The Garden Cafe'

MCMVIII - MMVIII

2008-06-18T11:11:00.000-07:00

My favorite old girl is celebrating one hundred years of life.

A ball was dropped on New Year’s Eve in Times Square for the first time to herald her coming. She arrived on the planet the same year as Simone de Beauvier, Rex Harrison, and Oskar Schindler; and she has outlived them all. The Grand Canyon was established as a “National Monument” the year she was born, (although Arizona itself was still a territory and would not be a state until 1912,) and Henry Ford produced his first Model T. Like this year, 1908 was a Leap Year, an Olympic year, (London Games) and an election year. Teddy Roosevelt was President when 1908 began, and William Howard Taft was president-elect when it ended. Butch Cassidy and Sundance were gunned down in Bolivia three days after that election.

A lot of things happen in a year. And a century.

Although she is turning a hundred, you won’t hear her name announced on the Today Show, or read any write-ups in the paper; because the exact date she came into being is sadly undocumented.

We will host a birthday party for her here in December because by then we will know she has had her birthday- but because we aren’t sure of the date, I thought she deserved some mention at this mid-point of the year.

The place that I call home is crossing into her second century.

She was built by a pair of schoolteachers, the Fergusons, who came from the Midwest to teach at the mining camps north of town, and later bought by one of Yuma’s founders, E.F. Sanguinetti, whose own (smaller) home is a local museum, and who rented her to the chief clerk at his store. Later, she was home to a Southern Pacific railroad engineer, was a boarding house during the depression, a piano and organ store in the fifties and sixties, and who knows what all else. She has survived earthquakes and major flooding on the Colorado, (six blocks away) she has stood calm- and as coolly as possible- through a hundred years of desert heat.

I am passionate about this old girl.

I don’t hear a train whistle in the night and not think about what that meant to another woman in this house who was waiting for her man’s return. I feel the flutter of relief in my own bosom that I know she must have felt. I don’t walk up the front steps, or touch a doorframe or a window, or stare through wavy panes as I wash my dishes, but know somewhere in the back of my mind that it’s all been done before. I don’t cross over the threshold from the outside world without feeling the burdens of the day leave me, and the welcome home of generations of people; strong, desert people; people whose names I will never know- but whose spirits I understand in ways beyond knowing- embrace me as I close the door. I am another link in chain of the living in this place, the loving in this place, the finding shelter in this place, that will continue far into the future.

And in return, I give her my devotion.

To me, this old house represents all the things I value most. It embodies the qualities I seek for myself, for my children, for my students, for the world. To me, a hundred years of eighteen-inch-thick, white-painted, concrete diamond-blocks stands for-- Integrity. Tenacity. Fortitude. Patience. It combines a respect for heritage with the ability to look beyond today to the future and know the foundation is strong enough to weather whatever may come.

And it feels just like home.

I am proud to be a link.

Happy Birthday, old girl.

And many, many more.

When I am in Charge

2008-05-31T14:23:00.000-07:00

When I am in charge, spring and summer mornings will be cool and quiet. We will look out to discover the shadowy remains of a light rain still puddling the earth. Flowers will unfurl as the sun rises, and bees and hummingbirds will begin their work. The rest of us shall come slowly awake to a dulcet symphony of birdsong and breeze.

When I am in charge, fall days will be crisp and bright. Beams of sunshine will slant through leaves of red and gold and purple and brown. They will dazzle the eyes of all who stop to stare in wonder.

Everyone will stop to stare in wonder.

When I am in charge, children will hurry eagerly to school, their tummies warm with breakfast, their little shoes crunching through ripples of fallen leaves. They will pause in their journey to laugh and point as a pair of squirrels spiral up the trunk of an old oak, chattering and scolding each other, leaping like monkeys from bough to bough.

The children will gather a small pile of acorns, and leave it at the foot of the tree. They will leap like monkeys the last few blocks to school.

When I am in charge, winter snowfamilies will adorn every front yard. The top-hat-and-corncob-pipe snowpeople will live next door to the hijab and turban snowpeople who wave across the street to the yarmulke-wearing snowman whose wife is just sitting down to coffee with the sculptors of a beautiful pair of rainbow-shawled snow-women so they can watch from the window as their children race flexible flyers down the sparkling street.

Scarves and mittens flash in a tumult the color of laughter against the backdrop of a gray-scale day.

