Los Dos Oros

There’s a little convenience shop a couple of blocks from here called Los Dos Oros. I look at it and call it The Two of Pentacles. The Two will often have the freshest Serrano peppers and vine-grown tomatoes, essential ingredients in my home-made salsa. If I can’t get the short season heirloom tomatoes I love, large, party-colored and dead ripe, then The Two usually has tomatoes as good as any in town. And I want to keep the little place going. I miss neighborhood groceries and I want to keep this one in business. Tarot reader doth not live by salsa alone, of course, so I do have to shop other places for things not usually found in the bodega. Still, I get a kind of snuggly feeling that a place that helps me juggle my dietary needs—addictions?—is named like a Tarot card with a similar meaning.

I think there may be a point in the “total immersion” process where every Tarot student starts to see Tarot cards everywhere. Suddenly the 7 of Swords is dancing to “Hernando’s Hideaway.” The Thanksgiving Day parade starts to look like the 6 of Wands. Flashbacks of my homeless hero Alma appear to be the 9 of Wands, taking a break from the hardships of life while sitting on a bus stop bench. Children under the Christmas tree playing with the boxes as much as the toys that came in them show a happy 9 of Cups.

One of my friends, Donnaleigh de LaRose, posts images on Facebook and asks, “TarotPic Teaser: If this picture were a tarot card, which one would it be? What do you see?”

Participants look at the image and relate it to their understanding of Tarot and post their answers. I play along sometimes if the picture grabs me and I usually post why I think so. It isn’t to influence what the “right” answer “should” be. It’s just for fun. In the same way, though, that play is the work of children, these fun exercises are reinforcement for those eager to learn tarot.

A couple of other friends will occasionally post, “People. People people people. Not everything is a Tarot card!”

Silly experts, I think of them, gently, fondly, lovingly. They are just past the learning phase where everything suddenly becomes a world of pattern recognition. The students trip over their robes rushing to see the Yin and Yang and declare, “A-ha! The Lovers! Where one ends, the other begins! One completes the other but never becomes the other.” Yes, Grasshoppers. Soon they will understand that the pattern is within human intelligence, within the mind and connect, if they are fortunate, that the spirit of the pattern is what they have breathed on or at least the museum-quality glass that stands between them and the idea and ideal, between them and the essence of the archetype.

If my very advanced friends had not progressed beyond the thrill of discovery of pattern recognition, they would likely have been bombarded forever in the madness of meaning in everything. Some people get lost there. The people I am thinking of did not get lost, at least not for very long. They emerged with filters and understanding.

But I love the Tarot learners at the “collector” phase. Even if they are not collectors of decks, they are collectors of the sight of a concept portrayed another way, collectors of the enrichment of meaning, collectors of the correlation between symbol and definition.

In preparation for a road trip I want to take this year, I dragged out my books on Puebloan rock art. I have some favorite places to go, places where I could spend hours looking at the carvings made in the oxidation-varnished sandstone cliffs in the Four Corners area. I want to go to some other places with rock art, too. So much of the fun of travel is anticipation so one of the tasks will be mapping the route. But for now, I’m noodling into the details of the topic.

Since I’m a used bookstore hound, some of my texts on the topic are older, like F. A. Barnes’ Canyon Country Prehistoric Rock Art. My first impression is gratitude that I am not considered an expert in this topic and as such I will be at worst vilified for being unlearned. I’m grateful because, while this book has some wonderful photography of rock art in the Four Corners area and some good information about materials, I think Barnes himself is one rude dude. Intermixed with the really valuable information about what was known in 1982 about the people who lived in the area before the historic period (that’s, uh, the invasion of the people who were sure that their technology, intelligence and religion were much better than the people who were living there at the time) is something I feel liberated by my lack of standing and expertise to label as at the very least bad manners.

Barnes is democratic in his insults in the text. He insults amateur archaeologists, even those with extensive knowledge, along with the ancient peoples he studies. Distilling his thoughts, Barnes thinks we’re all stupid.

Per Barnes, the amateur archaeologists are stupid for trampling sites, pot-digging and collecting trophies, destroying the pristine areas so that real archaeologists have trouble making heads or tails of them. My own two gold coins come out at this point. I agree that stumbling into an archaeological site and messing it up is very disappointing. In fact, every archaeologist, amateur or otherwise, has likely destroyed wildly important evidence, microscopic and otherwise. So, F. A., pointing fingers at the enthusiast does seem to point those other fingers right back at you. Methods have changed since 1982 and I’ll bet you messed plenty of stuff up.

