This ordinary girl finds time each day to sit and stare at her gardens. I don’t take very many pictures. I don’t write about them often. I just sit and watch. And do you know what? So much happens. Bugs eat other bugs. Bees, flies, moths, butterflies and hummingbirds feed from the same plant at the same time. Cicadas molt. Milkworm beetles open pods. Interesting caterpillars visit. Spiders are born. The best part is nothing yells at anything, nothing is told it’s wrong, nothing is asked to stop doing its job. Look at these photos that represent less than 10% of the life and activity in my gardens and just imagine all the birth, death, pollination, visitation, and beauty that amounts to ten million fold fifty-and-still counting inane bits and pieces of survival. Life is fascinating. Enjoy.
This past weekend, I stuck my arm into an explosion of bubbles, generated my own salt crystals, and watched my Sonic strawberry shake erupt like a mini volcano. The common factor in all three events, I think, is a reaction caused by temperatures well above fifty and still counting degrees Fahrenheit.
Let me remind you that unlike Bill Nye the Science Guy, I’m not a scientist. I do, however, have a master’s degree in writing.
Bubbles are great fun. I loved blowing bubbles for kids before I had my own kids. I worked in daycares and Montessori schools during my high school and early college years. I haven’t blown bubbles for years but managed to create a bubble dome that could’ve encapsulated a full-grown adult this past weekend.
Each summer, I groom our dog, Ivo Pepper, an English springer spaniel, to keep him cool and our house free of burs and seeds and grass. Due to searing temperatures and insane humidity, I shaved Ivo in our large, underutilized jet tub instead of in the usual location, the backyard. The grooming went well, but the tub required a deep clean.
Ivo Pepper feels cool and frisky with his freshly shaved coat.
I’ve cleaned the tub before. I fill it with hot water up to the jets and add some granular dishwasher soap. Since we switched from powder to pods, this time I added dish soap and a little bleach. I turned on the jets, intending to let them run for a good half hour. Sometime late in the afternoon, I returned to the bathroom and discovered the big, beautiful bubble dome.
I slowly stuck my fingers into the mass, then my whole arm. I pulled out. The dome maintained its shape and density.
But alas, all good things must come to an end. I reached through the bubble dome, towards the drain. I couldn’t reach the plug because the water was too hot — much hotter than it ever had been in the handful of times the tub was used for its intended purpose, a bath.
I waited for the water to cool before opening the drain. Finally the dome began to descend. I’m not a physicist, but I believe the cooler air from the drain compromised the structural integrity of the dome. At any rate, I thought the whole experience was pretty darn cool.
Almost as cool as the discovery I made the following morning, which is that my body can make salt crystals. I’m not a doctor, so I don’t think this is something that should be achieved on a regular basis, but I sure did impress my silly self.
My Saturday morning goal was to ride the 13.6-mile path around Lake Stanley Draper two, maybe three times. I arrived at the lake late in the morning, when temperatures were already above 80 and the humidity high. I completed the first lap in less than an hour and felt great. Perfect! Time for lap two.
My beautiful blue bicycle at Lake Stanley Draper.
The temperature kept rising as did wind speed and consistency. I fatigued eight miles into my second lap. I rested in some shade for a few minutes, snacked on my energy pack of fruit gems, nuts, yogurt-coated raisins and figs, drank some water, and saddled up.
I made it back to my car successfully and not too worse for the wear. My fifty-and-still counting years of life have taught me to approach almost all things with caution, which on this day meant coasting as much as possible for the last five miles and to call it a good ride. No third lap for me.
Once in my car, I craved a strawberry milkshake. As I drove towards the Sonic, I realized my skin was spotted with visible white grains. Collecting sand and dirt and pollen during bike rides isn’t new to me, but when I rubbed my arm to remove the spots, the sensation was similar to using a loofah sponge. I stopped at a red light, and wondered — salt?
The little white dots are actual clumps of salt that formed when my sweat dried!
I did what any normal person would do. I licked myself. Just a small spot, on my arm. I tasted like an original Lay’s potato chip. Intrigued, I carefully collected a few of the crystals on the end of my finger and sampled again. Mmm, I was salty!
I reached the Sonic and placed my order. While waiting for my strawberry shake, fries and grilled cheese sandwich to arrive, I used my phone to conduct a little research. “Can I make salt crystals with my body?”
The answer is yes! During heat and high humidity, a person’s sweat can contain a high enough concentration of salt that solidifies as the sweat dries. Cool!
Even cooler? My strawberry shake! I carefully cradled my sweet treat and placed it in the console cupholder. Without warning, the shake blew its plastic dome top. A sticky mess covered my hands and dribbled onto my lap and car seat. Like lava, the shake continued to flow down the sides of the cup into the pockets of the center console.
The mess my milkshake made in my car.
I’m not a physicist, but my guess is that the change in temperature from the cold milkshake machine to nearly 100 degrees Fahrenheit outside to the cooler interior of my car caused the volcanic reaction.
I reacted by bringing my meal into my airconditioned house and eating it. The fries were sufficiently salty, the shake sweet, and the sandwich cheesy.
Mmmmm, milkshake.
A fifty-and-still counting girl doesn’t have to be a scientist, professional groomer, paid cyclist, doctor, esthetician, or physicist to appreciate a bubble dome, groomed dog, exfoliated skin, truncated bicycle ride, or strawberry milkshake; she just needs to be an ordinary girl who discovers ways to keep cool during hot times in this weird, wacky, wild, wonderful world.
I have a friend. Actually, in my fifty-and-still-counting years of life and five states that I’ve lived in, I’ve collected more than one friend. I’m lucky because I found some of the best ones in Oregon.
I lived in Oregon for four years in the late 1990s. While there, I and some fantastic ladies formed Ladies’ Night. LN met each Tuesday evening, the night the boys chose to go mountain biking. We extended LN to entire weekends, known as LW (Ladies’ Weekend) one or two times a year.
