Book Review: The Salt Bairns, by Cynthia Tidrick

The Salt Bairns by Cynthia Tidrick
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I was fortunate to receive an advance copy of THE SALT BAIRNS and have to say, it was one of the most meaningful and insightful fiction reads I've been privileged to find in a very long time. Cynthia Tidrick has constructed a magical world, full of shadows and vice, and yet the colors and characters within the narrative surround each other and the protagonist with genuine feeling and knowledge. The reader cannot help but become swallowed up in their world, traveling onward in a rich and memorable adventure as the story unfolds. The author's unusual turns of phrase are yet clear and so beautiful, with atmospheric descriptions that enable the reader to grasp deeper meaning and understanding of the many layers in this tale. Skillful and sometimes shocking illustrations add to the fantastical quasi-realism of the work. Five glorious stars.

*Thank you to the Author for the advance read copy.

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Dreams and Second Chances

Heartbreak Ridge to Heartsong Rise

It sat on the high hills surrounded by a magnificent view, overlooking a cool and inviting stream, as it had for over two hundred years. Each brick had been formed by hand from the clay of the riverbottom, and painstakingly laid in neat rows, held in place by mortar of ash and lime. A small but beautiful plot of land remained of the original plantation, the best nine acres that nourished three springs and beautiful willows. The skeletal remnants of a boxwood garden and a family cemetery stood in silent testament to the families who had lived in, and cared about, this place.

Unfortunately, when we visited sixteen years ago, the mansion was a crumbling wreck.

The foundation was failing, due to someone's uninformed decision to cut through the summer beam that supported the central portion of the house to expand the stairwell descending from the first floor into the basement kitchen. The house was collapsing in on itself, the south wall cracking in protest where a huge failure was visible and would only grow without substantial investment of time, money, and even prayer. The home had been largely otherwise untouched, boasting much evidence of pride, craftmanship, and bustling activity dating from the original late 18th century construction date, including candleboxes in all the first-floor windowsills, thumbprints in the brickwork, once-polished and gleaming hard yellow-pine floors, horsehair plaster, and original paint finishes on the upstairs bedroom doors.

The wooden lintels had collected rain and leached moisture into the brickwork on the outside, causing the mortar to crumble, sad evidence of imminent failure under the sagging weight of the entire front facade - it looked like an old man with the baggy undereyes and downturned lips of a hard life etched across his cheeks.

So many reasons, so much work to do that involved thousands of hours of labor and dollars. So many dollars.

We turned in despair and walked slowly away, taking many dreams and heartfelt agonies of lost potential with us. Husband called it "Heartbreak Ridge," in an attempt to make light of the situation.

But no more. Someone with the wit, patience, and an adequate bank account, had saved it. Unbelievably, now it stands, a larger and steady presence, ready to be occupied once more by a family, a business, someone with even larger dreams.Some of what was done isn't really historically supported, but hey - it remains. It didn't collapse, after all. Hurrah!

Here's to living history, and second chances.

Recipe: Cassoulet Provençal

Cassoulet Provençal  (French Country-Style White Bean Soup)

French provincial cooking is typically savory and slow-roasted in a medium oven, with the distinctive flavors of olive oil, fresh herbs (rosemary, thyme, parsley, tarragon), piquant spices such as clove and mace, and a good dash of garlic.

To make the Soup:

Start with the base of white beans, adding liquid broth, then when softened add browned meat(s), season with garlic, parsley, and clove, and cook for several hours until flavors meld. Chop “les trois soeures” (three sisters – celery, onion and carrots) and add with chopped red or green sweet pepper.  Finish cooking and serve topped with croutons and parmesan cheese.

1 lb. dry white beans (Great Northern, Cannelini, Navy, etc.) 

4 – 6 c water (to cover)

Soak, then cook overnight until beans are soft in dutch oven or crock pot.

Brown 6 whole mild sausages (I use a free-range chicken/beef blend from Jones Farm in Winston-Salem) in 1 tbsp olive oil. Chop sausages, then add to soup. Reserve pan drippings.

Add:

1 pint vegetable or beef broth

1 tsp garlic

2 tsp parsley

1 tsp ground cloves

Cook 30 minutes or so.

Add:

1 whole carrot, chopped

1 stalk celery, chopped

1 small red sweet pepper, chopped

Cook several hours until flavors are well developed and blended.

In reserved pan drippings (from cooking sausage), add 2 ¼ c. water, ¾ c. brown whole-grain rice and ¼ cup wild rice. Cover & bring to boil, reduce heat to simmer and cook 50 minutes until liquid is absorbed. [Alternative to rice: 2 ½ c. dry whole wheat or whole-grain bread crumbs or croutons, browned in 1 tbsp butter]

Add rice [or breadcrumbs] to soup, cook at least 45 minutes more.  Serve warm with dry brown bread or crackers. Top with grated Parmesan Cheese.

Murder and Forgiveness

For now we see in a mirror dimly, 
but then we will see face to face [1Cor 13.12]
[Image credit: publicphoto.org]

It has been a little over nineteen years since two sweet innocents sank into the bottom of a man-made lake in South Carolina, sent there by the woman who carried them in her womb. Susan Smith's story changed us all, mothers and fathers and families alike. None of us were unaffected, and yet, looking back, it is perhaps time we saw the lake as a mirror, and recognize our own reflection within it.

As a society, although individually we may strive toward good, we are none of us innocents. We should acknowledge, as Beverly Russell did, that there is a seed of capability to do great evil within us all. We owe this woman forgiveness, and until we do this we can not move on toward reconciliation, and we will not be able to realize our great responsibility to our children to ensure they grow up in a safe, loving world, full of possibilities.

When the word first came out that this mother had done the unthinkable, I remember being in the grocery store with my then 7-year old daughter and my son who was about the age of the youngest Smith child. Strangers who passed by my shopping cart reached out toward him, fastened safely in his little seat, to touch his head and to grasp my hand, wrapped protectively around him. "Take care of that child," some would whisper. "I can tell you are a good mama," others would say. I saw friends of mine from church, also young mothers, and we reached instinctively toward one another, asking, "How are you? Do you need anything? Is everything all right? You know you can call me," our eyes searching deeply within each other's, trying desperately to re-validate the safety net of community that had been rended and torn by the news.

