Pen and Paper, Ink and Words

I received another postcard yesterday, this one from Romania.  It was a very pretty one of the Palace of Culture in a town called Iasi.

It got me thinking.  I'm no different than anyone else these days with the instant gratification of emails, blogging, Facebook, Twitter--though I refuse to get involved in the latter two; there's only so much time in the day after all and I just can't be bothered.

So I'm walking back from the mailbox, looking at the postcard, thinking about writing.  Really writing.  The actual motion of picking up a pen, physically putting ink on paper, choosing the words carefully to not make a mistake, truly thinking about what to convey to the person who will receive the missive.**

Imagine the days before nanosecond technology, before computers, cell phones, tablets, emails, apps--days that actually weren't so very long ago. 

People wrote.  They penned love letters to be cherished, saved in a bundle to be read again and again.  Letters about life and longing, family and friends.  Letters of pain, despair, to be cried over, tear drops blurring the inked words of rejection, loss, heartbreak. 

There was something irrefutable about those written letters; thoughts, words, emotions, cast in ink-stone.  Once sent, the words couldn't be taken back, deleted, changed...some words wouldn't, couldn't be forgiven; some would never be forgotten.

I used to have beautiful handwriting, a flourish in my signature.  Since I was a kid, people have commented on the elegant, almost Victorian, form of my writing.  These days I type nearly everything, and when I do write, it's usually in block print.

Jan (The BFF) however, is living proof there are still tiny enclaves of non-tech folks, people who don't have a cell phone, and rarely use their computers.  She writes letters.  Almost like a lost ship, an anachronism drifting out of the past, a letter will arrive in the mail.  It will be a rambler, full of newsy details about her day, her partner, Lucky the Labrador's antics: an appetite for roadkill; often there will be a clipping from a magazine, or her local paper, with some tidbit she wants to share with me.  It is a treasure, seemingly from another time, and yet bursting with the immediacy of her life just a few days prior to arriving in mine.

We talk on the phone every Sunday, and yet she still sends me a letter.  Because, she says, it means more.

Periodically, we will send cards to each other, often close to the same day.  She will find one that speaks to our long-held friendship, I will find one that says the things I want to tell her, to help her through the harder moments of her day, her work. 

Not long ago, I got this card from her, out of the blue, no occasion.  It made me smile.  It made me thankful I have such a friend.  It made me love her even more for being the person she is.  I framed it.  (Click on the card to read the words).

At the same time, I found this card for her.  It was perfect food for thought while she toiled...

We said almost the identical things inside the cards: how much we loved our friendship, and each other, and thanks for always being there.

I didn't block print.  I wrote with my old handwriting, signing off with a flourish.   Nothing less would do.



** I looked in the thesaurus for other synonyms for missive.  I could come up with a few on my own, but I was curious, it's such an old word.  Missive wasn't even listed.  How sad.

Dandelion Wine

In high school Lit class, one of the books we were required to read was Ray Bradbury's
Fahrenheit 451.  A depressing, horrible story of censorship, intolerance and the wholesale annihilation of books by burning.  I'm not alone in having read this book in school.  The main thing I took from this brilliantly written story--and have carried with me ever since--is that no one has the right to stop me from reading whatever I want.  No one.

I can safely say this was the first time I was truly influenced by a book, a story, an author.

Fast forward now...maybe seven or eight years later.  I'm sitting near the sea wall, the Pioneer Hotel to my left, Lahaina harbor in front, and Maui magic all around me.  The soft whisper of the trees, the smell of the sea, the trades gently ruffling long hair across my shoulders, tickling my face.  I have wandered down to the waterfront, my work at the dive shop over for the day, so I decide to sit under a large tree to watch the boats come and go in the harbor.

Half dozing, half dreaming, I'm a bit startled when a slightly grungy character comes close, standing in front of me, blocking my view, denting my space.  I shade my eyes and look up at this guy, about my age, mid-twenties.  "What's up?" I ask. 

"You read?" 

 "Yes," I answer, my tone slightly offended.  Don't I look like a reader?  Though really, to be fair, can you tell someone reads just by looking at them?  No, you can't. 

He grins at me, crouches down and digs through a battered old military-type pack, then hands me a slim book.  "I picked this up in Amsterdam.  It was left on a chair at the airport, waiting to be read.  Not the first book I've found in my travels.  I call 'em "pass-it-along" books."  He smiles, stands, and says over his shoulder as he walks off, "Up to you now."

I watch him go, bemused and yet oddly pleased and excited to be chosen, to be part of something so curious.  I'm now in the pass-it-along book club.  How cool is that?

The cover is worn, with a dog-eared upper corner.  I finger the rip where the cover is pulling away from the spine at the bottom edge.  At first I'm just a little disappointed to see it's a Ray Bradbury book, Dandelion Wine.  I'm living in Paradise, I don't want to read any more horror stories about burning books, or terrible people and their hatreds.

But I read the teaser on the back, and the story appears to be nothing like Fahrenheit 451.  It sounds intriguing, about a boy and a magical Summer.  I turn my head for another glimpse of the guy, but he's long gone, and it's just a warm, quiet November afternoon in Lahaina.  Opening the book to the first page, I begin reading about Douglas Spaulding...

