I am she...or her...or that girl over there...

If you're my age, you remember Sybil. She was the fictionalized version of Shirley Ardell Mason who had what psychiatrists then called multiple personality disorder. These days, the trend is to make all "bad" things seem better and/or politically correct by renaming them, so today it's called "dissociative identity disorder". Not that I believe for one minute I am channeling Sybil, but those who know me well discovered long ago I am multi-faceted, to put it nicely.

I grew up in the country and my imagination was my salvation.  I could make a game out of the simplest of objects...I was Laura Ingalls as I pulled my red wagon full of dollies across the hayfields...I was Annie Oakley with my tree branch fashioned into a pistol...I was poor pitiful Cinderella as I hung my fourth load of laundry on the clothesline. There were no limits to my imaginings as a child and those same schizoid tendencies still shape who I am today. Okay, I am not Sybil or anything close to being "clinical".  But I do lean towards an eclectic mix of things that make my bell ring, that make me smile, that bring me joy. You could say that I am my own little world of diversity, to be politically correct.

For instance, I grew up with guns and hunter/men on the ranch...they were a means to an end - FOOD on the table.  I don't really like guns today..they creep me out.  However, I do a own a Daisy.  Dave gave it to me on our anniversary one year, as I was so frustrated with a squirrel that kept snatching my figs.  I am actually a good shot, but I can't bring myself to actually shoot the little fur ball!

How can a girl be so into reading all about fashion...

Design, make and wear this...

And then wear this???

Or this, for that matter?? I have to remake this tee so I can wear it to church...just the fact that I love this horrendously violent biker show AND Jesus at the same time, is an oxymoron....

My guilty pleasure....

I love reading about the rural life with my blogging friends Gail (At the Farm) and Nancy (A Rural Journal). I often long to wander in the dry grass and scrub oak back "home".

A good hike on the Sutter Buttes is exhilarating...

but a day at the art gallery would be just as nice...

I moved from the quiet serenity of the country to the urban jungles of Oakland at 19.  It was a very difficult transition...all that cement. And even though we now live in a peaceful suburban neighborhood, I love my bi-weekly excursions back to Berkeley to visit the FabricLady, aka Suzan at Stonemountain.

A Peet's cappuccino on Fourth Street just tastes better than any coffee shop in my neighborhood.

Last evening, we met some friends at a dive bar, and I had a couple of Corona's, some bacon cheesy fries and a couple of sliders.  It was a fun time with friends. Today, Dave and I are headed for the wine country for a release party at our favorite winery, and I will satisfy my urge to be Laura Ingalls in the country and Merry Edwards in the vineyard, while hobnobbing with all those wanna-be sophisticated winos...

I think I'll wear pearls...and my Duck Dynasty tee-shirt.

Laurel. Dave says "there's no one like you"...I love him for that!

Rinsing out a few things...

One of the things I detested more than anything growing up was ironing clothes.  My dad was an Operating Engineer who drove heavy equipment to build roads.  He wore Khaki pants and shirts and in those days, the fabric was stiff and hard to iron. On the weekends, he donned cotton chambray shirts which were equally difficult to remove wrinkles. Also on my list of dreaded chores was hanging out wet clothes on the line. There were 5 kids in our family, so naturally this task was a daily grind. Hanging sheets was easy...they were big and didn't need many clothes pins.  However, socks and underwear were a different story, not to mention actually "touching" your brothers' shorts was creepy for a 10 year old.

me, before I could reach the clothesline...

Most of us like to keep our underwear to ourselves.  Men don't really have a thing for underwear, other than choosing the right "style", i.e. boxers, tidy whiteys, etc.  Women, on the other hand, are expected to own pretty underthings.  We spend billions of dollars every year on pretty lace bras and panties that never see the light of day. Some of us only bring out the man catchers for special occasions, opting for the sturdy, full body cotton comfort briefs for everyday.

I had a whole drawer of those cotton granny panties a few years back, but in a hysterical fit of ugly underwear enlightenment one morning I threw them all in the trash and promptly went shopping. $250 later, I had a whole drawer full of pretty little nothings.  Men, on the other hand, don't give a rip if the elastic band is only attached by a few threads or that they sport a few holes...it just isn't a big deal.

One of the interesting things I learned while traveling In Europe is that people don't seem to care who sees there underwear.  They hang them proudly on clotheslines over their windows, over their balcony rails, and even high above the narrow streets. Clothes dryers are a luxury in many families. Either that or their underthings are so expensive that air drying on the line is preferable.

