Waking up without a smile

I sort out a lot in that short period of time between waking and rising. 

I have said this before, being able to enjoy the morning is perhaps the greatest joy of retirement. I find the experience evolving as I become more comfortable being less productive. It is now less a stolen pleasure and more an important part of my day. 

If I can remember my dreams, I try and pay attention to what my unconscious mind was trying to tell me during the night. Unfortunately, I don't often remember my dreams. Too bad, because they can be quite informative. If only our unconscious minds could learn to speak English instead of Symbol, right?

I am now at my most mindful and self-aware in the morning. This is a huge change from my working years when mornings were spent on autopilot. It took me at least a year to figure out what to do with my mornings in retirement. I'm getting the hang of it, but for some reason I am still not "happy" once I get out of bed in the morning. Is this because of habit, guilt, or chemical imbalance? I don't understand. I am a reasonably happy person. I just can't get get rid of the morning blues. It takes a cup of coffee or three before I let my shoulders down.

I'm curious, does anyone over 7 years old wake up feeling like a million dollars? I use 7 as the cut off point because that's when the Catholic Church decided a child reached the age of reason, and I suspect reason is what obliterates joy. Actually, I think 5 might be a better age. Kids grow up faster these days.

Psychic?

I went to a psychic recently for a mediumship reading. Yes, I know that's a wacky thing to do, but it was fun and eerily accurate. The outing was my birthday present to my daughter and we went together. We figured we knew all the same dead people, so why pay for separate readings?

Many years ago, my friends and I would attend a few Spiritualist Church camp's Wednesday night readings each summer to hear what we could hear. We tried to be respectful of religious aspect of the service, but I'm afraid we were a naughty bunch of heathens looking for a good time. Still, there was always "something" said or revealed that was close enough to truth that it brought us back.

One summer night, the poet Diane Ackerman was there with a posse of loud and confident women. I heard one describe the evening as a field trip. That was how it was for my gang, too. A field trip. This is where I should include that smiley face emoji with a clenched toothed smile. 😬

I'm a staunch agnostic, so I am never convinced it is real, but I am also never convinced it isn't. I take what I can get, and I enjoy the process. When the psychic is faking or trying too hard to convince me, I smile (a little too hard) and ignore the BS. When s/he is spot on, I get big eyes and know I won't be able to sleep that night. There is usually some spine tingling accuracy thrown in to justify the payment.

Aches and Pains

I ache from gardening today. I am battling a specific flowering plant propagating via underground suckers AND volunteer seeds. It is called Mexican Petunia, a non-native perennial that was here when we bought the house. Mexican Petunia is choking out my canna lilies! This  formidable enemy will take me a long time to vanquish. I have fought this particular battle many times before with invasive plants. I am not worried. I will prevail. I know what to do. Although it is a frustrating struggle, it has to be done. Can be done. Will be done. I am sore, but that's why God invented ibuprofen, right? 

Time is the forgiving nature of gardening. One does not have to do all the maintenance at once. I take as much time as I need to get the perennial beds ready. I take longer now that I am older than when I was younger. I love getting my hands in the dirt. I love digging things up with large, impressive gardening tools and metal implements. I love cutting plants back with both large and small "cutting tools." Mmmm, "cutting tools!" I am a cold-hearted weeding machine. Bring it on!

Here's to spring, my friends. She is already here in Florida, and soon will arrive for you, too. I promise.

See - my yellow canna is being invaded by the beautiful, but greedy Mexican Petunia!

Another blog

I have started a second blog.  It is a simple effort, not as verbose or reflective as AFBB is.  In fact, I don't use words on the new blog.  I will occasionally post one photo as a blog post.  It seems a simple way to showcase some of the photos I have taken and particularly like.  I won't post all that often, maybe a few times a month.  I have put up a number of posts already, so you can see what I'm "shooting for."  I would like to invite you all to view it, and perhaps follow that one as well if you like.  I hope you enjoy it. 

You can find this new blog, Photos Now and Then, at https://photosnowandthen.blogspot.com/

Cheers! 

Love hurts

My daughter, M, texted me that little N cried and screamed for her at the kindergarten school's door this morning. Teachers had to hold him back so he wouldn't grab on to her. She is heartsick, and so am I. 

My sincere hope is that he bounced back quickly once she left. It happens. My rational mind knows all is fine, but my heart aches for this little 6 year old boy who wants to stay home and play. I can't help it.

Love really does hurt sometimes, especially when it comes to loving children.

Cultivating strength

Whimsy alert. Read no further if you aren't up for the indulgent ramblings of an old hippie chick today.

