Random impressions, opinions and ruminations from a woman who would really like to invite EVERYONE over for a good meal, a glass of wine and passionate conversation, but the dining table only seats so many . . . .
The irony of commitment is that it's deeply liberating - in work, in play, in love. The act frees you from the tyranny of your internal critic, from the fear that likes to dress itself up and parade around as rational hesitation. To commit is to remove your head as the barrier to your life.
What I once needed to know about.
I learned it well.
David's brilliant and he knew when he hired me in 2007 that he wanted to get me well-established in the office and then send me to carpet cleaning school. I was neither eager nor resistant. It was just on the to-do list. When the time came, I went to university and was immediately intrigued. I found I did know a little about the subject since I'd worked with textiles a lot in life and I am of the era when females were required to take home economics in school. Oh, we not only made pillow cases and ruffled aprons, we learned all bout the process of milling the fabric from cotton, warp, woof, weave and more. We were well rounded girls. In my carpet course, I was the only female, so I got extra attention from the instructor: read this "tutoring/mentoring", not "arranging a date". Man, I can talk warp, woof, fourth generation nylon and the synthetics made mostly from recycled plastic bottles (hell for carpet cleaners - plastic doesn't clean as easily as natural fibers). When it came time to take the test, I was hooked - a carpet cleaning nerd - and took a notion to ace the test. David and I later laughed: when he noticed it was time for the test to begin, he thought, "She's going to try to ace it." We knew each other that well 3 months after meeting one another. I didn't ace the test. I got 96% or 97%, an achievement I held over the heads of the actualcarpet technicians for years when they got cocky with me. Knowing about carpets and cleaning them was good for me. I could talk to customers so brilliantly, I'm sure their eyes glazed. I could take fine woolen rugs from walk-in customers and dazzle them with my superior grasp of the care and feeding of their valuable asset. The one time I attempted a few swipes across some carpet with "the wand", I learned what separated the men from the woman, but I still knew my stuff, intellectually. David called that one beautifully. Make certain the person on the phone knows something. My certification expired last month. I didn't renew it because that wasn't part of my life any longer.
What I need to know about now.
I'm learning at warp speed.
Generally speaking, my immediate new task is to bring one narrow finger of David's and George's successful business empire into the 21st century. Oh, this slim portion of the enterprise has been quite promising for years, but it operates on the "write in pen on copied forms kept in 3-ring binders" model. Oh, and "don't forget this - write it down somewhere". So things have been written on scraps of paper and kept in perpetuity. Important things. Things that should not be entrusted to paper scraps, perhaps. Once more, it's my role first to make this business run like a modern-day operation. No. David wants more than that. David wants this machine to run like a world-class business. After all, it's highly successful and we're looking to g-r-o-w. Quickly and exponentially. That means I need to know a little something about what it is we do. What we do here is locate collectibles and sell them to collectors/investors. The primary focus is on valuable postage stamps. There is a 75-80 year demonstrable history of this investment losing virtually no ground,
The Inverted Jenny
ever. Oh, yeah, their value grows about as quickly as watching grass propagate on delayed-action film . But they don't lose and they do increase in worth. I knew how to spell philatelic, pronounce it and understand its meaning. That was about it. In the first week, I learned some things: the first postage stamp was a product of the British Post Office in 1840. In quick succession, the Penny Black, Penny Blue and Penny Other Colors appeared, and their cost today may startle the reader. I learned inside 5 days the difference between the Blue, the Black, the Red, the Brown, and not by looking at their color. I know some of the provenance and urban legend and the reasons these items are more valuable than the better-known Inverted Jenny with the biplane accidentally printed upside down. I still have everything in the world to learn, but here's something else I deduced in just a few days: my crash into alcoholic hell didn't wash away all my brain cells. I can still learn. And fast.
Stamp Girl - my newest, temporary (?) alter ego. Long may she stamp!
True story. Summer of 2007 when A1 Carpet Care still shared digs with David's and George's other interests. Though we'd known each other only a month or two, David already knew I was drawn to vintage, venerable things, paper ephemera, history and romantic notions. "Would you like to see something wonderful?" Sure I would! Who doesn't want to see something wonderful? He held it out in a pair of tweezers and began to speak. " . . British, 1861 . ." Well, I am a human being. I did what I am hardwired to do. Yep. Reached out my hand and took that stamp between my fingertips. Very bad form. The realization hadn't hit me yet when he began to tell me all the reasons why we didn't handle them barehanded. He never raised his voice, flinched or used colorful language. I didn't damage the stamp. I learned something. It must be noted, I also "shop" with my hands. I buy nothing I haven't touched. If my hands are soiled or if I damage the goods in some way, I'll remedy that, but I "see" with my paws. But no longer with stamps. I've now handled a few. I have tweezers and white nylon gloves and archival paper sleeves and . . . hey, you live, you learn. Given my degree of efficiency and the speed at which I take on life, we're lucky I didn't affix that stamp to an envelope and await dictation of the recipient's address!
