Heavens to Murgatroyd

My Dream: August, 2017

My older son and his family, who reside 1,000 miles away, appear at our home, the home of Darling Husband and mine. Except it isn’t our current home, it is the home we lived in six years ago, the home in which our son grew up. 

“Good news, Mom and Dad, we are moving back to the home area.” Even though in my mind this should be the best news ever, my immediate dream reaction is not one of joy. “Wha…, wait…Are —are you certain?” I stammer as my super-powered dream brain has instantly compiled a list of all the pros and cons of leaving the area in which he, our lovely daughter-in-law and adored grandchildren live.

Cons: I worry about the job market here as opposed to their current area. I wonder if the grandchildren will find a suitable swim team to replace their club. And that the area in which they all reside is practically unparalleled, and that our grandchildren’s present school system is maybe a better education opportunity, and that they all will lose their wonderful network of friends, and the “and thats” go on…

The only real pro is that they will be closer in proximity to us.

They are where they belong. And we belong where we are.

Then I take notice that my son and his lovely family are sort of hovering and that I view them with a slight blur, as if they are behind a translucent film. It reminds me of the old black and white films when the cinematographers put petroleum jelly, or something, on the camera lens to soften the faces of movie stars. It’s has some sort of halation effect. 

I realize that I am in heaven. And that heaven (for me anyway —you can find your own heaven) is a realm where everyone I love is nearby yet in their own space, tailored just for them. Darling Husband and I can look in on our loved ones or visit, but remain in our own heavenly space, created by us and for us.

Yes, heaven for me is all of my loved ones happily existing in their own heavenly bubble.

I wake up with a feeling of contentment.

***

Darling Husband and I usually make an annual trip to visit our Virginia family, sometimes two trips if there is a special event, like a graduation or some such celebratory event. (They in turn make an annual visit to our home.) Only once have DH and I flown for our visit, as we much prefer to drive. We try to make a three day trip out, allow for extra time to scamper about exploring the east coast states and then another three day trip back to the Heartland.

We’ve made a theme of our travel. One year we visited every brewery/distillery we could on the way out and numerous antique stores all the way back.

Another year we visited abbeys and convents. They often have gift shops, open chapels, and beautiful grounds upon which to stroll and meditate.

Often we’ll look for national and state parks that feature hiking trails, many with beautiful vistas or the healing aromatic wash of a forest.

A few states we’ve visited have retail/ exhibition centers that feature fine visual arts, crafts, musical instruments, food products and even musical or performance presentations all created or presented by local artisans, like the not-to-be-missed Tamarack in Beckley, West Virginia.

Small town libraries are fun to visit and a Carnegie library is a must-stop.

Caverns have a mystique that has drawn us. (Although maybe not so much after following our GPS to a family-owned cave, where three teenagers lolled on the front porch of the address given on Trip Advisor. When we asked if we were at the correct location, one of the teens glanced up from her SmartPhone and yelled, “Ma, there’s someone here to see the cave!”)

Or the wild horses all the way from Assateague Island down to Shackleford Island.

Our last trip’s theme was “used book stores” and we found some great ones, a couple of favorites being Poor Richard’s in Frankfort, Kentucky and Taylor Books in Charleston, West Virginia.

One week after we returned from our last trip we discovered a “new” used bookstore, practically in our own backyard (if you consider 20 or so driving miles your own backyard,) Voices Book Nook in Freeport, Illinois. Proceeds from their sales provide free support services for families and individuals for the treatment and prevention of domestic violence and sexual assault and abuse in Stephenson County, Illinois.

We donate as well as purchase from this store. Win-win.

And now that I think about it, as I stroll through the Book Nook, I am indeed in my own “heavenly bubble.” Perusing, choosing, picking up and holding books in my hand, books that I will take home with me, much as I did as a child at the Bezazian Library in Uptown Chicago. But, now I have Darling Husband nearby; and my loved ones are comfortable ensconced in their own heavenly bubbles, —bubbles that DH and I can visit on occasion…

:|  [sharp intake of breath]  If you read my blog and you happen to know me, can you let me know if you have seen me lately?? For perhaps I have, indeed, died and gone to heaven…

***

"Slumber, watcher, till the spheres,

Six and twenty thousand years

Have revolv'd, and I return

To the spot where now I burn.

