Going Postal

Sleds like my parent's

If you've been reading this blog, you know I recently took a little look-see into the past. To the days when people literally reached out and touched someone. Instead of posting a selfie on facehole, they posted a card. In the mail. Weird, but true. I sorted through my cousin Jane's well aged, dusty shoe box full of postcards last month. My trip down Jane's memory lane took me to 1960's Vegas and titillating topless ice skaters. Ooh-la-la. I learned what kind of bed spreads the Holiday Inn favored back in the day. Burnt orange. And I was educated about a new species of rabbit. The  Jackalope. You know, rabbits with antlers.  

This investigative postal-ism prompted me to dig up my own hand written past. I sifted through my oldest box of cards. I'm a pack rat just like my cousin. I don't know why, but I saved everything. Wow! I received a lot of high school graduation cards. Geez, it's pretty easy to graduate from high school. I hope my friends and family didn't think it was Med school or something. I also discovered that my college boyfriend sent me more cards in just a few years of dating, than my husband has given me in fifteen years of marriage. Including the 4 years we dated before that. For shame! And then there's the mystery of the people that seem to be so important in you life. For awhile. They send you thoughtful cards and never forget your birthday and then mysteriously vanish. Seriously, there were cards from people that I can't remember from Adam. Or was it Eve.

But the sweetest cards were from my parents. I remember crying into an unfamiliar pillow when my parents started traveling out west to snowmobile in the mountains. I was probably only around 6 years old when they left me with our pastor and his family for two torturous weeks. I found out later that my Mom shed just as many tears as me in those early years. The featured card is from 1975. I was eight year's old and had graduated to staying with my friend Vikki and her family. I remember the Christianson's only ate healthy cereal. For God's sake Mom! How could you leave me with those savages? "Ah, excuse me, Mrs. Christianson. Um, where exactly do you keep your cookie crisp cereal? What???!!! You don't have any!!!!!" 

If only I knew a good swear word when I was eight. Like good old W.T.F. But I didn't.

My parents had a lot of adventures snowmobiling in Yellowstone. They enjoyed wilderness wiener roasts with grizzly bears. Sort of. They saw Buffalo and Elk in their natural habitat. (see above) They experienced high altitude sled troubles. (snowmobiles are called sleds by true devotees)  And, thank goodness, they sent lots of postcards. Postcards that always ended with Love, Mom and Dad. Priceless. Or, at least 10 cents worth. 

Seeds of Inspiration

A nervous roseate spoonbill. (Taken from our car)

But, things don't always smell like roses...

I was reading Santana Garcia's link on the Seeds of Inspiration while on vacation this month. (What a great name she has by the way) And suddenly, I had a hilarious, creepy and somewhat disturbing thought. My foul smelling seed of inspiration for the week was found in a ditch. 

We had just experienced a spicy, pine cone strewn walk through the palmettos and mossy oak hammock of Crew Trails. This peaceful walking sanctuary borders the calm meander known as Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary in southern Florida. Inspiring right? Well, yes and no. The air at Crew is saturated with the smell of jasmine and honeysuckle. As soon as you open your car door, the olfactory memory smacks you in the face. It always smells like that there. We were the first and only people to walk at Crew that morning. Being the first victim...oops...I mean hiker, usually means that you'll be entering a maze of spider webs hanging aimlessly and prolifically across the trail. It's almost spooky to arrive at sunrise, while the dew drops hang like luminous pearls, by the millions, from every mummified plant. This year we were prepared. We brought a trekking pole to clear the webs. But a midnight rain storm had cleared them all away. In fact, the whole Corkscrew Sanctuary is wetter than it's been since the 50's. So everything was popping with herbaceous life and vibrant color.

