turtle

Roberta and John. They were my two little turtles when I was a young girl. I named them after the widowed secretary who worked for my mother and her dead husband. That sounds terrible how I've written it just now. But at the time, it was really sentimental. I have no idea how old my mother's secretary was, but we called her "Granny B". She was very sweet and I adored her.

Every day, when I got out of school, I walked about a half mile from the elementary school to my mother's job. My sister and I were supposed to walk together, but we were mortal enemies then and I walked really fast to keep ahead of her. As a result, I always arrived first and got lots of attention from Granny B before my sister finally walked in. I convinced myself that Granny B liked me best.

So when I got turtles, I rushed to tell her all about them. She asked me if I had named them. I hadn't. So I asked her what her real name was. She said Roberta. I asked her what her husband's name was. She said John. And that was that. My turtles died. My mother, with her typical mix of self-absorption and neglect-is-good-for-children, hadn't bothered to do any research on the care and feeding of turtles. They probably starved to death because they didn't get proper nutrition from whatever I was giving them.

Since then, though I continued to love turtles, I kept my collecting to the non-breathing brand of turtles. My mother, once again, was the source of my very first turtle. It was from Mexico and carved out of marble. I'm many decades and dozens of turtles down the road from that first one. I've had to cull the collection several times because people have given me some horribly ugly turtles over the years. But I've also had some wonderful ones. I even had a little padded turtle footstool until one of my pets destroyed it. Sigh. I really liked that footstool too.

Somebody asked me today, why turtles? Long after I started collecting them, I learned that the turtle is featured in lots of creation stories. That's pretty cool. The tortoise beat the hare in a race because he was slow and steady rather than rushed and careless. Yeah, yeah, yeah. The turtle is awesome. But why did I start collecting them? I honestly don't know. But I once came face to face with a green sea turtle at the Audubon Zoo in New Orleans. He was swimming around the tank and came to a stop just in front of me, seemingly ignoring all the other humans. He moved his flippers to maintain his position and mere inches apart, we gazed into each other's eyes. I felt like I was looking into the eyes of time. He seemed to be saying to me, "Hey, I know you. I've known you for a long, long, long time." My whole body relaxed and it felt like I was being called to swim out to sea. Or maybe he was just asking me to take him back out there. Who knows?

I've had similar encounters with turtles since then. Each one feels the same. I feel a kinship, which sounds really stupid. but it feels real. I am a turtle. How I got in this human body is not explainable.

silver

"Don't gain the world and lose your soul. Wisdom is better than silver or gold." (Bob Marley)

I've never really had a strong and lasting desire for things. Every now and then I'll see something that I want and I'll really want it for a while. But it usually passes. I like silver more than I like gold, even though I know it isn't as valuable.

"Silver and gold, silver and gold, I'd rather have Jesus, than silver and gold. No fame or fortune, nor riches untold. I'd rather have Jesus, than silver and gold." (Kirk Franklin, Silver and Gold)

No, my lack of desire for things isn't borne of any religious belief, none that I can identify anyway. If I was forced to tie it, I would be more likely to tie it to Buddhism. Most people think that the Buddhist view of wealth is one in which it is renounced. But that's not really true. It's okay to have wealth, provided it is gained through right living. If one is exploiting others in order to gain riches, the wealth would be frowned upon. And once one has wealth, the expectation would be that one would freely dispense with it to help others. Getting too attached to material goods is the greatest obstacle to good living. So maybe that's what I've been after. I don't ever want to be so attached to something that I can't turn it loose.

"Silver is produced from lighter elements in the Universe through the r-process, a form of nuclear fusion believed to take place during certain types of supernova explosions. This produces many elements heavier than iron, of which silver is one." (Hansen, C. J.; Primas, F. (2010). "Silver Stars". Proceedings of the International Astronomical Union 5: 67.)

