The Courtship is Over, and Other Stories

Oh, state of Virginia, looking back, it was all very silly, wasn’t it?

For four years, you’ve pursued me with the persistence of a school boy in deep puppy love. You’ve sent me letters. Initiated phone communications. You even sent one of your own, uniformed finest to my door with a Special Invitation. You went so far as to set aside two full weeks in hopes for my full attention, when I would be at your beck and call.

What happened? I phoned in like you requested. I checked my computer daily for your messages, but found only curt rebuffs instead of details about all the dates I anticipated. And then, this morning—what was that? A computerized message that its over between us, just like that? Didn’t see that coming.

Whatever will I do now, with what is left of my winter break? I’ll have to make my own plans, without consideration of when or where you may need me to come to sit in your courts. I won’t have your messages to wait for each day. When my friends call, I’ll actually have to make independent decisions about how to spend my time.
Although it’s clear we weren’t right for each other—I have to ask—Why you couldn’t have done this 10 days ago? Was it a cheap thrill, stringing me along day to day? If so, that would make one of us who found it amusing.

But it’s OK, Virginia District Court, I wasn’t really interested anyway. And even though I’ve complained heartily about your imposition on my winter break and your subsequent Daily Dissing, I’ve rather managed to enjoy myself anyway, quietly continuing the various threads of my life even without the ability to plan more than 12 hours out.

No, I haven’t been blogging much (sorry Readers!) or commenting on other blogs (sorry, fellow Bloggers), but I did do a little writing, in the form of a functional piece of online journalism. And I’ve been gearing up to crank out some mosaic pieces—and by gearing up, I basically mean sketching and buying materials. As of this writing, I am seriously considering following through on a recent invitation I received to start showing at a local gallery. I waffled on the whole thing for a few days, because, looking the whole thing over, I don’t think I stand to turn over much of a profit—but my husband thinks the exposure might be good, because I would love to do some custom work for clients I currently don’t have. But if I ever print up the business cards I blogged about way back in September, I’d slap one of those on each piece at the gallery and potentially meet some clients.

A few of you might remember this strange wooden piece I snagged at a thrift store last fall, the one my daughter thought looked like a spindly manger,but my friend, Lori, identified as a butler something-or-other? It had a close brush with becoming a planter for my sister, who may either be disappointed or relieved when she reads this report, but it turns out, though, that it’s a cat bed. The plan right now is for mosaic work around the four sides and legs painted in patterns replicating my own kitties. There are some other possible features, but I’ll save those for the reveal when it’s done. Right now, it’s in the initial prepping phase.



I’ve also been going to my art classes: one on mixed media, and the other a portraiture class where we sketch live models. Meet Eegore:



When my daughter saw Eegore, she suggested that my next job should be as a court sketch artist. But, Virginia District Court, you and I both know that that isn't likely to happen.

I’ve also had time to work on my experimental oil painting (which is still in the Work in Progress category):



I’ve also had a lot of time to work out. My new passport arrived today, and I am heading to the Bahamas in three weeks. I was horrified to discover that my summer clothes were tight. So thanks to you, Virginia District Court, I haven’t been off gallivanting on some East Coast Tour, visiting my sister in Pennsylvania or Lori, in Maryland. I’ve been here, running intervals on my treadmill. Biking. Doing floor exercises with the wii Fit trainers, who say I’ve lost 2.2 pounds. And gained a bit of muscle, too, I dare say. So it’s all good, State of Virginia. Just so long as I don’t hear from you again for a good, long, time. Remember, you had your chance. And tomorrow? That’s all mine….

The Jury Is Out, Part 2

So we’re at Friday, which happens to mark the conclusion week 1 of my Forced Participation in the Legal System, and I’ve yet to darken the door of the courthouse.

A week ago this evening, I made my first call to the Jury Action Hotline only to hear the voice on the other in inform that I was not selected to participate on Monday, in a sort of apologetic tone that implied that I might file this news in the Hard to Take Category. I was actually elated, as the news actually translated into a Free Day Off, as my school happened to be closed on Monday. I enjoyed my day, but figured the freebie made it all the more likely that I’d get summoned on Tuesday, when my school was open, and I would spend a long, boring day in court instead of printing and painting with my students.

I called the number at the appointed time Monday evening to learn my status, only to discover that the Action Line, was well, Inactive. With school administration waiting to hear whether or not I was going to be a no-show the next day, I spent a frantic half hour wondering if I’d be jailed if I turned out to be scheduled but was never able to find out. I reread my materials and discovered that I could check in online. I was, happily, not scheduled to report.

Nor was I scheduled Wednesday, Thursday, or today, which may seem to mean that the current standings are Me, 5, Virginia Court System ,0. I say may, because I am not sure this is the case at all.

See, it occurred to me long about Wednesday afternoon, better known as Day 3 of Not Being Able to Make Any Plans, that it might just be better to get the whole thing over with, especially after a second rereading of the literature revealed that once you work a trial (which tend to run 1-3 days) you’re excused from whatever remains of your two week service. At that point, anything short of a worst case scenario—a 3+ day trial, would get me out of this before the advent of the coming week, when my school is closed for the full week. (Yes, I notice the theme of excessive school closures. But it’s an Independent School, and they play by their own rules.)

The thought of a Winter Break when I could actually make plans was so appealing that I actually wished fervently to be called in. I realized that I’d rather spend two days in court and have a free week than to limp along day by day—even if I never get called in at all.

But it was not to be. We’re currently at T-2 hours until my next check-in. I don’t know what to hope for, really. I don’t want to go, but what I’m really afraid of is getting called in on the last day and having to serve Extra Time, which, I’m told, can happen. So really, no one is winning right now. Not me, and not the courts who so eagerly courted me. At least not yet. How this ends is anyone’s guess—the jury is still solidly out.

Not Wanted, After All

Feliz Baba went missing late last week, causing quite a stir in my environs.

The news came out, quite by accident, one recent late afternoon right after my kids were admiring a crumpled wanted poster they had salvaged from a shipment of Florida oranges and displayed over the country map in the kitchen, because, as I was told,
“These guys could be anywhere, Mom.”

I’m going to pause here, just to say that although many of you may know my kids’ ages from other posts, or Real Life, I’m not going to highlight that information in this particular post, because, frankly, it would be a little embarrassing.

A phone call soon interrupted the conversation and my son darted phoneward, an event that invariably induces cringing from any family members who happen to be home.

This is a kid who thrives on chatting up anyone who happens to be on the other end of the line. We’ve overhead him saying things like, “Well, all I really know about health care is that I go see my doctor every year;” or “I’d love to help you, but we’re getting ready for a Christmas party right now. Could you call back later?” Recently, a researcher phoned the home actually looking for kids his age (which, you may recall, I am not revealing at this time) to question about various issues. We heard him explaining that he loved church and school and is generally in bed by 9 PM, but when asked to choose between the two, he said that he considers himself more street smart than book smart. He quite possibly used words like “ergo” and “syllogism” during the discussion.

