And I say it's alright

Oh, oh, winter solstice!

When was I ever this glad for the sun to begin its yearly climb?

I am hungry for light.

(An ice ball we kicked along the path.)

Sun, sun, sun, here it comes!

Little Lap Dog Lullaby and so on

Listen to this new music. Way to make me more kid-hungry, NPR!

I'm pretty excited to hear the rest of Laura Viers and Tucker Martine's newest collaboration. Promises to be a sweet dip into the American songbag featuring lots of other great musicians. (Béla Fleck? I'm in for sure.)

Stuff I Bought + a Giveaway

So to follow up on this week's thrift store tour of duty, here are the few items I did bring home. Mirjam, this is at your request.

I can never stay away from the books section. Here's a great find—some terrific patterns at a nice price.

This one was more or less a blind grab, but so far it's been a fun read.

Ethnic weaving. Resistance is futile.

So, that's it. For the hundred things I snickered at and rejected, I brought three treasures home. I definitely get my money's worth of entertainment on these occasional trips to Secondhandland.

To give you a chance to enjoy recycled treasures also, I am hosting a giveaway. Do you recall the fabulous collage I blogged about in my first Stuff I Didn't Buy post? Well, the next time I visited D.I. it was still there! I figured it was meant to be, so I didn't pass it up that time. And now I want to share the love. Feast your eyes again on this beauty and tell me you wouldn't love to see it hanging on your lonesome wall.

So here's how it works. You've got until next Saturday, September 24th, at midnight, Mountain time, to enter the giveaway.  Leave a comment below and you'll be part of the random drawing. If you would like to be entered additional times, you can subscribe to my blog, make a noise about this post elsewhere, or do something else outlandish to squawk about this giveaway. When you do something extra, leave another comment and let me know, and you'll be entered again for this exquisite piece of fine art.

Good luck!

P.S. I will mail anywhere on Planet Earth.

P.P.S. You will never be able to fully appreciate how fabulous this collage is until you see it in person and play Where's Waldo, hunting for robots, cowboys, ninjas, Cheryl Crowe and Lance Armstrong!

Fabulous Fresh Ginger-Carrot Soup

 
Juice some carrots. Juice so many carrots that you get 3 cups of juice.
Now juice a healthy knob of ginger. 
Peel a nice ripe avocado.
Combine the juices and avocado together with:
2 tablespoons of agave nectar
a shake or two of red pepper flakes
1/4 teaspoon sea salt
a drizzle of flax oil and another of olive oil
Blend till smooth.
(You can also throw in 1/2 cup fresh coconut. I've not tried that yet, so can't vouch for it.)

Thanks to the Reboot site for this idea. My favorite—simple, fresh, delicious.
(Rob also gives it a thumbs-up, but my mum-in-law isn't fond of it. If you've got lots of carrots, then you've got nothing to lose by trying it yourself.)
Bon appetit, doc!

S-t-r-e-t-c-h-!

This is not a great photo, but I had to really crank the iPhone to get all of this baby in the Hipstamatic frame.

Our friends bought a limo for their family car, fer cryin' out loud! How fabulous is that? This is what happens when you have triplets before your Irish twins turn three. You need a real family wagon. With cupholders. And a privacy screen. And leather seats. And decanters! And a TV/VCR! And just enough curb space to park the thing!

It is a thing of laughable beauty. I hope our friends keep it and don't chicken out on this crazy wonderful eBay deal. Beats the pants off a minivan. They are a very special family and I think anything that helps them keep and share their great sense of humor as they navigate the winding roads of parenting five children three and under is a keeper.

I'm looking forward to my first ride in... what's its name, anyway? A 'mobile like that has simply got to have a classy name. Any suggestions? I'll pass 'em on.

Chicken-warm

Rob was up before me this morning and greeted me early with this pretty gift, passed on by our friend Leland. "This one's still chicken-warm," Rob gushed, smiling. He put the freshest of the eggs into my hand, and it warmed me as much as it did him. It got me off to a thoughtful start, and I tucked the experience away as a little miracle, in case I didn't find another I could count for the day. Oh, me, of little faith!

It was an anxious day, agitated and unsettled. I hiccuped through the first two hours of being awake, without a break. Then those hiccups submerged and headed for my nervous system. Jumping blood, my stomach in a knot. 

