Idealism...Bought & Paid For

Me, back in the boho days of the 70's

I'm an idealist.  An idealist in the way that only the child of pragmatists can afford to be. 

In the same way our parents' prosperity was bought & paid for with the unfathomable-by-today's -standards toil & even blood of their parents, the luxury of outrage I enjoy today is the direct result of the practical application of my parents' talents to the non-glamorous workaday world they inherited.  When their parents strove to reach the benchmark of providing a better way of life for their kids, I don't think they wanted them to stray too far from the norm, to be dissatisfied with the status quo, or to constantly question authority.

By the time my parents had me, I think that may have been exactly what they pictured for my future.  They did what was expected so I could afford not to.

So every time the comfortable blanket of ennui engulfs me & I think this is comfortable--this is enough, I'm going to try to confound my own expectations.  To get up & change what I see that is wrong, to question what I'm fed, & to try to leave this place better than when I found it, in as many little & big ways as I can. 

It isn't enough, but it is something.

In an emergency please break glass

 I've been in ignoring my true love lately. Not the man. Not the Mu. The other one that Annie Lennox sang about – broken glass. The  Facebook nag has been carping pointedly at me  regarding my neglected page.

    

Despite no ships in the summer, random orders and trunk sales have kept the little engine that could huffing right along.  But outside all my windows, in every direction the lush lure of endless green insists, and I am drawn outside, a cartoon character floating on a pie-scented breeze.
 The breeze is actually snake plant-scented. Factoid: stateside sansiveria typically lives in a pot in your house and adapts well to most light conditions. Here on St. Croix it is a weed growing unchecked and ubiquitous as  dense underbrush. It acts as background music, and despite a persistent stand of it behind one of my mangoes, dividing my neighbor's turf from mine, I never really give it a thought. Not until I'm back there in the evening looking for the Space Station or enjoying the stars and I'm suddenly hit by the cloying scent.  With a bloom stalk of wheat colored frothy florettes, our snake plant, like Glenn Close, refuses to be ignored.
 Inside, my house reeks (in a good way) of ripening pineapples, outside sansiveria--both so sweet you almost need to prick your finger and check your levels.

 

They are fair competition for the very bold cooking aromas of roasted garlic and Sriracha/chipotle-laden black beans, or lemongrass/peppermint tea and strong coffee I put up in big batches and chill.  Short version: it is so smelly-happy up in here.

   

 

But back to the Green. For now, it appears in the big Monopoly board of global warming we've inexplicably landed on Community Chest recently.  Surprisingly steady rains during what should be our dry season have kept the bushwhackers (men with tools, not drinks) humming in my neighborhood long after the season when they would normally be visiting family or playing cricket, dominoes or pool.
 Nearly every time I leave or enter my house I'm compelled to pass sentence on aggressive vines, yanking foe  and redirecting friend. Foe being wedelia,  also known as Cruzan kudzu. It is a cute little Shasta daisy looking thing that shares traits with "The Bad Seed," i.e. adorably innocent appearance masking murdetous intent.

   

Friend being Thunbergia, with its big periwinkle or white blooms that harbor fat fuzzy bees, hummingbirds or bananaquits, all hard at work on their missions. Primary is to suck sap, while incidentally pollinating.

My trick mangoes, the Keitts are coming in so heavily they are breaking branches. The trick is telling when they are ripe, as the big buggers stay green & only change from matte to shiny when ready.  Another sure way to tell is when the pearly-eyed thrashers 'check' by drilling a hole to reveal the beautiful, albeit beak- ruined, sunrise-hued flesh inside.
As mangoes go, the Keitts are longer, duller, more somber than their carnival-colored compatriots. The leaves are even a much darker tone.  In contrast, the earlier season Kensingtons were jolly, rounded, beautifully blushy and prolific this year.  And the cute little Julie bridged the gap, looking like a fat umbrella full of purple-to-orange ornaments.
 We are winding down to the end of this perfectly-paced pineapple season, with the last six of this year's 30 still to come in. I am a broken pineapple record – every year I proclaim the best ever. I really believe that this year (but then I do every year). I've made way too much pineapple/banana,
coconut milk-based ice cream. Sorry, I  almost kept a straight face when I used "too much" and "ice cream" together.  This week my favorite evening snack is a few wasabi almonds and pineapple chunks together in a bowl with a drizzle of balsamic reduction. Tonight I'll be making a "community shout-out sambal," with Grantley Samuel's cucumbers, Theodore Williams' fresh mint, and my pineapple chunks and key lime juice. It takes a village…
I'll be back at my sea glass soon enough, with renewed energy & (no doubt) inspiring visions of green. Until then I wish you a juicy, wild, inspiringly out-of-control summer.