On this particular day, we heard him engage in a lengthy discourse wherein he expressed deep regret about his inability to offer assistance. He finally hung up the phone and reentered the kitchen. “I really feel bad for that lady, Mom,” he said. “Her English wasn’t very good, and she seems really sad that she can’t find her friend. “

“Who is she looking for, Buddy?”

“Feliz Baba,” he said.

“Feliz Baba?” his sister scoffed.

“Yeah. It’s like she really expected he would be here, and I had to tell her she had the wrong number.”

His sister whipped out a sheet of notebook paper and began to assemble an ad hoc addendum to the roster of wanted folks. “Who knows? We may see him around,” she said, retrieving the caller’s phone number and city of origin from the caller ID and adding it to the poster.


Over the next hour, much talk ensued over the possible identity of Feliz Baba, what his connection might be to the foreign woman, and, most importantly, why was he was thought to be here, in our home? It wasn’t long before the phone rang again, amid general excitement which reached a boiling point when the number on the caller ID was crosschecked with the poster, and it was determined that the foreign woman was calling back.

I grabbed the receiver, deciding it was time to get to the bottom of the whole affair.

“Mees-sees Da-bis? “

Ah-ha. Mrs. Davis….the puzzle went together in my mind, even as the woman prattled on about the Time Share Special she was hocking. Mrs. Davis sounds exactly like Feliz Baba, at least to my son. Not a great listener even in the best of conditions, the boy heard his own personal interpretation in the routine sales pitch. Mystery solved.

As my daughter--who I will identify as the older of the siblings--and I shared a hearty laugh, my son (who had wandered off during the proceedings) came running down the stairs.

"Feliz Baba has been found!" his sister announced, "and is in this very house."

A look of shock washed over the boy. "Is it me?" he asked, in amazement.

No such luck, kid. I’m Feliz Baba. Feliz Baba! Such an urbane, cultured ring to my new moniker, yes?

The "Our Reach" Challenge

In general, I’m a pretty big fan of typos, grammatical gaffes, and other rifts between native speakers and the Mother Tongue. As a freelance writer and a non-practicing English teacher, I view these breaches in convention as readily available sources of entertainment, not unlike sports bloopers or film outtakes.

Most of us are familiar with those church bulletin faux pas that get passed around via email—you know, the ones informing the congregation of the need for new choir robes due to the recent addition of new members and the deterioration of some older ones, or those announcing that the ladies of the church have cast off clothing of every kind, and may be seen in the basement on Friday afternoon. One announcement stated the need for attendees of the Weight Watchers meeting to enter through the large double doors at the back of the building. Every now and then, though, I happen across slip of the keyboard that is just, well, perfect.

A serendipitous typo in my own church bulletin on Sunday doubled as a one word sermon summary for me. It could have passed easily as the well-considered material from a large publishing house, but it wasn’t. It was, simply, an omitted letter “t,” an oversight in the notes for the sermon entitled the Outreach Challenge, which now read as the “Oureach” Challenge. Our Reach. What could be a more perfect moniker for a lesson all about the little pieces of big puzzles, the small gestures and simple kindnesses that are within our grasp? The things we can do to alleviate problems even if we can’t solve them. The acts that may seem insignificant by themselves, but represent our unique contribution to an equation that will otherwise remain unsolved; the hearts, the lives, the souls behind the needs right within Our Reach.

None of us can do everything. In fact, sometimes what we have to offer—physically, emotionally, or financially—seems a small contribution in comparison with the need. Last week felt like that, for me. I had friends, just within my grasp who were dealing with trouble of all kinds. Sudden loss. Disappointment. Sickness. The stories aren’t mine to tell, and my part in them was small—very small. But doing something seemed better than nothing, and small though my responses were, they were the ones within my reach.

So, in conclusion….Let’s meat the needs in front of us that are as plane as the nose on our faces. And let’s watch are grammer and spelling, to. There’s a lot of bad examples out their.

Close to Home, Part 2: Talking About the Neighbors

In my city, they frequent intersections, although you may find them different places in your home town: those neighbors we know collectively as hobos, bums, and bag ladies, many of them carrying hand scrawled signs announcing their hunger. We all have our own reasons; our personal set of rationalizations, justifications, and moralizations that we subconsciously activate as we avoid eye contact.

Many of our thoughts are rational, logical, and not far off the mark. My own involve rumors from unidentified eyewitnesses of limo-driving accomplices relieving unspecified local beggars from wads of collected cash. Other thoughts concern a confirmed experiment an acquaintance conducted when he spent a Saturday offering employ to the entire cast of local characters whose signs claimed they’d work for food. He had no takers.

Further consideration revolves around a San Diego waterfront walk when I, along with some church friends, happened past no fewer than a half dozen idle beggars of indeterminate physical or mental ability and didn’t stop until we saw an amputee selling water from an ice-filled cooler and, respecting his approach, enthusiastically patronized his enterprise.

For years, now, these anecdotes have served as a framework to justify a straightforward drive-by. They were enough to alleviate the little tug of empathy and accompanying twinge of guilt I’d feel as I ignored any evidence on my periphery that all may not be well.

The problem with these well considered thoughts? They’re based on rusty rumors, and a second hand report from a single Saturday fifteen years ago. They’re based on judgment calls about what makes sense to me, an educated woman with a relatively privileged background. And worst of all? They don’t mesh well with my beliefs. I call myself a Christian, but I turn my gaze away from those Jesus called the “least of these”—those folks on the margins of life, the ones he told us to treat as though their flesh was his.

I never knew quite how to reconcile the discrepancy. I don’t feel good just handing over cash. I know I can’t assume honesty, but that shouldn’t be an excuse for automatic cynicism, either. What I really want these people to know is that, thanks to a great local organization, there is no need for anyone to be hungry or without shelter in our city. Our local HELP organization is an ecumenical effort to provide meals and lodging in host churches during the winter months, as well as year round bag lunches, housing assistance, and medical and dental care.

So I’ve decided to tell anyone who asks, by way of a hand held sign, about the options available to them. From now on, my response will be a brown bag. I went to the organization’s web page and printed off copies of the page listing their services and tucked the print outs in lunch bags filled with inexpensive pick-me-ups: granola bars, mini Spaghetti-os, applesauce, and a plastic spoon—simple resources that could sustain someone long enough to make it to the HELP office or the bus stop where staff provides nightly transport to host congregations during the cold weather months.





I have also decided to support the shelter, knowing that is the single best response to folks with legitimate needs. No, I can’t tell if someone is truly needy just by looking at them. But I’m willing to gamble a few snacks, some plastic spoons and a few paper print outs for the chance to give someone some hope.




These bags will be in a handy location in my car, at the ready whenever I encounter sign-wielding folks at city intersections. I haven’t handed one out yet—today marks the official launch of this operation—but I haven’t identified a downside yet. I’m not parting with any cash that might be misused. I’m not putting myself in danger --I am, after all, in a two and a half ton mini van and equipped with various cellular devices—or at risk for continued awkward interactions with potentially unstable people. I see it as funneling them into the proper channels, with a brown bag snack for the journey. This image works for me. I know it won’t meet everyone’s need, but no one can do that. It’s a tiny piece—my piece—in an enormous puzzle everyone would like to solve.

