tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89592339891612029702024-03-12T20:44:34.905-07:00Rachel's HouseRachel's Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790797302450473117noreply@blogger.comBlogger181125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8959233989161202970.post-48952843372612222252024-01-31T15:04:00.000-08:002024-01-31T15:04:26.611-08:00Wood with a gift for burning<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhkUGCUMaH98dms8BGPpx7KDt7DPn2mBawHIdvLmo4c4Tppa-4uSnyC0qV-Jt15YTa8yQBGWjhsy6aRy_x57WTiF4Mpbd9padx_PSKJTWKvewaRBtfgoUvD61GZ21_fSH90XeZntigTkvdXn0ydgW1xhv4x2y5eXRXPOlbYKnjkLTbNkj9KQfdAwBUQ0Lc" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1380" data-original-width="2070" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhkUGCUMaH98dms8BGPpx7KDt7DPn2mBawHIdvLmo4c4Tppa-4uSnyC0qV-Jt15YTa8yQBGWjhsy6aRy_x57WTiF4Mpbd9padx_PSKJTWKvewaRBtfgoUvD61GZ21_fSH90XeZntigTkvdXn0ydgW1xhv4x2y5eXRXPOlbYKnjkLTbNkj9KQfdAwBUQ0Lc" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Frank Harmon draws and writes this morning about the cold we've had...alligators in the east freezing, children skating on creeks not known for freezing over, and birds going about what birds do, even in this chill. He is inside with a wood fire burning, about which, he notes, the climate people are confused whether that is environmentally good or bad. I wrote back to him what first came to mind, and then decided to share it here:</p><p>"A wood fire burning in the fireplace. Warmth of body and soul. Wish I had one here, too. Graduate students living in a farm house way out in the country halfway to Pittsboro, we had three fireplaces, one in each downstairs room. The cozy front room where we built the bookshelves was my favorite. I burned old wood all winter and sometimes into the spring, and read there."</p><p><span style="font-family: georgia, serif;">Do you know that poem by Adrienne Rich, I asked him, and now ask you, about the difference between being lonely and being alone? It's called "Song"; I listen to it often these days. That last stanza,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>If I'm lonely/ it's with the rowboat ice-fast on the shore/ in the last red light of the year/ that knows what it is, that knows it's neither/ ice nor mud nor winter light/ but wood, with a gift for burning.</i></span></p><div aria-controls=":12w" aria-expanded="false" aria-label="Message Body" aria-multiline="true" aria-owns=":12w" class="Am aiL aO9 Al editable LW-avf tS-tW tS-tY" g_editable="true" hidefocus="true" id=":10m" itacorner="6,7:1,1,0,0" role="textbox" spellcheck="false" style="direction: ltr; min-height: 85px;" tabindex="1"><div class="gmail_default" style="font-family: georgia, serif;">Last week, feeling the cold sneak through these old aluminum-framed windows while I sat reading, no fireplace to warm by, I called the window man and ordered new ones. It's been on my continuing list of things to make sure the house is ready for when I'm old. As I walk each room, doing what I usually do, I keep an eye on what needs to be changed or bettered (re-fitted, the elderly-care people say) for aging here. I've kept my eye on such things ever since I first walked into this house, the only one for sale inside the small circle I drew on the town map, outside of which I firmly declined to consider living.</div><div class="gmail_default" style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><br /></div><div class="gmail_default" style="font-family: georgia, serif;">Despite the scepticism of some ("I wouldn't buy it," from my perfectionist cousin), I could see its potential for the long term. I could spread out in first years, and consolidate in later years, leaving room for others, should I need them (not for loneliness, no...I know the difference between lonely and alone...but for care. As it happened, theirs as well as mine). There were lots of windows for light, and being high on the hilled street, walking distance to everything, gave it a wonderful outlook. I bought it exactly ten years ago, never questioning, and thus began its renovation toward age.</div><div class="gmail_default" style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKFL4TKKDQSHsTys4pAwxuOnrOCHvjuic_A2AWE_SxAg784csSx5OATvepUhe4W2X9L-dus2TyQP_5hidbZxV1nLmtEQp_dlRVA2RRyctYFv0encqzAUfkVK7kOZCWmU05vyvNIc2i0Ak4V3yM4XNJZ_39MgmZlYYtmahA_OqxNsgFarW0SzWO6h5Tjcw/s900/birthday%20cake%20lighting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKFL4TKKDQSHsTys4pAwxuOnrOCHvjuic_A2AWE_SxAg784csSx5OATvepUhe4W2X9L-dus2TyQP_5hidbZxV1nLmtEQp_dlRVA2RRyctYFv0encqzAUfkVK7kOZCWmU05vyvNIc2i0Ak4V3yM4XNJZ_39MgmZlYYtmahA_OqxNsgFarW0SzWO6h5Tjcw/s320/birthday%20cake%20lighting.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><div class="gmail_default" style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><br /></div><div class="gmail_default" style="font-family: georgia, serif;">Two weeks ago, I began the 12 months toward my 80th. (There's a funny story about that, but it's for another time.) The years of the 9's have, historically, not been kind to me, or me to them, although this one began with lots of friendly and loving fanfare and gifts, for which I'm grateful. But I'm more intent than ever on keeping up with that list.</div><div class="gmail_default" style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><br /></div><div class="gmail_default" style="font-family: georgia, serif;">Even Joseph felt it time to have <i>the talk</i> with me..."But what if...?" he asked me over again, attaching clauses rife with possible crises as they occurred to him. Thankful as I was, I had to smile...it's a younger person's question, after all. We who are about to age know it has no answer. And, anyway, do we really need to know?</div><div class="gmail_default" style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><br /></div><div class="gmail_default" style="font-family: georgia, serif;">Because we can renovate all we want to or <i>can </i>do, but there is a double edge to that word <i>re-nov-ate</i>: a freedom in knowing the future is wide open to reinvention. In the last light of the year, ice-fast on the shore, still there, with a gift for burning.</div></div>Rachel's Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790797302450473117noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8959233989161202970.post-87113945695620952192024-01-09T13:39:00.000-08:002024-01-09T13:39:27.480-08:00Movie nights and days<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9PgRMlGSeaa_R97R-vOmxIuykjKu8Ztm1O5oyv7js_eE5ACg1wcdLG8mx4kD8nMI8Mhicuvmb09KcW_WVA9v81injz1IFzVgae78GmiiWsYxF6tQ6HMvs0FOw8tNOU4aO0OXR_Gd94z23IG4_9WmALqsAS8N-YRhyphenhyphenrjvpt4E8yEYpntEoIXy8JO80Wsc/s1105/Janus%20looking%20back%20and%20forward.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1105" data-original-width="915" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9PgRMlGSeaa_R97R-vOmxIuykjKu8Ztm1O5oyv7js_eE5ACg1wcdLG8mx4kD8nMI8Mhicuvmb09KcW_WVA9v81injz1IFzVgae78GmiiWsYxF6tQ6HMvs0FOw8tNOU4aO0OXR_Gd94z23IG4_9WmALqsAS8N-YRhyphenhyphenrjvpt4E8yEYpntEoIXy8JO80Wsc/w196-h237/Janus%20looking%20back%20and%20forward.jpg" width="196" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>I've been waking up earlier and earlier these days, my head full of ideas of things to do, changes to be made, better ways of thinking and acting. January, my Capricorn month, has always been the time of energy mode...papers, shelves, closets and fixit house projects, yard projects, life patterns. If by February some of those are unfinished, they mostly languish for another 11 months. But in January, it's amazing what things get done, morning by morning, concept to completion. Note, however, that "morning by morning" doesn't include much past the second hour of afternoon. No matter the month, I slump by then.</p><p>Waking today, my first thought was to make a list of the movies I watch after that witching hour when I can do no more...or, more positively put, during those later knitting and tea hours, especially on these cold and (like today) rainy days when a walk is out of the question. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwJkZWoP0wFYIb6ekmz1tqn9H9WfdVjGwebqZrxxXonidR0SKZByDhsCxOcslACCMt21XxetnKfICGt_aP38gbopNF3SsPyLSgwpuCiXILpsyRS8VXfVLfMoo7rQumzezSiQzXY5bkrVf4z07ITKkKTmhkbl5FbmCimlVxENHNKkhWBoWCbIgbvbJe288/s3994/cold%20rainy%20day.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3994" data-original-width="2853" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwJkZWoP0wFYIb6ekmz1tqn9H9WfdVjGwebqZrxxXonidR0SKZByDhsCxOcslACCMt21XxetnKfICGt_aP38gbopNF3SsPyLSgwpuCiXILpsyRS8VXfVLfMoo7rQumzezSiQzXY5bkrVf4z07ITKkKTmhkbl5FbmCimlVxENHNKkhWBoWCbIgbvbJe288/s320/cold%20rainy%20day.jpg" width="229" /></a></div><br /><p>Except one or two, these won't probably be found on a Golden Globe list. A lot are quirky, more are lighter than air. And, also with a few exceptions, the ones I most watch were made before 1950.</p><p>I could be defensive and say that I don't watch film the way other people do, but there's no reason to be defensive. I just don't.</p><p>So here they are, stories empty of car chases, guns blazing, cities blown up, mean men acting out political hubris in war and business, and strange creatures with molten heads running the world. These are watch-in-winter films, in no particular order of importance, except the first.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij-1Y0WEzFrgtPoL7SyvGALZgbhkDkJcKUH23qHJiRr-12KiDP_Wp7i0TjRuA6p7Nri767DDsZRnxl96zj3yWqeC0MSLx1CcjBtafFa8PosjulcmHojd_1EkAy-DGd9lqaxtHQ6SzG7PJBGadcAHsyICFkDJvwLBfbO6MzpoHetYOPA_ysAKpupJlV_TI/s1067/wendy%20hiller%20in%20I%20know%20Where%20I'm%20Going.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="717" data-original-width="1067" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij-1Y0WEzFrgtPoL7SyvGALZgbhkDkJcKUH23qHJiRr-12KiDP_Wp7i0TjRuA6p7Nri767DDsZRnxl96zj3yWqeC0MSLx1CcjBtafFa8PosjulcmHojd_1EkAy-DGd9lqaxtHQ6SzG7PJBGadcAHsyICFkDJvwLBfbO6MzpoHetYOPA_ysAKpupJlV_TI/s320/wendy%20hiller%20in%20I%20know%20Where%20I'm%20Going.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>1. <i>I Know Where I'm Going,</i> with Wendy Hiller (she wasn't Dame yet). It didn't take me half a second to begin with her. Set in Scotland during the war, the film has a lot to say about a country's home pride and those who muscle their way into it.</p><p>2. <i>The Young in Heart, </i>with Billie Burke and Paulette Goddard. Billie Burke has been a movie idol of mine since, as a teenager, I borrowed a book from the library on her life. She dated Enrico Caruso, but married Florenz Ziegfield and said she got up every morning before he did, so she could do her hair and put on her makeup. The next ones won't be a surprise.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV98Qe_vWadpFql9MRxwMy1KhYD3Gcvg3LRvPXuLHqXXCEhCH1tjpBzT9CXzb_41QrX3sCfXArmrd9FuW0sL2I1UOzksw-okm9K8S3BgjjFUWIYoWc8Jo9nOw0S-wnzS9lsG1Gxra6chAPGC1_Qq1dQfpOLieAlbLur4kvqBakk1Z0AX8AJx_UW_d4t-k/s1344/Billie%20Burke%20in%20Dinner%20at%20Eight.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1344" data-original-width="1017" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV98Qe_vWadpFql9MRxwMy1KhYD3Gcvg3LRvPXuLHqXXCEhCH1tjpBzT9CXzb_41QrX3sCfXArmrd9FuW0sL2I1UOzksw-okm9K8S3BgjjFUWIYoWc8Jo9nOw0S-wnzS9lsG1Gxra6chAPGC1_Qq1dQfpOLieAlbLur4kvqBakk1Z0AX8AJx_UW_d4t-k/s320/Billie%20Burke%20in%20Dinner%20at%20Eight.jpg" width="242" /></a></div><br /><p>3. <i>Dinner at Eight, </i>B.B. again, with two other comediennes you won't regret watching strut their stuff: a comedy, with tragedy woven in, it is one of those movies made of a showy extravagance, when people went to see films that for little over an hour could relieve their minds of their economic reality.</p><p>4. <i>Merrily We Live, </i>with B.B. and Constance Bennet. No tragedy in this one. Only slapstick, or what you will recognize as "screwball comedies", with butler. </p><p>4a. <i>My Man Godfrey, </i>in which William Powell deals with Carol Lombard over an ash heap he's living in and becomes <i>their </i>butler. Don't bother with the one made after 1950. Lots of re-done film after that time just didn't come up to the original, no matter who got to play in them.</p><p>5. <i>Grand Hotel, </i>with some of the same actors from #3 and the brilliant addition of Joan Crawford and Greta Garbo. Plenty of tragedy and also redemption.</p><p>6. <i>Dancing Lady, </i>speaking of Joan Crawford. Yes, she really can dance as well as be dramatic.</p><p>7. <i>Good Girls Go To Paris,</i> with the wonderful Joan Blondell being her spunky self.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib51LSmYVf1QShApxYWLpTXZ8tuK1718WXC1lnW57NDg2a-Eo7Z_z3PGGn472-X_qF2fzxJ0OFgcdD_5UsjoKT-A4l1jtP0Axeo_BMmhv2lKdqDElvC_M_W2pkKfT0BynYFuFXQS6bvdWugiAX8wj6r9ozpRMB59nih0pmu5VbXNXgMfUO3qEa9L1tS_4/s1077/Joan%20Blondell%20Good%20Girls%20Go%20to%20Paris.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1077" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib51LSmYVf1QShApxYWLpTXZ8tuK1718WXC1lnW57NDg2a-Eo7Z_z3PGGn472-X_qF2fzxJ0OFgcdD_5UsjoKT-A4l1jtP0Axeo_BMmhv2lKdqDElvC_M_W2pkKfT0BynYFuFXQS6bvdWugiAX8wj6r9ozpRMB59nih0pmu5VbXNXgMfUO3qEa9L1tS_4/s320/Joan%20Blondell%20Good%20Girls%20Go%20to%20Paris.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>7b. <i>The Stand-In, </i>where Joan Blondell makes her mark again, this time with Leslie Howard on a movie set. Humphrey Bogart is in it, but I watch it for those two.</p><p>8. <i>The Animal Kingdom, </i>Leslie Howard here too, with Ann Harding and Myrna Loy (from the <i>Thin Man </i>series, though she plays a very different woman in this).</p><p>9. <i>Sin Takes A Holiday, </i>another Constance Bennett...a very old one, in which her diction is quite mannered...not sure who directed her that way, but you can ignore that lapse, and enjoy her weird situation.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOIvEOhM-ZdWxIcBTZqAtQfCHwyjuProI_Yp2aVyQWiNH0R85ePGYFvcw1nPppkwcxmufq6HsIMxLxAoz9aZv5dMRn3RvirR0IPNsefH4gojOoQatNFTWNcFshnyWAyrnq8lS3FkKW_Zq3_Sc27NGxwfXcj-rGtuN47SBe9tAJGEfPHDMph6bgpseih_w/s965/Constance%20Bennett%20Sin%20Takes%20a%20Holiday.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="629" data-original-width="965" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOIvEOhM-ZdWxIcBTZqAtQfCHwyjuProI_Yp2aVyQWiNH0R85ePGYFvcw1nPppkwcxmufq6HsIMxLxAoz9aZv5dMRn3RvirR0IPNsefH4gojOoQatNFTWNcFshnyWAyrnq8lS3FkKW_Zq3_Sc27NGxwfXcj-rGtuN47SBe9tAJGEfPHDMph6bgpseih_w/s320/Constance%20Bennett%20Sin%20Takes%20a%20Holiday.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>10. <i>If Only You Could Cook, </i>with Jean Arthur and a gang of gangsters who save the day.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Mli2ZtW4d19ByU7YUoEHpnhZz4t0RI5XoVr-I-TnyILD4ZBNG7tebwrmo8yfJoOfoalqT6NBqIHHDAAS8ODUuBmY0Myf0RURcHWkeFPfZskeAoC1-PGe2dehzOU6lJeUy-DrsmYW82o5djlQ4cwjzNDOJAsgP_VAZrLpILjTNfgYF5a350F4biDoTtg/s1070/jean%20arthur%20If%20Only%20You%20Could%20Cook.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="695" data-original-width="1070" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Mli2ZtW4d19ByU7YUoEHpnhZz4t0RI5XoVr-I-TnyILD4ZBNG7tebwrmo8yfJoOfoalqT6NBqIHHDAAS8ODUuBmY0Myf0RURcHWkeFPfZskeAoC1-PGe2dehzOU6lJeUy-DrsmYW82o5djlQ4cwjzNDOJAsgP_VAZrLpILjTNfgYF5a350F4biDoTtg/s320/jean%20arthur%20If%20Only%20You%20Could%20Cook.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKmMk0C0q58y2IhP0Rr60rZDd1C4WdYt_GZD7wBSK5MXnLLR9JYLvnR-GYD88cCJhg0p0lePl_v4ZoGZSc7Z9ykBMCSYlpNzRyEpdQYDXpn5GsnK6e9GKiJTP0vvLGMHF2Wj0uH0jAFGNW7EFcARPOgc_WwNWbB6q2ADoRNIUxxqJ6zBXKalThXkeYF8k/s1039/Jean%20Arthur%20in%20Easy%20Living%20arguing%20a%20math%20problem.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="698" data-original-width="1039" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKmMk0C0q58y2IhP0Rr60rZDd1C4WdYt_GZD7wBSK5MXnLLR9JYLvnR-GYD88cCJhg0p0lePl_v4ZoGZSc7Z9ykBMCSYlpNzRyEpdQYDXpn5GsnK6e9GKiJTP0vvLGMHF2Wj0uH0jAFGNW7EFcARPOgc_WwNWbB6q2ADoRNIUxxqJ6zBXKalThXkeYF8k/s320/Jean%20Arthur%20in%20Easy%20Living%20arguing%20a%20math%20problem.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>11, 11a, 11b. <i>You Can't Take It With You, Easy Living, </i>and <i>The More The Merrier...</i>all with Jean Arthur and a full cast of famous people from those other movies above, doing silly, sometimes inspiring things. If you like movies with seduction scenes, there is nothing better than the one in <i>TMTM</i>. <i>Easy Living, </i>on the other hand,<i> </i>will have you turning to your calculator.</p><p>12. <i>The Rage of Paris, </i>with Helen Broderick, a character actress I'd follow in any film, and also Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. from #2, bringing his comic charm.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD3J0VLYaDFw4tHht8xSoN6d-Btc42KknOkH4Sl8jJ0XOCnQBPfooGmTUA8YHNPzBfPVPE9RKGso0d4gUESANEm5PCJJpxCr51sDn6UbY1aGWyBmKaopNvMYoJ6TOT42neNuC85lkbVPnW-tTEHHn-NzHJ4k9qwMc4oi99OcOqSTaR3Ofpqja2ONbcPg8/s1006/Judy%20Holliday%20Born%20Yesterday%20playing%20Gin%20Rummy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="1006" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD3J0VLYaDFw4tHht8xSoN6d-Btc42KknOkH4Sl8jJ0XOCnQBPfooGmTUA8YHNPzBfPVPE9RKGso0d4gUESANEm5PCJJpxCr51sDn6UbY1aGWyBmKaopNvMYoJ6TOT42neNuC85lkbVPnW-tTEHHn-NzHJ4k9qwMc4oi99OcOqSTaR3Ofpqja2ONbcPg8/s320/Judy%20Holliday%20Born%20Yesterday%20playing%20Gin%20Rummy.jpg" width="320" /></a>,</div><br /><p>13. <i>Born Yesterday.</i> Judy Holliday had to have won some major prize for that game of gin rummy she plays with Broderick Crawford.</p><p>14. <i>The Philadelphia Story, </i>with Katharine Hepburn and all the people famous from that era. But that's probably on everybody's list. Never mind. Instead watch #15.</p><p>15. <i>Holiday, </i>with Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant, who's also in #14, but believe it or not, this one's better. Their acrobatic scene was "borrowed" by Gene Kelly for <i>Singing in the Rain...</i>I spotted that, Gene.</p><p>There are lots more old ones in my like box, but in case you think I see only in black and white, I'll put in some newer ones. </p><p>16. <i>The Kindness of Strangers, </i>with Bill Nighy. Any movie he's in is worth it. I don't know how I found this one, but I'm glad I did. He plays a Russian, sort of.</p><p>16a. <i>The Last Bus, </i>with Timothy Spall. He's in <i>Enchanted, </i>too, but you'd never know it by this film, in which he travels with the help of strangers across a country on a very emotional mission.</p><p>16b. <i>Finding Your Feet, </i>with three British actors I couldn't live without seeing, including Timothy Spall, who apparently can play anything. And dance.</p><p>16c. <i>Calendar Girls, </i>with all the best British actresses except three, and I'm sorry they're not in it, too. I would have loved to see what their characters made of themselves in the nude.</p><p>17. <i>In Your Dreams. </i>It's Turkish, and made me want even more to go to Istanbul. Trouble is, you can't find the film anymore. All it says is "error" when I try.</p><p>18. <i>Still Breathing, </i>set in the King William district of San Antonio, a strange little film, but I like it, and Celeste Holm is in it, and the Alamo.</p><p>19. <i>The House by the Sea. </i>It's in French, but you will recognize the story from old family stuff, I'm sure, no matter who your family is and even if you don't know French.</p><p>20. <i>Amour, </i>also in French, a beautifully done, but searing, emotional story we should all watch.</p><p>21. <i>Louise en Hiver, </i>about an old woman who is stranded over the winter at a seasonally abandoned beach. It's a quiet, slow but pointed film about survival, animated in the plain gentle way of children's picture books. </p><p>22. <i>The Women on the Sixth Floor, </i>French again, about class and counter-class with a bemused character who goes between.</p><p>22a. <i>The Gilded Cage. </i>French and Portuguese. A good story about who we are when we can be who we are outside of who others think we are.</p><p>23. <i>Queen to Play, </i>in which Kevin Kline takes second best to Sandrine Bonnaire in the game her character learns. In French totally.</p><p>24. <i>A Little Game, </i>a charming little New York tale to watch right after #23.</p><p>25. <i>A Tuscan Wedding, </i>purely for the fluff and looneyness of it. It's in Dutch and Italian, believe it or not. "You can smell the Prosecco in the air!" says one of its more pathetic characters. And she says it twice. To her dog(s). </p><p>26. <i>Twelfth Night </i>(1996)<i> . </i>Yes, Shakespeare, and the best film of that play ever done. I could watch this every week and not get tired of it. Bonham Carter and her co-stars take over Shakespeare's language as if it were their own. Really.</p><p>27. <i>The Elephant and the Butterfly. </i>Another good story about what we learn from others in childlike ways. See it along with <i>The Sense of Wonder</i>. Their titles could easily be interchangable, I'm realizing now.</p><p>28. <i>The Farewell, </i>with Awkwafina, who made a serious character out of her own life story, I think. She's the Golden Globe winner for this.</p><p>29. <i>This Beautiful Fantastic, </i>one of my favorite garden rescue films. Tom Wilkinson is in it. You might want to pair this one with <i>Greenfingers.</i></p><p>30. <i>Little Forest, </i>about food and the hunger that drives us to it. No, it's not a documentary...it's a real story. But like #17, <i>In Your Dreams, </i>it's hard to find any more.</p><p>30a. <i>Tasting Menu. </i>Delicious all around, though it does have a man or two with doses of hubris.</p><p>For the travel-hungry, some armchair-travel films...<i>Perfumes </i>and <i>Haute Cuisine </i>and <i>Food Club </i>and <i>A Five-Star Life </i>and <i>Learning to Drive </i>and <i>The Station Master </i>and <i>Mrs. Palfrey at the Claremont </i>and <i>The Grocer's Son </i>and<i> Border Cafe </i>and <i>Bagdad Cafe </i>and <i>My Afternoon with Margueritte </i>and <i>A Man Called Ove </i>(<u>not</u> the later American version)<i> </i>and the Australian <i>Strictly Ballroom</i>...</p><p>That should get me (and you) through the last cold day of March, if we do more than one film on a couple of afternoons and evenings. Which I often do.</p><p>Oh: Here's one for all you Hallmark fans...<i>Chicklit, </i>where the men in the pub go clear off their gourds so they don't lose their evenings of pints.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Rachel's Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790797302450473117noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8959233989161202970.post-62410084244982921862023-12-24T12:20:00.000-08:002023-12-24T12:20:12.013-08:00Peace?<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiJxkocQs5vimenFu53ugXtXNosFt8YyhKqbAQpq6id2N1R1W8gTwmpcqkKK4KnvZogn7LA8nrDO3ujnaoL6tzDhsvV4tVXJI9ed7pPi-ec2ejC5azJ5LQ6Fev-KPEhwXafTm2TqqJsvx1JBtJdMSYYwUhCNcJkoPf5t-2zb1pkqsPuU-IPq7t-uhdwtI/s4000/peace%20on%20earth%20card.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiJxkocQs5vimenFu53ugXtXNosFt8YyhKqbAQpq6id2N1R1W8gTwmpcqkKK4KnvZogn7LA8nrDO3ujnaoL6tzDhsvV4tVXJI9ed7pPi-ec2ejC5azJ5LQ6Fev-KPEhwXafTm2TqqJsvx1JBtJdMSYYwUhCNcJkoPf5t-2zb1pkqsPuU-IPq7t-uhdwtI/s320/peace%20on%20earth%20card.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Dear readers,</p><p>One by one, your holiday cards appear in the mailbox. 'Tis the season for enjoying messages from family, old friends and new. So many of them, like the one above (isn't it beautiful?), wish us peace. I have sent my own cards out wishing the same.</p><p>Peace, though. <i>What is that?</i> I have begun to wonder. Certainly, it is one of the traditional words for these holidays...<i>joy, peace, happy. </i>We all use them. We hope for that indefinable mood and in a broad gesture we hope it becomes universal. Becomes <i>us</i>. But, though <i>joy </i>and <i>happy </i>are easily perceived, sensed, defined, <i>peace, </i>it seems to me,<i> </i>remains a figment of our imagination.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyP8GNYldH63_O3SMU6gkfmLfISauEe6Y2OMM5ndj78aChwNHntfnyCqIgTCNvgJYMP6sWQbFfIL-VSVOIS-dyQAAYgXHZToPXDjym_qr0IOGVYiSovs8srHtVnK21sMS79IK36qwCbAehsiECWoE2P9axbkNEbaij9rokQT4vhCbYQUdWA8QeF9gAySo/s3478/House%20where%20all%20are%20warm%20and%20dry%20and%20fed,%20etc%20my%20art.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3478" data-original-width="2698" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyP8GNYldH63_O3SMU6gkfmLfISauEe6Y2OMM5ndj78aChwNHntfnyCqIgTCNvgJYMP6sWQbFfIL-VSVOIS-dyQAAYgXHZToPXDjym_qr0IOGVYiSovs8srHtVnK21sMS79IK36qwCbAehsiECWoE2P9axbkNEbaij9rokQT4vhCbYQUdWA8QeF9gAySo/s320/House%20where%20all%20are%20warm%20and%20dry%20and%20fed,%20etc%20my%20art.jpg" width="248" /></a></div><br /><p>The other morning I made a card (yes, sorry, there are still a few left to do) for two friends I haven't seen lately. I'd begun to collage it out of a variety of small scraps, when, one by one, it became a house with spire and, apparently (my friend Alice noticed it when I showed her), a kind of angel in the rafters. It named itself: <i>House where all are warm and dry and fed and at peace with each other.</i></p><p>That is the longest title I've ever given a piece of art, except those very few which have a poem wrapped in or around them. It may have begun to answer for me a greater meaning of <i>peace. </i>I don't mean the meditative state we try to accomplish in yoga, but the sense that all is <i>well</i> among us...every one of us...the whole world. It gives <i>wellness</i> a much greater distinction (and spirit and empowering) than simply the icon of an exercise facility. It is a travesty that the weekly spiritual chant in some religious houses...<i>peace be with you...</i>.goes no farther than that moment.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtUCJeU3WQSnbb3enjESdl7lTD2WQpLyl0NFd8lTpoxmVUMerJo-cWLHxFoTxWiPQEDzdBdz3IB1bc-BsupUlJ9JcTl1f1X5tlpDsla8kkpJGqyfIxM5HHGJKxSZwNxAiwGQIMXTBqOPevvhSmwgkDCdXuC6hVMXxUY4MvRQUliFApmM5YcUGhfZwTXlE/s4000/Let%20there%20be%20peace%20on%20earth%20card.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtUCJeU3WQSnbb3enjESdl7lTD2WQpLyl0NFd8lTpoxmVUMerJo-cWLHxFoTxWiPQEDzdBdz3IB1bc-BsupUlJ9JcTl1f1X5tlpDsla8kkpJGqyfIxM5HHGJKxSZwNxAiwGQIMXTBqOPevvhSmwgkDCdXuC6hVMXxUY4MvRQUliFApmM5YcUGhfZwTXlE/s320/Let%20there%20be%20peace%20on%20earth%20card.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Why can't we get along with each other? we (some of us) ask, naively, you might say. But peace among us is more than getting along. It's more than tolerating, or accepting, more than inclusivity, too. It's more than being <i>neighborly,</i> that cozy word. It's even more than kindness.</p><p>To engender peace means opening the mind to the deeper sense of who we are, who all of us are. It needs an opening of the self, really. There is responsibility at its core (pun intended): being responsible for one another, being responsive to one another. Understanding the bridge that connects us. Peace is bigger than we are. I am hoping it is not bigger than we <i>can</i> be.</p><p>All these holiday cards, while beautiful, are a welcome but fleeting reminder of what, as yet, we have not reached among us. I thank you for them.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK99RgmOcojp4euwjUtcqMlKaoYCmMkCDEDUNkaUB7w_-xUY04Zbg68xJUAgJO_4nHPcx6DOrzK-H1WlxyPtBY1dzEXUlUko_vV97Bl5rtSzLMoJ2yZlAHj1dPTQfxav9tBKJhWE5p4VdPq_xCnK3fXWUNkGit1TSn7JkoHkk_9pzLXxY-6uOOa0Na4XI/s4000/wishing%20you%20peace%20this%20season%20card.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2857" data-original-width="4000" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK99RgmOcojp4euwjUtcqMlKaoYCmMkCDEDUNkaUB7w_-xUY04Zbg68xJUAgJO_4nHPcx6DOrzK-H1WlxyPtBY1dzEXUlUko_vV97Bl5rtSzLMoJ2yZlAHj1dPTQfxav9tBKJhWE5p4VdPq_xCnK3fXWUNkGit1TSn7JkoHkk_9pzLXxY-6uOOa0Na4XI/s320/wishing%20you%20peace%20this%20season%20card.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><i>May you begin the new year bringing with you Peace in all its fullness.</i></p><p><br /></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><br /></p>Rachel's Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790797302450473117noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8959233989161202970.post-8069494409820307402023-12-07T19:17:00.000-08:002023-12-07T19:17:02.122-08:00People who matter<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi9It44N3pBjM6KlnhNQpRQCXQL6RnTd1zaEKcyJPVAMep6iVOmmyznlVoa7xwGW2kM9U1YSVJ_fG7N8PqA8FCgLMWxvZQWPEoMD_IGnPTSa-E97GbH-YXtN3kAMmDfPCmyxQSNC5tjkkxjD_g7ZA4a5YXUeQEGr9sE0ScWqcarX7C3apbqI8BIAhzOR7s" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi9It44N3pBjM6KlnhNQpRQCXQL6RnTd1zaEKcyJPVAMep6iVOmmyznlVoa7xwGW2kM9U1YSVJ_fG7N8PqA8FCgLMWxvZQWPEoMD_IGnPTSa-E97GbH-YXtN3kAMmDfPCmyxQSNC5tjkkxjD_g7ZA4a5YXUeQEGr9sE0ScWqcarX7C3apbqI8BIAhzOR7s" width="320" /></a></div><br />Long ago, in one of my too-many board meetings, a new executive director of the non-profit announced that we needed to involve more "people with stature". I'm sorry, but I can't let a phrase like that go without comment.<p></p><p>I asked him what he meant by <i>stature.</i> You could count on my neighbor Judy, sitting across the table, to lend her wit to a challenge. "You know," she quipped, "<i>tall</i> people."</p><p>The exec, trying not to be annoyed on his first day facing us, explained what /who he valued...wealthy people, primed for recognition, publically known as leaders, especially in business or the lucrative professions. But eyebrows were already raised. This new fellow hadn't quite got it. People who matter to charities that matter are invested in a physical, can-do, idea way. They understand from the ground up what that organization needs to serve the people who need support. Then they go and do it.</p><p>Yes, money matters; a network of donors who also understand that is indispensible. But here around that table were already people you could count on, people with compassion and talent, who opened hands that worked hard, mind and body, and gave generously. As the exec's eyes went around the table, it was clear that he didn't think we were status enough. He was used to directing and rubbing shoulders with a room full of big names. (Thankfully, he moved on to a more status place a year or two later.)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_AtDYgBMDuyKQraiCuU8yx46A8i3SFa26bxY6QJhC6sbXiyAP9-aFFSiBUjysb78PWu288v-oEe8kRwtwAoXyH2S-GffxMF6FkKaKyuDyAfk3a2BiLfshxIyPx_rvq1JFGarW6exGsIPqPZ47mlKUT_nxhlwiq6GaIhxP78NtL3VQuPC8NFq3ipN5nM8/s3000/SICU.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="2828" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_AtDYgBMDuyKQraiCuU8yx46A8i3SFa26bxY6QJhC6sbXiyAP9-aFFSiBUjysb78PWu288v-oEe8kRwtwAoXyH2S-GffxMF6FkKaKyuDyAfk3a2BiLfshxIyPx_rvq1JFGarW6exGsIPqPZ47mlKUT_nxhlwiq6GaIhxP78NtL3VQuPC8NFq3ipN5nM8/s320/SICU.jpg" width="302" /></a></div><br /><p>I thought about that the other day while I sat in the waiting room of the VA hospital near Asheville where my brother-in-law lay after his heart suddenly failed him. With me were his brother and wife and his sons...those the doctor had somberly told my sister she should call. We sat watching for three days as my brother-in-law Jim lifted himself from a heart-stopped 30-minute CPR to three days of worried <i>what now</i>?...and suddenly, on the fourth day, overnight, came back among us. His own physicians and nurses, excellent caregivers all, are still amazed, as we are, and we are grateful to all of them.</p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6mKZuw6Q8EMBtjdxjLLClyLWLEdtAsGk9VC3tq6cyJMqirIQ6_YcAAYASLG0PcbfX8KWqc9DCYyUTzwh3udpDUo2PEw1U7Xh8dlbCfvlALXWBbj8YwSQq2LOaJ9Ev0_p2Ten-uFAKQXFQnVj9oLM4yZO9qg3Ssf1r1mW_t1x_srWWsgXpi4dwiW1B6CI/s1079/hugs%20through%20shrugs%20ball%20of%20yard.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1078" data-original-width="1079" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6mKZuw6Q8EMBtjdxjLLClyLWLEdtAsGk9VC3tq6cyJMqirIQ6_YcAAYASLG0PcbfX8KWqc9DCYyUTzwh3udpDUo2PEw1U7Xh8dlbCfvlALXWBbj8YwSQq2LOaJ9Ev0_p2Ten-uFAKQXFQnVj9oLM4yZO9qg3Ssf1r1mW_t1x_srWWsgXpi4dwiW1B6CI/s320/hugs%20through%20shrugs%20ball%20of%20yard.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Among the waiters was my sister's sister-in-law, Mary Janine, who with her husband, the patient's younger brother, had flown in from far places. She sat knitting, cheerfully chatting and keeping us less anxious. I hadn't seen that couple since my sister's wedding fifty years ago. But waiting rooms are famous for inviting togetherness, whether you are related or not.</p><p>My niece Deanna had also come the first day with homemade soup and crackers and chocolate and tea for all of us; she lived only a few minutes away. She, too, brought with her a craft she was working on...bags of dried orange slices and cinnamon sticks she was stringing to decorate her house for a holiday spiritual retreat. She told us how much she enjoyed using real, natural things in her life and how important they were to the spirit. One of her jobs is enticing positive spirit in others.</p><p>Eventually, that brought us around to Mary Janine's knitting, and the charity she started nearly 8 years ago to lend support to women whose children were suffering with cancer.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC6IzQ0sIERIO9opKiTAsOSX1d66Iztvec_kHBtsKqIu1On6vO-ctEQcntcHyUSXZ1zzR39s32x3e5lNvtdCRmjyquVJc6Ii03bNjzUjziEkn7sO94ZCwMfrkptBRB7dcrEI3CzqHXQmtpF4QDYFb6q1-hTurCjSf0uOHnpVlZco2w7Fp27AdHQuUmPbw/s657/hugs%20through%20shrugs%20mary%20janine%20and%20her%20sister%20women%20helping.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="657" data-original-width="493" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC6IzQ0sIERIO9opKiTAsOSX1d66Iztvec_kHBtsKqIu1On6vO-ctEQcntcHyUSXZ1zzR39s32x3e5lNvtdCRmjyquVJc6Ii03bNjzUjziEkn7sO94ZCwMfrkptBRB7dcrEI3CzqHXQmtpF4QDYFb6q1-hTurCjSf0uOHnpVlZco2w7Fp27AdHQuUmPbw/s320/hugs%20through%20shrugs%20mary%20janine%20and%20her%20sister%20women%20helping.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>She and her sister began Shrugs through Hugs which provides yarn... beautiful yarn she often dyes herself or searches the world for...to volunteers to make into shawls sent to let those mothers know that someone is with them in spirit. It doesn't sound like much, but it is a huge comfort, the connection as much as the warmth of their knitted shrugs.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnW11TgO9qO3vbf7ffIiLzGzOzVcOCZiGR6HAFHsckp5oOeyGpGg6rvFfh0KOiNQL1wA6XGFtTMonu6TJBgMFYo9SJ7NAmjX8sRBhVAvvVfkZkgRn3mqut6Y1BLiBSaN2c9KWm6O3_0MYTdmQZ868tW-T55qYEvxAbmphqYYJul4Yt_sFN23nzO4qHNV4/s1080/hugs%20through%20shrugs%20woman%20in%20cancer%20room%20opening%20shrub%20package.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1057" data-original-width="1080" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnW11TgO9qO3vbf7ffIiLzGzOzVcOCZiGR6HAFHsckp5oOeyGpGg6rvFfh0KOiNQL1wA6XGFtTMonu6TJBgMFYo9SJ7NAmjX8sRBhVAvvVfkZkgRn3mqut6Y1BLiBSaN2c9KWm6O3_0MYTdmQZ868tW-T55qYEvxAbmphqYYJul4Yt_sFN23nzO4qHNV4/s320/hugs%20through%20shrugs%20woman%20in%20cancer%20room%20opening%20shrub%20package.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Mary Janine and her sister work hard at not only themselves making the shrugs, sending patterns and materials to other volunteers, but also knitting other beautiful items to sell at select museum shops and boutiques...that's to raise money to buy more yard for their mothers' project. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5b3kyFb6C0CI2lHoRFz_muK9PvdbRpmXYLtpxPfhhUlonTEZGZn92d3rLbxGgyBzLp7GKNl_ypgatRu0JbAj35WjnUogOcA-oMfUDKUsR_LyYdYC5kWmq0kb86ciF788nJT5snK9oIwelQXEI6lKFv7gDnv8ZOqwEHWCoevEsD73OO3QLFPJqmSfkp8Q/s1072/hugs%20through%20shrugs%20items%20in%20the%20shops.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1072" data-original-width="1057" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5b3kyFb6C0CI2lHoRFz_muK9PvdbRpmXYLtpxPfhhUlonTEZGZn92d3rLbxGgyBzLp7GKNl_ypgatRu0JbAj35WjnUogOcA-oMfUDKUsR_LyYdYC5kWmq0kb86ciF788nJT5snK9oIwelQXEI6lKFv7gDnv8ZOqwEHWCoevEsD73OO3QLFPJqmSfkp8Q/s320/hugs%20through%20shrugs%20items%20in%20the%20shops.jpg" width="316" /></a></div><br /><p>Her creativity made me smile. Since Newport is her special place, she takes the colors of the famous historic homes for her wares and teaches a little history in those packets she sends out. On their website, they write:</p><p>"<span face="Roboto, arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: #f6f6f6; color: #575757; font-size: 16px; text-align: center;">The idea for our charity began to take shape during the winter of 2016 in Newport, Rhode Island. Our love for this wonderful city is reflected in our Newport-inspired yarn and shawl collection. Postcards from Newport highlight some popular points of interest. Our Gilded Age yarns and shawls honor the strong women behind the Newport mansions while supporting the brave moms we serve through our mission."</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc3UyTDgOGVTgJdDHZkdheVI_HS30R2mOduyqMr1az8QRGRji1zR9CRj6X6RxXSSR81CQaYtltaNGkEeiwnfly4QFVw21MGE_AkafTuCx7ivJV74yGt2KpXL342lAWEtjuFcNljx5NRxzjR4YIamqZ4Ebh153zk9iD991eB1j6iOpSRxXu9dgnzmQRx4A/s1062/hugs%20through%20shrugs%20yarns%20and%20piece.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1040" data-original-width="1062" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc3UyTDgOGVTgJdDHZkdheVI_HS30R2mOduyqMr1az8QRGRji1zR9CRj6X6RxXSSR81CQaYtltaNGkEeiwnfly4QFVw21MGE_AkafTuCx7ivJV74yGt2KpXL342lAWEtjuFcNljx5NRxzjR4YIamqZ4Ebh153zk9iD991eB1j6iOpSRxXu9dgnzmQRx4A/s320/hugs%20through%20shrugs%20yarns%20and%20piece.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>You can find her on https://hugsthroughshrugs.org and on instagram [#hugsthroughshrugs], where the photos of her work and the places they reach are inspiring. Over the few days we sat getting to know each other, I listened as she recounted how, in fact, other women inspired and taught her craft, and how hard she works to coordinate knitters and find places to sell her yarn to support those mothers' gifts.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_tJyVKbD0L5xxCso4bdFyzmIOIRtgnyfRaVQYG7P1fKTnm8OkygzA6q5ZwCQ82P57XyRhfze7Z5N_DEp6Ky42cxrCrrz-n39h65Ph7nLZv4jNKVq7mfSLPmlPVDB608KWBE7Y12e77Z11B9KVrrvzFL1P-MdtIby2UsrRnu9RccWA6IZzT61nf96nTvc/s1078/hugs%20through%20shrugs%20delivering%20shrugs%20to%20hospital.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1078" data-original-width="1052" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_tJyVKbD0L5xxCso4bdFyzmIOIRtgnyfRaVQYG7P1fKTnm8OkygzA6q5ZwCQ82P57XyRhfze7Z5N_DEp6Ky42cxrCrrz-n39h65Ph7nLZv4jNKVq7mfSLPmlPVDB608KWBE7Y12e77Z11B9KVrrvzFL1P-MdtIby2UsrRnu9RccWA6IZzT61nf96nTvc/s320/hugs%20through%20shrugs%20delivering%20shrugs%20to%20hospital.jpg" width="312" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p> I'm a terrible knitter, myself; simple knit and purl with maybe a little edging is what I keep to. But even I would try to make shrugs to send her for those mothers. You can hear and see her whole heart in it. And you can also see what it takes them to keep it going. I call Mary Janine and her sister people who matter.</p><p>It may have been dire circumstances that brought us together, but I am grateful for the chance to know yet another person who matters and allows others to matter, too, in the best ways.</p><p>And here's Deanna's retreat, in case you need a day of renewal at the end of the year, a chance to invoke the kind of spirit that opens itself, hands and mind, to others' needs while it opens yours.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaJAu8Wgn9mvzoDBYitfQkGD0Dk9_PjzlguDXZwv_PYvwf9baYq4XrK5oIB5WBdJLU9ymF_XNry7Lc0SqiCXi99AgpVnIjL8FFSd3aX2SjCngBoyiHE9GDPY9l1sjIvdDhecFun82523oXOAs-IkIqCcoVPQF97E5Bu8_AkFnwdn4r-uAqq0pobEmzVxU/s1000/Deanna's%20sacred%20creativity%20workshop%20poster.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaJAu8Wgn9mvzoDBYitfQkGD0Dk9_PjzlguDXZwv_PYvwf9baYq4XrK5oIB5WBdJLU9ymF_XNry7Lc0SqiCXi99AgpVnIjL8FFSd3aX2SjCngBoyiHE9GDPY9l1sjIvdDhecFun82523oXOAs-IkIqCcoVPQF97E5Bu8_AkFnwdn4r-uAqq0pobEmzVxU/s320/Deanna's%20sacred%20creativity%20workshop%20poster.png" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>May hope and dedication light your holidays all, as it will certainly light ours </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>as our first candle glows for Chanukah.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuJSQsEYl1A2gqSlnauzRbRBN_xLgqzu7N2Y5M4iQXEvnLbDC__5Sxzqs0yaFEKTUHmDUBgiRS1r_Xhnbn-Oho1xv737df_D-embKnDuRDxz8R4ou11E2KvRrVnbSYBLZfkVppqPayoo68rAzkReR8ExsdX0c2Y35pyz59eC3lkfvoq8niO5MV5rJ5zBw/s3235/chanukah,%20third%20day%202022.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3235" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuJSQsEYl1A2gqSlnauzRbRBN_xLgqzu7N2Y5M4iQXEvnLbDC__5Sxzqs0yaFEKTUHmDUBgiRS1r_Xhnbn-Oho1xv737df_D-embKnDuRDxz8R4ou11E2KvRrVnbSYBLZfkVppqPayoo68rAzkReR8ExsdX0c2Y35pyz59eC3lkfvoq8niO5MV5rJ5zBw/s320/chanukah,%20third%20day%202022.jpg" width="297" /></a></div><br /><i><br /></i></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Rachel's Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790797302450473117noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8959233989161202970.post-79617252944749190222023-11-05T10:41:00.000-08:002023-11-05T10:41:03.904-08:00Book on Books - nota bene, a book adventure<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg65CoRsvGOInJGNEW3DMvYv1Z6k4i3B-A8uIpKdj6n4ekvjunJW5TBRVMfzJCUoOlzR3ylhdZdQK3Tt4ECNK6H_ab-rRzjtw8bcTG8NPtB9IKBwsckyTP7CWOgZ_88AUaX_kS7JUeN91b1AJx3bptOGe8YQoyUHMtfxBHrVlMjePMGweYUdvcf0baJSqQ/s500/the%20bookseller's%20tale.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="326" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg65CoRsvGOInJGNEW3DMvYv1Z6k4i3B-A8uIpKdj6n4ekvjunJW5TBRVMfzJCUoOlzR3ylhdZdQK3Tt4ECNK6H_ab-rRzjtw8bcTG8NPtB9IKBwsckyTP7CWOgZ_88AUaX_kS7JUeN91b1AJx3bptOGe8YQoyUHMtfxBHrVlMjePMGweYUdvcf0baJSqQ/s320/the%20bookseller's%20tale.jpg" width="209" /></a></div><br /><p>Good morning. Over the last week, I have been reading Martin Latham's <i>The Bookseller's Tale, </i>enjoying every word...sometimes going back over to catch again names, titles, places, events. I came to it from another bookseller's book, a slim little volume of small prose and poems called <i>When it slows down, I will do a display, </i>which I'd found browsing around Epilogue downtown while waiting for my coffee. I like walking up there for just those pastimes...a decent length of walk, a coffee (maybe a Mexican pastry on a cold day), and books new and used.</p><p>Anyway, Latham, the author of the <i>Tale,</i> is a clearly well-read, long-time bookseller, now running a Waterstone Books in Canterbury, GB. Canterbury, in case you have forgotten your sophomore high school reading, is the site of the famous cathedral, to which we owe one of the great "chapter novels" [sorry, all you medievalists out there] in English history: Chaucer's <i>Canterbury Tales</i>, no slouch when it comes to what we even now look for in books...bravery, one-up-man-ship, false piety, betrayal, sex, foodies, Romance (the capital letter changes the meaning though not the origins) and lessons learned.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrWoj8UBe67VwxcOgrrGQjiw6nzBfOl8juNz6aMGsvgy971FayBZUz0HO5OhRunKjNMMYPWze4MKHJ7LzKnUaDu2X6vynHpuzz_xJPpt0-dM-aLlgQj8Prnd0WKY-KkkzE4sR-74cF8CCWgxcIP-UZhu5LdR2Iw66gmQFlxlwvfYyCnGTGZTlzEtxez8Q/s1400/Canterbury%20tales.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="1400" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrWoj8UBe67VwxcOgrrGQjiw6nzBfOl8juNz6aMGsvgy971FayBZUz0HO5OhRunKjNMMYPWze4MKHJ7LzKnUaDu2X6vynHpuzz_xJPpt0-dM-aLlgQj8Prnd0WKY-KkkzE4sR-74cF8CCWgxcIP-UZhu5LdR2Iw66gmQFlxlwvfYyCnGTGZTlzEtxez8Q/s320/Canterbury%20tales.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Latham's is about books...the way we find them, corner them, collect them, hunt them down, dig them out from moldy basements and back shelves of second-hand stores, attach to them for comfort and sneak them under the covers for excess, read them in corners and attics and libraries, open or closed. It's about the eccentricity, dedication, dangerous encounters, and savvy saviors among 4,000 years of collectors and hoarders; about discovering and uncovering...like the book-edge paintings or the often ribald medieval hand-drawn scenes adorning the copies of ancient sacred texts (apparently, the scribes enjoyed bringing bestial delights to higher words).</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEipedbycThFo-9TfZf5L1zHhV5EHrVi3XY18Hz4hadR_qND0XVWiREpeTIKJ8ffZsReK3PbQ2LJTdCCHxuY-tUGeo_D5nGauiKuNYEizH4YDlK_SaJfP4VD2Wd_ztRCj8H3hpcoTiDigJbpa7FUp6gipA9DkKpc7iNg3mwqmIBl4dvQB8BuedXdSGdvSrE" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="489" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEipedbycThFo-9TfZf5L1zHhV5EHrVi3XY18Hz4hadR_qND0XVWiREpeTIKJ8ffZsReK3PbQ2LJTdCCHxuY-tUGeo_D5nGauiKuNYEizH4YDlK_SaJfP4VD2Wd_ztRCj8H3hpcoTiDigJbpa7FUp6gipA9DkKpc7iNg3mwqmIBl4dvQB8BuedXdSGdvSrE" width="155" /></a></div><br /><span style="text-align: left;">Before you start yawning, </span><i style="text-align: left;">Tale </i><span style="text-align: left;">is</span><span style="text-align: left;"> actually written in quite a witty way, so that the well-researched and discretely arranged information makes you turn every page as if you were reading a novel. I don't think I've read anything so volunteerily closely since my parsing graduate school days. </span></div><p>But here's the part I wanted to share with you personally. Not long into the beginning of Latham's book, he introduces a section called "Comfort Books"...those that, over the years and particularly since childhood, we've read over and over, with an attachment that we may or, more likely, may not, have understood. In his bookstore to customers, on the street or at coffee shops to strangers, and in conversation with authors and other public people, he asks a question: <i>What book did you go back to time and again as a child? And what have you become, perhaps in consequence of it?</i></p><p>I sat up straight at that one. It's no secret that a lifelong of reading (often with elders discovering me in some dark corner to say, "That's enough reading! Outside with you!") has led me to my vocation...almost a default one, if truth be told. But a single book?</p><p>Immediately, though, it came to mind. I couldn't remember title or author, but I did well remember the story about a young girl being taken as an indentured servant in New Amsterdam in the 1600's. Neither could I count now the number of times I walked to the library to read and re-read it; I must have been 8-10 in those years, so I also knew the book was probably written in the 'thirties or 'forties.</p><p>As we do <i>these </i>days, I went online to see what was out there with such a plot. Nothing. I eventually recalled that the title was the girl's name and something, and that her name began with J. Still, nothing. Even the Library of Congress catalog came up with nothing. (But that's not a surprise...as Latham notes, the L of C had the habit of ignoring, burying or outright rejecting books at various chief librarian's dispositions or Congress' political leanings...you'd be unpleasantly surprised at what's not in our national collection.)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW-j6PXf-s8G3Z1pj4rnfNfeMEf7BFliPJcnEn-uOfSE63xBjGXJFYYjtDGkd36cOmYMqVLxIGtFNb0oXuhSCrJfc_9OUZgXENTrsykZfFPgdpcaM4Tibn27d5RBt3sPotReNx3sA4eARftiTfEuCFSuY1JUSE0fYQapuhw_zKAkD_qTY6xaWI0_QYTCE/s275/chapel%20hill%20public%20library%20children's%20room.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW-j6PXf-s8G3Z1pj4rnfNfeMEf7BFliPJcnEn-uOfSE63xBjGXJFYYjtDGkd36cOmYMqVLxIGtFNb0oXuhSCrJfc_9OUZgXENTrsykZfFPgdpcaM4Tibn27d5RBt3sPotReNx3sA4eARftiTfEuCFSuY1JUSE0fYQapuhw_zKAkD_qTY6xaWI0_QYTCE/s1600/chapel%20hill%20public%20library%20children's%20room.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><br /><p>So, I did the far better thing...walked to our public library and found a children's librarian at her desk. When I presented my bibliographic problem, she brightened up and took up her resources. "We <i>love </i>this kind of problem!" she claimed as she wrote down a faithful description of the plot I knew.</p><p>The next day, an email delivered the collected librarians' finds: three possible books, of which, she wrote, this first one would likely be it.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJbpigESLiL18VwW-FrDb1AgtKMfHCULUa1mfJf6MlyyggPbD28asgwooSMCGn18mhGbQ1tzf3bjSayYihzZnvcYYcM0-mXlRyJNi96RxpvDmfJNrrICzbv8PW2UHFwX7pDc_Bua16cWMmzm_I7KrQ6vsifitiqMrRMhb9wclXibdElxNQaRfvZeFKvcc/s3000/Jonica's%20Island%20book%20the%20copy%20I%20would%20have%20read.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2250" data-original-width="3000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJbpigESLiL18VwW-FrDb1AgtKMfHCULUa1mfJf6MlyyggPbD28asgwooSMCGn18mhGbQ1tzf3bjSayYihzZnvcYYcM0-mXlRyJNi96RxpvDmfJNrrICzbv8PW2UHFwX7pDc_Bua16cWMmzm_I7KrQ6vsifitiqMrRMhb9wclXibdElxNQaRfvZeFKvcc/s320/Jonica's%20Island%20book%20the%20copy%20I%20would%20have%20read.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>This is exactly like the book I remember reading</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>It began with a J, yes; its plot was mostly what I remembered. <i>Jonica's Island</i>, by Gladys Malvern, who, when I looked her up found that she had written a number of children's historical novels, well-researched and -written, pointed at middle-elementary school age. She included a glossary of Dutch terms, too, which she used throughout. Malvern, I went on to read, had an interesting history herself, in part not unlike some of our heroine Jonica, which I'd have loved to know back then...but I'll leave that off now, for brevity's sake.</p><p>I next went to find the book online, thinking it might be fun to have and re-read. Here I found a giant stumbling block. It was out of print; there were no new copies, nor were there likely to be, though others of hers had been reprinted (more about that in a minute); any extant copy was running at $500. to 700. on any used-book site, Etsy, Ebay and Amazon. Exhibit A:</p><div class="celwidget" data-cel-widget="titleblock_feature_div" data-csa-c-asin="" data-csa-c-content-id="titleblock" data-csa-c-id="blgspm-2nidb1-3cxkn2-evgcp3" data-csa-c-is-in-initial-active-row="false" data-csa-c-slot-id="titleblock_feature_div" data-csa-c-type="widget" data-feature-name="titleblock" id="titleblock_feature_div" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><div class="a-section a-spacing-none" style="box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 0px;"><h1 class="a-spacing-none a-text-normal" id="title" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 28px; font-weight: 400; line-height: 36px; margin-bottom: 0px !important; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><span class="a-size-extra-large celwidget" data-cel-widget="productTitle" data-csa-c-id="np4zdx-7q71fv-eg3u30-643mgj" id="productTitle" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 36px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;">Jonica's Island </span></h1></div></div><div class="celwidget" data-cel-widget="bylineInfo_feature_div" data-csa-c-asin="" data-csa-c-content-id="bylineInfo" data-csa-c-id="6m60q8-jry8lm-d64dfj-tiebjw" data-csa-c-is-in-initial-active-row="false" data-csa-c-slot-id="bylineInfo_feature_div" data-csa-c-type="widget" data-feature-name="bylineInfo" id="bylineInfo_feature_div" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><div class="a-section a-spacing-micro bylineHidden feature" data-cel-widget="bylineInfo" id="bylineInfo" style="box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 0px;">by <span class="author notFaded" data-width="" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><a class="a-link-normal" href="https://www.amazon.com/Gladys-Malvern/e/B001KHXCB6/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #007185; text-decoration-line: none;">Gladys Malvern</a> <span class="contribution" spacing="none" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span class="a-color-secondary" color="rgb(86, 89, 89) !important" style="box-sizing: border-box;">(Author)</span> </span></span><i class="a-icon a-icon-text-separator" role="presentation" style="background-color: #dddddd; background-image: url("https://m.media-amazon.com/images/S/sash/f9Cwl2OUDVHGXk8.png"); background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: 400px 900px; box-sizing: border-box; display: inline-block; height: 14px; line-height: 0; margin: -2px 0.67375em 0px; vertical-align: middle; width: 1px;"></i></div></div><div class="celwidget" data-cel-widget="centerAttributesColumns" data-csa-c-asin="" data-csa-c-content-id="centerAttributesColumns" data-csa-c-id="feawwt-i8kzso-297e9u-6tgus" data-csa-c-is-in-initial-active-row="false" data-csa-c-slot-id="centerAttributesColumns" data-csa-c-type="widget" data-feature-name="centerAttributesColumns" id="centerAttributesColumns" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; display: flex; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><div id="centerAttributesLeftColumn" style="box-sizing: border-box; flex-grow: 1;"><div class="celwidget" data-cel-widget="reviewFeatureGroup" data-csa-c-asin="" data-csa-c-content-id="reviewFeatureGroup" data-csa-c-id="74vsv1-dcccrz-utt6k2-gmpeev" data-csa-c-is-in-initial-active-row="false" data-csa-c-slot-id="reviewFeatureGroup" data-csa-c-type="widget" data-feature-name="reviewFeatureGroup" id="reviewFeatureGroup" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><table class="a-normal a-spacing-mini" style="border-collapse: collapse; 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background-size: 400px 900px; box-sizing: border-box; display: inline-block; height: 5px; margin: 5px 0px 0px 0.385em; opacity: 0.6; vertical-align: text-top; width: 7px;"></i></a> </span><span class="a-letter-space" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: inline-block; width: 0.385em;"></span> </span><span class="a-letter-space" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: inline-block; width: 0.385em;"></span> <span class="a-declarative" data-acrlink-click-metrics="{}" data-action="acrLink-click-metrics" data-csa-c-func-deps="aui-da-acrLink-click-metrics" data-csa-c-id="oc8ddl-y7640b-c4660j-djff3z" data-csa-c-type="widget" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><a class="a-link-normal" href="https://www.amazon.com/Jonicas-Island-Gladys-Malvern-ebook/dp/B07YZT21B6#customerReviews" id="acrCustomerReviewLink" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #007185; text-decoration-line: none;"><span class="a-size-base" id="acrCustomerReviewText" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">29 ratings</span></a></span></div></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="celwidget" data-cel-widget="seriesBulletWidget_feature_div" data-csa-c-asin="" data-csa-c-content-id="seriesBulletWidget" data-csa-c-id="b9wnbd-2l13qr-7u07t2-cwpwnb" data-csa-c-is-in-initial-active-row="false" data-csa-c-slot-id="seriesBulletWidget_feature_div" data-csa-c-type="widget" data-feature-name="seriesBulletWidget" id="seriesBulletWidget_feature_div" style="box-sizing: border-box;"></div><div class="celwidget" data-cel-widget="GoodreadSummaryWithoutPopover_feature_div" data-csa-c-asin="" data-csa-c-content-id="GoodreadSummaryWithoutPopover" data-csa-c-id="9kqti9-u4o472-g5zbbr-3az92y" data-csa-c-is-in-initial-active-row="false" data-csa-c-slot-id="GoodreadSummaryWithoutPopover_feature_div" data-csa-c-type="widget" data-feature-name="GoodreadSummaryWithoutPopover" id="GoodreadSummaryWithoutPopover_feature_div" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><div cel_widget_id="goodreads-wtr-and-rating-card_DetailPage_3" class="celwidget c-f" data-cel-widget="goodreads-wtr-and-rating-card_DetailPage_3" data-csa-c-content-id="DsUnknown" data-csa-c-id="jty5tb-271wm-h7su8d-k4jbvx" data-csa-c-painter="goodreads-wtr-and-rating-card-cards" data-csa-c-slot-id="DsUnknown-4" data-csa-c-type="widget" data-csa-op-log-render="" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><div class="a-section _goodreads-wtr-and-rating-card_style_cardSection__2tJU8" data-card-metrics-id="goodreads-wtr-and-rating-card_DetailPage_3" data-mix-claimed="true" id="CardInstanceGrVCo9rgnZLZmpZIC9wFRA" style="box-sizing: border-box; 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height: auto; overflow: hidden; position: relative;"><a class="a-button-text" href="https://www.amazon.com/JONICAS-ISLAND-Gladys-Malvern/dp/B000K3PHZ0/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=" id="a-autoid-6-announce" style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; display: block; font-size: 13px; height: 48px; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 5px 10px 5px 11px; text-align: left; text-decoration-line: none; text-wrap: nowrap; width: 136.667px;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;"><br />Hardcover</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span class="a-color-secondary" color="rgb(86, 89, 89) !important" style="box-sizing: border-box;">from $449.00 </span><div style="box-sizing: border-box; display: inline-block;"></div></a></span></span><span class="tmm-olp-links" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: block; padding: 0px 11px;"></span><span class="tmm-olp-links" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: block; padding: 0px 11px;"><span class="olp-used olp-link" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: block; line-height: 15px;"><span class="a-declarative" data-action="show-all-offers-display" data-csa-c-func-deps="aui-da-show-all-offers-display" data-csa-c-id="syol4j-vpk2hd-7qvoxv-whlpa0" data-csa-c-type="widget" data-show-all-offers-display="{"condition":"all","asin":"B000K3PHZ0"}" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><a class="a-size-mini a-link-normal" href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/offer-listing/B000K3PHZ0/ref=tmm_hrd_used_olp_0?ie=UTF8&condition=used" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #007185; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-decoration-line: none;">1 Used <span class="olp-from" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #888888;">from</span> $449.00</a></span></span></span></span></li></ul></div></div></div><div class="celwidget" data-cel-widget="persistentWidget_feature_div" data-csa-c-asin="" data-csa-c-content-id="persistentWidget" data-csa-c-id="n2euua-u41f9f-b1xv00-8wpzqh" data-csa-c-is-in-initial-active-row="false" data-csa-c-slot-id="persistentWidget_feature_div" data-csa-c-type="widget" data-feature-name="persistentWidget" id="persistentWidget_feature_div" style="background-color: white; 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box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"></div><div class="celwidget" data-cel-widget="bookDescription_feature_div" data-csa-c-asin="" data-csa-c-content-id="bookDescription" data-csa-c-id="wfr1i5-h82cm1-yo2kj1-s60xn4" data-csa-c-is-in-initial-active-row="false" data-csa-c-slot-id="bookDescription_feature_div" data-csa-c-type="widget" data-feature-name="bookDescription" id="bookDescription_feature_div" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 10px;"><div class="a-expander-collapsed-height a-row a-expander-container a-spacing-base a-expander-partial-collapse-container" data-a-expander-collapsed-height="140" data-a-expander-name="book_description_expander" style="box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 12px; max-height: 140px; overflow: hidden; position: relative; width: 611.875px;"><div aria-expanded="false" class="a-expander-content a-expander-partial-collapse-content" style="box-sizing: border-box; overflow: hidden; position: relative;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;">First published in 1945, Jonica’s Island, a historical novel set in New Amsterdam in the 1660s, tells the story of 13-year-old Jonica, an indentured servant to the wealthy Van der Voort family. Her hard work and loyalty may not be enough when she is suspected of theft. With illustrations by Corinne Malvern.