Hey, I've Got An Idea!

The e-mail I received that caused me to look into my blog archive and remember a place of long ago and fairly far away is still having an effect on me. Oh, yes, I'm fairly prone to reverie these days. A predilection for preoccupation, one might say. You see, I am not a graceful pathfinder. I require a good deal of angst to be thrown in with finding my way through things. I smack and flop along the road like a square wheel, gnashing my teeth . . . and then the way is usually revealed to me. I'm waiting for that augury now. In the meantime, I'll fiddle around until I don't any longer.

So, back to that summer of 1958. I have such strong sensory memories of the heat, muggy in the afternoons when there would generally come a thunderstorm to mix things up a little. We wore colorful, short cotton midriff tops with shorts, sometimes cutoffs, and went barefooted until the scorching blacktop and concrete required thongs at least. I was the kid with sunburn blisters on my nose and shoulders, the long, thick, dark braid snaking down my back and bangs always cut at just a slight slant not intended. There was typically a tooth or two missing during that time, and I sported a cast on my right arm that summer. It weighed approximately what I weighed and rubbed a blister on the web between my thumb and forefinger. It did not hamper hopscotch, swinging or managing my bike. That cast brought me the closest I ever came to being spanked when I was busted behind the garage using a stick to scratch my horribly itchy arm. It nearly scared my parents to death and they proved that they knew some strong language. When the doctor removed the cast just before school started in September, it proved to contain more dirt and grime than the average vacuum cleaner bag. Small pebbles, sand, dog hair, shredding skin, broken bits of stick (ahem).

I greeted other kids rarely with "Hi!" and frequently with "I've got an idea!" I did, too. Lots of ideas. About anything and everything one would care to name. I read voraciously, including under the blankets and in my bedroom closet after bedtime. I watched a little TV - likely 90% less than any other kid of the era, but I saw enough to feed my idea machine. It was an active little idea machine, producer of big old dreams in technicolor and detail. I was a kid who spawned notions that required some action and some sweat and lots of fun in the execution. I've never known whether other kids thought "Yay!" or "Run!" when I came along with my latest dream. Perhaps I wouldn't want to know. Rarely, however, did I have any difficulty recruiting others to my fancies. And I've grown up not very different from that young child.

Perhaps that show-offy thing existed in embryonic form in the day, because - often - my ideas focused on the performing arts. In later years, this tendency was honed to near perfection. Give me a microphone and an audience of hundreds and I become utterly, breathtakingly brilliant. But that is another story for another day. I once spent some considerable amount of saved allowance to buy a booklet setting forth a child's production of The Emperor's New Clothes. This required someone's dad to apply a saw to plywood and a neighborhood mom to sew costumes. And they did that! My mother made brownies. People came to watch us. It sired a monster in me. Theme parties a specialty. Extravagant whoop-dee-doos are my middle name.

I tend to do better in life when I have a project bubbling. It keeps me focused and gives me a sense of purpose. I need a little of that about now. And it's been a long time since we did anything collaborative on this blog like a drop in poem. I guess I ran out of conquering heroes to celebrate or something, because I got away from that really fun activity. Let's put that to bed! Reader, beware: I've got an idea.

I have a project in mind, for presentation on this blog. The gala will be presented on August 24th for good reason. It will feature video and all manner of things to delight one's sense of humor, particularly if yours is as twisted as my own. I need help! I need words. I am looking for a jingle, if not an outright song (which I'd prefer) to laud the hoppy taw, perhaps a poem or two, even an essay. The themes should be hoppy taws and hopscotch, days of summer, nostalgia, easier times. To get a feel for it, just read this and my last post or if one wants to refer to the original hoppy taw post, there you have it. Please send some words to the e-mail address in My Profile and let's have some fun. Two lines or two pages - everything helps! I'll provide updates and maybe a sneak peek or two as we get some stuff on video. Oh, yeah! I have both a film crew and an editor. It will be epic, even if only in my own mind.

Right before my eyes just now: It makes me snicker! Poor Frank, with his delicate sensibilities.

The most fun my eyes and ears have had in days:

Ah, a Faint Voice From the Distant Past ~ Oh, No! It's MY Voice.

Just to call a spade what it is, I'm struggling. There is more bubbling on my plate than I'm currently capable of sorting out easily and I was a bit premature in the last couple of posts saying, "I'm back, things are fine!" A more correct assessment would be "I've had a few brilliant spots of diversion and pleasure in the middle of some miserable and frightening and depressing times and I am grateful for them." I have friends who check on me nearly constantly on e-mail, the phone, texting and at AA meetings. I have a friend who makes me nearly insane asking me how I feel. "I don't anything except frightened - it's asymptomatic," I reply invariably. I've decided he doesn't comprehend the meaning of the word. I'll use a different one in future and simply be happy that he thinks to check in on me. I'm not doing anything "bad", "wrong" or "forbidden". I haven't once been tempted to take a drink. I'm just not doing very much of anything. And the verdict on that has been unanimous: "You don't have to do anything. Wait and listen for the answer. And then you'll know what to do next." OK. That's my short-term plan.

