Today's Beautiful Thing

I’ve discovered that there’s no real magic in having a deadline (unless there’s someone there with a whip or docking sheet to make you pay for being late). I’m one short of a taskmaster (thank Heavens!) so my Thursday deadline keeps getting ignored because other things are also important. I need a better motivation.

This leads me to think of something else that is exercising my mind. Last year was a disastrous year for us (with the single ineffable exception of the birth of my granddaughter in June. Oh, and the remarkable joy of having my youngest daughter and my grandson move in with us in November. And then there was the astounding experience of having all our children together with us at Christmas). Hmmm, let me rephrase that statement.

Last year was a disastrous year for us financially, and, to a lesser degree, in terms of my physical well-being. I’ve had a series of small, worrisome maladies, from sties to lumps to boils to infections. Never overly serious, always painful, always unattractive, always there. I don’t believe I had a single day last year when one of those was not present. But that’s not what I want to talk about – the result of all of that is my point. In the same way that a pebble in my shoe can make me oblivious to the beautiful scenery through which I’m passing, all of those minor ailments were a serious distraction from the beautiful things in my life.

This year, I want to change my metaphor. I’m throwing away the pebble/shoe idea and I’m going to think of myself as an oyster. When an irritant gets into my shell, like a stye or a lump, I’m going to use that as a reminder to go look for something in my life that I like – and I’m going to use that joy to smooth a layer of nacre over that irritant. By the end of the year, I expect to have a pearl where before there was only irritation.

So, because I had yet another stye start swelling my poor eye yesterday, I’m going to lay my first bit of nacre.

I love that thrill that comes when I pile a collection of materials on my counter and prepare to create something completely new out of them. Usually, by that point, I’ve already gone through the stages of casting about for an idea, getting sudden inspiration, and writing a materials list. Then I’ve felt the rising anticipation as I set about collecting or buying the materials, dealing with problems of availability or even possibility, before finally dumping them all out to begin. But the project I started yesterday was different.

Yesterday, I already knew what I would be making: I wanted a papier mâché model of a particular landscape (for yet another project) so the parameters were already set. That was my first set-back – since the parameters were set, that meant I’d have to use math to work it out to scale. Ack! The Dreaded Math Problem! (And let me assure you that this kind of thing was never one of the “problems” worked out in class. There were no trains running towards one another, nor imaginary numbers that needed to fit into some fraction of an idea! No, I had to figure out how 1000 feet could be divided conveniently into 18½ inches so that a 5½ foot tall person could be honestly portrayed by the toothpicks I’ve set aside for that purpose.) I fretted and fretted over it, burning up sheet after sheet of paper with my pencil and (mostly my) eraser until I gave up and decided to just make it the size I want and then work out the scale later.

So, I transferred my picture onto the back of a large piece of my longest Christmas wrapping paper, and covered it all with clear contact paper so that the moisture wouldn’t hurt my dining table (because this model IS the size of my dining table), and you know what? The dimensions worked out just fine. When I divided the length of the line designated as “1000 feet” into…um…I guess that would be 1000….and then compared that to the ¼ inch graph paper for my…er…other dimension…..anyway, it worked out to 15 feet per square. Isn’t that a nice round number? (Don’t worry, I had Ed check my equations.) So, there I was with this nice drawing and no more math to do! Hooray!

I gathered my Google Earth picture (for reference), paper, hardware cloth, wire cutters and pliers, a dish tub, flour, water, and a whisk, and stood, staring at the crude drawing, and enjoyed that feeling of impending creation. I wonder if God felt this way just before He said, “Let there be light”? I hope so – it’s a wonderful feeling!

Anyway, once I got the armature finished for the hill and cliff along the river, in no time at all I was up to my elbows in flour paste (and splattered liberally across my shirt and pants, too – and how did that glob get onto the back of my head?). I exuberantly tore rolls of thin masking paper into strips, baptized them righteously in the flour paste, and arranged them with abandon across my miniature landscape. I covered my wire armature with a mummy’s closet-worth of ragged bands, smoothing them gently into the cliff face that looms over my Sharpie-colored river.

