The Long Climb Upward

Greetings, readers! According to my refrigerator calendar, today is the Winter Solstice, a day which marks both the beginning of actual winter and the shortest day of the year. As Terry Pratchett has pointed out, it's a day to be careful of people who claim to be honest as the day is long.

I like Solstice. It's a lovely way to escape the growing clamor of Christmas v. Hanukkah v. Eid al-Adha v. Kwanzaa. I think Solstice slips under the radar a bit, which is nice. After today, the days begin to grow longer again. There are a couple of ways of looking at this. If you want to be confrontational about it, the bleak, cold darkness has been beaten back for another year and we as a species have survived to claw our way back into the sunlight. (I suppose we could say surviving the final trip to the shopping mall symbolically commemorates this event.)

I prefer to look at it a little differently, though. A long time ago, people were more attuned to the turning of the seasons - before the advent of electric light, there was a distinct difference between day and night that just had to be acknowledged. And it was understood that seeds, fields, and yes, people, needed to rest in order to store the energy necessary to grow when the time was right. Solstice marks the end of the dormant period - it's time to stretch towards the light and get ready to grow. It may take a while to see the results, but after all, flowers do a lot of work before we see the blooms.

So why wait until the calendar New Year to make some resolutions? (Yeah, I know. I'm not modifying my lousy eating habits until Epiphany, but that's beside the point. You plan on finishing that pecan bar?) Fresh starts require some effort; it's true, but you don't have to carry all that junk you've been carting around into the New Year with you. So maybe dig out your holiday cards one last time and send one to someone you've been on the outs with. Send it anonymously if you want. Or write down what you consider to be your bad habits and burn the paper in a Yule fire. Resolve to be the light this year; not the shadow. Climb up toward the light - it's where we all belong.

This is my last entry for 2007 - but I'll be back during the first week of January for musings and commentary from the holidays. Have a Merry New Year and remember - it's a brand-new set of three-hundred-and-sixty-six days in which to get things right. Just go a little easy on yourself and keep in mind that no one really has things figured out. While some folks are better at looking calm and collected, we're all just doing the best we can with what we have. So be a little kinder to someone who you don't think deserves it, even if that person is you.

Peace to you.

Joys of a Small Town!

The title of this post is a phrase that my mother is fond of saying when people are a smidge nicer than is strictly necessary for no apparent reason. (Then again, my mother is one of the most honorable people I know, so it's easy to be nice to her.) Anyway - I started thinking about it and I realized that there are quite a few things I really enjoy about living in a small (strike that, "itsy" is a more accurate word) town. I was born and raised in a small town and at different times of my life, I've lived in college towns, small towns, cities, and metropoli (that's the plural of "metropolis," right?).

So what is there to recommend small (I mean "itsy") town living? After all, it's not all apple pies cooling on windowsills and kids whitewashing the fence. (Thank heavens!) You tend to find what you're looking for, and overall, I'd have to say small towns have a certain tolerance for, nay, celebration of eccentricity. I don't just mean knowing who the local kook is - I mean honoring the oddities among us. Personally, I think this is more pronounced in the South, but I'll cheerfully admit to being biased. So, in no particular order, here are a dozen "joys of a small town."

1. Knowing that if you skid your car off into a ditch in an ice storm (we don't really get snow), just stay put. In less than twenty minutes, some guys will come along in a pickup truck with a logging chain. Don't offer to help - they live for this stuff.
2. Gardening in the back yard. (We still reserve the front yard for company; the back yard's for family.) Your burning ambition is to grow the world's largest pumpkin? Not gonna do that in a New York City walk-up. And yes, tomatoes taste better from your own patch. Just stay away from zucchini. Someone else will grow it and, trust me, they'll have plenty to give away.
3. Watching Christmas parades that feature baton-twirlers, cloggers, large Shriners in very small go-carts, as well as a horse-drawn hearse. Guess that's for the "scary ghost stories" lyric of "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year." And, on one memorable year, the Christmas Goat.
4. Understanding that the river has room for swimmers, turtles, and conversion experiences. Simultaneously.
5. Experiencing the traffic jam that follows a high school football game and marveling that it's much larger than any "rush hour" the town has to offer.
6. Driving around to see displays of Christmas lights, secretly hoping to find at least a couple of houses that make you ask, "What were they thinking?" but kind of liking it anyway, because you know that tasteful restraint has its place and Christmas isn't necessarily it.
7. Going out on Election Night to watch the volunteers climb up a ladder to post the precinct results on the world's largest whiteboard at the local fire station. People actually bring coffee and lawn chairs and treat it as a reality TV show.
8. Having a neighbor who keeps two horses in his back yard. In the city limits. In the winter, it's fine, but I don't want to be next door when the summer heat rolls in.
9. Strolling through the city cemetery to find the gravestone of the circus fat lady who died here. While sad to think she had no other family, well, she wasn't the first stray to be taken in and given a final, dignified rest.
10. Speaking of cemeteries, knowing that every well-bred woman has a "death casserole" that is either already in the freezer or can be whipped up in less than half an hour because viewings and funerals are social occasions and food must be provided.
11. Realizing that the original name of the town referenced the high degree of naturally-occurring lithium in the water. And having to consider that might explain a few things.
12. Knowing that adding "bless his/her heart" is the conversational equivalent of waving magical pixie dust. It's a universal balm that allows you to say the most vicious, backbiting things about someone, but still come off sounding friendly and sympathetic. For example: "Well, he can't really help it. His whole family have never been anything but shiftless chicken thieves, bless his heart." I've often wondered if that can be used as a defense as a slander trial - "But Your Honor, she said, 'Bless his heart!'" "Case dismissed!"