And for the second time in my life, I am influenced by a story, a book, an author.  How strange and wonderful that it's the same man. 


This book changed many things for me.  The passion and joy of this young boy during a Summer in his life, becoming aware, alive, being so completely in each and every moment.  It was beyond incredible writing.  It moved me, exhilarated me, started me on a path I still try to follow today: being mindful, in the moment.  I began writing because of this book.  I began to see things in a different way.  The next afternoon I joined the crew on a schooner and sailed the South Pacific.  I was alive.

That's a powerful lot of changing from one small book.  I know I would be someone other than who I am right now but for this story.  And what an amazing thought that is.

I hung on to Dandelion Wine for a couple of years.  I just couldn't let it go; it meant so much to me.  Then, preparing for a trip to San Francisco, I was looking for something to read on the plane and there it was.  It was time to fulfill my club obligation.  I read the story again on the journey, then left it on a table in the lobby of my hotel.  I so hope someone found it.  (I bought another copy the next day.  I still have it.)

Over the years I've sometimes wondered who to thank for bringing Dandelion Wine into my life.  The man, the storyteller, the genius behind so many tales, the dreamer of worlds; or that guy who chose me for the pass-it-along book club, handing me transformation inside the cover of a paperback.  I'll thank them both, I think.

Ray Bradbury joined the stars yesterday.  He was 91.  I can't help but think Mars might have been his first port of call. 

Head in the Clouds

Today was the Transit of Venus, an event that won't come again for over a century.  I didn't get the specs for my eyes, or the cover for my camera lens, and just when I thought I would only be able to see this event second-hand, I stumbled across a website that explained how to make your own sort of telescope.

It took binoculars, a tripod, duct tape (natch), two pieces of cardboard, and pretty much that was all there was to it.  In theory.

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The weather has been total crap for the past two days.  Storm after storm, rain, winds, even snow.  Figures, right?  Major celestial happening, and this is what the sky looked like at 6:00 tonight when the show started:

Before I put the telescope together, I took this shot of the Valley.  In person it was very dramatic: light and dark, sun and shadow.







Then, ever hopeful that the clouds might break, I put the telescope together, fingers crossed that a) I could actually do it, b) it would work, and c) I could get a photo of Venus moving across the Sun.

I decided, rather than go outside, mainly because the weather was too dicey, I would just set up right in the living room at one of the big windows.

Basically, you cut two holes in a piece of cardboard that will fit over the binocular lens; duct tape the binoculars to the tripod; focus and adjust the twin suns on another piece of cardboard you hold in your hand, then put a cap over one lens. If all goes well, you will have one Sun on the paper, and a wee black dot that is Venus.

I was really amazed that it worked.  When I held up that piece of paper, and there was the Sun and--OMG!!--there was the black dot of Venus, I could hardly believe it.  It was most excellent. I had a little bit of trouble keeping the tripod steady as the binoculars made it top heavy, but with a bit of foot action, duct tape and the strap hooked over a chair, eventually I got things balanced.

The next obstacle was how to take a photo.  I had to hold the cardboard, get my camera between that and the binoculars, focus, shoot and not move the camera, the tripod or the cardboard.  My first attempt was a total failure when everything shifted, I grabbed for the tripod, creased the cardboard and inadvertently snapped this lovely shot...

At least three times, just when I got set up and ready, the Sun was covered in clouds.  Once I gave up completely because there was a great thunderstorm with hail and rain and wind, and I figured that was it for my Venus pictures.  I even gave the dogs their dinner, and had my own.

But just as the Sun began to head toward the mountain peaks and out of my range, there was a sudden break in the clouds and the whole living room lit up like High Noon.  I managed to get these two pictures.

[You will definitely have to click on the photos.  In the middle, on the right side edge, you will see the black dot of Venus as she tiptoes across the face of the Sun.]

I'm really happy that I got to see an event that won't come again for 105 years--2117 to be exact.  It was so cool, even on a small piece of cardboard, to see such a wonderful thing.  And I swear, my camera is just beyond brilliant.

Then, whilst still reveling in the excitement of the moment, the duct tape came unstuck from the chair, the strap slipped, the tripod tipped with the weight of the binoculars, and once again I took an unintended photo--a photo I actually didn't know I'd taken until I downloaded the pictures.

It was sweet to have built my duct tape telescope, and have it work.  Turned out to be a good day after all, even with my head in the clouds for most of it.

Brain Drain

I managed to straighten out the convoluted mess that my blog inexplicably morphed into at some point between last night and this morning.  I still don't know what happened to skew the format--and it's not exactly right yet--but after much aggro and cursing, it's now functioning again.  Mostly.

Then, after lunch and some chores, I spent the better part of the afternoon researching alternatives to Blogger.  I'm undecided if I'm ready to jump ship and get a web site, or move to a new blog home.  It's interesting how we put up with stuff sometimes, rather than just move on to an easier, better, more acceptable option.  I guess it's a case of "...the devil you know."