When a 'stay-cation' is too big

To celebrate my previously belabored 25th island anniversary, I'm choosing to do exactly what I want, & possibly not what you'd expect. I did not go to the beach, or to one of the great local restaurants, bars, galleries, or shops.
I turned off the DVD player & Netflix, grabbed Mu & an iced lemongrass/peppermint tea, & spent the entire weekend in the back yard. I pulled vines & trimmed dead leaves off the palms & bananas, knocked down jack Spaniard nests & unearthed a bunch of lovely surprises.
Under miles of happily yellow-blooming wedelia vine I found all those Guzmania bromeliads I got the last 2 years when Home Depot left them for dead & knocked down the price are blooming again. Juicy, bright & fresh, & just showing off for each other since no one without X-ray technology could have seen them.

  

     

I also found Soursop Wars are in full swing again, with their gushy, overripe bombs dropping all over, loudly & unexpectedly. I filled a pail with their squishy selves & dumped them in the compost to do some last measure of good.

The never ending parade of fruit is at it behind the scenes too. Turns out the very-much-missed when fallow key lime tree is again full of fat little green marbles & my days of lamenting the poor excuses in the stores are almost over. The Surinam cherry is covered in little white blooms too.  And there is a huge bloom pod on either a plantain or a banana down below the porch. Major plant nerd excitement either way.

    

  

  

And in the non-edible category, the surprise winner is the bullhorn orchid. Blooming so high up in the African tulip tree & nearly obscured by neighboring Flamboyant limbs covered in their red-orange petal confetti, staring was required to see the prize. Not a bad thing to be unable to see beauty obscured by gorgeousness.

  

As for beauty, Mu is demanding I think about dinner (as in mine becoming hers), so I'll leave you to look for your summer surprises. May they be wonderful!

Still Crazy

On this day twenty-five years ago I moved from Maryland to St Croix.

I wasn't alone.

It wasn't my idea.  

I was not convinced.

This many years later & I don't even like to imagine the road not traveled. Between the sand in my car & the homegrown pineapple juice in my blood, St Croix & I are one. So by way of celebration here are some fun fraction factoids:

I have lived on this island 1/4 of the time it has been under the US flag. 

In 5 years, when I turn 60 I will have lived here half my life. 

I have lived with Mu almost half the time I've been on island. 

I have lived in the little house I bought almost 1/3 of my life here. 

And finally, my fave:  from the original half dozen pineapple plants I found growing here when I bought, I have harvested a couple hundred pineapples, four of which I cleaned & sliced today.

So how was that for curtailing sentimental mush?  

P.S.  I love you for life, my island home!

Lucky in Love...

You know the saying. 'Unlucky in love, lucky in location.'
Ok. Just made that up...and I lied.
I've been so lucky in love, my whole life...& in such unpredictable ways. The second bit is true, though, so to meld this holiday with that November one, I'll say 'Happy Valentines Giving Day,' or perhaps 'Happy Love-Giving!!'

It may not look exactly like you thought it would, but it is absolutely there. It exists, both available & abundant.

And here's some from me!

The Many Mini Miracles of a Mumuland Christmas

Just before 11pm last night I was on my porch, testing zip ties to determine if they would be too loud at that hour. Satisfied the zip of each tie wouldn't wake neighbors, I set about just one of many odd holiday traditions in & around Mumuland, my little house.

