By popular demand

So now that Joy has asked me to post the pictures I can do so with impunity. This one is a rose I call the prom queen because it blooms early and fades fast.

The sunken garden. This was where the patio used to be so I'm amending the soil to make it more fertile. For now, it's struggling a little. But the rock wall is here and the heliobore.

The rest of the pictures are just documentation for what my garden looks like in June. This is the point at which I am on a mulch induced high. I think that I am the best gardener in the world. I am considering quitting my job and becoming a landscape designer. I have visions of moving to England and growing roses and boxwood. It passes by the end of July when I am very very tired of my compost pile. Now (in August) with the hurricane induced rains settling in and all the stuff that needs to be mown, cut back or debugged, I am back to my senses. This patio is at the very back of the yard. I have lots of pictures of individual plants but I won't bore you here. The thing is that I am truly happy in my garden. I tend to be a very strident person sometimes. Dr. Husband says it's because I have an overdeveloped sense of justice. I think that's probably the case. I tend to get exercised about big issues like education and health care. Then I go on a rant and before you know it my blood pressure's up, my heart rate has increased and I'm breathing hard. It's like a little aerobic exercise.
In my garden I can focus on little things like how to get rid of aphids without insecticidal soap. (It only takes a garden hose and a little determination). And in the garden I can let go of my need to fix things. Mother nature has a way of putting us in our place. People are friendlier when they happen upon you working in a garden. They seem to think you're nicer than maybe you are. Now everybody just be glad I don't like cats.



jackie

My herb garden

My temperamental hybrid

We're building a rock wall. That's the royal we as in my husband collects the rocks, hauls the rocks and stacks the rocks. Then I tell him I want them someplace else. It's a wonderful backdrop for the hellebore on the other side.

Channeling Martha

OK, my neighbor is right. I am the love child of Martha Stewart and Betty Crocker. I have spent two weeks of my first real summer vacation as a teacher painting my livingroom. But it is sooo gorgeous. Then I spent two days catching up with deadheading in the garden. AND I LIKED IT! This is not right. But I am doomed. I even took pictures to document the garden so I can plan what to plant for next year. You may laugh, but mark my words. If you plant just one rhododendron and it lives, you too will become a gardener. I will spare you all the pictures for now. I may not be able to hold out forever, though, as I have become one of those people who names her roses.

jackie

Foul-Weather Friends

An interesting aspect of Jackie's and my friendship is that we have been there for each other during more bad times than good. We're always there for each other emotionally with support, jokes, and understanding; however, physically we seen to be present for the sad times. Perhaps it has to do with how we met since I was lurking at play auditions to find people to compete on the speech and drama team (NFL). I'd never seen Jackie before and recognized her talent. She didn't get a part, so I caught up with her outside the theater and said I knew she probably didn't want to think about it then but that if she were interested in the forensics team, to come by my room and let me know. She answered that I was right and that she was not interested in thinking about it then. I wasn't sure I'd hear from her, but she did come by my room and became an outstanding competitor and leader on the team. We were just getting organized then and had to learn by doing. Jackie, Tina, and a few others hung in there and were like sponges soaking up what they needed to know. They got tired of hearing the phrase "learning experience." Those two excelled and went on to the state eventually, with Tina's winning first place in poetry interpretation her senior year with "Tommy" by Rudyard Kipling. But I digress. Jackie started out in dramatic interpretation with a gut-wrenching piece about a Black mother (cannot remember the title - help with this, Jackie) and then was Antigone her senior year, winning second place in the district tournament.

Our friendships were forged during these years since I was learning along with them. I said soemthing to Tina about how I was so young then but didn't know it. Tina said, "Oh, we knew it." That's funny but quite true, I'm sure.

