tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80661072024-03-07T15:23:21.391-06:00Down Memory LanePeople usually get my first name wrong, so I introduce myself by saying, "I'm Lane, like Memory Lane, or Shady Lane, or Lovers' Lane." There's no confusion after that. So this blog is a no-confusion visit down my Memory Lane.Down Memory Lanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04214263048362966231noreply@blogger.comBlogger199125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8066107.post-81029689935820352242021-12-24T17:45:00.000-06:002021-12-24T17:45:06.346-06:00AT THE ROCKETTES CHRISTMAS SPECTACULAR<p> <span> </span><span style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px;">Two months after buying our Center Orchestra tickets for the Rockettes Christmas Spectacular at Radio City Music Hall in New York City, the big night had finally rolled around. Michael and I said good-bye to our son, Nick, his wife, Kate, and their two young children. Family, off limits for over two years because of the pandemic, was the real purpose and heart of our visit and we had enjoyed a wonderful weekend with them. The rest of this Sunday evening would belong to us, a bucket list fulfillment that we had added to our trip after we finished the initial planning. </span></p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>We walked out of the subway at Rockefeller Center into a bigger mass of people than we had expected. Many were family groups and the chatter we picked up in passing told the story. </p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>“Can we go skating, Mom? Can we?” </p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>“When are we going to see the tree?” </p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>“Can I get hot chocolate, too?” </p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>The famous Christmas Tree at Rockefeller Center had just been lit days earlier, the ice rink was newly opened, and department stores glowed with lights that danced to Christmas music piped to the throngs outside. Store windows were showcases of delight, with Christmas scenes and themes abounding. Despite the claustrophobic crowding, everyone seemed cheerful and buoyant.</p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>An abundance of caution over our ability to successfully negotiate the subway system resulted in our arrival two hours before showtime. We discovered the doors wouldn’t even open for another hour. </p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>We hadn’t had dinner, thinking naively that we’d grab something at the venue. That plan quickly went off the rails and our backup plan, eating in a restaurant - any restaurant - clearly wasn’t doable with the queued up crowds waiting for seating. After several blocks of semi-aimless walking, we did what we had to do, buying hot dogs and bottled water from a sidewalk vendor. Even adding sauerkraut couldn’t overcome the insipid taste of a hot dog recently submerged in a pot of hot water, but it was an authentic NYC dining experience!</p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>The crowd-control staff had an excellent plan for crowd containment and management when the time came to open the building’s doors. They directed us to line up along the building, sent minions to check everyone’s vaccine records and ID’s, stamping our hands as proof that we were admit-able and then directed us to form three lines for the three doors leading inside. At those doors, attendants check purses, scanned tickets, and verified stamped hands.</p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>Finally, we made it! The foyer sparkled with lights, including a giant snowflake chandelier, and holiday music wafted over us, although it could barely be heard above the roar of the crowd. I wanted to buy a tee shirt from the assortment of ten designs featured in the shop kiosk, so while Michael went off on his own, I got into another line. </p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>Even with five clerks, the line moved at a sloth’s pace. When my turn arrived, I asked for the cute red tee shirt that I thought was reasonably priced at $20. </p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>“We only have that in Small.”</p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>So I moved up a price point to another snazzy tee shirt at $25.</p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>“We only have that in Small, too.”</p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>Okay, I tried for the cute one on the end for $30.</p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>“Oh, that’s only in youth sizes.”</p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>Gritting my teeth, I pointed to one I liked a lot but, at $40, hadn’t put on my wish list.</p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>“We only have that in Small. Would you like to see it?” </p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>As she held up a tee shirt that would clearly never fit me, I asked if they had any shirts in a large.</p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>“Oh, yes. Those three in the middle,” she said pointing to the dreariest, least Christmas-y clothing in sight.</p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>With a sigh and a no thank you, I went to the meeting spot Michael and I had agreed on. Went is euphemistic. I battled my way through an impenetrable crowd, sometimes stalled in place for minutes at a time, unable to find any opening in the morass of people squashed into the area. When I did get to the spot, I felt like a turnstile. People pushed past me from the front and the back, trying to get to the lines for food, clothing, souvenirs, drinks, and snacks.</p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>Knowing Michael probably had his own crowds to battle, I waited somewhat anxiously for him. Finally, I spotted him. We didn’t know which was our entry door and we couldn’t find any house staff to ask. But we couldn’t make our way to the doors anyway, although we did try to do that twice. Retreating to an out-of-the-way corner near a staircase, we decided to stay put until movement became possible. </p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>The doors finally opened about 20 minutes before showtime and the crowds thinned like water draining from a sink. Many of the people jamming the foyer apparently had seats in the three upper floors. When they all went upstairs, the orchestra level suddenly and blissfully opened up and we found our seats quickly. The blonde woman in front of me wasn’t too tall - yay! - and I settled contentedly into my seat.</p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>A few minutes before curtain up, there was a kerfuffle in that row. The blonde and her date got up and moved so another couple could take those seats. In a flash, I found myself looking at the broad, burly back of a very tall man! I never saw the middle of the stage again. I had to shift left or right to look around him. I probably exasperated the poor people behind me with my bobbing head! This could be chalked up to luck of the draw at the theater except for one detail.</p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>Despite several announcements forbidding filming or picture-taking, as soon as the Rockettes appeared, this guy whipped out his phone and held it up directly in my line of sight!! Now I couldn’t see anything on the right hand side of the stage. Finally, I tapped him on the shoulder and politely told him I couldn’t see because of his phone. Happily, he put the thing away without comment or visible reaction. I’ll admit to worrying a bit about how he might react.</p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>Michael and I saw a lot of people taking videos and photos throughout the performance, including three in the row in front of us. That surprised us because we never see that at dance performance venues in Houston and we go to quite a few. Are Houstonians more polite than New Yorkers? Are they more likely to follow the rules? Who knows, but boy do I appreciate Houston audiences after that experience.</p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>On to the song and dance part of our evening. Fabulous! I expected a dance performance, but it was actually a variety show. The cast sang, danced, told jokes, and performed skits. The eye-popping staging and props kept us riveted. During one piece, the Rockettes performed on a double decker bus that drove an elaborate course around the stage. A stage-sized video tour of NYC played behind the moving bus and the effect looked so real it disoriented me. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>Another piece that riveted me was The Twelve Days of Christmas. They didn’t sing, they tap danced! 30 lovely women took the stage and then they featured individuals with special steps for each line of the song. It was festive eye candy and ear candy! Tap dance is a favorite dance form for me and I rarely get to see live performances. There is a video online: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wKM7W84-cGU">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wKM7W84-cGU</a></p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>Some of the other works included Wooden Soldiers, Dancing Santas, and Rag Dolls. A few dancers got en pointe for a dance from The Nutcracker that included dancing bears. We also visited Santas’s workshop and in another piece saw it snow. The Nativity scene included a live camel, donkey, and sheep!</p>
<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px;"><span> </span>The Rockettes Christmas Spectacular wowed me. I am so pleased that we splurged on the tickets (I had trouble pushing that Pay button!!). It’s a shame they had to close early because of the Covid omicron surge. If you ever got a chance to see the Rockettes, don’t miss them!!</p>
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<p style="color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 16px; min-height: 20.7px;"> </p>Down Memory Lanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04214263048362966231noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8066107.post-37013379171999506402021-11-12T17:59:00.014-06:002021-11-12T18:38:13.452-06:00Out of Footprint<p>Dealing with the mundane aspects of my mother’s death has given me the unique experience of learning I was “out of footprint” from the bank that held Mother’s CD. In order to receive one’s share of a deceased person’s account, US Bank requires that named survivors present themselves at a bank office with a death certificate and ask for the money. For my five siblings, this presented no problem; however, as there are no US Bank offices in the entire state of Texas, it presented a significant problem for me. </p><p>Upon explanation of my predicament, an agent on the bank’s customer service line told me she was very sorry for my loss and that they had an arrangement for people like me who were, as she termed it, out of footprint. Their Life Events department would, upon verifying my bonafides, send me a check by mail. This sounded excellent and I asked for the number to call. “Oh, you can’t call them,” the pleasant midwestern voice on the other end of my call chirped, “we have to send them an email and then they will call you in two or three business days.” </p><p>The process began to sound less excellent. I imagined my sibs visiting their respective banking offices and collecting their portions while I waited for my phone call. But what were a few days of waiting, I chided myself? I would still receive the same windfall as my sister and brothers, after all. And to their credit, a US Bank Life Events specialist did call me two days later. </p><p>After another expression of condolences, my specialist, Rebecca, asked me a series of questions to ascertain that I was indeed the Lane Devereux included on Mother’s list of children. Happily, we had no problems with this. “It seems that your Mother’s death has been verified with a death certificate at one of our branch locations, so I will not need you to send me a copy.” <i>Phew, dodged an annoying delay there. </i>“We will send your portion of the account out within three to five business days plus mail time.” Thanks to Louis DeJoy, that meant more than a solid week’s wait, but again, windfall. <i>Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Lane.</i></p><p>The week went by and I began to pleasantly anticipate the mail, which usually offers nothing more exciting than sales flyers and offers to buy our house. In our younger, more hopeful years, Michael and I would ask whoever had gotten the day’s mail, “Did our ship come in?” (And no, except for the very rare refund of an overpayment, it almost never had.) Now, there was an actual ship on the horizon and the mail was fun again. Until it wasn’t.</p><p>That happened the morning my sister called and asked if I had gotten my proceeds from US Bank? “No, not yet, why do you ask?” It turned out that four of my siblings had gone to their local branches and collected the anticipated amount with no trouble whatsoever. When the fifth sibling went to his branch, the banker cheerfully explained that everyone else had claimed their portion and he was getting the last payout. Then the banker gave him a check for twice as much money as everyone else. Do the math. My brother got MY proceeds in addition to his own! </p><p>I immediately called US Bank and explained the problem. Again, I was told I couldn’t call Life Events, but the agent would send them an email detailing my complaint and someone would contact me in two to three business days. Unhappy with this, I looked for Rebecca’s number in my notes, only to realize she hadn’t given me a number. Not to be deterred, I went to my telephone service provider’s website, scanned the calls I received the day Rebecca contacted me, and found the number. <i>Gotcha! </i>I called her back. </p><p>Apparently you <u>can</u> call Life Events, you just cannot speak to anyone there. At least, you can’t speak to anyone unless you know the specific 7-digit number of your Life Events specialist. If you don’t know it, they provide an email address to contact which they say will be read within two or three days, triggering a phone call back. (In fact, their email address - 24HRlifeevents@USBank.com - tantalizes with the possibility of an even faster response.) </p><p>The two to three day window on both the email from the official US Bank customer service line and the one from me directly have come and gone without any response. Maybe they don’t know what to say to me or perhaps they are just busy asking themselves the big question I asked: wtf?</p><p></p><p>Just for the record, there’s no problem getting my share from my brother. He’s an honest guy and perfectly happy to give me the money. The problem is whether or not US Bank is going to go after him to return the money they gave him in error so <u>they</u> can give it to me. Presumably in two to three business days plus mailing time from whenever.</p><p>That’s Life (Events)!</p>Down Memory Lanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04214263048362966231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8066107.post-50497936705542452122021-10-21T00:07:00.000-05:002021-10-21T00:07:03.470-05:00It’s Warm Where I’m Going<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span> </span>I watched Mother’s funeral Mass on YouTube Wednesday. (One blessing that’s come out of the pandemic is access to events from afar.) It felt strange to be at home, watching and listening as people spoke about Mother, seeing the photo of her with Dad, taking in the small (so small) brown box of her ashes. She had belonged to her parish for more than 20 years, was well known and well liked there. The priest spoke warmly, from long acquaintanceship. But there is one thing he said - or didn’t say, rather - that needs to be added to the record.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span> </span>Every winter for many years, Mother would go to my sister Janet’s house in December and, in January, she would come to Texas with Janet and her husband Dave, who snow-birded in Port Aransas. They’d stop at our house on their way and drop Mother off with Michael and I for a month or so. What a joy for me to have those weeks with her and share her with my friends over the years.