Rock-solid ladies during a Ladies’ Weekend. Circa late 1990s.
After I left Oregon, I no longer participated in LW. My sweet, sweet girlfriends never lost track of me and kept me apprised of every single LW throughout the years. This year, I finally committed to attending. And boy — errrrr — girl, let me tell you, it was the best thing I have done for myself in a very, very, very long time. These friends are rock solid.
Nothing significant or crazy happened over the weekend. We completed a poorly designed jigsaw puzzle. We walked and talked. We ate, drank (not as much as we used to), played games, and listened to one another. We watched Wine Country (because we were in Oregon wine country) and Dirty Dancing (not because of Patrick Swayze but because of the “I carried a watermelon” line, something one of the rock-solid ladies brought up during the food planning process). We visited a bar and a winery, and mostly spent time together.
A rock solid weekend that wouldn’t have happened if H Craw didn’t find us the beautiful farmhouse rental. H Craw was the first person I texted after purchasing my airplane ticket. I wanted to confirm there was still space for me in the house. We have to distinguish the Heathers some how, since we also have a H Mo. Then I texted Nia to see if she was as rock-solidly dedicated to LW as I was.
Nia, who clearly is not one of the Heathers, is one of the ladies who still lives in Oregon. She said she was going to a rock and gem show that weekend, an event she attends every year.
See what I mean about rock-solid friends?
Then she said if you’re going to LW, then I’m going to LW.
What type of friend offers to forego an annual event to visit with me and ten other ladies for three days? I’ll tell you — a rock-solid friend who brings a puzzle to LW!
Nia and I with the completed Shitshow puzzle, provided by Nia and her sister Joyce.
So, what do you think I did next? I told Mike, my husband, that we needed to go find some Oklahoma rocks for me to bring to LW! Sound stupid and boring? Well, guess what, my reader friend (if I get to know you better, perhaps we can be rock-solid friends too)? Oklahoma is home to two unique formations of interest to rock and gem enthusiasts — selenite crystals and rose rocks.
Mike and I set out to find us some good old Oklahoma-grown crystals. We loaded a bucket, shovels, gloves, and bottles of water in the care and drove to the Salt Plains National Wildlife Refuge. Here, on the salt flats, we dug for the hour-glass shaped selenite crystals, which are formed when saline groundwater comes into contact with gypsum. We found several in minutes but dug for a few hours in an attempt to find prettier, unchipped, completed (meaning full hourglass shaped) crystals.
Me backbending at Salt Plains National Wildlife Refuge. I learned how to backbend properly at the age of fifty-and-still-counting at Fusion Yoga, Norman, Oklahoma.
A few weeks later, Mike, Alice, Zachary and I attempted to collect rose rocks on the shores of Lake Stanley Draper. Rains had recently drenched all of Oklahoma, resulting in high waters. We couldn’t get to the shore where rose rocks were reported to occur in abundance and size, so instead we enjoyed a walk on part of the 13.5 paved trail that encircles the lake.
Zachary (my son), me, Mike (my hubby), and Alice at Lake Stanley Draper.
Not to be deterred, I set out again by myself during a drier spell. This time, I visited the shores of Lake Thunderbird, the main water source for Norman, Oklahoma. I found my way to a bit of sandy exposed shore where an abundance of rose rocks sat waiting for me (or someone, or maybe no one) to pick them up and bring them home.
Rose rocks found at Lake Thunderbird.
I brought the best specimens with me to LW in wine country in Rickreall. I gave them to Nia. As I interacted with my friends, most of whom I haven’t traded a single word with for ten, fifteen years, I marveled at our rock-solidness. We formed almost thirty years ago through a process that involved a dwelling called the Chicken House; Beer beer; the Heathers; Nia and her sister Joyce and their cousin Karen; a love and desire for womenship; and so many other indescribable intricate processes and people that will never be explainable.
And that right there is the definition of rock-solid. Something carved out of so many elements that have rubbed, flattened, crushed, shifted, supported and carried each other for so many years and still stands, and does not need to be fully described.
Me, sporting fit-overs, feeling rock-solid while visiting friends in Oregon’s wine country.
This ordinary girl sits on her rock-solid ass, contemplating the lesson she wishes to share with you today: Get yourself a watermelon and gather your rock-solid friends to puzzle over why Patrick Swayze’s half-dressed character lures a teenage girl into dancing dirty with him for the purpose of entertaining rich families who spend their summers at an elite beachside resort. I bet they never even went rockhounding. What a shitshow, if I may say so — and I may, because that is rock-solid something someone who is fifty-and-still-counting gets to say.
Prompts and peanut butter. This is my answer to a very common question posed to writers:
“What distracts you from writing this week?”
I responded to such a query on Facebook not too long ago, but over time, expanded my answer and extrapolated my responses through the end of the current academic term.
Are writing prompts helpful? I’m not sure I’m the one to answer this question, because as you will see from my response, I tend to be scatter-brained.
It’s helpful for some writers to analyze how their time is spent, to meet a daily word count, or to finish a section of a piece by a certain date. Although I thrive by deadlines set for me by someone else, I’m terrible at assigning them for myself.
Which is possibly why I have about 50-and-still-counting unfinished products. This ordinary girl begins an average of a piece per week, and has done so for at least ten years. Now, I’m no math mathematician, but I believe that means I ought to have over 500 publishable things saved as documents on my computer.
The truth is very few of these documents are completed.
It’s super easy for me to say that my distractions come in the form of family, pets and work. The truth, however, is that many distractions are self-imposed. Why, then, can’t I ignore them?
My answer is the same one for why I can’t keep my paws out of the peanut butter. It’s a sticky situation. I stick myself in a chair to write, but then don’t know where to begin, and so find something tangible that I can complete instead— including crafting crazy thoughts that may or may not be related to writing.
