A Busy Weekend

Today is Monday. I had a busy weekend. That is good.

On Saturday, Nadine, a former student and dear friend of mine, drove down and picked me up to go for lunch. As most of my women friends understand, it was a long lunch. We had not seen each other in several years, so Crabapple Tavern let us sit for three hours while we talked, laughed and had a delightful time. She was good medicine for me. And she said we were good for each other. 

I admire my friend who is courageous, unafraid of traveling anywhere she wants to go, alone. I remember when I could do that. The year after Barry died, I drove down to Florida and spent a couple of weeks alone in a condo belonging to the husband of my sister-in-law. That is a long way to drive and especially for a senior woman who had never gone anywhere without her husband in the driver's seat.

Barry and I traveled together when we left town whether to go back to south Georgia or to explore the mountains where we lived. I didn't go off on trips with my friends and leave him at home. He didn't go without me except when he traveled for work. It never entered my mind at the time that one day I would not have him beside me. We enjoyed each other's company and we enjoyed vacationing with Gay and Stu, my sister and brother-in-law. Barry and Stu were like brothers, kidding each other, finding the same outlandish things funny. When Barry's brother died, he said to Stu, "You are the only brother I have now."

On Sunday, we attended a concert by a big band here in Roswell. They did a tribute concert celebrating Johnny Mercer's music. Mercer was a Georgia native. He wrote so many of the songs I love, songs that were the sound track of my life with Barry. Moon River was our song. Also, Days of Wine and Roses, which was co-written by Mercer and Henry Mancini. Often Barry sang songs like Autumn Leaves and Summer Wind both by Mercer. When we first married, he never went to a gathering of friends without his guitar. And he was always asked to sing. That was in the sixties and folk music was popular.

As I sat and listened to all that music from those fabulous musicians, the lyrics sung by a fine singer, I thought of Barry who led his own band when he was in high school. He played drums, but he also played trumpet and later in life he played guitar. For two hours Sunday, I felt Barry was with me, listening to our music. Gay and Stu also thought of him and how much he would have enjoyed the concert. 

Barry plays his guitar and sings

Memories. What life is made of. I have some fabulous ones, but also some very sad ones. Ups and downs, laughter and tears, hold on to today, we know not what tomorrow brings. 

My Life Now

                                                                             

My life now is quite different from the life I led in Hayesville, NC, for the past thirty years. There I was out and about almost every day. If I wanted to go somewhere, I simply got into my car and drove to one of the small towns nearby, where I shopped, visited with a friend or simply stopped in a restaurant and ate alone. As a writer, I like to listen to those around me. I often get a line or an idea from some conversation. 

As a member of the NC Writers' Network - West, I had many friends among the locals. We often got together for a late lunch and had a good time talking and laughing for an hour or two. Some of us had no one at home to hurry back to, and we stayed even longer. 

I don't know anyone here in Roswell except my sister and my niece. The three of us often meet for a long lunch. I enjoy both of them. But I haven't made friends here. I joined the Georgia Writers Association, but their meetings are not near where I live, and they meet at night. With my physical difficulties in walking very far, I usually feel more confident when with someone than alone. But I haven't found a writing buddy who would accompany me. 

I don't drive at night in the city. I often get lost, and that is a frightening experience. All those years I lived in a rural town in the mountains, I had no fear of driving at night alone from my home to the surrounding towns. I knew all the curvy roads, all the landmarks, and when others would not drive at night, I had no problems. I don't see quite as well at night as I used to, but that was not a big problem then. 

So, I have found more things I can do alone at home. This spring, I am enjoying growing vegetables as well as flowers in my deck garden. 

My first tomato grown on my deck

Squash plant beside my little tomato

  My crookneck squash has been fun to watch. It has had large yellow blossoms, and now, I think it is going to make squash.

I live in a shady area surrounded by trees, which I love, but I only get the midday sun. One end of my deck is not covered. That is where my veggies grow. I have another tomato plant, a green pepper plant, a dill plant, and basil that are doing pretty well.

    

Basil is a member of the mint family and is known for its aromatic leaves and delicate flavor. Basil plants typically grow to be between 1 and 5 feet tall, depending on the variety, and I hope mine won't be too tall.

I am learning about growing basil.

Basil thrives in sunny locations with 6 to 8 hours of sunlight per day. My deck is not likely to get that many hours of sun.

Basil can also be grown in containers or raised beds, ensuring adequate drainage.