As soon as the next miracle started, I knew I was onto a big one, and wouldn't have to wait for the vantage point of a quiet midnight to reveal it to me: music. Music saved my day. I typically listen to music while I work and go about my life, but today it wielded an impressive transformative power. When I felt tightness taking hold of me and that weird nausea of anxiety rising, I sat down at the old upright and starting working out a Mozart sonatina, and even lacking in grace as my playing was, it calmed the sick waves. It felt fantastic to play, never mind the mistakes. 

Work eventually called to me, so I turned up the little transistor that sits on the fridge—I turned it up loud—to broadcast classical through the entire house. Gorgeous music! Nothing I knew, but so big and fine and life-affirming. 

Sometimes I'd drop what I was doing and go back to the piano and play some more. I'm out of practice by many years, but I'm sounding better than I was two days ago and two weeks ago. How is that we get nearer and nearer to music just by continuing to try? What a rush to touch the stuff, shape the notes and chords and progressions, and build ideas with sounds and silences! 

The transistor reliably kept me company while I made lunch, and that's when I got to hear an old favorite: Gershwin's American in Paris. So incredible. It just wasn't possible to listen to it and feel anything but joy for those several minutes it lasted. 

Anxiety was waiting for me at every turn today, but I took a lot of big swigs of musical elixir to quiet the symptoms. It was an interesting sort of war I fought, and those songs honestly felt like some legion of guardian angels doing my battles for me. I don't remember the last time I felt so strongly connected to the high power of music. 

Just listen to this, would you? What a terrific performance!

At the end of this day that was my musical lifeline, I remembered I had my other little just-in-case miracle still in reserve, so I scrambled Leland's brown and blue egg harvest for supper. Even better than eating them was the perfect thin sounds their delicate shells made when I cracked them against the side of the bowl. More music. I could have cracked those eggs all night!

Love Gifts

I received two Love Gifts today, one from a dear friend, and the other from my lovely mum-in-law.

One gift I understand:

The other I do not:

Look closely at the details.

See how this one is intended to help me sleep? Notice the ingenious ribbing; I can pour boiling water straight from the kettle into this bottle (and I did, just now), crawl into bed with it and snuggle up, and it won't scald my skin. Brilliant.

But this one! I swear this one wants to play havoc with my dreams. YOU try staring for a moment into that one creepy blue eye and then tell me this Mammy doll wouldn't just looove to mess you up good on your way to Slumberland! I'm a little afraid of Mammy. Her attitude toward me doesn't change even after I reason with her that I'm not racist and that I do want her to have a great life, follow her dreams, and go by her real name. She's not buying it. She won't see my point. I guess having only one eye kills your perspective...

I think I'll have to resort to the safety technique I employed in a similar emergency when I was a kid. I hid the scary hard plastic killer doll (who GAVE me that thing anyway?) in the bottom of my closet, smothering her beneath all the extra blankets and shoes I could find... and then I lay awake, thinking about her, hoping she couldn't dig her way out and get me.

Good thing I have this new hot water bottle to help me feel secure.

Remind me to tell you sometime about the crazy bloodthirsty antique doll (child-size) I watched walk down a hallway one night at a childhood sleepover. Aiee!

Vacation as love letter, part 1 (for my #1)

The most fulfilling journeys begin with clear intent. That intent can take any of a number of forms—a question, a curiosity, a wish, a dream, a goal—but its purpose is to set things in motion, and to suggest a meaningful direction. It's okay if your intent evolves as you travel on; in fact, it's almost bound to happen, but you've got to get the wheels rolling on the road before you can steer the car.

Rob and I left town for a vacation October 21st and came home three nights ago. Our intent was to get away for some rest and relaxation, enjoy each other's company, and revisit some beautiful places that were very good for our souls a few years ago. We succeeded, I would say, in each of those goals except for the rest one. We cried wolf for a few weeks in September and October before we managed to tear ourselves away from work and life, but once we finally began to nail down plans and actually packed up our toothbrushes, things fell into their proper places quickly, and our intent sweetened and deepened and expanded, continuing through the whole of our trip. I felt changed before we even climbed into the car, and I feel changed now.

I have love letters inside to write to each day of our time off, to every person and place we adored along the way, but the letter my soul sends first and last and every step in between is the longest and lovingest of all, the one for my good travel mate. Oh, what a lot we learned in just two and a half weeks! I know we came home richer than we left, even if we spent our little travel fund dry. I'm certain we came home better equipped to love and work and be. I absolutely came home more hopeful, determined, and married. And more full of clear intent.

Here's a kiss for you, Rob, and another, and a fond pronouncement that honey, you ARE a trip. A very, very good trip.

