Serendipity

 

 “You can’t read all day unless you start in the morning,” a friend recently advised. Many a day that’s advice I follow happily. I’m not a reader who takes a book and reads from start to finish before looking at another. No, what I’m reading depends on the time of day, my mood and even the weather.

            I read across the spectrum. I may escape in some light detective fiction just before bedtime, but daytime hours are likely to find me deep in biography, travel or serious fiction. Although I enjoy them all, I do have a favorite genre—memoir. That’s why I was more excited than usual a few weeks ago when a book package appeared by the front door. A new memoir to review for Story Circle Book Review! Saturday morning I braved the rain to head for the Black Hole Coffee House to sip a latte while I read The Secrets of the Notebook: A Woman’s Quest to Uncover Her Royal Family Secret by Eva Haas. Actually, it was three lattes. The book demanded to be read straight through.  Check at  http://www.storycirclebookreviews.org/reviews/secretsofthenotebook.shtml  and see what I think.

I read all sorts of memoirs, not just for reviewing but for pleasure and learning.   I’ve just finished taking a personal writing class; we are used a book of essays (Book of Days) by Emily Fox Gordon as a source for our writing prompts. I became intrigued by the author’s style and bought one of her earlier books, Are You Happy? It addresses memories of her early childhood. I stepped right into her Mary Janes. Or mine. For as I read about her life in Williamstown, Massachusetts, I remembered the little girl in Amarillo, Texas half a continent away.

            While reading, I started a list of those suddenly-surfacing memories, a patchwork of little Trilla’s life. And, no surprise, the earliest memory I have is about a book. My sister is in the brown chair reading from an orange story book. I’m tucked between her and the arm of the overstuffed chair. I look at the pictures and wish I could read too. She starts to read the story about a chicken to me, but she’s only in the second grade; she gets tired of stumbling on the big words. Mother promises she’ll read it to both of us as soon as the ironing is finished and supper started.  I know she’ll keep her word, but I want to be able to read it to myself right now.

It's ours for sure--Sarah Nan
and Patricia Louise Nordyke!

A wonderful book--still!

A few days after I enjoyed this memory, serendipity struck. When I’m not reading or writing, I often spend some time trying to simplify our lives. Part of this involves going through boxes unopened for, sometimes, many years deciding what we can live without. That day I opened yet another box marked “miscellaneous papers” to find not papers but old books.  Near the top was a bright orange, well-worn book, The All About Story Book. The book! What was it doing here? When I’d remembered it, I assumed it was long gone, now I held it in my hands. I turned crumbly pages until I got to 37 and found “All About Miss Fluffy Chick.” I sank down to the concrete floor and read it.

Later, I went to the computer and did some detective work and found an affordable copy. Guess what my sister can look forward to for her birthday? If I can wait that long. She knows she’ll likely be getting a book, she almost always does, but this one will be a real surprise.

Now we’ll see if she reads my blog. Nan, give me a call and you won’t have to wait ‘til your birthday to get your All About Story Book!

Think she'll be surprised?

 Happy Reading! 

(This entry also appears at http://storycirclenetwork.wordpress.com/category/interviews-book-reviews/book-learning/ )

My bluebonnet girl

[I posted a version of this entry two years ago. It’s bluebonnet season and a special day, a very special day at our house, so here’s an ever so slightly updated version. This may become an annual tradition!]

Another baby!  Yea! And, maybe, maybe this time a girl? Not that I really cared, but for several months all liquid that entered my body, even at parties, came via my pink mug. I got a handbag big enough to carry it everywhere.

            Boy or girl, didn’t really matter, no, what bothered me was that we lived in Oklahoma. This wouldn’t do. I might have a girl (I hope, I hope, I hope) or a boy (fine by me) but by gosh or by golly, I was going to have a Texan. My plan? About a month ahead, visit my mother in Amarillo and refuse to leave.

            Then, a bolt from the blue! Bob was transferred to Houston. Off we went in the big Chevy wagon—Daddy, Mother, the four-year-old, Mr. 17-months, and Daffodil the part-cocker.  That was in March.

            April 8—we welcomed our bluebonnet baby, our bluebonnet girl, born in the peak of bluebonnet season! Katy joined the clan. (Aptly named Daffy didn't make the picture.)

            She was a joy then, and a joy (and lots of laughs) along the way. She became a lovely young woman.

            

 

And a fantastic daughter. And  now a good Montrose neighbor—on her way over right now to do the NYT crossword. Thank goodness it’s Monday! 

            Guess what! We unearthed that long ago pink mug, and it is now Katy’s exclusively,  A pink mug of coffee goes well with a puzzle.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY KATY P, MY BLUEBONNET GIRL.

