Goodbye 2010

          Tonight Unity Church of the Hills is having a Burning Bowl ceremony but I’m too sick to go. As my flight from Dallas to San Antonio landed Monday night my ears did not unplug and I experienced terrible earaches like the ones I used to get as a child, from swimming in the ocean.  The last two days of my trip, I had inklings that I might be coming down with something, but I just kept thinking, “get home, get home”.

          On the flight from L.A. to Dallas I sat next to a Pisces woman from Australia who was on her way to Mexico to rendezvous with a man she had known only four days, in Cuba. “But I have very good instincts,” she told me. “And if it doesn’t work out, I’ll just go somewhere else!”

          I found it fascinating that she travels three months a year, and can sleep anywhere. With a twinkle in her eye, she shared tales of some of her harrowing adventures in less-than-friendly countries. She, in turn, called me Earth Mother, after I told her how much I miss my manzanita trees and showed her pictures of my dog and cat.

          As we disembarked I realized that during the flight the lotus pendant I’d bought at Self Realization Fellowship nearly thirty years ago had slipped off me without my knowing it.  I stayed until everyone had gotten off the plane and then went back down the aisle to the bathroom but the pendant was not to be found.  I guess it decided it was time to live on someone else’s neck.

          My seat-mate waited for me and together we went to a bar where I had a shot of tequila, and she had water, and I shared the toasted almonds I’d brought for my journey. We talked about life, death, the afterlife. As different as the two of us are, I felt an affinity for her. There was a time in my life when I flew half-way around the world to meet up with a man I hardly knew. But not anymore.

          The last time I was sick on New Years Eve was in 1982 when Joel  and I went to a party in a freezing cold L.A. loft. I thought I was in love with Joel. I certainly loved his daughter and spending time with them, their dog and cat, pretending to be a family. Almost thirty years later I’m half-way across the country, living in a new state with my family that consists of a dog, two cats and a husband who happily spent the afternoon in the open garage working on boxes for his new speaker design. I sat inside by a sunny window and finished reading, The Weight of Water then took a two hour nap.

          I think today was my turning point and that my body is winning the battle against the virus that courses through my blood.  Tomorrow I’ll take down the Christmas decorations, do laundry and organize my desk. I don’t necessarily need a ceremony to let go of the sadness and worry that has plagued me this whole year. These feelings, like my pendant, will slip away on their own, and before I know it I’ll be smiling again. Funny, but even though my ears are still plugged and I look like crap, I find myself smiling now.  

TABU

As I’m berating myself over the sorry state of my cosmetics, I discover a lipstick I thought I’d used up. Nearly as slender as a cigarette, the shiny black case still had a tiny reservoir, a doll-sized pot, of delicious elixir for my lips.  I apply some with a tiny white brush. Oh, lipstick, I’m so glad I found you. How many months did we enjoy being together, I showing off your glamorous glow and you soothing my mouth? You made it easier to smile.

I don’t feel bad about keeping something that’s almost gone. I remember Tabu perfume.  It resided in a brown leather case, inside the drawer of the speaker my father built, which was next to the dining room table. I loved to open the drawer and see a deck of cards, some yellow pencils, a package of Double Mint gum and the brown leather case that held the nearly empty vial.  I’d slide it out of its case, unscrew the lid and inhale the roll-on tip.  I was transported to an ancient place I didn’t know the name of. Then, when was seven, I saw The Ten Commandments, and  knew it was Egypt.

The night of Heidi’s slumber party – December 31, 1963, I stroked Tabu on my neck. I packed one of the negligees I’d taken from the model’s dressing room. It was floor length, pale pink. The bodice was fitted, with black embroidery. A black satin bow tied the waist. That silky fabric turned my skinny, fourteen-year-old body into a woman.

I remember standing against the wall, by the piano, in the Schway's  formal living room.  Roger Somebody - football player, had broken his nose - was giving me a hickey. I gazed up at the ceiling. The Ventures were playing on the record player. I was happy and limp, breathing in that spicy Tabu, mixed with young man’s lust. It was marvelous,  being wanted so.  

Anyway, I’m glad I found my old lipstick. The company discontinued it – of course! – so I’ll hold on to it a little longer, occasionally visit and enjoy  whatever memory it may retrieve.

Stimulating Saturday

          I was mad at John last night. We’d planned to go see Deborah’s artwork in Fredericksburg and he wanted to go late in the day.  When I suggested we go earlier, he said I had a bee in my bonnet. First of all, I don’t own a bonnet but I do think I should get myself a cowgirl hat pretty soon because my poor old Laker hat is looking awfully worn. Second, there are no bees this time of year. There was a fly in the kitchen yesterday but I killed it with the neon green swatter Diane Bopp gave all the members of our yoga class, about five years ago.

