Fire Works

It occurred to me just now that several of the cards in my various decks have a smidgen of USA patriotism portrayed in them and that, in honor of my country’s birthday, I might do a reading with them. So first, let me get the cards in question assembled here in between moments when I have to assure my various small creatures that the explosions they are hearing are not gun or cannon fire but good-natured fireworks.

Oh, and while we’re waiting for me to pull those cards, more than one person I know has commented on the irony of the EXTREME FIRE DANGER signs posted by the people trying to keep you, yours and parklands from burning up juxtaposed with FIREWORKS FOR SALE at the corner of "hay stubble" and "countryside brown and crispy as matches." I know they’re saying that people will someday think that Manhattan was built in astronomical alignment with the sunrise on July 11, a “Manhattanhenge.” What will they make of our unwitting mixed messages like these? I know, I know, it’s an election year and folks, even you folks are going to remind me that mixed messages are the fare of the day. I suppose.

At any rate, if you plan to set the world on fire, do it with inspiration and kindness and not with fireworks or any other incendiary device, if you don’t mind. It’s just my preference. I was just in Colorado after all, between two fires that the press isn’t even talking about that much.

You’re burning with curiosity about these cards. I can tell. So let’s get going.

Tea Tarot
(c) Copyright 2011 Marcia McCord

Looking through my decks, I find I have made only one major arcana card patriotic-themed. That’s the Emperor from the Tea Tarot. And such a theme that is in our news constantly, isn’t it? The President, the election, the nature of effective leadership, what kind of leadership is needed in our country today, all these things are foremost in our consciousness, often because that’s where the people reporting on the news want us to focus, often because those who have strong feelings about political themes want us to focus and, occasionally, by accident. The Emperor’s themes are temporal rule, the idea of boundaries, power, its uses and abuses, decision making, the Executive Branch of anything including your life. It’s what you do with it that counts. Of course, by making a decision, you’ve necessarily decided against, if only temporarily, the alternatives. The Emperor stirs emotions, both positive and negative. In this year of the Hierophant, the two major cards struggle. How do we separate religious belief from rule of law? Can we do it?

Art Postcard Tarot
(c) Copyright 2010 Marcia McCord

Within the same theme of politics and leadership, especially leadership style, is the King of Wands from the Art Postcard Tarot. Theodore Roosevelt was that “walk softly and carry a big stick” guy, never subtle, known for his “bully” enthusiasm when bully could mean something positive instead of the oppression of strong against weak as we understand the word today. And yet critics saw that other definition looming so this card is actually a cartoon where Teddy’s own Teddy Bear whispers in his ear, “No third term.” Should we have term limits to avoid entrenched thinking? Or should we have constant turnover that boots the incumbents just as they are starting to make a difference? It’s another theme in our country.

War, the military, how we treat others, how we defend others and ourselves, how we treat those who have defended us, all these things show up in the next group of cards. Like it or not, we in the USA have a love-hate relationship with war. We want to honor our heroes because they are our loved ones as in the Picture Postcard Tarot 8 of Cups. Too many families have said goodbye to their loved ones in the military, hoping for them to return. And when they return, will they be whole? Certainly, they will never be the same, no matter what their experience. Will they have lived bravely through the gut-wrenching decisions and heart-pounding luck? Will they have jobs when they come home? Will they be hated or loved or feared or ignored? Will they be thanked?

Picture Postcard Tarot
(c) Copyright 2010 Marcia McCord

Picture Postcard Tarot
(c) Copyright 2010 Marcia McCord

Will their dedication to the principles of freedom and liberty be recognized, even late? Kady Brownell who is the Queen of Swords in the Picture Postcard Tarot was the only woman to receive official discharge papers from the Union Army and granted an Army Pension and recognized as a member of the Grand Army of the Republic for joining her husband in battle in America’s Civil War. Her thanks came late. Her pension was $8.00 per month and started in 1884, 20 years after the end of the war. Her recognition is a footnote. Was she the first veteran to be officially given a bad deal at the end of her service?

