i will live deliberately

i had a conversation with a lady this week about stuff. she and I are about the same age, so i figured who could know more about stuff than two middle-aged women who had been through children and men and lived to tell the tale.

she seemed as disheartened with stuff - a.k.a. car payments, overly-decorated houses, pricey vacations, unexpected commitments, shopping for things you didn't need while working at a job you hated, etc - as I was. things that really make no difference in my well-being or quality of life.

oh, make no mistake, there was a time when the right car in the drive-way meant the difference between living well and barely living.  the flashy metal was in a four-year cycle, trading on and trading up, which also meant more money each month. but who cared? I had a new car. that's what i was supposed to do, and boy, did i look great.

now, in my drive-way sits an 11 year old saab that, god-willing, will get me from a to b without having a stroke. I keep up the maintenance which if I counted it up would probably equal a car payment - but still, that's random and I can live with random. i've never had a car this long, but  I do fear the day, when old Bessie just can't belt out another chang-ching. I would miss her and my trepidation each time i climbed in. we've developed quite a relationship, and I think, we still have time to explore more.

people are keeping vehicles longer these days. they aren't as concerned with the froo-froo that once consumed our lives. there's a joy in simplicity. staying at home, saying 'no' to things and meetings that really aren't that important. leaving that charming artifact on the store shelves and asking a second time, 'is it necessary?'

i ask that a lot lately. is it necessary? will this make me a better person? is it worth my time? am I selfish to put myself before what is expected of me? and this answer to all - is no.

by the time people reach my age, it is the person staring back in the mirror who must be the priority. if I can feel good about my decisions, or lack of ones, I will be just fine.

no more stuff for me. nothing unless it's absolutely necessary. simplicity. thoreau had the right idea when he escaped to walden pond -  to live off the land with only the bare necessities. to live deliberately. to be himself, and not be concerned with what other people thought he should be.

we would all be better if life included only what we truly needed.

my corner memory

it was sitting all alone, in a warehouse. cold and damp. a place every pianist knows a piano should not be.

however, it was a rescue, so forgiveness is key. a woman had been forced from her home and a good samaritan happened by at the exact moment her possessions were being moved. he thought the old upright intriguing, unique, a piece of history. so, he heaved the monstrous weight onto his truck, brought it to where the elements would not harm it and now it sits, quietly, in a warehouse.

i was there on business, and i didn't notice it as first. then i glanced. immediately, i remembered my first ivories.

my mama and daddy, always lacking money but never ingenuity, purchased an old, reconditioned upright from a man in town. i was around eight and my mama said i was going to learn to play the piano. it was not anything this farm girl had in mind, but when mama instructed, i knew better than to argue.

it was delivered one day while i was at school. mama and daddy had placed it in the living room, a room that was never used and always cold. it was the home to daddy's parents' red velvet settee and chairs. they, like the room, were untouched. up until this point, i used it for day-dreaming. a place where i could go after dinner, close the door behind me, turn on my record player and listen to the old 45's i had borrowed from friends. the easter parade mixed with i'm an american band belted by grand funk railroad.  i'd pretend i was on stage, singing the most beautiful tune, bowing to the incessant applause from the crowd.

lessons came first. i don't remember the teacher's name, but i remember traveling to cornelia, about a 30-minute drive, and walking into this old brick ranch house and being met by 'her'. she was ancient, wore matron-like baggy dresses and smelled of moth balls. so did every inch of her dark-paneled house. the piano room was small, and so was the piano. not an upright like mine, but a small spinet, slammed tightly against a wall. on top was the clicker, the metronome, i hated it. she kept the wrist weights there, too. i hated them even more. she would sit on the stool next to me, shouting out time and notes, her breath as rank as dead meat and her fingers as wrinkled as an un-ironed cotton shirt.

lessons continued and i grumbled every tuesday. for my first recital, i played in my own little corner because i loved cinderalla and that was her song. i think it was my song, too. i continued lessons for about three years until finally my mama couldn't stand my complaints. i persuaded her i could do it on my own and i promised i would never stop playing. i kept that promise, for it is there that my love for music was born.

today, i rarely play, but when i do, i never forget that old upright that was bought with my parents' love. i never forget the moments in that vacant room when i was a star.

i swear the piano i discovered in the warehouse belonged to me once-upon-a-time, for i don't know what ever became of mine. i'm probably wrong, but i like to think my ivories made it through the years still standing tall and making music. it seems a shame that it will spend its final days in a warehouse. i might be able to change that.

no excuse inspiration

my 'inspiration' created my inspiration board.

I love my new board - my inspiration board. Sometimes, you just have to see what's in front of you to know what's in front of you.

Although much bigger than most designs I found on Pinterest, I wanted it huge - enough to handle my mountain of post-its, my jottings to myself, those from others and nick-nacks that, for better or worse, are a part of my writing process.

I'm very visual and I like to know where I'm going. So hopefully, this all makes sense.

Simple instructions: at Home Depot, purchase the 4' x 8' pink backing (Owens Corning Foamular F-150 1 in. x 48 in. x 8 ft. foam) - about $17 bucks. Mine is cut to 7 ft. long. Don't forget the screws to attach. We used 6 - 3 top, 3 bottom.

Next, Hancock's Fabrics for burlap. I was excited to find red! Make sure you get the 60" width. Other colors were shades of browns. Tacks and pins in the quilter's section and then ribbon if you want to mark the territory. The spray adhesive was a life-saver but be careful not to get it on the floor. If so, then mopping must follow. Cost: about $28 bucks.

Then, find an open space. Sweet-talk your husband and measure, measure, measure. 

One of my favorite organizational finds - the silver magnetic strip (to the left) from Ikea - hold tacks and such.

So there, it's an inexpensive creation that will change my life!

Sadly, this is the last time it will be as neat, for I hope it will be bombarded by papers, photos and pins! I can't wait to fill it up!

a woman's voice

Nora Ephron died today. I cried.

Not because I knew her or even followed her life on a daily basis - I listened while news reporters told of her extraordinary Hollywood life, one of films and acquaintances that would make the common person wish for her life - but because I felt like I lost a friend, someone who understood those heartfelt moments and could actually put them into words. Something I have attempted to do every day of my life.

She left us with gems. I remember "When Harry Met Sally", "You've Got Mail", "Sleepless in Seattle" and "Julie & Julia". I have sat on my sofa, square in front of my TV for hours on end. I always cried when Meg Ryan achingly placed ornaments on her Christmas tree, missing her mother so much that it hurt; then, in true TBS fashion, I would watch them all over again as they were re-played back-to-back. "It's you," Tom Hanks said. "It's me," Meg Ryan replied. And I gushed, and said, "Yes, it's me. Oh, how I wish it were me." Ephron had that gift of knowing the exact words I would say when I met the man of my dreams at the top of the Empire State Building. She knew words, and she used them over and over.

It was like there was a connection. She had a woman's voice, a true voice, one that would kick butt and take names, and then ask you if you needed help getting up off the floor. Never minced words. Nailed emotions when they accompanied a buttered tub of popcorn or a heaping bowl of ice cream and even had the genius to have the heroine peel an apple in one motion. Ah, how me!  I felt it in my living room, and then I heard it on the screen. Amazing gift, that screenwriter/writer/novelist/woman.

You will be missed. Who will write those romantic comedies now? Who will make me laugh and cry at the same time? Who will spill my innards on the big screen?

Ms Ephron, I wish for you a spectacular view of Manhattan from your heavenly perch and while you're gazing, a piece of pecan pie to whet your memory.