Another Day....

Another day lies before me. I rose this morning, hours before the sun did. I spent my quiet time in thought, and ended up wondering what the day will bring? Will it be an eventful day or just an ordinary one?

I can't say that I live an 'exciting' life. Well, not one that most would describe using that word. But, I am content, and find exciting things in most every day. so I might beg to differ with someone who thinks my life is boring. Alright, so I'm not constantly on the go, or joining some earth-saving cause, or adding my two cents worth of art or literature to the immense world around me. What I am doing is living and enjoying my life, moment by moment. I love discovering the little things that prove to me that no day is really 'ordinary'.

It thrills me to meet new people and learn about them by listening to their stories. Old people like to talk with people and talk about their experiences or their younger days. Sometimes they just want to have someone listen. I met such a woman who owns a little antique shop nearby. She'll soon be 85 years old, and she's got a joy for living. She's a definite 'people person' and enjoys talking with the few customers who frequent her business these days. I believe she keeps it open only for the fact that someone might come in with whom to talk! She's sweet and warm, friendly and interesting. Meeting her that first time worked into a two hour visit! She so impressed me with her story of eating yogurt in a crystal bowl with a silver spoon, that I cannot eat yogurt from a container with a plastic spoon without feeling somewhat guilty!

Life is always bringing little surprises. The other day, in the midst of a strong rainfall, I stood on my front porch and surveyed the soggy yard. As I glanced toward my neighbor's house, something caught my eye...a small bit of red was poking out of the green leaves on the Camelia bush. I couldn't believe it! I'd given up hope of ever seeing it bloom, since it's been planted for two years without a hint of a bloom. My eye followed the line of new plantings to the back where another Camelia has been located for nearly three years, again without a sign of a blossom. There, too, were bits of red peeking through. I could almost hear the words, "oh ye, of little faith" being spoken from the Heavens. I am over-joyed to know that patience does pay off!

There are little lessons along life's way that we will miss, if we aren't careful. Blessings sometimes wait to be found, they don't always hit you right between the eyes. If we're keeping an open eye, and open heart and an open mind, they are more likely to find us.

So, I begin another day...it won't be an ordinary day, for none of them ever are.

I Wonder....

I wonder. Is there anyone out there who is reading this blog? Please let me know if you are...it's encouraging to know there's someone reading, and gives the incentive to keep writing.

I wonder how true the weather report will be today. After 5 days of rain, and a chill wind blowing fiercely yesterday, I look forward to a nice, sunny, somewhat warmer day today.

I wonder how the Farmer's Almanac can get the weather prediction so close to correct a year or so beforehand, when the Weather Channel can't predict correctly a week ahead.

I wonder what colors to paint the rooms in the house. I haven't yet decided, and therefore, they remain 'builder's white'. Though it's light and clean, white is also a bit 'stark' and cold. I like warm and inviting rooms, so while I continue to wonder what exactly to do with them, I fudge the decorating by throwing color in with quilts, pillows, artwork, throw rugs. It works for the moment, but I think it's time to make some choices.

I wonder why it takes me so long to decide on anything. I think I know. If it's a permanent thing, or semi-permanent, it means I'll have to live with it, even when I've grown tired of it. I do like variety and flexibility, so it's hard to make decisions that will last. If it's something like what to eat, I don't usually care what the meal is, as long as it's tasty and fills the vacant spot in my stomach.

I wonder how people are managing to survive this tough economy. My heart goes out to them all, especially those who've lost their jobs and are in danger of losing their homes. Money, or the lack thereof, is hard on a marriage. These days are hard on everyone....and I wonder how the President's plan will work to repair years of stupid decisions by others, and how long it will take for people to get back on track after all this. I wonder what devastation will be left behind for them?

I wonder why I have so many wonders....

Jammin'

Last night I had the opportunity to sit in with a group of men who were 'jammin'. It was a relatively new experience for me, having done this only one other time with this type of music, years ago on the West Coast. I've been at a lot of 'jam sessions' through the years, with a teenage boyfriend's band, my brother's group, and others. But, this was what seems to be the 'signature' music of the South...Bluegrass.

In a previous blog, I talked about my love of all sorts of music. Bluegrass is one that I've not been very exposed to, but I do like it, and want to know more about it.

So far, every soloist in our new country church, sings their special music selection in a Bluegrass Gospel style. My style is quite different, and I kind of 'stick out like a sore thumb', though I am well received all the same. I want to add the Southern style of singing, so that I can be more diversified.