We all knew that sometimes we are only a breath of time away from losing it ourselves, and we needed to know that we could stop it from happening if we could only remember we are there for each other, to help shoulder the load.

Before Susan Smith's trial and the facts and analysis that would come out of it showing she was a desperate, troubled individual with a past that some of us could not fathom or relate to - we young mothers knew. Only the grace of something greater than ourselves up to that point had saved some of us from recklessly destroying our greatest and most precious gifts, that of our children and ourselves. For some horrible reason, that grace had failed a young mother, allowing her to send her children, her flesh, her blood, to a watery tomb. And I think that our shock and horror allowed us to separate ourselves after a time from this recognition, in order to move on and to be better parents.

This had to happen. But it is time now to take the next step, and forgive her for her actions. To recognize as a society that we had some hand in this undertaking, and to heal and to move forward toward ensuring that infanticide does not have to happen, that we recognize the warning signs and stop this evil, desperate act from taking place ever again.

***

We know better now, how ill and wretched this young woman was. We know, and we must recognize, that she was manifesting the symptoms of the classic murderer of her own children. At that time only trained specialists knew and were capable of seeing in; indeed it is what helped them to guide Susan Smith into confessing her great horrible deed.

Driving alone at dusk [Image credit: publicphoto.org]

But we all should know now. It's been nearly twenty years. Surely we can recognize that she was at the apogee of human error and selfish grasping for attention, love, and acceptance for who she was and what she was at the time: a lonely, depressed woman whose inner child grieved for the father she had lost, and who could not, for whatever reason, accept that now she was a mother, with limited options.

It's sad, but true. As her life gained complexity, her future seemed to dim, and the possibilities voiced in the letter written by the lover who rejected her probably seemed like a carrot too far from reach. She lashed out, angrily, at what seemed to have slipped away while she was busy attending to her greatest accomplishment: motherhood. She was confused, and oh so empty, and her fear allowed her to believe that emptiness was permanent.

We have all felt like this, at some time or another. Fortunately, most of us have resources and loved ones who help us see the folly of that belief, and can show us the good and lovely opportunities and choices for good in our lives, so that the fear and loneliness and rejection do not last.

Susan Smith did not.

Why?

Why, when she looked around, did she only see a situation that further estranged her from her best self? Why did she want to end her life, and that of her children? And what, if anything, could have been done to stop it?

I will reflect further on this as time allows. For now, I want to just think about this rationally, given the facts as we know them. I'll write more as soon as I can.


***

Update on the 20-year mark of this event in The State newspaper

Review: Turtle Moon

Turtle Moon by Alice Hoffman

My rating: 4 of 5 stars



About halfway through this book I wrote the following: "One of my gauges for a great read is one that continually sends me back to a work in progress to do an inspired creativity dump that seems to come out of nowhere. It's like the story dials into my subconscious and tells me things I didn't know I knew. This is one of those books. It's quirky, human, and all-too-real. The characters are alternately loveable and maddening, just like most folk I know."

I really didn't want this book to end, but at the same time, it was time to leave the story, and further words might have become maudlin or mundane. That is not to say I understand every character's motivation, or that the book ended happily. You'll have to find that out for yourself. Still, I'd love to read a sequel set maybe twenty or thirty further years in the future, to see if the boy and the baby ever meet again as adults, and what happens then.

And now, it's back to my own writing, because - as I said in so many words - there are things tumbling out of every creative port of my psyche, that must be set down.




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Review: The Floatplane Notebooks

The Floatplane Notebooks by Clyde Edgerton

My rating: 4 of 5 stars



This story was probably not supposed to make me cry, but it did. Rich language interwoven with humor, The Floatplane Notebooks ebbs and flows with the human foibles of a southern family, and it's as real and poignant as the best of its genre. Recommended.



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Gov. McDonnell Signs Mandatory Ultrasound Bill

The photo is of me about 16 years ago, with three of my children and one on the way.  As you can see,  we enjoy studying and re-enacting the lifeways of the 18th & 19th centuries in America. My children know more about the experience of our forebears than most history teachers, because they've lived it.

Today, as the mother of four beautiful daughters, one son, with a delightful granddaughter and another grandchild on the way, I am extremely disappointed in the actions of the Governor and the Virginia Legislature that limit women's access to reasonable and prudent health care and place unreasonable restrictions that intrude into the confidential trust and privacy concerning procedures that are only appropriately made between a woman and her health care provider.

Modern health care made it possible for me to have children spaced reasonably apart so my body could recover. Prescription birth control helped my doctor treat ovarian cysts, critical bleeding, and endometriosis.  I am healthier because of it. Moreover, I know had I really lived in the 18th century, I would not have survived my condition. I have the option and luxury of studying the lessons of history from the vantage point of modern understanding. I'm not certain many of our legislators even know what that is.

The legislature - and certainly no MAN - has any right whatsoever to intrude into women’s private health care matters.  I chose to give birth naturally to all five of my children, and even chose to give the first up for adoption at birth because I was still in school and too young to be responsible enough for her.  She was raised by wonderful, loving parents, she found us when she became an adult, and we are grateful for her and all of our children.  However, I still defend to the utmost any woman's right to choose not to give birth, through whatever means she and her doctor deem reasonable and in her best interests, and I will not stand by and have any access to health care denied because of intrusive, invasive, and unreasonable legislation.  My choice to give a child up for adoption was the most searing, difficult decision of my life, and I would not force that decision on anybody.  Every woman must have the choices available to her that make sense for her body and her situation.

No procedure should be dictated by an uninvolved non-medical entity, most especially the Virginia Legislature and government. I am very, very disappointed in our governor, senators and representatives and will voice my dissatisfaction in the voting booth.

Thanks to Planned Parenthood of Virginia for keeping this issue before the hearts and minds of the public.  Hopefully a day of reason is not far off, in spite of legislative efforts to the contrary.

If you would like to add your photo and story, please see Planned Parenthood of Virginia's tumblr.

Email Governor McDonnell

I just emailed Governor Bob McDonnell of Virginia.  He has the despicable mandatory ultrasound-waiting-period bill on his desk to veto or sign by Friday, March 9.

Feel free to copy/paste any of this as applicable to your situation and do likewise.