Before I go to all the hassle and bother, I want to make sure I'm not dropping into a fat/fire situation.  Earlier this afternoon, just when I'm ready to switch to WordPress, I read a scathing article on what a rip it is--as in it's not free once you get into the nitty gritty, and the alleged 24/7 help is non-existent.  There are a couple other sites I want to delve into a bit deeper, but I'm done with this crap for now.

Since I'm calling it a day, surely that means a drink is in order, and hey, doesn't that look like a nice place there, just down the next street?  Anything will be better than standing a minute longer at this intersection...

Holy Crap

Got up this morning and found my entire blog is screwed up.  I am clueless.  I've lost the right sidebar, the comments option, and the whole thing is too narrow and bizarre.  This might be the death of my relationship with Blogger.  I have had other issues lately, but this takes the cake.

I'll either get it fixed, be back with a whole new look--again--or have an actual web address instead of fighting with this Blogger crap.

Dammit.

Selective Memory

I went on a quest this morning to find a container large enough for the gallons of coffee I have steeping, and also to buy more get-the-hell-out-of-my-garden deer spray.

The Co-op was my first destination because they carry the deer stuff.  I had that in hand, plus some cheesecloth for straining the coffee grounds, when I saw the coolest pair of cowboy (girl) boots that were nearly my undoing; I settled for a five minute fondling instead.  Uh.  I wasn't fondled...the boots were.

Alas, they didn't have the right container, so off to Freddy's.  For some reason they were just mobbed this morning so everything took twice as long, but I eventually found the perfect thing.  I can use it for lemonade or sun tea, assuming I ever finish the gallons of coffee.

So I get home and prepare to strain the coffee and try out my new jar thingy.  First, the jar has a spout, and of course it leaks when I test it.  I tighten the mechanism, I test, I tighten.  Ten minutes later, fed up, I run a bead of bathtub caulking around the outside of the damn dispenser to seal the spout.  It works perfectly.  Then I try pouring 8 quarts of coffee through the cheesecloth into the jar.  The cheesecloth folds into itself, the coffee splashes everywhere--sink, the cabinets, the floor, my clothes--the grounds end up in the jar, not contained in the sieve/cheesecloth..................

It wasn't pretty.

Eventually I prevail.  It took me about half an hour to clean the kitchen afterwards.  If I do this again (big IF), I definitely will cut the recipe by half, at least.  The cheesecloth didn't work either, but paper towels did.  If I'd had someone around who could have either poured or held the cloth, it might have worked, but since I didn't, and had to improvise, the paper towels worked just fine.

Later, I made myself a Mason jar of iced coffee and had a brownie.  Now that everything is done, and the kitchen is back to normal, I'm really pleased with the coffee.  It's very rich and probably too strong for some folks, but just how I like it.  With a good dose of half-and-half, it's really good. 






As was the brownie.  The peanut butter almost oozes out of the center, while the rest of the brownie is close to fudge-like in consistency, with a crunchy outside.   Just a totally delicious treat.

I ended up with about 5 quarts of the coffee.  A good bunch of it went down the drain when I was struggling with the cheesecloth, the paper towels, the slipping sieve.  Supposedly this concoction lasts up to a month in the fridge, but if the weather stays humid and hell-like, no problem drinking it in that time frame.








My experiences in the kitchen are always fraught, though I really can cook.  In the end, everything usually works out.  Once it's over and all signs of chaos have been cleared away, I seem to forget the torment I put myself through, blanking out the turmoil.

Now, hmmm, where did I put that Limoncello recipe.....??

Cookin'

I opened the blinds this morning and saw this handsome fellow, preening in the rising sun, on the deck rail outside the bedroom window.

In these two shots you can actually see his flashy topknot.  I didn't see his plain little Quail wifey, but I'm sure she was around somewhere...they're pretty inseparable.  Maybe she was sleeping in this morning, and it was his turn to be the early bird.

It's been a beastly humid day.  I was walking the boys just after 9:00am and within just a few minutes they were panting and I was sweating.  It got very hot by mid-morning, then early this afternoon the clouds came rolling over the mountains and sealed the heat in.  It was like being inside a sauna...built over a chasm into Hell. 

Unfortunately, I still had stuff to do, so regardless of the steam I had to carry on.  I nearly croaked when changing the duvet cover though.  On a good day that's a chore, on a muggy, blazing day it's a nightmare.  Every single time I change the duvet, I swear I'm going to invent an easier way to get the blasted downy inside the cover.  Today I think I might have actually come up with a perfect design.  Course, I could have been suffering heat stroke and my idea isn't feasible.  I'll have to think it through when it's cooler...

I made brownies.  Because why not turn on the oven when it's hot enough to burn toast?  I didn't care...it was too hot to care, and it was worth it.  They are just about the best brownies ever.  (These are the peanut butter swirl ones that I found at the back of a book I was reading awhile back.) 

Then I made the beginnings of an iced coffee stash--I'm really not sure what else to call it.  It's sort of like camp (or cowboy) coffee.  One pound of coffee grounds in a large container, filled with 8 qts of cold water.  Steep overnight.  Pour through sieve with cheesecloth the next day to filter out the grounds, put in fridge.  Have an iced coffee anytime you want. 

