I have, unfortunately, sunk to a new low. Facebook--despite the fact that I really have nothing good to say about Facebook--has, along with Quizony.com, sucked me into their web of silly questions that promise to confirm for me exactly who and what I am...something, as you know, I have been trying to figure out for years. A few days ago, it was color. I turned out to be a Yellow which means I am a bit cautious, but I can be convinced to take advantage of the right opportunities to break out of my mold. And (just to add a bit of dash and excitement to that bland analysis) I'm assured that "just when my friends think I am very predictable, I will surprise them." Surprise!!
This morning, BC, having left early for a fishing trip, meant our house was unnaturally quiet and the shades were still drawn. I looked around, then checked into Facebook. There it was, tucked quietly between a really nice photo of our grand-dog and his kitty friend and the "Best kept weight-loss secret ever," reminding me of the serpent coiled around the tree whispering to Eve. In my case asking, "What Animal are You?" Really, I mean who cares, but then, it might be interesting to know. It could be a breakthrough.
And, just like Eve, I weakened. I studied the first question: "How fit are you?" Not too bad, thank you for asking. I moved onto the next: "Which of these appeals to you most?" Holy Cow! Those choices are not designed for an older woman. "How would you prefer to travel?" You can be sure it's not by "aeroplane." And on and on and on. "What's a man's role when it comes to children?" Oh, those were great answers but, just in case someone was hacking in, I couldn't bring myself to choose the one I really wanted. Finally--drum roll--I answered #10. It was time to unveil my future. And, the answer? A Beaver. A Beaver?!? Why would they even include a Beaver in this test.
I suppose, in an effort to make a Beaver feel better about being a Beaver, Quizony describes them as Creative, Practical, Well Organized, and occasionally known to break out of their routine. I guess that should make me feel a little better because I'd always thought Beavers were simply large rodents who swam well but were mean as dirt. Apparently, I underestimated them.
Monday, April 7, 2014
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
AND I WOULD BE A...
Last week, as I was getting ready for the day and listening to NPR, I was stopped by the factoid that in today's job interview one is often asked what color of crayon one would be. "Margie, what color of crayon are you?" Fortunately, I am not in the job market because that is exactly the kind of question that brings me to my knees in a pool of sweat and indecisiveness. I hate specific questions which require quick answers, or worse--an opinion.
But, as I made the bed, I decided to play pretend and answer the question. "If I were a crayon I would be a..." I begin to think: "I'm a responsible self-starter, efficient, effective and worth much more than any employer would probably pay me. I'm a black crayon. Definitely a no nonsense, nose to the grindstone sort of person. Oh, but maybe choosing black would mean that you would think I'm locked tightly in a narrow box, unable to think outside of it. You might not realize that my solutions to various problems can be quite creative and always well thought out. So, I think I might actually be a blue crayon. Yes, blue...bright blue."
"Oh dear, I don't want you to think, though, that I'm one of those kind of creatives. You know, the crazy kind. No, no. I would be a really nice. responsible, and helpful creative. Please, let's just take a minute here. Could you possibly tell me how many crayons I have to work with? A box of 72 or only 48? Is this a new box that might have newer colors or names? Is it one of those fat crayon boxes that only has six or so primary colors? Do they still make fat crayons?"
By the time I finished making the bed, I had pretended myself right out the door of that imaginary job interview and still didn't have a clue as to what color I thought I was or wanted to be.
Suddenly, I'm back in my freshman year at St. Mary of the Plains High School. St. Mary's opened as a boarding school for out-of-town girls as well as a day school for those of us from Dodge City. The first day of class I met Pam. I have no idea now what her last name was, but Pam was a boarder from Oklahoma, spoke with a bit of an Okie accent (which I thought was exotic), and wrote all of her papers using a fountain pen filled with Peacock Blue ink. I think it was my first girl crush. Pam was pretty, solidly packed, spoke with a rather raspy voice, and was fearless when it came to the nuns. It never occurred to me at the time that Pam may have been sent to St. Mary of the Plains High School for a reason, and that she would be a relative short-timer there. I was too impressed to think beyond the moment.
I know that I began begging for a pen and Peacock Blue ink as soon as I got home that afternoon and actually wheedled my way into both items within a day or two...just in time for the nuns to announce that they would only accept papers written in the standard blue or black ink. All other colors were forbidden and would result in an "F". Those women, quite frankly, had no sense of the joy Peacock Blue ink could bring to the soul.
So--back to the original question: What color am I? I am a Yellow. Yes, yellow. I know that because I took a short test on Facebook a couple of days ago and it said I was a Yellow--although, frankly, I wouldn't have chosen any of those restaurants.
But, as I made the bed, I decided to play pretend and answer the question. "If I were a crayon I would be a..." I begin to think: "I'm a responsible self-starter, efficient, effective and worth much more than any employer would probably pay me. I'm a black crayon. Definitely a no nonsense, nose to the grindstone sort of person. Oh, but maybe choosing black would mean that you would think I'm locked tightly in a narrow box, unable to think outside of it. You might not realize that my solutions to various problems can be quite creative and always well thought out. So, I think I might actually be a blue crayon. Yes, blue...bright blue."
"Oh dear, I don't want you to think, though, that I'm one of those kind of creatives. You know, the crazy kind. No, no. I would be a really nice. responsible, and helpful creative. Please, let's just take a minute here. Could you possibly tell me how many crayons I have to work with? A box of 72 or only 48? Is this a new box that might have newer colors or names? Is it one of those fat crayon boxes that only has six or so primary colors? Do they still make fat crayons?"
By the time I finished making the bed, I had pretended myself right out the door of that imaginary job interview and still didn't have a clue as to what color I thought I was or wanted to be.
