Thursday, December 31, 2009

2010 — The Best Year of Our Lives...So Far


On New Year's Eve we do not grieve
The passing of the year.
Instead we tend to look ahead
Forgetting all our fear.

Tonight a full moon lights the sky
And shines on hopes and dreams.
Even though most of us know
That they are like moonbeams.

Once again, our hopes may fade;
Our dreams may not come true.
But even so, on we go,
Believing in the new.

And that's a great and wondrous thing! By December, it's hard to remember the past months, and many things are not only worth forgetting, they're best forgotten. And the hardest — but most important — part is that they're best forgiven. Because for the most part, and certainly in the long run, they don't matter.

I intend for 2010 to be the best year of my life so far. And you know what "they" say about good intentions! The road to hell? Oh, well! That doesn't matter either.

In the short term, my main question is: Will we call the new year two-thousand ten or twenty-ten? And will we all agree on that? (Of course, saying two thousand and ten is just plain stupid.)

And it doesn't really matter! Or does it? ;-)


Friday, December 25, 2009

And So This Is Christmas


And so this is Christmas...
And what have you done?
Another year over
And a new one just begun.
And so this is Christmas
I hope you have fun —
The near and the dear ones
The old and the young.
A very merry Christmas
And a happy New Year
Let's hope it's a good one
Without any fear.

John Lennon


Monday, December 21, 2009

Culturefest Luncheon


One of the parties at our house this year was my citizenship students bringing food from their countries: Thailand, Laos, and Russia. (I "made" ice cream and berries.) Look at this table. It's 5 feet in diameter. OMG. It was incredible eating. And drinking. And fun.

The five of us women sat there for hours and put bulges in our bellies but not much dent in the food. I learned I LOVE Laotioan food. And I'd never had sticky rice...or Thai dipping sauce quite as hot as theirs, but it was all delicious. Everyone took some home, and we ate off ours for three days. Yum.

I also decided this holiday season to stop saving things. My new motto is: "It gets used or it gets gone." So I put away my stainless flatware and pulled out Mom's sterling. It's beautiful, it's tired of being in a box all the time, and it's going to get used until I die and/or it gets sold. And yes, it's going in the dishwasher. As soon as we get a new one.

Many, many things will go to auction this year...as I've been threatening for years now. This time I mean it.

I'll let you know how that goes!




Saturday, December 19, 2009

This Christmas


This Christmas will be the best Christmas
We have ever had.
Laughing and singing happily
With our friends and family
We'll kiss under the mistletoe this Christmas.

Okay, call me sentimental — or not — but we took down our tree today. It had been up for three weeks, and it was very dry. Time for it to go! Like I said earlier: the tree's the thing. We'll save our presents for Christmas and leave up our few other house decorations until Dec. 26. Then it's all back into boxes to wait for the mystery of whether I'll get another tree bee in my bonnet next year.

My mind is already on next year...but not as far as Christmas. Time to forge ahead into the rest of my life, which is much less time than I like to even imagine...but still, it's the rest of my life!




Friday, December 11, 2009

O Christmas Tree...and Christmases Past


O, Christmas tree, O Christmas tree
Your gay green dress delights me.

My dad was also a big (not great!) singer, and this was one of his favorites. We loved our Christmas trees! And we loved our family Christmases.

Dad would take us to the Country Club Plaza on Thanksgiving to watch the turning on of the lights. It was a big deal then, and I guess still is, in Kansas City. And it was free and glorious and fun. I can still see them.

I know now that Mom always gave Dad/Santa the word on what to bring, but it was Santa/Dad who mostly got the credit for the great stuff — just what we always wanted. Magic!

We had to have "our place" near the tree so our dang siblings didn't grab our loot...not that we much wanted what the others got. Still. It had to be done, just as we had to write our names inside our matching stockings hung by the fireplace with care. You never know, and you sure can't trust a kid to do the right thing.

On the way to the Plaza — quite a drive — we'd sing Christmas carols in the car and gape at all the lights people put up on their houses and whatnot. Millions of lights, and all beautiful. To me, a tree is really a Christmas-light delivery vehicle, and of course, the best reminder of a nostalgic life that probably wasn't what it seemed back then.

"It's the laughter we will remember
Whenever we remember,
The way we were."




Friday, December 4, 2009

I've Seen Fire and I've Seen Ice


Oh, the weather outside is frightful,
But the fire is so delightful,
And as long as you love me so,
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

Fire and ice. Funny how often opposite things go together so well. Happens with people, too. I expect that many children, especially grown ones, think that about their parents and wonder how the hell that particular union ever happened. And yet, it did, and here we are, replete with the memories, scars, laughter, and sadness of it all, proving what? The fire and ice combo worked anyway?

Yep. Life works. And Christmas comes around once a year. Last year, Jim and I didn't really have Christmas. We hung the wreathes Mom got when we moved here on the front porch, but no tree, no lights, no ho ho ho. Of course, we had presents, but we didn't do the trappings, and we truly didn't didn't miss them.

But this year I got the tree bee back in my bonnet. The pagans had it right early on -- the tree's the thing. This year I wanted a tree, and if I'm gonna spend good money on a dang dying tree, I'm gonna enjoy it for a solid month. Since our tree comes down no later than December 27, that means -- we put up our tree on November 30. Yikes.

It's beautiful! They always are. There's nothing like the smell, the lights, the feeling of a Christmas tree in the house. I put under it the toys from childhood I still have -- my Tiny Tears doll, Toodles; my one-eyed, eye-patched teddy bear Little Teddy; and my stuffed black lamb Cherry. (Hey, it has a pink pom-pom tail; what would you have named it -- Blackie?)

I put out a few other decorations from my family that I love, but we don't go whole hog. Just enough. I'm confident we'll get the snow, but it's still all not complete without a fire.