George, David and I met for awhile each of the 5 days of the first week. Mostly, I brought an agenda, a list, questions, suggestions. Mostly they made decisions and heard my arguments in favor of this or against that. Ultimately, they asked me to lose every shred of hesitation, to move forward fast in combat boots and to ask forgiveness later (if needed), which they would grant. Apropos of not very much, the one who knows me best brought it up. I didn't mention it and hadn't really thought of it. "She hates 'secretary'. I don't want anyone to call her 'secretary'." And I do, too. It's the word and perception mostly. I am helpful and accommodating to anyone who comes my way in business, but if one calls me anything other than "Les", I'm touchy about what appellation is chosen. George looked startled. "Why would anyone call her that? That's not what she does here." David and I began the chorus: "only female among men, pleasant to everyone, greeter, sits near the front of the business." OK. George got it. "Well, we'll get business cards and a name plate. What are we going to call her?" Ah ~ a business meeting with time spent on weighing words . . my idea of heaven. I suggested "queen". They laughed, but did not agree. We settled on "manager". I am the manager of the business. I like that one!
A quote that pleased me: "The philatelist will tell you that stamps are educational, that they are valuable, that they are beautiful. This is only part of the truth. My notation is that the collection is a hedge, a comfort, a shelter into which the sorely beset mind can withdraw. It is orderly, it grows towards completion, it is something that can't be taken away from us." - Clifton Fadiman in Any Number Can Play.
To my surprise: No one - no one - commented on the picture of me in the previous post shooting a gun in the desert, Diet Dr. Pepper at the ready, tattered bullseye targets at the table. That would be a sight calling for the quick and firm application of brakes, folks!
Something that charmed me to tears: Justin returned to work upstairs as a carpet cleaner. He'd been banished much longer than a year. Justin doesn't ask permission for hugging. Justin hears the news, comes downstairs looking for me and says (arms extended), "Hey, Girl, come here." I did. He did. "What's new, honey?" "Same old, same old, Les." "Not me, Dude. Everything is new and wonderful!" "OK, Les. Me, too!" Good! Now, go earn money!
After 58 years of some really convoluted relationships, I have determined that the ones between mothers and their children are the hairiest. Oh, yes, mother-child arrangements are the most schizophrenic of all - soft, moist, vibrantly colored petals, some even scented, juxtaposed with the equally colorful pods with thorns so long and thin as to be almost invisible. There's the prize, with all of its elements. Take it or leave it. Here, for every mother's child, whether you grew just beneath her heart, or in it, is my Mother's Day offering ~
Yes, I did plant my body right in that mighty stand of cholla with my camera. Yes, I got jabbed. No, it didn't hurt nearly as much as some of the metaphorical pricks. Nor were the petals as lovely as some of the intangible ones that I have enjoyed.
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
The time had come to leave for Mother Badger's home. She was expecting me. I'd already sent the e-mail to say what time I would leave. She can do arithmetic. She'd know approximately when I'd arrive. Cesar had helped me feel confident about my car. I'd made checklists and cross-referenced information that really shouldn't matter. It's not like there aren't stores down there if I forgot something. The car was fueled up and my things packed inside it. I'd walked a brisk 10 miles, showered, dressed comfortably for a long ride. And that's when I began to fiddle fart around. Uh-oh. What was going on here? This is a trip I very much wanted to take. So why . . . . ? I'm not telling how many times I drove across the street to the convenience store and back home. It is embarrassing. There I bought junk food that I never ate. It went into the trash at Mother Badger's. I'm not telling what the junk food was, either. I left home and headed toward the beltway. Using streets I know do not go through to the major boulevard. I've lived in the same neighborhood for more than 7 years. Why was I purposely avoiding the beltway? I drove in circles for miles. What the heezy?
