Baino!

I can't do her justice, but I hope her spirit, courage and hope come shining through:
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Your first observation is the fuck and the wit
Highlighted boldly, a quite perfect fit
For this woman who waxes and cleverly wanes
About family and futures and gentlemanly manes.
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Not! Australian by birth,
Open by choice
She welcomes outrageous
In her tolerant voice.
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Is her accent as cool as one might conclude?
I imagine she yells, but stops cold at rude.
She swears and complains and cynically chats
Yet a vulnerable kindness covers all that.
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A writer she is, with a widely world view--
A pudgy white chick who knows what to do.
She polishes tales of corruption and rabbits,
About ClareBear and Dummerboy and various habits.
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She’s Baino the brave
And she’s plotting her trip:
A stop in New England
Then Houston and zip
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To the west coast and back
Cross the sea to the Royds.
Whatever she lacks
She’s too real to avoid.
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A Shirley Bassey style
And a backside with plunge
She'll travel long miles
Through beauty and grunge.
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She fashions herself
With a steady true hand
And welcomes you warmly
Into Ms. Baino-land!

And My 20,000 Visitor is....

BAINO
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BAINO
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baino
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BAINO

.baino
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How fitting that the irreverent, intriguing, irresistible and down under Baino is my 20,000 visitor. She is thereby entitled to an original kj poem of her choice. The subject/theme can be anything her heart desires, expect, Baino, please don't ask me to enter the medical or non-medical world of bodily functions. I'm simply too genteel for that.
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Shall I rhyme? Or not?
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Include favorite words?
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Write about favorite people?
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Or philosophize?
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Or politicize?
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Serious or silly?
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I await instruction. It's up to Baino....

P.S. Studio Lolo, you made a valiant effort. :)

19,922

That's how many visitors I've had since I started my blog.
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If you happen to be visitor # 20,000 I will write a poem of your choice for you. Any theme or topic you want
with the exception of bodily fluids.
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I'll keep you posted.

A Night Away

Just one night. Not much to pack, an hour or so west, dinner reservations, and no chores.
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JB and I live in Western Massachusetts, but Stockbridge is western Western Massachusetts. Nestled in Berkshires, mountain tops everywhere, it is serenely beautiful. Although the Red Lion Inn is quite famous, we first stumbled across it last spring. Last weekend we made good on our plan to stay there overnight.

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Here's the background on the Red Lion Inn:
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Some time around 1773, Anna and Silas Bingham established a general store in Stockbridge on the road that connected Boston to Albany, which soon evolved as a stagecoach stop, tavern and Inn, under the sign of the red lion. Travel at the time was difficult and uncomfortable, and the Bingham's little tavern quickly became a popular and welcome rest stop for bruised and battered travelers.

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The Red Lion Inn also became the center of village life, where people could gather, exchange pleasantries, discuss the issues of the day and relax at the end of the day. In the winter of 1786, Daniel Shays led a group of more than 100 local farmers and citizens in protest to burdensome post-war taxation. Stockbridge was chosen as its headquarters for what became known as "Shays Rebellion," and sentinels stood on guard and patrolled the streets. The Red Lion Inn's participation in these early events in the birth of the United States has earned it a place in the history books.
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So welcome to Stockbridge, Massachusetts:

"You can get anything you want...at Alice's Restaurant." Do you know the tune?

Staying at the Red Lion Inn is stepping into history.

This is the fourth floor hallway where JB and I had a no frills room.

And ended the night with a great meal--me tilapia with a red pepper sauce and JB salmon with a green sauce I only know tasted great.

Not even twelve hours later, we checked out and headed for a day of back roads and small shops.

I returned home relaxed and care-free.

Totally worth the price of admission...

People I Know: "H"

I was a Consultant where she worked for a couple of years. On my last day, she left a small stained glass jewelry box she had made for me and a card on my desk, just minutes before I headed out the door. The card said “I’d like us to be friends.” That was seven or eight years ago.

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We met again quite unexpectedly two years later at a conference in Florida. She was with her best friend and I was with JB. The four of us had a grand time sunning and funning through the soft sand and warm nights.

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We’re separated by a hundred miles and too little time. Still, “H” manages to sneak away every six months or so and for a couple of days we catch up and wind down. Other times we bring our families together, often in Provincetown, where her thirteen year old son and I rise early and along with our cameras watch the sun rise too.

