Yielding to Autumn

I had to yield to the season this morning in more ways than one. It was so dark at 6 am making it hard to stay on my routine. When I heard the tires of passing cars slap the pavement in front of the house, I knew the street must be wet; I moaned. Not to rush autumn way, I knew all of this was harbingers of coming winter. I rolled out, moaned some more, exercised and tried to be grateful for moisture, for autumn. I sat with a book and turned on my S.A.D. light for the first time since last spring.


Then I figured I might as well cook on a morning I was confined anyway. I needed to make a batch of breakfast muffins that only I eat. Full of wheat bran, oat bran, and flax, they seem healthy to me. I like mine cold, the muffin top-sized ones, held in one hand and a warm tea cup in the other for dark winter mornings.

While we should give up sugar, salt, eggs, oil, and everything else that makes life tasty, we have only cut down. Autumn made me think of old fashioned pumpkin bread from days gone by and decided to splurge on the sugar. Everyone has a pumpkin bread recipe, but mine is nearly forty years old and came from some Headstart cooks. They made it in bulk and baked it in soup cans, passing it out to the classrooms for snacks. It was the best ever, and I think of them when I use their recipe.

I was a young college student and thrilled to be working at Headstart that summer. I loved the children and was still trying to decide what subject and grade level I wanted to teach someday. I was an aid to an experienced teacher and every day was interesting. I had two special boys I remember from those days.

Patrick was Afro American and Eric was Hispanic. They were getting to know each other one day by feeling each other’s hair! The different hair consistency amazed them both. My own hair fell down to the middle of my back and Patrick, who was terribly shy, often stroked my hair for comfort. In the beginning he was stuck to me and my hair since he cried every morning when his mother left. One day his mother told me to never cut my hair, as it was all Patrick talked about and was his whole reason for coming—to touch my long hair.

Another day Eric’s mother came to school furious. She talked to the teacher about my inappropriate language with the boys. This was long before I learned colorful language from all my student experiences! We all finally figured out that one day when the boys wouldn’t stop giggling, I had asked if they were sitting on tickling feathers. Eric had translated that at home as my asking, “Do you have a feather up your *&%#?”

This morning I baked the bread in pans, and though I never alter the recipe, today I threw in some milk chocolate chips I found in the cupboard. Although the recipe can’t be improved on, I wanted to use them. Later, after they cool completely and sit wrapped a spell, I will check out the taste. But what I really will taste is autumn and memories made long ago, revisited through pumpkin bread!

Storm Country Update

I just got word from Missouri Writing Guild president Deborah Marshall that she has posted pre-ordering info on the Storm Country site. She is trying to figure numbers for a run, so if you are interested please consult the site. Thank you! http://stormcountry.wordpress.com/

Addictions!

Okay, so it’s only books, but an addiction is controlling no matter what!


In mid-summer I vowed (again) I would get my books under control. I weeded the office shelf and closet. I lined up ones I had saved for re-reads and started actually doing it. I did not allow myself buy books. Things were going well until I had an email from a woman I used to work with at the junior high.


The local schools had a program working with a book titled 13 Reasons Why by Jay Asher; librarians and teachers had written a grant for funding to bring the author to town next month. The former teacher, now administrator, wanted to know what I thought of the book, as she found it a little intense for junior high. The subject is teen suicide.


I had faded away from reading YA novels, but the asking for my opinion was too much to ignore. I told her I would get the book and read it. So when DH made his lab work trip to Springfield, I urged us by Barnes and Noble for the book. Unfortunately two other bargain books jumped into my arms: The Wildwater Walking Club by Claire Cook who wrote Must Love Dogs and Claiming Ground, a wonderful memoir about woman’s experiences sheep herding in Wyoming.


The next day we pulled out for our trip West, and son only lives a few blocks from the famous Watermark bookstore, an independent that I love. I managed to walk out without a book since I had a whole bag in the car including the new YA. Things seemed to be under control.


Then on the trip we meet Napoleon Garcia in Abiqui who was selling his own little memoir. Brought his book home with us. Then when in Pagosa Springs, Colorado there is another very nice independent book store where the owner has lovely regional shelf. Home came Cowboys, Barbed Wire: the fence that changed the West, and House of Rain, a book that traces indigenous people of the pueblos.


Then when we rode the train to LaVeta and had that layover….I could not resist spending time in that lovely used book shop provided by the Friends of the LaVeta Library. Brought home a large WWII book called Liberators about the Black soldiers of that era, a book titled How to Read a Poem, and a Muffin cookbook. Oh, these were so cheap! But they still took up room in our expanding bookmobile!


Back in Wichita we made another stop at Watermark because they have a wonderful sandwich shop we like. One of their new sandwiches is called The Godfather and yum, it is on their homemade focaccia bread! DH had a meatloaf sandwich called The Great Gatsby on homemade sourdough. We both drank gallons of ice tea, as we were dried out from the West. Then can you believe it, but in ten days’ time there were more NEW books strewn about that store. DH went on to the parking lot and I quickly grabbed a small paperback titled Thunder on the Prairie about a murder and grandest posse of all time. I stuck it in my purse so I did not have to own up to my book sickness!


Last night we went to PSU to hear Jo McDougall read at the Visiting Writers Series. A five book poet, McDougall now has a memoir out about growing up in Arkansas on a rice farm. She was an entertaining speaker, but I should have left her book there. However—all proceeds went to support the writing program of PSU. Hum, I wanted to support that and of course, I should be willing to support a fellow writer. The book came home with us and rests on top of RODE from last month’s author (I haven’t gotten to reading it yet), and sits beside five books home from the library.


Meanwhile Thursday afternoon was my book club day where we discussed Unbroken, a wonderful read garnering ratings from 9.5 to 11 on a scale of 10. Highest rated book we have ever read, slightly ahead of last month’s Empire of the Summer Moon! We also exchanged with each other some good books, and I toted home a friend’s copy of Women’s Diaries of the Westward Journey. My office is FULL!


Remember that Shel Silverstein poem, "Sarah Cynthia Silvia Stout Wouldn’t Take the Garbage Out" and how the poor girl got buried in her own garbage as it piled up around her? Well, all I am saying is that if you miss me, please send a librarian to dig me out before it is too late!!!!

Abiqui, New Mexico

Georgia O’Keefe moved to New Mexico the year I was born. She is an interesting and controversial person. Known for her vivid paintings of flowers and of New Mexico landscapes, she lived at Abiqui, a tiny pueblo-like village.

A man living there now says it would have been a pueblo, but the US government would not label it so. The hamlet was populated by mixed Indians and the Spanish. It was a stop on the Santa Fe Tail. O’Keeffe painted here and in nearby Ghost Ranch area before losing her eyesight in old age. Her home can be toured, but reservations must be made a year in advance. Only a limited number of people are allowed to go through the adobe structure each year.

We had driven up the dirt lane leading into Abiqui once before where the lovely adobe church stands. Very threatening signs warned against any picture taking. There was no one in sight, but I felt like we were being watched and a gun barrel might appear from the crude structures if I lifted my camera. Down the road, in a tiny gift shop, the clerk said one of the locals had put up the signs and to ignore them. But I was a believer.

On this last trip, we again drove up into Abiqui and the signs were gone. I snapped pictures of the church, the only pristine building around. A couple of cars came and went, tourists mostly. We lingered and saw across the way a crude home with lean to additions and a hand lettered sign saying “Author Signing Today”. Another car pulled in, and so I was game to check it out too.

Inside was an elderly man with a Spanish accent, a storyteller for sure. He was a rascal you could tell right away. He had written the book and had them for sale. He had worked with Miss O’Keeffe, said he and she had planted the trees he pointed to. He pointed out a mile long circular road that she walked every day. He said we could drive it and see the scenes she saw. He said we could look over the adobe wall surrounding her house but to NOT take any pictures there!

I bought one of his books that he said had details other authors ignore about Abiqui. I let him show us on a map the history of the natives, of his Spanish forefathers. I listened to an explanations of the Catholic Los Penitentes, a lay confraternity of Roman Catholic men active in Northern New Mexico and southern Colorado.

Mr. Garcia explained that during the Pueblo Revolt in the late 1600s, all the priests had been killed. So the men formed a lay group to pray, bury the dead, etc. The group still holds prayer services, prays the rosary together, prays over the dead, and does Easter services in the adobe morada which overlooks the Chama River.
  

                                                                The Morada

New Mexico Silver

Going to the Southwest means jewelry to me! But alas, it has a new meaning to me these days, more contemporary designs than in the old days when First People were known for their silversmithing.

I grew up with silver crawling up my arm provided by my Cherokee grandmother. We were new babies when she brought tiny bracelets studded with a turquoise stone, and our wrists were never bare from then on. The two matching twists in this picture were ones she gave me in grade school that I wore framed around turquoise stones. The double silver band in the center is one of her own bracelets I have worn since I was about ten. It is stamped “sterling” but is not signed as most pieces are now days. So I can date it as made in early 1920s or before. Natives did not sign their work as the metals and stones belonged not to them, but to The People. That changed when trains began carrying tourists to the Southwest and Fred Harvey opened up his gift shops in his Harvey Houses. Now artists sign their silver work!


I have always wanted a large squash blossom, but the prices were out of reach. That will never get better now. The price of gold and silver has not only driven the price of native silver work to astronomical figures, it has hampered the designs natives could afford to produce.


Four years ago, I could buy a little here and there, but last year I could afford almost nothing. The designs were plain too. Gone were my thunderbolts and arrows, and deep colored turquoise stones. So many stones were imported from Iran or Thailand. This year it was worse. I did not trust buying anything from an unknown store because sales were made by native people but for someone else, some from out of this country.


You can be safe buying under the portal at the Palace of Governors though. Those are juried vendors and each morning there is a drawing for who can sit there to sell. However, the first day I looked, again I saw plain and boring pieces. I could not see paying prime price for things that looked like they came from Macy’s or even Wal-Mart. I was told so many vendors bought the beads and then just strung them. I wanted a real silversmith to have crafted a piece I bought.


The second day on the Plaza, I took a half-hearted pass down the portal, and it was my lucky day! The pieces were a tad more interesting, but I found Wil and Vira Yazzie who had sold me their work before. They are a sweet young couple, have a telephone but no internet. Four years ago, they were trying a new design with both gold and silver encasing glass beadwork. Wil was selling along that day and Vira was home trying to design some matching ear rings. I thought the bracelets were lovely, but it was not what I wanted. I love the traditional, but was drawn back to Wil’s blanket. Finally, I brought home the glass beadwork done in arrows, rainbows, and feathers. I have worn it a good deal of the time.


When I saw them again, I showed them my arm with their work. Wil was so excited, asked if he could feel my braclet. He moanead with pleasure and said I had one of the “good ones”. Right after I bought the metals went up so much in price he had to make the bracelets in lighter weights to break even; it broke his heart to lessen his work. He shined my braclet and stroked it like it was an old friend. Vira had her ear rings this time and was working on a stud version, which is presenting her problems in weight and size. She said the price of glass beads any smaller than these really went up in price, again limiting what they could make and sell.

We had a good visit and I brought home a pair of ear rings while I could still afford them!


I also brought home a pair of glass ear rings made by a potter whose aging hands can no longer handle the heavy clay. She has carpel tunnel too so has gone to this lovely glass work. George has her work in the Santa Fe Art Museum’s gift shop as well as a friend’s pottery studio.


In my childhood, the bracelets never came off, but these days I change them often to enjoy the many different designs and choices. Some people never leave home without a watch on; I always have a bracelet—or two or three!

Teacup Tuesday One More Time

I have not posted on Teacup Tuesday because I had my cup/pot addiction under control. I did not NEED anymore; I had no room for more. But on our Western excursion, I slipped back into obsession mode with the urging of DH.


I think it was Walsenburg, Colorado where this tea set jumped into the truck. We had toured, ridden the train at Alamosa, and were starting the trek home. We came on a charming downtown district with a whole string of inviting antique stores. Before I could get beyond the front door of the first shop, DH called me saying I had to see what he had just found. It was a charming little set of pieces in a dogwood pattern. I didn’t need them, but I looked. It was nice I said, but…

DH said they were worth the money as they were so cheap. Cheap or not, I had no place for them. But they were from England he said. I did not succumb. Then he read on the mark that they were bone china and I was a goner. I had to bring them home; I would share the pieces with others I rationalized.

DH was excited over this incomplete set for some reason. There were no cups, but the egg cup was a sweet addition. When we got home, I washed them up and set them out to dry. DH came into the kitchen and asked me where I was going to set them. I waved my arm across the house and said, “You tell me.” Ah, there was NO place.

So I worked an egg cup in here, a pitcher in there and yes, it is too crowed in the hutch. The little tea pot sits next to some pink floral cups right now, and the pink dogwood compliments them nicely. So for now, we enjoy the dogwood until I can get around to dividing them and sharing with others the joy of bone china!

Sisters of Loretto Chapel

Years ago on our first visit to Santa Fe and with two boys in tow, we visited the Loretto Chapel. This chapel was ordered built in 1872 by Bishop Lamy for a convent. The architect was French and the chapel shows French designs. But he died before finishing the chapel and there was no staircase built to the choir loft.

So the nuns prayed to St. Joseph for help. A ragged stranger appeared, said he had to be left entirely alone, and three months later a spiral staircase of unknown wood with no supports was finished without nails. The stranger suddenly disappeared. The Sisters of Loretto felt it was a miracle stair built by St. Joseph himself in answer to their prayers.

DH never believed this miracle as some others didn’t either. But on this last trip he was willing, in fact asked, to go back and see this helix of wood. He still has no answer for how it is made, but he is sure it is something of this world!

This chapel is beautiful without a doubt. The pictures do not do the insides justice. Note the tree of rosaries outside the chapel. New Mexico has had some rough religious times, some ugly happenings in the name of faith. No matter what your belief though, this northern corner of New Mexico is a spiritual place, full of devout people living an old dedicated path to God.