tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16561496424792790852024-02-21T05:22:54.939-05:00Pedal on regardlessThoughts from the top of my head and beyond...Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05059950970207516586noreply@blogger.comBlogger69125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1656149642479279085.post-91749703231282300592012-05-21T11:09:00.042-04:002012-05-22T23:01:22.527-04:00HomecomingIt has been too long.<br />
<br />
There's a point on I-26 East where the pavement changes from interstate-grade blacktop to the grainier, red-tinged stuff indigenous to the southeastern Coastal Plain. That's where I know I’ve hit the home stretch. From there, it’s less than an hour to Folly.<br />
<br />
I came by one evening last November, so I know it still exists: the road, the island, the “downtown”–a <a href="http://www.follybeach.com/">double handful of shops, restaurants, and a motel or two </a>where the road runs out right in front of the one big hotel–and Ashley Street, which runs the length of the island in both directions from Folly Beach Road.<br />
<br />
In November, I spent 30 minutes on the beach, got a sandwich in town, and had to leave. It wasn’t easy. As usual, I didn’t get away before dark. This time, I have four days. And I intend to milk them for all the peace and regeneration they’re worth. <br />
<br />
I park the car in front of the rented house on the east end of the island. (It’s really <i>north</i>east, but let’s not quibble.) I get a lift to the <a href="http://www.follybeachrentalbikes.com/">bike rental place on East Huron</a>, next to the post office, then ride the bike back. Three miles on a beach cruiser is a piece o’ cake, even as out of shape as I am after a winter of desk work and babying my arthritic knee. Without the bike, I’d be stranded at the house or forced to drive everywhere; I can’t walk more than a block or two, but I can ride for miles. Just as in my asthmatic, “don’t pick her, she can’t run” childhood, the bike is my salvation–my ticket to freedom. <br />
<br />
It’s a writers’ retreat weekend, a working vacation. I know there’s not going to be a lot of beach time, and that’s okay. It’s just being here that’s important. <br />
<br />
The second day, I do get away for a couple of hours and ride down to the center of town for a swimsuit. If I’d left my suit at home twenty years ago, I’d have been looking for a bikini to cover the essentials; at 5’6” and about 115 pounds, I was on the trim side of “not bad,” with only a modest quantity of essentials to cover. These days, not so much. I need a one-piece, preferably with a control panel. Chalk it up to the desk work, okay? <br />
<br />
I don’t find a one-piece suit. I do locate two great sundresses that together cost about the same as the one swimsuit I try on. (It covers the essentials; it even has a skirt. Unfortunately, it comes in two pieces, and it <i>doesn’t</i> cover the part that requires the control panel. In spite of its lovely, tan-enhancing milk-chocolate color, I put it back.) <br />
<br />
The sundress find is not the most remarkable thing about the ride to town and back. On the way up, I’m almost to the intersection of Huron and Folly Beach Road when I see a woman waiting for a dog to finish his business. She smiles, and I smile, and I almost say, “Bonnie?” And then I wonder why I didn’t. For another block, I debate turning around and going back to say, “Bonnie?” <br />
<br />
Bonnie was the landlady, the owner of the house where my friend Sara lived. Sara had the ground floor apartment, and Bonnie lived upstairs. But Bonnie wasn’t just the landlady–she was one of us. There was a whole crazy tribe of “Folly Beach Wimmin,” a dozen or more who came and went: gay and straight, with and without kids, young and not-so-much, bone-skinny and comfortably pudgy. We stuck together, we stuck up for each other, we hung out on the beach and took turns greasing up each other’s kids with sunscreen. We set the boom box on the tailgate of Bonnie’s truck in the driveway and played Joan Jett and Bonnie Raitt, loud, half the night. We walked up Ashley Road to the Sand Dollar Social Club all together, in a comfortable, arms-linked, intertwined gaggle, and when we got there, we drank beer together, shot pool together, danced together or with the guys who lived on the island. <br />
<br />
I think in all my life, that time and place–then and here–were the first I ever was able to just <i>be</i>. No pretense, no expectations, no history–just what you see is what you get. There is strength in numbers. It’s never been truer to me than in those days on Folly. <br />
<br />
So I ride the same way the following day, hoping to see Bonnie again. I’d texted Sara 10 minutes after seeing the woman I almost spoke to; later, she’d respond yes, Bonnie is still here. But that’s not the street where she lives, so maybe I didn’t see her after all. <br />
<br />
Still, I ride six miles. Not bad for an out of shape, arthritic old lady. <br />
<br />
The third day, after the morning workshop, I ride farther still. I swing by the bike shop to ask the guys to pick up the bike tomorrow instead of this evening, and then I circle back down Huron, up 6th, and west again, all the way to the end of the island and all the way back. When I return to the main intersection, I cut to the right, over to the beachfront road. I find “my” beach house out there–my dream hideout. It’s painted a deep ocean blue, but uneven–faded in big patches, as though the wind and the surf and the salty air have caused the color to run in places. It’s on the beach side–bad for hurricane insurance, but perfect if, like me, you’re just about crazy from homesickness for the smell of salt water. <br />
<br />
I ride through deep puddles I’m sure are tidal pools. Some nights, the tide does push to the top of the dunes, only partly regenerated after hundreds of years of hurricanes and only a couple of decades of real concern about beach erosion. That erosion has been slowed now, by careful cultivation of native flora–gaillardia, palmetto, beach roses and scrub pine that burrow into the satiny sand and stand firm against the tides. But the ecosystem is still fragile, like most of them anymore. One good, solid smack from a Hugo or Irene, and we’d be back in 1989, staring at naked beach instead of low dunes and tall houses. <br />
<br />
So ten miles on the third day, with all the looping back and cutting over, on a moderately heavy one-speed cruiser with fat beach tires; I know I’ll feel it in my legs tonight. In fact, I’ll feel it in every muscle I own from the hips on down–and that’s a good thing. <br />
<br />
Back at the house, we have a workshop session on the deck. We have our own pier over the dunes–walking on them is no longer allowed–and down to the beach. It’s a great place to sit and watch “Pelican TV.” The pelicans that nest here, on the east end by the lighthouse, lumber across the threatening sky–an early tropical storm has been hovering just a few miles out for three days, not budging–and occasionally drop to skim the air just inches above the cresting waves where there might be fish. When a pelican spots a target, he takes a massive nosedive, straight into the water–graceless, goofy, inelegant. Pelicans are all business. They aren’t made for “pretty,” they’re built for getting the job done. They’re live-action comedy on the wing. <br />
<br />
Our group has dinner at <a href="http://www.follybeach.com/locklearsmenu.php">Locklear’s</a>, at the pier beside the one largish hotel on the island. We dine outside, watching the wedding party that comes and goes down the pier, the bride in her off-the-shoulder gown (not <i>too </i>much of a meringue) and the groom in a white oxford shirt, khakis, and flip-flops. They all look comfortable, and it seems quite appropriate to me. If I ever go to a wedding on the pier at Folly, I’ll expect the groom to be wearing flip-flops. (In fact, I notice after a while that she's wearing flip-flops, too. Smart girl.) <br />
<br />
Three of us walk out on the pier after dinner. Martha and Calvin go to the end; I stop a little over halfway to rest. It’s close to sunset, and there’s one last surfer this far out. I see several closer to shore, catching waves as they break, but this guy wants one that will lift him up and carry him farther–carry him, I think, all the way in. He finally gets it just before we leave the pier. I look back over my shoulder and see him skimming the crest, maneuvering gently to the right or left to stay with the wave’s momentum as one section breaks, then another. It looks to me like the most beautiful applied physics–like you have to know where the power is behind your wave, and you have to be able to track it, or you’ll be lost. <br />
<br />
There will be one more workshop tonight, one more discussion in the morning. <br />
<br />
One more night to turn out the porch light so the <a href="http://www.follybeach.com/turtle.php">loggerhead turtles </a>can dig their nests in the dark at low tide, in the wee hours of the morning. One more night of sleep on the couch, where I can listen to the surf and be awakened by the sun coming over the lighthouse point. <br />
<br />
One more morning to sit on the deck and watch the darting, glowing tropical-green lizards with their vivid orange throats. <br />
<br />
One more short bike ride, this one to the lighthouse point; when the sand gets too loose to pedal, I park the bike and climb a nearby dune to see the structure standing off the island, on a rock jutting from the water. <br />
<br />
This last morning, the breeze is light. The storm has finally shifted, developed a little circular motion and moseyed south to go inland over Savannah instead of up by us. The sun is out, the air still cool but warming fast. It all smells bright, washed–green. <br />
<br />
I’ll grab a sandwich and a beer at <a href="http://www.follybeach.com/woodysmenu.php">Woody’s</a>. Then it’s back to my other world, back to the highway and the traffic and eventually (Tuesday) to the daily commute. <br />
<br />
But I have a new story started, three more critiqued and edited almost to where they need to be–and my hunger for the smell of salt water has been sated, at least for a little while. <br />
<br />
I can carry this with me: the work, yes, the progress and accomplishments, and also the sensation of my muscles stretching, pushing a heavy bike’s pedals and making it move down a beach road, the heat of sun through clouds canceling out the chill of a 15-mile-an-hour wind on my skin as I pedal east, the little start of almost-recognition of a stranger who might actually be a friend. <br />
<br />
The tranquil, impulsive, breezy, humorous, determined but unpressured spirit of Folly: I think I have enough bottled now to keep me going for a little while.Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05059950970207516586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1656149642479279085.post-38106525515768308132012-03-14T20:56:00.001-04:002012-03-14T20:57:50.234-04:00Sand in my shoesI have a few favorite places in the universe. With only one or two exceptions, they're firmly linked in my mind to times with my kids. When the older ones were small, I would sometimes pick them up from school on a Friday afternoon and make a beeline north from Raleigh, NC, to Washington, DC. I had a lovely friend, Margaret, who lived in the southeast quadrant of the District, in a lovely reclaimed row house three or four blocks from the Metro. We'd arrive about 9 or 10 p.m., and I'd park the car somewhere on the block -- and not move it again until we had to leave on Sunday. We spent whole Saturdays in the Smithsonian, Sunday mornings cooking breakfast for Margaret, sitting and talking, pretending we need never leave, and Sunday evenings driving back to Raleigh after dark.<br />
<br />
Margaret was a remarkable woman, the daughter of Presbyterian missionaries to China. They were among the last to leave during the Chinese civil war; Margaret's father was one of the few westerners trusted enough by both sides of the conflict that he was allowed to take food and other essentials back and forth, between and behind lines. I loved Margaret and her stories; Bri and Sean loved Margaret because she loved them back, unconditionally and without expectation. I did okay on the "unconditional" front, but I had lists of expectations -- and every child needs someone who loves them just for who they are, not who they have the potential to become.<br />
<br />
Another favorite place was the San Francisco Bay Area. Last year, I drove back with Sean and spent an afternoon driving around my old neighborhood in San Jose. It's still there, just bigger. It still felt like it could be home; the little house where we lived when Bri was born was still there. (It wasn't yellow anymore, but it was there!)<br />
<br />
And then there was Folly.<br />
<br />
Folly Beach is one of the barrier islands on the South Carolina coast at Charleston. When Bri and Sean were in middle and high school and Mitch was very small, my dear friend Sara (Mitch' godmother) lived there. She's a pediatrician, and at the time, she was practicing in Charleston and staying in a little place on Folly. The tourists hadn't discovered it yet, for the most part. There were some summer places, but mostly, it was little houses and little businesses. It was quiet enough we could leave the kids at the house on a Saturday night and walk up to the local bar, three blocks or so away in the center of the island. They would watch rented movies, and we would have a couple of beers, shoot a little pool, dance to the local band, and walk home. Folly Beach was farther away than D.C., but we never left before dark on Sunday anyway. Usually, we arrived back home around 3 or 4 a.m. on Monday -- always with sand in our shoes, and often in our shorts.<br />
<br />
Late last fall, I made a quick trip back to Folly. My sister had to make an unexpected trip to Charleston and needed someone to drive her, and after several days of doctors and surgery and stress and worry, I had to do a little something for my head before going back home. So I drove 20 miles out of my way to spend a few minutes on the beach at dusk, then have supper and drive back. It was worth the time and effort, every bit of it.<br />
<br />
Folly has changed, of course. Its little commercial district is a little slicker, a little more "high-end." I couldn't identify the house where Sara lived; it may not even be there anymore. I know the dunes that were washed out during Hurricane Hugo (1989) have been replaced by another row of summer houses. Silly people... But the soul of the place is still there.<br />
