Lovely Day

So LO went home from the theater last night with a gf for a sleepover. DH invited me on a date, or I threatened him if he didn't, I don't quite remember which.
We dressed up and went to Restaurant 46, a delightful place in a nearby little town.

The little town was a textile village until it became an incorporated town in 1986. Until then, it was just a company village in the county. A huge textile company had a plant there, and virtually everyone worked there. Their grammas had worked there before them, and their parents before them.

Then NAFTA took all the textile business to China, and India, and even Sri Lanka, and all the textile mills in NC closed. It wasn't glamorous work, but it was work for generations of people.

One of the recent owners had been David Murdock, a multi, multi-millionaire who owns Dole foods and who knows what else.

He for some reason had some empathy for this little town whose only real revenue came from the now-closed textile mill.

He bought the closed mill, tore down all the gorgeous old brick buildings, and established a research center. Biotechnology. Dole foods has a lab there and the NC universities all have a presence there.

So now where the textile mills stood, beacons of the past, now stand labs, beacons of the future. All the buildings are red brick, as were their predecessors, four or five stories, all traditional architecture.

Scientists are moving into town. The campus is becoming quite lovely.

Murdock, although wealthy, is said to be a bit idiosyncratic. Quite the health nut. Rumor has it one of his contractors for the buildings was obese. Murdock offered the man $10,000 if he would lose 150 pounds. The man did and Murdock wrote him the check.

Someone in the little town told me DM doesn't want the scientists cranking up their cars to go across campus from one lab to another, so this fellow had to assemble 100 10-speed bikes for the employees to have available to travel around campus.

A restaurant opened there recently, named Restaurant 46. The number represents the strands in DNA.

I had been wanting to go for a while.

It's said to be pricey but healthy.

We had fun. The flowers on the table were in a beaker, a real beaker, with cc's marked on it.

My wine was served in a beaker-like glass.

The walls had stenciled on them quotations from famous people, quotations that had to do with discovery, curiosity, and education.

The waitress was great. There really weren't any vegan items on the menu so she chatted with the chef and they came up with a dish that was out of this world: artichoke hearts, asparagus and tomatoes atop fettucini. With a little white wine splashed over it. mmm.

DH had seafood served over lobster risotto.

We did not order salads or dessert. I had one glass of wine and he had a glass of beer.

We were full as ticks as we waddled out of there, not our intention, but it was so good! Happy. I felt very coddled with my custom dish.

We came home and DH built a fire and we watched CNN and chatted. We spent all evening chatting.

When LO is around we can certainly chat. But being just the two of us felt special, it is in truth very rare, and we had a lovely time.

We slept in this morning. We worked together to get the house clean, quite necessary nowadays that I am a working girl more than usual. At about 3:30 he said, grab your coat, we are going out.

We ran to the thrift store to find a dresser for LO less than 43" wide, the space betw her closet and bedroom door. She has a teensy dresser there now, with only one drawer, and it is overloaded with makeup and keepsakes.

We found a perfect antique dresser with a big round mirror, very art deco, and paid $22.50 for it. When it is warmer, LO and I will take it outside and sand it and paint it white to match her bed and nightstand. For now it is black, but very charming. And. it. was. cheap. Solid wood, I might add, with dovetails and all. Even the drawer insides are not plywood, I daresay it was built before the onset of plywood.

So we had a lovely day. Missed LO and were glad when she returned. But it was fun to have a date. And I don't even feel guilty.

Bo-nanza

Our little downtown has a gift shop filled with toys, gadgets, all sorts of things that you really don't need, but that make great gifts for others.

Outside the shop is a coin-operated horse for the children to ride. Stumbled upon this film today of the actual horse in our own little town. Enjoy.

Kinship

Yesterday, I had to opportunity to be with like-minded women not once, but twice, in the same day.

To say our little town is conservative, is an understatement. Elizabeth Dole grew up here, and a few years ago, there was a billboard beside the interstate highway with a picture of her and her husband. The caption read: "(Small Town)'s Favorite Daughter and Son."

Um, 

Ick?

So after a while you learn to go underground with your thoughts and ideals. Embrace them as you are accustomed to doing, and people just ....   ....    ....    look at you. 

