tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30841370670518853982024-03-12T18:26:24.914-07:00THAT'S NOT MY TABLETHAT'S NOT MY TABLE.
By day I write stories.
By night I wear an apron.
And in the middle somewhere is me.Susanne Brenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04376761569948838354noreply@blogger.comBlogger141125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3084137067051885398.post-18417785694154188482016-10-04T12:22:00.001-07:002016-10-04T12:22:16.758-07:00That's Not My Table Has Moved! <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbgMXn2NZuYiYIzifGocgBmXbq7gImdEkjpWzxR_xUP6zvvJJ0tAfGqSsTYEH25ouNjqdZM9tKGz5Yqafwgf_6IONUB75F0AryeDCSOy4zf8vtUGIELKBstygR9UBan63aHUl0eGlGkGE/s1600/100_0543.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbgMXn2NZuYiYIzifGocgBmXbq7gImdEkjpWzxR_xUP6zvvJJ0tAfGqSsTYEH25ouNjqdZM9tKGz5Yqafwgf_6IONUB75F0AryeDCSOy4zf8vtUGIELKBstygR9UBan63aHUl0eGlGkGE/s320/100_0543.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></b></div>
<b>I've moved! Well not my actual, physical office thought I did paint the walls peach instead of blue and got rid of that fuzzy thing hanging on the door and a few other decorative changes that really don't matter. What does matter is that you can now find my new blog at:</b><br />
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>https://thatsnotmytable.wordpress.com</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b> Didn't have to move any furniture or unplug a computer, but only had to click a few keys to reach my new home.</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b> Hope you will follow me. Thank you!</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<br />
<div class="_4tdt _ua1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; align-items: flex-end; background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: flex; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: normal; justify-content: flex-start; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 10px 9px 10px 8px; orphans: 2; position: relative; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div class="_ua2" style="display: flex; flex-direction: column; flex: 1 1 auto;">
<div class="_4tdv">
<div class="_5wd4 _1nc7 direction_ltr" style="direction: ltr; display: flex; flex-wrap: wrap; line-height: 1.28; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">
<div class="_h8t" style="flex-direction: column;">
<div class="_5wd9" style="margin-left: 8px; min-height: 24px;">
<div class="_5wde _n4o" style="clear: left; float: left; position: relative;">
<div class="_5w1r _3_om _5wdf" style="background-color: #f1f0f0; border-radius: 12px; border: 0px; color: #4b4f56; float: left; margin: 0px; max-width: 179px; min-height: 22px; min-width: 14px; overflow: hidden; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;">
<div class="_4gx_">
<div class="_d97" style="padding: 5px 8px 4px;">
<span class="_5yl5"><span><span><br /></span></span></span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="_3ry4" style="margin-left: 0px; text-align: right;">
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="_4tdt _ua0" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; align-items: flex-end; background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: flex; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: normal; justify-content: flex-end; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 10px 9px 10px 8px; orphans: 2; position: relative; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div class="_ua2" style="display: flex; flex-direction: column; flex: 1 1 auto;">
<div class="_4tdv">
<div class="_5wd4 _1nc6 direction_ltr" style="direction: ltr; display: flex; flex-wrap: wrap; justify-content: flex-end; line-height: 1.28; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">
<div class="_h8t" style="flex-direction: column;">
<div class="_5wd9" data-hover="tooltip" data-tooltip-content="12:10pm" data-tooltip-position="right" id="js_l" style="min-height: 24px;">
<div class="_5wde _n4o" style="clear: right; float: right; position: relative;">
<div class="_5w1r _3_om _5wdf" style="background-color: white; border-radius: 12px; border: 0px; color: white; max-width: 179px; min-height: 22px; min-width: 14px; overflow: hidden; position: relative; text-shadow: none; white-space: pre-wrap; width: 176px; word-wrap: break-word;">
<div class="_4gx_">
<div class="_d97" style="background-color: #4080ff; padding: 5px 8px 4px;">
<span class="_5yl5"><span><br /></span></span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />Susanne Brenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04376761569948838354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3084137067051885398.post-82861825714916780532016-08-26T10:55:00.002-07:002016-08-26T11:04:20.937-07:00To Cursive or not to Cursive...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLWfV8xxoGKrCfjT-ZBt9wF1DLpDuFnLhfmTGrFeK88S6EDj7cZaIMTzG_rA9SfM_emZQAL_XYjloN2h4CXfnsb27MlJMT63FWcbnVi_9dv8FNfrtjeZk4ma2hAPtNvXvBiPpKLVO2lZU/s1600/cursive+handwriting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLWfV8xxoGKrCfjT-ZBt9wF1DLpDuFnLhfmTGrFeK88S6EDj7cZaIMTzG_rA9SfM_emZQAL_XYjloN2h4CXfnsb27MlJMT63FWcbnVi_9dv8FNfrtjeZk4ma2hAPtNvXvBiPpKLVO2lZU/s1600/cursive+handwriting.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> I spent most my elementary school years staring at the proper way to write using cursive. This did not mean I did it well. My mind would wander during math, or science, to the cursive handwriting examples nailed to the classroom wall. I</b></span><b style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"> would ponder such great thoughts as why did the z looked so different in print than cursive. I hoped if I stared long enough at the script that maybe it would somehow seep into me, and I would achieve the word that no teacher ever said about my writing. Neat.</b><br />
<b style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></b>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> Teachers made us practice again and again the correct way to loop a p or curve a q. Printing was easier, sure, but it looked like the poor relation of cursive with its exotic swirls and twirls. Cursive possessed the soul of an artist, its flair difficult to achieve, unlike printing which any person able to hold a pencil could accomplish.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> In the third grade I remember the despair, well that's a big word for a third grade emotion, perhaps disappointment is better, at receiving a big fat U for my handwriting. U meant unsatisfactory. My best friends, the twins, Lisa and Cheryl Miller both got S for their cursive. Damn them. I'm not sure what was better than satisfactory. Perfection perhaps. All I know is I kept my U hidden from my friends. Actually, I lied. I told the twins I got an S, too. Sorry Lisa and Cheryl.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>And as years passed, I achieved that S. Except for me it meant Sloppy. My handwriting was sloppy. It just took too much time to make those careful As and elaborate Ks. I was always in a rush. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_wFSUkroFCM-a12ensxp0_rUm4Hcy2VW8v6sU6HSIepQRyHA6NGkMoLzu4hYdg7I_HOeuD35ZsiXOWUTqtCGAfJ3vqRhEE6rp8O-UDNfzXdle_YTGUfJJ4uYbSmAa-SKQAVxW0s72vmc/s1600/my+handwriting.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_wFSUkroFCM-a12ensxp0_rUm4Hcy2VW8v6sU6HSIepQRyHA6NGkMoLzu4hYdg7I_HOeuD35ZsiXOWUTqtCGAfJ3vqRhEE6rp8O-UDNfzXdle_YTGUfJJ4uYbSmAa-SKQAVxW0s72vmc/s320/my+handwriting.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> I write big and this actually is not as messy as I can write. I have to work hard to make my handwriting legible. In the long ago days we used to write personal letters to one another, that seems now as ancient as carving on stone slabs, I would receive letters from my friends with penmanship that was worthy of framing. Now and then friends would tease me about my the difficulty reading my handwriting, and I would try to improve. I would start the letter out neatly but, alas, it would dissolve into...sloppy. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> Here in Arizona there is a push to end cursive handwriting being taught in the schools. I can't imagine not knowing how to write in cursive, even if I am a poor example of the talent. I would feel cheated. Even though I've never excelled at it, I still like writing short personal notes with the flourishes of cursive. Today if I receive that rare note from someone written with cursive, it's like a gift. Who takes the time anymore?</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> Also, how could one sign their name properly? A signature in cursive shows it's really you. </b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwvpaDW5J1xUvBkLBFlzdbqzgLCOoQMT55mm28UYf36B3SDdKMZrXJx_N0mXyrPoGaXIYTGnLSIFLF_y1Du7ZKRfrbdOhfEJn8gpdTFp9f80CL3dAcXYnbGzgoXHBFMo3TFXBqN3m7Q44/s1600/moms+handwriting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwvpaDW5J1xUvBkLBFlzdbqzgLCOoQMT55mm28UYf36B3SDdKMZrXJx_N0mXyrPoGaXIYTGnLSIFLF_y1Du7ZKRfrbdOhfEJn8gpdTFp9f80CL3dAcXYnbGzgoXHBFMo3TFXBqN3m7Q44/s320/moms+handwriting.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> I cherish the letters and notes written in cursive that I've received through the years. When I read this last one written by my mother who died many years ago, it is like having her here with me. Print wouldn't have the emotional punch. I have saved many birthday cards and letters from family and friends. If I start to forget that person, all I have to do is look at their handwriting. I feel as if I have come home to them again. </b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKYqbCyIe8mbXnBd2Xy4WtlPZ-069nueIR2z6r_14LxWtIEKf0soGvkmTuBd8PulYulaCZLFHJCOn64aV1x7K5t19BsjU32m6j1vhklRTPtAswNFUBf2pVHe8Fz9FK8vCNc10L6Afwqjg/s1600/woman+writing.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKYqbCyIe8mbXnBd2Xy4WtlPZ-069nueIR2z6r_14LxWtIEKf0soGvkmTuBd8PulYulaCZLFHJCOn64aV1x7K5t19BsjU32m6j1vhklRTPtAswNFUBf2pVHe8Fz9FK8vCNc10L6Afwqjg/s320/woman+writing.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> If a writer tells you he or she doesn't use a computer, in all likelihood the writing is being done in cursive. There are some writers who still write manuscripts with pen and paper. There's some magic to that. I would do that except I'd never be able to read my own writing. At work we are required to write down a short note on receipts explaining why we had to give a guest something for free. I sometimes have to translate them for the manager. The other night the manager said to me, "you can't even read your own handwriting." </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> And he was right. I fear as I get older I will get that spindly handwriting that my grandma had. And yet, when I see my grandma's cursive on an old black and white photo, or in her bible, it looks gorgeous to me. Better than any computer print. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> Our handwriting is like snowflakes. There are no two alike. And I bet there are even some sloppy snowflakes out there who enjoy dancing from the heavens to the earth the same as the perfect ones.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> </b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjquhUzdvvyejtD-LQemDE0Pjd085pUddglQbqRQpGMwkalW0ZvBe5sY5xjPI7BKfW_QkCala4HZJWCUjUVgLG6rVPVOQ4IPVetWb9h2K2wgYLyZsPYyKhDKCsR-QRKOEq96z0LpATzxaI/s1600/snowflakes2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjquhUzdvvyejtD-LQemDE0Pjd085pUddglQbqRQpGMwkalW0ZvBe5sY5xjPI7BKfW_QkCala4HZJWCUjUVgLG6rVPVOQ4IPVetWb9h2K2wgYLyZsPYyKhDKCsR-QRKOEq96z0LpATzxaI/s320/snowflakes2.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>I</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>Susanne Brenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04376761569948838354noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3084137067051885398.post-57738913923342282722016-08-09T12:24:00.001-07:002016-08-09T12:56:13.912-07:00Story Time <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-bZ5dr1NyaGzmo9Gei6nejAgfcAZEWNuIKOx2yoPZ-rmb-dQn7flrpJBsnxX2m-3_ja-I4ExfFFY03y-TC9J5GQEDHsnOxEf8_TSxeKquWtpFZYEISy6wGnizt8njWq55x7X_iQauxiI/s1600/chicago.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-bZ5dr1NyaGzmo9Gei6nejAgfcAZEWNuIKOx2yoPZ-rmb-dQn7flrpJBsnxX2m-3_ja-I4ExfFFY03y-TC9J5GQEDHsnOxEf8_TSxeKquWtpFZYEISy6wGnizt8njWq55x7X_iQauxiI/s320/chicago.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>In the old days, </b></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>before we spent most of our time on cell phones, or staring at a computer screen, my parents would sit with my grandma and Great Aunt Louise at my grandma's kitchen table and tell stories about Chicago. They would tell story after story about their beloved city, from its street cars to its weather, to its politics. Chicago was entwined with who each of them was, for they had each played a role, however small, in what the city had become. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> I was too young to pay much attention, but I would pause from playing in my grandma's rambling, clapboard house in Chicago, long enough to listen and wonder why these stories meant so much to my family. Playing store with the cans in my grandma's pantry seemed way more fun. I enjoyed pretending I was a cashier at a grocery store. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> Now, of course, I wish I had recorded the personal history of the city where I was born. If only to hear the voices of my loved ones who had died, but it's too late. And I don't want to be a cashier. Still, listening to those stories instilled in me the love of story-telling which perhaps made me a writer. Even more so, I learned the importance of sharing our stories because through stories we grow closer. One doesn't need to be a writer to appreciate story telling. </b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-eYMtUjNNYhxbkPzE26c26taHHg-GI9DjdsZ22eIhYcV90cqw-_64uqZk0UMcsaJBI__hbVLsjM8GjM2iCsdlAiph5NlzZ1NSNBf2h3tSxPTnSiqHe1KxVErhxANZ8_NFfzxuw2f3uhA/s1600/bunny+book+ends.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-eYMtUjNNYhxbkPzE26c26taHHg-GI9DjdsZ22eIhYcV90cqw-_64uqZk0UMcsaJBI__hbVLsjM8GjM2iCsdlAiph5NlzZ1NSNBf2h3tSxPTnSiqHe1KxVErhxANZ8_NFfzxuw2f3uhA/s320/bunny+book+ends.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> On Friday I went to an estate sale and bought these bunny book ends. (Those are the books where my essays and stories are published. I hope it motivates me to write more, and make those bunnies really work at keeping the books upright.) Anyway, at the estate sale I noticed a lot of bunny items. There were bunny china figurines, bunny pictures, bunny kitchen towels and enough bunnies for a lifetime of Easter celebrations. I mentioned to the middle-aged man who was taking my money for items purchased, that the person who had lived there must have loved bunnies. Oh yes, he said. He looked please to tell the story about the woman who died. He said she didn't have dogs, or cats, or birds. She always had a bunny. One at a time. And she always named the bunny... Bunny. I was enchanted.</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm0M5QwgEZfzBrwcJh7wmww2dmTgQnl_wEJ4WpQY08G52Tz7TsmuarNxRMjrbHWPCnN4j1vlDw_2Zdg7LYPPi7N9GhWZcvo73cqEA99BcdeFh6qj0uHvJ3TSy5115RChawiESyOjGFulE/s1600/bunny+party+hat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm0M5QwgEZfzBrwcJh7wmww2dmTgQnl_wEJ4WpQY08G52Tz7TsmuarNxRMjrbHWPCnN4j1vlDw_2Zdg7LYPPi7N9GhWZcvo73cqEA99BcdeFh6qj0uHvJ3TSy5115RChawiESyOjGFulE/s1600/bunny+party+hat.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> "And," he said, warming to the subject. "She always had birthday parties for her bunnies." She was an elderly woman when she died, he said, but she had found a home for her last bunny.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> Before I left, I took another long look at the house, painted violet with purple trim. The story he told me felt important because it was about love. For bunnies. And I realized if he had told me a different story, about how much money she had, or how popular she was, or what an important job she had, I would have shrugged and not cared. It was her bunny story that I will remember. </b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvSQ72kkG3xSIQOFqdKTCca5DSdTiBOlhqCjqz4-mGOpv_pk5IxXqi38guSsPKecol4g3pzfroXa53VgxrX6MR-l3bEhSMYnsaSsRsxowEB1lmV-HsnWU3rkyGtCgZt9vlhyphenhyphenc9G346fUs/s1600/Jo+Anna+with+moose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvSQ72kkG3xSIQOFqdKTCca5DSdTiBOlhqCjqz4-mGOpv_pk5IxXqi38guSsPKecol4g3pzfroXa53VgxrX6MR-l3bEhSMYnsaSsRsxowEB1lmV-HsnWU3rkyGtCgZt9vlhyphenhyphenc9G346fUs/s320/Jo+Anna+with+moose.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> My friend Jo Anna died last March from breast cancer at 58. I think about the stories she would tell about growing up in Buffalo, New York. Her mother would take her to the zoo every day. Even in the winter. Imagine that. I won't remember, or care, if she had a big car or a big bank account. I will remember that when she tap danced she moved as if she was on a Broadway stage. She did her best. Her house with the claw-foot tub, and all her jewelry, belongs to someone else now. All that remains are the stories people remember about her. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHhjF3mOr5RMeII_7oLSzP5YgXqLbWNAe6cLMXi76gEYuZgPVd-XXiMHPfb7osCDnQLIDeEFqX9hEaitgpBESno7aNEM_j7WKWK260Etm2WumCqpLy86m3fMHpxo4toblA16UQJHnYx9g/s1600/Brucie+Adams.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHhjF3mOr5RMeII_7oLSzP5YgXqLbWNAe6cLMXi76gEYuZgPVd-XXiMHPfb7osCDnQLIDeEFqX9hEaitgpBESno7aNEM_j7WKWK260Etm2WumCqpLy86m3fMHpxo4toblA16UQJHnYx9g/s320/Brucie+Adams.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> I know material things are important for survival, but how often at funerals do people share stories about how someone drove a Lexus or managed well his 401k? What people talk about is the stories, the funny times, the crazy moments, how someone touched our life. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> Here's one about me. My first boyfriend was named Bruce Adams. He's that dapper little fellow just to the right of the photo of Fairview Elementary School. He was a year older than me and my neighbor. He was the first boy I ever kissed. Our relationship didn't progress past the third grade, and the kiss was just on his cheeks, but I will always remember Brucie. That was my nickname for him. He wore sweaters and bow ties to school. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> In then end, the stories are what remain. I feel happier knowing there was a woman who lived down the street from me who gave birthday parties for her bunnies. It's a great story. We all have great stories. We just need to tell them. </b></span>Susanne Brenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04376761569948838354noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3084137067051885398.post-9671976597600082432016-07-12T10:54:00.004-07:002016-07-12T11:17:55.865-07:00The Right Stuff <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy8CVLnYwJ62K8djxA33DAnRynZ7R3NI1Uy4rwN8NUFl9i_ZJkkDeVNWcoWgmowppVMWieCBjPC9-GXfR-ZCaR5P6m5gqV96Np6FcPdcDj_F74dWEXZbCAxb_XdYirFrUWfOTe6HCTuc4/s1600/eggs.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy8CVLnYwJ62K8djxA33DAnRynZ7R3NI1Uy4rwN8NUFl9i_ZJkkDeVNWcoWgmowppVMWieCBjPC9-GXfR-ZCaR5P6m5gqV96Np6FcPdcDj_F74dWEXZbCAxb_XdYirFrUWfOTe6HCTuc4/s320/eggs.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> My friend Tracy sent me this photo of deviled eggs she made. The picture is blurry, but it's still possible to make out her failed attempt. Tracy makes fabulous deviled eggs, or at least she did until she took the advice of a friend who told she had been doing them wrong. So she did what a friend suggested and made them another way. Instead of her usual delicious looking, and tasting, deviled eggs she got this mess of yellow and white. Tracy's going back to trusting her own tried and true methods. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> Why did she listen to her friend, when she already knew what worked for her? For the same reason we all question ourselves. We think we aren't doing it right. It's part of our endless quest to be perfect. To find the right path to success or love or happiness, or even making deviled eggs even better. They were fine to begin with. Her friend's right way, turned out to be Tracy's wrong way. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYMLH99S_xzjqNJj6DSexlTJht8RUcJQeWfTC-W-JvFMXYhmJwjDpEEXtW-CccgaD-76V4l87XGbSBMYUUIh9S-mrO4CKrac6ZXmJzzarP7X5S8MBrJ2oKn9kidcIAgpIPspBXakH1xJA/s1600/tap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYMLH99S_xzjqNJj6DSexlTJht8RUcJQeWfTC-W-JvFMXYhmJwjDpEEXtW-CccgaD-76V4l87XGbSBMYUUIh9S-mrO4CKrac6ZXmJzzarP7X5S8MBrJ2oKn9kidcIAgpIPspBXakH1xJA/s320/tap.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> In tap dance I want to do the steps the "right way." Yes tap steps are suppose to be done in a certain manner, but my tapping will never look like the teacher's tapping. Comparison makes me cringe. I try to remember I am different. First, my size 10 wide feet are way bigger than my teacher's in her snazzy little shoes. If I keep feeling as if there is something wrong about the way I tap dance because I don't look exactly like the teacher, I will be in perpetual frustration. Likely this is the reason many people come to a tap class once or twice and give up feeling they just don't look right. Especially when dance rooms are full of mirrors. Also, I can not do this dance step but it's fun to dream.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> Cooking or dance is like writing. Many a critique group I have participated in has included people who like to tell other people what is wrong about his or her writing. I'm sure in the early years, I did the same thing, act like a writing know-it-all.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> I avoid critique groups now as I've moved beyond searching for someone who knows exactly how I should be writing. There is no one but myself who knows just the right words I should be using in just the right manner. I must confess though a spiffy editor would always be nice to have. Missed words, wrong punctuation and questions about content is always appreciated. But not someone who wants to tell me the right way to write. </b></span><b style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"> </b><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> </b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_7jil6kV093Ohv_dJAOOGmWi125l-oczna3hMpQAgq9u-ZUdifZPoIojSybwga8uYkUamFNBugTqkLHM9GvGPm8-kOqYlZ4x03HHRMW6VXovFhyphenhyphenBOcP0eA5IriNsNeSCFyzZxKnyppVw/s1600/book+case.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_7jil6kV093Ohv_dJAOOGmWi125l-oczna3hMpQAgq9u-ZUdifZPoIojSybwga8uYkUamFNBugTqkLHM9GvGPm8-kOqYlZ4x03HHRMW6VXovFhyphenhyphenBOcP0eA5IriNsNeSCFyzZxKnyppVw/s320/book+case.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> At the retreat center in Oregon, I found this library. I loved how messy the books were on the shelves. Neat book shelves always look to me as if the books are just there for show. Each book was written by someone who pushed beyond the bounds of worrying whether they were doing something correctly, or changing what they were doing because someone else might have the secret to success. The writers took risks, made mistakes and kept writing. They did it their way. Not easy in this word of conformity. Standing out is not always prized and doing something "my way" can be faulted.</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiuuglZgKXogAFnFYIN7ApCQnoQBxjKorQs7mxLlZ6rWQ8D4yTQm29GBbkDL9aQRJtjpadonfv6TttK7dGaPp1TMZfsDcwag8mCkxneWak_1laJMH_wcXhtHwPcDUTVCrcaJU5JBC3_aw/s1600/My+way.