Sunday Scribblings-Out of This World

He has a rather goofy grin, don’t you think?  The man in the moon, I mean.  Kind of slack jawed and spacey (sorry, punning again), similar to a circus clown or someone who’s just a bit deranged.

As a child, I often stared up at him, his friendly face beaming down during those summer nights we sat on our front porch, me in my nightgown with a blanket wrapped round my shoulders to ward off the evening chill.  It was a summer time ritual in my family, the porch sitting thing.  I looked forward to it with a great sense of anticipation, for even though I was called in at dusk (along with the rest of my neighborhood playmates), while they were sent to their dark and lonely bedrooms I was allowed to stay up with the grownups and sit on the front porch.

And watch the man in the moon.

What was he doing up there? I wondered.  Was his smiling face beckoning me to come up and visit?  After all, Neil Armstrong had recently walked around there – I had seen him with my own eyes on the blurry black and white TV screen, bobbing about like a puffy marshmallow floating atop a cocoa mug.  And I would squinch my eyes very tightly, hoping I might be able to see a glimpse of that American flag he planted so proudly amongst the rocks.

No flag.  Just that silly smiling man in the moon face.

But Walter Cronkite had suggested that one day space travel might be commonplace,  sometime far, far into the future – perhaps in the year 2000! – people would rocket around to stratospheric space stations in much the same way they already flew from coast to coast.  I stared deeply into the night sky, wondering if I might spy one of those bubble topped sky vehicles like George Jetson drove, whizzing between the stars.

No space cars.  Just myriads of twinkling, starry lights.

Meanwhile my eyes would grow heavy lidded and tired as I burrowed deeper into my blanket, my head would wobble a bit as I struggled to keep it upright on my neck.  The voices of my mother and grandmother became remote and fuzzy – “I just never did see the likes of it,” my grandmother would say, her soft Southern drawl cadenced like a lullaby, “all those children of hers runnin’ round nearly nekkid…”

Oh, she’s talking about the O’Reilly’s I thought sleepily, whose seven children were allowed to wear their bathing suits all day long during the summer.

I wonder if you had to wear clothes on the moon? I might think, sneaking one last peek at the man in the moon. 

Maybe that’s why he had such a goofy grin on his face.

for more writing that’s out of this world, go here

Stepping Up

The past few days have certainly been enlightening ones, for having a disability, even one as minor as a broken foot, illuminates all those areas of life we take for granted – like running up and down stairs, meandering through the mall, even treking out to the mailbox – things I’m acccustomed to doing quickly and thoughtlessly, now require a great deal of effort and planning.  Even though I’m off the crutches  (and wearing this monstrous moon boot contraption) steps are slow, awkward, and painful.

And boy, I’ve come to appreciate the drive-through window more than ever.  This morning I was able to drop off a prescription (I’ve succumbed  – I’m filling the prescription for Darvocet they gave me in the ER), go to the bank, and get coffee, all without getting out of the car.

Yes!

So I’ve been thinking a lot about the people I know who deal with chronic, long standing disabilities, and how life is so much more difficult for them than us able bodied souls.  Most of them are unfailingly cheerful, positive, and life affirming, which inspires me more than I can say.  Of course, I’m thinking in particular of one of my blogging friends, whom many of you also know and love.  Whenever I’m tempted to feel a bit sorry for myself  (and my boot!) I just think about Tammy and I’m suddenly infused with the warrior spirit!

I’m also thinking about the ways in which this injury might be a little payback for me, for the irritation with my husband (who has chronic foot pain due to peripheral neuropathy) for walking so slowly last week when we were in Disney World.   And  sometimes I get impatient with my mother, too, whose age has slowed her footsteps to a (for me) painfully slow pace.

Now, I myself am moving painfully slow, in every sense of those words. 

Life is all about perspective, isn’t it?  About learning by walking in another woman’s shoes (pardon the pun).  Along with my new boot, I’ve received a lesson in humility this week, one I’m going to be learning for the next six weeks if my orthopedic surgeon is to be believed.  

But for now, I’ll just happily hobble into the kitchen and start dinner.

How about you? Has life ever taught you a lesson in humility?

