Memories Are Made of This

I identify a lot with Eve. It took me every bit as much work to convince my Dear Professor to admit an Atari console into our house as it did for Eve to convince Adam to eat that apple, or tomato, or whatever it was. That old Atari was an antiquated machine by today's standards (remember Pong?), but every bit as mesmerizing. Years afterward I can still see the image of my Dear Professor, the anti Atari poster boy, playing an extremely competitive game of Pac Man with Son 1 (and enjoying every minute!)

That was how it began. Through the years a succession of game machines have paraded through our household. All three of our brood--Son 1, Principessa, and Son 2--have enjoyed electronic gaming with each other and their friends. We even have the "I saved the Princess" patches to prove it! I tried to stay up with the kids, but fell far behind. Especially with the Civilization series. I just didn't understand the paradigm.

Then along came the Wii. I remember the first commercials and wondering, what on earth was that all about? I was as ignorant of Wii gaming as the powers that be are of how to fix our current economic situation. But there was hope for me on the horizon.

One summer, while visiting my sister, iPodite, in a land far, far away from the Frozen North, she suggested we do some bowling on her new game machine, a Wii. In my day I was a decent bowler, having been on a team in high school, so I said, bring it on.

The first task was to create my mii, my game character. That was a lot of fun. I could see this could be trouble. After a few warm up games of bowling and tennis I was hooked. The following Christmas our family gift was a Wii system. Life has not been the same since.

iPodite suggested we try a game called "Endless Ocean", one of the first "online" games for the Wii. I cannot tell you how many hours we spent, she in the land far, far away and me in the Frozen North, visiting each other's boat and diving together. And training our fishy friends, and discovering buried treasure, and riding WHALES! And learning about sea creatures we didn't know existed.

(yes, that's mii, with my dolphin friend--& I was nerdy enough to snap a pic for posterity!)

It was a lot of fun, and a wonderful bonding experience for two sisters who never really had much of a relationship until well into our thirtysomething year. Son 2, our resident gaming expert, turned up his nose at the mention of the Wii, calling it an "entry level system for old ladies."

But that was about to change. Enter the release of Super Mario Kart, a game that was a favorite of all our kids when they WERE kids. Son 2 sidled up to me one day last fall and suggested that Super Mario Kart was not a bad idea for a Christmas gift. Well, you can probably guess the rest.

We spent last Christmas together in North Carolina: me, Dear Professor, Son 1 and Beautiful Mommy, the Sprittles, Principessa, and Son 2. The highlight of that time for me, second only to the birth of Sprittle number 3 the day after Christmas, was the sight of our 3 grown children, plastic mini steering wheels in hand, playing Super Mario Kart with the older 2 Sprittles playing right along.

As Dean Martin once sang, memories are made of this.

Words

I think I have already warned you that I love words. Some words tickle my ear, some make me think. Others touch my heart. I REALLY like words that make me think or touch my heart. I call those "words with life" because they resonate deep inside me and set off an emotional response. They leap off the page grabbing my face in their hands as if to say, "this is important, you need to pay attention" like Son 2 used to do as a toddler when he thought I wasn't listening to him.

This is my favorite picture of Son 2. He was playing with his cars and said, "Mommy, take my picture." I am so grateful I was paying attention that day.



For a few years now I have been collecting quotes that I read in a book or hear in a movie. Words that grab my face and say, "you need to pay attention". I would like to share them with you, with the hope that they will encourage you as much as they have encouraged me.

You will find these little gems in the right column at the top of the page. I hope you enjoy them.

To paraphrase those noted philosophers of a bygone age, the Bee Gees, "it's only words, but words are all I have to give my heart away."

Freedom to Run

It is two weeks since I returned from my trip to North Carolina to visit Son 1, his beautiful wife, and our three wonderful Sprittles (grandchildren that is-- Boo, Bee, and Colonel Mustard). They are 4 years, 3 years, and just a tad over 2 months, respectively. Colonel Mustard, the baby's nickname, was conferred upon him one day by his older brother Boo while watching Beautiful Mommy change the Colonel's colorful diaper. I just love those Sprittles!

The point is that my small suitcase is still waiting to be unpacked. I don't know why I have such an aversion to unpacking a suitcase. Maybe it's because I'm incredibly lazy, or I am lacking a place for all the stuff that's in there. I accumulate stuff way too easily.

(Would you excuse me for a minute? I need to go unpack that suitcase, right now!)

I had the privilege of caring for my Dad in his final year this side of eternity. A few years before he came to live with us I noticed something strange occur. One day he started going through his stuff and giving or throwing it away. Although possessing the right hairline or( lack thereof), Daddy was no Mr. Clean. This was not normal behavior!

My sister and I went into an immediate panic--we were afraid he might find little meaning in some important family memento, and our meager inheritance end up on the curb with the yard trash. But we shouldn't have worried. When the time came to empty his house we found plenty he overlooked. (for example, he never met a screwdriver he didn't like. Or cameras or electronic gadgets. The man LOVED electronic gadgets.)

I think I am beginning to understand a little of what must have been going on behind Dad's urge to purge. Well into his eightieth year, he had left forty way behind and was almost down the other side of "the hill". Intuitively he felt the marching orders from his Creator had arrived, and like others of the Greatest Generation, he was obeying them without question.