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span> </span>The priest mentioned her trips to Grand Forks and Texas when he spoke about Mother. He said he could never understand why someone would leave Montana in the winter and go to Grand Forks. (FYI - that’s in North Dakota.) He used to tease her about it after her last Mass the weekend she would leave with Janet and Dave. He remarked on her Grand Forks trips laughingly at the funeral, but he forgot to share the rest of the story. </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span> </span>Every year when he teased Mother about it, she always replied, “It’s warm where I’m going.” You see, Mother was never just going to Grand Forks, which is indeed a frigid place in winter. No, she was going home, literally, to the place she raised her family, because she was going home with Janet, who lives in the house my parents built more than 50 years ago. She was going home to the community where she earned her degrees and taught school. She was going home to share fond memories with her many friends of bridge club and Altar Society and PTA, of the cocktail parties her generation made famous and the gourmet dinners that often followed them. </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span> </span>I felt sad not to be at her Mass in person, but there will be another service next summer that I will attend, when our extended family gathers in Mandan, North Dakota to inter her ashes next to my Dad’s. We’ll laugh and remember and tell stories to each other and to her grandchildren and great-grandchildren about this wonderful woman who raised us. It’ll be warm there, too.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p>Down Memory Lanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04214263048362966231noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8066107.post-19978978581541295322021-10-13T00:25:00.004-05:002021-10-13T10:32:57.536-05:00<p><b><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; text-align: center;">Obituary for Jeanne Paul Gustafson</span></span></b></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Jeanne (Paul) Gustafson, beloved matriarch of her large family, died peacefully on October 12 at the age of 99 at her home in Helena, MT surrounded by family. She was born in Edgeley, ND to Donald and Florence (Petrie) Paul on August 29, 1922, the oldest of five children. </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Jeanne attended college at NDSU for two years, then left school to marry Arthur Gustafson. During their 60+ years of marriage, they raised seven children together while living in Grand Forks, ND. Jeanne devoted many years to her family. Besides being a loving wife and attentive mother, Jeanne was a talented seamstress, expert bridge player, and excellent cook. </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">When her youngest child started school, Jeanne returned to college at UND. She earned a degree in elementary education, then went on to earn her master’s degree. She was on the dean’s list every semester and graduated with honors. Jeanne taught for 15 years before retiring, first at St. Michael’s Catholic school in Grand Forks and then at St. Joseph Catholic School in Mandan. Primarily a first grade teacher, Jeanne could proudly say that every child she taught learned how to read.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Jeanne and Arthur lived in Escondido, CA for many years after retirement before they relocated to Helena, MT. In retirement, Jeanne began quilting. Over the next 30 years, she designed and hand-quilted more than a hundred stunning quilts that are cherished by her family, including more than four dozen crib quilts for her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Jeanne was preceded in death by her parents; her four siblings; her husband; her son, John and his wife, Jean; and her grandson, Stephen. She is survived by six children, Paul (Ann), Mark (Judi), Lane Devereux (Michael), James (LuAnne), Janet Weisgram (David), and Robert (Lynn). Jeanne has 19 surviving grandchildren and 40 great-grandchildren.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">A funeral mass for Jeanne will be held at Our Lady of the Valley on October 20 at 11:00 A.M. Interment will take place in Mandan, ND at a later date.</p>Down Memory Lanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04214263048362966231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8066107.post-29164606798421667772021-10-12T16:48:00.001-05:002021-10-12T16:48:37.105-05:00<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Saying Goodbye to My Mother</b></span></p><p> I just said goodbye to my Mother, who is 1800 miles away, unresponsive and no longer eating or drinking. The hospice staff said that unresponsive people can still hear and understand, so my sister-in-law held the phone to her ear while I said my last words to her. Mother is 99 and this turn of events isn't unexpected, but I am still hurting. I saw her in May and she was in good shape. Michael and I had a lovely time with her. I have no unresolved issues with my Mother, no conflicts or remnants of past problems to cloud our relationship. For that I am thankful.</p><p>She started her decline over the summer, getting fuzzier about events and information, eating less and less. She held up her end of a telephone conversation fine as recently as two weeks ago, although she would sometimes respond to a question with "Now that's hard to know." She lost interest in food last winter. She has weighed about 145 pounds for a long time (a nice weight for her), but when we saw her in May she was down to 125 pounds, and now she only weighs 80. She will probably be gone in the next 24 hours. </p><p>I made plane and hotel reservations to visit her in Helena in mid-November. I'll be cancelling them, of course, but I can't bring myself to do it until Mother is actually dead. My brother who is in charge of the details of her passing asked me to write her obituary a few months ago. I did, but it was hard. After she passes, I'll post her obit. She was a remarkable women and I'd like everyone to know it.</p><p>Mother wanted to live to be 100 and I wish she had. She came damn close. If there is a Heaven, she'll be in it soon, hopefully with my Dad by her side. </p><p><br /></p>Down Memory Lanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04214263048362966231noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8066107.post-18495360798334018312019-10-03T00:49:00.000-05:002019-10-03T00:49:33.186-05:00Here's a first: I'm blogging in the Veterinary ER at 12:40 am. Smudge, our 11-year old tuxedo cat, is sick. I feel extra bad because he had been sneezing last night and this morning but I didn't pay attention. Then I didn't hear him all day, so I thought he was better. Well, at bedtime tonight, I found him curled up in a hot, miserable heap by my pillow. His mouth was hanging open, his tongue was sticking out, and he was very hot. Obviously a sick boy.<br />
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Thankfully, they built a Veterinary ER near us. I hope we aren't here all night because we have an early appointment tomorrow.<br />
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This is the first time I've blogged using my cell phone. It's the first time I've blogged in a long time. Maybe using my cell is the trick that's going to get me blogging again.Down Memory Lanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04214263048362966231noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8066107.post-51480089795758044922017-11-08T00:11:00.000-06:002017-11-08T00:11:54.093-06:00Creativity ExplosionI feel like I am in the middle of a creativity explosion these days. Quilting is big part of my creative output and I have become more and more interested in making art quilts. Bed quilts and lap quilts are large and take more time than I want to give sometimes. If I am not driven by a deadline - like a birthday or Christmas - I get lazy about working on projects that I have started. Moonglow is a good example. It is a beautiful quilt that I made in a block of the month class; it was paper pieced and I couldn’t have done that on my own without the class. But it is huge and I am hand-quilting it; I feel overwhelmed by it and haven’t done a lot of work on it. I told Alix she could have it, but I don’t have a deadline to give it to her, so no pressure. Plus, I kind of don’t want to give it away, at least not yet.<br />
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I have made several small projects in the last year that I like very much. A thread-painted small quilt with a rural scene on it that I lavishly hand-quilted while Michael had chemotherapy is one. Another is a miniature quilt I made for a Guild challenge and just finished. Simple, but lovely colors. I have a quilt in process for baby Gabriel and a UFO quilt of Felix’s footprints during her first year of life. Admittedly, there are a few more UFOs in my sewing stuff, mostly from classes. I want to get them finished, but I don’t know when that will happen.<br />
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This year I added another creative outlet: ceramics. Michael and I have wanted to do ceramics for several years but never got around to it until 2017. Last March we took a four-week class at The Potter’s Wheel and both made several pretty bowls. I even made a pitcher to add to my collection! This fall, we decided to enrol at Lone Star College for a semester-long ceramics class. It is very intense, lots of class time plus needed studio time after classes. The teacher, Kelley Eggert, is great and has really taught us a lot in a short time. I have made things I would never have expected to make. When they are all finished, at the end of the semester, I’ll take pictures of them and post the pix here for review.<br />
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I retain my interest in photography, although I’m not too active right now. I did put a photograph in a show at the JCC this summer and sold it. Last year year I sold an art quilt out of a WiVLA exhibition. Selling things is nice. We have a slush fund/windfall account and extra money like that, refunds, Christmas money, etc go into it. We paid our tuition for the ceramics class out of the slush fund.<br />
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I plan to take the ceramics 2 course in the spring. I really like ceramics and I am better at it than I knew I would be. It adds to my repertoire of creative outlets. I like it.<br />
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(And lest I forget, I found a new writers group and I am getting back into my book. I am developing some ambitions about finishing it this winter. We’ll see.)<br />
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<br />Down Memory Lanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04214263048362966231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8066107.post-44157597050249553682015-09-30T02:36:00.001-05:002015-09-30T02:45:31.284-05:00Insomnia Night ThreeAnother night and I am wide awake at 2:06 a.m. For the last three nights, I haven't been able to go to sleep and I've ended up awake until dawn. Yesterday, I finally fell asleep around 6:00 a.m. Or should I say, TODAY I finally fell asleep around 6:00 a.m. This is such a problem for me. I am not getting enough sleep and I am sleeping too much in the daytime, throwing off my schedule. Going to yoga at 9:00 a.m. was too much for me today and I skipped it. How am I going to feel tomorrow morning (this morning?) when I have to be at water aerobics at 9 a.m.? <div><br></div><div>Today is going to be really tough if I don't fall asleep soon. I have the water aerobics, then a program on colon cancer at Glazier I want to go to at 11, and an appointment with Dr. M. at 2 p.m. I am going to be whipped after all that. Hell, I'm going to be whipped duriiong all that.</div><div><br></div><div>Most evenings, I start falling asleep in the living room when we are watching tv and/or I am fiddling with my iPad. I try to stay awake, but it is hard and sometimes I miss hallf the program. That doesn't translate into going to bed and going to sleep though. Before I can go to bed, there are chores to be done. Feed the cats and clean that up, finish the dishwasher and run it, brush and floss my teeth, take medication, give the cats their nighttime treat. By the time I have done all that, I am wide awake AND it is late. Like 12 or 1 a.m. late. And I get into bed and I can't sleep.</div><div><br></div><div>I am getting phobic about it. I start worrying that I won't falll asleep and that keeps me awake. Or I start falling asleep and I become self-aware of the progress, which wakes me up. I try tricks, counting, breathing, pretending I am in my chair falling asleep watching tv. It doesn't seem to help. I have some sleeping pills aand I always think I'll take one of them and get a good night's sleep and get back on track, but it is always too late to take the pills by the time I realize that I can't sleep.</div><div><br></div><div>I can see what I need to do. Get everythiing finished early in the evening so that when I get tired, I can go to bed and fall asleep. Get on a better schedule, stop staying up until 1 or 2 in the morning on a regular basis. While we were traveling on the West Coast, we got up every morning and got on the road around 8:30 or 9. We traveled and did things all day and went to bed 11-ish. We didn't nap. I didn't have insomnia. We had purposeful days.</div><div><br></div><div>I feel that I am adrift. I have lots of things to do but little motivation to do them. I doesn't seem to matter whether I accomplish anything or not. There are rarely any deadlines in my life. But, of course, it does matter. The house is in terrible disarray, still disheveled from the flood last February. FEBRUARY. What is it that makes me not care enough to put my house back together? I don't know. And in the middle of the night, when I can't sleep, that is part of what I am thinking about. Everything I am not doing and everything I need to do and should be doing. </div><div><br></div><div>When morning comes, that is all forgotten. I am adrift again. You know, at 65 I really should have this shit worked out. For all the years after I left the workforce in 1992, my family's schedule defined my life and provided the structure that I lost when I retired from work. The kids are all gone now and since Michael retired, he doesn't have a schedule either. Self-discipline seems to have eluded me. External requirements still get me moving most of the time. But I hate living this way. I hate seeing myself as a failure on this very personal level. I need to change up my life. I wonder how I'm going to do that?</div><div><br></div>Down Memory Lanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04214263048362966231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8066107.post-36385077118106445712015-08-01T23:45:00.001-05:002015-08-01T23:45:39.988-05:00My AROHO ReadingIn August 2013, I attended at women writers' retreat at Ghost Ranch sponsored by the A Room of Her Own Foundation (AROHO). During my week there, a videographer named Rebecca Scheckmann taped me reading the opening of my memoir-in-progress, "The Requirements of Love." Today, Rebecca posted the video on YouTube, making it public for the first time. <div><br></div><div>Thank you, Rebecca!!</div><div><br></div><div>You can see the video at <a href="http://youtu.be/XjA-ir2-ecE" style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392);">http://youtu.be/XjA-ir2-ecE</a>.</div><div><br></div><div>Let me know what you think!</div><div><br></div><div>Ciao,</div><div>~Lanie</div>Down Memory Lanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04214263048362966231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8066107.post-16511031136095624012014-09-17T16:44:00.000-05:002014-09-17T16:44:28.659-05:00Cheryl Marshall Remembered<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><u>I wrote the following Remembrance for Cheryl and read it at her </u></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><u>Memorial Service on Saturday, September 13, 2014.</u></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Cheryl Marshall was one of my dearest friends. We knew each
other for twenty years, we enjoyed Crones together for probably fifteen of them,
and we spent uncounted hours in Starbucks. Twice every school year from second
grade to twelfth, Cheryl accompanied me to my younger daughter’s ARD meetings,
even when they were in Waco! Every December, Cheryl, Dan, Michael, and I went
out to dinner for our wedding anniversaries, which were a day apart. Cheryl and
I made road trips together, one all the way to Bellingham, Washington to see
Bertie Edwards, who many of you know, and one to Dallas to see Eddie Izzard perform.
