The Beach House

She drove for four and a half hours and as she got closer to her destination the worries fell off her shoulders one by one like pieces of stone chiseled from marble. As her concerns broke away from her mind, the muscles around her neck and down her back felt lighter. She found that she was sitting up straighter with every mile and felt an inch taller too! The corners of her mouth began to curl upwards, and she found herself breathing in deeply.

“Ahhh,” she moaned to herself as she turned off the AC and rolled down the windows with a button. “That's more like it.” She exhaled to the wind as it blew across her nose carrying with it the promises of sea salt, shells waiting to be found, and drying seaweed.

She would be there soon. The beach house had been in her family since she could remember. Her grandfather was a fisherman and worked very hard. She could see in her mind's eye his roughened, dry, cracked fingers as he worked a piece of driftwood into a toy for her when she was five years old. His eyes were as deep and blue as the ocean. She would swim into them when he told her bedtime stories of days of old, and she wouldn't come up for breath until she felt her own eyes closing in sleep.

One of the stories she made him tell over and over was how he built the beach house with his bare hands. He would explain to her that when he was younger and stronger, he saved what money he could to buy the isolated stretch of sand. The house started out as one room, enough for shelter from the wind and the cold. But he made it strong and the fireplace in that wood-built room was large. When he would visit his brother in the mountains or vice versa, stones would be brought back to use in the construction. Incorporated in the mortar were empty conchs and seashells of varying sizes, shapes, and colors. The mantle was made out of a huge piece of ship's wood that had drifted up on shore after a storm. Her grandfather liked to believe it came off of an eight-masted sailing vessel that found its demise on the Outer Banks, splintering into huge pieces after wrestling with a sudden hurricane. Her grandfather told her that when he met his love, he added on a bedroom, proposed, and brought his bride over the simple threshold. The additions occurred child by child until it was a warren of rooms connected by hallways and creaking, cypress doors.

She thought of all this when she turned down the sandy driveway which wound its way through the bent over, stunted trees that hid the beach house from the road's view. Whatever concerns remained within her floated off her soul and sifted themselves through the gnarled fingers of those trees which had protected the family from the outside world for three generations.

She needed to be here. Life had thrown many obstacles her way in the past year and this was the first time she was able to get away and come to this house where she felt safe.

She parked the car, hauled all her bags through the kitchen door, and found some wildflowers waiting for her in a vase on the wood counter. He had been here. Just like he promised. How did he know she was coming? It was as if he had a sixth sense about her for she could show up at any moment in time and there on the counter or on a table would be a bunch of freshly picked beach flowers and grasses to greet her.

She sat down on the well-worn couch cushions in the fireplace room and put her face in her hands. Leaning forward she cried the tears she needed to cry months before but wouldn't let herself because to do so would mean she had been defeated. At least that's what she thought at the time. She knew now that she was as strong as this house and could weather any storm. But at that time, she felt as fragile as a baby bluebird's egg cracked open and left on the ground. Drying her face with the sleeve of her shirt, she looked around to see the bowls of shells that the family had gathered placed on a table and on a shelf. The landscape above the rustic mantle was one that her grandmother had painted in oil when she was a new bride. The ones in the kitchen she painted of sea creatures and vegetables that found their way into the savory dishes she had prepared for everyone. When the new oven had arrived, her grandmother had been intimidated at first, but she was determined to master the knobs and dials. Thanksgivings were the best.

Getting up from the couch she walked out onto the deck of the screened-in porch which spanned the length of the house. There it was . . . the beautiful ocean that seemed to heal her whenever she walked into its salty waves, washing over her like a baptism to cleanse her of all her failings. She would come up out of the water and walk back onto the sand renewed in spirit.

Remembering, she reached out her hand to open the screen door which led to the walkway over the dune. Once outside she took one step and then another. She took her shoes off when she reached the sand and dug her toes into its warmth. Carrying her sandals in one hand she swung them at her side and continued walking until she felt the cold water rise up to her knees.

No one was in sight. The seagulls cried and argued with one another. They always seemed to say, “That's mine. No! It's mine. Uh uh. Uh huh!” and run each other away from the speck of sand they were claiming as their own.

Looking back up toward the house, she realized with a start that the house was now hers, claimed by a piece of paper.

Mine.

It sounded good to her heart. She felt the throbbing inside her agree and she smiled again and laughed and kicked the water up in a spray which made all the seagulls fly.