In order to save his ebbing energy, he was unpacking for his final journey.

I believe our lives can be divided into three seasons. The first 40 years is spent in acquisition of experiences, achievements, and possessions on our upward climb of "the hill", everything we think will make our lives comfortable and happy. The second comes at the top of that hill, a chance to survey all we've accomplished and begin to sort through what is really important. It's there we identify all those non essentials our youthful inexperience had valued: the pretense, the fears, the volume of stuff we thought would make us happy but didn't.

The final season is one of increasing freedom as we jog casually down the hill we had struggled to climb, resting along the way to enjoy the view, our relationships, and unpack another silly encumbrance we had never before questioned. Like the caterpillar in its cocoon we are preparing to morph into a beautiful new creature no longer bound by the gravity of this earth. Caterpillars need cocoons and lots of food. Butterflies only need the flower's nectar and the wind.

I have a new appreciation for St. Paul's admonition in Hebrews 12:1(New International Version):

"Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us."

And that's just what Daddy did. He let go of all this transient world views as important in order to firmly grasp the reality of the eternal world on his horizon. He was unpacking for the journey. It was his way of conserving his strength for the last leg of the race, marshaling every ounce of energy he had left for that final burst through the finish line.

Unpacking for his final journey gave him the freedom to run.

Keep the Change

There are all sorts of things associated with change--money, weather, culture, thinking, mood, marital status, seasons of life. The common element shared by all kinds of change is that, for the most part, we don't want it. We would rather life stay just like it is, thank you very much. Keep the change.

It's been like that for a long time. Just ask Columbus, the guy who was supposed to discover America only it was the Bahamas, (which is where I would like to be right now), or the Republicans(can't say Party, they're not in the mood for that at the moment), or the parent of a teenager with a new learner's permit.

We just don't like change. It's not comfortable. And the most important thing in life is comfort. Right?

But change is required for personal and societal growth. We must be willing to give away something good(or bad) in order to receive something better. Can you imagine what life would be like if we had said "no thanks" to Johannes Gutenberg's printing press, Thomas Edison's electricity, John Harrington's flush toilet, or Al Gore's internet?

There is a LOT of change swirling around our blue marble of a planet right now, not the least of which is in the realm of spirituality. Phyllis Tickle(author, scholar, and religion editor for Publisher's Weekly) has outlined some of that, as well as a lot of church history in a presentation entitled "The New Rose". The video is about 41 minutes long, but worth every minute. The ideas she offers in the realm of society and religion are important to ponder, whether you agree with her or not.

It all reminds me of an old Girl Scout song we used to sing, "make new friends, but keep the old; one is silver and the other gold." We need both silver and gold to get to the Bahamas. (And a boat. A nice BIG boat.)

I'd better keep the change.

Rocky Mountain High, Colorado

Third on my list of favorite things (statewise) is Colorado. If you have never been to Colorado you need to go. Right now. And listen to John Denver on the way.

Colorado is Rocky Mountain vistas, the Garden of the Gods, the Gold Rush and John Denver. In short, all sorts of awesomeness. Well, I wouldn't really call John Denver awesome, but he did write some nice tunes about Colorado.



If I were banished from Texas for the rest of my life, with no hope of reprieve, I'd run to Colorado. Better make that drive.

Colorado has the best skies next to Texas (and France).

Colorado is summed up in two words, (three if you count the article "the") the Rocky Mountains.

I grew up in Houston, Texas where the highest point of elevation is the top of the highway overpass. Flat, flat, and more flat. Below sea level flat. One might speculate that deprivation is the most efficient way of producing appreciation.

I really appreciate the mountains.

Mountains give me a new perspective. Mountains are breathtaking, literally. (Try hiking in the Rockies for 15 minutes and get back to me, ok?)

Mountains are just about the only entity(besides God) that is bigger than Texas. (Alaska doesn't count because it is mostly frozen water. Ask any Texan.)

I love all three. Mountains, God, and Texas. And not necessarily in that order.

What do you love?

Do Feminists Faint?

Do feminists faint? In this postmodern, equal opportunity, (insert appropriate contemporary cultural adjective here) world, do women hold the same sensibilities they did in the world of Tolstoy, Dickens, Austen, or Margaret Mitchell? Is today's woman made of harder stuff than their eighteenth and nineteenth century ancestors?

Name me one work of, say, Austen, or Dickens, in which an important female figure did not swoon upon the mention of a harsh word or at the news of their (insert appropriate male relationship term here)'s sudden death. Times up! Did you think of one? It's interesting to ponder.

Hollywood has forever etched the scene of a swooning Scarlet O'Hara on my feeble brain. In fact, somewhere in my brain's adolescent archives I think I equated fainting with femininity. That is, until I experienced that magic moment myself. As a teenager. In a high school biology class. No death or harsh words involved. Not even a lecture on reproduction. Just all out, utterly awful embarrassment.

