Take My Picture, Please?

There are always two people in every picture: the photographer and the viewer. 

Ansel Adams

Back in the early 90's, my neighbor's mother often visited from Minnesota. Marge, well into her 60's, dyed her hair red and loved having her picture taken with famous people. Not too many famous types hung out in Austin at that time, but if they were here, Marge found them. Always got a picture and always found herself in the photo as well.

Her daughter-in-law calls her the original Photo Bomber.  She didn't get famous people to pose with her like the selfie shots posted on Facebook and everywhere else. She didn't interrupt their business and have their arms slung around her like they were best buds. Nope. Not Marge. She made it look like she was with them. Part of their entourage.

When the men's Legends golf tournament was in town, I'll be darned if Marge didn't get a photo taken strutting down the cart path beside Chi Chi Rodriguez, like she was carrying his putter or something. She and Chi Chi out vying for a win on the senior golf tour.*

Marge, a mother of nine, must have trained her children at an early age to get the perfect shot. I imagined her thrusting the camera into their hands and saying, "Okay, I'm going in. Get this right."

When Queen Elizabeth came to town (for the life of me I can't remember why the Queen was in Austin, Texas) it didn't surprise me when my neighbor shared a photo of Marge, standing just behind the queen. Photos fresh from the one-hour Fotomat and Marge snickering as she viewed it.

Go Marge.

Last Christmas Day, my husband and I flew to New York City. After Christmas Eve with the four kids in Austin, we spent the rest of the holiday with the boy who couldn't come home. That Bama Boy turned Chef.

As we wandered the crowded city streets (NYC is a busy place, but Midtown at Christmas? Ridiculous.) I noticed an inordinate number of blind people. So many walking around in a group with their white-tipped walking sticks folded up, unused in their hands.

About to mutter something stupid to my son about a blind person convention on Christmas Day, I noticed that the wadded sticks didn't have white tips. That occurred about the same time I almost tripped over an extended one. One that dangled a smart phone on the end of it.

I quickly became familiar with the digital accessory (clean up your mind, Julie) also known as the Selfie Stick. Designed to improve one's Selfie experience by easing arm health and extending the scope of one's photo while affording an opportunity to spend more time taking photos than enjoying what is in front of one's face. Followed then by standing in front of said place/item of interest and examining if photo is good enough or needs a retake. Then, still standing in place while posting to social media while others in the vicinity await their turn to Selfie or just want to see the shit in front of them.

Yes, I ran out of patience with them. Everything I wanted to see, like the window displays at Macy's or a favorite painting at the Met, I patiently awaited my turn for a glimpse while the selfie groups crowded around me. I couldn't help but wonder why everyone wanted to busy themselves taking a picture with something important behind them. Where was the joy in seeing it, studying it? Taking a photo of the item itself for later enjoyment and recollection? Not staring at their mugs on a tiny screen.

Where did this narcissism come from? This need to be seen with the famous or the famed. The need to see one's own face plastered on tiny computer screens to mark their presence for the world to see.

Of course, I need to remember that I hate having my photo taken and I'm not as much into individualism as the Average Joe. Humble about it, too. Would I really like to stand in front of a famous painting and snap a photo of myself? Imagine standing in front of a Picasso. What would be the point?

 

I mean, would I be saying, "I posed for this painting?" or "Am I as fat as this bitch?"

Seriously.  I so would not do anything like that.

Some might say "Well, you take pictures at famous places and  museums."

Yes, I do. But I have a reason. I'm there on a limited time schedule. My husband is with me and I only have a certain amount of time before his head explodes. It's like being in a race. Taking photos lets me linger on the subjects long after we've left the museum or famous site. I also get to see more as I can't imagine ever getting him back so I move quickly, taking in all I can get.

And me, being the art expert that I am, take my photos so I can study them at a later date. Like the texture in this Van Gogh.

I could examine the ferocity in those brush strokes for days. Consider the flurry of what went on in Vincent's mind as he loaded his palette with more and more paint. Even wonder if he painted it while contemplating cutting his ear off or while it hurt like hell after. Okay, maybe not that.

Back to individualism and the Selfie Stick. Would that Van Gogh painting have been better for you if I were standing, say, right in the middle? No, and that again is the point. I think. This photo wasn't taken for you. I had no intent when I took it to post it on social media or intend for you to muddle through a very long blog post. I took it for self-enjoyment. For my own individual needs, not the collective lot of you.

I don't take photos to share.