I wasn't quite paying attention--the heat was frying my brain by this point--so I had assembled the coffee and water in my biggest pot when I realized this is really a two-man operation.  How in the world I'm going to singlehandedly pour 8 qts of water into another container, through a sieve is beyond me.  I could hardly lift the flaming pot to move it across the kitchen because it's full to the brim, and will be extremely difficult to pour.

Oh, and then there's this:  How much iced coffee did I think I was going to be drinking, anyway?  Seriously.  8 quarts??  I could have made half this amount and it would still be too much.  It's the heat, really, it is. 

I need a brownie.

In the Moment...Recap and Revelations

My In the Moment experiment comes to an end today.

At the beginning of May, in an attempt to live more in the moment, I decided to use my camera as a tool to stop living so much in my head--photography requiring immediacy, eyes open to possibilities, awareness of your surroundings.

For the most part, my experiment was successful.  Almost from the beginning I found myself looking--no, seeing--more than usual.  On the daily walks with the dogs--boringly familiar, my steps following the same worn path of routine--I began to notice things: simple, beautiful, often ordinary things that made me feel awake, alert...

...I smiled at a face in a tree; a broken weather vane filled my head with a Dylan song; I lost my ticket to ride a fantasy train; carefully backed away from a demon cat. 

The days took on a certain sparkle, my camera swinging from the strap around my neck, the weight a comfortable reminder to keep myself focused.  My daily life morphed into something else, more a voyage of discovery than just another grain of sand dropping through the hourglass.

But halfway through the month came the test, when I opened The Box.  It seemed then that all the days prior were for naught.  I fell off the wagon and found myself face down in the dirt, sucking in the dust of all the paths I had taken in my life, with the pictures and souvenirs to prove it.  I struggled for days with the onslaught of memories, regrets, wants and wishes, do-overs and desires.  Floundering, I could barely think straight--let alone get back in the moment--while my mind was lost in the cavernous, deafening echoes of the past.

And mindfulness?  Oh, my mind was full all right.  To the brim and then some.

The purpose of meditation is to calm the mind, the spirit, to find the silence within.  I couldn't settle my thoughts long enough to find the path, and believe me I tried until I had a headache.  It's self-defeating when you try too hard to accomplish something that will only work if you let go and allow it to happen freely.

Lotus position on the floor--pushing, pulling, forcing--when this realization came like a strong wind, blowing my thoughts apart, reminding me that I know better than to compel.  My eyes popped open and immediately I felt the tension across my shoulders, in my hands, clenched and white-knuckled in my lap.  My Buddha tattoo seemed to be laughing at my foolishness.  Climbing stiffly to my feet, feeling sore to my bones, I walked into the kitchen for water.

This revelation seemed to have broken a logjam in my brain.  As I began to relax, I looked at the beauty of the landscape from my windows.  The Valley is verdant, lush, green like emeralds after all the days of rain, the mountains in the distance look like silhouettes cut from black paper, their ragged edges smudged in the heat haze.  I walked out onto the back deck, soaking it in.  

My turmoil about the past had become, at that very moment, tempered by the reality of my present.  I'm exactly the woman I am today, right now, because of the paths I've walked, the people I've known, the life I've led.  It can't be changed, altered, or erased, it just simply is.  I can only embrace what has come before, be mindful in the present, and look forward to discovering new roads to travel in my future.

I spent a long time sitting out on the deck yesterday afternoon, absorbing, feeling, making peace with myself, reviewing the month.  I'm very glad I did the experiment, and even think I may have passed the test of The Box--at least, I don't think I totally failed, though it might have been close once or twice.  It's been a most revealing and interesting time, one that has given me clarity and insight, painful as that process was. 

And simplistic as it seems--often the simplest can be the most important--I found my ultimate truth:

I am the sum of all my parts:  past, present and future.  A triad of equal value and meaning that constitutes a life.  Mine.

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BTW:  Some of the photos that I took this month, if you're interested.

Ramblings...

Another cool celestial event is coming, next week in fact, and this one--to my mind, at least--is an even bigger deal than the solar eclipse we just had.

The Transit of Venus.  The planet crosses between earth and the sun, a visible black dot cruising along for about six hours with the sun as backdrop.  I've been trying to get some solar eclipse glasses, and a hefty lens for my camera, but I think I waited too long.  One major dealer of these specs is still sold out from the eclipse and another only accepts orders in bulk.  Now, if I were having a big Venus party, 25 solar glasses would be fine.  Too bad I'm not.

This is a pretty important event--whether you're into astronomy or not--because it won't happen again until 2117.  I'm fairly certain most of us won't be around for the next viewing.

Here's the map showing the trajectory.  Except for parts of Africa and most of South America, nearly everyone else on the planet will be able to see the Transit, either June 5th, or June 6th, depending on where you are in the world.

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Yesterday at the VA, where I walked the boys in the morning, all the flags were out for Memorial Day, lining the road that meanders through the whole complex.  It always looks so beautiful to see hundreds of American flags, waving in the breeze.