<br />
In a couple of months, I'm headed again for Folly. I'm attending a writers' retreat -- four days of blessed, beautiful work. Four days of focus on what's real and important and essential to who I am and what I do; four days of walking the shoreline at dusk, getting sand in my shoes; four days of breathing in salt air and letting it flow back out as perfectly chosen words.<br />
<br />
Three or four years back, I started drafting a story set on Folly Beach. It's finished in my head (in fact, it's one of those stories that began with the end), but I haven't been able to track the middle yet. Maybe this spring, back at the source, I will.Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05059950970207516586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1656149642479279085.post-61203518728252400282012-02-22T23:01:00.000-05:002012-02-22T23:01:43.776-05:00Because.It’s one of those days.<br />
<br />
When I taught a Junior Achievement class called “Real Jobs, Real World,” I used to ask my high school students to imagine they had the job of their dreams. It supported the lifestyle of their dreams. They loved every minute. (I cheated a little – I emphasized the part about “of your dreams” with <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z19zFlPah-o">a video of stunt cyclist Danny MacAskill </a>practicing his moves, riding his bicycle off a wall and up a tree, among other things.)<br />
<br />
Then I asked them if they thought, when they had that job, that there ever would be days they just did not think they could go to work. I asked them if they thought MacAskill ever felt that way. Always, the answer was, “No.”<br />
<br />
This was the unit on motivation. It was the reality check, the “think it through” class. I wanted them to choose carefully, because I know about those days. No matter how much you love what you do, sometimes it just doesn’t come together. Those times, you need a reason to get up and do it anyway.<br />
<br />
I love to write. I love to tell stories, to surprise, to make my audience laugh or weep – maybe even get mad. I want them to feel more than they did before. In the best cases, I may be able to shed a little bit different light on a subject, get one person to see something just a little differently. But some days, the latest twist of the new short story drives me crazy, or the layout of the Wire won’t work. Some days, I have no earthly idea what to say in this note, and I fear it will be pure drivel. Some days I question my ability, and some days, I just flat don’t want to do it. But I do. Even if it’s drivel, I write something.<br />
<br />
This morning, I heard the <a href="http://www.npr.org/2012/02/22/147250654/journalist-marie-colvin-killed-in-syrian-shelling">news on NPR of the death of Marie Colvin </a>in Syria. Ms. Colvin was a journalist – a woman who wrote. She spent much of her adult life on the front lines of war, recording what was happening, particularly to the civilians caught in the crossfire. She was, as are all war correspondents, well aware that her job could cost her life, but she kept doing it. She lost an eye to shrapnel in Sri Lanka in 2001; she put on an eye patch and went back to work. There were stories she was put on this earth to tell, and no one else could tell them the way she would.<br />
<br />
This morning, NPR anchor Steve Inskeep asked one of Ms. Colvin’s colleagues, London journalist James Hider, why she kept going back. Before the poor man could answer, I was shouting at my radio (it’s a bad habit, I know), “Because she was <i>a writer</i>!”<br />
<br />
I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sure there are no Marie Colvins in my house. I haven’t yet run across a story I’m willing to die for. If ever I do, you’ll be the first to know. <br />
<br />
But I get it. If you’re a writer, you just do it. Even on the days when you’re pretty sure you can’t, you do.<br />
<br />
I think we’re special, we women who write. We tell stories our own way – stories no one else can tell. We bear witness to the little details of the heart as well as the sweeping horrors of war. Even the best of us – like Marie Colvin – probably wake up some days thinking, “It just is not worth it. I can’t do it today.” And then – if it’s our dream job, if it’s what we believe we were put here by the Universe to do – we knuckle down and tell our stories anyway.<br />
<br />
Days like today, I feel very small. Marie Colvin exposed the tragedy and the lies of war up to – even <i>on </i>– the day she died. The best I’ll ever do is maybe get someone to stop and think twice about a dearly held preconceived notion.<br />
<br />
But I also feel honored. Marie Colvin was a woman who wrote. I belong to that universe, too. My stories are smaller, less earth shaking (an understatement if ever there was one), but they are from the heart. And my stories, for the most part, are short fiction – but they bear witness to the truth as I know it.<br />
<br />
This is one of those days I’ll remember when I have one of those other days, when I wake up and think, “Not today.” I’ll think it, sure – and then I’ll put on my shoes, make my cup of chai, and go do my job, telling stories. Being a woman who writes.Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05059950970207516586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1656149642479279085.post-83777897072595146222012-02-13T20:15:00.000-05:002012-02-13T20:15:46.667-05:00January rocks, but February ROLLS.It's starting to come together already.<br />
<br />
As I've said many times, I don't do "resolutions." They're wishes with no accountability - but I do use the transition from one year to the next as a time to evaluate where I am, where I'm going to be, and how I'm going to get from point A to point B (or C or D or E).<br />
<br />
My first-priority goal this year was to get a book in print and on the market - and since the novel is going slowly (as I'm told novels do), I decided last week to pull a handful of my best short stories and create a collection.<br />
<br />
I have an editor, and I have a publisher. I need readers! Specifically, I need half a dozen volunteers who are willing to (1) read short stories and (2) return them to me with comments (3) in a relatively short window of time. The comments need to be honest and straightforward -- I need to know where the weaknesses are BEFORE I send them to my editor!<br />
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So far, the list includes a ghost story, an "I hate my life and I'm running away" story, a lost child story, and a family "dramedy" - you know, one of those darkly humorous stories where the punch line to each section is something on the lines of, "OMG, Mother - you DID NOT just say that!" There also will be a rock-and-roll band story with a touch of (possibly supernatural) conflict and at least one story that considers a serious social issue from all possible sides and offers no solid answers. (I want people to think. No, that's not right - I want people on both sides to <i>feel</i>, even fleetingly, what those on the other side feel.)<br />
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Do I have any takers? If so, respond to this post -- I'll be in touch! 2012 is rolling fast! :-)Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05059950970207516586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1656149642479279085.post-54596364086828205362012-01-11T21:50:00.000-05:002012-01-11T21:50:26.334-05:00InspirationWhat inspires you?<br />
<br />
For me, it's easier to define what <i>doesn't</i> inspire. Prime-time TV. Fox News. Whiny people. <i>Mean </i>people.<br />
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The flip side -- what's <i>truly </i>inspiring -- is less easily identified. I just know it when I see it. Or when it hits me. (Yeah, sometimes it hurts.) Some things are obvious, like books or articles by my favorite authors, or art, or music. A zen koan that lands exactly where it fits best, when I least expect anything at all to fit. The taste of a new dish that I expect to be good, but that turns out to be blow-me-away, unforgettably delectable.<br />
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A color. A texture. A skein of variegated yarn that begs to be touched, worked, transformed into something useful.<br />
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A couple of weeks ago, I started idly noting the odd fixtures of my daily commute, and before I knew it, the notes and observations had begun to evolve into a poem. Who would think a person could be inspired by the stuff that comes out of the power company's waste-disposal smokestacks? But the color of that stuff just <i>shouted </i>a particular turn of phrase that wouldn't be quiet.<br />
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Real inspiration isn't just a good idea that takes root. It's an idea that locks itself onto your creativity and won't let go. Like a snapping turtle -- it won't turn loose until it thunders. You <i>have </i>to use it; you have no choice. If you don't, it will drive you crazy, like the stupid pop song that gets stuck in your head.Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05059950970207516586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1656149642479279085.post-39856592001025432922012-01-01T20:01:00.001-05:002012-01-01T20:02:51.430-05:00The big pictureSeveral years ago, I quit making New Year’s resolutions. For me, they were just “to do” lists with all the time in the world and no accountability. However, the end of one year and the beginning of the next can be a time to reflect on where I am and where I’m going, evaluate my progress toward larger goals, and redirect as needed. This is the time to clear the clutter, decide what’s important right now, and commit to bringing that to life. It’s the time to discard what’s slowing me down and start fresh in living life well.<br />
<br />
For years, I tried to build more structure into my goals. I wrote them down and posted them on mirrors and bulletin boards, created deadlines and to-do lists, and pushed myself to adhere – and inevitably, ended up frustrated, behind schedule, and mentally and physically drained. In recent years, I’ve learned I can only deal with so much structure before I start to feel boxed in and out of touch and seriously uncreative. <br />
<br />
Let me explain: If you’ve had a child with ADHD, you know how intently teachers, administrators, caregivers, and mental health professionals all push the “structure” thing. Gotta have expectations. Gotta have accountability. Gotta have routine. But when the expectations, accountability, and routine become inflexible, you’re headed toward a major meltdown. If you focus exclusively on managing the ADHD, you stifle the child – and the end result is never pretty.<br />
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For me, the balance is the “big picture.” I have intended results and drop-dead dates on my calendar – and I try to ensure everything doesn’t come due at once! But I keep the day-to-day activity flexible. Once I start a project, I try to stick with it until I get to a good stopping point, but I know I work best if I have more than one project going. I need something to switch to, in case I get bogged down. I can work toward goals, but if the “pogo stick of thought” needs to bounce down a different sidewalk, both my intellect and my mental health absolutely require the flexibility to do it.<br />
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If I make a to-do list, it’s only to break out the steps involved in one short-term project, like updating all the email addresses in eight sets of documentation with five documents per set, or cooking a holiday dinner with minimal stress. (Yes, it can be done!)<br />
<br />
The keys to making it all happen are, first, taking time to make sure the “big picture” is the one I really want in my heart of hearts – which takes time and careful contemplation, which is what December is good for – and second, accountability, which is the point of this note. I’m about to tell you what’s in my big picture. Once you know, in my mind (the part that belongs to the Recovering Preacher’s Kid who grew up in a fishbowl, always aware that everyone was watching), that makes me accountable.<br />
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A friend of mine, life coach Stacey Vicari, sends her clients and former clients a workbook toward the end of each year, and encourages us to use it to help clear out the clutter – mental and otherwise – and refocus on what’s most important to us. It’s an important exercise. When I look back at the one I did three years ago, I’m amazed at how far I’ve come in establishing my identity as a writer. When I joined Women Who Write, writing was something I did. Now, it’s become the center of who I am.<br />
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I haven’t finished this year’s workbook yet, although I’ve evaluated where I am now, in terms of self, spirit, career, family, leisure, health, and finance. And I’ve roughed in my calendar, which points me toward where I want to be when next year’s workbook arrives in my email. My goals this year – the “big picture” things – are (1) publication, (2) not just self-identification, but a degree of public recognition as an author, and (3) completing multiple challenging bike rides.<br />
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And getting the 2012 Christmas tree up before Dec. 24…<br />
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Happy New Year – here’s to productive “fresh starts” for us all!Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05059950970207516586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1656149642479279085.post-59886285809513905292011-12-20T22:34:00.000-05:002011-12-20T22:34:21.340-05:00Walking throughBear with me. This is one of those wild hares my hound-dog brain sometimes insists on chasing, and there's nothing to do but follow.<br />
<br />
I ride because I can't walk. Yes, I can stand on my own two feet (literally, even), and I can ambulate up the hall to the bathroom, the kitchen - on good days, even up and down the stairs. But after 50-some years of repeatedly tripping over my own two feet, I'm long past having <i>any </i>cartilage in my left knee (why do we always land the same way?), and the next step is to replace it. Given that my current medical coverage sucks pond water, I'm resisting that option.<br />
<br />
