Pictures at an Auction

More pictures from Grappa and Gramma's auction last week :


I remember my brother and I driving this little car around the barn floor when we were little. It ran by peddle power, but it was easier to operate it Flintstone-style with feet on the ground. I remember being sad and disappointed the day I grew too big to sit and drive in it. Seth--a year younger--could still get into it with ease then.

This little blue sportster was bought by someone who is going to clean it up. Look for it at the Iola car show in future ...


My brother wanted to buy this anvil, but it actually went for a pretty good price ... My Dad knew the story of how Grappa acquired it. He was somewhere hunting or fishing. Someone at the hunting grounds had this anvil in the back of their car (back in the days before 4-wheel drive) to improve traction on snowy roads. The guy told Eddie he didn't want this old anvil anymore, didn't need it. Did Grappa want it? Well, Grappa wasn't going to let something like that pass him by. He took it ...


These snow shoes were a regular fixture on the walls at Grappa's house. He must have used them at some point in his long life ... It always made me want to try snow-shoeing--but they had to be these kind of traditional rawhide snow shoes, not the sleek modern ones. I did get a different pair about 15 years ago. They hang on my wall at home now. We even had enough snow last winter to actually USE them!



Grappa also had some great old radios. I remember the one that sat next to his chair at the kitchen table--the kind with tubes that had to heat up before it would work. The kind that people gathered around in the old days ... I remember it being a huge thing like the floor model, but then I was a little kid then. It was probably the one above and to the left -- I remember that dial would light up, and Grappa would tune in the polka shows. Some of those old songs were still sung in Bohemian! And Gramma taught me how to polka dance in their tiny kitchen. She says she wants to start dancing again ... That would be a good thing!


Can you believe these Girlie Glasses went for nearly $100? Look for them on eBay ...

Family History - Smitmajers

This is a brick on the chimney in Gramma Pickles' kitchen. They would record events (like first snow, first frogs) there. This one says, "Eddie says no fishing next year "73" if the bus isn't finished. Don't forget it neither. By me," written by Gramma 35 years ago.

Here's the bus she/he was talking about :



For years, Grappa drove a school bus for a living. He even picked up me and my siblings for many years on his school bus route. Eventually, he acquired one of his own. Grappa always wanted to turn this school bus into a camper to take on fishing and hunting trips to Canada (or wherever). He was always collecting things for the camper-bus -- Tupperware, recipes, foam trays, matresses ... He was a great collector.

The bus was parked next to his machine shed. In about 1983, a tornado came through and moved the roof of the machine shed on top of the bus--and there it stayed. The roof finally fell in--you can't see it behind the bus anymore ...

To my knowledge, the bus never did make a camping trip (at least not yet). Someone actually bought it at the auction last Saturday. I wonder what they'll do with it?

A few more pictures :



Here's one of those old wringer washers :

Bush Night : Travels : Summer Program based in Ile-Ife, Nigeria to study Yoruba

The following is the entry from my travel diary about 15 years ago ... Enjoy!

8 August 93 – Bush Night

It's 8:00 in the morning and we're finally back home--or what we call home here--at the Seramo Guest House. I'm covered with the dirt of the road and of the forest; I'm starving and my hair smells like wood smoke and ashes but oh, what an adventure it's been!

It all began yesterday morning when Dr. Adediron and Agbo Folarin (artist) showed up with plans to take us on a field trip to a waterfall, some oba (king)'s palace and the Ogun festival somewhere else. It was to be quite a full day. I was not mentally prepared for such a full schedule because I remember being told that the trip was canceled because of the fuel shortage. But here they were--ready to go. Peter, our driver, had found fuel somewhere ...

We stopped to get some akara (fried bean cake) from a place on the way to the waterfall. This particular stand was famous far and wide for its recipe. It was good because they put in whole shrimps and onions and even some red pepper pieces chopped up that must have made the batter red/orange in tint rather than the more regular white. I think I could make them at home with green onions and the shrimps.

