~:: Anatomy of a Family Portrait ::~

When you start out as a family, a couple of grown-ups and maybe a baby, the concept of  the “family portrait” is a pretty tame thing. You say, “Ready?  SMILE!” and everybody does.  They look right at the camera and smile. And you? You smile too, thinking this is reality.  It’s not for years that the truth sets in. Two years if that baby in the first picture was your first. It all goes downhill from there.

Every year I have done a family portrait to send out with the Christmas cards, usually shot in autumn.  A couple of years ago I made 8x10s of all those Christmas shots so I could hang them on the wall, a sort of wall-hung flip-book of our lives.  You start at one end and see the wedding kiss, you come to the other end and see the wedding of our oldest daughter. That’s when I ran out of wall.

I have learned.  Oh, I have learned what a  - quest – it is, the good shot—the one in which every person’s face is visible and no one is doing something embarrassing. It can be done.  But it helps if there are credible threats involved, or cardboard stand-up substitutes for the actual children.  Then the kids move away, which makes things infinitely worse; after that, you have to wait until they all happen to drop into town at the same time, and then try to coordinate everybody’s schedules, or (see the above point about cardboard standups).

Then the grandkids come along.

Have you ever tried to put puppies in a box and keep them there?

It was in September this year that I began to try to get this year’s shot.  In the backyard, just before the family party in honor of M’s incipient nuptials.  The light was dimming and green (what with all the leaves) but that was only the beginning of my problems.  What follows is a photo essay, empirical defense of my point.

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You start with the children.  At this point, they are all – at least ostensibly – adults.  And beautiful, if I do say so myself.

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Then add one grandkid, and what happens to the focus?

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And one is never enough.

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Well, another two.

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Then Lorri shows up.  (Never forget; one kid always leads to another.)  How many of these people are looking at the camera?  No really.  Five adults three children.  TWO people, looking at the camera.  That’s twenty five percent, paying attention.  At least they’re all nicely bunched up.

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WHERE DID THIS LONG CHILD COME FROM?  And look what happens to the back row.  What’s more, none of the children are with the proper parents.  Okay, Sand is in his mother’s lap – but honestly, does she look like a proper parent?

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Is anybody listening to me?  HELLO?  Lens pointing at you guys.  What, there aren’t enough of you yet?

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Okay – add the bride.  And so much for the nice bunching. Like somebody just hit them with a cue ball.  I think they’re all rearranging themselves into family groups, but I can’t be sure.  Obviously, Max isn’t sure either. He is, by the way, the ONLY ONE looking at the camera.

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ditto.

Can M actually hold two girls in his lap at one time?  And can the chair hold ALL of them?

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Finally. Smashing.  Six adults. Four children.  I am using my motorized setting so that, in the unlikely event that every person might be looking into the camera at the same time, I’ll catch it.  This is NOT that frame.  I’m showing you this frame because everybody’s face is at least visible.  Mostly.  Not sure what Cam is doing.  But Murph is smiling like a sane person, and that’s something.

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Something that doesn’t last long.

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Now, what?  Chaz – WHAT?  Where did Scooter go?  Ginna – oh, never mind.

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M’s energy is leaking out.  Ginna is still – I don’t know.  The back row is deteriorating.  Max is steady.  Sand and Laura are starting up a conversation.

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Okay, lost the kids on the back row entirely.  Cam – not one flipping smile yet.  The conversation between Sand and Laura is getting intense.

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Max is steady.  You’re a rock, Max.  But Andy has gone feral.  I guess Laura thinks Sand was finished with what he had to say.  Chaz?  Chaz?  Could you look at ME?

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Oh, cats.

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Re-shuffle.  Bring the back row out in front where (at least in theory) they can’t get away with so much.

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Oh, yeah – well so much for that.  And now the new back row is out of control.

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And we’ve lost Sand entirely.  We never had Andy, not from the beginning.  Can anybody say, “Cheese”?

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No.

No, I guess not.

Now, if you have just a lot of time on your hands, it’s kinda fun to go back to the top and scroll down quickly watching just one person or group of people.  And when you’re all finished with that, you’ll know what I’m saying here.  Yeah.  You’ll know.

Posted in A little history, Events, Family, Fun Stuff, Gin, HappyHappyHappy, The g-kids, The kids, Visits | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 29 Comments

~:: Small Victories ::~

I found a little box of chocolates in the fridge.  I didn’t mean to.  I wasn’t hunting for it.  Left over from Swiss Colony. There were just a few in there.  And I ate them all. Today.  For lunch.

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A gift from a very dear (if balmy) buddy.

I want to blog.  I want to make you laugh. Actually, I just want to reach out and touch the back of your hand to let you know I’m here.  Is that the same as echo location, I wonder? Because it just feels like friend-biz to me. I have not been sharing photographs because I haven’t been taking any. January is not charming me this year. And you can only take so many shots of your desktop.  So I am going to pepper this with unrelated images, loved but somehow passed over last year.  That okay?

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Having given up on fixing the old microwave (Thanksgiving looming), G muscles the new one into place.  What a handy guy.  (Notice my bag of knit pony stuffing saving the stove top.)

Admissions:

1) Christmas is not completely put away.  I am still defiant about leaving the lights on at night till the end of January. But it’s the tree that’s the main problem; the bag we bought for it years ago savages it every time we stuff it in there. (Did I hear you say, “GET A REAL TREE?” Don’t. The number of lights I use on a tree qualifies as torture under anybody’s rules of engagement, I don’t care how dead the tree may be when we start.)  But there are other things, too; they need to be put away properly.  I don’t have properly in me.

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A Christmas owl for Chelsea, the owl maven.

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A mysterious mess on the project table.  What can it be?

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An argyle hippo for Gin, the hip hippo maven.

2) I hate Microsoft 2007 for Mac. I’m just sayin’. I want Word Perfect back.  Less auto format, more control.

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Small face at the window.  Autumn.  Still some green.

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3) I am still freaking out over this book business. I read the first page of  The Gardener this morning and found about eight things I needed to edit. And I’m trying to figure out how to write braggy things about myself for publicity. And how to find channels for product exposure.  I am NOT a salesman. I’m just a writer. But I’m learning a heck of a lot about inDesign. Wow – how they come up with these programs is beyond me.  So cool. Lucky me, when I upgraded PhotoShop back V.3 time, they gave me thirty days of Lynda.com training as a thank you.  Five years later, I was shocked to see the offer was still good.  And I love it.

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A Thanksgiving apple pie for Lucy, as she jets around the world.