When I am in charge, we will all take a page from Whitman. We shall begin and end our days conscious of our power to contribute and achieve. We will rise in the quiet calm of confidence, sing what we know best through the course of the day, and lie down again at night with a sigh of satisfaction. We will rest soundly in the knowledge that we have sung our part well, and that the parts beyond our range have been sung also.

Soft echoes of the chorus will reverberate harmoniously in the velvety blackness of the night.

And we shall sleep.

Dear World...

2008-05-10T10:31:00.000-07:00

Dear Colombian Coffee Pickers,
Muchas gracias.

Dear Substitute Teacher Who Fell Asleep While My Kids Watched A Movie,
You’re lucky they didn’t get the squirt bottle and spray you awake like I do them.

Dear Crossing Guard by the Elementary School in the “Hood”,
Watching those little kids jump and laugh trying to high-five you in the crosswalk made my day. You have a beautiful rapport with them, and they obviously look forward to seeing you every afternoon. You have taken an invisible and thankless job, and made it crucial.

Dear Hummingbird in the Backyard,
Come back tomorrow. The hibiscus will be in bloom.

Dear MySpace Tom,
Why does everything get prioritized above the “fancy new” rich-text generator we bloggers were promised last summer? I don’t want apps or to videotape my own karaoke, and I don’t need Friend Subscriptions for 264 more people.
I just want to italicize my comments.

Dear Red Rosebud Hanging Low from the Planter Who Never Got to Bloom,
Sorry about that. We’ll remember to feed the tortoise next time.

Dear 1980’s Family in the Framed Olan Mills Portrait at Goodwill,
What happened? What went wrong? What secret pain was hiding behind those orthodontically-enhanced smiles?

Dear Eighth-Grade Skip-Assembly Basketball Players who Beat the Faculty Team for the First Time in My Memory,
You ROCK!!!

Dear Kids in the Stands who Messed Up My Hair with Pom-Poms Every Time I Cheered All By Myself for the Teachers,
You rock too.

Dear Last Day of School,
Hurry up!

HeartSong (with disclaimers)

2008-04-19T19:07:00.000-07:00

In the umpteen zillion blogs I have posted between here, MySpace, and MCMM, there are two that had to do with writer’s block. Both of those dealt with frustration and resolve to correct. With the whole blood-on-the-keyboard, head-banging exasperation that comes from an ill-timed combination of actually having the time to let the words pour forth but lacking inspiration.

What I am experiencing right now is different. There is no doubt in my mind that if I opened the file that contains my WIP I could pick up where I left off and add pages. No doubt at all. I could do it.

But I don’t.

There is a part of me that scowls at my not-writing self in the mirror and scolds in her silent mean-teacher-voice, “How dare you call yourself a writer! Every book on writing you have ever picked up said point blank on the first page: ‘Writers write.’ It’s as simple as that. Are you a writer, or not? If you are, you’d better get your butt in the chair and prove it!”

But right now I don’t feel the need to prove anything.

Because there’s something else happening in my head, and I don’t know what it is yet. It’s misty. Hazy. Still opaque. Unformed.

With everything that’s happened in the last few weeks, it’s no surprise to find my brain full to bubbling over with unformed thoughts. I could set them on my desk at school next to the unformed lesson plans I’ve taught, or on the kitchen table next to the unformed meals I’ve fed my family and I would have a perfect matched set of-- unformed stuff. (Okay, I swore I was going to write this blog without any disclaimers whatsoever. I read an article in something- probably “O” magazine- that talked about the way women precede or postscript their ideas with disclaimers or appeals for consensus, as if their opinion alone wasn’t enough to count. I decided to watch myself in my speech and writing and eliminate that tendency, because I knew when I read it that I am guilty of doing that to myself. BUT- I need to reassure anyone that has made it this far into my ramble that the kids did get taught, and my family has not starved while I have wandered through the world for two weeks in this slightly oblivious, obscured, amorphous state.)

And again with the disclaimers in case any of you are worried that I may be in need of psychological help or medication: I am okay. My family is all fine. Allen -AKA- FGEB/BFF is okay and we will be together for a long weekend in May. My occasional MySpace guest-blogger and very most favorite Cousin B is recovering from a huge, dangerous, blood clot in his leg following a minor outpatient hernia surgery last week, but he’s okay too.

