I've been Hexed (A story nearly a decade in the telling)

Once upon a time, I fell in love. It was clearly meant to be. I saw a picture and knew that was for me. Never mind that I was madly in love with my husband, a devoted mother to offspring and caregiver to a parent. I was hit hard. And it wasn't one sided either-- but six. No, the object of my desire wasn't polyamorous, but was a simple hexagon, crocheted and colorful, waiting for me.

It was a time in my life when the intermittent nerve problems I have in my hands was quiet, and I could crochet for hours. Hats, bags, Amigurumi critters all tumbled off my hook with colorful abundance. It was on flickr that I first noticed a afghan done in hexagon pieces, rather than granny squares. The pattern charmed me and I decided to take it on.

Koigu yarn stash

I found my hexagon lover while seemingly complex, actually rather simple to get along with.  I could crochet along, only half paying attention to what chained from my hook. The pattern was pretty intuitive, and easy to replicate. It was just a matter of time. In December 29, 2007, I took some lovely Koigu yarns left from various projects (even frogged* a piece I started in 2006, if I recall) and began my hexagon afghan.



I had such fun working on the afghan. It accompanied us as we travelled to our cabin in the mountains. It wrapped around me, as I yakked with my mother, and with my brothers and sister in laws and other relatives when they visited. It absorbed the happy companionship of our home. I still remember one of my sister in laws looking at it and saying that she couldn't believe she knew someone who made something this beautiful. tIeven wore it, as a shark, but in reality a work in progress, when we went to see and hear our family friend James Moody when he came to Charleston in 2008. (That's me in the center, still carrying my prednisone weight, and growing our my hair at my granddaughters' request, to give to Locks of Love. They made a special point of telling me that LofL took gray hair now, Hmph.) It was lovely, a happy time. Each stitch was a reminder of what my mother often said-- an afghan is a way to give a hug to someone you love when you can't be with them. Her afghans were made for people she cherished, and carried armfuls of love. 

January 2008

With James Moody and Al Fraserr (author and Dizzy Gillespie's Cousin

But ultimately, it was time that fled from me. After successfully hosting an International BookCrossing Convention in 2007, in early 2008, the Charleston BookCrossers were asked to host the US BookCrossing UnConvention, and moved into high gear, planning in 3 months what we had done in 3 years for the 2007 event. Then, a few months after that, my beloved mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, and I immersed myself in that challenge, vowing with her to face the days with courage, laughter and love. Her courage never left her, but mine collapsed in June 2009, as I held her hand and whispered goodbye. I thought that perhaps to heal, I'd pick up my hook again, as I had learned to crochet from my mother, and it was an activity, along with reading and sharing stories, that we liked to do together. After her memorials (one west coast, one east), I headed off to the mountains of Georgia for some R&R, accompanied by a manuscript I was determined to revive, and my hexagon afghan WIP**. But it was not meant to be. Shortly after settling in, I turned around and went home to sit vigil for my elder brother and sister-in-law, horribly injured in a home invasion in India. When my brother died, I put the yarn away, unable to face it, remembering the hours I'd worked on it while both he and my mother sat nearby.The hexagon project surfaced a few times in 2011 and 2012, but my hands acted up and it was tucked away. Then we got involved in readying our home for sale, showing the house, moving, settling in to a new place. 

A few weeks ago, I pulled the afghan-to-be out of storage, and discovered it looks beautiful in our library/office space. I took inventory of what needed to be done to complete it, and guess what? Today I tied off the last bit of yarn on the afghan. It's small-- more like a lap throw or small coverlet, perfect for snuggling up under on the couch, rather than a bed spread.It still needs to be blocked. But know what? When I tuck it around me, I feel the arms of those I love.

Tucked around me tonight as I write 

*translation: Rip it (Congratulations, you now have a words in yarn-speak)
**translation: Work in progress (You now have now doubled your yarn-speak vocabulary)

I get by with a little help from my friends -or- how two Amys amuse each other from afar

Yesterday, I returned home to find this sight at the end of the hall outside our apartment and posted a picture on social media:

I'm guessing husband's new tai chi sword has arrived at the apartment.

My friends are clever, and the usual round of comments followed, the first being from Spedbug (who has been mentioned a couple of times in this blog, and also shares the name "the other Amy" with me).  "Either that or a snake has mailed itself to you. Be very careful"

I couldn't get the image of snake-in-a-box out of my brain. It tumbled into the images from The Little Prince, depicting a boa constrictor digesting an elephant. (For those unfamiliar, here's a link to The Little Prince, boa and hat illustrations.) Every time I looked at the four foot long box, lurking quietly in the corner where it had been since I dragged it inside, I smiled.

The rest of the day tumbled on. Husband arrived, opened box. Sword. No snake, though I looked extra carefully through the packing. 

