Acid Flashback Flashforward

The final day of February! My abbreviated birthday month. Valentines and cupids begone. Days closer to chartreuse feathers of new leaves budding fancifully on now bare branches. Bring it on! Snow melt and longer days. The annual verdant transition between winter's harsh bleakness and the lemony brilliance of summer. Solitude giving forth to merrymaking. Grey to kaleidoscope vibrancy. Insects awaken from wintersleep. March begins anew tomorrow. Time to get my ass back into gear as April edges into view. Make plans. Real ones. Forge ahead. A promise to me. Not be broken.

Wishful thinking spawns dewy-edged memories alive with promise. Hmmm. Cannot shake the images. All day. While walking through the village on this still cold, but sun-filled afternoon skirting snow drifts dotting the stick-strewn sidewalk, my underactive Sunday-relaxed mind whirs backward. Whoosh. In a snap I am back to the cusp. My cusp. The singular moment on the curve of my arc pushes headstrong through the cobwebs, emerging unscathed. Those heady days in the spring of my life rich in meaning, pregnant with hope. Silky memories. My budding womanhood glides easily across the decades.

Freshman spring. A pastel day. Reclining on newly mowed lawn in the courtyard outside Dow Hall, crossed arms support my head, chestnut hair fanned like a mantilla. Eyes closed. Frye boot, 501 fly-buttoned jean clad sweet baby James inches away. Strains from his acoustic guitar float through the warm air with ten miles behind him and ten thousand more to go. A song that he sings when he takes to the highway. A song that he sings when he takes to the sea. A song that is sung as pastures change with the seasons. Deep greens and blues. Wanderlust defined. Well for me anyway.

In that serene afternoon across the years amid budding tulips, zaps of high intensity colors silhouette my hands gracefully appearing larger than life. Twining delicate like a gorilla ballerina. I bottled that moment. Cucumber fingers, too. Delicious moments I visit often carrying me back to my innocence, my virginity and my life unfolding. The essence of spring. My spring. Magical. Anything possible. Everything possible. Tornadoes and demons off stage in the nonthreatening distant horizon. Not yet looming. James Taylor does that to me. Transports me effortlessly back to that day ... and forward to my travels yet to be. Hopeful. Unencumbered.

1970. Vietnam ripping our country apart. Polarization. Hard hats clubbing hippies at the ground zero construction site of the rising World Trade Towers. Foreboding. Those frenetic days following the harrowing events at Kent State. Red and Blue states start your engines. Jockey for position. Moms and Dads confused. Effete intellectual snobs we college students. Thank you, Mr. Veep for triggering the dumbing of America. Our schizoid Prez drips perspiration paranoid and corrupt. Bridge over Trouble Waters the Grammy song of the year. Kids gone wild? The taste of electric kool-aid dripping down our chins. Hardly. Flag-draped coffins. Our nascent Woodstock Nation devolving with the death of our innocence. Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin. Jim Morrison. Violent storms ripped at the seams of our naiveté.

What the hell happened? We floated into the new decade long hair flowing in the breeze. Sixties flowers powering our ascent to quasi-adult beings. Peace symbols and flashes of fingers in Vs. Op art. Pop art. Soup cans larger than life. Effervescent. Restraints tossed casually into the air. Blowin' in the wind at our backs. Propelling us into lives filled with promise, intellect and most of all ... compassion.

It is still before me. On my radar screen. The dreams. My dreams. The roll-up-my-shirtsleeves, get-the-dirt-under-my-fingernails desire to offer my skills honed over a lifetime of privilege to an emerging economy.

Tomorrow. Monday. I continue my plan. Stay the course. Breakout the books. Prepare my CELTA application. Certificate in English Language Training for Adults. Vietnam. Hanoi. Near Diem Bien Phu. Contribute meaningfully. Teach English. Familiarize myself with this gentle culture, its ancient customs. Migrate into the business landscape. Microfinance. Reclaim from the once again leafy jungles those days of innocence where anything is possible ... and there is much to discover. To explore.

Cheers ... to renewed dreams and fearlessly imagining the possibilities!

