Wednesday, January 25, 2017

The Sun is Also a Star by Nicola Yoon

During Y'allFest 2016, I had the opportunity to meet Nicola Yoon (not that she'd remember me, she undoubtedly made a bigger impression on me than I did on her.) Shortly thereafter, I was able to snag a ebbed copy of her TheSun is Also a Star from my fabulous Charleston County Public Library, and fell into that segment of the world that loved the book, enough so that when Blogging for Books offered it, I said yes. I rarely reread books within in a year, let alone within months of the initial cracking of covers, but this is one case, perhaps the only, where I reread it within months. My first read was one of those wild "I can't put this book down and need to see what happens" gallops, so my second was a more leisurely revisit, a wandering through the remarkable prose and the New York Day of Natasha and Daniel.

The publisher's blurb actually didn't win me. It was hearing the attendees at Y'allFest that got me to pick the book up. I was intrigued to see how Yoon handled the concept: Two teenagers, with nothing in common except the city they live meet and fall in love on the day one of them is being deported back to Jamaica. Told from alternating viewpoints, the story is endearing, thoughtful, informative, and a very special gift to readers.

I also am fascinated by the cover, so did a bit of research on it. The jacket art is by Dominique Falla, design by Elaine C Damasco. As anyone who has ever done this type of art knows, this in an amazing work and I remain in awe of Dominique Falla's skill as a tactile typographer and string artist. Even had I not felt the way I do about the book, as a lover of art, the book would have grabbed the art lover in me.

Thank you to Blogging for Books, Delacorte Press, Random House Books, Dominique Falla, and of course Nicola Yoon, for bringing this book to me.


Sunday, January 22, 2017

Love, not hate, makes America great

I was born the year after Rosa Parks took her bus seat in history. My first birthday came just a week or so after Little Rock Central High School was desegregated. Nonviolent protest was a common topic among my parents and their friends. At the Ethical Society, where my family went for Sunday discussions with like minded individuals, we children learned a hymn to humanism, which included a paraphrase of Felix Adler's words: "This place we meet to seek the highest is holy ground." Before I turned three, as the Civil Rights Movement gained strength, I have a clear memory of asking my father what race were we. My father paused from his reading, and pondered a moment. My dad, who had eyebrows that rivaled John L. Lewis, ran his fingers through that forest as he did when he was in deep thought. He sighed, and then nodded his head, signifying agreement to some unspoken idea. Then he told me I was of the Human Race and to never forget that. The Human Race. Others might try and break that down, try to belittle one part of the Human Race or another based on beliefs, or color, or sex, or ability, but that was a ploy to something unworthy. We are all part of the same thing.

That was the lesson seared into my soul. I grew up in times of turbulence, but diversity was always championed. When the riots broke out after Martin Luther King's assassination, an African American friend came to our home just over the DC line, to check on my mother (who was experiencing the first debilitating and disorientating symptoms of what was later diagnosed as Multiple Sclerosis). She knew my mother usually went grocery shopping on that day, and didn't want Mama to have to be out in the uncertainty that was our city. I asked our friend why people were being violent, because hadn't Dr King believed in nonviolence? "Violence begets violence; hatred begets hatred", she said. "But kindness begets kindness. Your mama and daddy did me kindness at the darkest time of my life. We are all family."

The mothers and grandmothers in my neighborhood all were early activists in the Women's Rights Movement. Many remembered when women got the right to vote (my mother was born the year after, but told me how her own mother would tell of her first time voting as an American, and how my grandmother never missed a chance to vote until the year she died, and only then because she died before the election.) Family  appointments and community happenings were written onto the  League of Women's Voters calendars that adorned every home in the neighborhood. And as I grew from girlhood into my late teens and twenties, Women's Rights and Women's Health became the causes I, too, fought for (though, in fairness, my first protest was against the Vietnam War in the 60's, and I remain  peace advocate. To this day, I respect and honor our military for their service, but pray for the end of the wars and fighting that plague our world.)

Yesterday, the most extraordinary thing happened. People all over the world, on all continents, got together and raised their voices in unity with those who joined the Women's March on Washington.  Though the agenda varied somewhat from activist to activist, all had something to say. I spoke for Human Rights, and for Kindness, for those early lessons run deep. I felt strongly I wanted to stand for something rather than against something.  Yes, there are many things in this world that make me angry, negative, upset, or fearful, but I choose hope. I choose kindness. I believe in the goodness of Humankind. And while technically, because of my health, I could not march,  the Charleston Women's March went right by my window I could watch, wave the signs I'd hand lettered, and give my support. I could rejoice that family, both far flung and near, were able to join in as they chose and speak to support what they hold to be inalienable rights; to breathe life into liberty and equality, with dignity, nonviolence, humor, passion, and yes, kindness.