I stopped living a few years ago. Some events in my life had broken me just a little and I slowed nearly to a halt. Then the headlines began to scream about national financial ruin and I closed down a little more. To the amusement of the homes, I took steps to prevent my decline and potential homelessness. I had my car insurance policy analyzed and tweaked it and, after charting what and how much TV I watch, I reduced my cable TV service. I cut the high-speed internet to moderately high-speed internet. Hey, I don't download large files or play computer games! I began to sell unwanted, unneeded things on eBay and I hunkered down, waiting for the pain. I stopped doing many things I've done all of my adult life. Like a little shopping for pleasure and traveling a little and buying quirky (inexpensive) things to decorate my home and my office. Like reading, a most beloved pastime since the age of 4. Like the annual trip to the beach in July. Like volunteering to help organizations that support causes I embrace. Like being a political activist. Where did I go? I know why I went, but I don't know where I went. I was lost and my world shrunk. If it wasn't about walking, working, haircut, doctor, dentist, it wasn't happening any more. With the exception of the very rare camping trip or cycling race weekend, I literally did not go away. For far too long. I now know that didn't do anything good for me. I didn't get a badge for being the most stalwart shut-in.
I couldn't avoid the on-ramp any longer. If I didn't set out now, I'd arrive later than expected and I don't do late. I merged into traffic and I was agog. I, the decades-long freeway warrior, had dropped into a world I no longer recognized. Commute traffic, and lots of it! I asked myself, "I wonder why I never hear the homes bitch about traffic? This is hideous!" But that didn't last long. Within minutes my old treachery on the blacktop had returned and I was sailing smoothly in the next-to-fastest lane. As my comfort level on the road returned to me, so did many other things. It proved to be a journey of reminders and affirmations, five hours alone with myself, my music, my car, the road, my desert and my confidence. No one accidentally chirped me and I didn't once chirp any one of them. I soaked up sunshine through the windshield and I did not feel pressured or hurried whatsoever. I took a break and did it well.
Although I would rather have a MapQuest printout that tells me specifically to go from Highway 93 South for 132 miles to Highway 40 East for 79 miles, I had a stretch of journey I'd have to manage by eyeballing. The construction delays on the $240 million Hoover Dam bypass are notorious, and I didn't intend to sit for an hour or more roasting in my own juices. There is an alternate route that adds about 23 miles and half-an-hour to the trip, and that suited me. The trouble is, I'd only taken that route once, and in the opposite direction. Some of the highway numbers were not known, and one has to watch for a couple of turnoffs that are easily missed. Mother Badger had reminded me, "One can easily end up in Needles, CA, by missing that turnoff!" Needles is hours out of the way. Comfort and confidence settled around my shoulders, warm like a shawl. I passed through Searchlight and thought of it as Senator Harry Reid's childhood home and a mark along the road to where we camp at Paiute Gorge. I spotted the sign announcing Cal-Nev-Ari in 9 miles, right near where the three state boundaries meet. I was musing about the community established by Nancy and Slim Kidwell in the 1960s, its 400 residents, casino, motel, RV park, mobile home park, convenience store and airport . . . airport? Yep. FAA designated. As I spied the marker for my turnoff, I was reminded I am good at observing signs and landmarks. I have a good head for maps and I'm logical. I know how to get around. And I knew precisely where I was located on the map.
Soon I was descending through the sharp, craggy red and caramel sandstone to the Colorado River gorge where Laughlin lies. No more merry e-mailing on the BlackBerry from behind the wheel, as the road took a sharp downhill grade and there were switchbacks to be dealt with. Now I pulled over, rather than driving while intexticated. I was reminded how much I love my Mojave Desert (and the Sonoran, where I would soon arrive) and how, if one doesn't have the privilege of going to the desert, one can derive much pleasure from driving through it. I crossed the bridge over the Colorado River and into Arizona, which always thrills me. Where I live, one sees more dry washes and sandy creekbeds than rushing rivers. It's exciting! I drove up out of the gorge through Bullhead City and crossed the preposterously named Golden Valley. I call it Arizona's armpit. When I spotted the wide vista of badlands, I knew Kingman was nearing. Kingman was about half-way to my destination, and after Kingman I had MapQuest directions right to Mother Badger's door. I know Kingman well. I know not to get myself trapped on the main drag where the highway dumps all travelers who then converge upon the many gas stations and convenience stores. I know to drive through the long place and stop at the very last truck stop which is never as congested. Although I didn't actually need gas, I knew how far away were the next services. One doesn't take chances. I bought a large coffee and walked through the aisles filled with ceramic roadrunners and resin coiled rattlesnake figurines. One wonders how much "authentic" southwestern merchandise is actually sold by these establishments, because they all have huge inventories of such items. Back in the car, I cranked up the custom music mix delivered to me the previous day, sipped at my coffee and drove out of Kingman. Some miles ahead, I turned onto another highway and it soon became apparent I was no longer in the Mojave and no longer in the transition between the Mojave and the Sonoran. I was there - in the Sonoran Desert!