Dancing toward spring

I had so much fun with the spring reading entry, and inspired by my friend Linda who blogs every week about her quilting (http://lindadrawingtime.blogspot.com/). That I’m aiming to give it another try.

I’ve just made a romp through this blog and maybe I’ll get the momentum back from more than seven years ago when I first posted. I found lots and lots of cat stuff—that a constant in my life. Surely an update is due? When I started this blog I was in a little, I mean little, southern town—beautiful but this city girl thought about home in Houston just about all the time. Gradually we’ve been making the transition back to the city. I’m still loving it--most of the time.

Now as Easter approaches spring is all over the city. or nearly spring.  Flowers everywhere, beautiful spring flowers.

BUT

 March doesn’t give up that easily—when I walked across a neighboring parking lot I got to watch a

Lift Off

Brown leaves, leftover leaves,

abandoned leaves scattered

across gray pavement.

Lonely leaves.

Suddenly

rising, swirling

high on the frisky March wind

spiraling, turning

Dancing toward spring.

Primavera—First things first

Thanks, Primavera!

Welcome Spring! She arrived Wednesday morning, very early; now we're two days in. In this household she brought her fever with her. Happens every year, and of course, it involves reading—for a couple of reasons.

                For many folks and cultures, Spring’s arrival—the vernal equinox—is the start of a new year—try peoples as diverse as the Persians and the Celts. Certainly the flowers in my urban garden will vote for that. Okay, flowers and Spring, I’ll go along and join you by doing what I always do with a new year. Make a resolution. That’s easy as well. I always make the same one. Read more!

A book, a friend, a dog-pal, the
sunshine. Life is good.

Many, in a little while,
a nap.

                Spring makes it easy. The best antidote for Spring’s fever is a trip to the front porch or the nearby park with a couple of books from the stack or maybe the magazine (ah, yes, another one) that came with the morning mail.

                I’ve been doing lots of that lately. Sometimes I take a picnic and spend the afternoon. And I’m not alone. Lots of folks manage to free up a little time for eating, reading, even napping on Primavera’s best afternoon. But, you don’t have to have a park or a front porch to fight Spring’s fever. In my neighborhood you might hit the Black Hole Coffee House or maybe even the Post Office if there’s a line.

Where ever you are, enjoy Spring and grab a good book.

Easy livin', good readin'

"It's ok, Daddy. I don't
mind waiting, I always bring
a book to the Post Office.

Saturday morning at
the Black Hole fun.

(A slightly different version of this entry is at http://storycirclenetwork.wordpress.com/2013/03/22/primavera-first-things-first/)

Slam! Bam! The garbage can! Our Trashy Story

Crash! Bam! The garbage can!

Not out! Run! Run! No time! Damn!

We missed the truck—again.

I posted this haiku on Facebook this morning. But there’s more to the story.

The community cans.

We live in an involuntary garbage commune, sharing the three garbage cans behind our rented house with the two guys who live in the garage apartments over the garage. (We share that as well.)  We’ve never discussed garbage rules, we all three just do it. Somehow the full cans get down to the street late Sunday night (usually Michael) or early, early Monday morning (usually either Bob or me). After the truck comes, and we must be the first stop, someone goes down and fetches them. Works well.

Except yesterday. Sunday night both the apartment fellows were gone. We had dinner guests. Certainly, no can down before they came. After they left, two sleepy people did most of the clean-up—lots of trips out to the cans, but not to the curb.

I've rooted celery.
Why not a turnip?

Monday morning, as usual I was up at dawn. Cans, thought I, must get them down to the curb—in a little while. I read the thin-as-usual Houston Chronicle, picked up a little more, got the dinner linens into the washer, and was contemplating rooting a left-over turnip when I heard the truck gobbling garbage down the street and heading our way. Now!

The can next door---
they made it.

“Bob, the trash! Hurry! They’re coming! Now!” I yelled at Bob who was at his computer waking up as I headed for the back door. I’m glad we don’t have a picture of that. I was in my fuzzy black house shoes, my pando, excuse me, panda pajamas, and a University of Houston Cougar sweatshirt. Bob was similarly stylishly clad. We ran. We did not make it. We stood and surveyed our neighbors’ empty cans. It was going to be an interesting (and smelly) week behind our house.

But clever Bob. Clever, clever Bob saved the day. Later in the morning when we headed out for our walk and a stop at the grocery store (I’m lucky—four in walking distance.) Bob noticed the truck hadn’t been across the street yet. He also noticed that the supposed-to-open-soon yoga studio across the street had failed to put out their can as well. Frisky as a squirrel, Bob fetched our can, rolled it across the street and saved the day.

