THE TIME IS NOW

Memories are funny things. Although I can tell you exactly what I was wearing on my first football game/dancing date with my hubby (two different tunic top/bell bottom outfits I had made myself - lavender cotton knit for the game, slinky sparkly dark purple for dancing) , and what music he played the first time I went to his place for a study date (Jethro Tull's Aqualung), my brain doesn't work nearly so well when it comes to remembering where I need to be and when on a daily basis. It never has. Which is why, as soon as I started having babysitting jobs, homework assignments and dates to keep track of, I started keeping an agenda or datebook. And, once Hubby and I got really serious about each other, and it looked like I might be marrying him and going off to live in Southeast Asia, I started hanging on to most of them.

They came in pretty handy when I created my Miss Becky Goes Abroad blog as a place to record the stories of all our overseas adventures. And, of course, I often refer to my current one when writing these posts for my Seasonality blog.

Lately, however, they've been weighing on my mind. Every time I opened my cedar chest at the foot of my bed, and had to dig my way through the ever increasing mass of them to find what I needed, they seemed to feel more and more like a burden, less and less like a treasure. Was it really fair for me to leave these for my kids to deal with, along with all the other crap we've accumulated over the years?

Yesterday the kids were here visiting and Alexis, who is growing more and more interested in small house design, asked if we still had our house plans. Yes we do, but where? In the cedar chest, of course, beneath all of those agendas! So, I dug them all out and piled them in the chair in order to reach the plans. Then, something very strange happened. When I started to put them all back, a very strong voice inside of me yelled "NO! Don't do it! The time is now. Just. Let. Go."

And, instead of feeling distressed, as I always thought I would, I'm feeling a huge sense of relief.

Now, if only I knew the best way to dispose of them! Reckon I can put them in my mixed use recycling bin?

A PARALLEL UNIVERSE

"Tea planters don't encounter much feminine company, as you can imagine -- at least, not the eligible kind. It takes a special kind of woman to make a good planter's wife. Debbie Ashton is a good example. She is independent, free-spirited, and revels in adventure. Other wives adapt best as they can. Some suffer and survive, some run away." ~ Teatime for the Firefly, by Shona Patel

Not long ago I got a message from my sister Poo saying I really needed to read a book called Teatime for the Firefly, by Shona Patel. I figured she recommended it because she knew I loved reading about other cultures, places and times. Little did I know, I was about to relive my own life, and those first days of marriage on the other side of the globe. 

Although it took place in another time and country, the main character and I had much in common.

• Both of us were terribly sheltered and naive, having been raised in a very "homogeneous" community, where everyone lived and thought in much the same way. 
• Both of us married guys we hadn't laid eyes on in over a year (though our relationships had deepened during that time, thanks to the introvert's gift with pen and paper) and were immediately whisked off to a place we knew nothing about, where we would be surrounded by people we had very little in common with.
• Both of us had to grow up fast, and learn to do things such as entertaining the boss, and managing household staff who were older and knew more than we did, so tended to manage us instead. Plus, they were always there, when every introvert's worst nightmare is to be surrounded by strangers all day every day, with never a moment to oneself.
• Both had to learn to deal with our hubby's wild bachelor friends and all their tales of adventures past.
• Both of us learned that danger and tragedy go hand in hand with moments of breathtaking beauty, when living in an untamed place.

About six years ago I finally got around to writing down all the stories I could remember, with the help of those letters, photos, and friends, in the form of a blog called Miss Becky Goes Abroad. I figured someday the kids and grandkids might enjoy reading them. It took me at least a year to get them all down, since they covered about six years in all, in three different places, some as newlyweds and some with elementary-aged kids. Once I was finally done I just walked away, never looking back. But this book...well...it awakened an urge. An urge to go back, and relive it once more.

Read the book for yourself, then click on the link above to read about my very first days of marriage, and see if you find any similarities.  I'm hoping one day Little Goober will want to read some of these stories. Maybe then he will understand why we call his grandpa Adventure Boy, and why I've already got this t-shirt stashed away, for when he's ready to do a bit of adventurin' himself!

