Drowned.Rat.

"Would you like to go to Harvest Festival with me?"  She said she'd like that.  "Have you been there before?"  She had - once, like I had.  I don't know why they call it Harvest Festival, as it is held in late summer in the desert.  Except for the merchandise in some of the vendors' booths, there is nothing remotely harvest-like about it. It is simply the Promised Land of craft shows, the presenters required to jump through a few hoops to prove the quality of their goods before being allowed a spot on the selling floor.  On my prior visit, I'd come out with a haul for my friend's approaching birthday and a few trinkets for myself.  This time, I was on a mission.  I knew what I was after.  I paid $4 to park Lucy Sue and $9 to walk through the door, this for the privilege of going in to spend even more of my money. Later, a companion laughed at me over that at dinner. "What? You paid how much to be allowed to spend more?"  "Oh, it's a girl thing.  I'll probably go back next year and pay for the privilege, too."

Click image for larger size.

I was searching for Chinese charm bracelets, a little item that mightily pleased me a couple of years ago.  These confections consist of a slim black cord decorated with a gemstone figure, one temple bell and two charms. The gemstones and charms represent all manner of good things that might come one's way. Whenever the temple bell rings, which is approximately every time one breathes, one's prayer will be answered.  I was a rookie last time at Harvest Festival.  The bracelets are laid out on long tables in deep piles.  There may be a million or so.  Oh, yes, I saw the little code-breaker, telling what everything meant.  But it was a bit overwhelming and I ultimately just bought 5 of them for the price of 4, some for birthday girlfriend and some for me, and made my way home.

Click image for larger size.

The next day at work, my home dudes helped me translate the charms and gemstones into an understanding of my next karmic gifts to be expected.  They also had to help me, with a good deal of chin rubbing and furrowed-brow studying, learn how to operate the bracelet on its cord through the beads that tighten or loosen it.  "Hey, Les, do they all have a bell?"  I said they did.  "Prayers answered."  Great!  Who doesn't seek that?  "Anything like a yin and yang?"  I had one - balance and harmony.  "Do you have the money bag?"  Sure did - riches!  The cleverest of the group asked me about a fish. I didn't have one.  He asked again.  I said I didn't.  The third time around, I queried, "What's up with the fish, Homey?"  Freedom, prosperity and good sex.  Damn!  There were a million lying there.  How'd I get away without a fish?  I wore my bracelets on wrist and ankle until they fairly rotted off of me.  Sure I could have gone online to order more, but there is something about running one's hands through the pile . . I bought nothing else there this time.  My mission was accomplished.

It may have been sunny somewhere,
but certainly not where I was!

When we'd arrived it was a hot, late summer monsoonal afternoon.  I'd cracked the windows of the car and put the shade in my windshield so we wouldn't melt when we left the place.  Walking out, she needed a cigarette.  I don't care for this, but I don't hammer.  We've had the serious discussions.  She knows how I feel about it and what the rules are regarding how close that activity may be performed to my person.  I strive for tolerance.  As she puffed, I watched the sky go a funny color and thunderclouds roll in faster than I can type it.  "Smoke fast, please."  But the thunder started to boom and the rain fell in sheets.  We were placed nominally under an awning, but within seconds the pounding rain began to pummel us sideways.  "Shit!" I bellowed.  Mothers pushing strollers began to scatter, kids screamed, men repeated my sentiment loudly.  The hail hit and when it began to pound me in the head and ear, I knew I couldn't just stand there.  I was wearing sandals not fit to go anywhere near any form of liquid, but I moved along pretty smartly without face-planting.  We (and 100 others) charged the door of the Cashman Center and they let us back in.  "Lady, you can run like nothing I ever saw," said the ticket-taker.  "Your dark hair is all full of hail stones."  I was so grateful to receive that information.  Soaked to the skin, water dripping off of us from everywhere, the air conditioning nearly froze us. I can attest that a small pair of jeans weighs a ton when fully saturated.  If I hadn't worn a belt, I may have lost my pants.

The crowd milled around, listening to the thunder roll and watching the water come up over the curbs, hail piling up against the side of the building. And then the sun burst through, as suddenly as the storm had come in.  The entire show took about 7 minutes.  The aftermath was more lasting.  Our choices for getting to the parking lot were few: 1) Walk  on the sidewalk to Utah and circle around, or 2) ford the river and take our chances. We stepped into the current, twigs and debris swirling around our legs, mud collecting in my sandals, finally cresting the hill and spotting the car. Ah, the car. There was an inch of water in the cup holders, hailstones arranged in a pretty little tableau on  the dashboard. The upholstery spewed a geyser when we sat on the seats. Hair product streamed down my neck and forehead, condensation forming on the lenses of my glasses.  "Nice relaxing day out shopping, eh? Want some Starbucks?" She did. Teeth chattering, we drove off.

