Okay, so it’s no longer the May River we see every day but we do enjoy the benefits of a large lagoon and its inhabitants, right in our backyard. 

The huge alligator who, we’re told, is too old to care about anything but a warm bank upon which to sprawl and soak up sun. 

And the birds.  The many, many birds who also appreciate the sunshine, the trees and the fish in the lagoon. 

Mostly, they’re wading birds: ibis, wood stork and heron.  They flock together, apparently mindless of their slight differences.  Sometimes as many as 70 of them gather a mere few feet from our windows. 

A few days ago, we remarked on their presence.  Or, more to the point, their absence.  It seems that they also visit other, perhaps sunnier and larger, lagoons.  They go where the wind and sun take them.  As it suits them.  Where the pickings may be better.  The fish tastier.  Never once stopping to think of those who might miss them.  Loyalty is not one of their attributes.

They will be back.  We just don’t know when.

They are, it would seem, a “fickle flock.”

Try saying that five times fast after two glasses of wine and a bowl of pistachios.

There were two from my high school years.  “Festina Lente” and “Function in Disaster; Finish in Style.”

Those few little words have been invaluable over the course of the last few months as we have made this transition to our new digs.  The move was, and still is, a good decision.  Maybe a great decision.  It was the getting here that was taxing.  I relied heavily on those two mottos.

The first, “Festina Lente,” when translated from the Latin, means “Make Haste Slowly.”  It’s tough to stick with that when one of you is just a tad OCD.  Slow is not in his vocabulary.  The other one of us prefers to let the dust settle, see how things look, make adjustments as required.   Feel your way through the confusion. We didn’t Make Haste as Slowly as I would have liked but we survived.

On to “ Function in Disaster; Finish in Style.”  Through the years, friends have given me several signs and paintings with that motto.  I have them all over the house as reminders of my great high school years and of the intended message.

As I write this, those signs and paintings are all over this house, as they’ve been wherever we’ve lived.  It’s just that right now they’re all hanging upside down.  The message tends to read “Function in Style; Finish in Disaster.”  With a little luck, I’ll be able to return them to their upright positions at some point.  It’s just going to take a little time.

Festina Lente and all that jazz.

If you have any thoughts or comments about this or any of my posts, I’d love to know them! To send them to me, please click on “Contact” at the top of this page to send me a message and I’ll get back to you.

No, not Ivory, Dove or Irish Spring.  I’m talking about those old-timey soap operas on television. The afternoons used to be chock-a-block full of them them.  And many of us watched one (or more) on a daily basis.  Even though we rarely admitted it.

The Guiding Light was MY guiding light.  It gave me hope that there was life after colic, dirty diapers and pureed peas.  I placed my life in Riva and Josh’s hands every afternoon.  I swooned as they wed, divorced, re-married, cheated, died, were re-incarnated and so forth.  They were always there for me.  At 3:30.  Rain or shine.

My tastes have changed since those days.  Now I tend to watch the European channels which let us “binge.”  No hanging on to the cliff for the next installment.  Sit there long enough and it’s done.  They’re also commercial free.

The European producers like to refer to their soaps as family dramas and historical sagas.  But, let’s be clear, they’re soaps.  Through and through.

The trouble comes when the Mister walks by the television, gets caught up in the moment but has no idea who’s who, who’s done what, who’s good, who’s not, who’s pregnant, by whom, who’s cheating.  Which leaves the one-who-knows with the task of explaining.  By the end of which explanation, many things have happened that the one-who-knows wishes she’d had the chance to see.  One has a responsibility to stay up to the moment with this stuff.

In the end, of course, it doesn’t matter.  In soap land, good trumps evil, families unite, the sick get well and life goes merrily on.  And that’s why soaps…European or otherwise….still have their audiences.  After all, who doesn’t love a good cry and a happy ending?

Image thanks to letstalkaboutsoaps.com

Again.

This time we downsize.  Seriously downsize.  We’re forced to make hard decisions.   I will not jam everything we own into this little cottage. I refuse to stash stuff in the garage. I will not store boxes under beds.

There will be space to move around and to enjoy those things we take with us.  And we will miss those things we couldn’t take because…..well, just because.  We must be dedicated and purposeful in our mission. 

We study the plans, the room sizes, the walls, the windows, the lighting, the electrical outlets.  We measure by inch; not foot.   We play with cut-outs of our furniture.  We imagine how the art will look in the new light.  We are resolute in our less-is-more approach.  However harsh that may prove to be.

There’s just one little problem.  We speak a language born of many, many years together.  All our stuff has names.

When something has a name, it takes on a life of it’s own.  It’s harder to part with.  It may be inanimate but through the years, it’s grown a patina, a soul.  We say a quiet hello when we pass by whoever/whatever it is.  Eventually, it says hello right back.  Extended conversations are not unusual.

So, as we walk through the house, we consult with Artful, Deanne, Mary, Jean, Pam, and Russell.

We reminisce with Edith, Celeste, Lynn, Uncle Charlie, Ming, Martha, Hepple, EJ, Coleen and Ashley.

We caucus with Sheila, Dottie, Cindi, Julia, Steve, Carolyn, Adele, Jill and all the others. 

We explain the move and the need to leave some of them behind.  We know it will be hard but this is the way it has to be.

And then, we collectively wipe our tears, take a deep breath and say:  “Never mind.  We’ll figure out a way.  Of course, you’ll come with us.  How could we possibly leave you behind?   You’re family.”

So, if the walls are a little crowded, some drawers are a bit overstuffed, a piece of furniture is slightly too large, who cares?  Family and friends stay together.   

