booandbunny

In the spirit of the season, I thought I’d use my 100^th post to say thanks to all who come here and to those I visit elsewhere. You inspire me and remind me that never, ever am I as alone as I might feel for whatever reason it might be. There are so many who have touched me as we’ve been swept up in this net. What once was a fish out of water is now braving the Seven Seas. Thank you. Thank you. And Happy Thanksgiving!

Reading this last week this came to my head from nowhere … it shows how much of a smart-ass I am in real life. I hope my admiration for those who dare to be themselves in a homogenized hurry hurry world comes through. For Jessie, thanks for always daring to be you:

She appeared a few months ago. I’d never noticed her before. Between changing my radio station and aiming the coffee mug at the cup holder I looked up at the road just long enough to see her there, walking and reading. That doesn’t seem too safe to me.

I confess to being absolutely no good in the morning. I don’t read a newspaper and leave my home computer off. By the time I’ve parked at work (about a mile and a half from my house) I’ve had enough coffee and radio to feel that I have a clue what’s going on in the world. (At last Brittany and Kev split!) Then I cruise the E, Star and People websites before diving into the work on my desk.

But she is always there … walking and reading and reading and walking and it is always a book … a thick looking book. I don’t know anyone who reads books. Do you think she watches TV? And where is she walking anyway? Does she just not have a car?

Yesterday we managed to meet up at a stoplight and she read the whole time. She only raised her eyes long enough to look both ways before crossing the street. Good thing, too. I cursed into my cell phone as my coffee spilled when I almost hit her. Walking and reading ... that doesn’t seem too safe to me.

Don’t see her today, probably because I stopped at the drive-thru. (They took forever!) How does anyone have time to walk anywhere, especially in the morning? I wonder. I flip through the radio dial as I open my Cra-Sandwich. I slam on the brakes just in time. There she is, in the crosswalk.

Walking and reading ... that doesn’t seem too safe to me.

Melba always reminds me to celebrate my good fortune … that I should feel pride in the work of my mothering and take this special time to feed my creative beast. For Melba:

Double Baked Potato Soup
1 large russet potato
1 large sweet potato
2 Tbsps. butter
¼ cup flour
2 cups half-and-half
1 14-oz. can chicken broth
½ cup sour cream
¼ cup sliced green onion (I use the whole thing, not just the greens)
Salt and white pepper to taste
6 slices bacon, diced and cooked crisp
2 oz. finely shredded sharp cheddar cheese
Scrub potatoes and pierce with fork. Bake in 400-degree F oven for 1 hour, or microwave (high) for 5 to 8 minutes, until cooked through. Let stand until cool enough to handle. Peel potatoes, coarsely mash and set aside. In heavy 3-quart saucepan, melt butter over medium-high heat. Whisk in flour to make thick paste. Slowly whisk in half-and-half and broth. Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly until thickened and bubbly, about 2 minutes. Add mashed potatoes, sour cream and green onion; cook until heated through. Season with salt and pepper. Top each serving with bacon and cheese.

Hubby and I started our blogs about the same time. Where I got frustrated and lacked commitment, he kept going. So, when the new year rolled around I renewed my commitment and, as always, he was very encouraging. The hard part for me was making the connections. And just on the day I was about to give up again, I found Alexandra. Not only was she interesting, she was inspiring. And through her blog a new world opened. I can’t find the permalink anymore, but one of the first of her posts I read encouraged writers to leave anonymous notes in places, little stories to surprise those who find them. Here is one of my little stories I left somewhere last winter, For Alexandra:

She was trying to listen, but the distraction, the attraction, was just too strong. She’d seen him more than once when meeting her sister here for coffee. Always he was at the same table. Always with the cliché coffee house laptop. She wondered what was on the screen.

Couldn’t be too interesting, she thought, for she knew that he had noticed her, too. He didn’t smile often, but had once thrown her a crooked grin. Tingles.

She hadn’t tingled in quite some time, but certainly wasn’t about to give up hope. His hair was a bit longer than the first time she’d seen him and he brushed it out of his face now. No rings.

He closed the laptop and pushed back on his chair, making to leave. She sat up a bit. She was between him and the door, you see. And just as her eyes rose, expecting him to, his body made a smooth motion away from the table and her insides twisted with a strange reaction.