Jackie used to baby-sit with Brian for me, so they got close, too. Years later I was there at the funerals for her mother and grandmother, but not for her wedding. I did make it to her daughter's naming ceremony but not for her Bas Mitzvah - not good for a godmother. It was excruciating for those closest to her when she got her MBA and such a celebration when she finished it. I was worried when she went back to school for her teaching degree, but fortunately that was pain-free. She was here sitting out on the patio with Paige, Gena, and me drinking wine the night before the phone call when I got my lymphoma diagnosis. Gena and I went to a movie (I'd refer you to the Mission Impossible curse posts on my other blog but they didn't make the transition of the new version, so I'll just say that MI2 was released when my lymphoma changed to a more aggressive kind. Fortunately, nothing bad happened when MI3 came out because I didn't see it unless we count Tom Cruise getting more publicity.) the next day, but Jackie was around for me to call. There are many more examples of our foul-weather friendship, but you get the idea.

Molly Ivins

I was on yahoo! and found that Molly Ivins died of breast cancer. I did not read much of her writing directly, but got many good quotes from her through Joy. It's always sad to see a witty woman take her leave. Especially now we need people who can speak their minds.

Home for the Holidays

I am spending most of my Christmas break back in my hometown. For someone raised in the kind of atmosphere that I was, living up North can be a challenge. A small Southern town is not quite like any other place. I don't pretend that my home town is perfect. It has all the flaws of any small town. And I don't pretend that my family, my large sprawling Southern family, is the Waltons. We have all the problems of any big family. But tonight I sat in a crowded house and listened to the younger generation stand in the kitchen singing. My family is full of gospel singers and we have always been prone to impromptu concerts. As the kids sang I heard echoes of my mother and aunts. And I remembered what it was like to grow up in a house full of music. We played records and sang songs and talked -- always talked. My family was big and messy and funny. And my town is a place where newcomers eventually get folded in and prodigal sons and daughters get welcomed back. Every now and then you need to come home. To be reminded of who you are, to be reassured that you still are that person and to be with people who speak the same language and sing the same song.

Merry Christmas.

Bravo!

This is a letter to the editor I wish I'd written. It was in the Nashville City Paper.

Redefining righteousness

In response to "We can't alter God's rules:” God defined marriage? Then let God judge them in the afterlife. Last I checked, church and state were supposed to be kept separate.

Who are you to determine how other people live their lives on something as small as gay marriage? Are homosexuals hurting anybody? Are they plotting to bomb our banks and ports or kill our troops? Probably not. But a big thanks to Tennessee for stomping this fire out before it really took off. Way to recognize a true threat.
The Bible is a collection written to be accepted or not accepted how people see fit. If you choose to follow what is written on those pages, good for you. Live a happy life and let others do the same. But don't push your ideals on other people because of what you believe. If you feel homosexuals getting married is immoral, don't attend the wedding.

Maybe we should pass a constitutional amendment against the self-righteous too. Some things cannot be redefined indeed. Archaic thinking must be one of them.

37209
Nate Herweyer

Holiday Season

The holidays are upon us with my favorite one next. I really do enjoy Thanksgiving because it's a time for families to get together and enjoy each other with good food and companionship. My family is fun to be around, and I look forward to being with them when I can. We used to play games and spend more time doing such as that; however, the new additions to the family have made that more difficult for their parents to juggle seeing everyone and taking care of their babies. It's wonderful to see things through the eyes of these children and rediscover the marvel of the world. I'm so glad they had them and that we can all enjoy them. I can always play board games with my friends. Listing them in the order they arrived, Kelsey, Kari, Luke, Brendan, Ally, Carter, Will, and Reese are bringing so much pleasure to the rest of the family. We are thrilled to have them!

Talkin' 'bout My Generation

As I mentioned on my Updates blog, the 50's and 60's have been politicized. This and all those emails going around the 'net about 50's nostalgia made me think about it.

The 50's were a wonderful, safe time for me to grow up in. But then I'm extremely fortunate because my parents were loving, supportive, and functional and instilled values in my brother and me that gave us a feeling of responsibility and compassion for others, healthy self-esteem, and knowledge that we always have family there for us, just as we are there for them. This wasn't such a good time if you were black, gay, American Indian, a woman, or other minority who wanted the same rights as white males. It also wasn't a time when anyone discussed anything that could have helped them leave an abusive situation I didn't even know existed until I heard people on TV talk about it. While I grew up in what to me was one of those stereotypical 50's families on television I identified with so closely, I understood later that to many people it was a myth. I had no idea. In some ways I wasn't prepared to have problems since I tried to be a "good girl" who those things didn't happen to. In other ways the foundation of unconditional love always provided a safety net.

