Reflections on Nostalgia and Progress: A December Special

I was perusing Facebook this morning in between editing articles, and I saw a "Throwback Thursday" that my old alma mater, Coastal Carolina University, posted: a photo of the oldest building on campus -- the Singleton Building, as it stood in the 1960s. I saw the Singleton building myself just about a month ago during a fairly routine visit to campus, and I was shocked to find the building had been totally gutted. The shiny, completely renovated Singleton building will reopen in 2016. It made me a little sad. Thus, I posted this on the Throwback Thursday photograph:

This is a cool photo. I was sad to see it completely gutted when I visited Coastal a month or so ago. Yes, the Singleton building smelled weird and needed to be updated, but I clearly remember walking through it between 1998-2002 and loving it just as it was. Progress and nostalgia are always at odds, I suppose.

Today is my mom's birthday (Happy birthday, mom!), and if you don't know my mom, she's one of the finest examples of poetic nostalgia I've ever known. Part of it comes from her outstanding memory, and part of it is her sincere fascination with how things became the way they are. I spent my childhood relishing tales of her childhood, from the people to the buildings around Florence. Even if they had long since disappeared, my mom could still point out where they were.

That said, I suppose it's fitting that today I would find myself reflecting on progress and nostalgia. After all, this is the time of year when people get caught in between longing for the past and anticipating the future. I know I'm one of them -- I find myself feeling excited about what might happen in 2016 (New freelancing opportunities! Road trips!) but also missing people I haven't seen in decades -- wanting to trade stories and hold on as much as possible.

I doubt very many people, if any at all, would agree with me that the Singleton Building was fine the way it was. People complained about how dingy it was, how funny it smelled, how dark the hallways were, and everything else. But to me, it was just another part of the campus, and the campus has felt like home since my college days. Luckily, it still does, despite the renovations. I think that's the secret, when it comes to balancing progress and nostalgia: making sure you still feel at home, despite change.

When I go home next week for the holidays, things in Florence will be different, as they usually are, and people will be shifting. They'll be getting married, having children, growing older, selling their old sofas, downsizing their homes, retiring, shopping for new cars and whatever else they do to keep up the progress in their lives and move forward. But I'll still feel at home there thanks to nostalgia, which my mom passed down to me.

Merry Christmas and happy holidays, y'all!

Me, my mom and my sister Marie, circa 2008 or so. 

Feline Fosters.

As a child, my favorite toy was a stuffed cat (actually I think it was a "Furever Friend," one of those cats from the 1980s with long, removable tails). My sister and I constantly tried to talk our grandmother into keeping one of the stray cats that wandered through the yard -- though none of them ever stayed. As an adult, I've lived with and loved a few cats -- shout outs to Zoe, Spanky and Buttercup.

Now, I've got a family of cats I'm taking care of. It's my first real experience caring for cats on my own since I never had a pet. I got inspired after I met some awesome people from the Charleston Animal Society during the production of Mount Pleasant Magazine's pet issue for July/August. I learned I could foster pets through the society, and I figured it would be fun. And it is, for the most part -- although I spend a good amount of time cleaning up after them and making sure the kittens aren't getting into trouble. I've had them for a week now, and the adventures never end!

Mama Cat (or "MC" as I've been calling her) and her two babies enjoy books, cuddles on the sofa, toys, catnip and long scratches behind their ears. They seem to like me, too. I think that's lucky, because all of my cat-loving friends say that the cat chooses the person, not the other way around.

Straining to Hear That Cha-CHING.

I've never been awesome at saving money.

You know what I've been awesome at instead? Shopping for clothes, shoes, makeup and fascinating works of literature. Drinking fancy lattes at 2 pm. Bringing a bottle of bubbly over to my friends' houses. Eating lunch and dinner at awesome restaurants and springing for a cocktail or two.

But since I've entered the decade of the thirties, which is when most people realize they'll get old one day, I've heard through the grapevine that I should be saving. So, in the last few weeks or so (don't laugh - I had to start somewhere) I've begun taking my money habits more seriously.

First, I opened a Roth IRA and there's already a little bit of money in it. YAY! Thanks to my Uncle Phil's speech in Litchfield back around Memorial Day, I set up the account without difficulty and I'm depositing money as often as possible. I feel so accomplished!