Fortunately our neighborhood is quite eclectic, and has its share of progressives. But the town at large? Puh-leeze.

So I was glad a couple of months ago when a sweet friend who was very active in recruiting workers for Obama mentioned to me she was in a liberals' book club. "We rarely read any more," she said, "but it's great to get together and feel like we are not such a minority."

"It's a shame you're a working gal," she said. "We'd love to have you."

Hmm. What did that mean? It was like two opposing messages in the same sentence. 

So I called her on it. 

"I free lance so I can have a life, too," I declared. "I'd love to come."

Then I kicked myself around the block in my own head for a week. Why was I so rude?

Well, rude or not, she added me to her group email and I have enjoyed being privy to the electronically-transmitted insights shared in this group.

Yesterday I got to meet them all in person. 

The same friend hosted everyone at her home. She had gone to the Inauguration and was ready to share. Her story of The Purple Tickets was a riot. I may email her and ask permission to post it on the blog. 

I was, I believe, the only person, or perhaps one of two or three, who does not belong to the Country Club. Undaunted, I strolled in as if I were an Old Timer. 

Everyone was just as cordial as could be, and treated me like an old friend. We talked and gabbed and regaled every detail we could think of in the inaugural process. After an hour or so, we picked up our pocketbooks and went home. 

It was great. 

Last night, on the very same day, I had kinship of a different sort. 

To understand why it was meaningful, you have to realize how very isolating writing is. 

Teachers teach a group. They work with other teachers. Social workers are intimate in others' lives. Factory workers, office workers, have people they love, or loathe, but they have people. 

Writers? It's me and the screen. And the cat. And the bunny slippers. Sometimes I feel like I'm in a vacuum. I LOVE IT, would not trade it for the WORLD, but, yes, it is a solitary pursuit. 

Last Sunday at church, I ran into a fellow parishioner whom I don't know very well, but have always liked. Both of us have girls in the local theater's children's play. I remarked how LO has  enjoyed seeing her little girl, who is talented and articulate, and just a delight. We chatted for a minute and somehow, I don't even remember how, it came out that both she and I are writing a children's novel. 

We were both shocked. 

Then in walked our friend, the wife of one of our pastors. She is a pastor herself, although not of our own church. She has been quite busy of late, pursuing her own doctorate. Her Sweet Husband already has one. 

She picked up on the conversation and confessed that, yes, she is writing a children's novel, herself. 

Of all people, she, the pastor, said, "Isn't it a coincidence that the three of us came into this place and we're all writing a book?"

So we decided to email each other our Ch.1 and meet for feedback. 

The meeting was last night. The three of us gathered at a local coffeehouse and remarked on each other's work. We used the sandwich method: say something nice, then a critical remark, then something nice. 

I hope I was as nice to them as they were to me. I did not feel attacked at all. The book, of course, is my baby. But they made very helpful comments to me and I dreamed of my story all night long. You see it's 5:15am now and I have already been up an HOUR. I just could not lie in the bed any longer. 

It was so affirming to meet with other women who know the solitude and ownership and satisfaction of writing. 

At this point, we don't know if we will meet long-term, or regularly, or what. We're getting together again next week, to go over Ch. 2. 

And I can't wait. 

Notes on the Symphony by Someone Who Doesn't Know Anything About Anything

It seems DH and I have officially reached the ages where we do not need Any More Stuff. I faced such a quandary at his birthday this year, that I gave him season tickets to the symphony for the entire family.

Yes, our little town has a symphony. They play in the huge auditorium at the local college. It's a nice facility with decent acoustics.

Last night they played two Copland selections and an Elgar. I rather liked it all, but then, I really don't know anything about music. In fact, when they were tuning up, I turned to DH and asked what note that is.

DH is such a gentleman. He did not roll his eyes, or sigh, or say, "you really ARE an idiot, aren't you?" He just smiled a teensy bit and whispered, "A."

"Oh."

I just love it in the beginning when they are all tuning up their own instruments, before the A, before anything. It's all just a cacophony of sounds, not music yet, really, and each person is so intent on his own sounds he is blocking out all the others. It's a melange of notes and screeches and each of them has a look of intense concentration on his face. Waves of energy are emanating from each person, and the waves are all colors and sizes and flying in all directions.