It's cold-sensitive and should be planted outdoors after the last frost. Mine is certainly grown in a container. I can't even walk on rough ground, and certainly cannot plant anything that needs to be watered and cared for.

I look forward to snipping off fresh young leaves for seasoning my cooking. I still cook some, but not every day. I try to prepare a dish that I can enjoy for several meals. The only thing I cook every day is my breakfast. I like a big breakfast of eggs, toast, sausage or bacon and a combo of grits and oatmeal. That is probably the largest meal I eat each day, but the second largest is my midday meal. I eat light at night. 

At my home in the mountains, I always had hydrangea and red geraniums on my deck. I bought a small hydrangea (see in the photo below), but it is not blooming very well for me. And the red geraniums are not blooming at all. Stu hung a planter on the railing of the deck in the sun, so maybe that will help.
                                              

                                                                                                 

Hydrangea between two geraniums that just won't bloom

Sounds at night remind me of my childhood.

Tonight I hear the cicadas singing, and it reminds me of the nights when I was a child and we could hear this sound from the swamp across the road on our neighbor's farm. My brothers told me it was frogs making that noise. But I feel sure what I am hearing tonight are cicadas. They were expected to be in Georgia in May. I feel sure they are close by. They don't eat leaves, flowers, fruit or produce, so my deck garden is safe.

They are a valuable food source for birds, and they can aerate lawns and improve water filtration into the ground. They even add nutrients to the soil as they decompose. I just learned all this. I only knew they sang all night. One evening when my little great nephew, Luke, was staying with us at our house in the mountains, he fell asleep on the sofa as he waited for his grandmother to pick him up. When he awakened suddenly and sat up, I asked, "What's wrong, Luke? You can't sleep?" He said, "No. The bugs are too loud."

He would not be able to sleep here tonight because the bugs are really loud.

That's all, from my solitary world in the city. I am blessed to be surrounded by nature. The ducks on the lake and the turtles sunning themselves on a log out on the water give me pleasure. To grow old in this setting is very special to me. I am thankful. 

Until next time, when you meet others, smile and say hi. It will make their day and yours. 

• 
  

Good friends, good times, and good books

Heavy clouds over the blue mountains

A rainy week but sunny today and I will soon go out into it.

I go to physical therapy twice a week and I enjoy it. Many might think that is unusual, but my therapists are friendly, kind, and competent. We chat and that makes the work go more easily and quickly. 

For ten minutes I ride the bicycle (the one that goes nowhere) and I often listen to a book while I pedal. I am listening to Barack Obama read his book about his childhood and his African father. Dreams from My Father is a memoir about Barack's early life. This book was written in 1995, years before he would become the American President. Not only is Barack Obama a fantastic writer, but he also reads his work so well I feel he is sitting beside me telling me his story.

As my readers know, I thrive on true stories about people and the lives they live or have lived. Obama writes about how he imagines the meeting of his father and his white grandparents. He writes about how his grandfather had not had much reason to consider race until he moved to Texas where he was told how he should treat black people. "Don't ever call them mister" and his mother, as a girl, was taunted by other children for having a black girl over to play. 

I wonder, if those who hold racist feelings about Barack Obama, read this book, would they see him as they would see any little boy growing up in the sixties. Being a brown child in Hawaii, the color of his skin might not have been such a challenge as it would be in the mainland of the United States. This book is entertaining, informative, and enlightening, three things I believe a memoir must be for me to enjoy it.

This weekend found me on the telephone for hours at a time. An old friend called on Saturday and since we have not talked in a long time, we just kept thinking of things to say. 

Friday evening I hosted a Zoom writing event, Writers' Night Out on my Zoom account while Karen Holmes introduced and talked with a fine poet from Seattle, Washington. Several members of her family joined us for the reading, including her parents. Once again I marveled at the opportunity to meet and hear this writer who lives on the far western side of our country while I sat here in the North Carolina mountains. 

On Sunday I had another long conversation on the phone. This time I talked with my sister, Gay, about the progress made this week on the apartment she is creating at her house. I am excited about having this nice place to go to where I can stay as long as I want. Where I can see and visit with family members anytime. I will have a home away from home. 

Here at home, my writing friends are so supportive of me and helpful. One of my students, Raven, has gone to the grocery store for me a couple of times. A former student, Nancy Rowland, and Jay, her husband, came over and took care of some issues I had with my house that I could not do for myself. Jay even thinks he can replace the door handle for my microwave and plans to come back later this week. These kind people don't want or expect any payment from me. They are simply good people who want to help. It is this kind of generosity and caring that keeps me hopeful that our country will overcome the anger and division we face now.