As I drove along, a text message dropped in. "Want to go for pizza? I'm hungry!" I sent a reply saying that I would enjoy pizza but explained I would need to go home first and fix myself up from the skin out.  "I'm sure you look great. It's just Metro Pizza." I averred that I looked anything but great. "Oh, come on. How bad can you look?"  I said I can actually look pretty bad under certain circumstances. Finally I sent the phone cam pictures. "Oh. OK, see you in an hour or so. Take your time."  Well!

So this time I got a gemstone cat (for protection), a bamboo charm (strength and resilience), a Chinese coin (riches) and the temple bell to ring all my prayers to truth. I got a heart (love and fulfillment) and a yin/yang (harmony). And - oh, yeah, I got a lovely green jade fish (freedom, prosperity and good sex). I'll let you know how that works out for me.


In my ears right now: Because I love it.

What the Hell?

That was hilarious! I 
laughed my ass off.

I can donkey laugh for a week about some insignificant thing I've seen in the streets. I tire my friends with the retelling and nearly wet my pants howling. Can't help it. I have a well-developed sense of humor that has long been called upon when maybe other coping skills would have been more appropriate and healthy. For many years, if certain subjects were to be discussed, Ex and I could not be seated in the same room, or at least had to refrain from eye contact, for fear we'd disrupt some proceedings. I make up stories in my head about stuff I see, too. Oh, please. I'm seeing a therapist. I take meds and avidly participate in a 12-step program. Some things are simply part of the fabric. These characteristics don't necessarily make me an ass.

Oink, oink! Baaaa! How ya doin'?

Now that I'm back to work, I get out in the world a little, driving through several distinctly different neighborhoods, past the convention center, over the Strip, through Chinatown, into the central part of the city which was the extreme west when I came here in 1976. I go right past the first home Ex and I owned, Mom's house next door, my aunt's home on the corner. They look a little shopworn now. Does the reader know some seemingly nice, regular people come to Las Vegas and behave stupidly, right out in the streets.? Believe it! At 6:30 a.m., traffic is light enough that I can safely rubberneck a little . . . I wonder if others wonder about the small woman in the nondescript automobile, shoulders shaking, eyes streaming, howling. So - it's a regular house on a regular street, no evidence that any type of business is conducted in the home. It's not a house converted for office use. What the hell, then, is with the MU? It's professionally painted, right onto the well-maintained garage door. I walked up there and ran my hands across it. The kids didn't simply smack up some vinyl letters while learning the alphabet. So, thought I, "Moron University, home of the mighty Mechanized Unicorns? Mayberry Union High (without the High)? In Memory of U?" Or could it possibly simply mean "moo"? What's your take on it? And sometime, when I regain a bit more self-confidence, I'm going to go up to the door, knock and ask.

Wish I'd known the end
was that near when I was
plummeting toward my
alcoholic "bottom".

Blogging, 'tend and real friend CramCake sent me a forward, something she does rarely. I suspect that for her, as for me, too many puppies, kittens, Disney characters and saccharine are not appreciated, but once in awhile comes a forward with just enough sauce or spice. So with thanks, and a tip of the hat, I'll incorporate a few of her forwarded smarty images with what I see in the mean streets. [Click on images for the full flavor!]

Oh, yeah. For sure. Woman driving alone, and all. Ex made me promise in the 1970s not to pick up hitchhikers any more. People were getting so weird. On the other hand, if a man has paid his debt to society and simply needs a ride to distance himself from the hated bastille . . . maybe I could just take him up to the next stop sign, let him out and he could hitch a ride with someone else . . . And if he gives me any grief, I know how to protect myself, because I practice. This is the wild west, one knows.

Hmmmm . . just thinking out loud here. So if I don't read the sign about the dry paint,are my person or my clothing in any peril of being smudged?

Lucy Sue's dash tells
it all. Proof I was at
a standstill when I took
the snapshot!

Does this chicken
make my butt
look huge?

All right, this voyage to silliness is nearing its end. One can see it's very hot in the mean streets. I've seen some great stuff, but now it's time to go ponder all of it (and my navel and the meaning of life as well). I heard a place nearby is giving away free food samples. I'm hungry. Maybe I'll go check it out. Is there any such thing as a free lunch?

In my ears right now: Buttercup. Just say her name - Lucinda Williams - and I will say "firm favorite". She's done little that I don't care for. Care for in a big way. Except for those couple of hip-hop influenced things, I'm crazy for her, and I salute her fierce willingness to try her hand at the hip-hop deal. It's been a long time since I heard anything new(ish) from her, and Buttercup pleases me. Do not expect a sweet flowery song. That's not Lucinda. I like that she writes her own (sometimes very hard) words and plays her own music. I like that she looks her (our) age. And good luck findin' your buttercup.

