Perception
What do a mummy, a volcano, a haunted house, a jail, an ancient city, an artist’s studio, and a swimmin’ hole have in common? All have the power to shape perception. If, as is rumored, perception is reality, each of us lives in a unique reality that either renders us hopelessly swimming in an abyss or offers the opportunity for continuous celebrations of life. Neither is entirely true—only our skewed view; however, a good old celebration beats swimming in an abyss any day of the week.
Being the overachiever grandmother that I fancy myself to be, I am interested in assuring myself of seven celebrating pollywogs rather than an equal number of dour mugwumps. I don’t want my seven swans-a-swimming in the abyss so to speak. Hence, a mummy, a volcano, a haunted house, a jail, an ancient city, an artist’s studio, and a swimmin’ hole.
I asked the older pollywogs what they would like to see/do and got more than I bargained for. Bryan (8) wanted to see a real mummy. (I always loved teaching mummification and suggested to students that they save the gory details for the dinner table. Parents wouldn’t ask about school again for days.) Anyway, Bryan, Tyler (7), and Anna Lauren (5) saw a child mummy last summer, giving me a chance to relive my glory days. They giggled when I told them the brain was pulled through the nostrils, but the boys felt a little squeamish upon learning that certain body parts often fell off during mummification. Anna Lauren missed that part of the lesson. Bryan watched Steve Martin’s famous King Tut performance on Saturday Night Live preserved on YouTube, and I promised to mummify a chicken the next time he comes to the lake. As soon as the fighting stops in the Middle East, we’re off to Egypt to sail the Nile. Hopefully, I will still be alive.
The volcano was Bryan’s idea, too; all kids love exploding mountains. On St. Kitts we could hike to the top of a dormant volcano, and on St. Lucia we could drive right up to the “bubbling sulfur springs and hissing pools of steam.” Decisions, decisions.
When I couldn’t find a haunted house for Tyler, I substituted a ghost tour at Williamsburg. He also wanted to see a jail, so I put him in the stocks. He is rethinking his choices. A little time in the big house will do that.
Last year Keegan (11), Bryan, and Tyler visited an ancient city in Belize at Tyler’s request. They climbed to the top of Mayan pyramid-like structure and tried not to fall off. Keegan was stung by a swarm of bees, and unfortunately, that seemed to be more interesting to them than the ancient city.
Keegan wanted to see a professional artist’s studio, so one is on the agenda for next summer. I think it is important to encourage their creative tendencies and show them different ways to express themselves. In the meantime, Keegan learns to play the fiddle and sings like Taylor Swift, and Bryan takes art classes. Anna Lauren colors anything that doesn’t run off first. Tyler isn’t necessarily artistic, but he is good with lizards. According to Rachel, Wynn (19 months) doesn’t color yet; he just laughs and bangs things. Aiden (7 months) and Leighton (5 months) can’t have crayons; they would eat them.
The swimmin’ hole was also Keegan’s idea. No doubt she envisioned something a little more rustic than Lake Lanier, but this is the best we can do without conjuring up a whole hoard of snakes. She learns to water ski while the other kids ride the giant raft across the wake of speed boats, holding on for dear life and knowing that they’ll get their turn on the skis.
Anna Lauren and her grandfather build bird houses, feed the birds and squirrels, go fishing, stare at insects crawling on the porch, watch tadpoles swim in the water fountain, hunt for hidden Mickeys, and toss stale bread to the ducks. Her only request? “When are we going on our Disney cruise?”
See where I am going with this? The little boogers are actively seeking experiences in a larger world; something that will certainly stimulate their creativity, spark their imaginations, expand their horizons, and keep them out of the abyss.
Upon further reflection and putting all the philosophy hooey aside, perhaps I just like a good time.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Saturday, August 04, 2012
Souvenirs
From Stuff with Stories
Granddaughter Anna Lauren discovered my grandmother’s salt and pepper shakers in a curio cabinet the other day. She knew they had a story to tell, because my home is filled with the odds and ends of other people’s lives. I told her as much as I could remember.