What does your puzzle piece look like? What thoughts are difficult for you to overcome in responding to folks on the periphery? Would the snack pack and literature distribution work for you? Is there something I’m missing? Why don’t we take the opportunity to do something that’s usually not nice --let’s talk about our neighbors.

*Editor's Note: The young man fishing through the goods is NOT a neighbor receiving assistance. He is the author's son.

The Jury Is Out

I was driving my Usual Route on a Usual Day, but I knew, without a shade of doubt, that it was The Day. My number was up. The Gig was over. I’d be Rounded Up. Called In. Flagged Down. I didn’t know exactly when, or how, but Dread settled upon me as I awaited my fate.

Although the incidents I am about to describe have actually nothing to do with yesterday’s post, or blogging, for that matter, as an aside, I find it necessary to confess to a moment of horror immediately after I went live with a narrative in which I made fun of the Department of Homeland Security. I spent a couple jittery hours, wondering if the FBI would knock on my door. Two men, in suits in fedoras. One nodding gravely as the other said, “OK, Funny Girl, grab those mug shots of yours and out to the Paddy Wagon with you.” Really, I could see it all going down.

Although Legal Affairs were, indeed, on my mind as I drove home that January afternoon, the Summons for which I was bracing was of the ilk most Regular Citizens encounter from time to time: a seemingly routine Jury Duty.

As I strive, like any good journalist, to keep my use of adverbs to a minimum, I use the word “seemingly” with purpose. You see, it seems I have been a Person of Interest to the Virginia Court System since 2006, beginning with a routine questionnaire determining my eligibly to serve during a specific period of time.

The questionnaire listed some specific automatic exemptions, one of which being the main caregiver for a child under 16. As I was homeschooling my 7th grade son at the time, I checked that box and hoped that was the end of it. The specified period came and went. I forgot about the whole thing.

Until a sheriff showed up at my door with a summons about a year after the questionnaire time period had passed. I called to find out why I was being summoned, and to see if I couldn’t just be removed from whatever list I was on that had caused all this, because, remember, I was exempt. Except now I was no longer homeschooling, but a full time Masters Degree candidate, which, I might add was also qualified as an exemptible circumstance.

The Lady on the Phone explained that I had “lucked out” and it would be “in my best interest” to get it over with” because I had been selected to serve on some sort of panel that just meets for one morning—home for lunch even!—and then you get a certificate that says you’re off the hook for “at least” two years. I felt relived, in a temporary sense, even though I had a vague sort of disquiet about the lack of explanation about how I got roped into all this in the first place. I made arrangements to miss class, which really killed me because I was new and still trying to build a reputation as an overachiever. But, in all, it seemed a fairly painless way to participate in a civic responsibility, and why fight it?

I did my morning duty where I basically sat with a group of bored individuals and did a lot of murmuring and nodding, assuring a string of policemen that they had done a good enough job collecting evidence so as to proceed forward with their cases. I went home for lunch, filed my certificate, enjoyed a sense of pro-social responsibility and hoped that was the end of it. I forgot about the whole thing.

Until I was in the middle of my capstone field experience for my Masters Program and got a questionnaire determining my eligibility to serve on a different court. I pulled out my certificate, checked the box that said I was exempt because I had recently served, and hoped that was the end of it. I forgot about the whole thing.

Until a questionnaire arrives in my mailbox, virtually to the day of when my “You’re Off the Hook” certificate expired. The Outfit peddling this questionnaire offered very limited options for exemption. The literature indicated that I would be in a pool of people who could be called at any given time for a period of two--count ‘em—two years, and also that it would be for one of two types of service: an “on call” kind for a two week period, or The Grand Puma of all Juries, a stalwart group that meets for three consecutive days a months for a year (with an included footnote that it could be 18 months depending on the county in which you reside.)

Considering my mounting history, I was horrified by this communiqué. The dread, walking around every day, just waiting for a sheriff to pull you out of your real life and into what could be anything from an annoying two weeks to tantamount community arrest, unable to go far or long, chained to the court docket for a year.

Living with the cloud of uncertainty for up to two years seemed unbearable, but that afternoon in mid-January, I knew I would hear from them before the sun went down that day. See, I’d gotten the questionnaire in December, and after a respectable period went by in observance of the holidays, I knew they would send for me. Why? Simply, greed. These folks want me. They want me bad. They want me often, as soon as they can get me. Sure, I’ll get my “Off the Hook” certificate, but guess what, it will expire just as they are finished with the people they have in their clutches for this two year round, making me more immediately available to them again.

As you can tell, I have lost all belief in the supposed “random selection” of juries. There is no hope that I will regain that innocence. I do believe that I am in some sort of loop, and I will be summoned to more and more courts of varying formats. Although I was relieved to be selected for the Annoying Two Weeks type of duty this time--I start on Monday--just knowing that Other Kind looms out there is Concerning Knowledge.
And that January afternoon? I came home to a Summons in my mailbox (no sheriff this time.)

If I am to be honest, I must admit that I am considering filling out some paperwork to be removed from the voter rosters, at least for a time—until things, you know, simmer down. In the spirit of lively debate, I would like to know what my readers think. Would that be a huge faux pas, like a dis on America? Especially considering that most people I know have never served? For those of you who are spiritually minded, what are your thoughts? Is it a religious responsibility to remain on the voting rosters, and therefore does not matter that I feel targeted and weary? Is the right thing to do just to trust that God will put me where I am supposed to be—even if it means winding up on the Ball and Chain Duty for a year?

I want to hear your thoughts. It's your own personal Summons--a chance to weigh in on the future of the Virginia Legal System (because they'd clearly fall apart without me). Just please be gentle on me. I’m still a little jumpy from the whole fedora-sporting FBI agent scare.

Grim is the New Grin

In a sharp breach in subject matter, I find it necessary to interrupt my “Close to Home” Series to confess that I am making plans to leave the country. (And yes, if two posts count as a series, then we’re smack in the middle of a Series. The sequel is in the works and promises to be a thought provoking read. Stay tuned.)

In the course of freshening up my passport for some upcoming out-of-the-country action, I became privy to some information urgent enough to warrant a Running With Letters Public Service Announcement.

Readers, it seems that we’ve been misinformed. Pumped full of well-intentioned bad advice from everyone from Mom to William Shakespeare. If your growing up experience was anything like mine, you are doubtless under the impression that sporting a smile will not only net you more friends, it will make you more attractive, too. Why, even the community center where I used to work out was into the Smile Scene, posting awareness posters touting the benefits of “building community” on the premises with our flashy grins. Perhaps The Bard even convinced you that a smile can suck the power right out of crime when he penned in Othello Act I, Scene III, “The robbed that smiles, steals something from the thief."

Wanting to put forth a universal welcome throughout my travels, I sat down for my passport photos with a friendly smile. After all, as Unknown told us, everyone smiles in the same language.

“Don’t smile,” the photographer said.

“What?”

“You can’t smile for passport photos.”

