"I have measured out my life with coffee spoons" (-T S Eliot)

“Involuntary memory is a conception of human memory in which cues encountered in everyday life evoke recollections of the past without conscious effort.”

I always remember meals I’ve eaten on auspicious occasions in my life.

I can tell you the exact meal I had the night my son was born on January 9^th, 1977. We had moved that same day, and were exhausted. My sister-in-law and her family graciously cooked for us, and welcomed us into their home: there was a wonderful chicken divan, a delicious salad, warm dinner rolls and strawberry shortcake for dessert. Eric arrived several weeks early, and I wound up going into labor that night, amidst a snowstorm on SuperBowl Sunday. I have often thought he was just anxious to see the new digs. Had I known he was going to make his appearance that night, I might not have eaten all of that meal, but thankfully, I was ignorant of his impending arrival, and I was able to savour the smells and delicate flavors without guilt. I not only enjoyed the lovely meal, but I wound up with a beautiful son as well.

When I met my then-husband’s Great Aunts from Norway, sometime back in the late 1970’s, they fixed us a wonderful poached salmon and homemade hollandaise sauce, accompanied by steamed asparagus, a delicious tossed salad and homemade dressing. Helga and Rachel were simple but fabulous cooks. For dessert, they made a sumptuous Floating Island. They gently cradled the meringues in a large spoon, and poached them, placing them ever so gently into the smooth custard. It was delicate and light and creamy all at once. I can still envision the china they set on the table, the silver cutlery, and the wine glasses. Then, after the meal, in those moments of complete comfort and relaxation, we all sat in their elegant dining room, with its Norwegian furnishings and artwork by Gunhilde, and began to delicately move our wet index fingers around the rims of our water glasses to produce haunting glass music sounds. Each glass held varying amounts of water, and playfully, we all held an impromptu concert. Octogenarians all, they were creative, fun-loving women, and I think of them with great fondness, always remembering that magical evening. Their surname was Stensland, and their home on Staten Island was Stenhaven. We all called it that, and we wound up giving Eric Stensland as his middle name to let the name live on.

I cherish the people who've touched me in my life and the special occasions and foods we share, and I relive those memories with fondness. I suppose that's why I make such an effort to recollect all the details of our times together. The Aunts and my husband are all gone now, but their impact on me remains strong.

“I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.” Not quite the meaning Eliot had for it in Prufrock, but it resonates with me in many ways.

(-T S Eliot)

"According to a recent survey..."

“According to a recent survey, men say the first thing they notice about a woman is their eyes, and women say the first thing they notice about men is they’re a bunch of liars.”

(-unknown author)

I chuckled upon reading that. I do notice eyes, and I find it difficult painting them. You have to forget "eye," and think in terms of shapes, and then you have to consider that the iris needs that little tiny bit of white left for the shine. The pupils aren’t really round, if you look closely at the eyelid surrounding it. Then, there’s the placement of the eyebrow, and how do you try to communicate that without it looking as if you just drew a line there? And it occurs to me this person doesn't have any eyelashes at all.

On my driver's license, I’ve selected the “organ donor” category. I grew up in a family of readers, and everyone wore glasses excepting for me. I always had crystal-clear vision and could see for miles. I rationalized that someone could really benefit from my eyes one day after I’m gone. As I’ve aged, though, I’m now realizing I really need glasses for reading, or I’m blind as a bat. Maybe it’s computers that have done it to me. Sadly, whoever gets these eyes isn’t going to get them in their prime.

“Love, anger, pride and avarice all visibly move in those little orbs.”

(-Joseph Addison)

"I've been doing a lot of abstract painting lately..."

You hear all the time about writers who face writer’s block. I’ve never heard of “artist’s block,” but sometimes life just gets in the way of sketching and painting, or so it seems to me. This time of year, the garden calls out to me. All that color and new growth is inspiring and exhausting at the same time: weeding, mulching, rearranging plants, planning for foot paths, and picking annuals to plant among the perennials. Gardens don't just happen; they evolve over time, and there are always new ideas to try. After the work is all done, and the delicate flowers emerge, it's all worth it, though. Painting will come soon enough, and all that color will inspire.

