I Favor Walking

I thought I heard Temple Grandin. Her voice was loud and strong, and each letter rolled out in perfect formation into a string of fast words. Her sentences were tightly connected with soulful inflection, syllable by syllable, word by word.

I was browsing at candles when I heard her from across the store, and quickly made my way to the jewelry counter so that I could be near her, and see her, and admire her.

Probably in her 50's, she wore a long, black wool coat, the back of which had been a resting place for a cat or dog. Her hair was long and clean, dark brown, dark red, shiny but matted in some places. Her lipstick was bright red and had been hastily applied, and her black suede Ugg boots were salted from winter.

The woman behind the counter was patient with her, smiled at her, as she spoke of her latest projects.

I am working on a new novel, it's historical, a historical novel, I love history and historical novels, it's historical. Did you ever read the book called The Girl with the Pearl Earring? They made it a movie it was a movie starring Colin Ferth. Do you know him he is a great actor, great actor. You know that movie the King's Speech was about the Queen's father, the real Queen, the one we have now, he was her father King George. She's pretty amazing. I have a client who is almost as old as she is and she still drives. I think it's ok to talk about my clients as long as I don't tell you their names, you know, confidentiality is important. But she drives and she is 81. Can you believe that? She is 81 and she drives still. I hope I can drive when I'm 81 still, because I CAN drive, I just favor walking. But that's an accomplishment, driving at 81.

I leaned on the counter adjacent to her, and looked at delicate silver jewelry and pretty things that sparkled, and enjoying myself listening to the woman with the wonderful mind.

The clerk politely excused herself, she had to get to work, and I liked that clerk. She was kind and giving of her time. She turned away from the cash register, looked at me, smiled, and rolled her eyes.

I didn't like her any more.

I got hurt the other day and it was on purpose. When that clerk rolled her eyes it reminded me how hard it is to trust the kindness of others, and what it feels like when a kind face turns on you to roll their eyes.

Luckily, the woman with the wonderful mind didn't see that part. She just asked, as the clerk was walking away

Would you mind if I browse for a while?

Math Paper

Mr. Urquhart was a fat man who had two suits which he rotated throughout the week and by the end he was a little stinky from fat man sweat. Not the smell of sweat like after you work out in the same clothes time after time, but the smell from the way you sweat when you get just walking around when you are big like he was. He wore white shirts and boring ties that were never quite knotted properly and I wondered how he could tie those wide scuffed up shoes. Maybe someone else did it for him. I had heard he had a wife and 2 sons but it grossed me out to think about that.

He had a wide swagger when he walked into math class each day, the kind of wide swagger you have to adopt when your thighs are so far apart from each other. He had very thick dark hair, caterpillar eyebrows and heavy glasses framed in black plastic. He also could have used a manicure at any time. Serious hangnail issues.

Everyone loved Mr. Urquhart, except for me, mainly because he didn't like me back, and that is what you get when you dislike a 13 year old girl. He was loud and told jokes and paid special attention to the bad kids and the popular kids. This was his way of getting attention and being popular, himself, because the bad kids and the popular kids liked him right back.

To me he was just plain suspicious and mean.

For me, math was bad enough as it was. I didn't understand it and I still don't and he was quite wrong, I am doing just fine without a secure place in my brain where simple functions are performed with out the use of a calculator or dinner partner (for figuring out tips, of course). I had him twice, in 7th and 8th grade math, back to back years of confusing digit hell with the Fat Man.

One thing I did like about math, was the pad of paper they gave you at the beginning of the year. Math paper, they called it. It was a very light greyish brown bland color, with tiny, very tiny flecks of brown sprinkled on it, and it had a texture that loved a good Number 2 pencil.

I did alot of figuring and erasing and failing on the paper on that pad, but I did enjoy the pad itself. I liked the way lead pencil marks looked on it, and the feeling in my fingers when the pencil scratched at it. It made me feel like a scientist or a discoverer, even though I had no idea what I was doing. And so I used that paper for other things, too. I drew pictures and wrote goofy poems and once used it to start my first novel, "Mr. Huffininkle", which was intended to be a biography about my pet turtle of the same name. The cover came out pretty well, and so did the first chapter (well, paragraph), but it has yet to be published.