Not liking the overly-flat surface elsewhere, I crumpled aluminum foil into small hillocks and dells, laying more saturated strips over them, criss-crossing them like a football coach’s playbook. When I finally had every inch covered with multiple layers, I squeezed the paste out of the last handfuls of paper strips still in my dish pan, and stretched them out into long, thin, mashed glumps (technical term, that) to form the banks of the river. Then I left it to dry. The first stage was done, and it was a damp, lumpy, wheat-smelling thing of beauty!

I didn’t HAVE to tell you the whole process (so far). The beautiful thing in my life yesterday was the thrill of starting something creative. But, the beautiful thing in my life today, was telling you about it so that I could experience it again. (Because, alas, it is taking all day today to dry, so I can’t play with it again until tomorrow – I mean, work on it. Yeah, that’s right.) So, the beautiful thing in my life today (other than it being my son’s birthday and having him here for the weekend) is telling someone else about something I’m excited about. I can hardly wait to find out what is going to be my beautiful thing tomorrow! This oyster thing is really working out well, so far.

Tangled Tinsel

Christmas has always been my favorite holiday and I expected elegance this year. We now live in a darling little Victorian house and I’ve been planning a Picture Postcard Christmas for months: delicate lights and garlands outside, candles, garlands, tinsel, and a glorious tree inside, covered with lights and my collection of old world glass ornaments, all sparkling and filling the house with the scent of pine. I even had the perfect place to set up the Christmas Village (about 15 buildings and 50 or 60 figures, with street lights and fences and shrubs and cobblestone paths) where my grandson could enjoy it.

All of our children would be together: Ed’s two, my two, and their two. My first husband and his new wife and his dad would be coming for a couple of days, also. It was all working out beautifully. We got our 5^th-wheel ready for the girls and their babies to sleep in. And I got the last of our moving-boxes unpacked and the perfect space prepared for the tree in the Library. Then life got in the way of my expectations.

Daughter #2 and Grandbaby #1 moved in with us in November and suddenly there were blankets and pallets and toys all over (not unusual in a grandma’s house). Then she got a Christmas job in Hanford so I was home with my grandson and no car every day. This was all good (except the car was inconvenient), but it rather made cheese of my schedule.

Then it started to rain.

Daughter #3 had a fender-bender in our good car (actually a side-crusher), which made it impossible to open either of the passenger-side doors and also resulted in a huge ticket to be paid in December. Our already-low-budget Christmas turned into a no-budget Christmas. But nobody was hurt and the car still ran, so we took a deep breath and went on.

And it rained some more.

We finished our stint as King and Queen of the Christmas Festival in Wonder Valley, very grateful for the money, which was now going to pay for the car accident instead of Christmas gifts, and settled down at home in anticipation of the holiday. It was dark when Ed came home from work each day, so we planned to get a tree and get the Christmas stuff out of the shed on the weekend…but it rained. Every weekend. Except the one when we had back-to-back book signings.

For our book came out in November and we had meetings and books signings in December right up until the day Daughter #1 and Grandbaby #2 arrived from Wyoming. It was still raining that day and we discovered that the 5^th wheel had sprung a leak – right over the bed. So luggage and gifts and baby paraphernalia went back into the house, piled in with the blankets and pallets and toys, and our house turned into a crowded, cacophonous chaos of joy for a week or so.

For the first time in my life, there was no Christmas tree. We’d finally gotten the Christmas boxes out of the shed the day before Daughter #1 arrived, but the only decorations that got put up were the candles (and they never got lit) and the Christmas Village. There was no tree, no lights, no ornaments, no tinsel, no star, no angels…I couldn’t even find all of the stockings. And, strangest of all, I never played any Christmas music (if you know the size of my Christmas music collection, you know how amazing that was). To top it off, we celebrated Christmas five days early because this was not our year to have Ed’s children (Daughter #3 and Son #1) for Christmas. I didn’t bake pumpkin bread or make Hard-Crack Cinnamon Candy, the Advent Calendar never got out of a box, and we didn’t do stockings on “Christmas Eve” -- none of our family traditions were in evidence. But this was the BEST CHRISTMAS EVER.