Other stars anon shall rise

To the axis of the skies;

Stars that soothe and stars that bless

With a sweet forgetfulness:

Only when my round is o'er

Shall the past disturb thy door.”

—H. P. Lovecraft

a section of Voices' Book Nook

Poor Richards Books in Frankfort Kentucky (you often find a cafe adjacent a good used bookstore)

Taylor Books in Charleston West Virginia (cafe within)

Books packed for donation and waiting to be chosen and re-read by someone else

Book Nook's "literature" section

If there is some great book from my past that I have missed I can usually find it here

Book Nook stands alone in the middle of an abandoned shopping mall
(& next time I visit I will take a photo of the mall entrance, then add & update this post)

Book Nook's Shakespeare section

Darling Husband perusing nearby

Banned books display :)

He would be 89 years old this month…

I'd so wanted to write something last week about the inspirational Martin Luther King, Jr. But, how does one begin to find the proper words and then to combine those words in an emotionally significant manner to laud one so iconic?

I had this vague idea that I would begin my post with our five-year-old daughter excitedly bounding into the house to tell us, Sweet Husband and I, of the great person about whom her kindergarten teacher had spoken, “Martin Luther, the King” —her phrase so endearing to us at that moment that we still, smilingly, use it to this day.

And then I thought I would segue into a eulogy I'd heard. A highly-regarded attorney friend (caucasian) known for his eloquence, “borrowed” (his word, not mine) a quote from MLK to describe his personal feeling at his long-suffering mother’s death. He hijacked this as his closing statement: “...free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, (we are) free at last.”

And how there I sat there, in church, with a bitter taste of resentment forming at the back of my throat at my friend’s misappropriation of that quote. Like swallowing tainted food, it just didn’t sit right with me and does not to this day.

Then I might mention Martin Luther King, Jr’s education. Starting with his graduation from high school at the age of fifteen (the age where I sat zoned out in my high school sophomore history class, engulfed in a wash of ennui and staring blankly out the window.)

And how in 1948 he received a Bachelor of Arts degree from Morehouse College in Atlanta, and then in 1951 a second degree from Pennsylvania’s Crozer Theological Seminary as the elected president of a mostly caucasian senior class.

At the age of 26 he became “Dr.” King when he earned a PhD at Boston University.

When he was thirty-five years old Dr. King became the youngest male recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize. He chose to donate his prize money of $54,000+ to assist in the continuation of his non-violent civil rights movement.

Would I then, I wonder, mention the spiritual revelation he experienced as the result of a threatening telephone call he received on January 27, 1956? Or, the explosion heard blocks away from his home, it’s epicenter, just three days later:

“Your house has been bombed.” 

I asked if my wife and baby were all right. 

They said, “We are checking on that now.” 

—(Stride Toward Freedom: The Montgomery Story, Martin Luther King, Jr.)

And would I include something about the burned cross he found on the lawn of his new house in April 1960?

I’m quite sure I would finish things up with his assassination using something like the poetic lyrics from U2’s “Pride (In the Name of Love):

Early morning April four 

shot rings out in the Memphis sky 

Free at last, they took your life 

They could not take your pride

He was 39 years old.

2018 marks the 50th anniversary of his death.

He was 39 years old,

He * was *  39 *  years *  old.

***

But the busyness of life, as it frequently does, ate away at my writing time… a nibble here, a bite there and before you know it, it has all but disappeared.

This day Sweet Husband and I are “on call.” Our almost four-year-old grandson, offspring of our “Martin Luther, the King” daughter, may or may not be ill. Daughter, son-in-law and grandson, live away —a two-hour commute. We have volunteered to drive into the city and care for Grandson, if he is too ill for preschool/daycare.

Concerned about Grandson’s reported low-grade fever, lethargy and disinterest in food, SH and I have readied overnight bags. We are prepared to dash out at 6 a.m., if needed. Like Minutemen, we are readily mobile and quickly deployable.