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She arrived last weekend with a bottle of wine and box of tea. It was on a hard day when I had just left a three year old little girl and her two year old brother. They had not seen their mother since they were taken from her two weeks ago for neglect, and they found comfort in my familiar voice and face. They held on to me and sobbed when I had to leave them. I won’t forget the sound of their sadness any time soon.

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I was telling “H” about this and we got to talking about how few people anyone can really count on in life.

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“How many for you?” I asked her.

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"Not many at all,” She paused, “well, you,” she said. “I consider you someone I can count on,” Then she added, “But that wouldn’t be easy for me to do.”

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“Me either,” I replied.

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We smiled at each other. “You wouldn’t judge me, would you? I’d need to be sure of that,” she said.

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“No, never,” I told her. “And I would need to be sure that you can keep a secret.”

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“Definitely,” she said.

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We both nodded. We smiled again.

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Two friends established two rules:
--no judging
--no telling

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And in that simple exchange, our confirmation and communication was sealed.

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“We should try to see each other more often,” she said.

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“Two times a year for sure,” I replied. “And three would be super.”

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The next day I asked her, “Could I come for Thanksgiving dinner if I had no where else to go?”

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“Of course,” she said.

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Later, I cooked spaghetti and she had four helpings. I made note of that, because it reminded me there's an often unspoken third rule in friendship: notice the little things. That is something I don't want to forget.

Seven Things

The wonderful and ever-fascinating Miladysa has tagged me for the following meme:
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Share 7 facts about yourself - some random, some weird.
Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs.
Let them know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blogs.
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Seven things about me:
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1. I can't keep my clothes neat and folded. I don't know why.
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2. On a related note, I hate hangers. They attack me. Same with vacuum cleaners.
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3. I welcome the chance to be kind.
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4. But I strongly dislike being taken advantage of.
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5. I lived in Germany for two years without heat or hot water. My then husband and I had a small stove in the living room and a water tank in the bathroom and we would have to build coal fires to get any warmth at all. I would lie in bed at night and look at my chattering breath in the darkness.
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6. I was arrested at age 13 for breaking and entering. My father embarrassed me at the police station by asking if I could pick up leaves at City Hall for punishment.
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7. I didn't have a date for my Senior Prom in high school and it just about killed me.
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I'm not tagging anyone because this week I prefer voluntary participation. Volunteers: take your places please...

Saturday Lite

A woman and a baby were in the doctor's examining room, waiting for the doctor to come in.

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The doctor arrived, examined the baby, checked his weight and found it somewhat below normal.
The doctor asked if the baby was breast fed or bottle fed.

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"Breast fed," the woman replied.

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"Well, strip down to your waist," the doctor asked. She did. He pressed, kneaded, rolled, cupped,
and pinched both breasts in a detailed, rigorously thorough examination.

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Motioning for her to get dressed he said, "No wonder this baby is under weight! You don't have any milk."

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"I know," she said, "I'm his grandmother, but I'm glad I came."

An (Amazing) Update on Publishing a Book

I've been writing for a few years now. Several years ago I began by holing up in Provincetown for most of a summer, free of my paid job and mostly in the company of my dog. Every morning she and I would walk one block to the bay and stroll along the sand and seaweed. I was working on a book on happiness then--who is, who isn't, and why--and I was falling into one day after another writing, reading, walking and dreaming. It was a luxury I had never had before.

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I found an agent for the happiness book, but a half dozen revisions of the book proposal later, I had to face that the subject was too dear to me to shop around without more experience. The agent wanted the book to be lighter--a kind of Loretta LaRoche "Ten Easy Steps"-- and that was not what I wanted.

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I've spent the last two years writing often. This blog has been a total joy. I wrote a first draft novel through National Novel Writing Month, polished up the bones of a career book called "Good Work if You Can Get It," wrote dozens of poems inspired and supported by deep abiding love, finished a couple of short stories, and today--now--am preparing to publish and release my first novel: the story of Alex and Lily, titled "The Light Stays On."

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It was naive and gutsy for me to decide to self publish. I just decided to take matters into my own hands. I knew that if I waited for a publisher to pick me up, it would take another 1-2 years for the book to hit the stands.

