Category: Sally’s Posts

Sally Showalter

Travel Writing from My Chair #3

Welcome to another segment of Traveling Writing from My Chair. As mentioned in my blog, August of 2023, I introduced a beloved city of San Miguel de Allende in the state of Guanajuato, Mexico. Once again, I am reading about current trips taken by comrade bloggers to Palermo, Tokyo, and Petritoli, and locals hiking through Bryce Canyon, and train trips across the great Rockies. For my husband and I, we flip through the photo albums and I read from my journal. Please join us on this adventure…

I Think I Will Start with a Bloody Mary

Once upon a summer not so long ago, six very grown-up children sat out on an adventure and traveled to a city, far, far away. The meeting place to begin our travels was at the airport in Phoenix, Arizona to receive arrangements and be on our way. On an early dawn Tuesday morning our little group gathered at the terminal. David and Gail of Prescott, Arizona whom we had known for a length of time greeted each of us as we arrived. She was an employee of America West Airlines and generously got us smokin’ deals on 1st Class airfare. We met Jerry and Sandi for the first time who live in California and willing to join in on this excursion.

We allowed leniency for David to be our group coordinator since he speaks a bit of Spanish and he and Gail have been to San Miguel before. We also gave him the tag name of ‘El Capitan—the Fleecing Agent’ which he rightly deserved.  Once 1st class began to board, Gail shuffled everyone into spacious leather seats with plenty of legroom. I am 5’10” and boy, this was great–I could see my toes. Jerry and Sandi sat behind Allen and me, and David and Gail were to our left. As the next line of passengers boarded, our flight attendant began to take our cocktail orders even though only 9:00 a.m. My husband would not pass such an opportunity to begin a vacation. “Umm” he said stroking his chin, “I think I’ll start with a Bloody Mary.”

 “Did you hear that?” said Jerry rising out of the seat with his right eye cloth patch due to recent surgery. He leaned up and patted Allen on the shoulder. “That’s a classic, ‘I think I’ll start with a Bloody Mary’. Buddy, you, and I are going to get along just fine.” And so, the tone was set for the entire trip ahead and none of us could begin to imagine what exactly that would mean. I on the other hand kicked back with my rum and diet Pepsi working hard at imagining San Miguel. This was our first trip to this colonial quaint city and as I’ve noted prior in writings, my husband and I went many times after. This rumble-tumble city carved in between stone, lush growth, and drowsy hillsides forever stay with us.

Meantime, the remainder of the passengers are loaded, seatbelts and overheads snapped shut and the flight attendant returns to take away our drinks. “But I am not done,” as she reaches for my tray. I take hold of my glass with at least a third still in it.  “But we have to retrieve everything and the trays in their upright position.” “But I am not done.” The flight attendant with her elegant blonde hair in place and just the right shade of pouty pink lipstick smiles. Gail who sits across the aisle leans over, “Sally, you can have another free one once we take off!” “Oh, very well then,” and I sheepishly hand my glass to the patient flight attendant. David looks at the coiffed blonde, “We can’t take her anywhere.”

Left to right: Allen, Sally, Jerry, Sandi, Gail, David
Boarding the Autobus

On the third day in San Miguel, the six of us took a taxi to the local bus depot to go to Delores Hildago located 42 kilometers from San Miguel. We bought tickets at the Autobus Central and clamored on with children, parents, grandparents, and a few college students from Texas. The driver took off out of the gates with the pedal to the metal, the Governor–the speed limiter device–screaming on red ninety percent of the trip. We tagged this ride, ‘Better than an E-ticket at Disneyland’.  Along the sides of the narrow road, kids who herded goats scattered from the honking bus horn, and dogs barked and fled. All the surrounding landscape turned into a blending of brown and green fuzz. Once in Delores, we uncovered our eyes, and stuffed our unclicked cameras back in their cases to gather our bags, laughing wholeheartedly we were off the bus and standing up.

Our intentions in this city were to obtain the pottery painted at Delores for which they were famous. Every region has individual styles, and we were after the popular Talavera. Our Capitan made his usual ‘delicate inquires’ wherever we ventured. He located the factory and was told it was just on the outskirts of Delores and past the small Universidad. “The man said to walk north past the Universidad, keep going and it is a short distance past.” David’s translation from Spanish to English may have been the reason for the extended hike that was later termed (we love our coined phrases) ‘uphill both ways, barefoot and in the snow.’ Nonetheless, we trudged on—one kilometer, 2 kilometers—and I stopped and threw my empty Bosa (the Mexican vinyl shopping bag) in the middle of the road. Dirt, plenty of cacti, no houses, no people, nothing but us six gringos looking like idiots.

Leaving the outskirts of Delores Hildago

“I’ve had it. There is NO damn pottery factory out here. Look around and tell me what you see!” I glared at David, my throat was dry, my forehead was sweaty, and challenged his so-called ‘delicate inquiry’. “Alright Sally, we don’t want your blood pressure going up. Wait here, I’ll run ahead and see what I can do.” David sprinted up the desolate road to catch up with Allen, Gail, and Sandi. Jerry waited with me as our shadows mingled in the heat. David reached the others, his ball cap waving about, pointing one way and then the other when a red pickup appeared from the direction of town. It scooted past Jerry and me scattering webs of dust around our feet and sweaty heads, coming to a slow stop at David’s flailing arms.

