Clarity

It’s clear to me.

I know what I want.

My goal remains.

 

It’s the process to arriving that’s challenging.

It’s also enlightening in unexpected ways.

Sifting through, loading and unloading will take a while longer.

 

Timing is essential.

One does not rush a delicate process.

Just as healing takes time, decisions must be processed clearly.

 

The end result is much awaited.

The anticipation builds with delight.

Excitement has never filled me this much until now.

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A Word in Appreciation

About his time of year three years ago (can it be so long? yes, I looked it up), this wonderful site Green Room came to be and became my new iHome - a place where I can share my thoughts and complaints and discoveries and favorite quotes and silly poems, and read all of those from others in the truly international Green Room community. I've been in many green rooms in my time and for me they have been nervous places, but this one I find both comfortable and comforting. I want to thank our host Rosy and her  intrepid support staff for their dedication and commitment over these years, and hopefully in the years to come.

 

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July Blessings at Woodsong

Our month started with gratefulness for the safe arrival of our grandaughter Brianna from her month of required study in Spain. Trent was home for the Independence holiday weekend, so he and Bri's parents drove to Chicago to meet her plane. Her cousin Elijah was there to join them while they were in town. They drove home in time to invite us to celebrate the Fourth with them and with Brian's mother Dot. Brian's grilled steaks and sweet corn and Mary Ellen's side dishes were good, but being with their family to hear about June's activities was even better. That gang went onto see the fireworks in Marion; and in deference to our age, Gerald and I went home to go to bed.

(Brian's mother Dorothy is here with him and Mary Ellen not only to escape the hot Arizona summer but to visit her Illinois family and pursue her camping enthusiam. Dot has a small camper behind her car that she sets up herself. I find that very impressive, and she has camped in most national and many state parks. When she is not away camping this summer, she is comfortably encounced in the Taylors' air-conditioned larger home-away-from home camper in their back yard. I have not yet seen her as much as I'd liked with all her camping activity, but we did enjoy that holiday feast.)

Mid-month Jeannie and Rick made an unexpected trip down because of a college friend's funeral. That gave us an opportunity to catch up a bit with them. Jeannie was working on plans and painting a huge wall decoration out in our driveway for a women's conference at their church the next weekend, and I enjoyed hearing about that. Of course, she did some bycyling while here.

One Saturday afternoon on a “just to get out of thehouse” car ride, Gerald took me up and down country roads skirted now with July's deep green trees and shrubbery. Some of these roads were familiar, but some I had never been on before. Gerald remembered them from childhood trips from their farm on the edge of the Mississippi bottom area up to the very hilly roads where his relatives lived in the same county. Most of these roads had begun long ago by early pioneers getting to their farm homes that were beloved even with the lack of electricty or an in-house water source. Now the few homes that remain are lovely and lived in by people who work in town but like being close to nature. Despite the roads' narrowness, they were all in good shape in this 21st Century. On the rare occasions that we met another car, it only seemed as if there might not be room for two cars to pass. We always made it.

Another pleasure this summer has been watching a mama goose and her growing babies, which are now almost as large as she is. At the beginning, there was no male goose with the family, which was unusual. We wondered if he had been killed since male geese are very diligent fathers. Later in the summer, she has been joined by a male, so we had to conjecture how that has happened. When they are not swimming in the lake, they are gorging in the middle of our neighbor's soybeans across the lane. Much like the deer we frequently see, if they are on one side of the lane when our car approaches, they seem to think they will be safer on the opposite side. So we have to slow down to let them cross.

Seeing deer is so common that it is not as big a thrill as it used to be. However, I love this summer's memory of seeing a mother doe on the road to Katherine's house one evening. She was followed by her young triplet fawns.

When I cut through the country to go to town, there is a small piece of shaded road through a swampy area just west of New Dennison. (New Dennison used to be a railroad destination with a general store but is now a cluster of houses and a church building built by early German farmers and much later used by Baptists and now called Living Stone Community Church. The country doctor who delivered babies in this rural area lived opposite that church house, but his home has since burned near the end of his daughter Marguerite Lashley's life. Dr. Burns would meet the Presbyterian minister who came on the train from Carbondale and drive him with his family in his buggy to Shed Church. After Sunday dinner with the doctor's family, the minister would catch the train back to Carbondale.) But I digress.

This rural road west of the village has trees that meet over head, and I love driving through there. This road is sometimes closed after heavy rains with a creek going under it and thick woods and swamp area bordering it. Marylea Burnham told me how bad the mosquitoes used to be when she'd ride her horse down that road. However, now I frequently wave at dog walkers there. New lanes off the road lead to a couple houses and one lot preparing for a new house, so I hope the mosquito population is less. It seems like the perfect place for deer, but in all the years that I've gone through there, only once did I have a deer cross in front of my car. Recently, however, I saw a fawn way ahead crossing at the far end of the road by the stop sign joining the Old Creal Springs Road, so I now remind myself to stay alert as I drive through. What I did see one late night coming home from Katherine's was four tiny animals crossing single file to get to the north side of that swampy woods. I have no idea what kind of animals they were, but I now own an indelible mental photograph that I enjoy while I hope to see them again sometime.