Usually, I turn electronics off in the evening, muting texts, calls, resisting the lure of the great beyond bound up in the internet, shunning videos and television after a certain hour. But there's an exception to almost every rule, and last night, the phone stayed on, which gave the opportunity to check email once more before turning it off. There, I found an alert for a blog post, which really confused me at first, because though it clearly was from my friend Speddy's blog, it had the name of this one in it. I clicked through.

And then I laughed. Joyous laughter. Javaczuk peered over my shoulder, so that we both were hovered over my iPhone, bathed in the light of its screen. And we laughed. 

It's 9 panels of deliciousness (especially if you're a snake), humor, czuk tidbits, geek humor, and creativity. And she didn't even know about the song I used to sing when I went in our back yard by the lake, to warn the cottonmouths away. But she's right. I'm small, gray, and in some circles, known as Mouse. Click on over to An Unwanted Delivery. You can add a smile to your day.

Edited to add my own drawing of the scene:

Lowcountry Love Letter

Dear Lowcountry,

I came to you determined not to love you, those many years ago. I accompanied my parents on a visit to Charleston, where my father was a candidate for a prestigious position at the Medical University. They were wined, they were dined; I was thrown collectively to the wolves known as the children of the faculty entertaining my parents. At least, that's how I saw it. I was the girl from off, (and from a northern "off" at that), injected into the adolescent South of Broad social scene at the insistence of parents.  Sitting on the side piazza, the balmy night air was a far cry from the air back home, frigid with the coming of winter. I don't know whether it was the cadence of the talk around me, or the scents of unfamiliar blossoms and sea tinged air that recalled joyful vacation days, but my heart softened. As the gathering shifted to another home, I got a guided tour of a small corner of the city. The cobbled stones of Church Street and the little beach revealed by the Ashley River at low tide enchanted me, though I confess, I don't recall the name of the boy that walked with me. When we flew back to winter and my old life, the scents and sights of Charleston clung to me, and have never let go.

It was here I learned to lure a crab from the creek behind our home into the cooking pot, to cast a shrimp net, marvel at the moods of the wetlands that embrace the coast. Here, I learned that a palmetto is a thing of pride, and definitely not a palm tree; how to tell a white heron from an snowy egret, and what a joggling board is. I became a girl of the beaches: Folly, Sullivan's Island, Isle of Palms: each had a separate joy and beauty. I memorized which house along Murray Blvd you pointed the bow of a boat toward if you were crossing the Ashley by water from James Island to the peninsula. I learned that pluff mud can get on your clothes, between your toes, and its distinct smell in your nose, but also in your soul. I lingered in Shell House at Ashley Hall, with my friends, girls who became women I still delight in being with and cherish as friends.

I left you, Lowcountry, for my studies at several universities and to travel the world, but when I decided to find a spot to call home as a young adult, out on my own, it was Charleston that again called me. I was welcomed back; the fathers of friends I knew in high school were now the physicians I worked with as I embarked on my nursing career. Their generosity giving supplies, medicines, and money to a small medical clinic in rural India where I spent a summer as a volunteer still warms my heart. And when I came back from that trip, and met the man of my dreams, I remember how several of these same physicians insisted on vetting him, since my own daddy had passed on.

Charleston was the city of our courtship and though I left you again to gather a graduate degree, we came back here to raise our family. Charleston embraced the return, and adopted daughter and the man from off, that she loved. We introduced our son to the beauties of Lowcountry living. His eyes would light up in wonder at the glory of the ACE basin from canoe, or the mysteries of Four Hole Swamp. Together, we would watch from the porch as thunderheads rolled across the sky, "better even than television", he once declared, and he was right. Our home in the historic district was our haven, a multigenerational family, for my mother came to live with us, and my siblings would tumble in for extended visits.

It was here that I found my stride as a pediatric clinical nurse specialist. When I developed an illness that nearly killed me, and forced me to give up my practice, it was in the arms of the Lowcountry, amidst the live oaks and wildlife, that I was able to find a balance.  Now in a stable health state, and able to be more active, I've tried to give back in the ways I can. My love of books and reading has lead me to volunteerism at school libraries, at Charleston Country Public Library, Charleston Library Society, Trident Literacy Association, and spreading free books via BookCrossing. I like to "live local" supporting the craftsmen and women of the Lowcountry. I've learned the names of the farmers whose bounty fills our bellies and the artists and artisans whose works grace our home, the coffee roasters and chefs whose establishments are the spots I take visitors to for refreshment. I have my favorite spots to show off on a tour of the city, some of which, like the Unitarian Church graveyard, I recently learned that our son, living now on the other coast, recommends to people he knows who visit Charleston. (Second generation pride makes me smile.) Here, my heart dances and my soul sings, each to many different tunes and melodies, as different as a sassy salsa to a Mozart motet. As I move into another phase of life, as an artist, I even know the names of the hens whose eggs I use to create pysanky (Ukrainian style eggs).