Our Picture Postcard Christmas never happened. And we will probably not be in this house next Christmas, so it never will. But that was only a dream for the photo album. The very real and absolutely perfect Christmas happened in the middle of that noisy, messy confusion of undecorated house and toys and diapers. My two-year-old grandson fell in love with my six-month-old granddaughter, holding her hand, giving her “sisses” (kisses), and stealing her new toys. Daughter #3 bought, wrapped, and gave all of her own well-chosen gifts with her own earned money. Son #1 (who is Child #4) engaged in hilarious cyber-wars with Daughters #1 and 2. My mornings all started with one grandchild or another coming to my bed for some cuddle time while Mom either got ready for work or snagged a little more sleep. There was hot chocolate, loads of cuddles, sweet hours with long-time friends, family meals, lots of rowdy, chase-me-around-the-house time. It was loud. It was exhausting. It was perfect. My expectations had fallen so far short of the awesome reality.

Then, as one last inconvenience-transformed-into-gift, I drove Daughter #1 and Grandbaby #2 back up to Sacramento, dropping Grandbaby #1 off in Fresno on the way. My energy was gone. My emotions were volatile. I was not looking forward to 8 hours of driving in a broken, whistling car. But then I had the sweetest time of the week with my daughter, laughing, talking, holding hands…it was the perfect end to a perfect week.

I stopped for a nap on the way back and got home tired, but wide awake. Ed and Son #1 were playing a video game in the living room. Bless the man, he’d cleaned up all the mess, folded all of the blankets, vacuumed, done the dishes…the house looked wonderful. I looked around at the candles and the Christmas Village…the only evidence that it was December. I laughed at the tumbled state of the village. My two-year-old grandson had played delicately with them, placing everything back carefully. Then some 5- and 6-year-old friends had come over and left the village looking like they’d played dice with it.

I packed them all up and set the boxes by the door for Ed to return to the shed. I looked around my now-quiet kitchen and smiled, remembering a baby face smeared with sticky cereal, lively conversation around the expanded dinner table, a Play Doh game ending with a very sleepy "Ta la" (too tired to actually say "Ta DA!"), and "land shark" chases. No amount of tinsel could improve on memories like that. Though I'd forgotten to take pictures because I was busy chasing babies, the images in my memory are better than any Norman Rockwell rendering. This Christmas wasn't picture perfect....it was magic!

God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen

I've mentioned that Ed and I are going to be King and Queen of the Christmas Festival at Wonder Valley for four performances this year. Tonight is our first show. And lest you think that this is serious theatre....here are the rewritten words to the opening song (yes, I've changed the words to all of my songs, but you only have to read this one). It's even got a Three Stooges word in it...see if you can find it.

(sung to the tune of, you guessed it, God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen)

God rest ye merry, Gentlemen,

And Ladies here today,

We’ve got a pretty tale to tell

And instruments to play

We’ve even got a magic man

His talents to display

O talents of wonder to deploy,

His name is Roy,

O talents of wonder to deploy.

The cook and all the kitchen maids

Have slaved since Sunday morn

To steam and pluck and roast the duck

And shuck a ton of corn

To give you less than all their best

They each would surely scorn

O a dinner of wonder to indulge

You’re gonna bulge

O a dinner of wonder to indulge

King Whoozitz dressed in all his best

But I’m afraid you’ll find

His temper is a bit unsure

Around this Christmas time.

But look, here comes the housekeeper,

Perhaps she will exploin

O we all have to wonder why he’s mad,

Has he been bad?

O we wonder why the King and Queen are sad.

Magic that Lingers

We've finally gotten our internet problems corrected. What a relief! I had no idea how dependent I'd gotten on being connected.....I'm not really sure if I'm comfortable with that idea!