Then, before I know it, my butt is no longer in my writing chair and my hand is in the peanut butter jar. I need peanut butter as much as I need a taxidermy raccoon whose hand is stuck in a peanut butter jar. Seriously. My husband offered to buy me one while visiting the Oddities and Curiosities Exposition in Tulsa, Oklahoma with our daughter.
The peanut butter raccoon. Photo by Alice Lee Wimberly (@aliceleewimberly)
What happened to sticking my butt in the writing chair? Read my semester’s worth of honest (but not very good) answers to “What distracts you from writing this week?” to find out.
Week 1:
Peanut butter. I can’t eat it anymore without feeling sick. My husband thinks the peanut butter killed the squirrel. He asked me if he should buy it as a reminder to me so that I also do not die from undigested peanut butter. I said no.
A really difficult Elf puzzle that my daughter gifted me for Christmas. Puzzles are my compulsion. I love it, I hate it, I can’t stop working on it until it’s done.
My inability to happily digest peanut butter and complete the Elf puzzle and a lumpish mass on my leg.
The bump on my leg is growing. The bump is sort of like something you might see on Dr. Pimple Popper, so I’m a little freaked out. It began as a bruise after I crashed my road bike last summer. Yes, I’m seeking a diagnosis and care, which has nothing to do with writing, and is taking time, but also provides an additional answer for number 2.
Week 2:
There is no more peanut butter in the house, so now I’m consumed with the thought of purchasing more, which tastes delicious, or avoiding the store altogether so I don’t purchase any because I know it upsets my stomach.
If I buy the peanut butter, I can use it to build squirrel feeders.
If I build squirrel feeders, I’ll have less time to write… and work. Or exercise.
Exercise keeps me from writing. I strive for an hour to an hour-and-a-half three to four days a week. Is that enough? Probably, if I refrain from eating peanut butter.
Week 3:
Grocery shopping. I can’t put it off anymore. My teenage son is near starving and has resorted to feeding himself raw sugar. We need more sugar. And apples. And perhaps broccoli. We don’t need more peanut butter. Isn’t that crazy?
The dogs need vet care. The one is old and makes a hacking sound. The other is overdue for shots.
Week 4:
Big-hearted Ivo Pepper on a kayak trip
Research on leaky valve disease, especially degenerative atrio-ventricular (mitral and tricuspid regurgitation), in dogs, as the vet told me my older dog suffers from this. His heart is too big on the right side. In this way only, he is like the Grinch.
That’s it. Dog research takes up a lot of time, even though everything I read has already been thoroughly explained to me by the extremely competent and communicative vet.
Week 5:
Parent-teacher conferences. Actually, the conferences take up very little time, since each overworked teacher can spare 15 minutes max with each parent. But the meetings themselves are not too distracting; all the thoughts and failed attempts at discovering what my kid does each day in school is distracting and time consuming and often results in absolutely no new information.
The bump on my leg is mine. I might as well name it. The doc said it’s likely to grow bigger over a number of years before my body reabsorbs it. I have a fatty lipoma. Tell me how that is not distracting.
Week 6:
Midterms for the college kids I teach. They’re a good, no great, group of students this term.
Election outcomes. Yikes.
Week 7:
Me, my daughter, my son and my husband at my daughter’s senior showcase in Chicago
Travel to my daughter’s art show. Okay, that sounds like a big deal, which it is, but really, it’s an art show that graduating seniors need to participate in to receive a college degree. Still, it was in Chicago and was very fun.
My sisters came to the art show to support my daughter. One of my sisters is a doctor. She agrees with my doctor. My fatty lipoma is dispersed, not worthy of removal, probably will grow bigger, and most likely will recede after a number of years.
Weeks 8 and 9:
Laundry and other recovery tasks from two-and-a-half days in Chicago. Seriously. And the laundry from our spring break trip to Port Aransas two weeks ago.
Week 10:
Figuring out a way to convince a few select students that the definition of a sentence is a string of words that includes a subject, verb, and object — in that order. Come on! We’re nearing the end of the term!
Figuring out how to convince my students to continue to produce quality work, or, as the case may be, to prove to me they can produce quality work.
Reminding myself that I still like this group of students very much, because it’s true, I do. I just wish a few could show me how to write a friggin’ sentence.
Week 11:
Who bought the peanut butter? Because now I have a stomachache again, and will for a few days, which will distract me as I walk around the house, asking “Who bought the peanut butter?”. My hubby and son will claim no guilt and instead reply “Why did you eat the peanut butter?” to which I will craft, but not utter, several responsible responses, such as “Because it is in our cupboard.”
Week 12:
Look at me! I’m writing! At the library! No peanut butter or laundry or red clay on my floors to distract me!
But is writing this list actually writing, as in writing something that’s worthwhile and clever? Should I be writing something else?
The person in a space near me is making weird sneezing/coughing/nose blowing sounds. This is the second time in one week. How can I end up next to the same no(i)sy person twice in one week? Any statisticians in the house?
Week 13:
I’m thinking while writing during Easter week 2025. I’m distracted by an event that happened 17 years ago.
Holy shit. This is the week my hubby takes a work trip for a number of days. It’s just the kid and me. Do 16-year-old boys still want to hunt plastic easter eggs hidden in not-quite-green lawns and poky shrubbery?
Holy smokes. Did I just cuss during holy week? Am I going to hell? Is it really hot in hell? I remember one time when I attended a meeting for new mothers that was housed at a church. The meeting people offered free daycare. So I stuck my kid in a room with about twelve other kids and a few adults. I went to the parent meeting, which was really a conservative Baptist meeting for women, and left a little early to pick up my four-year-old daughter. I asked her what she did. She said she learned about hell and how the devil lives below us. She asked me, as we stepped over a street grate that emitted warm air, if that’s where the devil lived. *Sigh*
Remembering and writing stories from a long time ago easily distract me.
