Okay, am I the only one who occasionally wakes up with a feeling that something isn’t right, but you don’t know what it is? That’s me today. I woke up with some kind of dread in the pit of my stomach, like something had gone wrong, somewhere, with someone I care about. My innards are just fine. I just have vague worries and concerns that I can’t pinpoint. Oy.
But, WHY do I have a bad feeling?
I asked a bunch of people if they were all right, then I got to worrying that it was my step-mother, so I ordered her Christmas flowers. Interesting path to guilthood there! Who knows, maybe I should call (except that phoning is this introvert’s biggest nightmare).
There’s no reason to feel this way, at least no conscious reason. I got good news today at work, got some things done, and supported a friend. Nothing bad there! But still, there the feeling is. Sitting on my psyche and squishing it.
The bright side: I checked in on people! People like that. If something’s going on with YOU, let me know. Until them I will keep randomly messaging people to be sure they’re okay.
Today Sara and I had time to go play with the horses today. The weather was ideal, though a bit breezy. The horses were waiting for us, which felt good.
Our warm-ups were fine. I see a lot of progress in Apache and me.
Kissing equines.
But once we went off riding, everyone went goofy. Fiona was hilarious, actually. She scooted around, kicked up her little heels, bucked an generally made mayhem. She tried to get the horses to chase her.
Spice was also jumpy as heck, requiring a lot of work by Sara. She threw her head and wanted to canter and run nervously. So, Sara kept her going until she cantered calmly. By then she was all sweated up.
Meanwhile, Mr. Perfect, Apache, was also hepped up for some reason. He wanted to run hither and yon, screech to a halt and eat grass, and go in whatever direction I didn’t want to go. That was annoying, but I knew I needed to not mirror his emotions and get upset.
Our ass shows us her ass.
Suddenly we were back to normal! We had a really nice walk around the fence line, then visited with the neighbors at the cabin. Everyone was well behaved. Fiona was especially good.
I started breathing more slowly and talking to him. I got him going in figure 8s and he settled. When we went into the other pasture I concentrated on aiming at objects and relaxing. It worked.
I have been too busy getting things DONE to get any of my writing tasks done. No complaints there! I have things to write about in all my work blogs now.
One Old House
Yesterday was a lot of fun and messy as hell. Anita had a home inspection scheduled at the cute little house she’s buying from us in Cameron. We took that opportunity to clean up what was left in the house, which has been waiting for TLC for four years.
You can barely see them, but we put decorations in front of the Nash house.
So , we moved lots of bags of things the family of the first owner didn’t want. We removed furniture that wasn’t fixable. We cleaned mildew off furniture we want to keep.
The clean stuff we are keeping and a cleaner living room floor.
My most odious task was sweeping up the baking soda the folks who sold us the house had put down to deal with the odors. Whew. That was dusty.
Fact about Suna: I’m what they call a “well socialized introvert.” That means my system functions as an introvert, with all that need for alone time and recharging, but people perceive me as an extrovert. In fact, I’ve been laughed at many times when I reveal what I score on personality tests. Hmph.
Right now, as you are no doubt aware, it’s party season. Like many of us, I’ve been invited to a party or two or three. Most are work-related or volunteer things, but even I have a few purely social events I can make it to with my weird schedule (I am invited to many things on weekends in Austin that I can’t get to; the ranch life does require some sacrifices.)
Maria is the queen of selfies, as you’d expect from the youngest book club member. She knows technology!
The collection of glass trees in the windows looks beautiful when the sun shines through it.
So, I went to parties two nights in a row this week. They were good parties, full of laughter and fun. Our book club ladies had a great time talking without the bother of discussing a book (ha ha). We had a lot of adventures trying to open wine bottles with less-than-ideal openers, and also spent a great deal of time admiring our neighbor’s beautiful collections of trees. She’s my tree decor role model!
And last night was the annual Master Naturalist party/December chapter meeting. That one was harder, because there were a lot of people there I didn’t know, which makes me vacillate between not wanting to talk to strangers and feeling like I really should mingle and be friendly.
Caveat time: I am aware that classism is a fact all over the world. Today I focus on small towns and use Cameron as a specific example. This doesn’t mean I think less of its citizens. It’s a great place full of many kind, caring friends and with much warmth.
