High school yearbook photos from 1942, somewhere in the middle west. Image: Wikipedia.
This will be my third and final “Reunion Report.” For now, anyway.
It’s just that there was so much to think about. I had to space things out. I had to plug in the iron, really press and smooth. I can’t figure anything out unless I write it out, as I’ve said. It’s been this way since I was in sophomore study hall, scribbling poems on the rubber sole of my Converse sneakers. I mention this again in case anyone from the reunion started reading my blog and is right now shaking their head, legitimately wondering why I can’t just chill and let the reunion be what it was: a great party. But I can’t help it. A sandwich is never a sandwich around here.
Whatever the occasion or experience, as time passes, impressions solidify, or they cauterize, or they get frozen in amber, or they disintegrate completely. Six-ish days after the reunion, I can finally get to what for me was the heart of it all. The thought started on Saturday evening and survived the night itself, the hangover on Sunday, the mulling, and the return to the city.
Time is the great equalizer. That’s what survived.
Every classmate I talked to last weekend, regardless of the tenor of our conversation — which did range from convivial to dark — was an adult. Time has no caste system, has no opinions about what you do for a living. I talked in the last post about “reverting to type” and I did, but not the whole time. Most of the time, I just felt like a person with people I admired simply by virtue of the fact that we’ve gone through a good deal of life since we were all in a room together. It’s been 20 years. Think of that.
Think of that.
Births. Deaths. Suffering. Ecstasy. Loss. Windfalls. Horror. Bliss. Addiction. Recovery. Jobs. Ruin. Success. Disappointment. Marriage. Divorce. Second divorce. Aging parents. Sibling pain. Fears for children, worry for friends. Disease. Redemption.
Living history, in other words.
The history we’re making and have each made in 20 years, all of us in our different ways (which are the same ways), that is the great equalizer. Time flattens us all and in this case, it’s a good thing. When I go on about feeling awkward, I’m being paranoid and small, even just taking up space to say that. Most of that night, we were all just folks, connected by the fact that two decades after we crossed the stage in the gymnasium wearing long robes and weird, betasseled cardboard hats, we are alive and we have earned — and paid dearly for — the space we occupy.
That’s what I figure. There’s more, but tomorrow I want to talk about how I rearranged all the furniture in my apartment this evening. What else am I supposed to do after seeing the grand pageant of humanity in the faces of my graduating class?
Fail No. 1 — I reverted to type.
If you are an adult with siblings, and the bunch of you get together for holidays or large family functions, you likely have witnessed or experienced yourself a “revert to type.” To revert to type is “to come or go back, as to a former condition, period, or subject.”
For example, if your younger brother, who yanked your ponytail constantly when you were growing up but is now actually a mature, stand-up person, totallyyanks your ponytail every time you’re both at Mom’s, he’s reverting to type, slipping into the kid brother role he had for so long. Meanwhile, you can’t believe the Typical Older Sister stuff coming out of your mouth. Reverting to type might not feel great, but at least it feels familiar.
Well, I reverted to type the other night. I got nerdy. Nervous. I tried to be funny and sort of was, sometimes, but mostly I was just clammy and didn’t know where to put my hands or how to not say lame things to people to whom I always managed to say lame things. I wasn’t hopeless in high school, but I had frequent clammy encounters. Anyway, it happened at the party and it was weird. I’ve come a long way since high school — so how come I forgot all that stuff when I tried to insert myself into conversations?
Fail No. 2 — I drank too much.
(See: reverting to type.) Not that I drank in high school — I could count on one hand the times I did. No, I mean that because I felt nervous, my cup was never empty. On top of that, I’m on a new medication and I think the combo made me pretty spacey. It’s not like I had a lampshade on my head at the end of the night, but I spent the next day feelin’ barf-o-riffic, indeed. Go high school!
Fail No. 3 — I didn’t take many pictures. And I didn’t tackle the hosts to thank them for everything before I left. Super lame. Okay, so that’s two in one. I probably wasn’t the only reveler who sort of drifted off as the party broke up, but that’s not usually my way. And though I can’t do much about the first thing, I’ve got an idea to remedy the second.
Now that done a little get realin’, it’s time to brush my teeth and go to bed. Oh wait:
Fail No. 4 — Definitely did not brush my teeth before I went to bed Saturday night.
I was so good about that in high school.
I really need to start taking more pictures. This is a high school reunion photograph from 1947. They look pretty good — but we looked better. I’ll see what I can do. Image: Wikipedia.
The reunion was not about me.
But while I process the trillions of impressions I had that night, about that night; while I reflect on the brilliance and fascination of the people who were there — which is, of course, what the reunion actually was about — I gotta buy myself some time.
And so, a pair of lists: What I got right, and what I got wrong, at my high school reunion. First up, because you should do the worst first, and because good news is harder to write than bad, here’s what I got right a couple nights ago.
And so, a pair of lists. Namely, what I got right — and what I got wrong — at my high school reunion. First up, because you should do the worst first, and because good news is harder to write than bad, here’s what I got right a couple nights ago.
Itemize with me, won’t you?
Win No. 1: I went with Sar.
I could start a whole new blog and call it “SarahGirl” or “PaperSar” and write it for the next ten years and still be unable — as a writer, you understand — to portray the wonder and depth of that woman. When I say she is my “first friend,” I mean it in the literal sense: Sarah and I knew each other in utero. Her mom and my mom have been friends longer than the two of us have taken breath.
At 5:30pm on Saturday evening, I picked Sar up at her house. Sar’s house: the house six blocks away from the Fons’s. A house I know so well, I could find it blindfolded. The house that still has the same phone number after all these years — and you better believe I still know that sequence by heart. Sar and I went to the party together and we left together. Obviously.
Win No. 2: No wardrobe malfunctions!
Darlin’, you haven’t had a wardrobe challenge until you’ve had to figure out what to wear to see classmates from 20 years ago, in a meadow, in 90-degree weather, with the very real possibility that you may consume heroic servings of vodka lemonade, not that I would know anything about that. Think about it: You must look cute, but you can’t wear your criminally hot YSL pumps — what are you, nuts?! Hello, gravel roads?? Start over. Okay, next up: You must stay cool, temperature-wise, but showing too much skin? No way, and besides: mosquitoes.
After three changes*, I went with the following: pale pink chinos; crisp white shirt w/tiny red clip-dot; super-fancy, slingback Oxford loafers I got super-cheap on clearance; and sensible-but-beguiling gold Jason Wu hoop earrings. Oh, and a watch I borrowed from my mother’s jewelry box, except it wasn’t keeping time. The battery was dead. But of course, on Saturday night, I didn’t care what time it was. And I put it back before I left.
Win No. 3: I made it.