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiuuglZgKXogAFnFYIN7ApCQnoQBxjKorQs7mxLlZ6rWQ8D4yTQm29GBbkDL9aQRJtjpadonfv6TttK7dGaPp1TMZfsDcwag8mCkxneWak_1laJMH_wcXhtHwPcDUTVCrcaJU5JBC3_aw/s320/My+way.jpg" width="247" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> Which makes me think of Frankie. I always liked how Sinatra sang <i>My Way.</i> And it was a big hit likely because he sang it with conviction and style. Oh he did have style. So don't let anyone dim the light inside of you that needs to shine. Trust yourself to be creative, to live life, the only way possible. Your way. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> </b></span>Susanne Brenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04376761569948838354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3084137067051885398.post-47133277962208165472016-06-08T11:05:00.002-07:002016-06-08T13:09:09.120-07:00The Good Old Days of the Restaurant Business<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg67vuqERFcHRM1MXGFS_Xg6Vqe7iQVqBaS_AStvRB6Q3eLr58jSXHJsudXrP741r99WSLTHtKARYmg5eYC9tMDL8XpHthWg2v3TBCTeSMJJ0beWMdQtrDavJLYo73jlOdR_GXyJMbe6ZA/s1600/goat+cheese.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg67vuqERFcHRM1MXGFS_Xg6Vqe7iQVqBaS_AStvRB6Q3eLr58jSXHJsudXrP741r99WSLTHtKARYmg5eYC9tMDL8XpHthWg2v3TBCTeSMJJ0beWMdQtrDavJLYo73jlOdR_GXyJMbe6ZA/s320/goat+cheese.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> I was watching a black and white comedy sitcom from the early </b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>1960s the other night after work. The dialogue was corny and the plot trite, though the living room set with the giant lamps, glass ash trays and low couches, reminded me of my childhood and that was fun. I was about to turn the channel, when one of the characters, an elderly uncle from "the old country" talked about sharing some goat cheese he brought over on the boat with him. The man and woman hosting the uncle were aghast. They exchanged embarrassed glances and looked ashamed. It was obvious they thought their uncle was out of touch with the modern times. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> Now if the uncle had gotten as excited about this miracle of the 1960s, he would have been met with approval from his relatives. Velveeta cheese.</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDDabmlYRiBD0DHgTy7dKwDYXs17f5CFP6VmvVvdZcolt-jUje3XMaQEhE2cE8W_rFyx8FEhxAP5Rnke7-qZd6IlcpjW7GvOaIBjGSHM4CAav8gU7Ej7d8VF_9FriBa9adAsFx-hvXMTM/s1600/velvetta+cheese.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDDabmlYRiBD0DHgTy7dKwDYXs17f5CFP6VmvVvdZcolt-jUje3XMaQEhE2cE8W_rFyx8FEhxAP5Rnke7-qZd6IlcpjW7GvOaIBjGSHM4CAav8gU7Ej7d8VF_9FriBa9adAsFx-hvXMTM/s1600/velvetta+cheese.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> Sure it always worried me why I didn't need to keep it refrigerated, but it lasted forever. Economical. Easy to slice and melt. So creamy. Fast forward to 2016. I suspect people today hide the fact that they even buy the stuff, burying the Velveeta cheese beneath chunks of goat cheese in their shopping carts. It's so not cool. And it's equally not hip to say one does not like goat cheese. I don't like goat cheese. I am not hip. There I admitted it. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> It's impossible to go to a resturant today and not find goat cheese on the menu. And there are other dining trends I don't find appealing. </b></span><b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Kale doesn't interest me, and I don't like beets. Every menu today includes the red, orange and, yes even purple, root vegetable. In one word. Yuck. </span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyprLyaoUlBxcFww1oemtJ8Ov85VR7JGGvtr_C8ASuOUc5LiKJ6LQzA3swG0t7D4bwfyGR8Y-uWZclTiZ5U8souPTooSSxHulhQXR6jLeACHgsyTXYUU3RecRx-o-JOxCBaQznufZ7hPY/s1600/beets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyprLyaoUlBxcFww1oemtJ8Ov85VR7JGGvtr_C8ASuOUc5LiKJ6LQzA3swG0t7D4bwfyGR8Y-uWZclTiZ5U8souPTooSSxHulhQXR6jLeACHgsyTXYUU3RecRx-o-JOxCBaQznufZ7hPY/s320/beets.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> As a kid, beets were what my grandma liked on Thanksgiving. My mother put out a special bowl for her. Speaking of trendy, I don't like the trend of uncomfortable chairs at restaurants. Today restaurants are furnished, as my English professor Dr. Haley once said about another professor, "with style over substance." Everything is metal. Who besides a masochist enjoys sitting on metal? </b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghNC1JgOHuDbcTl6qI2sgffn2gPnJFfpzBYd4K5vM3OcRDfmfbGgZ-gzHDkkOpVI3s8jGH1iHj5T44N614T9wNCLBWDbcdmD1vQyt8HDURx3DWAE-btKJ8OMRYvcq296jckN-GiFGQOOo/s1600/metal-restaurant-chair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghNC1JgOHuDbcTl6qI2sgffn2gPnJFfpzBYd4K5vM3OcRDfmfbGgZ-gzHDkkOpVI3s8jGH1iHj5T44N614T9wNCLBWDbcdmD1vQyt8HDURx3DWAE-btKJ8OMRYvcq296jckN-GiFGQOOo/s200/metal-restaurant-chair.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> The other day my friend, Tracy, and I went out to eat. By the end of our meal my back was killing me. Her shoulder hurt, likely from the position of her back. I don't have a back problem, but I felt as if I was going to suffer from one after our meal. Tracy and I love to gab, more than we like to write, but we didn't stick around long after finishing eating. The chairs in restaurants have become like small torture devices, and maybe that's what restaurants want, to move people in and move them out. No lingering.</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzIKfeTonc5klhX93ogcSOOpzPdlO89shu8JAX1gM0BafhWGq9IHNu6xNn-x7kARYtzGcZVmw-xQKAOhrbePoOkAs48GvPLqCFkI89Q8AubG1B-QWroKIYnTqKD8iAMxRRTMKdNIEf3Lc/s1600/pictures+of+comfortable+booth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzIKfeTonc5klhX93ogcSOOpzPdlO89shu8JAX1gM0BafhWGq9IHNu6xNn-x7kARYtzGcZVmw-xQKAOhrbePoOkAs48GvPLqCFkI89Q8AubG1B-QWroKIYnTqKD8iAMxRRTMKdNIEf3Lc/s320/pictures+of+comfortable+booth.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> Now here's a place to linger. Trouble is you need a time machine back to 1970. Call me ancient, but I like comfort. My bones appreciate softness. They rebel against hard metal. I could sleep in that deep, dark booth. Even the plump bar stools look inviting. It looks quiet, too, a resturant one could actually converse with a dinner companion. Booths are so not 2016. It's a shame.</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi18fhL_9M92yV_H4MP_H_72QPhKYJPpDzpmFavgFwIFaELwmIScnFKgmmBxdoxgTCbDxyK4qLPy121tY58NJQdxDBc4yb-oCDEP0wvt9gXDpa6KFPR-ohHSTO75Mzdj1zSEXoMY0ncBWg/s1600/kitchen+workers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi18fhL_9M92yV_H4MP_H_72QPhKYJPpDzpmFavgFwIFaELwmIScnFKgmmBxdoxgTCbDxyK4qLPy121tY58NJQdxDBc4yb-oCDEP0wvt9gXDpa6KFPR-ohHSTO75Mzdj1zSEXoMY0ncBWg/s320/kitchen+workers.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> I have another question. Why, please, tell me why, people like open kitchens? What enjoyment is there in looking at stainless steel appliances. Do people go to construction sights and watch workers dig holes? Do crowds visit hospitals to watch a surgeon remove a kidney? I don't get it. And it's loud. I don't need clattering of dishes, flames shooting from pans, and conversations between chefs. It's intrusive. Unless I'm sitting in a friend's kitchen, as I sat one summer day in my friend Stella's kitchen and watched her roll out dough and make a blueberry lavender pie, I'm not interested. I don't need to watch people earn a living. By the way, Stella is as gifted as making a pie as writing a poem.</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGY84HaTiz9fDYV9D3IhUm6b2lzh7nFix_jtjNB7okyG3vUUh7jjvO4J40ng0pKzTMM7lEd0U7l21waJRSoPrGj-oc1y03T1IojhCvpv-Fm6ZXPt8ha67nsiqURVB_eUkY4QcPnTcagqk/s1600/old+school+resturant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGY84HaTiz9fDYV9D3IhUm6b2lzh7nFix_jtjNB7okyG3vUUh7jjvO4J40ng0pKzTMM7lEd0U7l21waJRSoPrGj-oc1y03T1IojhCvpv-Fm6ZXPt8ha67nsiqURVB_eUkY4QcPnTcagqk/s320/old+school+resturant.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> Yes. No kitchen in sight in this resturant. No televisions, either. A resturant manager said to me once that an open kitchen "creates drama." We get enough drama in the national news and in our lives. It would take time to find the kitchen in this resturant, and that's fine with me if I never found the kitchen. I just want to eat the good food that it produced. Let the employees do their jobs without an audience. </b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2GhiuNJvYAlIvTMqC5nsUGkb5wA-Fa9VidsDS0h0W32BOG2Zev1JB_sfsKJAdFfSCx5IesCr8cD_qD3GCl8Ux3r87a24fYiMAZ2dpwHf37r6hxv_GstG5osKmMYkaOa9MBqiaJwW5Eds/s1600/server+with+tattoss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2GhiuNJvYAlIvTMqC5nsUGkb5wA-Fa9VidsDS0h0W32BOG2Zev1JB_sfsKJAdFfSCx5IesCr8cD_qD3GCl8Ux3r87a24fYiMAZ2dpwHf37r6hxv_GstG5osKmMYkaOa9MBqiaJwW5Eds/s320/server+with+tattoss.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> One of my fellow servers got a job at a hip new resturant in town. Everyone there has tattoos and piercings. He said this with pride. I don't need a server with a ring in her nose or tattoos of Chinese symbols on her arms to make a meal taste delicious. My friend Gloria's mother was a server, and she wore a crisp black dress with nylons and white apron. Neat and clean. She didn't look as if she wanted to be a drummer in a rock band. I get it. Tattoos and piercings are popular, but knowing my server will have arms that have been colored with a tiny needle, does not inspire me to rush to try out a new resturant. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> All of the above makes me sound as if I'm a cranky old server. Maybe I am. I will end with a modern trend I really appreciate lest you think I'm totally stuck in 1977.</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS2-dvWjHxokZDqN8iqJPbrztGmt2la6Hx_5wS1WmkmtFFowVuA_H9i92Lilw0tHzIJ_tUwglarfxHmC3iKEz_MKq-MpeF52-JWA9QHlVSykFt7uf1uapfX10OuNt5T4G7t5VFp9rjTuA/s1600/barconic-wine-carafes_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS2-dvWjHxokZDqN8iqJPbrztGmt2la6Hx_5wS1WmkmtFFowVuA_H9i92Lilw0tHzIJ_tUwglarfxHmC3iKEz_MKq-MpeF52-JWA9QHlVSykFt7uf1uapfX10OuNt5T4G7t5VFp9rjTuA/s320/barconic-wine-carafes_1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> Wine has really improved. In the old days we served just three types, Chablis, Burgundy or Rose. In carafes. It was cheap. And it tasted cheap. Now we have extensive wine lists. I drink wine that comes everywhere from the coast of California to the wilds of Australia. Oh and I like tofu. See. I'm not THAT old fashioned. But don't try to sell me on beets. Ain't happening. </b></span>Susanne Brenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04376761569948838354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3084137067051885398.post-26119319831885487752016-05-26T10:49:00.001-07:002016-05-26T10:49:08.238-07:00Memoir Writing 101<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHzSCdxFEdFY-BNAV-nywgeQpIPr3PN2o8OA9-0g2_tsPGTqjxHhtuFGFRb_LexxaOfZDYW-4ZxCp80UMg1KVNTR50Wxtvm-uSRpS6KXXtYxe6qczUXoo6ODZJsJnHKaiRjb0DyZ-airU/s1600/childhood+home.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHzSCdxFEdFY-BNAV-nywgeQpIPr3PN2o8OA9-0g2_tsPGTqjxHhtuFGFRb_LexxaOfZDYW-4ZxCp80UMg1KVNTR50Wxtvm-uSRpS6KXXtYxe6qczUXoo6ODZJsJnHKaiRjb0DyZ-airU/s320/childhood+home.jpg" width="178" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Ever want to write a memoir? Getting started can be the hardest part. There's so much to say and yet...where to begin? </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>This is an advertisement for a home similar to the one I grew up with in a suburb of Chicago. Beside the yellowed paper, another clue that the ad wasn't in today's newspaper, is the $14,950 price tag for a three bedroom house on a half acre lot. Today, for that price, people could buy only the front porch. Or maybe just the porch steps. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>The floor plan of the house is simple, empty square boxes. </b></span><b style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Yet when I applied my memories to the lines signifying space, I saw my bedroom there in the back. And what do you know, there I am sitting in front of my mirrored dresser listening to Motown music on my pink and purple record player. I liked to pretend I was the fourth member of Diana Ross and the Supremes. As I sang off key and danced around my small room, I felt as if any moment Diana might telephone me and ask me to join her and the other girls on a concert tour. Alas, I never got that call. </b><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> In the front bedroom, I saw my little brother Billy in his bedroom with baseball cards splayed out around him. In the kitchen my mother wearing an apron prepared our meal, something with meat and potatoes. Afterall, this was the Midwest and a meal without meat was like going outside in a blizzard without boots. Just wrong. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>My father was more of a shadowy figure. He was gone a lot at his job in Chicago </b></span><b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">so we could live, as the ad states, in our "miracle of a house" in the suburbs. I was shocked to see the total square footage of the house where four of us lived was less than the home I live in now with one another person. And yet, I don't remember the smallness. I remember stories triggered by this old ad.</b><br />
<b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></b>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>When I taught a Memoir Writing class, I would suggest the class draw a picture of the house where they grew up, or a home that had a great significance in his or her life. Don't worry about drawing abilities, just sketch and then start writing. Keep writing and remember no one ever has to read what you wrote. Unless you want to be published, and then you must be very brave and tell the truth. Splashing your life with pink paint and sprinkling glitter on it might make you feel better but it will bore your readers.</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpe2MW0ggL6G2-f0J2f4ghJnCRBpo_rSsOfaGJmraMlyz6gWZOxcBArWOhossazk__V1bceQz8hof-oeb4X2Yttd3ndqBiFeI49XcXu6z-3sWTF8_4of1PnPBe69AH8GE48nxyKRMrzrM/s1600/IMG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpe2MW0ggL6G2-f0J2f4ghJnCRBpo_rSsOfaGJmraMlyz6gWZOxcBArWOhossazk__V1bceQz8hof-oeb4X2Yttd3ndqBiFeI49XcXu6z-3sWTF8_4of1PnPBe69AH8GE48nxyKRMrzrM/s320/IMG.jpg" width="247" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Photos are helpful when writing a memoir. Us old-timers still have those relics called photo albums stashed in a closet. When I look at this photo of myself I see so much more than my big tummy, bunchy swim suit, and pixie hair cut. I remember minnows nibbling my toes, burnt red shoulders that my mom slathered with Noxema. (Now I try not to think about skin cancer.) Then I remember I almost drowned in Lake Michigan and my father saved me. That would be a good place to start a story. </b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>The writer Margaret Atwood said people get bored at looking at other people's happy vacation photos of, for example, serene picnics by waterfalls. She said add a swarm of bees to that picnic and people in a panic. The glazed-over look in people's eyes will vanish and turn to excitement. People like drama. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>I've had many students say they could never publish a memoir until their parents had died. I understand that. We don't want to hurt our loved ones. Or people will say they would never want their children to read about their pasts. Okay. Then write just for yourself or edit your life and give that version to the family. If you want to tell the complete story, with all the warts and toads, then it's courage time. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>If you want to get published, or even self publish, the one telling the truth is the one that will get read and purchased. I'm 100 percent certain of that.</b></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMDypviPVaBLjmiwBAudHlPREdrsk6hoV5tB5aiVTVRWHIAOQeqRn0ZJ2C1COx56EFD9Ydqt-Y2KE5xdKfWsKyE-hJdIyLBn8dumAfGs7A8X_-ZXfH36S9b6y7AUevaR1gPGrTZmgKjfk/s1600/trailier+park.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMDypviPVaBLjmiwBAudHlPREdrsk6hoV5tB5aiVTVRWHIAOQeqRn0ZJ2C1COx56EFD9Ydqt-Y2KE5xdKfWsKyE-hJdIyLBn8dumAfGs7A8X_-ZXfH36S9b6y7AUevaR1gPGrTZmgKjfk/s320/trailier+park.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>If possible, visit a significant place that holds memories. I once lived in a trailer park. That is a difficult sentence for me to write. I like to think of myself as a non- trailer person. Silly. When I revisited my former home in Colorado, I stared in disbelief that I had ever lived there, in a place where it snows ten months of the year surrounded by hippies on a Rocky Mountain High. Wait. I was a hippie. I remember and yet I had forgotten. I've met many people my age who have rewritten their past. Tuned it up. That's fine. But if you write that story it is fiction. Not memoir. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>The longer I sat in the dusty parking lot, did more memories return. All those long haired people with blue jeans </b></span><b style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">unmarried and living together, unconcerned with ambitions or material things. I had never heard of tofu until I moved to the trailer park. </b><b style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">The black lab I had that ran away. I named him Too Far. No joke. My neighbor, a skinny hippie who kept only vitamins in her refrigerator. I loved to go to the free box at the laundromat and dig out clothing. Is that a detail I want to share with the public? Not really. But it tells a lot about my lifestyle and who I was then. And who I was then, made me who I am today. I love thrift stores. </b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm6Qos3S8JGq5ci0AxJXjgcY89pgUd39cWO7zEME596uTa1rtOsLZmEXqVZMuFNA9-sO7XsojE1RFEhnyxq-pwECVLaM61Wr9aIy-uV86r5_LbBep-GxqbguiHS5y-xO6hzKu_xfDoyX8/s1600/book+case.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm6Qos3S8JGq5ci0AxJXjgcY89pgUd39cWO7zEME596uTa1rtOsLZmEXqVZMuFNA9-sO7XsojE1RFEhnyxq-pwECVLaM61Wr9aIy-uV86r5_LbBep-GxqbguiHS5y-xO6hzKu_xfDoyX8/s320/book+case.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Another tip. Read memoirs. </b></span><b style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">There are too many to list. We all have our favorites. Read as many as you can, on all topics, written by all types of people. Start with Anne Lamott. She's my favorite. But you might have your own.</b><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQSJpAjCYRgScKl2DG5PQVu18xxY8OuYjrKq21Rc5yYlbTNVw1fgJarOqGMZL36aHYmIB06bpNs471rOFB0yKuMaw6Uri8K6BYg3tfqqMBP0CCNGj5o8qHqW3mXXEilZ_WvcEImcyXk7Q/s1600/diana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQSJpAjCYRgScKl2DG5PQVu18xxY8OuYjrKq21Rc5yYlbTNVw1fgJarOqGMZL36aHYmIB06bpNs471rOFB0yKuMaw6Uri8K6BYg3tfqqMBP0CCNGj5o8qHqW3mXXEilZ_WvcEImcyXk7Q/s320/diana.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Finally, listening to music can reconnect us to our past. To this day when I hear <i>Stop in the Name of Love </i>I remember singing in my bedroom. Still waiting for that call from Diana, though. </b></span>Susanne Brenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04376761569948838354noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3084137067051885398.post-36805565908829659372016-03-29T12:21:00.004-07:002016-04-07T05:21:32.863-07:00Obituary to a Dying Car<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmB0p7a7b53atCWSdwCMMKaIp3w3S0gftUl5bES5utoYFRZ4oBi9jj20lYb6MZFUNXJ2WU0IhmjmyQjtAua45yiXQu8pfKm3v1DmNtk0oBNsio3Na2b0Lyg_RWevvX1xt7ncmijB7i7UA/s1600/my+car.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmB0p7a7b53atCWSdwCMMKaIp3w3S0gftUl5bES5utoYFRZ4oBi9jj20lYb6MZFUNXJ2WU0IhmjmyQjtAua45yiXQu8pfKm3v1DmNtk0oBNsio3Na2b0Lyg_RWevvX1xt7ncmijB7i7UA/s320/my+car.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> A friend died recently and this made me think about obituaries, hers left out some important details or so I thought, and how I wouldn't want to leave it up to someone else to write my obituary. When I first became a reporter, I was assigned to writing the obituaries, something at my young age I found dreary and bothersome. Death was just so boring. Now I see that was one of my most important reporting jobs. The obituary is the last, and possibly the only, time a person might be remembered in print unless famous. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> Next I wondered what photo I might use for my obituary which made me think of my old car which is about to die. Easier to face my car dying than me. Besides, I have more miles left on me. I hope. This photo above is how my Nissan 200SX looked when purchased new in 1996. I don't have the heart to show you how it looks today after 177,000 miles. Yet, I don't want to let go. I've always had a love affair with cars, some betrayed me, others I dumped, and some I've loved forever long after they died. My 1996 Nissan was reliable and sturdy and got me where I needed to go. But all good things must end. Sigh.</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmnu5fsu86HgQ2y96XUY1QkmE6sqnEyqkqxB3dMejkpmJJRE9h7XSUNQ9PvZgmMYGeyEbglnn7tp5pz6BUXSapK2E_tVKxpJktSPTpJkAUjlXLo4DwSQyE3qYaGRz7jw1Iv2AtSHcOuHI/s1600/IMG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmnu5fsu86HgQ2y96XUY1QkmE6sqnEyqkqxB3dMejkpmJJRE9h7XSUNQ9PvZgmMYGeyEbglnn7tp5pz6BUXSapK2E_tVKxpJktSPTpJkAUjlXLo4DwSQyE3qYaGRz7jw1Iv2AtSHcOuHI/s400/IMG.jpg" width="308" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>My Uncle Ray and Uncle John were both car salesmen in Chicago. They always had some snazzy cars, usually new and the size of boats, and I liked when they visited and parked at our house. I remember feeling very special because my first communion white dress matched my uncle's car. I can't remember my uncles without picturing their impressive rides.</b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>I really liked my mother's groovy Gran Torino. Here I am on my way to high school in my purple outfit about to drive a lime green car. (with green interior) The radio speakers in that car were amazing. I could blast the Monkees or Led Zeppelin while cruising around Hoffman Estates with the other pom pom girls. Life didn't get any better than that. I felt grown up.</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb-mYRnlu7EPIpkv0_si99mzvSgQz2uuQlczYHDLoXDTGVbLWjdWR8wsEMW_mNpCSkazAN0ZUcuPR2F5Z7SStdzC0LJCy-P8s6ni095_jfxduh8Uh6DpaFP2SXq6DtBL9yqKHEtPTYl-o/s1600/IMG_0002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb-mYRnlu7EPIpkv0_si99mzvSgQz2uuQlczYHDLoXDTGVbLWjdWR8wsEMW_mNpCSkazAN0ZUcuPR2F5Z7SStdzC0LJCy-P8s6ni095_jfxduh8Uh6DpaFP2SXq6DtBL9yqKHEtPTYl-o/s640/IMG_0002.jpg" width="488" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>Then I met my first true love. It was all mine. A 1977 Camaro. Had three miles on it when I drove it off the Chicago lot. Sigh. I miss my Camaro, or maybe I miss being a young again. Whatever. The memories I made with that car still make my heart sing. Oh to be able to go back to those glory days. Our first loves are like that. There is nothing like that first new car of our very own. Nothing will replace my 1977 Camaro. Oh sure I know now that it is not practical. The two doors, too low to the ground, no back seat. But at the time, my Camaro was everything I hoped and dreamed. Alas, I had to let it go when there was a big hole in the floor board and the lack of air conditioning and living in Arizona made it impractical. There's that word again. Practical.</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsu2X1gAb-HydfoN0Y-TBO_JCMIyGzyO2Q2_BztzKGI72GiHXb-ML-2YvsrJwHFnE4CuwbBLfVyRwdnf-bEq5W7ZmcFryqaxLYWileigyzaDeDKdRnrGgy5DqNoUUFWkqUMiH__n2ZyhE/s1600/IMG_0004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsu2X1gAb-HydfoN0Y-TBO_JCMIyGzyO2Q2_BztzKGI72GiHXb-ML-2YvsrJwHFnE4CuwbBLfVyRwdnf-bEq5W7ZmcFryqaxLYWileigyzaDeDKdRnrGgy5DqNoUUFWkqUMiH__n2ZyhE/s400/IMG_0004.jpg" width="308" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> You can tell the age of this photo as I look like my poodle Darla. Perms used to be hip. Oh but my Camaro looks gorgeous. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>The next vehicle I owned, a Dodge Mini Van, was like a bad date that never ended. I kept wanting to dump it but drove it because nothing else was available. Or so I thought. In reality, just like in dating, there were plenty of other vehicles in the sea. Toxic relationship to the max. I don't even have a photo of it. Just the word Dodge makes me cringe. Let's just say it defined the word lemon.</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfIMA4XUren0vafrJuqDj9KVVO5U670bHdc0oaCwbb24qsNpwl9vMV5ywadK9Y8ssYBjnXqslrL7_X0YwVRuGKasRKl8j3ie_LKuMgtRLNu-tNJruhZXnX39x23rKkshyq9y04fMiG4o8/s1600/IMG_0005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfIMA4XUren0vafrJuqDj9KVVO5U670bHdc0oaCwbb24qsNpwl9vMV5ywadK9Y8ssYBjnXqslrL7_X0YwVRuGKasRKl8j3ie_LKuMgtRLNu-tNJruhZXnX39x23rKkshyq9y04fMiG4o8/s320/IMG_0005.jpg" width="247" /></a></b></span></div>
