Orbs, Orbs, Orbs

Blog repost from the 2009-- Happy Halloween!

“In a world where carpenters get resurrected, everything is possible.” 

-----Katharine Hepburn as Eleanor of Aquitaine in The Lion in Winter 

     Orbs are photographic phenomena that show up as round transparent, translucent, or opaque hovering spheres usually in digital photographs. They can be large or small or even overlapping. With the right frame of reference, they can be downright mystical: angels hovering about, or the opposite, demons menacing about. Or they can be energy fields produced by the spirits of past departed checking in on loved ones left behind. Or just friendly spirits who enjoy your company. Or spirits who are curious. Maybe they are doors to another dimension. Perhaps they are manifested by the sheer vibration of a room. You know the feeling when you walk into a room and can immediately sense the tension or excitement or despair, etc.

     Or they can just be dust: dust that reflects an off-focus image from the flash of a camera. It's probably a good idea to consult a camera specialist, but the explanation has something to do with the shortened focal length between the camera lens and the chip that records the digital picture. The focal point will be in focus, but other points (dust) brightened by the flash will be out of focus, causing the orb effect.

     I can handle this information however primitive and poorly understood. However, after seeing all those orbs in the photographs of Yoga classes on winter days shortly after we opened at PH Balance,  I'm inclined to think I might need to clean the place thoroughly--dust, vacuum, clean blinds.

     Which, of course, makes me prefer the mystical explanation much more.

There is a passage in the New Testament book of Luke where the evil religious leaders tell Jesus to forbid his followers from praising him. It's Palm Sunday. Jesus replies with some of the oddest words. "If these were silent, the stones would shout out." (Luke 19:40) This didn't make much sense until a guy at our church lots of years ago explained this verse through the theory of quantum physics.  While I'm no Einstein, I did grasp that quantum physics describes a much different reality relating to waves and particles that do not function within our reality as we understand it. It's all about a vibrational energy that keeps the universe from, well, not being the universe, and if one were to look at the sub-atomic particles in the stones, one might see a great deal of activity that, under the right circumstances, could cause sound, maybe in the form of shouting.

     So I write all this to say that if we are created from the dust as stated by the Yahwist writer, who is the oldest reference in the Torah (Genesis 2:7), who's to say whether or not a bright flash of light can bring momentary life to a speck of dust, liberating whatever wave energies might be bound in that particle? Who's to say that ashes to ashes, dust to dust is just a mere explanation of the time we experience in relativity and that quantumly speaking, our ashes and dust have a whole other experience?

More on Quilting

https://www.alabamanewscenter.com/2018/10/14/riley-center-quilters-bring-underground-history-to-vibrant-life/ 

The Grief Quilt

I spent the summer of 2021 cleaning up, mending, and quilting Aunt Ola's quilt top. My mom gave it to my sister, Jann, after Aunt Ola died. Jann gave it to me on a trip to Birmingham during Covid.  The quilt was a mess, these diamond shapes created from hexagons.  The layout created a parallelogram with borders that were uneven.  It was obvious that the quilt brought Aunt Ola grief as she had tried to cut some of the designs along the edges to make some sense out of the sideways-leaning design. I thought it just needed some love.  I'd always been a sucker for lost causes.

Aunt Ola hand pieced the hexagons with white and black thread along with some stitching with what might be kite string.  Many areas had some damage or had come unstitched.

I went to the Quilt Shop in Hendersonville and bought some unbleached muslin for the backing.  I chose not to use batting, making a lightweight quilt. I bought some quilt needles and thread.  I had to cut the muslin in half to create the backing.  On a trip back to Birmingham my sister, Jann, sewed the two halves together on her machine so that the backing would fit under the quilt top.

As I worked on the quilt, my own grief was on the mend. It had been a year since my partner died. I quilted each hexagon except the black ones around each design and mended the seams and damaged pieces as I quilted.  And as I quilted I thought about Aunt Ola, my mother-in-law, Jewell, who taught me how to quilt.  Both women have passed. I wondered what my Aunt Ola had made with the scraps that created this quilt. I thought about my grandmother, who I never met, but whose quilt hangs in my bedroom along with a specially-made-for-me quilt hanging from Jewell.  I thought about all the women who saved scraps and created beautiful quilts for families and friends, all the unknown artists whose creations have long been forgotten.  I hoped Aunt Ola was watching and smiling. I knew Jewell was rolling her eyes at these uneven stitches.