I remember I was seated at my desk taking notes while the teacher was talking about . . .whatever. And then I was hanging over the side of my desk with my arms dangling. Neither Rhett nor Mr. Darby was anywhere in sight. The boy sitting behind me looked down and said, "are you ok?". According to him, it appeared that I was leaning over to get a book out of that little cave in the seat of the desk where you stored all your books instead of your locker because you were afraid you wouldn't have time to get back to your locker to collect your books before the next class. Sorry, for a moment I was back in high school English class reading those intricate and lengthy sentences with which George Eliot began Silas Marner. (I don't know if any of her female characters fainted.)

The teacher sent me to the nurse and the nurse sent me to our family physician who diagnosed me as having a bad cold and being dehydrated. He sent me home to rest and drink lots of water.

I am grateful that at least I was sitting down and spared the humiliation of falling ungraciously to the ground with my skirt (yes, Virginia, those were the days before the pantsuit rebellion) up over my head.

Real life is never as artistic as the novels or movies portray. Just painfully embarrassing. For at least 15 minutes.

More than Texas

As I scoured the internet for material appropriate to yesterday's celebration of Texas Independence Day, I had to stop more than once and recompose myself. (recomposing one's self is much easier and more likely than decomposing one's self.)

Brief bursts of homesickness(for Texas, of course) seem to come more readily the past few months than the previous 26 years of life here in the frozen north. Perhaps it is just a longing for spring after a very cold winter.

I tell my grandchildren that I love them more than Texas. Someday they'll understand.

One year, on our annual pilgrimage back to the promised land(Texas) from the frozen north(Pennsylvania), my Dear Professor, Sons 1 and 2, the Principessa and I visited the Hermitage, the Tennessee home of Andrew Jackson. Jackson was know as the first "working class" president, and his term of office saw many controversies.

What bothered him most however, was the one that surrounded his marriage to Rachel Donelson. She had been unhappily married to her first husband, Lewis Robards, who had petitioned the Kentucky legislature for permission to sue for divorce.

"Andrew and Rachel confused the permission to sue with an actual declaration of divorce. They married in 1791, not realizing Rachel was still legally married. Robards finally sued for divorce in 1793 citing Rachel's 'adultery' with Jackson. The Jacksons remarried in 1794, but the embarrassing and often malicious gossip persisted. Rachel Jackson died a few weeks before her husband's inauguration and Jackson blamed her early death on stress caused by the public discussion of their supposed immorality during the campaign." State Library of North Carolina

In the midst of the Hermitage's beautiful garden is Jackson's tribute to his wife Rachel, and what I remember most about our visit:

Her face was fair; her person pleasing; her temper amiable; her heart kind. She delighted in relieving the wants of her fellow creatures and cultivated that divine pleasure by the most liberal and unpretending methods. To the poor she was a benefactor; to the rich an example; to the wretched a comforter; to the prosperous an ornament. Her piety went hand in hand with her benevolence, and she thanked her Creator for being permitted to do good. A being so gentle and so virtuous, slander might wound, but could not dishonor, even death when he bore her from the arms of her husband, could but transport her to the bosom of her God.

I want to live my life in such a way that it would inspire a tribute like this.

And for my children and grandchildren to know that I loved them (and Jesus) more than Texas.

Yeeeeee--Haaaaaaa!!!

Today is Texas Independence Day. But for a proud and displaced native Texan, the celebration lasts for a week. At least it does at our house. There is a distinct and altogether appropriate correlation between the size of the state and the length of the partyin'.

Here is a good rundown of the history behind the date. It has a lot to do with the Alamo, remember? ("Remember the Alamo". Get it? Oh, never mind.)

Of course there is a lot that goes into this kind of celebration. Here are some choice audio and video files to git you in the mood: Waltz Across Texas, Texas When I Die, Yellow Rose of Texas, Deep in the Heart of Texas, Lone Star State of Mind, San Antonio Girl (for our Principessa), That's Right You're Not From Texas, God Bless Texas, and my favorite, the Texas State Capitol building illuminated, with the Texas Longhorn Band playing "The Eyes of Texas".

If the building looks a little, ahem, derivative, that's because it's based on the US Capitol building. And because it's Texas, that great state's version was built a little taller than the one in Washington DC. After all, we have a reputation to protect--everything's bigger in Texas!


(above photo of the University of Texas Tower is from jensri_austin's Flickr photostream, and dedicated to my Dear Professor, whose blood runs a particular shade of burnt orange!)

So grab yer boots and yer ten gallon hat, some chicken fried steak or chili and a John Wayne movie and party hearty for Texas. Today, for a period of 24 hours, by special dispensation of the state legislature of Texas, everyone who wants to be is hereby declared a naturalized Texan.

Yeeee--haaaa!

Aliens Live There

My roots go deep down into Georgia clay(Mom) and Texas gumbo(Daddy). That explains the shock to my system when The Professor, also a native Texan, uprooted our family and transplanted us across the Mason Dixon line. In fact, Son 2 was born in Yankeeland. I actually considered bringing a sterile bag of Texas soil with me to the hospital so he could be born "on Texas soil".

We spent seven years in central New York before moving here to Iron Acres in western Pennsylvania. In other words, our children have grown up yankeefied. Two have managed to fly south when they left the nest, much to our relief.