The 60's as chaotic, disturbing, and violent as they were brought about changes that were necessary. It wasn't all sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll, although we did have good music then. The 60's made us gun shy enough that I didn't realize how tense I was about the Carters walking on the street during his inauguration until he got to the stand without being shot.

I identify with all the decades during which I've lived because they all shaped who I am. Jackie isn't a fan of sociology, but I am. I love studying it and cultural anthropology and history as well as the pop culture that's going on in the present.

Molly Ivins said that Southern liberals are formed because they lied to us about race. I agree with her about that and many other things. It's easy to sweep all those inequities under the rug and feel nostalgic about an era seen as blissfully innocent unless you had to give away your first-born child only because it made others uncomfortable because I was unmarried and nineteen. That was much too high a price to pay for maintaining the status quo of 1963, which was philosophically still part of the 50's. We nice middle-class white girls who went through that baby-mill holocaust of our own don't feel an obligation to return to that hypocrisy. Those of us lucky enough to be reunited with our children we lost to adoption are grateful to at least have contact with them now, but oh how much we missed!

It's All In Your Point of View

Sometimes the best people to make you stop taking yourself so seriously are children. I am on the board of a local theater company and went by to meet with the artistic director last week. I am new to the board and he is new to the theater, so we were having one of those rambling "getting to know you" talks. He told me that he was on faculty at the University of Iowa. I asked if that was where they have the Iowa Writer's Workshop and he said yes. I mentioned that my daughter really wants to go there eventually and asked if there were any Black people at all in Iowa. He laughed and said that most of the Blacks at the University were in the medical school. Then he told me the following story:

A White colleague of his at Iowa moved East and was driving through a predominately Black and poor neighborhood here in Pittsburgh. She had her preschooler in the car, and eventually heard the child exclaim "Look at all the the doctors!" It was the funniest thing I've heard in a long time. Here this child had only ever met upscale Black people and so a street full of Black people was of course a street full of doctors! I often think of how difficult it is for parents of Black children to instill positive self images in our kids. It makes you wonder if we're coming at it the wrong way. I say we all move to Iowa where all the Black people are doctors!

I am not the Shabbos Goy

I've been away at a conference for Jewish Educators on the campus of Duke University. I love Duke. It is a wonderfully quirky place even in its architecture. It's campus was designed by a Black architect named Julian Abele. If you're curious about how that came to be you can take a look at this article on the Duke website. It was reprinted from Smitshsonian. I kept a journal while I was there because my wireless connection went south on me so to speak. So this is what I would have posted had I been connected.

Monday August 7, 2006

I once saw a made for TV movie based on the lives of Jim and Tammy Faye Baker. In one scene Jim and Tammy are making a commercial to get more donations for some scheme of theirs. They have to make multiple versions of the same commercial because Jim names a specific city in his spiel. It went something like “We need the people of Tampa to come forward and help with God’s work.” Tammy had one line: “Jim and Tammy really needya!” It was to be delivered with her signature grimacing smile and perky diction. After they had done dozens of these, Tammy began to lose it. She was pretty much sobbing through the delivery of the last one. I remember thinking how completely messed up and out of control she must have been when this happened.

Well, I had a Tammy Faye moment today. I am attending a conference for Jewish educators on the campus of Duke University. Duke is a beautiful school. In fact one of the people I came with pointed out that it looks a lot like Hogwarts. We eat in something called the Great Hall which looks like a narrower version of the dining hall at Hogwarts in the Harry Potter movies. There are 2000 Jewish educators here and only two of us are Black. Everyone else looks “typically” Jewish. Whenever I am in a Jewish context I’m used to people mistaking me for a visitor. I joke that I love to go to temple on the high holidays because all the people who only come once a year run up and welcome me to the building. It’s like always being the bride. Here it’s been a little different. We all have to wear id badges on cords around our necks. They are large badges in plastic protectors. In addition, we have room keys on lanyards around our necks. It’s nice because you quickly spot a conference attendee. Well, at least I can. Apparently some of my colleagues have a problem with it. I should say that the majority of the maintenance and food service personnel here are Black. They, too, are easy to spot as they wear blue polo shirts with their names on them, or chef’s jackets. The plastic aprons on the food service people are also a dead giveaway.

