tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68105299203033947832024-03-18T18:02:34.431-07:00Beats Talking to MyselfA forum for one old woman to speak her mind and share her writing.beatstalkingtomyselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10406078596273695832noreply@blogger.comBlogger530125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6810529920303394783.post-76876927297534595582024-03-18T18:01:00.000-07:002024-03-18T18:01:57.726-07:00From the ARCHIVES: 2004 (before FaceTime)<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2O7ptP8ZoyRD4Uond0mfm-CfNa9n75PBZcvyJZYtVYow2CXxrVvbmV9YFn0YPWLGrIj_l7bYg-qhog3-QXvXkD_vML433xP6MFPKESciVrSlIM8kR9LmdGgvpilxMrZSj_lzPB4_tRnabNVWFwtwoPSviNh7Xj7yuBM2C6o_uDLJmBiNWmjGbopa1Wvw/s433/P3130067.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="433" data-original-width="281" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2O7ptP8ZoyRD4Uond0mfm-CfNa9n75PBZcvyJZYtVYow2CXxrVvbmV9YFn0YPWLGrIj_l7bYg-qhog3-QXvXkD_vML433xP6MFPKESciVrSlIM8kR9LmdGgvpilxMrZSj_lzPB4_tRnabNVWFwtwoPSviNh7Xj7yuBM2C6o_uDLJmBiNWmjGbopa1Wvw/w130-h200/P3130067.JPG" width="130" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">At
last I have what I’ve been coveting—a long distance relationship. My love, an
almost three-year-old named Katie, lives in </span><st1:place style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;" w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Minneapolis</st1:city></st1:place><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">, and I am 1,700 miles away. Today
on the telephone she asked, “Grandma, when are you coming over to </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">my </i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">house.”</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">And I, hard-pressed in March to put my
anticipated June visit into a timeframe she could understand, felt my heart leap
with gladness. While I don’t wish even a smidgen of sadness in her life, I was
thrilled to know she was pining for me. Oh, the joy of reciprocated love!</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">I
have had just a handful of visits with Katie, many of them short. I compensate,
as most grandparents do, by surrounding myself with pictures, so she prances
across my computer screen at home, and grins from my tack-board at work. From
the comments my cubicle-visitors make, her dimpled, contagious smile is a good
antidote to taking our corporate business too seriously.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">Challenged
to build a relationship over the miles, I’ve done all the standard “grandma
things.” I even made her a picture-book for her first birthday depicting our
daily lives in </span><st1:place style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;" w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Seattle</st1:city></st1:place><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">.
(My favorite is the posed shot of her grandpa taking out the garbage.)</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">But how does a grandmother bond with her
grandchild when the grandma’s squeezy hugs and cushiony lap are so far away?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">When
Katie was just two, we had our shortest visit ever—just hours long—on the
occasion of her baby sister’s christening. We spent much of our visit chasing
each other in the reception area of the luncheon place. First Katie tried to
catch me as I pretended to run as fast as my big, thick-wasted grandma-body
could. Then I pretended to try catching her while she ran as fast as her
little, diapered, toddler-body could. I don’t know who was more tired when we
were done, but we both had a wonderful time.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">A
week later when her father took her out to a neighborhood restaurant for
breakfast, an older woman with short gray hair similar to mine walked past
their table. “Grandma, come back here!” she called out, and when the woman
didn’t respond she called out again with urgency. Her father tried to explain
that the woman wasn’t Grandma, but Katie wasn’t convinced. I thought my heart
would break when I heard that, but oddly, within the same week a small boy in a
supermarket cart called out to me, “Grammy,” as I passed him. His mother
embarrassedly shushed him. “Does his grandma look a little bit like me?” I
asked.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">His mother nodded. I surmised
that he probably didn’t see his grandma very often, either.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">Only
recently has Katie wanted to come to the phone when I call her parents. We have
brief but deeply satisfying conversations in which we continue a game we’ve
developed over several visits. I put on my silly voice and say “Egg, egg, egg,”
just like the finger-puppet bunny says when it’s on my finger, and she laughs.
It’s as cause-and-effect predictable as the moon and the tide. Grandma says
“Egg, egg, egg,” and Katie laughs. I have to take what’s mine.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">During
my January visit this year I noticed how much she enjoyed the occasional cookie
that her parents allow her, so I shipped homemade Valentine’s cookies to </span><st1:place style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;" w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Minneapolis</st1:city></st1:place><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">. Because I was
worried that the postal trip would turn heart-shapes into crumb-shapes, I
folded each cookie in its own waxed-paper wrap. A few days after the cookies
were all eaten, Katie opened a kitchen drawer, took out the roll of waxed paper
and laid it on the kitchen table. When her parents asked her what she was
doing, she told them she put it there “because Grandma </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">needs</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> waxed
paper.“</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">That
anecdote probably makes me the only person in Seattle who gets teary-eyed at
the sight of a roll of waxed paper. But we have made such progress! Tonight,
after a round of “Egg, egg, egg,” on the telephone, when Katie asked me when I
was coming to her house, I realized we’d reached a new level of our
relationship.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">Dear little girl, I’ll be
there as soon as I can, and I can hardly wait.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">Copyright ©
2024 Sara J. Glerum</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></p>beatstalkingtomyselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10406078596273695832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6810529920303394783.post-52120168756692627322024-02-27T12:19:00.000-08:002024-02-27T12:19:02.474-08:00Once again, how looking up can lift us up<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr7SKoERUjMa5brwQ9L4qKZXB2weeP7_fOo8tGBJbd8jyqrFm3AtYs-OLdfz2MGrNaYi_ruobV26wQPyQDObPNMk9aU8k4t5CdBjfY45DoZlZDVqgj21L7c02PyljOpQBTrAsGINm26MTJhZ1dGTWi6dYMbGatsFZvtA_lde1uQHVQl7k3Tx8pyi2KA1U/s4032/IMG_4833.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr7SKoERUjMa5brwQ9L4qKZXB2weeP7_fOo8tGBJbd8jyqrFm3AtYs-OLdfz2MGrNaYi_ruobV26wQPyQDObPNMk9aU8k4t5CdBjfY45DoZlZDVqgj21L7c02PyljOpQBTrAsGINm26MTJhZ1dGTWi6dYMbGatsFZvtA_lde1uQHVQl7k3Tx8pyi2KA1U/s320/IMG_4833.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>It had been a gray morning--sky wrapped in in its typical for Seattle gray-toned, February shroud. After six or seven errands in North Seattle, I was finally ready to head back home. On a whim, I stopped at my favorite Seattle iconic fast-food hamburger joint, Dick's Drive-in, to get one of my favorite foods, the strawberry milkshake (made with REAL milk and ice cream). After all, it <i>was</i> lunchtime.<div><br /></div><div>As I sat in the car, sucking the deliciously thick drink through a biodegradable straw, I realized the sky now was partly sunny with a lot of blue sky appearing. The huge pine tree that was growing on the other side of the fence where I was parked loomed with such gorgeous contrast, I was compelled to take this photo.</div><div><br /></div><div>An ordinary day made special by sitting still and looking up. Sometimes it takes a strawberry milkshake, or something comparable, to slow us down and realize beauty so often overlooked.<p></p></div>beatstalkingtomyselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10406078596273695832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6810529920303394783.post-70462606471304950912024-02-20T20:20:00.000-08:002024-02-24T10:03:45.571-08:00PARTY TIME! Archives from fifty-plus years ago<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvF4f_fsRWBHXf8QtAk5UrLLZ-BILlAiMJuw-U7Af5lIRu0VBhyphenhyphenVLk8kviESrhY_h0WpMd5Duijv2ezG4bC8cZUddVPDlU-u6JZqAROXSNfvUsM7lwDvsDnLEK3CliaC3NzRCNLLDMlg59CjJy9GiFTFLGLtmakggnGhqjg8_xRmeOswfSzFMnBpdK0Zk/s4032/IMG_4829.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvF4f_fsRWBHXf8QtAk5UrLLZ-BILlAiMJuw-U7Af5lIRu0VBhyphenhyphenVLk8kviESrhY_h0WpMd5Duijv2ezG4bC8cZUddVPDlU-u6JZqAROXSNfvUsM7lwDvsDnLEK3CliaC3NzRCNLLDMlg59CjJy9GiFTFLGLtmakggnGhqjg8_xRmeOswfSzFMnBpdK0Zk/w300-h400/IMG_4829.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>My sister saved a lot of correspondence from me over the years, and returned a bundle last year while downsizing from her home to a retirement community. I've just began to look through the folded papers, and this one took me back to a memorable event: Jay's surprise birthday party in August of 1968.<div><br /></div><div>Before I explain the circumstances, I must apologize to myself (and my readers) for some of the fifty-year-old insensitivities expressed in this invitation. I am appalled to realize how unaware I was (as was the era) of outdated and demeaning language, inappropriate assumptions, and careless use of words that would be far more carefully appropriated nowadays! In a sense, the invitation is a time capsule encompassing more than just one person's life and memory.</div><div><br /></div><div> . . . and now to the story . . . <br /><p></p><p>Jay was not happy as his twenty-ninth birthday approached. He told me he was feeling old--as if his life were not materializing the way he'd hoped it would. I could have taken it personally, but instead decided to cheer him up with a surprise party. I created invitations with my typewriter and carbon paper, then wrote what I hoped would look like a form that a doctor might complete when writing a prescription. Knowing this, you'll find the photo of the invite self explanatory.</p><p>The reason for the late start-time was bedtime. I wanted all four (ages 4-1/2 , 3, 2, and 3-mo.) to be sound asleep by the time the doorbell rang. Once asleep, all of them were generally good for the night, even the 3-month-old. It was a good bet; they slept through most of the party, and the several who did wake up got to meet and see the costumed "visiting doctors."</p><p>Our guests rose to the occasion, as well. We had a wide variety of medicine-related practitioners show up, including Dr. Scholl (my sister had created a way to wear a plastic foot on her head with a nametag), ranch veterinaries (a couple dressed like cowboys), butchers (another couple armed with cleavers and blood-stained aprons) who claimed to be able to cut out anything bad. We had a guy friend who came in drag as a nurse, and a female friend who came as herself when she got off her nursing shift from a nearby hospital, Sigmund Freud complete with notebook and pen, Dr. Quack (dressed like Donald Duck) and lots of others imaginative healthcare characters. Several friends showed up as themselves, but fortunately, they were not the first to arrive. The man who rang the doorbell as the first 'surprise' guest was an esteemed ex-professor who had retired and was costumed in such a way that Jay, answering the door, thought the man had truly lost his sensibility and was exhibiting signs of dementia.