November 27, 1999

"Come Saturday Morning"

  

Was it Andy Williams who used to sing of his 'Huckleberry' friend, and the fun they'd have on Saturday? No matter, now. Odd, how pieces of old songs drift up from dusty mental corners.

Shall we have fun today?

First off, I went to search for those lyrics. Too stale, I suppose. I did learn the song was from the movie Sterile Cuckoo, and it was written by Dory Previn and Fred Karlin. And of course, found a couple of albums in which it's found. No Andy Williams, but a Percy Faith with his Orchestra, and a group called the Sandpipers. Sigh, what can I say. It's, sigh, OLD, sigh, along with me.

But OLD is relative. Julia's idea of old music is anything pre-Bach. Right now French Baroque (from the 17th century) is wafting through our rooms.

November 28, 1999

"All So Unexpected"

My words feel clumsy this morning. I push them about with small, clumsy weak hands. I'm not sure I can do much with these large, heavy things.

But I'll try. Words CAN be powerful, you know. You can know a person through their words. Really know a person, if their skill be good enough. Here in cyberspace, there's a community of us scratching our words on glass screens, to be read by others possessing those glass screens. Some of those 'scratchers', I've come to know quite well. It was in August of 1998, I'd met Al Schroeder of Nova Notes. Here's how I describe him in my links list: "Al Schroeder, in Nova Notes opens up his life in Tennessee. A focus on his family life, along with whatever deep thoughts and imaginings of the moment. He also illustrates it with his own delightful sketches." I usually stop by his journal every day, to find out how he, his wife, and his three kids are doing. He had three sons, in their teen years. Yes, THAT was no typo - HAD three sons. He now has only two. His eldest, Jamie, unexpectedly passed away of a blot clot to the lungs.

"This is my son, my first son, and I've outlived him."

That is his lament in last night's entry. My grandmother had that same lament at my Dad's funeral. She was 92. Dad was 61. Transpose that last number. Jamie was only 16.

I hardly know what to say.

Death may come at any time to rob any one from among us. There's no way of knowing. I think of letters that should be written, and calls that should be made to people I love. I've not done them. Each day, something seemingly more pressing takes my time, and I say, next day, I'll do it next day.

But I may not have a next day.

November 29, 1999

"We Need Fun"

Um, yes, I should quit playing and start working. But you know, sprucing up the place here for the holidays is a whole lot more fun. We need fun.

How I appreciate the serendipitous fun that comes our way. Last night, Shayna was proudly telling us the ingrediants of her vegetarian 'stuffing' - "bread crumbs, grilled onions, green peppers, tomatoes, nuts. . .", when my sorcerer in "Might and Magic VII", having mixed a potion, happily and loudly announces: "A Perfect Mix!" We all laughed.

My horoscope tells me "Your aesthetic judgment might be useful at work. . .", so I'd better starting applying it there. Talk to you later . . .

November 30, 1999

"Much Deco, Few Words!"

I've had fun with more holiday deco today. While applying that aforementioned 'aesthetic judgment' to work, I've been playing all my Christmas albums, including, yes, EVEN the one with Andy Williams and the singing children. Okay, a certain household member who just can't abide Andy Williams and singing children was well out of earshot. That sugary, soppy sweet stuff gives her screaming fits, it seems. But I must be really ready for the holiday mood. Some years, I don't even play that particular album.