A few months ago, I shared about my friend Heather. In that post, I confessed that while I’m not a bad friend — what would that even mean? pom-pom sabotage? hair-pulling? — I could be a more even one. Smoother, you know? It’s like, I want to show up more; I just don’t always know how. My point is that this weekend I knew how. I made it to the field, you know? I got on the train.
Osceola train station. Not pictured: Sar. Pictured: Some Dude. Image: Wikipedia.
Yesterday, I was crackin’ jokes. A few days before that, I was going on about television. What is this, an entertainment blog? Am I here to amuse?? Let’s get one thing straight: I’m deep. I’m deep!
I wrote the following jaunty tune on the train to Iowa tonight, which should be abundantly clear. (I’ve come here for my high school reunion, remember.) You will be happy to know that I sang this actual song to its actual subject while we waited for the train to clear the tracks outside the Osceola station. I should’ve warmed up, but that would’ve been hard to do in coach.
As you sing this song — to yourself, please — a couple notes:
1) Text inside the square brackets should be understood as information outside the lyrics of the song — a kind of aside from me to you. I probably don’t have to say that, but I’m thinking you’ll need all the help you can get with this.
2) The meter does work, but only if you put the emphasis on a specific word in each line. It has been noted for you with a bold underline. What can I say? I’m a generous person.
That’s it. Have fun. And hey: The next time someone you love comes to pick you up at a dinky train station 40 minutes from town and waits around an hour for you to actually get there, I recommend writing her a song. It gives you something to do and your friend gets a Snickers bar — if you do it right.
Sar’s Picking Me Up At The Train Station And I Can’t Wait To See Her. Sar, My First Friend and Bonus Sister In This Life, I Love You More Than I Will Ever Be Able To Properly Express And I’m Sorry My Train Was An Hour Late
by Mary Fons
I’m on a train to Iowa, Iowa, Iowa, I’m on a train to Iowa, going to my house. I’m gonna sleep in Iowa, Iowa, Iowa, I’m gonna sleep in Iowa, because I am a mouse.
[whatever, let’s just keep going]
My kin’s from the Heartland State, Heartland State, Heartland State, My kin’s from Heartland State; we’re lucky so n’ so’s. So I’m goin‘ to The Heartland State, Heartland State, Heartland State, I’m goin’ to the Heartland State, ‘cause that’s the place to…goes.
[stop asking questions!]
Ohhh!
Been on this train for six full h’ars, six full h’ars, six full h’ars, Been on this train for six full h’ars, I’m ready to be there. ‘Cuz when I get to Iowa, Iowa, Iowa, Oh, when I get to Iowa, I get to see Sar!
Sar’s the best gal in the land, in the land, in the land, Sar’s the best gal in the land, and that’s for sure a fact.
Ohhh!
[Allargando!]*
Thank you, Sar, for pickin’ me up, pickin’ me up, pickin’ me up, Thank you Sar, for pickin’ me up —
I — brought yoooou — a snaaaaaaaaack!
[produce a half a Snickers, end of song.]
*Italian music term meaning “slowing down and broadening, becoming more stately and majestic, possibly louder”
A dino!! Photo by Ashley Van Haeften courtesy Wikipedia.
I wrote a joke! I wrote a joke, I wrote a joke, I wrote a joke!
This is huge! I’ve never written a joke before!
And when I say I “wrote” a joke, I mean that just now, as I crossed the room to get something, this joke came to me. It just came to me in my actualbrain. Scout’s honor, I have not heard this joke, not ever. I have never heard this joke and that means that I wrote it, right?? Probably other people have written it, too — it’s not too wild n’ crazy— but if other people have come up with this, I have never met those people or, if I have, they did not tell me this joke. And seeing as how I like to tell jokes and seeing as how plenty of people know what I do for a living, if this joke existed before this moment, doesn’t it stand to reason I’d have heard it by now?? Yes! So I’m claiming it!
Don’t get too excited. This joke is not going to set the world on fire. But it’s not too shabby for a first-time joke writer! Are you ready for this??
Q: What’s a writer’s favorite dinosaur? A: The Thesaurus.
The Thesaurus!! Dinosaur! Writers…!! *
I kill me!
Oh, man. That was great. That was just great, that moment. I wonder if it will ever happen again. I don’t care. Thesaurus! What a knee-slapper.
I’ll be here all week.
*Ugh! Now I’m wondering if the punchline should be just “Thesaurus.” And you tell it like, “The. Saurus.” You know? With a clean break between the syllables. You tell me: Is the joke better if the answer is “The Thesaurus” or “The. Saurus.” And you’d have to do a little mischevious waggle of the head when you tell it with the second option. If you tell jokes a lot, you know what I mean. Writing jokes, people. Not easy.
Chicago skyline from 96th floor of John Hancock Building. Photo: Wikipedia.
I had an important meeting tonight. I’ve been preparing for it for several months, researching and note-taking, reading and reading and writing, then reading some more and writing some more.
The meeting went well. Very well, even. If it hadn’t, I would be sad and I’d tell you I was sad, but I’d probably tell you about some other thing I was sad about. If the meeting hadn’t gone well, I’d be too sad to talk about it, yet.
Anyway, I came home and went up to the roof of my building. In case you don’t read the captions for the images I post, I’ll say it here, too: That image up there is not the view from the roof of my building. My roof view is good, it just ain’t quite that good.
What my view does provide, though, is a 360-degree panorama of Chicago’s skyline. My chosen city’s skyline is bold and beautiful and, in the night, it glitters and twinkles. Great towers — Obsidian monoliths! — thrust up into the sky, each studded with countless diamonds of light and then, just when you can’t take all that beauty, you get a break. Because the whole of the horizon to the east is open, endless. It’s achingly pretty, prettier than any of the rest, because it is empty. Because to the east is the lake. You can’t build on a lake.that’s why Chicago is the best city, the most coveted place for me. Here, you always have room. (It occurs to me that coastal cities like Portland and San Francisco have this going for them, but those cities are on the ocean and the ocean has sharks. We just have big fish and we’re also closer to Iowa, so… I’m partial, is what I’m saying.)
The three-sided skyline which Nature insists upon, that’s why Chicago is the best city, the most wondrous city, at least for me. Here, you always have room. (It occurs to me that coastal cities like Portland, Maine and San Francisco have this going for them, but those cities are on the ocean and the ocean has sharks. We just have big fish.)
So I’m up there, and I’m dreaming big. I’m excited about the future. I’m looking at all the glittery stuff and wishing on every one of the man-made stars. (You can’t see the other stars, not where I live, but man-made stars work just fine because hey: nice job, guys!) And I’m thinking about innovation and motion, about big ideas and progress. I love all those things and I want to be part of it. My meeting tonight made me felt like I could be, with this Next Big Project.