Garden produce has also been a summer pleasure. Gerald brings in zuchini and blackberries and now big round red tomatoes. Three zuchini plants produce way too much for us, but if Gerald had planted only one or two, they might have died and we'd had none. So we are kept busy shredding them for the freezer to make zuchini bread next winter or giving them away. Gerald came home from his latest breakfast with Union County family with a huge container of sweet corn from his brother Garry, who carries on their father's tradition of growing give-away vegetables. Garry also sent a supply for Gerald to give to our sister-in-law Opal, and that visit resulted in a large crock pot full of her garden's abundant supply of green beans at our house. Some of those went into the freezer.

Because refinishing the outdoor furniture on our front porch and then the door has not been enough to keep Gerald busy despite all the grass mowing he does, Gerald husked all the corn Garry sent us and has become an expert on shredding zuchini. I am grateful for his help and glad these two activities kept him out of the extreme heat we have been experiencing at least for a little while. He also spends considerable time following the Scrap Yard Dawgs softball team by reading about their games and Monica Abbot's pitching and discussing this with Gerry. And we both follow photos and bits of information about our new great grandchild Caroline, who is scheduled to come for a visit next week.

Mary Ellen has been able to see Caroline before us. At Erin's baby shower here last spring, Vickie's high school friends Connie Dahmer and Joan Mangan met up with her. Together with Connie's younger sister Brenda and Mary Ellen, they plotted for the group to visit Vickie in Texas. That happened this week and resulted with many photographs on the Internet. Bill and Beth Jordan were in Houston at this time, and so this Crab Orchard gang were able to attend one of Gerry's Scrap Yard Dawgs ball games. We have enjoyed their trip vicariously, but it will be more fun as they come home today and we get to debrief Mary Ellen on these Crab Orchard adventurists.

We have loved hearing about Brianna's Spain journey and seeing all her really gorgeous photographs gathered in a photo book, which she is pleased has room for many more travels. She took these photos with her phone, which just goes to show that exponential progress in technology that Thomas Friedman wrote about. When I told her and her mom about my Internet friend Anne Born's walk through Spain, they started exclaiming because they had just been talking about that walk that Brianna would like to do someday.

Yesterday we picked up Brianna to go to worship with us, and it is always a joy to sit in a church service with a grandchild. At dinner afterwards, Brianna asked questions, and Gerald recounted for her some of our adventures and hardships getting started farming. One of his professors had told him it would be impossible to start farming without $10,000 capital; and though he had saved well during his four years in the Air Force, that was much more than Gerald's savings. It was also commonly said in those days, as it is today, that you needed to inherit a farm to make it farming. Gerald proved all the naysayers wrong, and I bet there are some young farmers out there today also proving negative folk wrong.

It is indeed a blessing to receive phone calls and hear about our grand-kids' and great grand-kids' activites. It is also a blessing to have them ask about our histories because we know how almost everyone regrets when it is too late to ask loved ones about their lives.

Well, it has been a good July so far, but I need to stop now and go upstairs and fix some of those garden veggies for our lunch.

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Midnight Cha-Cha-Cha and Tabasco

I am about sixteen.  I wake up in the middle of night.  The sound of distant crunching, faint music and the light spilling into the corridor lure me like the tune of the Pied Piper of Hamelin.  I get out of bed.  Naz, the canine of miscellaneous origin curled up at the bottom of my bed, opens his sleep-glazed eyes briefly, then closes them again.  No cause for alarm.  He's seen this happen before over the years.  Many, many times.  

At the small kitchen table, my mother is leafing through an out-of-date Il Corriere della Sera or Le Monde which she hasn't had time to look at sooner.  She's at the office all day and sometimes doesn't come home until late.  She is buttering a row of three of four grissini, trying not to break them, balances a small piece of parmigiano on the pan flute-like construction, then shakes a bottle of Tabasco sauce over it before putting it into her mouth.  The sharp scent rushes up my nostrils.  Soft music is playing on the radio.  While munching, she reaches for a red felt tip pen and marks articles she intends to cut out later.

She is startled.  "Oh, tesoro, did I wake you up? I'm so sorry.  I'm going to bed in a minute –  I was on my way, as a matter of fact, but I suddenly felt hungry."  

The clock on top of the fridge shows half past midnight.  Suddenly hungry after midnight.  As usual.

I sit at the table, yawning.  My eyes wander over the maps that cover practically every inch of the wall.  Israel, Italy, Turkey, France, Greece, USA, Germany, Luxembourg.  My mother's way of helping me learn geography.  Scraps of paper  with quotations.  Francis Bacon, Erasmus, Julius Caesar, Shakespeare, Ernest Renan, Trilussa.  Her way of helping me learn to think.  

