Fall is giving Mississippi a preview of coming events. Cool mornings and evenings, a welcome relief from the humid temperatures.
Received my first catalog from Sunnyland Farms in Georgia. Again I turn each page hungrily anxious for my first autumn taste of pecans.
We enjoy the ride to nearby Raymond, Mississippi to a retail pecan grove bursting with ripe nuts. Human pickers and machines gather pecans, sort them and place them in large bins inside the store. Inside the small frame building, the nuts are divided into the types of pecans and displayed. First time I visited I recall how confused I was with the differences in pecans. Wasn't there just a good pecan?
Each variety has a distinct taste and chew. Luckily, you can take a sample, crack it, and try it for the kind of taste sensation you prefer. Some of the kinds I recall from my last visit were Stuart, Cape Fear, Desirable, Forkert, and Excel. Every year a new type appears. If you can go to a grove in your area, choosing your favorite pecan taste is an education in itself.
Just as most everything else in the food world, Indians ate pecans. The word is Algonquin meaning " hard to crack, needing a stone to open" Maybe those early ones were hard to crack, but today, some, like the paper-shell type, can be cracked in the hand. I think of the hickory nuts Mother loved. She used a hammer, put the nut on the sidewalk or a large stone, and hit several times. The result was a constant picking out of the meat which didn't want to give up its warm bed. Too much work for the rest of the family who stuck with pecans.
We've always ordered pecans in the shell and had them cracked there at the store. There's such pleasure to sit in front of the television set with a bowl of cracked pecans in your lap, picking off the shell. The act of working for the meat is satisfying. You're not eating them too fast, tasting slowly with delight. Not the same satisfaction as reaching for a handful of shelled meats sitting ready in its tin. Try it.
One occasion we sent cousins in Virginia 10 lbs of pecans, cracked. When they received the package they were horrified that the package had been through some melee to have broken the pecans. They almost complained to UPS before they called to verify the condition.
We in the South say pee Kahn', not Pee' kans. Check the dictionary.
Tuesday, October 08, 2013
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Where Are the Writers?
I recently attended a local writing group. We met in a loud, crowded cafe at a table in the middle of incessant conversations and eating. Two of us wear hearing aids and the sun pouring through the windows blinded those of us facing them. Finally I saw the attendees and heard them speak after the lunch crowd had dispersed.
No order nor business was conducted. This was a "casual" meeting of writers. So what did I learn at that first meeting? One writer was working on a screenplay. He got to tell us where he got the notion to do so and that was his one minute of attention. A late comer H, an excited new writer joined us wearing the joy and excitement of having put together something of which he was proud. I glanced through his picture book with prose adjacent and knew he needed work to put depth into his prose, but on the whole he needed support. "Anyone, please look at this and tell me if I'm on the right track." No one took up the mantle of support. One visitor, who says he's an intellect without a Harvard education, isn't a writer. He calls himself a physicist who likes to tell everyone about his favorite subject. I call him a "tag-along." He gave a critique for the visitor that was out of the ballpark. In the first place, he didn't know what he was saying. Second, he kept trying to tell the newbie how to write it the way that was already written.
I left shortly thereafter, thinking an hour with this group wanting to stay connected with each other wasn't doing much in the surrounding din . I took away the plea of newbie, "Help me." Unfortunately, I left without his contact address. His cry is the same for many who need help with their writing. A writing group should have time to give help to the new writer who lives in his own small world and wants to expand. But how? Where?
So many people are writing nowadays who'll never get their work published on the mass market. They'll write and behave like they will, but everyone except themselves won't see the shallowness of their work as others do. Someone once proclaimed "Everyone can write." That isn't a blanket that covers you with ideas and thoughts you hammer out on the computer or with the stub of a pencil. Everyone can write but not without guidance. We need a writing group to help fledgling writers.
Everyone can write their stories for their loved ones. You simply begin to put your thoughts on paper. Even if you don't know the fine points of a good story, you allow your mind to open to experiences and stories locked in your head. Writing by hand, on typewriters or computers, anyone can write remembrances. No mass marketing, no hard copies, they produce nothing more than typed papers connected with a paper clip. These are the writers who'll achieve success in small ways because they have reachable goals.
That's my job nowadays. I push adults in a free library series to probe their memories and write sentences, paragraphs, or pages about their growing up. I insist they are writing the past for the future generations. I believe what I'm saying, and the teaching of such subject reinforces my belief. I've had wonderful stories come from numerous adults who are writing about their first loves, early childhood, marriage, divorce, parental relationship, career choices, war time and other eras of history. The group remembers the polio shots (as one participant wrote), first toy they ever owned, first time to eat margarine, ration books of WWII, first car they bought, and so on. There is no limit to what memory dictates as stories.
Somewhere near their writing space I've asked my students to print this sign and read it daily:
No order nor business was conducted. This was a "casual" meeting of writers. So what did I learn at that first meeting? One writer was working on a screenplay. He got to tell us where he got the notion to do so and that was his one minute of attention. A late comer H, an excited new writer joined us wearing the joy and excitement of having put together something of which he was proud. I glanced through his picture book with prose adjacent and knew he needed work to put depth into his prose, but on the whole he needed support. "Anyone, please look at this and tell me if I'm on the right track." No one took up the mantle of support. One visitor, who says he's an intellect without a Harvard education, isn't a writer. He calls himself a physicist who likes to tell everyone about his favorite subject. I call him a "tag-along." He gave a critique for the visitor that was out of the ballpark. In the first place, he didn't know what he was saying. Second, he kept trying to tell the newbie how to write it the way that was already written.
I left shortly thereafter, thinking an hour with this group wanting to stay connected with each other wasn't doing much in the surrounding din . I took away the plea of newbie, "Help me." Unfortunately, I left without his contact address. His cry is the same for many who need help with their writing. A writing group should have time to give help to the new writer who lives in his own small world and wants to expand. But how? Where?
So many people are writing nowadays who'll never get their work published on the mass market. They'll write and behave like they will, but everyone except themselves won't see the shallowness of their work as others do. Someone once proclaimed "Everyone can write." That isn't a blanket that covers you with ideas and thoughts you hammer out on the computer or with the stub of a pencil. Everyone can write but not without guidance. We need a writing group to help fledgling writers.
Everyone can write their stories for their loved ones. You simply begin to put your thoughts on paper. Even if you don't know the fine points of a good story, you allow your mind to open to experiences and stories locked in your head. Writing by hand, on typewriters or computers, anyone can write remembrances. No mass marketing, no hard copies, they produce nothing more than typed papers connected with a paper clip. These are the writers who'll achieve success in small ways because they have reachable goals.
That's my job nowadays. I push adults in a free library series to probe their memories and write sentences, paragraphs, or pages about their growing up. I insist they are writing the past for the future generations. I believe what I'm saying, and the teaching of such subject reinforces my belief. I've had wonderful stories come from numerous adults who are writing about their first loves, early childhood, marriage, divorce, parental relationship, career choices, war time and other eras of history. The group remembers the polio shots (as one participant wrote), first toy they ever owned, first time to eat margarine, ration books of WWII, first car they bought, and so on. There is no limit to what memory dictates as stories.
Somewhere near their writing space I've asked my students to print this sign and read it daily:
I AM A WRITER
I NEVER TURN IDEAS OFF AND ON
MY MIND IS ALWAYS BUSY
Thursday, August 22, 2013
A Cause for Celebration
Two dear friends recently married. I was as happy as a mother could be, as I knew they had wished for this for years. They are F and B. Together for over 20 years, this duo happily has lived and traveled with all the spirit of happiness.
We met these two when I was working summers in my son's business, Kudzu. They had stopped on their way to their Pennsylvania summer home from busy Staten Island for a look-see at the old redecorated gas station sitting on the side of the road just outside Barryville, NY. After introductions and a quick chat on a lazy Saturday, they stepped out to their rental car to continue their journey. However, unknowingly, the automatic doors locked. B had left the keys in the ignition. What to do in a teeny town with no locksmith around? Call the local gas station. This particular one did everything and had the knowledge of breaking into cars like the police. However, it took four hours. In that time of waiting F, B, my husband R, and I learned a lot about each other. Two southerners talking with two New Yorkers produced some stimulated conversation. We became fast friends.
