Monday, April 30, 2012

Who Do You Think You Are?

Have you seen the tv program, "Who Do You Think You Are?" Where celebrities trace their family roots, fleshing out their stories, and learning some insight into who they are, and the whys of unasked questions?  Well, when telling his own story, JJ often refers to himself as the poor kid, when he attended Lexington School.  When I was growing up, I was the girl with no friends.  These stories we tell ourselves, when internalized, are taken as truth.  Neither were true, as it turns out.

By truth, what do I mean?  Well, permit me to dip into some personal philosophy.  Truth, is elusive.  No matter how firmly we hold these truths, some held as self-evident, they are but grains of sand. Each facet of truth impossible to describe fully.  Each, dry grain of sand, slips through our fingers, the more tightly we ball our fist.

These truths JJ and I told ourselves were true, to the extent we held them to be so.  Fortunately, the truth we were told and held, has slipped through our fingers, and in picking up the next handful of sand, I believe I've found a better vessel than a clinched fist with which to carry it.

I found last night, some clarity on JJ's family.  I had such fun compiling the information.  I have, ever since the mid-1990s when my Father met his half-sister from his Father's first marriage for the second time in his life, had an interest in family history.  I wanted to know who these family members were, how they lived, the character of their choices.  I wanted them to be more than their name, date of birth and death, and if they married, divorced, had children.  I wanted their stories.  I wanted them alive in my memory.

My family was fun to explore.  Just one interesting fact to wet the appetite is that I can date from my Father's side, back to William Wallace, my Greatx20-Grand-Uncle, (1272-1305) was a Scottish knight and landowner who became one of the main leaders during the Wars of Scottish Independence. You know, the one Mel Gibson played in the movie Brave Heart.  It's a crooked line to get to him, but the thread of defiance courses through my blood.

We've stayed countless times with his Father, Jerry, and his wife Billy, at the farm in Wilmore on Pekin Pike.  The farm, the six bedroom house, their life allowed it.

This past weekend marked the very first time we'd stayed with Margi, JJ's Mum.  It was shocking to realize this half-way through their stay.  Jarring in fact.  His Mother's life, with Bill, her aging husband and the care involved, didn't permit such extended visits with our little ones in tow.  Short visits would just wear her and Bill out.  Sadly, Bill passed last year, and I still love him so.  It really does take at least a year to get through grief and recover from the hardships of having someone near and dear in and out of hospice care.  One thing about Bill, you never knew, no matter how hard his body was on him, because who he was was joy and had a wry playful sense of humor and sharp wit.  Margi and I have had our share of trials, and to both our credits, have created space to find our footing.  I'm proud of her.  I'm proud of me.  We could have left the rift, and had not only ourselves to suffer for our shortcomings, but also the ones we both love dearly, my husband JJ and our two little girls.

It is so common that what is left undone by one generation is left for the next to address.  For example, my Mother's paternal Grandmother, Rose Gault, made her son choose between herself and his new bride.  He chose the new bride and never harkened his Mother's door again.  My parents acquiesce and defer not only to my husband, but to his family at every opportunity, to avoid putting me and him in the unpleasant position of having to make that impossible choice.

We didn't get to stay at Rolex
 as long as we did when
the girls were less mobile last year.
Here's Anna with Clara Lou
in 2011.  Below is Greta Jo from
last year too. She was far too
on the go go go! to catch
a snapshot of her.
So, to Lexington we went, under the annual family tradition of volunteering for my sister Ellyn, who organizes volunteers for writing on the official scoreboards around the Rolex Three Day Event.  The first event was in 1979, and our attendance and involvement followed not long after that.  Me, I had just started riding, and my sister Leslie was studying at riding school that year.  I competed on the Kentucky Horse Park ground for Ha'Penny Horse Trial, the Mid-South Combined Training Association (MSCTA) Dressage Finals, and the MSCTA Team Challenge, and many more.  The grounds felt like a farm.  

Today, the Horse Park echos to that rustic past, and to keep pace with the crowds necessary, it has grown and the course become more like a golf course than grounds of a horse trial, suitable to test the war worthiness of a calvary horse.  

The Rolex Kentucky has become a time when we Moise sisters are connected with the horses that once defined much of our waking thoughts.  It's not just a time to see horse and rider compete at a world-class level, but to share the fun for a sport that has learned to evolve and keep pace with its enthusiasts.

