Star Struck

Actor Ronald Colman, but if you squint it could be Paul French

Last night, as I watched the Screen Actors Guild awards, I scanned the audience, hoping to spy a bona fide leading man...somebody suave and tall with a mustache. Yes, there were some handsome actors in the audience, but I couldn't pick out anybody who resembled the classic male stars of the '40s. I'm star struck, but particular. I've not given up...there's still the Academy Awards!

George Clooney, but if you squint, it could be Paul French

I wrote this story a few years ago about my fascination with a certain Hollywood type.

Paul, Paul, Suave and Tall

By Terri Elders

“The person who makes a success of living is the one who sees his goal steadily and aims for it unswervingly.” –Cecil B. DeMille

Today I opened the entertainment section of my Sunday paper and glimpsed a photo of actor George Clooney in an ad for a new movie. I had to catch my breath. With the mustache he’d grown for his role in The Men Who Stare at Goats, he looked drop-dead gorgeous, and…just like Daddy.

Back in 1950 both Daddy and most of Hollywood’s leading men indeed were tall, dark, and handsome, and all sported mustaches. So when Daddy announced one night, over Mama’s pineapple upside-down cake, that he was looking around for a second job, we had definite ideas of what that should be. Living in Los Angeles, the females in our family were hopelessly star struck.

I still remember eying Daddy across the kitchen table. “I think you could get a job as a stand-in for Ronald Colman,” I ventured. Though Colman played a college professor on the radio show, The Halls of Ivy, I had no problem whatsoever picturing my father, a high school grad, stepping into that role. Daddy possessed enough roughhewn elegance to make the character believable.

My big sister sized Daddy up. “No, he’s more like William Powell,” she said. Patti loved the Thin Man movies. She kept well-thumbed copies of Photoplay and Silver Screen on her bedside table. A Jeannie Crain look-alike, she dreamed about breaking into movies herself one day.

Mama spoke up. “Paul’s the spitting image of Clark Gable…no ifs, ands, or buts!” After she’d seen Gable cast as a race car driver in To Please a Lady, Mama had decided she looked quite a bit like Gable’s co-star, Barbara Stanwyck.

Daddy shook his head. “I don’t even know what a stand-in does.” He glanced around at our three faces lit up with excitement. “Don’t they have to leap from trains and halt runaway horses?”

“No. Those are stunt doubles,” Patti explained. “A stand-in just has to have the same skin and hair color and be about the same height and weight as the star. Daddy, with your dark hair and mustache, the studios would be grateful to get you.”

“It’s not hard work,” I jumped in. “I’ve heard that stand-ins just kind of hang around while the crews set up lights and camera. It gives the stars a chance to rest.”

“We’ll see,” Daddy said, “but for now I’m just interested in doubles on this cake.”

Mama picked up her serving spoon, and cast him a sultry Stanwyck smile. “I bet you’d be able to halt runaway horses, Paul,” she said. He laughed.

After dinner Daddy dragged out the Yellow Pages from the phone stand. “I’m going to be calling to make some appointments for interviews,” he told us, “so don’t go tying up the phone line for the next few nights.”

When we tried to draw near to see what phone numbers he was jotting down, he waved us away. “Go do the dishes,” he ordered, in the authoritative tone that always set us scurrying.

“Do you think he’ll really call for an audition with a studio?” I asked Patti, as we finished tidying the kitchen.

She hesitated, and then finally shook her head. “Don’t get your hopes up. Daddy would never settle for being a stand-in. You know he’d want to be the director.”

Patti was right. If Daddy ever did set foot on an actual movie set, it wouldn’t be minutes before he’d be ordering costume changes and adjustments to the lighting. Daddy, the younger brother of three sisters, was used to running the show. Those aunts, plus grandma, were always calling up to ask his advice. Even at home, Mama would have to exercise her womanly wiles to get to choose where to place her own hooked rag rugs.Patti and I exchanged rueful smiles and hung up our dishtowels.

So the two of us idea set aside the notion of Daddy entering show business. Mama, though, didn’t give up so easily. “Paul, have you contacted any of the movie studios yet?” she asked one evening, handing him a dish of his favorite strawberry shortcake.

