Thank You for Waiting

NaNoWriMo, 20th anniversary. I wrenched a novel out of November in 2007, but despite 300,000+ words since then I haven't made the sprint to 50k words in the 30 days offered.

My process has been to create a cover first, and in some years not write one word. This year I made 4 covers, so I expect to not write 4 times as many words.

The ideas were intriguing. Still are. This year I chose a subject that has been in my brainpan for decades.

Waiting.

30 years ago, the title was Women Who Wait. Waiting is an activity we do well. We wait for the perfect partner, wait for promotions, raises. Wait to see the light, wait for dark. Wait for bruises to heal, wait for new ones. Wait for our loved ones to come home from war. Wait to heal, wait to die. Wait for the other shoe to drop. Wait on hold.

Noticing the messaging while on hold this month. Caregivers spend hours on hold. Doctors, pharmacies, health agencies, state handlers, county wranglers. In my case, when I get mad enough, wait for my legislators.

Doctor's office: 17 minutes on hold. Sales pitches for new mammogram technology, heart screening check (only $75!) and the ubiquitous messaging that you can do whatever you think you need to wait on hold to do on our website.

Pharmacy: 22 minutes on hold. Sales pitch op.

Kitchen cabinet place: "Thank you for continuing to hold. We are assisting other excited home remodelers." Sheesh.

The doctor's office is just down the street. I've checked the we are busy assisting other callers more than once. Drive down to the office - no one is on the phone.

Thank you for continuing to hold. We appreciate your patience.

The Patriot 2019

I drew this in Powerpoint on 12 September 2001. The day before changed America forever. Horrified, saddened and lost, I mourned what was to come from that day onward for my country.

The day after.

A woman on a panel recently said we are obsessed with punishment. With revenge, even if it is practiced without heed to justice. I forget if she meant Americans or humanity.

We woke on the next morning to a global war on terrorism. To more slaughter and jangling patriotism and children and their mothers around the world barely surviving in an apocalyptic aftermath of our righteous battle.

People who spoke to the idea that violence begets violence lost their jobs, were vilified and careers destroyed.

18 years later. We are at war on 17 fronts around the world. We are not safer than we were in 2000. We are denying USA asylum to peoples who are brown, and we have isolated our country from helping refugees around the world: refugees who are displaced because of retaliatory hatred.

We have an administration that no American could have foreseen. Except the people who saw it coming, who spoke about it, and who had their careers destroyed for speaking the truth to power.

Cheryl Ann Mull Moody

Purple Rose for Our Theatre Queen

Wild, funny, big-hearted, snarky, wonderful crazy woman. We met in high school backstage. One of the first things she did for me was wrangle a furious girlfriend who just found out the guy who'd started dating me had stopped dating her. Opening night, minutes before curtain up, that girl was going to deck me. The show must go on! Cheryl Ann did big deeds for people and spurned gratitude, but wow – cross her, and she'd take you out at the knees. She always loved her people wholeheartedly.

Many years later we were roomies in my Detroit house we called The House For Women on Their Way to Do Something Else. She would hear of a woman who could use a room, and in she'd move. Tennessee had a cousin Alabama, who just moved north. Come on in. Cheryl Ann had Tennessee roots her own self. Stinkin' Creek Road, if I remember correctly. We got introduced to peanuts in Coke.

Cheryl asked - soon after moving in - if she could use the oven. Sure! I said. She came back into the living room - did you know there are books in there? Oh, that's where those went! We both read the books she dragged out of the oven immediately. Forget dinner.

We all pitched in for household bills, and had a Chinese puzzle box on the coffee table for other stuff. Like psychics. And parties. And stuff. If you couldn't get the puzzle box open, you'd had enough stuff already.

She had pet names for all of us. She always called me Linda Ruth. She called my sister EA. I called her Cheryl Ann, with a hard CH and a twangy Tennessee accent.

Cheryl ran phone interference for everyone in the house. Is she here? I'll check. If she got a head shake no, she'd tell the person on the other end whatever story she thought up. If it was my mother, she just told her I wasn't in. She always knew what her friends needed.

I left the Christmas tree up until April one year. Cheryl Ann told people I wasn't going to take it down until the hostages came home. She always covered our foolishness.

So many wonderful memories. We laughed more than we did anything else. She loved to laugh, and did often and deep.

Among the pictures is a welcome home dinner she did for me. Fancy tablecloth, sign, apron et al. I had probably been gone 3 days. She did thoughtful things for people her whole life.

One of the men I was dating was older. Cheryl called him Dad. We'd take the roomies who were home on dinner dates. Cheryl would start a ruckus before we got down the driveway. "Are we there yet?" "Dad, she's poking me." "I have to go to the bathroom."

