Safe at Home

I grew up in a family where a little drink now and again was acceptable. I remember bravely trying the beer at the bottom of my mother’s glass when I was 4 or so only to affirm and occasionally re-affirm my dislike of the brew. I don’t mind that others do like it, of course. It’s just not for me. I mean, why not just eat raw bread dough and be done with it?

As much as I hated and still hate beer, I like wine a bit more. I once captured a case of Sutter Home Reserve Red Zinfandel which I cherished lovingly until it was gone and even kept the wooden box around as a reminder for a while. That was some good stuff, raspberries and pepper, mmm-mmmm!

At the time I was pleased with my purchase, recommended by a friend who worked at Sutter Home in the Napa Valley. Later I learned that it was a coveted year and I had wasted it on evenings of grilled steaks in the backyard with the Hubs. I with my untrained palate and all felt a vague sense of unworthiness since other people who knew what they were drinking were devastated to learn that the case was long gone. I shrug.

I remembered buying really excellent Cabernets in the 90’s and watching them go out of my price range. Seriously, I’m not going to pay that much for wine. This is why I will always be small time when it comes to wine tasting. But I do so enjoy the local fruits and the ability to take advantage of living so close to fabled wine valleys. They call where we live the “Carneros” district. I think that means the cow pasture. If it doesn’t, it should.

Mom and Dad would order a glass of Rhine wine for me at dinner sometimes starting when I was 11 or so. The waitresses would roll their eyes, but it wasn’t exactly banned if your parents ordered it for you. I never had more than one glass, often unable to finish that one. I remember the wine, called Wedding Veil, and thinking some ominous thoughts associated with that.

My parents, when speaking to each other in normal tones, liked to remember their days in Washington, D.C. when Daddy was stationed at the Pentagon. They indulged in gourmet dining, the ballet, and the opera while they were there, before my brother and I were born. I calculated that this coincided roughly with their romantic dating phase which ended pretty abruptly never to resurface except in fond memory of dancing and cherry blossoms. They wanted us to appreciate good food, good wine, good entertainment, good literature, good music and of course good manners.

That may seem a little shocking in our health-conscious times now, I know. It wasn’t that unusual to give a kid a sip now and again in the 1950’s and 1960’s though.

It wasn’t that they were unaware or unconcerned about the negative effects of alcohol, rich food and such. It’s just that they never drank enough to even be tipsy, except the one time my Dad agreed to have dinner with my prospective in-laws during the Hubs-1 era.

That day he had tee martoonies and I was shocked, a little amused, but mostly shocked. He laughed, he giggled, he talked and then he went home to my mother who had refused to attend, something that should have shocked me but by then was actually expected. I don’t know what the conversation was that day. I’m just glad I missed it. Did you meet my mom, the Queen of Swords? Yeah, that was one more “everybody duck” moment in our happy home.

Mom liked her beer, sometimes wine and sometimes some kind of variation on a whiskey sour made with store brand grapefruit soda. She would have a drink in the evening. It wasn’t lots of drinks. It was a drink. It seemed normal. Now I realize she should never have had it with untreated major depression. Alcohol is the opposite of what she needed.

Alcoholism never occurred to her. I think she was pretty sure it ran in other people’s families. But you never knew. She had a momentary terror when she discovered my brother as a baby making nightly forays to the refrigerator to chug wine. She dashed immediately to the pediatrician with the little sot, apparently with visions of infantile dry-out clinics and baby delirium tremens. The doctor, they told me, laughed out loud and explained that my brother the great explorer was teething and the wine made his gums feel better. Welch’s Grape Juice was the approved substitute and after that, even with all his teeth, my brother was seldom without grape juice.

One thing I did appreciate about my parents’ more relaxed attitude about drinking was one of the more reasonable house rules starting when I was in junior high. By the time I had the idea to ride in cars with boys but of course was not allowed to, there were enough of my schoolmates’ older siblings who had been in terrible drunk driving accidents.

In Portales, New Mexico in the 60’s and 70’s driving was one of the few forms of entertainment. We lived in a “dry” county but that didn’t stop kids from driving the 20 miles up to Clovis to attempt to purchase beer and wine with faked ID’s or an older degenerate friend. By the time most kids wanted to experiment with alcohol, I knew that Coors Lite was the junior high beer and that I didn’t want to be anywhere near kids who had been drinking and driving.