</span></div></div></div><p> Since that amount would buy me a hotel for a week in Istanbul, I passed. But I dug on, and nearly by accident found a site by a woman whose daytime job was personal tech-helper but whose avocation was re-discovering books and authors she once loved. She'd found <i>Jonica</i> at some odd place, like a library or yard sale, and realizing that others would like it, too, she copied the whole 200 pages, including the illustrations done by Gladys' sister Corinne, on a PDF file you could simply write and ask her to share.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjl_vvtcToLih2-swIdJvCQVWDSAOHYYArLJrJ2MA7wE9SPFa2mOWajJLkXXhXjUtKrqIvZklB0rj2IsFx-xAQs7BVXWg6gUZu_Sms88pFucaJTShTYc987EMme5fK-8l8aoGTSVO8K140PKn5_KfzBdpqyS_5Pb6zlkOGKv0Ahhv1G_v16MPjI0u896s/s2400/frontispieces%20from%20Jonica's%20Island.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2400" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjl_vvtcToLih2-swIdJvCQVWDSAOHYYArLJrJ2MA7wE9SPFa2mOWajJLkXXhXjUtKrqIvZklB0rj2IsFx-xAQs7BVXWg6gUZu_Sms88pFucaJTShTYc987EMme5fK-8l8aoGTSVO8K140PKn5_KfzBdpqyS_5Pb6zlkOGKv0Ahhv1G_v16MPjI0u896s/s320/frontispieces%20from%20Jonica's%20Island.jpg" width="144" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>So I did, and here it came. I'd rather have had the book in hand, of course...kindle doesn't inspire me, but this woman who saved children's books for strangers to read did. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJcKz9MPg4y6D2ZadHYn9rXZAf_S6yYqzQ0UVhHOYuibe4mTXG46XODejdt9gp5JfvifzyyYTkKC_Co_a9REnrBXoD93n6303lrS8DZPly-GZZyTMHN_95dwDBujP0mbSQxKHyM7XO6hxuQfyN1UxvaU7O8K4N8lNrAw7oRwET9kGTw5ezmmJDkbux7nI/s2400/illustration%20from%20Jonica's%20Island.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2400" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJcKz9MPg4y6D2ZadHYn9rXZAf_S6yYqzQ0UVhHOYuibe4mTXG46XODejdt9gp5JfvifzyyYTkKC_Co_a9REnrBXoD93n6303lrS8DZPly-GZZyTMHN_95dwDBujP0mbSQxKHyM7XO6hxuQfyN1UxvaU7O8K4N8lNrAw7oRwET9kGTw5ezmmJDkbux7nI/s320/illustration%20from%20Jonica's%20Island.jpg" width="144" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjRD9MsvSh1omv6AmuNwMCGnKNwpURAot_LuFQTMZFl1EKExqCn5EPxrUU3-tc6be4wRpBXnQhbahj_nbQe_-a78WNybrbjHxk3o0lgAY8R-8juMBgJVDK5yWSXA42qGKT_u9pe7T5htlO2JE3cfLdx9UAxVpqxdGDVOSnpZgYqjJ5p4xMAwMrH64jwAw/s225/Jonica's%20island%20illustration%20of%20shoes%20outside%20door.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="224" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjRD9MsvSh1omv6AmuNwMCGnKNwpURAot_LuFQTMZFl1EKExqCn5EPxrUU3-tc6be4wRpBXnQhbahj_nbQe_-a78WNybrbjHxk3o0lgAY8R-8juMBgJVDK5yWSXA42qGKT_u9pe7T5htlO2JE3cfLdx9UAxVpqxdGDVOSnpZgYqjJ5p4xMAwMrH64jwAw/s1600/Jonica's%20island%20illustration%20of%20shoes%20outside%20door.jpg" width="224" /></a></div><br /></div><p>What amazed me was not only the forgotten illustrations, which in I'm sure in those early years impressed me as much as the text, but the detailed and carefully laid out historical setting...what became New York Island a century later...and which included openly and clearly the temperment of the Dutch settlers, the pride of their work and harshness of the times, as well as the wealth accrued by some, the hypocritic treatment of others, including Jonica's alcoholic father and his thievery, the violence of whippings and humiliations of the stock, slave buying and selling (and the ignorant disdain of the Dutch to those they bought), a native massacre and reprising settler wars...all horrors portrayed...even the small pox epidemic and its human costs, as well as both the loyalty and discipline and sturdiness of its people. I must have read all of those words, and yet clung to the girl's story of poverty, servitude, service, affection, care, loyalty and brave perserverence until the romantic (note low-case r) ending satisfied her fate. Not quite the <i>Velveteen Rabbit.</i></p><p>So what about this complicated story stayed so close to me in those days? And how on earth could this one come under Latham's "Comfort" category? I had to think about this slowly, but a few images came forth:</p><p> First, the Dutch frau's housekeeping, for she was a stickler about her house, with generous meals, elaborately sanded floors, and an attractive, comfortable and useful home for her husband and sons. Jonica, coming into the household from her sad upbringing, thinks this is paradise no matter how hard the work. Then all except one of the sons' loyalty and affection for Jonica; though their parents keep her stiffly distant as a servant, the boys each bring or make something homey for her small attic room...even, from the most dandyish of them, the gift of a mirror...quite an extravagence in those days...and treat her as a sister. Soon, the parents, while still wary because of her background, come to admire her considerable skills...she had learned them from her mother who had died and left her with a father who only brought her down in their world by his drinking and is almost her undoing later. (A nosy, imperious neighbor, by the way, often a villain in novels, is the nemesis.)</p><p>Finally, the line that stays with me was the first question the frau asked of her relieved husband as she is recovering, thanks to Jonica's fortitude and care, from small pox, "Are the floors sanded? The candlesticks polished?" It made me laugh then and still does.</p><p>Gladys and Corinne, each in their way, were geniuses at portraying things as they were, and people as they were. And portrayed them for children like me.</p><p>So, why not reprint this book? Political correctness might be the easiest answer...there is so much prejudice encapsulated, each small group of people subjugating each other group to suspicion, contempt, derision and expulsion from social contact. I wish I could say that we had evolved better, but alas I cannot. The brick walls of the Dutch settlement, the gated community, the pilloring and exclusion, the slavery...it's all still here. Sadly, maddingly. The history in this book is a microscopic and yet expansive lesson that school could not teach me.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo-Usrg-rvRA6WoUMCvucl2Rv3gYr_PUSdY4P5K4Y3yBKfZAayHR5UFGvdj7L9nyxoi4QsqHacjipzwehQYFd-nqGV4mwccGaz1vkNY3Cyjt3eGk6tTMMLBaX2lWFakMi9k4LfTDfVccpn_swpLirUDwjAMlXz2th1EvU9wAkJ_emUrO2q0VnmVXGE8og/s1835/japanese%20cemetery%20stone%20replaced%20after%20WWII%20destruction.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1835" data-original-width="1766" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo-Usrg-rvRA6WoUMCvucl2Rv3gYr_PUSdY4P5K4Y3yBKfZAayHR5UFGvdj7L9nyxoi4QsqHacjipzwehQYFd-nqGV4mwccGaz1vkNY3Cyjt3eGk6tTMMLBaX2lWFakMi9k4LfTDfVccpn_swpLirUDwjAMlXz2th1EvU9wAkJ_emUrO2q0VnmVXGE8og/s320/japanese%20cemetery%20stone%20replaced%20after%20WWII%20destruction.jpg" width="308" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY841kMgLbuWxKBvrRJ7FexvZfowbM8o_7aTBbpi_eGlOPsv4Eps296ZEvQ1I2J7XpI9XZqVMZhU0Si4JecwjnXZNucYG4UMFYqMzNdtbYe5yIrCBhZGXBWGR4vuSQM7kyj9qK5JFeWzGFvTYxrbUfVhFf_d0e9QbADqTHv7ma9bjSJ68SQ42mwyJz1M4/s3571/japanese%20memorial%20in%20Victoria%20graveyard%20on%20Pacific.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3571" data-original-width="2656" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY841kMgLbuWxKBvrRJ7FexvZfowbM8o_7aTBbpi_eGlOPsv4Eps296ZEvQ1I2J7XpI9XZqVMZhU0Si4JecwjnXZNucYG4UMFYqMzNdtbYe5yIrCBhZGXBWGR4vuSQM7kyj9qK5JFeWzGFvTYxrbUfVhFf_d0e9QbADqTHv7ma9bjSJ68SQ42mwyJz1M4/s320/japanese%20memorial%20in%20Victoria%20graveyard%20on%20Pacific.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><p>On my trip to Victoria, I walked through the lovely, peaceful cemetery along the Pacific, and found the monument, newly erected, to the Japanese settlers of the area, who had brought so much culture and citizenship to that place over time...and yet whose graves had been destroyed by their neighbors because they were "enemies" during the 'forties. Why do we do this to one another, I wondered? In the midst of beauty, there seems always the pit of our ugliness.</p><p>Well, back to Mr. Latham's question...I think I found my answer. What would be yours? Do try and remember...it's a lot of fun to figure out, and perhaps yours will not be out of print and favor, like mine.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Happy reading.</i></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Rachel's Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790797302450473117noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8959233989161202970.post-25447301251770266122023-10-17T15:10:00.000-07:002023-10-17T15:10:47.228-07:00If only pictures were words...<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD6XFX3QGWxLw0qd4k3-utBC9lR6l4VApEtsoQV_blCXgMP_5i3Adv-wFxTL8VyfKonPmRRuJKidpbWDaowQMJO_BS9MZvJoHHT1TKwAM0NNDF-txlLWjBwnnCbzs5YIYrq8rK0EJQNgxTpYvbX1YtqoqSzXf74yJYK1E_dSkbSk-gjyRZ2MJi485FGFU/s4000/thermometer.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD6XFX3QGWxLw0qd4k3-utBC9lR6l4VApEtsoQV_blCXgMP_5i3Adv-wFxTL8VyfKonPmRRuJKidpbWDaowQMJO_BS9MZvJoHHT1TKwAM0NNDF-txlLWjBwnnCbzs5YIYrq8rK0EJQNgxTpYvbX1YtqoqSzXf74yJYK1E_dSkbSk-gjyRZ2MJi485FGFU/s320/thermometer.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>This morning, chilled inside and out, I have been staying under the covers (the top one being a warm alpaca throw my mother gave me decades ago) while I read, do word games, make lists for today...ignoring as long as I can the day's call to get up, get dressed and do something.</p><p>There is plenty to do, inside and out...to wit: this blog and its thousand words waiting to unfold themselves to you...</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>travels to the idyllic Victoria, B.C. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWP-zhVzAXF3ZCpZqaQBrttCMh3ToBAOA_f0ebgDMZ7BEuTcxekCOjhoAlly4beYTWclgb86nvlaJujRJDVzpRdFobLywo6ibuT8NVyQS-ztfTnr9ZtfXi46qxjUv-ACHJ29UixaT3-rGP0SUFvgT7D8W_Ui_WJ2W7m6-HU8nZbFXTnQkxKAI_qgptezQ/s3697/victoria%20bc%20flowers%20and%20totem.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3697" data-original-width="2485" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWP-zhVzAXF3ZCpZqaQBrttCMh3ToBAOA_f0ebgDMZ7BEuTcxekCOjhoAlly4beYTWclgb86nvlaJujRJDVzpRdFobLywo6ibuT8NVyQS-ztfTnr9ZtfXi46qxjUv-ACHJ29UixaT3-rGP0SUFvgT7D8W_Ui_WJ2W7m6-HU8nZbFXTnQkxKAI_qgptezQ/w164-h244/victoria%20bc%20flowers%20and%20totem.jpg" width="164" /></a><br /><br /></li><li>visits with dear friends of my youth <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv1FImfLWOF5JKTLjVEeYFxiG-vtcgKzeSuUv3P7N11mMclcEUGHkhei-JQXkKXFsW6ubWx15-ni_zCAxHgqhlizE32Cr5SyAF_BCS130uopdRKRBa93XapP_hAq789MqqmfDskphO1dX-zHRmYDc7ry5Tt40rDcHuUFBmlVFmA2RiLY0zK_nDUIkGzuc/s4000/dear%20friends%20casey%20and%20pat.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="139" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv1FImfLWOF5JKTLjVEeYFxiG-vtcgKzeSuUv3P7N11mMclcEUGHkhei-JQXkKXFsW6ubWx15-ni_zCAxHgqhlizE32Cr5SyAF_BCS130uopdRKRBa93XapP_hAq789MqqmfDskphO1dX-zHRmYDc7ry5Tt40rDcHuUFBmlVFmA2RiLY0zK_nDUIkGzuc/w186-h139/dear%20friends%20casey%20and%20pat.jpg" width="186" /></a><br /><br /></li><li>my 78th year at the shore, partly cloudy, with loss <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgerg0zES5NN8Ku7mPsqKdeWsZkm6xo6J5m5TKnb0wiFlByAT3DWPLrH2cRaXv1S0cgoDCKhCAbOPFJoEu9nSeD51fkPz3KaVQVr_ZCd_Ynw3exAivAzk6MnSzZB2WDHObylpI2CvViiGPqtqs_faM4VHYpKsmiVgwQ7QG_K0TnWfhYo9d10XHSR6c5y_4/s4000/shore%20partly%20cloudy%2078th%20year%20stay.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgerg0zES5NN8Ku7mPsqKdeWsZkm6xo6J5m5TKnb0wiFlByAT3DWPLrH2cRaXv1S0cgoDCKhCAbOPFJoEu9nSeD51fkPz3KaVQVr_ZCd_Ynw3exAivAzk6MnSzZB2WDHObylpI2CvViiGPqtqs_faM4VHYpKsmiVgwQ7QG_K0TnWfhYo9d10XHSR6c5y_4/w200-h150/shore%20partly%20cloudy%2078th%20year%20stay.jpg" width="200" /></a></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></div><br /> </li><li>the leavings of my Aunt Sadie snuggling into my over-crowded but welcoming house and history <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuvDL80wBL6g8Wt5SOqT7h6Kbt-gfGILHpGWmnJJh-Bl5hROuVVKbDsXguRD1bE4qicf1vJN1x7S1XbNVL5k8ttibQGbY5264G87qOBSYO0g-BDz2FZBh2brw2ddwYsCj0O5D1Qp4qAGQYpHUa5WLg7HZQOlIojDrk9wRQk5istX7xXMdcbyyhYwScVak/s4000/Aunt%20Sadie's%20cup%20and%20my%20black%20wedding%20glassware.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuvDL80wBL6g8Wt5SOqT7h6Kbt-gfGILHpGWmnJJh-Bl5hROuVVKbDsXguRD1bE4qicf1vJN1x7S1XbNVL5k8ttibQGbY5264G87qOBSYO0g-BDz2FZBh2brw2ddwYsCj0O5D1Qp4qAGQYpHUa5WLg7HZQOlIojDrk9wRQk5istX7xXMdcbyyhYwScVak/w186-h248/Aunt%20Sadie's%20cup%20and%20my%20black%20wedding%20glassware.jpg" width="186" /></a></div><br /></li><li>old photographs in a box and an overflowing scrap book that I am struggling to make sense of <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPTvSm4flrl-Bt-dxQCVz4a6qWNrOpvd8xEYvtvaHWy35QmJewaDAej2uiCPl2GPL7bI0xDA1sCjMltxMoFbPGlYrzpQ-Yv9cB8JgAqIC0MRXsLGVDeIhwAZEPXaA5wKFEXaX47dvb9t9JyZysviK9bqy75QEB3J4Z0bQnWeqosBL02Hf5PJV3JPHPhgo/s4000/chicky%20labate%20and%20helen%20angotti%20at%20pool%20dancing%20old%20picture.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPTvSm4flrl-Bt-dxQCVz4a6qWNrOpvd8xEYvtvaHWy35QmJewaDAej2uiCPl2GPL7bI0xDA1sCjMltxMoFbPGlYrzpQ-Yv9cB8JgAqIC0MRXsLGVDeIhwAZEPXaA5wKFEXaX47dvb9t9JyZysviK9bqy75QEB3J4Z0bQnWeqosBL02Hf5PJV3JPHPhgo/w190-h253/chicky%20labate%20and%20helen%20angotti%20at%20pool%20dancing%20old%20picture.jpg" width="190" /></a></div><br /> </li><li>a painting I've finished which I'm struggling to like (and the next one, sitting empty on the workroom table, so far only a blur of gray-blue cloud); <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKC_rWf02GMDpL7pf5_5ghyvmfdaN3GOPLcz_cPlt_sRnjbOHUkfCVk2qvQC5b6UhLFLlyMkbtShUPWHt4nRBAQgll_OBxjNA6VjmqrV8o1eeWlYyWZFUtBhCqAG9Rv7KEFXYH4wniVvRKf9sktW7bz_rQ4HZhHOJlq039k8OyYxlHWCHmbSZMsX2gW00/s3796/varina's%20painting.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="3796" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKC_rWf02GMDpL7pf5_5ghyvmfdaN3GOPLcz_cPlt_sRnjbOHUkfCVk2qvQC5b6UhLFLlyMkbtShUPWHt4nRBAQgll_OBxjNA6VjmqrV8o1eeWlYyWZFUtBhCqAG9Rv7KEFXYH4wniVvRKf9sktW7bz_rQ4HZhHOJlq039k8OyYxlHWCHmbSZMsX2gW00/w211-h167/varina's%20painting.jpg" width="211" /></a></li><li>last night's dream, set of all places at the edge of the North Sea (no picture of that).</li></ul><p></p><p>But none of those are revealing themselves. Not that I don't <i>want</i> to write them; it's just...I don't know. When I finally open my laptop, nothing but this word-wandering seems to ensue.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Last night I half repaired the arms of a wing chair I've had since the late '70's and don't want to give up. I'm attached to that chair, one of the first pieces of furniture bought for our very first house. The boys were toddling around the San Pedro store, climbing over sofas and under tables while we chose this one.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcG1uNW6YHYVq5oey5OK2RuUYQ5QeiTGV5zHGr6MlDVosVwX6cq0es73ss61VCWJYJZD6ax4r05dz6ez3-ZSAk28M8rALbNOIjK7ftVduuCql2vVtF3G7d8-YE69rpNGAn4HRmOMOz08VYyY1UaFqzTXIKH2E9SUFhImDpdcGYXF-5__VwJsoVsc7n8Aw/s3911/better%20my%20chair.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3911" data-original-width="2755" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcG1uNW6YHYVq5oey5OK2RuUYQ5QeiTGV5zHGr6MlDVosVwX6cq0es73ss61VCWJYJZD6ax4r05dz6ez3-ZSAk28M8rALbNOIjK7ftVduuCql2vVtF3G7d8-YE69rpNGAn4HRmOMOz08VYyY1UaFqzTXIKH2E9SUFhImDpdcGYXF-5__VwJsoVsc7n8Aw/s320/better%20my%20chair.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><br /><p>But mostly I keep it because it's comfortable and has, no matter what house I have lived in, found its perfect place somewhere...living room, bedroom, study, whatever. It's stood now for a few years on the corner of Front and Porch; under it is a small stool Mr. Bailey, the woodworker from West Virginia, made. I can slip into it and watch the whole house from this corner. And the birds in its fabric, flying among the most unlikely floral pattern, center me.</p><p>Alexander, I notice, also makes for it when he comes over, first opening the glass cabinet where I keep my black wedding glassware (see cabinet above), and choosing one for his juice cube concoction, then settling down to unlock his words. He's coming over tonight to stay while his dad goes to a concert. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcK-s5q-_JmxuCsYeipg9DEXJ8FccMDKYd9Kg2Ppky1z9YoqobqDw6sfdnXlnOTcpDFODKEnSbNIC6BOElkhfyVL-0M4Qmm1lNNCcAso77ln606PMEYYNII1tFlVNVyJU_Wz7teUvBAZFBOjz8GojKGcx1bus0Mhw3MRi1g4hbl3shrG5QCe6qMb01nMk/s3235/alexander%20growing.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2053" data-original-width="3235" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcK-s5q-_JmxuCsYeipg9DEXJ8FccMDKYd9Kg2Ppky1z9YoqobqDw6sfdnXlnOTcpDFODKEnSbNIC6BOElkhfyVL-0M4Qmm1lNNCcAso77ln606PMEYYNII1tFlVNVyJU_Wz7teUvBAZFBOjz8GojKGcx1bus0Mhw3MRi1g4hbl3shrG5QCe6qMb01nMk/w283-h179/alexander%20growing.jpg" width="283" /></a></div><br /><p>He's growing up, and has less time for after-school visits now. I run out to catch a quick hug from him as he gets off the bus in front of the house. Friday nights, when they are free, they come for dinner. While I see him with pleasure as he matures, I think that there is also a kind of grief to growing. It's Fall, besides, the season of rue and sorrow. Maybe that's it. The cold feet in my dream would seem to point to that.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrQPjR9eMQ19xktKhcdKu36Hz9LYbtxzV1R-zp8uPMPTDVMyo686lhRmg6eZ1oHry6LahlqXwQ0iSxNaWfAre70Wk63RyAWfGg0EFBWsCMVVwzFm3R-b_-vnfpAOIi08Hb5jwWs40Nhg4qwGuaUj2fd9_bNz_3ectsKuYkUN2WZ-gQ6HFv1brqzCxT95Y/s4000/if%20only%20pictures%20were%20words.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrQPjR9eMQ19xktKhcdKu36Hz9LYbtxzV1R-zp8uPMPTDVMyo686lhRmg6eZ1oHry6LahlqXwQ0iSxNaWfAre70Wk63RyAWfGg0EFBWsCMVVwzFm3R-b_-vnfpAOIi08Hb5jwWs40Nhg4qwGuaUj2fd9_bNz_3ectsKuYkUN2WZ-gQ6HFv1brqzCxT95Y/s320/if%20only%20pictures%20were%20words.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>But to return to blogdom: If only pictures were words, you'd already have read all those subjects listed above, one at a time, in order. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Alas, order doesn't seem to be the order of the day these days. </i></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Rachel's Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790797302450473117noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8959233989161202970.post-27151150168349617672023-10-13T06:36:00.001-07:002023-10-13T06:36:07.907-07:00A good story (but no pictures)<p><i>Dear Readers:</i></p><p><i>This post from the end of August was never sent out...somehow I lost its thread and let it languish in the Draft file. Since then, there have been so many things to write about that I don't know where to start...travel, birthday celebrations, visits with friends from college years, more travel, mnd receding. Then there's fall, its dry beginnings... </i></p><p><i>Well, I will eventually chip away/tap away at them. Maybe tomorrow. Meanwhile, I offer this old one.</i></p><p><b>Aug 28th.</b> Outside, the fire engines are sirening their way up toward campus...not too far away, it seems, since they've already stopped. Somewhere, there's a story going on...it's hot enough today to start a flame just from the heat on the pavements and make trouble for the rescue team. Not me, though. I'm staying inside in the cool, avoiding shopping errands and garden chores, not only because of the heat.</p><p>For one thing, my right ankle has been feeling harsh when I walk for any length of time. There's a name for it (I looked it up), something about a tendon inflamed. The Scottish National Health Service site offered a few simple exercises to do a few times a day and promised it would be better in three to six months. I'm doing two of the exercises, but obviously I can't wait that long to walk painless. So, gingerly, I keep walking.</p><p>To keep busy indoors, I've been taking stabs at different kinds of art and I've been reading. The library, only a short drive around the corner, has been a frequent collaborator. There I've discovered books of short stories and two novels built around old legends. They've reminded me, one way or another, of how stories become legends, and how, culture to culture, generation to generation, storyteller to storyteller, they often go back to being stories again. A story changes with the tides, it seems...that basic human need for tales that reflect what and who we are.</p><p>Some are successful translations, some not, I'm finding. Of course, my standard for mythical stories is Miss Eudora Welty; her collection (almost a novel), <i>The Gold Apples,</i> follows Zeus and his compatriates through their devilry by moving them to Morgana, Mississippi. Golden men disappear from and reappear to their small-town homes, their wives meanwhile creating heroic status on their own. Girls drop their talented futures to chase a dream, then come home to their mothers, who sit in amazement at a girl who has finally learned to mind. Girls who stay home all those years, teaching piano out of yellow Schirmer books, watch all this happen...they are as rooted as their mythological heroine, Hestia, who tends the home fires, but can see the wanderings of others with equinimity.</p><p>I don't have to read Miss Welty again...I've practically memorized all her works over the years from way before my dissertation days. So the stories that modern authors embroider from old myths have to be up to her kind of speed for me. </p><p> On the library shelf, two novels over two weeks drew me in...one I finished every word of; the other left me annoyed by the way its author took the thread of a good tale and wove it into something blasphemous, something Athena would have no trouble judging dishonorable and turn its writer into a spider, or worse.</p><p>It was the title of this last one which drew me to pull it off the shelf...<i>Babayaga, </i>by an author whose name shares the same typeface and pointsize on the cover as the title (I think now that that should have been a clue)<i>. </i>It had been years since I'd even thought of that witch, who lived and rode in a house that whirled around on chicken legs. <i>This book ought to be fun,</i> I thought...especially since, reading the inside flap of the jacket, I discovered that the witches had been transported herein from their Slavic origins to Paris. A long and hard journey, imaginably so, through centuries of wars, betrayals, death, and the terrible cold of winters that enwrapped them across desolate countries, took them to the city of light. Paris could, I predicted, be quite an appropriate backdrop for their updated sorcery. I love Paris.</p><p>Alas, though the witches were women with potions and passions for everything, and bore their terrible adventures in the manner of their centuries-old ancestresses, their lives were made miserably second-rate by the author who cluttered the story with such inane others...a fat, rather dim-brained lover whose head eventually hangs from a scrolled-iron post; a self-absorbed detective turned into a flea, nonetheless able in his flea-dom to detect; and a mild-mannered innocent ad man whose troubles stuck to him like fly paper, thanks to that era of the not-so-secret CIA machinations in Europe. Surely witches like these deserved better. They were, after all, the point of the legend and...most important...<i>women in Paris</i>. But here, they take second and third place after their writhing victims' already pathetic lives. I threw the book down last night only half-way in, and this morning read the last few pages to see if by chance it had redeemed itself. It hadn't.</p><p>On the other hand, the hefty pages of <i>Every Rising Sun</i>, by Jamila Ahmed, a Pakistani writer, brought a new perspective to the ever-retold story, the <i>Thousand and One Nights...</i>the ultimate story of stories. Ahmed's version begins with smitten young girl and her earliest affections for the once-gentle but now betrayed and angry Malik, and records her brave attempt to save both other young women and the Malik himself by marrying him and telling her stories. Hers, besides, is an empire in trouble, though at the beginning the trouble is as far away as her innocence. Stories litter (yes, that is the right word) these pages...not only the ones she conjures as the latest wife of the destroyer of wives, but those she tells others along the way...for entertainment, for comfort, for distraction, for rescue, for edification. The point of the story is always on point.</p><p>Anyway, these two novels and another book of short fiction got me to thinking about the power of the story in human life. We tell stories to save ourselves, like Scheherazade, and invent a sane perspective of the world which otherwise seems to be powered by chaos.</p><p>For instance, what do the Slavs mean by inventing the terrible Baba Yaga and her witches...is it just a mean legend filtered down to us, like Grimm's dour fairy tales, teaching that evil lurks in the dark beds of every turn in life, no matter the illusion of happiness? Why have studios recreated a cartoon of wicked stepmothers and made them pay in the end? Why do Greek and Roman and Norse and Amur gods and heroes show up in graphic novels and young adult films, while online games, filled with horror and wretchedness...killing being their only cacaphonous solution...seek to justify themselves by borrowing their names?</p><p>I once taught part of <i>The Arabian Nights </i>to a survey class in World Literature (part I). The anthology from which we read had only selected stories from the longer tale, but in one semester, with so many hundreds of years to cover, all we could do was flip from culture to culture as centuries flew by. One student, though, whose origins were from those Eastern countries, their traditions perpetually in conflict, argued furiously against our reading. "That's not what Arabian literature is about at all!" he just about shouted at me. I knew what he meant. The text before us was a rather brazen Englishman's translation, romanticized for his 19th English readers. We had come to accept it as genuine, despite so many versions derived from the old culture itself. </p><p>I wished too late that I had avoided our anthology and given them Mahfouz' <i>Arabian Days and Nights </i>instead. There, its Egyptian author, those tales part of his heritage, has moved them into the present tense and illuminated the parts of the story that still resonate in modern life. It's a slim book, but it's whole, and the point of its story makes us go back to the <i>Nights </i>and re-assess what storytelling is really good at...changing lives in whatever century or eon they live.</p><p>We tell stories to give ourselves a framework in which we can own a history, live through today, see to tomorrow. We tell stories...family stories, personal stories, native and national stories...so that we and the world can make (a kind of) sense. I wonder what stories those children...of any age...are living on, as they play on their screens those games with borrowed names?</p><p><br /></p>Rachel's Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790797302450473117noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8959233989161202970.post-44696306971167117312023-08-09T09:39:00.000-07:002023-08-09T09:39:53.191-07:00Summer fruit<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfqjfknmf57Q6XYN9Y4Lm8TZqYJv7F5Xn_LFnOlNFbIy25XFt9_PsM8skn3y6ppZJD2fkAWaJK5ZGwgmMv6ngq2hegS6NqyhZbYuENX7FRzkSUvSraQwWS_EjEUqHlimddnW3QOUtbjF1i0VCls59ytZjHUlOJHOIbxFx3Bh4Q-vI757XbKQMdlBGKIqQ/s225/figs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfqjfknmf57Q6XYN9Y4Lm8TZqYJv7F5Xn_LFnOlNFbIy25XFt9_PsM8skn3y6ppZJD2fkAWaJK5ZGwgmMv6ngq2hegS6NqyhZbYuENX7FRzkSUvSraQwWS_EjEUqHlimddnW3QOUtbjF1i0VCls59ytZjHUlOJHOIbxFx3Bh4Q-vI757XbKQMdlBGKIqQ/s1600/figs.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><br />My neighbor Joanne isn't a fan of figs, she told me when I offered her some. That's one of summer's fruits going around the neighborhood these days...riches from another neighbor's garden, picked and passed door to door with gleeful anticipation while she's away. "Oh, that's too bad," I said to Joanne after she'd confessed that she'd never had a taste for them. More for me...selfish, I know.<div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn9q9M2WEYihFhUTcDr8uPLtEcAh94Hgq3sG2OwSw997z5ASac4uqlwnn49P9CExREHhQ3qRyX_L7sSs308v6uihfowFedFSOdpppKQPvgYCjmx8_Tb64UKpFrHQwSjvU8BP3j8SSNq3Qo606Y5coJmh0w1-0UeRP1lUG6gP-FlTsqbb9rHUFZXTi2NEc/s4000/figs%20gifted.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn9q9M2WEYihFhUTcDr8uPLtEcAh94Hgq3sG2OwSw997z5ASac4uqlwnn49P9CExREHhQ3qRyX_L7sSs308v6uihfowFedFSOdpppKQPvgYCjmx8_Tb64UKpFrHQwSjvU8BP3j8SSNq3Qo606Y5coJmh0w1-0UeRP1lUG6gP-FlTsqbb9rHUFZXTi2NEc/s320/figs%20gifted.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><p>Oh, don't worry...Amy of the fig tree knows about our indulgence in her fruit and encourages fig-loving neighbors to pick freely and indulge. She's away, anyway. Figs, as far as I am concerned, are the high gift of summer.</p><p>Besides figs, here are some of the summer'largesse we've been trading:</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJXB987E8w1X7sQSadVYf33cVBxOYdh1v4AWUMqgKskPAR1Lt_QtpfLsafMb1GYal0CpDd-EYPpXu3u6fm2DFnbIZxUsv6mtMuggID7N0ryjyuVaC9QA6FPGj4aplac2nTKut7BCLUsatNFX6n3uOIUzb7Zzr5X6-N6ySxg-fVcca_IFCzqweR0wzXBdA/s4000/tomatoes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJXB987E8w1X7sQSadVYf33cVBxOYdh1v4AWUMqgKskPAR1Lt_QtpfLsafMb1GYal0CpDd-EYPpXu3u6fm2DFnbIZxUsv6mtMuggID7N0ryjyuVaC9QA6FPGj4aplac2nTKut7BCLUsatNFX6n3uOIUzb7Zzr5X6-N6ySxg-fVcca_IFCzqweR0wzXBdA/s320/tomatoes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjzioGEPsqxhLlRXGQ0oZESWDcFvnpCjXdzj-iSARm82hQrYtsialsnm0ppw5TAmKxZ8uqF5Nta3lsW3C6G-DeHw2xh-0NyZtUnhkRNPkHNsZoeeLkStxJsVtoj2Dy9j-FGNuDkrEG0xj7Y7L2oz0-uUirpXGpfEfbpFdA_XWeA4M3J7LJjy-dwiPgjaQ/s4000/peaches.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjzioGEPsqxhLlRXGQ0oZESWDcFvnpCjXdzj-iSARm82hQrYtsialsnm0ppw5TAmKxZ8uqF5Nta3lsW3C6G-DeHw2xh-0NyZtUnhkRNPkHNsZoeeLkStxJsVtoj2Dy9j-FGNuDkrEG0xj7Y7L2oz0-uUirpXGpfEfbpFdA_XWeA4M3J7LJjy-dwiPgjaQ/s320/peaches.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmeHGAL83r4xYG6GcOAJmj--8PVykraRh8KrtjZGKqXD4azn3-gjp8MTgr1lnqV8uuH2nxt2hJxRwfYYn5QzBCVZ8I-uTgjwEpQfF-Fb8HbR-6OaYp1hTT1zYFUraSrdKtijDKfFBOE0ogHRR4HS2OkKdYN_66cjSGJAgdLKsQaUtIuwcOMXXvsmiKNRw/s581/pickles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="581" data-original-width="581" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmeHGAL83r4xYG6GcOAJmj--8PVykraRh8KrtjZGKqXD4azn3-gjp8MTgr1lnqV8uuH2nxt2hJxRwfYYn5QzBCVZ8I-uTgjwEpQfF-Fb8HbR-6OaYp1hTT1zYFUraSrdKtijDKfFBOE0ogHRR4HS2OkKdYN_66cjSGJAgdLKsQaUtIuwcOMXXvsmiKNRw/s320/pickles.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Ratatouille - oops! I gobbled up my portion of Kim's delicious offering too fast to take a photo...sorry! </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-pcfpeKyJhS06_4Ia6GRleDgceEpU4LD6dfNqmzoufBOiT5z5d-b9MdBXDAxinHjjPFb6s50a8LDChZSItlo6kl1A-EG7KGmxFdET90TfUtL4sVphxsBmFdzz4Z9QK3nt94uqz8QaU6HilPQjX4AkJ_evemnZeUjR8QKUH0DzbGuEs7JRV7DrRG5dnPw/s1169/pig%20pie%20from%20Betty%20York.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1164" data-original-width="1169" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-pcfpeKyJhS06_4Ia6GRleDgceEpU4LD6dfNqmzoufBOiT5z5d-b9MdBXDAxinHjjPFb6s50a8LDChZSItlo6kl1A-EG7KGmxFdET90TfUtL4sVphxsBmFdzz4Z9QK3nt94uqz8QaU6HilPQjX4AkJ_evemnZeUjR8QKUH0DzbGuEs7JRV7DrRG5dnPw/s320/pig%20pie%20from%20Betty%20York.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">But I sure did snap a photo of Betty's Pig Pie...it's from Bill Neal's </span><i style="text-align: left;">Southern Cooking </i><span style="text-align: left;">(the one with his photo, young among the foods he loved). You will want that recipe, but first you need a biscuit cutter in the shape of a pig. I've already ordered mine, even though I'm not much of a meat eater.</span></div><br /><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Summer fruit reigns here: every morning, I have some variation...blueberries and cream, tomato and avocado toast, peaches and yogurt.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhCflIq_h2lXWgM6Gn6sbmjrNjIHF8i2gvsGiIFn16CbJO6lgC18czum-QqFMU77N5AbbPDm8QKemffgBgw1b2i2vhEnH1_GlGdG0TIb9nqaoUlCHkqhGSngDeDvYB9kcrwYQ13Neq2TFBXj22VDUieaiwdOagtTQa28DkDdE4CAUoQpqL0UoQz_-aFXE/s3615/blueberries%20and%20cream.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2889" data-original-width="3615" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhCflIq_h2lXWgM6Gn6sbmjrNjIHF8i2gvsGiIFn16CbJO6lgC18czum-QqFMU77N5AbbPDm8QKemffgBgw1b2i2vhEnH1_GlGdG0TIb9nqaoUlCHkqhGSngDeDvYB9kcrwYQ13Neq2TFBXj22VDUieaiwdOagtTQa28DkDdE4CAUoQpqL0UoQz_-aFXE/s320/blueberries%20and%20cream.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But figs...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiynRxbSKMGWf2DHnapaCB-gU9rrVWqsJLnLe4w10xqs1Cjo5lat-l5WqLlaN2ALxIXvfBYvudob4-kBUF79vlt0Itr3WEj2HSl1HCn_jbLbobj3Y6zB5AqGAzxaTyWhcvPb8hvw_C8cdCGqd6ptTVLp-HduLBalHtcxZZw8Rlh2bOkNOwRv2wAKFdwt6g/s4000/figs%20ripening%20on%20the%20tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiynRxbSKMGWf2DHnapaCB-gU9rrVWqsJLnLe4w10xqs1Cjo5lat-l5WqLlaN2ALxIXvfBYvudob4-kBUF79vlt0Itr3WEj2HSl1HCn_jbLbobj3Y6zB5AqGAzxaTyWhcvPb8hvw_C8cdCGqd6ptTVLp-HduLBalHtcxZZw8Rlh2bOkNOwRv2wAKFdwt6g/s320/figs%20ripening%20on%20the%20tree.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>My grandmother's fig tree stood in the back corner of her house. I wish I had a photograph to show you. My love for those pink-fleshed goblets of sweetness began there, certainly, and ever since, I've waited for August to come, even while early strawberries, then blueberries and raspberries, then peaches (my second in favorites) tumble onto the markets.<p></p><p>(Watermelon, too, but that's another story altogether...like corn and tomatoes and okra, it comes to the table to share summer's spotlight.)</p><p>I really can't remember how my grandmother used them, only that when the figs were ripe enough, we fought the birds for them, and tasted them off the tree. Slightly less-than-ripe ones were placed on the back porch sill. Some years were leaner than others, a disappointment; others pulled the branches down with its largesse.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy3AB9JI7CCvC98LrPNq_9wskBSLWDmITMU309o0Y8B6iEaMH3O6E675MVciPHM5-KkmxXCVZPGFYl9Fe7vbreCAsJWPk31yTUFoOpRb4eswMImKqDwZ88Jov8nR066jMvO0_Q4kNuOlU4Hvo3cPsGweOaPn1DS-kOHAqp4BdyAt9tBAVr5QQfjBgNZ8g/s1018/fig%20salad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1018" data-original-width="1001" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy3AB9JI7CCvC98LrPNq_9wskBSLWDmITMU309o0Y8B6iEaMH3O6E675MVciPHM5-KkmxXCVZPGFYl9Fe7vbreCAsJWPk31yTUFoOpRb4eswMImKqDwZ88Jov8nR066jMvO0_Q4kNuOlU4Hvo3cPsGweOaPn1DS-kOHAqp4BdyAt9tBAVr5QQfjBgNZ8g/s320/fig%20salad.jpg" width="315" /></a></div><br /><p>There are so many things you can do with figs...bake them in tarts and breads, carmelize and top them with brie, preserve them to serve with mascarpone and poached pears, dry them in baskets to send for winter gifts. But I don't see the point.</p><p> Well, okay, I might make that fig salad in the photo above, which I clipped from a recipe site I can't remember the name of, now...if I had the patience to wait, or enough pounds of fig. It does look good and doesn't change (much) the nature of a fresh fig with too many adornments. I'd probably leave the goat cheese out, though I love goat cheese. No point in distracting me from the fig.</p><p>I'm not the only one with relish for a fresh fig. With great generosity the other day, only minutes after a portion of Amy's figs arrived at my door, I shared them with a friend who <i>does</i> crave them as much as I; later, he told me, "I ate every one before I drove into the parking lot." </p><p><br /></p></div></div>Rachel's Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790797302450473117noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8959233989161202970.post-17408703118772033662023-07-09T17:29:00.002-07:002023-07-10T10:12:04.788-07:00Art<p></p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv9_5RW1vA0NDKkEFSYDfcpPPlczUGYqYWkWmayChyYU_Z3ZPBHxX7R4Dj_yWTpr_U3UA_bUmGD7yIesG5Gv3PLdLkbHKro_dEEUSaXk0usK7V-Hly_yH5zrlVqUTE-J8kozJ_G_VCK-g2s7dZrybqZGJcIJjTRtYnRwkdQWT1MyGpELEbjnGSiEhDsxE/s1050/Letitia%20Huckaby%20Miss%20Angela%20and%20the%20Baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1050" data-original-width="700" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv9_5RW1vA0NDKkEFSYDfcpPPlczUGYqYWkWmayChyYU_Z3ZPBHxX7R4Dj_yWTpr_U3UA_bUmGD7yIesG5Gv3PLdLkbHKro_dEEUSaXk0usK7V-Hly_yH5zrlVqUTE-J8kozJ_G_VCK-g2s7dZrybqZGJcIJjTRtYnRwkdQWT1MyGpELEbjnGSiEhDsxE/w266-h400/Letitia%20Huckaby%20Miss%20Angela%20and%20the%20Baby.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Letitia Huckaby, Ms. Angela and the Baby</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><div align="center" style="text-align: start;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Cassilhaus, hidden at the edge of town on a drive that eventually gravels
into a wildlife\cattle guard and wildflower garden, and then backs into a
forest, is the home of a couple who are such advocates for the art of
photography that they have designed their beautifully open house to hold
exhibits and lectures, as well as working space for interns and resident
photographers.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div align="center">
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I mention this first because the house of Ellen Cassilly (its talented
architect) and Frank Konhaus (its enthusiastic organizer) is not only a great
opening to the collected work of friends and strangers alike, but also a
drawing room of inspiration.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div align="center">
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<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Ellen Cassilly, photo by Frank
Konhaus</span></i><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
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<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Frank Konhaus, photo by Jerry Siegel</span></i><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
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</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">A week ago, brilliance
came in leaps and bounds at the talk by artist Letitia Huckaby, who has, among
other endeavors, been printing photographed silhouettes on vintage
textiles. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></p><div align="center">
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<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Letitia Huckaby, photo courtesy of
Ms. Huckaby</span></i><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
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Her work, often framed in embroidery hoops, is storied with the history of her
family...their origins in Greenwood, Mississippi, in a little Louisiana town
north of Baton Rouge, and now outside of Fort Worth where her husband's people
come from and where she lives with her family. It's also a testament to
the lives, current and disappeared, of African-American communities, and the
people whose spirits she allows us to find there still.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></p><div align="center">
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<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Letitia Huckaby, American Light</span></i><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
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</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div align="center">
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</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Place, for Letitia
Huckaby, is as much a character as the faces born anew on her collected old
cottons. Reality shows through in spots where the fabric (like that of
life), is worn and thin. Seeing her work through her eyes reminded me
right away of the character that Place becomes in Miss Welty's fiction and
memoirs...she who spent a portion of her life photographing the South for the
Works Progress Administration in the dire times of the 1930's.</span></p><div align="center">
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<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Letitia Huckaby, What the Land
Remembers</span></i><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
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</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Brought up in Germany,
where her father was a commander of a U.S. base, Letitia's African-American
heritage was pretty much taken for granted, and, as she noted a few times,
protected. But once grown and studying in Boston, the still-simmering
northern vein of xenophobia was an eye-opening experience for her. In art
school, though she learned the rules of traditional photography, Letitia's work
slowly turned toward the places the generations before her inhabited,
geographically and culturally.</span></p><div align="center">
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</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Instilling that history in
her vision, she found materials that not only reflected, but became, the work
she leads us to envision. It is so easy to open to the stories she tells
through her camera, through her eyes, and her ancestors' and cultures' eyes; for
me, in fact, a lot of the places of her work are ones I've lived in and
journeyed through.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">San Antonio, first, where
the McNay, one of my favorite museums, gave her space and time to build an
installation, as part of their larger project, <i>Limitless! Five
Women Shape Contemporary Art,</i> and then to her delight bought her
installation to keep; Greenwood, which Jake and I explored intently and stayed
several times on our way up and down the Natchez Trace, crossing back and forth
the bridge dividing life there; Louisiana, along Route 191 and the towns around
it, land we found fraught with the thickness of long and difficult and
interconnected history. Tulsa, the echoes of Greenwood where migration brought
a whole community to live, and now would be lost, except for Letitia Huckaby's
work.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p><div align="center">
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<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Letitia Huckaby, One Week
Old/Haskell Place [Tulsa]</span></i><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
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</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />
But she was here in Chapel Hill now, and luck had it that I came face to face
with her. I'd first met her, a quick moment a few weeks before, at the
"Draw or Die" film preview about Minnie Evans, the Wilmington, North
Carolina artist who was self-taught and only lately honored. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidfS5oSW4cur278X_bqGr5INhKDW2S3k85jX5YSO9_-f1EnfvU3dZUreCAujLb5dhcRA9D4KsQciVrl8Y0NZkXFy6-YtnJnCXPFjuOOHBy4BvcyRMg9jyYIzthpLKEVOjjHeOWMpBu9e0OvKF4fGeiom9RDGiFEo3dKHH2ad9MecBka7Fy0O627rvuU7E/s3474/Minnie%20Evans%20postcard%20from%20Ackland.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3474" data-original-width="2432" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidfS5oSW4cur278X_bqGr5INhKDW2S3k85jX5YSO9_-f1EnfvU3dZUreCAujLb5dhcRA9D4KsQciVrl8Y0NZkXFy6-YtnJnCXPFjuOOHBy4BvcyRMg9jyYIzthpLKEVOjjHeOWMpBu9e0OvKF4fGeiom9RDGiFEo3dKHH2ad9MecBka7Fy0O627rvuU7E/w280-h400/Minnie%20Evans%20postcard%20from%20Ackland.jpg" width="280" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">But it was at Cassilhaus
that Letitia and the stuff of her art sparked my visions: fabric,
needlework, the bones of old houses and the lives they engendered, the stories
that are behind and ahead of us...all that taken up by a photographer who chose
to use the implements of women's crafts to project her art. It is no secret that
those are also the things that inspire what I do (though, I humbly admit, in
far less impressive ways as hers). I was struck by the way she went further
with our tools...framing her silhouettes in </span><i style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">needlework hoops</i><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">... imagine!
I stood in rapt attention at all she talked about and showed us that night.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">She was, as you can
imagine, busy with people's questions afterward, so instead of keeping her
standing longer I just introduced myself quickly and asked her to come for
lunch another day. And graciously, she accepted.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiU-GS75JHs018LSava5_k-qKC4qOUlWp7Fl74C22tLObCtH-AplXDRpDXrp90QaHQIxTCjExW-GqaPEzH_qUzQk8bicPaBAfXFVt-dZe5wD8CsPzOlyUlog-itVHXZyT88F1VFPEFfRMIfcyir0UZpJ3O97jbzuYwzyOmvIbniGXgf0nE93gHll2W09s/s4000/On%20the%20porch%20after%20Letitia%20Huckaby%20visit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiU-GS75JHs018LSava5_k-qKC4qOUlWp7Fl74C22tLObCtH-AplXDRpDXrp90QaHQIxTCjExW-GqaPEzH_qUzQk8bicPaBAfXFVt-dZe5wD8CsPzOlyUlog-itVHXZyT88F1VFPEFfRMIfcyir0UZpJ3O97jbzuYwzyOmvIbniGXgf0nE93gHll2W09s/w300-h400/On%20the%20porch%20after%20Letitia%20Huckaby%20visit.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">A few days later, on my
porch, the fan whishing away the heat, we talked for a few hours about her
life, her journey into the fascinating art she does now, and her ideas for the
future...old handkerchiefs, she's thinking, will be a perfect material for her
work. Like Letitia, I've collected them from family or old-thing
shops. I can't wait to see what she makes of them. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">We talked about the wider
culture, too...her son going off to college now ("any school that ends in
'Tech'", she laughs...he's into robotics and engineering), away from the
protection she and her husband (a painter whose work has, over the years,
crisscrossed with hers in theme and vision), have in their turn afforded their
children. It worries her. It reminded me of a friend's conversation
recently, worried the same way about her grandson when he's older, the dangers
of racial ignorance brought to bear on the young. That, too, echoes
through her subjects.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">It has left me
wondering...is there hope, a way to<i> inspire</i> hope for openness
among us? Does art like Letitia's...like anyone's...have the potential to
change our children's lives for the better? Though she didn't mention it
at the time, on her website I found another connection...Miss Huckaby, I read,
is co-founder of Kinfolk House, a 100-year-old house for artists of black and
Latina heritage in Fort Worth...women who work together to influence a broader,
more accepting vision of art.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div align="center">
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<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Detail, Setting a Place at the Table
for Peace (rvm)</span></i><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
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</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Looking around at some of my work before she left, she shared
possibilities..."Why not try this on bamboo," she said of one of my
fabric hangings. Easy to do, I told her. We happen to have a small
forest of it in the dips of wood around the corner, and Alexander loves
chopping into it for his own arts. Letitia had been surprised, she told me,
that so much bamboo grew in these parts...it's not native...how did it end up
here? How does anybody and anything end up anywhere? There are so
many journeys, intended and not.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimYmGikVDtHZeUDVKqtkzE6GClnnNMkJsD58eyZBpd69T9yrTswVfqyZxXHUoEwoKeJBBvkt21hTQXNtKYTy_30v26rHOpmvnDli7ovMYw-UpRyozTpjZSWI2p1k75-tlXzDtyZZIydYNlooXuEPwHd-o0MYK1FIDDkfeP8EK1jgxYCd1yUWUu8JxYHUw/s4000/Old%20handkerchiefs%20mine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimYmGikVDtHZeUDVKqtkzE6GClnnNMkJsD58eyZBpd69T9yrTswVfqyZxXHUoEwoKeJBBvkt21hTQXNtKYTy_30v26rHOpmvnDli7ovMYw-UpRyozTpjZSWI2p1k75-tlXzDtyZZIydYNlooXuEPwHd-o0MYK1FIDDkfeP8EK1jgxYCd1yUWUu8JxYHUw/w300-h400/Old%20handkerchiefs%20mine.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">But back to those
handkerchiefs...all the old ones I keep in coat pockets and purses...and stacks
of linens in drawers. I'm not a photographer, but mono-printing on them,
or transfering, or sewing on pieces of wood or clay or found metal, and
inscribing, somehow, words that tell real stories...</span></p><div align="center">
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<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Letitia Huckaby,, Bethlie and Naika</span></i><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
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</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />
You see what I mean. Not only her talk, but our lunch was an experience
open and opening, humor and sorrow woven through it. Among women, sharing
visions in art across any genre or age or culture <i>is </i>an
opening...a woman's eyes seeing, a woman's skills and choices of material and
ways of doing, no shadow of the old guard between to interfere.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Speaking of that, it had
bothered me that at that Ackland presentation of the Minnie Evans film-to-be,
it was Ms. Evans' great-grandson who was asked to join the panel
discussion, while her great-granddaughter, Beverly, sat in the audience.