Picture Postcard Tarot
(c) Copyright 2010 Marcia McCord

Like Custer in the Picture Postcard Tarot 5 of Swords, will those who stand out in the field of battle be too confident and lose everything, including the glory they so longed for? Is war a win-lose scenario? A lose-lose scenario? Custer hoped to be President someday but is remembered today for his remarkable defeat in a battle with First Peoples. Will those who strive for glory be remembered for folly and pride, misjudging the task at hand, leading their loyal followers to a place of curiosity and shame in history?

Picture Postcard Tarot
(c) Copyright 2010 Marcia McCord

The Economy. The words are on everyone’s mind and not just in the USA. The Picture Postcard Tarot Ace of Pentacles is both a look backward to the past idea of the USA as a world economic power and a look forward. Is the USA past its prime as an economic power? Can we renew the engine that has kept everyone’s hope for comfort, security, shelter, health and well-being? In this hottest of topics before us, how to spend our limited dollars is perhaps the one thought on everyone’s mind and yet likely the subject of bitterest debate.

Victorian Trade Card Tarot
(c) Copyright 2010 Marcia McCord

The Victorian Trade Card Tarot 4 of Pentacles shows the American eagle, our symbol bird, feeding her young, tending the fledglings who will become the future, ever mindful of those who would prey on them. Our eagle shows us charity begins at home. I think we have no argument there. What divides us so often is where that care and nurturing ends. Do the strong protect and foster the weak and young, but only their own? Do we abandon the old, the infirm, the less-fortunate to predators? How do we care for those in need? What if, in the midst of crushing poverty, there was a mind so remarkable, a talent so undeniable and so necessary at the perfect moment in time? It doesn’t happen today, but in our past, several of our Presidents have come from such humble circumstances. Should only the strong and wealthy survive?

Art Postcard Tarot
(c) Copyright 2010 Marcia McCord

So, this July 4, while we exercise a power we are barely able to control, like the Art Postcard Tarot Page of Wands, let us continue to learn and grow wise. I hope that we use the spark of inspiration, not to set fire either accidentally or purposefully to all that has come before us, but to grow and glow as a nation, diverse, opinionated, reckless, sometimes bright as lightning, sometimes ignorant and dim, but always striving to make the world a better place for everyone.

Best wishes!

I Say No to Ice Cream

It doesn’t really make any sense, does it? I just turned down my husband’s offer of a dish of ice cream. I can’t figure it out myself, but for some reason I’m a lot more interested in glass after glass of ice water in the evening while I watch the San Francisco Giants on TV. It was a warm day and we have the big fan on to pull in the cool night air. The cats are still moving slowly from the warmth of the day, although Pixie did just take a flying leap from the front door to the end table. She’s young. She has years to sleep like an adult cat.

Victorian Trade Card Tarot
(c) Copyright 2010 Marcia McCord



I love evenings like this at home. Whoops, Brandon Belt just hit a home run that splashed into San Francisco Bay and now the score is 6-2 Giants! I indulged myself earlier in the evening with an episode of Lost Girl. Our star, an unaffiliated Fae who just happens to be a succubus, tried to help out her friend the bar owner (there’s more to that story, I’m sure) and her friend the doctor. Her sidekick took a turn entertaining the wild-child daughter of a dignitary with the “usual unpredictable” results. I’m waiting for Dyson to get cured of his enchanted indifference to Bo, myself.

I watch Giants television (that’s baseball, not Fae now; I’m back to the present. Stay with me) as much for the announcers as I do for the sport. One of them just commented that his fellow announcer would be able to recount the details of tonight’s game whether he had seen it or not. That’s the mark of a true announcer! Baseball is my idea of reality TV. I have to agree with my friend Dan “Mr. Crankypants” Pelletier. Baseball is an entire deck of tarot cards.

My husband rails at the announcers as they tread on superstitious ground. There are things you don’t say during a baseball game. There’s an old song by Jim Croce about all the things you don’t do. You don’t spit into the wind. You don’t pull off the mask of the Lone Ranger. You don’t mess around with Jim. The Hubs is such an easy-going guy that people probably don’t realize he’s a stickler for baseball protocol. The last two words of the National Anthem are “play ball.” You don’t talk about a no-hitter during the game because it will ruin it. This is why the movie Bull Durham explains the Church of Baseball. It’s a matter of faith, not logic.