Then out walks out the Concertmaster. He stands there, patiently, and finally they all realize he is there, and, as one, they all give an A. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaa. All the multicolored waves hanging above their heads evaporate and the A is one large undulating wave over them. All the colors blend and all the energy becomes one large focused energy.

Then for the next hour or so, they share all their energy, their mission, working on the same pieces together. Coming in at just the right time. Playing at just the correct rate, the proper notes. DH shared with me that the Concertmaster even has the choice of how the violinists bow: up on this note, down on this one.

Last night, they played Fanfare for the Common Man, then an Elgar piece, I forget which one, but I love Elgar, and then Copland again, the 3rd symphony, which has phrases from the Fanfare for the Common Man. So the program opened and closed with the same theme. It all had such symmetry; quite satisfying.

Our little family sat in the dark and absorbed it all. After each piece, LO feels compelled to pronounce her opinion. "I liked that one." or, "I did not like that one." We are patient with this, and behave as if her pronouncement were just what we were waiting for. We make appropriate comments when she says it, like, "Aw, sorry," or "Oh Good!" accompanied by a bright smile. It must satisfy her when we are happy that she liked it or sad that she did not, because she continues to pronounce upon each piece.

Finally--- it was all over. The players packed up all their instruments, and we --- we had the energy they had given off, energy to take with us to our cars and to our homes and to enjoy throughout the rest of the night and most of the day today. In some ways we were nicer to each other, and discussed this piece or that one, and did you see the cellist, I thought of our DIL, or how does one learn to play the harp in a small town, are there really harp teachers. Didn't you love the undertones of that quiet, low violin in the first movement. That kind of thing.

I look forward to the next one: February 15.

*** Wow. ***

Day of Hope

I have just realized how inappropriate it is to begin a blog entry, "Words cannot express..." You might as well just stop right there, if that's the case.

So here we go. I struggled to find the words to express the joy that was burning in my heart all day yesterday.

We planned to host my dear gf and her family: husband and 2 daughers adopted from China. GF and her lawyer hubby home-school the girls. He owns his own firm, so he takes all day off on Thursdays and does the science circuit with them and some math; GF does social studies, English, Latin, culture, and the other half of the math.

They do not own a TV; gf says she observed her family's dysfunction go unnoticed because of the TV. Things would be just unbearable and her mother would say, "Oh, it's time for Dick Van Dyke," and nothing ever changed. I daresay our family suffered from that, too, only I was not smart enough to identify it until she said it just a month or so ago.

So in light of the Big Occasion, we invited them here to enjoy some conviviality and television.

As it turns out, the photo shoot for next Wednesday's food page was Monday, so we had a fridge full of real food: homemade clam chowder (thank you for your help, DS2; I did not realize when you made it for us that it costs a frigging fortune to make. You are sososo generous.), copycat Red Lobster cheese biscuits, and another choice of entree, BBQ Pork Sammies. I cautioned everyone NOT to partake of both entrees; guaranteed tummyache. But, they had options, and it was nice not to have to scurry around and really cook during the pre-festivities; all I had to do was warm it up.

Alas, the day dawned and gf had the flu. But her hubby came and the girls. Little Bit spent the night with us and I was so thankful we had a micron of snow on the ground so we were able to share The Moment with the girls rather than lose them to the Public School System.

Didn't you love it all? The song, the beautiful music, the poem that just painted pictures in your mind, both prayers, and the speech. The youthful buoyancy in Obama's step. The gravitas in his face. The beautiful daughters and the lovely First Lady. I loved it all. Nothing disappointed me, and I am so thankful I was allowed to share it with the people I love the most. Even DH did not have to work, wonder of wonders, and I was filled with gratitude and love and joy and, yes, HOPE.

I looked around the room as he spoke, at all the rapt faces. Even little Lucy, 5 years old, sat still as a statue, fascinated by his words. Little Bit and Little One cuddled up and watched, no one interrupting with questions or observations. I was amazed to notice that among the 7 of us, we had quite the diverse crowd ourselves: white, African-American, Jewish heritage, and Asian. Yet we all sat in silence and absorbed the historic day.

Obama empowers us by saying we have to do our part, and I believe we will work hard to help. Americans have always done this when asked. It helps to feel you can do something about a miserable situation.