Week 14:
The college kids took their final exams and turned in their final papers. My distraction for the next week or so will be grading their final papers. But wait, there’s more!
I attended a writer’s conference at the end of the week and am once again be inspired to keep my ass in my writing chair!
Week 15:
My daughter’s graduation week! I won’t be with her in Chicago, but my hubby will.
My son’s final exam week as a high school sophomore! I’ve spent my time making lists of how to keep myself occupied so that I don’t distract my son. I’ll complete my grading, then find other distractions…or maybe, I’ll seriously start writing.
Two summers ago, I spent fifty-plus hours drafting twenty-two resumes to fit the criteria of more than 30 advertised positions. I landed two interviews. During one interview, I realized I really didn’t want the job (and wasn’t offered it), and the other was for a part-time position that was awarded to someone else.
Here is a partial list of my many resumes.
My morale took a huge hit. I’d just completed my Master’s in Professional Writing in the hopes of securing a job that included words. This fifty-and-still-counting ordinary gal felt she was not good enough, not smart enough, and that people might not like her – words that hurt and that are the antithesis of Stuart Stuart Smalley’s Daily Affirmations.
To improve my chances of not being overlooked, I researched “how to write the perfect resume” and “resumes for people over 50.”
The above-50 job seeker is not ready to stop working and desires a career change.
The job seeker is ready for or close to retirement but doesn’t want to remain idle at home.
The job seeker possesses a strong, specific knowledge or skill set that is easily transferrable and will ensure emotional, financial and geographic success.
My long-haul career doesn’t recognize retirement or idleness, nor do I contain a super-specific talent that easily crosses borders. My specific knowledge set fits into the bag of a handy-Anne (get it?) and includes things like removing stains from all types of fabrics, personal grocery shopping, daily scheduler, pet technician, gardener, housecleaner, spokesperson, and chauffeur.
I’ve also earned wages that require tax forms. I worked as a forester, cartographer, database manager and educator. Sometimes I worked full-time, sometimes I squeezed hours in where I could.
My challenge two years ago was to translate this magical menagerie of abilities into a digital resume that is scanned for keywords such as customer service, leadership, accountability, self-starter, editor, writer, ability to communicate. I can, and have, completed all these tasks, but couldn’t condense that message enough to make a difference to resume readers, most of which are computerized algorithms.
Graduation day! May 12, 2023
Here is what I learned that the articles did not mention during my summer of resume writing:
Skills with part-time status hold little value. Algorithms divide the skills listed for a position by one another and by the number of projected hours worked in a year. If that skill doesn’t meet the advertised time commitment, the application is tossed.
Volunteerism often does not count towards required experience.
Potential employees have little opportunity to discuss talents with a human being during initial screening processes.
Given these restrictions, how can I brand myself in a manner that showcases my many faceted skills so that I can be hired in my dream job? Or even to work part-time at the local big box store for $9-$12 an hour?
I couldn’t. I filled out applications and slugged through digital interview processes for several big box stores without success.
Have you ever participated in digital interviews? They are entirely humiliating yet seem to be increasingly popular. A pre-recorded person will ask you questions, and you answer via video. There is no conversation. It’s just you talking to your computer screen, kind of like Stuart Smalley talking to his mirror. That’s the first impression a hiring agency gets of you. A grainy, imperfect, image of you talking to a computer.
For fun, I messed around in Canva to see if I could create a picturesque brand to include with my employment papers. I wanted something that said “Hire me!” “I’m unique!” “I can do it!”
This Canva artwork is how I wish to present myself to potential employers.
Luckily, I didn’t need to include my Slushee-zebra monster – magic mushroom campaign to prove my candidacy. Instead, a wonderful human being who served as my committee chair for my master’s thesis offered me a position as an adjunct. She knew me as a person, writer and educator.
Which reiterates my concern of how impersonal the job application market has become. The loss of personal connections is scary. Resumes and job applications share words, not personalities.
I’m fortunate that my personality resonated well with my current boss, and that I now have a part-time job that pays more than $12 an hour.
I realize that searching for employment is a struggle for many people, not just those of us who are fifty-and-still-counting. Many young adults I’ve talked to have expressed frustration with similar obstacles. The one difference is that many of the jobs they apply for, jobs that used to be considered entry-level positions such as baristas, retail associates, cashiers, now search for people with 1-4 years of experience.
Where does this leave those who are seeking employment?
I have no idea, unfortunately. But, if I ever crack the SEO code of algorithms related to job searches, and find human sources to talk to before filling out applications, I’ll let you know.
Most importantly, even though this ordinary girl may have never met you, she wants to share three things with you, in all sincerity, that she learned long ago from Stuart Smalley:
You are good enough.
You are smart enough.
People like you.
Eventually, someone will help connect you to the lifestyle of a tax-paying, contributing, successful working member of society. You may not secure your dream job, but you will at least have enough money to putz around in the free version of Canva to create a strong brand for yourself.
When you do get a job, consider it my honor to welcome you to the club!
Not as in crazy sale days that small (and large, and maybe medium) towns across the Midwest (and maybe other parts of the country) host in the high heat in the middle of each summer (or fall, winter and spring). Clearly, crazy day sales is not something I research.
I’m talking elections, undeliverable ballots (WHY?), voting restrictions in states such as Oklahoma and Texas compared to, say, Illinois — events that occurred over the last few days and have encroached into the limited space that’s left in my brain.
The space in my brain is limited because it’s full of 50-and-still-counting years of collecting and analyzing information while trying to maintain some semblance of emotional normalcy.
My husband, an ecologist who studies landscape management, believes he can build a model that would successfully predict my growth and changes in reaction to natural and human disturbances. He calls this nonexistent model Anne-scape Management.