After one turns onto the highway, there is not much "civilization" until one arrives at the Phoenix suburbs. There are long, long stretches of desert to enjoy and its personality begins to change quite suddenly. I climbed into the high, rocky reaches and was treated to my first view of a jungle of bear grass, green and bushy at the ground, with high, reedy fans standing ten feet tall. Photographing the bear grass has always been a goal of the man with the camera, preferably at a time of day when the sun shines golden through the fan. Alas, unfathomable to me, the desert here is fenced for miles and miles and miles. Pictures could only be taken from a distance, through fence material. Please don't fence in the desert! Finally, I saw the first iconic saguaro - indisputable evidence that one is in the Sonoran. There are some saguaros in Las Vegas, but they are not native in the Mojave. In the winter they must wear a burlap jacket, and they are not easily cultivated here. But they thrive in their home in the Sonoran, clustering into forests of the tall, many-armed cacti. If one steps onto this bus often, it may be remembered that I am starved for the sight of cactus flowers this year. And now I was in for a treat, for the saguaro were blooming in profusion! Saguaros can live more than 150 years and grow from 15 to 50 feet in height. It takes up to 75 years for them to develop a side arm. The state of Arizona takes saguaro conservation very seriously and it is common to see them supported by upright angled boards with soft pads protecting the cactus' flesh from the wood. Often large segments break off of the main plant and some very odd shapes are attained.
Early in my love of the desert, I was terribly misled by a gorgeous Jack Dykinga photo of a saguaro in bloom. I saw that the flower of the saguaro was as huge and showy as the cactus itself, and said so. This brought a laugh, for saguaro flowers are as tiny as the saguaro is huge! The esteemed Dykinga had been fortunate to find a downed saguaro arm and get right in on the bloom with a macro shot that made it look enormous, I was told. Today I know that the flowers are tiny, but can be abundant as they pop out on the very tips of the cactus' arms. Driving along observing the cactus, I got playful. I wanted to see the flowers up close and personal. As I am a woman who will not ascend a step-stool, it is unlikely I will ever be perched in any way at the top of a 50 foot cactus, there to inspect its blooms. However, as I whizzed past a particular saguaro, I saw that its flowers weren't terribly high in the air, and maybe if I made a U-turn at one of the infrequent highway crossovers . . . . It was about a 12-mile detour. I remembered that sometimes I've enjoyed aiming a point-and-shoot camera at something that charms me and sharing the results with others. The reader wants to understand I have no urge and I do not need to make fine photographs. I'm perfectly happy getting a crude likeness of the reality and saying, "Look what I saw!" And so, here it is: look what I saw. Later in my trip I managed some fairly credible pictures, but this was for fun. I remembered that I once liked to go away and see the sights and have some fun. I jumped back into the car and made my way past Snoopys (plural - Snoopies?) on the rocketship in Wikieup (don't ask me, I don't know why!) ~ "Hey, Snoopys!"
The highways almost completely bypass Wickenburg now, rather than go straight through the middle of town. I'd been warned about the two roundabouts I'd need to navigate, but I did that well. I have roundabouts in Summerlin, near home, and I've driven them in the U.K. They don't disturb me. And then it was the long, last, straight, full-of-road-construction 30 miles. Although I have visited many times, I've never learned the layout of the streets in MB's community. For one thing, the streets all curve and change names. For another, I was never the driver. But I learned that both MapQuest and MB had served me well. I pulled into the driveway, took in a very deep breath, popped the code into the alarm system and stepped to the back door. "I knew you were here! I saw the sun shine through Alfie's cat door when you opened the garage door!" Hugs were exchanged and each of us exclaimed about the other's hair. I'd never seen her beautiful silver mane cropped very much like my own, though a little longer. She'd never seen mine since Christine was put in charge of its maintenance. We chatted a little and she told me to take my things to my familiar room. Though I recently commiserated with my friend on e-mail about the stresses of traveling, as I brought my things inside and arranged them, I remembered that travel doesn't stress me. I'm organized and careful. I keep lists and check them. I don't leave things back or lose them. I remembered I'm pretty good at this traveling and visiting thing. I sent the promised e-mails to those who insisted I let them know I'd arrived. It was going to be a lovely few days! I knew it immediately.
