Leopards and Their Spots

It's an old adage, but so true. If you're young, and haven't heard it yet, I'll be your mama and tell it to you. If you have heard it, I can see your head bobbing up and down from here, and can hear the small, almost silent "amen, sister."

Leopards do not change their spots, darlin'.

My former husband – no, ex-husband – read the previous post and protested much about the reference to his being unfaithful during our marriage. He said that he had made many mistakes during our six years, but being unfaithful was not one of them.

So, his list of "Provable Facts," (numbered one, two and three) about when he met his current love, when he took her to Utah and when he took her to Florida start seven months after the divorce papers were signed. He claimed malicious libel and intent on my part by writing my blog referencing the emotional pain I was experiencing to cleanse myself of all blame in the matter, and mostly, to getting my dates wrong. I heartily apologize for insinuating he was unfaithful to me with his bride. It's clear now that the woman he took to church the Sunday three days after I left and introduced to all our friends was not the same woman he married.

Here's some provable facts (numbered one, two and three):

1. His sister offered me $10,000 and an apartment rented for a year in my name to divorce him during the first three months of our marriage. I'm really not sure why. Several phone calls between brother and sister ensued after we moved to Kentucky, and she suggested he go visit his former girlfriend from Lexington for attitude adjustments. The same former girlfriend who showed up in the small town we lived in, about 80 miles from Lexington, not two weeks after we arrived. The same former girlfriend he continued to e-mail back and forth during the full course of our marriage, from day one to day none. I did protest, but his connection to her was strong. And he wasn't giving up any of his connections with women to make his wife feel more secure.

2. His brother called me the last few months of our "marriage on paper" and recounted tales of my ex-husband meeting with women on business trips. He said I needed to put on my cowboy boots and kick his ass in court. Which I didn't. And get a medical exam. He stressed the last part. I should have listened a little closer to the last part.

3. He admitted to unfaithfulness during his first marriage. Twice. Maybe three times. With his wife's best friend. I have to give him credit for being honest with me about that. His first wife never had a clue.

I could go on and on about how much I loved this man, and why I was willing to live through the emotional hell my life became just on the hope that he would return to being the charming storyteller of tales, the romantic poet and dancer in the moonlight I met and married.

I wished him congratulations and a happy and healthy life and I meant it. Still do.

But am I over the betrayal, the trust issues, the loss of so many dreams? Nope. That will take more than seven months for me.

Emotional Disturbance in the Field

This past weekend, I was very unsettled. Couldn't quite put my finger on it, but now it seems pretty clear.

I hadn't yet come to the solid realization that there was absolutely no hope that my previous life was over, and I needed to embrace my new one. I've been working like a demon to avoid thinking about my former husband, my old gallery and the friends I left behind in Kentucky. Marrying him had been a leap of faith and I was betrayed in so many ways, yet I carried him in my heart for years after I signed the papers to release him from his marriage to me.

I see where he has married the woman he met during the last year of our marriage. The one he took to Utah to meet his son, the one he traveled to see in Ohio while telling me he was working and the one he took to Florida to get his daughter's blessing. I saw the photo of him standing with his new bride, and I saw my husband there. Not hers.

I had always held out hope that the man I had laughed with, traveled to foreign countries with, and the one who held my heart captive for years would call someday and tell me he had never quite gotten over me.

But, life moves on, it did move on. Time to deal with it.

But, what does one do with all the memories? Pack them up with the photographs and store them in the closet? Bury them in the back yard and hope the dog doesn't dig them up? Sure, we can spend time with others, we can work to forget, we can move to other states, adopt other relatives and hang with other friends....but do they disappear? Dissolve?

As I drink coffee this morning, I know that it's not over for me. It needs to be over.

Wisdom From An Oatmeal Box

If any of you know me, know where my heart lies, understand that writing is as much a part of me as my left hand. I haven't had much time or opportunity to do so, and I sorely miss it.

With the change back to what is now called "standard time," I find myself still tossing and turning at 4 a.m., with the inability to turn off my brain and the driving desire to write and create. I figure it's an hour of time I didn't "normally" have, so here I am, using that hour to work. As usual.