          So I just ignored him, last night.  I watched a little basketball in the bedroom and “Chopped” the show I’ve become addicted to: four chefs are given baskets with four totally un-related ingredients and must cook an appetizer; the worst one is eliminated and the next three must prepare an entrée with a new basket of weird foods; the last round,  dessert has only two and they dash about frantically to get their preparations done in time.  I’ve watched so many episodes lately, that when I eat my own concoctions I turn into the three judges: the woman with sleepy eyes, who looks likes she’s about to eat the chefs; the other woman with a girlish look but cutthroat comments, and the jovial Latino man who is extremely discerning.   After my shows were over, I went to sleep. No reading.

          This morning I got up before John and had a pretty pleasant walk with Walter; we didn’t encounter any other creatures, except for a man in a golf cart looking for his two missing little dogs who ran away last night. Walter was friendly, let his head be petted.

          When John came into the kitchen in the morning, I left to check emails.  When he’d gotten his breakfast and taken it into his office, I got my breakfast, then washed my hair.  Now that I was clean I was ready to communicate with him. I called his business line.

          “I’m going to go to Market Days,” I said, “Would you like to go with me.?”

          “I’m just about to jump in the shower,” he said.

          “Then how about in an hour?”

          “Ok.”

          Sometimes I feel like a little girl with my disapproving father, when I go out with John.  The Lincoln has a lot to do with it. A lot different than how I felt driving in the 1968 Caddie with the top down! And different than the shiny black Taurus with spotless red interior, the first years we were together - all those romantic business trips. My favorite was the red F-150 truck. It was pretty, but masculine. When I sat next to him it felt like we were on a living room sofa, gliding along above the road . . . but again, I digress!

          We ended up having a pleasant day. The low angle of the sun cast lovely long shadows. It was cool in the shade but toasty in the sun. I chatted with many vendors at Market Days, which is held monthly, except January and February, on the courthouse grounds. I came home with half-a-dozen business cards.  We ate a big old brisket sandwich (cold bun! why they don’t keep some in with the warm meat, I don’t understand).  I was happy to meet a  woman who volunteers to trap feral cats and get them spade.  By the time we left, music was playing, but we were on our way to Fredericksburg and couldn’t stay.

          By now John had become more talkative and more fun to be around. The drive to Fredericksburg was calming, as always. The wild grasses have turned beige, and parts looked like the Saranghetti. But mostly it was just relaxing - wide vistas of rolling hills.

          Fredericksburg was teeming with shoppers. Four-lane

Main Street

is crammed with little shops and restaurants. I was reminded of the stream of tourists in Las Vegas crowding the Strip. I had the same reaction here as I did there: no desire to join them. Luckily, Deborah’s art was far down the main drag where things opened up and there were trees and less people.

          The gallery is a separate building that is usually used for catering events.  I loved being there!  There were four women artists, three local and one who travels the world. Deborah’s work was my favorite. The others were wonderful and I was appreciative of their skill and liked much of the subject matter, but I didn’t have the same emotional reaction to their work. Deborah’s paintings are alive.

          It was invigorating to be around so much beauty – the paintings, the sculptures – all those colors and textures; and the women themselves.  It was inspiring to be around such prolific, creative women! Plus, two of them were tall and Deborah’s husband is tall and I realize how much I love to be around tall people. John says it’s because of my father, who was 6’3” most of his life. Maybe that’s part of it, but tall people are just so much more elegant, than us average height humans.

          Of course we didn’t buy any of the art. We’re starving artists, ourselves, in a way: I, the poet; John the speaker wizard.  But it’s ok. I feel like the homeless person who sleeps on the beach, under the stars, appreciating the salt water scent and sound of the waves more than the “successful” people, locked in their houses with the windows closed.

Growing Roots (the book)

          I just spent an hour poring over Growing Roots, The New Generation of Sustainable Farmers, Cooks and Food Activists by Katherine Leiner, with breathtaking photographs by Andrew Lipton.

          This is a gift from the author, who I’ve known since I was ten years old. Because we’re so broke, I asked her if she would send me a copy for Christmas. I wasn’t embarrassed to ask this of Katherine, because she has always granted my requests. She’s been the most reliable, comforting friend I’ve ever had. She was there for me when I thought my parents were getting divorced, when my first boyfriend broke my heart, when I was confused and didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life.  She’s still there for me, when I feel vulnerable, or scared. She always listens patiently, does not pass judgment and offers simple suggestions to get me back on track.