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:

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.

It's a Bitch

It was so hot you
could have fried an
egg on the pavement!

I use the word as it might relate to the dog days of summer, as that season has officially arrived. And today was hotter than one of those - 108-degrees on the blacktop when I arrived at AA at nearly 5:00 p.m. I'd been somewhat asleep at the wheel, only vaguely registering its imminent arrival, when my Tao Daily Meditation hit me between the eyes and said, "Hey, solstice is here!" Oh, yeah! Thanks, Tao. The "fun" time of year, though difficult to love in the Mojave Desert. And I'd like to be on record as one who rarely uses that "b" word about another person.

So, a brief quotation from Tao Meditation No. 172 and how it resonates with what I've currently got going on, which is also a bitch. By the way, I do not claim to be a practiced Taoist. When I am that good, I will claim to be so. I read Tao and try to harmonize its teachings with other daily devotionals that are important to me. The best days are the ones when each of my three testaments expresses the same (or a similar) idea in a different voice.  It happens, randomly, on more days than one might expect. In one language or another, sometimes my simple mind can comprehend and integrate more complex truths.

When the true light appears,
The entire planet turns to face it.

The summer solstice is the time of greatest light. It is a day of enormous power . . .

This great culmination is not static or permanent. Indeed, solstice as a time of culmination is only a barely perceptible point. The sun appears to stand still. Its diurnal motions seems to nearly cease. Yesterday it was still reaching this point; tomorrow, it will begin a new phase of its cycle.

Those who follow Tao celebrate this day to remind themselves of the cycles of existence . . . left and right, up and down, zenith and nadir . . . All of life is cycles. All of life is balance.

Ah, OK then, a powerful zenith in the sun's strongest light, maybe all the world pulled up to a visible projection just briefly, and a reminder to seek balance, to recognize nothing will be permanent, that ebb and flow are the only certain things. A message to alcoholics and other addicts: this constant motion thing is OK. It's the way of the world. In our language, this is "accepting life on life's terms."

I've been a member of AA for quite awhile now. I am encouraged to lead meetings and when the right person feels I am a woman who talks the talk and walks the walk and we agree I should be her sponsor, then that will happen. I own and voraciously read many of the recommended books, attempting to incorporate certain principles into my little life. I am progressing through my 12-steps at a slower pace than some because I have to argue about everything. I am made that way. It is not a footrace, luckily for me. But after I've argued something to death, if I ultimately accept it, I am a true believer because I've tried to deflate it and found it can't be mitigated. For myself only. I don't try to tell anyone else what is and isn't right for them. I'm not that good. By every benchmark, I should have bombed out by now for my first time. Those are the odds. That information and $1 will get you a cup of coffee at a really cheap place.

It's that balance thing that threatens my happy summer sunshine, that accepting life on life's terms and making my way forward. I am a person knows how to learn, and once I learn something, I have confidence in it and myself. Why can't I learn this balance deal? Am I an alcoholic because I lack balance or do I lack balance because I am an alcoholic? Regardless, it is the hardest thing I have ever struggled to reach. Most of "us" have a lot of human wreckage to repair once we become sober. I am no different and it is daunting. We are not obliged to undertake this in any particular way. We must not attempt to make direct amends to someone if to do so would further harm them. We are even allowed to not make direct amends to someone if to do so would be harmful to our own sobriety. That is a powerful freedom that must be tempered with "at what point does that become a cop-out?" If necessary, we are even encouraged to write a letter of amends we never intend to mail or send a letter to a dead man or to conduct a ritual of our own design. We may make an amends looking into and speaking to a mirror or a doorknob or we may make a "living amends" which means to let our present and future behavior say all there is to be said. In every case, we must somehow make amends to those we have harmed or whom we have lost in some way, expecting nothing from the other person, but only sweeping our own side of the street. Now we are sober, we hope we are so approachable we may reach some form of resolution with those who have harmed us, even though we may not owe them amends and we have no ability to design any detente. Yow. It is a tall order. But until we do this step properly and thoroughly, we will not have completed our 12 steps or know peace. And we must design our current and future behaviors to minimize resentments which are what cause our alcoholic breakdowns in human relationships. Ugh. Balance. Assertion in place of passivity or aggression. Responsibility for self and no one else and being OK with whatever happens. Wait a minute! It's my inability to do that which got me into trouble in the first place. No, I am not being funny.

