My huckleberry friend

Audrey's in the fold for Labor Day festivities.

She was happy to pose for a few minutes in my new home studio.

I often ask questions of people while I take their picture.

I said: What's your favorite song?

She thought for about five seconds and answered: Moon River.

It's one of my favorite songs too.

And I think that's as charming as her smile.

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Moon River, wider than a mile

I'm crossing you in style someday

You dream maker, you heartbreaker

Wherever you're going, I'm going your way

Two drifters, out to see the world

There's such a lot of world to see

We're after the same rainbow's end

Waiting 'round the bend

My huckleberry friend

Moon River and me.

Johnny Mercer/Henry Mancini

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Happy Weekend ~ Happy Labor Day

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Husbands and wives

So as the institution of marriage is attacked almost daily in America, I become more interested in it.

To me, marriage is organic sustainable locally-sourced romance prepared medium well and served on a bed of radioactive thumbtacks.

Business end up.

I hope if you don't realize I am being at least a trifle sarcastic, you'll click out now.

Those lacking a sense of humor should not read this blog.

Anyway I am setting up a home photographic studio where I intend to learn the ins and outs of taking pictures (of human beings) in artificial light.

And air conditioning.

In the midst of that endeavor I visited in the lovely home of a client of TG's and I admired the way she had arranged her hundreds of books on her spacious built-in bookshelves.

They live on the lakefront and there is a comfortably-furnished screened porch just a few yards from where the water gently laps the shore.

Said literature-laden bookshelves loomed only a few feet from a thickly-upholstered rattan chair with matching ottoman and I wanted so badly to cull a few volumes from the stacks and park on the porch.

But alas I could not; it wouldn't have been seemly.

I did however, come home and look at my own hundreds of books and I decided to arrange them sort of the way the lake homeowner had arranged hers.

My shelves will serve as the backdrop for some of my portraits when the subject is not seated before the muslin.

In rearranging books my eyes focused on a volume I have owned for over twenty years and have never read.

It is the late Alan Loy McGinnis's The Power of Optimism.

If I'd read this twenty years ago, who knows how things might have worked out.

I tend to pessimism interrupted by bursts of optimism both brief and ... well. Let's just say it doesn't happen very often.

So on Saturday during a rest break from my labors I picked up the book and began reading.

It's not new-age or spooky or humanistic or anything. In fact it's extremely practical and Bible-based.

I mean, attitude is everything; right? In Biblical terms: For as he thinketh in his heart, so is he.

And: Keep thy heart with all diligence; for out of it are the issues of life.

Anyway I was struck in the early pages of the book by two passages and I want to share them with you.

The first is a story told about the late author Sinclair Lewis, who wrote such books as Dodsworth (made into one of my favorite movies of all time) and Elmer Gantry.

Alan Loy McGinnis relayed the story in teaching Strategy #3: Anticipate problems.

It goes thus:

Sinclair Lewis once received a letter from a very young and very pretty woman who wished to become his secretary. She said she could type, file, and anything else, and concluded: "When I say anything, I mean anything."

Lewis turned the letter over to his wife, who wrote to the young woman saying: "Mr. Lewis already has an excellent secretary who can type and file. I do everything else, and when I say everything, I mean everything."

That was not cynicism. It was enlightened self-interest which headed off problems before they developed.

Bravo, Mrs. Sinclair Lewis.

Enlightened self-interest just became my new mantra. I wish I'd been familiar with that concept twenty years ago too.

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A few pages later Dr. McGinnis, in driving home his Strategy #5: Look for the good in bad situations, relayed a story about the author C.S. Lewis (no relation to Sinclair Lewis).

If you haven't read much C.S. Lewis or even seen the movie Shadowlands, you may not know that Lewis married late in life and was widowed four years later.

His wife was the American author Joy Davidman Gresham, and Lewis originally married her in a civil ceremony just so she could stay legally in Britain.

Then she got sick and they fell in love and they were truly married by an Anglican priest as she lay in her hospital bed, in March of 1957.

But even after enjoying a couple of years of relatively good health when her cancer was in remission, Joy died in 1960, at the age of forty-five. 