Walking more than half a block triggers pain. Not stiffness or discomfort - that's for sitting more than 20 minutes, or standing more than five. Put me on a bicycle, and I can go for miles. When I worked downtown, I commuted by bike, 14 miles each way, two or three days a week. Spring and summer weekends, I have 20 mile loops I love. No impact, no pain. But walk half a block and I start limping. More than that, and it gets worse. More than two blocks, and I'm hobbling. It's like I'm 95 percent middle-aged, and five percent 80 years old.<br />
<br />
In September, I spent a day in San Antonio with my boys. Had a great time - it had been 30 years since I'd been there, and the place was better than when I left - but I left my cane in a restaurant Saturday morning. The rest of the day was great fun, except from the left knee down, which was pure hell.<br />
<br />
The boys were patient - solicitous, even. I think if I'd cried, they'd have made a chair with their arms and carried me around town. Instead, I asked them to slow down, and we strolled where we could and rested a lot. Took the boat ride around the River Walk - it was lovely. Did early Christmas shopping and had lunch at El Mercado. Sat and rested some more. That night, I spent about an hour in the hotel pool, turning myself into a prune and gently working the psycho death pains out of my joints.<br />
<br />
The next day was even worse. Note to travelers: If you have trouble walking, and you have to go through San Antonio, make sure you have a cane, or crutches, or <i>something </i>to make it obvious you need help. By the time I got through Security, I could barely stand, but apparently one has to be knocking on Heaven's door to get an assist to one's gate at SAT. (At Midway, on the other hand, the nice young people trip over themselves trying to get to you with their wheelchairs, electric carts, and good cheer. I love Midway.)<br />
<br />
But then something odd happened. River Walk Day was Saturday; Airport Day was Sunday. Monday evening, I realized I was walking normally up my stairs at home. I mean, <i>like a grown-up</i>. Left foot on one stair, then right foot on the next - not left-right one, left-right two... And not, "I think my knee feels a little stronger - let's try this." Nope. More like, "Holy crap, I'm walking up the stairs! Wait - did I already do this once this evening? <i>Holy crap!"</i><br />
<br />
I decided against replacing the cane. If it's still there when I go back next month, well, happylooyah. If not, I'll keep chugging. But instead of taking it easy, I started making note of how things went. And I'm detecting a pattern or two.<br />
<br />
First the obvious: pushing it is hell at first, but later, it seems to trigger a slight improvement. The "going-upstairs effect," so to speak. If I can keep pushing until I'm damn near dead from pain, the pain will give up and I win, at least for a day or two.<br />
<br />
Then there's the lesson of moderation. My daughter and my sister are going to laugh at this - being good Episcopalians (to one degree or another), we share the Episcopalian credo: <i>Moderation in all things, including moderation.</i> You have to find the right balance between "no pain" and "no gain."<br />
<br />
If I walk slowly - not easy, given my damn-the-torpedoes take on life - and stop frequently, I can walk a couple of blocks without agony. Pain, yes, but no agony is a start in the right direction. So I'm thinking, maybe if I take 30 minutes once or twice a week to walk a block to the cafeteria and a block back, I'll hate myself for the afternoon, but eventually, I'll be able to make it a little farther. Maybe to the cafeteria and back, and still be able to stop at the grocery store and not cry when I get home. (Concrete/tile floors are the worst.)<br />
<br />
Maybe in a few months, I'll be able to walk three or four blocks before I have to give up.<br />
<br />
Maybe by spring, I'll be able to walk the dog.<br />
<br />
Of course, maybe I'll be halfway to Heine Brothers' next Sunday after church, and I'll have to call someone to come take me to the ER. Maybe they'll replace the damned knee sooner than later. Maybe it will just crumble in its socket, and it will be goodbye kneecap, hello titanium.<br />
<br />
Either way, maybe by next Christmas, I'll be back in my Barbie shoes and dancing again. I think this is one of those "hell or high water" moments.<br />
<br />
Either way, if it's too cold to pedal on, I think I'm going to try to walk through. Just to see how far I can get.Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05059950970207516586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1656149642479279085.post-51411754247524996822011-12-14T20:49:00.000-05:002011-12-14T20:49:58.230-05:00Well, hi there!Or - as my brother would say - "High! There?"<br />
<br />
Not much time for blogging the last few months. Been busy with a few other things, like watching my nest empty out as the last kid left town to join the Air Force, beginning a home re-decorating project that will probably never end, evaluating my professional direction, and redirecting my career (less corporate BS, more real writing).<br />
<br />
To that end, allow me to direct you to <a href="http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_0_15/182-3420191-0820412?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=women+who+write+calliope&sprefix=women+who+write">Amazon.com</a>, where you can purchase for a mere $11.99 (plus shipping cost) the 2011 <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Calliope-2011-Women-Write-Inc/dp/1467980749/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1323912787&sr=1-1">Calliope</a></i>, the annual anthology of Women Who Write. For that matter, you also can get the 2010 edition - I have pieces in both of them! And coming soon, a cookbook with a first-prize winning entry consisting of the recipe for Grandma Lil's Genuine English Trifle and an essay about the history of trifle, as Lillian and I decided it must be.<br />
<br />
Next stop: a couple of regional and national publications, and I'll keep you posted on the details! :-) And a couple more extensive projects underway. Again, details later.<br />
<br />
In between - since those pesky Women Who Write (yes, I'm a member ... in fact, I edit the monthly newsletter) insist on noting my blog in my bio - I'll try to keep this space a little more current in the future.<br />
<br />
And if you'd like to receive the Writers' Wire (newsletter mentioned above), send me your email address. Organization membership, being a writer, and even being a woman are NOT required!<br />
<br />
Pedal on, y'all!Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05059950970207516586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1656149642479279085.post-80570624846902418682011-03-14T19:37:00.001-04:002011-04-24T00:58:08.615-04:00And now, a word from our sponsors...The dogs luv me. They luv me very much.<br />
<br />
It's easy. Start with a basic peanut-butter cookie recipe. Mine is from the Fannie Farmer Cookbook edited by Marion Cunningham -- but any basic PBC recipe will do.<br />
<br />
Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.<br />
<br />
Substitute:<br />
for shortening = oil or butter, 1/2 the called-for amount <br />
for sugar = honey, 1/2 the called-for amount<br />
<br />
Mix base ingredients (oil, honey, peanut butter, eggs) until thoroughly blended. Add flour about 1/4 cup at a time as you continue to mix. When it gets too stiff for the beaters to move well, add a splash -- maybe a tablespoon -- of broth (vegetable, chicken, or beef). If the batter gets too soft, add oat bran to stiffen up; if too dense, add more broth. When you're done, batter should be work to mix, but not extremely firm.<br />
<br />
Drop by teaspoons full onto a lightly greased cookie sheet. Blobs should be roughly 1 cubic inch. They won't spread much, so you can easily fit two dozen on a standard cookie sheet.<br />
<br />
Bake 10 minutes, or until lightly browned. Remove to a cooling rack; when cool, transfer to storage container. Makes about 4 dozen soft, fluffy cookies -- perfect if you have older dogs.<br />
<br />
Lillie and the Daisies (Big and Little) say you won't have to worry about them going bad. They won't be around long enough. However, if you have very small dogs, or only one, you can freeze some and get them out in smaller batches.<br />
<br />
Right now, Lillie is licking my pants leg to make sure I haven't gotten anything on myself...<br />
<br />
Oh, and the picture you don't get (because I was the only one in the house at the time with functional thumb-things): Three dogs -- one 80-lb hound and two rat terriers, 24 and 16 lb respectively -- licking the beaters. How cute is that?!Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05059950970207516586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1656149642479279085.post-62593220762289185282011-02-26T21:21:00.000-05:002011-02-26T21:21:45.486-05:00A week later: the SF AdventureThey say it may snow in San Francisco. Maybe it already has. Thank the Almighty I missed that!<br />
<br />
The rain was quite enough, thank you. Granted, my favorite city is wonderful in any weather, but after getting into my cycling rain gear and hiking several blocks to the bus stop, I decided I was already wet and cold enough. At that moment, huddled in the bus shelter against a chilly wind, the thought of icy rainwater dripping off the back of a rented helmet and running down my neck was just <i>numbing</i>. So I picked myself up and headed back to the hotel.<br />
<br />
Walking back down Lombard Street, I saw the doggies through a window. It was a doggie daycare -- and it hit me how much I missed my girlies. Had to stand a couple of minutes and watch the big dogs play. When I broke away, I ducked into the front door and introduced myself. (Didn't want them to think I was a doggie-stalker or anything...) Leaving, I noticed the small dogs had a playroom of their own; while I waited for the traffic light to change, a Yorkie and another little guy hopped up in the front window to watch me. The Yorkie barked, of course. If you ever need a true watchdog...<br />
<br />
It was a neat little place -- check them out <a href="http://www.fogcitydogs.com/">here.</a><br />
<br />
Back in the room, I watched TV and crocheted a while, then decided to indulge in one of my favorite day-off pastimes: a nap. (Side note: basic cable in San Francisco is definitely nap-inducing. No HGTV that I could find, and no really good movie channels, either.) It was still raining when I woke up, but I only had one more night in the city, so I changed clothes, called for a cab, and headed to Fisherman's Wharf.<br />
<br />
Flashback: On my 20th birthday, I had just moved to the Bay Area. Back in those dark ages, you could legally drink at 18, so I'd had plenty of time to get good at it. And I'd always loved good food in good restaurants, although at 20, my definition of "good" was a little looser than it is now.<br />
<br />
So July 3, 1974, the First Ex-Husband (then not yet even the father of my firstborn) took me to dinner at #9 Fishermen's Grotto on Fisherman's Wharf. I had red snapper for the first time ever, and I had wine -- and I may have had a Mai Tai or two. Seems like those may have been my favorite back then. And last weekend, after reviewing online menus for several Wharf restaurants, I decided the time was right to see if Fishermen's Grotto was as wonderful as I remembered.<br />
<br />
The Grotto hasn't changed, I don't think. In fact, I'm pretty sure they have the same wait staff as they did 36 years ago... I'm <i>quite </i>sure the menu is very close to the same. But this time, they did have a blackened red snapper on the specials menu, and I decided to get that instead of the pan-seared red snapper with lemon-butter sauce. Silly me. Blackened isn't bad, mind you, but it doesn't do anything special for the distinctive texture and flavor of the snapper. Next trip, it's back to basics for me.<br />
<br />
The steamed vegetables were a little <i>over</i>-steamed (though the carrots were still right tasty), and although the menu said mashed potatoes, my fish came with the default side of pasta with a light Alfredo-ish sauce. The only Riesling on the wine list was a little far to the sweet side for my taste. Overall, not a bad dinner by any stretch, but being three dozen years older and having <i>seriously </i>redefined "good," my second impression wasn't quite as "WOW" as the first.<br />
<br />
Nevertheless, the next table over was occupied shortly after my arrival by a dad traveling alone with two kids -- I'd guess the boy was about 6 and the girl maybe 8 or 9. It did make for an entertaining meal. The boy was intent on having lobster, the girl was having trouble making up her mind, and Dad was tremendously patient with both of them, and not at all condescending. He struck me as a right good fellow who clearly operated on the assumption that his kids were his intellectual equals, just in need of a little guidance to become remarkably civilized humans. As a matter of fact, they were <i>very </i>civilized for as young as they were -- no shouting, arguing, shrieking, or bad manners, which I've observed is getting rare these days.<br />
<br />
We conversed briefly, and I learned they were on the way from Boston to Hawaii to visit Granddad, and they'd been delayed in San Francisco. It's a good place for an unexpected layover. Dad had the right idea -- he just reframed it as a surprise side trip, and they made an evening of it. Most of the time, hassles are hassles only if you define them as such. I hope the rest of their vacation went as well!<br />
<br />
I walked from the Grotto back up to Ghirrardelli Square, got a cup of hot cocoa, and called a cab back to the hotel. And waited. And walked a little. And waited. I was huddled under the awning of the building next door to the Ghirrardelli Chocolate shop on Beach Street, still waiting, when a young woman walked briskly by. She was wearing jeans and a chunky cardigan, but the sweater was a wrap style and the belt wasn't holding it together very well. She had shopping bags, no umbrella, and she looked a bit cranky. I couldn't blame her -- I had on a heavy jacket, and I <i>did </i>have an umbrella, and I was still chilled a bit. She ducked into a restaurant a couple doors up, and I thought, "Okay." Then a couple minutes later, she came back out and started back the way she came. She still looked cranky.<br />
<br />
I'd love to know what that was about.<br />
<br />
But right after she paced past me, she turned and came back and asked, "Are you okay?" I was a little startled; yes, I'd walked farther than is good for my knee these days, so I was tired, and it was cold out, but basically I was fine. Maybe it was just that I looked like her mom, only wetter and colder. (I think she was probably around Mitch's or Hillary's age.)<br />