As delightful as this evening is in its small ways, I am so glad I was able to get away this past weekend. How could I possibly need a break from this beautiful life I have? No, I’m not worthy.

I had told people that I really needed the weekend away. It wasn’t that I needed to get away from my husband; he’s an angel, even when he’s screaming at the television for the announcers not to jinx the ballgame.

Oh, they won, by the way. Tonight’s game, I mean.

I really needed to get away from a little bit of the stress of work. The tension has been building for software releases, the usual changes at the last minute, the usual changes in tactics and strategy, the usual tension from management trickling down to the next level whether they mean for it to or not. My favorite way to unwind is to unplug and go to nature. A weekend in the redwoods started to sound like an emergency by mid-week last week.

I’m not worthy of my lovely friends who stole a weekend from their busy lives, either. We had our semi-annual Goddess Weekend in the redwoods last weekend. Not everyone could be there this time; we were only four for the weekend. The four of us have careers in technology in common, so we waxed geek with each other long into the night over a lentil soup, minted cucumber yogurt salad and tabouleh. We watched a chick flick, One for the Money, a Stephanie Plum romp.

I meant to get up early on Saturday but I slept until almost 9 am. We indulged in the nearby natural wonders of shopping. Oops, that’s not nature, but we indulged. I found a couple more of my favorite tie-dyed dresses. I chatted with the cats and dogs in the shops we visited. We lounged in the sun and in the shade. We laughed uncontrollably at a battery-operated motion-activated rolling and laughing cat. My friend Kaye couldn’t resist and bought the dog model of the laugh machine. It was for her dog, she said.

We stopped at Duncans Mills for lunch and decided to skip lunch and go for dessert. Goddess weekends are like that. We split this apple cake with buttermilk syrup confection, a celestial treat something like tres leches cake only richer somehow. I had iced tea to offset the calorie load as if that would help.

We shopped some more, stopping at the Saturday flea market that is a mainstay of the Safeway parking lot in Guerneville. Ah, the glass lampshade for my back porch I had been looking for and for only $3!

We determined to go out to dinner Saturday night. Usually we are not that well-organized and succumb to leftovers. No, this time was a treat. We dined al fresco under the redwoods with glorious views of the coastal hills. We made friends with the cute little girl playing with her Dad’s cane at the next table, found out about his dreadful knee accident, rubbing our own knees in sympathy.

We retreated to the house we had rented and attempted our traditional craft project. This time we decorated glass vases with glued on glass doodads, fussed about the quality of the glue, despaired of the glue ever bonding, frowned over Ronda’s round vase with its extra challenges. All the while, we told each other the story of our lives, our jobs, our families, our men, our pets, our gardening triumphs and failures.

Another breakfast the next morning and then the real healing: A walk in Armstrong Grove where we took pictures with our cell phones, revered the cathedral-like trees and played with bubble stuff.

“Redwoods grow like a mother surrounded by her children,” I murmured, not sure if anyone was listening or needed to. “I wonder why people keep naming trees for men when the trees seem so obviously like moms?” The sunlight bounced through the green tops far above onto the large oxalis on the ground. This was a place of spirit.

Back at the house, I read tarot for everyone. Kaye insisted on a reading for me too. Yup, I need to pay more attention to details, money stuff, home stuff, health stuff. Yup.

My 8 of Cups weekend ended, my journey away from what I love for a little side-trip to the reconnection to nature that I crave. I went back home to those I love most, my dear husband, my little family. I think I can handle the workaday world again now. Sometimes you don’t need the ice cream.

Best wishes.

Anna of the Snows

Who was she? I wondered as my husband’s cousin spoke about their relative. What did she feel? What was going through her mind? What had her life been like, all those years ago in Montana and Ireland and Montana again?

It was my husband’s family reunion, people from his mother’s side of the family. I like them. They are generally gentle-humored and gregarious. They generally have happy children who are all cute as the dickens, even when they are no longer children. They are very Irish-American and sometimes I’m not even sure I’m qualified to know what that is in spite of my own roots. They embrace others to their family so it was not a 100% Irish crowd. And there are gazillions of them.