Where’s the chickens?

“No, it can’t be. No way,” said Jerry, rubbing his eye patch and watching David motion wildly to the back of the truck. We ran to catch up while everyone else climbed in the bed, through boxes and sacks of limones, lettuce, corn, and cilantro. I was grateful there were no crates of chicken feathers flying in our face. The truck jerked into gear and away we went, bouncing through the sparse desert landscape.

“You know David”, says Allen, his hand cupping his words through the wind, “our trip has finally digressed into what I knew you could make it!” The driver, a young kid not old enough to have a license motored his red truck straight to the pottery factory door and patiently waited for us to climb out. He refused to take any pesos and sped off waving his hand out the window.

Once facing the door, the desperation of a drug cartel appearing over a ridge to pat us down for drug stealing then a bullet hole through our skull or sex traffickers stripping us naked only to say, ‘No way José’ and then disappear over the same ridge out in the middle of nowhere vanished from my head as I looked at the simple carved wooden door. Never mind! This glorious pottery and such cheap prices! David turned the knob, “After you ladies.”

What did we find? Did we fill our bags of brightly painted hand-crafted pottery? How did we get back to town? Stay tuned and thank you for reading!

Moving Halfway to Phoenix

Last week I read a favorite blogger, (https://deborarobertson.substack.com/) where she touches on the topic of moving away from parents in her story entitled in part Sentimental Journeys. At what age is not the concern, it is the ‘move’ and all that may be tied to it. This paragraph made me think of a ‘first move’ of mine. Deborah writes:

—When we moved here, my greatest concern was leaving my parents behind. If they had demurred, I don’t know if I could have done it, no matter how many times I told myself it wouldn’t take much longer to get to them from here than it used to take us to drive to them from London. But neither of my parents expressed any concerns, they were – outwardly, at least – enthusiastic and excited for us. I remain humbled by their emotional generosity. They raised us like that. Love hard. Live your life. Have adventures.—

A second note that niggled me to write this week’s post was from another blogger the day after reading the first. Since Mother’s Day is coming up in May, I have seen mention of relationships with mothers. This blogger in brief writes of a speaker who says: the degree to which we simultaneously exalt and blame mothers in U.S. culture is destructive, and in this, the speaking narrator attended an AWP panel in Seattle about writing real mothers. They offer techniques for writing truthfully and vividly about the mother wound without leaning on the escalating “mother blame” in American Society.

On this caveat, I want to claim outwardly I have never blamed my mother for any of my mistakes or choices…I want to take full accord and ownership of each one separately. I don’t blame her or anyone else where I may have made a bad choice, or failed in fulfilling something I should have. If I claim to be my own person, then I must claim it all. For me, this issue is a long thread in my relationship with my mother.

My husband and I had been married for four years and we and my parents lived in the same small growing community of Sierra Vista (SV) in southern Arizona along the Huachuca mountains. I will be openly honest, I never liked one inch of the area from the get-go when we first moved from Illinois in 1973, and still have NO fond feelings for Sierra Vista. To quote my husband, “The best and only part of Sierra Vista was meeting Sally.”

A change in his career with the then cable television industry landed us in Tucson where I wanted to live someday when I first visited the then-small city, in the late 1960s. We found a pretty townhome on the east side (location closer to SV) of Tucson full of restaurants, galleries, shops, and a variety of grocery stores and a bonus of easy access to explore the nearby Rincons and Catalina Mountains.

This news of our move to my parents went over like a lead balloon. After all, their only grandson would be moving too—OH MY!  As noted in Deborah’s post, she and her husband were moving from the London area to the south of France and considered it a doable distance to visit back and forth. We on the other hand were moving seventy-three miles up the interstate, and unbelievable hardship and to a city full of ‘who knows what?’

Mom was a letter writer, and she immediately began writing short letters with newspaper clippings she carefully scissored out in straight neat squares from the Tucson Citizen, all of which were about break-ins and particularly rape. She now was reminding me in living proof on the printed page what earlier I let go in one ear and out the other as we packed up our things in Sierra Vista. The other issues were public schools, drugs, violence, and ethnic controversies being close to the Mexico border. This led to what would become one of my biggest regrets to this day as I allowed my mom to talk me into registering my son in a small private school that was new and ended up being poorly ran. He began his middle school years at this small scale ‘safe’ school and failed his first year. I then moved him to a public magnet school, but I was not happy with that choice either. Middle school years can be tough and I will leave it at that, but he graduated as should from eighth grade. 

After a short time, my parents did come to our townhome and stayed many times over the next three years and we have wonderful memories. During our three years at the townhome, circumstances were added and taken away which led us to a decision to move to the northwest side of Tucson, which was considered more or less rural, not yet fully developed as it became over the next several years. We wanted to buy instead of rent and found a smaller new home that fit our budget. I told my parents of the plan and the valid reasons why and how we would miss the east side of Tucson and our location and felt we were giving up much, but looking into the future is where we needed to set our sights.

Yoo-hoo, where are we?

