Tag, I'm It

As I emerged from my post-horrendously-busy-weekend stupor, I seem to remember something about being tagged to share my love of reading. By somebody named, uhhhhh….Cynthia. That’s right. It’s all coming back to me now…

I’ve had a love/hate relationship with reading all my life. Apparently, I was the last chick in the nest—all my older sisters were in school—and I was heartbroken that I couldn’t go to school, too. In order to keep me from driving her nuts, my mother taught me to read. It was 1959. I was four years old. I don’t remember this, but my mother loves to tell the tale. She also tells the story about my walking right up to my first-grade teacher on the first day of school, and bragging, "I can read!" Sister Assunta patted me on the head and said, "Of course you can, honey." A few weeks later, she remarked to my mom, "Oh, boy, can she read!"

I would like to say that my early indoctrination into the exciting world of the written word inspired a life-long love of literature. Well…no. It so happens that I am also an extremely high-energy person. Okay…the word fidgety has been applied to my particular affliction. The drive to be in constant motion is not conducive to spending long hours closeted with the world’s great literature. I did read quite a bit when I was in grammar school, and always above grade level. But, no, I didn’t delve into books like "Wuthering Heights" or "Jayne Eyre" at the age of ten. In fact, I didn’t even read all the "Little House" books until I was an adult.

In high school, I devised a way to get through English class, get A’s or B’s, and never actually READ the books we were assigned. Between Cliff Notes, films, and just soaking up the classroom discussions, I faked my way through Shakespeare, Dickens, Salinger, and Hemingway. I think it was a control thing, as much as anything. I just hated the idea of being required to read something. And I doubly loathed the practice of sitting around dissecting every word in any given piece of literature. A few months ago, I wrote a post that summed up my feelings about the "literature" thing.

"I have no desire to ever write a novel. Does that make me not quite a writer? I have nothing against "creative writing." I love poetry. I use it as my outlet for the purely artistic side of my writer self. But I never had any patience for all the literary machinations that go into writing fiction. I truly believe that one of the reasons I never went to college was that I was afraid I would be subjected to too many classes that consisted of having a gun put to my head to read all the most boring epics in the history of humanity, and then participating in the excruciating process of dissecting every bit of meaning, real or imagined, from these narcotic stories. Faulkner? Snore…Single sentences that filled entire pages. Dickens? He was paid by the word, for God’s sake. Tolstoy? Please! War and Peace?

"Now I’ve gone and revealed one of my deepest secrets: I have no literary class. A deadly admission for a writer. I read fiction. But I read it for the stories. For the pure escapism of it. For its ability to immerse me in a persona, place and time that are not me, here, now. Any attempts at formulaic "Meaning of Life" symbolism generally go right over my head. I religiously avoid novels that contrive to teach me something. I really don’t want to have to think that hard about the fiction I read."

Still, I DO have a bookcase, and I do have a stack of reading material on my bedside table. My "life list" of favorite books is not stocked with timeless masterpieces, but I like what I like, and the ones I really like, I read over and over again.

One whole shelf of my bedside bookcase holds reference materials on plants, gardening, and home improvement. I often crack these open for "bedtime" reading. My current favorites are Tree and Shrub Gardening in the Northwest, and Sunset’s Northwest Garden Guide. My collection of garden books represent probably 75% of my reading time these days. And cookbooks. I subscribe to "Light ‘n’ Tasty" and "Cooking Light," and the last few issues of those publications can usually be found on my night table or in the bathroom.

That bedside bookcase is pitifully small and cramped. Only the books that I really love are allotted space on it. These would be my collection of the works of Rosamunde Pilcher (The Shell Seekers, September, Going Home…) and Maeve Binchy (Circle of Friends, The Copper Beech, The Glass Lake…), and C.S. Forrester’s "Hornblower" series. A moth-eaten 1936 edition of Gone With The Wind. The Bridges of Madison County—a gift from my late sister.

On the bottom shelf are Helen Hooven Santmeyer’s fifty-year labor of love, "And Ladies of the Club…"—easily the fattest book I ever read; The Nun’s Story and Rumer Godden’s In This House of Brede, which speak to my longtime fascination with the monastic life. Then there are old, thrift-store copies of Those Who Love and The President’s Lady, representing my love affair several years back with the novels of Irving Stone. I also went on a Michener kick about fifteen years ago…Centennial, The Source, Chesapeake, Hawaii, I’m sure I read one or two others that don’t immediately come to mind. And my two copies of the RSV bible, holdovers from my Pentecostal days, squat unassumingly on the far side of one shelf. I think I keep them more for their historical value than anything. I haven’t yet got back to the point where I can actually read them again.