Daddy frowned. “Studios?”

“Don’t you remember that we all talked about your wanting a second job? And that the girls and I thought you’d be great as a stand-in or double?”

“I thought you were joking,” Daddy said, putting down his fork. “But now that you bring it up, I did find a second job, and I’m starting Friday evening.”

We waited while Daddy passed his plate for a second helping of dessert.

“I’m going to be selling shoes at Sears. The store’s a five minute drive from here, and I’ll be able to get an employee’s discount on the girls’ back-to-school shoes.”

We congratulated Daddy on landing his job, but expressed our sorrow that we wouldn’t be hearing first hand tales about life in Tinsel Town.

“Girls, I’ve never been one to hold with razzle dazzle,” Daddy pointed out. It was true. A diesel mechanic by profession, he appreciated a well-oiled and smooth-running machine. He used to remind us that the best way to get through life was to remember to pick a car for its engine, not for its paint job.

A few weeks later when the family visited Sears to be fitted for new shoes, Daddy pointed out how he’d reorganized the department. Everything seemed more orderly and accessible, with Daddy in charge. And he already led the staff on Saturday sales. Mama joked that rumors had floated around the neighborhood that some movie star now sold shoes at Sears, so ladies were flocking in to try on the latest stilettos and Cuban heels.

So, sadly, Daddy never became a stand-in for Colman, Gable or Powell, though I’m convinced to this day that with his stunning good looks he would have been perfect.
 

Nonetheless, I’ve heeded his advice about life. Thanks to him, to this day I’ve never picked a car, a job or a mate just for the razzle dazzle.

But star struck still, I admit I admire those actors who can wear a mustache well. So I’ve cut out the photo of Clooney. I plan to mail it to my sister. I’ll enclose a note to ask her if she’s reminded of anyone at all, perhaps someone from our youth who was suave and tall.

Below, L to R: Patti, Luella, Terri and the real Paul French, c. 1940

A Rich Year in Reads

I've been making a list...and checking it thrice to make certain I've not left off any of my favorite books of 2013. I have made a point not to include any of the ones that include my own stories, though ALL of those from Not Your Mother's Book, Tending Your Inner Garden, Chicken Soup for the Soul and assorted indy publishers have been close to my heart as well.

The Colville Branch AAUW (American Association of University Women) stages a popular annual event, BookShare. We bring our lists and our books and devote an evening to discussing what we would recommend to our fellow members.

This morning I made my list for the upcoming event. I belong to two local area book groups, but only included one of last year's selections from the two dozen I read for that group...and it was, I confess, my own choice, an Edith Wharton classic.

So  here's the list I'll present to the group later this week:

• Jacqueline Winspear, the entire Maisie Dobbs mystery series (England, the first third of the 20^th century) 10 books so far.)

• Margaret Drabble, The Pattern in the Carpet: A Personal History with Jigsaw. (Memoir about an 20^th century English childhood and a fascination with puzzles.)

• Donna Trott, The Goldfinch (Everything about this novel is golden, beginning with the glimmer on the wing of the brave bird it celebrates.)

• Kate Atkinson, Life After Life (Covers the same period of the Dobbs mysteries, first half of 20^th century in England…Groundhog Day without the farce. And darkness fell.)

• Edith Wharton, The House of Mirth (Women’s options in America’s Gilded Age.)

•  Henry James, What Maisie Knew (A child’s view of marital strife at the turn of the 20^th century, and the master could have written this last week.)

•  Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane (An enchanting adult fairy tale set in the English countryside.)

•  John Schlimm, Stand Up! 75 Young Activists Who Rock the World and How You Can, Too!

I'll be recommending the last book as this year's choice for AAUW Colville Branch Scholar Recognition Night, when the organization honors local high school junior girls who have been nominated by their high schools for outstanding achievement in math, science and technology.

Would love to know what you'd include! 
 

May I Have a Word?

