Learning a great deal about syntax and flow to create an art piece–a written one, using words, naturally. I seem to spend time, wasting time on Trump and his lies, disgusting example of human species that he is, along with reacting to the deeds of him and his cronies, the uglies of the Republican Party. Free yourself from this living hell and write your stories, creative soul that you are, perceiving good things where they are. Do not let them rent space in your brain. This too will pass, this time of unbridled immorality, politicos chasing money and power using out-in-the-open dastardly schemes to thwart citizen’s voting, removing drop-off poling boxes in Texas, hundreds of them, curtailing postal services, to name just to of their schemes.
What the hell is going on? Now Notre Dame in Paris is burning, giving me goosebumps, and not the good kind, the scary, unnerving kind. On top of our horrible political climate.
Going to lunch with Kathy this morning, for her birthday. Looking forward to our time together. Going to Della Fattoria, maybe take her over to Pet Pals Thrift Store for some bargain hunting. The hunt is what’s fun.
There’s a 50% chance of rain, must remember umbrella–this time of year, abrupt season changes, flowers abound. The apple tree looks like a lace umbrella, so full of white-pink blooms, Hope the rain does not interfere with the bee pollen exchange.
Tomorrow, Kiva arrives at Snoopy Airport. She hasn’t been here in over a year–two Christmases ago. Trying to explain to Bob the only part I hate about her visit, or Aaron’s, is that there is always the leaving part. When she left for college, a wound appeared in my flesh, it seemed. Then over time it healed and a callous appeared to protect it, but each visit re-opens the wound. Need to explicate this better–the sadness of a child’s departure from me, the mom, creates series of wounds, from the departure, a tear to the flesh, so it is felt.
You want them to grow and flourish, and flourish, and yet the separation is felt as a body tear–not unlike the separation at their birth, which happens for mothers the moment babies are born. How we all deal with this is a topic for me to further explore. Note to self.
Last night at one AM before falling asleep, as I reached up to put out the light, a weird thought occurred to me: Thomas Alva Edison, fellow New Jersey-an, did you really do us any favors by discovering the electric light built? Did you.
I learned something interesting while writing a flash fiction story yesterday. The story involved an office worker’s connection to her deceased dog. She says, “I miss him. His name is Velvet.” I spent a good amount of time deciding which tense to use. Should it be “was” or “is”?
If someone asks you what the name of your deceased dog is, you probably say his name was Big, or his name was Spotty. This is how I would put it if a hypothetical person asked me that.
Not so with humans. Over the years Bob and I have lost all of our parents in the same month, June, although in varying different years. Thoughts of them are especially in the forefront of our minds, as we reflect on each one’s anniversary day of their passing. When someone asks me about them, I invariably respond: My dad died; his name is Joe. My mom passed on; her name is Helen. Bob’s mom died; her name is Sarah. His dad died; his name is Meyer.
When referring to deceased people, I feel the present tense is the appropriate choice to use for their names. This seems to sound right because my connection to them carries forward into the present despite their having passed away. When I say their names are Joe, Helen, Meyer and Sarah, it reflects how I perceive them–as if they were still actually with me because in a very large sense, they are, surely in my heart and mind. And further, unconsciously I give credence to the notion that they still exist on some plane spiritually even after their deaths.
Not so with pets– though I’ve loved them with a tender heart when they were with me, my life has moved on without them, and thus I refer to them and their names in the past tense.
So my character in the short flash fiction piece presented a problem to me. Tilda is grouchy and sullen and clings to the memory of her dog in a human way because she basically has no one else in her life. Though deceased, he is still with her and the reverie she felt with him as her companion, is brought to life when she connects to a dog who resembles him. Hence it made sense for me to write, “I miss him. His name is Velvet.” I don’t know if readers will pick up on this nuance. But I surely hope that they do.
The nattering and chattering of birdsong surrounding me as I sit beneath the cover of the Monterey Pine, sipping my morning coffee, thinking about how everything seemed to flow too fast yesterday, today trying to capture my calm as if it were a fish and I need only cast my line into the brook to snag it. The air, cool with the morning wetness, the sun not yet fully awake behind the white duvet of clouds shielding it from hiuman follies. I too sit protected, sanctuaried away from all that, as if in a cloister communing just among the birds and the hustle-rustle of spring leaves dying to be born on newfound branches.