B and J: Textured

I don't even want to go there. A crone? Bah humbug. Marginalized. Cast to the side. Barren, unfruitful, disagreeable. A hag, no less. Well! I know better than most. That my mothering days are drawing to their rightful conclusion. A mama, yes. Just not needing to fuss. To nurture. Not nature. To love unconditionally as I puff his wings and give them loft.

But a dried up ol' prune? I am indignant. What happened to 'the new 40s'? That I was getting into. Really looking forward to ... reliving my forties with wisdom and a sense of adventure. Maybe that's it. The wisdom part. Not the disgruntled, wizened part. That's what I will glom onto. To raise my glass in good cheer ... a protective figure advising the young travelers of what lies ahead. A woman of the mist. Leading the way to good fortune. Wisdom. Yes! I'll buy that.

Even Tarot concurs. The High Priestess. My reading this morning.

[I know. I know. Throw the mystical deck far, far away! Seize the moment. Not the card. But somehow I cannot. I love the intrigue. Fitting the interpretation into this journey. Day by day. So shoot me. Or ignore me. Just know that I am gonna keep up with the occult. You just never know! And today's? Well it is a dead-balls accurate assessment of moi. And these, after all, are my musings.]

Anyhoo, it goes something like this: Feminine wisdom encompassing three stages of the life cycle - Maiden, Mother, Crone. Wisdom that considers all things, all religions, all viewpoints. Openness to the world view without judgment. Divine truth. The letters B and J represent two columns, one black (Boaz), one white (Jachin), in the Temple of Solomon, the wisest man of his time. Nothing is completely black or white. All things must be considered equally. A strong and wise female presence. Trust in intuition or gut feelings.

And ... I am not only trusting of my gut, my innermost analysis, but am a study in contrasts. A walking paradox. An oxymoron. Yin and yang. You know that about me. No need to elaborate. Been set forth multiple times since this wild ride began with the new year.

The I-Ching. Yin-yang. Composed of two Chinese characters. The second character means a book, a profound book. The first character means ease or change. "The Book of Ease" or "The Book of Changes". Nothing is easy for me except change. I relish it. Seek it out. Celebrate it. Life in chapters encompassing both sides of the coin at different times. Navigating the peaks and valleys with relative facility. I am happiest and most at peace in flux.

Rich coffers. Empty wallet. Highest honors. Underemployment. Masculine. Feminine. Unchanging rules within the cycles of the sun, the seasons. One cannot live without the other. One cannot experience the joys of life without knowing the depths of misery. Hand in glove. Seamless understanding. Shades of grey. Black as night. White as the brilliant stars shining.

Cheers ... to the dichotomies within each of us!

Bailey, I Have a Feeling We're Not in Maine Anymore

Wow. The winds shook my antique home in the village last night and it was scary. Very. Not since I moved back east from the edge of the prairie where tornadoes dropped out of the sky routinely have I been as frightened. Winds whipped through the aging walnut, pine and spruce trees planted precariously close to the house over a century ago. Branches and limbs groaned from the weight of the wind tearing at its joints. Cracking. Splintering. My heart beating as loud inside my head. Noisy.

A power surge popped through my television just as Kim Yu-Na from South Korea in her own power struggle with the favored skater from arch-rival Japan landed her triple lutz combo perfectly, eerily dimming the nightlight in the hall bathroom. Then *poof* ... a flash more brilliant than its four watts. Fade to black. Utter darkness. The only sound, a buzz from the streetlights outside zapped black.

A nano-instant later a circular rainbow magically appeared dead center in the fifteen inch screen of my analog TV. Crackle crackle. Not dead after all. No brand new ultra modern flat screen courtesy of Allstate in my future. Damn. And voilà. There she was floating gracefully across the white ice toward the kiss-and-cry area for her scores. The lovely soon-to-be Olympic gold medalist in blue satin and silvery sparkles smiling humbly and waving as the crowd cheered on their feet and petals dropped from the stands like the pine boughs now littering my backyard.