I realized that to square the quilt, I would need two right angle triangles to fill in the spaces caused by the leaning design.  But before that, I had to decide where the quilt would begin and end.  The places that had been cut off, leaving irregular edges, had to be cleaned up.  So I made those decisions after lots of observations and measurements, carefully taking out stitches, removing partial patterns. I finally finished the quilt top by the end of summer and folded it up for the cedar chest until I moved to Montevallo. I really could not make a decision how to square up the quilt, and making a border was something I couldn't even consider.

In the sixth month after my move, I pulled out Aunt Ola's quilt with the intention of finishing it. I would just dive into it and finish it, border and all. I went to JoAnn's and spent time looking for that fill-in fabric for those right triangles. I didn't go in with any other idea of what I wanted other than small-design fabric. The quilt was bold enough in its original form.  I just depended upon my instinct to find the material.  After looking at many bolts of material, I came upon the scattering-stars-in-the-night design.  It reminded me of all the star quilters who had been scattered around the world and whose spirits scattered the night sky.  Even the lady who cut my yards from the bolt took a double take when she unbolted the material.

It wasn't until I was working with the fabric that the black background seemed appropriate for the black hexagons.  I really didn't intend to get black fabric, but it worked with the quilt top.  It blended with the black hexagons, which made it easier to attach them to the fabric.

So. I measured and measured. I didn't have a giant protractor to figure accurate triangle shapes, so I just trusted myself to get it close. I cut them. I sewed their edges to the folded black hexagons. The result was giant triangular spaces. I had to do something about that, so I used pieces of the quilt that were leftover and appliqued them to the triangles.  Tried to get them somewhat even.  Looked ok.  Thought maybe after the border was on, I'd see how it looked, and maybe applique some more scraps later.

The border was a nightmare.  There wasn't enough material to simply fold over and sew the border, so I started using what I had left over from the muslin for the border.  Measuring, measuring. Cutting.  Ironing folds. Bloodying my fingers as I stuck pins into them, by accident, of course.  As I started sewing the border, I would adjust, tug, try to even it up.  It's ok.  But far from perfect. Far from even. But square enough. Like an impressionist painting, the quilt should be viewed from a comfortable distance; no close examination. 

Even in the struggle with the border, my own healing process accelerated.  Aunt Ola's grief led her to abandon her quilt, but then the quilt helped me embrace my own grief as it witnessed the better part of my own healing.  The quilt is beautiful to me, mostly because it is so imperfect and full of intuitive decisions, meditative struggle.  It's a metaphor for the imperfect beauty created by grief.

Thank you, Aunt Ola.

 

Questions to Ask When Buying a House

 When was this house built? 

 Do you know who the builder is/was? 

 How old is the roof? Has it ever been replaced? 

 Have stray shingles ever fallen to the ground? If so, when? 

 How old is the hot water heater? Brand? Any evidence of leaking around the hot water heater? 

 How old is the HVAC system? Brand? Any recent repairs? 

 Is there any water damage around the doors or windows? 

 Are there cracks in the garage and/or driveway? 

 Is the sheetrock tape separating from the wall? 

 Is there water damage on the walls or ceiling? 

 Is the pipe from the hot water heater into the house made of copper? 

 Is there a water pressure regulator anywhere on the plumbing? What is the present water pressure? 

 Are there any leaks under the sinks? 

 Do the ceiling fans squeak? 

 Are all lights in working order? 

 Check all light/ceiling fan switches and GFCI outlets. Are there any dead switches? If so, what did they originally power up? 

 If applicable, listen to the garbage disposal to see if it runs smoothly. 

 Check all drains to see if they are clear and clean. If drains are slow, ask why? 

 Turn on faucets to their wide-open position to check for pressure or debris in the water. If you hear squealing when turning them off, there may be a pressure issue. 

 Do you see mold or mildew in the bathrooms, especially around caulked areas and tile? 

 Check for hard water build up around faucets and in toilets. 

 Flush toilets to make sure they empty and refill normally. 

 Notice any water damage around toilets. 

 Check the caulking around the base of the toilets to see if they are stabilized. 

 Are pipes under sinks sealed around the openings in the walls/cabinets? 