The silver rush in the 1800's was responsible for an increase in westward movement in the USA. The first big find was the Comstock Lode in Nevada, which led to lots of crazy people rushing to get to the location in hopes of striking it rich. And some did. Comstock was just lucky to be there at all. He was actually left there to be caretaker of the cabin belonging to the Grosh brothers, who had earlier found both silver and gold at the site. But this was just a decade after the gold rush in California and they were intent on getting there, so they left Comstock at their cabin and headed west. They both died, so Comstock claimed the cabin and the land around it. But the Grosh brothers didn't get credit for the find. Neither did Comstock. Such were the vagaries of the day. None of the original miners really made any money. No, the real money was made by the money handlers in San Francisco, who manipulated the value of silver in order to amass huge fortunes. Some things never change.

"Genius without education is like silver in the mine." (Benjamin Franklin)

My father's maternal grandparents were quite wealthy. My grandmother, the eldest of six children, was encouraged to get all the education she could. She was born in 1891, so going to college was rare for women of her generation. Only a few women's colleges existed and she went to three of them. Papa Joe (my great-grandfather) enrolled her at Winthrop College (of which he was one of the founders) and Converse College, both in South Carolina where the family lived. But after that he sent her to Smith College, because he also wanted her to have an education at a northern school. So she ended up with two bachelor degrees, one from Converse and one from Smith. Grandmother was a smart woman with knowledge about many things. She and Granddaddy then went on to send all five of their children to college. By the time we came along, it was just expected that we would all attend college. In my family, education is critical. Learning and a thirst for information is one of the main gifts we have as human beings. To deny it is to wither on the vine.

"For all the gold and silver stolen and shipped to Spain did not make the Spanish people richer. It gave their kings an edge in the balance of power for a time, a chance to hire more mercenary soldiers for their wars. They ended up losing those wars anyway, and all that was left was a deadly inflation, a starving population, the rich richer, the poor poorer, and a ruined peasant class." (Hans Konig)

Wow. That sounds familiar. Today we have the wealthiest of Americans getting richer, the poorest Americans getting poorer and a disappearing middle class. What's different about us is that the richest are using a new strategy of convincing the people with not much that the poor are trying to steal it from them. While the people with not much are focusing their angry eyes on the poor, the rich steal them blind. It's amazing that it works.

I dreamed last night of a giant escalator to heaven. The sides shone silver in the light of the sun. It had multiple stages where people would get off for examination. The one I noticed was for evangelicals. I got the sense that since they claimed to know God better than anyone, that their examination would be specifically detailed. But it seemed that it wasn't going well what with all that judging and excluding that goes on in those circles. Their faces looked shocked. Further up the escalator were some children. They were playing on the moving stairs. I wanted to tell them to stop because their feet might get caught. I even wondered if there was an emergency stop button at the bottom and the top, just in case.

That escalator looked almost inviting. But I'm not ready to get on just yet.

three sisters

Sisters. It took the youngest two sisters 50+ years to figure it out. They had been played against each other by a master of manipulation. What should have been a close, nurturing, loving relationship took on the flavor of artists competing for the grand prize. They learned early on that only one could be the winner. The prize-giver kept both girls on edge, never knowing whether the day - or even the moment - would mean momentary victory or crushing defeat.

The oldest sister had escaped and left the two youngest to fend for themselves. She managed to cross to the other end of the continent - safe - at least for a while. But even from a distance, the master of manipulation kept her vying for the prize.

Maybe individual talents had been developed in response. Maybe the youngest was gregarious and entertaining because she learned early on that this disarmed the master of manipulation. Maybe the oldest developed musical talent and an amazing way with fabrics in an effort to finally gain the elusive prize of permanent approval. Maybe the middle sister developed her brain and her ability to store massive amounts of information in order to impress the master of manipulation. Or maybe they would all three have been this way even if the master of manipulation had not been so. Maybe they would have been the same - only happier.

The master of manipulation still reigns supreme. But the sisters have figured it out. They lost years and years of support and love for one another. But they will claim what is left. They will love each other and care for each other from now until death. It is decided.

big mike

Big Mike strolled over to the side porch and peeked around the corner real quick. Yep, Aunt Maimie was working Daddy's shirt through the roller, getting the water out. At her feet was a big basket full of other just-washed things. If he stepped out now, the next 20 minutes would be wasted hanging out wash.

