Thanks, Mom

I got up this morning, made myself a cup of coffee from Sumatran beans purchased in Makanda, and stood sipping it on the deck as I looked out over the little organic garden in my backyard.

I spent the afternoon working at a job I adore and then drove home with an album of Bob Dylan covers pouring from the speakers in my tie-dyed artcar.

I am complicated and eccentric and outrageous and confident, a latter-day hippie with a social conscience, a DIY streak, and a taste for vinyl records, historic preservation, and irony, and it occurs to me that my mom had almost everything to do with that.

Here are some things Mom did for me, without which I would be a different person:

* Taught me to read at age 2. That pretty much set the tone for everything that followed.
* Let me read Mother Earth News and Organic Gardening over her shoulder when I was 3. I think I knew the recipe for thermophilic compost before I knew the recipe for oatmeal cookies.
* Matched my donation to Greenpeace to save the baby harp seals when I was 4.
* Exposed me to great music — Neil Diamond and the Beatles and most of the ’60s folk revival — and looked the other way while I was wailing into a hairbrush about having “two kinds of lovers, one on each coast” at age 9 or liberating Diamond’s Tap Root Manuscript and Joan Baez’s David’s Album from her vinyl collection at 15.
* Loaned me her copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull — and encouraged me to fly.
* Never, ever allowed me to own a Barbie.
* Tipped me off to the story that more or less cemented my reputation as a journalist and led to my first paying freelance gig when I was 14.
* Bought me my first espresso machine. (This may or may not have been a ploy to get me to quit cutting class to hang out at Longbranch, but the end result was a taste for good coffee that remains part of my life all these years later.)
* Set aside her personal tastes long enough to let me dye my hair when I turned 17.
* Scoffed — frequently and always within my earshot — at people who are afraid of aging.
* Never accepted “I can’t” as an excuse.
* Encouraged me to express myself, whether she agreed with the sentiments I was expressing or not.

Thanks, Mom. I love you.

Love,
Emily

Something’s gained in living every day

I’ve looked at love from both sides now
From give and take, and still, somehow,
It’s love’s illusions I recall;
I really don’t know love at all.

Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say, ‘I love you’ right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I’ve looked at life that way

But now old friends are acting strange;
They shake their heads and say I’ve changed.
Well, something’s lost when something’s gained
In living every day

I’ve looked at life from both sides now
From win and lose, and still, somehow,
It’s life’s illusions I recall;
I really don’t know life at all

– Joni Mitchell

Once again, I find Joni Mitchell’s masterpiece resonating for me in a new way.

This week on Facebook, a friend posted a link to some website’s ranking of 200 careers. This website — employing methods of data analysis almost as credible as those used to measure progress under No Child Left Behind — attempted to quantify the “best” and “worst” jobs of 2013 and declared newspaper reporter the worst.*

Most of the people weighing in on the conversation were disgruntled journalists who agreed they had the Worst Job in the World. I read their comments and wondered why, in an era of shrinking budgets and shrinking newsroom staffs, anyone would remain in a job where he or she felt overworked and underappreciated.

Actually, I didn’t wonder. I knew, because years ago, I was the same way. Instead of savoring the moments that make journalism the best job in the world, I let myself get caught up in negativity and focused on day-to-day annoyances and frustrations, forgetting that hassles are part of the human condition.

I really didn’t know love at all.

I don’t take my life as a journalist for granted these days. I’ve been through my share of “tears and fears,” and after five years away, I look at my profession and feel unbelievably “proud to say, ‘I love you’ right out loud.”

Old friends reading this probably will “shake their heads and say I’ve changed.” I don’t care. I’m not interested in something that’s lost. I’m too busy savoring something that’s gained.

Emily

* I had to laugh when I saw “stress” cited as one justification for the low ranking. I’ve taught in two urban high schools, and if the toughest part of your job is a deadline, you really don’t know stress at all.

Measuring

“Except for the error of measuring and limiting all that is good and beautiful, man would enjoy more than threescore years and ten and still maintain his vigor, freshness, and promise.”
– Mary Baker Eddy

I don’t pay attention to birthdays or discuss my age much, because I’m generally inclined to take Mrs. Eddy’s advice and maintain my “vigor, freshness, and promise” without regard to dates on a calendar.

Last night, I ran across one of those Facebook memes where you click “Like” on somebody’s post, and they give you a number, and you have to answer a series of questions about where you were at that age, then answer the same questions as they apply to you at your current age. I don’t usually click on age-based memes, but this one appealed to me as an opportunity to reflect on growth and experience.

I have always understood age in strictly experiential terms. I’m only interested in people’s age to the extent that it helps me extrapolate whether they were around for a particular historical event. If you’re a Baby Boomer, I want to know your thoughts on Vietnam, Watergate, and Dylan’s decision to go electric. If you’re older than the Boomers, I want you to tell me what it was like to watch Jackie Robinson on the basepaths. I need to know these things.

Left to my own devices, I’d establish a new system for expressing age. Instead of basing it on the amount of time that has elapsed since someone’s birth — which has a tendency to “measure and limit” — I’d base it on cultural experience, which prompts conversations about shared experiences.