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Chaz opens a Christmas box with golden paper in it (see the reflection of it on her face?).  The gold paper is supposed to make an exciting present out of what may be the ugliest scarf every knitted for a decent girl.  EVER.

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Murph, sporting his Christmas sweater, and the other present his mother gave him.  Explanation coming at another time.

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Dear Laura, the good sport, wearing the ugliest hat ever made for a decent girl.  My very first hat effort.  If you put this and the ugliest scarf together at one time, you could be arrested for possessing a weapon of mass destruction.

4) This is how I have spent the month:

A) (isn’t this outline fun?) I started my annual bout of Scanning the Family Photo        Albums. The books I end up with at the end of the year are usually between 300-440 pages, but that includes a lot of single-very-favorite-photo pages, so I only end up actually scanning – oh – maybe 250-350 pages in the first six weeks of the year. But I’ve always been worried the river will flood or the house will burn down and the unscanned history will be lost forever—or else, I’ll die before and do it, and who would do it then?  So at times I’ve thought, why not just go ahead and scan the entire dang library?

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Chaz and friend.  Late summer.

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Then I look at the bookshelves and realize how much there is to do and remember how mind-numbingly boring it is to do it. At least five years’ worth of project left.

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This year, though – I ripped through the five albums earmarked for the project (I’m sort of retired, remember—filling in time till I kick the bucket). Started scanning January 3rd; finished in five days. I guess I’m good at it now.  Actually, I’m a machine. A clock-work miracle. Steam-punk mama. I had it down to eighteen moves per page, timed perfectly – (I know because I timed myself), a dance of precision.  G came in one time to hug me and I simply knocked him over and danced across his chest.  And I listened to Radio Lab so that my brains wouldn’t fall out. A few times, I wondered if the process was burning calories.  So I just kept going.  One hour, two hours, finally three hours a day.

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All in all, by the time I finished on the morning of January 23rd, I had scanned fifteen hundred and ninty pages.  That’s one thousand, five hundred nine-oh.

I have backed them up to three drives, Mozy and now I’m committing them to DVDs.

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January’s work: a very fat sheep. Linda, please forgive me.

BUT I’M FINISHED. With the scanning at least.  The scanning and the Christmas chocolates.

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And a very red fox.  I made him from alpaca instead of the mohair he’s supposed to be, and my DK wasn’t fat enough for my needles, so he’s a white-spotted red fox, which doesn’t make him less endearing in his mother’s eyes.  Renny, I call him.  You know, short for  - yeah you get it.

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B) I found the digital manuscript for Breaking Rank, the only one of my NY published novels that’s completely out of print.  And I got out the book.  And I transferred all the editing that ended up in the book to the manuscript so I can e-book that, too.  Except for the typo hunting being done by my mistake-sniffing friend, Kathy, that’s finished.  So all I’ll have to do is set up the cover and the formatting and the blank-space images and the copyright pages and that will be finished too.

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Fox and sheep, or couldn’t you tell?  They aren’t shivering.  But I was when I shot them.  Captured them, I mean.

Done.  All this stuff done.

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So why don’t I feel finished?

 

Posted in Family, holidays, Just life, Just talk, photo games, Pics of Made Things | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 63 Comments

~:: Winter Interlude ::~

It’s the middle of January.  In this hemisphere, that means we are in the thick of winter, buried in snow, crusted with hoar frost.

But not this year.  Yesterday, I bundled up and went out to the barn to watch Geneva work with Rachel and Hickory.  Standing in the arena with the bright sun on us, I realized that I wanted to take my jacket off.  And my muffler.  And my gloves.  It was fifty four degrees.  When I got home, my young buddy across the street drove up in his brand new used Pontiac Solaris.  It was gorgeous – a rag-top convertible. Grinning, he put the top down, his mom in the passenger seat, and off they went, wind in their hair.

I finally opened the living room window, just to get that lovely spring feeling in the house.

Are you kidding?  Can this weather be anything but a little too good?  And I’ve been taught all  my life never to trust anything that’s too good—it’s just wise.  Sad, huh?

Now, I’m trying to fight off the myriad viruses my children have contributed to us in the last few weeks.  I just watched Music and the Spoken Word, the Tabernacle Choir broadcast.  The Martin Luther King concert.  Beautiful.  Just beautiful.  And after that, heard the story of the New Zelander women’s world champion squash champ.  It will be fifty degrees again today.  The kids will come over later for dinner—maybe I can give them back some of these nice little bugs they leant me.

This entry isn’t really about anything. And there are no pictures.  I’ve been too busy with editing books and scanning the photo books.  But in my head are the pictures of my lovely little horse, my beaming young friend, my delighted dogs rocketing across the dry yard, and the faces of my beautiful sons and daughters.

Maybe winter will come next week.

I’m thinking about Martin Luther King. About how he has been just another hero with clay feet. It was disappointing to hear about his womanizing; that behavior was in such opposition to his message and to the place he took in the world.  But this morning, as I was listening to the broadcast, I actually starting thinking about all that (as opposed to just rolling with the tales)—I mean, I didn’t know the man.  I don’t know all those negative things by experience, or even by credible report. But even if the reports are true, and it’s entirely possible that they are, none of it changes the work he did, the chances he took, the effect he had on the world.

This is not to say that we shouldn’t be accountable for the choices we make, or for the fact that we can weaken our cause when our lives don’t measure up to our mission. But all this makes me ponder on the great deal of work it takes to be a good human. It seems almost impossible for us to be entirely integral. Like, all our parts are always at war with one another, love and self, rest and guilt, honesty and survival.  It’s like we can never be good without being haunted with our flaws.

So, I guess, the triumph is to do the most good we can—to stand for what is true and good and healthy and loving.  To do our work the best we can.  And also—to practice mercy.  Making place for that inside ourselves, understanding that we are all striving for balance and that there is  not a single human being who is perfect.  The operative word in that last sentence is striving, though. Mercy can’t validate our imperfect choices.  But it can allow us to draw strength from the good human beings do.  And to honor the good we have done ourselves.

I am so thankful for the men and women who put themselves out there, who try so hard to bring more light into the world, even in the face of personal danger, of mockery, of personal exposure.  Dr. King saved a lot of lives. And even now, the fact of his life makes us stop and think and want to be better.  So, bless his heart.  I am grateful to him.

Posted in friends, Geneva, Horses, Rachel, The outside world | Tagged , , , , | 31 Comments

~:: My Hubby, the Patriarch ::~

Anybody remember me? The woman who blogs once every six months unless she’s mad?  May I just say that I have scanned over 450 pages of family photographs since January 3rd?  Hmmm?  And that I’m going through one of my older books, Breaking Rank, word by word, comparing print version with manuscript so that I can stick that up on Amazon, too?  And in the cracks, sticking away Christmas – one holly leaf at a time?  Yes.  That woman.