“Now, if you want a drink,” Mom pointed to the built-in bar in the family room of the house we leased across from the hospital, “there’s the bar. Make a drink. Stay at home where you’re safe.”

One evening I took her up on her offer. Mixology was not something I read about when I read nearly every book in the library that one summer. It just wasn’t interesting. So, when I determined to create my masterpiece, I started from scratch. I settled on rum, which my parents did not care for particularly so it must have been a gift, mixed with 7-Up for its fun fizzy effects and grape Kool-Aid, all on the rocks.

I note this recipe to you in the earnest attempt to help you learn from the mistakes of others. It was quite dreadful, really. But it was mine. I gulped down my creation and retired to a luxurious bubble bath worthy of Cleopatra where I sang “Winchester Cathedral” at the top of my lungs in a falsetto that turned my throat into road-rash. I didn’t drown. I was safe, at home, just like the 9 of Pentacles, surrounded by only local hazards.

Sometime during the evening I donned a bathrobe, found a clean cotton mop-head to use as a wig and performed “Winchester Cathedral” for my parents who laughed until they cried and guided me wisely to bed to sleep off my over-indulgence.

That actually did the trick. I really didn’t want a drink again until after I was 21 although I took a swig of Annie Green Springs now and again. There was no romance in drinking for me.

I do still like to sing in the bathtub though. And that still makes people laugh, especially the people next door.

Best wishes.

Saint George and the Lizard

You know that telephone call that you dread? It comes when you least expect it. It came the night before last. Our friend Saint George (not his real name) called with an emergency. I immediately put the television on mute, sensing the urgent nature of the call to The Hubs’ cell phone. OK, I was nosy too.

It’s just that emergency phone calls from Saint George’s house might be anything from an invitation to dinner to his youngest son’s latest stand-up comedy routine. You can’t beat comedy from an 11-year-old.

But, no. This was a different kind of emergency.

It seems Saint George had thought to treat his oldest son’s pet lizard to a bit of afternoon sunshine, something that doesn’t always happen in San Francisco in July. After the lizard spent the afternoon in what appeared to be spa-like luxury, it ate a hearty meal of a jumbo cricket, went to sleep and, well, you guessed it. The lizard shuffled off its mortal coil.

After some nudging and prompting, Saint George had to admit he probably had slain the dragon, even if it was a 6-inch Western Fence Lizard. Wracked with shame as any father might be at the accidental demise of a child’s pet, even if the child is 17 and probably knows everything (just ask), Saint George called my husband.

Naturally, you’d think of my husband when you have a dead lizard emergency. He’s that kind of guy. The surprise was that the call wasn’t about what to do with the lizard. Mrs. Saint (actually that has to be her real name because that adorable woman has three sons and Saint George to deal with day in, day out) and I would probably agree on a simple trashcan-over the cliff into the hedges-flush it down the toilet disposal arrangement. A moment of silence might be warranted.

No, the emergency was that Saint George needed parenting advice from my husband, a man who has raised no children through no fault of his own or want of trying. The Hubs of course does have a heart as big as all outdoors and an easily shared font of suggestions. This is why he’s the guy you call with your lizard emergency.

I had some sympathy. After all, where in the parenting magazines or websites, where in the psychology books, in the instruction manual that comes with every child, where, I ask you, does it say how to break the news of the death of a pet lizard to a creative, sensitive, cranky, hair-triggered 17-year-old?

Saint George had a moral dilemma. Should he confess his reptile negligence and insensitivity and admit up front that he probably killed the lizard, mysterious as the death was? Or was a cover-up called for?

I voted for cover-up, especially after I did a quick internet search on the proposed lifespan of a Western Fence Lizard in captivity. First, let’s get the legalities out of the way. It’s not an endangered species, well, not in general. I’m not sure I’d let Saint George lizard-sit for me. Then again, I don’t have a lizard.