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I guess you could say I knew Cheryl pretty well. And I know
that if Cheryl were here, she’d have you all laughing by now. She was seriously
funny. She’d probably undertake a pun or two - tell us we’re getting morgue
than we bargained for and that we have to do more to urn our keep. If you tried
to tell her there was mortal life than puns, she’d just laugh. It was her joy
to post a pun on her Facebook page every morning for a friend she especially
wanted to cheer up.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And what friends she had. Cheryl was Houston Gran to a
couple hundred people all over the globe, on every continent except Antarctica.
When I say she was their Gran, it was not just a word. These people loved her,
they poured out their hearts to her, they sent her letters and gifts, called
her on the phone, came to Houston to have lunch with her. For her 80<sup>th</sup>
birthday, they sent testimonials about all that Houston Gran had done for their
spirits and their hearts. Cheryl loved her Internet family deeply and truly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Cheryl considered herself Eddie’s Gran, too. Besides the
trip to Dallas, Cheryl made a trip to NYC to see him in a play. She owned every
DVD of his ever made and then some, but let's not say bootleg. Cheryl and I had tickets to see Eddie on
June 30, but she went to the hospital instead of the performance. She was
heartbroken to miss him, she loved him so.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She loved children, too, devoted her life to them, as you’ve
heard. Special education was not just her vocation, it was her calling. She
continued standing up for children after her retirement, attending ARDs as a
substitute parent for children in foster care. And there are more families here
than just mine whose children Cheryl advocated for tirelessly, refusing to accept
a penny for her skill and time. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Before Cheryl was Houston Gran, she was grandmother to the
children of her friends and acquaintances, offering a comforting lap, a
listening ear, a willingness to engage in childhood games and stories. And who
could forget the bag of lollipops she carried? Cheryl never condescended to
children and perhaps that is why they loved her so much. In local circles, she
was mostly known as Lala, a name she cherished. There was a special place in
her heart for <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>her one and only Mazie.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Was Cheryl perfect? No. None of us is perfect. Cheryl was
simply so full of love and laughter, compassion and comfort, wit and wisdom,
that her imperfections didn’t amount to a hill of beans. I am proud to have
been her friend, and I know you are, too.</span></div>
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Down Memory Lanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04214263048362966231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8066107.post-50620690365518374892013-08-21T16:49:00.001-05:002013-08-21T16:49:05.451-05:00Sportscar HeavenThe fellow at the car rental counter scammed me a little bit when I picked my car up on Sunday. He convinced me that my pre-selected Economy car would have trouble making it up the mountains on my trip to Pagosa Springs. It sounded reasonable, so I let him sign me up for a car with more "pull." When I walked to the parking spot, I found a cherry red Mustang. Whoa! That was more car than I expected and I almost walked back in and said no. Giving it back seemed like a lot of trouble, though, so I took the Mustang and drove off.<div><br></div><div>The steering on the Mustang was so sensitive that I had to be very careful not to oversteer it. Once past Santa Fe, the road narrowed down to two lanes with very few passing lanes. Sunday traffic was busy and I did not feel like the Mustang was really such a great sportscar. It did zoom up and down the hills with a lot of verve, but, in the long run, I thought the extra $40 I paid was wasted.</div><div><br></div><div>Driving back to Albuquerque this morning, I changed my mind about the car. More rested than I had been Sunday, relaxed and in good spirits from visiting June and Bob, I took the wheel and fairly flew down the road. And I wasn't speeding! There was no one else driving, the steering felt natural in my hands, and the lusciious countryside seemed designed just to make me happy. </div><div><br></div><div>I drove along mountain meadows with sunflowers in roadside profusion, all facing the morning sun. I drove along rolling hills, covered with dark green forests of mostly pine trees. In the background, great, rocky, grey massifs loomed over the landscape. Slowing down for a twisty turn, I came upon a doe along the verge. She hardly gave me a glance and even didn't bother to run away. I guess she's seen more than her share of speeding cars and wasn't impressed with mine.</div><div><br></div><div>As I got into New Mexico, the terrain began to shift away from tree-covered hills and mountains and into sere bluffs in the vivid reds, yellows, and purples that Georgia O'Keefe painted. The roads began to congest and the lovely smoothness of zipping along a peaceful highway disappeared. But I didn't mind. My hour or so of sportscar heaven made the $40 worthwhile. And while I never need to drive a Mustang again, I'm glad I did it this once.</div>Down Memory Lanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04214263048362966231noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8066107.post-67673197045827835712013-08-21T00:45:00.001-05:002013-08-21T00:45:36.848-05:00BlessingsMy week at the AROHO Women Writers Retreat, held at Ghost Ranch, filled me with blessings of the cerebral-spiritual kind, with nourishment for my soul, my brain, and my heart. The AROHO women bestowed care on each other with a fierce <span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">generousity of spirit. We danced joyously, with unbridled physicality, after the closing ceremony. My final good-byes were quiet on Sunday. The experience had been so intense that it felt right to slip away without a lot of emotion. I will be processing the experience for weeks and likely months to come. It is clear to me that my writing will benefit from what I heard, saw, learned. I am truly blessed to be one of the hundred women who were able to attend this retreat.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">The three days at June and Bob's home in Pagosa Springs filled me with blessings of the heart, with the joy of laughter, and with the inspiration of gorgeous art. June and Bob are warm, caring people who are the most gracious hosts. Their home is full of lovely things, selected with exquisite taste and displayed beautifully. Walking through the house is a feast for my eyes. June is a talented fine arts photographer and many of the treasures are her pictures. I hate to leave tomorrow and wish I had allowed more time with them.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">By Wednesday evening, I will be at my mother's home. It is a blessing of a most particular kind to spend time with her. She will be 91 in a week. Fortunately, she is vital, engaged person who is living a full life on her own terms. Mother inspires me. Visiting her means visiting many other relatives who live nearby. A bunch of those relatives are small children, great-nieces and - nephews, and they bestow the blessings of innocence and wonder on me every time I interact with them. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">August has showered me with such blessings. Who could ask for more?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">Ciao,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">Lane</span></div>Down Memory Lanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04214263048362966231noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8066107.post-1366319304727375942013-04-16T13:25:00.000-05:002013-08-21T00:46:49.496-05:00ECO Award and Scarf ChicOh, for crying out loud!! I had so much trouble getting into my browser and then to my blog today that I can't remember what I intended to write when I got here! So I will take the opportunity to update a couple of happy items in my life.<br>
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Last March, I was the lucky winner of WiVLA's Educational and Cultural Opportunity Award (for a writer) of $1,000. I used the money to pay for editing services from Sarah Cortez, a fantastic writer (poet, essay, memoir) and teacher I have taken classes from in the past. With Sarah, I worked on my memoir, <em>The Requirements of Love</em>, which you may have read about in my blog in February. (If you missed it, feel free to go back and take a look.)<br>
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Tonight, I am giving my report on how I used the ECO award. That is, I will be reading the first chapter of my manuscript at the WiVLA meeting. This is very exciting. I have done so much work on the book this year. My ultimate goal for the memoir was to have it ready to submit to the Mayborn Literary Non-Fiction manuscript competition this summer. I am already signed up to do that.<br>
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Another exciting element of my life is my show at Galveston's Art Walk this Saturday, April 20th. Entitled "Scarf Chic," the show will be at the Tremont House hotel from 6 - 10 pm. I will be showing my handcrafted scarves. The varieties include ribbon scarves, ruffle scarves, infinity scarves, knotted scarves, and string scarves. I am quite excited about this and I hope that someone actually comes to the show and perhaps even buys a scarf!! The hotel is putting on a reception with wine and food, so it should be enjoyable. If you can get to Galveston Saturday night, please join me for the party. Down Memory Lanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04214263048362966231noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8066107.post-33989239575684643722013-03-04T13:41:00.001-06:002013-03-04T13:41:33.327-06:00Scorched: Earth, Energy, and Women<br />
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NOTE: I wrote <em>Scorched: Earth, Energy, and Women</em> as a submission to an art exhibition and literary reading titled <em>Earth/Energy: Through Women's Eyes. </em>It was published in a chapbook with other selections, but it has a very limited sphere of influence in that format. I want to share it with more people, so I am putting it on my blog. Someone researching the topic may run across it and find it useful. ~LD</div>
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The first woman to throw a haunch of venison onto a pile of
burning sticks began an intimate relationship between women, the earth, and
energy that continues to this day. The earth produces combustible materials –
biomass – that women have used since prehistory to cook meals, heat homes, and
provide lighting. Research quantifies that women worldwide do the majority of
the work associated with these tasks, a conclusion that most women would find
self-evident. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p>The major source for household energy for half the world’s
population is biomass, primarily wood, dung, or coal. When those fuels are
scarce, leaves, grass, and agricultural residue are secondary resources. The
half of the world’s population that does not rely on biomass are primarily
urban dwellers in third world countries and the general population in developed
countries who cook and heat their homes with biofuels like liquefied petroleum
gas, natural gas, kerosene, and methane.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p>It is reasonable for those of us living in fuel-rich America
to ask what difference it makes if third world women use biomass or biofuel in
their homes. Do you want to cook? Turn on your stove. Its burners will glow
with electric heat or erupt in a tiny ring of clean, blue, natural gas flame. For
backyard grilling, we use bottled gas or a bag of charcoal. The most
inconvenienced the average women here ever gets is when she goes on a camping
trip that requires a wood fire. Cooking out while camping is considered
enjoyable and chopped wood is readily available in campgrounds and at the
grocery store.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p>Contrast the casual availability of cooking and heating fuel
in our homes to the daily grind of a rural villager in any underdeveloped
country. Women and children gather most of the biomass fuel used in these
homes. Sometimes they use the byproducts of their gardens for fuel. Often, they
try to conserve fuel sources for future use by protecting common areas
surrounding their villages from overgrazing or deforestation. But the reality
for most of these women is that biomass is scarce.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p>Fuel scarcity is a problem for 60 percent of the households
in Africa, 80 percent in Asia, and nearly 40 percent in Latin American and the
Caribbean. Women and children spend hours searching for available fuel. In
fuel-scarce areas, the time needed to collect fuel for household use can range
from one to five hours per household per day. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p>Why does that matter? It matters because there are that many
fewer hours to grow food, to go to school, or to produce goods to sell. The
list could go on. Without cooking, the basic foods of most poor cultures - rice
and beans - are inedible. Without hot water, bodies and clothing remain unwashed.