MY HERO! 

Mission accomplished.

June Morning

Just about every morning I step out the front door, squint down the street this way, squint down the street that way, stop, eyes shut and decide. Where shall I go? I have several routes, and, then sometimes, I just meander.

            This morning I decided on a “directed meander”—I didn’t know how I was going to get there, but I knew where I’d end up.

            Come stroll along.  

Ginger prefers watching to
walking as a morning activity

            Usually I walk alone—Ginger-the-Cat refuses leashhood (there is one cat in the neighborhood that trots along nicely, but her owners told me they started working on it when she was about five weeks old). Sometimes Bob comes along for companionship and chatting, but this is my quiet time, my thinking time and so I walk almost alone.

            This morning I started with my usual path by the Menil Park and Menil Collection, took a short-cut through the Collection grounds to West Main, a lovely, leafy residential street.

Good morning, neighbors.
'Bye, neighbors.

Those lovely yards need tender,
loving care. Plus, it's a good
time to catch up on phoning.

            Did I say I walk alone? Well, only sort of. I have regular friends. Some just pass and wave, but occasionally I pick up a companion for a while. No one has ever come along with me for more than half a block—they seem to know where their territory ends.

Let's go take a walk. Haven't seen
you in several days.

            After sufficient distance and deep thinking, (How did I get here? Sometimes I wonder. Hope I watched for cars!) I head for—well, more often than not—Fiesta, my favorite, favorite grocery store for one little item.

            Why Fiesta? Like its name says—it’s fun. And I like their attitude. No mean electrical barrier to keep the carts on the lot. The folks at Fiesta know not all of their customers have cars, so company policy: buy all you want. You are welcome to push it home in a cart. They even keep a pick-up that drives the neighborhood picking up carts.

Talk about good neighbors! Wish they'd
ask us to dinner!

           

Need more evidence of Fiesta being great—well, consider their customers. Who knows good food? Why our local heroes, the firefighters of Station 16 in Houston. Always makes me feel great to join them in shopping. I tell ‘em “thanks!” when I get the chance.

            And so down W. Alabama and home again.

            Hmmmmmmmmmmmm. Wonder where I’ll go tomorrow?

            

Towed! or Whitey's big adventure

A good day, a busy day, we both thought we deserved a treat as we headed for home up Houston's lower Westheimer. That’s easy to accomplish. Lower Westheimer is a food Mecca. Where? What kind?  French, Italian, Italian, Italian, Indian, eat-the-whole pig, middle Eastern, eat! Eat! Eat.

And so we decided to grab a bit. We picked a favorite, wheeled around the corner to the parking lot, but wait! A lovely spring evening, a gentle breeze, big trees gently waving, twilight falling in. "Know what, let's park around the block on the street and stroll around. And so we did.

Bet you can guess the rest of this story.

We saw cars parked curbside in the beautiful 300 block of Avondale. Looked good. "Oops," said Bob, pointing at a dim barely visible sign. "No parking from here to the corner." So we backed up and found a nice place midblock. After our pleasant saunter, we sat by a window to watch the cars go by and ordered rissoto with sauted sow belly. Lovely, but small.

We been so good lately, we decided, let's indulge. "One nutella sundae and two spoons please." The waiter was prompt, friendly, and full of chat. We enjoyed, and  then headed back through the pleasant evening to the car.

Just as we turned the corner Bob stopped, frozen his posture that of a fox who has just heard the first bay of the hounds. I could feel the fur rising on his back.

"The Jeep is being towed! I just saw it go down the street." It was one of those moments lost in time, never ending.

"A Jeep is being towed. You know it's not ours. We didn't do anything to get it towed," says the chipper eternal optimist—me.

"A Jeep with a luggage rack and a bike rack on the back?"

We both broke in to the trot of two foxes when the hounds are getting close. We turned the corner.

No Whitey. (Not a really original name for a white Jeep, but there you are.)

That's when we read the sign more closely. True, it said no parking to the corner, but it also warned that cars parked between the signs (yes, there was another one) without a resident permit would be towed. It meant it.

Fortunately, the restaurant is only about a mile from our house, so, after I warned Bob that I was not in walking shoes and no more sprinting, we headed home.   Bob remembered that there is a neighborhood Houston Police Station on the way. Guilty as can be, we might as well 'fess up and find out how to find Whitey. What a nice policeman!

First, he told us that every time he works that station seemed like someone comes in and complained about getting towed off Avondale. Then, he asked us our license number. Dumbstruck. We both were dumbstruck. We looked at each other. I did a mental struggle and came up with the first three letters. The fellow laughed.