MISS BECKY'S RULES OF TRAVEL

  

JUST ONE DAY

I ran out of things to read recently and, by chance, picked up a YA book called Just One Day at the library. I'd been hearing good things about another book by the same author, Gayle Forman, called If I Stay, which I believe has been made into a motion picture.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the book was pretty much about me! Well, teen-aged me, anyways -- the good girl, who always did what her parents and teachers expected of her. The me who got to go on a "once in a lifetime" trip to Europe with her Girl Scout troop, but was ashamed to admit, even to herself, how disappointed she was in Europe-as-seen-from-a-bus.

Fortunately for our heroine, she, like me, meets an Adventure Boy, who whisks her off to Paris for "just one day', and she discovers just how exhilarating it can be to let go of the reins now and then, and to make the most of life's little "accidents." She finds out that, sometimes, getting lost is the best thing that could possibly happen to you!

Our heroine says:

"It's funny how on the tour, we often saw sights like this as we whizzed by on a bus...I'm driving by them now too. But somehow, it feels different. Like, being here, outside, on the back of this bike, with the wind in my hair and the sounds singing in my ears and the centuries-old cobblestones rattling beneath my butt, I'm not missing anything. On the contrary, I'm inhaling it, consuming it, becoming it."

There's even a scene in the book where she takes a job at a cafe in order to earn money to get back to Paris. She is back in the kitchen scraping dishes and loading them into "Hobart", which is precisely what I was doing when I met my own real-life Adventure Boy -- the one who once took me on a month-long jaunt through Europe with no tours, no itinerary and no reservations. Just a tattered copy of Europe On Ten Dollars A Day.

If you're interested in hearing more about my tutelage in the art of "Slow Travel", you might want to hop on over to my other blog, Miss Becky Goes Abroad, which has become the repository for all these tales.

VINTAGE MIND CONTROL

 

STORIES FROM THE HEART: DAY 2

Matilda Butler, co-author of the book Rosie's Daughters, sports her Rosie-the-Riveter kerchief.

Day two at the conference was divided up into three classroom sessions, and one special session. During each classroom session we had four options to choose from, and that was the hardest part of the conference -- choosing only one in each slot, when they all sounded so enticing! Sometimes my buddies and I would wind up in the same class, but often we would split up to follow separate interests. For instance, I chose the class above, led by Matilda Butler and Kendra Bonnett, entitled Expanding Your Publishing Options: eBooks, PODs, Self-Publishing, Oh My!, which ended up being more about marketing and building your platform than about publishing -- a lucky happenstance for me, since I don't have a book to publish, but do have two blogs to market. While I attended this one, both Lynn and Linda attended one called How 20 Minutes a Day Can Help You Become a Better Writer, led by Helen Leatherwood. It was about establishing a writing routine, something I'm already pretty good about. During another session, Linda and I learned all about Writing the Truth: Issues, Ethics and Poetic License from Suzanne Sherman, while Lynn opted for Juicy Writing With Fruits & Veggies, led by poet laureate Jan Seale.

Susan Lincoln is founder of the Hilde Girls, spirit-song circles of  women.

During the "special" session we had the option of a panel discussion on the power of the circle, or some relaxing chair yoga led by Regina Moser. Breaks included book signings by the two memoir writers who had been awarded SCN's first annual May Sarton Award the previous evening -- Leila Levinson for her book Gated Grief, and Jamie Patterson for Lost Edens: A True Story -- and the amazing Susan Lincoln, who actually demonstrated the power of the circle, which I mentioned earlier. I challenge you to join a group of 150 women, hands connected -- first humming like a swarm of excited bees, then chanting Hildegard's ancient, timeless Ave Generosa  -- and to remain unmoved, unshaken.

Linda Joy Myers talks about writing a spiritual memoir.

My only regret was that venturing out to the amazing Eastside Cafe for dinner ended up causing our new little group of friends to miss the Open Mike session altogether -- my favorite part of the whole conference. I was planning to read the story of my becoming a mail order bride of sorts, and being whisked off to Indonesia by a guy I hadn't seen in 13 months, which might have stirred up some interest in my other blog, Miss Becky Goes Abroad, but that was not why I was sad. I was sad because my three compadres, who were attending for the first time, still don't know how earth-shaking and life-altering it can be, to hear a room full of women -- women who, for the most part, have just finally found their voices -- getting a chance to share their stories for the very first time!