Ironically, more than once, he had to call on her to remember family stories,
family arts, who-was-who. "She's the one who keeps all that,"
he laughed. Someday, I'm going to have to have lunch with Beverly Evans,
too. For the real story.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I hope Letitia Huckaby and
I can keep in touch, but meanwhile, her waves of art are pushing my own small
efforts to welcome shores.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Rachel's Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790797302450473117noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8959233989161202970.post-32207341503804522772023-05-27T12:04:00.000-07:002023-05-27T12:04:42.683-07:00Memorial Day<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsqhu16CpUU9kANX9KO4YF_hpxoyncss1oww8t0TZsQzgpadVbBQ6iSuS3JT_u0IaEZ6Jd7IXsGsfAn8_8mAklamM1zDngY4ZAhODXnTQtE3Mbas3rf-Ax9UPfm6riy1phUIF4-PgiwEKXiLmPGZXk_mvxOQdqPY8AQLeOwXmwwTlyjPaXVqpxC4ex/s4000/day%20waiting%20for%20rain.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsqhu16CpUU9kANX9KO4YF_hpxoyncss1oww8t0TZsQzgpadVbBQ6iSuS3JT_u0IaEZ6Jd7IXsGsfAn8_8mAklamM1zDngY4ZAhODXnTQtE3Mbas3rf-Ax9UPfm6riy1phUIF4-PgiwEKXiLmPGZXk_mvxOQdqPY8AQLeOwXmwwTlyjPaXVqpxC4ex/s320/day%20waiting%20for%20rain.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /> It's going to rain...the forecast for the next few days. My hard ground and the plants struggling in it will be happy, and I will be happy for them. In celebration of Memorial Day, I've asked a few friends in on Monday, rain or no. I've got plenty of the first summer's foods ready to be fixed into watermelon salad with mint, roasted potato salad with thyme, baked corn (or cornbread...haven't decided yet) with cayenne and green onion tops, chicken tikka, shrimp the same. (Mary Ellen has her desserts in progress already).<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzxBrs3-ETLXlct9-Daofmxtg14TxvyIdJlTMnAP_eVOgGjv5FGU4Ok4HUNS1KnldZX7uCsrOEnlHq3Ww6RIBZYrq5dmf07SL1lU8JhR1FskFaIamU-o-rz8ncJ6k1Py0PxlACBU-iuXdY0yb0i7r3gveN8OamGUAV2X3tbrmLVAEOf3oVCHo9LaZQ/s4000/vegetables%20waiting%20for%20Mem%20Day%20gathering.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzxBrs3-ETLXlct9-Daofmxtg14TxvyIdJlTMnAP_eVOgGjv5FGU4Ok4HUNS1KnldZX7uCsrOEnlHq3Ww6RIBZYrq5dmf07SL1lU8JhR1FskFaIamU-o-rz8ncJ6k1Py0PxlACBU-iuXdY0yb0i7r3gveN8OamGUAV2X3tbrmLVAEOf3oVCHo9LaZQ/s320/vegetables%20waiting%20for%20Mem%20Day%20gathering.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>I always enjoy fixing holidays, but frankly this time it's given me something to do to lift my spirits. As if it knows a different definition of Memorial than this weekend honors, memory has been assaulting me lately. I am, as we all are, missing Aunt Sadie, and with her passing the passing of all others come to light. Our griefs, as Hopkins reminds, are our own reflection in the mirror of mortality. I know that, but it seems these past two years have riven us of more than death's share.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXMKwZhZHnIXnk4WXVtr5ge6whqA2pZ7a5WDkyVJV13EGXtu3oCnud_DcMhOhxIH0r6sBFmZGOH2jingNkd9uJur0dmTCQD6AKmZ9Gd3AH-uowXb1oO1kMokuNhRh5oYvKgJdW8MOkcNyIdwArJ6RKlI2Laec3yEAELCWaDV3VaQL5FK744rvQtBlY/s4000/memorial%20garden%20with%20new%20plants.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXMKwZhZHnIXnk4WXVtr5ge6whqA2pZ7a5WDkyVJV13EGXtu3oCnud_DcMhOhxIH0r6sBFmZGOH2jingNkd9uJur0dmTCQD6AKmZ9Gd3AH-uowXb1oO1kMokuNhRh5oYvKgJdW8MOkcNyIdwArJ6RKlI2Laec3yEAELCWaDV3VaQL5FK744rvQtBlY/s320/memorial%20garden%20with%20new%20plants.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>The assaults come from strange places. Mostly I sleep pretty soundly at night, start to finish, but last night I woke from the clock in the other room striking 3, and wondered. I must have been dreaming, but the visions there seemed real. Waking, they continued, one after another...ancient ones from childhood, silly ones, foolish ones from the years since, dangerous, heart-breaking ones, too. It occurred to me, before I drifted back to sleep again (the same films running in my head), that they must be trying to tell me something, solve some problem I may or may not have known needed solving. </p><p>During the day, a walk down the hall to my workroom stops me short. A collection of old photos I am meaning to sort and reorder, I give up on after a few vain attempts. Memories on walls and in boxes, or floating invisible in the air, shake my resolve, even for simple tasks.</p><p>What they're after I haven't figured out yet, though at this age I had better accept the challenge. This morning, darkening, cooling, moistening into the weather to come, portent with change, may bring some enlightenment.</p><p style="text-align: center;">*****************************************</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhjst_8BvGRov-hiTAVaqhm3vmKRaBn30WbyWG7IoLi5LSg0BJJdS-fMRE0ZsKY6T1s8rIxVAMoP9WY5hIN-U7zSZ4Io1KtexU0WBt_ztD8zSLNJ6YIjwIBRoOUMJSA32waaHYN6WnGG_Q_afATjjFBNTccqO9IkOe17oXW_21sPWv8nc8Imi7ooSLN" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="698" data-original-width="459" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhjst_8BvGRov-hiTAVaqhm3vmKRaBn30WbyWG7IoLi5LSg0BJJdS-fMRE0ZsKY6T1s8rIxVAMoP9WY5hIN-U7zSZ4Io1KtexU0WBt_ztD8zSLNJ6YIjwIBRoOUMJSA32waaHYN6WnGG_Q_afATjjFBNTccqO9IkOe17oXW_21sPWv8nc8Imi7ooSLN" width="158" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Meanwhile (here's a switch and change), in an hour, Joseph and I are going to pick up a small settee I found yesterday at ReStore, the Habitat for Humanity thrift place I troll for finds. A few weeks ago, my favorite chair I'd had since the late '70's collapsed on one weakened leg. I'd already sent it out to Dan, the chair fixer, but the emptiness of the corner by the window where I'd spent countless hours in its comfort seemed to be needier than that chair occupied. </div></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxhGTG6x0cDiuymB9b205r2cGxVdiskYsyXfb7pAZHU6HWyHkc4cyD3ARGaPHJEpONSE33M17KGQkeumMEpxryTBmWJr4K-AOxMDBVsH7eaxxVHGXP1lD67WeBUWG3-xJ9NqJySIzKv_g1i7n4hXoq__66ZSJgf0BJrVaOb7Gt1QuaFN2lEAOO4QO0/s4000/empty%20space%20where%20favorite%20chair%20was.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxhGTG6x0cDiuymB9b205r2cGxVdiskYsyXfb7pAZHU6HWyHkc4cyD3ARGaPHJEpONSE33M17KGQkeumMEpxryTBmWJr4K-AOxMDBVsH7eaxxVHGXP1lD67WeBUWG3-xJ9NqJySIzKv_g1i7n4hXoq__66ZSJgf0BJrVaOb7Gt1QuaFN2lEAOO4QO0/s320/empty%20space%20where%20favorite%20chair%20was.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>My living area isn't big; nonetheless, as is my wont, I have crowded it with sitting and dining furniture (there's a visiting piano, too) until there is not much room left to walk. So relaxing space is at premium. I began searching for something that, though small, would at least add an extra place to sit.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHJqVO1Ov63EgP79k8R1KmljnnfgF0G-yQwzK86OnMJlCXD9sj9Yuc1fFkQ3ldjoUSA-groYCfYPEGFa0nSmxGHujvllkflzCU6A2wTEv10Zu98RzCiO-SiGEQ2jNrRXwlr3x4y-Hrj4AexNGQ1KvImEulVTzsi8S3KzmZaF4mU7l0ySddVcnLOmvn/s4000/right%20settee%20facing%20me%20in%20door%20of%20ReStore.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHJqVO1Ov63EgP79k8R1KmljnnfgF0G-yQwzK86OnMJlCXD9sj9Yuc1fFkQ3ldjoUSA-groYCfYPEGFa0nSmxGHujvllkflzCU6A2wTEv10Zu98RzCiO-SiGEQ2jNrRXwlr3x4y-Hrj4AexNGQ1KvImEulVTzsi8S3KzmZaF4mU7l0ySddVcnLOmvn/s320/right%20settee%20facing%20me%20in%20door%20of%20ReStore.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>I meant to go down to Pittsboro, where their ReStore has a whole building full of good furniture, but I thought I'd try the nearby one first. When I walked in the door, the very piece I could have imagined was facing me, looking new and bright, calling my name from that persimmon color I have on my walls and the small white dots that spelled cheer. I pulled out my measuring tape, checking the size, dismissed the 8 inches extra I'd assumed, and went to the counter to buy it. <i> It's going to fit</i>, I insisted to myself. At home, measuring again, the space appeared, nicely, to accommodate it.</p><p> I think that there is a twist to that purchase which entwines memory and change. My old chair, which I loved and still do, its leg dangling precariously from the worn fabric, might be the end of something bigger than itself. It's fixable, the chair, at some not insignificant expense, and I might still want to try. But if it comes back to me repaired, it will be enwrapped in a different sort of affection, the kind one can shift off to the side, usable still but with its mortality tried. Like mine, with that rush of memory, culling the past to make possible the future.</p><p style="text-align: center;">******************************************</p><p style="text-align: left;">N.B. Nothing goes simply when anticipation is in the mix. We left for ReStore in light rain, so I'd brought a tarp...but it was the wrong one I pulled hastily out of the shed, the one you may have seen earlier in the season under all that mulch I was shoveling. A once-perfectly-clean couch rode home dry, but lightly dusted in shredded hardwood.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTdH-E8mUy0M7h2qw7iU2jraE2nefKnc4yRHHIUDj-xXrsv9UCCbntoL6rZ6HlWKcHFM53Vi9BkUAvkAPQCoaWW7dZI-UTfEPs5O21-knKNyEkHHOpS54pHqQM30DCdvjFX_bn85aFsa6iOZQpXz0k1c9d3KCuSpR-deF_pGYdrZJq5OO0C6VNyu7E/s3873/new%20settee%20in%20place.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3873" data-original-width="2784" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTdH-E8mUy0M7h2qw7iU2jraE2nefKnc4yRHHIUDj-xXrsv9UCCbntoL6rZ6HlWKcHFM53Vi9BkUAvkAPQCoaWW7dZI-UTfEPs5O21-knKNyEkHHOpS54pHqQM30DCdvjFX_bn85aFsa6iOZQpXz0k1c9d3KCuSpR-deF_pGYdrZJq5OO0C6VNyu7E/s320/new%20settee%20in%20place.jpg" width="230" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: left;">Still, it vacuumed off, as Joseph said it would, and sits in place now, where I am about to settle for a while.</p><p style="text-align: center;">For settling I need. Fortunately, on such a day, it's easy to do.</p><p><br /></p>Rachel's Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790797302450473117noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8959233989161202970.post-71909668895707574872023-05-08T09:43:00.000-07:002023-05-08T09:43:22.231-07:00Generations<div class="separator"></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitbtMiqMrmVn16Yk_F5LW1ym8EkzYOr0XMvpSDVg7tsAPFkjA1MDJF1r6jwQnHYzybmr1mulxlNgpBb67jSkW9U1n__lE-Pb1Zs6HyOvbs-s9FJ7_Th9sBwGLVRGNhGbsTdUbQkx-26TBzM3pYwTEViudJjdcrEFKD3fjYFPF3XZrRXIhBU76uomMq/s2034/Aunt%20Sadie%20at%20100.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2034" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitbtMiqMrmVn16Yk_F5LW1ym8EkzYOr0XMvpSDVg7tsAPFkjA1MDJF1r6jwQnHYzybmr1mulxlNgpBb67jSkW9U1n__lE-Pb1Zs6HyOvbs-s9FJ7_Th9sBwGLVRGNhGbsTdUbQkx-26TBzM3pYwTEViudJjdcrEFKD3fjYFPF3XZrRXIhBU76uomMq/s320/Aunt%20Sadie%20at%20100.jpg" width="170" /></a><p style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"> My Aunt Sadie passed away last evening. I know I should say <i>our</i> Aunt Sadie; she was first of all Barbara's mother and Nancy's mother...I should say that, too. If you will forgive me, though, this remembrance is about what her life and passing has meant to me.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Xq1zbAru94mRwmc_Hq4SWbpRP1dNhG7WyEhp_LkZ10zD3WwgIk_9vtYjoGO40z0X4IWFj0aLq5ku2p9KBkgszncxRUCU3KqsZDWEuWuHaeRJqz5twpAWomH7xW7fVi_MQnhLJMMhJKfEUbPcyweNWNROUxs6QjPkNsniql399vKSsaG44HxgoODh/s3686/Aunt%20Sadie%2099%20talking%20to%20a%20wellwisher%20on%20the%20phone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3686" data-original-width="2431" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Xq1zbAru94mRwmc_Hq4SWbpRP1dNhG7WyEhp_LkZ10zD3WwgIk_9vtYjoGO40z0X4IWFj0aLq5ku2p9KBkgszncxRUCU3KqsZDWEuWuHaeRJqz5twpAWomH7xW7fVi_MQnhLJMMhJKfEUbPcyweNWNROUxs6QjPkNsniql399vKSsaG44HxgoODh/s320/Aunt%20Sadie%2099%20talking%20to%20a%20wellwisher%20on%20the%20phone.jpg" width="211" /></a></div><br /><p style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;">Yesterday, I spoke a few words to her over the phone, and heard the sound of her voice...harsh, short sounds...if she intended words, they were indistinct. After all, she was hard at work trying to die. A few weeks ago, she and I talked: she'd gotten a cough and her chest hurt...likely, she said, it was pollen, especially thick in her area (as in ours) this year.</p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Another phone call: she'd been to the doctor, and was given more medicine to take. "I don't think I should take any more medicine," she told me firmly. "I'm ready to go." </div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJOpaQf7QXI8n3sCnEcC9q94YOsdTKgar-9WhfXTAkSc5Oqk4ooiamZeAL6E-N22YL9Sytub8mFa_ki0Oazeq4epbmz1SL_b7S9ap2jRkN0uNsiOZVJi-KW-GMFbMTZTBulgl7Am47BmVaJ7dvimViFk44FTJML-xZmnIdh6XrZU7-I-ghKAREFEQl/s4608/Aunt%20Sadie%20at%20her%20100th%20birthday.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJOpaQf7QXI8n3sCnEcC9q94YOsdTKgar-9WhfXTAkSc5Oqk4ooiamZeAL6E-N22YL9Sytub8mFa_ki0Oazeq4epbmz1SL_b7S9ap2jRkN0uNsiOZVJi-KW-GMFbMTZTBulgl7Am47BmVaJ7dvimViFk44FTJML-xZmnIdh6XrZU7-I-ghKAREFEQl/s320/Aunt%20Sadie%20at%20her%20100th%20birthday.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> Something she had said to me times before. She was 100 years and 8 months old, after all.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOa2fYRb3y-P0HxIuZKLXvW9K9mZKlQeA4XhKcuE_EuY_SFf5Kk1spJJUrJq_2VUMv1qvQqoJEIRR71whtJ07LmtngYCZ3al_iK-Z17bafzyuFFdwEKkvcIdygS0Jmm8M2EOE8SmrQ_s3sFCDa0-oeaQSjMQ3X3FRfm32015bE3TBAxXo01JglbU9B/s1065/Aunt%20Sadie%20in%20her%20chair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="820" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOa2fYRb3y-P0HxIuZKLXvW9K9mZKlQeA4XhKcuE_EuY_SFf5Kk1spJJUrJq_2VUMv1qvQqoJEIRR71whtJ07LmtngYCZ3al_iK-Z17bafzyuFFdwEKkvcIdygS0Jmm8M2EOE8SmrQ_s3sFCDa0-oeaQSjMQ3X3FRfm32015bE3TBAxXo01JglbU9B/s320/Aunt%20Sadie%20in%20her%20chair.jpg" width="246" /></a></div><br /><p>Did I respond the right way? I don't remember. I hope I was sympathetic, not dismissive (even if fondly dismissive). I hope I said, "I know."</p><p></p><p>Anyway, it turned out her symptoms were more complicated than that. Her heart was failing, she whose heart was as wide open as the ocean, which she loved.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnoJzWgdSbTejHyqa2ShgfXtpHh4U3drGu4xlcSRv0mKPzSRX41ezP_0Oa_oxQv5KoD96m7Lo43WIki5p8RAJulGVNg3-SpOvbAFJOYNhbHolkTUZnL_FQGkDOCH0kmpHgBsj9h5t2nysVUmC5qp8sGrumpIqlS_WvHCWwJH_F_TDdOinpVXt9gtFv/s2048/Aunt%20Sadie%20at%20the%20ocean.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1474" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnoJzWgdSbTejHyqa2ShgfXtpHh4U3drGu4xlcSRv0mKPzSRX41ezP_0Oa_oxQv5KoD96m7Lo43WIki5p8RAJulGVNg3-SpOvbAFJOYNhbHolkTUZnL_FQGkDOCH0kmpHgBsj9h5t2nysVUmC5qp8sGrumpIqlS_WvHCWwJH_F_TDdOinpVXt9gtFv/s320/Aunt%20Sadie%20at%20the%20ocean.jpeg" width="230" /></a></div><br /><p> It took her a long time to finally leave us...over a week, while she was so intensely willing herself to go. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6ury1_qy_8l_TcIttNc_J61zldXP_B_KPKuWNTZVisH9o3bY1_GMlLE79Tx5rjWPFDDHs8_V7XBo3FLT98HOQ09BkTpHs5ddbcA51xfzgTZ03sRFe9Ly9PQCgi0-YzoV4L6s3jKWjjSUsQ4A9imIGWJoMblRZkQ61hLKEBGLr7bfbGcWyjy1Nv8bY/s1007/Aunt%20Sadie%20three%20sister.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="952" data-original-width="1007" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6ury1_qy_8l_TcIttNc_J61zldXP_B_KPKuWNTZVisH9o3bY1_GMlLE79Tx5rjWPFDDHs8_V7XBo3FLT98HOQ09BkTpHs5ddbcA51xfzgTZ03sRFe9Ly9PQCgi0-YzoV4L6s3jKWjjSUsQ4A9imIGWJoMblRZkQ61hLKEBGLr7bfbGcWyjy1Nv8bY/s320/Aunt%20Sadie%20three%20sister.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>"Those sisters!" My sister Ann said. "Their bodies are <i>so strong</i>." She was thinking of my mother, Gilda, the first of the three to go...healthy for 93 years, until she lay two weeks in hospice after strokes, unable to talk or to take sustenance, listening to us sing, talk, pray our way around her. (What could she have been thinking the meanwhile?)</p><p>And their middle sister, Vi, who fell one day here, and, though at 98 she'd been living with heart diseases and blindness, finally succumbed...weeks later, fighting death all the way.</p><p>Strong, yes. Loving, yes, each in her way, all through our lives. Resilience born of strength and care (care of all kinds).</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Now they are all gone, that whole generation. </span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXhD0VHc-DKTP31Yg0vQm_Dn4tTrZvMOEtsHbI2rvJuEt8nqkx0pncFPo-_a_kxls2uMBTQfDd4I72_sFRAeUhOURkIINFgOLoHs4o9omqn0cjS1JJH2R7VDRXrI6ohHKy3wohafirRazXHAVqbhABAx5OWSbTL-FiNUbsfur1aL-2AqkdvOIZb6R5/s3791/Cozzolis%20with%20Aunt%20Sadie%20in%20middle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2844" data-original-width="3791" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXhD0VHc-DKTP31Yg0vQm_Dn4tTrZvMOEtsHbI2rvJuEt8nqkx0pncFPo-_a_kxls2uMBTQfDd4I72_sFRAeUhOURkIINFgOLoHs4o9omqn0cjS1JJH2R7VDRXrI6ohHKy3wohafirRazXHAVqbhABAx5OWSbTL-FiNUbsfur1aL-2AqkdvOIZb6R5/s320/Cozzolis%20with%20Aunt%20Sadie%20in%20middle.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">While Aunt Sadie was with us, we could still be the younger ones we'd always been. Now, what?</span></div></div><p>Here comes the selfish part of this reflection: even while the sorrow of my aunt's death washes over me, I think to myself: </p><p><i>I am the eldest of the young...or was. Now I'm just the elder.</i></p><p>And I wonder: have they managed, in their passing, to pass to me that strength, that care, that resilience that keeps going? (All those years, I could be so resistent!) Can I even in a small part, live up to what they were? <span style="text-align: center;">Can I?</span></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKuBwICmspNzKilZZsKTDt9leMqbRIswDuabfIHEPKOJULHKEf8_IBDpwR7-9OVh6etXbr1hzejrcqv3ug8rM_BlrziDlknAuvs0TOJXKB0BFxX3NjaoHrlg-BcTb36XARuXejYYWVMbBJnQJCKAU4NbG3QH8uP5Msujs_j99dvypbieaTvtFgiYHS/s2395/Aunt%20Sadie's%20view%20of%20the%20sky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2056" data-original-width="2395" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKuBwICmspNzKilZZsKTDt9leMqbRIswDuabfIHEPKOJULHKEf8_IBDpwR7-9OVh6etXbr1hzejrcqv3ug8rM_BlrziDlknAuvs0TOJXKB0BFxX3NjaoHrlg-BcTb36XARuXejYYWVMbBJnQJCKAU4NbG3QH8uP5Msujs_j99dvypbieaTvtFgiYHS/s320/Aunt%20Sadie's%20view%20of%20the%20sky.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrTYQkR0JW5Q0m4Snb_iKg2qATt_EwVi0biLTnGrSH_7UMWbGhOs6e4eH3ckPXa21wXE-JB_2iGCBy_K8_4I6eQnWZnYI0Z7L8-TDClo-BJdsM_jtAzjzIlkrjj4UDmQJ08_e4ihIywJK1ceQ-iaFOXJHUK1PhszoojhsJlCeayr1sFRnQ9XUWomEO/s3114/Aunt%20Sadie%20looking%20at%20the%20sky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3114" data-original-width="1828" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrTYQkR0JW5Q0m4Snb_iKg2qATt_EwVi0biLTnGrSH_7UMWbGhOs6e4eH3ckPXa21wXE-JB_2iGCBy_K8_4I6eQnWZnYI0Z7L8-TDClo-BJdsM_jtAzjzIlkrjj4UDmQJ08_e4ihIywJK1ceQ-iaFOXJHUK1PhszoojhsJlCeayr1sFRnQ9XUWomEO/s320/Aunt%20Sadie%20looking%20at%20the%20sky.jpg" width="188" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Rachel's Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790797302450473117noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8959233989161202970.post-71986914576314646292023-04-25T17:48:00.001-07:002023-04-25T17:48:56.925-07:00A strong west wind<p> It's been a while, I know...but words come when they come. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHdnv_llzxRqtP7AXM0gT09zSw6bVem8bJKikmAsIDpOeNEg6M0erb4k_lAknVVeVMjYPvFrfbqTBOJt3DYCEVGccXzr0cuGgZKr4rvtSu1P3vd6YTFGfWyTLdXHB27AzNlJKAw-GEsXUAVN98Cz3dvLujpA8SCKtD8HDhcZoyXYMeF2P7Hr5S7rQR/s4000/passageway%20in%20San%20Antonio.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHdnv_llzxRqtP7AXM0gT09zSw6bVem8bJKikmAsIDpOeNEg6M0erb4k_lAknVVeVMjYPvFrfbqTBOJt3DYCEVGccXzr0cuGgZKr4rvtSu1P3vd6YTFGfWyTLdXHB27AzNlJKAw-GEsXUAVN98Cz3dvLujpA8SCKtD8HDhcZoyXYMeF2P7Hr5S7rQR/s320/passageway%20in%20San%20Antonio.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I have been away to San Antonio after a long absence. So much to say, of course, about my time there. Really, I tell myself, a week's stay is way too short. There are too many people, places, directions to catch up with and explore. I used to live there, and in a few ways, I still do.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But I didn't have time to write right away, because the garden here at home has taken my energy...not only because of spring, but in good part because of my San Antonio visit. Gardens, gardens, public and personal, borrowed and scrutinized, walked through and relaxed in. What do I travel for, it seems, except for gardens and museums? This time, alas, the museums took short shrift.</div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwmZxyPrGVaf-h7yMrVMRCYt8x_qmzA-361ILrnjj3HpnblpZ5_r3RjcbK9Ug7LbNOWIuSzSqvfrIZ0H25Aen-bAqTzaf0-E5nov4psg8X9RBtJUc1NVseIxS8GXoLppVfjZOYz4Lg1B_hwwLPCeOaPy7ZhKG0YfO2W9umlAg5iKHJ1kIOYO4CRrAd/s4000/Bonnie%20Lyons%20at%20Twin%20Sisters.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwmZxyPrGVaf-h7yMrVMRCYt8x_qmzA-361ILrnjj3HpnblpZ5_r3RjcbK9Ug7LbNOWIuSzSqvfrIZ0H25Aen-bAqTzaf0-E5nov4psg8X9RBtJUc1NVseIxS8GXoLppVfjZOYz4Lg1B_hwwLPCeOaPy7ZhKG0YfO2W9umlAg5iKHJ1kIOYO4CRrAd/s320/Bonnie%20Lyons%20at%20Twin%20Sisters.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyWCVi94uUaugy0iqarHP9uy3dlsWLChSL_a_YmZzo4_v_62bNejKIuuqkutb0uyxIuDstu2p_ynTGYc8xFek7HXqnC0SQ-vb_ssQdeAb3Uw8kc1bWj6Ok2ojmh4Ebv2mXKts173udzMHD4W7syecg-Hug6fKW8WVu8cMKA3ZyBOoygXv5G0iI2AFt/s3400/Maggie%20Reasor%20at%20home.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3400" data-original-width="2610" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyWCVi94uUaugy0iqarHP9uy3dlsWLChSL_a_YmZzo4_v_62bNejKIuuqkutb0uyxIuDstu2p_ynTGYc8xFek7HXqnC0SQ-vb_ssQdeAb3Uw8kc1bWj6Ok2ojmh4Ebv2mXKts173udzMHD4W7syecg-Hug6fKW8WVu8cMKA3ZyBOoygXv5G0iI2AFt/s320/Maggie%20Reasor%20at%20home.jpg" width="246" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvrWt-DVj4ANFs1BmqRP-h2i4WXwcB82msURvamDOf139jPgEDy6PPb1DJVvgLwHsak9-AUQU4ycJdf9ewPD9-7LiWhMTr6xUPyJInx17H98FmtPn7JEP82peDChUepnkGH1d0lgR3plpOZ0DekyO4q8a2Uls7nvfph1eNiboJC3vLADwDxsKx9sn7/s4000/Nina%20at%20Thai.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvrWt-DVj4ANFs1BmqRP-h2i4WXwcB82msURvamDOf139jPgEDy6PPb1DJVvgLwHsak9-AUQU4ycJdf9ewPD9-7LiWhMTr6xUPyJInx17H98FmtPn7JEP82peDChUepnkGH1d0lgR3plpOZ0DekyO4q8a2Uls7nvfph1eNiboJC3vLADwDxsKx9sn7/s320/Nina%20at%20Thai.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpL9Aje4LgeU29TVUlai1XuOY4Zy80xAwxvkXxLTgDWYuLWlm1n8NpKaZj3eJL7msmpc-muW_gGOWVhkzpNPMaoD_ZaqLg0jxvleLpW7XxWs8RuwcYW_j_AwMtWT-Eu9GX3e4y30ynZYqf2p7s8cSi8qPhhrXbeTn0CHAxoVTrwRlOwTxf6e5qavf0/s4000/Susan%20Oaks%20at%20lunch.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpL9Aje4LgeU29TVUlai1XuOY4Zy80xAwxvkXxLTgDWYuLWlm1n8NpKaZj3eJL7msmpc-muW_gGOWVhkzpNPMaoD_ZaqLg0jxvleLpW7XxWs8RuwcYW_j_AwMtWT-Eu9GX3e4y30ynZYqf2p7s8cSi8qPhhrXbeTn0CHAxoVTrwRlOwTxf6e5qavf0/s320/Susan%20Oaks%20at%20lunch.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiujOkNjCsw86eZEdWsJgayqa_CbK9UAKkWpu0fdG3FqCYhml59S8V4jbtvm0m5f2Bqe7-UXeXc8txuH_G2q-dWr8hIOJeYPsvUtXWx1tsjebm2LyyF1NZgvIp7vPfZ1TBpcSlrT2yxlPXS8Bslk8sT6UZwtAm2o-brjcbYXnSHyqKdGluTI0JNtwQl/s4000/Susan%20Stein%20at%20Scratch%20for%20lunch.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiujOkNjCsw86eZEdWsJgayqa_CbK9UAKkWpu0fdG3FqCYhml59S8V4jbtvm0m5f2Bqe7-UXeXc8txuH_G2q-dWr8hIOJeYPsvUtXWx1tsjebm2LyyF1NZgvIp7vPfZ1TBpcSlrT2yxlPXS8Bslk8sT6UZwtAm2o-brjcbYXnSHyqKdGluTI0JNtwQl/s320/Susan%20Stein%20at%20Scratch%20for%20lunch.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />Visits with friends...nice, long ones, gratefully often more than one meeting...took up my days. It is so easy to slide back into their stories, lives, doings. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf2dUOCbYX2IYjF8gEEhHmFZjBmhIjXHK_QHMusJsQ6EiRFtbUgcIV7BtDYFwVlxNvFaNy-osFv_6d7HlcMDg-RSUNqP4yvoJ7xGXk_5tlVjcC3KK7PxsPo8SbERQ3F3_S3UHU4bGr9EGs7fMfAbKdJcdomYZ5nWG8qvSn92WB9f-KkRjj0n-MAKsK/s3084/neighborhood%20in%20San%20Antonio%20door%20for%20fiesta.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="3084" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf2dUOCbYX2IYjF8gEEhHmFZjBmhIjXHK_QHMusJsQ6EiRFtbUgcIV7BtDYFwVlxNvFaNy-osFv_6d7HlcMDg-RSUNqP4yvoJ7xGXk_5tlVjcC3KK7PxsPo8SbERQ3F3_S3UHU4bGr9EGs7fMfAbKdJcdomYZ5nWG8qvSn92WB9f-KkRjj0n-MAKsK/s320/neighborhood%20in%20San%20Antonio%20door%20for%20fiesta.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Knowing streets, seeing their sameness and changes, following old tracks and finding new ones does the same.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcNHncS8o-nz77DSRNkiACW7Di0XpBa1szMuQ0KNo7dM1G_jKy1WvBtr4hGsG9OQcZfLZF7uX14EHVSjxD4xdLI_l4XgUFvLEkMuP_LxFH0txZoGsyqthDFf7MOyGBgh1WPLxU3EkgB2Ras9oNsWfSxSnzAehhzMUmNOv9t2qKb77lE5Ct-mfmF5GG/s3691/Scratch%20bakery%20sign.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="3691" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcNHncS8o-nz77DSRNkiACW7Di0XpBa1szMuQ0KNo7dM1G_jKy1WvBtr4hGsG9OQcZfLZF7uX14EHVSjxD4xdLI_l4XgUFvLEkMuP_LxFH0txZoGsyqthDFf7MOyGBgh1WPLxU3EkgB2Ras9oNsWfSxSnzAehhzMUmNOv9t2qKb77lE5Ct-mfmF5GG/s320/Scratch%20bakery%20sign.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM86gmOR_g0z2zEaks8wILM1Vy5WQUI3iSVOAX2kgOrd08c3F8arvcafZlfpWKFHz02-doUzTR1vvAIVyj6H03y3i608xv0WgAGPbyeFsjpaheuTz8m_Vnc8dNyqZRLTFk6uTBG5mctKF22hXnJxbH7Ox6ei57Bc3iptT0U3RDAIeTIVflYV7WQC9d/s4000/Scratch%20bakery%20door.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM86gmOR_g0z2zEaks8wILM1Vy5WQUI3iSVOAX2kgOrd08c3F8arvcafZlfpWKFHz02-doUzTR1vvAIVyj6H03y3i608xv0WgAGPbyeFsjpaheuTz8m_Vnc8dNyqZRLTFk6uTBG5mctKF22hXnJxbH7Ox6ei57Bc3iptT0U3RDAIeTIVflYV7WQC9d/s320/Scratch%20bakery%20door.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic9O1lFdGkom3dYjeDJNrksXDGydL9lxxp51W9ts-i9b4U3QbOxdC8odmYBP-bSUabdmhbgQrTKK5lSynsw4aZq_dKJzAofVDIVB1B8_tsvUyCyd-DT0vcuLpnfxb32DecEel_MwsHtzRyjh2ChrxT5hMzWHb-z_-4J2a7oCjjjhNLmnhZUUg2fRaL/s4000/Scratch%20bakery%20seat%20for%20two.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic9O1lFdGkom3dYjeDJNrksXDGydL9lxxp51W9ts-i9b4U3QbOxdC8odmYBP-bSUabdmhbgQrTKK5lSynsw4aZq_dKJzAofVDIVB1B8_tsvUyCyd-DT0vcuLpnfxb32DecEel_MwsHtzRyjh2ChrxT5hMzWHb-z_-4J2a7oCjjjhNLmnhZUUg2fRaL/s320/Scratch%20bakery%20seat%20for%20two.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There are old favorites to meet at...Twin Sisters, for one, in the heart of New Braunfels Avenue...and new ones, Scratch Kitchen, on San Pedro, which I could walk to each morning or bring friends along. Gardens there, too! In an old house so native one sank right into its charm, it has terraces with tables of all sizes settled among shifting shade. </div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipolkK5WVchbEcFYOvqkT8l9r0TA9se7PNj_gHcLqK8MFiG0-v4qhg-Bfc1IbLryyFEauq-0IuchYQvlRwLFBk0fDzFkQE2C4K11DaPARfUNY97DE9zc_-NYS6EqxEpwNmvVTkAKuu3h9Jmi8ECGyY-iqZGP1kQb4xIzcgE49-uFdK5U99Ft58hjgg/s4000/succulents%20in%20vintage%20cans.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipolkK5WVchbEcFYOvqkT8l9r0TA9se7PNj_gHcLqK8MFiG0-v4qhg-Bfc1IbLryyFEauq-0IuchYQvlRwLFBk0fDzFkQE2C4K11DaPARfUNY97DE9zc_-NYS6EqxEpwNmvVTkAKuu3h9Jmi8ECGyY-iqZGP1kQb4xIzcgE49-uFdK5U99Ft58hjgg/s320/succulents%20in%20vintage%20cans.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Succulents in vintage cans along the rock walls set their own mood.</span></div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRq0bvwithoeLWURS09qgWuxqqNmOldvWHOBnDdOPnGXd-hBZ5ZcNdldZq8wLzpA0yZ2IyI7ze3GnLxxt1-We8ziFTT_hObIzFfxW-IgFoUH62oj9El81gzo3HoDsMFO4H9QGlqG0Yld_BO_xUl5N_wtAZBGo8qrAbIX_TVwcgTJxGkDzBQqvS96aH/s4000/Scratch%20bakery%20brunch.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRq0bvwithoeLWURS09qgWuxqqNmOldvWHOBnDdOPnGXd-hBZ5ZcNdldZq8wLzpA0yZ2IyI7ze3GnLxxt1-We8ziFTT_hObIzFfxW-IgFoUH62oj9El81gzo3HoDsMFO4H9QGlqG0Yld_BO_xUl5N_wtAZBGo8qrAbIX_TVwcgTJxGkDzBQqvS96aH/s320/Scratch%20bakery%20brunch.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7JQuvSSv5ytdBv4a_B_A7bUmcfka8EuPngpMSD91Lw-_Iiqei-XqkjrbYG35dLuw8GQ9tJKBhR6Eo0bn2FyEVnV3a9JBFbe2v1YD0lmXhsjsBH-12bVWKJv35AoXwDlTjBVseNfa3vwUNSbpGHEwDSXTOZtLfdmdgADIBV-shBbArBTS20HOWsrRr/s2583/Scratch%20bakery%20on%20San%20Pedro.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2583" data-original-width="2465" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7JQuvSSv5ytdBv4a_B_A7bUmcfka8EuPngpMSD91Lw-_Iiqei-XqkjrbYG35dLuw8GQ9tJKBhR6Eo0bn2FyEVnV3a9JBFbe2v1YD0lmXhsjsBH-12bVWKJv35AoXwDlTjBVseNfa3vwUNSbpGHEwDSXTOZtLfdmdgADIBV-shBbArBTS20HOWsrRr/s320/Scratch%20bakery%20on%20San%20Pedro.jpg" width="305" /></a></div><br /> The food was fresh and wonderful, the coffee and teas good. Each morning, pastries from their commissary arrive; you have to be quick to grab your favorites...often they are gone by noon. The proprietor, Becky Medellin, whose father, a Navy cook, inspired her love of catering, with recipes handed down from family, and her helpers are cheerful and accommodating. Begun in Edinburg, Texas, she has owned the place here for six years, and clearly the neighborhood of houses and offices is grateful, not only for the cafe in just the right spot, but also because she and her husband have been slowly restoring the historic property.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9jZkReKVI47jSqC61WS8r3p6YiyY73CpbiD5N14uJ1l4LnBOW9mal8rkvQaNB-6FAG5HghrAhlaRUEeto9m5P8NfKeD2QmozQMQhncJiFY3t-3_6S3SMaQAnXMmKdbiCKaivPSTs6op21E2Q18Pmjh38wVjFTCjwrkcyIBWh2Gmexe2wkJ9M8kDm3/s4000/botanical%20gardens%20in%20San%20Antonio%20view.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9jZkReKVI47jSqC61WS8r3p6YiyY73CpbiD5N14uJ1l4LnBOW9mal8rkvQaNB-6FAG5HghrAhlaRUEeto9m5P8NfKeD2QmozQMQhncJiFY3t-3_6S3SMaQAnXMmKdbiCKaivPSTs6op21E2Q18Pmjh38wVjFTCjwrkcyIBWh2Gmexe2wkJ9M8kDm3/s320/botanical%20gardens%20in%20San%20Antonio%20view.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>The weather in San Antonio was its gift to me...gorgeous blue skies, temperate air...and those breezes...the same each day except two, when one day welcome rain came to lift things a little and another rose to over 90 degrees, though it began and ended with a nice chill.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpmUA0RIGaUXeHxns0xDwG0qyIymWLxA-ngt3ArI5UdYcVb9Wqg4LVl9jaXP0Op6z-gV5cL7Vxd9-mx9e7xtfYbyZKF_qakNJObH25b-0mgrXfO822ei1OVidPE0eRALixhZmCi98GoZPM0T7EYue0Bjhv3uWDR0jHO3LzBctvTPZ8X1m43hmYrsx_/s4000/botanical%20gardens%20in%20San%20Antonio%20cabin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpmUA0RIGaUXeHxns0xDwG0qyIymWLxA-ngt3ArI5UdYcVb9Wqg4LVl9jaXP0Op6z-gV5cL7Vxd9-mx9e7xtfYbyZKF_qakNJObH25b-0mgrXfO822ei1OVidPE0eRALixhZmCi98GoZPM0T7EYue0Bjhv3uWDR0jHO3LzBctvTPZ8X1m43hmYrsx_/s320/botanical%20gardens%20in%20San%20Antonio%20cabin.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcrok1ekhwYeQ2P_6m9kDtFdr2cnl5Gs3N2CEe8zMcE6gX_6-MhKulDZxAk7Hdh84g0N4r4bkRLlemb4CbuVdbOyzKJbfAiayztRkp2pjkZK2VtD2i5j7L0AxCyvRP-_LPOEadokQ_5yh6jmcsYLTk1vG_rLsauLL9-T3YeuPAptBtJrg0j1kGGtkJ/s4000/botanical%20gardens%20in%20San%20Antonio%20restaurant%20outdoors.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcrok1ekhwYeQ2P_6m9kDtFdr2cnl5Gs3N2CEe8zMcE6gX_6-MhKulDZxAk7Hdh84g0N4r4bkRLlemb4CbuVdbOyzKJbfAiayztRkp2pjkZK2VtD2i5j7L0AxCyvRP-_LPOEadokQ_5yh6jmcsYLTk1vG_rLsauLL9-T3YeuPAptBtJrg0j1kGGtkJ/s320/botanical%20gardens%20in%20San%20Antonio%20restaurant%20outdoors.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX3JYngvumHQPcz5jRS7RyB1mCEWd5O1xlP07h8jDsyA_WCHII5L5loijeHDDXGOUBM_z8o6YvpdWAi0uHtpDzR1oWce5kxmw_MGXPxUJhkX_8sL-4xik10hFLVXt9G7NMV0bkJUyvky0-dRayPufP5I6qYoy2XBiB7I8SEDwkNp9OxcZpOn9NMC4p/s4000/botanical%20gardens%20in%20San%20Antonio%20rock%20path.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX3JYngvumHQPcz5jRS7RyB1mCEWd5O1xlP07h8jDsyA_WCHII5L5loijeHDDXGOUBM_z8o6YvpdWAi0uHtpDzR1oWce5kxmw_MGXPxUJhkX_8sL-4xik10hFLVXt9G7NMV0bkJUyvky0-dRayPufP5I6qYoy2XBiB7I8SEDwkNp9OxcZpOn9NMC4p/s320/botanical%20gardens%20in%20San%20Antonio%20rock%20path.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjOUYIBDyS4u6s2PYaaaNTBtbJXEKz-m3C9mdCYHQcAgPgZEEXl7a1YGYuhzrWhqWwO-X3bxkKpDYqS7ISdmgI0PNBpISGsSzAxJS55NiKgjYU884kkrY2eWoMO51fu500A-hv1N8oFARgrrcxxEyfxLO6v_CgegLMy3zSv9Aej-C0Twrtu_t98guz/s4000/botanical%20gardens%20in%20San%20antonio%20yellow%20flower%20and%20sage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjOUYIBDyS4u6s2PYaaaNTBtbJXEKz-m3C9mdCYHQcAgPgZEEXl7a1YGYuhzrWhqWwO-X3bxkKpDYqS7ISdmgI0PNBpISGsSzAxJS55NiKgjYU884kkrY2eWoMO51fu500A-hv1N8oFARgrrcxxEyfxLO6v_CgegLMy3zSv9Aej-C0Twrtu_t98guz/s320/botanical%20gardens%20in%20San%20antonio%20yellow%20flower%20and%20sage.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">With friends and on my own, afternoons found me in one garden or another, beginning with the Botanical Garden, just north of Fort Sam Houston, gated as of old. It seemed to me that things had become a little more formal there than last I saw it...plots of seasonal blooms on one hand, laid out within rock walls in the sun; mazes of high stonework along more stone walks holding shadier blooms. I found myself wandering more quickly over the bridge through the small Japanese garden to find the paths into the gardens where the real natives crowd each other like lazed sunbathers.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR7y7G_qbVcfUfDcasBsvbEutoZ4cyOZXqcF21gU0PVBt20PP0DUPwM9uLgYqEKfVVYV-ijM1B3IkfHJbF3_N02wRChPjsAOkkMpsRzK5KHaCGiT-15GmF3VR_aM9DgPWP9dOMqf3_pJYBDbcNm911WIlSANUTvyyun2SFNFzF_tCu4k-u20TITVub/s4000/cactus%20i.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR7y7G_qbVcfUfDcasBsvbEutoZ4cyOZXqcF21gU0PVBt20PP0DUPwM9uLgYqEKfVVYV-ijM1B3IkfHJbF3_N02wRChPjsAOkkMpsRzK5KHaCGiT-15GmF3VR_aM9DgPWP9dOMqf3_pJYBDbcNm911WIlSANUTvyyun2SFNFzF_tCu4k-u20TITVub/s320/cactus%20i.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZTC39Bv3CVJc1AFitRI43wKRDKSSYLg4sv7j4HbdjdFkaZsKaKPdi6eX2kLHbkiL6cN6Oh-gfdkfOsdI6s3M3khBpeDtbZhdYMlHiex0OgyF1zf8za0xQk-XOdV-Q52axIuUSNbL3z5p2HGsfi_Y_rd3niddIbYgmUr36tiIQu4BokLpxOfpHfKVx/s4000/cactus%20ii.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZTC39Bv3CVJc1AFitRI43wKRDKSSYLg4sv7j4HbdjdFkaZsKaKPdi6eX2kLHbkiL6cN6Oh-gfdkfOsdI6s3M3khBpeDtbZhdYMlHiex0OgyF1zf8za0xQk-XOdV-Q52axIuUSNbL3z5p2HGsfi_Y_rd3niddIbYgmUr36tiIQu4BokLpxOfpHfKVx/s320/cactus%20ii.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>The town is getting ready for Fiesta, an April event going back forever, it seems.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dK-V2UvwjmBpo3c-2TWMwR8xNxeV1wFqB2kKMVaHZIRsbjhtlZ2YDt1qlVn96e3YrfFy4gpZ5mZ0hMwBKKs5yEKAsDtweHClAYyaqslg3WCwCP6U_w7KjnprnAhnZ9A36HGfbUrlKOSpWfHbxLZhhrsVt6XMYkGZ2Q81zvpXkj77vhweENNpMr5T/s2239/fiesta%20in%20the%20airport.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2239" data-original-width="1876" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dK-V2UvwjmBpo3c-2TWMwR8xNxeV1wFqB2kKMVaHZIRsbjhtlZ2YDt1qlVn96e3YrfFy4gpZ5mZ0hMwBKKs5yEKAsDtweHClAYyaqslg3WCwCP6U_w7KjnprnAhnZ9A36HGfbUrlKOSpWfHbxLZhhrsVt6XMYkGZ2Q81zvpXkj77vhweENNpMr5T/s320/fiesta%20in%20the%20airport.jpg" width="268" /></a></div><br /><p>At Maggie's ( "Welcome to Mexico," she says of her garden pots and house) San Antonio's colors come alive, but she's planning more. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSAFtUV_omT7U-NbqPbGvjLighQKK8OMc4Jsn4poYK9lAkKyJYaluXB_2pI8TEdYxrirn-ELdVb6oKQ4F1rQn-kocPBm7IUfZjalPbWx81CWZ4AmncaKxfZWhl-ab2Exh7aGLEH7ZW6ChDpax_Azw1sbizMtjUpw0Y0TtGfrg3ZQrhjUU-FoH5KUo0/s348/shades%20of%20green%20cactus%20room.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="348" data-original-width="348" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSAFtUV_omT7U-NbqPbGvjLighQKK8OMc4Jsn4poYK9lAkKyJYaluXB_2pI8TEdYxrirn-ELdVb6oKQ4F1rQn-kocPBm7IUfZjalPbWx81CWZ4AmncaKxfZWhl-ab2Exh7aGLEH7ZW6ChDpax_Azw1sbizMtjUpw0Y0TtGfrg3ZQrhjUU-FoH5KUo0/s320/shades%20of%20green%20cactus%20room.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>So, one afternoon we squeeze in a visit to Shades of Green, the garden store on Sunset that I always liked. We consider options, but I am the one who finds plants...she has to wait on her choice to come in. </p><p>What's that, you ask? You shopping for plants in Texas...why? Because...</p><p>I haven't told you about the house I stayed in that week, an Airbnb hosted by a young couple, Reina and Adrian, in a part of town I am fond of, it being near everything, walkable, explorable, homey. And old...one of the secret older neighborhoods San Antonio has, not on the tourist maps.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY_iUwTKkcOfEyGOXuFtR0t2_U861z6dhaf4O1suKxRH2B7ofW_6-Xjm5hB-I1NEvnv2TDWGHBS7OXDatVXuEzqYN9xpJlASP29B9nUit0ivfjRLH5tqOigoy2OyUBYizOC9T_QzMuanoAtpf0aNORP5AcGREGZAOXuK7iADPYkHmlvBxgPUaLtFew/s4000/413%20e%20mistletoe%20porch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY_iUwTKkcOfEyGOXuFtR0t2_U861z6dhaf4O1suKxRH2B7ofW_6-Xjm5hB-I1NEvnv2TDWGHBS7OXDatVXuEzqYN9xpJlASP29B9nUit0ivfjRLH5tqOigoy2OyUBYizOC9T_QzMuanoAtpf0aNORP5AcGREGZAOXuK7iADPYkHmlvBxgPUaLtFew/s320/413%20e%20mistletoe%20porch.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />The house is an old bungalow, built in 1910 by Reina's great-grandparents, where her grandmother was born and other relatives have lived all these years. Reina and Adrian have been leasing it from the family, and hope to own it themselves one day to return it to a home for a family. Meanwhile, they live in the back part of the house, and have turned the three rooms in the front...spacious, high-ceilinged, thick-walled spaces...into the calm, peaceful, comfortable and comforting guest quarters I was lucky enough to find. <p></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhtNxcDqxprj3NM8BNS6tqCswSnpfOh0AyyTSe6I9PVEXuSf7sK2quZ7QG2yMsIfVEQn_4U4PO6BaQLyxtk_JS0O6zo2HyOOw2Qxn3eSUk8_qKKcOWUCiXr5PDh06SCG--OdcX-AG1kQIzLiFYRpFIfWGShAU_jeukW47IeLn8kTyzF6yhg7T1-Ekl/s4000/413%20e%20mistletoe%20kitchen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhtNxcDqxprj3NM8BNS6tqCswSnpfOh0AyyTSe6I9PVEXuSf7sK2quZ7QG2yMsIfVEQn_4U4PO6BaQLyxtk_JS0O6zo2HyOOw2Qxn3eSUk8_qKKcOWUCiXr5PDh06SCG--OdcX-AG1kQIzLiFYRpFIfWGShAU_jeukW47IeLn8kTyzF6yhg7T1-Ekl/s4000/413%20e%20mistletoe%20kitchen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhphjjB3YhVG4rSlNm-ctcqhh_lXm8G-htTmc-dDGec0uqctzn4foJnPoa-sX7bU9iqp7x9WF3TEm0DS0_zv1hrNizs1av_NMM3WWrwJFdjZgK2eu-ihhbarf2PUraxy0ae9JGnLW0mE6B1hs2dE4rmE7GDbW4EbUBV72WYrrb8msAY4La6RZzcnU2_/s4000/413%20e%20mistletoe%20screen%20door.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhphjjB3YhVG4rSlNm-ctcqhh_lXm8G-htTmc-dDGec0uqctzn4foJnPoa-sX7bU9iqp7x9WF3TEm0DS0_zv1hrNizs1av_NMM3WWrwJFdjZgK2eu-ihhbarf2PUraxy0ae9JGnLW0mE6B1hs2dE4rmE7GDbW4EbUBV72WYrrb8msAY4La6RZzcnU2_/s320/413%20e%20mistletoe%20screen%20door.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhtNxcDqxprj3NM8BNS6tqCswSnpfOh0AyyTSe6I9PVEXuSf7sK2quZ7QG2yMsIfVEQn_4U4PO6BaQLyxtk_JS0O6zo2HyOOw2Qxn3eSUk8_qKKcOWUCiXr5PDh06SCG--OdcX-AG1kQIzLiFYRpFIfWGShAU_jeukW47IeLn8kTyzF6yhg7T1-Ekl/s320/413%20e%20mistletoe%20kitchen.jpg" width="320" /></div><br /><p>But back to plant-buying 1,500 miles from home. Driving to my airbnb the afternoon I arrived, I looked at the house and wondered whether anyone lived there. The double squared yard in the front was almost empty of growth, a few plants left to hold ground. In the last years, South Texas has had some unusual freezes, which you can see in the brown edges of the ubiquitous palms along the streets and yards. Things will grow back, of course, barring a terrible drought this summer. In the temperate weather of my trip, they had begun to green.</p><p>Per directions, I parked in the back of the house, and rolled my suitcase down the carriage-wide driveway and up onto the front porch, where the house suddenly wrapped me in its spirit. Inside, Reina's clear, clean, artful style and Adrian's renovations both took me by surprise and bade me home all at once. I began to love that house.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhptit-ep5SQPrA39jOMtmOAh7mvs3QsV41wZPzhk60AwJv4Um3yAVlynzpiwSd35RHjlfNraSvJBHbeZh-kWSYtahyRvnSvLJQ82KgA9PcFhfEYTIJyebj_5hAILx2yPhIONNViGEiBr0Jc4lxlcGFV-_UEBYNBhEnR5YBdUS6L78F7-XRafNtwtLM/s3947/413%20%20mistletoe%20chimney%20and%20shelves%20with%20pottery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3947" data-original-width="2867" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhptit-ep5SQPrA39jOMtmOAh7mvs3QsV41wZPzhk60AwJv4Um3yAVlynzpiwSd35RHjlfNraSvJBHbeZh-kWSYtahyRvnSvLJQ82KgA9PcFhfEYTIJyebj_5hAILx2yPhIONNViGEiBr0Jc4lxlcGFV-_UEBYNBhEnR5YBdUS6L78F7-XRafNtwtLM/s320/413%20%20mistletoe%20chimney%20and%20shelves%20with%20pottery.jpg" width="232" /></a></div><br /><p>You have to know about houses and me. Either I fit into them or I don't. It doesn't matter whether it's my house or your house or a rented room, therein I nest, or soon fly unsatisfied. (I've been known to rearrange furniture in a hotel room.)</p><p>The inside of the house was perfect for me...high ceilings, cool color on the walls, walls which sent air from below the house up into the rafters. I turned the air conditioners off and enjoyed the freshness through the front screen door. At night traffic and train hummed and bumped along the nearby streets, but I slept through. In the old kitchen, the table by the window gave me a space for coffee, my journal...and a sketch pad on which I drafted designs for that front yard. </p><p>Yes. Because that house needed its garden and I needed that garden there. I wandered the neighborhood and looked at the possibilities.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0BG8EDvw2oSYqgDh84rB-XSOQjVFekYgtIgEvqFHupkwrefpQuRXh7M3syJ4FSWFem8ptYt-D3fQJHL-0Z9cfECsMJbh5T4ppZ11dmQjBzNqhI9Le_dURORs0xJ3vLG-NgRmTOOCzR7rgox3yTAOjPyPSDPhkA3pAkmKkHrwjk36XkaFgzPJBKMW5/s4000/yard%20flowers%20in%20San%20Antonio%201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0BG8EDvw2oSYqgDh84rB-XSOQjVFekYgtIgEvqFHupkwrefpQuRXh7M3syJ4FSWFem8ptYt-D3fQJHL-0Z9cfECsMJbh5T4ppZ11dmQjBzNqhI9Le_dURORs0xJ3vLG-NgRmTOOCzR7rgox3yTAOjPyPSDPhkA3pAkmKkHrwjk36XkaFgzPJBKMW5/s320/yard%20flowers%20in%20San%20Antonio%201.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbIYDlrrYvLeYyfHgGaOha6swCJAwoYCKnMvVh4T2HFk5ZfDLzEAvT1-9kz6wybo2LionmiP3hMayGq5QKU_zm4MIWl79yXrGuu2_OMc4TW5u8MS4caMd0NEUv3yRK9NMClnxvmvUHpahLfPOBG0ISLEBT4G9xtbGT20424R3yj0eS0gvph4R-gL6M/s4000/Yard%20flowers%20in%20San%20Antonio%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbIYDlrrYvLeYyfHgGaOha6swCJAwoYCKnMvVh4T2HFk5ZfDLzEAvT1-9kz6wybo2LionmiP3hMayGq5QKU_zm4MIWl79yXrGuu2_OMc4TW5u8MS4caMd0NEUv3yRK9NMClnxvmvUHpahLfPOBG0ISLEBT4G9xtbGT20424R3yj0eS0gvph4R-gL6M/s320/Yard%20flowers%20in%20San%20Antonio%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ6y2-2pzovGeeICP1ucEYr69cnPhp83m-FY60y0vMcvEu7S90sRkWWID-m5ZwmAE-vG9XGlMU1376k7qLQQlnmivKMXdMIo1KRBOCHNiudISmWHV7-IsaO6j3PKxTZbD7GScToLXxvaWGfDOnGig6XZaduxaFnQo3XZCS1M_VMckge9TBCaIZl0eL/s4000/yard%20flowers%20in%20San%20Antonio%203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ6y2-2pzovGeeICP1ucEYr69cnPhp83m-FY60y0vMcvEu7S90sRkWWID-m5ZwmAE-vG9XGlMU1376k7qLQQlnmivKMXdMIo1KRBOCHNiudISmWHV7-IsaO6j3PKxTZbD7GScToLXxvaWGfDOnGig6XZaduxaFnQo3XZCS1M_VMckge9TBCaIZl0eL/s320/yard%20flowers%20in%20San%20Antonio%203.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO2nrPtB_PT6Bzjc4iDs6soKiKnXkCAxBeje8WEcQ-rLXJIYPoLL-E9pBqR0SUNinRPVEcvukmJgstTF3UTdqcNUgWxJMqFb8sEAW9b9_75xTY7zdzzR9Et28a2UqJM2K8pOGN5AbFBcQtxLIPyH45HRUK27YPqhTtcwyjEEc7TvZbCvvbBGxRDyJi/s4000/yard%20flowers%20in%20San%20Antonio%204.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO2nrPtB_PT6Bzjc4iDs6soKiKnXkCAxBeje8WEcQ-rLXJIYPoLL-E9pBqR0SUNinRPVEcvukmJgstTF3UTdqcNUgWxJMqFb8sEAW9b9_75xTY7zdzzR9Et28a2UqJM2K8pOGN5AbFBcQtxLIPyH45HRUK27YPqhTtcwyjEEc7TvZbCvvbBGxRDyJi/s320/yard%20flowers%20in%20San%20Antonio%204.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>Now, I knew perfectly well that a young couple working hard on a house they loved, while working their own jobs as well, didn't have time to get to a garden yet, though the bones of the old one was clearly evident. I considered a way to minimize what they'd have to do and still have a garden the house would appreciate. So I laid out a plan, got out one morning to pull out dead plants, and then, to get Reina and Adrian started, Maggie and I chose a few they could ease in with. The resident expert at Shades of Green helped by sharply pointing out the errors on my plan. "Everyone thinks that water is the problem with keeping a garden. It's not. It's sun...plants need to be in the right relation to the sun."</p><p>When all this planning was revealed to them at last, Reina and Adrian thought me an odd guest, to be sure, but seemed more amused than offended, and talked about their own plans over a spring dinner together on the porch on my last night. The evening was fading when we gathered ourselves together to part.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSXNHoAAVUGBYIVCA-hN2LJcqhcL30QQZGfwJrMUITScoWlw_4ciZ1E0abPe2gQl4qCSB9dk2Vw8_c5ZqpzyMPqntEXdAQDcWDaGZIoHHH2bl_8AsV-3q0KMSuXvXcyTUxK7daHanYxPURJZUXcqzZ2HwLESHNdBwg07eLC3-f3rGqhtFhklLI_h7F/s4000/tile%20on%20wall%20of%20la%20fonda%20n%20main.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSXNHoAAVUGBYIVCA-hN2LJcqhcL30QQZGfwJrMUITScoWlw_4ciZ1E0abPe2gQl4qCSB9dk2Vw8_c5ZqpzyMPqntEXdAQDcWDaGZIoHHH2bl_8AsV-3q0KMSuXvXcyTUxK7daHanYxPURJZUXcqzZ2HwLESHNdBwg07eLC3-f3rGqhtFhklLI_h7F/s320/tile%20on%20wall%20of%20la%20fonda%20n%20main.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGmMI9AuLQ5bv1Wf4eVwqnHdyBzBq7dViIZ3PNomO6glIKnZxt0YHo2P27FpJHePXEAHXLp7q4cac6unzyfPqThbMG_0qRuvoSLTY4SYXagD5J6a9SGTLzArD3Z94swJ1Khp3RsXZriWbA_yG4-t2lZThN5iHF5vPeoki2WtwlvYf8Qfx7UDtsoSUN/s4000/way%20into%20La%20Fonda%20on%20N%20Main.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGmMI9AuLQ5bv1Wf4eVwqnHdyBzBq7dViIZ3PNomO6glIKnZxt0YHo2P27FpJHePXEAHXLp7q4cac6unzyfPqThbMG_0qRuvoSLTY4SYXagD5J6a9SGTLzArD3Z94swJ1Khp3RsXZriWbA_yG4-t2lZThN5iHF5vPeoki2WtwlvYf8Qfx7UDtsoSUN/s320/way%20into%20La%20Fonda%20on%20N%20Main.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />There were other gardens in my wanders, too...the sculpure garden at the McNay disappointed a bit, though the walk through was peaceful. I took back roads to get everywhere, driving or walking, so the yards both plainly and elaborately landscaped were lessons in the way to flower a dry climate. (Grass isn't the way to go.) Spring is (mostly) kindness itself in South Texas, bluebonnets still here and there, and pinks. On the highways I didn't get a chance to travel, I imagined the Mexican hats and spikey orange wildflowers I can never remember the name of taking their turn to dazzle.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsOX4E-kpcIUenm4VU9TAEm24-01QSAh0EHlKe_yf4lMY7RpJ18d8q_Hq28z8A-WCPukJjPIXm8QJha1e_aw5UwIpgGlgBWjFX82YJLrS0yhiXvGG6mLWH6q1nlhPWF8bjyOsFaqjFOBUyJmdfqi0HuK8vWLBmS9DgYdlimU9iVWlhNJERQwKCs7sX/s4000/Michael's%20tree%20and%20seat%20nearby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsOX4E-kpcIUenm4VU9TAEm24-01QSAh0EHlKe_yf4lMY7RpJ18d8q_Hq28z8A-WCPukJjPIXm8QJha1e_aw5UwIpgGlgBWjFX82YJLrS0yhiXvGG6mLWH6q1nlhPWF8bjyOsFaqjFOBUyJmdfqi0HuK8vWLBmS9DgYdlimU9iVWlhNJERQwKCs7sX/s320/Michael's%20tree%20and%20seat%20nearby.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />Slices of the heart otherwise remain in San Antonio. In due course, I drove out to the cemetery. Cleaned off Michael's grave, put down stones...some for me, and some for others not able to be here, I tell him. It is his birthday, so I talk about the garden I am fixing for him at home, which, after nearly two years, I have finally settled on (indeed, I got right to it when I returned...that's what's taken my time this week). I talk about the day, beautiful, with cool breezes...and sorrow, the sharp edge to life. I walk around to see that others I have known have come to rest here.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVocn59GDBGfzEVwD5at-iynw9rdbX94sU4ppveVCH4tIB83Foo52A0fNJtHUcIztjry1VAOzEdrliEZfomnA7Q3j5S0rg7sUoB0QyP9xfFwEiZMcJhc57a6Ui83eMph_Dvd49z6y9a_X4R8rCsEhZmwTlSjjP7cl-ma0i98e7iOEnL_dS20bMBVsR/s3085/la%20villita%20bracelet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3085" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVocn59GDBGfzEVwD5at-iynw9rdbX94sU4ppveVCH4tIB83Foo52A0fNJtHUcIztjry1VAOzEdrliEZfomnA7Q3j5S0rg7sUoB0QyP9xfFwEiZMcJhc57a6Ui83eMph_Dvd49z6y9a_X4R8rCsEhZmwTlSjjP7cl-ma0i98e7iOEnL_dS20bMBVsR/s320/la%20villita%20bracelet.jpg" width="311" /></a></div><br /><p>Near the last day, I ventured with difficulty down to La Villita...street construction blocked nearly every road...where I found Ron in an artists' coop, a portraitist who drew on, of all things, fine sandpaper. He showed me why it worked so well for him. Walking through the old village, then along the river, filled now with eating establishment and tourist shops, I looked in vain for the galleries that were once among them.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3AukcFvTvxDEslla_eYbUtU7eAXjEZNEAT029yvN3NCs7Nw_MNxwI1vilBVU7FszhV24Bqd_Am4_nGQJPEnLGNMNywsc6pKAtDATAPTGTTgcFpy78hgxda8mQp7RfDsBVd1W8CIWmh_--l8Zz7R0A5xBZXZ_S4LIsbRQRYll9FfH1-qPnNSAhv3sS/s4000/Briscoe%20western%20art%20museum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3AukcFvTvxDEslla_eYbUtU7eAXjEZNEAT029yvN3NCs7Nw_MNxwI1vilBVU7FszhV24Bqd_Am4_nGQJPEnLGNMNywsc6pKAtDATAPTGTTgcFpy78hgxda8mQp7RfDsBVd1W8CIWmh_--l8Zz7R0A5xBZXZ_S4LIsbRQRYll9FfH1-qPnNSAhv3sS/s320/Briscoe%20western%20art%20museum.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />Instead, the walk led me, accidentally, to a museum of Western Art, where curiosity drew me. Though I am not a fan particularly, of what's usually called western art, the three floors over two buildings lent me its sense of history, its art on walls and podia, its carefully preserved collections on floors, and its family history in videos...another lesson in the lives which built the region we know so differently.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPrzGYNywpPZbZkhsXyXdEYyz2FczNHbuoMNqWG7d1-BF3bg9VGo6KDN4BDyundug6lfCyjwe4QB3R7pyZ58jkU7Z6U_pJoMU9aGBb1olDnbm35rE5uJqUKJq2vJZZLeT3NmENpAoRJfqEdGqs8mA6o7XhezyqM4rALciGbkLHR8Ddp5AWX1QmCywG/s4000/Grant's%20ceramic%20on%20shelves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPrzGYNywpPZbZkhsXyXdEYyz2FczNHbuoMNqWG7d1-BF3bg9VGo6KDN4BDyundug6lfCyjwe4QB3R7pyZ58jkU7Z6U_pJoMU9aGBb1olDnbm35rE5uJqUKJq2vJZZLeT3NmENpAoRJfqEdGqs8mA6o7XhezyqM4rALciGbkLHR8Ddp5AWX1QmCywG/s320/Grant's%20ceramic%20on%20shelves.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhad3TQ17u4eMNc7js5zwq_DRGqeufSodeROZ1_PtLyPSbK4w3yG5_tVznzHuInsw7vPbRMaXsmlQOmQbdJfJYO4RVAIuO3aakUUH2EKW3bMXhwJLUHV8-q6QrEd6j0FPnl3hY12FpJezSCBwp3gSbKB-OaOLRkXFj5sY0so6Jz-2Ix7mZZwJY4jNpW/s4000/Grant's%20totel%20inside.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhad3TQ17u4eMNc7js5zwq_DRGqeufSodeROZ1_PtLyPSbK4w3yG5_tVznzHuInsw7vPbRMaXsmlQOmQbdJfJYO4RVAIuO3aakUUH2EKW3bMXhwJLUHV8-q6QrEd6j0FPnl3hY12FpJezSCBwp3gSbKB-OaOLRkXFj5sY0so6Jz-2Ix7mZZwJY4jNpW/s320/Grant's%20totel%20inside.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLBI1wz7VU7XsWF0_Sc6uHrRRRWWFJLt5E_kwVSZWho1Apa8-xdW5WFkhfexj0PSvsxOyFEZwJ4v4GLgRisgGhYHCgqSyn9PlZLh9NZLxf7pnsqtqwkdTKp2d6nJRUQNRviQZpxtXCIhJuJfzLVF91qW3wrNsB-uNMVVHOh2iH7vghaLVGf4G3OVcz/s4000/Grant's%20totem%20outside.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLBI1wz7VU7XsWF0_Sc6uHrRRRWWFJLt5E_kwVSZWho1Apa8-xdW5WFkhfexj0PSvsxOyFEZwJ4v4GLgRisgGhYHCgqSyn9PlZLh9NZLxf7pnsqtqwkdTKp2d6nJRUQNRviQZpxtXCIhJuJfzLVF91qW3wrNsB-uNMVVHOh2iH7vghaLVGf4G3OVcz/s320/Grant's%20totem%20outside.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>Tired by then, I remembered that Bonnie had told me to come see Grant's ceramics, his work for decades. At the driveway, I looked at his totems and masks and creatures in the front yard...goodness! I thought. I am already in another museum. Inside, even moreso. In the foyer, a wall of beautiful, delicate, starkly faced masks stopped me (I neglected to take a picture of them, though they were my favorite.) They'd redone their house some years ago, and made it a showplace for his art, as well as the African art they had begun with. </p><p>From Maggie, too, whose paintings and drawings make a museum of her house, though they shift from space to space, I felt surrounded by a culture that blooms as richly as gardens. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI3cWHkT-a5Xuawo1ZET8W2vDEuNEMte9RKTlZVTAk4018cv9r_Q5PmtX0H-JpbmREXHVRp7uQR3PvzLP2VUhPsFOTnkSeR3--ALk_i2tCjEloLkcdW6028EuXVP_C1_N2x-vWB3OSr-DVP5wqELeWL7DF3tPnl-zss6IbAhMmZ_VqT3uQd6q4nEPc/s2906/Maggie's%20angel%20art.