Monday I will teach a writing class on Zoom from my own chair and my own computer at my house. We have a terrific class of writers who are eager to tell their unique stories. I hope they enjoy it as much as I.

Visit www.glendacouncilbeall.com to read my latest post on writing a memoir. 

I love to read your comments, so please let me hear from you.

Tell me if you have experienced kindness and generosity or if you have shown caring for others lately. Do you see a kinder and gentler nation rising from the ashes of COVID?  

Visit me here:

www.riceandbeall.blogspot.com

www.netwestwriters.blogspot.com 

March 2, was Barry's birthday. I can't let that special day go by without writing about him. I'll also share some photos.

Barry, Glenda and Gay on vacation out west-photo by Stu Moring

He was not big on celebrating his birthday, but Gay and Stu, and our friends the Clarkes, had begun a tradition of celebrating both Gay's birthday on the 23 of February and Barry's birthday on March 2 with one event. 

The Clarkes often had us over to their house or we would go somewhere, the six of us to eat and drink wine, and enjoy the day.

I remember one year when the weather was particularly nice in late February and we drove to a tumbling creek where water splashed and spun in circles around large smooth boulders. We ate our sandwiches sitting in the warm sun on one of the huge rocks. It was one of those days that stays with you forever because of the pure joy and happiness we all felt and the love we had for each other.

Glenda and Barry on a creek in North Georgia Mountains

Barry and Gay, my best friends and biggest supporters of whatever I wanted, had the same signs on the Horoscope. Pisces. In many ways they were similar. Neither liked to dwell on details but would rather glance at the big picture and move on. Barry was not a worrier and neither is Gay. At least she seems to accept that things aren't going to always go her way, so she puts the problem behind her and goes on. Barry used to tell me that I worried about things that would likely never happen. He didn't worry and if something bad or difficult came up, he handled it at that time.

That is not the way I work. That is the way the government works. Reactive thinking. I hate that.

I am proactive. I plan and think ahead about what might happen so that I can prevent it. 

 

Good planning prevents most mishaps, I believe, but Barry felt that worrying or over-thinking was a waste of good time, energy and it was stressful. He was good for me because he often talked me out of a major melt-down when I imagined the worst scenario. But I was good for him when I prevented a disaster by thinking ahead. 

We fit together like a couple of puzzle pieces, frayed around the edges, maybe, but our ins and outs matched perfectly.

Now there are five instead of six of us, and we celebrate Gay's birthday with lunch at a favorite restaurant. We don't forget Barry's birthday, however, and we can now talk about him and laugh at his zany remarks and cute ways, his comments that made us all laugh. His spirit is with us and we all miss him, but cherish the happy times we had together. 

“I am so glad you are my friend.”

Friendship is a spiritual practice – Barbara Brown Taylor   

  

Recently a friend said to me, sincerely and quietly, “I am so glad you are my friend.”

I was moved almost to tears by this simple sentence. She and I have been friends for a number of  years, more so since my husband died. She has other friends, old friends, from many years ago. She has certain friends she spends time with each week. I am not in that circle and it doesn’t matter. I have friends that don’t include her.

How many times have you stopped and counted the people you can really call friends, not acquaintances? Are they  good friends, best friends, or occasional friends?

In my life I have had only a few best friends. When I was a young teen, my best friend was Joyce. We rode horses together and told each other our deepest secrets. A couple of years older than I, she graduated high school and entered college before I did. But we always tried to stay in touch. She and her husband, her high school sweetheart, were our first visitors in our furnished apartment right after Barry and I married. What a surprise to find that she and Barry had known each other at the university. Like many women in the sixties, Joyce dropped out of college and got married. We  never would have imagined that mistake would haunt her to death.

Joyce and Barry going to a  Georgia-Florida football game. I miss both of them.

One reason I had few close friends when I was growing up is I had a built-in friend, my sister, Gay. While we both had occasional friends, neighbors, girls we met at school, I reflect now and realize that my two friends in high school drifted away after their marriages, where I served as bridesmaid. Neither of them pursued higher education. One was eventually divorced, but the other raised a family in her husband’s home town in Wisconsin. We visited them once, and she was still the funny adorable girl I had known at sixteen, faithful to her Catholic upbringing.