The waterfall was located in a small town known as Erin Oke (Elephant Mountain). We had to drive on a narrow dirt road to get near it. Then of course we had to walk up a path clearly prepared for tourists and well wishers. Everything was luscious and green. It was spectacular and lovely to see all that cascading water. The vegetation had gone wild in the mist. A guide took a few of us up to the end level. We climbed the rocks in our bare feet because it was too wet and slippery to risk wearing shoes. That 2nd level was incredible-- 1) because fewer people bothered to take this leg of the journey due in part to improper rock-climbing wear (Too bad! NOT!)--straight skirts that inhibited walking, much less climbing rocks.

The water falling into water was so powerful, it sent up a lot of mist and a good breeze. It was like taking a shower there. I stood with my feet in the water that was collecting and streaming down to the level part. I removed my glasses and closed my eyes, and held out my arms to soak in some of the essence of rejuvenation that lived in that place. There was a lot of energy there. I thought Yemoja (the River Goddess and Mother of Fishes) must have been present. I thanked her for making me feel so refreshed. That experience did much to lift my ailing spirits . . .

On the way back down to where Peter's van was parked were some picturesque views. I tried to capture some of them ...

We also bought same "walnuts" from a child who was hawking there. The shells were much softer than the walnuts we know of. We could crack these just by hitting them on a surface with nothing but our hand. They were "meaty" and a bit green tasting, but good just the same.

After that we went to Akure in Oyo State to visit the oba (King) there. Apparently he's got the nicest palace around. He was a short little guy on a high throne who received us and gave us pop and his calling card. His people were dressed in fine cloth, while Beggar's Row was just around the corner. He's in the process of building a new palace which will be quite impressive once it's finished. He also had a child at his knee who was perhaps 8 or 10 years old. The hair of 1/2 his head was clean-shaven, the mark of an ilari (king's messenger). They begin to teach kids their professions at a very young age, here, with the apprenticeship system. Maybe we could learn from that. Americans might be upset about self-determination and late-bloomer issues, though ...

After that, we went to eat at a restaurant that didn't t have enough food to feed all of us at once. All they had anyway was beef and chicken and pounded yam (which is too much like potatoes for my taste!) I got my food from a vendor at the door. It was something like a boiled egg wrapped in a puff-puff. It wasn't bad, but a little greasy. The yolk of the egg was white, not yellow like the eggs from home. That may have answered another question for me, because I've gotten fried eggs at the bukateria on campus and wondered where the yolk was--because it appeared to have none.

After that, we made our way to lre-Ekiti for the Ogun festival. The roads were narrow, paved but full of pot-holes. We had some minor trouble with the van along the way. We should have taken it as an omen that Ogun (god of iron, war and hunting) did not want us to attend ...

Our driver, Peter had stopped at an unusually short fuel station que that morning to get petrol. With the shortage, it's not uncommon for people to wait 4 hours for fuel and then pay inflated prices for a set ration. It's ridiculous when you think that Nigeria is an OPEC nation. Along with that, you've got people paying bribes to get more than their share and then people start hoarding the fuel so that only a few people have it all. Then you've also got some people taking advantage of the shortage situation who sell inferior and junk gas. Perhaps this station had a reputation for that, unbeknownst to our driver, and reason why the line was short. Apparently Peter had boughten some petrol that was full of dirt. The van protested only mildly on the way to the Ogun Festival Just the same, we should have listened.

When we arrived at the village, we were not exactly welcomed. During the Ogun Festival, it is not uncommon to see people cross-dressing if they want. And most people carry long switches, similar to the Egungun festival. However, it seemed to me that these people went at the whipping with much more vigor/anger. It's a cathartic celebration. People can vent their frustrations in this sort of culturally approved manner. By the time we arrived in the late afternoon, people were already very drunk on palm wine -which also served to alter perceptions and reactions. We even witnessed an all-out brawl in someone's yard. Their wrestling was getting ugly ... We went to the Chief's house. He was a cool dude, a professor of fine arts (pottery and ceramics) at lfe. He did welcome us and led us downtown on the main street (Oyinbos on parade) to the 2nd story of a house where we were supposed to be safe. The crowds have a tendency to surge with excitement and fear of being whipped at the approach of Ogun and his wife. It seemed to me that people on the ground looked up at us with disapproval. It was quite a traditional place, and maybe they felt we wanted to exploit them in some way.