There has been so much occupying my mind and heart these last few weeks, that the not-writing right now isn’t a concern. I feel like a mama bird sitting on the nest, incubating a clutch of precious eggs that will hatch soon. The little birds that emerge will not be wrinkly and naked; they will be beautifully formed, with iridescent feathers in colors from a spectrum heretofore unperceived by the human eye. When they open their tiny golden beaks to sing, symphonies will break forth and the world itself will pause a moment on its axis to revel in the glory of their song.

But for this moment I must be still. Patient. Serene. I must absorb the sounds and colors that surround me. I must close my eyes to memorize the play of light as it dances through the prism of my heart.

Knowing Doesn't Matter

2008-04-07T05:40:00.000-07:00

It didn’t happen the way we wanted it to happen.

We didn’t want it to happen at all.

But even though we didn’t want it to-- we knew it eventually would.

We were intelligent people. Artistic. Witty. Gifted. We had the keys to intellectual knowledge at our fingertips and we used them. We read the papers, the articles, the textbooks, the websites. We educated ourselves in the way that we were taught to- we gathered information. We did our research. We asked all the right questions even as- deep inside- we knew the answers had the power to defeat us.

We knew.

But the knowing doesn’t matter when it tangles up with love. No level of scholarly education can intellectualize emotion or focus on statistics when our heart’s desire is finally, finally, Oh, thank you, God, finally! finally within our reach.

A few years is better than none, we tell ourselves;

…the sun came out and we were flying down the freeway with the top down…”Aah, I shrieked, “my hair!” “Your hair?” he yelled, over the roar of the wind, “Do you have any idea what this cut cost?”…

they will be good years.

“…Today I went shopping. With my partner’s ex-girlfriend. We bought a hat. Now, we’re slaving away cooking dinner together while he destroys the centerpiece and uses the flowers to decorate the hat so she can wear it to our wedding…”

We will laugh together,

“…and I wonder where Jerry Springer gets his guests?…”

we will love together,

“…‘now abides Faith, Hope, and Love. These three. But the greatest of these is Love.’ …”

we will build the kind of joy together that will live beyond the pain.

* * *

But nobody told us- not one article, textbook, or website- bothered to mention how much pain there would be to live beyond.

My sweet, funny, gentle friend David died of AIDS-related complications last week.

It didn’t happen the way we wanted it to happen…

We didn’t want it to happen at all…

But the knowing doesn’t matter when it tangles up with love.

I will be traveling to Minnesota for a memorial service in a few weeks. In the meantime, if you would, I ask that you please let me know that you were here. In lieu of any comments, please take the moment it would have taken you to write, and instead send out a prayer of whichever sort suits you best. A thought, a song, a meditation; simply send a moment of acknowledgement of David’s too-brief life.

Send it out to the farthest corners of the universe,

in to the minds of research scientists,

and send it extra soft-cushioned to my poor, darling, grieving Best Friend.

Once Upon a Time

2008-04-01T20:44:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time there was a mommy and a daddy. They lived in a house in the United States of America with their little girl. She was a wonderful little girl, and they were wonderful parents, and they decided that their family was such a happy one that their little girl should be a big sister. Within a few months they learned that the mommy was going to have a new baby, and they began to get a room in their house ready for the wonderful girl’s little brother or sister. Everything was just right.

But then one day the mommy felt that something wasn’t just right. She felt a pain in her tummy and went to the doctor. The doctor told the mommy that she would not be getting a baby after all. "In fact," said the doctor, "you will never be able to have any more babies at all."

The mommy and daddy were very sad.

Even though the doctor had told them they couldn’t get any more babies of their own, the mommy and daddy knew they were wonderful parents and still had lots of love to give another baby. Plus, they had a room all nice and ready. They called an Agency and asked if they had any babies who needed a wonderful family.

"Babies are hard to get," said the Agency Lady, "but if you want an older child, there are lots and lots of those to choose from." The mommy and daddy said that would be fine, and so they filled out forms in triplicate and got their fingerprints taken and had CPS come and look through all the cupboards in their house.

One day the Agency Lady called and said, "You are wonderful parents and we think you should come and look at pictures and see which older child you want." So the mommy and daddy went and looked through stacks and stacks of files. They found a picture of a little boy who was six years old. He lived far away across the sea in a country where there had been a war. The little boy had pretty brown eyes and black hair, and the wonderful mommy and daddy looked at each other and said, "This one is our little boy."

It took a long time for the little boy to come from the country across the sea to the United States of America. So long, in fact, that the mommy woke up one day while they were waiting for the boy to come and told the daddy that she needed to go to the doctor again. The doctor ran some tests on the mommy and looked at the results.

