reading

Forgetting

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I had a sign on my icebox for a long while a long while back. I still keep the saying close at hand, though for some reason other things crowded it from the icebox front. 

 It reads:

What really important thing are you forgetting to do?

I ask that question on many different levels.  Did I pay the fuel card bills?  Did I ask him to check the propane tank level?  Did I ask the Lord forgiveness for my recent failures of character?  Did I put water in the dog’s bowl? Am I sure I checked all the supply levels for baking Christmas cookies?

From trivial to profound and back to trivial.

One question that haunts me was asked me on the day we buried Mother.  What are you going to do with the rest of your life?  At the time, all I could think of was raising the children.  At ages 10 (nearly 11) and 12, things were just taking off.  And my father was still living and needed assistance.  The Butler sale launched that year as well.  The question didn’t mean much for a long time. 

A few years later, the children were grown and Daddy and his mother and his father, too.  From September 2003 through April 2007, there was a lot of leaving for us.  We also lost a dear friend during that time.  And Hurricane Rita blew through.  We got down to just having our jobs and the cows for the most part.

Eventually, the children married and finally a couple of duchesses came along to add glitter sparkle to our lives. Figuratively and literally! 

Still, there are some long days of not much going on.  I have been retired just past a year. He is still working.  The duchesses are too far to come and go on a regular basis.  I have some hobbies I have dabbled in through the years. I am so accustomed to not having time to really dig deep on them, I still just dabble. 

I am forgetting to dig deep.

I love to plan things.  Have my tidy little lists of things.  I passed that trait on to our son.  I have notebooks of lists.  I have spent my idle hours for thirty years making lists.  What do I list?  I have a list of plants I want for the jungle garden.  I have lists of household supplies I use so I can try to make a more efficient shopping list.  I have lists of my favorite foods.  I have a list of songs I like.  I have a list of books to read and authors whose works I want to read.  I have a list of topics for essays to write.  I spend more time and energy on my lists instead of attending the things on the lists. 

I love to sort things.  An offshoot of listing or the listing is an offshoot of sorting.  I will sort and reorganize my closets and pantries several times through the year.  I haul off stuff to the Salvation Army or bag it up for some of the teen girls at church or a friend I know would love it. I pass through the thrift store and get some more things and then go through the sifting process again.  I thought for a while I was off my rocker. 

When I look around my house, I see the results of the process.  I have several areas that show my love of tropical things.  I have book cases full of a full range of topics.  I have lovely dishes to use every day.  The walls have several original pieces of amateur art.  Some is my even my own work.  I have a modest collection of evening bags of which I plan to start using for everyday as soon as I can get my load of things I think I need to haul around with me pared down to fit.  I hear several of my besties reading this and cackling with laughter over that remark.  And he just rolled his eyes.  One of the things I get called is bag lady.  I still consider it a lofty goal to achieve.  Maybe beyond my scope. Nevertheless…….. 

I am getting better though.  I have been taking the time to read.  And yesterday, I took time to watch one of the movies on my movies to watch list.  I put in a new flower bed this summer.  I have the photos on the table and have begun the sorting process to make a photo album. (This is from the days of film style cameras.)  I have a number of digital photos I want to print and put in the album eventually.  I make time to spend with my friends and my family.  I am terrible at calling to check on folks.  I hate talking on the phone.  I would rather see someone face to face. I text painfully slow.  (I did learn how to talk to text and my phone seems to understand my accent.)  I go with him to check the cows most times. 

Nothing profound.  Just ordinary living. Working on not forgetting the really important things.  Time with him, time with the offspring, time with friends, time with my own creative muse.   Mundane things in a quiet house on a dusty dead end lane in the boondocks of Southeast Texas. 

Searching for Paradise

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Incessantly seeking. Endlessly restless. Always planning and scheming. What for?

I am forever trying to manipulate my house and my personal behaviors to make less housework to keep. I am forever trying to let go of expectations and self-created problems.  I am forever asking “is this necessary?” when I look over my lists.  Seemingly my desire is to have very little “must do” and a lot of “spare time”. Searching for my paradise.

When is it all enough?

I am reading a travelogue of a fellow who went off to a very remote island in the South Pacific. It is a second such I have gotten my hands on written in the past few years. It echoes so much of what I have read by Michener and Mytinger.  James Michener wrote of the less than romantic islands riddled with death and disease and insanity.  Mytinger wrote of the natives of Melanesia between the world wars.  It too echoes Michener’s tales of despair and adventure.  I read over again the Trader Vic Cookbook that covers the Pacific, Mexico and Texas.  I love Texas being included in the exotic text of cookery.

The Hawai’ian Islands and French Polynesia are certainly lovely and have the possibilities of evoking the feeling of having found paradise. Hawaii is beyond lovely and the climate is divine.  These are not really included in the materials I gravitate toward.

What is so appealing to me about these tales of the tougher parts of the Pacific? Perhaps the definite challenge of survival and tales of adventure.  Perhaps the stripped down lifestyle. Perhaps the freedom from societal restraints.  Perhaps only the vivid blues I envision when reading them.  Who knows for sure?  Do I even need a reason?  Always trying to figure out why I think or feel whatever it is going round in my head.

I certainly over-examine many issues. Remunerate. Chew the cud.  Stew. I do get a lot done sometimes just to get past thinking about it.  Then, I find some new topic on which to stew.

If I lived on one of the islands I read about, I would probably go stir crazy. He has helped me create a little haven like one I might erect were I to be cast adrift in the Pacific. Sitting out here writing with the wind and the bird song, I am in my own paradise.  My jungle plants provide visual texture.  The bright aqua bench evokes the tropical waters.  I will add images to this haven to increase the mood of escape.

I do enjoy escape from the nine to five, the television blaring, the claustrophobic feeling of central air living with the drawn drapes and darkened rooms. And yet another part of my paradise is a bathtub full of clean, hot water to soak chin deep. A room cooled by that very same central air with a comfortable, dry, bug free bed in which to snuggle.  Satellite services bringing my television and internet connection to the rest of the world at my fingertips.  Too much food available to eat at any moment. Him somewhere on the acreage or piled up in his chair.

I don’t have ocean waves rolling and crashing outside my window. I don’t have the smell of salt air or the scream of seagulls assailing my senses. I don’t have sores festering from the bacteria that thrive in the equatorial band around the globe. Tsunamis and storm surges don’t threaten my world.  Yes. I would certainly love to visit the tropical places of my dreams.  I have seen some of it.  But, I will continue to appreciate my little bit of paradise he has helped me create right here in my own back yard.  For today, it is enough.  No need to search beyond the front gate, today.

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