Recently a writer friend posted on Facebook that rather than make a resolution each year, she chooses one word that she keeps focused on each day as she turns the pages of her desk calendar. My calendar this year, a gift from another writer friend, is a Downton Abbey one...and I can't think of one special word that will relate to the Crawley family and British country manor house trivia I'll be treated to throughout 2014. I look forward to Season 4 of this quirky soap opera for adults...and welcome time traveling to1922 in Edwardian England.

I also look forward to is the possibility I'll be able to celebrate the beginning of 2015 in my home state of California. I grew up in Los Angeles, and eventually settled in Long Beach, where I lived for 32 years. I left  in 1987 when I joined the Peace Corps. Since that time I've lived in Belize City, Belize; Antigua, Guatemala; San Juan de la Maguana, Dominican Republic; Victoria, Seychelles; North Little Rock, Arkansas; Silver Spring, Maryland; and now, of course, in Arden, outside of Colville, Washington. But my heart is still in Southern California, especially when these long northeastern Washington winters roll around.

For the past seven and a half years I've been serving on the Washington State Medical Quality Assurance Commission, appointed by Governor Christine Gregoire. My second term as a public member with this Commission ends this coming June. Consequently, there's no reason for me to remain here. I'm putting my house up for sale in the spring.

So this year, I believe my best choice for a word is "California." To me it's home. Always has been, always will be. I hope each day to move forward with plans to move...clean out a drawer, a cupboard, a shelf. Sort through old business papers and shred. Decide what to do with my late husband's dozens of paintings. Choose what books to keep and which to donate. The tasks to prepare to move, after nearly 10 years here, sometimes seem overwhelming. But I've decided that if I keep the goal in mind, I can fly through the to-do list. I'll adopt the attitude of my favorite Downton Abbey character, Anna Bates, and keep plugging steadily ahead.

California, here I come.

Sweet Home California

Home Sweet Home...

Tzimtzum...For Everything There is a Season

This was the first of the season series...my story is "Tombstone Territory"

 A little over a year ago I wrote of how my energy ebbed as the days shortened in "Hibernating Through the Holidays." http://atouchoftarragon.blogspot.com/2012/11/hibernating-through-holidays.html. It looks as if I'm doing it again! This time, I'm not letting any guilt feelings seep through to spoil my period of tzimtzum!

I'm not certain when I began to believe that rest and recuperation, even in winter, amounted to just plain shirking. I suspect it may have started  in my preadolescence. Grandma Gertie's favorite maxim seemed to be the one about idol hands and the devil's mischief. Somehow I managed to internalize that noxious idea...that busyness equated with goodness, rest with evil. Sloth...a deadly sin, she'd remind me...sloth, sloth, sloth!

Last week a psychoanalyst friend in Los Angeles, also a widow, emailed me that she had been pressured by adult children to visit with them and other relatives over the holidays...and all she really wanted to be was alone with her animals, the dogs she calls her co-therapists.

I wrote back that I shared her preference...that I wanted to enjoy some solitude, as well. Even though there's always plenty to do, projects to complete, stories to write, friends to correspond with and visit, what I really craved for a holiday treat was a period of rest and renewal.

This is the present I've given myself this season. And it's been a rewarding week...Fred Astaire movies, murder mysteries and afternoon naps. I've not been totally idle, oh, no. One afternoon I devoted hours to cleaning out my email inbox! That's a task that doesn't require much effort, only a lot of time.

My very wise friend in Los Angeles also is a Sephardic Jew who attends the Sinai Temple. A few days after we shared our mutual embrace of solitude for the holidays, she sent me a piece written by Rabbi David Wolpe, for his column, Off the Pulpit. To my astonishment, I'd never before heard of the concept of tzimtzum...but it's absolutely what I'm experiencing during this cold winter season.

I've pasted it below...for those who still feel guilty because their own frowning Grandma Gertie act-alike shook a finger whenever they longed to sneak away with a Bobbsey Twin adventure instead of sweeping their bedroom...here's an antidote to the poison of guilt!

Addition by Contraction 

The mystics speak of tzimtzum, withdrawal or contraction. God, who fills all, contracts into God’s self to allow space for the world to be created. Tzimtzum is a concept in theological physics, teaching what it means to limit oneself to enable creation.