<br />
I told her I was just waiting for a cab, and she said, "Is it coming?" Well, yes, I hoped so -- I'd called Yellow Cab, and the dispatcher had said they'd send someone, so surely they'd show up soon. "Well, maybe," she said. Turns out Yellow drivers pick up a lot of strays on weekend nights, and the call-in fares often end up waiting a while. She was about to give me another number to call -- a local cab company -- when she spotted one coming around the corner of Hyde and Beach.<br />
<br />
"Wait," she said. "This is how you get a cab on a Friday night in San Francisco." She shifted her shopping bags all to the left, squared her shoulders, and charged between parked cars into the edge of the right driving lane of Beach, and waved a mighty wave. The cab stopped (Metro Cab, I think), and the young woman opened the back door, turned to me, and grinned. "<i>That's </i>how you do it!" she said.<br />
<br />
I was tremendously grateful. I would have gladly shared the cab with her, but she said she was only two blocks from home. Whoever she was, she gets serious karma points from me. A completedl San Franciscan encounter.<br />
<br />
Incidentally, the Marina Inn is only a $5-$6 cab ride from Fisherman's Wharf. I paid the Yellow Cab driver about $6.50, the other driver about $4.95. That's not including tip, but it's definitely an affordable ride -- another good reason not to bother paying for parking.<br />
<br />
Even after a warm bath, I wasn't able to sleep Friday night. Reorganized my luggage for the flight home, put in a wake-up call as a back-up to the alarm, tried reading a boring book, tried watching TV, tried crocheting and reading some more... I was just too wound up. I dozed off and on for a couple hours total between about 2:30 and 7 a.m.<br />
<br />
What a trip, though. What a city. I wish I could have bottled a little of that positive, adventurous energy to bring home; I could probably make it last until the next trip, if I was careful with it.Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05059950970207516586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1656149642479279085.post-76407497050562494762011-02-18T14:53:00.000-05:002011-02-18T14:53:26.381-05:00Thursday was exhausting...After driving all day Wednesday in high winds and heavy rain, we discussed the options and decided Sean would drop me at the San Francisco airport car rental facility and go the rest of the way himself. It's a relatively short hop from there to Redding, interstate all the way, and his buddy was meeting him there to drive the truck into the mountains -- since he has experience driving a truck in the mountains in hairy weather conditions, and Sean definitely does not! And I didn't want to attempt it in a rental car.<br />
<br />
So instead, I checked in with Enterprise and got a cute little black Nissan Versa for the rest of the day. My only grumble is that the major rental companies (Enterprise just happens to be my favorite) is that they don't have hourly or half-day rates. I just wanted to drive back to San Jose, cruise around my old neighborhood, and come back. My downtown hotel didn't have parking, and the closest garage is about 4 blocks away. And street parking in the big city is something else I didn't want to do in a rental car.<br />
<br />
But customer service was -- as usual -- great, and the car was nice. I've been wanting to drive one for a while, and I liked it. Handled very well, even in the weather, and had a surprising amount of interior space. Looked to me like there was probably room for long-leggedy boys in the back seat, even!<br />
<br />
Thanks to the new phone, I have GPS now, so the old house wasn't hard to find. Not sure I could have done it without the lady in the phone, though; I don't think our old exit actually exists anymore. We used to come in from the west, driving down another north-south avenue to Santa Teresa Blvd. Yesterday, GPS Lady directed me to Bernal Road, which took me in from the east -- and there are about three more streets now on that side of the subdivision than there were 35 years ago.<br />
<br />
Otherwise, the neighborhood hadn't changed much at all. Still small stucco houses, middle-class and well maintained. The development hadn't gone up the hill in the back, and after driving around for a while, I found out why. It's now part of a huge park and wildlife preservation area.<br />
<br />
In downtown San Jose, I quickly found my way to the Museum of Art, which currently has an exhibit of Robert Mapplethorpe's portraits. It was late -- half an hour from closing by then -- so I didn't have time to sit and ponder on my favorites. Still, they were beautiful and inspiring. So many of them were taken with a Polaroid camera -- it's unbelievable what the man was able to do with one of those gadgets. Everyone has seen his portraits of Patti Smith by now, lovely images that show a softness Patti isn't exactly known for -- a Patti her best friends see, and probably not many other people. The ones of Madeline Kahn, Debbie Harry, and Isabella Rossellini are gorgeous, many of the others were striking in other ways -- but the one that touched me most deeply was the self-portrait from a few months before his death. Mapplethorpe was by then very sick from HIV, and he looked much older than he was. But he was still beautiful. And his eyes, staring out of his pale face against the dark backdrop, were direct and intense and unafraid.<br />
<br />
After that, there was only a quick search for a gas station (with one adventurous excursion through was turned out to be a very deep puddle!) and then back to the airport to drop off the car. I headed for the Air Train dragging my suitcase (thank God someone thought of putting wheels on them!) and toting my purse, briefcase, and crochet bag, and quickly regretted not spending the four bucks on a luggage cart. Then, just as I collapsed on a bench to catch my breath -- there sat a cart, abandoned at the foot of the escalator! I snagged it, and the rest of the hike was much easier.<br />
<br />
Quickly caught a shuttle into the city. If you have to pick a shuttle service in San Francisco, I recommend Advanced. The driver loaded my bags for me and the other passengers, took us on a very efficient route to our various hotels, and actually made a trip back from several miles up the road to bring me a bag I'd left behind his seat! The call to his dispatcher hadn't caught up to him yet, but as soon as he saw it, he knew where he'd dropped the passenger who'd left it, and he turned around and came back.<br />
<br />
The Marina Inn, at the corner of Octavia and Lombard Streets, is charming. Definitely a "bed and breakfast" atmosphere, so if you're looking for upscale modern, go with whatever chain you like. But the location is good -- just a few blocks from Fisherman's Wharf, and with some interesting little restaurants in easy walking distance -- and the desk staff are very helpful and personable.<br />
<br />
I had dinner at Silver Clouds, up the street a few blocks. The owners are Thai, and they do have some Thai dishes on the menu -- mostly specials. The shellfish tom yum looks really good, and I may have to go back and get some. :-) But last night, I was worn out, and I wanted protein. And the bulk of the menu is good old American protein! I went for liver and onions, which came with a nice little salad, wonderfully crusty, warm bread, and steamed vegetables and a baked potato.<br />
<br />
Back in the room, I conked out pretty quickly, and I think I slept for about 10 hours, then dozed for a couple more. And now it's noon, and I'm off for my San Francisco adventure!<br />
<br />
(Yes, I'll post those pictures! But not right now... Things to do! Places to be! YIPPEE!!)Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05059950970207516586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1656149642479279085.post-77666451956557280132011-02-17T02:22:00.000-05:002011-02-17T02:22:25.230-05:00Road trip!!Amazing. It's been three months since I posted anything here. Yes, I've been writing -- my fingers to the bone, actually. ;-) I'm several chapters into a novel, as well as a non-fiction piece I think my cyclist friends will enjoy. But blogging -- not so much.<br />
<br />
So where am I right now? How about Stockton, CA? Last week, almost on the spur of the moment, I asked for six days off, starting two days after I made the request -- and I got a "yes!" My son was in the process of loading up to move to northern California, and I decided to help him drive. And it really was a quick decision; I think I considered it for about 30 minutes after thinking it might be a good idea and before hitting "send" on the request e-mail.<br />
<br />
We spent Friday and Saturday running errands, tying up loose ends, and loading the truck. (I actually had very little to do with that. Procrastination worked in my favor. ;-) We left Sunday morning around 10, with a 12-hour drive planned for the first day.<br />
<br />
Twelve hours turned into about 14, what with pit stops and weather and all. We had a good room with comfortable beds, though, waiting in Oklahoma City. Monday morning, Sean slept in for a bit while I had breakfast, rode the stationary cycle in the fitness room, then swam a few laps.<br />
<br />
Monday through Wednesday were supposed to be 8-hour days on the road. All three turned out to be 10 or more. A word to the wise: If you find a discrepancy between your printed directions from Google Maps and the very patient voice from your GPS, go with the map directions. I'm just sayin'... Not that the GPS isn't great; our "nice lady who lives in the phone" saved us quite a bit of time and frustration this afternoon after we zigged once when we should've zagged! She got us back onto the correct highway in a matter of minutes, and I mean single-digit minutes. <br />
<br />
(BTW, I got a new phone last month -- a "smart phone" that I think may be smarter than I am. I mean, it can get me un-lost in short order, and I <b>still</b> haven't figured out all the things it allegedly knows how to do. All I know for sure is that the GPS and internet access alone are worth the price -- I haven't used either that much outside of this week, but if you're going to be traveling much, a smart phone could be invaluable. Just remember: GPS works on the fly. Google Maps starts with the least stressful route available. You can always reroute from there.)<br />
<br />
Monday was Oklahoma City to Albuquerque. Another long drive, another good room. (Another word to the wise: If you use it properly, Priceline can be a godsend.) Look for pictures on Facebook. <br />
<br />
Tuesday was Albuquerque to Needles, CA -- a LO-O-O-O-O-O-ONG drive. And today was Needles to Stockton.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow, we head north. At the moment, the plan is up in the air. Plan A was to swing by the San Francisco airport for a rental car, then heading on to northern California with Sean leading the way. If that holds up, I'll help him and his buddy unload the truck, then head back to San Francisco -- at least 8 hours on the road for me. But the weather is looking iffy at best, so we may go to B or C. Plan B is for me to follow Sean as far as Redding, with Josh getting a ride down to meet us and drive the truck -- and Sean -- the rest of the way in. Plan C is for Sean to drop me off in San Francisco and head to Redding and points north on his own. It all depends on the weather.<br />
<br />
We'll leave Friday's plans for Friday. Right now, it's late, and I have work left to do.<br />
<br />
A reminder: Check Facebook for pictures and details!Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05059950970207516586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1656149642479279085.post-41220966322496377802010-11-09T23:30:00.000-05:002010-11-09T23:30:55.565-05:00Urgent CareMy first question was, "Have you called the police?"<br />
<br />
I'd received a call from my husband - my daughter had been involved in an accident coming home from work. Definitive piece of information: I had the car. She was on the bike.<br />
<br />
He didn't realize that until I answered his question, "Where are you?"<br />
<br />
As it turned out, no one hit her. Thank G-d. She'd braked too hard in the process of missing a pedestrian on the shoulder (she was making a right turn) and gone "AOTK" - family shorthand for "ass over tea kettle."<br />
<br />
So, all things considered, it could have been worse. No head trauma, no internal injuries, no hit and run reports. Just a trip to the urgent care clinic and a few pain pills and days off work.<br />
<br />
And BTW, she did dent her helmet when she did that tuck-and-roll. We're retiring it. In fact, I think I may have it bronzed. It most likely saved my daughter's incredible brain.<br />
<br />
She thought she'd dislocated her left shoulder. Turns out it's a 3rd-degree AC sprain. {Put another way: It could have been better. A broken collarbone is apparently preferable.) But she didn't break her neck, she didn't put her eye out, and she didn't hit the pedestrian -- what more could a mother ask?!<br />
<br />
And here, for your edification, are the not-so-gory details of Urgent Care:<br />
<br />
(1) I redirected the Parental Taxi from the ER when I learned the worst of it was a shoulder injury. Past experience tells me self-referrals to the ER earn bottom priority on the triage list. I was right. We were home in under an hour and a half -- had we gone to the ER, we'd have still been waiting to be called for paperwork.<br />
<br />
(2) One more time (in case I haven't mentioned it lately) -- Dr. Bird at the Baptist East Urgent Care on Shelbyville Road is THE COOLEST. He doesn't get excited, and he doesn't get panicky. He applies exactly the right amount of concern to whatever the situation is, and there you go. And he talks to patients - even purple-haired punk-intellectual types and their marginally old-hippie moms - as though he assumes they know what he's saying. And when we ask him to explain, he doesn't bat an eye. He just does it. No condescension. Just the facts, ma'am. With a little bit o' humor thrown in.<br />
<br />
(3) Fee-for-service is totally WRONG. Okay, cost of visit, not too bad. Cost of X-rays, less than I expected. Cost of sling for arm, $29. Cost for nurse to put sling on patient's arm -- are you ready for this? -- <b>$122</b>. That's <b>one hundred twenty-two dollars</b> for about 15 seconds of work. Okay, maybe thirty. Good thing I beat her to it... Jesus H. Roosevelt...<br />
<br />
