Par-a-dox; noun; (1) a tenet contrary to received opinion; (2) a statement that is seemingly contradictory or opposed to common sense and yet is perhaps true; a self-contradictory statement that at first seems true; an argument that apparently derives self-contradictory conclusions by valid deductions from acceptable premises.
Statement I made to myself during mid-January: "I have the time and really should get back to writing. I know I waste time every day that could be spent working on my blog or novel."
Statement written on blog February 5: This is the first time I have had today to sit down and write (7:13pm.) But I am here and will complete today's task. (I did miss yesterday, though; I had a stomach bug of some sort and no will to write.)
I am looking at a framed photo that makes me smile every day. The frame makes me smile. I saw it in a local store while shopping with a friend and it ended up a surprise under my Christmas tree. The surface is mosaic, made up of small red glass tiles. It sparkles in the sunlight on the table next to my reading chair. Red and sparkly -- what more could I ask?
The photo in the frame makes me smile. Just a snapshot, taken on a picnic during a family outing on the Texas State Railroad. The little boy is wearing blue and white striped overalls with train appliques on the bib and pockets. He is two years old and loves trains so this day is one he won't forget. His smile is big; wrinkling his bright blue eyes and producing dimples on his cheeks. Just a quick snapshot. Who knew it would become so poignant?
Poignant; adjective; (1) painfully affecting the feelings: piercing; (2) deeply affecting; touching; designed to make an impression.
I look at the photo every day and smile. Then I feel the stab in my heart and inhale sharply. Some days I hold the breath and let it go slowly, nod my head. Other days I cry.
Thanks for stopping by today; I'll try to do better tomorrow.
In the summer of 1963 I was five years old and my family was planning a big adventure. We were driving from our home on the Gulf Coast of Texas to California, the trip culminating with a visit to the kids' ultimate dream -- Disneyland.
Preparations had been underway for months. A brand new car was purchased. This was a big deal for our family and it was the only new car my Dad purchased in his lifetime. He was a genius with anything mechanical -- cars, washers, televisions -- and kept everything in our house running smoothly. For whatever reason, this time he took the plunge and bought a 1963 Ford Galaxy 500, four-door model. The photo shows a red one but our model was a metallic gray which we immediately named "The Silver Bullet." Daddy built a custom car-top carrier for The Silver Bullet to hold all the gear for this trip. This was to be a true 1960's family vacation and we were to camp our way across the western states.
My oldest sister was thirteen at the time and had a voracious metabolism. She had recently shot up to almost her full adult height and, to satisfy this rapid growth, she ate every hour. When she found out we would cross the desert with no gas stations, rest stops or restaurants for miles and miles, she went into full-scale panic. Mother said she was convinced she would starve to death so she (Mother) took action to calm her down. Books of Big Bonus Stamps were marshalled to purchase a car snack carrier, equipped with two large thermoses and a food compartment. It was designed to hang over the back of the front seat (seats were bench style in those days) for easy access by those in the back, with the hooks folding together to make a handle for carrying to and from the car. All in a "campy" red plaid.
With this addition, plus one of those canvas bags on the exterior of the car's radiator, my sister was convinced we wouldn't die in the desert.
Being five years old, I don't remember everything about the trip, but certain memories are vivid. We camped in a mountain park in Cloudcroft, NM. During the night a violent thunderstorm hit and we were terrified in our tent, seeing the shadows of tall trees whip and bend over us during every lightning strike. The next morning we found the town below heavily damage by a flash flood. In Las Vegas we stayed in a hotel, one of the few times on the trip. We went to the Golden Nugget Casino long enough for Dad to play one coin in a slot machine (he didn't win) and for Mom to acquire a souvenir Golden Nugget ash tray, which was the one we brought out any time a smoker came to our house for as long as I can remember. Somewhere in the mountains we stayed in a log cabin and Mother made fried pork chops for dinner. The memory is vague; I don't remember where it was.
Then there were the national parks: King's Canyon, Yosemite, Mesa Verde and Carlsbad Caverns were the ones I recall. At King's Canyon we went to the Ranger Campfire, where he told stories and we all sang songs. There was one song, sung as a round, that I still remember. It was sung to the tune of "Are You Sleeping," and went "In King's Canyon, in King's Canyon, you can fish, you can fish. You can catch your limit, you can catch your limit. Fish, fish, fish. Fish, fish, fish." The Ranger also told a long, rambling story about a man who had a boy who he named Shine. Somehow Shine got lost and the father spent years looking for him. He knew he would recognize his son because his shoulder bore a distinctive birthmark. When he finally found the boy, identified by the birthmark, the father burst into song ... wait for it ... "You are my son, Shine, my only son, Shine." We were at Carlsbad Caverns when they still had the cafeteria at the bottom of the cave, where they served a box lunch before you began your way back to the surface. The whole place seemed a little eerie to me and I'm not sure I enjoyed it much. I knew I was deep underground and wasn't very happy about it.