We only lived in Minnesota until I was about 5, so I don't remember if we had a fireplace. The small house we lived in in Grandview, Missouri, didn't have one either. But from the time Dad built us a house on 80 glorious acres outside the tiny town of Lone Jack, we had a fireplace. Mama insisted. She was from Texas, and she'd been COLD ever since she married Dad. Think fire and ice. Think opposites.

And when we moved into the Lee's Summit school district, Dad built us another house with a fireplace. One of my most vivid memory snapshots is of Mama warming her backside and hands in front of the fire. Even in Austin, Texas, where I lived for 30 years, I almost always had a fireplace. I'd play Tricky Dick and crank up the AC just to have a fire when I wanted one.

So we moved to Colorado into a house without a fireplace. I missed it...the dancing flames; the snap, crackle, and pop of the logs; the heat; the fire. Not anymore!!

Jim got me a fireplace -- for our TV. (I know, I know. Save it. I asked for it.) It's great! I put the DVD on full fire loop, and it cycles through a complete fire, from fire-up to embers. Yes, it even dances, crackles, and pops.

So this year for the Christmas season, here's what I'm doing almost constantly, since I work at a home office: I'm sitting in front of my gorgeous, real, Noble fir, with all the other lights off in the house, enjoying my fake fire, sipping Mouton Cadet red, and listening to Mike Metheny's beautiful version of "I'll Be Home for Christmas" on iTunes on our Mac. (You can get it on a Leonard Brothers CD....or ask me!)

If I'm working, I wait on the wine. And more than once, I've been surprised to hear a log fall in the fireplace, and I look up to make sure it hasn't popped sparks onto the floor.

And you know, if the plasma TV's been on long enough and/or you drink enough wine, even though you can't roast any chestnuts, you can still stand real close to the fire and warm your backside and your hands.

It's a hoot!!


Wednesday, December 2, 2009

'Tis the Season


Deck the halls with boughs of holly
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
'Tis the season to be jolly
Fol de rol de rol, oh fol de rol.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas everywhere we go. The holly's there, but there's not much jolly. So far, just about everyone I know is having quite a bit of emotional turmoil and trauma, mostly related to family situations.

Unless you deeply and truly buy into the religious aspect of Christmas, which probably most people will at least claim to do so they won't seem crassly commercial and shallow, the holidays can be special only in their increased amount of stress put on psyches and souls.

I like the crass commercialism of Christmas. I love the lights and colors and songs and sounds and all that stuff. I used to like presents more, too, but now I don't want another damn thing in my life to have to store. Bah, humbug. Still, I get presents and I like them after I have them. Rank hypocricy!

Mostly I love Christmas trees. Mostly my own, because I know every ornament we put on it, and it's heavenly to sit with only Christmas tree lights on in the house. I love the memories of childhood Christmases because they make me feel good. Mostly.

But often, all that is not enough to keep me jolly through the awareness of the underlying human condition. Wonder if that what's stopping much of the jolly everywhere this year?




Thursday, November 26, 2009

Over the River and Over the Hill


You can get anything you want
At Alice's Restaurant.
You can get anything you want
At Alice's Restaurant.
Walk right in, it's around the back
Just a half a mile from the railroad track.
You can get anything you want
At Alice's Restaurant.

Is there another song about Thanksgiving? The only one I even dredged up from childhood is "Over the River," but it doesn't say a dang thing about Thanksgiving Day. Could be about Christmas. Probably is.

But not The Alice's Restaurant Massacree. Definitely about Thanksgiving. Well, at least it happened during a Thanksgiving holiday. Whew! Every national holiday should have a song or two. Some have jillions. Poor Thanksgiving. Guess it's a holiday turkey.

A cool thing happened this evening: the International Space Station flew -- and I mean hauled ass! -- over our house tonight. It was astonishingly bright. And it had a trailer. There was another, dimmer light moving right behind it; keeping up with its speed and trajectory; very close, relatively speaking, and...what was it? No idea. It was weird. Loved it! I'm wondering if we'll hear an explanation for it, because it had to be apparent to any viewer.

Anyway, thanks Arlo, for mentioning Thanksgiving in a great song...a long time ago, sure, but that's part of what makes it a classic.


Monday, November 23, 2009

Thanks!


Friends, family, and fun
Laughter, songs, and love
Life, liberty, pursuing happiness
These make living as good as it gets.

Got all these plus food, clothing, shelter, reasonably good health, and enough money to get by on? Yay! You're rich and can be grateful and thankful not just this week, but from now on.

Yeah, I get sentimentally sappy and preachy now that I'm old(er) and staring down the barrel of mortality. I have all those things today, and most people I know do, too. Man, are we lucky! The trick is to never forget it. The better trick would have been to learn it sooner.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

For the Birds


They come in swarms each fall
In grayscale paisley swirls
Covering trees and the pastures
Of our five-acre world.

They land hard on the roof
Like pouring, driving rain
Looking like incoming bombers —
A thousand fighter planes.

Birds of a feather flock together. Boy, howdy! We get flocks of geese, flocks of ducks, and flocks of cranes flying over during the year. Nice. And in Austin, we had flocks of grackles; not so nice.

But we also get mammoth hordes of flying starlings that fill the sky, make the bare trees look like they've grown brown leaves when they land there, and make the ground look like an undulating life form when they land in the pastures. You can't see their heads; just their bodies moving. You'd think you were hallucinating.

But these birds are real, and they put Hitchcock's movie to shame. I was napping in a living room chair when they came, and the sound on the roof woke me up. I was disoriented at first, because it was not raining. Then I realized they were back.

I'm talking thousands and thousands of birds moving like an amoeba through the sky and then settling to peck at who knows what on the winter ground. The volume of their squawking defies description. "Noisy" doesn't begin to define it. It's unearthly.

When I sit in front of a window and watch them flying to land on the roof, it reminds me of the old WWII movies and shorts showing planes filling the skies, endless airplanes seemingly so close together you'd think they'd crash into each other...or the window. Neither ever happens.