Here's a hink pink for you: WET PET.

G C E A

There's a gypsy caravan parked in front of my house.

Guess what's been my dream since I was a little girl?

That's right. To live in a gypsy caravan. How did you know?

It'll be here until Thursday morning. You should come by and see it. Then you and I can talk about how romantic it is, and how all our lives we've dreamed of traveling light, playing wild music, and maybe selling a little snake oil on the side to fund our adventures.

It's very hard to sleep at night, knowing that bright, dreamy, hand-built, hand-carved, hand-painted caravan is out there. Not that I'm blaming my insomnia on my gypsy dream.

The people that came along with the caravan are not themselves actual gypsies, but are book artists Peter and Donna Thomas, and we are doing a broadside project with them. It's been a pleasure to spend time with these lovely new friends. They are making their way across the U.S., peddling wares, giving lectures, and making connections and art. Yesterday we drove all down to Thistle together and collected soil samples in a gorgeous rainbow of reds and browns. Today we sifted them to get at the fine particles that can work for making pigment. Ooooo! I'd like to know just who it is that thinks Utah is not a colorful state. You need to come over and play in the magic dirt with us—you'll certainly change your mind.

Last night I tried playing a few quick songs on one of their ukulele books. (Click the awesome link. Do it.) My most successful tune was "Rubber Duckie." Man, that's got satisfying chords!

So now I'm determined to get a ukulele.

And one day, if I'm very very lucky, my own gypsy caravan.

*sigh*

Yes, You May (part 3)

So here's another diversion from the subject I am so disjointedly treating this weekend. Or maybe it's another layer of the story. Probably that. If you want to get right back to the story(?), skip this italicized part.

I woke up this morning from a dream of walking, walking, walking, up a straight canyon road. I wore a backpack. Toward the end of the dream I realized I was also carrying my purse (which is not pursey at all, but a very ethnic-stitchy casual bag) (but still... my purse?). It was now, this weird spring-clinging-to-winter season. I can't quite recall what my purpose was, but I was out for a solo day trip, and I had horses on my mind. I think I was looking for a horse to ride. Why? As I walked I saw some people up ahead, standing and talking together in front of their family ranch. There were two horses also standing with the group. I passed by as quietly and unobtrusively as I could manage and kept walking up the road, but I became aware that one of the horses, a trim one with beautiful clear brown and white markings, had recognized me as a familiar friend, stepped out after me, and wordlessly called me back. I turned around and went to the horse. His people began talking to me, then I was in their den with them, and what had been intended as a family meeting of some kind turned into a rather political discussion. I stayed quiet for the most part, realizing I was the lone moderate in roomful of tip-of-the-longest-feather-of-the-right-wing-ers. I felt like I had already intruded by interrupting their original purpose of enjoying some family time, just by my being there. As they talked on, I looked around and was surprised to find I knew one of the faces. He didn't know mine, however. As he talked on it dawned on me that this was a famous family (which I choose not to name here) that enjoyed an incredible heyday of fame during my growing up years, and whose name is still known—still respected as important and talented by some, but certainly not by all (if I mentioned their name here, I'm positive some eyes would roll, and I don't want to tempt you to snarkiness). One by one I began to recognize several other faces in the room, and had to smile inside. Why hadn't I known them from the outset? I made a promise to call up my best childhood friend and tell I'd met the ________s; she'd idolized them when we were kids. Nothing in me responded to their past or present VIPness. They seemed ignorant and lost in a has-been sort of way, and that made me really sad for them and especially eager not to give away the fact that I knew who they were. What a relief not to give a hoot about their name or their old famous faces. An hour passed while they ranted on about current events, then another hour, and I grew more anxious about having disrupted their evening together, so I slipped out. I kept walking up that canyon road. Did I have the horse with me then? I had some kind of creature with me. The canyon was so wintry then. I stepped up onto a rise to look out over the view, and all I could see was white everywhere. Snow, snow, snow. Earth and sky blended into one. I could just make out a hint of a distant cave opening here, and there, and there, but even those soon vanished in the white. It was as if the world was being erased. I could look over my left shoulder and still see part of the road and a dark mountain peak blocking the sun, but looking ahead there was nothing but a white world all the way to the periphery of my vision, and it became impossible to keep looking at it. It wasn't exactly blinding, but there was so much whiteness (I almost said nothingness, but that's not it) to take in that I couldn't maintain my focus or even keep my eyes open. They grew heavy and tired and so sleepy, so I closed them. And then I woke up.

