My year in Foh-Toz. Five words. Not bad. Okay so now 12.

And just to confirm that I am so not wired to be wordless, I began this post some time on Wednesday, of course, and here it is Friday morning. And I’m typing. Words.

Actually, I’ve been going through my foh-toz from the last year and I’m always amazed about what I learn. Fascinating things such as, 1) I still don’t really know how to use my camera which doesn’t bode well since it’s a point and shoot and can’t be much easier; 2) I take a lot of photos of food — an unbelievable quantity — they need to be deleted — do you have any idea how long that will take? Just another thing to put on my list; 3) I’m enjoying life so much and smile lots every day at very simple things; 4) There’s quite a story attached to almost every single one and although another viewer may not know what that story is, I do.

I can remember thoughts, concerns, larger events, weather, and so many other not so visible aspects of life connected to each shot. And most of the time, that in and of itself is what brings the smile to my face.

I need the sky to be grey and angry looking. I want the wind to blow and rain to fall. But it’s blue as far as I can see.

I don’t want to hear the kids at the end of the block playing in the cul-de-sac. But they’re laughing and screaming at one another, having fun.

I want the trees to be bare like they’re supposed to be in the winter, and not green with signs of spring already.

I’m not in the right frame of mind for blooming and regrowth. Sprouting and budding.

I thought it might be good to bury my head in the pillows until about noon, but knew that was never going to happen. And once I’m awake, the last thing I want to do is lay there and think. Not today. Especially today.

I headed for the bathroom acknowledging my numb around the edges self, knowing that I wouldn’t see Blackitty, and wondering whether my ugly, red, puffy eyes could actually squeeze out more tears. They felt like they wanted to. And right when I could feel the wave of grief begin to wash over me, the door nudged forward and my dog’s big golden head and soft brown eyes pushed into the space, tentatively, seeking permission. Her cold wet nose bumped against my knee and I could hear the thump of her tail against the vanity as I scratched her head to say thank you for continuing Blackitty’s routine.

So amazing.

 (more…)

And the letters to sustain me during NaBloPoMo continue. But the RT’s school photos arrived yesterday, so I’ve been staring at them and marveling at just how fast time goes by. Mind you, the photos came some time ago, and I thought it strange that I hadn’t seen them yet when he walked up with them last night, apologizing for forgetting to give them to me. They’d been in his backpack, where many a valuable possession has vanished into the depths of its blackness. Never to be seen until June. So I’m feeling fortunate that the photos have nary a scratch or bend.

November 13, 2007

My Dear RT,

When you were born, I started writing letters to you in a journal about your daily life. Although the letters were very nearly written each day in the beginning, by the last entry, written on your 8th birthday, they were very infrequent. Very soon, I’ll show you the journal so that you can read about growing up. And someday, it will be yours so that you might do the same for your child.

Here are some of the letters.

Thursday, May 12, 1994

You were almost two…

Your Dad took you to Grandma & Grandpa W’s house and measured you on Mother’s Day. You’re nearly 36” tall and weigh about 30 lbs. (Is that right?) Anyway — that’s taller than we thought you’d be compared to your cousin when she was your age, and she’s tall!

You can count to 13 now! It’s pretty funny.

You’ve been throwing things way too much — at people, on the floor — everywhere.

Lots of whineyness in the early evening time around dinner. It’s hard when everyone has had a long day. We’re trying not to push the bottles just to see if you’ll forget about it during the day — preschool is just around the corner and the bottle won’t work. Diapers? Who knows? Changing yours is a complete chore. You kick & scream & twist & turn. It’s like some ridiculous game. Gramma did say today that she told you that you needed your pants changed & you walked right into the house to have it taken care of. You hear everything we say! This morning you were laying on the rug watching Barney & I made a comment to Gramma about your “poofy” hair and you looked at me and reached up to touch your hair.

I’m getting ready to leave you for nearly 8 days and I’m not looking forward to it. What I want is for summer to be here so I can be a mom for a change.

You’ll be big before I know it, D.