Suddenly, I'm back in my freshman year at St. Mary of the Plains High School. St. Mary's opened as a boarding school for out-of-town girls as well as a day school for those of us from Dodge City. The first day of class I met Pam. I have no idea now what her last name was, but Pam was a boarder from Oklahoma, spoke with a bit of an Okie accent (which I thought was exotic), and wrote all of her papers using a fountain pen filled with Peacock Blue ink. I think it was my first girl crush. Pam was pretty, solidly packed, spoke with a rather raspy voice, and was fearless when it came to the nuns. It never occurred to me at the time that Pam may have been sent to St. Mary of the Plains High School for a reason, and that she would be a relative short-timer there. I was too impressed to think beyond the moment.
I know that I began begging for a pen and Peacock Blue ink as soon as I got home that afternoon and actually wheedled my way into both items within a day or two...just in time for the nuns to announce that they would only accept papers written in the standard blue or black ink. All other colors were forbidden and would result in an "F". Those women, quite frankly, had no sense of the joy Peacock Blue ink could bring to the soul.
So--back to the original question: What color am I? I am a Yellow. Yes, yellow. I know that because I took a short test on Facebook a couple of days ago and it said I was a Yellow--although, frankly, I wouldn't have chosen any of those restaurants.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
GOODBYE, LOVE
I don't particularly want to write this post, but I can't not write it. My friend died very peacefully, but very suddenly on March 9th, and nothing I write or don't write will change that. My neighbor gasped on the phone that Sunday morning, "Kathy's gone", and I find I repeat that phrase daily in my heart, in my head, and out loud to similarly shocked friends. "Kathy's gone..."
Del Webb sells his homes by neighborhood. Early in 2003, his corporation began building and marketing homes in what would become the "Havasu" division. Within mere months, 170 homes were completed--landscaping included. Life within a Del Webb community leans toward egalitarianism. Mr. Webb happily mixes Classics, Cottages, Premiers and Estate models throughout his neighborhoods, and those living within mix just as cheerfully. I don't know that that is important right now, but I'm trying to say that we all moved into Havasu within two or three months of each other. Everyone was new...some to the community, others to the neighborhood. It means we bonded quickly. We became a cohesive, close-knit neighborhood and we remain so today. Kathy's death has left a gaping hole on our street.
Obviously, we're an older adult neighborhood. It's a retirement community for heaven's sake. We know a little about life. Many of us are on our second marriage. We've learned that spouses die, love dies, things fall apart. We've all experienced decades of life--good and bad. Why did we feel so insulated here? Why were we so shocked when death crept into our midst?
Because no one is ready for death. Whether it's a painfully slow decline or a sudden horrific accident. Death surprises us, and shocks us, and leaves us weak. Even at our age, we don't know how to respond, how to comfort and, especially, how to feel. We're sad, we're stunned and we're a bit afraid. We all know it could have been us.
But it wasn't. It was Kathy. Kathy, sitting in her little (perfectly sized) comfy chair, "frou-frou" coffee at her side, daily devotional in her lap. It was Kathy, who loved sparkles, created elaborate and beautiful greeting cards, knit dozens of dainty scarves, and painstakingly beaded unique, much-admired jewelry. Kathy, who sang in the choir, made pastoral visits to those who were housebound, greeted new members, and was a pillar of the churchwomens' groups.
But most of all, it was Kathy who loved Jim. Kathy, who loved her family, her friends, her church, her neighborhood. Kathy, who never failed to let us know she was there for us. No--actually, it was Kathy, who was always there for us.
While I was standing outside of her house the morning she died, various professionals inside doing what they're charged to do, my next door neighbor turned to me and said, "She was my best friend, you know." I don't think I'd thought about "best friend" vs "friend" for a long time. But Kris' comment stayed with me and yes, in many ways, Kathy was my best friend, too. The following week at church, Kathy's absence so glaringly painful for everyone there, I continued to hear similar echoes. Kathy...my friend...our friend...we miss her...so sad...friend...
Oddly enough, I've always been fascinated by epitaphs--those spoken, as well as those chiseled in stone. I've always worried a little that mine might turn out to be: "Oh, so that's who that was." But over the past week or so I've come to believe that Kathy's will be the best epitaph anyone could hope for, because in its simplicity it goes so deep and so wide and touches the soul that abides in us all: "Kathy was our friend. We will miss her always."
Good-bye, Love.
Del Webb sells his homes by neighborhood. Early in 2003, his corporation began building and marketing homes in what would become the "Havasu" division. Within mere months, 170 homes were completed--landscaping included. Life within a Del Webb community leans toward egalitarianism. Mr. Webb happily mixes Classics, Cottages, Premiers and Estate models throughout his neighborhoods, and those living within mix just as cheerfully. I don't know that that is important right now, but I'm trying to say that we all moved into Havasu within two or three months of each other. Everyone was new...some to the community, others to the neighborhood. It means we bonded quickly. We became a cohesive, close-knit neighborhood and we remain so today. Kathy's death has left a gaping hole on our street.
Obviously, we're an older adult neighborhood. It's a retirement community for heaven's sake. We know a little about life. Many of us are on our second marriage. We've learned that spouses die, love dies, things fall apart. We've all experienced decades of life--good and bad. Why did we feel so insulated here? Why were we so shocked when death crept into our midst?
Because no one is ready for death. Whether it's a painfully slow decline or a sudden horrific accident. Death surprises us, and shocks us, and leaves us weak. Even at our age, we don't know how to respond, how to comfort and, especially, how to feel. We're sad, we're stunned and we're a bit afraid. We all know it could have been us.
But it wasn't. It was Kathy. Kathy, sitting in her little (perfectly sized) comfy chair, "frou-frou" coffee at her side, daily devotional in her lap. It was Kathy, who loved sparkles, created elaborate and beautiful greeting cards, knit dozens of dainty scarves, and painstakingly beaded unique, much-admired jewelry. Kathy, who sang in the choir, made pastoral visits to those who were housebound, greeted new members, and was a pillar of the churchwomens' groups.
