horses, running, bucking
storms coming
later, calmly graze together
a lesson
relationships
Modern Literature
Gaden’s quiet. Normally he is shouting, asking questions to which he knows the answers.
I’m thinking, “He must be sick.”
Today he is sitting quietly, feet splayed out, short ginger hair sticking out exactly like Alfalfa’s, chin balanced on his left hand, staring at the silver Apple laptop open on his desk.
We’re reading modern stories in English, stories by Kelly Link, Kevin Barry, Adam Marek, Sarah Hall, Jon McGregor, Jennifer Egan.
Ghosts, robot boyfriends, fake lovers, bull semen distributors.
Astonished reactions, “We get to read adult stories with cuss words!”
They’re seniors in high school, 17, 18, 19.
Two are pregnant; one’s a dad.
Friends and Flowers
On my way home from work today, I stopped by a friend’s house to get some Black Eyed Susans. She and her husband run a bed and breakfast with a spectacular garden in the back. Iris of every color are blooming, yellow, lavender and white, peach, every shade of purple, and one a combination of colors I have never seen before. The lavender and white combined in one flower I gave her in the fall of 2012. They rebloom and spread rather rapidly. Because of that and the fact that I cannot bear to throw any away, I have them by the barn and here and there. Some do better than others–a lot of the soil here is either clay or caliche or a combination, not very conducive to anything but the toughest. She has a rose bush taller than I am which means it must be about 5’6″ or 7″. Another deep red rose was already blooming. She gives me flowers and I wait and see how they do or if the deer or bunnies will eat them.
Today’s weather brought perfection, a rare treat of just the right temperature, sunshine, and no wind. When I arrived, her husband was napping in the garden in a lawn chaise. He got up, we all walked around the garden, looked in the koi pond, and commented what flowers seemed to flourish more readily than others. Many flowers which do well in town either die out here in the country only twelve miles away or fail to thrive. They just sit there and do nothing. She and I have shared flowers for years, flowers and conversation and wine. We all decided to sit town and share some wine and cheeses and crackers and visit. They travel widely and always have tales to tell. He is from Jordan so we discuss world events. Part of today’s conversation centered on Boko Haram and the differences between Shia and Sunni. He is Sunni and I used to be married to a Shiite. Often we discuss extremism and how it harms everyone, regardless of religion. None of us understand the hatred some people seem to feel toward others who are different from them either my race or religion or ethnicity or gender.
As soon as I returned home and changed into gardening clothes, I fed Rosie, and planted the Black Eyed Susans with a big dose of water and root stimulator. Who knows if they will make it. I will wait and see. If they do, they will contrast nicely with the purple of the catmint and the white, tiny, native Blackfoot Daisies growing wild among the other plants in my little garden. What more can a person wish for than spending time with good friends among the flowers. And a little wine never hurts.
My Happy Mother’s Day
Mother’s Day filled my heart. First, when I awakened in the morning, I made coffee and opened this computer. When I logged into Facebook, I found this pronouncement from my daughter:
“I’m so thankful to have an amazing, talented, smart, ambitious, honest woman as my mommy. You made me the person I am today and as I continue to grow, I see things you taught me passing down to my son. I’m the mom I am today because of the mom you were to me. I may not always show it or tell you but I love you so much.” I nearly cried; I am not a crier.
The flowers arrived Saturday from my son who lives twenty hours away if you drive. Look at these flowers!! Fantastic.
Then my grandson gave me a handmade card about 5 by 8 inches with this long note some of which follows:
“Happy Mother’s Day. I know your not my mom but your my mom’s mom so your a mother so happy mother’s day. Thank you for giving birth to my mom because if you wouldn’t have, I wouldn’t be alive right now so thanks….Thank you for all the things you do for me. You always watch me. Your always nice even when I’m mean and you spoil me. I love you and happy mother’s day. ” He is ten.
Then today I received a totally unexpected thank you card with a note from a young man who stayed with me a while last spring just before he graduated from college with an A average. He was experiencing an extremely painful time then. His hand written note: “Happy Mother’s Day! It has been one year since I graduated from college. I would never have made it without you! Thank you for the great help in my most difficult time. You are the small ray of sunshine that really brings me hope! Thank you!” I felt overwhelmed.
The bottle in front of the flowers above is Versace perfume–Mother’s Day present from my daughter.