This year instead of driving stakes into the ground, I zip-tied them to each of my fence posts so the row of red metal poinsettia pinwheels is a foot above the top of the fence, more visible than last year's ground-based system.

 After I finished with the 10 pinwheels, I stood back to admire their addition to the 4 insanely LED-lit tomato cage Christmas trees & the 6 1/2' live tree on the porch, & realized with the other lights & ornaments I plan to add tonight, I've officially jumped over the 'Crazy Christmas Lady' line with both feet.
I was outside my fence, trying to get the neighbors' perspective of the spectacle

when I saw freshly shaven Mu bounding through the yard like a deranged spring rabbit. She was zooming downhill inside the confines of the fence & I thought 'cat,' but turning my view to the area where I'd just finished the poinsettias, I saw something else bounding downhill, outside the fence & exactly where I was just fooling with pinwheels.  In motion I can't tell a buck from a doe, but I do know it was the biggest deer I had seen on this island. Mu was so startled she forgot to bark, & I just stood there, grinning idiotically with no one to show & tell, much like when I wave at the passing International Space Station.
Wishing you a season of wonder & surprising joy!

Have Yourself A Pavlovian Little Christmas

In the immortal words of Zuzu, 'Every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings'...or a crab waves his big crabby claw, or a turtle gets its shell...or a

Jumbie kicks like a Rockette, or a lobstah rocks out, or a peacock shimmies its butt feathers...or a flamingo dances like a

flamenco, or Mu sighs, rolls her eyes, & dreams of a quiet nap space devoid of the incessant jingling currently going on at our house.
If she had thumbs, she'd surely be speed-dialing the SPCA & lodging a 'bell-borne complaint of abuse.'
After majoring in psychology (behavior modification among other things) in college & designing & making funny ornaments for a good bit of my adult life, I'm starting to believe the two seemingly unrelated things are merging in my weird little sea glass world in the guise of paired stimuli. Pavlov's bell-rings-inciting dog-plunging-head-in-food-bowl experiments are a little different in Mumuland.

1. Jingle bell sounds
2.  Mu huffs exhaustedly
3. I am compelled to start one of my West Wing DVDs
(I retrieve jingle bell from under sofa, where Mu wagged it)
4. Slurp of iced coffee
5. Twist, twist, twist
(I retrieve beads from under sofa, where Mu wagged them)
Twist, twist, clip, clip, clamp
6.  Voila!  An ornament appears.
7.  Mu demands I throw Mutu, her legs-of-unequal-lengths toy tiger.  The short leg issue is due to a stuffing-leaking, hand-sewing surgery incident on Mutu when Mu was a pup. It was traumatic, & she doesn't like to speak of it, so we choose to ignore Mutu's physical challenges).  Mu demands I throw Mutu 57 or 58 more times & chase her around the house before she'll settle & allow me to-
8.  Repeat.

L A Stories

The movie watching spot in my studio...when I'm actually watching

I love Claudette Colbert. I realize how mouldy that makes me, but after watching 'The Palm Beach Story' again last night I repeat, I love Claudette Colbert. She was sequined & sparkling, rapier-sharp, sardonic without any hint of bitterness, all a fine line that so few actresses managed to straddle. Myrna Loy had it too, & it was (I believe) unique to that era. 

After Claudette, I moved on to Grace in 'Dial M.'  She managed an iciness the first two lack, probably a factor of looking he way she did. I prefer her in 'High Society,' but that may be the reflection of her in the fun mirror of her other cast members--Crosby, Sinatra, Holm, Stewart, Armstrong.  

What goes on in my studio when I'm watching movies with my back--the million mermaid march, all awaiting heads & wigs

I've watched these DVDs so many times, I now watch them with my back.  

I sit at my desk, making mermaid fannies or whatever, listening to the movie behind me as if it were an old radio serial. They are frivolous, pure entertainment, like cotton candy a la mode smothered in whipped cream, i.e. the perfect substitute for the junk food I've given up. Full of 'smarm 'n charm,' they weigh no more on your mind than a gnat on a trampoline.

