Almost Famous

Another anecdote from my parents' visit: One evening we fell to talking about acquaintances from the town where I grew up, a little black dot on the Indiana map where drivers had to decelerate while traveling down a state highway, but never had to pause at irritating stop lights, at least while I was in school there.

One of these acquaintances was the middle school athletic director, who disappeared in anonymity, sometime after I left eighth grade. He is remembered for his strange gait and for claiming to have met Bobby Knight, the infamous IU basketball coach.

He probably also knew the famous Angela Ahrendts, a fellow alumna of my high school in a class a few years ahead of mine.  What, you've never heard of her?  Probably to most people, she isn’t famous. But on Saturday evening, my mom and I were flipping through W, the Wall Street Journal’s monthly magazine, and came across a profile of Angela, who was living large during Fashion Week. Now she is the CEO of Burberry’s, and responsible for pulling it into profitability. She lives with her husband and three kids on an estate outside of London. (Not only did we read, almost lasciviously, the article, but then we googled her to find out more, and to figure out if maybe our paths had crossed at some point.)

So how does it come to pass that a small town girl, from a place about as far from the London fashion scene as you can get, lands this dream job? Providence? (The article mentioned she wore a gold cross and prayed.) Connections? Hard work? Combination of all three, plus good karma?…

It’s hard not to envy such a person. On the other hand, the article offhandedly mentioned that her daughter spent 6 hours a day skyping her cousin, her best friend, back in Indiana. And that her husband, who manages the estate, once told his wife, when she came home barking orders, that he didn’t work for her. So maybe there’s a bit to pity in that life, too.

We all desire a little recognition of our talents. That old athletic director found his claim to fame in the brush with Bobby Knight. Mrs. Ahrendts hobknobs with the rich and beautiful. It’s easy to fall into the trap of why her, and not me? (not that I want to be CEO of a fashion house, but I wouldn’t mind the English estate.) Sometimes it’s hard to satisfied with a small life.

But then I watch a movie with the kids like Driving Miss Daisy. Here are Miss Daisy and Hoke, both living in the confines of their social roles, southern lady and chauffeur. They never go anywhere far; their influence on the lives of others is limited. But they develop a beautiful friendship that transforms their small lives into something extraordinary.

And really, it is the magnum opus of a lifetime to perfect our ability to love others.

Another prayer of Newman’s:


God has created me to do Him some definite service; He has committed some work to me which He has not committed to another. I have my mission -- I never may know it in this life, but I shall be told it in the next. Somehow I am necessary for His purposes, as necessary in my place as an Archangel in His -- if, indeed, I fail, He can raise another, as He could make the stones children of Abraham. Yet I have a part in this great work; I am a link in a chain, a bond of connection between persons. He has not created me for naught. I shall do good, I shall do His work; I shall be an angel of peace, a preacher of truth in my own place, while not intending it, if I do but keep his commandments and serve Him in my calling.

Therefore I will trust Him. Whatever, wherever I am, I can never be thrown away. If I am in sickness, my sickness may serve Him; in perplexity, my perplexity may serve Him; if I am in sorrow, my sorrow may serve him. My sickness, or perplexity, or my sorrow may be necessary causes of some great end, which is quite beyond us. He does nothing in vain; He may prolong my life, He may shorten it; He knows what He is about; He may take away my friends, He may throw me among strangers, He may make me feel desolate, make my spirits sink, hide the future from me-still He knows what He is about.

From here.
(When I googled for this prayer, the text I was looking for was the one familiar to me from the Notre Dame campus ministry prayer book. Apparently it is still meaningful to another ND grad, Hannah Storm.)

Blessed JHNewman

While my parents were here last week, we went to a concert at our church by a choir in Louisiana who had come to town to raise money for their trip to Ireland. They sang a setting of “Lead, Kindly Light,” Newman’s poem, perhaps the same setting that was sung on the Titanic shortly before it sank.




While in college, I worked as a research assistant for a professor who was a Newman scholar. I wonder if perhaps she was in England this weekend for his beatification. The lovely coda to her story is that recently she was married, after at least ¾ of her allotted 4 score years, to a widowed colleague from the same department. I imagine them eating tea and scones at some little inn in Oxford after the beatification, enjoying delightful, scholarly conversations.

The lyrics from Newman's poem:

Lead, Kindly Light

"Lead, Kindly Light, amidst th'encircling gloom,

Lead Thou me on!

The night is dark, and I am far from home,

Lead Thou me on!

Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see

The distant scene; one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus,

nor prayed that Thou shouldst lead me on;

I loved to choose and see my path;

but now lead Thou me on!

I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,

Pride ruled my will. Remember not past years!

So long Thy power hath blest me,

sure it still will lead me on.

O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent,

till the night is gone,

And with the morn those angel faces smile, which I

Have loved long since, and lost awhile!

Meantime, along the narrow rugged path,

Thyself hast trod,

Lead, Savior, lead me home in childlike faith,

home to my God.

To rest forever after earthly strife

In the calm light of everlasting life."

My 2 cents

The moment to jump into the conversation about the immorality of pants has come and gone, but can I still add a p.s. to the discussion? I know I can’t come close to being as funny as Mrs. Fischer or the Darwins or my sister, but I keep replaying the argument (and I guess Mrs. F did too, because she wrote 3 entries...). So now I want to say something even though while I was busy doing other things everyone else got over it.


When I first encountered the pants vs. skirts debate several years ago, I knew you weren’t supposed to wear shorts to churches in Rome, or clothes that revealed your underwear, and on Sundays you tried to dress your best, but who thought about clothes as a moral issue? My mother let us wear tube tops and tube socks. I ran around in short shorts and singlets in high school and college because that’s what runners wear, like swimmers wear swimsuits and ballerinas wear leotards.


Although for a short time I was into wearing clothes as an identity statement, I was never as fashion conscious as my sister Betty.  I had to be reminded to brush my hair and at least to try to match my shirts and socks. And I needed help with my makeup. But I did join my sister in pouring over Vogue magazine, mostly looking for good models to draw rather than clothes to wear. I don’t remember being shocked by it; it was Seventeen magazine that was scandalous for its tutorials on French kissing and how to get the boy from math class to notice you.

Last spring when my mom and sister came to visit, they toted recent issue of Vogue; I took my turn browsing it, too. When my mom held up a photo of two lightly clad femmes on the beach with their arms draping over each other, she held it up and said “Isn’t this awful?” but I had seen the same photo and thought, “Oh, look, looks like me and Betty almost!”

But back to the story: a few years ago, a friend gave me a copy of Dressing With Dignity. The author, Colleen Hammond, makes a powerful argument for skirts, but all I could think was, “She’s from TEXAS! She never has to wear panty hose or tights!” I had recently moved from the north of Chicago hinterlands where I had suffered every Sunday from September to May about what to wear to Church. I like wearing skirts, but tights are like ancient torture devices. But we had moved to Virginia, so I bought a few skirts and practiced wearing them during the week. I felt pretty and flirty and impractical. Wrong effect.

Shortly thereafter, on a camping trip with some different friends who knew the book, we had a great conversation around the fire. Vogue got slammed by the blog criticizing professor, but his sister-in-law, 7 months pregnant and looking fabulous clad in a long black belly hugging dress – too fabulous for a campout – made the great point that the way you dress is something of a calling. Some people are called to live in the world, while others are called to be more withdrawn, more contemplative, even if they aren’t called to the religious life. They have their own domestic monasteries. And for them long skirts are appropriate. But for most of us, dressing according to cultural norms is no moral issue. If we were African natives of a certain tribe, we’d go topless. If we were Muslim, we’d wear Burqhas; if we were Inuit, we’d wear parkas. But since we are Americans, pants are acceptable tribal wear.

That said, modesty is a real issue, and wearing clothes that let your muffin belly hang out or show your undergarments is immodest and just plain unattractive. And to a certain extent modesty depends on where you live and your body shape. I let my little girls wear sleeveless sundresses to church because they look cute and don't have hairy armpits. I wear v-neck shirts without feeling immodest because even four finger-widths below my neckbone you’re not going to encounter any cleavage. Someone else might need a different shirt. It’s one thing to dress nicely, and it’s another to dress like you’re working in Vegas.


But all that history and reasoning weren’t really what I wanted to say. What I meant to get around to is a thought project I’ve toyed with before, and that’s the issue of how much time and attention and resources should we give to fashion anyway. Unlike my mother, I don’t like to spend hours shopping and when I do, I get frustrated and irritable (although I’m happy enough to waste time on the computer). Having an attractive home fits into this topic, too: I’m tempted to spend more money on home décor than fashion, so I’ve thought about the argument in terms of how to make a house look pretty and homey while being fiscally prudent and without getting obsessed about the house and the stuff so that you walk around yelling at the kids when they touch it. How much time and money can you invest in looking pretty or having pretty things before they become distraction? How detached should we be from material beauty?


