I’ve been quiet because I was feeling sad for the Austin music community I was on the periphery of for a few years. Many kind people are mourning the loss of Chris Gage, who in addition to his musical talent and cool adventures (he was on Hee Haw as a young man!), was a great friend, mentor, producer, entertainer, and family member. His was a life very well lived.
Chris and Jeff some years ago.
He was so good to my dear friend, Jeff, when he really needed the encouragement. Hearing Chris be encouraging but firm showed me his character. I’m grateful for all he did for so many other friends, too.
Some of my happiest memories during my hardest days were at Donn’s Depot, listening to him and his wife, Christine Albert, sing together, or seeing many musicians jamming. They created such a warm community. I’m glad Christine will have them and her family to surround her in coming weeks.
Never heard of Chris Gage? His story is fascinating. One of the greatest supporting musicians ever. You’ve probably seen him on Austin City Limits if you’re an Americana fan.
PS: get those prostate exams, if you have a prostate. Often. Chris was ok, then he wasn’t.
Since today was just fine (not too hot!) and I don’t want to come across too perky like I did yesterday, I’ll just answer this here question.
My name is Rhynchomitra recurva – I’m a leafhopper.
My name is Sue Ann. This is nothing new to evil internet scum. The internet has known my name since 1989, back in Usenet days.
Tell me more, says the finch.
Two-word given names are common in the southern USA, from where I and my ancestors of many generations hailed. Most of my dad’s sisters had them, Bettye Sue and Doris Ann were two of them. It appears that my parents were expecting a boy when I emerged from Mom’s twilight sleep. But there I was, including all my curly hair. They were going to name a boy Edwin (my father’s first name that he only used on official business) but they must have rejected Edwina (a name of a very funny older woman I once knew). I’m glad they saved it for my brother (Lee also had a brother named Edwin).
Look, corn. Someone lost their harvest. Nothing to do with names, except to say, “We call it maize.”
Anyway, I’m glad they eventually named me after the above-mentioned two of Dad’s sisters. Again, I’m relieved not to be Bettye Doris. Most of my life I liked my name other than a brief time I wanted to be Susanna. What I don’t like is the name Sue by itself. It’s fine for my friends named Sue (popular name of my generation), but I don’t like it for me. I don’t respond to it, and if someone calls me that, they go down a notch in my estimation. It’s like calling someone who goes by Will, Bill. So, if you ever meet me or send me a message, remember my two-word name.
Sue Ann means graceful lily according to name origins. So not me. I’m more sturdy, like this snow on the prairie plant.
You are always welcome to call me my alternate name, Suna, which I’ve had over half my life. Long story there.
We can do without that story.
No doubt I’ve told this particular story before, but I’m not up to scouring the archives to see. You can do it, of course. Feel free!
Alternative: look at the pretty morning sky.
Off I go, now, to come up with better topics and hope for rains.
My friend Carolyn M recommended this book to me, because she said I had so much in common with the protagonist (and with the author). I’m glad she did, because the book is very sweet and took me down some literal memory lanes.
Where the Forest Meets the Stars (2019) is the first novel by Glendy Vanderah. She worked as an endangered bird specialist and apparently attended the same graduate school I did, in Champaign-Urbana, Illinois. This also describes the book’s protagonist, Joanna. That’s where the memory lanes come in. I was taken back to my twenties when I, too, traveled up and down Interstate 57 and wandered Urbana’s “state” streets, admiring the gracefully aging Tudor-style homes of my professors.
Illinois, too, has sunflowers on the roadside, out of the reach of pre-emergent herbicides.
The novel isn’t entirely about driving through east-central Illinois and its endless miles of corn and soybeans, though. There’s a mysterious young girl who claims to be from another galaxy, Indigo Buntings, cancer survival, and (of course) a love interest.
No, this isn’t the greatest novel ever, but it’s an enjoyable read and the plot twists are fun. It was perfect for making a long plane flight feel short! And I have to say I ended up fond of all the characters, both major and minor.
I’m happy to share this book with someone local, but it would cost less to order a used copy than for me to mail it. You might find that the little girl from space provides a nice respite from whatever is burdening your mind, plus you’ll get a glimpse into the place I lived from 1980-1998.