Living "where the water is red and the grass is green" has been fun and challenging, and not necessarily in that order. This city girl had never lived with a septic system and a well in the country. In coal country. I learned a lot about water pH, iron bacteria and the main components of municipal water treatment REAL quick. Can't tell you how many of The Professor's dress shirts were accidentally recolored orange before I learned to take them to the cleaners in town. (Contrary to popular belief, orange is NOT a neutral color.)

There is plenty of color of a different kind all around us in neighboring small communities. Amish farms with their white walls and blue doors are everywhere, along with Amish buggies, fields of haystacks in the fall, and teams of huge work horses.



But all this bucolic beauty belies a price. There are (shudder) aliens among us. Off the interstate, down a winding road lies a small, unassuming town named (dundunduh) Mars. Mars has all the typical unassuming earmarks of a small, typically unassuming community: a welcome sign, a library, a bank, a fire station.



But don't let the props fool you. Aliens live there.

When I was a child my family enjoyed Friday nights out at the drive in. I remember one feature in particular: the story of a typical, unassuming small town invaded by (dundunduh) Martians. One night a small boy witnessed an unusual flash. Then one by one the adults disappeared into a hole in the ground and returned with a suspicious thingie in the back of their neck. Now, adults can be pretty frightening in their own right, but add an alien technology implant and a zombie walk and you have the stuff of bone chilling, life altering nightmares. I think that film(and War of the Worlds) created a generation suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder before the mental health field diagnosed it. And a profound fear of anything Martian. Except of course the Mars bar.

As I said, Mars is a small, typically unassuming town. But in the smack dab middle of that town is the truth that cannot be denied:



Aliens live there.

The Anatomy of an Internet Rabbit Trail in 60 Minutes With an Explanation of Slow Amish Time

Preface: My name is JAS and I am an information junkie. I mainline it on the internet. There, I've said it.

These events are true. Well, all except maybe the timeline. Einstein and I have this in common--for both of us time is relative.

I have never been good with time. Ask my family. Ask anyone who knows me. Ask anyone!

When The Professor and I moved to western PA with our 3 adorable children, Son 1, Principessa, and Son 2, I discovered kindred spirits in the Amish. They live an anachronistic life choosing literal horsepower and kerosene lamps over mechanical horsepower and electricity.

There are two types of time for the Amish--fast Amish time(they arrive early) and slow Amish time(they arrive when they get there, maybe even the same day).

All my life I have lived on slow Amish time and didn't know it!

(Jack Bauer voiceover with countdown)
The following events take place between 2:00PM and 3:00PM on a lazy Saturday afternoon.

2:00PM
I go online to check out the current installment of The Pioneer Woman. Neat website with pictures and funny stories and recipes and Photoshop tips, oh my!

2:01PM
I am struck with the alarming realization that I've already read this. Let's check out my Google Reader. Google Reader grabs info from all the blogs/websites you like to read and plops them all in one place so you don't hafta visit all those websites. It's called a news aggregator. And you can place a button on your Google toolbar(in Firefox, don't know about Mac and Safari) so that one little click takes you straight to your pile of interesting reads.

To sign up for "feeds" merely click on the little button that says rss or atom or subscribe on all you favorite websites (ahem, just like the ones at the top right of this page, hint, hint) and you will be asked which reader(aggregator) you want to use. That's it. Nifty, huh?

2:05PM
Jumping into my list of info not unlike Scrooge McDuck used to swan dive into his beloved pile of cash in 1950s Disney comic books, I notice the intriguing name CurdNerds. I love cheese as much as I love information(has to be my French genes), and as I scroll down the page past all sorts of cheese wonderfulness, an article calls to me--"Does Cheese Go Bad?" But I can't stop there. A logo just below that catches my eye and before you can say Limberger I am off to Serious Cheese. I return to CurdNerds, but the internet is all about links, and I have this itchy clicker finger . . .

2:10PM
Being the info/cheese junkie I am, this is irresistible knowledge. I click again and am immediately transported to another blog that introduces me to a Clifton Fadimon quote, "cheese is milk's leap toward immortality", some cheesy history, and am assured that cheese does NOT go bad!

By now I am on an information high . . . way. (sorry, I also have a genetic predisposition to bad puns) As I quickly scroll down the comment section I find a link for "In Praise of Cheese."

2:20PM
Here I am cautioned that reading may cause me to learn something. My kind of place! This time I avoid the comments and go straight to the matter on the side of the screen--a Blogroll. That list screams to me, "if you found that article interesting, take a look HERE!"

I scroll down 2 1/2 screens worth of blog names and find Wordwright. I love words just as much as I love information and cheese, so . . .

2:30PM
Click! I have now left the world of cheese so far behind it is a dull memory. We're not in Kansas anymore! This site is all about "the written word in books, newspapers, lit magazines, both analog and digital". Wow! They call for contributors to Snarkmaret and Revelator. (What's a
snark? is it related to a smurf?)

I can't control myself anymore. I scroll down the page looking for something . . . familiar, and find a link to "An Alternate Praise Song", described as a personal, odd sensibilitied take on the inauguration.

2:40PM
Paydirt! An original graphic personal poetic reminiscence of the latest Presidential event. Maira Kalman is an incredibly talented illustrator, author and designer. Please read her pedigree at the bottom of the page and survey her other entries.

