Expendable

Three times I've been downsized. Three times I have luckily managed to land on my feet. Most of my friends have gone through this experience, two more of them today. It's almost a rite of passage now. You can pretty much expect to lose at least one job for no good reason before you retire of your own volition.

People say things like, "When God closes a door, he opens a window." And, "It's a blessing, you were so unhappy." They mean well and by and large they are right. This fact does not make it suck any less. While my last involuntary go-round in '03 was a relief, you still mourn. You leave behind friends, income and part of your identity. Change is frightening, staring into the unknown, even more so. Then, after a while, things settle and you move on. Hopefully to a better existence.

I hope my friends don't lose heart. On second thought, I know they won't. Here come those feet, in for a landing.

New Riders of the Purple Sage

"Look at all those bees!"
Yep, they like the sage.
"Sage blooms purple?"
Uh-huh. I tried not to answer too sarcastically. We've had sage in the garden for over ten years and he was just now noticing it?
"So.... New Riders of the Purple Sage..."
That's where they got it.
"Hmmm."
There are purple blossoms all over the garden. Chives, sage, lavender. There were multiple iris, violets, lilacs, hyacinth. Even the first blush of color through the snow, the crocus, shined a glossy royal purple in the sun. And tonight the sunset is amaranthine, streaking its mood across the horizon. Deep, velvety and kissed with the softest coral. Somehow, I know it is a gift to soothe my troubled day.

Many years

Many years ago we were young. Many years ago we were thin. Many years ago there was no grey hair. Many years ago we were in love. At least one thing is still the same.

When I look at this photograph, the memory of this Christmas eve is as clear as day. His brother had a dog named Barney, whose slobbery ball is cropped just out of the picture's foreground. We drove up after I got off work, drinking beer and listening to Bruce Hornsby & the Range and Joe Vitale. It snowed that night. Wee hours of Christmas morning were spent lounging in the hot tub, drinking wine & watching the snow fall, multi-colored fairy lights twinkling above us. Good cheer does not even begin to describe it. Finally, we slept the sleep of drunkenness, crashed on pushed together, overstuffed basement couches. The next day began with amaretto laced coffee and snowballs on the deck. Christmas could not have been better.

A lot has changed. That deck is now a screened in Florida pool, the hot tub has long since been disassembled, pets, jobs, music and wines have come and gone. Love, however, love remains. Twenty-three years is a long time to be married these days. Twenty-three years is a long time to love someone. But it can happen. Just like that.

Nashville Lament

Oh, Cumberland, look what you have done

I almost don't recognize the road.

But I'm a lucky one, my friends are safe and sound.

Not everyone was lucky, as you know.

*

Water rising, damage not foretold

The picture of the Opry made me cry.

Watching in disbelief, waiting for the crest

Another guitar silenced in the night.

*

I know they're just strings

Strung across warped wood

But they wound around my heart and held my life.

And I know they're just things

But they brought the world joy.

Nothing can erase those memories

And water cannot stop the ones who sing.

©ruralgurl music 2010

FB

Facebook is everywhere. Not sure how I feel about that. Actually, I'm not even sure how I feel about having a "page". I really didn't want one. Wasn't a blog, twitter, myspace, youtube and four different email accounts quite enough, thank you? Apparently not. It got to the point where in order to get a coupon, know about a sale, find out a band's tour schedule, or contact certain friends, a Facebook account was required. After much foot dragging, I reluctantly caved.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not a Luddite. I love my macs (and I've had quite a few), I prefer email to a phone call and I check my Twitter feed regularly. But there's something a bit off about FB. Maybe it's the whole "friend as a verb" thing. Maybe it's that I'd rather not even have to deal with "not friending" people from my past who I wasn't friends with in the first place. Maybe it's that FB is yet another time-sucking vortex. Yet, in the mist of all the crap, there is a redeeming factor. Friends. Real friends. Cry-on-your-shoulder-friends. A community can quickly rally around a cause, lend emotional support, and even fundraise for disaster or charity via a circle of friends. It's quite amazing. I think it may even be some folks' lifeline.

Perhaps Facebook isn't the evil empire that the little voice on my left shoulder says it is. For now, the little voice on my right shoulder is winning. Sorry Roger.

It's a Growing Time

Springtime is my favorite gardening season. Everything is so new and full of possibility.