I admire strength, but what exactly do I mean when I say "strength?" Well, it doesn't have anything to do with lifting bar bells... I think true strength is a mental muscle involving character and resilience. It is the spark that keeps us going, keeps us accomplishing things, keeps us coming back even when we are exhausted. True strength is that desire to continue living despite the cruelty and meanness that would have us surrender to despair. 
 
Do you love lists as much as I do? If so, feel free to add your own in the comment section. Here's a quick list of what I think of as true strength:

1. Battered women who eventually leave their husbands and start their lives over.  

2.  Children who grow up in dysfunctional families and, despite physical, emotional and sexual abuse, grow up to become good people who raise good children.  

3.  Men who are kind and good in a freakazoid culture trying to intimidate them into becoming selfish and violent.

4.  Those of us who can admit we have a problem and then seek the help we need.

5.  LGBT people who refuse to live a lie

6.  The people who love LGBT people, and support them, despite family pressure to do otherwise.

7.  Introverts who find a format for speaking out that works for them.  (There is more than one way to do the right thing.)

8.  Extroverts who use their power for good and don't forget the power of humility.  (The second part is equal to the first)

9.  The students at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida who stood up and shouted to the world #NeverAgain when their classmates were gunned down in cold blood. They are actually at the top of my list right now. I love those kids.

True strength involves thinking and feeling. It requires that we become more human. As you will notice in the tarot card below which is called Strength, the woman is closing the mouth of a wild animal. She is restraining her lower self; taming it. The blue mountain in the lower left represents the great work - human evolution and personal growth. The infinity sign over her head is an occult symbol for the number 8. It is also called Splendor because by the time you get to 8 on the the tree of life, you've accomplished a great deal.

Strength isn't something that comes naturally to us. It must be cultivated, watered, mulched, and fertilized.  Let's get to it before we die of thirst.

Strength: 8th Major Arcana from The Pamela Colman Smith Commemorative Set

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Bromeliads

Taking a few minute break from angst and activism...  

T and I went to Leu Gardens in Orlando yesterday.  There are so many "early spring" Florida style flowers in bloom right now, including any number of different kinds of bromeliads.  Here are a few for your viewing pleasure:

Bromeliads really are practically insane plants and flowers.  I guess that is why I love them.  I have a couple camellia photos that are pretty nice, too.  Maybe tomorrow. 

School shooting in Florida

It is easy to feel discouraged when yet another school shooting occurs. Please don't surrender to despair. I know how hard it is to stay positive, but we must. In the U.S. we are in the midst of an extraordinary power struggle, a struggle for the soul of America. It is a fight that cannot be ignored and will not go away. If we give up, then evil triumphs. Do something small to affect change. It will make you feel better.

Call lawmakers in your state, or those who represent you in Washington, D.C., and ask for them to vote for gun reform. The people answering lawmakers' phones are professionally trained to be courteous and take your calls. Be courteous in return.

If you are phone-averse, then write a letter. Send a postcard, or an email. Show up for a protest. Donate to your favorite candidate. Join a Facebook secret group to keep informed.  Every little effort matters. Every one of these small steps is an action that will make you feel better about yourself and your place in the world. 

Do not respond to trolls on social media. They are often not even human. Others are Alt-right provocateurs who are posting or commenting based on scripts they have been provided. Responding to trolls only serves to bump their Facebook comments up to the top, which is the purpose of their vitriol. It is best to ignore them.

Don't be afraid of failure. We must try and fail many times before we win. We only truly lose if we give up.

Am I Blue?

My grandson turned 6 earlier this month and I had the great privilege of making his birthday cake. He watches a goofy cartoon called Phineas and Ferb. They are two young boys who have a pet platypus named Perry. Perry is also a secret agent, so he has two cartoon personas.  

When Perry is a pet he looks like this:

When he’s a secret agent, he looks like this:

For his birthday, I made a Perry cake that looked like this:

Being able to do these "Grandma things" reminds me of why I moved to Florida from New York State. I made a hard choice that I sometimes bemoan, but never regret. Still, there are things I miss. I think that's fair.

Today I miss iris reticulata, an early spring "bulbous perennial" we grew in NYS. It would not be blooming right now, all things still being covered in heavy snow up there.

Reticulata are a harbingers of spring; a reminder that beauty and love endure through even the coldest, darkest months. 

Our reticulata were blue. Not teal like cartoon Perry, not neon blue like my Perry cake, but the color that passes as blue in the plant world. Aren't they pretty?
 



