Nana has Magic Shoes

"You don't stop laughing because you grow older. 

You grow older because you stop laughing."

Maurice Chevalier

In these days of vicious politics, plunging stock markets and scary infections, it is nice to have a comfortable place to turn. Down here in way eastern NC, we have a degree of isolation that feels safe. 

In addition, all the old ladies in our group have been preparing for years with gloves, masks, disinfectants. We had to !!  Our new cherubic grand babies were trying to kill us!

We've also got stockpiles of food, outdoor containers of fresh greens,

plenty of wine. But in my opinion, the best safeguard we have is pickleball.

What? 

In the past year our group of friendly, outdoorsy neighbors has started playing a game that is a cross between ping pong, tennis, and badminton. It is easy enough for old people, but will give you a real workout. The rules are a bit obscure, and the scoring seems designed to be an exercise to prevent dementia. It gets the competitive juices flowing. It gets (almost) all of us out in the fabulous fresh air regardless of temperatures. It has become an obsessive pleasure we need not even feel guilty about!

We've had our learning curves. There have been a few falls, bumps, bruises. There are minor complaints about knees, hips, tendons. You know....the kind of topics we were gonna be talking about anyway, but with the game happily in common. 

We've indulged in clothes and equipment and shoes revolving around pickleball. Just recently one of our regulars, who had fallen early on in play, got a new pair of shoes to steady herself. All of a sudden, she could get to every ball. She could volley cross court. She could return a laser serve with equal speed. Maybe she was just getting incrementally better. But we were convinced there was magic in the shoes.
A new grandmother superhero was born that very day. 

Another of the regulars is tall and extremely coordinated. That serves her well when she comes to the net to volley. We've nicknamed her "the Wall". She can get to most any ball whether the paddle is in her left hand or right- and she uses both. When "the Wall" approaches, she is rather intimidating. Most of the time I am already laughing when she gets to the net. Once in a while I can get a ball back, but I usually dissolve after that. It's hard to take a mean swing and a giggle at the same time. 

There are plenty of other characters, quirks, and anecdotes I could recall. Most all of them are funny. Bad bounces, bad bumps in the crummy cement court we play on, goofy swings, absolute misses, forgotten scores all add to the hilarity. It gets worse when we're getting tired. This is the most serious game not to be taken seriously; the team sport that relies solely on the good nature- not the skill- of each individual. It is an exercise we relish to build our muscles and our mood. 

While waiting for an end to the election cycle, or a beginning of the new vaccination cycle, give me some buddies on the pickleball court. Because, as someone once said, 

"Laughter is the best medicine!"

Zen and the Art of Blueberry Picking

Direct your eye right inward, and you'll find

    A thousand regions of your mind

   Yet undiscovered.  Travel them and be

 Expert in home-cosmography.

               

 Henry David Thoreau

              Walden                 

There are a couple of places about an hour from here where you can pick your own blueberries. Now that I am retired, I have the time for adventures like this, and the inclination to explore more. It doesn't hurt that I have like minded friends who will join me.

So we go to see what the story is....where and how would you go about picking your own? After a little asking around for directions to get to the available fields ("Well, you go down to the end of this road, then take a hard left, then down to the third driveway, then turn down the road between the third and the fourth driveway and you'll come to a shed....") we found our way to the "pick UR own".

Once at the shed, a jolly middle aged woman greeted us. She gave us instructions, buckets to hang around our necks, and a supportive sendoff.
We walked down the row away from the shed. Bush after bush held plenty of green berries, but nothing remotely blue. So at the end of that long row we turned around, and began again, heading back toward the shed on an inner row. Bonanza!!

It seems easy. Reach up, pull blue berries off. Put in bucket. Repeat. Not rocket science. We chattered like noisy birds as we started. Then things began to get quiet.