Nope, not me standing front of the Christmas tree at freaking Rockefeller Center on Christmas Night.

Nope, not me with a view of the entire skyline of Manhattan in the background.

Nope, not me holding up the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Nope, you will not find me needing to post photos of myself on social media. And that photo in Pisa? A selfie stick would not have been helpful. I still needed another body. Or a camera with a timer on it.

Before selfies and their accouterments came into vogue, one might have to find a rock or chair to set the camera upon, set the timer, and run back to get in the frame. Or ask another to take the photo. Like a stranger. Bingo! The selfie stick negates the need to communicate with others. How cool is that?

My husband isn't good for the Selfie Stick empire. He might not have any patience for my stopping to take a snapshot, but he most certainly never hesitates to offer to take a photo of people trying to capture themselves.

Doesn't occur to him they might be in Selfie mode. Often when he offers, they give a guarded look and he calmly says, "Here, you can hold my phone while I take it." They smile and appease him and he starts to chat with them. "Where you from?" "What all are you doing today?"  Hasn't said a word to me for an hour, but he's got all day to chat with strangers.

I stand idly by and sometimes they offer to take our photo as well. I reluctantly comply as I do need to leave some record that I existed and photos of us as a couple are indeed rare. But the question to pose is 'Would this photo of the old boy and me been better if we had taken it of ourselves?'

Probably not. Every Selfie I've ever taken of myself (something wrong with that phrase) I've deleted. Something about that double chin being much more defined in that close up.

It is nice, I admit, to have a memory of a time together. Like on this trip to Wyoming with Middle Son.

 

 

I took this photo and in looking back at it,  I note the reflection of the mountain in the water, the ripples made by the breeze, and the green in the pine tree. But the next one helps me recall much more vividly that day travelling alone through Wyoming with Middle Son. We asked someone near us to take it.

\

I still see the reflection of the mountain. The ripple in the water, the green of pine. But I also see a lovely smile on that young man's face. That it truly was okay to be stuck in the wilds with his mother. I can't recall the name of that mountain in the Tetons, but I do recall the joy of that moment. And perhaps that is what picture taking is all about and I need to give those people mugging all the photo stops a break. Myself included.

However, this photo could not possibly have captured that moment if I were concentrating on manoeuvring a long stick in front of me.  Or if there were a crowd of people awaiting a photo in the exact same spot. And then not moving until I decided if it was good enough to post on my Facebook or needed to take another one because the water wasn't rippling just as I wanted it. Or I wanted to pull up my bra strap.

Something tells me I don't know what I'm talking about in this post. I had intended it to be a serious discussion regarding individualism. The pursuit of my needs before all others instead of living life for the collected good of all.

As you can sorely see, my Midlife Roadtripper blogpost mind does not allow me to stay serious for very long. Perhaps that is a good thing. Serious essays are very hard to write.

If I ventured back to my original idea of what this post might relay, I would come to this photo. With time running out at Metropolitan Museum (my husband ready to race me to the exit doors) I awaited yet another person in front of a painting so I could take my photo uninhibited. As I tapped my foot and studied the Monet from afar, I finally noticed she wasn't standing in front of it to take a photo of herself. She was doing what was meant to happen.

And that was the photo I wanted.

I've heard Selfie Sticks have now been banned from the Met and many other venues. I'm glad. Perhaps a 'return to sanity' sign.

After all, Marge didn't need a Selfie Stick. Didn't bother anybody.  Didn't hold anyone up. For her, the fun was in the pursuit. Her photos aren't lolling about in cyber space or framed on her walls. Word has it they reside in an old box in the basement, unseen for years. In her mind's eye, I imagine Marge recalls. I can see her snickering.


*(An aside, I have a special affinity for Chi Chi Rodriquez. I recall the show WKRP in Cincinnati from years ago. Les Nesman, the news/weather/sports reporter, once reported on a golf tournament announcing Chi Chi as Chie Chie Rod-wa-gweez. Loved it then and it still makes me chuckle.)

This and That, Double Dog Dare and March Scavenging

Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. 

Henry David Thoreau

This and That Days have overtaken my life. I love them. You are probably familiar with their workings. You spend the day busy at a pace where at day's end you couldn't really list all you've done. Nor could anyone walk into your home and necessarily see exactly what has kept you so busy. 

But you know. It accounts for your calmness. For you've put in a full day, yet don't feel like you dragged a steam ship through a mucky channel. 