Saturday, January 24, 1997

I see this book now, mostly when I dust & vacuum around the basket of books it keeps company with next to my bed. That’s pretty much where it’s been since we moved to this house when you were 6 mos. old. It seems so long ago now. You’re 4-1/2. You’re in the dining room playing your usual conditioned response breakfast games. Your dad is trying to guilt you into eating, but he is also singing the “Green Acres” theme song, so somehow I’m sure he’s not very threatening.

Thanks for climbing into bed with me for a while this morning and telling me about the rocket you built of Legos. You showed me how it flies, how it loses its boosters & leaves the capsule where the men are and then uses parachutes to bring it back to California where it lands. A lot to think about on a Saturday morning.

Yes, the Lego era has had a 2nd dawning. They’ve never quite been completely gone, but C & R have had them stashed under their bunk for a number of years. Now they show you how to build everything. But mostly things that fly. You’re pretty good at it yourself.

I make sure I get my squeezes & hugs & kisses from you as much as I can. It seems your “olderness” is right around the corner, D. You are very aware you are 4, but not 5 yet and tell me about it. I know you want to stay at Taproot School to become a “Palm” instead of going to another kindergarten. But you’ll have to make that change soon enough. Taproot stops after Kindergarten and then you must move on.

This should be a big year. Baseball? Soccer? Music Lessons? What are you interested in? What do you want to learn?

You found the plastic pink heart which stays in a dish on my dresser as you got up this morning & had a wistful, but puzzled look on your face as you rolled it in your fingers. “We still have Heart Baby’s heart. He still loves us, D,” I explain.

“He gone?”

“Yes, remember we lost him at the old Target?”

“But he didn’t go to the garbage. He went with a boy.”

“And he cares about that boy, but his heart will always be with us,” I finish.

You put the heart down and seemed content with the conversation we’ve had many times before.

Clown baby still goes to school with you every day, but it’s more of a ritual than a need. I’ll have to rescue him one of these days before he is misplaced.

I love you, D. You’ve grown up so very fast.

Mom

Day Four: NaBloPoMo. Not in the mood for chastising.

November 4, 2007

Dear Childhood Friends,

It’s been a very long time since I’ve seen many of you, but you’re not far from my mind. You exist in and around the shadows that surprisingly haven’t diminished with time, reminding me of how special you were. How much you helped shape who I now am. And I wonder more than you might think about where you now are, who you’ve become, and whether your life has been a good one.

Becky, I think you’re the one I remember the most. Unfortunately, much of that memory is tinged with sadness. We had so much fun in that ridiculous clubhouse your father built and that strange van with the running boards he used to drive. I could recall more detail at this point, but don’t need to. The details are there when I want them to be. It’s funny that I now realize the memories aren’t like video. No one moves or speaks. There’s no sound. They are just like photos kept in a box. Still shots of games we played, and fun we had.

I remember how broken-hearted I was when you moved away, and then later, that you had clearly matured more quickly than I. Somehow, I was embarrassed and felt betrayed. I’ve always wondered how you felt being pregnant at such a young age and then marrying the boy. It was so far from something I would have done myself then, still wanting to believe in fairy tales and perfect lives with happy endings. Houses with paned windows and chinneys that puffed smoke when it was cold. But I’m sure it wasn’t anything you expected either, was it?

If I remember correctly, the last time I wrote to you was after I had my oldest son. Was I responding to one of your letters, or was I writing to you? And who stopped writing first? I suppose it’s difficult to keep a lifetime relationship alive on only three years of a childhood friendship and 3,000 miles of country between the two of us. Isn’t it? But I’m sure it’s been done.

I hope you’re healthy and that you’ve been fortunate in the ways that matter most to you. And that maybe, once in a while, you remember me with as much fondness as I recall the laughter and imagination you brought to me.

Much love,

Kelly

And Day Three of my temporary existence as a NaBloPoMo-Ho begins, albeit I did experience a delay in posting as my work to sanitize, clean, paint, and redecorate the RT’s bedroom and bathroom have taken a priority. I know. I’m sorry. I promise it will never happen again. And chickens have lips.