And…I’ll never admit to the stack of paperback "crotch novels" in my office bookcase. Somewhere, in some box out in the garage or something, I have a bunch of sci-fi novels based on the original "Star Trek" series, and, believe it or not, The Man From U.N.C.L.E and The Girl from same (how many of you out there remember that stuff!?!)

There you go, Cynthia! I was a little worried that I wouldn’t be able to put together much of an entry about my favorite reading material. And no, I guess it doesn’t rival the library of Congress for diversity or sophistication. But it’s mine, and I’m sure it speaks volumes about me. I’ll be kicked out of the Intellectual Snobs Club now, for sure!

Oh, and now I have to "tag" someone else.  How about Jackie (Pixels, Politics, Posies and Pussycats), Lisa (Wearin' My Heart on My Sleeve), Meredith (Another CountryHeard From), and Gayla (So Much More.)  Okay, ladies, I 'fessed up about  my literary lameness.  Time for you all to further prove precisely how lame I am.

More Doors

Last week, I saw a girl who used to work for me, back in the nineties. She was the first of my "crew" who really was young enough to be my daughter. She was seventeen…I was thirty-seven. The first time in my life that I didn’t just FEEL old. I WAS old.

She showed up at the festival Thursday morning with her four-year-old and two-year-old in tow. Full of news of her little family, and of the other girls of the crew. She mentioned casually that she had turned thirty…and I shared that I had just celebrated my big 5-0. I realized that what sucks about being fifty is that, twenty years ago, I was thirty. Already old. Twenty years ago.

I used to hear from my girls several times a year. Then, it was just Christmas and special occasions. It has deteriorated to one time a year, when I am doing the festival and they know where to find me. Each time, there is less to say. Less to share to which the other person could relate. I brought up my blog…to which she asked with a bemused smile, "What’s a blog?" Finally, we have migrated to totally different worlds. I felt that door closing…

…And another opening. Today, my email had a message from someone I had never heard of, through "Classmates.com." In five years, the only people who have contacted me through "Classmates" have been looking for the other Baldwins in the yearbook. I could have deleted the email. Was about to, in fact. But I changed my mind and clicked on the link that took me to the message. Turns out it was from a friend from the old neighborhood—one of my bridesmaids, no less. Someone who I had wished to find, found me. I wrote back. Opening the door to a world of memories fifteen, twenty years older than the ones I closed the book on a couple of days ago. The world turns, the clock turns, sometimes forward, sometimes back. Sometimes both directions at once.

Zzzzzzzzzzz.....

I woke up at 6 this morning. Looked at the clock, gave it the raspberries and went back to sleep. Woke up again at 7:20. Neaner, neaner. Rolled over and checked out once again. Resurfaced at 9:15. Grudgingly, I dragged myself upright, guessing I may have made up for one or two of the sixteen hours of sleep I lost over the weekend. Fifteen-hour workdays, with four or five hours of sleep in between. I’m almost ready to say that I’m too old for that crap anymore…but the weekend was such a financial success, that I’m more likely to be crowing that, by God, I’ve still got what it takes.

Despite several challenges, we had a great event. The weather was beautiful the first two days, then showed its fangs and turned beastly hot on Saturday and Sunday. This did not seem to deter the patrons much, as we continued to do record business, only now we were doing it from an 8’ x 20’ sauna.

Today I am tired. And I am stupid. But I have $17000 in a zip-lock bag under my mattress. (Not really. I used to do that. In the early days of our success at the Scandi, I used to love to just sleep on top of all that cash… But my husband, McGruff, nearly had apoplexy. So these days, it zooms dutifully off to the bank.)

I have been trying to keep up with my journal reading and commenting. There are ideas for a lot of posts floating around in my head, including a "Tag, You’re It" entry inflicted upon me by Cynthia J . But at this moment, I haven’t got two brain cells that are active enough to rub together and create anything more inspiring than a yawn. Give me a little more recovery time and I’ll be back…

Scandi

Unbelievably, it’s mid-August already.  Who hit the fast-forward button on 2005?  This is the phenomenon of middle-age with which I am least comfortable:  the days just fly by, faster and faster.  The more dear they become, the fewer you know you have left, the more they kick it into overdrive and speed by.  Yesterday, my niece looked at me quizzically when I said that a shirt she had bought at the local resale shop would be perfect to wear for a Christmas event.  I said, “I know, for you, Christmas seems like a long time away, but for me, it’s, like, tomorrow.”  And so it goes.