Yesterday was the seventeenth (my lucky number, incidentally) anniversary of the airing of the first episode of 'West Wing,' my absolute fave for when I'm in the mood for something more substantial. I'm on my second set of WW disks (having worn out the first set), plus I stream it on Netflix when I'm in the living room.  It is my 'fetal position go-to,' for when I can't make sense of my world or THE world. It gives me hope (albeit fictional) for humanity when I can't find that elsewhere, makes logic from chaos, & always leaves me researching something else, learning something new, & wondering (in a good way) about the future. 

The First Day of WHAT?!?!?!!!!

No colorful leaves?  No problem!

Halftime, as I call the big gap between the January to May part of the cruise ship season & the late October through December part, is winding down at breakneck speed. My desk calendar at my other job just had the audacity to announce that today is AUTUMN?!

Fall on the island is more of a slip than a Fall.  The leaves that change hue or drop are mostly limited to one color, two species (coppery mahogany & red dog almond) & happen in late Spring/early summer instead of Fall. 

West Indian Mahogany trees have small leaves that turn brown & flutter down in huge drifts...that are as shiny as a pile of pennies, & as slick as a slip 'n slide. The lovely Mrs Fruit who sells her produce under the mahoganies in front of the Kingshill Post Office discovered the latter characteristic as I glanced over one day, saw her hit a patch of leaves & land flat of her arse.  As I helped pull her to her feet & settle her bucket hat back on her head, we were grateful the leaves were drifted deeply enough to break her fall & ensure she would live to play her ukulele under those trees as she does most afternoons.  

Autumnal stony pup

To render St Croix even more seasonally disoriented,  long & golden rays of light usually reserved for Autumn in the states also appear here in late spring, with the polarity causing objects to stand in relief. I catch myself smiling about thoughts of cooler air & Halloween/ Thanksgiving/Christmas...only to wake with a start when I realize it is about to be summer instead of Fall, & Hurricanes rather than Chanukah are upon us. 

I should have been making these for months now!

So here it is, the cusp of Autumn, & I  just can't make myself believe it...except three people have asked me about Christmas ornaments in the last two days...& Williams Sonoma is pelting me with images of pumpkin-shaped marshmallows...and I'm sharing pics of rubber snake-enhanced Halloween wreaths with a friend...and my summer to-do list is SO NOT 'TO-DONE.'

But I'm done--done fretting over what eluded the 'finished' slash of my pen or the peck of a delete key--done measuring the 'success' or 'failure' of a given day by a litany of tasks remaining to be completed & thus robbing me of zzzzs, done cramming quantity instead of quality into every 24 hours.  

Man.  I talk a great game; don't I? I almost believe me. 

Cro-Magnon High Tech?

The flea market find...AFTER!

"Pull sharply on the farthest choke feasible."

Batten Handtree, Niddy-Noddy, Umbrella Swift, Squirrel Cage, Butterfly skein, Reeds & combs, Rya, Dobby, Leno, Huck, warp & weft, dents & stretchers & beaters.  These curious terms & phrases comprise the language, techniques & tools of my people-dem--weirdo weavers.  And all constituted the cutting edge of tech in the era they were coined. Complicated & odd lingo, likely deliberately made odder by people who learned it more from telling than from reading, like a convoluted & protracted secret handshake to a long ago lodge member. 

Sad little before

Yes, I'm from West Virginia.  Yes, I grew up in an area that honored another newly (at the time) coined phrase--'Fine Craft.' Yes, it was the 70's, & the 80's.  

Weaving still made me a weirdo. I wasn't the weirdest of the weaving weirdos, as I discovered in My weaving classes at Marshall University. That slot was reserved for the weaver who had grown up as the daughter of a circus elephant act. Her projects included weaving a sweater from...wait for it...Airdale hair saved when a friend's dog got his summer trim & which my friend hand spun into bulky yarn. Note:  If at all possible, be as far from a dog-hair spinner as you can.  Two issues here--airborne Airdale particles cause a wicked cough, & there is NOTHING redeeming about the scent of a wet Airdale sweater if said spinner gets caught in a shower.  For her graduate project, our daughter of the elephant trainers chose to cut the candy pill strips--those chalkily delicious pastel sugar blobs adhered to what appeared to be adding machine tape--into long, narrow bands & weave them into...wait once more...EDIBLE UNDERWEAR.  