Worse than that, because we “advanced” people should be more responsible and can stand to be picked on by scientists our own size, roughly, Barnes then goes on to berate the people who seek to find meaning in the images carved on the rock walls. Not only is our New Age interpretation of the most innocent kind such as, “Oh, look! A frog!” and “Wow, I think they’re saying that up the river and close to the mountain range there are a lot of deer,” wrong-headed. It gets worse.


Ute Mountain Ute Tribal Park
(c) Copyright 2007 Marcia McCord

 Barnes says that since the designs are not lifelike representations of people, animals or anything else they carved into the walls, they were not the charming stylistic choices of a people who saw things a certain way. They are, according to Barnes, “bad artistry.” While it seems certain that the rock art, done over hundreds of years of occupation of the area, was done by adults, Barnes has concluded that they had a primitive, child-like intelligence. In short, they were stupid, too.

To which I say: Barnes, you meathead, you! How can you possibly say all these people are stupid? After all, you yourself call them “Anasazi,” a version of the Dine (Navajo) word for “ancient enemy.” Who on earth would call themselves Ancient Enemy? Your ancient enemy, maybe? (No insult to the Dine intended. Lovely people.)

Oh. I forgot. There are those computer games. I wonder what the archeologists will make of those?

While I’m not fighting with Barnes, his bad manners, misanthropy and obviously poor upbringing, I am getting a lot of information. Like the Two of Pentacles, you have to juggle the good with the bad and figure it out yourself.

Oooo, look! A Super Nova!

Best wishes!

All Is Calm ... Now

Really. All is calm now. Stress is notorious at Christmastime. There are always articles published to help people get through the expectations, the sharp memories, the family dinners, the little disasters of the season. We weren’t prepared for this one, though.

Each year we spend Christmas with our friend Geraldine and her family. They are a fun, talented, happy, growing family. Earlier this month we spent an evening at Gerry’s decorating her Christmas tree. Our Christmas tree is usually not a tree at all, but an oscillating fan on a stand with a wreath on it. Over time, the wreath has gained a few items like a couple of crocheted stocking-shaped ornaments made by my sister-in-law, a squirrel with a San Francisco Giants t-shirt and this year’s addition, a fluffy white owl that had been part of the packaging of a present. Inside the wreath is a handmade clay nativity plaque with angels dangling stars over the manger scene. Everyone is smiling. It’s a scene of joy, the joy of Christmas. It’s not the usual Christmas tree. We even make fun of it. After all, who puts their presents under the Christmas Fan?

We all become children for a minute at Christmas. We like to surround ourselves with what we love, like the 9 of Cups in Tarot. But other things surround us, too.

We were speculating that there’s an increase of television advertising for prescription anti-depressants at Christmas. It seems like in the “season of giving” we are more inclined to think about what we haven’t got, too. I miss my mother, my old kitty, seashells on the Gulf Coast of Florida, the parts of all the places I’ve lived that I liked, no matter how bleak. I think about my friends in faraway places whom I have not seen in too long. I hope I will see them again. What if I don’t?

I can fall down deeper into this whole in the whole “what if” chasm. What if I had clicked on the “Sell” button and had been able to pay off the house? I hesitated, afraid my husband would be sad or angry with me. He means so much more to me than a house payment.

What if I had taken the job teaching 7^th and 8^th grade at the little Catholic school in southern Illinois? It was a huge decision at the time: Do I take a teaching job to make use of my college degree and fulfill my idea who I might be? I went for the bucks instead, a higher paying job utilizing my typing class from high school enhanced by a glossy diploma for a B.A. in English. Foregoing teaching for the business world led to my degree in computer science, my move to California, meeting my husband John. At the time, I only compared salaries: $5,000 per year to teach, $8,000 per year to type. The math seemed simple, if a little disappointing. And it has led to this wonderful life.

What if I had said yes to the proposal from a precious high school love, who purchased a new car and drove it from the dry, high plains to the humid hills of Missouri to convince me? I said no because I was afraid. I was afraid it would go wrong, that our youth and foolishness would burn up something sweet and good. My path had taken me a different way. I made a lame excuse but it was still no. It was the right answer, I know now. So often you don’t get to know if a choice like that was right and I am grateful now to know. He has had a remarkable life with children and grandchildren and adventures he would not have had with me. My life has been full of adventure too, adventures of a different kind. And we did both find the right ones for each other.