He eased backwards through the front door of the summer house and walked as quietly as he could down the shotgun hall to the back of the house. If he cut through the copse of pine trees, he could circle around that way and Aunt Maimie would never even know he'd been there. He had something to do that could not wait. The excitement propelled him forward.

quirky

There can be no doubt that I am a quirky individual. In fact, I take great pride on being an individual who lives in an authentic way. When I catch myself "faking" anything, the realization is always accompanied by shame. And, of course, I am human and imperfect, so there will be those moments!

I'm 55. But I can look back over my life and see a pattern of quirkiness. My earliest years (1959-1964) were spent in Japan as the daughter of missionaries. My hair was so blonde that is was almost white. I stood out!!! It was not uncommon for Japanese people to touch my hair and exclaim about how soft it was and what an interesting color. I'm quite sure that I absorbed the message that I did not belong! I was quirky.

My personality was beginning to form during this time. My parents tell me that I had an astonishing level of energy, unlike anything they had seen with their first three children. I would never stop moving all day long and would resist bedtime until finally I would simply collapse from exhaustion wherever I happened to be. I was also an entertainer. A recording of me telling the Goldenlocks story is now lost, but was a hilarious insight into my 4 year old personality. You can hear my oldest sister, 8 years my senior, attempting to guide me through the telling. I keep saying "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO" in a very dramatic way, making it very clear that it is ME telling this story!!!

First grade found the family in Massachusetts, where my extremely poor English made me an easy target for the cruelties of children. I spoke Japanese fluently, but avoided saying anything because that only led to misery. There was no winning. I was the outsider and would be for all of our four years there.

But if I thought that was bad, I was totally unprepared for the next move to Georgia. My English was fine by then, but any Southern person can tell you that kids how move there from Massachusetts have a whole different set of challenges to face! The Boston accent! The lack of familial connection to anyone there! The inability to identify a hushpuppy! It was murder.

When you're on the outside looking in, the only people who embrace you are other people who are on the outside looking in. So it's no surprise that both in Massachusetts and in Georgia, my circle of friends included other misfits. We were ALL quirky! And together, we helped each other feel normal.

Georgia was my home from 5th grade through 9th grade. In 1973, we moved again to North Carolina. Again, I found myself on the outside looking in. But it was easier. I was learning to ignore people who didn't like me. Instead, I adopted an "I don't care" attitude and used my energy to identify people who DID like me! I graduated high school with a handful of high school friends and a wider circle of friends who were older.

College was easier. There were lots of quirky people there! We formed "The Family", with pseudo-marital and familial relationships that created a complex family tree. But we all loved each other, quirkiness and all!

moon pies

My family moved from Georgia to North Carolina just prior to the beginning of my 10th grade year. The move was quite mind-boggling. In Georgia, I had been close enough to the big city of Atlanta to be exposed to cutting edge music, innovations in the distribution of marijuana and even national and international trends and ideas.

Entering the quiet and closed, rural part of North Carolina to which we moved was like going backwards in time. The people with whom I interacted had very little awareness of the wider world. They would often stare at me with widened eyes as I talked about one thing or another. I was a musician and quickly found a band, which then led me to take up with one of the guitar players. I was 15 and he was 19. His friend sold pot out of his house. He would buy kitchen matches by the case, throw the matches away and pack the empty boxes with pot. When I showed him plastic baggies and suggested a scale to weigh the bags, he behaved as if I had just invented sliced bread. Years later, when I read Mark Twain's A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, I totally understood how it felt to have people be in awe of you for knowings things that were common knowledge in the place from which you had come.

One thing I didn't know about was Moon Pies. I'm sure they were sold in Georgia. But in North Carolina, they were iconic. "RC Cola and a Moon Pie" was often mentioned as if it was mana of the gods. There were even songs written and recorded about the duo. But as often as I heard of the two as a pair, I do not recall ever seeing someone consume the items together. Within my own family, we were strictly Coca-Cola loyalists. The one taste of RC Cola I ever had just did not measure up. But I did eat plenty of Moon Pies during my years in North Carolina. They were huge, so one would be a sufficient snack that would stay with you for a while. And everybody's mother kept them stashed in the pantry.