"But you told me I couldn’t get any more babies," the mommy said.

"Oops!" said the doctor.

So the wonderful little girl got not only a new big brother but a new little sister too.

And they both arrived within one little week!

The wonderful family lived very, very happily ever after.

* * *

I told my class during a discussion recently that my family must have looked like the United Nations getting out of a car. There was my dad, blue-eyed and blonde-haired with a red beard; my mom, auburn-haired with brown eyes; my brother, the black haired, brown eyed boy mentioned above; my surprise sister, with curly brown hair and blue eyes, and me, the wonderful green-eyed blonde. For a few years our varied palette became even more colorful when we had a foster brother and added one of African descent to the mix.

Looking at my family- at my parents especially- now, I see that in the shadow of the shameful age of this nations worst racial strife and intolerance, they were among the first- certainly the first in the Midwestern towns my father pastored, to walk the talk of their belief. Not that they did it to make a statement- oh, no. They did it because it was he only thing to do. Yet, simply by looking at us together in a restaurant or in church, I’m sure people were forced to consider: "If they can do this in their home, why can’t we do it in the world?"

At least for a moment.

It’s really not a difficult concept. Just shut your damn eyes and live together in peace. Listen. Depend on each other. Open your arms. Nurture each other. Love every person for who they are. Don’t make any judgments based on anything but the beauty that shines from within; because believe me-- shine it will.

My parents humble me.

At the time, I didn’t see them as revolutionary; that came later. Because they were, after all, my parents. They were just like everybody else’s parents: they expected me to do well in school; they came to all my plays and concerts; they fed me three times a day, flipped the porch lights on and off obnoxiously if I sat too long in the driveway with a date, and fussed if I got home past curfew. And they did the same for the rest of us. They were simply my family. Maybe we looked weird to other people, but we didn’t see it. All we knew was that in the eyes of our parents- we were the same. Equal. As I grew, that extended itself until that’s the way I looked at the whole big, beautiful world.

Call me a Pollyanna, but I still do.

There are very few things that truly frighten me, but one of those things is the inexplicable fact that there are still people on this planet in the year of our Lord 2008 who can somehow justify to themselves that it is right to make distinctions based on genetic difference rather than character. There are some people who have the power to conjure enough fear of melanistic diversity to ruin individual lives, thwart fractions of our society, and change the course of a nation.

Oh, come on, people. Forty-four years after the wonderful mommy and daddy went to the Agency, we have to be better than this!

Just shut your damn eyes, and--

See.

Birthday Magic

2008-03-24T05:48:00.000-07:00

(My son will be 19 tomorrow. This is an edited repost of a blog I wrote a year ago when his 18th birthday fell on Easter.)

My son is 18 today.

Today he will see what the bunny put into his Easter basket and accompany us to church. (he has already expressed sparkly-eyed resentment about spending “his” day in Jesus’ shadow) He will then eat a typical holiday feast at Grandma and Grandpa’s, (prime rib, mashed potatoes, corn pudding, cranberry-pineapple salad, grandma’s sweet-thyme carrots, green beans, and rolls; with lemon bars and cheesecake for dessert.) He will open birthday gifts, spend some time with distant relatives via phone…then he will register for Selective Service.

And I will watch the evening news and shudder.

I’m sure there has never been a time or place in history when parents were completely at peace with the politics and politicians that might govern their children’s destiny. But I am so uncomfortable with the leadership this country is under now that sometimes it’s all I can do not to google real estate prices and teaching jobs in oh, say, Canada. Or Switzerland.

Don’t get me wrong here. I love this country. Passionately. And I support the brave men and women who serve her. I was a Marine Corps wife; I believe with my whole heart in the principles of the foundation of these United States. I have often marveled in wonder at the likelihood of those minds, those leaders, those Framers all being in that one tiny corner of the globe at the exact right moment in history to build a government of the people, by the people, and FOR the people.

If Paul Revere had galloped by on his stallion in the middle of the night last night and called for volunteers? I would -with a heavy but willing heart- have sewn that last wooden button on my son’s homespun Minuteman jacket and laid it out next to his father’s.

That, I understand. And other eras in our military history as well. But this? Must I sit by idly and watch as my only begotten son adds his name- that name so carefully considered by me eighteen years ago for meter, implication, and strength- to a roster of potential sacrifice? In the name of what?