Here is a fun thing: Deseret Book just published a gorgeous new book, an illustrated telling of a scriptural story: Lehi’s Dream.  And my dear husband is the STAR of the book.  I am going to tell you the story.

Deseret Book

Long ago and far away, when we were all just out of school, my G and his writing partner Marvin wrote a lovely little story-with-songs called The Planemaker.  They had a young up-and-coming artist friend of ours, James Christensen, do a cover for the album.  He did a couple of treatments.  The one that ended up on the album now belongs – to somebody. I don’t know who.  But the other one?  It languished in a corner of Jim’s studio till he re-discovered it one day, and when G said, “I want that,” Jim said, “You’ll have to model for me to get it.”

Years later, here came this book idea, and Jim called in the debt.  So he called us in and had G pose for Lehi.  And he let me hang around in Jerusalem robes too, even though I’m not young and glamorous anymore.  And even I ended up on the last pages of the book.

These are the pictures I shot of the photo session in Jim’s studio:

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The place has absolutely beautiful light.  I don’t know how to build houses and things so that the light that comes into them is perfect.  Leave it to Jim to do that right.

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Here is G, decked out in the basic costume.

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And here is Jim, walking G through the storyboard.  Let me just say that I was not convinced about this modeling business.  I’m the actress in the family, after-all.  Not that I could have pretended to be a middle aged ancient prophet.

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See what I mean about the light?  You see that sheety-looking drape back there on the back of the couch?  Even a plain old sheet looks like art in this place.

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Improving on the basic robe.  I wonder if Western Culture will ever go through a robe and accessory period?  It’d be comfortable.

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And there he is, lookin’ like a patriarch.

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In the story, Lehi stands beside the tree of life, aching with hope for his children, as he watches the people of the earth start to make their way to the tree – through hardships and sorrows.  The story is about wanting the right, most beautiful things and what getting to them may cost us.

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The tree of life is, as it is said in the story of Eden, hung with wonderful fruit.  Jim used an orange to model the fruit, which was just the right thing.  When he handed it to G, he had the same response to the orange that he always has to oranges: he held it up to his nose and breathed in the fresh, sharp sent of it.  The scent reminds him of everything home: his family, the tiny orange grove in the backyard, Christmas morning.  And so it was a very good stand-in for the fruit of the tree of life – the scent of love, family and happiness.

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Here, he calls to his family: come and have some of this lovely fruit.  Come and be happy.

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Here is Lehi as he dreams his dream.  I see this every night and every morning.

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Modeling is hard work.  G did it very well.  But while our backs were turned – after that last shot was set up – well – maybe he took his part just a little bit too seriously.

Posted in friends, Fun Stuff | Tagged , , | 52 Comments

~:: Political Howling ::~

I’d say that I’m getting sick of politics, but the statement would be inaccurate.  I have ALWAYS been sick of politics.  Probably since before I was born onto this planet, I hated politics.  It’s just that lately, I am sick-ER.  This is mostly because the US is coming up on a new presidential election, something I have been longing for now some eight years.  Yes, I know we actually have them every four years, but I’ve been hoping for one that could sense for two cycles, now.

The formal circus begins with these “caucus” meetings.  As much as I know about etymology, I have no idea where the word “caucus” comes from.  Every time I hear it, I think of that kind of gross little shell caterpillars build when they’re hoping to turn butterfly.  Not the process, but the weird little brown casing itself – made all of hardened secretions.  A caucus is a convocation of politically interested people (meaning having a vested interest in the outcome) – which should actually be every citizen of the country.  But someone forgot to work into the process the fact that most solid citizens have jobs and families and property to maintain and time out for political conventions actually costs them.

These things would be so much more sleek if you had to buy a license to speak at them, proving that you can make a point in under three minutes.  And that you are not crazy (in either the left or the right tradition).  And if they fed you dinner for free just for showing up.

The caucuses pick the candidates, winnowing down the vast field of hopefuls in a specific party.  Delegates vote in convention, choosing just one person to be the official Republican or Democrat candidate. And those couple of lucky winners get sent into the national coliseum to duke things out.

The amazing thing is how people who say they represent the interests of the same party can tear each other to shreds in the act.  And the thing that fired me up to write this bit was a radio sound bite I heard the other day, some female delegate, a self-proclaimed evangelical Christian, explaining why she would not vote for Mit Romney, who happens to be LDS.

She said something to this effect: “I just can’t send somebody to Washington whose religious beliefs are dangerous and will do harm to this country.”

And I blanked out.  Whaa?  Was she saying this in reference to Romney?  Naw.  But – yes.  She was.

And then I was mad.  And so should be every single intelligent Evangelical, since she was taking it upon herself to represent the aggregate with that incredibly stupid statement.

First of all, this country is made up of ALL KINDS of religious traditions. And the stark and howling truth of the matter is that every religious tradition is made of up ALL KINDS of religious opinions.  Take best friends or twins or long married people, all pairs having membership in the same exact church, “believing” the same exact list of tenets.  Have each person draw a portrait of God: will those portraits look exactly the same?  No. Pretty sure they won’t.  Have those people explain in specific terms what is meant by keeping the Sabbath day holy.  Will that list of specifics be identical?  Betting not.

Truth is out there.  It’s just – we are guessing at what it is, all the time.  Reading scriptures and deciding what they mean – as many interpretations as there are eyes to read, and as many applications as there are times a single person reads the same words.  The same scripture changes with circumstance, health of the reader, world events, state of the marriage, level of loneliness or joy or love.  Somewhere at the center of What Is is a hard, immutable truth.  But I have never met any human being who has a handle on what that truth looks like.  Only opinions, guesses, interpretations, poetic romantical “shoulds” – and those colored highly by vested interests, desire and fear.

A president is supposed to steer a very heavy ship of state.  He’s suppose to uphold the body of law, the constitution, which – like it or not – was written from a base of Judeo-Christian values.  But he is NOT supposed to impose his own religious peculiarities on the law, the people, the airwaves, the fate of the planet.

All of that said, here is one supposed Christian coolly damning another Christ-based believer in a way that told me she had absolutely no understanding whatsoever of the beliefs subscribed to by the person she was damning.  What a mess of little cannibals we are.