Email Governor McDonnell

Representing myself as I am was wiser than anything else I think I could do.  I decided to have my children, and gave one up for adoption (who found us as an adult) because it was the right decision for me (and for her) - but I will defend to the utmost anyone's right to have control over her body, and to make the correct decision for her own body and situation.  No one - especially any male - has the right to decide what is best for us.

The text of my email is below.

Email Subject:  A caring mother of five
As a caring mother who has five wonderful children, I am asking you to uphold the rights of women in the Commonwealth to reasonable access to necessary health care, without burdensome regulations designed to foster confusion and intrusion into the private realm of matters that are only between a woman and her doctor.

Veto HB 462.  If this measure is passed, it will most certainly not withstand the first court challenge, and will waste unnecessary taxpayer dollars, as well as hours of valuable time, better spent protecting the rights of citizens to reasonable, consistent, and necessary health care.

Thank you.

Review: Why Men Fall Out of Love: What Every Woman Needs to Understand

Why Men Fall Out of Love: What Every Woman Needs to Understand by Michael French

My rating: 4 of 5 stars



Mr. French seems to have a lot of rather misogynistic notions about women - but then it happens that a lot of men seem to as well. He attributes a lot of power and control to us that I'm not sure is actually valid - but then, I'm a woman and by definition I'm not going to understand why so often men do attribute so much power to us when we feel helpless and manipulated by just the type of actions and circumstances the men in this book describe. Still, I'm finding this book helpful because it gives a purely male view toward what causes relationships to fail, and that is what I was looking for in order to better understand my own circumstances. I do not have to agree with all of what he says in order to gain insight and value from it. French does an excellent job of presenting a list of very well-illustrated reasons why men may have difficulty in relationships, and this information will help me to be more effective in my dealings with people of the opposite sex, as well as have empathy toward them and perhaps not be so likely to feel hurt by them. Understanding, respect, and open dialogue about the inner landscape that leads us to act and feel the way we do about others is the canvas on which he makes a case for more effective and ultimately satisfying relationships between men and women. After all, it's the inability of the sexes to communicate effectively that is at the root of most of our failures, and this is a point he makes rather well.



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Comfort Food

Chardin, Grace Before a Meal

Looks like more rain is heading this way; the view outside is dank and drippy.  True to form I want to head to the kitchen to put something together that tastes good, is easy to prepare, and brings a satisfied warmth to the bellies in my house.

Here are a few of our favorites.

Bubble & Squeak

`Now, cheer up, Toad,' she said, coaxingly, on entering, `and sit up and dry your eyes and be a sensible animal. And do try and eat a bit of dinner. See, I've brought you some of mine, hot from the oven!'    

It was bubble-and-squeak, between two plates, and its fragrance filled the narrow cell. ..and Toad, between his sobs, sniffed and reflected, and gradually began to think new and inspiring thoughts: of chivalry, and poetry, and deeds still to be done; of broad meadows, and cattle browsing in them, raked by sun and wind; of kitchen-gardens, and straight herb-borders, and warm snap-dragon beset by bees; and of the comforting clink of dishes set down on the table at Toad Hall...   

Bubble and Squeak has a somewhat negligible reputation amongst foodies, which must be due to the fact that traditionally it was made up of leftover mashed potatoes and old cabbage boiled down in a pot to muculent ignominy.  We've made our version of delectably seasoned Virginia pork sausage, fresh cabbage, and new potatoes.  Quite the rainy day fare!

Take half a head of fresh green cabbage, wash thoroughly, and slice into 1/2" thick sections, chopping these in half again, and set aside in a bowl into which you've poured about 1 c. ice-cold water.  Wash and cube about 4 medium russet potatoes, leaving skins on, into pieces 3/4" - 1" in diameter.  Brown 1 lb. local sausage (Valleydale, Weinberg's, Neese's are all good choices, depending upon where you live) in a large skillet until down, lift out and let drain; pour off most of the sausage grease from pan, leaving crisp drippings.  Place the cubed potatoes in the skillet with 1 tbsp. unsalted butter and 1/4 c. water, cover and cook over medium low heat 15 minutes.  Add sausage and cabbage, layering over potatoes, cover again and steam about 10 more minutes just until cabbage is lightly done.  With spatula, lift and turn over the mixture to blend, cover tightly and remove from heat and let sit about 10 more minutes.  Serve with piping hot biscuits and butter or cornbread.  So good.


Shrimp & Grits
Nathalie Dupree, Charleston chef and former SC Senatorial candidate, has written an entire cookbook on this delectable concoction.  Being from Virginia, I'd never heard of it until I moved to South Carolina.  After my first bite I honestly wondered how I'd actually lived up to that point.  Never fails to lift my spirits, no matter how bummed I may be or how difficult the day has been.  Pure heaven defined in a china bowl.  Serve with green salad and hot tea.

Cook grits according to package directions using milk instead of water for a creamy consistency (Generally, measure 1-1/4 c. grits to about 4 c. milk, heat slowly on medium-low heat, add 1 tbsp. butter and 1 tsp. salt, stirring often until mixture is thoroughly cooked and thickened but not lumpy.  Keep covered.  Takes about 20-25 minutes). 
While grits are cooking, brown 3 - 4 slices fresh bacon on both sides, remove, drain, crumble, set aside, reserving pan drippings.  Add a bit of olive oil if necessary to make about 1/3 c. total in pan.  Wash, peel, de-vein about 1-1/4 lb. fresh medium-sized shrimp and remove tails.  Place shrimp in pan on medium heat, turning quickly but gently with spatula as the shrimp heat thoroughly, and as they are finishing, replace crumbled bacon in pan and lower heat.  Add a splash of white wine or apple juice, 1 tbsp fresh chives, 1 clove fresh minced garlic, fresh ground black pepper, dash tabasco or other flavorful hot pepper sauce to taste.  Cover and remove from heat, let this mixture sit for about 3-5 minutes so that the flavors continue to meld.  Serve up grits in large round cream soup dish with shrimp mixture ladled over the top.  Serves 4-5 admirably.


Bean & Bacon Soup

A childhood favorite.  Great with a grilled cheese sandwich and a nice dill pickle or two.  Using freshly dried herbs gives this a monumental flavor that will bring them back for second helpings every time.