We spent breakfasts together, dined together, saw this couple throughout the summer. Returning home to Mississippi, we kept a steady correspondence with pictures, F sharing his trips with us. F is above 80 years of age and looks 60. He has a special formula he's created for a breakfast that he emphasizes giving him the strength and youth. We enjoy his tales of travels to the ends of the earth, his multitude photos shot in exotic places, and the fact he's enjoying life to the fullest. B, the silent one, is the steady rock who cares for F like a dear husband should.
Congratulations, F and B. We love you and wish now you can find that freedom of living publically as a married couple.
We met these two when I was working summers in my son's business, Kudzu. They had stopped on their way to their Pennsylvania summer home from busy Staten Island for a look-see at the old redecorated gas station sitting on the side of the road just outside Barryville, NY. After introductions and a quick chat on a lazy Saturday, they stepped out to their rental car to continue their journey. However, unknowingly, the automatic doors locked. B had left the keys in the ignition. What to do in a teeny town with no locksmith around? Call the local gas station. This particular one did everything and had the knowledge of breaking into cars like the police. However, it took four hours. In that time of waiting F, B, my husband R, and I learned a lot about each other. Two southerners talking with two New Yorkers produced some stimulated conversation. We became fast friends.
We spent breakfasts together, dined together, saw this couple throughout the summer. Returning home to Mississippi, we kept a steady correspondence with pictures, F sharing his trips with us. F is above 80 years of age and looks 60. He has a special formula he's created for a breakfast that he emphasizes giving him the strength and youth. We enjoy his tales of travels to the ends of the earth, his multitude photos shot in exotic places, and the fact he's enjoying life to the fullest. B, the silent one, is the steady rock who cares for F like a dear husband should.
Congratulations, F and B. We love you and wish now you can find that freedom of living publically as a married couple.
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Persistent Telephone Calls
Despite our having ID on our phone, most times we are in the habit of picking up on the first ring. As a result we get caught with a beggar on the other end. How often we've discussed how to handle these persistent callers. Some friends say they don't give the caller much time to identify himself, then hang up; another said she'd heard to blow a whistle into the receiver would stop that caller; someone else said he picks up the phone and if there's a second of silence, he hangs up. I have tried and used the last suggestion. But after much thought about those calls from organizations I know are worthy, I've adopted this remark:
"Now who are you calling for? Oh. You know, this is a difficult year for us and we can't contribute as we should. Thank you for calling." Guess it's the southern hospitality that creeps into my voice that I can't use the second of my expressions: "You know, you've called just too many times and I've told you to take my name off your political list.DON"T CALL HERE AGAIN!" I feel good with that last remark.
Once a politico called asking to support some man running for senator. I asked, "Where is he from?" The state was Ohio. "Now, do you suppose I want to support a man I don't know with my hard-earned money? You must be kidding." Caller paused and said, "I guess you're right about that" and hung up. I have to argue sometimes with the sense of a request.
After the conversation I visualize the caller and remind myself they are trying to supplement their earnings to pay a bill, buy books for school, add to the grocery money desperately needed. For a few minutes I am ashamed. But that thought disapates in a few minutes. That caller should know that no one likes a call asking for money.
I make up for contributions to the fallen policemen, the veterans, the Southwestern Indian tribe, the light bulb company, the crippled children's hospital, the political groups and all others who represent large bodies. I look around and find someone locally I can help, like the young woman whose pay goes to defray a bail for her son, the woman who struggles to keep alive a school to teach children to obey the laws of man and God, offer a loan to someone needing ready cash to pay on a medical bill, or clean out my closets to provide a girls' group with needed clothing.
That kind of contribution is satisfying because I know where the goods are destined.
"Now who are you calling for? Oh. You know, this is a difficult year for us and we can't contribute as we should. Thank you for calling." Guess it's the southern hospitality that creeps into my voice that I can't use the second of my expressions: "You know, you've called just too many times and I've told you to take my name off your political list.DON"T CALL HERE AGAIN!" I feel good with that last remark.
Once a politico called asking to support some man running for senator. I asked, "Where is he from?" The state was Ohio. "Now, do you suppose I want to support a man I don't know with my hard-earned money? You must be kidding." Caller paused and said, "I guess you're right about that" and hung up. I have to argue sometimes with the sense of a request.
After the conversation I visualize the caller and remind myself they are trying to supplement their earnings to pay a bill, buy books for school, add to the grocery money desperately needed. For a few minutes I am ashamed. But that thought disapates in a few minutes. That caller should know that no one likes a call asking for money.
I make up for contributions to the fallen policemen, the veterans, the Southwestern Indian tribe, the light bulb company, the crippled children's hospital, the political groups and all others who represent large bodies. I look around and find someone locally I can help, like the young woman whose pay goes to defray a bail for her son, the woman who struggles to keep alive a school to teach children to obey the laws of man and God, offer a loan to someone needing ready cash to pay on a medical bill, or clean out my closets to provide a girls' group with needed clothing.
That kind of contribution is satisfying because I know where the goods are destined.
Saturday, June 22, 2013
LIfe Changes
I used to wonder, when my parents were in their eighties, why they wanted to stay at home, not having the urge to shop, wander through the park, or walk the streets of our subdivision. Dad would sit in his favorite chair and watch sports on television for hours on end, sometimes falling asleep during the third quarter of a game.
Mother, who no longer could remember how to get from one room to another without getting lost, didn't watch television, but would nap all day long. Whenever I suggested to her to watch a favorite show, she'd reply, "I'm into interested in that anymore." Or she'd suggest "go riding." She didn't have to think or listen to anyone but me when I took her for a ride through the countryside. She'd ride to the ends of the earth without complaining, as long as she was moving without trying.
I was only 20 years younger than my parents, but still I couldn't understand their desire to do nothing.
Today I do. However, what is nothing to you is something to me.
I am now 20 years older, the same age as my mother. Luckily, I have a few sit-down hobbies I enjoy. But I don't look at television. Why? Because the speakers on the programs are talking too fast. Is this typical of us Southerners, that at an older age when we are so immersed with the slow language of the South,can't understand anyone from any other part of the country because they speak too fast for us to register the words?
I've become more fond of the bed for afternoon naps than any other time of my life. A short time in exercise, followed by running errands makes me tired. I flop down on the bed and have the best sleep of any withing 24 hours. Despite chasing ancestors,viewing a good movie on my Kindle, or reading the latest crime novel, I can be engaged all afternoon, but at 5 p.m. I notice I've missed my nap and fall into a stupor of two hours.
If it is true about napping extending one's life, I should hang around doing the same thing past my 100th. I've always said I hope to live to 140 because there are so many areas I want to cover. At the rate I'm going now with these naps, I can certainly count on additional years being added to my present age.
Mother, who no longer could remember how to get from one room to another without getting lost, didn't watch television, but would nap all day long. Whenever I suggested to her to watch a favorite show, she'd reply, "I'm into interested in that anymore." Or she'd suggest "go riding." She didn't have to think or listen to anyone but me when I took her for a ride through the countryside. She'd ride to the ends of the earth without complaining, as long as she was moving without trying.
I was only 20 years younger than my parents, but still I couldn't understand their desire to do nothing.
Today I do. However, what is nothing to you is something to me.
I am now 20 years older, the same age as my mother. Luckily, I have a few sit-down hobbies I enjoy. But I don't look at television. Why? Because the speakers on the programs are talking too fast. Is this typical of us Southerners, that at an older age when we are so immersed with the slow language of the South,can't understand anyone from any other part of the country because they speak too fast for us to register the words?
I've become more fond of the bed for afternoon naps than any other time of my life. A short time in exercise, followed by running errands makes me tired. I flop down on the bed and have the best sleep of any withing 24 hours. Despite chasing ancestors,viewing a good movie on my Kindle, or reading the latest crime novel, I can be engaged all afternoon, but at 5 p.m. I notice I've missed my nap and fall into a stupor of two hours.
