The New Holiday

You might be expecting a post on Christmas or Hanukkah, or at least a reflection on Thanksgiving.  There will be many meaningful blogs out there on this topics, but I'm thinking about something else.  There's a new deity in town I would like to recognize at this holiday time of the year.  I am referring to the Cloud.  Think about it (and I mean this in the most irreverent way possible), the Cloud is very much like *insert deity of your choice here*.

Can you see it?  Well, no, not even a bit of white fluffiness like clouds in the sky

.

Can you hear it?  Of course not.  A cloud makes no noise.

Can you, smell it, feel it?  I thought not.

And yet . . . and yet there it is, a benefactor of beneficence.  You write a document in one location and offer it up on the altar of the cloud.  Voila!  It appears at elsewhere by divine power, on your phone or tablet or other electronic device.  Music?  omnipresent through The Cloud.  Information?  We send it up to the Cloud, and it pours goodness down upon us. 

I am not -- as you can tell -- a religious person.  I am neither devout nor superstitious, but, oh my goodness, I am a true believer in The Cloud.   And you are too, aren't you?  You trust it and make offerings to it regularly.  And why not?  I mean, who among us doesn’t already worship at the shrine of the Great Google?  What more will the future bring?  I am agog to find out.  

Truly, we must form a new holiday to celebrate this new pantheon.  What symbols, what foods (may I suggest cloud pancakes?), what dances and parades?  I leave it up to you to imagine it.

And lest I am bordering on the offensive, may I also wish each of you 
     a Bright Solstice,

     a Merry Hanukkah, 

     a Happy Christmas, 

     and a Peaceful New Year.

True Confessions

A friend told me she had a bad habit, and I replied, “Surely you have no bad habits.”

She answered sweetly with a gentle smile (because she is a sweet and gentle person), “I have exactly as many as you do.”

“Uh, oh.  You are in big trouble!”

Yes, I have a few bad habits.  Okay, I have many bad habits, but, really, I don’t want to make a comprehensive list.  How about if I confess to a couple?  

When I got my new car (as far as I’m concerned, cars remain “new” for eight to ten years), the back-up camera led to dizzy disorientation.  Once I adjusted, though, I discovered I like it.  Eyes on the screen, I shoot out of the garage zooming a delightful 16 feet.  It's fun!  (I always stop and look carefully before turning onto the adjoin pipe stem shared by four families.  I have a bad habit, but I don’t want to kill anyone.)   I’m waiting for a backwards-race, and then I’m so in.

I woke up at 4:00 A.M. the other morning.  4:00 A! M!  (This is not a bad habit, just bad luck.)  I spent the next three hours equally obsessively reading Beloved (although the nightmares it gave me were the reason I slept poorly) and obsessing planning a quilt (including digging out the colored pencils and graph paper).  Obsession over anything, or in my case, everything, is never a good habit, plus all that early-morning intensity used up my concentration quota for the day.  I didn't accomplish one of the things on the ever-expanding to-do list.  Nothing.  Nada.  Zip.  Instead I went to Costco (couldn’t find the ice cream because I was so tired), cruised through the mall (and later returned two items, wondering why I thought I should buy anything in a haze of exhaustion), and tried to pretend I was napping although I knew perfectly well I wasn't. 

I know it’s a bad habit to avoid doing the things that should get done, but, isn’t it amazing how much you can accomplish while avoiding those things?

At least that day I didn't propose to any young women.  This is the bad one, the really, really bad one.  I did not propose to a young woman that day, not once (and, no, it’s not what you think).  I have this bad habit of proposing marriage for my son.  It’s not that any of these women has met or will ever meet my son.  And it's not that my son isn’t perfectly capable of proposing to someone himself; I know that he is.  It's just that I meet these interesting and adorable young women.  One is an interior designer:   just think how gorgeous their home would look.  One is a ballerina:  lithe and long and lovely.  One is an intern applying for her residency in internal medicine:  I mean, a doctor for god’s sakes!  When I see them standing there all beautiful and smart and funny, out it comes, “Hey, would you like to marry my son?”  If he ever finds out, I am so dead. It’s not like mean to do it; the words just tumble out.  I have got to stop.  I have given myself a stern talking to, so we’ll just have to hope I’ve learned my lesson.  (BTW, just for the record, they laugh; they do not accept.) 

