Posts

...Scorpy's my handle, here's where I spout.

 

Heee! I'm short and stout for sure, but this is really about my new old teapot. This is a special teapot because it's somewhat collectible and it respresents one of the little things I'm doing to become me again.

 

When I was 18 years old, I loved going to the thrift stores (still do) in search of McCoy pottery. I'm a collector by nature, which makes for a very messy house at times, but it's what I do, left to my own devices. Over my life, I've been that way about everything. Dogs -- when I was heavy into beagles I'd had as many as 27 (counting puppies). I had a fairly extensive doll collection at one time, over 300. Then my second son was born and I needed the bedroom, so the dolls had to be severely thinned out. I was afraid if I set the new baby down in that room I'd never find him again.

 

Through 4 marriages and countless moves, most everything I'd collected had become lost, broken, or inadvertently left behind. Now that I'm older, single, and my kids are all grown up, I've begun to rekindle my love of collecting things. I  decided back in August to visit the thrift stores and maybe surf around on Ebay to see if I could put my old library of books back together (plus some, of course). I've bid on and found almost all that I had before, plus I'm finding new old books and authors whose works are classics, and that I want in my collection. I've had myself a ball nickle mining for these treasures.

 

Back to the pottery.

 

When, at age 19, I decided I'd effed up real good by marrying a Jackass while still in high school, and snuck out like a thief in the night with just the things I could stuff in the car, I had to leave my beloved McCoy pottery behind. I went home to my parents' house and planned to go back for the pottery when he was at work the next day. Didn't work out that way. I woke to find on my parents' front porch, my old humpback steamer chest with all of my McCoy pieces in it, and my cane back rocker. Every precious piece of pottery had been smashed (save one he missed) and he'd put his fist through the cane in the rocker. I gave the rocker to my Mom because I knew Daddy would eventually fix it for her, I kept the chest for my clothes and one little rust-colored McCoy planter that somehow escaped his nasty hand. I didn't have the heart to try and recollect my pottery.

 

Somehow, the orange planter made it with me through 3 more marriages and at least 9 moves, even though I didn't do anything special to preserve it -- it just kinda...went along with me. I still have it. My oldest son made off with the humpback chest when he moved out; it's in the corner of his dining room holding his mementos. Daddy, who passed away in 1995, did indeed fix the rocker for Mom, who kept it until she died in December of 2006. Then the rocker came back to me. During one of my recent hunts on Ebay for a book, I typed into the search field "McCoy pottery" instead. I don't know why; curiosity I suppose. The prices haven't changed much since 1974, but I've officially made my first purchase toward rebuilding my McCoy collection, and I couldn't have been more thrilled when the package arrived today. It was like Christmas! Especially because this piece is tailor-made for my little kitchen/breakfast nook decor: 

 

 

Perfect, don't you think? Here's a better look at the teapot:

 

 

 

And, here's the old-timer who welcomed her into the fold:

 

 

I'm really enjoying this "back to me" stuff.

 

 

...this is the park across the street from my house. My oldest son's house is also across the street from the park; we live around an inside corner from each other. Our houses are 100 paces apart, and we can see each other's house from our front porches. I took these pictures last Saturday (on Grandson's 12th birthday) from both perspectives -- from in front of his house and mine:

 

 

 

 

 

(Taken from my son's, you can see my house in the one above. It's the yellow/brown one with the chimney.)

 

 

 

 

The tree above was huge when I was a little girl 50+ years ago. (I grew up 2 blocks from my current home and played in this very park.)

 

 

From the baseball diamond (above).

 

...and my favorite:

 

 

This is the bike/jogging path they have put in the park within the last 5 years...so I can ride my bike and play in the park at the age of almost 54. Here is my bike; I just bought it. It's the first new bicycle I have owned since I was about 8 years old. I'm so proud of it; when I'm not riding, I keep it in my living room against one wall, lol!

 

 

 

So THAT'S why it doesn't always suck to live in the city. That, and I got my property tax statement in the mail last week. $312.00 for the entire year. Woot!