When JJ and I started dating, we didn't realize we shared a thread of horses.  I, was a new comer, not having had a family member ride a horse or drive a carriage, as I had as a hobby, since horses were used as transportation.  JJ's family had "The Sale" - but that was a new world of Standardbred trotters and pacers.  I tried to grasp what that meant, as I got exposed to it.  Keeping track of the horse-side of his family though had its challenges since there is an Asa named in every generation, and so many men named John, and women named Elizabeth or Margaret, I got confused and gave up for three years.  That is, until last night.

Having just spent the weekend with JJ's Mum (that is what he chose to call her on his own, by the way), I arrived home, still curious for more.  One photograph, in particular had caught my interest.


Can you tell these folks kept a practice of "toddy time?" I think you can!

This was taken 1942 at the  The picture of my grandparents was taken in September 1942. It was taken at the pre-cocktail (toddy) party at their home before the rehersal dinner at the country club for their daughter Elizabeth's, Davis-Jewell wedding). That sofa has been in their Grandson Charles Davis' possession since his mother, Elizabeth Berry Jewell Davis downsized and moved to an apartment. It is now in his living room. His Moma's story is that Moma Jewell would not allow "Old Pappy", as he was affectionately known, to have his toddy until the photographer took the pictures. He was not pleased.

JJ's Mum told me the who, but the following details I found when I got home, all on the internet. This is Mary Henderson Worthington Jewel and John Berry Jewell, JJ's Great-Grandmother and Great Grandfather, given who had the photo, as you may have guessed, on his Mum's Jewell side of the family. John Berry Jewell had hundreds of acres in Jessamine County and a "small horse farm" on Paris Pike, two doors down from Lexington Country Club, and a home at 221 Woodspoint Road, near JJ's Mum's house and Henry Clay's Estate, Ashland. He was President/Treasurer of Jewell Tobacco Warehouse Co., Inc. with warehouses in 340 9th Avenue North, Franklin TN, at at 566 McClelland, Lexington, and President of Jewell Oil Co. of Ky., Inc., located at 525 S. Mill St., Lexington Kentucky. No small wonder too.

His father, was Asa Hickman Jewell.  According to the 1900 census, he was a "horse trader"  You could say he was a horse trader, but there was much more to him!  He owned the horse sales firm, Harbison, Jewell, & Co., which conducted sales of horses at Tattersall's Mart, S. Broadway, and also in Cincinnati and Atlanta. There are family stories of "Cousin Asa" as he was affectionately known to not just horsemen in the Bluegrass, racing friends and rivals up and down what is now Broadway/Harrodsburg Road, before there was Tattersall's and The Red Mile. (Perhaps that's why the tracks were built around there?) Yes folks, that is the equivalent of drag racing, in his day. That said, Asa was a typical Kentucky Gentleman: suave, smart, always polite and considerate of friends and business associates. He was described as one of the finest characters to grace the harness horse field. His father, John Jewell, had been born in High Bridge, near Wilmore, Kentucky in 1812. It was his father, John Moses Jewell, born in 1776, who had moved from Maryland to pioneer Kentucky.

Jumping back to the last century, John Berry's brother, Robert Berry, assisted their father Asa in managing the family farm, Pleasant View Farm, and started breeding Standardbred harness horses in 1922. "Uncle Bob," as the Haws boys have referred to him to me, but who is their Great-Great-Uncle, took on running the farm in 1937. He was the State Fair Manager in Louisville, and also had a hand in running Pleasant Hill in Shakertown. It was at this time that Uncle Bob was Director of the United States Trotting Association.  He owned one-half interest in the sale company, held in partnership. I believe that this is when the Sale would have moved from being in Atlanta, Lexington at Tattersall's and Cincinnati to Delaware, Ohio, home of the big race, The little Brown Jug. I don't know who the other partner was, but the office was at the family farm, Pleasant View. Was it his father? Was it someone else? I'm guessing Cousin Francisw will know. :smile:. When Uncle Bob hired and then partnered with his nephew, John Berry Jewell's son, named for their father, Asa Hickman Jewell, who would keep his promise to his Uncle, as I understand.