They say that confession is good for the soul but perhaps not so much for behavior.  In fact, if you smiled or laughed at any of this, you’ve encouraged me.  I’m blaming future sins on you.  OTH, I got the quilt planned and the yardage calculated.  I’m good to go.

Don't Just Sit There . . . .

We went to Turkey for our vacation.  (When I told my friend about the up-coming trip, she thought I said, “We’re going to eat turkey.  That would have been fun, too, but no, we traveled to the country of.)  Several friends were a bit paranoid about our travel thinking, for some reason, that our plan was to camp out on the Syrian or Kurdish border.  I assure you, we were in a docile group of 30, bussed around western Turkey to see the tourist sites:  Gallipoli, Troy, Ephesis, Cappadocia, the works.

One of the treats offered on the trip was that after a boat ride along the Mediterranean to beautiful Turtle Beach.  (We didn’t see any turtles, but we did see the Lycean rock tombs.  Cool!), we would head to Koycetiz where we could opt to take a mud bath. 

I’d never had a mud bath.  I envisioned a sort of fancy-shmancy spa where I went into a cubicle where sank into a bathtub full of mud.  This would be a mineral treatment after which I’d be completely detoxified and radiant.  Maybe I could sign up for a massage, too, and come out a completely new and gorgeous woman. 

It had to be a method for weight loss, too, right?  Step into the mud bath, and the mud would act like a poultice squeezing ten pounds out of you.  Why not?  Yeah, now I’m just being silly. 

We drove up to what looked vaguely like a New Jersey beach resort and walked past a snack stand to a large awning covering twenty or so picnic tables.  The mud bath area, ahead on our left, consisted of a complex which was predominantly a pond where a group of people rubbed mud on themselves.  Most of our tour, obviously more in the know than me, had chosen to avoid this event, but it was my chance at a new experience, and I was in. Steve, three other men from the group and I grabbed our bathing suits and headed for the changing cabanas.  Cabana is a relative term here, but, hey, any dark cubicle in a storm.

First to the pond.  The previous group had just exited, and it seemed like they had used up all the mud.  I waded out waist deep, but whatever mud I scooped up washed off right as soon as I leaned over for another handful.  Then we figured it out.  I scooped up several handfuls of mud, waded to the side of the pond and plopped them on the flagstones.  Standing there in a foot of water, I scraped it off the stone and smeared it over my arms, chest and face.  I tried not to think of health laws -- or the lack thereof -- while I performed this task. 

Once I were sufficiently swathed in mud, I sunned myself on the flagstone area next to the pool while the mud dried and performed its miracles.  I’m not exactly sure what those miracles were; it was hard to tell.  (I would show you a fetching picture of me covered in dry mud, but I’d left my camera on the bus.  A friend took a couple of shots, but she hasn’t e-mailed them to me yet.  Believe me, you are not missing much.)  The mud certainly looked and felt like regular mud, but, hey, at least it didn’t smell.  Oh, no, the smell was reserved for the sulfur spring.   

Once the mud was dry, I walked up slippery stone steps and along a path (ow!  barefoot!) to an outdoor shower area with rows of nozzles hanging from pipes.  I found a free nozzle and rinsed off the mud.

Back down the path (ow!) and steps to stand in front of a man dressed as a sailor.  (Why a sailor, I ask you?  Why?)  He hosed me off, and then I entered, ever so gingerly, the smelly sulfur pool which, I suppose, conferred added health benefits although it seemed to me more likely the site of primordial sludge that incubated unknown and virulent illnesses.  