Anyway. Back now to April 30th. Still care to join me?

The more pieces I chop this post into, the more story parts fall by the wayside. Maybe that's not a bad thing. I think the part I want to keep now is the lovely thing that happened in the Hackworth studio. (How many days in a row do you think I will continue to link to Justin? Any bets? I am not afraid to repeat myself, you know, especially when I have a good reason. I am my grandmother's girl.)

So, it's April 30th, the day of the shoot. I am good for absolutely nothing all day except for sipping red bush tea and trying not to throw up, tweezing my eyebrows, practicing standing in shoes taller than I've worn for umpteen years. Oh, and pep talking myself: "It doesn't matter how these photos turn out. The important thing is to enjoy the people you're with. Enjoy Mum. Enjoy Justin. Enjoy yourself. Just let yourself smile and be. You look how you look. It is what it is. Nobody will be surprised to see you as you are; you're the only one who doesn't know what that looks like." Remember that verse in Ecclesiastes: "Vanity of vanities; all is vanity"? King David sure got that right. I won't go into my neuroses much more now; I'll only admit that I have been self-esteem-challenged for a good long while, and how I look is just one of my many irrational bugaboos. If you can't relate, then I am truly glad for you, you well-adjusted person! Kiss your mirror, quick!

So. So, so. How about some more relevant background info about this shoot? I was fortunate enough to be given a slot in the 30 Strangers project. This is Justin's third year doing this great thing, which has evolved into both a wonderful and badly-needed fundraiser for our local Center for Women and Children in Crisis, and a way to celebrate the generational chain of women in thirty lucky families annually. That second purpose presented a difficult irony for me, because I am currently without living family members (of either gender) before me or after me. That makes it a little tricky to shoot since spirits and hopes, like vampires, tend not to show up on film. Or even digital. Ghost hunters and paranormal pundits, please just leave this point. I don't feel like arguing about it.

I asked Justin to schedule me for the last slot of the project, vowing to do my problem-solving best to find a baby, borrow a baby, or otherwise come up with some sort of reasonable mother-daughter arrangement that would fit the bill. Making a baby has been a hoped-for possibility right along, but there's no way to demand or put a rush order on a gestational period for the sake of some photos, or for the sake of anything else, for that matter. None of my (pro)creative ideas worked out. (More on this subject later, however.)

Those of you who know me might be wondering now, "So what about your in-laws? What are they, chopped liver?" Oh, honey, they are so much better than filter organs. They are truffles and hummus and and homemade peach ice cream and freshly-baked bread. I have a wonderful tribe of women I married into when I sealed my deal with Rob, and even more treasures joined the group after I did. Adorable people. People I never want to be without. A mum, and sisters. But... would Justin bend the rules for me, and let me bring my in-laws? It was either that or steal a baby when it came down to the wire.

Lucky for me, Justin was willing. Since I couldn't figure out how to get all of the sisters (seven altogether, plus their daughters) to Utah by April 30th, I decided that great as it would be to get lost in a beautiful sea of in-laws, I would go for the small, simple, perfect choice: to be a twosome with Mum, the lady who is second only to my own mother in her contribution to my well-being and joy in life. (Mum made an especially fabulous number one son.) But that would mean no hiding in the crowd for either of us, and far more focused individual attention, something neither of us seems to crave.

I was worried Mum wouldn't want to do it. I asked for a date with her on the 30th but didn't tell her why for a long time. I finally got my courage up four days before the shoot, and confessed the plan. She replied, "Oh, is that it? I'm so relieved! I thought maybe we were going for pedicures—what a waste of time! But I would even do that for you." Those of you who fancy pedicures will not understand just how much love was expressed in her statement.

Well, I've done it again. I've talked myself all the way up to another stopping point and still haven't told you the great thing that Justin did. Next time. What a lot of words for such a little story. I'll just be talking to myself by the end of this, if I'm not already!

Still, I promise next time to stick with my theme of distraction and continue to derail the straightforward progress of this telling with far too many details. I want to talk about red shoes. And second-hand symbols. Then I'll work my way around to Justin, and to May Day.

Right now, I'm off to eat popcorn for lunch, go to church, take a walk, then enjoy a family dinner, but I'll eventually be back with part four. TTFN.

Beautiful Blogger Award

Thank you, thank you, thank you, my darling and best beloved Erika, for awarding me this badge of honor. I blush. I swoon. I crave a toasted coconut donut. This certainly gives me something to live up to with my blog posts. 

