Bright lights, big city I love.

Last night, my son in law Chris and his band played a gig at a cool club in Philadelphia. We arrived at 8, got back to the house in the woods at 2 am. I guess I've been a country mouse too long, because coming into Philadelphia at night gave me a New York style jolt of excitement. The lights, the buildings, the people!!! The gig was in an upstairs room at the venue, there were lots of windows from which to enjoy the sights below before the band started. The hustle and bustle of 10 pm was even better by midnight. Where I live, if we had any pavements they'd be rolled up by 7 at night. A man playing the trumpet, people riding bikes, more cabs than cars, groups of dolled up girls walking fast with arms linked, onward to their next destination. Jefferson Hospital across the narrow street, lots of comings and goings. The rattle and hum of the traffic below, which would now keep me awake although it used to be my lullabye.
After the gig, we drove into South Philly to a favorite place of ours, still open and hopping at 11:30. The traffic was still crazy and so were the drivers. As a tiny sportscar buzzed around us when we were stopped at a light, I told my husband we weren't in Kansas anymore. It was good to come home to the country, so quiet you can hear a deer snap a twig outside, but boy oh boy, what a fun night in our beautiful hometown.

To Mine Own Self Be True

Having made no 2012 resolutions, I have decided on one thing. I will be truer to myself. I will conform less, ignore the dictates of fashion more, I will worry less about what people think of my clothes, my hair, my style. I have long been known for my shoes. Unconventional, adorable, little shoes for my little feet. Most of my shoes and boots come from the kid's department, especially my sneakers. Now, I'm not saying I'll start dressing like a child, although I do own several pair of white ruffled ankle socks. I'm saying I will stop limiting my "style" to footwear and designer handbags and start incorporating more of the pieces I love into a signature look. Layers, patterns, prints, ruffles, scarves. Pink, lavender, more pink. Vintage pieces, flowing pieces, maybe some lace. Vintage gloves!
Last year, when I started to tie a fancy handkerchief or small scarf around the strap of my handbag, people asked me why. Because I can, and because it's pretty! I'd like a tiny nose piercing, but can't have one at work. I want a streak of a crazy color in my hair, just a little touch of it in the front. I recently started wearing red lipsticks more, true reds and orange reds. I was never quite sure I could carry off the boldness of it, but suddenly now it seems right. I'm going to have more fun with fashion, jewelry and accessories. The only one I have to "dress to impress" is me.

I am not the answer to everything.

This will be a rant. Short and purposeful. I do not have all the answers. I barely have any. Today, for the third time in a week, my husband asked me where HIS alarm clock was. I don't know, I sez for the third time. I have two alarm clocks, I don't use yours, it's wherever you left it. No, he insists, you did something with it. I always leave it in the same place, it's not there. I DON'T KNOW I snap. He leaves the room, I go to his side of the bed, look under it, and lo and behold, there it is. He asks where his ties are, where his blue suspenders are. Gee, last time I wore your tie......
The uterus is not a tracking device. I don't know, I don't have to know, and I like not knowing. I don't know anything, I am just as helpless and dumb as you. Dumber, even. I am not, and have not the answer to everything. And whoever told you I do is wrong. Insert Samuel L Jackson voice here: I don't know a goddamned thing.
The End.

Lanaindiana, my hero.

I have been friends with Lanaindiana on YouTube and Twitter for two years. I subscribed to her blog on blogspot a while ago, and that blog gave me the courage to start my own. She writes mostly about beauty, and lately has written about her husband's battle with stage 4 cancer. I knew she spent time in an orphanage and in foster care, but for the past month or two she has been blogging about it, shaping what will become a book about surviving child abuse. It is strong stuff, troublesome reading that will tear your heart out, but Lana survived it. She just posted chapter 8, but 20 minutes of reading will catch you up with her story if you care to read it. If you want to see who Lana has become, and the success she's made of her life, her YouTube videos are not only a great resource for beauty tips and reviews, they are often hilarious. She is living, beautiful, powerful, proof that it's not what happens to you in life, it's what you do with it. Shine on, Lana, you're the best.

Harvest Home

A favorite book of mine is Harvest Home by Thomas Tryon. It was also a made for tv movie, called The Dark Secret of Harvest Home, starring Bette Davis. The idea of city mice turned country mice has always been alluring to me. As a child, I often felt displaced after coming home from a stay at my Aunt's dairy farm. After a few weeks of getting up before dawn to help milk and feed cows, then doing it all again later in the afternoon, returning to my easy, pampered, concrete South Philadelphia life was weird. In my early twenties, I seriously considered buying a few acres of that land, building a small house on it and living there. It never panned out, but then in my forties, I found myself deep in Lancaster County Amish Country, and deep into culture shock.
Harvest Home is the story of a New York couple and their daughter. Seeking out a more peaceful, natural way of life, they move to Cornwall Coombe, an untouched by time village in a rural area of New England. The villagers are mostly farmers, and life is lived according to "The Ways". Not unlike my Amish neighbors, they attend school up to eighth grade, they use horse and buggy transportation, they shun modern civilization and worldly things. They do not seek the outside world, and newcomers are treated with an odd mixture of wariness and bemused friendliness.
Where I live, although I have been here 12 years, since I am not "from here" I am not "of here" and will never be fully accepted. Someone moving here from a closer, urban area like Harrisburg would be greeted with skepticism. Coming from South Philadelphia makes me the equivalent of a Martian. But back to Harvest Home, and this is where my personal experience bows out- something is not quite right in this heavenly, bucolic little hamlet. "The Ways" go further, deeper and darker than quilting bees, bonnets and sheep grazing on the hill. This idyllic setting turns chilling, with places like Soake's Lonesome, the deep woods where you should never venture to at night. The Widow Fortune, the village wise woman/ midwife/ veterinarian/ herbalist has more up her black homespun sleeves than her knitting needles. A lot more.

Disconnect

I am learning the fine art of disconnect. I am learning that you can do it with the workplace, the holidays, even people. You "show up", you do your best, but you know your heart is not in it. Less hurt, less disillusionment, less vulnerability. You honor your commitment, but in your head you're already gone.

Nesting in November

I love November. The colder air, the darker-early evenings, the leaves, then the barren trees. There's something so nice about cooking, baking, even cleaning in the house as the wind whips through the woods outside. When Maria was little, our lives were filled with fun projects in November and December. While she is making her own memories with Grace now, I still do the same things. Baking, needlework, cooking, while a happy musical or heartwarming old movie keeps me company. When we are together, we cook, we eat, we linger over hot tea and sweet treats. On Wednesday I'll spend the night at Maria's, and have Thanksgiving there. The fire will be blazing, we'll cook and laugh and outside the wind will blow, but we won't mind. We'll have November to keep us warm.