Digging Deep

I spent a good part of Saturday tending to these plants. I brought them inside as the first threats of frost knocked on the door. All of these plants have been transported, transplanted if you will, from FW. So, they carry  a twisted  kind of sweet sentiment inside of me. Especially the Patchouli plant.

I love that plant. I purchased it from a small nursery I found only days before moving South. I had never seen a Patchouli plant before. It came in a four inch pot and I grew it to a monster of a plant, at least eighteen inches high. It smells so good! At the height of summer the scent would drift around the back patio, mingled with those pesky roses. If you crushed the leaves in between your fingers....oh heaven!

Why is it that I fussed over it with a dedication that rivaled my determination to not let those 21 rose bushes fade away. Yet, when I brought it inside I began to neglect it. First of all, I was not sure when to water it. It never drooped and after a blistering summer in the relentless heat and sunshine I thought a respite in the south window would be the best thing for it. I have no idea if this is a plant that would fade away and die with the shortening of the days. I just had to wait and see.

It survived...at least the shortened days, it has not survived me and my becoming distracted over these gray and dreary days.

I noticed it was looking puny and upon closer inspection discovered it had some sort of fungus or something gross on quite a few of the stems and on several of the leaves. Out came the warm soapy water and an hour or more of washing, rinsing and trimming.

I had to redo it yesterday, and I shall examine it again today.

Incidentally this whole ordeal corresponded with a spat I had with J.

As I sat and tenderly worked with the Patchcouli plant I realized the significance of a lesson that was being presented to me by two different messengers.

It is an easy thing to stop looking closely at things/people. It is an easy thing to be unaware of certain signs that are there if you choose to over look them. It is easy to be distracted and maybe even unresponsive when you look the other way. Maybe you can become insensitive when you least expect to be.

The lesson I learned is that you can never ever take anything for granted.

 

Been There, Done That

My entries become farther and farther apart. I have less and less to write about. I have already written about how my family gathers together each Christmas. I have for several years running reviewed the year going over each month with a photo. I have published my New Years resolutions for all to see and for me to know the failure.

It is not that I have run out of things to say, its just that I have learned what an exceptionally small place the Internet actually is, and how one must either go private or write with discretion.

I suppose I have chosen the discretion route which makes for boring boring boring at times.

I am going to rant about Bookmooch.

For about a year I have signed on as a participant and began with a list of approximately 25 books to "swap".  I have found that people wanted most my books, but those I am looking for are either "declined", not mailed, (i.e. request ignored) or simply not there. Factor in the move, I have no idea where the books are and when I am "mooched" I really have to dig.

Recently I was asked for "Tuscany for Beginners" and I found the book and mailed it off. I obviously messed up because the person "canceled" the transaction. I e-mailed her back and explained that I had mailed the book the day before.

I received back a snotty e-mail saying that I did not "follow the rules" and acknowledge her mooch therefore she considered it a non-transaction and canceled. Three days after the request.

Then, she slammed the book when she received it, saying it was not the edition she expected. Granted, it was an advanced reader copy that I had not read because I had inadvertently checked out the same book from the library and read it! (that is why it ended up in the Bookmooch web site).

My question is, what is BookMooch all about? Sharing books to read or book collectors in sheep's clothing?

I don't get it. The book had not been read. The spine not broken and the book itself in pristine, excellent, un-snotty condition.

And the very worst, this is a Kentucky girl.

She must have moved here from up North. (joke from Terms of Endearment).

On to a Rave. I saw the most fantastic movie via NetFlix that made me cry tears of satisfaction at the ending (and I was not drinking!!) and had me rushing out the next day to purchase the soundtrack. The later has been played at least 15 times in two weeks and I have burned copies for both my sisters and two of my closest friends. Not only was the movie terrific, the music is unforgettable.

Naturally an Irish movie called "ONCE".

If you have not seen it yet, quick! Rush out and rent it! If you are a romantic and a music lover this film is for you.

Per Per Post anyone? (just joking).

HOPE....A four letter word?

I try to avoid writing about family members and those close to me. I feel this is akin to stepping over a line called friendship and perhaps even ethics. It sucks at times when I have such a juicy story I am dying to tell! The only family person I will write about (besides Joe and I tell him every time) is Bridget. She is the type of person that when I mention Blog she says, "What???"....so

 

Last week a light bulb not only went off above my head, fireworks, dancing the polka, tossing back chocolate-tinis and throwing knives also accompanied the sudden parting of the fog!

 

I had decided to give her for Christmas jewelry-beading lessons.