Now. As per Erika's instructions, I will post the "rules" of this award-meme, which I am trying very obediently to follow. (Just so you know, it's very hard. I find it challenging not to rewrite arbitrary rules, but for Erika I'd do most anything. Even mind my manners.)

BEAUTIFUL BLOGGER AWARD RULES (ahem)

If you choose to accept the award you must:

1. Thank the person who nominated you and link to their blog.
2. Copy the award and paste it to your blog.
3. Tell us seven interesting facts about yourself.
4. Pass this award on to 15 fantastic bloggers you have discovered.
5. Contact your nominations and let them know they’ve won.

Alright then. Here I go. In perfect compliance—

1. Gratitude and thanks I have taken care of. Permanently. In my side bar. Go ahead. Try the link. Erika's the most. You must love her.
2. Done and done.
3. Seven interesting facts about me? Since Erika didn't quantify "interesting," how about:
• The last new friend I made was on Monday, a beautiful intelligent little black cat which I named Thatch and claimed for my familiar. Not that I'm a witch.
• I have a brand new set of false eyelashes. Do you?
• Sometimes I just have to kiss flowers. And I often compliment trees.
• I am within easy walking distance of fresh toasted coconut donuts.
• I am keeping two secrets with expiration dates: April 30th and May 17th. I am keeping a much bigger secret that I may never be at liberty to blab. 
• I am supposed to be writing a short play right now. Rehearsal is tomorrow, at my house.
• I have two superpowers: my sense of smell and my fantastic peripheral vision. I have used one of these to fight crime. The other just keeps me out of trouble.
4. 15 Beautiful Bloggers I have discovered—PLEASE NOTE: This is in no way an exhaustive list of my favorites but a mere sampling (alphabetically arranged!) of the blogs which consistently make me glad to be alive. I have intentionally left off links to the "Provo All-Stars" (who may or may not all live in Provo) with whom I am ever and always in love, because there are more than 15 of them I would wish to mention, and so I think they deserve a list of their own at some future date):
• AudioPest (here is the best discovery of my life)
• Becoming Something (calls it like she sees it)
• C Jane Enjoy It (arguably a Provo All-Star, but she's really global property by now, ain't she?)
• Elsa Mora (positive, bright, creative, loving, happy energy—such a gift)
• Evening at the Authors' Table (mmmwah!)
• Hawaiian Magpie (mmmwah!)
• Jenny's Journal (mothering as art, art as mothering)
• Justin Hackworth (always reminds me how much I love people)
• Opacity (an eye for beauty that I understand all the way down to my cells)
• People Running, People Walking (my word sister)
• Resurrection Fern (there is beauty all around)
• Sweets (a beautiful classmate of yesteryear, rediscovered)
• Tollipop (just plain stuck on you)
• Tropical Velvet (mmmwah!)
• Wish Jar  (I want to be like Keri Smith whether or not I grow up)
5. And now I must make contact with these heroes of beautiful blogging....

Fortyfortyfortyforty-sixsixsixsixsixsix

So. Tired. And not because I am now forty-six, but because I had a long happy day of celebration. (Okay, I'm also underslept.) I came home tonight to what for me is a landslide of loving words from friends and family, and I am overjoyed! I hope the stories keep rolling in; I will never get tired of them. I'm looking forward to sitting down for a nice read tomorrow, when I will likely still be underslept but will have some time and space to enjoy and hopefully begin responding to the wonderful personal tales some of you have already shared. What a gift. Thank you.

Suddenly, 46 seems like the most wonderful age I could possibly be. How unexpected! And how delightful. I think I'll see if I can't make a habit of this—loving where and who I am right now.

Hugs, kisses, and (for now) a single parting shot to show you my birthday "cake"—could you just die?

The Glass Menagerie: A Must-See!

It was my happy privilege to be invited to attend the opening night performance of Mortal Fools Theatre Project’s The Glass Menagerie. This was my second experience with these Mortals, who are anything but foolish. Their (pardon the pun) killer production of Frankenstein last October drew at least one hearty Halloween scream from me as I piped up with the little girls on the front row—this from the member of the audience perhaps least disposed to shouting in public. And it felt good. 

So. The Mortals have done it again—they’ve delighted me. Only this time I wasn’t gripped by fear as I watched them do their thing—oh, no. With The Glass Menagerie they presented relationship dynamics as familiar to me as, well, my next of kin. It’s true, I may have groaned here and there, but only in empathy. Only in love and frustration and solidarity. I laughed too, for the same reasons.

