Tag: writings (Page 17 of 63)

Growing a Bumper Crop of Wrinkles

February 10, 2015 / jeanne / 3 Comments

Clarkandlewis10feb15

It was this kind of day.
For some of us, anyway

~~~~~~~~~

I worry a lot more about a lot more these days . . .

I worry when I’m tired
I worry when I’m behind
I worry when I can’t get things –
when I can’t get enough things –
done.

I worry that I won’t ever finish
I worry that I will.

I worry when my muscles twinge
when my foot hurts
when I don’t hear from my son.

I worry when the rental checks are late hitting the post office box
when the orange light comes on in the car’s dashboard
when Mother stands up and gets dizzy.

I worry when I have to ask folks to repeat what they just said
I worry when others ask me to repeat what I just said
I worry when there’s a tickle in my throat.

I worry when the words won’t come
when there’s no time to stitch
when the clock strikes hourly.

I worry when the floor’s slippery
when riding in the rain
when my head hurts.

I worry when I worry.
I never used to.
Worry, I mean.

~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~

I’m delighted to be teaching a class
at Woo School
called I AM Story
in which we spend 3 months writing our life stories.
It’s fun and satisfying,
and you’ll surprise and delight yourself,
I promise.
Join us, why don’t you?

I Am Here . . . Even When I’m Not

February 8, 2015 / jeanne / 6 Comments

I’d always heard that the older you get, the faster time flies.

It’s true.

2014 was the year I wanted days filled with making (stitching); marking (writing); moving (walking), and laughing (enough said). I assigned each a color: orange for making; aqua for marking; red for moving; and purple for laughing. I kept my journal in a big 8.5 x 11 sketchbook, one for each quarter. The paper was most excellent – no bleed through at all – but it was big and it was heavy.

My haptic and visual tracker for 2014, a cloth called Evidence, is not yet finished. It’s big and bulky, and I’m using my sewing machine for a change. Maybe one day soon I’ll be home long enough to finish it. Fingers crossed.

Last week, I came across a 1959 desk diary. Unused. Because it’s for the food industry, the first 50-100 pages are shiny, glossy pages filled with recipes. I love the look of this book – filled with possibilities. Love the pebbly texture of the red cover. Love the quote at the bottom of each page. Love wondering about the person who owned it . . . and didn’t use it after the first 3 days. I wonder if I could fit my do’s and done’s on just one wide-ruled page.

Then I spied this little jewel, a 1955 diary from Westinghouse Electric Supply. It’s possible my father-in-law was given one of these, seeing as how he was an electrical contractor. I wish us all a life that’s far bigger than this space allows for documentation.

~~~~~~~~~

I seem almost obsessed with creating a tangible legacy, with leaving some track of my existence. The more I am away from writing and stitching, the smaller and more insignificant I feel. The more time I spend tending to others, the more I disappear. I dread dying and having my tombstone say “She helped a lot of people”, leaving my kids to wonder who I really was. And then again, maybe I overestimate their interest in me. I keep a journal – be it digital, written, or stitched – to prove to myself I’m here. You can just call me Kilroy.

Moving Mother: There are Consumables and There are Consumables . . .

February 8, 2015 / jeanne / 1 Comment

Chocolatecoveredchips

As we go into the store, I tell her “Mother, we’re not bringing in one more thing that we have to dust or pack.” This – this right here – is what she comes out of the store with.

Bookcover

Then we go to another store – an antique store – and as we leisurely stroll through, taking our time because the realtors are showing the house – Mother sidles up next to me and says, “I read this book when I was a little girl.”

Bookinsidecover

Then she opens the front cover, shows me the inscription, and says, “And Miss Mary Lou played the piano when your daddy and I got married.”

I bought the book.