</p><p>Was Jay surprised? Totally. He had never had a surprise party thrown in his honor before. He had not expected anything, either. (I'd hidden away food at a neighbor's house, as well as having several friends bring food/drink/cups/plates, etc. with them, so there was nothing in our home to give away the party-planning.) Did it help Jay feel better about turning 29? Yes, I think it did. There's nothing like the affirmation of friends to realize that being one day older isn't anything to worry about.</p></div>beatstalkingtomyselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10406078596273695832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6810529920303394783.post-1438824442353584922024-01-18T12:27:00.000-08:002024-01-21T10:16:00.156-08:00Hope and Love for Tig as Transformation Begins<p>At ten o'clock this morning, I stood outside in a heavy rainfall, contemplating what was simultaneously happening across town at Recompose.life. There the bodily remains of my firstborn, Tig, were beginning their transformation to human compost, the oldest and most earth friendly method of body disposal.<br /></p><p>This morning at 10:00 Pacific Time, Tig's brothers and I took a few minutes to honor the beginning of the process that takes an average of two months. We were together emotionally, not physically, present as each of us honored Tig from afar with a few minutes of contemplative silence. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3AB-_M4KT5JW30tqM9KIoqSZEfPOXWPDPSpiIcROllsWDNLcHU__ijbmY9xQsEKXKla_q_SjK630PNbIjJSlhKnps8VuBP96I0bpwN31SMbDwFEXhu8Zh37u1gJwAGEiIEub5NLYSCWJuhx1hQfntAobQIhcrxP9lGrl-yasjTRFkLlbKSONhzvczvkc/s130/04%2010%20Andrea.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="98" data-original-width="130" height="98" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3AB-_M4KT5JW30tqM9KIoqSZEfPOXWPDPSpiIcROllsWDNLcHU__ijbmY9xQsEKXKla_q_SjK630PNbIjJSlhKnps8VuBP96I0bpwN31SMbDwFEXhu8Zh37u1gJwAGEiIEub5NLYSCWJuhx1hQfntAobQIhcrxP9lGrl-yasjTRFkLlbKSONhzvczvkc/s1600/04%2010%20Andrea.jpg" width="130" /></a></div><p></p><p>Tig's wishes were explicit regarding what they wanted after death. They extracted a promise from me to choose composting for them instead of cremation. As willing as I was to make the promise and commit to fulfilling their last wishes in this regard, I had no idea how I would feel when the time came. Now I can say that, in addition to being eye-opening, it is an oddly comforting process, too. Realizing that Tig will be replenishing soil in southwestern Washington to nurture the rebirth of forestland is an oddly satisfying reality. It doesn't seem final or finite when there's a plan in place for physical rejuvenation of life forms.</p><p>After a few minutes of silence, I chose to play the original orchestration of Pachelbel's Canon in D from my phone to my blue-tooth hearing aids. I stood in the rain with the magnificent music flooding in, looking at the greenery within proximity and imagining this sixty-year-old person, my firstborn, becoming soil to nourish new life and help it flourish.</p><p>My blog post from <a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6810529920303394783/4868909955459363049" target="_blank">December 8, 2010</a> (which can be accessed by clicking over the link) explains why I chose that particular piece of music. Canon in D still triggers all the hopes and dreams of motherhood held in that moment of first hearing it in 1979, as well as the intervening forty-five years.</p><p>May you rest in peace, dear Tig, aka Andrea Grace Glerum. I will always love you.</p><p><br /></p>beatstalkingtomyselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10406078596273695832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6810529920303394783.post-28935022654589695072024-01-02T16:13:00.000-08:002024-01-02T16:15:27.499-08:00My dear firstborn<p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq7Y_kB0nPAovmdeQUdvxifZWjhnBaNQGxRMBaiBDqRhx0DN9N1gG24oGYe8yy_DVa667XDgEZxfMZcQhcxSEuvVwqBvgrYMZ0RO3is5ACqUli7djkxN8qIQYoJXOnlu_oaIB0HWQlz83kMwg3sdO3fE0cLxvBfOS23YQZm56HW_L8-uQHb9i7xL84b9s/s1280/09.12portrait.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq7Y_kB0nPAovmdeQUdvxifZWjhnBaNQGxRMBaiBDqRhx0DN9N1gG24oGYe8yy_DVa667XDgEZxfMZcQhcxSEuvVwqBvgrYMZ0RO3is5ACqUli7djkxN8qIQYoJXOnlu_oaIB0HWQlz83kMwg3sdO3fE0cLxvBfOS23YQZm56HW_L8-uQHb9i7xL84b9s/s320/09.12portrait.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Andrea G. ("Tig") Glerum <br />October 18, 1963 - December 25, 2023</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">With heavy heart I am sharing our sad family news: my firstborn offspring, Andrea (aka Tig), died on Christmas Day at home in Everett, Washington. I invite my friends and readers to click on the following link to learn more. </span><a href="https://everloved.com/life-of/andrea-glerum/" style="font-size: large;" target="_blank">Tig's Obituary</a><span style="font-size: medium;"> at Ever Loved.com. </span></p><p></p>beatstalkingtomyselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10406078596273695832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6810529920303394783.post-2529487101532371882023-12-22T17:53:00.000-08:002023-12-22T17:53:20.967-08:00A rainy reflection<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl-qzKcg3kzmTqSgyTeTXkUWFocRxFuWjPE6zQMfYXs0OgSU-Vqqbz6SHjnchaUP3pFUJoKhtp3gkh7wDjjZFl8CYgByltm1FkUfwO5vlU2-QqiSBv1v0byOW-qi69il6PiBTESSr-G6_bC6WJP0ZhP7UxnktD6hMLsP7XHDxPZ2XPDBPX6TK55WGskwk/s4032/IMG_4140.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl-qzKcg3kzmTqSgyTeTXkUWFocRxFuWjPE6zQMfYXs0OgSU-Vqqbz6SHjnchaUP3pFUJoKhtp3gkh7wDjjZFl8CYgByltm1FkUfwO5vlU2-QqiSBv1v0byOW-qi69il6PiBTESSr-G6_bC6WJP0ZhP7UxnktD6hMLsP7XHDxPZ2XPDBPX6TK55WGskwk/w150-h200/IMG_4140.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>For me, the word reflection conjures up perception of a quiet time. A peaceful mindset and intentional desire to understand meanings and feelings resulting from a personal experience. Sometimes I reflect on a book I've just read, or a poem. Sometimes it's what I see or hear from my window, and sometimes I reflect on why I'm feeling am angry, sad, or lonely. <p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyvTYZM0Fgadii3wZkitdngRsxeQiWGOcSF7vWh9WB6R99dltNOth5qcnrpFT8RHY1ZEVwHLbWJaCyhAnCeNgZ8HGLTDqG5ek1bPk4nsWnig3MQx3T6kcI_y0osiopIN6SIAtJwiHKOl16RFNgoTyH-qP0sAwZJl9XorATilNiT1zrjBtgsmpEEGMBgvw/s4032/IMG_4146.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyvTYZM0Fgadii3wZkitdngRsxeQiWGOcSF7vWh9WB6R99dltNOth5qcnrpFT8RHY1ZEVwHLbWJaCyhAnCeNgZ8HGLTDqG5ek1bPk4nsWnig3MQx3T6kcI_y0osiopIN6SIAtJwiHKOl16RFNgoTyH-qP0sAwZJl9XorATilNiT1zrjBtgsmpEEGMBgvw/w150-h200/IMG_4146.jpg" width="150" /></a>Today as I walked the city sidewalk near my home, I came across a puddle leftover from rain that had fallen steadily all morning. <br /><br /> The sky was blue-ing up and the outdoor light felt bright and hopeful. As I approached the low spot in the sidewalk, I was struct by the physical reflection of the tree directly overhead. It was stunning. I'm not sure I had ever even noticed the trees on this particular block. As trees go, they express the stress of urban living as it dares anything natural to thrive. In looking down (to avoid stumbling on the uneven sidewalk), I saw something above me, and that realization made me consider a new dimension of personal reflection. This pooling on the ground of liquid that fell from the sky and the glasslike mirroring it provided on this temporary basis was an invitation to look up. And that is exactly what I try for with intentional interior reflection. Thank you, rain, for this wonderfully direct reminder.<br /></p>beatstalkingtomyselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10406078596273695832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6810529920303394783.post-12649368591466512372023-12-19T11:05:00.000-08:002023-12-19T19:23:49.593-08:00An old woman writes to Santa<p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi6JRspsshDWe1h_Al-Tz-tzUVGIhm6PTWdT-RXhLyfrLzEiRxb045TG2JF2GT3BHoAGCkjRTxLUdDyfE6A0pocEuRoBkkTDJju22-EQ0FjR3gzg_zfjUf3rudN-aDvai--BjdJzwx5WeJiadk-j8EpSOnA-bYHv31h-bAbSY-rTkXKFmfTgMYaUStyoM0" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="185" data-original-width="315" height="118" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi6JRspsshDWe1h_Al-Tz-tzUVGIhm6PTWdT-RXhLyfrLzEiRxb045TG2JF2GT3BHoAGCkjRTxLUdDyfE6A0pocEuRoBkkTDJju22-EQ0FjR3gzg_zfjUf3rudN-aDvai--BjdJzwx5WeJiadk-j8EpSOnA-bYHv31h-bAbSY-rTkXKFmfTgMYaUStyoM0=w200-h118" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Dear Santa,</span><p></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I can't recall the last time I wrote you a serious letter. Maybe third grade? I feel compelled to write this
year because of my own experience of aging. Even though I’m quite a bit younger
than you, I’m equally white-haired with a roly-poly circle of fat that’s
quickly catching up to yours. For the purposes of this letter, I’m considering myself
your peer.</span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">As our bodies age,
the filters wear out—you know, the ones that keep our negative feelings to
ourselves or the rude comments shuttered. So . . . I’m just going to blurt it
out—Santa, it might be time to step aside and let another have your esteemed
job. You’ve been in the spotlight for several centuries of delighted
anticipation and excitement. How about letting someone else have a chance at it
now? Not only would the younger generation be ecstatic to have a say in North
Pole Management, but as we age, self-care is increasingly seen a big factor in
health.</span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Most likely you’re
noticing that your memory isn’t as good as it used to be, not to mention your
balance. What if you overlooked one of the children in a family? Stumbled or
fell as you climbed into the sleigh? What if you missed a town during your
deliveries, or couldn’t find your way to a specific house? What if you faltered
over your famous words? “Merry Christmas and to all and uh . .. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">uh . . . a good day . . . to all!</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">What if you called out “On Commet, On Cupid, On
Dandruff and Vixen!” An anecdote like that would stun the world.</span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I can only imagine
the challenges your eyesight must encounter on all those Christmas Eves with snowstorms,
darkness, wind, and rain. Thank goodness you have Rudolph, or you would have
undoubtedly given up driving years ago. I can’t imagine the stamina that it
takes from you, year after year, to do your kind of global trotting. You have
millions of devotees who would love to see you retired and getting well-earned
‘me-time.’</span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Believe it or not,
I’m much more tolerant of old people, now that I’m in a retirement community. Old,
frail bodies house more wisdom and insight than the young ones you regularly connect
with, Santa. Plus we have delightful senses of humor and endless stories. You’d
have activities to enjoy, and I’m guessing Mrs. Claus would be so-o-o-o happy
not to have to cook and clean-up every night. You’d have time for legacy
writing, too—and oh, how we would love the stories you could write. We’d devour
them, then share with our children, our grandchildren, and generations to come.</span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Of course, you’re
free to continue doing your job, but stepping aside would mean you could
nurture the next-generation Santa to carry on with your heritage, as well as
making millions of families happily overjoyed that you’re safe. I’d love it if
you moved into my community, and I’ll bet I’d get a bonus if you did. </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: red; font-size: 20pt; line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Merry Christmas </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">to you
