Looking Back Over 2011

A little late, no doubt, when most people look back over the previous sometime in January. Still, March is pretty good for me. And by looking back, I mean the important things! Books that were read.

January

The Tale of Oat Cake Crag by Susan Wittig Albert

The Shooting in the Shop by Simon Brett

Grace Will Lead Me Home by Katherine Valentine

On a Wing and a Prayer by Katherine Valentine

Halloween Party by Agatha Christie (for the 7th or 8th time)

Three Act Tragedy by Agatha Christie

February

The Boomerang Clue by Agatha Christie

The Third Jesus: The Christ We Cannot Ignore by Deepak Chopra

March

Hmmm..... I'm sure I read something....

April

The Saturday Big Tent Wedding Party by Alexander McCall Smith

The Earth Path by Starhawk

A Lesson in Secrets by Jacqueline Winspear

May

As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner

The Spiral Dance by Starhawk

Claude and Camille: A Novel of Monet by Stephanie Cowell

Aunt Dimity Down Under by Nancy Atherton

June

Busy out of doors, I guess.

July

The Fountain Overflows by Rebecca West

The Gospel According to Biff by Christopher Moore

August

Wild Strawberries by Angela Thirkell

In the Company of Others by Jan Karon

Less Than Angels by Barbara Pym

Death in Five Boxes by Carter Dickson

Sparkling Cyanide by Agatha Christie

September

Jane and Prudence by Barbara Pym

A Graveyard to Let by Carter Dickson

Left to Tell by Immaculee Ilibagiza

October

Death in a White Tie by Ngaio Marsh

Drood by Dan Simmons

Led by Faith by Immaculee Ilibagiza

November

Bishop of Rwanda by John Rucyahana

An Ordinary Man: An Autobiography by Paul Rusesabagina

December

Friends at Thrush Green by Miss Read

No Holly for Miss Quinn by Miss Read

Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves by P. G. Wodehouse

High Rising by Angela Thirkell

The Fountain Overflows was a very pleasant surprise. None of the books was very taxing; my brain wasn't up to handling too much, and this list reflects that. The books about the Rwandan Genocide were very difficult to read. For weeks I found myself thinking about the tragedy - especially at night. Tim then read them, and that led to quite a few discussions, usually at night. Why do we always get into these deep, disturbing conversations at night? I've been wanting to watch Hotel Rwanda and Sometimes in April. After watching them I can make a better decision about Abra viewing them.

This list feels incomplete. I'm sure there were some other Christie books and such that I never listed. I have an almost complete list of our read alouds. That's another post.

Feeling Alone

There's no reason for me to feel alone. Husband, daughters. Usually it's all I need. Then somedays. It's just not enough. I remember having friends. I think maybe I can do it again. I try. Try it on little by little. A little bit doesn't feel too bad. Then add a little bit more. Then I feel it. The pretense. The dishonesty. Then the emotional roller coaster starts up again. I physically feel it. Emotionally feel it. It doesn't work. Sad, so conflicted, verging on depression.

So I leave it behind. Yet again. Then starts the recovery process. Digging myself out of this dark hole I intentionally put myself in again. I think. Why do I do this? I know how it turns out. Where is my spot? I want to find my personal, intimate spot. I know where it isn't. That must be half the search, right?

That was just for me.

Onwards. The weather is cold. The air has that biting, stinging cold feel in it. Little ice specks touch your face. It's warm inside. A lazy Sunday morning. Listening to John Anderson, Michael Buble, Frank Sinatra, Johnny Horton. Music the entire family agrees on. Biscuits in the oven. Hashbrowns on the stove. Sausage in the skillet. Soon there will be gravy. It makes me feel warm, content. A cozy kitchen full of homey smells. I ask my mom, "enough flour", "more milk", "think it's ready yet". I listen very intently for her voice. I can still hear it. I hope to never forget it. I will bury myself in my home and forget all else. For today.

Harvest Time

Harvest time.  Tim warned me the other night that it was getting to be that time.  Pears, plums, tomatoes, peppers, then a little later grapes and apples.  Do I know what I'm going to with the produce, where should he put it, and when should he start picking?


Secretly, I wish it would all go away.  I'm tired.  Worn out.  Burned out.  I've been at this for years.  Every summer.  In the hot kitchen, made all the hotter because usually two burners on the stove are going, peeling, cutting, filling, cooking, cleaning, back feeling like it's breaking.  I've done my share.  I've lived simply, worked with our earth, grown and produced much of our food.  I'm ready for my little cottage by the ocean with fireplace and bookcase and comfy over-stuffed chair.


But....  then I remember how it feels to look in my cupboard and see it full of food we have produced.  From little, tiny seeds to jars full of healthy, life-giving food.  How it feels to grab a jar from the shelf, pop open the lid and smell the smell of our hard work and reward.  And how I enjoy secretly laughing at the people running to the store in that God awful traffic just to pick up something.  I've already got it.  All natural.  Nothing toxic.  Didn't get shipped thousands of miles.  Didn't cause any pollution.  And how I was blessed with the opportunity of getting my hands dirty, seeing dirt under my nails, smelling that sensual, earthy smell on my hands.  How I had that time in the morning while weeding to talk out loud to God with no-one listening.  Except the neighbor having his early morning cigarette who probably already thinks I'm a total whack job.  It's is absolutely amazing how many problems you can solve while getting your hands dirty.