Parts of this living cloud settles at slightly different rates, in different places. It's like being engulfed in fog; then it clears. The sight is mesmerizing and slightly terrifying. Then, as if of one mind, they all fly away in an eery, almost silent whoosh! You can feel the flapping of their wings more than see it; their departure sounds like a deep sigh of relief.



Wednesday, November 11, 2009

I Would Sing


Time changes many things,
Some simply to suit fashion.
I've learned nothing ever lasts
Except for deepest passion.
Some people write hit Broadway plays;
Some play upon their looks.
Some bare their skin in magazines;
Some bare their souls in books.
When I am asked what I would choose
If I could do just one thing,
I say, "I would sing."

I sing all the time, and I'm terrible at it. No ear; can't carry a tune. So what? It's fun, so I do it anyway. Jim just says, "Sing it, hon" and doesn't even laugh. Much.

I wish I'd pursued my piano lessons; I wish I could ride in a fighter jet; and I wish I could sing. It's such a freeing thing to do — just belt something out and let whatever you're feeling sail into the universe unfettered and unstoppable.

I wonder if musicians feel this way about the notes they play?





Thursday, November 5, 2009

The Reason God Made Caller ID


I hate to hear the phone ring;
Too often it's the same thing —
It's you again, and I don't want to hear it.
I wait to hear the caller's voice,
And this gives me an easy choice:
I let you leave a message, then I clear it.
I think it's time I changed my way
Even though I'll have to pay
A monthly charge of ten or eleven dollars.
I'll be able, then, to see
The number and identity
Of every single one of my phone-callers.

Please get the message and just let me be.
You're the reason God made Caller ID.

Dear friends and family, this is NOT directed at you. Callers — strangers — asking for my time or money, intruding into my home, and thinking that if one call doesn't get results, more will....can go to hell.

We used to answer our phone whenever it rang, confident that the person on the other end was somebody we'd be happy to chat with. Those days are gone now, and to me it's another erosion of our civil right to not be harassed at home.

I've had to add a monthly expense.
Caller ID has become self-defense.

At least my blood pressure is down to 110 over 60. My doctor said people would pay for that BP. I told her I am. Ten or eleven dollars a month.


Wednesday, November 4, 2009

A Whole 'Nother Country


I'm heading in the southbound lane
Away from all I know
To find a brand of happiness
That I can call my own.
I'm heading in the southbound lane
To chart my life's new course
But I keep meeting my heart head-on
'Cause it's going back north.

Almost 40 years ago — man! I can't even believe I can say things like that, much less realize I was already 21 then — in 1971, I moved. Vietnam War protests on campuses everywhere had shortened the semester; we'd shut down the college. Chris and I had gone to Padre Island with four of our Columbian Connection friends for spring break. I'd done my student teaching in Spanish at Lee's Summit High School, under my old Spanish teacher. I graduated from MU but skipped the ceremony, thank you.

It was time to go.

This was maybe the first time I did something truly nutty — at least that I remember — and it was big. As big as Texas. I decided I would move to Austin to live. I had grown up on horses and wanted to be able to ride more than 6 months out of the year, and I was sick of Missouri winters. I had no car, no job, no money, and didn't know a soul in Austin. But Mom did. At least she had a car and a good friend, PK, whom she'd gone to college with at UT. And I guess she had some money, because she and Dad paid for everything. Not that I gave that a thought then.

So for some weird reason, they let me go. Maybe they figured they couldn't stop me. I'm not sure. Anyway, she drove me and LL, a college friend who decided she'd go spend the summer with me in Texas, to Austin. With my dog, Sadie. I remember that drive very clearly, and writing that chorus above. I was torn, because everyone I loved was in Missouri, but I was also determined.

It must have pained Mom greatly, but she left us there in an apartment with a beagle to feed and no jobs. They shipped my stuff down to me on a moving van. I tried to get work teaching Spanish, but they had lots of native speakers; who needed me. Besides, I don't think I was overly motivated. So LL and I drove an ice-cream truck. Transportation, income, and meals all in one! What a deal.

That was the beginning of my huge, long, enduring love affair with Texas. Chris says it started when we drove through on spring break; she's probably right. She has a much better memory about things than I do. All I really remember about that is it was the first time I saw an "ocean," and I learned I don't like them. We had fun...among the jellyfish and tar and constantly blowing wind and sand. The Gulf of Mexico is a sewer.

Sorry; I digress. I'd gone from Minnesota to Missouri to Texas — a line drawn south that has repeated throughout my life. From Texas I went to Colorado; back to Missouri; back to Texas; to Kentucky; to Missouri; to Texas; to Colorado. I'm telling this because if you trace those points in sequence on a map, it ends up looking like a giant arrow shooting straight into Texas.

It's a magnet for my soul, and I expect I'll go back someday to stay. Maybe just as ashes. My dad's ashes are there; some of Mom's. Lots of people I love still there. I'll be in good company. I'll be home.

But not for at least 40 more years! The ashes part, I mean.

Oh. I never got a horse again.


Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Change of Season


We woke up to our first snow
Of this winter season.
And this poem just goes to show
I'll rhyme for any reason.
So I want you all to know
They're not all people-pleasin'.

When your back is out of whack,
It is time to see a quack
For a chiropractic crack.

This is what happens: I wake up at 3 a.m. and start thinking about strange and eclectic things...and I start putting them into rhyme. This really helps when I'm working on and worrying about a lyric; otherwise, I get wacky stuff like this. Or stuff that makes me cry. Or laugh. Or want to quit because it's all shit.

The thing is....if you don't get up and record even the shit, it's gone forever. You gotta grab for the gusto — and the ideas, thoughts, and words — while they're in your consciousness. If you don't claim them by writing them down, they move on, and somebody else who is awake and ready with a pen and paper gets them. And you have no one to blame for that loss but yourself.

I woke up and our dark curtains looked brighter; peeked out and saw snow. My back has been wonky for a couple months. I was awake. What would you do?


