Almostgotit.com

We rode the train to Portland today. We had to go to some effort to get onto the train with the dining car, because while my children have been on many trains, they’ve never eaten in a dining car. It all worked out perfectly, except for the playing cards part.

Everyone knows that one of the best ways to pass the time on a train is to play cards. Another of the best things to do on a train is to walk from one end of the train to the other, finding the snack car along the way and buying something there. And what we wanted to buy was a pack of playing cards. We got on at the beginning of the Seattle-LA route, so everything should have been freshly stocked. Moreover, I was a perfect customer — on vacation, living large, and willing to spend almost anything for a little deck of cards with “Amtrak” written on them. And which, moreover, they had listed prominently for purchase on their snack car menu. We waited eagerly in line, being bumped by all the hotdogs and dorito bags going the other way.

But they were OUT. No cards. They’d not even bothered to stock them this morning, apparently.

Amtrak is a company in perpetual financial straits, and they really need my money. And I would very happily have obliged at their snack car, as I already had in their dining car. They also need to fill me with happy memories so I’ll come back as a repeat customer, and playing card games with my daughter in the lounge car would have gone a long, long way in that direction — for both of us!

On the other hand, later that afternoon, we stopped at Powell Books’ flagship store in Portland. What a great bookstore! And by coincidence, in a matter of hours, also one of many that would be unveiling HARRY POTTER #7. They had the costumes, the signs, the brilliant cross-promotions. There were “Harry Potter Updates” going out over the loudspeaker every few minutes. Outside, the line of excited H.P. fans was already wrapped around the block. Powells, however, was prepared already with tents, signs, and traffic cones. Two news vans were already comfortably parked on the busy street as well, and ready to jump on the unfolding story.

Which is why Amazon.com STILL hasn’t beat Powells books, even in this, their mutual home territory.

It’s a canal boat on the Thames, near where we once spent a year in Oxford.  It is also an experiment in very rudimentary PhotoShop…

 ”Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.”
- Søren Kierkegaard

We shamelessly put the kids to work last weekend and “put up” more than half a winter’s worth of heating wood in one day   (3+ cords)  The log splitter doesn’t make wood nearly so pretty as an axe does, nor even as fast, but you can run it all day long – a thing you can’t do with a set of axe-wielding arms. 

Summer rhythm never seems to set in around here until summer is half-way through.  To tell you the truth, I still don’t know how to do it all very well, with kids and work — what there is of it — and Everything Else never quite fitting into whatever time we’ve allotted for it. 

Here, surely, is part of the solution, though.  Living, green things.  This is part of our whiskey barrel garden (hic) which we fenced off and built on what used to be the end of our driveway.  

It is wonderfully peaceful to get up in the morning when it is still cool and stand over the cucumbers or beans with a hose.  Everything smells good in the morning, too.

Later in the day, when Everything Else gets to be too much, I can slip out the back door without telling anyone to dump some stuff into the compost bin, lean into the barrels to pluck a few weeds, see how the volunteer tomatoes are doing, or rifle through the foliage to see if it’s time to pick the beans again. 

It’s not highly-productive time, it’s Being Time.  And I’ve (almost) learned that I can’t live without it.

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Related posts:
Chapter two-ing 
In defense of thoughts

I’m nobody! Who are you?

I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?

Then there’s a pair of us — don’t tell!
They’d banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog

To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

Photos by Almostgotit

Poem by Emily Dickinson

With both kids away the same weekend for school trips, we no longer had any excuse not to get away ourselves for several days, too.  Particularly after this annus horribilis we’ve been having. 

This is a good chance to try Flickr.com too (which is a free photo-hosting site which works great for blogging, in case I’m not the last person on the planet who doesn’t already know this.)

Strange and wonderful

We spent several days in the mountains around Asheville, North Carolina. 

Without our children (whom we love deeply) we were able to spend hours in antique shops; change our minds at irregular intervals about what to do next without starting any major family riots; and eat at restaurants without any complaints about the weird food we were eating nor about the time we had to spend waiting for it.

Sunday Bliss

We lingered over things. We drank gallons of coffee on the sunny back porch of our B&B, and spent far too much money (stingy Scotch background notwithstanding.) We even tried a brand-new thing (straight-laced Scandinavian background notwithstanding) and had a *couples’ massage* in the most delightfully-atmospheric spa you can imagine. 