and Mrs. Claus, and thanks for such wonderful memories.</span></p>beatstalkingtomyselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10406078596273695832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6810529920303394783.post-34308027726000204282023-11-26T17:14:00.000-08:002023-11-26T19:38:22.235-08:00Look up, look out . . . great advice<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXshdVkUJ3wY0UyZ4EGsKY9IJVAM0TQ-Zu8PbVQNUQMoTUNqZMXPMF045xZKIAHxcy6YKG3lHRICyqyu44kr5YUMVqWqPFAOo85QZn-ApONF3pKcT7eI0RUDzXSV16oDcc-1BITN8PTiHCJLtUihQlUt5M6BVVsRCvpckCi5iNiYI0eNeg1O0gqO7v6t4/s4032/IMG_0521.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXshdVkUJ3wY0UyZ4EGsKY9IJVAM0TQ-Zu8PbVQNUQMoTUNqZMXPMF045xZKIAHxcy6YKG3lHRICyqyu44kr5YUMVqWqPFAOo85QZn-ApONF3pKcT7eI0RUDzXSV16oDcc-1BITN8PTiHCJLtUihQlUt5M6BVVsRCvpckCi5iNiYI0eNeg1O0gqO7v6t4/w200-h150/IMG_0521.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>We can get so focused on what's going wrong in our lives, it can be hard to look away or step back. I don't know where I first heard this admonishment when I was feeling down, but it has served me well: <b><i>Look up, look o</i></b><i><b>ut.</b></i> Very few troubles don't fade back into the right perspective if I can get out of my own head for a short time. Looking up as I take a deep breath almost always helps me. Yet it can take emotional energy to do so when I want only to wallow in my own interior issue.<p></p><p>One of the best things about the location of my retirement community is that it's a high-rise, and I have an apartment on the tenth floor of the twenty-four-story building. My vista overlooks comparatively low buildings, allowing me to see a huge expanse of sky. Long story short . . . it has never been easier to look up and out. After sixteen months of living here, I still cannot believe how lucky I am to see this much sky from every room in my apartment. Even though the location of my former home was very near the Sammamish River, I didn't see much sky because of the trees along the riverbank. Yes, it was a gorgeous outlook, but I had to walk outside and step away from the building to see the sky. NOTHING like what I see now.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSZBeHO0voOZXyQTf21ShNz-HlfEGbuIuMF6F4mmOGu80LTCF4FQGLMG5gaIvkSOBb-ijXWgNSdQPARAX8G5clbWkLL6QKNarp3nICnrlfU2LKkaVShpwJhDMWgOE-jmhhpQvqA9Bf8slbgdDPhSmhSkLrh2uD8F1Bgp8uQYGPH4rXTokh5aJpf-TwlmM/s4032/IMG_9843.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSZBeHO0voOZXyQTf21ShNz-HlfEGbuIuMF6F4mmOGu80LTCF4FQGLMG5gaIvkSOBb-ijXWgNSdQPARAX8G5clbWkLL6QKNarp3nICnrlfU2LKkaVShpwJhDMWgOE-jmhhpQvqA9Bf8slbgdDPhSmhSkLrh2uD8F1Bgp8uQYGPH4rXTokh5aJpf-TwlmM/w200-h148/IMG_9843.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p></p><p>No, I don't see stars anymore and I miss them. City lights are too bright. But when it's dark outside, I can see the moon and the brighter planets (Jupiter and Venus) from my easy chair, at least when their trajectories are aligned with my outlook, and there are no clouds. I also can see airplanes on a flight path that's frequently directly overhead. During the day I frequently seeing crows and seagulls flying on the same level I'm standing while gazing out my windows. But the best view is just the enormous expanse of sky, especially at dawn. </p><p>With the recent change to standard time, sunrise has become the highlight of own entry to each day. I'm still groggy from a my nightlong sleep when I round the corner to my combo living room/kitchen to be greeted by beginnings of morning light. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc7_82CNtZ4cOdDKbli-ZM-Ud8GRHW_X04PJmQzc03NlDZnI1-yMm9iGZQyKfK7os-r8lLPvIb2V-vlbIx3epirlexYbxFdlorNxRdj-MjnpmUEBN9_vGastlfRps7R5XGMIjJL98zlI9CGi8fUUxKSbyriTC3FsBOXWk6zV_usJ3C9nJkY7rdclxh8LE/s4032/IMG_3489.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc7_82CNtZ4cOdDKbli-ZM-Ud8GRHW_X04PJmQzc03NlDZnI1-yMm9iGZQyKfK7os-r8lLPvIb2V-vlbIx3epirlexYbxFdlorNxRdj-MjnpmUEBN9_vGastlfRps7R5XGMIjJL98zlI9CGi8fUUxKSbyriTC3FsBOXWk6zV_usJ3C9nJkY7rdclxh8LE/w150-h200/IMG_3489.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>How can a person be in a bad mood when the day starts this way? Yes, I look up and out every day in my apartment and feel fortunate to have the opportunity.<p></p><p>I have dozens of sky pictures, many taken during other parts of the day, too. I've just picked three sunrise shots to share. I sit at the table in the morning by the window and just stare as long as I want into the changing light. Even on heavily clouded days there are often color stripes that leak into the clouds through the rain. No wonder we imagine heaven being above us when we look up at such beauty.</p><br /><p></p>beatstalkingtomyselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10406078596273695832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6810529920303394783.post-45353203867782969362023-11-19T16:24:00.000-08:002023-11-19T16:24:44.662-08:00Time to watch ice melt? Not lately<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_tFAsqqWOqacCvj0DmMgWa8hDmkVajx09XtQDd7V9i__CjW3XFp9u6MO0-reaO4LpbzgePJRHhcGfZWaxe7eJmz0guf4WrbYxWiiJFp5Djd9f4O1DnZsLh5SJd9bJhp5EDXy6tLm5MEE/s1600/Ice+and+eggs+1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_tFAsqqWOqacCvj0DmMgWa8hDmkVajx09XtQDd7V9i__CjW3XFp9u6MO0-reaO4LpbzgePJRHhcGfZWaxe7eJmz0guf4WrbYxWiiJFp5Djd9f4O1DnZsLh5SJd9bJhp5EDXy6tLm5MEE/w240-h320/Ice+and+eggs+1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Today I was looking over the statistics on my blog to see if anyone is reading it. I can't tell <i>who</i> reads it, but I can see <i>how</i> <i>many</i> read a particular post on a given day or month and cumulatively how many pairs of eyes have seen it over its published lifetime. I'm impressed when I see the total number of published posts: 523 (since late 2009) and 397,830 overall views. That sounds more impressive than it is because judging from the world map of where viewers live, a great many are in countries that would have NO interest whatsoever in this drivel. However, based on some of the advertising comments that I routinely remove, my blog is interesting to readers for a lot of "wrong reasons," some of which--no doubt--could even be evil.</div><div style="text-align: left;">In the process of cleaning up stuff today, I found a few posts that never left their 'draft stage,' just hiding away waiting to be released by me for my readers. I'm deleting most of them, but I decided to share this one. If nothing else, it reminds us of the little things in life, and speaks to how I spent my time during Covid-shutdown. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I am so grateful I can again go to the theatre and music performances, museums and shops. Thinking about having time to watch bubbles rise from hard-boiled eggs as ice melts is almost incomprehensible now. But it is also a lesson in the wonder that awaits us if we really look at what's around us</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I always chill my hard boiled eggs as soon as I take them off the burner. I am under the impression they will be easier to peel if they cool fast. Someone told me that years ago--maybe in high school. And I've always believed it.</div><div style="text-align: left;">
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To prove it's true would mean a scientific approach. I would have to cool half the batch slowly and other half with ice, then label the two batches, and pay attention when I finally turn them into deviled eggs (as these are destined to become), but that would be too much trouble for this old woman. I always just trust that advice and have a bowl of ice ready to dump into the pan as soon as I pour off the boiling water.</div>
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Today after I dumped ice into the pan, I noticed how pretty the ice was as it was melting. It was almost sparkling, so out came my cellphone and I shot pictures. An idle day, apparently, to have time for such silliness. But it's fun to look down and see the hard boiled eggs beneath the ice. I actually recorded several videos to bring into this post, too, but the videos refuse to be shared. I loved seeing the little bubbles of air escaping the eggs as the icy water cools them. It became a meditative experience--calming, actually--gazing at the patterns of bubbles. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>
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beatstalkingtomyselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10406078596273695832noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6810529920303394783.post-26429273761863669892023-10-31T23:05:00.000-07:002023-10-31T23:05:12.590-07:00PIN-UP GRIL(L) -- Halloween 2022<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisd3pJenmdiXGXHB3yM93TimGmoZNzIqUv2WZDyIL6A0qisxWu6TowCFv5vf-rRWsT0LJEy96NHYxN6bFDvt3Fa3gAQBvXkXlS4ogWY27JpnuhBwxadJsRdk548I3ZKXg2Ct0kC55vHyZmZk9LBy92WQqO2EgzrQtPG7MMVUnJgMVSWaEokyUmgKiq8j4/s4032/IMG_0243.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisd3pJenmdiXGXHB3yM93TimGmoZNzIqUv2WZDyIL6A0qisxWu6TowCFv5vf-rRWsT0LJEy96NHYxN6bFDvt3Fa3gAQBvXkXlS4ogWY27JpnuhBwxadJsRdk548I3ZKXg2Ct0kC55vHyZmZk9LBy92WQqO2EgzrQtPG7MMVUnJgMVSWaEokyUmgKiq8j4/w200-h150/IMG_0243.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I had lived in my retirement community just three months when 2022 Halloween rolled into focus. HALLOWEEN NIGHT PARTY! announced our activities director. Live music, dancing, refreshments! Costumes welcome! One of the community's mid-October optional activities was making masks, so I attended the class and created a half-mask out of paper mache. The process took two-weeks: one to form the mask from paper and paste: the second to paint/decorate it for the party. Only a couple of people were painting their masks at the same time I painted mine, so no one paid attention to what anyone else was doing, each of us focusing on our own creation. I still had no idea of whether or not I'd attend the party and no plan on a costume, but the activity was fun.</div><p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPAzVp8X2CNI8x3Qqt1AByY7HoZf0utDBCNmR-5hbYuJLMV721LirpUGWcAMa5ldh4-PU8squXLwPleQiFsESnMsQ7JSDu1O00ZZPs2GLZeyAbCX1964tPzcN0Z0gj_iiRNavUECyH-wnakFMcoyAcnTniKc222iEKq8Ti2LUeWPudVrLScx2kM8dS5GE/s4032/IMG_0235.jpg" style="clear: right; display: inline; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPAzVp8X2CNI8x3Qqt1AByY7HoZf0utDBCNmR-5hbYuJLMV721LirpUGWcAMa5ldh4-PU8squXLwPleQiFsESnMsQ7JSDu1O00ZZPs2GLZeyAbCX1964tPzcN0Z0gj_iiRNavUECyH-wnakFMcoyAcnTniKc222iEKq8Ti2LUeWPudVrLScx2kM8dS5GE/w150-h200/IMG_0235.jpg" width="150" /></a>As it happened, several days before Halloween I opened one of many plastic containers not glanced at/in since moving to discover my collection of at least a hundred advertising/marketing pins I'd collected over the years. You know the kind, you get them at a fair, your kids' sporting event, a small shop trying to spread the word about itself, etc.. Many of the pins came with memories, and some were just something I wore for a couple of hours--then tossed them into the 'pins box.' I wondered why on earth I had ever moved them into my downsized apartment (except for a handful, including one with a granddaughter's picture). </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzKjjqXBGzZDuXygYGglGBWgUnc1hWzXis6XZSRIaYgn19ek7bOD7a1OWQehKEWBv0FcGuu8LMjHrRLI9JEM-yT8JXkEQHCRswOCR4e-TvBVKvZWI_l1JEvpi7oQkiOxkcyzARbxtfwG8Rf8IyZDexYzJboIrg-8W8Nz_KuWTPsTntE5FupsmvhgbtulM/s4032/IMG_0209%20(1).jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzKjjqXBGzZDuXygYGglGBWgUnc1hWzXis6XZSRIaYgn19ek7bOD7a1OWQehKEWBv0FcGuu8LMjHrRLI9JEM-yT8JXkEQHCRswOCR4e-TvBVKvZWI_l1JEvpi7oQkiOxkcyzARbxtfwG8Rf8IyZDexYzJboIrg-8W8Nz_KuWTPsTntE5FupsmvhgbtulM/w240-h320/IMG_0209%20(1).jpg" width="240" /></a>I decided to throw out most of them just as an idea came to me. I would create a Halloween costume with them, which is exactly what I did--and I could wear the mask, besides. Happily, a silly play on a misspelled word came to me, which fueled the imagination.</p><p>Now, a year later, the 2022 photos of my costume popped up uninvited on my iPhone, and I found myself remembering what fun it was to go to my community's party--despite the need to be masked for COVID-19. No one at the party recognized me for one entire hour! I refrained from speaking and without my voice and my body I was invisible behind both the Covid mask and the Halloween mask, plus the clothing that included hair covering. In just three months, not a lot of residents knew me, anyway, so it was the perfect storm. Meet Sallie Glerum, the Pin-up Gril(l). It's a 'forever' highlight for me, Halloween or not.