December 1, 1999 "I Do What I Can" A sunset view from our yard It's the sunset of 1999, of this century, and the signs are all around us. Time is running out. "Never enough time," seems to be the international (intergalactic??) lament. I swear each unit of time is shrinking. I hardly get up before it's time to go to bed again. I run around just barely getting the most essential stuff done. We're up to our necks in clutter, here. My little ol' sewing room is among the worst of it, unfortunately. There just always seems to be more pressing things. Those letters I haven't written, I did get one letter done. Laura's computer is sitting still, and all it needs is printed out. Handwritten letters? Well, you have an idea how awful my handwriting is. I don't do much of those. Now, all that awaits me in the line of way overdue letters is one to Aunt June. It's not easy though. Being a christian fundy, with all the dis-ease that brings, it's so AWFUL HARD to talk to her. But she's over seventy. She could die at any time. Only it's so hard to edit out just what acceptable bits of my life to send to her. And so I put it off and put it off and... ...But our friend Paul's letter is now printed out. It took exactly two pages worth. I do what I can.... I woke up from the cave that is my life, and discovered today is World AIDS Day: Each December 1, World AIDS Day, the creative community observes A Day Without Art, in memory of all those the AIDS pandemic has taken from us. Theatres around the world sit dark and empty. Paintings and photographs are draped with black cloths in galleries. Symphonies are silent. Dancers take no steps. The Day Without Art has been taken to the web, as well. Website designers are to darken their sites to protest all those creative individuals whose lives have been lost to AIDS. And so, except for the sunset photo, today's entry has been slightly darkened. A rather small gesture of protest, I know. I do what I can.

December 2, 1999

"When You Think You're Getting Old"

I did my usual routine of eating breakfast while at the computer. Laura's at her computer, as well. She's answering a letter. A transgendered person struggling with issues in he/r own life has read Laura's autobiography. "The first two chapters were downright spooky. It was almost as if I were reading my own autobiography. " " I must say, I am glad I read your book. I honestly thought that I was the only one in the world that felt the way you do." He/r spouse is a christian fundy. He/r family is, as well. Not only that difficult situation, "Cindy" lives in a very small town in the Missouri Ozarks.

One of the reasons Laura wrote her book was hopes of reaching people just like "Cindy", to help them know they're not alone, and come to embrace their unique path, with all its blessings and hardships.

Reaching people, spanning the void, that's what life's all about. While Laura's carefully searching for the right words, I found some very nice words about me, in the link page of journaller and poet John Bailey, who's been an absolute favorite of mine for ages.

Here they are, clipped and saved for savoring:

Some on-line journals simply don't fit into the strait-jacket. Joan Lansberry's is one of those. When you get to know Joan you quickly come to realize that you're dealing with a person with a very big heart. That quality abounds in Joan's journals and in her pictures and photographs.

~ ~~ ~~~ ~~ ~

Later, on the 'mountain climber' at the fitness center, I was still savoring those words. I'd forgotten my glasses, so the five TV screens in front of the room were all a bit blurry. Now, I often watch TV at home without glasses, because I'm too lazy to hunt for them, but the 'elipticals' are behind the treadmill machines, at the rear of the room. Those screens are really hazy from back there. All of the haziness encouraged me to go into a dreamlike state while loping along the 'mountain trail'. Thoughts came and went.

I got a letter from my Mother yesterday. She included gift suggestions for Christmas. She wants books on aviation! But along with that, she sent a clipping of an article about Ralph Charles, of Somerset, Ohio.

Ralph Charles is 100 and still flying his Aeronca Defender

He's 100 years old, and doesn't need glasses. He's rather proud of the "No Restrictions" stamped on his medical. " 'They can't figure out why I don't wear glasses,' he says with a chuckle." This hundred year old man doesn't ever look at anything blurry. It's kind of amazing. My mother told me to post the article "somewhere you can look at when you're thinking you're getting 'old'."

Ralph's already beaten the Guinness World Record of Clarence Cornish, who piloted a plane at ninety seven. But aviation isn't Ralph's only interest. At his birthday party, he gave a concert on the homemade pipe organ he built. Ralph's enjoying the world wide attention he's received.

Meanwhile, back to my fuzzy little world. I could see the small lcd screen of the mountain climber machine perfectly clear, with its charteuse green blocks piled up, detailing the rise and fall of my particular 'mountain'. One green block blinks to indicate which point you are at along the path. Registering that, I returned to my mental meanderings. 'Over the hill' is a phrase often used to describe those of us with less than youthful properties. Now, on each person's path, certainly that point arrives later for some, than for others. But this phrase carries a rather negative evaluation of life's stages. It suggests that one hits a peak, and that it's all downhill from there. Ralph Charles certainly, if you asked him, would tell us, it's not been all downhill since HE turned forty.