This Asa Hickman Jewell, II, b. 1910, was JJ's Grandfather. He worked the Sale in Delaware Ohio. Clearly, it has a history beyond the years ticked off most calendars from a date of incorporation. Grandfather Asa graduated from MIT, worked in as a stockbroker in New York. His Aunt, Therese Worthington Grant, his mother's sister, had the first fried chicken restaurant in NYC. Asa and his wife Margaret Loring Jewell worked together at their restaurant, which was located near the Waldorf Astoria, in NYC, and eventually owned it. He contracted TB and moved to Franklin Tennessee where, at some point, served as Mayor. When his Uncle Robert was ready to retire, he asked Asa to learn the Sale. He bought out his uncle, as promised. In the years he first owned the Sale, the office was in Wilmore (don't know where, but would like to). When the house on Pekin Pike was built, Grandfather Asa moved the Sale office to what was then his 200+ acre farm on Pekin Pike, where it currently is run by his former son-in-law, Jerry Haws, JJ's Father, with an eye of having a fifth generation in the horse sale and trading in one of Grandfather Asa's three grandsons, who were just 19, 17 and 14 years old when Asa passed away in 1989.  

There aren't many old timers at the Sale that remember Grandfather Asa, let alone Uncle Bob, or the I'm sure wild stories of Asa Hickman Jewell, I.  What's fun to envision is that in the years that Grandfather Asa worked at the Sale in Delaware Ohio, Grandfather Asa wore tweed jackets in winter and linen in summer.

His toddy of choice was copious quantity of gin.

JJ carries on the family tradition. His favoured toddy is modicum of bourbon.


So, I have friends as it turns out, I have friends.  All I need do was figure out I had to risk holding out my hand.  And JJ, he wasn't the poor farm kid.  He came from a family rich with history, as we approach the May Sale, his what?  thirteenth or is it fifteenth year working in Delaware?  He goes there knowing he's fifth generation in the horse industry, from a family as diverse as the horsemen who go there.  

Thursday, April 26, 2012

For want of $80


The below was first published on http://www.momsrising.org/ - an organization that since 2006 has been working to bring together millions of people who share a common concern about the need to build a more family-friendly America. The members are bringing important motherhood and family issues to the forefront of the country's awareness. Together, they are working to create both cultural and legislative change, on both the national and state levels.  Here, with a few additional photos, is that story.

****

My name is Nancy, and these are just the highlights of my story. I am one amongst many.

A family of my own almost didn't happen.

I spent my 20s married to a wonderful man, but the relationship had gone its course by 2001. When we parted ways, he kept the house and the fragments of our life together. I packed up and moved to Europe with a one-way ticket.

I figured, if I was going to create a new life, I might as well be in a place where if I fell in love, it'd be in a country that took care of its constituency, particularly women, better than I could ever expect back home in the States.

I first moved to Paris France, and then on to Stockholm. There, I explored love - anticipating the wonderful family-friendly approach there in Sweden. Nine months maternity/paternity leave. Tenth month use it or lose it for the Father. 100% Healthcare DELIVERY (no talk of insurance which is NOT the same as healthcare actually being administered, more on that later). Childcare. Phenomenal schools. Five weeks minimum paid vacation. All state-funded. Not enough? There even were private insurance policies that covered sick days, should a parent need to take a day off for a sick child, leaving their own paid sick days for :shudder: for when a parent was sick. All this, and so much more. The cost was about the same in tax rate. In the US, when one combines the local, state, and Federal taxes, adds in what we pay to have similar services and benefits, we pay more - and still get less.

Love in Stockholm didn't work out, and for me, well, that's a prerequisite for starting a family.
When I returned to the States, my timing was off to be re-entering the workforce. It was a time of high unemployment, and with a two-year hole in my resume, I wasn't all that marketable. I couldn't get work in my field (lawyer), so my vagabond years began. I went from comfort, to living paycheck to paycheck, and lived amongst the uninsured for the first time in my life.

I moved back to my hometown of Louisville Kentucky, and explored a broader approach to finding work. I had to; none of the work I would choose could be found. I founded an arts organization, determined that what I did for a living wouldn't define who I was. I worked all sorts of jobs, but was wary of being insured while I looked for work in my field, which with it, would come insurance.

In 2006, I worked at White Castle (remember, I have a law degree). They were great. It is, to date, the best job I had, because of the life lessons I learned there. It made me live what I believe - what one does for a living isn't who we are.