Without heat, families suffer in cold weather. And the arduous journeys to
distant locales undertaken daily to secure fuel often put women and girls in
harms way.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p>The irony is that once these families acquire the day’s
ration of wood, dung, or coal, their problems increase. Biomass fuels do not
burn well and emit toxic fumes that cause health problems in the women and
children exposed to them. In one paper, the authors assert that “Biomass fuel
used for cooking results in widespread exposure to indoor air pollution,
affecting nearly 3 billion people throughout the world.” The authors further state
that an estimated 2.2 – 2.8 million deaths annually occur because of indoor air
pollution from biomass fuels. One million of these deaths result from acute
lower respiratory infections among infants and children. Other reports note
that indoor air pollution from biomass fuels has caused increases in the
incidence of both tuberculosis and blindness among users.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p>Where does the knowledge of one more problem among poor and
destitute women leave us? Short of inventing the perfect, low-cost, renewable
energy technology, how can we help? Two things stood out as I read papers and
articles on women and energy. First, this is a gender issue and political
action to secure gender equality at home and internationally is crucial.
Second, Non-Governmental Organizations are out there working on the problem and
they need donors and volunteers. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p>Now that you know about the issues, I hope that you are
motivated to educate yourself about using the Earth’s biomass as energy. Any
way you can help solve these problems will make a difference.<o:p></o:p></div>
Down Memory Lanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04214263048362966231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8066107.post-69148171000625545672013-01-24T20:02:00.000-06:002013-01-24T20:02:01.156-06:00The Next Big Thing from Lane Devereux
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Next Big Thing continues with a reply from Lane Devereux, author of the forthcoming memoir, <em>The Requirements of Love</em>. Here are Lane’s answers to the questions posed by The Next Big Thing:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A big thank you to my friend </span><a href="http://virginiapye.com/wordpress/?p=256" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Marian Szczepanski</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> for this invitation to join the blog share, The Next Big Thing. Her riveting new novel, <em>Playing St. Barbara</em>, will be published this spring by<span style="color: purple;"> </span></span><a href="http://www.highhillpress.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: purple; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">High Hill Press</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">. <em>Playing Saint Barbara</em> chronicles the secrets, struggles, and self-redemption of a coal miner’s wife and her three daughters set against a turbulent historical backdrop of Ku Klux Klan intimidation, the Great Depression, and Pennsylvania Mine War of 1933.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My debut memoir, <em>The Requirements of Love</em>, is undergoing revisions before submission to a manuscript competition.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> <span style="color: #365f91; mso-themecolor: accent1; mso-themeshade: 191;">Where did the idea come from for the book?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Ever since we adopted our youngest daughter, the story has
drawn people’s interest. One question always led to another and I often found myself
sitting and visiting with strangers about our family situation for an hour or more
while waiting in places like the doctor’s office or McDonald’s playground. I
realized that many more people might want to know about how we dealt with the
challenges we faced than I could ever reach one-on-one. A book seemed like the
right way to reach out. In addition, as we struggled with our daughter’s mental
illness over the years, we were stymied by the paucity of information available. I want to give other families
a place to find that information, as well as the support and encouragement they need. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="color: #365f91; mso-themecolor: accent1; mso-themeshade: 191;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Under what genre does your book fall?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My book is a memoir and it tells our story from my point of
view.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="color: #365f91; mso-themecolor: accent1; mso-themeshade: 191;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a
movie rendition?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This was a tough question until I realized we were all
younger then, so I could pick younger actors! For my husband, Colin Firth is
the actor I would want. For my son, Joseph Gordon Levitt would be good. For my
older daughter, Jennifer Hudson is my pick. For my youngest daughter, the
dynamite actor who played Hushpuppy on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Beasts
of the Southern Wild</i>, <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Quvenzhané
Wallis, is the one. For myself, I would choose the talented Julianna Margulies.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="color: #365f91; mso-themecolor: accent1; mso-themeshade: 191;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Requirements of
Love </i>is an in-the-trenches account of coping with my own grave health
issues and ensuing family upheavals while adopting and raising an abused
child with undiagnosed mental illness.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="color: #365f91; mso-themecolor: accent1; mso-themeshade: 191;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Will your book be self-published or represented by an
agency?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I will be submitting my manuscript to the Mayborn Literary
Non-Fiction book competition in a few months. The top prize is a
publishing contract with the University of North Texas Press. I hope to be the
winner of that contest and have my book published by them. If that does not
happen, I will be looking for an agent.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="color: #365f91; mso-themecolor: accent1; mso-themeshade: 191;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">How long did it take you to write the first draft of your
manuscript?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have been writing this book ever since our adopted daughter
came into my life. For years, I wrote personal essays about incidences as they
occurred, although I was sometimes so ill, or so overwhelmed by her illness, that I
could not face my keyboard for months at a time. I wrote my first synopsis of the book in 1995 when
she was four years old, so I guess it took me almost twenty years to get that
first draft done! As our daughter grew up, the story grew with her.</span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="color: #365f91; mso-themecolor: accent1; mso-themeshade: 191;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What other books would you compare this story to within
your genre?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Although it does not touch on childhood mental illness, an
excellent book that conveys the same kind of story about love in the face of
illness and difficulty would be <i>On the Outskirts of Normal: Forging a Family
Against the Grain</i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"> by Debra Monroe.</span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="color: #365f91; mso-themecolor: accent1; mso-themeshade: 191;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Who or what inspired you to write this book?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My family is my inspiration. The problems we faced were so
overwhelming that only a family with deep roots of love for each other could
have survived intact. My husband and my birth children not only cared for me in
my illness, but also took an abused and neglected little girl into their hearts.
They are my muses.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="color: #365f91; mso-themecolor: accent1; mso-themeshade: 191;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What else about your book might pique the reader's
interest?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I took care to include resource information that other
families can use if they need help with similar problems or in similar
situations.</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Watch for upcoming posts about The Next Big Thing from these writers:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On February 5, emerging writer Diana Meade will tell us about <em>Embracing Your Inner Nut: How to Replace Stress and Boredom with Fun, </em>written by her alter ego, Ida Clare. Having read excerpts of Ida's writing, I can tell you she is about as funny and irreverent as a women from the Piney Woods of Texas can get and she is guaranteed to be a font of knowledge about all things fun! Diana is currently working on illustrations for Ida's book and plans to release it on Amazon in the next few months. You'll find Diana's blog share at </span><a href="http://www.idaclare.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">www.idaclare.com</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On February 8, gifted writer and editor Sarah Cortez will tell us about her forthcoming book <em>Our Lost Border: Essays on Life amid the Narco-Violence, </em>a book she co-edited with Sergio Troncoso. Publication of Sarah's latest book is set for March 13, 2013. You'll find Sarah's blog share at </span><a href="http://www.poetacortez.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: purple; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">www.poetacortez.com</span></a>Down Memory Lanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04214263048362966231noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8066107.post-8001131137117634702012-03-15T23:07:00.000-05:002012-03-16T17:34:43.318-05:00The High Price of Women's Political Apathy in the 2010 Elections<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">On March
12, NPR's Diane Rheum Show hosted a panel discussion about "The
Battle for Women's Votes." I tuned in after the introductions were made
and listened for quite a while before I knew who the three guests were.
One of the panelists presented her points of view in a harsh and harridan-ish
way, scolding and chastising the other guests and speaking very derisively of
everyone whose comments she did not like. A picture arose in my mind as I
listened to her: Sister Mary Scary, nine feet tall, six feet wide, wooden ruler
in hand, ready to deliver retribution to anyone who looked like they might
start trouble. (Is it obvious that I attended Catholic school during my
formative years?)<br />
<br />
When the host reintroduced everyone, it all became clear. The harridan-ish
person was an actual, bonafide harridan, Phyllis Schlaffly. Younger people may
not know who Phyllis is. Lucky you. She is an Catholic Illinoisan who became
the extremely vocal and exceedingly nasty leader of the anti-choice movement
beginning in the early 1970s. (A little history lesson: repressive
anti-abortion laws in the USA were overturned by the Supreme Court in 1973.)<br />
<br />
I lived in St. Louis, Missouri at the time and found it very difficult to
escape Phyllis's harping and screeching anti-choice venom. She also
espoused a very fundamentalist, anachronistic view of women's position in
marriage and society. I could not stand Phyllis or her political and social
agenda and I felt disappointed on Monday to discover that she hadn't gone the
way of the dinosaur yet. Aside from her comments, I found the program very
interesting.<br />
<br />
The other two guests were Terry O'Neill, president of the National Organization
of Women, and Karen Tumulty, a national political reporter for the Washington
Post. Terry O'Neill made a comment that riveted me. She said that the
2010 national and state legislature election outcomes were
severely affected by an unusually low turnout of women voters. (O'Neill cited a
study to support this, which I can't remember, so you'll have to listen to the
program on Diane Rehm's podcast if you want those details.)<br />
<br />
According to this study, O'Neill said, an extraordinary number of
ultra-conservative and fundamentalist-leaning candidates gained office because
women did not vote. O'Brien and Associates blog post of February 24,
2012, states, "However, according to O’Neill, the total number of
women voters dropped in 2010, particularly unmarried women, who traditionally
vote more progressively and Democratic. Married women tend to become more
Republican." <br />
<br />
So what difference did a little apathy on the part of women make? Just this.