Recently my friend and I discussed how we each were so misaligned that, as children, we failed to scream "pervert" in real personal crises, for fear of appearing impolite. Really. I have a long history of failing to holler for the CIA, the SSA, the FBI, a parent, someone's parole officer or a policeman on my own behalf when at least that needed to occur. On the other hand, I have some history of committing reprehensible, unfathomable, aggressive human crimes, of holding grudges, of being very difficult to love or forgive. Yes, I do want to find the sweet spot between the extremes. I think I see it, right there on the razor's edge. Without the assistance of alcohol, here are some things I've been working on. I think I'm doing halfway all right, though in some cases I am not making others very happy. And that's OK, too. I was in the people-pleasing business much too long.

So, would I really expose the shortcomings of an upstanding-looking blighter by publishing essays and badly written poetry (it exists, a suitcase full of it)? Unlikely. How does harming another person help me? Good logic, eh? Or write a letter to one parent on each coast of the U.S. to apologize for being such a difficult, colicky infant? Not going to happen. To my dear friend for whom I always pay and my friend who never, ever thinks of inviting me first: you may expect different behavior from me. Regarding the man who pressed his luck when I said, "I've told you this repeatedly for years." and he replied, "Well, you know, sometimes you don't pay attention to someone.": I was not loud, profane or difficult to understand. It was recommended I send official anger notification to those who "assisted" me in nearly killing myself with booze: already done. "You treated me terribly." Now I can begin my amends to each of them for I certainly have responsibility, too. [This should not be misconstrued as me saying ____ made me drink. This only refers to undeserved bad treatment by others. I dealt with it by choosing to drink.] Can I tell my friend and business associate I can't support the program as it stands? Done, well received and discussion to ensue. And for the friend who tells me what to do with my life before saying hello: get ready, dear!

Those things and similar ones can, did and could make me drink. That's not how I choose to do it today. What do you think? Progress? Old dogs/new tricks? In May and in June I attempted amends, expecting nothing. In both cases that is precisely what I got. These were not the giant roaring monsters like parents or ex-spouses. In one case, I do not believe I harmed the person directly, but I apologized if I had done that and said I'd love to have him/her in my life. In the other case, I had harmed the person but felt our bond had been deep enough for us to find some common ground. I did not get what I hoped for. I did not drink.

Something that charmed me:  It charmed me just now to type "I did not drink". It charmed me to find Ms. Janis singing "Summertime". It charms me to go out 4 feet from the French doors and slide into the pool nekkid under the moon. It charms me that tomorrow is expected to be 110-degrees. It charms me to keep trying as hard as I can try, apologizing when I have been clumsy. I wish everyone a joyful summer.

This does not charm me: I'm invited to a BBQ, a big bing-bang bash hosted by a friend of a friend. "What can I bring?," is always my first utterance. I love to make melon ball baskets and really good potato salad by the bathtubfull and 80 dozen deviled eggs, or whatever the host wants. "Oh, how about a big old bottle of tequila?" Really! "Um, that would be really difficult for me. Terribly difficult, actually. I can maintain balance with all of you and your tequila shots game like you played at Christmas, but I don't know about buying it, supplying it." This brought a smartassed comment which caused further conversation during which I gave no ground. She seems to have kind of dug her feet in. I've used no profanity, nor loud tone of voice. I'm surely not going to drink over it. But it's a bitch, you know?

Do You Want to Know a Secret?

Likely my dating confusion may be at least partly laid at the feet of Greg Clarkson who ruined me that beautiful spring for (many, if not all) other men. In the summer of 1963, we'd moved again from Los Angeles to Salt Lake City. I grew to my full adult height and from about 90 pounds to maybe 105 between the end of the last school year and my birthday at the end of the summer. My teeth were not snaggly new growth any longer, though it seems there were still a couple of molars to come, and the wisdom teeth that never did make it through the gums but were finally surgically removed when I was over 40. I could fix hair nicely, my own in a dark Gidget flip, and I washed and set my mother's to earn money. I worked cheaper than a professional in a beauty parlor (now called a salon). At the coming Christmas, I would receive makeup in my stocking - Angel Face pressed powder and the palest pink lipstick ever seen. Upon my body, curves existed where none had before and these made me feel just slightly awkward at the country club pool. (My parents eschewed the golf side of that club so I could make full use of the pool. It was a bargain to them to pay half-price and they knew I'd swim more than they would golf.) I turned 11 late that August.

The truck transporting our household belongings to Salt Lake was involved in a terrific accident along the way. Everything we owned was destroyed and my parents received a sizable insurance settlement. We gathered donated items from relatives to use in an apartment while we gathered ourselves. By early autumn, they had bought a house on the (then) far west stretches. Construction having just begun, there was still time to add a few custom touches and then we waited. We'd often drive out to the site after my dad came home from work. He'd hoist me up onto the second floor into what would be my bedroom and I could see all over the valley, lights beginning to twinkle here and there. I dreamed. This was to be the nicest home they ever owned, decorated nicely, with everything in it brand new. There was little development yet near Taylorsville. Everything needed to sustain life was also under construction to accommodate the booming growth in housing and residents. Oh, yes, there were gas stations and some mom-and-pop stores. But for major shopping, the library, and other necessities, we'd have to drive a bit. Dad would actually have a commute into the city.

