The 4th!

Folly Beach on the Fourth of July, 2009, looks more like we've escaped to a sultry Mediterranean coast complete with cabanas and waves of people. Laidback family beach disappears.

unplugged

Taking a summer sabbatical, a reprieve from the ardors and privileges of modern communication. No internet, no email, no house phone, no fax, no cable, no DVD, no XM. I am up for a quiet summer of listening, basking in the space of sacred idleness. Here goes...

my treeloft villa

The many particulars of cashing out on a 4-BR home with wide porches and decks and yard to pare down to a 1-BR treeloft over what once was a garage, are, and should well be, tasks consuming my body, soul, and spirit, all at once. As I viewed the options surrounding the move, each belonging, each tangible item inhabiting our home, answered the question, "where do you go now?" The responding options reveal my life at this juncture, all avenues heading in dissimilar directions.

Are you being held for later use, for my someday dream? Well then, to storage. Are you used up and on the brink of perishing? to the bin. Do you hold the promise of a second go-round, still useful and lovely? Then to the Goodwill lot. Are you the very thing I require to make this challenge attainable and productive? Then off to the treeloft villa!

And as circumstances would have it, a final possibility loomed as to whether clothes and technology, books and appendages, were comfort fodder for the reprieve of a 2-weekescape to the mountains in the midst of all the moving confusion.After ump-teen (I like that word!) relocations, I have this down to bare emotion and hard facts, almost. It will be an adventure to live in the treetops, absorbing a whole new view.

Red TIn Roofs

May in the North Carolina Mountains

Red Poppies

Kudos to the North Carolina DOT for the welcoming red poppies that make me smile.

BARNS!

More photos to follow of barns or silos, and anything rusty, or with a tin roof. yep, my metal obsession beckons, even on vacation...

River Tubing

The experience of tubing and rafting in the mountains of Tennessee, North Carolina, or Georgia has taught me an innate definition of COLD river water. In fact it has become the default setting for my mind when trying to plunge into any water, be it pool, ocean or stream- to tell myself, "It can't be as numbing as a North Carolina river!" and in I go. The Toccoa, the Ocoee, the Chattooga, Nantahala, Hiawasee, -all local Southern rivers, Indian names as well, names that conjure any number of cold water adventures. 

Today, in this tradition, 6 of us donned our gear and drove to Blue Ridge, Georgia for tubing on the Toccoa River. We first chose a cloudy, overcast day after unseasonably chilly weather throughout the South, causing a temperature of only 71, mid-day. After risking directions from a kindly octogenarian named AJ, we persevered beyond his tiny hand-drawn map to locate the tubing company located in the National Forest. Bright pink tubes welcomed us, the only customers. We saw this as a warning, but intrepid enthusiasts, we plunged in; or rather I desperately hoped to not plunge, as the occasional breathtakingly cold splashes sufficed to elicit gasps and chills enough.

Ahhh, the wonder of being one with the river, hearing its tumbling waters, floating safely on my tube, and gathering fodder for future tales. We may have searched and hoped for the rare glimpse of sunlight for awhile, but the rhythm and speed of the river soon took all our attention. 

There came the bend where I was somewhat alone, tho' still in view of the others. Seeing much frothy water ahead, I aimed to the right bank,  paddling furiously with my one green Croc, and too late noticing the drop-off ahead of me!! I grasped overhanging limbs and held myself there, waiting and deciding how to best proceed to avoid a bailout. The looming boulders grew larger, the eddies swirled faster, dropping deeper. My sons with a measure of frivolity noticed my undue distress, and to their credit, all followed to my rescue.  I was certain of disaster, but as I released my stalwart branch, while firmly holding to one son's hand, I  threw caution aside as we sailed over the rapids, relieved and believing for more. With each dousing, growing wetter and colder, I also grew braver 'til at the final huge, boulder-strewn drop, I just held on and laughed. How else to be one with nature? How else to impress my family, but with the bravery of my modest wilderness skills? 