Saturday, October 24, 2009

Mama's Grade-School Friend


Mama, what do you wish when you see a falling star
Or when you blow the candles out on your birthday cake?
Do you wish you'd followed different dreams when you were still a girl
Or are you happy with the way things are?
Are you glad you're my mother and that you're Daddy's wife
Or do you wish you'd lived another life?
Mama, what do you wish when you listen to your heart?

This is the (slightly modified) chorus to a lyric I wrote, got music for, and hope to get recorded. It's about my mother. Really, it's about me...maybe about a lot of us. I wish I'd taken time to know her better before she died and it was too late to ask. But answers come in mystical ways...

A few days ago, I got a call from a woman who said she was looking for the daughter of a woman her father had gone to grade school with. She said her father (AZ) and my mother were the best of childhood friends and that he had written a story about her. He wanted me and my siblings to have it. I was amazed, and of course said I'd love it.

Yesterday I got an envelope with a cover letter from the daughter and four neatly prepared copies of her father's story — one for each of us kids. The story had a foreward in which her father said that he wrote the story because he owed his family an explanation of why he held on to an old violin that he never played or even talked about. And he wanted his family to find us so he could let us know about the "wonderful and compassionate young girl who became their mother."

"The Pencil Box and the Violin" is a childhood memory with an O'Henry twist. It tells about a young Polish boy whose family moved around a lot so his father could find work during the Depression. In 1932, they family settle in Beeville, Texas, and the boy started second grade in a parochial school there.

A nun taught three grade levels in each classroom, with 12-15 students in each grade. The boy was terrified because of the number of students, the chaos of so much going on all at once, and because he didn't speak much English. Fortunately, a little girl named Sally Suzanne Swiger was in the same class.

"Sally did not laugh at me. In fact, she adopted me. She and I studied and played together all the time. Many times we did not go out at recess but stayed in the classroom and studied."

My mother was a lonely only child; a brother had died as a baby. Her own mother was distant. Her daddy, whom she adored, was a petroleum engineer who traveled a lot. I have an an old black-and-white photo of her dolls and doll house with her caption on it: "My Playmates." It seems very sad, because Mama was a real people-person. I'm sure she was just as grateful and thrilled for AZ's company as he was for hers.

AZ started playing the violin, and Mama loved to listen to him. Her mother could play piano by ear, and both families loved music. The friendship flourished — and nourished both of them — until the fourth grade, when AZs father was transferred. "When I told Sally that we were leaving Beeville...she cried real tears as if her heart was breaking. I did not know what to make of this as no one had ever cried over me before."

"When Sally knew for sure that I was leaving, she gave me her pencil box. In the early 1930s, if a student had a pencil box, it was a real status symbol....The pencil box was half the size of a loaf of bread and half as high. It had compartments for pencils, crayons, scissors, erasers, etc. That pencil box was a marvelous thing. Sally had a pencil box. I did not. And this wonderful young girl, my best friend, gave her pencil box to me. I guess she wanted me to remember her always. Sadly, I did not appreciate this loving gesture at the time."

AZ couldn't take home such an expensive gift, because his parents would demand to know where it came from. He was not prepared to tell them that, so he left the pencil box behind with a note to give it back to Sally. He and Mama never saw each other or spoke to each other again.

AZ continued with his violin lessons at great cost in time and money; he travelled 32 miles by bus every Saturday from Kenedy to Beeville. One day, his and Mama's old classroom teacher ran into him at a violin lesson, and she "berated me at the top of her lungs...for what seemed like an eternity. She told me in no uncertain terms that I really broke Sally's heart by not accepting the pencil box. I sobbed and cried all the way to the bus station...."

AZ never played the violin again.

In 2003, AZ saw Mama's obituary in the San Antonio paper. AZ told his wife his story, and when she asked why he had never tried to find Sally, he said, "I was too ashamed." AZ goes on to tell us about his life and show remarkable parallels between his and Mama's lives. And he closes with the simplest yet most heartfelt of words: "Thank you, Sally."

I cried when I read the story; I'm crying as I write this. I miss my mother every day.

"Star light, star bright
I wish she were here tonight."

Mama, what do you wish?

Thank you, AZ.

P.S. AZ, I do know Mama forgave you and would wish for you to forgive yourself, pick up the violin, and make music again. You loved playing; she loved listening. Remember your shared joy...and play. Play in her memory; play for your family; play for love.


Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Columbus and Us


In fourteen hundred ninety-two
Columbus sailed the ocean blue.
He discovered something new —
This land that’s home to me and you.
(Some believe this isn't true!)

But even if it’s not true, so what? Who can ever prove it, and why waste time trying? He explored; he found new lands; he got the credit; we’re here. It’s a little too late to squabble over who discovered America. And obviously, we weren’t the first…the American Indians were here. We were just the most determined to stay, and rule, by any means necessary.

I teach a volunteer American Citizenship class at the public library. It’s fun…and eye-opening. I started class in March, and out of 6 students, 3 have passed; 2 are scheduled for their interviews; 1 will apply this month, when she has been here the required 5 years. We had a young Hispanic man join us briefly, a senior in high school, who wants to become a police officer or join the military.

This boy speaks perfect English, knows American history, is personable and smart, and has been here since he was 9 years old. His parents brought him here from Mexico. He has grown up in America and has assimilated into the culture — except he can’t become a U.S. citizen. He’s an illegal immigrant.

Obviously, when we realized this, he didn’t stay in class. His only hope for citizenship — and for pursuing any kind of legal, good-paying job in what he considers his home country — is for a blanket amnesty for people like him. He sure as hell ain’t going back to Mexico. If employers won’t hire him because he’s an illegal alien, through no fault of his own, what will he do when he graduates? What kind of “drain” will he be on the economy then? Ah, the sins of the fathers…. His? Yours? Mine?

Two of my students were Hispanic, a man and a woman. They had already been preparing for the test and just wanted some reinforcement and, I think, confidence-building. They both easily passed the test and became citizens just months after starting class. My remaining students were highly motivated women: two from Thailand, one from Laos, and one from Russia.