Unnerved, I nonetheless summoned a serious expression that I just couldn’t hold before bursting into silly gales of laughter—which, I am glad to report, remains compliant with universal expectation that it is contagious.

Although my photographer seemed much happier now that she was laughing, it was still her duty to inform me that smiling is not all we've cracked it up to be. Readers, the Department of Homeland Security has concluded that smiling actually promotes terrorism. In a possible incomplete read of that prolific wordsmith Unknown, our top officials have concluded that “A smile is a powerful weapon,” evidently missing the end of the quote which concludes: “ you can even break ice with it."

It seems that while we’ve been wantonly grinning, beaming, and otherwise flashing our pearly whites around our respective towns, we have been inadvertently bolstering hidden factions of foul sentiment. And here I was, on the verge of presenting a pro-malevolent visage to the world at large.

With my reputation as an upstanding citizen on the line, I quickly reigned in my mirth. Allowing for a large margin for error, I adopted a stern countenance that I envisioned leveling off to a neutral flatline.

However, the photographer saw her opportunity and lost no time. Thanks to her quick pounce on the shutter, I get to present this highly pro-social public image:



I’m holding on to these mug-I mean, head shots. In our current political climate, I’m expecting a PBS response in the form of a 2010 makeover for the Guy Smiley gig on Sesame Street. After all, our next generation needs to be lot savvier than we have been, walking around with dopey grins when a close resemblance to the enemy remains our best defense.

Close to Home, Part 1

Maybe it’s just the weather. Perhaps it’s because I spent most of the last year gearing up for a move that never happened. Or it could just be the way I roll. Whatever the cause, I’ve been wanting to blow this town with a wanderlust rivaling George Bailey’s, just before Uncle Billy lost the bank deposit and the townspeople helped George discover what a Wonderful Life he had right in Bedford Falls.

If I would have been as faithful a January poster as I had planned, you would know that here at my house, I had nary a bank deposit to lose, as we’re just coming off Frugal January, a month of living off hoarded reserves while my husband launched a new business venture. Finances aside, the Usual Suspects of sundry responsibilities don’t compose a favorable atmosphere for immediate departure, either. Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to remember—before my sanity headed south, without me—that you don’t always have to be far to be away.

How could I forget the wonderful afternoon my children and I spent consuming authentic British junk food ,exploring tartans, and restoring an antique instrument mere miles from our front door? That day, I proved to two skeptical children that you really can become a tourist on the streets you’ve tread your entire life. This weekend, I proved it to myself all over again.


While cold, sometimes freezing rain pulled an all-nighter on the region, my husband and I were far removed from the misery: soaking in a private Jacuzzi tub, snacking on gourmet cheeses, sipping champagne by a roaring fire. In reality, we were less than half an hour from home. But having a well-stocked and beautifully decorated bed and breakfast inn virtually to ourselves? We were in a world of our own.

In the morning, we took a spontaneous tour of a stained glass-studded 17th century church. Even without the benefit of sunlight the windows were a wonder to behold.


Home before noon, we were gone for less than 24 hours—no heap of accumulated laundry, with no mountain of mail and rolled newspapers waiting on the flip side.

And thus I succeeded in staving off the travel bug for at least a little longer, and learned anew the importance of appreciating the underrated here and now right in front of me. It’s a timely lesson, too, as it's one that relates to the book proposal on which I am currently working. Thanks, by the way, to those of you who have asked about it. It’s basically version 2.0 of a concept that got away from me more than six years ago and withered on the vine. This time, I’ve called in an important reinforcement—my friend, Patti, a former editor at the same struggling Tribune publication for which I used to write. She’s a great writer with stories of her own festering in file folders, and we’ve decided that enough is enough. We’re meeting now, bi-weekly, and giving each other assignments and deadlines and encouragement to keep our projects on track. We even have a joint venture thrown in the mix.

But my proposal? It’s got a lot to do with the material right here in this blog. It’s loaded with art metaphors and never strays too far from the witty, tongue-in-cheek sort of commentary I tend to favor. It's also pretty tightly tied to the concept of embracing the extraordinary experiences embedded within the admittedly ordinary lives most of us lead—because no matter where we call home, most of our days are spent there. And we need to squeeze every bit of adventure and discovery we can from each one.

Psst…before you head out, take a moment and check something out for me, OK? Just take a little peek up and to the right—see all those pretty faces? Is your picture included in that sort of mosaic along the side of the page? If not, why not go ahead and add it…because I love mosaics and I love followers…and following my followers!

Friday Facelift

I’ve been saving this post to press into service as a splash of color at the greyest point of winter. As my family, friends, and long time followers know, I am a Solar Powered creature of Sun and Light. Although I enjoy a good old fashioned snowstorm as much as the next guy, SE Virginia’s Storm of the Season has dissolved into a wet mush of filthy ice and rotting vegetation, and we are, by all accounts, on the verge of getting pelted with about 12 hours of icy rain, so it’s safe to say I’m done.

For me, one of the biggest things winter has working against its limited palette. Color—not unlike myself—is an entity thoroughly dependent on light. Winter, by definition, is a Low Light entity, which means, by default, that the season isn’t going to impress anyone with a Prismatic Showcase.

I may still have a few followers out there who remember a little teaser post from way back in November when I promised to show you what I did with the fabric pictured above. Since I never got the post together before the calendar told us that we didn’t have time for projects that didn’t involve turkey, trees, or toys, I decided to hold onto it as a possible antidote for winter blahs.



I don’t know how it is at your house, but at mine, the master bedroom has traditionally taken all the awards for dutifully serving as the most underdeveloped room of the house. Even as a kid, I remember all of the hasty, pre-company clean ups consisting of gathering all the clutter and stuffing it into my parent’s bedroom—a habit I have tried time and again to keep from seeping into my own housekeeping rituals with varying success.

Inspired by my friend, Lori, who has all the good ideas, I decided to confront the dismal scene below by crafting a custom fabric headboard:



The beauty of this project is its complete adaptability. All you need to transform the sleeping area of your choice is a piece of plywood cut to the specs of your specific bed, cot, or mattress, pillow forms or cut foam, a bit of fixative, a staple gun, and enough upholstery cloth to cover same. Since my accommodations are king-sized, I decided to divide the space into thirds and display three coordinating colors. This decision proved fortuitous as I discovered that my local home improvement store carried pre-cut plywood in the exact measurements I needed to cover my space.




Patience was another thing that worked in my favor. I planned the project a full three weeks before executing, as I was holding out in hopes that the cloth I selected at 15+ dollars per yard would go on sale. In this, I also was lucky in that the very day I decided that I simply could not wait any more, the entire store went on deep discount. Although my original plan called for cut foam—that I also could have obtained at deep discount—I got lucky for the third time when I happened to find 3 pillow forms that just happened to be—you guessed it—the exact size to mount on my three cut boards.

Luck does not necessarily have to be on your side. Lori’s project was for a full-sized bed, and she found that a standard, uncut piece of plywood fit her needs perfectly. She also said that most home improvement stores will cut the board for free.