</p>beatstalkingtomyselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10406078596273695832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6810529920303394783.post-21282914942579458762023-10-28T13:46:00.003-07:002023-10-30T19:27:42.786-07:00NEIGHBORHOOD TREES<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1tfeWPrwr7mqNCYmqhsK0V127FAI0zWpj1S145uv0kghApbtg4nZSFyu2nyZkdmAwqGSFfVVKAzA1W78GEkBtkYGqlay78hjM_xmjEzZdu87kBUV9_zPEaE0EP5Vd2XP-vkL99HRim8NtE2GUaQ5qlx8RT7odgZ5fiEiUjxGhNV_waCEskjfufqGLY_g/s4032/IMG_3686.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1tfeWPrwr7mqNCYmqhsK0V127FAI0zWpj1S145uv0kghApbtg4nZSFyu2nyZkdmAwqGSFfVVKAzA1W78GEkBtkYGqlay78hjM_xmjEzZdu87kBUV9_zPEaE0EP5Vd2XP-vkL99HRim8NtE2GUaQ5qlx8RT7odgZ5fiEiUjxGhNV_waCEskjfufqGLY_g/w150-h200/IMG_3686.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>There are many interesting trees in my current neighborhood--not always the majestic beauties so prevalent in my former more countrified suburb--but trees that are old, crooked, stressed, and apparently insistent on survival. Every one of them looks as though it has endured a lot, and still it keeps going. Maybe that's why I have been noticing them. <div><br /></div><div>As a person who's out of warranty, I feel like some of those trees look. Not my best look, but, dang it, I'll keep pushing through whatever I'm getting handed by luck, age, genetics, and eight decades of choosing less-than-healthy options. The result may not be pretty, but I'm still here!</div><div><br /></div><div>I have taken a lot of photos of the trees near me, but the blog-software I use (Blogger) has become much more challenging regarding picture placement, so wrapping/tucking photos throughout written narrative is not an easy task. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBrPxUm0sRepPmACuGsqQfGeeo8iW2jk_gg0FQGSYbLc-kBMpoCGT7vHReD5nsZjOGwFsvHfmYy-4dBl-wyU6wYh7CawaEnS755seAvOnjfi8cCQ-qSdO_pTNIaR3BJ-H4LQqHQOC1oTiosN_rPJDY2Sx2QL3pWBmWKVf2036J-uPfWSImZI8IwuASB2E/s2016/IMG_3676.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBrPxUm0sRepPmACuGsqQfGeeo8iW2jk_gg0FQGSYbLc-kBMpoCGT7vHReD5nsZjOGwFsvHfmYy-4dBl-wyU6wYh7CawaEnS755seAvOnjfi8cCQ-qSdO_pTNIaR3BJ-H4LQqHQOC1oTiosN_rPJDY2Sx2QL3pWBmWKVf2036J-uPfWSImZI8IwuASB2E/w150-h200/IMG_3676.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><div><br /></div>In fact, last evening I spent more than one hour trying to manipulate where I wanted the photos to appear in my Scarecrows post and finally just gave up. Some of the best scarecrows (photos thereof) do not appear for that reason. But back to trees. Not only do they serve as consumers of carbon monoxide--our human pulmonary exhaust--they also enhance our landscape to create beauty and interest. Would that all of us could be both beautiful and useful.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd924TPlHPcn2wWikiKJYci20A8nUD-UHTDwb5FaLMHhB5EEuxhl9lqQJ5EPjOEF1_Y2CRLq2NwGAPQASRrrydUx2rCyn90RV6OvRFu3DbiWgkrAvXcv0XgBd95Q0LEnoHud_ZEjVNOMTODDb0dzLNzzTEWa1z9kYj-CmCcBJv8Yrm2JFh1RC5oEfeATc/s2624/IMG_3673.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1979" data-original-width="2624" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd924TPlHPcn2wWikiKJYci20A8nUD-UHTDwb5FaLMHhB5EEuxhl9lqQJ5EPjOEF1_Y2CRLq2NwGAPQASRrrydUx2rCyn90RV6OvRFu3DbiWgkrAvXcv0XgBd95Q0LEnoHud_ZEjVNOMTODDb0dzLNzzTEWa1z9kYj-CmCcBJv8Yrm2JFh1RC5oEfeATc/w200-h151/IMG_3673.jpg" width="200" /></a>To close this silly observation, I am going to include one tree painting I did during an in-house art class offered by my retirement community. We were painting with acrylics (which I find challenging), using photographs of trees as inspiration and model. I was hating what was happening on my 'canvas' (as if it had nothing to do with me), when I decided to dress up the tree with imaginary color and movement. The result is this silly little painting to end my tree remarks. Perhaps for Halloween I will put on all my colorful costume jewelry and call myself 'fantasy-tree-inspired elder.' </div><div><div><p></p></div></div>beatstalkingtomyselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10406078596273695832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6810529920303394783.post-54090147456444113932023-10-26T21:12:00.001-07:002023-10-26T21:12:43.403-07:00SCARECROWS<p style="text-align: left;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjG2-5fYxqIaOLDLwPfyMur9GTHcnvxsh4BUnqEj88DxJ7P0fDlq74wblkHDPJX4W5wXF1ibsfcfAJrq_wWX9bDTUTi_8KwKuCw1Hg1TyHz4ejekxfgtTqHzuD-M_TGLXKhrTRv69fYEPPv0WFrwjNtBuL3bryIhDiWfE2F0j_pHc51YdscvsXGyr_boE/s4032/IMG_3592.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjG2-5fYxqIaOLDLwPfyMur9GTHcnvxsh4BUnqEj88DxJ7P0fDlq74wblkHDPJX4W5wXF1ibsfcfAJrq_wWX9bDTUTi_8KwKuCw1Hg1TyHz4ejekxfgtTqHzuD-M_TGLXKhrTRv69fYEPPv0WFrwjNtBuL3bryIhDiWfE2F0j_pHc51YdscvsXGyr_boE/w150-h200/IMG_3592.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>There are at least six life-sized scarecrows in the vegetable garden that belongs to St. James Cathedral. It has been a delight to walk by the garden over the seasons to see that wide variety of produce growing in a fertile section of an otherwise asphalt block of the city. Volunteers tend the garden, and harvest its produce to use in the cathedral's food program that feeds many unhoused people each weekday. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU_x9p_edvC4yhGB1t4JG9KRCra-yFtp6YK5P71FAdh1PMljigCOeaXr2LqQZfvzzl3s8MNh08_g1uTA52nlf62xdfBqVoZ8SDtngOvMKkp0l-30q3N0DJyoK9VWLc9l7ygBAjiEPZQSeMUNATMb1RaT8s5ZgfgGKEeSV2GqW0oR6V7DTT_kSpxZXDC4w/s4032/IMG_3591.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU_x9p_edvC4yhGB1t4JG9KRCra-yFtp6YK5P71FAdh1PMljigCOeaXr2LqQZfvzzl3s8MNh08_g1uTA52nlf62xdfBqVoZ8SDtngOvMKkp0l-30q3N0DJyoK9VWLc9l7ygBAjiEPZQSeMUNATMb1RaT8s5ZgfgGKEeSV2GqW0oR6V7DTT_kSpxZXDC4w/w103-h136/IMG_3591.jpg" width="103" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>I don't know who made the scarecrows, but it is such fun to see them stuffed with straw with wide smiles grinning from their pillow-case heads. It makes me proud of our human race, willing to labor throughout the year planting, tending, and harvesting food solely for the benefit of others. The garden provides much pleasure in every season to pedestrians, as well as drivers (and passengers) of cars and buses hastily passing by the busy intersection of Madison and Cherry in the First Hill neighborhood of Seattle. I'd like to think it also provides inspiration for all.</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLvOi1Da_Nw_VHWxxikhmCBSOmtd6uaN18YFMXcXcCP8HHzFwB0De97MNHXPR2pl_adjcrAiDuhI4VgrPFwVfHYsIu9491UagTzjnkcW2a8_ws4veaX6uNZND_qJGR7dx9Addg5sh6ArIZVI216zXMCEH3buzEr0PAfgSGP3oNUaD6BO7GgrdL-k1eIvs/s4032/IMG_3648%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div></div><p></p>beatstalkingtomyselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10406078596273695832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6810529920303394783.post-62603081529939667962023-09-25T21:39:00.001-07:002023-09-25T21:39:19.305-07:00WIDOW'S LAMENT<p>I recently revisited a draft of a poem I began in 2015, just a year into my widowhood. Quite often setting something aside to revisit in a few months has the effect of clarifying the work to its originator. I call it 'aging the words like wine.' Widow's Lament almost wrote itself upon reading its beginnings eight years earlier </p><p><span style="font-size: 20pt;">WIDOW’S
LAMENT</span></p><div class="WordSection1">
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><o:p> </o:p>FRIDAY </b></p></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I’m not going to pick up the mail
today<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I’m not going to open the shades <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I’m not going to give the
neighbors a glimpse<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Of my life as I live it today.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I hate the way they peer out their
windows </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I hate the odd little questions.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">How is it, my dear? Are you doing OK?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Let me know if there’s something to
help with.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I hate looking out my window to
see</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Couples driving off in their cars <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Friday night’s promise of lovely
exchanges<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">While I sit watching TV.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I’m not going to pick up my mail
today</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I’m not going to open the shades<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It’s none of their business what I
do with my life<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Now that my husband is gone.<o:p></o:p></p>
<br />
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>SATURDAY </b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I’ll brush my teeth<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I’ll fix my hair<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I’ll make the bed<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">And start some wash<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Solitary confinement</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Others have plans <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Too busy to phone <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I’ll walk</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I’ll write <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I’ll think <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I’ll buy eggs <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I’ll listen to music <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I’ll fade of loneliness<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Not Monday, a fun day</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Not Tuesday, a muse-day<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Not Wednesday, a friends day<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Not Thursday, a hers day<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Not Friday, a sigh day<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It’s Saturday, a no matter day.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span> <span> </span><span> </span> Copyright</span> © 2023 by Sara J. Glerum <br /></p>
beatstalkingtomyselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10406078596273695832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6810529920303394783.post-23755024636975103992023-09-17T17:37:00.001-07:002023-09-17T17:37:08.215-07:00The Best Way to Shed Worry<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmfsf9zIrGHukV-NJFDh78CJhUAx9qiBUVjbjoqSxByMGgz1GzoofrICtzrkkF4blpVSfQ0vzsolYo0nGveuGhI7VKSeR0RtESNsmq6c-svV91e07GE9m1aPkfWF1OFx3eqSYwPxo7JYedvRTgkO2Gb_JfwShSC76JqD0C_w1DL-2mL7dBMQCPDU3B_tY/s4032/IMG_2770.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmfsf9zIrGHukV-NJFDh78CJhUAx9qiBUVjbjoqSxByMGgz1GzoofrICtzrkkF4blpVSfQ0vzsolYo0nGveuGhI7VKSeR0RtESNsmq6c-svV91e07GE9m1aPkfWF1OFx3eqSYwPxo7JYedvRTgkO2Gb_JfwShSC76JqD0C_w1DL-2mL7dBMQCPDU3B_tY/w200-h150/IMG_2770.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>One delightful feature in most senior communities is the easy access to a variety of activities. Without needing to leave the building, residents can participate in various leisure-time opportunities. In my community, there's everything from exercise sessions to lectures, movies to games, discussions and interest groups all under the same roof. <div><div><br /></div>My favorite is art. A talented artist, Everett, who works fulltime in our food and beverage division, leads afternoon art sessions twice a month on his day off. Anywhere from four to ten people participate, and the art studio gets really quiet for sixty-to-ninety minutes as we concentrate on what we're doing under his guidance. We chat very little as we draw or paint--which, oddly, is one thing that makes it so fun. It is relaxing to be concentrating on the matter <i><b>in </b></i>hand--a brush or stick of charcoal.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo0UCnvM-ic-Q-PaJOYKTQ77thAdYWrqJHNoKeSMT3kxUlsytVvhDiX63mFyt0p4I4kHO39SbldRI4oRnbxJoUmNLl26u__55EIz3EJO_I7c7jk9uewHGgsww3XHfhNP_PDvGai_PA4w4jGRabY0lVIiaMdlHVGJjYV1u9eSl2U1Vj7w-axvNASfRiIpY/s4032/IMG_2771%20(1).jpg" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo0UCnvM-ic-Q-PaJOYKTQ77thAdYWrqJHNoKeSMT3kxUlsytVvhDiX63mFyt0p4I4kHO39SbldRI4oRnbxJoUmNLl26u__55EIz3EJO_I7c7jk9uewHGgsww3XHfhNP_PDvGai_PA4w4jGRabY0lVIiaMdlHVGJjYV1u9eSl2U1Vj7w-axvNASfRiIpY/w150-h200/IMG_2771%20(1).jpg" width="150" /></a>A few months ago, Everett introduced acrylics to us. For those of us new to the medium, the transition was challenging. The photos here show just one project in which we got to choose whatever photo we liked from a stack of colored landscapes and replicate the subject and color values with only the three primary colors plus black and white. What a challenge it was.</div><div><br /></div><div>Whenever I take part in 60-90 minutes of this kind of dabbling under Everett's encouraging eye, I love the end result: <i><b>how I feel</b></i>. I wash my hands and walk back to my apartment, noticeably refreshed and even walking with a lighter step. I am unable to think about <i>anything</i> <i>else </i>while painting, and when the medium itself is new, it's like a vacation from all the thoughts typically whirling in my head. I rarely keep the result (i.e. painting/drawing) of the art session, but I keep its residual effect for the rest of the day. The project keeps me fully engaged, and I love it. </div><div><p></p></div>beatstalkingtomyselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10406078596273695832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6810529920303394783.post-18020890650205826802023-08-22T14:15:00.005-07:002023-08-25T21:01:34.278-07:00Tribute to a Life Influencer<p style="text-indent: 0px;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I WROTE WHAT FOLLOWS IN NOVEMBER 2006. I had reason to think about it recently, but when I searched <i>Beats Talking to Myse</i>lf realized I'd written it soon after John Gilbert's obituary appeared, three entire years before I had the blog. I found my essay using the search function on my computer and am publishing it now--nearly seventeen years later. But the man doesn't deserve <i>ever</i> to be forgotten, so better late than never.</span></p><p style="text-indent: 48px;"> + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + </p><p style="text-indent: 0px;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO1n_lA7hHi-tlRKTGRvME_LjNiSSxo2IJhX1i3EyohtN5jQOuNunxMaX38PDHx8qb5bDneXOId6M6fKqGi7yC_wf18DIan4fEBr3W_JAbZ_ue9ETgoOqko5rhdCT0ycmzC1jfM9hCNlltGTscQr29B-QEqFihOiKRhQul5o3238viYEnCl3WTpv3r14w/s201/John%20Gilbert.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="201" data-original-width="150" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO1n_lA7hHi-tlRKTGRvME_LjNiSSxo2IJhX1i3EyohtN5jQOuNunxMaX38PDHx8qb5bDneXOId6M6fKqGi7yC_wf18DIan4fEBr3W_JAbZ_ue9ETgoOqko5rhdCT0ycmzC1jfM9hCNlltGTscQr29B-QEqFihOiKRhQul5o3238viYEnCl3WTpv3r14w/w149-h200/John%20Gilbert.jpg" width="149" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John Gilbert PR shot as<br />character in unknown role</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">November 2006: Last Sunday my
sister called me to alert me to a death notice in the </span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Times</i><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> she knew I’d be interested in. As soon as I hung up the
telephone, I located my paper, opened it to the obituary page, and read the
announcement. I was horrified. The words were strung together in neutral, dead
sounding—no pun intended—sentences. I felt desperately sad all day, not so much
because of my friend’s death, but at the indifference with which his passing
was reported.</span><p></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">John Gilbert was a
college friend whose influence I still feel. For the first few years out of
college we remained close. By the time we had turned thirty, our friendship
had waned for a variety of reasons, our contact dribbling away to a hello and a
hug whenever our paths crossed. A passerby, glimpsing us on a street corner as
we did our quick catch-up every few years (“How </span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">are </i><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">you, nice to </span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">see</i><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
you”), might imagine we were old work buddies, next-door-neighbors, or once-removed
mutual friends of someone else. There was little residue visible of what had
once been.</span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">How can I explain
what John meant to me? </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">He was the first agnostic
I ever met—at least the first person who admitted to being one. I was eighteen. He lived a life
of Secular Humanism and explained to me what that meant within days of my first
encounter with him in a freshman drama class. I was dazzled by him. At age
twenty, he already was showing the beginnings of a receding hairline, but
compensated for it by growing the most beautiful, full beard I think I’ve ever
seen. He rolled his own Bull Durham cigarettes and wore ratty, tattered
clothing and work boots to his college classes. In the </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">late ‘50s, that was nearly scandalous.</span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">In addition to
being an extraordinarily talented actor, John was an exceptionally </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">gifted intellectual. He challenged his
professors in a way, I suppose, they either relished or loathed. John resisted
taking things at face value. Instead, he dug deep to reconcile in his head each
particle of information. His acting was self-assured, intense, genuine. He
could be chilling onstage—</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Hotspur in </span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Henry
IV, </i><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">as well as</span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </i><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">hilarious—</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> the drunken livery driver, Malachi, in </span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">The Matchmaker</i><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">. He was never better than
he was as Jimmy Porter in </span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Look Back in
Anger</i><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">, a part he felt was custom-made for him. His Jamie in </span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Long Day’s Journey into Night</i><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> was
spectacular; his brooding </span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Hamlet</i><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> at
Seattle Repertory Theatre was an audience gripper, and regionally he will never
be forgotten as the meanest-ever first-act Scrooge ever in </span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">The Christmas Carol, </i><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">only to become a big-hearted softy in the
final act.</span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I was in awe of
his talent and enamored of his intellect. I also found him mysteriously
attractive in an out-of-bounds kind of way. He exuded an underlying chemistry of
rage that sizzled and felt dangerous to me. In my freshman year, I yearned to
be in his crowd and worked hard at my acting to gain entry. As a sophomore, he
was a mentor to me as I worked at becoming educated in the arena of social
justice and philosophy. During my junior year when he began to seriously date a
girl, I realized I was a little-bit in love with him, now that he was off
limits. By the time I was a senior we had established an easy
friendship—confiding in each other, discussing serious topics and arguing
fiercely as good friends often do. As a graduating senior, one of my proudest moments
was standing next to John to receive our citations for outstanding acting.</span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">After we were both
married, he and his wife and my husband and I enjoyed occasional social
evenings—drinking and discoursing into the wee small hours. In the mid-sixties,
the upstairs apartment in the house we were renting became available. The
location, only three blocks from the theatre where John was part of the
repertory ensemble, made the apartment exceptionally appealing, so he and his
wife became our immediate neighbors. It was wonderful for us because we could
get together on the spur of the moment and didn’t need a babysitter to just run
upstairs for a few minutes.</span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">In the capacity of
neighbor, John became an easy visitor who often dropped in to chat on
afternoons when he had a break from his acting job. Sitting in our living room with
</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">my toddlers bouncing like Mexican
jumping beans, he’d smoke a cigarette (so different from today’s sensibilities)
while he drank a cup of coffee, chattering away with my small children in a way
that was comfortable and homey. “Uncle” John loved to open their brightly
colored picture-books and read aloud to any or all of them.</span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I remember one
afternoon when he rapped on the door loudly, then burst into our living room with
a new</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">ly purchased LP, and asked me to play it on the Hi Fi. As we listened together
to the newly released </span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Sgt Pepper’s Lonely
Hearts Club Band</i><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">, he proclaimed—way ahead of the critics—that the creative brilliance
demonstrated in this album would put the Beatles down in history as some of the
most extraordinary popular musicians ever to live.</span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">He was the person
who opened my eyes to social injustice and taught me to be outraged at
socio-economic prejudice in a way it had never occurred to me to be. He was
cynical, smart, passionate about life, and an active socialist. He drank
heavily, smoked non-stop, brooded regularly, and stroked his beard incessantly.
His eyes crackled with intensity; his mouth twitched with energy. His laugh was
infectious and his voice deep and resonant. John was a character many people
recognized on the street in his Greek fisherman’s hat and Levi’s jacket, and
the way he carried himself and strode—wound-up, spring-loaded—was unique.</span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">By the 1970s our
friendship had slowly deteriorated, diluted into a watery imitation of what it
had once been. One of the last times we had a social evening together John began
to shout about Malcolm X being a </span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">saint. </i><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">My
husband was arguing with John and I was cringing over the use of the word saint
applied to anyone advocating so much violence. A part of me wanted to protect
my young children from people like John. My parent-formed values had evolved
into something very different from those of my socialistic and atheistic friend, John Gilbert.</span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">It’s been nearly forty
years since that time. So why was I so upset at the notice of his death?