 

The girl is good with her hands. Her Dad made his living making dental crowns and the such so she has inherited the gift. One of her first jobs was making one of original fast food "wraps" (a good ten years ago) and she was always put on the Wrap line because she was excellent at this particular composition. It has manifested itself in various ways years before, and after. I just was not paying particular attention.

 

She is in a series struggle to find her way in life. Going to school is not an options as she is just not.....let's say she is class room averse.

 

I never felt so brilliant in my life. And so late in being brilliant.

 

I have been canvassing all the Bead shops, craft shops and any small shop on Bardstown Road that may offer lessons. Today I hit the jackpot, and she was even with me! I had taken her out to lunch to give her a pep talk and a good meal. She begged to hang out with me (how could I say no) so I told her what I was up to.

 

As we drove past the shop she turned to me and said, "Dad's friend owns this shop I think. One time he was going to ask Sandy to hire me."

 

And yes it was Sandy! And yes they do have private lessons that are very reasonable and progressive. Bridget was in love as we entered the store and began to study all the beads, baubles, stones, strings and rocks....

 

I talked to Sandy. "How did you get into this business?"

 

10 minutes later!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

Bridget said later she felt so bad for me, she should have warned me how ponderous he could be at times.

 

I was just glad he started in the middle and did not start out telling me where he was born, how much he weighed, and where he went to grammar school, high school, took music lessons......blah blah blah.

 

What a story!

 

I could have told it in two paragraphs. It took him a lot longer.

 

But, I have hope and it feels so good. It feels like a warm wonderfulness in the mid section. She and I had an exquisite talk on the way to drop her off. Already we have a web site and so many art shows lines up in our heads.

 

If enthusiasm begets success that kid has a road opening up for her.

 

Just, never ask Sandy anything personal. Unless you have an afternoon to kill.

 

 

 

Sunday Scribblings #88

Another interesting thought provoking entry brought to you by Sunday Scribblings.

The subject....Competition.

On the surface, the prompt did not seem that relevant to me and my thoughts, life, my being. Yet, when I am scrounging around for something to write about I returned the site and thought, what was I thinking!! I have a long history with being competitive and have the scars to prove it!

 

It all began in grammar school in a small two room school house where I realized I would never receive the best grades in the class no matter what I did, no matter how smart I thought I was, no matter what the subject, no matter how hard I tried. Her name was BKA and I loved her as much as I despised her. I competed for the Nuns attentions, grades, who got to the swing set first, who ate lunch with who under the sliding board, boyfriends from the meager selection we had out of our class of seven, (of which five were girls)(meaning Tom & Mac were in great demand) with this pretty demure girl from the country, a farmers daughter. We even fought (because isn't that what competition will turn into when you are eight and nine) over who was our best friend. We traded Missy back and forth like we traded school supplies, (trading supplies was one of our great passions and a coveted tiny red pen that had three ascending bubbles on it, much like three marbles, was the highest prize of all changing hands every several days)(I am remembering this stuff from over 40 years ago, the attached emotion is still so raw). She left our school before eight grade and nothing seemed right in the school, like the earth had deviated from its axis.

After that it was competitive swimming where I excelled, which surprised no one more than me, in the back stroke. I was good, very good, but now I was thrown into a bigger pool (no pun intended) of competitors, much larger than my grammar school universe, and the best I could do was to place seventh in the state competition when I was a Sophomore in HS. Lost interest after that.....I remember my Dad marveling at how when we would all approach the start how I was the smallest, slightest, least muscular and intimidating of all...yet I would kick ass (my words, not his)!

Then I didn't care about anything for awhile because it was the 1970's and I was in college.

Then it was the 1980's and I had to return to college and get a degree while attending night school because I had messed up so bad during my first attempt at majoring in FUN rather than a degree. And man oh man, did I ever want to prove myself as a scholar. I could not believe how I coveted having the highest grades in the class.....and I mean the curve setting grades.....and how I studied and studies and studied.

I did okay and at times, I did kick ass in the class room too.

Everyday I spent working for the Beverage Company involved some type of competition. I grew very weary.

It is at this point that I should be able to reflect and have some profound ending summary about how winning is not all it is cracked up to be. How we all compete yet we all can't be Top Dog. How it makes you stronger to stretch and try. How it builds character.

Yet all I can think of is Dirty Harry's famous line....

"A man's got to know his limitations."

And learn to live with them.