In my ears right now: The finger-snappingest, most dance-inspiring hit of 1997, by three children. Amber loved it. I liked it, too. One heard it in the streets and the stores. I confess that I had a little difficulty re-entering my world this week. I was a little down. It's taken a few days, but I'm feeling pretty Mmm Bop right now! I defy the reader to play this tune and not want to dance around. In fact . . . . excuse me for just a moment, please.
Something that charmed me: The arrival of that 23rd follower charmed me. Please note that all followers charm me, but there's a story. For number 23 is Willy, likely the best girlfriend I have ever had, and since 1986. Oh, yes, he is a man, to be sure. And no, not gay. Not at all. But what we have is a deep, understanding, girlfriends kind of thing and I'm pleased he has popped on my bus.
One photo credit: J. D. Morehouse (Snoopys at Wikieup)
It's her birthday. We should all get a little tattooed reminder to celebrate her each and every year. Happy birthday, Kass, and many happy returns of your special day. Readers should know this little celebration was created through the contributions of several really generous, crazily creative bloggers. It has been my task and pleasure to gather the input and deliver the finished product. That's only right because it was my idea! Please join me at Kassie's party. I'm leaving Las Vegas in my pink bus right now. I'm going to circle the globe, pretty much, picking up party-goers and the things they'll add to the party. Here's a look at the accommodations:
Here is our trio of perky party servers and let's listen to Pink get this party started!
My first stop will be only a few miles from home, for Standing On My Head lives right here in Las Vegas. She's a photographer with a grand grasp of the importance of light and composition, and her learning curve appears to be about a 45-degree angle. She writes poetry both laughable and stunning and presents both bravely. It's good to pick her up first because she thought of some of the most vital elements of partying. SOMH was one of the first bloggers to comment, "I'm in!" Soon came her gift of words and a list of food she planned to bring. "Guacamole and chips" caught my eye! Since I have the longest ride on the bus, I'll be munching at those for quite awhile. SOMH is also bringing a most important item - these are her words, quoted verbatim: "A hand-made, heart-shaped chocolate ganache cake festooned with crazy candles of various shapes and colors, burning brightly, as does Kass." Well!
SOMH sent these beautiful birthday sentiments to Kass, as well:
may the long time sun shine upon you, all love surround you, and the pure light within you guide your way home.
My next passenger/party-goer to board will be Kim from Numinosity Beads. I have choices about where to pick Kim up, as she lives in both Arizona and Alaska. For convenience sake, I'm hoping she's in Arizona. Kim has a soft spot in her heart for forlorn little rag dolls and it is through Kim that we met Candace, now on her world tour. Kim is bringing along a friend of Candace's, the lovely Celeste who is in a partying kind of mood. Kim also took up my invitation to make a party for Kass and her gift was made very quickly, a tribute to her talents. This during a week she's making the move from Arizona to Alaska again!
Look at Kim's beautiful birthday gifts for Kass! Get on board, Kim ~ let's go.
We're going to make a sharp turn to the north, SOMH, Kim and I. Our destination is the home of my youth, Sugarhouse in Salt Lake City, where we'll pick up the birthday girl! Come on, Kasserole. Jump in and let us start to celebrate! I don't want to spring too many of the surprises, but there are to be so many gifts and happy moments in this party that I'm going to give my gifts to Kass right now, right in Salt Lake. First is my heartfelt, but amateurish poem. I am no poet. But I know whom I love.
The lovely Kass, so fair of face, Exudes a state of natural grace. But while she shares with us a grand felicity, There’s also that spark of raw electricity.
My second gift is a gift of music. I learned this week on another blog that Kass enjoys the music of Israel "Iz" Kaʻanoʻi Kamakawiwoʻole. So here is Iz doing what he does, and . . . . oh, Kass, I have a little surprise for you. She has taken a brief break from her world travels and dressed in garb that Iz would recognize. Here, just for your birthday, is Candace in her party hat, hula skirt and coconut shell bra. I brought along a little stowaway! And now, ladies, let's start picking up some men. We'll head for the eastern part of the U.S. and pick up the man who commented just last weekend, "That Candace is a doll!"
