Lightness of Being, Explained

http://spiritofmaat.com/archive/nov4/suryadas.htm

Election Day, 2012

Half of Tallahassee had voted early, by this morning, and my thought was that I would give the working people a chance to stand in the line and I would vote later, around 10:00 or after coffee. It worked well for me. The poll worker said that the longest wait had been 59 minutes. I was in the precinct for less than ten minutes.

I love my polling spot which is at a Methodist church, in the woods, near my own house. Voting there gives me a surge of patriotism because I feel as if I am standing in the very midst of the America that I love so much, that I am terribly anxious to protect, and for which I think (as everyone else) I have the answers.

I have not turned on the TV nor listened to the pundits - the talking heads. We will know election results soon enough. I didn't care for any of the local candidates - they lost my esteem through negative advertising. Thank goodness, because of my location in the county, I was spared many of those really tough decisions. 

Because of the political climate in the whole nation, I don't believe that it matters who wins this election. Either nothing or the wrong things are going to get done. Congress is awash. Parties are polarized. Voters are uninformed except for what they want to believe.  

I usually say that if I don't vote I have no room to complain but, today, I'm going to enlarge on that opinion. If I don't stand up and do something, here and now, I am just as bad as the next person who votes a party line and sits back and says, "I did my part." 

No matter who wins this election, I am returning to politics; not in the same ways as when I was younger - canvassing neighborhoods, attending fundraisers or working in campaign offices - but in a brand new role.   

I pledge to follow the legislative process closely in the future, to know who is voting what, to write letters and send emails to my own representatives (and to others) regarding lack of cooperation and failure to put the good of the people first.

Yes, in my own small way, I plan to become a watchdog over the whole group - whether I voted for them or not - not to push my personal agenda but to insure that these elected officials are doing their best for the nation through compromise and common sense. 

I promise to advocate either for or against the policies and voting record of my elected mouthpieces. The next time I see a negative political campaign ad, I will know whether or not it is true.

Wouldn't it be remarkable if every one of us would make this pledge? The people need to come together and say to Congress, "We are mad and we won't take it any more." We will see what tonight brings. God bless America. 

Caroline's Book Reviews

Frelseren by Jo Nesbø
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I read this book in paperback under the name of The Redeemer. Frankly, I'm getting hooked on the European crime novel and Harry Hole has become one of my favorite police heroes.

I'm biting my lip here. I am in two places at once. When I write mystery, I pride myself in being able to kill off anyone, if it suits me. I'm actually getting ready to murder the character modeled after myself in my next chapter. I admire that quality in Nesbø. Anyone can end up dead if it suits his story-line.

Yet, I was thunderstruck when I heard the rumor that Harry Hole himself might be in for a rude chopping up. Or something. I haven't read the interview or the articles online yet. I'm putting that off. I'm selfish. I have not had enough of the tall, blond, alcoholic, screwed-up Harry.

The Redeemer was a fantastic read. You might want to research the Salvation Army before you begin. There is a lot more to that entity (religion? cult? organization? charity?) than meets the eye. Better not to stop later and look things up.

Nesbø is an artist, leading the reader through the mystery with clue upon clue - so that the act of reading becomes a little like working a crossword. He holds one's interest with remarkable action scenes and winds up the story nicely - no lose ends - without rehashing.

My hat is off to Don Bartlett, a remarkable translator. He is getting smoother and smoother as the series goes along. It takes a special talent to work with suspense in two languages and to retain that edge-of-your-chair quality.

Bartlett translates many Scandinavian works into English. His American English vocabulary is growing IMHO. He doesn't call those shoes Doctor Martins, anymore, as the Brits do.

I no longer find the Scandinavian place, street, and proper names too off-putting. It was difficult at first but a big map of Oslo helped. I also have a list of northern European given names (along with their equivalents in other languages) and pronunciations. I want to hear that name the mind is reading.

If you are interested, don't begin with The Redeemer. Google Harry Hole and read the series from the beginning. It's worth a lot to be able to see how the characters and the overall plots evolve on the whole.






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Caroline's Book Reviews

The Perfect Daughter by Cathryn E. Lokey
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Poignant and deeply thoughtful, Cathryn Lokey has opened the door to her soul and bid us to come in without first checking our own baggage at the front steps.

The Perfect Daughter is the beautifully written true story of a woman who grew up unblemished in the eyes the church (Latter Day Saints) which educated her, sent her out to mission, and presented her with written testimonies of pride.

Her close-knit family also nurtured her, watched her grow, attended her wedding, and welcomed her new son into the world. She was, in fact, the perfect daughter on every level.

What Cathryn shares with us, however, is the story of a young woman seeking her own path toward the life she intuits (and later knows) that she is meant to live.

As she begins to edge away from an oppressive marriage, Cathryn learns that everything she believed, although certainly not wrong, was not right for her. In fact, it never would be. Could not be.

Sexual orientation, divorce, single parenthood, spiritual doubting, becoming a family in a non-family made up of friends and ex-in-laws, introspection, and self-examination are all part of the journey toward finding the "real" Cathryn- the one God made - who was there all along. She lets us in on all of it.

I wish everyone who has doubts about what their life is supposed to "look like" and wonders, "Where am I going from here?" would read The Perfect Daughter.

I always say that the true measure of the timelessness of the written word (just as in music and art) is the number of hearts that have skipped a beat because of it. Four stars, and you know that I never give five.




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Tallahassee Restaurants

Food Glorious Food has been a favorite lunch spot for me since before I moved to Tallahassee. The last visit I made there, however, was less than glorious. I sat for thirty minutes before I realized that I had my invisibility cloak around my shoulders. I had no menu, no tea, no prospect for any lunch at all. I decided never to go back. As there was no one in sight on which to spring this news, I got into my car and drove away. Many restaurants are hurting for my business, I told myself. In fact, they are happy to have any business at all. 

I guess management has got hold of itself, six months later. Today, I entered a bustling, busy, out-of-doors area, where I was promptly greeted, drink order taken, table edged around for a bit more shade by a wait-staff who seemed happy to be there.

As many times as I have eaten at F.G.F., I have always chosen the same menu item. The Grouper and Grits is a southern dish, tasty enough to die for. Hearty yellow grits are topped with perfectly cooked collards on which the golden, crunchy, sauteed grouper hides - peeking out from under a mound of the tastiest string potato fries imaginable. I have pushed my string fries aside, here, in order to show you the grouper, minus one bite!

   

Food Glorious Food is famous for its deserts. Long ago, when I visited Tallahassee for meetings, the group would buy several choices to share. Corey and I have been known to split a piece of cake on a cold winter night. Honestly, now that I live here and always eat outside where I'm not tempted by the bulging showcase of sweets, I simply savor my grouper and never mind the sugar. 