By December, from just one small class, the U.S. will have gained 5 new citizens. Two of them plan to open their own businesses. All will continue to work, pay taxes, and now vote. Most of them came to class knowing more civics and history than many Americans I know, and I had to look up a few things, too, because I didn’t know the answer to their questions.

I’m proud of them and happy for the many. I’m very sad about the one.


Saturday, October 17, 2009

My Blank Pages


An empty page is a writer's invitation
To feel the rush of reaching a writing goal.
But before you can begin the celebration,
You have to fill the emptiness with your soul.

"Writing is easy. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein." — Red Smith

I don't see the blank page or computer screen as a threat; don't face it with dread. I love it. It's a challenge; it's a dare; it's a vehicle for courage or a ticket to humiliation. The bottom line is, though: once faced, the blank page must be touched with words. "Filled" is relative; a piece of writing is done when it's done, and then it has filled the page, no matter its length.

No, I'm not going to go on and on about writing; many writers far superior to me have done it better than I ever could. I won't have much to add except for an occasional personal nugget now and then. In rhyme.


Thursday, October 15, 2009

Why Being Specific Matters


I wished for more work, and now I am buried.
I went from laid back to more than just harried.
The universe heard me and ended the dearth,
But the work that I now have is more than it's worth.
I've learned my lesson, and I'll tell you, honey —
You can bet that from now on, I'll just ask for money!

The freelance life is one of feast or famine. When it's a famine, you're afraid you'll never work again. And sometimes when it's feast time, you almost wish you had a "real" job. Almost. But then there's that beckoning finger of freedom....

Creating rhymes within rhythm is more fun than fun and work that is so good that no matter how hard it gets, it's worth it. For me, it's the thing I must do to feel that I'm living my best life. I think everyone has something like that, and it makes it all worthwhile.




Monday, October 12, 2009

Crackpots and Cooking Pots


Some say alternative health care's for crackpots,
Or just for the "haves" and not for the "have-nots."
But everyone's riches are based upon health,
In spite of ignorance or lack of wealth.
And there are small steps that we all can take
To keep ourselves safe but not come off half-baked.
For example: my cooking pots were all aluminum.
I stashed them away and am no longer usin' them.

Several years ago, I quit using nonstick pans. The coating that flakes and chemicals that leach into your food will kill you slowly. And aluminum is not the best, either, because it has been linked to degenerative diseases like Alzheimer's. In fact, just about every metal leaches, but some more than others. And so does even glazed ceramic cookware...especially if it's made in China.

I still use my old copper-bottomed Revere stainless pots and my mother's well-seasoned cast-iron skillets. However, I recently discovered that Mom's old larger pots, the Magnalite pans and Presto pressure cookers, are aluminum. Too bad; they're great pots, but I won't use them anymore. I want every edge in staying healthy.

According to people who study us wacky, "ageless," over-consuming Boomers, we are flocking to alternative health to help us live longer and better lives. I know I have, having seen mainstream medicine do great harm to many...and getting really pissed off that every single commercial on TV seems to be for a drug. Get real. Restless leg syndrome is something that needs a pill?

My personal favorite online doc is Joseph Mercola (mercola.com). I like stuff that makes sense to me, and he does. I think Mod Med (modern medicine), much like the government and most people, is good for dealing with traumas and crisis situations but not so good about just handling the day-to-day life things in a reasonable way.

So please take me to an emergency room if I'm bleeding, unconscious, or break a bone. And if all there is to cook food in is an aluminum pot, I'll do it rather than starve. But if there's an alternative that seems safer and makes more sense, then I'll try that first.

And I keep searching for safer glass or ceramic cookware that doesn't weigh a ton and cost a fortune. So far, not much luck.. Then again, what price good health? Good thing Christmas is coming! And Mercola has a set....


Saturday, October 10, 2009

Moving Into the 60s


I've done a lot in my life and times.
I've had some fun and written some rhymes.
But I wouldn't say that I'm a success.
Some of the time, I feel I'm a mess.
Still, I'm on the move, and barring some glitch —
Next on the docket: too thin and too rich!

Gonna have to go some to get those done...but the journey continues, and a girl's gotta have a goal or two! At this rate, I'll just have to keep going and never retire. Not a happy thought, although some would say I've always been retired. Meaning I have enjoyed a lot of personal freedom in life. Freedom was always more important than making tons of money (when I could work it out that way), and I'm a great money manager. Don't need much; don't spend much. Ergo, haven't made much, either!

Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose? Exactly! Nonattachment. Not having a life cluttered with or dependent on too much stuff. But I'd like to have enough money to buy the best alternative health care, not worry about the cost of anything, know I could retire someday and still live comfortably...all things that take money. So I gotta get to work. Guess I'm living my life backwards!

Hey, it only takes one hit song. Writing lyrics isn't work; it's fun. Getting them put to music, demo'd, marketed, and recorded is the work...and it often doesn't work at all. It's a crap shoot, but what in life isn't?


Friday, October 9, 2009

Holy Shitsky, I Turned Sixty!



Sorry; "sixty" is a word without a perfect rhyme. Doesn't matter; lots of words suffer the same fate yet make it successfully into songs, poems, and whatnot.

I've had a good day so far — funny cards and gift cards and e-cards and two dozen roses and presents yet to open. Gotta love it. And rhymes from friends and family. Too cool!

From sis-in-law MJF:

"May you always have sunshine
To brighten your road.
May you always have joy
To lighten your load.

May you always have friendship
And a glass of good wine.
May you always have Jim
To keep you in line."

Good one, eh? Ha ha on that last sentiment. As if! But wait, there's more from MJF!

"Age is just a state of mind,
So pour yourself a glass of wine.
Enjoy your day and don't be sad.
Growing old is not so bad!"

From my dear friends Filbarb, aka Babs and Sailor, came this cute animated-card copy:

"I once read about a lady who made ice cubes out of leftover wine.
I never knew that was possible.
To have leftover wine, I mean.

Restock the wine shelf for our next visit!"

