Blah Blah Blogging - I Swear I'm Not Swearing

     It has been explained to me but I still don’t like it. Sometimes when I post a comment on another blog, Nib’s End shows up as Nib's End. My husband says it is because my computer does not speak the same language as your computer. But it looks too aggressive, too vulgar. It says: “I’m Nib freakin’ End! Now deal with it!” I hope you know by now that I am not that harsh, and I am definitely not in the habit of cursing either friends or strangers.

Le Pouce - Paris

     When we were in São Paulo last Fall, my husband and I went to dinner at the home of one of his colleagues. Our host made us pizza. He made everything from scratch and baked the pizzas over eucalyptus wood in his brick oven. When he asked me how I liked my meal, I gave him the “O.K.” signal. I don’t know much Portuguese, but I do know how to say muito bom—very good. If my mouth hadn’t been full, I would have told him that it was the best pie I had ever tasted and that, going forward, it would be the standard to which all subsequent pizzas must be measured. Too late. In Brazil that particular hand gesture is obscene. It does not mean okay, very good or anything even remotely positive. I should have given him a thumbs up. Thankfully, he saw the horror in my face as I realized my indiscretion and he smiled indulgently.

     It isn’t the first time I have been dependant on the indulgence and grace of others as I negotiate the gaps between cultures.

     The blogoshpere has been around a long while now, but I am still a novice, a visitor to what sometimes feels like a foreign country. I am still learning the culture and the language. People from all over the world are interacting with one another on a daily basis. In the process, I suspect that toes sometimes get stepped on. I beg your indulgence if I ever step on yours.

     In many ways social media seems like a free for all—all the more reason to subscribe to some form of etiquette—but most of the web logs I have visited are being written by kind and decent people who wish to be courteous to one another. Irish Mise over at Pretty Far West defines Blogtopia as “a place where everything is lovely, even if it isn’t, and everyone is charming and supportive and has written a little poem.” Mise seems like the kind of woman who would smile indulgently at me if I inadvertently flipped her the bird. And if it looks like I am swearing at her when I leave a comment on one of her posts, she has been too gracious to mention it.

     So then, despite the impression that Nib's End might give, I too will subscribe to an etiquette of grace.

photo credit Robert Harding

Blue Day

Blue skies smilin' at me

Nothin' but blue skies do I see...

Blue days, all of them gone

Nothin' but blue skies from now on

~ Willie Nelson ~

  We spent the day in the city on fruitless passport business, but despite the bureaucratic effort, the day wasn't wasted. Not even the trip to the federal building was wasted. I quite enjoyed eavesdropping on the other petitioners: the recent college graduate who needed a new passport because his had been ruined in the wash; the two little girls holding dolls who had been promised a visit to the American Girl store; the woman who had returned, this time with her wedding certificate; people traveling to London, Greece, Norway...

     Afterward, my husband and I strolled hand-in-hand along the river. From time to time we stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, letting the foot-traffic flow around us, to admire the towering architecture or the Picasso in the plaza even though we have seen them many times. We went for lunch at a favorite restaurant and ate chicken picatta and beignets with raspberry sauce. It was a lovely fall day with a sky that looked like it was trying to hang on to the heels of summer.    

     "What color would you use to describe today?" I asked my husband as we walked up the Avenue in the shade of skyscrapers. I held my persimmon-colored wool jacket over my arm because the afternoon had turned warm.

     "Bright blue," he said after a moment.

     I smiled because he is so willing to play these games with me. "Me too," I agreed, "only I was thinking sky-blue."

     It could have turned out otherwise. The day could have shaped itself into another shade of blue entirely no matter what color the sky. After all, we had arrived at the passport office late and out of breath only to find out that we had been misinformed about the required paperwork. Then, after walking a long, long way, the restaurant we had wanted to try for the first time was closed. And our feet hurt. But the late September sky had infused us with its essence and despite the setbacks, it was impossible to feel anything but a blithe, bright blue. 

Pumpkin Patch

     You know it is fall when the pumpkins in your garden begin to ripen. The thing of it is—I didn’t plant any. Still, there they are growing on the slope that used to lie beneath the shade of a spruce: ten, perfect mini pumpkins. Until the devastating storm two months ago, there wasn’t a spot sunny enough to grow them. We almost didn’t notice them amidst the bumper crop of weeds. We’ve been distracted with roofing and siding and haven’t had the inclination to garden in this summer’s drought and heat. Now that the heat and humidity are beginning to wane, however, I am out in the yard on my hands and knees most days patiently making room for next spring—she’ll need a landing strip.

     Now and then, I’ve been tempted to grumble as the Aftermath continues to eat up our days, but those pumpkins make me smile; they remind me that I am not the one in control; they remind me of the unexpected blessing and bounty I have received this summer. There are also some wild violets growing on the slope and a single stalk of corn growing beside the driveway. I didn’t plant those either. Each of these surprises brings me joy and lifts my heart like a promise.

Summer Set

It was a yellow summer

With dreams the size of shade.

The Sower by Vincent van Gogh

Soda Pop

  
     Soda pop is a daily fixture in American life, but when I was a child it was a treat. I was raised in a middle-class home, but with six children and a modest, single income, my parents weren’t able to provide a lot of extras. We always had shoes on our feet, food on the table and presents under the Christmas tree, but a trip to McDonalds was rare. So was ice cream. I was envious of the huge round tubs of Neapolitan my cousins always seemed to have in their freezer. My father made a batch of his own root beer one year and bottled it in brown, recycled glass bottles. We had floats all summer long. Every sip of root beer I’ve had since, tastes like that summer.

