BIDING TIME

 

 I can think of a few Southern sayings for what I must have been doing all this while that I’ve been absent from writing or communicating.

There’s

Piddlin’

Whittlin’

Whiling away . . .

Well, things rocked on. . .

Killing Time . . .

Making Hay . . .

Sleeping in . . .

Rolling around Heaven . . .

Sogging

I been kinda lapseful

I found them jotted in my little trove of stuff I dash down in WORD, copying and pasting and borrowing the GOOD STUFF from hither and yon.   I love the comfortable sayings, the ideas of being which give our lives happy moments, memorable days, and since I’ve been here but FAR for so long, here are a few little bits from others’ words and gleanings.  They're in all their own italics and personal print, just as I’ve returned to them time after time---I leave you with some Good Stuff to ponder:

It was a gentle jolt, a reminder that these inconspicuous, ordinary moments of nice— the cups of sugar, the genuine smiles, the held doors, the jumped batteries, the can I get that for yous— are what keep us fastened and snapped, what keep us gentle and sweet. Like milk and eggs, these unexpected twinklings of everyday grace are the staples of life. They are what measure us.
Mrs. G. Derfwad Manor 

I love the sunsets...

I especially love sharing them with family.

It is like the sun kisses us all goodnight..

and we have made it safely through

another day.

Nana Diana

Sometimes compassion has nothing to do with treating adults like children. Sometimes you carry the burden silently so those who are unable to do so don't have to try 

“All that is gold does not glitter, 

Not all those who wander are lost; 

The old that is strong does not wither, 

Deep roots are not reached by the frost."
-J.R.R Tolkien

Home is not simply a mark upon a map any more than a river’s just water.
It is the place at the centre of the compass from which every arrow radiates,
and where the heart is fixed.
It is a force that forever draws us back or lures us on.
For where the home is, there lies hope.
And a future waits.
And everything is possible.

DEEP PEACE OF THE RUNNING WAVE TO YOU.

DEEP PEACE OF THE QUIET EARTH TO YOU.

DEEP PEACE OF THE FLOWING AIR TO YOU

DEEP PEACE OF THE SHINING STAR TO YOU.

Second–hand books are wild books, homeless books; they have come together in vast flocks of variegated feather, and have a charm which the domesticated volumes of the library lack. Besides, in this random miscellaneous company we may rub against some complete stranger who will, with luck, turn into the best friend we have in the world. 

Virginia Woolf, "Street Haunting: A London Adventure" (1930).

In our little corner of Paradise all is the same, which is the equivalent of "All is Well," I think. Yet, looking outside, it is NOT the same as I see the red bud blooming wildly and the Spring wheat now sprung nearly 15 inches tall in places, flat in silken obedience to the wind in others.  

Oatmeal and Whimsy

And the whole section ended with my own explanation of why I like a SOFT house:

My admiration for a “modern” house is sound, based on the clean clear lines and absolutely neutral everything. But I could NOT wake up to such spare flat open air every day, for I used to look at the immovable concrete sofas and tables in the Wright houses and feel the chill in my bones. The marble and the iron, and the flat decks of cabinets in the kitchens---I'd NEVER find the fridge in all those anonymous doors, let alone the flour or spoons.

I quite understand the sparse, minimalist home, with gray and khaki and pale-washed blues; stark whites and bare walls bring an open beauty to the squared-off sitting areas and the one apple in a dish, like a deserted still-life, as if the artist grew weary of the subject, or perhaps just hungry too soon.

No. Love the idea and honor anyone’s love for such strict decor, but so much bone and no softness, no colour, no curves---not for me.    It feels as if the people who live there must live spare lives---arid, almost, as if they might spend their days pinned on a clothesline, like laundry in the wind.

Those spare, echoing floors and stem-legged furniture with sunshine on the shining wood beneath give me a chill.   We are not spare people; we are all round and comfy and hospitable, with deep-cushioned chairs and big ottomans and pillows and throws.   Our windows are hazed with filmy sheers and lacy valances,  filtering in patterns of sun on the florals and leaves.  Pink and rose and ferny greens are the colours of my life, like the softest pastels in the paintbox.