But most of all, it was Kathy who loved Jim. Kathy, who loved her family, her friends, her church, her neighborhood. Kathy, who never failed to let us know she was there for us. No--actually, it was Kathy, who was always there for us.
While I was standing outside of her house the morning she died, various professionals inside doing what they're charged to do, my next door neighbor turned to me and said, "She was my best friend, you know." I don't think I'd thought about "best friend" vs "friend" for a long time. But Kris' comment stayed with me and yes, in many ways, Kathy was my best friend, too. The following week at church, Kathy's absence so glaringly painful for everyone there, I continued to hear similar echoes. Kathy...my friend...our friend...we miss her...so sad...friend...
Oddly enough, I've always been fascinated by epitaphs--those spoken, as well as those chiseled in stone. I've always worried a little that mine might turn out to be: "Oh, so that's who that was." But over the past week or so I've come to believe that Kathy's will be the best epitaph anyone could hope for, because in its simplicity it goes so deep and so wide and touches the soul that abides in us all: "Kathy was our friend. We will miss her always."
Good-bye, Love.
Thursday, March 6, 2014
PHONE PHOBIC
I glance at the clock on my car's dashboard. It reads 18:57...I drive a cool British car...but that time means I'm nearly late. Not now! I've come too far to be late. I double check the address and, sure enough, this is it. A tired brick school building slumped on the edge of an asphalt parking lot/playground. I pull in under one of the few lights, take a deep breath, and walk toward the building. There's not a star in the sky. It's chilly with a bit of wind, and the whole scene couldn't be more daunting. But...If I don't do this now it will never get done. Do it!
I run up the steps, tug at the door, and find a long hallway as dim as that parking lot. But, slightly ahead and to my right harsh fluorescent light is pouring out from an open classroom. Do it! Go for the light! I suck in my tummy, throw back my shoulders and begin the long walk. Dear God, the room looks just like I feared. On my left, an ancient coffee-urn is sputtering and spitting. Everyone is balancing a Styrofoam cup while dragging a really disgusting folding chair into a circle toward the middle of the room. Don't run away. Do it!
I spot a few smiles and a welcoming glance here and there. I pour a little coffee laced with grounds, reach tentatively for a chair and join the circle. Everyone looks my way. "Hello," I manage. My voice quivers just a bit and I'm breathless. "My name is Margie and I'm a Phone Phobic."
WHAAA?
Yes, I'm a Phone Phobic. And, yes, I'm as confused as you are. I spent virtually all of my teen-age years with a 20 foot phone cord wrapped around myself chattering on the family phone. My father reluctantly agreed to let the telephone company install that cord so that I wasn't tied to the tiny phone niche located in our hall. With 20 feet, I could carry that phone into my bedroom, the family bathroom, my parents' bedroom and the dining room. Our phone number was 539. When dial reached Dodge City, our number changed to HUnter 3-4453. I remember feeling terribly New Yorkish when that happened.
But sometime between those glory days and now I became a Phone Phobic. I think it came on gradually. I don't remember being especially traumatized by the phone at any point in time. I dialed with impunity all during my 20s. With three daughters sharing one phone I fought hard for my phone time during my 30s. Maybe it started in my 40s? I think it worsened in my 50s, and became downright debilitating in my 60s. It hasn't helped that I live with BC. BC loves the phone. BC happily calls his daughters, his son, his brothers, his friends from early morning until well into the evening hours. He's happiest when he's holding a phone. BC "butt-calls" virtual strangers, and generally ends up with a new best friend. BC, unfortunately, is an enabler. He is more than happy to make the calls I dread. BC has fed my habit.
So, even though I haven't told my Life Coach that I'm a phone phobic...outgoing only, I'm fine with incoming...I decided I had gathered enough tools to begin working on this problem. Today, I had a difficult phone call to make and BC is fishing in Oklahoma. Obviously, I was in trouble
I began to pace from one end of the house to the other proclaiming, "I am enjoying calling my friends and visiting with them." Over and over and over. Then...I did it. I called a friend who is experiencing a difficult time. I told her how I was keeping her in my heart. I promised to offer a prayer now and then for her. I listened. She cried--just a little. She told me how grateful she was that I called. She was grateful that I called? Not nearly as grateful as I was that I called. She has no idea that I'm a Phone Phobic or how hard it was for me to tap those buttons. But I do. And I feel so grateful that I was able to help her through her day. And, I have kept her in my heart all day and I have whispered a few prayers heavenward for her. And I will continue to do that. A promise is a promise. That one won't be hard to keep.
Monday, March 3, 2014
EXPLORE, DREAM, AND DISCOVER
This familiar quote is attributed to Mark Twain, and a version of it is propped on my little 104 year-old writing desk:
TWENTY YEARS FROM NOW
YOU WILL BE MORE DISAPPOINTED
BY THE THINGS
THAT YOU DIDN'T DO
THAN BY THE ONES YOU DID DO.
EXPLORE.
DREAM.
DISCOVER.
I had been dreaming about starting a blog for months. Or, more honestly, for years. But each time I made a wild stab at it, I backed myself off. What if I couldn't do it? (Blogging oftentimes stretches my technological skills in a painful way.) What if I could do it, but nobody read it? (Well, guess what? I've learned I can survive that.) What if (the worst here) my friends and acquaintances laughed at me, or just smirked in a superior way, or just thought I was really stupid. It was definitely time to play it safe and step back from the dream.
