Open an Egg Carton and Read

It's 1:00 am.  I'm wide awake with jet lag, having returned to Moscow a couple of days ago.  I sit in our living room looking out at the panoramic view of night lights.  Sipping a cup of (decaffeinated) tea, I open my laptop and begin mulling over ideas for my next blog.  Since I'm back in Russia, it's time to write something. . . Russian.   But, not quite yet.  In the transition between there and here, I have one more story to tell.  It's a story of another Connecticut writer, not as widely known as Mark Twain (April 13 post); in fact, you can't find a single piece of his writing in Amazon's extensive listings or a bookstore anywhere.  There was a time, though, when all you had to do was open an egg carton. . .

Bud Doyle owned Doyle's Eggs in Prospect, Connecticut, as did his father before him, as does his son after him.  His daughter, Marian, has been my friend for 25 years, but I only met Bud once, briefly, about 8 years ago.  At the time, I vaguely knew of his egg business, and nothing of his writing.  At the time, I knew nothing about my own writing.  The need to write had not yet squirmed to the level of my consciousness, but was waiting for me to begin searching for Her, to ask, "What is it that I truly love to do?"  The more I learn of Bud, I wonder, "When did he know that he needed to write?"  Sadly, he died last year, so it's not a question I will be able to ask him.

Two weeks ago, I spent a few days with Marian and husband, Jim, at their home in Middlebury, Connecticut.  On a  chilly, misty morning,  Marian suggested that we visit her mother a 20-minute drive away. I asked if I could have a tour of Doyle's Eggs, housed in a long, white building on a sloping hill behind Rosie's house, where she and Bud lived for 62 years, raising their 5 children.

 In a story book kind of way, I was hoping to see actual chickens, lots and lots of clucking, contented chickens, proudly laying eggs that would be enjoyed far and wide by an adoring public.  The place is quiet now, though, without a single cluck within earshot.  Bud made the change from a chicken-laying farm to a wholesale egg distribution business a few years back.  The eggs arrive early in the morning on trucks from Esbenshade Farms in Pennsylvania, then Doyle's Eggs distributes them locally.  

But Farmer Doyle's colorful egg cartons still appear on grocery store shelves, displaying the picture of a  cracked egg with feathered quill, smiling "Good Morning Sunshine" face, and slogan stretched across the side, "Our eggs are fresher than your neighbors' kids."

Imagine opening the lid one morning, ready to fry your favorite over-easy egg and finding a quote, a poem, a paragraph, tucked in the carton, perhaps writing or sentiments that Bud particularly liked, or words of his very own.  Would you read it right away or savor it over a cup of coffee, toast and your Grade A, Fresh, All Natural Egg?

In the upstairs office at Doyle's, Marian and her brother Pete, who now runs the company, pull out Doyle's Eggs memorabilia, spanning the years back to when Marian was the "face" of the business.

Then, there they are, in a cardboard box at my feet, left-over copies of Bud's egg carton inserts.  I reach in, select a few and sit reading, sit marveling at another writer's passion. . . the love of language, the joy of words, the longing to create, share thoughts, compose what is uniquely one's own.  I  linger over a poem, wondering if it is one of Bud's originals.  Rosie thinks it is, but stops short of certainty.  The lovely handwriting and illustration are hers.

As a writer searching for ways to get my work published, Bud is an inspiration to me.  He used what he had at hand, his egg cartons, to send writing out to others.  He was creative, not only as a writer of words, but a marketer of them, as well.  Today he might be a blogger, but anyone with a computer can do that.  Who would have thought of combining an egg business with writing, symbolized by the cracked egg and quill on his carton?  Had I been one of Bud's customers, I would have surely bought more eggs than I needed just to read his inserts.  Maybe that's "eggs-actly" what he had in mind.  (Sorry, I couldn't resist.)      