So.  I will find some energy that's been hiding away and tackle the harvest.  My kitchen will be the heart beat of my home.  The floor will be dirty and sticky.  I will be hot and sweaty and achy and tired (I'm that anyway).  I will stir prayers into my preserved food.  I will watch my cupboards fill up with food. It will mark the end of the old year.  And I will look forward to my time of rest.

I Love My Husband

On June 1st we celebrated our 26th wedding anniversary. We went to a favorite sandwich shop, walked by the river holding hands, stopped at the store to pick up some ice cream for the family, and watched Lost in Translation. Quiet, simple. Just the way we are. Dining in one of the most expensive restaurants could not compare to holding his hand, feeling his arm brush against mine, leaning my head on his shoulder. It has been a wonderful journey together with its ups and downs, good times and bad. It hasn't always been a bed of roses. But even when it was one of those down times, I knew, without a doubt, that he loved me, and I hope that he has always known without doubt how much I love him.

Certainly death doesn't end this love. When I create my own religion, I will borrow from the LDS their belief in eternal marriage. It will be a most interesting religion indeed.

As I Lay Dying

It was uncomfortable. Distressing. Disturbing. At times nauseating. An emotional roller coaster. Yet with each page, I felt more and more addicted. Compulsively re-reading sentences and paragraphs - each time resulting in a different emotional reaction. I just shut the book. Finished. Before the day is over I will again pick it up and see what new feelings it can elicit.
When was the last time I felt this way after finishing a book?
The last time I read Faulkner.

Simple Pleasures

Sharing favorite books with your daughters.

Abra and I are reading The Lord of the Rings together. Would you think me silly if I told you I would fantasize about reading this book aloud to my children? Why did the first two get away from me without this happening.

I did read all the Harry Potter books (except The Deathly Hallows) aloud to Abra when she was younger. She couldn't wait for me to read the last one, so before I knew it, she was already half way through it. Well, B.G. has been wanting to read the first one, which happens to be the only one I don't own. Well, I did own it. But then I loaned it to my sister. Which means I no longer own it. Finally, I received the call from the library that my copy was waiting for me to pick up. That I promptly did. As I held the book in my hands I found myself remembering back to the adventures Abra and I shared with Harry, and I realized I didn't want to be left out even though I've been through all of them once before. So I called the twins and asked if they wanted me to read. I honestly can't ever remember getting a 'no' for an answer to that question. Then I pulled out Harry and started reading. Abby crawled up next to me snuggling as close as she could; a few minutes later B.G. was on the other side. Usually they're on the floor while I read; last night they were right next to me for the entire reading. A few minutes after starting, I saw Abra come in and grab a chair. So what if you've read them before.

Maybe someday they will share these books and memories with their own children, and it will be a real Tradition. Just makes me all warm and fuzzy feeling to think about it.

Friendship and Death

It has been a very long, very sad, very difficult week. I've been wanting to write but there are no words to express these feelings. How I wish I could find words when I need them, and how I envy people who can weave words together to express their feelings. What a relief that could be.

My friend's 15 year old son took his life last week. The funeral was this Tuesday.

Disbelief. I just dreamed this. It isn't true. It can't be.

Horror. Horror that this could really happen.

Despair. This can't really happen. Nothing is right.

Helplessness. Couldn't something have been done? What went wrong? This needs to be fixed. But it's too late.

Anger. If he had waited 24 hours, he might have felt differently. A day, a few words, some comfort can make such a difference.

Incredible sadness and heartache.

One thing, among many - besides the fact that this was a young man taking his own life, that makes this so sad for me is the friendship I had with his mother mad fallen apart. And this reminds me of a friend who died last summer. Just a few years older than me. Another friendship that had fallen apart.

Am I a bad friend? I don't really think so. But I admit I have fragile outer shell. I'm weak. There are friendships that take so much energy and such a strong personality that I don't feel up to the task. I have, also, fought tooth and nail to keep a friendship together only to feel deeply betrayed so my defenses go up and I'm very hesitant. My family is my world, my religion, and I cannot tolerate them be dissected and criticized no matter what the other person's needs might be. I need peace, calm, stability. Fighting, discontent, upheavals, anger, harsh words destroy my peace and calm. And so... I ended the friendship. No words; I just disappeared from her life. I'm good at disappearing.

But the flip side of ending a friendship is the feeling helplessness at a time like this. At the funeral I hugged her, told her I was so very, very sorry for their loss, that I was holding her in my heart, that I loved her. It is all very true. My heart has ached every day for their loss. There has been no other death - not even my parents - that has affected me this deeply. I want to offer something, but I don't know how. Mentally I have drawn a circle of love around them - from a distance; mentally I hug them; mentally I send them my feelings.

But it doesn't feel enough. I know it's inadequate. I just feel guilty. My punishment for ending a friendship, and my punishment for not wanting to resurrect that friendship in a real life way. Maybe I just make a better spiritual friend than I do a real life one.