November 3, 2007

The Walt Disney Company

500 South Buena Vista Street

Burbank, CA 91521

Dear Michael Eisner, Chairman and CEO:

I am taking time away from my very important task of protecting the world from the unkempt condition of my teen’s area of our home to express a few opinions regarding the impending closure of one of your Disneyland rides: It’s a Small World. Yes, I do know that everyone and their dog is most likely aware of this, and that again, I’m the last to know, but I digress.

Firstly, I do commend your officer in charge and his or her decision. Although It’s a Small World might be considered “cute,” and does provide a message that is quite important (even though there are quite a few people who are even more less than welcoming and accepting of others who aren’t clones of their less than stellar selves) to us all, it has become quite run down and has begun to look, well — not very Disneylike.

I do fear that if closure hadn’t been decided upon, it would begin to tarnish Disney’s ebullient “I dare you to find a cigarette butt on the ground in the park” image (one of the main reasons I love Disneyland). Not a butt in sight. Truly a wonder to behold and wouldn’t I just love to have some of your employees come clean my house something to be very proud of.
Granted, the toddlers who most enjoy the myriad international dolls whose outdated moving parts make so much noise, the volume of the manically tedious song has had to be turned up to stifle the infernal clacking of eyelids, heads, arms and torsos animatronics are quite weary after cheering crowds for more than 40 years, will be quite sad to not be able to screech at their parents for the 10th time to take them to float through It’s a Small World. I’m already feeling badly for parents, having raised three of my own children and would have left the park if any of them had ever acted like that do understand the need for this ride. Totally.

However, I did hear that the real reason the ride is closing is that the boats which carry visitors through the meandering little river have begun to bottom out during the course of the ride. That in the 1960’s when the ride was first opened, people weighed less than they do now, so there was no problem. But because we’ve become such a nation of heavyweights, the boats can no longer hold the same number of people they once did. This is shocking news and I for one do believe it is yet another finger that can be pointed at McDonald’s, Sara Lee, Burger King, Jack-in-the-Box, Frito-Lay, and Carl’s Jr., to name a few. If it wasn’t for the fact that companies such as these force us to eat food drenched in saturated fat against our will, then we’d still be able to ride on It’s a Small World without bottoming out.

I do believe, however, that you could consider that the park could potentially partially share blame. I delicately submit this question: have you every eaten Theme Park Food? (Okay, so except the food in the restaurant in Pirates of the Caribbean which is pretty good…Okay, and the frozen bananas, too) It is generally worse than Airplane Food, which is seriously worse than a School Lunch.

In retrospect, I could be talked into believing that the texture of the burgers is so much like that of cardboard, you’re simply trying to force encourage more fiber into America’s diet, but that would be a stretch. Perhaps you might consider consulting with Walmart regarding their marketing strategies. Between the two of you, a new campaign that will force entice park goers to know they want whatever it is you have on sale to eat (buy 3, get 15 free) samples from new menus could help matters. But only if those choices were more healthy.

Think of it. Healthy food is most often served in smaller portions and is generally more expensive better for all concerned, so I’m sure you’d make a handsome profit please your visitors. And it is all about profit pleasing the customer, correct? There could be menus with hummus, and ceviche, or tofu and sushi. Baked sweet potato fries and carrot chips. Please consider this carefully, as it would not be good news to hear that the Dumbo Ride can’t get off the ground, after all, would it? Dumbo was a flying elephant.

I do hope that It’s a Small World soon returns to the list of choices for visitors of Disneyland in the not too distant future, and that you won’t be replacing it with a ride that those of us who are pathetically trying to relive our childhood the little ones can’t antagonize their parents over enjoy.

After all, Disneyland is for skinny people kids, right?

Sincerely,

Me.

p.s. While you’re working on the ride, could you please make the boats out of something other than fiberglass? The last time we rode on It’s a Small World (much to the RT’s chagrin), we ended up with rashes where ever our skin touched the boat.

A few people around Bloggsville have been going through their magazines for a variety of reasons. No, don’t run and hide. It’s not another meme. But I’m always fascinated when people are on the same wavelength — especially if it isn’t meme driven.

I’ve been thinking about magazines quite a bit because I’ve gotten to the point where as much as I now have the time to enjoy them (they used to be a decadent distraction in my life I’d indulge myself with) I don’t. Most of my subscriptions have been for cooking magazines, and because much of the content is available on the Internet now, I’m feeling guilty about the paper stuffed in my mailbox each month.