My best friend, Linda, who no longer speaks to me because she is ashamed of our wild teenage activities, had a mother who would greet us as we walked in the door by reciting the entire contents of her kitchen. I can still hear her now. "Are ya'll hungry? I can fix you a ham sandwich. I got some Beanie Weanies. Ya'll want a Moon Pie? I can heat you up some soup. We got chicken and stars or chicken noodle. Ya'll want some Ritz crackers." The list would go on as we sidled past her and into Linda's room, politely declining each offering. "No ma'am. We're not really hungry. No thank you. Maybe later. Thank you, no, we're not all that hungry." Once in her room, we would collapse into giggle fits that would not stop. If the giggles started to run out, one of us would say "I got some Beanie Weanies", and we would crack up again.

My high school years were difficult because I felt like a fish out of water. There was really nobody I felt a true kinship with. (Even Linda seemed provincial to me.) I was unable to keep my mouth shut and would challenge teachers and refuse to be dominated. The great teachers attempted to challenge and guide me. The horrible teachers sought to stifle and punish me. And my classmates were mostly locals who had spent their entire lives together. I was strange and new, which in the south often translates to WEIRDO. Anything that is DIFFERENT is observed, but only rarely embraced. It was a strange three years! Thankfully, my college years were amazing, with a great group of friends and plenty of joyous experiences.

tutus

It was 1995. My best friend's daughter (Caroline) was backstage somewhere with the rest of her dance class, probably being herded like cats in a holding area by desperate teachers straining to contain little girl excitement, which from my experience is prone to burst out in ear-splitting shrieks at the slightest provocation. Jane and I were sitting with my son, age 8, suffering through dozens of other performances in order to see her daughter's group dance. I was in my mid-30's and still a little vain, so I typically only wore my glasses to read a menu or a book. This meant that the little girls on the stage were slightly blurry shapes in various pastel colors. If I squinted, I could make out their features ... a little.

The truth was that I needed to be wearing those glasses all the time, but I wouldn't admit that for at least two more years when I returned from a trip to Williamsburg, Virginia, and was horrified to find that with the help of the dim period lighting of the restaurants, I had tipped between 6% and 35%, leaving behind service personnel who either felt like lottery winners if I had imagined that a zero was an eight or victimized if I had imagined that a six was a zero. Oh well. Sorry!

But on this particular night, yet another performance NOT featuring Caroline was taking shape on the stage. The Tchaikovsky began and from the wings came a line of four rather large girls in the classic hand-over-hand hold that we all remember from every Nutcracker performance of all time. I leaned forward and squinted, thinking they were too old for this recital, trying to make out what I was seeing. I whispered to Jane, "Are those girls? They're kind of big." Jane stifled laughter and whispered back, "It's the adult class." Well, what in the WORLD would possess middle-aged women to don white tutus and dance out onto a stage? I simply could not believe it. I couldn't really see them well enough to confirm what she was saying, so I whispered back, "Are you serious?" She laughed and answered, "Yes!" At that point, my son hissed at me, "Mommmmmmmm, puleeeeeaaase, you're embaaarrrrrassing meeeeee!"

I looked around. People were looking at me. Well, this was my very first children's recital. My son wasn't in any dance classes. He played soccer. They don't typically field middle-aged people during half time of a children's soccer game. So this was my first time experiencing what, apparently, is a very normal thing in the South and, for all I know, everywhere else too. Otherwise normal, adult women sign up for ballet lessons alongside their daughters and granddaughters and they, too, prepare for recital night and perform their hearts out. I SWEAR I did NOT know!!! I'm sure in their hearts, they feel like little girls. Maybe they didn't get a chance to take dance way  back when and they're, By God, doing it now!

By the way, florists make a KILLING at these events. Every parent in the audience had a bouquet of flowers for their darling girl, as if each and every girl was the prima ballerina assoluta of the "company". Having a boy has saved me from making a fool of myself in a white tutu and spending my retirement funds on bouquets of flowers. Thank you, ex-husband Charlie, for the Y chromosome you helpfully donated to the cause.

pass the sugar, please

During my early twenties, I fell in like with a cute mechanic who had the energy of a tornado and was one of the happiest fellows I've ever known. He worked for a car dealership and specialized in that make of car, which made him a highly prized employee. At his slightly dilapidated house, he had a detached garage where he earned extra money working on people's cars. Rolando could also cook! I made the decision to move in with him when my own digs became unlivable due to the fact that my roommate was insane and was bringing home all sorts of trashy men who wandered aimlessly at all hours of the night. I would wake up and find a complete stranger staring down at me.