On my This and That Days I may have cleaned the hairbrushes. Washed the kitchen window. Threw away the grocery sales slips littering my car. Read a short story. Blew the dust off a book shelf. Secured that loose upholstery button on the pillow sham. 

Written in my journal.  Swept the duck crap off the dock. Picked the dead leaves from my plants. Read a few new poems. Scoured the coffee pot to a new clean. Gone through the fridge and thrown away all the jars of expired jams, mustards, horseradish and mayos. Planted the Moonflower seed packet that has sat on the counter for a month. Turned the calendar to the appropriate month.

Rehung the fairy windows on the big tree in the yard. Changed the sheets on the bed. Written five gratitudes for the day.  Washed the rugs in the bathroom. Glued wine corks to the cork board. Fed the ducks and geese. Put a new mattress pad on a bed. Finished a Dot to Dot picture. Pulled a few weeds. Gone through the basket of papers on the desk.

You know. Stuff. Little stuff. This and That. 

Which also provides fodder for this post as it is a little of this and that. RE the Double Dog Dare that ended on April 1. 



You might recall my post in January regarding all the baskets, shelves, and stacks of books on my To Be Read shelf. That I'd taken on the dare to only read from those piles for three months. 

I succeeded.  As of April 1 I've read 15 books from those stacks. I have my To Be Read books down to one shelf and one basket. Okay, so that shelf still has 28 books on it and the basket is how big? But, hey, 15 less than before. 

I even made it to March 25 before I bought any new books except for the two I needed for Book Club.  Broke down late one Saturday night while perusing online. I know, shouldn't buy online, but midnight, husband asleep and too late to plow. Might as well buy a few books. 

Which brings us to the next topic, The March Scavenger Hunt. 

A post consisting of your interpretation of a given list whereby you take photos and then link to  the Scavenger Hunt's inventor, Made with Love. 

The March List   - Circle, Card, Window, Art, Skyline, a favorite word, Movement, Bathroom, Car, Plate, Something you made, whatever you want. 

Here is my take.

 Circle

 Card

 Window

 Art 

Dirt road leading to Lake Michigan

Skyline

A Favorite Word

 Take me to the water, always.

Movement

 Bathroom

Waited 16 years in this house for a bath tub. Finally -- last year. I live there now.

Car

My 2003 VW. Thirteen years old. 110,000 miles. Put that top down and it becomes a truck. (My husband will cringe when he sees this. "Couldn't you have washed it first?" Wash it?  Do they last longer if you do that?)

Plate

Something I Made 

A mess

Okay, I needlepointed the seat for this old rocker of my grandmothers. But I did it a hundred years ago.

Whatever I Want

Still Life

No, I'm not the one who picked those bluebonnets. I just helped save them from drying up.

Hope you enjoyed this This and That post. Hope you have many a This and That days coming to you.

Happy Easter

Scavenger Hunt - February

I met a lot of people in Europe.  I even encountered myself.  

James Baldwin

One of the items on my Things to Do Each Day list is to read a short story or essay. On my To Be Read bookshelves  and chair side tables I have way too many unread collections of short stories and essays - Best of series, food and travel essays, OHenry and Pushcart volumes.  When attempting to read them in one setting as I do a novel or non-fiction book, they overwhelm me. They also never get my full attention when only picked up here and there. Nor can I remember which parts I've already read.

Focusing on one book at a time and one piece of writing from it each day has rendered a most satisfying experience. At present I'm reading the Best American Travel Writing 2014, edited by Paul Theroux. I've vicariously been held prisoner in Somalia, fly fished for dorado in Brazil, and  ridden a Greyhound bus across the US. I've reread a lovely essay by David Sedaris about a family gathering on the North Carolina coast and hung out in New York City, Bombay, Paris, Sarajevo and a host of other locations.

Today I enjoyed a piece by Thomas Swick entitled A Moving Experience. It talks about his perspective as a travel writer. Much to ponder in this essay, but one observation he discusses is how lonely the travel writer can be. Yet in the solitude, he becomes more aware.

Apropos as my real-life travel today involves a solitary walk, a list in hand. A couple weeks back I ran across a blog entitled Made With Love. The Sydney based writer, Greenthumb, posts a monthly-themed Scavenger Hunt for photos. The hunt sounded like fun and today was my day to attempt it.

Having just read Swick's essay, certain lines remained in my mind. "... freedom from distraction; when you're by yourself, you're more attuned to your surroundings. Less discussed, but just as important, is the fact that, alone, you're also more sensitive. You not only notice your surroundings more clearly; you respond to them more deeply."