But you knew I would.

~~~~~~~~~

On the way home:

Mother: Miss Mary Lou didn’t play the traditional wedding music, and I thought that was terrible.

Me: Mother, you and daddy got married in the jailhouse. What did you expect?

[For the record: My grandadddy/Mother’s daddy was the Sheriff, and back in the day, the Sheriff’s family lived in the jail, so Mother and Daddy got married at home . . . in the living room . . . that just happened to be in the jail. The sheriff’s wife cooked and cleaned for the prisoners. The Sheriff got paid. His wife didn’t.]

[Another note: Miss Mary Lou played Irving Berlin’s “Always” at the wedding. I knew that part before this outing, and it may not be considered traditional wedding music, but it’s still one of my favorite songs of all time.]

Moving Mother Begins

February 6, 2015 / jeanne / 2 Comments

Guestroomcloset

We’re having The Big Clearing here at Mother’s house. It’s harder than you might think. I didn’t realize how much I rely on Mother to be the museum for our family, holding onto our history.

Letters

Tuesday night, we found bundles of letters I’d written to her over the years. I’ve always – and I do mean always – been an epistolary kind of girl. I still swoon at the sight of some of the stationery I had and remember using. Swoon-worthy stationery is so hard to find now, you know. I still have an impressive collection of seals. Could use some more sealing wax, though.

One of these letters I wrote Mother and Daddy the day I left for college. Another was penned as a newlywed. One is written from college. My handwriting has changed a lot.

Couponbookscover

Coupon1

Coupon2

Coupon3

We found coupon books I created one year when I could not think of a single thing to put under the tree for Mother and Daddy. (Important note: make them cute and clever enough, and they’ll never redeem them.)

These are the easy decision things. They don’t take up too much room, and the decision is already made: they go in the Keep box. This is where we start. With the easy no-brainers.

Starting Is Such Sweet Fodder

January 13, 2015 / jeanne / 0 Comments

Bridge

Starting is, quite often, the hardest part for me, and since beginning my daily walking practice, that’s how I start: I walk. I move my body through space. I see parts of this beautiful rock we call Earth up close and personal. It gives me fresh perspectives and newfound confidence. It opens me up and leaves me eager (or at least ready) to start any creative project of writing or stitching, and today I have much writing to do.

Thebridge

Today we walk this bridge in Daytona Beach, Florida
something I would have found daunting before last year, something I suggest today.

Birdsoverdaytona

There are birds

Cloudsoverdaytona

and clouds

OldTree

and even a deliciously ancient tree
right at the end of the bridge . . .
or beginning of the bridge, depending.

QuiltedWater

They say that if you’re a hammer, everything’s a nail.
Maybe that’s why I see quilted water

ShadowsLikeQuiltingLines

and shadows of quilt lines.

ViewFromTheTopOfTheBridge

There is, as you might expect, a most remarkable view from the top of the bridge.

MosaicTurtles2

There are even quilts of tile
portraying the rich variety of animal life around these parts.
Turtles

MosaicBaldEagles1

and bald eagles.
Have you seen this?
My daughter, Alison, turned me onto it.
Caution – it’s addicting.

MosaicManatee2

MosaicManatees1

and my personal favorite: manatees.
I’m going to swim with them this year, you know,
just as soon as I feel comfortable
trotting this swimsuit-clad body out in public.
Manatees are called the gentle giants, and they remind me of Nancy –
slow moving, quiet, gentle, always smiling.

Speaking of Nancy, we’re here to move her this week. Stay tuned.

Getting to More Through Less

January 10, 2015 / jeanne / 3 Comments

DissentersChapelBookcase

I want to be the kind of woman who can live with little. I want to live at home like I do when traveling – everything I need in two bags. Unburdened.

DissentersChapel1

It’s a matter of trust, really. I want to trust myself and trust the Sweet Spirit of Surprise. Trust that I can find what I need when I need it. Trust that I’m resourceful enough to use whatever I have on hand.

When we visited the beach at Normandy, France last fall, the tour guide invited us to take home some sand. The Engineer’s initial startle was instantly replaced with sadness because we hadn’t come prepared with a container. I smiled and opened to the back of my journal where there were bags of all shape and size, ready. We used a small tiny little bag with a zippered top and ultimately brought him enough sand for souvenirs for ourselves, our children, my mother, and Walter. Ha.