3:00PM
The Professor arrives to engage me in conversation as he pries the mouse from my frozen fingers.

There you have it. From cheese to art in an hour.

In the words of a well parodied tv commercial--5 year old computer, $600. Internet service, $30. Electricity, 45 cents. Finding a creative surprise that gives me a new perspective, priceless.

Of Mocha and Friends, Part 2

I love words. I love words and good stories. I love words and good stories in beautiful books.



Cookbooks are fun. Maybe because of all the pictures. I can imagine myself slicing and dicing, sauteing and simmering those wonderful picture perfect meals for my family. And I can salivate over all the desserts with no regret or fear of weight gain.

Once on the eyes, never on the thighs.

This one's for my SIL--


If the world is ever completely destroyed by nuclear war or space debris crashing into us, I am convinced these three will survive--roaches, Elvis impersonators, and Hostess Twinkies. But then I would expect true armageddon to occur as the Elvis impersonators and roaches fight over the remaining Twinkies. (I'm really surprised Ray Bradbury or Aldous Huxley never imagined that one.)

I love the way B & N decorates with renderings of classic book covers, especially this one:


(Yes, I am also a classic movie nerd. And someday you will be too. Imagine life when you reach sixtysomething and Speed 2:Cruise Control is old enough to be considered a classic.)

Can you just hear Max Steiner's Oscar winning theme? I can. In fact, I lit a candle on the shelf just under the poster in honor of that great southern heroine Prissy. You remember Prissy don't you, and her classic line, "But Miz Scahlet, Miz Scahlet, I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' babies."?

B& N also has supplies of all sorts. Scrapbooking and stamping paraphernalia(you get an extra 10 points if you can spell paraphernalia without looking it up).


And journals and stationery (another extra 10 points if you know the difference between stationery and stationary).


I can't help but think (while cradling a moleskine notebook in my hand) that this writing tool of legend, this companion of Hemingway and countless other writers and explorers, could help me chronicle my exploits and become a world class writer.

Or not.

I'd probably never have a pencil short enough to fit or sharpened enough to write. I would lay it down somewhere and forget where I put it.

But one can dream . . .

(fade to black, theme from Gone With the Wind swelling to crescendo)

UPDATE: Since writing this I have been outed as a white person. Read here.

--------------

Answer to yesterday's quiz:

Of Mocha and Friends

Today I had the extreme pleasure of enjoying some Starbucks and good conversation with three young friends. Keep in mind that "young" to a sixtysomething is plenty old enough to vote and then some. I am reminded of an old sage who once quipped, "age is a matter of the mind: if you don't mind, it don't matter." Now, where was I?

Oh yes, at Starbucks. But this was no ordinary Starbucks. It was located in a comfortable corner of my favorite book store.


Mmmmmmmmmm. Coffee (or tea if you are so inclined, they have a delicious assortment of both), books, and friends. Does it get any better than this? Actually, yes, if you count lovin' on the Sprittles, but I'll restrain myself and keep to the subject at hand.

I could spend an entire day here. And almost did. After a delicious white mocha something or other . . .


. . . and a long and pleasant conversation with my young friends about such diverse subjects as college, W and O, philosophy, and of course Texas,


. . . we bade a fond farewell. I stayed behind and clicked away at some of my favorites at the B and N, which I will share with you tomorrow.

In the meantime, can you guess:

1. Which two of the above are siblings
2. Which one is attending Geneva College and has a dog named Gus
3. Which one is from a military family

To be continued . . .

Why, with Apologies to Annie Lennox and Mother Theresa

I just returned from a wonderful visit with my precious Sprittles(grandchildren) in sunny and warm North Carolina. I drove the nine hours there from the Frozen North(where I live with The Professor) with only my iPod, my thoughts, my camera, and wild cherry Pepsi to keep me company. I'd like to share with you some of those sights, thoughts, and musical companions. (You're on your own as far as the wild cherry Pepsi is concerned!)

Somewhere south of Richmond, Virginia I encountered this:


It did surprise me a tad. But then I had been prepared the weekend before when I went shopping in a large metropolitan area and met with this:


A few years ago I visited the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor on a trip to celebrate the graduation of my eldest niece from NYU. I don't remember Lady Liberty sporting either sunglasses or the color red. Has our nation's dwindling economic health turned its heroine and comforter of the tempest tossed, homeless, yearning, huddled masses into a promoter of mobility enhancing rental trailers and tax services?

Why?

It was also in Richmond that I came upon this in rush hour traffic.


Rush hour traffic is something one does not normally experience in our part of the Frozen North (population 8,000, including 2,000 students at the local college). It was a joy in the midst of that trial to see. But I couldn't help but wonder where "Jezuz" was going.

And why.

Then, crossing one of the many rivers in that region, I glimpsed . . .


Yes, this is a very bad picture through a very dirty window at 65mph(I was going the speed limit), but it was too glorious not to try to record. I love sunsets and sunrises. They are a part of the beauty of nature that feeds my soul. What is it about nature that is so . . .peaceful, serene? Why is it so satisfying?

In North Carolina, along with my precious Sprittles, I found this wonderful structure.