 

 

 

This must be a man's house...

On one occasion during our travels, Dave and I sat leisurely drinking our wine in the Cinque Terra, gazing at the view of the surrounding city. The gentle breeze was a welcome escape after the 100 billion steps we climbed to get to the town itself.  Across the rooftops we caught a glimpse of undies drying on a second story apartment terrace.  Right at that very moment, the wind caught a pair of panties, ripping them off the rail.  They floated through the air for a second then landed precisely on the door jam of the apartment below.  And there they hung. Maybe it was the wine, but we were laughing so hard just thinking of the moment the neighbors decided to go outside!

(Bottom of the photo) They look like big white granny panties to me....

Not to be prudish, but if my undies were floating above the neighbor's door, I'd be horrified. But I'm thinking, we Americans may be way too hung up about our underwear. When you look at some of the young women today with their bras hanging out and their thongs creeping up above their low ride jeans, you may disagree. But all in all, you don't see a lot of clothes hanging out in the yards of suburbia. And truthfully, even though I love my LG dryer, I do rather miss the fresh smell of clothes dried in the country breeze...just have nowhere to put it.

Laurel. City dweller with Downey.

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U is for underwear

Head, Heart, Hands, Health

I was reading the recent issue Cowboys and Indians and came across an article about 4-H.  At the very moment I saw the young girl with her green felt hat, the words ran through my mind:

 I pledge
My head to clear thinking
My heart to greater loyalty
My hands to larger service
My health to better living
For my club, my community, and my country...

 

When you recite a pledge once a month for over 7 years, you tend to remember it well into your 60's. Today, the pledge has been revised somewhat to include the "world", as it is a more diverse organization with a wider reach.

 

In the rural foothills where I grew up, neighbors were miles away, we rode a bus to a three room school house and every boy and girl joined the local 4-H club.  The boys usually raised a sheep or steer, learned about electricity and other manly stuff, and the girls gravitated to the more homey endeavors.

 

I learned to sew in 4-H.  My Mom was  the sewing leader and under her direction, me and my friends learned how to make the trademark 4-H sailor collar and an apron in our first year.

 

I learned how to speak in front of people in 4-H.  Members were required to give demonstrations at least once a year in front of the entire club.  Nerve racking as it was, it gave us all our first taste of public speaking.

 

I learned about serving in 4-H, but most of all, I had fun. The opportunities to meet other kids even outside our own club were endless. I think I had my first crush on a boy from a club some 40 miles away...I only got to see him around the camp fire at the annual regional camp in the mountains.

 

I learned the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat in the competitive exhibitions at the county fair.  Blue ribbons were coveted, and I can only remember getting a couple...mine were reds and even some whites. I was not the seamstress that I am today, but by high school I was making many of my own clothes. That experience led to the designing and making of wedding gowns, selling hippie dresses in Berkeley, sewing the dozens of prom dresses for my daughter and evening dresses, suits, and every form of clothing for myself today.

 

My daughter-in-law recently told me that my granddaughter expressed an interest in learning to sew. I was 10 when I first joined 4-H and she has a year to go.  But it made me wonder if I shouldn't perhaps share my craft with a small group of young girls...perhaps even get involved in the 4-H program...yes, they even have clubs here in suburbia!

Woudn't Collette be proud?

 

Laurel.  Still sewing after all these years.

 

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Can she bake a "berry" pie, Billy Boy...

Friends who have country property are like heart songs to a girl who lives on a cul-de-sac. Don't get me wrong, I love my little hacienda more than I have loved any place I've ever lived...except for the country. What can be better than an afternoon visit to a rural countryside, just waiting for it's owners to lay claim and put up stakes? 

In the meantime...a short hop down the dirt road and picnic by the creek made my heart sing...

It's like...going home.

Who can resist?

When I was a kid, my Mom paid us $.50 to pick a gallon of blackberries, and though I did not come ready to pick yesterday, I dove into the bushes anyway. To do berry picking justice, you need a large plank or a 4 X 8 foot sheet of plywood to throw out onto the bushes so that you can get to the "big" ones at the very top of the bushes..they see the sun all day.

But alas, I got enough to make a pie...

"Can she bake a "berry" pie, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?

Can she bake a "berry" pie, Charming Billy,

She can bake a "berry" pie, quick as a cat can wink an eye,

She's a young thing that cannot leave her mother..."

Laurel. I better go walk if I'm gonna eat this thing tonight.

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