If it is true about napping extending one's life, I should hang around doing the same thing past my 100th. I've always said I hope to live to 140 because there are so many areas I want to cover. At the rate I'm going now with these naps, I can certainly count on additional years being added to my present age.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
WRITING LIFE'S EXPERIENCES
I don't suggest everyone follow my lead and write their life's experiences, but when you think of the history that will be unknown by many of your family members generations to come, I wonder if you wouldn't get the fire started underneath you.
I'm teaching the second part of a two-part series of "Mining Your Memories --Writing Life's Experinces." It is a free course held once a month for four months and is divided into two parts: birth through elementary school and middle/junior high to young adulthood.
Because I am a self-starter, I have been writing various stories of happenings in my life thoughout the last 15 years. I realized early that some people need to be pushed. They need reason and a prod of their memory banks. I always thought of my brain as being like the post office boxes from the rear: series of slots where adventures, experences, important dates and such were slips of paper lying inside the slots. When the slots got full that part of the brain shut down until another slot opened up. In class I direct the adults to think by giving them situations or key words that put themselves into a time frame when they can remember a place and activity.
So with the support of a local library I set up free classes and have had good results.
For example, when we entered seventh grade, we signed Valentine cards with trite sayings we haven't used since that time: "Be mine to the end of time,""You are my sunshine." We began with everyone writing their own obituaries. Yes, I emphasized a good obituary is self-written and should be an historic account of themselves. In elementary school we drew a houseplan where we lived at that time. That alone prompted many stories from the class. One student called his "My House of Memories".
There are lots of books one can follow, but sometimes sitting and reading the hundreds of questions printed one after the other becomes daunting. We discuss the time period, putting ourselves into elementary. junior high and high schools by describing what the buildings looked, where one's classes were located, who the teachers were, favorite classes, etc. We remember polio shots, favorite music, how we dressed, the way guys wore their hair, and the like. Remembering is the best way to appreciate the past.
We are in a small way contributing to the mass history of the 1930s through the 1970s. You may not ever read these accounts, but hundreds of family members will.
I felt comfortable about starting this class and sure enough in the middle of an hour someone will speak up and say, "I can't believe I can remember this." I hand out personal essays of friends who've captured that time and period, thus giving the class an opening that allows them to remember.
This is fun for me and for them. At the same time at home I'm typing as fast as possible to write the same assignment. From the accounts we write we'll find nuggets of stories we can expand on and create funny incidents to captivate their grandchildren, neices, and nephews. Learning to tell the story is just as important as writing them.
Eventually a small group will continue to write and our goal is to see that everyone prints up his own life's stories in a manner they can distribute and leave as a legacy.
I'm teaching the second part of a two-part series of "Mining Your Memories --Writing Life's Experinces." It is a free course held once a month for four months and is divided into two parts: birth through elementary school and middle/junior high to young adulthood.
Because I am a self-starter, I have been writing various stories of happenings in my life thoughout the last 15 years. I realized early that some people need to be pushed. They need reason and a prod of their memory banks. I always thought of my brain as being like the post office boxes from the rear: series of slots where adventures, experences, important dates and such were slips of paper lying inside the slots. When the slots got full that part of the brain shut down until another slot opened up. In class I direct the adults to think by giving them situations or key words that put themselves into a time frame when they can remember a place and activity.
So with the support of a local library I set up free classes and have had good results.
For example, when we entered seventh grade, we signed Valentine cards with trite sayings we haven't used since that time: "Be mine to the end of time,""You are my sunshine." We began with everyone writing their own obituaries. Yes, I emphasized a good obituary is self-written and should be an historic account of themselves. In elementary school we drew a houseplan where we lived at that time. That alone prompted many stories from the class. One student called his "My House of Memories".
There are lots of books one can follow, but sometimes sitting and reading the hundreds of questions printed one after the other becomes daunting. We discuss the time period, putting ourselves into elementary. junior high and high schools by describing what the buildings looked, where one's classes were located, who the teachers were, favorite classes, etc. We remember polio shots, favorite music, how we dressed, the way guys wore their hair, and the like. Remembering is the best way to appreciate the past.
We are in a small way contributing to the mass history of the 1930s through the 1970s. You may not ever read these accounts, but hundreds of family members will.
I felt comfortable about starting this class and sure enough in the middle of an hour someone will speak up and say, "I can't believe I can remember this." I hand out personal essays of friends who've captured that time and period, thus giving the class an opening that allows them to remember.
This is fun for me and for them. At the same time at home I'm typing as fast as possible to write the same assignment. From the accounts we write we'll find nuggets of stories we can expand on and create funny incidents to captivate their grandchildren, neices, and nephews. Learning to tell the story is just as important as writing them.
Eventually a small group will continue to write and our goal is to see that everyone prints up his own life's stories in a manner they can distribute and leave as a legacy.
EATING A BEST SELLER
I'm on a new diet. It's diet or nearly die. Nearly die means weeks and weeks of honest-to-goodness illness that is Not death-defying, but it feels like it. Part of my new diet is the ugly concoction at left. Can you guess what it is? I have it three times a week. Egg whites with either cheese or turkey sausage and added Spirulina, the green ugly stuff.
Dr. Seuss must have been eating spirulina when he wrote the successful Green Eggs and Ham. Since this has been added to my diet I have discovered that the book is listed as No. 1 on the Book List of Wall St. Journal.
The above illustrates how the egg begins in the skillet. When it is cooked it looks a bit better:
I must admit I closed my eyes eating this the first time, but as each breakfast arrived, I found myself adjusting to reading the newspaper and looking only occasionally to be sure my fork had a good helping attached. I couldn't complete the Seuss meal with ham, since that is off my list of OK Foods. And ham has always been my favorite.
Feeling the need to quote part of Dr. Seuss' famous poem, I have to resist due to restrictions. But for all of you who read it to your child or had it read to you, you know he made the dish sound delish!
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Following Health Rules
As a retiree I have time to read a lot of online news. One of my favorites is one by Dr. Andrew Weill. Perhaps its because if I follow his advice, I'll live to my goal of 140 years old. Of course, I know I can't do that, but by putting the age at the impossible, I always have that optimism I need to carry on.
However, in this quest to live a long time in decent health, I'm committing a terrible body sin: sitting too much. With little interest nowadays in shopping (if I do, it's online), more interest in reading and exploring subjects on the Internet, completing a family tree, writing family stories -- you got it. I sit down a lot, a whole lot. And Dr. Weill says that's not good for the aging body.
I change a bit. I get up and walk around, sip water, check the weather out doors, and return to my book or computer. Another four hours and I do the same. Mind you, I sit up straight so there's no stress on my back. But how can I find an activity to limit my seating? I feel pressed for time to complete all that I want, despite the 140 time limit. I could go tomorrow, this afternoon, next week. Then all my diligent work will remain incomplete. And that's where I get anxious.
My neighbor down the street would love for me to visit her often. Secretly I'd count the hours I'd was separated from my writing. I procrastinate to push myself to grocery shop. I don't want to leave the house. Have I become agoraphobic? Not really. There's no fear of the outside. In fact, once I'm out I truly enjoy having made the decision, but not when I'm searching for avocados.
Don't get me wrong. I do go to exercise classes three times weekly, but exercise at home? My mind's elsewhere.
Frankly, I don't think I'll change. The clock is ticking. Let's face it, I'll be good for 90 years, but don't tell me I have only 10 to go.
However, in this quest to live a long time in decent health, I'm committing a terrible body sin: sitting too much. With little interest nowadays in shopping (if I do, it's online), more interest in reading and exploring subjects on the Internet, completing a family tree, writing family stories -- you got it. I sit down a lot, a whole lot. And Dr. Weill says that's not good for the aging body.
I change a bit. I get up and walk around, sip water, check the weather out doors, and return to my book or computer. Another four hours and I do the same. Mind you, I sit up straight so there's no stress on my back. But how can I find an activity to limit my seating? I feel pressed for time to complete all that I want, despite the 140 time limit. I could go tomorrow, this afternoon, next week. Then all my diligent work will remain incomplete. And that's where I get anxious.