Today, diners all around were enjoying time outside in the beautiful fall air. There was a birthday party going on at the rear of the garden. The waiters were bustling, laughing and talking to the diners. Mine even took my picture for the blog. Lots of tea jugs floated by, refilling the empty glasses. I saw a friend and talked for a while fork poised over the beautiful seafood.

All in all it was a wonderful lunch. The air was rich with the smell of the grouper and the salmon on the plate at the next table. The fresh salad veggies were a powerful bouquet as well.  I could swear that I smelled freshly-chopped summer cucumber...

Food Glorious Food, 1950 Thomasville Road 

Surprise! No. Not a Birthday Gift. An Idea.

I've been reading Team Cul-de-Sac and doing a lot of thinking about cartoonists. I sketch a little and have tried my hand at comic strips about Squirrel and Belle. In Jacksonville, it was turtles and geese - all the creatures who lived on or in the lake at Pablo Point.

I've joined a Guild at church. Spirit and Creativity. I believe my work is too secular to be accepted there, but I will try. I've dug out my never-used Creativity Self-Hypnosis CD and listen every night while I fall asleep. I put the musical, subliminal persuasion, version in the car to play while I drive. Just for fun. Get the juices stirring. I am an old hand at self-hypnosis and at creativity. The two are compatible.

I realized after a short talk (about my personal path to creativity) that I gave at last weeks meeting that I write mysteries, poetry, haiku, recipes, and more - then transfer everything to CD's with password protection. That's over, I decided. Everything I do, from here on out, will be for sharing.

When I woke up this morning, it was my Birthday!

I put all of this into the back of my mind, yesterday, in favor of football, hot wings, and afternoon sunshine. When I woke up this morning, it was my Birthday! Seventy-two is a remarkable age. In my humble opinion. (IMHO)

That's a lot of written words, over a great number of years. Trade journal articles, diaries, Opticianry rules, optical presentations, speeches, neighborhood newsletters, classroom essays, op-ed letters, short stories, and limericks don't come even close to telling the whole story of what I did with all those words in all that time.

My self-hypnosis tape suggests that the listener keep a bottle of water by the bed, along with a pencil and a notepad. Upon awakening, one should first drink a little water which nudges (post-hypnotic suggestion) the subconscious to spew forth ideas and thoughts. One must write these down. Like a bad dream, they'll be forgotten within the hour. Skip this morning, I told myself. It's going to be a wonderful day.

After coffee in the cool of the early-morning patio air, I came inside for bed-making and blind-opening. There it was. The composition book was on the floor, pencil on top. There was a sheet of copy paper stuck inside. I saw that the entire page was covered with the  drawings of a set of cartoon characters. Five of them. (I can almost remember, if I concentrate, turning on the reading lamp and going to work in the deep of the night.) In the notebook, there are the dialogues for several cartoon strip installments. Each one of them can also be used as a one-window script. I have it all notated!

The trouble is that the characters, the humor, the sketches, and the ballooned voices are all about my church, Holy Comforter. Is a church allowed to have a comic strip? May comic characters be based on Fr. Ted and Mtr. Terry? Can an angel become best friends with a little boy? Is she a real angel and not an imaginary friend? Might that be the question that the story line explores?

Will anything extraordinary and lasting come of all this? I have to try. I'll take some samples of the work to next month's meeting. The worst that can happen would be the members nodding and smiling, all the while thinking, "Senile, poor dear."

Several days ago, I had another great idea (I was wide awake for this one) which was to write the children's Christmas Pageant.   I think it's too late for this year, but surely for 2013. My idea for that event is amazing, too.

First, though, the comic strip. What a surprise! Happy Birthday to me - more than a little quirky, but certainly alive and happy - on this beautiful October morning.  Still, I may be dismissed from the Guild. They are a group of talented, seemingly very serious, deeply spiritual thinkers. Time will tell. I have some sketching to do.

Images of Lake Petty Gulf

Caroline's Book Reviews

Team Cul de Sac: Cartoonists Draw the Line at Parkinson's by Chris Sparks
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

There are no words left.

Everything that could be said about cartoonist Richard Thompson and his genius, or Team Cul de Sac and it's  wonderfully clever attack on Parkinson's Disease, plus the remote, secret world of comic artistry, illustration, and related professions was said in this delightful book by the contributors who took part.

If you enjoyed the cartoon, Cul de Sac, in the Washington Post, or have known anyone with Parkinson's, or if you simply want to support Team (Michael) Fox in a quest for the cure for this debilitating disease, please order this book!

I am going to keep it on my coffee table forever! Just because!  





































































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Tallahassee Restaurants

Riccardo's is located at 3305 Capital Circle, NE, "Your Dining Room Away From Home."
(Pictures were lifted from the on-line menu.)

Many years ago, when I was a member of (as Hillary Clinton put it) the sisterhood of the traveling pantsuits, I found myself attending a financial session in the Tallahassee Airport meeting room.

At that time, the only part of Tally that I was familiar with was Monroe Street, where the Department of Health was then located, as well as a few of the hotels around the I-10 and Monroe Street exit.

Our consumer Board member was a Tallahassee native and wanted to take us to dinner at the "best Italian restaurant in North Florida." I didn't get the name, if she said it.

I rode with someone else.

We drove, drove, drove, drove. (Capital Circle NE is as far away from the airport as you can get in Tally - across town and opposite.) Finally, there was a strip mall. Nothing fancy. I had no idea where I was. "Best Bread in Tallahassee," the sign said. Secret Bread, it was called.

Dinner was delicious that night, long ago. When I moved here, I tried to find the restaurant without knowing the name or the location.  When I couldn't get any information from the people I asked, I assumed that it had closed. Most of the local eateries that I was so excited to move near were no longer with us just before and - especially - after the financial crunch.

Last week I found myself meeting my family at Riccardo's for dinner. I hadn't heard of it, didn't know where it was, and never gave that a thought. I'm not yet familiar with all the dozens (hundreds?) of strip malls on Capital Circle.

When I drove up, however, I recognized the building! Inside, I asked lots of questions. How long have you been here? Is the room I'm sitting in an addition since the  late '90's? Who owns the restaurant now? We ordered Secret Bread. Yes. This was the place.

Beth and I, who are forward-thinking and want to fit into our wedding clothes when the time comes, ordered antipasto. Delightful. Corey ate calzone. I don't remember that item being on the menu in the past. Tom chose the child's cheese pizza but Jack tried a bowl of spaghetti and meatballs - the same as his Granny had devoured after her meeting, long ago.

To be memorable, a family-style Italian restaurant needs a few signature sauces, a collection of high-quality pasta selections, a repertoire of delicious homemade mix-ins (meatballs, Italian sausages, spinach, great cheeses), good antipasto, and impeccable service. A top-notch wine list helps, but the table wine that we drank was excellent.