 Are there gaps in the flooring around fixtures or appliances? 

 Are all floors and baseboards free of gaps? 

 Do the windows open, close, and lock easily? Are they clean? 

 Is there any damage to the walls? Make sure all holes are sealed after walls are emptied.  Check behind the washer and dryer area to see if there is mold or mildew or the sheetrock is softened. This indicates a leak. 

If there is a septic tank, ask for the date of the last clean-out.

 Do the sellers smoke or allow smoking in their home? 

 Are the yard and outbuilding areas free of debris and mold or mildew? 

 Are there any recent repairs that the new owners should be aware of? Is there paperwork/warranty on these repairs to be given to the new owners? 

 Are all downspouts and extensions positioned away from the house? 

 Has there ever been termite damage? 

 Has the house ever flooded? 

 Ask what internet companies are available in the area. 

 If there is carpet, walk the room to make sure the floor feels level. 

 If you are having any painting done, require the painter to prime first. 

 Before moving in have professional cleaners clean the house from top to bottom, including the garage, appliances, lights, and ceiling fans.

Happy Father's Day!

Congratulations to my son, David, who celebrates his 13th Father’s Day. I am honored to be his Mother. 

David was one of those very rare kids who cried at Disney World but was given the balloons at the end of the parade by the “one and only” Snow White. He had a crush on her for months after. 

He won a trip to Six Flags Over Georgia in a Go Bots contest. 

He was nearly hit by a car. 

Broke his foot on the seesaw. 

Didn’t pick up his clothes and toys often enough.

. 

Read books.

 

His kindergarten teacher said he was the most well-adjusted kid she’d ever seen.

 

His fourth-grade teacher said she’d be reading about him in the papers. Years later when David was in high school, I saw this same teacher at a workshop. I reminded her of her prediction, and she was correct. The Huntsville Times published an article on his rising star in track and quoted him on many occasions.

 

As a teenager David met Hindus and Hispanics, helping the way Christian teens do on mission trips.

In high school he suffered difficult physical problems from acne to scoliosis to multiple shoulder dislocations and corrective shoulder surgery. Consequently, he was rejected from his high school basketball team after a stellar show in middle school basketball. 

And, yet, he still owns the Alabama High School Athletic Association 4A State Record in the 300-meter hurdles. That was in 1999. 

He graduated Salutatorian from his high school. The Valedictorian never darkened the door of his high school. 

His school counselor said he would never get a scholarship from Samford. He was awarded Samford's highest scholastic honor, a Presidential Scholarship, and kept it for four years. 

Editor of his college newspaper and magna cum laude graduate.

He majored in journalism at Samford University. In his first journalism job after college he earned an Alabama Press Award which the Scottsboro Sentinel still houses.

 

All of this experience paved the road for fatherhood. 

He walks in the essence of God, making his vocation in the Episcopal Priesthood. 

He has never, ever spoken a harsh word to me or raised his voice in anger toward me. Though, on rare occasions, he has torn through my heart with a specific kind of glare in his eyes. And, probably, rightfully so. 

The children who have him as a Dad are so beyond lucky, so beyond graced, I cannot even imagine what it must feel like to have a parent with that kind of heart. 

Happy Father’s Day, David. I am honored to be the Mom of B’s and W's Dad.

 

Details

     Some years ago, my brother-in-law, Carroll, bought a 1960-something Austin Healey. He and my sister brought it by the house, and, of course, the first thing Carroll did was explain how it's not in the greatest surface shape, but the engine was sound. He got a good deal, buying it from a guy in ... and so on.  I don’t remember the rest.  The car was extraordinary in spite of the dull and scratched green paint, making the vintage car look old and tired inside and out.  I’d never seen an Austin Healy up close—only in some of the older English films, so I was impressed, nevertheless.

     A few months later I helped my sister, my brother-in-law's wife, with a garage sale. It rained that day, but we sold anyway. As we were winding down, packing things up for a yard sale my cousin would have in a month, a couple of guys walked up and asked if we were selling any guitars. No, we weren't. My sister offered that Carroll had a guitar, but he probably wouldn't part with it. Then the guy asked the oddest thing. He asked to see the guitar.