So did I find my writing mojo at Crew? Nope. We left the trail head feeling inspired, but nothing that would help me with the writer's block that was plaguing chapter 21. We turned left out of the empty parking lot and headed to our temporary home. I even added a bucket list bird sighting to my ever increasing score. A flock of roseate spoonbills. I had never seen them in the wild before. They were cautiously feeding in the ditch. So was it them? Nope. A little further down the road my husband nonchalantly remarked that the vulture he'd seen earlier that morning, was still devouring an unlucky carcass. Where? You guessed it. The ditch. He was gorging himself on, what my husband referred to as, "A melted pile of fur." Gross! But what a visual. That's it! That remark solved my dilemma. How can that be?  What kind of disgusting novel am I writing? 

a) V is for vulture

b) 101 things to do with road kill

c) Ditch tigers and their feathered friends

d) Road kill: Good to the last maggot (sorry)

The answer is e) None of the above.

Writing isn't all roseate spoonbills, jasmine, sugar and spice. Sometimes, it's vultures.

Or crows!

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Postcards From the Edge of Extinction

My cousin Jane had an Estate sale. After all was said and done, a lifetime of postcards sat stuffed in a double wide shoe box at the end of a very lonely table. They intrigued me. I'm a traveler and a lover of writing. And yet, writing a postcard never even occurred to me while we were in Panama this year. It occurred to Carlo in 1979. Carlo, that sounds like the romantic name of a real traveler. And indeed it is. How do I know? I know because I decided the box of memories that was destined for the trash bin, just might turn out to be one woman's treasure. 

 I took home that lonely, overstuffed box and discovered that Carlo got around!

My photo of the Bridge of the Americas from January 2016.

My photo of the Panama Canal in 2016.

Writing postcards is such a lost art. I blame the government. 49 cent stamps? Gasp. Even Carlo might have walked right by the mailbox shaking his head. When I started sorting through Jane's dusty stack, I discovered postcards mailed for 5 cents. Or even less! The good old days. So, other than penny stamps, what did I discover? Where has she been? Who were her pen pals? And where in the world did these pals mail their cards from? Istanbul? Yup. Brazil? Yes, you can bet your bikini there was one. Mexico? Si. But where did most of the postcards hail from? Right here in the states.  Vegas, baby. 

I even discovered where most of Jane's friends and family stayed on their vacations. The Holiday Inn. Free postcards seemed to be a great advertising tool back in the day. They were hilariously retro too.

Sifting through Jane's cards got me thinking. She's not the only card carrying pack rat. I'm one too. It must run in the family. I've saved every card I've ever received. To think that someday, some weirdo like me might go through them. Well, someone exactly like me actually. I pulled my stack out of hiding and plan to sift through those as well. 

Between my birthday cards and Jane's globe trotting trash, the future blogging possibilities seem endless. So stay tuned! 

P.S.  Stop back on or around March 26th for more creative writing from The Chorus of the Crows.

And be sure to stop by Springtime in Magnolia for my book review of Turn Here Sweet Corn.

Funny Felines

I was watching CBS This Morning recently, and to my delight, Stephen Colbert was hanging out with Charlie, Gayle and Norah. Well, you can imagine what happened next. I laughed. My cat Hana was sleeping on my lap, and when I laugh or sneeze, she always looks up and croaks out a little Meoahh. Not a Meow. A Meoahh. It's so cute. It always sounds like a question. And I've always wondered what she is saying. She's probably saying something like the following... 

a) "Are you talking to me? Not that I care either way."

b) "Are you O.K.?" (Not likely)

c) "Shhh. I'm sleeping." (This could be a contender)

d) "Are you laughing at me? You better not be. I've got mad cat skills."

I can only imagine the cat-astrophes she is capable of pawing together if she thought I was laughing at her expense. She's the kitty who pooped in the bathroom sink recently after accidentally locking herself in. She has the naughty habit of shutting the door while she's playing the popular game, It's Raining Cats and Dogs in the shower. Her bad. But try telling that to a cat.

What if we couldn't laugh? Or understand humor. Cats can't laugh! Poor Hana. I just had a mini epiphany. Hana will never let a laugh roll over her sandpaper tongue; her whiskers twitching with delight. "Maw, maw, maw." (fictional cat laughter) She can dilate her eyes like eight balls. But she can't laugh. Oh, the sorrow. Wait a minute. They can't cry either. Cat scratch the sorrow.

I do have at least one human in my life that can't understand humor. I won't name any names, but everything you tell them in jest is taken with complete seriousness. They don't understand popular culture either. Fuhgeddaboudit. "Please take this with a grain of salt," you casually proclaim. "Pass the pepper," they reply with clenched eyebrows.  The joke is inevitably on you. 