But Mark Twain's arrival, following a shopping trip at Target, close on the heels of my 66th birthday combined to create one of those sea changes that seems to leave in its wake either the best of all worlds or the worst. I took the plunge. My very first post--which turned out to be not one entry, but two, because I didn't understand how to place two pictures in the same post--arrived on September 25, 2010. I've continued stabbing at it (on an irregular basis) ever since, and 9.9 times out of 10, I am filled with great joy when I push the "publish" button. This is where I live. Well, for a few hours a week anyway. They're always happy hours (sometimes I crack myself up), but not necessarily easy hours. I hope they are hours well spent.
Recently (70 is approaching this year), I've really begun to realize that if I don't do it now, I'm not going to have the chance to ever do it--whatever "it" turns out to be. There will be a point when my energy will flag, my eyes will dim, and the cognitive skills I'm trying so hard to hold onto will go to hell. It's now or never.
To that end, I have begun working with a Life Coach. Yes, really. And, I think, this will be the best thing I've ever done for myself. Even BC was approving...and hopeful, poor soul. I was nervous as a witch before my first visit with Jay, but he made it so easy the hour flew by. I took copious notes and religiously followed my list of suggested exercises. Actually, the exercises weren't suggested. We decided together as to what I would work on and I am accountable for that. I'm really much more disciplined when I'm accountable. I hope that doesn't sound onerous because it's not. I promise. It's all good, definitely eye-opening, and up to me. I like that. There is a certain feeling of wonder and--even though I'm a bit afraid to think it--power in creating a great life.
At the same time, I'm taking classes that are helping me figure out this whole blogging business. While I love blogging, I definitely need to do it better. There is a way and I'm busy with that. Remember a few paragraphs up when I mentioned that I was afraid my friends might look at me askance if they knew I spent an inordinate amount of time in front of my computer composing little thoughts and stories? Well, I approached that problem by not telling them. Simple, huh? Of course, the whole point of blogging is to have readers, preferably an increasing number of readers, plus lots of followers, and commenters, etc... I kind of skipped that part in this whole process. So, now I'm practicing saying: "Hi, I'm Margie and I'm a blogger." "I blog for..." I'm working on that last part and I have notes galore. It will come.
You know, it's not all bad to be closing in on 70 and still excited to see what each day brings. It's just now 5:00 p.m., and I think I'll go toast to that thought.
Monday, February 3, 2014
SUPER BOWL REDUX
You're right. I really had no intention of watching the Super Bowl game last night. I'm not a football fan, especially of the Pros, and just find the whole game to be a little mean-spirited. Don't kid yourself, they're there to hurt each other...most often, in a quiet, subtle sort of way.
But, BC was excited about the Broncos and the whole razzle-dazzle of SUPER BOWL SUNDAY, so he grabbed a couple of frosty beers, poured some wine for me, warmed up the left-over artichoke dip and I was trapped. Damn!
GAME XLVIII, QUARTER I: I'm relatively ignorant about this game, but right away I can tell that the Denver boys seem a bit nervous while the Seattle guys are running, jumping, pushing, throwing, and having a really great time. I check the stats and the team with the best defense has 8 points, and the team with the best offense has 0.
REPORT ON COMMERCIALS: Bear in mind, I'm an older woman and some things go right by me, but I didn't think the first quarter commercials were particularly notable. I was too slow to get much from the Bud hidden camera, limo, party and etc. I think I'll just stick to wine. It's obvious Ford bet the farm on two ads for the Ford Fusion Hybrid, one cleverly low-key and the second over the top. Neither one, unfortunately for Ford, will send me rushing to the nearest dealership, although I do think the Escape is very cute. Bank of America included a tie-in with an AIDS fund-raiser which is certainly a worthy cause but, frankly, I thought it a bit disingenuous considering their record during the financial crisis and the fact that they absolutely ruined the most favorite bank in which I ever worked.
QUARTER II: I think this was my favorite quarter. I'm on my second glass of wine and time is rolling by pretty quickly, primarily, so BC tells me, because the boys are running with the ball rather than throwing it. There was some problem in catching the ball or in which team might end up catching the ball. It's OK with me...let's keep this moving. Team with best defense: 22; Team with best offense: 0.
REPORT ON COMMERCIALS: For me, the quality of commercials improved dramatically over those in Round 1. I particularly loved: "Every time a Volkswagon hits 100,000 miles, a German engineer gets his wings." I am a huge Volkswagon Beetle fan (although those German designers are about to ruin it's huggability with their evolving design work) dating from the days when I owned a 1968 bright red Volkswagon bug and a VW owner was lucky if she didn't have to replace an engine every 20,000 miles.
HALF-TIME: In all honesty, I had never heard of Bruno Mars, and for a few minutes I thought he was Jersey Boys redux. (Note: it's a redux kind of report) He was fun and I enjoyed him. The Red Hot Chili Peppers? Haven't ever really been a fan, but it was an OK half-time diversion.
QUARTER III: The artichoke dip, vegies and ranch dip are gone and we're down to apples. I'm on glass #2 1/2 of Yellow Tail Cabernet and my excitement level is dipping. Denver kicks off to the Seahawks and Mr. Percy catches the ball and in an absolute blur of pumping legs returns it for an 87 yard touchdown! Wow. I'm a Seahawk! Peyton Manning is aging right before our eyes, and I nearly feel sorry for him. Eli looks like he wants to come down out of that press box and help him. Tough all around. Team with best defense: 36; Team with best offense: 8.
REPORT ON COMMERCIALS: This time it's Audi for pure fun, with their obscene little dog and his big head. Especially when he grabbed Sarah McLaughlin's guitar between his teeth and ripped it out of her hands. The reason is a whole other story, but it was cathartic. On the serious side, Chrysler did a wonderful job even though I think their cars need better designers; and, the Bud ad honoring serviceman Chuck Nadd...although I have a real problem sending our young men across the world to fight endless wars...touched my heart. We've sent them. These guys deserve our care and concern. Good for Bud.