Some people had blue paint on their faces; metal pans and other helmets fashioned of various soft and hard materials. Some girls had new palm fronds twisted into crowns for their heads. The story goes something like Ogun (when he was alive) came to town and he was thirsty, so he went all over looking and asking for his favorite drink: palm wine. But no one would give him any, so he got mad and started killing everyone. So the girls wear palm fronds--emblematic of Ogun's favorite beverage. So all these efforts are made to keep him appeased and happy. Every time a keg of palm wine is opened, a bit is poured on the ground for Ogun. When it is empty, it is turned on its side, so that Ogun knows it holds no wine. The festival is celebrated annually, for fear that Ogun will unleash his reign of terror once again if they neglect him. Ogun never forgets, and his anger is fierce ...

They have masqueraders, too. Ogun and his wife appeared above the heads of everyone else. We made a cultural blunder here, one of many that just wasn't explained to us until too late ... As the masquerader is passing by, people are supposed to show it respect by not looking at it. The Ogun couple even has a corps of whippers to shoo people away from them. They threw rocks and sand up at us, to get us away from the windows, to keep us from looking at the gods in our midst. But we just moved to the balcony then, and found a new visage. People were also mad about that, but we just didn't know ...

The point/impression remains that we had offended Ogun with that action. I sincerely believe that's the reason we had such automotive problems on the way home. Ogun is the God of Iron. He has reign over all things made of metal. That is significant since at about 7:45 that evening, on the way home, Peter's van stalled irrevocably. We tried everything to start it again: pushing it, cleaning the carburetor, cleaning the fuel lines ... We wound up pushing it for miles and waiting for hours while Peter and the Professors fiddled with it in the dark. Things were starting to look pretty bleak--of course I was miserable, a state much exacerbated by my lack of food and water. It still amazes me how freely some people take things--it's that over-developed sense of entitlement thing again. The take-take-take mentality was getting to me ...

At one point we were stranded out in the bush (Yorubaland is forest country), on the roadside next to a few empty market stands. I was miserable, but the stars were out in all their speckled beauty. Fireflies glowed in the air above our heads. These two complimentary points of light . . . Another moment to lift my spirits, but it couldn't last. Soon the clouds surrounded them and finally swallowed them up. Even the fireflies seemed to have disappeared. Sigh! I really do not enjoy the company of my fellow students, and being with them in such a trying situation really doesn't do much to improve moral. They took the carburetor apart 2 or 3 times, and we pushed that van for miles. Agbo Folarin, forever the optimist, kept saying "There's a slope just ahead. All it needs is a little momentum and it'll start. Je ki a try. You'll see--" We pushed for 3 or 4 or 5 miles. At one point Peter coasted so far ahead of us (engine still not running) that we lost him. There we were, walking in the black of night. A group of Oyinbos stranded in the dark, Ogun laughing in the tall grasses that bordered the road. Cars passed by us so close that we had to stop and catch our balance before we went on. Finally, Dr. Adediron climbed into a car to get help at nearby Ijeru, just over the Osun/Ondo state border. We asked another passing car to run us to the place Peter had finally stopped, which was a considerable distance.

When Adediron returned, we had pushed the van into a closed petrol station. By then it was 11:00 pm. It was too late to get alternative transportation, or lodging for the night. We decided we couldn't just leave the van, or Peter with it. We'd passed a burned out car not so far back in our trek. We were afraid something similar might happen. We also couldn't stay with it just at the side of the road either, for fear of what might happen ... Adediron had found a mechanic who was willing to help us at that time of night. They worked for hours in the dark trying to fix whatever was wrong. By about 2am, they decided that was useless and they would tow the van (with us in his station wagon) to Ijeru, so we could sleep in the van in a populated area . . . But the tow line broke.