I got the darnedest e-mail yesterday:

Dear Limes,  I am embarrassed to say I don't know how to blog so the email is it.......      I was so excited to see your story. I grew up in Ogden Utah, and there, Hoppy Taws were a serious thing!!!!   I loved it and recall one day that I fell playing hopscotch and ripped my new white leotards in both knees, but did I give up, no way.....  My Grandma Jensen worked for the Hoppy Taw Co. in the early 50's so we always had them and loved them.  I am an artist and I think that my love of color swirls and individuality came from the hoppy taws.  Every one was different .          I have been trying to get the real history behind the hoppy taw co.  Do you have any info .   The company on line just gives you current revenue potential and stuff like that, who cares.
Any way  just thought I would write to a fellow hoppy taw lover and tell her "you are not alone".   Thanks for your story,                    Debi in Idaho 

I had to do some quick thinking. She called me Limes, so she has read something from long ago when I was known only as LimesNow in the blogosphere. Now, of course, and for quite some time, I am Leslie Morgan, the same name that appears on my birth certificate and driver's license. And I sport my face all over the place. But I didn't at first. And Debi refers to the hoppy taw, so she has to have read something I wrote about my childhood in Salt Lake City. I noodled around in my blog archives and found it - voila - December 2, 2009! How and why Debi has come across it now, I am uncertain, but that's OK. A writer appreciates having been read. A human being appreciates a connection. And no, I will not give up "hoppy taw" in this post. The reader must follow the link to the original post.

Referring back to my original hoppy taw post, I re-read my own words. I was reminded of yet another time in my life when I was unsure and frightened of things. I leaned on others to help me through. My father and my friend modeled good behaviors for me to follow. I learned to plan, to strategize, to size up others and to trust my judgement. I learned toughness and commitment and I learned to be a sponge, soaking up everything I could from any situation. I became fair and honest and tenacious. Maybe, in a tiny number of situations in life, even heroic, if that simply means reaching beyond one's assumed limitations and acting. I learned that more people are good than bad. More people will like you than hate you. I learned that on a really good day, one might make a connection with another human being never contemplated before. I learned that one might say something that resonates with another person, and that is magic to me.

After my AA meeting tonight, I sat outside on the picnic benches talking with a group of people I really enjoy. I'd done some research online for a man who shall be called a rascal here. He likely deserves a harsher assessment sometimes, but we'll stick with rascal. I shared the information I'd found for him and then spoke of the pleasure I get from writing my blog. I told him some things I'd written about. "But you don't use your name, right?" I told him that I do, and my photograph as well. His eyes got big and for the second time in a few days, someone called me "brave". Emotionally brave. I wonder. Did I learn that, too? And how will I apply that now?

Some hoppy taw art for Debi, though I am not an artist:

In my ears right now:

Turn Out the Lights, the Party's Over

Okey dokey, then ~ we put up the birthday post and went out to do some shopping and spend some girl time. We fairly exhausted the thrift store and a used book store, checked to see whether Mike had seen his birthday party online . . . no sign of him. That's OK. We're resourceful women. Let's call him! We did so. He said he wouldn't be able to connect to the internet until the next morning. Arrrggghh! But this was his birthday. Well, nothing else for it: we each wished him a happy birthday and told him to go blogging as soon as he was able. And then we proceeded to blow out his candles and eat the chocolate muffins Rraine had brought, so thoughtfully. They were good - mine served as lunch and dinner. Sorry you missed them, Mike.

And then we thought, seeing we were three blogger women gathered, seeing Rraine is expert with a camera, seeing I have become addicted to Picasa photo collage, seeing Jenn is young and adorable, seeing Rraine and I are . . . um . . . adorable, we'd go outside and take some pictures. Yeah!

One kvetched about her glasses. The other two did not. One had us try a couple of different spots to get the best location and light. One whined that she never photographs well, so please be sure to snap two of everything. The names shall be withheld to preserve our dignity. Rraine recalled being shown how to execute a becoming pose by thrusting a foot forward, hand on hip. We all tried it and thought we were pretty cute. Jenn knew a showgirl pose, arms extended. Rraine said she wanted a big headdress. I said I wasn't doing any showgirl stuff, though I'd try the foot-forward, hand-on-hip thing. We thought we were something!

And so ended an afternoon enjoyed in female company. There were friends to be met for dinner, AA meetings to attend. We'd shared some irreverent laughs and some serious talk, giggled about vanity when the camera came out, and pledged to get together again soon. Two of us had cackled at terrible shoes for sale and wondered why selected items were considered "designer". We all talked about ideas for future blog posts and congratulated one another for being brilliant. I needed this sunny, happy afternoon. I've been under some duress. And I was reminded of at least one of the things I can engage in to keep my spirits up and my fever down. Thanks, Good Women and Mike, for making my day! Damn you, Rraine,  for wearing Rocket Dogs when I didn't even think of it. But I'll be back on my game soon enough. I can feel it!

In my ears right now:  An old favorite. Just because I feel like it today.