OK, perhaps that’s an exaggeration. When I compare to my own family, my family is definitely dwarfed in numbers. I have four cousins. I met one of them once. People in my family apparently decided, based on their own experiences, not to have children. I’m not sure what that is, exactly. I do have nieces and nephews and they have children, so at least from my father’s side of the family the genetic possibilities have not died out. For the most part from my mother’s side, though, my brother in Texas and I are the end of the line. We were my father’s second family and neither of us had children. Having what I think of as a “reduced” family experience, I’m always curious about other people’s families.

My husband and I feel a part of a couple of other families we know. Rocky and Kay were very close to us before they died and we enjoy their children’s families whenever we can. And we are close to Geraldine and her family, happy to be included as often as we are, honored to be considered family to them.

The family reunion last summer was special because so many of my husband’s family whom I adore attended. It’s not that everyone always gets along; it’s family after all. But they really did very well. We laughed and said, No bloodshed, no stitches, no police action, no fire department, no emergency vehicles. The kids were happy. The adults were happy.

It was even more special because people in my husband’s family whom I had never met also attended. Such sweet people! And Cousin Margaret from Massachusetts presented a family history lesson to show everyone how everyone was related. It was more than that, though. It showed us just a glimpse of who these people were, almost like they had attended too.

Con O’Neill died in the mines in Butte, the “richest hill on earth.” Just thinking of that, you could tell how difficult life was for the miners and their families. But there was more. Just after midnight in the first hour of June 9, 1917, a fire started in the Speculator Mine and spread to the Bell-Diamond Mine. Con was a foreman, risen within the ranks, a respected man. He and his family lived in a little better home provided by the mining company. A memorial stands today in Butte listing the names of those who died. Uncle Con had leapt from his bed when he heard the alarm and, ignoring his wife’s pleas to stay, had gone down into the mine to bring more miners, “his boys” back out to fresh air. He saved some but died himself. He was mourned as a hero.

There’s more of course. The moment he died, his wife and family were no longer eligible to live in foreman’s quarters. Anaconda came knocking soon after the funeral. Con’s wife Julia found herself a widow with her four young children and homeless within the same moments. How did they manage? It wasn’t until the early 1950’s it was discovered that Anaconda owed Julia and her family a pension, which, after some discussion apparently, they paid until her death in 1955.

My favorite historical relative, though, was Anna of the Snows. She was my husband’s grandmother’s twin and Con’s sister. She lived in Butte and while visiting relatives in West Cork in Ireland, her husband Mr. Harrington died. She returned to Butte and later married a Mr. Reilly who left her. She lived with her sister Mary.

When I think of this part of the story, I always think of, “Home is that place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.”

It seems that in spite of the hard knocks of life, Anna Reilly was a gentle soul. She worked at the WPA sewing club which met at the old high school. On Saturday afternoon, October 15, 1938, Anna went to the sewing club and afterwards about 3 pm, as a blizzard moved in, she started the short walk home. Dressed in a hat, a black dress and red sweater, she became disoriented in the swirling snow. Search parties, over 100 people including nephews and other relatives, were sent out but the blizzard was relentless. She was not found until three days later on the slopes of Big Butte.

There’s more of course. It seems she had declined to wear a coat when going to the sewing club. And when last seen after the meeting, she was walking in the opposite direction from her home. She was just 60. There was speculation that she had been struck with “a sudden amnesia” or slight stroke. She had been forgetting things lately. Maybe she just lost her way in the world.

I think about her life and losses. I think about going home to Butte and what her sister said about her, that she did not have many interests outside the home besides sewing. I think of the swirling snow, her inadequate sweater and hat.

The Michael Martin Murphy song “Wildfire” goes through my head, written 30 years after her death. Anna was not chasing after her lost beloved pet pony. She was just trying to get home and instead stumbled and fell near the site of the Big “M” on Big Butte, her hat and purse found nearby.

I imagine she did not notice the cold for a while as she wandered confused. In the swirling blizzard, the notions of up, down, east and west start to be meaningless. I have one picture of her, a dark haired woman, tall for those days, with rimless glasses and a lace collar on her black dress, looking life directly in the face. I imagine she grew tired and as she stumbled on the side of Big Butte, determined to rest a bit before rising to gather her things and go home.