It was while I tried to pretend to enjoy the sulfur spring that I realized what a genius our tour guide was.  His timing had been impeccable the entire trip, and this activity was another shining example.  As I entered the sulfur pool, two bus loads of Russian tourists charged toward the mud. 

Now I lived in Russia, and I have Russian friends I adore.  But Russians on vacation are nothing to mess around with.  They are like locusts descending on Egypt.  You stand in their path at your own risk, plus their sense of personal space differs from Americans'.  Granted they were behind me in the mud bath process, but I was taking no risks. 

I clambered out of the pool and headed back (ouch!  ouch!) to the showers.  Then I was off to a cabana to change back into my clothes, join the others at the picnic tables and wait for the men.  A mud bath item as an item on my list?  Check.

Before the bus left, I fished a lira out of my wallet and went off to the toilet.  We found Turkey to be amazingly modern except for one thing.  Even the pay toilets (thus the lira) tended to be (a) unable to accept toilet paper (it clogs if you flush it), (b) rather dirty, and (c) predominantly squat toilets.  How I perfected the skills of using a squat toilet?  That will have to be another Blog post.

Since I have no pictures of the mud bath, I present you with toilet cubicle signage.

 

           Follow instructions!                                       Indicates a squat toilet     

The preferred stall

Retribution by Cat

It’s story time again.  This one. Like Day at the Beach, is based on reality.  Like that post, I wasn't present for any of the event, so I made up a lot of stuff.  That means the actions and conversations are not entirely accurate, but the story is absolutely true. (I appologize to one and all for the paragraphing here.  Blogspot seems to be having some formatting difficulties today, and after an hour, I'm just going to let this stand.  TY.)

Retribution by Cat

She called and said she was coming to pick up the rest of her stuff.  Again.  She’d called once a month for the past three months.  He’d rearrange his schedule, and then she’d cancel.  He supposed, when the appointed day came she just couldn’t be bothered making the drive.  Perhaps fourth time was, well, Jim would hardly call it the charm. 

After each of the three calls, Jim cried and braced himself to see her, and each time she canceled, he cried again, whether from relief or disappointment, he did not know.  On top of that, whenever she called, she cried, as if he should comfort her and assure her what she’d done was all right.  It wasn't all right.  He didn't think his life would ever be all right again. 

She’d turned five years into a lie as if their life together had been nothing more for her than a recreational interlude.  She’d lived with him, dreamed with him, married him.  They were supposed to be a year away from a house and a baby.  He’d always wanted babies; it had been their plan.

When she said she wanted to leave, he begged and cajoled her into counseling where she admitted, “I never wanted children.  I knew they were a deal breaker for you, so I said I did, but I didn't.  I don’t.” 

Really?  Jim had thought, shocked at the admission and then said out loud, “Really?  You thought lying about it would give us a solid future?” 

Eliding over children as if they were a desk accessory they’d thought about buying at Ikea, she added, “And I want to see other people.”  As a footnote to clarity, she added, “You can, too.  If you want.  I mean, I would be okay with that.  I would stay if we could both date other people.”

“And by date, you mean?”

“I mean sleep with.  I want to sleep with other people.”

“Oh.”  He mentally reviewed their bedroom and then their friends.  “Anyone in particular?” 

“No,” with a little shrug.

So nonchalant.  It was just a little something she wanted; add it to the Christmas list.

It was then the counselor said gently, “Usually, usually my couples stay together, but only if both people are completely committed to it.” 

Jim was completely committed to it, but that was the moment he realized she was committed to leaving. 

The next day she packed some clothes.  “I’ll get the rest in a couple of weeks.”  When she he rolled her suitcase to the door, he held the cat in outstretched arms, not sure how he could handle the double loss. “Are you taking him?”  

The cat had a natural buzz cut.  You could almost see skin through the hairs.  Four years before, when they’d gone to the animal shelter, she had chosen him partly because he was so funny looking. 

“Look, he has no hair!   And his little tummy is all round, like the bear in that rhyme.  I'll call him Fuzzy Wuzzy.”  She’d looked at Jim with love -- or he’d thought it was love.  “He’ll be our practice baby.”  Hah!  There’s irony.