Birthday Greetings to Mike from a Bevy of Las Vegas Beauties

Oh, please! Get over it. All females from Las Vegas, Nevada, are not showgirls, whether vintage or contemporary. No, no. Some of us are kind of regular - all the good and bad things that make up real people like intellect, heart, creativity. We are a toothsome trio of blogging tootsies who write, draw, photograph, emote, laugh and cry out into the blogosphere. Though we are different from one another in many ways, we share some common experiences, hopes and dreams. We have similar ideas about peace, harmony and a good quality of life for all beings. We have grand senses of humor and dignity and we treasure the times one can spend with her female friends. Collectively, we are 158 years old. In terms of intellect and creativity, you can't count high enough. And that's a good thing, because there is a task at hand. Today we gathered together to muse on what we could do - virtually - to celebrate the birthday of our esteemed blogger friend Mike. Mike, you see is in Norfolk, Virginia. We are in the desert southwest. The Lear Jet is in the shop. Whatever shall we do?

It seems logical to start with an invitation to everyone who reads this - and please, tell a friend! - to add your happy birthday wishes to this post in comments. He'll see them here. And then - please - go visit Mike on his own blog to wish him a grand day. After that, how about visiting yet another blog near and dear to Mike's heart. Noodle around on this blog, beginning at the bottom. It's new and there have been only 4 posts. Find out what Mike's been dreaming about. And finally, don't miss this. Give yourself 15 minutes to navigate through the new website and learn what our man really wants for his birthday. Perhaps you'll please Mike and all of us by throwing your support with ours for We Can Work It Out.

For Mike, you see, is a man who dreams big and thinks of others. I've watched him for years on blog, cheering for others, entertaining us with his Saturday Masters music posts, boldly trying new forms of writing when challenged, maintaining a positive and supportive demeanor toward all. He has no problem saying "you're my hero" or "I love you" to another blogger when he feels those things. I know, because he has said those things to me. Though he has serious health problems and life burdens like the rest of us bear, Mike thinks of others who suffer, both locally and globally. We Work It Out is only his most recent dream of peace, harmony, love and equality.

OK, that's my little message of birthday love! I'm Leslie, the owner of this blog.

Hey, Mikey, Rraine here. I don't have the way with words that the rest of you bloggers do, so I bring you the gift of song and light. You light up my world in more ways than I can say. Please, keep on keepin' on, and spread the words-all the words!



Mike, although new to We Can Work It Out and the world of bloggers in general, I wanted to take a moment to let you know that I find it to be a good website and hope to be one to spread the word and encourage others to join. I sense from your writing that this is truly near and dear to your heart. As I said in the Samantha article on the website, I believe one person can make a difference in the world. I sense you will be one of them. Thank you for you efforts towards change, diversity, peace and understanding. Hope you have a wonderful Birthday.

Sincerely, Jenn

Just Passin' Through

While it is true that I always have much to say, I don't always have exactly the right thing to say on the spur of the moment. Sometimes I want to say something a little more correctly, so I take a day or two to polish my language, making sure it matches what I feel.

Her name is Kim and her husband is Dave. I've touted her blog several times here, but I want to go on record again. If you want to see the most beautiful and creative art in all manner of media - collage, jewelry, hand made beads, paper-decorated ephemera - then you need to spend some time on her wonderful blog. Those of you who have a short attention span will lose out. It is worth reviewing many, many of Kim's past posts and checking out all the links on her sidebar. Hers is a blog treasure chest of delights.

We'd planned this blogger get-together for some weeks and on Sunday morning, we began making high security coordinates worthy of a military mission on our cell phones. Kim and Dave are on their snowbirding trip from Arizona to Alaska and it is luck that landed them in my neighborhood on Easter Sunday at dinner time. We appeared in the parking lot at approximately the same time, and each said what must be Blogging 101 script: "You look just like your pictures!" Introductions were made and we repaired into the Lindo Michoacan - one of my favorite spots to dine, and they liked it, too. They were hot and tired and parched after 7 hours of travel, so they tidied up a bit and we tucked into a booth where we shared a most lovely early evening. Dave did not feel stiff in any way - come on, I know when someone is enjoying himself! - which was wonderful. One of my friends had said earlier, "Oh, that poor man." No. He had fun, too. It was grand to meet with new friends who were not precisely strangers. We had much to say to one another, photos to be snapped on 3 different cameras, stories to tell and Kim's jewelry offerings brought out for my own private showing.

I've mentioned that Kim is generous, and she did not come empty handed. She had recently posted photos of some postcards she had collaged but said they were not very practical, since she'd become overly excited and decorated both sides of the cards. My comment at the time was that they were so beautiful, I wouldn't want to mail them away anyway, but would just keep them to enjoy in all their beauty. She handed me a stack and said, "You choose!" Oh, I don't like to make decisions on a too full belly. One later always thinks, "Hmmmm, I wonder . . ." But I love, love, love my Asian flavored offering that now sits perched against my computer monitor. Check the little wind-up pelican on the one side! (upper left-hand corner, photo on the right.) All photos have been kept at high resolution to retain the detail. Just click on them. So now I was ready for my private showing of the most recent jewelry creations, but Kim wasn't finished pulling surprises out of her hat. "Here," she said. "I made this just for you." And it's this part I wanted to be sure to relate in a properly descriptive way.