 

The Venus of Willendorf in Blue Jeans

My husband and I dug up and divided Louisiana Irises this morning.  I was gloriously filthy by the time we were done. The sunscreen I slathered on my face was smeared with dirt and sand. Yes, sand. That is what is REALLY supposed to be on the ground here, sand.  Demon developers came along and dumped dirt upon this land. Then they set about to destroy the primeval beauty of Florida with endless housing developments and soulless gated communities. But I digress. Different post.

Starting again: My blue jeans were covered with dirt and mud. What to do? I simply turned on the hose and sprayed myself down with water. Easy peasy. I'm getting too old to struggle trying to finesse these housewifery things. Jeans dirty? Stand outside and hose 'em down.

After both my showers (...) I went in to check my social media pages. I recently joined a FB group called Crones of Anarchy. Hilarious name, but the site leaves much to be desired before it could truly represent anarchistic crones. I know a few. They could eat these pretenders, baked in a pie. 

Synchronicity being what it is, I found this post on the Crones of Anarchy page:

Stop wearing jeans?  As the song goes, "That'll be the day-ay-ay, when I die!"

Something to Say

I am tired this week. However, I have been busy collecting quotes for a series called #powerofwords my political FB group has started. If you don't mind, I will share a few here in honor of Black History Month (February).  I promise to rest up and come back with a post in my own words very soon.

Hello Joe, what do you know?

In case you missed Joe Kennedy deliver the Democratic response to Trump's 2018 State of the Union speech, here it is.   My favorite part?  "If that wall is built, my generation will tear it down."  

Hero Nurse to the rescue

I remember a nurse who made a difference in my life. She went that extra mile because she cared, she loved her work, and she was intellectually curious about it.

Once upon a time, I was in hospital for a surgical procedure. At first I was sick from the morphine; however, the nausea and headache didn't stop when the morphine did. I could not get up to shuffle down the hall with my I.V. bag hooked to a walker like the other patients on my floor. I could not keep anything down. I had an excruciating headache. I saw stars. I was not thriving. The nurses were distraught, and I got the distinct feeling they were annoyed that I wasn't getting better.

Because I was in the hospital so long with nothing to do, I eavesdropped on the nurse conversations in the hallway. They gossiped, bitched, moaned and laughed. They didn't realize patients could hear them and I sure wasn't going to tell them! It was better than a soap opera.

They made fun of one nurse for being over-the-hill and old fashioned. I had not yet met her when she walked into my room on day three and introduced herself. She looked old enough to be my mother, and I NEEDED a mother! She placed her hand on my shoulder, bent down to me and said quietly but firmly, "You've been real sick, honey. Now we're going to get you well." 

I'm not sure if it was the non-invasive touch, or her words of hope that moved me so completely. Or maybe it was the reassuring gray hair and the deep laugh lines? Anyway, I cried like a baby. I knew the worst was over and, like Mighty Mouse, Hero Nurse had come to save the day.

She went out and brought my anesthesiologist back with her. Like Hero Nurse, he had a passion for helping people. Also like Hero Nurse, he thought outside of that stupid, damn box. He asked if I was a heavy coffee drinker? I replied I was, but was unable to drink it since the surgery. He diagnosed me with caffeine withdrawal. He hooked my I.V. up to a liter of caffeinated fluid and had me drink cans of Coke. Within a few hours, I was well. 

Ostensibly, the reason for this story was Hero Nurse. However, I DO want credit for having mainlined caffeine. Many fantasize, but few actually do it.

And now for the alligators

I know these devils creep many of you out; however, they fascinate me. During this excursion, we only saw 9 alligators at the Lake Apopka Wildlife Drive, from the safety of our car. The most we have seen on this beautiful 2 hour (very slow) drive was 36. These were taken with my super duper long range, zoom lens, and then cropped. Don't be afraid!

This was far from me, I zoomed and cropped like crazy for this closeup

This was a fat one!  They are all unique

The drive was closed in late September because of extensive damage from Hurricane Irma, and it was only reopened on Christmas Eve. With all the development in Central Florida, this (and the state parks) are some of the only wild places left where you can see the real Florida, in all her swampy, brutal, primordial glory.

Untitled by design

We had company last weekend, and took them on the "alligator safari" on the Lake Apopka Wildlife Drive.  Here are some highlights from that drive.  The alligators will have to wait for another post.

First a great egret passing the time in a rather graceful manner:

Next a few great blue heron pictures:

In her nest - so great...

