Musicians with a free, snowy morning...

...on their hands. My significant other- Michael- on resonator guitar, our dear buddy John on the banjer.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cj9dhIFjMoo

Seems like old times...

...but only for a second. Then I remember the mortgage, my smirky teenaged children [ who look so similar to the way I used to, somehow] and it all comes back into focus.

The day this was taken I was happy, wearing a new [ scratchy] shirt and it was as cool a fall day as ever happens in east Texas. My neighbour Steve's mother took this picture. Their family had just moved to Texas from Los Altos and were told that since nobody in Texas had long hair, their dad suggested they have it all cut off. Boy were they mad when they arrived and half our high school looked like Duane Allman.

Death by Gabardine

"Oh, Mom. I'm sorry...I just forgot with work and finals and..."

I sigh and crack one eye open. Such a fragmented, meekly uttered sentence usually means the rest of my day is toast and I'm never wrong.
The impending disaster this time involves a sadistic band director with a misguided sense of economy and possibly a vendetta against parents who need to be somewhere on a daily basis and don't have time to express their Oleg Cassini inner selves. The rest of the blame falls on my daughter, who really needs to write notes to herself. Last year, I was up making one of these nightmare band costumes while battling the flu. It looked as though vandals had broken into my home and completed the band uniform for me during the night.

Black gabardine, that most vile of fabrics, was once only used by victorian widows in mourning and Dominican nuns for their winter habits. It's cumbersome, slippery and shreds like crazy. But after hunting down the last pattern in the metroplex [ everybody else had theirs made two weeks ago, I'm thinking] I sat down and fought the good fight. Meanwhile, I broke my last heavy duty nachine needle, my significant other came in and added a few potatoes and more garlic to the deer stew [ a fine thing] but cranked up the heat to 'high' [ NOT a fine thing] He swears he had nothing to do with it.

My daughter's floor length, black gabardine skirt is finished now, and she looked lovely last night in her tuxedo shirt, jacket and skirt as she played in the Symphonic Winter Concert. I sat in the audience, everything blurry from trying to sew without my glasses [ vandals took them when they came in and turned up the stew] And I'm wondering: Is there any jail time attached to assaulting a school department head with an unattractive bolt of fabric? Or would that just be a hefty fine?

Monday's spiritual clearing house

On cold, wet mornings like this one, I find myself in traffic- praying under my breath, tapping the steering wheel, sometimes whistling between gritted teeth- sitting at stop lights. The endless dirty semi's roar past, the blonde women in those swingy -looking haircuts and driving huge SUV's, the school buses. Everything looks dark and slightly condensed from the cold.

I pray for lots of things, pray in spite of some stuff, pray twice as often over a few things. With each nail hammered, every joke told, every word typed we take another step along the journey. Though I worry about things in my own life [ kids and money, for the most part] It's somehow going to be okay, and the realisation of this sifts down into my heart even as I am watching traffic, either complaining to God or thanking God in what seems to me a slightly bi-polar manner. I am pleased, however, that God is familiar with the way I think and probably doesn't bat an eyelash, no matter what astounding thing I might communicate to Him. He's pretty much heard it all by now, and is politely waiting for me to finish so He can start arranging things the way He planned to in the first place. Notice I didn't say 'fix'. Maybe navigate on my behalf is a better choice. After all, this is a fallen dimension and stuff happens. Through our own choice as a species over thousands of years, we have made God into but an interested bystander -one who longs to help, but has been shut out like a dowdy brush salesman on the doorstep. His only recourse is to wait on the prayers of individuals, one by one, for random chances to help us through the chain of events on this planet. Yet He never seems to give up on wanting to offer assistance. This probably explains why He's God and I'm not.

The lady packed her ethereal trunks...

...and sometime on Wednesday morning drew her last troubled breath. She was a wide eyed girl at 83, always smiling and gracious, even when lucidity finally betrayed her and she couldn't remember why she was smiling. I got to take care of her for a while, greeting her almost casually at our first meeting. She was placid and friendly, and you'd never know how very sick she was. She talked about how the leaves would turn soon and wondered out loud what was for lunch. Who could've known our lives would become intertwined in a few short weeks?

The bright blue eyes and puckered Irish face are peaceful now. She attended her own wake down in New Orleans this Thursday. Then onto a memorial service in her adopted suburb of Belle Chasse. Finally, like the fallen Lincoln touring the country from the dignity of his Pullman car, Miss Charlene rolled into East Texas to her own ancestral resting place.

