Today at Shangri-Laura

Perspective

Perspective kicks the tires on her

brand new Point of View

while Philosophy checks the oil.

 

Slamming the hood, he shakes his head,

“Hope you aren’t planning to go too far.”

 

“I never plan on it.  Sometimes it just turns out that way.”

 

He purses his lips, considering, as he yanks on the handle

of the driver’s side door,

thrusting his head inside to inspect the controls.

 

“Rear view mirror is cracked,” he gestures with a jab of his grease-stained finger.

 

“Standard feature.  Objects in the mirror are never as they appear.”

 

He grunts, amused.

 

He slides behind the wheel, scanning the instrument panel.

 

“Automatic Window Fogger?” He raises his eyebrows, peering at her from beneath the bill of his cap.

 

“That’s new with this model.  Replaces ‘cruise control’.  Pretty high tech.

Activates as soon as you lock on to a destination.”

 

He furrows his eyebrows.

 

“Sensors in the steering wheel,” she motions to the row of tiny metal beads imbedded in the leather.

 

His eyes sweep the panel…radio, temperature controls, speedometer.

 

“What kind o’ mileage you get?”

 

“Variable.  Here, check this out.”

 

She reaches in and presses an icon on the screen above her radio.

In moments, a read out appears.

 

“Ouch!  That’s not good.” 

 

She disappears around the back, popping the trunk.

Laughing, she returns, waving a small book in the air.

 

“Here’s the culprit,” tossing it to him.

 

He notes the title:

You Deserve It!  Twenty Sure-Fire Ways to Make the Universe Do Your Bidding!

 

“One little puppy like this in your trunk can cut your mileage in half.  Add a couple of those,” tipping her head toward the copy of “Make Them Give You All Their Money, NOW!” clutched in the hands of the Suit seated in the lobby, “and you may as well get out and start walking.”

 

Lifting himself out of the car, he rubs his head, taking a long breath.

 

“You heading out then?”

 

“Yep.  It’s high time, wouldn’t you say?”

 

“Wouldn’t like a map, I don’t imagine,” jutting his chin toward the rack next to the shop’s bay window.

 

Beyond, she sees the wild geese beating their way across the autumn sky.

 

“Got one,” she says, and smiles.

Somebody Owns Those Cows!

I live about seven miles as the crow flies, or actually, as the bike pedals, from Kenyon Brothers,  a small family-owned dairy that has survived here since the barns were built in 1895.  Anyone witnessing the suburban sprawl far west of Chicago knows their survival has been no small feat.

Many had been the time that I have stopped to watch these cows, especially on days when I need to shake off a little too much computer time.

I appreciate those cows.

I appreciate that, in the range of possible circumstances a dairy cow might end up in, the herd here has done pretty well, able to enjoy acres of rotating pasture, with shade trees, mud wallows and very little traffic to disturb them. My in-laws had a farm and my husband grew up milking by hand (as they could not afford to mechanize their farm). I have farmers on my side of the family as well.  Being around these cows, particularly after they emerge from the barn after their afternoon milking relaxes me.

It also makes me smile.

You might remember my friend, Christopher, of the blue jay story. Another "Christopherism" (I need a catchier name) comes from his retelling me the first time he had seen a cow.

He was very well into adulthood, working for the phone company, having left his deeply urban Chicago existence in search of a better life for himself when it happened. He was working in the Far West suburbs (he still does), fielding repair assignments further and further west, into a region that held several small farms.

"There I was, just driving down the road when I looked over and there was a COW in the field. A COW! I almost lost control of my vehicle. I had to pull over to the side of the road and just look at it. I could not believe my eyes. All I kept thinking to myself was, 'Somebody owns that cow."

I get to see Christopher next week. He just went to his first ever college commencement, for a graduating nephew. Hearing just the wee bit I did about his impressions of the college and the ceremony...how life changing and beautiful it looked through his one eye...I can't wait to hear the full story.

The world as seen by Christopher...it's a marvel and a joy.  Happens to be the same one you and I live in. Who knew?

Hopefully we will, more and more. I'm pretty sure seeing is contagious.

 

 

Both Ends of the Spectrum...

Between ducklings and toad babies and countless fledglings, this acre is teeming with life as spring heads into summer. 

But because this is a place that animals live, it is also a place that animals die. I think that is one of the things that I like the most about it.

Now, before you label me as some kind of a sicko, let me explain...I'm middle-aged. That means I've lost a few loved ones. It also means that I have seen a few things happen that remind me, in subtle and not so subtle ways, that it doesn't matter how young I feel in my mind; my body is getting older and will, one day, give out.