I reach out for a grissino and crunch off the tip, lazily.  "Are you hungry, too?" she asks, quickly swallowing her mouthful.  "Here, help yourself." She pushes the packet of extra long, thin, Piedmontese-style breadsticks, the butter and cheese closer to me.  Then she stands up and opens the fridge door.  "What else would you like? Oh, look, we have some fontina  – would you like some?"

I shake my head and keep crunching my grissino.

She suddenly gasps and turns up the radio slightly.  "Listen, listen.  You recognise it, don't you?"

"Dvorak's Symphonic Dances."

She gasps again.  "I adore this." She softly hums along.

I cut myself a piece of cheese.

"Here, don't you want some Tabasco sauce on it?" Her expression turns pixieish.  "It's very, very hot." She picks up the small bottle, throws her head back, and shakes some sauce on her tongue.  Her eyes narrow.  "Mmm... Delicious!" 

She's daring me.  Or else she wants confirmation that I'm really her flesh and blood, that she can be proud of me.  I want her to be proud of me.  I accept the bottle she's handing me and put Tabasco on my cheese.  The sharp chilli and vinegar taste wakes me up.  

"Good, isn't it?"

I nod.  I'm like her.  My mother's daughter.

She sits down again and returns to her snack.

"Your Auntie J. and I, when we shared a flat, sometimes, when we had no money and no dinner invitations, we would sit and eat grissini and Tabasco sauce at night.  And we would dance the bossa nova or the cha-cha-cha. "

I've heard this before, but I love hearing it again.  My mother and her Iranian friend, a stunning-looking woman with ivory skin, black hair and bright blue eyes – Auntie J. to me – and their exploits in early 1960s Rome.  Via Veneto till four in the morning, a month's salary on a pair of soft leather Magli shoes, chasing after singer Domenico Modugno in J.'s Fiat 600 (until he stopped his car, came out and looked around to see the two girls waving at him), dancing in nightclubs on boats moored on the Tiber, coloured lightbulbs strung on the deck.  Like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday. Before I came along and made it all abruptly impossible.

"You can dance the bossa nova, can't you?"

Yes.  She taught me on one of the other nights like this one.

"And the cha-cha-cha?"

I wish I could say yes.  But it's 1981.  My school friends and I go to discos with bright flashing lights, red laser beams.  We dance to Richard Sanderson singing Reality and want to look like Sophie Marceau.

"Come!" My mother goes into the living room and switches on the lights.  "Come and stand next to me."

My face has an uncontrollable grin of anticipation across it.  I'm going to bond with her.

"Now look at me.  One, two, one-two-three.  One, two, one-two-three.  Wait!" She kicks off her slippers and sends them flying across the room.  Her feet have exceptionally high arches.  Nothing between the ball and the heel touches the marble floor.  

I park my slippers next to the sofa and follow her example.

She takes me by the hand.  "One, two, one-two-three.  Now this isn't ballet school, so sway your hips a little.  Like this.  Good."

Good.  Well, I can't sway as gracefully as she.  Just like I'll never get into her 60-centimetre waist silk and satin evening dresses – the ones she wore before I came along – which she is saving for me for when I grow up.

Suddenly, an outraged, astounded face appears in the doorway.  Without her glasses, my grandmother's large, slightly protruding eyes look even larger.  This cameo is also part of the routine.  She looks at my mother.  "Are you crazy? It's one o'clock in the morning! The child has to go to school tomorrow! Katia, go to bed.  And look at you, barefoot on the stone floor.  You'll catch a cold!"

I reply, on cue, "Oh, no, not yet, please!"

"Yes, yes, Mum, you're absolutely right," my mother says with a total lack of sincerity.  "We'll both go to bed soon.  I promise.  Why don't you come and dance with us?"

My grandmother stands in the doorway for a few seconds.  "Well, goodnight, you crazy night owls."  

She vanishes as quietly as she appeared.  Such a light step.  "She never even wears out her shoes," my mother often says.

Now that I've mastered the basic steps, we come to phase two of the lesson.  My mother goes to the bamboo bookcase that holds all our records.  She pulls out an Ella Fitzgerald LP, places it on the Philips turntable, lifts the arm, carefully lowers the sapphire stylus on the right track.

You-ouuuuuuuuuu – you!

You're driving me crazy

One, two, cha-cha-cha.  One, two, cha-cha-cha.

We dance together.  Ella Fitzgerald speeds up.  The words are sung faster and faster,   spiralling beyond the possibility of any dance steps, so it becomes a free for all on the marble floor.  

It's half past one.  We're both breathless, suppressing our laughter to avoid waking up my grandmother.  "Now go to bed, tesoro," my mother says, her face suddenly authoritative although the corners of her mouth are still dimpled and her eyes sparkling.

I go to bed.  My mother returns to the kitchen.  I wonder how long she'll stay up.  I wish I weren't so sleepy.  I wish I didn't have school tomorrow.  On my bed, the dog is snoring.  I slip under the blanket, taking care not to push him with my feet.

I fall asleep, smiling, my hand under my pillow, the previous couple of hours tight in my fist.  Like a treasure I never want to lose.

Scribe Doll  

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