Soon the winds will turn to Spring, and we’ll launder the sheers, open the windows, dust the dressers, plump the Spring pillows of birds and flowers, then settle for a moment upstairs with lemony tea to admire our handiwork, as once more the seasons turn.

  I wish you all a Happy Biding Time til SPRING!

DEE VEE DEE

 Exactly ten years ago, I published a poem---not one of my own, but a fulsome, perfect-rhyme and scan from a young lady I knew only from the Internet, and her interesting take on all things via an etiquette forum.   Known to us only as FreakyFemme, she was wicked smart and had a keen eye for the humanity in everything.  I just kept reading and marveling at the clever flow of line after line of such fun observation on our dedication to our electronics, and her sharp way with words.   Some of the items spoken of are probably obsolete right now, including the eponymous DVD, but I went looking for an old blog post to re-publish yea, these ten years later, and this one fit perfectly.    

Perfectly as a poem, and perfectly because I'm hiding down here in my computer lair while Leah is upstairs setting all the channels/shows/panels/passwords on our new TV, just received and slid across the snowy porch to me by a laughing young delivery person.    I never knew this young poet's real name, but her canny mastery of words and all things messenger-y is astounding.    Imagine her gift these ten years later:

Divinia Vera Davidson had five advanced degrees
From a top-tier institution, known to most as "U of T."
She was quite well-versed in art and law, she'd travelled 'round the globe,
But her single fatal flaw? She was an awful technophobe.
She couldn't load her iPod, and she couldn't set a clock,
Or turn on the television, and she feared electric shock
From such modern-day devices as TV's and microwaves,
But from this dire dilemma, she did not want to be saved.

"Television makes you STYEWPID!!!"; she snorted in disgust,
But her daughter, Dora Vivian, said "Face your fears, you must!
For, it will not be forever that your offspring will remain

In the family home to help you with machines, and ease the pain
Of trekking through this modern world, a closet technophobe,
For soon will come OUR turn to leave the house, and tour the globe,
Go to school to fill our eager minds with wisdom and insight
That helped you bring us up thus far, and teach us wrong from right.
Darren Vernon, my dear brother, cannot come home each weekend
To load your precious iPod, so this madness, it must end!"

But despite her daughter's speech, Divinia didn't want to learn
The how-to's of electronics, for she feared that it would spurn
Teasing comments, hurtul insults, from her daughter and her son,
And her husband, Donald Vincent--law degrees, he had just one,
But he thought himself the smartest of the Davidson household,
And she didn't want to prove to him the words she had been told:

"Electronics are a boy thing, beyond females' feeble brains,
Just attempt to understand them, and you'll drive yourself insane
From the vast array of buttons, CD drives, and dials, and knobs!"
(Although he was quite a kind man, Donald was a techno-snob).
But then one fateful dinnertime, a package came by mail,
And when Divinia opened it, her face went deathly pale.
For in this cursed package was a hated enemy,
A round and shiny metal disc: a movie DVD.

The film itself was excellent, right up Divinia's street,
And the giver, her big sister, was just trying to be sweet
And give Divinia's birthday the attention it deserved,
But at the thought of playing it, Divinia was unnerved.
Of this monumental challenge, Divinia had two minds,
For she loved her sister dearly, and the gesture had been kind,
She yearned to see that movie, she had read all the reviews,
And the critics deemed it five-star work, they said "C'est merveilleux!"
It was black and white, subtitled, frontal nudity as well,
It was quite the high-art movie, as far as she could tell,
But how would Divinia know for sure? The mystery remained
So, to find a cogent answer, poor Divinia wracked her brain.

Donald Vincent could not help her, for he was out of town
Playing golf with his two brothers, from sunup until sundown.
Dora Vivian was gone as well, performing in a show,
And the whereabouts of Darren Vernon? Well, she did not know.
Perhaps he was out partying, perhaps he had night class,
But wherever her young son was, a predicament had passed
In the living room that evening, so what could Divinia do?
So she had to fight her demons by facing what was true.

She stared the beast of burden in its one unblinking eye,
And said "I don't like you, you don't like me, but I have to try
To unlock the cryptic secret that surrounds your operation!"
After all, she had once saved a struggling village from starvation!