Scour the news for an entirely uninteresting story. Consider how it connects to your life. Write about that.
Fine. I found an article on the worst cars of the early 1970s, the Ford Pinto, Chevrolet Vega, and AMC Gremlin. These are three small cars introduced to fight the tiny Japanese imports from Toyota, Datsun (future Nissan), Honda, etc.
Pinto, Gremlin, Vega
How does this article about bad cars of yore connect to my life? Remember now, I’m old. My first car was a 1972 Ford Pinto wagon. It was light blue with fake wood paneling. It was originally purchased for my mother, but the second I got my license, it was passed on to me to drive my brother and myself to school activities. Mom hated driving on “big roads.” My high school friends and I enjoyed blasting the little radio and cruising by the homes of cute boys.
This poor car could only hit 70 mph going downhill and had a radiator too small for its engine. But it carted me, my boyfriend (one of the cute high school boys) and our roommates back and forth through college.
It went forward and held 4-ish people. This was the car of my other male high school best friend.
The actual Pinto coupe shown above was smaller than the wagon. It was great for me, Anita, and the two guys, but add a fifth person and someone had to sit on the dreaded hump in the minuscule back seat. Of course, hormonal teens enjoyed the forced closeness. Good times.
Look, it’s Gremmy.
My second car magically appeared one day in the summer between my junior and senior years of college, after too many Pinto issues. I had high hopes for an upgrade. Nope. 1974 AMC Gremlin. Black, black interior, aftermarket air conditioner. Just perfect for a summer commute in South Florida. Sarcasm there.
Speaking of heat and humidity, these Lark Sparrows are here to say today’s humidity was awful.
But the Gremlin got me through three years or more of grad school in Illinois until it got us (me and same boyfriend) home from Florida in a blizzard and never moved again. Thus ended my time with two of the three worst cars of the 70s.
By the way, my friend Lynn’s dad had a Vega, so I got to experience it as well. Those cars rusted through amazingly quickly near the ocean.
[car photos from Motor Trend in 2001]
Mission accomplished. I related the article to my life. It was nice to think back on fun teen memories. A dear friend from that time is very ill right now, and thinking of good times when we rode in our little cars is a balm to my heart.
Tarot card of the day was The Teacher again. I drew it just before an educational talk by my horse teacher.
I’m only answering this question because I didn’t have any great topics today. So I’ll tell you about my dreamy seventh-grade crush. There are no photos of him to share since I lost my yearbook. Here’s an approximation.
Also a teen crush of mine, though it turns out David Cassidy was nicer.
Kevin Murray was a year ahead of me in school but we were in Spanish class together. I thought he was both hilarious and incredibly cool, because he owned rock and roll albums. I didn’t have a record player that would play them yet.
He picked on me a lot, but it didn’t bother me because I was a new person in junior high and was one of the popular kids in the academic track. We all picked on each other and had nicknames for each other. Man, seventh grade was GREAT. We had young, hip teachers and spent a lot of time writing plays based on Star Trek and publishing the school newsletter on mimeo paper. Mmm, that smell.
Back to Kevin. I thought that long (for 1971) red hair, those green eyes, and the freckles made him look like a sexy leprechaun. Or something. Anyway, he showed me he liked me by randomly showing up on my street and pretending to steal my new, very cool, red-white-and-blue Murray Eliminator bike (same name as him, so obviously it was his).
This is the general idea, but wrong color.
I showed I liked him by riding my bike around his house in case he might come outside, and drooling over his parents’ incredible blue Citröen car.
I mean, that’s as cool as my bike, right?
We had a fun summer of innocent pre-teen flirtation. My dad found us very funny, pretending to be annoyed by each other. He kept telling me “that boy likes you.”
Then I was moved to South Florida despite my protests, and that was it. No email, no texting, no Facebook, so no contact. If letters were exchanged, I don’t recall. No, I do not need to find him. I’ll just treasure my dim memories.
I pined for Kevin until the summer after ninth grade when I met the boy I’d really swoon for. That’s another story.
Weird postscript: by the time my younger son, an actual Irish boy, was a toddler, I realized who he looked like. Eww.