I think you could make the argument that the desire to be attractive and to have attractive things is, to a certain extent, a theological issue. Beautiful things make us happy, they lift our spirits and hearts, and can lead us toward praise of God, if we’re disciplined enough to not turn the objects into the ends.



And then there is the issue of intent. If you don’t intend to attract a lover or make the other ladies glower with envy over your fine figure and stylish life, but rather just want to look tidy or professional or like a person someone else would like to be friends with or you just feel innately attracted to that particular sweater or whatever, and someone else looks at you with lust, that’s their sin. Calling pants immoral is a little like demonizing alcohol. Certainly, alcohol can be used improperly, but the sin is in the user not the object. I had a friend whose church not only forbid the ladies to wear pants and make-up to church, but it also refused to have musical instruments in their service because they believed the Bible instructed us to praise with the voice. (They weren’t supposed to dance or watch movies like Footloose, either.) And of course there were no statues or stained glass in their little brick building. But those objects are supposed to lead our thoughts to God, both in their content and in their form.



Anyway, it’s a fun topic to debate because when you come down to it, there’s no formulaic answer to the question of what constitutes modest wear, or what amount of money is too much to spend on adornments, or what will provoke admiration and pleasure versus what will provoke envy and lust. The human heart is too gloriously various.

Stop the ride; I want to get off

Lately, I’ve been feeling a little like Dorothy when she’s watching in horror the hourglass as all the sand is running out. Isn't there a different movie where the character is actually stuck in the glass getting suffocated by the sand? Or an enchanted ferris wheel that keeps spinning faster and never stops? The last week has been like that.

The previous month was one long vacation, in between my husby coming home, his family visiting, and my parents visiting, but all of a sudden we are back on real time, and stuff is piling up as I sit here writing a blog post. (and reading other people’s posts.)


I don't know how life gets so busy. One minute I’m wondering what to do with myself while the kids are in school – besides write a blog and read other people’s. And the next minute I’m crying about how I’ve got so much to do that I don’t have time for what I want to do – write and read blogs.


But yes, I do know how this happens – I open my mouth. First I volunteered to teach Latin at the elementary school because the principal told me she wanted to offer Latin, but they couldn’t afford to buy Rosetta Stone, and the public school had ordered it but it hadn’t come in. So I volunteered to teach it, based on my vast experience of teaching Latina Christiana to our homeschool co-op in Virginia for a couple of years. At least I know more about Latin than most 4th -6th graders. And I love it. (Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn’t have studied something more rigorous like a language rather than something so elusive like literature. I like right or wrong answers and word puzzles.)


Then after listening to the older kids’ school principal, football coach, PTA president, and dean of students cry for volunteers at various parent meetings at the high school, I decided to offer to substitute for free. I like doing it, and really it pays so little that it isn’t worth the trouble of filing the taxes. So now I’m getting a lot more calls to sub. But I enjoy it – no prep work, and usually the classes I’m watching have to do a worksheet or watch a movie, so I can get a little reading done. The drawbacks are having to rush around in the mornings and find other time to grocery shop and exercise.


Fortunately, I got turned down for a real job, although at the time I found out I felt like crying. While my in-laws were here, I got a call from our priest telling me about a job opportunity. The military chapel was in need of a pastoral coordinator, someone to write the bulletin, organize CCD and schedule lectors and ministers. While at most parishes, this would be a volunteer position or split between a secretary and a DRE, the government has money set aside to pay a contractor for this job. It offered flexible hours, a good amount of money for the amount of work, and the pleasure of working for the church. The only real drawback was that we would have had to change parishes because Sunday morning CCD was part of the deal. I met with the priest at the base chapel and picked up the paperwork, even though I debated taking on the responsibility. Since we had company, I told him I would get back to him after the long weekend. Once I had talked myself into it, I called him back the next Tuesday to tell him I had decided to apply, and had even filled out the online application to register as a government contractor.


Alas, someone else, young and ambitious, newly arrived on base, had showed up and seemed excited, rather than hesitant, about the job, so the priest asked me to hold onto my application. I mourned the rest of the afternoon.