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So I've started an entity called Chihuahua Press. That wasn't hard. I thought up a name, arranged for a separate bank account, and ordered a IBSN number--required for every book publication in every continent. I asked a few special people for endorsements, gratefully accepted feedback and suggestions, arranged for the page layout and cover design, and just this week--selected the printer and distributor. I've finished the budget: I will be investing $ 2000 of my own $$$ with the hope that I will break even within 3-6 months. I've had to learn how the publishing industry works--its margins and profits and markups and discounts. I've had to learn how one book travels from the printer to the seller to the buyer.

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In less than a month, the book will be released--probably just after Thanksgiving. If all goes well, it will be available on-line through Amazon and Barnes & Noble,and can be ordered through any bookstore (or through me). To get it on the shelves of local bookstores and into libraries, I'm developing a marketing plan that includes public book readings, book signings, email blasts, a five city mini-tour, media interviews, canvassing of independent bookstores and specialty groups, contacting libraries, and a few dozen other steps.

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I'll be sending copies to book reviewers and to the actress Jody Foster, who I think would play a great Lily in a movie version of "The Light Stays On."

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Mostly, I'll be investing the time I have outside of my paid work to promote this, my first novel, as joyfully and fully as I can. And, like Lily, I'll be looking upward saying thank you, thank you, thank you.

MANohMANohMAN!

Indescribable relief. Unbridled hope. Limitless pride.

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That's how I feel this morning after watching the historic election of Barak Obama as President of these United States. Four years ago, when the uncurious and dogmatic George W. Bush won a second term, he smirking at the victory podium and saying, "Americans gave me political capital, and I intend to spend it,", I felt thoroughly confused and embarrassed and shocked and despondent. I have shrunk with shame that he represented my country and my neighbors.

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Today I have watched the page turn with unprecedented speed. I don't expect miracles, but my faith in karmic redistribution has been restored.

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I know there is strong Republican-Conservative concern, even anger, that President Obama and a Democratic congress will prove far too liberal. As a moderate liberal myself, I understand that concern. I support Welfare-to-Work. I'm in favor of fewer abortions and more alternatives. I oppose deficit spending. I know immigration has to be worked out in some way fair to the border states like Texas that bear the burdens.

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And yet, this election is about so much more. Here's what conservative columnist Jeff Jacoby said in this morning's Boston Globe:

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A turn in the wilderness will do Republicans good. During the GOP's years in power, the onetime party of fiscal sobriety and limited government turned into a gang of reckless spenders and government aggrandizers. Perhaps a few years in exile will lead Republicans back to their conservative, Reaganite roots.

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But the most lustrous silver lining of all is the the racial one. As a politician and policymaker, Obama distresses me; his extreme liberalism is not what the nation needs. But as a symbol--a son of Africa poised to lead a majority-white nation that once enslaved Africans and treated their descendants with great cruelty--Obama's rise makes me proud of my country. The anthem of the Civil Rights Movement was "We Shall Overcome." Impossible as it might have seemed scant decades ago, we have.

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Myself--I offer two remaining words on this remarkable morning: AMEN and YIPEE!

Alphabet Soup

Ever since I went to the poetry manuscript weekend almost a year ago, where I learned my poetry was, shall we say, "unfinished," and that rhyming was out of fashion, I haven't written poems the way I used to. Okay, there are probably other factors too, but in any case, here's a re-visited poem I thought then and still think is moderately clever. You may or may not agree:

Can’t Do

Could you?
I’m at the beginning:
Accept, Accelerate, Acquiesce,
and sprinting to the L’s,
Long, Loosen, Lighten up,
Onto to the T’s:
Trust, Turn in, Truncate,
Then to the final stop:
Zero. Zilch. Zenith.
I am plucking words,
Seeking sounds,
And mixing colors
To explain why oh why
You are there
And I am here
And the in-between
Is alphabetically and phonetically speaking
All Wrong.

Mr. Ryan Arrested

Mr. Ryan, age twenty one months and reportedly unemployed, was observed driving erratically yesterday morning in front of his home. He was charged with driving to endanger and resisting arrest. When approached, he immediately abandoned his Elmo pushcart and attempted to flee the scene of the crime, laughing and running faster and faster until he was forced to stop at the front door of his house. He was arrested while screaming "Mommy! Daddy!" and additionally charged with disturbing the peace.