My neighbor down the street would love for me to visit her often. Secretly I'd count the hours I'd was separated from my writing. I procrastinate to push myself to grocery shop. I don't want to leave the house. Have I become agoraphobic? Not really. There's no fear of the outside. In fact, once I'm out I truly enjoy having made the decision, but not when I'm searching for avocados.
Don't get me wrong. I do go to exercise classes three times weekly, but exercise at home? My mind's elsewhere.
Frankly, I don't think I'll change. The clock is ticking. Let's face it, I'll be good for 90 years, but don't tell me I have only 10 to go.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Sunday Breakfast
Where some folks have pancakes or waffles for breakfast, my favorite, as consumed this morning, is biscuits drowning in syrup. Ahh, that sweetness, that additive of iron to my system!
Biscuits are sometimes home made with a biscuit mix. Who wants to take time to make from scratch? However,the frozen kind allows you to take out as many as you wish and pop them in the oven.
Handed down from my mother's family, I've enjoyed syrup with a spoonful of one added ingredient. Anyone with a Southern rural background has probably had this combination: adding sour cream to the dish of syrup, mix well to where it is a milky brown, drop in a biscuit, dip, or pour the mixture over an open biscuit and you have a delicious way to enjoy your breakfast. The sour cream gives a smooth taste and cuts down on the sweetness. Add bacon or ham and nothing tops that.
Monday, December 10, 2012
MIning Your Memories
I began a free class in writing family stories back in September at the local library. The last meeting is Thursday, December 13. Like the teacher I once was, I've given class exercises and homework to 14 adults.
As examples of experiences, I used my own writings, far from being the kind that sells at Barnes & Noble, but my own exploration into my family life. This was done so the participants could see that getting the words onto paper were most important first of all. No editing at this time. We talked about the time from birth through elementary school. By handing out dozens of questions to prick their memories, I've led them through a process of exploration. And I've been surprised how much the participants remember about their early school life. Perhaps it's because they are much younger and still have their memories available.
Once I was told to think of our brains as arranged with "shelves" stacked on top of each other as in a post office. As we experience life the "notes" of memory fit into the shelves. As one ages, the shelves get stuffed and the earlier notes get pushed so far back a person has trouble finding that one experience. Of course, that's not true, but I use that in my thinking about how we shove some memories aside and it takes constant weeding to find some small incident we want to write about.
The reactions from participants has been pleasing. From drawing the floor plan of an early home to mapping or to writing an obituary, the challenges have been enjoyable. A wonderful group meeting for one and a half hours has created the incentive to write now.
Imagine in the 30th century a kid fumbling though a box in the attic picks up a notebook titled "Family Stories". He thumbs through the pages yellowing with age and begins to read. He carries the notebook downstairs and settles into a comfortable chair and flips the pages. Mother walks in and says, "What's that you're reading, Son?" and he replies, "Stories written by somebody named Vivian Newkirk. Who's she?" and his mother says, "Oh, you found those wonderful stories written by your fourth great-grandmother! She lived back in the 21st century. There's a lot to learn about the past, Son, in those pages."
As examples of experiences, I used my own writings, far from being the kind that sells at Barnes & Noble, but my own exploration into my family life. This was done so the participants could see that getting the words onto paper were most important first of all. No editing at this time. We talked about the time from birth through elementary school. By handing out dozens of questions to prick their memories, I've led them through a process of exploration. And I've been surprised how much the participants remember about their early school life. Perhaps it's because they are much younger and still have their memories available.
Once I was told to think of our brains as arranged with "shelves" stacked on top of each other as in a post office. As we experience life the "notes" of memory fit into the shelves. As one ages, the shelves get stuffed and the earlier notes get pushed so far back a person has trouble finding that one experience. Of course, that's not true, but I use that in my thinking about how we shove some memories aside and it takes constant weeding to find some small incident we want to write about.
The reactions from participants has been pleasing. From drawing the floor plan of an early home to mapping or to writing an obituary, the challenges have been enjoyable. A wonderful group meeting for one and a half hours has created the incentive to write now.
Imagine in the 30th century a kid fumbling though a box in the attic picks up a notebook titled "Family Stories". He thumbs through the pages yellowing with age and begins to read. He carries the notebook downstairs and settles into a comfortable chair and flips the pages. Mother walks in and says, "What's that you're reading, Son?" and he replies, "Stories written by somebody named Vivian Newkirk. Who's she?" and his mother says, "Oh, you found those wonderful stories written by your fourth great-grandmother! She lived back in the 21st century. There's a lot to learn about the past, Son, in those pages."
Cooking Frenzy
At this time of the year I feel more compelled to prepare something holiday-ish. The drawback is I show off my poor cooking skills. I've never been one to openly brag about the lack thereof. The older I've become, the less embarassed I am to admit that fault. However, I've found more ladies who can whip up anything delectable at a moment's notice.A skill Mother did with ease.
One afternoon as an adult standing in Mother's kitchen I asked her why her cooking skills didn't wiggle into my DNA? I didn't ask why she never took the time to teach Sis and me, as I knew she worked very hard at her job as manager of Merrill, Lynch, Pierce in Jackson, MS. But I thought the question, hoping she'd admit the reason.
Surely enough, she blamed herself and expounded, "I had to begin helping in the kitchen at age five, taking out buckets of lunch to my older brothers in the field and my reward was teasing. I hated that job. I can still remember having to stand on a stool to stir the pots at the wood stove, setting the table, then having to wash all those dishes. You know, we fed the farm hands as well as our family. I vowed sometime in those early years that I'd never put a daughter of mine through the experience." No one ever told this rural kid cooking would be one talent all young women should possess.
My family ran by clockwork. Mother was up in the mornings before us, preparing our breakfast; Daddy bathed and dressed; Sis and I dressed and made up our beds; we ate. Then Sis and I cleaned off the table and Daddy washed the dishes while Sis and I took turns drying while Mother dressed. Where was there time to teach us?
I wish I had the technique to make sweet muffins at the drop of a hat. I recall that when one of us heard a car pushing up our hilly driveway, Dad would say, "Mother, get the oven going, looks like some hungry folks are coming and they'll want your muffins." And quickly Mother would have sturreded up the batter, filled the muffin cups and shoved them in the over just as the doorbell rang. I can't make muffins.
I"ve collected muffin recipes and tried to replicate Mother's plain muffins to no avail. I can make candy. Pralines are my specialty. Only during the December holidays do I ever make pralines. I have a never-fail recipe I found lodged in Mother's cookbook, its tattered yellow sheet smudged with butter, its words written in pencil about to fade. She made divinity, fudge, fruitcake, and pies galore. I make pralines, period. My pralines are chunks of pecans coated with cooked sugar. If you want to make Pralines yourself, try my recipe. Takes less than 30 minutes on the stove.
MIX 1 1/2 c white sugar, or a bit less
3/4 c brown sugar packed
1/2 c condensed milk
Cook over heat until boiling and test for a hard core after a drop falls into a clear dish of water.
Drop in 3/4 st butter
Real vanilla to your taste, maybe 1 tsp (Ok, if you have vanilla extract, that'll do)
Add 1 1/2 c broken pecans
Stir swiftly to allow air to cool the mixture, when a sheen appears, begin dropping spoons full on oiled wax paper. Cool for 10 minutes and enjoy.
The fudge I leave to R who cooks less than I do. He relishes making cocoa fudge by his recipe he developed when we lived in the little house everyone called "The Doll House." Five rooms with a galley kitchen, hot as Hades in summer, cold in spots during the winter. We probably made more fudge during that time than any other time in our lives.
Now we eat less sugar. How can you make pralines and fudge without sugar? You know the temptation, "Just one small piece and I won't eat another one until next year." It doesn't work that way. For several years R didn't make fudge unless someone complimented him and ask for a platter for themselves. I got to lick the pan only, which was more enjoyable anyway.
What do I cook during the holidays? Besides pralines, there's ambrosia, and chocolate pudding (which is supposed to be chocolate pie but something always happens so we eat it with a spoon). No matter what main dish I make, something fails to taste or look right. The rice needs more water, the dressing is too liquidy, the roast has no flavor.