It reminds me of the lyric of song, "This Ole House" by Stuart Hamblen. The words come to mind, "now she trembles in the darkness when the lightnin' walks about".

Why has this gingerbready, lovely old house been abandoned? What memories are painted on its walls?

The why questions are the easiest to ask and the hardest to answer. Usually they flit onto our awareness and fly away quickly either because we are distracted by other ones or because we don't really want to admit them to our consciousness because they might uncover something that demands our involvement, something we would rather not face.

Our eldest little blond haired, blue eyed, four year old Sprittle is high functioning autistic. I was in denial for quite awhile. "Why" this happened to him, his parents, me, was very troubling. That is ironic since "why" is a concept to which he cannot relate. He has no vocabulary, no experience for that word.

I think most of us have the same problem with the "whys". But that should not stop us from trying to relate. Mother Theresa came from a privileged family and lived in a sheltered world in India until one day she walked outside and saw the abandoned lepers and sick in the streets. Instead of scurrying back into a life of comfort and relative ease she devoted her life to caring for these "homeless, yearning, huddled masses". She saw their suffering and their humanity and it moved her.

Annie Lennox is a guilty pleasure of mine. She is an accomplished and gifted musician who not only sings, but interprets a song from her heart. Annie has allowed the "why isn't something being done for the women and children who are victims of HIV in Africa" question to linger in her awareness and move her to action on a large scale.

We may not be a founder of a religious order or a rock star, but we can all touch those within our reach. It's just a matter of inviting the "whys" we encounter to linger until they motivate us to compassion for our fellow companions on this journey we call life.

"There is a terrible hunger for love.
We all experience that in our lives - the pain, the loneliness.
We must have the courage to recognize it.
The poor you may have right in your own family.
Find them.
Love them."

Mother Theresa

A Tale of Two States

It's time to move down that five favorite states list over on the right of your screen. I began a few days ago with that great state of Texas. Yee-haaaaaaa! Number two, for your consideration, is (drum roll, please) North Carolina.



North Carolina and Texas have a lot in common. Their flags look, ahem, suspiciously similar as you can see. I found that out a few years ago when our eldest son married a beautiful North Carolina gal. Of course, the North Carolinians are a bit more, shall we say, subtle than Texans. Their state flag appears tastefully on appropriate road signs and documents. And, for the sake of truth in journalism, I must admit THEIR flag was designed several years before the Texas flag. (there, I said it.)

Those interested in geneaology recognize that a large number of North Carolinians immigrated to an infant republic named Texas in the 1800s. The Professor and I are both native Texans with North Carolina relations a few generations back. (that big NC contingent may explain the flag similarities.)

North Carolina does have a few things going for it. It is the birth place of our eldest son's beautiful, gracious, and wonderful wife. The climate is a pleasant median between the frozen north and the scorching south. They have a booming economy to prove it.

Two words: beaches and lighthouses. I LOVE the beach.

North Carolina and Texas cuisine share southern roots, but differ in their definition of barbecue: Texas is all about mesquite smoked beef brisket. (sorry, had to take a moment to wipe off my keyboard-- I'm drooling just thinking about it.) North Carolina has pulled pork. Now, I don't want to appear to be disrespectful of North Carolina barbecue, it's good and tender, but it is an acquired taste if you are more familiar with the Texas variety.

The most important distinction between Texas and North Carolina is (another drum roll, please) the SPRITTLES!! What are the sprittles? Some sort of local candy? A topping for ice cream? Well, sprittles are sweet all right, but no, they do not belong to a major food group. Sprittles are the loving nickname for our three gorgeous, precious, remarkable(I assure you I am being objective) grandchildren. The cutest grandchildren in the state of North Carolina.



And I'm leaving tomorrow to spend some quality time with them. Woo-hoo!

I Shall be Released . . .or not

I want you to take a good look at this picture and tell me what you see. Okay?



It's an emergency trunk release in case you're loading groceries in the back of your car and a snowplow barrels by, knocking you into the trunk and slamming the lid. Snowplows in this part of the country are formidable machines. They scare everthing out of the way.



I had forgotten the trunk had an emergency release until the other day. Guess I don't spend much time hanging out in there, thank goodness. I suppose that handy gadget was invented either by Jack Bauer's crack team of spy tech/terrorism prevention folks, or the kid that had the sad misfortune of attending a drive-in movie with a group of his teenage friends(The Professor being among them). That was back in the day when boys of a certain age would attempt petty larceny by implementing the trojan horse routine at a drive-in movie. (The driver pays, the rest hide out in the trunk until the coast is clear).

As The Professor tells the tale(and he is a very eloquent tale teller), on this occasion all had money for a ticket except this one guy. He rode in the trunk. But one can never be assured that charity courses purely through the veins of teenage boys. His "friends" held the hapless lad hostage in the trunk until after the movie was over. I think surely that would be the kind of traumatizing event that births either great genius or serial killers.

Of course, I may be wrong.

The moral of this story is. . .cheaters never prosper. And don't willingly crawl into a car trunk.

(The preceding was brought to you by The Professor. He is the one with whom I've shared the last thirtysomething years. My husband, friend, and protector. A man of wisdom, patience, and courage. And although he was a big city lawyer in another life, at one time harbored a speck of petty larceny in his teenage heart.