The Rhododendrons are in massive bloom everywhere on the grounds, too.  Here's a shot of just one of the Federalist-style buildings that make up the VA compound.  I swear, some weekends, when it's very quiet, not a soul to be seen, I can just imagine Thomas Jefferson strolling out the huge front doors of this building and down the steps as I walk by.

Playing with my Macro...though handling two leashes at the same time made it pretty tricky.  I attempted the Super Macro, but with the dogs vibrating at the end of their patience, I just couldn't hold still enough.

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Ozzy had an appointment this morning with the groomer.  He equates grooming with the vet, two things he hates the most.  He starts shaking and shivering a mile before either place; I have to practically jackhammer him out of the back seat, then unpeel him from my neck as he winds around me like a monkey.  It's grim for everyone.

However, when I pick him up two hours later he's ready for the red carpet...maybe his paw print at Grauman's before lunch at Prego?  He prances, he smiles, he knows he's handsome.  

Max was very worried for his buddy when I dropped Ozzy off, and we drove away without him.  Thankfully, he doesn't need a groomer as his hair is short, and I can bathe and brush him myself. 

Later, after we picked Ozzy up and came home, Max had a good long sniff, then they shoulder-bumped each other--a guy thing, I guess--and he plopped down on the floor, exhausted from all the excitement.  He watched me take a picture of Oz, then before he could react, I turned and snapped one of him; his only acknowledgement was the twist of one ear.  We have made such great strides since the early days when he would run in terror the minute I picked up the camera.

He looks like such an old man, doesn't he?  But he's only four.  I wonder if he's always had that white around his face and paws, or did his past bring that about?  I'll never know, though for a long time after I rescued him, I used to imagine his story based on his reaction to the things that terrified him.  He's such a good dog, I'm glad I was the one to give him a home.

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The weather is changing.  We're going from cool rain to scorching heat.  Today is the interim:  warm, gentle breeze, blue skies.  I have the doors and windows open, the overhead fan slowly whirling, the soft scent of Papier d'Armenie wafting in the warm air. 

(Read this wonderful post from Mr London Street about this paper.  I used to buy it at this great little shop in Aberdour (a village in Fife, Scotland), though here in southern Oregon I can only buy it from Amazon.  Still.  At least I have that option.) 

The smell fills my head with images of mysterious, shadowy alleys in Marrakesh, ripe with the odors of exotic flowers and spices.  I always think of The Arabian Nights--in particular, that most excellent movie with Dougray Scott and Mili Avital--a film I've probably watched a dozen times.

And hmmm.  Speaking of that...I think, while the scent of mystery lingers in the air, that I'm just going to go and make that a baker's dozen...

A Moment...to Remember

Stars, Quotes and Stickers...

I was reading an article today about Starfish.  Scientists are debating changing the name of these beauties because they're not related to fish at all, but rather belong to the same genus as sea urchins.  Their name will likely become Sea Stars.  And can I just cast my vote for that most excellent choice?  How perfect, a star living in the sea.

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I get these daily quotes from GoodReads, a site I subscribe to because I wanted to do the Book Challenge (a task I am sorely failing at this juncture).  I've saved a few to share at some point.  This is that point.

And, stuck in holiday traffic on my way to walk the boys this morning, I had nothing  better to do than read bumper stickers.

So, because I haven't done a blasted thing today except make a big pot of chili, walk the dogs, and read a book, now seems like the right time to post a few tidbits from both sources since I've got zip otherwise:

Quotes:

Each moment is a place you've never been.
                                   --Mark Strand

The past is never where you think you left it.
                                  --Katherine Anne Porter

It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.
                                  --Ralph Waldo Emerson

The most courageous act is still to think for yourself.  Aloud.
                                 --Coco Chanel


Bumper Stickers:

Support Search and Rescue:  Get Lost!

Don't suffer from insanity.  Enjoy every minute of it!

When you're in hot water.  Try Ice. 
(website for the Jewelry Xchange at the bottom)

Hug a musician.  They never get to dance.
(love this one)

What if the hokey pokey really IS what it's all about?

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Hope y'all are enjoying the three-day weekend, whether you're out and about, or staying home.

For myself, I would love to be sitting around a campfire right now, the smell of wood smoke and pine in my nose, anticipating a soft, squishy toasted marshmallow as night falls...

Moments in a Day...

I put my flag out this morning for Memorial Day.  When I was a kid, this was the weekend that meant camping, s'mores, fishing with my Dad, school soon to be just a bad memory, Summer beckoning like a Siren, her song filled with heat and hot dogs, skinned knees, sno-cones, picnics and BBQs, Mom's potato salad, reading a book while swaying in Dad's old canvas hammock, laying in the cool grass late at night waiting for shooting stars. 

I'd love to have that sense of joyful anticipation sweep over me again, though I'm probably too jaded these days to really feel that excited flutter in the belly, realizing there are long days ahead, stretching into the endless future--Fall, too far away to imagine in the freedom of the moment.

As I turned from placing the flag, I noticed the wind had broken off one of my Iris stems.  I brought it inside and put it in a olive oil bottle that I'd saved because I loved the shape.  I have a beautiful collection of vases: vintage, modern, eclectic, rustic and primitive, and yet, the long, elegant stem of the flower just seemed to fit perfectly in this recycled container. 