I’m also feeling a bit uncomfortable about the problem I have throwing magazines away. Of course, they’re recycled in the end, but that isn’t the problem. It’s having to go through each one more time to see if I need to: 1) save the whole edition; 2) tag specific sections; 3) tear out recipes to try; or 4) just get rid of it. And they just sit. Waiting for me. Waiting in baskets, on tables, on bathroom counters, and in stacks mixed with catalogues and mail.

For years when each school year ended and I actually had a week or two before special project work began (for school, not my leisure) I’d sit down with my magazines and have quite a bit of fun watching old movies and wallowing in the possibilities that each magazine contained. It was a cathartic process that helped me mentally conclude one year, and sort of erase my hard drive to prepare for the next.

The process helped me plan projects that needed to be done around the house, too. It helped me think about things to organize, get togethers with family to celebrate birthdays, decorations to make for special seasons, and dreams to put on a list of things to do some day when there was more time, less work, more energy, and more money. Ahhh…dreams…

Many of the projects involved gardening because we had quite a large piece of property. There was never a dull moment deciding what type of garden to put where, which seeds to plant or what perennial to become emotionally attached to. Seriously. It’s easier to think of organizing a small piece of the planet instead of the pressing grind of aspects of life that seem beyond our control. The promise of food to cook, a garden to take care of, and a house to decorate and organize has always been my idea of heaven. Truly.

So it’s no wonder that I am someone who loves Martha. Yes, The Martha. My family lovingly refers to her as Moth-rah. I think the MoH came up with that one, but I’m not exactly sure. I know what you’re thinking, but yanno? I just don’t care. I don’t care that she was in jail. I don’t care that it’s been said she’s not a nice person. I just don’t care. And for those people who do? Get the hell over it. Because Martha helped me get through some very difficult years. She’s seen me through a new marriage, raise two boys into adulthood and a third into a teen, has inspired me to create two beautiful homes, and fill them with the aroma of something delicious to eat. She’s helped create many days with memories of working with my mom in our yard, planting, clipping, and admiring our hard work. Martha is the reason I was able to hang on to remnants of a life long desire to create anything and everything connected to what the MoH calls “fluffing my nest.” If Martha ran for president, I’d vote for her and I’m not kidding.

It all started with her Weddings book, given to me by an old friend before the MoH and I were married… Or was it her Entertaining book?

I have nearly every Martha Stewart Living magazine published. Really. I don’t know how I missed out on the beginning, but my collection goes back to Number 4: Autumn of 1991. That was before the RT was born. You know I’m not the only one who keeps them, right? It’s kind of the same for those who save National Geographic. Every time I decide I’m going to throw them out, I just don’t get around to it. Or can’t bring myself to do it. Anguish at the thought. I have given some to my middle son for school related projects, and he’s *Martha lovers, please cover your eyes…* cut out some of the photos, but he’s returned the magazines. He gets it.

I used to watch her old television show, but it’s been years. And I’m not sure why I don’t watch the new one. I could DVR it, but never think about it. Maybe it’s because all those other people are on now, and it isn’t just Martha and her obsessive compulsive drive on the most minute detail I could spend an entire half hour of time fascinated with. Totally.

When I was very young, my idea of a good time *everyone groans and settles in for yet another maudlin trip down morose memory lane* was to go through the Sears catalogue and make lists of furniture I’d purchase for my some day house. I was fascinated with color and texture, with shape and design. The idea of putting it all together perfectly to suit a mood or a personality or lifestyle is like being able to put together a gigantic puzzle. It’s the same with gardening and cooking.

Ironically, I don’t get the same satisfaction performing the same ritual with fashion. It just doesn’t interest me. It never has. *Oh, really, dear? We couldn’t help but notice…* But the clothes in my closet are organized by colors. That counts, don’t you think? *Yes, as a sign of someone with one foot firmly planted in looney land…*

I miss having my head in the world that kept me from going stark-raving mad with stress from work. And I value more than I can ever say, what I’ve learned from digging in and trying new things, and for having family and friends who’ve indulged me my wannabe obsessions.