When Mr. Urquhart gave tests, he passed out the questions on freshly mimeographed sheets, cold and fumey, with purple typing. We would have to hand those sheets back in at the end, of course. Then he told us to take that math paper and fold it down the middle, making two columns. In the left column, you would do your figuring, and in the right column, record your answer. I suppose this made it easier for him to grade the papers without having to review the method of those kids who he knew would get the answers right anyway.

I failed one of those tests, and I was so upset and embarrassed, that I laughed and laughed and whispered to my friends directly to the north, south and west of me what I had done. They smiled uncomfortably, but I was determined to show everyone how brave I was, how cool I was to not be upset about this.

Mr. Urquhart called me out. He looked down at me, over those greasy glasses sliding his chubby nose :"It's really not funny, Linda. There is nothing funny about this."

Laughter quickly gave way to a hot red face, tears rimming my eyes, and feeling as if I had been locked in the stocks, up front, for all to see and make fun. God I hated that man.

Two weeks later, after a great deal of study and effort, we had another test. It was given on a Friday morning. On Friday afternoon, during Study Hall, I asked for a hall pass to check my test score in the Math Teachers office, and when he told me I had received an A+, he delivered the news with the same patronizing tone as he did when I had failed. I was thrilled for one moment, and sick the next when I realized what was going on.

He thought I had cheated.

I don't remember my final grade that year, or any year for that matter, until my freshman year in college, when my final grade of D was granted only because dear Mrs. Logan let me gain extra points by writing a math paper (her husband was my writing instructor, admired my work, and I believe he had a hand in this). The paper was about games you could play with numbers, though I never really understood the games, I told about them and it was well written.

Many of us think back on teachers who touched us, motivated and inspired us, but I really did not have too many of these. How messy to help an already awkward young teen to feel bad about herself, shame on you.

I think about that pad of paper every once in while, though, and while it was useful to some for solving problems, it was useful to me as a canvas for anything, anything other than

MATH.

I didn't believe this would happen to you

i kept looking at her face in the picture. i kept thinking about who she was. i kept thinking about how what they said and who she was didn't match for me. the obit talked her age, mother of 4, wife of someone, but they didn't macth. my interactions with her included a fan that she needed to have fixed and various work order passed from her to me. i thought she was fine. i though she was ok. she worked the program she walked out the door.

i was in the supply room checking my mailbox,. paycheck, ok cool i pull d it out and looked up and i saw her obituary. i pushed my check back in the slot and i looked at her face and i thought what happened? does that make sense? nothing you can do about it.

iam happy to be here and sometimes it is like gosh you are my friend, don't go away. what it always means to have my friends, and to my friends, please always come back. just know you can come back . i know you may not want to but there are worse places to go you know?



there's my dog. you are my good dog. thank you my friend.

three fly masks, two old dogs and an unwelcome stomache flu

My last morning here in the valley started out before I did. It was early and I thought I was snoozing and then the pain came and I won't say what else happened. I rolled and wretched,took a shower and packed, and then thought about the two and a half hour drive to Nashville, the final fun stop on my journey here. Oh boy! Sights and sounds! Music and beer and then a plane ride! And then a three hour layover and then another plane ride!

Oh my dear God.

A couple of phone calls and $59 dollars later I was opening my suitcase and pulling out a pair of shorts to nap the afternoon away on the porch. I don't like changing plans, and I want to go home, but why don't you just admit that sometimes things change, and that is ok. Got it, Draze?

After a snooze, I took a walk around the pastures with two old dogs and three lovely horses, all of whom are now friends of mine and I am their friend, too. I have learned a lot about old dogs and horses these last few days, and while the brown eyes of those tall babies melt my heart, they do get bothered by flies, and so that is why today they are wearing masks. They didn't seem to mind when my girlfriend put them on them (god she knows her stuff about horses!), and they were instantly calmer, even though they look a little like bank robbers.

I rode one of them yesterday, he is my favorite. He is a Tennessee Walker and a worrier like me, and so we get along very well. He loves to snuggle and gave me neck nuzzles after our ride. And so I will excuse the lite bruise on my left cheek where he gave me a little nip as I walked away....