     My sister called Carroll from her basement and said to bring his guitar. Carroll is a wise husband and obeyed without arguing. In his defense it was an unusual request, and Carroll is one to accept adventure in its many forms, especially in relation to music.  He’s performed at the Tannehill Opry with other musicians, and often he and my nephew will jam together on holidays when the family is together.  He’s backed me up on his banjo when I’ve been coaxed to sing one of the two ridiculous songs I wrote back in the 80s.  And he’s also an accomplished watercolorist. 

     When Carroll brought the guitar down and saw the men in the basement, it was a grand reunion. Handshakes. Hugs. How-are-yous, and there was some talk about “the good old days.” One of the guys took Carroll's guitar from him. He started tuning it. Then he played and sung a sweet bluegrass hymn he'd written. Other songs followed. My sister told me he’d written tunes for some famous country singers. After a couple more requests and the offering of a composition he was working on, the other guy asked Carroll what kind of car was under the cover, nodding toward the Austin Healey and trying to guess before the reveal. The surprise was resting under a car cover, some mattress pads and foam along its sides to keep anything or anyone from touching the car during our rainy-day sale. (Tight quarters since everything had to stay inside.)

     Carroll started removing the layers of protection, and when he lifted the final cover, I could hardly believe my eyes. The car had been completely detailed from the front to the rear in a two-toned scheme of British racing green and cream with shiny chrome wheel covers. The top was down and the new two-toned leather interior was pristine. The car was absolutely stunning, simply gorgeous. I knew it was the same car, but the detailing brought out a whole new appreciation in me. 

     The three men stared at the car approvingly.  Life is in the details, as they say, and nothing seemed truer to me standing there, watching those men and that car—how breathtaking a vintage love can be and how stunningly enduring our relationships can be under all those years of wear and tear. 

The Cats of Pea Ridge

     There is a rural-burb outside of Montevallo, Alabama, with the gentle name of Pea Ridge. A few rolling hills with scattered farm houses, a few churches, and a closed general store are all that make up the settlement. The Creek Nation lived in this area long before the white man came. Years ago there was a Mayberry Elementary School and exists now as a Senior Center. If you go down highway 10 to the east you end up at the small state University; go the other way and you end up at the coal mines, now closed, where everyone worked when first settled by South Carolinians. Of all the places I have lived, it was my very favorite even though the house was old, rickety, and a bit moldy. I have a rural-farm heart, and I still dream of living in one-room shacks, living off the land with lots of dogs hanging around.

     In Pea Ridge, however, we were the landing place for cats. Lots of cats. All kinds of cats wandered into our world when we lived in Pea Ridge, and the whole memory of that time led me to think about our first cat, Charcoal, who adopted us while we were living in a Birmingham neighborhood.

     Charcoal was such an elegant and graceful maternal cat. Now that I think about her, I am sure I did not appreciate all of her subtle qualities. She patiently endured the clumsy love of two boys ages three and five and never, ever bared her claws to them. She would sit on the back porch, hunkered down like cats do, and tolerate the taunts from squirrels in a nearby tree. She never looked at them, but every now and then she would wince. You wondered what insults she might be bearing. When a tornado blew by, sending a tree to the ground, miraculously settling between our house and our neighbor's, only the bedroom window screen was damaged, leaving an open flap. Soon Charcoal used that flap to come in and out of the house.

     When she wanted in at night, her soft meow at the window would awaken me, and I would let her in via that window. When she wanted out early in the morning, she would gently place her paw on my cheek to wake me. I would lean over and open the window, and out she'd go.

     We gave her to my mom when we moved to Orlando. When the adventure in Orlando ended only months later, we moved to Birmingham and lived in a two-level townhouse. I was thrilled to get Charcoal back into the family. I was never sure how she managed, but she would end up on the second-floor window ledge and softly meow. I would just look at her, exasperated and unable to help. Then she couldn't figure out how to get down again. We let her go back to mom's house.

     She lived many long years after, and one day in the twilight of her years, she never came home, dying gracefully, I am sure, and without making a scene.

     When things in the townhouse didn't work out with Charcoal, we got a kitten we named Scout after the character in To Kill A Mockingbird. Soon after we moved to Pea Ridge, taking the reluctant Scout with us. Shortly after this move my then 8-year-old son began his lofty project of digging a hole to China. Each day he worked on his project, ever deepening the hole. I imagine it finally reached nearly three feet. He was saved from fulfilling his self-appointed mission when Scout died under the wheels of an inattentive driver, and my son volunteered his unfinished project for Scout’s funeral.  A year or so later, a boy's curiosity unearthed her remains. I remembered doing the same when I was his age.