I could get stuck on the fact that my family isn’t particularly close. We are divided by geography, our parents’ choices and our own strongly held convictions, a stubborn streak we all consider character that is likely genetic in its intensity. We are politically opposite, opinionated on guns, money, crime, loyalty, tradition, care for the needy and perhaps even how to build a fence and why. But I revel in the closeness we do have, what I have worked hard for since I was a child, bent with the grim determination that love will, TOO, conquer all, darn it. And we have all learned what topics to tread lightly on but it is only in my generation’s greying age that we have learned better how to take those light steps, when to say something and when to just let others be. In those light steps, we have been able to cross barriers that were too bitter for earlier generations. We have made progress.

I love the beauty of an old-fashioned Christmas and love the images of more than 100 years ago showing Santas and angels, holly and ivy and mistletoe. These are the images of memories of what might have been, what approaches my memory of the Spirit of Christmas: that kindness and hope can, for a moment, heal the devastating pains of loss, the ache of unfulfilled wishes, the confounding of the illusion that if you work hard you must succeed, the outrage of loss of control.

With the flood of memories and near-memories, it can be hard to realize that this Christmastime is the important part. It’s fine to remember, but don’t get lost there. It may be a movie you can play over and over again but you can’t step into it and be there. You’ll lose today which will become the new memory to regret next year. That’s why healers so often recommend to “live in the now.”

Christmas Eve I rose from my reverie to dress for dinner at Gerry’s house. I was partway there, nearly ready to put on my long red dress when I stepped into the kitchen and glanced into the dining room.

Quincy, our rescued cocker spaniel, lay asnooze on the red oriental rug. But something was wrong. All around him were strewn the remains of a one-pound box of chocolates. Wrapping, brown papers and half-eaten chocolates along with what had been the long narrow cardboard box dotted the dining room floor. Perhaps seven chocolates were left. Quincy was breathing but otherwise still.

A laugh caught in my throat. It would have been funny except chocolate can be deadly to dogs. More than a chip or two can cause pancreatitis and death. We woke Quincy up from his stupor and walked him around.

“He looks like he swallowed a Studebaker!”

My dismay grew as he waddled unsteadily on his doggy pegs, his stomach distended on both sides and tight. John started making calls and found a vet hotline. One household remedy involving hydrogen peroxide and a turkey baster and some serious walking around the backyard later, and Quincy gave up most of what he had gobbled down. I had momentarily panicked, remembering there had been a ribbon on the box, then realized I found it in the debris I had swept up. When John and Quincy came back upstairs, the dog had resumed more or less ordinary canine proportions and was wagging his tail. He resented the indignity of the home remedy, still snuffling from the bit that went up his nose.

We watched him for a while longer, then went to Christmas Eve dinner a little late, barely in time for the present exchange and happy to have cooling leftovers with the family we adopt as our own. We all tired earlier than usual this year and retreated to the comfort of home.

This morning we woke up to the goldfinches fussing over the feeder. Quincy was snoring loudly like any other Tuesday. We all went out to Christmas fan and unwrapped our presents, just a few because we agree we don’t need much. Sitting here I realized that I got my dog for Christmas, my dog, my cats and my loving husband. All is calm. Now.

Best. Christmas. Ever.

Best wishes.

Love Potion No. 9

Valentine Greetings from No. 9! That’s my town, Vallejo, California, just named no. 9 in the Most Miserable Places to Live list recently published on a web page near you. OK, it’s raining today but other than that, honestly I’m not in agreement with the survey results. I think I’d know if I were miserable.

Picture Postcard Tarot
(c) Copyright 2010 Marcia McCord

Of course, I am a big proponent of people being able to create their own version of happiness. One of the happiest sights I’ve seen in my life was in the middle of what this survey would likely call a Most Miserable place to live. My father, brother and I were driving from Missouri to Alabama. I was going to stay with my grandmother for the first time ever. I was 18.

You’d have to know something of my family dynamic to understand why I was finally getting to visit “Grandma.” She would roll over in the plot if she thought I really called her that. Her name, I was told by everyone including her, was “Grandmother McCord.” Doesn’t sound like a term of endearment, does it? I was visiting her based on the assumption that no one on the planet could be as evil as she was made out to be in my family mythos.