Though some families were already moving into their completed new homes, the schools weren't springing up quickly enough to accommodate all the kids. The Valley West developer, whether a thoughtful Mormon father himself or under pressure from the new homeowners, devised a shortcut for the kids to take to the elementary school thereby avoiding Redwood Road. This heavily trafficked thoroughfare was used by everyone coming into and going out of the area and also by semi-truck drivers passing through. There were no sidewalks, the crumbly blacktop meeting the gravelly, weed-choked dirtpack irregularly. During the early autumn months, the shortcut flowed with a veritable river of kids going through the covered pathway and across a now-deserted sugar beet field. The school was an ancient, forbidding hulk of dark brick and no architectural relief, 3-stories and maybe 100 years old. Until the new schools were ready, the youngest children began their day at 6:00 a.m. and upperclassmen at 1:00 p.m., with school getting out at 6:00 in time for dinner, an imperfect temporary situation. When the snow flew, the shortcut became difficult and I remember trudging along Redwood Road in the afternoon, arms filled with books, heavy coat, gloves and boots. Soon enough I came to understand the honking, hooting truck drivers were not sounding "Hey, kids, get up farther on the verge to walk" messages, but "Hey, baby" salutations. Parents carpooled the kids home in the dark and snow, and soon enough John C. Fremont Elementary School was ready for us.

Normal school hours and a new facility, not yet even filled to capacity, made for a wonderful spring.  Softball began and counted as our PE portion of the day, with my 6th grade class pitted against the other. Remember the year: girls were not required to play softball if they didn't care to, but they had to go to study hall if they didn't play. Once a month for a few days, a girl could plead a physical excuse if she cared to. And then - the Promise Land - on softball days girls could begin to wear some form of trousers, but only on the diamond, not during the rest of the school day. That was OK enough for me. My father always, but always, treated me like his kid, not only like his daughter. I knew how to play softball. I was now bigger than most of the other kids and stronger, including the boys. I was fearless and skilled, sliding into base having never bothered me. I was pretty fast and I could catch a hurtling cannonball without dropping it. "Don't drop that ball, Les. Morgans play hard!" "OK, Dad!" But, oh!, the piece de resistance. My father owned a most wonderful wooden bat, 36" long and 33 oz. - a most manly bat and likely too much bat for me at the time. On softball days, I attracted some noise carrying in my bat and my bag, which I think was a bowling bag, with my pants and sneakers in it, for we also did not wear sneakers during the rest of the school day. These days were the highlight of my week and I learned much that spring. I learned never, ever to throw my bat again after making a young fellow drop to his knees in tears. I'd never much thrown my bat before that, but I got a little show-offy there on home plate, adding a little elan to my swing. I learned that some of the glee expressed by others on softball days had to do with me running the bases like the wind and getting in under a high pop fly. It wasn't so different from the swimming pool or the honking, hooting truck drivers.

"Hey, Greg Clarkson really likes you." A boy from the other 6th grade delivered this message and I flinched, I am sure. "Oh?" "Yeah, he thinks you play really well and you're cute." Uh-oh. "Oh." I walked away, completely unprepared for such an announcement and not knowing how to cope with it. Oh sure, I knew who he was. He was in the other class and may have been the only player more talented than I. Quite tall and very thin, he was strong and fast and tough. He stared me down at the plate and on the field. I always knew I had to play against Greg Clarkson and not so much against anyone else. The other pee wees kind of ran around and Clarkson was the only real competitor. I imagine he felt the same, in softball terms, about me. We always pretended not to be looking at the other, but now I noticed his hair was longish and curly, dark. Oh, not long hair as an original affectation like the Beatles who were taking over all of our pubescent or prepubescent minds. More like his mother had allowed him to skip one haircut because the Beatles had taken over his mind. Soon we began to exchange notes. I was comfortable with that, easily finding my voice in written word. He had miniature messengers at his command and the notes fairly flew back and forth. Then it was telephone calls. I began to use a phone upstairs so my parents, both with eyes bugged out at the notion of a boy calling me, would not be able to hear every (innocent) word of my side of the conversation.

