Letters From Home

Life looks at infmom / infmom looks at life

October 24, 2015
by infmom
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When the tea is bagged up yonder

Growing up in central Virginia in the 50s and early 60s, I developed an appreciation for rock, country and old-style gospel music that continues to this day. During the Kim Davis flapdoodle I made a Facebook comment “When the roll is called up yonder, she’s downstairs.” I’ve been meaning to turn that into a full sized song parody….  so here goes.

When they worship God and Mammon and repeal the Golden Rule
And they’re sure the only righteous way is theirs,
When they hate the ones that Jesus blessed and follow human fools
When the roll is called up yonder, they’re downstairs.

Refrain:
When the roll is called up yonder,
When the roll is called up yonder,
When the roll is called up yonder,
When the roll is called up yonder, they’re downstairs.

On the airwaves all across the land, collection plates are passed,
And the preachers, not the Lord, get all the shares,
And the sinners hate the sinners and a lot of stones are cast,
When the roll is called up yonder, they’re downstairs.

Refrain

Let them call themselves believers and in lies put all their trust.
Let them quote from scriptures sorted out with care,
Then when all their lives are over and their hatred’s gone to dust
When the roll is called up yonder, they’re downstairs.

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May 2, 2015
by infmom
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Moving right along

Yup, another new theme. Dunno if it will make the contents more appealing, but at least Google’s not giving me what-for about not being mobile friendly.

I’m going to TRY to add new posts a lot more often than I have been doing lately. Stay tuned.

Hope you'll recommend my posts via your favorite social media. Just don't copy the material as your own.

January 17, 2015
by infmom
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One ordinary day, with containers

(with apologies to Shirley Jackson for adapting her title)

Container Store in Pasadena, California

Container Store in Pasadena, California (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Ya know how one thing leads to another?

So, my beloved 40 yr old sewing machine croaked. Kenmore model 18033, I salute you.

I bought a new one. Electronic. Learning curve.

It came with a limited selection of presser feet, unlike the old one that had just about every foot known to humankind at the time it was manufactured.

Then I found out I could buy a BIG package of sewing machine presser feet for the new machine (the old ones will not fit it) thanks to my daughter who bought that package for HER new sewing machine.

The package arrived, and it was full of goodness and also very very flimsy.

It occurred to me that the Container Store sells clear plastic divided containers.

It occurred to me that I had a small, multi-drawer cabinet out in the storage room that would be perfect for storing miscellaneous sewing stuff.

It occurred to me that my sewing and quilting books were almost all in the bookcase in the parlor instead of in the office next to the sewing machine.

It occurred to both my husband and me that if we were going to venture to the Container Store, there were some other things we should buy, like a bin to put sweaters in because the old one is terminally bulged out and the lid doesn’t fit any more. And like kitten proof containers for all the miscellaneous stuff we each have on the tables next to our chairs in the living room, and a kitten proof container for my “nightstand” which is actually an old wooden root beer crate that I scrounged from a grocery store circa 1973. (Remind me, I need to write a post about kittens.)

OK, so here’s how it went today: I cleaned all the junk out of the little cabinet, brought it in and washed it. Then I had to find space for it near the sewing machine. Which led me to go into the parlor, look at what was on that bookshelf behind the door into the hallway, and remove a goodly portion of it to be recycled. Ran the Shark over the shelves to get rid of a ghastly accumulation of dust, rearranged all the craft books by type of craft (jewelry, wire, beading, design, etc etc etc), picked a few worthy sewing and quilting books to move to the office, evicted a large collection of books from the office and put them in the parlor…. phew. Then we went to the Container Store. Came home with clear plastic containers for the sewing stuff, two plastic toolboxes to put in the living room to store miscellaneous chair-side stuff and remote controls, one small latching container for my nightstand, and a big plastic bin for the sweaters. Everything but the sweater bin has been put to use. We gotta save SOMEthing for tomorrow.

We also resisted eating lunch in Pasadena and supper at any local restaurant. We feel virtuous.

