - she had personality, and the sweetest little eyes surrounded by long eyelashes. I had loved how she tilted her head when she chirped at me, how she took off after Max, our German Shepherd one day, spreading her wings. All 114 pounds of him turned tail and ran. She had spunk, that was for sure.

    Now Frankie, her black and white speckled cohort, was screeching at me. I felt so sorry for him. Max laid on his bed on the porch and our other dog, Charly, watched from a hole he dug in the woods. I had no proof, of course, but logic told me they were guilty of the crime, so I scolded them. Charly just ducked his head and wagged his tail to cheer me up. Max escaped to the doghouse.

    Heading downstairs to look for the shovel, I called my husband, Tom. "Just put her in a plastic bag in the freezer and I'll bury her when I get home tonight." I was shocked - not about having a dead animal in the freezer but because he's not sentimental like I am. I guess he knew how upset I was, and he is sweet like that. (To some readers putting a dead animal in the freezer probably sounds creepy, and I guess it is, but we also kept a dead baby gerbil in the freezer for several years in a checkbox until we finally remembered to bury it. Also, our neighbor put my son’s pet salamander, Spanky, in the freezer when it died under his watch while we were on vacation. And... one friend put her dead cat in the freezer until her husband came home from a business trip to bury it. And... our neighbor informed me today she has a dead coral snake in hers until she figures out how to preserve the skin. So we’re not alone, at least!)

     Unfortunately, the day got away from us, and we never had a chance to bury Ruthie. We’ll try to do it this afternoon. But for now, I have a dead guinea in my freezer. And I’m giving Frankie bird seed way up on the road under the trees so he’s not tempted to come down near the birdfeeder.

Finding my voice...

This is a big step for me - putting my thoughts out there for anyone...or no one...to read. Why am I doing it? I think it's to satisfy my conflicting needs of writing (a solitary journey) and connecting with other people. I really have no idea what I'm doing yet, so it will be fun to see how it evolves...