Once I got all the supplies home, I was less than two hours away from a completed headboard. I used brush on adhesive to fix the bottom end of my cloth and the pillow form to the plywood. I glued about 6-8 inches of cloth (top side down!) straight to the plywood,added some staples for added stability, and adhered the pillow form on top of the cloth and onto the plywood. The glue I used dried pretty quickly, so it was not long before I was able to wrap the rest of my cloth around the pillow form and fix the rest in place with a staple gun.








Originally, I planned to bolt the three finished panels to my bed frame, but once I set them into place, I realized that they were not going anywhere, so I declared the project done. Lori chose the option of fixing her single covered panel to the wall behind her bed, creating a completely different effect. She used cut foam for her panel, so her creation was flatter and sported cleaner lines.



I used my scraps to cover an old cork board to create a custom memory board for the wall near my bed. I also decided to add some shelves and fixtures in a white-and-silver theme. The end result? You get to be some of the first guests I’ve actually invited into my room:

Mosaic Prayer

Dear God,

Could you please take the scattered mass of vague ideas and interesting-yet- disjointed thoughts that occupy my mind and somehow fit them together in a way that is attractive, yet functional? Please don't forget the chipped little fragments from everything I've already messed up. And those little pieces I've loved for so long but haven't been able to force fit into anything I've ever designed. Then, could you sort of cement it all together with your own brand of mortar so I won't disrupt the pattern with my clumsy, chaotic flailings?

Cynthia


I love to blog. Really. But I'm also having a fling with the visual arts, and getting re-acquainted with a book proposal that has been languishing in my files since circa 2003. I don't know how--or if--it all fits together. I just couldn't let another day pass without at least noticing this little piece of my life. If you're still out there, I'd love to know. It would make me smile.

Of Stock and Taking Stock: A Post About Soup, and the Stuff Over Which We Stew

I don’t make New Year’s resolutions, at least not in the usual sense. Unless you count my annual attempt at eating nothing but soup for the first month of the year and a penchant for excessive simmering over all the weighty topics about which one typically makes resolutions.

The soup experiments date as far back as at least 2005, when, according to Primary Source documents—namely the bound print journals I used to keep before I took to posting my thoughts in cyberspace—I was going to “explore” and “experiment” with various soups during the entirety of January and then invite friends over to sample the best recipes at a mid February affair that never happened. The documents show that I entered 2006 with even greater resolve, declaring that “the time was right,” and that I went so far as to spend a morning making stock, although evidence suggests that I spent as least as much time writing about and sketching stock as I did making it.

According to 2006 Me, stock plays a foundational role. It offers a depth of flavor, a basis, upon which all else rests, although it is comprised of some pretty odd components: knobby, gnarled bits like ginger root, pale, pointed chunks of something called parsnip, and items I wasn’t even sure I got right. (Are green onions and leeks the same thing?) There’s even stuff I was pretty sure I didn’t want in there, like mushrooms, that I think are gross and would never eat in ordinary circumstances. But I somehow knew that I had to just trust that this odd assemblage would give me a strong base for the warm, comforting, healthy, winter-battling food I craved.

It was then, and is now, the same as I take stock of where I am in my life. There are these ideas kicking around, many alarmingly similar to those about which ’06 Me was concerned. Some are knobby, ill-formed, or altogether shapeless. Others are pale, like ghosts I’m trying to resurrect. Most of these are writing projects, one the same abandoned book proposal over which my Y2K+6 counterpart was pained. Others ideas are foreign as the components of my stock. I audibly gasped when I read in my own 2006 words that my thoughts kept turning to adoption. Just this morning, I told my husband that I think about adoption every day, and it’s likely that I’ve thought about it on a regular basis for at least four years, although I’m positive that it has been much longer.

So here I am in the third week of 2010, eating a lot of soup, and stewing over more ideas than ever—some that have become standard fare, and others that have recently contributed their own distinctive flavors. The soups I’ve made have had varying results--a statement which I’ll allow to stand as a preview for upcoming posts. And all the rest? I’m still waiting for it all to blend into something delicious.

A Day of Red-i-ness

The fact that atmospheric conditions inside my classroom hovered around the mid-60s all day yesterday meant that I had made two good decisions: wearing two red coats—one as outerwear and the other, a red leather number, initially for fashion—and bringing along a little jar of goodness I received as a gift from one of my students.

When school closed for break, I took the gift home, but upon examining its contents—hot cocoa, tea bags, lotion, and chocolate—determined that it was the perfect assortment of essential supplies to keep at my desk to provide a boost when winter takes its toll at the workplace. At least, all but the palm-sized mirror I found this morning when rooting for a bag of green tea.

“Hmmm…” I thought, sliding the mirror into my purse to take back home, unable to imagine why I’d need a mirror at my desk.

A couple classes later, I went into my storage closet/workroom with the intention of squirting single dabs of red, white, and black paint from the handy pump-equipped containers on my paint shelves onto a foam tray, in preparation for a little demonstration I planned for the second graders who were due to arrive any minute

The white and black paints—easily accessed from my chest-level “neutral” shelf-- flowed easily from their respective pumps into little dollops on my tray. I then reached slightly above my head for a squirt from the red paint container that I was too lazy to pull down from the shelf. Evidently, there was a little clog in the line, because a sudden shower of red paint shot across my entire face, miraculously missing the fashionable red jacket in its entirety.

Fortunately, I have a sink and those brown real paper paper towels in my storage closet/workroom. And a little palm sized mirror that that this art teacher will always keep at the ready, with the essential supplies.

Transitions

You don’t have to be the author of much more than a term paper or book report to understand the difficulty transitions pose for the writer. Sliding seemingly seamlessly from one scene, concept, or thought to another can be jarring. Choppy. Sloppy.

Transitions can’t be simple on paper, because there’s nothing simple about them.

Today finds many of us back at the helm at blackboards, desks, and service counters, having been jerked harshly from the Warm Hearth of Yuletide Goodness. As a writer, I'd love to offer some insight into the art of transitions; sadly, the only wisdom I can impart comes from the hard-knocks school of first-hand experience, and I can’t say I’m impressed with the curriculum.

In Stranger than Fiction, (one of my all-time favorite films)Dustin Hoffman’s character, Professor Hilbert, explains to Harold Crick, the protagonist hearing a blow-by-blow narration of his life, that plots are driven forward by action. For instance, he explained, the exiting of his office continues his story--the story of him through the door. On the other hand, staying in the room would halt the plot altogether.

When I woke up this morning, I was tempted not to advance my plot. At the time, it seemed preferable to let my story just kind of drift off—you know, go back to sleep and avoid the next scene.

Most of us glide rather seamlessly through the vacation segments of our stories. But the scenes which open with the dirty laundry, full in box, and obnoxious alarm clock? Not real attention-grabbers, those. Toss in the grey-sky, cold weather backdrop most of us are looking at in terms of setting, and the story seems to take a quick nosedive.

Fortunately, I have hoarded dozens of writers’ magazines that address sticky transitions, and it seems the articles all offer the same advice. If you don’t know exactly how to get your characters from point A to point B, you just have to jump to the next thing you do know. Press forward. Get the characters moving--or at least out of bed. Just keep typing--or wading through the in box, as the case may be--and sooner or later, you’ll hit on something.