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Mr. Ryan was escorted to the local police station and placed in a holding playpen until his parents arrived. He pleaded 'not guilty' to all charges, indicating that the police officer failed to understand the priorities of a small child. He was released on bail and is scheduled to appear before Judge Cookie Monster on November 15th. If found guilty, Mr. Ryan may face sentencing of up to one week without his favorite cookies.

Thursday 13

It's been a while since I've done a Thursday 13. Not much and everything is new these days.

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1. Along with JB, I'm three months into the South Beach diet: no carbs, no sugar, all the meat I care to eat, too many eggs, and, finally, some fruit and whole wheat pasta and breads. I've lost 25 pounds and I have another 25 to go. That won't change the fact that I still limp abit from wounded knees, but it can't hurt.

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2. This is where I live. Not exactly, since there are seven colleges within a twenty mile radius, but it doesn't take more than a thirty minute drive to be knee deep in rolling farmland. I've never lived in/near a rural area before, and I've become very fond of it.

3. You are looking at five heads of iceberg lettuce. Cut up, this became Chinese Chicken Salad which became lunch for the Art Fair.
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4. The Story of Alex and Lily, officially titled The Light Stays On, is in its final preparations. The cover is being designed, the pages have been laid out, the introductions are completed, and somewhere around Thanksgiving the book will be published. I have taken on a much more formidable task than I anticipated: the marketing and distribution will be no small matter. But I'm going for it.
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5. Where would you go for a few weeks if you could travel anywhere and do anything you wished in the wide world? I'd like suggestions.

6. Mr. Ryan's Mother broke her foot and cannot carry him. Not fair.

7. This is the book cover I first considered. That was until a friend of mine--you might just know her as the fantastic blogger ValGal--volunteered (yes, that's right: volunteered) to do an original painting specifically for my book. I've seen it. It is unbelievably awesome.

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8. Speaking of Mr. Ryan and his mother, these are cupcakes from his baptism. WWJD--What Would Jesus Do?--on cupcakes....HA!

9. It's almost winter here. This morning my car windows were frosted over. I am not a fan of winter. Fortunately, Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays, starting with the smell of the turkey roasting by mid morning.

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10. The economic crisis has wiped out more of my savings than I can even believe (35%). I'm not sure why I'm not totally upset by it; perhaps because hope floats.

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11. A week ago JB and I spent a late night at the Mohegan Sun Casino. I brought $ 300 and hoped for the best. I played with the house's money for most of the night--up $ 200 or more--until I couldn't resist the dollar slot machines. I lost the $200 I was up, plus the $ 300 I had in a little under 45 minutes. JB was playing elsewhere so I snuck to the ATM and withdrew another $ 200 (she would have firmly stopped me). I deluded myself that I would win back my losses. But guess what? I did! I ended up even, which was fine with me.
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12. Now three years into her forever home, Stella is one happy dog. She even talks and wiggles. She deserves cookies whenever she wants--even a little chicken sometimes.

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13. FYI:This is my "office"--where I write and pay bills, think deep thoughts, and look out the window.

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Have a good weekend!

People I Know: My Mother

I'm starting a new writing project: people I know. Here's the first installment:

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My mother’s eyes glisten across the room. Cat green and softened by age, they look at me pleadingly.

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“Do you think I could go home?” she asks in her most genteel voice. She raises both hands in front of her, the way politicians do during a heartfelt speech, as if to confirm she is reasonable and solid. Her eyes shine and deepen.

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“I know I can’t be alone,” she says, “but could we find someone to live with me?”

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“Mom”, I say, “I don’t think so.” Often I pause and hope there is no need to continue. But most times her eyes only deepen more. Her voice is hopeful, not at all forceful. “Could you tell me why not?” she asks politely.

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Whether she is well or sick, settled or bereft, my mother’s eyes—actually her whole face-- show ninety two years worth of the courage and grace she has perfected since she, the youngest of sixteen children, first came to America from Canada, first walked into a classroom where she did not know the language or the country.

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“Mom, we could visit your house for a weekend. You could see your friend Dottie, and Marie next door. You could sleep in your bed,” I pause and smile, “but you have to promise me you’ll come back with me.”

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She grins. “I might not,” she says.

