A present for you

From me.

And whoever set this up, of course.

It’s just a little something of a Friday Find, in the spirit of the Tuesday Tip from a week ago.

I’ve heard from some friends in New Zealand, and it’s already Dec 21st there, so the Mayan Apocalypse seems to have passed us by. Yet another of those oddly popular doomsday thingies that just didn’t pan out.

Of course, if you are still worried, still thinking maybe we haven’t quite made it through the 21st yet, this link is still appropriate. Because, really, what else have you got to do?

Sit back. Turn on your sound, if you aren’t at work. And just do nothing for 2 minutes.

Go ahead.

Click on that link above. Take a break.

We’ll all still be here when you get back.

Wasn’t that nice? A little holiday from the holidays!

(Hang onto that link. Life being what it is, I’m pretty sure it will come in handy often. )

I’ve got a ticket to ride

Well, I will have one. Eventually.

I’m thankful today that I managed to get through yesterday without losing my wallet.

See, I went shopping again. Errands. The bank. The library. All kinds of opportunities—just like the day before—except, this time, I kept track of the wallet. Yay, me!

The other thing for which I am thankful—it was a very thankful sort of day—is that I got the last two Christmas presents. You know, the two that occur to you in the middle of the night. When you think, “Ooops, I forgot so-and-so,” or “Golly, whosiwatsis probably isn’t going to like that. I better get her another little something.”

Got ’em. Wrapped ’em. Stuck ’em under the tree.

Efficiency!

And the third thing for which I’m thankful—told you it was a very thankful sort of day—is the walk I took to the new Park-and-Ride.

First, the weather was gorgeous. 72 and sunny. Second, the MotH* walked halfway there with me—because the pizza place is on the way. Third, well…it is precisely 1.09 miles to the Park-and-Ride. Not as good, perhaps, as if it were precisely 0.25 miles to the Park-and-Ride, but, still…a reasonable walking distance.

I cannot wait until actual buses begin to show up at the Park-and-Ride. I don’t know their ETA, but the Park-and-Ride is an exciting development for these transplants from the big city. The idea that I might be able to get on a bus and go into Jacksonville to a play or a museum is very appealing.

There’s no earthly reason we couldn’t drive into Jacksonville to a play or a museum—and we have—but it just seems easier to take public transportation. When you spend years in NYC and can get anywhere by subway, the fact that you suddenly have to drive everywhere seems unreasonable. It is far too easy to decide not to go, instead. Plus, one learns too late that one cannot eat the way one did when days were spent trekking around the city, up and down subway stairs.

I have high hopes of the Park-and-Ride. Cross your fingers!

* MotH = Man of the House

What is wrong with me?

Seriously.

This is not a rhetorical question. I really am wondering. Although I suspect I probably ought to close this post to comments before asking!

Oh, well. I’ll take my chances.

If you happen to know me and feel you have the answer to this question, perhaps you can either be kind or email me separately.

The reason I ask is because of the nonsense yesterday.

I went out to run some errands and look for a few remaining Christmas presents.

Everything was going so well.

Even though I didn’t find everything for which I was searching, the sun was shining, traffic was light, I was hitting the stores in a smooth and logical order.

I got to Radio Shack and, with the aid of an extremely cheerful and knowledgeable and helpful clerk—something that has become less the norm at Radio Shack than it was in the days when people were building their own crystal radio sets—anyway, with her help, I found the proper components to make an extension cord to the corded headset I like to use with my phone. Now, I will be able to sit on a comfortable chair in my office for any lengthy conversations rather than be stuck at the desk.

I know, I know. Bluetooth, etc. But, I like corded phones. The sound is better! I also like having my hands free when I talk. So I needed a longer cord.

And I found it!

And I paid for it.

And I went on to the next store.

Where I no longer had my wallet.

And so. . .

You know what happened then. Rifling my purse. Searching the car. Calling the Radio Shack. Back-tracking. Searching the car. Rifling my purse.

Eventually, I went galumphing home, certain that I was now going to have to cancel all my credit cards, replace my license, my union cards, my insurance cards. Everything.

I did, however, ask the MotH* to check the car for me, yet again.

Naturally, he found the wallet. Just sitting on the floor beside the driver’s seat.