It is hard to explain unless you are actually doing it. You reach up, pull the blue berries but leave the green, drop them down into the bucket, then begin again. Focus on the top of the bush. Reach up, cup a cluster with your palm, gently wiggle and pressure the blue into your hand while leaving the green. Sweep that arm down with a handful, lift the bucket up with the other hand. Lower the bucket, and raise the first arm to the top again for another go. Continue.

By the time you've got the basics, you'll notice that you've already got your eye on the next few you will pick, then maybe other bunches that might also fit in that descending hand. You'll notice that the "bucket" hand has already begun it's rise as the berry hand comes down. A step towards the next bunch. A step back. A hand outstretched, bucket lowered. Green berries, pink berries, oh, here are big blues. The moves in this dance become more fluid, less deliberate. Stretch up, breathe in. Lower down, breath out. The rhythm is the thing.

How long? How many bushes, how many berries, how many steps? I have no idea. The bucket was full. I looked around, waking up to the rows, the paths between, the sounds of traffic, birds, other pickers nearby.

Merriam-Webster defines zen : a state of calm attentiveness in which one's actions are guided by intuition rather than by conscious effort, lost in the rhythm of the tasks at hand.

Now you can try to find that state in Yoga class. You can meditate. You can study the current phases and fads in mindfulness techniques. Or you can capture that calm attentiveness in a field of blueberry bushes on a beautiful early summer day, rejoice in the practice, and come home with a bucket of berries!

for Carole

Breakage and Bonding

BREAKAGE

I go down to the edge of the sea.
How everything shines in the morning light!
The cusp of the whelk,
the broken cupboard of the clam,
the opened, blue mussels,
moon snails, pale pink and barnacle scarred—
and nothing at all whole or shut, but tattered, split,
dropped by the gulls onto the gray rocks and all the moisture gone.
It’s like a schoolhouse
of little words,
thousands of words.
First you figure out what each one means by itself,
the jingle, the periwinkle, the scallop
full of moonlight.

Then you begin, slowly, to read the whole story.      MARY OLIVER

I have been reluctant to talk about the hurricane last year. There are several reasons for that. First, the name of that storm was Florence- my given name. Worse than that, my friends conveniently and maybe even affectionately called it Hurricane Flo. Put yourself in my spot. This was the worst hurricane to come along in many many years on the SE coast, and there it is- Hurricane Florence, or Flo for short- all over the headlines.
If I had to give my name over the phone, the person on the other end now knew how to spell it without my help. If I tried to charge something, they'd look at my card and say "Florence...like the hurricane. I bet you get that a lot". Uh huh.
Now many around here drop the term hurricane altogether, and just refer to Flo. Wait....do you mean me, or the hurricane when you refer to that bit of damage?

There were other reasons to avoid the subject. I wasn't even there when the storm hit. My greatest anxious moments were in front of the weather channel broadcast, not the actual weather. It was three weeks and plenty of conditioning time before I actually saw what had happened.
We had some damage. Mostly the dock and the basement that we did not prepare very well before we left. There were lots of power tools dead that Joe miraculously revived, lots of bits that should have been thrown out long ago, a few that had to go this time.
What we lost pales in comparison to what many friends suffered- caved in roofs, flooding in 2 stories, sopping insulation, furniture trashed. I had a bit of survivor's guilt, to tell you the truth.
Looking back on it, I should say with some amount of pride that our beautiful community has many dear and dedicated folks. The joy of living here, plus that shared experience with others here, has taught me a sense of place. These are the events that weave the material of deep friendships; of a bond to something bigger.

What I learned about us here last year makes me want to talk about the hurricane this year. We watched the weather for weeks, and carefully prepared much better than last time. We stayed at home this time, and witnessed the power of nature's fury first hand.

We had a little more damage than last time. Our dock needs major repairs. The siding on the house needs major replacing. My garden has walked the plank for the third time.
Cleanup is messy, muddy business. Power was off, water from the pump was temporarily unavailable, sun was out and temps were rising. No matter. By now we believe we are all in this together. We inspected houses for neighbors who had evacuated. We reported back to them. We checked in on friends to see how they fared. They checked on us. We planned post Dorian parties as soon as everyone could be ready. We discussed how we could do it even better next time, and what we should do to make the house even more ready for the tough times. We silently gave thanks.