DissentersChapelGlovesSuitcasesShoes

Three years ago we moved to a small house in a small town. “Will I die without this?” I asked myself as I prepared to move. I didn’t die, but I did spend a year mourning some of the stuff I gave up in the move. We have only 2 closets in the entire house, which means everything is out in the open. Visual clutter.

I don’t want to want more closets. I’m a systems girl – I love the convenience of having things I need within reach. And besides: out of sight, out of mind.

I want less.

And I want to be happy with less.

DissentersChapelMemoryMantle

Now it’s true that some things bring me comfort and some things enkindle memories that make me laugh and tingle with love. But still.

DissentersChapelChaosTable

I want the space – the orderly space – to breathe and create and think. I want space for possibilities. Too much clutter – physical or visual – causes me to spin aimlessly.

This morning I found a big bag and wondered what if I fill it each week and get rid of that much stuff. Palpitations started. Most of the stuff I’ve needed and might need again some day, and it will be hard to find as remotely located as we are. I make excuses. Parting is such stressful sorrow.

DissentersChapelGlovesSuitcasesShoes

My mother is moving soon, downsizing. You know what that means: more palpitations. Will I opt to keep things in the family? Will I choose space instead? Will I be able to live with the guilt if I say “No, thank you” because really, around here we have a tendency to hand those things we’re not quite ready to let go of off to children (and daughters-in-law, my MIL did it, too) as a way of holding on less tightly.

ProjectsStarted1

This needs to be the year I finish the projects I’ve started. The year I use what I have on hand. The year I trust myself and my creative abilities.

I will get there . . . I just don’t yet know how.

Relics or Legacy?

January 7, 2015 / jeanne / 1 Comment

Orphanquilt8

I don’t know whose hands stitched this frayed beauty.
There is no name, no date, not even initials,
though there is definitely evidence of use,
and, as I choose to believe,
love.

Orphanquilt9

Now that I’m living squarely on the finite side of infinity,
I find myself wanting to create a tangible legacy
breadcrumbs
a way for the kids to remember me.

Orphanquilt10

Having had no career
having become no expert
having received no honors
or gold watches,
these little Hymns of Cloth I stitch
seem of vital importance.

To me.
Maybe not to my children, though.

Orphanquilt5

Making labels for each Hymn of Cloth
is on my list for 2015 anyway.

Just in case.

Biscuits 2: Sour Cream

January 4, 2015 / jeanne / 0 Comments

Biscuits03Jan15d

Ever on the trail of things The Engineer and I can enjoy doing together, 2015 is the year we make biscuits using a new recipe every week with this cookbook as our roadmap.

We started on New Year’s Day with sturdy dorm biscuits, and yesterday it was sour cream biscuits, cooked to enjoy with our friends who spent the weekend with us atop this mountain. You know, kneading biscuit dough is a good arms workout . . . especially when the recipe calls for 2.25 cups of self-rising flour but I use 3 cups because
I am distracted by talking to our friends. That’s my reason, and I’m sticking to it . . . even though I feel like I’m bumbling my way through this biscuit making adventure.

Biscuits03Jan15e

I just kept adding sour cream by the unmeasured blob until the dough was clumpy, then I kneaded till it was smooth and made a nice enough coherent ball.

Biscuits03Jan15f

Biscuits03Jan15g

I remember my grandmother cutting her biscuits out with a glass top dipped in flour. Best I can recall, it was a jelly glass. Though I don’t have the glass Grandmother used, it was still quite satisfying to dip the glass in flour, then press it into the dough, twisting it first one way and then the other to completely separate and define the circle.

Did you know that if the bottoms brown too quickly, you can simply slide another baking pan underneath it to retard the browning? Neither did I . . . until this morning.

Biscuits03Jan15i

These biscuits were hard – not crisp, but hard – tiptoeing up on delicious anyway, something helped along by the addition of condiments like Moonshine Jelly and Carolina Peach Preserves and – wait for it – Toe Jam. I think the hardness comes from leaving the biscuits in the oven longer than the recipe called for to get them to brown. I still think it’s an altitude thing.

But hey, they look like biscuits, and I’m tickled pink about that.