     One year we took a road trip to visit my great aunt and uncle in Idaho. On the way, we spent a night in a motel. Mom and Dad slept in the double bed while the rest of us slept on the floor. It was an adventure. I'd never slept in a motel before. Next to the manager's office there was a vending machine with cold bottles of soda pop, and my dad let each of us buy one. Of all the memories I have from that trip, having a bottle of pop all to myself remains the most prominent.

     All these years later, plastic liters and aluminum cans of fizzy drink seem commonplace. I don't often drink the stuff, but occasionally I buy a soda in a glass bottle with a metal crown cap. I drink it cold, straight from the bottle, and it still feels like a luxury.



Soda Pop Song

Soda pop, soda pop

So so so soda pop

Soda pop, soda pop

So so so soda pop

I like my Ginger Ale

Root beer and Bubble Up

Pepsi really pours it on
Dr Pepper picks me up

Fresh up with 7 Up

Soda Squirt, Crush a pop

It hasta be Shasta

Red Bull will make you hop

Things go better with a

Can of fizzy soda

I’d like to buy the world

A Coke Coca-Cola

Soda pop, soda pop

So so so soda pop

Soda pop, soda pop

Sing sing a soda pop…

~ Nib of Nib's End ~

Silly Nib likes to sing this to the tune of the 1950's song Lollipop Lollipop or just rap it out like a pop star.

Head in the Clouds

     One of the perks of my husband's job is the frequent flyer miles he accumulates. He used some of them to get me an iPad for our anniversary this year. Dear man, he’s given me a boost into the twenty-first century. I don’t twitter, tweet, text, tumble or pin; I don’t even have my face in a book, but I now have my head in the Cloud. And I am not alone. Apparently, there are a lot of people in the Cloud with me. You might even be one of them. It gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling.

     Being technologically challenged, I don’t pretend to understand the workings of this Cloud, but I don’t have to know how it works to enjoy its benefits. Still, I am a little nervous about using it. Can it get so full it starts to leak like raindrops from a nimbus? Or does it keep expanding like the ominous phenomenon generated by the FLDSMDFR in Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs? If so, is that a good thing? Is this storage depot as vaporous as a cloud and as easily penetrated? I don’t suppose my intellectual property is worth much, but it is mine, and I don't like anyone going through my purse without asking either. Perhaps all of these questions are silly and simply a reflection of my woeful ignorance. Perhaps I should relax and join the throng:

Three cheers!

I Cloud

You Cloud

We all crowd the iCloud!

     Yes, I am speaking tongue in cheek. I think technology is wonderful and I would rather do with it than without it, but I also think, and believe many would agree with me, that too much of a good thing can turn a blessing into a curse. After all, the tendency to overindulge is part of human nature. If you have any doubt, just ask the folks of Swallow Falls.

     I already spend a lot of time with my head in the clouds so, in some ways, this isn’t anything new. Daydreaming comes easy when I'm a passenger in the car and the scenery is mostly billboards, or when I forget to bring a book to read while waiting for the dentist. I like where floating in the stratosphere takes me, the flights of fancy into other realms, the high-hearted pondering of the spirit as it wings its way heavenward like the ascendant lark. At the same time, I understand the need for coming "back to the furrows dip". Sometimes I need to pull my head out of the clouds and pay attention, listen to the voices next to me, or just be present. It's lonely sitting next to someone who is a million miles away. 

     Most of life happens in the furrows dip. That's where the crops grow. But they are watered from above. All we need to make this trying-to-move-with-the-times grandmother happy is a little perspective from both angles.

photographic print by Annie Griffiths Belt

Its a Jungle Out There

  
     My husband was outside in the dark watering the lawn one evening while I was in the house reading. He hadn’t been out there long before he came in and said he would finish watering in the morning. Coyotes were nearby yipping and howling to one another, and he didn’t want to surprise one in the darkness. Probably a good decision. Over the years we have had encounters with deer, rabbits, chipmunks, squirrels, ground hogs, wild turkeys, possums, skunks, raccoons, feral cats and even a rabid cat. We have our share of wildlife even though we do not live in the wild.

     Several years ago, my globe-trekking spouse went to visit friends living in a remote Indian village in the Amazon jungle. He flew in by bush plane and landed on a grass airstrip. Immersing himself in the surroundings, he bathed in the river with the piranha and stingrays, and ate tapir and crocodile for dinner with our friends. It was difficult, at first, to fall asleep at night because he was unaccustomed to the relentless jungle noise.

     One evening, after visiting with our friends in their bungalow, as he made his way through the darkness to his own quarters, he heard a noise that sounded like a baby crying. The crying continued at intervals until he drew near the small house he was staying in. Then it turned into a hair-raising roar. Needless to say, he retreated. Quickly.

     A cougar had been foraging from the village chickens for weeks and, after my husband returned home, we heard that one of the Indians had shot and killed it. If you are a native in the Amazon jungle, killing predators is allowed, you don’t need permission to do it—it’s a matter of survival. Here in the suburban jungle, however, we just keep our distance.

photograph by Tim Knight