Alan Loy McGinnis writes:

Though Lewis knew these reprieves must eventually end, he was inconsolable when, at last, his wife died. 

"No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear," he wrote in a notebook. "I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning ... She was my daughter and my mother, my pupil and my teacher, my subject and my sovereign; and always, holding all these in solution, my trusty comrade, friend, shipmate, fellow soldier. My mistress; but at the same time all that any man friend (and I have good ones) has ever been to me ... If we had never fallen in love, we should have nonetheless been always together, and created a scandal."

Then Mr. Lewis wrote his brilliant work A Grief Observed, which if you have not read, you should.

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And I must conclude that if TG and I had never fallen in love (and married), we should have nonetheless been always together, and created a scandal.

And if you want to know the truth, I would have liked nothing better.

Would you have created a scandal with your truest love? I want to know.

That is all for now.

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Happy Monday ~ Happy Week

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Say it with me: Bodum Chambord

So here's the deal: twenty-nine days out of thirty I drink a single cup of coffee. In the morning.

Fresh, strong, black, and very hot. No funny stuff.

I drink it from a big mug, to be truthful, more often than from a cup. It's actually more like two small cups combined to make one large cup, if you want to get all technical.

Occasionally -- you never know when this may occur -- I will indulge in an afternoon cup. Usually on Sunday, especially if one of the girls joins me.

How do I do it?

Well. Down through the years I have owned a number of electric coffeemakers.

I had a Braun; I had a Krups. I had a few "free" Gevalias. I may have even owned a General Electric percolator back during the Carter administration.

My son gave me an early Black & Decker pod thing (oh my soul, such a piece of junk) circa 2004, that never worked a single time, and was replaced thrice by the shysters at B&D before I gave up.

They still have my son's money, earned by mowing lawns.

That was followed by another generic drip maker (or two), then a couple of fancy-schmancy Whirlpools. 

They all broke.

As in, the last several electric coffeemakers that have taken up space on my counter have each had a little surprise for me on one morning or another: they decided they didn't have what it took to actually make a cup of coffee.

You had that one job.

But no. When I put in the water and put in the coffee and pressed the button, nothing happened.

Not even a little goodbye message, like: Nice Try, Sucker. Do Without.

Nothing.

Then came the day about three years ago when it happened for the last time. To me, at least.

No coffee was going to come forth from the sleek and gleaming futuristic Whirlpool computerized programmable ultra-cool coffeemaker sulking in the corner like a spoiled child.

The coffeemaker had been a gift from Audrey. It replaced another identical coffeemaker that had behaved in an identically ridiculous fashion.

You had that ONE job.

So I called Audrey to whine complain report the recidivism of dereliction of duty being perpetrated yet again upon her mother by the subject whiz-bang gift coffeemaker.

"Yeah. I finally bought a French press," she said.

A light went on in my coffee-starved brain. THAT was what I needed: A French press coffeemaker. Just like the one they bring to your table at Ruth's Chris, after your steak dinner, while you linger over crème brûlée.

I don't remember what happened next but I do know that as soon as ever I could -- read, later that day -- I whispered into TG's ear that he needed to make a run over to Bed, Bath and Beyond.

Because online I had isolated the French press I wanted: a cunning little fellow by the name of Bodum Chambord.

The original French press. In stock.

TG gratified my wish immediately -- as is his wont -- and in less than an hour I was holding in my hand the teensy-weensiest Bodum Chambord French press coffeemaker you ever did see.

Coffee cuteness. It's still my favorite. With one heaping scoop of fine-ground dark roast and a splash of just-off-the-boil water, it makes the most charming single cup of fresh, hot, strong, black coffee.

An actual cup. About half a big mugful.

I love it I love it I love it. Slurp. Precious.

But naturally, I was faced with the conundrum of what to do when company arrived, anticipating what they have come to expect of me apres-repast: Copious amounts of fresh, hot, strong, black coffee.

Enough for everyone who drinks coffee to enjoy a cupful with dessert.

So this time, not being in much of a time crunch, I resorted to Amazon.