But then I turned to my left and I realized the open horizon was the best view, the view that actually meant the most. The world above Lake Michigan is limitless. The skyline’s got nothing on her, you know?
Me, I don’t feel limitless. A lot of the time, I feel tiny and tight, confined by a long list of factors that crowd me from all sides. I guess that’s my point. Looking to the east tonight, almost by mistake, I realized how small I’ve been thinking.
A terrifying image hopefully composed for effect. Courtesy Wikipedia, as usual.
Let’s begin with a note on the title of this post.
As a general rule, I refuse to wag my finger at changes in the English language, even when they vex me alot.* Language is a living, shape-shifting thing — a cruel mistress, even. All the proof you need lies in that copy of Hamlet on your coffee table. But even as I am understanding, wise, and patient about language (and everything else), I swear, the bastardization of the word “literally” still kills me. Kills me dead, though of not literally, because to say “the bastardization of the word ‘literally’ literally kills me dead” would mean that what I see as the word’s misuse would cause meto cease to live. To me, still, “literally” means “exactly”, as in “What I’m saying is literally X is exactly what I mean, without nuance or metaphor.”
Fewer and fewer people mean “literally” the way it was used in the good ol’ days. I am losing this battle. I am not, incidentally, “loosing” this battle, which is a new threat to the current “verbiage”, which is, incidentally, the threat after that. I can’t talk about it.
Where was I? Oh, right: My recurring nightmare. When I say I literally have a recurring nightmare, I mean that I actually have had roughly the same nightmare multiple times and that I expect it shall continue to visit me in future sleep cycles.
My recurring nightmare is one in which I crack open my laptop to find I have been attacked by a computer virus, courtesy a ring of Russian hackers, who systematically take over my computer and drain my data as I watch. (My nightmare predates all the Russian stuff in the news, for the record, though all of our records are being eaten by robots as we speak, so does it matter?)
I had the nightmare again a few nights ago. What can it mean? Am I anxious? Scared about an upcoming meeting? Feeling pressure at work? Troubled by tuition costs? Crushed, perhaps, by the weight of my own existence and/or worn down by the agonizing tedium wrought by the everyday? Me? All those things, definitely? Nah.
Whatever it is, I wake up in a cold sweat. You got a nightmare that comes back and back? Maybe if we talk about it, it’ll go away.
I’d identify the other two besties in this picture but they might kill me. (You look fabulous, girls!!!) Anyway, I’m the one in a red wig. That would be senior prom. Photo: The guy whose job it was to take pictures of a bunch of dweebs at Winterset High School senior prom. Go Huskies!
I heard about my 20th high school reunion through the grapevine.
Plans have been brewing on Facebook but I’m not on my personal Facebook page often enough to have seen about it much — not enough, anyway, to think deeply about going. It’s not for an interest or even an excitement; it’s just an out of sight, out of mind thing, you know?
But yesterday, my oldest friend on this planet, Sarah, who knew me before we could speak literal words, emailed me to ask if I was going. Then, my sister Rebecca sent me a Snapchat. In it, she said, “You should go. I went to my 10 year and it was super fun!”
I do not have a good excuse to stay away. And I have an ever-mounting pile of reasons to go. So I’m gonna get an Amtrak ticket to Iowa. And I’m going to my 20th high school reunion in Winterset. It’s next weekend. I can’t wait.
From L-R: My true love of all time, Jesse Pinkman, and…the other guy. Screenshot: Me, gladly.
Remember a few months back when I talked about House of Cards? I shared how much I liked that show, how excited I was for the new season. Remember that? Sure. I remember that, too.
Hey, then do you remember how I swore I would never, ever, ever use this blog to talk about television because heaven help us the world is big and beautiful and full of so many three-dimensional, extra-legit things to do and see and look at and we have bodies! Do you remember how I said we have bodies and we’re so lucky to have them and we should use them?? We should use them to leap and shake like the Quakers (or milkshakes, whatever) and spin and at least get off the couch and not watch television for hours and hours, supine, on the couch?? Do you remember that?
Me neither. Because I didn’t say it! I should have. But I did not. And while it can be hard to remember things you did say, it’s harder still to remember things you did not say. In fact… Yeah, gee, I can’t think of anything harder than that. Unless you count…
Well, unless you know how hard it is to stop watching Breaking Bad once you’ve started, once you’ve really started in earnest and fallen irretrievably in love with fictional people who make terrible, terrible decisions, endlessly, with a soundtrack playing in the background and comic relief going for it. Stopping that train once it’s pulled out of that station? Forget it.
Yes, I did what many people told me for years to do: watch Breaking Bad. Ugh. It began… Honestly, I can’t remember. A couple weeks ago? It’s a blur. I said it’s a blur! Stop asking so many questions!
I’ll call Mike!*
Seriously, though: I was feeling soggy and blue, uninspired and feverish. I had no will. Would it last? Surely it wouldn’t, I told myself. But in the meantime, while I wasn’t doing much more than languishing, listless and pale — but somehow still beguiling — on the couch, why not take in a little Netflix? A lot of Netflix. Who would know? It’s not like ever said in black and white in front of thousands of people that I had some moral objection to TV, thank goodness.
Anyway, this show has to end. I’m in Season 5, the last season. I cannot wait for it to be done because it is just too good. I’m not reading or writing. I’m not “going for a jog.” I’m not doing charity work and — horror — I’m not at the sewing machine. I’m just… Embroiled. Bewitched. Chained to a show that features such fine acting and writing, it’s criminal. Which is funny, except my life does not think it’s funny. My life wants my life back.
Also, it does not help that I am in love with the character of Jesse Pinkman and yes, I’m about six years too late and yes, he’s not real, but all he needs is the love of a good woman, okay? And I am that woman! What, you think I can’t be fictional?? You think I can’t have real love for a scripted person in a show that ended five years ago??
It’s a good thing I don’t write about TV shows on this blog, right? Impossible.
It’s not ideal to write out a joke which is meant to be told, but can I possibly meet everyone who reads PaperGirl and personally deliver this joke? I’d like to, sure, but verily, I say unto thee, I cannot.
There is one caveat — and I know with every sentence I’m writing before telling this joke, more people are yelling, “Get on with it, Fons!” — but the caveat remains:
This is a blonde joke.
Before folks arch an eyebrow or puffs up in any sort of (admirably) defensive way, remember: I’ve been blonde for the better part of nine months and I’ve been a proud female for over three decades. I am also a person who regularly does or says daffy-but-hopefully-charming things that I often later regret. Considering all that, the way I see it is that I can tell a blonde joke without reservation. Not everyone is allowed to tell all jokes and that’s not some identity politics thing you need to be wary of, not some “don’t be so sensitive!” thing with which, frankly, I often side. But as a favorite comedian of mine says, “In jokes, you have to ‘punch up.’ You have to make fun of the guy bigger than you; not the guy smaller than you. That’s kind of the code. You get away from that and stuff starts not being so funny.” Anyway, my point is that I can tell this joke and I can’t believe I’ve gone into Mary’s Theory of Jokes but there you have it.