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2906" data-original-width="2426" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI3cWHkT-a5Xuawo1ZET8W2vDEuNEMte9RKTlZVTAk4018cv9r_Q5PmtX0H-JpbmREXHVRp7uQR3PvzLP2VUhPsFOTnkSeR3--ALk_i2tCjEloLkcdW6028EuXVP_C1_N2x-vWB3OSr-DVP5wqELeWL7DF3tPnl-zss6IbAhMmZ_VqT3uQd6q4nEPc/s320/Maggie's%20angel%20art.jpg" width="267" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> In the same way, Susan and I talk books and whole worlds open from her reading. She leaves me with two I would not have found, perhaps, on my own, and writes me about another, which I immediately order for home...Gail Caldwell's <i>A Strong West Wind, a</i> memoir of a life in the west; it arrived yesterday. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNQLwKXsEvKPIa_SqqMotMMl3L4H_vd1nvT7zRh0YG0k1MPEZUvYVojdvwxS8vvw9FLAYXLCBjYzKOnjgOJ_9GHZ0NFk6FBBrv87eHV_scmSdyJTXadnhfT2ZJ8Evr9wTugUd9HPh04b-Ix15-4ZnLFKOpFcYA6SBErnKAIYB8MAl1ByNTd8QSA9m3/s3988/A%20Strong%20West%20Wind%20book%20for%20blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3988" data-original-width="2659" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNQLwKXsEvKPIa_SqqMotMMl3L4H_vd1nvT7zRh0YG0k1MPEZUvYVojdvwxS8vvw9FLAYXLCBjYzKOnjgOJ_9GHZ0NFk6FBBrv87eHV_scmSdyJTXadnhfT2ZJ8Evr9wTugUd9HPh04b-Ix15-4ZnLFKOpFcYA6SBErnKAIYB8MAl1ByNTd8QSA9m3/s320/A%20Strong%20West%20Wind%20book%20for%20blog.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><p>In the morning, my last in the town, I drive back to Maggie's to return a cloth she lent me to carry those plants back to the house, and end up in her back garden, chatting, looking over its layout, planning.</p><p>Quite a vision of gardens, or gardens of visions, to put together into a whole, isn't it, this trip? You can see why it's been difficult to relate it to you here. Even with all this (I wish you the patience for it!), there is so much more in the spaces between left unsaid.</p><p><br /></p></div>Rachel's Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790797302450473117noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8959233989161202970.post-5711344713119449382023-03-17T12:30:00.000-07:002023-03-17T12:30:18.377-07:00Red shoes<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8_M4o-Nz_sPEG5mzh2nUwMU2IgJ6lrwWVf_Pa_JoALJk4GHn2VRUEcHA2N6ZVQueTfWWWji1c4LWyoWf0H780rZTLUOQ-W1KTEM2MIwCSqb9xeRyiIkiVIuCConT9edWcTO0m8lCqq6_fltdNUzM1JSoBq7kyqOhOWjV-akPuzDhKu2yRsET6K-vM/s640/red%20shoes%20for%20dancing.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8_M4o-Nz_sPEG5mzh2nUwMU2IgJ6lrwWVf_Pa_JoALJk4GHn2VRUEcHA2N6ZVQueTfWWWji1c4LWyoWf0H780rZTLUOQ-W1KTEM2MIwCSqb9xeRyiIkiVIuCConT9edWcTO0m8lCqq6_fltdNUzM1JSoBq7kyqOhOWjV-akPuzDhKu2yRsET6K-vM/s320/red%20shoes%20for%20dancing.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Dancing shoes</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></div><p></p><p></p>Spring has me looking toward bright things...green, of course, for new shoots to plant, admire and serve up, and red, for shoes to step out in, hereabouts and abroad.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPZUg-T0Eeu63tqhGvBJNj1jWxrg0So1HrPvG67_sKAMmCJ5BGudSMj5exKAKPo4O3mwI8LRcbjJrlv2xmuKXzAuMyngIRN9tEVJ5HLDXC2qZ2L5srsm5ObPY8PUWN-QOitNI6gMabyirXBeR2PmQ54NzW25Vzb746BWQUe79rF05PqpfZEGrvijs1/s3413/purple%20blooms.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3413" data-original-width="2920" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPZUg-T0Eeu63tqhGvBJNj1jWxrg0So1HrPvG67_sKAMmCJ5BGudSMj5exKAKPo4O3mwI8LRcbjJrlv2xmuKXzAuMyngIRN9tEVJ5HLDXC2qZ2L5srsm5ObPY8PUWN-QOitNI6gMabyirXBeR2PmQ54NzW25Vzb746BWQUe79rF05PqpfZEGrvijs1/s320/purple%20blooms.jpg" width="274" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Planning menus and trips is my fun these days. First, menus to sort out and invitations to send. Wherever I've lived, it's been sort of a hobby to invite people over for brunch or dinner or tea or something...holidays, birthdays, anytime...<i>why not?</i> Though I'm glad for the company and its always illuminating conversation, I enjoy as much the strategy.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGNIalHFGI2jW3gQMuuyU5NBLPKDZu1TWcLVlfAPHeoY7p7lCulsy2usUTXR4GR3cgx_KR4tb69kokHOPiTMCfcVnLvo98NQreFXCH33QH1XYMgxFP3qQrUsmSgpCQ_aKvPJT4KQSJdUIW9VjQVt4VZYV5gAocCNfFAVybQEi0AueQxf5hOUTUfoQz/s3637/menu%20card.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3637" data-original-width="2986" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGNIalHFGI2jW3gQMuuyU5NBLPKDZu1TWcLVlfAPHeoY7p7lCulsy2usUTXR4GR3cgx_KR4tb69kokHOPiTMCfcVnLvo98NQreFXCH33QH1XYMgxFP3qQrUsmSgpCQ_aKvPJT4KQSJdUIW9VjQVt4VZYV5gAocCNfFAVybQEi0AueQxf5hOUTUfoQz/s320/menu%20card.jpg" width="263" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Here's how it happens. Hmmm, I think while a new season entices me. I grab a white square of leftover art paper (the thick kind, 60#cardstock or better) and begin to scribble, heading the paper with some upcoming or imagined theme, like "Thanksgiving" or "Brunch for Newcomers". Headings next: APPS, MAIN, DESS, DRKS. Lots of crossouts, lots of rewriting. ("Or" is a frequent caret.) I have little pieces of such tucked all over the house, ready to be revised, ready for who's company and a date. (The one above hasn't been tied down yet...want to come for dinner?)</div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8R28F0FPBPja2JbgL0LoMpLGB0FLSzZNyO94zXs_MoQ4drEb1esHqRD6kilk-AfN-6NHS7_oZKskCqAUlJ6nhSFUBg00cU13rGTq6xHYJrCvG9Klb-EoDGYZxYBd-fsKoMlpbxuuOENKBNhtkSwC1kt9LCNJnVqypwNnqURF3a70y4xoVFPHiGjuu/s3783/mint%20growing%20up.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="3783" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8R28F0FPBPja2JbgL0LoMpLGB0FLSzZNyO94zXs_MoQ4drEb1esHqRD6kilk-AfN-6NHS7_oZKskCqAUlJ6nhSFUBg00cU13rGTq6xHYJrCvG9Klb-EoDGYZxYBd-fsKoMlpbxuuOENKBNhtkSwC1kt9LCNJnVqypwNnqURF3a70y4xoVFPHiGjuu/s320/mint%20growing%20up.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><p></p><p></p><br />In Spring, the greener the ingredients, the better. And so many to choose from: fresh peas, spinach and chard, butter lettuce, arugula. In the pots outside the kitchen door herbs are showing their bright sides...parsley, mint, rosemary, a speck of thyme...still too cold for basil. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">These days are ripe with possibilities: Besides Friday night dinners (last week, we had a great crowd), there's a few which had me happily flipping through cookbooks. First, Joseph's birthday in a few days, for which company and menu danced in tandem. Then, needing another excuse, I thought that PORCH, our local hunger relief organization, could use a fundraiser, so I'm trying to arrange that, I hope, at the Dead Mule. Even more fun: the other day my friend Jim and I put our heads together to do a small New Spring/New Friends dinner for later in the month, because we are always saying, "You need to meet...", so we are inviting people who can invite people they know whom they want us to know, and vice versa. </div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7tvg2QiySkGtvhWPEKtymYBXi4ip7F-_kHxUaX3tYWOnKACx3GItVTNauQfSAGpuk3G_4gWea4Wuw6qSRqUUPN02xEZnaJduFy9WPmasA741sqTi7BvGjOpvGn4MRGEk7Vm93Crfh4Gk7XGg9FMyAzhZRUGf2VjGuvqzMpr3CAunVylNeZ7hQarKr/s4000/pile%20of%20cookbooks.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7tvg2QiySkGtvhWPEKtymYBXi4ip7F-_kHxUaX3tYWOnKACx3GItVTNauQfSAGpuk3G_4gWea4Wuw6qSRqUUPN02xEZnaJduFy9WPmasA741sqTi7BvGjOpvGn4MRGEk7Vm93Crfh4Gk7XGg9FMyAzhZRUGf2VjGuvqzMpr3CAunVylNeZ7hQarKr/s320/pile%20of%20cookbooks.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Nope! Sorry, I'm not disclosing any of those menus, as two are a surprise and one has still to be negotiated. But I will give you a list of dishes I'm imagining and you can set <i>your </i>imaginations on those:<p></p><p><span> <i>Beet hummus. </i> </span><i>Orange and saffron rice with fresh peas and pistachios (I've been using pistachios a lot lately).</i><i><span> Breast of duck (organic) with citrus and chinese five-spice. </span></i><i><span><span>Avocado and mango salsa. </span></span></i><i>Blueberry shortcake with lemon cream and mint sprig.</i><i><span><span><span> Ricotta and spinach puff bites. </span></span></span></i><i><span><span><span><span><span>Spiced shrimp on arugula. Asparagus roasted with lemon zest. Lemon pudding. </span></span></span></span></span></i><i><span><span><span><span><span><span>Halibut with persillade. </span></span></span></span></span></span></i><i><span><span><span><span><span><span>Peruvian chicken drumsticks (and other parts) with green sauce on the side. </span></span></span></span></span></span></i><i><span><span><span><span><span><span>Cole slaw, the green fresh kind with carrot. </span></span></span></span></span></span></i><i><span><span><span><span><span><span>Baked beans with zucchini (a recipe I concocted in a pinch long ago and, being successful, stayed around). Ina Garten's easy chocolate mousse with macerated strawberries..</span></span></span></span></span></span></i></p><p><i><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></i>Enough for now. Anyway, this post is entitled "Red Shoes", isn't it? So on to that.</p><p>I'm planning for trips, too, but this year domestic. The first will be to see Aunt Sadie in Hershey in a few weeks, and the next soon after to revisit South Texas, where friends and a little business await. As usual, I woke up one morning with that idea, and in an hour or two confirmed arrangements. A little more thought (but not much) went into the third trip, in June, to a photography workshop in Santa Fe. It's called the Haiku of Photography, teaching a different way to focus when I'm pointing my camera phone. (You, readers, will be glad of that.)</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA0nJRwCN7yzvz7HsJRBqImsY60Ieme5p-lYSv-bdogyKFefRvJfpbF_SxB37-RBd6OTueS5AvnXVjwiQ43zGL4gLGr5f5CIJmD0V_4yllzV3IvG7GyBXkY5UWLg7W_mUWjPdbQ7OQMGBMqvwfusRMHtDuL1Uj8g_l2dMZMYJJcfU867NpQ0qD9QFA/s1024/san%20antonio%20spring%20flowers.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="1024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA0nJRwCN7yzvz7HsJRBqImsY60Ieme5p-lYSv-bdogyKFefRvJfpbF_SxB37-RBd6OTueS5AvnXVjwiQ43zGL4gLGr5f5CIJmD0V_4yllzV3IvG7GyBXkY5UWLg7W_mUWjPdbQ7OQMGBMqvwfusRMHtDuL1Uj8g_l2dMZMYJJcfU867NpQ0qD9QFA/s320/san%20antonio%20spring%20flowers.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><i>Oh, San Antonio in April...and Santa Fe in June, </i>I thought. <i>How lovely it will be, wearing light clothes and sandals again. </i>But a glance up the shoe rack made me order a new pair. Red ones, called something more exotic (I forget what, now). They arrived yesterday; I walked around awhile on the bedroom carpet, and liked the feel. So, whatever the lower closet comes up with in the way of spring garments, I'm set.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0gSTrR0_DOkILsr6X_cGxOZ71Az4qUz2alSOVBaD6aSKmEoBF1_LB8dRkQEl1138z8Jh-2ziisNMBeosOYVmSoEVjGc8H_ZzuuR3pAekAlXwjLD8WIzdqBPoUh97vhcKSQGVoKwQKPgXKuvS3TJG8W6whnWqxBt-y6qs_59wd2ixdRvIGia0tlar8/s4000/my%20red%20shoes.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0gSTrR0_DOkILsr6X_cGxOZ71Az4qUz2alSOVBaD6aSKmEoBF1_LB8dRkQEl1138z8Jh-2ziisNMBeosOYVmSoEVjGc8H_ZzuuR3pAekAlXwjLD8WIzdqBPoUh97vhcKSQGVoKwQKPgXKuvS3TJG8W6whnWqxBt-y6qs_59wd2ixdRvIGia0tlar8/s320/my%20red%20shoes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />The thing about red shoes began last September, when packing for that "get out of town" adventure...you remember. I needed a pair of walking shoes that <i>les rues de l'automne </i>in Paris would tolerate, so Mary Ellen and I stepped into SAS in the mall (I'm not a mall-shopper, but we were close by), and there in front of me were these slipons on the right...comfortable, pretty sturdy, and easy to wear. They came in tan and black, too, but why would one go to London and Paris in those dullards? I chose the red.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Nh4YKVncb1QL5Wo00wcQZi09NE0a6S4_Vid95rU2_jFfDzqQny4BdWazs7HRDNlgAwQ61Qd4Hj8UYAWu76jLFgFnevRQvBbc9qBU7HVsehAPumEWCUCiZCxrVcDY9GRUZShvIBnzWC7450m559q1WPL1JuzZ6Z73UPRtL7lKVyyXC1wvr3sgblt_/s3860/closet%20of%20shoes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2208" data-original-width="3860" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Nh4YKVncb1QL5Wo00wcQZi09NE0a6S4_Vid95rU2_jFfDzqQny4BdWazs7HRDNlgAwQ61Qd4Hj8UYAWu76jLFgFnevRQvBbc9qBU7HVsehAPumEWCUCiZCxrVcDY9GRUZShvIBnzWC7450m559q1WPL1JuzZ6Z73UPRtL7lKVyyXC1wvr3sgblt_/s320/closet%20of%20shoes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>I'm not much of a clothes horse or shoe fanatic. Or a shopper. I race through stores (or online) as fast and infrequently as possible. Necessity calls the shots. But a few lucky times, I've run in and found not only the necessary, but the enticing.. Some years ago, I came across a pair of back-strapped Riekers in orange (or <i>apricot</i>, or <i>desert sienna</i>, if you paint); I have worn them to a scuff, but will not part with them. Later, when I saw a pair of Campers in the same color, I knew they were fate. Clearly that orange experience got me from safe neutral to high color.</div><div><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>It may actually have started in my subconscious, this red-shoe thing. I'm calling up a memory of me at four or so, at the shore, leaning into the rails of the stairwell while a movie, <i>The Red Shoes, </i>is playing. My aunt has to take me back up to bed, because, quite frankly, something in the frenetic, despairing dance has frightened me. I didn't remember the story itself, only the emotion; but watching it as an adult, I found the premise scary enough. Nonetheless, here I am, 75 years later, ordering red shoes that take me off somewhere.</p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-5sZGFIUe4H8AhiA4bUziNvMooNV_Hnttxl3g63BvZ0oMxi_OBZBsoyjacOcIxnkB8KDZ7gtLHb3TBrEPz_asMIrzVSlyKrXncDHy_Mua1WydjDsahweNs5cTWUROYtYDPUejqLbcTLy0Pc-IUVrVAoMqlbEmC_d81R8LbZF-PsawhQXFKY9gKSZv/s695/red%20shoelaces.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="695" data-original-width="387" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-5sZGFIUe4H8AhiA4bUziNvMooNV_Hnttxl3g63BvZ0oMxi_OBZBsoyjacOcIxnkB8KDZ7gtLHb3TBrEPz_asMIrzVSlyKrXncDHy_Mua1WydjDsahweNs5cTWUROYtYDPUejqLbcTLy0Pc-IUVrVAoMqlbEmC_d81R8LbZF-PsawhQXFKY9gKSZv/w111-h200/red%20shoelaces.jpg" width="111" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>In fact, I'm wondering why, in London last fall, I didn't buy those black Clark's in red, instead. Though the shoes fit and fit well...they are my everyday staple now...they could use a little pizzazz. Maybe I should buy them a pair of red shoelaces. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Happy Spring, my dear readers. May all your colors be bright and new.</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>_______________________________________________________________________________</i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>*Ah! </i>Here's a sobering turn of mind: On my way to order those shoelaces just now, I discovered that there is another, quite serious, side to Red Shoes, which needs mentioning. One artist, Elina Chauvet, does large international installations of painted red shoes to bring light to violence against women. Can we hope that her work helps the world recognize that abuse and begin firmly to intervene against it? </p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVgv4y_GvZwbOKALDilC3ioXBY__rLvCd-5Pio1wllkpUO2xCknHOrKaT1y5Q7CM-YqH1ZBsCKpim_i7xYvYuO5lhJFYVZ3fKejUgdPt70qxBfV7pIz_r4gXSS2dUkpypV4uO-OHUP82JtBRfSXOIS1qD5pc7IA2CnjAOJSRcWc5EUBBJr-LX0qVK0/s1200/Elina%20Chauvet's%20Red%20Shoes%20in%20Mexico%20City%20square%202020.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVgv4y_GvZwbOKALDilC3ioXBY__rLvCd-5Pio1wllkpUO2xCknHOrKaT1y5Q7CM-YqH1ZBsCKpim_i7xYvYuO5lhJFYVZ3fKejUgdPt70qxBfV7pIz_r4gXSS2dUkpypV4uO-OHUP82JtBRfSXOIS1qD5pc7IA2CnjAOJSRcWc5EUBBJr-LX0qVK0/s320/Elina%20Chauvet's%20Red%20Shoes%20in%20Mexico%20City%20square%202020.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Elena Chauvet, Red Shoes</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i style="text-align: left;">In this installation in a Mexico City Square, the women who have been harmed by the abuse against them and their children are represented by all these shoes, painted like blood...life and death together.</i></div><br /><i><br /></i><p></p><p><br /></p><p><i><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></i></p><p><i><span><span><span> </span><br /></span></span></i></p><p><br /></p></div>Rachel's Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790797302450473117noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8959233989161202970.post-40496650240049713052023-02-15T17:10:00.000-08:002023-02-15T17:10:02.374-08:00A Change in the Weather<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXl6JjMxEax_txddWtTui1rxB2AhADC4rHr8CL9ZUwmjjFxX96Df2T2h6OvcTX1nhvmgSOgphkOvusScTtbmu_ueYQmNay2pKRNavAZmBOhrmTERt8M7Px5AAw-JxClKSXamrxYXLHa2HGBKbhSop802BENtqtWZ0_gj3wzmi-JKCg95el4jGjKkos/s3629/daffodils%20early.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2363" data-original-width="3629" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXl6JjMxEax_txddWtTui1rxB2AhADC4rHr8CL9ZUwmjjFxX96Df2T2h6OvcTX1nhvmgSOgphkOvusScTtbmu_ueYQmNay2pKRNavAZmBOhrmTERt8M7Px5AAw-JxClKSXamrxYXLHa2HGBKbhSop802BENtqtWZ0_gj3wzmi-JKCg95el4jGjKkos/s320/daffodils%20early.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>This spring-like February has had me out in the garden, raking leaves from around whatever plants have survived January's chill, and watching (with cheer and a bit of trepidation) the daffodils blooming here and there around the yard. Just in the last days the quince blossoms, their passionate pink budding on as-yet darkened stems, join them. Earlier this week, I removed some old wooden frames from a once-raised garden, gotten some help transplanting gardenias and other plants with the rich dirt it once girdled, and, after an eager visit to the ag center, seeded wildflowers in the now-flattened site. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOXu-8KNQL8bvg28vWMHxbWgfHGABHZPEk9tpFNGngDAzYjKqNh6_vLiv2wwnE2qMSmcqf9PrCkhgLAWgeZWsBnScjAxkQEzHsUjb29GSWKPEMveyI35OCxx8aUd5tM-l99u20itl3Nqdi8HCkEDQ8RpIRhFQqS45KUnrfouIYQKDCUDZ-heU5Zi10/s3579/wildflower%20garden%20just%20seeded.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3579" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOXu-8KNQL8bvg28vWMHxbWgfHGABHZPEk9tpFNGngDAzYjKqNh6_vLiv2wwnE2qMSmcqf9PrCkhgLAWgeZWsBnScjAxkQEzHsUjb29GSWKPEMveyI35OCxx8aUd5tM-l99u20itl3Nqdi8HCkEDQ8RpIRhFQqS45KUnrfouIYQKDCUDZ-heU5Zi10/s320/wildflower%20garden%20just%20seeded.jpg" width="268" /></a></div><br />When I woke this morning, however, all the energy this spring weather gave me in the past few days seemed only a dream. It took me a while to gather my wits to figure out the day. I dressed in whatever hung nearby, sat for a while, nothing doing or coming to mind, then went out with a broom to clear away some leaves. (It reminded me of my mother, who, when upset or distracted, would take to sweeping.) My sweeping was lackadaisical, at best.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg65FMZ8lCrzCCvzA_nWSr6CWtBmU80tajXgju64T8DWbHlJBlCciSchql8TF4ygoqgVQq8Zr3HhmHvt3HXqd3Q7RkShTFzDKm6baqVBhrVTQgYVsC7aTy7soPB2Gvl-RVAUsx6zW9C5YMT3qi_N88MCWplFtVxPO0RzK9ozAu2npo1Sq1GMXSKD_vg/s4000/broom%20in%20yard.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="2579" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg65FMZ8lCrzCCvzA_nWSr6CWtBmU80tajXgju64T8DWbHlJBlCciSchql8TF4ygoqgVQq8Zr3HhmHvt3HXqd3Q7RkShTFzDKm6baqVBhrVTQgYVsC7aTy7soPB2Gvl-RVAUsx6zW9C5YMT3qi_N88MCWplFtVxPO0RzK9ozAu2npo1Sq1GMXSKD_vg/s320/broom%20in%20yard.jpg" width="206" /></a></div><br />Some broken pots in the ivy, though, reminded me that, rather than throw them away, I'd had an idea to plant a few succulents in them. <i>Okay...now</i> I had something to do: return to the nursery to get what I needed. A destination, a plan.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOGfq77hy22peOGUIH2PwXaOczrdm9VH-KYy6vckfLH4VTLuQTYeEjpOuvul3N3ZngyRCG79OB4NJWvVH5dI6Azo-B9RBKJHTqL5DdO8AcKU4z7W9rEi_pponMZccPh6VMCwYwsonUEDsgKMotwg7wj1QKnw3KoKSxpF2fv47Nl07BlE26KqFoq1K6/s4000/succulents.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOGfq77hy22peOGUIH2PwXaOczrdm9VH-KYy6vckfLH4VTLuQTYeEjpOuvul3N3ZngyRCG79OB4NJWvVH5dI6Azo-B9RBKJHTqL5DdO8AcKU4z7W9rEi_pponMZccPh6VMCwYwsonUEDsgKMotwg7wj1QKnw3KoKSxpF2fv47Nl07BlE26KqFoq1K6/s320/succulents.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />Choosing was easy and quick...three in hand, I headed to the register, where a sweet young woman whose accent marked her as an Australian transplant admired my favorite, one funnily called Hen and Chicks. Yesterday being Valentine's Day, it seemed a perfect reminder of a happy, if harried occasion of children, parents, a meal together, too much chocolate and lots of red cards, some entertaining, some dear.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMHrsvTPusoECadfYcDEaIUS_ArAeVw2hXCfk63U8TSALwGH9C0O1c2D6uusItI5hLd8gyAEmCALt0KWHpfJNfKIc_zEcgZA9JnuDqTdu6O4T1PELmeTk2KTqB_dLZgFX-KQzDTFl_EHh3fzp8zE-IJzIOzH4-stSScBt7GpcFPkkMB1sLraohnrBe/s4000/valentines.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMHrsvTPusoECadfYcDEaIUS_ArAeVw2hXCfk63U8TSALwGH9C0O1c2D6uusItI5hLd8gyAEmCALt0KWHpfJNfKIc_zEcgZA9JnuDqTdu6O4T1PELmeTk2KTqB_dLZgFX-KQzDTFl_EHh3fzp8zE-IJzIOzH4-stSScBt7GpcFPkkMB1sLraohnrBe/s320/valentines.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>On the way out of the nursery, I found myself in front of the UNC Horizons program for child development and maternal support. Theirs is one of the food banks our PORCH community supports, so on a whim, I went in. I found a woman in the front room sorting books on a table in front of a colorful and well-stocked library for children. A few words with her, and another direction opened: I could interview her, and other PORCH banks, and send photos to our neighborhood each month showing how much-needed their monthly bags of donated food and checks are...pictures, as the saying goes, being often more useful than words.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx6WoVZMEOFdL41Fqzixq-NwI11AXb5qalumt5EAjroyoSRGPKYaY7-mYkF4kRwKsr0VAwuVOwoIW3P9sHhJPpxLptjmWGPm8DDJgyzBD_T7YtcpZnyRcg_Fr0mczKCPol8o3CMVYzS9Q72SKlpjWthRRIEmNpm6ZYOv0UGbUUG1F-5cfdxYWgVtZB/s1280/unc%20horizons%20heart%20diversity.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1161" data-original-width="1280" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx6WoVZMEOFdL41Fqzixq-NwI11AXb5qalumt5EAjroyoSRGPKYaY7-mYkF4kRwKsr0VAwuVOwoIW3P9sHhJPpxLptjmWGPm8DDJgyzBD_T7YtcpZnyRcg_Fr0mczKCPol8o3CMVYzS9Q72SKlpjWthRRIEmNpm6ZYOv0UGbUUG1F-5cfdxYWgVtZB/s320/unc%20horizons%20heart%20diversity.png" width="320" /></a></div><br />I drove home wrapped up in these two objectives which had sprung like Athena out of a moody, mind-clouded morning, and then went to work planting the succulents, and making a list of food banks I could contact. I called a friend I hadn't heard from in a while. But slowly, the pale of morning returned, and though usually I'd be in my workroom, pulling together paper, paint, glue, wood, metal...anything in reach...I took a book out to the porch to read instead.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCpIgjWVjJ7uyDW_P9PcOB4QoCUBzH9BdwBunuhc8qIVqjGXgW6-6bUGiaSnzuegdFQIJNkTe3y_ia89hiu4sT6pVr1hOIl8dSdLwJo9nhzNchZjwjfvKD2j3gUm1fX5y2dbPiyKoSpzcRdEEV99jPsvLcC7BBdfiPzlTE3OK0xI9rl4eB54M8s-WM/s4000/book%20abandoned.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCpIgjWVjJ7uyDW_P9PcOB4QoCUBzH9BdwBunuhc8qIVqjGXgW6-6bUGiaSnzuegdFQIJNkTe3y_ia89hiu4sT6pVr1hOIl8dSdLwJo9nhzNchZjwjfvKD2j3gUm1fX5y2dbPiyKoSpzcRdEEV99jPsvLcC7BBdfiPzlTE3OK0xI9rl4eB54M8s-WM/s320/book%20abandoned.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>I'd barely opened it, when a new wind pushed through, changing the temperment of the afternoon. Clouds had drifted across the sun since early morning, but this breeze, shaking the last few holding-on leaves across the yard, brought with it a thickening cover of gray, east to west, north to south. My desultory mood returned for real. The book seemed beside the point, and the clouds weren't even bringing any useful rain. I could have taken a walk in the 67 degree F weather, but nothing spurred that on, either. On my phone, I watched, passive, a movie about a young woman forced to return to China to learn to support herself.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAzr1vEx0vm0el9k5t4t3KQQ1LpGAJrggiCq-4CplJH-4z1o6F1EcsVM4NcpIYEJljlr0gZH7xA4KJmLK1QvWRV4fPARvRUgGkkLMvlsVqudb6IPeCOFfKsyO8tuJU8tVU9BPgEkPIc6JDeSYjBjFu2nhHMSwRFhVoMYkpdseQjbg2VvMOBtERSUnN/s4000/cloud%20cover.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAzr1vEx0vm0el9k5t4t3KQQ1LpGAJrggiCq-4CplJH-4z1o6F1EcsVM4NcpIYEJljlr0gZH7xA4KJmLK1QvWRV4fPARvRUgGkkLMvlsVqudb6IPeCOFfKsyO8tuJU8tVU9BPgEkPIc6JDeSYjBjFu2nhHMSwRFhVoMYkpdseQjbg2VvMOBtERSUnN/s320/cloud%20cover.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />It appears that this change in the weather, as well as my cloudiness of mind, is going to last the rest of the day. Over my long years, though, I've learned, that today's blankness prefaces tomorrow's sharper focus. It isn't unusual to need a day of nothing to support the somethings of more energetic life. Great inventions more often begin in boredom or silence...as it happens, something a group of tech-obsessed middle-schoolers are trying to wrap their heads around this week in their critical thinking class.<div><br /></div><div>As for me and my ennui, I know enough just to wait it out.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9zDYepzat6jalmL6H1HEfxi2jcSkCEqbscuCQXaIKWN1s47NYJPImTq_cS4aIsGUOvR8LEiJKNhfJsykKOHSpPLkk-f1UYuYRW_kteMxlB5XKzcn0Z5chm6ARJWmaSSnbGDl6YcMbu1EQ44DtKQ_xGyINWcTCsiFEv05FadPQceSsCjaqFUDe1EBE/s4000/here%20i%20sit.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9zDYepzat6jalmL6H1HEfxi2jcSkCEqbscuCQXaIKWN1s47NYJPImTq_cS4aIsGUOvR8LEiJKNhfJsykKOHSpPLkk-f1UYuYRW_kteMxlB5XKzcn0Z5chm6ARJWmaSSnbGDl6YcMbu1EQ44DtKQ_xGyINWcTCsiFEv05FadPQceSsCjaqFUDe1EBE/s320/here%20i%20sit.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Postscript:</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">After I closed this, Mary Ellen, emerging from her work upstairs, declared, </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"I need a walk!"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Given all this epistolary grousing, I had to admit that I did, too. So off we went. I took this photo just before the entrance to the Community Park...it reminded me of me, today.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmedGuVxo4RXYcL0DBzXKYawXitR9PM2aTtPrbARFJ1Y_7tUEDrYm0fKdeVD_B1hH0UC105P35nTINzCOaKuYPIO2dHGjad--D7sIMbn0S09ZtNVIwly9q-OLo6gjP6OzjlmR936cZbZbASlbh1vLJzrdrpVbo8aTUHTZ8po2PrDCGbOJCf9v0dstg/s4000/somebody%20lived%20here%20once.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmedGuVxo4RXYcL0DBzXKYawXitR9PM2aTtPrbARFJ1Y_7tUEDrYm0fKdeVD_B1hH0UC105P35nTINzCOaKuYPIO2dHGjad--D7sIMbn0S09ZtNVIwly9q-OLo6gjP6OzjlmR936cZbZbASlbh1vLJzrdrpVbo8aTUHTZ8po2PrDCGbOJCf9v0dstg/s320/somebody%20lived%20here%20once.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>somebody lived here once</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p></div>Rachel's Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790797302450473117noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8959233989161202970.post-889499347396563072023-01-30T15:29:00.000-08:002023-01-30T15:29:45.288-08:00The Real Emily in Paris<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbycU44mOL3e3tNl6Hnidkcs9OCcVaJLaSatgQL-3T7z1BQik3SiUVcAjfA4LdFqkBqVslKpNgs02ItH_7bDiV7BkfPO_pJMbHQgaHHeH0FygFnONikhJHVdcD_V2kaWOK6QQ3FRKbNleRRhV11HsI8GMzT__81CHJW2hSJL9Yf7GKWNw1KnOU1ZrD/s4000/emily%20gaudichon%20at%20morning%20coffee%20in%20paris.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbycU44mOL3e3tNl6Hnidkcs9OCcVaJLaSatgQL-3T7z1BQik3SiUVcAjfA4LdFqkBqVslKpNgs02ItH_7bDiV7BkfPO_pJMbHQgaHHeH0FygFnONikhJHVdcD_V2kaWOK6QQ3FRKbNleRRhV11HsI8GMzT__81CHJW2hSJL9Yf7GKWNw1KnOU1ZrD/s320/emily%20gaudichon%20at%20morning%20coffee%20in%20paris.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><br />When Emily arrives, we go to Pierre Herme, a few blocks away in Beaupassage, a little enclave between <i>les boulevards</i>, for coffee and something sweet to begin my sweet time here. Emily has recently found that she's gluten-sensitive (all those buttery <i>croissants pour petite dejeuner </i>out of range<i>...and she a pastry maker...merde!)</i> , so we have <i>macarons, </i>which Herme is famous for, having once begun his career in the realm of that other famous <i>macaron</i> maker.<div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXdql3FweKwFbj_V3akHLPAXdWKYRCrA9CjfkLQaG7udjYmRgC4Iyeab3JXGnf6YZ0wLlsnDMtpbO6l0Ni3VUEJNs6W7AVEZkiUneJodpu17pDKdfqM5OEdcYOQkzkDiWBCHW53UUYZICXIOIED_pQkPFxsrJOPaUohNPqm_xFfYV99zQ9WpxKR6lf/s246/pierre%20herme%20macarons%20pistache.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="205" data-original-width="246" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXdql3FweKwFbj_V3akHLPAXdWKYRCrA9CjfkLQaG7udjYmRgC4Iyeab3JXGnf6YZ0wLlsnDMtpbO6l0Ni3VUEJNs6W7AVEZkiUneJodpu17pDKdfqM5OEdcYOQkzkDiWBCHW53UUYZICXIOIED_pQkPFxsrJOPaUohNPqm_xFfYV99zQ9WpxKR6lf/s1600/pierre%20herme%20macarons%20pistache.jpg" width="246" /></a></div><p></p><p>I like Emily right away...she is open, and funny, and great company...very knowledgeable about her adopted country and life, which she clearly enjoys, but isn't afraid to mention the downsides of (no beach, for one). We exchange stories, and though I know a lot about her life from her entertaining blogs and instagram photos, there is so much more in person. The coffee is good and most welcome, and my favorite <i>macaron</i> turns out to be <i>pistache. Mmmm.</i></p><p>Soon, we taxi over to the <i>brocante</i>, since early is best. She remarks on everything we pass on the way, a few I recognize, but mostly I am busy learning its history. She's made herself quite at home here during her native Australian and London school days, not only settling in to rear a family of her own, in a language and country she's had to learn from scratch, but now with her new citizenship, calling <i>la ville</i> her own, as well. (If you don't know her blog, find that pleasure at [<a href="http://therealemilyinparis.substack.com">therealemilyinparis.substack.com</a>]...she's on Instagram, too.)</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjreMQPDPTXA8AUv3f8Ny-i30oboeK6GZI3W0dsakrOcFzLPWSvqsgtG_fIszIcDk2vgHq5sNDLvtgzwSQJFG4AbFg7jlUI4pno7j3Zp9woWlt2Wo6T6jYLVP3jMnAXZhB4IfXWuGel30ENZarP_eJRZJZgd4RcK7FIYeXseRiOhgkfQ7qeTK526wu4/s4000/brocante%20second%20photo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjreMQPDPTXA8AUv3f8Ny-i30oboeK6GZI3W0dsakrOcFzLPWSvqsgtG_fIszIcDk2vgHq5sNDLvtgzwSQJFG4AbFg7jlUI4pno7j3Zp9woWlt2Wo6T6jYLVP3jMnAXZhB4IfXWuGel30ENZarP_eJRZJZgd4RcK7FIYeXseRiOhgkfQ7qeTK526wu4/s320/brocante%20second%20photo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHpYymxvPKNCq3kLmVzyBf4uM4DdDCKvP-xkbMZG3p_8AC2OkRKdgHEVIlmNyZa8WyPdeTpxgGVtk12dreNMyJd6YJ5Yz9RubRWSVy2wuZQEm-DgtBQmtUCFr4j4CSUYScgVo3hfGhi5EgsuLbQy2irUT0NVQcUHinSNnnaP18S9OeVZ-tM0FNwwqc/s4000/brocante%20third%20photo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHpYymxvPKNCq3kLmVzyBf4uM4DdDCKvP-xkbMZG3p_8AC2OkRKdgHEVIlmNyZa8WyPdeTpxgGVtk12dreNMyJd6YJ5Yz9RubRWSVy2wuZQEm-DgtBQmtUCFr4j4CSUYScgVo3hfGhi5EgsuLbQy2irUT0NVQcUHinSNnnaP18S9OeVZ-tM0FNwwqc/s320/brocante%20third%20photo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>The <i>brocante </i>goes on for blocks,<i> </i>and Emily is a market devotee, my kind of companion. Street to street, tent to tent, we dawdle, and pick up a few treasures along the way. For better or worse, I have brought on this trip only a small suitcase (I pack light) and so there is no way I can buy up the beautiful French dinnerware, ceramics, and linens I am eager to exchange, or more likely add to, the sets I already own. (I'm afraid those are my weakness...I love setting a fine table with stuff that absolutely no one else in my own or the younger generation wants to fool with any more.) But I find a lovely botanical print that looks exactly like my sister Ann's spirit, a blue ceramic vase (small, which sadly breaks on the way home), and a wonderful metal bracelet...I know whose gift this last will be. There are some old wooden tools and sculptures we also admire. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwxTtJJ3A3hZ2WCYp4AouKGPQp0isocN3Z6jR1EoVHPfJxLORel0PvlZcAPYoujZ1y_jfi1GpcC37OuwrL1uxc_7k46wZGBijegOp2xAVH6Mjk1Fajpg0cj7NCVFci6r2BHRhUgnCWoKpWIw6ZFCduZq-Eg72ZbEwzhMBzgTuUaVtj3XK5edvwhZOe/s3908/18th%20c%20barometer%20for%20emily%20from%20carnavalet.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3908" data-original-width="1931" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwxTtJJ3A3hZ2WCYp4AouKGPQp0isocN3Z6jR1EoVHPfJxLORel0PvlZcAPYoujZ1y_jfi1GpcC37OuwrL1uxc_7k46wZGBijegOp2xAVH6Mjk1Fajpg0cj7NCVFci6r2BHRhUgnCWoKpWIw6ZFCduZq-Eg72ZbEwzhMBzgTuUaVtj3XK5edvwhZOe/s320/18th%20c%20barometer%20for%20emily%20from%20carnavalet.jpg" width="158" /></a></div><p></p><p>One of the things Emily is looking for is a handsome barometer, preferably from the 18th century, we joke (later, I email her a photo of one from the Carnavalet, but alas they don't sell them in the gift shop). Then, nearing the end, we find a rug that she has seen in a market before; she loved it, but once again has to leave it behind...it's way more than a mortgage payment, and her husband (who works in finance) shouldn't know about even the wish for it.</p><p>Then, too soon, the adventure comes to an end. "I'm sorry we have to part just now!" she tells me, ruefully. But she needs to get home to gather her children and head out of the city to her inlaw's, where Emily's two oldest will stay with their grandparents for a week; the littlest one will be home...she's just barely a toddler...and work will happen around her. (Do you remember those shuffling work days?) All that because...</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVpfFLlGYIlAYKcg-YdNBIBwQXDO-7YAt6VhfXpwku2BLG0dpcQhkjf3IDUPh35Zlub1rFHMOiM7cVUq29RnIuHpiX21hdZjFqeaFS9wesfFm5X12YtmJqqxe_zuvACCkG6ELtNZcqeyzcQykQX0TumqxU2vvKttBqgW07w9IC4KvdRtziGwz2fAqM/s1906/children%20in%20the%20parcs%202%20paris.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1906" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVpfFLlGYIlAYKcg-YdNBIBwQXDO-7YAt6VhfXpwku2BLG0dpcQhkjf3IDUPh35Zlub1rFHMOiM7cVUq29RnIuHpiX21hdZjFqeaFS9wesfFm5X12YtmJqqxe_zuvACCkG6ELtNZcqeyzcQykQX0TumqxU2vvKttBqgW07w9IC4KvdRtziGwz2fAqM/s320/children%20in%20the%20parcs%202%20paris.jpg" width="161" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXyBTgMAVbLd8oGVVR142JeLeVnj0SCtmVT9LQ8IByXGtadOUGM_vZMWiY7eRN5Ig65buKWPTZ_fwLPvKUTSz1Eg-FD0F2ZumzsFltHQ2uA2O_RWHQY_11qEv6XeiAGLa6SBtfX1nQy04_fHljl9z7l8HwnGM4DukGnAKsQn70RJXkulwQPzkIkqw3/s4000/children%20in%20the%20parcs%20paris.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXyBTgMAVbLd8oGVVR142JeLeVnj0SCtmVT9LQ8IByXGtadOUGM_vZMWiY7eRN5Ig65buKWPTZ_fwLPvKUTSz1Eg-FD0F2ZumzsFltHQ2uA2O_RWHQY_11qEv6XeiAGLa6SBtfX1nQy04_fHljl9z7l8HwnGM4DukGnAKsQn70RJXkulwQPzkIkqw3/s320/children%20in%20the%20parcs%20paris.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmXTzkzCtJr57eCDQDPozCyaVcBQNp4WsKEGqEIekjttA0x6rOKiK5oBrKpXSHPZZSNcERPK4SYgubc5wwO4E0IWmjvtNPdnfKs67940NYsueHmyoWI4kAknWHnHGuDzDV7-ehbRP6LNXqN1BrrAhUHME9tXg5fOYwTToAV-G4XHcfK1-4G2DBz8Su/s2918/families%20in%20the%20parcs%20paris.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2918" data-original-width="2515" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmXTzkzCtJr57eCDQDPozCyaVcBQNp4WsKEGqEIekjttA0x6rOKiK5oBrKpXSHPZZSNcERPK4SYgubc5wwO4E0IWmjvtNPdnfKs67940NYsueHmyoWI4kAknWHnHGuDzDV7-ehbRP6LNXqN1BrrAhUHME9tXg5fOYwTToAV-G4XHcfK1-4G2DBz8Su/s320/families%20in%20the%20parcs%20paris.jpg" width="276" /></a></div><br /><p>...did I mention that, unawares, I had scheduled my trip during school holidays in Europe and the UK? </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7WZL8--KI73DPLpcY-bH9xBQRnrQNMeKVfCxM36ClNFYOcrqMnxdwucVWUSIXdb5_yoeuEgv9zyOsPHEUbkqNqw7IkCEqipsttc6p2R0K270ZRMOHbQzyKJ1UVskwezDcKWsL5G_3LDSCInGVk3cR9Znqr28pMOQAi675xa8S2uAt44JNAJ7C4_RD/s4000/little%20girl%20playing%20ball%20in%20the%20tuilleries.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7WZL8--KI73DPLpcY-bH9xBQRnrQNMeKVfCxM36ClNFYOcrqMnxdwucVWUSIXdb5_yoeuEgv9zyOsPHEUbkqNqw7IkCEqipsttc6p2R0K270ZRMOHbQzyKJ1UVskwezDcKWsL5G_3LDSCInGVk3cR9Znqr28pMOQAi675xa8S2uAt44JNAJ7C4_RD/s320/little%20girl%20playing%20ball%20in%20the%20tuilleries.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>We ride back to Ste. Germaine, our neighborhood-in-common, and I face the rest of the day first by heading to the my Parc Luxembourg, where I begin my eleven days of walking and walking...and sitting for a while, coffee or tea in hand, sometimes my knitting. It's Paris, and everyone and their children, out of school, out of country, are strolling, talking, running, playing, standing in line for the Louvre and other sites popular, populus, poplar (the word takes on multitudes of meaning this week). There is plenty to see and listen to. I breathe it all in and find other places to see and enjoy that most ignore.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilTwLOLnYIKLEDTrTEKk9zcsVdE77BoTDM058OfWJgJkF-i9Ht5yhzhItn_Sv_KpHpz2BI2HdvnE8NCTH0v4mqtXgm_3doQSYEP_Y44YV_lUQx-6G_wpnxVFOlvbZASaKgLFNW_CIYTgbZF1GS-wdQJMdMHNX8Yet3T0S3wyl3n-uqbRl9Qt0v5ls9/s4000/tourist%20line%20into%20l'orangerie.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilTwLOLnYIKLEDTrTEKk9zcsVdE77BoTDM058OfWJgJkF-i9Ht5yhzhItn_Sv_KpHpz2BI2HdvnE8NCTH0v4mqtXgm_3doQSYEP_Y44YV_lUQx-6G_wpnxVFOlvbZASaKgLFNW_CIYTgbZF1GS-wdQJMdMHNX8Yet3T0S3wyl3n-uqbRl9Qt0v5ls9/s320/tourist%20line%20into%20l'orangerie.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>At the Museum of Modern Art, there is not only the high, room-rounding Dufy mural of the birth and history of Paris, but the Albers (Josef and Anni, the latter I am meeting for the first time, to my delight) and a long film of their lives which is captivating. Their contemporary collection in that wide white set of rooms dazzles me.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_nODOn7Wb3ptIGhtF_Ylhe2gDpAL7x_UjLEW6CjqKVFDD6Fi8Zn5fLJxXAaQwVio90DbeNFxDtTuMddi3wvnm6y492xz2PFRUH7TrFUeQRS6BciD3D68vixSN0XJ6iQkc6dgZkGToIVTt0zW_sfucgSqf5OcJe0uR1y11VByT6Zt-h2L2Awuq_YAs/s3568/annie%20albers%20at%20the%20Musee%20moderne%20in%20paris.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2703" data-original-width="3568" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_nODOn7Wb3ptIGhtF_Ylhe2gDpAL7x_UjLEW6CjqKVFDD6Fi8Zn5fLJxXAaQwVio90DbeNFxDtTuMddi3wvnm6y492xz2PFRUH7TrFUeQRS6BciD3D68vixSN0XJ6iQkc6dgZkGToIVTt0zW_sfucgSqf5OcJe0uR1y11VByT6Zt-h2L2Awuq_YAs/s320/annie%20albers%20at%20the%20Musee%20moderne%20in%20paris.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAe00bP8i3EQU4vBUlctoMWi8EvXGw2jQbQD95RYtfiXka8Uwl7HFmA-FT214oulxFxEUMV8MqKIvjxS5Y9mNO32sIxB5ySGoQN4uRPibcff_oDwmanL-p3dlMWv3GVK7cOdUaUUkmxI3vny01eM3QzcGvOQZR2sw0_BL8cO2eETKby_Tt-_5-uM8b/s4000/anni%20albers%20textiles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAe00bP8i3EQU4vBUlctoMWi8EvXGw2jQbQD95RYtfiXka8Uwl7HFmA-FT214oulxFxEUMV8MqKIvjxS5Y9mNO32sIxB5ySGoQN4uRPibcff_oDwmanL-p3dlMWv3GVK7cOdUaUUkmxI3vny01eM3QzcGvOQZR2sw0_BL8cO2eETKby_Tt-_5-uM8b/s320/anni%20albers%20textiles.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div> Now that it's open again, I rush to the Carnavalet to their fascinating exhibits on the city and its historical treasures, including some stories. I go on to the Picassos and his <i>fille</i> at the Picasso Museum National, and twice at least I relax in the lovely gardens of the Rodin, when most people are inside the museum (I've seen those exhibits already, at least twice), because to me it's just another introverted park I seem always to be on my way past. One day, inattention where I'm turning brings me to a Museum of Latin American Art, quite a find for both photography and three-dimensional art of the sort I like...copper twisted on canvas and twirled into figures.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjht-SpUU7HLuwUkbtdBBvy6fdOE0962PmlBdkY7pGh9dqAWZ1qfbgSMn1y5VQoMErafeA8mg2JkGnTbBx83dvqc9kHgCwNgVFFGE4mkrsKh70QNHIgDZgUhlUhpPjE5cKTLfJnbmkauF5uVBqInsxpJSE01sxtoo3BqCOZ4LiUK32LFET5QlZiowc8/s3000/Carnavalet%20exhibit.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="2774" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjht-SpUU7HLuwUkbtdBBvy6fdOE0962PmlBdkY7pGh9dqAWZ1qfbgSMn1y5VQoMErafeA8mg2JkGnTbBx83dvqc9kHgCwNgVFFGE4mkrsKh70QNHIgDZgUhlUhpPjE5cKTLfJnbmkauF5uVBqInsxpJSE01sxtoo3BqCOZ4LiUK32LFET5QlZiowc8/s320/Carnavalet%20exhibit.jpg" width="296" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCFWOIS1tK1dMjVjgo-xkp-6x8nhyKXi4ZEzK5Jz4xXnmf1w3Z-v1-nwP1CUo0-qf0xyutT5IpGoE9tzBfCIYbH4jUF-5xKpCRlDFjZpwCyBHTiFfoXhVuCloNX4CdmtgR7sS1wOw3RzCGmpZUCpqssjnmfLN82F6IymY0FvaFeqc9sYs8nq66Aa9a/s4000/picasso%20museum.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCFWOIS1tK1dMjVjgo-xkp-6x8nhyKXi4ZEzK5Jz4xXnmf1w3Z-v1-nwP1CUo0-qf0xyutT5IpGoE9tzBfCIYbH4jUF-5xKpCRlDFjZpwCyBHTiFfoXhVuCloNX4CdmtgR7sS1wOw3RzCGmpZUCpqssjnmfLN82F6IymY0FvaFeqc9sYs8nq66Aa9a/s320/picasso%20museum.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijGXmvLFZDEqBi_d4suXr-YjLCRqOJNDlCt6CtIlYHb591qYyHqLAty-ZcwBS-lYlbsXSAql6_bSHrS_z6UEPgVWAoOByOdlJ7sNqRaX91llNWLQLUNiY0B_2LyZDR84gCQ-SE-dFkE9P6HZoMq0W60i7UC6XQf74D7Mza86E5OuVxpZpmsXJnuIPC/s4000/latin%20american%20museum%20paris%20photo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijGXmvLFZDEqBi_d4suXr-YjLCRqOJNDlCt6CtIlYHb591qYyHqLAty-ZcwBS-lYlbsXSAql6_bSHrS_z6UEPgVWAoOByOdlJ7sNqRaX91llNWLQLUNiY0B_2LyZDR84gCQ-SE-dFkE9P6HZoMq0W60i7UC6XQf74D7Mza86E5OuVxpZpmsXJnuIPC/s320/latin%20american%20museum%20paris%20photo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1hSZwgsw70J40QCvoF6LMPaTFOyyfT2tbLnnv3b6d9Kip199X0u3FsO2ohmg925BQqXnNDEJlD-y5Rrxerv9peVQAfSwqmkjW3E0luypytjDgu73-8Dj4tPzJ_N3b9DJQ6gr0VNHGNQqY5QZ3U-5JCVumqDqTxpqlsLT-LW3O4Rgj1dHlpuRwgJC6/s4000/inspiration%20in%20the%20latin%20american%20museum%20in%20paris.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1hSZwgsw70J40QCvoF6LMPaTFOyyfT2tbLnnv3b6d9Kip199X0u3FsO2ohmg925BQqXnNDEJlD-y5Rrxerv9peVQAfSwqmkjW3E0luypytjDgu73-8Dj4tPzJ_N3b9DJQ6gr0VNHGNQqY5QZ3U-5JCVumqDqTxpqlsLT-LW3O4Rgj1dHlpuRwgJC6/s320/inspiration%20in%20the%20latin%20american%20museum%20in%20paris.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEienZ7wydHYwZapb0NGeoENc4s57ND8udVft9Zuq9BcCFxJpklLKPn_QosQo3dDBBOUe8TldcKaiv2aj3QNgp7Q1Gyq1_M3OgN4ncmRbcmPpeUAPcSxLf1RXI4f2WzPH0Z92_xeYjYUPxGIbFqstY5rLcgmh_Ab8YgkV6uUdVJQUxNMTQcBoPkFOhaa/s3724/rodin%20garden%20with%20thinker%20in%20background.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2464" data-original-width="3724" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEienZ7wydHYwZapb0NGeoENc4s57ND8udVft9Zuq9BcCFxJpklLKPn_QosQo3dDBBOUe8TldcKaiv2aj3QNgp7Q1Gyq1_M3OgN4ncmRbcmPpeUAPcSxLf1RXI4f2WzPH0Z92_xeYjYUPxGIbFqstY5rLcgmh_Ab8YgkV6uUdVJQUxNMTQcBoPkFOhaa/s320/rodin%20garden%20with%20thinker%20in%20background.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjPPKXNFRWo1LNU-yBlU142eJkReyU-qVxxBynTgOw2Q6iwPiu2FxPE0zpTi_Tti1IPKAKLLHTbQCZsO5oTIG2AaNzqvic84lPVDEhTws3vWEgB-8mGUEBmX_wf00p0y_7y0GhX0Ay2vgcB49Yw9AQpU0SsiXu6ITyPYTnBwjP81pPYNkFb5eFSjii/s4000/Rodin%20garden%20late%20hydrangea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjPPKXNFRWo1LNU-yBlU142eJkReyU-qVxxBynTgOw2Q6iwPiu2FxPE0zpTi_Tti1IPKAKLLHTbQCZsO5oTIG2AaNzqvic84lPVDEhTws3vWEgB-8mGUEBmX_wf00p0y_7y0GhX0Ay2vgcB49Yw9AQpU0SsiXu6ITyPYTnBwjP81pPYNkFb5eFSjii/s320/Rodin%20garden%20late%20hydrangea.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Les Invalides, just up from the Rodin, draws me, too, with a few roses still in bloom and the military clipped shrubs and trees upright as those who once manned the lines of cannon in its courtyard, now so silent and still, in contrast to the Navy guards in their makeshift tent checking us at the entry. I am surprised that I understand so much. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhruwveCdwlKyqiAVe2P3AqtlhbIc60cmAS8W5RUE_s_15I8xsbtnErcrk36oTgIBcoH8d33qgK5rwrBbPOuVoijqfvx1Mv8h_E9nxP3lWoo50_9dOqTwOKkmFxbtnEZQ_trnvw0uiJp_O0GdkVQ609CwRZ1h3EyfZ5BO2Bfmn8PzuFUhWDs2bseRjW/s3515/les%20invalides.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3515" data-original-width="2805" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhruwveCdwlKyqiAVe2P3AqtlhbIc60cmAS8W5RUE_s_15I8xsbtnErcrk36oTgIBcoH8d33qgK5rwrBbPOuVoijqfvx1Mv8h_E9nxP3lWoo50_9dOqTwOKkmFxbtnEZQ_trnvw0uiJp_O0GdkVQ609CwRZ1h3EyfZ5BO2Bfmn8PzuFUhWDs2bseRjW/s320/les%20invalides.jpg" width="255" /></a></div><br /><p>From there, as I do often, I walk out over the Pont Alexandre III, its gold flagrantly regal in all weathers. I send my Alexander a postcard.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifOOE6uoVuDmlGaS-I05Mdr36suh0tB9jQ6YlPy2zFwNMFQ2eaIT-LirgwgdbLdP5pPYcKGO9zXhp0MeBMxRmd6TBtZYS89ZVXLzMMgWEPDufQ1vtesWqaDolhAfheHBhZoj7DKFjsESgWylQ7tsopg-MBNd4g5Eb2apgAiG2t_bSGRpVThtPFw_Cw/s2974/pont%20alexandre%20III.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2974" data-original-width="2754" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifOOE6uoVuDmlGaS-I05Mdr36suh0tB9jQ6YlPy2zFwNMFQ2eaIT-LirgwgdbLdP5pPYcKGO9zXhp0MeBMxRmd6TBtZYS89ZVXLzMMgWEPDufQ1vtesWqaDolhAfheHBhZoj7DKFjsESgWylQ7tsopg-MBNd4g5Eb2apgAiG2t_bSGRpVThtPFw_Cw/s320/pont%20alexandre%20III.jpg" width="296" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Sadly the Palaces, Petit and Grand, are closed for renovation...there's a lot of that going on here...</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9oZePUsXbQPQp1KAUVeHuJ074yGIyb3O3v7JqFf2U7w8HFms5-0Or2lHXLzsKBBFTTysXeDThggIS39gy-o0tYFrTy1nUTtGSDQqqh-aJG6akvQFx0N62zHu3bPDmmJKonViQ52V_wAfgn0byor0zrrhk_CnUDOxZlGTiGhBYekzn1uowjecV7rWd/s4000/renovations%20everywhere.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9oZePUsXbQPQp1KAUVeHuJ074yGIyb3O3v7JqFf2U7w8HFms5-0Or2lHXLzsKBBFTTysXeDThggIS39gy-o0tYFrTy1nUTtGSDQqqh-aJG6akvQFx0N62zHu3bPDmmJKonViQ52V_wAfgn0byor0zrrhk_CnUDOxZlGTiGhBYekzn1uowjecV7rWd/s320/renovations%20everywhere.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhluMCtlVFeLG4SCDlyu4vl4xCezWJeCrXjoGvDMFc76WuXUnXAXdPgtwFw9fX8XLeeXxOOTk73C52LEePMJoC3HH91fLy_2Sp7lgzb6HSFFic2LM6MPV7OgU8xtw1UK1G4eWVFY7RJ2K2jdVgurFSmDLB-T1v0WkV6L4AdmSuv0oyFYTNWkt1BSBqg/s4000/reno%202%20paris.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhluMCtlVFeLG4SCDlyu4vl4xCezWJeCrXjoGvDMFc76WuXUnXAXdPgtwFw9fX8XLeeXxOOTk73C52LEePMJoC3HH91fLy_2Sp7lgzb6HSFFic2LM6MPV7OgU8xtw1UK1G4eWVFY7RJ2K2jdVgurFSmDLB-T1v0WkV6L4AdmSuv0oyFYTNWkt1BSBqg/s320/reno%202%20paris.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>...I find myself at the foot of the Champs Elysees, where usually I have absolutely no interest in walking; it's lined with shops and restaurants you can find in any large city, for once thing, and is crowded with those who a) like shopping and b) like being seen to be shopping. But there is plenty of people-comedy. The line to Louis Vuitton curls around the shop with the most unlikely "buyers".</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUyUt5EkVX9Br6lexi6SZuMJxK5vjtAp-bpzE0coptT-ZkhCxecBNz4Iw687CYYugxDwpEPkeFHTdvqnpAtCd-S49DSoDICuWxPB71Sp5NmnkXXcAxXOhu8CMIIWJZSgWaiHiM5FBEB-q6RXGgbjIxGasLjP_84Zyr7cQldWfAZh97ExnhqJODF3m0/s4000/Louis%20vuitton%20window.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUyUt5EkVX9Br6lexi6SZuMJxK5vjtAp-bpzE0coptT-ZkhCxecBNz4Iw687CYYugxDwpEPkeFHTdvqnpAtCd-S49DSoDICuWxPB71Sp5NmnkXXcAxXOhu8CMIIWJZSgWaiHiM5FBEB-q6RXGgbjIxGasLjP_84Zyr7cQldWfAZh97ExnhqJODF3m0/s320/Louis%20vuitton%20window.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVSmCdbPXc2S7vJBO9vO_sPcYsIx85BjFN9ElZZeCxJLc447cNise4UBBHFNPYemTQYlXoVhd4EgmJ5gchnFzn9-AYDwv9WF7f7RNOrJ1IqBgY4RYZBKMEPMOo0GSZpLfUjjOaSONrzxJCQLi_bD8OdVV0WSkh5OJuiK6jnDza-tHnP0_FMM0k_8RL/s4000/louis%20vuitton%20line%20of%20visitors%20better.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVSmCdbPXc2S7vJBO9vO_sPcYsIx85BjFN9ElZZeCxJLc447cNise4UBBHFNPYemTQYlXoVhd4EgmJ5gchnFzn9-AYDwv9WF7f7RNOrJ1IqBgY4RYZBKMEPMOo0GSZpLfUjjOaSONrzxJCQLi_bD8OdVV0WSkh5OJuiK6jnDza-tHnP0_FMM0k_8RL/s320/louis%20vuitton%20line%20of%20visitors%20better.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>Around the Vuitton corner and back toward the river past the George V, a woman glides from the door of the hotel, dressed in the shoes, slacks and pony tale of everyone in her chic set, and passes without blinking at the shiny restored coupes parked at the doors. I follow her, amused; I am going the same way, anyway.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivIcdVfNS_ORZ7XsWfImKamTs4U7QnHggI4ba3MI8yeNElC7z925sMEv8k6hSKr2bwIzK5qgscWh_Tl4rVhVeGBOWB8UmljOb-T2Orr9uKLDiAPQ32IHRVYkeqlvxnVFheVn2Eyn4rnHXC9WV83v1W6N1X7iflipyqIh99RmyG7ihiDqjjxT36BeiV/s662/pistacherie%20deli%20paris.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="482" data-original-width="662" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivIcdVfNS_ORZ7XsWfImKamTs4U7QnHggI4ba3MI8yeNElC7z925sMEv8k6hSKr2bwIzK5qgscWh_Tl4rVhVeGBOWB8UmljOb-T2Orr9uKLDiAPQ32IHRVYkeqlvxnVFheVn2Eyn4rnHXC9WV83v1W6N1X7iflipyqIh99RmyG7ihiDqjjxT36BeiV/s320/pistacherie%20deli%20paris.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Pistache, oh tempting "deli", corners me. Fortunately, it's closed.</p><p>And so it goes, each day a different or a same direction, each morning an intention which may or may not be abandoned for a better one after my cafe and...</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikFRWtWJnUNA-0MehvdWm1-f1g1sSVQE1elhVh0znsTl2hV0y0wI9qXj6ZNgs0Oq-fVAn3yBlN0L0GfeR2qUxVFII29Buoy5gNH_J4zBUtfn2EE4oFlusgkE2igFzH9Vg_33r4boOPM1ZnTKgSRCzCz-Qm1cUGQE_9Z8fVq9y6asU4xEnOdLtdACgk/s4000/cafe%20and%20croissant%20cafe%20varenne.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikFRWtWJnUNA-0MehvdWm1-f1g1sSVQE1elhVh0znsTl2hV0y0wI9qXj6ZNgs0Oq-fVAn3yBlN0L0GfeR2qUxVFII29Buoy5gNH_J4zBUtfn2EE4oFlusgkE2igFzH9Vg_33r4boOPM1ZnTKgSRCzCz-Qm1cUGQE_9Z8fVq9y6asU4xEnOdLtdACgk/s320/cafe%20and%20croissant%20cafe%20varenne.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisd5FX9YOxSc-16r799nA30bWnypIaMmS4K0D62xXkuGjn6PKoEM6L9nj3DDrOO0s3MnfEwsI6IApQIyteAS4adh2V_duNM361DkalNyY0nyEHSkm0Xl6FLVxmkyGSoZ1KB-wnmB4hWGqh3Qly99v92Eu06GX3zG_-Syf8_xDHYOEokwFWITZJcsNJ/s3330/Deux%20madames.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3330" data-original-width="2558" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisd5FX9YOxSc-16r799nA30bWnypIaMmS4K0D62xXkuGjn6PKoEM6L9nj3DDrOO0s3MnfEwsI6IApQIyteAS4adh2V_duNM361DkalNyY0nyEHSkm0Xl6FLVxmkyGSoZ1KB-wnmB4hWGqh3Qly99v92Eu06GX3zG_-Syf8_xDHYOEokwFWITZJcsNJ/s320/Deux%20madames.jpg" width="246" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Though the Varenne and the Deux Madames are my favorite morning spots,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYJn8Roip6w2TTiLdBNkRHGPzjVg4_TeqvaWwFJnWox6sph_32z3O4jHCr5KvHdIbbHoELNRyqwVedNPYEQNQ9gkXc5EUjiqAfV_XVj1gfUuJj4tCNHRuntcdsLc_5sZYj6UMBLP2q-YxZeBbbKyrd_J1bLQmmtft-PTkH9BVRh7m9HnXIApaDwCj7/s4000/cafe%20in%20paris.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYJn8Roip6w2TTiLdBNkRHGPzjVg4_TeqvaWwFJnWox6sph_32z3O4jHCr5KvHdIbbHoELNRyqwVedNPYEQNQ9gkXc5EUjiqAfV_XVj1gfUuJj4tCNHRuntcdsLc_5sZYj6UMBLP2q-YxZeBbbKyrd_J1bLQmmtft-PTkH9BVRh7m9HnXIApaDwCj7/s320/cafe%20in%20paris.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">I mostly try a new restaurant or cafe wherever I find myself. I return to my first, the Botaniste, for dinner a second night, where fortuitously I meet two women, friends, from Mobile, Alabama and England respectively, and spend a lingering time in conversation (enjoying more wine). The British woman gives me her card for "next time you visit London".</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht8FQM-T5Qb5iKeuHkEXZ5DYPU8SnSppO7UEWWsWpOS57iHExK6ckplicb-GIkqyXyCTwVi9A4r1_U-_BM3mIrfmWYE8K1Mnj7D2J1JUQllmiO3yOZ1BNvaSz1m69IxD7PD3zrlme7rEmWfLejk4EQUTjiw_dRhfzDlOJh_sO5s8WhJxVphKK5ZAMp/s4000/les%20fous%20de%20l'ile%20inside%20restaurant.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht8FQM-T5Qb5iKeuHkEXZ5DYPU8SnSppO7UEWWsWpOS57iHExK6ckplicb-GIkqyXyCTwVi9A4r1_U-_BM3mIrfmWYE8K1Mnj7D2J1JUQllmiO3yOZ1BNvaSz1m69IxD7PD3zrlme7rEmWfLejk4EQUTjiw_dRhfzDlOJh_sO5s8WhJxVphKK5ZAMp/s320/les%20fous%20de%20l'ile%20inside%20restaurant.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p> I show up twice also at Les Fous de L'ile for brunch, where the fish and egg dishes are superb and the interior pleasant. And so is the wine, which is a light but flavorful white from the Loire Valley, as annotated by my server who is also the manager and who remembers me from the last visit. (Will took me there on my first trip to Paris, and I haven't forgotten them, either.) It's also an easy restaurant for the middle of the day...walking in from or out into any direction, there always a new way, intended or not, to go. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjNh4g0gow_Qixaqkt-Cm4XF6foT9o3PgdhC7BOr3ZEZhJ43d3qNkT8FDCWGmrliWKKfU_1uWDgIC8zfa0ax5z8xDUY89V6m91PeqJXdxqFlVNxgYPJ_k-T6HfFS3AaEMIk5ZIo8alxMoaYsFAPGCB4Z_dry8qFsjxYxHNl3mugqH6hGBv_PZFJ7st/s4000/Eiffel%20tower%20on%20way%20to%20American%20library.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjNh4g0gow_Qixaqkt-Cm4XF6foT9o3PgdhC7BOr3ZEZhJ43d3qNkT8FDCWGmrliWKKfU_1uWDgIC8zfa0ax5z8xDUY89V6m91PeqJXdxqFlVNxgYPJ_k-T6HfFS3AaEMIk5ZIo8alxMoaYsFAPGCB4Z_dry8qFsjxYxHNl3mugqH6hGBv_PZFJ7st/s320/Eiffel%20tower%20on%20way%20to%20American%20library.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />One night I walk from the hotel, the Eiffel Tower lit and growing higher and more grand the closer I come to the American Library in Paris, to hear a talk on women and economics. </div><div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim8AQzTtXCU7gt8Ypg57sn3bFnTJTtg2W081TZxAvwfODE9inHvZZ0jhBXDmJ2z2w10_BV9eC9J5Za_eNjt-nFBxuju761zSNHPkbpTL_zttp_dX3yh0S3YcwF-669iK6FEX9aTBnvqp3GYNnBUvpBy41tn0KCOTaefocKEHCrrT7sRgZ-7XJdjBjA/s4000/american%20library%20in%20paris%20bookstand.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim8AQzTtXCU7gt8Ypg57sn3bFnTJTtg2W081TZxAvwfODE9inHvZZ0jhBXDmJ2z2w10_BV9eC9J5Za_eNjt-nFBxuju761zSNHPkbpTL_zttp_dX3yh0S3YcwF-669iK6FEX9aTBnvqp3GYNnBUvpBy41tn0KCOTaefocKEHCrrT7sRgZ-7XJdjBjA/s320/american%20library%20in%20paris%20bookstand.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>Alas, France's version of the finacial resources for women are quite different than ours...theirs being better in everyday ways for women and families...child care, parental leave, schools, personal career advancement...but not so in the echelons of the economic heirarchy, where because there are few women at the tables where men forecast and manage the theories of economy, perspectives and actions don't consider us who buy groceries, struggle with day care, and try to make a reasonable living, still invisible to their charts.</p><p></p><p>The library itself, however entrances me. I vow to go back, just to stay and read or look at the exhibits of what that institution was and how it has survived (and, no mean feat, helped others survive). There are novels about that, but being here is much more educational and inspirational. </p><p>What, I ask myself as I browse, does it take to keep a community literate and welcome in a homey, bookish environment, no matter where in the world it is, for three-quarters of a century? This photograph, of 1950's children's reading groups, answers it for me.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNeHDlqmh9NEiVO-IMbOB4O_BkHg80FBTMS6rdDD78ka4rwgdIyFxm-tYjfEQbTdHD9RYQsOWogglbLkXt3YJBd30zUgv7SRYKBaVLaNjQbcteNj3gO0C40ifQBM6EBC7f-5NwLYB6ZXSrjNqOhosWiKTqrGZAJsT1pxBnZVp4pgeniYc0CsBu_5Ay/s4000/american%20library%201950s%20display.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="1970" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNeHDlqmh9NEiVO-IMbOB4O_BkHg80FBTMS6rdDD78ka4rwgdIyFxm-tYjfEQbTdHD9RYQsOWogglbLkXt3YJBd30zUgv7SRYKBaVLaNjQbcteNj3gO0C40ifQBM6EBC7f-5NwLYB6ZXSrjNqOhosWiKTqrGZAJsT1pxBnZVp4pgeniYc0CsBu_5Ay/s320/american%20library%201950s%20display.jpg" width="158" /></a></div><p></p><p>I attend concerts in the chapels, my favorite the ones at the Orthodox St. Julien le Pauvre, tucked into its tiny corner in the shadows of the brilliantly lit (but still damaged) Notre Dame across the river. It's a few steps shorter, too, from the famous Shakespeare and Company, which, though I enjoyed a late afternoon snack there, I couldn't enter...almost like the Vuitton, the lines to get into that crowded, narrow, winding book store were <i>formidable</i>. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpvA7AjUdjqLk-jDGHOO6HB1TpmzOpNCg-GcV2Di94A3cqZQgEYek2ohkhI99f8exyEEL9jFsoJniUflfUroJC4addwZaFHL_W-prys4m1dgVOtR43U4VQbUEwxJNeg0E18CsRa2XX4vEDZxGAee8O2U8e8a1Fg7TMS7x1c8jehMyZpWSXwC43kLYe/s3848/st%20julien%20le%20pauvre%20concert%20inside.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3848" data-original-width="2849" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpvA7AjUdjqLk-jDGHOO6HB1TpmzOpNCg-GcV2Di94A3cqZQgEYek2ohkhI99f8exyEEL9jFsoJniUflfUroJC4addwZaFHL_W-prys4m1dgVOtR43U4VQbUEwxJNeg0E18CsRa2XX4vEDZxGAee8O2U8e8a1Fg7TMS7x1c8jehMyZpWSXwC43kLYe/s320/st%20julien%20le%20pauvre%20concert%20inside.jpg" width="237" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrdXd4yWg8G72ExtefCz4aUGYl0_BnWSJWcFtWS8OtjByNCgvFpqvFVc9t80Cc7bQ0qxu1OsOej5gOSy7iQFUptY_hXZojrpXhj_GHJoN9AtUkhrwBeK361V6fPXP4-4ydyXqwVj9N22Jr2D9kjyzF3MwWZMQg4LO9YCwyhFhysvd_0VZGlyPFeCM1/s4000/st%20julien%20le%20pauvre%20outside.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrdXd4yWg8G72ExtefCz4aUGYl0_BnWSJWcFtWS8OtjByNCgvFpqvFVc9t80Cc7bQ0qxu1OsOej5gOSy7iQFUptY_hXZojrpXhj_GHJoN9AtUkhrwBeK361V6fPXP4-4ydyXqwVj9N22Jr2D9kjyzF3MwWZMQg4LO9YCwyhFhysvd_0VZGlyPFeCM1/s320/st%20julien%20le%20pauvre%20outside.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpEl48XqDcensx65Uyx_giw2lpX302PQT35RVfNCv1ougUOT4Ck4ZpkVXCsH0af7l75mONWY32SsOVRr_ea7ItOexhjbIIoKb-aZnUYnCnNpQDL1L1w0i8oLBCQRDvcIE2TBiQNWatXoHMg2GfnpKy86PilrejrEK9JufnGBiaoAThVZONQi4He2En/s3665/concert%20st%20julien%20le%20pauvre%20poster.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3665" data-original-width="2601" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpEl48XqDcensx65Uyx_giw2lpX302PQT35RVfNCv1ougUOT4Ck4ZpkVXCsH0af7l75mONWY32SsOVRr_ea7ItOexhjbIIoKb-aZnUYnCnNpQDL1L1w0i8oLBCQRDvcIE2TBiQNWatXoHMg2GfnpKy86PilrejrEK9JufnGBiaoAThVZONQi4He2En/s320/concert%20st%20julien%20le%20pauvre%20poster.jpg" width="227" /></a></div><br /><p> Each concert evening, as the music plays, I look up beyond the old carvings into the church's windows above and see the wounds of the World Wars patching the walls. </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFDAsCAiOXZOjLS2AvKTrVNQm2tf1N8zQZ4xPPJaiMJgmaQryNSysDvaa10rn-i2z_vmmUgx396nbI_YNBRWp4ojJbiDWjGMpQjUJZ02Kj8VOl_2pt9VhuHpd3xKnn4whwnzQZp8yL0xUmBTpYxDUJALdamiszb0wkdjrY_8jOqIRdInw5KtIhx99e/s4000/notre%20dame%20from%20the%20shadows%20of%20st.%20julien%20le%20pauvre.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFDAsCAiOXZOjLS2AvKTrVNQm2tf1N8zQZ4xPPJaiMJgmaQryNSysDvaa10rn-i2z_vmmUgx396nbI_YNBRWp4ojJbiDWjGMpQjUJZ02Kj8VOl_2pt9VhuHpd3xKnn4whwnzQZp8yL0xUmBTpYxDUJALdamiszb0wkdjrY_8jOqIRdInw5KtIhx99e/s320/notre%20dame%20from%20the%20shadows%20of%20st.%20julien%20le%20pauvre.jpg" width="240" /></a>Fame brings in millions for the restoration of the Cathedral; concerts bring in pittances for the less known, though historically significant. But how haunting the strains of voice, strings and piano in this intimate space. I wonder what music it plays to itself when we are not listening.</p><div>And on and on my Paris days go, cafe by museum by park by concert by wander. Wandering, as my friend Jim reminded me only yesterday, gets you pretty far and pretty entertained.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWS_uEPP61_BSuMLtrBQFViWLvC_zbALm2NAhPWvb7FErqvz_6UXof1peaodwyJtFgcHLDPYK-e3Gq1E7QO80-aH_z-QwFABgFcSYBFKKwJS9nKmUS9flHT2oyFEaPnCiZ_avq4Rp-VsAKgG-SmIE_owu4NKoMWWTOron5OiEZu7RhNF1uRseHBmJx/s4000/seine%20with%20sun%20in%20mist.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWS_uEPP61_BSuMLtrBQFViWLvC_zbALm2NAhPWvb7FErqvz_6UXof1peaodwyJtFgcHLDPYK-e3Gq1E7QO80-aH_z-QwFABgFcSYBFKKwJS9nKmUS9flHT2oyFEaPnCiZ_avq4Rp-VsAKgG-SmIE_owu4NKoMWWTOron5OiEZu7RhNF1uRseHBmJx/s320/seine%20with%20sun%20in%20mist.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>You may recognize that I've compressed a lot of this. The farther I get from those halcyon days, the less I want to blog about them. Paris instead stays with me, in mind and psyche, as last fall's path back to being a <i>flaneuse</i>, an admirable trait I mean to (and some days struggle to) keep even at home.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuqk3qP3aLb5_NnW9shGl1pC4VjJvs-wVDH8Y_uSlMdeoXB0xCaCBBR1URRItf1_3lBrpgJKNLihwfcoivSNjXE1BuVerzHk2ZWMt94SXNIYvcw-8ucNZ-6Amg5ThoSNUSEI_LqLHwBq7h4xb0h6_-YAJBfPysGJ4zaNaW1uVmI34pmsSoN7t3NcV6/s4000/the%20rest%20of%20what%20I%20have%20to%20say%20about%20paris.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuqk3qP3aLb5_NnW9shGl1pC4VjJvs-wVDH8Y_uSlMdeoXB0xCaCBBR1URRItf1_3lBrpgJKNLihwfcoivSNjXE1BuVerzHk2ZWMt94SXNIYvcw-8ucNZ-6Amg5ThoSNUSEI_LqLHwBq7h4xb0h6_-YAJBfPysGJ4zaNaW1uVmI34pmsSoN7t3NcV6/s320/the%20rest%20of%20what%20I%20have%20to%20say%20about%20paris.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>There is so much more to show you and say, but you will just have to come here and read it for yourself. It's on to the present for me.</p><p><i>Mais, attends! </i>One more adventure to relate. I am not two days in the city before I look in the mirror one morning and discover that my hair is getting a bit ragged. This is Paris!...<i>mon dieu...this</i> won't do. Before leaving the US, I'd gone into my wonderful Mia complaining about the mess my mop had become. "It certainly is," she agreed, and began to cut this way and that...soon I walked out happy, with an easier and much spiffier style.</p><p>Short hair grows, though. Now in Paris, precisely on the morning of October 23, I research some salons and find one nearby with busy, welcoming hairdressers who wash and fuss and begin to cut and shape, and cut and shape, and cut even more, strand by strand, holding left strands against right strands and back strands and top strands for evenness. Dominique, my cheerful, eager attendant, turns often to change scissors...clearly she is a woman who knows the value of the right tool...and call in others to consult. Also it is clear that I haven't learned the French for "a little trim". </p><p>So, this morning leaves me with less than half a head of what I had. But the result is very French, and everyone...even I...am pleased. (The whole procedure reminds me of the hour and some I spent getting a haircut in Rome years ago, not only the look, but the fun of the barber there.) </p><p>I wish I had a selfie, but I don't...the best I can show you is this one of Isabella Rossellini...you'll have to imagine that on me, a bit shorter. I'm in good company.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdpcU5AD-zRVZwNvlTUlDcS0LY0Zg21_c5XJ-TMWy_GALx1zFvuNsXSbgU9jMt5JaqOjd7Bdr67C18FqmS_sg_yKa8Dewzed4RcG2CMRm87CHH0EoQs8q3y1Tq1JZecRFh7gbxuvsMMbEEeIyJMofB52f_rW0VjXUAWBCDHXY7ftnIg_nh6xEaviDd/s400/very%20short%20hair%20on%20isabella%20rosselini.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdpcU5AD-zRVZwNvlTUlDcS0LY0Zg21_c5XJ-TMWy_GALx1zFvuNsXSbgU9jMt5JaqOjd7Bdr67C18FqmS_sg_yKa8Dewzed4RcG2CMRm87CHH0EoQs8q3y1Tq1JZecRFh7gbxuvsMMbEEeIyJMofB52f_rW0VjXUAWBCDHXY7ftnIg_nh6xEaviDd/s320/very%20short%20hair%20on%20isabella%20rosselini.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="text-align: left;">Post-script</b></div><p>Finally, this past Saturday, I went back to Mia for my first trim since that October day. It had taken three months to grow, but done so remarkably well...even Mia was impressed. Eileen tells me I should keep that hairdresser in Paris...and perhaps, after I have learned the French for "just a trim, <i>s'il vous plait</i>", I will.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p></div>Rachel's Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790797302450473117noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8959233989161202970.post-85897256180134678872023-01-15T12:23:00.000-08:002023-01-15T12:23:01.958-08:00Journey II: Home away from home<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiniAokOGr_8vDwQpddrpN7acXxbTgWRAT0luitrWxnbAYDNoojdMc3UqPOiAwM1kJuON2_5dWBm6VLj9glvcOYTJDO8B_7F9e3O1jY-GPIYEqvmUUjW8nBSZcMqx-O9BzGlMSabhljtsIeSmHgZ3fH0QXXyecs0ocG_nbfCMLesgM8glvxUU4u1jYg/s4000/arriving%20in%20paris.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiniAokOGr_8vDwQpddrpN7acXxbTgWRAT0luitrWxnbAYDNoojdMc3UqPOiAwM1kJuON2_5dWBm6VLj9glvcOYTJDO8B_7F9e3O1jY-GPIYEqvmUUjW8nBSZcMqx-O9BzGlMSabhljtsIeSmHgZ3fH0QXXyecs0ocG_nbfCMLesgM8glvxUU4u1jYg/s320/arriving%20in%20paris.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgRLuFhEU_wSV4MXIBduqjRZDmxfCBNLbfzHgYnkD_a2agEHoAVt_r09zRm5xOvQV50hfZpDhictMEZKEarIA-9gPyykOj3wtpUFhhT1_Oy_YDV4y_MAeQVizxes85Jvn607s4DWd3MPBiL44SbCa06K9h4jkV2-8HCIlyRShVhP3ysTEzW-C7UXCB/s3555/st%20pancras%20to%20paris.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div></div>I leave Scotland by train: Dunblane to Edinburgh, then Edinburgh to Kings Cross, London, where the world switches directions, it seems, and then walk across the side street<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFJgqGq_jH5hJEokfV8GRtcYOzJG6DDLckoRM7zHi8GPcaAhEX_CS1HLnyE6KNYyNgD6CPAxz2Po-TkZw9xjAUAeDf0zXWIqU6TBckHpBfdxlDtx4lAL1dkwCweXMgC9duYzm55n5UEyBPEzWnLl7QeDN4I-iJkbyf6_LRESSN0UwYPEQStuuJK39f/s4000/between%20stations%20london%20to%20paris.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFJgqGq_jH5hJEokfV8GRtcYOzJG6DDLckoRM7zHi8GPcaAhEX_CS1HLnyE6KNYyNgD6CPAxz2Po-TkZw9xjAUAeDf0zXWIqU6TBckHpBfdxlDtx4lAL1dkwCweXMgC9duYzm55n5UEyBPEzWnLl7QeDN4I-iJkbyf6_LRESSN0UwYPEQStuuJK39f/s320/between%20stations%20london%20to%20paris.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> to St. Pancras, where the Eurostar to Paris awaits me.<img border="0" data-original-height="3555" data-original-width="2780" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgRLuFhEU_wSV4MXIBduqjRZDmxfCBNLbfzHgYnkD_a2agEHoAVt_r09zRm5xOvQV50hfZpDhictMEZKEarIA-9gPyykOj3wtpUFhhT1_Oy_YDV4y_MAeQVizxes85Jvn607s4DWd3MPBiL44SbCa06K9h4jkV2-8HCIlyRShVhP3ysTEzW-C7UXCB/s320/st%20pancras%20to%20paris.jpg" width="250" /><p></p><p>On the train rides, I meet people easy to remember...a woman on her way to a college reunion who points out the landscape to me as we ride from Edinburgh to London; we get on so well, I give her my card and tell her to come visit me. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPK9NPotYlLs33ZpBnR8yJKsFSQTOWLMxlessMAuHd5ahfwT7zN6s3SJ-665YU8fZ0f4BTJ-xGxEMIoF70g7BUDmKG9KP0kgUkbYQejybYomsvRC2pF0T4pe6Ecny70yHR9c_QFyK3Cml6vzqQ1Hy-uU0yS2-7kubgJN7bocgWlWyeMeUuYOOwPGCr/s4000/Edinburgh%20to%20London%20train%20view%20out%20window.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPK9NPotYlLs33ZpBnR8yJKsFSQTOWLMxlessMAuHd5ahfwT7zN6s3SJ-665YU8fZ0f4BTJ-xGxEMIoF70g7BUDmKG9KP0kgUkbYQejybYomsvRC2pF0T4pe6Ecny70yHR9c_QFyK3Cml6vzqQ1Hy-uU0yS2-7kubgJN7bocgWlWyeMeUuYOOwPGCr/s320/Edinburgh%20to%20London%20train%20view%20out%20window.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqnFM4VASu5wXviMc_GsHktwo5xSvbve_DjjZyDVlVViXw-8GkORB32DYJuhN6EQpgWnabtktXzgU6n01GTANmC_50BE4ZEYKLjM6Hwrc4fnH9LiKhawgeV1G2flKOfFA0ZA6JvvN3mtxPzQzAqnEzRRs4_ERgmTd1_OP_iHdT2kIh7YxWwHh4pEgv/s4000/eurostar%20to%20paris.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqnFM4VASu5wXviMc_GsHktwo5xSvbve_DjjZyDVlVViXw-8GkORB32DYJuhN6EQpgWnabtktXzgU6n01GTANmC_50BE4ZEYKLjM6Hwrc4fnH9LiKhawgeV1G2flKOfFA0ZA6JvvN3mtxPzQzAqnEzRRs4_ERgmTd1_OP_iHdT2kIh7YxWwHh4pEgv/s320/eurostar%20to%20paris.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>On the way to Paris, I am seated with a Brit who lives in Paris and turns old buildings into new <i>appartements</i>. I know this because for the first part of the trip, he spends a lot of time on the phone, speaking the kind of French that long-time British Paris residents know; therefore, I learn a lot of new words for building and renovation while he talks. Then, when we converse, he tells me he thinks I should move to Paris...he has just the place in mind. Right. But genial, he is good company for the last hour of the trip. Across the aisle is a whole family of Parisian Chinese who smile at me a lot, and wonder about what, how and with what yarn I am knitting. I knit a lot on the trains and planes and in parks.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3WVEpVXAM9Ntrwcbkh3feylC--bxBUAm_APrEALX8jka2P-63BiqjgYYRRIfuT0ua45h7g-RI5InpZMtmUlNbIjVaeNdwbHWQdVj2Yh0dCZtckN3TqP0UswLiyBFR4H5l9fQyMiioPL_uWER4SpT4k6n5Hgo8Qyb7wpuMyzqa7PkmWweAjcBPlusR/s1434/hotel%20signature%20s.%20germaine.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1434" data-original-width="1079" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3WVEpVXAM9Ntrwcbkh3feylC--bxBUAm_APrEALX8jka2P-63BiqjgYYRRIfuT0ua45h7g-RI5InpZMtmUlNbIjVaeNdwbHWQdVj2Yh0dCZtckN3TqP0UswLiyBFR4H5l9fQyMiioPL_uWER4SpT4k6n5Hgo8Qyb7wpuMyzqa7PkmWweAjcBPlusR/s320/hotel%20signature%20s.%20germaine.jpg" width="241" /></a></div><br /><p>When we arrive at the Gare du Nord, it's late (see photo at top), and the taxi line long. But as the taxi pulls up to the hotel, which I don't at first recognize, it's so tucked away in the quiet <i>Rue Chomel</i>, the lights are on and a young man inside is ready to meet me. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i style="text-align: left;">Welcome! </i><span style="text-align: left;">he says in French and English, and looks and sounds like he means it. (</span><i style="text-align: left;">Welcome to your home in Paris, </i><span style="text-align: left;">the letter on the desk in my room says; even the room key is marked with </span><i style="text-align: left;">Bienvenue, Mlle. Mills! </i><span style="text-align: left;">I want to correct them, to tell them I am definitely </span><i style="text-align: left;">Madame, </i><span style="text-align: left;">but somehow I never do, so Mlle. Mills in Paris becomes me.)</span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMEOp0dt0uRpwJFimcWZaQqR-sh3mKEaz5jtmqkGvMDI_mtK9QYRXrX-QtT3BFUpuY6NlHs95b3yM672JQjz54A6b0rihWHSxKCaUEO3gNUGgFKTZdXmz4zIJrtVnhRy0t-bGAeNYuAEPWh9vexp4Hkx8v4NTygUrtgCzIj37cPBLbl7sOQdfeCrAy/s4000/hotel%20signature%20welcome%20envelope.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMEOp0dt0uRpwJFimcWZaQqR-sh3mKEaz5jtmqkGvMDI_mtK9QYRXrX-QtT3BFUpuY6NlHs95b3yM672JQjz54A6b0rihWHSxKCaUEO3gNUGgFKTZdXmz4zIJrtVnhRy0t-bGAeNYuAEPWh9vexp4Hkx8v4NTygUrtgCzIj37cPBLbl7sOQdfeCrAy/s320/hotel%20signature%20welcome%20envelope.jpg" width="240" /></a> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxksqkoL69B8JqMLkfR5M1kP3piS1oSUFwSw-6cwTvw5ky9ajxwCdCyPowe45feYDNd6rJd6R475emZiXoJc4gmrhdHTRp3FhPScXd6Gk_kkueUFUgacWqMWoIFHioBSpj4E6idx_sZCUUiH_p75q5oghOm-9-rLudt__QGQ9wQ-RPVNiVNoZ5nJhC/s4000/hotel%20signature%20key%20card%20and%20holder.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxksqkoL69B8JqMLkfR5M1kP3piS1oSUFwSw-6cwTvw5ky9ajxwCdCyPowe45feYDNd6rJd6R475emZiXoJc4gmrhdHTRp3FhPScXd6Gk_kkueUFUgacWqMWoIFHioBSpj4E6idx_sZCUUiH_p75q5oghOm-9-rLudt__QGQ9wQ-RPVNiVNoZ5nJhC/s320/hotel%20signature%20key%20card%20and%20holder.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /></div><br /><p>It sounds like hype, but in their hands, the Signature Hotel Ste. Germaine is genuinely homelike. Downstairs, I ask about a restaurant or cafe still open...I'm hungry, having had only a complimentary but surprisingly tart rose' which I don't bother to finish on the Eurostar. <i> </i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt9BYUnQeraXUUlQDQ7qky9JVnh6j9ylKB5ub6MjCSEQkRioXm75FTaxB47t5OX7qkY_zFcma66NBK0K3v9e2w24DU21LeBSUj2VeauwEB5dZ1Me5gW1haooxGnTP2iRg5BLjjdMycFqtf5P3HF3CgTnhPFTtPpx8-OOOKa3rXIHGOT8_jKS0kZw23/s4000/family%20restaurant%20on%20first%20night%20in%20paris.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt9BYUnQeraXUUlQDQ7qky9JVnh6j9ylKB5ub6MjCSEQkRioXm75FTaxB47t5OX7qkY_zFcma66NBK0K3v9e2w24DU21LeBSUj2VeauwEB5dZ1Me5gW1haooxGnTP2iRg5BLjjdMycFqtf5P3HF3CgTnhPFTtPpx8-OOOKa3rXIHGOT8_jKS0kZw23/s320/family%20restaurant%20on%20first%20night%20in%20paris.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Oh, right. My first dinner in Paris: </span><i style="text-align: left;">Mais oui! </i><span style="text-align: left;">The young man on night duty tells me there is an excellent place only a few doors down the street, <i>Les Botanistes</i>. I will see the canopy. There is one table, by the window, and they seat me, kindly, since reservations are scarce. It's a small place, run by a family...in attendance tonight are </span><i style="text-align: left;">pere et fils. </i><span style="text-align: left;">Since it's so late, I opt for an arugula salad and a first course of lentils with a poached egg on top. Perfect, and perfectly made. </span></div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD7kDhyoivZhOqhUVLUMaFDVfSY3Dh4dRVFhWUAiRoY7KPVVrRjFGc958o6_kva2FTIbfakZi-hTKsUkLF8WqR0N6gq_8vG8ZmGzO6B2N8TMebdwV0SEhso7nc7C8Nwyi6X8jQDLweaRaiprXdMqCQGIlOQgK_docFymiKLQXQPgRnTpwIVtEu9RVZ/s4000/lentils%20with%20poached%20egg%20at%20the%20family%20restuarant%20on%20rue%20chomel.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD7kDhyoivZhOqhUVLUMaFDVfSY3Dh4dRVFhWUAiRoY7KPVVrRjFGc958o6_kva2FTIbfakZi-hTKsUkLF8WqR0N6gq_8vG8ZmGzO6B2N8TMebdwV0SEhso7nc7C8Nwyi6X8jQDLweaRaiprXdMqCQGIlOQgK_docFymiKLQXQPgRnTpwIVtEu9RVZ/s320/lentils%20with%20poached%20egg%20at%20the%20family%20restuarant%20on%20rue%20chomel.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Wine, too, of course, just right. From my seat, I can see the whole room...not large, but amiably holding about ten tables. Among the other patrons are two American women who live in Paris (I can hear their conversation), two or three French couples, one young, two middle-aged, and a party of six friends or colleagues enjoying themselves at the last table in the back. I take my time enjoying the food, the wine, the scene before me, and as the restaurant slowly empties, I leave, too, promising to be back. A neighborhood family restaurant is what seems right for this laid-back trip.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVX-6g3g863aervzV1mkBEwVU4zrJXg0LkwIVaFtFBcrmoDf2BQjGoMAcq9K6VSDXTz6mWdNGCifamEFcOopRju904ASLufwhLqWgl5dkyw4C23n5nmuZgf1Zy2nj7HtrWW2sYGl5cYxGNxJ3Y1rnzJ62BOL0lpISAvb_W5yoyCy6ly14QmWqtY-Zw/s4000/hotel%20signature%20bed.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVX-6g3g863aervzV1mkBEwVU4zrJXg0LkwIVaFtFBcrmoDf2BQjGoMAcq9K6VSDXTz6mWdNGCifamEFcOopRju904ASLufwhLqWgl5dkyw4C23n5nmuZgf1Zy2nj7HtrWW2sYGl5cYxGNxJ3Y1rnzJ62BOL0lpISAvb_W5yoyCy6ly14QmWqtY-Zw/s320/hotel%20signature%20bed.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>I slept that night as if I were at Will's and Dorothy's, sound and long. In the morning, downstairs in the cheerful front room, there is a woman with a bright smile and easy conversation to greet me...Manuela. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgERMe1cqqLw9Ty1FxMyWHu9m3kPNOQWcPrdUElD3aD16BY780aSdZ6trnLMXOybXV1nLKanlHkRznoysTAob3uToVuQiVf_1LqgWD4gKZ4Wdi4fImPPyC7N1hi44g_Dq6thWC2oZKKIK100W-sYrJ_N6q0HGJULhA7pstMKXttdqEuiWSJd0IgvsI/s4000/Manuela%20s%20smile%20in%20hotel%20signature%20s%20germaine%20in%20paris.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgERMe1cqqLw9Ty1FxMyWHu9m3kPNOQWcPrdUElD3aD16BY780aSdZ6trnLMXOybXV1nLKanlHkRznoysTAob3uToVuQiVf_1LqgWD4gKZ4Wdi4fImPPyC7N1hi44g_Dq6thWC2oZKKIK100W-sYrJ_N6q0HGJULhA7pstMKXttdqEuiWSJd0IgvsI/s320/Manuela%20s%20smile%20in%20hotel%20signature%20s%20germaine%20in%20paris.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>We exchange <i>bon jours. </i>She asks what my day will be like, and I tell her that I am waiting here for a friend this morning. <i>Would you like a cup of coffee while you wait? </i>she asks. <i>Non, merci</i>...my new friend and I are going out for coffee before our <i>brocante </i>adventure this morning. But I have to ask her about the hot water in the room shower...I haven't figured out how to turn the spigot to hot. <i>Oh</i>, she says and immediately picks up the phone to ask the maid to check it. <i>We want everything to be perfect, </i>she tells me. <i>Come, we'll try it out.</i></p><p>And up we go to my sixth floor abode to learn how the hot water works. It turns out it's quite simple, but she doesn't bat an eye at my silly mistake, and neither does the <i>femme de chambre, </i>happy to educate and ask if there is anything else I need to make my stay comfortable. <i>Mais non! </i>I tell them. It's lovely. </p><p>Manuela is one of the staff...no! that's not the right word...other hotels have <i>staff.</i>..this one has people who are helpful, warm, funny, friendly...not in a practiced, distant way, but sincere. They become instantly the virtual compass point of my Paris stay. Over time I learn about their lives, too, and they mine. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDdXn1C978LqKEFldLI19d8V8bRoXe5Zi7bg--EBjVJggDLWXSWRZL5FYd03V5oVdGJ_RTC4cIzMIwA_tOq21Y5fopKrnaFITFYUMmdlJXB2Sd86MISanwzf1ITf3n2GCirWndNcpsowGNcgjxYJI0bCZvWqFrA6tFf0cP0pMEq1q_8LBgac0t3YYu/s4000/hotel%20signature%20lobby%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDdXn1C978LqKEFldLI19d8V8bRoXe5Zi7bg--EBjVJggDLWXSWRZL5FYd03V5oVdGJ_RTC4cIzMIwA_tOq21Y5fopKrnaFITFYUMmdlJXB2Sd86MISanwzf1ITf3n2GCirWndNcpsowGNcgjxYJI0bCZvWqFrA6tFf0cP0pMEq1q_8LBgac0t3YYu/s320/hotel%20signature%20lobby%201.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p> But let's begin with the lobby, warm bright colors to greet you at any time of day. Mirrors on the back and side wall reflect light and the facade of the balconied French buildings across the way. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr5WEAt8yLOLEsUere7YqDnz1DM1a-u1XlUc5VlahDtr3l-W4H0RzUmBRHoPQI0nghVRwB01hwi4V75Jaq2NWgEgGsqgvNXdx34jlMuBMj52OapUbOoXHRvmR-FPdmzdF_y2DGt8IoE2OA35rV6QiScCmkA9dEBPLmP0njRXnY5CyHXlrR7csTZ0xU/s3880/hotel%20window%20view%20in%20paris.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3880" data-original-width="2272" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr5WEAt8yLOLEsUere7YqDnz1DM1a-u1XlUc5VlahDtr3l-W4H0RzUmBRHoPQI0nghVRwB01hwi4V75Jaq2NWgEgGsqgvNXdx34jlMuBMj52OapUbOoXHRvmR-FPdmzdF_y2DGt8IoE2OA35rV6QiScCmkA9dEBPLmP0njRXnY5CyHXlrR7csTZ0xU/s320/hotel%20window%20view%20in%20paris.jpg" width="187" /></a></div><br /><p>Chairs are living-room comfortable, and the two yellow cases near them hold books to borrow and read, books to travel by, books to get one into Paris life. I choose one nearly every day to read at night or in the morning, though I am more often likely to take it out with me to read in a park (when I am not knitting or chatting).</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGRhaAQkU_KtcIHXOFHQTiQASpIpkdAPyv3ZUrOVIrS2yyy0bpIxjTbouJT5ZgUhtsMNW0koe6NL3uHzs6C0AhkWN4uWxUfNqMwIhzYhEZQuesORQnzUjZpdOYymL_rpFdheKz3cYoQo2TrJaBmm_8SKKXq0YyC8amAjMSYpbubCU73EPRgb3zoJYx/s4000/hotel%20signature%20book%20case.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGRhaAQkU_KtcIHXOFHQTiQASpIpkdAPyv3ZUrOVIrS2yyy0bpIxjTbouJT5ZgUhtsMNW0koe6NL3uHzs6C0AhkWN4uWxUfNqMwIhzYhEZQuesORQnzUjZpdOYymL_rpFdheKz3cYoQo2TrJaBmm_8SKKXq0YyC8amAjMSYpbubCU73EPRgb3zoJYx/s320/hotel%20signature%20book%20case.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>In the lobby, guests come and go, never without a greeting, or advice...sometimes life lessons, too. Coming down one morning, I catch Manuela sitting in a cosy clutch of chairs with a couple of Americans who, though in late middle age, are clearly not travelers. She is telling them in perfect English that Paris is a big city, like others in the world, lots of things to do and see, to take time taking it all in. Also, they need to be careful to keep their belongings safe. "Leave your treasures in the hotel," she says, with the kindest and least patronizing voice I have ever heard a professional hotelier use...it's as if she is a friend imparting her own earned wisdom. "And ask us anything! We are happy to help."</p><p>I smile a little at her as I pass, and she turns to say, "<i>Bonjour, Rachele! Comment ca va?" </i>I'm off to a museum (maybe the Rodin...can't remember now), I say, and she wishes me well. Then she is back to her new guests, who are looking very much as if their children had given them this new adventure as a gift, one they are still bemused by. But they are listening to her and nodding, a little less anxious after our exchange.</p><p>Even by the small-room standards of Paris homes, rooms have the illusion of space. No tripping, no maneuvering. There is a desk and two chairs, two bedside tables, everything one would need and yet uncrowded. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrGGh9oVZpdxBel6GbiBTdZt3vos46IrNJDEpZXwYEcJlDmhSsBlOYMyT0Aw5BIfbWsitH0vhwWDg6ZcqPlZCXMIbtf5WwPUCdfyCR_1itHbYpEPPx_vCR3QhOJ8_oiZevND9XzJyKGvnf2_nY-hg9Zw4_9G2NuzIKZYjEkzMMOT1xqvdvuDtmX7GB/s4000/hotel%20signature%20window%20and%20bed.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrGGh9oVZpdxBel6GbiBTdZt3vos46IrNJDEpZXwYEcJlDmhSsBlOYMyT0Aw5BIfbWsitH0vhwWDg6ZcqPlZCXMIbtf5WwPUCdfyCR_1itHbYpEPPx_vCR3QhOJ8_oiZevND9XzJyKGvnf2_nY-hg9Zw4_9G2NuzIKZYjEkzMMOT1xqvdvuDtmX7GB/s320/hotel%20signature%20window%20and%20bed.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>A bed with a mattress and linens to fall into dreamland each night, a large double window looking out over the nearby rooftops and apartments next to us. The closet had room to keep a wardrobe for a year, neatly compartmentalized, and still included a small refrigerator and a safe, which I didn't use. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4feMk0kNWiU6u5v4-V28LS7xuugnuowk2lkNnr4Emw3Ww4EjO2-O_s7qfjVFaGnp2uSCTe7Cs99v8Ygt-YG1ZX1AC4vKBptoW92UJG0E1hkaFI3HUDVp3_c93FKNyKYK6UDmLCBD6MtevbEO_SSXLL534NiOuRAExOH6mXW-UMW9Mp6eUlTEU5LsN/s4000/hotel%20signature%20bathroom.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4feMk0kNWiU6u5v4-V28LS7xuugnuowk2lkNnr4Emw3Ww4EjO2-O_s7qfjVFaGnp2uSCTe7Cs99v8Ygt-YG1ZX1AC4vKBptoW92UJG0E1hkaFI3HUDVp3_c93FKNyKYK6UDmLCBD6MtevbEO_SSXLL534NiOuRAExOH6mXW-UMW9Mp6eUlTEU5LsN/s320/hotel%20signature%20bathroom.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>The attached bathroom was one you wish you had thought to install at home, well-appointed and elegant. Its only flaw for me and my poor balance is a tub instead of a shower stall, but the shower it comes with is exactly right and I climbed in carefully. Even the nice toiletries, exchanged each day for new, whether you used them or not (I travel with my own), are collected and given to a shelter. (When I learned that, I donated some of mine, including masks and wipes. More homelike...)</p><p>About a week into my visit, I am continually amazed by the way things run without appearing to run. So I ask if I can interview Delphine and her mother. I'm by now curious about that spirit they manage in their hotels. The hotel where I am is one of three each run by family members. We find her mother Isabelle at the second hotel down the street, which Delphine helps with (she must work 18 hours a day all week); the third they own is near the Eiffel Tower, also her mother's. I am intrigued by their sense of hospitality, clearly many years in the learning and doing, one generation after another. But those who work with them, like Manuela, are also clear about what hosting guests (rather than the industrial mislabel, <i>hospitality</i>) means. You can see each of the people who work there in any capacity on their website...it's one of the things that charmed me into making a reservation.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh0yVFEFfjvW9wu_nCjD1S9xX2TWL9lqSrQCs7FP1JBE6JlShGF0QeMMLPEQu87J_RpRwRIa7DXVbKgHjxzYM1ID0RqE16t4JkC7xKmDGfeCniI1HWj2VW0dvEw6X7kFYp8b6M2Uq-OxFnd2ApbXgwgMLiP92S1r2DXbQ1xOb_Hn9U5jhf48az3_d3/s4000/two%20women%20mother%20and%20daughter%20hoteliesses%20at%20our%20interview.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh0yVFEFfjvW9wu_nCjD1S9xX2TWL9lqSrQCs7FP1JBE6JlShGF0QeMMLPEQu87J_RpRwRIa7DXVbKgHjxzYM1ID0RqE16t4JkC7xKmDGfeCniI1HWj2VW0dvEw6X7kFYp8b6M2Uq-OxFnd2ApbXgwgMLiP92S1r2DXbQ1xOb_Hn9U5jhf48az3_d3/s320/two%20women%20mother%20and%20daughter%20hoteliesses%20at%20our%20interview.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Delphine and her mother are so easy to talk to, even with my awkward French. Their ventures began with their grandfather, who long ago owned a <i>boulangerie</i> in Montmartre, but found out he was allergic to the dust from flour! Eventually he bought a hotel and then his daughter (Isabelle) and her busband bought another in addition, and then another, which in time their daughter Delphine took over. Delphine had been in the jewelry business, quite high-end, which took her to England for a while, but she came home, bought this building from her parents, and transformed it utterly; she clearly has an eye for good design and good designers who know not institutional but real comfort. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK0e2n4FKtAGOVyQZwx4kzPdLfI4JehO6nx-YVABya4f84iSe01Mom4MoidIE10NLmL6TGJ3ssJO-GrIC0MVf5rZlkMPBwgu8vRYSMbq78FmVURrIpUIveNH3eq-L1zs1He3Ybpqy3izJhu0DUvppZekMVG5yXFStfL3hPCNpLJAcRn2ptc2chCv11/s3553/book%20i%20read%20from%20the%20hotel%20library%20in%20paris.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3553" data-original-width="2500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK0e2n4FKtAGOVyQZwx4kzPdLfI4JehO6nx-YVABya4f84iSe01Mom4MoidIE10NLmL6TGJ3ssJO-GrIC0MVf5rZlkMPBwgu8vRYSMbq78FmVURrIpUIveNH3eq-L1zs1He3Ybpqy3izJhu0DUvppZekMVG5yXFStfL3hPCNpLJAcRn2ptc2chCv11/s320/book%20i%20read%20from%20the%20hotel%20library%20in%20paris.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><br /><p>Another thing: booking is kept to themselves...I think I told you in an earlier blog how I'd found this one by accident. They prefer that because so many people return over and over. Both women were clear to say that the most important reason they work so hard is because of the people from all over the world who find them...they are their pleasure...they become friends. I, too, am lucky to have found them, so that on my next trip to Paris, I can "go home" again.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Rachel's Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790797302450473117noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8959233989161202970.post-54180852044989905482023-01-07T08:12:00.000-08:002023-01-07T08:12:47.155-08:00A new year<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJsz8B13XcV78N4lzTjxpkk7KEMBEa6MUmyYi7Ym5Agsh4CG2j7b-94tONBZH0wwrJFVIT5M-vcaoAf54ZQS4HkgW1UgXTTlzCwDHMKRKRxt6Q7q6comedgWB3GrxQXxrnC4LAx1GrqaLUCGgb7oJDEf81AiU2l8olyx6K-Z1Zw73H0RWx2DgN39DY/s2997/alexander%20in%20his%20new%20suit.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2997" data-original-width="1096" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJsz8B13XcV78N4lzTjxpkk7KEMBEa6MUmyYi7Ym5Agsh4CG2j7b-94tONBZH0wwrJFVIT5M-vcaoAf54ZQS4HkgW1UgXTTlzCwDHMKRKRxt6Q7q6comedgWB3GrxQXxrnC4LAx1GrqaLUCGgb7oJDEf81AiU2l8olyx6K-Z1Zw73H0RWx2DgN39DY/s320/alexander%20in%20his%20new%20suit.jpg" width="117" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Alexander in his first suit</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>This one's one of those odd-numbered years, hard, if you are a numerologist, to make anything out of it. Normally, we think of resolution, but this year, I can't think of any. I'm oddly out of myself this time, and I think that has to do with the larger state of the world...so much uncertainty here, there, everywhere...or maybe that, as my friend Kathy recently reminded me, it's 60 years since we first showed up at college. Aha.</p><p> So that photo above seems iconic for this year: a new suit ready to be grown into.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG3sezY2ILUxZ6tzkioyzuNC3oPzSlnzJWBDkY2UODn0jLRCRf4idLzn4eKFXwUeFKBKglXgZXvTN1glLgPtA2Cep5ncgsTYFlAbqUVq4V-bE08sihajq9ROP1_rwmVdC3c51SsheDV2rYhKeNbZitBQ1rdFIBAT6zKQcqxw1al1nMGd_33u1ZO4yf/s4000/alexander's%20new%20bike.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG3sezY2ILUxZ6tzkioyzuNC3oPzSlnzJWBDkY2UODn0jLRCRf4idLzn4eKFXwUeFKBKglXgZXvTN1glLgPtA2Cep5ncgsTYFlAbqUVq4V-bE08sihajq9ROP1_rwmVdC3c51SsheDV2rYhKeNbZitBQ1rdFIBAT6zKQcqxw1al1nMGd_33u1ZO4yf/s320/alexander's%20new%20bike.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><br />In a week or so, Alexander and I will be celebrating, one day apart, <i>our</i> new years...68 of them between us. Being 10, a decade old, is exciting. He rides his new bike into the streets and around the yards, practicing for rougher trails.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRuTb-Sz2G-4CML67BbWHd7LFvn2vdOI_mASgHLyapHmaV9CFkIKJp1HQByy5efq1WnNBWFYcbXz2HVIO0EmxALUrLHjopfiQQRFp3DwinHvtPeofLKM59NlYSABF9VmY8XcsUcNHcS-pO5k3GrlHC5ucTFN6uEhMqRb3R6z6I_W5S_KtrDd_vS8cf/s4000/park%20in%20paris.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRuTb-Sz2G-4CML67BbWHd7LFvn2vdOI_mASgHLyapHmaV9CFkIKJp1HQByy5efq1WnNBWFYcbXz2HVIO0EmxALUrLHjopfiQQRFp3DwinHvtPeofLKM59NlYSABF9VmY8XcsUcNHcS-pO5k3GrlHC5ucTFN6uEhMqRb3R6z6I_W5S_KtrDd_vS8cf/s320/park%20in%20paris.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>My rougher trails...cobblestones in London, crunchy sandstone in Paris parks, not to mention the hills and narrow, uneven sidewalks my own town is known for...remind me of how far I've come. Once (or twice) I had a bike, too, but now it's my own feet that carry me everywhere. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBAMsDA8_Yem4RJveb6B5OZ-9r_m-5Wnw5rO7uSPmH6IvVH2j3NtNSucs8WZAAkbUJPVN6x7713L7V3Jc3xSm8nVSdfv8nimxRLnmLs-QspHcGIP3cXjOsNbaafq_7gd6GJzb4T-7kvsUrQe_0aRvBLJcEovRqtu61aoxPUNPsIur2oU1W6y42n3qL/s4000/I%20walk%20and%20walk%20in%20paris%20and%20london%20and%20scotland.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBAMsDA8_Yem4RJveb6B5OZ-9r_m-5Wnw5rO7uSPmH6IvVH2j3NtNSucs8WZAAkbUJPVN6x7713L7V3Jc3xSm8nVSdfv8nimxRLnmLs-QspHcGIP3cXjOsNbaafq_7gd6GJzb4T-7kvsUrQe_0aRvBLJcEovRqtu61aoxPUNPsIur2oU1W6y42n3qL/s320/I%20walk%20and%20walk%20in%20paris%20and%20london%20and%20scotland.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />I'm satisfied with that; going about by foot, instead of speeding by with the fickle wind in your hair, allows keener observations, thoughts, ideas. Things one hadn't noticed before suddenly spotlight themselves. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0sSG8BsL97Cuo9rmQJ6ed-2TgKvuTQgGb1wdCm43VsmemOQ-jYGpcnbAbsVYGQ00nbDLjG-4qT9fYAV3K6H2rlnR9mgpsGBvgdlT4qvEMQAAQn7jKDIaPVzvkfeKHQ5O_c_9NKqH5OlOmNw1fbbyW2JYbd81QfxO2YqWF3t54RQfNW0h70pkmkqmD/s4000/noticing%20small%20things%20for%20blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0sSG8BsL97Cuo9rmQJ6ed-2TgKvuTQgGb1wdCm43VsmemOQ-jYGpcnbAbsVYGQ00nbDLjG-4qT9fYAV3K6H2rlnR9mgpsGBvgdlT4qvEMQAAQn7jKDIaPVzvkfeKHQ5O_c_9NKqH5OlOmNw1fbbyW2JYbd81QfxO2YqWF3t54RQfNW0h70pkmkqmD/s320/noticing%20small%20things%20for%20blog.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div><div><br /></div><div>Likewise, I seem to work harder at smaller and less noticable things. When that begins to irk me, I think about getting away...travel, visits, garden tours. Or nearer to home, exhibits (a second look at Elizabeth Matheson's <i>Uncommon, </i>which buoyed me the other night), coffee or lunch in other towns, with people I've been <i>meaning</i> to get together with and just...well, you know.</div><div><br /></div><div><div>Even this blog...it occurred to me the other day that I might be feeling a little stale about it. I should, in fact, be posting the three nearly ready drafts of blogs I have about my fall weeks in Scotland and Paris, but I'm still struggling through transferring photographs. First of all, there are <i>so many </i>photographs<i>; </i>then, there is the usual technological tangle. And it was, certainly, an enormously complex trip to put any order to. I filled all the pages of a journal along the way, writing.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqPHWFQ4FdGOZtfliDqG3rcM1e24MJhS0hnDwPd5p1ljeBiuQe2Q7f4k3xh3HazgD-VeEE6qxz6-em3V9zHwymY5o8hry227xu9iyNKJ5C-WjDm1BWIE3kz0azyY2v7srEtpFL1XC-4GBKXrESnUCU3hVgPQRK4mZG73l3pKaodRsjV7Bq-SyJnmTK/s4000/journal%20page%20visiting%20ada.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqPHWFQ4FdGOZtfliDqG3rcM1e24MJhS0hnDwPd5p1ljeBiuQe2Q7f4k3xh3HazgD-VeEE6qxz6-em3V9zHwymY5o8hry227xu9iyNKJ5C-WjDm1BWIE3kz0azyY2v7srEtpFL1XC-4GBKXrESnUCU3hVgPQRK4mZG73l3pKaodRsjV7Bq-SyJnmTK/s320/journal%20page%20visiting%20ada.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Maybe, it suddenly occurs to me, I should let the photos lead the story, and not the other way 'round, as I usually do. Aha, again.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzYAuhIouRxWI5pCw4JW_IQ_R6xx-q2Zi-sLYJEBR-Z9Q1bbnWCu0vPedu23stALRAWv_fCfBx1w_B-1nxCXGG9_JXYGwwm_aPOoF2QhT_xUL-2UDOb7zWL1POYkRl6ZKgEu58hIehUoJJ886kJZRzT6-If9RqUC2wKLT9wZsodHH4k27xIwfDQD0o/s4000/family%20restaurant%20on%20first%20night%20in%20paris.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzYAuhIouRxWI5pCw4JW_IQ_R6xx-q2Zi-sLYJEBR-Z9Q1bbnWCu0vPedu23stALRAWv_fCfBx1w_B-1nxCXGG9_JXYGwwm_aPOoF2QhT_xUL-2UDOb7zWL1POYkRl6ZKgEu58hIehUoJJ886kJZRzT6-If9RqUC2wKLT9wZsodHH4k27xIwfDQD0o/s320/family%20restaurant%20on%20first%20night%20in%20paris.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtY9FPKNQwIRaSoUqYGvMPwb8tMh8XN5BWgLE7-oCp4-XKKgUukt8Y17Ytc4NzFy_sUpV8Re-kCEpP3Nfcjs6YxkPgjJxWitXU_QUTuX9dtrdp6gz5Y7F3Q3wy4zeFcHjTBmd6v337v8kCpYcNomsgQCkmznRRp6F_r9iTvwwyHlyanVKAnJIcuuVF/s4000/how%20the%20workers%20dig%20in%20the%20streets%20in%20paris%20neatly%20and%20in%20bags.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtY9FPKNQwIRaSoUqYGvMPwb8tMh8XN5BWgLE7-oCp4-XKKgUukt8Y17Ytc4NzFy_sUpV8Re-kCEpP3Nfcjs6YxkPgjJxWitXU_QUTuX9dtrdp6gz5Y7F3Q3wy4zeFcHjTBmd6v337v8kCpYcNomsgQCkmznRRp6F_r9iTvwwyHlyanVKAnJIcuuVF/s320/how%20the%20workers%20dig%20in%20the%20streets%20in%20paris%20neatly%20and%20in%20bags.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjmooBcqR69xnprwqCbXDgZzFYMAWrypzfRn4C7kVaB1K4KiUakUlFzSEQgLpMIMwjV-gIxXoWOpkLkFGDi5auO1Us6Fh-GV6H4Pct7Rw4xlotxw0QJgy7EDwXHx3rv9nCEIPbGGtYwYRIC_aPxj-zHbShOngwYO1nQGvY-9NnK0WXlaFgTsSJ-BZj/s4000/s%20julian%20de%20pauvre%20awaiting%20evening%20concert%20in%20paris.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjmooBcqR69xnprwqCbXDgZzFYMAWrypzfRn4C7kVaB1K4KiUakUlFzSEQgLpMIMwjV-gIxXoWOpkLkFGDi5auO1Us6Fh-GV6H4Pct7Rw4xlotxw0QJgy7EDwXHx3rv9nCEIPbGGtYwYRIC_aPxj-zHbShOngwYO1nQGvY-9NnK0WXlaFgTsSJ-BZj/s320/s%20julian%20de%20pauvre%20awaiting%20evening%20concert%20in%20paris.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7xltNntDoaOtpXnw_WCQKcKs_A5PWwQ1FV7Qvqm3tsgvYXlSIsAu7Z1-m7gwMHZHvWwmVOPsxlRKZbetWg4LpIuAFnAlWgZGid9489wYcB6NQuP03EcOoNQdAuhNpKZvwQ3a95_fPLHMhzRJvnQm1mpShpOXAL5Q__SuVKUp98v3E8dm2K77Kyrfi/s4000/sign%20outside%20the%20mercy%20hospital%20inviting%20in%20all%20who%20need%20help%20in%20paris.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7xltNntDoaOtpXnw_WCQKcKs_A5PWwQ1FV7Qvqm3tsgvYXlSIsAu7Z1-m7gwMHZHvWwmVOPsxlRKZbetWg4LpIuAFnAlWgZGid9489wYcB6NQuP03EcOoNQdAuhNpKZvwQ3a95_fPLHMhzRJvnQm1mpShpOXAL5Q__SuVKUp98v3E8dm2K77Kyrfi/s320/sign%20outside%20the%20mercy%20hospital%20inviting%20in%20all%20who%20need%20help%20in%20paris.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF-qWJUpyWry7omtyui-7IJh74KVYNCBrv-K5CfBo1-wr6q29cVc6TDfsqQp_V-8BbEyHctGLMOkr6LkmJA8aB-eWQ5hngM4xtVZKa1yCsr01-7z6vNL1mwFs4mTX_VgJjnwfH0kf3tx7bO02N_97Rz2Tzrx4KzaP1gjkEovdfpbZD1RaZv1n-pKNg/s4000/brocante%20emily%20and%20I%20visited%20all%20that%20lovely%20dinnerware%20in%20paris.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF-qWJUpyWry7omtyui-7IJh74KVYNCBrv-K5CfBo1-wr6q29cVc6TDfsqQp_V-8BbEyHctGLMOkr6LkmJA8aB-eWQ5hngM4xtVZKa1yCsr01-7z6vNL1mwFs4mTX_VgJjnwfH0kf3tx7bO02N_97Rz2Tzrx4KzaP1gjkEovdfpbZD1RaZv1n-pKNg/s320/brocante%20emily%20and%20I%20visited%20all%20that%20lovely%20dinnerware%20in%20paris.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Let me be clear: I <i>want you </i>to read through these wanderings, I really do. I want you to see what I saw, the art and food and music and street scenes.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIfcwozBRHfruw8uWrUz1NSMQ-bLMKr7I6O2UPurTluT3mPk4VK0bp0PLru04x4EYBD3LGNM__9fs9bklPRm9n95We_F-q9_mLNGqbjMO4MpVu-7YnJ52Y1qo5rWPM7xBWHuTnygb5qvVambl0XnqOVD30_BemoeIYd_MoejJgn_5Na_2_ZVa6f7f3/s4000/creme%20brulee%20pistache%20in%20paris%20at%20deux%20madames%20cafe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIfcwozBRHfruw8uWrUz1NSMQ-bLMKr7I6O2UPurTluT3mPk4VK0bp0PLru04x4EYBD3LGNM__9fs9bklPRm9n95We_F-q9_mLNGqbjMO4MpVu-7YnJ52Y1qo5rWPM7xBWHuTnygb5qvVambl0XnqOVD30_BemoeIYd_MoejJgn_5Na_2_ZVa6f7f3/s320/creme%20brulee%20pistache%20in%20paris%20at%20deux%20madames%20cafe.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR8hH6Rkq57UlURsKY09TWaqoRO6c0D9rzGb8caSchxWMQ0J2-Xaellfh7SMtZxrGCapV1p9Kbx1HUWFuE4gArxZmRtfKTCMWWB1vKs0MOzrNdqY3pLza8A2Z6k-8REvA-YeRCfSwZZY3txhQZWQw4TUxC-8RDPAxdTrgTk1ORsnGfIHF3Ru5mMuKe/s4000/emily%20gaudichon%20at%20morning%20coffee%20in%20paris.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR8hH6Rkq57UlURsKY09TWaqoRO6c0D9rzGb8caSchxWMQ0J2-Xaellfh7SMtZxrGCapV1p9Kbx1HUWFuE4gArxZmRtfKTCMWWB1vKs0MOzrNdqY3pLza8A2Z6k-8REvA-YeRCfSwZZY3txhQZWQw4TUxC-8RDPAxdTrgTk1ORsnGfIHF3Ru5mMuKe/s320/emily%20gaudichon%20at%20morning%20coffee%20in%20paris.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkIStidkIWR2FsNlC1nrzT4-6Ipt9wqM5u1NNoySOJ7m1ZAo71LwonLQO126V-A851XShQmIA3-kT3u9qljyf_PNjU2OrTgBPtcB2fqKHngmGq7GoOzwlvr3ryNUEe-eJRY_itOOqzyo1qLHSbwvuqMzgqIg3kAj3OopyoPZaz8KDNMhxqJfLHcyyW/s4000/sun%20in%20paris%20over%20the%20seine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkIStidkIWR2FsNlC1nrzT4-6Ipt9wqM5u1NNoySOJ7m1ZAo71LwonLQO126V-A851XShQmIA3-kT3u9qljyf_PNjU2OrTgBPtcB2fqKHngmGq7GoOzwlvr3ryNUEe-eJRY_itOOqzyo1qLHSbwvuqMzgqIg3kAj3OopyoPZaz8KDNMhxqJfLHcyyW/s320/sun%20in%20paris%20over%20the%20seine.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFKtM4Rrg4wwNahn3rypGpZCv-S4ZrLsX2jjPcWUbIf8JAl7Gx0x6NcNPVi3apMxST3d1OlSF5rO534bbncG0_eh-rT7pIQmYSxsk6aT9XB7zg8Q03jmAfpuKLu4vX5jIaDyPAsf0II5OdbAmp15KxMV6O-jt0-yM6bVXbX-yo6SovAjrUWDOoepxg/s4000/two%20women%20mother%20and%20daughter%20hoteliesses%20at%20our%20interview.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFKtM4Rrg4wwNahn3rypGpZCv-S4ZrLsX2jjPcWUbIf8JAl7Gx0x6NcNPVi3apMxST3d1OlSF5rO534bbncG0_eh-rT7pIQmYSxsk6aT9XB7zg8Q03jmAfpuKLu4vX5jIaDyPAsf0II5OdbAmp15KxMV6O-jt0-yM6bVXbX-yo6SovAjrUWDOoepxg/s320/two%20women%20mother%20and%20daughter%20hoteliesses%20at%20our%20interview.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd1te21Zt23vR8-2SBEanPZsbjc1ityX93Oe4BCTLhMNwLPXDFM7bmDUbi4g1Ea3WFl_VDKgNzQfEOI6MNHgQ_QUpZxfkan3IZ7EV2rIFBj-fQIATbnA79_hu879PtGiUmD7gM9jpmDIfUop0wqgLa7Z7PX7ybHa95PuFrkolNuepuctrYmHF3N29l/s4000/window%20dressing%20in%20paris.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd1te21Zt23vR8-2SBEanPZsbjc1ityX93Oe4BCTLhMNwLPXDFM7bmDUbi4g1Ea3WFl_VDKgNzQfEOI6MNHgQ_QUpZxfkan3IZ7EV2rIFBj-fQIATbnA79_hu879PtGiUmD7gM9jpmDIfUop0wqgLa7Z7PX7ybHa95PuFrkolNuepuctrYmHF3N29l/s320/window%20dressing%20in%20paris.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>I want you to know, especially, the people I met and liked, the ones I observed from my park benches and garden wanderings, the ones whose brilliant hotel I stayed in and would return at any chance, all the wonders I found by chance more than intention. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC855ROb4kpj6bLSAJ3pqMVo_adLZSuhe0eLlqE2TuxXftNbGSLW9qgWfzQjFF1MRaBXoHvM9HeVgR-He0NSjuS3Etsa4iFUha-yvE6Kkg7W9BJy8AUgovAFk7xMRJnG_1B7LM8Az4hA8ntYAQW6Nb8_Lj2I0Se-kFcuOVrdnjmnD74KhOhQsahpPf/s3568/annie%20albers%20at%20the%20Musee%20moderne%20in%20paris.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2703" data-original-width="3568" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC855ROb4kpj6bLSAJ3pqMVo_adLZSuhe0eLlqE2TuxXftNbGSLW9qgWfzQjFF1MRaBXoHvM9HeVgR-He0NSjuS3Etsa4iFUha-yvE6Kkg7W9BJy8AUgovAFk7xMRJnG_1B7LM8Az4hA8ntYAQW6Nb8_Lj2I0Se-kFcuOVrdnjmnD74KhOhQsahpPf/s320/annie%20albers%20at%20the%20Musee%20moderne%20in%20paris.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigO5O-TK3m3O9NXOc7JNnv_KzgtNXBz6vcR8V2hwpdihn-6em2ZdrJQJAFKvoMlKmWoO8c-KpaRpcm8EqCGmi9Bp2rwiHhXhMAdHW7C-z5gB-tEu_7hkphrDkhbIWa17Pa6Sd7WNcDrnqt-I79OFtQpvBRC03_6YGVHtLAyP-gTPpJojDZzyQ3KrOk/s4000/little%20girl%20playing%20ball%20in%20the%20tuilleries.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigO5O-TK3m3O9NXOc7JNnv_KzgtNXBz6vcR8V2hwpdihn-6em2ZdrJQJAFKvoMlKmWoO8c-KpaRpcm8EqCGmi9Bp2rwiHhXhMAdHW7C-z5gB-tEu_7hkphrDkhbIWa17Pa6Sd7WNcDrnqt-I79OFtQpvBRC03_6YGVHtLAyP-gTPpJojDZzyQ3KrOk/s320/little%20girl%20playing%20ball%20in%20the%20tuilleries.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Though at the moment they seem part of the past...an unforgettable part, to be sure... I need to find a way to bring them manageably into this new year...probably by following my own advice: start with one image, write about it, and go on from there. I will, I promise. Soon.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRldtzXAWOjTa4o-fOzYxje8wxxt7TJB_XOZwKIfpZGYjz-Ah8ieTfP1jQSDKB8Ma4YadJcbgH8ScqCDKvDopKHK8maq1fHM3HgdBySvYX8QU9f-Y2o34LQxECeCSGHaYkhjKmp1rHV569nG9PyvfeRrLkJNWSrQhqFgnHZv7i0BG-W5hij53Rem_F/s1208/wooden%20quilt.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1208" data-original-width="1079" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRldtzXAWOjTa4o-fOzYxje8wxxt7TJB_XOZwKIfpZGYjz-Ah8ieTfP1jQSDKB8Ma4YadJcbgH8ScqCDKvDopKHK8maq1fHM3HgdBySvYX8QU9f-Y2o34LQxECeCSGHaYkhjKmp1rHV569nG9PyvfeRrLkJNWSrQhqFgnHZv7i0BG-W5hij53Rem_F/s320/wooden%20quilt.jpg" width="286" /></a></div><br /><p>Meanwhile, there is this year to begin. And this is the image pulling myself out of the fog right now. I've hit on a new art direction to try, inspired by one of the quilt ladies I met this summer, who posted on instagram a photograph of a quilt pieced of small, wooden scraps. I just about popped when I saw it. (Wooden't you? [sorry, couldn't help myself.])</p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Y4QSmBjYjttGnnW4tavYaikWnqCI1WHwVmeQIU2dHA2Q3iId4e1yvUPZT6vOtCQjo_5eoYYQ9ZXStD-UbJfDrBLhrzcnkvaUSozPEieKZQttHN1wwvhxAh3wAl_BegAzCVU6mGsDp8yZtqEZv9KLwt2qo7IDoPEnXpJz0XqxUSLt-wdi9kwW9X68/s4000/scraps%20for%20wooden%20art.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Y4QSmBjYjttGnnW4tavYaikWnqCI1WHwVmeQIU2dHA2Q3iId4e1yvUPZT6vOtCQjo_5eoYYQ9ZXStD-UbJfDrBLhrzcnkvaUSozPEieKZQttHN1wwvhxAh3wAl_BegAzCVU6mGsDp8yZtqEZv9KLwt2qo7IDoPEnXpJz0XqxUSLt-wdi9kwW9X68/s320/scraps%20for%20wooden%20art.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>So, living in the midst of woodworkers of all talents, I began begging for their scraps, and figuring out how to reduce them (the scraps, not the woodworkers) to art materials. It's clear that first of all I need a new cutting tool, one that, unlike all the odd saws in our possession, actually cuts.</p><p>Don't expect to see anything like the wonder above; what ensues will make itself known little by little. For me, it's something to look forward to...something like a new bike.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>I wonder, too...what's new for you?</i></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p></div></div></div>Rachel's Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790797302450473117noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8959233989161202970.post-5155015709314012182022-12-21T11:18:00.001-08:002022-12-21T11:18:12.700-08:00Birth of light<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0-up-Zlu_GSM8oP717GCzTAJr1bMLXbRQ2XitbhMqf7ylJQ--sPd3Y3SkYNYpC4b8cBAyxTSe4ICbdDUQtJt3Kg_xCIQ3bLoDqxzBIF0cIdCM9qa2gUb_rTuE3oDEajXv5yajqSLDSgT5jHpBMJQssnogqt70LlZQcWJVpZbXkM_Kf7TRabJ4IAUk/s3691/poinsettia%20from%20the%20Baers%202022.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1993" data-original-width="3691" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0-up-Zlu_GSM8oP717GCzTAJr1bMLXbRQ2XitbhMqf7ylJQ--sPd3Y3SkYNYpC4b8cBAyxTSe4ICbdDUQtJt3Kg_xCIQ3bLoDqxzBIF0cIdCM9qa2gUb_rTuE3oDEajXv5yajqSLDSgT5jHpBMJQssnogqt70LlZQcWJVpZbXkM_Kf7TRabJ4IAUk/s320/poinsettia%20from%20the%20Baers%202022.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Every year, this gift from a friend I have never met</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>It seems as if holidays of one sort or another have been going on since early October, when I left for my trip abroad. Somewhere around Thanksgiving, however, the fever of celebration hit everyone, and busy-ness began in earnest, gatherings, phone calls from nearly lost friends, birthday and holiday brunches and parties and dinners out. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvv__ouf65advkwodKtVYNJ1R1M2Dd-fZ_eMmu6FcfIPRG28KcClP09sGIPDQ5dPI235PiZ_ILnBU17zu8xDapJ5qal_pk3Y4Brc1ngC3ttg5Tlxo5GOEnq8r65CsRIZMV09bd9lrwu4K0HZ0AdNXCx0N5dWWVCign0nEw5rH_oiwiGFDAd5UEWZlS/s3301/brunch%20with%20friends.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2302" data-original-width="3301" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvv__ouf65advkwodKtVYNJ1R1M2Dd-fZ_eMmu6FcfIPRG28KcClP09sGIPDQ5dPI235PiZ_ILnBU17zu8xDapJ5qal_pk3Y4Brc1ngC3ttg5Tlxo5GOEnq8r65CsRIZMV09bd9lrwu4K0HZ0AdNXCx0N5dWWVCign0nEw5rH_oiwiGFDAd5UEWZlS/s320/brunch%20with%20friends.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>There were cards to make (I'm late and slow doing them this year...)