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December 10, 2014
by infmom
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In which sophomore English comes alive

Dunno if it’s still true, but in My Day, sophomores in high school had to read Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. I dutifully read it, of course, and I got straight A’s in most subjects in those days so clearly I knew enough about the play to satisfy the teacher (who probably rapped Marcus Antonius over the knuckles for being a wiseass, back in the day).

But I never really appreciated the role of Cassius in the plot. I mean, who would, with almost all the bombastic speeches going to the other guys? Cassius did get quoted, memorably, by Edward R. Murrow, so that’s something–but I bet most people remember the quote (the fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings) but not the character who delivered it.

Enter the creative people at Pendant Productions. They do a fantastic lineup of original full cast audio dramas, and they also do Shakespeare. Which is how Cassius re-entered my life, and in a good way. Because the people at Pendant are so creative, they didn’t feel they had to stick with the old ways of doing things when they tackled Shakespeare, so, in this incarnation, Cassius is female.

Me.

I did some acting and some professional voice-over work, back in the day, and when the casting call was anounced for this production, I sent in my auditon for Antonia (yup, gender change for that, too). The director asked me if I’d do Cassius instead, and I said sure. Not realizing that Cassius gets more lines than anyone in Act 1… wowzers.

The production’s complete now. Give it a listen. Find the links at Pendant Production’s Wild Bill Show.

Oh, and if you want to hear more of me (of course you do) check out Phantom Canyon, a rip-roaring horror story that will knock your socks off.

Hope you'll recommend my posts via your favorite social media. Just don't copy the material as your own.

November 1, 2014
by infmom
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Once more around the literary block

Participant-2014-Facebook-ProfileSo I finally made up my mind to participate in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) again this year. I would have done it last year, but there’s something about having major surgery on November first that kind of puts a crimp in things. Although I might just be making excuses, since the very first year I participated I was flattened by a vertigo attack for about ten days at the very beginning of the month and still managed to crank out 50,000 words.

Well, never mind. I’m off and typing.

Hope you'll recommend my posts via your favorite social media. Just don't copy the material as your own.

October 13, 2014
by infmom
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Harlan Ellison and me

English: Harlan Ellison at the Harlan Ellison ...

English: Harlan Ellison at the Harlan Ellison Roast. L.A. Press Club July 12, 1986. Los Angeles , California. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I heard today that Harlan Ellison has had a stroke. His mind’s still going strong, thank goodness. I think it’s time to write about him, since I’ve been amazed by his talent, intelligence, wit and depth of character for most of my life.

I started reading science fiction when I was in the third grade, which was when I was either 7 or 8 years old, and I got hooked for life. A few years later I encountered Harlan Ellison’s stories for the first time and became an instant fan.

As I learned more about him I admired him more. Here was someone who stood up for his principles regardless of the cost, and who would never compromise just to make things easier. On anyone. He clearly had an intelligence and a level of fearlessness far above those of mere mortals.

My father, a professor of 18th century English literature and ordinarily not much in tune with contemporary writing, heard about Ellison’s victory over Frank Sinatra and cheered. He didn’t know who exactly Harlan Ellison was, but if he could stand up to a notorious show business bully and win, he must be Someone indeed. For once in my life I could talk about a literary figure from experience my father did not share. That felt good.

I had hoped someday to be able to meet Mr. Ellison, but it didn’t seem likely. I did not go places he was likely to be, and vice versa. When I heard he was in poor health I thought it even less likely that we’d ever meet.

And then everything changed. In January, I received an invitation to David Gerrold’s birthday party. I’ve known David for many years but never would have guessed that I was high enough up the friends list to merit an invitation. After I picked myself up off the floor, I accepted. I’m a sociable person, to be sure, but I don’t go out a lot and hadn’t been to a party of any kind other than family events for longer than I can remember. It was somewhat daunting to consider.

For a number of years I’ve been subject to occasional vertigo attacks of varying intensity, everything from “I can’t get up off the floor, so don’t ask” to “OK, I’ll stagger if I move suddenly but I can function.” The day of the party I woke up with that familiar spinning feeling. Oh crap. As the day went on it was clear that it was a minor attack, but still, for any other activity I would have called in sick with regrets. Not this time. This was truly a once in a lifetime event and by golly I was going to suck it up, take some Antivert and go.