As I write this, flashes of memory keep coming into my head. In San Francisco we ate at a restaurant on Fisherman's Wharf. While waiting to be seated I kept climbing on a bench and looking through a divider into the bar. The bartender must of thought I was cute, because he fed me a cherry every time I stuck my head in. I also remember Trading Post style souvenirs -- dolls with papooses, my brother's feather headdress, rubber tomahawk and drum. We drove our car through a tunnel in a giant redwood tree in a Sequoia forest. In San Francisco's Chinatown I wanted the red Chinese pajamas because red was my favorite color, but the saleslady commanded my Mother to buy the aqua blue because the color looked better on me. She was right, but I still wanted the red; I got the blue.
We went to Marineland, Knott's Berry Farm and, of course, Disneyland. This photo booth shot of my brother and me is one of my favorites. We had never been in a photo booth and didn't know what to do. Result? A pretty somber pair.
And then there was Disneyland. Here again my memories are just flashes. I remember the Matterhorn, Peter Pan's ride in a flying ship and the flying Dumbos. I was terrified on the Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea ride, where you were in a submarine. I buried my face in my lap and wouldn't look up, something that totally baffled my parents because I had shown no fear on any other ride, not even the "scary" ones. I think it had something to do with being under the water; that is still hard for me.
So finally we come to the topic of this whole exercise, "Something You Wore." Here it is. My souvenir t-shirt from Disneyland.
I loved this shirt, evidenced by the fact that I still have it. I can't think of any other clothing from my childhood that I saved, although I had those blue Chinese pajamas for a long time. Originally the shirt had a clear rhinestone at the tip of Tinkerbell's wand that I was convinced was a diamond. I'm sure it came off because of years of fingering the stone; I probably cried when it did. The cloth is thin and extra soft now, with several holes worn through. This teddy bear has worn it for about fifteen years and most likely will for many more.
As I said, writing this has jogged a lot of memories. I am going to have to talk to my sisters about this trip; they were older and should remember more than me. We must have been gone several weeks; I can't imagine covering all this territory in less. It has been fun thinking about it and I appreciate your sharing it with me. Thanks for stopping by.
Naomi Fisher left the doctor's office that day feeling as if her life had just ended. Her head was swimming with medical terms Dr. Hughes had spoken in his soft, compassionate voice. "Tipped uterus, "infertility" and "hysterectomy" collided in an echoing explosion. She would never marry, never have children -- in 1944 a bleak revelation.
Naomi loved children. In a family where she was the second of four daughters, nieces and nephews were all around, with more to come in the years ahead. But not for her. The reality of the hysterectomy came, with many days spent recuperating in the hospital. Cards and letters from family, friends and church members brought wishes for comfort and healing; they did their job.
Naomi healed and lived a life full of children. World War II came and materials like rubber and plastic were needed for the war effort, which meant they weren't used for things like dolls and toys. Naomi couldn't bear to think that the little girls she knew would not have dolls for Christmas, so she made them. Beautiful dolls of all sizes, from infants to toddlers, made of cloth and stuffed, with smiling embroidered faces. She worked with children in her church, teaching Sunday School and directing craft projects for all ages each summer at Vacation Bible School.
Eventually Naomi did marry. She and her husband loved and worked together for many years. She learned to use woodworking tools as well as any man and became a craftsman in the use of scroll work and decorative touches for the many houses they built and sold together. She could frame a house, dry it in and roof it; something she proved again and again. And until her death at age 82, she worked with the children in her church, teaching them the craft skills she loved.
Death came quickly to Naomi, alone in bed during the night, five years after her husband had passed. Her neighbor found her that morning when she didn't turn up for a meeting. The sisters she had envied were old by now and unable to tend to the details of death. So their daughters, the nieces Naomi had spoiled and mentored did the job. They arranged the funeral and tackled the task of clearing out her home and making it ready to sell.
One Sunday afternoon two of the nieces sat in Naomi's sewing room going through boxes of fabrics. The weather outside had turned dark and rain was pouring down. Deep in the corner of the room they came upon a carved wooden box, roughly in the shape of a treasure chest, and realized it was where Naomi kept her treasures. Inside were photographs and postcards, an ancient family Bible and tissue-wrapped glass dolls from her childhood. One of the nieces found a letterbox, which she opened and began to explore. Inside, there they were. Every one of the letters and cards that came to Naomi in the hospital when she had the hysterectomy sixty years before. The letters that brought her comfort and hope during one of the darkest times of her life. The time when all her hopes of motherhood were lost. The time when she decided she could still go on and be a mother to other people's children.