Poverty
Proofs sent to the library at work–a high school–cannot legally be used on the shelves so they end up in various places. Somehow I end up where they reside and read them. My latest, The Boiling Season by Christopher Hebert provides abundant food for hard core thinking. The setting, a Caribbean island, reeks of political turmoil and the legacy of slavery. Unless you are totally ignorant of Caribbean history and the various cultures there, it does not take long to figure out the setting is Haiti. In case you want to read the book, I will give you only a cursory introduction. The main character grows up in basically what we call here a slum. His mom dies of malaria when he is quite young and his dad owns a small store. He hates it and focuses most of his life on getting out of these circumstances. He gets a job and a place to live with a senator, meets important people, and eventually discovers an abandoned estate out in the country. He moves there after it is bought by a wealthy foreign white woman who hires him to restore it. He absolutely loves the place. It is an island of beauty and peace in the middle of squalor, poverty, and strife.
The details you can read for yourself. It’s focus is the dilemma many who grow up poor and want to better themselves face: if you progress, are you abandoning your roots, to whom do you owe loyalty. And, indeed, what is progress? Civil war breaks out and the main character is torn between his desire for peace and a more elegant lifestyle in this beautiful place and the needs of the poverty stricken people who surround it and who at one point work there. Is he a free person or just a fancier slave for the rich who own the place? Has he deluded himself into thinking because he worked hard to get where he is that he is better?
Although the book’s setting is a particular place, the theme remains universal. I think of individuals I personally know who could not cope with success and riches, who felt they must “save” all their relatives and then were left with nothing themselves. The thinking is this: if you come into money, you must share it with everyone; to keep it for yourself is morally wrong. If this is the case, how can the cycle ever break? This sort of thinking is very difficult for those of use who work hard and save for the future to understand. We question why we should help them when they hit the bottom.
Yesterday my hard working, single mom, going to graduate school daughter went on a rant about people she knows who get food stamps, Medicaid, etc. while she works and goes to school and gets nothing. They have fancier cars, better TVs, etc. than she does. I do understand both viewpoints although I admit I am the frugal without being austere. I remember a time several years ago when several of my poorer students–I teach at a Title 1 school–wore jeans more expensive than I would ever buy–its jeans. We got into a discussion about this. I informed them that all the clothing I had on except for underwear and socks came from a thrift store. When I take things to the thrift store, I actually shop. Thrift stores are full of “finds”. The response of one student was echoed by others, “I would never go into a thrift store. Someone might see me go in there.” Because they were poor, they wanted to avoid anyone seeing them do anything they thought might confirm this.
Although fraud exists in programs for the poor, it also exists in high end banking and just about everything. The solution is to work hard to investigate and prevent it. I keep wondering what is the solution for the people truly in need? Do we punish everyone to prevent the fraudulent acts of the few? And what about the children? What happens to the dependent young? Obviously, the world has not found answers. I wonder if we ever will.
Commitments, Hosting Benefits, and What We Take for Granted
Shortness of post is necessitated by the time. Why bother? Nearly three weeks ago, I committed to writing daily. Blogging seemed like a logical means to accomplish this. I expect others and myself to follow through on commitments. So here I am writing in the middle of the night.
Tonight I hosted a fund raiser for the Hilltop Senior Center here in Amarillo. We tried to sell tickets in advance but not all that many sold. The Director of the Center and I became a bit worried, but continued with planning, hoping some would show up even if at the last minute. They did. We had great Mexican food donated by Braceros on Sixth Avenue, wine, my wonderful well water, cheeses, fruit, and cakes. Even the silent auction proved to be a great success. However, nature became the real star of the event, nature and my dog Isabella. Unlike earlier in the week when the wind shrieked to 6o miles an hour creating several days of endless dust, today the wind laid low, the sun shone, and it was hot. This morning the heat went on and this afternoon the air conditioning as it rose to past 90. Thirty degrees difference between night and day is rather typical here and some days, like to day, this difference increases to nearly forty.
At dark the stars seem so much brighter out here in the country. Many of the guests walked back and forth on the patio, looking for different constellations. People came inside for a while only to go back out and look at the stars and the crescent moon. What I take for granted daily, became a wonder for my company. As I write this, I think about all the things each of us take for granted, things we eat, experience, feel daily. How often do we really take the time to appreciate these things, to realize that although they may be ordinary for us, for others they would be incomparable blessings. So now as I finish this, get ready for bed, and snuggle into my cool sheets, I will meditate and give thanks to the universe for the wonder of the stars.
