Crisp @ Random–Sunday Edition
31 Aug 2008 Leave a Comment
in Joined at the Heart, Writers Write Tags: family, politics
• One time, Bacon and I were sight seeing in one of Santa Fe’s Canyon Road art galleries. The exhibit focused on an artist, who painted abstracts. The art looked like spilled ink on corregated cardboard. As the crowd oohed and awed around us, we clamped our mouths shut, living by my mother’s axiom, “If you can’t say anything nice . . .” One patron stood transfixed in front of a box canvas, enthusing about the painting’s existentialist message to humanity.
We were outside and down the sidewalk before Bacon asked, “What’d you think?”
“Spilled ink on a Uhaul box.”
“Good, I thought I was losing it.”
When I read about the Republican candidate for Vice-President, I thought of this. The emperor has no clothes.
• Bacon and I moved Coco into her own bedroom. She’s shared a room with Cherry since they were two and four. Every day for the past week, Coco has put herself to sleep in my bed because she couldn’t quit talking to Cherry. Yesterday, Bacon and I decided, enough was enough. We cleaned out the playroom, and set up her bed. It was a harder move for me than anyone else. I liked to go in at night and see my babies sleeping in the same room. They’re getting so big.
• My friend, David Thweatt, made the New York Times this week. You can read about him here. Talk about empowering teachers, Bacon said, “I want to work for a Superintendent like that. He should run for Governor.” Just goes to show, you can take the debate coach out of the city, but you can’t take the controversy out of the debate coach.
• In the credit union drive-through, a middle-aged man sat sobbing in his car. He drove a Mazda filled with household items–a kitchen table, a footlocker, a small bookshelf still holding paperbacks. He was in the lane next to me leaning against his driver’s side door. I wondered why the teller didn’t speak to him until I realized his lane was closed. He wasn’t banking–just occupying space. I wanted to help, but what could I do? I was alone, depositing cash. I didn’t want to go in and get a security guard, who might overreact and make a bad situation worse. So, I said a prayer for the guy and moved on. I haven’t quit thinking about him.
First Day of School
28 Aug 2008 Leave a Comment
in Joined at the Heart, Writers Write Tags: first day of school
I’m working on the book everyday, so I’m behind on the blog. Here’s a picture of Coco and Cherry on the first day of school. More later . . .
Rain
19 Aug 2008 Leave a Comment
in A Zany Life, Goals Tags: walking
I went to the park this morning. When I got as far away from the car as the trail could take me, it began to rain. The sky’s been threatening all week, but it does that here without follow-through. Cloudy with a 50% chance is the mantra. At the back-end of the greenbelt track, I’m not wearing raincoat or a carrying an umbrella. The only way out is through.
As I got closer to the car, the downpour stopped. I was soaked. My clothes were heavy. I planned to walk three laps, and since I was already wet, I turned back up the path. Of course, as soon as I walked too far to turn around, the clouds burst open again. I decided to go for broke. I wasn’t going to get any wetter. The decision to finish gave me peace. Instead of seeing the weather as an obstacle, I enjoyed the dripping sensation. I was thankful that I left the house without hair gel or mascara.
In my head I heard the voices.
Not enough sense to come in out of the rain. When You walk through a storm hold your head up high. Tut, tut…looks like rain.
But, I’m not the Wicked Witch Of the West. I don’t melt when I get wet.
Crisp @ Random-Sunday Edition
17 Aug 2008 Leave a Comment
in A Zany Life, Goals, Writers Write Tags: China, Olympic Swimming, writing
I’ve been in a holding pattern of sorts. The girls have a week until school starts. Bacon is between temp assignments. We’re hanging out at home. Which means, I’m picking things up off the floor–ponytail elastics, white athletic socks, colored markers . . . you get my drift. I’m ready to pack up my family and send them where they need to go, but it’s not time yet. I’m holding off the impulse to be impatient and gripe a lot.
Coming home from New Mexico, the transmission died in the minivan. The timing was good, if that can be said about a catastrophic repair. We were pulling into San Antonio instead of driving through the New Mexico desert. We limped home. The car works again, but we have a dent in our savings account, and we’ll have to look for a different vehicle to pull our pop-up trailer on next year’s adventure.
Coco celebrated her seventh birthday. The anniversary of Cherry’s adoption day was this month. Eight years ago this week, we were in China. Watching the Olympics has been a special experience. It’s impossible to count how many times we’ve said, “We were there. We saw that. Look, girls! Look!”
It’s terrific to watch the Olympic swimmers with our baby dolphins. Cheering on Michael Phelps as he reached the pinnacle of his sport has been our primary activity this week. Coco was so sleepy yesterday that she asked us to wake her before the relays. Cherry wrote down finish times like she does at her swim meets.
Thank you, U.S.A. Swimmers for setting such a terrific example for my children. Dara Torres went to the judge to explain that her competitor had torn her suit and would return. Michael Phelps thanked his teammates and his mom. These images weren’t lost on my children, who were fascinated by the underwater dolphin kicks and the slow motion replay of the butterfly final finish. This week, I’m glad we own a television. I don’t always feel that way.
I’m diving back into my work in progress by writing back cover copy for the finished book. Since the book isn’t finished, it sounds like I’m ahead of myself, but writing the blurb will help to focus my concept. I’ll see better where I’m headed.
Have a great week!
Spiritual Home
14 Aug 2008 Leave a Comment
in Joined at the Heart, Mouths of Babes, Writers Write Tags: Ansel Adams, Holy Ghost Creek, New Mexico, O'Keeffe, Spiritual Home
We took the girls and their cousin, Rascal, to the Georgia O’Keeffe museum. Rascal was sure it was pronounced “O’Keeffie.” We harassed her into the correct pronunciation. This summer’s exhibition was a comparative exhibit of O’Keeffe and Ansel Adams. Many of the same scenes were displayed side-by-side, Adams silver gelatin prints juxtaposed with O’Keefe’s view in oil. They captured the soul of the land with brush and lens.
The girls were precocious, asking appropriate questions and choosing their favorites in each hall. They were the only children in the museum, and it was fun to watch adult arrogance wither with the girls’ observations. At the end of the visit, we watched a short documentary of O’Keeffe’s life. I’d seen the film before and warned the girls about the nude Steglich photos of O’Keeffe in the presentation. After the first one, Coco sidled up to me, “Is that it Mama? The naked one?” As if it was in doubt.
It’s funny. I remembered the naked pictures, but I’d forgotten what O’Keeffe said. Since I didn’t write down the words, I’ll paraphrase.
New Mexico is my spiritual home. It’s the place I feel comfortable in my own skin.
That’s how I feel about Holy Ghost. It’s my spiritual home. What is it about water slapping against rocks in the creek or aspen leaves shimmering in the wind that makes me comfortable? I’m writing this on Bacon’s old laptop in the front seat of the minivan. A cold rain is imminent. Without the internet or email to check, I haven’t read a newspaper in a week or watched television. Why is it necessary to live in this narrow canyon for two weeks a year?
I just know that it is.
crisp |krisp| adjective