It’s an interesting thing to see a play I’ve loved for more than half my life (and if you don’t know how many years that represents, good for me). It’s an interesting thing to have read this Tennessee Williams’ classic, one of my favorites, and learned it so well I could even now almost say the lines right along with the characters. I’ve seen this drama repeatedly played out on the stage of my own imagination. I’ve watched the screen version, starring Katharine Hepburn (if you haven’t, you should). It’s been a few years since my last encounter with the Wingfields and their Gentleman Caller. Maybe it was because I collected a smidgen or two of understanding during that time, or maybe it was simply the gift of seeing old friends portrayed by new ones, but this go-round with the Menagerie yielded me some new insights. It should have been obvious to me before, but finally I see it clearly: I lived this play! Or significant parts of it anyhow. And I have witnessed family members living it too. 

Now, before you get all scaredy that I’m going to reveal too much information and veer off into reviewing my life instead of this play, relax. I’ll go no farther than to say that I could kiss these Mortals, truly, for bringing me something new and sweet (though at times quite bitterly so) and showing me something important about my own history. I went to this inspired production, which was skillfully directed by the talented David Morgan, expecting to enjoy it but expecting also to know it. That’ll teach me to take a Fool for granted. There’s always something fresh to learn from a story, no matter how often you’ve heard it. There’s always the chance that some mystery of memory will be at last liberated. Perhaps that’s one reason the Amanda Wingfields of our lives rehearse the same words in our ears again and again: to give us chance after chance to get it. If that’s not a conscious motive, nevertheless it’s an effective one. Or can be.

The Provo Theater is a fitting venue for this production. The stage and seating there are intimate—that is to say, small. The limited space proves no obstacle for David Morgan but rather is an asset, underscoring the close atmosphere and giving the audience the feeling they are near enough to knock over Laura Wingfield’s precious miniatures with no more than a breath. The entire play takes place in a single room with its adjoining fire escape and landing. There are never rearrangements of the set, only once the addition of a few fancies—doilies, a candelabra, a floor lamp—intended to catch a man, or a fantasy. Nat Reed’s inventive set design, with its sloping floor, artfully conveys the emotional imbalance of the family and deftly aims all attention toward the symbol of Laura’s fragile inner life: her glass figurine collection. Spider web-construction walls (which also resemble broken glass) provide a visual representation of the Wingfields’ collective entrapment by the hard realities they each seek in vain to escape. 

I give the Mortal Fools good marks for engaging musical choices (Amy Cloud), imaginative lighting (Josh Gubler), some effective costuming (Landen Gates), and blocking. I applaud the casting; these actors are fluent in the emotional language of Williams and play their roles true to his spirit. The four actors work well together and each delivers a strong performance—certainly no single person carries this show. That said, Karen Baird as Amanda is brilliant. Perhaps it’s because she brings to life the spiritual twin of my late grandmother, another high-octane Dixie belle whose hope sprang eternal in gentlemen callers, but I find her delightful, even in her dogged delusions and mad mothering. I appreciate the underlying sweetness Baird brought to her role; I never liked Mrs. Wingfield before as well as I do in this performance. Her moments at center stage, delivering reminiscent monologues with dancing eyes cast heavenward, are terrific. Another inspiration was the choice to cast Stephanie Breinholt Foster as Laura. Stephanie has real presence; she is never diminutive or vanishing, though her character would wish to become invisible. Thank you, David Morgan, for not taking the easy way out and choosing a mere slip of a girl to play the part. Maybe no slips showed up for audition. Lucky us. Stephanie gives “Blue Roses” substance and possibility, though we know it will never be realized. Her romantic scene with the Gentleman Caller, played by Daryl Ball, is one of the best in the production, and well-played by both; their energy together is excellent. Reese Phillip Purser does some good work as narrator who, attempting detachment, wanders among us as he tells his tale, and again as the tortured character who comprehends his trap but never achieves more than the pretense of actual escape. 