But if the years have to go by so fast, it is good, at least, to have special things scattered throughout the seasons that I can…well, watch fly by with a smile on my face, anyway.  This weekend, we are in Junction City for the Scandinavian Festival.  Above all others, this is my favorite event, and the one that got me started in this business sixteen years ago (another gasp and sigh when I ponder that number…)  Perhaps not completely coincidentally, the Scandi is also the only event we do all year where we make any money.  A lot rides on maximizing our success here.   I’ve toiled for weeks to make product, order signs, spiff up the trailer, gather costumes, tweak the menu; as I sit here clackety clacking away at 6 am, all is in readiness for a day of bang-up business.  

The anticipation and stage-fright that kicked me out of bed at 4:30 this morning will, I hope, be enough to keep me on my feet until 10:30 this evening, when I'll pack the stacks of bills into my back pack and heave myself behind the wheel of “Little Red.”  The drive back to my sister’s house after a fifteen-hour day is magical.  Junction City is out in the middle of Lane County’s mint fields.  This time of year, the mint is ripe and smells heavenly.  The huge irrigation cannons are set to do their work after the sun goes down.  The misty smell of mint on the damp night breeze is what we call the “Scandi smell.”  In days when I am old and decrepit (tomorrow?) and can no longer whip the creaky bonesinto shape to ply my trade, I’ll come back to Lane County in August, and drive down River Road after dark.  And let the memories wash over me like a tonic.  

It's Late....

I tried to go to bed at a decent hour tonight. Forty-five minutes later, I was sitting on the bathroom floor, painting my toenails, as my restless mind wandered. In my freshly-painted bare feet, I padded down the hallways of my memory. Those hallways that have stretched and stretched with each passing year. More like highways than hallways, now. Miles long with rows of doors, right and left. So many doors I avoid like poison…and keep safely locked against the times I may misstep and wander too close.

Behind those doors are my brightest memories. Of my sister, my dad, my family as it used to be. All the things, the very important things, that have gone away and will never return. Not too long ago, those were the only rooms I lived in. Even after the sweet memories had soured to constant pain. How many years went by before I realized I had to move…had to leave them behind, because the pain had become my life. So I packed up. Moved out. Locked the doors.

But sometimes, like tonight, I boldly walk up to a door and stop. Who knows why? An old picture, a phone call, an email, one too many glasses of wine… I put on my "what the hell?" armor, turn the knob and fling open the door. It bangs against the wall and gives me just enough time to steal a memory, a moment, before it slams safely shut again. And I take that memory, that little snapshot--of Joyce playing cards in her green velvet bathrobe; or Dad sitting in the stern of the boat, steering into the next fish-laden cove; or the girls (my nieces) laughing and mugging at a backyard barbecue--and savor it. Until the tears rise, and I have to stuff that picture back under the door and walk resolutely away. But, each time, I get to look a little longer before the ache becomes unbearable…

"Never Again..."