But today, I am thankful to that young and eager person. I am sure the pastoral coordinator job would have taken more space in my brain than I have room for. As it is I have a to-do list that keeps growing, and I’m forgetting things. Like yesterday, I forgot that I told a friend that I would meet her at the beach to learn how to paddle board. She had asked me about it last week, just before my parents arrived, and in the flurry of their visit, I failed to write it down. In the meantime I agreed to sub, although I was kicking myself when she called me late the night before to see if we were still on. I told her to let me know the next time she goes. Hopefully someday I’ll find time to write about the glories of learning to paddle board.

Southern Belles

Although I miss the crisp fall football weather of my midwestern youth, the long heat wave of this southern summer brings with it an abundance of kaleidoscopic beauty.  Perhaps these beauties stand out all the more because of their contrast with the impression given by some of the vacant lots and homes around here of a losing battle with degeneracy. The rat-tail grass, anthills, and a number of creeping vines have been infringing on front yards with gusto after the tropical weather of recent weeks.

But here are some images of the prettier side of life:

The moon on a recent nightA green heron

Live Oaks at the New Orleans sculpture garden

Spanish moss sunsetOleander

Sunset over the gulf

Shrimp boats in portPelicans

Great blue heron  

Little girl on a boat

One last summer fling

September is over a week old already, and the kids have been in school for a month, but until yesterday I still felt like it was summer.  My husband has been home for almost three weeks, and the temps are still in the 90s.  He had two weeks off, so we spent the first week having day dates - going out for coffee, making a rainy day trip to Gulf Shores, feeling like teeny boppers sneaking into the neighbor's pool for a swim. (We did have permission.)  We also spent a good amount of time reorganizing and cleaning up for a Labor Day week party with some of his siblings, their families, and his parents -- I'm happy to report that our house can easily accomodate 22 people if at least half of them are below five feet tall.

But sometimes with that many people around, things like this happen:

Thank goodness my husband can take care of minor plumbing repairs.

Since I can't get my mind around a coherent narrative, here are some photo highlights of other events of the week:

Feeling the love in New Orleans

Having fun at the neighbor's pool:

 Enjoying a Southern breakfast at the VFW followed by a "turkey shot" contest: My sister-in-law read a notice in the paper about the breakfast and shooting contest (actually target shooting for prizes from the butcher shop: the bacon round, the steak round, the road kill round), so we all showed up after church, since my husband is now a veteran of a foreign war.

 

I had an idea what the fare would be so I commented to my brother-in-law that I'd be more excited about going if they served Bloody Mary's and low and behold!:

Served with pickled okra. As you can see I was happy about this:

We also experimented with some other regional cuisine. Crawfish were out of season at the seafood place down the street, so my husband brought home alligator meat and frog legs. The clean plates are evidence that everyone enjoyed their crispy amphibious/reptilian nuggets:

The alligator was not taken from this guy, sited in the wild.  My first wild alligator siting, up close and personal:

We spent a good part of the week on the water:

Racing pontoon boats:

Attempting flounder gigging:

Swimming at sunset in the Gulf. We didn't emerge covered in oil, but bathed well afterwards nonetheless:

We also did a little bit of siteseeing, but most of the time we just enjoyed each others' company. The kids all played well together. We learned to play ladderball and Things. Here are some birdhouses the youngers painted one lazy afternoon:

I have to credit my sister-in-law for some of these photos. She is a great photographer and also great company, like all of my brothers- and sisters-in-law.  She and I had the excuse of picking up my husband's younger brother and sister-in-law at the airport in New Orleans to treat ourselves to a trip to the NO Museum of Art where we ran into this lady.  I'm thinking about trying this move with my six year old:

My sister-in-law also shared the bounty of her garden with us, so we feasted well on fresh herbs and vegetables all weekend long, although it required getting creative with eggplant: eggplant caponata, baba ghanoush, eggplant bruschetta, roasted eggplant and peppers... all delicious.

The harvest:

As you can see, we had a nice mix of family time spent swimming, site-seeing, playing ladder ball, and eating; guy time spent fishing, golfing, scotch tasting; and lady time spent browsing an art fair, drinking coffee, and laughing.  My sister-in-law and I also indulged in a spontaneous trip to get our feet fixed up. I have never had a pedicure, mostly because my feet are just so ugly there's not much that can be done to beautify them. Once at a track meet some random spectator asked if he could take a picture of my feet because he had a collection of unusual feet photos.  But after the aesthetician soaked, scrubbed, clipped, filed, and sawed away at my toes they are momentarily callous free.  

I'm blessed to have in-laws that I love and love having around. I figure they each have a little something of my husband in them, so they are easy to love. I've spent way too long browsing about 500 hundred photos and smiling to myself this morning. It was a wonderful week.