More later on My Big Day...but for now, 'nuff said, eh? Thanks!

Thursday, October 8, 2009

59 and Counting....Down


You can't always get what you want...
But sometimes, you get what you need.
Mostly, you get what you get.
And if you're lucky, it's kismet.

Tomorrow I turn 60. (Yeah, the Stones wrote those first two lines, so sue me.)

Jim had to go on a business trip, and Chris was going to be here today but wrenched her back and couldn't come out, so I'm growing old on my own. Which would have happened anyway...and the best laid plans...and blah blah blah. They both feel awful about this, but it's okay. Really.

If you don't believe me, put on the CDs listed below, really listen to them, and you'll get it. Well, you can't get mine yet...unless you ask me. I'll be happy to send you one. I'll get my songs on here soon. My CD is very short — 3 songs; 4 tracks (2 versions of "Mama, What Do You Wish?). A demo, i.e., songs for sale.

So I have a sage smudge stick lit to cleanse my soul; I'm polishing off a bottle of Mouton Cadet (red, of course)(oops, it's suddenly gone!); and I loaded our 5-disc CD player with this assortment:

"Truth" (Jeff Beck, with Rod Stewart singing the best fucking version of "Old Man River" known to man — or river; the boy has a voice, no matter what else you think of him. GET THIS ALBUM; it's fantastic.)
"I Knew Her When" (Marsha Kearns, Greatest Lyric Hits Vol. 1/3)
"Nashville Rebel" (Waylon Jennings, Disc 2 of a boxed set)
"After Hours" (Raul Malo; one of the best voices alive today; I LOVE him; buy this CD)
John Lennon Boxed Anthology, CD 1 ('nuff said; one of the best musicians ever in life, forever and ever so there)

I share a birthdate with John Lennon...and his son Sean. I love that. John was always my favorite Beatle, and for many more reasons than that. Not going there right now.

Music is heaven, and everyone of every age knows that. There's just so much of it, who can keep up with it all? We get locked into the music we grew up with, which makes it a surprising treasure when we hear something new we like. What chance does a 60-year-old broad have to write a song that someone will sing and make great? Chances are every chance and no chance. Ain't that 50/50? Good enough for me!

Anyway, I ran out of wine, so I drove out to get another bottle. After all, Jim will be back tomorrow night and want some heh heh. It was magic! The Book Cliffs had lit up pink earlier, but when I hit the road and could see the Monument, the sky was alive and joyful.

Sometimes the light shines on one landform or the other, leaving the others in shadow. But not tonight. The October evening fall light blessed everything equally. As the light slowly faded, the Monument became an Eagles album cover picture, and the Book Cliffs and Grand Mesa were stunningly and beautifully alight at the same time. I damn near got whiplash looking back and forth.

Then I saw weird blinking blue/yellow lights ahead and thought, as I slowed down and concentrated on the road instead of the sky..."What the fuck is that?" Of course, my next thought was: cops. Hey, I haven't lost it. At least it wasn't in my rearview mirror. It was a motorcycle cop who had pulled over SOMEONE ELSE BUT ME!!! Yay!

Do you think some young cop would have believed the smell on me was a smudge stick and not pot? I think not. But, although I have smoked pot, I don't like it. Never have. I don't like to smoke anything. I lit a cigarette once to use as a punk to light firecrackers, but I've never smoked a cigarette. Unless you count decades of breathing secondhand smoke...which, unfortunately, does count. There are better, funner things I fondly remember, having been cut off for decades. I now live for flashbacks. I mean that in the most innocent way. ;-)

I digress...and often will. I like to digress. Tangents are good. The road not taken, except in your mind, is often the best way to go. And I have to get up and dance around the kitchen quite frequently, which diverts my attention.

I know I'm rambling, but what the fuck? I'm turning 60 YEARS OLD TOMORROW! Do you know what that means? So humor me or log off.

Oooh, wait just 3.25 minutes. Waylon's singing "Amanda," and I must waltz. Mike Metheny's gorgeous jazz instrumental "Manitowoc" always does the same thing to me. The girl's gotta dance!

Okay, I'm back.

Anyway, this afternoon 3 huge buck mule deer came into our back pasture...6-point antlers. That's big for mule deer. Then later 2 younger bucks, one who has been here since birth. How do I know? He lost one antler as a baby, and now that one antler is a bit withered, but he has a new big one on the other side! I'm so proud.

The 2 young deer wandered through our south pasture to the west, and I went out onto our front porch with the smudge stick and wafted the smoke on me as I watched the deer move off slowly. They watched me and weren't worried at all. For some reason, I thought of the movies "Deer Hunter" and "The Queen." They were magnificent.

And then they safely crossed the road and moved on. Isn't that just what we all wish for?


Monday, October 5, 2009

Random Thoughts on Kindness


Life's a bitch, and then you die.
Life's a bitch, but so am I.
I did what I did and it's done.
Didn't mean to hurt anyone.

Unfortunately, I've not been the nicest, kindest person in the world. Good, yes. Honorable, mostly. Truthful, almost always. Done some bad things, wrong things, illegal things, and hurtful things. I regret the hurtful things most. It's one of the things I intend to do better with in my next phase.

You don't get do-overs, but you can always do better. I will be kinder to people from now on. More patient (I hope!). At any rate, I'll practice doing better in this area. I think it will make life more pleasant for me and those around me. We'll see!



Sunday, October 4, 2009

Late Bloomer


She's a late bloomer, a sweet Baby Boomer.
Her hair soft and silver as a mourning dove's wings.
After much joy and sorrow
She still dreams of tomorrow
And she'll take on whatever the rest of life brings.

There's a bit of a waltz...chorus? verse? Don't know yet, and I know it's not the final version. I already don't like part of it. And no, it's not about me. I'm not sweet, and my hair's not quite all silver yet, although it's turning fast. Late bloomer? I hope so!

When I was about 13, I asked for a typewriter for Christmas. And Santa brought me a used, upright Underwood, accompanied by a battered guide on learning how to type. I loved it and promptly taught myself to type. Foreshadowing?