Ah Lowcountry, thank you.  Our romance has lasted nearly 45 years, and will go on until my last breath. You may not be the land of my birth, but you are the land of my heart.

After "Life After Life"

Me: So that interview this morning  on the radio, was with Kate Atkinson. She wrote that book we tried to listen to on audio last time we drove to the mountains.

(Pause, as we both recall the delighted anticipation with which we approached the book, and how we ended up ditching it for something else.)

He: Really? It sounded so interesting. Was she talking about that book?

Me: That, and the following one that has one of the same characters.

He: Let's not get it for the next road trip.

Me: I still can't figure out why we didn't like it. Thought it would be great.

He: Maybe some books are just meant to be read, not listened to.

Me: Yeah, either that or the voice actor just sucked the life out of the story.

He: Maybe some people should find a new career.

The Joys of Friendship

Piccolo Spoleto 2015 pop up art event by Odeith

So, you know when a friend asks you to write something, and you ponder over it, thinking of the thousands of things you want to say, then cull it down to a select few, write it, send it off, and forget about it? It's a really nice feeling, right? To write about something you love, and share it.

I just want to tell you that it's really cool, too, to come online one day and find your words

 out there for others to read.

And, if you want to read my Lowcountry Love letter, visit the Lowcountry Love Letters blog of Emily Elizabeth Gildea and Angela Burney Wicke,  a fabulous new duo hitting the Charleston real estate world.

(I'll post the full content  of my letter here in a day or so, but think you should check these gals and their blog out. Or, simply read it here.)

Dreaming is for the birds

So, I had a dream the other night, about art. About pysanky specifically. Note: javaczuk often marvels at my brain's persistent way of coming up with vivid ideas for artistic creations, both when awake or asleep. Sometimes they're so forceful, the ideas, colors, patterns wake me up, because my brain races so hard that sleep is impossible. I try to keep a little notepad by my bedside to jot thoughts down so I can (hopefully) return to dreamland, but sometimes like the other night, that plan fails me and I have to resort to other means. Sometimes I'm even forced to get out of bed and have a one to one with my art. Sigh.

Case in point-- last night. I woke up, burning with an idea, and not a pad or pencil to be found. But, luckily, my phone was by the bedside since it doubles as an alarm. Last night it tripled as a note pad. I texted a message to myself: "ladder birds". Ladder birds. It made sense to me.

And today, kistka in hand, it began to make sense, and take shape for the world.

Stay tuned....

A tale of two Amys

 It so happened that a wonderful friend of mine (I'm looking at you, Luli) posted a photo of a saying that reminded her of many friends. It managed to combine multiple passions of mine, and was available online as a tee, and on other merchandise. I decided to get a non-shirt option as gifts for like-minded individuals. Time passed, and a package arrived at the mailbox for the czuk household. Tra la! I opened it up, and stared in puzzlement at the item within-- an article of clothing, and a note saying "enjoy your new tee shirt, Amy!"

Huh?

Then I looked at the packing slip. Though the mailing envelope was addressed to me, the packing slip was addressed to another customer, who has the same first name I do. She lives in Delaware, and is decidedly not a czuk. But, what she decidedly is is one of my best friends in the whole world. Honest. For real. We actually know each other. And somehow,here I. South Carolina,  I got her package!

What followed was a flurry of texts between the two Amys, trying to figure out what was going on. In the meantime, the company had figured out they'd mailed a package for one customer to another with the same first name. They wrote me, explaining the error, told me my package was coming, and to keep the merchandise sent in error. 

How could I resist? It seemed made for me!

Thank you Culture Flock! And thanks to my girlfriends for being the greatest (even unintentionally, and from afar)!

Memories of Christmas Trees Past

Yesterday, I pulled Christmas out of the storage closet. While the menorah we got as a wedding present lives in our hutch off-season, Christmas hides away in big plastic containers which hold all those decorations that have been part of czuk (and pre-czuk) holidays. There's the creche my guys got me in Bavaria back in 2001. Our Nativity scene routinely contains gnomes, teddy bears (because every baby boy needs a bear),  matrushka/matroyshka/nesting dolls, miniature nutcrackers, and several variants of Caganer figures (look it up, a Catalan tradition, sent to me by BookCrossing friend in Spain). This year, we've added a manic-neko (Japanese beckoning cat.) I can hardly wait to see what the crew that seems to do a yearly meme, adding additional figures to the scene does for 2014. One year we got the ever traditional Christmas lobster added. Here's this year's scene:

While we've had the traditional live tree, we've explored other options these past few years, such as our 2011 tree. It was at the start of a project to catalog our books and was made entirely of books from authors we personally knew at the time, or of BookCrossing books that needed to be released. The true family collection, which turned out to be around 7,000 books, remained untouched. Just heard back from one of the novels, which was released via BookCrossing in 2012. It's now in Austria.