<br />
<b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then the Nissan 200SX replaced the mini van and my faith in cars was restored again. In between, I had a brief fling with a Nissan truck. </b><b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> I realized I'm not a truck person. Oh trucks are fine, but unless I'm hauling hay, who needs all that extra space. The truck was easy to put on Craig's list and watch drive away.</b><br />
<b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></b>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>Alas, now it is time for my Nissan 200SX to go to the junk yard or a mechanic with a lot of free time who really wants an old Nissan. Won't hold my breath on that one.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>I need to do some test driving. Date around. See what's out there. And I think I've just written my Nissan's obituary. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>Finally here's my grandpa and grandma Ellickson standing proudly by their car. Wonder how fast it could go on the freeway? Wait I don't think there were freeways then. My grandparents are gone and I imagine so is the car, but oh what a good way to be remembered. I hope they enjoyed the ride. </b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGZ0TFAykXbB8GgJLXLVJeJKRBLSmC_i4p49Kn97m7W9AxQMAm4HXY2XYaROfkCvvu_dHJps1IobkYG74s7ICN64ZV8xQY-kP8DSKYmCixZdlDa5efjQDFDfIypG7UsRXunlKlgwQ968c/s1600/IMG_0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGZ0TFAykXbB8GgJLXLVJeJKRBLSmC_i4p49Kn97m7W9AxQMAm4HXY2XYaROfkCvvu_dHJps1IobkYG74s7ICN64ZV8xQY-kP8DSKYmCixZdlDa5efjQDFDfIypG7UsRXunlKlgwQ968c/s640/IMG_0001.jpg" width="492" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Susanne Brenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04376761569948838354noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3084137067051885398.post-28720202196404825502016-02-25T12:21:00.003-07:002016-02-25T12:38:06.243-07:00Middle-Aged Barbie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiqvWuWElQ2ARR-LIJNkduTwqga18ou8UJGYGWpdjd2IIpfQpblCWW7faF6lUm_0QBJ1EiSphSm_yxo73rOUUIbfnDw5z53qHOKQ_RliOJwKhyphenhyphenRe5143mcyvoQiPks7dvEkarubfJRDCY/s1600/barbie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiqvWuWElQ2ARR-LIJNkduTwqga18ou8UJGYGWpdjd2IIpfQpblCWW7faF6lUm_0QBJ1EiSphSm_yxo73rOUUIbfnDw5z53qHOKQ_RliOJwKhyphenhyphenRe5143mcyvoQiPks7dvEkarubfJRDCY/s320/barbie.jpg" width="264" /></a></div>
<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> Age has brought a deeper understanding between myself and Barbie.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> When I get off work at night I like to eat popcorn and watch television. I don't smoke, but a glass of wine often accompanies my private party on the couch. Yes I have pink slippers. Barbie and I have truly become kindred spirits. Have you ever seen Barbie smile so big?</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> When I was young, I loved my Barbie doll. She was my best friend, but oh how I envied her lifestyle. I was jealous of her. Of course when I played with her I never had her sitting on the couch alone. Never.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Barbie was an extension of me, a way to escape into a magical place with coordinating clothing, permanent make up and straight shimmery hair. She lived in my Barbie "dream house." I lived in a tract home with a pesky little brother. She was the dream me. </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I will always be grateful to Barbie for she helped develop my creativity through the pretend conversations and imagined scenarios we had together. I breathed life into her and she taught me to play.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> My Barbie rode</span></b><b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> horses, danced in gowns and kissed dashing Ken on the beach. Now I bet Barbie as seen above on the couch would be fine if Ken was safely tucked beneath his sleep apnea machine while she watched a rerun of Gilmore Girls.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> For I'm certain now for middle-aged Barbie, as for myself, it is just too much work to choose the right outfit, totter on high heels and make small talk with people we don't like anymore. Barbie, at 50, is content with a bowl of popcorn, a remote and letting it all hang out. Skipper, the little sister, Midge, the best friend, or even Ken, don't need to be hanging around all the time, either. There's always email. </span></b><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpkf2C7qZ2o2KYbDQ5F4MF5ZmNwHHZzU70SjxFRcqaNjV849qX7LtLoyuXRO4tw94xR3UzjoPYt1r7Pp0G5tVjHvMWXLAMLiAOuuJ0PzUhHOeFWqH1aMmvvMT3V8EcEEHbp-9C5sqXXSI/s1600/Vintage+Barbie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpkf2C7qZ2o2KYbDQ5F4MF5ZmNwHHZzU70SjxFRcqaNjV849qX7LtLoyuXRO4tw94xR3UzjoPYt1r7Pp0G5tVjHvMWXLAMLiAOuuJ0PzUhHOeFWqH1aMmvvMT3V8EcEEHbp-9C5sqXXSI/s1600/Vintage+Barbie.jpg" /></a></span></b></div>
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> This is the Barbie I grew up with. How I coveted that chic black and white suit. Alas, my breasts did not point as high, my legs were not as long and my lips did not stay permanently cherry-colored. My eyes were not blue or my hair the color of honey. I both hated and loved her. Still I wanted to be her.</span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMdXDHSqTTNIPFhErq8JciIH0qiaGovhOzUlOeHDNYdf6c9yzu38WldtQlNB8TOKHJQE1WKVBlQM4nzfsE7ve5BFsq3_IApgG-HQb1zm4CAdBADq2NUNPxHdt39dCk9D1aY_GXdkks65Y/s1600/IMG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMdXDHSqTTNIPFhErq8JciIH0qiaGovhOzUlOeHDNYdf6c9yzu38WldtQlNB8TOKHJQE1WKVBlQM4nzfsE7ve5BFsq3_IApgG-HQb1zm4CAdBADq2NUNPxHdt39dCk9D1aY_GXdkks65Y/s320/IMG.jpg" width="247" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>This is how I looked in a bathing suit at the age when I was playing with my Barbie doll. I remember looking at this photo even as a little girl and thinking...I am fat! And so it began. I should have saw a tough little cookie in her tank suit ready to swim across the Wisconsin lake. But no. I saw a fat tummy. Barbie I curse you. I forgive you because I know you can't fit into that black and white suit anymore, that your cellulite jiggles and your boobs no longer point to the stars. And the dark eyeliner makes you look even older. </b></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZV9s0PrBUSIBGZ7Tg0GDlM9co0Kv_KTm7aKF16ptqRd7NX5k9gg3Vz2GAWiVhkLN7Is-eD8pmkCFCzn3R9S0oosRVGGDTpxVdwyGRVj9GUY-XUygjUztdmFHW9RN8Jrr1OmgaFqCsu2A/s1600/IMG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZV9s0PrBUSIBGZ7Tg0GDlM9co0Kv_KTm7aKF16ptqRd7NX5k9gg3Vz2GAWiVhkLN7Is-eD8pmkCFCzn3R9S0oosRVGGDTpxVdwyGRVj9GUY-XUygjUztdmFHW9RN8Jrr1OmgaFqCsu2A/s320/IMG.jpg" width="247" /></a></div>
<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> I'm convinced Barbie's body influence is bigger than we know. It may have even contributed to articles like this recent one titled: How to Lose Cankles. Perhaps you didn't even know you had cankles much less needed to lose them. Cankles are wrinkles on the ankles. Why isn't the entire world working on this problem? Put aside cancer and terrorism and let's get to solving the cankle problem. That there were even several steps sited on how to erase ankle wrinkles makes me wonder about the person who wrote this article. She must have grown up with a perfect-body Barbie. One of the earth shattering ways to lose wrinkles on your ankles is diet and exercise. How innovative. </span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaFZreC3o0RPOfSQuBB905-SwRNqwatKOae5u6-_7TEp3G7E_XXoUIC2xXX43M9sPXbSMCY2WTfe3yrTYYOkzpxEzhJtmjwQSJr3m-k55mON8bSONIiOgulTTYfqeRbSy8dBGnmjLSlAQ/s1600/fatty+barbie.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaFZreC3o0RPOfSQuBB905-SwRNqwatKOae5u6-_7TEp3G7E_XXoUIC2xXX43M9sPXbSMCY2WTfe3yrTYYOkzpxEzhJtmjwQSJr3m-k55mON8bSONIiOgulTTYfqeRbSy8dBGnmjLSlAQ/s320/fatty+barbie.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> There are new Barbies these days of all shapes, sizes and ethnic groups.This is good for the young girls who need role models other than skinny white blondes. For us older gals, my new role model is the Barbie on the couch eating popcorn. I love her. We are one. Of course, Barbie and I must now and then get off the couch, put on street clothes, and go out in public. Ken was not a millionaire, after all. He just dressed as if he was one.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> Thankfully there is a new invention that both Barbie and I appreciate. We are both waiting for the cankle version. And neither of us will ever stop wearing bathing suits even if we have to wear a spanx beneath. We made a pact. That's what cankle sisters do. </span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2v1v56VSMoNIE1VWLb6a3_GNjZwCTcP7MDOh5AtYuyyCjbQ2DhafpPUy1NAybFin3-oug8Vsk6gOocoVjAtEJBOFP7Fw5qRrPGS5RTL-CUdj0MF_7X2Z4TiUVs8R3f_he2VG6AegzE8Q/s1600/spanx.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2v1v56VSMoNIE1VWLb6a3_GNjZwCTcP7MDOh5AtYuyyCjbQ2DhafpPUy1NAybFin3-oug8Vsk6gOocoVjAtEJBOFP7Fw5qRrPGS5RTL-CUdj0MF_7X2Z4TiUVs8R3f_he2VG6AegzE8Q/s1600/spanx.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>Susanne Brenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04376761569948838354noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3084137067051885398.post-14121881387583128742016-02-16T20:08:00.004-07:002016-02-16T20:22:25.278-07:00Mermaid Tales<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-NZySEeeiJ2ddREBCGle-bEzjs7h7KHdJ7LEchlSbb6K5UL_Nj7lqxrrEQjn5hg2j6HEgODYh6g50sVv0d9kxaUjXjdqa9cEz6aUTdeR1jMLHaEeqheHe3XKQbp4of5ffCptM6kjAL9I/s1600/mermaids+with+fish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-NZySEeeiJ2ddREBCGle-bEzjs7h7KHdJ7LEchlSbb6K5UL_Nj7lqxrrEQjn5hg2j6HEgODYh6g50sVv0d9kxaUjXjdqa9cEz6aUTdeR1jMLHaEeqheHe3XKQbp4of5ffCptM6kjAL9I/s320/mermaids+with+fish.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> I was waiting last Sunday in a long line to see a mermaid. I hesitated before getting in line. My grown up rational self knew it wasn't a REAL mermaid and yet why was I waiting in line? I could have been strolling among the small shops at the Renaissance Fare, looking at jewelry, flipping through a book about Medieval art work or listening to a woman dressed in a peasant dress playing the harp. I could been drinking a glass of cheap red wine.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> Yet there I was waiting in a long line to see a mermaid. Half of me thought this is stupid and, yet, the other half....had to see. I wanted to believe.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> While waiting, I became aware of the conversation from an average, so average they could have been in a mini van commercial, couple behind me. The woman was asking the man questions about the mermaid. They were good thoughts to ponder if one was going to be meeting a real person. She was wondering about various aspects of the mermaid's life, non-specific, and yet I recall wanting to turn around and remind the woman mermaids weren't real. Still I waited, and the more I eavesdropped on the couple's conversation, the more excited I grew to see the mermaid. </b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCQTfQ0XqsXYLx50adZBYfvzYnswcHHP6uyz7U2Ur6hyphenhyphen6iKvzTN9UY5rc9XtGL7WtG48NHKo7WIQ04chARMApuH296tWBYUgq_G8-SEq3SUq6Kewa55lpb_4cEDf61-MnlFbDQdjvbloU/s1600/fancy+man.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCQTfQ0XqsXYLx50adZBYfvzYnswcHHP6uyz7U2Ur6hyphenhyphen6iKvzTN9UY5rc9XtGL7WtG48NHKo7WIQ04chARMApuH296tWBYUgq_G8-SEq3SUq6Kewa55lpb_4cEDf61-MnlFbDQdjvbloU/s320/fancy+man.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> This fancy dancy man, excuse me pirate, was strolling around the line sharing with us his adventures on the sea. Apparently he captured the mermaid. Of course he did. The white lama head sticking out on the front of his hat should have triggered every cynical bone in my body, and yet I couldn't help admire his red feathers. And those muscles were easy on my eyes, too. I found myself getting anxious to step through the black curtain that separated those of us waiting in line from the mermaid. Too bad the pirate didn't serve wine. He'd have been perfect.</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Us9eUn4P8xdZSQpHJtCx1MEC1W3P7Il-uH_a8xd8gr31kJDFbtyVuCl_eAoYnUTyF2d7gNSJnbijhGZBm0wFpp1vJy_K_ja_GNXIQjADrNzYXiiBIFkhIIPtIQZbekcjDw9FFrdI9YQ/s1600/mermaids+in+jar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Us9eUn4P8xdZSQpHJtCx1MEC1W3P7Il-uH_a8xd8gr31kJDFbtyVuCl_eAoYnUTyF2d7gNSJnbijhGZBm0wFpp1vJy_K_ja_GNXIQjADrNzYXiiBIFkhIIPtIQZbekcjDw9FFrdI9YQ/s320/mermaids+in+jar.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> This is the first glimpse I got of the mermaid. And for a moment I thought: a real mermaid. I was 5 years old again. My imagination had taken over any intellectual understanding of the world I'd achieved. My college degree was tissue paper. My life experience evaporated. I was a little girl with a big imagination.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>It was as if I was back in my childhood home on 121 Alpine Lane and my big </b></span><b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">sister was reading me from one of my Little Golden Books a story about princesses and witches and houses made from candy. Such a world contained an ocean with mermaids. Of course.</b><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> It wasn't just me. A lot of people who stood and stared with open amazement were adults. They were people of all ages and I'm sure all walks of life from plumbers to politicians. Multiple photos were taken.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGgGstWOvsfhkQOlBrjDCbP_l_qRwXkVwaYs8RovOA-Oa_ToXtpR2xOJ6ZpuxXWfLIf-bezVl1vDkDdLppdMKHU97QKcmGfhsZeYf07yNubw3atuatLZ_GqcOxp5AT5Io1k6gkiffXaZA/s1600/smiling+mermaid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGgGstWOvsfhkQOlBrjDCbP_l_qRwXkVwaYs8RovOA-Oa_ToXtpR2xOJ6ZpuxXWfLIf-bezVl1vDkDdLppdMKHU97QKcmGfhsZeYf07yNubw3atuatLZ_GqcOxp5AT5Io1k6gkiffXaZA/s320/smiling+mermaid.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> Upon closer look at the mermaid, reality set in. I questioned if she might be cold and how much did she earn for swimming around that tank. She was such a happy mermaid. And when she said hello in English I was disappointed. I wanted her to have some secret mermaid language. Watching her swim and dive in that tank was like eating big puffs of pink cotton candy. Fleeting, silly and fun.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> The experience did my imagination a world of good. I get so caught up in reality, in my important to do list that seems to get longer and more complicated each day. I check off each task accomplished and pat myself on the back. But who really cares? My imagination gets shoved aside as I plan and plot, not just my life each day, but also what I write. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>I leave little room for that small tiny voice of imagination that was so big and bold when I was a child. No wonder when I sit down to write a story all I can think of what task I'm ignoring on my to do list.</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiaZ_lxYVU1t3In1GHhA2FfJzqkG-wDU3xPseDg9Ph7FdZ7T9a2Wjr924asVgMjGSrDcTvgzbRhqr-OJXGOMG-TpqZyvZYQI_zX4PFPr8eNr3EJcFoV9tljiclQbe5bn9liPmdqElXe2M/s1600/mermaid+two.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiaZ_lxYVU1t3In1GHhA2FfJzqkG-wDU3xPseDg9Ph7FdZ7T9a2Wjr924asVgMjGSrDcTvgzbRhqr-OJXGOMG-TpqZyvZYQI_zX4PFPr8eNr3EJcFoV9tljiclQbe5bn9liPmdqElXe2M/s320/mermaid+two.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> I had my photo taken with the other mermaid. I'm sure she'd best friends with the one in the tank. Sure I felt silly, but also thrilled.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>I didn't post that photo of me. Instead I left room beside the mermaid for you to sit. Put aside health and money and relationship worries and curl up on a giant pink sea shell with pink pearls beside a smiling mermaid. (She left the tank just for us). If you feel too foolish being imaginative, pretending a mermaid is real, remember what Albert Einstein said, "Imagination is more important than intelligence." I bet he would have even waited in line, too. </b></span>Susanne Brenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04376761569948838354noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3084137067051885398.post-15775851879570230042016-01-27T16:09:00.004-07:002016-01-27T16:33:24.376-07:00Angels At the Table<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS02AeaNEpw6CLBLdieh26N1xiUtxwHsxNI7GxFUUkPhdmRqdmKpFhs4dMQIifMqwHC5JT53y3-ulvWcx6toBUllnbC4pSVW_0PNINc_v0HqGwuOVfA1od82_Cs1okoaJ5F8hRwZs8OiQ/s1600/Empty-Restaurant-OPT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS02AeaNEpw6CLBLdieh26N1xiUtxwHsxNI7GxFUUkPhdmRqdmKpFhs4dMQIifMqwHC5JT53y3-ulvWcx6toBUllnbC4pSVW_0PNINc_v0HqGwuOVfA1od82_Cs1okoaJ5F8hRwZs8OiQ/s320/Empty-Restaurant-OPT.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> It was not just a slow night at the restaurant, it had been an entire week of zero business. The type of week where servers start thinking an hourly paid job with a regular paycheck sounds pretty darn fabulous. I'm told in Europe servers get a decent hourly wage, and after a week of minimal tips, I was thinking of relocating to Madrid. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> Since a plane ticket to Spain was not in my budget, and I'd stocked everything in the restaurant there was to be stocked, and wiped everything that needed to be wiped, I was flipping through a magazine waiting for a table with my hope fading the nearer it got to closing time. I just wanted to toss in the cards and give up for the night. </b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC2DfOgDRWNO5NAfuWAL_Hrb49h60bTR7UYEl72PELhM8BRNx7GjtKRhawHocAafSDcJD40uLOzQXVN-nFF-0x0UhRItEKLuNsycI0NcXx9KK6_sRgPPoOmuPLQdTvU9EwJU8Y8dV03Nk/s1600/burt_cosmo_rect.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC2DfOgDRWNO5NAfuWAL_Hrb49h60bTR7UYEl72PELhM8BRNx7GjtKRhawHocAafSDcJD40uLOzQXVN-nFF-0x0UhRItEKLuNsycI0NcXx9KK6_sRgPPoOmuPLQdTvU9EwJU8Y8dV03Nk/s320/burt_cosmo_rect.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> While reading and waiting for the night to end, I came across an article about Burt Reynolds. Here he is, many moons ago, in all his hairy glory. </b></span><b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I became engrossed reading about Burt's financial woes which he blamed on poor investments and spendthrift women. A senior citizen now, Burt has to sell his Florida mansion. Not because he can't climb the stairs anymore though the writer said Burt has a problem walking. One minute he's reclined on a bear rug naked looking, dare I say, cocky, and next he's shuffling around with a cane. </span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> Right then I was feeling rather poverty stricken, and my feet hurt, and I could sure relate to Burt. Well a little. I don't have a million and some dollar mansion to sell. Anyway, Burt said one of his wives, Loni Anderson, caused him the majority of his financial woes. In this photo she looks angelic. Not the spoiled woman who demanded expensive outfits each time she went in public. Or so Burt says. We don't know Loni's side. </b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik7mfkrayMuM-TJkIG2-UW2Z9gAUrOtNlm9_QWRKs1kF_YJM-dtwsSoG9Yj5P_PcCdb01TU1gmU_XY3f4-vrIcI3LmI3VGk04AJ3oxs-bw6da8iJPjIBQ3Mp2jJrWpFoj3zu5lTymwd54/s1600/Bert+and+Loni.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik7mfkrayMuM-TJkIG2-UW2Z9gAUrOtNlm9_QWRKs1kF_YJM-dtwsSoG9Yj5P_PcCdb01TU1gmU_XY3f4-vrIcI3LmI3VGk04AJ3oxs-bw6da8iJPjIBQ3Mp2jJrWpFoj3zu5lTymwd54/s320/Bert+and+Loni.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> I was deep in this engrossing article of divorce and debt, when the hostess said I had a table. It was 15 minutes to closing. Every server in America will understand when I say I was about as happy to wait on the people as I would be a root canal. I had waited so long for a table, I no longer cared. I greeted the three women and wondered how fast I could feed them and get them to leave.</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWiKBeEKw9-Evimpu1KwZ7guC5poW9Yf1TokHgWlS8DPD5enZJRLtUv-bh73gKkEU8dkpRSjxeo6zwUhEt1SPOsm_lV_Y9ncg1E3ILj5M-OTX2E3AlZqYg07xR6m97tksS3B3TbC77-Eo/s1600/water.jpe" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWiKBeEKw9-Evimpu1KwZ7guC5poW9Yf1TokHgWlS8DPD5enZJRLtUv-bh73gKkEU8dkpRSjxeo6zwUhEt1SPOsm_lV_Y9ncg1E3ILj5M-OTX2E3AlZqYg07xR6m97tksS3B3TbC77-Eo/s1600/water.jpe" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> The mother and two daughters were quirky and sweet, but they ordered water without ice. Nothing else to drink. Servers don't find this amusing, especially on a slow night when it's time to go home. Also two of the women split a hamburger. And for this I'm staying late, I thought. They were lovely women, kept thanking me, and yet my mood was sour. I admit it. I'm not an angel. Though Loni Anderson in that photo above sure does look like an angel no matter what Burt says about her wicked ways.</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhVHmCtsd7mo6EYwFbOyd4C2E0y1hm34iC5H1KKiUxnEcCICY4cTswkvrEXDRxFHHvYPkYA4OAv6BOc4Q4wJcyydVMi3V9JTYAfNpRUm_B4ukxK_a6IMLfIoAO0ZvfGwU5oO54FJ8mr1U/s1600/Angel+in+Garden+logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhVHmCtsd7mo6EYwFbOyd4C2E0y1hm34iC5H1KKiUxnEcCICY4cTswkvrEXDRxFHHvYPkYA4OAv6BOc4Q4wJcyydVMi3V9JTYAfNpRUm_B4ukxK_a6IMLfIoAO0ZvfGwU5oO54FJ8mr1U/s320/Angel+in+Garden+logo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> Speaking of angels, the women continued to be nice to me each time I refilled their water. Darn them. Then the mother handed me a velvet bag and insisted I pick out two angel cards. One with my left hand and one with my right. I gave up. I gave in and just accepted that I was there to be of service, no matter if I didn't make money, if I was tired, and it was late. And what do you know. I really enjoyed the three women.</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaeeawNLUF0OQdRFrE2E7LaEWf82buj2v9l4LfASxHOwj2InJztqLCIp7eBjYEVqsWPMVxCl5uYBqkK_kZ6HpNa79OhrVQKJyfwoZWZKcon-p6FJ308jZs_l46McqYSKyy-k5y_dHSUUo/s1600/words.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaeeawNLUF0OQdRFrE2E7LaEWf82buj2v9l4LfASxHOwj2InJztqLCIp7eBjYEVqsWPMVxCl5uYBqkK_kZ6HpNa79OhrVQKJyfwoZWZKcon-p6FJ308jZs_l46McqYSKyy-k5y_dHSUUo/s320/words.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>I got these two words. On top of all this, the women tipped me very well. I enjoyed them and we talked for awhile. After they left, I couldn't help think... what was the lesson? This wasn't just a random thing. It felt bigger than that. Important. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> I like both the words. Grace reminds me of a power greater than myself, and who doesn't like relaxation?</b></span><br />