Sadly, a month before I was to qualify for paid sick leave and health insurance, I had a miscarriage and missed work, which was unpaid. Medical bills on top of making just $7+/hour and a smaller paycheck because of missed work meant that when I had what I thought was the stomach flu shortly afterwards, I toughed it out. It happened just one day after I'd handed in notice for having found a "better" job as a bank teller (remember, I'm a lawyer, who was willing to do what it took to makes ends meet). I didn't want to just not show for my last two weeks, and also, $7/hour or not, I needed every one of those dollars because I (1) liked to eat, and (2) still had those medical bills from the miscarriage. I got more and more fatigued. Worked every day of my last two weeks. Two days into the new job, I finally scrounged up the $80 to go to an immediate care center. They rushed me out the door with strict orders to go to the ER. That stomach flu had been my appendix rupturing. Those abdominal pains I felt after that "flu" weren't a result of the miscarriage, but a result of the peritonitis and other resulting damage from the ruptured appendix.

My story appeared in a Velocity article
on the uninsured.  (This was the actual state
of my desk and the bills).
(c)2008 Courier-Journal
A few years before, I'd been flush, and being able to afford my share of medical expenses had been an inconvenience, but not a bar to my receiving the care I needed. But at the time, for want of $80, I nearly died. My organs had started to shut down, causing that fatigue that I had "worked through."
Fortunately, I was okay, but faced over $20,000 in medical bills after emergency surgery and a week's hospital staty for IV antibiotics. I was earning about $9/hour at the bank, had missed work, again. The new job? I was just 2 days into the insurance company mandated 30 day waiting period for coverage. Nice.

I did the best I could pecking away at those bills. I worked hard and liked being a teller. There's pride in a job well done. While at the bank, I met my now husband. I had another medical complication, which we later determined was the cause of that miscarriage, and we struggled to get together my share of the deductible.

The condition had gone two years undiagnosed because I hadn't had the money for an annual exam.  Fortunately, it was treatable by surgery.  Unfortunately, it might cost me my ability to carry a child. When I had the surgery, the surgeon advised me he would do his best to not have to take my entire uterus. He cautioned me that even if he was successful in saving enough of my uterus so I could carry, he warned that the infection from after my appendix had ruptured was likely to have compromised the function of my fallopian tubes. Nice. Again. Thanks medical "system" in the States responsible for my care. I'd busted my hump to NOT be a burden, and ended up nearly costing me my life, and then, nearly costing me the ability to have children. Just great.

I'd gotten what I thought was a better job, in my field of law, after working at the bank. Well, as it would happen, my husband and I conceived and I was able to carry. Fortunately, again, I had health insurance. Or so I thought. (Why insurance is tied to our place of employment, with as often as people change jobs, many of whom don't earn a living wage is beyond me.)
I was laid off, not long after I found out I was pregnant; a "pre-existing condition." But wait, if you can't get new coverage, you say, there's COBRA. I'd still be insured, right. Well, yes, IF you can afford the COBRA payments, that's your catch, isn't it Nancy.
Oh no. There's another hitch. Small businesses are not included in COBRA. Therefore, the unemployment relief of paying 60% of the COBRA payments that was being offered at the time, was not extended to me. Fortunately, the state did mandate that I could continue my health insurance, IF we made the payments. I boggled at the full cost - and somehow, we made those payments and the deductibles and copays.

We've since had not just one, but both of our girls. Greta Jo and Clara Lou. At the time of writing this, Greta Jo is 2-1/2, and Clara Lou is 18 months. I was on unemployment, unable to find work. I'd worked in corporate all those years, and used the time to be admitted to practice law, to broaden my job opportunities. Even if I had found work while pregnant those two consecutive years in 2009 and 20010, it frustrated me to think that a maternity leave would be woefully inadequate, in my humble opinion. Six weeks just doesn't cut it. And in a new job, the minimum is what I would get. That is IF I had been successful in finding someone to hire a pregnant new attorney.

So, 2009, there I was, laid off, and pregnant. Waddle Waddle into an interview and they know I'll be asking about a six week maternity leave.

SIX. LOUSY. WEEKS.

And even those were not a maternity leave, but cobbled together between sick pay and short-term disability. Really? A disability? Was no one who wrote these policies that became law aware that they too had been BORN to a mother?