Note about photos: The lighting is not good. I needed to use my little lamp that has a base that behaves like an easel to display my goods. The lamp is dear to me. But it does not shed as much light as the sparks from my brain shoot out of my ears. Click in for a larger, closer view. Ha! I must be feeling very secure today because I'm not even inclined to apologize for being unskilled at taking pictures. That's not what I do. I tell stories. And I'm OK with that.

First of all, Kim doesn't bring a gift and just toss it at the recipient. I already knew this because when I have purchased jewelry from her, the
first thing that has always impressed me is her beautiful packaging and presentation. Across the table, she handed me a rectangular package wrapped in sewing directions from a paper pattern and adorned with a collaged tag she had made. I grinned. I'm a woman who recognizes sewing directions. My gift is a journal, but that does not begin to tell the story. In this journal, one does not want to record that she went to Fresh & Easy for the cucumber sale or to Ross on Geezer Day. There is no place in this journal for mundane notations such as "get oil changed in car" or "make annual gynecology appointment". No, this journal begs the recording of important events or a recital of one's loftiest thoughts and emotions, maybe a poem or a snippet of meaningful lyrics. Important births and deaths might be memorialized in a journal such as this, and it must always be displayed so visitors can appreciate its beauty. Here is my best effort to appropriately describe the journal:

She made it pink - a nod to my blog's pink presence. Kim pays attention to details. Its cover is muslin, stiffened by paint applied to cover and batik-decorate it. Pink, deep fuchsia, purple and gold coexist alongside funky golden buttons and a lovely, distressed length of burgundy ribbon which serve to secure the journal when not in use. The pages inside the bound book are made from differently colored heavy art paper, decorated with every imaginable kind of ephemera from vintage postage stamps to old photos, cuts of musical scores and antique books.
Some of these images make me grin - the pansy my Granny and I so loved (even though Kim didn't know that), the 1950s high-heeled shoe and dance steps, some old advertising art. Some made me sentimental or moony - the lovely teacup and very, very old botanical images and reproduction woodcuts of crying babies. Kim gets her paper ephemera from many countries, estate sales, stamp shows - she is not a typical "go to Michael's and buy what's there" woman. As I flipped the pages slowly, enjoying and exclaiming, I came upon something that I had to hold up into better light, for the restaurant is not brightly lit. "Corralejo!", I exclaimed a little loudly. Kim's eyes asked, "What?" On the bottom right hand page was a picture of 3 blue bottles of some of the best tequila I've ever enjoyed! And Kim didn't know that, either. We laughed and laughed. Six months ago, I'd have said, "Let's go get some. I have something to show you."


I did get my private showing of the Collection and bought a glorious pair of earrings which will be revealed when I partner them with the right dress and get someone to snap my picture. And then it was time for them to leave. Hugs and more hugs were exchanged. I walked them in the wind to the curb to pint out where they'd make their turn to get back on the highway and continue driving for as long as they could tolerate. Later that evening Kim commented on my blog to say they'd enjoyed dinner and had driven as far as Alamo, Nevada. And so it goes . . .

In my ears right now: Another big hit from the Sea Hags' repertoire. I imagine everyone knows the part I sang. I hate it when I'm pushy and selfish! Sort of.

Something that charmed me: I shared the story of the journal and the Corralejo at an AA meeting. I had to do a little back story to set the table, and I was going to lose the men, so I cut to the chase. Suddenly, I had everyone's attention again. "You never told her that was your booze of choice?" "Never did." "How'd she do that?" "Well, I'm not sure, but it is remarkable." "Yeah, like an omen from god or something. You should stop at a casino on the way home and play a few hands. The stars are aligned in your favor." Uh-huh. I need a new addiction.

Got Your Bliss, Erin!

Alright, yesterday I was inspired by Erin O'Brien, stuck in an Ohio never-quite-dawning spring. I dashed out on my way to the office and snapped a few colorful shots, including one of cactus flowers just about to bloom. Erin commented, "Bliss".

Today I popped out onto the front porch and the sight grabbed my attention immediately, even though the place is five houses away down the street. They bloomed! Fewer than 24 hours after I first spotted them. I slid into some shoes and headed eastward, intent on those cactus blossoms. Just like yesterday, I knocked on the door to ask permission. Just like yesterday, no one answered and I erred on the side of getting what I came for.

My camera activity attracted the attention of the neighbor across the street, the man who owns the house with the lovely xeriscaped yard with all the poppies. "Whatcha doing there?" I felt it was self-evident what I was doing, but I told him about blogging with those in cold, gray country and confessed to shooting pictures in his own yard yesterday. This man is now my official new best friend! "Hey, after you take pictures of the cactus, come on over and come into my backyard." I had to think about that a little. This is Las Vegas. But he waited for me beside the curb. "Come on, I'll show you."

His backyard is as lovely as the front, but different - quieter, softer colors in the blooms. This man knows a lot about growing things in the desert. I met a sweet gray poodle (and remember, I don't even really like dogs too much) who weighs about 4 pounds and made not a noise the entire time I was there. The patio was covered with assorted pots and containers filled with plants. A dining table on the patio was set for a meal, including beautiful crystal wine balloons. The man told me his roommate is a botany professor at the university here, so they may have a leg up on such a beautifully designed yard, but that - generally - they just tossed out handsful of seeds and the result was what we can see. He offered me seeds and volunteered to help me or advise me when I said I really wanted a tomato crop this year. I was invited to stay for a glass of wine, but told him I needed to get to a meeting. He didn't need to know it was an AA meeting.