The Ozark Black apple tree that tried so hard to die last year has rallied in a nearly miraculous way, filling out, blooming and setting fruit. Its companion, the Winter Banana, is abundant with apples to the point of needing thinned. St. Francis stands careful watch over them day and night.

No, there's not much to eat yet. A bit of lettuce, a radish or two. But there's arm loads of iris to perfume the house and peonies close to bursting. My grandmother's poppies are beginning to open, shocking the bed with iridescent orange. Purple cone flowers sport crowns that will turn to buds, and eventually to seeds the finches adore.

Tomatoes and peppers are new and without blemish. As I weed around their still fragile stems, I dream of fresh salsa, bruschetta and caprese salad. Herbs are taking over. Mint has marched into the yard, no amount of tea, mojitos or juleps could ever use it all, but try we must as the run for the roses approaches.

Blueberries are flush with tiny nibs, still green, while the blackberries continue in a riot of fluffy white. They'll both soon need netted, lest we lose the crop to birds.

From the sprouts to the budding, the flowers to the frisky birds, it's a time of miracles. Hope. It's a growing time.

"It's a growing time
It's the springtime of the year
It's a growing time
The sun is moving near
It is yours and mine
The days are ours to share
Within our peaceful garden
And this growing time so fair"
-Dan Fogelberg

Always climbing

Mountains, stairs, figurative, literal, it seems I'm always climbing, yet rarely find the top. Perhaps that is the way life is supposed to be, striving eternally. If you stop learning, you stop living. I agree, but must everything be a never ending ascent of Everest? Treadmills, stair climbers, elipticals, spin bikes. Our most popular exercise equipment is all about going nowhere forever. The mentality of them has crept out into the world, poisoning the joy of just being.

There is something to be said for being. Lying in the grass and watching the birds feed. Sitting on the river bank and enjoying the play of sunshine sparking on the lapping water as it rolls by. Walking aimlessly down the beach in the moonlight and listening to the roar and crash of waves and sea. Or is the restoration of my soul through the simple quiet of being also a continuous climb... toward peace?

Too long in the wasteland

These trees, photographed three weeks ago, are now covered in tiny chartreuse leaf sprouts. But I like them bare. Naked to bone, nothing to hide, comfortable in their own stark reflection. Dimming sky and a pale full moon laid the winter to waste.

Now I'm planting. The lawn is mowed, purple henbit and violets that covered the hill are just memory. So many first flowers of spring wear shades of my favorite color. Crocus, grape hyacinth, tiny bluebells just emerging; it begs you to wonder why. Then the dandelions, forsythia and daffodils chime in, spreading golden cheer. Spring's not a secret anymore.

Jeepers, Peepers

Yesterday as I walked to my truck, the air was full of sound. A beautiful, deafening, trilling chorus. It caught me off guard, stopped in my tracks. Birds? No. Crickets? Too early. Oh! Peepers! Their song came from the direction of the creek across the road, calling to each other, calling to me, heralding spring.

So I headed out the back way, toward old Route 66. Radio off, windows down. Every large ditch or small farm pond rang with the voices of hundreds of tiny, inch long frogs. No one was behind me, so I rolled slowly over the old creek bridge. Thousands of peeps upon peeps upon peeps. My breath was a sigh. I was so happy to hear spring at last.

You know you're sick when you don't even check your email.

I feel like I've been sick forever. Two trips to the doc, three prescriptions and 3 & 1/2 sick days later, I'm at least feeling a bit more awake. Seriously though, how much can one person cough? My new exercise DVD, "Abs of Phlegm" will be featured soon on an infomercial near you!

Being in bed a lot has given me large blocks of reading time. Finished The Lost Symbol yesterday. I won't spoil anything, if you haven't read it, but while a fun, fast read, it was too predictable. I had stuff figured out before Dan Brown turned the corner on just about every twist. This wasn't true with the other two books. And it seemed like he was writing Robert Langdon's dialog with Tom Hanks' vernacular in mind, especially toward the end. Personally, I liked Angels & Demons the best. I know, everyone's a critic.