That was not to be her path. Instead, she walked away from the comforts of home and the love of family into a fate that haunts me just a little. I see in her the 8 of Cups, that gentle soul, a traveler on her way, who ventured through her life which took her away from love not because it was her nature to deny it, but because Nature Itself called her to a different path. She is my Anna of the Snows.

She reminds me that life’s path does not always take the direction you want, towards what you ask for. Instead, it takes you to your path, whether you ever know why or not.

Best wishes.

Prognosticator, Predict Thyself

Paul the Octopus is dead at age 2. The tarot world is in mourning. Just in case you are in the tarot world and you hadn’t heard, a moment of silence is in order, please.

Paul, not often known as San Pablo de Pulpo, was the spot-on predictor of this year’s World Cup Games. Presented with a favorite treat, mussels, contained in two boxes which represented the two teams playing each game, Paul correctly selected mussels from the winning team. He had an amazing 100% accuracy, something most tarot readers would advertise in print only if they were frauds instead of real tarot readers. Paul was our hero. OK, so he was a little slimy and you’re never sure how to look an octopus in the face, but when you get past these superficial characteristics, Paul was downright amazing.

Tragically (from our longer-lived perspective), octopi live only about two years, so he was basically at the peak of his career when we knew him during the World Cup predictions. It’s a short life for a creature of cleverness. Perhaps it is the brevity of life itself that spurs innovative techniques among the 8-legged brainy types. They work on a short deadline, literally.

I’ve had my “hot streaks,” sure. But I would never offer a 100% accuracy claim. Too much gets lost in translation. If it were like a movie, I would re-project it for people. If I knew the Lotto ticket numbers, would I be sitting here talking to you about an octopus?

Those hot streaks were fun though. Back in the 80’s when I first started working as a computer programmer, it was still about 2 or 3 men to every woman in the business, even fewer when it came to database analysis and design which was what I liked. Programs come, programs go, but data and information stay forever. That’s why your moms and dads tell you that you’ll be sorry for posting those really fun photos on the internet someday. Data is meaningful in context; change the context, you change the meaning. Funny at a party is perhaps not so funny in court. You get it.

Back in the day – scratch that. I hate that phrase, love you young ‘uns but that’s just one that gives me shivers. OK, back in Illinois when I was a “baby” programmer/DBA, I worked with a bunch of guys. These were not completely house-trained guys when it comes to being civilized but in context that was funny, in the way Animal House is a funny movie. Funny to watch but not funny to live with. I remember getting a ride to lunch with the group I hung out with at work, 15 or 20 of us invading some bar and grill or experimenting with Japanese food or getting tossed out of the Mongolian barbecue for being too efficient in filling our bowls with the goodies from the ingredients banquet table prior to griddling. I still wore skirts and hose and heels then, not yet annoyed with the discomforts of feminine fashions. At lunchtime, we piled into cars and took off for the restaurant du jour and one time I remember I caught a ride with Wulfers.

Wulfers was so correctly named, looking a bit more like Wolfman Jack and rather less like Alcide, slightly older and very married. He was a funny guy, a leading jokester from the spitwad section of gradeschool, a dominant buffoon who had long since succumbed to the superior wit of his wife. We felt sorry for her in a way because it was so obvious she had married a big kid, but we figured that he must amuse her as he did us. He was sort of handsome, sort of not and always had a joke to tell. Wulfie was still into sports and fitness and testosterone and stuff so I guess I should not have been surprised. But when I climbed into the back seat with the rest of the carload, I screamed. There on the backseat floor was a discarded pair of underwear, definitely Wulfie’s.

I screamed my bug scream. Hose and heels will make you do that when you encounter the unexpected BVD’s in the back of a guy’s car who is, after all, just one of the guys. Wulfie suffered his near-death experience of embarrassment, which was to hang his head on his steering wheel and try to explain, as he might to his long-suffering wife, exactly why a pair of underwear might lay discarded in plain sight for a “good” reason, something sports related apparently. Amid my shrieks of disgust and threats to phone his wife, I rode to lunch without letting my feet touch the floor of his car or the unmentionables, much to the snickering delight of the other passengers. I caught a ride back to work with someone else.