     Soon after I was driving down Hwy 52 when I saw a hand-made sign that read "free kittens and puppies". I stopped. The lady of the house took me to her back yard. Surrounded by black Lab-looking puppies with their oversized heads and paws, right in the middle of them all was a lone black kitten. The puppies looked up at me with confidence, but the kitten looked at me as though he knew he was invisible. That's how Spike came to be a part of our family. From day one he lounged on the couch, stretching his entire body to take up as much space as cat-ly possible, always with one back leg dangling off the edge of the couch. When other cats joined our hoard, he was distant, the older, wiser brother. He was always the first to initiate the cleaned litter box, always right after I cleaned it. Annoyed the heck out of me. And lovable beyond belief. In spite of it all.

     When I took Spike for shots, our vet offered me four adorable kittens, a white tabby, a Siamese-mix, an orange tabby, and a light gray cat with just a smidgen of calico on her right side. I came home with a litter. My husband was a patient man back then.

     All of this commotion brought the unwelcome attention of a huge black cat, wild by even the most animal-loving standards. He would sit under a tree at the edge of our driveway and watch the house. Stalking. Ready to terrorize. One night he came on the front porch and took the Siamese mix. He was my son’s favorite. I vowed to kill that cat and set out rat poison mixed with cat food. He ate it and came back each night. Like the Dread Pirate Robert in The Princess Bride, he'd built immunity to the poison.  I realized I was not his first human enemy. Eventually, he took the white tabby, and I was crushed.

     More determined than ever I crushed a light bulb and mixed it with cat food. He ate and left. I hoped.

     The next day my neighbor across the street came by and let me know that he shot the cat that morning. "You could tell he was sick. He's never let me get that close before." He’d obviously missed his target on other occasions. Rural folks are so practical, and I love that to this day.

     But I still felt bad. Ashamed.

     And the cats still came.

     In the dead of winter a kitten showed up with a laceration around her neck that looked deep enough to show muscle. The vet was not only amazed that she was still alive but that there was a kitten her age this time of the year. He had to trim the skin around the wound before sewing her up. After she fully recovered, we found her a home with a grieving young girl who had just lost her beloved cat to old age.

     Then there was Windy. Windy was the biggest, most beautiful cat I had ever seen. She had long wild hair and ears like a bobcat. I called her Windy, because you got the feeling she lived in accordance with where the wind blew her fate. To me she was magnificent. I would leave food for her on the front porch. She would eat. Soon she would eat with the other cats. Then she would eat in my presence. Then she would let me touch her while she ate. Then she would eat from my hand. Then I got to hold her. The whole process took about six months. You could tell she wanted to be fed--maybe even be loved--but was suspicious of it.

     We, and only we, became friends. When she let me take her to the vet, I found out Windy was a male. She became Wendell and was neutered. Wendell owned me. He always had this feral smell that I loved. He even began to purr, a bit raggedy in its sound, but I loved that. It made me feel like I taught him to love again. Then one day a logging truck speeding down our road killed him. I felt responsible thinking that if I hadn't domesticated him, he might still have his wild survival wits. And still be alive.

     I never got that close to any of the other cats that came and went. Most were neutered or spayed if they stayed more than a week. One black and white cat that wandered up had the biggest testicles I'd ever seen on a cat. He looked justifiably uncomfortable, walking with an awkward lilt. When he didn't leave, the vet neutered him. When he recovered, he left and I never saw him again. I wondered if he belonged to one of my neighbors. I smiled when I imagined what they must have thought upon seeing the physical changes in their companion.

     We moved from Pea Ridge and it’s magnificent wildness to a subdivision of Huntsville. It wasn’t an easy move for me, but I found the wildness in the wooded hill beyond our new house. I drove my kids to school and into town using the back roads instead of the four-lane highway. I later discovered Monte Sano State Park. And soon enough, I too, was domesticated, leaving behind my identity as a basket maker from the country. Spike and Tiger, the orange tabby, moved with us to Huntsville and still lived in wild style, annoying, I am fairly sure, our long-suffering neighbors.