Thank goodness Stephen Colbert fills me with delight. Because life would be so boring without humor. Although, it's possible cats really do have a sense of humor. They might laugh in private. Can't you just hear the evil BBBBWWWWAAAAHHHH behind the closed bathroom door?

 "I pooped in the sink. Maw, maw, maw!"

Toilet Buddies

Bed Time Stories

I love this quote. It's such a fun way to think about dreams. These days, I'm not only spinning bizarre stories during the night, but weaving tall tales during the day as well. I'm writing a novel.

 A few night's ago, I was on a flume, careening down an arid mountain; admiring the white washed cities of Greece. The cities were set against bodies of cerulean and turquoise pools of water. It was beautiful and exciting! But, just like life, it whizzed by way too fast. It was so vivid. In fact, once I started writing my novel, it seemed like my dreams became even more technicolor and well, just plain weird. It was like I opened up a door to the Twilight Zone. I emerged from my black and white world into a strange new universe. And I discovered that it's fun to wear sparkly red shoes and explore on foot. But only in my dreams. In reality, I'd need a good pair of Merrells to walk all the way to the Emerald City.

 Maybe I'm simply paying more attention. I definitely seem to be remembering them more; waking up baffled and amused by the night's entertainment. I often wonder what my cats are dreaming about too. They always seem to be on a journey. Once I see their skin crawl, accompanied by the twitch of a whisker and a curl of a paw, I suspect they're half way there. This morning I was shopping in a grocery store in Central America. I woke up saying, "Si." Yes what? Hopefully it was yes, I'll buy the papaya. I can't remember. 

My favorite dreams always involve architecture. I've always had them. I'll dream up the most amazing homes. I had a blue apartment once. There was a yellow palatial palace with Greek pillars a few years back. And a lifetime of homes too numerous to count since I was a kid. They are always unique. And every furnishing and nick nack has my name written all over it. I call myself an artist. I hope, I can be a writer. But maybe, I'm just a closeted interior decorator. That's what my dreams suggest.

 I do day dream about my future dream home. It's on stilts in a yard full of fruit trees and swaying palms. Do you feel the humidity? I watch an osprey soar over head and then decide to climb my staircase to the home above. It's open, one level living. The ceiling is high with thick, rustic wooden beams scaling the roof top. It's basically a big wooden box surrounded by a 365 degree lanai. Screened in of course. It's on a lake. And at the end of the day there's an amazing sunset followed by a night sky filled with twinkling stars. 

A girl can dream...

To read a review of the wonderful book Pioneer Girl: The Annotated Autobiography visit Springtime in Magnolia.

A Little Romance...

I picked up a shopping cart full of classic books last summer at Half Price Books. Or was it last spring? It's all a gigantic reading blur. I hope too many books doesn't spoil the broth. Or something like that. And yet, even after my big book stew, I feel like I've only turned the first page. It will take a lifetime. I started with To Kill a Mockingbird. It sucked. I'm kidding! At one point, I was reading around four books at once. Gone with the Wind, Anne of Green Gables, Bleakhouse and Midnight Bayou. Wait a minute. Midnight Bayou by Nora Roberts? That's not exactly a classic. But, I keep picking up books at the little lending libraries as well. And besides, I'm an old romantic at heart.

That's why I have so much catching up to do. I blame my Mom. Back in the day, my Mom hated all the trash on T.V.  A.K.A. sexual situations. Basically, all the good stuff. The stuff I was dying to see. But she had a secret. At heart, she loved a good bodice ripper. Suddenly, all those sexual situations were O.K., if they were packaged right. She got me hooked on Kathleen E. Woodiwiss as a teenager. And maybe some hot blooded books by Barbara Cartland as well. Basically, if the cover had a dashing duke holding a poor, raven haired, busty servant girl in an ardent embrace, then we read it. Later on, when I was in my 20's and working as a flight attendant, I started reading contemporary romance. If I was on a layover, I was reading Danielle Steele. That's kind of embarrassing to admit now. Boy, if you've read one, you've read them all. I loved LaVyrle Spencer back then too. I think I'd still love LaVyrle Spencer.

