Month: November 2014
Nothing Comes From Nothing
Remember once upon a time, before there was cable TV and VCR’s or Hulu and Netflix, and you had to wait untill Thanksgiving to watch the Wizard of Oz? Then the Christmas specials would begin, and our family would close out the season watching Sound of Music on Christmas night.
I know it was Thanksgiving yesterday, but I was actually thinking about the Sound of Music, and it’s not just because of the foot of snow on the ground urging us to begin the Christmas season prematurely.
It’s because I spent most of yesterday morning watching fourteen year old Thing1 – with only minimal prodding – trudge outside to shovel the driveway so his grandparents could get to the door safely before shoveling a path to my now-collapsed greenhouse so that I could get in and assess damage. With his dad and eight year old Thing2, he helped to move the snow off the greenhouse. After some cleanup, our two good things hopped in the car with us and chattered cheerfully as we drove down to one of the big box stores to deliver some Thanksgiving cheer to people who were working this holiday..
Most people that know me know that I’m pretty agnostic. I’m actually the wisest person on the planet because I can freely admit that I know nothing (I think that’s what some old Greek dude said anyway). I’m happy asking lots of questions, but I know absolutely nothing.
Well maybe I know one thing.
I know that line from the song in the Sound of Music with Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer singing to each other in a gazebo drenched in purple light. You know, it’s the one where she sings “nothing comes from nothing.”
I thought about that all the time yesterday because not too long ago I was leading a very checkered and extended childhood. The things I did may make great fodder for a writing life, but I don’t look back on my early adulthood with pride.
I do look at my boys with pride and also once-unimaginable joy.
And on Thanksgiving I think about wine and how grateful I am and how if there is a God, that being is unbelievably forgiving. Or forgetful. How else can you explain these two people who have taught me to feel thankful beyond words this day and everyday of the year?
Freedom from Want For
And the Winner Is…
Kathy Stiles is the winner of the Thanksgiving giveaway. Thanks for all the suggestions folks. I ended up making corn muffins, banana nut, blueberry-apple and chocolate chip.
I’m loading the muffin tins as I stir the bacon and celery for the stuffing in the bird tomorrow. We’ll take the muffins down to people who are stuck working tomorrow and play Thanksgiving Santa-Turkey (we need to come up with a name for that mascot) and then come home and put our bird in the oven for 5 or 6 hours.
My sister’s family is joining us when the storm in Vermont dies down tomorrow. Usually their family spends holiday mornings at the soup kitchen. I’m thinking of their example this evening and realizing it’s not about charity or assuaging guilt. It’s about connecting with our fellow human beings.
If the muffins are any good, we’re going to pick another set of ‘victims’ for Christmas. We’re thinking the road crew (they don’t get holidays on stormy days. Or maybe our local sheriff or the volunteer firefighters who are on call. What do you think?
Where There’s Light
Sometimes I think the powers that be are smart asses.
When I was a kid I loved to draw. The first thing I ever drew was a field mouse from a fairy tale I can’t remember. I do remember the field mouse though. I remember how natural it felt to draw and that the end result didn’t stink.
I drew in high school, and, while my work will never be mistaken for a great master’s, I could make a tree look like a tree. I had a few fantasies about art school, but, because I lacked the courage to forge my own path at the time, they never went beyond fantasies.
Then a few years ago, I fell back into drawing. And I can still make a tree look like a tree. And this time, I have had the courage to keep forging ahead and keeping it part of my life.
And then the powers that be said, “Hah!”
June brought news of a degenerative disorder in my right eye. The left eye, not wanting to be left out of the regular poking and prodding the right one now gets, decided over the weekend to join the party.
Part of me wondered if the great guardian of good art in the sky was trying to tell me something. At first I though it might be trying to protect the world from my doodles. It might be, but, over the last few years, I’ve developed a stronger ability to ignore the inner critic who whispers these possibilities in my ear.
So as I drove back today, thinking about adaptive devices and getting my 4th lens prescription in 6 months, I decided to find a more positive message in the diagnosis. It’s the message that says to make hay – or doodles of hay for as long as the sun finds away into my lenses; to make every moment for as long it’s possible.
The future did get a bit cloudier today, but sometimes things are clearer without the white hot sun shining on them. So as long as there’s any light – clouded or clear, I will focus on what is possible now and not on what might not be possible down the road.
Who Are We Kidding
And Now for Something Completely Gratuituous..
Pretty soon, we’ll be snowbound, and the seed catalogs (otherwise known as Porn for Gardeners) will start to arrive.