Perhaps that is why I often find perspective when I walk or go someplace alone. Or find myself in tears with my thoughts. Or discover marvels while sauntering that I never would have noticed if I only looked down the road and concentrated on sweat. (Could also be why my Active Minutes on my Fitbit rarely goes seven minutes before a stop.)

At the end of his essay, Swick stated "It was in Lisbon that I discovered the secret of travel writing, which is also the secret of memorable travel: you approximate, as best you can, in the short time allotted you, the life of a local."

Join me. Today, you get to be a local on Impala Isle. I hereby present my February Scavenger Hunt. Twelve photos: Flowers, Love, Number, Something Beautiful, Your Favorite Color, Bird, On the Road, Tap, Price, Heart, A Corner of Your Home, and Whatever You Want

Found while alone. Shared with sensitivity and deep joy.

Flowers

From my sweetie. (And not much other than store-bought available in terms of color in February.)

Love

Took three walk bys to get this photo of mama and baby. Baby kept sliding into the lake.

Number

Wanna play?

Something Beautiful

Indeed

My Favorite Color

Any shade of blue. Aqua, too.

Bird

Neighborhood Regular

On the Road

Fun find.

Tap

Gonna figure out something to do with these one of these days.

Price

Tree for sale

Heart

Nothing to say about that.

A Corner of Your House

Gotta spy on the world from somewhere.

Whatever You Want

Day's End.

Anyone else up for a Scavenger Hunt? Click on that Scavenger Hunt camera in the righthand column to find Made with Love. Most fun.

Dot to Dot

Arriving at one goal is the starting point to another. 

John Dewey

A few weekends ago I spent my time with a pen, a Dot to Dot book, and two pairs of reading glasses so I could see the dots.

You may recall these books from your childhood. Dot to Dot provided a good way to learn our numbers. A good way to stay focused and find a means to an end, to follow the progression and discover in its completion a recognizable picture.

A colossal waste of time for an adult, some might think. Especially since in order to complete this venture, 1000 dots need connection.

But since I quit substitute teaching last October, I've spent my time slowly deciding how to spend my time. Even though I didn't work everyday, it was enough to discombobulate life. Not knowing exactly which days I might work didn't allow me to create any patterns. To develop a rhythm.

Instead I hoped for Mondays off as that day often proved my most productive. One where laundry, grocery shopping, something else on my list and some form of writing (often only a half page in a journal) came together. Often some form of exercise. The promise of a new week, perhaps. Hopeful for maintaining that level of energy throughout the week.

That never worked. By Tuesday, I was either ruing my decision to accept a job and forcing myself into bed at a decent hour so I could fight the alarm clock in the morning or preparing for that in the next two days and angry that my lists would just grow. Always uncertain how to spend my time that was so short. Mad that when I came home from school, I had no desire to tackle anything. My energy exhausted. My nights spent sitting in my chair. No desire to pursue my lists or anything else.

Where before my purpose for working out of the home had been to contribute to my children's education,  I only went now for the very few bucks it added to our coffers and out of dedication to those devoted teachers I met along the route. Dedication to the middle school PE classes (which meant I didn't have to feel guilty not going to the Y after six periods of Kickball.) Dedication to the special education students who knew me. That when I came there wasn't a disruption in their days as I was someone they didn't have to mess with or fear.

But I found no joy in Substitute Teacherland.

It was past time for that decision and I didn't regret it for a moment. With the holidays before me, it was easy to manage my days. To clean my house. To prepare for family meals and events. To arise in the morning when my body said it was time. To do exactly what I wanted, along with what had to be done, on my own schedule.

I wanted to attain a point where I had no commitments (other than to my husband) so I could determine how I wanted to commit myself. I hoped I might begin to get a picture in my mind of what was important to me. How I wanted to spend my time in the next few years. My goals.

Yes, it was all about me. Finally.

After putting myself through college, my husband through college, moving around the country for my husband and our family's livelihood and beginning a new career each time, raising three kids, volunteering thousands of hours, and then returning to the workforce by scoring essays and then substitute teaching, it was finally all about me.

I liked it.

With that freedom in hand, I was inspired by my weekend of completing Dot to Dots. I decided to take a dot to dot approach as to what came next as I'm easily overwhelmed. Like by that UNFINISHED NOVEL that has followed me for years. Or the two-tiered filing cabinet of FINISHED/UNFINISHED essays in need of a good culling.