Three Word Wednesday

Today’s Words on Three Word Wednesday: Glass ~ Question ~ Token

 Shelly lifted her glass, placing it directly into the beam of sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window.  Pure gold, she thought, admiring the clarity of wine pooled at the goblet’s base.  A practiced flick of her wrist sent the liquid into a gentle pirouette, releasing the grassy scent she especially favored.  Dipping her nose just slightly over the rim, she inhaled, letting the complex aroma permeate her nasal membranes.

Only the closest of Shelly’s friends dared ask her out for a drink, knowing full well there was no such thing as just a token glass of wine where she was concerned.  Wine was serious business for her – after all, it was her livelihood.  Running the vineyard her family had owned and operate for the past 75 years was a legacy she took very seriously.

Wine was more than just a business – it was a labor of love, wrapped in her warmest memories of times spent with her mother and grandfather, traipsing through the arbors in early fall, asking question after question.  Her mother would sometimes become annoyed with her, impatient with the constant interruptions of a small girl who wanted to know why certain vines bloomed in the fall, and what the bad worms looked like, and how could they make white wine out of green grapes. 

But her grandfather was always the soul of patience, kneeling beside her on the grassy hills, cupping his hands full of tiny grapes, showing her which ones were progressing as they should, teaching her how to determine which were not getting enough sun, or were becoming too moist.

For nearly 20 years, the vineyard had been the focus her days and nights, the recipient of all her affection and dedication.  “So here I am,” Shelly thought, “just me and the vines.”  She turned from the window and set the glass down on the black granite counter-top.  “How insane of me to think that gestating the perfect bottle of pinot noir would be as satisfying as having a family.”

She felt the soft brush of Samson’s fur, his lithe feline body winding round her ankles.  Reaching down to run her palm over his smooth back, she felt his spine arch appreciatively under her touch. 

“I know, I know,” she reassured him.  “I appreciate how much you love me.”  The cat protested slightly as she scooped him up under her arm, retrieving her wine glass and stepping out onto the deck overlooking the sloping green hills of the vineyard.  “But no matter how smart you are,” she continued affectionately, “you can’t run the vineyard when I’m gone.”

For that was the big question on Shelly’s mind these days, the question of legacy, of who would inherit her love for the vines, of who would continue creating the wines of which her grandfather had been so proud.

Dark eyes roaming the vista spread before her, she felt a familiar sensation of peace flooding her body.  Though Shelly usually eschewed the California “feel good” philosophy, she had to admit this land had healing powers.  The pride of ownership that flowed through her veins was as intoxicating as the finest vintage in her cellars.

“And that will have to be enough for me,” she thought, taking a delicate sip of the Chardonnay she had poured a few minutes ago, before her thoughts had turned melancholy.  The rich buttery flavor set her taste buds alight, and as she gently chewed the rich liquid it released its aftertaste onto her tongue.  Sighing deeply with pleasure, she turned her back to the sunset, and went inside to refill her glass.

“That – and this,” she said, lifting her glass into the waning beam of sunlight.

Easter Surprise

I’m usurping titles again (this time it’s our minister’s, who entitled his sermon Sunrise Suprise).

But it seemed appropriate.   Because my Easter took a surprising turn (forgive the pun, which you’ll understand in a moment) this morning as I was walking down the hallway at church, deep in conversation with one of my friends, when I felt my (pink high heel clad) foot slip (on the over zealously buffed tile floor).  In order to prevent a total fall to the ground, I managed a quick contorted manuever, grabbing onto the bookshelf, and landed solidly on the side of my left foot.

Ouch! A sharp, ice pick type pain in my foot, followed by a wave of nausea –whoa! 

All kinds of people streaming past, smiling, greeting one another – wait!  My friend is still talking – she hasn’t noticed yet – oh! – I think I need to sit down.

Okay…maybe it’s not so bad.  A few minutes in a chair – yes, I think I can stand.  It’s alright (I think).

So, the show service goes on.  I stand up through all the usual Easter musical hoopla – four or five hymns, the Hallelujah Chorus, two handbell pieces.  I stand around talking to another friend (who is on crutches because she broke her foot four weeks ago!!) and finally limp my way out to the car.

We come home, have a nice breakfast (courtesy of my mother, who is of course extremely concerned) because by now I’m limping quite noticeably, and there is a rather Easter eggish sized lump forming on the top of my foot.

“You need to have that X-rayed,” she tells me.

I know she’s right.  She’s always right when it comes to things like this.