New friend Paula, and old friends Lynn and Linda, in the vegetable garden at Eastside Cafe.

Are those tables precious, or what?!

My wild mushroom crepes at Eastside Cafe. Mmmmm!

Still, the company was exceptional, the dinner was delicious, and the blueberry crumble was to die for! Ah well, there's always Stories from the Heart VII, in 2014!

ON WITH THE SHOW!

Miss Becky has finally got caught up with posting all the stories you saw previewed here on Seasonality, and is ready to share some new ones!  Won't you please pay her a visit here?

AN INVITE

Woohoo!  Miss Becky has finally finished refurbishing her new home, and she'd just love it if you stopped by.  You can visit her here.  Y'all come!

WHOSE VOICE WOULD YOU RATHER HEAR: TIME TO VOTE!

I've spent the last couple of days filling out a questionnaire for Michelle, my new blog designer.  Now that it's complete, she hopes to have a first draft to me by tomorrow evening, and we could possibly go live with it by "Wednesday-ish."

One of the questions she asked concerned sense of style (ex: shabby chic, vintage, modern, scrap booky, Victorian, etc), and my reply to her was "Have you ever seen the movies Out of Africa, Passage to India, or Australia?  Well, those courageous British Colonial women who left behind everyone they loved and all that was familiar, to follow a man with a dream, have always been my heroines, my role models.  I think I'd like this blog to feel like it could have been a scrapbook or diary or series of letters  that was written by one of them."  I guess it got me to thinkin', subconsciously, cuz I went to bed with one thing in mind, but as I was coming awake the next morning, I distinctly heard someone say "Well, if you want it to feel like a diary or letters, shouldn't the stories be in young Miss Becky's voice, not yours?"

Whoever that was, whispering in my ear, has a valid point.  The thing is, I'm just not sure I can pull it off.  While it's easy to remember how you felt when something was going on, no one can remember a lifetime of dialogue and details.  Can I make her voice sound authentic?  And what about those memory gaps?  Old Becky is allowed to admit that she can't remember whether it was her entire engagement ring that showed up in the mail, or just the diamond.  All she remembers is chasing around the neighborhood with her mom, looking for the mailman, on the day it was to arrive.  Young Becky can't say "I don't remember", so you'd have to trust me to fill in those gaps to the best of my ability.

Anyhoo, I've taken the liberty of writing an alternative mini chapter, about our long-distance engagement.  This one is written from young Miss Becky's perspective, and has been posted here, on Miss Becky Goes Abroad.  Won't you please be so kind as to give it a gander, then leave a comment letting me know which voice you found to be more compelling?  I'd be ever so grateful!

ALWAYS ON MY MIND

What with all the moving, unpacking and rearranging that's been going on around here lately, the Miss Becky Goes Abroad project had to be moved to a back burner for a while. Nonetheless, she's been ever on my mind. Not long after I wrote this post, my sister sent me the name of the person who does all the design work for one of our favorite blogs, NieNie Dialogues. As it turns out, she is no longer accepting clients. The good news, though, is that she has set up this wonderful website as a source for all things blog related, and it just happens to have a list of professional blog designers!

Yesterday, I finally had the chance to sit down and explore my options. Each designer has an on-line portfolio one can peruse, and it was easy to get a feel for the kind of work they lean towards. Many were into the young hip look, sort of a Mad Men mid-century retro thing. Others preferred the modern cutsey "scrapbooking" feel of Nie Nie's blog. Nope, not what I had in mind for Miss Becky.

Finally, though, I came across one designer who seemed to have a knack for creating a sense of place and time. Each blog in her portfolio had a certain unique ambience or atmosphere-- as if a stage had been set for the story that was about to unfold. I'm thinkin', she just might be THE ONE. Now, if only she'd hurry and get back to me with answers to the 50 or so questions I shot off to her!