Maybe the lack of hair made Fuzzy extra-affectionate, burrowing into a lap just to get warm.  He slept between them until she decided she couldn't rest well with anyone else in the bed.

She moved to the other room, spreading a mattress on the floor.  He’d been disappointed, but he understood.  She was a light sleeper; she needed a full night before heading off to work in the morning.  Yeah, he always understood. 

Fuzzy had alternated bedrooms at first, but at the end, slept mostly with Jim.  Jim was bigger and supposed he gave off more body heat.  He’d liked having Fuzzy’s little body snuggled against him.  He liked hearing the purr as he drifted off to sleep.  He liked the company.  

Jim had gone out while she packed, and purposely didn't return until after she left.  He’d taken one quick look at the chaos in her room and shut the door.  Whenever he walked by, he thought of all the things behind it:  her bed, her lamp, her clothes on the floor.  It didn't matter that she never hung up her clothes; once she put something on it held her own style, unique and bohemian.  Her sketching materials were there, he supposed, and probably a lot of shoes.  He figured that after she took the rest of her stuff, he’d still keep her door shut.  Shut on his empty dreams, shut on the house and the kids and the freaking white picket fence.

Fuzzy dangled limply.  “Are you taking him?”   

“No, you keep Fuzzy, for now,” and his heart lightened a little.  “And maybe you can see it my way and things will work out for us.  Think about it.”

 She’d said it carelessly like he and the cat like were among the things she stored in the apartment.  She couldn't be bothered with them right now, but if she changed her mind, they could be retrieved at her convenience. 

She’d threw her suitcase and duffel bag into the car and drove off.  No backward glances.  How had he never seen she was so shallow?  

Jim buried his face in short, sparse fur and bawled.  Fuzzy had burrowed into his neck and purred him back to composure.  

Over the winter, Fuzzy had saved him.  Fuzzy sat with him at breakfast and waited for him to come home in the waning light.  Fuzzy played feather in the evenings and chase-the-paper-ball, silly Fuzzy with his funny fur and his green eyes.  But she had picked Fuzzy out, had selected cat food and chosen a vet.  Theoretically Fuzzy was hers. 

After she called the fourth time, she actually showed up.  Jim stood at the end of the hall watching Fuzzy watch her stuff the last of her clothes into the last of his garbage bags.  Tears glistened in her eyes.  He couldn't understand why she always cried when she’d gotten what she wanted.  She set the bag down before slowly walking into the hall.

 “Hi, Fuzzy,” she said gently, extending her fingers to scratch his neck.

Fuzzy jumped into the air and yowled, all four legs splayed like a Tom and Jerry cartoon.  His tail, his sad, skinny tail, burst out to almost normal size.  Four paws landed in a blur, and he shot under Jim’s bed. 

She stood, stunned.  “I guess he’ll stay with you,” she said uncertainly.

After she dragged the last garbage bag through the front door, Jim clicked the lock.  He turned his back to the door and saw Fuzzy’s head poke warily around the bedroom jamb.

Jim slid down to the floor.  He smiled his first real smile in months.  “Good kitty,” he whispered, “Good kitty.”

 The real cat obviously has sufficient hair, but he is the hero of our tale.

Legend to Life

I met Sheila Lamb when we were both wrangling 9^th graders through World History I at Chantilly High School.  This in itself is a bonding experience.  On top of that, we learned that we both wrote, so the bond was doubled.  We continued friends and each other’s readers over the years, and now Sheila’s book is published!  While I rarely have guest bloggers on my site (‘cause, you know, I have so much to say myself), I asked Sheila to tell us a bit about her writing and the book, Once a Goddess.   