I can't win for losing. Every time.
MERRY CHRISTMAS HAPPY HOLLIDAYS HAPPY COOKING/EATING
One afternoon as an adult standing in Mother's kitchen I asked her why her cooking skills didn't wiggle into my DNA? I didn't ask why she never took the time to teach Sis and me, as I knew she worked very hard at her job as manager of Merrill, Lynch, Pierce in Jackson, MS. But I thought the question, hoping she'd admit the reason.
Surely enough, she blamed herself and expounded, "I had to begin helping in the kitchen at age five, taking out buckets of lunch to my older brothers in the field and my reward was teasing. I hated that job. I can still remember having to stand on a stool to stir the pots at the wood stove, setting the table, then having to wash all those dishes. You know, we fed the farm hands as well as our family. I vowed sometime in those early years that I'd never put a daughter of mine through the experience." No one ever told this rural kid cooking would be one talent all young women should possess.
My family ran by clockwork. Mother was up in the mornings before us, preparing our breakfast; Daddy bathed and dressed; Sis and I dressed and made up our beds; we ate. Then Sis and I cleaned off the table and Daddy washed the dishes while Sis and I took turns drying while Mother dressed. Where was there time to teach us?
I wish I had the technique to make sweet muffins at the drop of a hat. I recall that when one of us heard a car pushing up our hilly driveway, Dad would say, "Mother, get the oven going, looks like some hungry folks are coming and they'll want your muffins." And quickly Mother would have sturreded up the batter, filled the muffin cups and shoved them in the over just as the doorbell rang. I can't make muffins.
I"ve collected muffin recipes and tried to replicate Mother's plain muffins to no avail. I can make candy. Pralines are my specialty. Only during the December holidays do I ever make pralines. I have a never-fail recipe I found lodged in Mother's cookbook, its tattered yellow sheet smudged with butter, its words written in pencil about to fade. She made divinity, fudge, fruitcake, and pies galore. I make pralines, period. My pralines are chunks of pecans coated with cooked sugar. If you want to make Pralines yourself, try my recipe. Takes less than 30 minutes on the stove.
MIX 1 1/2 c white sugar, or a bit less
3/4 c brown sugar packed
1/2 c condensed milk
Cook over heat until boiling and test for a hard core after a drop falls into a clear dish of water.
Drop in 3/4 st butter
Real vanilla to your taste, maybe 1 tsp (Ok, if you have vanilla extract, that'll do)
Add 1 1/2 c broken pecans
Stir swiftly to allow air to cool the mixture, when a sheen appears, begin dropping spoons full on oiled wax paper. Cool for 10 minutes and enjoy.
The fudge I leave to R who cooks less than I do. He relishes making cocoa fudge by his recipe he developed when we lived in the little house everyone called "The Doll House." Five rooms with a galley kitchen, hot as Hades in summer, cold in spots during the winter. We probably made more fudge during that time than any other time in our lives.
Now we eat less sugar. How can you make pralines and fudge without sugar? You know the temptation, "Just one small piece and I won't eat another one until next year." It doesn't work that way. For several years R didn't make fudge unless someone complimented him and ask for a platter for themselves. I got to lick the pan only, which was more enjoyable anyway.
What do I cook during the holidays? Besides pralines, there's ambrosia, and chocolate pudding (which is supposed to be chocolate pie but something always happens so we eat it with a spoon). No matter what main dish I make, something fails to taste or look right. The rice needs more water, the dressing is too liquidy, the roast has no flavor.
I can't win for losing. Every time.
MERRY CHRISTMAS HAPPY HOLLIDAYS HAPPY COOKING/EATING
Friday, November 02, 2012
Meeting Mr. Smith, Part 3
Mr. Smith sits in my class as I guide him and another 16 participants down memory lane. The course is "Mining Your Memories -- Writing Family Stories." Although I am still checking his earlier writings, Mr. Smith is anxious to record his life experiences. He is one of three men in the class, all having written something pertaining to their life's experiences.
In class, consisting of four one and one-half hours the second Thursday at a library, I give keys to finding the path to remembering what is on the bottom shelf of their minds. I was told once to imagine the mind being like a group of stacked shelves, with the bottom ones filled with early experiences and as we live, each line of shelves filling with remembrances of our sadness and gladness. The class is working with material from the bottom shelves.
So far I've read Mr. Smith's greeting cards and some poetry. He knows how to express Godly love, compassion, and thoughtfulness in his words. All are typed on a manual machine; I recognize the imprint. I can imagine him punching the keys as many early writers have done on their non-electric Royals and Smith-Coronas.. He carefully places each line on the page as though he is planting a small flower. He capitalizes where I wouldn't expect, but my remarking that he shouldn't is again taking away his creativity. I have to be careful to understand what is emphasized.
Here is a partial quote from one of his writings, entitled "Live Inside of Creation".
"Look at the Whole of what's going on
And learn to receive the life of its
Being. Move into the inside of what's seen,
And understand what's there to help us.
Be open to Who we are."
This is from a book entitled The Breath of God. Beautiful, isn't it? As I wrote earlier, he is 71 years old and is an ordained minister. Whether or not one believes in a Holy Being, his words resonate with truth.
I'm anxious to read his biography. Like many from the South, he moved to Chicago to live and eventually returned to the state and married. He is pleased with what he has done to help others in his life's work with alcoholics, and especially proud of his family. Knowing him enriches my being.
His work is an every-day enjoyment. He splashes the oils onto his plywood canvases as though he has no care in the world. In the woods near his home he's found twisted vines growing around tree limbs. He hacks them into walking sticks and sculptured pieces and paints them glowing colors.
Even if he doesn't see people and flowers as you do, his paintings are as one of my friends says, " . . . are quite different from each other and seen together in a group, they compliment each other without being the same painting over and over." That's Mr. Smith's gift to the world.
In class, consisting of four one and one-half hours the second Thursday at a library, I give keys to finding the path to remembering what is on the bottom shelf of their minds. I was told once to imagine the mind being like a group of stacked shelves, with the bottom ones filled with early experiences and as we live, each line of shelves filling with remembrances of our sadness and gladness. The class is working with material from the bottom shelves.
So far I've read Mr. Smith's greeting cards and some poetry. He knows how to express Godly love, compassion, and thoughtfulness in his words. All are typed on a manual machine; I recognize the imprint. I can imagine him punching the keys as many early writers have done on their non-electric Royals and Smith-Coronas.. He carefully places each line on the page as though he is planting a small flower. He capitalizes where I wouldn't expect, but my remarking that he shouldn't is again taking away his creativity. I have to be careful to understand what is emphasized.
Here is a partial quote from one of his writings, entitled "Live Inside of Creation".
"Look at the Whole of what's going on
And learn to receive the life of its
Being. Move into the inside of what's seen,
And understand what's there to help us.
Be open to Who we are."
This is from a book entitled The Breath of God. Beautiful, isn't it? As I wrote earlier, he is 71 years old and is an ordained minister. Whether or not one believes in a Holy Being, his words resonate with truth.
I'm anxious to read his biography. Like many from the South, he moved to Chicago to live and eventually returned to the state and married. He is pleased with what he has done to help others in his life's work with alcoholics, and especially proud of his family. Knowing him enriches my being.
His work is an every-day enjoyment. He splashes the oils onto his plywood canvases as though he has no care in the world. In the woods near his home he's found twisted vines growing around tree limbs. He hacks them into walking sticks and sculptured pieces and paints them glowing colors.
Even if he doesn't see people and flowers as you do, his paintings are as one of my friends says, " . . . are quite different from each other and seen together in a group, they compliment each other without being the same painting over and over." That's Mr. Smith's gift to the world.
Sunday, September 02, 2012
The Big 8-O
I thought my birthday would pass like a gentle breeze on a spring day. Not so. The date reached the headlines along with the day before and continued through the day after. My day roared through like a storm, a storm named Issac. My birthday was August 30 and Issac paid thousands a visit a day earlier and continued spinning in place as it roared like the lion from MGM movie reels.