But whether or not you should tell this joke is up to your judgment. Just know that I have found this joke suitable for every social situation in which it has been appropriate to start telling jokes. In my opinion, these situations present themselves with great frequency.
And now, finally: The Blonde In a Library joke:
So this blonde walks into a library. She goes up to the librarian and says, real loud and obnoxious:
“Can I get a cheeseburger and fries?”
The librarian, horrified, whispers to the woman, “Miss! This is a library!”
The blonde goes, “Oh! Sorry!” — and then, in a whisper — “Can I get a cheeseburger and fries?”
It’s really funny! You might have to try it on someone, that I’ll accept. Really get that high and low down for the blonde character, that loud, “Can I get a cheeseburger and fries??” and then drop down real low to a whisper when she corrects herself. And make the librarian very upset.
And it has just occurred to me that I should’ve spent the whole post apologizing to librarians. This is a perfect example of how you cannot, cannot, cannot please everyone and that trying is a blonde’s errand.
Hey, look! The fabulous Sherri T. from the Dallas guild last month. Insty-pals. Photo: Me
Hey, it’s Quilt Scout time!
The first July column is all about quilt guilds and how they are great. If you click your clicker right here, you can read what I have to say on the matter and, I suspect, feel a little fuzzy. As in “warm and.”
Have you ever gazed upon a sweeter, more perfect creature in all the land? Photo: The Internet.
Mom and I had the best conversation yesterday while I cleaned the house. We hadn’t talked in so long, it felt like, and we both had much to share. It worked out great to take turns: I’d mute my microphone while Mom told me something that required exposition so that I could vacuum and she wouldn’t have to hear it, then I’d unmute and do some dusting while I told her something. We talked for over 90 minutes before the cleaning jag and the conversation ended with a discussion of my health status and general disposition. And it was this last matter that led us to a discussion of Philip Larkin.
If anyone out there is tired of me talking about dream dog Philip Larkin, I’m afraid there’s simply nothing I can do about it and — wait a minute, hang on. If you are tired of hearing about a girl’s true love of The Tiny Puppy Of Her Dreams, I am sincerely worried about your general disposition and if you do choose to click away, I hope that you will click to a better place. I’m completely serious! This is serious stuff!
Okay, back to Philip.
“Mom, I think I’m going to do it,” I said.
“Well,” Mom said, “I do think —”
I cut her off, noticing that I did that and feeling bad but not willing to clam up just yet. “But I am not going to do anything rash,” I said. “It’s not like I’ve run off done it already. There are many steps to take to make it happen, most of which involve paperwork. I’d need to get all kinds of things filed — and approved — before I’d get permission. And after that, I have to find a breeder, which could take awhile. Ask me how I know.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve been emailing breeders, actually, which proves how serious I am, I guess. And I did look in Iowa first.”
My mother and Mark got Scrabble, a miniature Golden Doodle puppy, from a reputable breeder in Iowa about eight years ago. Mom has strongly advised me to “get an Iowa dog!” She’s not wrong about the quality of Iowa stock, not that I’m biased. But, as I went on to tell Mom, none of the Iowa-based Maltipoo breeders raise teacup Maltipoos, which is what Philip must be. (A miniature Maltipoo is a normal-small dog; a teacup Maltipoo is the size of a well-fed hamster.) I’ve looked in Illinois, naturally, but it’s the same thing here. The only places that have teacups are pet stores and I just don’t think this is the best way to acquire my furry best friend. I’ve read terrible things about pet stores being mills and the pups being sick — oh, it’s just awful. If anyone can make the case for the pet store, please make it. I am trying to get this right and hey, if a pet store like the one I visited a few weeks ago is a legit place to pick’a Philip Larkin, that saves me a great deal of footwork and many miles of travel. Yes, at this point, it looks as though I may have to travel a great distance for my dream dog. And I wince to share that, as this opens me up to a great deal of criticism, I realize, from people horrified that I don’t just go over to the animal shelter and get a worthy, needy pet that way. Again, I have my reasons for approaching this big change in my life in the manner in which I’m approaching it and if my life circumstances were different, I suspect my approach would be different, as well. Be gentle with me.
We discussed all this and then Mom had a great idea, which is not an uncommon occurrence.
“You should ask your PaperGirl readers if they know anyone who owns a Philip or breeds teacup Maltipoos. I’m sure you’ll get someone who either has one of their own or could get you in touch with someone, don’t you think?”
Genius!
And so I ask you, pals: Would you be willing to draw upon your vast resources, your extensive network of professional associations, your thousands and thousands of social media friends and admirers, your high school sweethearts, your very children — yes! your kin! — to help me find my puppy? I just know a pure-hearted teacup Maltipoo breeder is out there and the coolest thing in the whole world would be to find Wee Philip because of a PaperGirl connection! I mean, seriously. Seriously, for real, I keel over with joy and then Philip Larkin would lick me back into consciousness.
In closing, I would like to give a major shout out to Suzanne, who commented on yesterday’s anguished post with something that made my day and is germane to this post in a big way. Get a load of this:
When you first brought up Philip Larkin, I had no idea who this was and went off to Wikipedia. And then some other sites, and then some more and thoroughly enjoyed my voyage. Months later, my book group decided to read Devices and Desires by P. D. James. In the introductory chapters, we learn the main character (Adam Dalgleish) is a renowned poet and appears to hold Philip Larkin in high esteem. I just sat and smiled this little glowy smile — I KNEW who Philip Larkin was. Thank you, Mary. And I’m reading a real, touch-the-pages book.
Thanks, Suzanne, and thank you, everyone, for any help you might be able to provide re: my quest. I think if I do eventually get that pup, I’ll have to start a video blog version of PaperGirl. It would be called PaperGirl: Extreme Philip Larkin Edition and it would feature hours and hours of video of that dog as he canters, cavorts, hops, yips, wriggles, rolls over, fetches, shakes, snorgles, twirls, chases his tail, licks my nose, plays with various items, drinks water, eats small food, and curls up in my arms.
This adorable, lost mitten is my soul. My soul! Photo: Wikipedia.
On July 3rd, I received very few emails.
“Terrific!” I thought. “It’s so nice to know that people are taking time for the holiday! Perhaps I should do the same.” And off I went to do something I can’t remember, but I know it wasn’t email related. The next day, when I did a couple of habitual email checks on my phone, I still didn’t have any emails and that was still fine. “Phenomenal!” I thought again. “It is a holiday. No one should be emailing today in observance of our country’s birthday. Good job, everyone!” And then I went to sleep.