It is also a lesson in human psychology. We too create space within ourselves, within our lives. The lesson of tzimtzum is that withdrawal precedes overflow; the cistern bursts forth in a fountain. Moses withdraws for 40 days up the mountain and comes down to teach. Rabbi Akiba leaves for years to study and returns to become the Gadol Hador, the great one of his generation.

There are moments in life to expand, and stretch beyond our usual capacities. But we learn from this powerful mystical concept how important it is now and again to contract, to make smaller, to withdraw. In a world that fills our minds and our time, the ability is increasingly important. God created a space to make the world. We make a space inside ourselves to let the world in. Then we can open to give more of ourselves to our world.
Rabbi David Wolpe is spiritual leader of Sinai Temple in Los Angeles. Follow him on Twitter: @RabbiWolpe.

The entire four season series by Tending Your Inner Garden  is still available as a special:

http://tendingyourinnergarden.com/

Who Chooses Your Shoes?

At last "The Choosing Shoes Blues" sees print!

Yesterday the mail carrier delivered a box containing Donna Clark Goodrich's latest book for Hidden Brook Press, Grandfather, Father and Me: Memories, Poetry and Good Food. New anthologies devoted to moms and grandmoms appear each spring as Mother's Day nears. Since I first began to write the stories of my life seven years ago, I've not noted many call outs for male progenitors. Perhaps editors and publishers figure dads don't bother to read sentimental recollections. Maybe they figure there's little market for these books.

I'm happy that this Canadian publisher entrusted Donna to compile this collection. This is the 85th anthology that includes one of my stories...and I think I had the most fun writing this one. I'd written "The Choosing Shoes Blues" several years ago for another anthology that failed to materialize. Sometimes when I'm writing a story I feel myself transported back in time, where I can feel, smell, taste how different life was in past decades.

With this story I revisited 1951 Los Angeles. I once again roamed the aisles of the Sears store at Slauson and Vermont, and wiped down the lunch counter at Owl Drug Store where I held my first official job. Sure, I'd earned money as a baby sitter, but now I got a real pay envelope, with Social Security deductions, rather than a handful of quarters.Once again as I wrote I could feel my toes turn to ice as water seeped into the flimsy shoes I'd treated myself to on that first payday...the first I'd ever worn that I'd chosen for myself.

I'm so enjoying this book...I notice a recipe for chili that I might try tonight, as well as one for fudge that's tempting indeed. This book would make a great gift for Gramps for Father's Day...I think older men would be tickled at the post-Depression-era recipes for not-quite-ham salad and a Sunday mac and cheese dish that calls for lard. Younger male forbears will grin as they read of how their offspring remember how they rested on the back porch or visited the old fishing hole. You can buy Grandfather, Father and Me here:

http://www.hiddenbrookpress.com/HBP.html

The Choosing Shoes Blues

My big sister, Patti, and I rarely agreed on anything in our adolescence, but when it came time to shop for back-to-school shoes, we sang the same tune. And it was the blues.

Back in l951, the high school set considered black patent leather Mary Janes or Capezio-type instep strap shells as good as it gets, so of course we longed to step into them ourselves. But Daddy believed in function, not fashion, plus he moonlighted as a shoe salesman at a department store where he enjoyed an employee discount.

Even though World War II was behind us, and the economy was good, these were still conservative days, and Daddy, who well remembered the Depression years, worked two jobs to provide for a wife and three kids, and to send a few dollars monthly to his aging mother.

For weeks Patti and I had been showing Mama the ads in the daily Los Angeles Herald-Express, and pleading our case. But though she’d been sympathetic about our entreaties for straight skirts, pullover sweaters and Peter Pan collars, when it came to shoes, she agreed with Daddy. Shoes were costly, and a single pair each would have to last the entire school year.

We pouted, we sulked, we sighed, but all to no avail. One inevitable September Saturday morning we piled into the back seat of the family Chevy, and Daddy drove to the Sears Roebuck that anchored the shopping strip at Slauson and Vermont.