When I prepared to go to the University of Missouri, my Strong Vocational Aptitude Assessment showed what I was best suited to be, in this order: artist, author, music performer, librarian. So what did I do? Studied Spanish (I have a knack for languages, and I've used my Spanish a lot) and education (I've taught many things, but never Spanish in a public school).

I guess some people know what they want to be when they grow up when they're that young, but I sure didn't. And college got to be too much fun to spend a lot of time worrying about a career path.

I never even dreamed of being an artist, at least not in the way you think about it. One of my brothers is, though. Has degrees in art. The other brother has a degree in music composition; actually, both are good musicians. I can't sing or play an instrument, so music performer was never an option. I love libraries and would like to work in one now (except they don't pay much), but I wouldn't have wanted to study library science when I was 17. Too boring.

Author. I've written many, many things, which makes me an author/writer, I suppose. But I've never written a book, other than some little phonics books and picture books for children. One is getting published on Kindle, but it was work for hire, so no royalties. I've written 4 unpublished screenplays; a jillion poems; a dozen song lyrics; and lots of short stories and poems and nonfiction articles for educational publishers. These were published but were also work for hire. As a freelance and an employed copywriter, I've written thousands of marketing and corporate communications pieces. Seems like my assessed specified interests have blended into different forms.

I figure when I sell a song, I'll finally have a real career. It's about time, doncha think? And I'll get royalties!


Saturday, October 3, 2009

Nothing's Perfect...Yay!


Daisily, I love the sun.
Lazily, this rhyme is done.

She can't keep up! you may scoff...
Well, even God took one day off.

P.S. I reserve the right to blog at will. Mine.
And to write crappy rhymes from time to time.

Friday, October 2, 2009

What Matters


I wonder what's synonymous
With someone who's anonymous?
It may not mean it's cowardice
To always speak unknown.

I don't believe Anonymous
Is trying to be ominous,
But, rather, just autonomous.
I'm sad he's so alone.

What a waste for those who act anonymously
To only be appreciated posthumously...(if ever).

Anonymous's comment on the Tao of Willie post reflects a lot of people's thoughts about their lifespan. I never understand this point of view! What is so damn wrong with living as long as possible?

Chris and I have been talking about this recently, because she hears the same thing a lot...and that is people saying "Oh, I don't want to live that long." Say what?

Sure, there are circumstances under which you would not choose to live, but surely growing old in a regular, relatively healthy life can't be one of them. Neither can having another shot at life, if it were possible.

I think Anonymous is poking me here by taking the opposite tack of my first post, and sometimes I jump when poked. In this case, his sentiments are relevant because they seem strangely prevalent.

People who believe in God think they're going to live forever. People who believe in reincarnation think they're going to live forever. Not in the same form or in the same place, but forever nonetheless.

People who believe when you die, you just die and are gone are wrong, too. The second after you die, life goes on. Maybe not within you, but certainly without you. And the matter that was your body becomes a different matter — and none of that matters! Ashes to ashes, fun to funky, we are stardust.

I'll paraphrase Willie: Fortunately, we're not in control. And his hope for life: If it happened once, it could happen again.

Nobody really knows. All we know for sure is this: We are alive in this moment. And that does matter.

Thursday, October 1, 2009

The Tao of Willie (Willie Nelson's Way)


I will most likely mention Texas often, because living there had a tremendous influence on me, my mother was a native Texan, and I just plain love that big old crazy state. Still, I won't go back to live there unless it's to Fort Davis, because most of the state is also hotter and more humid than, well, hell. I've come to prefer living in high and dry country. And Austin is just too big now for me.

But when I moved there — and for a couple decades after — Austin was heaven, with a music scene ruled mostly by Willie. Among many other good things, Willie's a laid-back philosopher...and he's written a book, with a comedian/actor/writer named Turk Pipkin. The book is great reading, and I took a few nuggets from it to write a lyric...one that probably only Kris Kristofferson could pull off singing but won't, because he writes his own, far superior stuff.

So, another exercise in lyric exploration.

The Tao of Willie (Willie Nelson's Way)

Don't think negative thoughts;
Breathe and then let things go.
We're not in control.
If you live in the moment and live true to you
You'll go with the flow.
That's the Tao of Willie.

Don't know the Tao? Well, it knows you.
Love and laugh and just be.
Normal is a myth.
You are whatever you choose to believe,
And happiness is real.
That's the Tao of Willie.

BRIDGE
That's the Tao of Willie.
It may seem weird or a little bit silly,
But you know a man who's smoked that much pot
Ain't gonna tell you something's true if it's not.

So crown thy good with brotherhood;
Follow the Golden Rule.
Trust and tell the truth.
Nature will certainly win in the end,
'Til then, burn biofuel
That's the Tao of Willie.

You should buy the book right away...so you understand this lyric, heh heh...and because it's a great read with a wonderful perspective and good advice for all of us. The title is the same: The Tao of Willie.

(You can't copyright titles, so I'm not infringing!)





Wednesday, September 30, 2009

We Ain't Mainstream


We ain't mainstream,
But we're swimming in the same stream.
We're dreaming the same dream,
Just me and you.
People say we're crazy,
But that don't faze me;
I know it's true.
We ain't mainstream.

Yep, a little country chorus. Why all the country, you ask? Didn't I grow up bathed in the glory of rock-n-roll? Of course, and I wouldn't have it any other way! But any genre that can pull off a song entitled "Drop Kick Me, Jesus, Through the Goalposts of Life" is for me. That's fun stuff.

Plus, country and crossover artists are the only ones who use and perform other songwriters' lyrics. Singer/songwriters write or cowrite and perform their own songs...which is also what any lyricist or composer must do. Gotta have words and music to make a song.

Besides, I'm more than a little bit country when it comes to music appreciation. The minute I graduated from the University of Missouri, I headed for Austin, Texas. I spent my childhood (defined as ages 5-21) in Missouri, around Kansas City. Mainly Lee's Summit and a little bitty town called Lone Jack.