Ms. Tough-as-Nails has quite sensibly called in Wounded for tomorrow's work day. The bakery can probably do without her for a day or two, considering her mobility is down by about 80%. She's taken half a pain pill, and she's trying to sleep. (The Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie prescription probably helped as much as the pill, all things considered. We believe in the healing powers of chocolate.)<br />
<br />
Betty the Bike is off to the shop tomorrow to confirm that there's no harm done to her considerably solid frame -- and that she didn't do anything bad to cause this.<br />
<br />
Cycle Girl will be doing a few circles around the cul de sac on Trigger, the Palomino cruiser, as soon as she's able. Past experience tells me any kind of nasty spill requires getting back on the pony as quickly as possible. Even if it means riding one-handed. And Trigger is the perfect choice in this case, since he has old-school, back-pedal brakes.<br />
<br />
I'm thinking I may institute a Purple Pedal Medal for those injured in the service of saving the atmosphere and keeping their butts skinny in the process. Design ideas welcomed!Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05059950970207516586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1656149642479279085.post-19477470275488070662010-10-30T17:01:00.000-04:002010-10-30T17:01:35.496-04:00October sunI've been slack this summer. After Memorial Day, things got busy, and then it got hot - boy howdy, did it get hot. A record number of days over 90 degrees this summer, and a few in the triple digits. With the humidity from the river, a heat index well over 100 wasn't uncommon.<br />
<br />
I rode one Tuesday in June; the morning was balmy, but at 5:30 p.m. on the way over to Gilda's Club, the heat index was 108. Even my veteran cyclist friend Ben thought I'd lost my mind. Brother Bob allowed later as how I was apparently either suicidal or just plain stoopid.<br />
<br />
So I've gained five pounds I didn't need, and my asthma is back - the symptoms had completely gone away when I was riding regularly, but I'm wheezing again now that allergy season has hit. I've been hitting the Zyrtec pretty hard just to keep breathing.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, after going downstairs to get lunch, I decided to take the stairs back up - five floors. I had to stop on 3 for a minute, but I made it. I'm going to do it at least once a day this winter; by Christmas, I should be able to keep going and pick up some speed.<br />
<br />
And this morning dawned chilly and clear, but turned into the most perfect day for riding. 60 degrees out at noon, with little wind and only a few high, wispy clouds - the kind that look like bits of Halloween spider-web fluff. So around 2 p.m., I took a break from cleaning the front closet and hitched up the panniers for a run to the grocery.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, my new gel seat has a loose nut and keeps sliding backward and forward. So instead of being set where I like it, with the gel part holding my weight, I rode uncomfortably with the metal seat frame under my bones... Gotta get that fixed.<br />
<br />
And it makes a rhythmic thumping noise that makes me think one of the tires isn't quite right - the kind you'd expect to hear on a road with regularly spaced bumps, except it goes all the time. Need to look into that, too.<br />
<br />
Nevertheless, it was a good ride. I went through the neighborhood out to Hounz Lane, then took Tiverton around to Aylesbury and Goose Creek. Had to cross Westport Road at the traffic light, which is no big deal - otherwise, it was smooth sailing on residential streets.<br />
<br />
As I rode through the Kroger parking lot, I noticed another bike chained to a light post with a bubblegum pink cable lock. It made me smile.<br />
<br />
Inside, I wound through Produce picking up ingredients for beef stew - celery, organic carrots. I knew I had plenty of onions. On the way to the potatoes, I spotted the kalanchoe display at the same time as another woman. She was tall, beautiful in a fresh-scrubbed, old-hippie way, maybe about my age. She was black, and she wore soft layers - a wide, long skirt, a big, loose sweater, a couple of bright scarves. And she was enchanted by the kalanchoe.<br />
<br />
"What is it?" she asked. "I've never seen it before. Is it from some foreign country? Maybe China?" <br />
<br />
I told her the name of the plant and what little I know about it: that it's easy-care, low maintenance, it's a succulent, and even when it's not blooming, the leaves are lovely. I didn't know where it was from. Central America, maybe. I need to research that.<br />
<br />
She couldn't get over the colors. The display was a bank of reds, oranges, golds, yellows - all shades, many of the pots with two or even three small plants in mixed colors. It really was beautiful - it made me smile, too.<br />
<br />
As we walked off in opposite directions, she called over her shoulder, conspiratorially, "We love that kind of thing, don't we?" Recognition of a kindred spirit.<br />
<br />
"Yes, we do!" I called back.<br />
<br />
I got the potatoes, the beef, and I found a new grater. (My old one has flown the coop.) I like grating by hand, using a four-sided stand-up grater, the kind my grandmother had. This one is like Grandmother's, only better; it's from OXO, so it has a comfortable rubber grip handle and a neat little box, about the size of a pack of cards, that fits on the bottom and has a tight lid. You can grate right into the box and then snap the lid on to store what you just grated; even better, when you're not using the set, the box fits top-down inside the bottom of the grater. I found a book of cryptograms - hard to locate these days - in the magazine section.<br />
<br />
Then I checked out and went out to load the groceries into my panniers.<br />
<br />
As I rolled back across the parking lot, I saw the owner of the bike with the pink lock coasting down the hill in my direction. It was the Kalanchoe Lady.<br />
<br />
"Well, hi, there!" I called, and waved.<br />
<br />
She responded, "Hello, precious one!"<br />
<br />
I was passing through the intersection now, turning right to go back to Goose Creek; she was just coming up to the stop sign. "Enjoy your ride home!" I called back to her. And as I pedaled off, "Be safe!"<br />
<br />
The world is full of little miracles - wispy Halloween-spiderweb clouds, bright kalanchoes, and kindred spirits in the most mundane places. And it's good to be back on the bike.Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05059950970207516586noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1656149642479279085.post-32342274906530284672010-10-11T20:51:00.000-04:002010-10-11T20:51:02.576-04:00And now, a word from our sponsor (Daisy Lou)...I wrote this at about midnight one evening in June. I have no idea why I never posted it. I probably didn't think it was finished. But why would I need to say more?<br />
<br />
*********<br />
<br />
I have to tell you about this: beautiful Daisy, who is about 8 years old now, has just discovered fireflies.<br />
<br />
For the last three nights, our lovely red and white hound has stood outside on the walk or in the grass, transfixed by the little blinky lights dancing in the dark. Last night, she stayed out for over an hour and never made a peep. (Usually, 5 minutes without human company is about her limit.) When I went out to get her, she was just standing and watching, not moving a muscle. Truly fascinated.<br />
<br />
The night before, I needed to go to bed, so I tried to call her in; I finally had to put some shoes on and go out in the grass to round her up.<br />
<br />
She just now went outside, her last trip for the evening. Tinkerbell and her friends apparently party late in these parts - unless I haul her into the house, I'm pretty sure Daisy Lou will stand on the walk and watch them until 4 in the morning.Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05059950970207516586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1656149642479279085.post-10982768889206845252010-10-08T00:51:00.001-04:002010-10-10T22:56:17.172-04:00HopeI've been seeing it everywhere, all this short month long. "Hope." Pink wrist bands, pink on shopping bags, pink on teddy bears, pink on all kinds of silly stuff every time I turn around. Last Saturday, cruising the mall after a visit to the Hair Lady, my sister finally asked, "Is there really all of a sudden all this breast cancer stuff all over the place, or is it just me?"<br />
<br />
I knew what she meant. On a less goofy level, it's the same thing as, when you finally get pregnant, you start seeing pregnant women everywhere. Like every freakin' one of 'em decided if you were going to do it, they were, too.<br />
<br />
I was moderately relieved to be able to say, "Nope. Not you, shug. Just October."<br />
<br />
Of course, there's a month for everything. October is Breast Cancer Awareness. Translation: All you retailers, jump on the Intimidation Bandwagon and <i>Cash In!</i>! But who cares? If one woman thinks about getting a mammogram because some damn fool bought her a Belkie Bear in a pink T-shirt, it's worth it.<br />
<br />
Me, I got my Belkie Bear. My sister has hers. We haven't named them yet, although I'm scrolling through Lynn Redgrave's most memorable roles for a name for mine. My sister bought the bears (white plush, pink shirts, very huggy). I bought the Chanel No. 5. Cut of the take to S. Komen. Works for me. It's all about hope, right? Hope for a cure, hope for the future, hope for lifetimes that go 'way past when they would have a couple decades ago...<br />
<br />
This weekend, I'm headed for a women's retreat at a monastery in Indiana. The focus for the weekend is "hope," and we have a list of things to bring, all of which mean "hope" for us. A scripture, reading, song, whatever. A used greeting card. A story.<br />
<br />
As I started packing, I found myself looking for the "hope" in what I packed. It started out as, "What am I going to take? What defines 'hope' in my worldly possessions?" After a while, though, I had to laugh... Here's the list:<br />
<br />
1. my "ASsK me" T-shirt - the question being, "Who is Aang San Sui Qi?" - in the hope of universal justice<br />
2. my "peace" tank top from the Norma Kamali collection at WalMart - in the hope it will happen (even at WalMart)<br />
3. my Cubs T-shirt - in hopes of breaking the Curse (hey, Ed has the Redskins and I have my Cubbies - so you family members who want to blow your diet Pepsi through your nose about now, stuff a sock in it! Super Bowl, World Series, <i>what<b>ever</b>... </i>;-)<br />
4. my jeans, in the hope of someday seeing "skinny" again<br />
5. my western boots, in the hope that my knee isn't so bad I can never hope to shovel out a horse stall or sit in a saddle for hours<br />
6. my guitar - in the hope that someday I'll be able to play and sing at the same time<br />
7. my notebook - a.k.a. my "brain" - in the hope of a flash of brilliance that will translate into notes that will translate into something that will translate into a "WOW" from someone with the authority - and the money - to say, "Publish that, and <i>send that woman a check</i>!"<br />
8. that song...<br />
<br />
There's a song by Rich Mullins called "If I Stand." It's been stuck in my head for a month. The chorus goes:<br />
<br />
<i>If I stand, let me stand on the promise that You will see me through -<br />
And if I can't, let me fall on the grace that first brought me to You.<br />
If I sing, let me sing for the joy that has borne in me these songs,<br />
And if I weep, let it be as one who is longing for her home.</i><br />
<br />
Okay, I paraphrased a little. I doubt Rich minds. I'm sure the Almighty doesn't. Because that song is about my hope.<br />
<br />
I'm clueless. I'm scared. I face tomorrow with trembling hands and knocking knees - <i>every damned tomorrow of my life</i>. Seriously. All I can hope for is what my gut tells me - that there's Something bigger than I am holding me up. There's a survival that has no logic to it, a quiet peace that has no reason but grace. There's a happiness that has no link to good sense - it's just there. And there is - <i>I am <b>sure</b></i> - a place I've been, a place I started, a place to which I will return, where it will all make sense. So I don't have to think about why, or how. The Something that's bigger (and smarter) knows about all that and has it under control. Maybe not to change anything, maybe not to "make it all better" - but at least to be able to see the big picture. The "if this, then that." The logic, the karma, the all-comes-togetherness.<br />
<br />
My hope and my trust are in the existence of the Something that can manage all of the above and then some. So I, in my anxiety-disordered, perfectionist humanity, don't have to.<br />
<br />
Thanks be to G-d.Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05059950970207516586noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1656149642479279085.post-75757722733981315492010-09-24T08:12:00.001-04:002010-09-24T21:05:38.466-04:00Flotsam and jetsamWednesday night on Letterman: Joaquin Phoenix and Tom Jones. First Joaquin - beautiful, brilliantly talented, very vulnerable, with his frequent "and um..." and hesitancy in answering direct questions. Then Mr. Jones - still hot and bothersome at 74 and counting. (And in case you're wondering, Joaquin Phoenix was born exactly nine months ahead of my daughter.)<br />
<br />
I wonder how many other women of my generation have been taken with such a maternal possessiveness toward the Phoenix boys. River broke my heart more than once, but the last time almost did me in; after his death, I couldn't watch my favorite movie of all time (<i>Stand By Me</i>) for three or four years. (I taught my youngest child to dance with that movie playing on the VCR.) <br />
<br />
I think what hurt the most was that in his very evasion of public life, River pulled off a major lie. We moms truly believed he was the beautiful, calm, stable boy he made himself out to be - the serious actor, the one with a gift, the Big Brother of the other young Phoenixes. And as the eldest of four, I'd cast him in the role of Guiding Light: the one who set the example, just as I was expected to do; the one who played it safe because the little ones would follow; the one who was cautious in taking risks, so the little ones <i>wouldn't </i>follow... And then, dramatically, suddenly, right there on a street corner in LA, in front of God and everybody, he up and died - OD'd. And one of the little ones - Joaquin - had to be the one to call 911.<br />
<br />