Where I had looked at it, dead in the eye, at least four times!!!

I don’t usually think of myself as being given to panic. Having extremely poor vision and being very unobservant, yes. Panic, not so much.

I even remember seeing the black shape there. I suppose it registered on my brain as the little handle you use to adjust the seat.

Which, in my car, is not black.

So, you know, I ask myself. What is wrong with me?

But I’ll tell you one thing that isn’t wrong with me. I am not missing my wallet! My mind, yes. But not my wallet.

Whew.

* MotH = Man of the House

Life is what happens

While you are busy making other plans.
~ John Lennon

Isn’t that the truth!

Also, that old line from Robert Burns’ poem, To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough, about how “the best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men / Gang aft agley.”

But my tip this Tuesday is to take some time and plan anyway.

If your goal is an aimless ramble, it’s fine to set out with no particular destination. I’ve had some really fun excursions that began that way. The plan was to have no plan. We set out with no destination, stopped along the way at whatever roadside attraction caught our interest, and had a high old time exploring all kinds of oddities.

I’ve also had some expeditions of that nature that were total failures. Nothing interesting to do or see turned up, no place to get a decent meal, nowhere to sleep comfortably.

So, that’s a gamble. Fun (or not), and fine for an outing, but maybe not exactly a recipe for achievement.

You can’t reach a goal if you don’t have one.

We’re coming to the end of the year. Traditional stock-taking time. This is the point where we look back at how far we’ve come and measure it against where we wanted to be.

It’s often hard to focus on the big picture all by yourself.

Some people, a few, are very good at self-direction. Some people are able to use things like journaling to help them explore these questions and come up with a set of goals. Some people benefit from using a life coach.

One thing I’ve found very helpful in the past is a Mastermind Group. The structure involved in showing up at a meeting and having time to talk about what you are working on and where you want to go is invaluable. I’m thinking it’s time to reconnect with some of my old group or start a new one. Because it’s always a good time to be making plans.

It’s worth asking if we still want what we thought we did. What’s changed? What isn’t working? What could be better? Where do we want to be this time next year? Five years from now? Ten?

Of course, life will happen. Storms will blow us off course. Sirens will distract us. Strange gods and cannibals will slow us down. It’s wise to enjoy the journey as none of us knows whether we shall ever reach Ithaca.

But if we don’t set out for Ithaca, we won’t meet the sirens, the gods, the cannibals, and we won’t get home.

The ten years will pass anyway.

Where do you want to be?

Not a creature was stirring

Fortunately.

Saturday, we had the annual Boat Parade Party at my house. This is due to the annual boat parade hosted by a local restaurant.

Boats from far and wide—or, at least, from the immediate vicinity—get all dolled up with lights and voyage circuitously around the inlet for the enjoyment of residents and all comers. The boats that are small enough to fit under the bridge make a circle of our little creek before joining the main parade.

One of the stand-outs this year—of the ones small enough to come our way—was a boat fully equipped with fireplace, pajama-and-bathrobe-clad children and a loudspeaker from whence issued the full narration of Clement C. Moore’s A Visit from St. Nicholas, otherwise, and more familiarly, known as ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas.

So, there were some creatures stirring on the boat. There was a captain, a pilot, a driver, whatever you like to call him, and there were some waving children. But they didn’t stir very much—and a good thing, too.

I never did figure out quite how the vessel was configured, but it sure seemed to sit awfully low in the water. The hearth upon which those cozy-looking children were seated was, maybe, an inch above the waterline. Any untoward stirring and there was likely to be some untoward soaking.

Miraculously, the parade made two circuits around the creek and everybody stayed dry—as far as I could tell.

It was a most successful parade. Last year, there were only about four small boats. This year there were twice as many. And they made two passes! And there were lots more people on either bank to cheer them on.

It’s quite fun to clap and yell and applaud as they go by our side and then to hear all the cheering out of the darkness from the opposite shore. A whole lot of individuals forging a community of joy for one evening.

And it was especially miraculous this year—when something that makes kids happy seems even more important than usual.

Write Me a Poem,

Baby.

That is the title of a book by H. Allen Smith, an American author and humorist, who is also the author of a book titled…drumroll…People Named Smith.