No matter how many times we prepare for tornadoes and hurricanes we are rarely ready to meet the torment head on. Neither do I expect to meet my birthday head on. This year I wanted to wake up, read the cards and answer the phone calls from my favorite friends and family, have a quiet breakfast and examine myself closely in the mirror to assess myself. That lasted less than an hour since waking up.
At 7 a.m. son J called to say we had to celebrate my birthday in a festive way, "How about lunch?" I didn't want to get dressed, go rushing into a possible rainstorm and celebrate when so many thousands of folks were struggling elswhere to make sense of loss. Seemed like an anachronism. But R and I met J and his family and mother-in-law for a delightful lunch.
There remained the rest of the afternoon to ponder over my age and what I would accomplish in the coming year. Sometime ago I'd set a goal of living to be 140 years old, not because I would accomplish that, but to force myself to be optimistic to accomplish small, selfish goals I've set for myself and enjoy the days and nights left in my small world.
Instead, I ended up remembering seven years ago when R and I were cloistered in an elementary school in Pennsylvania because a flooding Delaware River.We couldn't cross any one of the four bridges to reach Barryville, NY where we were living for the summer. This was August 30, the day after Katrina had destroyed the Gulf Coast, news we hadn't heard about until we stopped at the school. Our car was loaded to its roof with cat and her house plus our clothes from visiting our daughter for 10 days in Maine, andfour bags of groceries. We asked the cafeteria workers if we could store our cold items in the school's fridges, to which they kindly consented.
We sat for six hours with nothing more to do than talk with each other and those around us waiting for a signal that bridges were clear, while a driving rain pounded outside. We napped on old Army cots that must have broken the backs of many a WWII soldier from use and covered ourselves with rough wool blankets smelling like the mustiness of a closed up basement. We were experiencing what thousands were at the same time, under different conditions. We were amid 100 people who were fed snacks and juices from the school's storehouse by the friendliest cafeteria workers who came out of the comfort of their homes to help us. By 3:00 a.m. we were told we could leave. Our time there had been decent, nothing like we read about later in other places. I passed my birthday exhausted from the long hours of nothing to do, not by being soaking wet and hungry. How fortunate we were.
I consider this August 30 as my 8-0 birthday. That sounds younger, don't you think?
No matter how many times we prepare for tornadoes and hurricanes we are rarely ready to meet the torment head on. Neither do I expect to meet my birthday head on. This year I wanted to wake up, read the cards and answer the phone calls from my favorite friends and family, have a quiet breakfast and examine myself closely in the mirror to assess myself. That lasted less than an hour since waking up.
At 7 a.m. son J called to say we had to celebrate my birthday in a festive way, "How about lunch?" I didn't want to get dressed, go rushing into a possible rainstorm and celebrate when so many thousands of folks were struggling elswhere to make sense of loss. Seemed like an anachronism. But R and I met J and his family and mother-in-law for a delightful lunch.
There remained the rest of the afternoon to ponder over my age and what I would accomplish in the coming year. Sometime ago I'd set a goal of living to be 140 years old, not because I would accomplish that, but to force myself to be optimistic to accomplish small, selfish goals I've set for myself and enjoy the days and nights left in my small world.
Instead, I ended up remembering seven years ago when R and I were cloistered in an elementary school in Pennsylvania because a flooding Delaware River.We couldn't cross any one of the four bridges to reach Barryville, NY where we were living for the summer. This was August 30, the day after Katrina had destroyed the Gulf Coast, news we hadn't heard about until we stopped at the school. Our car was loaded to its roof with cat and her house plus our clothes from visiting our daughter for 10 days in Maine, andfour bags of groceries. We asked the cafeteria workers if we could store our cold items in the school's fridges, to which they kindly consented.
We sat for six hours with nothing more to do than talk with each other and those around us waiting for a signal that bridges were clear, while a driving rain pounded outside. We napped on old Army cots that must have broken the backs of many a WWII soldier from use and covered ourselves with rough wool blankets smelling like the mustiness of a closed up basement. We were experiencing what thousands were at the same time, under different conditions. We were amid 100 people who were fed snacks and juices from the school's storehouse by the friendliest cafeteria workers who came out of the comfort of their homes to help us. By 3:00 a.m. we were told we could leave. Our time there had been decent, nothing like we read about later in other places. I passed my birthday exhausted from the long hours of nothing to do, not by being soaking wet and hungry. How fortunate we were.
I consider this August 30 as my 8-0 birthday. That sounds younger, don't you think?
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Crazy Ideas Not So Crazy
During our travels R expressed the idea of having a mannequin couple sitting in our home, dressed, and appearing to read or watch television to give the impression we were at home when we would be in Maine or Michigan or north Mississippi. I thought his idea "crazy". However, when we visited a New Orleans eatery on Magazine Street, what should we see but a mannequin couple sitting in a show window eating! So there are many crazy ideas floating around concerning mannequins!
A recent example was printed in Sunday, August 19th issue of our local Clarion-Ledger. In the Family section is a story of a family who bought a mannequin. As the woman related, "Four years ago Larry wanted to know what I wanted for my birthday. I told him I wanted a mannequin for the dining room window." Sure enough, they found one on eBay. She stands in her latest fashions gleaned from second hand shops, and on holidays she is dressed appropriately. She has her own closet and a changing wardrobe of hair colors. She's been dressed as a pilgrim, a Saints cheerleader and has celebrated the key holidays in costume. What fun they must have!
Would R have dressed his couple more than once? I doubt it. But we have often found a use for a male mannequin: to sit in the back seat with a hat on to accompany daughter J on her trip west, to go with my sister and me to distant states, or just to be a "pal" to me when I'm driving around town. I can envision myself discussing ideas for essays, talking over problems, mulling suggestions for dinner (when I used to cook), or just "being there." And like a pet, there'd be no back talk. No back-seat driver. Ahh . . .
Since we didn't have a mannequin for J when she headed for Utah over 10 years ago, crossing the expanse of New Mexico, Dad did decide that she take a sweet potato, the kind that sort of looks like a gun, and put it in a holster. When she got out of the car for meals, she'd remove the potato to give the impression of anyone checking through the car's window, that she was totin'. Worked like a charm. She also put a hat above the back seat to make drivers behind her "think" she had a guy sleeping in the seat.
There's no way anyone can use sweet potatoes to mimic a couple playing Scrabble in the living room. I'd advise anyone needing "life" to appear in the home, buy a mannequin, dress it in comfortable clothes with a drink nearby and go!
A recent example was printed in Sunday, August 19th issue of our local Clarion-Ledger. In the Family section is a story of a family who bought a mannequin. As the woman related, "Four years ago Larry wanted to know what I wanted for my birthday. I told him I wanted a mannequin for the dining room window." Sure enough, they found one on eBay. She stands in her latest fashions gleaned from second hand shops, and on holidays she is dressed appropriately. She has her own closet and a changing wardrobe of hair colors. She's been dressed as a pilgrim, a Saints cheerleader and has celebrated the key holidays in costume. What fun they must have!
Would R have dressed his couple more than once? I doubt it. But we have often found a use for a male mannequin: to sit in the back seat with a hat on to accompany daughter J on her trip west, to go with my sister and me to distant states, or just to be a "pal" to me when I'm driving around town. I can envision myself discussing ideas for essays, talking over problems, mulling suggestions for dinner (when I used to cook), or just "being there." And like a pet, there'd be no back talk. No back-seat driver. Ahh . . .
Since we didn't have a mannequin for J when she headed for Utah over 10 years ago, crossing the expanse of New Mexico, Dad did decide that she take a sweet potato, the kind that sort of looks like a gun, and put it in a holster. When she got out of the car for meals, she'd remove the potato to give the impression of anyone checking through the car's window, that she was totin'. Worked like a charm. She also put a hat above the back seat to make drivers behind her "think" she had a guy sleeping in the seat.
There's no way anyone can use sweet potatoes to mimic a couple playing Scrabble in the living room. I'd advise anyone needing "life" to appear in the home, buy a mannequin, dress it in comfortable clothes with a drink nearby and go!