Been tanking up on satellite TV, too. Caught up on all my BBC faves like Cash In The Attic and Bargain Hunt, indulged in Doctor Who over on SyFy, laughed at Chumley spinning around on a Segway on Pawn Stars, traveled the upper midwest with American Pickers, figured out that the king's servants are also supposed to be lemurs on the Penguins of Madagascar, (I thought it was a koala & a fat squirrel), and decided I needed a Ninja Master Prepp & Ron Popeil's Showtime Six Star Knife set. Thank goodness my credit card was out of reach. Now, if they are supposed to last a lifetime, why do I need 2? It was all great short attention span TV. I feel like my mind has eaten a bag of Cheetos, a box of Twinkies & topped it off with a bomb-pop. Mmmmmm. Good.

In two more days I'll try to go back to work again, hoping that the HVAC is better regulated so that my cube is less of a sauna, and toting enough Puffs Plus to build a small fort. Maybe that will be the end of it. One can only hope!

Oh crap! I think I'm a cougar.

Maybe it's the hair. He's got awfully great hair. Whatever the reason, I'm a Shaun White fan. In the perennial water cooler question of what to do with all that winning lottery money, a snowboard lesson from Shaun is on my list. Mind you, I've been on a snowboard only three times and while less disastrous than my poor attempt at downhill skiing, it was not all that pretty. But he makes me want to try again. There's an exuberance about him, some mischief, kindness, and that odd mix of shyness and gregariousness that many celebrities have. Sure, he's a kid, but I like him. He inspires me. He has so much more to offer, probably more than he himself yet realizes. I wish him all the best for a long, long time.

Grammys

Nearly seven years out of the record biz and I'm still watching the Grammys. Really, I don't know why. They suck me in and I can't change the station. Ya hear that Nielsen?

Even before I was in the industry, I was a jaded Grammy watcher. The artists and bands I thought were worthy often didn't get nominated, let alone win anything. After a few years of pushing baby bands and ingraining my brain with knowledge of genres I never thought I'd like, my indignant attitude grew. How could Neil Young and 2Pac both never have gotten Grammys? (Okay, Neil did win for best packaging this year & was the MusiCares honoree, but still....WTF?)

Now that I don't have to be or follow the taste makers, I find myself able to delve even further into the music that I love the most. No, I didn't see the Fleet Foxes or Peter Bradly Adams on the Grammy list this year, but that in no way deters my enthusiasm for their great music. Just like their lack of inclusion by the Grammy machine doesn't stop me from watching the overblown pageantry of the yearly ceremony. Old habits do die hard.

Busy, Gone, Busy, Gone

The end of January. How the....?

There's still ornaments to put away. Seems I just rolled out of Christmas and it was off to California for a week. It's disconcerting to lose a week in the middle of the month. Especially in a different climate. I left behind a winter wonderland, then landed in a bizarre mix of spring and summer. There were blueberries ripe on bushes and poppies swaying like crepe paper on the breeze. Then the rains came and I left.

At home the January thaw had begun. Snow was a memory, everything was soggy, mornings were foggy. Where had winter gone? But like my time on the coast, there was so much to do that precious little else got done besides work. Pity. Fog is so mysterious. I hope someone captured its essence in my absence.

Now, the struggle back to normalcy. Such as it is. Is it?

Came, went

Christmas came and went. Cookies, choirs, pork loin, caroling, cocoa, parties, crab claws, presents, whiskey slush, candle light, wine, sparkling snow. It swirled in on a whirlwind and is begging to stay, not knowing that it needn't worry. Like all we love, it is gone but not forgotten. Treasured in the heart.

2009 came and went. Job, no job, new job, broken promises and pleasant surprises. There were risks that paid off, ones that didn't and cards left in a folded hand that can't be played. Until, that is, you turn them all in and reshuffle the deck. Soon it will be a new year. New cards, a second chance, a second moon. A blue moon on the turning of the year, of the decade, of our lives. Everything comes and goes.

How many ornaments fit on a Christmas Tree?

Our tree will not hold all the ornaments. Every year, we seem to acquire a couple more; either by gift or because I see something that I just can't live without. Like many who grew up with a little less, I have an innate need to collect a little more. More penguins, more guitars, more salt cellars, more books, more dishes and more Christmas decorations. Our home is modest at best with bunga"low" ceilings that barely fit a six foot tree once a star or angel sits on top. I dream of a vaulted turret, bay window or picture-pane foyer, graced by a twelve or fourteen foot tree, adorned by every ornament in our possession. Every antique mercury glass teardrop, every hand beaded satin ball, every bird, beast and music note, every crystal, every angel, every snowflake, every commemorative memento of our Christmases together. But for now, a few will have to do. It is no less Christmas, it holds no less magic. It just is.