THE GIRL NEEDS HELP

Could I possibly have picked a worse time to write, post and present a new book-blog? I've almost completed the rough draft of chapter two in Miss Becky Goes Abroad. Now, if only I had a place to put it!

The problem is, as I was writing this chapter, an image began to form in my head -- of what the blog should look like. John was seriously into photography back in those days, even doing his own printing and developing. Since we didn't have the equipment for color prints, most of our photos from that era are black & white, and the passage of time has given them an aged, antique look. So, in my head, this image of a scrapbook began to form -- but not one of these modern day cutesy scrapbooks. It was an old one, like you might discover in a trunk or attic. Instead of the vivid garden colors called for here at Seasonality, the new one kept telling me it longed for soft parchment and sepia tones, and its banner font should look as if it had been scrawled with an old fountain pen. I yearn to be able to place the photos just where I want them, next to corresponding text, instead of having them placed wherever my Blogger template says they must be, and if they could appear in scrapbook-like frames, or better yet, looking as if they had been stuck to the page with those old-timey corner tabs? Well, I'd just be over the moon. Indeed I would.

Too bad I don't know how to achieve any of this, or if it is even possible on Blogger. Dear Hubby and Son could probably fumble their way around and figure it out eventually, but neither really has the time (you remember what our garage is filled with, don't you?), and I want it now! My son recommended a different hosting service, called Square Space, that seems to be quickly gaining in popularity, but again, it could take me weeks, if not months, to stumble my way to what I want -- months that would be much better spent writing (or perhaps unpacking a box or two?).

So. Anybody got a good banner designer to recommend?

MISS BECKY TAKES A SURPRISING TURN

I really appreciate all the lovely comments you left -- here on the blog, on facebook, and via email -- concerning the Miss Becky Goes Abroad preview that I shared with you. To tell you the truth, I too felt somewhat bereft when it ended, and have found a surprising lack of motivation to move forward, if I can't share it with you as I go along.

I don't know why I'm surprised, though, as it should have been obvious from the start. First of all, I've never been any good whatsoever at keeping exciting stuff under wraps. Just call me Blabbermouth. My exercise habits should have been the next clue. I've never been able to stick with any program unless I had someone holding me accountable. I need to know that my friends will be ticked if I don't haul my ass out of bed and meet them on the corner for our morning walk. I need someone taking attendance, and someone to keep me company while I sweat.

I guess what I'm saying is, I need you in order to write. I write letters, not books. I'm a pen-pal, not an author. It has always been about letter-writing for me: letters to John when he went overseas; letters home to the parents, to let them know I was OK; letters to friends, before there was email; Christmas letters; letters to family when we went back overseas with the kids, and wanted them to be a part of the kids' lives; letters to John when we were in counseling, trying to improve our communication skills; monthly letters to older friends and relatives, who never got on board with email...and you see, the thing about letters is, there needs to be someone on the other end -- someone you are writing to, and who, hopefully, will feel compelled to write back!

Soooo, if Miss Becky is ever to share the rest of her tale with us, I guess she will need your assistance, which is why John is going to help me set up another blog this weekend -- one that will be open to all who are interested.

PREVIEW: MISS BECKY GOES ABROAD (conclusion)

As for that soft bed and hot shower I was pining for? Well, our first night was spent in John’s bachelor quarters at the Pula Rita motel in Merak. He’d been housed in a thatched-roof bungalow with no hot water, and the bed was a goat’s hair mattress on the floor. After an icy-quick shower I climbed into bed, only to discover we had roommates. Various lizards were hanging upside down from the rafters -- some tiny and chameleon-like, others not so tiny. Periodically one would suddenly release those suction cups on its itty-bitty toes, and take a kamikaze plunge to the floor below, or onto our bed. I was probably in the middle of telling John I’d never be able to sleep like this, when exhaustion overtook me. Next thing I knew he was kissing me goodbye and heading off to work.