The only real criticisms I have are small indeed, and certainly nothing that should prevent you from buying tickets right away. They are mere distractions, and do bear in mind that this reviewer is generally of the distracted persuasion anyhow: the southern accents (for which I have an ear, having been raised on a Rural Route in the Bible Belt) aren’t quite . . . there yet, at least they don’t feel strong, and I missed the deliciousness of a good drawl. Granted, it’s tough to acquire a genuine Southern accent when you aren’t raised with one (and tough to lose it when you are). Costuming, as I mentioned before, is overall good, however, my date and I may have had some nits to pick with Amanda’s resurrected party dress (a little too homely?) and with the Gentleman Caller’s suit (a little too modern?). These are, perhaps, details which would undoubtedly be helped by generous patronage and by more people buying tickets to shows and providing the costumers with more resources to work with; after all, y’all, vintage suits ain’t cheap. 

The last two items get their own paragraph because of their almost hypnotic power of distraction: during the one slight scene change I mentioned earlier, the stage manager who set out the celebratory doiles and tablecloth, etc., did so in a way that did not agree with the character of Amanda Wingfield; believe me, because I lived with her, she would not have left those frills askew, especially if there was a man on the line. That one tiny detail bothered me so much that I could barely suppress the urge to slip up onto the darkened stage and straighten the fancies, just so Amanda wouldn’t lose her mind. Finally, there were a couple times when there were side conversations happening, just natural “business” of the play, which took away too much attention from the main scripted dialogue. The stage is too close and too small to support that kind of ad libbing. I would suggest that in future the characters mouth or at least whisper those lines instead of actually speaking them aloud, however quietly.

If you haven’t already made plans to see Mortal Fools Theatre Project’s practically perfect production of The Glass Menagerie, then you must hurry. This show plays at 7:30 p.m. Mon/Thu/Fri/Sat through March 27th. If I have anything to do with it, this run will soon be sold out to delighted and enlightened audiences. The best theater in town is happening this month at the corner of 100 East and 100 North! Congratulations to David Morgan, Mark Bell, and the rest of the staff and cast on a beautiful production, and thanks for giving me such wonderful hope for the future of Provo theater. And thanks too for the free tickets!

Weighing a day

Didn't:
• have to run from murderers in another dream
• sleep in
• go for swim practice
• spend time in the sun
• pose in down dog, proud warrior, cobra, or mountain
• do my Master Gardener homework (2 chapters)
• shower
• swear at the astonishing garden bounty in my kitchen
• buy the October Martha Stewart Living
• feel easy with the epiphany that most grocery aisles are filled with budget-sucking quasi-foods
• eat quinoa
• get to bed when I'd hoped to
• learn appliqué from Lady Danburry
• feel terribly excited about the rumpled picture of the luchador my 14-year-old friend Gladys spied on at the Hispanic Festival and now wants to marry
• fill and seal even one Mason jar
• find a way to watch NieNie on Oprah (must fix)
• overeat
• succeed breaking into my house

Did:
• drive a friend to work
• survive an episode of bad brains
• give my best advice
• do some pro bono work for another friend
• clean and sort tomatoes all afternoon
• listen to good music and talks while I worked
• hug and hug and hug and kiss Annie
• embarrass myself
• eat dinner with family
• surrender my Costco chicken sausages to the greater good
• pray
• enjoy in person an old friend I haven't talked to in months
• loan my banjo
• talk to myself
• buy fresh spices
• sneeze repeatedly
• hear an obscure hymn, which became a favorite this morning, played on classical radio tonight
• try to talk someone else into taking up the accordion
• make a promise
• appreciate irony

• cry
• laugh

Blogtoberfest

I think I'll give it a go—a month of daily posts in celebration of October. Sometimes just a list maybe, like today's inventory of gratitude:

• starting the day with a clean kitchen (thanks, Rob)
• resurrecting my best recipe for freshly-ground whole wheat pancakes (thanks, cookbook shelf)
• then fancying them up with chunky plum syrup made by the lovely and talented Shakes (thanks, Emily)
• receiving a sweet visit from my favorite Jehovah's Witness girl (thanks anyway)
• after a couple days of stress, finally prying the Hi, Tony! website from the dysfunctional clutches of MobileMe and transferring services to Bluehost (thanks, online support team—I'm especially talking to you, EricW)
• beginning a new class, the Master Gardener Program (thanks USU Cooperative Extension)
• learning from two knowledgeable teachers, not just one (thanks, Larry and Adrian)
• coming home with two unexpected sacks of vegies—pumpkin, tomatoes, hot peppers—from the local "jail garden" (thanks, inmates)
• leftover love note (thanks again, Rob)
• still loving the care package our friends in Seattle sent (thanks, John and Mary)
• especially cooking to their mix CDs (thanks, John and Mary and iTunes)
• dropping dinner plans in the middle of boiling pasta water, throwing on shoes, and racing to Taco Time so we could make it into the dollar theater in 15 minutes (thank you, spontaneity)
• sneaking two vegie burritos and salsa into the movie—yes, I know they say "no outside food or drink" but it was that or starve (thank you, deep fleece pockets)
• finally getting to see Up and crying over a good story (thanks, Pixar)
• priming the baseboards while Rob installed hardware for hanging curtains (thanks, teamwork)
• reading great essays to Rob when his job took longer than mine (thanks, M. F. K. Fisher)
• remembering what I learned this morning while reading scriptures (thanks, Friend)
• looking forward to beating the chill by borrowing some warmth from my sleeping bedmate (thanks, my radiator)