By mid-morning on July 5th, however, I grew concerned.
“Well, how’s that?” I thought, and scratched my head. For a moment, I wondered if folks were just sleeping off the firework festivities. Then I remembered that I do not have many friends who are undergraduate students but lots of friends and colleagues who have to work for a living for Lord’s sake. It was very unlikely that most of the working world was sleeping off a hangover after four days off. And though it was possible that no one in the entire world needed or wanted to reach me… Well, that was depressing to think about so I shook it off. Could it be there was something wrong with my email? I refreshed my browser for the sixth time before I saw the error message:
“Unable to retrieve mail for [email address.] Too many messages on server.”
This confused me a great deal because I fancy myself as being pretty good about cleaning out old mail and zapping spam and all that. Besides, Gmail gives you a bazillion GBs, whatever those are. I poked around to try and understand what was going on and by “poked around” I do mean that I poked at keys and looked at the screen without understanding anything. I hate that I am hopeless at anything information-technology-related, not just because this causes me untold 21st-century anguish, but also because it would be so cool if I were good at all that! Don’t you just love a gal who’s a computer whiz? Like Penny on Inspector Gadget! But the sad truth is that I can sew and give killer lectures and write stuff and tell corny jokes but I cannot, cannot fix any problem related to an email server, a modem, or a website, ever. Have you ever truly gnashed your teeth? I have.
My last attempt to at least see where this alleged glut of emails could be hiding, I logged onto my main email address’s online mailbox. (Usually, I forward all that to my Gmail account and no, I did not set that up myself nor do I understand how it works and even writing that sentence makes me all itchy.) What I found when I logged onto that site made scream in horror, a la Janet Leigh in Psycho:
My email account contained 4,000 emails. Four thousand. Why?
BECAUSE I WAS SPAMMED 4,000 TIMES.
That’s right. I had 4,000 blinkin’ email offers for Celexa, Viagra, Hot-SExy Ladiez, notices of Incoming Faxxes, etc. But 4,000?? Why? How? The only thing I could figure is that when my main email was configured to funnel into my Gmail, the Gmail robots caught all that spam before it got to my Gmail inbox but it stayed on the main email server and hasn’t been deleted off the server for years at this point and — oh, for the love of Philip Larkin, I don’t know!!
Hyperventilating is not a laughing matter, but I was having a little respiratory trouble or a hot flash or something. I emailed the customer service-like email address associated with my account and put “URGENT!” in the subject line. While I waited for a response, I bit off all my nails thinking about all the emails I wasn’t getting. What would become of them? Of me??
When the response came, I felt like bursting into tears. When you read what “Mark” suggested to me, you may cry, too:
“Hi, Mary: We can simply remove all that if you want, but I don’t really have an easy way server-side to retain anything unless you need to keep something with a specific string, or email address. I could also put them in a tarball and you could download them, rename them to .eml and open them in Mozilla Thunderbird. If this were my account though, I’d just setup POP3 in Thunderbird to download and delete everything and use spam filterer plugin to drop all garbage.”
What does that even mean, Mark? What does that mean??
What’s a “tarball”?? What’s a “.eml”?? And you’re telling me Mozilla still exists?? And it’s not your account, Mark! It’s mine! So don’t tell me about what you would do because you are an IT guy and you can hit a few keys and make, I don’t know, animated websites?? And another thing! I barely, barely know what a plugin is andI like it that way, Mark! I like it that way!
I tried not to cry as I stabbed out a reply email, telling this nice man that I didn’t know what he was saying at all — but I stopped. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t engage in this horrible, terrible “tarball” task he was going to try and talk me through. So, with a lead heart, I went to the inbox…and I started to delete things. I realize this is not a real fix; I’m going to have to talk to Mark eventually. But I figured I could at least clear some room so that my emails could come and go until that time came. I configured my inbox to show 200 messages per page; I did a search for any email with “Lexapro” or “Wedding Nite” or “Send MoN3Y” in it and deleted the pages and pages of emails those searches returned.
For now, I think I’m getting my email okay. But the spam keeps coming. Oh, it’s so awful. For every real email I get, I get four spams. And it’s at times like this when I think about the problems folks had in the old days and wonder if they’d trade with us. It would have really been lousy to break the handle of your only butter churn, you know? It would be a real drag to find a wolf got all the eggs out of the hen house again. And I know a problem with my email doesn’t involve trudging through the snow to slop the hogs, etc., but it is the worst.
Fourth of July Parade, Capitol Hill, Washington, D.C., 2014. Photo: Mike Licht via Wikipedia.
I’m not out tonight for the Fourth of July.
There are fireworks to be enjoyed at various points across the city, but great throngs of people and loud, intermittent ka-pows coming at me from different points in the immediate vicinity and/or sky isn’t so much my jam. My jam tonight is my couch, some butter pecan ice cream, Netflix, and blessed rest. Also: the sound of distant fireworks. Nice.
America, I love you so much. I’m worried sick about you half the time; a lot of us are. We’re wondering when you’re going to feel better. You look like you haven’t been sleeping very well lately, or maybe your iron levels are low. I know the feeling. But there are a lot of people rooting for you. So, so many people love you. Let’s start with that, keep that up front.
Fried chicken. Not pictured: Wipes! Image: Wikipedia.
My grandma was a stable figure in my life for a long time. She could be counted on for a hug, she never hollered at us kids — even if we deserved it and we so did — and she always, always had a few things in her purse: Trident cinnamon-flavored gum, a couple “fun-size” Snickers bars, a few Brach’s peppermints, an emery board, and fresh Kleenex. Always.
I never had much use for the emery board. The Trident was only interesting if my sisters hogged the Snickers bars/peppermints before I got to them. The Kleenex was handy. But more important than needing these particular items was knowing they would invariably be there. My grandmother’s consistently stocked handbag gave me a sense of security, a belief that there was order to the universe even if there wasn’t. I’m still not sure there is order, but in some universe, in some dimension, I can reach over in church and whisper to Gramma if I can have a peppermint and Gramma will stick her hand down into her purse and there will be one to give me.
Some friends and I were at a fried chicken restaurant not so very long ago. The restaurant was packed. The only seats to be found out on the breezy patio (the best place to eat fried chicken) were those wedged in between people who had gotten there before you did. We looked around to find a place to put our butts and our baskets and then I spied room next to some folks already seated. If we squeezed, the four of us could join the three of them at the wide picnic-style table. We asked, and they said of course and made room for us right away.