        



        
            

Wise Words from Mark Twain, Realized Anew

Mark Twain has been on my mind lately, since April 5th, to be exact. Before heading to New York to look for apartments, I visited Mr. Twain's Hartford, Connecticut home along with my friend, Marian, a Connecticut native.  I pictured a Tom Sawyer kind of place surrounded by a fence, whitewashed of course, nothing fancy, just like all the other wood frame houses along the street.  A place where Sam Clemens might have hung out as a boy, getting into trouble and running away from chores.  Had I been in Hannibal, Missouri at the Boyhood Home and Museum of Mark Twain, my imagination and the home that greeted me would have been a close match.

But the 25-room mansion on the hill was a shock!

I'll leave you to take your own virtual tour of the Mark Twain House and Museum and learn, as I did, about the man who lived 17 years of his life here.

What I took away from my visit was a quote, engraved on the wall of the museum, located beside the house.  Words that I knew to be true, but didn't know that I would learn their meaning all over again in New York City. . .

"Travel is fatal to prejudice."

                                                     --Mark Twain

I sometimes blindly congratulate myself on my "lack" of prejudice, being the world traveler that I am.  After all, I left Arkansas to work in an Inupiat village in Alaska, then lived in Singapore, Egypt and Russia, and my passport boasts pages and pages of cool-looking stamps.  I appreciate differences in people, look for commonalities, and value cultural diversity.  But it seems that when it comes to anything above the Mason-Dixon line, I might as well be living in Civil War America, as quickly as I fall back into the "us" and "them" mentality.  Why else would I, a genteel Southern belle, come to New York City, expecting "those Northerners" to be fast-talking, rude, loud, impolite, and lacking in what "us Southerners" have a monopoly on. . . hospitality?

I've stayed in downtown Manhattan for a week now and have yet to encounter that stereotypical personality, lurking near some shadowed sidewalk on Wall Street, poised to bump into me, never pausing to say, "I'm sorry,"  "How rude of me," or  "Won't you please forgive me?"  

Instead I'm met. . .
*a woman, smartly dressed in a yellow jacket trimmed in black, who stopped on a misty, windy afternoon to ask if she could help with directions, observing Marian and me huddled and confused over a city map
*a taxi driver who, without a grumble or grunt, made two U turns to position us exactly at our hotel entrance, then unloaded our heavy bags, smiled and said, "Have a good day."
*a hotel desk clerk, exuding more patience than Job on the best of days, who changed our room from a lower to higher floor, from a brick wall to water view, and from a 3:00 o'clock to noon check-in
*a young man, head totally covered with a black-hooded sweatshirt, who opened two doors for us at Grand Central Station, then stood holding them open while we pulled our bags through

The list goes on, highlighted with "Please," "Thank you," "Excuse me," "You go first,"  "Can I help you?" "No problem" niceties which I had relegated to the realm of mint juleps and magnolias.

My world expands once again.  Why am I surprised?  Did I not learn lessons of kindness, graciousness and generosity from Wafaa and Mohammad in Egypt, from Natasha and Zhenya in Russia, from people in every country I've visited?  Why should my country be any different?

The answer, of course, is that it's not.  It is in my pre-judgement that opinions remain static, that generalizations become truths.  I can hear Mr. Twain saying to me, in a wise grandfatherly tone, cigar smoke swirling between us, "You know, Twylla,

'All generalizations are false, including this one.' "

    







      

            

Transitioning Through the Everyday

Time to stop the newspaper, put a "hold" on the mail, clean out the fridge of everything that will expire before mid-June, schedule the lawn guy to cut the grass every couple of weeks, find plant-sitters for the African violets, Norfolk pine, peperomia, fern and Christmas cactus, pack my bags, make a final sweep through the house, set the alarm, close the door.  Whew!  Transition time again.

From Arkansas to Russia, one last time.

After 7 years of living and working in Russia, Drew and I will be leaving when this school year comes to a close at the Anglo American School of Moscow.  Drew has served as director of the school and its St. Petersburg branch since August 2004.  I worked at the Moscow school as a 2nd grade teacher and speech-language pathologist for 3 years before starting my back and forth lifestyle, a "jet-setting grandmother," as Drew nick-named me.  As tempting as it is to start reminiscing, I'll save that for a few months, trying to remain focused on the present moment, one transition at a time.  I wrote about the T-word in one of my previous postings, calling it my least favorite word in the English language.  A bit harsh, probably, failing to acknowledge the opportunities for growth, challenging though they may be, which each one has offered me.