And a red shouldered hawk (I think)

Martini Glasses

I am in love with martini glasses and I'm not ashamed to admit it. If they weren't so small, I would drink every liquid I consume out of one. I could use a bigger one, but the small martini glasses are the ones that I admire. Visually, they are nearly perfect. They are elegant to hold, easy to sip from, and make me feel like I am misbehaving. That's always a great feeling, right? Trust me when I say it is especially potent after one has reached a certain age. 

Actually, I like all bar glasses and tools. I once owned a vintage glass shaker that one of my sisters bought for me at an antique store. It was the embodiment of 1950's cool. The glass shaker had measurements marked off in red and black. It was topped by a battered metal top and required a separate strainer to pour the cocktail through into the glass. Of course, I broke it. Now I use a stainless steel shaker that I also love.  I won't break this one. 

Yeah, I drink pink, girly drinks.  So what?

I hate the telephone

I dislike talking on a phone. My working years were filled with jobs where I had to use a phone on a regular basis. I adjusted, I endured, but I never got over my aversion to picking up that "thing" when it screams noise at me and I do not know who is on the other end.

The worst is actually initiating a call. I really have to force myself to do that. Left to my own devices, I won't.

We had a landline the first 2 years we retired; however, Central Florida is a wild and woolly place. The number of strange calls one receives on a landline during the day is alarming. Especially when the bad guys figure out you are retired. They want your money, and they are willing to nag and negotiate all day, every day, to trick you out of it. Even if I didn't pick up, I could still hear the rings and messages. I finally blew up and had it disconnected.

Now I use my cell phone. I hate talking on that even more than a landline because I figure it will give me a brain tumor. Plus, you can't tuck a smartphone between your ear and shoulder to talk. You have to hold it, and you have to hold it for a long time. Consequently, you are complicit in giving yourself a brain tumor.

Actually, I rarely answer my phone or check my messages. Dodging a phone call is both liberating and delightfully perverse. Good times!

I am happy to make arrangements to chat with loved ones. Family and friends have learned to text me first to let me know when they will call. With advance warning I WILL pick up the phone, although I have to find it first.

Ringing out the old year

What a mind-boggling, life changing year 2017 was for me. I'm a compulsive photo chronicler, so I have photos to testify on behalf of the year gone by. If I concentrate on those pictures of my personal life, and ignore the political hijinks/moral decay in this country, I feel this was a particularly good year for me and my family. And I want to feel good, so that's what I'm going to concentrate on.

I rejoined the work force a year ago, albeit as an unpaid volunteer.  Like many others, I found a political niche to fill and spend time every day of the week working against hate. It isn't pleasant and I am often frustrated. I actually quit twice. I can't tell you how many times I have also threatened to quit because I am a hot head AND a raving maniac. However, I will stick with it because I want to be able to look my grandchildren in the eyes and tell them I did my very best. In the process, I am learning about myself. I am learning to set boundaries for myself, and to respect boundaries set by others. These things don't come naturally to me. As always, I learn the hard way. I'm trying to take it on the chin; to not take adversity or criticism personally. Geez, that's tough!

Through the magic of DNA testing, in June 2017, my husband T discovered a grown daughter (R), son-in-law (CH), and three full-grown grandchildren (S, A, and MR) he didn't know he had. Various subsets of these glorious folks have visited us four times, and we all seem to like each other. Building relationships takes time; but so far, so good. Maybe it is presumptuous of me, but I think of them as mine, too. Just like the younger daughter we always knew we had, this older one is a joy, as are her family.

It was a good old year. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. I await the new one with an open heart. I hope you are, too.

Christmas Eve 2017

If you celebrate Christmas, have a good one!  My gift to you is this lovely graphic by Wenzel Oswald, illustration for Himmlische Mär by Leo Blonder, 1914. Wiener Werkstätte. Via 50watts.  I can find no information about this artist, who seems to have disappeared after 1934.  Anyone know anything about him?  He deserves to be remembered.

Cheers!

That Damn Gingerbread House

OMG! (loud and breathless, like a teenage girl) I had the all-time worst experience making a gingerbread house with my grandson.

I received a text from daughter, M, saying little N wanted to build a gingerbread house. M, a wise and subtle mother, replied "That sounds like a Grandma thing." She texted me with the good news. Taking a deep breath, I ordered a kit. I hoped it would arrive broken beyond repair. But no, apparently I was one of the lucky few who received a kit with all pieces intact. I took that as an omen.

I picked N up from school yesterday. We began to build the cursed thing. Grandpa helped. That meant Grandpa and I (both ex-managers) embarked on an epic power struggle to get the damn thing to hold together. Initially this involved frosting, but later degenerated into heat guns, glue, and holding that sucker together for an interminably long time. Nails were considered. All while N jumped in his seat talking non-stop.