Barbaric is what my friends in Europe, but particularly in Sweden, men and women alike, say about us here in the States. Not all women struggle with going back to work. A new Mama facing those first few months where a child is so dependent, I understand how, perhaps conflicted, som jump at the chance to leave babies for the familiar demands of work. I'm not starting a fight, between stay-at-home Moms. We women are all wonderfully different. I just believe all babies deserve the right of having a parent at home with them longer than is our cultural norm. I would suggest that either parent, like in Sweden, be able to use the maternity/paternity leave - and that leave ought to be longer than just a few short weeks. That said, having just gone through those early times in recent memory, I do appreciate the lure and trade-offs of not being a full-time Mama. Me, I just wanted the chance to work.

So I went to work for myself. The market is flooded with attorneys, and my practice is not only the only place that would have hired me pregnant, one year, and then kept me when immediately pregnant again... it's also the only place I know that wouldn't have FIRED me thus far. Babies get sick. Many childcare can't or are insufficient to care for sick children. Parents miss work as a result. FMLA or not, it's unpaid. Well, between my husband and I, when the girls are sick or something comes up, and Mamas you know how something ALWAYS comes up, it's me that does it. Something has to give, and it's the time dedicated to my law practice.

Having to figure out whether finding work is even worth it is part of the calculation. If we had gone the day-care route, it's a trade-off from our attachment parenting approach. That means family, and a nanny (found on sittercity.com with its criminal background checks), have partnered with me in watching the girls when I do manage to make it into the office. The nanny, to make ends meet for her household, has taken on not just a second job, but three - so she has gone from watching our girls four to just one day a week.

We have cobbled together childcare. The nanny watches one day, my sister for one morning, a Parent's Day Out program for two half days, and another sitter as back-up, all gives me one full day in the office, and two half days. That's it. Now it's summer, and I'm scrambling between two sitters and a camp for twos for our eldest, to be able to maintain my law practice, while having the girls tended when I'm not with them.

So, although I love the States. I love raising my girls here, in Louisville Kentucky. I sure do wish we had a few of the sensible public policies that make Sweden such an ideal place to live, work, play, and raise a family.

We must have a change in our priorities. We settle for what we have, because so many don't even fathom that it doesn't have to be this cobbled together broken system. I am committed to do whatever I am able, to gain the ears of those with spheres of influence, to change public policy, legislation, not to make it easier but make our lives make sense, if not for me, for our two girls. No one should have to risk their lives, their fertility for want of $80.

nancymoisehaws.blogspot.com
nancyesq.com
—Nancy Moise
KY

Sunday, April 22, 2012

Shepherds Pie Snack


I try to do organic, from-scratch everything, particularly when it comes to my girls.  Even more so when it comes to feeding their friends.  Not so for tomorrow.  This is, Maman's in a hurry- gotta-get this-done, sort of recipe.  Hopefully there's enough cheese and good stuff for them to eat their peas.  I know my girls will... question is, will anyone else's!

Shepherds Pie Snack
Makes 2 dozen


Ingredients
1 package of Jiffy Mix
1 egg
1/3 cup water
1/2 cup grilled corn (left overs from dinner)
1 lb ground beef*
1 lb/package of sage pork sausage
1 cup peas (fresh or frozen)
6 large Yukon Gold
whole milk
1/4 cup butter
1 cup parmesan, grated
1/2 cup Italian seasoned bread crumbs
1/8 cup butter

Preparation

  1. Preheat oven to 350ºF.  Place paper muffin cups into muffin tin.
  2. Prepare the Jiffy mix, per instructions with egg and water.  Blend with spoon, and add the corn.   In muffin cups, place small dollop of corn bread batter, distributed evenly between the two dozen muffins.  Place in heated oven for 5 minutes and remove.
  3. In saute pan, brown crumbled ground beef and pork sausage.  Set aside and drain.
  4. Place small (1 tablespoon) amount of meat mixture atop the corn muffin.  Top with peas and grated cheese, leaving small amount below the paper muffin cup.
  5. Boil water, and cook peeled and diced potatoes until done.  Mash with "enough" milk and butter.  Salt and pepper to taste.  Put slightly-cooled mashed potatoes into gallon bag, and cut small corner.  Pipe mashed potatoes into muffin cup.  Top with grated cheese
  6. In small bowl, blend butter and bread crumbs.  Top with bread crumbs.
  7. Place the pie into the oven for another ten minutes. 

* No, not a traditional Sheperd's Pie with lamb, but seriously, do you think a bunch of two-year olds will care?