I’m not a name dropper so I’ll just say that I saw and talked with a whole galaxy of superluminaries, and those were just the people I recognized. There were many more whom I would surely have known, but I thought it would be tacky to go around asking “Who’s that” all over the place. I gathered up my nerve, approached some of the people I did recognize, waited for a suitable break in the conversation, introduced myself and made a few “lordy, I hope this is not too inane” comments before leaving the celebrities in peace. After a while, I got some food from the buffet and sat down at a table full of congenial people and introduced myself and sat back to enjoy the conversation.

A little later, I noticed Harlan Ellison in the next room. Oh my god. Harlan Ellison. Well, there was just no way I was going to walk up to HIM and introduce myself. Uh uh. Because I knew what would happen if I made any stupid remarks, he’d eviscerate me on the spot. He suffers fools not at all. Some of the people at the table knew Harlan and we chatted a bit about him. Then I got up to go to the bathroom, telling the lady on my right that I’d be right back.

When I got back, there was Harlan Ellison sitting in the chair I had left. I stopped dead. What was I going to do? He got to a break in the conversation, or so I thought, and looked at me. So, under the influence of dizziness and drugs, I began as bravely as I could, “Hello, Mr. Ellison, my name is Marte…” and he snapped back “You’re interrupting me!”

If my brain had been working at anything approaching normal speed I would have made some mild comment like “Well, you did take my chair.” But all I could do was gasp and say “I’m sorry.” The lady on my right said something to me and I replied to her and Harlan snapped “You’re still interrupting me!” I did manage to say “I was talking with her,” but that got a “It doesn’t matter, you’re still interrupting!”

OK, so at that point I did what any sentient being with a few functioning brain cells would do–I went and found somewhere else clear across the patio to sit quietly by myself.

A few minutes later, I was very surprised to hear Harlan call over to me, “Sorry, Marte!” I smiled, waved a hand and called back that I was OK. Which I mostly was.

Later, as I was wending my way to the bathroom again I passed Harlan talking with a group of people. He said “Hello, Marte!”

I said, somewhat nervously, “Hello, Mr. Ellison.”

“Oh,” he said, “you don’t have to call me that. You can call me king, or emperor…”

“Whatever you say!” I said, trying to sound un-flustered.

“…or shithead!”

“Oh no, no, I would never say that.” (and no, I wouldn’t.)

At that point someone else came along to talk with Harlan and I escaped to the bathroom. And I didn’t really get a chance to talk with him again. But what could I have said, anyway? That I’d admired him for most of my life? Would that have sounded like a comment on our relative ages? (He is, after all, a mere 16 years older than I am) Honestly, I don’t know what I would have said. I felt it was best not to try. Better not to irritate him again, and thus part on good terms between author and fan.

Not long after that, David cut the cake, I ate my share, and headed for home. I was exhausted and spinning and just hoped that the GPS would guide me safely home, which it did. I conked out and slept for 14 hours after that and woke up the next day with only a little vertigo and a lot of memories that still make me blink to this day.

Thank you, David, for a once in a lifetime invitation. And thank you, Harlan, for everything you are and everything you have done or will do. May you recover swiftly and take arms against the world again. Soon.

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September 30, 2014
by infmom
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It’s a good thing…

…. that I like doing things like this.

Boy, have I said that a lot over the years, when it comes to out-stubborning some kind of technical glitch. So far, I have been able to out-stubborn multiple software “upgrades,” new software installations that woofed their cookies, installation of new gizmos, transfers to new equipment, removal of crapware, eviction of malware (not, I am happy to report, on MY computer) and a whole host of other things that routinely drive anyone even moderately technically competent nuts.