Because it was flat, written in expository sentences without color. It read
like the story of a man who hadn’t mattered. Oh, it ticked off a few of his
accomplishments, but gave him little credit for his passion, his commitment,
his search for truth and his willingness to stand up for what he believed at
the expense of others’ opinions of him. That man changed the course of my life,
and certainly others’ lives, as well. </span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">A person couldn’t be indifferent to John.
One way or another, he changed you. And that’s what I wanted so much for the readers
of the paper to know. The last sentences written about him in death should
wield the same kind of power he had over life.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><b>R.I.P. John Gilbert, 1939-2006</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>beatstalkingtomyselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10406078596273695832noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6810529920303394783.post-53460026452071582572023-08-03T15:57:00.001-07:002023-08-03T15:57:21.676-07:00A profoundly moving experience<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWCuQCUOuY59oqoZZjDG3a0W6FLGd-71kcMF8UsQB-Rq2FovFnvcczGppIcqVHoLuLf1Gh0lqnLiTX1rM5edLWmzYtg9LxjKkFGS_gxOVHoT5Yd1KRVk6oD3_RUmVB4OV7bIP1t1xeuMEar5fPRVhabFmW82WVB-gkF8hcC-2_CpyuL8ZvoXydy-FJXCo/s4032/april%2019.1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWCuQCUOuY59oqoZZjDG3a0W6FLGd-71kcMF8UsQB-Rq2FovFnvcczGppIcqVHoLuLf1Gh0lqnLiTX1rM5edLWmzYtg9LxjKkFGS_gxOVHoT5Yd1KRVk6oD3_RUmVB4OV7bIP1t1xeuMEar5fPRVhabFmW82WVB-gkF8hcC-2_CpyuL8ZvoXydy-FJXCo/w150-h200/april%2019.1.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>Two wonderful tree images are leafing out in my head as a
result of Seattle Opera’s Creation Lab 2023, a showcase for short new operas produced in June. It isn’t as much that the
allegorical images were particularly new, but because they appeared in two
back-to-back productions. The resulting impact was stunning for me. I hope I
never forget them.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I attended all six of the short new operas over two
afternoons and was mightily impressed the overall project and the talent
exhibited in each work. Each opera had something to admire, enjoy, and be
impressed with. Afterwards, I spent a long-time reading bios and backgrounds of
the unknown-to-me librettists and composers who created the operas, and googled
all the vocal and instrumental musicians.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In <i>Ghosts in the Forest </i>by Darby Sherwood and Mieke
Johanna Doezema, the ghost who is searching ostensibly for her body, but more
likely for peace of mind after trauma, finds comfort in the wisdom of the tree
who lovingly sings its truth. “I lose my leaves each year, they drop away and
die. Then new leaves and life appear and I am born again. I start all over,
fresh.” (Apologies to librettist Darby Sherwood—these are not her words, merely
the message I took away.)</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>In Everything After</i> by Elizabeth Howell and Spencer
Edger, the sadly frantic twenty-nine-year old tenor searches in personal
turmoil for the person he has yet to become. He mourns that he is almost thirty
but feels as lost and unformed as he did as a thirteen-year-old. His
grandfather appears in a dream to reassure him, explaining he is like a tree
still rooting in the earth. He is growing his foundation but it’s unseen by him
and others. Roe will emerge and fill the space, take his place above the
surface when the unseen is finished. “You are still rooting, dearest grandson.”
Again, apologies to Spencer Edger, the librettist—this is the message that has
stayed with me, not even close to the exact words.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Both operas brought me into a surface shiver, and tears
formed in my eyes as I squinched my face to keep myself quiet. Flowing tears
must not turn into sobs when a performance is underway. I wanted to hear the
music. I wanted to linger in the beauty and the wisdom of the moment. But even
now, when I recollect those two works, I have teared-up. And that they were
serendipitously presented back-to-back made the tree imagery exceptionally
powerful. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Thank you, Seattle Opera, for this beautiful experience. I enjoyed
each of the six operas of Creation Lab immensely, but the final two, for me,
were unforgettable.<o:p></o:p></p><br /></div>beatstalkingtomyselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10406078596273695832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6810529920303394783.post-54288904712571969392023-07-26T16:44:00.005-07:002023-07-26T16:44:40.727-07:00Sharing a Cookie<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguAVkwjDvNLeZvzg4D29ckVzsuwySntWL4UhNFkduTu04XE9VSOfOWWoqf-VV8hO86DJ6R99wBye8VPCUf7ZyzAXOIG66MXIIaiDgaDfJaohelLSE_Z44WClqbEgHuNucRKSO7Oh6rjY7RWCwnENw2mgSEQnyqULCagXy00LzvsZHb8mmkoLFvYkbjBVk/s2277/IMG_2788.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2166" data-original-width="2277" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguAVkwjDvNLeZvzg4D29ckVzsuwySntWL4UhNFkduTu04XE9VSOfOWWoqf-VV8hO86DJ6R99wBye8VPCUf7ZyzAXOIG66MXIIaiDgaDfJaohelLSE_Z44WClqbEgHuNucRKSO7Oh6rjY7RWCwnENw2mgSEQnyqULCagXy00LzvsZHb8mmkoLFvYkbjBVk/w200-h190/IMG_2788.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm3N_vuSw3Slk-ZyqE3SboL5FnC9cijthtBrhyDxrtRqfnEuBc4E86fT1IdmRlga8qXtBXCLHmKtDKHVnyqI7YgQKNEK8adnZ_5f9H1e94GfzZmDW1mEttxcmHWrDoYyR1pCy4jPhygK7K0gaEpXth-sLz0_h8NRID6ayTKe_WZDe-ab3BnFKb9j6ElN4/s2829/IMG_2791.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2370" data-original-width="2829" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm3N_vuSw3Slk-ZyqE3SboL5FnC9cijthtBrhyDxrtRqfnEuBc4E86fT1IdmRlga8qXtBXCLHmKtDKHVnyqI7YgQKNEK8adnZ_5f9H1e94GfzZmDW1mEttxcmHWrDoYyR1pCy4jPhygK7K0gaEpXth-sLz0_h8NRID6ayTKe_WZDe-ab3BnFKb9j6ElN4/w200-h168/IMG_2791.jpg" width="200" /></a>As I took my morning walk, I was intrigued with pigeon cookie-sharing protocol. These are just two of the six photos I snapped while I stood watching, surprised at how willingly they were taking turns pecking away at a cookie that someone had dropped on the sidewalk. I'm always taken aback by how close a pigeon allows a human to approach before it flies away. I was, at most, just two-feet away from this scene. Very few birds tolerate humans being closer than ten feet, and many, such as robins, detect danger when we get as close as forty feet from their ground feeding. That said, part of me believes I could easily capture a pigeon with a net . . . but I don't plan to test my hunch. Maybe we aren't a threat because they like our discarded food so much, not to mention the items intentionally supplied by some people. Unlike other cultures, currently, anyway, we're not serving roast pigeon for dinner.</span><span style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;">It was an entertaining several minutes spent watching. I applaud how each bird had a chance to nibble and none seemed to need to become Alpha pigeon to chase away the others. Of course, it could have been a lousy tasting cookie . . . </span></div><p></p>beatstalkingtomyselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10406078596273695832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6810529920303394783.post-3228793759517816632023-07-20T22:00:00.004-07:002023-11-15T16:36:29.858-08:00 To Bring New Memories and MeaningsI’m waiting in a Goodwill line to dump a load of clothes,<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWqO9X8grKiVnNRUe7LL8lpD4aLGCVZXjUBQqXrMRQ1Y5xnfcA5uytGBXGjZJbgH3Hwc6HFM9v0HylowV9E3mMhDp9hJqi9YKfqc28nF94PeV2_vSGQb7fUkqMaluRNl-nIPMh9rvDpjoSXkBxXYh-Pu_8N-FqyPc0UUG6DorZISGMOBbY9MGpFxPLS0k/s3206/IMG_2815.jpg" style="clear: right; display: inline; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3023" data-original-width="3206" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWqO9X8grKiVnNRUe7LL8lpD4aLGCVZXjUBQqXrMRQ1Y5xnfcA5uytGBXGjZJbgH3Hwc6HFM9v0HylowV9E3mMhDp9hJqi9YKfqc28nF94PeV2_vSGQb7fUkqMaluRNl-nIPMh9rvDpjoSXkBxXYh-Pu_8N-FqyPc0UUG6DorZISGMOBbY9MGpFxPLS0k/w200-h189/IMG_2815.jpg" width="200" /></a> lighten up the cupboards of redundant stuff I’ll never use</p><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">when I begin to watch the U-Haul truck up front. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Two men are lugging furniture, dragging it across the drive.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A middle-aged woman points to which item to unload next,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">no doubt hoping they'll bring new memories and meanings.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A spigot inside my head breaks open and now water is<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">running down my cheeks. I take off my glasses to dry them<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">which messes up my vision and all is blurred.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Instead of strangers panting, walking back and forth,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I see my sons heaving with exertion as they dispose<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">of the last bits of family furniture when I am gone.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Goodbye, little wicker-seat rocker, once<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">just right when age-six-someone had a mommy,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">now too low for same-someone now a grandma.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Farewell, handsome console table my mother set<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">the candelabra on and lit them all for festive meals,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">now displaying artifacts I'd otherwise lock away.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So long, Governor Winthrop desk dear Grandfather </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">brought so he could work at home sometimes,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">now storing my scattered treasures, paperwork and dust.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRBHsuig9Sy0thNoI0Nsa7TG20Fh1m8EZLRlKpfFKsikmlDQOZhlwoCoFUEu5BVm0T-cWSTzsr4HYflXtb9F7C_2p97W0ClYgYYvemkcC1JrE4YjUF4nviivz2OYhpxwV1DUBgVKmeGRLC0oJo5teKFAIoMCF9mFN1_J7yE5YlaPg07qMxaD012zJmlAk/s4032/IMG_2816.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRBHsuig9Sy0thNoI0Nsa7TG20Fh1m8EZLRlKpfFKsikmlDQOZhlwoCoFUEu5BVm0T-cWSTzsr4HYflXtb9F7C_2p97W0ClYgYYvemkcC1JrE4YjUF4nviivz2OYhpxwV1DUBgVKmeGRLC0oJo5teKFAIoMCF9mFN1_J7yE5YlaPg07qMxaD012zJmlAk/w200-h150/IMG_2816.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>They’ll all be in a massive Goodwill place<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">awaiting for the “o-o-o-h, look at this,” and<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">taken away to fill an empty space or need<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">to bring new memories and meanings.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For minutes I am in another place,<br /><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">looking down from another life<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">seeing the final march toward nothingness.<o:p></o:p></p>beatstalkingtomyselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10406078596273695832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6810529920303394783.post-80237742388838900772023-06-29T20:12:00.003-07:002023-06-29T20:12:45.848-07:00In Memoriam<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjLgtmSH9bP9JzKSg7ka49BNLRNPnSxV09nn5QyWHNaAZbCgqWMtyWgdAbmVLTbi_DX-nLfRuY-zqrHvcQVTHicccBMrc912vx8DMI7Px2Ad0MKY3MCxHAuSdGzzRPIWNE6GK0NdDLHBSscAMjSC854ubycohWBmUHY7wpeY4uEVCqNmZZEmqwN0rj_0k/s3264/Arboretum%20April%202014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjLgtmSH9bP9JzKSg7ka49BNLRNPnSxV09nn5QyWHNaAZbCgqWMtyWgdAbmVLTbi_DX-nLfRuY-zqrHvcQVTHicccBMrc912vx8DMI7Px2Ad0MKY3MCxHAuSdGzzRPIWNE6GK0NdDLHBSscAMjSC854ubycohWBmUHY7wpeY4uEVCqNmZZEmqwN0rj_0k/s320/Arboretum%20April%202014.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>IN MEMORIAM</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">June 26 marked the ninth anniversary of Jay's death. It’s
hard to believe I’m closing in on a decade of widowhood. Every year on this
date, I’ve made a point of commemorating him. Most were modest activities, with
two exceptions: the first year and the fifth. The first year I rewarded myself
for making it through the year, which had been filled with loneliness and grief,
by attending the Spoleto Festival in Charleston. There I immersed myself in
musical performances for a week, a passion not shared by Jay, which was the
precise reason I chose it. It was like blowing fresh air into oppressive sorrow
and helped to heal my soul.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">On the fifth anniversary of his passing, I drove with a dear
friend to Washington’s Pacific coast where we stayed two nights in a condo at
the ocean’s edge. I lingered on several solitary walks along the water’s edge,
recalling the beautiful quality times he and I had spent walking that beach together.
