How It Happens

I write lists of things I need to do and when I need to do them, places I need to go in the order I need to go there, items I need to buy, but not before I need to buy them and other tidbits in my life that I don’t want to lose track. Petersburg, Virginia was in the middle of my Places to Go list.

Yet a couple weeks ago I found myself driving to Petersburg to follow up on some research I was doing for a story but had set aside to finish later. The story was second on my list, not the one I was immediately writing. I wound up in the interesting War Between the States Siege Museum which has all to do with, of course, the ten-month siege of Petersburg during that same war.

The research I wanted for this area was on the Revolutionary War period. So how did I come to be here? Once I spotted the sign in front of the building I was drawn in. The stories represented inside told of the stamina and determination of a town and its people. The docent was obviously enjoying the telling and showing.

I somehow fell into conversation with a couple as I was readying to leave. They were also slowly heading for the exit. The subject of ghosts and hauntings popped into our conversation.

The lady had a haunting experience to tell me. The docent overheard us and followed up with a story of her own. Synchronicity. Still at work.

Ashes

Does anyone else out there remember hauling ashes from the coal furnace in the basement to the icy/snowy sidewalk in front of the house? This was the answer of the times, to help keep folks from slipping, sliding and falling. Those were the days of pulling galoshes over top of our shoes with snap buckles closing them. One weak buckle always broke leaving a gap. Ugh. I hated pulling those boots on but it had to be done.

The stocking cap my cousin Wilma knitted for me, gloves and scarves dried on radiators (still the best heat, I think) while we drank hot cocoa to warm up before going out into the snow to get cold and wet all over again. Snow ball fights and snow igloos were as much a part of the Christmas season as the tree, the gifts and memorizing a piece for Sunday school.

The Story Behind

There is a story behind everything. Think about it. When you bought a certain painting, or piece of pottery, or stained glass, maybe it was gifted to you. What is the story that goes with it? There is a story to be told inside the painting and each person looking at it may interpret it differently. Then there’s the story about how it came into your possession.

How about the story in your memory about the scar on your knee or how my two kittens, now cats, came to lighten my life and teach me about unconditional love. Your first taste of ice cream, remember it? What's the story?

Most times we don’t even think about such things or we think that our stories are all the same. Ho-hum. But that isn’t true. The differences are what make our stories interesting to others. It’s our differences that kick up fascination. It’s our setting apart that creates compassion and understanding. It’s stuff that makes a story.

Autumn Scenes

Courthouse Square was a thick carpet of brilliantly colored autumn leaves when I pulled along the curb on Friday. The scene immediately took me back to the 70s when I bought a thick shag carpet for my first house in Bordentown. It was like walking on fire but soft and comfy-my carpet and the Courthouse leaves, too.

Funny, how a view in front of me can take me to a completely different place. The old movie with Rock Hudson and Jane Wyman where he is a temporary gardener filling in for a friend, is another autumn scene that pops into my head at this time of year. I haven’t seen that movie in probably 40 years and don’t even remember the title of it, yet a few scenes stick in my mind waiting to be rekindled. The other vivid scene from that movie was one of the old barn remodeled into a gorgeous home-think roaring fire in a huge stone fireplace and deep, untouched snow outside. A-h-h. The beauties of life.

Chapel Hill Excursion

Actually I was going to Durham to a particular outdoor furniture place that I’ve never been able to find open when I’ve been there early in the week. This is Saturday, what retail shop isn’t open then? This one. H-m-m. I drove over an hour to get here, no sense in wasting the gas I’ve already used, so, on to Chapel Hill.
Driving south on 15/501 as the map directed brought me around and back to a part of Durham I’d not seen before but a friend told me about the day before. Wow! Again, not to be defeated I stopped for a light lunch at Fishmonger’s and jumped onto 15/501 again.
This time I didn’t take the route through the town but stayed on the highway to Franklin Street and bingo! I finally found Chapel Hill. This has culminated a few years of saying “Yes, I want to explore Chapel Hill, maybe tomorrow, next week, later, in a month, etc.”
Saturday afternoon and the shops and restaurants were filled. Even the book shop had paying customers lined up in front of me. This was good to see after all the gloom and doom I hear daily about the economy. I even found a tiny little shop offering Cannoli. The gentleman said it was made with Italian hands by way of New York. After tasting it later that night, I knew he was telling me the truth.