The other things I've done haven't been quite as fun.

I'm eating way more meals at home, for one thing. And yes, my cooking skills have improved. In the last week I've made tons of fruit smoothies, salads, new desserts (y'all read that post, right?), inventive pasta dishes ...and today I actually drove home from work and made coffee, eggs, toast and sliced tomatoes in my kitchen instead of going to Bagel Nation. Crazy, right? And I'm having hot tea at my desk now, made with some tea my thrifty best friend Mandie gave me.

It gets crazier.

I announced to my roomie John, after rinsing my dishes, that I was going to Barnes & Noble and buying a CD that I wanted because, well, who buys CDs anymore? I was in a funk earlier today and in need of a retro adventure, like opening some new music and unfolding a lyric sheet. Then I halted. CDs are like $18 bucks -- that's my whole day's allowance blown before dinner! So you know what I did instead?

 I WENT AND LOOKED AT CDs at the LIBRARY.

I'm finally living within my means, I thought to myself, thumbing through Fleetwood Mac and Radiohead in the "Pop/Rock" section of the Mount Pleasant Branch.

But it's not always as bleak as I'm making it sound. Yesterday, I joined my sis at the Pickled Palate and had a yummy sandwich and salad for about $12. And the other day, I had a beer and shrimp tacos at happy hour for about $10. I've been tracking myself and sticking to this $20 a day thing. Most days, I don't spend the whole $20. I'm feeling ...probably the way most people feel when they start a new diet.

Is this forever? 

But it won't always feel like that, of course. Soon, this new leaf I'm turning over will become a habit. I'll waste less money and sock more of it away. And I'll become a better cook. And I'll develop a new appreciation for restaurants, libraries, vacations and treating myself.

Those all sound like good things in the long run, right?

My smoothie, pre-blend. 

Sweet Tooth: The Next Generation.

I didn't grow up in a household with tons of snacks. I had to venture to my friends' houses if I wanted soda, Fruit-by-the-Foot or Star Crunches. My grandmother has always had an honest sweet tooth -- she just preferred to satisfy it with real desserts, not packaged kiddie treats. Thus, even though there weren't Twinkies and Kool Aid in my childhood home, there was almost always fresh pound cake. She loved making desserts herself. Even now, twenty years later, my grandmother still loves to come home from the grocery store on a Sunday and indulge in a new recipe. It's usually something sweet, because that's what she loves.

For the last couple of years, I've noticed my own sweet tooth -- which I've had since childhood, thus taking after her -- inspiring me in the same fashion. Once in a while I'll make a real meal, but I particularly love making sweets. Last week, I made what I called "peaches in a blanket" (rolled up peaches with cinnamon, butter and honey and baked inside dough) and tonight, I made frozen hot chocolate for the first time. I couldn't help but think about my grandmother. Sure, I've gotten the last two of my recipes off a Pinterest page and she gets hers from real magazines or cookbooks. And sure, she can still turn a Bundt cake right side up without a problem, whereas mine broke apart the last time I tried. Nevertheless, I think this is a trait that I can proudly say I got from my grandmother, sugar highs at 9 p.m. and all. 

During deadline, it can't be a bad thing to feel awake anyhow. 

Give Peace a Chance.

I woke up this morning, reached for my smart phone as usual and took it off of airplane mode. My best friend Alice recently told me to keep it on airplane mode at night because I told her I was having trouble quieting my mind.

But I soon found out that the entire Lowcountry couldn't quiet itself last night -- nine people lost their lives in a horrific shooting at Mother Emanuel AME Church on the peninsula of Charleston, right in the heart of everything we know and love about the city - our libraries, our art venues, our homes.

Like most of you, I'm forced to digest a good bit of horrible news in this world and find a way to move on. I'm regularly faced with awful stories about humans performing evil acts out of ignorance and desperation -- and I go about my day a little sadder because of it.

I have to say, though, that I've rarely seen the kind of reaction from people -- friends, family and the Charleston community as a whole -- that this shooting has brought about. I've been faced with a lot of mixed emotions from everyone, and I'm trying to say the right thing, but there's one phrase in particular that keeps repeating in my head. It's a phrase my mom repeated to me throughout my childhood and teenage years whenever someone hurt me and she saw my eyes light up in vengeful fury.