But this week kicks off not only celebrations of family and holy days for many religions, but a four-week orgy of eating which will hopefully be a feasible explanation for why I’ve been indulging in so much Diet Porn recently.
Thanksgiving Give Away – Win a Silly print
I’m giving away a signed 5×7 print of our resident turkey who, while grateful we ordered our holiday bird from the local turkey farm and allowed him to keep raiding our front yard, still wants to remind us that next Thursday is Thanksgiving – not Christmas or Hannukah.
So, while you may not want to put this anyplace where guests can see it, if you think it would bring you a little Turkey-day cheer, leave me an answer below to the great cosmic question below –
If you were making muffins for 5 or 6 dozen people, would you make a Sweet or Savory muffin?
I’ll pull a winner at random on Monday.
Been There, Done That, Doing This
Less than a lifetime ago I worked Thanksgiving with some regularity.
So when the girl at the big box store told me with a crestfallen gaze that everyone at her store was working this Thanksgiving, I knew exactly how she felt.
I’ve worked more low-wage, lower-respect jobs than I care to remember. And, while I probably work harder physically at any of those jobs than I do at the one I have now, sweat wasn’t the only thing I sacrificed for those low wages.
Sometimes working holidays was rewarding (I spent part of a few holidays at a nursing home helping other people have their family holiday, for example) and it made up for my lost family time to some degree. A lot of times, however, I wondered if the radio or beer I was selling was actually so vital that it couldn’t wait until a non-national holiday. Sure, there was a choice not to work that day, if you also wanted to make the choice not to work for that company again and then try and find a job with a recent firing on your next application, so it wasn’t much of a option.
And I know this girl doesn’t really have a choice.
But this year I do one.
Since so many stores have decided to cancel Thanksgiving (because stores care so much about working people who need deals on DVD players that couldn’t possibly be offered 24 or even 36 hours later so that the working people who work for them could give thanks with their families) and are skipping right to Christmas, our family is deciding to follow suit.
I’m not actually going to wear a red velvet suit even though I am un-uniquely shaped to do it. I am, however, recruiting the Big Guy and the two things for whom we give thanks to play Santa for a little while on Thanksgiving and take some cheer (Thanksgiving or Christmas) and a few baskets of muffins to one of the local box stores near us.
And while I don’t have any illusions that we’re going to change the world or make up for lost family time. But hopefully a little random kindness baked at 350 for 25 minutes will bring a little bit of home to people who need it.
For Love or Money
Allow me to get on my detergent box for a minute.
That’s about as long as it’ll take for said box to collapse under my weight as I diatribe while the next load of laundry finishes and the dishwasher wraps up the dry cycle.
See, a couple days ago, I was reading a post about the difference between career writers and a hobby writers (I don’t claim to be either – writing is not something I do, it’s what I am). About halfway through the article I stumbled across the idea that those who write less frequently were suffering ‘bored housewife syndrome.’
I’ve seen variations of that sentiment anytime someone wants to belittle the creative urges and efforts of other artists or writers struggling to keep art in their lives, whether it’s in response to the online work of a mom picking up a camera for a first time and finding a new part of her soul or a mommy-blogger spending a few minutes a day to feed their literary soul.
Behind that phrase is the idea that creative wives and mothers are looking to fill the spare time on our hands rather than something in our souls.
Which leads me to the big question I had at the end of the post – who the heck are these bored housewives and how do I get an application for their club?
(I know it’s been more than a minute, but I’m getting there.)
I’ve been a work-at-home mom for about four years now. During all that time I’ve also been a housewife, and, while my cleaning allergy (I think it really is a medical condition) creates some challenges, I do manage to do most of the same things competent housewives do.
I have made over a thousand peanut butter sandwiches, washed and hung enough laundry to fill the Grand Canyon, ran a taxi service, stayed up with sick kids and healthy kids who needed to eat every three hours.
I’m not complaining, mind you. I voluntarily committed myself to this circus years ago and I wouldn’t trade a minute of it, but one thing I have never been is bored.
I do think the term ‘bored housewife’ belongs in the encyclopedia next to Big Foot, the Loch Ness Monster, and Elvis because I have never met another housewife who is bored, wondering how to fill up the hours in her day.
My time to write – whether in a journal or blog or book – is carved out of the wax of the candle that I burn at both ends of each day. Most days I do it with abandon, hoping that someday it may pay but wanting to do it so badly that I don’t care if I never see a dime for my writing (okay, I’d like to see one or two dimes).
Butf I will not concede that art produced during stolen hours or even minutes, means that I – or any part-time artist – am any less serious about my creative career than the person who has arrived at the place where they do have hours a day to devote to their art.
It just might take me a bit longer to get there.