As I drove off, I remembered that neighbors used to know one another and enjoyed talking about their gardens and sharing things they had in abundance, like seeds or advice. I knew I would never have managed more than a "Hi!" to my neighbor. For - yes, really - I'm a little shy, a little unsure of myself in certain situations. Now I've got an invitation to "Stop by any time" and assurances that he will pop over when he sees me working in my yard (that could happen!). All because of Erin O'Brien whom I see as never shy. I'm glad you motivated me to get my arse outside and enjoy the spring, Woman!

And the wind continues to howl.

Lovely Lady?

"Hey, Les, what's that? Miniature pizza cutter?" I chortled. "Pretty close guess. It works in the same way, but it's meant to cut fabric in a neat, clean line." To prove my point, I promptly rolled that cutter through the small pepperoni that once was my thumb, to some pretty startled looks and much scrambling for paper towels. "You OK? Gonna faint?" No, I wasn't going to faint. Though a lifetime floor-diver at the hint of blood, guts, pain or mayhem, my pregnancy 22 years ago cured me of the fainting deal. There are only so many times one can go down. I don't do it any more. "Hey, Les, you got a package from England!" Oh. I imagined I could guess a little something about that! I've been manually challenged for awhile now, big white bandage on the thumb and got a good old timey infection in it. I'd be willing to bet that she doesn't get all show-offy and run the cutter through her thumb, either.

Her blog is Artymess, though her name is Lorna, and I feel certain I'm not breaking a confidence by sharing that. I've followed her for quite awhile and I visit that blog because it never fails to give me purest joy. The place is a riot of color and one imagines music and happy, loud conversation. Invariably there are smiling faces, and when she posted photos of her house, the rooms screamed color, too. There are trips to the seashore and to Wales - have I ever mentioned I am a confirmed, lifelong Anglophile? But, best of all, Lorna is making the things I want to make. I began e-mailing with her early on, telling her of my extreme frustration at finding myself in a state of acute creative constipation I cannot seem to shake. She teaches textiles at the secondary school level, crafts beautiful items for pure pleasure, exchanges her creations with other artists, and runs contests on her blog so she can share the productions she makes from her head with others. I visit her for that injection of positive energy.

It happened that Lorna was running another contest, and I always join in ~ hey, I want beautiful things! By a finger fumble on the keyboard, I actually sent my comment twice which may have looked as if I were trying to double dip. I wasn't. I swear. My picture looks too much like my other picture. I can't fly beneath the radar. When Lorna announced the winner, I sent a comment to say I felt like I'd won a prize just from being able to see the photos. I meant it, too. I didn't have to actually own the pieces awarded. I just wanted to see them.

It happened that I had posted to my blog - a piece that took a lot out of me. It doesn't matter which one. Lorna e-mailed me to say how much my post touched her, and then my comment to her comment touched her even more deeply. The e-mails began to fly between the U.K. and Las Vegas - experiences shared and how those experiences formed us as people. Pretty soon, Lorna said, "We're making quite a connection here." I agreed and said so. A little later, Lorna said, "There is magic in the air this afternoon." I agreed and said so. At some length. And finally, Lorna said, "Leslie, you are a lovely lady. Send me your address, please." I didn't agree. I have rarely felt like a lovely lady. I did ask her not to tease her elders, but I was a sport and sent my address.

Now I am the happy owner of beautiful Lorna articles! For in my parcel from England is a shining, iridescent zipper bag with "Love" and a turquoise heart on the front, Buddha, lace and ribbon embellishments on the back, and a reminder to "Do all things with love." Yes, I do try to keep that in mind. The bag is fully lined, beautifully sewn, lovely sturdy zipper . . . ah! But there is more. There is a wonderful, shining, vividly constructed bookmark. And written on the back of the bookmark is "To Lovely Leslie, Stitched with love for you. Lorna X"

Mostly, one doesn't want to assume that I am stupid. I know what a bookmark is for, certainly. I'm a reader! I also know the zipper bag was likely designed to be a toiletries kit or a sewing kit or for carrying an eyeglasses repair kit or just any of the stuff we stuff into our purses. But that's not what I'm doing with my bright, shiny boosts of colorful energy. You see, I got sick last year. Seriously ill, terrified. I had to find some way I'd never found before to deal with illness. Being scared nearly catatonic, I have investigated eastern and western medicine, medication, meditation, spiritual theories, new age latest hits, reading until my eyes nearly bleed, visiting gatherings of other afflicted, and much gnashing of teeth. This has taken me awhile, as I have sought the answers while in very low condition.

So, I've landed gently, though I still seek. Some days it feels like I'm walking on eggshells, but at least I no longer taken one step and splat. It's been awhile since I spent one full month sitting in a recliner sobbing and sleeping 24/7. I've landed on a few tools that help me make it through my days and nights. I consult a couple of books of daily reflections, I specifically set aside time to meditate, I take all the medications prescribed in the way prescribed, I remind myself to eat and exercise. Sometimes I visit support groups for "others like me", take classes and offer my support to someone who is suffering. Once I simply cooked a meal for someone because I didn't know what else I could do.