But I procrastinate.  Because I’m making dinner today – it’s already made, as a matter of fact, just ready to go into the oven.  So we go home, and I set the table, and enlist Jim’s help (for a change!)  and everything turns out fine, except that by the end of the meal, the Easter eggish lump on my foot is now a baseball sized lump on my foot, and it hurts like hell!

Well, s&*#, f^%*, and d”*#.

Rest of the story in  a nutshell.

Emergency room.

Fracture.

Splint.

Crutches.

Six weeks.

Easter Surprise.

Spring Has…?

Sprung, is how the sentence should end. 

Flown the coop is more apt.

Yes dear friends and readers, once again I’ve left behind balmy tropical breezes and sunny blue skies only to be greeted with another snow dump.

Five inches last night.

But~ the sun is shining and the sky is blue – at least I’ll say that.  If I spend the day only gazing upward, I might fool myself into believing I’m still in Neverland. 

However, you all know I’m not one to remain in Neverland too long, for the fascinating lure of responsibility calls me…work, most notably, an 800 page stack of medical records that must be read, digested, and summarized all nice and neat for the attorney’s and the insurance company. 

I’ve been through my entire repetroire of delaying tactics…I’ve exercised, gone walking, made a fresh pot of coffee, picked up the house…let’s see, maybe I should quick put on boots and shovel a path in the backyard for the doggies to wade through…

Wait…

I believe it’s lunchtime.  Or almost at any rate.

So you see how easily I am dissuaded from working.  

Working at home is definitely a mixed blessing, I think, for while it gives me the kind of freedom to take days off in the middle of the week (and go play in the sunshine), it means I must shove aside all the other lures of home and buckle down to task when a deadline looms ahead of me.  

So perhaps its just as well that the weather has turned frightful, as it gives me less excuses to procrastinate that moment when I must glue myself to the desk chair and set to work.

And maybe by the time I’ve finished, the snow will be all melted…

Sigh.

Dream on.
 

Neverland

It’s late in the evening, here on our last day in Walt Disney World, a place that (depending on your point of view) is a magical place of wonder and adventure, or an overpriced piece of capitalist consumerism.  

In fact, there is truth in both perspectives. 

And while I rarely write politically here at the Byline, my thoughts tonight are straying into that realm, because as I sit here in my lovely hotel room, having spent the past three days wandering through amusement parks in this artifical neverland, I find myself wondering if we’re all burying our heads in the sand.

America has spent the past five years at war.  I hate war.  I’ve always hated war.  When my son was born 28 years ago, I remember thinking (as they wheeled me out of the delivery room) that I could never let him go to war.  And yet, thousands of mothers of sons and daughters are doing just that – and sometimes their children are not coming home. 

Our economy is in the worst crisis I can remember in my lifetime.  Homes all over my neighborhood have been lost to foreclosure.  Businesses are failing left and right.  People in my state are surviving only because they have credit cards to pay for groceries, gas, and medications.

Medical care is in crisis, as people continue to live longer and longer, and do not have the means to pay for the health care they need. 

Since the time of the Great Depression, has America ever been in such dire straits? 

And yet, my family (and quite a few other families, to judge by the crowds in the park today) are able to take lovely vacations in places where we’re encourgaed to forget all our troubles, put our cares behind us, and “dream a million dreams.”

I’m all for dreaming – I think dreams are necessary and vital.  But are we dreaming too much?  Are we living in our own little “neverland,” so accustomed to America always coming out on top that we’re turning a blind eye to the serious dilemmas we face? Shouldn’t we be applying some old fashioned elbow grease to the difficulties that plague this nation, and finding a way to fix the disasters that have developed in this country over the past eight years? 

After a few days in the magical world of Disney, I always find myself more than ready to return home to the nitty gritty of my every day life.  While I can marvel at those “imagineers” who created this place, and as nice as it is to escape from the “real world” of work and domestic responsibility,  I feel a craving to return to those normal routines, the day to day reality of life.

Whomever we elect in November has to bear the awesome responsibility of taking on a country in crisis.  The next leader of this nation must be someone with dreams and with imagination, but also someone highly intelligent and firmly grounded in common sense.

We just can’t live in Neverland any longer.

The Annual Disney Excursion

The title of this post has been usurped from my son’s blog, but since he is (a very important) part of the aforementioned Annual Disney Escursion, I don’t think he’ll mind.  You see, we’re all off to Orlando tomorrow – we’re flying south,  Brian and Nantana are driving northeast, and we’ll be meeting in Disney World sometime in the late afternoon.

