My Aunt Allie lives in La Cañada at the base of the San Gabriel Mountains, just a few blocks west of Angeles Crest Highway. I called her Friday, concerned because the fire was near where she lives. As I read about it, I knew the places mentioned, and they are close to her home on Journey's End Drive.
She called me back Saturday, had not yet evacuated, but Sunday my call to her went unanswered. I think that means she and her son Brett have left her home. Reports today are not good--the fire there doubled over night, and when I spoke with her Saturday she could see the flames over the big trees at the back of her property.
Her name is Alice Callicott. I am named for her, although my mother spelled my name with a y. Allie is 89, still beautiful, still with all her wits about her, still with her sense of humor and her beautiful voice. My three daughters know her.
She asked that I pray for her and her home. I ask all who read this to do the same.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
The Windy City
Let me just say this about Chicago: I love it, want to go back, will go back, want some of my kids to go with me. Sears Tower (I know, it's Willis Tower now but not to me and not, I found out, to a lot of Chicagoans), rides in to the city on the L, those gorgeous buildings (and I forget how many of them Oprah has lived in), speedboat ride on Lake Michigan, bus tour around the city, concert out at Ravinia, strolling on the Navy Pier--what's not to love?
It wasn't windy. The weather was perfect. The Chicago River somehow a reassuring presence. The room at the Embassy Suites spacious and comfy and, thanks to my son-in-law Ben, affordable. People were nice. And I'm just getting started.
Chicago, Chicago, that toddlin' town,
Chicago, Chicago, I'll show you around.
You'll love it . . .
I did love it. I want to go back. I said that already.
It wasn't windy. The weather was perfect. The Chicago River somehow a reassuring presence. The room at the Embassy Suites spacious and comfy and, thanks to my son-in-law Ben, affordable. People were nice. And I'm just getting started.
Chicago, Chicago, that toddlin' town,
Chicago, Chicago, I'll show you around.
You'll love it . . .
I did love it. I want to go back. I said that already.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Morning Gift
A humming bird visited my Rose of Sharon this morning, taking delicate sips from the delicate roses. Such a sighting is rare in my yard--I don't put up feeders with colored sugar water. I did once and had no takers. So I am doubly glad I planted the Rose of Sharon, glad for the flowers, a treat for my eyes, glad for their color, their nectar, to bring the humming bird.
Of course, I'll watch for him now and hope, though I may never see him again. But I might.
Of course, I'll watch for him now and hope, though I may never see him again. But I might.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Another Life Renewed
My Rose of Sharon is blooming, thirty dainty flowers just outside my kitchen window. I quite love it.
I have watched for it this year, as I do each year, waiting for the flowers to come. Their blooming means something, like there is still order in this world that feels so full of chaos. We do watch for such signs. It's what people are happy and, I think, relieved about every Spring. Green comes back, flowers poke up through the soil, gardens begin again.
Thank goodness for it.
I have watched for it this year, as I do each year, waiting for the flowers to come. Their blooming means something, like there is still order in this world that feels so full of chaos. We do watch for such signs. It's what people are happy and, I think, relieved about every Spring. Green comes back, flowers poke up through the soil, gardens begin again.
Thank goodness for it.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Oh Well
How to Make a Flower from Plastic Straws
These darling flowers can be made with just two colored plastic straws, and can be used to decorate cocktail glasses.
* * *
This from Wikipedia HowTo. And I am led to say there's a whole world out there of things like this, and obviously I have no part in that world because I would never have thought of something like this, and now that I know about it, I can say without the slightest hesitation or doubt that I will never make something like this.
Am I missing out on something? Depends on who you ask. Ask me--no.
P.S. Note the word "darling." This is 2009. Where does "darling" come from in this context? Like 1950?
Monday, July 20, 2009
Frank McCourt
"A happy childhood does you no good," a ponderable from the memoir Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt, who died yesterday of metastatic melanoma, age 78.
I read Angela's Ashes in the mid 90s, after it won the Pulitzer Prize. Almost everyone I knew read it. I heard interviews with Frank McCourt. I liked him. I liked his Irish brogue, and I liked the things he said. He taught high school English many years, thirty or more, then at age 60 wrote that memoir. He said all literature is nothing more nor less than a story.
The book? Good writing but hard reading, very depressing and relentlessly so. No happy childhood for him and no happy motherhood for his mother. Three of her five children died as children. And that's only the beginning. His father? A loquacious drunk, like so many other Irish men, who drank up and probably "puked up his week's salary" in the street outside the pub.
And yet, I recommend the book. It's a should read.
I didn't read his other two memoirs. 'Tis, about his life after coming to New York, or Teacher Man, about his life as a teacher in New York City. But now maybe I will read Teacher Man, if I'm tough enough to do it.
I read Angela's Ashes in the mid 90s, after it won the Pulitzer Prize. Almost everyone I knew read it. I heard interviews with Frank McCourt. I liked him. I liked his Irish brogue, and I liked the things he said. He taught high school English many years, thirty or more, then at age 60 wrote that memoir. He said all literature is nothing more nor less than a story.
The book? Good writing but hard reading, very depressing and relentlessly so. No happy childhood for him and no happy motherhood for his mother. Three of her five children died as children. And that's only the beginning. His father? A loquacious drunk, like so many other Irish men, who drank up and probably "puked up his week's salary" in the street outside the pub.
And yet, I recommend the book. It's a should read.
I didn't read his other two memoirs. 'Tis, about his life after coming to New York, or Teacher Man, about his life as a teacher in New York City. But now maybe I will read Teacher Man, if I'm tough enough to do it.
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