If only my Mom would have hooked me on Jane Austin or Charlotte Bronte back in the day. It took Masterpiece theater to introduce me to that future obsession. For awhile, I think my husband thought I had been reincarnated from a period woman wearing an ungodly tight, cleavage bursting, flowing satin gown. I can only hope I had a lady's maid to help me with my coiffure. She could powder my cleavage. If I had any. I'm not sure if I believe in reincarnation, so let's just say my husband felt that at the very least, I'd happily live in that world if I could. In reality, like I said, I have no cleavage and I can't stand anything tight. I remember him asking me curiously what I liked so much about those movies and books. Until Downton Abby came along. Now, we watch that classically inspired soap opera together. How romantic! 

When my cousin Jane sold her house, she had an estate sale. After all was said and done, there were a ton of books left. I got to go and take my pick. And wouldn't you know it, she had a trilogy of LaVyrle Spencer. All in one big book. I've read Separate Beds and Hummingbird. But The Hellion, that will be one of the books on my reading list this Valentine's Day.

My mother would approve.

Happy Valentine's Day!

"Kevin, it's going to be a long, hard day."

 That's my husband's new favorite quote. Have you been watching The Leftovers on HBO? We have. And we're hooked. Although, their decision to change the intro from a creepy and dramatic ascent into Heaven; accompanied by a blast of sound and a mesmerizing chorus, to a lame and stupid hillbilly redux, had us irritated and confused. We even googled the decision, to see if others were baffled. They were. 

I can be a little dramatic about unpleasant situations. See above. But there are many, many other times. Like when we were traveling back from Panama. We hadn't even left the airport in Panama City and I was already complaining. "Like I said Kevin, long, hard day." That's what my husband said to me. The flights went as smooth as they possibly could. But the quote couldn't have been more apt.

It really shouldn't surprise anyone that my husband would love a show called The Leftovers. He is the one who cleans out the fridge on a regular basis. And diligently eats the Chicken Tetrazini at his desk. Instead of indulging on Taco Tuesdays. He even got me the book The Leftovers written by Tom Perrotta for Christmas. I just looked at him with suspicion. My suspicion wasn't curdled because he purchased the novel at Half Price Books. No, it was new alright.  It was because he was obviously trying to torture me.  Hmmm. If I read the book, I'll spoil the show. And if I watch the show, I'll spoil the book. 

That's what happened to me with Game of Thrones. I'm on the 4th book A Feast for Crows as we speak. But the HBO show is so good, I don't like to know what's going to happen. I learned some disturbing details when I read A Storm of Swords. Then, I had to keep them all to myself. So I didn't ruin it for Mr. Leftovers. Luckily, the books by George R.R. Martin are exceedingly more complex than the show, so reading them after the HBO version airs is still like discovering a whole new world. 

So what really happens at the end of The Leftovers? I'm not going to read the book to find out. If, I can hold out that long. I want to be surprised. But here are some creative possibilities...

1) Kevin (Justin Theroux) wakes up in bed with Jennifer Aniston. He sadly discovers that his HBO acting gig was just a dream. In reality, his career stalled after his appearance on Sex and the City.


2) Kevin wakes up again, but this time, he's in bed handcuffed to Liv Tyler. Instead of Nora. I know, I know. This sounds like a positive. But trust me. Her character is turning into one scary white walker. Right out of Game of Thrones.

3) Kevin decides to create his own cult. The non-guilty remnant. They don't wear white. Duh. They're smokers. Wearing white is just asking for trouble. The main focus of their cult is smoking in public. Just like the good old days. The colorful group bands together to smoke inside restaurants like Perkins. They promote smoke-ins and broad spectrum, willy nilly, nothing to feel guilty about smoking privileges. Cough, hack. Do you remember what our clothes used to smell like after a night at a bar? I do.

4) Kevin wakes up back in the well. But this time, instead of the white suit weirdo stuck down there with him, it's the girl from The Ring. Now that's scary.

P.S. Head over to Springtime in Magnolia for a book review of a charming old classic. Anne of Green Gables.