"This couldn't be much harder," she reasoned in her mind,
"Technophobia's no handicap, like being deaf or blind.
So, if I want to conquer this, the power lies with me,
I can stay here in the darkness, or my movie, I can see!"

So, she grabbed the small black clicker, with its Power button red,
And aimed it at the T.V., with her stomach wracked with dread.
She feared a huge explosion would accompany an error,
But she pressed the button anyway, despite her untold terror.
Surprisingly, despite her fear, the house remained intact,
For Divinia had completed the first formidable act.
There were people moving, speaking, dancing, laughing on the screen
Such a joyous beacon of success, Divinia'd never seen.
Next, she found the number keypad, turned the set to channel three,
And then pressed the small grey button that read "VCR/TV"
(Or was that TV/VCR? The answer slipped my mind,

But the way out of her quagmire, Divinia could now find).

Having done these steps, Divinia then bent down upon her knees,
And found the power button on the player, DVD.
This button was denoted with a circle and a stick
That went through the circle's middle, like a rotund candle's wick.
So, Divinia pressed the button, and the light lit up in green,
Like the fields of poppies in her very favourite Monet scene.
Then on the DVD remote, she pressed the "Input" switch,
And the big black Clairtone picture came at once, without a hitch.

Also on the DVD remote, the button "Open/Close"
Stood out to her quite clearly, like autumn's final rose
Surrounded by its wilted siblings, crumbling, dry and brown,
But in the top left corner, this button could be found,
Decorated with its symbol, a triangle and a square,
And when the player opened, she knew she was almost there.

Barely hiding her excitement, she opened up the case
That contained her precious movie, and with little time to waste,
She placed it, picture facing up, in the player's waiting tray,
Closed the drive, waited a moment, and then pressed the button "Play,"
Whose forward-facing arrow accompanied its name,
And on every DVD device, that button is the same.
Within a few short moments, the movie sprang to life,
And when Donald Vincent came back home, his now-triumphant wife
Exclaimed to him in jubilation, happiness, and pride,
"I faced my technophobia, now come join me inside!
We can watch the artsy movie, and I'm no longer afraid!
Hey, you look pretty thirsty, I'll go make some lemonade.
But first, to freeze the movie while I head into the kitchen,
I have to press 'Play/Pause' again. Technology is B!tchin!"

So, from that evening onward, Divinia wasn't scared;
At movie operations, she was no longer impaired.
For, since she'd climbed that mountain, she would never forget how
To play a DVD again, and her older friends she wowed
With her awesome newfound prowess at that deadly metal box,
Whose improper operation did NOT cause electric shocks,

But her friends were unenlightened, and were firmly unaware

Of how to use machinery, so of course, Divinia shared
The secret she had learned. She spread the message far and wide,
(Part of this was out of kindness, but mostly it was pride).
But despite Divinia's motives, she birthed a revolution
Of self-reliant folks who did NOT fear electrocution
From a simple movie player, so all across the town,
With their favourite DVD's, the former technophobes sit down.

Now, Divinia's awesome victory did not come with a medal,
Or a framed degree or trophy, so Divinia had to settle
For the quiet, strident cheering from her husband and her son,
And daughter, Dora Vivian, but she knew what she had done.
She'd faced her fear, and conquered it, so she now felt like a god--
And to celebrate, she taught herself to load her own iPod.

THEY BRIGHT ME

All my life I've had folks tell me that I have "such a sunny outlook," and that I "look on the Bright Side."   Several readers have in the past commented on my use of the words, "They BRIGHT me,"   or "It BRIGHTS me," to mean the subject matter/picture/person/scene/item/thought/prayer/wish/greeting or gift touched my heart or mind in a way to bring joy to my day.  It could be a stranger's family photo, or a lucky find at a Thrift Shop or verse on a pillow---so many things just take my imagination and send it soaring, or bring a smile of a remembered friend, or simply give a fresh meaning to ordinary objects and days.

And not so long ago, after a lifetime of being in the family I was born to, I discovered the most remarkable thing:   BRIGHT is a vivid, long-time attribute of our Family Tree.  Just thinking back on family names brought the strangest assemblage of similar names I've ever encountered---born to, and married into, and named for--accounted for the strangest convocation of synonyms outside Roget's ken.  