Damned if that's not a comeuppance to mark you for life.<br />
<br />
Joaquin isn't as pretty as River was. He's much the middle child, the odd duck, the one who pulls goofy publicity stunts that may or may not be research for a new role. Every time I see him, with that "birthmark" on his face, the first thought in my head is that if plastic surgeons have a real calling, it's to fix harelips as well as his has been fixed. I mean, <i>really</i>... But there's something about him. Maybe it's the intensity, or maybe it's just the goofy approach to being serious.<br />
<br />
Or maybe it's just - as Billie Holliday sang so perfectly, 'way before MY time, let alone his - "them there eyes."<br />
<br />
Then Mr. Jones - white-haired, bearded, solid - even stocky. No tight pants and shirt open to THERE, no shimmying pelvis - no real drama, even. The old image of Tom Jones is out the window. But...<br />
<br />
The directness - the no-nonsense, lay-it-on-the-line honesty - of the delivery constituted one of the sexiest performances I've ever seen on TV. I mean, be honest: live is always better. It's all relative. If I'd been in the studio audience, I'd very possibly have felt it genuinely <i>necessary </i>to throw some intimately personal object onto the stage.<br />
<br />
The song was a bluesy, not-quite-gospel thing about "I don't know what's gonna happen when I die and it scares the living crap out of me..." The chorus repeats, building in intensity: "Maybe there ain't no Heaven, maybe there ain't no Hell. Maybe there ain't no Heaven, no burning Hell..." The lyrics are plain, flat: there it is, deal with it. And the blunt delivery sends chills down my arms.<br />
<br />
Because <i>that's the question</i>. What if?<br />
<br />
Believe all you want, but remember this: "Faith" requires accepting not just what you can't see, but what you realistically can't even <i>believe</i>. Anyone who tells you they KNOW the truth is either (a) lying in their teeth, or (b) lying to <i>themselves </i>in their teeth. Believe all you want - I do. But don't tell me you <i>know</i>.<br />
<br />
A kid the age of Joaquin Phoenix - or my daughter - can't deliver those cold chills as plainly and simply. For all "that age" is officially "adult," a Western 35-year-old these days isn't a "grown-up." Hard knocks have nothing to do with it; Joaquin Phoenix watched his brother die, and Bri dealt with traumas of her own. (And yes, they were real traumas, not adolescent "mountains out of molehills.") But in spite of the hard knocks, the lost siblings, lost friends, fear and alienation, and the outright tragedy it took them to grow up, these kids mostly haven't yet woken up at 2 a.m. wondering if they're really going to see their Granddaddy and their Aunt Murial when they die, or if the "crossing over" BS is complete and <i>total </i>BS.<br />
<br />
Whereas Mr. Jones senses reality: the truth of the matter is something we can't know. And he lays it out there on the line in his performance, hard and uncompromising: <i>I don't know. I don't have a clue. I will pray, I will try, I will hold onto as much belief as I can - even if it's the belief that if I approach the church altar right now, with as little faith as I have in my heart, a bolt of lightning will find me.</i><br />
<br />
.....<br />
<br />
It's very late, and I'm very tired, but there <i>is </i>a point here. It's not so much that it escapes me at the moment as that my heart - my gut, my <i>kishkes </i>- knows the point, but that point totally refuses to travel to the logical, verbal side of my brain from where I can throw it out there.<br />
<br />
But I think it's this:<br />
<br />
The world is a bizarre place. A lot of what happens is a matter of being in the right place at the wrong time. Can you imagine, if either of these performers had taken one different turn? True, it wouldn't be as dramatic as "the end of the world as we know it" - because that would simply be the way it is. <br />
<br />
But I'm convinced that art, creativity, music, drama, and even just flinging oneself out into the world - into life - is what keeps the world turning. It's us, at whatever level we are, wherever we are in our personal development, grabbing hold of that "love energy" that Glenn Henson defines as "God" and flinging it back into the universe, where it can build on itself and grow willy-nilly and attach to other beings and turn, again, into art, creativy, music, drama - beauty.<br />
<br />
Gut-wrenching, heartbreaking, irresistible, undeniable, unflappable, indefinable beauty. The flotsam and jetsam that come together in an implosion of "love energy" and make us truly alive.Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05059950970207516586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1656149642479279085.post-54997577404393497422010-09-18T23:46:00.001-04:002010-09-18T23:48:35.931-04:00DisappointmentsThere's the disappointment of not getting a job you know you're qualified for. On a lesser scale, there's the disappointment of going to the fridge with your mouth set for a pimento cheese sandwich, to find someone else finished off all but half a teaspoon of the pimento cheese.<br />
<br />
And there's the disappointment of making plans for a new life, spending weekends looking at houses, spending evenings planning a wedding, and then having the rug jerked out from under you.<br />
<br />
As often happens, it's not my story to tell. But my beautiful daughter is heartbroken, her erstwhile fiance is oblivious to the harm he's done, and we all feel betrayed. After four and a half years, you start to think you can trust a person. And then he decides he can't commit.<br />
<br />
Two weekends ago, she and I sat in the shade of the patio of a pub on Bardstown Road, talking about music and houses and the possibility of having the rehearsal dinner at my house - or even at hers. This weekend, she's reeling, and I can't do a thing to help.<br />
<br />
We all want things for our children. Even us old "anti-establishment" lefty types, who raised them to question authority and taught them well that there are more important things in life than amassing a fortune. As kids go, I think I did well. I have three young adults with strong principles, who won't give up those principles for convenience or profit. They're all compassionate, literate, articulate, and committed to what they believe is right. They share a strong - even intense - work ethic. They want to do work that will improve the world; if it pays well, that's just gravy. They are people of faith. Theirs may not in all cases be mainstream, establishment-approved faith, but it is theirs, and they are better people for it. And they're people of action; they don't sit and wait for good things to come to them. They roll up their sleeves and get busy making good things happen.<br />
<br />
I think it's a positive thing that my daughter places a higher value on service, social justice, and the environment than she does on a big fat paycheck. Sure, the fat paycheck would be nice, especially since she graduated just in time for the recession (thank you, Dubya) with five digits' worth of school loans. So far, she's still looking for a job that will pay enough to live on AND make payments to the Student Loan People. But she's not sitting and moping - she's working two jobs, and in her vast quantities of spare time, she's applying for jobs that will cover both life and loans.<br />
<br />
Other people raised their children differently. There's not anything inherently wrong about that - one of the hard facts of being a card-carrying liberal is that you have to grant people the right to do things in ways you wouldn't. But I do think there's something tragic about a family that rejects its children if they choose love over a higher income. It's a fate that's actually come about with one of the erstwhile fiance's cousins; he's apparently persona non grata these days, after giving up a high-paying job to move closer to the woman he loves. My guess is that the EF could see it happening to him, if he actually followed through with marrying a woman with high ideals and a big balance in the school loan department. And who refused to file bankruptcy to get out of paying the loans.<br />
<br />
In the long run, it's for the best. Go ahead and get the heartbreak out of the way while there's no community property and no children involved. Deal with the disappointment while you can still move on.<br />
<br />
But the disappointment is very real, and it hurts. My daughter hurts from the rejection, from being told, in essence, that she's inadequate. I hurt for my daughter. And I hurt for myself and the rest of my family, because we fell for it, too. We trusted him to love our girl enough to bend for her, as she bent at times for him. And he betrayed our trust.<br />
<br />
I am deeply disappointed in both the EF and his family. They seemed so nice. I'm furiously angry to find they place more importance on financial worth than on commitment, love, and hard work. <br />
<br />
Right now, she says she'd rather be single for the rest of her life than to get hurt like this again. I'm hoping there's someone not far off who won't betray her - who shares her ideals and her sense of commitment, and who wants what she wants and is willing to bend to meet her. And that when she encounters that person, she'll be able to believe him.<br />
<br />
Because we need to have faith that there is love, and it can conquer all, if you let it.<br />
<br />
Otherwise, the disappointment of living would eat us alive.Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05059950970207516586noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1656149642479279085.post-57600984002989968582010-09-14T01:04:00.002-04:002010-09-14T01:09:24.338-04:00Movie reviewsEvery once in a while, I take a notion to have a movie weekend. Sometimes there's a reason - research for a project, or I'm feeling a little hesitant in my Spanish comprehension - but for the most part, it's just time for a movie weekend.<br />
<br />
This week, I was looking for a melody - one that hovers in the back of my memory and tries to ooch forward occasionally, but will never quite surface. This week, I needed that melody. It's sweet and elegant, childlike and stately, one of a kind.<br />
<br />
So Bri and I hit Wild and Woolly Video on Bardstown Road last Saturday afternoon and came out with an armload. And what an armload!<br />
<br />
One of her picks was a French rendition of <i><b>Bluebeard</b></i>, the scary morality tale of the young woman whose blue-bearded husband warns her never to unlock the room with the little gold key. If you ever heard a fairy tale, you know how this one comes out. But this production is brilliant and eerie - directed by Catherine Breillat, it links make-believe with the recent past of my childhood and quite successfully builds suspense in spite of the obvious. This one goes in one of my "fantasy classes" on Cinema as Literature.<br />
<br />
My picks included <i><b>Coco Before Chanel</b></i>, which I guess qualifies as fictionalized history, if not historical fiction. Having read the Wikipedia bio, I expect they got the basic facts about as straight as one can, without sworn testimony. But without a fly on the wall, it's anybody's guess how accurate the details are. Nevertheless, it's an admirable effort, a fun movie, and Audrey Tatou is (<i>duh...</i>) perfect. (Like she could be anything else.)<br />
<br />
The Unknown Quantity - totally - was <i><b>Avenue Montaigne</b></i>. The synopsis sounded amusing: <i>Jeune femme </i>from <i>le stiques </i>comes to <i>Paree</i>, finds a job as a wait-person at a cafe' (where they <i>don't </i>hire women, <i>merci' </i>very <i>beaucoups</i>) next door to the <i>theatre</i>, and proceeds, via her <i>engenuite'</i>, to solve the problems of all the overwrought soap stars and <i>nouveau riche </i> art collectors within range, not to mention a tormented concert pianist and a jackass cafe' manager. <i>AND </i>she makes her Grandmama happy.<br />
<br />
Bottom line: If you love Cinderella, heroines with grit, happy coincidences, and happier endings, <b>rent this movie</b>. You will love it! <i>Definitely </i>goes on MY Favorites List.<br />
<br />
The icing on the cake I saved for this evening, two days past due. (Yep. This is me. The Queen of Overdue Fines. Wild and Woolly lets me pay on the installment plan. <i>Seriously</i>.) <br />
<br />
The icing on the cake was <i><b>Babe</b></i>.<br />
<br />
This is the movie I went looking for. The Saint-Saëns melody that repeats throughout this sweet, lovely film simply haunts me. For several years, I struggled to write a hymn lyric to the tune. Watching the movie tonight, and hearing - maybe for the first time, for all I've watched <i><b>Babe</b></i> half a dozen times or more - Farmer Hoggett singing softly to the little pig, "If I had the words to make a day for you..." I realized my efforts were superfluous. The song is one of complete, unconditional, uncomplicated, WYSIWYG love, and there is none greater. I don't think I'll forget the melody again; it's imprinted now in my head. <br />
<br />
And the take-away is this: the half-grown pig, nudging gently at his bereft adoptive mother, Fly, who's seen her litter of pups farmed out and lost her mate, Rex, to his own ill temper and jealousy, and saying, "Mom? Mom? Are you alright, Mom?" And the farmer, the man of few words, willing a sad little pig to live, and softly singing to him from some unidentified place deep in his own heart's memory.<br />
<br />
No species-defined lines. No assumptions. No prejudgment. Just <i>love</i>. Wide-open, accepting - willing to be hurt, if that's what it takes (although not out actively looking for pain) - but mostly just knowing that it's in giving that we receive.<br />
<br />
I finished the evening with a phone call from my sister. She's beautiful, and I love her. Life isn't easy right now - but that's just life. The good part is <i><b>us</b></i>. We have each other to lean on.Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05059950970207516586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1656149642479279085.post-83250850650496523652010-09-05T00:48:00.001-04:002010-09-05T11:12:42.928-04:00Hunting HousesMy daughter and her fiance have decided it's time. They need their own place. Unfortunately, they both work such hours that it's difficult for them to look for houses together - which is why I've spent the last two Saturdays wandering around town looking at "fixers" with Bri.<br />
<br />