You have to groom a horse before you can ride him. We don't want any crusty dirt on their coat where any of the straps or girth will be - that will irritate their skin. Grooming involves a hard curry brush first to loosen the mud, a soft brush next to brush off the dust, combing out the mane and tail, and finally, digging the mud out from their hooves. I did not do that part, but I did all the rest. It is important to let them know what you are doing all the time, where you are, what your intentions are, and what comes next, and then they happily oblige, and will follow you, and trust you, and maybe even love on you.

I have learned a lot from these boys, and as in every new learning, look for the lesson that is hiding behind the moment.
Maybe my stomache flu is a flu, and maybe there is a bit more to it than that. And that is all I will say about that for right now.

Home home home, I am on my way to you. I thought I had left all anxiety behind when I started out last Tuesday, but today I find I am wrong, but perhaps a good grooming will dust you away when I get there.

I miss you!

Waking Up

I can't remember the last time I saw a surise but I did this morning and I can't stop thinking about it. It was a cool morning, dark and peaceful in the Valley, the best time of day for sleeping. I was waking up thinking about several delightful adventures I had just had, and relieved that my head had been full of dreams again,instead of dust and misery as it seems to have been lately when I slept. Country air clears the cobwebs, I guess.

There are two old dogs that live here, and by old, I mean OLD as in 16 or so years each. One is a cartoon character and other is a giant panting bear, and he is the one who I heard in the hallway. He pants a lot. Like Darth Vader. I opened the door and there he was wagging his butt and asking me to open the french doors to the upstairs porch for him, but when I opened them I realized he was asking me to open them for me, not for him.

Good dog.

Pink and blue and gold and orange and salmon and grey, all of these colors squirted and splattered over the mountains. Fuzzy clouds of silver mist floating over the pastures, and horses horses. Two of them across the way were lying down, snuggled like cats, and when they sensed my presence (although at least a hundred yards away and way up high), their heads shot up like two kids who just got caught making out. Everyone around here has horses, you can't look and not see them, and they are strange and peaceful beasts who sleep standing up with one hoof cocked and both eyes open.

So much for this being the best part of the day for sleeping. On the other hand, now that I have seen this painted sight, perhaps it's time again for bed, and dreams.

Big Truck, Great Friend, and a Lemon Tree

I wasn't sure exactly what I was getting myself into, only that a lovely friend needed someone to ride shotgun as she drove a truck towards nashville, and I was selected as good company and someone who needed to get out of town. Cheap vacation to a place I had never seen, and that is about all I knew.

After a late start, due to a missing and necessary prescription that needed filling, my partner assured me we would be there shortly after midnight. Ahhh, the romance of a road trip -- great tunes, light traffic, and a heavy engine to roll us through the Wyeth painted Iowa cornfields. Beautiful! So many cornfields! Wow, look at all those cornfields. Really, there are so many cornfields...

Indianna finally crept up, and with it, more cornfields along with a casual remark from my partner that maybe we should have take the Wisconsin route after all, as were now about 253 miles away from half-way there. We oughta make it my 3, she said.

THREE?! IN THE MORNING AS IN TOMORROW MORNING? Hmmm. Approach with caution. I am the guest here, after all. Mustn't bite the hand that feeds you, or in this case, the hand of the gracious hostess who got me into this in the first place. A few choice words were politely exchanged, including a some that intimated that if our "departure time had not been delayed due to a medication situation" that we could have gotten there by at least TWO not THREE.

By that time we were laughing so hard we could barely breathe, and 253 miles flew past us into the dark, and by midnight we were singing along with Peter, Paul and Mary as we admired the sparkling night lights of Louisville, Kentucky.

Lemon tree, very pretty, and the lemon flower is sweet
But the fruit of the poor lemon, is impossible to eat.

Four more hours to go.

In the early morning hours the semi trucks - hundreds of them, kept us company for miles of kentucky and into tennessee. I had never seen so many! Huge beasts of steel and lights and shiny panels, loud and determined and very polite as they made their way to whereever they were going, and just as many cozied up next to each other in oddly poignant scenes by the side of road, dozens of big loads who decided to catch a snooze before sun up. It was a slumber party for PeterBuilt, tires tucked under massive rigs like sleepy paws pressed into tired bellies and dimmed headlights like sleepy eyelids.