Though I do not fancy myself either proselytizer nor revelator roaming the plain, I do carry books I refer to frequently, for my own edification. One of these books is quite recognizable to many adults, even though cloaked in a plain, dark cover. While not as well-known as, say, the Bible, it is not uncommon. I am not ashamed of my book or ashamed that I am required to read from it. But maybe I just don't want to talk about it with my barista at Starbucks or with the pharmacists as I wait for my meds. I'm not the paid spokeschild. I don't wear a size XXL T-shirt with an announcement in huge lettering. It struck me: the size of the most frequently consulted book vs. the size of Lorna's zipper bag. I placed the bookmark between the two pages that have aided me most. I slid the book into the zipper bag ~ perfect! Secure, not bulging. Encircling, not hiding, the peace I've found, in the brilliant hues that speak to me of peace, joy and harmony. I do not want to be a secret keeper any more. But the glorious bag protects my privacy as I make my way along.

I walked into a gathering of others who suffer the same disease as I. I did all the usual distracting (to others) things we do when we arrival somewhere for a purpose. Jacket off, purse under chair, get coffee. Then I pulled out my zipper bag. Stares. A few murmurs from appreciative females. "What do you suppose . . .?" Oh, this was good. Like being on stage! I purposely drew the zipper slowly and placed my hand inside the bag. I slowly withdrew my book - the one that all of the afflicted would so immediately recognize. "Whoa," I heard. Not yet in full control of that annoying show-offy tendency, I removed my bookmark with a flourish and looked up expectantly, ready to begin. "Hey, Les, want to share anything today?" [Grin.]

Lorna (lovely lady in red, above, right), truly from my heart, I thank you for your spontaneous act of kindness. Once again, I feel like the messages between us went deeper than our surface actions. True story, from not very long ago: "Do you hear sounds that probably aren't real?" asked the doctor. I replied that I hear only the usual ones, not anything like voices telling me to take over the Pentagon. He looked a little startled and I explained. I have always heard tiny, almost imperceptible tinklings from time to time, rather like a small, glass Chinese windchime. It is a signal to me from a place I don't know. It says,"Pay attention. All is not concrete." I heard tinkling, Lorna!

In my ears right now: An old, much loved favorite.

Something that charmed me: Well, everything about this story charmed me. I think I can sum it up very concisely. "Though cold today, spring approaches. Things are better than they were. Pay attention. All is not concrete."

Booby Prize?

Kass did it to me. That's just the kind of chiquita she is. She awarded me (With others, of course. I am not singularly special!) and now I'm on the hook, which makes me grin. I like information-sharing, round-robin posts. Truly, I thank her. She wouldn't give it to me for any other than truly honest reasons. Love you, too, Kassie. I can't name you as one of my choices, or I would.

Here's how it goes:

• Thank and link back to the blogger who awarded you.
• Share 7 things about yourself.
• Award up to 15 deserving blogs.
• Contact those bloggers and let them know about the award.

So, my 7 things:

• I have type A- blood. I like to give small amounts of it (and/or my plasma) for the use of others who need it whenever I am allowed, which is not very frequently. Join me in this? Your community likely has a blood bank, too! Ditto organ donations. The gift of life is not only given through the childbirth process.

• I am mulishly stubborn about the way I think some things should be. I own a 19" TV which sits atop my VCR. Yes, it's color, no rabbit ears. People who see these items look at me pityingly. What? I own a larger TV and a DVD player, as well. But I keep the dinosaurs upon which to watch old VHS movies I'll be unlikely to ever replace. When the VCR or the TV dies, it all goes out the door. Until then, why should it make others snicker at me if I like these things? I'm not required to buy new inventions because the manufacturers create them when I've taken good care of my old stuff. Shut up! I was also tetchy after my kid took good care of her PlayStation and Sony conspired to render her outmoded so we'd spend more money.

• I detest the words "I can't". I try to always say either "So far I haven't been able to ___"or "I can't without some help."

• I can and have piloted a 125' ocean-going sport-fishing vessel for hundreds of nautical miles in pitch dark with no crew. (They were all asleep, we were on semi-autopilot and there wasn't anything I could do to harm us unless a spaceship landed in the water directly in front of us. I did wear a skipper's cap and practice pirate talk. Arrrrgh!) Do not look for me to begin chartering day trips.

• I am a bargain hunter extraordinaire. Oh,yes, I want the good goods and I don't intend to pay full retail. I wear a pair of red Coach loafers I got on eBay for $3 and they're now a little worn, but I love to walk around in them and tell the story when someone comments, "Nice kicks!"

• I am beginning to sprout a few gray hairs in my sideburns. I do not care for this and I managed to avoid it for a good long time. This has begun over the past few difficult months. Oh, I do have that spot on the top of my head (about the circumference of a pencil eraser) that is completely white. I whacked my head on a cabinet door in my 20s and the hairs lost all color. But these new ones are old-age gray. And my personal version of "gray" is shocking, silvery, shining white. They reflect light. They could blind a person who looked at me in sunshine. I have been plying the tweezers liberally, but that seems a short-term solution.

