One of the last things I did for the first time, aside from riding a train to New York City, was making a paper doll. One of my sisters, we call her Spidy, wasn’t able to join us on this trip. Disappointed, she made a suggestion that could work.
“Maybe you can turn me into Flat Spidy!”
So we did.
Angie brought construction paper and markers. I planned to make Flat Spidy the night before departing, but it became impossible. So there I am at our Airbnb scrawling out my most second grade looking drawing of Spidy, flattened so she could join us while riding in my bag.
Join us, she did. At the train station, Danny, our funcle asked a guy named Eddie about tickets. He tinkered on a machine others were grateful he was fixing while he gave us travel tips. In Texas, we pretty much only drive everywhere. We chatted about visiting places that aren’t conducive to urban hiking and public transportation. Great guy. Once I pulled Flat Spidy out of my bag, he about lost it.
“Whaddya mean? Of course I’ll take a picture! This story just keeps getting better. I’ll even let her wear my hat.” A die-hard Deadhead, that’s exactly what he did.
Her company added an element of playfulness we didn’t expect. Taking care not to get her soggy in the rain, we missed some photo ops, but it was one of the best ways for her to be present. In the evenings, we sent updates of her travels. Next time, we hope none of us need to become flat versions of ourselves to take that sisters trip we’ve been trying to make happen.
Here we go!Grand Central StationEmpire State BuildingCentral ParkTimes SquareSullivan’s Country MarketThe gazebo in New MilfordMystic
I happened across a great little book by Irene Smit & Astrid Van Der Hulst called Know Yourself: A book of questions. Actually, I’ve purchased copies of their other books, chock full of hygge: paper crafting, letter writing stationery, mini-notebooks, book marks, postcards, sketching ideas, tips for relaxing and self care. My Amazon feed suggested it. I bought it. One night I popped it open, you know, to relax and perhaps learn more about myself. I answered the questions without writing anything down and realized these are fantastic writing prompts.
Since it’s cozy season (anywhere else but in central Texas where we’re still at 90+ temps), I’ve decided to turn down the AC and attempt to create cozy fall vibes.
It starts with Gilmore Girls. Last fall, I started watching the series for the first time. My thoughts on Gilmore Girls can be an entirely separate set of posts I’m saving for later–yeah, had I written more consistently I could’ve knocked ’em out by now…
My sister, Angie, is a die hard fall girlie, Gilmore Girls fan, and has dreamed of visiting New England in October.
“So, what’s the verdict?”-Rory
“I am an autumn.”-Richard
I am a summer. I’ll take the heat. Until it’s almost November when cool weather should be the norm. We chat about making a trip happen. Inspired by Gilmore Girls. My niece, her oldest daughter, joined us. Last week, we finished up our first trip to Connecticut and New York in all of its fall foliage glory.
We arrived on Friday, October 10th. We decided to visit New York on Saturday because we’d soon experience our first nor’easter. A guy named Eddie, who worked on a ticket machine at the train station in Milford, assured us we didn’t need to panic. Cold rain and strong wind. He gave us tips and great conversation while we waited.
The one thing I had to see was NYPL. We walked over and noticed a demonstration. Banned Books Week! I had finished out my work week leading up to this trip teaching all of our eighth graders about intellectual freedom and censorship. I asked for a picture with someone wearing one of my favorite childhood books. We chatted about my work as a librarian.
“Better yet,” she suggested, “would you like to wear it?”
How could I refuse? Bonus points for the last time I went to NYPL for the first time. I also got a library card.
When was the last time you did something for the first time? This question taps my shoulder on days I feel myself falling into the mundane. It also guides me when I-don’t-know-what-to-write-itis strikes.
Not parent conferences, but TLA (Texas Library Association) Conference. It’s next week in Dallas and I already downloaded the conference app. I usually do it on the way there.
Our library services department is organized and provides a checklist of everything we need to do before, during, and after the event. This includes the appropriate forms and permissions from admin., budget codes, hotel accommodations, information regarding after hours vendor events, signing up for professional development credit, and copies of forms and suggested items to take (always take an umbrella).