Now, I know some people don't like to think about that...about getting older, let alone dying. But for me, I find the way to cope with things that cause me anxiety is to befriend them. I'm one of the few 50-somethings out there who actually knows how much grey hair she has. Old age is not going to take me by surprise. I'm watching it approach head on.

And that is kind of my point.

I studied martial arts for many years and was taught to move in close to what scares you. It helps you keep your center of gravity. Helps you root yourself. Keeping to your center keeps you strong.

Does that mean you won't get hurt? Can't be killed?

Of course not. But your best chance of making it is to stay centered. Strong. Focused. And to work with the energy that is coming at you. Don't try to blast force with force (I'm small, I'd lose every time if I tried that.) Instead, go with the energy. Add your energy to the flow and learn to direct it.

I left the physical practice of martial arts long ago but the mental aspect has always been a part of me. It's the way I live...moving in close to what scares me. Learning how to keep my center in the middle of that which threatens to overpower and destroy me.

Death will come for me, sure, but I've gotten over my fear of being destroyed by it. My father used to say, "It's just nature. It's like a flower. We just fade and fall off."

And that is exactly how he went.

And that is what animals can teach us. Pets. Wildlife. Nature herself never ceases teaching us as long as we just agree to show up to class.

And so it is, partly because I think I was a seagull in a past life, that I have developed a habit of grabbing bits and pieces of things that other people might think of as garbage, but that I somehow find nourishing (in the spiritual sense). This deer jaw bone is one of them.

I've found plenty of skulls and bones and tails and wings in my yard over the years, but this jawbone came from the woods. I came upon a coyote feeding ground with deer fur and bones spread every which way.

Standing in the middle of what used to be a deer in the forest felt equal parts eerie and holy to me. Like death...but somehow more. Like a graveyard held within the body of a temple.

If I were a poet, I might be able to translate the atmosphere of it for you but I don't have the words for it.

But I do have the jaw to remind me.

 

For Those Who Are Missing Their Fathers on This Father's Day

I promised recently that I would share the story of why the oriole visits are so meaningful here but, first, I need to give you what might be an unexpected introduction.

As you may have seen here last week, my father passed away five years ago, so I count myself among those of you out there looking skyward when you wish your Dad a Happy Father's Day.

My Dad was a very interesting, unique, funny and surprising man but in my youth he was mostly the guy who left for work each day while the rest of us were still in bed and came home to fall asleep in front of the tv after dinner every night. Weekends were for his gardens, his camera and for playing excellent music while we were corralled into doing chores inside and out. He didn't quite know how to relate to kids (not uncommon for men of his generation), so we were never really that close when I was younger.

That doesn't mean he didn't have a huge influence on me but we didn't really talk about things or do a lot together when I was young and then I moved away and starting my own life.  In truth,  we were both pretty surprised when I became his caregiver at the end of his life. It was a role I was actually in before I realized I was in it; a role not without its trials and tribulations. And yet, it was also the most wonderful time in our relationship, with our developing a friendship that was far stronger than our father-daughter bond had ever been.

I miss him terribly.

He was also one of the funniest people I have ever met and his humor and crazy wisdom was entirely woven through his dying process. I used to laugh myself to sleep after jotting down "Frankisms" on a notepad I began to keep next to the bed when I stayed at his house (my childhood home). I didn't know at the time they would inspire me to write a book.

The book is quite far along and then I put it aside for a while (I'll bet many memoirs and tributes share that kind of course). But I'm ready to get back to it, and I'll be sharing much of it (maybe all, who knows) with you here as I go. What I'll share today is a video of a public reading I did of two excerpts a while back.

The first clip is entitled "Just Skin and Bones" and captures one of the last times I saw my father. I had a photo in a gallery show at Water Street Studios in Batavia which you will hear referenced in the opening reading. Here is the photo, taken of my father's legs just three weeks before his death.

And, no. I never imagined I would show that photo to anyone, let alone see it hung in a gallery show.

The second excerpt will tell you all about the summer the orioles first arrived. The story doesn't end there with the orioles, as you can see from other entries at this blog, but there return...that is a story for another day... 

Waterline Writers April 21, 2013 - Laura Young from Waterline Writers on Vimeo.

Meanwhile, in My Astilbe Garden...

An elf is negotiating a friendly wager with a rabbit...

In honor of the Blackhawks winning of the Stanley Cup again this year, I have to introduce you to my father.