I love adults who can be playful and whimsical. I'm not sure when we forget how to play and use our imaginations. It pleases me to head now for Cleveland to pick up Kirk Jusko, a playful man I feel I know very well, indeed. Alas, I have never seen Kirk. He does not post his picture. How will we know him when he gets on the bus? Well, I imagine he'll be wearing his mystery man costume. And we'll surely know him by the music! For Kirk's response to the party invitation was that he didn't know Kass well enough to wax poetic about her, but he'd be pleased to bring along some party music!
Passengers, please hold the noise level to a dull roar and buckle up once Kirk seats himself. We're heading south to Norfolk, Virginia and it's going to take us awhile to get there. Is everyone finding enough to eat, drink and make merry with? Candace and Celeste are drinking virgin pina coladas, right?
We're aiming for Tag's place next, folks, and Tag will be a wonderful addition to our wandering party. Tag is a most contemplative and gentle man, generous with sharing love and admiration. He was the first to say "I'm in!" for a party for Kass. I didn't hear anything else for a day. Last night while I had the two-hour massage, my BlackBerry announced that Tag was delivering up the goods.
Tag approached the tribute in a couple of ways. First he found some pretty brilliant images that put him in mind of Kass.
The significance of the images is this. Tag felt we wouldn't want any uninvited guests crashing our party like a flock of birdies. And he found the photo of the distraught princess evocative of some of Kassie's own photos featured on her blog Shooting Strangers in Restaurants.
I was pleased when Tag volunteered to bring the wine. It's an important consideration for a party! However, he said his stemware could use some attention over at yet another of Kass' blogs, Redoing the Undone.
Last, but not least, Tag produced an extraordinary gift of words. The reader should know a few things. Kass committed to writing a poem a day for National Poetry Month in April. She has done that, and admirably. She's not churning out shlock. Tag has written Kass a ghazal and has begun each couplet with a line from Kass' own writing, followed by a line of his. Behold:
A ghazal for Kass in her words (and mine).
The mind is a questionable thing especially when you ask it, to pull a rabbit out of a hat, or words from an empty basket.
The wintering language of violets, make no sound at all as if the motor in my mind had blown it's own head gasket.
Poco a poco mon non tropo, da capo a fine here I show my ignorance. for now I'll try to mask it.
Gathering courage I grab his face and hold it close to mine deeply entombed inside the earth, I've gone and lost my casket.
I am where I am going, yet a star shines from the sky. Does the universe care, I don't know go ahead and ask it.
It's like...not quite... but almost coming close Running out of rhymes, though not quite ready to trash it.
The second to last line, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KASS and we are back where we started from a tisket and a tasket.
All right, hearty party-goers, get out your passports and your diving gear. We're going international! In theory, my pink bus should be able to deal with the Atlantic and Indian Oceans, and finally the Pacific. But we tried to consider all possibilities. We're going to Zambia. And yes, I had to look it up on the map, too.
The blogger seems a gentle creature who signs her comments loveNlight. I think she must give those off in abundance. She has a remarkable number of poetic quotes at her fingertips and offers them generously, garnering many thanks almost every time she comments. With apologies to Gabi, I could not import her photo. Please visit her lovely blog and see her face for yourself at Embracing Who We Are. In the meantime, I improvised and Googled "love and light" for an image. Although I know Gabi is darkly beautiful, I liked the image that came up and I hope she does, too.
Here is what Gabi had to say to Kass:
The slience is broken The “K” is talking With her hearty token She is finally talking
But I was also touched with what Gabi had to say about Kass: "This is Gabriela (known as Gabi). I love your idea of giving a different and meaningful present to our dearest Kass. So please kindly receive attached my humble contribution to the same." It's not a very humble contribution whatsoever! Come on, Gabi, jump on board.
Fellow revelers, prepare to travel awhile. For we leave Africa now and we're heading for the Land Down Under. She's not contributing vegemite sandwiches, but I imagine she could tell us where to locate some if we wanted them. Elisabeth is an extraordinary writer. She is thoughtful and thought-provoking. When I read her posts, I have to go away for a day and think awhile before I can make a cogent comment. She is brave, sharing her compelling life stories. They are not always sugar and spice, but sometimes gritty and tragic. She picks up followers faster than any blogger I have seen other than those whose blogs have been named Blog of Note. I believe I would characterize her as a serious person, and yet she once held her own in days of ongoing commentary about a comedy movie she'd never seen. She also participates in virtual parties and bus trips around the world, offering her poem and contributions before any other blogger. Kass and I were once e-mailing about Elisabeth. The word that kept popping up was "respect". Be sure to visit her wonderful spot in the blogosphere!