Friends
This day, like many, has flown by in a whirl wind. On May 3, I am hosting a benefit for a local senior citizens’ center. We will have a silent auction, food, and drinks. Over one hundred invitations have been sent, but only a few have actually bought tickets in spite of the fact that quite a few people have told me they plan to attend. Customs vary in different parts of the United States. When I lived east of the Mississippi River, people actually religiously responded to request for an RSVP. Here in the Texas Panhandle, not so much. At this juncture, I have no clue how many people will show up.
About two and on half hours ago, my friends showed up with the forks and spoons and plates and wine and auction items. These items currently reside in one of the guest bedrooms and the garage. We decided to have some wine and then I dug out cheese and crackers and some more wine and more cheese and crackers. And we visited.
A downside of United States life for me is the pace. Everything is done in a huge hurry. People even gulp their food. I especially notice the difference when I spend time with people from other cultures who take hours to eat dinner and visit. When one of my best friends from India lived here and I invited others over, we took hours to eat and visit. Recently, when a US friend brought his exchange student from Italy over to ride my horse and his daughter and wife showed up as well, we rode, and then fixed dinner. We cooked, visited, and ate leisurely. The young woman said she felt so at home because we were spending time, visiting, cooking, everything leisurely. I frequently cook dinner very late by US standards, e.g. eight o’clock at night. When my exchange students from South America lived with me, they thought this was normal. People there eat late by standards here. My daughter tells me I have become more and more like all these people from other countries with whom I spend time. I laugh.
Tonight’s experience further validated my belief in the value of friends and time spent with them. This was not one of those planned, elaborate events. We just sat, drank, ate, and enjoyed the pleasure of each other’s company. It was wonderful.
The Story Circle Network Conference and My Commitment: This Is What I Know
When I first started blogging more than two years ago, I committed to blogging once a week. That I managed for a year or so and then since that time, it became more sporadic. Full time job, writing poems for my book, visitors, mini vacations, all sorts of stuff got in the way. Really, I let it lapse, but refused to give up. Last Thursday, I drove to Austin with my daughter and grandson for the biannual Story Circle Network Conference. The plan: while I conferred, they played. The Story Circle Network is an organization for women which encourages women to write, to tell their stories, to share these stories, and when possible and desired, publish those stories in various forms from memoir to poetry. This was my second time to attend and my first time to attend as a new board member. A former mentor/teacher of mine, Len Leatherwood, facilitated a workshop entitled “Transforming Your Writing Life in Just 20 Minutes a Day”, the last workshop I attended. She blogs everyday. I follow her blog. No matter what, she sits down and writes 20 minutes minimum a day separate from the writing she does with her students–she teaches writing privately in southern CA. One of her recent blogs has been accepted for publication–a piece of flash fiction. She nearly begged us to commit to this kind of writing practice. Previously, I had refused, flat out refused, partly thinking that if I tried it, more than half the resulting writing would be crap. Nevertheless, she and her workshop convinced me that at least for one month I must try this. Now all of you following my blog will be inundated with daily blog posts. I am filled with curiosity as to how people will respond. Maybe it will be like my Facebook posts–yes, I am an almost addict–the posts I consider most meaningful for the universe at large are the ones people ignore and the ones I consider personal trivia receive the most response. Maybe I will track what appeals to my readers. Some I won’t know because with blogging I share to Facebook and to a couple of professional networks, I have no clue who read what. Once I received an email regarding a poem I posted. Although it never showed up as a like, the lady actually told me she read my poem in church! Who would have guessed. I forgot to time myself so have no idea how long I have been here writing.
Here I am writing about why I am writing. On the stove I smell Jasmine rice cooking. I love Jasmine rice from Thailand. I am a very picky rice eater and prefer to mix equally white Jasmine rice with black and red. For one thing, it looks lovely when done–a sort of dark reddish purple. Since I sautéd chopped garlic in olive oil, then added the rice and sautéd for about 15 more seconds, then added water and some broth just before I started writing this, the smell of Jasmine rice fills the house. I piled a bunch of paper towels on the top before I put on the lid or you can use some cloth towel–a habit I picked up from my Iranian ex-husband. Iranians really know how to cook rice. I am also drinking a glass of Cupcake Shiraz which I bought on the way home from work. And yes, Shiraz is also the name of a city in Iran where they actually grow grapes or at least used to. But of course, drinking wine is no longer acceptable in Iran or at least not publicly. Good Muslims do not drink at all.