While I could not carve a slice of time for myself, I’ve instantly put aside all obligations to await word about the status of our little guy.

As I wait, I type. I look up and notice our digital photo frame, a gift from our “Martin Luther, the King” daughter. She gave it to us fully loaded with photos of our family throughout the years.

The frame sits in our living room and is triggered by motion. So on occasion I pass it or move in such a way that I trip the sensor. Out of the corner of my eye I will notice the display light and a photo of my past will flash before my eyes, the start of a slideshow.

Quite often I am in the photos and they are of moments that, for whatever reason, are not stored in my memory bank. I don’t remember that! And yet I recognize the photo as somewhere I probably would have been or some activity in which I might well have partaken.

Where was my brain on that occasion? Why did it not register this particular moment? I’ve a pretty good memory, so how do I not remember this scene? Can a person be so absorbed, comfortably ensconced in a moment that they miss it? No, more likely I was thinking ahead to some chore that needed tending or perhaps ruminating over some past disappointment. Tsk, such a waste to not be in the moment…

They say that your “life flashes before your eyes” when you die.

If so, what will my life show me?

Will it be similar to the ever-changing slideshow I have now in my living room?

Will I be able to fast forward through events I consider unimportant? —like my sophomore history class? "Alexa, skip."

Will I be able to hit a “slo-mo” or “repeat” button to savor treasured significant occasions?

—my oldest son playing Für Elise at his piano recital? 

—reading and re-reading my middle child’s written words?

—my 3rd and youngest child gracefully scoring a soccer goal?

—my husband’s sweet temperament?

—laughing uproariously with family and friends?

—all of the people who’ve motivated and inspired me?

—the birth and gift of each of my grandchildren?

—will I see myself baking and gardening and reading books?

—surely I will see each of my three children’s first smiles.

Will the snapshots be in sequence??

***

And then I wonder: What did Martin Luther King, Jr. view as his life flashed before his eyes?

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. removing a burned cross from his front lawn, with his son at his side

***

“The mortal heart of Martin Luther King was stopped by an assassin’s bullet. But no power on earth can stop his work.”

—Rev. Ralph D. Abernathy

A Stroll Down Melancholy Lane

I sit calmly looking out of the curved window of my intergalactic craft. It is a bay-type viewing area and it is my eye to the universe in which I am currently traversing. The space outside is still, serene, and in fact quite pleasing to my eye. But I know it to be savagely and bitterly cold —cold enough to cause grievous harm, or be of threat to my life. If I were to, even momentarily, step outside of the vehicle, and without proper protection let’s say, gently bump my hand, my hand would snap off of my arm and shatter into pieces. 

My thought process is disrupted as I view a creature zipping across the cold vastness. This is quite unusual. “Good luck, little being,” I think.

I glance at my horology apparatus. There are still three hours to go before the time I have determined most beneficial for my partaking in my allotment of nourishment —without depleting my current supplies, that is. So with a push of a button I procure a warm, non-nourishing liquid to quell my hunger pangs…

 ***

Ah shucks, I spot my nearest neighbor’s bold combination of neon, LED and other multi-colored pulsing Christmas lights. How the heck am I supposed to visualize in my mind that I am an alien being viewing outer space when there are these glaring, flashing, tacky lights going 24 hours a day. Can't they please put them on some kind of a timer? I mean, what the heck! What about the wildlife in the area that, for their defense, for their cover, for their very survival, depend on a portion of a day’s hours to be in darkness or semi-darkness. What about them?…

Where was I?… Oh, yes, fantasizing about being an alien traveling the universe and alighting upon planet Earth…

***

I will relate the account of my adventure, (actually “our” adventure since I travel with a companion) using a new software that will automatically translate into one of over one million of the most widely used and known languages in a dozen of the nearest parallel realities to where I am now visiting. Anyone who has ever used automated translation-ware will know that there will, of course, be the usual linear transformation and vector space mathematics errors, but also that language is just so doggone subjective… --For my own amusement, I used a bit of jargon in that last sentence. I wonder how that will translate. 

I was chosen for the mission because I am a polyglot.  