Renaissance Joe

US Lithograph Co 1903

S

He sits in front of me, or anybody else he talks to - earnest, attentive, gravely listening. He crosses one long leg across his knee and shifts his weight, getting settled in. A conversation with Joe is always gratifying, simply because one feels they have his entire focus, that he is completely present to the other person -whoever that might be. The mail carrier, the minister who stops by to see his elderly parents -they are all equally important to Joe, at least on the surface. Although glib in his own right under the correct circumstances, he is always careful to answer any question lobbed his way, giving it the consideration of somebody about to win a million dollars on a game show. This endearing quality also makes him seem a bit surreal, and often leads to questions about Joe which really have no easy answer.

He is one of three brothers whom I've known for many years. He is simple and appears to be straightforward, yet a closer check reveals him to be a most complicated human being. At 52, he's my contemporary and yet I always feel a lot younger than he is. Joe can rebuild an engine, play the stock market with quiet intuition, making money when others are losing it. Knead his own perfect bread or hail a cab with equal aplomb. He can play any stringed instrument with ease, and yet the playing isn't passionate. It's perfect, a solid performance, for he and his brothers have few musical equals. But there is a glossiness about the music which leaves the listener confused, maybe a little disappointed. This might be because whoever interacts with Joe encounters only a reflection of themselves. His brown eyes are mirrors of those he meets- no smoke to accompany the mirrors, for Joe is an honest man and what you see is basically what's there. But a little less,too. After losing three sons -two who were infants, dying just a few days old and expiring in his arms at the hospital. The third a teenage son in a senseless traffic accident. A wife who walked away after years of marriage-the burden of association too great, maybe.

And now , in many ways, he's a guy for whom everything is easy. Once you shut down the main artery to your heart and set the auto pilot, your worries are over. He laughs often, is unendingly gentle and is always busy. Lately, it's been figuring out how to launch a helium filled, LED blinking UFO over Springdale without being arrested. He would briefly note the ensuing chaos, then move on to something else . His brain is always alive, planning the next practical joke or building the next motorcycle in his mind.

Life is good, as long as one skims along the surface, chuckles gently and [ thankfully] doesn't have time to read things like internet blogs.

The road less taken

PDI image


October galloped up behind me again this year-it's been hectic and there have been times when I wondered about the wisdom of it all. My decisions, that is - not this being October. Like I could do anything about moving whole months around, although I've considered it.

Back in August I added the final touches on Getting Over Myself. This ego altering project included realizing that I'm not going to meet any more rich people who are desperate for murals in their overly mortgaged homes. Well, okay. I'm down with that. After all, I've done lots of things -and one of those things included taking care of elderly home bound patients for a year, when I was in my twenties.
They seemed to like me and I them. I'm a quiet person except for when I'm not and they seemed to feel comfortable around me. Couple this with my ability to talk Benny Goodman and and War Bonds -well. It all fell into place. A year later, however, I was offered a position with the local paper and found myself unable to resist the chance to write for a living -even if it was only the school page, the jail report and the occasional column. Lots of check passing pictures, local politicians shaking hands.

Fast forward to a few months ago. I decided to retake the health care course I muddled through so many years ago. This one was so hard- intense enough that I felt foolish for telling my instructor I had taken one twenty three years ago. So much had changed and there was so much more to learn it was as if I'd never darkened the door of a classroom. But I passed, and made a good grade for the course. Meantime I had accepted my first patient in decades -Miss Charlene B, who is in the fourth stage of lung cancer. I accepted the job, for our families had been friends for many years. I was clumsy at first, but I grew to love my patient. Our society was interrupted while I took the refresher course...but by that time, her six month prognosis had dwindled, seemingly.
Last Sunday was spent with her on the fourth floor at Washington Regional while her exhausted daughter slept. She is as blue eyed and pretty as one would want any 83 year old person to be. And no matter what her level of pain [ which has been considerable lately] she is always a lady. I'd like to be Miss Charlene when I grow up, but first, I've decided - I want to go on and become a hospice nurse. That's the end goal, though for a while I may have to be content with an attendant's certificate.

My classes for Certified Nursing Assistant [ CNA] begin in January, and I'm dreading them while looking forward at the same time. I'm doddering, rather middle aged and have little short term memory these days. But I have decided to do this thing, even if I have to test twice. This afternoon I walked into the hospice facility when they have moved my lovely patient, and knew right away that this or some place like it was where I was needed. I'm still somewhat in shock, because it's been some time since I've had a real epiphany of any description.

Well, now.
Thank you, Barrack Obama and George Bush and whoever else has sent our financial future hurtling through space . Because of your treachery and arrogance, one tiny, almost invisible yet fine thing has solidified in the life of an ordinary person. Otherwise I might have never realized. I wouldn't have been forced outside my comfort zone.
Painting is my first love, but I feel as though another part of my reason for being here is waiting to be discovered, too.