In college, a girl’s school in Georgia, I met some classmates I enjoyed. We had great times laughing and talking  late into the night, trading our stories. I was awed by one girl, Peggy, the sophisticate from Washington, D..C. Dark-eyes heavily lined and mascaraed, she was crowned with a  head of jet black hair. She was independent and courageous. I had grown up with a strict father and seldom broke any rules except when I was out with Joyce who sneaked cigarettes from her family’s store and impressed me with her ability to smoke and drink when she was still in high school. 

Peggy was similar but took even more risks. She could have been sent home for slipping out of the dorm after hours to meet her boyfriend and then slipping back in after curfew. She couldn’t have done that without my help, of course, and in return she let me be her friend. I was used, but it had its rewards. Through Peggy, I met Richard, the first real love of my life. I felt extremely grateful to travel in the same circles with Peggy, who was respected all over campus. She had street smarts, but she was super intelligent and earned top grades. Her goal was to become a doctor. I heard that she reached that goal.

When I left the girls’ school to attend the university, I lost touch with Peggy and all the girls I had known and liked for the past two years. Several moved on to other schools to complete their education. Some went home to get married. I entered a school where I knew no one but my younger sister. We lived in different dorms and she made friends right away. I did not weather the change too well and wished many times that I had stayed where I was to finish my education.

Coming from a large family that enjoyed each other, much of my social life involved my siblings. My sisters-in-law often turned to me as a friend and I loved them, warts and all, but was burned when my brothers cheated or divorced their partners. How could I make a choice between a friend and a loved brother? I hated the sin, but loved the sinner.

I like the metaphor that life is a sailboat and at times the winds come up strong. We have to navigate them carefully, even changing our course sometimes. Friendship is a large part of a healthy life. Having social ties has been proven to lengthen our days on this earth. But I also believe people come into our lives and go out of our lives when they are supposed to do so. For that reason, I have no desire to seek out old classmates on Facebook.

I am so very fortunate to have my sister who will always be a huge part of my life, and a small number of good friends in my life now that I know will never turn on me or hurt me. I am glad they are my friends. 

What Makes You Happy?

Recently as cold weather settled in on us in the mountains of North Carolina I was toasty and warm with the heat going full blast, wrapped in a soft throw and being so grateful that I don't have to live in a drafty house with only a fireplace to warm me.

My mother and father lived in that kind of a house when I was a small child. I doubt that it got down to six degrees in south Georgia, but it did get cold and the winter wind found its way through the walls, around windows, and under doors. Fortunately our new house built the next year was tight and adequately heated.

I appreciate my parents who struggled to make sure their children had a better life. They managed to survive the Great Depression, World War II, and still enjoy life. When I hear people today whine and cry about how bad this world is, I have to smile. Everything is relative, isn't it?

It seems to me that no one has enough. The wealthiest want more and more material things. They don't enjoy what they have because they live in fear that they will lose it. The poorest don't have enough to eat or a place to sleep. They want more, and would love having what the wealthy man owns. What he has would be enough, the poor man thinks. But if he had what the wealthy man has, would that be enough? Do we ever have enough? Can we be satisfied with what we have? Can we enjoy today and not be scared of what tomorrow will bring?

I am satisfied with what I have, and I am grateful for all I have. When the icy wind is blowing outside, and I am warm and comfortable with hot chocolate on the stove, gratitude for what I have sweeps over me like a soft breeze. I know there are homeless people who have no shelter from the cold. I know some live in cars or sleep in boxes on the street. I know children who ate from dumpsters because the family had no money to buy food.

I don't need more than compassionate and caring family, good friends, and my health to realize what is really important in life. In the past few days concerned friends called to make sure I have all I need to be safe and warm. My sister called to check on me. I could tell she was worried about me being alone after she saw frightening weather alerts on TV.

Soon I will go on vacation in Florida where some wonderful friends give me the use of a condo. But that is not all. One of them will fly north at her expense to meet me and drive me down to the condo. She will likely drive me back as she did last year. 

That kind of friendship is what is really important. Having people in my life who care about me -- people I love -- that is what matters. 

Recently I asked on my Facebook page: Do we learn more from joy or from pain? As for myself, I think I have learned in the past five years, through all the pain of loss, what I really need in life and what I must have to live a happy life. I don't believe we have to have the biggest house, the finest of furnishings, the nicest car, the most fashionable clothes or find celebrity and fame. I think what we must have to be happy is love, people who sincerely care about us, a safe place to call home, respect for ourselves and anticipation for our future endeavors. Doing for others also rates extremely high on the happiness chart. 