“Less is more” (or at least equal) image thanks to makingthegradellc.com

I’m hooked on British mysteries. It started with the great Agatha Christie many, many years ago. I even hear the English lilt and accents in my head as I read.

The British idioms and adages have apparently seeped into my own. Just not always in the right way.  I get the meaning but the nuances frequently elude me.

For example, I know what a one-off is in British terms. It means something that will happen only one time.  As in: “That murder was a one-off. We don’t have a serial killer on our hands here.”

And so, when dear friends, whom we hadn’t seen for a while, nicely and considerately, asked about my breast cancer and mastectomy of  a couple of years ago, I replied, a bit sassily, that I appreciated their concern but not to worry.  That it was just a one-off.

Conversation stopped. Eyebrows went up. I got strange looks.  And then, like the baby who gets a shot but takes two seconds to realize what happened, I understood.  I got it.  I knew what I meant but my audience heard something else entirely.  We laughed our way through the misunderstanding.  And then we laughed some more.

I suggested that they read British mysteries.  They suggested I stick to my native language.

Those laughs were definitely not one-offs.  They’ll continue until we can’t.

Image of new British thrillers thanks to crimeread.com

When we were first married, the Mister’s father gave us one share of stock in Scott Paper. It seemed a bit odd at the time but there was something lovely in that gift that I didn’t originally appreciate. I was thinking about that the other day as my Christmas “tissue” blog is being re-blogged below.

The Scott Paper people apparently didn’t care if you had one or one million shares of their stock. They still sent you a Christmas present every year. A giant box full of paper towels, toilet paper and, of course, tissues. Being a teensy bit poor during that time, that box was manna from heaven for us.

Now I’m wondering if that was the forerunner of my “tissue” issue. It does seem to be my thing at this time of year. One little share of Scott Paper morphed into something much larger. At least for me. Who knew?

The Mister and I wish you the very happiest of Christmases.

The Christmas Spirit

The year was 1961. I was working in Boston at the New England Conservatory of Music as a receptionist. It was, in all respects, a wonderful year. I was in love (still am) and was surrounded by talented, generous and joyful people.

But Christmas was always hard for me. What to give to my parents? My father never wore anything but a suit, had enough ties to last several life times, bought his own socks and had no hobbies. My mother was choosy about the things she wore and the things she had in the house. I always had great angst about what to give them. That year I found a little Japanese porcelain dish which I hoped they would like, but it cost more than my small salary could comfortably bear. Still, I bought it. There wasn’t any joy in the purchase, however. I was worried and poorer…not a good combination.

The Conservatory was, back then, in a less than desirable part of town. It was surrounded by poverty level housing and people. There was a drug store right across the street that I visited on my lunch hour to pick up necessary items.

One day, near Christmas, I was at the drug store, mindlessly purchasing some stuff, not giving it any thought as I stood in line to pay for my items. An older woman was in front of me. She wasn’t dressed warmly enough for the cold Boston December day. It did strike me that she most likely didn’t have a warmer coat, but the thought was fleeting.

And then something happened that I will never forget. As my arms were carelessly full of stuff, I realized she was buying a single box of tissues. And I heard her say to the clerk: “This is for my friend for Christmas. She’ll really like it.”

I find myself as speechless now as I did then. And still a little close to tears. It was a hard reality. She was delighted with her choice of a gift for her friend, confident that it would be given, received and used with love and affection.

And I was worried about an expensive porcelain dish for my parents who needed nothing and would most likely put the dish in a drawer anyway? Not a Christmas goes by that I don’t think about that moment.

Sometimes, I wish our family could just exchange boxes of tissues, carefully choosing one that might appeal…they come in such jazzy colors and designs these days. Wouldn’t that be fun? We could wrap them up fancifully with pretty paper and ribbons, confident they would be used and appreciated.

Now, I know we can’t….and would never want to…deny our families the joy of Christmas morning and presents under the tree. Santa Claus does exist. But, for me, perhaps, a box of tissues has become a symbol of friendship and love, of a longed-for simple Christmas season, of joy, of an opportunity to share with others less fortunate, and, of course, in its own way, a true meaning of Christmas.

Officer Tulo lost his job.  And he’d done it so well for eight years.  Then, Boom!  He’s fired.  He’ll never know why.  And he certainly won’t have any way to seek reinstatement.

Officer Tulo is a yellow Labrador retriever who was certified, trained and licensed to sniff out and detect illegal marijuana in cars, on people, and in bars so offenders could be brought to justice.  Officer Tulo also lives in Colorado.  Put two and two together, they add up to four and Officer Tulo is no longer necessary.  In fact, he’s a liability because he causes unnecessary alerts and misses other drugs he wasn’t trained to identify.

With a grandson in college in Colorado, we’ve been talking about what it’s like to live in a world where pot is legal.  Where weed and gasoline can be sold in the same store and have names like “Gas and Grass.”  The things he’s told us haven’t been particularly surprising until this Thanksgiving when we had a chance to catch up a bit more.

He now reports that the “stoners,” who were initially delighted by the legalization of their drug of choice, have cut way back on their usage.  All of a sudden, the heavy hitters have begun to realize that putting so much of that stuff in their bodies may not be such a good idea after all.

Did legalization make the product less appealing?  Less sexy?  Less important?  Maybe even boring?  Was the taboo element a compelling reason to use?  Now that it’s legal, is the bloom simply off the rose?

Food for thought, musings and reflection.

And I know I shouldn’t suggest that we just put this in our pipes and smoke it for a bit  but I simply can’t help myself.

Smokey image thanks to www.curetoday.com