“Take thy plastic spade,
It is thy pencil; take thy seed, thy plants,
They are thy colors.”

(-William Mason, The English Garden, 1782)

"The world makes up for its follies and injustices by being damnably sentimental" (-Thomas Henry Huxley)

“True nostalgia is an ephemeral composition of disjointed memories.”

(-Florence King)

I’ve always wished I could be a minimalist with sleek furnishings and tables devoid of clutter. How is it that I’ve become such a pack rat? I can’t let go of sentimental things that touch me, and I surround myself with the memories they evoke.

I save letters and cards from everyone who’s ever sent them to me. I have difficulty throwing out flowers, even when they’re obviously lifeless. I guess it’s why I’ve learned to set up little vignettes on my desk, of disparate objects: I’ll never get rid of them, and so I pretend that there’s a method to this madness.

The little vase on my desk reminds me of a trip to the local potters in NC with my friends Gary and Linda. The dried miniature roses are faded and old, but I remember them as fresh flowers and can’t let go. A green glass paperweight is a treasure from Joe that has no particular purpose, it just brings me pleasure as it rolls around on my desk. My son, Eric, brought me a tiny hand-blown glass frog from Bermuda. He and I had traveled there when he was a teenager, and the first night there, I had complained about the awful noise that surrounded us all night long. By the next morning, when I realized that the noise was from the island’s tree frogs, I had fallen in love with them. I kicked myself when I got home and lamented that I should have had the glassworks shop make me a little tree frog.

Eric remembered, and some years later, when he lived and worked there, he had one made for me. When he visited, and handed me a tiny little box, I knew instinctively what he had done, before I even opened it. I was touched that he remembered that, and so of course, now it sits where I’ll always think of him.

Everywhere I turn in our home, I'm reminded of my parents, my grandparents, my son, my sibs, my friends. Their presence would surround me without things, but the things they’ve given me over the years are mementos that are very dear to me.

“The world makes up for all of its follies and injustices by being damnably sentimental.”

(-Thomas Henry Huxley)

"I've a grand memory for forgetting." (-Robert Louis Stevenson)

When Joe wants to remember something, he "puts a ring out."

He has a set of about five brightly-colored plastic rings that are really a child’s tossing toy. They're all in a basket on a bookshelf in his office. It’s his habit to use them whenever he knows he wants to remember to do something. He’ll announce: “Remind me to 'put a ring out' so that I’ll remember I have a dentist appointment tomorrow.” Although I’ll respond dutifully with, “OK,” you can be sure I’ll come walking downstairs in the morning, and of course, seeing the ring on the floor by the front door, I'll be highly amused, only to think, “Hmmmmm…now what the hell is it I’m supposed to be remembering?”

Every morning, we fix breakfast, relax at the table, and pull out all the newspapers. I used to be impressed by Joe that he read so many papers every day, until I learned, early on, that his real reason for buying so many was to get the sports pages in each paper. Turns out this works quite well, because when I read the papers, the very first thing I do is yank the sports pages out completely: they can go directly to the recycling basket as far as I’m concerned. I head directly to the front page section of the NY Times, then head to the Arts section, or the House & Home sections. Last, I’ll read the Business section, which lately has been rather dismal.

“Habit is habit, and not to be flung out of the window by any man, but coaxed downstairs a step at a time.” (-Mark Twain)

A good neighbor

“A good neighbor is a fellow who smiles at you over the back fence, but doesn’t climb over it.” (-Arthur Baer)

At the end of our back yard, there is a walking trail that in one direction rambles down to a bucolic stream, and in the other, wanders up to a pond. The mere existence of this trail expands our definition of “neighbor.” While it’s a very quiet spot, we’ll often enjoy watching a lone jogger, bike riders, little boys seeking out tadpoles in the stream, or couples just out for a stroll. The area is also a haven for ducks, geese and rabbits. It’s great entertainment to observe the world going by in our tiny corner here.