Now back to business.  Happy Birthday to Mary today. A good reason to eat cake and ice cream tonight.

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p.s. I am also grateful for these gifts from my other sisters-in-law (and am eager to see copies of their photos...): A sprig from my new mandevilla and the detritus from a caramel machiato (rosemary, thyme, book and wine to be enjoyed later.)

Homecoming week in review

Heading Home!

If you had asked me a week ago if six months was a long time, I would have affirmed yes, emphatically. But after just a few days of celebrating Dad’s return, six months seems like a blink. Life has resumed a sense of normalcy. There doesn’t seem to be much housework because two people are around to do it. We haven’t been in a rush to get places because there are two people to get the kids ready and drive. We have eaten well, because there are two people to fix dinner, clean up, and make sure all the homework is done before dinner starts.  And all the kids have been on their best behavior.

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In the decompression lectures in Kuwait, my husband was told he had changed and to expect changes at home. He seems pretty much the same to me – more relaxed than I expected and several pounds skinnier. I feel less talkative and more distracted than I would like to be. But being on vacation all week has also made me feel like a nicer person, although I catch myself in selfish indulgences like reading the paper during breakfast, and wanting to get on the computer after the kids are in bed. And since those same kids have been being so good, their dad hasn't had to see me turn into the screaming meanie I was for a good part of the last six months. They were reminiscing about the Bill Cosby Chocolate Cake skit the other morning because Dad let them have carrot cake for breakfast (even more nutritious!).  I can really identify with that image of the mother with her head splitting open (although honestly I'm glad they ate carrot cake for breakfast or I would've eaten it myself.)

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Since this is a vacation of sorts, we have done some fun things this week: On the first night Dad was home, we had cake and champagne. The next day we slept in and swam and shopped all the bazaar items Dad brought home. That night we took all the kids out to eat at Olive Garden. My husband wanted comfort food. The kids were well behaved and excited to order from a menu. However, I hope they don’t get the impression that Olive Garden is fine dining.

Some of the souvenir trinkets for kids and family, and me:

And my new Afghan rug:

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The next day we did more reunion activities: went fishing, took a walk, looked at photos. That evening, we had a fancier date: first to a live production of the Thacker Mountain radio show, and then to dinner. Thacker Mountain is Mississippi Public Broadcasting’s version of Lake Woebegon Days, and it’s usually recorded in Oxford, MS, literary hotbed of the south. But on Saturday they did a special recording at the little theater here on the coast. We were treated to the house band The Yalobushwhackers, a blues gospel singer, the folksy singersongwriter Caroline Herring who crooned about little boys growing up and Walter Anderson, a reading from New Orleans author Tom Piazza’s new book about Katrina, and the blues group Homemade Jamz Blues Band, which is made up of three siblings, ages 12, 16, and 18 on homemade instruments plus their dad on harmonica. They were phenomenal. We finally had a taste of southern culture in its most distinctive form.

Then we had a taste of local cuisine at a nearby restaurant. Fearing not for contamination by oil, we savored the crab cake appetizer. For an entree, I had shrimp and grits, but the taste was obscured by the heavy cream sauce and the well-made martini that preceded it.

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Sunday’s Mass was marked by the best behavior all year by the kids as Dad resumed his role as spiritual head of the family. They were rewarded with a boat ride on the rental pontoon from MWR. They didn’t catch enough fish in the bay to provide more than a couple bites, so we had to make do with steak and potatoes for dinner, a man’s meal. 

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Eating wasn't all we did this past week.  I won't tell all the highlights, but one other memorable afternoon was spent visiting the Walter Anderson museum and the Shearwater Pottery gallery begun by his brother Peter Anderson. Always love strolling through an art museum, even a tiny one. I’d never heard of Walter Anderson before moving here, but his artwork is striking and appealing. Part of the appeal may be his life story and his family’s place in the community. He was apparently rather eccentric and singularly single-minded, evidenced by the way he left his family for weeks to live in rough shelters on the barrier islands where he drew and painted. He created an amazing painting on the walls of his room, showing the stages of a day as well as of creation.
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This is beginning to sound like an ad for coming to see the Gulf Coast.  I'm trying to entice our family members down for a visit.  Swamp boat tours are in our future as we host a goodsized passel of relations next week.

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Photo of a welcoming sign on the base that my first grader painted. A perfect representation of how we feel.