• Everyone has some shorthand references to life phases or events that they share with people they know well. A chapter in my life has been referred to as the period when the trolls waited under the bridge to snatch me. I'm feeling pretty frisky today (generally today, not just the next 24 hours). I'm thinking maybe the trolls might want to beware of me waiting to nab them from under the bridge. That could happen! I'm just sayin'.
  
  

And now, having considered what I've heard from all the bloggers most recently, from a funeral to attend, press of work, writer's block, invasion of the Vikings, etc., I shall bestow the award upon the following for no other reason than "I just decided to do so."

One of my longest blogger friends looked me up when I commented to his comment on a blog, "Kirk Jusko is dead-on!" It was politics. He has a fabulous grasp on politics and world affairs. He's the most generous of correspondents. And f-u-n-n-y. Quick as a snake. I want to see what his face looks like. Come on, Cowboy, show yourself!

I don't know why a woman displaced from the northern U.K. to Auckland, N.Z., younger than I, talented in all the ways I am not, highly busy - as in still chasing after two young children, published, resonates with me and I with her, but that's how it it. Rachel Fenton is a blogger one wants to know more about. Tag, Girl - you're up!

Something that charmed me in a twisted way: I made a trip to the library. I'm sorry to say it has been a long time since I visited the public library and I admit to being a little rusty. The two shreds of information I have retained about the Dewey Decimal System are no longer of use to me, particularly. All was not lost upon me, however. I cannot be dropped in among thousands of books and fail to come up with something. I hadn't gone after anything in particular, so anything I found of interest would be OK. And I came away with four good finds. It came time to check out with my new library card on the automated system. Now look,folks. I'm self-deprecating, but I'm not stupid. And if there are pictures posted, I'm pretty remarkable. There were pictures posted. I followed the process as shown. On several different work stations. Nothing.

A young woman about 17 (not an employee) walked over to me. "Are you following the pictures?" I said I was. "You can't follow the pictures, they're all messed up. Here, I'll show you how." She did. It's easy. It doesn't match the pictured process at all. I thanked her and she went off with (probably) her mother. Walking out of the library, I started to grin and then blush. Have I become so un-hip, slick and cool that I broadcast my distress even in a large, crowded public building? Maybe. And I imagine, if she spoke of her kind act later, she stated she'd helped out an old lady at the library.

The Gift

It took me a very long time to realize how ill I had become although the signs were many. I'm not a doctor. I was a little close to the situation. I screamed out "Save me. Rescue me." My crash-and-burn were pretty dramatic, although maybe it only seems that way to me because I had a starring role in it. And if you think this Christmas-y post is a little untimely at Valentine's Day, you've missed the point.

Look, lots of people struggle at the holidays, for an infinite variety of reasons. And me, too. During my Christmas Nazi decades, I feared I wouldn't show as something enough. What? Generous enough? Creative enough? Cheery enough? Poor fudge maker? I'm not sure. Just not enough of something. Less than. Just about the year I began to think I might be OK enough, came the Christmas Eve dinner for 40 in my home when the upstairs water heater blew about the time I served the prime rib. I was unprepared to deal with ankle-deep water on my tile floors in front of guests. That house had miles of tiles.

The 2010 holidays were on target to be the worst ever. I've written elsewhere of dark December. My journey toward "better" had barely begun. To state that most everything I'd once been was now stripped away and I presented as bare bones, a skeleton, an empty shell is not an exaggeration. Some people who love me on a personal level and others who are paid to take very good care of me conspired to help me get through. And I did. Just. When the sun rose on December 26th, I grinned, very ready to pull down the Christmas tree, swing like a monkey beneath the eaves taking down lights, and move on.

I am no whiz at properly cleaning and shining hardwood floors and I spend too much time at it, never learning to perfect my methods, but simply slogging more, not better. All the Christmas decor having been placed in the garage for next year, I turned my attention to the miles of hardwood floor. I wasn't enjoying it, but the busy-ness of it was steadying. If I'd only had my hair in pincurls and a bandana tied around it, I'd have resembled my Granny on cleaning day some 50 years previously. I decided to get another cup of coffee and test the theory that one can consume enough coffee in one morning to jitter right out of one's skin. Although I am not hard of hearing at all, I hadn't heard my phone, and - with it lying next to the coffee maker - I saw there was a voicemail waiting.

"Leslie, it's Kass. I'm in Las Vegas. Call me!" Huh? Kass is here? I took that cup of coffee to my chair and sunk very low. I was depleted and dull and weak and confused - generally. All day, every day. I hadn't shaved my legs in . . . . too long. The floor still needed attention and the cat needed a good brushing and I didn't know how to do anything as simple and joyous as go meet a friend any longer. I didn't know what to wear or what to say. On the other hand, how could I not go? We'd met in the blogosphere when I sent her an official fan letter and she declared a "girl crush" on me. I've been more excited about very few dates than I was about meeting Kass. She makes my head spark and alternately soothes me and kicks me in the ass. She makes me laugh and want to misbehave. No, we're not outlaws. Just fun-loving. Quirky girls. I had to pull it together and go do this.