Riccardo's has a German Night on Thursdays. I have no idea why. The Italian offerings were tasty, served promptly, and left me with a feeling of camaraderie and hospitality. Yet, I'm going to visit again some Thursday evening soon!  I love good German food, too.

Tallahassee Restaurants

The Egg, 3500 Kinhega Drive, Tallahassee. 

I've enjoyed this quaint breakfast café, now called The Egg Cafe & Eatery, ever since I moved into my Tallahassee neighborhood.

This morning was no different. Except that it was! In such a delightful way!

The last time I ate at The Egg (formerly known as Another Broken Egg, part of a small southern restaurant chain) it had been bought, reorganized, and was headed for a remodel that very next weekend.

I gave them plenty of time to get it together. What I found this morning was heart (and stomach) warming, big time. The remodel of the inside of the café did not take the ambiance away from the two dining rooms. Rather, new paint and clean wood floors simply emphasized the coziness.

The former establishment was not particularly noted for fast, efficient service. When I heard the wait-staff discussing the fact that they were the only two people working on the floor, I pulled out the Kindle and creamed my coffee, settling down to enjoy the view and use the extra time before breakfast to read my book club selection.

The view from the window of The Egg; a little fog this morning.

 
But, no. Everything rolled right along. Scrambled eggs, bacon,  jalapeño cheese grits, and an English muffin was sitting before me in a flash.

Not only that. Everything was delicious; cooked to perfection, using good quality grits, just the right amount of pepper-heat, with crisp bacon slices.

It was a nice, relaxing brunch. I sent the chef my compliments, gladly paid the bill, and left as the lunch crowd was beginning to arrive. I'll try lunch next. I wonder if they still have the tomato/basil soup on the menu?

A Week of Sundays

I feel blessed to have had this remarkable week.

On Sunday, we enjoyed Beth's (West Palm Beach) family, who attended church with us after a weekend of wedding dress shopping. This was actually the designated day for celebrating Episcopal Schools, but it felt to me as if it were a celebration of family solidarity; we are merging into a single unit in order to fully enjoy Corey and Beth's wedding and to be a part of their life together. There are, naturally, challenges; we will overcome them.

On Tuesday, the occasion was somber. A funeral service. I've lost so many family and friends in these past five years, but I had not been to a funeral since Ms. Vera's. I barely remember that day because Wayne was so very ill. This was my first Episcopal funeral. I basked in the joy of the opportunity to pray, not only for Dixon Robinson and his family, but for everyone I have personally lost these past years.

Wednesday evening was a service of shear joy. Corey was confirmed into the Episcopal church. Wayne's son (and Loretta's, Art's, and mine) is such a joy, in every way. We surrounded him as he knelt before the Bishop; Beth, Tom, Jack, and me - each with our hands on his arm -  supportive and so happy for him.

I loved hearing Bishop Keyser, who said that he would talk to us from his chair instead of speaking formally, recite parts of James Weldon Johnson's poem, "The Creation," a reminder of my childhood. He was kind and gentle in his manner, wise and intelligent, knowing just what to say to those present. We are a church family who is also kind, gentle, keen, and insightful.

I'll remember this time as my personal Week of Sundays (to differentiate them from Easter and Christmas weeks) for the rest of my life. These five days have made me thoughtful; I am pensive, in a totally good, even remarkable, way. I'm thankful, this morning, for my personal blessings.  

 

Breathe; Now.

I woke at seven, sat up in my bed, and was overjoyed to be awake and out of that dark, deep place. I don't usually remember my dreams. That was a nightmare and terrible.

In it, Corey was five (just the age of Jack and Tom) and we three were sitting around the pool at Hidden Hills Country Club in Jacksonville.

I was having Sarah Donner, modern-day rocker and cat-lady blogger - who probably was not yet born - teach Corey the words to her new Christmas song and help him learn to sing one of her jingles about cats. I had been playing tennis (which I don't) and shuffleboard (which I also don't) with a group of people whom I've never met.

Wayne was talking to some men he knew, laying some plans, wheeling and dealing, bartering eyeglasses for diamonds. (That's a lot of eye-wear.) He wasn't happy with me in the dream. Those lyrics were pretty adult, he said. Why did I slip Sarah fifty dollars? I shrugged. No answer. How was I to know? Nothing at the club today was making much sense.

Wayne said that he would be gone by afternoon. It wasn't working with us. That broke my heart. He didn't mention Corey or what time Loretta was going to pick him up. I looked around and Corey was gone. I was in a panic, trying to find his Dad, but Wayne was gone too. Forever, I knew. Reality was crushing me as if I were sleeping under ten thousand comforters.

I woke up in a fit of desperation, heart pounding, trampled by a dozen horses. It was the light of a cool Tallahassee morning. Don't do this, I whispered. It was just a dream. Don't let anything that happens in sleep upset you. There was still hope while you were lost in dreamland. In reality, when he had to go, plans and dreams and hopes for the future were gnashed forever. You couldn't breathe then. Breathe now.

Morning's Work - No Small Job

Cleaning the foyer, at my house, is a morning's work - no small job. The person who designed the area made mistakes going and coming; I love the strange set-up only because it directs so much sunlight into the living room. This great placement makes for beautiful and bright winter days.

Otherwise, the foyer is akin to a long, galloping hallway that runs the length of the guest room wall and the dining room, which is open above the chair-rail.  The lack of a wall, right there, displays a cheerful dinner space; that's important, in this case, because the furniture is just a touch too large for the room itself. With two open walls, the smallness of the room exudes a remarkable feeling of  simple coziness.

I've divided my foyer into two separate areas using a tall, ladder-type plant holder of African violets sitting on an oversize round coir rug right at the halfway point of the walking space. Feng Shui dictates that the chi be slowed down and not allowed to run from the front door, down the foyer, and through the living room in a straight line. This ploy works beautifully.

That the rug is too big for the width of the area and is tucked in on one side divides the small space in half and makes the foyer look wider at the same time. It reminds me of Grandmother's palmetto grass rug which she had arranged in the same way on one wall of her foyer under cuckoo clocks and weather vanes. A bench sat along that wall. She tucked the rug under because of the effect and not because of the size of the space. Grandmother's foyer was room-sized and square, after all.

The area before the coir rug is the entrance-way; a windowpane door with an over-sized seascape to the right and a foyer table, lamp, and mirror to the left. That's what I've always wanted. Who knew that it would become such a home-design puzzle simply because the hallway doesn't really stop there?