Or all the scrapbooks and photo albums I want to construct. The cupboards and drawers in need of decluttering. The compost bins I want to refresh from 16 years of stagnation. The garden that needs more than a "That Will Have to Do" effort.

My Dot-to-Dot weekend didn't only proffer a few completions.

Twisted Alfred Hitchcock

Bob Marley - His music makes me happy

Would be difficult to figure out Salvador Dali's work via dot to dot.

It also tendered a plan for my goals. As each personality became distinct on the page, I understood only by connecting the dots did I get to that recognizable stage. That for my life, I required the same connection.

I began.

Dot 1.  In the pages of my journal. A commitment to three pages every day. Something that I did for years, but fell by the wayside either because life was going too well or not going very well at all. After I check the New York Times on my phone to make certain the world still exists, I pick up my pen and spew three pages of my thoughts. I also paste cool pictures and articles I've come across or quotations I've jotted down on slips of paper and left around the house.

Dot 2.  I write a one page story or essay in a notebook. Sort of like a timed writing, but I limit it to one page, unless the story runs over.

Dot 3.  I read a short story or essay.

Dot 4. Some form of exercise. Either a walk, a visit to the Y,  or a series of lunges, squats, weight lifts, crunches, etc.

With those four dots embedded in each and every day, I progressed to Dots 5, 6, 7 and 8.  I went to a matinee. I bought tickets to Stevie Wonder - on the floor! I sent off the first few pages of my novel to a contest I coordinated long ago--just to make certain I still knew how to present a manuscript. I planted some peas, radishes and spinach. Just a few rows of planting as I'm not in any hurry to inundate myself with those tasks. Just enough to get some dirt under my fingernails.

That is as far as my Dot to Dot life has expanded and so far I return to those basic four each day before I find my place and go from there. I long ago learned that if you do something for 21 days in a row, it will become habit. I strive for that habitat.

What dot comes next I'm not quite certain, although committing to two worthwhile blog posts a month is definitely a possibility. But I've been around long enough to know that sometimes you lose your way and connect the wrong dot. That life can change in a moment's notice and we have to backtrack. That's just life.

In the meantime, I'm having no trouble entertaining myself.

Dot to Dot.

To Be Read - The Double Dog Dare

I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by. 

Douglas Adams

When the beautiful disorder of Christmas retreats into boxes tucked in the closet, I view my home with new eyes. Floors are swept and vacuumed, the mantle and tables dusted and free of the past year's collected clutter.  I relish the minimalism. The possibility for something new to fill the empty spaces.

Empty spaces which upon further perusal reveal an inordinate amount of books -- all over the space.

I ponder my piles.

This basket.

This stack.

That shelf.

Plus the ones behind the above.

Crap, I forgot the ones on my Kindle.

The ones I'm currently reading.

On the end table, a book of Mary Oliver poems, a Dorothy Parker reader and my Book Club book due this Thursday (forgot about that deadline.) Also to add to the stacks, an upcoming book from a bad bet I made on the Cowboy/Lions game. (You had two and a half minutes at the end of the game to score, Lions. Just saying.)

Blogger James Reads Books  offers up a yearly challenge/dare in regard to unread books. He calls it the TBR Double Dog Dare. For the first three months of the new year, only books on your To Be Read shelf can land in your hands.

I'm in. Thinking I'm a good candidate. Double Dog Dare be damned.

I will avoid all trips to the library, favorite bookstores and late night perusals of what's up at Goodreads and Amazon. No distractions.

Torture.

And I'm never distracted.

What's on your reading shelf?

Dear Mom

To send a letter is a good way to go somewhere without moving anything but your heart.  

Phyllis Theroux

November 20, 2014
Austin, TX

Dear Mom,

I know it's been a long time since I've written to you. No particular reason other than I couldn't. But today, while walking, I thought of some things I needed to tell you. So here you go.

Four days ago on the 16th, it was your birthday. You turned 89. Funny, but in my mind you don't look a day over 85.

Been working on getting my body back in some kind of shape. I started this week. Four for four so far. The YMCA on Monday and Wednesday. Long walks on Tuesday and Thursday. Three miles each day. I'm slow, but I get there.

My knee, that stupid knee isn't so good. Last year at this time, I couldn't walk to the end of the driveway. Not that I walked all that well three years ago either, but back then it was my foot and, now, with the exercises I do, both knee and foot are operating at a much better capacity without too much pain. How I wish I'd inherited your feet rather than Dad's. And, oh, how I wish I hadn't let that horse wipe my knee off on that gate so many, many years ago. Meniscus be damned.