I thought he might be an appropriate candidate for my first Smith Sunday blog post. Smith Sunday is a new feature wherein I mention and, perhaps, comment upon some famous person with whom I share a surname.

It may not be a long-lived feature, because, really, what can I accomplish here that a link to Wikipedia cannot do as well? But I’m going to give it a try and see what happens.

My first thought was Captain John Smith. I bet he was yours, too. Captain John Smith is pretty much the first famous person named Smith to leap to anyone’s mind. It’s the clothes. That Elizabethan getup is…memorable. And the Native American princess. Apocryphal though the story may be, Pocahontas makes for a helluva good story, and most of us learned it in grade school.

But I hate to be obvious.

We’ll come back to him, maybe.

H. Allen seems like a good second thought for a first Smith Sunday post precisely because he wrote People Named Smith. I have a feeling I might be consulting it frequently in the coming weeks.

I would suggest you read it, except that I would then have no reason to pursue the Smith Sunday blog posts. Mr. Smith is far more amusing than I…and certainly did more research. His books, by the way, are laugh-out-loud funny, so if you did happen to sneak off and read one or more of them, I could hardly blame you. However, if you can’t resist picking up a copy of People Named Smith, please don’t mention it. And, you know…common politeness should dictate that you not give away any punch lines if you see them heading your way on future Smith Sundays. Just bask in the knowledge that you are well-read and know your Smiths and don’t rain on my parade.

Okay? Thanks!

All I did

was walk out the door.

Honestly! The uproar in my driveway yesterday!

I just wanted to get the mail.

I walked out the side door and before I left the shelter of the carport, two rather large-sized doves took off from the driveway with much fluttering and flapping of wings and cheeps and squawks of panic such that you’d have thought I’d flung a cat into their midst. At the same time, one of the dang squirrels came around the corner, pulled a cartoon skid to a stop (hard to do on a bed of river rocks) and reversed course in a mad rush to escape that startled me just as much as I’d startled him.

(The squirrels, by the way, are no longer to be known in this blog as “the squirrels.” From here on out, they are always to be referred to as “the dang squirrels”—and, when especially irritating, as “those dang squirrels.”)

It seemed like a lot of unnecessary commotion for a simple trip to the mailbox.

Life is like that sometimes.

You set out in all innocence to achieve something of no great moment only to find everyone around you inexplicably horrified and upset by your (to you) harmless actions.

It’s worth remembering, I guess, that there are probably always doves and dang squirrels along the way—whatever you’re trying to do. And their reaction may seem silly to you, but it seems life and death to them.

And it’s also worth remembering—if you happen to be the one squeaking and squawking when the monster is coming up behind you—that maybe she just wants to get the mail.

The best cures for depression

Noble deeds and hot baths are the best cures for depression.
~Dodie Smith

A little quote, there, from today’s Friday Find, a lovely little book called I Capture the Castle. by Dodie Smith. You may have heard of Smith’s more famous work: One Hundred and One Dalmations, boasting one of Disney’s most aptly named villains, Cruella de Vil.

The fact that Dodie Smith’s last name is the same as my own is purely coincidental—although I must say it gives me half an idea for a theme for my Sunday posts. What say you to Smith Sundays? In which we investigate famous people named Smith? I don’t know. I’ll have to think about that.

Anyway…I Capture the Castle is a quirky sort of coming-of-age novel about Cassandra Mortmain (Isn’t that a great name?) and her family. Her father is a once-famous and now-blocked writer, her stepmother is the overly-dramatic but not at all wicked Topaz, her elder sister is tired of the life of poverty in spite of the fact that the family really does live in the eponymous castle. There’s a younger brother and a family friend rounding out the household—all of whom have their lives up-ended when wealthy American brothers inherit the nearby Scoatney Hall.

It’s hard to do the book justice in a description.

Perhaps it will help if I tell you that the first sentence of the book is “I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.” (I’m a sucker for intriguing first lines.) Or that J. K. Rowling lists it on her website as one of her favorite books.

Book recommendations are hard. Fiction, especially. One person’s treasured tome is another person’s snooze-fest.