I've thought about this a great deal, because there are people whose friendships I cherish that didn't see the purpose of yesterday's activism. One person even told me that she could make her own choices about her life, her health, her body, so she didn't see why she should march, or why others even needed to. But she also is too young to remember the days when women's bodies were not our own, when we couldn't choose for ourselves about ourselves,  choose who to love, or any one of a myriad of other issues.

I realized that those who marched, marched for our own beliefs and also for those who disagreed with the protest. We marched to uphold our rights and also their rights, their choice, their expression of belief, even if it contradicted our own.  We marched from all segments of society, the rich, the famous, the just plain regular folks, and those less fortunate. We marched, different colors, genders, education, occupation. We marched to uphold Human Rights. And for the ability to do that, I give thanks. The cadence of yesterday's marchers will ring in my heart and in my head. The words shared I believe, from those early days where I learned the value of kindness, through the dark days after the shootings at Mother Emanuel AME, where l saw the visible demonstration of the strength of love here in my town. Love, not hate, makes America great.
Flow Chart I made to help get it all straight in my head

Tuesday, January 17, 2017

Action Plan for today

I need to slip away to my Happy Place. ("Happy Place"; Folly Beach view of Morris Island light house. Mixed Media. 2016)

Sunday, January 15, 2017

But what happened to The Chair

I tend to cross-post to various blogs. as was the case with Resting in the Arms of Love. I've since been asked by several people "what happened to the original Chair"?

The Chair eventually went to chair heaven, but not before every spring was sprung, upholstery (second time round) completely worn, strange lumps that conformed to no one's body developed, and the recliner function became useless for even the most stout-hearted. Bumma replaced it with a white recliner, scaled once again for diminutive folks. After she went on to that comfy reading chair in the sky, our daughter got it, where it was promptly claimed by her then (now ex) husband who dragged it to his man shack in the back yard. It turned dark gray from the smoke and general grime. When they split, it was too filthy to reclaim so it remained with him. I still feel guilty I let it go to such a fate.

My mother in her throne, the last month of her life.

Saturday, January 14, 2017

Resting in the arms of Love

My father used to say he was a trendsetter. After all, he'd called people meatheads for years before Archie Bunker nicknamed his son-in-law that on  All in the Family. He also had a chair, a throne, that no one else was supposed to sit in besides him. One of the first purchases he and my mother made in 1968, when the family finally moved out of the little house that had been our home for 17 years, was a recliner just for him. I remember sitting on the arm of the chair, or on the floor near by, talking with Daddy about his life as a child actor, and growing up in the Bronx.  But to sit in it, myself? Never! (except if he wasn't home and I wouldn't get caught!)

An aside: My favorite story was when he was cast as "the pest" in a silent movie called Womanhandled, and the cast had to go on a road trip to Texas to film scenes where Richard Dix was pretending to be a cowboy. My father was a little kid, maybe 6 or 7 (though he was diminutive, as I am) and was playing the part of a 4 year old brat. Regardless, he couldn't travel alone, so my grandmother accompanied him. She, however, kept strict kosher, and refused to let him eat what the rest of the cast did. She bought food and prepared meals for the two of them. And when there was a barbecue in the cast's honor, she held fast and refused to let him eat all that wonderful food-- which was why my little Jewish grandmother and her son were the only two people in the entire production that did not come down with food poisoning afterwards. Sometimes religious dietary laws really come in handy.

By the time I'd gone off to college, the rules had relaxed. We all knew, though, that once my father got home from work, The Chair was his, and we had to park our bottoms elsewhere. He even co-opted  a hand signal that was actually a punchline to a joke -- a hand signal in the joke that meant "enough of that shit". 

(Left: that's me, in 1977, with our mutt Patonka and my flute, and some very stylish glasses, in The Chair. It's hard to describe the fabric. A modern weave that was kinda scratchy, enough so that you never wanted to sit in it in shorts. )

That chair traveled with the family from St Louis to Charleston, back to St Louis. After my dad died, the chair became my mother's throne. It travelled with her one more time, back to Charleston when we joined households. By this time, it was a bit tattered, so she had it reupholstered. Javaczuk marveled that she was able to find another fabric just as scratchy. 