It helped that one of their party was a baby. Beautiful Blake, with her shining eyes and her caramel-cream baby cheeks couldn’t have weighed more than 20 pounds. Her young parents, Curtis and Kristina, were friendly and interesting and we all chatted over the course of our respective meals of hot chicken, collard greens, black-eyed pea salad, french fries, and so on.
When we were finishing up, my friend Leah and I were both frowning at our hands, which were covered in grease, and our fingernails, which needed serious attention. We looked at the line to the bathroom and were about to despair and wipe our hands on our bluejeans when Kristina pulled an entire pack of Dove-brand wet wipes out of her generous satchel.
“I’m a mom,” she laughed. “I’ve got what you need right here.”
We whooped with gratitude as Kristina passed the pack around. She made us all so happy! Our hands were wiped clean and cool after our dinner. But there was a deeper feeling of joy in this for me: Baby Blake is one heck of a lucky baby. That kid has a mom with wipes at the ready, you know? And she’s willing to share them with strangers who she made room for in a busy room, in a big city.
A church in Shady Grove, Tennessee, 2006. Photo: Wikipedia.
I’m down south for a few days to do some quilt research.
The gift of learning about the history of quilts in America is that I get to learn about America’s history in an indelible, singular way. In high school, I didn’t care much about history. This was partly because I was sixteen but mostly because I had no entry point. There was no angle. There was just a textbook, fat with facts regarding the whole of American history starting at Roanoke. How are you supposed to approach something like that? You just try to pass the test. Then you forget — and forgetting is a kind of robbery. It happens to a lot of us.
But when you’re a quilter who wants to know where she came from, you are lucky. Because you have this glorious lens through which to view history. Quilts become a portal. As I’ve been looking into the tale of Tennessee, for example, I’m looking at it vis a vis the quilts that have been made here, the people who have made them, the eras in which they were produced. Therefore, all Tennessee’s political changes, the wars, the prominent citizens who lived here, the state’s various regions, the economy, the generations — heck, even the weather — it all come into focus in full color, so vivid I can hardly believe my brain is able to fire like this.
But the reason is simple: I have context. I have a connection. As a quilter, I’m part of the story — so I care more about the story. That’s human nature — and honey, I’m as human as she gets. That’s why history comes alive for me now: I’m not outside of it, now. The longer I go along in this life, the more interested I am in anything that happened before I was born. Lucky for me, there’s a lot of material. And I get to fly in on my magic carpet quilt.
This isn’t my hat, but it’s pretty darn close. Montecristi hat, Optimo. Image: Wikipedia.
Today, I bought a proper hat.
I’ve been thinking about buying a proper hat for some time, now, and today was the day I put my money where my head is, which is directly above my neck. (In case the location of my head wasn’t obvious, you can now locate my head easily, what with the hat on it.)
You might be wondering what I mean by a “proper hat” because you are smart and curious. Indeed, I should clarify here because not everyone will agree upon what a proper hat might be. I mean, for some people, the only thing a woman should wear on her head is a bonnet. To those folks, a bonnet is a proper hat, even though really it’s a bonnet and isn’t that more headwear? Other people would consider a proper hat to be a straw boater — but those people are usually the three other guys singing in your barbershop quartet in Boston in the 1930s.
For me, a professional woman/grad student in the second half of her thirties living in downtown Chicago, a proper hat is one which:
can’t be balled up and stuck in a drawer
has been fitted for her by a Person Who Knows About Hats (such people often work in a hat shop)
is appropriate for the season
is stylish but not trendy (e.g., huge cloth flowers, extreme brims, hardware of any kind, etc.)
can be repaired if need be
comes in a hatbox
serves a functional purpose
This last thing was the clincher. Until recently, I never saw hats as serving a purpose, exactly — not for me, anyway. They always seemed to be a fashion thing, an accessory, and sister, I got enough to worry about without some new wardrobe component to manage. I skipped hats because like, who needs ’em? Like, who actually needs them?
Well, me, when a few months ago, what used to be unequivocally good became slightly menacing.
I’m talking about the sun.
For most of my life, the sun on my face felt fabulous, just warm and good. Most people have this experience with the sun. And besides feeling great, the sun looks good on me! My anemic, Norwegian/Scots-Irish, pasty complexion gets an upgrade when I “get a little sun.” In the summer months I usually get some freckles, which lend me an air of vitality and sportiness (as opposed to the “19th century fainting couch” thing I’ve usually got going on.)
But freckles are not what I want anymore. At all. Maybe that whole “woman/grad student in the second half of her thirties” description of myself is the key, here. At 20, you can lay out, go to tanning beds, slather yourself in baby oil and who cares? Sun damage? Whatever! Grab the bucket of Coronas — let’s hit the beach! But when you’re thirty-something, such behavior is definitely no bueno. Sun damage starts to show up on a girl’s mug at my age, especially if she’s extra pale, though it’s hardly just my appearance I’m concerned about: Skin cancer is a very real thing I do not want in my life.
So. A couple years ago I began using a good daily sunscreen. The only time I’m tan is when a person sprays me with tan-colored paint. But sometime in late April, waiting to cross the street on a very hot, very bright day, I had my Hat Epiphany: A hat is practical because it will keep the sun off my face.
And, just like that, I began to make moves. Hat moves. I did research. I consulted sources. And today I got my hat at Optimo, the most glorious store, hat or otherwise, in all of Chicago — seriously. I wore my hat out of the shop and discovered that a proper hat affects your feet: It makes them skip!
My hat totally works, too. I know because the sun was shining.
“Música en las Tullerías” by Eduard Manet, 1862. Image: National Gallery, London, via Wikipedia.
Having a blog about my life is strange, sometimes.
I am sad. But I’ve been avoiding writing about it because who wants to hear about that? Actually, that’s not the question. The question is “Who wants to hear about you being sad, Mary, for more than one post?” After all this time, I should know you better than that, my darling, but I suffer from wanting you to like me, wanting to entertain you, wanting to be Good. Though I “keep it real” here, how real do I allow myself to keep it? How real, really?
When I say I’m sad, I don’t mean I’m dealing with a sadness that won’t allow me to get up off the couch. That’s not where I am. (Well, okay: I am on the couch at this moment, but I just got back after a day at the newspaper office and a drink with a friend, so I’ve not been on the couch all day, which we all know is something that can and does happen, sometimes.) No, the quality of my sadness of late is something gnawing at me lately but isn’t eating me whole, I guess. But it’s slowing me down, keeping me from you for fear of letting you down, and it’s been making certain things harder.
I’m telling you now because if you’re feeling that way, you should know you’re not the only one.