What kind of religious person could we feel comfortable electing, then?  Someone who believes exactly the same thing we believe?  (Please refer to paragraphs above.)  Okay then, what kind of religious beliefs should disqualify a man who is thirty five years old, a natural citizen and a resident of the US for at least fourteen years?

Religious traditions that:

Are predisposed to send anybody who disagrees with them to hell?

Advocate the sacrifice or culinary consumption of children, virgins or any other human sorts?

Would strip citizenship protections from people whose diet is deemed sinful?

Administers disapproval by means of beheading?

Believes the punishment for sin should be instant death?

Believes rules and law are only for people who are different, and that life should be one long, exciting orgy for members of their own party?  Or has a secret agenda to throw over the rule of law and set up some Godly dictator who also gets to approve all publishing house new release lists?

Intends to override all law with the tenants of that faith, enforcing them by main force and punishing those who deviate with torture and death?  Ahhh.

 

So exactly what LDS beliefs does that “Christian” woman find dangerous and harmful to the country?

That LDS people believe in the reality of God?

That LDS people believe Christ is the Son of God?

That they read the Bible?

That all of their literature is based on the teachings of Christ?

That honesty, virtue, kindness, service, hard work are the way to joy and love and a lovely community?

That free choice is the centerpiece of mortal existence?

That the atonement of Christ is the door out of here and back home again?

That people should be responsible for their own actions?  Or that they can change their lives for the better?

That people should obey the law, and if they don’t like the law, seek to change it through the channels set up for that purpose?

 

Boy, I look at that list I just made, and I am frightened.  What a monster that Mit Romney must be.

I can see that there are people who would feel threatened by him because he is a good Christian – people who don’t love Christianity.  But even they have to understand that, by definition, a good Christian must be, by their own adherence to the teachings of Christ, the best neighbor and friend ever.  Not inclined to judge, but rather to help, heal, support, and listen with concern and sympathy.  Not likely to take what isn’t his, to treat others harshly, to harm in any way.  The problem is that too many people don’t actually live the tenents of their religions, whatever those may be.  They just wear the banner and the button and the hat and shoot their mouths off about things they don’t actually understand and assume that everybody but them is wrong.

Romney may be my choice and he might not.  The fact that he is LDS and that he has a reputation for trying very hard to live as a good man does influence me.  And I hear that Santorum (I don’t know his religion) also tries very hard to be a good man.  That influences me, also.  But I wouldn’t vote for either, regardless of religious affiliation, if the “good man” in their personal lives wasn’t there.

Some people have called Romney a flip-flopper because of the way he handled Massachusetts.  Too liberal with his health program and his apparent laisez-faire attitude toward homosexual marriage.  But here is what I think: I think that when a man is elected to office, he is not made head of religion.  I think he is elected to uphold and administer the law and to make sure that his constituents are safe, protected in their harmless pursuit of personal happiness, free to choose their own interpretation of the universe.  He is not elected to provide everything for everybody who wants something, nor is he made schoolmaster and micromanager of personal lives.

If people who are Jewish elect a Christian man, it is not because they want him to force them to live as Christians.  It’d be because they respect his respect for them.  Massachusetts is it’s own little world; the people there look at things a little differently than people look at things in Texas which sees things differently than Utah or even California, which sees things differently than almost anybody on the planet who does not surf.

The governor of a state, if he is being true to that office, has to serve the state that elected him, bringing out the best in it, but always with an eye to the rights of that group of voters who elected him.  Of all responsible citizens to make their own choices in life.  (Irresponsible ones who constantly do harm and have one hand on a hip and the other out for free stuff do not count.) He may be wiser than his constituents, and so try to shape the law to keep them safer and healthier than they’d keep themselves – but you have to be very, very careful with that kind of attitude.  Helping someone means that you have the wisdom to see who they are and to help them become the best form of the human brand they’ve chosen for themselves.  And to keep people from harming each other.  It doesn’t mean taking over a person’s life and telling her how to live it.

And what Mit did in Massachusetts seems good.  If the more conservative voices in the country think he should have said “NO,” to the adult citizens of the state, as though they were simply out of control children – well, that’s just wrong.  And if the liberal voices also think he should say “NO,” to conservative voices in that state – they’re just wrong.

I don’t know who I want to vote for.  But not for that idiot “Christian” woman, who frighteningly has just as much right to wield the power of a vote as I do (and I am aware enough of my own ignorance to look at my right to wield that power with terror).  And not for people who smirk and mock other people.  (I hate that democrat on Fox News after what he said about Rick Santorum – what a jerk. And it’s not like I am inclined to believe only good about Rick Santorum – I don’t even know the guy.)  And not for people who want to force me to dance to their tune, I don’t care what side of what fence they stand on.

Maybe not for any human being on the face of the earth.

But we have to have a government.  And the one we’ve got now (it’s full of idiots, judging from recent actions taken to “fix” things, all based on their failed past fixing strategies)? It  stinks.

Human governance is complex because humans are complex.  Government is stupid because humans are stupid.  And it’s dangerous because humans can be very, very dangerous.

I think it is very brave of free nations to have elections like this, and then to work with what they get the morning after, not showing up with armies, yelling, “WE TAKE IT BACK.”

So I guess you can’t get around politics.

But I can still hate them.

I have the right to.

 

Posted in IMENHO (Evidently not humble), Just talk, mad | Tagged , , | 44 Comments

~:: Solstice Thoughts ::~

I was thinking about a reply I made this morning to a dear friend’s comment on my little Christmas card.  I’m going to repeat it and embellish a little here because—well, sometimes I worry that people don’t understand why I choose to write what I do.  That maybe they think I’m misrepresenting my life, trying to make it all shiny and successful and American Dreamy.  My friend observed that the pictures of our family at Sunday dinner were full of love.  And they were because we were.  But our get-togethers are not always totally harmonious.  So this is what I said:

You do know we fight and get huffy and misunderstand each other and act badly, too – right? I know you know this.  Because you live in a real family, too. I think we bloggy sorts don’t choose to write about those acrimonious bits because life, love, family – all are a work in progress. We strengthen ourselves and choose our path each time we recognize the brilliant loving patterns working—realizing that this is the path we want, and want badly.  So we are moved to write in a state of wonder and gratitude, focusing our own hearts on what is strong, growing and healthy.

I think that the darker side of blogging is to write in the hopeless or bitter moments instead. And I think, also, that there are people – like those folks who hate and resent and love to sneer at “mommy blogs,” – who think we are just lying and bragging and distorting the realities of life by not sharing images of darkness and disappointment.