My son as a toddler. Red hair, green eyes, freckles.
On the other hand, I now have an idea of what adult Kevin would have looked like, though I don’t think he grew to be 6’3”.
List three books that have had an impact on you. Why?
I have chosen three books (I actually discuss five, but one is a runner-up and two are related) that shaped me in that magical period when I was transitioning into an adult and my capacity for intellectual growth was at its peak. Each book was written when I was testing limits, making poor decisions I search of good decisions, and preparing to emerge a more rational and stable human. I’m grateful to have learned from these authors.
Metaphors We Live By
This book is by George Lakoff and Mark Johnson, two important scholars in pragmatics, the field I studied in graduate school. The thesis of the book is this:
The book suggests metaphor is a tool that enables people to use what they know about their direct physical and social experiences to understand more abstract things like work, time, mental activity and feelings. Wikipedia
My thinking about how society works, how media persuades audiences to, and how politicians manipulate the public have all been deeply affected by the ideas in this book.
My favorite example is the pervasiveness of the war metaphor. It’s one reason I can’t stand the phrase, “shoot me an email.” Business communication is just crawling with war terminology. Business is war. Politics is war. Love is a battlefield. This book was the impetus for me being me.
I recommend George Lakoff’s other works, as well. Once you start to see metaphors embedded in the language around you, you can’t forget it.
The Color Purple
I’m guessing most of you have been exposed to this work, originally a 1982 book by Alice Walker, in one form or another. I read it when it first came out, having read no reviews and knowing nothing about the author. This means my experience of The Color Purple wasn’t influenced by any preconceptions.
I was 24 when I read it. I’d never read an epistolary novel before, so I was charmed by the letter-writing format and how clearly the writer’s voice came through in each letter. I was also still fairly naive about how horrible humans can be to each other. The resilience and bravery the characters in the book affected me deeply.
The Color Purple told me that I, too, could survive and thrive in a world that threw many challenges at me. The characters have never left me and I’m not sure why.
I did love the film with Oprah Winfree in it. I just experienced it differently and got additional insights into the strength it takes to be your authentic self. I haven’t seen any other version and I’m okay with that. This is my favorite novel.
Runner Up: The Handmaid’s Tale, by Margaret Atwood (1985). I can’t bring myself to watch the television series. This book was too prescient.
The Woman’s Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets and The Skeptical Feminist
These are two books by Barbara G. Walker, also a prominent knitting writer of this time period. Both came out in the mid-1980s. These books introduced me to the idea of the maiden, mother, and crone archetypes.
The encyclopedia was my first introduction to feminist theology, and though it suffered from the same issues as many early neopagan writing (interpreting historical references and artifacts to support a mythical matriarchal past world, etc.), it still taught me enough to get me started on a lifetime of spiritual exploration. I can still remember sitting in my bedroom in Urbana, Illinois devouring this book when I should have been dissertating.
Bad image, sorry
The Skeptical Feminist may not be in print anymore, but it reassured me that my weird philosophical leanings since childhood weren’t signs of insanity—I just didn’t have the words and concepts to explain my vague yearnings to be one with nature. It also reassured me that I don’t have to “believe in” some deity to apply archetypes and metaphors (them again) as I forge my own beliefs. Whew.
I use this information today as I draw from the wisdom of Jesus without identifying as Christian and take comfort in Buddhist ideas without adhering strictly to any form. It’s so helpful in these times.
Fearful is not how I’d ever describe myself. I feel more like my horse, Apache, who is always vigilant against the unexpected and anxious when asked to do new things. We have a lot in common, he and I, which may explain why our progress is becoming a skilled horse/rider pair has been steady, but slow.
We are happy.
That leads me into one of the fears I’ve been working to overcome, which is the fear of cantering on this horse. I’d probably have been cantering long ago if I had a different equine partner, but Apache is the horse I was kindly given, so he’s who I’ve worked with. And cantering was never his best skill. His tendency to do a kick/buck maneuver whenever he set off to canter when he was younger is one reason my friend Sara gave him to me. She wanted to canter (as a good rider, she knew how) but his imbalance made it scary on him. Heck, he even kicked out to start cantering without a rider for the longest time.
Successful canter with Tarrin.
