February in Barbados: Books, Beach and Beer.
We used to be adventurous travelers, walking – or at least driving – perimeters of islands to see it all.
These days we enjoy a more relaxing winter vacation. Even though we’re young, my husband and I are not above staying in “old folks hotels” where clientele play cribbage in the afternoon and evening bands cover Frank Sinatra.
Sunset comes early in the Caribbean. After watching the orange ball sizzle into the sea, we make early suppers in our room – salad and yam with butter one night. Rotisserie chicken and green beans another night. Last night from our balcony we heard an unusual set of songs from the restaurant band. Billy Joel, Kat Stevens, Simon and Garfunkel.
What are these people thinking? Music from the 70’s? This is an old folk’s hotel!
We are a strange Thanksgiving trio – Diane, Mel and David. On this day of grannies, cousins, sisters, uncles and orphans, it’s just the three of us.
The only thing traditional about our holiday is that Someone has purchased an 18 pound turkey (“it was the only fresh one left”) and has enough stuffing for 20 people. (and Someone Else eats low carb)
Enter friend Jeanne and her invitation to join them for dessert at 6:30.
There is every reason we want to accept.
Except …. and I know this is strange….
I just hate eating a big meal while the sun is still up.
- Eat dinner while the sun is up.
- Eat a small meal while the sun is up.
- Eat dinner after dessert.
- Don’t go to Jeanne’s.
If you’ve had Jeanne’s desserts you do NOT want to pick number four. (Low carb, Who?)
Think. Think Hard. There must be a way.
Muscle your way out of the box.
SAVE THANKSGIVING FOR FRIDAY!!!
There’s plenty so come on over. Even a low carb sweet potato pie!
Washington Post Article: China rejects reconciliation with Dalai Lama
“China sees the game as mostly over, with a few odds and ends remaining that it can weather with little discomfort……
As the Dalai Lama ages, Beijing also thinks it has time on its side. It is almost certainly planning to engineer the Dalai Lama’s succession, to raise a young leader more favorably inclined toward its rule, and promote him over any rival chosen by the exile community.
But the Dalai Lama irritated China recently by suggesting that he might not reincarnate.
Officials from the avowedly atheist Communist Party responded by accusing the Dalai Lama of betraying his religion, and insisting that the party itself, not the Dalai Lama, would decide whether he would be reborn.”
I don’t spend money on art.
Well, once I bought a photo for $1 at a yard sale. We are not going to talk about what I paid for framing.
Like most people, our household budget just doesn’t include a line-item for art collecting.
We do, however have a small budget for charitable giving, so when Bob, Linda and John had their plant/art/book sale to benefit Doctors Without Borders, I went pleasantly crazy.
Here are the paintings I bought from Bob Haslach.
Five plants and three paintings later, Doctors Without Borders (a terrific low-overhead charity) is $100 richer.
But I feel richer still.
Natalie Goldberg has a new book. Living Color: Painting, Writing, and the Bones of Seeing.
I love Natalie. (even when I hate her – some of you know what I’m talking about) Writing Down the Bones was the first (the only?) book about writing that made me slam it shut and grab a pen.
Natalie’s paintings do the same thing.
Childlike, out of proportion, skewed angles, and full of juicy life energy – her art work makes me grab a paint brush!
Natalie’s writing about art reminds me that beauty is in front of my face.
Right now. Every day.
I am chagrined to learn that after leaving office, George W. Bush has taken up art. His life-passion is painting.
Apparently he has painted over 50 dogs.
He also paints himself in the shower.
And in the bathtub.
He piddles way his free time. JUST LIKE I DO. But he paints better than I do. He hired a tutor, so that must explain it.
Suddenly I feel compassion for George. He never should have gone into politics. Obviously never should have been president.
I’m sure all of that was his mother’s fault.
Sometimes I paint pictures of everyday objects. Then I look at my pictures and know that one day the objects will break, or I will be forced to give them away when I move into a nursing home (or onto the street). But if I have my notebook of little pictures (in my bags and grocery carts) then I can hold onto the memory of my sweet life. What would it be like to have Alzheimer’s? To have my son sit with me (provided he is alive and we are on visiting terms) and point out the little pictures I had painted? Would I remember my happiness? Hopefully I would be in one of those nursing homes where therapists or volunteers do nice things like dance with patients. Oh, but they would probably play disco, thinking it was the music of my youth. And I wouldn’t have the words to say, “Could we have little Arvo Part, please?”