Meeting Mr. Smith Part 2
He and I meet the following Saturday. The crowd has thinned
a bit; perhaps due to waning days of summer. Mr. Charles Smith is his cheery
self, waving to me across the long
expanse of the building. I hesitate to stop and buy a dozen eggs beforehand. I
know our business is more important. Today I’ll see the drafts of Mr.
Smith’s book he’s aptly named Gems of Love.
We greet each other with a hug this time. We are already
friends. First I inquire if he has any new paintings on display and he points
to a group to the left of him. Sure enough, examples totally different from the
figures and objects I’d seen the week before. This group gives examples not
unlike those of Jackson Pollock. The kind everyone thinks s/he can accomplish
by throwing paint from a brush and watching it land somewhere on the canvas. A
mishmash of colors. Yes, I definitely can identify with the blues and greens I
see. Surprisingly, Mr. S shows me the difference between these and the ones a short distance from where we stand. Double paintings. Turn either side and voila! another painting. The one
I select as my favorite shows beautiful blues and greens; the other side reds.
Again these were in his self-crafted frames.
Sitting down again, he tells me about the latest having
been shown at an exhibit a month before at the Architecture School located on
Capitol Street in Jackson. He pushes a brochure into my hands. He then begins
to explain about other public displays he’s had.
Finally, he settles down to show me his drafts. He pulls out
one from a boxy bag sitting beside his chair. He opens a well-worn manila envelope
and pulls a thick sheaf of papers. Good, not too much to edit. As I look over
the pages, well typed and paginated, another envelope is handed over. And
another. And another, until I’m managing six envelopes in my lap. As I open
each one I realize two hold examples of poetry written as greeting cards, all
folded in shapes he desires. The outside of each has some colorful drawing. I
call them greeting cards, and surely the greetings are different, rather passionate,
as though one person expresses his fondness for another, a deep longing for the
other. I’m struck by the thoughts, so
intimate and meaningful.
I’m overwhelmed at what I’ve been given. “Mr. Smith, I can’t
tell you when I can finish these. There is so much here.” I begin to feel I’ll
let him down with my braggadocious air of the week before. “You know I’ll be
teaching a class once a week for the fall . . .” The feeling of failure begins
to overwhelm me.
“I know that. Take it all. I trust you. When you can, look
at it and tell me what I need to do.”
With a smile, a load of manila envelopes clutched to my
chest, I leave hoping against hope that I can accomplish what I said I would
and make Mr. Charles Smith happy.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
Meeting Mr. Smith Part 1
He sits leisurely at one end of the building, his art work on tall stands surrounding him like a cloak. No one is taking more than a first glance at his work. I walk over, ever the one to dispense encouragement to those who display their crafts. Fishing for a compliment on his splotches of oils, I manage to say something like “What interesting work you have; I must admit I’m not in the market to buy, but I’m happy to see you surrounded by beautiful scenes.” I manage oftentimes to blubber words to cover my intention to look but not buy. I stroll from one piece to the other, thinking how much this man needs art guidance. My second thought crowds out the first: art lessons may ruin his creativity.
His expense
is in tubes of oil paints, as the thickness on the “canvas” is heavy. He uses
bare plywood cut in shapes. Still I recognize this man is using what he can
find to convey his sincere artistic self into these wild, colorful shapes. I
turn to him, standing now in front of his folding chair, grinning widely. He’s
tall, almost six feet on a thin frame clothed in a white shirt, a contrast to his dark skin. I introduce myself and he tells
me his name. One I’ll never forget: Charles E. Smith. I once knew another
Charles Smith, a journalism teacher in one of the schools where I had taught. Of
all the vendors in the Farmers’ Market downtown, this gentleman has no
competitors.
Mr. Smith tells me about his art shows and how he’s
sold “many, many paintings.” I once heard that an artist should never
indicate anything but optimism about the number of paintings or craft works
that he’s “sold.” I take him at his word. I glance again at the figures on the
boards. Perhaps because I 'm not an art critic; I can't tell if these depictions
from his mind were one day going to be owners’ prized possessions. Art is in the
eyes of the beholder.
This smiling man is quite willing to reveal himself, as we Southerners often do. I listen. “I’m 71 years old, and I expect to live a long time. For years I’ve had these ideas inside me needin' to get out.” He mentions having been ill some years ago and writing down his thoughts had been therapeutic, so “I kept on, writing a book, each chapter originally as nine separate little books based on the happiness I found,” and explaining his beliefs.
I nod and say, “I share writing with you. I
write short pieces about what I observe around me,” feeling less creative in the presence of this enthusiasm.
He then explains about his book. “It’s not complete, ‘cause I need someone to edit what I have.”
“Mr. Smith,
you have a better chance of getting your work published than I. There are many minority writers on the book market You may have something to offer the public.” He nods.
An idea strikes and I add, “I’ve done some editing in
the past of a few manuscripts. Let me take a look at yours.” I run through a
litany of what I’ll be looking for in his work: vivid words, sentence clarity,
punctuation, and deletion of unneeded wording. He smiles and agrees, bends down to
a bag next to his chair and pulls out a business card. “Here’s my card. Next
week I’ll bring my work to you.” I look down at the card and read
The
Birth Place of Living – Ideas
Mr.
Charles E. Smith
Artist,
Poet, Writer, Publisher
His outlook on life is on this card. I feel a
kinship with Mr. Smith and say aloud, “Mr. Smith, I’m so glad to have met you,
and I hope I can help you. I feel . . .” and he finishes my sentence, “the good
Lord led us to each other.”
Thursday, August 02, 2012
My Taste Change in Food
The other day in exercise class the new instructor asked around what favorite food each participant liked. Those aren't questions I care to answer. Why? Because my answer doesn't sound like that of a normal person. You see, down here in Mississippi hog jowl cooked in fresh summer veggies, cornbread, slice tomatoes, topped with some slice of fresh ham makes an ideal meal for some; others prefer steak and French Fries. If you are different you may be looked upon as strange.
When my turn came I took a deep breath and let it out: "I don't like to eat anymore.Nor do I like to cook." I didn't have to look around at the dozen pairs of eyes boring holes in my head. I went on to say food no longer held an appeal for me. I then explained my food source was usually a Smoothie. A fruit one or a combination of fruit and vegetables.
And, of course, I had to explain. How can I go without food? It's not the normal amount that others eat. I eat throughout the day tasting small snacks: peanut butter and banana; cheese and crackers; halves of pimento cheese sandwiches; small cans of tuna fish and soup; sushi are a few samples. Not chips, candy and pre-made peanut butter crackers. I still enjoy sweets, but I eat them rarely.
I attribute my lack of appetite to desiring to eat less bread and sweets, cutting down on salt, sodas, and those items on the food chain we all insist have to be a part of our daily diet. This change in my eating is supposed to help me live a long time. The point was to lose some weight--although no one has ever accused me of being overweight. But my dress size history zoomed from a Size 6 to a 12. Ok, so that occurred over the span of 50 years.
Then the case of the lazy cook came into view. I've always been an open-a-package-or-can-and-heat person, never learning the basics.How can a person cook if there's no desire? My husband somehow exempts me from my behavior--after all, he's saving a bit of money.He enjoys eating out --he eats and I watch, sipping ice water until he is satiated. Works fine for us and a half dozen neighbors who feel the same about cooking.
I'm waiting for an application to a contest to arrive in my mailbox urging me to write an essay on why I deserve a For-Life Prize of Healthy Snacks delivered to my door by a local restaurant of my choice. If you know of one, clue me in.
When my turn came I took a deep breath and let it out: "I don't like to eat anymore.Nor do I like to cook." I didn't have to look around at the dozen pairs of eyes boring holes in my head. I went on to say food no longer held an appeal for me. I then explained my food source was usually a Smoothie. A fruit one or a combination of fruit and vegetables.
And, of course, I had to explain. How can I go without food? It's not the normal amount that others eat. I eat throughout the day tasting small snacks: peanut butter and banana; cheese and crackers; halves of pimento cheese sandwiches; small cans of tuna fish and soup; sushi are a few samples. Not chips, candy and pre-made peanut butter crackers. I still enjoy sweets, but I eat them rarely.