There are those we think of as the “chronics,” whom we see every day and would miss if we didn’t. In this category is a diminutive Chinese couple who pass by and wave to us in the morning and again late in the day. The woman appears to be less than 5’ tall; the man, slightly taller. She works close by in a tailor’s shop, and he walks her to work and then home again at the end of the work day. We tend to think we know these people who enter our world on a daily basis, but we only know them by sight. Once or twice, as he was returning from walking his wife to work, the gentleman has stopped to chat with us in our garden. I would never have guessed his age as being 85. While not limber, he is definitely young for his age. He wears a baseball cap and carries a distinguished cane. I asked him his name, and in his broken accent, he told me it’s “Woodrow Wilson.” I still do not know his wife’s name.

Another of the chronics is our friend Paul and his dog Ginger. They also traverse this path twice daily. Paul is an older man who struggles with Parkinson’s disease. He told us that walking Ginger is what keeps him going. He doesn’t hear well, but loves for us to chat with him if he comes by. When I told him our names were Joe and Sue, he said, “Oh, I know that.”

Perhaps our reputation precedes us and we just don’t know it. I sometimes mentally conjure up lives for these people we wave to, but I have to admit, it never really occurred to me that they probably do the same for us.

"You may have the universe if I may have Italy" (-Guiseppe Verdi)

“The whole purpose of education is to turn mirrors into windows.”

(-Sydney J Harris)

In Italy, you cannot help but notice the windows. They often have shutters that lift outwards, or they’re opened with the ubiquitous geraniums perched on the ledges inside, or sometimes, they’re wide open with people leaning out of lacy curtains, chatting with other people on the ground below. Many have laundry strewn from one window to another, giving onlookers a voyeuristic view of who the inhabitants are, by the clothes that hang so languidly in the sun.

In an essay in the NY Times, under his "At Home Abroad" column, Anthony Lewis once said: "...Italy is evidence that there is more to life--a civilized life--than the unregulated competition of the market. There are values of humanity, culture, beauty, community that may require deviations from the cold logic of market theory. So I am convinced after spending some weeks in Italy this summer."

Italians know how to live in the moment. They savor what’s before them, from the glorious art that surrounds them in piazzas, to the flavors in the foods and wines they produce and consume, to the conversations they’re engaged in, at that moment. Their buildings are ancient, and they have an enormous pride in them, and recognize their magnificence. Italy's natural world of mountains, hillsides, lakes, and canals throughout the countryside are just breathtakingly beautiful. While the Italians want to be successful, they don’t want that at the expense of beauty, and they’re not concerned with development, because they don’t want to lose what is a true sense of community. Farms are not huge conglomerates the way they typically are here in America. Businesses are profitable, but not cut-throat, for the most part. Cafes and trattorias are more interested in a steady, reliable, relaxed clientele than in a fancy name. Certainly there are exclusive leather goods shops and fashion centers, like Milan, but even there, la famiglia is the center of the business, as a rule.

I found that very endearing while I traveled throughout Italy. I’ve been to numerous other countries, and thoroughly enjoyed them all, but I had a visceral response to Italy that I’ve never felt in any other place.

I guess I agree with Guiseppe Verdi, who said, “You may have the universe if I may have Italy.”

Those Italians could teach us a thing or two.

"Gardens are a form of autobiography." (-Sydney Eddison)

When Joe and I met, we each had different pasts, different families, different stories. Our “things” are different, but we have blended them, eclectically, in a way that makes us both happy.

I used to envision a garden with soft, pastel lavenders, whites and blues, with maybe some hints of pink here and there--all the cool shades against the vivid greens of foliage and grasses. Joe, on the other hand, loves his oranges, reds, and vibrant yellows.