But years of exercise, bodywork, good medicine, and work on his feet led to much improvement. He now sets off very well and only on the wrong lead some of the time. After my trainer worked with him under saddle, he can now do a fine job, and that led me to overcome my fear of cantering on him. Plus I’m way better at staying on when he has a hiccup.
And if I fall I’m just closer to the rain lilies.
A key to overcoming that fear is a skill I’ve only managed to develop in the past few years, which is to push past my anxiety and DO the thing. Riding horses has helped a lot with developing that ability, one many folks are born with. I was born cautious, very cautious. It’s amazing I learned to ride a bicycle. On the other hand, I didn’t break any bones as a child, thanks to caution.
Even this precious dog didn’t break my bones when he pulled me down a steep hill. Precious.
You might not believe this one, but once I was quite afraid to do things by myself. I really didn’t like being alone (other than teen years of being in my bedroom listening to my records). I can remember how proud I was of myself when I walked out of my hotel in Toronto, and ate a meal by myself. It was a whole fish, prepared beautifully, and I had a good time. Working in Toronto for weeks at a time was good for me. I discovered I could ride a subway without a helpful friend, I could have a drink in a bar and enjoy talking to people, etc.
Free as a bird, I was.
Now I think nothing about eating alone, walking around a new town by myself, or going on long walks in nature. Of course, I’ve educated myself about safety in cities and nature, and I do prefer nature. I know how to spot the plants and animals to avoid. Learning about what you fear is a great way to overcome fears.
On another note, we almost have a screened porch!
I’m glad I can now take a deep breath and just DO a thing. It’s been very helpful in surviving life on a ranch property. I don’t realize how scary my everyday life can be to others until I get an urban visitor. I just know to check for snakes in the henhouse, watch my steps for fire ants, and avoid the poison ivy and nettle patches. I’ve educated myself so I’m not afraid!
I’ve read a few books lately. This was the first. I picked it up at the airport on my way to Hilton Head and finished it when I got home. Honestly, I’m not a huge fan of the British Royal family, nor do I dislike them, but I read so many conflicting reviews of this book by England’s Prince Harry, so I decided to read it.
Spare was a pretty interesting book, really. It showed how human and fallible Harry was, for sure, and how utterly strange the world the Royal Family exists in. I don’t know how anyone could survive in that setting without some big time PTSD and anxiety.
I mostly ended up feeling sad for these folks and blaming their blind adherence to outdated traditions for how things have ended up today.
Prince Harry came across as very honest about his own failings and his sincere desire to do something that mattered. Wow, that young man could use drugs with the best (or worst) of them. He really seemed to crave numbing and distraction. His love of flying helicopters and of ascetic African pilgrimages both seemed to be ways of keeping his brain occupied with something other than Princess Diana and all those Royal protocols.
The writing is surprisingly good and Harry’s voice is clear. I do hope that he’s able to keep helping others and gets some peace after being chased by paparazzi for so long. That has to be difficult even for people with strong boundaries and good mental health. For sensitive people like Harry, well, I can see how he got so messed up.
After reading this, I feel empathy, which I guess was the goal of the book. I’m aware, though, that there are other sides of this story. I wonder if any other aspects will clarify Harry’s story someday? At least he’s no longer needed as a “spare” anymore.
Yesterday I was feeling all sentimental, as well as in need of some different sites, so I took my walk by turning left instead of right from my driveway, to look at the part of the ranch we sold and the part that was my friend Sara’s ranch (visit her new projects on the Wild Type Ranch website).
I got a good view of our equines.
I enjoyed seeing all the late-spring wildflowers on the roadside and marveled at how fast river cane (Arundo donax) grows back after mowing.
I checked out the abandoned farm next to the Shuffield/Tyson place, which keeps falling down more and more, but that’s just fine, because now it’s host to many birds, and judging from the scat, either a bobcat or feral domestic cats.
Trees now surround the buildingsIt’s pretty land. It could be my poop, says OFC (Orange feral cat)
Eventually I turned and walked down the road connecting our two ranches and leading by my son’s cabin residence. Wow. There were some beautiful vistas of black-eyed Susans in the fancy pasture.