Where I found a giant Bodum Chambord French press coffeemaker. It makes lots. Enough for everybody.

I love it so much.

Then of course I was faced with another puzzle. What would I make coffee in when there were, say, two people who each wanted a hot, fresh, strong cupful?

Like, on those Sunday afternoons?

Lom eensy-weensy* Bodum Chambord did not make enough for two. Giant Bodum Chambord made way too much.

I needed one that was just right.

And I hate to confess this but for about a year I scratched the itch with this off-brand French press coffeemaker.

I give you my Barenthal L'Art Et La Table French press coffeemaker, bought for ten dollars at TJ Maxx.

No really; I'll give it to you. The mesh plunger is shot and it lets coffee grounds into your cup.

Beyond the pale. Life is too long to tolerate such nonsense as that.

So recently I solved the riddle by purchasing an in-between-size Bodum Chambord French press coffeemaker.

It makes enough for a delightful mugful (mine) and a generous cupful (yours) of hot, fresh, strong, black coffee.

Or three nice cupfuls of the same, in the event you and I should be joined by a (very fortunate) third party.

I now own a sparkly shiny trio of Bodum Chambord French press coffeemakers. They produce varying quantities of heavenly coffee with nary a button or power cord or mother board between them.

Any one of these darlings exceeds all expectations in the coffeemaking category, as it were.

Taken together? Well let's just say I'm living the coffee dream and it's not found at Starbucks.

I think having procured this lot of BCFP coffeemakers qualifies me as a collector.

If any doubt remains, I have my eye on this red one. And there may be more out there in different shapes and sizes that will eventually be granted asylum in my kitchen.

Just don't break the carafe, I say to myself daily when lovingly washing one or the other of the three I already own.

One must have patience with a Bodum beaker. Tres frah-ghee-lay.

But even if I do break one, we're covered. I know how to make pot after pot. So let me know when you'll be here for coffee.

Oh and wear lipstick because you know I'll take your picture.

Uncle Dodie, you don't need to bother with lipstick. You just show up, buddy. That's your job.**

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*Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow in Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest.

**Johnny Depp as Gilbert Grape in What's Eating Gilbert Grape.

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H a p p y   W e e k

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This is not a tribute, thank you very much

So you've probably already seen this -- I'm fairly certain it has "gone viral" -- but I wanted to share it anyway.

I am not and have never been an Elvis Presley fan, but I vividly remember hearing of his demise thirty-six years ago today.

From the back of Pix Shoes -- in the size tens, to be specific -- across the street from Lenox Square in Atlanta, Georgia, where I was busy doing shop-girl type duties, I heard of his death from a radio speaker directly over my head.

I remember when the announcer said he (Elvis) was forty-two, and that sounded so old to me.

Anyway. Here is little Ella Mae singing along to Elvis performing his American Trilogy.

It's worth watching the whole five minutes just to see her facial expressions.

And at the end when she says "Elbis."

Also she apparently knows the words to Dixie, one of the most important songs ever written.

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Happy Friday ~ Happy Weekend

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Aitch two ... oh.

So as I continue to convalesce, I am not sure which is worse: having bronchitis, or what you're left with when it's "over."

Because when it's over and you're expected to snap back into full functionality, you're obliged to expend approximately ninety-three percent of your energy coughing.

Two nights ago I sat up most of the night. Yesterday I felt as though I was at the far end of a thirty-mile tunnel, underwater.

Last night I stayed put on my pillow, valiantly fighting the insidious dry throat tickle.

Countless times I groped in the dark for my bedside glass of water.

I have a favorite poem by Anglo-American poet W.H. Auden. Its title is First Things First and the part I love to read most goes like this:

... Likening your poise of being to an upland county,
Here green on purpose, there pure blue for luck.

Loud though it was, alone as it certainly found me,
It reconstructed a day of peculiar silence
When a sneeze could be heard a mile off, and had me walking
On a headland of lava beside you, the occasion as ageless
As the stare of any rose, your presence exactly
So once, so valuable, so very now.

I never get tired of reading that.