MOUNTAINS

...mmmm, the luxury of stepping off the busy treadmill, the noise, the hype, the urgency.  This gift of 2 weeks to be spent recharging, rearranging, re-evaluating. Thoughts drift by, some land softly, others float beyond any need to engage them. Retreating into the quiet, into the stillness, into myself, a soft breeze to wrap gently around me, a cocoon of oneness with the air I breathe, long deep breaths all the way to my fingertips, euphoria. What refreshes more than a 60 degree cloudless blue sky?

MORE METAL

                                    red tin barn roof and farm machinery
                                     

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   rusted metal chains of a swing

directions to all

Old Metal

                                                                                                  

I was surprised to realize that I like old metal. Old as in parts and pieces, trains, farm equipment, wire trays, spokes, lawn furniture, and the feel of tin and heavy iron especially. Grates, bolts, radiators, latches, hinges, chicken wire, hydrants, gas meters, manhole covers, one way signs. It's a tactile thing, it puts me in touch with my rarer masculine side. I also like shiny metal, bronze, silver, aluminum, and the platinum of my feminine side.  I harbor a couple of chipped aqua electric fans, wrought iron ornaments, and numerous topiary frames. Perhaps it is the aging and mottling that i appreciate, the strength of stuff well-made in a previous time of hard work and acceptance. Perhaps the item I fondle in a thrift sale calls to me of a simpler reason to exist, before modems and chips and monitors. Perhaps I just like giving new purpose to unusual pieces, no longer useful or in working order. Maybe the favor will be returned one day. 

WEDDING

...a perfectly lovely day in May, a day for a wedding amidst the ruins of Old Sheldon Church.

SPRING GREEN

spring green is incomparable. no one wears it well, except the tiny leaf buds of a pecan tree showing off against the cerulean sky. vines, climbers, tendrils, delicate tracings of new life all bask in un-nameable greens, each transporting its own designer color. lying in the grass seeing bugs crawl the stalks and inhaling the fresh-cut scent are my harbingers of springtime. it quickly bursts to darker shades and is gone, leaving me to engage its passing only with the loss. I enjoy the seasonal turns of color that wash across the marshes of the coast :a deep summer green that indian-summers into fall, a predominant winter graying brown, and then that pale new spring green slowly creeping up each stem, painting the creeks with colored fringe, welcoming warmer waters.

the words of green are myriad. celery, basil, pistachio, mint yield hints of herbal delights. celadon is a trendy word of Chinese origin, often with soft gray tones in its early green. chartreuse can be painfully tart and biting, but so lovely to say. teal, turquoise and aqua all blend to blues, while sage and olive hold gray.  and i like the laughing thought that envy, money, ecology and leprechauns are all captured in green.  

RESURRECTION SUNDAY

The custom of children gathering flowers from nature to flower the bare cross at Easter is a precious reflection of simple metaphor.  Death produces life, the seed falls in the ground and reproduces itself, out of despair comes living joy and hope. This photo is on the cover of an illustrated children's book by Brian Wildsmith about the legendary history of the Cross. The simplicity of the cover illustration bespeaks the childlike wonder needed to embrace faith. "Except you become as a little child..."

Easter Saturday

"Art, after all, is about rearranging us, creating surprising juxtapositions, emotional openings, startling presences, flight paths to the eternal." -Zander, The Art of Possibility

Indian diaspora addiction

The rhythms, colors, scents of India entice me, tho' I have never been there except through the vehicle of the written word. Initially I admit to the lure of crisp white clothing in British Colonial movie sets, cotton, sheer and cool, a distant game of cricket, and the lilt of English accents, a la Passage to India and Gandhi. And doesn't the word "memsahib" hold your breath? Conversely, I have an affinity for rickety trains packed with humanity, belching steam or smoke, slicing the far horizon. All these elementary, but immature attractions led me past V.S Naipaul to a 20th century India. Amulyah Malladi's "A Breath of Fresh Air" set in Bhopal first intrigued, then her "Song of the Cuckoo Bird" set in an ashram, and "Serving Crazy with Curry," an American rendition. These were followed by "Stealing the Ambassador" by Sameer Parekh and the prose of Rohinton Mistry's "A Fine Balance," "Bitter Sweets," "the Corner Shop" by Roopa Farooki, and then others. Arranged marriages grew predictably center-stage, and I bottomed out with Monica Pradhan's Hindi-Bindi Club. The title alone should have sent me running scared, but I tendered a look inside her world and relished her liberal use of Indian terms. So began a love affair with the whole plethora of diaspora writers, expounding Indian ways and traditions while trying to survive and acclimate in a modern and/or western culture. Here I don't claim expansive knowledge, only affection.