So, I'm more physically fit since last you saw me, yet haven't really dropped any weight. I'm certain you would remind me of that if you were here.

"I just can't get used to seeing you fat."

Hmm, thanks Mom.

"Don't wear that dress ever again. It makes you look like a sausage."

Got it, Mom.

Making a concerted effort in that vein, Mom. Have the food part down, most of the time. Just need to keep up with the exercise and give up a lot of that wine I love so much. Wine, that's my downfall.

"You're turning into a wino."

Yes, Mom. It's those girlfriends of mine. They make me do it.

Vices. Weekend wine and staying up late. I thank you for that one. I do enjoy the quiet of the night. 

All is well with the kids. Everyone out on their own and financially independent. All happy at the present time. Can't ask for more than that.

Bob considering retirement in a couple years. May the gods be with me on that one.

Planning a trip. Contemplating how many years left for adventure travel as opposed to meandering around the country in the car, with a tent. (And a very nice air mattress.)

Quit substitute teaching (my heart just wasn't in it anymore and the pay was so good, you know. No Substitute Teacher Union in Texas!)

Trying to get my house and writing space in order.  Organizing my writing files to figure out where the hell I am in that venture. Lessening the stack in my To Be Read pile. Oh, the books we could discuss! And, Outlander. Outlander is on TV and they cast it so well and ...

yeah.


Every so often I allow myself time to consider what I miss most about not having you here, but that moment pretty much stops right away. I still can't do that for I feel you are with me. Beside me.

AND!!! I hear you in my head, all the time.

When I'm cooking. "Put some salt in it, for God's sake."

When I'm working in the garden and chopping the tough Texas soil with my trowel, I recall the first garden space you gave me for my very own. (Rich, black Minnesota soil that I now have to pay out the ass for in Texas, in a plastic bag.) "Gently spread the roots of each plant before planting."  I recall my planting of verbena, snapdragons and pansies. So plentiful I cut them everyday to bring to our neighbors.

When I'm sitting on the end of the dock, watching the water. Contemplating. Quiet. Remembering grace.

When I'm rowing at the YMCA. The rowing machine is very easy for me and I'm reminded how you could row a boat for hours. Hours I sometimes wanted to be somewhere else as you continued down the lake rather than back where we started. Even into your 80's you could row.

Not as much fun to sit on a machine grasping the pulley and going nowhere with a view of the wall in front of me, but I think of you.

Must be some kind of muscles in our arms intrinsic to Eklund women. Your mother who rowed out to fish. "Poor little fishies," as she ripped the hook out of their mouths, her fishing string ready for the next baiting and toss off the rowboat.

You, rowing for hours.

Me, thinking it is too easy for me, that I need to move onto the spin bike.  But I like the ease of the motion, recalling the oars gracefully entering the water. Pulling the surface water away, gently or vigorously depending on the waves.  Back turned to the bow, not certain of the destination, but going slow enough that the course was easily altered. The peace restored by the simple motion of using one oar to regain the proper course.

Today, while walking, my IPhone played a rather eclectic mix. I either swayed down the road to In The Mood or laughed through The Book Of Mormon soundtrack or strutted to Stevie Wonder or sang along with Robert Earl Keen.

Then Bring Him Home from the Les Miserables soundtrack played and tears ran down my face as the houses I passed blurred in my vision. Tremendous regret came over me for not having watched Les Miserables with you the last time you were here. You brought the DVD to the lake and with all the goings on out there -- the people coming and going -- we never got to it. I saw it on PBS a few months after you died. I cried when I listened to the beautiful music. How could I not have seen it before? How I would have loved crying with you while watching it.

Instead, I wept with  myself while I twisted my way through the neighborhood. Saddened that you won't ever know that I now love it as you did.

I don't want to think of what I might also regret. I'm too thankful for having had you.

I'm off to buy a pair of boots. My favorite thing as you know, shopping. How I wish I could just order a pair online while sitting on my bed. We're headed to NYC to see your youngest grandson on Christmas Day. Need something warm for my feet and I'm thinking my hiking boots won't suffice at Ian's fancy restaurant. Haven't bought a pair of dress boots in a hundred years. Don't know if I ever have. Frye boots when I was in college. Remember those? All the rage back then.

Not in style boots this time.  Oh, to not have Dad's bad feet.

All for now. Will write again soon. If I can.

Love,
Julie