The thing is,  I choose hope – and I love light – and that is where my heart will dwell. That is where I sing. Husbands and wives are never perfect – harmony is never perfect – we are not built for perfection in this world. It’s the direction the face faces, the direction the foot reaches out for a hold on the path—that decides which paths we propel ourselves along—toward light or dark, toward growth or a simmering bitterness.

I am afraid that there are people who do not want to be happy, who embrace cynicism and bitterness as though they held a lifejacket in their arms instead of a choking weight. It’s clarity, love, hope and joy that I want to grab with hands and arms and legs – and I will fight for that. Just as you do, and Rachel does and my sister does, and Donna and Linda and Dawn and Jenni, and my daughters and the rest of my truly dear friends do. And we will make it—because we are deliberately cultivating light, and we will turn and look back as we go and like where we have been, simply because we keep moving in the direction of light, our resolve lit with hope and made material in gratitude.

I capture these loving family images because I need never to lose them.  Not that images can freeze anything so that it will keep forever.  Nothing will keep that long in this life.  But the point is, I deliberately choose these images—I choose them to define me, and then I do whatever I can, deliberately – hard-scrabble little loss as I am – to bring myself into that definition, to fit it.  Sometimes this is great work.  But I choose that, too.

————-=0=————-

I wanted to tell you a little more about the party group.

It’s an eclectic enclave of folks, the core of which are people we’ve known for more than thirty years.  But also there are people we’ve only known for five or six years.  Old college roommates.  Musicians we’ve been working with for that long.  Some are songwriters.  Some arrangers.  Some singers and players.  We have electrical engineers, too.  And one who used to sell radio ad time, but now does fencing material.  We have famous writers and unknown writers.  And people who have dedicated their lives to bringing up their children and creating the micro-cultures of home.  A couple who repair cameras.  Some who make stained glass windows.  Several who are teachers or librarians or who work in school administration offices.  Animators and artists.  Illustrators.  Fathers and mothers and children.  Tech guys who train people on complex computer programs.  Great cooks.  Lousy cooks.  One who is the DP on Bones.  Firemen. Radio show hosts.  Teachers of chemistry or dance or other things.  People who have lived in Brazil, England, Argentina, France – so many countries, so many languages.  People who have never lived outside the country at all.   Runners.  Cyclists.  Horsefolk.  We have brilliant crafters and people who hate crafting like poison.  Some are quiet.  Some are very funny.  Some are close to or over seventy years old, some who are under twenty four.  The things we have in common are our faith and just general good will.

And that’s what makes the party so fun.  A lot of these people are close friends with each other now only because this party exists – might never have known each other at all if we hadn’t gathered them in and thrown them together.  And that’s my favorite, VERY favorite part about all this.  I feel like a Yenta, thank you very much.

————-=0=————-

I was just listening to a song G recorded for our dear friend, Mike McClean – it’s called, “The Greatest Thing I’ve Ever Done.”  And I started thinking about that.  About great things, and whether I had ever done any.  And I decided I had.  And I decided to try to make a list, however short.  And of course, I’m putting that list right here:

1. Getting pregnant the second time.  And the fourth and last time.  In spite of what I knew might be coming at me.

2. Teaching.  And one or two things I chose to do while I was teaching.  Like standing by one of my students, who was wrongfully accused.  And loving the ones I once would never have given a second look.

3. Saying no when I needed to.  When it was right.  When it wasn’t easy.

4.  Admitting I am wrong – which I have done at least twice in my life.

5.  Learning my lesson – ditto.

6.  Getting out of bed on those few mornings when I was afraid to be alive.

7.  Being there for my kids.

8.  Living so I could go to the temple.

9.  Forgetting some things I would have loved to hold onto and simmer over.

10.  Planning the trips to Paris and England and Disneyworld.  Not because of where we went, but because I just, for no apparent reason, cowboyed-up realized that dreams were about to slip away and actually DID something, instead of just meaning to.

11.  Keeping the horses even when I was terrified of them.

12. Paying tithing.  Amazed that I can let the money go.

13.  Going to see my mother in the rest home for the first time.

14. Writing just a very few letters when I’d finally had enough – and eventually seeing them change the world, at least part of it.

I know this doesn’t sound like much.  No statues or immortality here.  But these were great things for me, because I am a small person and a big scardy cat and lazy and apt to dream instead of do.  I could also make a list of the most terrible things I’ve ever done, mostly on this same under-the-radar level, but things I still hurt over.  Like the time when I was in fourth grade, collecting newspapers for the paper drive in LA – the girl across the street came with me, a harmless, willing person – but at one corner, some mean little boys came up and started calling her “ree-tard,” a term still, sadly, in use today – and I denied knowing her to keep myself safe from them.  I’ll never get over doing that.

Anyway, that’s what I was thinking about this morning as I fed the horses.

So I just wanted to ask you: what is the greatest thing YOU have ever done?

I think my word for 2012 may be BRAVE.  If I take it on,  maybe I’ll digest it.

Posted in Family, Just talk, Memories and Ruminations | Tagged , , , , | 45 Comments

~:: The Making of a Season ::~

To begin, we have an actual photographic depiction of Rachel, buying The Gardener, right here on my front porch.  This is the equivalent of breaking a bottle of bubbly on the bow of a ship.  Except dryer.  (And here, may I admit that when I haven’t heard from you guys who bought it and read it, I’m assuming the worst.  Not that I should.  I just do.  Arggg.)

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Ta-DAAA!!!  Happiness!

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This man climbed up on the roof and hung the lights along the roof lines -

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Way up in the air, checking it twice.

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I did the ground level stuff.  Then we threw the switch for the first time.

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We brought in the tree, and plugged it in.  And fixed the lights that had decided to die over the summer.  Everything lit up now.

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But by the first week of December, this was all there was on the tree.  Just these two buddies, hanging out very peacefully.

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Much present wrapping – paper all over the house.

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I made a couple of tiny guys.  Betz White

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And then another couple.  Actually, three, counting the guy on the tree.

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Here are just some shots of house corners.   I have to warn you; I haven’t had any time to correct any color or sharpen any shots, so these are all just right out of the camera.

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My dad made those words, the Merry Christmas.  And the little snowman.

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Then the troops showed up.  One Sunday after church, early December – four of my kids came to help me put the ornaments on the tree.

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And the lion and the lamb?  No longer alone.

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Finished.

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Then we had a little early Christmas, exchanging gifts with Chelsea before she flew off home to her fam.

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 Sunday dinner.  We used the Christmas dishes, all of us in-state fam, here together.  It was a wonderful dinner (G cooked it).  And after that dinner, I felt so great.  As though this day had been truly Christmas.  There is nothing more important, integral, wonderful, energizing, trying, fulfilling and joyful than the family that you have pulled together, friends with each other, loving and laughing.