While I have not journeyed into Bollywood mania, Monsoon Wedding was a pinnacle to my addiction as I laughed at the embrace of rain. And the Darjeeling Limited gave me that unforgettable rickety train ride with 3 lost brothers. I have only just now gasped at the stark and startling Slumdog Millionaire, replete with memorable faces. For once I agree with The Academy's Best Picture citation.

Now that they have my attention, after the first flush of infatuation, I desire a maturing glimpse, depth and insight, honesty. Perhaps I prefer memoir, or less eye-catching fiction. I have now basked in Indu Sundaresan, who brings a fresh taste to this question of ethnicity, an honesty, ripe and overdue. Incomparably, Pulitzer Prize winner, Jumpa Lahiri's "Interpreter of Maladies" paints the tale of India for me. http://www.bookreporter.com/reviews/039592720X.asp

But I have been ignoring the plaintive call of R.K. Narayan, whom I must soon embrace, out of respect and refusing further ignorance of his greatness. Where this leads can only be revealed after this nod to a genre that has gripped my interest wholly, appreciatively.

Sea-Glass

...tumbled smooth in the cold waters of the North Sea.

Pittenweem

I know a few people who have had the dream of finding quarters, one right after the other. It is a childhood dream for me that resurfaces occasionally and repeats itself, with a fun, game-like quality, very exciting. "oh, there's another one, and one right there, and..." I gather and store and expect to have them when I awake. This dream parallels for me finding sea-glass on the shores of the cold North Sea. My friend and I strolled through the fishing village art show, displayed in the front rooms of homes, as locals chatted, sipped wine and welcomed us to their annual fete. I noticed some small displays of colorful glass in windows and thought "how lovely and curious." As we approached the harbor seawall, sufficiently tired and well past lunch-time, we knew we had to plunge our feet in the freezing water of the North Sea! I mentioned that we might find sea-glass; as I stepped in, there glistened among the rocks and seaweed, my first-glimpsed piece, which I handed to my friend, a souvenir of sorts. Thrilled, we began to see more, and more- roughly tumbled pieces of white, green, amber, and blue glass, broken, then smoothed by the tumult of the sea. What felt like hours of stuffing my bulging pockets with treasure was actually a mere pocket of time, destined to be a favorite memory. The locals watched us enjoying their bounty, the thrill of first-timers evident in our laughter. harvesting sea-glass.  Yes, it's a day I long to repeat, even if only in my dreams.

a bench of albums

36,743

so it's time I admit to my obsession. yes, as of today I have 36,743 photos in my iphoto library. when i found photos being ruined by a leaky air unit in our garage, i initiated a search and rescue, transferring all photos from their older decrepit albums into wonderful 2-up or 3-up journal albums. this is an ongoing project with many variants, preferably one album per year, as well as one album per child, to be filled with a catalogue of their growing-up years. the magnitude of  being hit by a hurricane is daunting, but the boxes of albums i would carry on my back is ridiculous. here is where i stumbled upon the addiction of digitizing all these years of photos, as well as memorabilia, to be stored safely within my computer in one manageable place. when we purchased a new fax machine i requested a scanner and  alas, scanner mania was born. i offer to scan every photo any friend or member of my family shows me -sisters, cousins, aunts, mom, in-laws, all. then they have to be edited and organized and perhaps restored and retouched. the bulk of this library is comprised of day to day memories, my family archives more or less. slow to give up my film canisters, I only began digital photography 22 months ago, and that of course has ballooned my current collection with so much possibility. and i even know to have that external hard drive to hold them all, but it's like enjoying all the marbles in the ring at once when i can scroll and see 535 events in my mac, housing all this accomplishment!