 

Just got my rah-rah letter from Chris Baty yesterday about this year's National Novel Writing Month. It's almost time to sign up and begin the 30-day scramble to write a book. I did it last year on a last-minute impulse...hell, I had something burning to be put on paper. I finished the book (Ontario Call) but as life would have it, I got so damn busy I never went back to edit it. And it needs editing.

 

So my quandry: Not being one to back down from a challenge, do I scratch my ass for another book premise and dive in? Do I use this 30-day hussle in a different way...pretend I only have 30 days to edit the book I wrote last year?  Or, do I just say "This year I pass?"

 

It would probably be a good thing to try and write another, but one of my recent life decisions has been to streamline my life and cut out those things I do out of a sense of obligation or pressure -- those things which cause me stress, eat up my time, and give me little to no return for my effort. So, I can think of 2 ways writing another novel would be counterproductive to those goals, one of which is to get back to the book I wrote last year.

 

With my difficulty for turning down a challenge, I can just see myself in the next ten years with ten books....all in need of editing. But then, if I live that long I will be retired and able to edit them all. Except the passions for the subject matter will probably all be gone by then. I'll be all "who gives a shit" about them.

 

What to do? What to do?

 

I know this has been around the e-mail circuit a squillion times, but it's another one that never fails to make me laugh to the point of tears. Gotta share it. :)

 

 

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All I can say is that Newfoundland is a breathtakingly beautiful place. Even though I went in late summer, I suspect it is still a feast for the eyes in its winter state. I've always loved to see snow and big water together. I won't waste this post with a lot of words; suffice it to say the trip went well, the people were tops and hospitable, and the cod, moose stew, and rum were marvelous. It did take me a while to catch up to the dialect, but I was a functioning Irish lass by the time I left.

 

Here are some pictures; I hope you enjoy.

 

I will add some photos from points of interest around St. John's and the Bellevue Beagle Club on another post. These were my favorites of the landscape. They say you would need at least a month to get a good look at Newfoundland. I have no doubt this is true. Thank you, Mr. U, for another great experience. I appreciate your friendship.

 

I would be uber-pissed......

 

 

See the post below.

 

The map was so large I had to do it in 2 pieces. Although I'm sure I'll get some magnificent views through the camera lens, it doesn't seem like much of a restful vacation, does it? That seems to be the way my vacations have gone for the last few years, and after this one, my compass will be pointing in a different direction. My friends and neighbors here will understand. This will be the last journey of this kind.

 

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I don't often talk about God on my blog, but regardless of my human failings, He is with me always -- in thought, and hopefully in deed. Today my friend GB remarked about how God must love him because he has the best life possible, and that it really couldn't get any better. He has a good job with the option to retire if he wishes, he has a modest cabin on a few acres he calls home, and he raises green beans and such for fun and consumption. He lives very frugally because he doesn't need much to be happy. One of his trademark comments after a simple pleasure is, "...and it doesn't get any better than that."

GB, you are an inspiration to me, I hope you stick around awhile.

This leads me to the point of this post. My friends and neigbors here have read my tale of woe, the horrible place I was, everything that I lost -- and lost all at once. At the whim of someone else, my world as I knew it ended in a day, 360 degrees around me. For a period of time, each time I thought it couldn't get worse, another log ignited. I later joked that I was ready to change my middle name from Sue to Job. I like to say that I "scrambled like a drowning cat" just to survive...mentally, physically, emotionally, and financially.

And then I managed to sink my claws into dry ground and pull myself out...shaky, wet, and cold...but with hope.

 

I have this tendency (and I don't like this about myself) to dwell on bad things of the past in a "poor me" fashion. Why I won't let these things go is beyond me, but I'm like a damn dog with a bone when it comes to that. And that keeps me from moving forward. It cripples me. And I wonder why me, why did it happen to me? Because I'm really a good person and didn't deserve it, and all that jazz.

I'm a little slow on the uptake sometimes, but today when GB told me that God must really like him to give him such a good life, it hit me. He considers his life and the things in it a gift. And it occurred to me that in my time of woe, I was receiving a gift from God that not many will receive, or recognize it when they do receive it.