I'll never forget the 2010 Stanley Cup win. Scott and I watched it at my father's house on his floor to ceiling projection television. Not being a hockey fan, my father chose to watch his own favorite programs (CSI mostly) from the comfort of his waterbed. He had been ill for sometime (a story which requires a book...one that I will be sharing chapter of with you here), so his spending time in bed while we were visiting was not unusual.

This night was different though. It was also the last time I saw my father alive.

The elf above is named Frankie, after my father, Frank, and is resting atop some of his ashes. How Frankie came into our lives is a story for another day, but for now, you just need to know that he looks a lot like my father did toward the end.

And while I miss my father very much, Frankie always makes me smile. Let's take a closer look...

Yes, you do see coins in his bowl. Pinocle money. 

He never taught me how to play pinocle but we did play Rummy 500. I can still hear him as he deftly shuffled the cards, "Penny a point. I take all major credit cards."  

No matter how ill my father was, or how breathtakingly emaciated, he never failed to play cards with me at the end of the day on my visits to take care of him, and his house and dogs. And astonishingly, he remained absolutely sharp as a tack to the very end, no matter the weight loss, dehydration and failing physical strength.

I'm looking forward to telling you his story. But for now, it's enough to just enjoy this garden scene together.  And as for the rabbit?

I named him Daliege, after my father's childhood friend. My Dad and Don (Daliege) grew up together starting in first grade and stayed friends their entire lives. After my Dad retired, they spent many a Friday playing pinocle at Dad's house until Don developed dementia and was no longer able to travel to Dad's house. We lost Don a couple years after my father.

Before he became unable to use the phone, he would call my father's number sometimes and leave messages, having forgotten that Dad had passed. I waited until I knew the calls would no longer come before I contacted the phone company and let the number go.

In Praise of Weather. Any Kind Will Do.

I know a lot of people are probably bummin' over the rain again today (and holy moly, the mosquitos) but even in this flat light, rainy morning that is probably ruining someone's Friday off, I'm happy.

For many years of my life (most of my 30's), I worked in a basement office, about 8 x 10 (maybe), in what had once been a storage area for the hospital. It had no windows and horrific ventilation (acknowledged as such by the maintenance folks since humans were never meant to work in that area). For years I had chronic sore throats that went away every weekend when I was away from the building. We had high 'billable hour' requirments and half-hour lunches (when we didn't have meetings scheduled over them). That meant eating took place in the same area.

As a result, in the winters, I could literally go without seeing any sun for days at a time, arriving in dark morning and leaving after sunset. Being so far in the bowels of the building, I could never hear thunder, or rain, or know if it was snowing or if the breeze was just beautiful on a spring day.

I literally had no idea what the weather was for years of my fulltime working life.

Of course, even there I had to count myself lucky. My husband's office had previously been an x-ray room.

Not only was it smaller than mine but it was also encased in lead.

But You Don't Seem to Understand. That Bird is...BLUE!

One of my favorite people came into my life disguised as an everyday telephone repair man. His name is Christopher but for those who understand a bit about how our lives are so often replays of myths and legends, we can call him Tiresias, after the blind prophet of Apollo.

Why? Well, because it turns out, the phone problem I was having magically fixed itself but that didn't stop this character from teaching me all kinds of things, and setting off a bizarre string of synchronicities just like you would expect a mythical being to do.

Oh, yeah, and he only has one eye. (There is always a clue like that, believe me.)

In this version of Tiresias, our hero was born as a black male in Chicago, into very difficult circumstances. That eye was lost to a gun shot and was arguably the best thing that ever happened to him because it was while he was lying there, in a pool of his own blood at age 16, that he decided to turn his life around. Let's just say he doesn't take a whole lot in his life for granted.

Christopher has been to this acre I call home many times since then, but one visit stands out in my mind above the rest.

It was the day he saw his first blue jay, somewhere around his 50th year on the planet.

"You have a BLUE bird in your yard!" Christopher looked at me as though I could not possibly know that because if I did, I would not be standing there acting like this was just another day.

"I was walking around your yard first. I always walk around your yard before I come to the door because I just have to see what is here and that is when I saw it."

"Oh, was it a blue jay? We have a few around here."

And that was when he uttered the words that will stay with me forever.

Shaking his head, and brushing off my easy naming of the bird he took a deep breath and said,

"You don't seem to understand what I am saying, Laura. That bird is BLUE. When is that last time you've really looked at that?"

Ever since that day, Christopher. Ever since that day.