At some point, my mother decided that though she loved The Chair, it was becoming hard for her to get in and out,  or to push it back to recline in, so she got another chair. The Other Chair wasn't allowed in the living room, because The Chair ruled there. But later, when we'd shifted to the house on the lake, the Other Chair, emerged and became part of the room we all spent the most time. I remember my nephew, who now is in high school, crawling all over it when he was under two, and delighting that he could make the seat of Other Chair shift into a reclining mode. After a bit, Other Chair, shifted again up to the cabin, so my mother could have a comfy spot there. Most of the pictures I have of her in it are really terrible, but I like this one,  because I love how she's bundled up inside the cabin, during winter (yes there was a fire going, maybe 5 feet away from her). As one who also is always cold, it makes me realize I come by my tendencies honestly.
The other picture, which I also love,  though it is not of my mother, was taken in 2006 or 2007. (The dating of it comes from the knowledge that we changed the curtains in 2007 and painted the door, but it was in the fall and this visit was spring.) Heatherico came up to the cabin with me for a visit. You can see who claimed the green chair in a characteristic arms over head pose.

We are now talking about selling the cabin, moving into yet another new phase of life. Some of the furniture will convey, some we'll sell, and some we'll keep. When the fires threatened the area, it was a lesson in "what would I miss the most? " There aren't that many things I really want to keep:  a painting or two, a gift from Heatherico I treasure, a picture, some things Javaczuk wants, and, the chair. But I was resigned that it might not be a possibility. Luckily, the forest fires, though they were close, didn't directly threaten our little haven. And when my sweetheart went up to winterize the place (there still was too much smoke in the area for me to safely go), he came back with what he could fit in the car from our list, including the chair.

We have it set up in our room, where Javaczuk has a reading nook in one corner and I now have one in the opposite corner. I started meditating in an effort to help improve my breathing and health, and the chair is my place of choice. I delight in curling up in it to read, or to have my tea. It's comfy, designed for diminuitve folks, and is stuffed full of memories. And every time I sink into it, I feel I am resting in the loving arms of dear ones now gone.

Our Short History by Lauren Grodstein

I found this to be a powerful story of a single mother struggling to to right, to raise her young child, and to build memories for him as her own death from ovarian cancer draws nearer.  The characters rang true for me, and Grodstein made it easy for the reader to glimpse the struggles of Karen, as she struggles to find the right path to point her son, when she's gone, and to provide him with support and memories he can take on his own life journey when his mother is no longer there. I normally steer clear of politics, but Karen's job as a consultant was fascinating. The elements of her work that were wound into the story really were fascinating, and illuminating about the business of politics. However, the true strength of this book was the business of parenting and of creating a family.

Thank you to LibraryThing's Early Reviewer program and to the fine folks at Algonquin (who have yet to disappoint me in any book I've read that they've published) for sending this copy of the book to me.

From the Publisher: Karen Neulander, a successful New York political consultant, has always been fiercely protective of her son, Jacob, now six. She’s had to be: when Jacob’s father, Dave, found out Karen was pregnant and made it clear that fatherhood wasn’t in his plans, Karen walked out of the relationship, never telling Dave her intention was to raise their child alone.

But now Jake is asking to meet his dad, and with good reason: Karen is dying. When she finally calls her ex, she’s shocked to find Dave ecstatic about the son he never knew he had. First, he can’t meet Jake fast enough, and then, he can’t seem to leave him alone.

With just a few more months to live, Karen resists allowing Dave to insinuate himself into Jake’s life. As she tries to play out her last days in the “right” way, Karen wrestles with the truth that the only thing she cannot bring herself to do for her son--let his father become a permanent part of his life--is the thing he needs from her the most. With heart-wrenching poignancy, unexpected wit, and mordant humor, Lauren Grodstein has created an unforgettable story about parenthood, sacrifice, and life itself.

Friday, January 13, 2017

Know Thyself, and know thy Girls, whether they're lemons or melons

As Breast Cancer awareness and prevention month approaches, I've been inundated by requests to do one of those coy little games to raise awareness without actually saying anything.

Dammit, NO! Breast cancer is not a game. I lost my mother to it, and far too many other fabulous people, both women and men. 

So, instead, being the sort of nurse who always liked to teach, and who found that visuals were far more effective than I could be with my words, I've posted above The 12 signs of breast cancer, revealed. It's an amazing teaching tool developed a few years back by Corrine Ellsworth Beaumont (whose webpage appears to be down, but luckily the image was captured many times over on the internet).  It's easy to comprehend, and has been translated into loads of languages. 