The men last night sang a lot of familiar music, old hymns with a different rhythm. I was invited to sing with the group of nine guitarists and mandolin players. Fortunately, most of the music was played in a comfortable key for my soprano voice. I enjoyed adding that to the men's tenor and baritone voices. I look forward to doing more of this in the future. Since this group is a 'throw together' bunch on a regular Thursday night basis, I can go whenever my schedule allows, as the others do.

Life is always adding little blessings and enjoyable moments. I'm happy to say that this was one of them.

Hair...

My daughter tells me that it's time for me to have a more up-dated hair-do. Why? Because my head has worn the same style for twenty years or so, with little change? If I might defend that statement, my 'do' has been similar for all that time because that's the way my hair naturally wants to lay.

Oh, I could fight it with a curling iron or rollers or any one of a number of other tools. But that's too much work. Why fight what nature offers? I could let it grow again, as I did for a few years in the mid-90's, but I think at this age, I don't need that long hair weighing me down. I don't need to look like some hippie with grey-streaked mop. I want light and easy, carefree.

That brings me to hair color. My girls have all, at one time or another, done something to change their hair color. The only time I ever did anything was the summer a million years ago when I sprayed a "Sun-In" product in it. My intention was to have natural looking sun streaks, but what I got was a brassy blonde. Never again, especially after the year I spent in Cosmetology class, using chemicals and treatments on other women. The whole process and the time it took taught me that I didn't want to be bothered with it for myself. So, I am a dark brunette, with silver threads.

My hair is not as shiny as it used to be, and the grey is getting more abundant. That's alright with me. I like grey hair, and especially the silvery-grey that mine appears to have. At this age of sixty-one years, I am quite comfortable with myself in my own skin. I'd like to lose a few pounds, but I don't want to change my hair...not color, not style, not length. I'll just make it look the best I can, and enjoy the freedom of not having to deal much with it. Like it or not, Kids... this is Mom's look.

A True Story of Our Shipwrecked Ancestor

My GrGrandmother was a Nantucket native. She had a half-brother, by the name of Owen Chase.

In 1819, at the age of 22 years, Owen became the first mate on a crew of 21 men on the Whaleship Essex. The ship sailed out of Nantucket Harbor for the waters of the South Pacific, prepared for a trip that would take an estimated two and a half years.

Four hours out, a storm blew up, the ship tossed and battled with the sea. The captain of the ship wanted to turn back. First mate Chase convinced him that the crew of novice sailors would abandon the effort, should they return to Nantucket, so the ship sailed on their voyage. After a year at sea, they had butchered a number of whales, but knew that they would need to continue hunting if they were to make a profit. They continued around Cape Horn.

On November 20, 1820, they farmed in the 'whale grounds' , 2000 miles off the west coast of South America. One of the three small whaleboats, which contained Owen's crew of 8 men, was found to need repair. The men returned to the Essex in order to make the needed repairs. As they worked, a large male sperm whale, with a length nearly as long as the 87 ft. vessel, was seen to be approaching the whaleship, about 50 feet from the side. With little warning, the whale rammed the side of the boat. Dazed, the monster rested beside the ship until he regained his normalcy. Then he turned, swimming away from the ship. Suddenly, as if with extreme intent, the whale turned again to swim with purpose toward the Essex. Again, and with a great fury, the huge fish rammed the ship, this time at the bow. With great strength, he pushed the Essex backward, and as he did, the 20 year old vessel, with ribs built in sections which were pegged together, weakened under the pressure. As the ship began to drink in the sea water, Chase's crew loaded their small whaleboat with enough food and water to last 60 days.

The men in all three whaleboats were adrift on the sea, thousands of miles from solid ground, with too little to sustain them all. Each of the small crews suffered horrible experiences of hunger, thirst, vitamin deficiencies, exposure, hallucinations, and death among them. They buried some at sea, as was their custom of the day, but some were cannibalized, as a last resort to survival for the others. At the end of 84 harrowing days, the survivors numbered eight. The Captain, George Pollard, was one of them, Owen Chase was another.

During the next year, 1821, Owen Chase wrote and published his account of the shipwreck, entitled "A Narrative of the Most Extraordinary and Distressing Shipwreck of the Whaleship Essex." Eventually, Chase returned to the sea, as a successful captain on a number of whaling voyages. Twenty years later, a sailor named Hermann Melville boarded the ship, Acushnet. He'd read Chase's book, and was excited to meet Chase's son, William, who lent him a copy of the account. In 1851, Melville published his famous book, Moby Dick, which was based upon Owen Chase's narrative.