As it turns out, if Fluffy—I call it Fluffy because I don’t know the lizard’s real name and there are probably HIPAA laws about releasing a specific lizard’s health issues to the general public—if Fluffy were a boy lizard, he would have rather an intense blue underbelly. If Fluffy were a girl, she would make more subtle fashion choices. There are several sub-species of the Fence Lizard, which turned out to be too much information for me, but one of the things they like doing is hanging out on fences and rocks in the sun.

This characteristic seemed to point to the innocence of my client, Saint George, who was still inconsolable or at least still in a quandary about the right way to handle the dead lizard thing. Fluffy probably enjoyed its moments in the sun.

“Seriously,” I called to The Hubs across the living room, “the prisoner exercised in the yard, ate a hearty meal, and, if you’ll excuse the expression, croaked.”

The Hubs waved me away, trying to keep from crying and laughing at the same time. We did, however, have the same idea on next steps. Put Fluffy and his habitat back in Number One Son’s room and wait for the disappointing discovery.

“Are you sure it’s dead?”

I read further in Wikipedia.

“They hibernate! Maybe Fluffy had the big warm up, ate the big cricket and is taking a big snooze instead of the Big Sleep.”

Saint George assured us that the lizard was pretty darned dead. I wasn’t sure we were giving the box-seats coaching advice we had been called for.

The call was over. I had missed something.

“Hey, what happened? Is he going to just put Fluffy back in the kid’s room or what?”

“No,” The Hubs harrumphed. “He’s going to call him and tell him!”

We rolled our eyes. It was asking to be berated by a 17-year-old. I mean really, how close can a kid and his Western Fence Lizard be, anyway? Did it fetch? Did it photobomb with the family? Did they have matching leather jackets? Did it whistle or tap-dance?

“WAIT!” we both said at the same time.

“Who’s the patron saint of lizards?” The Hubs asked me. I know stuff like this.

“Saint George, of course. You know, Saint George and the dragon?” After all, like all patron saints, perhaps a small donation to a worthy charity might bring about a Lazarus-like lizard miracle.

“Right,” he said, dialing our distraught daddy-friend back. “SAINT GEORGE!”

It was, of course, too late. Our friend just happens to be the nicest guy besides my husband and felt morally compelled. He had immediately called Number One Son and told him The Awful Truth, just like the Knight of Swords riding off to vanquish evil and stand for truth, justice and the American Way.

“Well, shoot,” I pouted after The Hubs got off the phone the second time. I was waiting for the surprise Facebook postings upon the awful discovery, the hunt for the perpetrator, the whole drama.

Coincidentally, one of our tarot community members, tarot creator Ciro Marchetti, however, did provide the best little ever-so-slightly Photoshopped snap of an iguana who had wandered into the open back door of his Florida home. I sent it to Saint George’s Number Two Son who had stood by quietly in all the drama and snickered the way the middle child can at such events. Perhaps this will cheer the crepe-draped halls while they heal from the loss.

I hear they are thinking of getting a snake now.

Best wishes.

***^^^***

My deepest sympathies to the community of Aurora, Colorado, and all affected by the recent horror there. To all the responders who helped, shielded and comforted those who were there, and to Christian Bale for visiting hospitalized victims of the shooting, thank you.

Things to Do During Mercury Retrograde

I thought I would take a positive spin on the usually-tricky Mercury retrograde season. OK, for the people who think this is all bosh I must toss you a bone and say, no, no one really thinks planets move backwards. Really! You’d think we were talking about magic or miracles or something. No, retrograde just means the apparent backward movement of planets. It all has to do with relative movement and things you can look up in more authoritative sources than this. You aren’t coming to me for this kind of information, are you? OK, that’s settled.

Now, we’ve just entered a Mercury retrograde time, one of three times a year. It’s a time associated with computer malfunctions and communication errors. This sort of thing tends to make people addicted to Twitter and Facebook cringe since our current fashion is to communicate electronically, the faster the better. Shut that down and, golly, we’d have to go outside, read a book, do some gardening, clean house, all those thing we put off because we spend too much time with our computers. Think of the horror! What was life like before smart phones?