12 signs of breast cancer, revealed
B. Pinching
C. Erosion
D. Red & Hot
E. New fluid
F. Dimpling
G. Puckering
H. Growing vein
I. Nipple retraction
J. Asymmetry
K. Orange skin
L.Invisible lump
With this, self-examine, and true awareness, we can make inroads on early detection of breast cancer. Outcomes are linked to how early the disease is found. 
This chart wasn't available when my mother was alive. Her first mass wasn't visible to the naked eye. When it recurred, she didn't know lemons, and dismissed the changes in her breast to all sorts of harmless things. It was only one of those happenstance embarrassments, (walking in on my mother while she was in deshabille) that allowed me to see her breast, notice the signs, and get her to treatment as soon as possible. 
Do yourself, and those who love you a favor: use all that you were given when you entered this life: your eyes, your hands, your brain, and more. Be aware; take care.
This post is dedicated to Ruthe Nadel, who made lemonade from lemons her whole life, but didn't know other uses for them to save that life. I wish she had. Miss you, Mama.
Ruthe, after her first radiation treatment. "Look at me! I'm  radiant!"


Thursday, January 12, 2017

From crockpot to cracked pot

Funny what strikes that sentimental spot in the heart. I've been thinking about my parents a lot lately, and mulling over the words for a post, but something else, equally sentimental, jumped queue.  Of all things, it is a crock pot that is pulling at my heartstrings.

When I moved out of the dorm, during my University years, my mother gifted me with a crock pot. (For the uninitiated, a slow cooker, that essentially let you heap lots of stuff into its maw, turn it on, and let it cook all day.) Yes, you can do the same thing with an oven, but this had the air of convenience about it. In essence, it was an electric bean cooker, that clever cogs over at Rival turned on to those of us who didn't have bean pots simmering on the back of our stoves. I used mine for stews, small roasts and fowl, and glorious soups. I still have that crockpot-- it's up at the cabin, with an ill-fitting lid from the days when I was at MUSC Children's and our division would do fundraisers which involved a lot of chili, hot dogs, and other sundry food items. (Somewhere out there, one of the other pediatric nurses has a crock pot with an ill fitting lid, because she got mine, instead.) I loved the meals that pot made, but honestly, it was a pain to clean. When my mother moved in with us, and brought her newer crock pot, with a removable crock lining, I switched loyalties and never looked back.

Mama's crock pot cooked up some great meals for us. I can't speak to what it did prior to 1988, when we all moved into a home together, but from that point on, that crockpot and I earned a heap of praise. (A token of how much I preferred it, is that it never had to make the trek to the MUSC Maternal-Child  Nursing lunches mentioned above. Little red was expendable once my mother's crock pot came into our lives.)

I used it weekly now, especially with just the two of us here at home. I can take a whole chicken from  the butcher, to roasted, to stew, and then use the bones for bone broth, all with the same kitchen helper. And the "set it and forget it" mode has always appealed to me, especially when I've had a day full of medical visits and appointments, and then walk into a home filled with the aroma of something roasting in the crock pot.

But a few days ago, as I cleaned the crock (as opposed to cleaning someone's clock) I noticed that after 35 years, there's a crack forming in the bottom of the crock. And, sadly, it goes clear through, though nothing has leaked yet. But, it's not long, I fear. Plus, I worry about the integrity of the crock and if whatever's under the glaze might not be safe if the glaze isn't intact.(There was a "Lead in slow cookers!" scare a few years back.)

Today, I retired my mother's crock pot. I did a lot of looking for a replacement, and while there are ones out there with bells, whistles, timers, and all sorts of extras. I'm not taking it tailgating, or serving dips or meatballs from it at parties. I didn't need handles, or vacuum sealed, or a carrying case. I didn't need a special slot to slip a meat thermometer.  No temperature control or timed settings.. I just wanted simple-- and a removable crock for cleaning.

Most places I checked locally (before resorting to Amazon or big box stores) only had the fancy ones. But I found my simple little crock pot, on/off with a few stops in between, and a removable liner. The woman who helped me at the store was delighted in my choice. She and I each showered praise on the simple crock pot, sharing recipes and memories (we'd each cared for our mother, each had one son, each worked full days which were often rescued by coming home and smelling the fragrance from the pot we'd set to cooking before we left for work.) Sure this one is a little 2017-- it's got a stainless exterior, but it's the innards that hold the real beauty. I'll put it through its paces this weekend. Prepare for some good smells and good eating... and a toast to my mother.

Sunday, January 8, 2017

Thanks from Harry, and the rest of us, too

A few weeks ago, a neighbor I was quite fond of died. He was born the same year as my mother, which put him at 95, three years younger than my father would have been. In the aftermath of my neighbor's passing, others have spent time sharing small stories of him. At one point, someone praised the fortitude and remarkable nature of so many of my parent's generation, remarking they weren't called "the Greatest Generation" for nothing. 