On the other side of the plant stand and rug, walking into the living room, is the pouting bench. I owned two derelict park benches in Jacksonville, gifts from my husband. I designated them for pouting and other thoughtful moments. When I left, I gave the hardware to a friend and threw the wooden planks away. Richie rebuilt the benches. He has one at his house and I have the other in my foyer with an oversize painting of a Wilmington tobacco barn on the opposite wall.

Every time I clean the foyer, as you see, I become mildly irked at the design in general. The space is a little too narrow and the wall on the right can only sport paintings and the laundry room door to allow for any walking at all.

The whole area is a little too long, hence my mentally cutting it in half with a floor covering and plants. I spend a good portion of my working time, on those cleaning days, rearranging real and imaginary furnishings in my head. Why can I not figure out some better way of balancing out this long and lean, room-like space?

Once everything is spit and polish, however, I quickly forget my irritation. The mirror and hallway-type chandelier sparkle. Teak, bathed in oil and buffed to a healthy glow, is timeless. My park bench is cozy-looking and inviting under its pillows. Violets are watered and seasonal flowers are blooming in the doorway, inside and out. The artists, whose works are hanging, have gained prominence over the years. Tile is gleaming; coir is welcoming - trimmed of snags. Door panes are nearly transparent and beckon, "Come in."

The Bose changer, long banished to inhabit the foyer table's bottom shelf, has been re-filled with fall favorites. The Barber of Seville is turned up high. I am making a lunch smoothie of fruits, green nutrients, rice protein powder, and healthy oils. Yum. Wonderful. Beautiful. What's not to love?

Figaro here, Figaro there,
Figaro up. Figaro down.
Quicker and quicker
I go like greased lightning....
La, la, la, la, la, la. 
La la, La la la.

Personality Pet Peeve

I try to avoid the Imees. You know; "I" or "me" prominent in every sentence, their life stories within the hour, and nothing left to be discovered but the skeletons in the closet.

My family boasts Imees that are the worst in the nation; I can spot the personality type from more than a mile away. I'm too experienced to fool for any length of time. So if you meet me, tell me about your passions, what you're reading, what music pulls your heartstrings, and what you love to do. Then we will click!

Snapshots. Dealing With Plagiarism.

Me, taking snapshots.

Between you and me, plagiarism is rampant on the internet. Did you ever Google a topic and find that every reference site has exactly the same information, word for word? Do you wonder if the "expert" copied the work from Wikipedia? Or vice-versa?

Do you read your facebook wondering if your friends are quoting songwriters, novelists, famous people, philosophers, and more? The answer is, yes, they are.

Here's what I do. If I recognize quoted material (even when I cannot pinpoint with certainty where I read it), I share it to my own page immediately. I word my comment in such a way that I am leaning toward giving the friend, or friend-of-friend, the credit for the "quote." The truth will usually come out, especially if he or she published the passages in Notes or as a Profile Update answering, "what are you thinking?"

The facebook Notes section is given to us as a soapbox. Live it up. Write a diary, or an article, or a poem. Sound off! Upload a photo! Air your politics, if you must. But please, write the words yourself and make the article your own.  Favorite Quotes is where we go so that we may copy down those passages that we admire but that were written by others.

I like to give credit where credit is due, and I often quote "him" or "her" simply by annotating with a name, or the title, or both. Writing can be work. Don't pretend that you are Hemingway. Some of your friends cannot tell the difference, but I can.

One quick word, however. Quote the Bible all you want. That edifice was written by many in order to be spread to everyone. If this approach appeals to you, simply give the passage (book, chapter, and verse) and let the reader do the research. If the quote is a familiar one, and most are, surround the verse or verses with quotation marks. In that way everyone will know that you are not trying to pass on the Bible as your own work even though you have "made it your own" in your heart.  

Where is the Sunshine?

I just Goggled the cities (population over 20,000) in the United States with the
least amount of sunshine per year. The top fifteen were in the state of Washington and ten of them enjoyed fewer than 40% of sunny days per annum.

Charleston, West Virginia, is #16 on this list of dreariest cities - with Pittsburgh following closely at #17. Those two hover around 45% sunshine.The statistics stop at #102 and the last five spots are all in Illinois with only 53% sunny days.

Tallahassee, Florida, where I am sitting this morning, usually has an average of 231 sunny, or mostly sunny, days per year - ten more than my old house in Jacksonville that easily saw 63% sunshine. I equate Jacksonville rain with the occasional nor'easter, nearly-daily summer-afternoon thunderstorms, and rainy but warm (no more than two at a time) winter days.

I woke up to another foggy, muggy, unseasonably hot, and overcast morning.   The forecast is for more of the same all day, Saturday, and Sunday. Trending keywords are rain, wind, and cloud. In Tallahassee, when it rains, it pours. And pours.

I made myself a pot of strong coffee and baked a biscuit to have with a sausage patty, eschewing my "good" breakfast of herbal tea and protein shake. Variety is, after all, the spice of life. Spice? I sprinkled the coffee with cardamom, cinnamon, and nutmeg to enhance quality.

I've decided to use a picture of sunny and butterfly-saturated (not dreary) Lake Petty Gulf along with this annoying weather post, for I never think of Tallahassee as rainy. I always picture this city basking in fresh, beautiful spring mornings; smelling of neighborhood fireplaces roaring on sunny, bright, cold winter afternoons - when the light is perfect and shines, blaring, into my porch and kitchen window; and suffering happily through long, hot, summer days filled with sunshine, emitting smells of cut grass and of the Red Hills clay on which my little house is perched.

Glad to Have You; No Trouble at All.

How many trips up the hill in the car, food steaming on the seat beside me? I've been at it for almost five years; we three have aged.

This morning they invited me to lunch. I shook my head, uh uh, but said, "of course" into the telephone. Anna Lee had a broken hip when I met her and her walking has not improved that much with time. She is diabetic and frail. Harmon has emphysema; he doesn't breath and talk at the same time. His teeth are bad and he can't get his food chewed before his next breath, which is labored. He is nearly blind.

Their daughter comes daily because she understands that Anna Lee and Harmon want to live in the little house for as long as they can. She makes lists, gives medication, and supplies breakfast - all before her work day begins. She leaves a pitcher of tea, icing. On weekends she is barber, hairdresser, handyman, and chauffeur. They take Dial-a-Ride to the doctor. The county nurse visits.

Anna Lee and Harmon couldn't grocery shop even if they had the money. Therefore, they give their food money away. Some goes to neighbors who procure for the couple the Lean Cuisines, and Mac and Cheeses, and frozen biscuits during their own trips to Publix. This helps the couples' daughter immensely,  too. The rest goes to a grandchild so that he can stay in college.

I call Anna Lee and Harmon the old couple up the hill although they are exactly my own age. When I moved into the neighborhood, I began to take them box suppers, my cooking excesses. I do it now, at least once a week, and I am not the only one who knocks on that door with gifts, for body and soul, covered in foil.