“Mine,” she cried to their flapping wings and knew she was going to be alright. She had made the right decision. This piece of sand was hers, and she looked at the ramshackle house, loving everything about it. The weathered cedar shakes on the outside. The metal roof. The long, screened-in porch, the swing on the porch, the two-story addition with its dormers, the white-washed window frames, the curtains that blew in the breeze . .  the memories.

This house would be her home where she would make new memories. It was perfect. It was time.

“Dierdra,” she heard him call over the dunes.

She looked up to see Adam, drenched in sunlight in his blue jeans, walking toward her.

“You came,” he said as he approached, holding out his arms to her.

“Yes,” was her simple reply.

Nothing more needed to be said.


© nancy 4.26.2010

RAINBOW

The closer you get . . . the more you see the hand of God.

If you don't own a camera with a macro mode or lens, then borrow a friend's Canon, Nikon, etc., and go outside. Nature is the drop in the bucket of God's perfect handiwork on earth. The closer you get inside flowers the more detail will be exposed. You will see hues that He puts together to create something colorfully in sync and burst forth the spectrum of the rainbow.

Thus we get to the topic of this blog . . . rainbows.

Think about it. Rainbows are light shot through drops of water that act like tiny prisms which refract that light into bands of color.

Therefore since God is light, then, He is all the colors of the rainbow. Do you see black or white?

Think about that for a moment.

Have you thought about it? Good. You are beginning to see the light!

Think about the rainbows you have observed in your lifetime. Did you know that you have to be at the right place at the right time to see one? If you look up the word 'rainbow' in Wikipedia you will read about why that statement is true. You will read that the colors in a rainbow go from red to violet. Here's the sequence: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. Rainbows can be caused not only by a rain shower but also by other forms of water including mist, spray, and dew. You've all seen a small rainbow while jumping through the sprinkler's mist on a hot summer's day, right? Fun, huh? That should be a requirement - to jump through some rainbows this summer. What do you think?

To be specific about how a rainbow is formed, Wikipedia explains that “the light is first refracted entering the surface of the raindrop, reflected off the back of the drop, and again refracted as it leaves the drop. The amount by which light is refracted depends upon its wavelength, and hence its colour.”

Did you know that there are also moonbows? Again Wikipedia explains: “Moonbows, a lunar rainbow or nighttime rainbow, can be seen on strongly moonlit nights. As human visual perception for colour is poor in low light, moonbows are often perceived to be white.” The human eye may see only white but the truth behind the white is the colors of red through violet.

If you would like to take a picture of a rainbow, then you would need a lens with a focal length of 19 mm or less. A wide-angle lens would be required. Powerful software for stitching several images into a panorama would be helpful.

You don't want to? Okay. But I will gently urge you, the next time you see a rainbow, to think about yourself and how you can shine your light on others. Remember you are red to violet . . . not black or white.

© nancy 4.24.2010

GLEE

OMG !!! If ya'll haven't watched GLEE yet, then go to www.hulu.com and catch the episode that ran last night.

I LOVE SUE SYLVESTER !!! You VOGUE, girl ! 
 
If you are one of the few who have not gotten bitten by the Gleeful bug yet, then roll your sleeves up, go to hulu and watch from episode one until now (or buy the DVD that's out) (or just watch last night's and you'll be hooked for sure). You'll be glad you put your skin out there to be stung by the best Broadway show on the airwaves. There's singing, dancing, angst of High School days, romance, competition . . .  you name it, it's there. If you are a word nut, then you will get your fix while watching this show. The writing is fabulous and the characters deliver them with panache. Especially Sue, whom I have to admit,  is addictive. I loved her on Boston Legal (and anything else she's done, actually) but she rocks on Glee.

Don't be afraid. Just do it! Get hooked and get Gleeful. You'll be glad you did.

(c) nancy 4.21. 2010

POOKA

“Pooka? What kind of title is that, and what is she going to write about now?”

Are you asking yourself that question? Well, I have to tell you that sometimes things just get in your head at midnight and you think . . .  I'll stay up and write a blog on that. Hopefully to the delight of a Pooka!

O.kay, I won't leave you hanging. Have you ever watched the Jimmy Stewart movie by the name “Harvey”? Then you know that Harvey, in the movie, is a Pooka. I would describe him, but I've never seen him. Only Jimmy Stewart can see him.

My father had a friend who said he could see him and even had a portrait of a Pooka above a fireplace to prove it. I wonder if Dad's friend and Jimmy were also friends by Pooka association? Maybe their Pookas were cousins and Mr. Hoover and Jimmy met while they traveled together? One can only hope.