It was raining and misting outside, and I was tired and crabby and hungry and stuck in the front seat with Adediron and the mechanic. Fortunately for me, though, when the tow line broke, they both jumped out and I had some space to myself. This occurred in front of a little sort of stand at the side of the road, where 2 or 3 people had a little fire burning, and I could hear them talking and laughing there next to the warmth and light. One was scraping the burnt part of a roasted yam. They were bundled up, prepared for the coldness of the night to creep into their bones--and combated it with the fire and knitted caps. One who had a blue cap adjusted the wood on the fire and sparks flew up. I knew right then that I wanted to be with them and not with my whiny group. I've got a thing for points of light in the darkness. Or maybe just sitting beside a fire like that called up some memory of a Van der Post book for me. What can I say? I just know that their evening appealed to me far more than mine. It was then that the owner of the station wagon jumped back in and threw the thing into reverse. I think he thought those guys were thieves or highway robbers and he was trying to high-tail it out of there. I can't remember what happened to make him come back, but he did.

We ended up pushing the van to the side of the road there, opposite the 3 with the fire. It was to be the "safe place" where we would spend the night, in the van. A few people were upset that we would be spending the night in the bush like that. But I felt safer there than in any city, just because there were so many fewer people around in general--like at home. But apparently that has a different meaning in Nigeria--fewer people around, yes; fewer people to hear you scream when the thieves and thugs take advantage of you; fewer people to help you out when you need it.

I asked Dupe what those guys across the road were doing there. She said "Protecting the area from alternative thieves?" --implying that they were thieves themselves. I had seen a board with spiked nails in it, in the headlights of a truck behind us. Apparently, they used such tactics to stop the traffic. I thought it was pretty bold for robbers to have a little stand and a fire for their nightly work there. I became more and more intrigued listening to them talk and laugh, and watching their firelight. Then Adediron explained their work to us: They were border guards, or customs officials whose job it was to fine/tax transport vehicles that wanted to cross the state line. They were looking for smugglers--but they also accepted bribes. So they had real work there in the night. They were legitimate. Suddenly, the spirit of Janna overcame me and I wanted to go over and sit with these strangers. I wasn't at all pleased with the atmosphere in the van. Peter was telling more stories about the perils of night travel in Nigeria. Thieves, attackers, a fresh dead body hit by a car ... a basket with a brick hidden inside that would "seriously mess up your car if you tried to hit it," dead animals full of nails that would cut up your tires, beatings ... I didn't want to be listening to that, nor did I want to believe that the guys across the road were of that element. Across the road, they were now bargaining with a lady-smuggler over a payment "What's 100 Naira split 3 ways? Not much." They wanted more, but they didn't sound malicious at all. Of course they accept bribes, and well they should. It wasn't until later that I learned, when the tall, thin one with the blue cap stood up and paced restlessly, disgusted with his government: These three guys hadn't been payed in over three months. Their only income was this revenue they rather proudly generated for the government--receipt book and all. So they continued to come to work, continued to earn their keep. They just cut out the middleman.

Anyway, I was in no mood to sleep by then, having caught my 2nd wind. I was also in no mood to listen to Peter's tales of treachery and horror stories of the night, nor to fight the mosquitoes that had infiltrated the van, so I watched the sparks fly up from the fire across the road, and again heard them laughing and I just had to say "They sound like characters! I want to go over there and talk with them!" To my amazement, Adediron said he'd come with me to see if they'd accept our company. Tope came too. We offered them 2 yams we had purchased on the road.

These guys were fun. They were tickled pink that we were learning Yoruba and trying to speak it. They didn't hassle us that we weren't quite fluent for our 2 years (like the jerk in the bookstore last week). They didn't expect us to know much after only 2 years. One guy had 7 years of English (maybe they all did), so he understood, and remembered what it was like at that level. I felt quite free to talk with these guys--in Yoruba, no less--with Adediron there as witness which may improve my grade since he knows I can and do speak. That's another problem with this Yoruba class. It's full of so many strong personalities and I just don't want to, or feel like I can compete with them. So often when I do say something around them, my opinion, my words, my ideas are cut down and dismissed. It's no wonder I don't say much around them--It's a self-preservation tactic. But if I can get away and not have to compete, I can speak. Sort of.