Yesterday I talked about how my father came up from poverty thanks to hard work and talent. Yet, you couldn’t take the Chattanooga out of the boy; he had a rather intense (and sometimes incomprehensible) accent, and his broken nose and funny ear testified to his past as a boxer. He didn’t always look middle class.
The moon was lovely last night. I’m grateful for its calming energy. All pictures in this post are designed to make me remember good things in my life.
But, he was allowed out of the shackles of his past by kind friends, coworkers and others who saw his kind heart, great humor, and intelligence. He was lucky. He also moved away from his hometown where the Kendall boys had quite a reputation for mischief, from that I hear.
What If You Aren’t So Lucky?
While I’m noticing many newcomers to down, Cameron is a place where many of the families have been there long, long time. There are surnames in this town that I see in the newspapers from the early 1900s (by the way, this includes Mexican names whose families were here before this was the United States and long-time black residents). Some families have done well, and are the scions of the community, populating all the right churches, the right organizations, the country club, etc. Others are respected business owners known for their charity and work for the community. Many are successful ranchers and farmers who live outside of town behind gates proclaiming their ranch names and fencing that costs more than many homes.
Ah, trees shining in the winter sun. I love going for walks on brisk meteorological winter days.
The children of these families are beloved by their school teachers, who come from the elite families or are their friends. These children dress well, participate in the important clubs, win dozens of 4-H ribbons, are in the prom court, play on the football team, are cheerleaders, etc. Nice kids. They also enjoy some leniency at school, since everyone knows they are good kids from good families. Sound familiar? Sound like where you came from? Sure! This is the norm in the US, especially in small towns.
What about the others? Some of the surnames in town have different reputations. They are assumed (because of how their parents, grandparents, or distant relatives were troublemakers, lived in the “bad” part of town (literally on the wrong side of the tracks in Cameron), or had other nefarious connections) to be the kind of folks you don’t want to associate with. These kids may not have parents who can afford all the activities. They are the ones who get picked on because they smell funny, live in an ugly house, have parents with drug or alcohol problems (or their relatives do). They go to the churches who dare to accept everyone, no matter what their family history. This, too, is not surprising.
This got long, so it’s going to be a two-parter. Here, I explain why classism offends me so much.
I think I’ve dealt with as much classism in my life as racism. Both of those practices get me all riled up. It has occurred to me (this morning!) that classism in the US, especially in small towns, is incredibly insidious – because it’s harder to see. The signs of who is in what class are often subtle. However, it’s easy to feel.
Child me, with Mom in her characteristic cigarette wielding pose in the background. Sarasota, Florida.
As a wee lass, I lived on a quiet street in a working-class neighborhood in a north-Florida college town. My dad had come up from extreme poverty in north Georgia/Chattanoga and was in his first job that would let him afford to buy a little concrete-block house on two lots (which he turned into a botanical garden, but that’s another story). My mother was from a family with deep roots in the area that had always aspired to be “classy,” I guess. They came from merchants, musicians, journalists, etc. They had maids who raised their kids,just like in The Help. She HATED that her surveyor father had made her live in Dixie County, Florida as a child, around all that “trash.” No wonder her parents didn’t like her marrying my dad; it took her down a notch in class. (Mom had many great qualities; I’m just not focusing on those right now.)
Trash, the People Kind
I heard a lot about “white trash” as a kid in the Deep South, as much as I heard pejorative terms for black people. (I normally don’t use those terms.) Apparently, thanks to Mom’s side of the family, we were not “trash.” Our neighborhood consisted of people who were not all that well off, but of some other, slightly higher, class. Well, except the Purvis family, whose women all had babies at 15, whose men wore overalls and sleeveless t-shirts, and who never took their Christmas tree lights down so that the tree grew around it (it may be noted that I liked them, played with their daughter, and loved their kumquat tree). The classes didn’t have formal names, but apparently everyone knew what they were.
Oh, lulz, that was a joke, there. I’m not going to tell you how to perform rites, either, but I just wanted to remind you all that your Facebook posts, texts, emails, and blog comments are a safe space for you to express yourself however you want to. I’m not going to correct your grammar or spelling, even if you accidentally hit a pet peeve (grammer, for example).
I actually heard last week that someone was hesitant to comment on the blog, because they were afraid I’d say something about their spelling or punctuation. Nope, unless a typo is hilarious (the classic public/pubic one comes to mind), I am going to assume that in informal writing has not been proofread extensively.