The girls who were my friends were fascinated and began to suit up for softball so they could watch us on the field. The boys who were his friends seemed to watch him exclusively. Were they taking lessons from his example or had they been warned that I was his and they should not even look? We'd each dawdle on the grounds for a short time after school and finally a chaste, quick peck of a kiss was exchanged, some 20 child observers marking the occasion in silent awe. One afternoon he head gestured me to join him around the corner of the building. I looked toward my friends and weighed whether I would do this. I did. Around the bend, he wasted no time pushing a small parcel toward me, a jewelry box, to be precise. Taking it from him and feeling not on solid ground, I noticed he had dirt under his fingernails at the end of the day. Inside was a modest neck chain and a clear pendant with a mustard seed inside, perfectly appropriate for an 11-year-old girl heading for 12. Since that time I have heard a couple of different mustard seed legends, but when Greg asked me if I knew what it meant and I said I did not, he told me it represented "I love you." I did not respond to that in any verbal way, but I felt my eyes widen. Then he proposed what he knew to be my favorite tune as "our song", the meaning of which also had to be explained to me. We exchanged a kiss no more heated than the ones delivered in view of mesmerized 6th graders, he put the chain around my neck and we emerged onto the playground. I surmise Greg had older brothers or sisters because he was smooth - smooth! - and I knew nothing about any of the steps. But I liked the dance.

We became local celebrities, Greg Clarkson and Leslie Morgan. Even the teachers seemed aware of the chaste connection and smiled at us. The mustard seed pendant was much handled by young girls. I don't know what Greg had to deal with in his crowd of admiring boys. We held hands while walking in the hallway, though we would never have kissed openly and nothing, nothing changed on the softball field except that I tucked my necklace down the front of my shirt. The end of the school year approached following an idyllic spring and it was announced we'd have a 6th grade party day to include a movie in the cafeteria, "free dress" (slacks and sneakers ~ yay!), and if we brought our own records, we could play them and dance. A number of the moms provided better-than-school-cafeteria snacks and it was a red-letter day. Funny that I do not recall what movie was shown. But I remember that we sat close and held hands throughout as other kids exchanged looks and grins. No other young people so coupled up. What, we were enough for everyone, even if it was vicarious? When the music started, it was revealed that Greg arranged for our song to be played first. We danced, surrounded by silent classmates. He danced quite well, actually. Soon I saw some girls dancing together. When some fast tunes came on, some of the braver boys jumped on board. It was better than a prom.

He told me his family was moving to Alaska in the summer. I was good at geography and I knew his bike wasn't going to carry him to my house or the pool any longer. He reminded me we were nearly 12 - well, he actually was already. It wouldn't be so long until we could design our own lives and not be held hostage by our parents. My mother told me to invite him for dinner. She grilled steaks and did not act weird in front of Greg. My dad talked decently with him about baseball. He held my hand in front of them and kissed me goodbye at the door. They saw this. And then he was gone. He was an excellent letter-writer and he was allowed to call me once a month for 10 minutes. My parents allowed reciprocal phone calls. I did not cry or pine miserably, though I missed his company. Eventually it faded away, perhaps when we moved back to California in a couple of years. Or perhaps when the next youngblood said "My friend thinks you're cute." Or maybe Greg was attracted to a lovely young female in a parka. Anyway, it ended predictably, without rancor. I owned the mustard seed necklace for a very long time - decades. I do not know where it is now.

In my ears right now:  Oh, come on, what do you think?

In the Eye of the Beholder

I'd had it in the corporate world, at least under the circumstances in which I was working. I'd come to my executive position after years of very liberal employment in a labor union. I felt strangled for a number of reasons. Assistant to the Executive Committee sounds quite lovely, and I had a glorious office in a beautiful new custom-constructed building. But the place was owned and directed by people who were rather . . . whimsical. Since no one on the Executive Committee wanted to do anything . . . unpleasant, those sorts of tasks fell to me. On the rare occasions when the owner would drop in, her constant-canine-companions would get a little distressed for some reason. Every time. They were enormous, well-fed dogs. I was expected to clean up after them. We didn't have a custodian, just a night-shift cleaning service. It fell to me to "counsel" young women (who were barely paid a subsistence wage) when they didn't dress in Jones New York career wear. And when I wanted to wear an outfit with transparent pantyhose, I was asked to first apply a bandaid to my very discreet tattoo so no one would see it. You may think none of that is justification to leave a job, and I'd usually agree. But I was 3 months away from turning 55, when my monthly pension would start and I'd have some supplemental financial stability. After years of advocating for employees, I chafed against being directed to treat people badly in the name of their employment. I needed to start looking for a different situation.