The folks had a fit. “You’re moving halfway to Phoenix! We can never drive that far…it will be too inconvenient for us now.” We moved, my son started high school, my husband had a short driving distance to his job in telecommunications and I easily commuted to the University. The folks continued their every Monday ritual of coming to Tucson to El Con Mall to shop close to the east side, have lunch, spend the day, and drive home again, not once making an effort to come to our house because it was halfway to Phoenix. “You cannot expect us to drive that much further to come see you. It will take up half our day and we won’t have time to do what we like.”

Our new home was a bit further than a mile off Interstate 10 and as in bigger metro areas, a railroad track can run along interstates from the east coast to the west coast. Our new little house from said RR track was tucked nicely into a new and quiet neighborhood. Mom again, neatly clipped articles about the ‘homeless’ in the Tucson area and how very careful we would have to be living so close to railroad tracks that homeless/hobos could hop on and off trains and come to our house. Occasionally I received a short explicit written article on rape in Tucson (how I missed those reminders to be careful!)

One day while we chatted on the telephone, I slid into the conversation about how often I was late for work and she wondered why. She knows how I hate to be late for anything, said this just didn’t sound like me at all. I confessed to her that often as I went out to get in my car, several homeless were asleep under the tree by the driveway and I had to take time to wake them up, gather up all their rucksacks and run them off. How she responded I won’t write, but to hear the dead silence and a start of sputtering was well worth it.  

In time, due to the fact they missed their grandson, they eased into driving the extra distance to spend weekends and we all settled back into an enjoyable routine of visits and outings. During these times, not once did they run out of gasoline in their auto, nor go hungry due to missing lunch, or naked because they had to give up department stores because we dared to move halfway to Phoenix. After my dad retired, they returned to Illinois and became ‘Snowbirds’ in our home in the winter to stay one to two months. (Have mercy, there are stories.) We are still on the same street halfway to Phoenix now for thirty-seven years. Who would guess what we have endured without serious therapy? 

One last quote I would like to share from Deborah’s post…”From the very beginning, when I first told them we were thinking of moving to France, they were excited for us. That was, I think, the greatest act of selfless love.”

A bow of respect to all parents at whatever age in their lives to their children, for showing selfless love.

Weeding Through Fire

As we sit in the middle of a spring month offering fresh growth and births, I note the activities in the backyard. Doves scrounge for the seeds from the California Poppies, Lupine and hummingbirds feed from the tall willowy stalks on the pink Peri Penstemons.

A mama dove made a nest in one of my husband’s upside-down jack stands hanging inside his carport and sits patiently for her arrival. Mockingbirds have arrived to dash in and about over my two cats in his or her route to branches among the small trees. Since I love nature and its newness, it brings me to a favored place in my writing world in the form of poetry and April gets the charge of being the national month for such.

For the last several days my attention has been focused in a hospital room while my husband recovers from a cardioversion to stop A-Fib and other complications ensued due to heart failure. I had pulled out garage parking tickets from my bag to scribble a note to ask when the next nurse came in, made comments about discussions when the heart doctors stopped by, and finally brought a tiny tablet to write out what I was hearing. Weeding through the hub of shifts and faces is like hoeing in the drastic heat of summer. My husband and I are not new to this rodeo in a hospital. In my personal opinion, there should never be a first.

Once home at the end of the day or evening, I release tension by writing. Something.

Scraps of Spring

Memories are like pieces of scrap paper, collected in unfinished thoughts, broken sentences, and a single word. Notes of a day, or week, a trip, or an encounter are written on scratch paper, note cards, lip of an envelope, crisp lined paper, and even on the back of a business card. These cords of thoughts are then usually piled on a desk, stuck in a drawer, stuffed in a shoebox, grandma’s old trunk, or a designated particular and private place.

As I write, I take in the entire misshapen field of visual facts in front of me. I can line the thoughts like tidy rows, I can take time to hoe out the weeds, plant each aggravation, soulful yearning. I can make the rows as long as I choose or chop them off in the center. I can put soft mulch, foamy, earthy, cushiony words that cover the root nicely, and easily, to hold in the moisture when I water. 

 My thoughts contain growth of all types, the weeding out of the unwanted migration of things that might snag me, trip me, or scratch me. I can hoe them out or leave them to grow to overtake and choke what is beneficial for the healthy feeding of thought.

Fire, burning to weed, burning to write, burning to make love. Fire inside that opens like a furnace and the door stays closed until the top blows off. Fire to heat me into submission to write, to produce, to create a glow. Something.

I hope your seeds of thought take you to action. Enjoy your new growth.

Thank you for visiting this post today.

Fieldnotes

Jackie’s post from last week entitled Dreams, brought to mind how many ways one can interpret the word dream. This pushed me back to late summer of 2009 when Jackie told us one night at our writers’ group about the possibility she and her husband might be moving to Colorado. Much was up in the air since Danny was trying to work out a different type of job with far less traveling and stress.  “But it won’t be for some time because we have the house to sell, and get rid of things, so we have time to work on our book, do things together, and make plans.”

In thinking of this, I dove into my files and found this piece from late August 2009. Jackie and I were working at The University of Arizona in the College of Education. I had been at this college for several years, and Jackie for at least six. How lucky for us we could scheme and play together in the same workspace! As I read through my notes again, it reminds me how events shape us.   