Sometimes I do wish that an automated system could manage me. The system would guide me through the steps of removing dirty clothes from the floor to hanging them neatly in a closet; reading student papers efficiently while providing helpful feedback and a desirable grade; getting dressed and happily (happily being the operative word here) walking the dogs every morning.
Ivo and Slushee help garden.
I hope that the automated system has a turn-off button. The system needs to turn off the moment I experience relaxation. Not any relaxation, though, relaxation with joy. Like writing a really good article. Or reading a fantastic book. Or working in the garden. Creating a card to send to a loved one. Cooking a nice meal with my family. Yoga.
This is why I feel crazy. I want to not emote. I want to accept things as they come. I want to tell people that everything will be okay, when, clearly, it isn’t.
I’ve had this feeling of desperation several times in my life. Each instance has been temporary, like the time I got lost in the woods and spent the night hunkered down on a cliff’s edge. I could hear the roaring river below me. I was terrified yet had the best sleep of my life that night.
Years later, I was about to give birth to my son. The obgyn told me all sorts of things during my pregnancy that culminated in an early decision that this kid was going to be a NICU kid. I didn’t understand the reasoning. Then the kid came early, was delivered by a different doctor, and I had no choice.
My obgyn called me after my son was born and admitted to the NICU to say she thought she’d made a mistake, this pregnancy probably was more normal than she thought, the baby probably was in utero the right amount of time, she (and I) just didn’t realize how pregnant I was when I walked into her clinic for the first pregnancy visit.
Boy, I can’t tell you how exactly frickin’ crazy I felt during that phone call.
Fast forward again, several years later, to another major crazy days period of my life. My 89-year old mother was dying. I live far from my parents. Many of my siblings live within proximity and checked in with my folks daily. I’m forever grateful for the time they’ve spent with my parents, and now, with my father.
I managed to visit my parents one or two times a year. My husband and I also hosted them at our home each year. When we knew my mother was sick, I visited without my husband and children. I returned home in tears to tell my husband and children that my mother was dying.
My mother, me, and my father.
I recalled how, during my visit, I sat with one of my sisters minutes before a family video call. I told her Mom was dying. She told me that the point of the call was to keep Mom alive, not to talk about her death.
The call began. My siblings discussed practical things for my mother, how to get her places, how to keep her company, what and when to feed her. How far she could walk.
I felt crazy. Everyone knew Mom was sick. And old. And dying. But the topic was taboo. But death was exactly what I wanted to talk about.
Even though many other crazy moments in my life have occurred, I want to return to the present. To today. Wednesday, November 6, 2024.
The one thing that sets this day apart from the others I described is that the craziness I feel today isn’t unique. It isn’t my own. It’s a shared crazy. And one, ironically, that I prepared myself for, in much the same way I prepared for my mother’s death.
A deep, unspoken part of me knew that this would be the outcome. I wanted Kamala to win. I wanted to be a proud American who could say “Look at us, World! We’re progressing! We care about you!”
However, I kept asking myself What will I do when, not if, Trump is elected? How will I approach conversations that erupt around me? How can I ward off fear and promote hope for my children? For my husband? For myself?
I, like many of you, have witnessed the growth of misinformation and disinformation on the internet, and the takeover of local news outlets by rich, powerful individuals and corporations. People love rumors, love to be the first to hear and share shocking information. People dream of being the one who can easily manipulate others, even with all the anti-bullying rhetoric that has flooded our schools.
All of this helped me believe in the inevitable.
My answer to What will I do seems to be generated by the yet-to-be-built Anne-scape model. My response is deceptive in that it is self-serving.
My answer follows the advice given to me by grief counselors I visited following my mother’s death.
My answer echoes the directives my kind delivery doctor gave immediately after my son was born and a day before my husband left to be with his dying father.
My answer follows what my brain told my body to do when I was precariously perched on a cliff, high above a raging river.
My answer: Take care of myself.
Then take care of my family, my friends and community. In this order.
Here are some ways in which I feel I can manage the upcoming Crazy Days:
Pick up my dirty clothes, wash and fold them, and put them away in the closet. Then do the same for my husband and son and anyone who visits my home.
Grade my students’ papers with integrity and not worry about their grades because college courses are a great and safe place to fail — and succeed.
Relish feeding my family because we are good at planning, preparing and eating meals together.
Walk the dogs with joy every day.
Read and write and garden without feeling crazy for what I have, who I am, what I am willing to do.
Send you, dear reader, this homemade card.
Practice yoga.
I empathize with everyone who feels crazy. I empathize with those who feel threatened, scared, angry, abused, ignored. I’m not sure how to help you except to say don’t be like Homer Simpson.
These days are crazy, but you and I — we are not crazy.
At least, I believe this would be of the outcome of the yet-to-be-built Anne-scape model.
This ordinary girl truly hopes that you find a way not sell yourself short during these Crazy Days. Buy into caring for your physical, mental, emotional and intellectual self. Support your loved ones. Take time to do something that is uniquely you once in a while.
Crazy days can last a long time, but rarely do they last forever.
I can’t remember when I had a summer as eventful as the summer of 2024. Oh, I know I’m writing this in early September, which falls into astronomical summer, because real fall doesn’t start until September 22. Some of us, however, returned to school and work in August, which feels like our summer is truncated, even though our school years end in May, which is technically not summer, but spring.
The southern California coastline, looking north, towards Los Angeles.
My point is not to give you a lesson in the astronomical seasons, but to tell you that I had an adventurous summer. My family and I traveled to and through eleven states (Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, California, Nevada, Utah, Wyoming, Montana, Nebraska, Kansas, Oklahoma) to attend a funeral, bar mitzvah and a family reunion. We visited three national parks and two national monuments. We hiked, swam, fished, drove and drove and drove. I got shingles in my eye, had some kind of bronchial infection, and entered into a new phase of my life that feels insanely unique but is experienced by half of the human population — menopause. I’ve learned that “this stage of life” is still discussed in hushed whispers amongst friends and acquaintances. Whispering is not my style, so I’m going to keep on sharing.