Autumn Roadsides

Last Saturday the early morning fog still clung to the trees and bushes in the distance creating a beautiful but eerie backdrop for the ghostly-castle-in-Scotland-mystery I was listening to in the SUV. I was driving into Warrenton to shop at the Farmers’ Market downtown. The scene cast up beauty instead of spookiness. The autumn golden-yellow colored flowers adorned the roadside in thick bunches running all along the edges of the blacktop for miles. I continue to be overwhelmed with the abundance of wildflowers wherever I drive this September. Well behind the blooms that look like Black-eyed Susans are tall stems of greenery topped in clusters of little white flowers. These are tucked into the edges of the forests, in masses. A florist couldn’t have arranged them more stunningly for any amount of money. And they are there just for looking.

Obviously the grass cutting road crews have beauty in their souls. They trim the grass closely but go around the buttery flowers leaving a feast for drivers and their passengers for which I am thankful.

Pandolfi Concert

This afternoon I went to Cherry Hill to the Thomas Pandolfi Piano Concert. The grand piano is set up in the center hallway. I sat in the room to the right where I could watch his hands and expressions while he played. His first selection "Apres Une Lecture du Dante" by Franz Liszt thundered throughout the manor. I could feel the descent into Hell as Liszt intended it to be. As I watched Pandolfi play with vigor and intensity and later Chopin’s work, it felt as though George Sand, Chopin and Liszt along with his long-time lover, Countess Maria d’Agoult were in the room.

They spent many hours in the salons of the wealthy in France, Liszt playing with passion almost violently, Chopin often played with delicacy on the keys. Picnics, social events and visits to Aurore’s (George Sand) estate were part of their lives. Time eroded the lovers; Sand leaving Chopin and Liszt leaving d’Agoult, even Sand and d’Agoult became public enemies, but for some time music kept them close. Liszt and Chopin remained close friends until Chopin’s early demise from his ill health. Yes, Thomas Pandolfi played beautifully bringing the spirits of these four friends into the rooms of Cherry Hill.

Learning at Skidmore

I've heard it over and over from workshop leaders, in books and from authors-read what you write. Find books that settle inside you for their style and content. Read them. Copy paragraphs that grab at you. Write them out. Feel them. Taste them. Then take what you learn and go from there putting your own self into it. Let your mind flow. Use what you learn. See what you look at. Listen to what you hear. Taste what you eat and feel what you touch. Re-live it.

Passing Away Too Soon

Seeing on my PC that Farrah Fawcett passed away followed next by Michael Jackson, tweaked my mind. Both from illnesses though different in nature. But I wonder if they completed all they set out to accomplish while on earth in this lifetime. Lives seemingly cut short make me think about that. I don't really believe their lives were cut short even though they are both younger than me. I think their ending on earth came at exactly the moment designated at birth, but I'm not so sure they did do all they wanted to do in this lifetime.

Now that I'm beyond the sixty year mark I'm fully aware that I have less time ahead of me than behind me. I have at least four books in mind that need writing, two that are well along in being completed. When I think of the literary important Jane Austen, ‘passing over’ leaving Sanditon unfinished, I shudder.

Procrastination, get thee behind me!

Last Day of June

This is it, the last day in June. By the end of the day I’ll have made it through another year of Junes. It’s the best and the worst of months. It brings my Annual ‘Remember the Magic’ Writing Conference and it brings the anniversaries of the ‘passing over’ of three loved ones.
June brings the songs of the birds close to me while I sit in the early morning on my deck. It brings the joy of the squirrels and rabbits playing on the grass and the slight sway of the tall pines. It brings the strawberries for picking and the gardenias scenting the air with sweetness.

Last Day of June

This is it, the last day in June. By the end of the day I’ll have made it through another year of Junes. It’s the best and the worst of months. It brings my Annual ‘Remember the Magic’ Writing Conference and it brings the anniversaries of the ‘passing over’ of three loved ones.

June brings the songs of the birds close to me while I sit in the early morning on my deck. It brings the joy of the squirrels and rabbits playing on the grass and the slight sway of the tall pines. It brings the strawberries for picking and the gardenias scenting the air with sweetness.

Tears

On my recent check-up visit to Duke Eye Center, I learned that we have different liquids in our eyes, tears and an eye wash (when we blink). As age creeps over us,(egads, she mentioned 40 years of age) the eye wash dries. That's where eye drops come in. They help keep the eye fluid. At least this is how I understand it.

Tears are something else. I learned not to cry at a young age. It was that 'growing up with all boys in the neighborhood' thing. "Only sissies cry." they taunted.