Bridal Shower Games

Has it been so long since I've attended a bridal shower? Weren't they always just a mix of women smiling and ooh-aahhing over new kitchen gadgets, linens, and nighties? And a bride-to-be awaiting sage advice from requisite relatives and sassy friends? I assumed it was only the dainty mints and crustless sandwiches that would reveal my age, but it is rather my new-found delight in party games!  I found myself racing the clock to transform our team's toilet paper wedding gown into the splendor of a Vera Wang. I snatched and tossed paper clues from the grab bag to help my team guess the most wedding Catch- Phrases. And writing a nonsense poem to which we all contributed only 1 incongruent line was right up my alley. Truth be told we women have a need to laugh and play together in a congenial group setting. Else why would we all still be lingering after a mere 4 1/2 hours for a Saturday Bridal Brunch? 

Dandelions

experimenting with Smilebox, it was easily posted to my blog. in general the program works for a quick emailing of fotos in a greeting card format, for fun and for free. I had a little encouragement here from 2 errant sisters, midnight pranksters. click Play, let it load, and then enjoy my deconstructed art in this short card; it's called "dandelions"...

Make a Smilebox postcard

The Places You'll Go

"The more that you read, the more things you will know. The more that you learn, the more places you'll go."   Dr. Seuss

a quotes journal

Ever seeking "le mot bon," I journal quotes from books I read. Fastidious about the gift of an author to create the pleasant phrase, I note favorable nuances,  whether they be astute linguistics, poetic verbiage, or cultural details that are worth the keeping. My red spiral-bound journal (red to find it easily) is source and comfort, reassuring me that the language of our modern day is yet abundantly favorable. There are talented artist/editor/ agents out there luring me in, but occasionally even after doing my bit of research, the author herself disappoints.  ahhh...the freedom found at last to allow myself the mere skim. Not a frequent art, but a just tool in my arsenal of managing so-many-books-not-enough-time. It speaks for not judging a book by its cover. I propose to keep a running chatter of who and what I am in the process of reading, or perhaps skimming. 

livros, libros, livres, libri

Isn't the word "books" just too boring? How can an attractive obsession, the thirst for literature, tactile pages clothed in hardstock or perhaps leather, have such poor linguistic coverage?  Surely our dictionaries comprise great descriptions for books, but where is a common-usage noun? A simple thesaurus.com gives me "journal, novel, lore, prose, tract, treatise, all less than sufficient. Is it our language deficiency? We can break neatly into Classics, Themes, Letters, Plays, Dramas, Fiction, but none suffice for a nice hefty volume or an epic trilogy. BIBLIOTRALOUS, book-loving. Now there is a word that matters, that stands up and jumps at you, oozing interest.  I would gladly settle for the universality of romance language root-words,  libros or libri, rather than the harsh germanic bucher! Even in a desperate moment, "brochure" could be ever so fine, if spoken with a proper first syllable English accent!

found time

not at all like the eery and painful silence of death valley is the life-giving quiet of time alone. being the younger sibling of twins, i have early memories of  space around me, separateness, set apart, a sometimes pleasant odd-man-out, if you will. fond afternoons of arriving home on the school bus with exactly 90 minutes for only me. both parents at work and my siblings in high school to return later, this was my time, i was boss. i explored, i breathed, i moved in slow motion. even then i must have been a putter-er, basking in the pleasure of choices, being in charge of my destiny, if only for an hour a day. now i obsess and dream about the joy of found time, the owning of every cranny of my house for brief intervals. long mental lists await me, and all too often the fervent hours dash by at their own speed 'til they are vanished, and the patter of feet at the door ends the spell. with my bustling household, there is only one answer to the query of what will you do with free time? my list is long, i say. 