They’ve graced me with comments of, “Martha Does Live Here,” and I’ve taken them as a compliment, knowing full well, that Martha’s businesses run due to the creativity and drive of an enormous number of very talented people. So I supposed I should say they saved me. But without Martha, they wouldn’t have had the same opportunity.

At this point in life, if I regret anything — any one thing — painfully, it would be that I did not gain my education in a world filled with textiles and color, design and shape. That I did not choose to immerse myself in an environment organized with samples and cuttings, layouts and portfolios. That I chose instead to keep those passions as hobbies or distractions instead of a livelihood. *very, very heavy sigh*

Okay, so that’s more than one. But still.

It’s that time of year, and the first in so very, very long that I will be able to immerse myself in all the what ifs and begin to wonder instead…

…How.

Thanks Martha.

Love,

Kelly

p.s. I’m sorry I don’t even have a Jack-o-lantern on my porch this year. I guess I didn’t rally the guys hard enough. Does it count that we have a few on the dining table with some autumn colored flowers? Just checking.

p.p.s. I’m a NaBloPoMo-Ho (see pink lips above) and that all starts tomorrow. I’m going to focus my writing on letters to people. Which people? Well, you’ll just have to wait and see. If you’re interested, send me some ideas of what you’d like me to blather on about. Or would like to challenge me to write about. Keep it clean, though. Okay?

ambivalent (adj.) having mixed feelings or contradictory ideas about something or someone…

Yesterday late in the afternoon, I received an email referencing this piece. I’ve read it several times since, and caught myself mulling over aspects of it.

Politeness. Authority. Acculturation and silence.

Self-negation.

But Verlyn Klinkenborg’s piece is about writing, isn’t it? He acknowledges that when “you talk about writing…you always end up talking about life.”

I know. I see what he sees as he observes and writes. The students, the classroom. The quiet. It’s what gets in the way most often when you’re teaching someone to write and they’re struggling, not understanding that aspect of it all, thinking that it fits neatly into a formula with five double-spaced paragraphs in 12-point helvetica. It’s easier to think of those very concrete things. More safe. There isn’t a commitment, really. Is there?

Writing comes from life. Everything we’ve said or thought or done is a path from which words come in whichever voice we choose: one of passivity and compliance, or cold detachment.

Abject humor.

Writing is not linear. It’s messy. There are no clear cut rules even though most of us had rules thrown at us about what we should or shouldn’t do as writers. We were asked to complete lifeless narratives or produce dull regurgitations of information on gross national product and chief exports — if we were asked to write at all. We received letter grades for our efforts, in pen at the top of the paper where everyone could see it, and when you turned the paper over, could feel the embossment, and think about the teacher putting it there.

It’s safe to expect students to write about those things. Nothing personal will arise. There will be no worries about whether one piece on “Where You Went On Your Summer Vacation” will differ from the next. You don’t have to have confidence in anything like that because you just write it.

Unless you didn’t go anywhere on your summer vacation.

Or lacked the confidence to realize that it didn’t mean your summer vacation was insignificant compared to that of others. That lying in golden, waist high grass to watch clouds drift, or listening to pebbles clack hollowly against one other in a ditch as the water from lawn sprinklers carries them along may not be considered worthy of being written about.

That the teacher might look at your paper and think, “I knew there was something not quite right about this girl…Who must her parents be?”

We’re pigeon holed almost from the beginning to behave and think and act in particular ways. To speak in a specific fashion. To dress ourselves just so. To do and to be what others expect.

First at home, and then at school. Especially when others are watching.

There could be a high correlation between the seeming lack of confidence exhibited by students repressed by societal norms and the degree to which they let loose, get rowdy, and party hearty when they’re not being watched.

Or being controlled.

Eventually, they escape if they really want to.

Klinkenborg concludes by stating that when “a young woman suddenly [understands] the power of her perceptions, ready to look at the world unapologetically — I realize how much has been lost because of the culture of polite, self-negating silence in which they were raised.”

Lost as writers, or lost as humans with life to experience?

I’m still ambivalent…