A friend said "This view is why we live here despite the few days we get from hell."




Another says "We live in National Geographic live".





Studies say living closer to nature makes one happier and healthier.

(https://www.yesmagazine.org/happiness/what-happens-when-we-reconnect-with-nature)

(https://www.studyfinds.org/the-closer-you-live-to-nature-the-happier-youll-be-study-finds/)

I put it this way while talking with one of my Grandmother friends.

Here is a picture of the gorgeous sunset following Dorian's departure. It occurs to me that this water is like your grandchild. When the kid turns bratty and throws a tantrum, you just want to walk away. Then it gives you this big sweet smile, and you turn to mush. 

That's what they call "the rest of the story".

Name That Tune

Piano

BY D. H. LAWRENCE

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me; 

Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see 

A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings 

And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings. 

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song 

Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong 

To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside 

And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide. 

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour 

With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour 

Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast 

Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past. 

A room full of 60 to 70ish women who gather to play cards on Fridays.chatted and nibbled on the goodies assembled. 

It had been a while since we'd gotten together. The hurricane had put a dent in schedules, houses, and priorities. But it was high time we got back to cards and we were ready.

Usually the TV is tuned to some generic music playlist station from the cable stations. Sometimes Alexa plays Pandora or Spotify. How we listen to music has all changed so much since I started collecting albums. So much easier to let some someone else do the algorithms 
Last night Carole queued up the tunes by modern methods. This time it was whole albums of some of my favorite 70s artists -unshuffled just the way I once knew them.

So we played, ate, talked, laughed, forgot whose turn it was,.At least one of us was too hot. That's pretty much how it goes every time. The music usually stays in the background. 
In spite of every effort I could muster, I quietly sang along with Joni Mitchell,

and crooned with Judy Collins. In that room, I was arranging cards in suits and sets. In my head, I was brooding and sketching in my dorm room; huddled in someone's apartment listening to music; electrified at the concert.adventures.

The power music has to put us back into precise places and moods is remarkable. I always thought smell was the most nostalgic of the senses. But the older I get, and the uglier the news, the more I lean on music to put my mind in the place it needs to be. 

I can walk the beach with meditative 
New Age instrumentals, or charge thru grass cutting on high blast with a little

 Fleetwood Mac

or Rolling Stones. 



I have even turned around a whiny grandson moment with just my phone and a recording of "You Can't Always Get What You Want".

 Even now if he starts to whine, I can start to sing it and he laughs.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jv9sDn_2XkI

As the future shortens, and each moment becomes more precious, music seems to be able to tie little pieces of my life into larger spans. Sometimes it is nice to be able look back, even without weeping for the past. Sometimes it is nice to have it to hold on to as I move forward. Wherever there is a room full of cheerful women my age, with Joni Mitchell playing in the background, I know I am grounded; I am home.

Music when Soft Voices Die (To --)

BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

Music, when soft voices die, 

Vibrates in the memory— 

Odours, when sweet violets sicken, 

Live within the sense they quicken. 

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, 

Are heaped for the belovèd's bed; 

And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, 

Love itself shall slumber on. 

Lucky Enough

If you are lucky enough to live on the water, 
you are lucky enough.

Unknown Author

I was upstairs when the doorbell rang. It was too late for the mail lady to be delivering, and most everybody else would text before dropping by. I could see thru the blinds that she was turning to leave by the time I opened the door.

She was young and petite. It was hard to say how young. She was old enough to drive, old enough to have multiple tattoos and a small nose ring. Her eyes were dark pools, her curls were of silky brown hair, and her smile was as soft as a child's. "Girl" seemed right for the short shorts and half T shirt.

