A new world here

Out of small [and sometimes seemingly impossible] things proceedeth that which is great.

Hello, 2013. You've renewed my faith in love at first sight. Thanks for a sweet Day 1.

Leftover New Year's ceviche, cilantro, perfect avocado and Good Earth chips. Even tastier than it was last night. Adding fresh orange to the mixture of lemon and lime juices and herbs was inspired. To think how much more fine a flavor fresh rather than dried oregano might produce... oh! I might have to grow a potful just to make this dish.

Dancing for Rob while he played my guitar. Stupid, happy grins.

Dancing with Rob to twangy Pandora. Remembering the holiday season we spent with my family in North Carolina when we were still newlyweds. On New Year's Eve we went dancing at The New South with my gram and her new (4th) husband. Tell ya what, there were some real hot dogs doin' some fine steppin' in that dance hall. Near to midnight, that tricky Ladybug stole my partner and wouldn't give him back, not even for the countdown or Auld Lang Syne, and she left me doing the Twist with dear Tom, who was cheerfully stiff as a board and half as coordinated.

Walking in the bright sun, inspecting the new Front Runner station till the cold wind pained my ears. Being snatched up unexpectedly and carried over little snow drifts and slick spots.

Cleaning the house together.

Cooking for people I love.

Little traditions. Last night's gleeful Good Riddance ceremony for pyromanic pagan purification. New Year's Day soul food prescription: black-eyed peas and collard greens for success and wealth.

For the first time in ages, wishing to make resolutions for the new year, and then actually articulating them, writing them down. Many resolutions. And I added a few more just now. Maybe I'll keep adding all year. Could be this is really a bucket list taking shape. P.S. I'm abandoning perfectionism.

Rebooting my Morning Pages practice.

The beautiful dream I had early this morning, which not only broke a chronic, exhausting stretch of nightmares, but also acted as a kind of antidote to one particular recurring night terror I experience, the very worst of them. When I woke up I was filled with a sweet hopeful feeling that this year is going to be very good—lucky, even. The 13 I didn't realize I was waiting for! It's always been my number.

Guests. Family. Friends. Children, grownups. A stranger who isn't anymore. Pot luck. Easiness. Sharing a table, breaking bread. Plenty. Amazing my small nephew and niece with a tiny treasure—a hummingbird egg. Teaching them to make the sound of a galloping horse with fingersnaps and hand-pops. Shooting off bottle rockets in the front yard.

Cleaning the house together, again. Anticipating the gratitude I'll feel in the morning when I wake up to order.

Believing in the incredible, taking the long view of what's possible. Warming an egg that's gone cool and quiet because an even quieter whisper says, "Something beautiful may yet hatch, so get comfortable." I dedicate this year to whatever beauty inside is ready to come to life.

Why I'm Here, Today, Blogging

Heather. Heather, you're the reason. Because it's your birthday, and because you are moving to my old home state long before I'm ready for you to go (which would be: never) and because you said something by way of sad goodbyes like: "We can still be friends!" and "I love you!" and "I'll read your blog!" Yep, that did it. You'll read my blog? That means I need to post something for you to read, right? Write?

Since I'm not a stellar communicator when it comes to telephones and letters and such, keeping in contact with people I love was probably the main reason I started this blog anyhow. That, and exhibitionism (the inhibited kind). We won't talk about which of the two reasons exerted the stronger pull on my psyche. 

I'm determined not to go all navel-gazey over this question of why I've been blog-ditching, or why I've considered so often pulling the plug for good. I'll just start blogging again. Write more, pre-edit less. Easy, right? Write? Keep in touch. Keep. Touch.

Okay, so today I got to hang out with Heather. For two hours! Who gets to do that, waltz in on somebody's birthday and steal their time? It was pretty presumptuous of me to just barge into her big day and ask for a chunk of visiting. I love it when I'm presumptuous. I love it more when there's no objection. Thanks for reinforcing my bad manners, Heather. And thanks for the bagel date. I had fun even though there was that sad thing happening in my heart every time I looked at you and thought about how you'll soon turn into a Tar Heel, many miles from here. *sniff*

So I guess I'm lucky I was here to crash Heather's birthday today. I had a bad mushroom experience last night. No, not that kind of mushroom. It wasn't a magic mushroom. It was a soccer ball-sized brain, I tell you, a western giant puffball. Leland and Charla hunted it down over the weekend in the wilds of the Alpine Loop and brought it to us as a Love Gift of Pure Intentions. I've never seen anything like it. Rob has been saying for years that he used to find and eat puffballs back east when he was a kid. So he was our veteran. And Leland and Charla did their homework, to make sure it wasn't a dangerous kind of fungus. It was 100% edible, this fungus, their reference books and expert sources agreed. Apparently, their sources didn't mention that western giant puffballs need to be 100% white inside when you eat them, not ivory, not pearl, not eggshell, not beige, not even the teensiest bit antiqued, in order to avoid stomach upset. (Thank you for the belated clarification, Wikipedia.) You can, of course, see where this is going?