I know this isn’t the most widely read blog in the ‘sphere, but when the whole thing’s crashed it’s even less well read than ever. I just went through three days of trying to out-stubborn both the software and my web hosts. Now, I hasten to say here that I generally like the web hosts (1&1) but across all platforms and in all venues where technical support people are given scripts to read (and this is hardly the only place where that’s the problem) I keep running into situations where the script doesn’t fit the circumstances. (I’d love to get a load of the comments I’m sure the cable company has attached to our account.)

So…  ok. Problem vanquished.

Now, all I have to do is actually WRITE something from time to time.

Hope you'll recommend my posts via your favorite social media. Just don't copy the material as your own.

December 17, 2013
by infmom
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It’s official. I have no fashion sense.

My mother had a great sense of style, and no matter what she wore, she looked fabulous. She picked out my clothes for me till the time I went away to college and I had no problem whatsoever with that. I have never had any particular interest in shopping for clothes.

jeans watch pocket

jeans watch pocket (Photo credit: Muffet)

Since I’ve been out on my own, I have worn whatever’s required for work, and in my off-work hours it was strictly jeans and a t-shirt or a sweater. Now that I’ve retired from working for other people and have been working for myself, it’s jeans and t-shirts or sweaters all the way.

I’ve long been a fan of shopping for nearly all my clothes at thrift stores (I draw the line at buying underwear or shoes there, let me make that perfectly clear).  Since I’ve been on Weight Watchers for just over a year, I have lost 35 pounds (with more to go) and it makes no sense to buy brand new clothing when my size changes from month to month. So I have been visiting the thrift stores more often.

And thus I have discovered that the manufacturers of women’s jeans do not believe women need real pockets. Before I caught on to this, I bought a couple of pairs of jeans with pockets so short I could barely fit the length of my fingers in them. (They went right into our donations bin–no sense hanging on to stuff that doesn’t work.) Maybe other women just use the pockets for decoration, but I keep stuff in my pockets. Always.

I have a nail clipper in my pocket just like my dad did. I have a plastic carry case with earplugs in it (because my hearing is so sensitive I can’t survive in the outside world without them). I have a Victorinox MiniChamp knife, because you never know when you’ll need one of those tools or a tiny ballpoint pen. And I have a teardrop shaped, clear quartz stone that I’ve carried around for close to 30 years.

That stuff takes a certain amount of pocket depth. I do not want to risk losing any of it. In fact, I put away my stone because it fell out of my pocket so many times (fortunately, here at home where I can easily retrieve it) and started carrying a much smaller, less lose-able stone instead. (Story of stone-carrying, a hereditary trait, something to be told another day.)

So it is clear that I am out of step with what is fashionable once again. If I find jeans that fit me at the thrift store, the first thing I have to do is push a hand into the pockets to see if they’re real or just a fashion accessory. I put back a lot of jeans that would otherwise be fine. And there’s no consistency among brands, either, so I can’t be assured that I pick this or that brand I’ll get actual pockets.

What’s a non-fashionista to do?

Hope you'll recommend my posts via your favorite social media. Just don't copy the material as your own.

November 22, 2013
by infmom
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11/22/63

11/22/63

I was not quite 13 years old and in the 8th grade in Fairfield, Iowa. Since our house was only two blocks from the school, I almost always went home for lunch rather than eating in the cafeteria.

I had just started making a sandwich when I heard my mother say “Oh my God!” She was not a daytime TV viewer, so I’m guessing she heard the news on the radio, but I just don’t remember for sure.

My parents didn’t allow a TV in the living room–in this house, it was in their bedroom. I joined my mother in the bedroom and we stared at the TV in disbelief.

Then I ran back to the kitchen, threw my sandwich away and raced back to school. A group of my friends was standing around outside the front door and they (quite naturally) did not believe me when I blurted out the news.

Our homeroom classroom was one of only a few that had a TV in it (so we could take conversational Spanish lessons on KTVO, Kirksville-Ottumwa) so I insisted that we break the rules and go to the classroom and turn on the TV. On any other day, doing that would have landed us all in a boatload of trouble… but not that day.

The teacher, Mrs. Adrian, kept the TV on and we watched in stunned silence. KTVO was an independent station that got its feeds from several sources. It was Walter Cronkite who gave us the final news. Not long afterwards, the principal, Mr. Carter, came on the PA system to anounce it to the rest of the school.