They told us their names. Femi was the tall one full of charisma, I guess. He had a strong, deep voice, a great smile, and a sparkle in his eye. I spent the night sitting next to Rotimi (Return to me?). We asked if he was an abiku (born to die) child because of his name. He of course wanted to know if I was married. Was I Christian? No. What did I believe? We said we'd gone to a babalawo to have our heads read. Femi said that his father was a babalawo. We named our patron gods/goddesses and Rotimi asked me if I believed in that. I said I believed in a lot of things, but God wasn't necessarily one of them. I think he was Christian, but he didn't press the issue that I wasn't, and he didn't try to convert me. That was nice. We've seen 2 classes of Christians: the normal ones and the over-bearing born-agains who feel it's their duty to save all us pagans. Rotimi was normal, and Femi was great!

We put the yams on the fire to roast in their skins. So I did have yam in some form or another that day. By then I was so hungry, it tasted delicious. Much tastier and sweeter than the glutenous lump offered at lunch. These guys were so great, sharing their fire with us, their conversation. I really began to enjoy myself after meeting them. I stayed up the rest of the night keeping watch with them. Tope and Adediron went back to the van and Agbo Folarin fell asleep on one of the benches next to the fire. But I stayed awake with them and time just flew by. I wanted to help them in some way, but I didn't know what I could have done. They made the night for me and I was grateful.

Rotimi was asking Folarin about getting into college at Ife. He's got all the qualifications. I just hope he can find the funds, or that Folarin can at least get him a job there, somewhere. They asked if we could be pen-pals. Everybody wants to be your pen-pal because they think you'll send them nice gifts and get a visa to the US for them. Until then, I only met 1 or 2 people I really wanted to write to (no one from the Xian camp!). These guys were cool in a warm sort of way.

By 7am, public transport had arrived to shuttle us back to Ife. I got a picture with these customs officials, though. It was certainly a day for highs and lows.

I don't think I can express what a thrill it was for me to hear Femi rise in the morning (he had taken a nap after his shift) to see me still sitting on the bench beside the fire, now in the morning light. He laughed a bit, pleased with my apparent heartiness and said my name with those lovely low tones that come from the chest: Ige. People in Yorubaland have a way of just saying your name, not because they want to tell you anything, but just to recognize your being, your individuality. It's a sort of praise.

Ah, life is how we want to remember it, and I shall remember these guys with fondness. I wish them well, and I hope they write.

***************************************************************

* Oyingbo is the Yoruba term for white people who are “pepperless” in the popular myth that we can’t handle hot, peppery food. Oyingbo literally means skin that is white because our black skin must have burned off in the sun. Oyinbo is what’s underneath.

** A babalawo is a diviner and a healer, aka witch docter. To have your head read is to have a babalawo divine your ‘patron saint’ of the Yoruba pantheon of Gods and Goddesses. Once you discover which one you are a child of, you may decide to follow in their footsteps--although your personality often already follows that of the patron saint. For example, I am a Child of Olokun. She owned the Oceans, and like so much water, she was very calm and tranquil. She never had children of her own, though she was a very successful business woman who made beautiful blue glass beads known today as Olokun beads.

Tornado Dancer

Tornado Dancer (acrylic pain on a drum)

Years ago, in my early 20s, I was plagued by recurring nightmares about tornados bearing down on my family's house. I couldn't find them, couldn't call out to them to warn them or call them to safety. The sense of terror and frustration and helplessness really got to me ... Living in the midwest, Tonados in May and June are a fact of life. You just hope you don't run into one ...

Finally, I shared these dreams with one of my coop housemates, a wise woman named Sinden. She suggested that the Tornado was probably trying to tell me something. Since I kept running away from it and shutting it out, it kept pursuing me ...