Ed and I are going to be the King and Queen of a Christmas Festival at a local ranch this year. We’ll be wearing our Ren Faire costumes and presiding over a grand banquet with traditional entertainment: acrobats, a sorcerer (magician), musicians. I’ll be singing a few songs, and we’ll be acting out a sweet little tale of a child stolen away years before and found, of course, at the end of the banquet. We’ve already got five groups scheduled, with deposits. Yes, we’re getting paid to have fun – a win/win.

In preparation for these little theatrical dinners, I’m looking for pictures to turn into “stained glass” windows to transform the dining hall into a Grand Hall from the past. The story of our child stolen by the Wise Woman to teach a lesson to the ungrateful King (my always-appreciative Ed – such a funny role for him to play...Mr Grumpy-pants) – anyway…this story reminded me of George MacDonald’s very similar story of the Lost Princess. I took my copy to bed with me last night to see if there might be illustrations in it that I could use for the windows, and stayed up ‘til 2 reading the story again.

I’d forgotten just how magical a story could be. Not the magic that the characters might perform—the magic that happens in the reader when reading it. George MacDonald wrote several stories with this kind of magic: The Lost Princess, of course, Phantastes, At the Back of the North Wind, The Princess and the Curdie, Sir Gibbie….oh my…the list goes on and on.

There are books about heroes that make you admire the hero (like The Scarlet Pimpernel), there are heroic tales that fire the imagination and stir grand emotions (like Lord of the Rings), and there are books about heroes that make you want to emulate them (like Alcott’s An Old-Fashioned Girl – what? Polly wasn’t a hero, you say? Au contraire, I reply. Anyone who faces near-poverty with consistent cheerfulness, gratitude, and humor IS a Hero in my mind). Ahem….

Then, there are those rare books, seemingly simple stories—usually written for children—that you close reluctantly at the end, with a sigh and unfocused eyes, very aware of the slow withdrawal of that magic which has been so entrancing. And then finding that a bit of that magic has remained and calls your thought back to the truth in the story, again and again. This is the magic that George MacDonald spins so masterfully.

C. S. Lewis learned the magic from MacDonald and spun it out skillfully, too. It was from Lewis that I learned about MacDonald, and it is the two of them whom I want to emulate in my writing--not their plots or characters or style, but the sense of having glimpsed something better, wholesome, desirable...magical.

The Secret to Marital Bliss (SMB)

I’ve found the Secret to Marital Bliss: sharp, crisply ironed creases in sleeves.

Central California has been “enjoying” a heat wave for a couple of weeks – it’s been hell. Ed and I have done nothing but lay about and groan (and drip). Dishes have piled up. Dirty clothes overflow the hamper. The trash can is full of the packaging for microwaveable dinners. Mellie the Homemaker has been OFF DUTY (and Ed the Tool Man, as well). That's why this is coming out on Monday rather than last Thursday.

Then, last night, a storm front came in and brought with it blessed coolness, sweet freshness, frickin’ energy!!! Today I did all the laundry, edited a story, unpacked (more) books, actually cooked lunch for Ed when he came home at noon, and ironed all of his shirts. That’s when I realized the Secret to Marital Bliss.

I was standing at the ironing board, pressing the last of his shirts when he walked into the kitchen and around to my laundry area. The look on his face would have set off fireworks if there had been any lying around on the counter. Fortunately, we are sans flash powder at the moment so our little house is still intact. I wish I’d had a camera to catch that look, though. If Ed dies before I do, that is the picture I want to remember. If I ever doubt his love for me – that look will eliminate all doubt.

It’s not that ironing is any special thing, it’s just our thing. Ed loves an ironed shirt. I’ve always hated ironing shirts (if he could only wear handkerchiefs to work, I’d be fine). But when I got laid off and money got tight, it saved us $60/month for me to wash and iron his shirts instead of sending them to the cleaners.