<b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></b>
<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> Before leaving I told my manager about my negative attitude about that last table and then rest of the story. I asked him, "What does it mean?" </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> My manager, who I think is one of the funniest, sweetest mangers ever, said he knew what it meant. "Don't be jerk."</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> Yep. I was a jerk. </b></span><b style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"> I have to thank my manager who I took this photo of during the holidays. He looks just as proud of himself as Burt once did. I plan to keep the photo because not only does it make me smile, it can remind me not to be a jerk to people who just want to eat.</b><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> In fact, I think my manager could compete with a young Burt Reynolds, at least in the hair department. </b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhylhq94QarGEqDwvo3xUAUDY6d4QV9iy11DMi42YKx7QX-4t2fNvJUOQjf3SvwUvSK3u2ouHbxBRg_hYXqqjJ1jw-g9P85P1dyibyo_Y4cCLLT2n0TL_eOXqXqklk9ILAStqDPt14av-I/s1600/patrick.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhylhq94QarGEqDwvo3xUAUDY6d4QV9iy11DMi42YKx7QX-4t2fNvJUOQjf3SvwUvSK3u2ouHbxBRg_hYXqqjJ1jw-g9P85P1dyibyo_Y4cCLLT2n0TL_eOXqXqklk9ILAStqDPt14av-I/s320/patrick.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>Susanne Brenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04376761569948838354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3084137067051885398.post-62754622402268802142016-01-08T10:37:00.001-07:002016-01-08T11:12:24.600-07:00Colors of the Year<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVSpVlT4KYVIufEXNLrqAvmOK7dxSVXB-qzZ7-5s73ZReOcALsQWtXLHPOtevpmsL_WpalHU3SYFMm9NJMXvf9fXQLEFkmeHXS2vyJFmelOAhHTtvKxHSyGQ8s0175CNQFYv3KXJDsrWc/s1600/colors+of+the+year+in+living+room.jpe" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVSpVlT4KYVIufEXNLrqAvmOK7dxSVXB-qzZ7-5s73ZReOcALsQWtXLHPOtevpmsL_WpalHU3SYFMm9NJMXvf9fXQLEFkmeHXS2vyJFmelOAhHTtvKxHSyGQ8s0175CNQFYv3KXJDsrWc/s1600/colors+of+the+year+in+living+room.jpe" /></a></div>
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Let me introduce the colors for 2016. Serenity on the left and that's Rose Quartz on the right. I had no idea colors of the year was ever even a thing, but it is important to designers. This year is special because two colors were picked. Apparently I'm not the only indecisive person on the planet. But then, as one perennially happy friend likes to say, why not have both! </span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b>
<b>The reason these two colors were picked is as follows:</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY-CPrNZn42YFQrTiVptpKmiGu9Dq3rSU_BS5ku44PBfo7Pt1eLhyryTz9VQHdulpaXVVV0aK9bofzQGSZ0fwkdlYpBfBZGlCVsHm1Q9xhUXzjG0gdMA-ZUbsBCmyZ51nVvdXcO8s5QtA/s1600/descritption+of+colors.jpe" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY-CPrNZn42YFQrTiVptpKmiGu9Dq3rSU_BS5ku44PBfo7Pt1eLhyryTz9VQHdulpaXVVV0aK9bofzQGSZ0fwkdlYpBfBZGlCVsHm1Q9xhUXzjG0gdMA-ZUbsBCmyZ51nVvdXcO8s5QtA/s1600/descritption+of+colors.jpe" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'm all for wellness and order and connection and peace. Who isn't? I can think of a few people, but this is about color not politics. </span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Expect to start seeing these two colors on everything from walls to coffee cups to rugs, and beyond. The great color Gods also said that these colors were chosen because they promote "gender equality or fluidity." Or, in simpler terms, come on people let's all get together. Sorta like a song from the 1960s. </span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipSpMI_a7aSS7FM9omASx_s4cfbYLXiI-JCunbvUnw3fPOtZhI0MFkCysIrr8LKq_K3H3LE3NzGbDDE77yKHglJsmmfT-mUDhu2LfOPm381TVkfmTgWqYk_JwyCXTuIqKVtpMEakMH0i0/s1600/yellow+appliances.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipSpMI_a7aSS7FM9omASx_s4cfbYLXiI-JCunbvUnw3fPOtZhI0MFkCysIrr8LKq_K3H3LE3NzGbDDE77yKHglJsmmfT-mUDhu2LfOPm381TVkfmTgWqYk_JwyCXTuIqKVtpMEakMH0i0/s320/yellow+appliances.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Thinking about these serene 2016 colors, made me reflect upon the colors that defined my youth. Harvest gold. It was everywhere from kitchen appliances to shag carpet. It was matched with dark wood cabinets which have lately returned to fashion after some years of being snubbed. One thing to be said about harvest gold, no matter how dark the inside of the house was, and many of those 1960s ranch-style tract homes were like caves, one could always find the fridge glowing in the night. </span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIB2UTUG1H2meOsOVXu_03I36xhQGSJk0bScWl_BCqgJW8r23WU-xerhckLVn7gMTfdsF4gD8z6MtmNeZ1psv-xhgG5CjqL1MQYEk2g6Rm25C_vE3eQpNwKrGE09Vt4BzyMnlK7pAy6iw/s1600/green+washer+and+dryer.jpe" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIB2UTUG1H2meOsOVXu_03I36xhQGSJk0bScWl_BCqgJW8r23WU-xerhckLVn7gMTfdsF4gD8z6MtmNeZ1psv-xhgG5CjqL1MQYEk2g6Rm25C_vE3eQpNwKrGE09Vt4BzyMnlK7pAy6iw/s1600/green+washer+and+dryer.jpe" /></a></b></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Avocado was another color one couldn't avoid. Everyone had at least one avocado something in their homes even if it was the TV trays. (For those too young to know what TV trays are... google it as you do everything else.) The man hightailing it out the back door likely doesn't even notice that the laundry appliances are avocado. They could be red polka-dotted for all he cares. He's thinking about his two martini lunch. His wife is doing the breakfast dishes. If she's lucky she has an avocado green dishwasher to match the washer and dryer. Gender equality hadn't been invented yet.</span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiypDsG2zXxcvFuF8ZdpNg60blB5RMWhEGef3I3wPZyOsJtVbL1dzTo3E2fw1RJGKfEtm9lqYrVcNQdSAciCQqqvup7ZEtnU2W2mzg2N-ClIG2RXLAbWyM9YMTQL9WvZOcluam85cgnUDY/s1600/1980s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiypDsG2zXxcvFuF8ZdpNg60blB5RMWhEGef3I3wPZyOsJtVbL1dzTo3E2fw1RJGKfEtm9lqYrVcNQdSAciCQqqvup7ZEtnU2W2mzg2N-ClIG2RXLAbWyM9YMTQL9WvZOcluam85cgnUDY/s320/1980s.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Colors we once thought were pretty darn cool changes in time. This living room from the late 1980s is proof. I once thought those swirling colors on those high back chairs, the gold light fixture, the glass top table, was modern and pretty. It looked to me like a mark of success to have this dining room. Now I sigh. So dated. And yet some of those color tones in the room look like, oh my, serenity blue? </span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu2hZ1WCwRjdnPaPDjwx8Z6HfXpv0wlLtleZnxwws0T96XSUldDZKdfoPYabOopBGttVdd0Lir5eTvNPyTHZTDvZ3Qt76vFa2gBXNhAbfafmKnH800RYLaOW9_a0Lvy3KAoycMNmua9ts/s1600/rose+quartz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu2hZ1WCwRjdnPaPDjwx8Z6HfXpv0wlLtleZnxwws0T96XSUldDZKdfoPYabOopBGttVdd0Lir5eTvNPyTHZTDvZ3Qt76vFa2gBXNhAbfafmKnH800RYLaOW9_a0Lvy3KAoycMNmua9ts/s320/rose+quartz.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Maybe things don't really end. They just fade away for awhile. This is a kitchen, as you can tell from the pencil skirt, gloves, hat and other garments worn by the women, from at least 50 year's ago. The appliances are called rose quartz. Sound familiar? So maybe everything does come back, one must just live long enough to see it happen. Perhaps Oscar Wilde's famous statement, "familiarity breeds contempt" can work the opposite. </span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Stay away long enough and, like serenity blue and rose quartz, popularity and admiration will come again. For everything there is a time and a season. Another old 60s song.</span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Who knows. Next year Harvest Gold might be lighting up our lives. Never say never. <b></b></span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; display: inline !important; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Happy 2016. Keep it colorful. </span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Susanne Brenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04376761569948838354noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3084137067051885398.post-9177533869493807412015-12-17T22:13:00.000-07:002015-12-18T09:17:06.701-07:00Impermanence <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTlhKJO6HFJfKp4D-2l1tqHF62ybnIRzyru3oiIs92zDe06XfVuVjholG8za5-PIIVRYu1d04mBwBIJwhlqbk3L-DEbYgw53gwRsJjKTGhgd9DaGgiDWmj0xN_o44jmsGO8K_itWBHRmg/s1600/the+path.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTlhKJO6HFJfKp4D-2l1tqHF62ybnIRzyru3oiIs92zDe06XfVuVjholG8za5-PIIVRYu1d04mBwBIJwhlqbk3L-DEbYgw53gwRsJjKTGhgd9DaGgiDWmj0xN_o44jmsGO8K_itWBHRmg/s320/the+path.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> Each year around Christmas on Central Avenue in Phoenix the trees turn golden and drop leaves. This path is the bright spot in my world right now. Some of you who don't live in the desert might be thinking, big deal. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> Check out the photo below. This is the geography of the desert. Talk about being able to see for miles and miles.</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJKdGvjy74BVhuOXk_J959AnHKl_SZoZHaw8sq18dEeijzAVXxxWdAn7BLHERnkBb3UBvhi5WFyKr4i7ISVIAXxWO_VCWrAGkuCZ7XmCcWfAPittzXLSX2EOU1nBG9Q5t0KSPSOkBKcm4/s1600/photo+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJKdGvjy74BVhuOXk_J959AnHKl_SZoZHaw8sq18dEeijzAVXxxWdAn7BLHERnkBb3UBvhi5WFyKr4i7ISVIAXxWO_VCWrAGkuCZ7XmCcWfAPittzXLSX2EOU1nBG9Q5t0KSPSOkBKcm4/s320/photo+3.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> </b></span><b style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"> For Phoenix is a desert no matter how many high rises replace cactus or fancy hotels displace rock. </b><b style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">Of course, Phoenix neighborhoods now have paved streets and not a stage coach or a horse in sight, though I've met a cowboy or two. Why there's even grass with flowering plants. Still, it's a desert. Central Avenue is the only street that I know of in Phoenix with a path that you can walk and admire the color and shuffle your feet in leaves for a few weeks.</b><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> The weather cools only briefly in the desert. It's a quick chill, the leaves drop on few of the trees, very few, and before you know there are green leaves. It's time to don flip flops and sleeveless shirts and plant a garden. Then summer, but I'd rather avoid such talk while reveling in the joy of Arizona.</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPfkTv4on5WkUSFC1JY15RKpU8yFw0i_cRFfwJ4wlEpQavu7odlTk31K7MeOkTU7Z-tBdSSXCKuz_W7l5hNK4rk_paqpvB6i4TVESoWyH8sIRahTZHzmNybs57XcczsG1YUIBOjamo-Tg/s1600/xmas+card.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPfkTv4on5WkUSFC1JY15RKpU8yFw0i_cRFfwJ4wlEpQavu7odlTk31K7MeOkTU7Z-tBdSSXCKuz_W7l5hNK4rk_paqpvB6i4TVESoWyH8sIRahTZHzmNybs57XcczsG1YUIBOjamo-Tg/s320/xmas+card.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> Christmas in Phoenix is like this rare golden tree. It comes and it goes fast. For some non-holiday people, having Christmas over fast is a good thing. I understand that not everyone is thrilled with decorations and colored lights. For whatever reason, for those experiencing illness or loss, financial woes, finding the Christmas spirit is difficult or impossible. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> But for myself, and for a lot of people, the holiday season feels too rushed. We find ourselves wanting to savor each moment, to slow things down, make all the festive fun last, just as I want the far and few between Phoenix trees to stay golden. It all seems to go faster and faster as the years pass. Life goes into overdrive.</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRvWsPj-RacMkzMCNyvGwgU7o7bacSpaojgUg7YQuDUCllzQtV0xPb9WNAb2fAbT5eUxQj9VKUM_Zm57nqLYjaJRCMoLjzGDaJW2jzxY8GXc2jE-EhW4SdHrfMFjDg6ebAIilRIyNWI9Y/s1600/xmas+tree.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRvWsPj-RacMkzMCNyvGwgU7o7bacSpaojgUg7YQuDUCllzQtV0xPb9WNAb2fAbT5eUxQj9VKUM_Zm57nqLYjaJRCMoLjzGDaJW2jzxY8GXc2jE-EhW4SdHrfMFjDg6ebAIilRIyNWI9Y/s320/xmas+tree.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> My real Christmas tree is the same. I know its lifetime is brief. Knowing this makes me want to stay home just to admire its beauty. Work and stuff like walking my dog Darla keeps getting in the way of me sitting on the couch staring at the tree all day. Knowing there is a fast approaching expiration date on my Christmas tree increases my appreciation. In a few weeks it will loose its all its needles and it will end up in the recycle bin, but oh how beautiful it looks now. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> Somehow impermanence, knowing that things will end soon, makes me want to pay more attention. I get lazy about things that seemingly will last forever. Of course, nothing will. As I walked down the golden path on Central Avenue today I thought about this and then I thought about my dear friend Selma. I've kept her photo. I find myself unable to let go of images of people I've loved. It's as if I'm hoping to find some forever in the photo.</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL69QYCwuxvVvn-pECdlOpKiFHHpqSipXcWCTCz0nFacoBC_XIPngZ7nx3_x0_7h_B7xSL_j5Xoxi_gB3OGOLQYmgmE5bjyZs9non-Ldaf601PKwp9nTzkZ_AL27UIrQ-ImWvFsg5Lsko/s1600/Selma.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL69QYCwuxvVvn-pECdlOpKiFHHpqSipXcWCTCz0nFacoBC_XIPngZ7nx3_x0_7h_B7xSL_j5Xoxi_gB3OGOLQYmgmE5bjyZs9non-Ldaf601PKwp9nTzkZ_AL27UIrQ-ImWvFsg5Lsko/s320/Selma.jpg" width="247" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>She's on the left and her aunt Lejla is on the right. This was taken on Selma's last Christmas. She died of a brain tumor and never saw another Christmas tree again. I think about Selma and really try to remember how impermanent we all are and that to appreciate every minute of Christmas, no matter my troubles, real or imagined.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>For this is the only one that counts. The golden now. </b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b> </b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>Susanne Brenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04376761569948838354noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3084137067051885398.post-60937091133998797392015-11-24T11:18:00.003-07:002015-11-24T11:38:52.824-07:00The Golden Purse <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCFon0Z19trt2GGxyJFmKFC0lnP5fkiFUcdyI-DvS1b5O-WRkI8GL5BI2XDfGp71d-ZXt5Y8USupIBPtvXhH8aC44tC0a8km17fcGKcfJgbA4hffowglAoqfkqK3CGEYsKoRv7NXvpS0s/s1600/purse.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCFon0Z19trt2GGxyJFmKFC0lnP5fkiFUcdyI-DvS1b5O-WRkI8GL5BI2XDfGp71d-ZXt5Y8USupIBPtvXhH8aC44tC0a8km17fcGKcfJgbA4hffowglAoqfkqK3CGEYsKoRv7NXvpS0s/s320/purse.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> So I was at the dentist this week getting my teeth cleaned. I set my purse on the counter and climbed into the reclining chair.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> "That's quite a purse you got there," said my dentist.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> "Oh," I said with a small laugh. "It's gaudy." Then I proceeded to tell him about the purse until he started lecturing me about flossing and brushing my tongue. I like my dentist, but I wish he wouldn't hold a mirror up to my face and make me stick out my tongue. Have you ever looked at your tongue? Trust me. Start brushing.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> After I provided some details about my purse my dentist, who really is a nice guy, he said, "That's great. You have a story to tell."</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> I told him, as I have told other people, that I bought the gold purse in an antique shop in a small town north of Phoenix called Prescott. I splurged and paid $15. The purse, made in California, is in excellent shape which is credit to the United States. In other words, it wasn't made in China and sold at Walmart. It was like brand new. Those jewels sparkling in the desert sun are sewed on tight. The purse has a musty smell, as if was kept hidden in a woman's closet for years waiting for just the right moment to use. Then the woman died, and the kids sold it at an estate sale before it landed at the antique shop. Or maybe not. No matter. It's mine now. In all it's jeweled glory. </b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_PeschEUrfl4eaoBkhLoSnnxtbjlatJkjv3mrXYUL8k-gli8CWGIDHML0cvlhSLI5x4cPPpXE14jdIGNGgFVODnYEWGEp-403CQ_jspSmEhqfBNQd3MJbTNm2WS7ws-xFEFmn3k-a8Yo/s1600/disco+shirt.jpe" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_PeschEUrfl4eaoBkhLoSnnxtbjlatJkjv3mrXYUL8k-gli8CWGIDHML0cvlhSLI5x4cPPpXE14jdIGNGgFVODnYEWGEp-403CQ_jspSmEhqfBNQd3MJbTNm2WS7ws-xFEFmn3k-a8Yo/s1600/disco+shirt.jpe" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> </b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> Still, I haven't told my dentist, or anyone else, the entire story. People have lives to lead and don't have all day to chat about purses. A shame. </b></span><br />
<b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> When I was in high school, I saw what I thought was the most beautiful glittering purse in a mall shop window. It was a life-changing purse, gold and sparkling. I could have worn it with this shirt and it would have matched. It was boxed shaped, with a long gold link chain strap. I have never seen a purse like it anywhere again. Ever. One of a kind. It was near my 16th birthday, and I begged my mother to buy it for me as a gift. It was more than she could afford. We went to the mall again, and there it was, still in the store window. More begging and she relented. That birthday I got my gold purse. I never used it. </b><br />
<b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSsyS3VLZjPMfG8SCfIpDkTYzIB1yuEethV7_p21dbQ2JHHa8tRgI1REWimbpWdW1MjB9iZTYs7H3_YdRqR5IxTxANBWh7gWAB1waoNj_qRBi66tTv7oGvDRRaSzYf3vefZQv-e8pBaSs/s1600/conant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSsyS3VLZjPMfG8SCfIpDkTYzIB1yuEethV7_p21dbQ2JHHa8tRgI1REWimbpWdW1MjB9iZTYs7H3_YdRqR5IxTxANBWh7gWAB1waoNj_qRBi66tTv7oGvDRRaSzYf3vefZQv-e8pBaSs/s320/conant.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></b>
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> I never took it to high school and walked down the halls with it proudly on my shoulder. Instead, it sat in my closet. I would take it out now and then and admire its dazzling perfection. It was so bright. It reminded me of the sun. It was too much. I was afraid to take it to high school because, well, it was gaudy. In those days everyone was wearing fringe, suede and bell bottom jeans. I was afraid to be different. My mother never asked me why I didn't use the purse. A few years later, after she died, I moved far away from home, and the purse stayed behind in the closet. It was sold at a yard sale when my dad died. My golden purse that I never once filled with makeup, loose coins, a mirror or a photo of my mom, gone forever. Until I found my jeweled gaudy purse this year.</span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk7pma3zJwGTy_ugO0EW1tNnNSQFP0gBRTYQvBQ_9E047oRhZ0XC7nbC_OnO5QXkhXVtVxssM5F6apvg4UR94zZ_28LtJFovBF6tRdLk7d7RpbwwfBcjkx_SUknhwmmWU00XQCX2zANUo/s1600/whispers.jpe" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk7pma3zJwGTy_ugO0EW1tNnNSQFP0gBRTYQvBQ_9E047oRhZ0XC7nbC_OnO5QXkhXVtVxssM5F6apvg4UR94zZ_28LtJFovBF6tRdLk7d7RpbwwfBcjkx_SUknhwmmWU00XQCX2zANUo/s1600/whispers.jpe" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> Flash forward to 2015. I was standing in a line waiting to order food at a Panera Bread. I noticed two teenage girls giggling and whispering a short distance way. They were looking my direction. I surveyed my attire. I wore black shoes, black pants and a black coat with minimal flourishes, just a little bling. I was perplexed. I wondered why in the world the teenagers were laughing at me. Then I knew. It was my purse dangling from my arm. They were giggling at my golden jeweled purse. For one second I was 16 again. I wanted to shrivel up and run out the door. This second passed. I smiled. Thankfully I remembered who I was. I was so glad those girls made fun of me. Truly. For I knew then that these whispering teenagers could say nothing behind closed hands that would hurt my feelings enough to keep me from using my purse. The entire restaurant could laugh at me. I was holding on tight to my gaudy self. I had my lesson. When the student is ready, the purse will appear.</span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgr9pKRZ3AIwlcSS79gdRB3kJXvo1KoTXWGGB5VvedNy7PUkGvQh9PSP-B62APyEta347VZxk3PL64dUi_0C2dvykPQmEOae5Nb-fKJXOS68cKEZuwGbJ5oYvXQUJ67We3tMPEpEpw5zs/s1600/1970s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgr9pKRZ3AIwlcSS79gdRB3kJXvo1KoTXWGGB5VvedNy7PUkGvQh9PSP-B62APyEta347VZxk3PL64dUi_0C2dvykPQmEOae5Nb-fKJXOS68cKEZuwGbJ5oYvXQUJ67We3tMPEpEpw5zs/s320/1970s.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> I wish I could go back in time and have my first golden purse again, but that ain't gonna happen. Four years of high school is enough punishment for anyone. Besides, I don't think any teacher should have to endure me in algebra again. </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> Instead I will keep my golden purse in my heart, and on my shoulder. I will worry less about conforming, especially with my writing career where I can be insecure and where I often try too hard to be accepted. </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> I think to best serve the world it's important to let our golden light shine. Even if people laugh. Keep shining. </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>Susanne Brenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04376761569948838354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3084137067051885398.post-1289643580142832842015-11-04T12:19:00.004-07:002015-11-06T10:19:40.524-07:00Sangria, French Onion Soup and Rhubarb Pie....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg22ES7qJL46ST97_vrCD8syB4m31C-vUPz3bJ_hwgsz9J7NzqyflboJIydoCUeXu34QAclFPVohJk5byoiGw5jGRLWnAyztodBs9_khftvbreYA3dtN0piiHnIEsoRj7ynBsytoP0p4tc/s1600/sangria.jpe" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg22ES7qJL46ST97_vrCD8syB4m31C-vUPz3bJ_hwgsz9J7NzqyflboJIydoCUeXu34QAclFPVohJk5byoiGw5jGRLWnAyztodBs9_khftvbreYA3dtN0piiHnIEsoRj7ynBsytoP0p4tc/s1600/sangria.jpe" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> I was 19 years old and working at my first waitress job at a restaurant in my hometown in Illinois called Ground Round. By the name you can tell it wasn't vegan. I worked for a manager who was a pervert. (Not too put too fine a point on it.) He liked to show porno movies after hours to teenage girls. T</b></span><b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">he Ground Round was known for the peanut shells on the floor. This was in the 1970s before everyone was freaked out about peanut allergies and apparently there wasn't any sexual harassment laws,either. Heaping bowls of peanuts were served to each table and the shells just tossed to the floor. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Besides providing further sex education where Conant High School left off, and coming home with peanuts caked to my shoes, I learned to love Sangria. </span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b> Growing up in a middle class neighborhood of mostly white people, I found Sangria to be a most exotic drink. It conjured images of blue skies and white sand, women in red dancing with castanets and men with thin moustaches and tight pants. (Or maybe I got that last image from the prono movies.) Anyway I loved drinking the Sangria at The Ground Round (no matter I was under age) and to this day enjoy a cold glass of this delicious elixir. An added bonus is the fruit which helps me meet my daily requirements. </b></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbp2xlfrFRHf7EyyVzilGGHycc-ZaptvQYoScRVhE3UVe_6ZoMbXvRkF4nNcXkImz19O6KsW77copXLGT4zTr-_8YPdeCE8LGrirN_T9BbwU7gbwKoaMunY4KV_PNoNuy6LrEbTkXaEYY/s1600/french-onion-soup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbp2xlfrFRHf7EyyVzilGGHycc-ZaptvQYoScRVhE3UVe_6ZoMbXvRkF4nNcXkImz19O6KsW77copXLGT4zTr-_8YPdeCE8LGrirN_T9BbwU7gbwKoaMunY4KV_PNoNuy6LrEbTkXaEYY/s320/french-onion-soup.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> My mother served a lot of meat and potatoes. That's what mothers did in middle class America in the 1960s. To this day I can't eat mashed potatoes due to the fact I ate them 365 days a year as a kid. </span></b><b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I never ate fried shrimp until I was 20 years old and living in Denver which tells you about my culinary expertise. Shrimp? Fried? Amazing.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> One of the restaurants I worked in Colorado, called Toby Jugs, served french onion soup. It was hot and gooey and rich. I used to eat bowls and bowls of the soup. For free. I grew up on Campbell's Tomato Soup. I didn't know French Onion soup existed. </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> Toby Jugs also had a oyster bar that I thought was the most disgusting thing I'd ever seen in my life. It helped me become a vegetarian, all that watching people slurp those mucus membrane looking things. I don't care if it is supposedly an aphrodisiac. Those slimy oysters would never get me in the mood. However, memories of the French Onion soup still make me swoon. The soup was one of the reasons I was disappointed when the owner, yet another creepy guy, didn't pay his taxes and the restaurant got shut down one day, an eviction noticed slapped to the front door. Which really bummed out my friend Debbie Kraft, who was also working there, as her favorite pair of shoes got locked in the restaurant, too. She never did see those shoes again, and I never had another bowl of Toby Jug's French Onion Soup. Pity. </span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGw2jma0yePEPDNB4oS_bhxugoV0UDx_Mj73WK89WNEZmYQF7k03aAomXOWxbXir09RMJrxN26EWb7nybzByTincV5wQkklzcItg4qKBLFs1HZMqhC9RIZrkm7nQQINgeh8Lol2VSL0ek/s1600/italian+resturant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="143" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGw2jma0yePEPDNB4oS_bhxugoV0UDx_Mj73WK89WNEZmYQF7k03aAomXOWxbXir09RMJrxN26EWb7nybzByTincV5wQkklzcItg4qKBLFs1HZMqhC9RIZrkm7nQQINgeh8Lol2VSL0ek/s320/italian+resturant.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> For a few weeks I had a job at an Italian restaurant in downtown Denver. I don't remember the food, but I do remember the smell. I liked working there just for the smell. It wafted outside the restaurant, and the minute I would walk through the doors it would envelop me. The smell transported me to Rome. Surrounded by the scent of rich sauces and fragrant bread I felt warm and safe, if that makes sense. The smell of the restaurant was like eating the best meal of my life without the calories. I keep hoping I will smell that scent again. Guess I'll just have to go to Europe!</span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj8DXmYw98jYpE2wagYT_PVHqx_hZtk3iJFtnNuzriqAYjpjwrYN9w49gApZFhyphenhyphenRYgIzWOJV31lH9aFG_GxQGHEvR3BuDQvv28GYzGcYIZM9XlPLLrVv49u3eBHARL8QoEu1h9TTBY4Xg/s1600/pie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj8DXmYw98jYpE2wagYT_PVHqx_hZtk3iJFtnNuzriqAYjpjwrYN9w49gApZFhyphenhyphenRYgIzWOJV31lH9aFG_GxQGHEvR3BuDQvv28GYzGcYIZM9XlPLLrVv49u3eBHARL8QoEu1h9TTBY4Xg/s320/pie.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> For a year I was a waitress at Marie Callenders. I fell in love with rhubarb pie there. Not strawberry rhubarb, but the tangy sweet rhubarb as a solo act. Just writing about the pie now makes me want a slice. However, I did not fall in love with working at Marie Callender's or the relentlessly intense managers. I was working five nights, going to college during the day, and I took off one day during Spring Break. </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The manager, an angry little man, scolded me. "This job must be the most important thing in your life," he said. Not the right thing to tell a 26-year-old college student, especially because serving pie to old ladies didn't seem to have a lot of promise for a bright future. I quit a few weeks later and started working at an Elks Lodge which may not have been the wisest career choice, but at least no more old ladies ordering pie. Now I might be considered an old lady who orders pie. </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Where I work now I'm known for not eating the food. My dietary preferences have changed through the years and now I prefer tofu and whole grains. Besides, cheese and pie and alcohol can pile on the pounds. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Still, if I was told to pick the foods for my last meal on earth I would ask that I could eat at that heavenly smelling Italian restaurant. I would drink tall glasses of icy sangria and eat bowls of French Onion Soup and thick slabs of rhubarb pie. I would die a happy woman. I might even request one of those old porno films from The Ground Round to be shown. Just for laughs. But no oysters allowed. </b></span>Susanne Brenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04376761569948838354noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3084137067051885398.post-66332112991762374922015-10-22T14:26:00.004-07:002015-10-22T16:07:22.463-07:00THE MUSHROOM PEOPLE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYAt_z4nnNrm8wPYYvefDKF8f7c48nK9iEL8T6o6e3sBTNtIil9vqfcnZQPhfQTBh-mH3fuk3efEhOT78_zwLC8dZMYBIwW301rGGD9ceR37EXx-l1mrCNcxcd9jwB7pwaKN1D2r8KrmE/s1600/me+in+forest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYAt_z4nnNrm8wPYYvefDKF8f7c48nK9iEL8T6o6e3sBTNtIil9vqfcnZQPhfQTBh-mH3fuk3efEhOT78_zwLC8dZMYBIwW301rGGD9ceR37EXx-l1mrCNcxcd9jwB7pwaKN1D2r8KrmE/s1600/me+in+forest.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Last week I found a wicker basket, donned my pink sweater, slipped into a pair of sturdy boots and skipped into the Cascade mountains of Oregon searching for mushrooms. Along the ancient forest trail, I saw black squirrels, deer and more varieties of mushrooms than I ever knew existed. Fat ones, yellow ones, big ones and small, all in one tiny corner of the vast forest. </b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHr4luiWPv13EXSaXvFBM8J-d4j3pD74CT57wcUp0oZi8EJqlfscIPxIqNEuCIRVv-YKJ8DQhz_3UeoztbYP-zfNQ7RgcEu8bDw-n95yfgZiGtKwzXHl6rFyejD7xBYBbCV4BNmHYXlxU/s1600/mushrooms+in+pan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHr4luiWPv13EXSaXvFBM8J-d4j3pD74CT57wcUp0oZi8EJqlfscIPxIqNEuCIRVv-YKJ8DQhz_3UeoztbYP-zfNQ7RgcEu8bDw-n95yfgZiGtKwzXHl6rFyejD7xBYBbCV4BNmHYXlxU/s1600/mushrooms+in+pan.jpg" /></a></div>
<b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Deep in the woods I met a big bad wolf who....nope that's not the story. I didn't wear a red cape and meet a wolf though that would have made for a good story, too. Actually I have met a few wolves in my day who tried to gobble me up, but that's a story for another time. And sometimes being gobbled ain't so bad.</b><br />
<b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> However, in the forest I did meet a lot of mushroom people. You've never met a mushroom person? I met many at the Oregon retreat center where the focus for a few days was on...you guessed it...those things that sprout out of the ground and can be eaten. Well, some mushrooms can be tossed into a salad or stirred into a quiche, but some of these little numbers can kill you, too. </b><br />
<b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Mushrooms are just the fruit of the plant. Under the ground is a huge network of roots that connect the mushrooms. It's like a mushroom interstate beneath our feet. Miles and miles of mushroom highway with now and then a mushroom popping out of the ground to say, Here I am!</span></b><br />
<b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The mushroom people aren't obsessed with mushrooms because they taste good. Food is not utmost in their minds. They are obsessed with mushrooms because...well they just really really like them. A lot. For them joy is spelled with M. </b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2pV9097TNyNuCJDU5yXtaIEEMiRc8xYf7kDRZdkVO02qEqDq-fN4yTHQCAIIZtXeFZXyOoU8ih-caYcN09oh6SwIZPS3zAYDbTX4hiJEfPHjAWECJbTiGVAkuaLFlWTi973wjUzFiLxs/s1600/musrhoom+men.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2pV9097TNyNuCJDU5yXtaIEEMiRc8xYf7kDRZdkVO02qEqDq-fN4yTHQCAIIZtXeFZXyOoU8ih-caYcN09oh6SwIZPS3zAYDbTX4hiJEfPHjAWECJbTiGVAkuaLFlWTi973wjUzFiLxs/s320/musrhoom+men.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The smiling man in the jaunty olive-colored cap, Daniel Winkler, has a travel agency devoted solely to mushroom hunting. What a way to make a living, eh? It's called Mushroaming. He spends a lot of time around the world foraging. I listened to him lecture about mushrooms in the Colombian cloud forest. He ignored the fact he could be kidnapped by rebels, as long as he found a rare mushroom. Gotta respect that devotion. Noah Siegel, the burly man on my right, has devoted his life to fungus. He just finished a seven year stint traveling the coast of California to write a book on that region's mushrooms. Seven years. I would have been distracted after one week, at tops, and suggested we put down our wicker baskets and go to happy hour and maybe find a thrift store for some bargain hunting instead. </span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPvCZG1tSEjFO-qseZvHtImKqNv0juNHqdIjR9FIIWHtj_GTa-9FBvIprC8uWpVOtVyTHoNQGTjzshkONumVU1vk7LXLM47Mj0I2z_LTGVgsL1vB0FQsEa5t-fETiZS45bbdAo0kx9LsE/s1600/scarf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPvCZG1tSEjFO-qseZvHtImKqNv0juNHqdIjR9FIIWHtj_GTa-9FBvIprC8uWpVOtVyTHoNQGTjzshkONumVU1vk7LXLM47Mj0I2z_LTGVgsL1vB0FQsEa5t-fETiZS45bbdAo0kx9LsE/s320/scarf.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Noah's girlfriend, that young pretty girl on the left, has the patience to document mushrooms. She's an expert with using various mushrooms to dye silk. That scarf we are holding was dyed with mushrooms. Alissa says mycopigments are her obsession. Mycopigments is a big word for stuff dyed using mushrooms. Below is an example of work she did at retreat.</span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTaNqr9-X2b88YMPQ0fYW-fvAFJ2GJzi_VZ-kxSA-YG7bajolIQlfMlY-jBp90zPERDWBZmFH5BIstOOMbLbN1GsvVvJAvQJijfcw8Dovj9OHOmUuBFRF82T0xc-ZVjld_F0SQVdtJ3-I/s1600/dyes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTaNqr9-X2b88YMPQ0fYW-fvAFJ2GJzi_VZ-kxSA-YG7bajolIQlfMlY-jBp90zPERDWBZmFH5BIstOOMbLbN1GsvVvJAvQJijfcw8Dovj9OHOmUuBFRF82T0xc-ZVjld_F0SQVdtJ3-I/s320/dyes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I saw a mushroom I use to think ..oh its just a mushroom. A mushroom is a mushroom. It was as if I would meet a person and think they were like all the other people in the world. I know better than that now. Here's just a sample of all the mushrooms found in a ten mile radius of the festival.</b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUeEPd6RhpskJ1X4Zot8yISNn8xFBZZiLxFa1wij-Fvp8oIA2QEOltYcA0-QQsT5seUN-JoasXNS62g60OVKiF7MuqXaev_z08LcJe352iHLEIQKDlwJGNpkTlmfrPkU9SOqnukHb9HEE/s1600/variety+of+mushrooms.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUeEPd6RhpskJ1X4Zot8yISNn8xFBZZiLxFa1wij-Fvp8oIA2QEOltYcA0-QQsT5seUN-JoasXNS62g60OVKiF7MuqXaev_z08LcJe352iHLEIQKDlwJGNpkTlmfrPkU9SOqnukHb9HEE/s1600/variety+of+mushrooms.jpg" /></a></div>
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The mushrooms were collected in the morning and then placed the cardboard containers for identification. The experts all know these complicated and scientific names that I can't pronounce. After a day or two, my friend and I were becoming a bit weary of mushrooms. When people weren't picking mushrooms, or listening to lectures about mushrooms, or looking at them beneath a microscope, they were sitting in the dining hall talking about the Kardashians. Got you. Actually the mushroom people do not seem to even exist on the same planet as the Kardashians. Which isn't such a bad thing.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My friend and I didn't feel as if we really were mushroom people, even if we were at the mushroom event. I know. That doesn't make sense. I don't always make sense but that's okay. Anyway, on the last day they cooked up the mushrooms. Sauteed and mixed with risotto and vegetables, the scent of mushrooms wafted across the forest.</span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoQZ-qV_pyfxGJTi6s20UWgFrSCYT7fD5IiSSsQgWG1VKt40kXdm14v6dtHWsZL3hsIQQBBp3zNvbS28Q9vYsmSI-dkZK7bHygZr8OKN3qbsLnKgcjVBlgDQIr-Nzn4QutZh0kAzhhZUg/s1600/cooking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoQZ-qV_pyfxGJTi6s20UWgFrSCYT7fD5IiSSsQgWG1VKt40kXdm14v6dtHWsZL3hsIQQBBp3zNvbS28Q9vYsmSI-dkZK7bHygZr8OKN3qbsLnKgcjVBlgDQIr-Nzn4QutZh0kAzhhZUg/s1600/cooking.jpg" /></a></div>
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I didn't eat one. Not one mushroom. I blame this on Michael Beug, an expert in toxic and hallucinogenic mushrooms. In his younger years, he likely took a couple trips himself without a plane ticket if you know what I mean. I'm just guessing. </span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmksY_eklFsAHS9ul91OW13cSe9x9kfHq5P0K_K0ESuucsyo1OGDvjC2tJDw8LvNKhRAdp5CBhSrHn7V4JfHpfwcrihA6gfx_2-JWbN1_5W40hwjpHzcFKpFL9kb2nc994nBJ7MugDR7k/s1600/mushroom+man.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmksY_eklFsAHS9ul91OW13cSe9x9kfHq5P0K_K0ESuucsyo1OGDvjC2tJDw8LvNKhRAdp5CBhSrHn7V4JfHpfwcrihA6gfx_2-JWbN1_5W40hwjpHzcFKpFL9kb2nc994nBJ7MugDR7k/s320/mushroom+man.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Michael knows his mushrooms and can tell you so much about them that your head begins to feel like one big mushroom. He can identify the toxic ones can shut down your liver and kidneys and make you want to jump out of a moving car. Michael told about how the wrong ones can kill you. Scarier than any ghost story. What if just one bad mushroom got in the bunch and thrown into the stew? My friend and I didn't take any chances. I regret that now. As far as I know, no one died after the mushroom feast. They all were there for breakfast the next morning. If they did, they would have died happy though, doing what they love.</span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiluX0yOhWlnBmQPeLLA1Lyu3WryF0yn1k3LJlUfNzLVw_BWkzZ8tn_u22BBjkT-lF1fZ-7QPLMr8s3j5rHZ-QGk1fwWm15G0i3CTrm_Ev9VaGfQKdc1KzlFQ3gMXqQbnSSRFbTmFPjXPE/s1600/murhsoom+lady.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiluX0yOhWlnBmQPeLLA1Lyu3WryF0yn1k3LJlUfNzLVw_BWkzZ8tn_u22BBjkT-lF1fZ-7QPLMr8s3j5rHZ-QGk1fwWm15G0i3CTrm_Ev9VaGfQKdc1KzlFQ3gMXqQbnSSRFbTmFPjXPE/s1600/murhsoom+lady.jpg" /></a></div>
<b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This lady, who I'm ashamed to say I didn't get her name, spent the entire conference just sitting by mushroom table and taking photos of mushrooms. That's all she wanted to do. Photograph mushrooms. She didn't get bored. We all have something that turns us on. And there's something to be said when it's a fungus that grows on the forest floor. </b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIJWuzckXd_gXxpipTF0USBiL7k-5Ka4NMwhqnWQiwdjM1b58MkfdbCP_yVYFjyjqNxeJUBXopexlWkNXO83_hZg2jKT9fxRncJVXX_DYqoxTcgidV17IeyoG1z69FBQ1GDM1yQvP6xZk/s1600/photo+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIJWuzckXd_gXxpipTF0USBiL7k-5Ka4NMwhqnWQiwdjM1b58MkfdbCP_yVYFjyjqNxeJUBXopexlWkNXO83_hZg2jKT9fxRncJVXX_DYqoxTcgidV17IeyoG1z69FBQ1GDM1yQvP6xZk/s320/photo+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>I had plenty of time to think while I was in Oregon, staying as we were in these small cabins with no Internet or cell phone connection or even a radio or television. (I wasn't even suppose to use my blow dryer but I did. A girl doesn't want to look like a mushroom for pete's sake!)</b></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b> Surrounded by the quiet and the mushroom people, I thought about obsession. </b></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Years ago I took a writing class titled in Obsession in Writing. The teacher said to give my main characters an obsession, something that drives the character's behavior. An obsession can define a character and make him or her act in specific ways such as these mushroom people loving to tramp through the damp woods forging for tiny objects. Our obsessions make us special. No matter if it is knitting, or skydiving, mushroom foraging or writing. Make yourself happy.</b></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>. </b></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxBZOCbfvx_QtyuMvDJs5NdFHL6PcKutCULTs-KJU2Cxo51KsiMIu_X1zJkBpdJeVkaRgrwN2LTLlUfei0_2QWjyU68FS0UUj9JoGztZ_y6GAuis6i_n584Jm4gmidVd1iEVm3-KFQ59s/s1600/tree+lined+street.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxBZOCbfvx_QtyuMvDJs5NdFHL6PcKutCULTs-KJU2Cxo51KsiMIu_X1zJkBpdJeVkaRgrwN2LTLlUfei0_2QWjyU68FS0UUj9JoGztZ_y6GAuis6i_n584Jm4gmidVd1iEVm3-KFQ59s/s320/tree+lined+street.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>I wanted to figure out what my obsession might be as I travel this road of life. Well, I love to go to lunch or happy hour with friends and laugh and talk and shop at the thrift store and play Scrabble. And laugh some more. Maybe I could write about that. I wouldn't mind researching that book for seven years at all. I've already put in a few decades. </b></span></div>
Susanne Brenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04376761569948838354noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3084137067051885398.post-79108791498396260422015-09-23T10:36:00.001-07:002015-09-23T10:36:48.378-07:00THAT'S NOT MY TABLE: A TRIP DOWN UMATILLA LANE<a href="http://writerwaitress.blogspot.com/2015/09/a-trip-down-umatilla-lane.html#links">THAT'S NOT MY TABLE: A TRIP DOWN UMATILLA LANE</a>Susanne Brenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04376761569948838354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3084137067051885398.post-29776297162287393942015-09-23T10:09:00.002-07:002015-09-23T10:25:05.314-07:00A TRIP DOWN UMATILLA LANE <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo2f0YLIJ84R_PYA0j9qVLdIr5gxU-1ZA2CuDnlkAN45UYmRVy5B94yCMAX3gYJEykerxOW3DjiBKX1KZ9_yMSwuQZuri2pvqs1bgM2QoqqO9IYpgc8IEVwouueHB7clKgJx37xqtcIO4/s1600/goldies+house+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo2f0YLIJ84R_PYA0j9qVLdIr5gxU-1ZA2CuDnlkAN45UYmRVy5B94yCMAX3gYJEykerxOW3DjiBKX1KZ9_yMSwuQZuri2pvqs1bgM2QoqqO9IYpgc8IEVwouueHB7clKgJx37xqtcIO4/s320/goldies+house+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbZtkVfbbegH14rBAqDJY3gfSnoa9pEa-acptzyZPz2Lk4n9oUazptY0l_TVc8dUT2STQ92oounrCEuHrb-oq3_ekXyXz0DXkPCZ6Sz-x3o5XSNkKunNikjZJegbdogYT9TRwGMJUQ7b4/s1600/IMG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbZtkVfbbegH14rBAqDJY3gfSnoa9pEa-acptzyZPz2Lk4n9oUazptY0l_TVc8dUT2STQ92oounrCEuHrb-oq3_ekXyXz0DXkPCZ6Sz-x3o5XSNkKunNikjZJegbdogYT9TRwGMJUQ7b4/s320/IMG.jpg" width="246" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>This is my friend, Goldie, gazing at a house that replaced the house where she lived in Denver for more than 50 years. Her former house, which she shared with her husband and his parents, was demolished last year and replaced with this modern version. If Goldie didn't know she was standing on Umatilla Lane in Denver, in the exact spot where her house once stood, she would have thought she was on a different street, in a different city or maybe living there was all just a dream. Goldie will 90 in November so she's experienced a lot of changes, including the death of her husband, Tony, yet looking at this brick and metal box that replaced her charming brick bungalow had to be a jolt. Goldie said she wished she had never sold the house. It was her biggest regret, she said. We all have those. </b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>The small photo above shows myself and a group of friends back in the 1980s standing in front of Goldie's house, the one that was torn down to make room for the hipster model with the orange door and chairs. Goldie used to have a comfy old arm chair on her front porch and a glider, the kind you could swing back and forth.</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpL9drAitj9eOJ-CygorkO8rFtHw7GU9s3wgab14_g9hi6YBtvVVPaa8bMGRDbZTI1yDK7eyQbPbAvhmdo6gDhMlD8BCnT2rHAZ1U9FeNL3wiqpboK2I8mHWEl1be1Wu-lXOyIqzmn6wg/s1600/myhouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpL9drAitj9eOJ-CygorkO8rFtHw7GU9s3wgab14_g9hi6YBtvVVPaa8bMGRDbZTI1yDK7eyQbPbAvhmdo6gDhMlD8BCnT2rHAZ1U9FeNL3wiqpboK2I8mHWEl1be1Wu-lXOyIqzmn6wg/s320/myhouse.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>This is the house I lived in right next to Goldie's house. It looks just as it did in 1983 when I first moved there. It probably looked just like this when it was built in the 1920s. Oh maybe there's a new coat of paint on the railing, a trellis, but not much else has changed. At least not on the outside. When I stood in front of this house last week it was easy to remember the idealistic young woman I had once been. It made me want to renew some old dreams that age has convinced me are impossible. Like the house, I am still standing, too. Though I don't look as I did in 1983. Darn it. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Yet, how I wish Goldie's house was the same. It seems cruel to have mine unchanged and her house not just changed, but gone. Here they are side by side. The neighborhood has undergone a gentrification, mostly young professional people who all look as if they jog, do yoga and have bouncy furry dogs. I tease Goldie that we wouldn't meet the age requirements to live on Umatilla Lane, anyway. </b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigJqm9Hkd1CKxe7tocMCHq4R3gX9B53MSHhyphenhyphenwAHB5EcdGzpp1O9FBqAlJPQGwtZiUCY4QIRhsv2oWGrr8o-XILojAsxAU-r13Tb76uYrV6bO-mI1yyflhG_-H4IkB9xscc6Pcn34Oy76g/s1600/street.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigJqm9Hkd1CKxe7tocMCHq4R3gX9B53MSHhyphenhyphenwAHB5EcdGzpp1O9FBqAlJPQGwtZiUCY4QIRhsv2oWGrr8o-XILojAsxAU-r13Tb76uYrV6bO-mI1yyflhG_-H4IkB9xscc6Pcn34Oy76g/s320/street.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br />Houses are just big objects we can't take with us when we die, and yet they contain so many memories. I have never lived one place for 50 years so it's difficult for me to truly understand what Goldie must be thinking when she sees a garage has replaced her back yard. </b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifzHOtBddwG5O5-g0cnkq-Zsu5kE8k-0_UZCme0q_kfaHq0vblZ5kgC5jH_Y86ZT7xTPAtYS6KzgOsg5sMpdOsg8vhWodOBkkXir3-DKUzNudLTpe11uJh0R6c4hMKvtBmVmuvDx2eVs0/s1600/garage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifzHOtBddwG5O5-g0cnkq-Zsu5kE8k-0_UZCme0q_kfaHq0vblZ5kgC5jH_Y86ZT7xTPAtYS6KzgOsg5sMpdOsg8vhWodOBkkXir3-DKUzNudLTpe11uJh0R6c4hMKvtBmVmuvDx2eVs0/s320/garage.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<strong><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Instead of the lush green lawn that Goldie's husband mowed for fifty plus years, is a cement driveway and, again, that hipster orange. I'd rather see Goldie's back yard that once held her dogs, a turtle, a dove and a garden as well as the little workshop where Tony liked to putter. </span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Arial;">Still, time marches on and, if anything, this has taught me not to linger too long looking behind me at the shadows and instead keep my face to the sun. Some day I will return to Denver and my little red bungalow might be gone too, replaced with another sleek home with orange doors. Or maybe neon green. Who knows what color will be hip then. Possibly polka dots or glitter. No matter. It is out of my control.