But I Capture the Castle has a lot to recommend it: multi-dimensional characters, a narrator with an original turn of phrase, a surprisingly involved exploration of the psychology behind writer’s block, plot twists, suspense.

Find it. It’s worth a read, I think.

The heart of the matter

Chronic dissatisfaction is at the heart of the matter.

I’ve sort of taken Todd Gitlin’s words out of context. Truth be told, I don’t have the context. I found the quote on a quote website. But it resonates with what I have been thinking as I ask myself, “What am I thankful for on this Thankful Thursday?” Because, you know, I have to do a blog post.

The first thing I thought is that I’m going to be stuck for a blog post, because I’m not feeling very thankful just now. In fact, I’m feeling vaguely dissatisfied.

And then it struck me.

That’s the thing for which I am thankful.

You see, I’ve been in my “new” house for almost three years. The big culture shock of the move is over. The adjustments of finding doctors and dentists and grocery stores and dry cleaners have been accomplished. Almost everything has been unpacked and most things have found places. The big repairs to the house itself have been accomplished. There are still major remodeling projects to come, but the walls have paint, there is enough furniture to find a place to sit and a place to sleep as required, and we have managed to acquire most of the things we never needed previously. Lawn mowers, for example.

Moving is no longer the main focus of my existence.

Now I’m moved. And I’ve got to figure out what my new life should look like–other than a life lived in service to this house.

The house is all well and good. It’s beautiful, in fact. And I am enjoying the weather and the view and the coots. I am more than thankful for the quiet–as anyone who knew me during the living hell of my previous existence is no doubt aware. We’ve settled into a routine.

And it’s just occurred to me in the last week or so that something is not quite right.

I’m not painting and plastering every waking hour, so what am I doing?

That is a disconcerting feeling…or would be, except that I recognize it.

It’s the same feeling I’ve had in the past just before something really interesting comes along. Just before I get a great job or write a play or have an adventure of one kind or another.

I don’t know what this calm before the storm presages this time. I approach it warily—as one should approach all storms—but I am thankful the breezes are stirring.

I’ll echo my niece who said, once, at a family gathering when she was…oh, about one and a half…and had been playing quietly on the floor, paying no attention to any of the adults, until she popped suddenly into view, announcing with great interest and a joyfully rising inflection,”I wonder what’s gonna happen.”

Creativity, for me, has always required space—a gestational period of boredom. I think, perhaps, it’s come round again. And I’m thankful.

I wonder what’s gonna happen.

Where, oh, where

Do the coots go in the summer?

That’s what I’m wondering today.

You see, the coots came back yesterday.

Every winter, usually in late November, we see a few coots. First there are four or five. Then there are twelve. Then there are twenty-four. And then you can’t count them.

This year, I was starting to wonder if something had happened to them. I was hoping it was just that it was still warm enough wherever they were for them to stay there, but I confess to fleeting thoughts about strange avian anomalies—like those red-winged blackbirds that mysteriously fell out of the sky in Arkansas on New Year’s Eve 2011.

So, I was especially delighted to see seven of them swim by the dock this morning. I’m almost always delighted to see the coots, anyway, because they are so hilarious, with their white faces bobbing back and forth as they skedaddle along. They are so sociable, always hanging out in groups, and almost certainly taunting the yellow lab that lived next door. I’m not sure how they knew she wouldn’t go in after them, but they did—swimming right up to the dock and just waiting until the last minute for her to rush up barking wildly before they leisurely flitted a few feet out of reach.

I get a kick out of coots.

I’m happy to have them back. It makes me feel like nature has a friendly side. (Not always my impression when the mosquitoes are auditioning for Dracula and the sweet gums are hurling limbs at me or grasshoppers are chewing my window screens.)

The coots swim by in the morning and, usually, again in the afternoon. We greet each other cordially. (Well, okay—I wave out the window, and they don’t actually spit at me or anything.) I watch with interest as the flock expands exponentially. I think they just gather friends and relations over time as I don’t think I’ve ever seen a baby coot. (A cootlet?)

I sometimes think it would be nice if they stayed around all year, but it’s likely we would take each other for granted if that were the case. It’s probably best that they remain a seasonal pleasure.

But where do they go in the summer?

Elaine Smith Writes

Anything She Wants

Monthly Archives: December 2012