My grandmother died when I was 11. Until then, every Miller grandchild’s birthday was celebrated at her house in Ryland, the one with no indoor plumbing. A coal-fired stove sat in the middle of the front room; a wood-fired stove filled the kitchen; and beds packed the third room. She scrambled brains with eggs, baked cathead biscuits, and made chicken stew from scratch. A shallow pan held drinking water from the backyard well while a dipper made glasses unnecessary. When she died, I inherited one third of her collection of salt and pepper shakers; my cousins Patti and Connie got the others. Mostly, though, I remember peeing in the woods.
My grandmother spent all of her days on a farm in Ryland, Alabama. During the Great Depression, the farm was lost to the bank, and she and my grandfather became share-croppers on the same land they once owned. She chopped cotton, raised five children, dipped snuff, wore a bonnet, plucked chickens, tended the garden, and peed in the woods. Her life was incredibly hard, and I found it difficult to relate to her. Except for the salt and pepper shakers.
Because I was the oldest granddaughter, I chose first. A pair of blue birds with pink feathers glued to their little heads spoke to me loud and clear. Next came skunks, cats, dogs, musically-inclined horses, penguins, elephants, rabbits, fish, chickens, owls, corn, oranges, scarecrows, totems, cacti, outhouses, and clowns. I left my grandmother’s house that day with 37 pairs salt and pepper shakers.
I don’t know of a single soul who collects salt and pepper shakers today, but for my grandmother they were treasures. When her children and grandchildren returned with their souvenirs, they shared with her their experiences. I suspect that for her the real souvenir was the time they spent in her front room, eating chicken stew and cathead biscuits, drinking water from the dipper, and telling her about their adventures.
Love,
Gay, the family storyteller
August 4, 2012
From Stuff with Stories
Granddaughter Anna Lauren discovered my grandmother’s salt and pepper shakers in a curio cabinet the other day. She knew they had a story to tell, because my home is filled with the odds and ends of other people’s lives. I told her as much as I could remember.
My grandmother died when I was 11. Until then, every Miller grandchild’s birthday was celebrated at her house in Ryland, the one with no indoor plumbing. A coal-fired stove sat in the middle of the front room; a wood-fired stove filled the kitchen; and beds packed the third room. She scrambled brains with eggs, baked cathead biscuits, and made chicken stew from scratch. A shallow pan held drinking water from the backyard well while a dipper made glasses unnecessary. When she died, I inherited one third of her collection of salt and pepper shakers; my cousins Patti and Connie got the others. Mostly, though, I remember peeing in the woods.
My grandmother spent all of her days on a farm in Ryland, Alabama. During the Great Depression, the farm was lost to the bank, and she and my grandfather became share-croppers on the same land they once owned. She chopped cotton, raised five children, dipped snuff, wore a bonnet, plucked chickens, tended the garden, and peed in the woods. Her life was incredibly hard, and I found it difficult to relate to her. Except for the salt and pepper shakers.
Because I was the oldest granddaughter, I chose first. A pair of blue birds with pink feathers glued to their little heads spoke to me loud and clear. Next came skunks, cats, dogs, musically-inclined horses, penguins, elephants, rabbits, fish, chickens, owls, corn, oranges, scarecrows, totems, cacti, outhouses, and clowns. I left my grandmother’s house that day with 37 pairs salt and pepper shakers.
I don’t know of a single soul who collects salt and pepper shakers today, but for my grandmother they were treasures. When her children and grandchildren returned with their souvenirs, they shared with her their experiences. I suspect that for her the real souvenir was the time they spent in her front room, eating chicken stew and cathead biscuits, drinking water from the dipper, and telling her about their adventures.
Love,
Gay, the family storyteller
August 4, 2012
Saturday, July 07, 2012
A Little Bit Scary; A Little Bit Beautiful
She sits on the vanity admiring her reflection in the mirror while I wonder how in the world she manages to transform herself so completely. By all accounts, Anna Lauren is a beautiful little girl; big blue eyes, light brown hair, and a warm smile. But right now—whew! A four-year-old playing with her grandmother’s makeup can quickly become unsightly.