We connected while she was in the buffet line at the newest, latest and greatest casino. I had to ask her where it was. A little out of touch with my surroundings, I was. I could hear my own voice - cheerful, upbeat. But I still needed to borrow some time, arranging to meet her the next day, not 5 minutes after the phone call. I stewed. I bubbled. I took something for sleep. All those bloggerly associations danced through my head - those I'd dashed 6 months previously for my own sanity. And on the next morning, I got up, bathed, dressed and squared my shoulders. I had to MapQuest the location of her hotel. Oh, yes, I can see it towering above the cityscape, I just didn't know onto which major boulevard its driveway emptied. I drove there in sunny cold, parked the car, and recognized that the really cute shoes I'd worn were poor for running. Later, however, they'd make me appear a little taller than Kass, so all was not wasted! Dashing through the glass revolving door, I could see her peering out the windows, watching for me. She looked just like herself (from her pictures)!

As I charged across the lobby, she spotted me. Out went four arms, close and warm hugging to ensue. She blurted the first gift she was to present to me that day. "You're so cute!" Yes, I had the grace to blush. I told her I didn't feel that way, whatsoever. We agreed coffee, not a meal, was in order - mine was pumpkin pie latte which wouldn't be available for much longer after the holiday season. "Want some of my parfait, Les?" I didn't. And then unfolded more than 2 hours of the loveliest girlfriending I've ever experienced. We spoke of bloggers and blogging, about our children, about her mother who had recently died, about my recent fall from grace. She told me that certain things were not my fault, nor my responsibility to "fix". Nor could I fix them if it were my responsibility. When I declared I'd really like to like a particular person but it was complicated, she told me I was inherently good. She urged me to write again and to look back on other struggles and successes in my life for inspiration . . . . and to find my way. I cried a little. I'm like that. I told her my deepest secret - the one I hope to write about someday, but which is still just a little tender around the edges. She has not betrayed my confidence. We ranted about narcissists - persons we know enough about to be a little dangerous - and then it was time to part.When the camera came out of her bag, I began to snarfle. How could I have forgotten she carries the digital everywhere and aims it at everything? There were a couple of abortive self-portraits snapped ~ mostly shots up the nostrils of lovely middle aged ladies. This did not deter her, however. She shanghaied a willing accomplice from the coffee bar who did an OK-enough job of taking pictures of girlfriends united in a place in time. One needed to be filled up again. The other filled her up, despite the recent loss of her own mother. "Come to Utah, to my cabin?" "Yes, I will!"

When I left the casino, the shoes weren't so miserable. I didn't need to wear my coat any longer. I drove home rather more slowly than my usual, and I craned my neck out the window of the car, as goony as the family dog hanging her head out from the back seat. The sun was bright. Her plane would leave in a few hours. "How was; your visit with Kass?" It was lovely. It took her only 2 hours to show me her special grace and loving care. Oh, many have read it in her writings and commented on it. But I got the gift of friendship in a short-acting, in-person capsule. It was a turning point for me. Things really did begin to get better. If that wonderful woman thought I was kind of OK-enough, then obviously, it must be true.

In my head (and figuratively my ears) right now:

Do not make a reservation in my name

For I will not go. I will not attend.

And the elephant graveyard will charge your credit card.

Unfair to both of us.

Something that charmed me: I took a little road trip and snoozed in the car on the way home. After lunch, it would be my turn to drive for a couple of hours. "Want coffee and a meal, Les?" "Yeah, yeah," as I stumbled out of the car in Washington, Utah before Dorthalee's Cafe on State Street. I could see by the hand-lettered poster in the window I could have breakfast, lunch or dinner 24/7 for $2.99, $3.99 or $4.99 respectively. The hostess and waitress made me smile, some dim bulb of recognition coming on. The lovely old paw-paw in a booth with his 20-gallon hat and every hat pin ever made . . . where had I seen him before? The coffee was great, the food kind of nondescript, but hot, and everything was squeaky clean. "He's A Rebel" playing really loud on the oldies station. Finally, a bathroom break before going back out onto I-15 south. I came out of the restroom, passing a large party tucking into burgers, looked at the eclectic decor in Dorthalee's, and that's when it hit me! Kass hosts a number of blogs, including the aptly named Shooting Strangers In Restaurants. The reader must trust me about this and find the blog on my sidebar, as Blogger is being a booger at the time of this writing. This blog is where Kass keeps photos she snaps of unsuspecting patrons dining in restaurants, to the mortification of her daughter and sometimes dining companion, Mary Ann.

I dashed to my table and began to babble to my companions: "Kass", "blogger friend", "Shooting Strangers", "camera's in the car". They looked at me like I'd lost my mind. Perhaps I had. Throats were cleared. "Ummm, we probably should go." I am sorry to say I got no photos. I failed the test of big brass ones in a restaurant - just step up, grin graciously and snap. Kass taught me better. I won't miss the next opportunity. And I know the hostess, the waitress, the paw-paw and the large burger party have all been featured before on "Shooting Strangers".

Some photo credits: To Kathryn S. Feigal, with friendship and gratitude