So, one day, I planned a meditation where I would meet this Tornado and find out what it wanted to tell me. It came, laughed a bit and said, : "It's about time, kid." His name was Morrison, a small whirlwind--but effective. It took me up into it's whirl so I could see the view from the upper rim It was not spinning wildly up there--it was more like I was in the eye, so it was calm. After a while, the Tornado set me back down on the deck, under the birch trees. He "stepped" back and presented me with two gifts :

1) a four-pointed blue white star
2) a rose just beginning to bloom

I never had another tornado nightmare. I'm not sure I can say much about these two gifts in terms of the symbolism and what they mean to me ... They speak to a place where words don't go easily.

At about the same time, my friend Terra Gold (a budding Shamin) who lead drum circles made a drum. She put it in front of an open oven to dry, but the heat was too intense and it warped. She brought this sad bent drum to a drum circle and I fell in love with it. It sat perfectly on my knees. At some point, I decided to paint these images on the drum. Here it is ...

"Ochi Belli: : More on the Theme of "I See You"

"Ochi Belli" Beautiful Eyes by Frederico, Chicago Artist

On a recent trip to Chicago, I was walking down the Miracle Mile one May evening. An artist (picture Antonio Banderas with an easel) was set up outside Crate & Barrel. He had a few charcoal portraits on display : Bob Marley, Barbara Streisand--he was really good at eyes.

My friends and I had gone into Crate & Barrel until they closed that evening. When we came out, the artist was still there. He saw me noticing his work. I was about to compliment his work, when he said, "You! I want to do your portrait. You have beautiful eyes. I can tell you are very sweet, and a good person. Sit down here ..." He was a sweet talker, knew how to play the crowds on Michigan Ave. What woman does NOT like to be so admired and appreciated? I sat down and let him draw my portrait for the next 45 minutes.

It was an odd feeling to be so watched and studied so intently by a handsome stranger. It made me think more about seeing and perception ... What does an artist see? Could he see into my soul? Or was it just merely objective--the shell, but not the real me?--or just my "ochi belli" (beautiful eyes). I'm sure he was pleased someone had shown an interest in his work and talents--a glimmer, a spark of someone seeing and appreciating his work, himself, too.

I tried to make a little small talk--but he was working on the drawing, capturing my eyes. He was Italian and had been in Chicago for the last 5 years. He did murals and landscapes for a living, but the human form was the "first art."

People passing by watched him work, looked at me and smiled. He must have been pretty good! I couldn't see the work in progress. It started to sprinkle and rain a little and we moved into a doorway so he could finish the portrait. At some point I had mentioned my husband had family in France and we visited every other year, or so.

He made me feel like he might even keep the portrait for himself -- I had not come to Chicago to have my portrait done. In the end, he did give it to me. Then he wanted to take me out somewhere (I wonder how often he engages his subjects this way ...) . I said I had a hard time with cigarette smoke ... He said we could avoid smoky places. I said I needed to go back to the hotel with my colleagues. Still he was hopeful I would change my mind later, and gave me his cell phone number. I thanked him, shook his hand, and tried to let him down gently.

He seemed sweet, gentle, kind--yet with that definite Italian machismo. Maybe we could have had just a nice conversation over coffee. Maybe he really did want to get to know me--beyond my "ochi belli." Maybe he does this every night--then takes a beautiful woman on the town? Maybe he was lonely?

I'm just not someone who goes off with a stranger on Michigan Ave. You hear about women drugged, raped, robbed, and sold into slavery ... I know enough not to get myself into such at-risk situations. I also know I have a good thing with my husband, and I would not want to jeopardize that with a one-night stand. In fact, when I got back, I told him all about my little adventure, and how nice it was to be "hit on" when I was starting to feel middle-aged. Fortunately, CL is secure enough not to feel threatened by something like this. He also knows I have a hard time keeping a secret, so he knows he'd know about everything as soon as it happened. He also trusts me to do the right thing.

This was a really nice memory of this trip to Chicago. ;-)

Mother's Day 2008

Oliver is 7 now. This is the first year he's really made a big deal out of Mother's Day. It's kind of nice. He made me this coupon book (That's me in my pink robe with my green eyes--couldn't be anyone else's mom!) redeemable for hugs and breakfast in bed.