1 lb. pkg. Navy or Great Northern Beans, washed & drained
1/2 lb. smoky sliced bacon strips, cooked according to package
2-3 medium carrots, peeled & chopped
1 small white or yellow onion, minced and cooked in bacon drippings until clear, drain and set aside
1 8 oz. can tomato paste
6-8 c. water
2 cloves garlic, peeled & minced
1/2 tsp ground sage
1/2 tsp ground thyme
1 tsp snipped rosemary
dash turmeric, ground black pepper, salt to taste

Cook beans according to package directions in large soup pot or dutch oven until tender.  Add cooked bacon, crumbled, along with about 2 tbsp pan drippings from bacon, and mix thoroughly to distribute.  Add carrots, cooked onion, tomato paste, water to desired consistency, and seasonings.  Cover and cook thoroughly on medium-low heat for about an hour.  Serves 10-12.

Absurdity and Forgiveness

About this time yesterday I was in the middle of making a pretty big mistake in full view of the whole world - which is easy to do on the internet.  My counselor told me this morning that in the last 5 years she has noticed how often it happens that words that once would have been exchanged between two people in a relatively private setting - a bar, perhaps, or a hallway in passing, even in the privacy of one's own home - now end up posted on Facebook.  "It's so quick, to write your reaction, and we do it without thinking.  Then we have to live with the results." 

Another way what appears to bring us closer, in an instant can zoom us far, far away.

Here's the obvious thing that I had to (re)learn publicly:

DON'T HIT 'ENTER' WHEN YOU'RE ANGRY.

Even in the rare case that you may actually be right (I wasn't) - it still is the wrong thing to do.  Airing it publicly, even semi-publicly on friends-only posts, still includes people that really didn't want to see that.  We don't go on the internet to be unwitting witness to ugly words about people we care about.  If I had kept my thoughts to a few private emails, even, instead of a couple of very-succinctly-worded Zzzzzlams! - well, I wouldn't have had to eat crow for dinner last night.  And had to get up and look at the leftovers again this morning.  And cringe all over again at the memory of hurting someone I care deeply about, and try to believe that "I made a mistake, everyone makes mistakes, it's not worth beating yourself up over it..."

I am not an existentialist, but they did get one thing right.  Even deleting the whole post and anything afterwards that stemmed from it isn't going to make it go away.  Once it's on the internet, it's history.  Literally.  It's out there.  Damage done.  Now we live with it.

It's worse than just saying ugly words in the privacy of your own home.  It's like buying billboard space and painting it across the highways.  Everyone can see it, and be witness, judge, and jury to your idiotic moment.

So now I'm reading and re-reading a quote from a small framed picture that my mother gave to my father a long time ago, and trying to apply those wise words of Emerson to the absurdity of this particular situation.  Because even though I've apologized profusely and received forgiveness for yesterday's blunders, it is difficult to believe that it won't contribute further to an already tenuous and difficult communication problem that I've been having with the individual who graciously forgave me.  While I was writing words of fire, he was actually being a saint and helping people in need.  He was applying the rule, "Do unto others..."  He was being the better person, doing good in the world.

None of us is perfect, we all are human.  And normally I believe and live by these words:  Everyone is doing his best he can at the time. It is a reminder to have patience, and do not judge.  Why I forgot and felt justified in slamming home some long-ago, worn-out, used-up resentment that should have been thrown out with the trash years ago, is not an excuse.  I shouldn't have done it, and I am so, so sorry.

I don't yet forgive myself; I knew better and under normal circumstances would never have done it - except when I've been having a bad day, like I was yesterday.  I was sick in bed, and the plumbing in the house had developed a problem overnight and I was having to wait for that to be taken care of.  Being ill and unable to take care of what needed doing left me feeling vulnerable and on edge.  So I did what other people do when they're sick:  I got on the internet, hoping for something distracting to take my mind off of it.

You know where this is going.  Without going into detail, the first few words I read on my news page jumped at me completely out of context.  I mis-read, assumed I knew what was going on, and further mis-applied them, and felt totally justified in responding with what at the time seemed a high amount of calm and deliberate action.  Inside I was seething over a jumble of things, partially to do with the situation at hand but mostly chafing at feeling helpless and unable to do anything but wait and see when the person in question would next communicate (he'd been rather too busy lately to talk much).  I didn't want to wait; I wanted attention.

I hate the attention that resulted from that screw-up.  I hate that even if I'd been right, that people saw what I wrote.  That wasn't necessary.  Most of all, I hate that the person to whom it was delivered was bewildered and probably hurt, although he was too much of a gentleman to show it.  In the past this sort of thing would have happened behind closed doors and been completely ironed out between the two of us, but since he wasn't and hasn't been around and I was denied that opportunity, I let it out in front of co-workers, friends, and family.  How inappropriate.  How childish.  How mean and rotten and gross.

“Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in, forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day, you shall begin it well and serenely...” --Ralph Waldo Emerson

Deep breath.  Read, and repeat.

Here's another thing:  it doesn't hurt to read and see what advice the Universe sends out first thing in the morning.  This is what it was for me today:

http://french-word-a-day.typepad.com/motdujour/2011/04/heurter.html

And immediately my mind responded, "Hier j'ai heurté la réalité. Aujourd'hui j'ai réalisé que la réalité était tous dans mon esprit."  Yesterday I crashed head on into reality.  Today I realized that reality was all in my head.


I had to share this with my counselor on the phone this morning (she's so awesome she called me when I was too sick to make the appointment!), and I tried to explain it using an analogy so she could understand how to help me, and why I was so upset.  

See, there was this movie, starring George Peppard and Ursula Andress, with James Mason.  Epic pilot movie - The Blue Max.  In it Peppard plays a military pilot - say that three times fast without tripping over your tongue if you can!  Andress plays his lover, Mason plays a superior officer.  Andress's character reveals to Mason's that the pilot has cheated on something, I forget what, in order to win the country's highest honor and to be named The Blue Max, because she was piqued over his jilting her.  She is spoiled, and manipulative, and she thinks he will just have to lose this award and she will have vengeance.  But it's worse than that.  As a result of this news the superior officer decides to let him die, rather than to let it come out that the Pilot must be stripped of this honor, and therefore embarrass the whole country.  He sends Peppard's character out to test a new plane, that he knows is unsafe, and with tears pouring down her cheeks she has to listen to the engine stall, and the resulting whine and screams as the plane crashes into the earth.  "And all because of your stupid little anger!" Mason yells at her.   