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“Mom, if you hold on to the kitchen counter when it’s time to leave I will call the police,” I say firmly.

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She grins again. “No, I know,” she says. “Besides, what would I do there by myself?”
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So it came to pass that on the last weekend in September, my mother returned home. She cautiously pushed her walker up the front steps, opened the door and stepped into her hallway. “Oh it’s good to be home,” she sighed. From room to room she assimilated the unfamiliar walker into the familiar landscape.

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She opened her kitchen cabinets, showed JB where the pot was for tea, and sat at the kitchen table as if she had never left. As if it had not been fourteen months since she had left. As if she had not been in rehab, as if she had not learned to walk with an assistive device, as if her loss of memory meant not one damn thing.

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She looked ten years younger. She acted and spoke with mastery, guiding her hands effortlessly toward the right dishes and acting surprised when something seemed out of place. Then she looked at my dog Stella, who had come along for the weekend, and said, “Karen, how long have I been gone?”

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“Fourteen months,” I replied.

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“Did I leave my dog alone here all that time?”

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We are all silent before I respond. "Mom, this is Stella. My dog. You know Stella,” I said.

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A light bulb went off. She shook her head sheepishly. “Of course I do, she said, “My memory’s getting worse. But at least it’s only my memory. My mind is still good.”

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That night I slept on the couch so she would not be afraid or unsafe when she woke up and didn’t know where she was. Four times in all I heard her and jumped up to assure her safe passage to and from the bathroom. The first time she called out ‘hello’, and when she saw me she breathed a sigh of relief.

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“Where am I?” she asked. I said, “Mom, you’re in your own house,” and she said, “I must be pretty confused not to know that.” Even in the dim hall, her eyes sparkled. She kissed me goodnight and asked me if I needed anything.

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We did a similar version of this three more times with variations: once she thought she still lived there, once she didn’t know where ‘there’ was, and once she just reminded me how lucky she was to sleep so well.

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I grew up in this very house. My father and grandfather built it together and my parents lived in it for 63 years before my father died. My mother always said she would never leave it alive and at age 91 she almost pulled it off. But she fell one summer day in her front yard and broke her hip. By the time the rehab folks met up with her, she was too frail and too confused to get anything close to an endorsement that she could live alone. She moved in with JB and me for a few months, just to be sure, and finally, reluctantly, she took up residence in a furnished room in a sweet local rest home ten minutes away from my sweet local family home.

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I took my mother home that weekend with obvious concern that it might do more harm than good. She was doing her best to accept the rest home. “You know I’m not a complainer” she told me daily, and she was right, but those green eyes told the whole story. She would never adjust. She could not remember anyone there. She was the literal stranger in a strange land.

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Her first morning home, my mother woke up at 8 o’clock. She stuck her head in the living room and looked at me. “You won’t believe this,” she said, “but I’m not going to mind going back.”

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Wow.

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“How come, Mom?” I asked.

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“I don’t know”, she chuckled, “But we probably shouldn’t question it.”

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And indeed, she didn’t mind going back. She spent two days sipping tea at her kitchen table, Dottie’s daughter brought her by for coffee cake and they talked about the card group, Marie stopped by four times and they hugged for the first time ever, and she continued to tell JB and me where to find things. For those two days my mother ruled the universe. But that’s not all.

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She returned to her furnished room in the local rest home and settled in. She started playing solitaire again. She asked me to order cable tv. She read the newspaper. She complimented the food.

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“Mom” I said, “What happened when you went home? How come you’re happier since then?”

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“kj,” she said. “you know I never complain. That’s why. Besides, It’s nice to live near you. My memory doesn’t work but I know I still have my mind.”

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A few days later I asked my mother if she remembered going home.

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“Not really,”, she smiled. "But I think I enjoyed it.”

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“Yes, Mom, you did. If you want we’ll do it again in a few months.”

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“We’ll see,” she said. “it’s kind of a long ride, isn’t it?”

Life...

Sometimes it's best to notice the beauty even in one of the poorest cities in America,

And sometimes you might as well throw caution out the window and eat the whole damn cake,

Or mix it up, one generation to another,

And sometimes, you just have to chill...

Politics

While walking down the street one day a US senator is tragically hit by a truck and dies. His soul arrives in heaven and is met by St. Peter at the entrance. 'Welcome to heaven,' says St. Peter. 'Before you settle in, it seems there is a problem.. We seldom see a high official around these parts, you see, so we're not sure what to do with you.'

