Front Row Seats If You Answer the Call

The phone rang at 12:30 am.

Two rings. It jolted me upright. But when I picked it up, there was only a dial tone.

Probably a wrong number.  Maybe someone grabbed the caller’s phone and shut it off, exclaiming, “Good heavens. Don’t call them at this hour!” Maybe.

Possibly,  it was bad news. A heart attack. An accident. My mind flits to a friend. When her uncle died at 3 am, her husband took the phone away from her, saying her uncle would be just as dead at 9 am; why make folks fret about it in the middle of the night. Let everybody get some sleep.

I rooted back down in my covers, making a nest out of sheets and pillows, getting it tucked in just so at the sides.

The phone rang again.

My arm shot toward the receiver like a yo-yo.

The raucaus laughter of teenagers sounded from the other end.  Then “shh’s” and giggles. I hung up without  saying a word.

My sleep is a fragile thing, like a shadow that I can’t catch. My mind spiraled to my juvie phone pranks.  Like calling the National Gambling Association and telling them, “I bet 50 bucks I can end my gambling problem by the start of next week.”  I was glad I wasn’t 16 and hilarious anymore. Half and hour passed.

I could hear a barking dog. I wondered how far away he was. What was he grousing about?  Images of skunks and  raccoons on night raids filled my mind. An hour winked away.

I got up and padded outside, wrapped in a blanket.

A full moon reigned over the sky. The earth like a stage, lay waiting in silvery-blue light.  The faintest breeze carried star song from the passing constellations.   Fine white crystals spider-webbed across pumpkins and leaves. The first frost of fall.

I smile. Maybe it wasn’t a prank call. Perhaps it was the signal to let me know intermission was over. The second act of the seasons had begun.

Canning Moonshine

by Zest-pk

Yes, even though I haven’t posted for most of the summer, I’m still laboring while others are sleeping.

Tonight the kitchen is abuzz with activity.

A three-layered metal contraption called a steamer is percolating on the stove top.  The Swedish genuis who designed it created a method to split open the cells of fruit with heat, and siphon their juicy goodness.

I’ve beaten the wicked deer to the Concords this year. 5-gallon buckets of grapes line up next to the stove, awaiting their turn in the steamer.    I drain the boiling purple juice into big half-gallon jars and listen for the lids to “Ping”, indicating they’ve sealed. It takes about an hour for each batch.

Even though it’s 2 in the  morning when I finish,  I trek the stems and collapsed grape skins outside to the compost pile.  (Fruit flies…blah)

The air is crisp from the first chilly snap of the season. Leaves litter the ground. Orion has returned to the sky after his summer vacation. The faint light of a half-moon illuminates curlicues of steam ghosting off the pot of spent grapes I carry.

It’s a night to remember. Late nights are like that…when you think no one is awake, and you have the stars and quietness all to yourself.

Just as Dandelion wine evokes images of long sunny days, each jar of grape juice, will fill my cloud-ridden winter with crisp autumn nights and the waning moon of summer. I’m really canning moon shine.

When Cyberspace Goes Silent

Family visits are never Silent

A good friend of mine told me he hadn’t ever read this blog. He didn’t have time.

He probably doesn’t have time.  He takes care of his elderly mother 16 hours a day and works the other 8 hours.  His life is full of all the little things that make living possible.

Have you ever taken care of some one who is elderly, ill, or broken? What astounds me is how much time it takes.  Even just to visit. Or if you do a bit more, it takes even more time to  make meals, to provide transportation,  take someone on one of their many trips to the doctor.

Then I realize it’s not just the ill who might appreciate a good story or a listening ear. There are the folks who are grieving.  Others who are lonely. And doesn’t everyone have a nutty relative who needs a visit, but you have to force yourself because their house has pathways through their collective years of newspapers and magazines.and the place smells because they never open the windows?

What would happen if instead of surfing, answering e-maills, or reading blogs, folks were spending time with real people.

Wouldn’t it be great if one day cyberspace was quiet, empty, deserted….. like an abandoned world you see in sci-fi movies because everyone was busy spending “face-time” with others.

How much could we accomplish? How many wounds could we comfort? It’s something to hope for.

Who will you visit this week?

Mr. Spock Didn’t Have These Problems

I enjoyed the new Star Trek movie, nudging Scout and whispering, “It’s him!’ when the Old-Spock appeared on the screen.

The audience clapped when Leonard Nimoy’s voice intoned: “Space, the final frontier. These are the voyages of……”   You know the rest.

As we left the dim theater for the bright lights of reality, it stuck me that unlike today’s citizens,  no character  in the Star Trek movies ever looks for a job.  The industrial military complex of the Starship Federation provides millions of positions throughout the universe (with no discrimination toward multiple eyes, borg-parts, or creepy rippled foreheads).