If you print it and want to sell it, proofread it. Photo: @cbm0809 via Twenty20
You see, it’s true that I spent a zillion years in the distant past studying linguistics and editing. It’s true I make my living writing and editing things. And yes, I’m pretty well versed at American English grammar and punctuation. But, I don’t expect you to be an expert. I don’t even expect ME to be when I’m texting.
One thing a that study made clear to me is that writing for different purposes has different standards. Yes, if I am writing for publication or sending a formal letter, I will do my best to eliminate grammar errors, spelling mistakes, or typos. However, in Facebook posts, I do not expect residents of Cameron, Texas to realize that “wondering” is not something dogs who roam around neighborhood are doing. That’s just how they say it and spell it. Sort of like the garage sell. It’s an interesting way their spoken dialect affects spelling. I find it interesting.
It CAN make a big difference, though! Image: @cindyhodesigns via Twenty20
And that’s the thing. I’m more likely to have an enjoyable time figuring what led to a typo or nonstandard grammatical phrase than to judge the writer or feel the desire to “correct” them. I feel rather guilty, in fact, that I corrected a meme someone posted that repeatedly used “your” for “you’re.” For some reason, this older person expects memes you publish to be grammatical, at least when they are not using slang I don’t understand or the interesting text terms lots of younger people use. Whoops.
So yeah (which is not the word for “yay”), I am not interested in being labeled a “Grammar N-word.” I save that for work and judging my own writing goofs, not yours. Just don’t ask me to review your novel or proofread a document without me pointing things out. In that case, you asked!
I hit an unexpected milestone today. WordPress congratulated me for posting my 500th post on this blog. I feel like I just started it! However, it’s been 21 months. That’s an average of 24 posts a month. Verbose? Maybe…some of the posts are mostly photos. A few. Okay. Wordy is me.
Why, thanks, WordPress.
But, I do like to write. And I love nature and personal growth, which seem to be my favorite topics. I know we have more posts on the Hermit Haus Redevelopment blog, but I don’t write all those; I just edit many of them.
Yes! I was verbose! Type, type, type.
I made it a goal to share something every day, because writing gives me joy, and the dog can’t jump on it and ruin it, like my poor knitting.
Your encouragement means a lot.
So, thank you all for reading, commenting, and sharing. I learn so much from you all.
Here’s something fun and positive! Last week, the building where I work put up their lobby decorations. They are really nice and subtle this year, with logs and sticks as prominent elements. One decoration caught my eye:
These sturdy twigs with a few glass ornaments on them are lovely and simple.
No matter how hard we tried, we could NOT get the giant stocking left over from many years ago to attach to the backhoe.
They brought back memories of my mother’s favorite decoration back when we lived in south Florida, where people placed a small dead tree painted white in front of their picture window. From it, they hung lovely satin balls on ribbon, with a spotlight on the whole thing. It was so pretty.
When I got home to the Hermits’ Rest, I focused on outdoor things. Kathleen and I re-used many decorations yesterday to brighten up the ranch. As we did that, I assessed our tree situation. The bare-branched “nature tree” we keep up all year around finally quit lighting up, so it really can’t be a Christmas tree this year. It lasted many years, since we first started building the house, so I can’t be too upset with it.
After reading the Happier Now book, I’ve been carefully observing what brings happiness into my life. What has also become clear for the past week or so is how easy it is to have your happiness squished. Now, intellectually, I’ve known this a long time. Haven’t you read somewhere that it takes some large number of compliments to override one put-down?
No one can take away my happiness of observing a tiny bird on a fence.
For me, one of those “highly sensitive persons,” some of the unkind things that were said to me stuck for decades. I thought of myself as “fatso” even when I was of an average size. And as an adult, there have been a few things people said to me that I couldn’t shake. I let their perceptions of me affect my self esteem.
Aww, a little nest.
These days, I’m doing better, and that’s great. Yay me. Still, you can’t avoid negativity and negative people in life. Some of them you’re related to or have to work with, you know. And, as we have been talking about this morning, as we sip our coffee, there are some folks who just don’t like to see someone else happy or doing well, so they try to pull them down to their level (apparently this is common in all the families of origin in my household).
But, what has shocked me, and what I’ve decided I need to figure out how to handle better, is how easily my happiness can get squished by people around me. I’m sharing some personal examples next, not to criticize others, but to talk about how we might interact more successfully.
The Hermits' Rest 