Entering Zen

Not even I, the female party of the party, had ever had a massage before (which is apparently unusual of me) and it was delightful, if a little oily.  Nor did we giggle at all the whole time we were there, not even when they solemnly played the very loud water-bowl thingies. Because that’s how mature and open-minded we have become in our rapidly advancing years.

One of the reasons I married a professor is that I never quite understood anything in college, and hoped he’d fix that.   I never understood, for instance, what an 18 year old person could possibly say about Shakespeare that hadn’t already been said, and much better, by several thousand other people. 

And I wish someone had explained a little more about historiography: how to think about history.  Who even knew that there was a “great man” theory?  For me, history was always just a bunch of trees.  I mean, I totally got what a thesis statement was.  And I totally got that “facts” didn’t mean much just by themselves.  But I never knew how to put them together, not really.  And I always knew I didn’t know.  Argh!

Even now,  I still find myself very confused by things that don’t seem to give anyone else a bit of pause. 

Maybe I should ask the professor’s mother for a refund?

I had a four-hour long interview yesterday, at the same place where I’d already had a 2-hour long interview the week before (which would have been even longer, had not my daughter’s school called…)   And I’m very confused. 

The only next-thing-to-do is make cookies. Obviously.  Even if it is practically the middle of the night.  And also to find the least complicated and yet most delicious recipe I can.  So, Tada!  Here it is, only three ingredients, and these are truly

The Best Peanut Butter Cookies Ever

1 cup peanut butter
1 cup sugar
1 egg

Mix.  Drop on greased sheet, do the criss-cross fork thing, and bake at 350 degrees for 13-15 minutes.

If one insists on complicating even this, one can double the recipe.  Use crunchy instead of creamy.  Use only ¾ cup sugar.  Add a tsp of vanilla, or soda (both utterly unnecessary, I assure you)

((Next up:  How (not) to self-medicate with food!!))

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Related Posts:
How (not) to interview for a job (this story begins)
Nope (this story concludes)
Hanging in, and blonder too (reflection)

Sunday, the youth group at church was selling “mums for mom,” so everyone was buying them and giving them to everyone else.  Sweetness. My own mother is 2000 miles away, so I gave a bouquet to the elegant Fasia instead, who has dubbed herself my “African Mother.”  She hugged me as usual, which I love because then I get to spend several hours afterwards smelling like her perfume.

Last year I gave a bouquet to my Neighbor Mother, Betsy.  I couldn’t this time around because she died in February.  She still gave me flowers, though: the pansies which she planted by her driveway last fall are still brightly in bloom.  Her irises were especially beautiful this year too, as were her daffodils and columbine.  Her Lenten roses began to bloom almost as soon as she left us, and one plant has blooms on it yet. 
 

I miss Betsy. 

She surprised us, at first, with her way of walking into our house without knocking.  Neighbors around here used to do that, I guess.  She taught us how to be neighbors, in a world that hardly has them anymore.  We mowed her lawn and she gave our daughter piano lessons in exchange.  Summers, we regularly trouped back and forth between her screened porch and our back patio, laden with potato salad and wine. 

During baseball season, she’d invite our son over to watch our team with her on cable (which we don’t have), and the two of them would share popcorn and shout themselves hoarse.

She didn’t want to live like a sick person.  She laughed raucously, kept up with a million friends, and continued to play with the symphony. 

She wanted to go to a place she remembered in the mountains one last time, so a group of us took her there.  She read us a letter from a friend who’d died of cancer, because the friend had the Words Betsy wanted.  She took off her wig and let us kiss her cute head, and we laughed. Raucously.  We didn’t know she’d only live a few weeks more. 

She died at home.  It worked out.  We took turns staying with her that whole last week, when the night nurse wasn’t there.  And I couldn’t have done that, made all those phone calls, spent all that time, if I’d had a job. 

All this past year, Betsy has been very worried that I didn’t have a job.  She even told me she’d find me one!  I was able hold her hand as she lay on her couch and finally tell her that seemed to be working out, too.

The million friends showed up at her funeral, where YES a few of us even danced.  All the viola players in town seemed to be booked with La bohème that day, but Rachel’s soaring violin was so beautiful it made us cry.  And at the first symphony concert, after Betsy had died, they honored her with an empty chair.

I know it’s a few days late (she’d tease me for that, too) but Happy Mother’s Day, Betsy!