If all else fails, rip a page from my playbook and lean heavily on the coffee pot. A fresh cup of joe has the ability to smooth over even the rockiest of transitions. After a few study swigs, you'll find the mug half-full--and that's not a bad perspective to take into the first work day of the new year.

The Ghost of New Years Past

"It’s not a caste system,” my son sputtered incredulously.

“It’s our lot, Buddy,” I said, reiterating my unsympathetic response to his long-winded lament about a lifetime of ho-hum New Years Eves. “Did I ever tell you about 1984?” I continued, referencing the oft-told account of the year my sister and I sat in the un-decorated livingroom of the house into which our family had just moved, watching hour after hour of “Kate and Ali” reruns while our parents—who never went out—had somehow scored an invitation to a holiday gathering despite the fact that we’d been in town mere weeks.

“We can do better,” he countered. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”

“It’s the best we can do,” I insisted.

Indeed, our dull New Years Eves have been a well documented source of conversation, wonder, and resignation over the years, as the only improvement we have made to our lot has been adding more would-be revelers to our number. Our respective husbands now sit alongside us as we watch slightly more current television, and leave our young to fend for themselves with preselected videos at a satellite location of the home. It’s a cycle we’ve tried halfheartedly to crack without success over the years, finally accepting it as the way things are.

I’ve always known there was last-minute fun to be had upon the year’s sunset, but we’ve never quite been able to find it. Fresh from the Christmas whirlwind, travel seems daunting. Funds are low. And the weather? Hardly something around which you’d want to plan an evening. So we’ve taken the evening-at-home approach, hoping that somehow the fact that we now number eight to-ten--depending on the occasional addition of a child’s friend—constitutes a party. Which could be fine, if the whole evening didn’t somehow manage to take on a desperate sort of Kate and Ali feel, every single year. And the kids know it, and, evidently view it as some kind of generational curse.

My son went off in an exasperated pseudo-huff, reemerging at the piano an hour later to deliver his message musically.




In case you missed the lyrics, he wrote them out and distributed them liberally:

New Years Eve is really lame
Every year is all the same
Yeah…we need change
to rearrange new years eve.
Each year we sit and watch Star Wars for the sixth time
Oh, it never stops.
My mom and aunt they whine, oh, they pine
about 1984--
but that year is nothing more than a memory.
My mom is stuck in a mental state,
She says that it’s a little too late to enjoy
the holiday.
Each year they send us upstairs and drink some wine
And watch a lame movie.
It’s never enjoyable,
It’s like eating a Lunchable.
We watch the movie, I know it too well,
The experience was none too swell.
I fell asleep in 2008 and awoke in 2009
only to find that I had missed the dropping of the New Years ball.
Oh the shame of it all.

I didn’t let on that that kid was getting to me. But his constant needling—the song was anything but the end of the matter—had sparked an unstoppable urge to find a solution to the decades-old problem. There really was no reason for it—after all, the same eight people anticipate Thanksgiving every year with an enthusiasm that is simply unnatural. What was missing just weeks later?

It was clear, from our Thanksgiving success, that all the ingredients were there for a memorable holiday—we had each other, and food wasn’t the problem, but the fun, where was the fun?

I remembered a truth I discovered at work during a slump years back when I felt bored. Bored! As an art teacher, bored stiff. I could find no excuse for that other than the truth: work was only boring when I was boring. Work became a drudgery when I coasted, when I refused to put the effort into the creative process that invariably breeds discovery, life, and dare I say, fun?

I idly thumbed through some tomes on the creative section of by bookshelf for inspiration. The difference, I knew, between thanksgiving and New Years was tradition. Thanksgiving is loaded with events we’ve come to anticipate year after year: the pumpkin carving, the feathers, the cooking--bad pie crusts and all.
And it suddenly the idea came. Who knows what sparked it—perhaps a picture, maybe a line of text, probably some wonderful combination of imagination, memory , and stimulus. But it came, in the way that all the good ideas do: suddenly, without a doubt, and at just the right time.

It’s been a busy and exciting week of planning—but tonight will see the first annual murder mystery party play out at my sister's abode. As a band of amazingly well-dressed pirates in thrift store finds, we’ll be at a jig—a jig!--participating in treachery, mayhem, and intrigue.

And the ghost of 1984? Not on the guest list.

Yesterday's News; or a Recycled Christmas

Nine years ago this morning, I found my favorite gift in the front lawn. I laid awake half the night, tossing and turning and checking the alarm clock with a giddiness rivaling a kid a third my age.

It's a well known fact at my house that my husband is an amazing gift giver--his thoughtful gifts in carefully wrapped packages are offerings I treasure. However, on this particular Christmas, the item for which I was waiting wasn't something he was able to give. The delivery came in the form of the newspaper, in which was printed my very first published piece of writing.

A couple weeks earlier, I had been notified that I had placed second in the paper's annual essay writing contest and that in addition to a modest cash prize, my essay would appear in the Christmas edition of the newspaper. Humble though the accomplishment was, it served as validation that a decision I had made months earlier to devote myself to the harsh realities of a writer's life may not have been for naught; that perhaps I could make a go of it. Indeed, it was the beginning of a long relationship between myself and our local daily, although I had no way of knowing it as I tiptoed through the wet grass that Christmas morning. All I knew was that my words were being delivered to well over a hundred thousand doorsteps--my words! It was a feeling that a gift box could never contain.

Nine years later, circulation is nowhere near the six digit figures of those days--in fact, today marks the first time the paper has ever failed to be printed--they took today completely off. A lagging economy ended what turned out to be an eight year stint with the paper last year. But nine years later, I haven't forgotten that heady rush of seeing my byline.

So today, I will share the text of that first essay, cheesy theme (what would you do if you were Santa for a day?) and all, in celebration of remembered gifts and cherished dreams.

Heart of the Holidays contest--December 25, 2000
Second Place
If I Were Santa

Santa – the single word ignites images and memories of the dearest and most cherished variety. To a young child, the word is the representation of hope in its purest form as elusive wishes are whispered, shyly at first, but with an unwavering confidence between the fibers of a silky white beard. A young parent, hopeful to keep the dream alive just one more year, penciling a simple “thanks’ on a crayon scrawled note by a plate of cookies. For those whose youth has long since faded, the remembrances are bittersweet with nostalgia for all that perhaps was, or should have been.

Close your eyes…can you hear the distant sound of sleigh bells, the crunch of newly fallen snow under sleigh runners and hoofed feet? Can you feel the softness of the plush red stocking slip across your fingers as you hang it on your bedpost? Can you smell the freshly baked cookies, can you taste the one that will be left on a plate, in unquestioning confidence by the smallest of hands? Can you resist the urge to smile at the mental images the name evokes? What if? What if the power to bestow joy and delight on such a large scale to young and old, rich and poor, strangers and those held most dear—what if I, a very ordinary, everyday woman—could embody that magical, mythical power? What would I do if I were the dream giver?