We were nowhere near the moving in stage of a relationship (and probably never would have been, given our very different backgrounds) but Rolando was not okay with leaving me in danger. He insisted that I get out of there and cheerfully helped me pack and move my belongings. Rolando had a heart the size of Texas, so he was welcoming and sweet.

Larry was one of his closest friends and was even more blue collar than Rolando. He and his wife, Faye, lived in a trailer park. We socialized with them on a regular basis. About once a week, we went to their home for dinner or they came to ours. Larry was a traditional blue collar man, had not finished high school and had very firm ideas about a woman's role in marriage and in the world. He was respectful to me, but I often felt like he wanted to haul off and belt me one for my sassy mouth. .

Faye was also a high school drop-out. She was extremely meek, rarely spoke if Larry was in the room and smiled only after giving a quick glance in Larry's direction to gauge whether it was appropriate. My heart ached for her. I was sure that he beat her, although I had no evidence of that. In one of the very rare moments when she and I were alone, she confided in me that they had been married five years and she had survived four miscarriages. I asked her what the doctors had said about it and she just looked nervous and shook her head. I didn't push. She had other medical issues too, which made her frail. When I found out that she was younger than me, I was shocked. She looked about fifteen years older!

One day, when Rolando and I were discussing having them over for dinner, I accidentally referred to them as "Fairy & Lay". We giggled and Rolando admonished me not to say that in front of Larry. But of course I talked about it when we were all together - and referred to them by the new moniker. I laughed about it as the silly mistake that it was. But Larry was not amused. His face got beet red and he screamed at me, "STOP SAYING THAT!" Everyone got very quiet. Rolando said, "Hey, now," in his sweet voice. Then Larry went outside. Faye sat at the table, frozen. "I'm sorry," I whispered, "Rolando told me not to say anything and I didn't listen." Rolando got up and went outside too.

We were finished with dinner, so I started clearing the table and Faye got up to help me. As we stood in the lopsided kitchen washing dishes, Faye said, "When he was little, the other boys teased him because he liked to draw. They called him a girl." I suddenly understood why "Fairy & Lay" might be horribly offensive, rather than just a slip of  the tongue. I also had a sudden acute awareness that my outspoken nature, while being a natural outcome of being raised by well-educated, liberal adults who encouraged debate, might be painful to someone who had been bullied as a child. What I had thought of as light banter probably sounded like barbed attacks to Larry. He was not equipped to handle a quick-witted debate and I had been abusive to engage with him that way.

That denouement was a hard one for me. In my mind, HE had been the abusive one and Faye was the probable victim. Now I had to confront the realization that I was, in fact, the abuser. Ouch. I dried my hands on a towel and went outside. Larry and Rolando were sitting on lawn chairs, beer cans in hand, watching the sun set over the meadow behind Rolando's house. I walked over to them. They both looked at me. "I'm sorry I upset you, Larry. I was being silly and I should have just shut up." He said, "Yeah, you should have." I waited, but realized I wasn't going to get anything else. That was just his way.

I would like to say that this incident marked the end of my tendency to engage in debates with a razor sharp edge to my words. Alas, I am still that woman. I manage to keep my mouth shut more than I open it, but anyone who knows me knows I have not kicked the habit completely. On my better days, I can awaken a spirit of loving kindness to guide my words and maintain civility. When I manage it, I am always hopeful that the more bitter me has been put away forever.