We arrived on Sunday at 3:00 pm after a nine hour drive. By 9:30 this morning (Monday) I had fielded a number of requests to get coffee or clean up toilets along with questions like “Do you work here (in the dining hall) full time?”. It is interesting but not surprising to me that all these comments came from Northerners. Not a single Southerner has yet confused me with the help. The first 3 or 4 times I smiled and said something along the lines of “I’m so sorry, I don’t work here.” giving the person time to really focus on me and take in the street clothes, lime green conference goody bag, badge and keys hanging around my neck, etc. Whenever I come south my accent slowly regresses so that fairly soon this was being delivered with a distinct drawl. By breakfast this morning, I’d had to smile and correct quite a few times. Finally, this woman barreled up to me in the chaos of the dining hall and said in a New York accent “Did you put more coffee out or what?” I said “Sweetie I don’t work here.” At which point she looked extremely embarrassed. That’s when I began to channel Tammy. I made my way to a corner table and began to get really, really shaky. I called my husband to complain for a few minutes which is usually enough to reset my equilibrium when I get upset, then I walked out of the building. This poor little 20 year old boy in a kippah and a name tag saying he was from Chattanooga had the misfortune to ask me a question and I just lost it. I ended up standing in the middle of the student union in tears while the two people I came with tried to get me to a seat. It was horrible. I have no idea how I lost control like that. I now have much more sympathy for Tammy Faye.

I my defense I did not get much sleep over the past few days, and the conference was not turning out to be as useful as I had hoped it would be. Additionally I am in the middle of a job search and really can’t afford to be away for 4 days, but I had paid quite a bit of money for the conference well in advance and had committed to drive down with my colleagues who were counting on me to share gas and driving. So, this was probably not the best time for me to try to exhibit grace under fire. Still, it was not my best moment. As I write this I am hiding out in my dorm room (where the internet connection has failed). I will post all my missives upon my return. My hope is that things will look up soon. They certainly can’t get any worse.

I did call my husband and with his usual wit he googled Black Jews and came up with a website offering buttons and stickers for Jews of color. He offered to get me one that said "I am not the Shabbos Goy". Others were a little more direct as in "If you keep staring at me I'll hit you."


Wednesday August 9, 2006

After giving it our best shot over 3 days my two colleagues and I are throwing in the towel. Last night we decided to leave the conference a day early. We went into Durham and had dinner at a nice little French Bistro. Then we returned to our respective dorm rooms, packed and went to bed. This morning we were scheduled to meet with our religious school principal to choose materials from one of the vendors. We will do that, pick up a souvenir for one the women’s boyfriend and then hit the road. We plan to be home by 10:00 pm. My colleagues were disappointed with the quality of the workshops as was I. There were lots and lots of workshops (15-21 consecutive workshops every hour and a half with very few repeats.) The conference booklet is the size of a large catalog or a small phone book. When I saw it the first thing I thought was “somebody didn’t take their lithium”. The thing is that if you have that many sessions and presenters you cannot have quality control. The first session I attended was so bad that the participants were embarrassed for the presenter. I have never seen an entire room full of educators go completely silent. It was like that scene in The Producers right after they do the “Springtime for Hitler” song. You get a shot of the audience members staring in open-mouthed horror.

Things got a little better Monday but nothing was better than mediocre. Yesterday (Tuesday) I took one really extraordinary workshop with a woman cantor with whom I had studied before. The rest ranged from mildly interesting to mind numbing. This conference was extremely expensive and took several days of my time. I tell my students that no experience is ever wasted, and this was certainly true of this trip. I got to see a really wonderful campus, and I’d love to come back to Durham as a tourist sometime. I got to think about some issues of race and religion in a different way; and that will help me in journey. However I'd like my next learning experience to be just a little less like a spinal tap. Going to get on the road now.

B’Shalom

My Hometown

I just posted some memories about my hometown which I plan to expand on here soon. If you'd like to read them, look over there on the links and click Joy's Updates. Thanks!!