In our TLA emails, there’s a thread regarding ways to prep and make the most of the conference. There are great tips. Pack sandwiches and keep them in the hotel fridge. Pack them for lunch so you don’t have to skip noon sessions. Stuff your bag with portable snacks. Take a large water bottle. Wear good walking shoes. Take a rolling crate or extra suitcase to pack books and swag (many books are gifted by publishers, plus steep discounts the last few hours in the exhibit hall). Dress in layers. Carpool. Take an Uber for a night on the town. Use a slide deck to take notes then share with colleagues.
The ideas keep flowing. I get ready to draft my response, scrolling through to make sure I’m not repeating something. It isn’t there and I begin to draft “Be sure you check the hotel amenities. Pack a swimsuit for the pool and/or hot tub…”
I stop dead in my tracks. Wait…the last few years, my TLA roommate and I have bowed out early from some events and made our way to the hot tub or heated pool. We’re usually accompanied by no one. We’ve encountered the occasional solo lap swimmer or person leaving the hot tub when we get there, but it has usually been quiet. It’s such a great way to relax after a packed schedule and being on our feet standing in long author signing lines, trekking across the exhibit hall, and making it to our sessions.
Grinning, I delete my draft. This one, I’m keeping to myself. We’re not quite ready for a bookish pool party.
This week, I’m writing in #hashtags. A #postitnote I scrawled on last week led to yesterday’s tip of the day which made me think about how we use them.
Are there #grammarrules? What would #strunkandwhite say about them? Is there a space between a hashtag phrase #likethisone or is it only attached to the #word it connects? If you need #punctuation, (like this comma next door) do you attach it or skip it? So, the boldfaced sentence I just wrote would look like this if I skip it:
If you need #punctuation (like this comma next door) do you attach it or skip it?
But now it #doesntmakesense above because I took out the comma.
Oh, hmmm, what do you do with #contractions? Do you use them or skip them as in the previous #singlesentenceparagraph or #singlesentenceparagraph?
#doesntmakesense
#doesn’tmakesense
#doesnt #make #sense
#doesn’t #make #sense
Perhaps this is a great time to understand and observe how #grammarrules are made and why they exist. Are we now the future #old #cranky people who invented these #dumbrules? Don’t even get me started on #citations…
Small town life puts a special bubble around you. We didn’t get out much as kids, except to run errands with our mom in a larger, but still small-ish town. Orthodontist appointments, groceries, Pizza Hut buffet, and if we were lucky, a visit to the music store.
Contests from cereal boxes, Columbia House subscription forms, magazine inserts for free Banana Republic catalogs, and addresses from Teen Beat to swoon-worthy heart throbs were our way to connect to the world. Except, we weren’t allowed to send any Columbia House cards, ever. Don’t you dare was warning enough. I filled out my selections and address anyway, but it never went in the mail. I’d imagine life with endless cassettes.
Any letters that were exchanged were slipped to friends between classes in that fancy 80s wrap around fold. If we sent anything, it was lost forever, but it was fun imagining winning a lifetime supply of corn flakes. Little Debbies. Willy Wonka candy.
One day, there was a surprise. I arrived home after school, dropping my backpack on a chair at the kitchen table. Everyone else gathered around the buzz of the kitchen, willing dinner to be served, hot tortillas flying off the griddle and onto a cloth dish towel to keep them warm.
“You got something in the mail,” Mom mentioned between the rolling pin sliding across the counter, flattening balls of dough.
“Me?” I looked through the stack and found something with my name on it. I didn’t request anything. Perplexed, I flip the envelope over and retrieve a letter. Brochures I ignore are stuffed in the envelope, but I place them on the table in favor of the letter.
It’s addressed to me and I start reading aloud.
“…bedwetting is not a problem you should be ashamed of…”
“BED WETTING?! I don’t wet the bed!”
“Bed wetting?” Mom asks.
I look at the brochure full of resources to rectify the problem. People of all ages…
“Where did this come from and why does it have MYNAME on it?”