Over 1,000 anti-women bills (meaning anti-choice, anti-birth control,
anti-equal rights, etc.) have been introduced at the state level since 2010 and
over 100 of them have passed. And we've all seen what's been happening in
Washington. Did you wonder why we suddenly had this spate of dangerous
legislation like forcible sonogram bills? Now you have the answer.<br />
<br />
Women got fed up and stayed home from the polls. The number of women in
national elected office suffered, too. As quoted in the O'Brien and Associates
blog I mentioned earlier, O'Neill states, “In 1992, the number of women
in Congress increased from 5 percent to 10 percent. And in 2010, we lost women
in Congress largely in part because of women not voting.”<br />
<br />
My contemporaries and I worked hard, really hard, in the 1960s and
1970s to overcome paternalistic and misogynistic laws and attitudes in the
United States. I speak for many women when I say that, as members of the last
generation that witnessed the horrors of illegal abortions first
hand, pro-choice and pro-birth control legislation has the
greatest significance for us. We are now the older generation. We still
support these causes, although I, for one, admit to utter weariness with
fighting the same battles again and again. <br />
<br />
What do we do? Oddly enough, the answer appears to be quite simple. Vote. I'd
like to say "Vote early and often," the old canard from Chicago's
Daley-machine days, but that would be wrong. Just vote once, but do vote. Even
if your vote is different from mine, even if you support things that I think
are awful, vote. Women have the potential to powerfully affect election
outcomes and we need to exercise that power this year. If the
ultra-conservatives get a stronger grip on this country in November, it may be
the last opportunity we have for quite a while.<br />
<br />
Fight back with your vote.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span>Down Memory Lanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04214263048362966231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8066107.post-4895957683412251002012-03-10T16:08:00.000-06:002012-03-10T16:08:22.393-06:00Dancing Through the Weekend<br />
My <st2:date day="6" month="3" year="2012">3-6-12</st2:date>
blog got sidelined. After I reread it, I realized that it had sunk to whining
and complaining and, even worse, it named names. Part of me wanted the people
in question to see it and feel bad, another part of me thought that the ensuing
discourse would not be helpful and might cause hard feelings. I decided to opt
for rising above my own hard feelings to avoid causing them in others.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br />
While I mulled this dilemma over, I put the posting into
Limbo, just in case I decided to publish it after all. Now that I’m going with
the angel instead of the devil, I need to publish something for this week.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br />
Hmm … Someone once told me she did not read blogs because
who cared what someone else ate for lunch anyway. I have used that as my
standard for essays. Is it more interesting than what I ate for lunch to someone who is not
me? Looking over my recent escapades, I think I will focus on dance
experiences.</div>
<br /><br />
Last weekend, <st1:givenname>Michael</st1:givenname> and I
were privileged to see not one, but TWO ballet companies perform – The Houston
Ballet and the Alvin Ailey Dance Company. The Houston Ballet danced an updated
version of Cinderella. It charmed me. Cinderella, transformed from a helpless
drudge dependent on bluebirds, mice, and a fairy godmother, gives as good as
she gets from the nasties in her life. <br />
<br /><br />
She punches and kicks in scuffles with the stepsisters,
played by two young men in the company who minced and preened perfectly, and is
no more cowed by the wicked stepmother than the stepsisters are. Stepmother,
played by another male dancer, is severe and conniving and not above
man-handling all three of the girls. She saves her special meanness for Cinderella,
though, by mistreating the girl’s alcohol-impaired father and by taunting her
with what she can’t have – a ticket to the big ball at the castle.<br />
<br /><br />
The funniest scenes of this dance took place at the ball. <st2:personname>Prince
<st1:sn>Florimund</st1:sn></st2:personname> is played not as charming, but as
vain and over impressed with himself. Florimund and his minions reminded me of
The Fonz with their use of moves stereotypical of a man on the prowl. The kind
of guy that delivers a terrible pick-up line with the absolute certainty that he
is funny and delightful and all maidens within earshot will promptly swoon.<br />
<br /><br />
Cinderella swoons for another, however, a spectacled young
man who is the only nice one among the minions. Ultimately, the two of them get
to have the happily ever after they deserve. The stepmother and stepsisters get
appropriate (and satisfying to the viewer) comeuppances. And the father, by
dying nobly, finally protecting his daughter, is reunited with his first wife
to live in blissful, ghostly happiness. <br />
<br /><br />
Not to be overlooked were the zombies. Billed as ghosts, a
five-year-old would have recognized them as zombies. In this version, it is
Cinderella’s dead mother (oddly un-zombie like) and her army of zombie minions
who save the day for <st1:givenname>Cindy</st1:givenname>. The undead were
funny and danced exactly the way I would have expected zombies to dance if I
had ever considered that they might do ballet.<br />
<br />
<br />
I found the ballet charming and funny and well worth the
time and money I invested in seeing it. The Alvin Ailey Dance Company was
equally worthwhile, although an altogether different dance experience.<br />
<br /><br />
Before I get into that, let me just get this off my chest:
Jones Hall is by far the most badly designed venue in <st1:sn><st2:city><st2:place>Houston</st2:place></st2:city></st1:sn>
for patrons. The endless stairways one must climb and descend to get anywhere –
bathrooms, concessions, seats – are ludicrous and it boggles the imagination
that someone actually planned the place. <br />
<br /><br />
If it had grown from a small theater to the big place it is
by accretion, like you see among older homes in the country sometimes, I would
be more tolerant, but this is not Ma and Pa Kettle’s old cabin with rooms added
willy-nilly over 50 years. Someone actually thought this theater’s layout was a
good idea!! Don’t even let me get started on the difficulties it caused me when
I was in a wheelchair. We stopped going there after one season because it was
simply too hard to navigate. Now I’m walking, but it is almost as difficult for
able-bodied people as for the handicapped. What were they thinking??<br />
<br /><br />
Now, back to the dancing. The first thing that struck my
about the AA dancers was their size. These performers, men and women, seemed
bigger than most dancers, more athletic and robust. It did not impair their
dancing at all, nor did it diminish their grace or the beauty of their
movements. <br />
<br /><br />
This performance felt like one was reading a book of short
stories, where Cinderella approximated a novel. The genres are different, but
both are worthwhile. The AA Dance Company gave us short dances with lots of
meat on them to mull over and think about after the performance ended. A few of
them really stood out.<br />
<br /><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Hunt, </i>performed
by men wearing long, red-lined black skirts beautifully portrayed the
camaraderie and competition among a cohort of hunters. The skirts, an odd
contrast to their bare chests, startled me at first, but by the dance’s
conclusion, I felt they fit perfectly with the choreography. The music for this
dance, selections from “Jungle Jazz,” thrilled me with its booming, staccato
rhythms. I need to see if that album is still available.<br />
<br /><br />
The biggest piece in the performance was also the most
impressive. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Revelations, </i>choreographed
by <st2:personname><st1:givenname>Alvin</st1:givenname> <st1:sn>Ailey</st1:sn></st2:personname>,
sets dances to ten Negro spirituals. Each spiritual had its own costuming,
which always seemed absolutely perfect for the music and the choreography. “<st1:givenname>Wade</st1:givenname>
in the Water,” for one example, featured men in loose-fitting white trousers
and women in long, flowing white dresses and wide-brimmed, white, flowered hats. A
bolt of satiny blue cloth stretched diagonally across the stage and, manipulated
by unseen hands, billowed and flowed like water as the dancers moved in and
out of it. It seemed like perfection to me.<br />
<br /><br />
I have seen a group of <st2:personname><st1:givenname>Alvin</st1:givenname>
<st1:sn>Ailey</st1:sn></st2:personname> dancers perform before once before, in
1991 or 1992, at a free performance in the lobby of the <st2:place><st2:placename>World</st2:placename>
<st2:placename>Trade</st2:placename> <st2:placetype>Center</st2:placetype></st2:place>
in NYC. (Don’t ask me which building.) I was in NYC on business and fit in a
visit with my college friend, <st1:givenname>Greg</st1:givenname>, who took me
on my first subway adventure to get to the performance. It was my one and only
experience with the <st2:place><st2:placename>World</st2:placename> <st2:placename>Trade</st2:placename>
<st2:placetype>Center</st2:placetype></st2:place> prior to 9-11, and it has
given me a wonderful alternate image to substitute for the final images we all
saw of those buildings.<br />
<br /><br />
I would definitely attend another Alvin Ailey Dance Company
performance, even if I had to go to Jones Hall to see it, and I’m already
seeing the Houston Ballet again next Saturday. One difference between the
performances that really got my attention was the demographics of the
audiences. The Houston Ballet performances I usually go to –Sunday afternoon in the
past and Saturday evening in recent years – are predominantly attended by white
people, with a few black, Hispanic, and Asian patrons included. When there were
some black dancers in the company, including <st2:personname><st1:givenname>Lauren</st1:givenname>
<st1:sn>Anderson</st1:sn></st2:personname>, <st2:personname><st1:givenname>Carlos</st1:givenname>
<st1:sn>Acosta</st1:sn></st2:personname>, and a young dancer named <st2:personname><st1:givenname>Cleopatra</st1:givenname>
<st1:sn>Williams</st1:sn></st2:personname>, the black audience was bigger.<br />
<br /><br />
The audience at the Alvin Ailey Dance Company’s performance
we saw, on a Sunday afternoon, was mostly black. I didn’t particularly notice
if there were Hispanic or Asian faces in the crowd, whites were in the
minority. It seemed like the proportions were 60%-40% or thereabouts. The crowd
obviously appreciated dance, so why aren’t they attending performances of the
Houston Ballet in greater numbers? Is it as simple as the lack of black dancers
in the HB? Is it a failure of outreach, not advertising to diverse communities?
I don’t have the answers, but I appreciated being in an audience with a diverse
composition. I’d like to see that more at Houston Ballet.<br />
<br />
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<br /></div>Down Memory Lanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04214263048362966231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8066107.post-64905248442290596872012-02-28T23:57:00.001-06:002012-02-28T23:57:27.274-06:00Let's All Say a Prayer for Fatty Liver<br /><br /><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Life has been on the crazy side for me lately. I will admit it, I'm over committed. The fact that a lot of those overcommitments are for things I really like, such as the ballet, the theater, yoga, quilting, friends, doesn't change anything. And this is a particularly bad time for me to be over committed, because I'm not feeling well.<br /><br />It started last October, when one of my many doctors noticed that I had elevated liver enzymes and/or other bad test results for my liver. That started me on a four-month odyssey of going on and off various drugs to see if my test results would improve. The fact that I had several doctors independently trying to do this did not help the situation. In January, my rheumatologist took me off Azathioprine (generic for Immuran, an immune-suppressing drug that keeps my lupus in check).<br /><br />The consequence of going off my main lupus med is that I have felt like crap pretty much ever since. One of the worst problems is the lupus fatigue. Forget getting a a good, 8-hour night's sleep. I could sleep for 12 hours and I would still be tired. Getting out of bed has become a major problem. I only succeed at all because my joints hurt so much by morning that I have to get up. I have resorted to going back to bed in the middle of the afternoon. I do not mean napping, I mean going to bed. It's depressing and I can't get anything done anymore.<br /><br />After another round of bad tests in early February, I got sent to a liver specialist. Fortunately, I had one who already knew me. Did you know the docs who do colonoscopies are liver specialists? Me neither, but they are. So I went to see my gastric guy, who ordered many more tests and an ultrasound. I got his conclusions last Tuesday.<br /><br />The tests identified two possibilities, neither one conclusive. Either I have a tragic liver disease or I'm too fat. This is not a joke. Plan A included me having a liver biopsy, but I've had a variety of biopsies before and know what they're like, so I declined, at least for the time being. Plan B, which assumes that I have what is known as Fatty Liver Disease, is that I must lose twelve pounds in three months and get tested again to see if that fixes the problem. If it does, the dread disease is off the table. Yee-haw for losing weight. The fact that I only have to lose twelve pounds to get out of the "overweight" category does not seem like I should be plagued with a fatty liver, but who am I to argue?<br /><br />If it is not fatty liver, then it is probably Primary Biliary Cirrhosis, a progressive, auto-immune liver disease with no cure except a liver transplant, which of course is not considered until you are at the dying end of it. You can probably understand why I am rooting for the fatty liver disease. The fact that I have already got more than one auto-immune disease does not make me feel good about this, though. Time will tell.<br /><br />It would be fair to say I am feeling depressed. Depression plus the lupus fatigue is hard to fight. If it turns out to be PBC, the treatment is the lupus medication which they took me off last month. I see that doc next week and I am hopeful that he will put me back on it now. That would help a lot.<br /><br />The really bad thing is that I have had to cut out my drinking for the duration. Those of you who know me well are wondering why I say this, because I am scarcely a drinker at all. The thing is, after our trip to Costa Rica, I acquired the very best Costa Rican rum on the market - 20 year-old Centenario. I had taken to enjoying a sip or two over cracked ice a couple times a week, just savoring the delicious rum-ness of it. Sigh, no more fabulous rum for me, at least until I know what is wrong with my liver.<br /><br />Anyone interested in some good rum? Come on over and I'll give you a wee bit. All you have to do in return is describe it to me while you're sipping it. Let's all hope that I turn out to have fatty liver. I will never complain about dieting again.</span>Down Memory Lanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04214263048362966231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8066107.post-73059821393456917362012-02-22T00:26:00.000-06:002012-02-22T00:26:04.931-06:00My day in twenty minutes or lessI swear I wrote a post on Tuesday, just like I usually do. When I tried to publish it at 11:58 pm, my iPad ate it. I rewrote it. When I tried to publish that at 12:19 am, my iPad ate that, too. I give up. I'll try again tomorrow from my PC. Rotten iPad!Down Memory Lanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04214263048362966231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8066107.post-4150841275410908132012-02-14T23:00:00.000-06:002012-02-14T23:02:30.211-06:00A Half-full Kind of Woman<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">I am a
cheerful person, an optimist, a half-full kind of woman. I have lived my life
on these terms through thick and thin, seeing the bright side, the silver
lining, and the light at the end of the tunnel without much trouble. That is
not to say I don't get down, I don't worry about things. In fact, in a kind of
Catch-22 joke on myself, I worry almost constantly, playing and replaying
scenarios in my head, trying to get them right. This can be very helpful
preparation for difficult encounters. It is less helpful when the events have
already taken place, sometimes many years in the past. </span></span><br />
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span></o:p><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">I don't
think this is a split personality situation. I am a cheerful and optimistic
person and I find it easy to express those positive emotions. I like to talk to
other people, like to let my mind range free, and, in the course of those kind
of encounters, positive, upbeat ideas flow forth from me quite naturally.</span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">My dark
side is quiet and keeps to itself. I don't usually share the thoughts and
feelings that reside there. I don't like to give them a voice, I don't like to
depress other people, or myself, by talking about them, and they are often
worries rather than realities. However, they remain to plague me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Mostly, I
worry about them when I am not otherwise occupied. Alone, driving my car;
during the meditation portion of a yoga class; sitting in an uninteresting
lecture; trying to go to sleep at night. That's the worst. I rarely just go to
bed and to sleep. I go to bed and read, sometimes, or play a game on one of my
mindless devices. </span></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span></o:p><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">I play or
read until I am falling asleep at the wheel, so to speak, then turn off the
lights with the hope that I will in fact drift away to slumber land. I almost
never do. As soon as my head hits the pillow, thoughts climb up out of the
trenches where they have been hiding and begin lobbing thought grenades at me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">These
thought grenades can be as recent as the doctor's visit I had yesterday or as
remote as the fellow who ripped us off at Yellowstone National Park in 1988.