So not the weirdest of the weirdos was I. Not by a long shot. 

The studio...where the older floor loom was supposed to live. 

I wanted to be a potter way before Demi & Patrick made that cool ('Ghosts'), but visions of muddy 'slip' water trailed through the house, coupled with amorphous blob miscreations that they'd have to display in their starkly modern home in the name of supporting my pursuits led my parents to steer me toward weaving over pottery. I had entered & won a couple of competitions with classic 70's, über textured weavings on driftwood. They won, no doubt because they were judged to be the grooviest. So I begged & wheedled until my parents succumbed & gave me a huge Leclerc (Canadian) table loom for my twelfth birthday.  It was so big that it did not in fact, fit on a table & my Dad had to make legs for it.  

From the day I turned twelve to July of 2015, every apartment or house I considered had to have a prominent & perfect space for my loom. Several times that involved a choice between a small dining table & the loom, & we ended up eating in the kitchen for the duration.  I stuck with the Leclerc from 1974-1992 when we moved to this island & I decided that such a big life change warranted a change to a larger, better loom--a 48" wide, 8-harness Harrisville floor loom (see my post from 7/2/15 for more about that, plus pics). After 23 years of planning for, factoring in, & generally walking around that beast, in late June of last year I carefully disassembled & stowed the parts of my loom in the back of my closets.  The pieces are still in there, beackoning me to do as I imagined & convert it into an upright tapestry loom that would take up much less floor space. 

A 23-24 year old tapestry that was displayed in Government House at a STX Environmental Ass'n show, the first year I lived here 

And then last Saturday my friend Phillip sent me a pic of a misbegotten table loom which, despite a good pedigree (Schacht is a respected name in my geekdom) had ended up a jumbled & unloved mess on the concrete floor of the Animal Shelter Flea Market. A couple of close up shots & I knew about how much coin & manual labor would be required to bring it back to life, so I gave Phillip a realistic counter offer to the posted price & the arguments to support the reduction, & within a few hours he delivered my project to my porch work table.  A couple of days of disassembly, wire brushing/WD 40-ing stubborn rust, applying paraffin to chafing & seized parts , replacement of the rusted-beyond-recovery reed with a bamboo slatted one & cleaning & conditioning the wood with a homemade mix of 1 part white vinegar to 3 parts olive oil (Mu licked the loom & says it just needs salt), I reassembled it into what should be a working loom.

I made an inviting space for it in a sunny studio corner (where the original floor loom was destined before I realized it didn't fit through the studio door & it ended up idling in my living room for 7 years, eventually demanding $2k+ in metal parts replacement to be functional).  In the recent upheaval, sorting & cleaning of my studio I even unearthed a bunch of fine cotton crochet thread I bought at a fabric store close out some time ago.  Eventually it will be the first warp on this loom, but weavers know any project is 70% winding the warp & dressing the loom, 20% actual weaving, all preceded by 10% plotting/dreaming/scheming on graph paper. 

I found a pad of graph paper just before I finished the studio rehab. There is definitely a reason the words 'dream' & 'weaver' hang out together. 

On Hershey Bars, Nylons, Dieting & Collective Bargaining

This is not ice cream. It is home-grown arugula & a neighbor's gifted avocado with key lime dressing I made from my bounty of limes. Lovely, sure, but I repeat, NOT ICE CREAM. 

Vanilla ice cream with fresh strawberry topping. 

That's what I've been craving to point of distraction.  For a solid frikkin week. 

This is not normal. Vanilla always left me cold, especially if chocolate was an option.  Chocolate, specifically MILK chocolate could motivate me to do anything except lose weight. 