Two wrongs don't make a right. 

I'm sure if you're reading this, you know that Dylann Storm Roof was captured in North Carolina earlier today. And I'm not sure how you feel about it; I can't speak for you. But during lunch with my photographer, Jenn, we made the simple observation (while talking about work, but it translates to EVERYTHING ON EARTH) that positivity brings about positivity, while negativity brings about negativity.

That's why I'm urging all of you to find it inside yourselves to take this horrible event and turn it around the right way and spread love. Instead of telling your neighbors that you'd like to see Dylann harmed to the fullest extent of the law, offer your help or a shoulder to cry on. It sounds corny, I'll admit. But I think it's the only way.

When I was a child, I had trouble fitting in with my classmates. I went to a small private school. So I sought refuge with a few kindhearted kids in other grades. They were outcasts like me, either because of the way they looked, the way they behaved or their aptitude inside the classroom. But you know what I remember most about this?

When we were together, we were no longer outcasts. We were a group of friends who protected one another despite our differences. And with that miracle, the bitterness we held toward people who didn't understand us or things we couldn't grasp began to disappear. 

Because It Is Bitter, and Because It Accelerates My Heart.

So, it's Lent again. And as usual, I've given up something that seems like no big whoop until I have to actually deal with not having it. This year, it's "coffee drinks." Everyone cocks their brow in confusion at that term, so let me explain. No, I have not given up all coffee -- I need caffeine to survive.

But until Easter Sunday, all I'm allowed to have is black coffee. No Starbucks vanilla latte, no honey latte from the yummy local cafe -- not even MILK IN THE MORNING.

All black coffee, all the time.

I've learned a couple things while drinking nothing but bitter, dark cups of Joe. Here goes:

1. All black coffee tastes the same. Thus, i don't care to go for my used-to-be-usual afternoon cup from either Starbucks or whatever's convenient at the time. I had a feeling that my black-coffee-only rule would cause me to cut back on caffeine. But I didn't know how right I'd be. Coffee isn't fun if it's plain.

Coworker: Want to make a Starbucks run, Denise?!
Me: Ehhh...and order a scalding cup of bitter sludge? Nah. I'll stick with water. But thanks. 

2. I keep burning my dang tongue. Without that splash of milk, Irish liqueur or half n' half, the stuff is hotter than you'd expect. In fact, I don't think I've had all my taste buds in good working order since Ash Wednesday.

3. Not many people drink black coffee. In fact, I can name only two right off the top of my head -- Brian and my friend Sarah. Other than that, everyone looks at me like I've lost my mind when I say I'm only drinking it black til Easter. Which brings me to my next point ....

4. I used to think that I liked the taste of actual coffee more than most of my friends and colleagues. When I lived with Genessa, she would put so much creamer and crap inside her cup of morning brew that it ended up just tasting like coffee Kool Aid. And I'd make fun of her. I also made fun of people who always get the mocha milkshake crap with whipped cream on top. But now that I'm drinking coffee in the buff, I'm realizing I don't love it either!! I mean, i can STOMACH it for the purpose of having my morning jolt, but I'm not really happy about it.

All of that said, my mama drinks her morning coffee just like I do: milk only, no sugar. Sharing a cup with her is one of my favorite parts of going home, which makes looking forward to spring that much sweeter. So, until then, I guess I can stick to the dark stuff.

I just need to remember to let it cool on the counter first.

Saturday's cup in the elephant mug. So bare bones. 

On the Art of Transitions.

A few years ago, when I started working on my book, I realized that the hardest part of writing (at least for me) is the art of creating a transition. Thus, I would never abandon the story "between scenes," so to speak. I figured that in order to make things easier on myself, I would reach a stopping point in the middle of some action, so the momentum would still exist when I got back.

This "action versus lull" theory has bled over into my reading habits as well, particularly if I'm enjoying a book so thoroughly that I don't want to stop at a part that might cool my passion for the narrative.

I've tried to explain how hard transitions are to my tutee and probably to any other writer who is willing to listen to me -- including my freelancers, because it's true for magazine articles as well.

But what I didn't realize, until today, is how true it is for real life.