And for the next 30 years in Texas, I did my best to squander my youth (defined as ages 21-51) in the Music Capital of the World. Rode wildly through the cowboy outlaw years with Willie, Waylon, and the Boys...and the Flatlanders...and Jerry Jeff Walker...well, ALL the boys! And I loved every minute of the time and the music. I love lyin', cheatin', cryin', laughin', lovin' songs. What a hoot!

Well, I got married in there (at age 38) and calmed down a bit...I think. Hon?

Now, in Colorado, I'm heading for the last roundup (defined as 51-109+). That gives me plenty more time to sell at least one dang song...and write plenty more rhymes.



Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Age Rules


My hair's too long and therefore wrong
For someone over forty.
And I should drive a minivan
Instead of something sporty.

It's time to lose my faded jeans
And look and act my age.
I need to hit the rocking chair —
The world's a Next Gen stage.

Well, sorry, I don't own a dress;
I'll let my freak flag fly,
And there are lots more rules to break
Before the day I die.

I'm going to push the envelope before I kick the bucket.
And if that's something "they" don't like....fuck it!

Monday, September 28, 2009

Life Is Short


There; another cliche. Aren't they just too, too handy? I'll certainly try to avoid overusing them.

In 2007, when I was 57, I wondered what the hell I was doing with my life, so I read a book I bought my husband years ago — Zen and the Art of Making a Living — and realized I wanted to write songs. It seemed to suit me, according to the book and my mind at that time. I still agree with — and have — that determination.

However, I'm not a fool, and I'm not even a singer or musician. I'm a novice competing against a million singer/songwriters. The odds are against me blah blah blah. But I don't care! I'm still running against the wind, because it's what I want to do and it's fun.

Now, a mere two years later, I've learned that it was the beginning of looking ahead to the end rather than looking back to the beginning. This is a good thing, because it signals a turning point. When my mother died in 2003, I was suddenly looking back all the time, for the past several years. Sadness, of course. Regrets, sure. Too many to mention, and not the point.

The point is now, about to turn 60, I understand mortality in a more than intellectual way. I can see the end of me. I sure as hell don't want it, and I will resist it until it is forced upon me, but there it is...ahead. And I've decided to live the next 40 years (yeah, yeah, I know; just humor me on this) differently from the last 40...even though they've been great. I feel like a grown-up for the first time, weird as that sounds.

I don't know exactly what that means in all ways; that's the adventure. I'll let you know as I discover the meaning and the changes I will make. But one of them is to do my writing of rhyme in various ways. And so I have started that long, bumpy ride to the end, still changing, still learning, still hoping.

Life Is Short

Life is short.
You live; you die.
You laugh; you cry.
You sing; you sigh.
You swear to truth
And tell a lie.
Things go awry;
You wonder why.
You fly so high;
Eat humble pie.
You live; you die.
Hello. Good-bye.




Sunday, September 27, 2009

Love Is a Two-Way Street


You hit town in your old truck,
I watched as you went by.
I thought it was a stroke of luck
That I had caught your eye.
That night we went out to the Moose Lodge dance,
And both of us felt the strong rush of romance.
I let loose of my caution and let my heart take the chance
That you knew love is a two-way street.

CHORUS
Love is a two-way street.
If you go down the road of life with only tunnel vision
You better be ready for a head-on collision
'Cause love is a two-way street.
If we're not riding side-by-side, we'll go head to head.
When your light turns green, mine will be red.
You'll wish that I was with you, but you'll be alone instead.
Love is a two-way street.

Turns out I should have steered clear.
Turns out you were born stone deaf.
Whenever I spoke, you couldn't hear.
You had to be right, so I left.
The moral of this story is about as old as dirt:
If you treat your woman wrong, you're in a world of hurt.
Men who never listen are men who've never learned
That love is a two-way street.


This is an admittedly wacky country lyric waiting for a melody. It may never get one, and I'm quite sure it won't be my big hit (heh heh). But it's a good writing exercise...and you never know!

I have a melody in my head, but I'm not a musician. I need and want a cowriter, because I'm determined to sell a song. So that's one thing I have to do in my 60s, and I'm trying. If Chris can figure out how to get an mp3 on here, I'll put on the three songs I have demo'd now.




Saturday, September 26, 2009

Why Now?


There's no time like the present,
And now is all we have (how Zen!).
Time is of the essence;
If not now, then when?

Ah, cliches. They're so true, you're not supposed to even use them in writing. "Too common," they say. Bah! Use them; abuse them; reuse them. What the hell?

Did you see the comments? What fun! Let me introduce my followers: Chris(tine) Buffalo Bartlow Wilson is my dear, very old, in-fact-ancient friend from college; we met in 1968. That guy there is my husband, Jim. (He's much cuter in person!) Anonymous is, well, who knows? But he/she is channeling Ogden Nash, which is always fun!

I didn't study poetry (duh!). As Jim says so eloquently, I'm just a rhymer. And anyone can be a rhymer, so give it a try, too. We'll all appreciate it here.

Friday, September 25, 2009

Why Rhyme?


I was weaned on Mother Goose,
And I grew up with Dr. Seuss,
So I like playing fast and loose
With words and rhyme and rhythm.

There are those who like free verse,
But I think it's a modern curse.
Poems without rhymes are the worst...
Want nothing to do with 'em.

Actually, some free verse is okay, if it establishes a tone and rhythm all its own, and some rhyming so-called poetry is the worst. At least free verse doesn't try to force words to rhyme that shouldn't or don't, and many rhyme-writers complete forget that rhythm is integral to an effective rhyming poem or lyric.

Mainly I write rhymes (poems, ditties, song lyrics) because it's fun.
The girl just wants to have fun!


Thursday, September 24, 2009

It's a Start


Life is good;
Life is fun.
Too bad we only
Just get one.

(You don't like this? Pierce my heart!
What the hell — it's just a start.)