</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Arial;">My memories, though, are like this tree that remains on Umatilla Lane. Once, a branch from this tree fell on my Camaro and dented my hood. Goldie remembers a snow plow sliced the base of the tree. Looking at tree was like looking at an old friend.</span></strong><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1T6o7SkhShh_ZxRYYiCTzAHC3m3qxyjI3E25Yydomx8kenYtSUnL0KTPZ870i1kuneH4Sin_HWwUm8HvcbNUn9Q6Zci5xTG90q3HqjV0uPa_N-FNptF-le7Enng9i4N7xV9AquET36ic/s1600/goldie+house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1T6o7SkhShh_ZxRYYiCTzAHC3m3qxyjI3E25Yydomx8kenYtSUnL0KTPZ870i1kuneH4Sin_HWwUm8HvcbNUn9Q6Zci5xTG90q3HqjV0uPa_N-FNptF-le7Enng9i4N7xV9AquET36ic/s320/goldie+house.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<strong><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I remember how soft snow coated the branches in the winter. In the Spring the leaves turned bright green and provided my house shelter from the heat of the day. When the leaves dropped in the fall, my front yard sparkled gold and orange. A real orange. Not painted to look cool. Goldie and I were both pleased to see the tree remained and we admired her. The tree reminds me of an older woman. Strong and tall and beautiful, able to roll with the changes, even if her base gets a dent in it now and then. I'm ashamed to say I don't even know what kind of tree this is, but it's type matters less to me than it's survival. </span></strong><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibqjKEMZJGtTJadABBVMlVVmy1RMSblOlIugPaprBUN6TwSHBA2RPuDET3kZDheTGC5-XVWtVqj2rPUqX_l3VW4elE7YCXahFJ7-zMD0W8lq4nQ0MuiyMg27G9lY3kkb3TO7T4TtPxEPw/s1600/goldie+and+fadie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibqjKEMZJGtTJadABBVMlVVmy1RMSblOlIugPaprBUN6TwSHBA2RPuDET3kZDheTGC5-XVWtVqj2rPUqX_l3VW4elE7YCXahFJ7-zMD0W8lq4nQ0MuiyMg27G9lY3kkb3TO7T4TtPxEPw/s320/goldie+and+fadie.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<strong><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All this reminiscing made Goldie and me work up an appetite. We invited Faydie, on the left, to join Goldie and me for some Vietnamese food. Goldie met Faydie at the senior citizen apartments where they both live.</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Pretty soon we were laughing and talking and eating noodles and rice, making new memories which will join the ones Goldie and I have from Umatilla Lane. Hopefully, there will be time to make more. In the end, houses don't matter as much as people, anyway. </span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></strong><br />Susanne Brenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04376761569948838354noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3084137067051885398.post-16014376231465636052015-09-02T21:10:00.000-07:002015-09-02T21:30:44.590-07:00Floradora...the story behind the cocktail<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirIBVuCd0yymB80IbNG19-omCLkEXbfjFRTLGgyFTV07tdbCUu-Lt_IFW952yB1nsDz0sei1hOxoZz-XAnYYYJ7FsKUtWly5qNhsrHJ1dRtRR-CnjwSvpvUCaocV2RIy7Tixq4bZpJzHI/s1600/recipe-Floradora.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirIBVuCd0yymB80IbNG19-omCLkEXbfjFRTLGgyFTV07tdbCUu-Lt_IFW952yB1nsDz0sei1hOxoZz-XAnYYYJ7FsKUtWly5qNhsrHJ1dRtRR-CnjwSvpvUCaocV2RIy7Tixq4bZpJzHI/s320/recipe-Floradora.jpg" width="198" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>At the restaurant where I work we have a drink on the menu called the Floradora. We've served this drink for a few months now, and one night as I waited for the bartender to mix cocktails to serve, I casually asked, "Why is that drink called Floradora?" She shrugged. "Corporate named it." Huh. I hadn't even wondered why it was called Floradora until that moment. I forgot about it. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>I just love coincidences, don't you? They are like messages from the heavens. A few days later, I was at my writer's group at Barnes and Nobles Bookstore. (Yes it is still in business though my fellow writers and myself worry all the time the doors will shut one day and we will have to meet at Applebee's). I was browsing through a cart loaded with books on sale when I came across one of those old style, hard back, Time Life books. It had big splashy photos of scandalous and horrible crimes committed during the last century. Frankly, I'm embarrassed to say, but it was fascinating to read. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx7KyAIZhyphenhyphencz30KqLNcBSKLblrrzoIrnwtTl7TRfakLDkB7HS207MAJZnbYRFukjdJxZtpk2iMJJoSTEvhdQl5c315QDQ_5d6F9EWIWo1wut4t6OEvvPe_gWw_9EVCsUJjsFiWA4ddhgI/s1600/EV+with+bear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx7KyAIZhyphenhyphencz30KqLNcBSKLblrrzoIrnwtTl7TRfakLDkB7HS207MAJZnbYRFukjdJxZtpk2iMJJoSTEvhdQl5c315QDQ_5d6F9EWIWo1wut4t6OEvvPe_gWw_9EVCsUJjsFiWA4ddhgI/s320/EV+with+bear.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>No the crime isn't the dead polar bear, though it should be. The crime involved this young girl, Evelyn Nesbit, who in this photo is pretending to be asleep on the bear skin. Evelyn was a Floradora girl.</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQgAG2tKtteCVUzC9n0s_rBdkWIA8sc2zgmOZ3sW4iGCK8DIsxrlbmM1mDFLyzJ5SU5HG8OH7uiaB6SKhJ8x7An7ZSx2-iYBsGQ6nPBGAeRmurZwgnETT6QGKWJdh1AD9SA1-StVPmwTw/s1600/floradora.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQgAG2tKtteCVUzC9n0s_rBdkWIA8sc2zgmOZ3sW4iGCK8DIsxrlbmM1mDFLyzJ5SU5HG8OH7uiaB6SKhJ8x7An7ZSx2-iYBsGQ6nPBGAeRmurZwgnETT6QGKWJdh1AD9SA1-StVPmwTw/s320/floradora.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Thanks to the book I happened upon, I learned Floradora was a famous London play, actually a set of plays, that came to Broadway at the beginning of the 20th century. Big deal back then. Who knew? Not me. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Above are the hot Floradora ladies of the 1900s. Check out those ruffles. The women were what gave the production it's fame and zing. Or should I say, va va va voom! </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>My have times have changed. Floradora women needed to be 5 feet four inches and 130 pounds. Nowadays if women are that weight, at that height, they are encouraged to enroll at Curves and eat more kale. Those were the good old days, never mind no penicillin or Internet. Women could be plump.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Anyway, back to the woman pretending to snooze on the polar bear, Evelyn Nesbit. She had a troubled, impoverished youth, and came to New York City seeking fame and fortune. </b></span><b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She was 16, maybe even younger, as her mother added years to her age so she could work. No child labor laws yet. Her looks were popular then, and she was soon given a slot as a Floradora performer.</b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0z57_-QYD1999Z2LM6xij47L_QNECh4bu0ZK_QqJxY_TO1iVFHtKnC46NUC8iNqZS0WRaO3FYskB1KNqKsEdnfDHOL2Cr-bJg78QPfbs_2ytf4uDja6ZK1wiNkosHBBiUh7xldCG08YM/s1600/Evelyn_Nesbit_12056u-e1285451558406.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0z57_-QYD1999Z2LM6xij47L_QNECh4bu0ZK_QqJxY_TO1iVFHtKnC46NUC8iNqZS0WRaO3FYskB1KNqKsEdnfDHOL2Cr-bJg78QPfbs_2ytf4uDja6ZK1wiNkosHBBiUh7xldCG08YM/s320/Evelyn_Nesbit_12056u-e1285451558406.jpg" width="245" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>If there had been reality shows then, Evelyn pictured here would have had her own. She'd have a twitter account. Evelyn's beauty was the talk of New York City. Of course as a popular dancer in a groovy Broadway show, she ran around with some rich, and yes, married men. And you thought scandal was reserved only for 2015 and the Kardashians. </b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSEWHWrX0IOnC3KjntuAb13CSoeQSYDko6Igl-QhjdpgTxudKQA2De4vjBpaz9b0ytAnVu3dxPMw4gfD8H2jyqS_CeAYzgevs3oWdmg7-k9A_HrDHhvE7Pzy4riV3PUEmBFMF-eF3uW-I/s1600/standing+standford.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSEWHWrX0IOnC3KjntuAb13CSoeQSYDko6Igl-QhjdpgTxudKQA2De4vjBpaz9b0ytAnVu3dxPMw4gfD8H2jyqS_CeAYzgevs3oWdmg7-k9A_HrDHhvE7Pzy4riV3PUEmBFMF-eF3uW-I/s320/standing+standford.jpg" width="223" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>This rich cad, and famous architect, Stanford White, lured her into his New York City mansion and had his way with her. Apparently, he was the Christen Grey of the 1900s. With a mustache that is. He was quite the playboy. Stanford here rigged a bedroom, (it had red wall paper in case you needed to know) with mirrors and a swing. A red swing. </b></span><b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So Fifty Shades of Grey!</b><b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Not sure where his wife was when Evelyn was at the mansion partying with this tycoon, perhaps out shopping for parasols and corsets. Or having babies. </b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>So Stanford drugged Evelyn's champagne. When she woke up in the morning she was no longer a virgin. The despicable act may have even happened right on that polar bear rug. Too bad the bear was dead, or it could have bit Stanford right in the...you know where.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>At this point in the story, I'm thinking...management named a drink at the restaurant Floradora? Why not just call it Sex, Drugs and...ladies wearing big hats with feathers. It gets even more juicy.</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGRYKNAes2NNKDjstIjGxIW9uJaFmi40GgB_YLPque4C1irwrKlZ-4kCxHQYSnBKe92tfazxpXCBD1LLDG64UdOkTrdSOF7Q0aAP1R0JucBkIPT8ia9BjcBZMc5TStFlLeD764spTLfzg/s1600/Harry+Thaw.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGRYKNAes2NNKDjstIjGxIW9uJaFmi40GgB_YLPque4C1irwrKlZ-4kCxHQYSnBKe92tfazxpXCBD1LLDG64UdOkTrdSOF7Q0aAP1R0JucBkIPT8ia9BjcBZMc5TStFlLeD764spTLfzg/s320/Harry+Thaw.JPG" width="186" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>A few years later, Evelyn our heroine marries this wild and crazy guy, Harry Thaw. She knew she couldn't dance forever and beauty fades. He was very rich and rather, shall we say, nuts. He liked to whip people. Anyway, he was obsessed with the fact that Evelyn was not a virgin. He hated Stanford White for robbing his future bride of her virginity. Because there is no time period which does not include violence and guns, one June night in 1906, on the top of Madison Square Garden's, he shoots Stanford to death. It was said the play they had all been attending that night was boring. Perhaps if it has been more interesting...</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyw-AabWsRA_5aaH4wxJdUQ41NOnTB3fwspFxA3hIBiUi-ZXjpxKVEPdHliFFJBzUNpNQ8OmBYv2BoI4QXyK4OYhR21LXj0sszRKHoZ14ydbbqkQgYv2lSaZ4e29EzfiM1vLapP5Oo9OM/s1600/evelyn+nesbit+sweet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyw-AabWsRA_5aaH4wxJdUQ41NOnTB3fwspFxA3hIBiUi-ZXjpxKVEPdHliFFJBzUNpNQ8OmBYv2BoI4QXyK4OYhR21LXj0sszRKHoZ14ydbbqkQgYv2lSaZ4e29EzfiM1vLapP5Oo9OM/s320/evelyn+nesbit+sweet.jpg" width="217" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>The rest of the story involves courtroom drama, a mental institution, poverty and Evelyn's affair with the famous movie star John Barrymore. Oh and Evelyn even has a child who becomes a fighter pilot. Quite a story. Except no one, including me, knew this tale of lust and woe where I work. We just thought Floradora was a funny sounding name. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Now Evelyn would be tweeting everything that happened to her, the red swing, the dancing, the murder. With the</b></span><b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> immediacy of today's media, what seems so newsworthy fades and is replaced with something else. Just as we all will. So anytime you think you will be remembered after you are dead...guess again. Be nice to your grandchildren so at least they can name in you in old photos. No children? Me either. Oh well, you can fade into obscurity with me. Meanwhile, enjoy the ride.</b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjObuAlskLd7rEPhp4gzAwIJhVX20UsnntDY1wCgVeczV5BDJIYX8qKn0PQUZvYGLYc8pfdJFDzbIueAMnZhb2WqK6GPJX1-EeIKKuOWckwN3RYf2b3BA6pJEv2weZKuS0-nuZAbQOg1mg/s1600/floradora-cocktail-1124.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjObuAlskLd7rEPhp4gzAwIJhVX20UsnntDY1wCgVeczV5BDJIYX8qKn0PQUZvYGLYc8pfdJFDzbIueAMnZhb2WqK6GPJX1-EeIKKuOWckwN3RYf2b3BA6pJEv2weZKuS0-nuZAbQOg1mg/s320/floradora-cocktail-1124.png" width="266" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Curious to see what Floradora tastes like? Here's the recipe. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Actually, Floradora isn't a top seller at the restaurant. More people order the Blue Hawaiian because, well, it's blue. It's fun to drink blue stuff. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>By the way, Hollywood made a movie based on this story of Evelyn Nesbit. Looks dramatic and oh so 1960s.</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZcSlPV0Kfq6DZsX7NGxC_DNHqM0zJXc8H88grozxLwX_2PQbS-Wk3cmIVXHeb_qnKUPi3FVkvP9zPdHl2q_x7LA6YcpAoS7-gRk-bJJkhzE1jP6gqQwnJwLXj0s456qFTpnbjiqO12ag/s1600/the-girl-in-the-red-velvet-swing-1483011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZcSlPV0Kfq6DZsX7NGxC_DNHqM0zJXc8H88grozxLwX_2PQbS-Wk3cmIVXHeb_qnKUPi3FVkvP9zPdHl2q_x7LA6YcpAoS7-gRk-bJJkhzE1jP6gqQwnJwLXj0s456qFTpnbjiqO12ag/s320/the-girl-in-the-red-velvet-swing-1483011.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>It starred Joan Collins. Remember her from when she starred in the television show Dallas? She was rather famous for portraying a rich and devious woman.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Maybe it's time to name a drink Joan Collins. I'm certain one day, in the near future, someone will ask, "Who is Joan Collins?" And no one will remember. </b></span>Susanne Brenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04376761569948838354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3084137067051885398.post-26069989594091329862015-08-17T10:17:00.004-07:002015-08-17T11:02:02.940-07:00The Long and Winding Road<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaUlqTXOuXJbudj9wAHXR8K_4NN3j6Cs6_rCqR1_N9Gfg1lBaPj-OD-OJchzgdhFnq79ycICaPFdnMir7HcJJEWcS7jNuYTJPaLPAxQ8MOxb-wHs5LvN3MRxJSpS9GTbrOcKEig1gjm0c/s1600/photo+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaUlqTXOuXJbudj9wAHXR8K_4NN3j6Cs6_rCqR1_N9Gfg1lBaPj-OD-OJchzgdhFnq79ycICaPFdnMir7HcJJEWcS7jNuYTJPaLPAxQ8MOxb-wHs5LvN3MRxJSpS9GTbrOcKEig1gjm0c/s320/photo+3.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><b>"If you see your path laid out in front of you -- Step One,Step two, Step three -- you only know one thing..it is not your path. Your path is created in the moment of action. If you can see it laid out in front of you, you can be sure it is someone else's path. That is why you see it so clearly." </b></i></span><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When the writer and mythologist Joseph Campbell wrote these words, I wonder if he had attempted a novel? It would be so much easier to have the path of my novel clearly carved out for me word for word, a yellow brick road to writing success. Minus the munchkins. </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Searching for just the right word, devising a clever plot, creating believable characters and genuine dialogue is time consuming work. There are those writers who claim a novel wrote itself. I dislike those writers as much as I dislike people who eat mint chocolate chip ice cream every day and stay thin. I am convinced they are </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">actually aliens.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> A clear path, like the one in the desert near my house shown above, where when I hike I can see far ahead to where the path leads, requires less thinking. Less scary, too. When I write, I always feel somewhat lost and wish someone had left at least some bread crumbs for me to follow. And if they lead to a ugly</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> witch's house, that's okay. I think I can take the mean old hag, as well as snap off a candy cane or two.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
</b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmO998dE85iNsXgA76rbBlfvfQHVvQKEp2TPFlUiIjF5SzjLfQD-_0kqbE-16wg3PZStcvv3VzscXGudjXQrINlGLzL47xLHs4uEwh7Qgr7_D-Jkiy8OOFSyy8lOpQsS2xhYlSbzAIGk8/s1600/coloring+vbook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><b><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmO998dE85iNsXgA76rbBlfvfQHVvQKEp2TPFlUiIjF5SzjLfQD-_0kqbE-16wg3PZStcvv3VzscXGudjXQrINlGLzL47xLHs4uEwh7Qgr7_D-Jkiy8OOFSyy8lOpQsS2xhYlSbzAIGk8/s320/coloring+vbook.jpg" width="320" /></b></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Today's coloring books are elaborate, but it still requires coloring between the lines of someone else's bunny and porcupine. I think that's a porcupine on the right. Not sure. Cute, but too structured for me. </b></span><br />
<b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></b><b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I contradict myself. I know. I groaned when teachers made us do outlines in school BEFORE writing the paper. Remember? 1. a. b. c. and so on. Often, a sentence was required that would summarize the paper. Some teachers even made students show the outline after writing the paper. That is like living your life and then, before you die, being asked to show the outline you drafted, say when you were 13, to see if it matches what actually happened. That would be interesting to see how many people's lives turned out as they had envisioned as teenagers. Sure there might be some things that worked out as planned, but I betcha there would be a slew of surprises. Often we don't know what to do next until we get there. Same with writing.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8bXjSAybrgOVmTnH59VuFbvlaWXTSnrN4LzRiG5iL5k5Ix16oCXU8ELfLkl5-mYtVf0jqZJcBMaqVKqWWOBpX8uu23tpX_PUYdsk1WQ_E6CIvNwUcpKgWayt6UPv_vDCxZhhQzF-MezQ/s1600/rain+forest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><b><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8bXjSAybrgOVmTnH59VuFbvlaWXTSnrN4LzRiG5iL5k5Ix16oCXU8ELfLkl5-mYtVf0jqZJcBMaqVKqWWOBpX8uu23tpX_PUYdsk1WQ_E6CIvNwUcpKgWayt6UPv_vDCxZhhQzF-MezQ/s320/rain+forest.jpg" width="320" /></b></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>My novel feel more like this photo I took in the Costa Rican jungle last spring. No clear path. I didn't attempt to walk through this jungle, and I often don't attempt my novel as it often feels daunting to even begin. But I bet if I had started walking in this jungle, with a lot of bug repellent slathered on me, a path would have shown itself. I would have seen rushing rivers, flocks of exotic birds in flight and lush plant life of the kind I'd never before seen. The sights! The smells! The exclamation points possibilites.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Writing a novel is the same. A lot of unexpected beautiful things can arise once I begin. It's not easy forging a path alone, and that is why so many writers give up along the trail. </b></span><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There are so many books and classes and blogs and newsletters and workshops about how to write. A lot of people are making money telling other people how to write. To learn how to walk through a dense jungle, one must starting walking. Same with writing. Writing classes are beneficial, as are meeting with other writers, but to write one must sit and sit and sit alone for hours forging a path with words. For someone like myself who likes to check things off her to do list, and have a clear set of each day's purpose, meandering without a path feels often futile and foolish. </span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<b><br /></b>
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
</b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaY7J4y-sFcl8psq1Y2Y6auf_mt_FZ1NvSzu9gnSnd0lpdHl0r3QB3jGenoXCgzvqaY9Iw8wEVNit-37Gcof975cNm0zrdgotoXqBbrLl4mH9CqjgsZALmc1j_lDE3LUtC5jaxFnJNbq8/s1600/photo.jpg1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaY7J4y-sFcl8psq1Y2Y6auf_mt_FZ1NvSzu9gnSnd0lpdHl0r3QB3jGenoXCgzvqaY9Iw8wEVNit-37Gcof975cNm0zrdgotoXqBbrLl4mH9CqjgsZALmc1j_lDE3LUtC5jaxFnJNbq8/s320/photo.jpg1.jpg" width="320" /></a>I must remember that even if I feel I'm walking in circles , like this labyrinth in Oregon that I visited, it doesn't mean I'm not making progress. Now if I was still there months later walking around in circles that would be a problem. I hope someone would step in and help me. And sometimes we do need help from our friends. I'm blessed with wise writer friends who help me edit, and also friends who listen and tell me to get moving with my life, to stop going in circles and walk a new direction, but they can't do writing or life for me. My lazy side says oh darn. </b></span></div>
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span>
</b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpR_Hw2MzE8sjKJY3_72a0ciJF6hmXtuce0dhHwjlU4B9iDn_W7NdGcgleGj25FJ2esPQ4IIo3f_AClqw8pH2drjNUMq4IXEGfzyRaMyQYrDUNu2sBs79EeqDU1QMrnlgbFRi2JYrsi3s/s1600/photo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><b><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpR_Hw2MzE8sjKJY3_72a0ciJF6hmXtuce0dhHwjlU4B9iDn_W7NdGcgleGj25FJ2esPQ4IIo3f_AClqw8pH2drjNUMq4IXEGfzyRaMyQYrDUNu2sBs79EeqDU1QMrnlgbFRi2JYrsi3s/s320/photo+1.JPG" width="320" /></b></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Some paths are gorgeous, and seem wide and safe, but even this one in the Oregon forest veers to the left. Just like Dorothy's yellow brick road that looked so clearly laid out for her, there were wild surprises. Dorothy met evil witches, and flying monkeys and almost took a forever sleep in a field of pretty poppies that looked deceptively safe. Just shows you that even though the yellow brick path looked clear, it was still full of pitfalls. </b></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b> When I was little I used to imagine staying in bed all day long and that way nothing bad would ever happen to me. My next thought was how bored I was going to get. So I got out of bed. </b></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-daIfUH8-cI9y7y5vKOpsFmYD-4K8hqayXdcVQ_oHyqipAFMTwE84Y1dRWtc2zCmGBrDLD6rGUNIZL0I0v3Mr6uvBeqKhOAuxQpfHe_iuCZiotrUO4nyzVmJ0I3disoLgil2Y7_Sl3hs/s1600/Dolly-Parton-dolly-parton-10888351-1024-768.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><b><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-daIfUH8-cI9y7y5vKOpsFmYD-4K8hqayXdcVQ_oHyqipAFMTwE84Y1dRWtc2zCmGBrDLD6rGUNIZL0I0v3Mr6uvBeqKhOAuxQpfHe_iuCZiotrUO4nyzVmJ0I3disoLgil2Y7_Sl3hs/s320/Dolly-Parton-dolly-parton-10888351-1024-768.jpg" width="320" /></b></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i>"If you don't like the road you're walking, start paving another one," </i>said my hero Dolly Parton. </b></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>What? It's not right to include a quote by the esteemed scholar Joseph Campbell in the same blog as Dolly, the singer with the blonde wigs and long finger nails? That's the beauty of no outline. I can do whatever I want. (No English teacher, either, to scold me.) And she's right. Whether in life or writing, if we need to revise, edit or start a entirely new story, it's okay. I just have to remind myself that even if I feel lost in my novel, and I make a bunch of mistakes, I just have to keep moving. </b></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Make it up as I go along, like life, and hopefully get wiser and a better writer and a person along the way. That's all part of the adventure. </b></span><b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I wouldn't want someone else to write the novel, or live my life for me. </b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b> I'm sure both Joseph and Dolly would agree. </b></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>