"Looks like she expects you to finish it." Bob shrugged.

"Well, you'll need the license number or the vehicle identification number to get it back."  Oh yeah. Then he went on, "I can't remember mine either, so I took a picture of it on my I-phone." Good idea, after the fact.

As soon as we walked in, took off our shoes, and had a drink of water, Bob grabbed the "paid bill folder" and started flipping. Before long he had it--the license renewal form with both numbers. 'Course neither of us will ever forget that license number again. After some deacceleration, our hearts were still pounding, off to bed. Even with the license number the nice woman on the phone told Bob after a 10 minute wait and a scare when she said Whitey wasn't in the system, it's four hours before they can tell you where the car is.

We found him. Not to far, but too far to walk. As soon as rush hour was over, Bob called a cab and set off on the rescue mission. There was Whitey, lonely among the other cars with miscreant owner. A mere $238 (that's not counting the taxi) later, Whitey brought the penitent Bob home.

Whitey's now happy in the driveway and Bob and I are resigned to valet parking and separating our strolling from our dining.

Celebrating with new Egyptian Friends

I love days that just happen—like yesterday. We’d had a busy-ish week so we made on-purpose no plans for Saturday. Just hang out and see what happens.

            Of course, even on a planless Saturday, there are errands. That’s why Bob was in the Office Deport parking lot when he saw two young women in head wraps in a car sporting a bumper sticker celebrating the new freedom in Egypt. Ever the friendly (and nosy) Texan he went over and knocked on the window. He said they were so young he didn’t know if they understood his “roll down” hand motion.

            The must have, because the window came down. He asked—knowing the answer from the sticker—how they felt about the recent events. “Elated!” (No political commentary about the future is appropriate here.) They shared their enthusiasm for a few minutes, and then told him they were headed down to Discovery Green to join a celebration for Houston’s Egyptian community.

            “Why don’t you come?” One of them handed Bob an invitation.

            Planless Saturday, planless no longer.

            Around 7:00 we hopped in the Jeep and headed downtown to Houston’s wonderful downtown gathering spot, Discovery Green where we joined many, many celebrating Egyptian families and friends. Quite a crowd. The men mostly wore Western clothes, the women ranged from full burqas, through light robes, scarves, right on to barely anything. The dancing girls on the stage were in full, and lovely, sequined costumes and interesting moves. 

            Of course, I bought a tee shirt. Then we enjoyed the sunset over the city.

            Where to have dinner after such an adventure? Why Aladdin (http://www.aladdinhouston.com/ )is on our way home at the corner of Montrose and Westheimer. We saluted Egypt and our new Egyptian friends with lamb shanks, tabouli, mushroom salad, fresh hot bread and the best cauliflower in the world.

What have I unleashed?

What have I unleashed? Or is unleashed even a word to use when discussing cats? (Note the plural.)

            I opened the breakfast bar for Douglas this morning, not quite as early as he thought appropriate. He’d requested early service when Bob went out for the paper around six.

            Douglas munched his fill. Dinner from M. must have been glorious, for for all the meowing pleases, he didn’t eat much. For the leftovers, he invited not one but two (!) friends.

So what to name them? Since they are Douglas’s friends, I’ve dubbed the Mac and Arthur. But which is which?

While Mac and Arthur chowed down, Douglas sat by the backdoor regally maintaining that he is too an inside cat.

My problem now? What to name the next one. . .Suggestions?

Gentle Ginger and Determined Douglas

In the very early days in Georgia

‘Way back early in this blog, I shared how Ginger came to our house in South Georgia and declared it his homestead—or perhaps, he declared us his people. (Check out the ‘Gentling Ginger’ entries.) For the house is still in Georgia, but Ginger, Bob and I are growing happier and happier being more and more Texas.  

Here Ginger! Here Ginger!

Ginger’s changed lots since he was sliding under the house and reluctant to be touched. He’s now a lap cat (this is new) and it appears is becoming something of a computer expert!

About those attachments!

Naptime

            Meanwhile. . . outside our leased house another drama unfolds. We met Douglas last summer when he’d drop by all well-groomed and wearing a collar with his name. One day when I was walking around the block, I met his owners.

            But things have changed. Douglas isn’t combed and groomed. In fact, he’s matted and miserable looking, missing his collar. And he’s hungry. One of our neighbors speculates the owners moved and Douglas didn’t.

            Ouch.

And here's Douglas

            So, no, Douglas is not going to come in. (He’s surely a charmer, though!) But we will open a breakfast bar by the back door.

            We’ll see how this unfolds.