In 2012, I chalked a Christmas tree on a piece of wood I'd painted with blackboard paint. 2013, I painted over the chalk with white acrylic and it did double duty for a second year.

Now we're in a new place-- the challenge is on.

The Art Of: The American South comes to Charleston

Yesterday, I got to tell stories.

I got to laugh.

I got to talk with four people I didn't know before, but am happy to add into my life.

It was a good day.

So what happened? Thanks to a referral from a friend, I was put in touch with four lovely folks who are on a road trip, heading to Art Basel in Miami (lucky stiffs!), gathering stories "about the art and objects southerners keep in their homes."

I won't spill the beans as to what we talked about, but the questions they asked tapped into some lovely memories and emotional recall for me. It refreshed the realization of the part art played in my life from very early in my childhood, and how it has grown and expanded, now opening into a world where I can shyly, but legitimately claim "artist" as part of who I am.

Our home is filled with stories, with art, with love. To be able to share those memories with these four lively, warm, and wonderful minds was an adventure. To send them on to meet others who I find inspiring in generosity of spirit, and world class creativity, was also a joy. And then to have them tumble back here to spend the evening in the czuk home, sipping local beer (or javaczuk's Negronis) just made it plain fun.

So, if you want to follow a visual trip through the south, click on over to The Art Of: The American South . You might even see one small bookczuk, curled up on the sofa, sharing memories. Thank you Bailey, Greg, Josh, and Erin. You're now a part of my story. And when I look at your tumblr, or instagrams, I see the heart of the American South, through the fresh eyes. Y'all come back, anytime.

A Cuppa Love

Back in the day, maybe fifteen years ago, my elder brother and I wandered into what was, in his view,  the height of coffee culinary cuisine. There was something about the coffee that was served there which he adored.  Javaczuk and I speculated it was because when left to his own devices, he often left the mocha pot on the stove long enough so that the house reeked of slightly burned beans, or that in Erico's mind, coffee could never be too dark or too bitter. He liked to add condensed milk to his, which counteracted both the dark and the bitter. Our thoughts were somewhat confirmed, because his favorite name for the establishment we were in was "Charbucks".

We were standing in line, when my eye was caught by some  stainless steel travel mugs. I'd been in search of a travel mug, thwarted because many used natural rubber latex in the seal, which, for me, with a severe latex allergy, would have meant that any beverage in the mug would become a true killer cup. But these mugs had silicone seals on the cap. They were colorfully painted, and curved in such a way that they felt good to hold.

Let me back up to explain that just the day before, Erico had found me in tears, self esteem completely gone. Thanks to the steroids that had actually saved my life when my respiratory function plummeted (a gift from that severe latex allergy mentioned above), I had gained a significant amount of weight. (How significant? Let's just say I stopped getting on the scale when I passed a number on the scale that is 40 pounds heavier than my current weight. And I got even heavier, until I was well enough to start exercising regularly again.) I was in tears, because in desperation, I'd pulled out my maternity clothes to find something to wear, and even those were tight on me. I felt like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, Pillsbury Doughboy, and Bibendum's sister.  I wallowed, waddled, and wept. It was as if I gave ginormous new meaning.

Let me tell you something about my brother, Erico. He was a master story-teller. He could spin a yarn like nobody's business. Paul Bunyan and Blue had nothing on him. His response to his little sister in a melt-down was not to cajole and coddle me. He told me stories. And by the time my son got back from school, my mother up from her nap, and my husband home from work, we were deep in story-land. It was a wondrous thing and I was no longer a huge ball of mess, just huge.

That day at Charbucks, Erico grabbed up one of the pink travel mugs and announced he wanted to get it for me. It reminded him of me, all pink and curvy.

I carried that mug many places. Sometimes it held a beverage I brought from home, sometimes a brew I picked up from one of the wonderful coffee places that have sprung up here in Charleston. In 2008, when my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, the pink of the mug took on new meaning. The following year, when both she and Erico were no longer with us, it became a talisman that gave me happy memories when I sipped from it.

But as with anything that gets constant use, there is wear and tear. That pink paint got chipped and scratched. By this year, it was looking a little ratty. Other mugs, sexy and sleek, beckoned, but I held on to my pal, even though it was rather tattered looking.

One day, while talking to a friend, whose art I love, a scheme was launched. He would repaint my mug for me. I told him of Erico, and of "pink and curvy" and placed the mug in his care. I knew this was right, for though I love the memories associated with the giving of the mug, I am not the person I was back then. I've shed the weight, reshaped my life, and kept the memories. I am stronger, and hopefully, a better person. It was only fitting that this talisman transition, too. 