Tomorrow (August 5) I’ll go to downtown Portland to witness, if not participate in, an undertaking called "The Shadow Project." This is a yearly memorial of the nuclear bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki that, for all intents and purposes, ended World War II. And destroyed, at the same time, the last vestiges of mankind’s innocence. Go here to listen to an excellent Oregon Public Radio piece on Portland’s participation in the Project.
The words "Never Again" have become the all-encompassing post-script to World War II. These days, we use them as an excuse to inflict more war and violence on the planet, under the pretense of keeping the world from spawning "another Hitler"—in Yugoslavia (Slobodan Milosevic), in Panama (Manuel Noriega) in Iraq (Sadaam Hussein) and on and on ad infinitum. It matters little that these smaller, weaker versions of evil incarnate bear little true resemblance to the huge malignancy that was Adolph Hitler. It suits us at given times to paint them with the same brush.
Have we ever applied those words "Never Again," to the World War II phenomenon to which they SHOULD most apply? To the use of mankind’s most heinous weapons? We don’t, as a nation, talk about that too much. When it comes to discussion of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, we put on solemn faces and declare that it was a terrible thing to have to do, but it was the only way to end the war. And that Japan or Germany would have had no qualms about dropping The Bomb on us if they had developed it first. I don’t propose to dispute the veracity of those statements. The arguments have all been made, and will probably be debated until the end of time. What bothers me is the belief that, since it was the United States of America that first used the ultimate WMD, it is somehow okay. That we were then, have always been, and always will be, the guys in the white hats. I would argue that the mere possession of that kind of power changes the color of your hat, over time…
It’s been sixty years since the U.S. perpetrated that hideous carnage upon two cities in Japan. Sixty years during which wehave, inexplicably, managed to keep from using similar weapons again. (This may the only concrete proof of the existence of a Supreme Being…) But, unfortunately, we did not stop perfecting, refining, and enlarging the weapons of ultimate death that we have.
Doesn’t it frighten anybody anymore, that in the bowels of our country, we hold the capability to destroy this planet many times over? Is it that all of us baby boomers grew up with that dark cloud over our heads, and we’ve just become desensitized to it? Is it that, since the demise of the Soviet Union, we think we can rest easy because the capacity for ultimate destruction is "in the right hands?" Is it that we think we don’t have to worry about it right now, since our current enemy doesn’t possess nuclear weapons? And how long can we hope that will be the case? Imagine a nuclear bomb in the hands of terrorists who have no respect for human life, not even their own. It’s certainly only a matter of time.
For all of the war-hawks out there who believe that we need to run all over the globe inflicting our values and way of life on the rest of mankind… For anyone who believes mankind could wage a "limited" nuclear war, and that would somehow be okay, as long as we don’t totally destroy the planet… For anyone who believes that we are going to root out and kill all of the terrorists before they get their hands on the technology with which we believe WE control the world… Think about what it will be like to be vaporized in your own home. To be reduced to a "shadow" on a wall or a floor. Or, worse, to become one of the living dead, wandering through hell with your clothes in shreds, your hair on fire, and your flesh falling in chunks from your bones. If you think you are safe, if you think only folks in desert lands halfway across the world should be sweating that fate, go to "Ground Zero." Reflect upon the place where two tall buildings once rose above the New York skyline. Do the words, "Never Again" hold a little more meaning for you now?

In Deepest Sympathy

This is for Kat, who today suffered the shocking loss of her sister and her nephew in an automobile accident. (((((Kat))))) We love you, dear friend! Our hearts break for you...

The Timberline

Summer has finally arrived in the Pacific Northwest. It played coy with us during May, June, and on into this month.  After a nearly rainless winter, which actually got kind of scary by mid-February, the rains arrived in March and hung on (annoyingly) until half-past July. It even rained until after noon last Friday, while we were out at the county fair…something veteran fair-goers declared they had never seen. Though I’m not a native, I know rain is neither usual nor welcome in midsummer in the Western Oregon valleys. This is our 21st year in the area, and I’ve only encountered rain between July 1st and September 1st on a handful of occasions during all that time. Customarily, the gods generously grant us these eight weeks to dry out after our sodden winters.

So, now it is summer. And I am enjoying the heck out of it. It’s been doing a great job of distracting me from the reality of my birthday (I just can’t seem to get entirely away from that subject. Slightly obsessive, are we…?) We’ve had the opportunity to capture and enjoy some quintessential "Summer in Oregon" moments. Two weeks ago, we took a trip to "The Mountain" (that would be Mt. Hood, for those of you who aren’t up with Oregon’s regional geographical jargon.) On the spur of the moment, we were able to get a room for one night at Timberline Lodge. Built by FDR’s WPA, the Lodge opened its doors in 1937; a monument to Roosevelt’s unprecedented programs to feed, house and occupy the jobless hordes produced by this country’s Great Depression.  These days, everything I encounter is tainted by my political frustration. *Sigh*! 
Can you picture the nouveau riche House of Bush, faced with the same national disaster, developing anything approaching the innovation of the WPA? The "I got mine, and if you’re real lucky, enough of it might trickle down on you to keep you from starving" people? Don’t make me laugh. Or cry…

 This eclectic hodge-podge of grand scale timber-camp architecture with ‘30’s Art Nouveau, craftsman, and pioneer accents was only open for a few years before the federal monies that kept it running needed to be funneled off to help finance the War. Post World War II, it remained closed down, fell into disrepair, and was nearly doomed to be torn down--during the administration of a Republican ex-general president who decided that the federal funds were better spent on the strategic necessity of an Interstate Freeway network.  Fortunately for the forsaken Timberline, its cause was taken up by a private corporation, which, in 1955, partnered with the Federal Government to painstakingly restore it to its original state, and has faithfully and lovingly maintained it ever since. 