In this male-dominated world of constant apologies to women for transgressions that seemed like a good idea at the time, I grew a little more comfortable, although I reminded Wulfie that I wasn’t riding in his car again, clean or not. And it was during this time that I had a little predictive hot streak.

I’ve mentioned I like baseball. In my work environment there, all sports were hallowed. It was fall and football season. The World Series didn’t stretch into November like it does now. This was Football. We were firmly mired in the debate of Astroturf v. grass and being just halfway between St Louis and Chicago, the local rivalry was a constant topic of discussion, with a few outlanders defending Detroit and other exotic places. I started watching weekend NFL shows and after a couple of weeks into the season, wrote down the name of the Super Bowl loser (very specific) and pinned it to my fuzzy wall in my cube. And I was right. Three years in a row.

After the second year, Wulfie came to me and it was clear that his lifelong obsession with sports had included a monetary significance common in office pools and other far-off-track wagers. He begged. It was fun to be in demand. I personally did not make any money from the predictions. It was just fun to see them turn out. And then, in the fourth year, I lost interest in predicting football. Like Paul the Octopus, my season of specialty was over. And it’s never happened again. Don’t ask. I don’t do sports anymore. I read tarot.  I still predict things, just not Super Bowl stuff.

Paul the O’s demise and all too brief a stay in the public attention prompts at least one question: If Paul was so good at the World Cup, why didn’t he predict his own death? Without knowing Paul personally and with few personal octopus encounters in my lifetime, I can’t be sure. But my sense is that like my brief stint with the Super Bowl loser predictions and like the Eight of Cups, the 8 of Water, the 8 of Intuition and connection to the collective unconsciousness, it was just Paul’s time to move on to something else. He specialized in this year’s World Cup and not in his own life and death events.

Those of you may wish him a jaunty, “Godspeed, Sucker!” But I feel I speak for the tarot community when I say thank you to Paul and his moment in time and hope that his next life, whether it is some eight-legged heaven or rebirth to a higher form, brings him and those around him joy, however brief.

Best wishes.

Leaving St James

I have had so much fun with Facebook. Just last week I connected with a friend from grade school that I hadn’t spoken to since…oh, dear this is entirely too revealing! Well, I hadn’t spoken to her since my family left Florida when I was in the 6th grade. I always thought Patty was one of the prettiest girls in class. She had soft curly light brown hair and lovely freckles and a smile that made you trust that the entire world was going to be all right in spite of everything.

Our most memorable time together was actually my second television appearance. Now that I count it up, I think I’ve probably had my 15 minutes of fame already. As I said before, I think that’s just fine really. They caught me during my finest hours back then already, things happening for the best and all. Patty and I were selected to be among the angels kneeling by the manger in the Christmas choir concert televised locally in Orlando. We were selected, for reasons I cannot quite pinpoint, to kneel silently and still, in adoration, wearing pastel angel robes, wings and halos. We were in truth seldom silent, seldom deserving of halos and seldom in need of wings to fly about. My mother, however, was bursting with pride.

My first television appearance had a strangely spiritual context also. It seemed unlikely at the time. I had just that week turned 6 years old. My neighborhood playmate Roxanne and I were treated to an appearance on the Popeye Show with Captain Bob. When Captain Bob dutifully interviewed me in front of the entire broadcasting audience in central Florida and asked how old I was, it being my birthday and all, I panicked and said, “Five.” After all, I had been five a lot longer than I had been six.