QUARTER IV: I'm still working on my second and a half glass of wine but BC has moved on to bourbon. Actually I don't have a clue what happened during this quarter, but I know it wasn't as cold as they expected, there was a rather enticing ad for Jaguar and Denver never did catch up. I was primarily concerned that this game would not end before "Downton Abbey" began on Channel 8. Yes, I record the goings on of the Crawleys, but I'd much rather see it firsthand than watch after the fact. Hurry up guys. And, aaaah...They're finished. I immediately apologized to BC and switched the channel to PBS just as the Yellow Lab's tush began strolling (in that Yellow Lab sort of way) toward Downton Abbey. A perfect evening...
But, BC was excited about the Broncos and the whole razzle-dazzle of SUPER BOWL SUNDAY, so he grabbed a couple of frosty beers, poured some wine for me, warmed up the left-over artichoke dip and I was trapped. Damn!
GAME XLVIII, QUARTER I: I'm relatively ignorant about this game, but right away I can tell that the Denver boys seem a bit nervous while the Seattle guys are running, jumping, pushing, throwing, and having a really great time. I check the stats and the team with the best defense has 8 points, and the team with the best offense has 0.
REPORT ON COMMERCIALS: Bear in mind, I'm an older woman and some things go right by me, but I didn't think the first quarter commercials were particularly notable. I was too slow to get much from the Bud hidden camera, limo, party and etc. I think I'll just stick to wine. It's obvious Ford bet the farm on two ads for the Ford Fusion Hybrid, one cleverly low-key and the second over the top. Neither one, unfortunately for Ford, will send me rushing to the nearest dealership, although I do think the Escape is very cute. Bank of America included a tie-in with an AIDS fund-raiser which is certainly a worthy cause but, frankly, I thought it a bit disingenuous considering their record during the financial crisis and the fact that they absolutely ruined the most favorite bank in which I ever worked.
QUARTER II: I think this was my favorite quarter. I'm on my second glass of wine and time is rolling by pretty quickly, primarily, so BC tells me, because the boys are running with the ball rather than throwing it. There was some problem in catching the ball or in which team might end up catching the ball. It's OK with me...let's keep this moving. Team with best defense: 22; Team with best offense: 0.
REPORT ON COMMERCIALS: For me, the quality of commercials improved dramatically over those in Round 1. I particularly loved: "Every time a Volkswagon hits 100,000 miles, a German engineer gets his wings." I am a huge Volkswagon Beetle fan (although those German designers are about to ruin it's huggability with their evolving design work) dating from the days when I owned a 1968 bright red Volkswagon bug and a VW owner was lucky if she didn't have to replace an engine every 20,000 miles.
HALF-TIME: In all honesty, I had never heard of Bruno Mars, and for a few minutes I thought he was Jersey Boys redux. (Note: it's a redux kind of report) He was fun and I enjoyed him. The Red Hot Chili Peppers? Haven't ever really been a fan, but it was an OK half-time diversion.
QUARTER III: The artichoke dip, vegies and ranch dip are gone and we're down to apples. I'm on glass #2 1/2 of Yellow Tail Cabernet and my excitement level is dipping. Denver kicks off to the Seahawks and Mr. Percy catches the ball and in an absolute blur of pumping legs returns it for an 87 yard touchdown! Wow. I'm a Seahawk! Peyton Manning is aging right before our eyes, and I nearly feel sorry for him. Eli looks like he wants to come down out of that press box and help him. Tough all around. Team with best defense: 36; Team with best offense: 8.
REPORT ON COMMERCIALS: This time it's Audi for pure fun, with their obscene little dog and his big head. Especially when he grabbed Sarah McLaughlin's guitar between his teeth and ripped it out of her hands. The reason is a whole other story, but it was cathartic. On the serious side, Chrysler did a wonderful job even though I think their cars need better designers; and, the Bud ad honoring serviceman Chuck Nadd...although I have a real problem sending our young men across the world to fight endless wars...touched my heart. We've sent them. These guys deserve our care and concern. Good for Bud.
QUARTER IV: I'm still working on my second and a half glass of wine but BC has moved on to bourbon. Actually I don't have a clue what happened during this quarter, but I know it wasn't as cold as they expected, there was a rather enticing ad for Jaguar and Denver never did catch up. I was primarily concerned that this game would not end before "Downton Abbey" began on Channel 8. Yes, I record the goings on of the Crawleys, but I'd much rather see it firsthand than watch after the fact. Hurry up guys. And, aaaah...They're finished. I immediately apologized to BC and switched the channel to PBS just as the Yellow Lab's tush began strolling (in that Yellow Lab sort of way) toward Downton Abbey. A perfect evening...
Friday, January 31, 2014
AT THE MARKET IN CERET
Well, yesterday rushed right by while we recuperated from our Cassoulet Misadventure in Carcassonne. By late afternoon, we carefully felt our way into Amelie and searched out the "wee-fee". A very small café just to the right of the bridge offered an isolated corner designed for crazy Americans and Brits who "absolutely positively, Monsieur, must check our most vital Facebook, Twitter and Instagram accounts". Voila! A bit of trivial trivia and we are on the road to recovery. Now, perhaps, a little wine or beer will complete our cure. Oh, yes...
Today, we've driven to Ceret--a very few miles as the crow flies--for their famed weekly Saturday Market. You know already that I'm going to tell you Ceret is a beautiful village and, yes, it definitely is. The Market winds through a neighborhood of shops, restaurants and offices. If it exists, it's here somewhere in the jumble. We "ooh" and "ah" over hand-crafted jewelry, luxuriously inexpensive scarves, cashmere (maybe) sweaters, provincial pottery, linens and produce. Oh, the produce! Gorgeous produce. Fresh, smooth, flawless, and just off-loaded from the cute little Lego trucks still parked close by.
Tomatoes, for starters. Each one is perfect.