We’ve been having Disney Excursions since 1988 -and we’ve had a lot of them.  After our first trip, when Brian was eight, we became so enamored of the place, we started going at least once a year.  We learned more about the ins and outs of Disney World than some of the employees -knew all the little tricks about where to stand get the best view of parades, the secret entrances to rides, the best places to eat…before long we felt as if we owned the place. 

In 1996, we decided to purchase our own little bit of Disney World – the Disney Vacation Club, an allotted number of points each year to be used at any of the Disney Resorts world wide.  It’s all paid for now, and we own this bit of Disney magic until 2045.  So come what may, we’re entitled to our Annual Disney Excursion for quite a few more years.  In 2045, I expect someone (a great-grandchild perhaps??) will be pushing me around the Magic Kingdom in a wheelchair.

We’ve had some wonderful times there, as a family, as couples (Jim and I alone, and Brian and Nantana have enjoyed mini-vacations on their own, since they live within a comfortable three hours drive away).  We’ve taken friends at varying times through the years.  When Brian was in 8th grade, we took him, and his best friend for a week and basically turned the boys loose – they had their own room and free rein in the parks and arcade.   Of course, during his teenage years, he was typically blase about the whole thing, and for about three years or so, Jim and I went on the Annual Disney Adventure alone (which was fun in its own way 🙂

Amazingly enough, Brian ended up attending college in Winter Park, Florida, just 30 minutes from the gates of Disney World.  We had annual park passes, and I have some wonderful memories of just driving over to Epcot for an afternoon of lunch, wandering, and people watching.  Once, I really splurged, and went for tea at the Grand Floridian Hotel.  All by myself.

And now, here we are once again, embarking on a Disney Adventure.  It’s become a time to relax, revisit some good times from the past, and plan for more memory making times in the future.  And we’re all looking forward to the time in years to come when there will be a new generation to introduce to the Disney Magic. 

So, I’ll see you all when I return -rested, rejuvenated, and proudly wearing my mouse ears.
 

Sunday Scribblings-Experiment

I have to admit, I’m not much for experimenting.  I prefer to have some clear knowledge of outcomes before I try anything new – it’s my inner control freak at work.  And the nature of experimentation is completely antithetical to that premise (wow, was I channeling a scientist with that statement?)

However, two years ago (to this day, in fact) I tried a rather bold experiment.  You see, it was my birthday – my 50th birthday – and I was quite an unhappy girl.  In contrast to my life at 30 and even 40, my life at 50 seemed so stagnant and dull.  I was treading water, following along in the same well worn rut,  just like an old grey mare.

So I decided to get out my pencils and start writing.  You see, I’ve always loved writing, and I used to do quite a bit of it – I even had some stories and essays published once upon a time.  But for many years I had been involved in other things – raising a child, running a home, working, playing music – and writing fell by the wayside.

But instead of picking up pen and paper, I sat down at my laptop and clicked onto Blogger.  Why not do my writing at the computer? I thought.   I could actually create my own literary kingdom, a private “newspaper,” where I could “publish” without being subjected to the whims of unfriendly editors.

And so, on March 9, 2006, Becca’s Byline was born – a birthday present to myself, an experimental foray into the world of cyber publishing.

Two years and 480 posts later, I’m convinced it was the best present I’ve ever given myself.   Not only have I met scads of interesting, intelligent, creative people, whose words have inspired me in every possible way, I have fallen in love with writing all over again.  I’ve written more in the past two years than I would have dreamed possible – why, I’ve even written two novels!   I feel more intelligent, creative, thoughtful, and insightful than at any other time in my life.   So as I continue into this second half of my century here on earth, I do so with an increased sense of excitement and satisfaction derived from this marvelous foray into the world of writing.

 And to think it all began with a little experiment…

links to more experiments are shared here

Icy Spots

We are betwixt snowstorms here once again, in this most vicious of midwestern winters, another several inches expected tonight, for which a place will have to be made on top of the residual heaps left by the snowplow on Monday.

Sigh.

But I walked the dogs today (oh, such joy in their wagging tails!), for luckily the path in our community park gets cleaned very quickly since the local police use it to patrol.  Though I’m sorry there is a need for that particular activity, the blessing is that the walk is always cleared of snow and ice.