Invite me to lunch? No. No. I should fix a plate of salad and deviled eggs and sandwiches, pack the car, and go over there at noon. Making a meal for a guest is way too hard.

You could smell the vegetable soup from the corner. Amazing. Anna Lee and Harmon had shared in a friend's windfall. Said gentleman came into a bushel of veggies from a farming relative enjoying an excess harvest. His wife had cleaned and chopped her friends' portion of the remarkable selection and had thrown in a ham hock. "Nothing to do but to cook it," explained Anna Lee.

This woman, the generous friend, had been told by Harmon that there was someone they wanted to invite to lunch. When she saw the produce, all she could think of was what a beautiful but easy meal for an infirm couple to make.

So it was that I have enjoyed a long and lovely afternoon. Big bowls of fresh Florida vegetables made into soup are delicious served with iced tea and frozen biscuits baked in the toaster oven. For desert we brought out the honey and applied it generously to the leftover Pillsbury Grands.

"Thank you so much." Hugs. Smiles. Harmon, winking.

"We were so glad to have you. It was no trouble at all."

Remind me, when I get to racing around the kitchen in my perfectionist hat, that the best times are the ones when we are somehow, masterfully, provided for - be it food, or good company, or both. It is a great gift, indeed, if we can simply stop and talk, sip our tea, eat our vegetables, and enjoy each others company.

A Squirrel on a Sugar High

Squirrel found half a vanilla Oreo under Belle's footstool while she was busy trying to grab the fuzzy fur from between the cat's toes. They were playing their game. That's why Belle thought that she deserved part of the cookie. They were in this together. (We all know that the cat has a sweet-tooth.)

Squirrel gave Belle her famous side-wise look and, holding on desperately to the treat, ran into her house and didn't stop until she was sitting on the top branch looking down at us. Belle won't go in there, even for a cookie.

 Munch. Munch. Munch. Nibble, nibble, nibble. Cat, sulking. Me, thinking that this couldn't be that good for her. Yet, I told myself, if a wild squirrel found an Oreo in the grass, he or she would eat it. No harm done, really. She had found the least gooey half. Jack or Tom had enjoyed the other.

Squirrel finally got all the goody off the cookie and hid the rest. A huge drink of water later, she was off sorting through a bag of fresh, just-opened bedding. She had torn down the first winter nest after just one night of being way too warm. This is Florida, after all.

Drink, drink, drink. Build, build, build. Soon she was back in the "secret place" pulling out the Oreo wafer. This time, she nibbled, savoring, and hid the rest - that little piece in the picture that she couldn't quite finish.

Drink, drink, drink. Build, build, build. Drag out the tiny piece remaining of the  cookie. Polish it off in one gulp.Smile at Belle.

 Drink, drink, drink. No building nests. Not this time.

Swing from the string (stolen from you-know- who) on which dangles the likewise comshawed catnip mouse.

Jump over the cloth baby blocks one by one. Slide down the ferret tower.

Jump on the mound of fresh straw and roll around. Attack a leftover lettuce leaf from the breakfast dish. Dive into the bathwater bowl.

Belle has moved in closer, a better seat. I am shaking my head, laughing out loud. Just look at her, Belle. We have a squirrel on a sugar high!

Artistry for a Higher Purpose

Late afternoon on Tuesday threatened and delivered a massive thunderstorm here in Bradfordville. Above, is a photo of that same cloud-mass as it followed me south on Thomasville and arrived with me at Holy Comforter Episcopal Church.

I don't usually go out in a storm. I learned when I worked in our optical shop at Jacksonville Beach and again in Ponte Vedra. Phone the beach people to tell them that their glasses are ready during any rain, from sprinkle to heavy, and the answer will be, "Thanks. It's raining (or going to rain or threatening rain or just stopped raining) and I think I'll wait until tomorrow."

Nevertheless, I rode over, armed with rain gear and dry shoes. We are beginning a new mission at Holy Comforter and the very thoughts of it have been calling out to me since the morning of the in-church announcement.

The Spirit and Creativity Guild will meet every third Tuesday evening under the guidance and leadership of Ed Babcock. We will explore the relationship of spirituality and creativity, how each embraces and supports the other. We'll use our varied artistic talents - art, photography, music, dance, poetry, singing, story telling/writing - to enhance the life of the church, the community, and beyond.

I have never been more thrilled with any opportunity to serve God - who blessed me and my life with so many talents, some unused for many years and others new, just now emerging.

Yes, I understood that those gifts drove, shaped, and often defined my spirituality. I realized, too, that spirituality gave meaning and backbone and purpose as I sketched my yard and squirrel, and wrote the Cooking Club! mysteries, and made up the children's stories, and took pictures of Tallahassee (especially the trees and churches) and developed the recipes for Cooking for One, and searched the house, continuously, for the legs to my easel (lost these five years) and added chapters to my autobiography - highlighting growing up in the 40's and 50's - and typed out the one-act plays (comedies about the INFJ personality group).

This morning, as I look at the list, I see the scattered nature of it. Simple artistry trying to emerge. Tap, tap tapping and throwing the finished discs into the back of the closet. Snap, snap, snapping and editing pictures to what purpose? Perhaps a Guild such as this is the very push I need to get it organized, to do some good with all of the above and more.

I arrived at home tranquil and ready to learn to harness my thoughts and my talents for a higher purpose. I dug around in the stack of meditation CD's and found a never-really-used self-hypnosis tape by Barrie Konicov - the voice that taught me the art of relaxation, love of exercise, and that saved my teeth from being broken through clenching.

I had listened to Creative Thinking (just once) so I knew to put the glass of water, the note cards, and the pencil by the bed for use upon awakening. I fell asleep at the point where I was forgiving myself for all of my past and also was forgiving others. "Now I can get to work," I thought, a split-second before sleep claimed me for itself and my sub-conscious had to take over.

The sister disc, the subliminal music tape, goes into the car to be played as I travel about. Self-hypnosis, however, must be done at home. (Can you picture texting while driving and hypnotized?)

Inspired, I'm ready to begin seeing myself with fresh eyes and using my talents in a brand new way. All I was sure of yesterday was that, whatever path that the fledgling Spirit and Creativity Guild was to take, I would be a part of it.

The Empty Salad Plate: The Not Really Caesar Salad

I love an empty salad plate. Especially at noon. Today, I had a left-over roasted chicken breast. It sang and shouted "Caesar Salad." I opened the fridge for the romaine but my eye caught a bag of locally grown heirloom lettuce leaves. They stay fresh a long time, since they don't have to travel to market, and I tend to hoard them.