She turned abruptly as I opened the door. I must have looked puzzled, because she immediately started to introduce herself, or rather her mission, as she wrung her hands.

"I know this is going to seem weird, I mean, I don't usually do anything like this. I hate to interrupt you but I just thought I might take a chance. I mean, if you were nice enough to give me a few minutes. Would you mind if I took a quick look, I mean, could I ask...." I opened the door wider and backed up to usher her in.

"I grew up spending every summer here with my grandmother. Everyday between the end of school and the beginning of the next year I was here.....WOW! This looks incredible! Wow! It looks so different!"

 "You remember that the deck used to go all the way around", I said. We just enclosed the part that was covered to add a dining space, and more room for the kitchen."

"I almost thought you had turned the house around. But yeah, I used to ride my bike around and around the deck".

We spent a little time talking about the new kitchen we had put in last year. Yes, she noticed the front of the house looked different but she still recognized it. When we bought the house, was that big square chopping block still there? Are Mr Jim and Miss Betty still next door? His brother? I like your garden.  Do you like flowers? My grandmother really liked flowers. That room right there was my room. The one with the glass doors overlooking the water.

"I came here every summer until I was about 12 or 13. Then my grandmother and my step-grandfather got a divorce. I never saw this house again." A pause as she looked around a little more.

"Would you mind if I went out on the back deck?"

"No, sure, come on." I led her across the living room and we walked out to the water side of the house.

"Oh, it looks just the same as I remember it. It is so beautiful."

Then a look back at me. "I was on my way to pick up my grandmother. She lives in Harlowe now. My mother is getting married again this weekend."

Then a look out again at the water. "I was having a really bad day. So on the way I just decided to stop by here. I knew it was a long shot, but I just had to try it. Thank you so much for letting me see it again."

Another far away look, so I said, "Why don't you just spend a little time reminiscing. I can leave you alone out here".

"Oh, would you mind? That is so nice of you. If I could just have a few minutes, it would be so helpful." She sat down on the top step, knees to elbows, head on hands, and stared out at the water.

I went back inside and sat down at the computer. I had never heard anyone talk about a grandchild in this house. I knew about the couple, the ugly divorce, then finally the death of the man. Wonder what had gone wrong today?

I glanced back out at the steps. Rain had moved my visitor from the step to the porch swing, but her gaze had not changed. She moved the swing a bit as if riding the ripples in the water. She almost seemed to hold her breath, diving deep and long before surfacing; then deep again.

At this pace, I began to wonder if she had lost track of time; maybe if she would even be able to walk away. Then I heard the back door open, and her cheerful voice say, "Thank you so much for letting me spend a while here. It was just what I needed."

She walked across the room and out the front door, down the steps and across the yard to her car. I don't think she ever turned back to look again. Whatever it was, she left it here. She wasn't fighting it anymore. She must have learned how to do that from the water long ago, when emotions were fluid and flexible.

I walked back out onto the deck and smiled. My soul is already sticky and stiff and I am just learning. Feels like maybe I am on the right track in the right place. 

“I have been feeling very clearheaded lately and what I want to write about today is the sea. It contains so many colors. Silver at dawn, green at noon, dark blue in the evening. Sometimes it looks almost red. Or it will turn the color of old coins. Right now the shadows of clouds are dragging across it, and patches of sunlight are touching down everywhere. White strings of gulls drag over it like beads.

It is my favorite thing, I think, that I have ever seen. Sometimes I catch myself staring at it and forget my duties. It seems big enough to contain everything anyone could ever feel.” 
― Anthony Doerr, All the Light We Cannot See

D'oh!

“My heart is strong, 
I will not fail, 
I won't be wronged, 
I will prevail.” 

― Alexandra Lanc, Lyrics of the Heart

I've been taken. Duped, fooled, suckered. I fell for the con about this time two years ago, and it has taken a huge amount of my time and energy since. It's like I'm slowly moving thru the 7 stages of grief, only I can't quite read what the next one is supposed to be. Closure and Acceptance will be nice....if I ever get there.