Zen in a bottle.

I was getting my stuff together to take the boys on their walk, when I thought I saw movement out the front as...something...walked up the road.  I went to one of the windows, and sure enough, there was a large bird strolling along the verge.  I grabbed my camera, mainly for the telephoto, so I could get a closer look.

Pretty sure it's a female wild turkey.  There's a big population that live in these mountains, though I haven't seen any of them since last year.  Why she would be wandering around by herself, easy prey with no back-up, I don't know.  I took this shot, then watched her just meander up the road like she didn't have a care in the world.

Decided to walk a different area of the park today.  I miss being able to go out the Valley to the County Park, so for a change of scenery, we parked across the river, away from our usual place.  Wandering along the river bank, in the quiet, the dogs exploring new territory, I spied this lovely, wild Bearded Iris growing close to the water's edge.  This particular color reminds me of old grandmothers and small town America, and "the good ol' days" (whatever those were).  It's an old, old variety, though I don't know the name.  Somehow it found a home along a river, blooming alone in its beauty.

Back from the morning adventures, I wandered out back to check on my soggy veggies.  We've had so much rain in the past week, it's a wonder my raised bed boxes haven't ended up sliding down the mountain.  I'm standing on the deck, coffee cup in one hand, camera in the other, when this bright spark of red flits by.  I slowly turned, stayed very still, waiting.  And bouncing around my flowering cherry tree came this handsome guy.  I got several shots, though half were totally blurred from his amazingly rapid woodpecker taps.  Seriously, this guy was a machine.

Later, checking my emails, I received one from a family in Germany, part of the Postcrossing deal I'm having such a great time with.  I had taken a photo of a chipmunk at Crater Lake National Park last year, the cutest wee thing, who came right up and seemed to pose for me.  I made the photo into a postcard and sent it to these two little children.  They got the card, and loved the chipmunk so much, they have it in their living room where they can see it every day.  That really made me smile.  Here he is...

The moments in a day.  So interesting the things we feel, and see, in the course of a few hours.  It's truly a wonder...

Tale of Two Ten Dollar Bills

Yesterday afternoon I had two things happen: one made me very angry, the other made me smile; both involved a ten dollar bill.

As anyone knows who has followed my blog, I live on top of a small mountain with 16 other homes spread across this long, twisting ridge.  I know a few people up here, but for the most part, everyone pretty much keeps to themselves.  I'm familiar with some names, faces, and will stop to chat if I bump into anyone, but other than my immediate neighbor, and two women further along the ridge, that pretty much covers it.

So.  Wednesday afternoon.  I'm sitting at the laptop, next to the windows that look out at the road and front garden, when this Barbie look-a-like comes tearing up my stairs.  The dogs wig out, I'm trying to figure out where she came from, who she belongs to.  There's no clue how she has just appeared out of thin air.

Open the door, ask her how I can help her.  She's young, too perky, too chatty, too blond, too...everything.  She puts me off, totally, though I rein myself in for judging her on appearances.  In the course of her hyped-up spiel, I get the drift that she wants me to buy a magazine subscription, the money to go toward helping the military overseas; the benefit to her is earning points to help in her scholarship to UC-Davis. 

The bottom line: she wants $50.

I scoff, tell her a soldier in the Middle East is not going to be reading magazines, and even if he were, I could order 4 magazines for the price she's touting for one.

Oh, but she's smooth.  She immediately has a rebuttal:  The magazines are for the military nurses.  The $50 is divided between the subscription and her scholarship.  She has these innocent, guileless baby blues that would've had a guy on his knees, wallet outstretched, begging her to take what she needs.  This just puts me off even more--I never had a Barbie doll, and never wanted one.

I ask her how she came to be on the ridge, it's private, there's a big ol' sign at the entrance to our road that says no solicitors. 

Ah, and here's the good part people, here's how she hooked me.  She says, no hesitation at all, that her grandparents live back around the curve--about five houses removed from mine, toward the head of the road.  Their names roll off her (forked) tongue.  I don't personally know those folks; they travel, are rarely here except during the Summer months.  I ponder this for a minute, remember that just this past weekend I saw their car, and they're back in town.

I'm not happy about this whole deal, but crap.  She's got a little folder stuffed with bills so someone has already given in to her wiles.  I have a weak moment, wondering how long it will take the grapevine to hear that I tossed Barbie off my porch, refusing to help the poor girl get to UC-Davis in the Fall.  With a sigh, resigned, I get my wallet.  Amongst my change, I have two ten dollar bills.  Begrudgingly, I hand her one of them.  She squeals (I kid you not), throws herself at me, bear hugs ensue, she thanks me profusely, then runs down my front stairs.

I try to get back to work, but I can't shake this... feeling.  I stew.  An hour or so later, I get out the phone book, find Barbie's "grandparents" and call them.  I explain the situation to the woman who answers the phone.  I'm nice, apologetic even, just in case my intuition is groundless.

Of course it's not. 

These people don't have a grandchild her age, or description.  How she got their name and knew they were old enough to be grandparents, I haven't a clue.  It's creepy.