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'No problem, just let me in,' says the senator.

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'Well, I'd like to, but I have orders from higher up. What we'll do is have you spend one day in hell and one in heaven. Then you can choose where to spend eternity.

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'Really, I've made up my mind. I want to be in heaven,' says the senator.

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'I'm sorry, but we have our rules.' And with that, St. Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down, down, down to hell. The doors open and he finds himself in the middle of a green golf course. In the distance is a clubhouse and standing in front of it are all his friends and other politicians who had worked with him. Everyone is very happy and in evening dress. They run to greet him, shake his hand, and reminisce about the good times they had while getting rich at the expense of the people.They play a friendly game of golf and then dine on lobster, caviar andchampagne.

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Also present is the devil, who really is a very friendly guy who has a good time dancing and telling jokes. They are having such a good time that before he realizes it, it is time to go.Everyone gives him a hearty farewell and waves while the elevator rises. The elevator goes up, up, up and the door reopens on heaven where St. Peter is waiting or him.'Now it's time to visit heaven.'

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So, 24 hours pass with the senator joining a group of contented souls moving from cloud to cloud, playing the harp and singing. They have a good time, but it's nothing special, and, before he realizes it, the 24 hours have gone by and St. Peter returns.

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'Well, then, you've spent a day in hell and another in heaven. Now you get to choose your eternity.'

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The senator reflects for a minute, then he answers: 'Well, I would never have said it before, I mean heaven has been delightful, but I think I would be better off in hell.'

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So St Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down, down, down to hell. Now the doors of the elevator open and he's in the middle of a barren land covered with waste and garbage. Lots of garbage. Really stinky, rotten garbage. He sees all his friends, dressed in rags, picking up the trash and putting it in black bags as more trash falls from above, sometimeslanding right on top of their heads. The devil comes over to him and puts his arm around his shoulder.

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'I don't understand,' stammers the senator. 'Yesterday I was here and there was a golf course and clubhouse, and we ate lobster and caviar, drank champagne,and danced and had a great time. Now there's just a wasteland full of garbage and my friends look miserable. What happened?'

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The devil looks at him, smiles and says, 'Ah, you see, yesterday we were campaigning. Today you voted.'

A Carrot, an Egg, and a Cup of Coffee

I'm a pushover for corny proverbs and silly advice. Please keep that in mind as I offer the following story which I warn you is kind of ridiculous, but none-the-less thought provoking. Is my imagination as fertile as whoever made up this 'teaching tool'? I don't think so, but you know, I wouldn't necessarily mind if it were....

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A young woman went to her mother and told her about her life and how things were so hard for her. She did not know how she was going to make it and wanted to give up. She was tired of fighting and struggling. It seemed as one problem was solved, a new one arose.
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Her mother took her to the kitchen. She filled three pots with water and placed each on a high fire Soon the pots came to boil. In the first she placed carrots, in the second she placed eggs, and in the last she placed ground coffee beans. She let them sit and boil; without saying a word.
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In about twenty minutes she turned off the burners. She fished the carrots out and placed them in a bowl. She pulled the eggs out and placed them in a bowl. Then she ladled the coffee out and placed it in a bowl. Turning to her daughter, she asked, "Tell me what you see."
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"Carrots, eggs, and coffee," she replied. Her mother brought her closer and asked her to feel the carrots. She did and noted that they were soft. The mother then asked the daughter to take an egg and break it. After pulling off the shell, she observed the hard boiled egg. Finally, the mother asked the daughter to sip the coffee. The daughter smiled as she tasted its rich aroma The daughter then asked, "What does it mean, mother?"
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Her mother explained that each of these objects had faced the same adversity: boiling water. Each reacted differently. The carrot went in strong, hard, and unrelenting. However, after being subjected to the boiling water, it softened and became weak.
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The egg had been fragile. Its thin outer shell had protected its liquid interior, but after sitting through the boiling water, its inside became hardened.
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The ground coffee beans were unique, however. After they were in the boiling water, they had changed the water.
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"Which are you?" she asked her daughter. "When adversity knocks on your door, how do you respond? Are you a carrot, an egg or a coffee bean?
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So dear reader, which are you? Are you the carrot that seems strong, but with pain and adversity will wilt , become soft and lose your strength?
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Are you the egg that starts with a malleable heart, but changes with the heat? Do you have a fluid spirit, but after a death, a breakup, a financial hardship or some other trial, it becomes hardened and stiff? Does your shell look the same, but on the inside you are bitter and tough with a stiff spirit and hardened heart?
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Or are you like the coffee bean? The bean actually changes the hot water, the very circumstance that brings the pain. When the water gets hot, it releases the fragrance and flavor. If you are like the bean, when things are at their worst, you get better and change the situation around you. When the hour is the darkest and trials are their greatest, can you elevate yourself to another level? How do you handle adversity?
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Are you a carrot, an egg or a coffee bean? May you have enough happiness to make you sweet, enough trials to make you strong, enough sorrow to keep you human and enough hope to make you happy.
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(Note from kj: And when push becomes shove, at least for a time, may we all be COFFEE).