In the other years my commemoration was far more modest—taking a favorite route
for walk we loved to take together, or a visiting a saltwater park in Seattle
to sit on a driftwood log and think about him. One year I spent time on a long
dock at the north end of Lake Washington where we often went on Sunday mornings
to watch cormorants in the winter and water-skiers in the summer. Last year I bought
his favorite meal at Dick’s Drive-In and ate it in my car, remembering how I </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">never</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">
had to ask Jay what he was going to order when we stopped there: a Deluxe Burger
and a chocolate shake.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">For the past eight years it was easy to come up with a
meaningful activity because I was living in the neighborhood that he and I
shared. Passing a familiar spot made commemorative ideas pop up easily for the
26</span><sup>th</sup><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> of June when he would be the first person I thought of in the
morning and the last person on my mind as I drifted off to sleep.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">This year, however, was different because I moved last July to
retirement community in a neighborhood we’d never shared. I still hadn’t
decided what exactly I would do when I woke up June 26. I drank my coffee and
read my emails while my subconscious was strumming through </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">ideas. The emailed activities-list for the day sent by our Activities
Coordinator jolted me. That night after dinner, a Jeopardy Game was going to be
hosted for our community. Because Jay loved watching Alex Trebek’s Jeopardy
and always made time for it when he was home, it seemed like a </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">perfect</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">
commemorative activity. Decision made: I would join a Jeopardy team and
participate in his honor.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">After we formed our teams, the leader explained that the
overarching theme for our Jeopardy game that night was Brain Health Awareness,
reminded us of the rules, and read the categories for the first round. The categories
were tantalizing—</span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">Brain Games, Memory, Parts of the Brain, Stupid Answers </i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">and
two more. The leader reminded us to use our buzzers and frame our answers in
the form of a question. She arbitrarily directed someone on the other team to start:
“Pick a category,” and we were off and running.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“MEMORY, for $300,</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">” the appointee called out, whereupon the leader uncovered the
clue and read: <b>“<i>A Two-Word Latin phrase meaning to remember someone who
has died.</i></b><i>”</i> I rammed my
buzzer—no need to confer with teammates—and was promptly called on. I nearly shouted
the answer, “What is<b> ‘In Memoriam’?</b>” And with that, our team won the
first $300 (purely pretend money) and was headed for our ultimate win, after the double match.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I couldn’t let myself think about it while playing the game,
but the minute Jeopardy was over, I found myself almost shivering in awe. Of
the thirty boxes holding invisible clues in the first half, </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">any</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> of them could
have been chosen as the first. What made the first picker decide on Memory $300
instead, of, say, Brain Game $500 or Stupid Answer $100? That “In Memoriam” was
the correct answer to a randomly chosen clue couldn’t have been a coincidence.
. . could it? </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I will never forget how I commemorated my late husband in 2023.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">R.I.P. Jay O. Glerum Aug. 16, 1930 - June 26, 2014 Lover of Jeopardy</span></span></p>beatstalkingtomyselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10406078596273695832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6810529920303394783.post-36732688437197029272023-06-14T18:08:00.004-07:002023-06-14T18:08:39.799-07:00An Embarrassment of . . . oops, <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB4MA6UVYi3mQP-xYx7Fby1Jx7E9jAJzGf9APnkSCJ584ihRX6yapR4Nov_IO_PK13auB_c8dV2fVJk9hwrYib7NCXX7VF1hF6yDC5owi6s63J0wEvpVUdYgvQ49h16Qgf1OumgoOIoRA531GyFZV6bpntAfCHCb-vnwihpTrDjy1tomwsOCvAl0Dj/s4032/IMG_2548.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB4MA6UVYi3mQP-xYx7Fby1Jx7E9jAJzGf9APnkSCJ584ihRX6yapR4Nov_IO_PK13auB_c8dV2fVJk9hwrYib7NCXX7VF1hF6yDC5owi6s63J0wEvpVUdYgvQ49h16Qgf1OumgoOIoRA531GyFZV6bpntAfCHCb-vnwihpTrDjy1tomwsOCvAl0Dj/w150-h200/IMG_2548.jpg" width="150" /></a></div> Bed, Bath, and Beyond was one of my all time favorite retail stores. I never visited without a coupon, which is saying a lot for me because I NEVER use coupons! Well, not at least since my children were small, and my budget was a $50/week budget to feed a family of six. Yes, that was a challenging parameter and any/all coupons definitely helped. But in the last thirty (at least) years, I haven't usually bothered with them, the one exception being BB&B. Reason? Its paper coupons never expired, as long as they were presented 'in person' at a bricks-n-mortar location. Only ONE was allowed for one excursion. I would take my bundle of paper coupons sent via USPS regularly and select the one that provided the best deal for whatever I was purchasing. The clerks were great at ascertaining which one would save the most money--dollars or percentage off purchases of defined minimums. The willingness to take old coupons and help decide the best savings for the customer was enough to make me a faithful fan of BB&B. <p></p><p>Today I was searching my desk for something and a wad of rolled up coupons fell out of a slot-compartment. And to think I even packed them up and moved them last summer--that's how much I loved those coupons! From bed linens to flatware, from small appliances to kitchen gimmicks, I always enjoyed shopping there. And even Hubby was actually happy to accompany me to BB&B when I needed something, and that's saying a lot for a man who prided himself in 'buying' not 'shopping' (and was happy to explain the difference).</p><p>I am sad that Bed, Bath, and Beyond is going out of business. And now those coupons are in my recycle bin to announce the end of an era at my home.</p>beatstalkingtomyselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10406078596273695832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6810529920303394783.post-50927061825490765022023-05-26T19:57:00.000-07:002023-05-26T19:57:01.557-07:00A Clean Break and Holding It Together<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgplSbfNXmiOqtZn7PdEx2Bp_LKJBBmqnOh5mJpF6i2O4PMJ3xTxQgAuyzbxhLzKVqU9EHSVio4CksBqvdOJm-O8BaLYt8DyPFtTOuqYw2ohrfNPbHzMRkdZjekbHIh1nBZEx2YvRSRmRmerSrJ22iQjCw5uuiaQLJiHeRajODw42UFUsjzrAjUuzMx/s4032/IMG_2239.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgplSbfNXmiOqtZn7PdEx2Bp_LKJBBmqnOh5mJpF6i2O4PMJ3xTxQgAuyzbxhLzKVqU9EHSVio4CksBqvdOJm-O8BaLYt8DyPFtTOuqYw2ohrfNPbHzMRkdZjekbHIh1nBZEx2YvRSRmRmerSrJ22iQjCw5uuiaQLJiHeRajODw42UFUsjzrAjUuzMx/w137-h183/IMG_2239.jpg" width="137" /></a></div>We often use the expression, "Make a clean break of it," when referring to a toxic relationship or a job we dislike whenever we want to be done without blowback. Today I appreciate this metaphor more than ever, as a literal enactment of what just occurred in my kitchen. <p></p><p>A tiny houseplant needed watering. It was sitting a beloved Cambodian Celadon plate. I picked up the plant from a table to carry it to the kitchen counter. The much heavier plate stuck to the bottom of the plant's ceramic pot for a split second as I lifted it, then bam! It unstuck itself and dropped to the floor. </p><p></p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv01pWShd3DWSfABLa_qNIbo1Nk2p4PKGM09faPbOfqswSQ_WhaAYCGVapCjGxgAq_6Z7ejeB4HDhN9qec7ybyx3hD0uuSxdqNXtUp9YFNWLozEz_Gzj-7pWhyhqHlfG5vgqxpHU6KL6uHv8SXAnH3J6wC1a_ytQQLo6k5SwcmDeH70eCrVoFIvBZ2/s4032/IMG_2237.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv01pWShd3DWSfABLa_qNIbo1Nk2p4PKGM09faPbOfqswSQ_WhaAYCGVapCjGxgAq_6Z7ejeB4HDhN9qec7ybyx3hD0uuSxdqNXtUp9YFNWLozEz_Gzj-7pWhyhqHlfG5vgqxpHU6KL6uHv8SXAnH3J6wC1a_ytQQLo6k5SwcmDeH70eCrVoFIvBZ2/w126-h157/IMG_2237.jpg" width="126" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Halves of the plate<br />close, but with a <br />visible break</td></tr></tbody></table>I knew my floors were hard (concrete slab covered with a fake wood-grain vinyl for disguise), but I was astonished to see what a clean break it was. With the sound of plate smashing, I imagined shards of pottery everywhere--under floor-cupboards' overhang all the way to the rug where the living area starts. But nothing . . . just ONE tiny 'crumb' of pottery beside the two plate halves. Fitting the halves together confirmed there were no missing chunks of plate except that crumb from the underside. <p></p><p>Nothing to clean up (except my sadness at losing the plate)! It was a powerful visual image of a clean break. Not a rip. Not a tear. Not a perforation, shatter, or splat. A<i> near perfect</i> clean break. Wow--what an image for leaving behind whatever unpleasant relationship we're untangling from. No hard feelings? No residue of any kind? We can hope. </p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Kyys_H-BWl_wXcw_QxMVhSO5drxAz6XqaJCvZ7t5DC2dr7--5Kf20jaq2tdqrWzVG_D2n1wrlxRGF9uwwNeC9Dogq1Zmp5YV5KuPfkuArh96vh8sfNIN4Qv3i2loe9IEkDrUK0IqSN-AJC_RGoWwqbXrlNfgbzwCEKdIHrb5qVYaqbtxEqmJI0yO/s4032/IMG_2236.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Kyys_H-BWl_wXcw_QxMVhSO5drxAz6XqaJCvZ7t5DC2dr7--5Kf20jaq2tdqrWzVG_D2n1wrlxRGF9uwwNeC9Dogq1Zmp5YV5KuPfkuArh96vh8sfNIN4Qv3i2loe9IEkDrUK0IqSN-AJC_RGoWwqbXrlNfgbzwCEKdIHrb5qVYaqbtxEqmJI0yO/w150-h200/IMG_2236.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Holding it together.<br />Who would know?