---- EDIT ----  the update

Okay, the two year olds did just what I thought they would... they found the part they wanted, ate that, discarded the rest. Greta Jo, who was just treated to a spice cake cupcake yesterday, discarded the entire snack and ate just the oranges that accompanied the snack.  She was clearly disgusted to have not received a cupcake topped with sweet and creamy icing, but was not to be fooled into eating the savory treat her Maman had made.  Her classmates disagreed and liked the snack.  Clara Lou and her classmates were less enamoured. They like it simple Maman - crackers, cubes of cheese, basic diced fruit.  They're still working on feeding themselves, so on Wednesday, that is just the sort of snack they'll be getting.  

Monday, April 16, 2012

Southern Charm

Louisville isn't really that southern.

except for the first Saturday in May.

That's when we pull out all the stops.  It's the Kentucky Derby.  The fastest two minutes in sports.  The first leg of the Triple Crown.  Where ladies don their best chapeaus and frocks, men dapper in their seersucker suits, bow ties and straw fedoras.  The classic cocktail of the mint julep.  The late night before partying.  The early dawn workout with mimosa sipping owners and cigar smoking punters shoulder to shoulder, studying the morning odds. All hoping to hit a win, double or trifecta.  Throngs hitting the in-field.  The game of sneaking in what you can.  Picnicking in small metal runged boxes with six folding chairs, so as to avoid the horrid carnival food.  Wishing you had with the catering food on "Millionaire's Row."  Feet aching long day of people watching, horse flesh assessing, indulgence... leading up to those famed two-minutes.  Just before, Southern Charm enters into the gentille song of "My Old Kentucky Home" - edited for political correctness.

For the locals, a game of sparing for the coveted finish line boxes begins the year or more before.  Companies, corporations, jockey just as hard for prime real estate - grandstand, bleachers,

counting the jets that depart that night and the next.


Saturday, April 07, 2012

Aspire

This is Louisville.
South Hill street at the I-65 overpass.
CSX livestock car, tagged.  07.04.2012
My days and nights have kept pace with my brain of recent.  It is at that time, that I feel I am at my best.  Left idle, my brain seems to grind the meat of me.

I've started a series of photos of Louisville inspired by some posts I've put up elsewhere about Detroit.    I have quite by accident been a promoter of Louisville, inspiring people to make Louisville a place where they either call home, or regularly visit.  Someone once said to me, Louisville is fabulous for three-day visits.  I couldn't agree more.  It's spring break, and that's exactly what I'll be doing with the girls later this week.

The series will evolve, and will be places I see on a regular basis.  Some will be the spots where I take those friends who later decide to relocate or move here.  Louisville is average, random, quirky.  Of all the places I've been, and according to the list I've started keeping on tripadvisor, it's far more extensive than I'd ever imagined, Louisville is lovely.  You find what you look for no matter where you are, and if you're around me, you'll find it to be a grand place.

This is Louisville.
"The Raft," by Armando Marino outside
21c Hotel.  06.04.2012
I've lived here most of my life, save a brief spell elsewhere.  When people ask, what did you want to be when you grow up, it wasn't lawyer... it was international traveler.  Only later, would I shoe-horn working for the State Department into that dream.  I started preparing for the entrance exam, and learned of the women who pass and get work, most were secretaries.  I would not grow up to be a secretary.  :scoff: so at 19, I changed my mind.  If I were to travel, it would be for leisure.  The travel, I most state for the record, was never to get away from Louisville.  It had what I wanted.  This isn't to say, that I didn't want to live somewhere else (too long to list)... but you have to live where you are, and for much of my life, that's been right here in Louisville.  It's kind of funny to think, but it's as if Louisville has gotten better in such a way that it makes me glad I didn't move elsewhere.  Add to it, the internet.  I have been fortunate to have traveled the world, and have what I would define as good friends - kept close to my heart in part by the ease of communication on the web.  I had this fanciful idea of writing nothing but letters the month of February.  (they were written, but I just found them stashed in a shelf recently.  I asked myself a yet answered question: do I still mail them?)  I love the handwritten note and letter.  I am particularly fond of the love letters.  To touch where another hand has touched.  To see the swoop and fall of their pen.  To read the letter before you in tangible form.  Letter writing is lost and that is a sad thing.  But the speed at which I type make my letter writing a rarity.