And cheese--ah, the cheese. Creamy, luxurious, rich, delicious...
A bit of lettuce, Madame? Why oui, of course.
Onions? Garlic? Oui, oui, oui!
And meats. Despite my background in beef parts, I have no idea what most of this is, but isn't it great just to look at it?
Ah Madame, the chocolat. Just a few. Merci
And these would be--sponges? Unexpected, but fascinating.
And, late afternoon on Gaynor's sun-drenched patio, we enjoy the fruits of the day, and the chicken, and vegies, and bread, and wine...and forever memories.
Friday, January 24, 2014
CARCASSONNE--PART 2
Although this entry appears just a bit forbidding, it is the front door (so to speak) of the Chateau Comtal, or Castle Comtal--however you'd like to think of it. Apparently, in those early centuries, no amount of protection was too much, so this sturdy Chateau sits within its own set of walls which, in turn, are set within the double-walled City of Carcassonne.
Once through the Chateau's entryway, we find ourselves in the main courtyard which houses a conglomeration of connected buildings dating from the 12th and 13th centuries. From here, we wander in and out of doorways, climb multiple flights of stairs, admire treasures from days gone by, and explore the northern ramparts. It's cold, a little windy and spitting rain during our visit, all of which (as I mentioned in an earlier post) adds to the atmosphere of this massive medievel fortification.
Oddly enough, I don't think I've ever had a burning desire to go to France; not like I hungered for England, Scotland and Ireland. I've been with a tour group in Paris and with another for a few hours in Aix en Provence, and while those were wonderful experiences, I've still remained neutral about France. This trip, however, has changed all of that. I would go back to France in a heartbeat to do the type of touring this trip allowed. I think I'm actually happier to cover a smaller area, as long as there is enough time to see it well...and to savor it with a bit of rich hot chocolate and friends.
Obviously, the Chateau within the walled city sits on the highest ground, so we always seem to be looking down and over the countryside. But, actually I'm OK with that.
Uh oh...let me think about this. We're standing in the courtyard (ground level) looking into a low window covered with iron bars and thick cobwebs. My heart tells me "of course it's a dungeon." I hope, however, that it is not the dungeon in which Raymond-Roger de Trencavel--he who built and lived in the Chateau we are visiting--died under mysterious circumstances in the early 1200s, while negotiating his terms of surrender to the Papal Legate. The Legate, apparently, was displeased with Raymond-Roger's suggestions.
The stones used to build the Basilica of Saint Nazaire and Saint Celese (above center) were recovered from a 6th century church once located on the site. Pope Urban, in 1096, blessed those ancient stones and some decades later, the church was completed. Today, the exterior has been restored, while the interior remains rather stark, cold and Gothic. As is my habit, I lit a candle for my Mom at St. Nazaire. She, I think would have enjoyed everything about our day in Carcassonne.
I do love looking through the windows of centuries ago and imagining what they might have witnessed. I wonder about the people who passed here. Did they (I hope) find some happiness in Carcassonne, even amid the uncertainty of the times? What were the scandals of the day and where did the ladies' maids stop to gossip? Will we ever really know?
Frankly, as I'm sure you can tell, I can't get enough of these little blue round-peaked roofs. Actually, as I look at them now, I'm reminded that the Renaissance Faire is about to begin east of Phoenix. These pictures make me think we should drive over, take in a bit of jousting, then purchase a couple of greasy turkey legs and rip them apart with our teeth.
If memory serves me right, this is one of the only times we saw color remaining inside of a building. We're in the Vaulted Hall of the Castle Keep, which houses a museum containing treasures from the general area.
Carcassonne is elegant in its history. However, even those who live within its walls are subject to the every day duties of life. Rain or shine, Thursday is, apparently, laundry day.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
CARCASSONNE--PART 1
Some would say this attractive lady, she of the unfortunately misplaced knockers, is the person responsible for saving the city we are about to visit. Research has told us that Lady Carcas, in the sixth year of a siege by Charlemagne's army, realized her town was quickly running out of food. Only a sack of wheat and one pig remained. She immediately fed the wheat to the pig and then flung the poor creature over the ramparts. Charlemagne was so taken aback by this action (naturally assuming the city continued to be well-stocked with food) he gathered his troops and hurriedly left the area. Bells began to ring throughout the city. "Carcas Sonne" someone shouted (Carcas Rings), and the city was known as Carcassonne forevermore.**
If your first introduction to Carcassonne comes from Rick Steves, you will be led to believe that you must be there at the crack of dawn to gain entry before the hordes descend. If, instead, you spent your afternoons reading Kate Mosse's descriptive Labyrinth, you won't care if the hordes descend or not. You'll be too busy retracing Alais' early morning ride down the narrow winding city streets or, as you look through the multi-paned windows of the Chateau, imagine her running across the darkened courtyard to visit her secret friends. She was everywhere during my visit.
Carcassonne is huge and, depending on your approach, seen in its impressive entirety or in little bits and pieces. Coming from Amalie, we didn't see the city spread across the hill. Our approach was much more humble as you can see above. We're walking toward the Narbonne Gate which leads into the fortified city.
Carcassonne, under a variety of related names, was a trading center as early as the 6th century BCE. The Romans eventually moved in with their fortifications, but control passed to the Visigoths 400 years later. On and on it went until the city became an economic center a few hundred years ago. Since reading Labyrinth, I was most interested in the 11th and 12th centuries when Carcassonne was home to a heretical group known as the Cathars who were forced from the city after they surrendered to the pope's forces.
As we enter the city through the somber, massive gray walls, we're immediately caught up in the colorful world of shops, people, restaurants, laughter and high spirits.
We've found the hordes, and they are us...polite, touristy and similarly curious. Tacky T-Shirts hang beside lovely watercolors and, for the younger set, Princess and Crusader costumes are displayed from every storefront. Plastic swords are de rigueur and had I known how to get them on the plane, I would have carried home an armload. My grandsons would have been in heaven.