Maybe we all need a Pooka. Someone who is there for you at all times . . . during the good and the bad . . .  who listens patiently and even laughs at your witty remarks. And you laugh at his or hers or is it an 'it'? It doesn't matter. Only that it has your back. 

Anyway, your Pooka may not be six feet or taller, have big hare-like ears, and open doors for you. Maybe yours has evolved into a real live person who lets you know they are there when you wake up in the morning and check your e-mails or Facebook, and “Poof!” . . .  there they are sending you a pat on the back and a “you can do it” verbal gesture or they make you giggle with their comments when you hadn't laughed all day.

So here's to all you Pookas out there . . .  THANK YOU! And to all you Pookaless persons out there - open your eyes and look around. There may be a Pooka standing right next to you who has your back.

P.S. Did you notice I don't have an image with this blog? I'll let you ponder that one. You'll understand if you think it through or watch "Harvey".

© nancy 4.16.2010

POLLEN

Almost a four-letter word, right?

You wish you could use it in a sentence like this . . .  “Oh for pollen's sake!” But instead, you can't speak because the little critters are stuck in your throat and only a dry cough escapes your pollinated lips.

I wondered this morning what our lungs would look like if x-rayed. Would they be yellow and coated like a smoker's would be due to inhaling a foreign substance for days on end? To that question, I looked up the word 'pollen' in Wikipedia. Don't go there! The little buggers are photographed in minuscule and you can see what they really look like . . . little round or irregular shaped universes that make your life miserable if you are allergic. And believe it or not, some even have wings. Yes! So you can't get away from them. They can fly.

Did you know that the smallest pollen grain is that of the Forget-Me-Not? I'm sure you will remember that fact every time you sneeze now. Achoo!!

Did you know that the study of pollen is called palynology? I wouldn't say that pollen was a pal of any kind. I'll leave it up to you to decide a better name for its study after you've spent weeks at the pharmacy counter studying old and new remedies for the seasonal pests.

If you read what Wikipedia has to say on the subject, you will see that these little devils have sex. Right under your noses!! Literally. If I look out of my window at this moment I can tell that these creatures have been up all night having fun while I slept. It must have been quite a party.

If you continue reading you will learn new spelling bee (excuse the reference) words to add to your voluminous list. Words like: microsporangium, sporopollenenin, eudicots, colpate, intine, cuticularized, etc., etc …

These words flow from your tongue like honey from a beehive. (There's that 'B' word again).

So the question remains . . . what to do?

Stay indoors as much as possible and write a blog about it!

© nancy 4.7.2010

LIFE AND DEATH

AND SOYLENT GREEN

Whoa!!! That's a heavy subject. Are you really going to write about that you may be asking yourself?

Yes. I am.

If you are a baby boomer like I am then your mom and dad are in their 80's or 90's. But some of you
at this point in your life have already had the big boom laid on your heart and watched your precious mom and/or dad go on before you to the land where there is no more pain, no more sorrow, no more tears. That's a good thing, right? That they are in a better place . . . without you?

I feel extremely fortunate that I still have my mother and father, both who are 91 years old and counting. My Dad wants to live to be 100. (And he did.) He has the genes. His family lives long and prospers. I am praying I have those genes and the good health that goes with it, bypassing any heart problems in the bloodline. Excuse my pun!

But my mother didn't fair as well. She has struggled through two triple bypasses and recovered famously. Then she found out she has old-age diabetes like her mother had (here again I pray that passed me by while swimming in the gene pool) and has to prick her beautiful, thin-skinned fingers three or more times a day. The first time she did it, I was with her and jumped when she jumped when that little needle came out of nowhere when she pressed the button and poof! . . .  there was that little bead of blood that would tell her if she was traveling up or down on the sugar road of life. It's no big thing now.

Lately, she hasn't felt so good. We tease about Soylent Green, and I tell her that if there was a Soylent Green factory around I would take her there when she was ready, and we would get her laid out on the table where Edward G. Robinson had lain and pick out the scene she would want to see playing on the big screen surrounding her bed and pick out the music she would like to hear. We'd say what we needed to say, and she would close her eyes, take her last breath and go on, leaving all her aches and pains behind. She could go with dignity and with your mind.

But there isn't any Soylent Green factory around so she has to go through the drudgery of these last days, and I have to see her do it. That's what you get with modern medicine. We are all living longer than our bodies wanted to live and are glad of the extra time to make memories but the end is still there for one to go through. We don't get a “Get out of Jail” card.