But this work is gratifying to me, even if no-one on the planet knows this blog still exists. It helps me to clear the brain of things I would normally go off on a rant about, and prevent me from possibly being dragged off to some rest home somewhere for alternative therapy.

This morning, it was cold down here in the South. Well, at least cold by our standards. I was a little gnarly from not enough sleep and a sore throat knocking at the door, so warm oatmeal with milk, butter and a healthy dosing of brown sugar was in order. I got out my trusty box of steel-cut Irish oatmeal and fixed a bowl, popped it in the microwave (which, up until now, was only good for popping corn and warming up coffee). As I waited the infinitely long two minutes, I read the box, which had an Irish blessing quoted on the side.

It read, "May you have warm words on a cold evening. A full moon on a dark night. And the road downhill all the way to your door."

Now, I know that sounds sappy at first glance. I know it's the old, typical Irish blessing. But, When you break it all down, and, if you've ever been to Ireland (in October, as I have), it rings so true.

The words invoked memories I had buried for a bit, until I could wrestle with them in proper context. I went to Ireland in October of 2003, when I was newly married to my Mr. Flynn, and we were exploring the southern coast of the country in a small rental car the size of my scooter.

We were sitting in a pub on Halloween, in a very small country village, and we listened to the conversations of the people in the town who had come in for a beverage and some social activity. They hugged and laughed and joked around, some danced a bit after a few pints. I was sitting on a bench by the front window and glanced out at the dusky rock fences, and noticed it was a full moon, and the light was an eerie blue shining off the centuries-old stones. When we finished our own pints, and given several Euro to the little children who came in for "begged treats," we walked back out to the car and saw that the moon lit up the road back to the bed and breakfast, and that it was all downhill. It really was one of the most pleasant, and most relaxing and emotionally fulfilling nights of my life.

I suppose I was meant to see those words reenacted when Mr. Flynn and I moved to Kentucky the following year, into a little town founded by Scots-Irish in the early 1700s. No pubs of course (dry county, of all the horrible realizations), but full moons so bright they took your breath away, centuries-old rock fences and lots of steep hills, one of which was routinely walked by this flatlander on trips to the courthouse. The people of the town, Flemingsburg, were warm and welcoming, and I felt very much at home after a couple of years.

At the end of six years, Mr. Flynn was no longer my husband, and the downhill trek back to my home was gone. I miss the brightness of the stars and the moon, although the harvest moons over the Atlantic ocean are certainly a close second. There were no more warm welcomes from strangers on the street, and the world took on an unfamiliar coldness for a while. But, Florida has once again become my home, and I'm now comfortable in my time and space.

I'm a little distant. A lot more aloof. Almost uncaring.

The last ten years have been the most trying ones of my life. Yet, I am reconnected to my soul, and have learned to say no to the things that are harmful to me, to be more considerate of those that have not experienced the reawakening of this woman's spirit and know my path and where I need to go (and not go). And, those words read from a box of oatmeal have more meaning to me now than they ever would have. They embody all that is pleasant and wonderful in life: Warmness in word and deed, light in the darkness to calm you and an easy walk to an inviting home, wherever that may be.

I Do...Declare

I don't get the opportunity to read much anymore, but I am one of those rare individuals that dearly love a good story, and I recently had the pleasure of reading my new issue of Garden & Gun from cover to cover, including one lovely story about Southern women.

Now, I will heartily defend my Southern soul at the drop of a flyswatter, proudly proclaim my love of fried green tomatoes and red toenail polish (is there any other color?) and can eat one mess o'collard greens, complete with pepper vinegar and ham hocks that would embarrass most grown men.

Everything said was so true, except perhaps the innate love of chubby babies, although my own dear daughter was quite the little cream puff when she was but a toddler. She came by it natural, as her daddy was pretty tall and not skinny and I, well, am a bit on the fluffy side myself.