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So here is my glorious Christmas gift – given to me by all these people, every day.

It’s not quite Christmas yet, but still I leave you with this: my hopes and prayers that you are as happy and peaceful as I felt at the moment this shot was taken.  That you give love and keep giving it – in forgiveness, and service and patience and wonder – and that you get it right back again.  I am so grateful.  And so amazed.

Merry, merry Christmas!!

 

Posted in Christmas, dogs, Family, Felt stuff, friends, Fun Stuff, HappyHappyHappy, holidays, Knit Stuff, Pics of Made Things, Rachel, Seasons, The kids | 30 Comments

~:: Christmas Party 2011 ::~

A week till Christmas Day.   But—the party is over.  The Great Ornament Party.  My one party.  Shoot, getting ready for Christmas day is NOTHING after this thing.

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For this the house is scoured, the halls are decked—a years’ worth of handwork, planning, gathering—even cooking.  A gathering of old friends, dear friends—thirty-two years’ worth.  We’re loud and silly and funny with private jokes that are thirty two years deep.  This is an evening of such affection, surprise, delight, sentiment, sarcasm, reminiscence—new friendships formed and strengthened, children turning into beautiful adults.  On this night, we keep Christmas as a Lord Mayor’s household should (allusion anyone?).

Here is an actual visual account of the second stage of the evening (eating is the first): me laying down the rules of the ornament game.  It’s very important that I do this because we are actually a terrible gang of dastardly cutthroats and emotional manipulators who will do anything—anything—to get what they want.  Thus, we have rules.  And I am very firm when I remind everybody of them.

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See what I have to deal with?  Reminds me of my teaching days.

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You have the young unrulies.

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And then the deceptively respectable ones.  The ones who’ve been giving me a hard time since WE were the young unrulies.

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And don’t think time doesn’t go by fast.  Or that we, the dowager queens, have actually grown up much.

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Doesn’t that grin look like trouble to you?

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Uh-huh.

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 This man is mine.  The kid down the street thinks he’s Santa, and has thought so for a year.  Two weeks ago, the kid found G at church, walked straight up to him, eyes hug and mouth agape.   Actually, his eyes are about at G’s knee level.   He was staring up into G’s face, didn’t say a word, just extended his hand—and G took it, solemnly.

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The pile of wrapped ornaments.  I put two pictures of this in because I liked them both, the faces.  I love the faces.  (Shooting in this room is problematic.  There are about twenty light bulbs in there, and they’re all different kinds – everything from tungsten to florescent – which makes white balance almost impossible.  And Cam was taking these.)

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And now, the ornaments:

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Murphy’s funny, clever tree.

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Cara’s.  Wool.  Charming.  Actually a character out of her children’s picture book, Snowmen at Night.

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Rachel.  She was fairly sure this was the awfullest, silliest Santa ever knitted.  But when she brought it over to prove that to us, Chaz and I fell in love with him.  I didn’t shoot him well – SUCH a great little hilarious guy.  I wanted him.  I planned to get him.  I didn’t get him.  Guy says the eyelit yarn looks like sparklers.  YOu can see him better here.

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Johanne’s beautiful heart.  It came with a beautiful note.

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Ginger’s sparkling star, absolutely soaked in microbeads – shimmering, lovely.

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Lynn and Gordon took antique silver spoons, cut them down, hammered them out, embellished them.  They make shining ornaments.

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 Chelsea’s magnificent fabric dragon, embroidered and embellished.  There was a terrific fight over him.  He ended up, through the machinations of my children and Lynn, in the hands of our Dragon writer novelist buddies.  I have such wonderful children.  And friends.

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The second beautiful spoon.  I don’t know if this is Lynn’s or Gordon’s.

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Bob hand carved two Christmas whistles.

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The back of the first.   Cool, huh?  Bob’s carving is really cool.

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The face of the second.

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And here’s the cool thing: they WORK.

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Jeanne and David, who are stained glass artists, fused two sweet little Christmas scenes.

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And Mark, the fireman, cut, shaped, burnished two copper moose, one for Tricia, his wife, and one for himself.  The moose changes color as he turns in the light.

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 This is actually a tiny, original painting done by Mark Beuhner, my favorite children’s book illustrator.  Cara wrote Snowmen at Night and Fanny’s Dream and many others.  Mark illustrated them.  Buy their books.  You won’t be sorry.  In fact, you’ll be delighted.  End of commercial.  I wanted this one too.  Didn’t get it.  I loved what I got.  I just wanted  - well – everything.

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The second fused glass scene.  Christmas star and all.

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The offering of Tracy Hickman, our famous fantasy author, was an amazing, charming Santa board game – that he and Laura MADE UP and had fabricated.  I’d put the link to them, but I don’t know where it is, darn it.

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Clever and adorable playing pieces.

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Laura’s elegant broken china ball.  I think it was a Santa something before it became – pieces.

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Laura – M’s better half?  This is her ornament – Monop-holly.  Clever, eh?

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Terry always does incredible petite point. I don’t know how she does it, but they are always elegant, always perfect. Chaz opened it on her turn, then hid this ornament in its box so that everybody forgot about it. Then someone remembered. And she lost it. But then – got it back again.

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The back of Chaz’.

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The front of Chaz’.  This is actually her Homage to Terry. She freehanded the deer and then designed the borders on the fly.  She now swears that she will never do petite point again.  Ever.  But she has to.  Because I want one.  Cam and L won this one.

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These are terrible shots.  Blew them out.  Debbie always makes a charming and witty mobile.  I have one with fat wonderful sheep on it.  This one, as you see, is full of busy birds.

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Oh.  Phooey.  I want this bird, too.

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And this is Lind’s carved wooden spoon.  I have a collection of his carved wooden Santa faces.  Top shot no good.

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But here’s the detail.  He’s WONDERFUL.

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 His wife, Mer’s angel.  Mer and I have been making ornaments at each other for three decades.  I keep saying this because I’m trying to understand it.  Lives – we have actually lived these long lives.  In the middle, you don’t feel the flow of time – but there comes a point when you look back and are amazed at the distance you’ve done.  Ours is marked by full fir branches.

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Cam’s.  He calls it My Homage to BOB.  Bob, who did the whistles, often does captive balls – captured in open squares, opens swirls of wood.  So Cam did his own carving, except in styrofoam.  Which can be carved in much less time.  This is a portrait of an actual snowball imported from the North Pole.  L also had a cool ornament made of styrofoam, but when Cam painted it, he used the wrong paint – and it sort of melted.  Like the Wicked Witch.  Right there before his eyes.   M won
it.