At one of the parties, 3 men I was dating all showed up. The house was big enough, and this party was on all 3 floors and in the back and front yards, so Cheryl would find me, warn me, head him(s) off, and I'd duck up down and around like a cartoon whodunit. She always had your back.

She saved me more than once, and with love and, when appropriate, a good scold.

We said when we were old ladies in the nursing home, we'd have a big couch. She would read on one end, and I would read on the other. She's now reading on the big couch in heaven, and one day, I'll take the other end.

I will always love her. Always.

Three Story Life - Toilet Paper Follies

My little brother uses excessive wads of toilet paper. He has started using toilet paper when he pees, too. I called a plumber 3 times in 6 weeks. Twice I was able to have the nice guys come over. Cheery as well as efficient. The 3rd time I got the crank.

A Lecture Isn't What I Need from a Plumber

You're using too much toilet paper. <duh>
Don't you have an auger? <show auger>
That's not an auger. <why does it say auger on the tag, then, hm?>
You need this size auger. <hefts his auger>
<Ooo that's a big one. Here's your check. Bye.>

1. Hide the Toilet Paper

This worked for the first handful of times. Scott has Alzheimer's disease, but he still can see. He knows where the toilet paper is hidden.

2. Hide the Toilet Paper Higher

Scott is short, so I thought I could put it on the top shelf in the back. Nope. So I hid it better.

3. Hide the 12-Pack

Unable to find the new hiding spot, he opened the new 12-roll package on the floor and used that.

4. Hide the Toilet Paper in Different Places

I figured out that the sound of his belt buckle dragging on the floor means the search for where the toilet paper is hidden is underway. With his drawers dragging, and a bum not in safe travel mode yet.

5. Hide the Toilet Paper in the Same Place. Listen for the Belt Buckle

This only works if I'm paying strict attention from the Artist's Dungeon directly below the bathroom. This method also requires that I remember where I hid the toilet paper the last time.

6. Tell the Carers Where The Toilet Paper Is

If I don't remember to reveal the location, there's a text message to be sent. If I don't remember that, I get a text. Where's the TP?
 

RJ Spangler Trio and Tbone Paxton Mardi Gras Jazz Music 2019

Spring cannot be far behind when listeners find a seat at Salem-South Lyon District Library to enjoy Mardi Gras jazz music with the RJ Spangler Trio and John (Tbone) Paxton. The group opened with Professor Longhair's ode to New Orleans and Mardi Gras. Next up, Art Neville's Mardi Gras Mambo. The link is Charmaine Neville's take. I love the growling baritone sax and the cover art, too. Art Neville just announced his retirement in December 2018.

This concert appearance is always a welcome musical experience that also delivers an education. Before performing Canjun Country, Tbone shared a history of New Orleans and its music. An organic convergence of French Acadians who were expelled from Canada in the 18th century, with West African, Congolese musicology. Congo Square was a gathering place for drumming and music in New Orleans (restricted and banned except on Sundays until the 1920s.)

We know Hank Williams (Cajun Baby, Jambalaya) and I'm going to introduce you to D. L. Menard's The Back Door, too. D.L. said he was asked to write about the Front Door, but he's got trouble with the hinges so he hasn't gotten around to it. Not quite jazz, but Acadiana, and New Orleans flavored for sure.

Hoagie Carmichael's New Orleans was our next treat. Quoting the link comments section here: "This is from the 1956 album "Hoagy Sings Carmichael with The Pacific Jazzmen" (Art Pepper on alto sax, Harry "Sweets" Edison, Don Fagerquist, Jimmy Zito, Irv Cottler, Nick Fatool, Al Hendrickson and Jimmy Rowles), arranged and conducted by Johnny Mandel.

RJ told us that Bix Beiderbecke played with Hoagy Carmichael. Before 1930, Bix was with the Jean Goldkette Orchestra. Goldkette was the music director of the DAC for over 20 years, and also co-owner of the Graystone Ballroom. Beiderbecke was born in Davenport, Iowa, and undoubtedly heard jazz music wafting off the Mississippi River. Goldkette married Lee McQuillen, a newspaperwoman, and I can't find a thing about her. What newspaper? Inquiring minds want to know.

Iko Iko is a story about Mardi Gras Angels, African-American/Native American influencers, performers who used to fight and now dance. TJ mentioned Rumble, a PBS documentary about Native American contributions to music.

And if you want to sing some more, Jock-a-mo-fee-na-ney. Next on the list was Eh La Bas Danny Barker, composer. This is one of our favorite audience participation tunes.

Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans? You won't want to miss this video of Louis Armstrong and Billie Holiday. If you don't check any of the links before this one, do listen here. Don't know who the blonde is, but looks enough like my Mom to make this song even more bittersweet.

My li'l bro and I listening. I'm missing New Orleans in this photo. We both still miss both our folks, who shared music with us all their lives.

RJ and Tbone speak often about the responsibiliy - and beauty - of sharing their decades of experience with storytelling alongside performing music. We have watched young talented musicians sharing the stage with these venerable musicologists.

Jeff Cuny, bass. Jake Schwandt, guitar. RJ Spangler, percussion. Tbone Paxton, trombone and vocals. And whistling - that man can whistle.

Check the schedule on the RJ Spangler website to find where you can hear more jazz music, blues, Planet D Nonet.

Appreciation, as always, to Salem-South Lyon District Library for bringing music, art, knowledge to our fortunate community. Watch the SSLDL events calendar for more of this bounty.

10th Moose Productions

The Amazing and Talented Artist Carol Ludwig and I were talking about our art. Carol will be exhibiting in Dexter, MI come April for 2 months. Her collages are deep and evocative and beautiful. After a burst of creativity, then a lull spell, she's back in the flow. Brava!

We were talking about Louise Penny's book that I was rereading - the characters wondered throughout why there was no Muse who shepherded art. 9 Muses. Not one has art in her realm. Wacky Greeks. So we agreed with Penny we need a 10th Muse. As Carol and I were signing off, I wished her a visit from the 10th moose.

Misspoke inspiration.

Then I hunted my drawing of a moose, and posted it on facebook. Because it's funny. I like funny. And I like my drawings.

This moose came to life because of a white water trip. Don't remember which river, but it was wild. I wasn't following instructions well because I was terrified. And my moves were not yet automatic enough to get it right. Don't get it right in white water, and everybody in the boat swims. Through rocks and floater logs and sneers from Neptune. When we emerged untipped on the far far side of the wave chain, the stern paddler launched into instruction mode. Show me a brace. Rudder river left. Where are your feet? I don't know, I said.

Which put me into storytelling The Girl Who Didn't Know Where Her Feet Were. So tall, that... and this moose was born. And a pink flamingo, and I forget what else.

Art is often happy accident. The one painting I won a prize for - and sold on the same night - started out as a piece of paper thrown across the room. My watercolor sky sucked. Walking back in my workshop much later, I saw the paper on the cement floor. Upside down. Ah! As a sky it stunk. As a heaving ocean, it rocked.

I just missed a deadline for the show I've entered for 9 years and won multiple poetry awards in, and one art prize. It's a show about ekphrasis - an ancient Greek (and here are those wacky guys again) argument about which is more aesthetically pleasing: the art or the words in celebration of the art. Entrants submit an original artwork, and an original poem related to the art. For 9 years I entered the limit of 3. 3 paintings. 3 poems. That's 54 pieces of art. I experiment all year on the 6 results that will be entered.

I missed the deadline fully aware that was probably going to be the case. I'm not grieving, so I need to reflect on what's going on in my creative realm. 9 years, hmmm. Time for the 10th moose to step up.

Linda Robinson Art Vitae

I have created art all my aware life. My first art prize was in 3rd grade for a pastel of a camel. I suspect it was supposed to be a horse, and when that didn't work out too well, I added a pyramid and a palm tree. I won a Michigan art prize for that horse/camel, but because Captain Jolly was presenting the prizes, I skipped it by getting pneumonia. Captain Jolly scared me.

In recent decades I did textbook illustration, which put bread on table. Tiny loaf. When I could get the assignment, I made book art. My best friend and I made a team - she laid out books, and I did the art.  One of our team results was my novel, Chantepleure.

I made all the art on this blog. 708 posts, banner, thumbnails.

My artistic emphasis today is supporting other women entrepreneurs with art. Creating is a joy, and if I have enough to eat and keep a roof over my head, I choose the projects I want to play in. My friend Barb Barton is a gatherer/forager, and I made all her labels for wild foods, in exchange for honey, syrup, wild rice, vinegar. Because I believe in the amazing creative work she does.

My friend Patricia Fero is a psychologist/author and retreat auteur. I am creating her 10th anniversary release of her 2008 book What Happens When Women Wake Up? I create women symbol medallions for her retreat participants. Because I believe in the amazing creative work she does.

Today I still create book art. I am enjoying lessons in watercolor, metalwork and am teaching myself to create in paper clay. Because I believe in the amazing creative work I do.

I do create for money, if the project appeals, and I can manifest the author's vision.

Not The Favourite

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