We used up the kit-provided frosting trying (and failing) to get the damn house to stick together. I made more. N (aka, my shadow) insisted we divide it up into four small bowls so he could use all 4 types of food coloring. He already had the food coloring out of the pantry. Then we returned to the construction zone where T had given up on the blasted house. It was my turn. I used Elmer's glue (and plenty of it) to stick that sucker back together.

As I held it together hoping for the glue to dry, N dumped about half the candy decorations in two of the frostings. He is lightening fast. I guess in his 5 year-old mind he imagined he could frost the roof with the candy infused glop and the candy would stick out. A genius, thinking outside the box! But he had not considered they would just be buried in the frosting. I was holding it all together and couldn't stop him, although I yelled really, really loud. We really have to get that kid's hearing checked. Not sure WHY he didn't hear me.

Finally the roof stayed on! He decorated. Alas, as we stood to look at his handiwork, one side of the roof slipped off in slow motion. He lost interest and went inside. There was no way I could stop. I re-glued the hateful roof and propped up each side with boxes to keep them in place. Two hours later N's father, MV, came to get him. I  took the boxes away from the sides of the roof. It held! N was delighted. I'm pretty sure he thought I was a miracle worker. I was happy, although my blood pressure was rather high.

After they left I took the following pictures:

Not the best gingerbread house you've ever seen, but dammit! it was a house. At last I could relax.  Unfortunately, gravity rules supreme. Here's how it looked this morning:

I surrender. 

Christmas baking

I have been baking for the holidays. You, too?

My father's family has been in the U.S. since 1714, so they are totally Americanized, with nary a trace of ethnicity.  However, they were from Kentucky and Tennessee, so there were regional Christmas treats on that side. My beloved paternal grandmother, for instance, always made divinity candy and peanut butter fudge.

My mother's side was both German and French, and her grandparents arrived in the U.S. about 1860. They moved to a German enclave in Northern Indiana, near Chicago.  My Mom was born in 1926, so she was raised in those traditions. Her mother made fancy Christmas cookies.  Mom also made fruitcake, but I think that was a 1950's housewife thing. Dad made chocolate fudge. We always made rolled cut-out cookies which we then frosted with many garish colors and loaded down with sprinkles. Yum.
I already made my usual fruitcake, which I've wrapped in bourbon soaked cheesecloth this year instead of brandy. 

Fruitcake

and I'm also making Hungarian kieflis. They are insanely thin rolled dough wrapped around walnut/confectioner's sugar/egg white mix.  Then shaped into a crescent.  When done and cool, they are dusted with more confectioner's sugar. Although I am not Hungarian, I grew up in a Hungarian parish, and everyone made them, my mother got her recipe from a neighbor.

Heavenly Kieflis

Next week, I'll make the cut-out butter cookies with my grandkids.  That's always fun.

Okay, make me say it, I'm going to make fudge, too. Even though it will push me right over the damn edge. I hope you are satisfied, Chilly Hollow, your fudge recipe is my downfall once again.  Don't tell me to eat less.  I can't.

For those of you who also celebrate a winter holiday, what are you baking or making? Not just Christmas, I'm interested in any winter holiday. Are they part of your family traditions?

Introverts

I am not an introvert. However, I have lived with one for 47 years, I bore and raised one, and I have many close friends and lifelong influences who are introverts. 

I'm not sure how they can stand me. I suspect they often can't. I'm fluid and potentially explosive, like gasoline. I once talked so much with so many different people over the course of a few days that I started to lose my voice, but I kept on talking. I like to change my mind, and I get a rush from making last minute decisions that throw caution to the wind. I am usually up for a double dog dare, and I have been known to be the life of the party. 

When T and I travel, the first thing I want to do upon arrival is go out and do something; before I even unpack!  T wants to take a nap and recover from traveling. At parties, I am all over the place and I like to stay late. T wants to leave early. It is a conundrum. However, we love each other. Over the years we adapted when we could, or did things alone when we couldn't. It works for us. Building relationships with introverted friends is harder.

Introverts don't necessarily trust extroverts. Extroverts are unpredictable, making introverts nervous. It is kind of like a cat trying to be friends with a puppy. I get it.

When I started to date my husband, my mother said "Why can't you go out with someone normal for a change?"  I replied, "Because if crazy people don't spend time with other crazy people, they will start to think they ARE crazy." Same goes for extroverts. In a life dominated by introverts I sometimes have to remind myself it is okay to be like me. 

It's okay for friends to be different from each other, right?