At first, I hated it and had to play games while I ironed: “Ok, that sleeve was 75 cents, this sleeve is 75 cents, these flat bits are $1.50 for all…” But the more shirts I did, and the better I got at them, the more pleasurable it became…(when it wasn’t hot!) There’s the smell of hot fabric, the smooth feel of pressed material, and the industrious whooshing sound of the steam when I rest the iron upright. And, of course, the satisfaction of the well-executed performance of a mastered skill.

Blah blah blah. I could be painting or reading or playing a game. Who am I trying to kid? What’s the real secret? When are we gonna get to the Secret?? WE WANT THE SECRET!!!

Ok, ok. Be patient. I’m almost there…I never used to like creases in the sleeves of dress-shirts. I thought they looked hokey. But now, I carefully put a hard crease in the sleeves of every one of Ed’s shirts – cotton, silk, rayon, dressy, casual, whatever. If I iron it, long or short, it gets a creased sleeve. That's my little secret.

Now, if Ed were writing this, he’d say that the Secret to Marital Bliss is a spanking-clean stove-top. He does the dishes after dinner, and I always appreciate it, but what really makes my eyes light up is when the stove is cleared and polished after the dishes are done.

Here's The Secret:

He does the dishes just like I iron his shirts: it’s a job to be done.

But he does the stove like I do the creases in his sleeves – it’s the part that makes my eyes light up.

Every morning I walk into the kitchen and look at that clean stove and I’m reminded of how much he loves me. And every day at work, when he reaches for his keyboard or his phone and he sees the crease in his sleeve, it’s a reminder of how much I love him.

Ed and I are extremely fortunate. We are a perfect match. Love comes easily between us and we mean the same things when we use the same words (that’s not a common thing).

But we still have to PRACTICE our love. That’s the real secret. And if a couple isn’t perfectly matched, their need for practice is just that much greater. It doesn’t require a great deal of work, just a regular, every-day kind. And, of course, it doesn't have to be irons or stoves. It could be the remote, the toothpaste, making the bed, washing the car...it just needs to be something that thrills him or her, not necessarily something you'd love.

That may not be as exciting as some big, Herculean, Hollywood kind of effort, but if one-time, prove-my-love feats actually worked, a whole lot of divorced couples would still be married!

Well, I'm done writing. I think I'll go cook something up on my clean stove. Oh, and I think I may have left the iron on...!

Fight the Tide

I’ve written essay after essay tonight, all of them heavy and philosophical, and none of them what I want to share with friends. This is a fairly common occurrence for me, which might be a surprise to most of those who know me.

I have a really dark side. Depression is a constant tide that pulls at me, incessantly trying to draw me into the deep waters, and under. That is my natural bent. But I am not a slave to my bent nature. I learned many, many years ago, that just because “that’s the way I am,” that doesn’t mean that’s the way I have to act. And the way I act has a profound effect on the way I feel.

So on nights like tonight, when the tide is rushing high and that deadly undertow is pulling at me, I consciously resist my natural bent by doing something really silly, or writing a nonsensical poem or story, or playing with marbles, or building castles out of marshmallows. Unfortunately, I’m completely out of marshmallows at the moment, so I’m going to have to write a poem.

Summer’s finally burning out

The days are getting shorter

I might be sad to see it go

Cuz it was a rip-snorter

But since it scorched me every day

And never gave me quarter

I’m glad to see the hot-shot go,

That’s not true for my daurghter :)

She’s wild about the hottest days

And hates the cooler night

She’d live in her bikini if

I told her that she might.

But since she knows that goose-bumps

Are not a lovely sight

She’s pulling out her sweaters

And grins because they’re TIGHT!

(those poor boys don’t have a chance!)

Ok, so I didn't say I wrote good poetry - but I feel so much better now. I think I'll let this be my Thursday-ish and take myself off to bed.

School Daze blogfest

Blogfest Participants - please skip the first two paragraphs - my story is below.