I lined the bottom of my plate with the green, red, and yellowish leaves. I sprinkled on barely a shake of olive oil and salted the salad greens at once. Salata, after all, means salt. The touch of oil just makes it cling.

I sliced the chicken and laid it on top of the tender greens. I cut gherkins really thin and sprinkled the breast meat with pickle. I crumbled a tiny bit of Yorkshire Wensleydale Cheese with Cranberries over the whole salad and added a small shake of Cardini's original Caesar Salad Dressing. I used minimal cheese and dressing to keep the fat content low - just enough to get the taste of the anchovies in the dressing and the cranberries in the cheese.

I sat in the sunshine and enjoyed lunch. I was thinking that this salad was good enough to share. Everybody should taste this. I beat myself up a little for not getting a picture before I started eating, but I decided that even that wouldn't give you any idea of how good this dish really was.

I have noticed that Fresh Market is selling Heirloom lettuce in the produce section now. It would be easy for you to make this salad even though you don't have a local source for the greens. Any crumbly cheese you like would do. If you make it, take a picture! (I'll try not to forget next time.)  Let me know if you enjoyed the recipe. I would have used croutons, but I couldn't find any in the pantry. Next time.

Cookbooks!

Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day: The Discovery That Revolutionizes Home Baking by Jeff Hertzberg
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

I am itching to bake sourdough bread! Fall is in the air! I've decided to concentrate on just one cookbook instead of trying to take the advice of six!

Later:

This is not the book for me. A new way to bake bread. The overly moist dough becomes a sort of sourdough as it sits in the fridge for a week or two. No kneading. No proofing. No waiting for rising. Just shape that (old, nearly gone over) stuff into a ball and bake. Can you see me with a ten pound container of dough, chilling and waiting?

I've decided to trust the artisan bakers all around me, pick up sourdough whenever I can, and stop (finally!) obsessing the fact that if I am retired I should bake bread. Maybe it's just not for me. I'll continue to make french loaves for myself in the mini bread machine and just get on with living!

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Caroline's Book Reviews

Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Did you ever read a book that gave you more than you bargained for i.e. interesting syntax, nice, fast-paced plot, well-thought-out three-dimensional characters, but that left you shaking your head on the final page - mouth gaping - whining "nonononono?"

Flynn could have ended the action on a "thriller- chiller" note, leaving the reader with goose flesh and shivers. Or a little flippancy may have saved the day as the reader closed the book chuckling and nodding with a new appreciation for having enjoyed a perceived dark comedy. Also, one last clue (I saw three possibilities) could have come to light leaving us with that Christie-mystery feel.

Please enjoy Gone Girl regardless of my ideas and opinions. It was the best of the summer beach books. A notch above the rest! You will find yourself carrying it in your purse or brief case and sneaking peeks whenever possible. That's always the sign of a good read.




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Just Don't Call It Portabello!

On my facebook home page, now, right this minute, there is a circulating recipe for raw, vegan "falafel" and one for lentil "tacos."

I, myself, just finished lunch. A nice, fresh onion roll. Juicy sliced local tomato. Slivers of Georgia sweet onion. Heirloom lettuce leaves. Then, I went and ruined it.

I reached in the freezer and pulled out a soy-based "portabello" burger. Mystery ingredients. May be microwaved. (shudder)

I browned this experiment as best I could in a small saute pan. I made a luscious looking sandwich. I bit. I chewed. I frowned...added a potato chip from the pantry for crunch. I chewed. Added a little more mustard.

Why are we eating this stuff? Why am I playing around with it? Why not just grill or pan-fry a real portabello? Did Julia Child teach us nothing? Just look at this real mushroom burger....

Please don't eat that mystery food. Need soy and seeds? Why not mix up a healthy shake (or something) for breakfast. Want falafel, a taco, portabello? Sounds great to make a traditional one and enjoy! The dinner meal can be just salad!

Oh. I get it. Vegans are trying to invent ways to get protein. Sad, but that's OK. Just don't pass it off as something else. Me? I'm going to have 3 ounces of wild salmon on that dinner salad. It's sockeye season!

Caroline's Book Reviews

Falling Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life by Richard Rohr
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I've finished reading "Falling Upward" by Fr. Rohr. Not only that but also, I am familiar with much of his research material. I’ve read Bourgeault’s "Centering Prayer;" Chodron’s "Start Where You Are;" rather much of the Jung, the Xavier, and Pearson’s "Six Archetypes We Live By." When you read a Kindle edition, you don’t usually read the bibliography until last. There isn’t a huge option for an early thumb-through.

The index of words, some explained and others neglected, is missing Taoism, but the idea of falling upward into the second life is prominent in Chinese Taoist art. Images of Ma Yaun's "Two Sages …Under a Plum Tree" and "Self-Portrait" by Shen Chou came into my mind quickly and quietly as I read.

Not only for the Taoist, but for the rest of us, life is change. There is the quick, constant change, particularly that shifting of fortune captured daily in Eastern culture by anyone who plays at the "I Ching;" the larger, seasonal,stages of life change (to everything, turn, turn, turn….), the heroic journey i.e. "The Odyssey" and "Monkey;" and finally, even our Western notion of retirement at age 65.

The premise of "Falling Upward" is that one must experience the downs of life’s first half in order to fully comprehend, contemplate, and appreciate the ups of the second half. The ups of the second half , which may never be forthcoming, calm us into a new understanding of our impending, inevitable deaths that are not extinction at all but are instead, life everlasting.

The book is not simplistic. It is I who am cramming the whole thesis into a nutshell for the sake of time and tide – which always changing, wait for no man.

I woke up an hour ago from a sound sleep remembering my friend Mohammed who is from Cairo. His father retired several years ago. Mohammed told me that in this “second” half of life, male Muslims become contemplative and studious. The burdens of living are lifted somewhat and they can pursue the Koran and the meanings of life and death. Sure enough, the old gentleman began to spend more time outside of the city in his birth village where he also owned all the land. He read, he talked, he saw a different side of himself.

You've read some of my reviews. You know how I get about research and bibliography. You know these types of works become topic papers to me and that I begin to speed read. Yet, the thesis was a good (even if not a new) one, thought provoking, well-said, and well annotated. And the book got me thinking, didn’t it? That is the sign that something is worthy of reading. It gave a new name and further meaning to a concept as old as our collective mythology and certainly well documented by the words of Jesus himself.

What sunk in was, first and foremost, that familiar line of Jesus, “Do not be afraid.” Don’t be afraid to think, to study, to reappraise, to act, or even to die. If the packaging will no longer hold you with your new thoughts, knowledge, ideas, and actions the book suggests you become a new package! Death? It’s nothing to fear, if one is prepared to look at it through the eyes of the Master.