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFEZeTAv5WDMr137P3V0JMA1HTXrA35pKgy3okM8idqqybyaDmFWZM-72Vicsq3D1eVyW4awUssr8of9EyJlNGtnFmn1anOic5lVjIYxiFDFSZvZbOvHWM_PSD9F42TZ_WG860MS9TzGnri1WS-03OnY1sFiFjsyPJFbRTQUNN2C6viaYtjIYrNV_R/s2938/chanukah%20card%202022.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2301" data-original-width="2938" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFEZeTAv5WDMr137P3V0JMA1HTXrA35pKgy3okM8idqqybyaDmFWZM-72Vicsq3D1eVyW4awUssr8of9EyJlNGtnFmn1anOic5lVjIYxiFDFSZvZbOvHWM_PSD9F42TZ_WG860MS9TzGnri1WS-03OnY1sFiFjsyPJFbRTQUNN2C6viaYtjIYrNV_R/s320/chanukah%20card%202022.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEWAxikVfgQQS53_ID9I3n8__9U7Ownf3usF2lv-Sul_QVKgv0J2RzvBd5j3_4mAumIeqh8K79i4LievmF4CXeVzfyfEGKz2GWNNAWLYRMjA-DyHbbY0WQGVIaNtD-djsNcN-D3RIQEipfU05MsQXVgpUuN5qABHm2EVB05zJHlpFaIALa94nI99wN/s3630/christmas%20card%20for%20someone%202022.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2850" data-original-width="3630" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEWAxikVfgQQS53_ID9I3n8__9U7Ownf3usF2lv-Sul_QVKgv0J2RzvBd5j3_4mAumIeqh8K79i4LievmF4CXeVzfyfEGKz2GWNNAWLYRMjA-DyHbbY0WQGVIaNtD-djsNcN-D3RIQEipfU05MsQXVgpUuN5qABHm2EVB05zJHlpFaIALa94nI99wN/s320/christmas%20card%20for%20someone%202022.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6mMYEC8ECuJ_WB4xLMqDXNvcvDH2MRZugCtzbLe_II92z2N0xMZoqGj39uuapl3YntmmlU9W-dj18IKImiQydMBBSXiQs1h4gzeUAvod6RrEFKCvNWerBKRu3OYZxr60XRWjgr3N2WS1HCnliXkBMf9raKVeqtZanDwE2YlU05tPMwd6z_GI_dXzW/s3470/holiday%20card%20for%20someone%202022.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2796" data-original-width="3470" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6mMYEC8ECuJ_WB4xLMqDXNvcvDH2MRZugCtzbLe_II92z2N0xMZoqGj39uuapl3YntmmlU9W-dj18IKImiQydMBBSXiQs1h4gzeUAvod6RrEFKCvNWerBKRu3OYZxr60XRWjgr3N2WS1HCnliXkBMf9raKVeqtZanDwE2YlU05tPMwd6z_GI_dXzW/s320/holiday%20card%20for%20someone%202022.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">and gifts to think about and order and wrap, and cookies to make and suppers to organize.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaASm9Dz5Mos-jarNkJUGN0Ls-MXfvMVAXUNzpKVvBo5qk2sjGEIYiziTRbJwJck4M4WQ4u8m8dDOT3YHHR1gn7FE6fwHJMUx9o2OFsVokAfXBCnr8OJHS8LGkxkKkw_752h_qmosLqo4pYpBYrqH7pcB2NyUyboLfiLHPDqNFbYPFe1lmDLy2avDF/s3608/cookies%20baked.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="3608" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaASm9Dz5Mos-jarNkJUGN0Ls-MXfvMVAXUNzpKVvBo5qk2sjGEIYiziTRbJwJck4M4WQ4u8m8dDOT3YHHR1gn7FE6fwHJMUx9o2OFsVokAfXBCnr8OJHS8LGkxkKkw_752h_qmosLqo4pYpBYrqH7pcB2NyUyboLfiLHPDqNFbYPFe1lmDLy2avDF/s320/cookies%20baked.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Not to mention this spectacular Nutella Snowflake Ring (thanks to Diane Morrissey's recipe...simple but messy) to try. It was quite a hit.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">(<i>Dust with confectioner's sugar before serving</i>).</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH2CkuPbXNWKK7q51PsbbyoGB3FVH6l_Zq_T2vrmf6HzDt8PTGbgtYD1kzWlpsP6u3sq49rcHPtoZMNm1MusSY6HV0-4YkjwO70fBhDe73MC8HzZfkEj7CqM4ZwPExnEemc9k8FN0grOi2Yu9wyYR-V50s8gxlDCUWNxpdbBuFLrEQ8j_fs74sVDRK/s4000/snowflake%20nutella%20ring%20from%20Diane%20Morrissey%20recipe.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH2CkuPbXNWKK7q51PsbbyoGB3FVH6l_Zq_T2vrmf6HzDt8PTGbgtYD1kzWlpsP6u3sq49rcHPtoZMNm1MusSY6HV0-4YkjwO70fBhDe73MC8HzZfkEj7CqM4ZwPExnEemc9k8FN0grOi2Yu9wyYR-V50s8gxlDCUWNxpdbBuFLrEQ8j_fs74sVDRK/s320/snowflake%20nutella%20ring%20from%20Diane%20Morrissey%20recipe.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>...now it's the third day of Chanukah, and the first night's lighting with the children, dinner, gifts and games long over. This morning, for the first time in a long time, I am quiet. The morning light reflecting on the candles and its leavings, the room full of sunshine, I find time to write, but about more than the calendar highlights.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLb9JMpd3FIVEEPt8PVAbCK5lm1x3UbibZJWnVFCksuteHDl1Is154MnDdwjiMCy1rCLkZ-ABawXJ9-_BrESj90pJf4sEfo0MKhllQtdoo32dc8c4LlIuF3kzDRURU0ZRYY_MlnEU8BbjardhxgRZc11Xt_CMFr1V8vXJjhIvk95St58I2JirDSuO0/s3235/chanukah,%20third%20day%202022.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3235" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLb9JMpd3FIVEEPt8PVAbCK5lm1x3UbibZJWnVFCksuteHDl1Is154MnDdwjiMCy1rCLkZ-ABawXJ9-_BrESj90pJf4sEfo0MKhllQtdoo32dc8c4LlIuF3kzDRURU0ZRYY_MlnEU8BbjardhxgRZc11Xt_CMFr1V8vXJjhIvk95St58I2JirDSuO0/s320/chanukah,%20third%20day%202022.jpg" width="297" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;">Today is my sister Eileen's birthday, as was my brother Tom's, ten years after hers. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieruZHaPglJTlV5JqwY2XeIsQAGd-A0-UIXe4xWPCqyCZT_NazwQzP4r2lnw6na2tNUYw3qq_qbegZQ61HDbdSH489cixqeohujrC_5yyCfijB9S3axZIXQYrkB1PI_24RqvA3jBGaLPgiSKMvJiicz1n3rMzCOhkcxozXFx5UvCjxYpXuDKNDIo8l/s1643/eileen's%20gift%20from%20london%20for%20birthday%202022.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1643" data-original-width="1232" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieruZHaPglJTlV5JqwY2XeIsQAGd-A0-UIXe4xWPCqyCZT_NazwQzP4r2lnw6na2tNUYw3qq_qbegZQ61HDbdSH489cixqeohujrC_5yyCfijB9S3axZIXQYrkB1PI_24RqvA3jBGaLPgiSKMvJiicz1n3rMzCOhkcxozXFx5UvCjxYpXuDKNDIo8l/s320/eileen's%20gift%20from%20london%20for%20birthday%202022.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>It's also the winter solstice, when light turns back toward us. Elizabeth Matheson, marvelous photographer, sent this perfect picture of early morning:</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOWTGFI5DtnO3xet7Ndenx_lUdl5F5Hs4SNWiT-XYGjQsU5Xwkb7GbxV_YzzcpgrS0NeeHT5fup3uxfC3V5a1A2RjZnC1DnAajK3bS1sPn5OIP6SJyWizfJ9CJNoAODDO2aIrH5P0dTbnTkYmHopFwhbHKxeEnkyw8Naaos1vMn1kAQMk0vvEETKqa/s1064/Elizabeth%20Matheson%20first%20light,%20solstice%20Dec%202022%20from%20instagram.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1064" data-original-width="1055" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOWTGFI5DtnO3xet7Ndenx_lUdl5F5Hs4SNWiT-XYGjQsU5Xwkb7GbxV_YzzcpgrS0NeeHT5fup3uxfC3V5a1A2RjZnC1DnAajK3bS1sPn5OIP6SJyWizfJ9CJNoAODDO2aIrH5P0dTbnTkYmHopFwhbHKxeEnkyw8Naaos1vMn1kAQMk0vvEETKqa/s320/Elizabeth%20Matheson%20first%20light,%20solstice%20Dec%202022%20from%20instagram.jpg" width="317" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Elizabeth Matheson, First light, solstice, 2022</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Given her personality, my sister Eileen seems destined to be born on this day...she is cheerful, helpful, sturdy...bright. "[That's] Life" is often her answer to what comes her way. She is light to many.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7L2BBe2TQueeeAfIKBOEtKVi2PIs0Yp3OG_Fw6zOOZtbj2pmj9FqJJ2cue28Yvr-AbPunvoibGLAcadUEcDHN_9uDqAHGYrgznNVrAzr8rF8VCZwit3SLbbLxzWzUeMLhDzmWTMsIHtZPQgc1BOQPMXTOpha3PdNL3dkYUIokD_hZVuPbb21hKqUa/s3392/eileen%20trimming%20outside%20her%20house.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2493" data-original-width="3392" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7L2BBe2TQueeeAfIKBOEtKVi2PIs0Yp3OG_Fw6zOOZtbj2pmj9FqJJ2cue28Yvr-AbPunvoibGLAcadUEcDHN_9uDqAHGYrgznNVrAzr8rF8VCZwit3SLbbLxzWzUeMLhDzmWTMsIHtZPQgc1BOQPMXTOpha3PdNL3dkYUIokD_hZVuPbb21hKqUa/s320/eileen%20trimming%20outside%20her%20house.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Her husband Jim, a nice fellow himself, couldn't have a better helpmeet.</span></div><p></p><p>Today, on her day, she's celebrating by helping, as she has done all week, to make meals for a long-standing local Christmas dinner for those alone or without other resources...2,500 people are expected, she told me. She volunteers for such because she sees their need. She began with the Council on Aging Thrift Store, then picked up Meals on Wheels, with Jim navigating back roads, next the Interfaith Council and this week the local Bounty of Bethlehem's holiday dinner. Those are the "official" volunteer activities; her neighbors and family will be quick to add the hands and heart she gives freely to them.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizkceAj-KlQ-sReSpjetpw6kMMCaVHsWzIo98STnGsv0jLo7tc5n7DQSjPlQg4kgwJGhPUN-m4aP1vZwio45lYgk2gQeQ6zIGreTDoMEToMHODrq0bUPLVRKbdXFHGBVD52w5ho7S3KcpOuML717AoEUJamlLLfBB5R1Jz_R-_FEEu1Gufr1REIUIg/s960/bounty%20of%20bethlehem%20eileens%20volunteering%202022.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizkceAj-KlQ-sReSpjetpw6kMMCaVHsWzIo98STnGsv0jLo7tc5n7DQSjPlQg4kgwJGhPUN-m4aP1vZwio45lYgk2gQeQ6zIGreTDoMEToMHODrq0bUPLVRKbdXFHGBVD52w5ho7S3KcpOuML717AoEUJamlLLfBB5R1Jz_R-_FEEu1Gufr1REIUIg/s320/bounty%20of%20bethlehem%20eileens%20volunteering%202022.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Bounty of Bethlehem, in a prior year</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>It sounds as if, for her birthday and for the re-lighting of the days ahead, she's being herself.</p><p style="text-align: center;">Happy birthday, Eileen! It's wonderful to be sister of a woman ...</p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWfHAG0OB7cMew5lZvm7uLDV7MqBTA6I0xqm7Ta6mnUzsH46ah4dNyAFp4KzdjgMs_93H0_fGfj5gD5qkQZAUJrSI8m8lvCataBRfUnDpDlOvWRZoGfPP7qyIO6LxsOG2PM1_IyzqvMPgheX6dKzXUCRC9_HPGaoY4M9fj_JS3XFcz2B-j9aZffUOP/s1232/eileen%20with%20ann%20and%20m.e.%202022.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1232" data-original-width="1148" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWfHAG0OB7cMew5lZvm7uLDV7MqBTA6I0xqm7Ta6mnUzsH46ah4dNyAFp4KzdjgMs_93H0_fGfj5gD5qkQZAUJrSI8m8lvCataBRfUnDpDlOvWRZoGfPP7qyIO6LxsOG2PM1_IyzqvMPgheX6dKzXUCRC9_HPGaoY4M9fj_JS3XFcz2B-j9aZffUOP/s320/eileen%20with%20ann%20and%20m.e.%202022.jpeg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTeoyOeDlN_X1nz1CRx-wv2U4VK4kqDMvj1-WHZ8cfG-kzrzEr9EN2rg1UXghqdNR6YKT6q4hQvFBcvg4vjleZ8E9WV_R_WXmX1wB8sIUblH5NifXfYKdUvh1TF5ZOUlTWOZlA8GgtN7QDMtndQ0nLucHDl45a0Db8UIbg-HJwfY21ze8oPtgOYMk/s2966/Eileen%20with%20aunt%20sadie%20on%20their%20tablets.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2966" data-original-width="2190" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTeoyOeDlN_X1nz1CRx-wv2U4VK4kqDMvj1-WHZ8cfG-kzrzEr9EN2rg1UXghqdNR6YKT6q4hQvFBcvg4vjleZ8E9WV_R_WXmX1wB8sIUblH5NifXfYKdUvh1TF5ZOUlTWOZlA8GgtN7QDMtndQ0nLucHDl45a0Db8UIbg-HJwfY21ze8oPtgOYMk/s320/Eileen%20with%20aunt%20sadie%20on%20their%20tablets.jpg" width="236" /></a></div><br />...for whom kindness and care are the point of a good life.<p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>May you all enjoy and be a good life in the year ahead.</i></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Rachel's Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790797302450473117noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8959233989161202970.post-43186243505692389482022-11-20T11:22:00.000-08:002022-11-20T11:22:57.881-08:00Journey I...staying with friends<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhagNKHjLl5BkKF9Dp9xBeLmgk1LR4aFK6ekmJ9MJNQmGK3UOUuPrz8q6SgtZme4WHHIKizSEv0gaVqGMS2t5P6PfgVskX3rOqYmxYaoE9X0EVN9-eHI8dTNVPn99Ng9_2QWja4lLtZ-Uy_m6pbslNT9xqxe3fRiQNaWHima4npxvz8g3OqXIEeX8AG/s4000/travel%20writings%20and%20paper%20keepsakes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhagNKHjLl5BkKF9Dp9xBeLmgk1LR4aFK6ekmJ9MJNQmGK3UOUuPrz8q6SgtZme4WHHIKizSEv0gaVqGMS2t5P6PfgVskX3rOqYmxYaoE9X0EVN9-eHI8dTNVPn99Ng9_2QWja4lLtZ-Uy_m6pbslNT9xqxe3fRiQNaWHima4npxvz8g3OqXIEeX8AG/s320/travel%20writings%20and%20paper%20keepsakes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Well, here it is too much more than a month later, returned from my long trip to London, Scotland and Paris. The other day someone asked me, "What was your favorite thing about the trip?" And, you know...I couldn't answer.</p><p>It's the same with this post. For weeks, though I felt I wanted to share it, ought to share it with you here, I haven't been able to get past the enormity of the journey to put it into words. It's not that the trip was disappointing, or boring, or troublesome. Far from it! It was wonderful...I use that word literally...the <i>wondering</i> each day and night as I<i> wandered</i>, the absorbing of everything the senses allowed and the mind captured. </p><p>I'd been to all those places before, so it wasn't as if everything was as if shiny-new in a foreigner's eyes. But this trip, from the beginning, had a peace about it, a coming-back relief, release, an unravelling of my knots and fissures, some more painful than others to undo, and yet... Throughout, I walked and walked and walked.</p><p>So how to begin relating it to you? <i>What is your favorite? No? </i><i>All right, then choose <u>one</u> of your favorites...</i>it's impossible. </p><p>When I did the Journal Workshop all those years ago, one woman came to a session foaming in frustration...<i>how could I ask her to write "Where I Come From"...too much, too complicated!</i></p><p>I remember my response now..<i>.just pick a moment, an image and write that. </i> She did: a poem of sorts about leaving for school in the morning, undoing when she got to the corner the braids that her mother had tightened behind her, and letting her hair go free.</p><p>It occurs to me this very second, that hers is a good metaphor for my own moment away. There may not be braids to undo, but hair? Yes. Before I left, I had gone to the hairdresser and told her, <i>This hair won't do. </i>She agreed, and cut it within two inches of its roots. I loved it. It reminded me of that Twiggy cut I had gotten a few days before graduation and took it to Aspen with me that summer. Then, in Paris, wanting a trim, I'd had it shorn to barely one, strand by strand in the cutter's precise hands. So that might be the feeling my journal writer described...going free.</p><p>You've already read how I made my plans...a visit to my friends in London and Scotland, and a side trip to Uncle George's sister Ada attached, of course (Paris was always there, the ride on the Eurostar always an easy glide into it). It was only a few weeks before I left that I woke one morning thinking (demanding is more like it), <i>I need to get out of town.</i> Under that a desperation building inside me that maybe I recognized, maybe not, pushing me along. Things fell into place too quickly, too universe-designed. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPKsAIjsy0ubWZWmOjFgMz0SlrHGB7w2iaPD1SRstxQLJGy94dJ54Gk7tk4kMFjtjmgNLzm-CdXhZWrcbaWxo76O6OKoe47G9A3aJS6ZTYvy3v3-SPpQvqkSRazHkYL2zj5dGHMkcMZL2Wnm2xRHPHrGJ1ub6tnCtgDFh3WtbbPnvuP2y_AFgiW-A9/s4000/airplane%20map%20rdu%20to%20heathrow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPKsAIjsy0ubWZWmOjFgMz0SlrHGB7w2iaPD1SRstxQLJGy94dJ54Gk7tk4kMFjtjmgNLzm-CdXhZWrcbaWxo76O6OKoe47G9A3aJS6ZTYvy3v3-SPpQvqkSRazHkYL2zj5dGHMkcMZL2Wnm2xRHPHrGJ1ub6tnCtgDFh3WtbbPnvuP2y_AFgiW-A9/s320/airplane%20map%20rdu%20to%20heathrow.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p>It's easy to write, <i>yes, I've been to London, Scotland and Paris...isn't that grand.</i> But it's not the destinations, or at least the names of places that are difficult; it's the <i>being there </i>that befuddles. Visiting friends, making friends, infusing each piece of the kaleidoscopic journey with _______ what? Something I can't name, but could paint in colors if I sat down to it...a rush of brightness in dashes and blots, not superficial color but innate, like inks soaked into rag paper, thickening and illuminating a vision you watch grow into some sort of new understanding. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Hp4GuIt41wVv1VCOa_pShdP9fEF7yVv1Gyc-G7e7OD9y1UO_sB6Ybw0PH-1g05yIDdTqDQghlB62DA5odzc6TZcPu-yofVbm9PUW0PpCJsekSDNJSxVo-8PL98jn8FUdqUp-ZyJc-T0VNZAmP4iYE1tu-o1EpcmR6UzdB8AtSH-iGZXhVUO6nQ8P/s4000/station%20at%20paddington.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Hp4GuIt41wVv1VCOa_pShdP9fEF7yVv1Gyc-G7e7OD9y1UO_sB6Ybw0PH-1g05yIDdTqDQghlB62DA5odzc6TZcPu-yofVbm9PUW0PpCJsekSDNJSxVo-8PL98jn8FUdqUp-ZyJc-T0VNZAmP4iYE1tu-o1EpcmR6UzdB8AtSH-iGZXhVUO6nQ8P/s320/station%20at%20paddington.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp3P_UgAhZrz4U71_M-2TySh6e1GKcr5ifYQ32uAsv027isPmwAU5uJ9kHvr5yy_v1lrDGbqH0pkdj2-i7GvddcCgqTQJYABvSiF9RXZjwQC4r44QtHUxzIXDUIvYdANEAs7btADDRCE3VJUwi0N2v1bDFZWksiKCEtllPcOrnInn6QwAe0PU8VNYF/s3025/will%20in%20his%20kitchen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3025" data-original-width="2204" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp3P_UgAhZrz4U71_M-2TySh6e1GKcr5ifYQ32uAsv027isPmwAU5uJ9kHvr5yy_v1lrDGbqH0pkdj2-i7GvddcCgqTQJYABvSiF9RXZjwQC4r44QtHUxzIXDUIvYdANEAs7btADDRCE3VJUwi0N2v1bDFZWksiKCEtllPcOrnInn6QwAe0PU8VNYF/s320/will%20in%20his%20kitchen.jpg" width="233" /></a><span style="text-align: left;">In London, then Scotland, Will and Dorothy brought something refreshing to every day...a bowl of welcome lentils after a long journey, splendid gardens and towns to explore, endless conversations about our history, their history, the history of towns and families (not to mention insights into the current, dreaded political scene). Will's apartment and Dorothy's cottage are homey, lovely, filled with family photos and curiosities, each in different ways. Will, ever the collector, has made his into a miniature John Soane; Dorothy in a tribute to art, family, carved and potted collections, each piece in a little corner where it lives best. Every day a new one to discover. And their back gardens! It's a sink-into-comfort visit with tours of places revisited and new on the side. And care...they are perfect hosts, warm, easy to be with, stand-in-the-rain-to-see-me-off-on-the-train hosts. </span></div><p>Ah. There we are. <i>Care</i>. If this trip were a favorite dish, <i>care </i>would be the flavor that seeps up through its aroma and stays with you. (Do you see how it takes the senses to explain?)</p><p> To begin, Will meets me at Heathrow, hands me an Oyster card he keeps for guests, and we train back to Brockley for a rest and reorientation. Then he makes me lentils for supper...the perfect arrival dinner after a long night's flight over the Atlantic. </p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEI63oNi4T1Y7IU4fnvtw8ZiwD_soe1KptNK8spycIn9stauIywO70_uUIoVnckpE_iZIyO17VRWnEwULNLZj80RykmDqqswr9hWSSNVfQZiA9MXujDpI4Fnir-N2VZHYpplePEb9D31grp4RzagCcEBGfaTebVDj30FDTFDS4kB5wuB7kEQeLujyK/s4000/lentils%20at%20will's%20first%20night.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEI63oNi4T1Y7IU4fnvtw8ZiwD_soe1KptNK8spycIn9stauIywO70_uUIoVnckpE_iZIyO17VRWnEwULNLZj80RykmDqqswr9hWSSNVfQZiA9MXujDpI4Fnir-N2VZHYpplePEb9D31grp4RzagCcEBGfaTebVDj30FDTFDS4kB5wuB7kEQeLujyK/s320/lentils%20at%20will's%20first%20night.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTKuAKUPedD5gkEnK_V3gqODXwOV-0SWGtf-vYmiEpy1DO9k1sHUzjelRKtPbDP9rcxuH-yOFB2sL0pAdZQY5uOR6uFYe7rQtrOANDJUrsnMUP9LoTixWwuKeOyNj9iNfVUfCfTBqoNqflfFSQopdQypdten3qfWpni3lf5mFk5ySj8XA4vy_-N9V1/s4000/Will's%20hats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTKuAKUPedD5gkEnK_V3gqODXwOV-0SWGtf-vYmiEpy1DO9k1sHUzjelRKtPbDP9rcxuH-yOFB2sL0pAdZQY5uOR6uFYe7rQtrOANDJUrsnMUP9LoTixWwuKeOyNj9iNfVUfCfTBqoNqflfFSQopdQypdten3qfWpni3lf5mFk5ySj8XA4vy_-N9V1/s320/Will's%20hats.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>We walk through Hilly Fields to stretch our legs. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh43fWJ_NlBdotYEpLgcKy60eugsqyLPahsu8Wkz7AL5MzaYzrACs5EE-nBVylHMFOLkeNwtsKQj0QWPwRSf7UZsAFnFOIidIATD5goVPMmzUnbN62613JSNwfupX0URcxvZHpluMKzosG16HVZhFw7Agcavg0S2FNnalaDFlo7BFrNA-lKi7n8zObL/s4000/Hilly%20Fields%20bowls%20club.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh43fWJ_NlBdotYEpLgcKy60eugsqyLPahsu8Wkz7AL5MzaYzrACs5EE-nBVylHMFOLkeNwtsKQj0QWPwRSf7UZsAFnFOIidIATD5goVPMmzUnbN62613JSNwfupX0URcxvZHpluMKzosG16HVZhFw7Agcavg0S2FNnalaDFlo7BFrNA-lKi7n8zObL/s320/Hilly%20Fields%20bowls%20club.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj48ytYCpc3FfC-SOG5BvL7Z1qh3g2BLxzzet3sGckNa-IXWlHGUoUXJqeYdcMu519C8YOk3vAfGFbH1ruzi7mFVyZsPnbfLnhml3mUlBvjJS7-_R2yteK_hpD09kdnKgg8FJHHeav5QNeqv-AbvO8ZteuU87DN9kkBw-Fk_yi81gjR-4cgPFcI67LD/s4000/Hilly%20Fields,%20tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj48ytYCpc3FfC-SOG5BvL7Z1qh3g2BLxzzet3sGckNa-IXWlHGUoUXJqeYdcMu519C8YOk3vAfGFbH1ruzi7mFVyZsPnbfLnhml3mUlBvjJS7-_R2yteK_hpD09kdnKgg8FJHHeav5QNeqv-AbvO8ZteuU87DN9kkBw-Fk_yi81gjR-4cgPFcI67LD/s320/Hilly%20Fields,%20tree.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>By bus, we go to Lewiston, a town over, to shop for sturdy shoes in the Clark's store...I buy a pair my sister calls "bowling shoes"...don't laugh! They carry me all over the UK and Scotland and Paris comfortably and neatly. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHovcVYE1dZpur_pJHAneNlzLEk9iaCZPhOvflqsF_Z7kaWp71l5ycGldiNeDxI-dEWrIa-dYu573-ZzORrkfFGHWQZnSHThrnRkoHOYAiQIcyhp3KhIWzglzAAmR19ygrX0n2b-rlWEDogah6vTZkNeoKoeOu6qKRZvr5s7gZwHdwBfv3wphiVP7k/s3735/Clarks%20shoes%20Lewiston.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3735" data-original-width="2515" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHovcVYE1dZpur_pJHAneNlzLEk9iaCZPhOvflqsF_Z7kaWp71l5ycGldiNeDxI-dEWrIa-dYu573-ZzORrkfFGHWQZnSHThrnRkoHOYAiQIcyhp3KhIWzglzAAmR19ygrX0n2b-rlWEDogah6vTZkNeoKoeOu6qKRZvr5s7gZwHdwBfv3wphiVP7k/s320/Clarks%20shoes%20Lewiston.jpg" width="215" /></a></div><br /><p>There is a long street market there, too, where Will can buy 4 avocados for 1£ . </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2PJGGsaDNQd-eobImEbLYIBLGU6nBIgURbfelTWk-sOV-dyj4eBrBh9emhUxwy_13aPeMciG3rXmInsBBEdhwdeSg4VQPp2EJ796NLOUF036wkCJqDzYpJaLQHB2BIPFIyDtwi5ha7LorQhswfkFg7vm79WV_DUv1c4xyEXgAo_4rpLlnVpHjE0J5/s4000/Shard%20coming%20out%20of%20station.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2PJGGsaDNQd-eobImEbLYIBLGU6nBIgURbfelTWk-sOV-dyj4eBrBh9emhUxwy_13aPeMciG3rXmInsBBEdhwdeSg4VQPp2EJ796NLOUF036wkCJqDzYpJaLQHB2BIPFIyDtwi5ha7LorQhswfkFg7vm79WV_DUv1c4xyEXgAo_4rpLlnVpHjE0J5/s320/Shard%20coming%20out%20of%20station.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>By train, then, to the Borough Market, between the Klink and the Bermondsly Road (I'm disappointed to find Bermondsly is no longer the famed furniture/antique/junk market), where we trudge up and down the tangled paths through the kiosks, gathering food for our Scotland trip and some spicey gifts to bring home. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirv7-tclbAk2bOCppHabe6-ORcZ0VaCja5Ksur4PdvDpaWnrtUxvZwauHh-CyqgIsNkJjdtWx2OczpN4L4M5C7AWYOdJlQWdiOV4dNm5b6coUl4mCtxEnKsE5EJbMUGhw1H0YrCyhFW6J7_hSp2SKMX0mhpLhGnMF-slNqZ-CKyZqxmM_It2LCFHwu/s4000/Burrough%20Market.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirv7-tclbAk2bOCppHabe6-ORcZ0VaCja5Ksur4PdvDpaWnrtUxvZwauHh-CyqgIsNkJjdtWx2OczpN4L4M5C7AWYOdJlQWdiOV4dNm5b6coUl4mCtxEnKsE5EJbMUGhw1H0YrCyhFW6J7_hSp2SKMX0mhpLhGnMF-slNqZ-CKyZqxmM_It2LCFHwu/s320/Burrough%20Market.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhin7a8RaLzUqikvsC4eMR3GaHbJezVYdFaeStQ0gZ1HwMavZQbvlbVOOSUXVIsjRijmisZ5Wr4T-jOA4F-bpnOJ7xl24oRuVamuoIqdFq6yvQsG5aF_vMKgJJqj9QbzelwreUYZpcXWddd10KaB0sOJlEVUaKnxP6M-4O1hOZym0k5M4FBAnjZUOdf/s4000/huge%20basil%20in%20will's%20garden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhin7a8RaLzUqikvsC4eMR3GaHbJezVYdFaeStQ0gZ1HwMavZQbvlbVOOSUXVIsjRijmisZ5Wr4T-jOA4F-bpnOJ7xl24oRuVamuoIqdFq6yvQsG5aF_vMKgJJqj9QbzelwreUYZpcXWddd10KaB0sOJlEVUaKnxP6M-4O1hOZym0k5M4FBAnjZUOdf/s320/huge%20basil%20in%20will's%20garden.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiyJ4ShGxQRcMnLQFvWVrf1pFJB_qM1JNoBqF_AAePzGd-VUPI6zpiBPRpZVlGUWHF7ajAfd5Pxa6WX5kzzLqUPQXuBKwv1Cu9lCr7X4EgfDlM3J3CdvqADIY1P_sP54224XcAVaGEGrluP3m7LPNpflc98jay-lIznpW4fNetcizdHP5Zd8JQWxtG/s4000/Carolina%20hot%20at%20spice%20market%20at%20Burrough%20Market.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiyJ4ShGxQRcMnLQFvWVrf1pFJB_qM1JNoBqF_AAePzGd-VUPI6zpiBPRpZVlGUWHF7ajAfd5Pxa6WX5kzzLqUPQXuBKwv1Cu9lCr7X4EgfDlM3J3CdvqADIY1P_sP54224XcAVaGEGrluP3m7LPNpflc98jay-lIznpW4fNetcizdHP5Zd8JQWxtG/s320/Carolina%20hot%20at%20spice%20market%20at%20Burrough%20Market.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />Will has basil with giant leaves growing in his small but prolific garden, so I buy seeds for Bolloso Napoletano Basilico at the garden corner there to try to grow next spring, then raid the spice market to fill Joseph's gift. <p></p><p> At an antipasto shop, run by girls from Bari, we get some marinated artichokes, mushrooms (the best!) and some meats to take to Scotland. Cheeses from another favorite vendor. Our carry bags are full by the time we go on to wander, with a stop at the Anchor Pub for ale (W) and lemonade (me).</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQTrv6NDBuoGrf10ng6urEnhSo0oBYo4nB9CrU9uelUAxLDpDezxPGERmveW-tmVZusIRqsY2OQGgEDZtBo0zlNbXK7S-WGyDZjVT2Ol5Zol-0zuUASfvSMwMp5EXRlVfnIYPiL3dGnuQj0WGK-ufGpD2wucEuQbKdTg-u6b1xnkwS6_K-4yn8BSDi/s3982/Anchor%20pub%20inside.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3982" data-original-width="2648" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQTrv6NDBuoGrf10ng6urEnhSo0oBYo4nB9CrU9uelUAxLDpDezxPGERmveW-tmVZusIRqsY2OQGgEDZtBo0zlNbXK7S-WGyDZjVT2Ol5Zol-0zuUASfvSMwMp5EXRlVfnIYPiL3dGnuQj0WGK-ufGpD2wucEuQbKdTg-u6b1xnkwS6_K-4yn8BSDi/s320/Anchor%20pub%20inside.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-oXuTWSU0c0QrNqZn_hfuKg8cxsLoxUd2ZThcQsQ5XEcaTjZHtFwSG32jL91mONNegBPJleZmRBBtvVfeX-fxdwksbdxPc1G3fGdFQM9RARrir1V451bjtpOw60tlUUXmVgyJe7p2OVR0gXEa9AOMPuuidw5n7t9RID5Oq-z7uWjCQH7AvCle4mem/s4000/Anchor%20pub%20model%20of%20Globe%20Theatre.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-oXuTWSU0c0QrNqZn_hfuKg8cxsLoxUd2ZThcQsQ5XEcaTjZHtFwSG32jL91mONNegBPJleZmRBBtvVfeX-fxdwksbdxPc1G3fGdFQM9RARrir1V451bjtpOw60tlUUXmVgyJe7p2OVR0gXEa9AOMPuuidw5n7t9RID5Oq-z7uWjCQH7AvCle4mem/s320/Anchor%20pub%20model%20of%20Globe%20Theatre.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxAXMvgiLAaRfgl2WtKtAETPJpAU6re4jsVOX3-X2eabwWNNqxEgnKRrRcnnbtT3o1644G6COfSyjOAsIy0S6BlTipq2EUGszfrUUf6OzLrso9-2jfkNYAgDl0cD9dr6ZEDiyIiXH-GBFEMlVQmqABz9fVYaYKgsnjT1qWnsRWLbnayQbU8kqAPYID/s4000/Anchor%20pub%20sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxAXMvgiLAaRfgl2WtKtAETPJpAU6re4jsVOX3-X2eabwWNNqxEgnKRrRcnnbtT3o1644G6COfSyjOAsIy0S6BlTipq2EUGszfrUUf6OzLrso9-2jfkNYAgDl0cD9dr6ZEDiyIiXH-GBFEMlVQmqABz9fVYaYKgsnjT1qWnsRWLbnayQbU8kqAPYID/s320/Anchor%20pub%20sign.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>We continue our wanderings to find a decorative clothing museum (it's closing soon, so we decide we haven't enough time, though it looks wonderful) and across the street a glassblowing shop. Vivid colors in all shapes, clear and opaque, line the white shelves and tabletops. I sigh over a beautiful asymmetrical vase, then think of how long it might last in my boy-run house. More fancifully, there is a quill and inkwell I can't even imagine the making of.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTJSgfGH7azmODeUzHZgSIRoaT6-4HpEfhFa5quGakgF3auZBjGBdafuQUfGggzMs43uyTNZX5rSKrCEoQLlEM0YZ2C7m_5OB3_C3eMf0JMX3nvA9zhN_s0ofb9ItUnikgJDafoDaSEazKyrGkeNoYzHiOsmCbfsQSJoK7vBxvoB8-t1NSJpvkc9B0/s3427/bishops%20ruins%20southwark.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3427" data-original-width="2385" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTJSgfGH7azmODeUzHZgSIRoaT6-4HpEfhFa5quGakgF3auZBjGBdafuQUfGggzMs43uyTNZX5rSKrCEoQLlEM0YZ2C7m_5OB3_C3eMf0JMX3nvA9zhN_s0ofb9ItUnikgJDafoDaSEazKyrGkeNoYzHiOsmCbfsQSJoK7vBxvoB8-t1NSJpvkc9B0/s320/bishops%20ruins%20southwark.jpg" width="223" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheqVjR4BsWIOutBLrwAITOopk3aTvj9iYei-t2g1Ka1wrzSgczC6Lr4ZK3JBwodL97P4jp6ITNZZJT3oTrGIDwGTbdFmA8Oiv5mmSLaOlg0mT9HrE3isqSs87kSSR3MBl9iFjcXKodToKyfeL8CppZ3I0jgN8pIaadOXM2oySulzx1iKMi_iEqLRMn/s4000/glassblowers%201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheqVjR4BsWIOutBLrwAITOopk3aTvj9iYei-t2g1Ka1wrzSgczC6Lr4ZK3JBwodL97P4jp6ITNZZJT3oTrGIDwGTbdFmA8Oiv5mmSLaOlg0mT9HrE3isqSs87kSSR3MBl9iFjcXKodToKyfeL8CppZ3I0jgN8pIaadOXM2oySulzx1iKMi_iEqLRMn/s320/glassblowers%201.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJhckzS1Dp88Eoi_-DjdtyjewrsfvbIkcdcWkmJwCj8rjmCIXM3UfOkiIT9ebi0gv1pmzUP1pNGkyuvJ6hfnVGeRi4VH2GBewFLAWVu_n5vP_n9UQTNdrmnu3nuk1j5OdI4y1n11U6GMgiPrKEGqWeWtK491bDkt0bUjYJSaRyKLm9N7MKCGkF5pAv/s4000/glassblowers%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJhckzS1Dp88Eoi_-DjdtyjewrsfvbIkcdcWkmJwCj8rjmCIXM3UfOkiIT9ebi0gv1pmzUP1pNGkyuvJ6hfnVGeRi4VH2GBewFLAWVu_n5vP_n9UQTNdrmnu3nuk1j5OdI4y1n11U6GMgiPrKEGqWeWtK491bDkt0bUjYJSaRyKLm9N7MKCGkF5pAv/s320/glassblowers%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Q2KtuFEMOfzhHNaBcf5g0MEG9Z0_PadU-rwz2_TjGnw15fJa01Iigj1KmVqt87VSMnT09UEP457pOZbC5O0ZDE4dxVG7K7e8BFS4PV1FOxL0ZFxHiEwjJYisThQWoMhii8MnEFdPFrcqVdPss12QDDV4UhLReRXc-EABkm6YGtj2EROIKtt7jLNy/s4000/glassblowers%20inkwell%20and%20feather.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Q2KtuFEMOfzhHNaBcf5g0MEG9Z0_PadU-rwz2_TjGnw15fJa01Iigj1KmVqt87VSMnT09UEP457pOZbC5O0ZDE4dxVG7K7e8BFS4PV1FOxL0ZFxHiEwjJYisThQWoMhii8MnEFdPFrcqVdPss12QDDV4UhLReRXc-EABkm6YGtj2EROIKtt7jLNy/s320/glassblowers%20inkwell%20and%20feather.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXP2LVvezbWdikhx2CAO-aOKZYPkg3ROIJYMVboDBgUSb4dmopyRDV6e54_f-Vd2zWxEY5RigW0Yvm3uBucKuljrbXduBr-MTIRaDru7i-8PKkaVcTCfINbVw8_he_PvNaYNDchOnVV8i5HndKMWs4tgC0g2CmIkggkHvEddfsaSpHrgifZNz8h-6j/s4000/Turning%20a%20corner%20in%20Southwark.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="2831" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXP2LVvezbWdikhx2CAO-aOKZYPkg3ROIJYMVboDBgUSb4dmopyRDV6e54_f-Vd2zWxEY5RigW0Yvm3uBucKuljrbXduBr-MTIRaDru7i-8PKkaVcTCfINbVw8_he_PvNaYNDchOnVV8i5HndKMWs4tgC0g2CmIkggkHvEddfsaSpHrgifZNz8h-6j/s320/Turning%20a%20corner%20in%20Southwark.jpg" width="226" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Back at the closing Borough Market, with some complicated maneuvering, which requires help from one of the roving staff we manage to flag down, we make a reservation for Parella, a restaurant just outside its gates, and then wait a while while the restaurant opens. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXmF9x7Pom87_yxDQfHWIYeADiKptOeZ24ahC1rOq9y-48ZkYvT_D1RDeTnR1-uXCSKSGf4I-tDiSJHM2qtuT32KLsW-AZ-yAAcXJA6PoUb4WbeixnPNJ3Lx_Zt7ivQbIOESdxzDZOD8G82kZOjAbkQKoN5trtv1wQLIlE2fDvtACgYrI7oKGPhuvn/s4000/scan%20for%20reservation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXmF9x7Pom87_yxDQfHWIYeADiKptOeZ24ahC1rOq9y-48ZkYvT_D1RDeTnR1-uXCSKSGf4I-tDiSJHM2qtuT32KLsW-AZ-yAAcXJA6PoUb4WbeixnPNJ3Lx_Zt7ivQbIOESdxzDZOD8G82kZOjAbkQKoN5trtv1wQLIlE2fDvtACgYrI7oKGPhuvn/s320/scan%20for%20reservation.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1n6lHvdSY8u8twLsspk3RwSCvrzxL77QoeYSJ4RgUTutVnJvVmCb2hiFYcuQynIchwAWolUbgJJaY6ZDtumW9SF3PzjXNFXrbPT4FLk4JlzVsmUgEEk0LenADjSFLOHhsJzWYTLjB760E7-OxKpfYhsuRkV2whbqnt5Go0wlKRv6yHZ_-8dIPMZkt/s4000/fettucini%20at%20Parella%20near%20Burrough%20Market.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1n6lHvdSY8u8twLsspk3RwSCvrzxL77QoeYSJ4RgUTutVnJvVmCb2hiFYcuQynIchwAWolUbgJJaY6ZDtumW9SF3PzjXNFXrbPT4FLk4JlzVsmUgEEk0LenADjSFLOHhsJzWYTLjB760E7-OxKpfYhsuRkV2whbqnt5Go0wlKRv6yHZ_-8dIPMZkt/s320/fettucini%20at%20Parella%20near%20Burrough%20Market.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxsWzNuVBinZsK4P5dKMeMYYNij6OE4kYW4YFUZkA32FVFeF2TyHUxHpag4YboTKUEQcK5_H90ab13fm0Gc99P7lVqCTbeGyF_56NM-7NGZBkiTzAvWik9svxuO2a8AUJQ6-84S-9PJtigpJjyM_lw2ufzjjEiqIpUcCsz10YrowK4eD2pk15KFq_3/s4000/Parella%20bar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxsWzNuVBinZsK4P5dKMeMYYNij6OE4kYW4YFUZkA32FVFeF2TyHUxHpag4YboTKUEQcK5_H90ab13fm0Gc99P7lVqCTbeGyF_56NM-7NGZBkiTzAvWik9svxuO2a8AUJQ6-84S-9PJtigpJjyM_lw2ufzjjEiqIpUcCsz10YrowK4eD2pk15KFq_3/s320/Parella%20bar.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>We get a table with a friendly server, and order glasses of wine...after today, we seriously need those...and wait for our skillful Italian dishes: wild mushroom fettucine (it's wild-mushroom season here) and rocket and arugula salad...ah! salad!...in a light barely-there dressing for me and fettucine with wild boar sausage for Will, I think. The waiter has a soft Italian voice, so I strain to hear across the table in the crowded scene. But love the nickelplated shiny bar with its light-splitting glasses. The couple next to us, girlfriends, were in line with us when we finally got "permission" to make a reservation. </p><p>After dinner, we walk more...past the Globe Theatre, from which balcony hang not Juliet but some wealthier patrons sipping wine, from a new restaurant the theatre has added. It seems a long way from tomatoes and oranges flung onstage. Along the river, the lights across shine...St. Paul's the old man among the upstart high glassy towers of every geometric form. The lit boats, tourist and working, float by. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgcCH6bu4XSZPKr5EumYmfSX4RVPN6B0WsIUALB7ejFU-nBwnbiraIEpFEUy5MXsy8WOiMaU7RYfVd8EbzswDKN1Wb-Fv41K_wanewPdrhhXT8rpKPVC9VdG2ApJ6iAIonkUooLM4ivrJ1T7Xt8-C0ILxPKyY9EACjoqIeQjMEfA2yid2_mJHlVGNB/s4000/Across%20the%20Thames%20at%20night%20and%20cezanne%20expo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgcCH6bu4XSZPKr5EumYmfSX4RVPN6B0WsIUALB7ejFU-nBwnbiraIEpFEUy5MXsy8WOiMaU7RYfVd8EbzswDKN1Wb-Fv41K_wanewPdrhhXT8rpKPVC9VdG2ApJ6iAIonkUooLM4ivrJ1T7Xt8-C0ILxPKyY9EACjoqIeQjMEfA2yid2_mJHlVGNB/s320/Across%20the%20Thames%20at%20night%20and%20cezanne%20expo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>We are headed for the Tate Modern, where Will shares his pass for a members' night at the Cezanne exhibition. Beautiful, uncrowded, I see everything but spend a very long time figuring out two particular works, their color and lines, their relation to one another (did C. know?).</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkYmBIBgChPPlIYj8sxOMTl18cuN36rIZL4LoPxXHSPKJd3R_v8jJUW4tiRynFxcsIj2s5R12oKZXpiGqL_in3qODPQPA0_alvLK7J8cAuV4gXl7qCtsCRQyqk7ewY9RTOd6MJmzW4ltLalb93Oz8jfodElE0LKtkTBt4UzQ05P5N01elh0XyadksK/s4000/Cezanne%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkYmBIBgChPPlIYj8sxOMTl18cuN36rIZL4LoPxXHSPKJd3R_v8jJUW4tiRynFxcsIj2s5R12oKZXpiGqL_in3qODPQPA0_alvLK7J8cAuV4gXl7qCtsCRQyqk7ewY9RTOd6MJmzW4ltLalb93Oz8jfodElE0LKtkTBt4UzQ05P5N01elh0XyadksK/s320/Cezanne%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjREsg97xPsvzXz3vZRZvauQwVV3Uuff7QtPJKFhhqNT3GZ7VLVQnlkehP26aXDvpmucwTLphjTF-_1igoyzBMNGcVyMBewhQJ_ySI2BRBY8FGbUjRR8ayQPK17mz3pDaljQ-3Ifq6F0Lvl5nMOTf_s83EMOuKeZ0mE_YyeBGIos0era8IrKTzGLwcs/s4000/Cezanne%20i.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjREsg97xPsvzXz3vZRZvauQwVV3Uuff7QtPJKFhhqNT3GZ7VLVQnlkehP26aXDvpmucwTLphjTF-_1igoyzBMNGcVyMBewhQJ_ySI2BRBY8FGbUjRR8ayQPK17mz3pDaljQ-3Ifq6F0Lvl5nMOTf_s83EMOuKeZ0mE_YyeBGIos0era8IrKTzGLwcs/s320/Cezanne%20i.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> The next day, Will has a medical appointment across Hilly Fields, so in the foggy, rain-promised morning, I walk them, then sit down to sketch a little girl on a scooter...there are lots of kids on scooters, moreso than bikes but probably equally strollers. I'd planned to sketch the whole trip, but this was my only one...sketching, I guess, wasn't meant to be part of this journey. <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuDxEdqvkW7WFswmEVr2xoHjhlq4enc9DSbE3kCaMFM3OcxK8HLzVyVQ1yosax9uQUpUzkfa4StGXxWntwYCoQ9i9Z5TtTsy0tRFOVeKaINb43GnWO0r3tYupKdxb2Zj3BoITJZvPJ-RHK5D96gH2h6UtzdaDQdcPcG7B3EyAeUqKPvWn1eXZusDN1/s4000/SKETCH%20PAGE%20FROM%20HILLY%20FIELDS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuDxEdqvkW7WFswmEVr2xoHjhlq4enc9DSbE3kCaMFM3OcxK8HLzVyVQ1yosax9uQUpUzkfa4StGXxWntwYCoQ9i9Z5TtTsy0tRFOVeKaINb43GnWO0r3tYupKdxb2Zj3BoITJZvPJ-RHK5D96gH2h6UtzdaDQdcPcG7B3EyAeUqKPvWn1eXZusDN1/s320/SKETCH%20PAGE%20FROM%20HILLY%20FIELDS.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>With a cup of tea and a scone (I think...might have been a carrot muffin) from the coffee shop in the Fields, I watch Saturday families, pairs and singles stroll, bike and run free through the paths and playgrounds. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHETwNpUWo2Ad7BQBuQIu-nWQl45q78w5pjMPJ3eX9nkuj_plL89UwnDRAU6HTPX_aVbuJCHayy7KeG4GDpNa0Oms3SqyJZnwapLg-KljR6yQUnZcZpNyjbKDI1DtNPnOOmNPbAdcusGygPjxd4eZU8TKomo1meWdUpMIHTc8odHBwJTcy9vO-RSgw/s4000/families%20in%20hilly%20fields%20saturday%20i.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHETwNpUWo2Ad7BQBuQIu-nWQl45q78w5pjMPJ3eX9nkuj_plL89UwnDRAU6HTPX_aVbuJCHayy7KeG4GDpNa0Oms3SqyJZnwapLg-KljR6yQUnZcZpNyjbKDI1DtNPnOOmNPbAdcusGygPjxd4eZU8TKomo1meWdUpMIHTc8odHBwJTcy9vO-RSgw/s320/families%20in%20hilly%20fields%20saturday%20i.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlBA5_W5PG8jKYEQn_4imegKCYdqp_TRn5w4AXYMxEzHUfKM2BJj2kusTSHEqzg9KVorismp73wXtWIZD6WJw9NQvhn6bwpdBckdVwQLR2xM9VlDy7QRkSlTbWFWcPTpxmG-3QhulrhZQriecCl3vLtUmPtu9YZqKL38rCx5TuUc6-x8QiBXYAEIde/s4000/people%20in%20hilly%20fields%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlBA5_W5PG8jKYEQn_4imegKCYdqp_TRn5w4AXYMxEzHUfKM2BJj2kusTSHEqzg9KVorismp73wXtWIZD6WJw9NQvhn6bwpdBckdVwQLR2xM9VlDy7QRkSlTbWFWcPTpxmG-3QhulrhZQriecCl3vLtUmPtu9YZqKL38rCx5TuUc6-x8QiBXYAEIde/s320/people%20in%20hilly%20fields%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDd913s05-E4ApZw2qCDttAwJdpYfn64bV41F9K99uLiO2UOKUV0hgH9dn3xBkCznr3e47rp78VQyNNLGkXoq4vzycMyb8qb4M6KGh3zHi84bNU2K7TpAKieyakqjNs6YxhSW-75W2NDsJE_hzi35M-n2Dh4f_O6t3vGOpI80VrbNNcpXETzbNonge/s4000/rain%20in%20hilly%20fields.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDd913s05-E4ApZw2qCDttAwJdpYfn64bV41F9K99uLiO2UOKUV0hgH9dn3xBkCznr3e47rp78VQyNNLGkXoq4vzycMyb8qb4M6KGh3zHi84bNU2K7TpAKieyakqjNs6YxhSW-75W2NDsJE_hzi35M-n2Dh4f_O6t3vGOpI80VrbNNcpXETzbNonge/s320/rain%20in%20hilly%20fields.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>It begins to rain in earnest as Will returns, so we head back to his flat for lunch. When it clears, out we go again to spend the rest of the day wandering more fields and visiting a garden shop, though Will will not consider a drink or supper in this nearby enchanting pub beside an expansive, bright view of London town. Too expensive, he says. I sigh.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbnkLiRpBLcseD4zDxeZvlAnMYw8vx92TJ_f6aa1B4GV-ZAE6GZauQqt4XplyRmeFfwCjTxCkc-ILaV50NaAZo8EN6YPybz0Sys8X9mNtW9zASCk1Lv8O704iogpNYlXjJdd1-LdC4pYjvBuWmt8d4ktDMDsWvc44kw1edY-7ci_rTkTyVyAtidU_H/s4000/nunhead%20garden%20shop%20plants.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbnkLiRpBLcseD4zDxeZvlAnMYw8vx92TJ_f6aa1B4GV-ZAE6GZauQqt4XplyRmeFfwCjTxCkc-ILaV50NaAZo8EN6YPybz0Sys8X9mNtW9zASCk1Lv8O704iogpNYlXjJdd1-LdC4pYjvBuWmt8d4ktDMDsWvc44kw1edY-7ci_rTkTyVyAtidU_H/s320/nunhead%20garden%20shop%20plants.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5UjTW9_Wm3IKOGuu4dRKT6CMqHT1iFkvwNGYHKMfpIfeNrP8zBDa3J5Nfonsxko2zNp2dfuOfiec8Br_7SzdMNAFnqZIX2T2sQuE_ACIms5kL6LscnDocIXVi_1_AoQMhiMnJ6_y4oY2kCnU56Z8fnSFFpUe2zjClhr8q5j3g1hCGWkex_a1wTaLd/s4000/Nunhead%20garden%20sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5UjTW9_Wm3IKOGuu4dRKT6CMqHT1iFkvwNGYHKMfpIfeNrP8zBDa3J5Nfonsxko2zNp2dfuOfiec8Br_7SzdMNAFnqZIX2T2sQuE_ACIms5kL6LscnDocIXVi_1_AoQMhiMnJ6_y4oY2kCnU56Z8fnSFFpUe2zjClhr8q5j3g1hCGWkex_a1wTaLd/s320/Nunhead%20garden%20sign.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-rwR8Q4R2H6tG2E0yNOqziKuAmtI1nd1dfu6osSVTAaGdDQC6n8IjfoWTJ1-eEc0vXEqnYGec4S9shUYUW2tUnTOZei4TdfoWNYabFZh74G0RjUaqBDKG48xPGo8oJA3S17Os-toZEubEAf0nT721bry7dP-HfkePD3mxehBT7tRFYbKQcGuRgJbT/s4000/park%20with%20view%20london%20city%20in%20background.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-rwR8Q4R2H6tG2E0yNOqziKuAmtI1nd1dfu6osSVTAaGdDQC6n8IjfoWTJ1-eEc0vXEqnYGec4S9shUYUW2tUnTOZei4TdfoWNYabFZh74G0RjUaqBDKG48xPGo8oJA3S17Os-toZEubEAf0nT721bry7dP-HfkePD3mxehBT7tRFYbKQcGuRgJbT/s320/park%20with%20view%20london%20city%20in%20background.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRwgaDBUO2I9eJp50AmP21w7Tc2ynW3ffac7_0dRDhMON2aQcpKQ-Fr09pR6vB8dviMiFvdQwC2m2w6OR73AWusNzhbUDGAzOyFetEygyPXX72f0f8GNSwG3x4EO66YTQcspjyxgOoM28tK1PcQUIWsh3Z__PwRv4fA5PaiWiJ11IukzT3JZg8XwaZ/s4000/victorian%20pub%20will%20objects%20too.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRwgaDBUO2I9eJp50AmP21w7Tc2ynW3ffac7_0dRDhMON2aQcpKQ-Fr09pR6vB8dviMiFvdQwC2m2w6OR73AWusNzhbUDGAzOyFetEygyPXX72f0f8GNSwG3x4EO66YTQcspjyxgOoM28tK1PcQUIWsh3Z__PwRv4fA5PaiWiJ11IukzT3JZg8XwaZ/s320/victorian%20pub%20will%20objects%20too.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbA67P64xU7kJt0ztVHOVCi5sQDhjtH95dsJIHpFskyxIkWq7Nuj2cQZ8-gdsyVIgSBl8LKk78sSdFoyh9bx_hPPHO7vr0vgs66-GzwkoulLO5MJQV8Zbji3CKgqTfAOGaT4IdP4KEl4f_BeUEuIokpKgD8WK3oN__nGlFlX6en8d6YUNjPUiCnSHV/s4000/shoes%20on%20side%20of%20road.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbA67P64xU7kJt0ztVHOVCi5sQDhjtH95dsJIHpFskyxIkWq7Nuj2cQZ8-gdsyVIgSBl8LKk78sSdFoyh9bx_hPPHO7vr0vgs66-GzwkoulLO5MJQV8Zbji3CKgqTfAOGaT4IdP4KEl4f_BeUEuIokpKgD8WK3oN__nGlFlX6en8d6YUNjPUiCnSHV/s320/shoes%20on%20side%20of%20road.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>We find this pair of boots along the curb...is there a story there?</p><p>Alas, into some rain some rain must fall...at night, I receive an email from the water company at home that something may be leaking...water use is high. Here I am thousands of miles away. I can't find anyone home, by email or text, to check it out. Joseph is also away, in D.C. for the weekend. I notify the water company to explain that I am away...far away. I don't get an answer until the next day, but then two neighbors rush over and the man from OWASA arrives nearly the same time to shut it off, and two days later Joseph finds the problem and tries to fix it. The water stays off til I get home...a lesson I already knew but hadn't heeded. I breathe again, not thinking of the bill to be paid...or if I am thinking about it, I don't care. </p><p>The Sunday's drive up into Yorkshire on the way to Dunblane is pretty, sunny and full of fields, sheep, cows, small clusters of cottages, some on the road, some well away of it, charming, charming postcard scenes. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN1Bj5fF2WSa2f2-dcAnXHTpp4ndyBveyenB6ToquPsvDzorZPKqoaa_zaUwXOaqIcImnnGNTtghPQdrHw4UTbyoN17-hMLwZACjvgFPoSr2997YQ64peIU-mhu9h1LHGEMiU4s3JeR3FULB3GwCazZO0WLOksmyglSRrbkWnwDrIwOKrPRHbiVYTU/s4000/drive%20into%20northern%20england.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN1Bj5fF2WSa2f2-dcAnXHTpp4ndyBveyenB6ToquPsvDzorZPKqoaa_zaUwXOaqIcImnnGNTtghPQdrHw4UTbyoN17-hMLwZACjvgFPoSr2997YQ64peIU-mhu9h1LHGEMiU4s3JeR3FULB3GwCazZO0WLOksmyglSRrbkWnwDrIwOKrPRHbiVYTU/s320/drive%20into%20northern%20england.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>But where do we stop for lunch? At the American Diner...a glistening red and aluminum round-edged place with signs tauting motor oil and Elvis and a juke box...Will needs his American breakfast fix; I order eggs with beans, a bit more in keeping with the country, but not really.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXnejvNShkKhxD-sMpN_lT3rhwcdm0k-zNURXMsz_8IXMnFQWVqmlmrpxSgbVd-E0e1qo19_BRt0CyZtIlJMXCtKbmrtR0ZPDo6XX4MeK2PYEIh30eT3J4Do4SSZ2cZwBBEmh0Ap2EzBYXqR4y8m3zyfw3TpSmhWFhL8DCcr4md6SsEidk9hg2purF/s4000/american%20diner%20kitsch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXnejvNShkKhxD-sMpN_lT3rhwcdm0k-zNURXMsz_8IXMnFQWVqmlmrpxSgbVd-E0e1qo19_BRt0CyZtIlJMXCtKbmrtR0ZPDo6XX4MeK2PYEIh30eT3J4Do4SSZ2cZwBBEmh0Ap2EzBYXqR4y8m3zyfw3TpSmhWFhL8DCcr4md6SsEidk9hg2purF/s320/american%20diner%20kitsch.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi24ghVG53RoYSM1u25c2wHMxL-CxLTgWIynE0_6y8_Rsn240Uay0gqSKT13wZt-l2_8Z0JGGJt_ykzK3hT0Ch3HyLu7FtwkTGRlVHpyDhFbJEJcuH0pMNzQdnTCMb1lx4Iyq2vq5073gcoha7g30BHOkGRmbj9yBMxIthIi6mbx4n8y1R9c1EmiHGI/s4000/american%20diner%20serving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi24ghVG53RoYSM1u25c2wHMxL-CxLTgWIynE0_6y8_Rsn240Uay0gqSKT13wZt-l2_8Z0JGGJt_ykzK3hT0Ch3HyLu7FtwkTGRlVHpyDhFbJEJcuH0pMNzQdnTCMb1lx4Iyq2vq5073gcoha7g30BHOkGRmbj9yBMxIthIi6mbx4n8y1R9c1EmiHGI/s320/american%20diner%20serving.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">At the Scottish border, there are flags flying over a bridge and a fellow waving...calling for Scottish independence. I can hardly blame them. Scotland is its own country, its own story, its own culture, its own fierce pride. I wish them well.</span></div><p></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijmbGVT6gKdUyAUX7C8r4eAGreD3nRIxBOkTxCG0MrzkXY05FnCPfCqHg25EyodaM1ir-9FSIVFFcdDfSftMHCSDriW7Pj7mUW3Qehi_qDHMPv3HzUJFEcLrV-85BuaSVmT01LF8IpTy7H4LxH1VtRMsVP6AZtAJfZCJPYspZTKaLc2gpzu_pGenvy/s4000/drive%20into%20Scotland%20flags%20for%20independence.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijmbGVT6gKdUyAUX7C8r4eAGreD3nRIxBOkTxCG0MrzkXY05FnCPfCqHg25EyodaM1ir-9FSIVFFcdDfSftMHCSDriW7Pj7mUW3Qehi_qDHMPv3HzUJFEcLrV-85BuaSVmT01LF8IpTy7H4LxH1VtRMsVP6AZtAJfZCJPYspZTKaLc2gpzu_pGenvy/s320/drive%20into%20Scotland%20flags%20for%20independence.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>We watch the signs for gas (petrol) costs as we drive. Will's car is electric, so it doesn't take as much, but when we find a less alarming price, we pull into the station.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSZCfx7as9pKSZ2-QNRwyQb0fif4KPL5RHiiwPYwL_V3iUj1AtKTpCTMacNZa-5gJxlCyGZHzR6BNwjNjSzScsyos6atiqW48cAQvZLif7hhsTukxcOhSdpaGnOvCvF-wM9E5mCQ17nwlg90jfNOZyL-GVhvvTWa1XFjmgFY2qKJ9RIrSPtwAPyUMj/s4000/gas%20station%20in%20scotland%20arriving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSZCfx7as9pKSZ2-QNRwyQb0fif4KPL5RHiiwPYwL_V3iUj1AtKTpCTMacNZa-5gJxlCyGZHzR6BNwjNjSzScsyos6atiqW48cAQvZLif7hhsTukxcOhSdpaGnOvCvF-wM9E5mCQ17nwlg90jfNOZyL-GVhvvTWa1XFjmgFY2qKJ9RIrSPtwAPyUMj/s320/gas%20station%20in%20scotland%20arriving.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Dorothy is waiting at the house for us, her charming, comfortable, beautiful, interesting Dunblane cottage. We undo our Boroughs Market parcels and have a good dinner, talk awhile, then bed, I under the warm comforter (there's that word again). I sleep and sleep.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY03Xt28LYpNeta2ZkWmxo7VayH2heVUFgHz08FbU7YWmb9P1WzG6_RVmieWXT0kvhnWF3qY3pV7-D_uYfDQCKw6ykbLRaKJYSu4sdEvKCLjlBCnzmC1Dwgph6qx8UKMjNMEa0HWnSCXfGfiyuU8Rsq46bpRN1_JPqhm5DF1PWGyD02Qo_gzrq1SeJ/s4000/dorothy%20in%20kitchen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY03Xt28LYpNeta2ZkWmxo7VayH2heVUFgHz08FbU7YWmb9P1WzG6_RVmieWXT0kvhnWF3qY3pV7-D_uYfDQCKw6ykbLRaKJYSu4sdEvKCLjlBCnzmC1Dwgph6qx8UKMjNMEa0HWnSCXfGfiyuU8Rsq46bpRN1_JPqhm5DF1PWGyD02Qo_gzrq1SeJ/s4000/dorothy%20in%20kitchen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgneQV5u7M2PcypNJvDM5c3XrDAgxkcBsYD6ANByQ_aq3Zmdm1LOLDVyWVKJTlSPdL3dJeaYknGEPBShFuYrXGzRjzHNo5Nz23PB51HZsjplFnNfei0tLcyr0TjQe-qGeOE0AR-6tAE5q2Hgq98lakLe-zCnhhOcmVaeoNZpRHqsbMlMKgiLKZVlJJ1/s4000/dorothys%20entry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgneQV5u7M2PcypNJvDM5c3XrDAgxkcBsYD6ANByQ_aq3Zmdm1LOLDVyWVKJTlSPdL3dJeaYknGEPBShFuYrXGzRjzHNo5Nz23PB51HZsjplFnNfei0tLcyr0TjQe-qGeOE0AR-6tAE5q2Hgq98lakLe-zCnhhOcmVaeoNZpRHqsbMlMKgiLKZVlJJ1/s320/dorothys%20entry.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY03Xt28LYpNeta2ZkWmxo7VayH2heVUFgHz08FbU7YWmb9P1WzG6_RVmieWXT0kvhnWF3qY3pV7-D_uYfDQCKw6ykbLRaKJYSu4sdEvKCLjlBCnzmC1Dwgph6qx8UKMjNMEa0HWnSCXfGfiyuU8Rsq46bpRN1_JPqhm5DF1PWGyD02Qo_gzrq1SeJ/s320/dorothy%20in%20kitchen.jpg" width="320" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQJbtJvdM9K_y8rVvnx5ComJy7YqK6WsWqP9gcWm8ouqt3VjDEWFmitvG3QB8R2Ovb5m_-pgX6vh8xvWNbuRP9hszkLplLwtlOgTteYtU8mr6D7q3Rwh4HV9MwqS-jEd3OSTG4kHJcdsIGX6G1bsdiJlY-1rbnTmE001MiD1OrYzLT5WXhYN7pApZV/s3872/dorothy's%20pot%20collection.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2360" data-original-width="3872" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQJbtJvdM9K_y8rVvnx5ComJy7YqK6WsWqP9gcWm8ouqt3VjDEWFmitvG3QB8R2Ovb5m_-pgX6vh8xvWNbuRP9hszkLplLwtlOgTteYtU8mr6D7q3Rwh4HV9MwqS-jEd3OSTG4kHJcdsIGX6G1bsdiJlY-1rbnTmE001MiD1OrYzLT5WXhYN7pApZV/s320/dorothy's%20pot%20collection.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVlqz32D95nQl8Qrdsxf_RdGzW38F9nhkRgtmFQWCo3uL_WUTrfOWaYSvJSmXzl8NPgzaCtEV8Y-8Snm7ywyWQbOeACIpJOpa7Af3YFQ-hI6ofYje0ulsbeEtOth7l1-I-rR7-fAnhkVkbBFJWajZWLPfD86ry6J9v9I6MytQ0iw9M91VBmr9Fzdtb/s4000/dorothy's%20bright%20tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVlqz32D95nQl8Qrdsxf_RdGzW38F9nhkRgtmFQWCo3uL_WUTrfOWaYSvJSmXzl8NPgzaCtEV8Y-8Snm7ywyWQbOeACIpJOpa7Af3YFQ-hI6ofYje0ulsbeEtOth7l1-I-rR7-fAnhkVkbBFJWajZWLPfD86ry6J9v9I6MytQ0iw9M91VBmr9Fzdtb/s320/dorothy's%20bright%20tree.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyL5uTBDT6l6CvOv8CSsBmUrrdGOq5CoN-nyN1iCw95k4Kp9yOg6_ow1lFxRxRGE_3fxEzrxSbRhox2_2bIYw5ATJTPlxTW5kopbG-IA7PZagB1aq0QccWuvd2YsqDJqcybYP-i1MX7fJ5YWv2dOG6k9MlnUIEGKNHhXJ0r27BJ-Yb-5ahOkfVmEMU/s4000/dorothy's%20garden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyL5uTBDT6l6CvOv8CSsBmUrrdGOq5CoN-nyN1iCw95k4Kp9yOg6_ow1lFxRxRGE_3fxEzrxSbRhox2_2bIYw5ATJTPlxTW5kopbG-IA7PZagB1aq0QccWuvd2YsqDJqcybYP-i1MX7fJ5YWv2dOG6k9MlnUIEGKNHhXJ0r27BJ-Yb-5ahOkfVmEMU/s320/dorothy's%20garden.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT8Gv8yuTyxC5kZjJPoDNhHxd5dzuNOCBT5y62MNOkbWVanAboUTuAkVUA-vADaQMd3MGfTimZsJBSDRtNYeOOHAwHX9FXO-v6dFcwkkaG9UcQrP6aPQaOtQw1nG8CyO-5wM_YFFfv93NB-QkFICSnTA0r_TJNno7KpVUEfTH48NF8WNBZVKL66qj0/s3450/dorothy's%20guest%20room.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3450" data-original-width="2902" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT8Gv8yuTyxC5kZjJPoDNhHxd5dzuNOCBT5y62MNOkbWVanAboUTuAkVUA-vADaQMd3MGfTimZsJBSDRtNYeOOHAwHX9FXO-v6dFcwkkaG9UcQrP6aPQaOtQw1nG8CyO-5wM_YFFfv93NB-QkFICSnTA0r_TJNno7KpVUEfTH48NF8WNBZVKL66qj0/s320/dorothy's%20guest%20room.jpg" width="269" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH7V17rKzWj9Nem4W0oWiXFU7a-SrbeJ1mEMLRdIYQ5YeWndIhLthfsJIOBAjV47-bAxK8gKX8McbpoyZIX1opGFcR8PdQSgz0WcZx34_GvYtlkuptTxFxYtN50rxtlXdzqXiMQeeqsH6TbU8rPVl1RNpLqgoPYcwByhfAawhdnvp9FNPsHhEc_FW8/s2551/dorothy's%20wooden%20cat%20in%20corner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2391" data-original-width="2551" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH7V17rKzWj9Nem4W0oWiXFU7a-SrbeJ1mEMLRdIYQ5YeWndIhLthfsJIOBAjV47-bAxK8gKX8McbpoyZIX1opGFcR8PdQSgz0WcZx34_GvYtlkuptTxFxYtN50rxtlXdzqXiMQeeqsH6TbU8rPVl1RNpLqgoPYcwByhfAawhdnvp9FNPsHhEc_FW8/s320/dorothy's%20wooden%20cat%20in%20corner.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">There. Have you had enough? This is only the first three or four days of my 22. Do you see what I mean about not being able to tell the real story of this trip? The above is what </span><i style="text-align: left;">happened, </i><span style="text-align: left;">yes, but not what it </span><i style="text-align: left;">was.</i></div><p style="text-align: center;">I'll end for now, though I've written more. Scotland is next.</p><p><br /></p>Rachel's Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790797302450473117noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8959233989161202970.post-35520779821708543022022-10-08T13:06:00.000-07:002022-10-08T13:06:17.614-07:00The hand...and click...of fate<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivvjGEtoq_obP7XRHPVzxl2fHXGXjJoMlrS6W2uvDTI5AhU0hegfBIqO4SKbuE06Y1XeKcqBJPsd5CF4lQjrugsYSHiqjVw5kIOPkvoA7fAvgQDyHjDXfcVDcdmDSn5f3yXbO0Ua2zZ1eWnwyG99WHxRRHqpegw1tftLcBwcmrQllFRgmiLMl9EAIF/s3058/Elizabeth%20Matheson%20catalog%20to%20Casselhaus%20show.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3058" data-original-width="2343" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivvjGEtoq_obP7XRHPVzxl2fHXGXjJoMlrS6W2uvDTI5AhU0hegfBIqO4SKbuE06Y1XeKcqBJPsd5CF4lQjrugsYSHiqjVw5kIOPkvoA7fAvgQDyHjDXfcVDcdmDSn5f3yXbO0Ua2zZ1eWnwyG99WHxRRHqpegw1tftLcBwcmrQllFRgmiLMl9EAIF/s320/Elizabeth%20Matheson%20catalog%20to%20Casselhaus%20show.jpg" width="245" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Sometimes fate brushes you past someone whose art transports you, and whose graciousness in extending it illuminates life. I've been lucky that way, to have turned a corner, or crossed a street, or sat down to lunch to meet someone who inspires what Allen Ginsberg called "extending yourself".</span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilSS81Rm-rLeF6_kfPKneBx0Q9kep55G9Tw0Vc06pmf6KV2kpOorg8F0L747mBpWDZXCr_z-ZRuNZVpZ3GK7MtQs7gOrtLPg0uubLJQAMx-04B0ppFB8X6WZGpoFsLYc5B4dexzsWtRxEG1vhzWLfT2Tmc4cuVoJg7jwLHwc9dpARu0k45IhYiKj3v/s1232/elizabeth%20matheson%20in%20her%20element%20at%20cassilhaus.