Anyway, it was fun to have the fungus hunters come over yesterday, watch Rob and Leland slice up this amazing soccer brain into sticks, egg it, bread it, fry it with green onions and garlic, and then eat the finished product in good company. Leland said, "I don't taste anything. I don't like it." (But know this about our friends the fungus hunters: they never want to eat the mushrooms. They hunt for sport.) Rob said, "It tastes like it's a little past its prime." The menfolk put their noses up at our puffball. Charla was more open, and had a few pieces: "It's not my favorite, but it's alright." I said, "Sure it has a taste! It tastes like mushroom!" It wasn't bad. I generally approve of mushrooms and harbor kind of a weird affection for them, so of course I wanted to like this one. I practically proselyted for the fungus. Give it a chance, I wanted to say. Come on, people, it's Found Food, wild and wonderful. I think I mentally rolled my eyes—just a tad, and with all the love in my heart—at the pickiness of the fellows. Add to my enthusiasm the fact that I was pretty hungry. Sunday afternoon post-church is generally a busy time at my house, and not the most well-fed stretch of hours in our week. Remember that: empty stomach + slightly antiqued western giant puffball interior. A forest growth that came with no cooking or eating instructions. Fungus gusto. 

When we all went over later to join Rob's folks for dinner at Tribal Headquarters, my stomach was aching. Pretty soon Charla was saying she needed to go home and lie down. My mum-in-law asked repeatedly, "Are you poisoned? Do we need to take you to the E.R.?" No, no, just to the Home for Careless Fungus Eaters.

It took me till this morning, about the time that Heather and I went out for bagels, to feel normalish. I hope Charla's doing better; last I heard she was still with us.

I would eat another puffball, yes, I would. But the next time that soccer brain's gonna have to be pristine inside. White as angel food cake, and a perfect texture to match.

Okay, that's it. One profound post. Still want to read my blog, Heather?

I have to say that when I opened up Blogger to write this post, there were close to a dozen wonderful comments waiting for me to moderate and publish. I never received any notification about them, so they've been piled up for weeks, waiting around to jump out at me and yell, "Surprise!" But how did that happen? My blog settings don't require comment moderation, at least not at my command. Huh. I guess that proves my blog and I need to get reacquainted.

And Heather, you and I must always stay acquainted. Happy birthday!

(And thanks, friends, for the kind comments you left for me on earlier posts. Wish I'd seen them when you left them so I could've responded right away.)

The Great Invisible Divide

Here's a lovely song I heard for the first time today. Very poignant to become acquainted with it on a day when I feel very keenly the force of habit of my own loner-ness (working on it, working on it), but also on the day when I learn my sweet cousin died, almost unbelievably on the anniversary of her own birth. My prayers and concern are with my grieving extendeds across the country, but my heart has drifted across the border into the Land Beyond, where my parents are, my grands and greats, and nearly everyone close to me except some cousins, a couple aunts, an uncle—many of these very distant. I've spent the afternoon and evening imagining the reunion and celebration that is surely underway There, a joyful uproar of family welcome, every last soul of them clamoring to greet and shout and kiss and talk to the beloved newcomer. I'm not in a hurry to get There myself, but sometimes I get homesick enough to think hard about visiting. Haven't found any round-trip tickets though, and a one-way fare is far too costly for me, so I think I'll just keep tending my own home fire and send a smoke signal Heavenward to let the folks know I'm dreaming of them.

Dear Cousin, I hope you're bursting with joy and laughter, now that you've been surprised with such long-missed company. If there are collards in heaven (and it wasn't Nellie Quinn who cooked them), then I know your birthday is complete.

(I don't know who these cute people are, but the Mirah song is an inspiration.)