</td></tr></tbody></table>When I decided I wanted a visual record to help me remember the plate after I placed it in the garbage, another metaphor announced itself: "Holding it together." To make the plate look whole again without the break showing, I literally had to hold it together. Because I needed one hand for my iPhone camera, I pressed the plate's halves together against the kitchen splashboard to depict it without the break. Yeah--it took effort, just like it does to figuratively hide hurt, disappointment, or annoyance. But . . . the break was as close to imperceptible as I could have imagined. <div><br /></div><div>I'm going to try to keep these images tucked away in my brain somewhere as powerful reminders of what we mean when I casually use the metaphors. Perhaps the photos will help you, as well.<br /><br /><p></p></div>beatstalkingtomyselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10406078596273695832noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6810529920303394783.post-60533959310847172802023-05-22T16:45:00.003-07:002023-05-22T16:45:53.741-07:00Happiness & Kris KringleTHIS IS <i><b>NOT</b></i> A NEW POST, but technology can get the best of me and did so today. I opened this thirteen-year-old post, intending to update the labels (key words used in internet search engines). Somehow I failed to process the tiny change correctly, so now Google Blogger thinks it's a new post. I would completely delete the post except that, for whatever reason, it remains statistically one of the most read posts I've ever shared on the blog, and I wouldn't want to disappoint. :)<div>---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</div><h4 style="text-align: left;">HAPPINESS & KRIS KRINGLE</h4><div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Happiness is getting positive feedback about my writing--stuff on this blog, an essay published in a newspaper, or even, as happened this morning, a rave about a press release I wrote for my Senior Center Exercise class.</span></div><br />But the phone call that just came in will be a highlight of my year. When the caller, identifying himself as Kris Kringle, told me how much he liked my Christmas letter, I nearly swooned. You see, I recognized his voice immediately as belonging to John Doty, my high school Creative Writing teacher. He and I have exchanged Christmas cards for a number of years. This was the first year, though, I included my annual letter in his card. I felt fluttery when I sealed the envelope, as if I were turning in a writing assignment in which I revealed too much of myself.<br /><br />The call this afternoon felt like the equivalent of getting an A+ on a class assignment. I'm walking on air . . . while doing the laundry. Not bad for January 4, 2010.</div>beatstalkingtomyselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10406078596273695832noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6810529920303394783.post-90615777620080707102023-05-19T12:39:00.001-07:002023-05-19T12:39:06.113-07:00JOKE? or MISTAKE? WHO CARES? (as long as you TAKE care)<p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJUz6Hntg4_tPyqd1Otb2JO89tBBFfnbQ26X_YRGE3u7N3D3W_LKXyy9mLbKa0KtgKicT6-iO-6B-9DmvRqIJxOTdHK0LV9D2msq-qVqEp0GOyKhc4uk1K73RNUo4oVLkPguKz0waTJ0bvHizIW_ynO11IIam6YxoWxyfVRcjwHZ2kowXVPoKIRm2R/s2100/IMG_2228.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1576" data-original-width="2100" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJUz6Hntg4_tPyqd1Otb2JO89tBBFfnbQ26X_YRGE3u7N3D3W_LKXyy9mLbKa0KtgKicT6-iO-6B-9DmvRqIJxOTdHK0LV9D2msq-qVqEp0GOyKhc4uk1K73RNUo4oVLkPguKz0waTJ0bvHizIW_ynO11IIam6YxoWxyfVRcjwHZ2kowXVPoKIRm2R/w182-h152/IMG_2228.jpg" width="182" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barely visible, you can <br />just make out the <br />number 648 just left of <br />the open car door</td></tr></tbody></table>Who cares WHO it was or WHY they did it. Maybe it was an intentional screw-up from a disgruntled employee or maybe just an honest mistake from setting the number-6 stencil upside down on the cement. <p></p><p>This photo was taken at the Mercer Street garage, a heavily used facility near the Seattle Center, a culture and sports magnet drawing thousands of ticket paying consumers of everything from theatre to rock concerts to operas, ballets, museums, special events, hockey playoffs and more. The garage is in constant use as the Seattle Center host thousands every day. </p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmWS-fV3tOk0isblJ4JKpeTOq1sI76APBjBRL08-VTunoOVEBouRoRqBpTDk4e0FZOhPZO8T9opALCIbeXIN9y4kYxSqel5meMHaQuzB5RPmPaDljRcYuW71Us8EHTrjThMflUCsF995vkq_awu2Y2sw2DzXSQXitmj--bQYjbInBlLEGdTvBTrV4H/s4032/IMG_2227.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmWS-fV3tOk0isblJ4JKpeTOq1sI76APBjBRL08-VTunoOVEBouRoRqBpTDk4e0FZOhPZO8T9opALCIbeXIN9y4kYxSqel5meMHaQuzB5RPmPaDljRcYuW71Us8EHTrjThMflUCsF995vkq_awu2Y2sw2DzXSQXitmj--bQYjbInBlLEGdTvBTrV4H/w174-h150/IMG_2227.jpg" width="174" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Adjacent spaces</td></tr></tbody></table>Over the years I've learned it can save time to photo a parking space number in any garage, lest there be confusion in the elevator in the aftermath of the particular event. This day was no different--my friend and I were going to Seattle Repertory Theatre and I offered to take a quick photo of the parking space number. <p></p><p>That's when we got the joke---or the mistake. She called out 949 from the driver's side, just as I stepped out of the passenger side onto space 650. Huh? <br /></p><p></p>beatstalkingtomyselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10406078596273695832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6810529920303394783.post-74201286997408935142023-05-16T12:03:00.000-07:002023-05-16T12:03:41.995-07:00Loving Batch<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgGviLcb0St1jhepEOoz_rZuRzcGEt5bFD0ylyXoYl-ZwXw527mE7uGkeI0RPuln2_QnDx6tT9b0HVawps299n_J5oCfxvygpfDc5UN46LE1i6NjDsXWpZBdCPdF4_TtgoTo-U2TFiLF3jFxhfER8vknsgeSLugb80LJceNDu_SGSerq3s2-XNAieMZ" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="975" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgGviLcb0St1jhepEOoz_rZuRzcGEt5bFD0ylyXoYl-ZwXw527mE7uGkeI0RPuln2_QnDx6tT9b0HVawps299n_J5oCfxvygpfDc5UN46LE1i6NjDsXWpZBdCPdF4_TtgoTo-U2TFiLF3jFxhfER8vknsgeSLugb80LJceNDu_SGSerq3s2-XNAieMZ=w200-h133" width="200" /></a></div>Recently at a <a href="https://www.seattlechambermusic.org/" target="_blank">Seattle Chamber Music Society</a> concert that was quickly filling with general seating at a formerly-a-church venue, a middle-aged man stopped at the second row where I was sitting on the aisle to scan availability. Quickly the woman sitting next to me and I scooted apart to make room for him in our pew. Soon the lights dimmed and we became immersed in the spectacular performance of the <a href="https://www.isidorestringquartet.com/">Isidore Quartet</a>, winner of the 2022 Banff String Quartet Competition.<p></p><p>At intermission my seatmate and I began to chat, each of us sharing how much we had loved the genre of chamber music from an early age. My passion began in eighth grade when I first heard Dvorak's Piano Quintet in A Major, Op. 81, recorded by Pablo Casals and friends at his festival in Prades. Not only did I love the work itself, but Pablo Casals could be heard singing along as he played during much of the recording. Something about his irrepressible urge to sing during such spectacular ensemble work transported me to an emotional place I'd never been. From that point forward and ever after, chamber music totally eclipsed other forms of music. </p><p>But the man next to me had an even better anecdote about his love for chamber music--one of the dearest I've heard. His mother loved classical music and played LPs as background in their home during his pre-school years. She bought an album of Bach's Trio Sonatas when he was in first grade and did her housework while listening. When he heard that particular album he was mesmerized and, as a beginner at reading, inspected the album cover closely. He was learning how to sound out words he didn't know. He then sought out his mother to proudly announce, "I <i>love</i> Batch." </p><p>As we parted ways after a standing ovation for Isadore, the man thanked me for making room for him where he could see and hear so well. He introduced himself by his first name, Sean. It's unlikely I will ever see him again, but his story will linger forever. An appropriate punchline might be, "Thank you, Seen."</p>beatstalkingtomyselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10406078596273695832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6810529920303394783.post-80314881165948061232023-05-14T06:56:00.004-07:002023-05-14T07:35:24.165-07:00Tribute <p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDAo1Tjlg11luGnHXOMbQ67IqUZ_q-qnWCQjPkRLvKmCfNnZc82pBfQZ-Vwd1vdIGH4Emmqp2Gkg8dxkhCOzNKeibuiRk7G5vP86A5s2g-NT6ZIw5No-SIvVzbrWa6uq2BbmhIcvKeonBwMDiZPnXs-fjGReGj6YWQRxgse6K122-BeLijME8Rx-kN/s1138/1950%20Naomi%20age%20approx%2043.bmp" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1138" data-original-width="1044" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDAo1Tjlg11luGnHXOMbQ67IqUZ_q-qnWCQjPkRLvKmCfNnZc82pBfQZ-Vwd1vdIGH4Emmqp2Gkg8dxkhCOzNKeibuiRk7G5vP86A5s2g-NT6ZIw5No-SIvVzbrWa6uq2BbmhIcvKeonBwMDiZPnXs-fjGReGj6YWQRxgse6K122-BeLijME8Rx-kN/w184-h200/1950%20Naomi%20age%20approx%2043.bmp" width="184" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Naomi Elmendorf Johnsone<br />1907-1969</td></tr></tbody></table><br />As promised last post, there will be a few more poems coming. This one I wrote in response to a prompt from our semi-monthly poetry group through the YMCA. <p></p><p>PROMPT: Write a poem centered around someone or something who drives your spirit and fills your soul.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>THANK YOU, MOTHER</b></p><p>When I wanted to tell a story, you’d hear me out</p><p>When I wanted to pretend, you’d take a role</p><p>When I wanted to write, you’d spell a word</p><p>When I wanted to draw, you’d find a tablet</p><p><br /></p><p>You listened to my piano compositions with visible delight</p><p>You clapped long and hard at my acting and my plays </p><p>You praised my drawings and showed them to you friends</p><p>You took dictation for the poems and stories I made up</p><p><br /></p><p>I grasp now how you saw the spark and fed the fire</p><p>I appreciate now how you fanned those flames to burn for life</p><p>I thrive now because your gift has lasted more than eighty years</p><p>I write now this tiny tribute to you, dear long-gone mother </p><p><br /></p><p>With joy </p><p>With awe</p><p>With love</p><p>With gratitude</p><div><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> Sara J. Glerum</span><br /></div><div><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> April 2022</span><br /></span></div>beatstalkingtomyselfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10406078596273695832noreply@blogger.com0