(notes) ~ Jackie pushed my office door open this morning at 8:30. “Did you get my email? I’m leaving this weekend; I got a job and start Monday. Courtney will help with the yard sale. It happened so fast.”

I stared at her. My friend I was about to lose after ten years of meeting in a writing group, Downton Abby marathon nights, traveling to writing conferences, social events, girl slumber parties, and notebooks of stories, is now moving? Jackie took a deep breath and sat in a chair to begin to explain the chain of events and I couldn’t find one question to ask. Her husband had already left, and she stayed behind while the house was on the market, and we were preparing for a large yard sale among dozens of other tasks and fun things. Now, she was going to be gone like a puff of smoke in three days. I never dreamed this could happen.

I didn’t want to ask or hear what she was telling me. My heart was already sliding out between my toes, and I kept it a secret. She finally left to go upstairs to the 4th floor, and I sat numb. I felt not even a dust mote size of happiness. It was not that I wasn’t glad it worked out and her application was accepted at an elementary school that needed her the following Monday. It had to be such a relief not to have to search and search and have dozens of interviews but to have a job dropped into her lap because it was of such importance and so much worry lifted off her and Danny so now they can be together and start again, and what a relief she must feel and I am so happy for her and life won’t be in and around a realtor or visits back and forth between Tucson and Colorado until the house sold and all went well and who could ask for anything more?…maybe little ole me…I wanted more time with my friend. 

I now stared at the vacant chair after she left. On one of those countless occasions when she spontaneously bustled in, she plopped down one day on that little chair and said “I haven’t seen you here for days. What is going on?” I looked up without a word. “No”, she says, “please don’t tell me”. She saw in my face and put her head down, her shoulders shook slightly. She had loved our Sterling and cat-sat him many times while my husband I were away. A friend sheds tears with a friend’s pain.   

After she left with her news of actually leaving Tucson, I fumbled at my emails, opened and closed drawers, slid manila folders in and out, walked around in the hallway, went to another office and played Spider Solitaire on the computer, and felt tears badgering me…all damn day.

I thought when I got home, my husband could and would console me. We chatted for about ten minutes, and I said nothing. My words were coal lumps. Losing a friend who will move to another state is hard enough, but accepting the loss of the best friend for the last time is far more depressing. I say ‘last time’ since certain relationships such as ours do not come along often. She reminded me of just about everything I grew up with.  

I sat in my studio feeling sorry for myself when my phone rang. I decided earlier if by chance she did call, I wasn’t willing to answer. I watched her number slide across the cellphone screen. When she first mentioned at our writers’ group her and Danny’s plan, my ache began somewhere around my heart. Now it hurts and I regret and hate it. Not too many have come into my life that I consider a fleshly sister, a person I grew to love in a childish funny way. I picked up my phone, of course.  ~ (end of notes)

During that time, we gals had taken up our book project for the second time and made good progress. Linda was still with us and the four of us met regularly at a nearby library. Now what? Once Jackie left, Linda, Diana, and I put in as much effort as we could but without that fourth writer, that fourth table leg that kept the surface steady, we just couldn’t. None of us could find the pattern needed to move forward. The book project was pocketed again. The three of us here in Tucson continued to meet and write together regularly while Jackie tried to find her footing in her new surroundings. She did not share with us until much later how difficult that first year was for her. No wonder communication almost came to a standstill, and sometimes it did.

It would not be until 2017 that the four of us brought the actual book project to the table. By then, we were steady, reground, and had surpassed and survived many obstacles all around. This time was a reawakening of kindred writing friendships and purpose.

One of the things I will always laugh at is how much Jackie adores animals, particularly dogs. I have met many of her pals before she moved and read and heard of many others. She even chose ‘doggonewriter’ as an email. Currently, Rusty is still with them and has quite a story of his rescue. This short story of Rusty is included in Chapter Three, entitled Our Quirky Misfit. She has oodles of animal stories, and her upcoming memoir will contain a few from growing up in rural Nebraska.   

Recently I was on an outing with great women friends (see, I didn’t fall off a cliff after all). While roaming about in fabulous little shops, I found another perfect gift for Jackie. In a text, I mentioned I found you something! The next two texts from her came like bullets: I want my gift…get it sent! And of course, I did.

You Make Me Dog Gone Happy

One of Those March Days

I nabbed this picture from my niece’s FB because it pulled at me and drew me into another fiber of nature. I note such meaning that languishes in body movement that a task brings forth, or the easy snap of a wooden clothespin, the flat foot sound of a goose in new tender grass, the smell of a breeze whipping through clean white cotton. So off I went into one of those March days from the past to the present. 

It was one of those March days when the sun crawled slowly through the truffle of clouds, when light winds bent toward the house, sheets flapped on the clothesline, the soft clang-clang of a bucket hanging on the hand-pump.

It was one of those March days when shirt collars folded down in the correct shape, a rumpled umbrella lay on its side, a walk in the fields to count geese in V’s returning home.

It was one of those March days in Grandma’s yard where daffodils danced in their green silk leggings, tufts of grass gathered, a robin groped deep into the dark soil, and buds the size of delicate buttons dotted bare tree limbs.