 

1 Corinthians 10:13: There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man: but God is faithful, and will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.

 

So thank you, God, for my suffering. Thank you for my life -- exactly the way it is today. Thank you for loving me enough to show me first-hand that your words are true...something many people only wonder about. What a magnificent gift! We live by faith because we can't always have "proof." But you have given me proof -- it is myself, my indelible spirit, and I am thankful.

I have no regrets.

 

I am following suit with Lily Alice and Jaklumen. How to play if you want to play, too:

Using only song names from ONE ARTIST, cleverly answer these questions. Pass it on to people, including me. You can't use the band I used. Try not to repeat a song title. It's a lot harder than you think! Repost it as "My Life According to (BAND NAME)

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1.Are you a male or female?

Dream Girl

2. Describe yourself:
So Much to Say

3. How do you feel:
Grace is Gone

4. Describe where you currently live:
Grey Street

5. If you could go anywhere, where would you go:
Where Are You Going?

6. Your favorite form of transportation:
Two Step

7. Your best friend is:
Bartender

8.Your favorite color is:
Long Black Veil

9. What's the weather like:
Ants Marching

10. Favorite time of day:
Everybody Wake Up

11. If your life was a TV show, what would it be called:
If I Had it All

12. What is life to you:
Typical Situation

13. Your current relationship:
Say Goodbye

14. Looking for:
Rhyme & Reason

15. Wouldn’t mind:
Lover Lay Down

16. Your fear:
Grave Digger

17. What is the best advice you have to give:
Seek Up

18. If you could change your name, you would change it to:
Cortez the Killer

19. Thought for the Day:
One Sweet World

20. How I would like to die:                                                                                                                                   Proudest Monkey

21. My motto:
Pay for What You Get

 

 Are there words to describe love? If you ask 50 people, I bet you will get 50 different answers, or at least a wide variation of responses and adjectives. I told an acquaintance the other day that I've finally realized that nobody really loves me beyond their use for me. He said,

"That's mighty cynical. Understandable, I guess, given your situation. Or, maybe that's all love is." (suggesting love could be nothing more than a symbiotic relationship between two people, seeking primarily to avoid the pain of solitude?)

 

Love is yearning. Love is blind. Love is euphoric. Love is attachment, desire, passion and sometimes obsession. It's commanding and compelling.

 

There are certain words in foreign languages that have no translated equivalent in English. I suspect "love" is one of those words that has no direct translation in any language. In other words, there are no words...perhaps because love means something different to everyone? Not only do we have "love", we have "true love." Is there such a thing as "untrue love?" How would one begin to define that?  If love indeed means something different to everyone, then that could explain a lot of "near misses" as it relates to the affairs of the heart. Connections that were never made because of nuance unperceived, or the simple disparity of the individual's definition. I wish he loved me. Why can't she see that I love her?

 

There may be no standard definition of love, but through time the poets and songwriters have certainly remained dauntless in their mission to make us, and perhaps themselves, understand what love is -- what it means. Of course, I'm not in the same league as great poets and songwriters, therefore, I would most likely conclude this in a more simplistic manner, like the character of Savannah in Waiting to Exhale, "Someone must have gone through this shit in order to write it."

 

Consider this one, from poet laureate Carol Ann Duffy, from her Rapture collection:

 

If I was dead,

and my bones adrift

like dropped oars

in the deep, turning earth;

 

or drowned,

and my skull

a listening shell

on the dark ocean bed;

 

if I was dead,

and my heart

soft mulch

for a red, red rose;

 

or burned

and my body

a fistful of grit, thrown

in the face of the wind;

 

if I was dead,

and my eyes,

blind at the roots of flowers,

wept into nothing;

 

I swear your love

would raise me

out of my grave,

in my flesh and blood,

 

like Lazarus;

hungry for this,

and this, and this,

your living kiss.

 

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I cannot explain love with words, they never seem to be adequate, but I know that love is almighty powerful. And often steeped in desperation.

 

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