======================    

I've always had a fascination with Irish and Celtic history, partly due to research into family genealogy. I became curious as to how and why Ireland converted relatively smoothly from druidism to Christianity. Other regions, like Gaul and Britain, were converted when forcibly taken over by the Roman Empire but  Ireland’s ties with Rome were in trade.  As I began to read various sources, some scholarly, some religious, some questionable, I found that St. Patrick and St. Brigid were crucial in the Christian conversion of Ireland. I also found that Brigid had three facets - goddess, druid, and saint. And then there were a few odds and ends about how Patrick and Brigid's paths had crossed.

As I read about Brigid, particularly in her goddess aspect as one of the tribe of Túatha de Danann, I began to see how easy it would have been for Rome to co-opt the belief system via the goddess Brigid, as they'd co-opted gods in places they conquered even though Rome didn't conquer Ireland. Patrick, a native Briton, did. It struck me that Patrick and Brigid must have had some connection beyond casual association.  That's how my book began to percolate.

So I really got into Irish mythology and legend. Once you start reading these stories, it's hard to stop. The Túatha de Danann, the Fomorians, the Fir Bolg, then the Milesians (the Celts) are captivating. The Danann, the first tribe to settle Ireland, were supposedly endowed with magical abilities including shape-shifting. They had great battles with the tribe Fomorian. In some of the stories, Brigid marries Bres, a Fomorian, and they have three sons, including Ruadan who appears in the book. I definitely was distracted from writing and spent a lot of time reading and researching.

When I began writing this story many years ago, it was one big, big, big, book. Now it's a trilogy which begins with Once a Goddess. These three manuscripts went through a couple of critique groups, one a historical fiction group which had some terrific writers who now have terrific books.  At one point, one of my critiquers, Lisa Yarde, suggested that I divide the book. Best advice ever. I also was lucky enough to have trusted readers (ahem, present company included) [ed. Note:  Ooooh!  That’s me!] to give their honest feedback. Then it was a matter of finding the right home. That can take a long time. Solstice, a small press, is the perfect fit.

There are some days where it's a "pinch me" moment. Something you've dreamed about for years has finally come true.
===========================
BTW, if you see Sheila, she looks just like Brigid on the cover above!  She's made the first chapter of Once a Goddess available for free here:

 http://sheilarlamb.com/2014/07/24/once-a-goddess-excerpt/. 

Print copies can be ordered though local independent book stores or through http://www.indiebound.org/as well as http://www.amazon.com/Once-Goddess-Sheila-R-Lamb/dp/1625260989


Kindle and paperback are available through Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Once-Goddess-Sheila-R-Lamb-ebook/dp/B00M7H5X9C

For Nook: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/once-a-goddess-sheila-r-lamb/1105585500?ean=2940149660780

Through Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/458895

Have a Good Time at Camp!

We were reading the morning Post on our porch one Tuesday when we saw our neighbors heading off to work.  “Don’t work too hard,” she said.  “Have a good Thursday,” he teased.  He had a point.  Retirement is rather like perpetual summer camp except you can sleep in -- if you have the time.  The day of the week becomes almost moot.

“What do you do now that you’re retired?” 

I take ballet three times a week.  I quilt.  I sew a bit of costuming. 

“What does Steve do?”

He golfs.  He takes classes at George Mason’s Lifetime Learning Institute.  He goes to his men’s group and reads books for his men’s book club.  He golfs.  (Yes, I said it twice on purpose; he loves golf the way I love dance.)

We have season’s tickets to the Washington Ballet.  We go to movies DURING THE DAY!  We visit our children and Perfect Grandchildren.    We travel.  (Turkey’s coming up and then French Polynesia.  Heh) 

My theory is that it takes a year to settle into retirement and create the life you find rewarding.  Many people seem trepidatious about retirement.  Although they could retire comfortably, they continue to work because they think they have to have it all mapped out in advance.  Never mind that they don’t do that with any other part of their lives.  They can’t imagine how they'll fill the time.   For starters, errands could take up every second of the day.

One by one you add activities and crafts and friends.  Wine plays a substantial role in our retirement.  We switch off cooking, or we eat eggs, or we order out. 