“Anna Lauren, what have you done to yourself?” I ask.
Her blue eyes are hidden behind black circles topped with dollops of chocolate brown shadow. Farther up her forehead are two thick black arcs that I assume must be eyebrows. Bright pink cheeks are no match for the red puffer-fish lips. She smiles.
“Grammy, I’m a little bit scary and a little bit beautiful.”
So is life, Anna Lauren. So is life.
Joe Battle once told me that we know goodness only because we know evil. Scary and beautiful hold that same relationship. Although I don’t like scary—movies, rides, masks, weather, dogs, to name only a few—philosophically at least, those challenging moments that scare the willies out of me make me appreciate the beautiful, the transcendent. Still…
Mostly, I’ve meandered into scary. Like when we lost our 18-month-old son, Evan, at Galveston Beach on the Fourth of July; or when I did a 180° during morning rush hour on ice-covered I-65; or the night our dog, Charlie, was attacked by coyotes; or our wild ride around a volcano in Maui. With every on-coming car or truck on that narrow road with no guardrails, we realized plunging to our death would be bad enough; but taking our three young children with us would appear somewhat negligent on our part. My scariest moment was a couple of years ago when Tim fell off a 14’ ladder and broke nearly all of his parts.
The catacombs in Paris about did me in though. My daughter, Rachel, told me before we went to London and Paris that she didn’t want to go to museums or do anything with history, so I should have seen this one coming.
We descended the narrow, spiral staircase and were immediately hit with a damp, musty odor wafting on what little air was available. The walkway was wide and relatively well-lit considering that we were in an elaborate underground city whose only inhabitants were the six million dearly departed. Road signs indicated from which normal cemetery they had originally been interred. For a mile we walked along the artfully displayed bones—rows of long bones, their knobby ends facing out, topped with a row of skulls—in repeating patterns. Small bones and fragments were tossed to the boneyard in the back. I looked around for an exit about halfway through. No such luck.
When we finally—and I do mean finally—reached the exit, I was hyperventilating between shudders. Unfortunately, the spiral staircase at this end was much narrower than the one at the entrance. At last I gasped clean air and slumped in a chair, eyeing the defibrillator hanging on the wall. In a few moments, the attendant asked us to open our bags to prove that we hadn’t snagged a few souvenirs of our sojourn to the underworld. That scene was seared onto my eyeballs—I didn’t need a souvenir. Alas, I had not learned my lesson.
Recently, Tim and I were in Matera in the Puglia region of southeastern Italy and slept in a 9000 year old sassi (cave dwelling). Families had been sharing the shallow caverns with horses, donkeys, chickens, cats, dogs, pigs, and a variety of other critters for centuries. However, in the 1950’s city officials decided the sassi were unclean and began relocating the 15,000 residents. Eventually, an entrepreneur recognized the tourism possibilities of the caves and lobbied for UNESCO World Heritage Site designation. Today the caves are being repurposed as hotels, restaurants, and shops.
I don’t know what possessed me, but I thought it would be fun to sleep in a sassi. Our sassi, large and furnished in early IKEA, had all the expected amenities like a bed and a bathroom, but an elevator was conspicuously absent. We dragged our luggage and ourselves up 160 steps in the broiling sun.
As the sun set on the limestone hillside, the hundreds of empty sassi conjured up images of thieves, murderers, and wild dogs hiding in the comfort and safety of the caves. I was afraid to close my eyes, convinced that we would both be dead by morning.
I certainly prefer beautiful to scary; however, beautiful isn’t a matter of survival. True, beautiful sometimes takes my breath away, but scary takes my breath, pummels my heart, dilates my pupils, flares my nostrils, churns my stomach, and sets my brain on fire. A good dose of scary reminds me that I am still very much alive. Then, when things calm down, instead of dwelling on the past, I put on my big girl panties and get on with life.
