Sometimes Even a Title is Too Many Words

1. 

Poppies under my peach tree on an April afternoon....

The Body of the Earth

The body of earth,
our patch of garden,
makes mottled pears and
raspberry red juice run up thorny vines.
Flat white flowers turn
into strawberries.

Slowing down
time will come
a flutter of falling leaves,
short waves of heat,
strong winds,
migrating birds.
The fruits of summer,
stung by the wasps,
bitten by the squirrels,
will be gone.

Today the figs are still plumping
purple lines of sugar.
Apples sun their cheeks
for just a bit more color.

I like them all best
standing on the skin of dirt,
eating them before they know
they have been plucked.

A thought or two on "Charles Dickens A Critical Study" by G. K. Chesterton

I did , in January, read this

1929 Dodd Mead & Co printing
of the 1906 copyright of
Charles Dickens 
 A Critical Study
 by G. K. Chesterton.

Thumbing through my notebook I see that while I fell short of writing a proper review of it I did jot down a few thoughts.

I was given this book a number of years ago and it has languished on my shelf primarily because I have not read much of  Charles Dickens.

Mr. Chesterton's writing often references
the luminaries of his day and the political social and literary climate of the time. In addition to not knowing much about Dickens, there is all that  I have never learned about England's history, as well as that which I may have once encountered and have now forgotten and yet, I was amazed at how much there was to glean, how much was still available to me in Chesterton's narrative, even when ensconced in specifics for which I had little reference. Though I often couldn't place or affirm many of  Chesterton's allusions and references,  I was, like a bird at picnic, well fed on crumbs.

Take for example this little gem found on page 161:

He could not help falling into that besetting sin or weakness of the modern progressive, the habit of regarding the contemporary questions as the eternal questions and the latest word  as the last....He could not help seeing the remotest peaks lit up by the raging bonfire of his own passionate political crisis." 

~the contemporary questions as the eternal questions and the latest word as the last~  

There is just a big lovely breath in that little phrase, isn't there?  

Here is a link on google's free Ebook site to some pages where Mr. GKC discusses "this thing we call fiction." Peek in around page 83.  The whole book is available there. 

Well I must away...and make some serious preparations for some very special visitors! 

Until next time....

You are alive...be happy! To Paraphrase G.K. Chesterton

 I came across a quote this morning that has piqued my interest in reading The Autobiography of G.K. Chesterton  (San Francisco: Ignatius, 2006.)

 In his Autobiography, Chesterton writes that

“At the back of our brains, so to speak, there was a forgotten blaze or burst of astonishment at our own existence.  The object of the artistic and spiritual life was to dig for this submerged sunrise of wonder; so that a man sitting in a chair might suddenly understand that he was actually alive, and be happy” (99).

"...submerged sunrise of wonder..."  yes...

May Thoughtful Honest Public Dialogue Prevail

     It's generally considered a good thing to be an assertive person; I don't mean aggressive, that's different.   If being assertive looks like standing up straight, aggressive would be a forward lunge and passive might be leaning backward.

   And me, I must admit that I find myself leaning back in the public conversations of the day.  I find myself wondering about the scope of my vantage point, the validity of circumstances as presented and the possibility of hidden implications and unforeseen consequences of the proposals and platforms of the day.  It is a lot to sort through.

    I find myself listening carefully to others' assertions and though I believe that well-honed common sense is often enough, I recently ran across some notes from a class my husband took years ago with a more formal review of how assertions can be sorted out. I decided to flesh the notes out with some examples and found it helpful to put names on what I tend to do intuitively.  Perhaps you might find it helpful too.

To begin I started thinking about the word "assertion" and made a list of synonyms:  
 a declaration
 a contention
 a claim
 an opinion
 a pronouncement
 an avowal
 a protestation
 or simply a statement.  

Judging the acceptability of specific assertions begins with recognizing what type of statement it is.

*What's the assertion based on?

* Is it a description, an interpretation or an evaluation? 


 Three general types of Assertion  with an example in italics

1. Description  (based on the senses, or       experience)
    a. 1st hand     This is what happened to me...
    b. 2nd hand   This is what he told me...