This story is a (mostly) true one. Naomi was my aunt and my sister and I were the nieces who found her letterbox that rainy Sunday afternoon. Some day I will write a follow up blog about this remarkable woman and show some photos of the items she made during her life, including the beautiful dolls. But for now day three of my challenge is done. Thanks for stopping by.
Day two of my writing challenge and I am already cheating. Well, maybe not cheating, but at least interpreting the challenge to my advantage. But since I made up the challenge, I decided I get to determine the rules. My guess is that they will change as I go along, a little like Calvin Ball in the Calvin & Hobbes comic strip.
"Something You Adore" defines that it should be a thing and not a person. At first I let my head run with that for a while. What do I adore? A few things popped in for a brief visit but didn't stay long. I thought, "If I don't even want to think about these things in detail, why would anyone want to read about them?" The meaning of "adore" carries with it a higher, almost reverent tone. "O come, let us adore him," is a little more serious than my feelings about favorite foods or Masterpiece Theatre.
During all these ramblings my mind kept coming back to one object, something I did adore, but here's my dilemma. The thing I adore is a studio photograph of My Girl, about whom I have written here and here again. Plus, this is supposed to be a writing challenge and not a photo one. But then I got decisive. This photo is a thing and when you see it, you will know why I adore it. My Girl's mom gave it to me for Christmas and it is one of the most beautiful, creative portraits I have ever seen. I adore both the photo and the subject. Don't you?
I'm starting a early on the February writing challenge described in my last post. Today's topic is "Breakfast."
I love breakfast food even though I don't always eat it at breakfast time. A weekday breakfast for me is typically Sugar Free Instant Breakfast mix (chocolate) with an extra scoop of protein powder or Fage 0% Greek Yogurt split cup with cherries. But on weekends and sometimes even for dinner, I cook wonderful breakfast food.
Eggs are my staple and I cook them many ways, but none pleases me better than a perfectly scrambled egg. I am very precise about the cooking method, not too soft, not too hard. Just call me the Goldilocks of scrambled eggs. A perfect weekend breakfast is eggs, bacon or sausage patties, fresh berries and oven-style (not toaster) whole wheat toast. I learned to love oven-style toast from my Grandmother. She didn't have an electric toaster for many years so she made white bread toast in the oven. Each slice had four dots of butter because the butter was in the refrigerator and too cold to spread. The oven would toast the bread all around the butter to a nice brown, but, if cooked just right, those little dots had a hint of crustiness but remained golden yellow and soft underneath. Our weekend breakfasts are wonderful but here's my guilty breakfast passion, one that I only let myself have once or twice a year - French Toast. I love, love, love French toast.
The starting bread is important, preferably Challah or brioche, 1/2 inch slices that have been left on the counter overnight to get a little stale. Dip them in a mixture of eggs, half-and-half and warm honey and then fry in a little butter. This frying part is critical; it can't get too brown around the edges before the middle of the slice is done. "Done" means browned patches mixed with lighter spots that are crusty but still golden yellow, kind of like my Grandma's oven toast. The edges are uniformly brown with a few little strands of lacy egg mixture hanging off here and there. Cook both sides of the bread and then put the slice in a hot oven for about five minutes. This really sets the outer crispiness and leaves the inside soft and custard-like. Top with a little maple syrup but no powdered sugar. OK, a little cinnamon if you must. I serve it with bacon to get that heavenly salty/sweet combination going and also to insert some protein into this carb-laden feast. I think if I were going to be executed, this would be my last meal.
Now I'm hungry. By the way, here's a link to the French Toast recipe I use, courtesy of Alton Brown. Let's hope Day 2's topic doesn't concern food or I may gain more than writing experience this month. Thanks for stopping by today; I'll talk to you tomorrow.
This month two of the blogs I follow, one written by a very dear friend of mine, have been participating in a Photo-a-Day challenge. I have really looked forward to seeing their photos and commentary each day and will be sad to see January and the challenge end. In case you are interested, here is the link to my friend's blog.
As some of you know, I've been absent from this blog for quite a while and have been struggling with getting inspired to write more regularly. That's the best and only way to really hone your craft. So why not issue myself a writing challenge using the topics of the photo challenge? I think it will be a good method for me because, not only will it jump start my writing with a topic each day, but I don't plan on using a photo with the post. I hope to rely on words to create a scene or story for you in place of a photo. Maybe I will include a photo at the end of some of the posts so you can tell me how well I did. Will you do me a favor and give me that feedback?