Welcome, October!

Georgia's got a squeezebox

So many reasons to smile today—

1. I was at Costco, browsing through the nicer cheeses. A young woman came up and began restocking the cooler. Her name tag said "Bree."

2. When I pulled into my driveway I noticed that a big fat orange rosehip on one of my rose bushes was wearing a smiley face. At first I thought some kid had drawn it on, but after I parked the car and walked over to inspect, I discovered that the rosehip had grown the marks naturally.

3. I found a bathing suit from the Esther Williams era at Savers. I feel sure it could swim all by itself.

4. I saw a portly little old lady wearing an incredible top covered in iridescent sequins that looked like scales from a fiery fish. She glowed! I gushed out a compliment. She expressed a little uncertainty about having worn it, but I told her not to worry, that she looked glamorous. She rewarded me with a Hollywood smile and slowly walked away, talking to me and to herself about glamour.

5. Izzy got a haircut, long overdue, and for once he didn't come home from the groomer looking like a naked rat.

6. I didn't drown during my swim lesson.

7. A nice kid at the rec center who reminds me of my cousin Casey gave me free admittance to the pool, etc. during the weeks I am in class.

8. I voted my conscience.

9. We got an accordion! It's a petite one, a 12-bass, second-hand. It sounds great. When we went to check on it (and the larger one we hope to also buy), the price was down twenty-five from last week, and then a guy with a vest and a key knocked another twenty bucks off once we decided to buy it.

10. Rob made omelettes for dinner and read me Isaac Bashevis Singer while I painted.

11. I got the last coat of paint down on the office floor, finally. Is that room ever white!

12. Mel Bay.

13. Maybe Roxanne found us a third accordion in Alaska. Honestly, what's the matter with me?

About a boy, a girl, a skirt, and another girl

This is the boy


who married the girl


who learned to sew


and made the skirt


which Georgia wants.


(It's a giveaway.)

I really need one of these

. . . especially on days when shin splints keep me from running.

I bet you need one too. So click the picture and enter the contest yourself!

The stuff of Conference weekends: Sunday

You simply can't get any more beautiful than this.

And as you can see from her AFTER shot, she's pretty on the outside too! (Please compare to her BEFORE shot, in which she is likewise charming.)


Boing!


Doing!


Sproing!


Admit it. You want to play with these curls too.

I love you, E.! Seeing the unveiling of your coiled goldilocks was the perfect happy ending to a soul-filling weekend.

How to enjoy a morning downpour

Sleep too late.

Run upstairs in your underwear and stand as discreetly as possible near open windows to have a listen and smell the air. Don't stop to brush your hair or wash your face.

Grab the first warm fleece you can find lying around, preferably one that's too big for you and belongs to the person you love best in the world. Pull it on and zip it up.

Jump into yesterday's stale jeans and roll up the legs. Mid-calf will do.

Dash outside barefoot, taking care not to miss a single sidewalk puddle.

Stand beneath a big black umbrella with the owner of the fleece. Listen and smell some more. Take a good look around, then close your eyes. Scootch closer to the owner of the fleece. Shiver. Chatter your teeth.

Interrupt the soundtrack of any videorecording being done by the owner of the fleece by making random appreciative remarks about the serendipitous precipitation.

Think about Denny's. Think about IHOP. Even think about Golden Corral.

When the feeling begins to leave your feet, go inside and stand on the entryway rug until they warm and dry a bit.

Walk back and forth between the dining room and kitchen windows and study wet hummingbirds fighting over the feeders.

Answer the phone. Share a recipe.

Watch YouTube videos with the owner of the fleece.

Decide which bad restaurant to go to for breakfast, now that it's lunchtime.

(Please enjoy our #1 Labor Day film pick, The Delicious.)