When I close the door, pulling two overflowing suitcases behind me, from our home in Moscow or Greenbrier, I feel an acute sadness, a nostalgia for the family, friends and way of life I'm leaving. Part of me wants to stay, part wants to go.  I blink back the tears, gather my wits and go through the motions of commute to the airport, check-in, security, and passport control (Moscow).  Going through the 
motions. . . mundane, mindless, routine tasks which help me begin inching my way from one place to the other.

When I open the door, hopefully pulling both accounted-for suitcases behind me, to our Moscow or Greenbrier home, the same sadness catches up with me, in the stillness, as the door quietly shuts.  The tears come again.  Part of me wants to be here, part wants to be 5000 miles away.  Reaching for a tissue,  I unpack, fix a cup of tea, wash a load of clothes, water a plant, take a walk.  The simplicity, the familiarity of the actions soothe my spirit, awaken me to the present, rekindle the joy of this home, and remind me that "all will be well," my transition mantra, borrowed from Julian of Norwich.  Transitioning may not have prompted this medieval mystic to pen such a reassuring message, but her words echo through the 600 years hence, touching my heart with a calming peacefulness.

Another woman contemplative, a poet and writer, to whom I turn for inspiration is Kathleen Norris.  Her slim volume titled, The Quotidian Mysteries, Laundry, Liturgy and "Women's Work," written in 1998, reinforces what I've learned about the deep and abiding value of the "sanctity of the everyday," as she nobly refers to the so-called commonplace in our lives.  She writes, . . . "it is in the routine and the everyday that we find possibilities for the greatest transformation."  As I move through the daily tasks, my mind and body begin to transform, to adapt, to bridge the transition gap.

Drew and I will have a new opportunity to transition, a New York City one, as he assumes the position as Headmaster at Claremont Preparatory School in July.  I arrive in Manhattan tomorrow to begin the process of looking for an apartment.  An exciting adventure awaits, where unique experiences will fill our lives.  Yet I've come to know that it is in the Everyday where I will find my path, leading to a day when "all will be well," again.          

                 

The Touch of a Butterfly

I didn't expect to feel the way I felt when the butterfly landed on my finger.  I hardly felt her physical presence at all, as if the whisper of a breeze had skimmed the surface of my skin, leaving as quickly as it arrived. She was one of hundreds reveling in the brilliant colors and abundant sweetness of the butterfly pavilion, a world as magical as any that Willie Wonka could have created, every inch planned to delight, excite and nourish its guests.  Purple petunias, coral begonias, yellow daisies, lilac verbena, orange lantana, lush leaves in shimmering  shades from mint to olive to emerald, cobalt blue platters lined with orange slices, cherry red bowls overflowing with shimmering glass pebbles of aquamarine coolness.  A haven, a home where they could enjoy their short lives. 


The Desert Botanical Garden in Phoenix was not the birthplace of the butterflies. They made the long trip from Florida to Arizona via UPS when they were too young to know which way was up.  Brian, the butterfly expert, explained that new shipments would arrive throughout the pavilion’s March 5-May 8 opening, with young ones replacing the dying.  “The life span of an average adult butterfly is 2-3 weeks,” he said.  “Some monarchs can live up to 6 months, but the ‘garden varieties’ are here and gone pretty quickly.”  I had no idea.  All the more reason to celebrate their presence. 


My friend, Margie, and I rendezvoused in Phoenix over the past weekend, each coming from a state whose abbreviation is often confused with the state we were visiting:  AK – Alaska, AR- Arkansas, and AZ – Arizona.  Seeing the butterflies was one of those serendipitous events, one of life’s unexpected invitations, which requires a quick answer.  “For an extra $3.50, you can visit the Butterfly Pavilion,” the cashier said.  "Want a ticket?”  I hesitated; not sure why, but  Margie didn’t.  “Sure, let’s do it!” she answered with enthusiasm.   Friends, thankfully, lead us towards possibilities.