Rolando used to say to me, "pass the sugar, please," when I was being a little sharp-tongued. It was his way of gently telling me to change course. And it always worked. Sometimes I say it to myself when I feel myself getting worked up over something. I'm not as good at it as Rolando was, but I'm a fairly good imitation.

amahl and the night visitors

As a child, I was required to sit and listen to the Metropolitan Opera (sponsored by Texaco) on the radio every Saturday afternoon. Mother would allow us to read, play quiet games, draw or even lie still with our eyes closed, but we had to be in the living room for the whole opera. Mother did her best to make it exciting. Before the opera began, she would explain the story to us, sing a little of the music for key scenes so we would recognize what was happening when we heard it. She would also tell us a little about the composer and the musicians scheduled to perform that day.

I complained bitterly, of course. No other form of torture was quite as exquisite as the opera torture. I would whine and beg in my most theatrical voice and drag myself into the room on zombie legs, rolling my eyes and sighing heavily. Mother ignored my mini-operatic antics, determined to infuse us with some culture.

Years later, Mother would confess to me that she had originally dreamed of becoming an opera singer when she was a young girl. Her voice was a choir voice, not an opera voice, so she lived her dream vicariously through Joan Sutherland, Leontyne Price, Marilyn Horne and Jessye Norman.

My first exposure to Amahl and the Night Visitors was during this time, although I have no clear memory of listening to it on the radio. Mother had a record of the opera and we listened to it during the Christmas season every year that I can remember. And now I listen to it every year, because I have come to love the story so much. Amahl and I are old friends!

Here is a synopsis of the story:

Amahl, a disabled boy who can walk only with a crutch, has a problem with telling tall tales and, occasionally, lying. He is sitting outside playing his shepherd's pipe when his mother calls for him (Amahl! Amahl!). After much persuasion, he enters the house but his mother does not believe him when he tells her there is an amazing star "as big as a window" outside over their roof (O Mother You Should Go Outside; Stop Bothering Me!).

Later that night, Amahl's mother weeps, praying that Amahl not become a beggar (Don't Cry Mother Dear). After bedtime (From Far Away We Come), there is a knock at the door and the mother tells Amahl to go see who it is (Amahl ... Yes Mother!). He is amazed when he sees three splendidly dressed kings (the Magi). They tell the mother and Amahl they are on a long journey to give gifts to a wondrous child and they would like to rest at their house, to which the mother agrees (Good Evening!; Come In!). The mother goes to fetch firewood, and Amahl seizes the opportunity to speak with the kings.

King Balthazar answers Amahl's questions about his life as a king and asks what Amahl does. Amahl responds that he was once a shepherd, but his mother had to sell his sheep. Now, he and his mother will have to go begging. Amahl then talks with King Kaspar, who is childlike, eccentric, and a bit deaf. Kaspar shows Amahl his box of magic stones, beads, and licorice, and offers Amahl some of the candy (Are You A Real King?; This is My Box). The mother returns (Amahl, I Told You Not To Be A Nuisance!). Amahl is told to go fetch the neighbors (All These Beautiful Things; Have You Seen a Child?) so the kings may be fed and entertained properly (Shepherds! Shepherds!; Emily! Emily; Olives and Quinces; Dance of the Shepherds).

After the neighbors have left and the kings are resting, the mother attempts to steal for her son some of the kings' gold that was meant for the Christ child (All That Gold). She is thwarted by the kings' page. When Amahl wakes to find the page grabbing his mother, he attacks him. Seeing Amahl's weak defense of his mother and understanding the motives for the attempted theft, King Melchior says she may keep the gold as the Holy Child will not need earthly power or wealth to build his kingdom. The mother says she has waited all her life for such a king and asks the kings to take back the gold. She wishes to send a gift but has nothing to send. Amahl, too, has nothing to give the Child except his crutch. When he offers it to the kings, his leg is miraculously healed. With permission from his mother, he leaves with the kings to see the child and give his crutch in thanks for being healed.

The scene in which Amahl leaves with the kings (to go see the baby Jesus) is particularly poignant. It didn't stand out for me when I was a child. But now that I have a son of my own, I feel Amahl's departure in my very soul.

Mother: "Don't forget to wear your hat!"
Son: "I shall always wear my hat."
together: "So, my darling goodbye! I shall miss you very much."
Mother: "Wash your ears."
Son: "Yes, I promise."
Mother: "Don't tell lies."
Son: "No, I promise."
together: "I shall miss you very much."
Son: "Feed my bird."
Mother: "Yes, I promise."
Son: "Watch the cat."
Mother: "Yes I promise."
together: "I shall miss you very much."