The irony of this critical juncture falling on Easter is not lost on me.

The night before Snooze turned four, I was overcome with the significance of that age. No longer really a toddler, his increasing sense of humor and independence was compounding daily; he was growing too fast. I held him and snuggled him and told him I needed to hold on to my three-year old. I asked him if he would consider staying three; if it would be okay to just forget about his birthday. “No, Mom,” he giggled. “Tomorrow is my birthday. We’re having cake and presents. I’m going to be four.”

“I know!” I cried, “I’ll make a potion! Come with me! Maybe if you drink it, you’ll stay three!”
We went to the kitchen.

“Mommy, that’s just Sprite and orange juice. It won’t keep my birthday away.” He drank it down. “Yum.”

Every birthday-eve since, I have concocted a “potion” (now with sibling help) to try to slow the passage of time. Although it never works and despite many recipes,(no two years or potions are ever the same) if I should happen to forget to brew one, the birthday-to-be always reminds me. “Don’t I need a potion?” they ask. Both my children understand I want to hold them forever in my heart, exactly the way they are. They love and look forward to this tradition.

The “eighteen potion” was a passionate red. Hot, bitter, sweet, and vitamin-packed.

Oddly reminiscent of adulthood itself.

Confessions of a Wimpy Weenie Desert Rat

2007-01-13T20:26:00.000-08:00

This is ridiculous.
I am sitting on the floor by my fireplace. I am wearing a long-sleeved black t-shirt under a fleece hoodie sweatshirt emblazoned with the name of my school, red sweat pants, stripey socks, and my shearling-lined slippers.
I'm seriously considering a second pair of socks.
Do I need to remind somebody that this is the DESERT?!?
If this is what they call global warming, we're really in trouble. Not only are the polar icecaps melting because we're selfishly insistent on burning fossil fuels, but the scientific community can't tell their hot from cold.
Now, I'm a tree-hugger from way back. Since that first Ranger Rick magazine made its way to my mailbox when I was in the third grade, I've been acutely aware and continually reminded of the foolhardiness of the human race-- and Americans in particular- when it comes to taking care of this planet.
"I, (state your name), as a member of Ranger Rick's Nature Club do hereby promise to:
Train my mind to think about the importance of nature,
Train my eyes to see the beauty of all outdoors,
Use my hands to protect soil, woods, water and wildlife,
And by my good example, help others to understand, respect, and…" aw, hell. I forgot the rest.
Sometimes on Saturday mornings after we'd done our chores, my mom would let a group of our friends come over and we would have a meeting in the basement. I was the president, because I was the oldest, I was the bossiest, and it was my house. We would stand up and say the pledge. We would read a story out loud from the magazine. We would talk about various plans to hold bake sales to buy official NWF Ranger Rick badges, get in boisterous arguments about who should bring what for said bake sale, whether we would make more money at Hy-Vee or Fareway, how long my term as president should run because just because you're president doesn't make you the boss of everything, you know; and eventually the door at the top of the stairs would open, and we'd hear Mom call, "Girls! Come and get these sacks and go for a walk around the neighborhood. You're here to be a nature club. Stop bickering and go pick up litter." So we did, and that was fun.
Never did get those badges.
I know the rest of you are having weird weather this winter too. I talked to my sister Kathy last night, and Des Moines should be getting their first snowfall of the year right…..about………..now. We had a few "brown Christmases" when I was growing up, especially when we lived in the southern part of the state, but there had usually been snow earlier in the season. And there was never anything like the balmy light-sweater weather they've experienced this year. I've seen An Inconvenient Truth. This is more than a little scary.
I know I risk making a laughingstock of myself by admitting this, but my AOL weather tells me it's 43° right now, but "feels like" 37. We have a freeze warning in effect tonight.
There go your lettuce prices. And your orange juice.
When we first came to Yuma twenty-two years ago, I was a thick-blooded, cocky Northerner. I ran around in my shorts all winter and swam in the pool at our first apartment complex in January. I observed the natives with a smug little half-smirk and felt morally superior because--HA! Are you kidding me? She's wearing mittens?-- they obviously couldn't begin to fathom the word "cold." Those wimpy fools would curl up and die with five minutes of exposure to a real Northwest Iowa January. Seventy-five below zero wind chill, that's what I call cold. What a bunch of weenies. I'll bet they're not cold at all, they just want to wear winter fashions.
Tell you what-- I'm no fashion plate here tonight.
Karma's a bitch.
Quick! Go recycle something!
Please?!?!