I’m feeling really uncomfortable in a good way. I’ve run across a bunch of projects which I see are almost finished–among them, a white knitted sampler afghan, 17 of 20 squares done, which has lain dormant in my “handwerk”, sewing closet, for nigh on about ten years or so. And to give myself a kick in the butt and get it finished I joined a knitting circle sponsored by our local Petaluma library. Six or so women gather in the morning once a week on Wednesdays to chat and encourage each other to knit away, and get stuff done. So today I dream about wearing heels and walking in a street with soft tar, my high heels getting stuck and sinking into the tar, requiring my extra effort and extra energy to pull each foot out and keep walking forward, ahead to my destination, which in the dream is apparently a bus stop, where I’ll await my bus to Brazil via New Brunswick. (New Brunswick is where I went to college at Douglass. The Brazil part? Maybe connotes fun, and Carnival to me, not sure.) Anyhow the tar part of the dream makes sense to me since inertia had set into the knitted quilt project, and even now seems somewhat daunting and overwhelming. Inertia is defined in physics as “the tendency of a body to maintain its state of rest or uniform motion unless acted upon by an external force”. For this project that external force would be me– and require my knitting three more squares, crocheting an edging around all twenty blocks, blocking each one individually to size them equally, and then sewing all twenty squares together– a bit like pulling a shoe out of tar.
On the other hand, by knitting in a group I have a sense that I will get the project finished. I notice about myself that I want to succeed and finish the blanket so that I can show it to my group and receive their oohs, aahs and their congratulations. Somehow this also reminds me, since I’m writing my novel alone, will I ever get it done?
Further, my knitted blanket project is demonstrating to me a very important fact: if I want to complete a project, I don’t need to achieve perfection. Although I strive for it I may have to live with a lesser result. Amen. In square number 18, the one I just finished this week, I had confused one row with another and reversed the stockinette pattern for a series of rows with the inadvertent result that it actually still looks fine if not better, but it’s no longer the perfect pattern that was called for. I could have ripped out the six rows and redone it, but figured heck, what is my goal here? Perfection or completion” and so I opted for completion. The square will function very well as part of the blanket. It will warm the body it covers, and at the same time will remind me, the creator, that nothing human made is ever perfect, a touch of humility which actually makes me feel less daunted (anxious) about the task of overcoming the inertia built into the long dormant project and finally putting an end to it by completing it. Lessen learned. I’m a social being and I surely ain’t perfect. Amen.
January 5, 2015- Journal entry. It feels really funny to be writing 2015 already. On the other hand, it feels so normal. Enjoyed our walk along Lynch Creek with Bob and Gigi, our standard poodle. There’s an encampment of folk who live under the 101 bridge over this creek, and they were playing quite a series of drum patterns, bongo-like rhythms drowning out the drone of tires crossing the highway pavement above, the whiz of air swirling from cars moving north and south, a sworm of vehicles zooming to their destination at speeds of 65 mph and more and below them this group of people, guys probably young, who even had a section of bamboo fencing installed so you couldn’t really see them, drowning out the noise of their movements, the drumming a noise made by fingers on stretched animal skins, far more pleasant than the noise of rubber tires on asphalt. I wanted to give them a thumbs up or a Bravo but feared starting something. Like what? They wouldn’t wade the creek–now a foot or more high from the rains, and come over begging money would they? They were fellow human beings making the best of an intolerable situation, having no home, homeless, or roofless as the French call it, a less harsh condemnation of their circumstance since homelessness conveys a sense of soullessness, for what is a home except a product of our soul. a place to hang our soul, a place hugely protected by our forefathers and the Constitution makers. If we don’t have a home, we don’t have a soul. Yet roofless conveys merely a sense of open-aired housing; one is not souless; just roofless. But these guys had a roof, the curved arch of he highway overpass. Yet it would be 37degrees that night. We were done with our several days of freeze warnings on my iPhone. but I wondered how they would get through the night. Would they build a fire? The pink-blue sky and the brown green of the neighboring fields signaled the sun was about to dive below the horizon. i pulled my scarf tighter around my neck and put on my gloves as we walked Gigi back to our Volvo.
Something happened yesterday. It jolted me. And like a lancet pierced my emotional cloak to dig up the feeling I sometimes experience–that as a woman male society expects me to be invisible, my needs non existent. ( For example, give up your birth name upon marriage). In that moment I connected to the truth that most of our mothers and grandmothers have been marginalized over the centuries–their work and consciousness debased. And it sickened me. My stomach recoiled. We’ve been “just housewives”, just “mothers”, “just quilters”, “just nurses”, etc, As long as our efforts have been seen as detached from bringing home the bacon and relegated to just frying it, our careers are viewed as unimportant up against the man’s career who is the one earning the money in the family.