There was, of course, a little history to go along with the reputation. Our first encounter was years earlier. She came to visit us when we lived in Florida. I was 5 or so, before our neighbor told me I was going to hell for lying about my age on television.

My brother and I were terribly excited about getting to meet her. Our idea of a grandmother was something like Mrs. Santa Claus, cookies, hugs, happy to see us, tell us stories, interested in our art projects, that sort of grandma stuff. We all turned out at the airport to pick her up. I was in awe of her. I looked up. She did not stoop to greet me. She did not hug. She did not smile. She had blue hair, a popular affectation among the grey-haired beauty-shop goers of the time (the alternative was pink which I don’t think would have suited her).

My brother, older by a year, stepped forward to offer his hand and greeted her, “You’re looking lovely today, Grandmother McCord.”

Grandmother McCord looked down at him, tight-lipped, arms still crossed, and said, “You are well coached.”

He wasn’t. He was trying to be nice. We were articulate children which in comparison to our contemporaries sometimes made us appear monstrous. He never expected that our Grandma-person would disapprove of a polite greeting. That whole visit turned out to be something of a lose-lose scenario and we didn’t try it again.

I didn’t put all the pieces of the puzzle together until just about everyone involved had died but apparently there were a few unresolved conflicts that remained forever unresolved.

Still, I was hopeful that Grandmother had gotten over her case of annoyance at our existence. I had been writing to her every week for a couple of years, initiating contact out of the blue. She was my only living grandparent after all. I figured if she actually got to know me, she’d like me. By the time I was 18, I had been invited for a visit and I was very excited. My mother declined the opportunity for a road trip to deliver me, saying she had to mind the shop. Actually, she was pleased never to speak to her mother-in-law again. My father felt he would need at least some kind of reinforcement and insisted my brother come, too. I’m not sure how long it had been since my father had spoken to his mother.

Against her wishes, well, most of Grandmother’s life events could start out that way. It seemed like a good start. She was nearly a child bride to an older man whom she apparently loved. My father was her first child and by all accounts as cute as a bug. He was like a baby doll for her. My uncle Max was born a couple of years later and by then the whole drudgery of taking care of children had soaked in. No one was as cute as a bug to Grandmother any more. But still it was pretty clear that my father was her favorite. My grandfather, for reasons we will probably never know clearly, killed himself when my father was a young adult. In her grief, Grandmother called for my father and specifically not my uncle, confirming their sibling rivalry. Grandmother had enjoyed playing bridge and golf at the country club in their town in Kansas, but was forced to go to work. Years later, my uncle moved her to live in one half of a duplex on a former plantation in Alabama, a place Grandmother considered heathen and primitive. It was officially “Not Like Kansas,” tantamount to the expulsion from Eden.

I was unaware of the details of the fury, jealousy and anguish that lay within the family. So many things are not spoken of although sensitive children always know something is wrong. And yet, I reasoned that whatever it was, I had not done it, so that I might strike up some sort of relationship with this elderly woman before she died. So there we were on the road and I had the whole backseat to myself to mull over the years of bad feelings and isolation in my family.

It was nearly evening and we were driving through fields and woods in Mississippi. I had marveled at the changes in countryside when I noticed a wooden house with no paint, no glass in the windows and a rusted tin roof. There were no power or telephone lines. There was no car. There was a man sitting in an old rocking chair, rocking rhythmically and singing at the top of his lungs. By all I had been told about our places in the world, I should have been afraid of this man, afraid of his color, for he was black, afraid of his poverty and even afraid of his joy. But I watched him sing, his few teeth showing browned by snuff or tobacco, and watched him rock in his rocking chair. And I waved and smiled. And he waved back and kept singing and smiling.

He lived in what was then likely to rival that year’s 9th most miserable place if they had had such a survey. Yet, he had the secret that eluded my family, the secret of the 9 of Cups. He understood that he might not be able to change his poverty or other circumstances. But he could figure out how to be happy himself with a rocking chair and the setting sun.

So, I have to push back on that No. 9 thing they just put out there for my town. Sure, our town is known for its famous bankruptcy, but we actually do still have running water, electricity, elections, church spaghetti feeds, school reunions, and quite a few restaurants. I have nice neighbors and interesting friends. I don’t mean to say there haven’t been hard times, but I’ve seen those hard times all over. And yet, like that happy, happy man in the rocking chair, it is possible to find joy, even in good ol’ No. 9.

Happy Valentine’s Day!