2. Interpretation (based on various derivations of meaning)
    a. Internal states  I know what he was thinking.
    b. Causal relationships.  Causality is, by definition, interpretive, the answers we can give to "why" questions involving such causes as material, form, agent and end. In other words,  physical realities, circumstances, human actions and choices, overarching purposes or agendas. I had no choice, I had to build the fence strong enough to keep my cows home and it was the only material I could afford. 

    c. Comparisons and contrasts  Scales of 1-10, less or more... This is more important than that... 
    d. Categories or alternatives:  qualities or chain of events according to type. What might be appropriate for adults may not be for children.

3. Evaluation  (based on approval or disapproval - emotive language) I don't care if it is legal, it still isn't right.
     
Of course one assertion could and often does involve all three types of assertions; a first or second hand description, interpreted and emotionally evaluated. 

And then there is the matter of whether a statement is:

1. Presumably true ( in favor) 
2. Questionable (creating a burden of proof) 
3. False

Vouching sources for determining validity include:

A. Our own sense experience/ reason
B. Personal Testimony  
     (While sources A & B can receive
     presumption, that is, be assumed true unless further information  proves otherwise, neither A nor B sources can speak for assertions of interpretation or evaluation.) 
C. Common Knowledge
D. Expert Opinion ( sources C & D can ameliorate the burden of proof)

The likelihood is, even without formally thinking about such distinctions, they are operating in your daily listening and responding; but if you'll allow me an assertion of opinion, it's worth the effort to renew and increase our communication skills consciously, for no matter the issue, our public dialogue needs thoughtful and honest tending. 


         
      
      

Nicolás Gómez Dávila...writing to fix one's thoughts

 Colombian philosopher, Nicolás Gómez Dávila ( 1913-1994) whose works consists almost entirely of aphorisms had this to say about  writing: 

" The pleasure of writing, when we lack all talent and ambition, is the pleasure of  knowing clearly our ideas.
Drafting our thinking is, perhaps, creating it; in any case, it is to acquire a full consciousness. The vague and confusing idea is a mere promise; a promise that is not fulfilled and that is soon forgotten if words do not detain and fix it.
It is true that almost all of our ideas seem to be diminished by being written and that, in the light of that changing, rich and fruitful context of thought, they lose the life that stirs them in the warm shadows of consciousness; but it is only when they are of verbal pulp that we can know them and like, reject, or welcome them according to their excellence."

 (*This  is translated from Spanish, which original version is included below. )

 I  know that experience, where the glow that appears warm and steady within  flickers in me as I attempt to drag my  thoughts word by word into daylight.  Is this all there was?  What was I thinking?   It is a pleasure, those glimpses I sometimes have, thoughts which seem in the moment most excellent while in a hot shower  or on my knees and my  hands muddied in the garden, or in those first waking moments  when the door to dreams is still open. It can be a bittersweet process, but clarity is worth struggling for.

Original  from Nicolás Gómez Dávila, Notas, (p. 106) (Villegas, 2003) (1a ed. 1954) 

"El placer de escribir, cuando carecemos de todo talento y de ambición, es el placer de conocer claramente nuestras ideas.
Redactar nuestro pensamiento es, quizá, crearlo; en todo caso, es adquirir de él una plena conciencia. La idea vaga y confusa es una mera promesa; promesa que no se cumple y que pronto se olvida si las palabras no la detie nen y la fijan.
Es cierto que casi todas nuestras ideas parecen disminuidas al ser escritas y que, al extraerlas de ese contexto cambiante, rico y fecundo del pensamiento, pierden la vida que las agita en las cálidas penumbras de la conciencia; pero es sólo cuando se revisten de pulpa verbal que las podernos conocer y, así, o rechazar, o acoger según su excelencia."

If you would like to read of Nicolás Gómez Dávila  there is a very organized page of English translations of his aphorisms here:<http://don-colacho.blogspot.com>

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dictation for a second draft!

I'm wondering if the music in the background, it's live guitar music,  will affect the ability of this program to work? I'm using the dictation program and it makes some interesting decisions as to what it is I've actually said. We are learning to get along with each other.  That is to say, I am learning to enunciate more carefully than I might otherwise.

As regards the last question I posted here, I decided to simply keep writing; cull a little and not burn it all.  Of course first drafts do need and get a rough chaffing up that could cause  enough friction to almost set them on fire.