So---to the FAMILY TREE, to start with me:   My Daddy married a young lady named RAY, and then my middle name was RAY for my Mother.  

 

Daddy's older sister was Lucille---which means "Light."

His baby sister was Nell---Shining Light.    She married a young man whose name was BRIGHT.

Daddy's brother married a young woman whose maiden name was SPARKS.

Mother's only sibling married a young woman whose maiden name was RAY.

Daddy's only other sister's married name was WOOD---without which no good fire . . .

 

THINGS I MISS

Reminiscing this sunny morning on the bright beginning of a shiny NEW YEAR.  Things I miss: 

Grady Nutt---Miss Minnie Pearl---Walter Cronkite---Gladys Taber---church bells--- Christopher Reeve---Beah Richards---chenille spreads---Pam & Jerry North---the scent of the earth at First Turning---orange popsicles---Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific---Kraft Theater---going caroling---Richard Boone---All-Day Singin's and Dinner on the Grounds---screen doors with springs---Andy Williams---letters in the mailbox---Martha Rae---mud pies---snow cream---caftans ---the scent of burning leaves---Rob and Laura---vanity skirts---John Ritter---Plum Nuts ice cream--- throwing bread to the bears---hayrides---Vacation Bible School---watermelon cuttings---black telephones---TAXI---those prickly Christmas corsages with artificial greenery and pinecones---Gilmore Girls---Andy Sipowicz---pink Desert Flower lotion---individual iced cakes at parties---crew cuts---wooden ironing boards---real clothespins---Alfred Hitchcock Presents---Mr. Rogers---the scent of Coppertone---Imogene Coca---Fred Waring---Alice at Tea in My Cup---jerky, screechy black-and-white Julia Child on Saturday afternoon---Miss Frances and Ding Dong School---Twilight Zone---mercury thermometers---the REAL Monday-Night lineup which included Designing Women and Hearts Afire, and culminated in Northern Exposure.

Reaching into a cooler or a Coke-box---the kind with lift-up lid and the vague scent of salty metal, with the arctic water and floating ice surrounding the little glass bottles of Coke.

The old pump-organ which occupied one whole wall of my Mammaw’s “middle room,” with its furbelows and fancy carvings, the old rough keys yellowed as horses’ teeth, and the decades of layers of hanging hats, pincushions, ribbon, bias tape, seam binding, tape measures, Cardui calendars, tussy-mussies, hatpins and dogtags giving it the look of a melted closet. I know I dusted the thing---I REMEMBER dusting it---I just can’t think HOW. I’d sit on the floor, put both feet onto the pedals, and pump madly for a moment, then hop up onto the stool, and quickly one-finger through “Ju-ust As I . . .” before the air supply wheezed silent.

Our little corner “caffay” with the floor of inch-square black-and-white tiles, where the eight turquoise boomerang-formica booths and six counter-stools served thousands of those sublime mustard/pickle/onion crinkle-paper hamburgers over the years, and a little steel sherbet-cup of vanilla ice cream with a string of Hershey’s syrup was the most elegant dessert on Earth.

And speaking of ice cream---there’s nothing to compare with a hot Sunday afternoon out under the mimosas, cranking up a freezer or two of banana ice cream---Eagle Brand, whole milk and a big hand of smooshed bananas---to serve soft and rich into wide soup bowls. I can feel the dust-heat and hear the scrape of those spoons.

Net or organdy or dotted Swiss skirts on kidney-shaped vanities. I coveted one of those with my whole heart; the trendy teen across the street had one, with a chair to match---it looked as if our town seamstress had made a housecall to stitch Spring formals onto both pieces of furniture.

The ladies-in-black at the really elegant clothing stores in the larger towns. I imagined they had a training school for these take-no-prisoners, brusque women, like some sort of college with courses in “No-nonsense” and “Abrupt.” They all wore their glasses on chains around their necks, had crisply-permanented or upswept hair, and wore thick-heeled old-lady laceup shoes; every look at you seemed delivered through a lorgnette. Thank goodness I was only there to hold Mother’s purse.