I've always thought of the time between Christmas Day and New Year's Day as a "lame duck period" of the year, when nothing really happens except, well, some people undecorate their homes, I suppose, and get ready to resume real life. You might argue that it's not everyone's favorite place to leave the year -- which is why The Christmas Cliff exists. (You know how everyone insists on seeing you before Christmas, as if the world ends on December 25th after the gifts are opened? That's the Christmas Cliff.)

So, I am proposing a new tradition -- or transition -- for this year, instead of leaping blindly from the action of Christmas Day to the action of New Year's. Let's make the most of those funny days in between. Let's continue celebrating and making merry and enjoying the time off from work (if you have it). I know I said that I'm wary of transitions to the point that I avoid them at times in literature and personal writing, but, if I start facing them in real life, maybe I'll get better at digesting them and creating them for the page.

Writers, after all, often draw on their own experiences. I appreciate y'all being part of mine and helping me bridge to the next chapter.

Could E.T. Phone Home Now?

The other day, I was using my "phone" to make a call for something or other and I received the following message:

We're sorry! Dialer has stopped.

In other words, my phone application on my pocket computer had stopped working for a bit.

It got me thinking, rather wistfully, about phones. I've always loved to talk on the phone, long before I became a busy magazine editor and HAD to talk on the phone 24/7. In those days, of course, there was no such thing as texting or carrying around a phone in your pocket -- but I still managed to keep in touch with my people most of the time. I would drag the phone from the hallway in my grandmother's house, where I was brought up, into my bedroom. It reached only so far that I could sit on my floor, head propped against the foot of my bed. For hours I'd sit, tracing the patterns on the rug with my finger, talking to my best childhood friends about crushes, music and the woes of school. I'd talk until it was time to go to sleep or someone asked me to hang up; I never had my own private line as a teenager.

My favorite aspects of phones hardly exist now, thanks to technology. The other night while I was in Edisto, I was both amused and baffled to find a landline phone inside the condo, complete with push buttons and a cord. You couldn't even walk around with the thing. I picked up the receiver eagerly, ready to hear the dial tone.

Nothing.

But, really, all the sounds that we once experienced with our phones -- from busy signals to dial tones to that obnoxious beeping when you left it off the hook -- have almost disappeared. I never gave it much thought, since the real point of a phone is to keep in touch, and I've done that part well enough as phones have evolved. But this week, I find myself a little nostalgic for these old phones. Maybe it's because I've craved a source of comfort during the last few crazy-busy days. Maybe that old phone in Edisto reminded me. These pocket computers that we call phones just aren't the same. I suppose it's almost like music -- we still have the songs. But we're missing the CD cases, the artwork, the lyric sheets, the stereo plugged into each kid's bedroom wall.

It's weird, the way so many forms of art have become just another computer application. But my grandmother, for one, has never given up her regular phone, nor her regular stereo that plays classical CDs each time I visit her. No matter how many times I power up Pandora on my Android, those Beethoven compact disks are still important ....and I still love picking up her old-school phone in the kitchen, saying "hello" and feeling surprised at who's on the other end of the line.

Bad Language - A Personal History.

Throughout my childhood, my mother never used bad language. In fact, she'd admonish people who had the nerve to say anything than worse than "damn" or "hell" around my sister or me -- even as I got old enough to handle it, hear it, even say it. In fact, no one we knew (the adults, anyway) had a filthy mouth. After all, we were closely monitored kids with MTV removed from the remote control (my grandma said it was "trash"), R-rated movies removed from our wish lists and friendships supervised with a careful eye.

Later, as I became a young adult, I was exposed to more bad language -- but I still wasn't much of a potty mouth myself. In fact, I was sometimes made fun of for being a goody-two-shoe, but I wore the label proudly. It was part of being Denise. I came to high school, and eventually college, as a late bloomer, determined to hold onto my virtue and not snort lines alongside strangers or miss class the next day. I'm not sure how or when those not-so-nice words crept into my vocabulary. But they did, little by little.

Here's a short list of experiences that stand out in my mind.