So anyway, a week ago Saturday, for some reason, I quoted part of that poem to Erica. I quoted the last line, to be exact. That's not it, in that part you just read.

And that very night, in the middle of the night, I got up and went to the kitchen for a drink of water.

Only, when I turned on the tap, nothing happened. We had no water.

Puzzled, I went to my chair and thought about that for awhile. Why did we have no water? I didn't want to wake TG; as I said, it was well and truly the wee hours. He works hard and he needs his rest.

But I was wide awake, so I waited. It was by now technically Sunday morning; we go to church on Sunday morning. How would we make it to church if we could not take showers, wash our hair, get ready?

For me and my house, going to church without first taking showers is not an option. I know the Lord understands.

I was concerned. At around five o'clock, I tested to see whether we had water. No.

So, tired by that time, I went back to bed. As I lay down I said to TG, who wakes easily: "Sweetie, do you have any idea why we have no water?"

Of course he didn't, but he got up and went outside. Then I heard him talking on the phone. I drifted off but stirred when eventually he came back to bed.

It was still dark outside. "They're coming to check it out," he said. I gathered he meant the water company.

But a few hours later, they still hadn't come to check it out. TG called again.

"We're on the way," he was told.

At this point I should tell you that several months back, we had an issue with something in our yard, near the street, that has something to do with how water gets to our house.

That time we had no interruption in water service, but still, something was wrong and we called the water company.

They sent someone out. Nice guy. He dug for a bit and came to my door.

"It's on your side," he said.

And what that turned out to mean was, there is a street side and a house side to whatever that is that's in our yard, that is vital to the flow of water to our domicile.

If there is a problem with pipage on the street side of that thing (whatever it is), the water company will fix it at no charge to the homeowner.

If there is a problem on the house side of that thing, it is the homeowner's responsibility to have it repaired, and to incur the charge for same.

We called a plumber and in no time the problem was found and fixed. It cost a couple of hundred dollars.

This time the scenario played out in identical fashion to last time.

"It's on your side," the water company guy said to TG, at about the time we would have been taking showers, getting ready for Sunday School.

TG called the plumber. It being Sunday morning, all he was able to do was leave a message.

Erica and I made coffee using ice water from our stash in the fridge. TG went to the store for gallons of distilled water to use for washing our hands and doing dishes.

Thanks to Apple TV AirPlay Mirroring, at Sunday School time I beamed our church services from my computer to our flatscreen.

We watched every minute of Sunday School and the church service. You can do that without water.

Later, Erica and I rustled up Sunday dinner. It was mid-afternoon when the plumber showed up.

TG went outside with him and they poked around the thing in the front yard, near the street.

It wasn't long at all before TG came back into the house. He looked like the Chicago Cubs had just won the National League Pennant.

"You won't believe," he said with the smile of a man who knows that just this once, he does not have to pay the plumber.

Turns out the guy who "fixed" the problem several months ago, made some sort of crucial mistake. 

His blunder was obvious to his colleague, who even as TG told Erica and me about it, was outside making right what the other guy had done wrong.

It wasn't long before we had free-flowing hot and cold water once again, in our house. In our sinks and in our showers.

And believe me, you take that for granted until out of nowhere, it's gone.

Later that night I tweeted the last beautiful line of W.H. Auden's First Things First, the line I had quoted to Erica only the day before:

Thousands have lived without love, not one without water.

I hope today you're not living without either.

Last night TG took Erica and me to downtown Columbia, where we wandered on Main Street long after dark. It was a velvety-soft summer night.

You can hear the cicadas in the trees even on city streets. It's that quiet when you stay away from the Vista.

There's a sculpture fountain in the large courtyard of the Columbia Museum of Art. Its official name is the Keenan Fountain and Apollo's Cascade.

I don't care what it's called. All I know is, it's magical at night what with its three curved bars making a triple curtain of gentle rain, and its steps that the water tumbles and gurgles down, and the brightly-lit pool part where you can put your feet as you sit on the marble ledge.

Not one has lived without water.

Now excuse me while I swim away and cough for awhile.

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Happy Tuesday

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