The way they snake through my brain is a mystery, linkages of association so
tenuous that I can hardly follow them. My brain has no problem, though, with
jumping from connection to connection from the phone conversation I had today
back to some seemly unrelated event from 20 years ago. The lesson I take from
this is that nothing is unrelated.</span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Still, I
am a cheerful person. I don't like to be in the position of considering unhappy
events or situations. When people ask me about a difficult topic, like my
health problems or my youngest daughter, I feel exposed and vulnerable. In
talking about these things, I am liable to tear up and get a quaver in my
voice. </span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Any
intense emotion or situation can make my eyes fill up and my voice lose its
deeper, mellower tones. I have choked up, teared up when reading my essays in
public, when engaged in an energetic business transaction, and when making the
public presentation of a gift to an associate. (It also happens quite regularly
when I watch sappy movies on late-night TV, but I suspect that is a different
category of response.)</span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">These
emotional events embarrass me, in part because I feel they embarrass other
people who are present, and, often, they surprise me. Just when I am
congratulating myself on my self-composure and my calm, cool demeanor, it
cracks, I crack, and intense emotions that I may not even know I feel pour out
like water from a breached dam. I have learned to keep a Kleenex tucked
discretely at hand whenever I am in a situation that may bring about one of
these moments.</span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">I don't
know why I am such a reluctant emoter. People who are self-confessed criers
amaze me and cause me a bit of envy. There have been many times in my life when
a good, old-fashioned crying stint would have made me feel much better and
gotten me some emotional leverage. I don't cry in situations like those.
Instead of being a crier, I am a leaker, and I leak when I would rather not let
on that I am in distress. It is perverse.</span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">As I age,
I am becoming more accepting of this part of my nature. I am less apologetic
about leaking sadness and that makes it easier for me. I am also happy that I
often find myself in the company of women whose creative, artistic souls seem
to me to be more accepting of these strong emotions than the more pragmatic
individuals I encounter. Or maybe it is just because they are woman. It
probably doesn't matter except that it is easier for me to be honestly
emotional among my artist and writer friends than among almost anyone else.</span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">I want my
life to be positive just like I want my home to be tidy. In a perfect world, I
would have a place for everything and everything in its place, or, as the
French say, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mise en place. </i>Living, as
I do, in a less than perfect world, I don't always manage that. I haven't
managed to avoid sadness and disappointment in my life either. When I know
company is coming, I pick things up to make my house look the way I wish it
looked all the time. </span></span><o:p><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
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<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">When I
invite people into my emotional home, I want things to look the way I wish they
were, too, instead of how they actually may be - happy instead of sad, cheery
instead of gloomy. And most of the time, they are happy and cheery. As I said
in the beginning, I am a half-full kind of woman, cheerful and optimistic in my
outlook on life. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>Down Memory Lanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04214263048362966231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8066107.post-76584691482283069722012-01-31T16:07:00.000-06:002012-01-31T16:07:14.551-06:00Forgetting Myself in Theaters<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Helvetica;">I had
several ideas for a topic over the last few days, but this morning, sitting at
the Blue Planet Cafe with my writing buddies, none of them come to mind. This
is a frequent turn of events in my life. I can't remember why I walked into the
kitchen, I can't recall what I needed now that I am at Randalls, and,
sometimes, I forget to meet friends with whom I've made plans.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;">
</span><br />
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<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Helvetica;">For me
this is not an age thing, although I usually blame it on a "senior
moment." The truth is that I have been memory-impaired since I became ill
with lupus. I have had twenty-two years to adjust to this impairment. The
adjustment is not going well.</span></span></div>
<span style="color: #351c75;">
</span><br />
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<span style="color: #351c75;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span></o:p><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Saturday,
Michael and I had a lovely adventure downtown, attending the musical <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Toxic Avenger </i>at the Alley and the
movie <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pina</i> at the new Sundance
Theater. After the play, I saw a woman whom I recognized as someone in WiVLA,
an organization I have belonged to for over ten years. She spotted me and
engaged me in a cheerful conversation about mutual friends and WiVLA events,
and she introduced me to her friend.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #351c75;">
</span><br />
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<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Helvetica;">Michael
stood nearby, but I turned my back on him and acted as if I had never seen him
before. The reason for this rude behavior? I had no idea what the woman's name
was and I did not want to have to introduce them. I guess I need a sign, like
deaf people sometimes carry, announcing my impairment.</span></span></div>
<span style="color: #351c75;">
</span><br />
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<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Helvetica;">"I
am memory-deaf. I cannot remember people, places, and things that ordinary
people spit out like watermelon seeds. Please know that it is not personal and
alleviate my total embarrassment by telling me your name when you say
hello."</span></span></div>
<span style="color: #351c75;">
</span><br />
<div class="Body1" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Helvetica;">I do
remember the play and the movie. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Toxic
Avenger</i> underwhelmed me, although I laughed at many of the funny bits. The
thing is, I kind of chuckled, and the rest of the audience, including Michael,
guffawed. The humor was too broad for my tastes, too rooted in sexual innuendo.
That is a lie; there was no innuendo. The musical employed flagrantly overt
sexual humor throughout. </span></span></div>
<span style="color: #351c75;">
</span><br />
<div class="Body1" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #351c75;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span></o:p><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Funny: a
blind librarian shelving books without knowing what they were or noticing if they
stayed on the shelf. Not really funny, the line, "If blind people don't
love ugly people, who will?" Funny, the same actors playing multiple
roles. Not really funny, broadly stereotyped roles that play off base
characterizations. Funny, the actor playing the Mayor and the hero's Mother
having a scene in which her two characters confront each other loudly and
publicly. Not funny, the characterization of the middle-aged Mayor as a
nymphomaniac who trades in sex to achieves her nefarious ends.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #351c75;">
</span><br />
<div class="Body1" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Helvetica;">Enough of
that. I did not really like<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> TA. </i>Perhaps
my sense of humor is more refined than other people's are. Perhaps I have an
underdeveloped sense of humor. Perhaps the loud music and deafening sound
effects battered me too much. I don't know the answer. I just know that I did
not find the entertainment at the Alley to be terribly entertaining. </span></span></div>
<span style="color: #351c75;">
</span><br />
<div class="Body1" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Helvetica;">I did
enjoy every moment of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pina, </i>though, a
documentary movie memorializing the work of the late dancer/choreographer Pina
Bausch. It is, brilliantly, a 3-D film. There may not be a better reason to
make a 3-D movie than to portray dance. Instead of ghosts or goblins flying out
of the screen at me, dancers flew, their fluid, lithe movements seeming to be
hardly an arm's reach away from me. Beyond the artistry of the filmmaking,
there is the artistry of the choreography and of the dancers. </span></span></div>
<span style="color: #351c75;">
</span><br />
<div class="Body1" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Helvetica;">One piece
that affected me deeply is a dance in a cafe, staged with many empty tables and
even more empty chairs. The dancers perform with their eyes closed, their
safety in the hands of one man who darts here and there flinging chairs and
tables out of their way to avert disaster. Of course, every fling has the
potential to endanger another dancer, so that his actions are frantic and
frenetic at the same time.</span></span></div>
<span style="color: #351c75;">
</span><br />
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<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Helvetica;">Another
deeply affecting dance, which appeared and reappeared several times in the
movie, anchoring it for me, involved little more than hand movements performed
by dancers in a long, snaking, conga line. The movements originated in a
performance by Pina in which she poetically describes each of the four seasons
and illustrates the descriptions with appropriate hand motions.</span></span></div>
<span style="color: #351c75;">
</span><br />
<div class="Body1" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Helvetica;">Pina
repeats these motions until they become a kind of shorthand for the seasons:
winter, spring, summer, fall. In the performance, the dancers weave their way
across stages and hillsides like a strand of golden thread woven through cotton
fabric. The simplicity of their movements is spellbinding and emotionally
complex.</span></span></div>
<span style="color: #351c75;">
</span><br />
<div class="Body1" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Helvetica;">Other
memorable performances included one in which the stage was covered in rich,
loamy dirt and another one where water rained down the dancers and gathered in
pools where they danced with it. Another staggeringly emotional dance features
a tethered dancer in a poured concrete room trying to dance her way out of
confinement. Yet another featured a dancer on the floor moving away from a
woman who steadily and unemotionally shoveled dirt on her. Talk about making a
statement.</span></span></div>
<span style="color: #351c75;">
</span><br />
<div class="Body1" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">If you have
not seen <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Toxic Avenger, </i>you are
out of luck (or in luck, your choice) because tonight is the last performance
in Houston. If you have not seen Pina, you are definitely in luck. It just
opened last week and should be around for a while. Don't delay, though, because
Houston is not particularly kind to art movies and it might disappear on you
like a dancer going over the horizon.</span><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: #0400; mso-bidi-language: X-NONE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: #0400;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>Down Memory Lanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04214263048362966231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8066107.post-3947695008085815462012-01-24T13:08:00.000-06:002012-01-24T13:15:32.664-06:00Yoga Made HardMichael and I have been taking yoga classes off and on for about three years. On for five or six months, off for five or six months, then on again and so forth. The reasons we haven't been consistent has been lack of easy access to classes. Getting programs in our neighborhood has been spotty, with our yoga provider of choice, Texas Yoga Center, trying to establish a presence in Cypress and pulling out twice because of logistics problems or classes too small to support the venture. <br />