I hear giggling. It gradually grows into full-blown laughter. My younger sister can’t contain herself. “It was me; I did it!”
“What did you do?” Mom asks.
“I filled out the card,” hysterical laughter.
“At the orthodontist’s office, when you had an appointment. I didn’t think they’d send anything!”
“Thanks a lot!” I scream only like a first-born annoyed by a sibling teen can scream. And then I started crying of embarrassment. Someone, somewhere, sent me mail because they think I’m a bed wetter. How humiliating.
Everyone else laughed. Mom kept making tortillas and brushed it off. “Throw it away, it doesn’t matter.”
Saturday. Or was it Sunday? I made my way back to the car to park it in the garage, accidentally leaving my purse in the front seat, forgetting to bring it in after unpacking groceries. Near the driveway, I see a few butterflies fluttering on thinned out stalks of butterfly weed stripped clean save for some blooms on top. Can’t bear to trim them. There are still monarchs coming through once in a while, although I’ve mostly seen queen butterflies this year.
A monarch! I grab my phone to snap a picture. If only it will land on a bit of butterfly weed. “Come on, sweetie,” I coax, but what’s that sound? It isn’t a regular insect mini-helicopter buzz. Monarchs are silent.
I follow its dizzying loops as it sweeps down and stops for a sip of nectar. There it is. A broken wing. Up it goes, fluttering up high, then down, and up again. The broken wing works hard to keep it in flight. That sound. It’s the wing pushing against air. I must capture this image.
And then my phone rings. Be interruptible. A bit of advice I learned from an ELA consultant years ago. The monarch stops, wings open. Poor thing.
“Hi, Mom…”
Off goes the monarch. I’ll never see it again.
This afternoon, I park the car outside of the garage again when I arrive from work. Gym day. I’ll be leaving soon, so there’s no sense driving it in for the day. The butterfly weed is busy. Three, or is it four, queens? Is there a monarch in the mix? The queens happily flutter when I spot it.
Broken winged monarch dances, twirls, dips, then stops for a sip.
Quick, be quick! I shush myself and take a closer look.
Still going strong, this broken-winged beauty. Despite the struggle, there’s life left to live, life’s sweet nectar worth drinking.
Reminds me of my extended family. We’ve been dealing with too many broken wings lately, yet there’s still plenty of nectar that needs sipping.
I snap a picture and for whatever reason, the Soundtrack of Life cues Mr. Mister.
"So take these broken wings And learn to fly again Learn to live so free And when we hear the voices sing The book of love will open up and let us in..."
For the third week, I meant to remove nail color and re-do my pedi. DIY. I don’t have time to mess with appointments. Too many touch-ups to count because late at night, I’m in no mood to inhale sharp nail polish remover fumes before turning in for restless slumber.
This morning, I have to do something. Taking it all off means I have to wear close-toed shoes. It’s a deep shade of red and there will certainly be residual color stains. We’re still at near ninety degree temps, so I’m wearing sandals. Touching up the chipped off parts means uneven color, most of which is now on the sixth (seventh?) coat. From a distance, some color is better than none. Touch-up it is.
I have an hour commute to a meeting downtown. It’s been years since I’ve driven this direction in rush-hour traffic. If you would’ve told twenty year old me how urban sprawl would choke up everything around it, she would’ve laughed it off and said, “Nah, not here!”
I easily slip into a parking space, not bad for being half an hour late. The opening keynote speaker discusses stories. Making connections with people by telling stories is key. It’s Tuesday. I’m reminded to write something tonight. What story will I tell today? The one about why I chose this career? What about my first experience at a library? You already wrote about that. Did I? Telling stories means we become vulnerable. Am I ready to write about a tough conversation I had this weekend? No. Not that. Not yet.
I fuss at myself for not making myself write regularly despite my need for it. Stuck. Blocked. Frozen. Too many unimportant but urgent things needing to get done. But writing is important.
Our closing keynote speaker asks us to discuss the difference between belonging and dignity. That weekend conversation smacks me with meaning. My sisters and I have entered into a space where we’re balancing both, inching our way through whatever happens.