</b></span>Susanne Brenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04376761569948838354noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3084137067051885398.post-20851917956220388512015-07-28T16:12:00.000-07:002015-07-28T17:13:03.984-07:00Christmas in July<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWLGjDO40AG8H2dGy_SpNqIBMgg1jsXfoo8QC7N3C11a_xjc2EhP86oap9zbnbHXLGdTsect5mz2cCkF634q6KmTUMl6ZcErLxY1LhMsFcXwh8NxqqhaQcIYTkozwlNHLOI2M3QgzlqHs/s1600/presents.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWLGjDO40AG8H2dGy_SpNqIBMgg1jsXfoo8QC7N3C11a_xjc2EhP86oap9zbnbHXLGdTsect5mz2cCkF634q6KmTUMl6ZcErLxY1LhMsFcXwh8NxqqhaQcIYTkozwlNHLOI2M3QgzlqHs/s320/presents.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b> I've been seeing a lot of Christmas in July sales around Phoenix. Try as I might, I just can't get in the holiday spirit when the thermometer reads 108 day after day after day. In </b><b>Phoenix in the </b><b>summer everyone blames laziness on the heat. Not exercising, eating only take out food from a greasy Chinese restaurant instead of cooking, never wanting to get dressed and leave the house, can all be explained by "it's too hot." As can the extra twenty pounds you have around your waist by October. Still, I don't want to blame my inability to imagine Christmas on the 100 plus temperatures. </b><b>Science fiction writers haven't actually traveled to say, Mars, but that doesn't prevent them from writing as if they have. </b><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<b> Besides, I could be taking advantage of some great sales. My friend, Penny, would have all her Christmas shopping done by July. Presents wrapped and in the closet. That always seemed so very smart to me. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> And isn't being a writer all about playing make believe? Aren't I suppose to create imaginary people, places and things with words? Which sounds just the tiniest bit crazy, or maybe that's what keeps writers sane. Even so, when I tried to be enthusiastic about Christmas-themed sales in July, my creative thinking was no match for the desert. </b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGb2RDCk2pwQ9xRViHH3wCBMm2PPuVZAi0ivGtHbl4yQPDrcKEE2_lf0gkc6g32O2u_4Q0BmaeD6znEPP_hx5KRilaHucNnR0tlBB3XCIdp12Ws9-hQpaPIQDw_TJlSaqnq2tlEEI7X0s/s1600/desert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGb2RDCk2pwQ9xRViHH3wCBMm2PPuVZAi0ivGtHbl4yQPDrcKEE2_lf0gkc6g32O2u_4Q0BmaeD6znEPP_hx5KRilaHucNnR0tlBB3XCIdp12Ws9-hQpaPIQDw_TJlSaqnq2tlEEI7X0s/s320/desert.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b> I know that other parts of the country are toasty right now, but the Arizona desert and it's months of intense heat make the idea of drinking cocoa and singing Christmas carols, and everything else that goes with Christmas shopping, seem as impossible to me as singing an opera. Even my dog leaves the room when I start singing. </b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9pGmhkyHxHPWSw7jfUDPi5IN5YZVO76opsMplTznonUSuDcdbTqvJsK_Ehyphenhyphen5QmphuRYdWqX71GN8M8EDCnZFJDQhXNxAQsxp_As-jq8lLmSSTU-xiWnrsnibSRZvA6idwR-S4TU1D8CY/s1600/Scrooge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9pGmhkyHxHPWSw7jfUDPi5IN5YZVO76opsMplTznonUSuDcdbTqvJsK_Ehyphenhyphen5QmphuRYdWqX71GN8M8EDCnZFJDQhXNxAQsxp_As-jq8lLmSSTU-xiWnrsnibSRZvA6idwR-S4TU1D8CY/s320/Scrooge.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b> Christmas in July was featured on a television station last week. I hoped watching A Christmas Carol yet again might get me in the spirit. Here is Christmas Present with mean old Scrooge in an old black and white film version of Charles Dicken's classic book. As I watched this same movie in my air conditioned house wearing shorts in front of a fan while eating sherbert, I found myself getting bored. I didn't even care when Scrooge turned generous and helped Tiny Tim. I felt like a terrible uncaring person. I blamed it on the heat. </b><br />
<br />
<b> After seeing yet another Christmas in July sale, I had it. Christmas belongs in December, not July. I don't care if my job as a writer is to have an active imagination. I don't want to think of shopping for anyone when stepping outside makes me feel I might burst into flames.</b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8OwI0oI2h3wBrjYfenjI5qBelu3SC8VivLNXCHwustl1tb4tPYE8cxo9b7xKk5e7DDZfyzubrsguSBr0JdhBE9t1uqYfxFTu7LxQR5EMwGvLN1Jo46ObdIGovf7lI2FzR6CfRnczJ2lE/s1600/100_1329.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8OwI0oI2h3wBrjYfenjI5qBelu3SC8VivLNXCHwustl1tb4tPYE8cxo9b7xKk5e7DDZfyzubrsguSBr0JdhBE9t1uqYfxFTu7LxQR5EMwGvLN1Jo46ObdIGovf7lI2FzR6CfRnczJ2lE/s320/100_1329.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b> What I do find myself enjoying is any photos or movies with snow. Just looking at this little red cabin makes me feel cozy inside and gives me hope. Also joy because I don't have to do any shoveling of the white stuff. The air is chilly, the presents are wrapped beneath an evergreen tree, and the people are inside having a glass of wine beside a fire. Wait. No fire. I don't want to imagine anything hot. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> I trust when December comes so will the beautiful Arizona weather. The temperature in winter dips to a brisk 60 degrees. Brrrr.... I will be in the spirit to decorate a tree and eat too much fattening food at parties and shop. The chilly weather, the lights, even the crowds at the mall make for the holiday in season. Christmas in July is lonely. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfXwFJ8yv4RdaDUvd0x_324lY4fWu2RAK-mrCUHDzW0SLcg_UKlC85lTgVGOdV9yg1ZRXyrs9zcWSAlZk59Y4QzZ72FaxOR0XpH-gR8TJMY-lRLpQiY-z1A2OoGrd4JbEz5abqyrFeNS0/s1600/53-Brent%2525202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfXwFJ8yv4RdaDUvd0x_324lY4fWu2RAK-mrCUHDzW0SLcg_UKlC85lTgVGOdV9yg1ZRXyrs9zcWSAlZk59Y4QzZ72FaxOR0XpH-gR8TJMY-lRLpQiY-z1A2OoGrd4JbEz5abqyrFeNS0/s320/53-Brent%2525202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b> I know Santa will return. I know he exists because we took our photo together when he visited Phoenix. Right now he is busy with his elves making toys at the North Pole. I know he will remember me in December. ( See I still have an imagination.)</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> I know this blog about July is late. I blame my tardiness on the heat. Soon it will be August, the month kids and teachers dread and parents cheer. </b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh1MvcwtDNKu0w8DTzAZ1R8uMeGOgPVEJh_UssV3djmYWTz199_ii2TcSvVSQKUelWPzF9K7TCbBSifRy4OlELm9jY4BegzWVSNo8PT6Ruh8evY6Y7YkO060D3vyLc4jwxBo8y7OaEr_0/s1600/back+to+school.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh1MvcwtDNKu0w8DTzAZ1R8uMeGOgPVEJh_UssV3djmYWTz199_ii2TcSvVSQKUelWPzF9K7TCbBSifRy4OlELm9jY4BegzWVSNo8PT6Ruh8evY6Y7YkO060D3vyLc4jwxBo8y7OaEr_0/s320/back+to+school.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b> Where was this book when I was a kid? I wonder if there is a version for parents of children returning to school. The title might be Free at Last. The one for teachers could be titled How Many Days Until Christmas Break? </b>Susanne Brenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04376761569948838354noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3084137067051885398.post-49645448088877882802015-07-06T15:46:00.002-07:002015-07-07T08:54:22.638-07:00The Wicked and Wild Bowling Alley<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi80dsVi1skWhXEQO2nqDNtD0FJ3dC7gg_R0ZVG_SrUTtVYdfgP_CAwUIPzhGeuJxZaXashmI1xx1kf1Aqx__QjLB784PTWCj2O9hwJAB8ay6FIkTtxJHpaBeLFU0zw82NDgo7174seguA/s1600/hoffman+bowl.....jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi80dsVi1skWhXEQO2nqDNtD0FJ3dC7gg_R0ZVG_SrUTtVYdfgP_CAwUIPzhGeuJxZaXashmI1xx1kf1Aqx__QjLB784PTWCj2O9hwJAB8ay6FIkTtxJHpaBeLFU0zw82NDgo7174seguA/s1600/hoffman+bowl.....jpeg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> <b>Once upon a time, in a small village called Hoffman Estates, there was a bowling alley where wicked and wild things happened. Or so thought the little girl who lived at 121 Alpine Lane just a few blocks from the bowling alley. She wished her parents bowled and would take her to the bowling alley where she knew exciting things happened. She felt uncertain about exactly what excitement occurred behind the bowling alley doors but she knew it was opened late at night and that alone was fascinating. Once, she dared to peek inside and learned the bowling alley was dark and loud and it smelled of cigarette smoke. In fact just opening the door was like inhaling my first cigarette. Wonderfully wicked. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b> People were laughing a lot in there. She quickly shut the door, knowing a little girl would never be allowed to go inside alone, and went on her way to Grants Department Store to buy candy necklaces that she made her neck sticky and sweet.</b></span><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> The little girl wished she had parents who bowled. Parents who bowled looked like they lived life to the hilt and were modern. They let their children eat cold shrimp with cocktail sauce and stay up past 10 p.m. to watch the Johnny Carson show. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Her parents put her to bed early and the only seafood her mom served was tuna casserole with potato chips baked on the top.</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjzFCDl5Gd9bUSS9UJDYQ3cSWSHguFQuAU54otWJYehLFfcI_eZ-vj46r0cDyyTBDnvoUGYCi9Aw18qWQMbrc4CKkBp9JKK9-C-K8oxdBO0ohfrIyGJKezOZGU5fFe4B-K3mP4VjP8ipc/s1600/l-willinger-1960-s-era-couple-bowling-in-tenpin-bowling-alley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjzFCDl5Gd9bUSS9UJDYQ3cSWSHguFQuAU54otWJYehLFfcI_eZ-vj46r0cDyyTBDnvoUGYCi9Aw18qWQMbrc4CKkBp9JKK9-C-K8oxdBO0ohfrIyGJKezOZGU5fFe4B-K3mP4VjP8ipc/s320/l-willinger-1960-s-era-couple-bowling-in-tenpin-bowling-alley.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> <b>Alas, her parents had no interest in bowling and were able to drive past the busy Hoffman Lanes Bowling Alley without saying, "That place looks hopping. Maybe we should take the kids bowling one day." Oh, sure, the little girl's parents had parties with friends, played Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass on the record player and even did the twist to Chubby Checkers while drinking screw drivers and bourbon and Seven Up. They didn't leave the living room to party much less enroll their little girl in the children's bowling leagues during the hot and humid Illinois summers. Instead she had to go swimming in her backyard pool. It was dreadful. How mean of them. She knew for certain that other children were having much more fun in the air conditioned bowling alley, sipping tall cokes purchased from the Hoffman Lanes lounge. </b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidQCIukkB6HCVXfsYMhEvyj0_ZLWTomgP5u_TKcZKGwTgZc9_KZMBtlErfV-kSvEmqlt4w62v3_PswQNgRmLnysaiuCai3XtGc3VpSXlVApFO-D2O5IHP6kpu-jRUK93s6SzhZmiu5FG0/s1600/bowling+bar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidQCIukkB6HCVXfsYMhEvyj0_ZLWTomgP5u_TKcZKGwTgZc9_KZMBtlErfV-kSvEmqlt4w62v3_PswQNgRmLnysaiuCai3XtGc3VpSXlVApFO-D2O5IHP6kpu-jRUK93s6SzhZmiu5FG0/s1600/bowling+bar.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> <b>The little girl had heard Hoffman Lanes had a cocktail lounge and she felt certain it must be a magical place where she could see how adults acted in real life as they sometimes did on the Perry Mason show. She also heard that there was a pool table. The wonders continued.</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvs-OfIeUiEMzQSxFH4MZnk5u-S4dz8DFow1ci3rM8cpBeZQiCjlmGNJNzMy5f2JNDD2Cnlq_0UcQFjStdWSIx-kfeECua_aoYy8rUUIdVZvS5btyj3euvq-xwgaWFRVZUHp0aghI6tN0/s1600/pool+hall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvs-OfIeUiEMzQSxFH4MZnk5u-S4dz8DFow1ci3rM8cpBeZQiCjlmGNJNzMy5f2JNDD2Cnlq_0UcQFjStdWSIx-kfeECua_aoYy8rUUIdVZvS5btyj3euvq-xwgaWFRVZUHp0aghI6tN0/s320/pool+hall.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> <b>Her parents weren't prudes, but they weren't playing pool at the bowling alley, either. Cool parents only did that. Those bowling parents, and those bowling children, led lives of great adventure thought the little girl. They knew how to live. If nothing else she could have learned to play pool and when she was broke made some money on her skill. Alas, her parents liked to sit at the dining room table and play pinochle for pennies. Dullsville. </b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOQW2SSMNs7M3OMdpoxSomUZS51StOdPVQ7sDCObyLoKPBFVtuM0ujQYxKfFBD_mKD_COKBDCQ7rISp9gUtGohN7nBe_ECWGIueTfUbGaM1-MK38GdtnIe2lU_dehwp4R4_p25FXu7HCo/s1600/IMG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOQW2SSMNs7M3OMdpoxSomUZS51StOdPVQ7sDCObyLoKPBFVtuM0ujQYxKfFBD_mKD_COKBDCQ7rISp9gUtGohN7nBe_ECWGIueTfUbGaM1-MK38GdtnIe2lU_dehwp4R4_p25FXu7HCo/s320/IMG.jpg" width="246" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> <b>Years passed, and the little girl became a teenager and went to Conant High School. She once dared to walk through the bowling alley with another brave non-bowling friend. To her surprise she saw her Home Economics teacher, Mrs. Senters, having a beer. (She's the lady with the blonde hair in the second row on the far left with the cat glasses.) Mrs. Senters who lectured this very same teenage girl about wearing too short of mini skirts, was guzzling beer at, of all places, Hoffman Lanes. The teenager was shocked to know the woman who taught such skills as flouring a cake pan or hemming a skirt was cavorting at Hoffman lanes with a beer in her hand. This only proved to the girl there was so much she had missed by not going to the bowling alley as a little girl. Bowling at Hoffman Lanes might have opened new worlds for her or at least gave her insight into who liked to drink beer in her village. </b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBVpOwCgRbsfh6q5MPIQdVCa6vcT9FiUrQbE8_F2BeWoXO1r8qfXJlyAjPEIF7OzDheSe7cOCSFTBd1gc9XdJSE8WT-mYVd64JOe6lh75nRKoiTKIF8ewfKgM0ywkXsnDXJrxKE348NNk/s1600/bowling+bands.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBVpOwCgRbsfh6q5MPIQdVCa6vcT9FiUrQbE8_F2BeWoXO1r8qfXJlyAjPEIF7OzDheSe7cOCSFTBd1gc9XdJSE8WT-mYVd64JOe6lh75nRKoiTKIF8ewfKgM0ywkXsnDXJrxKE348NNk/s320/bowling+bands.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> <b> The teenager became a young woman and moved away from her village when she was 20 year's old. Perhaps in an attempt to make up for lost time, she secured a job as a bartender at Sonesta Lanes, a bowling alley in Colorado. Sonesta Lanes had a pool table, and cigarette smoke, and even live music played by sext men. She once thought that was sexy when men wore zebra headbands and spandex. Oh sure she worked there a short time and had fun, but it fell short of what she imagined Hoffman Lanes. Besides, she didn't enjoy bowling. She'd rather swim. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibQWto1UYT1omXHFCxqYOQu2tNQD2PpNyVqVoYDUt4STuNbBhC1N4Ah4gXHBoSzLb5Nv52NYhqaGVtEpCu5MqSv2_oe9VOZo6cp0VgPMG-tdZO7tnrmPvXDZ1JQenGUxxhOnC2XOWw8RM/s1600/buildings+of+bowing+alley.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibQWto1UYT1omXHFCxqYOQu2tNQD2PpNyVqVoYDUt4STuNbBhC1N4Ah4gXHBoSzLb5Nv52NYhqaGVtEpCu5MqSv2_oe9VOZo6cp0VgPMG-tdZO7tnrmPvXDZ1JQenGUxxhOnC2XOWw8RM/s320/buildings+of+bowing+alley.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> <b> Forty Years passed and the girl returned home for her high school reunion. She was so busy seeing friends in her former village, she never visited the bowling alley. She returned to her new village of Phoenix and was angry. She could have gone by herself to Hoffman Lanes, ordered a martini and maybe even shot a game of pool. Perhaps even Mrs. Senters would be there and she would no longer judge her former teacher for being a floozy for hanging out at the bowling alley, and even had a glass of wine with her. Mrs. Senters could order beer, but just one as she probably lived at a retirement home by now crocheting and making cookies and didn't hang out drinking at bowling alleys anymore.</b></span><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> T</span></b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>hen she learned that Hoffman Lanes closed. Kaput. Gone.</b> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgArn2vG1f1CCq24eT_kgJvNMcaZOU91eIH4CXvtDUqvyQYu_buqGYMo9snxt1NM5wjyotUUJAdeNTEfarrQSJqHPjgMEqbD-5EKagKsSiWC1C-Wa5iQLmjEoMns6MFKmJwx69IoefW3to/s1600/Sorry+we+are+closed.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgArn2vG1f1CCq24eT_kgJvNMcaZOU91eIH4CXvtDUqvyQYu_buqGYMo9snxt1NM5wjyotUUJAdeNTEfarrQSJqHPjgMEqbD-5EKagKsSiWC1C-Wa5iQLmjEoMns6MFKmJwx69IoefW3to/s320/Sorry+we+are+closed.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> <b>After some thought, the now mature woman realized that you could go home again, but that didn't mean it would be unchanged. Chapters of our lives at times close without warning. As do bowling alleys.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b> She heard the news of the closure and went bowling at the bowling alley near her house in Phoenix. The place was dark, and loud and there was a lounge with cheap drinks and three pool tables. She felt bored and bowling hurt her shoulder. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b> </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b> Then she realized Hoffman Lanes will live forever in her imagination as a magical place where wild adventures that she could only dream of happened. Fantasy was way better than the real world. And she forgave her parents for not being bowlers as she tried shrimp cocktail and liked it just about as much as bowling. Not at all. And she lived happily after after, or at least came to terms with her non bowling childhood.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b> Still, if she could get one more chance to go back in time...she might just pick Hoffman Lanes 1968. Just to truly know what she missed. Until then it will reside forever more in her imagination. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>Susanne Brenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04376761569948838354noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3084137067051885398.post-39894478504339316242015-05-29T10:32:00.000-07:002015-05-29T10:41:28.641-07:00The Perfect Place to Write<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwR00yW9bc-V3FtQCwvt_o4DABj3QPqxhzr5p-n8_J98BZqt5UaX7MGjQa9Ce0hB8s9vtTj-515ag3meap4RjOcK8a4R5AHYzkzheIwx9xyzAzJMvv5-i5UyrJK2rsp-2TbfF3CJBXGS4/s1600/desk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwR00yW9bc-V3FtQCwvt_o4DABj3QPqxhzr5p-n8_J98BZqt5UaX7MGjQa9Ce0hB8s9vtTj-515ag3meap4RjOcK8a4R5AHYzkzheIwx9xyzAzJMvv5-i5UyrJK2rsp-2TbfF3CJBXGS4/s320/desk.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My first thought when I saw this antique desk in a historic hotel last weekend in Prescott, Arizona was that if I owned this desk I would surely become a successful writer. The stained glass lamp, heavy chair, solid wood, would all conspire to help me write better and smarter and maybe even faster This looks like the desk where the great writers such as Mark Twain or Virginia Wolf would write.The words written at such a desk would change the world. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My desk and office lacks the same perfection and brilliance. Mine looks much less serious and important, much like my writing feels at times. My office doesn't look like where I imagine a book would be written that would be remembered through the ages. Or win any groovy monetary prizes, either. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimBMOTnYAtG0sunPJxlrRhklV0uv7Cr82_lRZ79Cz32D0V7P0J-h1rcH5nt8jCHlM9WBGoCwD4V5gfc7rNL4XmHVeVH9IHlIu0wkcVvsZHL3VKzz7sj035PyPlklTNvDKgmM_ApFHME8o/s1600/desk+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimBMOTnYAtG0sunPJxlrRhklV0uv7Cr82_lRZ79Cz32D0V7P0J-h1rcH5nt8jCHlM9WBGoCwD4V5gfc7rNL4XmHVeVH9IHlIu0wkcVvsZHL3VKzz7sj035PyPlklTNvDKgmM_ApFHME8o/s320/desk+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Don't get me wrong. I'm grateful for my office, but on days when I'm having a particularly difficult time writing, when each word is like pulling out a tooth, I would like to change where I write. Not just my desk, but my entire office. I want to move it to a place where I would be more brilliant and successful.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDpnHM0AFLEw4EQpPcpTWt9GvcBAnuKDPYanXol0-zmPKbr_K0mObK7t6MbwC6LVcdEiZUodInOl7ObmeC9w19E9E96w_dOMtROzW_UI-4kgYqfN-Xo6j7yXTRu0N4KBm7dJtaNQcymio/s1600/book+case.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDpnHM0AFLEw4EQpPcpTWt9GvcBAnuKDPYanXol0-zmPKbr_K0mObK7t6MbwC6LVcdEiZUodInOl7ObmeC9w19E9E96w_dOMtROzW_UI-4kgYqfN-Xo6j7yXTRu0N4KBm7dJtaNQcymio/s320/book+case.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Maybe if I wrote in a room like this surrounded by books. This was the library of the retreat center I visited last fall in Oregon. All those books would be inspiring and perhaps through osmosis I would be able to channel all those wise and witty writers into my own work. On the other hand, I might never get any writing done because I would plop myself into that chair and just read, forget about writing entirely.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXjgjZF_WSOVk3-t6h3CfXu7F1Kfe3wisioGyN_jLUn9-s92ZNzJAgLZwF1WZ1cGDGoMXK_3G5CuCvUpc4bjvCR2SeGeDx-hZKoLilbLiEkpJfISlMrp0almsX9husH-zSRcCBNp6wasI/s1600/rain+forest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXjgjZF_WSOVk3-t6h3CfXu7F1Kfe3wisioGyN_jLUn9-s92ZNzJAgLZwF1WZ1cGDGoMXK_3G5CuCvUpc4bjvCR2SeGeDx-hZKoLilbLiEkpJfISlMrp0almsX9husH-zSRcCBNp6wasI/s320/rain+forest.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Maybe when I looked out the window of my office and saw this rainforest scene I would be inspired. This was the view of the jungle from my hotel room in Costa Rica. Surely I would write lovely stories with this out my window rather than what I have today.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY_WbyJvAlOVnttA6jOfS5D9n6dqXxN96ldg7cCyPWSkAdIVsWCuITkMwdCJGpmcfVkVlFY6iX2on8k-QOazMkB77uApo7pu0d5JEFLGHBkgj3ABqPlHtrkwkcmn0SH2sey_dzf99iV_A/s1600/window.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY_WbyJvAlOVnttA6jOfS5D9n6dqXxN96ldg7cCyPWSkAdIVsWCuITkMwdCJGpmcfVkVlFY6iX2on8k-QOazMkB77uApo7pu0d5JEFLGHBkgj3ABqPlHtrkwkcmn0SH2sey_dzf99iV_A/s320/window.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> This is my non inspiring view That mobile does make a pretty sound when the fan hits the bells, but it's not like the gorgeous symphony of sounds the birds sang in the rainforest. However, the rain forest has a lot of bugs, some big enough to feel snug in my size 10 shoe. As much as I was in awe of the jungle, the desert where I live has way less bugs and that's okay with me.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT206uizyvKgZK5VqYvMnr8Fxlg4LrY52a_VRwGVtNUZUct_n9oHWwTlfPp_Zf5Fa7aQTehG5vzjMJlck-tCJCqTe-dS6cmJX0NdNs4G5fBibLaXAgR19TrgOTRo919f4pUVM6XsDwix8/s1600/yellow+house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT206uizyvKgZK5VqYvMnr8Fxlg4LrY52a_VRwGVtNUZUct_n9oHWwTlfPp_Zf5Fa7aQTehG5vzjMJlck-tCJCqTe-dS6cmJX0NdNs4G5fBibLaXAgR19TrgOTRo919f4pUVM6XsDwix8/s320/yellow+house.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Sure there are times I think if I lived in a bright yellow house with pristine white curtains all by myself by the ocean, like this hotel in Costa Rica where we stayed, I would write and write and write and never be tempted to clean out my closet. Eventually, I would have to do laundry and sweep so that is unrealistic, too. Life always interrupts writing, but is up to us to decide how much we will let it intrude. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> There's no perfect place to write. Wherever I go there I am. It's my butt in the chair, whether the chair is rickety or solid. I could be looking at a brick wall or a volcano. What matters is what happens between my mind and my fingers on the keyboard. As pretty as this shot of a volcano was that I photographed, it wasn't perfect for long. The next day it was pouring rain and foggy. Life is perfectly imperfect. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk9pb1vlcf42lW5u0X7gdwPD6tOeCOaaoEnGCuLHS59qeSxFt51gYbLrp26qXfWqYdSTy1IA2Dl4-dTDud2fluTIK5Qsu5IC5z6_WdswJKWkeUxwEzv8Tfb0TIBOt5KfEzJ0NbGyrtgt8/s1600/volcano.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk9pb1vlcf42lW5u0X7gdwPD6tOeCOaaoEnGCuLHS59qeSxFt51gYbLrp26qXfWqYdSTy1IA2Dl4-dTDud2fluTIK5Qsu5IC5z6_WdswJKWkeUxwEzv8Tfb0TIBOt5KfEzJ0NbGyrtgt8/s320/volcano.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The following saying has nothing to do with writing, but I saw it in Nosara Costa Rica on a wall and had to share. Wait. Maybe it does have something to do with writing. If I expect good things for my writing and I desire to write...I will write and respect myself. I admire people who write. All of you. Wherever you write. Just write. I will mirror you. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-e2hGH7dhqh4NYnxYzOzww7KL8XkPyMipfyQ49yT569TAVfsONSpCjg_6SByUXjHx83htihKa8GbNC_OTh4wkEa4MMjr7eWZr4v_6Jwg711OBJVcWahtGBkMjrFd0SSH5QDPqP4uKb0g/s1600/saying.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-e2hGH7dhqh4NYnxYzOzww7KL8XkPyMipfyQ49yT569TAVfsONSpCjg_6SByUXjHx83htihKa8GbNC_OTh4wkEa4MMjr7eWZr4v_6Jwg711OBJVcWahtGBkMjrFd0SSH5QDPqP4uKb0g/s320/saying.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>Susanne Brenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04376761569948838354noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3084137067051885398.post-1746592142430442542015-05-22T11:02:00.004-07:002015-05-22T11:34:18.571-07:00Grandma's Golden Rules<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGe0yAxhgYudkF52DV5MjaFBpQd_uq2PySO91Yuq0K1Q9FfsJrW4DovQ1MyUfDm_x1GnS7q0bbKS7f-A-twKnAISyj2cYL7sNVTIe19T7b02L118UpqWpxvkO1OE2rwUtG2U4Ht8hZMOE/s1600/LandmarkExterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGe0yAxhgYudkF52DV5MjaFBpQd_uq2PySO91Yuq0K1Q9FfsJrW4DovQ1MyUfDm_x1GnS7q0bbKS7f-A-twKnAISyj2cYL7sNVTIe19T7b02L118UpqWpxvkO1OE2rwUtG2U4Ht8hZMOE/s320/LandmarkExterior.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> After more than three decades in business, the Landmark Restaurant is closing. I've never been to the restaurant because it's in Mesa. I live in Phoenix, and I have gotten lazy about driving to anything that is more than twenty minutes from my house. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> The dining public is always looking for something new and it says something about both the food and management if a restaurant has stayed open longer than the life of a gold fish. I imagine this place must have done something right to be open 31 years. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> I learned about the restaurant closing in the local daily newspaper which included a quote from a councilman who said he visited the Landmark Restaurant monthly. Here's what Dennis Kavanaugh said, "The food was consistently good, but I felt like I was eating at my grandmother's home so I always had to be on my best behavior."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Really? Mr. Councilman how would you like to act in public? Do you want to take off your shirt and burp? What is wrong with being on one's best behavior at a restaurant? Perhaps the red brick and white shutters of the Landmark reminded him of church, or school, but must a restaurant be stainless steel and concrete floors? I'm tired of feeling as if I'm dining in a warehouse.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> I am weary of the word hip and modern, of restaurants trying so hard to look cool. I yearn for the days when people had manners when they dined out. And yes, councilman, I did behave at my Grandma's house. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Below is a photo of my grandmother serving coffee to my Aunt Louise. At my grandma's house I did not swear, or speak loudly or interrupt adults. I said please and thank you. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I felt special because I knew my grandma loved me. She made delicious potato salad and served drinks in tall frosted glasses. We told stories and laughed at grandma's house. I behaved and still had fun.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibrfR2QRkHdvIXBKBcvDBj3dWPniMZQvqfApxmy03AzLt0evwpWX8a4IHuh13jlCLLoiDURcBaU39mCTiTDw9VvzkWc6q2SeySomgmEujjQrncYY6HLtFPnpqaYjATQKrxLf1PlscmRvk/s1600/IMG_0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibrfR2QRkHdvIXBKBcvDBj3dWPniMZQvqfApxmy03AzLt0evwpWX8a4IHuh13jlCLLoiDURcBaU39mCTiTDw9VvzkWc6q2SeySomgmEujjQrncYY6HLtFPnpqaYjATQKrxLf1PlscmRvk/s400/IMG_0001.jpg" width="307" /></a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidz_nf9PBMSgBwCpmhdXoZEDFSZ3OFgh3YYXwtwNL8t-FR7n2EFSS_ajZMIEVATXMUBL3ScbiCjXurakaisP_z_2hH8oeCbV5Bq-LWCMqaF61_2vDJMQAnByyk9jUcF9isacGijiJoqpQ/s1600/inside+dining+room.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidz_nf9PBMSgBwCpmhdXoZEDFSZ3OFgh3YYXwtwNL8t-FR7n2EFSS_ajZMIEVATXMUBL3ScbiCjXurakaisP_z_2hH8oeCbV5Bq-LWCMqaF61_2vDJMQAnByyk9jUcF9isacGijiJoqpQ/s1600/inside+dining+room.png" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> This is the inside of the Landmark Restaurant. Sure the china cabinet, white table cloths and chandeliers are </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">dated but I find it refreshing. I'm sure the carpet mutes the noise of conversations and people dining in such a setting might think twice before opening up a lap top and doing work. My goodness people here might actually think twice before shouting on a cell phone. They might not let a child run around the restaurant as if they are at McDonald's Play Land. People in such a setting might have conversations with one another without having to compete with loud and annoying music.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5EfHsyujQ0SrZMCsKs6eFeeCyqIdf4Zh1FYt1wqOjm3HlpEWVf41UbjRFNKujdGZZ7gCJbHHNkqnqJOcgkvBT5TueipM8-zswaiQW0PACK84kURZyKoEF29_jLjiYWTvASsvgowbRf_g/s1600/casual+resturant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5EfHsyujQ0SrZMCsKs6eFeeCyqIdf4Zh1FYt1wqOjm3HlpEWVf41UbjRFNKujdGZZ7gCJbHHNkqnqJOcgkvBT5TueipM8-zswaiQW0PACK84kURZyKoEF29_jLjiYWTvASsvgowbRf_g/s320/casual+resturant.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> I'm tired of restaurants that look like my old high school cafeteria. I don't want to be served by a woman in a football t-shirt. I want a chair that cushions my back. Is it too much to ask to have a server who doesn't plop down on the seat next to me and acts as if he or she is my new best friend? I'm tired of nose piercings. I'm not hip. I'm not cool. And I don't have a tattoo. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Alright I know I'm ranting. But for a change it might be fun to go to a restaurant and be greeted at the door by this woman.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-GLgFJjVd5VYJJ6JRzLbTVYifSEAn8hBJ43N-NTkBqUHtSk_BScOiVHoqT12g9jZrpl2kRuZYLOzGJPHozLmWm2cTSp9-jQlVCifWLCXsvE64jcLwWn0OT-2eM9mbQZ-EJyX8IuHIlaw/s1600/old+fashioned+waitresses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-GLgFJjVd5VYJJ6JRzLbTVYifSEAn8hBJ43N-NTkBqUHtSk_BScOiVHoqT12g9jZrpl2kRuZYLOzGJPHozLmWm2cTSp9-jQlVCifWLCXsvE64jcLwWn0OT-2eM9mbQZ-EJyX8IuHIlaw/s1600/old+fashioned+waitresses.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Usually hostesses are indifferent or chirpy. Would it be so horrible to be greeted by a woman in white shoes and ruffled apron? Sometimes I can't differentiate the hostesses, usually dressed in something tight and black, from the other guests. Today's hostesses are usually young, beautiful and indifferent. I bet this woman in the photo would guide me to a table, pull out the chair and speak politely. I'd love this if for nothing else to look at her hat. She'd fit right in at the Landmark. Alas, that might be the problem. She's not hip enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Alright alright I'm dating myself. I'll stop. My friend Gloria says I write if I am an old woman. I try to stay open minded but I've seen the changes of how people behave in restaurants, of the design in restaurants and, when even a councilman whines that he doesn't want to behave, I just have sigh. I just hope the councilman remembers the other golden rule grandma's teach, to wash his hands after he goes to the bathroom.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Finally here is a photo of my grandma holding me. What struck me is how my grandma is starting to look younger and younger in the photos. How the heck is that happening? She used to look as old as the pyramids. And look at the clean white kitchen in the background to the left. That is where I went to the college of behaving myself. Thank you grandma for the education.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9AdyS4X8kHT01brTptrkwSyUr6yRzgQ06sHuXGt8wOrSHdN4DsrYTaV6_kfGPsOSN-u7VbeLYbn-H6GWmpa88vIugdHkkexwqS33uohTF9C__5ps1bp-0dBLK-gRZzWlspl6RHfZtua8/s1600/IMG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9AdyS4X8kHT01brTptrkwSyUr6yRzgQ06sHuXGt8wOrSHdN4DsrYTaV6_kfGPsOSN-u7VbeLYbn-H6GWmpa88vIugdHkkexwqS33uohTF9C__5ps1bp-0dBLK-gRZzWlspl6RHfZtua8/s640/IMG.jpg" width="492" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
Susanne Brenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04376761569948838354noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3084137067051885398.post-38491153569880935832015-04-15T12:59:00.002-07:002015-04-15T13:15:42.585-07:00Fear of Flying..<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWgpOj7yHjENWP8wqs1pwTeWmx_vX91RAXXqPV814m5XqqVhGMIp2VvqNDv7zLjJiuEh9Ny2G5Ifas21s3Dt9ReOVgpV93htK6XajbBxZ8SWUI0Dl7j8JbvBiAdiKPGxBA7eUK70Y3pp4/s1600/temple+dancing.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWgpOj7yHjENWP8wqs1pwTeWmx_vX91RAXXqPV814m5XqqVhGMIp2VvqNDv7zLjJiuEh9Ny2G5Ifas21s3Dt9ReOVgpV93htK6XajbBxZ8SWUI0Dl7j8JbvBiAdiKPGxBA7eUK70Y3pp4/s1600/temple+dancing.png" /></a></div>
My mother tap danced when she was a little girl. No my mother wasn't Shirley Temple, but I always pictured her looking like Shirley Temple. Patent leather shoes, frilly dress, impish smile. Growing up, I watched Shirley dancing in old black and white movies, and hearing those sharp and bright clicks and clacks made me want to do the same. Life looked happier tap dancing.<br />
<br />
I might be wrong, but when I was growing up my town lacked a dance studio. In any case, I never took dance lessons as a kid. My mother's casual comments about her childhood tap dancing stayed with me. I wanted to be like her and Shirley. I wanted to don twirly dresses and make joyful sounds with my feet. I wanted to be a tap dancer.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFeSKAgUPOq58fEVKnX29tmAiNMuwYWYckvKDyNtCVwgTer4PWiPXwI-C4kJX10yP6QEYpCoF9k4wDPU89Ft72ceAUL2WzEeq1bO9d6YNdjYS4pDPmmJZMnRKI0ary3sL4ua4IIGOWIXg/s1600/tap+shoes.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFeSKAgUPOq58fEVKnX29tmAiNMuwYWYckvKDyNtCVwgTer4PWiPXwI-C4kJX10yP6QEYpCoF9k4wDPU89Ft72ceAUL2WzEeq1bO9d6YNdjYS4pDPmmJZMnRKI0ary3sL4ua4IIGOWIXg/s1600/tap+shoes.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
Alas it wasn't to be until about ten years ago when a tap class was offered at the local community college. The school even provided shoes. Granted the tap shoes were child-like, patent leather with bows, but I jumped, or shall I say, tapped at the chance. Hilary, the dance teacher was kind and patient. The class moved slow, and my brain and feet moved faster then. I had just bought my own pair of tap dance shoes when the college canceled the tap classes for lack of interest and never offered them again. I tossed my tap dance shoes in the closet.<br />
<br />
There the shoes remained in the dark silence, until about a year or so ago. By chance I saw an advertisement for a dance studio that offered tap. Remembering my college experience as pleasant and though not that easy, something I could do fairly well, I attended my first tap class at the local dance studio.<br />
<br />
I felt as if I landed in rehearsals for Dancing with the Stars. The women at the dance studio were serious. They were all practicing a routine as if they were about to be on Broadway. Surely, I thought, these women were all taught to dance as children because this couldn't be the first time they slipped on tap shoes. I felt slow and plodding, and the weak link in the class. I would have been the first to be tossed off the dance island.<br />
<br />
The studio billed the class as fun and welcoming to all. Everyone was nice, but they were serious. As time passed, I recognized what a blow it was to my ego to realize how lacking I was in advanced tap dance skills. Oh yes I can tap, but compared to these women in the class...I wanted to quit. Why should I put myself through this humiliation when clearly... I sucked?<br />
<br />
. Because it was good for me. I wasn't being shamed. Well, not by anyone but myself. I was learning. I had fun when I stopped comparing myself to everyone else. I remembered how I felt in my initial writing class. My journalism teacher put so much red ink on my first assignment it looked as if the paper bled. I didn't give up. I understood there is a learning curve. But time has passed. These days, I like to feel in control and in charge. I like to feel like I'm smart. Dare I say, at times, a know it all. However, life keeps showing me time and again I have a lot to learn. There's a lot of mistakes to be made still in my life. Thank goodness I have the chance.<br />
<br />
. So I continued with tap dancing, and when my ego felt wounded I told myself that there are people who struggle just to have clean water and food each day. My problem with not learning the steps fast enough to a Michael Jackson song seemed far less important. And then surprise surprise with practice I got better. I did well. Recently, the dance studio closed for good, but I'm going to keep tap dancing. Somewhere.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0XeLf6z6He48jDfbj7YXJVFbBwMVNDqNYYS_-vKEo571wG9mALTMJpbKcM4bGNagnOgtRf4DBe2tl-xNMT4UMjeNdm-vnBXxSnkOVOta2nd0dqIQwCjCyD5pgaysOyzvM_XNpX_AB034/s1600/quote.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0XeLf6z6He48jDfbj7YXJVFbBwMVNDqNYYS_-vKEo571wG9mALTMJpbKcM4bGNagnOgtRf4DBe2tl-xNMT4UMjeNdm-vnBXxSnkOVOta2nd0dqIQwCjCyD5pgaysOyzvM_XNpX_AB034/s1600/quote.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
I found this book at the thrift store recently and enjoyed the quotes. Here's one which sums up what I hope to adapt as not just my dancing motto, but life in general. It was said by, of all people, Sam Walton. So if some of you can put aside your dislike of Walmart, the evil empire, here it is.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i> Celebrate your success and find humor in your failures. Don't take yourself so seriously. Loosen up and everyone around you will loosen up. Have fun and always show enthusiasm. When all else fails put on a costume and sing a silly song.</i><br />
<br />
Unsure if Sam followed this advice. He's dead now, but I appreciate the words. As I do this photo of Shirley. She's flying! Whatever makes our feet lift off the ground, we need to do more of and not worry a bit about how it may or may not look. Never be afraid to fly. With or without tap shoes.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI7QG21fxbRSAHby7HGhw9gSZf9_be7xfHA7Eioubyv1kgVleGnNDd1WdSycqL-q6BetTsz1ziVfec9ACk7BlasXVxk9tAfb0znWrUFyA59Z92925y2LoA2zM9mT1jASIvIzPSszSLjnA/s1600/shirley+temple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI7QG21fxbRSAHby7HGhw9gSZf9_be7xfHA7Eioubyv1kgVleGnNDd1WdSycqL-q6BetTsz1ziVfec9ACk7BlasXVxk9tAfb0znWrUFyA59Z92925y2LoA2zM9mT1jASIvIzPSszSLjnA/s1600/shirley+temple.jpg" /></a></div>
Susanne Brenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04376761569948838354noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3084137067051885398.post-60166473390210426072015-04-02T12:15:00.004-07:002015-04-02T12:19:19.955-07:00Sugar and Spice and everything is not so nice....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTPjNs_dnwDJiHtISg2MD9Bb6_bAUTq31MvEQmLCZPofXASu8imuljW5dNFAIdjL4o1KWUgYqMARKFnQXDv0NgRXhOTUy3jcfEfpH1yCgUc8SXp-OUaz0kVgKx-coewwlLCaYodTDtgOE/s1600/IMG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTPjNs_dnwDJiHtISg2MD9Bb6_bAUTq31MvEQmLCZPofXASu8imuljW5dNFAIdjL4o1KWUgYqMARKFnQXDv0NgRXhOTUy3jcfEfpH1yCgUc8SXp-OUaz0kVgKx-coewwlLCaYodTDtgOE/s1600/IMG.jpg" height="246" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Here I am, a sweet little girl dressed in pure white standing between my dear cousins who came to celebrate my first communion. Ah but all is not as it seems. Behind that innocent smile was less sugar and everything was not nice.<br />
<br />
Oh yes I behaved like a good girl. I was polite to adults and listened to my teachers. I didn't sit on my little brother and try to squish him. Not that often. I ate all my vegetables and behaved. I loved my parents. I did as I was told. I never was sent to the principal's office or fought with my friends.<br />
Until I took out my Barbie doll and became. Well...nasty.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuJm_D_MNId1FeaU27cGAmjTWLRhU2V3y6ArTmCYupMrRf7KydT3t8rkhW4ZkXU509DYmr_Dg0XMVvV7rPeObsznIn1nVTQh4dNHrgRg9jp4jwcWtNlzLv0QW7ZrbvbXFFTIR3CATE7wc/s1600/barbie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuJm_D_MNId1FeaU27cGAmjTWLRhU2V3y6ArTmCYupMrRf7KydT3t8rkhW4ZkXU509DYmr_Dg0XMVvV7rPeObsznIn1nVTQh4dNHrgRg9jp4jwcWtNlzLv0QW7ZrbvbXFFTIR3CATE7wc/s1600/barbie.jpg" /></a></div>
My best friend Gloria said to me once as we played with our dolls in my bedroom, "you get so mean when we play Barbies." I remember thinking she was right. I did. But her comment didn't stop me. I secretly liked being bad. My Barbie was sassy and bossy and didn't want anyone to tell her what to do. She didn't say yes. She said no. A lot. She argued. Not just with the other Barbies, or Midge or Skipper, but also with her boyfriend, Ken. He could do no right.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFerGOFa00F-UXdxMC6E11ntay6m5ZMUWrHFclDF4ASAsMmYLRR5mJepPTKykHDX0Ri1Ikm6jQLkQx0Er04ww4apA9jYAahhimTBilNtwH_2BtXj9dIbDllmilGy3KLgxSWeoKAVOCP18/s1600/barbie+and+ken.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFerGOFa00F-UXdxMC6E11ntay6m5ZMUWrHFclDF4ASAsMmYLRR5mJepPTKykHDX0Ri1Ikm6jQLkQx0Er04ww4apA9jYAahhimTBilNtwH_2BtXj9dIbDllmilGy3KLgxSWeoKAVOCP18/s1600/barbie+and+ken.png" /></a></div>
My Barbie and Ken wore these same outfits to the beach. Ken sure was a snazzy dresser. His sandals even matched his red bathing suit. And what about the peppermint stripped cover up he is wearing? Maybe I felt threatened and upset with Ken because he turned the heads of not just the women, but some of the men, at the beach, too.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGjsvxyEmh3BaZzwWUIOAF6qOSFIZZbanASSZm9ay20kA9YB9An5ysVFmn_6fbd_kRnvNpj-tSCtecF2AW3oC1xSCymRaCZCdXkQdKhYRIEjAkA1YD_IutCka1W4K8QBahtIeEEBf-We0/s1600/dream+house+and+car.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGjsvxyEmh3BaZzwWUIOAF6qOSFIZZbanASSZm9ay20kA9YB9An5ysVFmn_6fbd_kRnvNpj-tSCtecF2AW3oC1xSCymRaCZCdXkQdKhYRIEjAkA1YD_IutCka1W4K8QBahtIeEEBf-We0/s1600/dream+house+and+car.jpg" /></a></div>
One Christmas Santa brought me the Barbie dream house and the sport's car. I was thrilled. I wouldn't let my friends drive the car. When they visited my house, I made sure they did not mess up my cardboard chair and matching ottoman or play with the stereo without my permission. It was my dream house. When I played with my Barbie, I was the one in charge. In real life, I let my friends romp all over my bedroom but when it came to my Barbie Dream House...the boundaries were drawn tight.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwH_fFFv7U_VAOLtY7KosvxUZ9Je1dsGj9pc-NRUju0ecfDUf5tPBs7nAk5NTnzdWYXd1XfN7x6Q8o1YYbw9pM1fLkTSkgnTzbeDbvjEXiKGpZDj83vMfSXmgrMJegpitp-vc8gZgAxDw/s1600/inside+of+house.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwH_fFFv7U_VAOLtY7KosvxUZ9Je1dsGj9pc-NRUju0ecfDUf5tPBs7nAk5NTnzdWYXd1XfN7x6Q8o1YYbw9pM1fLkTSkgnTzbeDbvjEXiKGpZDj83vMfSXmgrMJegpitp-vc8gZgAxDw/s1600/inside+of+house.png" /></a></div>
At my Barbie dream house no one could tell me when to go to bed or what dress I had to wear to school. I could wear my high heels and earrings all day long and never clean my room if I didn't want to clean. I didn't have to share a thing with my pesky little brother. I could spend entire days at the beach with Ken, assuring him red was his color. Then call Midge on the phone and tell her off. And I didn't even drink wine then so I couldn't use the excuse it was the liquor talking.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV_NuMNroNYmieixamQ90X4wCB9Stbp0Nc1BMjtYdYqpUAc5TgFhp12QvvnGF2_svzK3GZUPcPIXUeaqehDGx76oWloSoL6J6pBwkVrzubxgwyNUZxZa7Njizk2dH3r7ug5odQhGkDP8U/s1600/doll+case.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV_NuMNroNYmieixamQ90X4wCB9Stbp0Nc1BMjtYdYqpUAc5TgFhp12QvvnGF2_svzK3GZUPcPIXUeaqehDGx76oWloSoL6J6pBwkVrzubxgwyNUZxZa7Njizk2dH3r7ug5odQhGkDP8U/s1600/doll+case.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
When I put my Barbie away in her plastic case, I became my good little girl self again. Certainly, a therapist could analyze this and use phrases like repressed anger, and perhaps the experts would be correct. Or maybe I was just exercising an emotional muscle that I never had a chance to practice in my real good girl life. Eventually, I put away Barbie permanently and also learned to people please less and assert myself more. Took time but I thought I found the right balance.<br />
<br />
Until recently. I seem to have lost my filter. I worry I've become like my former neighbor Francis. She was in her 80s by the time I met her. A few months before she died the two of us were sitting and chatting near our townhomes. Another neighbor passed by, a young woman, and Francis blurted, "she's fat." I'm sure the woman heard. I felt terrible. But Francis didn't. Then Francis told me that my dog at the time, Buddy, was gay. "He likes other boy dogs," she said Which was true. But still.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLKXQZecywbzyhbVEUKCdA_8mxQMatpzgNpCGGIL_2gVqbPs3J8e-W9UQu297mv38KShl0_TARREd4V2-xXx-YygVr8-99njd7SOGbzpkFKbKfCt3XA4AGMb-CeT513nyVvGralx16er4/s1600/midge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLKXQZecywbzyhbVEUKCdA_8mxQMatpzgNpCGGIL_2gVqbPs3J8e-W9UQu297mv38KShl0_TARREd4V2-xXx-YygVr8-99njd7SOGbzpkFKbKfCt3XA4AGMb-CeT513nyVvGralx16er4/s1600/midge.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
I once had a Midge doll. I cut her hair and used a mascara wand to dye it black. I think I must have been angry at someone to do this to poor Midge. I'm thinking in order to retain my friendships I might need to get dolls. Each time I want to say something that I should keep to myself such as, "why are you dating that loser?" Or, "are you really going to waste money again on that?" This is not a good way to keep friendships. Instead, I will let the doll say all my mean thoughts just as I did when I was 10 year's old.<br />
<br />
But then sitting home surrounded by dolls and talking to them may not be the best idea. I'm thinking instead to pour all my opinions and biases and petty jealousies into the characters I write. Pretend when I write that I'm playing Barbies again and just let it all loose, to the fictional world rather than the real world. I'll embrace my inner nasty Barbie. As a result, I might be able to maintain a few more friendships so I'm not completely alone when my time comes.<br />
<br />
For those of you who don't like to write I would lend you my Midge doll but I threw her in the trash one day. Then I smiled and looked oh so sweet again.<br />
<br />
<br />Susanne Brenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04376761569948838354noreply@blogger.com2