“Meet me in the shoe department in about half an hour,” he said, pulling into the rear parking lot.

Patti and I exchanged gleeful glances. While Daddy punched in at the time clock and got his cash register set up for the day, we could browse Lerner’s, Mode O’Day and some of the other dress shops that lined Vermont Avenue. And we could peer into the windows of Buster Brown, Kinney’s and Bakers, and admire the latest trends in footwear and accessories.

That half hour sped by, and we finally had to drag ourselves back to Sears. In those days, shoe salesmen still used a shoe-fitting x-ray unit called a fluoroscope to determine proper size. Patti stepped up first to have Daddy measure her feet.

Patti’s feet had grown into a size seven, so she grinned and gave me a quick wink. She now wore the same size shoe as Cousin Patricia, and would benefit when Aunt Betty, Daddy’s sister, came over with her annual armload of hand-me-downs.

Aunt Betty lived in a large house in Altadena with a swimming pool. When her daughter, Patricia, a few years our senior, purchased new school clothes each fall, we got the cast offs. We looked forward to trying on the discards, and some of the sweaters and jackets were very welcome. Mama would discreetly set aside most of the dresses and blouses for the Goodwill, though, since she considered them far too mature or worldly for us. But Patricia’s shoes were to die for…ballet flats, moccasins, even some Cuban heels.

But I still measured my same old size six, so this meant that whatever shoes I…or rather, Daddy…chose would be the ones I’d trudge to school in every day all year long, unless I could double or triple my babysitting business, which paid a quarter an hour.

I’d edged over to the shelf that held the rounded-toe Mary Jane look-alikes, and brandished a pair under Daddy’s nose. “These look really nice,” I cooed.

“Nonsense. They’d fall apart in a week.” Daddy knew shoes, so there was no debating.

My heart sank when he plucked up a pair of black objects that I could only describe as indescribable. They looked like squat, stocky, clunky Mary Janes…but without the strap, dumpy, stubby loafers…but without the slot for the penny. But to Daddy they simply looked…sturdy. I knew I was doomed.

“These are shoes made to last!” Daddy declared.

 “Why, they look just fine,” Patti said, feigning delight. I grimaced but nodded.

The first few weeks of school I skulked about, hoping nobody would notice my footwear. I caught a few girls glancing downwards and hiding grins. I pretended not to notice, but determined to find a way to get some other shoes. Patti, of course, left the house each day light-footed in a variety of secondhand but fashionable shoes.

So I landed a soda fountain job at Owl Drug Store, right across from Sears. I’d be working Mondays and Fridays, 5 to 9 pm, and all day Saturday, earning the munificent minimum wage of sixty cents an hour. I’d fry up hamburgers and toss together root beer floats, and at the end of Saturday afternoon, Lucky, the fountain boss, would hand me a paycheck.

The first thing I bought, of course, was a pair of Capezio-style strapped shells. In about six weeks I’d worn holes in the soles. When I took them to the shoe repair shop I learned that they were too fragile to resole, so I had to make do with liners I cut from an old cardboard box. They lasted another week until I had to slog home from the drugstore one night in a downpour and the sodden straps fell off.

Reluctantly, I dragged out Daddy’s nondescript clunkers and wore them for the rest of the year. I could be fashionable…or I could be warm and dry. Why did those two alternatives have to be so incompatible? Once I even caught Lucky smirking at my feet when he thought I wasn’t looking.

Fortunately the following autumn black and white saddles came into vogue, so when we took our annual trek to the Sears shoe department I eyed those stalwart oxfords with genuine appreciation and even expressed gratitude for Daddy’s discount. Now I could save my paycheck for brand new angora sweaters and matching angora socks, and leave the latest batch of Cousin Patricia’s leftovers, mostly out-of-style tweed sheathes, to Patti, along with the outdated size seven Mary Janes.

Somehow that early experience killed my lust for stylish but flimsy shoes. Over the years I’ve tended towards loafers, sports shoes and pumps. And recently I’ve come to realize that the Hush Puppies I favor today look suspiciously like descendents of those stouthearted shoes I once blushed to be seen in.