View from 6th floor-Austin Public Library
It’s a warm, beautiful afternoon. From the sixth floor terrace, I see what once was not visible from the ground. Twenty years ago, the space where I now stand was only air. Buildings seem to have appeared overnight.
I’m glad I wore sandals today. My multi-layered pedi looks fresh. I’ve Got the Blues for the Red. It’s a deep, fall inspired shade of red. I’d call it Glass of Merlot. They go together, the blues and merlot. Stories and vulnerability. Belonging and dignity.
I swore I’d never bring it to bed, but here I am, curled up with it balancing on my right thigh, curling up as well as one can curl up with…a laptop.
I also swore I’d never let the dog on my bed either, but a few weeks ago, I had one of those leave work early because the room is spinning, the light hurts, things smell funny, and I need a nap type of migraines where said pupper jumped right up and helped himself. He wouldn’t budge so I let him be, curled up at my feet. There are exceptions to rules. I didn’t bother to fight either one.
The dog hasn’t jumped on my bed since that migraine ridden afternoon. It’s late and I’ve been post-less for too many Tuesdays. Make an exception, draft something, and move on. Get back on track. No one cares I’m in bed with the laptop, except for the dog.
Celebrating our twenty fifth anniversary, we made it to dinner half an hour before our reservation. On a Thursday night, it wasn’t as busy as we expected. We have only been to Mattie’s a few times as guests to an occasional wedding or other event, but never for dinner. Formerly known as Green Pastures, it’s well known for its pea fowl roaming the early 1900s southern farm home surrounded by stately live oak trees.
We head to the bar for a pre-dinner drink. The last time I was there, it was one of several dining areas. Pale, mint-green walls made for a cozy atmosphere. Votive candles nestled among the liquor bottles along the wall cast a lovely dance of light throughout the room. Bar tenders wore the speakeasy look and asked what we’d like to sip. My husband ordered the Old Fashioned, I had the Rosabella, pink and fancy in a chilled coupe glass. I’m a sucker for fancy drinks.
We took two of the velvet lounge chairs in front of the windows overlooking the quiet porch. Hot, sticky, summer nights haven’t begun yet, but we decided to stay inside. A couple sat at one of two tables, bar empty, save for the bartenders mixing up drinks for those dining. An empty table sat to my left. We leaned in to chat, sipping our drinks. I asked my husband if he preferred to sit at the empty table even though it was larger than what we needed. No one else would use it; we were the only people there.
He declined and we continued with our conversation. We took deep breaths contemplating what all has happened in twenty five years. A long time, yet not so long.
I set my drink on the cocktail table in front of me. Arranging the small bud vase with fresh flowers and votive next to my drink, I pulled out my phone to snap the mood. I am that person. I shouldn’t be, but I wanted a souvenir photo and who knows when we’ll go back? Hopefully sooner than twenty five years.
A glass shatters.
“Ooh, did you hear that?”
“What?”
I look toward the bar, but it didn’t come from the bar.
“Creepy…”
I look to my left.
Gasp.
“Ghost!” I say.
I look at the bartender, half expecting him to pick up a broken glass, but he looks towards us.
At the table where we considered sitting, a piece of the broken votive rocks back and forth. The candle flame flickers a bit before it goes out.
“Maybe the glass had a hairline crack and the heat made it burst,” my rational brain says aloud, dismissing my ghost theory when the bartender says, “It’s the ghost! Really, it is.”
But it sounded like it was dropped…
He makes his way to the table with a bar towel, methodically picking up glass shards and the spent candle as if it isn’t the first time it has happened.
“Well, maybe they or whatever ghost got a little upset because we didn’t join them,” I mutter, taking another sip. The hostess walks in as the bartender walks behind the bar and relays the story again. Ghost.
“Yeah, probably a hairline fracture in the glass…”
I check my watch. We pick up our drinks and make it back to the hostess station.
“Whatever you do, don’t follow us home,” I say to the empty looking table. “We’re going to dinner. It’s been nice meeting you and next time, maybe we’ll sit with you, just don’t break any more candle holders.”
Nerds Beget Nerds 