Sure, I went through a noir phase where I thought the darker the chocolate the better, until 3 things swung that pendulum:

1.  Über-dark chocolate actually tastes a bit sour. I generally love sour, even going as far as to always buy two jars of pickles--one sweet & one dill, take them home & switch the pickles from one jar into the brine of the other. But sour & chocolate...oh HELL no. 

2.  Scientists a few years back discovered dark chocolate is GOOD for you. So much for stolen moments with purloined & verboten pleasures. My perversity switch flipped & I immediately preferred milk chocolate with its sales pitch of 'no redeeming qualities whatsoever.'

3.  Texture. Like the saw about the secret to real estate being location, location, location, my cravings are always about texture, texture, texture--smooth, silky, 'I won't fight back' texture without the graininess frequently characteristic of super dark chocolate varieties. 

So why vanilla with strawberries??

These, while perfectly delicious, are Surinam cherries & decidedly NOT strawberries. Not even close. 

I blame it on global warming, that bastard. Somehow vanilla with berries sounds summery & cool...& I WANT IT NOW!  And so this week at the most inopportune moments, that phrase in all caps & a much larger font repeatedly flashed in my head, like a peskily bright neon sign right outside your window when you're trying to sleep. 

It was flashing thusly when my ex sweetheart called to launch another salvo in the perpetual battle to remove the 'ex' prefix from his title. And genuinely liking the guy & so not being a jerk & just yelling 'NO!,' I did what I always do & pivoted to an Un-relationship-related or 'safe' topic, that of how after dieting since mid-March & successfully quashing most evil cravings, this week I had somehow become the bitch of a specific frozen dessert idea. 

And that was when I suddenly understood the WWII bargaining power wielded by soldiers offering Hershey bars & nylons to women deprived of same. When he offered to be at my house in minutes, bringing the coveted & craved ice cream & topping, it was all I could do not to give up my beachhead--the position I've stalwartly held for a year & a half.  Realizing my vulnerability, I cleverly threw out a plausible excuse to end the conversation quickly & before I succumbed--'I have to run now--Mu's playing with matches & you know how flammable she is!' 

Because I'm smooth like that.  Smooth like ice cream...

Mu, laughing at the flammability comment because as she says, 'How am I supposed to light a match without opposable thumbs?'

'Clos-play?'

At this moment there must be a group of mothers who have surely marked me for death. 

Because despite 50 plus years of maternal admonishment, I currently have the lights on IN EVERY ROOM OF MY HOUSE. 

At 11:30 p.m. I awoke in my studio in front of the last moments of the original, Louise Beavers/Claudette Colbert version of 'Imitation of Life.'  I thought 'I'll do my yoga & go to bed early'...with Santa Claus & a unicorn, evidently. Instead I have gone from room to room, starting or finishing several tasks in each, & blazing a lighting trail to lure me back.  

And then I finally got productive & started going through drawers, sorting into give away or throw away piles stuff that I'm replacing with the neat, clean, folded items I'll sort into give away or throw away piles a year from now.  

Among the cast off linens, I found some swimwear & a couple stray bras that I had to try on before levying judgement for or against.  The best was my red, rhinestone-studded & preposterously padded gag bra, made even more outlandish by the fact it is now buckety-big from a combo of weight loss & TEFS (Tropical Elastic Fatigue Syndrome--the early onset dry rot that possesses elasticized items here in paradise).  

When I bought this little house, there was a medium sized safe in the bedroom closet. After thinking 'how cool is that?' & obsessively closing & opening it with the combination to be sure I could, I considered what to put in there. I then realized I was pretty much devoid of what most people & all thieves might consider 'valuables.'  Eventually I pulled the little tray insert out & carefully arranged my bejeweled red bra in it, then stuck it back in the safe, leaving the door slightly ajar. Some time later I told Buck I had finally decided the item of greatest value & deserving of the safe's protection. He looked, laughed & my gag bra has been in the safe for the last eight years. 

Time for yoga & bed, but I'm already planning tomorrow night's 'clos-play' (as in closet) foray. I seem to recall a pair of satin platform shoes emblazoned with pastel rhinestones that will definitely require a try-on.  Good night!