         

          I knew Katherine had been working on this book a long time. After all she was going to interview people all over the United States. The travel alone seemed exhausting.  I knew the book would be good, because all of Katherine’s books are written and edited to the highest standards.  I knew it would be interesting to read.

          But I had no idea how gorgeous it was, until I felt its heft in my hands. I didn’t realize that I, too, would feel a fondness for the individuals who dedicate their lives to producing the most delicious, healthful foods.  The darling young couples, their rosy cheeked children, the beautifully composed photos with their rich saturated colors!  And the recipes, contributed by each interviewee, amazing! My mouth watered as I read.

          After leafing through each page, I stopped to read the last interview in the book. My heart swelled to see that Katherine’s daughter – a fellow Taurus like myself – has found her calling living and working on a farm.  From starting seeds indoors in the harsh Vermont winters, to participating in the butchering of their livestock, this funny little girl I knew has become a thoughtful, hardworking, woman. She understands the cycles of life and death and her part in it.  And she loves it!

          Bravo Katherine! It is with such pride that I spread the word about your magnum opus.  The book is stunning and I can’t wait to read all the interviews and try the tantalizing recipes.  Thank you for this gift, dear friend.  It’s perfect.

Student Acrostics

I tried the Holiday Acrostic lesson on my 4^th grade students.

I read my poems and then gave them copies and asked if they could find the secret. One girl found it. Then everyone “ah-ed” when they saw it.

The children were rowdy. One of the boys makes any excuse to get up and walk around the room. I spend most of my time telling them to stop talking or stay in their seats.

However, some kids really got into it. Those who finished first got to do a second draft, which I cut out and pasted on card stock. Then they could decorate the page and take it home.

Here are three examples of the students’ work. The first two are by girls the last is from a boy. 

Can you guess the secret word?

December 25 is Christmas Day. I don’t like

Eggnog. It is gross. I have a friend named

Caroline. She loves eggnog. She also loves

Ornaments with purple and red ribbons. I

Really, really love decorating my house.

At my aunt’s house I got to decorate a lot.

Time on Christmas is nothing, just waste it.

Is Christmas fun to you? Yes, or no?

On Christmas I love opening presents.

Nothing in the world is better than the

Saying, “Christmas is love.”

Sparkling hats are awesome. They’re

Pretty and make me feel

Artistic and every time I wear them I

Run around with joy. I run around and

Kick off my shoes. No one knows I

Like them. I try to keep it a secret.

It’s really hard to put them away after I wear them.

Nothing in the world makes me more happy.

Getting new sparkling hats is more awesome than

Having a basket full of candy.

Anyone who would give me one would be one of

The coolest people on earth.

Bob loves Christmas because

All his family gets to

Come over. Bob’s family comes from

Oklahoma and some from

Nebraska, even really weird

People Bob doesn’t even know come over.

Isolated from his dirt bike Bob

Especially loves to have family over on Christmas.

P.S.

 One girl said, “What’s your name again?”

 I told her she could call me Miss Gowland.  “What’s your first name?” she asked.

"Mary Lee. You can call me Miss Mary Lee if you want.” 

 Someone else piped up, “Can we call you Miss California?”

 I said, “Sure!” and waved like I was in a beauty pageant. From then on I was called, “Miss California!”

Holiday Poems - Examples for my students

I want my students to write Holiday Acrostics tomorrow

so have written these two as examples:

Cards are my favorite part of the holidays. I love

Hearing from friends who live far away, being

Remembered and not just by email but holding

In my hand their envelope, looking at their

Style, the color of the ink. Everyone’s handwriting

Tends to have a personality of its own. I really like how

My friend Jane writes. The letters seem to dance

And she makes weird h’s. It looks like the words could

Skip right off the page!  Her writing makes me happy.

November is when I used to plan our New Year’s

Eve parties. We called it “New York New Year’s Eve”. The
Withrows were always invited, as were the Smiths. Every 

Year I’d decorate the house with lights, and get dressed in

Evening clothes, oh, not jewels or a long gown, but for me

Anything other than jeans is dressing up! Was it 2004 I

Remember? when we all danced in the garage, Lesley’s huge

Smile as she bopped around, Lynn was there, and Robbie as

Evidenced in the photos. I miss my friends! I hope some will

Visit me, and we can laugh and have fun like we used to when

Everyone lived within visiting distance, not ½ a country away!