It's still got some pink, kept the curves, the memories,  and a gotten a touch of the vibrancy of street art I love (there's some stenciling along with the spatter). With this mug travelling with me, I'm ready for new roads, new adventures. Thank you, Crosby Jack, for painting new life into a old companion. I've been blessed with wonderful brothers, lots of memories and good friends.

In which I get all artsy fartsy again

I hurt my knee, and apparently, in order for an injury to heal, the injured person is supposed to rest. I have learned that "resting" is, for me, a very difficult occupation, and I have repeatedly failed at it, which means that my recuperation is taking longer than I wish.

However, here are some of the things I have done to fill up my time and keep me from doing the things I apparently like to do, that are rough on a knee that is trying to heal. I've got a bunch more, including a menagerie -- foxes, horses, owls, bears, and getting ready to start a rooster.

My friend, antof9, has dubbed my style, which often combines Indian Truck Art with pysanky writing as Pysindi.

Truck art style

Star Gazing

Autumn is Coming

Find the Birdie

Girl's best friend 

Fish gotta swim, redux

Dance has become a part of my life in these handful of years after the deaths of my mother and brother. It is something that moves my soul in a way nothing else has, and brings my joy of music right along with it. I stumbled into it, looking for a way to fulfill a promise to my mother, that when she was gone, I should do something to take care of myself now. And when I say stumbled, that's almost the truth. I went in search of a yoga class and found a dance class instead, but that's another story.  Yesterday, dance once again carried me into the realm of memory, this time, via a Nia routine that in many ways mimicked the swim of the dolphins.  It brought to mind two memories of my brother Erico, which are linked below:

Fish Gotta Swim -- Happy Birthday Eric

A birthday gift for us

I've often said that the heart is a marvelous thing; it keeps our loved ones alive and close, even if they are neither one nor the other. It may be an organ made of tissue and blood, but it is also made of memories.

Hydrangeas

I tell time by the hydrangea bushes in my back yard. As the leaves green with awakening of spring, I carefully check for the first hint of buds. The days grow longer, lighter; I watch those buds flesh out, puckering into what will become individual blooms in a ball of purple, blue, and white. And I know that when those flower bloom in fullness, it will be June. June: the month I think of as Bumma's Bounty which marks not the anniversary of a passing, but for me celebrates the memory of a special soul.

Other years I've written a lot about how I've marked the month. This year is different. I am remembering her in deed, action, and donation but it's all much more low key. We've put this home on the market and soon hope to move back downtown, where we can be more directly in the city we love, rather than out here on the island. This is a beautiful home, but it was built for many more people, and the two of us rattle around in it, using only one floor except when we are graced with overnight guests.

It's odd having people traipse through the house, considering if they want to buy it. I definitely feel a difference in the vibrations or energy after viewings. There are pictures of our sanctuary on line in the listing, and I know that somewhere, someone is pouring over them the way I pour over online listings for places downtown. I feel a little vulnerable, as if I am living in a fishbowl.

Leaving here is really an ending to the nuclear family we started back in the 80's when bumma moved in with us just before her first grandson was born. We were three generations tucked into a house downtown, and we thrived there. Circumstances changed, and we built this haven on the lake. It was a place of healing for me. It was the place our son launched from the nest. It the family home for brothers, cousins, and other assorted relations. It was my mother's last home on this earth. Those are all tough things to leave. But I've learned that if there is one thing my love and I are good at, it's building a home filled with love.

I've also learned, since that rotten year of 2009, a year that started in hope and ended in stunned recovery, that it is true: memories find their home in the heart, and thus are easily portable. When I forget something small, like where my keys are, or turning off the water after filling the tea kettle, I feel the first panics that this may be a sign of a failing mind. My panic has two branches: the possibility of becoming a burden to those I love the most, and the thought that all those memories of loved ones lost will be really lost for good.

But for now, I tell time by the hydrangeas. They remind me of my mother. Hydrangeas and rosemary (for remembrance) from our garden went with her as the ambulance took her to the hospice. Some of the blossoms and some roses dried from my father's funeral, were cremated with her. The final few, which resided with her ashes (now scattered) are in the care of a dear friend, who will be my surrogate and take them to my father's grave, bringing it all full circle-- just like the circle that is closing with our time here on the island.

I don't think I'll see another springtime in this home by the lake, tucked away on a sea island off the coast of Charleston. But maybe, just maybe, wherever we move, we can plant some hydrangeas. When they bloom, I'll know it's June. I'll feel my mother's embrace.

Earlier posts from previous years of Bumma's Bounty
here and here, though there may be some overlap.

On Wellness

The Springtimes of my childhood were filled with forsythia and dogwoods, the soft velvet of pussy willows, the return of robins, hungry for worms after their their long flight north. The days were marked by the greening of the trees, and by daffodils, pushing their heads up from the thawing ground. Spring brought a cleansing, as homes around us cleaned and cleared in preparation for Pesach. Being ecumenical in the approach to life, my friends and I dyed eggs, while wondering where the Afikoman would be hidden, if we we would be the one to find it, and what our prize would be.