Here's what she had to say: "I'm bringing a microphone for the speeches. Anyone can speak, poetry and prose are acceptable, but all should be directed toward this celebration of Kass' birthday." Hear! Hear! By the time Elisabeth boards the bus, there will be some noise and those microphones will come in handy.
Elisabeth told me she was planning to bring her husband's excellent famous pissaladiere to the party. I did not know the word. Luckily, she described it as an onion tart latticed with anchovies and dotted with kalamata olives. Yikes! Far better than vegemite sandwiches. Here is her clean, unadorned haiku for Kass:
A non-silent K Her words roar across the page Kass, poet and orator
Picking up Elisabeth last makes me a little sad. Had we gone the other way around the world, she would have been fourth and Kass last. That wouldn't have made sense to party without the birthday girl. But I propose, in order to give everyone a complete party experience, we circle the equator just once more, completely. We shall laugh and dance, toast Kass and get to know one another. We shall eat and drink and be unfettered by the restrictions of real time. We shall part ways with smiles and hugs. And I will park my bus under the carport until the next birthday comes around.
If you've ever spent a moment on this blog, you're aware that I'm sentimental and maybe sappy. I'm a person who feels things deeply, and it's been said that I am very loving. I nurture and encourage and cheer for those I care about. I feed and fetch for those I treasure. I'd make a very fine Labrador Retriever. I'm known to collect and bond to some odd little signs or icons such as an image that pleases me or a date on the calendar or a tune. I internalize those things and they become an integral part of me. The date of April 8th, and specifically April 8th, 1968, is such a thing. Why that date? Why not September 14th or some other target on the calendar? I wonder. Were the stars aligned in some way on the day of my birth that portended April 8th would be an important day for me some 15 years later and for the remainder of my time? I don't know. I'm not that brilliant. But I know about April 8th.
Because the date is special to me, I went searching to see what had happened on it in history. Oh. Ponce de Leon claimed Florida for Spain in 1513 and the U.S. House of Representatives met for the first time in 1789. In 1879, milk was sold in glass bottles for the first time, and on April 8, 1912, two steam ships collided in the middle of the Nile, killing 200. In 1935, Congress approved the Works Progress Administration (WPA) and on 4/8/1939, King Zog of Albania fled the country (for reasons I did not further research). On April 8, 1946, the League of Nations met for the last time and on the same date in 1952, the year of my birth, President Truman seized the steel mills in order to avert a strike. The Supreme Court later ruled Truman had overstepped his authority, which pleases the union representative in my soul. In 1963, Lawrence of Arabia was named the movie of the year at the Academy Awards and in 1974, Hank Aaron slammed that 715th career home run to break Babe Ruth's record of 714. Chicago was the first rock group to play at Carnegie Hall on April 8, 1971 and on this date in 1986, Clint Eastwood was elected mayor of Carmel, California. In 1992, on April 8th, Arthur Ashe disclosed he had contracted AIDS.
Some notable persons claim April 8th birthdays, including Ponce de Leon (Looks like he claimed Florida for his own birthday gift!), the American actress Mary Pickford, ice skater/actress Sonja Henie, U.S. First Lady Betty Ford, the comedan Shecky Greene, TV host John Bartholomew Tucker, Peggy Lennon of the Lennon Sisters singing quartet, conservative Republican U.S. Representative Tom DeLay [sorry, Badger!], Dukes of Hazzard actor John Schneider, John Lennon's son Julian Lennon, and the actress Robin Wright Penn. Whew! The world has also lost a few notables on April the 8th, including the actress Claire Trevor, singer Laura Nyro in 1997, Kurt Cobain of Nirvana fame, U.S. contralto singer Marian Anderson, rock producer Phil Ochs, the artist Pablo Picasso, and the Roman Emperor Marcus Antonilius. Yikes.
But what about my April 8th? The one in 1968? It was a Monday, the first day of what we called Easter vacation, now known as spring break. It was sunny and warm in southern California. Dr. Martin Luther King had been assassinated three days previously. Both the 40th annual Academy Awards and the opening day of National League Baseball were postponed from April 8th to allow the country to mourn. The new socialist constitution of East Germany took effect and WKPI TV Channel 22 (PBS) in Pikeville, Kentucky, began broadcasting. It was a busy day! Number one on the charts in the U.S. was Otis Redding's posthumously released (Sitting On) The Dock of the Bay. In the U.K., the Beatles would earn another gold record on 4/8/1968 for Lady Madonna.