In the third grade I had my first real introduction to bad language -- though I wasn't the one who used it. I was brought to my teacher's desk along with a couple of other female students. We were informed that one of us had used a racial term on the school field trip -- but our superiors weren't sure which of us it was. At the time, I was a Catholic schoolgirl, and when the teacher repeated the word to me, I told her with honesty that I didn't know the word, and that I'd never heard my parents say it. She didn't believe me. I was mystified.

I had a babysitting job at age 16. At that point, I wasn't using bad language but I was listening to it -- I've always had a soft spot for rock n' roll. I remember popping in a Cake CD and playing a song with some choice words, only to be called out by the 7-year-old. I quickly turned off the CD -- who knew kids were so perceptive? -- but it was too late. I didn't babysit for that family very often after that.

My first job after graduate school was at a tiny book publisher that dealt primarily with military fiction and reference. My boss, an old dude around 70, let the F-bomb fly one afternoon because he was angry. I blinked in surprise, but I didn't question it.

One day, when I was around 27 or so and sobbing on the phone to my mother over a particularly brutal break-up, I let a word slip out that she had never heard me say. She gasped in shock, but she knew I was upset. Thus, she didn't say too much about it. But I still felt guilty.

Two and a half years ago, I started working at Mount Pleasant Magazine and Brian told me I had a dirty mouth. I dismissed his comment; I was stressed out and needed to vent.

I guess the point is that even now, at the age of 30+ years old, I still get scolded for using bad words. It's not that I don't know other words to use; in fact, I think of myself as having a decent vocabulary. I'm not exactly certain how I picked up the habit of uttering anything other than the Biblical "damn" or "hell" from my childhood years. Maybe it was all that Cake. And while it's true that a lot of people find bad language to be offensive, it's probably my worst habit. I mean, I don't drink that much (anymore); I don't have cigarettes in my handbag; I don't like porn and I don't snort lines.

Everyone has a vice, dammit.

The Art of the Visit.

On Sunday afternoons when I was a small child, we'd get out of church, have lunch somewhere with my mother (usually Pizza Hut) and have visitors at our house later in the day. My grandmother, ever a classy lady, has always understood the art of hosting - just ask my mom. Well before any of us were born, grandma cultivated a knack for hosting lively dinner parties, festive holiday gatherings - and, on peaceful Sundays, the perfect visit.

I feel sometimes that the perfect visit is lost. And y'all know what I mean by a "visit" - having a friend or cousin who comes by your house for a couple of hours in the afternoon, has a glass of wine or cocktail along with a few salted nuts or some cheese, chats with you about the week and leaves before imposing about supper.

I, too, am guilty for not knowing how to visit people properly. When I go to a friend's house - especially my best friends - i pretty much camp out with them. We start with breakfast and by five o'clock we're pondering dinner. Nothing is really wrong with this method of socializing - but I've found that if you limit yourself to shorter visits, two things happen: you see more people and you get more done at home. Plus, if you're just dropping in on someone, a shorter visit ensures that you don't hog their day without asking. 

This weekend I did some visiting, or made the rounds, as I like to call it. I saw all of my best friends and a few casual acquaintances. I shared snacks, drinks and chatter with these folks. But I also cleaned out my sweater closet, wrote a few articles for work, cooked brunch at home, caught up on sleep and read a few chapters of Frankenstein (the book my tutee and I are currently engrossed in). 

I liked it. Not to say that I'll give up camping out with the besties when the time is right. But when a girl is lucky enough to have so many people to hug in a short time, my family's visiting tradition is a good way to go. 

Even today, visits at grandma's house are the best. 

New Adventures in the Old Kitchen.

I grew up with my grandmother - who is an excellent cook - preparing the majority of my meals. She'd make an array of classic dinners, from beef stew to chicken with rice. I took it slightly for granted as a kid, but now I recognize that she has mad skills. She's also a killer cake baker.

My sister took after her, always inquiring about how to prepare certain dishes, particularly traditional, Lebanese plates that my grandmother only made on special occasions. Marie is definitely more talented than me. But she's also always had more of an interest in the art of cooking. I've always been more like my mom; I can put something simple together, but my passion for eating always outweighed my passion for putting food together.

I don't know if it's been the chillier than usual temps this winter, or just a newfound inspiration in the kitchen, but I've been making food at home a lot more. And yes, I'm enough of a newbie that I need to brag about it (at age 34). There are always the usual reasons to cook meals at home: You'll save money; you'll be healthier. However, I've compounded a list of additional reasons I like making food at home.