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This was Dick’s. I’m not sure what it is, but it was cool. The thing about Dick is that nothing is ever what it seems, and my rules? They don’t exist in the realm of Dick. In fact, he does his best to dismantle them – that has been his creativity in connection to this game. And believe me, the man’s creativity in whatever arena, is not inconsiderable.

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And last of all – badly shot, I apologetically admit – Gaye’s first try at knitting (being a crocheter and quilter and singer): the tiniest Christmas Stocking ever.

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THE END OF THE ORNAMENTS.

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GROUP HUG.

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 Then comes the singing of carols, the mingling and talking, the drifting – with empty platters and bowls – toward the door; this is a slow process, peppered with much short conversation.

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And some last minute eating.

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And reading.

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And laughing.

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Till next year.  For as long as we last on the planet.

 

Posted in A little history, Christmas, Family, friends, holidays, Memories and Ruminations, Pics of Made Things | Tagged , , | 28 Comments

~:: Leaping from the Nest ::~

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I don’t even know how to start this.  When I was little, we lived in L.A.  Everything was within walking distance.  The school, for instance.  Two blocks away – long sides.  An uncomplicated walk, it was not uphill and it never did involve snow—just sometimes torrential rains and huge, convulsing knots of drowning earthworms.

In the beginning, my mom walked to school with me.  By “in the beginning” I don’t know if I mean my whole kindergarten year, or just the first time or two; my mom was an independent woman and she expected me to be an independent woman, too.  Of course, I was only five years old at the time—but, hey.

The thing I am remembering is the first time I took that walk by myself.  I imagine mom crossed the first street with me. Put my little feet on that first long sidewalk, turned my face schoolward and said, “See ya!!”  I don’t remember how far I got.  About a block, maybe.  Or half a block.  But at one point, I succumbed to terror and sentiment, the great indefinable size of the world and my own solitary smallness.  I stopped, burst into tears, spun on my heel and began to run back the way I’d come.  Ended up with my face buried in the dress of a total stranger, a girl maybe fourth grade or fifth.  And there I adheared..

I still don’t know who she was, but I love her.  She calmed me down, took my hand and walked me the rest of the way to school.  What a woman she was.

I am remembering this, I think, because last night I did a thing very much  like walking to school alone for the first time: I published my own book.  Just me as publisher, I released my new book to the world through Amazon’s Kindle shop.  And I was just as terrified doing that as I was–frozen in the middle of a sidewalk in LA a hundred years ago.

I’ve been published lots before.  By companies.  Companies with money and cover artists and editors all working on the book and validating it and pruning it along the way.  I had to believe, even in my fits of artistic-minded collapse of self-confidence, that the book was worth taking up room on the planet—because they were willing to put money behind it.  And they wouldn’t have done that out of any sense of altruism.

But this time, it’s just me.

And I am terrified.

What if the books stinks?  How will I know till it’s too late?  And if the book is good, how will anybody even know it’s out there?  THIS IS SCARY.

And I miss Rosemary.  Do you hear me girl?  I MISS YOU.

My first editor was a wonderful, very proper English gentleman, George Bickersraff.  He told me that in England, the philosophy of publishers had little to do with story editing.  Copy editing, yes—grammar, spelling, punctuation—that kind of thing.  But publishers there believed (at least, they did then) that the story belonged to the author—and they did not prune.  For the good or the bad, the author was in charge of her own content.  Reading Rowling, I suspect that this is still the way things go there.

But I have owed so much to the wisdom of George and Tonya and my Rosemary; hanging myself out there like this is—difficult.

I have stopped in the sidewalk several times in the last year.  But there have always been solid angels behind me to catch me when I spin to run.  Some of them simply love me into turning around.  Rachel, my kids, Melissa Proffitt, Guy—and so many others.  Some actually took me by the hand and walked me the rest of the way, like Laura and Tracey, without whom I would have left this manuscript and my confidence to languish in gray limbo.  And without whom I would never have had the courage to attempt to unravel the very arcane path to this Kindle thing.  They are magicians.

And Chaz—who held my hand last night.  Well, not really,  She sat in my chair and filled in all the blanks at Amazon while I stood behind her, afraid to watch.

It’s such a weird thing—being driven to tell stories, and then having the utter chutzpah to expect that anybody on the planet might—or even should be expected to read the things.

But there you are.  And so I make the announcement—formally, with hope and trepidation:

Kristen D. Randle

Award winning author

Holder of the California Young Readers’ Medal

has just published her new book:

 The Gardener

available here and Kindle-ready.

Please come.  Please read.  I hope you enjoy it.

 

 

Gahhh!!!  My hands are just shaking.

Posted in A little history, Events, Excuses, Explanations, The outside world, Writing | Tagged , , , | 36 Comments

~:: For Friends We Never Meet ::~

This is a very little story.  It happened in 1994.  Or it started there.  My parents had organized the second of our two family reunions, this one in Pagosa Springs, Colorado, where they had a time share.  I have just looked at the pictures we took there, and I think I will write about that trip – because it was wonderful, and it was the last time we were all together in one place.  But the point of this tale is what my mother did there one day.

I had gone into town with my parents.  I don’t remember who else might have been with us.  G, probably.  As I am a sucker for the off-the-beaten-path kind of stores, when I saw the Rainbow Gift Shop, I had to stop there.  The place is cobbled out of several buildings, a couple of them ancient desert cabins and sheds, and all the outdoor walls are covered with flat metal sculpture, desert themed.  Homemade.  By a real person.

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Just shots of us messing around the day we took the bracelet picture. 

Had I been eight, my dad would probably not have stopped there.  But I was of significant age by that time, having four children of my own, and it was more trouble than it was worth for my dad to have protested when I suggested – very sweetly – that we stop.  So we pulled off that wee mountain highway into the narrow parking lot.  This was back in the days when time share/resort people had only just found this gorgeous mountain setting.  Back before all the new stores and restaurants and strip malls.  Just the old town along the highway.  And the ranches that peppered the sides of the forested mountains.

Rainbow Gifts belongs to a cheerful and very kind woman, Brenda, whose husband works in metal (and probably does other things), while she runs the shop.  She is one smart cookie, and that shop is a work of love.  In the front she offers fun gift items, but it’s in the middle and back that you find the treasure: real things.  Handmade things in metal and stone and glass.  And in the very back, in a sort of Kiva shaped room (round, in other words), are the very fine things: jewelry made by local artists, people from Colorado and New Mexico and Arizona.  Native American jewelry and pottery.  Beautiful, amazing things.