Let's leave the world behind and go to Inglewood, California. It was a lovely Los Angeles suburb at the time. Truly a nice place to live, with good schools, a large shopping area, tree-lined streets, tidy middle class homes with flowers in the gardens. My Granny always wanted to live in Inglewood rather than L.A.-proper, because it was such a nice place. I was stretched out on the living room carpet, transcribing lyrics from one of the tunes on Bob Dylan's Highway 61 Revisited album. The 33 rpm record spun on the Heathkit stereo turntable my father had built. I'd scribble some words and then lift the turntable arm, just to gently put it back on the vinyl to catch the next phrase or two. Bob Dylan is not easy to transcribe. I was killing some time. I tend to be (still today) prepunctual. I'd dressed, applied makeup and fixed my hair, leaving way too much dead time to deal with before 10:00 a.m. He was punctual. I didn't have to wait until 10:02 a.m. Across my threshold that morning, with the sun shining over his left shoulder, stepped a young man. We'd only talked on the phone, and had specifically set up our first meeting to take place right at the beginning of spring break. I didn't know at the time that the really good looking youngblood would be a person who would become and remain important in my life. I just knew that I liked him. A lot. Immediately. This man and I have been many things to one another across the decades. And - oh, yeah - there was that 30-year stretch when we didn't know if the other still existed. I've written about the relationship before, with probably the best rendition being this one. However, an interested reader could go to my posts with the label 1968 and read from the oldest going forward if the story of two insignificant people allures.
No, the purpose of this post was to simply celebrate the fact that sometimes in life we meet another human being and something in the cosmos begins to whir. Sometimes we're fortunate enough to be able to recognize that something just clicked and this fellow human being is one we want to spend time with. Get to know better. Keep. It has been stated that when he and I are in the same room, the light bulbs spin in their sockets. I think that is a good analogy. That is the kind of energy produced when these two elements are placed in close proximity. I think about the John Lennon lyrics, " . . life is what happens while you're busy making plans . . ". It hasn't gone the way we'd have predicted. It hasn't gone the way we sometimes wanted it to. It hasn't gone according to Hoyle and it hasn't gone by the rules. It hasn't gone by the book and it hasn't gone the way anyone else might have designed it. And it hasn't gone.
Here are the photos, taken by our respective mothers. They were taken within a couple of years of 1968, at most, so this really is the way we looked. Blogger friend Kass had asked me in comments once if I had pictures of us at the time. I confessed that I did have some, but I was reluctant to show mine. Oh, I know what I look like, so that's not the deal. And I remember that white eyeshadow was outlawed the very next year after the picture was taken. I love my John Lennon glasses that had real glass lenses, and I remember that watch with the wide blue band. But I am troubled by the look on my face. I remember the morning well. It was my birthday. My mother insisted on taking the photograph over my objection. My mother and I were engaged in mortal wrangle at all times. So the face you see belongs to a very angry young woman at whom a camera could be aimed, but who could not be forced to smile. In fact, I believe I see a little jut to the jaw that says, "If I snap my neck from all the muscle tension, that's OK. But I will not smile."
Who knows where the time goes? I don't feel very differently. And what will happen next? I don't know. I'm not that brilliant. And I'm reminded that when people are put together, watching the chemical reaction is rather like looking into the kaleidoscope, all the little colored pieces moving into another configuration and then, yet another. One can't predict that.
I may not be brilliant, but I know the good goods when I see them. It's good to have connected with the Badger. Now I think I'll go learn some new things. Those are my most frequently used labels. That's what I do. Connect with others and learn new things. It's good to have you in my life, Badge.
In my ears right now:
Something that charmed me: I've been talking up April 8th for awhile now. Home dudes like me, of course, and they like the Badger. They also like to hear my stories of the days when I was young and dinosaurs roamed the earth. I was welcomed this morning with a flower on my desk and a cup of Starbucks. "Happy April 8th! Truly, 42 years, Les?" As some of the homes were checking out, Matt commented he was going to meet his new girlfriend's mother tonight. It is the good woman's birthday. Then Cesar said, "Hey, it's Thursday! It's my mom's anniversary." Oh. April 8th, huh, homes?
Photo credits for the final four shots respectively: Mother Badger, Mother Now, Limes Now, The Badger