I wasn’t really sure what to expect on the Popeye Show but being quizzed about my age wasn’t it. I really wasn’t prepared for the reaction I got from pal Roxanne’s mother who picked us up from the show. She told me I was going to hell for “lying on television.” She was serious. Apparently lying on television is much worse than lying to your mom at home, at least according to Roxanne’s mom. I wasn’t sure about that. What I was sure about was that Roxanne’s mom was a nut and that God wasn’t going to send me, whether I was 5 or 6, to hell for making a mistake, fer goodness’ sake. I was also sure that, having regained my composure from being momentarily star-struck, I was not going to give Roxanne’s mom the benefit of my opinion as freely as she had given hers to me. I waited to share my experience with my mom, who agreed with me on both counts. Moms can be really good that way. We concluded that some people’s interpretation of God was just too limiting to be realistic and thus began my first small taste of fear and loathing in the name of religion. I concluded not to belong to Roxanne’s family’s denomination, which shall be nameless here in the spirit of good will and open-mindedness. It wasn’t that I would not have them, per se, but the certain knowledge that they would not have me. Best not to go where you’re not welcome.

Flash forward a couple of years and there Patty and I were kneeling in poker-faced adoration, pretending to be angels, while Sister Maryanna waved her black and white flowing habited arms rhythmically about in front of the choir leading Handel’s Messiah. One thing they don’t tell fluffy-haired children pretending to be angels is that the Messiah is a fairly long concert. Patty and I really had had no idea what we were in for. Robes, wings and halos were the trappings of show biz for us, the perks. The harsh truth soon made itself known. The hard surface of the floor and our knees, however padded by baby fat and pastel robes, begin their slow conjunction. Without warning, Patty fainted dead away, falling out of camera range. She made a crash loud enough to be heard above the choir, I was told. The drama!

Having panicked once in front of the camera, and been damned for it to boot, I was bound and determined not to let that happen again. With steely resolve, I continued my angelic vigil while the choir sang, Sister Maryanna flailed, Patty was dragged off set and the cameras kept rolling. My natural instinct to rescue my friend was overridden completely by my need to prove, once and for all, especially in front of the plaster likeness of the Baby Jesus, I was worthy of televised steadfastness and honesty of performance. Take that, Roxanne’s mom!

Of course, my first words to Patty now nearly half a century later were, “Patty! Fellow television angel!” To which she replied, FB style, “Marcia!!! were you kneeling there with me when I fainted on tv???? is this really you??” I was gratified to know that that day had been as remarkable for her as it had been for me.

My family left Florida and all its wonders when I was in 6th grade. It was a difficult journey for all of us. It threw our whole family into a years-long depression, lamenting the loss of childhood, lush wildlife, the ocean beaches and my beloved school. We had moved to New Mexico, not the romantic spa-towns of Taos or Santa Fe or even the cultural mixing bowl of Albuquerque, but to the windy, gritty eastern side called the staked plains, to a spring that had dried up some 70 years earlier, to a place where the nearest park was a set of sand dunes resting over caliche limestone also known as "hardpan." In a postcard back to one of my grade school friends in Florida, like a castaway's message in a bottle, I wrote, “Great beach. No ocean.”

That great uprooting did much to shape my character. Like many character-building opportunities, it was in many ways joyless to say the least. My new schools in New Mexico, touted to be excellent, were approximately two years behind academically from my school in Florida. Only sickly elm trees grew in my new town, hated for their oozing Dutch elm disease. The only wildlife of any interest was the “horned toad” or horned lizard, and it was endangered. My new classmates, in their “West of Texas” south midlands dialect, made fun of my “British” accent. My family struggled to maintain any cohesiveness and often failed.

Taking me out of my warm nest in Florida, however, was ever so essential to my path. Like the 8 of Cups, sometimes your path leads you away from the things you love to a lesson you would never learn had you stayed in your comfort zone. I have never felt truly at home anywhere since leaving central Florida. My first visit back, however, was some 30 years later.

I drove to my former home near Lake Conway, its outer walls still sparkly blue, its grass still wide-bladed and cool in the summer’s heat. I drove to my old school, abandoned for summer. I got out of my rental car, hugged a tree near where I used to play and cried. I stood on the steps, stared at the coquina rock walls and knew I was now forever on the outside looking in. Clearly, it is no longer my home now, either.  I am on my path. 

At least one of the lessons I learned is that you never truly lose what you love and home is a place you carry in your heart. It is easily lost if you define it so narrowly as by geography. It is easily found in the joy of reuniting with a fellow friend-at-halos who knelt with you wing-to-wing on the hard floor while all your little world watched you pray.

Best wishes.