Dear John

I guess I've decided not to spend 2009 utterly blogless. Yes, I was considering it, though more in an absent, non-deliberate kind of way. I've been journalling faithfully this year and I've got a secret (only for the time being) project or two in the works, and . . . well, there was just something that unexpectedly shifted in me when I mentally hung the new calendar. I'm in the midst of some sort of transition. Rob and I both are. My mind and body have been busy the past month and a half with new tasks—learning skills, creating order. (You should see the "Screening Room"! It's finally empty! You can dance in it! At the same time I'm dancing in it!) I am also beginning to write. Let me rephrase that: I am beginning to Write. This doesn't mean that what I Write is fabulous or skilled, only that I am giving it more and believing in it more, young though it may be (much younger than I am—tell me, how does that work?)

I wrote a little screenplay for a competition, and now it's going to be made into a short film. Those of you who know a little about this may be wondering why I just wrote "going to" instead of "was." It's a long story. Call me if you want the low-down.) It's not a dramatic or comedic masterpiece; it was just an experiment, really, and a love note to the two girlfriends who inspired the story. I got lucky; somebody picked my script. Dumb happy luck. Now I'm trying to write a play, to see if I can, and for the sake of discipline and understanding. Where's it leading? Hopefully to satisfaction and friendly connections. Yeah, I'd love to publish a story in the New Yorker, but I'll be fine if I only succeed in expanding my brain a little. And, of course, collecting my prize money from the script competition . . . hint, hint, LDSFF. Ha.

But this isn't really what I stopped in to say tonight. Two weekend events prompted me to blog because they were just so lovely. Small things. First, an old friend from my NC years . . . JOHN . . . left me a short and dear little note on my blog. It's driving me crazy. WHICH JOHN? I can think of several I remember with love from back in the day, but WHICH JOHN? Come on, JOHN, I am going to split my brain open trying to figure you out, and you did not leave a link to any contact info. I'm not one of those folks who are no longer interested in old friends. (I have come across a couple of those recently—awkward!) Not sure if you'll stop in for another visit, but in case you do, my email address is at the top left of this page. I leave you no excuse!

The other thing I want to rattle on about is a delightful surprise I discovered today after church. Somebody tacked a wonderful Valentine garland into the ceiling on my porch, and it was dangling colorfully in our path when Rob and I tried to open the front door. "Rob + Georgia, eternal sweethearts" it said on one side. Amen to that! And the fascinating history of Valentine's Day on the other. French ribbon, lots of pretty paper hearts, it is a treasure! Thank you so much to the friend(s) who left it. I'll even forgive you the nail hole. (It goes so well with our house's other holes.) It was so much fun coming home to that. I'm leaving it right there so that everyone who knocks on our door has to (gets to) see it. Wait—JOHN, was that from YOU???

So I can't stand unfinished business. Please, mystery friends, identify yourselves and let me obsess about something else. I've got a prioritized list, really.

Love to all, and glad to be back in the blog business—

Geo

Me, my phone, and I, pt. 1

When I was a little girl my family moved to the country, a good fifteen minutes' drive from town. The only telephone service available to us and all our interrelated Missionary Baptist neighbors was the party line. We shared a wire with nosy folks up and down our road. Have any of the rest of you ever experienced a party line? It was, by turns, great entertainment and great vexation.

The way it worked was simple: Each household sharing the wire had its own distinctive ring. When our ring sounded, either my mother or I would answer (I don't remember my father ever voluntarily picking up a phone). Usually, in those days, I was more eager to be the one to pick up the receiver. Mama didn't mind. She already dealt with too many phones at night in her dreams—rotary dials that wouldn't stop spinning around, busy signals, dialing wrong numbers repeatedly, not being able to connect, uncooperative operators, malfunctioning mouthpieces—all these she brought to me for interpretation. I was her personal Daniel.

Riiiiiiiiing! That's our call! "Hello, Bowen residence, Georgia speaking."

"Honey, is your mama home?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'll get her."

Later on in the day: Ring-ring-riiiiiiiiing! The Hendersons' line! Don't pick it up. Wait'll the ringing stops. Ring-ring-riiiiiiiiing! Ring-ring-riiiiiiiiing! Ring-- Now! Quietly . . .

I would ease the receiver off its hook s-l-o-w-l-y so as not to be noticed. Molasses in winter. Over time I learned to unscrew the mouthpiece and take out the talking chip before I joined the conversation, in case I needed to cough, or giggle, or breathe. Sometimes the rural ladies would gossip with their friends, or complain about their husbands and children. Most of the time their calls were pretty dull and their voices flat, but to me it was still thrilling to listen in. I felt grown-up, adventurous. I was working undercover. I was an only child, and the phone was an excellent playmate.

"Is somebody there? Hang up."

Snicker, wheeze. They can't hear me!

"I know you're listening. Hang up!"