Telling

My Spouse pointed out that none of us identify ourselves at the beginning of our posts causing people to have to read all the way to the end before finding out who's speaking At first I thought I would suggest that we change that. Then I began to think about it. Why should we conform to standard procedure? I personally like reading without immediately knowing whose post it is. I wonder if my anal retentive little husband is the only one to find this disconcerting?

At any rate, I just spent the past four days dropping in and out of a storyteller's conference. There were 350 tellers in a hotel downtown. I knew I was really at a storyteller's convention when I went into the ladies room for the first time. As I entered I heard lots of voices but did not see anyone. However, all but one stall was occupied and people were carrying on conversations and finishing stories while they were in there! It was pretty funny. Of course I commented on it causing everyone to begin to riff on that. I belong to a truly interesting professional group. If you have never been to a storytelling conference or festival, you should go. Tellers are not like other artists. You are basically surrounded by extremely extroverted people who practice an artform that requires no equipment and who are always "on". People launch into their schticks seamlessly. It's like a convention of stand up comedians. Also having a serious conversation with a bunch of tellers is really amazing. You have all these people who can organize their experiences in an extremely coherent way on the fly. I always come away from festivals and conferences ready to work at telling more. I've been a dancer and actor, but storytelling is the scariest and most satisfying thing I've done as a performer. It's like flying without a net.

Email joke

Here's a joke Earl sent me I'll share with you.

Southern Lady

A very genteel Southern lady was driving across the Savannah River Bridge in Georgia one day. As she neared the top of the bridge, she noticed a young man ready {fixing} to jump.

She stopped her car, rolled down the window and said, "Please don't jump, think of your dear mother and father." He replied, "Mom and Dad are both dead; I'm going to jump."

She said, "Well, think of your wife and children." He replied, "I'm not married and I don't have any kids."

She said, "Well, think of Robert E. Lee." He replied, ''Who's Robert E. Lee?''

She replied, ''Well bless your heart, just go ahead and jump, you dumbass Yankee."

Mouth Full of Twinkies

I have not contributed to our blog thus far because it appears that I am in the midst of some sort of mental breakdown. We’re cautioned not to bite off more than we can chew. Well, apparently I’ve crammed an entire twelve pack of Twinkies into my mouth at one time. Divorce, new job, graduate school, teenagers, and a multitude of dysfunctional family members—somewhere along the way I decided I was Wonder Woman and could handle it all while holding evil at bay with my handy dandy magic lasso. If ever there was someone begging for psychiatric intervention, it’s got to be me.

In my defense, I did attempt to get help. I asked around for recommendations for a good therapist; I knew I needed to talk to a professional. The woman I made an appointment with had come highly recommended; the entire practice she was associated with was top-notch. I felt smugly virtuous that I was facing my problems head on and actively seeking help. I have to admit that this notion didn’t totally alleviate my nervousness when the day of my appointment actually arrived and I found myself in the therapist’s waiting room.

You have to understand that no one in my very southern family had ever received counseling or therapy unless they had first been strapped into a straitjacket and hauled off to one of those euphemistically southern sanitariums. Voluntarily confronting my demons was not something I was genetically predisposed to do.

Sitting in the therapist’s waiting room, I found myself fidgeting and pacing and glancing longingly at the exit. Fortunately, I didn’t have long to wait. The receptionist called my name. Standing next to the front desk was a very elegant older woman with a stern, but not totally-unwelcoming, expression. What caught my attention, however, was that she was holding a small terrier that was wearing some sort of tiny coat. Now I’m a sucker for animals, and I immediately thought, “Wow, what a cool place—they bring their pets to work with them!”

Before I could comment or speculate further, the woman said, “Follow me,” and started off down a long hallway. As we walked down the hallway and up a staircase and down another long hallway, the woman made no attempt at conversation. I began to feel uncomfortable and nervous again as I trailed along behind her, watching the little dog’s tail wag from side to side. Finally she ushered me into a large office. Comfortable chairs and couches, soft lighting, floor-to-ceiling bookcases—it could have been someone’s den or study. She pointed to a couch and said, “Have a seat.” She sat in a chair opposite me and placed the dog on the floor. For the first time I noticed that the dog’s coat had something written on it, but I couldn’t quite make out what it was. While I was still straining to read the dog’s side, the doctor launched into speech.