What’s that you say? You’ve lived through every one of these so far? Me, too. It’s the annoyance of the little things that go wrong that get you during these things. But there’s a something positive you can do when the electronics and communications planet goes into reflection mode. Maybe even more than one thing.

One of the recommendations during a Mercury retrograde period is to review things that have already happened instead of starting something new. That’s not such a bad thing, is it? It’s a “bloom where you’re planted,” “shop in your own closet,” and “read the books you’ve already bought” sort of message.

Unlike most of my buddies, I’ve never watched Game of Thrones. What a great time to catch up since the reruns are available On Demand. I know it isn’t the best exercise, but watching the politics of a fictional realm puts a softening aura around the politics of the real world. I started watching and realized I had seen at least parts of the first two episodes already, making it an even better Merc Rx deal; it’s about the do-overs. The Hubs points out that this is merely Dallas for the unelectrified.

While I’m writing this, I’m watching the first season episodes and thinking I had hoped to see more about the dire-wolves than I have so far. But so far I like all the animal references, like sending a raven instead of Potter’s owls and the horse culture who doesn’t believe in crossing water deeper than a horse. If only our own politics were as entertaining as George R. R. Martin’s mind.

Sean Bean as our hero has certainly a pleasant image as the voice of moral leadership on GoT. I remember Dawn French’s Vicar of Dibley had a crush on Sean Bean. That’s a series that’s swallow-your-gum funny if you haven’t seen it. Dawn French is one of my favorite funny actors.

Those who admire Diane Lane’s stunning performance in Unfaithful should also admire French’s Vicar, charged with the spiritual life of her village as one of the few female vicars and also charged with, um, admiration for Sean Bean. The play of conflict and desire is no less gripping than Lane’s Oscar performance and funny too. Such a human comedy is Dawn French. Sean still looks good to this old girl in GoT.

However, I read in the descriptions that the show purposefully portrays the actors somewhat in need of a bath. Watching sweaty barbarians who seldom change clothes, I am reminded that my mother’s vision of “smell-a-vision” as the next big thing and I am grateful technology went for color and high-definition instead.

“What’s that smell?” your friends would hop back in horror upon entering the TV room.

“Oh, we were just watching the Game of Thrones. Let me put the fan on and open a window.”

What might have been is not always a candidate for wistful longing. Just saying.

Besides going through cob-webby entertainment, there are other Merc Rx things to do. For instance, I have unfinished needlework projects I would like to resume. Much better to resume an old project than start a new one when Mr. Tricky is looking backwards.

Where to start? I have a fabulous purse I was mid-stitch from a stunning Celtic knot pattern in blues and turquoises which has sat for a while. If I finish it, and I really should, it will be breath-taking with the jacket I started earlier this year. I have everything I need to make it so resuming that project seems like the obvious choice. And there are some ornaments that the Hubs stitched that I have meant to finish. I could do that in time for Christmas and they wouldn’t take long. There’s at least one ornament of mine to finish too. Hmm, there’s a theme here. And there’s a tea cozy I started. Oh, and a case for a deck of tarot cards. This stack is taller than I thought at first glance.

The thing not to do while pawing through my “UFO” or unfinished objects pile is to start yet another new project. This might be a great time to research and plan for the next project, though. The fine line between planning and actually starting it up, like listing supplies needed as opposed to actually obtaining those supplies, can be the tricky part.

Have you ever cleaned out a closet and gotten distracted by the “lost” treasures you unearth? It’s something like having a pity party only a lot more cheerful. The result is the same though. You didn’t really get anywhere with the project. You were distracted by your old stuff, whether it was a box of fragrant soaps you had forgotten or a hasty choice you regret. A retrospective should have a useful outcome even if it’s just to remind you that you don’t need to buy soap because you have some or that sometimes, hanging around like the Hanged Man, it’s better to rest your usual nature and just reflect. Inaction is a choice too.

Well, heck, there goes Sean Bean. OK, no more spoilers. I’ll be hanging with the reruns.

Best wishes.

The Shoe on the Other Foot

Remember wardrobe malfunctions? Yeah, me, too. I think I told you all about my swimming suit catastrophe in high school. That was an accident. Strictly speaking, it was a series of accidents, the kind of cataclysm that makes you think there has to be something to waking up under the wrong stars. My mother used to quip, “I should’a’ stood in bed.” But the keyword on that unfortunately funny day was accident.