• My computer is nearby, as are my books, papers and anything else I might need to jot down a poem, take photos of my food without receiving withering looks from a tableful of people, etc. 
• Genessa often comes home, asks what I'm making, and sounds mildly impressed when I announce the evening's project. 
• The grocery store is apparently a good place to meet men, or so I hear. I haven't met one there yet. 
• I can listen to Pandora. 
• The smell of the food cooking pretty much counts as an appetizer. I think I eat a little less at home, because I'm not as frantic when I finally sit down with my plate. 

And, if you're wondering what I've been making as of late, it's nothing to get ALL excited about. Here, a short list.

• French toast with a side of oranges 
• Salmon with Brussels sprouts tossed in balsamic, olive oil and bacon bits 
• cheese and onion omelet with toast 
• steak and eggs with a side of spinach 
• fajitas with steak and bell peppers 

So, as you can see, I'm still a beginner. But I'm getting better. I didn't mean to make a resolution for 2014, but I think I've come up with one without meaning to: Eat at home at least a few times per week.

And flirt with a man in the grocery store.

Here's Looking at 34.

My birthday was over the weekend and I turned 34. I can't believe it. Luckily, I've been so bombarded by the well wishes of my friends and family (who downright spoiled me this year) that I haven't had the time to dwell on the aging process. Whew!

Normally, the gift du jour during birthdays is a shot of liquor or a glass of champagne during the party - and I did get plenty of those. But this year I also racked up a few nice gifts. Here's the short list:

a homemade journal, made by my pal Jim
gift cards to Chick Fil A and Barnes & Noble (two of my FAVORITE places)
cake and cupcakes (chocolate and red velvet!)
designer stationary
candles with fine scents
homemade birthday cards
homemade candy, made by my pal Emily
a book journal - I called it the "old-fashioned version of Goodreads"
lottery tickets
earrings

So, as you can see, I was overwhelmed by the generosity of my people. But I pretty much feel that way every single day, because their unwavering support and friendship gets me through whatever life tosses onto my (cake) plate.

Cheers!

In Praise of Technology (For Once).

These days, we treat technology like a toxic relationship - we know it's bad for us but we just can't help but overindulge like stage 5 clingers. Right? I mean, every time we turn around there's a story on the Web (ha) about how technology is driving a wedge between actual, flesh-and-blood human beings, profoundly isolating us, ruining the record and magazine industries and making us robots.

But we're logged in, for better or worse. And tonight, I have a few good words to say about technology.

My mother has never been a tech person. Here's an example: Whenever I've tried to text message her phone with a simple message such as "have a good day, mom," she's been known to CALL me back and thank me.

"Thank you for the message! I just got it!" she'll crow.

So, you see, my mom has never quite gotten the hang of modern technology, from smartphones to computers and social media. Until now.

It started when I bought her a tablet for Christmas. I knew that it'd take her a while to get it up and running (it's not like she had wi-fi in the house or anything) but I knew she'd eventually love it. Like any concerned daughter, I nudged her to move forward every day on getting the Internet hooked up and learning how to surf the Web with the best of us.

As of tonight, I'm proud to announce that my mom has a Facebook page. You might wrinkle your nose at that statement. After all, Facebook is a time waster. It is the reason you've whiled away hours talking to someone you've not seen in ten years, rather than doing something adventurous and productive like learning electric guitar riffs. Nevertheless, I'm proud of my mom. When I talked with her tonight (on the regular phone), she sounded happier than she's been in ages - like she had a new project on her hands. Which she does. And I'm thrilled right along with her.

It's refreshing to see things from the perspective of a newbie. We tend to think kids are the only people who can reintroduce us to every day concepts that we've gotten tired of ourselves. But thanks to my mom and her zealous new tablet lessons, I've stumbled onto a secret: to enjoy something you've started to take for granted, teach it to someone else.

Mom and daughters - I tagged her in it! 

Being the Cool Aunt.

This year, I've spent more time getting to know my friends' children than I have ever before - and I love it! A lot of them call me "Aunt Denise;" most of them think of me as being cool. I'm probably not anywhere close to having a kid of my own in the mix, so it's good news that aunthood seems to be my calling. I mean, think of all the television shows and movies that had interesting aunts over the years.