July 7, 2012
She sits on the vanity admiring her reflection in the mirror while I wonder how in the world she manages to transform herself so completely. By all accounts, Anna Lauren is a beautiful little girl; big blue eyes, light brown hair, and a warm smile. But right now—whew! A four-year-old playing with her grandmother’s makeup can quickly become unsightly.
“Anna Lauren, what have you done to yourself?” I ask.
Her blue eyes are hidden behind black circles topped with dollops of chocolate brown shadow. Farther up her forehead are two thick black arcs that I assume must be eyebrows. Bright pink cheeks are no match for the red puffer-fish lips. She smiles.
“Grammy, I’m a little bit scary and a little bit beautiful.”
So is life, Anna Lauren. So is life.
Joe Battle once told me that we know goodness only because we know evil. Scary and beautiful hold that same relationship. Although I don’t like scary—movies, rides, masks, weather, dogs, to name only a few—philosophically at least, those challenging moments that scare the willies out of me make me appreciate the beautiful, the transcendent. Still…
Mostly, I’ve meandered into scary. Like when we lost our 18-month-old son, Evan, at Galveston Beach on the Fourth of July; or when I did a 180° during morning rush hour on ice-covered I-65; or the night our dog, Charlie, was attacked by coyotes; or our wild ride around a volcano in Maui. With every on-coming car or truck on that narrow road with no guardrails, we realized plunging to our death would be bad enough; but taking our three young children with us would appear somewhat negligent on our part. My scariest moment was a couple of years ago when Tim fell off a 14’ ladder and broke nearly all of his parts.
The catacombs in Paris about did me in though. My daughter, Rachel, told me before we went to London and Paris that she didn’t want to go to museums or do anything with history, so I should have seen this one coming.
We descended the narrow, spiral staircase and were immediately hit with a damp, musty odor wafting on what little air was available. The walkway was wide and relatively well-lit considering that we were in an elaborate underground city whose only inhabitants were the six million dearly departed. Road signs indicated from which normal cemetery they had originally been interred. For a mile we walked along the artfully displayed bones—rows of long bones, their knobby ends facing out, topped with a row of skulls—in repeating patterns. Small bones and fragments were tossed to the boneyard in the back. I looked around for an exit about halfway through. No such luck.
When we finally—and I do mean finally—reached the exit, I was hyperventilating between shudders. Unfortunately, the spiral staircase at this end was much narrower than the one at the entrance. At last I gasped clean air and slumped in a chair, eyeing the defibrillator hanging on the wall. In a few moments, the attendant asked us to open our bags to prove that we hadn’t snagged a few souvenirs of our sojourn to the underworld. That scene was seared onto my eyeballs—I didn’t need a souvenir. Alas, I had not learned my lesson.
Recently, Tim and I were in Matera in the Puglia region of southeastern Italy and slept in a 9000 year old sassi (cave dwelling). Families had been sharing the shallow caverns with horses, donkeys, chickens, cats, dogs, pigs, and a variety of other critters for centuries. However, in the 1950’s city officials decided the sassi were unclean and began relocating the 15,000 residents. Eventually, an entrepreneur recognized the tourism possibilities of the caves and lobbied for UNESCO World Heritage Site designation. Today the caves are being repurposed as hotels, restaurants, and shops.
I don’t know what possessed me, but I thought it would be fun to sleep in a sassi. Our sassi, large and furnished in early IKEA, had all the expected amenities like a bed and a bathroom, but an elevator was conspicuously absent. We dragged our luggage and ourselves up 160 steps in the broiling sun.
As the sun set on the limestone hillside, the hundreds of empty sassi conjured up images of thieves, murderers, and wild dogs hiding in the comfort and safety of the caves. I was afraid to close my eyes, convinced that we would both be dead by morning.
I certainly prefer beautiful to scary; however, beautiful isn’t a matter of survival. True, beautiful sometimes takes my breath away, but scary takes my breath, pummels my heart, dilates my pupils, flares my nostrils, churns my stomach, and sets my brain on fire. A good dose of scary reminds me that I am still very much alive. Then, when things calm down, instead of dwelling on the past, I put on my big girl panties and get on with life.
July 7, 2012
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