my sapphire ring

the luxury of platinum, the serendipity of 8 jewels, a sedate brilliance. this is the ring that spoke my name. this is  the ring i have loved to wear, the ring that gave summarily the joy of a baby's smiles,  gurgling laughter and days drawing into tomorrows.  this is the ring that says "i cherish you;" this ring urges " you will never regret it;"  it whispers "it is finished." beneath the crisp white lights of a tiny jewelry store on park avenue, time stood still and i fell in love, with a deep dark sapphire, a cradle of diamond baguettes, and a vintage setting, an estate piece reworked to capture my eye.   

memories flood my already fragile senses and i let go, i release. i give. i give away the thing i have enjoyed because it is just an inanimate object of my affection. it tells a history of us, a changing dynamic, a glance at yesterday's bustling activity on a shady brick street in winter park. my choice today would be for that emerald-cut stone i have long desired, the one i failed to hold out for long ago. meanwhile, my precious, hopeful, loving daughter awaits my affirmation, my love. i cannot pause this moment, this opportunity, this gift. i can only delight in passing a treasure on to her, who is my dear treasure, greater than all the diamonds or sapphires, more to be desired than much fine gold. 

footnote to baby Mairn

i meant to say not only that i am fond of your 5 uncles, (who now, because of you, will forever be uncle rutledge, uncle andrew, uncle dayne, uncle abram, and uncle drayton,) but that i am also fond of your dad, who will one day be someone's uncle roman. and then of course there is your "pops." 

my dear granddaughter, you are giddily welcomed by an elite but growing minority of women in this nuclear family, that right now comprises  your aunt claire, aunt michel, aunt jen, your mom, and me.  hmmm, i wonder if aunt jen still wants to be called crawdaddy?

what home looks like

                  ahhh... this is the image of coming home, the marsh, the creek, the smell of pluff mud assaulting  the air.   i long for it as for life itself, and after having moved away, even after a brief hiatus from here, it is breath and joy to return.

SHOPPING with MOM

I grew up hearing Mom's stories of window-shopping downtown on King Street on Saturday with her best friend, Lydia.  They would stroll slowly, arm in arm, past the stores, chatting and pointing to glamorous hats and purses, shoes, dresses, articles for sale. It was a social event, greeting their friends and acquaintances, and being seen out on the town. The tantalizing scents of fresh baked breads and pastries, fried foods, and even popcorn filled the air and their minds with mouth-watering possibilities. She recalled the thrill of a cold Coca-Cola in a frosty glass with a tall straw, sitting at the counter where every passer-by could see. Most of the stores' owners lived in the upstairs rooms with their families and ran their businesses in the first-floor, street-side storefronts. The local retailers were also neighbors to each other. This made for a close community, as was common at the turn of the last century. With these thoughts firmly in place, Mom and I set out to  enjoy an early morning jaunt downtown.  Knowing that cities everywhere have grown and prospered has not dampened her delight in remembering so many tales. She is at heart a story-teller, and her memory at 82+ years rivals my own. Today we easily found a parking place, fed the meter and sauntered into a chic store specializing in fun jewelry. I enjoyed giving Mom this time to shop in her overgrown hometown, as I watched her eager and happy eyes take in all the changes, her sharp mind point out storefronts and places she once knew. And of course she charmed the 2 young sales girls with her Southern graces, topping it off with an offer of wrapped peppermints and a promise to return soon. Replete with shopping bags and stories in hand, we escaped with our wonder intact, and our memories renewed. 

romie and roxie

february has held the birthday rights to my smiling husband, on the romantic 14th day, the day of tulips and chocolate,  roses and tiramisu, a valentine baby, he. it was exactly 33 years ago today on the 18th of february that i strolled in to his office seeking employment, so i could move back home from the big city of atlanta. during and after college i had soared across continents and seas, languages and cultures, exploring me. and now i longed for the coast and the familiar smells and sights that bespeak the spell of family and home, that primitive call to many a wanderer. neither of us knew how fortuitous that chilly february day would be. he recalls i wore a denim dress, and jewelry that he liked. he said i smiled. i remember liking his voice, just deep enough to be masculine, but with a hint of laughter with a strong, gentle and southern resonance.  i say i first fell in love with his voice, he fell in love with my smile. 