Southern women have an obsession with their hair, and don't let any of them tell you different. I do not care if it is straight as a board, curly as a Brillo pad or resembles the husk on a corncob, it's always a source of worry for us, in any incarnation. We can say, "Oh, I really don't care how my hair looks," but it's a boldface lie, and we'll admit it if you call us out, with eyes lowered and a blush on our cheeks. We color, cut, curl, perm, straighten and iron until it's practically screaming for a mayonnaise conditioner with extra olive oil thrown in. As for myself, I bleach my hair now, although it does have a lot of, shall I say, natural platinum blonde growing in. I wear it like I've stuck my finger in a light socket, with random sprigs every which way, held in place by a healthy dose of Murray's Pomade and Aqua Net. I like to call it "Jeep Hair," because at the very heart of my adventurous soul lies a 1972 bright yellow Jeep with no doors and a bikini top, and I want my hair to be ready. Now, there are some Southern women who don't do a damn thing with their hair, but that ain't saying they haven't thought seriously hard about it.

The South is more than grits with extra butter, more than "y'all" and more than onion rings at the Varsity in Atlanta. The South is not just mansions among granddaddy oaks, covered in Spanish moss, although that is such a pretty picture that it literally brings tears to my eyes . The South is every bit as refined as the finest haute coutre of Paris and New York, just in our own way. Sure, we wear cowboy boots from time to time. But, they cost every bit of $200, and it's okay to get mud and horseshit on them because, well, that's what they're made for. Here is the South, we use things up and when they're all used up, we find something else to do with them. My own beloved cowboy boots with the unfixable soles are destined to be planters in my garden pretty soon, once I can part with them. Ashes to ashes.

Being Southern is a delight. The weather down here is magnificent, most of the time, and we all understand the hardness of life, as well as the infinite softness. Magnolias are associated with the South, and for good reason. The scent of a magnolia in bloom is overwhelmingly calming and the flower is just as white as the ice cream from Dairy Queen. Yet, the tree is so hardy, it can withstand ice and snow for months on end, only to rise up when the spring begins its thaw.

I love the accent of a true Southerner. A man with a Mississippi drawl turns my head every single time, and when a man opens the door for me, and I don't know him from Adam, I know that he "done growed up" with a Southern mama.

The South holds magic for me, in Charleston and Atlanta, in Cape Fear and Gulf Shores. Little towns, like McIntosh, Florida and McClellanville, South Carolina, where homes are still draped in moss and have sleeping porches, will always pull me off the interstates, no matter what my destination is. Sure, we don't have snow at Christmas, at least most Southern states don't – with the exception of our "northern" Southern states like Kentucky, Maryland and Tennessee, but I can forego that pleasure. I can always travel up there to play in the snow. I like where I live – no, I love where I live. I love what I am, and who I am, and where I am. I'm outspoken, hardheaded, stubborn and yes, quite, quite Southern.

Here It Comes Again.

The Big Decision.

Whether to stay working as a part-time retail person and a full-time artist or take the plunge and go full-time as a retail person and a part-time artist.

This is a hefty decision, and for me, it comes down to one thing: security of a paycheck.

I swore to stay true to my heart and try this full-time artist thing for a year, to see if I could make it work. And, it has worked. But, not without sacrifices. Showing at festivals takes cash – for hotels, for gas, for booth fees and for meals. You can quickly go through hundreds just for the chance to show your work, and pray for good weather and nice crowds, crowds of people that can appreciate your work and want to purchase it. Part-time work allows for the payment of necessary bills, while the added cash from art sales pays for the next show.

Now I'm faced with the opportunity – and make no mistake, it is an opportunity – to work 40 hours a week as a manager, and gain more cash...but less time to be an artist.

My heart says not to give up on my dream. My heart says not to make the jump to something that is not intrinsic to who I am or what I do. My head says I've been living on the good graces of others, and that I should start carrying my weight and to do the right thing.

But, I have this need to create my work, this need to be an artist, to show my work and to have people like it enough to purchase it. I'm afraid that what time I have to myself to create work will become less and less, while the bank account gets a little fatter. Who knows how much time I have left on this earth? Money doesn't buy you time to enjoy the sunlight of the day, or the time to sit and sketch or create art. More money would be an opportunity to do more traveling, but would I have the time to travel? My relationship with my partner suffers enough now. What would happen if all my spare moments were absorbed in creating my art?

It's a ponderous situation. It's evil vs. good, cookies vs. carrots, money vs. time. At the very time when my sisters and friends have retired, and there is more time to spend with them, I will be going back to work, with no time to enjoy those relationships. But, money would allow an easier time of it financially. It might even allow for health insurance and new tires for the truck.