Mopping Up Misconceptions

2007-01-05T17:49:00.000-08:00

For once and for all, I would like to address a few oversights still lingering around the perimeter of my online persona. This is a blog of pure self-indulgence, dear reader, proceed or not, the choice is yours. But let it not be said I withheld an iota of my true nature.
For quick reference, here are but a few of the things some of you have said about me in the recent past. Forgive my not quoting you by name.
1) Intelligent, happy, fun, deep thinker, spiritual, warm, and tenacious.
2) …a dear and gracious soul.
3) …a Mary Poppins sort...you know-- "Pleasingly perfect in every way.”
4) …you are clearly a strong woman. roar.
5) you are: 1). brutally honest; 2). Interesting; 3). A perfect girl next door in thought and appearance...
I have chosen these particular descriptors for several reasons. First, they were available without digging too deeply into the blog archives. Second, each of these gave me a moment’s pause when I first read them. A flinching second of “…hmm. What gave them that idea?”
I do have a thinly-applied veneer of most of these lovely qualities. I come from a long line of intelligent, gracious, strong, honest, interesting, spiritual people; the simple proximity of so much goodness was bound to rub off a little.
Perfect example- Sunday’s paper contained this huge article about my dad. Too bad you can’t see the accompanying pics.
http://sun.yumasun.com/google/ysarchive25677.html
(My mom says the reporter took some adjectival license and over-dramatized a bit- but nevertheless…)
When followed by a phone call from my brother on Monday- he was at the airport, on his was to Haiti for the fourth time. They’re building a school for a desperately poor village there, and this time he’s setting up a free hot lunch program for the kids. And then there’s my sister- ER nurse-- Florence Nightingale incarnate…
Get the picture? While I’ve been surrounded by nothing but good examples, left to my own devices, I’m the family snark. I’m the bossy, picky, selfish, bitchy perfectionist in the bunch. I have a tendency toward brutal vanity, egocentrism, and an acid tongue. My expectations for myself and others are extremely high: good grades, good character, good grammar, good grooming. I surround myself with a constant stream of pretty little luxuries; from that perfect cup of coffee upon rising, to the finest bedding money can buy that shrouds me as I sleep- my world will smell, sound, feel, taste, and look as delicious as I can possibly make it.
Manipulation is my middle name. I mold myself and my surroundings to fit my needs. I believe this nimbleness is due in part to being a child of children of the Depression. Find a way. Make it work. I can have a Victorian home in the Sonoran Desert. I can raise bright, beautiful, articulate children in an increasingly plastic world. I can become a published author in my forties. Try to stand in my way.
If my tolerance level for bigotry, ignorance, homophobia, pettiness, and pretentiousness were the water table; the world would be swimming right now. And good riddance to those who brought on our submersion. (I only hope I wasn’t the Red Cross lifeguard who taught their lessons-- they’d be too competent. I hope it was the giggling bimbo from the other session.)
Even as I wrote it, the above list made me laugh. These are among the most despised human qualities imaginable to me, and yet I willingly spend my days in a Middle School- a veritable breeding ground for such thinking. I’ll say it again. My classroom is my last-chance battleground. I will use all weaponry available to me in literature and thought to question and quash those ideologies before releasing my students on society.
I’ve wound myself down now- suffice to say-- just know I don’t want to give the false impression of sweetness and light when I see my own countenance as being closer to vinegar and steel.
Except I refuse to corrode.