Scam Barbie got me for $10.  I was really pissed.  My only consolation?  It was just ten bucks.  But still.  And what was with the frigging hug???  Are you kidding me???  Rip me off, then hug me as the final insult???  I swear, if too much time hadn't already passed, I would have gotten in the Blazer and gleefully hunted down that conniving little witch.

I found out later I wasn't the only sucker.  Big whoop.

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Last year, when the house was painted, the guys removed all the gutters and downspouts.  After painting, they put everything back up, though from last year to this, I've noticed that two corner units weren't properly reattached so water leaks out where it shouldn't.  Then, last week in one of the storms, the top of the spout that connects to the gutter came away.  Of course this is in the front of the house, right at the driveway.  It looks very much like the Griswalds live here, gutters leaking, downspout waving in the breeze.  All I need is the rusty trailer and a chicken or two to complete the picture.  I would just fix it myself but I don't have a 25-ft ladder.

A couple of months ago, I had all the outside windows cleaned by this guy, Jeremy, who specializes in really high, nearly inaccessible windows.  He did a brilliant job, even climbing on the roof to clean the four skylights.  He told me that if I ever needed any help that required tall--very tall--ladders, to give him a call.

I called on Monday.  He said he was really busy, but would try to come by at some point this week.  I didn't really care when he could come, just that he would.

Yesterday, after Scam Barbie and still fuming, his truck comes up the drive.  He unhooks his tallest ladder, climbs up, reconnects the pipe to the gutter, fixes the loose screw with a new, thicker one, and within just a few quick minutes, everything is good.

When I asked him how much I could pay him for doing this, he smiled and told me it was a freebie.  I went inside, got my wallet, and gave him the other ten dollar bill.  He refused, I insisted.  It was more than worth the money to have him come so quickly, and fix it better than it was before it fell off in the first place.  He left happy, and I have an ace in the hole if I need him again.

******************************************************************************************

I smiled as he drove off with a cheery wave.  His act of kindness after Barbie's act of deceit was such a contrast for one little afternoon.  I thought about those two ten dollar bills, wondering about their journey after leaving my wallet.

Do you think there's karma in how money is acquired?  In this instance, I really hope so.  I'm going to imagine something good will come to Jeremy with his $10.

You don't want to know what I'm envisioning for Barbie.



[And hey.  So much for my non-day post, huh??  Perhaps the cows were sending me a warning...]

A Moment...with Cows and Clouds

Today has been one of the those...non...days, if you know what I mean.  Just a day.  Nothing memorable, noteworthy, or relevant is going on, other than you're breathing.  How many of our days are like that?  Days where just living, breathing, ticking the date off a calendar are all that mark them.  I'm not saying that's a bad thing.  Really, don't you think we would implode if every day were fraught with intensity, meaning, significance?  I would, for sure.  I need those down-time days, to recharge, think, find balance in a tilting world.

It's been stormy here.  Whilst having lunch, I noticed this great, angry cloud over the Valley.  I took the camera out onto the back deck to get a shot of it.  The sky was growing darker as I stood there, the cloud starting to look tornado-like.

Then, from way down below me, there was this sudden cow commotion.  I don't have a clue where they were--there's nothing but white oak and pine trees for hundreds of feet down my ridge.  A large herd used to live in the Valley, but the farm was sold last year and is now a vineyard.  I can't imagine what they were doing down there. 

It made me laugh to listen to the bellowing, so I switched the camera to video.  Can you hear them?  Well, really, how could you not?

They were truly upset about something.  In their world, I guess this isn't a non day.

Struggling In the Moment...

I'm having a hard time recovering from jet lag after the time travel that overwhelmed me in opening The Box.  Things are stuck in my head, in my heart, causing me problems.  I was doing so well with my In the Moment experiment, too.  I need to get back in sync with this reality, so I'm going to do some manual labor, work out in the garden even though it's raining, find my way back...somehow.

The front garden looked really good this morning, Iris plants growing like crazy, everything so green and lush after a heavy rain during the night...

Because the front is doing fine, I'm going to concentrate on the slope in back, on the other side of the fence.  It's very overgrown with nettles and thistles and weeds.  I will no doubt regret this big idea, but maybe not...maybe groveling in the dirt will ground me, bring me home.

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Oh, and by the way:  I didn't have much luck with the eclipse the other day, though managed two pictures in spite of the weather.

This one looks more like Mars.  I had a red filter that I used over the camera lens.  It didn't exactly work out as planned--too blurry and overbright--though still, it has a cool weirdness to it.

The moon had nearly covered the sun at this point.  The clouds had just opened up, so I quickly put the camera on the highest ISO to take the picture as fast as possible, hoping I wouldn't burn out my lens by not using a filter. 

The photo looks like a half-moon in a stormy sky instead of an eclipse.  For a hand-held, telephoto shot, I think it's a real testament to how great my camera is that this is so clear and sharp.

I was disappointed not to get the full eclipse, but right after I got that last picture, the clouds rolled over the whole works and I missed the rest of the show.  I was really just happy to get what I did.