That, of course, was in those distant days before I came to share Daddy’s practical philosophy of good value for money…and learned that utility should trump fashion.

Please Pass the Celery

I don't know about you...maybe your favorite Thanksgiving dish is pumpkin pie, chestnut stuffing, green bean casserole even a cranberry and orange jello mold. Mine? It was always Auntie Dorothy's celery! This story was first published in 2010 in Thanksgiving Tales: True Stories of the Holiday in America.

Spellbound by Swanky Swigs

By Terri Elders

This past November I laid in a good supply of cheese spreads…for stuffing celery for Thanksgiving dinner, of course. My grocer still stocks those little Kraft jars with the savory olive pimiento and roka blue flavors I’ve always loved, but I regret that now they’re sold in plain little glass jars, not the glamorous red tulip or blue cornflower juice glasses of my girlhood. Even so, I could hardly wait to get the jars home and once again sample my favorite canapé.

Of course, if they were still around, Grandma and Mama probably would laugh at my nostalgia, just as they laughed at those glasses in their l940s heyday, and at Auntie Dorothy who always toted them to our holiday feast. Even as a girl I realized that when it came to holiday dinners, my female forbears were culinary elitists with rigid ideas about appropriate bills of fare. Cheese-stuffed celery, in their view, was just plain cheesy. And Grandma and Mama could be downright catty.

Looking back, it seems as if every year as soon as we set aside the candy corn and jack-o'-lanterns, Grandma and Mama would huddle in the kitchen to conduct their annual Thanksgiving dinner debate.

One year when I was twelve, the awkward age, too old for toys, too young for boys, I joined the women in the kitchen, volunteering to peel potatoes or shell peas. I had seen Grandma pull her writing tablet and yellow pencil out of her purse, and knew that the confab was about to begin. The two would bicker and banter on the venue and the menu…and then get down to the real family gossip as they discussed who would bring what. I didn’t want to miss a word.

“We’ll do it again at my house, since I have the larger dining room,” Grandma began.

“But our house is so much more accessible,” Mama countered.

“I have a kitchen table for the children,” Grandma parried.

I smiled to myself. Grandma always won this argument. Never in my memory had the family gathered elsewhere, but Mama always felt obligated to put in her pitch. I’d overheard her tell Daddy she didn’t know how she’d accommodate everybody if Grandma ever actually gave in.

“I’ve been thinking about the menu. Maybe a ham would be nice this year,” Mama ventured, winking at me. I knew she loved to tease Grandma.

“Oh, Mama, that sounds wonderful, and with pineapple garnishes!” I chimed in, conspiratorially.

“For heaven’s sake, it’s Thanksgiving. We’ll have turkey just as we always do,” Grandma folded her arms and stared at the two us as if we’d both lost our senses.

 Mama nodded. “OK, I’ll bake the pumpkin pies.”

“And I’ll make lemon meringue, since you know that the boys don’t like pumpkin.”

 Grandma tapped her pencil on the table. “Should we ask Joe and Julia if they’d do the sweet potatoes and mashed potatoes? Joe always eats three times more potatoes than everybody else put together, so maybe if they’re in charge they’ll bring enough to go around.”

Mama and I grinned. Burly Uncle Joe could be counted on to ensure there’d be no leftover spuds. When he’d ask for his fourth helping, Aunt Julia would pass him the bowl with a big smile, proud of her trencherman spouse.

“And what about Teddy?” Mama loved her bachelor stepbrother, but knew he couldn’t cook worth a whit.

“Let’s ask him to bring some wine,” Grandma said, gnawing on her pencil. “He makes plenty of dough, so maybe we should suggest champagne.”

Mama brightened. I don’t think I’d ever seen champagne at a family feast, and I don’t recall Mama and Daddy having any even on New Year’s Eve.

“Poor Opal can bring the green bean casserole,” Grandma continued. I perked up, waiting for more information. It was true that Auntie Opal always looked pale and tired, but I wasn’t certain why.