In the springtime of my fifth year, my mother took me downtown for a special girl's day, to buy a new dress to wear for the holidays. It was fabulous to have my mother all to myself, not having to share her with big brothers, father, dog, and whatever else could grab her attention. We were headed to Hecht's, waiting for the light to change to cross the street. There was a bus at the corner, loading passengers heading into DC.

Red light to green, and a flashing walk sign; look right, then left, then right again. I pulled on my mother's hand to cross the street.

"Not yet, Mamele, let both buses pull away from the curb. We don't want to step between them. The driver of the second might not see us."

I looked again. There was only one bus. What I was witnessing was one of the first manifestations of my mother's Multiple Sclerosis. It's called Diplopia, or double vision. The disease that would hound her heels, but never conquer her, had grabbed the brainstem, creating lesions, and causing problems for her cranial nerve.

Over the years, my mother's MS tried various ways to take over her life. But she was amazing. She charged forth, living her life fully and with flair. People used to say to her her how hard it must be to be sick. "I'm not sick. I'm one of the healthiest people around. I just happen to have MS".

Of course, the same knuckleheads would ask me if it was hard having a mother who was "crippled", because she used canes, or braces, or walkers, or wheelchairs to help keep herself mobile. What a ridiculous thing to ask! She was my mother; we rode the curves life threw us together. That was the life we knew. Any other type of life was not reality. I grew up with her coming to terms with what living with MS meant, but not being defined by it. I knew no other way. She was my mom, and she was terrific.

These thoughts recently came to mind in two conversations with an old friends, who found me online. For one, it was after a gap of close to 50 years, but she found articles that led her to me. She remembered the vision trouble my mother had in those early days of MS, back in Silver Spring. She said, when we reconnected by phone, "I know she was sick, and had such problems seeing, but there was always a twinkle, a sparkle in her eyes. Coming to your house was coming home. Like walking into your brain and feeling just right."

The other friend and I reunited via Facebook. He is  living with a life-altering disease. From what I can tell, he is facing it with courage, and reaching out to help others who suffer from severe neurological insults. In my mother's last days, when she was ravaged by the cancer that hastened her demise, we made a pact to face life with "courage, caring, laughter and love." It was only after she passed that I realized that was how she faced all her days.

Apparently, courage, caring, laughter, and love are a legacy she passed on to her offspring. I see it in my brother in great abundance; it was a way of life, too, for my elder brother before his death. And with my wonky health challenges, I do my best not to be defined by the condition. I'm not always successful, but even if I have to curtail an activity, or adjust to accommodate and stay safe, I try to keep going. It's not that I'm strong, or special, or smart, or wise, or any of that crap. I'm Ruthe's kid, and I'm living life as she taught me to do. I try to look twice before I cross the street, to not step between buses, and to walk forward, with a twinkle in my eye.

Repurposing is the bane of my existence

re·pur·pose  

/rēˈpərpəs/

Verb

The endless possibilities presented by junk from my attic, which make it impossible to discard anything.

When Ukrainian Eyes Are Smiling

St. Patrick's Day, for the past 29 years, makes me think of my honeymoon. Javaczuk and I were married on the Eastern Shore of Maryland on the Ides of March, 1984. Through the workings of fate, my mother, brothers and their wives were all with us on our honeymoon (that's what happens when you sneak off to get married during a family reunion.) We were staying in some cabins on Ball's Creek, where it intersected Broad Creek (I kid you not.)

Two days after we wed, the family consensus was to head to Tilghman Island for a pretty renowned seafood place, sure to satisfy the oyster lovers in the family. And so, we set off and drove from our creek over to the island for a feast -- to Harrison's Chesapeake House -- on St. Patrick's Day.

So, at Harrison's, they were having a huge St Patrick's Day party. So huge, that they weren't sure they could accommodate our group of 5 Nadels and 2 Romanczuks. For while we covered a fair number of nationalities within that group (Ukrainian, Scottish, German, more Ukrainian, and some Hungarian) we didn't have any of the green in our heritage. As we turned to leave, my eldest brother threw his arm around my shoulder, and announced in a loud voice not to worry, little sister. We'd find somewhere else to celebrate the marriage.

Someone overheard him (as I'm sure was his intention), and we quickly found ourselves at a table, with a buffet of oysters, served 20 ways. Plus there were other delicacies: fresh shrimp, crab, fish, all from the Chesapeake Bay. We laughed and ate. Drank and ate. Toasted the new bride and groom and ate. Ate and ate. Sang along with the rather drunken band playing Irish tunes, and ate. People sent us drinks and toasted us some more. I made it through about 5 or 6 ways to have oysters, and then had to undo the button on my trousers and let the zipper out a little, so that I could breathe. I was totally stuffed to the gills with gills, and molusks, and other delights of the sea.