My companion was chosen for his engineering abilities. I use a male pronoun here to describe my companion. There are many parallel realities where there are primarily two genders, as there are also places where beings are endowed with a single neutral gender and yet successfully reproduce. And let us not forget, as some of you reading this will know, the plural locations with productive multiple genders, six of which are quite commonly known. But, for our purposes now, we will stick with two of the common genders, female and male…

***

Seriously, as I look out of the window of the back of my house, I feel at home, content, grateful for a wonderful life partner. But, when I venture outside and encounter my neighboring community members I feel like an alien being, like I live in a completely different parallel realm, or dimension, or spectrum. And it’s not anyone else’s fault. This is all on me. The people living nearby are generally quite kind and welcoming of friendship.

But if I had to point a finger of blame for my feeling a bit like a foreigner in my own community I would say it is more than the fact I tend to be what a behaviorist might label an “introvert.” The deeper alienation I’m experiencing at the moment, the feeling that has driven me under the shelter of my carapace came about just over a year ago, on the fateful day of the latest U.S. presidential election.  And since that day, I’ve found it difficult to view any but a handful of my neighbors without suspicion that they may have voted for our current president and thus embrace his philosophical ideals, (if you can call them that and by "that" I mean ideals.) 

The current president is a man who did not hide his agenda. It was there for all to witness —to witness his hatred, his misogyny, his sexual predatory behavior, his dishonesty, his bias against those less fortunate in acquisition of money and in physical appearance, his bias against those of any religious belief beside his so called "Christianity"and against those with preferences as to which gender to love, and, and --and if you can believe it, his desire to deny health coverage to the chronically sick… 

And then from "day one" in office, his horrendous agenda was carried out by his GOP cronies! He puts out easily provable lies (largest inauguration attendance?) And the group of them, like some kind of antithesis of the fabled Robin Hood and company, the bunch of them will collectively do their best to rob the poor and give everything they steal to the richest…

Despite all of this, I still occasionally drag my otherwise happily-introverted body to a local community social event. Like last Spring when I attended a meeting for women interested in participating in an informal golf league. Maybe two dozen or so women attended. We ordered lunch seated in a squared-off, skinny u-shaped table formation, which might have been fine for a UN meeting or a formal presentation of some kind where only one person spoke at a time, but…

Anyway, I found myself sitting near the bend of the narrow U, with women on six sides of me. How do humans do it? How do they listen and engage in small talk with so many people at once? —to my left is a someone describing falling on broken cement in front of J.C. Penney’s —kitty-corner to my left someone is telling an engaging tidbit about neighbors who locked themselves out of their home on a stair-less upper balcony (on a frigid day, no less.) —kitty-corner to my right a women shows off her new jewelry —somewhere nearby I hear an interesting story about how someone met her husband on a blind date. I begin to partake in a topic I love: gardening, but I am tapped from behind by someone I recognize as a fellow introvert, who says, “It is so nice to see you here.”

It is all too much for me and I can see it in the face of a friend, the one who encouraged me to attend this gathering and who is sitting directly across from me, staring at me in surprise as she recognizes that I am virtually struggling for breath in a din that is nearly drowning me.

So what am I getting at? What is the impetus of my writing today?

Today we are invited to visit friends we have not seen for a couple of years, friends from our former Chicago-area home. Plus, the visit will allow us an additional chance to meet up with a treasured friend visiting Chicago from Erie, PA. Friends I am missing so dearly at the given moment. But we have awaken to a -17 Fahrenheit temperature. Cautious Husband is not very keen on making the four-hour+ roundtrip drive in our five year old car. And not to put it all on Cautious Husband, as I kind of agree that it’s best that we stay home on this arctic-like day.

Do I really miss these old friends so much, or am I simply nostalgic from hearing Auld Lang Syne on New Year’s eve last night? Is this post-holiday melancholy after a lovely Thanksgiving and Christmas spent with loved ones and friends, beloved family and real friends who get my humor, who have political views similar to mine, people with whom there is often laughter until our tears flow, because we know each other so well…

I think of this statement that I copied from a recent NYT or NewYorker article:

...Stanford neurobiologist, …: “People who do best are those who have become more selective about whom they affiliate with… You don’t need a lot of friends; you just need a few very good ones.”