Reading hand written pages into the microphone provides an initial smoothing out. If it doesn't read well out loud, it's likely needing clarification at the least.   I also find words missing that I thought but did not write down.

Pen on ink still seems to be the way feeling and less obvious elements are conceived and I need to be careful, while editing, to not squeeze the life out of any of that protoplasmic ooze.

I felt silly not having found the dictation on my iMac sooner, it was hidden in plain sight. All I needed to do was go to the keyboard preferences.  Once I chose whether I wanted to dictate offline on via the cloud, I chose offline and downloaded what was necessary, it is a simple matter of putting ones cursor in any text box and hitting the function key two times.  Of course  I also need to remember not to say anything I don't want typed into the box in question.  Ahem, clearing her throat, she wondered whether this tool would make new paragraphs on command?

Yes, it does.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Journaling: to cull or to burn?

From My Journal: December 29, 2017

"I'll end this year's journal with a joke...I'd like to sort through and organize my years of scribbles and redact as might be indicated.  In other words, I would like to do something with them. "

 A fire at the beach is one possibility as organization doesn't seem to be my strong suit lately and yet they are collected chronologically at this point; a full step away from simple chaos.  I also think of typing up ( is that even a verb anymore?) excerpts.  So to cull or to burn, that is the question.   It frightened me enough that I went right out and bought three blank books yesterday and wrote 2018 on the cover of one of them.

And now....I have typed up and edited an excerpt, haven't I?  If I am  sensitive about conditions changing, even this small change I have made may be a big enough perturbation in my original trajectory to lead to something other than a bonfire.  I am not, however, predicting anything.

Fictive character spills on author: try it, it's a helpful exercise.

When you write stories you get to create characters, but what would one of  your characters have to say about you?  Here's Ruthie, circa a few years back, on Jeannette:

Hi, my name is Ruthie and I got picked to be the character that tells you about Jeannette. Amazing, she picked me. 

I wonder what she thinks I’ll tell? Not that I don’t like to talk, ask any of my friends, they’ll tell you, but I’m a good listener too. I like people. People are always welcome at my door. They come, I feed them, we talk. I could have been a psychiatrist or a hairdresser maybe that would have been just as good, but me, I stayed home on the ranch. But I’m getting off the subject; this is supposed to be about Jeannette. 

It’s a shame she doesn’t have a better memory, and she could be just a bit more industrious. All right, so she already has the stress from her job. I know what that’s like because my son, he’s a very important person, he has the professional stress. Anyway, so it takes it’s toll, but a persons just got to decide, what are you going do? So if she wants some advice from me I’ll give it to her with strudel and tea, “If you want to tell a story you got to get to it.” But maybe she’ll listen to you people better. Who knows what difference you make in a person’s life? In one ear and out the other they say, but with her I think some of it sticks. 

But as I was saying about her memory, just the folks she met at my table, oh the history it all spans, she should remember it all. Okay, I’m not really someone she knew…and yet I didn’t spring from thin air either. I suspect some of the stories she could tell just the way she heard them, but she’s got these notions about fiction being able to tell a truth in a special way and fiction needs characters and I don’t know about you but personally I’d rather have character than be one. But a character I am and what she’s going to ask of me next I don’t know. 

I know that I’m putting some pressure on her. Sometimes I'd feel like the ladies that inspired me were my Siamese twins, like we were joined back-to-back and trying to walk opposite directions. But I’m learning to just speak up and let her know, “That’s not what I’d say, I’m not as nice as those old friends of yours that you hold so fondly in your heart. I’d stand up to that challenge.” And sure enough, she lets me go. 

So while I got the chance, what was it you wanted to know about her? I never could understand her love affair with writing. Talking it out is what I love to do, but she sees something and down it goes into words on a page. One day she found a notebook that was the perfect size for the inner pocket of her purse and she bought five of them. No bells on her toes, she just has paper and pen wherever she goes. I think she actually does her best work in dark black pen on paper, but as you know, she’s using a computer. You got to watch her if she’s doing rewrites, a couple times she’s squeezed the juice right out of me. Oh, here she comes now, I gotta go. 

                             ********** 

 Ruthie, what have you cooked up now?  She’s stirring so many stories she gets them mixed up sometimes so you needn't quite believe everything she tells you, besides,  she almost always exaggerates about me.    Jeannette 

Always Expose for the Shadows of the Subject even When you Aren't Taking Pictures

A reposting from a few years back...