There is a good history to be found here.  Short, by most reasonable comparison, but proud.  Louisville, has had its economic fortunes and hardships, like anyplace.  For the longest time, it has suffered from trying to be like other cities.
This is Louisville.
Louisville has the most iron-clad facades outside of
SoHo NYC.  06.04.2012

I wish I had been able to stop some of the development that took away forever the character of Broadway.  For example, and I will have to go to the world-class photo archives at UofL to find it again, but there was a stunning mansion at the corner of Second and Broadway.  Today?  It's a McDonald's.  Two stories tall, but still a McDonald's.  If only we had not put down the interstate where we had - robbing ourselves of our waterfront, damaging already strained racial divide in the city by splitting off neighborhoods.  And yet, the strides that have happened, are wonderful.  I could go on writing about this, and for now, let it suffice to say, that the journey for Louisville isn't over. It has more story to tell, unlike say, some of the rust-belt towns of Pennsylvania, or ghost towns of the Wild West.  I think we Louisvillians forget that and over-compensate.  Like an insecure woman needing affirmation, we just need to relax and be.
This is Louisville.
Marker, at the corner of Sixth and Main Streets.
06.04.2012

The girls inspire me to find what I believe all people, when nurtured, have at the start.  It isn't until we start to tell ourselves, something's wrong here, and repeat that message, gathering evidence along the way, that our neurosis sets in.  I think people react two ways to that first message. I don't mean to get all biblical, but come on, like it or not, the imagery from the Bible permeates our language and ability to communicate.  People react either like a lamb or a lion.  I reacted like the lamb, and would succumb to the powers that assaulted or threatened me.  I found evidence to support that I was victim.  Others, take on the lion, defending the self, the ego.  Some take the most aggressive trait of the lion and don't just defend, but become the aggressor.

[If you are wondering where I'm going with this, please, as ever, be patient.]

Easter Egg Hunt.
Godfathers Dan and Chris included the girls in their
family's Easter Egg Hunt.  I was trying to get
a photo of Greta Jo and Clara Lou with Dan's
niece Samantha, and Chris' nephew Max.  07.04.2012
Our girls have an innocence.  Well, of course they do, they are just two and a half and sixteen months.  But in that innocence is freedom from the burden of learning that first hard lesson of something is wrong here... and all we do with it the years that follow.  Some never ever get loose from it.  Their perspective of events and the meanings attached are truth.  I was hurt by so-and-so.  Everyone hurts me.  I'm different.  I'm not accepted.  I'm not good/smart/pretty enough.  There are those who live aware that this is their message, this is their truth, and yet do nothing to shake themselves free of it.  They cling to it as if it is who they are.

Seeing our girls, aware of the message I've spent the last 40 some years telling myself?  I know this is bunk.  Who we are -- is innocent little monkeys.  We steal toys.  We want our milk when we want it.  We're quick to smile, play and use our sparking brains in brilliant ways.  All the other stuff?  Unnecessary weight.  It's kind of like taking a thoroughbred and handicapping it with extra weight, keeping it from ever being able to run freely and win.  I'm here to say, and I know this is unrealistic, I aspire that I remove all extra weight that slows me down and keeps me from winning, and that our girls never ever have more weight than they can carry, and certainly none that keeps them from running free and fast.


Clara Lou, 16 months.  Toddling -
with a can do confidence I hope she always has.
Easter Egg Hunt ready.
07.04.2012
aspire
Trill in her voice resonates
every beat of a strong heart
tumbling giggles turn
a Mother’s self-doubt to wistful smiles
the wobble of her step
gasp not Maman
the tumble taken in stride of next
a way of being
acceptance
confidence
assured
creativity unconfined
these girls of mine
they have today all I would wish
hope
dream
/nmh ©04.07.2011

Friday, April 06, 2012

unrequited & insatiable

me, circa 2005.
photo by Gary Quick.
For years, I wouldn't admit that I wrote.  I would have words assault me like a lashing of a whip, caught unaware.  I would jump and the only way that they would stop the bashing inside my brain was to be set loose, fill my mouth, drip across my tongue, falling down on the page.  I wouldn't edit. These words were not mine to change. I would only put them on the page.  I shared my writing with Don Vish, a poet and friend.  He urged me to keep them.  To stop throwing them away.  You see, my family already had a poet.  I couldn't possibly be one.  I was merely neurotic.  I lived my life in scarcity.