I like it here.

But I'm still going to Los Angeles in about two weeks. Home seems more like home when you're coming back to it.

"I-Really-Liked-This-Movie" Pie

Last night, after experiencing what I can best describe as a "beige day" (you know, the type where nothing really bad happens, but nothing really good or lively or "well, that was cool" happens either), I needed something uplifting. And not Christmas carols - I'm overdosed on those at the moment. Love 'em; don't get me wrong, but sometimes you need the less-treacly ones - "Fairytale of New York" by the Pogues comes to mind, and that just gets you a lot of very strange looks.

So Stacked Librarian, who's always good at cheering me up when I'm on a downhill slide, stuffed me with pizza and we watched Waitress. Now, this is a movie I'd been meaning to see since it came out in the spring but, what with one thing and another, I never had managed. I wasn't sure about it - okay, Nathan Fillion, always good; one of my strengths is admitting my weaknesses. And a story about a waitress who pours her emotions into her strangely-named pies certainly has the curiosity factor going for it. But the story behind the movie is such a sad one. I don't want to go into gritty details, but the writer and director of the film, Adrienne Shelly, was murdered before the film was picked up for distribution, so she never got to revel in the well-deserved accolades the film received. She also had a starring role in the movie - it's hard to juggle those three jobs and often the results are overly self-indulgent, but not this time. Following her death, a non-profit organization was established to encourage other female filmmakers. No doubt a worthy goal, but I daresay her family, friends and fans would much rather have her among the rest of us.

Enough with the sad. It's a great movie. Really. Strong story, well-developed characters, funny, touching, and leaves you with that warm, fuzzy feeling without a nasty saccharine aftertaste. No need for a plot synopsis beyond telling you that I started thinking afterward about the term "happy enough" and being sure that I want more than that, even if it makes me unhappy along the way.

I think I need a piece of pie now.

Chuchundra No More!

I've always enjoyed Kipling's tale of Rikki-tikki-tavi, the mongoose who saves his Anglo family from Indian cobras. (Yeah, yeah, I know - Kipling's work smacks of patronizing colonialism - I like the mongoose, okay? Sheesh. Go organize Santa's elves, why don't you?) Anyway, among the animal characters in the story is a muskrat named Chuchundra, who always skitters around the edges of the room, too scared to dart out into the middle. Despite this, he is able to provide Our Hero with useful advice that helps enable Rikki to kill the murderous Nagiana.

When it comes to technology, I've always been a bit of a Chuchundra, too frightened to really dive into all that digital pixels, binary code, and things that go "ping!" have to offer. But I was reflecting on this just the other night and darned if I didn't discover that I'm a lot further away from the wall than I was a year ago. Let's see . . .

1. I have a shiny computer with a flat-screen monitor. Mind you, my television is non high-def, non TiVo, I don't have a fancy satellite-style package (which means no BBC America - blast!) and the TV itself has more depth than many of my postings - but my computer monitor is slimmer than an anorexic's hips.
2. As I write this, I'm having to pause to switch out holiday CDs that are being imported into iTunes. From there, I'll synch my iPod so I can belt out Christmas carols in my car.
3. I created not only this blog, but one for the BtVS class, which I've maintained regularly. I even learned how to add links to Websites (didn't know that back in May) and pictures.
4. Speaking of which, I've learned how to upload photos from trips (Istanbul, anyone?) and become an active member of a couple of online communities.
5. Thanks to my friend and partner-in-crime rainbowcipher, I received assurance that yes, I had in fact defragmented my computer properly to improve its digestion. Further, I think it counts that I can use the term "defrag" in casual conversation.

Hmm. Where's that wall again? I can barely see it from here. But I still think I'll steer clear of hooded serpents.

Huzzah!

Well, it had to happen. Purely in the interest of research and the lofty goal of attaining knowledge, Stacked Librarian and I attended a Renaissance Fair. I'd like to think we went in with the proper attitude, which was (for us) one of willing amusement. I mean, it's hard to maintain a sense of cool detachment when people in wimples are attempting to entice you by waving giant turkey legs in your direction.

Now, I'm all for playacting. In fact, I have degrees in that area. However, it's important to remember that Ye Olde Ren Faire is hardly historically accurate. And thank the stars above that's the case! Oh, look, Rufus, there's a plague rat! Mabel, I think that woman is in the stocks for being a sharp-tongued scold! (Medieval times would not have been kind to Mockingbird, as you can see.) Not to mention horrible food, a greatly diminished life expectancy, and a (to put it delicately) lack of attention to personal hygiene.