DISCLAIMER: No teenage boys were harmed in the telling of this story. Iron Acres neither condones nor endorses locking people in a car trunk.)

Two Roads

It started out very promisingly. Our itinerary included food shopping in a huge outdoor city market an hour away, and a trip to the airport for the lucky one who was blowing this icicle stand for a brief stay in the promised land (Texas). There were five of us, two over 35, and three under 24. Here is where you need your imagination. Pretend this is one of those movie trailers where you see flashes of picture and dialogue:

"Don't look to the right." "I looked already." "He caught MY attention!"

"Don't start with me, I'll have you arrested".

"Are we parking like this?" Long pause. "Oh, I see (the no parking sign)." Freeze frame.

Now drop all of this into the milieu of a downtown major metropolis, crowds of people, vehicles, and street vendors. Did I mention crowds of people? And don't forget the olfactory overload from all the exotic ethnic food shops. Maybe add in a soundtrack composed by. . . James Horner.

We were about 30 minutes into our outing. Having fun. Teasing each other. Being jostled by the crowds. Carrying bags of goodies we had purchased from the Asian market--for me it was fresh lemongrass and sesame seed cakes.

[Here I digress to explain how you, too, can have the lemony goodness of lemongrass in your home.

1. Buy a few fresh bundles of lemon grass from an Asian market. Go here to see what it looks like and follow steps 1-3 at that site.

2. Place in a recycled jelly jar or beautiful thin vase.

3. Fill container about 1/4 full with water. Refresh water daily. Roots will appear quickly.

4. Plant in a wet place in your garden in the spring. The lemongrass will multiply rapidly.

5. You are now ready to revisit this website for steps 4 and beyond on how to use lemongrass in Thai cooking.

We now bring you back to your regularly scheduled programming.]

For the others it was rice,



and a longing glance at a package of dried multi legged sea creatures.



That was definitely NOT on my list. I adhere to a strict diet that prohibits the consumption of anything with eyes still intact, or possessing more than four legs. The only exception is shrimp. I don't care HOW many eyes or legs they have. Shrimp fried, shrimp boiled, shrimp cocktail, shrimp gumbo . . . sorry, I flashed on the wrong movie. Where were we?

If I had indulged in those multi-legged dried delicacies, I would probably have needed this:


(The detox tea.)

Next stop was a small biscotti shop brimming over with people and baked goodies. Fresh biscotti, chocolate radical cookies, and hearty artisan breads all enticed me with their beautiful textures and aromas. Now THIS is MY kind of food. No eyes or legs, just lots of flour, chocolate and sugar. Yummo!





We dodged this bus--


to cross the street and get this picture (I wonder what that wonderful little old building has seen in its lifetime).


Nearby was a Polish shop. What do Polish people eat that I don't? Evidently, lots of jelly. And they have their own parking signs at sporting events.




Then on to the Italian shop. It was there, surrounded by a horde of people jockeying for their turn at the cheese deli counter that I made the horrifying discovery. (horrifying discovery music, please-- dundunduh).

MY CAMERA WAS MISSING!!!!

I hurriedly searched through my bags(which were numerous by now). I replayed the events in my mind. Two of my friends dashed back to the biscotti shop where I remembered taking my last picture. Nothing. No camera.


Where WAS it? My mind was numb. I was moving in slow motion. Had someone taken it? That camera was like a child to me. Had the dingo eaten my baby? (name that film)



I resigned myself to the fact that there was nothing left to do but leave a phone number and name at the two shops, then continue on our way.

I prayed my precious bundle of digitalisciousness was not languishing with a tiny gag wrapped around its lens in the trunk of a nearby car. I hoped little Lumix remembered family emergency procedures.



Two hours later, as we approached the bakery on our way back down the street, I stopped in for one more hopeful query. The baker greeted me. He tenderly handed the camera to me and said, "I'm glad they brought it back."

Insert Handel's Hallelujah Chorus sung by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

Party time!!! We headed across the street for the Spanish market to buy a humongous bag of fresh tortilla chips(it was still warm when I picked it up), the best guacamole I had ever tasted outside of Texas, and some Mexican soda. I still have some chips. It was a BIG bag, but the guac was gone quickly.




We filled the trunk with all sorts of non perishable culinary delights and headed for the airport.



(No, I do NOT consider dog food a non perishable culinary delight, that is, unless you are a dog. THAT found its way to the trunk prior to our big city adventure.)

After saying goodbye to our traveling friend, we began the hour and a half drive home. There was a reflective mood in the car. (We couldn't believe we'd eaten the WHOLE guacamole!)




As we neared home, the sun was setting. I was grateful to have left the chaos and crowds far behind.

I was grateful for my friends.

I was grateful for my camera.

But mostly, I was grateful for that stranger who faced temptation and walked away a better person. He or she made a good choice.

For both of us.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.--Robert Frost

Deceased Squirrel, with Apologies to Rocky the Flying

I kid you not (name that talk show host), the following is attributed to the Washington Post:
"Why do people give each other flowers? To celebrate various important occasions, they're killing living creatures? Why restrict it to plants? "Sweetheart, let's make up. Have this deceased squirrel."