Menopausal me, on a trail in the Grand Teton National Park, hiking and hiding my shingles.
I feel like I have been kidnapped by two different parties — one that wants me to never sleep, and one that wants me to sleep for long hours. Every evening, my criminal menopausal mind asks me to choose between Doritos or ice cream for dinner, sans salad. Every morning, I feel like I’m climbing the Cliffs of Insanity after avoiding the Fire Swamp where Rodents of Unusual Size entangle me in the bedding (hear me, Ladies?).
Okay, I may be borrowing from William Goldman’s adventure novel The Princess Bride, S. Morgenstern’s Classic Tale of True Love and High-Adventure, The “Good Parts” Versions, abridged by William Goldman, which was published fifty-and-still-counting years ago. This book is one of my all-time favorites, and the first one we listened to during our car trip through eleven states earlier this summer. More than ever, I appreciated the characters, the adventures, and the unpredictability. In my current “stage of life”, I can be as mean as Count Rugen, as selfish as Prince Humperdinck, as alone as Fennik, as vengeful as Inigo Montoya, and as heroic as Westley. Buttercup’s beauty is difficult to contest, but, well, she is still young. I’d like to see how she behaves during “this stage of life”.
The Dread Pirate Roberts, portrayed by Kermit the Frog, climbs the Cliffs of Insanity to reach Buttercup, portrayed by Purple Hippo.
The Princess Bride is one of my favorite books not only because it is humorous and adventurous, but because the good guys win and the bad guys lose. I hope not to lose my sanity to menopause. And to win back my ability to focus for more than five minutes. I would also like to lose the weight I’m gaining, the sudden cravings for something sweet or crunchy, and the sweating. So. Much. Sweat. I’d like to lose the mood swings. I hate mood swings. I hate the sweats. I hate the cravin – wait, I think I like the cravings! I love Doritos and chocolate chip ice cream! They’re unpredictable.
The Doritos and chocolate chip ice creams aren’t unpredictable; everything else is. And that’s something that menopause and The Princess Bride have in common. Nothing happens as predicted and every event is the beginning of something new – a new stage in life.
This ordinary girl, during this somewhat unpredictable and adventurous stage of her life, wrote a review of William Goldman’s The Princess Bride, S. Morgenstern’s Classic Tale of True Love and High-Adventure, The “Good Parts” Versions, abridged by William Goldman, during the first two weeks of September, which is technically summer but somewhat fall. Enjoy!
The Princess Bride, S. Morgenstern’s Classic Tale of True Love and High Adventure book jacket
Review
Reviewed Work: William Goldman, The Princess Bride, S. Morgenstern’s Classic Tale of True Love and High-Adventure, The “Good Parts” Versions, abridged by William Goldman (Harcourt, 2007), 456 pp. ISBN 978-0-015-603521-7.
Review by: A. M. Cosgrove Wimberly
599 words
September 9, 2024
William Goldman’s (1931-2018) enchanting novel The Princess Bride, S. Morgenstern’s Classic Tale of True Love and High-Adventure, The “Good Parts” Versions, abridged by William Goldman, was published in 1973. Goldman completed the screenplay on May 3, 1986. The Princess Bride movie, directed by Rob Reiner and released in 1987, pleased critics but not mainstream audiences. The film became popular after it reached the home movie market in July 2000.
Goldman wrote the book in a manner that is meant to be seen and heard. The story begins with a fictional Goldman who reveals that his grandfather read The Princess Bride to him when he was ill. The narrator Goldman reads the book to his son. He tells his son that the book was written by S. Morgenstern, setting himself up as a believable unreliable narrator.
Goldman further engages his readers by creating memorable characters. Each character has a unique voice and physical trait. Fezzik, the giant from Turkey, likes to rhyme. Inigo, the skinny Spaniard, repeats his name and vengeance. The short Sicilian Vizzini speaks in conditional statements and labels every conclusion as “inconceivable”. The very strong and handsome Farm Boy, also known as Westley and the Dread Pirate Roberts, proclaims his love for Buttercup by answering her every need with “As you wish”. Buttercup begins as nothing more than the most beautiful and innocent woman in the world but raises her voice as a queen when needed. Goldman cloaked every character with such vibrancy that, once read, are seen and heard.
Goldman burdens his characters with unforgettable inherited traits. Buttercup’s beauty is her curse, because it attracts the attention of Prince Humperdinck. Prince Humperdinck has no interest in marriage but is obligated to do so to keep his position upon his father’s death. Wesley is strong and handsome and loves Buttercup but is poor. Although these traits impede each character’s progress, they become strengths throughout moments of uncertainty.
Goldman knows that a good story also needs physical obstacles. His characters swim past shrieking eels, climb the Cliffs of Insanity, partake in sword fights, play with poison, endure the Fire Swamp, and withstand separation and near death in the names of vengeance, trust and true love.
Goldman makes every character work very hard for what they want. He recognizes that in order to write a compelling story, no character is allowed to accomplish victory alone. Goldman introduces new, and just as colorful, characters at the mid-point and again at the beginning of the climax. One midpoint character is the albino who helps the six-fingered duke torture Westley, and the climax characters include the affectionate couple who are not witches, Valerie and Miracle Max. The addition of these characters prevents readers from becoming bored with the mainstream cast and add increased action and interest to the story.
The theme of this fairy-tale is true love, as written in the title. Goldman avoids definitively granting true love to Westley and Buttercup. He also is careful to not make Westley the only hero of the story. Inigo and Fezzik experience the classic hero’s journey — profound physical and emotional journeys that result in personal tragedy and triumph — more so than Westley, who always knew who he was through his love for Buttercup.
The Princess Bride, S. Morgenstern’s Classic Tale of True Love and High-Adventure, The “Good Parts” Versions, abridged by William Goldman contains every element required for a captivating story —colorful characters, awful obstacles, lack of successes, and a strong theme. The humorous book and movie continue to enchant audiences, some of whom still search for additional works by the fictional S. Morgenstern.
Fifty-four tornadoes have been recorded to date (May 7, 204) for the year 2024 in Oklahoma. Many storms have passed by Norman, where I live. Some of those were predicted to pass over my neighborhood, but, by some fate either dissipated or moved off in another direction.
Yesterday, May 6, 2024, several activities were cancelled due to expected bad weather for the second time in one week. The first set of cancelled activities occurred the weekend prior, which was unfortunate for several reasons – it was the weekend of: Norman Music Festival, a free festival that features hundreds of musicians; Festival of the Arts in Oklahoma City; various high school proms; competition for Olympic river rafters at Riversports OKC; and more.
My son and I already planned to complete work in the morning and attend activities in the afternoon. The cancellation of events that we hoped to attend (the Norman Music Festival and the Festival of the Arts) swirled with the repeated tornado warnings to create an ambience of anxiety and disappointment in our house.
We didn’t have to shelter until 9 p.m. the evening of April 27.
My kids in our tornado shelter during a weather event in 2022.
We grabbed everything we held dear and near to us – the dogs, the pet rats, the pet leopard gecko. My son managed to stuff his favorite puppy pillow under his arm, and I managed to transport my stemless glass of wine.
Yesterday’s storm warnings for Norman were for strong winds that had potential to become tornadic. The late afternoon breeze pushed some of the humidity out of the air. I didn’t want to wait in fear as I had the weekend prior. Instead, I stepped outside to investigate my gardens.
I’ve been planting more and more native species around my house. Every year, I add milkweeds for the monarchs and spread the seeds of previously planted wildflowers. I eagerly examine the milkweed for monarch eggs, caterpillars and chrysalis. I have yet to see any this year, but I did make an incredible discovery.
Native ladybug larvae.
Ladybug larvae! They look nothing like the beloved round red roly-poly critters we all know and love!
I have never seen these before. They are shaped nothing like the red, round buggers with black spots. They are long, sort of bumpy, black or grey with symmetrical orange spots. If they are one of milkweed, the likelihood is that they are on every milkweed. My discovery made me very, very, very happy.
My yard is host to a variety of butterflies, moths, bees and birds, but some years, like 2023, I find very few. The year prior, 2022, I counted over 50 monarch butterflies and chrysalis. Then, a huge storm came through and decimated most of them. My heart hurt.
Ladybugs are beneficial to the plants and to butterflies. The ladybugs eat aphids, scale insects, larvae and eggs that might harm plants beneficial to butterflies, or that might infest caterpillars and cocoons. The ladybugs in my garden will definitely not starve! See all those little dots in the photo? That’s some of their food.
The stock I plant comes from nurseries and citizens who collect samples locally. The memory for growth through drought, drenching downpours, winds and tornadoes rests within the seeds and roots of these plants. My hope is that they will withstand the forces of nature and help provide food and structure for monarchs and other butterflies, birds, bees and beetles.
A monarch on a native bee balm in my garden
We didn’t need to seek cover in our tornado shelter yesterday but we were jolted awake around midnight by the NWS automated wind warning. We watched the news and listened to weather reports. The predicted 80-mph winds bypassed Norman. We are fortunate, but, as always, our thoughts are with those whose homes, businesses and lives were impacted by yesterday’s weather.
This ordinary girl hopes to remain as resilient and splendid as the fifty-and still counting native plants that thrive in her garden, regardless of the storms that pass by. I hope, through my gardening and writing, that I brighten at least one person’s day.
This is a photo of me after I spent an hour or so in my garden during the windy weather of May 6, 2024.
This is the time of year when lists are made. Lists that record the 25, 50 and 100 best and worst moments of the previous year. Who really wants to revisit the most read digital stories of 2023 that include cataclysmic world-changing events, rich and famous people fighting, gun-toting children, wildfires, floods, and general mayhem?
I tend to gravitate towards lists that include the best movies and t.v. shows, such as this one from NPR. My favorite lists to peruse, however, are book lists from publishers such as the New Yorker. I like reading the titles and researching the authors but have become a picky reader in my curmudgeonly old age of 50-plus years. While reading about the creative talents and thrilling storylines, I find myself yearning to return to pieces of work that are familiar to me.
My own list of favorite books has not varied much over the years. In fact, my core list is comprised of 5 texts, a number much smaller than 50 and still counting. In no particular order, here is my must-read list:
Four out of five of my favorite books. The Princess Bride by William Goldman is missing. It’s in my house somewhere…
1. Siddhartha by Herman Hesse
2. I Heard the Owl Call My Name by Margaret Craven
3. The Bridge of San Luis Rey by Thornton Wilder
4. The Princess Bride by William Goldman; and
5. Like Water for Chocolate by Laura Esquivel.
Every year, I re-read at least one of these books. This past year, I re-read Like Water for Chocolate during Hispanic Heritage Month 2023. I was just as pleased by its magical realism as I was the first time I picked it up. I can’t recall if I initially read it of my own volition or if it was an assignment for a college class. I do remember that I received Purple Hippo as a Christmas gift from my father around the same time I first read Like Water for Chocolate. I remember because being gifted Purple Hippo as a twenty-something year old college student was a bit unusual, sort of like some of the events in Like Water for Chocolate. Purple Hippo was with me when I read the novel the first time, and he was with me when I read it again this past October.
Purple Hippo reads Like Water for Chocolate with his friend Kermit the Frog
“Purple Hippo,” I said when I finished the first chapter for the twelfth time, “I should write a formal review of this book.”
And so I did. I hope you enjoy the review, which will be the first formal review of all the books on my timeless must-read list.
Aren’t you grateful to have a timeless and manageable book list?
By the way, the movie Like Water for Chocolate is one of my all-time favorite films. The same is true for the novel and movie The Princess Bride. This will be true for fifty years and counting (at least, for me!).
And now, it is time for the review.
Review
Reviewed Work: Laura Esquivel, Like Water for Chocolate: A Novel in Monthly Installments, with Recipes, Romances, and Home Remedies, translated by Carol Christensen and Thomas Christensen (Doubleday, 1992), 246 pp. ISBN 0-385-42016-1.
Review by: A. M. Cosgrove Wimberly
Literary Mama
571 words
September 26, 2023
Laura Esquivel is a Mexican novelist and screenplay writer. Her debut novel, Like Water for Chocolate: A Novel in Monthly Installments with Recipes, Romances, and Home Remedies, was published in 1989. Esquivel rewrote the novel as a screenplay and the movie, Like Water for Chocolate, released in 1993, received critical acclaim across the globe. A somewhat simple love story is at the heart of this novel, but the story encapsulates so much more than forbidden lust. The hyperbolic uses of light and dark, hot and cold, wet and dry make the impossible seem possible.
The first example of magical realism occurs in the introductory pages of the novel. Mama Elena’s tears flood the family farm home when she births Tita. Mama Elena births Tita on the kitchen table because she was preparing a meal with the family cook, Nacha. The source of Mama Elena’s tears stemmed from the birthing process and the chopped onions, which are known to make people cry. Nacha, who mopped the tears off the floors, collected “enough salt to fill a ten-pound sack.” Totally believable, right? In Esquivel’s novel, it is.
Even though the novel is full of impossible magical moments, Esquivel manages to realistically harness the setting, culture, and history of the story. Each chapter represents a month and begins with a traditional Mexican family recipe. The recipes indicate the de la Garza farm’s ability to sustain an entire community. Following custom, Tita, the youngest of Mama Elena’s daughters, is doomed to be her mother’s caretaker for life. As an infant, Tita is paired with Nacha in the kitchen and eventually succeeds Nacha as the family cook. The de la Garza homestead is in a small town in northern Mexico. The Mexican Revolution impacts the de la Garza family in expected and unexpected ways.
The theme of love and loss permeates the story and is the source of the magical realism moments. Tita loves Pedro, and Pedro loves Tita. Mama Elena forbids their marriage; Tita can only successfully serve one person, Mama Elena. Mama Elena offers her older daughter Rosaura as Pedro’s wife. Pedro agrees to the union to remain close to Tita. Even though his intentions are good, they compromise Tita’s well-being. Mama Elena punishes Tita every time the two lovers so much as look at one another. Tita’s ability to communicate is stripped from her, so she unwillingly and unknowingly does so through her cooking. Her emotions infuse her meals. The guests of the de la Garza farm leave the dinner table in frenzies of sadness, burning desires, lust, and love.
In addition to realistically portraying the setting, history, and culture of the novel, Esquivel exquisitely explores relationships. No relationship is simple, and all connect to Tita. Tita navigates her sister’s marriage to her lover, her mother’s vengeance, and Pedro’s pleas for pleasure. Tita’s position as caregiver extends to the animals and land that provide food for the meals she prepares, further connecting her to place, earth, and the universe. The natural world doesn’t allow Tita to react to the relationship stresses in her life. Therefore, when she catalyzes moments of magical realism, the results of her actions are emotionally impactful and believable.
Esquivel’s Like Water for Chocolate: A Novel in Monthly Installments with Recipes, Romances, and Home Remedies is a delightful read. Anyone interested in traditional cooking, Mexican history and heritage, family relationships, or romantic stories will enjoy this sweet and savory novel.
Phew! It’s been a minute…or more like months of minutes, which is well over 50 minutes, 50 hours, and 50 days, so I’m still on topic here with my blog, right?
I feel like at least 50 events have happened since I last posted in August 2023. I don’t know if I can list them all, but here are the highlights.
My daughter left our home in Oklahoma for the big city lights of Chicago. She’s a happy camper at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago (SAIC). Her dorm room window looks out onto the Chicago Theatre and the Joffrey Academy of Dance, a view that I love and wish I could have here in Okla.
Chicago rooftops from my hotel room. Not nearly as glorious a view as the one from my daughter’s apartment, but still, very…colorful?
My son started high school (gulp!) and is navigating everything teenage boys have to navigate. New friendships, tougher classes, crowded hallways, school lunch food, etc. He’s still growing, too, and has been clothes shopping twice since school began in August. He’s taller than I am now!
I started a new job as an instructor at the University of Oklahoma Gaylord College of Journalism and Mass Communication. I enjoy the challenges of teaching good writing skills to great students who impress me with everything they do outside of school. I’m glad I don’t have to be a college-aged student anymore and appreciate everything I’ve learned in the years from then to now.
My husband, my dogs, my daughter’s pet rats, and my son’s leopard gecko are all about the same as before. It’s nice to recognize some stability, isn’t it?
Glacier, our leopard gecko, peeks out of a pocket.
I still enjoy bike rides and ventures into the garden. I ride Kermit (a.k.a. the Green Machine) to campus a couple days a week, and Heron and I roll miles across rural Oklahoma roads. My current gardening project is to kill as much Bermuda grass as possible this winter and build a healthy soil base early spring so that I can plant a zillion million native plants.
Some native wildflowers I planted in my front yard garden.
Stay tuned for more stories about Chicago (my new favorite city), parenting a high school boy, cycling, gardening, and writing. This girl never stops counting her opportunities and is eager to share more with you soon!