"Always expose for the shadows of the subject..."   so says my 1948 focal guide retrieved from storage a few weeks ago.  Somehow the advice suggests other connotations....the realms of metaphor... " always expose for the shadow of the subject."

The other day it was the Walter T. Foster painting book  Seapower that got me thinking this way.
I had looked at the  10" x 14" teaching book  with absolutely no intentions of trying to paint the ocean or the cliffs I live above and yet

 I enjoyed perusing the step by step paintings and the tips and clues to doing the same.

"If you continually think in large masses of light and shadow ..."    "Always think and paint the large masses first..."   "...pick out the lighting...then you will know exactly where you are going."

  So if you know from where the light emanates, you will know where you are going.

That makes more than sense to me. 

Later in the day, out and about on the land,  I found  the painting advice impacting how I saw the ocean waves, the light on the rocks, the blue of the sky.  Lessons for painters are first and foremost, lessons for the eye.

Writers must see carefully too and one's eye must be attuned to many realms.  It's good to be able to see one's own framework of understanding, to filter the light from the dark.  Every heart frames reality in its own terms, its own limits.  To have an impact it needn't be large, but there must be an intersection with other frames of reality other than one's own.

I look at the sea.  Clouds are stretched like peach tinged taffy along the horizon. Light is scattered across the waters so white and shimmering  in areas that the eye can barely absorb the beauty without reflexively looking away.   I can change my visual perspective and for a moment the waters in front of me appear like a bowl, but I know the horizon is distance beyond my scope.

There's a boat out there carrying its own reality across the waters, but to me it is little more than a dark speck.  We are often in each other's view, but seeing eye to eye, well the eyes and the heart can take a lot training.

Such are the topics that have been on my mind lately.  You might enjoy the essay I  wrote this week and posted on Write Purpose  "Why We do the Things We Do "

Now that I have read  my old focal guide, I want to see if I can translate it to my digital camera.   My  notes to my self need to say.."Always be aware of your tendency to just point and shoot on automatic..."   and of course that too has metaphorical implications; I'm not just talking about taking pictures.

 ~~~~~~~~~

An Introduction to Poet and Songwriter Malcom Guite

The written word waits quietly for us and I so appreciate the "friends" I have made solely through the immense window of their words page after page.  I met a new friend of words - Malcom Guite- this last month whose words sing plenty right off the page...and yet he is so generous as to also publish an audio file of his reading his and other poetry on his blog as well.

The other reader of our household has been leaving his paperback Penguin classic The Portable Dante 
in that room where one is sometimes wont to sit and so I had just been dabbling in a bit of Dante's  "Inferno"  before I came upon Malcom Guite's verse, Dante and the Companioned Journey 2: through the Gate.

 In his introduction Mr. Guite  explains, "So Dante begins again, accompanied by Virgil and they come to the very gate of Hell, with its famous inscription ‘Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here’! "
But they don’t abandon hope, and that is the whole point. It is hope that leads and draws them on, hope inspired by love. 

This poem is from his collection  The Singing Bowl  published by Canterbury Press and is also available on Amazon 

You can read more of the poet's introduction to the poem on his blog and hear him read his poem to you.

Through the Gate

Begin the song exactly where you are

For where you are contains where you have been

And holds the vision of your final sphere

And do not fear the memory of sin;

There is a light that heals, and, where it falls,

Transfigures and redeems the darkest stain

Into translucent colour. Loose the veils

And draw the curtains back, unbar the doors,

Of that dread threshold where your spirit fails,

The hopeless gate that holds in all the  fears

That haunt your shadowed city, fling it wide

And open to the light that finds and fares

Through the dark pathways  where you run and  hide,

through all the alleys of your riddled heart,

As pierced and open as His wounded side.

Open the map to Him and make a start,

And down the dizzy spirals, through the dark

His light will go before you, let Him chart

And name and heal. Expose the hidden ache

To him, the stinging fires and smoke that blind

Your judgement, carry you away, the mirk

And muted gloom in which you cannot find

The love that you once thought worth dying for.

Call Him to all you cannot call to mind

He comes to harrow Hell and now to your

Well guarded fortress let His love descend.

The icy ego at your frozen core

Can hear His call at last. Will you respond?