It was one of those March days I asked my mother if we could have tea from great grandmother’s plum-colored teapot with gold trim and read from Little Women, to sit by a gray-blue window and see the speckle of infant leaves—why yes—and I scooted the big brown wing-back chair toward the outdoors.

It was one of those March days I set the broom aside from sweeping the porch, opened the screen door to let my two cats bound forth, stepped out to look past my potting shed, and peer through the keyhole to spring.

It was one of those March days that swept in, swept through, swept out, leaving a billow of new color on the brink of mind and earth. It was one of those glorious March days. 

Photos by Sally – March 2024

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A Peaceful Corner and a Winter Meal

Last Thursday was an extra day due to Leap Year. The 29th exists because while the world follows a 365-day Georgian calendar, it takes the planet a little bit more than a year to orbit the sun. A solar year, or tropical year, is 365 days, 5 hours, 48 minutes, and 46 seconds, according to NASA calculations. Leap years happen when we add one day to the end of February in order to align our calendar with the Earth’s orbit. This makes a leap year 366 days. What did you do with your extra day?

It put me in mind of finding a safe place, a soft glow of warmth, a few hours away from the news, negative conversations, an erratic flow of confusing and terrifying events, and the constant rhetoric jabbering to fill in television newscasts.

In a recent blog: Seams Like a Story, (https://seamslikeastory.com/), Debra describes Hygge, a Danish word that symbolizes a mood of coziness and togetherness which contribute to feelings of contentment and well-being.

Eze 34:25 says: “And I will make a covenant of peace with them, and I will rid the land of vicious wild beasts, so that they may dwell securely in the wilderness and sleep in the forests.” (meaning: human or animal, will not pose any threat).

Me: A corner, a tiny piece, a place I can be content, let my mind uncurl, my body unfurl, a nook whether in my home or out in nature, a spot that gives me pleasure and renews me with calmness.

These points put me in mind of so many reasons why we need this form of space then, and each day going forward.  

On my extra day, I chatted with family and friends to check in to hear their voices, a bit of laughter, even a sigh, give a hug or receive one. I ignored the neighbor’s diesel pick-ups ripping in and out of the cul-de-sac, kept the TV off, did no laundry, opened a book, hugged the man that is still by my side, listened to the soft songs from my cats, savored the leftover soups in the fridge, and didn’t mind any sock with a hole in it. My extra day.

Perhaps if that extra day slipped by for whatever reason, mark a day on your calendar and fill it up with you.

WEEKEND KITCHEN COUNTER FIXINS

Writing Near the Lake you will find this delicious recipe of Victoria’s parents’ neighbor from years past–Mrs. Luepke’s Wunderbar German Potato Salad–in her post from April.19.2023. It fills the bill and my husband loved it.

Bakers of the Loaf (Dana and Matt) at Indomitus Bread (indomitusbread.com) inspired me again to create a meal to accompany one of their awesome breads. This time it was their Chipotle in Adobo baked in their home.

What to go with? I marinated chicken thighs in Tequila, fresh lime, and olive oil with a heavy-handed sprinkle of Don Sazon chicken seasoning, then roasted in the oven. I rummaged through my pantry and fridge and decided to sauté mini heirloom tomatoes, garlic, red pepper flakes, and jalapeno rings in olive oil; semi large chunks of eggplant lightly browned; gently toss all in al dente organic Egg Pappardelle pasta; sprinkle snipped fresh cilantro and cotija cheese over the top. Certainly, you could easily whip up a margarita of your choice, but a medium-bodied Red did the trick.  

Enjoy the rest of your week and weekend folks and thank you for reading!

Morning Table Writing or Pens on Fire

Our writer’s group initially began our book project (Telling Tales and Sharing Secrets) in 2005 of how a writer’s group stayed together, how we scrambled our process like eggs, and mostly, the revelations learned that coated us more favorably as the writers we wanted to become. These joys and discoveries fell over pages and pages and the friendships which came through our pens, were bound to be recognized as a special dessert. Yet, life kept bumping us away from the table.

In January of 2009, we made a 2nd attempt. Once again, periphery circumstances intervened, and Jackie moved from Arizona to Colorado in August of 2009. We struggled for the next few months to discover we lost so much of her, with pieces of ourselves, the book was not enough in any form to keep us bound or heal from losses. We continued to chronicle ourselves in personal journals, in our group writing notebooks and on Facetime and gratefully in person when Jackie came for a visit.

August of 2017 was upon us as we packed bags from different locations. Months earlier we began to discuss revisiting our story of a writer’s group and committed to a plan. Jackie drove from Eaton, Colorado, and Linda, Diana, and I from Tucson and met in Pagosa Springs to spend a week at a condo. Among its furnishing sat a very long table, surrounded on two sides with windows and glass doors that overlooked a small lake, and beyond the shimmering reflections of clouds, blue skies, and geese wings in flight, were the majestic Rockies. We knew in our hearts this would be our inspiration to open the treasure chest of pages, notes, and ideas to return to our writing lives we so dearly loved and missed. One of the first sentences spoken reflects our desire when Jackie looked at the long table now piled with our ideas, and said, “I am on fire.”  