How old am I?

I have a near-Pavlovian response to the Cheers theme song.
I conjure up images of British ice skaters when I hear Ravel’s “Bolero.”
I watched the Sandberg Game.
I think Sesame Street was better before Elmo moved in.
I feel warm and fuzzy inside when I hear the sound of an Apple IIe computer firing up.

Try measuring your age in terms of pop culture rather than years. How does your pop-culture age influence who you are today?

Emily

Bless Me, Ultima

During my trip to New Mexico last weekend, I wandered over to Santa Rosa to see the public art installation honoring local author Rudolfo Anaya of Bless Me, Ultima fame. I was aware of the park and the statue of Anaya himself, but last Sunday was the first time I’d noticed the bronze plates embedded in the walkway around the fountain. Each one contains a handwritten quotation from Bless Me, Ultima, which you really must read if you haven’t already.

Here are a few images from the park:

The Anaya statue.

Instagram of the tablet in his hand. The text reads: “Love life, and if despair enters your heart, look for me in the evenings when the wind is gentle and the owls sing in the hills. I shall be with you.” When I die, I don’t want a funeral. I want to be cremated, and I want somebody to stand on Tucumcari Mountain and read this passage to whoever needs to hear it before turning my finely powdered butt loose to ride the New Mexico wind.

Instagram of one of the bronze plates. This one says: “It is because good is always stronger than evil, always remember that, Antonio. The smallest bit of good can stand against all the power of evil in the world and it will emerge triumphant.” At some point in the not-too-distant future, we should probably discuss the metaphysics of that statement.

And this one: “‘Bless me, Ultima–’ Her hand touched my forehead and her last words were, ‘I bless you in the name of all that is good and strong and beautiful, Antonio. Always have the strength to live.”

I like how the words sort of depend on the dust from the llano to make them legible. I don’t know whether that was intentional, but it really fits, given the importance of setting in Anaya’s work.

Emily

I left my heart in Tucumcari

I’ve waited 11 years for this shot. I got it this morning. The snow was probably gone by the time I got to Amarillo, but it was perfect while it lasted — wet, fluffy, and just deep enough to be photogenic without impeding travel.

Here are some of the visual highlights from my weekend trip to New Mexico:

This is the Tucumcari Motel. It’s on old U.S. 54, a few blocks north of the Mother Road. It’s a pretty cool old building.

Here are the motel cabins. I’m a sucker for little adobe buildings….

More shots of the Swallow in the snow this morning. I can think of only once in my entire life when I have been more excited to have a camera in my hand. If every day started like this, I could get the hang of mornings.

Love the fog over Tucumcari Mountain.

A few scenes along Route 66 between Tucumcari and San Jon.

I’ve always loved this old property on the outskirts of San Jon.

You know I can’t resist any excuse to shoot the Western Motel in San Jon.

While I was getting this shot of the Bent Door in Adrian, a very good-looking firefighter saw my hazard lights on and pulled up to make sure I was OK. Cute Texas firefighter, if you’re reading this, thank you for watching over the travelers when they get to your stretch of 66. You’re one of the reasons Route 66 remains the greatest road trip in America.

I intend to ring in 2013 with a cup of Red Zinger, some ’60s folk on vinyl, and a few hours of work on the novel.

Hope your New Year’s Eve is good, wherever you are.

Emily

Breathing for a minute

I am celebrating this evening. After nearly two years, I have finally finished the second draft of the novel I’ve been working on since 2010. I wrapped up the first draft in February 2011, but before I could get much done in the way of revisions, the story took a wild left turn that struck me as such an improvement over its first incarnation that I just couldn’t turn it down. I’ve spent the past eight months ruminating on the changes, and the story was flowing smoothly until a couple of weeks ago, when a plot element created a lot of logistical issues that bogged down the whole thing, and I just wasn’t sure how to proceed.

The problem finally worked itself out tonight, and I finished the revision a lot faster than I expected. It’s still far from being a finished product — especially in light of the fact that large chunks of it are brand-new and haven’t been through any sort of revision yet — but at least I have a draft in hand, printed out and double-spaced and ready to mark up and sort out in a (hopefully) cohesive manner. It’s not bad, I think, although “good” would probably be a generous description for some of it. A lot of the new passages feel clumsy or a little hackneyed or just don’t flow into each other as smoothly as I’d like. That can all be addressed in the revision process, I think.

I wish I could take off tomorrow and spend the whole day curled up in a coffeehouse with the manuscript and a red pen. It’s hard for me to focus my attention on real people when I’ve got fictional characters waiting for me at home. :/

Emily

Belated Tucumcari report

Yeah, yeah, I know, my trip was two weeks ago, and I’m just now getting around to posting pictures. I’ve been busy — work, belt test, deadlines, more deadlines, hive inspection, meetings, personal training, volunteer work, writing, etc., etc., etc.

Anyway, here are the visuals, minus the ones I took with my cell phone and posted to Instagram. If you want to see those, you’ll have to click here to see my account. But here are my Rebel shots, such as they are:

I did something I’ve never done before: I spent a night at the San Jon Motel. I wouldn’t recommend it to everybody, but if you’re a Route 66 enthusiast, you probably ought to do it at least once. San Jon is a strange place at night.