Having it All

2007-01-01T20:54:00.000-08:00

As this new year is undoubtedly the one in which I shall take the literary world by storm, I have taken the opportunity presented by this final vacation to feed my family. I say "final vacation" because it is obviously the last one I will have time to enjoy before I become overwhelmed by slavering agents, editors, and publicity personnel seeking my illustrious presence at book-signings, library ribbon-cuttings, and, of course, they will need my counsel and advice at all those tedious-yet-thrilling meetings to oversee the adaptation of No Matter What to the big screen. I'll also have to squeeze in some time to pick up those two Honorary Doctorate of Letters my Alma Maters will be begging me to take off their hands. Damn good thing I love public speaking.
It's going to be a busy year.
Anyway, I have to make sure the home-folks get fattened up before I begin the talk show circuit. Mike is a good cook when we're here together, but if I'm out of town for any length of time, it's a living testimony to Supersize Me around this place. When I went to that differentiated instruction conference in Scottsdale last month, (my "sleep number" is 35, by the way. Nice hotel!) I had to unearth my daughter from a landslide of Dominoes boxes in the kitchen when I got home. Poor baby. God only knows how long she was under there. The therapist says she should start speaking again any day now.
One thing I will say about me: I am a damned good cook. Ask my thighs. When I have the time, budget, and inclination, there is little I enjoy more than puttering around with all my gorgeous gadgets (All hail Cuisinart! God bless KitchenAid!* ) and concocting the kind of food most people only see in magazines. My future bestsellers will include at least one cookbook, according to Michele, who has hired herself as my business manager. (As long as we can keep her at her current salary, I'll keep her on staff. ** ) Amazing as my culinary masterpieces have always been, over the past couple of weeks I have surpassed even myself.
In the "Books" section on my page, I pay homage to my living literary idol, Pat Conroy, author of many hysterical and heart-wrenchingly beautiful novels. Sir Pat*** has a cookbook available that includes stories as wonderful as any of his other work. (These keep you occupied while you whisk that fascinating roux for fifteen minutes wondering if it will ever really reach a "deep caramel color and/or smell of toasted almonds." Trust me. It will do both. It was like a science lab!) It also has recipes that, albeit time-consuming, will have your taste buds standing at full attention, and you gathering fragrant roses from the kitchen floor.****
So in addition to my own secret recipes, I have used part of my vacation whipping out Conroy-inspired dishes. We received a package of gigantic Gulf shrimp from my dad, so yesterday Mike and I followed every one of the two-thousand steps (Mike pulled out the shrimp poo while I whisked that magical 15-minute roux.) required to make the Gumbo on pages 90,91, and 92 of The Pat Conroy Cookbook.
Oh. My. God.
Never let it be said that good things aren't worth waiting for. Never let it be said that you can't be a literary superstar and a five-star chef simultaneously. Never let it be said that I- like my hero Sir Pat- can't have it all.
I'm due.
(footnotes)
*Seriously. Not only do they make all those fabulous appliances in RED, but I blew out three, count them: three hand mixers in the year before I got my Artisan. Cream Cheese frosting for "Anoka Minnesota Lutheran Ladies' Carrot Cake" did in the first two, mortar icing for a fabulous gingerbread house brought on the third smoky demise. It was grim.
**Yes, it's still $0.00, Dan. Stop sniffing around.
***Dubbed him myself, thank you. If this were Britain, it would have been done long ago.
****The ones your family has flung in their wild ovation over your gastronomic prowess, silly! Whaddaya mean, "Huh? What roses?"

Thrill Ride

2006-11-19T09:35:00.000-08:00

When I was a kid there was a big roller coaster at Six Flags in Kansas City called the ScreamRoller. It was the first upside down loop-di-loop I ever rode. I remember finishing my first ride on it and being amazed that upside-down wasn’t nearly as terrifying as the ninety degree sideways turn- when you found yourself looking over your shoulder at the ground a hundred feet down. Thinking about it now, I have to wonder if that was more frightening because it was a more familiar sort of fear. Perhaps the brain registers the danger of falling from that position more readily because that’s the usual way to fall, as opposed to dropping straight out of the sky onto the top of your head…
Whatever the root of this insane logic, it has never kept me from doing it again.
And again.
Fortunately for me right now, I have spent most of my life a roller-coaster junkie. My adult favorite is Space Mountain at Disneyland. There’s just something so exhilarating about stepping onto the platform at the end of a ride after willingly hurtling yourself through darkness and space- having no idea what’s waiting around the next bend-- and even before it’s over, you know that if the damned line wasn’t so long, you’d go right back and do it again. You take inventory of your body parts- all present and accounted for. Good. What else can I do that will shake up my guts like that did? Hmm…
I am riding the SpaceMountainScreamRoller of my life these days. Only in this fun park they disguise its true nature; they dress it in a suit and tie and call it the Publishing Industry. Instead of happy faces and mouse ears, the ticket takers work at the post office. They’re excited about your ride, they lick stamps and strap you in safely. Then ,up you go,into the darkness-- and up still further; a request for the partial, a request for the full, your hopes are mounting, breath comes in gasps--the contract is within reach--then WHOOSH! To the bottom again. The letter arrives. “nothankyounotrightformebestofluckinyoursearchforrepresentation.”
Staring at the listings in The Writer’s Market, I am struck by the same cruel irony I felt trying to find a part-time summer job when I was an undergrad. To be a waitress you need waitressing experience. Or know someone in the business. To get published, you have to have publishing credits. Or know someone in the business.
My eternal undying devotion and gratitude to the two women in this industry who have stepped up to the plate to help me in this thrill-ride so far. The simple knowledge that they have seen my work and believe in it and me is sometimes the only thing that gets me back onto this potential hurtling death-trap. Their confidence in my story is my seat belt and my safety bar. I wish there were more out there like them. More who are willing to step forward and say; “This is good stuff. Let me see what I can do to help.”
I never was a waitress, by the way. I may be the only person on earth with an advanced degree and no food-service job history. But I will be a published author.
I’m looking for my roller-coaster ticket again. It’s here somewhere.