Fast forward a few years, and I dared read them.  Out loud.  To another person.  This was again, a published poet.  I remember hearing the words get caught in my mouth.  They weren't mine to impart, you see.  I just was a conduit.

About this time, one person in my life who was occasionally on, asked if I was ever content.  At the time, I wasn't.  I was proud to serve as catalyst and conduit.  It wasn't that I was malcontent.  No, my state of being, although uncomfortable, was familiar.

Rodin: The Eternal Idol, 1889
my favourite statue
A regular visitor, my muse, and she was a rude bitch.  She would interrupt my meal, my sleep, and even sex.  :feigns blushing:  It was powerful.  I, a supplicant to my own written word.  Demanding.  Unreasonable.  Much of what inspired at the time was seeing misery I'd hidden for years under down of willful confusion and angry despair.

Time passed, and the anger turned to outward chaos and mess in my life.  My muse was active.  Words fell on screen, envelope, tossed on hands, cocktail napkins, whatever was within reach.

Gradually, the madness subsided.  I found peace.  It was then, that this familiar muse of misery found better accommodation.  I knocked on doors, I set my life up so she'd be comfortable.  I lay traps and triggers for me to scrape my knee and bitch... in hopes she'd visit me and give me a wordy high.

I longed for the promised days, unsure I dare name them.  I wanted something other than what I had, because what I had hurt.  But still, as I gained strength, my muse eluded me.

Her sisters, there were what?  Eight of her siblings?  Surely they must be hanging about.

Seems the happier I was, the more I wanted to get stoned and pelted by my old soliloquy.

first person
Boredom seeps into any dining table,
no matter the number in attendance
the first person must always be present.
/nam 16-08-2001

solitude in a crowd
I am never alone.
I have my own voice.
/nam 16-08-2001


common sense
Part of the charm
of one who disarms
is the very aim
to disclaim
any sense of commitment
/nam 01.2003


salt covenant
grappling with the undertow
  of yesteryears
filled enjoying extremes that
  stacatoed numb monotony.

I yearn to sense the subtleties
comprehend the nuances
beyond the wrath of damage, harm and hurt

the pull of sea at my feet and legs
draws me further out to miraged safety of horizon
to float, fatigued, above such dangers
and still the sirens call
drags me down ‘til salt scores my throat,
and lungs once filled with life sustaining air,

collapse

under the weight of so many pounds above me

so still I sit at sea floor

coughing up so many grains of currency for my soul
to patiently find enough from that which is so mixed.
/nam 11.2004


Once I named what I dared to want - husband, children, and here, now, I have it.  I realize that giving birth to character, to a thought, a glance, an act, that only exists in the mind of another because the muse empowered my pen, takes just as much as giving birth to our girls.  Greta Jo and Clara Lou are my joy.  I found the sister muses.  I miss the words that used to visit me, but realize the trade.  The words belong to them.  My creativity is expressed in the form of mothering and fostering who our sweet girls will choose to be.  So for now, instead of on pen to page, it's their mouths that form their words. It's their turn to listen and be inspired.

When my muse visits again, beyond the posts found here, I hope she comes densely packed, as I have designs to enjoy every luscious morpheme.  I will lash her for abandoning me and make her give me more.


*****
Written while those whom I love most sleep.  I had a soundtrack by Gotan Project.  And again, true to my personality... I just can't get enough.



Mrs., Miss & Ms.

This post is not for those who blush. Or at

------

Good.  Now that we have that settled.  If you are still with me, this is a vague recollection and assertion of what I enjoy most about being me.  Who I am, today.

I was recently discussing age, and for the record, as I believe I may have previously mentioned, I am unabashedly 43.  I earned every day of it, some of them harder, so I am darn well going to claim each and every one of them. In them, we all play roles, and today, I am Mrs.  As the title purports, I have been the Miss, Ms. and although now Mrs. - each suited me at the time.  They are all an abbreviation for Mistress.  I always thought it an interesting word, Mistress.  It has a variety of connotations, and it originally meant the woman of the house.  The use of the word has certainly turned that meaning on its head and also means the other woman, of note, by definition is not the woman of the house.  It could also mean a woman who commands, shall we say, unwavering attention.

I was with the girls for much of the day, save one outing and a brief failed attempt to get something done at the office, :damn you IRS:.  I was apparently not commanding their unwavering attention.

No one goes by


Mrs., Miss & Ms.