Before long though, he was back to say “We’re moving!” Though the houses, school and doctor -- which B&R had promised all those coming over on married status -- had yet to materialize, they had managed to lease a few units at Anyer Beach, a small resort that was a popular getaway spot for people from Jakarta. Fortunately for us, one unit had just become available. Not only would we have hot water and a proper bed, our bungalow faced right onto the beach, and on a clear day you could see the volcano Krakatoa in the distance, with smoke coming out its peak!

The next morning, before leaving for work, John said, “Oh, by the way. Housekeeping will come by periodically with fresh towels, and they’ll pick up any clothes we have that need laundering.” “Hold on a minute, Buster! Are you telling me I won't really be doing our laundry in the river?” He just grinned. “What about shopping in that outdoor market?” Again with that grin! “It’s actually a fun place to go exploring," he replied, "as long as you avoid the stinkier parts -- which is fairly easy to do since a van comes here once a week to take all the ladies to a nice little grocery store in Cilegon. They have a few cuts of frozen meat, some canned goods and such.” “Arrgh! How could you mislead my like that, leaving me to fret and suffer all this time?”

John then told me about his friend, who’d only been married a short time when he got offered this position. This fellow’s pretty young wife made him come over ahead of her, to scope things out. He fell madly in love with the job, this place, and his life here, and sent glowing reports home to her. He told her it was an absolute paradise -- Heaven on earth! Sadly, she never even saw it in person. She got only as far as Singapore, then refused to budge an inch further. “So, you see, you should be thanking me for leading you to expect the worst (and by the way, you must reeeaaally love me), for now you get to be pleasantly surprised!” I don’t remember for certain, but I'm thinking I probably bopped him up-side the head at that point.

MISS BECKY GOES ABROAD, continued

CHAPTER ONE
Part Two

Singapore more than made up for any discomfort on the trip over. The sights, sounds and smells of Hong Kong had been a bit over the top for a kid who’d hardly been out of Texas, but Singapore was somehow different. Singapore was exotic elegance -- a fascinating amalgamation of old world and new. This honeymoon was my first experience with luxury hotels, since Dad’s idea of a great vacation always involved fishing and cabins. It was also my first introduction to bidets. Oh, I'd read about them of course, and knew what they were for, but nowhere did it say you must be seated before turning on the spigot, not leaning with your face over the bowl!

At one point John had lived in the Singapore Hilton for a few months, so that’s where he had booked us. Now, picture this little girl from Texas walking through the front doors of this gorgeous hotel, and suddenly being surrounded by people who are saying, “Welcome back Mr. Lane! So happy to meet you at last Mrs. Lane. Please let us know if there is anything we can do to make your stay more enjoyable.” When we reached our room we found fresh flowers, fruit and champagne awaiting us. A girl could get used to that kind of treatment, though I never did. I loved everything about our stay, from afternoon tea at the Raffles Hotel to night markets on Bugis Street, and from Chinese feasts at Bamboo House to flaming dishes prepared table-side at the Harbor Grill. Alas, all good things must come to an end, and a few days later we headed off on the last leg of our journey.

We were met at the Jakarta airport by a Brown & Root driver with a well-worn VW van, and were joined by several other men who were headed out to the fabrication yard. My first impression of Jakarta (which has never been dispelled) was of wall-to-wall people and a thousand beeping horns. Though our destination was only about sixty miles away, the roads were so potted, congested, and winding that the trip took hours. Because there was no air conditioner, our fellow passengers opened the sliding doors on both sides of the van, and I held on for dear life, afraid of bouncing out. Before long, the nausea was back, and I slumped onto John’s shoulder, doing my best not to whimper. The crazy drivers and lack of doors turned out to be a blessing in the end. Since I had to concentrate just to stay in my seat (no seat belts, of course), it distracted me from the nausea, and I was able to make it all the way to the yard without embarrassing myself. That was to come later. I was fairly wrung out though, and I’m sure all I wanted in the world was a nice hot shower and a soft bed, which, in hindsight, is pret-ty dang funny.