The very first morning and each after, began by 7:00 a.m., with coffee, homemade lemon scones, mini cranberry muffins, and yogurts. We immediately opened our laptops, files, stories, typed notes, and memories of our earlier efforts. Not much conversation occurred in the morning. Each of us attacked our project individually. We set our goals for the day the night before. It was a time of polishing stories, creating narratives, and resolving details of the organization of our book. The sun lit up the usually cloudless sky as day blossomed over the pond behind the condo. We worked each morning until lunchtime. By then, we were ready to dump our pajamas, shower, and drive to town for a delicious late lunch, walk along the San Juan River, visit art galleries, and gift shops, and stop at our favorite coffee shop, Higher Grounds, for a quick free write before going back to the condo. 

Higher Grounds

In the evenings, we ate pre-made meals from home wrapped in tin foil to pop in the oven. Diana called those ‘Hobo Packets’. We sat a fine table out on the deck and toasted the sunset and our accomplishments of the day. One quiet afternoon while others dozed, I watched fourteen sandstone/latte geese with chocolate necks and white cheekbones nibble deep into the grass. Several more roamed the other side of the lake to slide across the water, lift, flap wide, and span wings when in low flight over the terrain. Their honk can be alarming, yet their simple charm in their quiet search among the blades was pleasingly innocent. Their quiet glide was my nap.  

We did take one evening to figure out the television Blue Ray and remote control. Linda was in charge since none of the rest of us wanted to use our brains any further. Earlier on the way home from our afternoon excursion in town, movies were brought up and Ferris Bueller came to mind. Neither Jackie nor Linda had ever heard of it. Diana and I were aghast! We made a sharp left at the stop light to Super Wally World (Walmart). We four hopped out of the car and made a beeline to the electronic section. A friendly young bloke wearing a blue vest with the name ‘Todd’ on the nametag asked if he could help. We said we were looking for a DVD of Ferris Bueller. “Oh, over here.” A huge wire bin stocked full of hundreds of DVDs was marked $3.97 each. All five of us rummaged through the bin. I thought this would take all evening and worried my wine would get warm waiting in the car.  “Hold on,” Todd says, “I think we’re in luck!”  Sure enough, he pulled out Ferris Bueller. Diana wrapped her arms around his neck and said, “I love you!”  He grinned from ear to ear.

The five glorious days in Pagosa, we set goals, chapter titles, and table of contents, chose stories, and worked out a schedule for long-distance meetings. On the last morning, we loaded up our two vehicles, one to head north, the other, south, and ate our farewell breakfast at Two Chicks and A Hippie. We were ready to be on fire together.

In summary: I often correlate aspects of gardening to writing; both rich, both rewarding.

During moments of deep concentration (gardening) “we are lifted clear out of time, and for a few minutes the stress of the day slips away.” To enter the garden world is to stop time for an hour or a day, for however long your attention is completely absorbed by the ordinary tasks of watering, deadheading, pulling weeds, trimming, shaping, seeding, or planting.

Japanese use names for things according to their shape, such as rocks: body rock, heart rock, branching rock, and reclining rock.

Quiet, coffee, ruffled pages, lake-like glass, streaming sunlight, smudges of clouds in the blue sky, a young father and two little boys fish off a wooden dock, a hot air balloon, another and another, girls emerge from their sleep nests, Jackie, Diana, Linda to stretch and reach for cameras to step out onto the deck and click at the brilliant floating colors overhead—our way with words caught in the sky.

A view off the deck

Listening Sliced in Half

Have you ever been in a conversation when you were only half listening? You catch bits and pieces, nod your head, ‘uhm uh’, and stare straight at them.

My husband and I have had a morning routine now for several years over coffee. One of the pieces of the routine is the Weather Channel on his iPad. It starts with, “Guess what temp it is right now?” and we both throw out a number and see who comes the closest before the current temp pops up on screen. He then reads out the daily forecast for the next week. We all know how unpredictable weather can be and how WRONG forecasts are. Nonetheless, we bite into our English Muffin or finish up a fresh fruit smoothie by the end of the week’s forecast. Then I say something like, “Wait, rain is Tuesday?” “No, it begins Wednesday night.” “Oh right.” Or I can say, “Wait, it’s going to freeze this coming Thursday night?”, and my husband repeats, “No, not until Friday night, early morning Saturday.” “Oh right”, I say as I stare straight at him with a buttery smile. Meantime, in my head, I had covered the grocery list and the chores in the backyard I want to get done before noon.

Dialogue is a combination of thought, action, and speech, and while two are talking, a lot more is going on. Each person or character if you are writing fiction, is thinking and moving and things are happening in the environment around them as well.

In a Zoom fiction writing class during COVID-19, we had one assignment each week for six weeks. One of which was on dialogue used in a scene with distractions. Real talk can be messy with interruptions, talk overs, dropped sentences, fill-ins, and dead space and sometimes a person does not say what they mean or want to say. Like the forecast above, one can slide into distraction and end up not being at all what began.  

Baking With New Friends – Craft of Fiction Workshop

“I know you are busy Mom, but this is super important!” Thatch looked with wide-open blue eyes up at his mom. Ellen’s six-year-old’s life was always super important. Therefore, she turned the flame lower under the chocolate she was melting for the frosting and laid a chopping knife down. “What is it?”