Getting ready to move from Georgia to North Carolina was a big deal. We were closing down a business that had been my life, my love and my livelihood for over 25 years. We were selling the property that held countless unique and sentimentally valuable plants.  We were leaving the house we designed and built on our own; the one that would be our last house ever, we thought.
To get that done took a lot of re-imagining, a lot of re-planning, and a lot re-organizing of convictions, sensibilities, and perspectives.
But, on the other hand, moving could be a good big deal. If we could manage the physical and mental move, we would be going to live and love the salt life at the coast. We could be downsizing the stuff of our lives in exchange for the grand babies that would fill our hearts. If we could just hold our breaths for about 12 months and get it done, we would be good. I made it for about 11 months. It was a bit of a struggle letting go. All the emotion coming and going was building to that final month. Time was getting short. Decisions needed to be made.  It was the band aid I just had to rip off, hoping the pain would go away quickly.

One of the very last things I had to do after moving but before actually closing on the sale of the house was to have an estate sale. We had some nice furniture and antiques, some silver, china and glassware that should have sold pretty easily. It mainly amounted to things that I would just not have room for in the new place at the coast. So it would be nice to pull in a few bucks for this or that, but mainly I needed to be done. So I started looking for someone to run an estate sale for us.
Then I slipped.

Looking back now, I was stupid; and willfully stupid. I did not want to face the final separations. I just wanted someone to come in and take care of it all. I wanted to look away; to be forced to stay away. And boy, did she know that. She was based nearby. She said all the right things about my stuff. She said her husband was a UGA professor. She said she could do the sale before the closing.
I asked a few questions. I checked out her husband at UGA. I stopped asking questions. I signed the contracts. Stupid.


At first it seemed like everything would be fine. Joe packed up his final loads and finished the move. Kathy Dove started staging the remaining items in the house. We would let her run the sale, take remaining items on consignment, and clean out the house before the closing. All that seemed to go according to plan, and the house did present itself clean and empty when we arrived for final walk just before the buyers. I was almost done holding my breath.

In the next month I got "the package" from the sale. Not a lot of money, a sheet scrawled with vague items sold, pictures of what furniture supposedly went to consignment, and a note full of excuses about the inventory not quite finished....one of her main guys was in the hospital....she would get it to me soon.....she would be sending monthly checks and reports on the consignment items.

So the weeks went on into months, and I started writing emails asking about the inventory and money she owed me. I even mentioned recommending her to our real estate agents hoping she might respond better. Well, that did get her to respond with a tiny check and a big goosh. But after that, for 6 months I got nothing.

By then we were really moved and settling in. Life was good on the coast. I really wasn't worried about the money. But I was nagged by the idea that I had been fooled; that I had trusted without verifying.

The story goes on from here, but the queasy feeling remained. I have retold each excruciating detail to myself a thousand fold....mostly in the middle of the night. The long story short version is that I took back what was left of the consignment. Much had "sold" without being paid. I made myself sit down with the original sale list only to find that many, if not most, of the expensive, choice items were unaccounted for. As she said to an undercover reporter just last week, "She was a picker before it was cool to be a picker, and she got most of her good stuff from estate sales".

From there I made myself go through everything in order to prepare to sue in Magistrate's court. She avoided service. I found a way to have the Secretary of State accept the service for her company. She did not pick up her certified letter. That meant she missed her allotted to to respond. I got a judgment. She renamed her company for the third time, and started over again. I had her shut down on the national estate sale advertising websites with that judgment. She still continued locally. I wrote bad reviews everywhere I could think of. I wrote the BBB. I contacted the trade organization for legit estate sales companies. Somewhere in here folks started contacting me about their experiences. I was not the only one fooled, cheated, frustrated. Each story held different details, but all shared the theme.