I hope that all of you out there reading this blog can send a prayer up for my precious mother and father that they may be able to get through this . . .  what words can I write? It's awful to have to let someone you love go when you know you won't see them again any time soon.

That's what hope is for . . .  hope for the day when we all get together in a place where all our sorrows are no more, tears are no more and we are with our loved ones forever.

© nancy 3.19.2010

THE BLACK PEARL:

PART TWO

Okay, so I just wanted to show you a picture I took yesterday of the "two cats snuggling" scenario. Doesn't the little black thing look too cute with its paw resting under its sleepy head? You can't see it 'cause she's black? I know what you mean. I have to use the magnifier in PhotoElements to get in closer to see the details.

But today is a big day. The little critter is trying to open its eyes! They really are glued shut at birth, and I swear they have to pry them open one micrometer at a time once they are about a week old. For this kitty, it has started at the corner of the eyes near the nose and so it's just a tiny peephole to the world beyond that has been as black as she is up until this point. Maybe it works that way so that the retina, lens, and what have you get adjusted slowly? It didn't reckon with the flash on my camera! I keep checking every hour to see the progress. You KNOW I'm going to take a picture of the thing and blind it with the flash once it opens its beady eyes completely.

BLAM!!!

What I really wanted to write about is . . . 

do you ever wake up in the morning and feel BLAH for no apparent reason?

The coffee you had for breakfast doesn't get the motor running. The birds chirping merrily outside because Spring is springing, and they are telling the world how happy they are about it, but you feel like a rainy day on the inside so their singing is lost on your ears? You might even be asking yourself, "Is this as good as it's going to get?" as you remember the days when you wished you had more time to do all the stuff on your list . . .  take Cookie to dance practice, pick Ricky's shirts up at the cleaners, take your mom to the doctor, do laundry, shop for the dinner party you thought would be fun but is now looming in front of you and you still haven't gotten number 15 and 16 done on that list. You didn't have time to feel yucky. Or maybe you just didn't allow yourself. You took two Advil and continued checking things off your list.

Now you have more time on your hands and more time to feel everything. Maybe it's finally caught up with you so you have to feel it all now 'cause you didn't take the time to feel it all then. Great. What do you do with it? You stare out the window and feel as cloudy as the sky above and heave a sigh like Eeyore when he heard Winnie-the-Pooh's exclamation of "Good Morning!"

Eeyore responded by saying, "Good morning, Pooh Bear. If it is a good morning . . .  which I doubt."

He goes on to say that we can't all be "Gaiety. Song-and-dance. Here we go round the mulberry bush." 

I agree Eeyore. What to do . . .  what to do.

Is this depressing enough? Here you thought you were going to read some charming, witty Part Two and it's done a 180 on you and you're feeling a bit unnerved. "Thanks a lot!" you exclaim towards me. "I thought I was having a McDonald's have-a-nice-day day.

Go get a coke and try to rev yourself back up to the happy place you were in before you read this blog.

Cheers! (That was me raising my coke to you).

Or you might try this approach. I think sometimes about a song I heard growing up. I believe it may have been a Disney cartoon based on Brer Rabbit talking to Brer Bear about his Laffin' Place . . . a secret place that Brer Rabbit likes to go to laugh. (Uncle Remus stories).

It goes something like this:

"Everybody's got a Laffin' Place 

a Laffin' Place, I know ho-ho.

Take a frown, turn it upside down 

and you'll find yours I know ho-ho."

Where's your Laffin' Place? I should use a dose of my own written medicine, find my Laffin'/Happy Place, and transport myself there right now.

Ahhh . . .  I can picture myself on a lounge chair with the breeze blowing my hair. The air smells fresh with the hint of the scents all around me. Like the water that is flowing under the pier. It has its own smell, not like the ocean or a lake, that is trapped in one place. Like the warm sun on my face that smells like sunshine and feels like a caress. Like the myriad birds flying overhead, and the leaves in the trees brushing against each other in the wind. I hear the sound of a distant motorboat and the cry of an egret. I can picture it all, breathe it all and see it all in my mind's eye. That's my Happy Place. It makes me smile.

And wouldn't you know that my beautiful momma cat, at this very moment as I am writing about a happy place, jumped up in my lap, put her paws on my chest, looked into my eyes, and began to purr?

Suddenly all's right with the world.

 

(c) nancy 3.12.2010