The newspaper advertisements were full of potential, and my resume was ready to go. I got up early, took on some coffee and hit the phones. By midmorning, I was deflated. I don't recall that I ever spoke with one actual human being. I listened to a number of recordings telling me to fax, e-mail, U.S. mail or drop off my paperwork and if I looked acceptable, I'd be contacted in the future and blah, blah, blah. Hey, I was on the job market! I wanted to meet a person and hear about the job they offered and convince them I was their woman if I thought I'd be a fit. I only talked to one such person, though the ad was two stoplights beyond borderline for me: "Entrepreneur Seeks Personal Assistant". Oh, it sounded Las Vegas-y to me! I didn't like to wonder what kind of personal assistance might be needed, but the man sounded very legitimate, his office was in a location that sounded safe to me, and I had no better prospects. Besides, I'm not usually opposed to "go find out what it's all about." The person was David, and I ended up in what has - so far - been my happiest and most rewarding employment situation in life. However, that's not precisely what this post is about.

I pulled into the small, off-street business plaza and found the suite I wanted. There was no company name on the door. I stepped inside and asked for David. "Sure, have a seat for just a moment and I'll get him for you!" I wasn't sure there was a seat for me, but I didn't want to appear to be nervous or about to bolt, so I finally perched on the edge of a chair and looked around the place. It was a rabbit warren of hallways and small, interior offices, stark white paint and no names on any of the doors except one: A1 Carpet Care. Oh, I could figure that out! Otherwise, I didn't know. There were a lot of busy workers. They didn't seem to be doing anything relating to carpets. Well, no harm. I'd know soon enough.

The reason I'd had difficulty finding a seat is that every square inch of floor, wall and countertop was taken up by miles and miles of truly shitty "swap meet art". The air reeked of oil paint. Some of the stacks were precarious, so one wanted to scoot sideways between the rows or tuck in the tummy or rear while navigating between piles. If one could find a seat in a chair, leaning back against the wall was inadvisable for concern of knocking pictures off the walls. The smallest of the paintings was larger than I, the largest of them, larger than my apartment. Most of them appeared to be celebrity studies. Muhammad Ali and Oscar de la Hoya, some NASCAR guy, a couple of Muhammad Ali together with the early Beatles (what?) which didn't impress me at all, Beatles notwithstanding. "Geez," thought I, "who in the world . . . no matter how much blank wall space you needed to cover up . . " "Leslie, come on back to see David!" I spent the next hour interviewing and when I left the place I simply shuddered at all that "art" and went on my way.

I started work at A1 the very next morning. In and out of the office each day, my purse and leather tote bag in my hands, I learned quickly when to swing a hip or do-si-do to avoid a stack of paintings on the way to the break room. The oil paint odor simply became part of the landscape. I know what to do if my surroundings don't smell like a flower field.

For my first several months of employment, David and I shared a very small office space, practically knee-to-knee beneath the desktops. He wanted me to learn that business by watching him run it. It was effective! I learned. Our office doors were glass, so others could see when we were in. Since the other office doors were usually closed, and the entire place a beehive, people often came in to visit us for a chat, a laugh, a breather. I'd been there only a few days when David's partner, George, stuck his head in our area to say "Steve's here." David glanced my way. We already understood one another pretty well. "He's the guy who paints these pictures," he told me. I thought to myself that we really needed some more of those stacked up, but said nothing. I figured we might owe him $100 from the swap meet last weekend and I kept working.

When he came into our presence, he filled the room. He was 6'7" or 6'8", a loud speaker, and just as comfortable delivering his monologue of the day in our office as he was at home in the Bronx. When I was introduced, his eyes never tracked an inch. I did not exist, no molecules taking up any space in the room. His bellowing voice attracted the men of the place and soon there was standing room only. He name-dropped shamelessly, as if no one else in the room ever knew a Las Vegas big-timer . . . and when he was finished with us, he left, all the men following after him like the Pied Piper. All except David. I stopped writing, as I'd been pretending to work during the "show", put down my pen and slowly raised my eyes to meet David's. "Go ahead," he almost grinned. I blew. I'd rarely met anyone who could offend me at just about every level of my person in so short a time. "Sexist, ignorant, insensitive, benighted . . " I sputtered. "I agree. I think part of it is that people just inflate his ego so he believes he's that wonderful."

I shook my head and got back to work. David got busy clacking away at his keyboard. He gestured for me to come and look at his monitor. There was that big rascal who'd just left our company! "Oh, I don't want to look at him!" He asked me to hang on and read just a few lines. Hey, he was my new boss. I'd read. "What? Assistant to Andy Warhol? Completed Warhol's unfinished work when the artist died? Commissioned by the Pablo Picasso Academy of Fine Art to paint a portrait of Picasso? Recognized by the Nevada Congress? The only American artist ever awarded the Pablo Picasso Ring? Painted the portrait of Van Gogh used in the Van Gogh Museum's logo? WTF?" David clicked to another webpage. The reader would be shocked to see what one can charge for a large piece of shitty swap meet art. My jaw dropped. David grinned. "I should have told you. I was just so focused on getting you trained." I nodded. I let him know that, absent any other choices, I'd recently put my purse on top of one of the stacks while I was in the ladies room. I could as easily have accidentally put my foot through one of the canvases. Yow.