We both thrive on garden centers, farmer’s markets and flea markets, where plants are plentiful. Like most people who enjoy gardening, we can’t say no to a flower. In my mind, I’ll think “Lavender: we are here to seek out a lavender-colored flower to plant next to that white, lace-capped hydrangea.” But invariably, there will be an interesting yellow bud that catches our eye, or an orange petal that’s transparent in the sunlight and we just can’t resist it. So, we find a way to squeeze it into the overall design. Our garden has evolved into a story that mimics our own: it’s really a conglomerate of gardens, all comingling together, and somehow, it’s become harmonious and lovely in its own right.

"Half the interest of a garden is the constant exercise of the imagination." (-Mrs. C.W. Earle)

"A table, a chair, a bowl of fruit and a violin..."

It warms my heart to think that Albert Einstein, a physicist, who could readily wrap his brain around notions like critical opalescence and mass-energy equivalence, could also ultimately feel that music, and the violin in particular, were the things that brought him the greatest happiness.

In my family, as children, we were early on exposed to the arts. I always sort of assumed that all families had that same exposure until I grew older and realized how fortunate I was to have had that influence from my parents. At that time, we lived on the outskirts of Manhattan, and took full advantage of going into the City whenever possible, to see the NY City Ballet at Lincoln Center, or we'd head to Broadway and off-Broadway plays, or Shakespeare in the Park, or we'd visit art museums on weekends for as long as I can remember. My father listened to the Saturday afternoon operas on the radio, and my parents went religiously for years to operas at the MET, and they played classical music in our house. I had early on memorized Prokofiev’s “Peter and the Wolf” and knew the story behind "Madame Butterfly" in kindergarten.

While my younger sister and I “played piano,” (quotation marks intentional) my older sister played piano beautifully. It was from her practicing that I was introduced to Rachmaninoff, Beethoven, Liszt, Brahms, Mozart, Bach, Berlioz, Tchaikovsky, Chopin… To this day, anytime I hear any classical music on NPR, I immediately think “Mary Kate played that.”

I remember my dad reading to me in his “big chair” when I was very young. My feet stuck straight out, and I thought, “one day, my legs will be long enough to go over the edge of this chair.” I don’t really remember him ever reading me children’s stories, but I do remember him reading me “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” by Coleridge. I didn’t understand much of it, but I loved that he was reading it to me. I remember that I couldn’t comprehend, for example, how there could be “water, water, everywhere, but not a drop to drink,” until he explained to me that it was salt water, which you can't drink, and I thought, “he’s soooo smart.”

Turns out they both really were so smart. They inculcated in us all a love of art and music and theatre and dance, and we’re all so much richer for it.

“Music is the mediator between the spiritual and the sensual life.”

(-Ludwig Van Beethoven)

Survival of the fittest

“If a man has but two coins, he should take one and buy bread, that he may live, and with the other, buy a rose, that he might have a reason to live.” (-old adage I heard once)

Yesterday, we spent the day digging through tangles of roots and tough clay to make holes for roses we wanted to plant. Gangly, out-of-control pampas grass roots impeded our progress, so it took us almost the entire day. Why is it that ugly plants are always strong and deep-rooted? I had blisters on my hands (through leather gloves) from yanking away at the roots of those grasses that resembled neurons, twisting and turning beneath the ground.

We had hired men to come and yank out those grasses, and they came armed with muscles, shovels and a backhoe. But the grasses were originally planted around the boxes for cable and phone lines, so we had to attack the problem with delicacy so as not to disturb the natural balance of things electrical.

We gently placed rich, loamy soil into the hollows we created, hoping to encourage the beautiful flowers we planted. The whole time, I found myself wondering if the remnants of those grasses would also thrive on the dirt and care we were giving the roses’ soil. How to quash one plant while nourishing another in the same place: ah, there’s the dilemma.

Who knows what they will do? If the grasses do attempt a repeat performance, (which we anticipate they will) we’ll meet them head on with a vengeance. They may have met their match in us. We don’t give up that easily. As Ben Franklin said, "Energy and persistence conquer all things."