I hear those words at times like these.  Sometimes anger really is pretty stupid.  Sometimes we see ourselves entirely too easily in the weaknesses of others.  Sometimes we are our own worst enemy.


I have a constant struggle between knowing what is real and knowing what really isn't.  This has bitten me in the past, and it's going to continue to bite me as long as I react out of past hurts, without waiting to be certain of having all of the facts.  So this will be part of my homework, along with not beating myself up over things I can't change, even if they're my fault.  As my counselor said, "No one died from it.  You learned something, and it is getting better."

She reminded me about H.A.L.T. - We shouldn't give in to Action when we are Hungry, Angry, Lonely, or Tired.  I was at least 2 of those yesterday, and possibly 3.  No matter how it looks, it's just not a good idea.

Yeah, I know.

I also have to put this completely in God's hands, because until I learn these lessons, my own are not to be trusted.

Book Review: Trapped in the Mirror, by Elan Golomb, PhD

Trapped in the Mirror by Elan Golomb

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

An excellent treatise on the influence of narcissistic individuals in those for whom abuse and negativity feels more like normal behavior than dysfunction. The author is a well-educated clinical psychologist who herself is the child of two narcissistic parents.

Adeptly weaving her experiences with those of her friends, patients, and other individuals, she helps us to recognize the thought patterns and unintentional, automatic reactions to challenges that everyone faces, but with which adult children can struggle against depression, bulimia, fear, suicidal thoughts, and psychosis. The writer's style dips in and out of clinical assessment, stream-of-consciousness, and rational analysis, proving over and over again that there are many ways to deal confidently and successfully with people who try to control our thoughts and emotions, and because it presents this multi-faceted picture, is not only helpful, but interesting and engaging to read.

I recommend this highly for anyone dealing with unfortunate life patterns triggered by inability to recognize the influence of narcissistic individuals at work, at home, or in relationships.

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21 Things I Learned from Lorelai Gilmore

1. There are very few pains that cannot be cured with a liberal application of Rocky Road ice cream, eyeliner, and martinis.
2. You can run from your troubles, but eventually you’ll run back. Otherwise you’ll never get over them.
3. Laughter is the best medicine.
4. Real love never ends.
5. Good things only get better. Sometimes this happens when you’re not looking.
6. Celebrate birthdays, weddings, and the life of your neighbor’s cat with the same warmth and enthusiasm.
7. The first snowfall of the season is a living, breathing, sacred thing. No matter when it happens, go outside and greet it with effusive joy.
8. Your first duty is to your children. Everything else can wait.
9. Even weirdo freaks have souls.
10. Coffee is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy. Beer runs a close second. Sorry, Ben.
11. Say you’re sorry as soon as you can, and mean it.
12. Wait. Time heals all wounds.
13. Show up. Look smashing.
14. Be yourself. No one else can pull it off.
15. Appreciate everyone, including obnoxious picky French men, gossipy busybodies, aging drama queens, control freaks with bad toupees, and grouchy hermits. If nothing else they keep life interesting and amusing, and sometimes they are exactly the right person for something very special.
16. Never underestimate the inexpressible importance of the perfect shoes, scarves, and handbags. Also, Hello Kitty. Pink sweaters with ruffles and flowers. Black mini skirts. Tulle. Skinny jeans. And pearls.
17. Movie nights are for eating, philosophy and social commentary. In that order.
18. Your first love will always be special. Your first real love even more so.
19. There are a lot of amazing female role models. After you’ve followed their example for awhile, be one.
20. Take others much more seriously than you take yourself.
21. Read. Often, or not. There’s a lot to be learned from books. But if you don’t read, surround yourself with people who do. Some of that wisdom will rub off.

Traveling Light

I find myself sick of traveling, frankly. All I want to do now is curl up with a book, stare outside, look at the window, ponder a bit. Listen to loved ones, think about what they've said, listen some more. This is a major change from past propensities, which was to pick up and go at the merest wisp of a suggestion. Travel meant going beyond the place that I was, seeing new things as much as re-connecting with old ones.

Reading this piece at Salon brought this home recently. This is a wonderful article, well-crafted and superbly worded, the author has the grasp of language that slips into your mind easily. The second-person point of view is difficult to do well, but she does it with single-minded aplomb, leaving no question of her genius. It is taken from a larger work, Stranger Things Happen: Stories, and when I saw this I stopped reading long enough to add to my "To Read" list at Goodreads. It was that good. She was speaking to me, I was sure, or at least someone who had shared my experiences - we were kindred and I followed her down the rabbit-hole with faith that was quite blind. I was expecting a swirling, satisfying finish, where all is right in the end.

Silly me.

As I wrote to my sister when I sent her the article, dear Ms. Link had it right at the outset, she took you along a steep, winding and bloody difficult path, but surely she stopped just short of where the journey really reached its final destination. She knows the fairy-tale path so well! How could she have missed the whole point?

Read the article, mind you, before you travel further, or you're not going to believe me. You'll think I'm making this all up. And read this interview with Kelly Link by Laura Miller, Romance and Other Myths, which is right as rain throughout except for those needling little thrusts both of them make at the insanity that is "true love." Ms. Link and I share some similarities, we have both lived a "peripatetic life," but for pity's sake at some point we all have to settle down sometime. Maybe it's just the propensity of some people to joust at windmills, but it would be a sad world indeed for those of us who crave the warmth of quiet home fires to think that all this patient belief in love is all for naught. Phooey. Inside a voice whispers, "She missed the point."

Yet I still want to read her work, if only just for the repeated satisfaction of re-discovering that this belief in love is really just belief in myself. She's right, of course - the too-hard, misbegotten journey where you press on until your feet are cut to ribbons from all the miss-steps you've made is a bit much. When you get to the end of that trial how do you even know you're there? You're too busy picking glass out of your feet and re-applying eyeliner, wetting your lips, rehearsing what you're going to say so he doesn't get the wrong idea, and trying to remember where you left the keys. It's all drama at that point, and who has the energy for that?