to: baby Mairn

i didn't expect to be so amazed when i first heard your rapid heart beat earlier this week, but i was. and i didn't know i would be in love with you already after seeing your beautiful face only today. i have 3 pictures and a million delightful thoughts of you. i love that you are a girl, tho' i am also quite fond of little boys, all 5 of your uncles in fact. but we long for more femininity here, surrounded as we are by male dominant genes. you, my dear angel, for my part, will have one grateful great-grandmother,  twin great-aunties to amuse and claim you, and me, your ranne.

i am late becoming a grandmother, having waited to marry. and  i already see the world thru tinted glasses because of you. you are changing us all by being the first. i ponder what you will call me; shall we wait for you to speak or hold out for the names we prefer? the very thought, and the word grand-daughter, flood my eager senses with worlds of possibility. i saw your face today, dear one, and we are bonded. i will never be the same.

goldilocks

late night must be God's way to allow us to recover from the day's trauma. when exhaustion consumes each move, the mind numbs into a nice overcharge, like working the graveyard shift, like unloading trucks for a conglomerate retailer while the world sleeps. just give me a little itunes, some madeleine peyroux, or a shuffle mix of playlists. with the web at my fingertips, questions to search out, i let the hours run by. did i excavate deep thots of profundity back in the pre-computer era? did i waste that time and just not know i was immobile and dull? or was i more available, more touchable, candid and elastic? who hasn't wondered at progress anyway? what would it be like to return to porch-sitting, snapping peas and rocking the cares away, as a baby swaddled and unaware? well, i am doped with a sleepy brain pulling me toward clean, red flannel sheets, and my own goldilocks bed to comfort me.  i tumble to the lullaby of rarified dreams that muddle and swirl their abstract tones to teach inside of me about the traumas of this day, many as they are. sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof...

mum-of-the-bride

there are those women friends, siblings, and daughters who have no idea how to organize a wedding. i wonder, are they so content with their lives that none of the hooplah matters or jiggles them? they are in a bubble afloat amongst the winds. this is not to say i am a Southern belle insisting on the requisite minimum of 1 full year to engage all the details. i do believe a year engagement with your beau is preferable,  tho' i myself jumped in well before the 1 year marker. let's see, we met in february, how sweet that he recalled the date later by referring to his office calendar. it was february 18, a day we still celebrate going on 33 years next week. sounds very long, doesn't it? some of those days were much longer than others! 

but here we are, planning a wedding for our daughter. i try to keep my hands off and let her run. she is so capable and talented and well-organized. but a sounding board from the previous generation is a solid base to launch from. so i sound. i sound that we do need to stick to a budget if she and her beau insist on this spring wedding, rather than wait for the cooler breeze of autumn, after we are able to add considerably to the designated wedding account. i sound that we can certainly find a perfect dress in a one day outing to North Carolina, just my baby girl and me, the Mum, seeing each other through different eyes now. i sound that no, we will not just have cookies and wine at the reception later that evening. but in many ways it's time for me to just be quiet and let her run.

 

happy birthday, girls!!

     

   
Brilliant masks, colorful Mardi Gras beads, great friends, family, food and music yielded  a memorable 60th birthday party for the twins in my life. The party was moved to my home at the last minute when the beach house  was flooded by a pinhole leak in the pipes - time to roll with the punches and shift some furniture. The guys in our lives were invited for cake, conversation, and coolness, then banished so we could have a girls-only movie and karaoke blast! I have always thought karaoke a bit scarey, but with just us girls, best friends, a few glasses of wine, and such a terrific reason to celebrate, we enjoyed the nonsensical idea of being our own form of Rock Stars. Here's  a glimpse of party-goers, both aged and ageless.