Seriously, to the question, “What do you do now that you’re retired?” there is only one answer:  “Whatever I darn well please.”  

Except, of course, when the Perfect Grandchildren call.  Then we run like puppies hearing a dinner bell.

Stupid Smart Phone!

We were returning from a Memorial Day picnic when I checked my cell phone to see if I'd received a text from a friend about his release from the hospital, but I got the no coverage symbol.  We were on the twisty local roads (It's a law in Virginia; roads are not allowed to be straight, let alone run in a grid.), so I waited to try again in a few miles.  No coverage.  We turned into our neighborhood -- nope.  Into our house where I know very well we get a signal.  Nope. 

Down I tripped to the AT&T store.  The clerk told me it was just the sim chip, easily replaced, but I've whined about that phone for five years.  I took this as a sign from the Universe to replace it. 

When was the last time you tried to pick out a phone?  It’s like shoes.  You can select what you think you’ll like, but you never really know if they're a good fit until it’s too late to return ‘em.  Besides that, you can’t get something simple any more that's decent.  They’re all Smart Phones now.  There’s no escaping them.  Those damn phones will fly and diaper a baby.  I finally eeny-meeny-miny-moed and decided on an Android model. 

They synced up my numbers using my g-mail address to store my information.  At least, that’s what I understood the clerk to say.  I "joined" g-mail when it was in Beta phase (remember when you needed an invitation?), and I never, ever use it.  However, if it made the phone guy happy, who was I to argue?  My goal was to get a working phone and get out of the store. 

When I got home, I discovered that besides transferring phone numbers, g-mail brought the corresponding e-mail addresses came along for the ride.  I have a pay-as-you-go plan, so I do not use my phone for e-mail. In any case, because of my cheap-o plan, I would have to connect to wi-fi for e-mail, and if I’m doing that, I may as well us my i-pod or my Surface Pro.  It’s not that I don't like techie devices; it’s that I like them too much.  I have so many, I don’t need to pay the phone charges for internet coverage.  I average about $10.00 a month in phone fees, and I’m happy with that, thank you very much.  I deleted the e-mail addresses, consolidated entries with both land-line and cell phone numbers and generally organized my phone book. 

The phone has three screens (mandatory:  woe be to you if you try to delete one), and you slide from one to the other.  That's fine because I can keep my five essential icons isolated there. home screen simple.  Now I won’t mistakenly hit the internet button like I was always doing on my old phone.  There are also 1,000 icons that show up when you hit the icon icon (no, one of those is an adjective), but all I use on that screen is the "settings" icon.  Really, other than that and my home screen, I'd happily delete everything.  

Anyway, at this point, I plugged her in and charged her up.  After five minutes I heard a little harp trill.  Who knows what important missives had been sent to me while my other phone was down?  I ran to check.  There was a message from AT&T welcoming me to my new phone.  Did they think this would warm my heart?  They were wrong.

Five minutes later, I heard another harp trill.  I ran over.  Nothing

Five minutes later, another  riff.  Run, run, run.  Yup, it was a delayed message from our friend -- with whom I’d already spoken -- saying he was home and fine.  

Another riff.  Run, run, run.  Nothing.

Another one.  Run, run, run.  Nothing.  

Every five or six minutes there was a riff and nothing there!  I could not figure it out.  After an hour of alerting trills and the ensuing jogging, I called the store. The clerk led me from one icon to the next trying to figure out why my phone was alerting me.  Eventually we tried the g-mail settings.  The alarm was g-plus pinging me for public notices and postings.  Every     single     one.  If I had to listen to that -- even if I CARED -- I would slam that phone against the wall within three hours!  It took 15 minutes, but together we finally figured out how to disengage the phone from g-plus. 

I sat down and ran through the settings, disabling several other functions.  I made sure the app icon wasn’t going to deliver things to my phone like a cat bringing a dead mouse to the doorstep.  I moved a few things and deleted a few others.

Yes, I bought a Smart Phone, but with a little time and effort, I was able to dumb it down.