I remember that day as being dark and grey, but whether that was the weather or the news coloring my memory, I do not know.

I was watching TV in my parents’ bedroom on Sunday. My mom told me to turn it off because enough was enough, but I wanted to watch them move Oswald. There was a bang and a tussle, and I thought he’d tried to escape. Then they announced he’d been shot as well. I don’t remember which news feed I was watching, but it wasn’t the one that’s endlessly replayed when that day is talked about. I’ve only seen the images I saw that day once since then and I didn’t think to make a note of where it came from. I have what’s commonly called a photographic memory and I remember images quite clearly, so I do know what it was I saw.

I wonder if we’ll ever find out what really happened? Between the true believers and the conspiracy theorists, the waters have been muddied so much that I doubt anyone will ever find the facts.

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July 8, 2013
by infmom
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Life does go on

Many years ago there was a show called Ben Casey (about a cranky neurosurgeon, if kid1anyone cares) that started off with the phrase “Man, woman, birth, death, infinity.” I’ve been thinking about that a lot recently.
Realized I haven’t posted much on my journal in quite a while. Mostly it’s due to lack of time. I’m writing regularly for the 7Tutorials web site, and working on my third novel, and… well, life. So let me bring things more or less up to date.

Man: My son got a new job. It’s a much better work environment than his last job. Work environment can make up for a lot in a job, or it can make an otherwise good job miserable (as I can personally attest). My husband’s company moved its office clear across the LA megalopolis, which meant a LOT of extra work for his department, but unlike many of his previous employers, this one handed out both tangible and intangible rewards for the work. I’m so happy he’s not working for penny-ante big-ego small-budget outfits any more.

Woman: Besides what I mentioned above, as I talked about in previous posts I joined Weight Watchers last October. The American Diabetes Association had a pilot program that offered people three free months and after looking at the ghastly photos of me from our 40th anniversary/wedding reception party late in September I jumped at the opportunity. I’ve lost weight slowly but steadily, feel 100% better and am now using a bare fraction of the insulin I used to use. In fact, my doctor just told me that my blood sugar is under “tight control” and I will probably be able to stop using the long-lasting insulin completely before the end of the year. I’m already using so little of it that I’m throwing out nearly half a bottle every month (you have to discard the bottle after 30 days). Last September I was a tight squeeze in a size 24. Today I’m taking in the waist of another pair of size 18 jeans.

Birth: Our daughter and her wife are expecting their first child in August. I’ve given her the baby clothes that I saved for all these years. There’s not a lot of them, just special outfits like her brother’s first overalls, the onesie she came home from the hospital in, several small sleeping bags and assorted t-shirts. There’s still a bag of cloth diapers out in the garage, which I’m sure we’ll unearth one of these days. The kidlet will have diaper service, so these can be used for shoulder pads. I’m still sorting out toys from days gone by. I renovated the Playskool giraffe that both kids used, and will be rebuilding a little house with furniture and animals that was one of a pair I made for Christmas presents one year. I will need to replace all the plastic needlepoint canvas inside it. Apparently that stuff just falls apart over time. Who knew? I’m also working on a baby quilt that will have blocks in my own design, which somehow or other I never got around to actually sewing for all these years since I created it during my active quilting days. Oh, and hosting a baby shower, about which I know pretty much zero.

Death: We lost our beloved cat Tybalt at the end of April. He was 19 years old and had been in declining health for quite some time. We put off the inevitable for a long time, too, but finally we had to take him on his final journey. The vet treated him with kindness and respect and Tybalt died in my arms, knowing that he was loved. I still hear his claws clicking in the hallway from time to time and once in a while I’ll see him on his favorite spot on the couch, late at night. He came with us to this house. The other two cats are still adjusting to not having Tyb around, I think. They were both very much bonded to him and miss him a lot.

Infinity: Learning more about my ancestors. Delighting in my descendants. What more can be said about the circle of life?

Hope you'll recommend my posts via your favorite social media. Just don't copy the material as your own.