"A bird does not sing because he has an answer. He sings because he has a song." (Joan Walsh Anglund)

I once read that having a fish tank in one’s home helps to lower one’s blood pressure. Well, I don’t know if that’s true, and we don’t have fish. What we do have is birds. Lots and lots of birds.

I’m a huge bird lover, convinced that if birds aren’t good for the heart, they are at least good for the soul. On any given day, we host about 25-30 different varieties of birds. From the tiniest chickadees to the stateliest Sharp-shinned hawks, we enjoy them all. I joke that our deck is a veritable Golden Corral with sunflower seeds, suet, hummingbird nectar, thistle, and peanuts in a never-ending buffet for our fine-feathered friends.

It amazes me how each species has its own personality as well. There are the Towhees, whose females are dark russet colors and whose males are black, burnt sienna and white. They hover close by all day, and I hear their distinct “Sweeeeeet” call, alerting me that they’re at hand. Towhees don’t walk or fly to our deck; they primarily hop on both feet, right up our steps, and generally feed on the deck floor if seeds have fallen.

The male cardinals are bright red and bring us ample color in the winter when branches are stark, and they beautifully complement the green leaves in spring and summer. The males feed the female cardinals and babies, which is sweet to watch, and makes them appear to be kissing.

The “Chunky Charmers,” or Carolina Wrens, are tiny birds, but rotund and highly energetic. They’ll sing persistently early in the morning until they know we’re up and about, chirping different melodious tunes all day long. For such tiny creatures, they are extremely vociferous.

Brown-capped nuthatches mean business: also small birds, they dash in, peck frantically at the peanuts, grab a bite and dash off. They’re on a mission, and nothing gets in their way.

I’m always amused at the downy woodpecker, majestic in its stark black and white stripes with a brilliant spot of red at the back of the head. They’ll slyly scoot up the deck railings, peeking to see who’s around, then fly up to the suet and graze for a bit.

Appearing mostly in groups, the brilliant yellow and black goldfinches are clean, crisp birds. They head directly to the thistle feeder, three of them sharing together comfortably, unlike the grey hued and red house finches who squabble and fight like little harpies for a spot at the big sunflower feeder.

Spring is absolutely delightful with the arrival of the hummingbirds, when they visit us continually until the fall. Their antics are great fun to watch as they dive-bomb one another to protect their feeding source. Every single time they show up at the deck, we still announce out loud to one another, “HUMMINGBIRD!”

My favorite birds, however, will always be the bluebirds. The males are breathtaking in their vibrant blue, russet colored chest and white bellies. Henry David Thoreau said that "the bluebird carries the sky on his back." They are gentle creatures, and elegant the way they conduct themselves. They feast on the suet, especially if we have blueberries or fruit of any kind in it. They’ll perch on tree limbs or deck rails where they will have good visibility of their house, and meticulously watch over the female and their plump little babies in their nests.

We even garden to attract the birds. I guess you’d say we’re flattered that they all call us “home.”

"One man's trash is another's treasure"

What is it about a flea market that’s so appealing to me?

Call it what you will: a garage sale, a rumble sale, a car boot sale, a yard sale, a bazaar, a charity…there’s something very attractive to me about rummaging through other peoples’ cast-off things.

I think it’s got something to do with the notion that I can somehow incorporate a part of another life successfully into my own. One of our favorite activities on a Saturday or Sunday morning is to get up early and head to the local flea market, which is quite extensive, mind you. You can find any manner of things that might suit your fancy: linens, china, silver, old military patches, those old green Coca Cola bottles with the soda still in them, jewelry, garden plants, furniture, swords, baseball cards and corn on the cob. All in one place.

It’s just great fun to handle things that have past lives, but for me, the appeal is also in calculating how I might take some object and re-purpose it quite differently in my own life. I find great satisfaction in browsing through old photos of people I don’t know, in clothing from a different time and place. While it saddens me that some family member probably died and their belongings and photos were dispatched in this way, I find solace in thinking I’m somehow “rescuing” items, and giving them new life. (I believe in some quarters, this is known as “hoarding.” I prefer to call it intentional rejuvenation.)

