At our pancake supper tonight, Mom and I regaled Greg with stories of my school days (8 schools in 12 years, and without moving house!), and the conversation raised so many issues Mom dealt with that I hadn’t considered, heretofore. So the question is: why don’t we listen more attentively? Hearing about other people’s experiences is so much more interesting, really, than yammering about our own (through which we’ve already lived), but I suppose the ego motorizes the tongue.

Mine worked overtime at lunch, with Jeff and Missy. Good seeing you guys again! Last time (besides wedding reception) was July 1, so does this mean we’re on a semi-annual basis? Maybe things will slow down this year.

Not.

Only the second day of the year, and I’m going to the doc. Same ole, same ole, but they want to ’see’ me before prescribing the same ole, same ole. Looks like the flu shot I got was not for the kind of flu I got.

On the up side: Mom actually prepared a cup of tea for me yesterday. I’ve been her dogsbody for nearly 2 years so it was a nice role switch. She came into the kitchen later after smelling the garlic I was saute-ing, and went on her long rant about how she can’t cook a meal anymore, so when she took a breath I had her set the table. Lucky me, I got nearly the entire bowl of fresh spinach and garlic with a dash of white wine. I live with ham-swilling heathens.

I started three paintings yesterday with acrylic under-painting. Quite psychedelic. Stacked cows, a rooster, and a tea set too twee to be. Maybe I’ll put Mocha in it, coughing up a hair ball. I should paint while ill more often. Here’s a brown ground daisy from last summer. Cheers.

A crone named Eve lived next door to us in Wales. Her many-hundreds year old bungalow seemed deserted by day, but a light would come on in the evening and then we’d hear her rattle-trap car wheeze, and off she’d roll to the pub in the next village. We’d wake up briefly as she returned, since the head of our bed was separated by a contemporary (read: thin) wall from the sty where she parked. When asked by Jill, our lovely across-the-road neighbor, if she’d like to meet us, Eve said, “No. I am old and I don’t have time to start new friendships. Besides, they’re American, aren’t they?”

Jill told me of a New Year’s Day when all power was defeated by an ice storm. Everyone brought their Sunday roast to Eve’s, possessor of an ancient stove. Wood powered? Manure? Don’t know, but Jill said it was one of the nicest days in the village. Sorry I missed knowing the old broad. Her late husband lectured at Oxford, and Eve typed up everyone’s manuscripts. With my imagination, you know I’ve thought: Tolkien? Lewis?

Eve has passed. Long live the crone.

Painted yesterday, and relearned the lesson that goes with each painting day: I like the quick results better than the painstaking long view. There’s a reason for that descriptive word. See results on this post. Can you tell which is which? Hint: when I look at the big sheep head, my right shoulder clinches up. Greg thinks it’s my backless painting chair. I think it’s stress.

I am sad to learn that one of my favorite young couples (I won’t say who, so don’t ask) is experiencing difficulties. They wonder how we’ve managed 37+ years. So, listen up, I’m only going to say this once (like that’s even a remote possibility). Your mate comes first, especially before your own stubborn prideful self. And when tough times come, remember that they also go. Just hang on. The best is yet to come. No, really. It’s very comforting showing Greg something on my person and saying, “Does that look malignant?” Who else in the world can you ask that, without a co-pay?

Several pots of coffee this morning, and more laughing conversation. Then, they went shopping. Greg and I didn’t. It’s been a peaceful and quiet day capped by dining on leftovers. “Cook once, eat twice” is my new mantra.

It took getting here to appreciate the paradox of age. Advanced age. Somewhat. I have several good role models ten, twenty and thirty years on, to whose good attitude I cling. BUT. I sometimes feel like I’m in one of those whirly money machines where you grab for bucks but the wind spins everything around and you end up grasping a handful of nothing.

Not that I lack. I have wonderful kids who become more fun each day (as I become less so to them, probably) and an amusing mate, and a lifetime of good memories. It’s just that now that I’m SO smart, and SO experienced, and SO wonderful (since we get ‘more-so’ with age!), I should be producing art by the truckload, books by the case, and needlework designs by the catalog.