In going through some more memorabilia, I found this letter from Harry Truman. I like to think it shows a certain class and dignity I have long associated with the Office of the President. 

 I've now looked up the birth year range of The Greatest Generation (formerly the GI Generation) and see that it spans from 1910 to 1924.  And though the youngest would be 93 and the oldest 107, I, for one, am still grateful for their service and sacrifice.

Friday, January 6, 2017

Born a Crime by Trevor Noah

I'd been looking forward to reading this memoir, but wow-- I was not prepared for how good it actually was. With so much of the news this past year or so being of the elections here, I had trouble watching the news, (even The Daily Show became too much for me) so my interactions with Noah have been limited. This book, however, confirmed that he is, indeed, a remarkable man, raised by a remarkable woman, and gave me a window into yet another slice of South Africa. I've already retold at least 4 of the stories to different people.

My friend Barb said pretty much all I would have said otherwise in her Goodreads Review. Read it. Read the book.

Tags: 2017-read, biography-autobiography-or-memoir, didn-t-want-to-put-it-down, e-book, first-novel-or-book, funny, great-title, heard-interview-with-author, i-heard-about-it-on-npr, i-liked-it, made-me-laugh-out-loud-for-real, made-me-look-something-up, made-me-think, read, reallyexcitedtoread, thank-you-charleston-county-library

Thursday, January 5, 2017

Looking for

My online shop is closed. I am still creating pysanky, Wheel of Time™ art, & line art. Please contact me via comments on this page. I welcome your interest. Please contact me by leaving a message to this post.

If you are looking for Patterns of the Wheel: Coloring Art Based on Robert Jordan's The Wheel of Time, please check your favorite local or online bookseller.

Some wearable art, featuring a few of my designs can be found through Artisan Tees.
Thank you!

For those unfamiliar with my art, I am primarily a folk artist, specializing in pysanky (decorative egg art) and pysanky-inspired design on more familiar surfaces, such as paper, wood, and canvas. Some of my art is  based on Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time™ series, for which I am a licensed artist.  Scroll down to see some pictures. 


Writing pysanky is the traditional folk art of decorating eggs. It has been handed down through generations for millennia. The word pysanky stems from the Ukrainian word “to write". Pysanky are considered to be written thoughts using a combination of wax resist and dye to convey symbols and colors, rather than painted. Each pysanka carries a one of a kind message of hope and good wishes. Though often now associated with Easter, pysanky are for all of life's events, made for special occasions, or to transmit special wishes or prayers. The symbols and colors all contain meaning, representing life: wishes of hope, health, prosperity, safety, and blessings. Legend has it that as long as pysanky are written, goodness will prevail over evil throughout the world. 

For some older pictures of my pysanky, click here.

Some of the 2017/2018 crop of pysanky are below. Please contact me directly if interested in any.

My Wheel of Time coloring book, Patterns of the Wheel, was published by Tor Books in 2016.

As of May 2019, I am no longer producing officially licensed Wheel of Time art, It has been an honor and privilege to be one of the artists sanctioned by Bandersnatch to create art based on a well loved series, written by a well loved man. I am probably the only folk artist to have ever been officially licensed to create art for a fantasy series.
The White Tower Collection

Some bone art I've done using pysanky-inspired symbols. These skulls were from the personal collection of Robert Jordan.

I have a fair amount of 2D art, as well, which is available, both originals and prints. I will be updating this section shortly.

Eye See Who (prints only)
Snow Critters notecards

Pysindy Peacock

String of Owls (prints only)

Coloring Notecards

Monday, January 2, 2017

Amberlough by Lara Elena Donnelly (Publishing date February 7, 2017)

My first book of the year and, holy moly! If the rest of the 2017 books follow trend, it's gonna be a hella good year! The early reviews haven't  lied. Amberlough truly does bring the reader a plate filled with espionage, intrigue, panache,and passion, with a dash of cabaret life, thrown in. This is one case where the cover doesn't lie. (Though I will admit, that as I started the book, there were some similarities between current political happenings and the happenings in the book, which, when the manuscript was being written weren't in evidence, that made me a little nervous. Then the story just grabbed me and didn't let go.)
I hope there's a sequel, but give me time to grow my finger nails back (or to break my nail biting habit.) 

A proper review coming when 1) I'm feeling better (started the new year sick. Am hoping this means it only gets better) and 2) am caught up on other reviews, also pending.

To the author: blame your editor for sending me your way, but you turned me into a fangirl all on you own.