“Now, this is my hearing dog; he alerts me when the phone rings or someone knocks on the door. He is not a pet—he is a working dog. Do not attempt to touch him or pet him.”

At this point, I felt an overwhelming urge to pull my feet up off the floor and cower in the corner of the couch. The dog was staring right at me, as if daring me to extend my hand toward him. It was only as the doctor continued to speak, that I really started to take in what she was saying. The woman was deaf. She couldn’t hear, but she was apparently an expert lip reader. Panic and dismay streaked across my brain. How was I supposed to talk to someone about some of the most intimate and difficult problems I had ever had, when she couldn’t hear a word I said. I felt myself giving into the ridiculous urge to speak with exaggerated mouth motions when I tried to answer her questions. And I couldn’t make eye-contact with her because I was afraid to take my eyes off the dog. He certainly wasn’t taking his eyes off me. I just knew he was waiting to pounce if I had even the briefest sentimental thought to treat him like a cute little pet.

I truly have no idea what I said to that woman. It must not have been too horrible or deranged because I was allowed to leave the building on my own—no sedatives, no straitjackets, no men in little white coats. I felt anything but normal, however. I felt like I was walking out of an episode of the Twilight Zone. What were the chances that on my very first attempt I would manage to find what was probably the only deaf therapist in the state? I do know that she was an excellent doctor; unfortunately, she just wasn’t the right doctor for me.

Needless to say, I have been more than a little reticent to seek out professional help again. At this point, I don’t really know what to do about this mouth full of Twinkies.

Got milk?

Kudzu

Kudzu - bane of the South! It's taken over trees and anything else in its path. So don't take a nap outdoors anywhere near it, or we might never see you again. For an enlightening and entertaining article about it, check out Dew on the Kudzu and enjoy!!

Rebel or Yankee Test

Paige told me about this online test which is interesting in terms of language and usage. Try it and let's discuss! It's fun. Click here.

My score, by the way, was 97% Dixie! You can take the girl out of the South but not the South out of the girl!

An Experiment Gone Terribly Wrong

Imagine the gods and goddesses in their modern-day Mt. Olympus strolling the grounds, smiling in the shade, playing games, and relaxing inside their palatial mansions. There are all kinds of them in various types of clothing and appearance. Each has created a world and follows its progress as s/he chooses. There is a master control room with screens where they can monitor their creations. Perhaps one creator is very controlling and regimented, and the people in their world don't have much choice about their lives. Others could be environmentalists, pacifists, war mongers, zoo keepers, clowns, whatever.

The creator of our world Earth is played by George C. Scott, with a cigar in one hand and a whiskey in the other. He sits at the monitor watching us as we go about our lives. Once the world was created, he left us alone, much like Kino who watched the ants with "the detachment of God" in Steinbeck's The Pearl. He notices the governments, individuals, everything. Then he laughs raucously puffing on his cigar and almost spilling his drink as he calls out to some of his cronies with, "Hey come here! Look what the dumb bastards have done now!"

Lawn Boy and the Weather Goddess

People (who shall remain nameless) have been laughing at my recently acquired gardening obsession. I realize that I have become one of those people who talk about plants as if they are human. I blame it on the roses. Once you start to grow them you go insane. However, I had some vindication when my husband decided to put in a lawn in the back. He cleared out an area between the path and my cutting garden and laid sod. He was blessed with ample rain and he nurtured his little patch. Then mysterious yellow patches began to appear. He turned into Ward Cleaver. It was so funny. Finally one evening he came in with a jar and went upstairs to the computer. Turns out he had lifted the sod and found bugs. He captured some and went on the internet to identify them. Having found that they were indeed the culprits he purchased insecticide, and killed the little varmints off. The insecticide part was tough as neither of us really likes to use that stuff. Men and grass are strange. They get really weird about it. I guess no man is immune. Thank goodness it's just a small patch or I might never see him.