Yet what I most want to do is slip into my soft pj’s, read a book someone else wrote, and drift away. Ah, there’s the rub: just when one figures out the nuances of the game, one lacks the energy to move. *YAWN*

I give today’s sunrise a perfect 10. God chose such a stunning palette. I love Bonnard, I love Degas, but today’s colors–apricot, thistle, and lightest cobalt–win hands down.

Greg is feeling well, finally, and it only took two weeks this time! Next and last chemo is a week from tomorrow. We’ll celebrate after Mom heads for California with Zach, mid-January.

Carey’s been here for a week, and seems to be doing good work for DecoArt. Back in Atlanta, Griffin is apartment hunting and living the bachelor life of standing in front of the refrigerator and staring for long periods, then emptying the three-cat litter.

My lovely daughter paid the most excellent compliment by finally reading the first chapter of my never-ending novel, and saying, “Mom, you are brilliant!” Well, sure, I know that, but it’s nice to have someone else think so.

We had a painting teacher at MSU who said each instructor should be armed, in order to shoot the student artist before he/she overworked a painting. That has stayed with me. Not the shooting part, but the subliminal message of ‘you’re never through. Keep working.’ Hey, the old guy did hit on me, so I was doing something right. Even though I was too naive to realize he was hitting on me.

I did the painting pictured mostly in a day, and Greg walked by and said, “Bang!” Click on it for full image

We have this marvelous warm gray light coming into the studio, so I shall go back to painting. The ‘ice storm’ mostly petered out, for which I am grateful. Snow: yes, please. Ice: forget it. Got startling e-mail images today from friend Donna Saiia in MA which reminded me of the horror we survived five (6?) years ago here in Lexington. The trees (lost 40% city-wide) are just coming back. Ha! Just realized that I think I still live in Lexington, but am actually in the flannel shirt capital of Jessamine County.

Have you ever vacationed alone? Last week was my third time, and let me tell you: it’s NICE. Spending nearly a week doing only what I wanted to do, and having the luxury of not speaking, was heaven. Those of you who know me well will find that last bit unbelievable, but I’d gotten tired of the sound of my own voice. I did manage a conversation when I ran into the Just Cross Stitch people in a Williamsburg tavern while having lunch. Finally met, in person, the editor who recently bought some of my needlework designs.

Colonial Williamsburg is familiar territory and this is one of the two best seasons to see it. I took lots of photos, many of which will (hopefully) be interpreted on canvas or linen, and I walked so much that upon returning to the hotel each evening, I collapsed. Of the 4 books I packed, I read 150 pages of only one!

The best night was the last. I toughened up and stayed out past dark to see the drum and fife corps led down the village center by 4 guys carrying huge torches on a crystal clear cold night. Quarter moon, twinkling stars, reminders of the trips we’d made to Virginia with the kids, but beyond that, it touched something that always exists in the heart of a former marching band member! I marched all the way with them.

The next morning, I picked Mom up from my brother’s house in VA, and we made it as far as Beckley, WV before the snow and ice drove us off the road and into a motel. Home on Sunday, happy to see Greg, and feeling human once more.

Aunt Sally was here for a visit last week(L, in 3-year old picture with Mom, R), and talked pretty harshly to her sister about getting out and exercising her new hip (after I told Sally that I’m just tired of arguing with Mom). She told her to get up and walk around the house each hour. Mom sits out on our back patio every sunny day, and I just saw a head bob across my studio wall of windows. Seems Mom thought Sally meant for her to walk around the house itself instead of around, inside, the house. Rough terrain for an 89-year old, but she made it unscathed.

I need to be a good daughter and take her out. She’s been cooped up for a couple of days. Tried to have her accompany me to church yesterday. The atrium is so sunny, and so full of people, that while I’m volunteering in the coffee shop, she could ‘people watch’. But, no deal. And the service was awesome! One of the last remaining survivors of Auswich, Ann Klein (88), spoke about her experiences.

She said she had no idea what was happening world wide, only in her little group inside the concentration camp. Stripped, humiliated, filthy, lice-infested, starved, frozen–she didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about what might be happening outside of her world. When she asked where the rest of her family was, and someone pointed to the smokestacks, she thought they were just being mean. Surely the smokestacks were for manufacturing something, not cremation!

Last week, I read a remark of a kid (of course) who said that if a certain candidate were elected president, he’s leaving the country. How nice for us all that he has that freedom.