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Caroline's Book Reviews

Hello Goodbye Hello: A Circle of 101 Remarkable Meetings by Craig Brown
My rating: 1 of 5 stars

Caroline Mathews A kind of 6 degrees of separation written in 1001 word snatches of information and using past and present tenses in the same paragraphs. I didn't need this much trivia, but will keep the Kindle edition available to pick up and read from time to time. It's like a cookbook. Start anywhere at all....marking it read since enough is enough.

Bazinga!

At four o’clock this morning, the rain was pouring straight down as hard and fast and as thick as you can possibly imagine. I came awake with a start; my mind was full of  Sheldon Cooper’s voice. “It’s raining pea soup! It’s raining pea soup!” My feet hit the floor. “Bazinga!”

I had put the book down at midnight, slept, awakened thirsty at one, and spent two o’clock in the bathroom – the result of the luncheon fried okra. After that, a short, relaxing, restful sleep! I was smiling.

The four o’clock, Bazinga dealt with, pea soup rain duly noted, and pillows fluffed, I climbed back into my cozy lair. Zzzzz. At five, on the dot, the alarm clock misfired. WFSU came pouring into my head!. It sounded like Balzac. Bazinga!

At six o’clock, I was sleeping soundly. Knock. Knock. Knock. “Leonard?”  Knock. Knock. Knock. “Leonard?’ You know the rest. Belle had overturned the bedroom trash can and was thumping it against the bedroom door. Knock. Knock. Knock. “Leonard,” my mind repeated the obligatory third time.

Now after six, the light was beginning to peep through the blinds. The rain was falling gently and I returned to a state of snoozing lightly. Heaven!

As soon as I was, again, stretched out and cozy, my alarm system beeper started beeping. That aggravating noise is the sign of a weak battery that must be replaced by a company representative. The system will beep whether on or off; each beep will be louder than the last. Bazinga! I got up and hit the button three times. That’s the signal that I have heard the beeping and will call soon. Maybe today!

It’s seven o’clock now. The thunder and lightning woke me flashing and cracking. Rain is coming down in sheets. Yes, Sheldon, in sheets. Coffee is dripping, an egg is steaming, a biscuit is baking in the toaster oven. Juice is poured.

I've been watching way too many Big Bang reruns. At least it wasn’t Dr. Who’s voice that came to me in the night. Thanks to the Doctor and Tardis, I might have ended up in some far off galaxy, sometime in the future, trying to communicate with you via a new computer chip transplanted deep into my brain.

 Bazinga!

    

Neither Black nor White, But Colorful All the Same

How many times, sitting on that Board, did I either hear these phrases or say them? “This part of the law is a grey area. The meaning of this rule is neither black nor white. The language of the passage lends itself to interpretation.”

You know what I mean if you spent this week living and breathing - same as me. Or, maybe, not! From many of the comments I've heard, I gather that perhaps you are still trying to see life in black and white.

Not me.  Nor do I tend to see in grey. Grey is a description that means nothing to me. In the optical industry, we used to call one particular shade of grey “shit brindle." Shit brindle is when you've mixed colors on a lens ad nauseam - until the result is not even grey. It is nothing.

Politically, I am a Republican in the middle of an identity crisis. I can’t support the candidates. I don’t understand the platform. I am at sea. Not many years ago, I was in the thick of it. Sigh. I believe I lost a friend this week because of my refusal to toe the party line.

Just yesterday, I supported a corporation with values diametrically opposed to my own, simply because I believe that it has the right to its own opinion and may put its money where its mouth is.  I was a businesswoman myself. I never expect bigotry. I may have lost respect from several people that I love. They saw my actions as taking sides instead of taking a stand.

I’ve read articles, this week, in several scientific journals and they did not come anywhere near threatening my religious beliefs. IMHO, life and knowledge are a mystery that will not be solved by me. Everything is everything.  Nothing is threatening. All is in order, even when I cannot see it. I believe I antagonized a small group of eating buddies this week because I can embrace opposing dogmas at once. You just cannot go there in luncheon conversation. Especially, don't mention the Taoists. Don't discuss the chi!

Spiritually, I’m one of those who has not found the perfect religion but has adopted the one closest to her beliefs. I’ve been proud, this week, of the snail-like progress of the church and its willingness to take criticism on the chin and move forward as mankind “evolves” into who knows what wonderful, loving entity.  Slow work, yes? I don’t believe my own church will lose any parishioners over it. They’ve been walking in the briar patch for a long, long time. I might get personal criticism from my not-so-immediate family, if it comes up.

I, nevertheless and in spite of everything, lovingly gave a head-nod to my pagan beginnings when August rolled around. We old souls call this holiday Lughnasadh – a Celtic celebration of life in its fullest, the bounty of the earth. My Grandmother used to say that our family evolved from before the fairies, when the dragons roamed. Never shake your head at the wizened Grandmothers. Like the babies, they are closer to heaven than we are. We don’t need to solve every mystery.

The Tao that can be spoken is not the eternal Tao. So what if I rejected party lines, this week?  I also befriended the rights of those who don’t think as I do, to have and act on their own opinions.

I, myself, believe in same-sex equality, just as I do in racial equality, human rights, and women’s rights. I believe in the holiness of people, made in God's Image.  Looking back, I remember telling you about my sit-ins of the 60’s, the optical “pantsuit revolution” of the 70’s, and my personal equal-pay-for- women battles. I admit that I have been anti-war at times (some lately), but never that as much as pro-soldier, patriot, good citizen.

I rejected bigotry this week whether it came from the Christian right or elsewhere, the political right or left, science or religion, friends or friends of friends.

Not only that! When I saw the news tonight I prayed for Muslims. I believe that God is Love. Literally! That, I realize, is the only truth that I see in total black and white.  

No. I'll Never Eat That Again! The Salmon Burger Wars.

I owned many of the books written by Dr. Mamet Oz before I knew who he was or that he was making a name for himself on the Oprah Winfrie Show. Since then, I've watched the Dr. Oz Show, I’ve been to his web page, and I've even, occasionally, taken his advice.

That’s why when a half-dozen members of his studio audience sampled and critiqued six quick, week-night, nutritious, and delicious entrées (according to Oz), I paid attention. I made a list of the choices, although I already knew of several of them. 

Two of the meals could not be found in my local freezer section. I had previously eaten the third, Amy’s Burritos, many times, so I bought just one, even though they are not as tasty as they sound. I passed up a fourth choice that looked and sounded dreadful.

My interest, of course, was in the Sea Pak Salmon Burgers. I had seen them in  frozen foods many times. “680mg Omega 3’s per 110 calorie serving,” the packaging screams. Those stats might be a figment of the imagination - like the grill marks on the box top picture. I don’t know.  My interest was tweaked by the fact that, to a person, every audience member who tasted all six healthy dinners chose the salmon as the favorite healthy freezer meal. I bought it, too, and without further ado.