As a writer, I have one more thing that makes me happy -- the ability to express my thoughts, the opportunity to communicate with others. It is a need that must be met every day, in some way, large or small. So I post on my blogs, scribble in my journals, and fill long pages of yellow legal pads with various and sundry words that eventually are transcribed to files in my computer. At times those words find their way to a publication that reaches more people. That also makes me happy. 

What makes you happy?

SIX YEARS OF BLOGGING - SIX YEARS OF MY LIFE ONLINE WITH YOU

May, 2007 - I began this blog. More than 50,000 page views later, I am still here. I learned about blogging for the first time at a North Carolina Writers' Network Conference. I decided at that time to make a blog for our writers group, NCWN West. For six years I kept two blogs going and later three. Now I am back to two.

It's been six years since I jumped into blogging knowing little to nothing about what I was doing. But I learned. What a lifetime has happened in those six years.

You, my readers, have been with me here through some of the most painful events of my life. You have encouraged me when times were the darkest. You have supported me when I needed you. 

You are strangers I have never met, some I will never meet, and some of you are my family and my friends. Many of my readers visit here from other countries - Australia, England, Canada, Germany, France and Indonesia. 

You have blogs that I visit and enjoy. Some of you are my students from over the years, and some are visitors who happened upon my poetry book one day or read one of my stories online. 

Some of my readers began their own blogs when I held a class at our local library, and they got the bug. Some of them have made blogging friends all over the world. 

One of you used my poems along with beautiful paintings to make a most spectacular post. I was touched. 

My readers include those who are researching their family, working on their genealogy and have some of the same lines I have. Some of you are family I've never met and don't even know. Some of you are family that I met through this blog. That is so, so special!

It is because of you that I appreciate the Internet instead of hating the time I spend online when I could be writing stories, poems or personal essays. I don't care for Facebook and Twitter, but blogging is an excellent way to communicate, and as a writer, that is what I want to do - speak to people through writing.

Thanks for your time which I know is the most valuable commodity any of us have. I hope you will stay with me, and if you are not a subscriber, please take a look at the sidebar and sign on. It is free and easy. You are the best!

The Love Month

Oh, tell her. Brief is life, but love is long.
               --- Alfred, Lord Tennyson


February is the month of love. All over the country children and grownups are giving valentines, home made like the one my father left in my mother's desk when she was ten years old, and those fancy red hearts on store shelves everywhere this month.

My Barry never hesitated to tell me he loved me, not just on Valentines Day. For forty-five years he likely said those three little words to me every day, often more than once a day. But he had some wonderful ways of showing me he cared, as well.


Things I miss:
He always took my hand when we crossed the street.

One February when I was sick with a cold and had whined that I longed to see the flowers blooming again, he slipped outside while I slept and fastened paper flowers all over my azalea bushes. When I awoke, he invited me to check out "spring."



He never once forgot our anniversary, although I often did. He carefully picked a beautiful card and included a handwritten note inside. His gifts were varied and many but the little note was special.


Do you show your loved ones how much you love them? Tell them, but find ways to show them, also. Those precious little things they will always remember.

What is the most memorable way your husband or wife showed love for you on Valentines Day?

How did I show my love? It wasn't on Valentines Day, but I let Barry go to the Georgia - Florida Football game with my best friend, Joyce. I didn't want to go and I didn't want him to have to go alone. In fact, he wouldn't go alone. They turned heads when they boarded the bus and tongues wagged as gossips started. I was in St. Augustine with another friend and welcomed the happy, and a little inebriated, husband and friend there for the victory party later.

After thirteen years of writing poems, stories, essays and newspaper articles, I finally decided to begin a scrapbook. Over the years I cut out articles I'd written, articles about me, and saved them all in a file folder. I had another file folder for my acceptances and rejections. On my computer I made a file to hold the compliments or kind words of others about my writing or my work for NCWN West.
The problem with my file folders is I never go and look at them or show them to anyone who might appreciate them. Tonight I made a start by inserting some of the many articles I've written over the years. I had also saved some articles written about me and with my photo.
The scrapbook has a 41/2 inch square in front for my picture. If I were a good scrapbooking person, I'd know how to make the pages look pretty. Maybe I'll take a class in scrapbooking with my friend Wanda who did a beautiful scrapbook, but left it on the coffee table and Spencer the lab chewed it and ruined it. I won't have that trouble. Rocky is not into chewing now that he is ten years old.
My favorite things I want to include in my book are the wonderful words of writers, close friends, and family who have supported my efforts as a writer and as the leader of NCWN West this past year.
Those are things I will cherish always.