Why yes, thank you. I think I'll take the bare-footed young man in the middle. He could be interesting!
After a short stroll through the twisty tiny village, we approach the gates of the Chateau Comtal. Restored in the 1800s, it's a fortified manor house (so to speak) inside the fortified city. We're eager to explore life under siege in the 12th century. More to come...
**My Catholic upbringing and strict code of honesty forces me to admit that Lady Carcas probably never existed. It's all a myth. A relatively common myth at that. And, Charlemagne never attacked Carcassonne. I guess if you're going to make up a story, you might as well make up a good one.
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Saturday, January 11, 2014
THE MEDITERRANEAN
Today, we're visiting the Mediterranean, which lies about 20 to 30 miles east of Amelie. Yes, real people live minutes from that historic Sea and think nothing of driving a short distance to wander along its coastline. On the way, we turn off the motorway onto the network of narrow but, oh so scenic, side roads still, occasionally, lined with Plane trees. If your imagination is turned on, it's very much like driving into an impressionist French landscape We quickly arrive at Argeles sur Mer, a village located on one of the longest beaches of the Mediterranean. Today, with tourist season winding down, that beach is nearly deserted. As we walked toward the water, we looked to our right to see the gentle mountain slopes descending into the "Med" itself. Behind us, the colorful line of apartment buildings are being shuttered for the winter and only a few families are pushing baby carriages along the wide brick-lined walkway. Autumn is in the air.
The water is indeed a beautiful blue, but cold. I'm dressed in slacks and a jacket and glad of it. Our friend, Linda, the most adventurous of the four does not let the opportunity to wade in the Mediterranean pass her by. Now, in retrospect, I wish I would have walked in with her.
Instead, I join the more sedate Denise and Gaynor on the beach drinking in the atmosphere--from a dry distance.
After lunch (the Gallettes of a previous post) we drive the short distance to Collioure where we board the "Little Tourist Train" for a sightseeing tour of the area.
Since I don't do photos well while bouncing around in a small cutesy train, my selection is limited, but here they are.
We quickly climbed into the vineyards, stopping near this well-preserved fortification for photo opportunities in all directions.
Since I had no sense of direction and the brochure I picked up was in French, this may be Colliure or Port Vendres. No real matter, as they are very close together--the little train visits both--so please forgive that research lapse. I loved them both.
And here are the vineyards--in some places seeming nearly vertical. These are the Banyuls sur Mer vineyards, known for their sweet white wine which, I must admit, is not really my favorite. I loved the trip, however. Plop me down in a vineyard nearly anywhere and I will be a happy girl.
Here is a little better look at Collioure. It is a lovely town...one to which I would return. Enjoy.
Yes, it's the Mediterranean in the distance, shops and restaurants on the left and historic fortifications on the right.
France is nothing, if not green, lush, ancient and beautiful.
I think many of us are tourists here, although this group may be French speaking and not terribly far from home.
You know, I would bet a significant amount that these gentlemen gather here every afternoon, enjoy it immensely and wouldn't miss. Actually, it looks a bit like Sun City Grand. Guys (of a certain age) who want to get out of the house are the same the world over.
Same could be said for these little fellows.
Sunday, January 5, 2014
EPIPHANY OF ANOTHER SORT
BC and I just finished taking down our skinny Christmas tree that spent most of December in a cozy little corner of our patio. That pencil tree is disassembled, the ornaments--mostly made by children long since grown--are wrapped in decades old tissue paper and stored on a shelf in our garage.
The two newer three foot trees that grace the buffet which defines our entry way are also safely tucked away in their box. The little gold sparkly balls that Target featured a few Christmas' ago are lined up in their plastic bags and the White House ornaments--a slowly growing collection--have been placed quite gently in their elaborate boxes which, if truth be told, probably cost more to produce than the ornaments themselves. White House ornaments are gorgeous, though, and I love them.
When I was growing up, the Christmas season ended on the Feast of Epiphany which, if I'm remembering correctly, was the sixth of January. That was the date the Church chose to mark when the Three Wise Men arrived at the stable which housed Baby Jesus. Never mind that the Wise Men may have arrived with their gold, frankincense and myrrh months, if not years, after Jesus was born. In our family, it was the sixth of January and that date signaled the tearing down and packing away of all things Christmas. And there was always a lot of Christmas at our house.
My Mom loved to decorate. She collected pine cones, spray-painted them gold and scattered them all through the house. As the years passed, she spray-painted more and more things gold until we joked that even the dog wasn't safe. She tied red bows on all sorts of objects--candlesticks, candles, door knobs and, regarding this project, she did decorate the dog. It was wonderful. I loved it all and thought that ours was one of the prettiest decorated houses ever.
I don't know how she felt when the decorations came down--it was usually a school day and she had finished before I got home. I remember thinking the house looked very plain without the green tree, gold pine cones and red bows. The sparkle was missing and life was very ordinary again.
I do know how I felt when Epiphany rolled around. Especially when the kids were young, I dreaded it. It was a sad day full of melancholy because my babies were growing up much too quickly. Another year had flown by and I hadn't appreciated all of its varied moments. I have a tendency to remember the bad rather than the good, and I could absolutely wallow in self-pity and self-flagellation at my short-comings for most of that day. I would tear up as I reached for an especially sentimental ornament. I would sob when I thought how impatient I had been with one or another of my sweet children.. I would vow to be a better mother, wife and person-in-general, and kick myself for not producing the picture perfect Christmas for my family. It was awful. I remember everyone of those January's...like it was yesterday.