One of the things that devotes me to aunthood is the fact that I'm willing to accompany my friends on kid-friendly activities. Need an adult companion to go with you to birthday party for toddlers? I'm there. But I think what mostly enables me to get along with youngsters is the simple truth I told my pal Kristi the other day - I act like a kid right along with them.

Autumn Harvest (of Ideas).

Friends, it has been a long time. I haven't blogged in several weeks and I've missed it.

But, as each of you probably knows, there are times when we must absorb the strangeness and the mystery of life like a sponge and do little else. As a writer, I feel that every summer is mostly like that. The cooler months are more reflective for me and are when I do my best writing. Meanwhile, during the warmer months, I tend to sit back and simply take life in.

There has been plenty to take in this summer, most of it good but some not so great. Today, I received the heart-wrenching news that Georgetown, SC, suffered an extensive fire that devastated many of the riverfront businesses. One of those businesses was Harborwalk Books, an independent bookstore that housed many volumes of poetry. In fact, though I only visited the store once, I bought a book of Adrienne Rich's poems over 4th of July weekend, on the way to Litchfield to spend the holiday with my family. I remember exclaiming how great the poetry selection was. I will miss the opportunity to visit again.

There are many other things that struck me this summer. I can't write about them all, but I know that they will resurface in my own poems and prose as the days shorten and I cover my arms with the comfort of long sleeves. Fortunately, I'm kicking writing season off the right way this weekend - I'm visiting my beach house in Litchfield with a few of my dearest poet-friends. I can't wait to spend the whole weekend talking, sharing stories and writing.

Photo by Bryan Penberthy

My Mother, My Rock.

The other day, I was driving to work and one of my all time favorite songs came on: "Hey Joe," sung by Jimi Hendrix.

It's a great song, but I think at least one of the reasons I love it so much (and kept turning it up, louder and louder, in my car until I couldn't detect when Brian was trying to call me back) is because I remember my mom playing it for me on an old record she had when I was a little girl.

My mom has the most sincere affection for rock music of any person I've ever known. And, unlike many almost-60-year-olds, her devotion to loud, emotional guitar riffs has not diminished over the years of her life only to be replaced by sappy "adult contemporary" or whatever the hell. Nope, my mother still rocks, quite literally. She still gets excited when she hears a favorite song and turns it up - WAY up. She still knows how to dance to any tune that she loves. She still likes live music in small bars. And, she is probably responsible for my own musical reality.

After all, I did not spend the 1990s listening to Biggie, Tupac or Widespread Panic like some of my classmates did. I went from adoring my mom's old records (everything from Steppenwolf to the Stones) to embracing the grunge era, which my mom heartily approved of.

"Will you make me a tape of that?" she'd ask enthusiastically, watching me play air guitar along to Pearl Jam's "Jeremy." And I would.

After I left home, I of course became exposed to other types of music - disco and classical and hippie shit and, yes, even a little bit of the rap I missed out on - but I never stopped identifying the most with rock.

Nowadays, when I'm asked that common question about what I listen to, I always name the separate genres I appreciate, but I always finish with rock, in the most definitive way possible.

"I'm mostly a rock person," I always tell people.

And thanks to my mother, I am.

Hells yes. 

Natural Resources.

Today, I got a call from my ex-boss at the Nautical & Aviation Publishing Company, where I worked for over three years. He asked me if I could help out this week, since he's between employees and swamped with projects. I happily obliged, not only because I can use all the extra pocket change I can get (like any writer), but also because he's a friend. I was glad to be his resource.

And (this is a little more random, for sure) I also discovered a great place for a July/August cover shoot this morning - none other than the little creekside dock in the neighborhood where I used to live SIX years ago. It totally sprang into my head on a whim, while I was drinking iced coffee this morning at Troubadours. I asked Brian if he'd go look at the scene with me and offer his opinion. We checked it out, and it was just as I remembered it. I think it's going to work out great.

I've always had a good memory (thanks to my mother, who's pretty much like an elephant) and as I get older I'm noticing how valuable it is. I mean, who would have thought that when I moved into that neighborhood almost seven years ago, as a 26-year-old graduate student (gosh, those were the days), that I would later recall it as the perfect backdrop for a shoot at my magazine gig?