Sirens blared. Too close for comfort. My heart pounded. Memories of swirling black funnel clouds ripping utility wires and cutting a several mile path of destruction. 200 year old trees in Cherokee Park torn from their roots like a razor blade shaving a beard. Cars and houses tossed like beanbags into the bruised sky. Louisville April 3, 1974. Mom and Jason (of the golden fleece ... yet another Labrador Retriever in a long line of adored family pets) hunched in the front seat of the Gran Torino parked hastily under the portico of the fancy, new Glenview East as far under the dashboard as humanly (and canine-ly) possible. Mimi still eating fried chicken from the Colonel in her coat closet on the 12th floor. Me squeezed tightly between maids who had poured out of condos for the bus back to the West End belting out a rousing rendition of 'Sweet Low, Sweet Chariot' as we crouched by the elevators and the freight train whirled overhead. Awaiting their maker. Maker's Mark on the rocks for me.

Segué to flashes of countless violent twister-producing storms two decades later randomly taunting our Oklahoma days. Springs spewing purple-black funnel clouds across the treeless horizon, anvil-shaped with swirling tails dropping to the barren earth from February through summer. Humid heat from the Gulf of Mexico colliding dangerously with frigid arctic air masses sweeping down from Canada. Right over our heads. Tornado alley. Tornado Allie, I met my demons head on. Mother Nature's menacing rage forcing Charlie and me to tuck clumsily into the laundry room of a cellar-less house on the plains. Auntie Em screeching to get inside. The Dorothy in me racing against time to make it to safety. Cocooned in Charlie's bike helmet and my down ski parka, he in his football gear wrapped in the white duvet from my bed we hovered in the teensy space next to the garage too many times. Toby (that's short for Toblerone my favorite candy bar) our alpha-male chocolate Lab shaking like a sissy underfoot. Where's the fraidy hole when you need it? Good god.

With whistling dervishes and dust devils spinning my thumping heart into a frenzy last night, I ran barefoot down my winding staircase crafted lovingly by out of work ship carpenters in the mid-1800s when tall ships sprang up like mushrooms along the Kennebunk River winding to the sea just west of the village. Grabbed my car keys on the sea glass and beads fringe, my shiny yellow slicker from millions of years ago, one of those flashlights that use one gigantic battery and my LV purse and placed them on the floor by the front door ... just in case.

Quickly checked the two sump pumps working overtime in my very damp basement as rivulets bubbled up from cracks in the granite foundation and cement floor. Definitely rivaling the white water scene in River Runs Through It as waters from the Mousam River a block away overflowed their banks and seeped through the neighborhood creating a pond behind my house.

What a mess. Me robeless in my long white nightgown hiked up to my knees, knotted at the waist, my LL Bean rubber duck shoes squishing noisily, my hair in a scrunchy, my flashlight at the ready. And Bailey was loving it. Racing around the backyard as February lightening flashed and boughs of pine fell into the pooling water. Barking at the Mallard family making themselves at home. She was in heaven. Wouldn't come in. My timid rescue dog bedazzled by the thrill. Yelling at the top of my voice above the din scaring myself but not her. Slicker be damned (it was in the front foyer) I raced down the back steps, grabbed her collar and yanked her up the porch steps into the house dripping wet. Both of us. Of course she wanted a treat. She got none.

Upstairs my century old windows rattled in their crumbling casements. The walls shook for hours. My bed, too. Oz at my door. 60 MPH gusts pounding us from the ocean currents five miles away. Petrified I popped two Tylenol PMs then another for good measure and pulled the covers over my head. I would either get smacked in the head by a falling walnut tree crashing through the roof and awaken in The Emerald City. Or not. Butterflies churned in my tummy next to a pit the size of Kansas born from unsettled plans and dwindling coffers. Where are those poppies anyway?

I awoke to a gorgeous almost-spring morning awash in sunlight. Mother Nature's fury dissolved. My muscles relaxed. Only a few fallen branches, a receding waterline in my back yard still boasting ducks swimming and splashing ... and a sopping wet basement. Not too bad. No vortex sucked the life out of me while I slumbered fitfully. My demons at bay. Safe. For now.

Cheers to those of you still with me. Or, tomorrow for those still without electricity. M&Ms all around!

Miss Bailey: Needles, Schmeedles ... Just give me a treat!

I am so excited this morning. First Momma added this nummy gooey egg to my BREAKFAST then tossed one of the big red beef bones for my dessert. What is going on? This is the bestest start to a wet wet wet drippy day. Extra taste treats in my shiny dish. Mmmmm. Nums. What could be better?