The January photo challenge had thirty-one days, but since February only has twenty-eight, I'm going to knock off three of the topics they used. Days one and thirty-one were "You" and "You, again." Since I write about me all the time, those are going away. I'll determine the third one as I go along, probably dumping it on the fly if I get stuck.
So thanks for stopping by today. I'll start the challenge February 1, maybe earlier. Just writing this blog has gotten me enthused about it so I may start tomorrow. Check back, OK?
Here I am, back, out of the blue. I've thought about doing it for weeks but got bogged down with wondering how I would explain why I haven't been posting, so I finally decided that I just wouldn't. Explain, that is. You'll just have to use your imaginations. I will say that nothing bad happened; I may have just needed a break.
Now the big question, what to write about. A lot has happened in the past few months, not just to me but to our nation. At some point I am going to write about how we are letting paranoia affect our lives, but right now, I'm going to write about something that recently happened to me.
On a Sunday evening, about two weeks ago, our phone rang. Neither Scott or I recognized the caller ID, so we let it go to the answering machine. When the caller started talking, identifying herself, at first I was stunned. I mean, literally, mouth open, frozen in my tracks, stunned. I was holding my breath. Then my brain started to scream, "Answer the phone before she hangs up," and I did. The voice was one I had not heard in about 38 years -- my best friend from high school. She wasn't certain she had the right person; I'm babbling on the other end, "It's me, it's me." And then we laughed, and, when we laughed, I heard her. Gone were years of aging, hard times, disappointments and living with the consequences of the abuses and neglect we inflicted on ourselves. We were here in the photo, 1974-75, senior year as the Editor and Assistant Editor of the Gander Gazette, our high school newspaper. That's me, third from the right, and her, on my right, me wearing a trench coat and her a hat, both chomping on cigars. This was our staff parody of hard-bitten newspaper men and women, although that guy on the far left looks more like a pimp. From what I remember, he acted more like a pimp (that coat was velvet,) but I digress.
That's our teacher on the far right end. It turns out that she was the reason my friend started looking for me. The teacher, Linda, had run into my friend's brother and asked about her. He gave Linda her contact information and she called. It turns out that she (Linda) left teaching and went to work for the State Department and has been with them for 30 years, living and working all over the world. During their conversation Linda asked about me and my friend told her we had lost touch right out of school. (Am I the only person who feels weird calling their teacher by her first name? I am trying to be adult about this.) That started my friend thinking and she went on a search for me, resulting in the phone call.
Now the reason I was so stunned by the call is that ever since I learned about Google, et al, I have repeatedly searched for her. I've kept up with one or two of my high school friends, but they had no news of her either, other than they thought she worked for Exxon after college. So when I heard that it was her on the phone, my old sentimental heart was bursting. I wanted to cry, but instead, I laughed. We both did. We laughed and talked, just like the years since we last did had not passed.
We talked about everything -- the obligatory "this is what has happened to me since I last saw you," politics, dogs, sex, the "old days" -- everything. We talked and laughed for over three hours, until our voices started giving out. Then we emailed and talked again this week. I'm planning to visit her in the next month or two so that we can reconnect even stronger. We hope to include the guy whose head is between the two of us in the photo. He was along for many of our adventures and was as excited as I was to hear that I had talked to her.
I've thought about her every day since her first call. My internal soundtrack is running songs and movies from the 70's. She was a fabulous musician and her instrument was the flute. She was first chair, not only in our band, but in State competition. I can close my eyes and see her on stage. Scenes of other things we did keep flashing into memory. Our town opened its first Chinese restaurant while we were in school. I had never been to one before, but she had. We tried it out and she ordered egg rolls and because I didn't know anything on the menu, so did I. In the years since then, every time I have eaten an egg roll, I have thought of her. We laughed about that, too. Turns out we both think Asian is our favorite ethnic food.
This whole experience has been so large for me that I had to just sit and think about it for a week or so before I could even begin to write about it. I had to wrap my head around narrowing it down to one blog; one that didn't sound like the ramblings of someone with dementia. I'm trying to keep my expectations about our future friendship in control, but it's hard. My head tells me, "Many years have passed. You are different people. Don't expect too much or you may be disappointed." But my heart knows that we were "friends of the bosom" in those days and I don't think that much has changed.
I'll keep you posted on our progress and will also try to stay on the writing horse with other subjects. Either way, thanks for stopping by again.