The struggle continues. It's still not about the money. It's about owning my mistakes. It's about not being the victim. It's also about working with other women who won't be victims. It's also gotten to be about law enforcement's reluctance to help us fight; about the bad guys and good guys; self esteem; the truth. I have learned a lot about the law. It's not perfect. It's not a straight line. I am beginning to see how using the law, even in this insignificant way, is more art, study and creativity.

So where am I now? I am trying to pursue and let go all at the same time. I am trying to support the group. I am fighting disappointment and relishing success each step of the way. I am leaning on my friends and family for good times, and hoping to improve. Hey, I am trying to remember..... that's life.

 "If you want to improve, be content to be thought foolish and stupid." 

Epictetus, Greek philosopher

The Great Pine Needle Basket Caper

If you are not willing to learn, no one can help you.

If you are determined to learn, no one can stop you.

Anonymous

Alone we are smart. Together we are brilliant.

Steven Anderson

It all started innocently enough. A friend had been making wonderful art and baskets out of longleaf pine needles for a good while. A few times a year she offers a class on pine needle basketry at the Beaufort History Museum. I signed up for the class with a couple of other friends, and we arrived on the appointed morning ready to learn. Well, let me take that back. They were ready. I was completely unprepared. I did not bring a pocket book since I had a ride; no pen, no paper to take notes. I did not even think to bring my glasses to see the up close stitching I was supposed to be doing.

I spent a little time catching up by borrowing as much as I could, and calling my husband for an emergency glasses delivery. Finally I was ready to go, trying to get into the swing of the things. The process is time consuming and painstaking at first. But with friendly chatter, helpful oversight by our teacher, patience and glasses, we managed to pump out a sweet little basket each by the end of class. One little basket, and we were all hooked.

From there we took all sorts of directions. There were twines to source and buy, colors to pick, stitching needles to find, plastic straws to cut, bases to slice or invent. These items would come to me from one of our group before I had even thought about it. She'd tracked down everything we might need on Amazon, and packed the full set of supplies in a handy, homemade pouch. I was still working from behind.

Then of course there were pine needles to gather. First, we had to locate Longleaf Pines. They are usually found in areas nearer the southeastern coast, and I was sure I could spot them easily. We got some hints during class, and ended up one day in beach chairs under large longleafs chatting, collecting and bundling brown needles.

But what about green needles? Didn't we need some of those to dry as light tan additions to weave or dye? 

So that sent us off in search of shorter longleaf trees.  There were a few spots here and there with trees, but very often the green needles were not within reach. So we branched out to find hiking spots with large areas of longleaf pines that were protected, periodically burned, and otherwise controlled to safeguard the ecosystem. One of these spots was the Nature Conservancy's Green Swamp Preserve. 

                                                                                                                     We found Pitcher Plants, Sundew and Venus Flytrap growing among the wiregrass, sphagnum moss and cranberries. We located the burrows of gopher tortoise, identified  other plants in the mix, and found small, medium and larger sized Longleaf seedlings coming up after the burns.

 Armed with our collection bags, we secretly harvested green needles from unsuspecting juvenile trees to stash as bundles in boxes at home. 

Since then we've hiked in other Longleaf areas. The habitats have been different. Some are sandhills, some are swamps. Wherever we go, we now notice the differences in the look of pines. 

We watch each other's backs as we snatch more handfuls of green needles.  Imagine old women patrolling the back roads for seedling sightings, loitering under power lines, laughing over the loot, savoring our simple successes. No matter what the setting, these majestic trees stand silently over us, offering up needles for baskets and lessons of ecosystems, evolution, and stewardship. 

Now we're in search of interesting basket bases. Perhaps fired clay slabs from a friend's new pottery studio? Or maybe slices of a cedar trunk, or a driftwood log? So many ideas to explore.

 One little basket. That's all I've made so far. But I have so much more to show for it. 

In every walk with nature one receives far more than he seeks.

 John Muir