It's a blur

Ten days until Christmas eve. Life's a blur. Work, eat, wrap, bake, sing, drink, sleep, repeat. About now I start making promises that deep down I know I'll never keep. Next year, I'll start collecting gifts in June. Next year, I'll start baking in October and freeze the cookies. Next year, I'll make the cards in September. Next year, I'll keep the house clean so frantic sprucing is unnecessary. Next year I won't get sick, or self conscience , or sad. Next year, next year, next year......

Ever notice how brilliant the Christmas tree looks when you take out your contact lenses and look at it with your own, naked, broken eyes? Perhaps Christmas is best left as a blur, a mystery not quite understood.

A few of my favorite things

Why is "The Sound Of Music" considered a Christmas movie? It makes no sense. Don't get me wrong, I know every song, but outside of talking about "snowflakes that fall of my nose & eyelashes" and "packages tied up with string", it's just not a Christmas movie. "Christmas In Connecticut", "White Christmas", "Prancer", "Toys", yes, yes, yes, and I love Barry Levinson, yes. Among so many others, yes; they are a few of my favorite (Christmas) things.

But I will always forgo a Christmas movie for quality music by the tree time. There is nothing so filled with holiday spirit as caroling by the light of the Christmas tree. Ever since I could plunk out three chords, I've taken great joy in treeside serenade. A lovely cup of tea or perhaps some red wine, twinkling lights, a scatter of snow outside if you're lucky and hours of songs known by heart. It doesn't get much better. Tree, snow, lights, guitar, music, Christmas... These are a few of my favorite things.

Songs of Christmas

One of my bosses plays Christmas songs all year long. I may be the only one there who gets it. I've been playing them since October. Last year, I went as far as to attempt to write one of my own (with a little help and inspiration from Franz Gruber).

Most carols' melodies are timeless. They are usually easily transposed and best of all they beg for harmony. Some of the first songs a child learns are Christmas (or other holiday) songs; even non-musical families sing during yearly, family gathering type holidays. The songs become a part of you, ingrained into your very being. Even if you hate them, you can't forget them. They are as insidious as an infectious pop tune. So give in, indulge in the guilty pleasure. "Because you need a little Christmas, right this very minute. You need a little Christmas now."

How to enjoy the holiday season

Top 10 ways to enjoy the holiday season:
10. Skip a boring party because you "had to work late". Won't work for the annual company soirée.
9. Tell the hubs there's nary a smooch until all those presents are wrapped.
8. Bring a bottle of fancy coffee flavoring syrup to share at the office. Lace it with vodka.
7. Tell everyone Robert Earl Keen wrote "Merry Christmas From The Family" about yours.
6. Volunteer with a charity. "Sorry, I didn't have time to..... I was volunteering!"
5. Two words. Internet shopping.
4. Every cookie you bake takes food from a pastry chef's starving child's mouth. Buy them.
3. Ditch the stigma. It's not re-gifting, it's GREEN gifting!
2. Screw the budget, hire a housekeeper & a caterer. It's your Christmas present to yourself.
And the number one way to enjoy the holiday season....
1. Hop a freight, go away. Go far, far away.

Don't think about the words

Don't think about the words. That's the only way I can make it through most Christmas carols without choking up. It's like singing at a funeral or a wedding. The emotion has to be kept at a safe distance, with just enough creeping through to convey the credible, heartfelt warmth for which those situations call. Perhaps it sounds cold, but the alternative is rafts of sniffling singers with tear-stained cheeks blubbering their way through every sad or joyous occasion imaginable. But Christmas? Holiday songs did not always make me cry. Actually, I'm not quite sure when the phenomenon began. One year, I picked up my guitar, started to sing Silent Night, and before the end of the second verse, I had begun to turn into a puddle. Silver Bells, an innocuous ditty about shopping, lights and bells, same thing. O Holy Night was like a burst levee, as was It Came Upon A Midnight Clear. What changed? Why was Christmas twisting a knife into my heart? So I worked on the distance. Now I can sing and play carols for hours on end with hardly a tear. Unless I think about the words. Because sometimes, especially at Christmastime, you just have to cry.