Last week was with the realtor who helped us buy this house. She's also a friend, and she was willing to go out with us once for "window-shopping." Five houses, four of them "shotgun" style (originally three rooms, lined up front-to-back, so you could stand in the front door, fire a shotgun, and have the shot go straight out the back), although three of them had been added to. The remaining house was a two-story; we never left the ground floor.<br />
<br />
Houses #1 and #2 were in acceptable structural shape but needed some updating. #3 was a tragedy: a beautiful, 100+ year old house with original, detailed, beautiful woodwork around the doors and windows, a front door that needed some gentle repairs to be restored to its original gloriously embellished state - and a ton of black mold, growing out of the mud room walls in huge tufts. Up to that point, we'd noted the floors needed refinishing, the fireplaces needed some work, the walls would have to be redone - but when we stepped into the kitchen and looked out the back door, we were horrified. And I was sick for four days after breathing mold spores for 10 minutes while we were there.<br />
<br />
Bri was practically in tears. I could see why. Here is a lovely house, once a sweet home - one that could be again. But it's toxic. There's no way. They'd have to live in haz-mat masks for weeks, until they could get the back entry demolished and cleaned out. And if it was that bad on the surface, what's inside the walls? What's under the floor? What's living in the cellar?<br />
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We're all about "green." A big part of "green" is reusing, repurposing, and recycling. But I'm not sure that house is still in any condition to be repurposed or recycled. It may be too far gone for that. It's damn near criminal - a huge waste of resources and beauty.<br />
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The fourth house was the two-story. It took us a couple minutes to figure out it had been the scene of a rather nasty kitchen fire. It's going to take someone twice the mortgage amount to bring it back to a healthy standard of living.<br />
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The fifth was a charmer. Completely renovated, new kitchen, second bathroom, finished attic adding two bedrooms. Loads of natural light. All was well until after Judy, the realtor, had left. Bri and I were unloading my B-cycle (work bike-pool vehicle) from the rack so I could ride it back to the building to turn it in. We'd worked our way close to downtown, and in spite of the heat, I wanted to get a couple miles in. And up the street came a gentleman (I use the term loosely) with a brown paper sack grasped firmly in his waving right hand, shouting at the top of his lungs about what we could do to his hmm-hmm. And on and on. And on.<br />
<br />
He never came more than about 20 yards from where we were, just stood in the middle of the street and bellowed obscenities and angry, drunken epithets, except for the seconds when he stopped for another gulp from the paper sack. But that was close enough. Our smittenness evaporated as I circled the bike around and took off up the street, with Bri in the car on my back fender.<br />
<br />
She learned later from a friend who works for a mortgage finance company that there's a halfway house for recently released sex offenders a block up from the address. Um... no. Thank you.<br />
<br />
This week was somewhat stressful. I was struggling to get a handle on an essential - but complex and very alien - process at work, I was sick for much of the week with evil allergy-related symptoms, and the young lovers were having some communication issues. (They're learning quite quickly to navigate those rough waters - it's one of the major advantages to waiting until you're old enough to know your own priorities before you commit to sharing a life with someone else!) We didn't have anything we needed to go back out with Judy, so instead, we girls struck out on our own this afternoon.<br />
<br />
We viewed six houses from the outside. We found two keepers. One is another shotgun, in the Highlands - one of those charming neighborhoods made up of Victorian- to Arts & Crafts-period houses in a wide range of states of repair (or not). It's on a narrow side street, clean and bright, with sidewalks and beggar cats on the walk. It's blue, it has good windows and a cute fireplace (we could see it through the front windows), and a postage stamp yard. It backs up to an alley; there's room to park behind.<br />
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The other is a few blocks away from where I sit right now. It's one of those 1960s cookie-cutter ranches, and it's sad. The shrubs are overgrown, the flagpole is bent, the fence is falling in huge chunks of unfinished lumber. It's painted gray.Or putty. A non-color. But it has three beautiful trees in the front yard. The floors are bare plywood, some of the storm windows have come loose from their frames. The rail on the front porch is inexpertly constructed; it needs to be taken apart and rebuilt.<br />
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It has half again the floor space of the house in the Highlands. It has a garage - closed in now (apparently, someone had ideas of turning it into a family room) but easily opened back up. It has three bedrooms, two full bathrooms. It needs work, but they all do, in the price range of young lovers with excellent carpentry skills.<br />
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Mainly, that house needs love to break through its depressive state and bring it back to life. By the time we got home, Bri was thinking bright white exterior, red shutters, a cheery, welcoming blue front door; I was thinking a swing in the tree out front. Rocking chairs on the porch, azaleas in the yard, tomatoes and herbs by the kitchen door. I'd already made a list of the essential basic repairs - in priority order.<br />
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It's about green. It's about recycling and reusing. It's about giving new life to things someone else thought were worn out.<br />
<br />
Both these houses have a lot of potential. I'm looking forward to next weekend.Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05059950970207516586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1656149642479279085.post-7500110897307304212010-08-19T23:18:00.002-04:002010-09-05T00:10:18.186-04:00The week that wuz...It started last Friday afternoon with a hasty flight from the office to - appropriately - the airport. SDF to MDW wasn't bad; in fact, the landing was kind of fun. The pilot gave us a heads-up that they'd assigned us the shortest available runway for landing purposes at Midway. Good thing Southwest flies short planes... From where I was sitting, I could just about feel the dude standing on the brake pedal. <i>Seriously </i>professional job of parking that plane, if you ask me.<br />
<br />
We flew most of the way to Philly in the dark, then rode to NJ with the Beth and Hillary Show. You put Hillary and her cousin Elizabeth together in the same small space for a few hours, and it gets crazy. And loud. But fun. I, on the other hand, was dead on my butt, so I dozed through most of it.<br />
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Saturday was Joe and Damaris' wedding. Joe is Elizabeth's brother, and Damaris is the new Most Recent Addition to the Family. She's a lovely young woman, she was a gorgeous bride, it was a beautiful wedding, and the reception brought back memories of my first Italian Thanksgiving. (Short version: Between the fourth course - i.e., the entree' - and dessert, I found myself in the bathroom, praying, "Please, <i>please </i>let my stomach stop hurting, and I swear I won't eat another bite." And then, 30 minutes later, back at the table just in time for them to bring out the tiramisu, I prayed, "You knew I was kidding, right?" So you get the idea, right?)<br />
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Best thing about the reception: Chip Mergott's music. Not that the sit-down dinner wasn't fabulous. The salmon was especially perfect. (Can something be "especially perfect"? Yes, it can.) But Chip was great - the only thing that would have been better would have been Annie, too. Sadly, the Mergotts were unable to find a babysitter, so it was an Annie-less show.<br />
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Note to Chip and Annie: The next time we're invited to the same event, call me. I'll look out for Eli and you guys can play all you want.<br />
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Spent a good chunk of Sunday at work, thanks to the invention of the "remote desktop." Went online to check a thing or two, and ended up on for about 4 hours, basically being a perfectionist. Good thing I enjoy being a perfectionist.<br />
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Monday - a trip to NYC. Made a stop at the recently opened Forever 21 in Times Square, where we bought a gift for the pet sitter. (Hope she likes it!) Then walked about four blocks farther than my knee was willing before I demanded relief, which came in the form of a cab. Never rode in a New York cab before. Monday, I did it twice.<br />
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Destination: the studio where The Daily Show is taped. Yes, <i>that </i>Daily Show - the one with Jon Stewart! Trust me, it was worth every minute of the three hours we stood in line. (We had tickets. If you don't have tickets, don't bother. And even if you do, if you show up after 4:30 p.m., forget it. At 4:30, your tickets will become the prized possession of someone who showed up without tickets, but on time.) The guest: Emma Thompson. Among the thoughts that kept going through my head as I watched Her Gorgeousness mugging and cutting up with JS: "Kenneth Brannaugh was screwing around on HER? What a dope..." <br />
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Well, and we see whose career has gained serious altitude, and whose pretty much disappeared...<br />
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Cab to Penn Station, train back to Basking Ridge. Got in around 10 p.m.; dinner was a malt from the Dairy Queen. (Sadly, I cannot recommend the malts from the Bernardsville DQ. They were low on malt and tasted unmistakeably of skim milk.)<br />
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Tuesday, flew home. En route, picked up a New Yorker - fun reading - and a paperback by Alice Hoffman: <i>The Story Sisters</i>, which is classic Hoffman. Charming, bittersweet, fanciful to the point of being almost mystic - a beautiful book. Finished it last night. Not that short; just that engrossing. <br />
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Wednesday, back to work. Today, back to work some more. Tomorrow... yeah. That. (At least I have lunch plans.)<br />
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Saturday, I've signed up to help build a greenhouse at Brandeis Elementary School. Now, THAT is good use of a weekend!Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05059950970207516586noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1656149642479279085.post-29914206100538944952010-08-09T01:43:00.002-04:002010-08-13T00:02:52.302-04:00Must be August...I should probably ride to work tomorrow. The high is only going to be 95, with hardly any "heat index" added on. It's the last day this week I should be so lucky.<br />
<br />
Friday was actually nice, for the first time in over a week, but we had a lot to do that morning - Bri trying to finish up projects for Pennsic, the annual big-deal event of the SCA (that's Society for Creative Anachronism - Google it), Mitch getting ready to fly to NC for his dad's 60th birthday (OMG, my second ex-spouse will be 60 on Tuesday...), and of course, me, knowing I needed to get my butt out the door, like, an <i>hour </i>ago, but wanting to hang out with the kids for a few minutes more. Mitch, in particular, doesn't come around as much as he used to. That would be because (a) he's moved into his own place with a buddy over in J'town, and (b) he's accomplished that "separation" thing quite well. This is good, but when he does show up, it's good to see him.<br />
<br />
So Friday, I didn't ride. Friday, I drove Mitch's Saturn Vue, because I could. Bri took my car to Pennsic, Mitch left me his keys - at least until he returns on Tuesday - and it's all good. My next Saturn is going to be a Vue (assuming I can find one still running that the owner's willing to sell), which will give us three in the family; both the boys drive Vues at present. It's a great vehicle - big enough to haul large dogs, small-to-medium-sized furniture, and/or any number of longety-leggity boys, but it gets about the same gas mileage as my Saturn LS2, which is a small sedan. In fact, there are moments I find myself wishing someone would rear-end the LS2. Not that I don't like it - it's a great, dependable, economical, and attractive little car. But I could use something with a little more room, if only for the dogs. (Big Daisy is coming in at about 80 pounds these days. It amaze me how she can fold her longety-leggity self into an armchair and not hang off the edges.)<br />
<br />
But I digress. Friday, I didn't ride. Saturday, I did: to the bike shop in Westport Village to buy a new seat (got my skinny gel seat!), to the Crescent Hill library, which was closed, but I dropped off my overdue library book anyway, and to JoAnn Fabrics and Crafts for a zipper, thread, and beads. About 20 miles round trip.<br />
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Today, I meant to, but then I decided it would be rude to show up for Mai's birthday party all sweaty, so I didn't.<br />
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Mai is a story all by herself. She's Thai, and she has a little restaurant across the river in Jeffersonville, IN. It's the best - Thai home cooking. She's celebrating 9 years in business, and her birthday was August 2, so she had an invitation-only private buffet for regular customers. Usually, she's closed on Sundays - she drives to Indianapolis, I think, to the nearest Buddhist temple, after she closes up shop on Saturday nights. She has in the store a little shelf of curios that she sells not for profit, but for her ongoing temple-restoration mission - I've bought a couple of lovely pieces of cotton fabric and other things she's brought back from trips to Thailand - and she was accepting donations today. And the food was wonderful as always, and we shared a table with a great couple, Jim and Joy, who live in Jeffersonville these days and work in mental health, and who love to travel. Great conversation about healthcare, systems, and getting what you need. And finding new places.<br />