He will have missteps. We need to realize this now, so that when he does, no one goes, "AHA! He's not perfect after all!" We know at the outset that no one is perfect. But I already love it that he unites us by course of purpose and we have to help in the undoing of the recent missteps.

I missed the parade as I had to get dressed up to go to another event. But the total day was one I'll never forget.

I am so thankful for this moment.

Covered Up!

When the local paper asked me in November to start writing the crime blotter, I jumped at the chance for several reasons, despite the fact that blotter is drudge work and they called me b/c all the employees, who have clout as opposed to stringers (freelance writers) who have none, refused to do it. Here are the reasons I accepted:

• It pays money
• It's a regular gig, until they decide otherwise
• It's work in the newsroom, which gives me exposure to them
• It's work in the newsroom, which gives them exposure to me
• It could evolve into more work
• It allows me to keep my own schedule, which is important to me as I pursue other writing opportunities
• Did I mention it pays?

Finally, and most importantly of all, they called the morning after I mentioned to DH "If only I could find regular work that paid $xxx a month, it would enable us to meet our goals faster." The money they offered is exactly $xxx a month, based on one morning a week. It was just too weird a coincidence to ignore. If I refused the opportunity, no telling what type jinxes might befall me.

So I took it. Initially, they indicated it would be one morning a week. I selected Monday. The second week, the managing editor called and asked if I would be coming in on Friday, as well. Hmm. Sure, I said. (The pay is based on how many mornings I work.) So by the second week I had doubled my pay. Yes, I doubled my work, too, but that's ok by me. The work is easy.

The third week they asked if I would do crime blotter for another paper they own. Hmm. Sure, I said, and added that to the mix. Started coming in three mornings a week. Likewise an increase in the pay.

DH and I had anticipated that my visibility in the newsroom might make me a likely candidate for more work as it arose, as opposed to the other free-lancers who are home in their bunny slippers working at their own computers.

The paper, like papers all over the country, is struggling for survival, and has had a hiring freeze on for some time. The freelance budget is flush to cover the overload.

So now it's the 8th week and I have been asked to carry the work left behind when the education reporter left to go work for the Raleigh News & Observer. Hmm. Sure, I said.

In the past, I have worked at 1 or 2 articles in a week, at home in my bunny slippers, sometimes having weeks with no articles to work on at all. This week I have 10 articles and am writing in calendars, making notes to myself, leaving voice mails to myself, and generally working hard. It's great.

We had thought it would happen but did not in a zillion years, realize it would be so soon.

So now I am at the newsroom twice or three times a week for sure, dropping in when I need to, and working from home in my bunny slippers otherwise. I can walk the dog when I want to, get my nails done, and generally meet the routine of the family, except when School Board meets or other stuff intrudes. So far DH has been extremely supportive, pitching in when I have to be out. This is good. It's not a hobby, after all, it's work, and there isn't a question of my covering everything while he is at work. It sort of grates on my nerves that I am appreciative at all. I should just take it for granted. I am going to try.

The education stuff is different. It's news. All the other articles I've written over the past five years have been Lifestyle stuff: light, airy. I talk of this and that. I wax rhapsodic. Sometimes I gab on.

In news, I have to be terse. I can't say, "The board decided that they would implement..." Nooo, I have to say, "The board will implement..." There are a zillion things like that, and I have to come up to speed on them. I can't say, 7%, but seven per cent. The first news article I did, Monday night, ran about 400 words, and it took me TWO HOURS. Really. Two hours. It's insane! I fretted over each and every word. Finally I turned it in at 10pm and stood behind the editor as he cut and cut and cut. I asked him if he minded my staying to watch. No, he said, but you can go on home if you want. It was late, after all. Thanks, I said, but if I go home now, I won't be any smarter when I go to sleep. I need to see what to do next time.

I did learn from the zillion edits he made, and when he finished, it was a much better article. Nothing fancy. No Pulitzers on the way. But I tried to learn from it all.

So yesterday, I sent another article. They ran it today. Same editor. Hmm. He modified my title a bit and removed one sentence. I am relieved -- quite an improvement over the zillion edits the night before.