My favorite thing about the flea market is probably the other people, though: the ones looking, just like me. It has to be one of the all-time best people-watching venues. And have you ever noticed that an item no one else would have ever given a second glance, suddenly takes on enormous appeal when you have an interest in it? The haggling and negotiating is all part of the fun.

“One man’s trash is another’s treasure.” Come to think of it, our entire house attests to that.

"You can't be friends with a squirrel..."

There are usually two camps in this conversation. There are those, (like me,) who, at a distance, find them to be clever, entertaining creatures. Now, I recognize that they are glorified rodents, but their cunning schemes do amuse me. Squirrels are phenomenally deft at outwitting humans in their quest for sunflower seeds and suet. They’ll dig in our hanging baskets, pull bulbs out of the ground, and detach hanging feeders with the adroitness of a human. Gloriously nimble and acrobatic, they leap over tree limbs and shed rooftops with a dexterity that, to me, is quite remarkable. While I wouldn’t necessarily want one for a pet, I enjoy watching their mischievous antics, and I have a healthy respect for their extreme persistence.

Then, there are those like Joe, for whom the battle began some time ago: he spends an exorbitant amount of time attempting to outwit the little critters. Droll Yankee squirrel-proof feeders and pepper suet are the modus operandi in this camp. The squirrels will bustle about, wreaking havoc on our deck, and if I appear, they basically ignore me. But at the merest suggestion of Joe’s footstep, they will come to an abrupt halt, with eyes and ears alert, assessing what the latest weapon in the battle is going to be. They sense his passion, because they possess that same zeal themselves. Undeterred, they never surrender, but plan each defensive attack with glee.

So far, in the war against the squirrels, the score is squirrels 1, Joe 0.

Enjoy the squirrels on flickr here, with Linda Yvonne:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/from_linda_yvonne/sets/72157594557694388/

Song for Susan

Song for Susan

Kettle whistles, “Habit now,”
Seems to sing its wistful tune
Sixty years, the ready sound
Sixty years, tea at noon…

(-sue)

My maternal grandparents were immigrants from Scotland, and they figured very prominently in my childhood. When I was young, I wrote a poem about Grandma Susan. Her inclination was to have a Tea Party every day of her life.

As a child, I loved visiting her, because she was an eccentric woman with artistic tendencies. She’d draw and write songs and poems, and entertained us for hours with the stories she made up, that literally lasted for weeks. They’d be continued on our next visit, while we longed to hear the end of her tales. During the winter, she’d bundle us up with her in a huge blanket, and sit with us on the rug, telling us we’d be like “the Babes in the Woods.” While we didn't really know who the babes in the woods were, when she said that, we knew we were about to be transported into her imaginary world of handsome lads and lovely lasses being swept away to balls, like something out of Jane Austen, through the machinations of the little old women who populated her stories.

But the thing I enjoyed the most with grandma was afternoon Tea. She baked every single day, and while the smells of oatmeal cookies and orange marmalade would emanate from her kitchen, she’d put a kettle on for a spot of tea. Her cups and saucers were lovely china, and she had utensils that had real ivory handles on them. The aromas and warm steam coming up from the cups are images and rituals I will always associate with her. She made me a tea lover for life.

"A Proper Tea is much nicer than a Very Nearly Tea, which is one you forget about afterwords." (-AA Milne)

A Good Face

"A good face, they say, is a letter of recommendation."
(-Henry Fielding)

Phizzog

This face you got,
This here phizzog you carry around,
You never picked it out for yourself,
at all, at all--did you?
This here phizzog--somebody handed it
to you--am I right?
Somebody said,"Here's yours, now go see
what you can do with it."
Somebody slipped it to you and it was like
a package marked:
"No goods exchanged after being taken away"--
This face you got.