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Uncle M with Andy-pandy

I love owning things that a real person has made—an artist, a craftsman.  A single thing that is itself.  And I love the Navajo way with silver.  The Zuni way with stone.  There is something spiritual about all of it (and I am serious about that); a small creat-ure echoing the act of the Great Creation, taking a gift and amplifying it.  I think a single moment of actual seeing, of wonder, of recognition is at the base of our own ability to shape things.  Gratitude.

Anyway, G and I didn’t really have money to spend on extra things.  I was looking in those cases, choosing a ring here or there to try on, hoping I could afford something.  And then I saw this bracelet – a single elegant curve of silver inlaid with oval stones, each a different stone and color.  When I slipped that bracelet over my wrist, I felt instantly – and very unexpectedly – lovely. Maybe twice in my life that’s happened to me.  Once it was a fabulous dress that I was shocked to find made me look sylph-like.  And this bracelet.  The price of it wasn’t rich, rich.  But still maybe five times anything  I could have afforded to spend..

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 The ever-civilized Rachel

We all oooo-ed looking at it, and that’s when my mother did the amazing thing.

I have to preface this by stating that I came from careful parents.  They were brought up during the depression, and my mom knew how to make every molecule count.  They never spent more money than they had to – and subsequently had their house paid off by our third move.  In other words, they didn’t spoil themselves. Or us.  Ever.  My mother had the same bottle of Chanel n. 5 on her dresser for at least ten years.

But on that day, in that place, as I stood across from Brenda with that bracelet on my arm, my mother said, “I’m going to buy it for you.” My mother – on an wild whim – gave me something un-practical, extravagant and truly beautiful. Me, their very difficult, weird, always a pain child.

I was pretty stunned.

Fast forward.  When I wear this bracelet, I feel connected with my mom.  Like maybe I wasn’t that awful.  Like maybe there was something redeeming and likeable about me after-all. And I found that I wanted to share this gift with my children – this feeling of being loved, connected, forgiven for your weirdnesses and eccentricities.  This connection with my Mom.  And the flash of loveliness I had felt—I wanted them to feel that, to have owned it themselves.  So over the years, as our business grew, I’d call Brenda and buy another bracelet.  She’d tell me what she had, and I’d have her send the one that felt right.  All different, but all the same essential, elegant design.  I collected enough for each daughter I’d have in my life.  And later, for sister/daughter/friends of special degree.

Early on, I begged Brenda for  the name of the artists, and she gave me the names about five times; every time I got them, I lost them.  The amazing silversmiths were Genevieve and Curtis Harvey, a Navajo couple from New Mexico.  The bracelet is their own peculiar design. I have never, ever seen the like anywhere I’ve ever gone.  These are people Brenda loves still—such good people.  Such wonderful people.

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I just wanted to write to them so they would know how what they had made had become part of my happiest life.  And how their work had connected mother to daughter, and would connect more daughters with mothers.  How the beauty their hands had shaped had brought joy to an entire circle of women.

I kept my little hoard of bracelets for years.  The first one, I gave to Gin the day she was married.  The second went to Lorri, at her wedding.  Chaz, whose birthstone is opal, received hers, all opal ovals, the day she graduated from college.  Geneva, who had patiently walked us through the basics of horse ownership, and who had come miles with her truck and trailer to pick up my injured colt when I, just days before sending Murphy away on his two year mission, was too freaked out do for myself – she got one.  And Rachel.  My Rachel.  Then Chaz wanted one for Chelsea, her very best friend, and Chelsea wanted one for her mother, and Laura joined the family—

And so it went.

I seem to remember that I might have written to Genevieve once in all those years.  I probably sent the letter to Brenda for passing on.  But I don’t remember.  I hope I did, because I always meant to.  Meant to for seventeen years.

I badly wanted them to know that the work of their hands had become a joyful tradition in my family—our sisterhood verified in silver.

The last time we went through Pagosa, last summer – a road trip with Murphy and Chaz and our Chelsea, we stopped at the shop at near nightfall – and in a rain storm.  Brenda was just closing up.  But when we came in, she threw open the doors and took us straight into the back.  We looked at everything – tried on rings and cuffs and patted pottery.  Brenda gave Murphy a ceremonial wedding pot when she found out he was going to be married.  When we tried on the Harvey cuffs, she told us how sick Curtis was.  And that’s when I found out he was also an independent Baptist minister in New Mexico.  She was worried about him, then.  He was getting old and had been pretty seriously sick for the last long while.  “There may soon be no more of these,” she said, as she put the velvet case in front of us.

We had a really beautiful time there, then had to drive on—taking off into the dark, wet night, driving down the almost deserted mountain road through the dangers of the elk run, five hours to the flats, me hunched over the wheel dodging the deer that shot out of the forest in front of us.  That was in early June.

But that isn’t the end of the story.  We drove back home that same way, up into the mountains, just to see Brenda once more.  But when we stopped at Rainbow Gifts, Brenda wasn’t herself.  It struck me odd, like she didn’t seem to want to talk much.  I was afraid we’d offended her somehow.  Or maybe she was just busy or worried about something.  It’s troubled me ever since.

But I was looking up Curtis Harvey one more time last week, still wanting to write that letter.  And that’s when I found a piece written about him on a site called Legacy.  I think I understand now.  He had died two weeks before we’d passed through Pagosa.  Brenda hadn’t heard yet on our first pass through.  I’m thinking that she’d had the news by the time we came through again.  I had come to buy just one more of those bracelets.  And I don’t think she wanted to tell me what she herself hated to know.

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 There is still a space in the circle.  Just one.  For a reason.

And there will be no more of those bracelets.

Because one of the two lovely people who made them has died. I wish I knew where Genevieve was.  I’d go there.  It’s just so strange—that the care and love and artistry of people I never met could have been such a strong color in the weave of our family history. I loved the Harveys without ever meeting them.  But I will remember them my whole life long.

So here are a few little links – because Curtis Harvey is a man worth recognizing.  I know that most of you don’t follow links, but I love these songs – one a hymn in Dinee.  There used to be another song he had done with his guitar, a sweet hymn in English – but sadly it’s no longer findable.  Please.  Just look at his face.  And know that he was a good and lovely man.  Genevieve – may heaven watch over you always.  You  have my thanks for adding beauty to my life.  My deep thanks.

 

Posted in A little history, Family, friends, Geneva, HappyHappyHappy, Memories and Ruminations, Rachel, The kids | Tagged , , , , , | 36 Comments