There’s no way I could have known that not one, not two but three bathing suits would, uh, let me down, so to speak, all in one day. It was my own personal disaster movie.

And then there are those self-inflicted wardrobe malfunctions.

I know there is a classic dream sequence that goes something like you are standing in front of your classroom reading your book report when you happen to notice that you have forgotten to dress for the day and you are (fill in the blank) nude, still in your pajamas, in a clown suit or otherwise embarrassingly not ready for prime time.

Seriously, stuff like this really happens. Maybe you’ve been there?

Like many of my contemporaries, I am half-convinced that today’s fashions actually free a person from the fear of wardrobe errors. After all, if it’s OK to display various sections of your undergarments as a fashion statement, doing so by accident could at worst be seen as an ambiguous style choice. Which is worse? The classic tradesman dorsal cleavage, or purposefully having your pants waist somewhere south of your own waist? At least the tradesman can stand up and resolve the problem although by that time the viewers’ eyes may have melted right out of their skulls. There’s a scene from one of the Indiana Jones movies that comes to mind when faced with the unexpected moon shot. There but for the grace of, well, you get the idea.

But we’re used to thinking of these things as something to resolve or better still avoid rather than parade. So when the younger folks present themselves with what we would consider at the very least a hobbling trousers-and-drawers combination, we blurt before we can stop ourselves, “Pull up your pants!”

Oh, yes, yes, I know that the baggy pulled down thing is supposed to indicate that one might be concealing something more than the usual equipment, perhaps a deadly weapon, in the extra space created between the wearer’s natural branching and the britches hung low. For me, of course, the deadliest weapon is the laugh-inducing, blushing in sympathy, head-desk inspiring vision of a young person trying to be cool. I’m sure there’s a more up-to-date word for cool now, but in the effort to keep my embarrassment at a distance I have not kept up with the latest patois.

It becomes astonishing to us to learn that the victims of terminal embarrassment we are trying to save are actually ourselves. It’s quite certain that the pants fashionistas feel pride, not shame at their selection. Why, I remember fondly when one’s choice of foundation garments was a secret sense of pleasure at the surprise it would bring that special other person when breathlessly revealed. No, that wasn’t in the 19^th century or in a Bronte novel. So the sudden revelation to an unintended audience was, well, it wasn’t a fashion choice.

Ah, but what about those unwitting choices we make? One of the hazards of the workaday world is that we have to dress for the public and admittedly more conservative professional environment before we are fully awake and often without the benefit of proper lighting.

The key here is preparation. When it came to getting ready for work, this was never my strong suit, no pun intended. I dressed according to my mood for work. If I felt gloomy and dark that morning, I would wear something appropriately sepulchral if only in color. If I felt bright and cheery, I went with pastels all the way. Felt like blending into the woodwork? Beiges and browns, of course! And I never wanted to pick the mood-o-day mode-o-day the night before. No, the day deserved its own mood.

Naturally, this made getting ready in the morning a bit of a daily crisis, which served doubly as a natural sort of double espresso. There’s nothing like a time deadline to get things right when you’re half asleep, dressing in the dark and terrified of being late to work. Anything that went the least bit wrong was magnified.

In hot and humid Illinois summer mornings, I would regularly ruin 3 or 4 pairs of pantyhose by putting my thumbs through them trying to drag them up my humid skin. There was no cure for this except having many, many pairs of pantyhose. God forbid that I wear hose with runs in them or not wear them at all. It wasn’t done. I kept spare pairs in my desk drawer. I did the same with earrings because nothing could horrify me more than the sight of myself, finally awake in the office ladies room with earlobes with holes and no earrings.

Nothing could save me from myself ultimately. My shoe habit, for the purchase of so many pairs of shoes could only be described in terms of addiction, often took the form of buying a style I liked in every color available. At least once I looked down at my feet about mid-morning only to discover one blue shoe and one black shoe on my feet, doomed to wear them the rest of the day.