Within the tent-like structure, topped with sky-blue canvas, and walled in by white criss-crossed netting that resembled fishnet stockings, at least 10 varieties of butterflies flew, rested, ate, and greeted their visitors.  I enviously observed a man with salt and pepper hair, quietly reading his “Butterfly Identification Guide,” as a Zebra Longwing perched on his head; a woman with a bright  fushia blouse, silently snapping pictures, as a Orange-barred Giant Sulfur rested on her shoulder. 

Oh, to have a butterfly visit me! What should I do?  The answer became obvious as I sat motionless for a picture. . . nothing.

When I settled my own flitting body quietly on a rock, it happened. 
                                                                    
One landed on my back,

                                          
                                        

and the sleeve of my lime sweater, perhaps mistaking me for foliage
                                                     

Then, there she was, on the tip of my left forefinger -- the daintiest, most dazzling yellow butterfly imaginable.  I suddenly felt like a giant holding a piece of fine china, responsible for this delicate creature who was trusting me with her safety, her innocence.  Her soft touch reminded me of the fragility of childhood, of the small hands of our grandchildren, Luke, Nate, Ruby and Anna, reaching up for my hands, trusting that I will respond with gentleness, tenderness, love.  I was humbled.

She was gone in an instant, my outstretched hand grateful for her visit ~ her lasting touch of goodness.      

                                                                                                              

It's All About Balance ("corny," but true)

The "Kream Kastle Drive Inn," one of those fast food places along the side of the road which I usually pass by without a second glance, called to me. . rather impolitely, I might add, like someone chewing a mouthful of french fries and talking at the same time.

"Stop!" it shouted.  "Have a milk shake, banana split, a chili pie loaded with cheese and onions."  I ignored it, tilted my nose in the air at the mere suggestion that I would make such unhealthy food choices and accelerated, quickly putting distance between myself and what I secretly craved.  With places to go and people to see, I drove on along Highway 70 between Little Rock and Hot Springs, knowing that in the afternoon, I would be retracing my steps, passing by the same spot, wondering if I could avoid the temptation twice in one day.

With the smell of deep-fat fried onion rings, corn fritters and tater tots chasing me down the road, I tried to remember the last time I had given into my craving, allowed myself the pleasure of one of my favorite food indulgences. Following the example of our adult children and their spouses, I have slowly evolved into a healthier eater, even buying more organic products and joining a co-op for locally grown and humanely produced meats, dairy items, fruits and vegetables.  When eating at a restaurant, I skim the menu to find the healthy options - salads, grilled chicken or salmon, fruit cups, lighter portions - glancing past the mashed potatoes, fried okra, and chicken-fried steak as if they didn't exist, blank spaces rather than real choices.

I ask you, "Where's the fun in that?"

Maybe that's why Kream Kastle kept circling through my thoughts all day. Could it be time to tip the scales towards a balance between healthy and the occasional not-so-healthy, between sensible and frivolous, between planned and spontaneous?  Mmmm. . . these scales seem to be measuring more than food.

The authenticity of this no-fills place appealed to my senses, as well.  No pretense.  No energy spent in trying to be something it wasn't. "This is who I am.  Take it or leave it," its menu boasted with its double bacon cheeseburgers, foot long hot dogs and hot fudge sundaes.  "If you're looking for high-class with all that healthy fruit and lettuce glitz, keep rollin' down the road to McDonald's," this establishment touted, oozing with confidence as plentiful as its ketchup bottles.

With the Kream Kastle's OP N sign (the E must have been on vacation) inviting me into its parking lot that afternoon,  I made my decision.  The menu was displayed in red plastic letters above the "Place Your Order" window.  I searched for the one item that I could already taste, in all its greasy goodness, topped with mustard -- a corn dog!  Accompanied by, what else? A creamy, sweet chocolate shake!

    

 YUM. I felt liberated!