“Well Scrubby, you know my friend Scrubby, well his name is Tommy, you know, Tommy Higbee with the scar on his chin? We call him Scrubby because the scar always looks dirty all the time and I mean ALL the time.” Ellen peeked at the chocolate ganache and gave it a quick stir. “Yes, honey I know who he is.”

“He got a new puppy, well, he has two and he didn’t mean to get two. It just happened that way and…” Ellen checked the cake, no, not pulling away from the edges yet. “…and he said they were going on vacation and needed someone to take the two puppies plus his rabbit Cinnamon. Can you believe the rabbit is housebroken and can be inside!”

“Oh, that’s special.” Ellen quickly sliced half a cucumber for the salad.

“…yeah, when I was over last time the silly rabbit chased the bird that got out of the cage, Twiggy. Isn’t that a dumb name for a bird? Anyway, the bird comes with the cage and has plenty of food for the week…” The frosting was just thick enough. Oh, shoot, the cake. Ellen opened the oven door; “Step back honey so mommy can take out the cake. Now what happened to Tweeter?”

“Twiggy and nothing happened to him, Mom. He’s coming here with the others. Like I said, the puppies, Simon and Syd and they both love the bird! Twiggy talks to them and has already learned to say, ‘Shut up’…I don’t think the puppies get it yet.”

“Here sweets, would you put this over on the counter? That’s not very nice that Scrubby says shut up.” Ellen gently steps around her son and sets the cake on a hot pad.

“It wasn’t Scrubs, it was the bird! Aren’t you listening to anything I say?”

“Of course, you know you must have a bath before five today.”

“Okay fine. I better go now cause it will take a couple of trips to bring Simon, Syd, Twiggy, and Cinnamon.”

“That’s a great idea, of course, cinnamon, I knew I was missing something!” Ellen opens the cabinet door for the cinnamon before she glances at Thatch pulling his Red Flyer Wagon off the porch. “Honey, where are you going? You have to have that bath before five!”

Can you relate a conversation of half listening? If so, write it out and have a chuckle.

Can you relate a conversation of half listening? If so, write it out and have a chuckle.

Travel Writing From My Chair, #2

Friends of mine have just returned from a three-week trip to Italy; a family of five have been to Costa Rica; two others returned from San Diego in the knick of time due to flooding; and four gal friends are planning an eastern coast and Canadian trip after winter passes.

Where am I? Here in my chair, rousting about between stories, reading, cooking, yard work due to sunny afternoons in the high 60s in January, a fireplace of an evening snuggling with hubby and cats. What is wrong with that? Absolutely nothing. Yet, my mileage is quite short, so short I can walk it in a few minutes. Rain is upon us currently for a few short days flipping us all back indoors.

Allow me to take you on another trip to San Miguel de Allende for a week-long writing workshop at a private home. Instructors were Janice Eidus (Janice Eidus: Home Page/Biography), and Beverly Donofrio (Master Memoirist – Beverly Donofrio) for memoir, both outstanding authors…

I found myself alone on a Wednesday at this incredible villa where the sixteen of us parked for a week with notebooks, laptops, and lots of pens.

On this Wednesday, I stayed behind to work on a story, well, it was an excuse—I was dying to explore this dream of a villa on my own. The group was on a short historic walk, leaving myself and Mikey, the resident wiry-haired white dog at home in this villa (a second home to a family from Austin).

Ten bedrooms plus as many bathrooms. As you enter the villa from off the street, one large fountain sparkles through the big wooden doors from the street, a stone foyer onto an open courtyard. The second fountain is found in one of the three inner yard areas. On patrolling the private property within the walls, secret nooks are found where either a small table with two to four chairs, or a bench hiding behind climbing blue morning glories and arbors of Serpentine Roses. Potted succulents, ferns, and Orange Clivia are strewn everywhere between thick dense palms, and curtains of Fuchsia Bougainvillea.

I stroll everywhere with Mikey at my heels, breathe in the fragrances, and know the cook is at the nearby Mercado choosing the fruit and fresh vegetables for a meal all of us will prepare in a class later on for our dinner. Large vases of flowers are on round tables, side tables, and on the large dining table. Ceilings curved and rounded overhead are painted with rays of the sunset and baked clay.  

In time, I return to a spot and open my notebook. I scan notes from the long morning class. I would no doubt have a longer piece if I paid more attention to the instructor instead of jotting down hidden notes as I assessed the other students. A bad habit of mine, but so entertaining and worthwhile since people are good building blocks for fictitious characters. Mind you, I am careful to keep my notes of classmates and sketches discreet.  

For instance, there are a couple of ladies in this group that is sort of a pain. They both carry an attitude like an oversized suitcase from Austin. I certainly don’t mean to nitpick or stereotype, but they were uppity. You hear stories you know, those darn Texans who think they have it all–‘everything is BIG in Texas.’ Sheri may have had laser tucks around her eyes and live in a Victorian in the ‘slum’ side of Austin as she calls it, and brags about her long-distance relationship with a husband she moved out on once the kids were grown and burns his money down to cinder, but she still has ugly shaped toes.   

Winslette, an old-fashioned, perfectly spoken English Marm, a retired teacher from a private school, is just plain boring. She gets so “wordy” as she describes herself in a slim apologetic way, then continues to monopolize the time in her intricate description and knowledge of any one subject. Honestly, when she read her story at the close of our week together, I was not the only one to nod off.  