Still, it's great fun to walk around, once you buy into the slight absurdity of it all. We stopped to jeer at the victim of "Vegetable Justice" who was taunting two small children. In turn, they were allowed to step closer with their tomatoes. (Shades of Jackson's "The Lottery," now that I think about it!) We cruised through a maze that was really meant for much smaller participants and crowed delightedly when we found "gold" coins on the edges of the path. We missed the jousting (darn!), but did compliment one performer who was clearly a master of the nose flute. Nope, that's not a typo. Nose flute. We also splurged and bought clothing that is reinforced with steel. Practical? Not in the least. But certainly no crazier than standing in line outside Wal-Mart at 4 a.m. on the Friday after Thanksgiving.

Aside: As a fully-spurred Discount Knight, you may think that I'm sharpening my lance for Black Friday. And you'd be wrong. No way, no how. Yes, you can find fantastic deals, no doubt about it. But - the glory of being a Knight is finding deals that other people don't find. Black Friday is the retail equivalent of a canned hunt where beaters shoo the game out toward a clearing and the hunters blast away from their tree stands.

And I don't care for salivating crowds. No offense meant; other people love it. Just not my hunt.

When One Door Closes . . .

. . . have the hatches battened down, matey, because it's going to stay that way for three flippin' months!

Being a homeowner has many advantages, including some nifty tax ones. However - mine is an older house with all sorts of hidden delights in the plumbing and electrical systems (ooh, look - fuses!) and very little of anything here is square or plumb. (Then again, I'm a bit off-center myself, so perhaps Ithaka and I are well suited for one another. Yes, the house is named "Ithaka," at least to me. Don't laugh before you've re-read The Odyssey. We're all looking for our own Ithakas. But I digress.)

The project of replacing an old door snowballed into a much larger project and then the fun really began as miscommunication and pilot error turned the whole snarled mess into a real-life version of the kids' game Telephone. Remember that one? Someone would whisper a sentence to the first kid, who would whisper whatever they heard to the next kid and so on and so on until it got all the way around the room, by which time the resulting sentence was mangled like my temper after the fifth visit to straighten out yet another kink in the project. I talked to employees, independent contractors, installation managers, store managers, district managers, and corporate personnel. I put my woes in writing and still wound up wondering if duct tape could serve as weatherstripping.

Long story short (trust me, this is short) - three months and several fits of temper and pique later, I'm marveling at the door (which was provided to me at an extremely discounted rate, due to - oh, everything. Very nice, but I still would much rather have had the door two-plus months ago). Mind you, it's just an ordinary steel exterior door - nothing custom-made or beveled or carved. I should be filled with righteous indignation - "Well, I gave them a piece of my mind!" or "I showed them just who they were messing with!"

You have any idea how ridiculous that sounds? To begin with (and at the risk of sounding extremely hug-a-tree-ish), there really isn't a "them." There's just "us" in this world and people usually are about as good as you expect them to be. I've yet to find the person who responds positively to being screamed at and/or treated as if he/she is a cretinous pinhead. Further, one of the greatest gifts I've been given in the last five or so years is the realization that the universe isn't out to get me; that I'm just not that important. (Don't get me wrong - my ego often tells me that I'm not only important; I'm cool enough to store meat in, but the universe isn't out to get me because of it!) So I stayed as polite as I could throughout the process, although I tried mightily to point out what efforts I was taking to retain my temper. I couldn't stay for the whole installation - some unexpected tilework added some time to the project - so I left for work, hoping for the best.

I got home from my night class tonight and - well. A solid door is firmly in place, nicely trimmed out with tight miter joints (and those aren't easy, me bucko!), primed and ready to paint. The locks are of excellent quality and turn smoothly. I have a new tiled entryway and old pieces to use under plants. My carport was swept clean and the crew even cut up a nasty-big tree limb that I hadn't been able to chop into manageable pieces. Heck, they even changed the bulbs in my porch light and quite literally left a light on for me!

Now, you might say that that's the least they could do, after inconveniencing me for 90 days.

And I'd call you a lousy cynic.

Taking It Outside!

No, the title doesn't refer to your intrepid correspondent getting rowdy in a honky-tonk. Rather, yesterday I took a brief break from piled-up responsibilities and headed West. Not too far, just enough to be in the mountains for the afternoon. It's full autumn here and while the colors aren't the best (drought, don't you know), the air has turned crisp enough to make you dig out gloves and a jacket. Stacked Librarian ditched her weekend chores to go with me and I acted as Ping-the-Sherpa, toting the water and trail mix.

It was a little hike, really. Nothing off-trail, nothing involving ropes and carabiners. But it was so nice to get outside for a while - to drive just far enough to justify saying (should the cell phone ring - always carry one for emergencies), "Sorry, can't. See, I'm out in the mountains . . ."

And it was a beautiful day for a hike. Bright, clear blue sky; maples and oaks changing their clothes for the winter dance; enough of Shinny Creek still flowing despite the drought to gurgle and splash; and enough of an upward climb to feel like I hadn't just taken a prolonged walk in the neighborhood.

I feel better for it. Or maybe that was the result of the ice cream on the way back.