Finally at 10 to 3, eastern time, we rolled into the valley (as they call it) to the sweet smell of hay and the welcoming tunes of crickets and frogs. There were horses out there somewhere, we will see those tomorrow, but for now, a glass of wine and then to bed.

In the morning I found myself a guest in a gracious southern home, with one refigerator filled with wine and the other , food, and a note about chores and "please make yourself at home". My darling traveling partner is happy tending to outdoor chores, and I am happy to sit and read and write and nap and find something useful to do with some fresh tomatoes, fettucini, and plenty of garlic for our dinner.

In my 50's I am finding that so many things that never used to feel like me are defining everything I truly am in a way I could not have imagined. Where are we going? South. When will we get there? In "several hours". Where are we staying? Someplace nice. How am I possibly going after an adventure like this with so little information? This is SO not like me!

Surprise on me! Yes it is.

And it turns out that the fruit of the poor lemon may indeed be impossible to eat, but squeezed on a little fresh pasta and argula, it is quite tasty, especially with a Biltmore Pinot Grigio.

Cheers.

Use Plenty of Caution

Ella was a handful. She was born on a farm in 1843, but didn't pay much attention to farming, or even to domestic chores that young ladies were prone to do in those days, so as to ensure their future. She was a beauty and a flirt, a terrifc horsewoman, and always had her way. She had long, thick, black hair, black eyes to match, and a contra-alto voice that sent men swimming. Her curves were soft with strong muscle underneath, and she stayed out late most nights. She went to parties and sweated eggs in old haunted houses, then fell too deeply asleep for much too long, and had to tiptoe her horse into the barn, making certain there were no snorts from him nor creeks from the stall door. Her practice of this came in handy many years later when she advised her favorite grandson, Roland, how to sneak in the house after curfew.

She married a very hansome and well-loved man named Robert Wilcutts, of the Kent County Wilcutts. He was sweet and much more of a gentle soul than she, and many wondered why she left the gaity she loved for this kind man.

Perhaps she fell in love with him.

He was a farmer but also worked at odd jobs in the off-season, things like oystering, carpentry, logging and store keeping. They had two baby girls, and named them Laura and Annie, but soon there was so little work that Ella and Robert sent the girls off to live with relatives, who could better afford to raise them.

Soon after, they decided to take in a border to help with their situation, and a young doctor named Blocksom took the room. He was new in town, just setting up a practice, and found himself quite comfortable in the home of the Wilcutts.
He especially enjoyed the excellent care, attention, and affection Ella offered. And of course he never refused her hospitality.

Mrs. Tucker was a neighbor on one side of the Wilcutts and Mrs. Buckson was a neighbor on the other side. Being generally curious about the neighborhood, they habitually peeped in to the windows of their neighbors as necessary, just for the good of all. It was not long before they reported seeing Ella and the Doctor in "situations of closeness" clearly meant for married people.

Oh My.

Baby Robert, named after the man Ella swore was his father, died shortly after he was born. It was common in those days, for infants to die, so no one thought much of it, save to express sorrow.

Except those neighbors, of course.

Suddenly Ella announced to Robert that she needed some time away, and off she went to keep house for a retired widower in Willmington. Coincidentally, the Doctor also had freqent business in town. Robert knew this, and became very depressed, and starting keeping more and more to himself.

One afternoon, Mrs. Buckson and Mrs Tucker were concerned that Robert had been so quiet. No opening or closing of windows, no trips out to the back house, nothing at all. They peeked in the dining room window and saw him collapsed on the floor, chair upturned. The Doctor ordered them all out of the room once he'd arrived and broken down the door, but of course our ladies were excellent peekers, and so they peeked.

Robert had taken some poison whether by fate, intention or accident, but he was still alive. The Doctor leaned over to work on him but the peekers could not tell whether his hands were intending to strangle the man or help him to vomit.

To drown the accusations, the Doctor moved almost immediately to a new town, and married a woman named Sally Fisher.

Ella never married again.

But she was never alone again, either.