While my husband works on his little patch of green I have decided to open a rainmaking business. If you want it to rain in your area have me come over and put my bicycle on the roof of my car. It's the most amazing thing. I love to bike and recently purchased a nifty new trail bike. It's wonderful because it has front and rear suspension. I added a padded seat which has springs on it too. (I like to bike but I need to be comfortable). I am, as they say, a traditionally built Black woman, so I don't need to be jiggling around. At any rate I was so excited about this bike and couldn't wait to ride it. Then to top it off someone told me about a new trail in the city that runs along the river, is 15 minutes by car from my house and has access to a hip shopping district at its extreme end. It was like heaven. Well, my beloved and I went out one afternoon and loaded the bikes on the roof rack of our car. This is no mean feat. The bikes are cumbersome and it really takes two people to get them up there. I can do it alone but it involves a step ladder and lots of obscenities. (Please don't tell me to get rear hitch for my car because we have tried that and because of the sort of car we drive and the sort of bikes we ride it didn't quite work out.) At any rate, as soon as we got the bikes up the sky opened and it proceeded to rain for a week. The sun would come out and I would put the bike up at which point it would begin to rain again. Today the sun is out and the sky is blue, and I am too busy to ride. So we should have continuing sun. Joy told me that I was really powerful to be able to control the weather like that. So I am embracing my magical powers. If you need rain, just call me.

Beginnings

I don't know what I'm doing here. Of course, that could be said for most parts of my life. Obviously, I am a procrastinator since it has taken this long for me to get on this blog. Who knew that retirement and part time work would be so time consuming. Everything takes longer-waking up-there must time for visits with the cats-making coffee and sitting in my chair-moving to the deck and sitting in my chair-going to the creek-looking at the water there and the swaying of the tops of trees. Looking at the swaying tops of trees can be an all day activity if one allows oneself to get into the activity. Reading- I spend lots of time reading. I must stop this explantion of daily activities to express my regret that the user name possum was already taken. What better name to express deep south feelings. Possum. Oh well. Apparently others came before me with that same thought. I could get into my thoughts about the current leader of our country, but an e-mail that I read by Garrison Keillor expressed it so perfectly-violently ignorant- how can you say it better than that. When I wake up and finish my chair and creek activities and my thoughts are more clear I will write more.
Rachel

Chaos and Clutter

I'm attempting to create some order from the chaos that is my house. After a year of retirement, I'm beginning to feel rested and relaxed. Debbie, my massage therapist, told me yesterday she could tell a big difference from a year ago and that my muscles feel more like they are supposed to instead of like a wall. So last week I started with the kitchen and got rid of bags and boxes of out-of-date food from shelves and the refrigerator. When in doubt, I tossed it and dealt with the guilt of wasting food while children are starving all over the world. Seriously, it did bother me to throw away all that food I'd let stay too long. I began with the kitchen because there were two choices: keep or throw away. I became ruthless and now enjoy opening the cabinets and refrigerator to look at blank spaces and organized food that I can see and know is there and will use in a timely manner. My dishes are organized because their number doesn't change. I like those lazy susans and organizers and will put things back when they have a place. I wish I had a pantry with shelves and those sliding out components that hold canned goods and boxes. I love all that stuff. It's fun to browse Lowe's and Home Depot and Staple's and Office Depot. The organizers, carts, furniture, and binders are part of what appeals to me about scrapbooking. They have neat stuff!

Now I'm ready for the harder jobs with more choices. With clothes, books, knick-knacks, videos, and all kinds of things, I'll have to decide to keep, toss, donate, or sell. I'm hoping the skills I used in the kitchen will carry me through with the other rooms. Paige calls this urban archeaology - good name for it. If I'm brave, I'll post some before and after photos. You'll be horrified and amazed. Just sorting through the kitchen made me realize what an emotional coma I've been in for more years than I'd realized. It's sad and scary, yet somehow I was able to teach. I'm not sure how well I did, but it was like a haven of normalcy in a way since the rest of my life felt out of control. Having cancer has longer-ranging effects than just getting over the disease, and those are bad enough. It's so scary that I'm not sure we're ever the same. So now if nothing else will interrupt my nice, boring, peaceful life, I can continue the excavation and finish this dig. So far, so good, but I've only just begun.