I Can't Help It...(Please Forgive Me)

I generally make an effort to keep my politics a safe distance from my blog. Although I've cringed at the arrogance and stupidity (this word chosen only for the sake of accuracy) of my President for the last eight years, I've been proud of the diversity of a Prisoner of War, a Woman, and an African American as Presidential candidates. And absolutely I've been comforted by the anticipation of ABB (Anybody But Bush).

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Whoa! My comfort zone disappeared when John McCain chose one Sarah Palin as his running mate. Some people find her refreshing, charming, cute, folksy, and she has certainly energized the snoring enthusiasm of McCain's conservative base. But qualified? Experienced? Sufficiently prepared? Articulate? Knowledgeable? Not one press conference so far, and for good reason. But if by some cruel twist of fate she is required to in some way respond off the cuff and off the stump, at least she's prepared.

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(Smile).

Thursday 13: Places I've Been

1. The Amalfi Coast in Italy: The Mediterranean Sea right across the street from our hotel. You just walk out and sit on a bench until it's time for cappuccino.

2. YART 08 in my side yard: what's better than sharing a weekend with art and good friends?

3. A pizza place up the road in one of the Hill Towns: seating for maybe ten people in all.

4. New Orleans three weeks after Katrina: I was there with the Red Cross, working sixteen hour days. I will never forget.

5. Aruba: Ahhh, here I am lying under an umbrella by the pool, looking up at my good fortune.

6. View from the Kitchen Window: Mostly I look at trees. And the fence JB and I had installed and then spent the good part of a summer staining a panel at a time. No rush. And then we went to the pool to cool off.

7. Provincetown.

8. Mr. Ryan's Arrival9. Hootenanny: Twice a year acoustic guitars, original songs, and my Big Yellow Writers. We sing into the night.

10. Tucson: We have family there.

11. Colorado Springs: We have family there too.

12. The Park Next Door: I walk, I sit, I dream, I write.

13. The Driveway: I love coming home and seeing this sunflower.

Mr. Ryan

He's not yet two. He lives to turn keys and press buttons. He's on the move every minute except he can be enticed to cozy into your lap and read a book. He drives a small truck and pushes his own plastic golf cart. He hugs his dog Sadie and tries not to poke her in the eye. He loves Elmo and isn't afraid to dance to music. When he thinks it's time to wrap up, he politely says "all done" and moves on.

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He's a reason to choose hope, be kind, reach out, and foster peace in the world. He doesn't care about name calling, political divisions, corporate greed, intolerance, and point-of-view differences. He responds to gentle words, fair boundaries, silly fun, generosity, and every chance to learn.

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Simple enough, huh?

Saturday in the Hill Towns

I live near a dozen or more small towns that together are called the "Hill Towns". Each of them has a fall festival, but one--Ashfield--is small town terrific. It seems like every member of the community contributes in some way: there are miles of home made desserts, open churches, local artisans, music, food tents, and plenty of makeshift parking and seating.

The pictures that follow were taken in a three hour period today, on the way to, during and from the Ashfield Fair. You might notice this very moment is peak foliage season. I wish you could see the vibrant colors in the trees through your own eyes instead of through my camera. Stunning.

(These farm fresh red peppers are

dedicated to their biggest fan

Some people found a quiet rock to lean against,

and others couldn't put their cameras down...