This is the exact scenario portrayed in the 7 of Wands in the RWS deck. Our hero is essentially not quite ready. He is, at least, on top of things, but it’s pretty clear when you look at him that this could change at any minute. This guy is getting no breaks. If you look closely, you’ll see that he has one shoe on and one boot on. Was it a decision made in haste? He obviously has higher priorities at this moment than fashion. Would a little preparation have helped? He is Mr. Wardrobe Malfunction and he will take care of it later, thanks. Please call back when he’s not busy.

This is one of the best reasons I can think of for having a buddy at work, someone who might help you notice that there is some small thing you want to resolve before it really matters to you. When I was a new computer programmer in Illinois, my buddy was Don. Don was happily married, a little older, funny, smart and not too charming; he was The Friend. We talked over coffee in the break room in the morning.

“You, uh, have a rough morning so far?” He raised his eyebrows and nodded toward my waist where hung the belt to my dress, never buckled.

“Thanks,” I sighed, grateful that this one, at least was easy to fix. And as I left the coffee room, I whispered softly to his shoulder.

“Barn door.”

Yup, it’s good to have a friend at work just in case you aren’t completely prepared.

Best wishes.

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!

Good Dirt

“Have you had any tooth pain since that last time we saw you?”

“No,” I said without confidence, feeling certain I would have remembered if my teeth hurt. Tooth pain is something that could make Daddy cry and he was a Colonel and The Bravest Little Soldier Ever if I believed any of the stories he told. Even with everything I have had going on, I was fairly certain I would remember. Dental visits are a lot like the 5 of Cups; no matter what happens, you tend to focus on what you didn’t like.

Tea Tarot
(c) Copyright 2011 Marcia McCord



“No,” I said, this time with more confidence. “Cold stuff, hot stuff, everything seems OK.” Everything seems to get chewed up and land on my hips or some other undesirable resting place. If I can type 110 words a minute, why doesn’t that burn up calories?

Have I had any traditional tooth challenges lately? Well, there was no problem with the corn on the cob last weekend. The television commercials used to show that as a challenge, but I guess that’s if you have dentures. I have my own teeth with a few enhancements in the fillings and crowns department. But under all that they are, at least, mine.

Turtles, I thought. John’s been getting those divine dark chocolate turtles from Lileds down the street. They have thick dark chocolate with hard caramel and pecans. Now if anything is going to destroy good dental health, those turtles would do it. Of course, if anything was going to make a soft landing where I already have plenty of soft landing available, turtles would do that, too.

“You want a turtle?” John will holler from the kitchen about 9 pm.

This is a moral dilemma. Do I do the good thing and say, “No, just another glass of ice water,” or do I succumb to temptation?

“OK, but just one and make it a little one.” John likes companionship in small sins. I reflect on how close the candy shop name “Lileds” is to Lilith. Lilith, the vampire chocolatier, I think. Something about that makes sense but I can’t put my finger on it. Who would need a snake if you had turtles in the garden, after all?

Why is the vegetable stand a farther walking distance from the house than the candy shop? I suppose somewhere in there is the element of choice, right? I chose to buy this house. But, hey, the Universe swatted us with the Big Two-by-Four of Enlightenment years ago and said, “Ya’ eedjits, this house is a BARGAIN you will never see again. Buy it now!” We did.

Can we help it if it’s a short walk to Baskin Robbins or Lileds? Was it my fault they moved the Grocery Outlet across the freeway so I actually have to get in my car to get my bargains now? And China Ocean with its artery-blocking delicious General Chicken is a mere 2 blocks away? My closest bodega is El Dos de Oros, my favorite little Mexican grocery named for, of all things, the Two of Pentacles, sort of what I look like trying to manage a few veggies. It happens to be right across the street from my new little favorite restaurant, Quiero Mas with its fiery salsa, flavorful carne asada quesadilla and low, low prices. Yo quiero mas, no problemo.

But I digress. Have my teeth hurt since the last time I was at the dentist? Well, no. I’ve even flossed and gone out of my way to brush my teeth. I never feel self-righteous at the dentist though. It’s like going to an auditor, on purpose. There’s always something I should have done, something I could be doing better.