What happened was this: Bob and I applied for a line of credit using our house as collateral. A safety net. Just in case. Or if we ever get serious and remodel the room above the garage in order to rent it out. I was checking over the papers since we were to sign them with a notary later that afternoon. The form listed my husband, Bob, as signer, with his occupation and number of years, and me as co-signer- with no occupation or employment listed next to it. Granted, the loan was based on his salary, but i bristled at the alleged non-existence of my career, my work. Why should I be any different from a man who wants and gets recognition for his career or profession? I still consider myself an attorney even if retired, and certainly still a writer even if I make hardly any money at all at it. It’s not a hobby for me. It’s an occupation.
So I filled it in with a pen– Attorney/writer, 42 years, and initialed it. And I felt better for it. Move over Quicken Loans. I’m a woman and I’m here. Get used to it.
So my hubby and I went to the 3rd Annual National Heirloom Festival yesterday at the Sonoma County Fairgrounds where fecundity flourished. Seeds galore and becoup info on why to oppose GMOS-gene modified organisms. It is a mantra I intuitively agree with, along with nine other countries, like Italy, France, Germany, Greece, Luxumbourg, Austria, Hungary and Poland which ban Monsantos GMO corn. In fact, Monsanto has abandoned it’s GMO crop push in Europe. It’s interesting how those against GMOs connect it to being anti mom’s apple pie.
I spent a great deal of time by the Santa Cruz County based Mountain Feed and Farm Supply who had a huge display of fermenting veggies. And for a mere 20 dollars you could own one of the gizmos to get you on your way to fermenting every food morsel in sight, as long as it fit into the half gallon Mason jars, whose top had a strange looking tube sticking out of it. ( Wish I had taken a photo.) Click here they look like this. Anyhow, I asked the young woman why I needed that little contraption when I had already successfully made traditionall “Jewish pickles’ using only salt brine, a crust of rye bread, fresh cukes placed in a clean crock, topped with gauze, and a platter held down with a cleaned flat rack. “Oh You don’t,” she said, “Go ahead and continue doing what you do. This is just for people who are afraid to begin fermenting food. It’a a beginner kit. You’re obviously past this.” This made me feel great. “Will do,” I smiled back feeling part of the fermenting nation. But she got me thinking I really should upgrade my system. I mean using an old crock pot insert and a flat rock? I was better than that. Maybe I did need that five gallon crock all set up with weights for holding down the pickles in the brine, and a water seal lid, imported from Poland, no less, the very land of my ancestors. At $140.00 it was still tempting but way too large, although it was the size my grandfather, Constanty Lupinski might have used in his Polish deli/grocery store in Irvington, New Jersey in the 1930’s-50’s. I wasn’t ready for that much fermenting, “Do you have anything smaller?” I asked. “Yes, but we’re out. You can pay for it now, and we’ll ship it for free.” “I’ll think about it,” I said. I sauntered on. Well it didn’t take me long to get pulled in at the Architectural Ceramic Design station. Wow, Here was a bevy of rainbow colored, hand-hewn pottery. and amid all that sat several fermenting crocks–all in various colors, from red to yellow to orange. “People are getting back into fermenting,” Alan the potter said. No kidding, I thought. Gee I was one of the forerunners of a trend. I puffed out my chest and took in all the simply devine colors. (hint: click on the website to see them, you’ll see what I mean). Plus the feel of the items is light, yet you know it is handmade. “I used to work in a beauty salon,” said Donna his wife and potter partner, “I know how to throw and blend colors.” It was apparent to me she was expert at it and putting all of her color energy into the pottery business as I looked at her lovely long but natural grey hair. Okay so I bought the red,orangey one. My grandad would be proud. And I even found a recipe for pickled apples which is a good thing since our golden delicious tree gave us five bushels this year.
All in all it was a a good day yesterday and I feel connected not only to my own heritage, but to so many others, (mothers and fathers) who also used the process to survive way before refrigeration was a gleam in anyone’s eye.