Sample sizes. The tiny lipsticks, usually white plastic, about as big as a good squeeze of toothpaste, with a teensy real cover and a tiny cylinder of real lipstick---the ends usually flat on two sides, like a roof on an elf-house. The little pots and jars of real cold cream and moisturizer and astringent, and wee stoppered drams of cologne---the real stuff, not those magazine tear-outs or those nose-clogging “cards” foisted out by brittle women in Nordstrom and van Maur.

Dishes in products---many a little home kitchen was furnished with one-at-a-time wheat-pattern dishes from boxes of Duz, and I once had quite a nice collection of pale blue glassware---goblets to juices, extracted carefully and excitedly each week from boxes of Rinso, the powder as blue as the glass. Gas stations had dish-a-week giveaways, too, with a fill-up.

Cartoons and newsreels and the Saturday serial at movies. This new practice of  filling up the gaps before and between shows with thunderous car and Coke ads, and the seat-shaking noise of “trailers” for twenty minutes just isn’t the same, somehow.

Waitresses in uniforms, especially pink ones---nylon a bonus. Extra points for Dr. Scholl’s shoes and a pencil through the perm.

The scent of old-time grocery stores, with hints of spice and onion skins and the arid crisp dustiness of dried beans, the pungent hit of flyspray, the exotic float of musk from the big hanging stalk of bananas, and the sweet vanilla/licorice/chocolate mingle of the candy case. All enhanced, of course, by a flappy screen door with a green-painted metal “Nehi” or “Grapette” guard-strip just at hand height. Bell optional, but gratifying.

It seems I must have had a word-quota to use up, and I’ve just flung them all out amongst you on this last day of the year.

They come with warmest thanks for dropping in, passing by, speaking out, or in any other way participating in this odd and wonderful possibility called the Internet.

CHARGING MY BETTERIES

 

Doesn’t it seem longer than One Month since the cold came?   These raggedy-cold days---even those with such glowing sunshine that you’re called OUT into whatever daytime interests are motivating (or in my case, merely upstairs into that bright sunny sitting room with all the Christmas lights and two trees glowing and the TV tuned to “fireplace” just for the warm feeling of it---I swear I feel a little drift of warmth sometimes when I pass by.   There are great big Mole’s House chairs, with comfy pillows and soft blankets and BOOKS for an afternoon, as well as TWO new books of Cryptic Crosswords---those mystifying Brit ones with the anagrams and words-inside and sly jokes that I swear Benny Hill must have contributed.   I’ve spent three evenings with those fabulous mind-benders since they appeared in my stocking, and have completed just three and about a third of the fourth).  These days are gone in a blink, yet it seems ages since Thanksgiving, though there’s probably still a smitch of dessicated cranberry in the TUP and maybe four forlorn peas rattling in an old Melmac cup in one fridge or the other.

 

 I’m moving as slowly as the time, hardly working, letting things and chores pile up around me like liabilities of largesse.   We had fun and festivity and food and togetherness during Christmas---indeed from Thanksgiving on, with little spates of special cooking and decorations (all of which, contrary to tradition and sense, are still UP.   The tree still shines out the front windows, most presents are here and there on chairs and floor, divested of their shiny paper and pink ribbon. Rudolph, Clarice and a tee-ninecy Bumblesnowman inhabit a big wicker rocker in the living room, presiding over all the unsent/unclaimed presents languishing on the tree skirt.   I do miss the downstairs, where for decades great swoops and swags of ribbon-lights twinkled an eternal carnival onto our breakfasts, our evenings, our TV nights, and scattered around the room, across the pages of our Nooks, the printer, the TV screen and picture glass on the walls like strings of glowing beads in some magical hall at Versailles.    I've been a neon-fiend since childhood, and that was Heaven. 

We had a wonderful time with the Girls on Christmas eve, and now my batteries (typed that "betteries," and I think there MUST be a place in us all---a magical socket seldom used, for betteries to keep us primed for the slow times, the hard times, the INTERESTING times of our lives) are storing up and my mind refreshing, for the words are coming, though sparse.     I'm trying to think of something, anything, to write about, but present events are sparse, and I think I’ve related every story of my first eight decades, and “Reminisce” might well be the Word of The Year. 

Today we're having our 97-year-old neighbor and her daughter over to lunch,---our eighteenth Christmas gathering since we began the tradition, and though the colored lights across the street are still hazy through the fog, they SHINE, and we'll make more memories.