The paintings were appropriately cataloged and moved to a secure storage location. The artist died unexpectedly. David and his partner own a fine stock of paintings valuable for many different reasons now. Those in the "beehive" contact private collectors and galleries daily, looking for the perfect match of knowledgeable collector to fine art. Oh, me? I have something to do, as well. I am to write a comprehensive, well-researched biography, for none exists. While the artist is well-documented in gallery show announcements and photo ops with celebrities he painted, for humanitarian causes he supported, and for a small vanity coffee table book he published containing his own autobiography, there is little independent, verified information about him in print. That's my job. Oh, come on! I don't understand football, but I know who Tom Brady is. And I know how to learn.

In my ears right now:
Because this is just the way it feels right now ~

OFFICIAL: Woman Impercolated by iPhone

SUSPECT CLAIMS,"SHE ASKED FOR IT!"

Las Vegas police report taking a 911 call from a barely coherent local woman in fear for her virtue. She asserts a male acquaintance half way across the U.S. plied her with champagne administered through his iPhone. Police contacted Tree to obtain his version of events. "She's not inebriated, she's percolated and she asked me to do it!" When officers approached the woman in her home, she squealed, "Ooooh, I'm feeling so bubbly!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Of course, I'm playing! Come on, that last post about old-time religion was hard going. I needed a little light relief and Tree was good enough to oblige me this morning. If you haven't visited Tree at Decadent Tranquility, then you've missed out. His prose and poetry, his computer generated artwork are remarkable in every way. The visual candy is exquisite. And guess what? I don't know how he does fractals and percolations and I don't want to know how. I'm not going to do it. I just want to look at it. And have a little fun with it through his good graces this once. Be warned: you need to spend some time on his website. Don't miss the archives filled with three different ongoing fictional sagas. Women readers, he flirts, too!

But I'm not only going to be playful. I'd like to share something I've found. It's poetry. I'm quite poetry challenged, which has made me feel a little backward in the blogosphere, but I can learn. I'm a really good learner. I'm reading (for the 3rd time or so) a book called Desert Queen by Janet Wallach. It's a biography of Gertrude Bell, a British very Victorian woman, whose life was remarkable for all the things she did that Victorian women didn't do. Deadly serious Swiss Alp mountain-climbing for 15 hours in snow and avalanche comes to mind, attending Oxford when female students numbered 2 or 3, and speaking 7 languages. She was fascinated by all things Middle East and made many expeditions on horse and camel, attended by various Middle Eastern guides and no one else. Through mountains and deserts in brutal conditions packing canvas bathtub and full sets of china and crystal for dining, 1000s of miles. She is acknowledged to be a major figure in the creation of modern-day Iraq. (Not sure she'd brag that up today, but that's what she was.) So, it's a real Leslie kind of book: British, bio, female, desert. But what I discovered in the book this time was something else.

Gertrude's translations of the medieval Persian poet Hafiz (Hafez)'s works are still regarded as the best translations that exist. Apparently archaic Persian is a brutal language to master, some words and phrases having multiple meanings. Well, I like this poetry! Now, had you recommended to me the works of a medieval Persian poet, I'd have thought "Uh-uh" and run screaming. But this speaks to me in volumes!

Maybe you already know about Hafiz (Hafez) if you're not new to poetry. And if you do, shame on you for never sharing! But it was a very new and pleasant experience for me. I recommended it to a poetry-loving woman friend who immediately went web-crawling and declared my find an excellent one. Hey! Smell me! I highly recommend the Gertrude Bell book, as well. TRW, your copy has been ordered and is coming by slow boat.

And so, reader, a little Turkish coffee and dessert?

From The Subject Tonight is Love

A Potted Plant

. . . And at night I let my pet, the moon,

Run freely into the sky meadow.

If I whistled,

She would turn her head and look at me.

If I then waved my arms,

She would come back wagging a marvelous tail of stars . . .

Something that charmed me: My woman friend needed to work. She had a deadline to meet, a busy morning, a dental appointment."I can't e-mail you at length until later this evening." OK, understood. I've been there. I support healthy detachment. I sent off an e-mail with the information about the Gertrude Bell book and the poetry of Hafiz/Hafez. It would be waiting in her inbox whenever she decided she was ready to glance at e-mails. About 14 nanoseconds later, I was surprised to hear e-mail incoming announced. It was her. What the heezy? She'd opened my e-mail and she was off on a poetry-filled couple of hours. Have I mentioned she's a poetry-loving woman?