I attribute my lack of appetite to desiring to eat less bread and sweets, cutting down on salt, sodas, and those items on the food chain we all insist have to be a part of our daily diet. This change in my eating is supposed to help me live a long time. The point was to lose some weight--although no one has ever accused me of being overweight. But my dress size history zoomed from a Size 6 to a 12. Ok, so that occurred over the span of 50 years.
Then the case of the lazy cook came into view. I've always been an open-a-package-or-can-and-heat person, never learning the basics.How can a person cook if there's no desire? My husband somehow exempts me from my behavior--after all, he's saving a bit of money.He enjoys eating out --he eats and I watch, sipping ice water until he is satiated. Works fine for us and a half dozen neighbors who feel the same about cooking.
I'm waiting for an application to a contest to arrive in my mailbox urging me to write an essay on why I deserve a For-Life Prize of Healthy Snacks delivered to my door by a local restaurant of my choice. If you know of one, clue me in.
Aging and Meds
Of all the pills I swallow each morning, I feel no better, stronger, braver, or more energetic. If I sleep 10 hours at night, I wake up, do a bit of housework and return to bed for a nap, be it 11 a.m. or 2 p.m. Those darn pills don't seem to be helping. Dr. Weill, whom I enjoy reading online, tells you need this for that and I add this but that seems to elude my face, my neck, my back or whatever.
I've given up sodas because a nurse said it weakens the bones; I've given up steak because chicken and fish are better; I've given up milk because its full of lactose; I've given up just about everything that "they" say is not good for you. I'm starving on crackers and almond milk, the chocolate kind.
Now, I'm seeing teeny lines dot my face. I'd hoped to have none for a few more years. So far I've not seen any wrinkles on the neck, but the arms - - my gosh, the arms look like corrugated cardboard! It's not fair for us to grow older and lose the few good parts of our body we've had so long. A doc told me this is the result of losing hormones. I would have honored and adored hormones in my lifetime if someone had told me they'd disappear, that I'd see and feel the results. If I only knew then, what I know now - - what a change in my lifestyle there would have been.
A number of years ago a program interviewed a man whose pills numbered over 100, the bottles line up on several shelves built for their display. He vowed these were all he needed to live a long, healthy life. I never remembered his name; don't know if he's still shakin' a leg.
Take good care of yourself. Don't get into the habit of taking OTC supplements and swallowing Rx meds any more than you have to.
I've given up sodas because a nurse said it weakens the bones; I've given up steak because chicken and fish are better; I've given up milk because its full of lactose; I've given up just about everything that "they" say is not good for you. I'm starving on crackers and almond milk, the chocolate kind.
Now, I'm seeing teeny lines dot my face. I'd hoped to have none for a few more years. So far I've not seen any wrinkles on the neck, but the arms - - my gosh, the arms look like corrugated cardboard! It's not fair for us to grow older and lose the few good parts of our body we've had so long. A doc told me this is the result of losing hormones. I would have honored and adored hormones in my lifetime if someone had told me they'd disappear, that I'd see and feel the results. If I only knew then, what I know now - - what a change in my lifestyle there would have been.
A number of years ago a program interviewed a man whose pills numbered over 100, the bottles line up on several shelves built for their display. He vowed these were all he needed to live a long, healthy life. I never remembered his name; don't know if he's still shakin' a leg.
Take good care of yourself. Don't get into the habit of taking OTC supplements and swallowing Rx meds any more than you have to.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Movie Mania
I've spent a lot of time watching movies on Netflix. My favorites center around the British Isles and other European countries. I've been introduced to landscapes, customs, and characters so unlike those in our own movies. Perhaps the "characters" are more so, imperfect in appearance, but perfectly fitting to their role.
Many of you relished every episode of "Downtown Abbey" as the actors followed a script somewhat like the real English customs but a bit different. There are other movies that may not be as thrilling to watch, but just as easy to entertain as DA
Right now I'm watching Foyle's War, which covers the early years of WWII. Despite the created script, the story does hint at some of the problems the English faced when the war was raging around them, one neighbor after the other falling to the Nazis. One segment revealed the selfless acts of small boats who crossed the Channel to rescue the wounded soldiers, bringing home 15 to 20 at a time. There's always something about history revealed in each segment.
I've seen many investigators like Vera, DSI, of the series by the same name, whose cranky attitude disgruntles her office workers, much like some of our own bosses, but. despite her lack of personal skills, she solves crimes.Another female appears in The Commander and in Inspector Lynle, a handsome man who appears in many of the British series is this time solving crimes.
Again during WWII are good dramas Land Girls and Wish Me Luck. The former a story of British women who help their country by working on farms for a period of time and the latter about other British women who serve as spies in France. All played well by the actors. Again, you get a glimpse of landscape and hints of history of that time.
I've been on a WWII kick for months as you read this. I was 10 years old in 1942 and experienced the caution the U.S. took during that time. I like to be reminded of the efforts our citizens made to cooperate with the government during that war and how proud we were to help in our rationing, purchasing of war bonds, giving up precious foods so our boys could eat good meals. So many memories we citizens of that period still remember. Perhaps that is the real draw of these period movies the British continue to make.
The price I pay for watching these movies that are clean-cut and devoid of profanity is so little that I dislike going to the local movie theatre and paying a month's rent to Netflix for one movie that is recent. Perhaps that's the age in me, to enjoy a good story that doesn't embarrass me with scenes I'd prefer not seeing. I'm not being paid to tell you about these movies, I'm saying they are worth the $8 per month I willingly give for a good story.
Many of you relished every episode of "Downtown Abbey" as the actors followed a script somewhat like the real English customs but a bit different. There are other movies that may not be as thrilling to watch, but just as easy to entertain as DA
I've seen many investigators like Vera, DSI, of the series by the same name, whose cranky attitude disgruntles her office workers, much like some of our own bosses, but. despite her lack of personal skills, she solves crimes.Another female appears in The Commander and in Inspector Lynle, a handsome man who appears in many of the British series is this time solving crimes.
Again during WWII are good dramas Land Girls and Wish Me Luck. The former a story of British women who help their country by working on farms for a period of time and the latter about other British women who serve as spies in France. All played well by the actors. Again, you get a glimpse of landscape and hints of history of that time.
I've been on a WWII kick for months as you read this. I was 10 years old in 1942 and experienced the caution the U.S. took during that time. I like to be reminded of the efforts our citizens made to cooperate with the government during that war and how proud we were to help in our rationing, purchasing of war bonds, giving up precious foods so our boys could eat good meals. So many memories we citizens of that period still remember. Perhaps that is the real draw of these period movies the British continue to make.
The price I pay for watching these movies that are clean-cut and devoid of profanity is so little that I dislike going to the local movie theatre and paying a month's rent to Netflix for one movie that is recent. Perhaps that's the age in me, to enjoy a good story that doesn't embarrass me with scenes I'd prefer not seeing. I'm not being paid to tell you about these movies, I'm saying they are worth the $8 per month I willingly give for a good story.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Another Water Kettle
The above one had a whistle. No matter, it didn't work for me. I think the whistle burned at 90 degrees, for by the time I followed the odor trail I saw why. By then the kettle was sitting emanating 400 degrees, at least. Where was I? Trying to churn out an essay on the computer for a contest on Southern Sin . I was so caught up in my thinking that only when I began to breathe that stinking odor did I look around, take deep breaths around the printer and the computer, expecting one of them to blow up. Not until all was shut down did the odor continue. Now the house is drenched. The outside air is quiet from all the rain that has poured for two days so nothing will absorb or take away this foul smell. I can't hide the fact that another kettle is gone.
My weakness around the stove is turning a knob to HIGH, then walking off. Oh, I've burned foodstuffs that I was "warming".My explanation always to my husband is "My mind is so busy that I forgot". I zonk out when I'm writing, and leaving the stove unattended sounds like dementia. But I'm not suffering from old age, yet. I am not mindful of my responsibilities as a cook because I AM NOT A COOK. I'm NOT A WARMER, either. Maybe I should give up on water kettles and use the boiler. They are cheaper to replace.
Is my Southern Sin the failure to be honed as a cook?
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