He also made me the clay pottery bird (complete with feathers) and a bracelet (below).

At the Fellowship last week, Dottie's sermon was "We All Need Mothering." One of her points was that we all need someone to see us for who we really are ...

This made me think of the Zulu greeting, "Sakubona" (sounds Italian with the long "o"). Literally translated, it means, "I see you" -- which takes on even greater meaning when you think of South Africa living through the Apartheid years when so many people were NOT seen for who they really were.

It also made me think of Oliver and his insistence on prominent chewy cowlicks in his hair. He's been trying to get his hair chunky--so it looks like the Japanese Anime cartoon characters he loves. It's fine with me--so I try to compliment him when he wakes up with particularly chewy hair. In France last year, his Meme (Gramma) took every effort to wet down and comb flat those spiky cowlicks--into a kid I didn't recognize. He was visibly upset about that ans I had to come to his defense. (He loves his Meme and this was clearly just a generational difference ...)


A particularly "chewy" day.

Butter and Wash Tubs

My Dad was reminiscing about the old days when he helped his mom do laundry with an old wringer washing machine and those big galvanized wash tubs. I remember that wringer washer--Gramma was still using it in the 1970s when I was a kid, though by then, she had an electric dryer upstairs.

They lived on a dairy farm in rural northern Wisconsin. At one point, the farmers were on strike. Since they lived on a dairy farm, they had an over-abundance of milk. They skimmed off the cream and put it into the agitator side of the wringer-washer and made their own butter.

Dad said, at one point there was more than 100 pounds of butter in the freezer. That's a lot of butter!

She's Becoming Gold ...

What do I mean by that?

In the mid-1990s, I worked at a large bank as the lowest person the the totem pole. I had health insurance, though ... One of my co-workers was having a tough time in a bad marriage, but she was working her way through it with elegance and grace. I could she she was gaining respect for herself, and setting boundaries for her skunk of a spouse.

I felt like I was witnessing the formation of a true masterpiece : Her.

I don't know how her story ended, or where she is now. One day, I gave her a cassette tape with Marc Cohen's song on it, "She's Becoming Gold." My co-worker was the personification of this song for me.

Another example of "She's Becoming Gold" is Janie Crawford in Zora Neale Hurston's novel Their Eyes Were Watching God. Or see Novelguide for a basic synopsis of the book.

Their Eyes is Janie's story and how her relationships with other people improved her relationship with herself. She had three husbands in her lifetime, each of them very different.

• The first husband treated her well enough, but there was no love. She wanted more from life, and left him and his 60 acres.
• The second gave her everything she could have wanted. But he treated her like a trophy wife and never really bother to get to know her.
• The third was a younger man named Teacake. Theirs was a sweet romance. Teacake loved Janie for herself.
  

WARNING : If you think you might want to read this book, and don't want the surprise ending ruined, STOP READING THIS POST NOW.

I remember reading the final chapters and really struggling with the part of the story where Janie had to kill Teacake in self-defense. They had been so happy together, so good together ... Why would Ms. Hurston ruin that happiness? After a hurricane, Teacake had been bitten by a rabid dog and went crazy with rabies. He would have killed Janie in his madness ... but by then in her lifetime, Janie had come to love herself enough to take care of herself. She did what she had to do to go on living. She had to ... There was no saving Teacake by then.

Becoming Gold means she was becoming solid, precious and worthy--a WHOLE person. She had found what made her happiest and fulfilled. She found a sweetie who "bought her chairs." Most of all, she knew herself, and what made her happiest.

• Janie: "It's uh known fact, Pheoby, you got tuh go there tuh know there. Two things everybody's got tuh do fuh theyselves. They got tuh go tuh God, and they got tuh find out about livin' fuh theyselves" (183).

• Phoeby was changed by hearing her story, too. Phoeby says, "Ah done growed ten feet higher from jus' listenin' tuh you, Janie. Ah ain't satisfied wid mahself no mo'" (183).