~~~~~~~

ButteredSugaredBiscuits

This morning, what to my wandering eyes should appear, but buttered sugared biscuits made by The Engineer using the leftover biscuits. Made just like Grandmother used to make. And that, my friends, is true love.

~~~~~~~

Using the heirloom bread bowl, I’m kneading my matriarchal lineage in 2015 (and learning something new with The Engineer), one biscuit at a time.

It all started here.

From Scratch

January 1, 2015 / jeanne / 4 Comments

ToolsandIngredients01Jan15

My grandmother made biscuits from scratch three times a day every single day. For an afternoon snack, we’d use our finger to drill a hole in the side of a leftover biscuit, fill the hole with syrup or molasses (whichever was readily available), and ~~make a big ole’ mess like you’ve never seen~~ devour. Sometimes we’d have Buttered Sugared Biscuits, cutting the leftover biscuit in half, smearing butter over each half, then covering the butter with sugar and broiling till the butter melted, the edges browned, and the sugar crisped-up. You’ve never tasted anything so yummy . . . or napped so soundly afterwards.

Maybe that’s why I have such a deep, lasting, loving relationship with biscuits. I love everything about biscuits – I even love the word “biscuit”. So when the Southern Biscuits Cookbook fell off the shelf and into my hands last Saturday night, a new tradition for 2015 was hatched: The Engineer and I will sift, knead, and eat our way through the year, baking biscuits from a new recipe (or 2) every week starting with page one and making our way to The End.

OldBowl1

Using the wooden bread bowl that has been in my family for I don’t know how long, of course. The preferred biscuit bowls are wider than they are deep, you know, and wooden bowls need only be wiped out between uses.

Preparation

This morning, we cracked open the book and before we could get started on Julia Regner’s Sturdy Dorms Biscuits, we had two new culinary adventures: we made our own self-rising flour and a big batch of Homemade Refrigerator Biscuit Mix (aka Bisquick). I mistakenly used the 1/2 teaspoon instead of the 1 teaspoon, but I caught my oops in time for The Engineer to do the math, add the necessary additional quantities, and get us back on track.

Hands01jan15

Being on top of a mountain messes with every baking adventure, and these biscuits – thin as they were – took almost 3 times as long as the recipe called for. Good news, though: they were mighty delicious. So delicious, in fact, that we ate them before I even though to snap a picture. And there were no leftovers. Nary a one.

Oh, and just so you know: I have already hired a personal fitness trainer.

Remembering Walter in 3-Part Harmony

December 20, 2014 / jeanne / 2 Comments

~ 1 ~

WalterAdaAtChristmas

Though I’ve been physically hit and emotionally scarred by some real scoundrels, it’s far more important to note and remember that I’ve been lucky enough to be loved by some genuinely good and decent men. Men who have more quirks than flaws. Men who are trustworthy, generous, kind, loyal, and caring. Men who want me (and every other woman, for that matter) to shine our own lives out into the world, dimming our lights for nobody, not a single person. Men who do much more good than harm. Men I wish I could clone because we all need more like them.

WalterAdaTavernOnTheGreen

One of those men took his last breath Friday night (12/19/14), and while I know it means there’s one more guardian angel who has my back, it’s an awfully painful transition from . . .
feeling his arms wrap around me and his dry lips brush mine,
hearing him clear his voice and say “Oh, honey”,
seeing his beautiful mustached smile that stretched from his forehead to his chin
watching him shake his head as he begs me to get more sleep,
having his curved, bony hands wrap around mine
. . . to recalling these things from memory.

WalterAlison1

Walter Mashburn (my stepdad) was . . .
a good, fair, knowledgeable, and wise “big dog” at the Ford Motor Company
an interesting and affable friend to many
a loving, supportive father and grandfather
a tender, loving, deeply caring mate to my mother
an enthusiastic, never-wavering encourager, teacher, and friend to my daughter, Alison
a good example of how to suck the marrow out of life.

TJAdaWalter

Walter will live on in stories, but right now, that feels a mighty poor substitute.

~ 2 ~

WalterInCanada

5 Dec 2014
5:47 a.m.

Dear Walter,

I miss you.

I woke up this morning thinking about all the things I miss about you – all the bright, shiny things that are absent in my life now that I don’t see you nearly as often – and I quickly realized it’s a list of all the things I love about you, so consider this a love letter . . .

I love your quick laugh and constant smile.
I love that you love to dance.
I love that you love music and know the words to more songs than I can count.
I love that you sing along – right out loud, even in the grocery store.
I love the stories you tell of working at Ford. Stories about Mr. Cannon’s support. Stories about outsmarting and working around the union. Stories about giving people a second chance to prove their worth or prove you right.
I love your knowledge of cars.
I love how when we visited the car museum in Asheville, you paid no heed to the “Please Do Not Touch the Cars” and placed both hands right smack dab on each car so you could get a better look.
I love that when Andy asked what was the best built car ever, you answered without a moment’s hesitation: a Packard. And you recounted that their slogan was “Just ask the man who owns one.”
I love how you unabashedly love to shop. Do you have any idea how rare that is and how much fun Mother had shopping with you?