At last we reached the fabrication yard, and were able to stumble out of the van. As I stood there, feeling more than a bit bedraggled, several grinning guys came barreling down the steps of the two-story metal office building. There was a flurry of hugs and introductions, then they gathered round expectantly, as if waiting for us to do something. Finally I noticed that a few were darting glances over their shoulders, so my eyes followed theirs. John let out a huge guffaw, but my eyes grew big as saucers and my cheeks turned bright red. “Oh no, John. You didn’t!” There, draped across the upper half of the building, was a huge sign that read “Welcome Home Becky and Fuzznuts.” You see, there were three daughters in my family, and rather than keep up with the names of every guy we went out with, Dad called all of them Fuzznuts -- as in “What’s new with Ol’ Fuzznuts?” I made the mistake of telling John his nickname once, and now, it would seem, the whole world knew! Finally I decided, well, OK, maybe it was kind of funny, and a little snort slipped out. Next thing I knew, I was bent over double, imagining how my parents were going to react when I told them of Dad's infamy...(to be continued)

A PAUSE IN OUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAMMING

Sorry for the lack of posts this weekend. I've been in Houston helping John decide what comes to Wimberley, what goes to Goodwill, etc. The movers pack up the townhouse on the 19th! One bit of good news -- we found several boxes of old photos from that first stint overseas. Soon as I get them sorted and scan a few, you will get the rest of your Miss Becky Goes Abroad preview. I think this shot was taken in the gardens of the old Raffles Hotel in Singapore. I just adore all that British Colonial architecture!

PREVIEW: MISS BECKY GOES ABROAD

Chapter One: Part I

What I remember most about those first weeks of marriage, and our journey to Indonesia, was nausea -- an unbelievable amount of nausea -- and a huge sign hung for all the world to see, which read “Welcome Home Becky and Fuzznuts!”

John had left for a job with Brown & Root, in Southeast Asia, at the end of my junior year. He proposed to me by phone several months later, sent me a ring in the mail, and a few days after graduation I married a guy I hadn’t seen, and barely spoken to, for thirteen months. The next day we boarded a plane, and headed off into the great unknown. Sounds crazy, I know, but what you have to understand is that, though neither of us was very good at sharing our feelings face-to-face, we were both damn good letter-writers. I think it’s safe to say that our relationship progressed more during our year apart than it had in all three years of dating!

The nausea started before we’d even made it out of the States. Since the trip to Indonesia was doubling as our honeymoon, we decided to make a few stops along the way, the first of which was San Francisco. One day we rented a car and drove out to visit John’s maternal grandmother. It was a gorgeous, romantic drive, but the roads were rather twisty, and before long I was hanging my head out the window, hoping the cool breeze would calm my stomach. “Uh, Beck? You OK?” “Oh, sure. I just get a bit carsick now ‘n then (plus airsick, seasick, swing-sick, merry-go-round-sick, and pretty much anything-that-moves-sick). It’s no big deal.”

I did fairly well on the trip to Hong Kong, but we were only a few minutes into the flight to Singapore when a combination of exotic foods, turbulence, and nervousness had me running for the toilets. Every time I tried to return to my seat, I’d get about halfway down the aisle, then have to turn and run back. Finally I just gave up, slid down to the floor of the stall, dropped my head onto my arms, and stayed that way until it was time to land. The lock on the door was broken, and people kept barging in on me, but I was beyond caring at that point. John checked on me periodically, but I assured him he’d be much better off just leaving me where I was.

The reason for my nervousness was that Singapore was the last bastion of civilization on our journey, and after that, there was no turning back. Not long after John proposed to me, I started peppering him with questions about where we would be living. Finally he sent me a packet of pictures, including one shot of some women doing their wash in a muddy river, along with a few water buffalo. It was labeled “Our local laundromat.” Even more disturbing was the shot of the outdoor market where he said I’d do most of my shopping, with its huge slabs of meat covered in flies. It was a far cry from paradise, but I figured “Hey, if John and his coworkers can hack it, then I durn well can too!" My parents weren't nearly so optimistic...(to be continued)

P.S. Ever heard of Walker Railey, the Methodist minister who was accused of trying to strangle his wife when she found out about his affair with the bishop's daughter (though nothing was ever proven)? Well, that's him over on the left side of our wedding photo