What would you prefer to receive from your sweetheart today, a deceased squirrel(please use your imagination here, this is a violence free site) . . .



or this?


While I wait for your answer, here are a few flower quotes to ponder.


We can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice because thorn bushes have roses.
Abraham Lincoln


I'd rather have roses on my table than diamonds on my neck.
Emma Goldman


Where flowers bloom so does hope.
Lady Bird Johnson, Public Roads: Where Flowers Bloom

Even though he was tempted this year to throw caution to the wind and offer up a unique, recycled, earth (but not rodent) friendly expression of affection like the aforementioned; cooler heads prevailed, tradition triumphed, and the love of my life these thirtysomething years(The Professor) presented me with these:



I must admit, I agree with Emma--I'd rather have roses, too.

Whatever your relationship status this Valentine's Day, go take a gander at this expression of love: the Free Hugs Campaign.

And grab your hankie, you're gonna need it.

There's no place like Texas

There's no place like home. Especially when home is huge, warm, and a little . . . reality challenged. There's a saying that the difference between the south and the north is that in the south, we take pride in our, uh, "eccentric" relations whereas in the north, they hide them in the closet.

How else can you explain a region that advertises everything under the sun either wrapped in a humongous state flag or in the shape of the state itself?

Snack crackers in various flavors, tortilla chips, pasta, ice cubes, cake pans, potholders, and more all can be found pressed into the identifiable Texas shape.

The flag flies literally everywhere. And in mythic proportions. It finds its way into every graphic imaginable, including well know logos.

Major US auto makers Ford and Chevrolet, and even Nissan produce several Texas edition vehicles.

Texans are independent folk and like their politicians colorful. The chief qualification for a governor is ownership of a ranch(if you are busy working your ranch, less time can be spent messing things up in the state capitol), or star quality.

I'm sure there were those diehard Texans that thought we missed a great opportunity a few years ago just to have the bragging rights that our governor was Kinky.


People outside of Texas expect us to live in an altered state of reality, too. I remember my junior high math teacher, a gentleman from Pennsylvania, relating to our class how his family had expected him to return from Texas sporting cowboy boots, a ten gallon hat, and driving a cadillac with longhorns mounted to the hood.

Cows and cowboys are an important part of Texas history.

My favorite part of Texas, next to Blue Bell ice cream, good Tex Mex cuisine, warmer weather, and my family, is a certain place under the gnarled and twisted canopy of a liveoak tree in Washington County. My own little part of Texas where I can dream, live large, and gracefully become one of those, uh "eccentric" relations.

Hopefully it won't have to wait too long.

Panic Attack!

Yesterday the winds came. They blew loudly all night long. I just love it when the weather changes abruptly. It brings to the day all kinds of adventure that the gods of electronic gaming can only dream of replicating. REALLY wild adventures . . . like chasing the garbage can lid down the street while dodging speeding school buses and wearing only a long flannel robe and a pair of floppy house shoes, or firing up my computer only to find my internet service is NOT WORKING!!!!!

Hey, I've become a master at dodging school buses, no sweat. But the idea of a day without the internet causes an immediate panic attack. What am I going to do? I've been mainlining instant information on a daily basis for almost 17 years! I can get by without tv, the usb hamster wheel, the considerate toilet seat , but I HAFTA have my internet fix! I immediately assumed the fetal position (and for a sixtysomething mother, grandmother, wife and spiritual friend in training who eschews exercise that is no easy position to assume.)

How did this happen? I can remember life before tv, before cable, before disposable diapers, before aerosol cheese(and what gourmet chef came up with that idea?). But life before the internet, in Greenland? Inconceivable! (name that movie*.)

So, I did the next best thing to calling Jack Bauer. I called my friendly neighborhood internet provider. The problem was quickly resolved (resetting my wireless router thingie, a persistent internet terrorist). Disaster was averted. And I only spent ten minutes huddled in the fetal position. Of course, I had to call the local volunteer fire and rescue service to help me get up off the floor . . .

Are you a net addict, too? Click on the title above to test yourself.

*The Princess Bride

Swallowing the sun

Have you ever swallowed the sun? We all share the same concerns about our mortal frailties and the fear that others will discover them. But on rare occasions, a fleeting burst of brilliance will overtake us, then vanish, leaving us to wonder what just happened--did we experience an alien encounter?

Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love(no, I have not read the book, and evidently am in the minority on that) in a TEDTalk* describes the difficulty of creative process(when frail humanity meets fleeting genius) as "swallowing the sun". It's a wonderful metaphor for transcendence, and transcendence is more common to the human experience than most of us will admit.

Teilhard de Chardin wrote, “You are not a human being in search of a spiritual experience. You are a spiritual being immersed in a human experience.” We feel most real, most alive, when we touch the spiritual.

If you want to view Gilbert's talk for yourself, just click on the title above.

*"TEDTalks is a daily video podcast of the best talks and performances from the TED Conference, where the world's leading thinkers and doers give the talk of their lives in 18 minutes. . .TED stands for Technology, Entertainment, Design, and TEDTalks cover these topics as well as science, business, development and the arts."