I did write something worthwhile while in this workshop and will share–doing this last because it won’t count as my daily writing since I wrote it yesterday.
This Is What I Know
My parents loved me, really loved me.
My mom was proud of my accomplishments.
Dad gave me a love of books, intellectual curiosity, and a
sense of wonder.
Mom gave me a love of music, beauty, and cooking.
Happiness is a choice.
I do not believe in luck. You make your own luck.
Life is an exciting adventure.
Horses give me joy.
Singing gives me joy.
Dancing gives me joy even if I rarely have the opportunity.
Family relationships can be distressingly complicated.
I am proud of my children and their accomplishments.
Religion matters much less to me than 99 per cent of the people I know.
Ethnic and religious prejudice distress me and I do not
understand those kinds of attitudes.
I am a good writer.
I want to make a real difference in the world.
I am happy 99 percent of the time.
Blessings flood my life.
My close friends and children and grandson are more
important to me than they know.
Writing has enriched my life.
I have few regrets:
One I have rectified;
the other I cannot–
my dad is dead.
Publication!
A writing colleague posted this on her blog today. It expresses so much of what I feel about so many things that I just had to reblog it. As soon as I finish this reblog, I am going to look for one of these statues for myself. Here’s to a fabulous today and a creative, adventurous future.
I am pleased to report that my flash fiction piece, “A Brother’s Gift” has been accepted for publication at the Provo Canyon Review, a print literary journal. I am especially pleased about this because I rather impulsively submitted it when I saw the Provo Canyon Review’s Call for Submissions. This is a very short piece, but the editors said they liked the tone and also thought it was “A refreshing and moving look at grief and the true emotional impact of such a loss.”
I am happy. Here it is in case you missed it first time round.
A Brother’s Gift
Mary Lou Holder sank down next to her brother, the one who was dying of cancer, and started pulling on the bright red bow of the gift he had just handed her. “This is sweet, Jake, that you’ve gotten me a present. You know you didn’t have to…”
Jacob…
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Fun, Food, and Community with Vegetarian Enchiladas
A couple of weeks ago, one of the blogs I follow, getsetandgo, created a post about “community” with photos of an Indian festival where all sorts of people come together to celebrate–a community. She requested others post photos of their community events. After reading her blog post, I decided to tell about my attempt to start a monthly “community” :
Several months ago, I reached way out of my comfort zone and started a monthly potluck. When and where I grew up, inviting people over for a potluck was socially unacceptable. If you invited people over, you cooked everything yourself. If people wanted to bring something, insisted, well, ok, but otherwise, no, no, no. Because of work, writing, and singing, I invited a number of friends over only every few months. In September, I decided it would be far nicer to see people more often and invited some friends over for potluck. They asked if we could do this regularly so a monthly ritual began. More and more friends keep asking to join. It remains a type of hit and miss thing. Sometimes 16 people show up, sometimes only five. My most recent event was a week ago. Because some of these friends are vegetarian, I invented a recipe, vegetarian enchiladas, just for them. I also made pork roast and chicken enchiladas. The vegetarian enchiladas disappeared quickly and everyone wanted the recipe.
Vegetarian Enchiladas
Six tortillas (I used whole wheat)
1/2 purple onion, chopped finely
1 large poblano pepper, chopped finely
1/2 medium sized red bell pepper chopped finely
1 package cream cheese
Olive oil
1 tsp Mexican spice mix
1/2 tsp chipotle pepper, ground (I used Spice Appeal-adjust to hotness desired)
Shredded monterey jack cheese
Red enchilada sauce–I used canned because my cooktop is awaiting repair
Saute onions and pepper in just enough olive oil so they will not stick or become too dry. Mix in cream cheese and spices until thoroughly blended. Fill the tortillas, roll up, and place in an 8 inch casserole dish. Cover with a light layer of enchilada sauce. Sprinkle enough shredded cheese on top to cover. Cover with aluminum foil. Place in a 350 degree oven for 30-40 minutes.
In the spirit of the getsetandgo blog, I took photos of my friends as we talked and ate. The enchiladas were all gone before it occurred to me that it would be nice to have a photo.
Additionally, I regretted not taking a photo of three of my women friends with long hair. Another friend who has spectacular, very dark grey, long hair and just turned 70 recently told me a story about how a mutual acquaintance came up to her and told her no woman over 60 should have long hair. It annoyed me so much in an odd sort of way that I now wear my hair longer than usual.
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