quirky things to be happy about . . .

33. going shopping in the closet
34. slowing into the therapeutic zone
35. renewing a Lincoln rocker
36. conversing in old glass: slag, goofus, opalescent, carnival, whimsey, custard, rose bowl, nappy, jack-in-the-pulpit, coin dot, hobnail, vaseline, epergne
37. enjoying neighborhood walks with an mp3 bff
38. blogging on Friday evenings when Monday seems forever away
39. collecting everything adagio

40. knowing a Seagull guitar is tucked away for someday . . .
41. finding blue paisley capris at 75% off (and in a size you thought you'd never see again!)
42. holding fast to dreams . . .

Galveston . . .

A couple of years ago, maybe three (was Katrina the catalyst?), I began collecting everything I could find about the 1900 hurricane. There's no family tie other than my genealogist daughter's laments about immigration records lost . . . But it's amazing how a well-crafted piece of nonfiction can tie us to those who lived long before we drew breath. Isaac's Storm and The Sisters of Charity Orphanage story on the Galveston News website did just that for me . . .

As I watched the waves crash over the Galveston seawall this afternoon, courtesy of 21st century streaming video, the Cline families and the Sisters protecting their parentless charges lived once more in my mind's eye . . .

I so wanted to give the young man who was out to see the waves this afternoon, staying because Ike, after all, is only cat two, a copy of Erik Larson's book . . .

108 years, almost to the day . . . Time is indeed a circle . . .

nine eleven - where I was . . .

What isn't there, in that long-ago journal (click blog title to view), is why the words ran out . . . A plane went down somewhere near Pittsburgh. My daughter's home is in the Pittsburgh flight path . . . My cell phone was in the car . . .

When I called, my son-in-law answered. My daughter was on a plane that morning . . . thankfully in the Atlanta airport between connections when the world as we know it stopped. The evening before, my son-in-law had watched, from the Newark airport, lightning backdrop the Twin Towers . . .

The crew and passengers of UAF93 have a very special place in my heart . . .

Hanna . . .

Today's paper says we'll be spared, that Hanna is following in the steps of Bertha and Floyd, Bonnie and Fran. Just a few days ago, Fay broke Donna's longtime record . . . but not my heart.

Donna is the one hurricane I haven't forgiven--maybe because she stole some of my childhood's simple pleasures when I was miles away in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania Dutch country, not even able to find solace in saying that I too had faced her fury and survived.

Donna erased the shacks from Cape Carteret. The shacks--they were really all the name implies--were where I saw my first queen conch shells, gaping holes in their exquisite spirals, evidence of harvesting for conch stew. I've never been tempted to try my hand or my taste buds at conch stew but I've also never lived in a home without a queeen conch shell on display somewhere . . .

Donna tore down the two fishing piers, washed up fishing boats, on the pluffmud flats where my brothers and sister and I played on weekends and summers. Somewhere--not sure where--is the picture I painted (during my very abbreviated teen artist phase) of that aftermath . . .

Donna washed up a treasure trove of shells from the Atlantic deep. My family--again without me--brought home bucketsful. A few years ago, I inherited that collection--and the Sanibel collections too--some saved in a plastic container that had once housed wire used in my parents' electric motor repair business.

I cut my hurricane teeth on another "H" hurricane--Hazel . . . She earned my respect. Another "H' hurricane--Hugo--came close to challenging Donna's status as heart-breaking, beyond forgiveness. But I was no longer a child, no stranger to loss and change and adjusting and moving on . . .

I would wish, though, that Hanna stay away from the paths of Hazel, Donna, Floyd, Bertha, Bonnie, Fran . . . stay away from the places where my childhood memories are rooted . . . stay away from where I'm from . . .

simple gifts . . . a song

SIMPLE GIFTS

'Tis a gift to be simple,
'Tis a gift to be free,
'Tis a gift to come down where we ought to be,
And when we find ourselves in the place just right,
It will be in the valley of love and delight.

When true simplicity is gained,
to bow and to bend, we will not be ashamed
To turn, turn, will be our delight,
'Til by turning, turning, we come round right.

I've always associated the melody with Copland's Appalachian Spring and, in doing so, with concert band, my children, what seems a lifetime ago . . . Never truly heard the words of this traditional ballad until today . . . courtesy of Yo-Yo Ma. The lyrics are, of course, copyright free. The message they convey is . . . simply beyond price.