It’s got a lot to do with culture. My friends, my friends. I’m afraid for us. We have become, it seems, a tribal society. If we don’t listen to each other, if we don’t try to understand, if we don’t swallow our ruinous pride from time to time, we’re doomed. My identity as an American is so foundational to this life I have. Thus, when I see this terrible political climate — everyone is implicated! both sides guilty and foolish! — it would be strange if I didn’t feel sad. Our country is aching, fighting, warring, hating, barbing, spitting mad. But…we’re brothers and sisters. Aren’t we? Aren’t we, after all, but you wouldn’t know it, looking at godforsaken Facebook. In this case, that is not a figure of speech: I think God has forsaken social media. It is a calamitous wasteland, a monster. I loathe it. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t dream of censoring it, but I see some of these Facebook comment pockets — and it matters not on which “side” they’re posted — I put my head in my hands.
I’m not better than anyone. That’s not it at all. It’s that I believe in the better angels of our nature and when angels forget our nature, I guess, it’s heartbreaking.
There. I’ve gotten it off my chest!
It’s been hard to write because even though I try to “keep it real” around here, even though I’m among friends, it’s still hard to be totally honest. Few people Instagram their terrible blemish, few people make Pinterest boards of ex-boyfriends, you know? But if I don’t tell you that a) I’m sad and b) why, then why would you come here? There are Pinterest boards for fantasies, Instagram accounts for pretty pictures 100% of the time.
Pendennis just looks at me, you know? He won’t let me get away with that for very long.
“Marian Anderson” by Margaret Williams, one of the many terrific pieces in the show. Image courtesy Susanne Jones.
Hey, who’s that? Why, it’s the Quilt Scout! And who’s that she’s got with her? Well, if it isn’t fiber artist and curator Susanne Jones! What are they doing? Well toot my horn if they’re not chatting about an upcoming exhibit at Fall Quilt Festival! And just what —
Okay, that’s enough of that. But this month’s Quilt Scout columns, part one and part two, indeed feature an interview with la Jones about a terrific exhibit of art quilts and I think you should head over to the Scout right now and have a look.
And hey, if you want to read another good Quilt Scout interview while you’re over there, this one with pal Jenny Doan is pretty good, too. I get to talk to some pretty cool people, I’ll tell you what.
Can you tell I’m crying? I’m crying. Photo: Sophie Lucido Johnson.
I spent a good deal of the day recuperating, which was smart. Then, late in the afternoon, motivated by a number of deep-seated needs, I put on my sandals and my favorite blue- and white-striped shirt and ventured north to a pet store. A tiny puppy pet store.
I’ve been researching. A lot. I’ve been emailing breeders across the state, breeders all the way into Iowa, looking for people who are handling these lil’ pups right. I have been combing the Midwest for highly-rated, respectable breeders who safely and humanely breed Teacup Maltipoos. Because Philip Larkin is my dream dog. I dream of Philip Larkin a lot right now. I even have a YouTube playlist with videos of the kind of puppy I love. I watched those videos last night! It’s getting intense.
Please know that I understand why some may raise an eyebrow at my “designer dog” desires. Some good people will surely press me to consider a rescue animal instead of what’s considered a “boutique” dog. I get it, absolutely. I’ve been thinking about a dog for some time, now, as you may know. Those who support and participate in rescue animal adoption are people I respect very much and admire very much. The rescue pet owners I know — including Sophie and my sister Rebecca and Dave, my older sister’s roommate (aka, my “brother-from-another-mother” who is a legit Broadway star!) are people I respect and admire for their animal rescue efforts and rescue animal success stories. I love them and I have loved/currently love their pets.
For me, though, there’s a specific breed that will work for my life right now. It has to do with health needs, work, my travel demands, and my living space, all of which impact the animal’s quality of life and the owner’s life, too. The way I figure, whether it’s an adoption or a purchase, a person who really, really wants a lil’ pup really, really wants to give that pup a loving home, an not everyone’s path is the same. If I sound defensive it’s because I am: There are dogs that need homes but who I can’t adopt right now for a lot of real reasons. Just because that’s true doesn’t mean I don’t feel bad about it. I looked at the sweetest dogs today and they cost money to take home; rescue animals would give anything to be taken home tonight. I don’t know what to do with those emotions. I don’t.
What I know is that when Sophie walked into the place, I had been petting this particular puppy for about 10 minutes and had started to cry because I loved that little creature so much. Soph walked up to the petting area and when she said, “Mary! Hi!”, I looked up and my face was all wet. (Can you tell in the picture? It’s a little like this one, in which I am also crying and also Sophie took it so what’s up with that, Sophie??) Everyone in the puppy-petting area looked at me, a crying weirdo, and I felt silly but also not silly at all. The place was basically women petting puppies; I think they got it.
There’s a lot more prep to do if I want to really have a doggie; there’s a lot more research to do and money put aside. But the venture out today, the move from video to real-life puppy was a big deal. I petted three puppies. They all broke my heart in the best way.
It’s been some time since there was a dispatch from The Pendennis Observer, the mini-magazine inside this blog dedicated to capturing Pendennis, my personal mascot/spirit animal.
As longtime readers know (Margaret Maloney, I’m looking at you), photographs catching Pendennis in the act of being the perfect stuffed animal are never posed or staged. The beauty of Pendennis is in the random gesture, his naturally floppy postures, those stick arms and legs all splayed out every which way. He’s just the best and he can always make me happy.
I had my pouchoscopy today and they did an upper sigmoidoscopy, too. Biopsies were taken from both ends. My friend Kristina came with me; I try to spread out the friend-hospital burden. K. was incredible. She brought me a coloring book and petted my head when I started freaking out. I get in that gown and I just lose it, you know?
Between Kristina, texts with Mom, and Pendennis’s little face — oh, and ice cream when I got home — the day turned out to be not so bad, not so bad at all.
A janky screenshot of a janky scan of an old newspaper. Image: Me, sort of.
A few months back, my sister Rebecca told me she had looked up something in the online archives of The Madisonian, our hometown newspaper. I decided to log on and see what I could dig up. Investigative journalism, basically.
Before I tell you what I found, two notable facts about my hometown newspaper:
The Madisonian is the nation’s oldest continuously-circulating newspaper west of Des Moines.
That’s a big deal! A guy named James Iler started the paper way back in 1856. Back then, it was only four pages and was called The Pilot! [That exclamation point is mine, unfortunately; every newspaper should put an exclamation point at the end of its name, don’t you agree?] I could go down the rabbit hole on fascinating facts about this paper — like how during the Civil War it was called The Red Hawkeye! — but I won’t.
My dad worked at The Madisonian for a number of years as a reporter. My family’s interest in print and publishing comes from both sides, see.
The first thing I did was type “Fons” into the search box. What, like you’ve never googled yourself? (If you haven’t, good for you; it’s weird.) Searching the Madisonian archives was like that, just more…old-fashioned, but without the microfiche.
