Tag Archives: Books

Memory Keepers

02 Saturday Jan 2010

Posted by in Life at Home, Soul Care

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Old Friends and New -- People Come to Life

“You must know that there is nothing higher and stronger and more wholesome and good for life in the future than some good memory.” Fyodor Dostoevsky

Today opened up when Jon and I granted ourselves a little breathing room.

Jon needed time to sort through old memories and collect his thoughts; he’s the main speaker for his Alcoholics Anonymous group this evening.  And I wanted time to sort and collect items for a simple birthday party-to-go; we’re making new memories tomorrow, as we gather family at my mother-in-law’s to celebrate her 75th.

Memories are life, are they not?    So I wonder what happens to memories that are lost  — these pieces of life — do they get lost in our minds like a set of lost keys?  Or are memories like keys themselves, in that they unlock truth about our own lives?  And what happens to memories that are never recovered — do we lose important pieces of ourselves?

I lost memories with Mom’s death.  The memories Mom kept of me before I could form my own are dead with Mom.  Gone too are half of the memories we made together.  It is the latter that has proved the more noticeable loss, since I’m now left to carry around half-memories like a sock that’s lost its mate.  Like any lost sock, the half-memory is no longer aired in public.

Personal stories are sacred.  It doesn’t matter whether the story is told in an AA meeting or in a spiritual direction session or in a cozy chat with a friend or in writing memoir — or even a piece of fiction that reads like memoir.  I lose myself in other people’s stories.   And because truth is truth, I also find part of my own story within another’s.

Personal stories need to be told and they need to be heard.  And with a little more breathing room, we could memory keep a whole lot better.

The Boy Who Cried Woof

26 Monday Oct 2009

Posted by in Life at Home

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Our poodle boy Max has learned a new trick. And just like any boy with a new toy, he’s using it every chance he gets.

Max On Kitchen Patrol

Max On Kitchen Patrol

It would be only a slight exaggeration to report that I’m feeding this dog every hour on the hour.  And of course, being true to the heritage of the French, not just any food will do for our Standard French Poo.  Max prefers baguettes and freshly cooked meat and home-made rolls.  Dog food?  Pleeease.

Blog_09_1026_02

It should shame me to admit that I cooked more for Max last week than I did for my husband.  But ever since Max lost 8 pounds over six days, I do what I can to tempt Max with a morsel that he can’t refuse.  And it’s good to see Max eat.   And eat.  And eat some more.  But what’s NOT good is what happens after Max is as full as the proverbial tick, when Max barks me back into the kitchen demanding another course of food.

Like the smart poodle mom that I am, I’ve begun exercising a little tough love to curb Max’s recreational bread habit.  “Just say no” — isn’t that what First Lady Nancy Reagan encouraged us to do when staring in the face of addiction?  So now when Max barks, after consuming his abnormally high six courses, I bark ‘No’ back.  Then rewarding myself with an imaginary pat on the back for standing up to my poodle, I scurry back in a hurry to my latest episode of Mad Men.

But last night after our kitchen standoff, I’d hardly sat down before I saw Max standing at the back door, woofing to be let out.  So dutifully, I trotted out to the kitchen to open the back door.  But instead of going out, Max turns around and heads straight to the refrigerator freezer where all his baguettes and home-made rolls are stored.  With eyes locked onto the freezer, Max barks out another big woof.  Hell’s bellls.  You know it’s bad when an adult over the age of fifty is outsmarted by her poodle dog.  And it’s sure hard to remember the word ‘no’ when he’s looking so hopeful and cute, after pulling out his new bait and switch poodle trick.

Blog_09_1026_04Max’s favorite home-made dinner rolls are called Rocket Rolls.  Rebecca Rather, the proprietor-chef of the Rather Sweet Bakery &  Cafe of Fredericksurg Texas, relates  a cute story of how these rolls came by their name; in her cookbook, the Pastry Queen, Ms.Rather assures her reader that the rolls have nothing to do with rocket propulsion.  But for the record, I’m pretty sure Max would disagree; a course of Rocket Rolls seems to fire Max’s poodle jets just fine.  Yesterday I pulled this much favored cookbook from my baker’s rack shelf.  And to the company of Max laying nearby, I made a fresh batch of poodle propulsion.  A couple of hours later, once the risen bread dough was ready to shape into rolls, Max moved in for the kill.

I’m convinced Max knew exactly what I was making.  Maybe it was the scent of two dozen rolls cooling nearby on the baking rack that tipped Max off.  But ready or not, Max was ready to eat his poodle manna from heaven.  And once Max began grazing, he ate and ate; at least half a dozen rolls until I just said no.

And unlike Mr. Max, I’m not a woofing.

 

Hi. I'm Max. I'm addicted to Rocket Rolls...

Hi. I'm Max. I'm a Bread-aholic.

Child’s Play

15 Saturday Aug 2009

Posted by in Good Reads, Home Restoration, In the Garden, Life at Home

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This week I’ve felt three friendly nudges inviting me to play.  I ignored the first, wondered at the second and am pausing at the third.  Perhaps it’s time to hit ‘Play’?  If only I could fine the right button to push.

Adult play is not that easy.  I’m not even sure what it looks like.  Is it going to the movies, or is it writing, or is it gardening?  I know for sure it’s not housework.  Or driving.  Or going to the grocery store. 

Before entering first grade, I knew exactly what play was.  It was a life of innocence removed from the ticking of clocks or the nonticking of human hearts.  I lived a life ‘below time’, to use a phrase of Frederick Buechner’s.   Mother would tell me, “Hurry up, it’s time to go.”  And I didn’t.  My first grade teacher would yell at me to “Pay attention”.  And I wouldn’t.  Instead, I lived in my own little world of make believe, a place safe from the likes of hurries and grumpies.  

When I was little, no one ever had to tell me:  “Wake-up. It’s time to get out of bed.”  If I was awake, I was out of bed.   That is, until I learned about school.  

At child’s play, I was immersed in my own little world.  My patch of grass was just fine.  I wasn’t worried about keeping up with my neighbors, even if they were playing a nice competitive game of tennis.  

  Janell Yard

At child’s play, I was my own person.  I felt no need to fit in or to fein interest in what was not of interest;  if my cousin Mike was involved in water play, it didn’t mean I had to be.  

Janell Porch

At child’s play, I was not self-conscious.  If I didn’t have the  the right stuff, that didn’t stop me from jumping in feet first.

Janell Pool

So where is play?  Here’s my answer for now.  I believe play happens whenever we forget outselves and our limitations and the rest of the world and its limitations and the time clock and its limitations.  We get lost and aborbed in another world.  Maybe it’s a good book that we don’t want to end.  Or a good moive.  Or for me, a wonderful renovation project, a garden or prayer or writing.  

For Julia Child it was cooking.  Defying the odds and limitations, My Life in France tells the story of how Julia earned her certificate from Le Cordon Bleu and went on to become America’s First Lady of Food.  I was so inspired by Julia’s autobiography that I promptly purchased Mastering the Art of French Cooking.  I opened the cookbook, found it scary and promptly put it on a shelf, where it has gathered dust every since.   

Mastering the Art of French Cooking was not a waste of money however.  I learned that Julia was a master chef because cooking was pure Child’s play for Julia.  I also learned that I do not wish to master French cooking or any other kind of cooking.  I am happy merely to play at cooking.