Almost Famous

 

Sunday morning I was looking through the travel section and read for the umpteenth time that you too can share your travel photo's with the Courier Journal! I looked at the photo's and thought to myself (for the umpteenth time)that my photo's are as good, if not better, than the three being featured that morning.

So I did it, I sat down and registered and uploaded four photo's from our trip to Ireland in 2004. My favorite photo from the entire 2004 was the one of Paddy Gleeson waving good-bye to Joe and myself as we left his cottage in O'Callahan's Mills, the home of one set of my Grandparents.

Paddy had just turned 100 and had his cards strung around the room from a string he had attached to all four walls. They hung like Christmas ornaments around the small dark area. We sat in front of his peat fire and drank a thimble of some grape wine he had on hand. He was partially deaf and very cute for 100.

Yesterday evening I open the paper and turn to A-2 and almost fall off the couch.

There is Paddy!!

I was not named as the photographer who supplied the picture, but the thrill of seeing one of my shots published was just pure joy. I immediately ran out of the house and began to hunt down all the newspaper stands to grab as many as I could.

After calling my mother.

And my brother.

And my sister.

I was so shocked and speechless!

Really.

Speechless.

Santa's Recycling Center

I realize I spend a lot of time away from J-land. Actually, I am not blogging/journaling all that much anywhere anymore!

But...I was thinking about Christmas cards. I recently read about making a collage out of all your "saved" Christmas Cards. (come on, I know you save your cards too). So, I took it one better and thought I would make some cards from the stash I have accumulated over the years.

One thing led to another and I thought what if I asked if anyone in J-land wanted to be part of a Christmas Card exchange?

It is one of my favorite things....receiving cards, especially at Christmas.

So, e-mail me, or leave a comment and let's see what happens!

UPDATE!!!!!!!!!!

This is how it would work. Since Christmas is a week from now, lets give it a December 15 deadline.

I will compile a list of everyones name and addresses and e-mail them to everyone on the list. We each will send everyone on the list a Christmas Card and it does not have to be homemade. (mine will be, but that is because I am a nutcase who has too much time on her hands and should be out looking for a job so I find lots of other things to do to take up my time to ensure I don't have any time to go out and seek employment).

It will be fun! I promise.

To Make A Long Story Short

There have been a lot of ups and downs recently with my Dad. Literally, ups and downs. He has had several episodes where his legs have given out and down he goes. The week before last, he was on the ground three separate times. One found him collapsing on the way into a Wednesday night Mass. My Mother rushed in, waited until a break in the action then proclaimed, "Tom has fallen!" and half the congregation in the back jumped up and ran out to help.

The last straw was when he fell at home and blood was involved.

My Dad is a fighter. He was born premature and not expected to live. 88 years later, here he is continuing to beat the odds.

Considering the "quality of life" not only for my Dad, but for my Mom, it was decided to put in a pace maker. The doctor explained it would not necessarily prolong his life, but it would regulate the heart beat which was falling too low and causing the drop in blood pressure.

When my Dad's health took a turn for the worst four years ago a pace maker was not an option. Considering the improvements of recent medical procedures "they" decided that "out patient' surgery was all that was required to get my Dad up and running again.

It was almost the truth.

I realize that I am not the only one who has to watch their parent fade away. My Dad is a shell of the person he was. He is encased in a body that does not work any longer. He has had strokes that have robbed him of who he is. Who he was.

I sit with him as he watches television in between naps. Anything that is cowboy related, John Wayne especially, he is thoroughly absorbed. I sometimes can catch a glimpse of the person he was, sometimes he makes an observation, or an attempt at a joke. There is a tiny part of him in there.

It was reported that as he lay on the sidewalk in front of the church with his eyes closed, the EMS people finally arrived and standing over him asked if he had passed out or was unconscious.

His startling blue eyes flew open and he commanded them, "Get me the Hell up!"

Not that my Dad ever swore before, actually he never did, he always said that a man who had to resort to profanity was a man who lacked a vocabulary.

I would give anything, anything to have one day, one afternoon, one hour with my Dad the way he was. To have him rebuke me for muttering a profanity. To have him shake his finger in my face and tell me that I was a "FAMILY SURNAME"!! Tohave those moments when he would be telling a story and begin to wind it up by saying, "To make a long story short...."

To hear one more time his white washed WWII stories. To hear the endless supply of, "When I was young...." narratives. What I would give to hear about his light weight fighting career in the army, or to be told about him swimming across the river in New Hampshire, or his days as a number runner in NYC.

When ever his time does come, even though I am beginning to believe he will live to be 100, his long story will indeed be cut too short.