What if I were responsible for a rare smile on a young and far away face, a face so ethnically different from my own, a face that has seen poverty, war and grief? What if I could somehow touch that life, bring a moment of bliss, of unexpected anticipation in a colorfully wrapped box?

What if I could brighten the face of my irritable neighbor, and for one, brief moment watch her harsh and hardened features soften in a childish delight as an unforeseen surprise stops her in her tracks?

What if I could momentarily bring laughter to a drab and cheerless retirement home, where hope has been all but completely forgotten? How would I feel? Would I, could I, ever be the same?

As Santa, I would be able to offer hope where it did not exist before, to deliver kindness where it was undeserved, to alleviate the sting of loneliness. One by one, I could touch lives in unexpected and welcome ways, and little by little I could change my world-- if I were Santa, with the inexhaustible resources of the North Pole at my disposal. If I were Santa, joy to the world and peace on earth would seem more like reality than the intangible words of a Christmas carol.

I wonder, though, is an impossibly speedy sleigh and eight tiny reindeer absolutely necessary to bring happiness halfway around the world or just the vision to deliver that same smile by sponsoring a child through a humanitarian organization, or stuffing a shoebox for Operation Christmas Child?

Do I really need an overstuffed sack of goodies to surprise my unpleasant neighbor, or just the courage that it would take to cross her yard by the cover of a Christmas night to adorn an outdoor pine or bush with candy canes?

Is a workshop with little elves completely essential to have before I bring warmth and laughter and freshly baked cookies to a nursing home or hospital? Or would my goals be more closely observed if I ate the cookies myself, so as to better fill an oversized red suit?

In the end, “what if’s” are nothing but unrealized dreams: wishes that can only satisfy once they have blossomed into the greater hope they offer. I don’t ever have to wonder what it would be like to become Santa, and bestow the love and joy his image represents. Being Santa is a choice I can make when I live by the words of the One in the manger, the One whose gifts Santa really delivers. In loving my neighbor, I hold the only hope any of us truly has for peace on earth. For in living by those words, I can be Santa, and not just on just one, solitary magical day. I can be Santa any day I choose.

This Post Sponsored by Perspective

I've been a terrible blogger. I haven't posted in over a week and a half. I haven't visited other blogs, or left any comments. Instead, I'm knee deep in cookies, packages, and projects and I'm looking at serving some hard time in the kitchen and in my studio in order to finish the things I want to do to make Christmas merry. Although there's usually time for both, lately I've only been able to live the journey instead of logging it. See, I'm committed to enjoying December. I don't want to reach January and realize I lost a month to stress and obligation. So what I've had to let slide lately is the regular posting. I can live with that a lot easier than missing a moment of the season. I wasn't always this chill on December 23, and I'm quite aware that I'm just one Bad Decision away from succumbing to overload. So in the interest of late-season perspective, I'm posting one of my December newspaper columns that ran a few seasons back. I hope you have a moment to kick back and take a breather--and maybe leave me a comment to let me know you're still with me :)

Daily Press, December 11, 2004

Every year a veritable army of gingerbread men, bears, and toy soldiers march from my attic in December.

At tree trimming time, it becomes apparent that I’m on the fast track toward a holiday edition of one of those home reality shows where Patient Organizers attempt to rehabilitate committed pack rats.

“Tell me about this,” the Patient Organizer might say, raising a skeptical eyebrow toward the paper bird with the upside down wings that I made in grade school.

The sheer volume of inherited glass balls, mementos from classmates and students, not to mention everything either of my own children have ever made during the month of December would present a formidable challenge.

Now, I’ve seen enough of these shows to know what the Patient Organizer would say next. “The memories aren’t here,” she say, in a sweeping gesture across the flotsam. “They’re here,” she’d explain gently, patting the left side of her chest.

But they’re MY ornaments and they’re ALL important.

Once, I went to a friend’s tree trimming party. Having raised two children and beginning to accumulate the mementos of grandchildren, her ornament collection dwarfed mine.

Mentally pitting the size of her tree against the stack of boxes, I immediately began to stress. How on earth were we going to do this? How could we pack all of these obviously important treasures on one little tree?

Panic set in as I envisioned a triangular heap with an angel perched in blessing at the top.

We’re not going to use everything, my friend laughed. Just the ones that are right for us now.

Utterly horrified, I flashed back to the year when upon un-decorationg, I discovered a blue checked bear overlooked in a wad of tissue paper. Dismayed that he’d been missed, I hooked him over the knob of a cabinet for year-round display in an attempt to make up for the oversight.

Intentionally excluding hundreds of important relics was a concept foreign to my thinking. I would have gone through the trouble of putting up two trees before leaving something out would have crossed my mind.

In today’s society, we’ve taken the pack-rat mentality into choppy and uncharted waters. We collect titles, projects, and activities until we’ve effectively multi-tasked every moment we have. We’re shocked at the suggestion of paring down because everything we do is so important.

December typically adds another layer of must-dos clamoring for our attention. We cram shopping, recipes, traditions, and yes, even church activities into already overloaded schedules.

Psalm 46:10 tells us to “Be still and know that I am God.”

Our modern day Christmas season doesn’t have many still moments, but the original Christmas story is full of them.

A couple waiting alone in a stable to witness a miracle.

Shepherds watching sheep on a hill.

Kings who found wisdom in a night sky.

Today, the only character in the Christmas story most Americans can relate to is the one with “no room.”

Being still means keeping space open for possibilities.

It means leaving room for moments of wonder.

It means not running the risk of being “too full” to assist in a miracle.

Too often, our lives resemble my overcrowded Christmas tree. We’re sure there’s a lot of beautiful things in there somewhere, but we can’t see through the clutter clearly enough to recognize them.

Being still means taking time to prayerfully discover if we’re investing our time in things that are right for us now.

For my friend, the presence of a two-year-old grandson meant that the soft ornaments turned out to be the right ones for them that year. The others went back to the attic. Some might be a good fit another year. Others might become memories stored only in the heart.

Her tree was beautiful and held only what could be appreciated.

May the same be true for each of our lives this Christmas season.

A Good, Clean Read

“Maybe you can at least get the gist of it,” my ever-optimistic boy said in an attempt to be consoling.

This morning, this soggy pile was a hard cover edition of a book I believe to be called “Crush It,” by Gary? Ted? Ver---------mer----something. It was next to impossible to tell when I approached my washing machine to investigate why it wasn’t running and I discovered that I never closed the lid, thereby keeping all the towels on hold in the drum filled with water of a shockingly blue-black hue. And a lot of strange fibers that didn’t resemble the texture of any linens I’m aware of owning.

My mind instantly did a flash-back segment to an hour earlier when I pulled the book from a laundry basket where someone—may have been me—had apparently stashed it days earlier in a hasty clean up effort. This would not be the first time mayhem resulted from this highly unrecommended house keeping method. After pulling the book from the basket where it had been whiling time safely intermingling with clean stray socks and “B” grade underwear, I set it on the dryer where it evidently got caught up in the loading process of the aforementioned linens. Miraculously, the Bible with which the damaged text had been paired remained on the dryer unscathed. I always heard that God protects His word. Meanwhile, the Lesser Text was marinating with the towels, book, and sundries for over an hour, with the cloth products faring much better than the paper.