How different our daily lives are from that of our mothers. You only have to go visit the vintage kitchen exhibit at SVMA to see that (Kitchen Memories: Kathleen Thompson Hill Culinary Collection thru Dec. 1). There you will find a collection of unique kitchen tools which now qualify as antiques (by definition items over 50 years old) but which rained commonplace in my mother’s kitchen– from the handheld eggbeater to the retractable clothesline,
And then there’s the hand coffee grinder made of wood which my grandmother used daily but now sits unused on the top tier of my kitchen cabinets.
My husband recently splurged on a Cusinart coffee maker which provides us with up to 12 cups of coffee with the press of a button. The beans stored in the device get ground automatically. All you need to do is empty out the gold mesh strainer containing the previous day’s grinds, and pour in the requisite amount of water, whose level you can determine from a see-through section of the container. And if you should forget to empty out the previous grinds because say you’re still in a fog from your night’s dream in which you won the lottery, well, never mind, the apparatus detects it and beeps away at you, and stays on strike until you change it. The
first time I used it, I had done just that, and so responding to the rhythmic beeps of the thing I figured out intuitively what was wrong. I blurted aloud to the machine, as if it were alive and talking to me with it’s beeps, ” How cool. You are a coffee maker for an idiot; anyone can use you.” And like I said it’s actually my husband’s machine; I’m primarily a tea drinker. He didn’t take offense, though which I surely did not intend, my words flying from my mouth as an accolade in amazement at this “smart” coffeemaker. And that’s how he took it as I proceeded to dump the grinds from the basket and re-push the start button. I could hear the heating element processing the water. All systems go. The coffeemaker was actually my husband, Bob’s latest toy of which he seemed inordinately proud, since he had plucked it up at Big Lots during our stay at our daughter, Kiva’s apartment in LA. She in turn had been chauffeuring us around her favorite bargain haunts, Big Lots occupying place number two on her “go to” list of best LA deals. The first spot won by the Goodwill in Inglewood where she lives. (That fun experience the topic of another post).
It seems our generation craves machines which make our lives simple, and men involve themselves in purchasing culinary items, ones which are user friendly, and don’t require much thought or effort to use. Presumably then we can direct our minds toward more lofty levels, such as oh I don’t know…just loftier thoughts. Okay, like fantasy football for my husband, and morning newspaper reading on my ipad while we await our morning brew. How different we are from our mothers.
Now that my kids are “grown” adults, can I step into a new role as Mother? And if so, who gives me permission to create this new role? These questions float a nebulous cloud in my brain as I sip my first cup of strong breakfast tea. The November air a chill on the morning, brings a freshness from the overnight falling rain, the sky a clear blue, “sky-blue” in fact matching the crayola crayon I remember from my childhood.
What prompts the question? The holidays, to start, Thanksgiving. Both son and daughter live and work in LA, a seven hour drive away or an hour by plane, My daughter, Kiva loves the holiday and dearly wants me to come and visit, to celebrate in the festivities, to eat the delicious dinner she and her chef boyfriend will prepare, to meet their new two puppies, and to see how she fixed up her yard, and living space. I love my daughter and her company and talking with her as an adult is a special treat, but this time around I want to spend time gathering up my various writing projects, prioritizing which ones I really long to pursue, etc. etc. and the expense and hassle of getting on a plane for a four day visit just doesn’t appeal to me now.
At first she doesn’t seem to ounderstand why I want solitude at that time and I am reminded how very much we love one another’s company. There is nothing quite like it. She makes me laugh with joy and gratitude when I sense how much she wants me to come and celebrate with her. She says things like, “You have plenty of time to be alone on other days.” and “You should budget your time better.” I agree that I should do so. But still I WANT THIS TIME FOR MYSELF. Just this once, and a trip down south would be disruptive–although probably also refreshing and lovely. When I mention the hassle of the travel part, she says, “Oh, that makes sense.” So she gives me permission to be myself. But is it primarily because I’ve given it to myself to begin with? Talking witn my friends, Karen and Cheryl over coffee the other day, we all agreed that having given our all to raising our children to adulthood– the countless birthday parties, plays, cello concerts, track meets, graduation ceremonies we attended with gratitude and love in the past– finally we have EARNED OUR RIGHT to our own time, even around the holidays. But the thing is, I know I am so looking forward to my being with my daughter when she comes up over the Christmas holidays, only a month or so away. She’s younger. I hope she doesn’t yet mind the hassle, and schlepping of all the travel part.
As a mother, how do you spend thanksgiving with your adult children who live a distance from you? Am I being silly or selfish? I’d love to know what you think.