Better, Not
Last week I shared an essay aloud to my critique [...]
Rusty, yet Sturdy
My cruiser bike is named Lucille. Preowned, she came with [...]
Bedtime Wolf
Photo Cred: Misty Beil, Yellowstone National Park This is a [...]
Life’s Tapestry
If life’s a tapestry, my stitches were placed strong and tight, in parallel fashion, beside my cousin Artie’s. They weren’t fancy because that isn’t our people, but they were sewn with a lasting, quality thread. Whatever the final product may have been lacking in trend and style was squared up with durability and creative function. That tapestry multi-tasked. It could be used as rug, blanket, wall hanging, tarp, rain slicker, most anything, because that’s who we were, who we are, who we will always be.
It started with our Grandaddies, Clyde Evelyn Barber and Arthur Calton Barber being born brothers. This relation made Artie’s dad, Arthur, and my mom, Jean, first cousins. Artie’s daddy was named after my grandaddy, creating two Arthur Barbers – one uncle and one nephew, in our small community. Grandaddy went by Arthur, Calton, Calt, AC, and Mr. Barber. He was called Grandpa, Paw Paw, and Grandaddy by us grandkids. My grandaddy was not a man of many words so the fact that he had this many name references is a bit baffling, yet it wouldn’t have been his nature to expend energy on others to straighten things out. While we are a simple kind of folks, it's complicated. It’s who we were, are, and always will be.
Match
Today, during my morning meditation, random as it seems, I forgave Lance Armstrong. I suspect there are visions of me all zened up in tree pose, tears of amnesty streaming from my pores in the form of cranberry Kombucha.
The stone-cold reality is that I was amped up on my third cup of coffee and had already Wordled (four tries,) done The NYT Mini Crossword, (2:18,) and finished my daily Duolingo lesson to keep my streak going. My caffeinated contemplation was hitting my veins in rapid bursts. I was thinking about chances, won, and wasted, and my mind jumped to Lance and how he broke my heart.
Back in the day, when Armstrong was king, I followed the sport of cycling with starry eyed affection. I wore a Livestrong bracelet even though yellow makes my complexion appear as though I’ve turned jaundice after sunning under a convenience store food lamp. I toted around his book, Not About the Bike, and read passages out loud to innocent listeners. I’m not kidding here, I took the feet hips’ width, chin lifted stance and read aloud to others like it was life’s playbook. It was the overarching platitude that a champion cyclist would write that it wasn’t about the thing upon which he rode that thrilled my soul.
Conscious Discomfort
With precision, the woman lined up six plastic water cups [...]
Heliotropic Tendencies
Photo Credit: Jerry Beil
Over FaceTime, I’m touring New York City apartments with Ryann. The experience is fast and wobbly, think Hollywood Studios Rock ‘n’ Roller Coaster meets Blair Witch film school. The good news is that the property vignettes are short lived since the square footage is equivalent to a post office box and the cost akin to that of a nuclear weapon. All these factors leave me with cell phone induced dizzy bat syndrome – which the Google says may or may not be a real thing.
As options are evaluated and categorized into a spreadsheet, the no-way-she’s-living-there column includes: (1) assisted living, smelly old people-fragrance scary; (2) Freddy Krueger, stabbing in the middle of the night terrifying; (3) ridiculous, extra-loud elevator ding noisy; and (4) the studio with the shower in the closet. For real, there was a closet so small that one would have to reverse squedge through a door where a shower head and drain have been haphazardly installed for one’s bathing pleasure.
King Room
January 8, 2023
Elvis’ birthday. I didn’t need a calendar reminder or social media ping to remember. I’m a southern girl and I was raised on three kings: Jesus, Richard Petty (dirt track days,) and Elvis.
I was ten years old when Elvis died. Shades lowered and blinds closed as tears flowed down cheeks and turntables circled in tribute. Damn, that was a sad time.
Still
It’s been cold – just as it should be the week before Christmas. In the evenings, Fergie and I bundle up in the quilted down of old ladies and amble around Beaufort. The decorations and lights twinkle with hope and promise. I’m a real sucker for holidays as I love a fancy frock and fun party, but the stillness of our evening walks in our quaint village fills me with joy. Not of the manufactured commercial variety – real, levitation of spirit, soul kind of joy.
On Wednesday, a car pulled alongside us and the passenger window lowered in a jerky fashion. It was a Ford sedan of the previous century. The car was clean, and the seat had been repaired in neat straight rows with dark gray duct tape. There was a quilt on the floorboard. The driver’s eyes were cloudy from cataracts, and his beard was snowy white, but he had a spark about him. The fact that his greeting to me began with “hey there young lady” confirms his senior status.
Fork in the Road
While riding my bike this week, I rode by a man and three young children piling limbs onto a trailer. My estimation has the children between the ages of eight and eleven. The man looked to be in his early sixties. He could have been an older dad or a younger grandpa. I’m going to gamble here with young gramps.
The children were working diligently. No one was whining or complaining even though it was hotter than a wool sock inside Satan’s dryer on the fourth of July. They were piling their sticks in neat formation with pleasant demeanors.
“You got some good-looking kids working mighty smart there,” I commented as I pedaled by. (Working mighty smart is high praise in the south.)
“You want one of them?” he replied.
“No, not today. I’m all good in the young’un category.”