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1232" data-original-width="742" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilSS81Rm-rLeF6_kfPKneBx0Q9kep55G9Tw0Vc06pmf6KV2kpOorg8F0L747mBpWDZXCr_z-ZRuNZVpZ3GK7MtQs7gOrtLPg0uubLJQAMx-04B0ppFB8X6WZGpoFsLYc5B4dexzsWtRxEG1vhzWLfT2Tmc4cuVoJg7jwLHwc9dpARu0k45IhYiKj3v/s320/elizabeth%20matheson%20in%20her%20element%20at%20cassilhaus.jpg" width="193" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9nBp48Je6TgFh9-gpC47kYi6inuMwGLDpiyBH5uxLj5FMCUkHbsculzrr7b1SqhEypl4DAt0AgwKMJ0AOL8Y5gYlUFN5eTtMx1WFamp2DeX3mcGOa8npvkWtyDjbB5_PrwwwkvfOBi1VXIs88Rqy5bffytS3beibiW1TbNszQnixXLCAANfjn8RUf/s3458/Elizabeth%20Matheson%20BEST%20balcony%20photo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3458" data-original-width="2503" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9nBp48Je6TgFh9-gpC47kYi6inuMwGLDpiyBH5uxLj5FMCUkHbsculzrr7b1SqhEypl4DAt0AgwKMJ0AOL8Y5gYlUFN5eTtMx1WFamp2DeX3mcGOa8npvkWtyDjbB5_PrwwwkvfOBi1VXIs88Rqy5bffytS3beibiW1TbNszQnixXLCAANfjn8RUf/w290-h400/Elizabeth%20Matheson%20BEST%20balcony%20photo.jpg" width="290" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Elizabeth Matheson, balcony</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I think of them the morning after Elizabeth Matheson's amazing show at Casselhaus, itself a modern architectural wonder designed for exhibiting art, especially photography. (I won't stop now to describe that house where light and art live; you can look it up at Cassilhaus.com.) Please note: I use "amazing" and "wonder" in their original meanings...not the mall and greeting card versions they have become. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0KLRtCQiS1vEqhYICrkJFeoz00Kx0nEo-myUKpqIsVkW-aZ_SAdVbfOTmfPC_nIWx2wTVszJlEmClg4xm32p91ZL4GhR-SgJP0AEHgikU6ItPXkDcUehait0-mQ4dL5ebZLxYlEIIM2cKhhsnX7LtiUOS2671KPjov-ww4Cwpq8U_KHaRIBjE0njE/s1079/elizabeth%20matheson%20self-portrait%20at%20airmont.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1078" data-original-width="1079" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0KLRtCQiS1vEqhYICrkJFeoz00Kx0nEo-myUKpqIsVkW-aZ_SAdVbfOTmfPC_nIWx2wTVszJlEmClg4xm32p91ZL4GhR-SgJP0AEHgikU6ItPXkDcUehait0-mQ4dL5ebZLxYlEIIM2cKhhsnX7LtiUOS2671KPjov-ww4Cwpq8U_KHaRIBjE0njE/s320/elizabeth%20matheson%20self-portrait%20at%20airmont.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Elizabeth Matheson, self-portrait, Ayrmont</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Elizabeth's photographs bring one into a maze wherein another world exists, some even in sight of your own, if you would only look, some so far out into the country of empty rooms and their unseen ghosts that we ordinary seekers might never find them otherwise. I "met" her briefly a long time ago at a reception for one of Chris Brookhouses's books, <i>Quartet, </i>of four North Carolina photographers (Chris' photographs are not one of them, but being the owner of two of his, I wish he'd done a book of his own). Then, I was asked to review another book of her photographs, <i>To See. </i>I was startingly drawn to the way she<i> </i>saw. I <i>fell</i> into one photograph, particularly, curtains blowing in through open French doors, an elaborate staircase going up to what could only be...there! A whole story unfolded at once, one welling up from deep inside both the photograph and me. I began to "know" her then.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbz2q-eEZ5e7GkF3Jc2mWqs-owiXSiRbGkamsbWCBDzLm6xCxHtfte_qL471kEN2dIvHJyxlaL3mo1WIG_p0XicCT7vK0-hsnWYPECS53TdeuFyr5m9O4iijloMUglCIQivnHyGNsVrpLQCf1ahr9aSjIIx9FORC7kdkiKVmMXCjASVYzylzKkjvGf/s1080/Elizabeth%20Matheson%20hillsborough%20porch%20photo%20I%20own.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1079" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbz2q-eEZ5e7GkF3Jc2mWqs-owiXSiRbGkamsbWCBDzLm6xCxHtfte_qL471kEN2dIvHJyxlaL3mo1WIG_p0XicCT7vK0-hsnWYPECS53TdeuFyr5m9O4iijloMUglCIQivnHyGNsVrpLQCf1ahr9aSjIIx9FORC7kdkiKVmMXCjASVYzylzKkjvGf/s320/Elizabeth%20Matheson%20hillsborough%20porch%20photo%20I%20own.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But it was many years later that she and I shared enough time for me to appreciate what she is, where from her seeing and the feelings her camera acquires emanate. I'd seen the photograph, above, on Instagram (matheson8698). Taken in the early hours of the morning, when shadows graced a Hillsborough porch, mostly hidden from view, in that small space the curls of its wrought iron chairs became, with those shadows, images of my grandmother's dresses. No one else, of course, saw that image except me, but that's art, isn't it? It opens a vein inside where something new, something old flows. And she, like me, likes windows and doors.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifxxSg5JXYu7K86n4JfUWPh32c6uw5GWwy01FfDu0ydMNsMexIVf6Mo4gp0nhfzRvP94RbrMG11-NmuNN5eGEt4pCNhRilc7w-d9LSlBlcQId69FzHmF2eAu7DQZuKUuVgHhXuA2Lv3nPyNu2oQDLiYDKFM73cnrIx4b1z45MGtSCQzdz-zRDr6wx5/s1079/Elizabeth%20Matheson%20windows%20at%20sunset%20in%20old%20mill.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1078" data-original-width="1079" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifxxSg5JXYu7K86n4JfUWPh32c6uw5GWwy01FfDu0ydMNsMexIVf6Mo4gp0nhfzRvP94RbrMG11-NmuNN5eGEt4pCNhRilc7w-d9LSlBlcQId69FzHmF2eAu7DQZuKUuVgHhXuA2Lv3nPyNu2oQDLiYDKFM73cnrIx4b1z45MGtSCQzdz-zRDr6wx5/s320/Elizabeth%20Matheson%20windows%20at%20sunset%20in%20old%20mill.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Elizabeth Matheson, mill windows late afternoon</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyBBJN3EXWZ106DBQ_gAvaISvpiFp7x2T6ilB5kff0Zk3pZjroep5_xZHRUHZcArpHGPCeeBDtqOOgYWek4Bk-UhYKjVSa0d5oUb1hiWgWTssc-eYbywVanGdkoh9STdEXevgzETukEfZMgv7sBBzcTC3Igfio0LlCOogROdaECUG0rrxsmN19dwcW/s1079/Elizabeth%20matheson%20wooden%20door%20in%20rock%20wall.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1057" data-original-width="1079" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyBBJN3EXWZ106DBQ_gAvaISvpiFp7x2T6ilB5kff0Zk3pZjroep5_xZHRUHZcArpHGPCeeBDtqOOgYWek4Bk-UhYKjVSa0d5oUb1hiWgWTssc-eYbywVanGdkoh9STdEXevgzETukEfZMgv7sBBzcTC3Igfio0LlCOogROdaECUG0rrxsmN19dwcW/s320/Elizabeth%20matheson%20wooden%20door%20in%20rock%20wall.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Elizabeth Matheson, door</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: left;">So, that Casselhaus showing: Elizabeth's long journey through photography <i>belonged </i>in that space, even though it was almost an accident (fate, again?) that it settled there. That's another story, though.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;">***********************************************************</div><p>What I want to say now is that in the morning, with the perfection of her show still in mind, I began to think of those who, like Elizabeth, fate has sent my way, often just in time to open new veins, inspiring a new way of looking, feeling, doing.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB8AbUxKh8rBonvxOloKIMddYy5xf6jdeBrU4OxcfPQwweH-ubfyP-om_UiFrYt0GzW2b5lOTWM0ZPTy6OiiASWiavnQ2yl5wHz3lBuX-gVxArbeFuha0xw5j9OYiiNpQWIeS1YtRx9Dh3qnblvG3vfrNoPpf70q2buMudRimwU0MbXXwMSrwg2FLk/s1079/leysis%20quesada%20vera%20empty%20white%20building%20still%20beatiful.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="708" data-original-width="1079" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB8AbUxKh8rBonvxOloKIMddYy5xf6jdeBrU4OxcfPQwweH-ubfyP-om_UiFrYt0GzW2b5lOTWM0ZPTy6OiiASWiavnQ2yl5wHz3lBuX-gVxArbeFuha0xw5j9OYiiNpQWIeS1YtRx9Dh3qnblvG3vfrNoPpf70q2buMudRimwU0MbXXwMSrwg2FLk/s320/leysis%20quesada%20vera%20empty%20white%20building%20still%20beatiful.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Leysis Quesada vera</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicNx4kAMxQsXEC4TExo2JBcV7JdfMhvY-lZHhhnUNqb93ySJD-SYofNN0dq63-vQeRKLrTTmAeI0Qmv_i6JJwQLm8C7rKIF_YSdADOO7YX4QwW3H7xBU8OdJTXUYY7YO1cXDMG-mKazCOmIrXLPCmjQl9dMLC_XDI0avnsUw9DaNES8daGiu5iaumM/s1079/Leysis%20quesada%20vera%20woman%20behind%20iron%20grill.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1079" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicNx4kAMxQsXEC4TExo2JBcV7JdfMhvY-lZHhhnUNqb93ySJD-SYofNN0dq63-vQeRKLrTTmAeI0Qmv_i6JJwQLm8C7rKIF_YSdADOO7YX4QwW3H7xBU8OdJTXUYY7YO1cXDMG-mKazCOmIrXLPCmjQl9dMLC_XDI0avnsUw9DaNES8daGiu5iaumM/s320/Leysis%20quesada%20vera%20woman%20behind%20iron%20grill.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-size: small;">Leysis Quesada vera</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;"><i> Our views daily. </i><i>We get [so] used to seeing everything withered and destroyed, </i><i>that we insist on looking for beauty in all this.</i></p><p>I think of Leysis Quesada vera (@leysisquesadavera), whose quote above accompanied one of her images online. Leysis has cataloged life in her neighborhood, Los Sitios, La Habana, and across Cuba. I found her (or she me) because her brother Leonel became, after my sister-in-law connected us, a genial guide and continuing friend. I'd gone to Cuba to study the art there (that's what I told the US State Department, anyway, and it was mostly the truth), but the people...those wonderful people...were what I found most inspiring. Leysis' work was in a gallery run by the granddaughter of one of Cuba's famous photographers; like her grandfather, she was a photographer, but of quite a different sort. But <i>Leysis'</i> lens captured the heart of what Cuba, in its everydayness, was...its beauties sometimes stark, always colorful (a contradiction, does it sound like? I know, but it's true), the resilient, encumbered, enchanted people's days...the pulse of their lives.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTwQXBaZwI5YYb7lFU9dUDjdN_2rm6EghfGBRTk0yj9B_jeixAYYRj2WlEPlbx3k3WxVN26oxtTqY9Mk6QnoXBGBx5YDbpg5-MJhBetxvH9xaaU1G6UslPu71vRqwtY9zZqQbNn4qvTucZTZPuVsspYTJb8BEXjIS9sc7FdZdzJk3qaeua7gmKN5CE/s1045/Leysis%20quesada%20vera%20dancing%20in%20la%20plaza.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="708" data-original-width="1045" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTwQXBaZwI5YYb7lFU9dUDjdN_2rm6EghfGBRTk0yj9B_jeixAYYRj2WlEPlbx3k3WxVN26oxtTqY9Mk6QnoXBGBx5YDbpg5-MJhBetxvH9xaaU1G6UslPu71vRqwtY9zZqQbNn4qvTucZTZPuVsspYTJb8BEXjIS9sc7FdZdzJk3qaeua7gmKN5CE/s320/Leysis%20quesada%20vera%20dancing%20in%20la%20plaza.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Leysis Quesada vera</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>What does her work mean, now that I have seen Cuba and continue to see Cuba through her eyes? I see how, in one's art, there must always be love and admiration, a nativity, that leads to understanding. Seeing from within, as she does, one knows meaning and captures it; she can because she is part of the scene in her lens.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA_Q36c_rTqnPyWSClRhe2agDeoGXe1eqbntqQRM265bXWaK9ujJIUe_SIHtkyltbabvQs3fWTkPbHG4vddjgsD29RRo-1SWUdfPdupGEVSepJ1Q_kvMk57Z8GEjcTb3uz1_iKrxWC8kkcpeKrt0oytDMYA9oxAnsRw4NSguHTaVgUUDsVMISLQ7b6/s2642/Gourds%20my%20drawing%20from%20Jane%20Filer's%20class%20'94.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2270" data-original-width="2642" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA_Q36c_rTqnPyWSClRhe2agDeoGXe1eqbntqQRM265bXWaK9ujJIUe_SIHtkyltbabvQs3fWTkPbHG4vddjgsD29RRo-1SWUdfPdupGEVSepJ1Q_kvMk57Z8GEjcTb3uz1_iKrxWC8kkcpeKrt0oytDMYA9oxAnsRw4NSguHTaVgUUDsVMISLQ7b6/s320/Gourds%20my%20drawing%20from%20Jane%20Filer's%20class%20'94.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>gourds</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>When I moved back to Chapel Hill nearly 30 years ago, there was Jane Filer, the painter, but also the teacher who brought me to the shades and depths drawing could bring to simple lines. (I look at the one above and marvel that it came from my hands.) </p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;">[Forgive the missing image of Jane's work here...I've got to wait for permission to use it.] </span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">What I admire about Jane's own work is its fantastical, mythical being. Color and shape people painting after painting, fascinating me with its invention. </span><i style="text-align: left;">Invention</i><span style="text-align: left;">...that's what I found by her, learning to </span><i style="text-align: left;">sculpt</i><span style="text-align: left;"> a drawing...not simply lay flat lines on a page, but pushing in and up until its character is revealed. Jane Filer's own wild universe on canvas, and her student Eva Rubin's, were myths and legends I could read in their paint.</span></p><p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8arCfuMMuOcqgTpqtixt8gewyCk484WBuRU3fk4F9UgmBDcwIhpX2ObTcnfmMMFV-e6KMLC3SCs0sZYbYuDRkh10LrtaJC_-Kifc0WVvM3E7Rt68X6WJr2LzBXBdXgbJDt5olvze2a5tIv_GWYbI4Z_HNN7fYfZvWFmwVAmLwhqCqS1eBDHKyanYh/s4000/Carolyn%20Sleeper%20two%20pots.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8arCfuMMuOcqgTpqtixt8gewyCk484WBuRU3fk4F9UgmBDcwIhpX2ObTcnfmMMFV-e6KMLC3SCs0sZYbYuDRkh10LrtaJC_-Kifc0WVvM3E7Rt68X6WJr2LzBXBdXgbJDt5olvze2a5tIv_GWYbI4Z_HNN7fYfZvWFmwVAmLwhqCqS1eBDHKyanYh/s320/Carolyn%20Sleeper%20two%20pots.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Carolyn Sleeper, pots</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Once, in a sort of art-rut, I showed up at the Botanical Center for a class in encaustics. I was dreaming of feeling the pressure and softness of wax and wanting to mold things in it, the way I used to feel clay in Carolyn Sleeper's workshops in Washington NC. <p></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDC7DCN3nOgGesgFoaZ7HYooYHQBeXx2E0Phuw-TBJu_NLDGydulAG2X4XwEzpL--pV4qghUHwZHdVWFdoHGA9GE50EcLR7w31qd8A7uHiWVEPVzTqYVBHzDqWR6GWN4MP2pF8enrd7LGnfdeH4l5Am7wg9iu2oGFq3Nf_Z1ASEpuQQbwClKC7yBNZ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1085" data-original-width="416" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDC7DCN3nOgGesgFoaZ7HYooYHQBeXx2E0Phuw-TBJu_NLDGydulAG2X4XwEzpL--pV4qghUHwZHdVWFdoHGA9GE50EcLR7w31qd8A7uHiWVEPVzTqYVBHzDqWR6GWN4MP2pF8enrd7LGnfdeH4l5Am7wg9iu2oGFq3Nf_Z1ASEpuQQbwClKC7yBNZ=w153-h400" width="153" /></a></div><p></p><p>I loved the wax form in Martha Petty's class, but sadly it wasn't something I could continue at home in my small, closed space of a workshop. Still, <i>I had met Martha Petty</i>. Though she lives nearby, I hardly ever see her, but her art is embedded in my being. We send each other infrequent notes, each one a reminder of how a life can be informed by art, how it builds a body into a house that becomes, as one works, a home. I admire so much of what she does, whatever the medium, but one work (see above), at the Triangle Book arts exhibit four years ago, stunned me into a humility that draws me back to my work table time and again. It's book art, its pages tiny pieces of worded paper tucked all that way down the sharp edge of that beautifully sculpted wood. Her work is nothing like mine; it is powerful, strong, full of passion. Our connection might be found otherwise in this quote she keeps on her website: </p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span face=""Droid Sans", Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif" style="color: #050505; font-size: x-small;"><span> <i> </i></span><i>I was thinking about how images repeat themselves in work and what it means. </i></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>People expect you to move so quickly from one idea to the next, but the way you really develop is by returning again and again and again to images that you're really fascinated with and trying to understand why.</i></span></span></p><p>That quote calms me. My own work is full of repeated images...tree, house, landscape, spirit-skies. Martha brings me back to the point of art each time I see her art or hear her words, or read them. Image after image, trying to figure their morality or intention.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUOrkTYKbRw5E3nWaMjphs2ojafQ197pOWnfqNnS-z-72YDpPrRtfNhY40jhGqeZHUaHZXGt5eQ6HFujNDNhh0SBaUyuwJuPxJ-tn-wLEIdMD30Wc7xc26MGTQUdQVbkgZ-qLgZn6heBoYES2Ige-zFKt0vcPxxfRGT_upydrFvBbvEcurwni_Fm_Y/s3614/helen's%20shoe%20last%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="3614" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUOrkTYKbRw5E3nWaMjphs2ojafQ197pOWnfqNnS-z-72YDpPrRtfNhY40jhGqeZHUaHZXGt5eQ6HFujNDNhh0SBaUyuwJuPxJ-tn-wLEIdMD30Wc7xc26MGTQUdQVbkgZ-qLgZn6heBoYES2Ige-zFKt0vcPxxfRGT_upydrFvBbvEcurwni_Fm_Y/s320/helen's%20shoe%20last%201.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyTbtsl4pHglxU5sq0QWSmdIfHvKiSFhZP3lPQGa1c9ulgJyK4g4HHciVtIU1i85asesVMqw9itbAZsksVMJvpRaotHFnx36aDXGSxYq_tqC9fmLODFKnAk4oU2j3QMc76J-ltVn21-qqFIbCmx-rTt59RAeCMFQRwdB_dPDXN8MOtnVm4Fi_R07kq/s4000/helen's%20shoe%20last%202.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyTbtsl4pHglxU5sq0QWSmdIfHvKiSFhZP3lPQGa1c9ulgJyK4g4HHciVtIU1i85asesVMqw9itbAZsksVMJvpRaotHFnx36aDXGSxYq_tqC9fmLODFKnAk4oU2j3QMc76J-ltVn21-qqFIbCmx-rTt59RAeCMFQRwdB_dPDXN8MOtnVm4Fi_R07kq/s320/helen's%20shoe%20last%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Helen Rasplicka last of letters</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />In the beginning, long before those inspirers, there was Helen Rasplicka, the calligrapher and mixed media dabbler who pulled me gently into the realm of art, which I would probably not have stepped into on my own. She took me to a course in drawing at the San Antonio botanical gardens, where I had to trade my pencil and eraser for a fine pen, and never looked back. There, the gardens, their impulses to drawing, made a permanent place in me. The shoe you see here was a gift from Helen...a shoe last she covered with letters I'd sent her over the years...my words and her art conjoined in that endeavor.<p></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7yJdDuB3Ib0ynvce55QFSKYy65bpeN_RIhSz7TQQyhzQ3qCOAdmomRWPcB_wNDR5wYyhmxFRUQgY9L64IIGcIssKYVh5McOUZQr_CN338KT3bBeg7g3DKUWlKuRLu_cjMpIbeLcmRvG9-lWmh8upQJpAEToBWugcz-YL7lRp4bXaR_GsEtbYbPoUL/s6000/alexandra%20bloch%20emma_back-4748.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6000" data-original-width="4748" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7yJdDuB3Ib0ynvce55QFSKYy65bpeN_RIhSz7TQQyhzQ3qCOAdmomRWPcB_wNDR5wYyhmxFRUQgY9L64IIGcIssKYVh5McOUZQr_CN338KT3bBeg7g3DKUWlKuRLu_cjMpIbeLcmRvG9-lWmh8upQJpAEToBWugcz-YL7lRp4bXaR_GsEtbYbPoUL/s320/alexandra%20bloch%20emma_back-4748.jpg" width="253" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxsEPlbGnurNBK9ZLKrmG_WA9MszLgzllbRe7VGBNhmuSFqoJB6RYdPlV-_fV1E_NTF4w0dcTG0W2jtUoRDdW1gwpiZuHZ3KNmWWtmNyaJBgvKAg4CFf2cAZ14Oovc3vE_jQWMDbIFub1tr8dLgxX7QvMu7cLq7srjGnN1bK4YP_kwsldHqeAE-98A/s1327/alexandra%20bloch%20her%20father.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1327" data-original-width="1079" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxsEPlbGnurNBK9ZLKrmG_WA9MszLgzllbRe7VGBNhmuSFqoJB6RYdPlV-_fV1E_NTF4w0dcTG0W2jtUoRDdW1gwpiZuHZ3KNmWWtmNyaJBgvKAg4CFf2cAZ14Oovc3vE_jQWMDbIFub1tr8dLgxX7QvMu7cLq7srjGnN1bK4YP_kwsldHqeAE-98A/s320/alexandra%20bloch%20her%20father.jpg" width="260" /></a></div><br />There's Alexandra Bloch, too. I can't remember our first meeting, but somehow she had ended up in the little town of Washington, provincial as it was for such a cosmopolitan couple as her and Joe. She was a painter and thought of herself thus. She painted the grace, the idiosynchracies of the body, unsentimentalized but understanding of its fullest needs. My intersection with her art is not anything I could emulate...but I recognized its potency in the care, dedication, and skill she brings to her work. I think of her sometimes when I am working, more randomly, loosely (read haphazardly), and remembering her precision of pencil and the deep glazes of her paints gives me a mental backbone.<p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8s4FUlSIyUE4DQ4Ohg1OmQne6TXdpqNS22d9ty_J-niYMMpdSIneAGTTBiZ66FigOtq1kbY5s6itfiKRm5U_AsqXTV2_55azKHqiZNCfqbRuVRZgHW9zMPRLfWAOkWhXCQS1-2CqNlQn6Bbg15qyxjDF41dRYuMY5azkCjQEkvs-iMBs2XG-BYf0-/s2971/susan%20bradley%20quilts.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2842" data-original-width="2971" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8s4FUlSIyUE4DQ4Ohg1OmQne6TXdpqNS22d9ty_J-niYMMpdSIneAGTTBiZ66FigOtq1kbY5s6itfiKRm5U_AsqXTV2_55azKHqiZNCfqbRuVRZgHW9zMPRLfWAOkWhXCQS1-2CqNlQn6Bbg15qyxjDF41dRYuMY5azkCjQEkvs-iMBs2XG-BYf0-/s320/susan%20bradley%20quilts.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Susan Bradley, Michael's quilt and Spring Garden</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>I've already written about the marvelous quilts of Marty Mayer. But long before Marty began quilting, there was my now-lost friend Susan Bradley, each in her way, bringing me back to fabric and the enjoining feel of piecing...what comes about when we pull together the scraps of our lives into a brilliant whole (even if it's not the last whole we make). I once told her that her quilts were a kind of journal; though she looked a bit skeptical, they are indeed. They are where, beyond their art (and hers are spectacular art), we needle in our memories, our hopes, our histories...no matter how old and frayed...where they live on.</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgMY_XOiWA6eUy6JDlB4_FgPXv6WNBsBEWdZN5MjZ-vYe78UVDNtHwC3znvRjpKLvL2FbOQr023jL5ALiW1S0v2bIhti7AkMUlUKMAPUewRIl96-axg4XYloNyrJIz-9QwpqUrxcE6KN8IUj2PF3COVrNqcQ6x1CtGHitWUv3I4687K6AvHDKw4i1i2" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="446" data-original-width="453" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgMY_XOiWA6eUy6JDlB4_FgPXv6WNBsBEWdZN5MjZ-vYe78UVDNtHwC3znvRjpKLvL2FbOQr023jL5ALiW1S0v2bIhti7AkMUlUKMAPUewRIl96-axg4XYloNyrJIz-9QwpqUrxcE6KN8IUj2PF3COVrNqcQ6x1CtGHitWUv3I4687K6AvHDKw4i1i2" width="244" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Susan Bradley, Stories in Another Language</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />That brings me to Betsy Cook, my next-door neighbor, whose art is nameless. You could call it mixed media, encaustics, paint, textile, etc., but all those terms miss the point. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj57jakIPUKlquKA850WAILYXV9MN1gceErMNhJZ5DzZQOTI0btyejK3qxHlri5EtPhRhFYFmzVFdYlUu-jTl5MRqSCAiOsxkpG46uX-X_1l90XoSz2oC1Vg2EsUQexupRT203yTCEBirLvb6V0h1IQy8kxT7xlTCI7Bae0eAigcBKQ-Jp_n3Sf7du1/s960/betsy%20book%20covid%20vase.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj57jakIPUKlquKA850WAILYXV9MN1gceErMNhJZ5DzZQOTI0btyejK3qxHlri5EtPhRhFYFmzVFdYlUu-jTl5MRqSCAiOsxkpG46uX-X_1l90XoSz2oC1Vg2EsUQexupRT203yTCEBirLvb6V0h1IQy8kxT7xlTCI7Bae0eAigcBKQ-Jp_n3Sf7du1/s320/betsy%20book%20covid%20vase.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfMZW7fEg7gLjjUDK9cRiSvBff57pODvN3briLys8fGJTfGCbd2B1iI1cncV4OCnkX0rmcvXwC0zRfL6Me24ye_tDBo08Yc7WMdMG4-DAanMDRhja0XyloujD8EFl3vVn0swl6xzMtPf_RAlRjg7vjcmrZ5N8Rx8oPLaWiY3P52V0KPftI0kXPeD9E/s1080/betsy%20cook's%20text%20for%20Global%20transformations%20piece.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="1080" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfMZW7fEg7gLjjUDK9cRiSvBff57pODvN3briLys8fGJTfGCbd2B1iI1cncV4OCnkX0rmcvXwC0zRfL6Me24ye_tDBo08Yc7WMdMG4-DAanMDRhja0XyloujD8EFl3vVn0swl6xzMtPf_RAlRjg7vjcmrZ5N8Rx8oPLaWiY3P52V0KPftI0kXPeD9E/s320/betsy%20cook's%20text%20for%20Global%20transformations%20piece.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Whatever form she works in, she is a storyteller. Her quiet, almost mysterious pieces use every sort of material imaginable...she expounds with lace and wax and paint, flowers and braids, and words like secret talismen. She is not afraid of sorrow or pain, nor of its beauty when released into a piece. She gathers more bits of things, seeing their part in creation each time she works.</span></div><div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5-JqKmdDUgHrlhk_NTe4DWgbcHWVH5Rimdi6weS3VZg1BdnEgcEOuRO151lFNBEBD9tgGVJKzx6l7CrlAYJqwMMUW8C_xEU9OmoxNc2NxrkTGq3DFCqNvVlF04ZWK4SowYB1af4tPJQ5eYm3s1OcPLLwx5Oq1pX7458WBSsyekQ-HMv0H1saEyTfb/s1080/betsy%20cook%20global%20transformations%20piece.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="742" data-original-width="1080" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5-JqKmdDUgHrlhk_NTe4DWgbcHWVH5Rimdi6weS3VZg1BdnEgcEOuRO151lFNBEBD9tgGVJKzx6l7CrlAYJqwMMUW8C_xEU9OmoxNc2NxrkTGq3DFCqNvVlF04ZWK4SowYB1af4tPJQ5eYm3s1OcPLLwx5Oq1pX7458WBSsyekQ-HMv0H1saEyTfb/s320/betsy%20cook%20global%20transformations%20piece.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;"> Betsy Cook, GLOBAL TRANSFORMATION.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;">The ancient trio of Hebrew letters from Kabbalah that signify this transformation are embedded in the central "Tree of Life image. There are 72 such sequences in the ancient Kabbalistic mystical tradition, said to represent 72 names or aspects of God. </i></div><div><p></p><p>She, like the others here, brings me out of my limitations (some of which I've drawn myself, as people do). My list could be so much longer.</p><p>For now, know that it is Elizabeth Matheson, her photographs at Cassilhaus, that in this season of remembrance, binds me to them with gratitude.</p><p style="text-align: center;">*********************************************</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><div><br /></div></div></div></div><br />Rachel's Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790797302450473117noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8959233989161202970.post-78463690292200772372022-09-25T11:47:00.000-07:002022-09-25T11:47:26.534-07:00The bicycle theory...in practice<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlcauG7JHxaCpaOqjRmivMjMuCr3VRNXRKwr4GjG065yzbby7yJh2rWg-aNXOjPpkXH8Nx0pt4zQMaIiRKuVOZIJfttNh5gZWq_txoUvxvBBFszAZmqPa1l2Nu_5rdJSBHy2mm0NAwfF-BXHuimbk5IhtqNdcopAbzslv1I7QnZ_5kX-OqskpVrHh6/s2077/aunt%20sadie%20on%20bike%20at%20shore.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1541" data-original-width="2077" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlcauG7JHxaCpaOqjRmivMjMuCr3VRNXRKwr4GjG065yzbby7yJh2rWg-aNXOjPpkXH8Nx0pt4zQMaIiRKuVOZIJfttNh5gZWq_txoUvxvBBFszAZmqPa1l2Nu_5rdJSBHy2mm0NAwfF-BXHuimbk5IhtqNdcopAbzslv1I7QnZ_5kX-OqskpVrHh6/s320/aunt%20sadie%20on%20bike%20at%20shore.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Good morning. And it is a fine, fall one. The air is cool, but not yesterday's chill, and though the sky is thin with clouds, it's fine for walking. I'm not walking yet, though.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqalI2JL1wZl9hV6d3lixlt1A1E4A4h5UJ6VnNiaCb7ps9Cp6uXhXIIvU4yqFI1-Sa2weslUkflH_WPnSiLib1GBClBLj16e2MAD-NprRSu8gNgf3AKVYQuyJyDS_RWy3gujxJb2-0nbP6eHvpxx_SdmCsR4p9atxtLMiHpFvAZw5ui73tcCiCpihe/s2693/challah%20recipe.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2693" data-original-width="1846" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqalI2JL1wZl9hV6d3lixlt1A1E4A4h5UJ6VnNiaCb7ps9Cp6uXhXIIvU4yqFI1-Sa2weslUkflH_WPnSiLib1GBClBLj16e2MAD-NprRSu8gNgf3AKVYQuyJyDS_RWy3gujxJb2-0nbP6eHvpxx_SdmCsR4p9atxtLMiHpFvAZw5ui73tcCiCpihe/s320/challah%20recipe.jpg" width="219" /></a></div><br />This last week has been both brilliantly celebratory and dastardly painful, but this morning I woke after a long good sleep, and began to make bread...Challah, to be exact. It's the Jewish new year beginning tonight, and since I'd spent most of last week feasting on Aunt Sadie's 100th birthday (more later), and driving home in the pained aftermath of over-indulgence, I'd not ordered the traditional round sweet bread ahead. So I told Joseph, who was vetting the menu I concocted around various diets, that I would make my own.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzsUw4tFRwTpETxvoLEVvhd16j_KbIr70tFYvSWDuotE0G4hfj-MwNpan7-xgx4gAQWWniEjDv5qelTiOm7joD2pYoNXu_CUUACZDLFXS80-ttNe07Zya7HCcGYOsz7yM_yr7r3rsEVoJVPIaELMnVGAqW-a_bCQvK248pctZrKcDmCyJWecNT4VLf/s4000/challah%20smooth%20and%20ready%20for%20rising.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzsUw4tFRwTpETxvoLEVvhd16j_KbIr70tFYvSWDuotE0G4hfj-MwNpan7-xgx4gAQWWniEjDv5qelTiOm7joD2pYoNXu_CUUACZDLFXS80-ttNe07Zya7HCcGYOsz7yM_yr7r3rsEVoJVPIaELMnVGAqW-a_bCQvK248pctZrKcDmCyJWecNT4VLf/s320/challah%20smooth%20and%20ready%20for%20rising.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I can't remember the last time I baked a Challah (the community center makes a really good one here). But like the bicycle (<i>once you know how to ride, it comes back to you time and again</i>), I opened the Family Cookbook and there, in my own words, was the recipe down to the last detail. Except for following the ingredient amounts, I hardly needed it. And now, an hour later, yeasted and mixed and scraped and kneaded for as long as my wrists could hold, it's resting smooth, shiny, and round in its traditional bowl (the largest of a set I got early in my housekeeping, from that original store of Cabela's, which had a thick catalog) under a linen cloth from my mother's 1943 wedding shower and the also-traditional sweater (mine...I wore it yesterday in the chill) on top to keep it warm, as my grandmother did.</div></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5XwaA7LnehhJypwjus2Fne1FyclSv5OxAXZ7QtJHgUsb-0qi7qqStwVzSFuQ7R7_5t3agdRpAfMGm5swiZI1vQO9T0tAfapmp-h8cvit-4QqLhxPWOQML3Zi3ORc5Iy1oRp77B6LFe_j70RZT3IiGfoVNdX3N7yBDCdbjgFI6m82N2smtqXX3hSSS/s4000/challah%20under%20wraps.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5XwaA7LnehhJypwjus2Fne1FyclSv5OxAXZ7QtJHgUsb-0qi7qqStwVzSFuQ7R7_5t3agdRpAfMGm5swiZI1vQO9T0tAfapmp-h8cvit-4QqLhxPWOQML3Zi3ORc5Iy1oRp77B6LFe_j70RZT3IiGfoVNdX3N7yBDCdbjgFI6m82N2smtqXX3hSSS/s320/challah%20under%20wraps.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I'll show you the end result after it's baked. It'll be half a day or more by then. You can't rush bread.<p></p><p>Meanwhile, the porch and my post to you begin to wile away the hour and a half or so as it rises for the first time. I feel good about this loaf and about the morning.</p><p></p>I've been reading A.S. Byatt's novella, <i>The Djinn in the Nightingale's Eye (1994)</i>, which I plucked on a whim from the library shelf as I passed the Bs the other day. It's a marvelous story about stories about stories while the woman at its center becomes the character in her own story. (It turns out that there's a current film which steals in a picky way from it, but don't bother...it's stripped of Byatt's real story) <p></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyf8ZXP_yX1swb-fpAI-VDcujoca8I4gcNF1qdoypwSbUDE25cK4wJqLClSrKptTEskCw_Qxq1llr23V-o347rav3Er0_9guDz0W7gXIyAHHsxhI_irVx6Dxoh9fw9Z_ZOzH4Jm2zCer-D_yrRSBJJCQ8oGdEOVmzdSQ5HaVlSHniMAy-sXutkBmzo/s3691/A%20S%20BYATT'S%20BOOK.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3691" data-original-width="2798" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyf8ZXP_yX1swb-fpAI-VDcujoca8I4gcNF1qdoypwSbUDE25cK4wJqLClSrKptTEskCw_Qxq1llr23V-o347rav3Er0_9guDz0W7gXIyAHHsxhI_irVx6Dxoh9fw9Z_ZOzH4Jm2zCer-D_yrRSBJJCQ8oGdEOVmzdSQ5HaVlSHniMAy-sXutkBmzo/s320/A%20S%20BYATT'S%20BOOK.jpg" width="243" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">With that literary spirit, and a bright square of sunlight like a note left under the bedroom door as I left the room, I thought how the aftermath of pain, even as it wanes, brings its wisdom of change.</div><p></p><p>Perhaps the new year's and the fall's seeping in makes everything I think of lately involve the impulse of spontaneity.</p><p>To wit: Here's that book on the shelf as I pass...I take it. It turns out to be a something which excites me, after so many others have failed to be anything but the usual over-indulged trivia. Byatt's is rather an indulgence of language and learning and most of all the depth and fascination of stories, and what makes a story the sort that continues lively over 1,001 nights (which is part of Byatt's story's story).</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmkojNQxrfcoDhNalvZQ4Bdu3EC-ajSHW5IFDX8c55dPzG1nrFWsKnsuEE_NXOXQfdOUkkYdp_ZzDyoppOAMMVf5u0TEkzvMTKqnFAyKVI_BaNBmLeLvexrrfmnYOqu_TE_qHQ9ZHi8RIPqlOLezqALVoPeAnYtxKE_X2U5CrikfQIGzBfkREohz4H/s1775/Hotel-Signature-St-Germain-des-Pres.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1181" data-original-width="1775" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmkojNQxrfcoDhNalvZQ4Bdu3EC-ajSHW5IFDX8c55dPzG1nrFWsKnsuEE_NXOXQfdOUkkYdp_ZzDyoppOAMMVf5u0TEkzvMTKqnFAyKVI_BaNBmLeLvexrrfmnYOqu_TE_qHQ9ZHi8RIPqlOLezqALVoPeAnYtxKE_X2U5CrikfQIGzBfkREohz4H/s320/Hotel-Signature-St-Germain-des-Pres.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Here's a story in the making, too: I woke up one morning a few weeks ago, and decided that minute to order myself tickets to London, Scotland and Paris in early October. I can see my friends Will and Dorothy there, and Uncle George's sister Ada, and maybe her daughter Catriona, lovely woman, and then in Paris meet a new friend called Emily. I found a hotel off the grid in the 6th, just the right neighborhood for me. I started a list of what little I will pack. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf8SD_t27RCYX9tFvKFczZLltzVTNU2rZwXHzJe8eZKMfZBKJQ2Vwc9IUWr87G8WOZIz7W0Fsm4xqkoISuY0-GY_X671NkOb4ROIUWwwbwAFoJv6-Ofd3C6MuN59epqVKcRRXU2rubZmmHkPorxAS_odhbUpwEdWFk2YtaExM85Nrpzcwo0Becz9hY/s4608/aunt%20sadie%20at%20100%20hotel%20hershey%20luncheon.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf8SD_t27RCYX9tFvKFczZLltzVTNU2rZwXHzJe8eZKMfZBKJQ2Vwc9IUWr87G8WOZIz7W0Fsm4xqkoISuY0-GY_X671NkOb4ROIUWwwbwAFoJv6-Ofd3C6MuN59epqVKcRRXU2rubZmmHkPorxAS_odhbUpwEdWFk2YtaExM85Nrpzcwo0Becz9hY/s320/aunt%20sadie%20at%20100%20hotel%20hershey%20luncheon.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>And Aunt Sadie's birthday, the long ride to Hershey, long anticipated and worked toward: suddenly even there is <i>change</i>...and though Barbara's planned luncheon in the garden room at the Hotel Hershey is lovely, one night Eileen and I find ourselves in Aunt Sadie's apartment playing Scop, an old card game, with her...trying to remember how, the rules changing every ten minutes, and laughing ourselves silly. We'd brought other games and crafts to do with her, but this inspiration is inspired! We hardly want to leave for supper, so we have some soup while we are playing. Later, we are torn away by the others to visit, and when we return later that evening, Eileen and I tired as we pick up the hands we were dealt earlier, Aunt Sadie is ready for a new game. Wordle, crosswords, the game of life itself...she is adept at them.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAw39BdIEjtIJL0S-ogx-K6ZM93m94e1yFGn1T5jt5s0zDTBlWLLWiOX_g7L4Yq95iPidGusGXXtFWBji9n5rQe817rfkBqiTjlSTqbS3bxKIBrpE9oKrz6EHJgQOiz9rV9vPQiDsch60DJ-S6g8WaT0XbxWM44GZWo_5bUIL7nkpHZybEQsS4zrEh/s4000/aunt%20sadie%20at%20cards%20laughing.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAw39BdIEjtIJL0S-ogx-K6ZM93m94e1yFGn1T5jt5s0zDTBlWLLWiOX_g7L4Yq95iPidGusGXXtFWBji9n5rQe817rfkBqiTjlSTqbS3bxKIBrpE9oKrz6EHJgQOiz9rV9vPQiDsch60DJ-S6g8WaT0XbxWM44GZWo_5bUIL7nkpHZybEQsS4zrEh/s320/aunt%20sadie%20at%20cards%20laughing.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJNktDHxB7OPVm58oawuOiGIgIiB5B2DhLRlIMfxtvtHqW1sLrDWzLRFUCGDdzkW7pBkYwxs7LL0ZiybKolGRfJe2_hIj_AGFtJzYdq1Ft1__xNspsKM6mMPHhZCINC63XbISiVf2mWNXZfTDiKVgml2_kdEmiWPhxl7Q0LPo1O0mkI5Q4dfDv4z0_/s4000/aunt%20sadie%20reading%20messages%20in%20her%20birthday%20book.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJNktDHxB7OPVm58oawuOiGIgIiB5B2DhLRlIMfxtvtHqW1sLrDWzLRFUCGDdzkW7pBkYwxs7LL0ZiybKolGRfJe2_hIj_AGFtJzYdq1Ft1__xNspsKM6mMPHhZCINC63XbISiVf2mWNXZfTDiKVgml2_kdEmiWPhxl7Q0LPo1O0mkI5Q4dfDv4z0_/s320/aunt%20sadie%20reading%20messages%20in%20her%20birthday%20book.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_uSpMOOA8tWksmA3T1lEiW3MIPdvEPqaS2-VxpydHhzjZKM0QW66kt4B7TmBYF6JNsfJ1u97kENLcbYwKRo85byeryLaxAHGmDSQ15srglMOnmTpelRb-ASdUn6MuWrrTVJkBMG7dAncVmggiQgt49RO6go_UshDaglRfkkLmrnrPwdkE29wNNdTf/s4000/aunt%20sadie%20at%20her%20tablet.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_uSpMOOA8tWksmA3T1lEiW3MIPdvEPqaS2-VxpydHhzjZKM0QW66kt4B7TmBYF6JNsfJ1u97kENLcbYwKRo85byeryLaxAHGmDSQ15srglMOnmTpelRb-ASdUn6MuWrrTVJkBMG7dAncVmggiQgt49RO6go_UshDaglRfkkLmrnrPwdkE29wNNdTf/s320/aunt%20sadie%20at%20her%20tablet.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>She is a wonder, that centenarian, game for anything. If a walk in the larger Gardens is now too much for her, a walk around the gardens of her apartment is not. She walks among the other residents in her independent living building like a queen...not haughty, not proud, but beautiful...resilient and affectionate and admired. She doesn't hear well, but her sight is as clear as the finest lens on the Hubble (and much older). </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjagC7Pirxe1y18tTGi3RhzH1EwG4xUFAGGnbiWDr2mEKN-eRf2fGG9vVj-vOXMieo71-__LAm5FoJIPdcmNRA1JPeTusgOeGqCQ_fE8UqkyGSyMM7_Eo4JCNwCRH2bBidpx96DKBWXSLgX0zHaB588FZcZCTcp0Q7LAnD0cKF-8KkePJPbpVT4EpsH/s3650/aunt%20sadie%20and%20barbara%20in%20hotel%20garden.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3650" data-original-width="2809" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjagC7Pirxe1y18tTGi3RhzH1EwG4xUFAGGnbiWDr2mEKN-eRf2fGG9vVj-vOXMieo71-__LAm5FoJIPdcmNRA1JPeTusgOeGqCQ_fE8UqkyGSyMM7_Eo4JCNwCRH2bBidpx96DKBWXSLgX0zHaB588FZcZCTcp0Q7LAnD0cKF-8KkePJPbpVT4EpsH/s320/aunt%20sadie%20and%20barbara%20in%20hotel%20garden.jpg" width="246" /></a></div><br /><p> She still teaches us all sorts of useful things and remembers what we need to know. It is an honor to be her niece and learn.</p><p></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXDw-7tDU6oH7I-hx9QaUJ9jPZKW2ubc3vrY0babCUCsCXzJLbloYWSNb4OiH4QQurrYBXP5ZlZ_woc7icaoIgUbVuPEaTZ-0TV3IWzH-in4q43RuVQ419B34CuhVXHUq57CDG8Uue3GHHt3UIbsHunUcgnx7PzAQBVIwenwXPklzC2J-JEGLr90Ee/s3105/aunt%20sadie%20at%20work%20demonstrating%20a%20cozzoli%20machine%20when%20young.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2471" data-original-width="3105" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXDw-7tDU6oH7I-hx9QaUJ9jPZKW2ubc3vrY0babCUCsCXzJLbloYWSNb4OiH4QQurrYBXP5ZlZ_woc7icaoIgUbVuPEaTZ-0TV3IWzH-in4q43RuVQ419B34CuhVXHUq57CDG8Uue3GHHt3UIbsHunUcgnx7PzAQBVIwenwXPklzC2J-JEGLr90Ee/s320/aunt%20sadie%20at%20work%20demonstrating%20a%20cozzoli%20machine%20when%20young.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLvtXDR1RVFqEWvZQdrQT-pHRv27_wkfC_IQwH8yCYM0N6YHHib1GfIZFEqprUgZU6NvMVUwJcbtac4VklLGblumpvS0yPMHVdTXjPkJK_BxQzQ6cyxAhIYhWtaD-G347NoQeOH2DibB8MTi3chGIC5RJW3r1s9_enzB2NTs_byOh267-DJliC1AFv/s960/aunt%20sadie%20with%20ann.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLvtXDR1RVFqEWvZQdrQT-pHRv27_wkfC_IQwH8yCYM0N6YHHib1GfIZFEqprUgZU6NvMVUwJcbtac4VklLGblumpvS0yPMHVdTXjPkJK_BxQzQ6cyxAhIYhWtaD-G347NoQeOH2DibB8MTi3chGIC5RJW3r1s9_enzB2NTs_byOh267-DJliC1AFv/s320/aunt%20sadie%20with%20ann.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'll call her today and see how the rest of her birthday week is going, and tell her about the bread rising in my bowl. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUKNwoeY1NKUlQWneZr8_X5gfjAcWHOB5SPpAT8SNvviQJa6KbczDzHUN0osUvOpGGY3NmCJeIv-69JCEeApDxI_AjQzF7g8X8s0Td-RUcph4YK1sdr1EYpJVDeTtkzB98uKtqWxMHZh4e5JiR4O4SzmOdyQTf70jEuG1Vm8ekuh0l4dUTaBdPx63Q/s2016/Grandma%20and%20Robert%20making%20easter%20dolls%20and%20pastries.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUKNwoeY1NKUlQWneZr8_X5gfjAcWHOB5SPpAT8SNvviQJa6KbczDzHUN0osUvOpGGY3NmCJeIv-69JCEeApDxI_AjQzF7g8X8s0Td-RUcph4YK1sdr1EYpJVDeTtkzB98uKtqWxMHZh4e5JiR4O4SzmOdyQTf70jEuG1Vm8ekuh0l4dUTaBdPx63Q/s320/Grandma%20and%20Robert%20making%20easter%20dolls%20and%20pastries.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div></div><div><br /></div><div>She'll ask me how I am, and I'll tell her...better, thanks! The little pain left is not worth mentioning, though it is worth remembering...the sign of turning a corner, flying off, making old things anew. Making a new story from the old and its old stories and theirs.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSzj_OKzsEP2jh8jHZAEGyXQitS-Jd6WZ8rXZcS5qwcGUR8Ye28UqU_DPQ7gwacGiVrbiVNrAWjz5SaXfDr6adds71nGY79yObyNNS-mfeVPl8RdHT4kCVKflR96XZnLl_nXhtw_oY6QQ8fERieA-7U-A5PkLv5JMWWHezGjD0Xcm4CDDElMZPsbRE/s4000/challah%20ready%20to%20rise%20x%203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSzj_OKzsEP2jh8jHZAEGyXQitS-Jd6WZ8rXZcS5qwcGUR8Ye28UqU_DPQ7gwacGiVrbiVNrAWjz5SaXfDr6adds71nGY79yObyNNS-mfeVPl8RdHT4kCVKflR96XZnLl_nXhtw_oY6QQ8fERieA-7U-A5PkLv5JMWWHezGjD0Xcm4CDDElMZPsbRE/s320/challah%20ready%20to%20rise%20x%203.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div><p>Aha. I see it is time to punch down that risen dough and let it begin to rise again. As we all can do. Later, I will coil it into the shape of a long spiral of life and let it rise a third time. In its own time.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCNx53KetitBQqcDrHhToybq21ddRb5tcxJW97olwgZCodOnhEHRlDnGMpaQeI9VaOrC9VDRk1reE2cgZfEm7P0FS_7LQd1h4LWKy571mYeQjjlhxiHbwSPSh84PqKnUxLlr5vZ2cu8xUxQ5M7HTj4L0QjFOuYHay8SUlsjt8hcmXLJf2Pe-WIbemu/s3206/pumpkins%20at%20hershey%20gardens.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="3206" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCNx53KetitBQqcDrHhToybq21ddRb5tcxJW97olwgZCodOnhEHRlDnGMpaQeI9VaOrC9VDRk1reE2cgZfEm7P0FS_7LQd1h4LWKy571mYeQjjlhxiHbwSPSh84PqKnUxLlr5vZ2cu8xUxQ5M7HTj4L0QjFOuYHay8SUlsjt8hcmXLJf2Pe-WIbemu/s320/pumpkins%20at%20hershey%20gardens.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;">Meanwhile, <i>happy fall,</i> dear readers.</p><p style="text-align: center;">----------------------------------------------------------------------------------</p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Later the same day</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgahPL_Ty7TzHDRtO0_65I30yhMHyBfuLiSG0BO38693AINELDJgApLUtADlAIVQObHRM8IsK0K56r1A_2-TbhO6RzC_NoZy2_c8PVpv5ZQywTk69e2_OPKwZ3vqFo5IQ7biwi0ein8RdG88nahL1l6sivUgNIDc2iMrFjin4gOInKTwSQBREml6kFZ/s4000/challah%20baked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgahPL_Ty7TzHDRtO0_65I30yhMHyBfuLiSG0BO38693AINELDJgApLUtADlAIVQObHRM8IsK0K56r1A_2-TbhO6RzC_NoZy2_c8PVpv5ZQywTk69e2_OPKwZ3vqFo5IQ7biwi0ein8RdG88nahL1l6sivUgNIDc2iMrFjin4gOInKTwSQBREml6kFZ/s320/challah%20baked.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>le shanah tovah...</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>to a sweet year!</i></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p></div>Rachel's Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790797302450473117noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8959233989161202970.post-83687252112588852472022-09-07T07:26:00.000-07:002022-09-07T07:26:44.263-07:00A stitch in time<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhoco4_v1pE7YuK2zVmKJQs2REO2amsbwtKEz7nHPPQJkW9c7IwtEEOlH3obyZ9uXk5OQWGvLib7uCyTFnd2B-dTYdOXXApUNTr4BpjbnczKFicgDilgjEv-_-ktK1XJ5qyut3ek7DhK41rQfnWrTMNjrQY6lRCrB3z1EOArQG9m8LEFhtqzE-90gO/s4000/campbell%20school%20thread%20needle%20scissors.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhoco4_v1pE7YuK2zVmKJQs2REO2amsbwtKEz7nHPPQJkW9c7IwtEEOlH3obyZ9uXk5OQWGvLib7uCyTFnd2B-dTYdOXXApUNTr4BpjbnczKFicgDilgjEv-_-ktK1XJ5qyut3ek7DhK41rQfnWrTMNjrQY6lRCrB3z1EOArQG9m8LEFhtqzE-90gO/s320/campbell%20school%20thread%20needle%20scissors.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div>Last spring, my neighbors Holly and Steve announced that they were signing up for the John C Campbell Folk School's session at the end of August and invited me to come along. I'd been wanting to take a class there; had been collecting catalogs over the years since other friends had gone, impressed with their offerings.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwmf5mI_6YOW_b2Viy8kMYU5QoQeIaxhdN1IzQ6zJhcbyvnvHQTfVItJRM-bZxfjQD4aRqV600ZUWNkhHePN4r_oue0oa-d6OJp8RoMT3Pwua2Po6iJMrQZ6Rb7fnY8iTqov3vOvvs1akDh-76EPLVOa3ozju9-Mw98rhqHqVmHZPSgLrU-mjwnvwA/s3513/campbell%20school%20catalog%20cover%20and%20coffee.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2728" data-original-width="3513" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwmf5mI_6YOW_b2Viy8kMYU5QoQeIaxhdN1IzQ6zJhcbyvnvHQTfVItJRM-bZxfjQD4aRqV600ZUWNkhHePN4r_oue0oa-d6OJp8RoMT3Pwua2Po6iJMrQZ6Rb7fnY8iTqov3vOvvs1akDh-76EPLVOa3ozju9-Mw98rhqHqVmHZPSgLrU-mjwnvwA/s320/campbell%20school%20catalog%20cover%20and%20coffee.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><p>I waited a few days before I logged on (we could call it <i>slogging</i>), and sure enough the classes I thought I'd like had no more space. The Campbell School, in Brasstown, NC (not much farther west or south than that and you are in Tennessee or Georgia) fills its workshops and sessions fast, so I apologized to my kind neighbors and laid the summer back. </p><p>But then, two weeks before their classes began, Holly and Steve mentioned it again at lunch, excited to be gathering their things together for the session. "You should come," they said again. <i>Oh, why not? </i>I thought. <i>I could use a break about now</i>. They offered me a ride (it's a 6-hour drive from here to the school) and a place to stay with them...there is nothing better than an adventure with good neighbors.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCl8DAAXEIb_teFLuaz_QZ0znTp3NwATaKU-PgDQmwiEYF_HF_G0Rt-SpFaJIfa7OHlnjWk2CUMDrOUe67cA5OaSBCONd3ZzT6kX7bbwXZaSdguP17ugcSv227EnmQFmW82hwX8Lx23TgxmdsbIdgPEYdfI5G7jEMpHMWjrcj8-SDqMs1YwQkleXal/s4000/campbell%20school%20needlework%20catalog%20page.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCl8DAAXEIb_teFLuaz_QZ0znTp3NwATaKU-PgDQmwiEYF_HF_G0Rt-SpFaJIfa7OHlnjWk2CUMDrOUe67cA5OaSBCONd3ZzT6kX7bbwXZaSdguP17ugcSv227EnmQFmW82hwX8Lx23TgxmdsbIdgPEYdfI5G7jEMpHMWjrcj8-SDqMs1YwQkleXal/s320/campbell%20school%20needlework%20catalog%20page.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>Before I called the school, I armed myself with classes I thought I could still try...the mixed media class that originally was closed but might have (unlikely as it seemed) a drop-out by now, photography, clay. Alas, they were all filled. "I could put you on a waiting list," the registering staff member told me on the phone. But there was another that still had one opening: Wool embellishment and embroidery. I'm sure she could hear my sigh...alas, my hands, for all the basic sewing they do, aren't really attuned to such close, particular needlework.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXFNeq06PRptKPrZfBbN8qfVQNUHr4CA5vSW_lnQBswYhsJghFlMMwtxk5Vmgq4yZ7hEeXG55-tYg41dN-I0ZeukcJ2ma3NX1oZoY1j1Ac-HX-rB-rg49VSSVkzsv_7mpH8ru0E_lpbBOL2OYSJ-_7rrj8kEG64zs4C4HMSQG0RnZQabHaalooc2IV/s2302/great%20aunts%20and%20grandmother%20who%20could%20sew%20perfectly.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2302" data-original-width="1551" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXFNeq06PRptKPrZfBbN8qfVQNUHr4CA5vSW_lnQBswYhsJghFlMMwtxk5Vmgq4yZ7hEeXG55-tYg41dN-I0ZeukcJ2ma3NX1oZoY1j1Ac-HX-rB-rg49VSSVkzsv_7mpH8ru0E_lpbBOL2OYSJ-_7rrj8kEG64zs4C4HMSQG0RnZQabHaalooc2IV/s320/great%20aunts%20and%20grandmother%20who%20could%20sew%20perfectly.jpg" width="216" /></a></div><br /><p>I come from a family of superb needleworkers, who sewed, knitted, embroidered, beeded, and embellished their own (and often my) clothing over four generations. I seem to be the one who didn't inherit the necessary genes for precise work, though when I was younger I managed a few sundresses, a plain but silk shift, and a tennis dress.</p><p>On the other hand, signing up for something so challenging would have two advantages: one, it would get me out into the school; and two, I'd learn something difficult, however handy I'd turn out at it. <i>I'll take it, </i>I told her.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As it turned out, spending five and a half days, all day, learning the intricacies of the stem stitch, the chain stitch, the blanket stitch (I already knew that one, though I kept forgetting how it begins), the daisy, the fern and feather stitches, the French knot and too many more, filled me with new life. I found the class and my classmates, not to mention Kit, the instructor's assistant who was my savior, delightful. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiizOvAn7WPTN6Rk-NsZ-675FDpuLXy7tBS014W3-5YphblgbCbfk_rv-RoMm8Bh8OQawLQhbwolYmqHmY1pF6baj3V1vOETJiGTeWqf8s3UtmrVf0nOYQUhBXO9bXKCpEUgg40G2ru6fd1jmXmbMRMUa0m-oF903yxcuSSbO1_kZPb0OlVyoOBDYmE/s4000/campbell%20school%20working%20together.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiizOvAn7WPTN6Rk-NsZ-675FDpuLXy7tBS014W3-5YphblgbCbfk_rv-RoMm8Bh8OQawLQhbwolYmqHmY1pF6baj3V1vOETJiGTeWqf8s3UtmrVf0nOYQUhBXO9bXKCpEUgg40G2ru6fd1jmXmbMRMUa0m-oF903yxcuSSbO1_kZPb0OlVyoOBDYmE/s320/campbell%20school%20working%20together.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Penny, our instructor, with a lot of years' teaching there, handed to us daily, lump by lump, a huge set of embroidery skills. In a class where skills ranged from mine (almost nil) to expert, I learned to pace myself and do what I could.</div><p>Yes, it was hard. No, I didn't become proficient, and I take the prize for the slowest student there...I didn't even begin two of the scheduled projects, because I was working so hard on my individual design (see below), planning and re-doing and re-doing again, taking out at least a third of the stitches I'd put in. But I finished it. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUIbZJoHUnZPj3Xt8qXq64rxf51pJV8_qcdAHkPzFn9gzX5nQOD0_BX7CpQCTBfVq1_TwogAIly759z82wYFHzafV3cFtFN60mGAadRuYo1yrNONZmxpn_dwuThDYGf0fngUKNxZseTdnDfShur3bVJN3eAyTzvWBRaJDJrk1QbLMiZ2h9BY7D0FjS/s1581/my%20design.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1581" data-original-width="1517" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUIbZJoHUnZPj3Xt8qXq64rxf51pJV8_qcdAHkPzFn9gzX5nQOD0_BX7CpQCTBfVq1_TwogAIly759z82wYFHzafV3cFtFN60mGAadRuYo1yrNONZmxpn_dwuThDYGf0fngUKNxZseTdnDfShur3bVJN3eAyTzvWBRaJDJrk1QbLMiZ2h9BY7D0FjS/s320/my%20design.jpeg" width="307" /></a></div><br /><p>Despite hours of practice, motor memory, which our instructor assured us would come, failed me time and again. Still, I was comforted that I had the running and backstitch in hand already (sewing tasks at home provide practice all the time) and though the stem stitch's first angle eluded me with every start, I loved doing the French knot, the daisy, the loop, and the fern. I couldn't imagine a future sitting quietly to do needlework cushions, but absolutely everything I learned could easily become part of my own art.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilvOfkeUC98xuJS3rgLTnwP5EciQrbBpEbyYjNxD5Gph0oR3_RPAKTQCC3QjUbRXBGslpUqGp-xd3eSpJlc6xZEEA4yJzcxjJB7rFr9IY7YcDtNL7C3Vnd1BLbPlNyWwoYctMfDFkYpD0BPMfNdlRnpcTwnCOLqB8HFT1IymC7pV2JL7GH9STP-9vE/s4000/campbell%20school%20embroidery%20stitch%20sampler.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilvOfkeUC98xuJS3rgLTnwP5EciQrbBpEbyYjNxD5Gph0oR3_RPAKTQCC3QjUbRXBGslpUqGp-xd3eSpJlc6xZEEA4yJzcxjJB7rFr9IY7YcDtNL7C3Vnd1BLbPlNyWwoYctMfDFkYpD0BPMfNdlRnpcTwnCOLqB8HFT1IymC7pV2JL7GH9STP-9vE/s320/campbell%20school%20embroidery%20stitch%20sampler.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>Even more wonderful was the Campbell School itself. It's been an important folk school in the region since 1925, when Olive Dame Campbell and Marguerite Butler, with education, deliberation, and careful planning, established it. At first with an agricultural focus, only a few years later it incorporated traditional craft skills, which were much needed and much practiced in the mountain areas, as the self-sufficiency was and is essential in remote areas. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHWcHoZmd2MZMiEi05p35nD6BqFqxxOo5rTtUzWqX7SWavjyBSPxLGEcJCODS96FRASe3B2dM-LQJkJcBF2P6_w4uleSA8IUsRwLqpXCsFPn_UaTdLekKyUDf-MQvJHlEbgu5w5HKV1bbTKplPNw2dVcqfO_V1kGZcEikdSlhzPMOyE-0ZjC4fr7dv/s4000/campbell%20school%20iron%20plaque%20on%20fence.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHWcHoZmd2MZMiEi05p35nD6BqFqxxOo5rTtUzWqX7SWavjyBSPxLGEcJCODS96FRASe3B2dM-LQJkJcBF2P6_w4uleSA8IUsRwLqpXCsFPn_UaTdLekKyUDf-MQvJHlEbgu5w5HKV1bbTKplPNw2dVcqfO_V1kGZcEikdSlhzPMOyE-0ZjC4fr7dv/s320/campbell%20school%20iron%20plaque%20on%20fence.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><br /> I won't go into its whole history here**, but Campbell and Butler chose its location well, after much study and with the full, even hearty encouragement of the rural population. Landscape is an important backdrop to their philosophy that making by hand begins with ground rules...that is, begins from the ground up. (Steve's woodturning class, for example, began by making the tools they would use.)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFPvPaKa5y1s9Ox_V3Fi6YgC2WLH4FoZBeW9HHxC-3B3L4DC4xwiuUqlBdzSqEB4fAsDtqHwjElgOfOrsJSIlLLlGEPQuk9ysdo40uV_ouUVP5wJwpUrcFe4gaaIJTW3Vixg0vGECi33oso8R8CLGtlmVsQNFHZldyHIgsLFWZyyOuHU6TxoF_hjfR/s4000/campbell%20school%20gazebo%20detail.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFPvPaKa5y1s9Ox_V3Fi6YgC2WLH4FoZBeW9HHxC-3B3L4DC4xwiuUqlBdzSqEB4fAsDtqHwjElgOfOrsJSIlLLlGEPQuk9ysdo40uV_ouUVP5wJwpUrcFe4gaaIJTW3Vixg0vGECi33oso8R8CLGtlmVsQNFHZldyHIgsLFWZyyOuHU6TxoF_hjfR/s320/campbell%20school%20gazebo%20detail.