I was too young to realize that boys don't know any better than many men do. Crying is healthy. I'd held back tears for so many years that I think they just backed up and overflowed........like a sewer system. Once I started crying, about 15 years ago, I haven't stopped. When people see this they get embarrassed.

"No, no." I tell them. "It's okay. When the tears want to fall, I let them. It releases my emotions and feels good." Not to worry.

If you have a hard time trying to cry, to release those deeply buried disappointments and hurts, try this: play some songs that bring back those memories of painful experiences-the ones you worked so hard to forget. If it doesn't work the first time, try it again and again. Eventually you'll clean out all that moldy yuk festering inside ........ just like the guy does with the toilet plunger.

Reading as a Writer

It's true. Once I became a writer I began to read differently. Oh, I still read for enjoyment. I may get lost in a story but only until a passage is especially poetic. Then I sit up, take note maybe even place a 'sticky' under the paragraph so I can return to it for further pleasure. I'll re-read it aloud this time to my two girls (darling cats) letting the words roll around my tongue before I swallow them.

Or it may be just a word that stands out and I'm unable to just roll over it including its meaning in the sentence containing it. A word that demands I look it up in the dictionary, now. When the worth of the word is revealed I realise no other word could have been more suitable and I amaze over the cleverness of the author.

Reading Michael Ondaatje's Divisadero is like that. I have several stickies underscoring paragraphs that just reached out and made me pay attention. The man writes prose like a poet; creates scenes like an artist. It's a pleasure to read the words he strings together.

Writers' Group

For those who are nearby, a Writer's Group is meeting at the Warren County Memorial Library on Front St. in Warrenton, NC on the first Tuesday of the month at 6:00 until 8:00. Come early or later but join us in writing practices whether you are writing fiction, memoir, poetry or some thing else. There's no cost. Bring paper, pen or laptop.

Farmer as Poet

Today on my way to somewhere else, I passed a freshly turned field being readied for planting. But near the roadway the farmer created a small island by plowing around an area of Queen Anne's Lace. The wildflowers swayed in the breeze as if they were celebrating the farmer's recognition of their beauty and the joy they extended to anyone who took a moment to look. Surely the farmer is a poet or an artist or perhaps just someone who sees beauty when it pops out of the ground.

Spring as Art

The fields have become vast stretches of Kelly green again, creating a background, framing the brilliant yellow daffodils, the cherry pink blossoms and white Bradford Pear trees. It’s as though huge hands have framed a piece of art by an Impressionist.

A week before-the-five-day-rain, brilliant colors of early blooming flowers and trees, perked up the nearly undressed forests and sleeping farmland. An image of encouragement appears, that the blossoms are seeking the artist’s brush to continue coloring the earth, fulfilling a partnership.

It seemed as though the ground was waiting for a splash of water to bring it to life (it got a bucketful instead) to make it smile just as I suddenly become content quenching a thirst after a dry run.

This week Van Gogh comes to mind as splotches of amethyst appear in the pastures. I’m seeing what his talent recreated on canvas for us to enjoy all winter. In spring we can see the original.

Books on CD

I’ve reawakened my idea of listening to books on CD. It was great to listen to a story as I was trekking to New Jersey for a long weekend. I arrived without a trace of being tired and without realizing how much time had passed. But when I returned home, I placed the idea in a drawer somewhere to be used for my next long-distance travel.

A few weeks ago as I prepared for an hour fifteen minute drive to Raleigh-not considered long distance now that I live in NC -the idea of books on CD popped into my head. I stopped at the library on the way and restored a good habit.

I took note that whenever I get into my car I’m driving at least 20 minutes and usually longer. That's enough time to get back into the story easily. Now, if I can find some of my favorite authors.........

Images

Maureen McCarthy Draper once said “Music itself is an image, if you think of an image as Ezra Pound did, as presenting “an intellectual and emotional complex in an instant of time” . . . .Perhaps the soul needs images more than answers.”
I play music CDs on my computer. In the evening as I sit in my bedroom/office the music soothes my daily chores as I read my current book. The monitor flashes brilliant colors and shapes and images. If my book is absorbing, I ignore the images, but not Mz Lizzie. She is fascinated.
When I show her photos of other cats, she sends me an incredulous look, as if to say “what are you doing?’ That’s just before she raises her chin and majestically strides away from me. But the ‘light’ show on the computer will keep her mesmerized for an hour.