In the future, folks wear attractive uniforms, bosses are almost always fair, and careers  don’t crush your spirit. Perhaps that’s why we enjoy the movies so much. They take us away from the reality of jobs that we don’t enjoy.

The good news is that in today’s market, simply having a job is a blessing.

I interviewed a stone fabricator last week. He was excited because his company had just received an order for a new construction project.  He’s done lots of remodels lately, but this was for a new home.  “Things are starting to tick upward.” He grinned with hope.

So if you’re looking for work, it’s possible that one will open up soon. If you’re in a job that’s a stepping-stone to your dream-position, then you may be able to hop to the next step shortly.

And if you’re a Trekkie…may you find work that allows you “to go where no one has gone before.”

Perhaps, this isn't the manager to work for????

Tell Your Technicolor story. We’ll listen

Millions of people. Millions of stories

When you think of it, stories were our main entertainment when we were little. I didn’t have the kind of parents who read me bedtime stories. Now that I think about it, I don’t remember ever seeing my mother or father sit down and read a book. I guess if it weren’t for public education, I’d be drawing stick-figures on this blog instead of typing.

But the adults in my life loved stories and spoke them into any pause in a conversation.

We’d go over to someone’s house (folks used to visit face to face a lot more often when I was little). While the kids were supposed to be playing, the adults sat around and told their stories. Stories about the war;  tales about neighbors who made moonshine or stole watermelons; Jokes about stupid horses and even stupider owners.

Kids used to be ignored a lot back then; so we were invisible even when we were in earshot to hear about  Aunt Gertie  goin’ downtown with “some man,” or the red-eyed cobbler  who couldn’t hit a tack straight after a weekend with a bottle.

Of course,  we didn’t understand a lot of the things we overheard, but you don’t survive to be 6 years old without recognizing disapproval when you sense it underlining  the spoken word.  We interpreted this as Aunt Gertie was in for a spanking and we made a mental rule to never go downtown with a man-or have our shoes fixed on Mondays.

I think we still love our stories.

Sometimes they come in different forms. The You-Tube video of Susan Boyle has received over 85 million hits. It is a short (7 minute) story with a heroine who fights seemingly impossible odds and wins.

Blogs are stories. Our weavings, jokes, and tales. With over 113 million blogs (and that doesn’t include the estimated 73 million blogs in China), you may wonder if anyone ever sees your story.

True, your thoughts may ride the internet waves for years, but even if it’s just one person who stumbles upon your words; you’re still telling your story. No longer do you have to have disgraceful aunts and quirky neighbors to spin a good anecdote. The blogs in my sidebar full of stories about knitting, job hunting, writing, and life-examining thoughts.

Some are seeking a way to go on. Some have found it. All of our yarns show our mistakes, successes, and how human we are. We go on-telling stories. And that gives me hope.

A Ripple in the Universe

Thanks to Rodrigo Favera

I’m not a Ouija type of gal. I knew in all of the pre-pubescent parties that it was really my friend, Cindy,  pushing the planchette to “Yes,” when I asked if Jonathan Bell liked me. As it turns out, he did like me for a week and sat next to me in art until Melinda Crutchins made big eyes and asked him to sit with her. So long Jon.

The scientific explanation of the Ouija  is that subconsciously we wish for something, and a covert program running in the background of our thoughts helps us push the planchette to the answer we want. Drat! I always thought it was Cindy…not me!!

And then at 12:47  last night I was writing an e-mail when a friend who is dying of cancer popped into my mind. At that moment, I typed into the e-mail how selfish I was to wish my friend wouldn’t leave us and how joyous her arrival in heaven would be—where everyday is Easter.

I wasn’t with my dad when he passed from this life. I was at work.  I thought I’d know though. I figured a fragrant, pine breeze would touch my face as he stopped to say good bye, or I’d feel the earth pause in its rotation. When someone leaves  such a huge hole in the fiber of the world, how can there not be a ripple in the universe with their passing?

My daddy, an outdoorsman—not the REI type, but the Lil Abner type—asked the hospice worker to turn him on his side so he could see out the screen door. He passed with the fading afternoon, and I didn’t know until I received a phone call.  I concluded that we humans weren’t tuned into the escalator of souls coming and going.  It would be too much for our fragile senses to be jolted with every loss.

However, when I got the phone call that my friend had died around 1 this morning, I wasn’t surprised.  Actually, I felt great relief and joy that she’d made it home.  “It’s interesting,” the caller said. ” I woke up about  one this morning thinking of her.”

Like I said, I’m not a Ouija-type of gal. I think  it’s our subconscious pushing, worrying, praying even as we sleep.  I believe that our passing from this realm makes no wave.  Any ripple in the universe, is caused by the Creator—coming to carry us home.