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>Here the natural setting, water nearby, hills and gardens and rough trails inspire. Plain as they first appear on the outside, the school's rustic buildings open to large well-lit spaces and good equipment for working at each of the crafts it teaches: woodworking, iron and metal work, stone and pottery, cooking and baking (I'm tempted to sign up for the next class the sweet cooking instructor is going to hold: cooking in the wild...we forage for our food), chair caning, furniture building, photography, weaving, basketweaving, quilting, sewing, painting and printing, bookmaking, dance and music (we were serenaded at lunch every day outside), the <i>making</i> of musical instruments, and more unrecalled.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHvGRL8ITMZVy37f8jeqtgU5bJR8vnw1I-zyL2ygeSmrfVc-ELcdGrPvbsSuwW3Zv1nE8rn6YPL4pdhznXZ0l6ciEfpOBxe_EDM2s5-T7UvJj2fshEZYhMDSyPcTeSdvtuTxN2vPBKHHOd5vU09_gAkEKOiMpxjhX6KJPg7bWCVc92yiXCXg88od4r/s4000/campbell%20school%20chair%20weaving.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHvGRL8ITMZVy37f8jeqtgU5bJR8vnw1I-zyL2ygeSmrfVc-ELcdGrPvbsSuwW3Zv1nE8rn6YPL4pdhznXZ0l6ciEfpOBxe_EDM2s5-T7UvJj2fshEZYhMDSyPcTeSdvtuTxN2vPBKHHOd5vU09_gAkEKOiMpxjhX6KJPg7bWCVc92yiXCXg88od4r/s320/campbell%20school%20chair%20weaving.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs086kXWQ6gFIdrzPd3Tf_B9g2W6xxMZEyCzRNzFlcmNxxSLIPi-tjiZUdSE8CUT-T1BwwRopUFJ8OUlcUfO4FNSSGu3RcsNS5WaFPOt0rZEvchoHf6SsjgyL0cXl7pqguy3FsIyfAarKKLQ-yyahWK1Q03f9ccfTw2Y-iPlUCXK649rUZcSMFigzN/s4000/campbell%20school%20metalwork%20workshop%20makings.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs086kXWQ6gFIdrzPd3Tf_B9g2W6xxMZEyCzRNzFlcmNxxSLIPi-tjiZUdSE8CUT-T1BwwRopUFJ8OUlcUfO4FNSSGu3RcsNS5WaFPOt0rZEvchoHf6SsjgyL0cXl7pqguy3FsIyfAarKKLQ-yyahWK1Q03f9ccfTw2Y-iPlUCXK649rUZcSMFigzN/s320/campbell%20school%20metalwork%20workshop%20makings.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY-nk-Rk0eE7a9B6HsQ75c_jEl1PH65Yd3JmrwTo9W0aMbYY0ioRNBokqozi1LYUfu0tXiqo8ekWzYJ8jrZfHWRDW0fWfN72Ok4FGrdgpZutcjqQ-lzHg-WhZ_E4U-k5MFX8SG8PdRFcWTUphWC-TWbi-_gdzmPaGN_yhuLpuTh7ciqnkS74s1ZF5B/s4000/campbell%20school%20musicians%20jamming%20at%20lunch%20outside.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY-nk-Rk0eE7a9B6HsQ75c_jEl1PH65Yd3JmrwTo9W0aMbYY0ioRNBokqozi1LYUfu0tXiqo8ekWzYJ8jrZfHWRDW0fWfN72Ok4FGrdgpZutcjqQ-lzHg-WhZ_E4U-k5MFX8SG8PdRFcWTUphWC-TWbi-_gdzmPaGN_yhuLpuTh7ciqnkS74s1ZF5B/s320/campbell%20school%20musicians%20jamming%20at%20lunch%20outside.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikRAzrwkT3dDCbamutauSApbHU7TN16c3WrqHOrUvS5kP3glio9zPfDvbr6cQpukJL4kveEEz7sNZ5Z0b9mpjAk6x8wa_OgWxoPnyx61A5A-GkSW3vmvZLHhsuHOX5vCAy5P780r7PRrM_R1i3I7RaDZy2bT8h3Oi_tkjVE-jbzggfY4VYcNNFFjyw/s4000/campbell%20school%20table%20workshop%20making.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikRAzrwkT3dDCbamutauSApbHU7TN16c3WrqHOrUvS5kP3glio9zPfDvbr6cQpukJL4kveEEz7sNZ5Z0b9mpjAk6x8wa_OgWxoPnyx61A5A-GkSW3vmvZLHhsuHOX5vCAy5P780r7PRrM_R1i3I7RaDZy2bT8h3Oi_tkjVE-jbzggfY4VYcNNFFjyw/s320/campbell%20school%20table%20workshop%20making.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>And its people: goodness, what nice people, talented people, helpful people, genial people, from everywhere. Besides a few North and South Carolina residents, my classmates came from Georgia, Tennessee, Ohio, Washington DC, Vermont, Massachusetts and the Finger Lakes of NY State. Ages ranged from early twenties to eighties. There were couples and singles and siblings and friends. Many were on fifth or fifteenth visits working there. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLkkDs_btr8dfK01EvfEjCrlychgQROkdRFtsrJdKRTx1wxmEg9jc3Sqz_yv1W-8KFXZLLz6M2ENkDH84WbGYhjf2oAT1YviikJImxoJanaRF9vahNfyPD7e9XYTVwPPTkI8l4WaSgPXh9Aw7BvpRmIeQ1hw1XZ8spHx_zshRDHpr-o_RpG6wWLUOr/s4000/campbell%20school%20embroiderers%20hunched%20over%20working%20in%20good%20light%20and%20space.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLkkDs_btr8dfK01EvfEjCrlychgQROkdRFtsrJdKRTx1wxmEg9jc3Sqz_yv1W-8KFXZLLz6M2ENkDH84WbGYhjf2oAT1YviikJImxoJanaRF9vahNfyPD7e9XYTVwPPTkI8l4WaSgPXh9Aw7BvpRmIeQ1hw1XZ8spHx_zshRDHpr-o_RpG6wWLUOr/s320/campbell%20school%20embroiderers%20hunched%20over%20working%20in%20good%20light%20and%20space.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiONg-WRE-_9xh999iNZ3ffxrdmRCt111SC1klUqchDRpC7gVx3nCVVBOzl6uxm2CjNe9eRac22kGE5NMWunmktBmuh39inl-GmM_RwRcrM0LLytRDi56loiEdKAQ9O7e9FT3A9C5e74T3bW2lJKnvTH2wz-MdZhj0KMdCBvQE--nsS2xXvCrzVrauE/s3542/campbell%20school%20sewers%20conferring%20over%20materials.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3542" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiONg-WRE-_9xh999iNZ3ffxrdmRCt111SC1klUqchDRpC7gVx3nCVVBOzl6uxm2CjNe9eRac22kGE5NMWunmktBmuh39inl-GmM_RwRcrM0LLytRDi56loiEdKAQ9O7e9FT3A9C5e74T3bW2lJKnvTH2wz-MdZhj0KMdCBvQE--nsS2xXvCrzVrauE/s320/campbell%20school%20sewers%20conferring%20over%20materials.jpg" width="271" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>Because let me tell you, you really work. All day, breaking for lunch, and, if you are lucky enough to have stayed on or near campus, often returning after dinner to finish the day's assignment. And after that, there are talks and concerts and dances and demonstrations to attend. There is a sense of community that is deliberate...essential to the way one sees and learns and accomplishes and communicates.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNGs8txBBknNxeAS0RGn_NPQb88a6zxst2nGNgpmHMNXpJY3WZseo0n1t0lLRLCk1A8FNWB6NmdP6Pp1jCRugC9eiRVOIZ5DBuYFWBkFlrFH9BDZy3QjAsU7Fk-e8v_t2-3xoM5bMbHMXoJZGHqJ7ZmVS8iBguy7tsVdu9Mi9ZGqlobHEf8MyzD7wS/s4000/campbell%20school%20Kellys%20first%20carving%20from%20evening%20demonstration.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNGs8txBBknNxeAS0RGn_NPQb88a6zxst2nGNgpmHMNXpJY3WZseo0n1t0lLRLCk1A8FNWB6NmdP6Pp1jCRugC9eiRVOIZ5DBuYFWBkFlrFH9BDZy3QjAsU7Fk-e8v_t2-3xoM5bMbHMXoJZGHqJ7ZmVS8iBguy7tsVdu9Mi9ZGqlobHEf8MyzD7wS/s320/campbell%20school%20Kellys%20first%20carving%20from%20evening%20demonstration.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj06IQIZTWERodWLM2deDavADUFw8d2blQYro-PINCvDiFPneiUznNywJf1Bgm-93_QMAuPg8ANhvqCFckB5f4HhlyZVsD-5INyO_r-8UzOV_aQASBs-BtFonCHAMGuyFR27FmmTsu_XRoaKw2-2ldIL2T_TUn3Iu9XHxsFsuejOxdenYeqYqRkQXZ6/s4000/campbell%20school%20library.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj06IQIZTWERodWLM2deDavADUFw8d2blQYro-PINCvDiFPneiUznNywJf1Bgm-93_QMAuPg8ANhvqCFckB5f4HhlyZVsD-5INyO_r-8UzOV_aQASBs-BtFonCHAMGuyFR27FmmTsu_XRoaKw2-2ldIL2T_TUn3Iu9XHxsFsuejOxdenYeqYqRkQXZ6/s320/campbell%20school%20library.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioY-PMroB9S2C5QdLU3uA-6ZFI30uzs8bPD0TaVl0_xC8tY8i_--IQ0M_hl3MmJLLGCeu-0uSMEvpthNQjVftKXjf5O8DRLLPf7nBlSjG7oKwWrVCvXTSnALBEEOzBuB3TJUNTzJX5aop8P6K1mAxrSStezZXJWTg-pic4WQaDRfpqvWLzmystSqJZ/s2742/campbell%20school%20music%20workshop%20group%20on%20the%20last%20day.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2512" data-original-width="2742" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioY-PMroB9S2C5QdLU3uA-6ZFI30uzs8bPD0TaVl0_xC8tY8i_--IQ0M_hl3MmJLLGCeu-0uSMEvpthNQjVftKXjf5O8DRLLPf7nBlSjG7oKwWrVCvXTSnALBEEOzBuB3TJUNTzJX5aop8P6K1mAxrSStezZXJWTg-pic4WQaDRfpqvWLzmystSqJZ/s320/campbell%20school%20music%20workshop%20group%20on%20the%20last%20day.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Holly and Steve had arranged to stay in a house well outside of campus, up a mountain on smaller and smaller unlit roads until gravel brought us to our lair, so night visits weren't practical. Still, our shoulders ached from hunching over stitches, paint and collage (H) and wood (S). We had our balm, though.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6vUnLrj0YkWCzUW2WLcdtmPswhHqXOsI94fcCgQ1V-CqCgBQJOcpcwskL7ZINnCiAebgmTp90ig4A-GnBTs9q_qUf3Q7Y2ewdfP165zN5pxYdwN85DbHV7nCCDZAaUSuSeTIHLz4T2mYXrB7HUfO5Tpx78iUPP87gig-zKgfYsr4O6p96rKCxKig7/s2804/morning%20view%20from%20the%20Murphy%20cabin%20porch.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2804" data-original-width="2103" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6vUnLrj0YkWCzUW2WLcdtmPswhHqXOsI94fcCgQ1V-CqCgBQJOcpcwskL7ZINnCiAebgmTp90ig4A-GnBTs9q_qUf3Q7Y2ewdfP165zN5pxYdwN85DbHV7nCCDZAaUSuSeTIHLz4T2mYXrB7HUfO5Tpx78iUPP87gig-zKgfYsr4O6p96rKCxKig7/s320/morning%20view%20from%20the%20Murphy%20cabin%20porch.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Xuhf7WqoZcGm3Xe1v70osk-GqGVvU-wpKNkO_AeQmbtkLPNIVzgVxhbczrHj1dFAaNHVk7O_c3Td8eDEceTc3Jyl3MyVu82JIz9te6wLfHJWhSWTuB9iiFaMrNEaaRFd6WMh3gFjHq8rVqv_lu3gmtLRLiIA-C_CgLuCO08VrsfnOjRGKVBS9OSk/s4000/murphy%20house%20holly%20and%20steve%20on%20porch.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Xuhf7WqoZcGm3Xe1v70osk-GqGVvU-wpKNkO_AeQmbtkLPNIVzgVxhbczrHj1dFAaNHVk7O_c3Td8eDEceTc3Jyl3MyVu82JIz9te6wLfHJWhSWTuB9iiFaMrNEaaRFd6WMh3gFjHq8rVqv_lu3gmtLRLiIA-C_CgLuCO08VrsfnOjRGKVBS9OSk/s320/murphy%20house%20holly%20and%20steve%20on%20porch.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivi5DET2MSovrbwHD2d7xNiD6dxG1xTAEHgEJ3dlY8gJgko4lagN6nYR0f1Vgt-Rxvzp7RbuofNabpGQe3ftF3YXHWKqhYtx6XJhWFo-8Y4FI05MQXhU6LKwiZefOVr_-GW-rrb8R6X7Jixsb0KY36mb_bcLji3muKdhDuiYCssKO-PeigZx3PJMgu/s4000/murphy%20house%20view%20at%20sunset.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivi5DET2MSovrbwHD2d7xNiD6dxG1xTAEHgEJ3dlY8gJgko4lagN6nYR0f1Vgt-Rxvzp7RbuofNabpGQe3ftF3YXHWKqhYtx6XJhWFo-8Y4FI05MQXhU6LKwiZefOVr_-GW-rrb8R6X7Jixsb0KY36mb_bcLji3muKdhDuiYCssKO-PeigZx3PJMgu/s320/murphy%20house%20view%20at%20sunset.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>The porch overlooking a steep garden and beyond a setting of trees and blue hills became my focal point there. I could step out of my bedroom with a cup of coffee and inhale the forever view. Or rock with Steve and Holly at the end of the day talking about what we'd made and mastered (or not...quite).</p><p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjGR7TbHkknCxVbezQsbTs2oPmsKGIHaqzu12rUReZceUduWSXyJuGP4K7GkfpDTPWuv6JFQ-rPy3PuWBR-wwBFpkoC0QBgiW0X-kdUdFutqveyEex0Ags7Hk7Hv8d3m6XBFOxlAWwi6Z_da7hnSD0w66Lh3E4fUXjti4tB7566nN43zkxLPFi0nNU/s2048/steves%20woodturning%20projecgts.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjGR7TbHkknCxVbezQsbTs2oPmsKGIHaqzu12rUReZceUduWSXyJuGP4K7GkfpDTPWuv6JFQ-rPy3PuWBR-wwBFpkoC0QBgiW0X-kdUdFutqveyEex0Ags7Hk7Hv8d3m6XBFOxlAWwi6Z_da7hnSD0w66Lh3E4fUXjti4tB7566nN43zkxLPFi0nNU/s320/steves%20woodturning%20projecgts.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Steve's woodturning</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggWf3evOuaoIYgVDOM2tjZeM9GCBuZblu1bG7PgVp2N7xAz0CBoQnW0uf1KpZgtQOr0s2NK6lT52TC38jSUTR_aQN7hRycAqYOikSwKUdy_NzoYH6KsmSbsCM-npCGkjt-sZTKuRadr9XKctsTnLT-msVCDdkNkWjMzJY90beO4lz6c-DFfP67sflw/s1600/hollys%20mixed%20media%20lady.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggWf3evOuaoIYgVDOM2tjZeM9GCBuZblu1bG7PgVp2N7xAz0CBoQnW0uf1KpZgtQOr0s2NK6lT52TC38jSUTR_aQN7hRycAqYOikSwKUdy_NzoYH6KsmSbsCM-npCGkjt-sZTKuRadr9XKctsTnLT-msVCDdkNkWjMzJY90beO4lz6c-DFfP67sflw/s320/hollys%20mixed%20media%20lady.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span><span style="font-size: small;">Holly's mixed media woman</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">**********************************</div></span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>On the fourth day, I received a message from my cousin Lorraine in Lancaster, who serendipitously forwarded me a "Slow Stitching" link she thought I would enjoy. She hadn't known where I was or what I was struggling over, but I was quick to tell her and excited to find the ways that version of the craft offered for my art. I showed the link to the others in the class, though Penny, the instructor, didn't seem impressed...she's a needleworker of some skill, of course.</p><p>What did I do on my summer vacation, one might ask? It seems to have been a time of needle and thread, of <i>making</i>...my own as well as others'. A broadening time, from June with the Florida quilters through August at the Campbell, one stitch at a time.</p><p style="text-align: center;">I can't wait for next year.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1BWlkqk39fvznLBHt9xuwjG6KkIeRqmCsPa53KpIDu-zTKHqQ8TY8UmIJ_RU40jCoyAQaDk0lLAZSCmok58AvFtmAQxx8kBrFQaWyH4T7AAaEBcYzjuMSIonDGM8-6yVVE_rbpV5oqTfmYspT00DZrltK-BIC0zoDPFUdGBdpR_H3h892icJMtsYL/s4000/steve%20and%20holly%20at%20main%20building.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1BWlkqk39fvznLBHt9xuwjG6KkIeRqmCsPa53KpIDu-zTKHqQ8TY8UmIJ_RU40jCoyAQaDk0lLAZSCmok58AvFtmAQxx8kBrFQaWyH4T7AAaEBcYzjuMSIonDGM8-6yVVE_rbpV5oqTfmYspT00DZrltK-BIC0zoDPFUdGBdpR_H3h892icJMtsYL/s320/steve%20and%20holly%20at%20main%20building.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">_________________________________________________________________________</p><p>You can read more about the Campbell Folk School's beginnings here:</p><p> <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.wcu.edu/library/DigitalCollections/CraftRevival/story/campbell.html%23:~:text%3DCampbell%2520Folk%2520School-,The%2520John%2520C&source=gmail&ust=1662583545808000&usg=AOvVaw1FttNb07SlBtUg53_sx9Sg" href="https://www.wcu.edu/library/DigitalCollections/CraftRevival/story/campbell.html#:~:text=Campbell%20Folk%20School-,The%20John%20C" style="background-color: white; color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" target="_blank">https://www.wcu.edu/library/<wbr></wbr>DigitalCollections/<wbr></wbr>CraftRevival/story/campbell.<wbr></wbr>html#:~:text=Campbell%20Folk%<wbr></wbr>20School-,The%20John%20C</a><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;">chronicled%20life%20in%20the%</span><wbr style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"></wbr><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;">20region.]</span></p><p><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;">And look at its catalog here:</span></p><p><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;"><a href="https://www.folkschool.org/find-a-class/">https://www.folkschool.org/find-a-class/</a></span></p><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Rachel's Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790797302450473117noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8959233989161202970.post-87054536300962948022022-08-10T12:59:00.001-07:002022-08-12T05:57:02.395-07:00Heat<p> It's half past morning, just back from a walk. These days it's best to start out early, for the streets are still usually shaded, with a light breeze that makes it easier to face August.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg542m7nIHrYxflo59xp9kbr4oj1-bCSkMMt3YJgb9f1ZutkHLCSjTiJ9v8ggaUcVecA8rTrYy_BgNMIwpw0wczd4z_GSd5gO_AYZ9047VNTXGPTQj5r_Mi1vKwnAGbZXTUAV1KlEwUGc_yYM2eJ8toDWU6YdQjMazzf4a2E3TvxkXdyU7gtKTq98sa/s3996/morning%20around%20the%20circle.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2997" data-original-width="3996" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg542m7nIHrYxflo59xp9kbr4oj1-bCSkMMt3YJgb9f1ZutkHLCSjTiJ9v8ggaUcVecA8rTrYy_BgNMIwpw0wczd4z_GSd5gO_AYZ9047VNTXGPTQj5r_Mi1vKwnAGbZXTUAV1KlEwUGc_yYM2eJ8toDWU6YdQjMazzf4a2E3TvxkXdyU7gtKTq98sa/s320/morning%20around%20the%20circle.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Yesterday, I began my usual walk around the neighborhood circle. A few neighbors were out, as always...across the street, down the street, around the circle. One doesn't simply walk unheeding here; one stops to chat. It's pleasant. It's neighborly. So a simple round means a protracted time out.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFG_6uOgb_o_e2h_x1u6D0fnevo5X9MIg3Yt2HYaKGLeGSqstlFvTVjL6QT7vAnucT_i881D4dwzmf1yYYM7e-t3jBV49kWbE1gt4k-ZGqIMzmjdAs1WUxLyL1HdWYVGTp6woYAWAEcm2x7PKxMmNsU0FNyUbRvPazljFTuD2nfXyFJ4VjHud3vC6I/s3952/out%20the%20door%20for%20a%20walk%20in%20the%20heat.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3952" data-original-width="2818" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFG_6uOgb_o_e2h_x1u6D0fnevo5X9MIg3Yt2HYaKGLeGSqstlFvTVjL6QT7vAnucT_i881D4dwzmf1yYYM7e-t3jBV49kWbE1gt4k-ZGqIMzmjdAs1WUxLyL1HdWYVGTp6woYAWAEcm2x7PKxMmNsU0FNyUbRvPazljFTuD2nfXyFJ4VjHud3vC6I/s320/out%20the%20door%20for%20a%20walk%20in%20the%20heat.jpg" width="228" /></a></div><br /><p>As I made my way back toward the house, the heat was rising. The temperature would have pleased anyone; it was a temperate 78. The humidity, however, was 92%. I had begun to drip, and had to stop a few times to wipe my glasses.</p><p>Still, coming across the drive, I thought I hadn't gone far enough. So I turned back toward the main street, promising myself that if I kept going downtown, I could treat myself to a coffee at the new bookstore/cafe. And maybe a new book. The town isn't quite bustling yet, though new arrivals to campus have begun to sift in, parents in tow (or towing them). (I carry my mask everywhere, since few of them do. Sigh.)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTLOFqkYxjN70D_8pm-QhLEnfViH58cp8Yz-76kSVFz4HvcjUmqGyVVObiWrImOQUmHSOCNHLC5PiuhCVw371DSjwYAqAvLm-wP1LQqi1ji4tnfoqVARWc06ZNAGs7Zxf0ObH7fe5ZiMz1wSxLo1qzeyofxP4BuMpzyh0xpRBg6wmpjkxaa4tv5_qh/s749/prologue%20epilogue%20Sanchez'%20couple.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="698" data-original-width="749" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTLOFqkYxjN70D_8pm-QhLEnfViH58cp8Yz-76kSVFz4HvcjUmqGyVVObiWrImOQUmHSOCNHLC5PiuhCVw371DSjwYAqAvLm-wP1LQqi1ji4tnfoqVARWc06ZNAGs7Zxf0ObH7fe5ZiMz1wSxLo1qzeyofxP4BuMpzyh0xpRBg6wmpjkxaa4tv5_qh/s320/prologue%20epilogue%20Sanchez'%20couple.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>It's easy to fall into praise for Epilogue/Prologue as the new place is called. The Sanchez', Jaime and Miranda, have built themselves a wonderful space to share. Well placed in the middle of the main business blocks, the two large airy rooms of books, brightly covered and adventurously displayed, it's somewhere to drop into, drop onto a chair, drop one's books and/or laptops on a table...spaced apart for a good sense of liesure...and browse or read while you sip a really good cool or hot drink. Their pastry...genuine bunuelos or churros or a small plate of little freshly rolled tacos...sends me back to San Antonio days. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM6tMpWogEeQs_Rg8cTSOGZVFmANjQuyqtV1zblIa4_KC4Yt356wGzS85yJWLVDnzdxhIA7zz0OPBcqLn-rbVdz7YNhHDxQif5DVQwcNPiWCUyPgMo_P0gSdEGrfP0EF5D4-rnwPo8TojJivUJkOsJI2kVjitHyxxnfx1O_XdOQb1yTkJKDLX5PlDq/s542/prologue%20epilogue%20latte%20and%20chocolate.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="511" data-original-width="542" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM6tMpWogEeQs_Rg8cTSOGZVFmANjQuyqtV1zblIa4_KC4Yt356wGzS85yJWLVDnzdxhIA7zz0OPBcqLn-rbVdz7YNhHDxQif5DVQwcNPiWCUyPgMo_P0gSdEGrfP0EF5D4-rnwPo8TojJivUJkOsJI2kVjitHyxxnfx1O_XdOQb1yTkJKDLX5PlDq/s320/prologue%20epilogue%20latte%20and%20chocolate.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH_NkQArIOqIEWmRrC2x2RsQCWyba7EsA7A3htWM7XZDBsJCz8gRVkE8SM7mEFThgOzxi5157aVVefqr-eYenFeZuvoRMC0P5KtckabZ-T3vfuC-6kfEIVTvZOxOowwNsNYXXFiz1tN_okfm9DFn5q_Q907IjnKaz227cAoHHqegMg4IwBfH2vrYRw/s996/prologue%20epilogue%20pastries.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="922" data-original-width="996" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH_NkQArIOqIEWmRrC2x2RsQCWyba7EsA7A3htWM7XZDBsJCz8gRVkE8SM7mEFThgOzxi5157aVVefqr-eYenFeZuvoRMC0P5KtckabZ-T3vfuC-6kfEIVTvZOxOowwNsNYXXFiz1tN_okfm9DFn5q_Q907IjnKaz227cAoHHqegMg4IwBfH2vrYRw/s320/prologue%20epilogue%20pastries.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>The stock of books is huge for a store of its kind. In the maze of high shelves, there are corners and rounds and hidden arm chairs, tables in and outside windows. It's clear that both the personable couple have a passion for the page as well as good palettes and, important, a perfect sense of reader comforts.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghf_zzh5yRXPNxkI7V7SiBXW75PM-EQ2zrbBlQGODHuNEohcs07GCxRWWheVK3a_xiVfMfn4LZNIWAqodZHRTBxocsqCQH1NP7eENIH0cPIXlb7EXr_105KOVMIzAHVeiLspHTlRygPk7xdjFCn_lVZ8LDH-8WbPGx2lEbD5I3sR-sp11ETPSbv585/s259/prologue%20epilogue%20bookshelves%20best.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="194" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghf_zzh5yRXPNxkI7V7SiBXW75PM-EQ2zrbBlQGODHuNEohcs07GCxRWWheVK3a_xiVfMfn4LZNIWAqodZHRTBxocsqCQH1NP7eENIH0cPIXlb7EXr_105KOVMIzAHVeiLspHTlRygPk7xdjFCn_lVZ8LDH-8WbPGx2lEbD5I3sR-sp11ETPSbv585/s1600/prologue%20epilogue%20bookshelves%20best.jpg" width="194" /></a></div><br /><p>My neck was wet from the heat as I browsed, but two collections of short stories, <i>Life Ceremony, </i>by Japanese writer Sayaka Murata and <i>Milk Blood Heat</i>, by Dantiel W. Moniz, fairly lept off their perches at me. For some reason, this beastly August weather has me edging more toward the shorts than toward whole works...longer library choices of late have seemed tedious and overdone, sometimes downright silly. (And frankly, the current romanticization of World War II by writers far removed from that horror makes my blood boil.)</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKr1hVPsqXgUec91-_bWNJWRbg0Pnh0uMH_rS75_vz1YhTtQZPiS2bslY-u_vYzxPuSJ07ABWkvVLJM6B0gLDHsK_vBhcYnGsDgM1q22HGkkGx1vpIfn96jzXV4b6tMwRCVFfs7crSOK-Kgz0snwmWMzHQXIDf3b2iE17nP9nkiAXH3UKbRfvlxTB3/s4000/milk%20blood%20heat%20new%20book.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKr1hVPsqXgUec91-_bWNJWRbg0Pnh0uMH_rS75_vz1YhTtQZPiS2bslY-u_vYzxPuSJ07ABWkvVLJM6B0gLDHsK_vBhcYnGsDgM1q22HGkkGx1vpIfn96jzXV4b6tMwRCVFfs7crSOK-Kgz0snwmWMzHQXIDf3b2iE17nP9nkiAXH3UKbRfvlxTB3/s320/milk%20blood%20heat%20new%20book.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p><i>These</i> two writers, each fairly young and each fairly experienced, seemed to promise me paths into minds I need to explore. <i>Who is this generation</i>? I have to ask myself with each turn of not only the page but daily life. </p><p>Around me the world swells with evidence of the myriad ways I seem at a standstill. I, whose favorite readings are among writers of other regions, countries and cultures, lately find myself too easily startled by patterns of living I have to struggle to understand.</p><p>I can see your smiles...okay, yes, elderhood descends!...but not conservatism, not, I hope, the stodginess of a shrinking mindset. I'm plenty open to discovering, to finding out where and how and maybe why.</p><br /><p>So last night I opened both new reads, tasting a little bit of the Moniz, then more formally beginning the Murata to settle into. The first seems, as its title might hint, full of fervor and fire. Her writing is clear but worms its way into the deepest parts of the heart and psyche. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMwFo0daS0wUMdGl7W6Y_GYjb8iW0kDP2rRih5fg1zbYzBBJ9q37897ykXmtOz_EoBxNrwaAWv6klMnC6MzvzvtZTTKs9pWSQyRMFkUbdnZ9Xj1PTyt_absfL3xaOK2FSYgMpZ_pkAGeOJ1lKo1WuGF3Dl-tfqhPph16AK4NZF4zdOyf_iRGbiaS9p/s4000/life%20ceremony%20new%20book.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMwFo0daS0wUMdGl7W6Y_GYjb8iW0kDP2rRih5fg1zbYzBBJ9q37897ykXmtOz_EoBxNrwaAWv6klMnC6MzvzvtZTTKs9pWSQyRMFkUbdnZ9Xj1PTyt_absfL3xaOK2FSYgMpZ_pkAGeOJ1lKo1WuGF3Dl-tfqhPph16AK4NZF4zdOyf_iRGbiaS9p/s320/life%20ceremony%20new%20book.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>The second, perhaps not a surprise, given the translated writer, is cool, slim, dry...a pleasure to read on these too stuffy August evenings. I can't wait to get to the Moniz, but right now, the Murata is a calm much needed. And yet (here's the surprise) weirdness reigns in one tale after another. Murata's sensibilities are strewn with absurdity that isn't, on second...chilling...thought, far off. As I read further, weirdness becomes grotesque in some stories. I wonder why she takes up those images?</p><p>What intrigues me is that each small story culminates in barely a moment or two and the crisis at the center, even in the longer stories, is sometimes only a sentence long. Endings seem unresolved. And yet...and yet...like ghosts surfacing, huge issues hang in the aftermath...<i>who will love me when she is gone,</i> asks an elderly woman who has lived with her childhood friend for 40 years...and then, in the hospital room where her friend waits for a cancer treatment, the two continue their spited arguments until they look out the window and see the snow fall, deeper and deeper.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2IyLvDXwAVN6xlC_92gL0rTt8WMyB_5jC-7gUS35SNmpoXPJ3aS3sPrQNvQDZH82fOCb8MPYg9SEQm-sTINQO32nuMiMD-PrrwKUlcK4P1chQU0jqBjkMz5ij1oYrKy_OrB6KX1k3hewSIAmCOc3uGQ2bhHENopTEteqGa_HC6yMSPP8EOjJjPU2A/s4000/school%20supplies%20for%20blog.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2IyLvDXwAVN6xlC_92gL0rTt8WMyB_5jC-7gUS35SNmpoXPJ3aS3sPrQNvQDZH82fOCb8MPYg9SEQm-sTINQO32nuMiMD-PrrwKUlcK4P1chQU0jqBjkMz5ij1oYrKy_OrB6KX1k3hewSIAmCOc3uGQ2bhHENopTEteqGa_HC6yMSPP8EOjJjPU2A/s320/school%20supplies%20for%20blog.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>Meanwhile, Book Group begins next month, and already I am thinking that our carefully plotted list for this coming year seems a literary lifetime away. Maybe, like buying new school supplies each September, we should pick out our books not at the closing of the old season, but at the beginning of the new. </p><p>Because so much time and mind and world has changed in the meantime. And we might not have been paying attention.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Rachel's Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790797302450473117noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8959233989161202970.post-20639953959682509842022-08-04T15:42:00.000-07:002022-08-04T15:42:13.682-07:00My brain needs a rest<p><br />This morning I am slow, but not as slow as operations around me...this laptop, for instance, which remains ten words behind my typing, and has skipped the <i>o </i>and the <i>y</i> along the way. The day, too, began as cloudy as half-night, then sunny, now just whatever by the minute. Also the shower, dragging itself up from the water heater below, then suddenly steaming hotter than the setting. (Fortunately, I like a lot of hot water. ) </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEKr3tGqf_bLxXUTaB4xBvze9LDr5Vnlu3swdYbxyZIKrsKBf_VDQq0kX9t0SOQlwdZzSzGec6BsIm1XAw-7EWPN8nHzwfKg8B1usfdtzHVKdTPCrKMjc5Sq8YG9M-NahIV6P7Y2Od3Y2ZLE8rUA8FoWFOYgjSfeb86rIMWCPZoFhOU3u0vi329m7l/s4000/thursday%20list%20for%20blog.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEKr3tGqf_bLxXUTaB4xBvze9LDr5Vnlu3swdYbxyZIKrsKBf_VDQq0kX9t0SOQlwdZzSzGec6BsIm1XAw-7EWPN8nHzwfKg8B1usfdtzHVKdTPCrKMjc5Sq8YG9M-NahIV6P7Y2Od3Y2ZLE8rUA8FoWFOYgjSfeb86rIMWCPZoFhOU3u0vi329m7l/s320/thursday%20list%20for%20blog.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>The shower felt good, but didn't spark me from sluggedness. On the list, headed "Thursday", there are many doings to tackle. One of them is this blog, and walking while it's not yet too hot, and re-watering the yard because my drip system isn't getting to every thirsty plant. Apparently I am supposed to do all that at once, since each is marked <i>8am</i>. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH7yFPhMYzVZwdYK22iHJ6NeBv4JaB7sBkAP34yrS2jO9eqs3TjTudsH9YhsuCJSmXOEqgJov19icsIRFXDDSUHtEx2MuxT5A2Vjqgb6r2_Pv0J8BHrOCQfct2jMdLEeouJOcx1P_1ZlUL8LXXcwVYUQWoS8dc7aVm728S6F9X0SkkgSSgVnd-UXu7/s4000/ironing%20to%20do.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH7yFPhMYzVZwdYK22iHJ6NeBv4JaB7sBkAP34yrS2jO9eqs3TjTudsH9YhsuCJSmXOEqgJov19icsIRFXDDSUHtEx2MuxT5A2Vjqgb6r2_Pv0J8BHrOCQfct2jMdLEeouJOcx1P_1ZlUL8LXXcwVYUQWoS8dc7aVm728S6F9X0SkkgSSgVnd-UXu7/s320/ironing%20to%20do.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>There's the ironing, too. Because yesterday was the first day home from a cooling visit to Jim and Eileen in the mountains. There is nothing better than walks through pretty parks, startlingly beautiful gallery art, delicious lunches with friends, and lots of thrift-storing, chair-shopping, games, and trying new recipes (see below) to bring one back to life.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2FmVX2fktvPXdO2QJ09CCOgubgc989TOkImfNdwkoFufpYk5Ea5girItoMAfb5jDJ4YWiQ0-6n6gNcBrMLlyjzgsDZkoCMa5xxDtCdpsH_LLUOZpR-_CrV9u-_bCKAI8waAxqKpyrxWh0W9ro4jTFmEQxqg_vi-ZlrIvybr8OW7viP366bUkf4ROK/s4000/pond%20with%20lily%20bud.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2FmVX2fktvPXdO2QJ09CCOgubgc989TOkImfNdwkoFufpYk5Ea5girItoMAfb5jDJ4YWiQ0-6n6gNcBrMLlyjzgsDZkoCMa5xxDtCdpsH_LLUOZpR-_CrV9u-_bCKAI8waAxqKpyrxWh0W9ro4jTFmEQxqg_vi-ZlrIvybr8OW7viP366bUkf4ROK/s320/pond%20with%20lily%20bud.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfViYOnw04N2XLA19I7Kx-75jUWafbSgFZQqJUKCTbN5o359Jbwzvoj0InAvAnP4qCoHndjjaMxuT7yD2BGy6zthdZvlwDmcwnePfffRr937EV_ty6Y63LPbpHbNZW_t7-yhmq64RsAs6FDG4iBvCgC_nnK1npnjVDx2kz2Qx4QWv8JW1FWF5oyDAK/s4000/walk%20in%20park.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfViYOnw04N2XLA19I7Kx-75jUWafbSgFZQqJUKCTbN5o359Jbwzvoj0InAvAnP4qCoHndjjaMxuT7yD2BGy6zthdZvlwDmcwnePfffRr937EV_ty6Y63LPbpHbNZW_t7-yhmq64RsAs6FDG4iBvCgC_nnK1npnjVDx2kz2Qx4QWv8JW1FWF5oyDAK/s320/walk%20in%20park.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6dB505ntOsdP9UkQcHvasSHeK0oEDE1Rs02vQI3LjCCbM63l2n5DjsUn4y6nEb_FHPW5GlFYg_ysN-2GFZkdXaQjO4meKftLDUtKzN7AW8E2gyy4YFj9rQN6C5tmkjVsA1TFA-hq5i9_JjEkrBmcKqAEoRdqXFY7V5aslGLUdC8n1h3jvdYJwsLUf/s4000/chair%20shopping%20for%20joseph.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6dB505ntOsdP9UkQcHvasSHeK0oEDE1Rs02vQI3LjCCbM63l2n5DjsUn4y6nEb_FHPW5GlFYg_ysN-2GFZkdXaQjO4meKftLDUtKzN7AW8E2gyy4YFj9rQN6C5tmkjVsA1TFA-hq5i9_JjEkrBmcKqAEoRdqXFY7V5aslGLUdC8n1h3jvdYJwsLUf/s320/chair%20shopping%20for%20joseph.jpg" width="240" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFslb7BEhQCwJSjL8Y9KuA0gNjtFWCAZ_UvyVSqAR_pz5DabJaiZEGhDMHxCFyaX2gM8VoiV6qZ4KsVqLRviI7P-XxQXDQmSNVdn7K-V24U4FLtywodxH4v90NJS-zwEYGifk7BoRwK1UsEyiE0CMkUVvvg7aUFCR8lHB8gQo84zCId4-pXGscVDYv/s4000/gallery%20art%20asheville.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFslb7BEhQCwJSjL8Y9KuA0gNjtFWCAZ_UvyVSqAR_pz5DabJaiZEGhDMHxCFyaX2gM8VoiV6qZ4KsVqLRviI7P-XxQXDQmSNVdn7K-V24U4FLtywodxH4v90NJS-zwEYGifk7BoRwK1UsEyiE0CMkUVvvg7aUFCR8lHB8gQo84zCId4-pXGscVDYv/s320/gallery%20art%20asheville.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzPSMxTllNjOtcDtGXU7s6epy5_6oF6qepQ-XJsrPSbtmiZYEhY4LXUq3Okx6l3EB-F0RP_yQOf5sE2rKg1O5pzTuI2qwUwUu789V8HEZMqRwXngFD7nnrews0vLlP8aExgygcS8hONpbIMGnF1ExEbSSVJuhREbfLjdkzCQSmDnLf-DS1nem_u9fr/s703/puzzle%20out%20of%20season.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="549" data-original-width="703" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzPSMxTllNjOtcDtGXU7s6epy5_6oF6qepQ-XJsrPSbtmiZYEhY4LXUq3Okx6l3EB-F0RP_yQOf5sE2rKg1O5pzTuI2qwUwUu789V8HEZMqRwXngFD7nnrews0vLlP8aExgygcS8hONpbIMGnF1ExEbSSVJuhREbfLjdkzCQSmDnLf-DS1nem_u9fr/s320/puzzle%20out%20of%20season.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Even the puzzle that teased us, until finally it fell into place under our fingers, provided chilly respite.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgydf53GR5C01I1ADGH41h9BqxoRz20tb89XpNC1479LAfM3mTo2yL3ipfJy-GNfqLn_Nu936Eemm6DuebyGHBbWuKyxBoh3s6dN2-otWuZkjmcgz7Q5JXw8vDg5K2Vn1NRSvlwCO-LFBPQR3aH8-kUz2RJ12VYlEJ0j0JzSGexe1PGS6O4BEQF2Oie/s4000/matzoh%20ball%20soup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgydf53GR5C01I1ADGH41h9BqxoRz20tb89XpNC1479LAfM3mTo2yL3ipfJy-GNfqLn_Nu936Eemm6DuebyGHBbWuKyxBoh3s6dN2-otWuZkjmcgz7Q5JXw8vDg5K2Vn1NRSvlwCO-LFBPQR3aH8-kUz2RJ12VYlEJ0j0JzSGexe1PGS6O4BEQF2Oie/s320/matzoh%20ball%20soup.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><p>So yesterday, back in the heat, was far more productive; I came home full of energy, zipping through everything including the wash, some weeding, my sister's new resume, a few cards for friends, some homemade soup for Joseph who has been under the weather,</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWuYy8_0UWcKvOR-7UT-oRr01LlHTzW8D-fZXluDeIp_AMvCxhgBf21mVDUnF3R3nmoJOdTiTvaKq1mkkQjs-wSN-mZMFBETKvLghr3pErHQnGER4ujTAubMeMCBVsGWcQO4NXX1SzO0HMnJH28O4SVAMY5B6-WnH-Iltb3Sm2EW3lLdL8fTjQ-Maf/s1370/new%20mini%20split%20ac.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1370" data-original-width="1124" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWuYy8_0UWcKvOR-7UT-oRr01LlHTzW8D-fZXluDeIp_AMvCxhgBf21mVDUnF3R3nmoJOdTiTvaKq1mkkQjs-wSN-mZMFBETKvLghr3pErHQnGER4ujTAubMeMCBVsGWcQO4NXX1SzO0HMnJH28O4SVAMY5B6-WnH-Iltb3Sm2EW3lLdL8fTjQ-Maf/s320/new%20mini%20split%20ac.jpeg" width="263" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p>and a new air conditioning system for upstairs to keep my sister cool. I even went out to a welcome chill of wine at my neighbors' at <i>aper' </i>time. Good wine too, from France, nice and dry.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHkGfFY5TSYRCR0GpKWPGFz5u1L4SOmWL03OuVqGou7dZ_mhBPuiQ0DHNFtNSNYdxWUSrebobNQKlm39ICbk27UYaDMe-xqK9vN0amE4GarLnJ2Rtr9DgbmW6bWyaOF4Eq-_QxlzOdEAl7BpsMmTSt6awbLr3eMx65Y3C-joKGb8Gju0qvff2KR1kb/s4000/book%20rooms%20of%20their%20own%20from%20alice.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHkGfFY5TSYRCR0GpKWPGFz5u1L4SOmWL03OuVqGou7dZ_mhBPuiQ0DHNFtNSNYdxWUSrebobNQKlm39ICbk27UYaDMe-xqK9vN0amE4GarLnJ2Rtr9DgbmW6bWyaOF4Eq-_QxlzOdEAl7BpsMmTSt6awbLr3eMx65Y3C-joKGb8Gju0qvff2KR1kb/s320/book%20rooms%20of%20their%20own%20from%20alice.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>I fell asleep last night finishing <i>Rooms of Their Own</i>, by a youngish man whose survey of writers' places could have used a bit of copyediting, but whose choice of illustrator was brilliant. The book, a lovely gift from Alice May, just returned with John from an idyllic journey among gardens in England and Scotland, reminded me how many times I have changed my mind about a room of my own to write in. This past spring and summer my mind has been full of plans...to do this and that, here and there, this way and that. A garden in back. An apartment <i>and </i>a garden. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrk1cCqHlnX07e99uiTvPaoogrT-jMcCvOeU7WfuHt3tVQQMA0S0TrUTCCAy1dozNCpZVhwBSlM5cjgcyV6_0bS1-5XbZO9eS8p4F5X-x1SMNpIdv_08ViLBJu3AXeZVqvDZ4FLkdD4Drfag0N5g-qs0f7Ms7VlmYoPvuIo9Kyw18TCadpbWktgFzY/s2822/plan%20for%20apartment%20now%20scotched.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2353" data-original-width="2822" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrk1cCqHlnX07e99uiTvPaoogrT-jMcCvOeU7WfuHt3tVQQMA0S0TrUTCCAy1dozNCpZVhwBSlM5cjgcyV6_0bS1-5XbZO9eS8p4F5X-x1SMNpIdv_08ViLBJu3AXeZVqvDZ4FLkdD4Drfag0N5g-qs0f7Ms7VlmYoPvuIo9Kyw18TCadpbWktgFzY/s320/plan%20for%20apartment%20now%20scotched.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Okay, not an apartment...how about a new workroom/studio so I can reinstate my guest room? </p><p>I can't seem to settle on the right configuration of space my house needs. Consider that there is always a change in inhabitants, uses, seasons of living, and aging...none of which I mind, mind you...it seems to be the way I've always lived, and always will.</p><p>But this morning I thought, <i>my brain is tired. It needs to take a day off.</i> (It won't, of course, because there is still "Thursday" to deal with...to wit, this blog...) I think what is behind all this spirit-drain is the state of the world, which is assaulting me with insults every day, it seems. </p><p>Listening to news, to political and civic conversations, I think, <i>Where is there room for me in this world? </i> Do you not know, you people making policies that harm more than help, that I and the rest of humanity is here? You act like we don't exist...I who would love a little peace on this planet, some consideration for its people, food to eat and decent housing, water systems shared across the globe, children protected from the manaical. <i>Decent health care, </i>for pity's sake.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBzx9akyXlTmbafG6KwbQ95f0FMrZ8x2C1cIp_vJHWeYjPTBZ7DUzPpQWSZuFg2BI2Wyv5N2149r-GrdweCE3o2PhaxOEQCcd45ejI6NaajgYd91JomGjbZ493L8SUQQnlJzrhXTFpzvSz1Pgzk72-jUZtu0UAYbbFbdg3Git0sabuFTkpelpz2AnR/s4000/food%20in%20bags.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBzx9akyXlTmbafG6KwbQ95f0FMrZ8x2C1cIp_vJHWeYjPTBZ7DUzPpQWSZuFg2BI2Wyv5N2149r-GrdweCE3o2PhaxOEQCcd45ejI6NaajgYd91JomGjbZ493L8SUQQnlJzrhXTFpzvSz1Pgzk72-jUZtu0UAYbbFbdg3Git0sabuFTkpelpz2AnR/s320/food%20in%20bags.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>And for me, to be seen as a real person, an individual, a woman who doesn't need others ordering her life, thank you...accommodations being my own to make and my own principles to follow. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAt7F24x-K0Bdw_VBU__c9Y7wCepWz_9zRiZdHnTRUfUZa6NsyP-cx4CdcErJ22uzgXSFR7vb0ak3USRObEi8tCrh3s9ZaEbVJeEuGUoN7VxracDBADSWEy2cxjbeC8fVKLb0nIbevxiTfFmrdHJhHmg5l4Q8OBjvgyqd4MsiL2AUMwVv25z7IxwNL/s512/security%20alert%20sign.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAt7F24x-K0Bdw_VBU__c9Y7wCepWz_9zRiZdHnTRUfUZa6NsyP-cx4CdcErJ22uzgXSFR7vb0ak3USRObEi8tCrh3s9ZaEbVJeEuGUoN7VxracDBADSWEy2cxjbeC8fVKLb0nIbevxiTfFmrdHJhHmg5l4Q8OBjvgyqd4MsiL2AUMwVv25z7IxwNL/s320/security%20alert%20sign.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Oh, here we go: this minute some life-hacker is flashing a note on my otherwise supposedly protected computer system: STOP NOW! DON'T DARE CLOSE DOWN! YOU ARE IN VIOLATION OF .... (some technical term I think he/she made up). CALL THIS NUMBER NOW!</p><p>Man! I say, wake up and get with it. And leave open a world where we can be our better selves. Then, with some peace of mind and world, I can build my own room. I'm sure to feel livelier then.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">******************************************</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Zucchini Casserole</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">(adapted from Kevin in the Garden)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0in 60pt; text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #333333;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #333333;">6-8 small zucchini (1 1/2 to 2 pounds total)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0in 60pt; text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #333333;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #333333;">One small eggplant<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0in 60pt; text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #333333;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #333333;">5 large eggs<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0in 60pt; text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #333333;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #333333;">1/2 cup milk<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0in 60pt; text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #333333;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #333333;">1 teaspoon salt<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0in 60pt; text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #333333;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #333333;">2 teaspoons baking powder<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0in 60pt; text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #333333;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #333333;">3 tablespoons flour<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0in 60pt; text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #333333;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #333333;">1/4 cup chopped parsley<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0in 60pt; text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #333333;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #333333;">1 garlic clove, minced<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0in 60pt; text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #333333;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #333333;">1 small onion, finely chopped (I prefer to saute the onion
first)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0in 60pt; text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #333333;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #333333;">Parmesan-Romano mix shredded or grated (topping)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0in 60pt; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 3.75pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #333333;">1.<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #333333;">Center the oven rack, and preheat the oven to 350°F. Slice the
zucchini into lengths. Slice eggplant
into lengths. Drain for a few minutes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 3.75pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #333333;">2.<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #333333;">In the large mixing bowl, beat eggs, milk, salt, baking powder
and flour until smooth. Then stir in the parsley, garlic, onion. Layer between zucchini
and eggplant. Pour into the greased baking dish.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 3.75pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #333333;">3.<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--></span><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;">Sprinkle cheese on top of the casserole. Bake in the preheated
oven until the casserole puffs and its center is set -- about 50 minutes. Let
cool for 10 minutes before serving.</span><span face="Segoe UI, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div>Rachel's Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790797302450473117noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8959233989161202970.post-58832801413780772022022-07-13T08:53:00.000-07:002022-07-13T08:53:26.273-07:00On the state of us, or out of the mouths of...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje4XyTShAYOeBV2wAKyH8n46bMNP9-OXVjmH4vAPBo0PJyTkCyMbpLuPffn5NuqKk_clq7_QZQgpvv47lK7fme4eloW70bms5fWxeFtktPVrAGb1TKu67q79G15ZkPLj6ciMRFbRWtAwU_j8vK5Vvrkszzz023g8RshHO2_0ksMKH26DoZhi8ltn9V/s4000/leaf%20lace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje4XyTShAYOeBV2wAKyH8n46bMNP9-OXVjmH4vAPBo0PJyTkCyMbpLuPffn5NuqKk_clq7_QZQgpvv47lK7fme4eloW70bms5fWxeFtktPVrAGb1TKu67q79G15ZkPLj6ciMRFbRWtAwU_j8vK5Vvrkszzz023g8RshHO2_0ksMKH26DoZhi8ltn9V/s320/leaf%20lace.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p> For a few days now, I have been working on a set of small art pieces trying to make sense of an increasingly enraging trouble in the world, ours and beyond, which has so far evaded words...the right words, anyway...to be able to speak/write about.</p><p>It's not unusual for me to trade out words for pictures, and vice-versa, when one carrier of images won't perform. It's how, in fact, I came to art to begin with...a story I may have told you already: decades ago, finding myself word-tied, a friend advised me to find something else to do with my pen. I began to learn to draw, then paint, and on from there...from then on I could trust one form of expression to release the other.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihJlUEE-rEc77rnQA2kvkzvfcIg_JhVfbuRi3KRxN4I3qCdK4fR6MBD2dROCQ9Az4kQWBQrmWAzBmvgrxOObRT82dGjg2xo5MmpH6pQ5PbgxXQ9d6bgQzuWtVaIeta8PtmEvYkMcFyssf_GWFe20ecLVUV76r1_3nGH72vZnXiQ2DzMg6ZtTN5RveN/s3475/galaxy%20best.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3475" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihJlUEE-rEc77rnQA2kvkzvfcIg_JhVfbuRi3KRxN4I3qCdK4fR6MBD2dROCQ9Az4kQWBQrmWAzBmvgrxOObRT82dGjg2xo5MmpH6pQ5PbgxXQ9d6bgQzuWtVaIeta8PtmEvYkMcFyssf_GWFe20ecLVUV76r1_3nGH72vZnXiQ2DzMg6ZtTN5RveN/s320/galaxy%20best.jpg" width="276" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">What's coming out now on these small draw-paint-collage pieces are what I am trying to express of my state of mind...about the state of things, of the world. There is terrifying stuff appearing in these images, at least the impulse behind them is. I can feel it even in this relatively peaceful place I live, a place where life seems to go on as usual, as I seem to, despite the news of horror across the planet...a place where just beyond it, or just in imminent reach, is the violence of ignorance (often deliberate ignorance), greed, and terminal hubris...the erosion of humanity from within a man, a people, a country...seeping farther, whether we see it or not, into aspects of our lives both public and private. It's not fear I feel, but anger. Especially since we have seen it before, again and again over time and place.</div><p>It comes in the guise of expensive suits, of well-documented desks, perfumed encounters, across tables laden with excellent repasts and elegant table-settings. Far from the realities of lives outside those closed rooms. On the news each day, out-lash by out-lash appears...another shooting in another school or marketplace, a war on those who are not enemies, on women who have the least respite, on children who can live in no field of safety.</p><p>The other day, Alexander showed me a youtube site he had come upon...a cartooned man running to attack another...like so many video games. But I had caught the heading to this segment as it flashed into view and out again: <i>Choose violence, </i>it glared in white letters on a black background. "Shut that off," I demanded. "I've had enough!"</p><p>He looked at me, quiet for once, not arguing. What he would usually tell me, I know, is <i>it isn't real...it's just a show, Nana.</i> But my tone must have silenced him. "Listen," I said. "There is a chasm...do you know what a chasm is? (he nodded yes)...of disconnection between make-believe and real...and yet, there is also a dangerous impulse between one and the other. People who fight instead of talk, who blame without thinking things out, who go to war on people, on <i>children, </i>who have brought the two together...make-believe and real...until there is no peace, no safety, no humanity, on your screen and in the streets...things like that...it makes me <i>sick...</i>"</p><p>I stopped talking. He, still looking at me, said calmly, "But that's the way people <i>are</i>." The life went out of me. Is that what he believes?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJu96rSW-pfWPdk847YbTOHYNFcIEscE1rwd3fzFgXr2eyZKNFRLhGHkZeNv2dUcLXAVtvNf3aGuwcazFupUgBQhvf9d4P8KIUP38Al3rT5cJB0lz-nayli4WG1g0gQhjNw8Gk_nqN8V8VnE-6Cl6C97ixh3rSBcKbmw8n8n3xBVosbstZc00YbMkD/s3234/if%20there%20is%20a%20war,%20who%20will%20save%20us%2007%2022.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3234" data-original-width="2530" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJu96rSW-pfWPdk847YbTOHYNFcIEscE1rwd3fzFgXr2eyZKNFRLhGHkZeNv2dUcLXAVtvNf3aGuwcazFupUgBQhvf9d4P8KIUP38Al3rT5cJB0lz-nayli4WG1g0gQhjNw8Gk_nqN8V8VnE-6Cl6C97ixh3rSBcKbmw8n8n3xBVosbstZc00YbMkD/s320/if%20there%20is%20a%20war,%20who%20will%20save%20us%2007%2022.jpg" width="250" /></a></div><br /><p>It's been a long time churning, this outrage, finally bursting out at those words, <i>Choose violence! </i> Even before then, I'd already done the first of the pieces I began to entitle "If there is a war..." I didn't know, when I'd begun to draw on some old watercolor sketch paper, nearly ecru with age now, three buildings, their windows and doors, a tree leaning too near, that, paint brush in hand a few minutes later, its sky would be darting with flames.</p><p>"If there is a war, who will save us?" it asked. </p><p>The thing is, there is already a war. Missiles attack in many forms, from many composites of powders, seen and unseen. As I look at the world not all that far beyond me, I am <i>feeling</i> attacked, and spend my psyche on searching for places of safety...not to hide, but to uncover the ways to counter the deep injuries of those attacks, on myself, on others...on our bodies, on our minds.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioiDyI235wRnO3WpUD0EOhcxSpv5Q2bd2G4VuEy6PXIADdJW8edmjm-kkgPWtw6xhV-gwglCqYJeQACqagqhcpyS7iEF46iX1fIwSwJMYf8DvwI6QqIfwUSR29QU58bLiH5SDO7PfE9qEWs228zXEwbrnawbd2lb4g-uItTsmdzA0XQsXoLFNsTXXT/s3371/if%20there%20is%20a%20war,%20what%20will%20happen%20to%20the%20trees.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3371" data-original-width="2560" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioiDyI235wRnO3WpUD0EOhcxSpv5Q2bd2G4VuEy6PXIADdJW8edmjm-kkgPWtw6xhV-gwglCqYJeQACqagqhcpyS7iEF46iX1fIwSwJMYf8DvwI6QqIfwUSR29QU58bLiH5SDO7PfE9qEWs228zXEwbrnawbd2lb4g-uItTsmdzA0XQsXoLFNsTXXT/s320/if%20there%20is%20a%20war,%20what%20will%20happen%20to%20the%20trees.jpg" width="243" /></a></div><br /><p>I went back to art. This second one: against wide brush strokes the colors of fire and ash raining down, it draws a house like mine, with trees like smoke, a burnt roof, singed walls. "If there is a war, what will happen to the trees?" it asked me, <i>for</i> me. </p><p>The third and fourth came quickly (I think I worked on them nearly simultaneously): "If there is a war, what will happen to the music?"</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimEUFvUO4RHswPGgWxCo2oeyP1xLxWGX0yUvs46ecnYq-IHM9vYp3XALEVki5XAfMA88wqqO5AV9mMzCGXj5heI6Q51bfw2saH_qKdXtzdwPDJhutQn84L8-eKaKDzFIiVCyFX5USBZ56G512CVGqT_oWHnR7HOAA2hBR0v6j-SI4d0_jOTwJIPdBp/s2999/if%20there%20is%20a%20war,%20what%20will%20happen%20to%20the%20music.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2999" data-original-width="2205" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimEUFvUO4RHswPGgWxCo2oeyP1xLxWGX0yUvs46ecnYq-IHM9vYp3XALEVki5XAfMA88wqqO5AV9mMzCGXj5heI6Q51bfw2saH_qKdXtzdwPDJhutQn84L8-eKaKDzFIiVCyFX5USBZ56G512CVGqT_oWHnR7HOAA2hBR0v6j-SI4d0_jOTwJIPdBp/s320/if%20there%20is%20a%20war,%20what%20will%20happen%20to%20the%20music.jpg" width="235" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixKP4-88JA5VuHKyp2-aEWgvwueEDKhqxYQ4Uj4g1Sc-9kqivyB1pVy_2weFjFJLpofXwgkYgfjPQbY69wZZljhCFd9h8gD6mG3eSMHRUlLuA0mQEumK8ShMEaVAPqxLZsh-4LFopn2ep0-Ghfsf5RR5Bw5lklRrRbp7V-GChddF3ZkV7zK4SHAPMK/s3359/if%20there%20is%20a%20war,%20what%20will%20happen%20to%20the%20children.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3359" data-original-width="2587" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixKP4-88JA5VuHKyp2-aEWgvwueEDKhqxYQ4Uj4g1Sc-9kqivyB1pVy_2weFjFJLpofXwgkYgfjPQbY69wZZljhCFd9h8gD6mG3eSMHRUlLuA0mQEumK8ShMEaVAPqxLZsh-4LFopn2ep0-Ghfsf5RR5Bw5lklRrRbp7V-GChddF3ZkV7zK4SHAPMK/s320/if%20there%20is%20a%20war,%20what%20will%20happen%20to%20the%20children.jpg" width="246" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">And "</span><i style="text-align: left;">If there is a war, what will happen to the children?</i><span style="text-align: left;">"</span></div><p>There is one more, unfinished until tomorrow when I will know how, but it already asks its question: If there is a war, what will happen to...water, air, the means by which life...all life, any life...is able to grow? </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi12g0a-0la2uqqG5Y9r2c3jrtp_Rqs6MJPgkfdl4T7dEJMbsKdRrQO0ZpFtTQnZOW_NK_X5fYR68ynKh0ZxXdPAxG0Xmk-kVeOmKE7zueiqEhy-lDF5wwkuxP6sJis1qiaagvc2BPx4QOUpmXS7wrRhaHaw0RnmnIJUEuqd83Ar5z1CeFKzBitFDNQ/s2340/if%20there%20is%20a%20war,%20what%20will%20happen%20to%20life.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2340" data-original-width="1811" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi12g0a-0la2uqqG5Y9r2c3jrtp_Rqs6MJPgkfdl4T7dEJMbsKdRrQO0ZpFtTQnZOW_NK_X5fYR68ynKh0ZxXdPAxG0Xmk-kVeOmKE7zueiqEhy-lDF5wwkuxP6sJis1qiaagvc2BPx4QOUpmXS7wrRhaHaw0RnmnIJUEuqd83Ar5z1CeFKzBitFDNQ/s320/if%20there%20is%20a%20war,%20what%20will%20happen%20to%20life.jpg" width="248" /></a></div><br /><p>Violence grows nothing. There is no phoenix waiting in its ash of body or mind. </p><p>It is tempting, as comfort and sameness call out from these quiet streets, to go on as usual, routines domestic and social safely in place. But is safety even there, really? where only the illusion--the delusion--that the horrors of the outer world (someone else's inner world) do not affect us, have not struck its bloody sword into our widest arteries. Only small pinpricks so far.</p><p>It is easy, too, to write of the usual things...of that small, barely undulating daily life, of natural beauty...gardens and rain and wind shaking leaves...the safe subjects, those where hope or peace or smiling adventure...the spirits of growing, not destroying beings...rise to ordinary theme.</p><p>Perhaps I could have begun this with that moment earlier the same day when, walking through the narrow pass between copse of trees and shed that connects our houses, Alexander and I consider a fallen leaf, exquisitely laced by a tiny bright green mite feasting. Holding the leaf, he asks me, "Do you think this is art?"</p><p>"Of course," I say. And at the same instant we say together, "It's nature's art...the art of nature."</p><p>It is, to turn an overused coin, the other side. I want to believe what is in there somewhere.</p><p>How to teach, to instill, that life is growth instead, even in that fallen, delicately eaten leaf? that violence is not the chosen way? How?</p><p><br /></p>Rachel's Househttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07790797302450473117noreply@blogger.com0