I carried the dripping pulp to my front porch where I broke it down into segments in hopes they would dry. For the next several hours, the carnage got Top Billing in my personal headlines, as I’d ironically been planning to spend part of my day reading the book, and was suffering from dampened hopes.

Around nightfall, I gathered the saturated segments and a blow dryer. I made significant progress in the drying of a small, apparently mid-book section in the 2 minutes I worked on it before plunging the back of the house into darkness when I blew a circuit.

The waterlogged literature remained on the metaphorical back burner until bedtime. “I read some great things about it today online,” my husband offered.

“Don’t whet my appetite!” I pleaded. “I’m not spending another $20.00 on a second copy. I’ll just work more with the blow dryer tomorrow. I hope to get it to the point where I can punch holes in the pages and put them in a binder.”

“Don’t be silly,” my husband said. “You’ll spend more on electricity than I did today with the super saver rate I used when I ordered you a new copy online. It took some detective work to find it, though,” my husband said, detailing the trail he followed beginning with the website of the specialty shop in which we found it. “It sounds great.”

“Wow,” I said, thanking my husband for his efforts. “Still, that was a lot of work. Let’s hope the book is worth it. For all we know, he could be all wet.”

Olfactory Experiences; or One Line Wednesday, Side B

“Children! We’re heading for the car!” Abandoning my cart mid-aisle, I herded my kids from the Toy-R-Us, undoubtedly to shocked inquiries and possibly even wails. At the time, my son was small enough that I likely scooped him into the crook of my arm like a linebacker making a key offensive break, although I’ll admit that I don’t follow football and I’m not even sure if that is the type of thing linebackers do.

Safely bucked into our van, I explained to the kids that we had to leave our cart full of cool gifts behind because mommy accidentally left the Christmas potpourri on the stove top when we left the house, several hours earlier. This may or may not have been the same year we awoke on Christmas morning to find that the candles on our wooden armoire had mysteriously disappeared and had been replaced by ominous blackened rings where the candles had been merrily burning the night before. But I digress.

We were homeschooling at the time, so I’m sure on the way home from Toy-R-Us we probably talked a bit about melting points, the properties of flame, and the rigors of Fire Academy, but I can’t be sure. At home—which we noted to our relief was still standing and not engulfed in flame—we found a scene that looked something like this:



The above photo is not archival documentation from the scene—just a little something I shot last night that is eerily similar.

I fear, however, that the image and the above commentary do not do justice to the merits of the simmering potpourri. Using nothing more than a few well-chosen items from a common spice cabinet, it lends an instant Christmas atmosphere to a holiday gathering, a family movie night, or even an ordinary morning blogging at home alone. There is so much to gain by turning our attention to the possibilities of the potpourri itself that you should regard the above as a cautionary tale from a someone who can’t even manage the uneventful use of school glue.

The template for the potpourri—officially dubbed “Christmas in the Air” emerged as the singular redeeming feature of a scarring Women’s Ornament Exchange I attended in the late nineties. The original formulation probably exists somewhere in my personal archives, but it has adapted and morphed over the years, depending on what I have on hand, and it always turns out wonderful.

The basic blueprint relies on segments from an orange, a cinnamon stick, whole cloves and all spice. The original recipe calls for a bay leaf, which I toss in if I have one on hand. Some incantation of peppermint also appears in the original—I believe it was oil, which I never have on hand, but I have occasionally been known to toss in a starlight mint. Star anise makes a pretty addition, but its bold fragrance really changes the potpourri's aroma profile, so experiment to see what you prefer. The entire mixture goes into a water-filled sauce pan or other metal simmering pot and put on a back burner to simmer, emitting a wonderful aroma that permeates the whole house.

A package of your own personal blend makes a wonderful hostess gift or thoughtful gesture for coworkers.





Get creative with the packaging. I can see it in a brown paper bag, tied with festive ribbon, or in colored cellophane. The whole point, though, is the offering of common elements given as a simple olfactory experience. Which scientists happen to believe to be the most powerful. Which can be a good or bad, depending on whether we’re talking about the simple pleasure of spicy goodness, or the heavy stench of smoke and flame.

So--one little thing. Don't forget the water. Add lots of it when you start the potpourri, and check it every now and then, to see if it needs more—because water, you know, evaporates, especially if you go out shopping for several hours.

One Line Wednesday

It's either a pot full of instant Christmas or all the makings of a Homeless Holiday.

(Either way, you'll want to come back later for the back story and some only slightly hazardous Christmas goodness.)

New to One Line Wednesday? Get caught up and join the fun!

If the Glue is Dry, the Rap Won't Stick

“So just how did this happen?” the school nurse asked when I presented in her office yesterday morning with a bloodied index finger.

I’d prepared for the question—even tried out my answer on an inquisitive preschooler I passed in the hallway enroute to the nurse.

“I cut it on a bit of dried glue,” I answered casually, as though a laceration from dehydrated craft supplies was pretty routine.

“Glue!” the nurse exclaimed, frowning. “I’ve never heard that one before.” She sprung into action, pulling a contoured band aid from what seemed to be a secret stash of Special Supplies.

She covered the tip of my finger with a band-aid that resembled a stout letter “H.” “This should keep you out of trouble,” she said. I thought that was a lot to ask of an adhesive strip, and I’m pretty sure she did, too, considering I’ve been in her office three times in as many weeks.

She asked a few follow up questions, which I answered as politely and vaguely as possible, as I’m pretty sure she’s started a file on me, and I want to be careful not to leave too damning a trail as I’m building quite a resume of equipment from which I’m banned.

When I worked for Dr. S a graduate assistant at my university, I was banned from the Paper Pro 2000 stapler, the comb binder, the copy machine, and the entire data base. By the time I left, I was pretty much down to the phone, but even there, my status was a bit shaky after Prince Books called and I caused a bit of undue excitement when I thought we were in communiqué with royalty and not just taking a routine call from a text book publisher, as we were wont to do at the Graduate Office.

In my brief months at my new post, I’ve managed to get banned from the laminator after setting it aflame during a lunchtime episode that ended in a smoky haze of plastic fumes.

Considering that there is now a big sign on the laminator listing the people allowed to use it (basically NOT me) it’s pretty important that, as an Art Teacher, I don’t get banned from glue. Especially not as the result of an Official Report. Aside from the host of practical problems such a prohibition would cause on a day-to-day level, I’ve got a whole other layer of consequences to consider.

See, when I worked at the Graduate office, one of the jobs I was allowed to do over the phone was collect contact information for the administrators of all the schools at which our graduates are hired, to, you k now, see how they perform in Real World situations. They use this data for all manner of flow charts, pie graphs, and brochures. Which means that some new graduate assistant is collecting all that data, and eventually Dr. S herself is going to call my work.

Although I’m sure she’d file the incident with the laminator under Routine and Predictable, being banned from glue? That’s a rap I can’t allow to stick.