“Well, the way Jim drinks, Opal has to look after the house, the jewelry shop and raise those kids practically on her own. It’ll be a wonder if she finds the energy to open a can of onion rings,” Mama observed.

Grandma stared at her tablet and scribbled a few words. “I’ll do the turkey, stuffing and gravy, and you can make some rolls. I guess Dorothy will bring the celery,” Grandma said, looking up. “And she’ll think she’s done something special when she brings that dreadful processed cheese in those dinky little glasses.”

Mama snickered, but I held my breath. I loved helping Auntie Dorothy stuff the celery, and adored the elegant flowered glasses she said were mine.

Mama sighed. “Just because she and Roy never had children is no reason for her not to learn to cook. She should be making decent suppers for her husband instead of expecting him to live on baked beans and bacon sandwiches.”

I set down my potato peeler and waited expectantly. I couldn’t imagine Daddy’s reaction if Mama put such a meal before him, but it sure sounded tasty to me.

“Roy has the patience of a saint,” Grandma said, shaking her head. “Imagine that woman off to the church every day to play the piano for choir practice, when she should be cleaning that little apartment.” I’d been to those practices with Auntie Dorothy. The choir even let me sing along, even though I knew I wasn’t quite on pitch.

On Thanksgiving we gathered at Grandma’s. Uncle Jim greeted us jovially, smelling of equal parts Old Spice and Old Crow. Uncle Joe huffed and puffed up the steps, a tub of potatoes tucked under each arm. When Auntie Dorothy arrived with her big brown bag, I hurried to her side.

“Can I help you get your celery ready?”

“Of course, and I’ve got another cheese glass for you, too.” I gaped, spellbound, as she pulled the latest acquisition to my collection out of the bag…a rare black tulip.

Today I open my kitchen cabinet and gaze at the miniature tumblers that I’ve treasured for over half a century: tulips, forget-me-nots, lilies of the valley, bachelor buttons, and my favorite, a light blue cornflower with emerald leaves.

When I checked recently on e-Bay I was astonished to learn that these days collectors call these humble glasses swanky swigs, and they’re highly regarded for their ornate decals. They now sell for what Grandma would have called a pretty penny. Why, one set of four blue tulips is listed for twenty bucks, and forget-me-nots go for at least eight dollars each.

I pull down the black tulip and hold it up to the sunlight. Not only can I recall the snap and crunch of Auntie Dorothy’s celery filled with pineapple cheese, I remember how Mama poured half an inch of Teddy’s bubbly into this very same tumbler, and I, feeling swanky indeed, had taken my first swig of champagne.

For supper tonight maybe I’ll fry up some bacon and open a can of beans, fill a few stalks of celery with roka blue. I’ll check the pantry for champagne so I can toast to the entire family that provided such memorable Thanksgiving dinners, including, especially, Auntie Dorothy.

(Here is the link for the story on Google, and you can also read it on Amazon with the "look inside" feature.)

http://books.google.com/books?id=Nm2fLuO6v0QC&pg=PA7&lpg=PA7&dq=spellbound+by+swanky+swigs&source=bl&ots=lPVN5W_Dam&sig=jkGA14AlMfxGeuC-UiiqzJhCC2o&hl=en&sa=X&ei=2z6WUsiBKpHZoATupILYCA&ved=0CDgQ6AEwAQ#v=onepage&q=spellbound%20by%20swanky%20swigs&f=false

Gardens For All Seasons

My handyman came around last week and hauled tarps full of fallen leaves to the back pasture. Because it's been cold and damp, the leaves didn't make for the kind of autumn bonfire that I remember Grandma Gertie built on the back of our property when we lived in Scotts Mills back in the '40s. Instead, of sizzling flames leaping from the pile, the leaves simply smoked and smoldered for hours, finally fizzling out. The pile leveled down somewhat, but it's still fringed by some forlorn taupe-hued reminders of just a few weeks ago, when the crisp fall air sent my spirits plummeting.