As I watched the room through a rosy glow of abundant food, drink, family, and love, the band leader came to our table. He said he wanted to offer us a toast. Javaczuk and I smiled at him. The fellow then hauled me to my feet, and pulled me to the center of the room with him, where he began a drunken toast, and an even more inebriated version of "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling." The whole room sang along, toasting us, (my groom at the table with my family, and the oyster-filled bride, being clutched by a soused Irishman, in front of 100 people singing to her.)

And what was I doing? I was hoping my unbuttoned, unzipped trousers wouldn't tumble down. I am convinced they were held up by the miracle of St Patrick.

Walking through memories

The afternoon light has just begun to take on the gleams of autumn, but not yet willing to release the intensity of summer. I love that time of September, when the balmy air wraps around like the softest cashmere, sliding like silk. As a girl, I dubbed it air bathing: when the air temperature and body temperature melded together like slipping into a glorious pool of water.

Walking around the city of my heart, which has been my home for many years, I found myself on a journey. Though I've lived roughly half of my days here in Charleston on James Island, the rest has been downtown, almost exclusively in Harleston Village. On this sultry afternoon, my steps wandered the streets of my past -- stopping at those places I had called home.

When I first relocated back to Charleston, it was shortly after my father had died. I searched for a place to make my nest which would allow me easy access to my work at the hospital, but, more important, it would be accessible to my mother, and would have a place for her to visit any time she wished. I packed up my car in St Louis, and, together with my cat, Tezra, began the journey that ended on Wentworth Street, in a 2 bedroom apartment, carved out of an old single family home. It was scruffy, definitely more student housing than that of a more permanent sort. Though it met my requirements, my neighbors were loud, and the cockroaches plentiful. I have some dreadful memories of living there, for with it came the end of a relationship, but I also have some wonderful ones. I recall making curtains for the bedroom with my mom. They matched the linens I'd purchased just after moving in.  (I still have the sheets we bought together. I use them up at the cabin, and they make me smile to remember the two of us sewing. Though we both loved to work with our hands, and were quite good at some things, we were terrible seamstresses. The only thing that kept those curtains from looking horrible was that the fabric was pretty.)  Or how we'd sit in the rather depressing living room, listening to "A Prarie Home Companion" on the radio. I tried to make that dark little apartment a home, but never was very successful.  When a wonderful little home a few blocks over came up for rent, I jumped at the chance, even though it meant I'd need to find a roommate.

It was just a slight tumble over to the cottage on Gadsden, but there was a world of difference between the two. Despite the street that floods in high tide, and the miniscule kitchen, I'd move back into that place in a skinny minute. Though the roommate situation turned out to be the stuff of stories (not fairy tale kind, but the kind where the roommate ended up with a man who married her for her fortune and then tried to kill her.  I knew the marriage was doomed when the song she danced with her father, where her groom cut in, was "The Tennessee Waltz.") it was a great place. I hosted my first oyster roast there, got a crush on the boy next door, tried my hand at gardening, and turned out some great supper parties for friends, despite the miniscule kitchen.  But alas, the landlord's son got married and wanted the cottage for himself, so I packed up the cat and moved yet again.

Luckily, there was a place around the corner, near a close friend. It was a comfortable duplex, and like its two predecessors, had a spot for my mother to visit, though she only came a time or two. It was the same shade of Pepto Bismol pink, but had lots of hard wood and deco interior elements. I was living there when I met Javaczuk. He was up in DC, but we managed to see each other regularly and talk daily. I would come home from the night shift at the hospital, and he would call every morning to wish me sweet dreams.  I remember standing up on the 7th floor of the hospital, watching Calhoun Street in the dawn hours, to see if I could find his car as he drove into town for a visit. My roommate of the time was a sweet, sincere young woman, who was studying to be a physician. Though she was skeptical about my sudden, passionate, long distance romance, she was a good sort, and feigned enthusiasm when he and I got engaged the second time we saw each other, 6 weeks after we'd met. She wished me well when I decided to follow my heart and move up to DC.

A few years later, we moved back to Charleston, this time with my mother. Together we purchased a home on Smith Street -- a glorious Queen Anne Victorian, where I thought I'd stay forever. Oh the memories from that house -- the laughter and love. It was a bountiful harbor for the family, and was there that our son was born. It weathered some losses, a hurricane or two, but still stood proud. My favorite spot was the curved portion of the front porch, where we set up a swing. I could sit there and listen to the sounds of the street, the birds in our garden, and the laughter of children playing. We had our reasons for moving, to numerous to list, but all valid and real. I was always sad that we left downtown, but it was something that had to be done at that time.