~~~~

Use Up/Down Arrow keys to increase or decrease volume.

Don't Abandon Your Blogs or your Pen

Forgive me...that title is a word to myself...

Just to be sure that I haven't entirely abandoned  the other page of my  web logging, "Write Purpose,"
 I posted a bit of a book review, no I would really call it more a book exposure, that I could have just as easily published here on "Bread on the Water," but you will find it here: Robert Raynold's Narrator.  It is actually a very fitting post for Valentine's Day because it is circles around  the question of what is at the heart of any story one tells.

My neighbor's daffodils...
which she planted and then moved off to Montana

When I first began blogging, I thought I would share more of my writing than I have thus far, but I find I have often been beguiled by the lovely views that have been mine and the thrill of digital photography often sweeps my pen right out of my hand.  The other day I  took this photo with my new phone. I have not yet learned the camera features, but the moss and daffodils still speak a bit here, I  hope.

Roses are Red,
Violets are Blue

and while I am here,

a happy Valentine's Day to you.  This little girl is saying hello to anyone sitting alone today,




the rest of you, as you are not on your own, should do fine on your own.

Now I better get on  my donkey and ride...

Book Review: What I Saw in California by Edwin Bryant 1848

I am near the end of  reading  What I Saw in California   by Edwin Bryant, pub.1848.  

His journey begins  when he leaves his home in Louisville Kentucky on the 18th of April, 1846  and his journal begins when he reaches the town of Independence, Missouri where he will buy a yoke of oxen and  yoke himself up with other travelers set to leave for the west on May 1st, 1846. 

It is a real log, as he says, "My design is to give a truthful  and not an exaggerated and fanciful account of the occurrences of the journey, and of the scenery, capabilities and general features of the  countries through which we shall pass, with incidental sketches of the leading characteristics of their populations."(p. 18) 

 I have enjoyed his documentation greatly.  Without my having to more than imagine the incredible toil,  he took me, with his words, across plains and over mountains, through wet nights on cold ground. He shared the taste of limpid waters, cold springs joyfully found, the comfort of bird song in lonely corridors, the relief of finding grasses rich with nourishment for their animals, and the heft and potential of soils he described as argillaceous ( Yes, I had to look this word up!).   

    It is June 22nd, 2014 as I write my post.  By the third week of  June in 1846, Bryant's party had already changed out oxen for mules and horses and reached the Platte River in Nebraska where they camp, the night of  summer solstice,  on the river banks  about three miles from a 300 to 500 foot high and mile wide rock formation known as "Chimney Rock"  that has been in their sight all day.  Mr. Bryant thought it looked much like architectural ruins and although he describes it rather well, as he does all the environs, he writes this the following day.

"June 22- The rain poured down in torrents about one o'clock this morning. and the storm continued to rage with much violence for several hours...

If I could I would endeavor to describe to the reader by the use of language, a picture presented this morning at sunrise, just as we were leaving our encampment, among these colossal ruins of nature.  But the essay would be in vain.  No language, except that which is addressed directly to the eye, by the pencil and brush of the artist, can portray even a faint outline of its almost terrific sublimity.  A line of pale and wintry light behind the stupendous ruins, ( as they appeared to the eye,) served to define their innumerable shapes, their colossal grandeur, and their gloomy and mouldering magnificence. Over us and resting upon the summits of these, were the black masses of vapor, whose impending weight appeared ready to fall and crush every thing beneath them...." ( p.103)

I was encouraged by this book as to the value of simple daily writing.  I was reminded of the great efforts many made to come to a land that is so often taken for granted and despoiled rather than appreciated and stewarded as it should be.  And when Edwin Bryant ends his daily scribbling with an estimate of the miles traveled " Distance 10 miles." I  hardly know what to feel.  I am one who can traverse so many miles so quickly and not even feel the wind or weather in my air conditioned car...amazing...and yet...