And I turn my electric blanket up to number five and I crawl back under my shell.

So sorry we won’t see you today, Jodie, Jen and Mike. Please forgive us. And do please visit us, if you can. You know where to find us: Planet Earth, just make a sharp right at the garish tacky Christmas lights that flash 24/7.

***

Here on planet Earth

The Chincoteague ponies keeping their heads above water, or struggling for breath??

I know, somehow, that only when it is dark enough can you see the stars.

~~~ Martin Luther King Jr. 

***
Oh, yes and Happy 2018 everyone!!!

is there room enough?

Sometimes I am a virtual-babysitter for my young grandson, who will turn 4 years old in a few months. Occasionally his mom will initiate a FaceTime call to me and then dash off somewhere within their home to bring in the dog or to put clothes in the washing machine, etc. It is my task to (via IPhone) creatively engage the preschooler, who lives 120 driving miles away.

Flashback to a day when I learned to temper my virtual play: Grandson is about two years of age and I intone, “I’m watching you,” in a semi-spooky voice all the while slowly moving the IPhone camera lens nearer my eye, the sight of which causes him to squeal with laughter, albeit a laugh tinged with wariness, not unlike perhaps, the reaction elicited by a well-timed “peek-a-boo.” In his frightened glee he tumbles to the floor.

[Note-to-self # 263: Do not overstimulate a grandchild via FaceTime to the point of falling when both of his parents are completely out-of-vocal range.]

He picks himself up, “Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry! Are you okay, buddy?” “Yes, Mimi.” “Are you sure?” “Yes.”  "Alright, then let’s dust ourselves off.”  He follows my cue and we both make the semi-slapclap motion one might use if one were to satisfactorily remove the final dust from one's hands, I clean my hands of it, it’s time to move on. Only he says excitedly, “Do it again, Mimi. Make your eye big again, Mimi."

Today, nearing the age of four, he is savvy enough that if he can manage to get his hands on Mom’s phone he can FaceTime me all by himself. So as I loll in bed on a cool Fall weekday morning, reading a captivating bit of fiction, the phone rings. The clock reads 6:45 a.m., about the time that Grandson’s Dad would have just left the house for work:

“Hey, buddy, good morning."

“Mimi, will you watch, ‘Room on the Broom’ with me?”

“Where is Mom?”

“She is here. She can put it on the television for us. Hey, Mimi, look at this!” He walks, IPhone in hand across the living room and places his back up against the television, knowing to hold the camera so that I don’t lose sight of him. “Look, Mimi. I’m glued to the television,” he says laughing. A minute or two later, still immobile, “See, Mimi, I’m still glued to the television” he repeats in a lilting voice.

Mom tunes the television to Netflix. Grandson and I will be viewing a televised version of a book I first read to him a year ago, “Room on the Broom,” written by Julia Donaldson and illustrated by Alex Scheffler. As Mom goes about her morning prep, Grandson carefully places me, Virtual Grandmother, by his side on the sofa and together we watch the 25 minute show. (Mom peeking her head in every so often to check on our wellbeing.)

I'm familiar with the book, but it's my first viewing of the movie version. I'm pleased to find how carefully it follows the book’s plot, narration and theme. I sip coffee as we watch and I keep a running commentary (to let Grandson know that I am fully attentive.)

The theme is about developing friendship and the positive results of kindness, sharing and unity. The verse utilizes Seussian rhythm, rhyme and repetition, rendering it ideal for the open minds of young children (or even closed-minded adults).

Here is a sample of the cadence and rhyme:

"The witch had a cat and a hat that was black,

and long ginger hair in a braid down her back.

How the cat purred and how the witch grinned,

As they sat on their broomstick and flew through the wind."

From the above verse you can see that a witch and a cat live a harmonious life and that they traverse on a broom.

As the witch “cooks," (my interpretation of the witch’s bubbly and sometimes experimental cauldron concoctions) the witch keeps an array of earthly delights at her disposal. The ever-wanting-to-be-helpful cat angrily shoos away insects, that happen to be caught in the act of nibbling leaves the witch has gathered. Seeing the cat’s reaction, the witch indicates that there is enough for everyone by giving a whole leaf to each bug.