I cry every time I hear this part. I know the pain of the mother, letting her child go. And I know the pain of saying good-bye to your mother. But then I imagine Amahl traveling to Bethlehem to visit the Christ child. I picture him standing in the stable, just behind the three kings, waiting for his turn to approach the baby. I imagine his eyes widening as he looks at Jesus for the first time, recognizing the awesome gift sent by God.

Every Christmas season, I look for Amahl in every nativity scene on display. He isn't always there. Sometimes there are no shepherds. Sometimes the shepherds are all grown men. But when I see a young shepherd boy, I always think, there you are, Amahl, my old friend! Am I not blessed to have such a friend?

furry reading

My cat is CEO of a fur production company, my ceiling fan is the distribution center and I am funding the entire operation. It is safe to say that the only thing in the house that is enhanced by the addition of cat hair is the cat. But still he soldiers on, eating his kibble and growing more orange and white hairs, then shedding them so the fan can do its work. I hate to admit it, but he’s stuck with this same job for almost thirteen years. The longest I’ve ever done the same job is six years, so I suppose I should show some respect.

This morning I resolved to read a book. I haven’t been reading books lately. Instead I’ve been playing Bingo on Facebook and watching television shows and movies that I recorded on my DVR. I am now so accustomed to fast-forwarding through commercials that it is agony to watch anything in real time. If I find myself watching something in real time, my index finger hovers over the fast forward key, itching to move things along. I’ll even hit the pause button when I get to the commercials and go do some task. This sometimes backfires on me if I am flipping back and forth between two shows and I forget I paused one, flip over to the other show, then flip back to find that I missed an entire section of the original show. I want to beat myself in the head with the remote control when that happens, but I can usually restrain myself.

Until a few years ago, I had over 1500 books in my house. I read every day and sometimes well into the night if it was a particularly good read. I enjoyed literature the best, but I could also go for the occasional mystery or suspense or even certain non-fiction.  I’ve often been deeply affected by a book, thinking brand new thoughts or feeling things I hadn’t realized I was feeling, or feeling stupid that I hadn’t known something or noticed something. There are a handful of books that have been life-changing.

But a few years ago, I found myself being transferred by my company for the fifth time in six years. I could not face packing all of those books again. Plus, I would be downsizing from a 3500 square foot house in Memphis to a 950 square foot loft apartment in Philadelphia. Something had to give! So I weeded through all of those books and got rid of all but about 150. I know that sounds horrifying to anyone who loves books! But I was careful to pass my books on to true book lovers.

So, why did I stop reading? I was working incredibly long hours and was exhausted when I got home. Facebook was easier and required less energy and thinking. Computer games allowed me to escape. Television was even better because it required no energy AND it allowed escape. There were lapses in my full stop. After I watched the first season of Game of Thrones on HBO, I immediately bought all of the books and read straight through them all. Fantasy isn’t my preferred genre, but I admit that I loved them. I did the same thing with The Hunger Games trilogy after I heard people talking about the books. Again, SF is not my preferred genre, but they were good, though not nearly as good as the Game of Thrones series.

So anyway, a switch was flipped in my brain this morning and I walked over to the bookshelves to peruse what is left of my collection. I settled on Growing Up in the South, An Anthology of Modern Southern Literature, edited and introduced by Suzanne W. Jones. The first piece is a selection from the autobiography of Harry Crews entitled A Childhood: The Biography of a Place. As I read it, I can feel my brain stretching just a bit. It is out of practice, since it has mostly been focused on Bingo games, television remote controls and a level 71 Undead Hunter named Amathyst. (Yes, the misspelling was intentional.) And I have even taken a break to write this.

Since it is late morning, the sun is shining in the window next to my chair. I can see individual cat hairs occasionally floating through a ray of sunshine. It makes me smile. That production factory may have been in operation for almost thirteen years, but I've been reading for over FIFTY years! Maybe I'm not as much of a flibbertigibbet as I originally thought!