(-Carl Sandburg)

It’s taken me 53 years to settle into this phizzog of mine. No, I certainly did not pick it out for myself. People describe their faces as a road map. While the road map created on this face over time certainly does not reflect the trip I early on envisioned for me, I like to think that the mileage from one place to another has allowed for tourist attractions and detours of historical interest.

I’ve never met a birthday yet that has caused me angst. If anything, I’ve relished becoming more comfortable in my own skin as I’ve aged. I can already see that "if I had some work done,” I could certainly look better, but I really don’t want to forget the journey I’ve taken and the things I’ve seen. They’ve marked me visibly and emotionally over time, and left traces of a life that grows richer daily.

Shakespeare wrote that “With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.” If Willy the Shake could feel that way, then why should I quibble with that?

dining alfresco

The notion of dining alfresco is one that holds great appeal for me. When the days are turning balmy, gardens are bursting at the seams with color, and the songbirds are treating us to their mellifluous tones, it seems quite natural to me to want to relax outdoors with a glass of wine and an elegant meal. My aesthetic tendencies lean in favor of whisking out beautiful linens, silver, candelabras, and limoge china...you know, in much the same way that Isak Dinesen might have done,...say, somewhere off at the foot of the Ngong hills.

But much as I'd love to laze peacefully outdoors with knot gardens within my reach and platters of elegant foods laced with rose petals and adorned with ornamental pansies, reality can be quite different from the dream. Eating outdoors, much like painting en plein air, can have its inherent challenges. Take for example, mosquitoes. Wind. And pollen wafting through those same balmy breezes that, from indoors, seemed so soothing. Flowers are beautiful, but they do attract bees, and then, there's all that dead-heading beforehand that's required, to make those flowers all look the way they should in my vision of things.

For a fleeting period, in mid-spring, however, there are some days when eating on the deck is possible, and holds a definite appeal. We try to take advantage of that whenever we can. I'm eagerly awaiting those mornings, before the sun is too scorching hot, and the bugs are not out in droves, when we can have our meyer-lemon-blueberry pancakes with warmed syrup, outdoors.

Maybe one day I'll be one of those people who twists tree branches into elegant configurations resembling an outdoor chandelier with little tea lights dangling over a linen-dressed table, brimming with beautiful china and a display of fresh herbs encircling forks and napkins...

Until then, I suppose our fold-up chairs and windexed glass table will probably suffice.

"A journey is like marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it." (John Steinbeck)

It's spring, and I have concluded all my travels this year for work. So good to feel free! Since I'm on the road so much for a good part of the year, and I'm gone for weeks at a stretch all over creation, I've learned that, while traveling, there are certain things you can control, and then there are those you just can't.

I recently stayed in one hotel where I got settled in for the night. I long ago learned that habit is important on the road: I situate all my things in their respective places so that in the morning, I can go through the rote motions of ensuring I won't forget my list of "things I need to remember:"
cell phone, charger, laptop, cords, iPod, charger, camera, charger, watercolor palette, sketchbook, my hard copy list of hotels and itinerary, expense receipts in their envelope, GPS, soaps 'n sundries, electric toothbrush, and all my clothes, shoes, coats, meeting materials and rolling bag to contain them, etc.

I know the drill of doing the last minute scan of bathroom and bedroom to see that I have everything. Packing for road trips is an art, and one I'm good at. I'm accustomed to these things, and I'm happy to say (knock on wood) that I've never once lost anything.

What I'm not accustomed to, and throws me for a loop, is when I get all settled in, take a nice, relaxing bath, and sit down at the laptop, to check emails, only to find that there are ants in the hotel room. Yes, ...ants.

Now, I am the queen of negotiating rates in hotels, so I try to stay in decent places that are pretty nice, but ants are not discriminating creatures.