We marched briskly around the one mile track, clear sailing all the way, which was fortunate because Magic and Molly were at full tilt the entire time, and I found myself nearly jogging to keep up (the knees will pay for that later).   But just as we rounded the final bend to the parking lot – WHOA!- ice, big time, first a silvery slick puddle, followed by a stretch of deep, frozen ruts.

Slowing down, I crept gingerly across, stepping off the path into a snowbank to avoid that miniature skating rink.  I’ve fallen once on ice, breaking my right elbow, and believe me, a broken right arm is just not the thing for someone who makes her living operating one type of keyboard or another.  So having been burned, so to speak, by ice in the past, I’m fearful of it.

Of course that icy patch is so like life in general, isn’t it?  You’re sailing along, enjoying the movement and breeze, when suddenly you’re pulled up short – by illness, sadness, family or work difficulties-an icy patch in the road.  Cautiously, we made our way through that small rough spot, the dogs sensing my reluctance and slowing down accordingly.  I focused my attention on each step, careful to maintain my balance.  We reached the car without incident, our joy in the walk not marred in the least.

May all my travels along life’s roads be as deftly navigated.

Wishing you clear sailing on your life’s pathway…

Monday Musings (late on Sunday)

This morning, on our way to Phoneix’ Sky Harbor Airport ( and isn’t that a perfect name for an airport?), I remarked that the next mountains I saw would not be those hazy purplish ones surrounding me on the horizon, but the huge grey slush and snow mountains piled beside the roadways and in corners of parking lots.  Sure enough, there they were as soon as we stepped out of the airport, at least 10 feet high and craggy, blackened with grime and carbon exhaust, flanking each corner of the parking lot.

Each time I travel in winter, and return from whatever sunny place I’ve been lucky enough to escape to, I’m struck anew by the contrast in lifestyles between those of us in the wintry climes, and those who live (or at least winter) in places where the weather is always warm.  It’s the difference between the ridiculous and the sublime…this morning, I left the majestic, sun filled desert and, in a matter of a few hours, was thrust back into a world of leaden skies, pitted roadways, and snow covered heaps. 

Sigh (of sadness).

As you may have guessed, we thoroughly enjoyed our four days in Scottsdale – after all, what’s not to like about sunshine and 78 degrees?  It’s very different than Florida, and although I was fascinated with the mountains and the desert plants, I admit to missing the greenery and flowers that are so abundant in the tropics.  But I learned tons of things – about the Saguaro (sa-whar-o) and Cholla (choy-a) cactus, about Frank Lloyd Wright, about fabulous bronze art (Dave McGary), about the best place to have lunch (Elements, at Sanctuary) and dinner (T. Cooks at the Royal Palms) – and in spite of all the “learning” managed to find time for a glide down the Lazy River in an inner tube at the Desert Ridge Hotel. 

Sigh (of satisfaction).

But now it’s Monday – or almost at any rate.  My Monday is shaping up like this  – a three hour rehearsal with Classical Bells (substituting for my friend Millie, who has another week in Scottsdale, the lucky girl), followed by an hour rehearsal at the high school (in preparation for District Choral Festival on Thursday), followed by a couple of hours at my office in an attempt to make ready for the week ahead.

Sigh (of  foreboding).

And while I’m trying hard not to complain, I know the rest of this week will be a very stark contrast to the past four days of reading, relaxing, eating, drinking, and most of all, laughing, with two very good friends. 

Of course, no one can “relax” forever.  Truthfully, I often feel guilty about all the “relaxing” I’ve been able to do this winter.  I guess it’s the Puritan in me, or those Scotch Presbyterian ancestors of mine with their darn work ethic.  I’ve been able to have so many lovely mini-vacations this year, four or five days away from work and winter, and even though I know I work hard and do my best job all year round, I still feel guilty and undeserving about having all this time off.

Why is that?   I have always considered myself as someone with good sense of self esteem, someone who thinks “she’s worth it” when it comes to life’s pleasures.  But I am prone to anxiety and guilt about the possibility of shirking my responsibilities, fearing any small loss of the reputation I have built for myself over the years.  

So if the Byline is quiet this week, you’ll know I’m working harder than ever to make up for all the fun I’ve been having.

Sigh.

So how about you?  Do you ever feel guilty about having “too much fun”?  Is it even possible to have “too much fun?”

And how is your week shaping up?