Skiing, skating and sledding friends here have a hard time understanding this. They welcome the first snowfall, and begin to plan trips to their cabins. But I dread winter's onset...it's too cold and icy in this far northeastern corner of Washington State for a California-born sun-kissed miss. Nonetheless, I intend to gain comfort through these cold days by rereading the Tending Your Inner Garden series all over again, beginning with the first volume, Winter.

Deb Engle and Diane Glass have conducted Tending Your Inner Garden workshops for several years now, using the seasons as a model for change. Whether you're a master gardener or have only sowed an occasional handful of poppy seeds, these books will inspire you to view nature in a spiritual way.

Right now, the books are offered together as a holiday special at a 25% discount...just $49.95 for the complete set, regularly regularly $67.80. These gift sets can be ordered here:
http://tendingyourinnergarden.com/bookstore/

A few years ago I read a call out for stories for this series, and welcomed a chance to publish material of mine that was more essay than story. I'm pleased and honored to be featured in all four of the books, which are described by Deb and Diane below.


Winter: Women’s Stories, Poems and Inspiration for the Season of Rest and Renewal, with my "Tombstone Territory"
We’re thrilled to introduce the first of four Tending Your Inner Garden® books featuring writing from women around the world on themes inspired by the seasons of the year.
The book brings together the work of established authors with first-time writers, all of whom have compelling stories to tell. This first volume focuses on a season of the year that can be challenging because of its stillness and dormancy. Yet winter offers valuable lessons and a resource in short supply in the world—time for reflection, rest and quiet.
Submissions came from all around the world. We selected the work of 31 women whose poetry, essays and stories spoke to both profound and common life experiences—endings and beginnings, renewal, creativity and stillness. As we share these stories and poems, we create and deepen a sacred circle of support on the spiritual path.
Suggestions for journaling and reflection are offered to readers as a guide to appreciating the gifts of this season.
 
Spring: Women’s Inspiration for the Season of Hope and New Beginnings, with my "Maybe Tuesday Will Be My Good News Day"
The second of our four Tending Your Inner Garden® books features the universal and inspiring themes of spring: renewal, possibilities, hope, new beginnings and emergence.
Spring is a time when nature begins its endless cycle once again, giving each of us an opportunity to refresh and renew. The essays and poems in this volume speak to those themes with grace, humor and a sense of trust that no matter what life brings, spring will always present new possibilities.
Suggestions for journaling and reflection are offered as a guide for appreciating the gifts of this season.

Summer: Women's Writings for the season of Beauty and Resilience, with my "When He Looked Like James Dean"
The third of our four Tending Your Inner Garden® books features the universal and inspiring themes of summer: resilience, beauty, storms, mindfulness and joy.
Summer blesses us with both gifts and challenges: Riotous color and parched grassland. Thunderous storms and blissful sunny days. Hot, buggy evenings and cool early mornings. Kaleidoscope-like butterflies and ravenous locusts. Most of us welcome summer if for no other reason than it surprises us year after year.
Summer: Women’s Writings for the Season of Beauty and Resilience will delight you with the adventures it offers and the memories it evokes.
“Now is the season to call back your heart,” Celeste Snowber tells us in “Bodypsalm for Playing.” This volume will help you do so by evoking feelings associated with the season. Then take pen and paper and use the journaling questions at the end of the book to capture your own memories of summer.
  
Fall: Women's Stories and Poems for the Season of Wisdom and Gratitude, with my "Autumn Aubade"
After a season of rapid growth and blossoming—so characteristic of summer—fall invites you to sit back, reflect, savor, celebrate and surrender. In your metaphorical autumn, you allow life lessons to integrate back into the soil of your Inner Garden. You recall the joys and sorrows of the year that has passed, acknowledging both milestones and setbacks. And then you let go, knowing that life events are transitory and the cycle of the seasons begins again.
This transition brings both pleasure and sadness. It’s not easy to witness such beauty, grace and ripening without holding on. Yet when you do, you leave with the treasure of rich memories.
The women in this final volume in our Tending Your Inner Garden^® series have harvested the fruits of an ever-changing life. They offer their remembrances, gratitude, realizations and guidance. Read their essays and poems, and then turn to the journaling questions at the back of the book to feast on the bounty of your own life.