My search has left me with more wonder than information of his life. I have found that, over the years, he'd been married four times. I've read, too, that he was haunted by the recurring memories of the horrors he'd suffered on the Essex. In his later years, he was found to be hoarding food in the attic of his Orange St. home on Nantucket, and some writings deem him 'insane'. He died in 1869, at the age of 70 years on the island of his birth.

What a sad life I see in this man. He chose the sea, as so many did on Nantucket. It was a lucrative business in those days. It may have been his love for the water, it may have been a love of money. It may have been for reasons that I'll never know. What I do know is that from

his return to Nantucket until his death, he seems to have suffered in many ways. I search, still, for more on the life of Capt. Chase. I want to discover some small shard of information from the days before he boarded the ill-fated Essex or after his return that will show me that he had some happiness in his life. I continue to hope so.

Thoughts on Tattoos

Call me old-fashioned. I'm not enthralled with the current fad of tattoos. My impression of those whose bodies are covered with tattoo-bearing flesh has always been that of 'roughians', tough bikers, gangsters of some kind. I've had to change that idea over the last few years, with even the tiniest women of meek manner adding ink art to their bodies. I've seen some work that I can admit that I thought was well done and even beautiful.

But, that being said, still I don't care for the idea of permanently stamping one's body parts with art. (If your argument is that it can be removed, why not get a peel and stick one, instead of one done with an electric pen and ink. It would be far less painful, and less expensive, to boot!) I've seen brides in sleeveless or strapless white gowns, bearing huge 'tats' on their forearms or shoulders or chests. I don't find that very attractive.

When one of my daughters got her first tattoo, it was small and located over her heart. I remember telling her that she'd look pretty weird as an old woman, with a sagging chest and a tattoo that was being dragged down with gravity as well. Her answer was, "no, I won't, Mom, because everyone else will have them too." She had a point.

I suppose I could live with the idea of ONE bit of artwork on a body, the way men used to do. These days, however, most people don't stop at one. They've become 'walking art galleries'. I don't have even one and am not likely to get one now... or ever. If I'm ever tempted, which I wouldn't count on if I were you, I will make my way to the nearest dollar store and I'll buy myself a wash-off type that the little kids wear.

I will admit that there is ONE good thing that might come about by the wearing of a tattoo, or several. That is it would make body identification easier, should the need arise.

I prefer to remain a 'blank canvas'. Tats are just not my style. Take that for what it's worth. Consider, too, while you're at it, that my hair-do has been pretty much the same for twenty years or more. Like I said, call me old-fashioned.

Music

Music has always moved me. No...not moved me, as in 'dancing', but more precisely, emotionally.

My earliest recollection of music was that which I heard in Sunday school at the East Hampton Presbyterian Church. I'm sure that someone must have sung something to me as an infant, or that I heard a radio somewhere, but my earliest memory is of Sunday school. I heard those same hymns when my parents would sing together on our Sunday afternoon drives. Daddy sang lead, with his baritone voice, and Mom sang harmony with her alto voice. I can remember 'feeling good' when I heard them singing those familiar words.

Later, in school, my art teacher put music on to inspire 'moods' while we created masterpieces with paint brushes and clay. Mr. Stowell, my music teacher, played classical music for us, to introduce us to the sounds of Bach, Beethoven,Brahms and the other classical composers. It was something I enjoyed, but my love of some of the 'long hair' pieces came when I was older. Rock music was what I liked most then, and was encouraged even more by the on and off boyfriend I had throughout high school. He had a guitar and he'd formed a band. How could I not be encouraging?

And, speaking of long hair, I was a teenager during the 1960's when the term had a new meaning. During those years, musical groups were letting their locks grow long. The look was quite different from the Doo-Wop groups of the fifties and the early sixties. The music had gone from rock to Motown's soul sounds to the British Invasion. I loved it all!

As I evolved into the 70's, folk rock was big on my list. Everybody had a message about something...war, peace, love, rebellion. I seemed to be inspired by the messages and the music,

the soft, acoustic sounds. When disco made it's arrival, that sound got my feet going! I added that to my list of affections.

From that day until now, I've been carried along by the waves of various styles that were the current rage. There are favorites, of course, in every type of sounds. I'm still partial to the softer sounds, rather than hard rock or heavy metal. (I can't bring myself to call those music.) What I find myself singing these days, more often than anything else, are the old hymns. The sounds I remember from my childhood days echo in my mind. Those sweet, time-aged words that reach so far down into the soul are the most precious sounds to me. I sing them to myself, to my grandchildren, in church.

They say you can never go home again, but as far as music goes, I have come home to my roots.