I ask Grandson, "Is the witch nice or not nice?" "She's nice," he responds.

In flight, the witch loses a series of personal objects that are of meaning or importance to her. As witch and cat search, they meet unique characters who assist them in recovering the lost items.  As each distinctive newcomer  joins the group, friendships are formed and each asks, “Is there room on the broom for a _____ like me?" The witch welcomes each newbie to share a spot, despite their added weight and the depletion of space on the broom.

The characters:

Witch: An mature woman who is kind, generous and accepting of others, peculiarities and all (or should I say “warts and all” as the witch, herself, has a prominent wart on her nose.) 

Cat:  The feline’s protective nature toward the witch is encumbered by his suspicion and jealousy of each seemingly odd newcomer.

Dog: Like most dogs he is eager to please (he also seems to suffer from itching due to fleas?) He incites uncertainty in, and yet displays respectful admiration for the cat, perhaps like a younger child might to an older sibling.

Bird: A lonely displaced green-feathered bird, who seems to have been subjected to painful rejection by her black-feathered flock.

Frog: An obsessively clean amphibian who dislikes the polluted swamp into which he’s been born.

Dragon: A villainous, hungry beast with a particular hankering for "witch and chips for my tea” (did I mention that the author is from the U.K.?)

From the moment the dragon spots the witch, his intention is to devour her, to abate or satisfy his hunger. He seems disinterested in her companions.

At some point the crowded broom cracks under the weight of its diverse occupants. The broomstick snaps in two and they fall to the ground. The witch and her motley misfits, on different broom sections, become separated.

The dragon, spotting the witch alone and vulnerable, and moves in for the kill.

As the dragon lifts the dazed witch with his claws, her companions, who have collectively fallen into a murky bog, emerge clinging together as a single form, unrecognizably mired in gunky muck. The dragon senses danger in the large, looming creature with multiple, odd-shaped limbs, heads and eyes, wide-open eyes, all fixed upon the dragon. And thus the dragon’s false bravado is exposed.

The not-so-brave-after-all dragon releases the witch and slinks away, you know the head down, mumbling to oneself, tail-between-the-legs kind of shameful retreat.

Reunited with the witch, the animals alight and rinse the muck from their bodies with fresh water. They take a look at the irreparable broom. The ever-optimistic witch begins to cook up a potion. Being aware of the array of diversity before her, she asks each companion to choose an item to share, something of meaning or value to add to the cauldron. Someone, perhaps the frog I guess, tosses in a waterlily. The dog, of course, throws in a bone, and so on. The witch takes a stir of the potion and pauses, perhaps sensing that something is yet missing.  She espies a red mushroom with white spots, an item with which she has previously had potent reactions, she plucks it and tosses it into the cauldron and incants, “Iggity-ziggety-zaggety-zoom."

**POOF**

Out comes a much improved, super duper state-of-the-art broom AND it has room to comfortably fit everyone (it even has a built-in shower for the frog.) 

My take on the magic of the spotted mushroom is that it is some kind of game changer, like love or, perhaps it is vulnerability, or compassion, but whatever it is: look out and hold onto your seat, because it is some kind of powerful...

The story is a good moral lesson about the benefits of helpful kindness toward others. A tale that recognizes the power of unity, and what can be accomplished when everyone’s input is valued, when we are fully accepting of the natural differences inherent in all beings and when we make an effort to discern what will best benefit everyone.

***

Happy Halloween!

and happy 5 year blogiversary to me ;)

***

the "Room on the Broom" witch's favored & powerful red mushroom

A real life "fly agaric" mushroom -thought to be poisonous or to possibly induce hallucinations?
It almost looks cartoonishly fake, does it not?

Is there room on the broom for a dog like me?

...for a skeleton like me?
...for a scarecrow like me?

...for a ghost like me?

I'm watching you...

---

"Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble."

-- Shakespeare, Macbeth Act IV

“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.” 

—Anaïs Nin

"...As we live a life of ease, everyone of us has all we need...” 

— John Lennon and Paul McCartney