So you clear the air and start over. Throw out the dirty dishes, add to the archaeological treasures in the backyard. Sweep up the shards from the broken mirror, apologize. Let a brief, beautiful memory or a shared glance make you smile. Back up, turn the wheel. Don't go down that path. Refresh your mind in shared laughter, challenge yourself to swallow pride over what was lost through ridiculous circumstances and look how simple things become once you've forgiven him. Forgiven yourself for being so blind and wicked.

There are two, no three, other fictional heroines, very different and yet similar enough to make the comparison in this instance, because their epiphanies are more - shall we say, agreeable. Theirs are stories I can relate to, be satisfied with, because these women and men forgave, and forgot, and in so doing reaped the benefits of what I believe is a more fulfilled existence, because it is shared. I don't have words to say just why this is, but it's true. No man is an island. No woman, either. Jane went back to Rochester. Elizabeth married Darcy. Luke and Lorelai figured it out in spite of everything. I know of a few real-life couples who did this, too. Sara and Richard. Gwen and Gavin. Joan and Robin, whose story in An Unfinished Marriage is remarkably simple, which makes it all the more interesting and applicable.

Truce. Because every day with your partner is practice for how you'll succeed in the real world, and how you treat those closest to you mirrors how you treat yourself.

Love is patient, love is kind. Love does not keep a record of wrongs. Love never ends. Faith, hope, and love - these three, but the greatest of these is Love.

Preserving Summer Harvest

Chutney is a delectable, spicy preserve-like concoction that is made to be served with slowly-roasted beef, chicken, or pork but is also delicious embedded in an omelet or folded into a piquant casserole. Best when the freshest ingredients are used at the height of their summer goodness, it takes time and patience to chop, peel, skin, and dice all the fruits and vegetables that go into it, but when savoring your own prudent industry over a leisurely wintry meal, there’s simply nothing better to recall to mind the warmth and goodness of long summer days.

Last August 23rd, dear husband and I managed to put up a very good batch of Peach Chutney that we adapted from a recipe in Linda Ferrari’s classic Canning and Preserving, and I took pictures intending to share the results with folks here at the blog. The local peaches and the peppers from the garden were especially plentiful - and juicy - last year. However, real life being what it is, I never got around to making the blog post. Some people may wonder why I’m bothering to do it now, but I’m of the mind that it really is never too late to recall and make a note of good things like this. Jason & I used to make Chutney a lot; in fact, one of our family jokes was to make this very British preparation in early July, and tongue-in-cheek to call it “Fourth of July Chutney,” ‘cause we’re awesome like that. But I digress.

Being in the kitchen is one of my favorite memories of life with this man, who is much more at home around the stove & countertop than I am. While at times it may have been a little awkward as we worked around each others’ idiosyncrasies (random grumbles and mutual harrumphs notwithstanding), as I look back over the years I feel a warmth rise in my chest remembering the way his hands moved, assuredly and with the skill of long practice, and the delectable meals he’s prepared. So - here ‘tis, a year late, but still kind of wonderful – and I’m not just talking about the tangible results. There’s something magical about working together and producing something fine that goes beyond the immediate; it’s a shared experience that underscores the importance of living in the moment while affirming that even when it’s a bit of a challenge, the future is an opportunity worth preserving. Try it with someone you love.


Peach Chutney

7 lbs. fresh peaches, blanched, skinned and chopped
1 large onion, minced
1 c. dried currants
Zest and juice of 1 lemon
1 large gingerroot, peeled and finely chopped
Several red, green, and yellow peppers, sliced, seeds removed, and minced
2 c. cider vinegar
2 c. brown sugar
½ c. granulated organic cane sugar
1 tsp. ground peppercorns
2 tsp. ground cinnamon
1 tsp. whole cloves
½ tsp. ground mace
¾ tsp. ground allspice

Prepare fruit and vegetables carefully. Blend vinegar, sugars, lemon juice, zest, ginger root, and spices in a large heavy pot placed on the stove. Add peaches, onion, currants, and peppers. Cook over medium-high heat, stirring constantly, until slow boil is reached. Lower heat and simmer until thickened to correct consistency.

Ladle into hot, prepared jars, seal, and process for 10 minutes in a water bath. Cool for several hours or overnight and check for complete sealing of jars.

Makes approximately 7-8 pints. Store in a cool, dark place.

Open House, by Elizabeth Berg

Open House by Elizabeth Berg
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I liked it. I felt brave for picking it up, bringing it home, because my husband had just told me he wanted a divorce, and the central character of the book is going through a similarly served entree, and I just felt like I wanted to see what it would be like when someone you really love leaves you. Live it vicariously, see if I was brave enough. Because I was seriously considering jumping off a bridge, and I wanted to see how someone might go through it and actually come out on the other side.Mind you, if hubby hadn't said it, I probably would not have picked up this book. But he did, and I felt woefully unarmed, unable, unwilling to go through all that. So I read the book.I loved the characters, with all their flaws that are not too cliche, too predictable. I love that she made some difficult decisions, fell flat on her face, picked herself up again, tried harder.I love that the person she falls in love with about 3/4 of the way through this book is not perfect.I love that she refuses to be alone as much as possible, by renting her home to a wonderful diversity of human beings, and that when she must be alone, she cries and lives through it. I needed that grounding, that soulful peace.This book is probably not for everyone. This weekend, my husband said he was sorry, that he took it back - and it wasn't too late; I only lived for five days with this grief and worry.Long enough to read this book, and to know that it is not a human failing to want more. And that life is a river, that we all want the same things: to be wanted, to reflect on things and find understanding in another person.