Baby is Born

The Baby is Born! And a relief it is, too. “Pieces of Me” has become “Life & Labyrinth” a name even more fitting once the manuscript came together. It’s a bit like changing your name from the one you carry to honor that old respectable aunt/uncle. You know the names, out-dated and conjuring up images of a stuffy, old codger before anyone gets to meet you personally.

Or you were named after your mother or father so all your life you’re called junior, butch, buddy or number two. Maybe you picked up a nickname to distinguish you from the original, so no one knows your name anyway, unlike being at “Cheers” where everyone knows your name.

Even after the senior passes on, you’re stuck with the derivative. So I say cheers to anyone changing their name to one they like. So, it’s “Life & Labyrinth” now available to you at the Old Bookshop of Bordentown on Farnsworth Ave, Amazon.com and hopefully soon to be at
Barnes & Noble in the Hamilton Marketplace. Or if you can’t get to those places, you can order one from me. Enjoy.

Empathy

Empathy is understanding. Compassion grasps empathy by the hand to walk together. Once a person has traveled a difficult road that others trod upon, she commends their triumph of overcoming all the obstacles. Her barriers may be different but still she recognizes the struggle.

Understanding includes those who have had sorrow in their lives but not the denial of rights that belong to them but not given. It’s difficult to see the other person’s hardship when it is so different from your own. Like choosing clothes for a holiday in the Caribbean when it’s snowing outside, there’s always an un-necessary sweater packed in there somewhere.

Sometimes it’s challenging but empathy, compassion and the extended hand are rewards in themselves.

No-Name Recipe

From my upcoming book "Pieces of Me"

NO NAME RECIPE

peanut butter * walnut halves * dried dates * sugar touched by cinnamon

I place the items to the side of the old wooden table-top, cleared now of the crossword puzzle from last Sunday’s newspaper and the antique brass candle-holder containing a taper. I’m lucky enough to have stocked up on tapers when I could still buy them at wholesale prices. The holder was a gift from Mona, who in the winter invites me for dinner served in her simple colonial dining room, lit only by candlelight, as authentically colonial as the dinner served.
I’ve also moved the wooden bowl hollowed out and hand-painted on the outside, by the loving hands of a true craftsman. This too, was a gift, but from Norma who began as a customer in my shop and became a very generous friend.
These items are removed and the table scrubbed clean of cat fur wisps from my two girls, Mz Lizzie and Lady Jane. They give me the same great joy as the Bennet sisters in Pride and Prejudice for which they were named. They love to watch me cook and bake from the safe distance of a nearby wooden wine rack stand, a gift to my late husband still in use long after he has passed.
I cup a date in my left palm, holding the paring knife in my right. The sharp tip of the knife slits the date open like a pocket sewn closed in error. A small swipe of peanut butter fills the gaping hole easily before I reach for the walnut recently plucked from the ground under my neighbor’s huge, ancient walnut tree. It was necessary to scoot the squirrels away to get the walnuts. They don’t give them up easily even though the tree will give us thousands more this year. As soon as I brought my little treasures home, I spread them out thinly on a cookie sheet, blackened with age and use, roasting the nuts on low heat for an hour or so.
The date and peanut butter embrace the newly received walnut half, not quite closing around it. Next I roll the piece into the cinnamon tinted sugar waiting in the shallow bowl with the images of Toulouse-Lautrec posters reminding me of another century. My friend Tom encouraged me to buy a whole set of them, knowing I would always treasure them as I do his pieces of artwork that I own.
The finished product is placed next to her sisters on the cut glass tray, a lovely platter salvaged from an unlovely time, an angry divorce, but now garnishing a shelf, patiently waiting for a lifetime of happy use.

P S: Cream cheese may be substituted for the peanut butter but nothing can substitute the friends that will share my creation.

Day After the President's Inauguration

Bits and pieces of the televised Presidential Inauguration Day intermittently stopped my working. I paused, turned and watched. I wept when President Obama stated, “forty years ago my father could not have entered the White House by the front door.”

As a person who has struggled to feed my kids, to stop foreclosure on my house and to be considered a second-class citizen by nature of being a woman, I applaud our new President. I’ve stood in a room of a hundred dark skinned people and appreciated being invited to the occasion. I’ve waited in line with a hundred East Indians at a New York book-signing and was the only redhead with skin coloring of my Celtic ancestors, there. Everyone else had black hair and a darker complexion including the author.

Empathy has come to me through self-education and just being open to the thoughts and dreams of others struggling to improve their situation and increase their education. President Obama opens the door for many who have earned the right to become first class citizens at last.