A Good Cry

          Yesterday, after I posted my depressing blog, I took Walter for his walk. When I came back, I poured myself a drink and the phone rang. It was my mother.  I admitted to her how miserable I was, missing my friends but that I hadn’t been able to cry about it.

          “There’s nothing worse than dry tears.” she said. What a wonderful phrase. It summed up exactly how I felt: all bottled up with grief.

          When John first let me know that we would be leaving Coarsegold I took my usual walk and sobbed the whole way. I stopped to stroke the manzanitas, admire sunlight coming through their canopy, gazed out over the elephant-like mountains and felt that my whole being was crumbling.  After we moved, I sat with Walter in the patio and cried because I missed the rabbits. But I had not yet cried because I missed my friends.

          Back in the 1980s I used to listen to Farley Malorus, a radio astrologer. At the time I was dating a Scorpio man. I called in to the show and asked if perhaps my attraction to a water sign was because I didn’t have any planets in water signs in my chart.

          “I bet you don’t cry much.” he said.

          “No, I really don’t.”

          “Ah, Mary Lee!” he responded, “You must learn to cry. Crying is orgasmic!”

          You can’t tell someone to cry. Plus, there are different kinds of crying.  When I was in first grade and didn’t want to go to school I would cry, scream, and kick as my father carried me on to the school bus. This was very different from the tears I shed when I heard that Martin Luther King was killed.  The first was a selfish, angry cry. The second was joining in the collective grief of society.

          Recently I shed many tears watching Dancing with the Stars. These were tears of joy and pride in the accomplishments of the contestants.  I often cry when I hear beautiful music, or I hear of something bad happening to an animal. Yesterday I asked my mother, “Should I watch a sad movie or something?” 

          “Yes!” my she said.  Then she told me that after my father died she didn’t cry for a long time. She just couldn’t. She felt terrible but tears would not come. Then my niece brought her a photograph of my dad, one that she had never seen, taken by someone else. As soon as she saw it she started to cry.

          Telling me this story, her voice cracked and that was all I needed. My own eyes filled up and the tears began to run down my face.  Before I knew it I was reaching for a Kleenex. “Hold on,” I told her and as I set the phone in my lap I blew my nose, a big honking clown-like blow. The tissue was soaked.  “Did you hear that?” I asked her, “That was my sadness coming out. Thank you mama!”

          After that I did feel better. John and I went out to dinner. I got a great night’s sleep, waking with Audrey cuddled up against me. The streets were empty when Walter and I took a new route up the hill, passing two herds of dear who scrutinized us with their big wet eyes. It was a beautiful morning.

Christmas Presents

          The first Christmas presents I remember buying were ordered from the back of a magazine: a nifty wooden tray with indentions where my father was supposed to drop his keys, wallet, spare change (he never used it); and a bracelet of colored stones for my mother. She must have sent the money in for me, deducting it from my allowance. How else would I have managed it?

          Favorite Christmas presents I received vividly stand out in my memory: the doll hair-salon with its black and white checkerboard floor and pink plastic sinks that used real water; the little cast iron pioneer stove; my first, and only, microscope.  But the most favorite gift of all was the bulky, red-orange, v-necked, cable-knit mohair sweater that was all the rage in 1963. Orange was my favorite color, the color of the papier mache cat exotic Syrah, from Pakistan, gave me. I think my mother met her in a German language class they were both taking at Santa Monica College.

          Orange was the color of fresh-squeezed juice from a Valencia orange and the wild nastursiums that bloomed along our creek.  And that mohair was so plush, so unlike the hard surfaces of our modern house, with walls of glass and floors of terrazzo. I longed for something soft, and that sweater was it.  I’m sure it made me look like I was being devoured by a big hairy monster, but maybe my helmet of teased and sprayed hair somehow balanced it out.

          Looking around my house I see gifts from friends spanning our 30, 40, even 50-year friendships.  How well my friends know me! I treasure the lovely Chinese bowl from Katherine, the antique pitcher from Marie, the English tea pot from Joan.  I love to wear the soft purple top from Jane, the embossed black velvet scarf from Karen, Lynne’s custom made dichroic glass necklaces.  I treasure books from ex-boyfriends, even though I have no idea where the men are now.  Memories are abstract but gifts are real.