View all my reviews

the revelation, himself

i haven't checked the entire flist, but in case anyone hasn't seen this, jensen taped a show in aussie-land today, and apparently it went well, according to a fan who was there for the whole thing.

i'm so glad. i just loved reading that.

also. i haven't really noticed or read very much, but at the edges of my eyelashes have discerned a bit of disappointment-laced discussion about how john was portrayed in epi 3.10. i guess some people thought the show was handling john's parenting skills a bit roughly, and i think one person described herself as "bristling," at the thought of john being at fault for dean's self-immolation exercise. as if the show was pointing the finger at john and saying, Bad, Wrong. You Sucked as a Parent, and It's All YOUR Fault, John Winchester.

and i just thought, as an oldest child and a mother, i might add a thought or observation or two to that.

you know? i saw dean's outburst as very late adolescent rebellion, that was suppressed and withheld because of what they did for a living, what their life was like. out of honest respect for his father. because their situation was wholly desperate at times, and when dean thought about and weighed that with his inner thoughts and feelings, they always came up short, so he pushed them back down again. repeatedly. honestly. when his dad was alive, dean never once questioned him. he *was* the good little soldier. and in his own eyes, his own words, look where that got him.

do try to remember: dean is speaking from a backlog of frustration and denial. what comes out under those circumstances usually is the result of bottling up, twisting and churning. it is almost always WORSE than it started out to be, or that the impetus initially may have warranted.

dean has been carrying questions about his mother's death that he never, ever asked --since he was four years old. remember, he described john to sam in 3.08 as "a superhero." dean firmly believed that, for way longer than he should have, i think.

in light of all this, i understood his anger at his father completely. it wasn't rational, it was quite irrational, and emotional, and honest. from his POV. imho, john did an awesome job as a parent under the craziest of circumstances and with the same puny arsenal of knowledge about parenting that most ex-Marine males of his age and experience would have. yes, he was obsessed. but he was first and foremost a soldier, who went after the enemy just like he did in the Marines. he saw it as protecting his family, and he truly felt they would never be safe if he didn't "go after that thing." parents are programmed to protect their offspring, it was a matter of honor and doing the right thing from his POV. John had failed in this in being unable to save Mary, and his desperation and obsession with hunting was also a message to Dean not to do the same thing (let your loved one die), because it equalled cowardice and failure as a person. he had no idea what little children needed, other than the one thing he couldn't give them: their Mother. still. look at what he and Mary turned out: SAM and DEAN. what we aren't shown are the quality times he spent with them when he WAS around. we only get to see and know about the fact that often he WASN'T.

think for a minute the parallels between john's years and years of inner self-loathing because he "couldn't save Mary," and so he eventually quite willingly sacrifices his life for his son's; and that of that son not only because his father was gone, but also because "he couldn't save Sam."

the sins of the father are visited upon the sons, and imho it was honest of show to give us this in 3.10.

dean should never have idolized his father the way he did for as long as he did. he should have rebelled a long time ago - and gotten over it. but he didn't. and this is what happens. i think this is another way that Sam was more "normal" than Dean - he rebelled and left. Dean never did, and by staying he was honoring his father and his mother, but he was killing himself inside in several ways that eventually were going to come out, and so much more so after the eternal sacrifices that he felt compelled to make, in order to both continue to carry on the family business and save the life of his brother.

there are so many layers here - i need another post at some other time to go into the "Sam is the only thing you've got" angle. let me rest that for now, and continue on my original train of thought, which was: why did Show give us this "John-hate" scene from Dean?

it wasn't "John-hate," actually. it was subverted honest frustration, fear, and silence, that started when dean was FOUR YEARS OLD. an age when emotions and fears are high in any child, much less one who experienced the horrors that 4-year old Dean Winchester did.

i for one was glad to see dean get it out finally. and it's not unusual, actually, for people at the edge of thirty to finally do this. i remember being told by a therapist that the most common ages for people to experience severe depression and anxiety is 28-29. it's like, this is it, baby. if you didn't do it now, once you put another zero in the ones spot? you're history. you're a mature adult, or supposed to be. and it freaks people right the fuck out.

'cause the truth is: we are never any different, if we are completely honest with ourselves, than we were at age 14, 15, 16. and the issues we build up over the years eventually come to a head and explode, more or less, in our late 20s. we realize, not kids anymore, phooey. time to grow up FUCK THAT. and then we get over it, and go on. that is, those of us who fall in the range of normal do.

those of us --which would include dean --who do not address these feelings of anger and frustration and childish feelings of betrayal that come from recognizing that your parent(s) is/are fallible and human (which is a source of adolescent rebellion) --run the very real risk of doing exactly what dean did: bottling it up into feelings of worthlessness, rebelling physically by being promiscuous and taking a higher level of risks, and feeling themselves becoming cold, dead, empty inside.

surely you all know this. i can't be saying anything new, not to alot of you. those of us who climbed over that age-30 hill have surely experienced some of this parent-shunning, recognizing-they-didn't-know-everything, separation-of-self-image-from-parent stuff. it's worse if we didn't do it as teenagers, but it is very, very necessary for us to discover who we are inside.

don't forget that dean was fighting himself. and that the image a son gets of himself often comes from his father, or adult who served that role on some level. it must be rejected in order for him to find out who he really is.

dean is, essentially, a late bloomer on the adolescent emotional stage.

seriously. tell me you didn't stand up and cheer (at least on the inside) with tears raining down your face when he screamed, 'I DON'T DESERVE TO GO TO HELL!' yeah, sylvia, i was right there with you. (link to sylvia bond's recap at pinkraygun.com)

btw, jensen's acting deserves its own post. this one is for DEAN.

happiest of holidays

having a nice evening at home with friends tonite, people are milling about and coming in and out. jason cooked a wonderful venison ham, and we had collards, rice, okra & tomatoes, black eyed peas, cornbread, and that was just the main course. before that we had several kinds of appetizers that people had brought, then shucked oysters in the yard, and afterwards, desserts and coffee.

rachael and i had put in the supernatural season 1 dvds to play in rotation, sortof as background for the evening's activities. like subliminal induction, hoping to indoctrinate friends. before too long a couple of people had actually started watching, and then saying, "hey, I know this show. one of the brothers is supposed to maybe go darkside, right?" and then we all had to sit down and watch ...hee! it's like roofies, see.

if i weren't so tired and this was not a mackintosh am certain i'd be writing something erudite and uplifting. as it is, i can only think about how dark the sky is outside, how the stars shine so unspoiled by city lights up on this hill in the middle of nowhere, how we can hear fireworks from a mile or so away, and the friends who'll be spending the night are laughing downstairs to some hysterical story my husband is telling. these are nuggets of life here at Hilltop, the Borough, in Stateburg. if you haven't been here, you should visit. it's a world away from anywhere else, there is no place like it on earth.

Wednesday i start my new job across the street, as parish administrator for Holy Cross. hey, you cannot possibly beat the commute. plus, crunchy things for my brain.

happy new year, everyone.

amen, and amen.