Yep. It is nasty outside. But I love it. More things to sniff while I tink. But so oh so much harder to do my morning toilette on the cold white snow. The biggest heaps in the yard are almost gone. No place to get a grip with my too long nails. Momma? We got to cut them down so I don't slide. Please! But hey, I love it. Absolutely love it when I come back INSIDE and you rub me all over with the fluffy towel so I don't puddle the slippery floor. You are such a wonderful Momma. I just cannot stop loving you and getting as close as possible. Please don't be mad if I bump into you. Can't you tell? I am smiling my most beautiful smile. My tail is wagging hard.

Now a RIDE? Whimpering with joy and running in circles. I cannot help myself. I am a dancing fool. Momma, do you really mean it? I am such a lucky girl. Yes! Oh goody. You are pulling the black braided leash off the bamboo umbrella rack. You mean it! My tail wags my entire body. Hurry Momma. Grab your keys so we can go before you change your mind. Oh wow. You just took off my hot pink buzz collar. You mean business. I am so excited. You are the best Momma ever. C'mon hurry. I can't get down the back steps fast enough. Sorry, Momma. Didn't mean to knock into you. But I am so excited. Oh there goes the garage door. Up up to the top. I see the silver car. We are going for a RIDE!

She stopped and is getting ready to get out. The sweet scents of other dogs mix into the air. I am going to push over to the door and just know she will take me, too. I know this place. My wagging tail makes me look like a fool. I am ecstatic and am going in circles in the pouring rain. My black braided leash tethering me to Momma. Her balance is off. I am tripping her. She wants me to tink. But I am too damned excited. That can wait. Yippee. We are going INSIDE.

I know this place. I love this place. Did I say I LOVE IT HERE? I do. There are three other pretty black Lab girls just like me. One even has a white beard so she must be related. Over there is a teeny baby golden fluff ball. One very silly looking dog wearing the funniest white hat around his head is coming over to sniff. I wag my entire butt. Momma is begging me to SIT. She has the strongest hold on my collar. I just can't help myself. I have to smell that bad boy's bottom. Oh they are calling my name: "Bailey, please bring your Momma." I don't want to leave. Not yet. I am whimpering and squealing under my breath. This is way too much fun for lonely me. Momma pulls me into the next room to SIT on the black pad.

Whew! I have kept my girlish figure. Even with all the TREATS I beg for. It is so worth it. Sixty-five pounds. Momma hands me another cookie. I am one lucky girl! Oh here is that nice man who kisses me on the head and rubs my belly. Whoa, Nellie. He is sticking that into my leg? I am bleeding. I want to faint. But he has a TREAT in his hand so I will be a good girl. I want that TREAT. Darn. Now he is squeezing my hips and reaching under for a grab. Hey, not there unless you are Shadow. Another stick between my shoulder blades. What the hell is going on? Oh nevermind. Another TREAT. Phew. He stands up. Rubs my head. Yay! A bone-shaped cracker from the drawer.

Now I want to get out of here ... fast. Really have to make that tink. Ooops. Can't help myself. The smells on the mat by the door are just too good to be true. And Momma is taking so long with the ladies and her purse. I squat low so they don't notice. But they do. Oh well. I feel so much better. Whew. Momma is not pleased. Not one bit. She tightens her grip. I never do that on the floor. Never. But, hey, what's a girl to do?

Cheers ... and an extra TREAT for my buddies still in the waiting room at the vet. I am one lucky girl.

Recipe for a Steel Magnolia

Prep Time: 59 years
Serves: Graciously

• In a cast-iron cauldron stir some spicy confidence mixed with a touch of southern grace.
• Blend in a schtick of northeastern sophistication and a pinch of sass.
• Add a soupçon of irreverence, a splash of wit and sprinkle generously with a sense of self.
• Gently fold in a mixture of humility and compassion letting the mixture soften.
• Place in a temperate oven overnight to infuse the nuanced flavors.
• Serve this warm dish with a splash of soul and a dollop of sweet confections.

A delicious accompaniment for friendly buffets, dinner parties extraordinaire or a casual, intimate affair. Also stands well on its own.

Cheers to an old favorite tried and true. Bon appétit!