<br />
For the last several months, we have had yoga at an outpost they set up at Natural Retreat and Spa about two miles from our house. You can't get much more convenient than that. The spa is what I would call a beauty shop, with the availability of massage services, facials, and other personal indulgences. Nowadays, that makes a beauty shop a spa. Perhaps my trip to Costa Rica and experiences at actual natural retreats with spas included has jaded me.<br />
<br />
The people who work at the spa are very nice, though, and speak to us pleasantly when we come and go. They know our names. And they made over two small rooms into a large yoga room, which I appreciate. Taking classes at the outpost has been unpredictable. Who would be the teacher tonight? It could be any of several regulars or a completely unknown substitute. How many people would be there tonight? We might find a crowded room with eight or more people or it might just be Michael and I get a private lesson. The Texas Yoga Center decided that they couldn't live with the stress of these difficulties, so they pulled out the second time in eighteen months.<br />
<br />
Their original location, where we started three years ago, is in Copperfield, our home community twenty years ago. It is perhaps eight miles away from us now, but the traffic between the two locations is terrible and it takes longer than it should to get there. We are often going to evening classes and by the time Michael gets home from work, we have dinner, and change into yoga clothes, we can't always get there on time. It just doesn't work very well for us and we want to be closer to home.<br />
<br />
The spa people decided they would try to have their own yoga program, a good idea if for no other reason than they remodeled their shop and people were used to coming there. Unfortunately, they cut back classes to two evenings a week and no Saturdays. Taking classes two days apart with a five-day gap before the next class is not ideal, but the teacher they got, Jessica, is delightful and one of the best we've had, so we are trying to adapt. Jessica is quiet and encourages rather than pushes. She moves about the classes, adjusting poses, offering suggestions for more comfortable ways of getting into the same pose. She is very aware of different students' limitations and protects us from tackling poses that are too challenging.<br />
<br />
Still, the Natural Retreat and Spa is still a beauty shop first. They cancelled this Monday's class because the stylists all went to a conference on Sunday and Monday, and no one wanted to come by and open up the shop that evening. In fact, the beauty shop is never open on Mondays, and the Monday classes are in constant jeopardy due to the inconvenience it causes for them. <br />
<br />
Our yoga journey has progressed to the point where we feel deprived if we don't get classes on a regular basis, so Michael decided to try some other yoga studio. He searched a bit and found one three or four easy miles away and we tried it last night. Wow, it was the fanciest yoga studio I ever saw, occupying an entire very nice, very new home. (For non-locals, the Houston area doesn't believe in zoning, so if you are not in a planned community with deed restrictions, anything goes property-wise.)<br />
<br />
The owner, Sharon, greeted us warmly. The interior had an open floor plan, displaying nice furnishing - professional, but cozy - and walls filled with shelves of every kind of Ayurvedic, alternative medicine, and yogic cultural items you could imagine. Sharon asked us to fill out new student forms, and then invited us on a tour of the establishment. (I should add, by way of clarification, that Michael had talked to her on the phone earlier in the day and told her about our various medical issues and limitations, including the fact that I have lupus.)<br />
<br />
Sharon told us she practiced Ayurvedic medicine. She showed us her office, complete with a table for patients draped in an Indian print cloth. She showed us the kitchen, where green tea was available at all times and encouraged us to stay after class for tea and conversation with other students. She introduced us to four students sitting together and talking before class. She showed us another exam and treatment room for her practices of alternative medicine. Its walls were covered with bottles of herbs and pills neatly stacked on shelves. She took us down the hallway to another room that had, oddly, I thought, twin beds and regular bedroom furniture.<br />
<br />
"This is for patients in detox," she said, adding that they offered a 21-day cleansing program. "Also, we have guest teachers who use it and sometimes our students just need a break from their home lives and they can come here to get away for a bit." Then, smooth as silk, she said, "You can detox here when you're ready. It is great for lupus."<br />
<br />
The tour continued. What would have been a three-car garage was the yoga studio, very nicely equipped and full of students. We put our yoga mats on the shelves she indicated and continued the tour, seeing, on the opposite side of the house, rooms dedicated to massage and other types of personal care services such as color therapy and Reiki. As we walked back towards the yoga studio, Sharon said, "Today you may watch me to see what I am doing and after that you keep your eyes closed during class." Tour finally complete, we went back to the yoga studio to prepare for class while Sharon changed clothes.<br />
<br />
Michael and I each use two mats when we do yoga. We learned almost immediately in our yoga adventure that old knees do not like hard floors and we found it difficult to tolerate the hands-and-knees work without some extra help. We also each had a foam mat, the type one uses for gardening, to use on particularly knee-unfriendly poses, like cat/cow stretches. As we rolled our double mats, an unknown person in the back of the room called out, "Look, two mats!"<br />
<br />
Not knowing if I was being addressed or laughed at, I answered as cheerily as I could, "Old knees need two mats." After a brief titter, the students began talking to each other again and no one except Sharon spoke to us the rest of the evening. Sitting there on my mat, I noticed that as students arrived they went to the cupboard and picked up large bolsters and woven blankets. Not knowing why, I just watched. I figured Sharon would tell us what we needed to know.<br />
<br />
That proved to be incorrect. The bolsters were put into use almost immediately, so I got up during the practice and retrieved one for myself and another for Michael. We knew many of the poses Sharon included in the practice. She flowed from one pose to another at a quick pace, did not move among us adjusting poses as we had been used to, and directed us to do a number poses I had never seen before or considered doing in my wildest dreams. Balancing on one leg is okay and I can do that fairly well. Holding the raised leg straight out in front is more difficult, but I gave it the good old college try. Folding the extended leg back to the body and laying it on the opposite thigh exceeded my abilities considerably. Bending the entire body over into a one-legged front fold sent me into a seated pose on my mat, waiting for reason to return to the room.<br />
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I couldn't see many other students, so I don't know how well they did on these things, but Sharon very easily and smoothly performed a series of yogic feats that simply defeated me. The culmination came when she had us extend from a seated lotus position - feet placed on top of the opposite thighs - and place the top of our heads on the floor. I am actually quite limber, so I could do that. Then she had us rock forward so we were on our hands, our knees and our heads, still in a lotus position. Next, the legs unfolded and the knees went to the elbows. I quit there, while Sharon went on to stand on her hands and head while her body balanced above her.<br />
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Thankfully, the session ended shortly thereafter. Sharon directed us into corpse pose - laid out on one's back, feet dropped to the side and arms alongside the body, palms up. It is the ultimate relaxation pose in yoga and at that moment, my sweaty, stressed body felt entirely corpse-like. She instructed us to cover ourselves. Ah, that was what the woven blankets were for. Not long after Sharon dimmed all the lights, I felt the soft caress of a blanket cover me from chest to toes. It felt nice.<br />
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When class was over, I looked around the shelves while Michael paid our fees. The merchandise included stones and crystals, prayer wheels, yoga mats, Ayurvedic soap, herbs, yoga clothing, and many other items related to yoga, Ayurveda, and alternative medicine. As soon as Michael had paid, we left. We were both quiet. I didn't want to find out that Michael loved the place, because I felt profoundly unsettled by it. He asked me what I thought; I bounced the question back to him. In the end, all I could think of to sum up my feelings was, "She's no Jessica." <br />
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When we arrived home five minutes later, I turned on my iPad to check email. I had some new messages, including one from Sharon. She welcomed me to yoga class and offered several other services available for purchase at her studio. "Look at this," I said to Michael. He looked and shrugged, replying, "Well, she is in business." The Natural Retreat and Spa is in business, too. And Texas Yoga Center is in business. I just never noticed it when I did business with them. <br />
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<br />Down Memory Lanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04214263048362966231noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8066107.post-62849436835523017172012-01-17T14:13:00.000-06:002012-01-17T14:13:04.045-06:00Quilting Moonglow<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="color: blue;">Friday night I started quilting Moonglow, the very
elaborate, paper-pieced quilt that I started in a Block-of-the-Month class in
2010. The top (which I displayed in an album on my Facebook page if you'd like
to look at it) gave me a severe approach-avoidance complex when I first saw it.</span>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Beautifully designed, the blocks are a cross between the
mariner's compass and ancient drawings of the stars and sun. Each block seemed
more detailed and difficult than the last. I had never paper-pieced, a process
by which one sews the fabric onto actual pieces of paper. I had never attempted
any quilt block as complicated as the simplest of these blocks. And, I had
never seen such a beautiful quilt. I had to do it and I felt terrified at the
same time.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="color: blue;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span></o:p></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">The teacher, Carrol Stewart, was also an unknown quantity
to me, although I quickly discovered her strengths as a teacher and taskmaster.
Carrol had impeccable quilting credentials and as a bonus was a whiz at nudging
recalcitrant sewing machines into behaving. She had owned a quilt shop and sold
sewing machines before her retirement and she had all the skills needed plus a
great personality for a teacher. I can just hear her saying, "Now, look
here, darlin' ... " which indicated you were about to get a lesson that
included ripping out stitches.</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: blue;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span></o:p></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Over a year's time, I learned my lessons fairly well and
Carrol was often willing to sit and rip stitches for me while I re-sewed
defects. She taught me how to miter borders and generally coaxed me along until
I had a beautiful, I-can't-believe-I-made-this, quilt top. With her help, I
found the perfect backing for my quilt, then took everything home and put it in
a drawer.</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: blue;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span></o:p></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">I told myself that I had other quilts to finish before I
could start this one, but the truth is that quilting it daunted me as much as
constructing it had in the first place. There was just so much to quilt. Whenever
I looked at it, I saw the thousands of stitches I would have to sew in laboriously
and I balked at even starting. Didn't I know the obvious that if you didn't
start you would never finish? Well, of course, I did, but I had my excuses -
other quilt projects to finish.</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Nine months later, I had caught up on the projects that
were ahead of Moonglow and I still didn't want to commit myself to hand
quilting it. For a time, I considered paying Carrol to machine quilt it for me.