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So today, I didn't ride, either. We came home, I took my Sunday nap, and then we went to Trivia Night at Highland Baptist Church, where we had friends raising funds for a mission trip. Our team came in second, which is respectable considering the questions stunk out loud...<br />
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And in about 5 hours, my alarm will go off and start pushing me toward the office again. Another day of building form letters from pre-written components; another day of checking the edits to make sure they contain everything the CMS-approved original says they should.<br />
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And it's hot.<br />
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Nothing out of the upper 70s - and that's for the low - the rest of the week. 90-100 degrees or more.<br />
<br />
Ugh.Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05059950970207516586noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1656149642479279085.post-38706243773657751442010-07-16T01:12:00.001-04:002010-07-16T01:14:16.354-04:00Making great daysMy outgoing voice mail message, wherever you hear it - cell or office - ends in, "Make it a great day!" They don't just happen. I learned years ago that when you have a great day, it's because you chose to make it great.<br />
<br />
Against all odds - and possibly common sense - my family is coming together this weekend to make a great day. Those who can be there will be, and those who can't get to Sylva, NC, will be thinking of us (and waiting for pictures). Because two weeks ago, my baby sister decided July 18, 2010, was a great day to get married.<br />
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Without going into too much detail (and telling a story that's not mine to tell), I'll say yes, this is the same baby sister who is fighting cancer. She starts her chemo Monday or Tuesday - what a way to spend a honeymoon! But one of the things she's found out in the past two months is that her Mark is not easily scared off. He's held her hands and cried with her through painful biopsies; he's checked on her daily and tried to make her laugh when she just wanted to hide; he's listened to her fear and anger knowing he was helpless to change anything, but willing to slay dragons for her at the drop of a hat. Mark thinks in the language of "We." Cheri is not alone, and she's agreed that they belong together.<br />
<br />
So we're having a wedding, three months ahead of schedule. Informal for the most part - no invitations, just phone calls and word of mouth - even though she's wearing her gorgeous fairy-tale white satin dress and Mark is wearing a tux. When Ed wanted to know how he should dress, she allowed as how "ties are evil," and said she didn't care if he came in his gym shorts. The ceremony and reception are in the church where we grew up, but she won the music "discussion," and our old friend Jay will be singing America's "Daisy Jane." (There are even less appropriate songs in the mix, but they're going to be instrumentals...)<br />
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Wednesday, she called me on the phone with a "quick question" - could my daughter and I take care of the cake? "Well, of course," I said. "How many people are you expecting?"<br />
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"Huh?" she responded. "Why?"<br />
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"Well, how big do you need it to be?"<br />
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She almost fell off her chair laughing - I could tell. She wanted us to CUT the cake for guests - she didn't need us to make it! I expect that will go down as legendary as my wedding story of Daddy and the nuts.<br />
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It will be a flying run at Sylva for those of us who can. It's totally worth it. I wouldn't miss this for love nor money!Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05059950970207516586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1656149642479279085.post-84175700504759639412010-07-04T23:34:00.001-04:002010-07-04T23:41:26.678-04:00Back to the trailRockwood is a pretty little town with a quiet little Main Street - much of it residential - and a bike shop right next to the trailhead going on northwest. But that was for Sunday.<br />
<br />
Saturday night, we rode to the store on the east side of the bridge and got sodas and ice cream sandwiches. I thought I might have died and gone to heaven when I discovered they had Diet Sierra Mist. I'd never been able to get it here. (Interestingly, right after I got back, Ed found Kroger had started carrying it.)I got a sandwich, too, but all things considered, I decided this was a night for eating dessert first. So I parked myself on the front porch of the store, in the dark, and ate my ice cream and rested my burning muscles for a few minutes. Then we mounted back up and rode, helmetless, up a couple of back streets to the Hostel on Main Street.<br />
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The hostel has a bike rack in the cellar, plus plenty of open floor space down there. They can accomodate at least a dozen bikes just in the racks, and if you have a kick-stand, there's more room than that. I was too tired to fool with the lock; I just parked Nellie Belle and walked out. As it turns out, there was no need to worry - everything was fine the next morning. (And there's apparently an alarm on the doors, as we discovered shortly...)<br />
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The shiny kitchen in back, with vintage coffee mugs and mixed china in the corner cabinet, was a quiet haven for eating my sandwich, drinking my "happy surprise" soda, and reading a book for a bit after a hot shower. Three showers in separate bathrooms ensured privacy and availability, and there was ample hot water for Bob and me, even though we were in adjacent bathrooms at the same time. No loss of pressure or hot. :-)<br />
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The front room had comfy old chairs, a whole wall of books - everything from Stephen King to romance novels to local history - and several puzzles, a card table, and a good ceiling fan to keep the air moving. The central, common bunk room had bunks for at least 12, and there were two separate "family" bunk rooms to sleep six or eight. Our one roommate for the evening was ready to crash about the time I got done eating, but I was able to go out to the front room and read until I wound down.<br />
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Unfortunately, the alarm on the back door kept going off at about 7- or 8-minute intervals. We tried resetting it, thought about smashing it, but before we got that desperate, Bob hit on the solution. Just like smoke alarms, apparently battery-operated security alarms start going off when their batteries get low. He popped the batteries out, and that was the end of that. (He put them back in the next morning, so the staff would be aware there was an issue and replace them. No problems at all on Sunday night!)<br />
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The train tracks run about 20 yards behind the hostel, which might be a problem for city folks. We grew up in Sylva, North Carolina, though. We never lived more than half a mile from the tracks from the time we moved there. (Sometime I'll tell you about the "No Trains At Night Motel.") And my kids grew up in Wendell, NC, in the same proximity to the tracks... My daughter and I were talking about it the other day, and we concluded that for us, trains at night are better than "white noise." It can take a night or two to get used to the rhythm of the schedules, but not if you're as tired as Bob and I were that night!<br />
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Sunday morning, we were the last out. Had a fun time visiting with the other guests who'd stayed Saturday night - a lone cyclist who hit it off with Bob (they shared an interesting philosophical discussion over coffee) and a family of five who were doing their first long ride together. They'd recently moved from New Hampshire to Pennsylvania and have a farm where they raise pasture-fed cattle.<br />
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We didn't hit our first snag of the day until we got to the (closed) restaurant where we'd thought to get breakfast. That's when I discovered my wallet was not in my seat wedge where it was supposed to be.<br />
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We'd decided to leave the bulk of our gear at the hostel, since we were staying there again on Sunday night, so we rode back to look there. I dumped out my panniers on the bunk, looked on the floor under the bed, looked in the bathrooms, the front room, the kitchen - looked in the refrigerator. We looked in the cellar. No wallet.<br />
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There was nothing left to do but backtrack. I was trying not to panic.<br />
<br />
We rode back to the store the same way we'd come, scanning the sides of the road for my little red wallet. When we got to the store, I parked the bike, walked in, and said to the man at the counter, "We stopped in here last night, and I think I maybe dropped my..." and he was already reaching under the counter, grinning a relieved kind of grin. The night guy had found my wallet by the bike rack -- I'd dropped it in my helmet while I walked around the corner to eat my ice cream sandwich, and it had apparently fallen out. They'd checked the ID, so the morning guy knew who I was when I walked in. And everything was there - the cards, the cash, all of it. I could have hugged his neck, but I settled for buying some more ice cream and a cup of coffee.<br />
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Our Sunday ride was an out-and-back. I won't say this is the prettiest stretch of the trail, although I'm tempted, but I will say it's special. This is where we saw the most lush wildflower growth, crossed the most bridges over rivers, detoured around an abandoned tunnel, and got the majority of the best pictures. (See my Facebook album.) It was also a relatively easy ride - 21 miles out, an hour or more for a lunch break, and then back to Rockwood - with no really challenging hills. A good stretch for the second day.<br />
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Next up: the Sunday Lunch restaurant review (four stars), ice cream for dinner, and Monday thunderstorms and turtles.Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05059950970207516586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1656149642479279085.post-49405464285595272022010-06-30T00:44:00.003-04:002010-08-11T02:08:52.296-04:00EventuallyI'll come back to the ride eventually. It was my first real three-day ride, after all. And there were more adventures. But not today.<br />
<br />
Today, I decided around 3 p.m. that I'd had enough for a while. I needed a break. So I told my neighbor Andrew I had an errand to run, picked up my helmet and pocketbook, and headed down to the bike rack.<br />
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Nellie Belle rode in on the back of the car this morning. I was running late-ish, and Bri needed the car to make deliveries this evening. But that was fine. It meant Nellie was sitting in her spot in the loading dock, waiting. I strapped my pocketbook under the cargo net, put on my new red-and-pink tropical-floral helmet (fun!), and set out the four blocks to Creation Gardens.<br />
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I was back 25 minutes later -- and feeling like I'd had a two-hour break. Creation Gardens is a wholesale "fresh and local" restaurant supplier with a small retail operation on the side. <i>Seriously </i>on the side... The retail store is on a teeny little side street that looks like an alley, just east of the interstate overpass that's just east of Slugger Field. There are two ways to get there from where I work, three blocks west on Main: You can go south to Market, come back east past the interstate, and ride two blocks north -- or you can ride east to Slugger Field, north half a block, east another two blocks, and circle back to the block that's missing. I chose the latter route. It meant I didn't have to deal with any "main drags," and it took me right past the Louisville Extreme Park, which has some <i>really <b>good </b></i>energy, anytime, day or night. Kids on skateboards and bikes - what can I tell you? Die, obesity, die! :-)<br />
<br />
The retail store for Creation Gardens reminds me of nothing so much as Noah's Food Co-Op in Raleigh, back in the '80s when we "old hippies" were still trying to act like old hippies. (These days, we still do, but we're quieter.) They have open shelves, bulk bins, and the stock seems sort of randomly placed -- or at least, the price tags are randomly placed. But I found a couple things that made me say to hell with the price tags. <i>Honest</i>.<br />
<br />
My mission was to find some fast salad makings for dinner at Gilda's Club. This is an off week for volunteers, so we'd all signed up for potluck - all of us friends and family and others with ties to cancer - and I was down for "green salad." So... a head of romaine and a head of red leaf lettuce; one red onion; one smallish {pretty!} yellow squash and two small {<i>really </i>pretty) zucchini; two medium-to-small bunches of broccoli; two pints of mixed heirloom cherry tomatoes. And a wedge of Brie - right at 4 oz. for less than $4. Unheard of.<br />
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They were going to give me a market basket, but I argued a box would strap better onto the back of the bike. The box they found - a plain white one - held my produce, my purse, and my bike lock, and it provided <i>just</i> enough tension on the cargo net that my rear light was quite secure. I'll use that box until it wears out.<br />
<br />
Quality of produce? Well, I can tell you this: I came home with about 6 oz. of mixed chopped squash - <i>maybe </i>half a cup - and about half as much chopped broc. I only sliced about 1/3 of the onion, paper-thin, so the other 2/3 remains. The lettuce and the mixed heirloom tomatoes are all gone. I didn't even offer up the Brie. <br />
<br />
And I think I may do a quick veggie stir-fry tomorrow evening with the left-over squash bits, broccoli, and a little onion. Maybe we'll have some tomatoes ripe soon.Cynthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05059950970207516586noreply@blogger.com1