Not only is this a setback after a long day of parking on college campuses, holding meetings, driving or flying all over creation, remembering what color the current rental car is, and finding a decent place for a meal. This also involves repacking my bags, dressing again, and facing the front desk to negotiate a new room.
Mind you, the fear is that you will get that new room and the whole process will be repeated if said ants have traveled to the new location.

So, it seems I have now adopted one more compulsive behavior on my trips: I zip my bag closed with most of my belongings snugly ensconced within it. Juuuuuuust in case...

"We're fools whether we dance or not, so we might as well dance." (Japanese proverb)

I'm dancing today, because I finished my taxes.

It's always such an arduous task, and the prospect of it ranks right up there with getting a crown on a tooth or standing in line at the DMV. I was determined to end today with taxes "behind me."

This year, I'm dancing, too, because while I DO owe money, it's such a minuscule amount that I'm thrilled: I think it means that I actually calculated my withholding status so that it makes some kind of nutty sense.

And the Big Tax Rebate will be coming soon. I think along with dancing, we'll take a bit of that money and plant some beautiful knockout roses at the end of the yard. My sweet mother, at the end of her life, couldn't walk, so it was hard for her to get out and about. She loved to go shopping sometimes, just to get out of the house, and see people and things. She'd call me and say, "Do you think you and I could spend a day 'helping the economy?'"

Edwin Denby, the American poet and dance critic, said:
"There is a bit of insanity in dancing that does everybody a great deal of good."
So, yeah...I'm dancin'

"in Just-spring when the world is mud-luscious..."

ee cummings wrote the most wonderful poems about spring:

in Just-

spring       when the world is mud-
luscious the little lame balloonman


whistles       far       and wee


and eddyandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring


when the world is puddle-wonderful


the queer
old balloonman whistles
far       and       wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing


from hop-scotch and jump-rope and


it's
spring
and
the
goat-footed


balloonMan       whistles
far
and
wee (-ee cummings)

I always loved that poem, because it so beautifully describes the playful nature of spring when birds are starting to nest, buds are popping up out of their winter beds, and the trees are enveloping the world once again in their vibrant greens. "Just-spring" when it's at its ripest and most lush. And Pan, (or in this case, the "little lame balloonMan") is giving us all permission to leap headlong into it all, and succumb, once again, to that annual malady, Spring Fever.

A brush with color

("Just Add Water," As Danny Gregory would say)

While I've never had studio art classes, I've been an aficionado of things artistic all my life.

Several years ago, I decided to act on an impulse I've had for years, when I picked up a watercolor brush and six tubes of watercolors:
(two reds) alizarin crimson and cadmium red,
(two yellows) cadmium yellow and lemon yellow,
and (two blues) french ultramarine and phthalo blue.

I always had a secret desire to paint. I'd read books about artists, and mused about how it must feel to create something beautiful with your own hands. Since I wasn't sure if I'd be any good at it, I decided to try watercolors, (they were cheaper, for one, and it seemed to me you wouldn't need as much paraphernalia as you do with oils and other media.) If I wasn't any good at it, I reasoned, I wouldn't be wasting quite as much money, you see. I also had the interesting notion that somehow, watercolors must be "easy," since they're really just water and pigments in pretty tubes, right?

Well, my initial naive brush with color has grown into a passion and a healthy respect for all things watercolor. I've learned over and over that it's a difficult medium, but once you've dipped a springy brush into oozy, lush colors, and seen them magically meander on the rich surface of art papers, it's hard not to give in to the lure of this medium. I'm hooked, and now I'm always clamoring for more.

From those initial 6 tubes of watercolors, I've graduated to many shades and hues, each more beautiful than the last, and I've mixed hundreds of additional colors on papers and palettes. I've filled sketchbooks with images as I continue to learn. Art supply stores are my favorite haunts, and the people I've met who have similar interests are wonderfully creative folks for whom I have phenomenal respect and admiration. While I'm often not satisfied with my results, I'm committed to keep trying and working at it.

One of my favorite quotations is from Picasso, who said that "Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life." It's a healthy addiction. Of that, I'm certain.