I had seen her work plenty of times and she did a marvelous job of machine
quilting, whether a simple, computer-driven pattern or a complex, hand-guided
pattern. But I hand-quilted all my quilts. After all the work I put into making
Moonglow, would I be selling myself short to let someone else quilt it?</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">I considered machine quilting it myself, on my own little
sewing machine, not a top-of-the-line long-arm quilting machine like Carrol
had. I even took a class on machine quilting which helped to reduce my anxiety
about it, but which also taught me that I would need a tremendous amount of
practice with machine quilting before I could do a job nearly good enough for
Moonglow. </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Two weeks ago, I finally took the plunge and purchased the
wool batting that would make hand quilting a much more pleasant job because
needles glide through it so effortlessly. Then I spent an evening at Quilt Til
You Wilt making my quilt sandwich. This past Friday, I wrestled the first
stitches into the quilt top. It is always difficult for me to get started with
my needle and thread. Quilting has a kind of rhythm and at the beginning, I
don't know the music I will be dancing to with the particular quilt in hand.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">I spent several hours on Monday quilting with Alix and now
have the first block 3/4th finished. I estimate it will take me 8 to 10 hours
per block to hand-quilt it. There are 25 blocks, plus a large border made of
seven different fabrics, so, if I work on it regularly, I should be able to
finish it in six months or so. I always underestimate the finishing, like
adding the binding, but I certainly will have it done by next Christmas.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="color: blue;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span></o:p></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Alix and Adam are getting Moonglow. For a long time, I
thought I couldn't give it away after doing so much work on it, but I am over
that now. There are other quilts to make and I can't keep all of them in a
house with only two beds!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<br /></div>Down Memory Lanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04214263048362966231noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8066107.post-4291963766097800732012-01-10T16:15:00.019-06:002012-01-10T16:23:28.623-06:00My Costa Rica<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>What can one claim to know about a foreign country after a ten-day tour? A few place names. Ten days worth of climate. Cultural expressions as shown by public displays and decorations. Some of the wildlife. Some of the accommodations. Several of its people. It is not a comprehensive understanding of anything, except, perhaps, the discomfort of tour busses. Yet I feel that the vacation tour Michael and I took to Costa Rica over the Christmas holidays gave me something more profound than an assortment of facts or impressions.</strong></span></span><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong> </strong></span><br />
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<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>I own a small piece of that lovely country now. I own a small piece of its verdant jungle, populated by creatures as familiar as the Houston Zoo, yet completely unknown to me. My first day in Tortuguero, a place you can reach only by boat or by airplane, our tour guides pointed out barely distinguishable animals in the trees that towered over us. Like the moose pictures my father took on every camping trip it seemed, there was something back there in the trees, but you could never prove it from the photographs. </strong></span></span></div><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong> </strong></span><br />
<div class="Body1" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: blue;"><strong><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">The next morning the raucous screams of howler monkeys startled me from sleep at dawn and hustled me outside for a look. I did not find moose-picture monkeys that morning, I found MONKEYS in the trees right over my head. Monkeys that were kind of scary, busy with their own lives, and totally unimpressed with human beings. I own a piece of those monkeys now. I own a piece of their wildness, a piece of their self-absorption with the daily business of staying alive, and a piece of their loud, challenging howl at the world.</span></span></strong></span></div><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong> </strong></span><br />
<div class="Body1" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: blue;"><strong><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">I own a small piece of the Caribbean people who live in Tortuguero. Not a piece of the old fellow bored by his duties at the cash register of the gift shop in that tiny town, but a piece of the young man who pushed the coconut cart through the village. The occasional coconut was an odd treat that my family enjoyed in North Dakota, so far from<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the thought of palm trees. Dad would pound a nail through the three little circles at the top of the coconut and pour the milk out for whoever was lucky enough to get it that day, then smash the hard shell with a hammer, letting us gnaw the white fruit off the pieces that resulted.</span></span></strong></span></div><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong> </strong></span><br />
<div class="Body1" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: blue;"><strong><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">When I realized that the young man sold coconut milk from his cart, I went over immediately, clutching two dollar bills in my fist like a child. I really only wanted the coconut milk, the elusive sweetness I remembered from childhood, but the young man expected me to choose a flavoring for two dollars more. In my practically non-existent Spanish, I tried to tell him that the plain milk would suit me fine. Perhaps he understood me, perhaps not, but I understood his Spanish when he told me that I reminded him of his mother and that he wanted to add the strawberry flavoring to my coconut milk at no charge, an offer I graciously accepted. I own a piece of that young man's shy courtesy and generosity.</span></span></strong></span></div><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong> </strong></span><br />
<div class="Body1" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: blue;"><strong><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">I own a small piece of the artisan crafts of Costa Rica. Not the mass-produced, made for tourists knick-knacks available in every shop we visited, but the handcrafted glass frogs and dragonflies offered at a restaurant where we ate lunch on one of our travel days. The woman artist melted and spun the glass from rods of varying colors, creating the tiny creatures as we watched that her son sold and packaged from a table nearby. I own a small piece of her artistic pride and satisfaction in conjuring such tiny beauties with her own creative hands.</span></span></strong></span></div><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong> </strong></span><br />
<div class="Body1" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: blue;"><strong><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">I own a small piece of Costa Rica's much touted educational system. We did not visit a local school, as our itinerary said we might, because our trip coincided with summer vacation and school was out. Nevertheless, our tour guide, Aaron Salazar, demonstrated its efficacy every time he spoke to us about the natural world of Costa Rica. Aaron has three college degrees. One is in theology and one is in taxonomy, the study of scientific classification. (The third I never learned.)</span></span></strong></span></div><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong> </strong></span><br />
<div class="Body1" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: blue;"><strong><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Aaron did not share theological information with us, although his reverence for the natural world bespoke a deep, personal spirituality. However, he did explain complex layers of animal and plant relationships and symbioses. In fact, he explained some scientific principles better than any of my science teachers ever had. Aaron imbued the relationship between the three-toed sloth and the moth that lives parasitically on it with soap opera-like details. He illustrated species classification by building us a town with his words and creating neighborhoods, streets, and houses with many rooms to organize and define the occupants. Standing over a large anthill, he told us as much about the anteater as about the ants.</span></span></strong></span></div><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong> </strong></span><br />
<div class="Body1" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: blue;"><strong><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Aaron's lessons for us clearly exceeded anything he had learned from rote. It was an unanticipated bonus. I own a small part of Costa Rica's educational system, the part that trained this young man in science and taught him such good English one could scarcely call it a second language.</span></span></strong></span></div><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong> </strong></span><br />
<div class="Body1" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: blue;"><strong><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">I claim ownership of a small part of Costa Rica, the part where Michael and I enjoyed each other's company without giving a thought to the details of travel. The part where I spent an entire day lounging poolside on a beach chair without thinking about how I looked in my bathing suit or feeling guilty about monopolizing a scarce commodity. The part with buffet tables groaning under the weight of delicious foods. The part where the server asked us, "Coffee or chocolat?" after every meal, delighting my non-coffee drinking self with plentiful and scrumptious hot cocoa. The part where we swung gently in hammocks while reading our Kindles. The part where we both received a long, relaxing massage with wonderfully scented oils and Enya playing in the background.</span></span></strong></span></div><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong> </strong></span><br />
<div class="Body1" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>What can one claim to know about a foreign country after a ten-day tour? Enough to treat my experiences like treasure, to cherish the small pieces of Costa Rica I have stored in my heart.</strong></span></span></div><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong> </strong></span><br />
<div class="Body1" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>By the way, Caravan Travel organized and supervised our wonderful trip to Costa Rica and I recommend them highly to anyone who wants a trouble-free tour experience.</strong></span></span></div><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong> </strong></span><br />
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</div>Down Memory Lanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04214263048362966231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8066107.post-17548669823245270582011-12-20T16:41:00.007-06:002012-01-11T18:27:34.837-06:00Chocolate, Anyone?<div><div><div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong>Is it possible to have too much chocolate? Most people would answer with an emphatic "No!" and I would have to agree with them. Oh, I know some people don't care for chocolate, and people who make chocolates can grow tired of them. Remember the famous <em>I Love Lucy </em>skit where she and Ethel got jobs in a candy factory? Lucy and Ethel did not end up big chocolate fans. As a general rule, though, choclate is a favorite treat and people always want more.</strong></span><br />
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</div><div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong>Ordinarily, I would want more, too, but at this moment, Michael and I have hit the chocolate saturation point and just aren't enthusiastic any longer. "How did this astonishing change of heart come about?" you ask. "Well," I answer, "it all started in October ..."</strong></span><br />
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</div><div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong> </strong></span></div><div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong>When I visited my mother in Montana at the end of October, she had just returned from a visit with my brother and sister-in-law, Bob and Lynn, in Bismarck, ND. Lynn is a pharmacist and Bob runs the Medicine Shop pharmacy they own in Mandan, ND. In addition, they own a soda fountain store and the candy-making business that came with it. Every year since they became candy tycoons, Bob and Lynn have made the kindly gesture of sending family members a box of Lindy Sue chocolates. They are delicious and much appreciated.</strong></span></div><div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong> </strong></span><br />
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<span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong>This year, Mother had the box of candy with her upon her return from Bismarck. A bit early for Christmas, but it's chocolate candy so who am I to quarrel? I dutifully brought the box back to Houston UNOPENED and set it aside for the holiday season. Michael and I finally opened the candy around Thanksgiving, feeling that it was officially Christmastime when Black Friday hit.</strong></span></div><br />
<div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong> </strong></span></div><div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong> Inside, we found the usual assortment of luscious chocolates with a bonus: a layer of chocolate covered potato chips that tasted absolutely delicious. Bob and Lynn hit one out of the park this year! We were happy. We ate the chocolates sparingly so they would last until we left for our Christmas trip.</strong></span><br />
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</div><div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong> </strong></span></div><div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong>A week or so after Thanksgiving, we attended a wine and chocolate pairing event sponsored by the Washington University in St. Louis alumni group. The party cost $20 each, which was tending out of our entertainment budget, but we decided to be sports and do it anyway. Good choice as it turned out. The evening, at Chocolat du Monde in Rice Village, delivered the goods.</strong></span><br />
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</div><div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong> </strong></span></div><div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong>We started with sparkling wine and champagne truffles, then moved on through three other wine-chocolate partnerships, each one delicious. While we indulged - and the Chocolat du Monde staff were very generous with the wine and candy - we heard about fine chocolates, sampled the mouth-watering canapes, and checked out the candy in the display case and on the store shelves.</strong></span><br />
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</div><div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong> </strong></span></div><div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong>Everything looked so good. The candies on the shelves were priced. Their costs were moderate to high, in our opinion, ranging from $12 a pound to $18. More than we usually spent, but this special chocolate was worth it. The chocolates in the case, which we had been eating all evening, were not priced, but I expected them to be about the same.</strong></span><br />
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<span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong>"Let's get some candy for Christmas gifts," I suggested to Michael. He readily agreed. I particularly wanted to get some really good, liquored up chocolate covered cherries for Nick. I try to send him some C-C-Cs every Christmas, but last year he suggested I get him some with alcohol in the syrup. A novel idea which had never occurred to me. Perhaps this year I would.</strong></span><br />
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</div><div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong> </strong></span></div><div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong> "How much are the candies in the cases?" I inquired innocently.</strong></span><br />
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</div><div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong> </strong></span></div><div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong> "The Neuhaus are $60 per pound and the Leonidas are $45 per pound," the proprietor told me with a straight face, such a straight face that I didn't have to ask if he was joking.</strong></span><br />
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</div><div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong> </strong></span></div><div><span style="color: #663333;"><strong><span style="font-family: verdana;"> <em>OMG!</em> I thought. <em>Who pays $60 a pound for chocolate??</em></span></strong></span><br />
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</div><div><em></em><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong> </strong></span></div><div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong> That pretty much shot down our plans to buy people candy for Christmas except Nick, for whom I purchased six Cerisse candies by Leonidas, which are brandied chocolate covered cherries individually wrapped. It is his major Christmas gift this year! (Okay, I did buy a small bag of dark chocolate-covered, salted caramel balls for Michael and I, too, but they were from a $13 a pound jar.)</strong></span></div><div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong> </strong></span><br />
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</div><div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong>Right before we left, Chocolat du Monde had a raffle and awarded several gifts of wine and chocolate. Michael had the good fortune to win a one pound box of the Neuhaus. Yes, we left with a $60 box of Belgian chocolates to add to the candy from Bob and Lynn.</strong></span><br />
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</div><div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong> </strong></span></div><div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong>Last Friday, the Houston Women Writer's Co-operative held its annual holiday party, sharing dinner and exchanging gifts. I received a lovely basket full of - three guesses and the first two don't count - chocolates! In this case, the chocolates were more diverse and included cookies and cocoa as well as actual chocolate candies, but the overall effect was the same. More chocolate!!</strong></span><br />
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</div><div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong> </strong></span></div><div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong> Earlier the same day, Michael's office had hosted a holiday luncheon and gift exchange. He came home with - guess - yes, another box of chocolates. This time the loot was Ferrero Rocher chocolates. Wow. We had a lot of chocolate in the house. And mostly a lot of unopened chocolate. We are going away for Christmas this year, so we won't even have a chance to share with guests.</strong></span><br />
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</div><div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong> </strong></span></div><div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong> Yesterday, the mail came late and during a pouring rainstorm. Ordinarily, I would have ignored it until the rain died down, but I had to flag down the mail carrier on her trip up the other side of our street. (She had forgotten to take the packages I had scheduled for pick up that day.) While I stood huddled under a practically useless umbrella, I picked up our soggy mail. We received the usual appeals for money, sales pitches, and a large mailing envelope from my brother Bob.</strong></span><br />
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<span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong>ANOTHER BOX OF CANDY!!! </strong></span><br />
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</div><div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong></strong></span> </div><div><span style="color: #663333; font-family: verdana;"><strong>Bob and Lynn sent this box with holiday greetings, so the candy I received in October apparently was not our Christmas candy. While I would never complain about receiving gifts of candy lest they be withheld in future years, Michael and I now do officially have too much chocolate. I guess we'll have to entertain more this year.</strong></span></div></div></div>Down Memory Lanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04214263048362966231noreply@blogger.com0