This week, I'm participating in a blogfest thrown by Roh Morgon from Musings of a Moonlight Writer. For those who don't know, a blogfest is a mixture of writing contest and party. The Host sets the contest parameters: subject, length, required attributes, and length. Participants sign up, committing to write, then everyone posts their stories on the designated date. We'll all go around to all of the blogs of the participants and.....then I don't really know what happens! This is my first one. My understanding is that a third party judges the stories and selects a winner, and they get the prize offered by the Host, our dear Roh Morgon.

So, why don't you go around and check out the other submissions, too? The theme is School Daze: a story that happens on a school campus. Even if you don't read them all, you should read Roh's. She's got a great book completed and is busily collecting rejection notices from agents/publishers who are going to be kicking themselves later. You'll be able to say, "Yeah, I read Roh back before she was famous!"



SCHOOL DAZE

I’m not a morning person. I’m cheerful in the morning, because I don’t like grumpy people and I refuse to be one, but it’s all an act, really.

I got into college on a voice scholarship, everything paid: tuition, housing, food, everything. This meant that they owned me, and all of my time. I carried 24 or 25 credit hours every semester, toured with the Chorale three months every summer, and went on two-week-long singing tours twice a year. It was busy—crazy busy—but I loved it!

The real problem, other than not being able to have any kind of regular job—hence, no money—was that Chorale practice had to be at 6:00 every morning because there was no time the rest of the day. Six o’clock in the morning. Did I make that clear? An hour before 7:00 am. To sing. And classes started at 7:00, so I couldn’t go in my jammies with messy hair. No. I had to get up at 4:45 to shower, dress, do the hair and makeup, and get to the auditorium to sing. It was hell.

My college was on the old Voorhis Campus in San Dimas, California. It was an old, beautiful place originally built as a School for Boys, with large individual houses set among fragrant orange orchards in steeply rolling hills. Each of those houses became dorms when the campus was bought by my college, all different, and all very home-like.

As an upper classman, I was finally housed in one of the smaller dorms, probably sixteen rooms, total, and bunked with only one roommate. It was heaven. But that 6:00 practice every morning was still the bane of my existence.

Every morning, every stinking morning, my alarm would go off at 4:45 and I’d grab my clock, wind up to throw it—and remember that I couldn’t have regular work, so I couldn’t buy another. Gritting my teeth, I’d carefully return it to its place, climb down off my upper bunk, and go muzzily to the shower.

My roommate was a wonderfully perceptive person, who really appreciated my generally cheerful outlook and my morning restraint. So she bought me the perfect gift at Christmas: an alarm clock encased in a thick rubber ball—designed to be thrown at the wall to turn off the buzzer in the morning! No one, ever, has given me a better, more timely gift!

So, every morning, every delightful morning, my alarm would go off at 4:45, and I’d grab my clock and fling it at the wall! We’d both laugh hilariously, and I’d go off to the shower chuckling. Except one morning….

It was a day like any other. The alarm went off. I grabbed the clock and flung it at the wall. But this day, I must have held onto it a little too long, or perhaps I twisted a bit, or I was just a little too eager, but, for whatever reason, the clock didn’t smack into the wall like usual. Instead, it zipped off into the corner and ricocheted right back at me and smacked me right in the middle of my forehead! Like Goliath, I measured my length on the ground—from the top bunk. Boink. And bounce. Uhhhhhhh….

I’m pretty sure my roommate had a heart attack, because when I came to, she was lying there on the floor next to me. I had a huge knot on the top of my head, and she already had a black-eye. To this day, neither one of us knows what happened.

That’s not the best part, though. Our neighboring dorm-mates were used to my morning routine: the alarm, the bonk, the laughter. So this morning, when they heard the alarm, the bonk, a scream, things falling, and then silence, they came rushing to our room. I believe it was their screams that brought me to consciousness. When, slack-jawed, I turned my head to look toward the door, I watched both girls—both—roll their eyes up under their eyelids and fall, face first, in a dead faint.

I missed practice that morning; I believe for the very first time. But I made all of my classes--in the company of three girls...each of whom had great, big, glorious black-eyes. Man! I loved that alarm clock!