Trivia time: So did you know that the leading cause of death, death, I’m saying, in the year 1000 wasn’t dragons or swords or plague or plagues of locusts or mead overdoses or even malnutrition? Nope, it was, [insert dramatic pause here] tooth decay. Tooth decay was a cause of death! Sink your teeth into that the next time you visit your dentist or hygienist for a cleaning.

I was impressed this time with the new-fangled technology the hygienist used. I used to suspect they wore masks and gloves to protect their identities since they were, of course, all trained in advanced interrogation techniques a la Dustin Hoffman and Sir Lawrence Olivier’s mano a mano, so to speak, in that old movie. Is it safe?

Well, it’s safer than it used to be. I remember in my tender twenties having to cry uncle to my lower wisdom teeth which insisted on bouncing in and out of my gums. It was like the cat, you know? They’re out, they want in. They’re in, they want out. Zeesh, make up your minds! My dentist back then looked just like Santa Claus on his off hours, so the visions of sugar plums were all guilt-ridden when I visited him. When the critical moment came with forceps—oh, what the heck, they were pliers in anyone else’s toolbox—they slipped off my tooth and whacked me on my upper molars.

Just like that, like lightning, the reflexes honed over time of being ambushed by my older brother like Inspector Clouseau being ambushed by Cato in The Pink Panther, I did it. I gave Dr. Santa Claus a round-house right to his jaw. He reeled and staggered back, not expecting that from the dainty sweet thing in the pink dress.

“Ho, ho, ho,” he laughed—I said Santa Claus, didn’t I? “I guess we’re even!” I apologized profusely, wondering if anyone ever actually died of blushing and we got that wisdom tooth out without further surprises.

So, no, I don’t remember any tooth pain, I told my pert little hygienist in her blue mask and blue gloves, not black like executioners wear. Then she tipped me back so I couldn’t fight back and turned on the power tools including some PowerWash thing that probably loosened everything up down to my toenails.

Damn, I thought. She’s going to get rid of all the good dirt, too!

“Good dirt” was a theory I had developed during my eight years as a secretary back in the old days. (I refuse to say “back in the day” as if there were only one day; there were seemingly endless days.) The typewriter du jour was the IBM Selectric and if you were really lucky you had a Correcting Selectric. This was where I honed my words per minute fingers of flame. Computers came much, much later. Please, no older than dirt jokes, ok?

Inevitably the IBM Repairman, a concept of employment no longer remembered by most people, would come around to service your typewriter. This, I say, had all the charm of the less savory, more barnyard sense of the word service, so I would always step away to be spared the vision of That Man Putting His Hands on my precious machine. And just as inevitably, he would ask, “Have you had any problems lately?”

“No,” I would reply truthfully. “She works like a charm.” Those Selectrics were great workhorses.

When I would return after a discreet amount of time, just as inevitably, something would go wrong with my typewriter.

“It’s the good dirt!” I complained. “That guy took out the good dirt that was holding this thing together!”

He would return, make some adjustments and things would be back to normal again.

Stepping out of the dentist’s office after having negotiated my release for a small fee called a “co-pay” that makes you think someone else is somehow helping you with the payments when it’s just your premiums at work, I wriggled my jaw around. I felt rearranged. Numbers 30 and 31 were a little loose, they said. They call your teeth by numbers just so they don’t have to call them by name. Cowards. That girl took out the good dirt, I swear. And they want to know when I want to come back and do this again.

Best wishes.

Animas

The Animas River runs through Durango, Colorado. Formally, Rio de las Animas Perdidas or River of Lost Souls, its dark blue waters with frothy rapids make a rafting recreation haven in the summer for a place usually associated with skiing and the Durango and Silverton Railroad. The water looks cold, which looked wonderfully inviting earlier this week with temperatures in the 90’s.

I was there for my brother-in-law’s memorial service. I wanted to be there for my sister. I wanted to see my other family members. I wanted to talk with Don’s friends and the people in the small community just east of Durango and the Animas River. The weather promised to be warm and dry, too dry really. It is too close to the dry weather they had for the Missionary Ridge fire of 2002. I could still see the scars from that fire, the trunks of burned trees turning the ridges into hedgehogs but not as cute. In ten years there is regrowth, but it will take a long time for tall trees to take the place of the blackened trunks. The fire did not take everything. Oh, there are closed businesses around the lake but that’s the economy that burned up all the money, not the fire, per se.