Black Butte a 6334 ft lava dome in the Cascade Range of California  

I intend to next post photographs of a trip we recently made in that car to visit Grandma Beth  then some friends, on to my brother and his wife on their  ranch  near the Oregon border and then, by way of  Mount Lassen Park, east to Reno, Nevada to some aunties. Imagine how many words Edwin Bryant might have dispensed with if he had downloadable pixels at his disposable.  Maybe I will let the wordy Mr. Bryant influence me, and I'll web-log away as the slide show unfolds.  But this review, meant to entice you to a good read, is all for this morn. (Distance...oh, so many miles) 

with best wishes,

Jeannette

Page references to paper back ( ISBN 0-8032-6070-9) Complete work  also available for free on line at archive.org.

Seven Years by the Sea

There are times where it is much more likely for me to share here if I just plunge in and type as if I am not going to post anything...not even a photograph of some pretty scene like this...

Years of hand written journals,rarely shared with anyone, have created a deep demarcation in me. While it helps me to write I don't necessarily expect anyone else to find it interesting or helpful. There really are a number of roadblocks to my popping up posts; there is propriety, privacy, and...hmmm...there must be other descriptors that probably also start with a "p."  

Yes, in this world of divergent views it is easy to wonder about  "political correctness" ( I'll just leave that one sitting there in quotes...)

and of course there is the question of profundity or more likely the lack thereof. 

I often ponder the pain I see going on in our world, the lack of peace and prosperity so many experience but I don't want to simply remind others of what they also know. How to touch the giant troubles with purpose, how to inspire each other to make the world a safer and happier place ...? 

The other day four very kind neighbors, retired people, a doctor, two nurses and a military officer and expert in defense, spent the afternoon with my husband and me... they gave us a little good-bye party as we prepare to leave our job here and move home. The way they spend their free time is humbling.  Many hours are being devoted to others by these four people alone. Meals are being delivered to shut-ins, rides given to doctor visits, letters are written to  elected officials, efforts are made to understand the dilemmas of the times, docent duties are under taken for educational programs, bereavement ministry services are manned and  hospital patients are visited with therapy dogs,  (yes, even their dogs are helping!).   I'm encouraged by who they each are.

I'm reminded that the world is a complicated place and yet  simple responses are ever so helpful and they are what one can do while pondering what else can be done...when the headlines make you feel blue...

What we are doing right now is moving...and the bird house and the kitty cats are going too. 

  For seven years we have lived on an astounding  cliff

above the Pacific Ocean in a cottage from which we stewarded the gardens and oversaw the visitation of the other houses. 

It was much work. It was good.  It also feels good to be entering a new season.  While we return to our house where we lived for the 17 years prior to coming here, we know we won't be going back to things as they were. We are not quite the same ourselves.  But there is a sense of returning home after a long adventure. 

 As I wrote to another blogger who shares my love of nature, I  will miss the sudden spouts that alert me to watch for whales surfacing. I will miss the sounds of otters cracking open their dinner and miss spotting them on their backs in the beds of kelp.

 I will miss sighting the flash of dolphin fins and the orange of star fish clinging to the rocks.  I will miss the strands of pelicans flying over and the white egrets walking on the water in the groves of kelp. Seven years by the sea has been a lovely privilege and I have tried here on "bread on the water" to share the beauty of this place as a balm for others. 

Ironically, even though my watery neighborhood fits my blog name quite well, and many posts document seaside nature encounters, the inspiration for the name of my blog preceded living by the sea. In many ways the move we are about to make back up the road, north and a bit inland is just another response to the Word that tells us to "cast our bread on the water..."

I hope to post more often in the near future. I have hundreds of photos to organize and new -old vistas to capture and many thoughts to tease out and just maybe I'll type them up and deposit  them here rather than drop them in that drawer of files which I might also take the time to cull.  

But you'll understand if I disappear for a little while...yes? I hope so, because the little bit of sharing I have done here has meant a lot to me. I appreciate all of my readers, especially those of you that actually read to the end of my missives ( you must be one of those...) and those of you   who return to check up on me and leave comments and a trail back to the thoughts and pictures and hopes of your own lives.  

 So though I hope to be back when set up to post from a "new" location; for now it's time to pack it up!

with very best wishes! 
Jeannette

A moment of silence in the noisy world

Along the Stream

~~~

Along the stream

where no one lives

the silence speaks

in voice of birds,

the rocks command 

the water's song,

the quiet sings here

all day long.

The winds talk in 

the tallest trees,

and leaves give answer

 to the breeze

along the stream

where no one lives .