Veritas

Men hate passion, any great passion. Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead

I defy the tyranny of precedent. Clara Barton.

I am faced with an exposition of the most ridiculous kind. It is almost as if, by turning round and round upon myself, within myself, I am finding out the true nature of the world at large. Fie! It is an old shoe, a bastard, losing daily whatever dignity it has gained at its own behest. I am well to be rid of it.

The world itself is an oasis that draws us out of ourselves, to interact and play nicely with our neighbors. I am all about community, of course. Enjoying friends and family is one of the greatest joys on earth. And here is the rub, see. An oasis is only that which stands out in the middle of the wasteland, providing nourishment and the opportunity for rest for weary travelers. An oasis! Yes, there I’ll be bound.

And miss the boat entirely, of course.

Why linger at an oasis? Why settle, why drink, why sleep? If life is a journey, hadn’t we better get on with it? Saddle up the camels, do something, for heaven’s sake. Or if life is a banquet, should we at least find a place that has good food? God. Get me away from these mongrels, who do nothing more than clasp and smile and make us all feel so damned good.

Take me somewhere I can hear myself think. I have work to do.

I am a promethean, which means I take my work seriously not as art, but of the fact of its usefulness, probably more so than many. It is the work itself that is the point, and nothing that comes after. And I have no opinion at all on whether or not the work is successful, only that it is good, and says what I want it to say. Otherwise, why do it? Why produce, unless to express oneself? If I were going to express another’s opinion, or mimic another’s work, what reason would I have to exist? I do honor by the fact of my existence in bringing my own view to the forefront. Which, I realize, is basically what Ayn Rand said, in billions and billions of words.

That being said, too often the world itself gets in the way. Why? Because I am shy, introspective, and withdrawn by nature. I listen too often to others and quiet my voice. I write what people want to hear, I know pleasant turns of phrase, am witty, clever, and so I am quite repugnant to myself. I mimic so well the acclaimed voices. Eventually I must stop, it will be my undoing. The roar in my ears does not go away when I lift my hands from the keyboard to cover them. I shout at those nearby; I am shouting at myself. Only when I write does my real voice speak. You will almost never hear it from my lips. That is the way of things, perhaps it makes me who I am. I no longer apologize for being several things at once, I am who I am. That cannot change, or who would be me? What of worth would I have to offer; again, why else should I exist?

I know things, things that I left out of the most recent work. I am a miner of the soul; I will go and put them back in. It was wrong to take them out –I am happy now that someone pointed it out to me. As if to say, “Why did you not –“ and “It would have been better if you had –“ when all along I truly believed no one would have understood had I done so. I am glad to put them back. They will complete the work as I originally envisioned. I sigh a deep sigh of completion, and gratitude.

This past week was a vacation for me and the children. We went home to the mountains, to the blue sky and clear air of Virginia. We visited post-card towns and had tea & cakes with the vicar –okay, he was imaginary, but we had them outside on the lawn behind the library not fifteen feet from where I first made out with the father of one of them when I was about thirteen years old –and no I did not mention it! That would have been gross. To continue painting the pastoral scene, we shopped and walked and took miles of pictures. We bought fabric at Schoolhouse Fabrics to make new fall dresses for the girls & me, and a cool grey shirt for my son. We lived and breathed and sang and tromped down to Asheville to take in Biltmore and the highlands in all their pre-fall glory. And about halfway through it, while walking along atop a century-old rock wall in Rocky Mount, Virginia, my youngest said to me, “Mommy, it feels like we are in a movie.”

And I said to her, “That is passion, dearest.”

“What’s passion? I thought what happened to Christ was The Passion.”

“Yeah, that’s passion, too. Passion is when you love something so hard it becomes real.”
She giggled, skipping ahead. “Oh, I get it. Like how I love my turtles when I talk to them.”

“Yeah, like that.”

“Get me down, Mommy.”

I held out my arms to her and she jumped, landing neatly on the cracked sidewalk. “I love you.”

“I love you too, baby.” And hugged her tight.

She walked on ahead of me, and eventually climbed back up to walk along the top of the wall. “It still feels like we are in a movie,” she said presently.

“That is good, I’m glad.”

“I like it.”

“You should. In fact, that is the best. You should feel that way every single day. Don’t ever lose that feeling, OK? Don’t settle for anything less.”

“Really? ‘Cause I don’t feel this way hardly ever.”

“You hold onto it. It makes you strong. Don’t ever lose it.” And I laughed with her.


The work will be a beacon, when it is finished. Again. This I know. And yes, it is all about me. I am the only one left to tell. It is my mind, my entrance upon the world’s stage. I gather up the bits of straw from the threshing floor – the fleeting bits that fall from my fingers in the times when I must compulsively be writing something about passion, for the voices will not stop – and toss them skyward. They fall on happy faces who lick their lips and feed upon them, devouring the little bits of my heart I’d sewn in so carefully. I am happy to do that, their happiness makes me smile.

But there will be more in the morning. So watch, and see. It is practicum for the larger work, it flexes my working muscles and makes me concentrate on plot and character and making something totally imagined real.

Soon I must leave the oasis. It is discipline, yet it is too much in the world. When I have completed it, it will be time for surgery on the original work. The one that has followed me around for the better part of two decades. That has received two lovely long letters of encouragement from now two editors who press me to add voices to it, find an agent, and submit to, as one put it, “a larger publisher with a more literary (quieter, less pop-fiction-readership-oriented) audience.” This is the work that defines my vision of experience and reality between the perfectly imperfect man and woman. That rocks my boat. That frustrates me no end because I just don’t want to give up and feel all the things working in this mine field makes me feel. And so I take the coward’s way out, and try to make it a popular read. I got what I deserved.

I received the go-ahead to basically be true to myself, my vision, and write what I know. What good does it do within me, when it is obvious that the work would be so much better with it out?
And so I will do. That accomplishment will give me the peace I affirm is the only true peace, in the end. That is the point of my existence.

For nor in nothing, nor in things
Extreme, and scatt'ring bright, can love inhere
--John Donne, Aire and Angels

joy in the morning

i'm really visual lately, so i'm just going to share a few images of what we did sunday morning.... (click on images for larger version if you want).

This is my friend...


Scuppernongs



Thompsons



they'll go to make the best grape jam in the universe. come & share some with us!