For whatever reason, she found his wheelchair quite alarming. Well, unexpected. It didn’t make her afraid, it was just that, well, things now weren’t as they had seemed. As he drew nearer she found herself boring her eyes into her sister’s.

“What’s wrong with you?” her sister said with a twist in her face.

“Maybe she wasn’t expecting me.” He offered a crooked grin as he came to a stop at their table. Her sister looked at his sharp jaw and brown eyes and grinned. “I have to go to work,” she said. “Call me.”

Another squeeze of uneasiness hit her as he made himself quite comfortable at the small table. His hand was right next to hers.

Tingles.

Another crooked grin.

She spent that Saturday morning learning, laughing, tingling. She spent that Saturday afternoon sharing things about herself she hadn’t shared in some time. She spent Saturday night in his arms.

Sometimes, things are exactly as they seem.

Her blog is In the Middle. Her comments come up as Martie, but for some reason in my bookmarks she’s The Mad Hatter. She constantly reminds me we are so many things, the sum of parts our own, parts we created and parts we nurture. For Martie:

The bag is ever more swollen as the years go by: daughter, sister, friend. Far down at the bottom of it now is a smashed black pillbox with a teasing little veil. The guys liked those back in the day … that was her single girl hat. It might be a bit moth eaten, but she couldn’t bear to throw it away. What if, God forbid, she needed it again someday … or maybe just for dress up, you know, when he feels better. Wife, mother, sister, friend. Auntie, now grandmother … confidante. All her hats were in there … stuffed in the bag no one could see but this woman. This woman, like so many others, moving across the earth and touching lives every minute, not knowing the sweet breeze her perfume left behind or the calming effect of her approach. The leading lady in her own production, the Mad Hatter knew how to fill every part.

It’s a gift I’ve never considered myself having received. But in exploring the blogosphere and following connections I sometimes find myself moving writing implements across paper, but no words come out. Instead I get something like this, which is for Jim:

I’m still learning to photograph the wild creatures that move any faster than my sleepy cat, but this was one of those moments where conditions and camera collided. I didn’t even realize there were three birds until I cropped and enlarged on the computer! For Endment:

In the past few months I’ve noticed myself stopping and taking pictures in my mind. This one came on a day out with the family, right after we got the new camera. We were walking in a historic area when the two of us paused at this knotted tale and he said “Now that’s something you should take a picture of.” So I did. And, despite this wider visual exploration, I still find the desperate need to put words to things. For Hubby, I offer an evening of silence sometime in the very near future! But elsewhere I must add words to this photo, which brings a rhythmic roll to my ears. For Liz:

fatal flaw knot in pine

piece of wood creature unnamed

men and steel landscape tamed

From the ground you speak to me.

Your future is our history.

All aboard, departure’s nigh.

Move us Westward railroad tie.

There is a world that moves me but I’m never quite sure how to share it. I never know just what style will hit me at any given moment. The best way to illustrate it is a short story … Hubby and I took a weekend away to see one of his (and now one of my) favorite bands. These 60-somethings, who several decades earlier had knocked the world on its ear with what can only be called blistering sound, probably never intended for one of their songs to re-assure a mom out in the cheap seats on her first overnight away from her three babies. But that’s what they did. You just never know how music will hit you. For Anne-Marie:

Sometimes, I feel I gotta get away
Bells chime, I know I gotta get away
And I know if I don't, I'll go out of my mind
Better leave her behind with the kids, they're alright
The kids are alright

Claudia always brings me something new to enjoy. If only I could complete some of my projects I would share them here … alas, I’m still trying to clean up the disorganized jumble of supplies. But she’s been talking so much about paring down and changing her lifestyle I find myself cringing every time I bring the many American plastic containers into my kitchen. Thank you not only for the warm creations you share, but for the reminder that less really is more. I haven’t gotten far, but I’m having more fun checking off this list than I ever have had checking off any other cleaning list! For Claudia:

So many words have been pulled from me. Words I didn’t know I had, but for the prompts at Sunday Scribblings. I’ve been stingy lately, not posting many Scribbles, so a shot of pages filled, for Laini and Megg: