Petula, Yard Sales and the Perfect Random Day

WARNING: THE KEEPER OF BLOGS warns that this entry is rawther long, dahlink

It has been awhile. Treatment has ended. My prognosis is good. I am getting my routine back after the year from hell.

Dear Reader,

Perhaps my blog may seem a bit self-indulgent. I make no apologies. I have earned the right to indulge.

I always wanted to be a star, but the problem is I like privacy too much. 

So here I am starring in my own way.

it seems I enjoy sorting and grouping and organizing; it relaxes me

i love to clean and make nice again a lovely old object that was once prized

by someone other than me

yard saleing and estate saleing and thift store saleing 

 never cease to make me happy

for me this activity is

soooo much more than what I might find

It is the ritual of the hunt that I love.

When I was working full time, a morning of yard sales had a way of breaking the previous week's spell.

Thirty-four years of school teaching was so stressful that I was BUZZING by Friday afternoon.

Thank heaven that a Salvation Army was located precisely in the middle of my daily three hour commute. If it had not been for that store and my iPod, I doubt I would have made it to retirement without becoming nothing but a puddle of mush.

a few of my fave finds

janis or jimi would've worn this

leather and fur hippie belt

sexy as hell

circa 1967-1972

One midcentury day ago

Etta loved

her cat

like only another 

gal-cat-lover-of cats

can understand.

She fashioned a furry baby

and put her under

glass

Oh, kitty girl

how I want

to remove

the glass

that encases you

so that I may pet you.

today I am in my standard house outfit

oxford button down

shirt

(love guys in oxford shirts)

comfy loose slacks

and my new Merrells

only lipstick today

and my Dyson

honestly they are worth the money

especially if you have pets

my favorite part is the removable plastic

canister

good-bye to vacuum bag smell

loving this oil painting that I picked up for a song at an antique mall in Charlevoix, Michigan

it was the last time I was out with my beloved aunt who passed away over two years ago

we thought it might be Chicago

feels like 1960's

and reminds me of Petula Clark's "Downtown"

Mom took us there

during THE DIVORCE in 1964

We ate at the

"Top of the Rock"

and I had grilled pineapple

which was quite the thing

for a knee-socked girl 

from

The Midwest

my name is Lil' Bea

I am my Mama's bad girl

and I rearranged my jewelry box 

which is actually

an old

Bakelite 

silverware containers

that 

I found for

two bucks

 My lovely squash blossom from a Christmas in New Mexico

 Photo of my Great Aunt Ruth and my grandmother Pearl circa 1906

 My grandmother Pauline Sophia on her high school graduation.

Until later. 
Enjoy each moment.

Travelin' at Home

one of my greatest loves is writing, and that is because at the age of fourteen when due to my mother's remarriage I was ripped away from my own little world and forced into the land of the hot and humid.

Mother had remarried quickly after the divorce, and she and her new man wanted to start afresh in  Florida.

I was taken from the first boy I had ever loved. He was my dreamboat who smelled of English Leather and wore green v-neck sweaters which matched his eyes. I met him in Latin class, and I was dumbfounded when he started paying attention to me.

My self-image was very low. In my eyes I was a pale and skinny girl who wore pointy glasses and white blouses with Peter Pan collars. I was not a talented pianist like my best friend Patty nor a cheerleader like my pal Sally.

I was the girl who lived in the big white house on Bridge Street. I played Barbie dolls in the morning with my younger sister, and I made out behind steamy windshields at night.

My guy became my everything. He was a junior, and I was a freshman. He thought I was cute and smart and funny. And I simply did not believe that a guy like him could see that in a girl like me.

In December we danced to Simon and Garfunkel's "Sound of Silence". During the long winter study halls, we hovered in small group discussing books like John Howard Griffin's Black Like Me, and Rachel Carlson's Silent Spring.

That boy could probably have gotten anything he wanted from me, but he was the kind of guy who would never ask. We kissed passionately, and we pressed our young bodies hard against one another's, but he was a smart guy who was going to go to college, and he knew I was his equal. And he knew his limits.

In June after a six month young romance, my mother loaded me and Flower the parakeet and George the dog into her lemon yellow Ford Falcon, and we followed the NEW HUSBAND with the U Haul to Venice, Florida.

I hated everything about it. I hated the sticky heat. I hated lack of shade trees. I hated our new neighborhood in which all of the houses sported a tacky sparkly stucco. Each house was just like the other except for the color of the door and window shutters. Venice Gardens houses had lavender doors, pink doors, lime green doors and so on. The whole scene seemed plastic to me who had come from a northern neighborhood of brick streets, Civil War era huge house in which the windows had the original wavy glass, proper foyers and antique furniture.

I spent the entire summer sequestered behind the door of my new bedroom, reading, making a dictionary of new words and writing letters to an entity I called God.

I was angry as hell, and I rebuffed my mother's attempts to get me out to socialize. She would yell at me from the other side of the door that there was nothing natural about a fourteen year old gal who wanted to sit in her room and read and write all day.

No, I guess it was not natural, and perhaps I did it to spite my  mother who was my opposite in terms of what we showed to the world. In my mind Mom was everything I was not. She was sexy. She could strike up a conversation with anyone anywhere. Men's mouths dropped when she walked by.

And me her shy little violet probably scared her, probably seemed freaky to her- yes, I do believe my mother thought I was a freak.