Selfishly I was glad to spend a little quiet time with my sister and enjoyed the ride from the airport into Durango to get a tired repaired. I found an egg salad sandwich at the convenience store since I could not imagine eating well enough to buy a sandwich at the airport hours earlier for my 6 a.m. flight. We walked to the public library with her two dogs who were happy to sniff the new smells as we passed by a school playground. We sat in shade with young mothers and their toddlers, the dogs hopeful for a rule-breaking bite, disappointed at my resolve to behave in front of my sister.

Perhaps Marilyn would not have thought the time quiet, I reflected. McCords talk, at least most of them do. It can be hard to find the quiet when you put two or more together. We laughed about the time when she wanted to change the tire on my husband’s car when he had a flat in a parking garage in San Francisco. For practice, she had said. He had been happy to let her do it. Now with bigger tires on a four-wheel drive, it seemed better to have an expert do it.

Tea Tarot
(c) Copyright 2011 Marcia McCord

We talked about the arrangements for picking up other relatives at the airport, for food for everyone, for the memorial service the next day. We talked about Don. We walked back to the tire place and picked up the car. We drove to the lake watched by Middle Mountain and the others who stand watch over the little valley, Vallecito. We joked about the time Marilyn’s new car had stalled on the steep drive up to her house and we rolled backwards without brakes to be caught by a willow stump and a power pole, saved from going over the edge to the creek below.

“Don’s going to kill me!” Marilyn had cried once we piled out of the new Subaru that day.

“We’re alive!” I smiled happily and hugged her that day. John and I called it our “backwards and in high heels” trip to Marilyn’s house, high on a ridge at the edge of the San Juan Forest overlooking the little valley and its lake, a ridge that had almost but luckily had not burned in 2002.

We made it up to the house without problems. The dogs were happy to be home and wagged their way to the door. In the thin air of 8,000 feet in elevation, I was once again glad I had packed light, easier on this near-sea-level traveler.

Friends and relatives joined us throughout the afternoon and evening. We told stories. We sampled Don’s legendary wine collection, finding only one or two spoiled bottles. Don’s friends were hikers and skiers, friends for forty years or more. They had funny stories about each other, about Don, about nothing at all. One family of friends told their harrowing story of losing an axle to their camping trailer on their way. My brother and his wife and my niece arrived from New Jersey. Finally, Marilyn’s daughter, whose flight had been delayed, came in, followed by more of Don’s friends. We filled the house with talk and hugs and all the energy of sorrow and love and laughter. We sat around the table into the night.

The service was perfect. We all said so. There was a bagpiper. My brother read a wonderful passage about the wonder of wilderness, of listening to the sounds of water and of how man inevitably changes nature whether he means to or not. I read my blog entry To the Earth almost all the way through without crying. Marilyn scattered Don’s ashes mixed with flower petals, all taken by the wind towards the mountains in the north. It would be where Don would go, I thought, to the mountains with their little crowns of snow. It was his birthday, his scatter-day. The oboe player played the iconic melody from Ken Burns’ Civil War, then “Coming Home” from the New World Symphony. We hugged. We snacked. We dispersed. We retired to Marilyn’s house.

Late that night, the night of the New Moon, I was too hot again, too used to my cool climate near San Francisco. The altitude was evident in my breathing. Ginger lay at the foot of the bed. The night was quiet without even little night noises. The trees stood silent, pointing to the Milky Way. I tiptoed out to the deck outside my room, the room that had been shared by Marilyn and Don in the house they built from Don’s vision. I sat on the chair and looked to the stars who said nothing.

“Filthy Don,” they called him, for a hiking trip that resulted in the hikers being less-than-pristine at the end. Silent Don, I said to myself, hearing his voice in the night as loudly as if he were sitting next to me, for Don was always a quiet man. Somewhere, like the Judgement card in the Tarot, those ashes were rising up past the pointing trees to become the twinkling of stars overhead, not a lost soul like the river’s name. No, not lost. Found.

Best wishes.