~~~

May 1, 2013  

(c) Jeannette @ breadonthewater 

Story Time at Write Purpose

Tonight seemed  like a good time to post a playful story that I wrote back in 2000.    I posted it in two parts over on Write Purpose, my web log that has more words than pictures, but you'll find a few pictures there too.  Yes, it is a true story, but of course the police officer ... hmmm what is that phrasing "any resemblance to actual police officers is co-incidental and no actual police officer is being represented here." No, that's not it, but that should do.  Anyway if you are tired from the election, or the weather or the economy ( it is a story about making m-o-n-e-y) and you are feeling a little blue, hop on over to Write Purpose and take a little time off from your worries.

Hope to see you there....You can find Part One of the story  here.

She Was Looking for Someone to Finish It

A small handwritten sign caught my eye as I wound my car down a narrow pine lined street above the ocean.

Turning away from my direction home as if I had known where I was going all along I began to follow a trail of paper arrows toward a small driveway garage sale. I looked over at the commitment I'd already been privileged to make that day to a fresh salmon filet and some lovely fruits and vegetables, it all deserved speedy delivery to my refrigerator.  Now I am of two minds.   I remind myself that I shouldn't be so easily distracted but  then remember  sales where  I have found wonderful treasures like the old guitar. So I could at least peek from the car.

As I drew alongside the humble offerings that edged right up to the road, I saw a tired but soft face, a woman probably about my age. Standing amidst the belongings she'd drug out into a spot of sun in front of a small cottage, she met my eyes directly, brushed her wire blonde curls away from her face and smiled. Just junk or not, now I had to stop.

As soon as I was out of the car I'd confirmed that if the seller hadn't seen me, a drive by scan would have sufficed. There was nothing unusual being offered. I said hello before I halfheartedly peered into a cardboard box of worn paperbacks. "Are you cleaning up or moving? "  I asked.

"Moving, moving on I guess you'd  say. The rent is going up again and I don't know, my daughter says she'll never come back to Carmel."

"You moving closer to your daughter?"

"Oh no, she's in L.A.  She don't like Carmel and I don't like L.A.   I've been here nine years and  I guess I'm just ready for something else.  What're you looking for?"

"Oh, I never know, but it is fun to stop and look and meet people.  I've only worked here six years but we don't have any neighbors on the cliff where we live and work so it's nice to meet folks."

I wonder  if I'm going to get lonely traveling," she said.

"Traveling where?"

"Don't know, really, just aim for places I haven't seen for a long time. Maybe I'll catch up with myself somewhere along the way."  That smile of hers showed up again.  I nodded and she kept talking. " I use to move alot, before I landed here. I got a few more things to put out, let me show you something."

She came out with a patched quilt top in her hands and draped it over a table stacked with dishes." I want twenty dollars for this.  I never did finish, " she said, "and it's got a few spots now and maybe a hole or two, but I can tell you where I got every piece of the fabric.  See, this fabric here is from when I was in Colorado.  I liked Boulder, lots of creative people  there,  especially in the winter time.  And this  here

was a dress my little girl wore and this vintage cloth was from a store three old ladies ran up north, it's from the thirties. This flower print I bought on a vacation in Hawaii.  You ever been to Hawaii?"

"No, can't say that I have.  Are you sure you want to sell this?  You could finish it, even traveling you could take it along and finish it by hand."

"My daughter doesn't want it.  It's not her style.  I do kind of hate to get rid of it, but I'm getting rid of everything else, I might as well. "

I didn't know what to say.  I wasn't sure it was my style either, but in it's haphazard wonky way it did kind of hang together and it was kind of growing on me.   And then there was the woman.  I didn't want her piece by piece memory love project to suffer any more rejection.

She looked at me and said, " I just get the feeling that this might  stand a chance of getting finished if I get it to the right person."

I had a twenty dollar bill in the ashtray of my car.

            Here it is lain out to baste the cotton batting and back on to it.
                                                                  Whimsy abounds...

                                                     
                                                     And I am quilting it by machine.



 I hope that momma at least swings by L.A.  or maybe her girl will come find her...in the meantime I'll finish up this funny old quilt top...I'm not sure who it is for...but quilts do have a way of continuing stories on their own.
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