Life has its cycles. I feel the turn of another one for the two of us. We're beginning to shed ourselves of the possessions (both ours and others) that have built up in this lovely home by the lake we have here on the island. Our souls are yearning to find a spot in the city of our courtship again.  We are Charleston bound.

When Creativity and Housekeeping collide

My home will never be minimalist. I just don't do Spartan. While I yearn for clean lines and open spaces, what I excel in is comfy clutter.  But at the same time, the urge to organize always emerges, triumphantly creating systems where piles and chaos try to reign. I'd never given this much thought, until the other day when a friend assured me it's one of those "wow! why didn't I think of that? " ideas.

Take my pantry stocking habits -- Virgo meets domovoi-in-trickster-mode (minus the grey beard, tails little horns, and male part). When cans, bottles, or little packets of stuff come into the house, I use a permanent marker to write the expiration date on the top.  Saves me making the dreaded last-in-first-out mistake when I open a can of coconut milk.  It's also handy when I do buy sauces or condiments. Sometimes I get all set to try a new recipe, knowing I do have this one specific ingredient tucked away, because I made something with it not long ago.  When I finally do locate the jar and  pull it out it's easy to see that the lid says 08/08 on it, letting me know that 1) maybe I don't use this particular substance that often and 2) maybe I don't want to be using it right now.  It's also really a really helpful guide if one ever does clean the pantry.

I do buy bulk for grains, beans and nuts.  For a long time, I just put a piece of tape across the the container lid and let my sharpie do the work writing information there.  For beans etc, it wasn't so much an expiration date; more what the little legume was, since some of those suckers look remarkably similar. But then I discovered chalk board paint.  When painted on the top of the glass jars I use in my pantry and refrigerator, I can do all sorts of things besides telling mung beans from pigeon peas. And for the jars for the nuts I keep refrigerated? It helps me remember when I restocked the jars for freshness, especially when something gets pushed to the back of the fridge into the Science Project zone.

I have little tins for my spices -- those are falling to the brush the next rainy day we have.  As to how I plan to (once again) organize all the recipes I've saved?  Look out world!

I rest my case

I've been reorganizing my life of late. This includes both banishing the clutter, or finding new spots for treasures to call home, but organizing the flow of my electronic mail. I have far too many email addresses, but with a little structure, I can make that work in my favor instead of becoming a slave to forwarding or to checking each box daily.

Early last month, I contacted one of the sites that sends a regular newsletter, asking their help in changing my email address for the newsletter. I could edit my profile, change my real name, even, but not my email.  Eventually, I reached someone who let me know that someone from their support team would have to do that.  Apparently, it was not something customers could be trusted to do. Go figure. But, I supplied the address I wished used instead of the one listed, and waited.

I'm sure no one is surprised here to learn that I began receiving the newsletter at both emails. I now had two accounts. After much back and forthing the following emerged:

1. Even support could not change emails 
2. A new account had to be created (without informing me, which they didn't thing necessary, and were surprised when I was miffed it had been done.
3. The new account couldn't pull the user info already stored in my old account, so I would have to re-enter everything in the new account, and have two identical accounts, except for the email, and for the fact that the second account would need a new user name
4. They'd make the original (with the original user name) dormant so the new account was the only one I received mail from.
5. This all seemed perfectly reasonable to them. After all, they didn't have to do the work of filling in the profile and creating a new user identity. It wasn't their old identity that was put out to pasture.

Bottom line: I was annoyed enough at their customer service, that now, instead of wanting my email name changed, I wanted all my personal info removed, and both accounts not only made dormant, but deleted.

Apparently that was hard for them to do, too. Nearly two months into the process, I finally got someone who understood why I was upset and what I wanted. She assured me that the accounts would both be deleted, though it may take "a little time" as they did not have a procedure for this. But my personal information was no longer stored on site.

As of today, one account has been eliminated, though the original account still exists, with some of my original info still visible. And yesterday, I received via the US mail, a book from the company -- signed by the founder of the site. Good thing they didn't have my address or personal information any more, huh? Not epic, but still a fail.

The incredible shrinking czuk and the not so hotsy totsy day

I'm really bummed. I spent the day reading the The Forgiven. I thought it was the last book in a trilogy and now know I need to read another book, not yet out, to get to the end of this story.  Curse you Jana Oliver! Plus, I'm sick at home with a sinus infection and feel lousy. Is there no justice in the world?

Insult to injury -- at the doctor's office, when checking my vitals, they measured my height (as the nurse said, I was barefoot and on the scale, so why not?) I'm now officially an inch shorter.  It's not like I had a lot of height to spare, so losing so much is not making me happy. Thumbiczuka.  Feh. (Picture taken a few weeks ago with the Best Beast I know, back when I thought I was tall.)

(Review to follow when I get over my disappointment and feel better.)