          Which is why I’m sad that this year I won’t be buying presents for my friends.  Yesterday, running errands, I allowed myself to browse in Pier One. I inhaled deeply the musky incense and wandered around touching things: jewel-colored humming bird ornaments, ceramic measuring spoons, silky place mats, smooth wooden boxes. I started to think, maybe I should buy gifts, but then thought about having to package the fragile items, the cost of postage and the Suze Orman voice in my head said, “NO!” So I mustered my self-control and left the store without a backward glance.

          Then, I thought, “I should at least buy some token gifts for the little boys I know,” so I stopped in at Dollar General.  After a few minutes browsing the toys I became light headed and thought I was going to faint. I couldn’t faint in a store! “Keep walking!” my inner voice said. I walked around the store, feeling dizzy and thinking, “Maybe this is a heart attack!”  but I just kept walking. I got in the car and pulled out into traffic, thinking, “Just get home!”  and a wave swept over me, as if I were melting. A panic attack.

          I made it home. I laid on the couch with the cat. I did not have a heart attack. What I have is heart ache. That we’re broke. That I’m so far away from my friends, that I didn’t get the job I applied for (it’s ok, it was 22 miles away and I’d rather work closer to home), that Poetry Out Loud will happen without me, both here and in California, that everyone says I’m doing so well, “getting out there” but I feel this huge looming, scary void.  My philosophy that you must visualize the life you want fails me because I have no idea what I want for the rest of my life. All I know for sure is that there will be even more sadness as we all get old, sick and die! And my lovely treasures that I value for their beauty and for the friends who gave them to me, will just end up in the trash, or on a dusty shelf in some dingy thrift store. 

          Or, wait! Maybe I won’t be cremated. Maybe I’ll stipulate that I be buried in a coffin crowded with my knick knacks, festooned with jewelry, wrapped in scarves, and packed in tight with crumpled letters from my dear, sweet, funny friends and family so that they are mine, for all eternity.   

         

Week of Women

          I began the week visiting Deborah, having a delicious, fresh salad on her deck with her longhorns peacefully sitting nearby, the new calf toddling on it’s skinny legs. Our conversation wove from Santa Monica to Texas, new friends and old. I remember sitting next to Deborah in junior high, watching how easily she sketched and now, she is a mature, successful artist, whose work touches all who view it.   I can’t wait to attend her upcoming show.

          Tuesday I went to the writing group which I’ve come to love. Each person has such a distinctive voice and writing style. Nine women, two men.  I read my blog entry about the river and one fellow said, “What’s a Coarsegold pool?”  It was decided that if I’m writing for a broader audience than just friends, I need to explain such things.

          Wednesday I returned to Daniels Elementary and had a much better session with my 14 fourth graders. I sat down and asked them, “When you read a book, what do you like about it?” and so we could talk about what “good” writing is. This helped tremendously when they worked on their alliteration stories. They added more detail, made more things happen.

          Afterwards I went to the library to sort and shelve books and ended up talking to Michelle – mostly listened - about teen angst, love, loss, and growing up. What a fascinating woman she is!

          Thursday morning was really cold – 22 – but had warmed up to 35 by the time I left for Fredericksburg at 8:30 to interview at Ignite Education. It took 31 minutes to travel 25.7 miles.  The woman who is leaving is screening applicants (she had a stack of resumes an inch thick) to replace her, which may be one full time, or two part-time people.  I would like to work part time so I can continue to teach.  We’ll see if I get a call back.

          That afternoon I went to have my roots bleached. I like my new hairdresser but didn’t think to ask her to towel-dry my hair, thus I spent an extra $30 for blow-dry styling that I’ll never be able to do myself. I don’t have the patience, let alone manual dexterity to operate a dryer and brush at the same time. If I wear my glasses, they get in the way. If I take them off I can’t see what I’m doing.  I don’t have a mirror to see the back of my head. When I use the dryer it’s to quickly get as much water out of my hair as I can and I’m left with a big bushy helmet of hair.

          Friday I met Friends of the Library to set up the Christmas Tree and ended up being the one scooting around on my butt, putting on the lights. It took an hour-and-a-half for 5 women to complete the task, as the only male in the group went to the store to buy more lights then said his wife wanted him home by 2:00. (We think he went golfing).

          I ran around to various stores trying to find one more set of white net-lights to cover the big juniper bush in front of our house.  White lights were sold out so I bought colored ones and John put them up. I put up the one set of whites I had, over the awful bars (that we usually keep open) in front of our front door. 

          The worries of the week, which I will not mention here, seemed to dissolve when I took Walter out to pee before bed, and saw our meager little light display. Not because they “rage against the dying of the light” but because they remind me that under life’s pain, and worries, and fears, a small light within each of us silently, eternally glows.