• Finally, Pheoby hugs Janie and goes home. Janie, left alone, thinks about her past and realizes, "Here was peace. She pulled in her horizon like a great fish-net. Pulled it from around the waist of the world and draped it over her shoulder. So much of life in its meshes! She called in her soul to come and see" (184).

Isn't that a lovely image to end on? ;-)

Zora Neale Hurston : Lasting Influence

Just when I thought I could finally recycle those old notebooks from college literature classes (some of them are almost 20 years old now), PBS airs a documentary on Zora Neale Hurston, called Jump at the Sun. Well, now I've got to keep those old notebooks a while longer!

For years, the quote in my email signature was a gem from Zora Neale H. : "I do not weep at the world. I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife."


Even now, in my office at work, I have a framed poster of ZNH from the American Library Association. The quote is : “Research is formalized curiosity. It is poking and prying with a purpose.” She was talking about anthropology and research. It is an appropriate for a Librarian, or any scholar. She has been a lasting influence on me.

She was a remarkable woman ahead of her time. One of the first anthropologists, a wonderful storyteller, a writer, feminist, a libertarian. She was outspoken and independent. She was Herself.

Their Eyes Were Watching God was part of my own "becoming gold" journey. Even now, it's hard to write about without getting choked up ... This vibrant (even though she died relatively young), self-loving, confident black woman had a tremendous influence on me. You might wonder what she'd have to say to a white girl from rural Wisconsin ... Zora was in her own space, grateful, not grasping. Her books were not about racism, but about life, about personhood, about being a woman, about being comfortable in your own skin. With all the -isms that come down on us in this world, Zora was Herself. She transcended all that, rose above it. She, and Janie, was more than a label, more than an -ism. She didn't dwell on what a black woman was supposed to be in her time -- she was too busy sharpening her oyster knife, looking for the riches life had to offer as long as she went out and worked for it. She was nobody's victim.

Please don't misunderstand--I don't mean to downplay racism and its profoundly poisonous effect on so many aspects of life in these United States and around the world ... Racism (and many other labels) keeps people from really KNOWING each other. As Zora said, “Sometimes, I feel discriminated against, but it does not make me angry. It merely astonishes me. How can any deny themselves the pleasure of my company? It's beyond me.”

This would be a great time for me to re-read Their Eyes Were Watching God. There are many discussion group guides to help raise questions about important themes, etc. Hey--I discovered that Oprah produced a tv film for Their Eyes back in 2005. It starred Halle Berry. I can't wait to see it!

Here are some other favorite quotes from Ms. Hurston :

• “I have been in Sorrow's kitchen and licked out all the pots. Then I have stood on the peaky mountain wrapped in rainbows, with a harp and sword in my hands.”

• "I am not tragically colored. There is no great sorrow dammed up in my soul, nor lurking behind my eyes. I do not mind at all. . . . I do not weep at the world -- I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.”

• “It would be against all nature for all the Negroes to be either at the bottom, top, or in between. . . . We will go where the internal drive carries us like everybody else. It is up to the individual.”

• “Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place.”

• “Sometimes, I feel discriminated against, but it does not make me angry. It merely astonishes me. How can any deny themselves the pleasure of my company? It's beyond me.”

• “Don't you realize that the sea is the home of water? All water is off on a journey unless it's in the sea, and it's homesick, and bound to make its way home someday”

• “Mama exhorted her children at every opportunity to 'jump at the sun.' We might not land on the sun, but at least we would get off the ground.”

Quotes found at Think Exist.com

Iges Pamper their Feet

An early picture of Oliver's foot in his Papa's hands (2001). He was not a breech birth.

That last entry might seem kind of odd and mundane--a whole entry about shoes?

I know the kind of tired worn-out shoes my Gramma wears. I know she has aches and pains, and I'm wondering if she just had a good pair of shoes if some of her troubles would evaporate?

In Yoruba-land (Nigeria, West Africa), kids are named by the circumstances surrounding their births. For example, a child who was a breech birth gets the name of Ige. These children come feet-first into the world, and they tend to pamper their feet. A good pair of shoes DOES make a big difference!