I would wait it out until they either decided I really wasn't there, or stopped caring.

I was making calls of my own before private lines came to Kellum Loop Road. I would be on the phone with a friend and hear a click! That's when the sound of our voices over the wire would alter slightly, as if the room suddenly got bigger.

"Hello? Did somebody pick up? I'm on the line. Would you please hang up?"

Muffled silence would come from the eavesdropper's end. I guess word never made it around about removing the talking chip. I'm sure I never told.

"I know you're there. I can hear you breathing! Would you please hang up the phone!"

My friend and I would exchange disgruntlements and then fall hotly silent till the listener lost interest and hung up.

Sometimes I would be in the middle of a call and someone wanting the phone would pick up—click!—pause—then slam down the line, pick up—click!—pause—then slam down the line, and so on. It was a very annoying, very anti-social way of getting a point across. Why not do what a dream neighbor would do—pick up the line quietly, and politely ask for a chance to make a quick call. I remember needing to do that a time or two. But did I ever passive-aggressively pick up, pause, and slam first? Truly, I don't recall!

I was in heaven when we finally had our own private line. I got very carried away at times with uninterrupted talking. I remember I was on the phone a very long time one evening. My dad was working late at the newspaper office, and apparently wanted to talk to my mother, who was probably in her room, reading. He called and called and called, and every time got a busy signal. I don't know what oaths he uttered to the operator, but when her mechanical monotone broke into my conversation and instructed me to hang up because there was an emergency call trying to come through, I knew I was in big trouble. I got quite the tongue-lashing for that.

I never could understand what made adult conversations so much more important than kids'.

Patty, cake

Two items of business:

Happy St. Patrick's Day! I hope you each get kissed today whether or not you're Irish. I didn't wear any green today but have yet to be pinched, and then I ate curry for lunch. So that I'm not missing out entirely on the spirit of the day, here's is an ode to the best friend a person could ever have in a root vegetable: the humble potato. I love you, spuds!



Also, I want to wish my dear Uncle Paddy a very happy birthday. Is my own blood Patrick a Saint? Close enough for me.

Unc, this song's for you—my earliest clear memory of you is of you trying to teach me this crazy song out on our front porch. I still have the young handsome autographed photo you gave to me when I was a tiny girl. I guess I had a little uncle-crush on you back then, and I was so proud the to be the crabapple of your bachelor's eye. I still think you're great. I love you!

xo,
Pogo

Cicada

This morning Rob called me outside to look at my dollar store windsock, the one that is perhaps intended to be a grinning, swimming Esther Williams type, but more closely resembles a woman having a nervous breakdown. So on my bright nylon screamer's red streamer there was a teeny tiny cicada, perfect and newly emerged from its now-potato chip shell (which we didn't have the good fortune to spot). It was catching its buggy breath and waiting for the sun to rise high enough in the sky to warm its perch and help it prepare for flight. Aw! If only the Atlantic Ocean hadn't spoilt my camera, I would have snapped a shot of our little friend and posted it here. I mean, I've lived in Utah for how many years? 26 now? and this is the first cicada I can remember seeing. They were a big part of my North Carolina childhood, right up there with lightning bugs. I loved them. Funny to find a small one today, when my mind is a couple thousand miles from here, hanging around my old Southern home. Just for you (okay, more for me), I borrowed some cicada pictures from the abundant internet universe, in case you've never met even a small one.

Unlike this guy, our little pal was all black.
Bodyguard or terrorist? You decide.

Happy anniversary, Kyle and Peggy.

43 years ago my parents married. A few hours after the simple ceremony, my military pilot father flew to Cuba, entrusting my mother to the care of her parents until he returned. Instead of complying with everyone else's wishes, my newly-wedded mother took the family dog (which, although a female, had been named for her high school sweetheart), rented an apartment, and immediately set up her independent household. She bought furniture. The dog disappeared. My grandmother was the one who found Bo, Jr.; she was sitting, waiting on the corner in front of a house the family had lived in years before, just blocks away from the apartment where my mother was settling. In four months my father returned safely from Cuba. He and my mother didn't live happily ever after, but they loved and they lived until they died and somewhere in there they made me. Sometimes I miss them so terribly, like the missing is brand new--a fresh deep cut, not a still-tender decades-old stripe that tries to erase itself in vain.

I believe they are happy and busy. And together. I imagine them celebrating their anniversary in many joyful ways they were unable to here. I hope they know I'm thinking of them with love and gratitude and understanding. And I can't help but make a selfish wish and hope that they're proud of who they made.