Taking nothing away from Eisenhower and his mission to connect the disparate parts of our country with a federally maintained roadway system, which in itself was a grand and far reaching legacy… Still, in my mind’s eye, I envision a post-war Republican party already slobbering to reverse and discredit the legacy of an all-too-successful Democratic administration…a bone they continue to worry sixty years later.

The weather up on The Mountain was incredible. While the valleys simmered in 90-degree heat, a fresh breeze licked at the flags posted on the Lodge’s front balcony and tempered the air to a more bearable 75º during the day, and a downright chilly 50º after dark. Perfect for cooling down the Lodge’s non-air-conditioned rooms overnight. We ate, drank, moseyed around the Lodge complex, shopped at the souvenir shops, drove down the mountain, ate and drank some more, and took scads of pictures. Spending the night at the Lodge is like taking a room in a massive museum/art gallery. The place is literally crammed with bits of artwork and woodcraft tucked into every nook and cranny. The chunky, peeled log newel posts on the stairway leading to the guest rooms are carved into the shapes of native animals. A marvelous stained glass "Paul Bunyan" mural adorns most of the wall space in the tiny "Blue Ox" café, tucked under the staircase on the lower level of the Lodge. The massive beams and timbers that form the framework of the building are in themselves awe-inspiring works of craftsmanship.

We have visited the Lodge on day trips in the past, and always thoroughly enjoyed it. But there was just something about actually sleeping there that was magical. There was a misty portal to a past life that I slipped through as easily as if I had been one of the people whose hands had joined in to create the lodge almost seventy years ago. I felt there were ghosts in the rooms and walking the corridors…friendly, loving spirits who stayed on as a reminder of what simple people working together toward a common goal can accomplish. The beauty and sturdy, enduring simplicity of their handiwork. They welcomed me, took my hand, showed me around their lovely home; and made me feel as if it was my home, too. I half expected to discover their auras in the pictures I couldn’t stop myself from clicking, one after another after another. Not only did my digital camera not record the genial phantasms, but it failed to do any real justice to the place at all. Maybe because the beauty was as much the feeling as the sights, and pictures can only capture one flat dimension of the Lodge’s rarefied universe. I’ll just have to go back. Often.

The More I Know...

Lest anyone think the shock of my fiftieth birthday sent me off the deep end… I am still kickin’. We did a five-day event last week, from Wednesday through Sunday, not including set-up earlier in the week, and returning to the fairgrounds to pick up the trailer yesterday evening. Between that, and trying to recover from the back injury, I haven’t had much time or inspiration to journal. Thankfully, the back thing seems to be working itself out. I actually walked over four miles this afternoon…upright, in the manner of a true homo sapien. There were times during the last couple of weeks when I thought I would never again attain that uprightness of posture. Thought I’d been reduced to Quasimodo stature for the rest of my natural life…

During the slow times at the County Fair, I had the opportunity to do some political reading. No internet connections out at the fairgrounds, so I actually had to resort to reading books and magazines. I bought the current issue of Newsweek (the one with Karl Rove’s contemptible face on the cover) to catch up on that mess. And I dove into a book I bought on Marigolds2’s recommendation—War Made Easy. At some future date, when I have more time to do an in-depth post, I’ll go into more detail about both of these. The reading makes me uneasy. Lately, I find myself afflicted with a malady that anyone who decides to educate oneself about matters political must contract at some point: utter hopelessness.

The more I read about American politics, both current and past, the more I become convinced that we are truly beyond hope. That government is not about the will or the benefit of the people. That it is about subterfuge, power-brokering, aspirations of global dominance, and making sure that the pockets of the richest of the rich, who pay generously for the privilege, are continuously and heavily lined. The only use our government has for the everyday Joe is to manipulate him into lining up behind whatever campaigns those in power want to advance. They somehow manage to keep us believing that "We the people" have a voice, and that our leaders listen to us. That our votes actually count for something, and that the most powerful people in the government got there through some kind of Constitutionally ordained process.

The more I know, the more I wish I could go back to being blissfully ignorant…

Red Hat, Anyone?

 

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

 

 

With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain  And pick the flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

 

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

 

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

 

 

I am considering founding a chapter of the Red Hat Society.  I've been suffering from "Red Hat Envy" for years.  Now that I've reached that "Certain Age," I can stop coveting those marvelous chapeaux and don one of my own.  Anyone interested?

***The poem is"Warning" by Jenny Jones.  The red hats are all available at the Red Hat Society Website.