When I got home with my groceries, I snatched out the box and read the ingredients: salmon, water, autolyzed yeast extract, canola oil, garlic powder, garlic, grill flavor from sunflower oil, lemon juice concentrate, natural food coloring of beet juice and citric acid, natural smoke flavoring, onion powder, paprika, rosemary, salt, soybean oil, tapioca, dextrin, and white pepper.

Finally, the list announces, “contains: salmon.” The label does not specify the variety of the salmon.

Even so, I opened the box. Frozen slime. I continued to read. I was concerned to see that Sea Pack worked out of St. Simon’s Island (no salmon there) which logistically can be nothing like a Gorton quick-freeze plant. 

Finally, I saw it. Yes, it was in bold albeit small print. “This salmon is wild caught. Product of China.”

The fish, according to directions, could be grilled (hence, I supposed, the lovely cover shot) or baked (which I did in the toaster oven) or pan seared ( which I also did, trying to get a crispy crust). All of that, and the product was still slimy from grinding the salmon and reconstructing it into patties. The smell, during cooking, was horrendous. The flavor was artificial lemony cardboard. No texture. 

Shame on you, Dr. Oz. This tastes terrible. I need to have my head examined and so do you. If you, reader, try to make this meal, after all I’ve written, be sure to toast your roll on medium to impart some crispness into this dish. Even so, this salmon is nothing close to tasty. I don't even think that a pickle would help!

Better yet, buy one 14 ¾ oz can of  Royal Red, Wild Alaska Sockeye Red Salmon. Open the can and drain the juices into a small bowl in case you need moisture later on. Crush everything else up with a fork. I use skin and bones but you don’t have to. Make it your own! Take them out, if they bother you.

Add one egg, onion and green peppers, celery - if you like - chopped any size you think best. Add crushed Saltines – enough to dry out the mixture. If you go too far, use some of the salmon liquid until the consistency is good for shaping a burger. Salt, pepper, and Worcestershire sauce should be enough seasoning. Form the patties whatever size you want. Sometimes I make many small ones; sometimes I form them into fewer, larger pieces. Handle them gingerly. This is not beef. 

Heat a few tablespoons of olive oil in a large frying pan or work in several smaller batches. You will need a nice medium hot temperature because the salmon will soak up cooler oil. The first side will brown up nice and fast. Then turn the burgers with a spatula and fork, so as not to break them up, and turn the heat down a little. Turn the patties as many times as you need to get a nice crisp outer surface. Drain on paper towels.

Better still, why not take advantage of the seasonal wild salmon when it's offered in the fish markets and save the canned product until later! Buy twice as much salmon as you need and make the burgers, according to the directions above, from the leftovers. Live it up; wild salmon is seasonal; eat it several times in a row when it's available.  

Serve these delicious salmon burgers on toasted buns with mustard and additional Worcestershire sauce, lettuce and tomato, sautéed onions, anything you like. I sometimes eat them on a bed of rice, with a side of baked beans!

We need to consume salmon, tuna, various cold water white fish, sardines, and other freshly harvested seafood several times a week as part of a healthy diet! Whatever you do, please don’t add that Sea Pak of Chinese salmon to your meal plan!  I’ll never eat that again. No way.  

Aging Over Lunch. No, Really.

I was expecting UPS. The little camera is on the way. Instead, there stood a friend. Why, now? And at lunchtime!

“Hi, there.”  She was among a group of ladies my age that I met when I came to live in Tallahassee. She was one of the two who did not mesh with me. I should have introduced them to each other, in hindsight. Me, I don’t waste my time sitting in classes. I can paint in oils or watercolor, but I don’t. I can write and I do. I stopped going to Tai Chi classes on principal. I’m not an attendee. I particularly don’t want writing lessons.

“You look good.” I thanked her. I looked at her. So. I am holding up well, comparatively, at seventy-one. I smiled.

I’ve wondered, at times, if I have gone to pot. Literally. I’ve let the hair go grey and now I’m growing it out from short-short. It’s not out of laziness, I’ve told myself, but honesty. Now allergic to almost every brand of makeup, I only wear a little 15 SPF tinted moisturizer.  

Manicures and pedicures are out, too. Every pedicurist I use mangles my left big toenail and gives me a lovely but painful three weeks of life. Cleaning a squirrel cage, gardening, and a cat box precludes manicures.  Not only does the polish chip in one day, but think of the germs.

I took another look at her. Long flowing skirt from the eighties, worn sandals, tee, modern blonde short bob, dewy makeup, painted lips (fingers and toes), lots of blush and powder…I guess her idea of the aging artist.

I’ve all but emptied my closet, too. Board meeting suits went to a charity for battered women - to wear on job interviews. Work uniforms (khaki pants and Land’s End Sweaters) were given to Goodwill. Polyester (ugh) store-monogrammed jackets, trashed.  

I have enough. I have no skirts from former decades. Nothing is old. Young people should shop the vintage market, not old women, unless the clothes are new and styled to simply look like something from the 40’s, 50’s, or 60’s.

My shoes are new and comfortable. I have a couple of pair of very expensive but low heels for life’s emergencies. Otherwise, I still buy new Jack Rogers sandals every spring – a throwback from living on the beach. They never go out of style unless they get shabby and rundown. I have numerous pairs of converse. They are all the rage in Europe at the moment. Then there are ballet flats, plain and dressy, and always good quality. I baby the toe. The feet get the best. I have boots for winter! Nice.

Bags are still my weakness. I have fewer of them, now. I try to choose for the technological hardware that must be carried. I try to keep my back and shoulder in mind. I try to wear them out before I buy more. In all honesty, I’m doing so much better. I’m going to use last year’s fall and winter purses again next season. They are turning into It bags!

“Come in.”  I smiled. Hmm. What for lunch? I reached for yogurt, fresh fruit, tupelo honey, a medley of salad greens. Clouds were forming so I opted for the patio. A breeze was shooing the flies and mosquitoes away. I opened a nice crisp white wine and poured.  I keep two bottles chilling.

I am a differently-shaped person, suddenly, although I eat right and get enough exercise. I’m trying to get over worrying about it. Just another phase. Living well!  The woman in front of me is tiny, skinny, drawn, with wrinkles galore. I can’t wish that on myself.

We talked a good while and, honestly, it was pleasant to have the company, in spite of the technology, current event, and homemaking lapses in our conversation. I just stuck to the things she could talk about – aches and pains, the foibles of grown children, the pitfalls of aging.


I wasn't really feeling it. A man once told me that getting old would be the bravest thing I would ever do. I know it’s true – sooner or later illness and death come to each of us. For now, I’m pretty laid back about the whole aging process, pretty graceful, pretty well on schedule!