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Okay, off to get some dirt under my fingernails and the past out of my head.  Nettle stings will probably help with that...Nature's version of shock therapy.

So Not In the Moment...

My mother stayed on at the house for several years after my father passed away.  A few years ago, she decided it was time to scale down and move into a smaller place.  This decision meant months of sorting and sifting through a lifetime spent with a husband, having four kids, and all the detritus, paraphernalia, and mementos that glue a family together.

Couple years on and she's thinking of downsizing again, making things even easier for herself.  She really doesn't need as much space to take care of and instead of chores and maintenance, she could be having fun, taking a jet boat cruise up the Rogue River, or going to a Shakespeare play in Ashland, or...well, you get the picture.

And there's my segue...

Mother's Day weekend Mom brought two boxes with her.  One for me, one for my sister.  In these boxes were photographs, papers, stuff from our past.  Mine went in the garage on a work table, my sister's in the trunk of her car.  I peeked inside my large box, registered lots of things to sort through, then got sidetracked by the get-together.  It wasn't until later in the week that I remembered the box.

I don't read saga-type books.  They depress me with how fast life goes by, how quickly one can go from young, wild and vibrantly alive, to the old woman on her death bed recounting her tumultuous life in 500 pages.

But oh flaming Hell. 

Here was my saga.  In these photos and papers; in my tiny five-year-old hand print pressed into plaster from kindergarten.  Here was my life, spread out on the table, memories filling my head as I flipped through stacks of history.  Here was...ME.

Some of these photos I have never seen.  Dad and I were the photographers in the family.  There are many years where I don't show up at all because I'm behind the camera.  There are just as many where we tried to out shoot each other.  Often I would only see my family a few times a year--I didn't live close, and that was before I moved abroad--so when Dad took pictures I rarely saw the end result.  I remembered each and every occasion, however, as I looked through the photos in the box; I remembered the gatherings, the parties, the events where we came together to celebrate as a family, being a family.

There are two photos of me that I love.  Only two, in my whole adult life.  

This first one I had framed and gave to my parents for Christmas the year it was taken.  I was with Toxic Guy, we were on the road as usual, and had stopped along this deep gorge--high in the northern mountains of Washington State--so I could take some pictures.  I shimmied on my belly out onto a rocky ledge, the river like a thin ribbon of glistening silver hundreds of feet below me.  When I sat up and turned around, he took this shot, my trusty and true Nikon SLR in my hand--a camera I still have, battered and dinged and loved. 

I didn't want to remove the photo from the frame, so it doesn't look very clear here on the blog, though in person it's...well, one of my favs.  The little curvy band to the right of me is the river, the ledge I'm sitting on is literally hanging over the abyss.  I've done far more dangerous things to get my shots, believe me, though right after this picture was taken, as I stood up, my sunglasses fell off my head and went over the side.  They fell for a very, very long time.

My absolute favorite photo is this one.  It reminds me of so, so many things.  I was living in an incredible little place, a converted attic in an old Victorian house at the top of Queen Anne hill in Seattle.  Who needs Paris?  I had my own garret right here in America.  Going out the trap door, I could stand on this perfect little flat section of the roof, all of Seattle at my feet.  I spent many a night out there, under the stars, comforted by the lights of my city, listening to the sounds, dreaming...

The funny building to my right that looks like half of it has been sheared off?  At the time this photo was taken, that's where Jan (BFF) worked; the tallest building behind me is where I did.  Corporate woman by day, rock girl by night.  I loved that leather jacket, my black jeans, chopped hair cut.  And man, did the good times roll. 

[Brief digression here...

Jan and I had our weekly Sunday phone call yesterday.  I was telling her about the box, the photos, many of them of her, too.  She asked if the one of me on the roof was in the bunch. I laughed and said yes. She told me that was her favorite picture of me, it should have been an album cover for a Seattle grunge band. 

We had a long talk about those times--the friends lost along the way, loves who came and went, adventures and experiences filled with drama, laughter and fun as we made our way through it all.  It seems like just the other day, everything clear and immediate, and yet at the same time like someone else's life, seen in a movie.]

After I went through all the stuff in the box, I couldn't help it, I cried.  I stood in the garage, my past in little piles in front of me, tiny fragments of a life, and wailed.  It was one of those awful moments when you want a do-over, or a genie to grant a wish, or just, dammit, want time to slow down, reverse itself, go back.  So many things have changed: the family is much smaller these days without Dad, my youngest sister, my nephew, my husband, and yet their faces smile out at me, forever captured in the photos I hold in my hand.

I came upstairs and called my sister.  I could barely choke out the words to tell her that I'd been going through the stuff Mom had given us and now my memories tightened like silken bands around my heart, my mind.  "You looked in the box?" she asked, disbelief in her tone.

"You didn't?" Voice husky with the dust of time stuck in my throat.

"God no.  I put it on the top shelf in the closet of the guest bedroom and shut the door."

"Without even looking inside?"

"You think I want to feel like you do right now?  I didn't look and I'm not going to.  At least not any time soon."

A few more tears, much nose blowing, a laugh or two at my emotional expense, then we completely agreed that this is exactly why neither of us read those bloody saga-type books.