I love that you love your birthday as much as any 6 year old I ever knew.
I love that story about the hard-top convertible pace car at the Atlanta Raceway – how when the early morning call came, you knew just who to call to get it fixed and how you always end that story by saying that top was “one of the worst mistakes Ford ever made.”
I love that you love dark chocolate. And Maker’s Mark.
I love your foot-stomping drinks.
I love talking politics with you.
I love that you love Georgia Tech.
I love that you owned a Jaguar.
I love that J3 now loves owning and driving your Jaguar.
I love how you take such good care of Mother. You let her be herself. You accept her as she is. You love her without conditions or strings attached.
I love that you take such care, take such an interest in your appearance.
Though I find it baffling, quite honestly, I love your willingness to push your plate away and turn down desserts.
I love that you and Mother are on a first-name basis with so many waiters in so many different restaurants.
I love that you were my elf last Christmas when I bought Alison your floor radio. I love that she went to the estate sale and bought one of your leather jackets.
I love that I can’t think of your face without seeing your smile.
I love that you won’t wear a hat from any place you haven’t visited yourself.
I love how you listen so deeply, so attentively, and without interrupting.
I love hearing you say “Oh, honey” to Mother and Alison.
I love being hugged and kissed by you.
I love remembering you coming out in Alison’s Christmas pajamas, something a lesser man would never have done.
I love the way you speak up and speak out.
I love how you love life and suck the marrow out of it.
I love remembering you dancing at the World War II Days event.
I love remembering how you loudly (because, really, your volume control button got busted a long time ago) said “There’s no way he can be that old” about the one veteran who beat you out of the oldest veteran in attendance recognition at the World War II Days event year before last.
I love how you know all the female singers, actresses, songs, and movies from the 40s, and how you share your stories and knowledge with Alison.
I love how you once told somebody that Alison is your best friend. Obviously I wasn’t there.
I love how you took my shoulders in your hands, looked into my retinas, and thanked me for giving you a second chance after you and Mother divorced. I mean, really, Walter, how could I not have given you a second chance?
I love how easily, frequently, and sincerely you say “I love you.”
I love how your ringtone on Mother’s phone is a car horn. Ford, obviously.
I love talking with you about leadership and management skills, something we both agree is sorely lacking in today’s world.
I love how you share your opinions on matters large and small and always give others a chance to voice their opinions, too, knowing that differing opinions diminish neither person.
I love how tirelessly and enthusiastically you supported Alison when she ran for political office.
I remember this one lovely spring day when Andy and I met you and Mother and Alison for lunch at Planterra Ridge. I remember the feel of the warm spring day on my skin as we sat outside and enjoyed a leisurely lunch with libations. It was one of many such lunches, of course, but this particular day stands out in my memory.
I love how thoughtfully and carefully you shop for cards, taking the time to read every card on the rack until you find Just The Right One.
I love how you sold your car to pay for The Twins’ birth.
I love how you and Jim have lunch every Thursday.
I love that you called Mother every morning at 9.
I love that you religiously went to the gym.
I love that though you spent most of every day together, there is still space in your togetherness with Mother.
I love that you attended the Daytona 500 when it was run on the beach, and I love that when a car would flip over while making the turn, y’all would run down, set it right, and it would get on back into the race.
I love your hands and how carefully and deliberately you use your fingers.
I love the rituals you and Mother created. I love that they were every day ordinary rituals.
I love being out with you and witnessing the respect you command just by your demeanor, by the way you carry and conduct yourself.
I love that you tried to learn to use the computer and send emails.
I love how you feed Jason and Clyde and Phoebe, too, when she’s there, a treat just before you go home every night.

Even being the feminist (of the woman’s libber variety) I am, I love how you never fail to appreciate a pretty woman.

I love how I make you laugh when I channel Vickie Lawrence’s character on the tv show Mama’s Family. (It’s not all that hard to channel her, really, since I think there’s a big ole’ streak of Mama running through me, don’t you?)

And that story about the Daytona 500? Of all the stories you’ve told me over the years, that one is my favorite because it typifies how you walk around this earth : You do things that interest, entertain and delight you, and when something goes off track (as it invariably will), you don’t hesitate to offer assistance, then you get on back to your seat to enjoy the rest of the race.

Nothing much gets past you, does it Walter Mashburn, and I love that because it means Mother didn’t get past you which means that you are a part of my life. An important part of my life. You’ve a man who teaches me, by example, how to spend time on earth filled to the brim with living, loving, and laughing. I must’ve done something good in another life to have had you be a part of this one.

I love you so much, Walter. More than I could ever quantify for you.

[kissed and signed by JHC]

~ 3 ~

WalterAda2004