Here's the test shot that Brian took with his phone. Lowcountry perfection, no?

On Having it All.

So, it seems a bit premature to post something on this topic, since I'm not a mother, nor pregnant, nor dating someone that I would consider starting a family with, nor even dating someone. 

All of that aside, I had a brief text-conversation with one of my best gal pals this morning and it got me thinking about writing and being a mother. Actually, I think about this topic a lot when I spend time with her. She's both a writer and a mother, after all. She has two beautiful sons and a spectacular idea for a novel. How lucky is that?

I should probably also point out that when people ask me if I "want children some day,"sometimes I'll answer that I'm a writer, and that a lot of writers don't have families. It's kind of a dumb thing to say. I guess it's my way of defending myself when I feel put on the spot.

The truth is, plenty of amazing writers have families, and plenty of amazing mothers have the desire to write. My friend said in a text message this morning that she was considering asking her neighbor to watch the boys while she makes time to work on her book. I said that was a great idea; I'm always urging her to make time for writing when she needs it.

And if I ever have kids one day, I hope my best friends do the same. I know I'll still be writing, even if I have to scrawl notes on napkins at kid-friendly restaurants and type them much, much later. Even if I have to ask my neighbor, or other friends who understand as well as this friend does, to come over and help me.

I've read countless articles and blogs in the last few years that proclaim it is tough, if not impossible, for women to "have it all." You've all seen these articles; they claim that a woman can't be an amazing mother and successfully hold down a worthwhile career at one time.

But why does the 9 to 5 grind even matter so much? If we can pull off being amazing mothers and successfully foster our passions (even if we don't make a paycheck doing it), then I think we can say that we have it all.

My friend has it all, in my opinion, because she's passionate about raising her kids and making time for her own calling. So, to the rest of you ladies who are doing the same thing, keep it up. Keep showing the world that we can have it all.

No Shoppin', No Droppin'.

I hemmed and hawed for several days about what to give up for Lent this year. Most people I know didn't give anything up because, heck, the Pope just up and quit, right?

But I really don't do the giving up thing to acknowledge the Pope; it's more just a pre-spring ritual from my childhood that I still enjoy. Still, the decision took ages this year. Facebook? Booze? Pandora? Fashion Magazines? None of them really stuck.

Finally, as of yesterday, I decided no shopping til Easter. I can buy groceries but that is it. No sunglasses, no Goodwill jaunts, no Target, no random tubes of lipstick, no consignment. What will be tough about this choice is keeping my spring wardrobe on hold. Trust me, I've thought long and hard about whether my future array of cute, flattering tanks and skirts will suffer if I'm not able to find them until April 1st. But you know what? Materialism never got anyone anywhere except in debt.

That said, if you get sick of my ensembles between now and Easter Sunday, take heart. I'll be busting out a new sundress soon enough.

Florence + Christmas = Joy.

I just got back from Christmas in Florence for six whole days, which was absolutely wonderful. I spent ample time with really old friends, saw all the members of my family and even made a fancy dessert from a Christmas magazine for the first time.

cake roll

I mean, really, who knew I would be so excellent at rolling up angel food cake? Not I. The recipe made two cake rolls, so I brought one to Christmas dinner at my dad's house and the other to supper that night at my uncle's house. I thought it went over well in both locations. 

Abbey and me

Besides rolling cake, I also feel like I bonded with my cousins on my dad's side a little more this year. I've always liked two in particular--Anna and Abbey, who are my first cousin Tammy's young daughters. Whenever we see each other on Christmas day at my dad's, we talk about planning something else before next Christmas. But this year I think we actually will. 

My oldest friend Gayden and me

I suspect one of the reasons I enjoyed Florence so much this year is because I was completely alone, with no boyfriend, and I was able to submerge myself into feeling 12 all over again. I feel like I got back to my roots.

Now I've got the post-holiday blues, which typically happens to me after an exceptional Christmas. There isn't much going on this weekend and I just woke up a little while ago, wondering if it's warm enough to sit out in the driveway and read books and magazines. 

I crave other people's ideas for the new year. Everyone can use a little inspiration now and then.