Avery, a masseuse, and who now owns a local massage shop, is quite outspoken and could easily claim herself as a former taxi driver—no holds bar. She freely chits on how she seduced one of her students while teaching English in San Miguel at a high school; he being the poorest man/family in town, (can you believe that she says) and now they are married and have two beautiful daughters. I was afraid to ask in front of everyone just how old Carlos was when she taught him things other than English.

Oh, oh, I hear voices. It appears the group has returned for stiff margaritas served alongside a bowl of fresh-cut jicama, cucumber, and limone slices, spicy salsa for the warm tortillas, or crusted native bread, the bolillos.

The cook is setting out utensils and items for the cooking class. A nice break from writing all day. Once we’ve chopped, sizzled, fried, and drank, two good-looking salsa instructors will be here. We must work off the oil, butter, cream, and tequila, to clear our heads for the next day of writing. My characters are taking on a new life.

I hope you enjoyed this quick short trip, completely written from a different frame of mind.   

Beans Beans the Musical Fruit

Once January 1st moved to Tuesday, I launched myself into the month. I see many blog posts warming up with their favorite soups, memories of them, and some well-grounded history. I am a huge soup enthusiast and have been spending time at the table thumbing through oodles of cookbooks, reading narratives, and fishing through handwritten recipes from my mother and grandmothers. I cannot believe how many recipes I have found stuck in cookbooks with former good intentions of knowing exactly where they are when I need them. Boy, have I been fooled?

In doing so, this action put me to clean all my kitchen cabinets where spices, bottles of vinegar, various infused olive oils, coffees, and teas are stashed. Oops, how did that can of Goof Off get here? Neat as a pin now. It makes me ruminate over the flavors to use together, to stir in, to sprinkle over, and slowly merry into a happy mouth.

Reading through this New Year’s blogs, most ended their year with holiday traditions and opened the new year with thoughts, reflections, and winter. Beans stride onto the stage. Sinu from Venice (https://sinufogarizzu.substack.com/) opens with Pasta e Fasioi, The Classic Venetian Soup for Deep Winter, and shares fresh and dry Lamon beans in soups while Ruth gives us a simple (but sumptuous) soup, a Lentil with leeks to start a cold year on a warm note. https://ruthtalksfood.substack.com/

Beans are full of protein, and fiber, both good for the heart, and sometimes they, well, you know. Many years ago, a cousin called my mom to ask if she knew a way of how to keep beans from creating gas. She of course said, “Why yes.” Lestoil replied, “Really?” Mom told him to stop by next time in town and she would give him what he needed. He stopped by that very afternoon, and she handed him a wooden spoon in which the handle had been carefully split and pulled apart in a V shape with small rungs glued in like a ladder. The note attached read, ‘Leave wooden spoon in a pot of beans while cooking, and eventually all the gaseous elements will climb out before serving.”  Mom watched her nephew walk down the long sidewalk to his truck and every little bit he would throw his head back and laugh out loud. (My husband’s uncle made a few dozen of these for gifts many, many years ago and each one did the trick.)

Since winter is upon us in most areas, and yes, here in Tucson we started off the week at 30 degrees Monday morning and snow on the surrounding mountains. I spent half the day on Saturday covering my plants with freeze cloth and reattaching on Sunday because of the wind gusts up to 40 mph. The backyard looks like a slumber party gone askew and we have at least five more nights this week of freezing temperatures, then of course, we will go soft again for a spell.

Meantime, being under the influence of beans, over the weekend I fished around and dug out ingredients on hand and created a Peruano Frijoles y Caña del Jamón  (yellow beans and ham shanks).  Thanks to the excellent bread bakers called Indomitus, http://indomitusbread.com/. Matt and Dana baked the perfect bread to make the meal sing like mariachis.

Weekend Kitchen Counter Fixins

1 ½ lb Peruano or yellow beans, soak over night then drain and rinse

3 med size ham shanks

1 dark beer and additional low sodium chicken broth to cover ingredients in crock pot

Diced ½ red onion, 3 celery stalks, 1 carrot

1 Bay leaf

Roast 1 green chili, remove seeds and veins, dice or use a small can diced green chilies

Render ½ lb jalapeno bacon or any other kind, drain and dice, but not too small

3 to 4 tomatillos and two Romas, or any type of tomato in your area or use 1 15 oz can diced tomatoes

Put ham shanks in crock pot, beans, beer, broth, bay leaf, bacon and all diced veggies. Heat up on 350, then lower as beans begin to tender. Seasonings can be many things of your favorites. I do not add salt due to the salt in ham. I used cumin, chili powder, Riley’s No Salt Seasoning, fresh ground black pepper. I do not measure, but add lightly, taste as beans cook, and then adjust as flavors merry.

Black Bean and Cumin Bread – Ingredients: unbleached bread flour, Black Bean Flour, water, oil, salt, cumin, charcoal powder, wild yeast, prepared in a private home. Superb!

Thank you for beginning the new year with us. If you have a favorite bean soup recipe to share and a possible story of its heritage, please email me and I would love to post it. Happy warm winter eating!