Pedestrian X-ing

2006-10-05T09:56:00.000-07:00

“I have lost friends, some by death, others through sheer inability to cross the street.” - Virginia Woolf

I have never been afraid to cross streets, real or metaphorical.

One legend that has been oft-repeated in my family is the story of my dad walking me to a play date with a friend when I was two or three. We came to an intersection, he instructed me to stay on the curb, and squatted down to show me how to look both ways. In the middle of the lesson, he glanced at my feet. One round-toed little Ked had sneaked down into the street. I looked at him with guileless eyes, and he knew he was in trouble. As a toddler I was already daring anything - be it traffic or my dad’s lesson- to stop me or even detain me momentarily from reaching my destination-- in this case a friend.

I’ve had some rather crucial “Street-crossing” phone calls this week. One was made by me, the other to me. Both marked important changes in long-term friendships.

The call I made was to Minnesota, to the residence of the first man I ever told “I love you.” This relationship is one of my most prized- both because of the length of time involved, and the nature of its beginning. It is unusual to have any communication drought between us and I had been chalking it up to normal busy-ness for awhile, but the truth is I had been concerned about it for some time. So when he missed my birthday, I picked up the phone. He wasn’t home, and I had an uninterrupted hour of phone time with his partner.

My “favorite gay ex-boyfriend” (FGEB) is finally, some twenty-five years later, pursuing his MFA in Theatrical Design, and has a show opening this weekend. The show, incidentally, is Peter Pan, one I have heard derisive guffaws from him about for several decades now. I can’t say for certain, but it may well have to do with the whole idea of clapping your hands if you believe in fairies.

And I say that with all good humor and love.

So partner and I had phone time. And I learned that the reason for extended silence from the land of 10,000 lakes has not been simple busy--ness, but that there has been some real trouble in paradise, and it is likely trouble of the irreparable kind. Which makes me very sad.

FGEB sang at my wedding half a lifetime ago, I flew up to read “Desiderata” at their commitment ceremony in 2000. I love them with every fiber of my being, and will be devastated by this split. I will maintain a relationship with both of them no matter what happens. I have been walking happily down the sidewalk with these two men for nine years now, and we have come to an intersection.

We are standing at the curb. We stop and look both ways. We make our way across together.

The call I received was from my favorite cousin B. In this case, I suspect a change may be in the offing; a “hook-up,” for lack of a more accurate term, between my life-long love-hate, adversarial adolescent off-limits summertime crush--turned adult confidante, frequent houseguest and trusted ally, B, and one of the dearest female friends I have ever had. With his phone call, I sensed that feelers were being extended in my direction to gauge my response, not as his cousin, but as a far more primary relationship and one he is less inclined to disregard: his friend.

And by so doing, I see that he doesn’t want us to get run over either. He’d like to step off the curb, but wants to be sure I will cross this street with him.

Of course I will. Because when I say “I love you,” I mean it for keeps.

At the top of my MySpace blog is a motto I thought long and hard about before posting. It is one I firmly believe. I have lost many “friends” over the years to street traffic, because they were willing to forsake fundamental things they claimed they believed, who they had been, and all they stood for when they were faced with adversity. There inevitably comes a moment when people must stand up and define themselves- stand alone and name out loud the hill upon which they are willing to die. I have done it many times. I have written the manifesto, I have climbed up on the soapbox, I have declared my independence. I’m sure I will do it again.

“I am every age I ever was,” because I honor my experiences. And because I honor them, FGEB, Cousin B, and several others have lifetime membership in my friendship hall of fame, with all the rights, benefits, and privileges inherent to that distinction.

Which include crossing busy streets in construction zones on rainy, moonless nights.

Together.