Like I could resist this shot. You know I will never get done photographing this sign. Not if I live to be a thousand.

I was delighted to see the buildings across the street looking prosperous, with all sorts of little businesses in them.

Here’s one of the businesses across from the Swallow. I like the lights in the windows. Also: I shot this at an eighth of a second. Without a tripod. Don’t act like you’re not impressed.

As usual, I had a hard time thinking of a good reason to come home. I swear, if it weren’t for Ron and my animals, I would just vanish into the high desert one night and never return. I’d just disappear, living off the land, wandering back to Illinois to visit family now and then, and surfacing along 66 at random times, painting murals and selling photographs and just generally living like Bob Waldmire.

I keep trying to convince Ron that this is a viable retirement plan. So far, he’s not having any of it, but he said no the first 3,784 times I told him we needed a cat, too, so you never know….

Emily

A plea for help

OK, so here’s the deal: The Oklahoma Route 66 Association is pretty much flat broke, so I need y’all to do me a favor, if you can afford it:

Send us money.

We do a lot of good work for the road — promoting businesses, helping tourists find their way down 66, publishing our free annual Trip Guide, doing hands-on historic preservation projects, etc., etc., etc. — but we can’t do it without private donations. We don’t get state money. We don’t get funding from bigger organizations. We don’t get much of anything. We operate on a shoestring, but that shoestring has gotten increasingly frayed, and I’m afraid it’s going to snap one of these days.

Every little bit helps. Clean out your couch cushions. Look under the floormats in your car. Dump out the nickels that have been breeding in the bottom of your purse. Swap your $5 venti mocha Frappuccino for a cup of coffee from the break room at the office and send us the difference. Whatever. We’re not picky. We run on a very tight budget, so any amount you can send will make an impact.

Please send your donations to:

Oklahoma Route 66 Association
P.O. Box 446
Chandler, OK 74834

To learn more about the Oklahoma Route 66 Association, visit www.oklahomaroute66.com or call (405) 258-0008.

Oh, and please pass the word to anybody you know who might be interested in helping. Post this link on your Facebook, Tweet it, Pin it, e-mail it, whatever — just get the word out. We need all the help we can get.

Thanks in advance for your support.

Emily

Labor of love

Ron and I spent our Labor Day weekend working on a preservation project at the beautiful and historic Boots Motel on Route 66 in Carthage, Mo.

Here are some before, during and after photos from our project:

A storm and some equipment issues kept us from getting anything done Saturday.

We got the equipment issues sorted out and began stripping the neon off the sign by mid-morning Sunday. Ron Hart, who manages the motel, also removed a large metal panel from one side. He didn’t find the wiring access he wanted, but we got an idea of how the sign looked when it said “BOOTS COURT.”

Removing the panel made that side of the sign much faster and easier to paint.

Prep work took most of yesterday. I started today by hitting the channel letters on the south side of the sign with a coat of white paint.

Fresh paint really made the letters pop.

Next came a coat of black on the background.

The two Rons (Hart, pictured, and Warnick, helping from the ground) raised the “MOTEL” panel into place. I was pretty excited to see how it looked.

Next came the north side of the sign. Here it is with the black background filled in. Ron Hart did all the parts I was either too short or too scared to reach.

With the background all filled in, I painted the letters on the north side of the sign.

Love the contrast between the old paint (“BOOTS”) and the new (“MOTEL”).

Just a little more….

Finished! Ron Hart is going to take care of touchups and paint the green bars later, as it was getting late and we were all too hot and tired to continue.

Here’s the south side of the sign.

Hope your weekend was as satisfying as mine.

Emily

 

Pacific Coast Highway to San Simeon

Aaaaaand here’s the last batch of vacation photos:

Flysurfers along the Pacific Coast Highway somewhere north of Big Sur. If I lived near the coast, I would have to learn to do this.

Ron shot a portrait of me on the beach at San Simeon …

… and I shot a portrait of Ron on the beach at San Simeon. Notice how we are wearing jackets because it was COLD up there.

Sunset over the Pacific Ocean at San Simeon.

I shot some photos in San Francisco, but they were all cell phone pics that I already posted to Instagram at the time. If you’re really interested, you can find me on Instagram (my handle is redforkhippie there, too) or go to my Twitter feed (also redforkhippie) and scroll waaaaay down to late May and early June to see the photos I posted at the time.

On a completely unrelated note, we got a new pet this weekend. Our zebra finch, Hedwig, was looking lonely after we upgraded his cage to a larger, easier-to-maintain model, so we bought him a girlfriend, whom I named “The Angry Inch” at the suggestion of a hip friend. (Get it? Hedwig and the Angry Inch? No? Bah. Google it, then.) Hedwig and the Angry Inch seem to be getting along well, and Hedwig looks a lot more comfortable in the new cage, which was obviously designed by someone who has owned a LOT of birds and really understands avian behavior. The design makes it nearly impossible for them to poop in their water or throw seed all over my living room. I wish I’d gotten one of these years ago.

Emily