It requires much thought.

The Smells of Home

Funny how things bring you back to another time in your life.

I was at an air show yesterday, and as I caught a whiff of airplane fuel from a vintage warbird starting up, I was almost immediately back in my dad's old 1956 Chevrolet truck. Not sure why. But, the smell was definitely familiar and all at once, my skinny nine-year-old legs were dangling off the ripped upholstery, riding down the old dirt road near our house in the Hammock, while the fresh summer air blasted in through the vent window. Dad was there beside me, Kent cigarette in one hand and the old, worn steering wheel in the other. He had on his typical work clothes, khaki-colored Dickies and clumpy cement-dotted work shoes, and he was casually just taking all the bumps along the road in stride. His truck, faded and dirty as always, smelled exactly like that airplane fuel. A mixture of dirt and heat, metal and leaking gasoline. A smell that is so engrained in my psyche that I could recognize it anywhere.

I went a lot of places in that old truck. We went to Cedar Key a lot, fishing, and the trip was a long one for this girl, and I always fell asleep leaning up against the door, with the wind blowing in my face. We'd go up to the local hardware store in Ocala, when it still had a fountain in the middle of town and board sidewalks down Broadway. He'd pick up lay mash for the chickens, a few boxes of nails and, if I asked him just right, a bag of boiled peanuts from the old blind colored man who ran the fish store at the end of the sidewalk. Yep, I said colored. That's how we referred to people of color...colored. It wasn't a derogatory term then.

He always kept a horsehoe magnet bigger than my foot in the truck. I was fascinated with it and played with it when he went over to the gas station to get his gas can for the lawnmower filled up. Once I played a little too much and pulled up part of the old metal floorboard. Rather than fix it, he just left it be, so that I could sit up on the seat and watch the road underneath go by. Most times, he covered it with an old cookie sheet.

That smell, which to some might be offensive, is something that makes me remember good times back in old Florida, when things were just swimming in the river and running through the woods with my dog, Sandy. That smell makes me remember my Dad and his stocky hands, wrinkled and brown from the sun, holding that steering wheel of old "Petunia," driving down the road at 40 miles an hour, her top speed, while pine straw and bits of grass and leaves blew around in the bed of the truck.

Good memories, and ones that I wish I could recall more often.

Getting That Gold Star

Changing addresses is always a challenge in itself.

Massive boxes of books, heavy furniture, wobbly mattresses and bags of dishes usually means pulled muscles, sore backs and bruises that show up and hang around weeks later. You never know where to put all your old stuff in the new place, because nothing seems to fit like it did before. So, not only do you face the physical frustration of The Move, but you have the stress of Too Many Knick-Knacks, which means stuff's gotta go. If you're moving into a new place by yourself, you can cull out the Too Many Knick-Knacks on your own. If you're sharing a residence, it becomes a "Who-Can-Get-The-Knick-Knacks-Out-And-On-The-Bookcase-First" and it can be an all-out general admission ticket race. When one person leaves the house, the knick-knacks get moved around, and sometimes they get moved into a box in the garage. Then they get moved back when the other person leaves the house. The neighborhood thrift store sees a few of the unfortunates that don't make the grade by either party. At any rate, things eventually find their own places. You start to find the necessary items, like the pots and pans and the hair dryer, and life starts to find a little balance.

Continuing on to do the right thing, you go to the Driver's License Agency, to get your address changed, so that you're all legal and stuff. Now, you used to be able to change your address by just showing something that verified your address, such as a utility bill.

Florida has now instituted something called The Gold Star ID Verification Stamp. Which means that not only do you have to show two forms of identification as a United States Citizen, but you have to show two valid pieces of paper to show that you have actually moved to wherever you moved to. And, you have to get your photo redone, your signature re-signed and you gotta pay $32. All this for doing the right thing and changing your address on your driver's license.

But, for this, you get a little gold star in the upper right hand corner of your newly created driver's license.

Which, by the year 2014, will allow you on an airplane and in government buildings. No gold star, no European holiday.

I dunno. I guess it's all worth it. But, that's a lot of paperwork and money to come up with just for a little gold star.