A lot of what came up was pretty dull, just town listing stuff or mentions of me or my sisters in the fall play or going nerdy state speech tournaments. My dad’s byline came up, of course, and it will come as no surprise there were lots of hits for Mom; she’s been a recurring “local gal makes good” story over the years. She didn’t even have to hire a PR person!
But there were other, meatier clips. Like the one up top, there. Unfortunately.
I hadn’t thought about Tractor Girls in ages, but there it was in a December Madisonian from 1996. Tractor Girls was a play — actually, a series of seven monologues for seven actresses — written by yours truly my junior year. My speech teacher sent it (did I send it??) to the Theater department at Simpson College in Indianola, a town about 40 minutes away. To my shock and amazement, the theater people decided to produce the freakin’ thing. Of course I was insanely happy, overjoyed, all that. And of course I invited all my friends to come with me to opening night. Super fun, right??
To this day, I am amazed I got out alive. Not because the play was bad; actually, I remember it being pretty good. The danger I was in that night was due to my friends’ collective murderous rage: I based all the play’s characters on them.
I know. I know. It’s so awful. It’s just the worst thing ever. Ever!
Pals, I swear to you, with my dumb hand over my clueless heart (which was even more clueless at age sixteen, no surprise), I meant no ill will! Truly, I didn’t realize how totally uncool it was to plumb my friends personal lives for material. I changed their names, didn’t I?? Oh, the shame! Even though no one from Winterset came to see the play and no one who did see it had a clue about my…source material, my friends were furious and had every right to be. It blew over eventually, but it took awhile.
I’ve made a lot of mistakes since then but I haven’t made that mistake again. Case in point: There’s another gem I unearthed in my archive search worth sharing, but I have to get my sister’s permission first.
Wikipedia says these boots are silk, but don’t they look like velvet? Either way, they belonged to Sophia of Nassau, Queen of Sweden and Norway from 1872 to 1907. Work it, girl!
After hitting a wall this past week — I’m afraid my iron levels didn’t improve much after the infusions and I was also in six states last week for heaven’s sake — I’m back and would like to talk about shoes.
I am hard on them.
Angel and the other cobblers at Shoe Hospital at the Monadnock Building in the Loop know me by name, that’s how often I’m in there to get repairs done. It’s not because the boys don’t do a good job fixing up my shoes: It’s that I keep on breakin’ ’em down. But why?
It’s hard for me to admit this, but I tend to drag my left heel a little. You won’t notice it unless a) you’re a hunter, tracking me through the icy tundra! or b) a cobbler, repairing my shoes. I wear down both the heels from all the city walking I do, but the left heel sole always goes first. After just a few months, the metal tip of the heel starts breaking through the rubber and I’m back at Shoe Hospital, forking over the dough and feeling a little sheepish that I’m there again so soon.
Part of this is because I’m a high-heel fan. I don’t wear stilettos for heaven’s sake (well, not in the daytime, anyway) but a bit of a heel on my shoes is de rigueur. I’m the shortest in my family, so a sensible heel helps with that. But I also just enjoy being a girly-girl. It’s fun! The problem is that when you wear pumps and…scuffle a little like I do — ugh! — the result is that you have to go see Angel for new heel nibs and a patch job on the scuffs and tears while he’s at it.
The scuffs and tears aren’t the fault of my weird, quasi-Quasimodo leg drag thing, though; such repairs are needed when you stick a high-heeled shoe through a few too many subway grates. (It occurs to me I should invoice the City of Chicago for some of these repairs. I’m sure they’d be happy to help with that.) I’m sure I wouldn’t need so many repairs if I lived upon the rolling meadows of [insert pastoral locale here] and ran errands back and forth on soft grasslands. We can never know.
It’s a good thing that I like shoes. A lot. My very favorite wardrobe item is the coat, hands down, but shoes run a close second. This means that if a pair of mine really go kaput, it’s okay. Not only do I have backup, I won’t have to drag (!) myself to go find a suitable replacement. That’s an errand I can handle for sure.
But I also really like going to the cobbler. It feels good to pay a little to get a good pair of shoes fixed up good as new instead of tossing them out and buying a new pair. (It might be the same part of my personality that doesn’t throw out food if it’s been sitting out all night — within reason!) I try to take care of the material things I am fortunate enough to enjoy. I’m lucky and I try to be responsible about that.
It’s good to see you, good to be seen. There’s so much to tell you. I started with shoes, started at the bottom.
Larkin, detail. I have a knot I need to fix. Don’t look at it! Photo: Me.
Tonight, because I am trying to take ‘er easy on the ol’ hemogoblins, a selection from the vast PaperGirl archive One year ago this very day, I wrote about my fear and love of hand quilting.
Before you click, though.
The passage of time blows my mind. I mean, I was just there, quilting that quilt, sitting in that chair, watching The Office, wondering what grad school would be like. (I got my acceptance letter in late May, so the grad school thing was a fresh development, thus I thought/dreamed/stressed about it a lot.) The calendar read June, 2016, and wow, does June, 2016 seem like a distant, different world from June 2017. There’s a lot that can hardly be recognized a year later,: personally, professionally, romantically. Politically. Things certainly look different, politically-speaking, in 2017. You may heave noticed.
My first hand-quilted quilt is one of my favorite quilts ever. It’s so bad. It looks like Sashiko, that’s how big the stitches are in some spots. But I love it so much. It’s mine and it’s my first. That’s enough. More than enough.
Your first attempt at anything won’t be “perfect”, so do it anyway. Do it imperfectly. I give you permission.
A girl and her fox. Photo: Bretta’s brother, I think.
Sometimes, great PaperGirl content just drops into my lap.
Yesterday, during a terrific class here in beautiful Irvine, CA, a lady named Bretta had a great-looking carryall satchel. It was big and navy blue with little embroidered foxes all over it. I loved it so much because I love fabric with little animals printed on and you don’t see tiny foxes very often.
I asked Bretta about it and she told me, “My daughter gave it to me. I had a pet fox growing up, so people give me a lot of fox stuff.”
“You… Had a pet fox??” I said, delighted and confused. (Delighted and confused is a weird emotional mix but I had no choice.)
Bretta said that yes, her fox’s name was Flash. They got him at the pet store back in the day, and that her brother had a monkey. She showed me a picture — the picture you see above — and when I saw that fox on a leash, I just did not know what to do with myself. I mean, is that just the living end??
“I used to put Flash up over my shoulders, sort of like a fur collar and walk around with him like that.”
You could’ve knocked me over with a feather.
Bretta told me she only had her pet fox for about a year because Flash ran away. Foxes do like to run. And his name was Flash! I suppose it was bound to happen sometime.
But that was really cool, learning about a girl and her fox. So I thought I’d tell you.