Today, I'm sorry, but it's true, I was relieved to de-clutter the little bit of Christmas decorating we had done and return to our normal, rather minimalist lifestyle. Perhaps with age, we look forward more than back. We have a limited horizon and we've learned we can't change our past. The tricky exercise is learning to accept that past with only a reasonable amount of regret. Some do it better than others, but that may be my Epiphany on this Epiphany Eve. Acceptance. It isn't approval nor disapproval. It's simply what it is...part of who and what we are.
And that, as my mother used to say, is the lesson for the day.
The two newer three foot trees that grace the buffet which defines our entry way are also safely tucked away in their box. The little gold sparkly balls that Target featured a few Christmas' ago are lined up in their plastic bags and the White House ornaments--a slowly growing collection--have been placed quite gently in their elaborate boxes which, if truth be told, probably cost more to produce than the ornaments themselves. White House ornaments are gorgeous, though, and I love them.
When I was growing up, the Christmas season ended on the Feast of Epiphany which, if I'm remembering correctly, was the sixth of January. That was the date the Church chose to mark when the Three Wise Men arrived at the stable which housed Baby Jesus. Never mind that the Wise Men may have arrived with their gold, frankincense and myrrh months, if not years, after Jesus was born. In our family, it was the sixth of January and that date signaled the tearing down and packing away of all things Christmas. And there was always a lot of Christmas at our house.
My Mom loved to decorate. She collected pine cones, spray-painted them gold and scattered them all through the house. As the years passed, she spray-painted more and more things gold until we joked that even the dog wasn't safe. She tied red bows on all sorts of objects--candlesticks, candles, door knobs and, regarding this project, she did decorate the dog. It was wonderful. I loved it all and thought that ours was one of the prettiest decorated houses ever.
I don't know how she felt when the decorations came down--it was usually a school day and she had finished before I got home. I remember thinking the house looked very plain without the green tree, gold pine cones and red bows. The sparkle was missing and life was very ordinary again.
I do know how I felt when Epiphany rolled around. Especially when the kids were young, I dreaded it. It was a sad day full of melancholy because my babies were growing up much too quickly. Another year had flown by and I hadn't appreciated all of its varied moments. I have a tendency to remember the bad rather than the good, and I could absolutely wallow in self-pity and self-flagellation at my short-comings for most of that day. I would tear up as I reached for an especially sentimental ornament. I would sob when I thought how impatient I had been with one or another of my sweet children.. I would vow to be a better mother, wife and person-in-general, and kick myself for not producing the picture perfect Christmas for my family. It was awful. I remember everyone of those January's...like it was yesterday.
Today, I'm sorry, but it's true, I was relieved to de-clutter the little bit of Christmas decorating we had done and return to our normal, rather minimalist lifestyle. Perhaps with age, we look forward more than back. We have a limited horizon and we've learned we can't change our past. The tricky exercise is learning to accept that past with only a reasonable amount of regret. Some do it better than others, but that may be my Epiphany on this Epiphany Eve. Acceptance. It isn't approval nor disapproval. It's simply what it is...part of who and what we are.
And that, as my mother used to say, is the lesson for the day.
Friday, January 3, 2014
FIRST DAY IN AMELIE
Home base, during our week in France, was the relaxed, charming village of Amelie les Bains located in the far southwest corner of France--very close to the Spanish border. After my arrival, I was embarrassed to learn that I had been mispronouncing Amelie each time I had cornered someone to tell him or her about my unexpected opportunity to visit France. It is Amelie (short A) lay Bahn...not ever Amelie (long A) la Banes as I had so often said. Natives most often just call it Amelie. This view, from our front window, includes the nearby Pyrenees foothills, a glimpse of Gaynor's patio and some of the surrounding homes. We drank in this view every morning with our coffee and tea. It is a gift from heaven to vacation with a group of women who ease themselves into the day one steaming cup at a time.
Amelie is a small village of about 3,700 souls. It has a laid-back atmosphere, small daily market and thriving tourist trade "taking" the hot, steaming waters that have been springing out of the ground at least since the 600s when the Romans began to capitalize on them. I'm told that in France, if you have a doctor's prescription, the government will pay for a cure at the hot baths. Two weeks in Amelie, all expenses paid. The area near the baths are exclusively doctors' offices, pharmacies, and picturesque small hotels.
This photo shows the lobby area of the baths which are built on the remains of the early Roman baths. The lovely Romanesque building is purely medicinal while its neighbor, the spa, is hedonism run rampant. Linda and Gaynor had taken a turn there the week before we arrived and, to the credit of the spa, they still looked great!
Nearly every afternoon we wandered into town, finding a new street with shops to explore. Then, we secured a table at a small café for our afternoon coffee, hot chocolate, wine or beer. It's a lovely lifestyle--one I could grow into within minutes.
Each day, as we walked into the village proper from Gaynor's home, we crossed this lovely river--the Tech. It flows clear and strong and--much to BC's excitement--hosted the international trout fishing contest in the mid 1990s. When he saw the pictures, I could tell he really wished he had been there.
I often hear people mention how snobbish the French are...how they're just rude. We didn't find that. As I was reading Rick Steves before we left the U.S., he described the French as a formal people. Not unfriendly, formal. One greets the shopkeeper as you enter the door. Bon Jour, Madame or Monsieur. It's expected, it's customary, and it takes very little effort. And, again, as you leave, say good-bye--in French if possible. All conversation in between is comfortable and not unlike here in the U.S. Sure, it's a little more difficult if you don't speak French or they don't speak English, but plain old friendliness and courtesy go a long way. It worked well for us.
I've always been a sucker for a balcony--large, small, or simply hinted at as on this lovely building. Geraniums are one of the greatest flowers ever. They can make peeling paint and cracked walls look elegant.
These photos (and many more) were taken on our first day in Amelie. Denise and I had been up for more hours than human beings should, so by this time, if we weren't in motion we were nodding off. It was time to wander home, sip a little wine and snuggle into our cozy beds.
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