Bonus Lark SparrowSea of green and yellow
I got all nostalgic looking at where Aragorn and Spice used to live. There’s a great view looking down from there.
You can see for miles and miles
By the way, Spice must miss her old pasture, because she made a break for it when the gate was briefly opened. Luckily some beautiful oats distracted her, making it easy to take her back. She can’t help being so obedient. She’s well trained.
Sara’s fancy grass was better!
Next I enjoyed the huge tree next to the old chicken coop where I tried to care for all the chickens no one wanted anymore. Maybe my son can fix it up and use it.
I’ve spent a lot of time under that tree, and now my kid can.
The final stretch is where I admired the vistas looking west. There were always beautiful sunsets there, and you can see a long way, which you can’t from my house, due to the woods.
Ranch land. Future hay.
What I saw next gave me a laugh, the tank/pond where I went on my first ride on Apache outside of the round pen.
The tank
He followed Spice and Sara up to the berm that makes the pond, straight at a mesquite tree. Rather than get mauled, I bailed.
Ha ha ha!
That was my first unplanned dismount from that boy. Memories.
The tree is now just a snag.
Back at our pasture, I hung out with the chickens and horses and once again expressed gratitude that I have an opportunity to explore this area in Central Texas. It’s not much, but at least for now, some of it is still ours.
ClintConnieCindy and Clint Fiona Heading to the pensWhat a maneSpice is a tail swisherMabelMy horse partnerOne lumpy donkey
I’ve been called judgmental before, and that’s one of the labels that really stings. And, well, often labels that sting hurt because there’s some truth to them. I now cringe when I think of how my little in group talked about others in high school and college. What privileged elitists we were, or more likely, we wanted to be (remembering some of our non-elite backgrounds).
A fortnight lily Dietes bicolor – native to South Africa
Being judgmental does nothing but make me look bad, so I’ve spent a lot of years trying to un-learn that trait. I can say now that I deeply regret acting this way, and if anyone I was ever unkind to reads this, know I’m ashamed.
Squirrel would also be ashamed but he’s too busy eating.
Does that mean I’m little miss non-judgy now? I wish. Nope, I’m slightly-less-judgy old bat now. I know because I had an Easter lesson in humility today.
I am, by the way, back in Hilton Head, hoping all the horses are ok.
What’s that in the sky? ANOTHER blimp! I’m quite the blimp spotter! (Golf tournament was here)
Once I was settled in, talked to my stepsister, and ate a sandwich, I decided my back hurt from all that plane riding and sprinting from the end of Terminal A to the end of Terminal E in Charlotte. So, I went down to the hot tub.
There was a group of elderly people sitting nearby (definition: people older than me). Also as I arrived what appeared to be a distinguished older man with a much younger woman getting into the pool and acting all mushy and giggly. I thought the woman looked like a stereotypical trophy wife. I was feeling all superior and judgmental, floating around with my green hippie hair in a granny bun.
Gulls say I’m not superior.
I was so wrong. The couple came into the hot tub to warm up from the chilly pool. I found out they were there honoring her mother who had just died, who owned the condo membership. We had a lovely conversation, and talked about how weird families get after a death…blah blah.
Can I go hide with the pelicans?
As the woman (who turned out not to be significantly younger than her husband, just with good hair and makeup) left I heard her say how nice I’d been. That warmed my heart and at the same time drove home the old saying of not to judge a book by its cover.
I deserve to step on a jellyfish and get stung. Oh, wait, then I’d be cruel for hurting an innocent sea creature. Never mind.
I’m chastened. Geez! One reason I enjoy traveling is to get to know people who are different from me. I can’t do that if I’m putting them down in my head.
These volunteer pansies watched me silently, with judgy pansy faces.
Lesson learned, or at least reinforced. I hope to see these folks again this week, since they will be here.
Other highlights of the day were talking to a nice young man on the plane, getting the same friendly Gullah taxi driver I had last time, being remembered by two staff members, and getting a great book at the Austin airport. It’s called Eve and is a history of women’s bodies. It’s some of the best science writing for lay folks I’ve read in a while. The footnotes are funny sometimes but there are 100 pages of endnotes and references for the scholars.
The Hermits' Rest 