So, one baby step at a time, I'll go on. Sigh. Nine more articles to go, for now. Bully Busters, a wedding festival on Saturday, reading scores, a food page, middle school inauguration observations, a young woman returns from Kenya with stars in her eyes, it's diverse and I am busy.

Guess I need to go write.

HB to Me

This is very clearly NOT a vegan meal. So, what are these pics doing in my blog?

It was one of the best lunches I ever had. "So..." Little One began. "I'd like to take you out to lunch for your birthday. You pick the place."

"How can you afford to take me out to lunch?" I asked. "My dog-sitting money," she replied. I ran a fast calculation in my head. Sure, the senior citizens down the street give her $2 a day to walk little Gracie, but even at that...

"Mrs. S. gave me $60 for feeding her dogs last week."

"WHAT?!" She is so dead.

"So, pick your place."

I thought of several, none too much to her liking. I even suggested a not-burger at Burger King, to save on her cash. She dismissed the idea. Finally I suggested Olive Garden. She likes OG, and they serve a mean salad. She loved the idea.

We were driving to nearby-big-city to have her hair straightened. We go every 4 months or so. We usually make a day of it anyway, though it is usually I who treats her to lunch.

The beauty shop was not busy at all today, and we finished up in a record hour-and-a-half. Nothing like the normal four-hour marathons we're used to.

Not even thinking, I greeted the hostesses at Olive Garden with the same salutation I'd given everyone else today: "Happy Birthday!"

There was a bevvy of them -- four or five high school or early college girls, and one guy.
When they looked with puzzled faces, LO announced, "It's her birthday!"
"How old?" one of them asked.
"It's a prime number!" I winked at them.
"25?" asked one. sigh.
"51?" guessed a blonde. sigh.

"51 isn't prime-- it adds up to 6!" I replied. "Any number whose digits add up to 3, 6, or 9, is divisible by 3!"
"Are you a math teacher?" she asked.
Er, no, I just like numbers. I even calculate my change without a calculator...

So we were taken to a booth but alas, not offered anything for free.

LO ordered her favorite, Fettucini Alfredo. I asked for Endless Salad. I asked if the House Vignaigrette is vegan-friendly, and was surprised to learn it has milk in it. (I think it had it a few months ago on the assumption it would be safe. Oops me.)

We played a game of gin as we waited with my handy teeny deck of cards. I keep it in my bag for just such an occasion. She beat me. Twice.

So I had Endless Salad with balsamic vinegar and LO had the fettucini with minestrone as her appetizer. When the waitress served her a salad instead of the soup, LO was confused as to how to handle it. "Am I not paying for my soup?" she asked me. Odd how spending her own money gave her a new perspective on things.

We had a great discussion on getting what you pay for while thinking of the feelings of others. I left it to her to handle -- she, after all, was footing the bill.

When the waitress came by to ask how everything was, LO said, "Remember when I ordered the minestrone?" with a smile. And the waitress did remember, albeit a little late, and hurried some soup to LO's place. I was proud of her poise in taking care of it.

Another server came to grate cheese on LO's fettucini. She grated and grated. Finally, when Mount Romano stood proudly on LO's entree, she innocently asked, "Was I supposed to say, 'when'?" We all had a good laugh.

LO was a tad disappointed when I declined dessert. She wanted one only so they would sing to me. So she ordered a great chocolate tart with warm chocolate sauce inside, with vanilla sauce and strawberries on the outside. It looked great. They plunked a candle on it in my honor and sang away. It was hugely embarrassing but lots of fun.

On the ride home we hooked LO's iPod up to my car stereo and listened to her music and her podcasts. I felt privileged to have her share with me.

We arrived to a clean house. DH had gotten flowers, dark chocolate (anything else is tripe!) grapes, and organic Merlot. And a lovely card.

Family called and wished me a happy birthday. My cup ran over.

This evening he cooked me the grandest dinner. Toasted sourdough with tapenade. Brown rice with sauteed asparagus and leeks on top. Tahini topping. Broiled heirloom tomatoes with vegan pepper jack "cheese" melted on top.
Sigh. It was heavenly. There is more left for tomorrow.

We are going to watch Legends of the Fall tonight (again) -- on our new Surround Sound system.
So, I am a prime number for a whole year -- and it's NOT 25 or 51. It was a great day.

Happy Birthday to me.