During the long, hot and lonely days my fourteen year old self developed a respect for her mind, and its abilities to learn.
And during those long, hot and lonely days I found that writing assuaged my hurting heart.

Words became my secret lover.

They take the pain away.

Got it Yet?

would of thought you would have got it by now, Missy

That's Cracklin' talking to me there.

when you gonna get that you all you got?

when you gonna stop thinking' you suppose to be some kind of

FUCKING ROLE MODEL

you wanna stay in bed most of the day and read your book?

go right ahead, darlin'

you wanna live with dishes piled high in sink?

your list of "To Do's stuck to the floor by the kitty's hair ball?

go right ahead, darlin'

Donna often said, "Paula, you are too hard on yourself".

Now Donna- she herself is losing her own eyesight.

Donna saw when you did not.

It is time to see, Paula

Ok. Cancer sucks and all that, and I only had to go to the doc once this week. Next week I go two times.
The weeks in which I don't have to go to the place and be reminded of this situation I really dig.

After treatment is over I will be on my merry way to strings of days in which spontaneity trumps all.
I am having a random day today. I am doing whatever I feel like. It is truly amazing it seems I get more done on my random days than on my structured day. Go figure.

I like to glide from one project to the next as the mood moves me. Today I am putting together two lamps I bought at IKEA. I love the shape. One will hang above each of our recliners that set in front of the big screen tv which I must admit I have grown to love a bit too much. TV and movies offer escape, and escape is a very welcome thing right night.

I watched the total season of "Once Upon a Time". Really cute, creative, fun and fantastical. Old familiar classic storybook characters have a parallel self in the modern world. I truly though I would hate this because I have never been much into fantasy, but I gave it a try, and I am glad that I did.

I am going to post some photos of interior objects that I really love. All of these are in my home.

Smooooth Day

Yep, tis a smooth day that nourishes me. A smooth day is one in which there are no unplanned interruptions.

A smooth day means I can work to music in the yard AND in the house. I am a tad obsessive- NO, MORE THAN A TAD, but it is my cross to bear. I like my obsessiveness more than I dislike it, for it allows me to pay attention to the details of my day however mundane that day may be.

Today I got to enjoy putting my kitty Patti on her newly washed blanket which was still warm from the dryer. She was in such ecstasy that she simply cooed like a dove. And I got  to work in my yard early enough to hear a real dove coo. That coo- a faraway but so familiar a sound  - paradoxical like so much in life is; it is both haunting and comforting.

I have really got a lot of stuff accomplished around the house today. I like that feeling- accomplishment. That is something that I want in a day. I have no complaints. Today is the most normal I have felt in a long time. Normal is good.

The Lesson from the Ear Pod Tree

Walking alone for several miles never fails to get me to a better place. The days after learning about the breast deal, I was simply teeming with  rage. Rage at what? Rage at whom? There really was no target.

Wasting time thinking about feeling sorry for myself or delving into a deep depression or trying to figure out why I have had so much trouble this year was only going to be a dead end.

So the day after I learned the delightful news, I crammed my hands into my pockets and walked. For the first two miles I could feel the rage pulsing within me, and then the anger evaporated into tears. The tears set loose the tightness in my body. The rage would return, and then the tears would dilute it. This cycle continued for about two miles. I was just about at the point of not being able to stand another moment of this when a bit of grace crossed my path.

As  I was walking by one of the lakes in my neighborhood,  my eye caught hold of a pod on the ground.
I picked it up. It felt warm and smooth in my hand. Its presence lightened my heart just a tad but enough that I knew that no matter what happens in my life, I will always be able to access my joy.

When bad things happen to us, the tendency is to try to get away from them, but in my own experience I have found that I do best when I allow my feelings to flow. This does not mean that I must burden others with my fears, tears and anger. In most cases a good long walk does the trick.

And you know one of the first thoughts I had after I got the bc news was, "Well, at least I can walk now."
At least this waited until I was up and driving and walking again. It could have been worse.

My surgical pathology report turned to be a good one. I am having a second report done by John Hopkins because I don't want to leave any stone unturned. As long as both path reports match, then I have a splendid chance of living my full life span before this gets me or something else does.

I am still awaiting the  results of the genetic test that will show whether I have the genetic mutation that will result in my needing  to have a bilateral mastectomy. My chances of having that mutation are only five per cent, but due to the fact that my sister was diagnosed with breast cancer before she was fifty, my surgeon recommended that I be tested, for if I have the mutation and do not have my breasts removed then I face a ninety per cent chance of recurrence.

My treatment plans are awaiting the results of the Oncotype-D test which tests twenty-one genes, and will provide me with information  that will let me know my chance of recurrence. If I am not happy with the numbers, then I will need some chemotherapy.

I most definitely will be starting a regimen of radiation soon. Right now everything is on hold while I wait for the genetic test results.

So right now I try to put my troubles in a drawer because I feel great, and there are three hundred Carolyn Wharton caladium bulbs waiting to be planted. Last year I put in four hundred and fifty bulbs. I want my yard to be a vision in pink.

My pod fell from a tree  called an Ear Pod Tree. It is from the same family of the Mimosa.  I guess nature was trying to lend me its ear.  I derive much comfort from observing the cycles of nature.
Nature knows and nature obeys. It does not rail against the changing of the seasons. It adapts.
And so shall I.