Pollyanna Rainbow Sunshine and the Needles of Doom

Lyda here.

Happy Birthday, USA!

“Patriotism swells in the heart of the American bear.” 

I love that movie!

And I’m actually leaving the house tonight to go to a party. No, really. I am. Ya’ll gotta believe me.

Lyda here. Maybe I’m too involved with the blogiverse. With the people whose blogs I read. Frank, for example.

Maybe it’s weird, how much I care about Frank, considering that I’ve never met him in person. I read his blog almost every day, and I post comments, and we’ve talked a bit via email. I know that I don’t really know him, but I do know that he is talented, funny, kind, and a fabulous dad. And while I cannot really know what he’s going through, and I cannot bring him chicken soup or offer to babysit Oliver for him, I do think that leaving him a cheerful comment might help right now. Why don’t you leave him an upbeat comment too? Hey, couldn’t hurt.

The Cosmic Innernetting is like that. It creates a community of people who may never meet in person. 

Technology sometimes drives us apart - keeps us in our separate little cell-phone/drive-through/369-cable-channels/chat-room bubbles. Sometimes it insulates us from each other. We hear on the radio that x number of people were killed in an earthquake, or y number of people lost their homes in a fire - and it is just numbers. We have instant information - but there is too much to digest.

But technology can also pull us together. Human beings float in space above our planet - and we can watch. Soldiers hold their children tight before heading off to war - and we can weep over the pictures and then write our representatives in Congress.  A fiber artist finishes a sweater, or a quilt, or a sock - and we cheer with them. Fiber artist = anyone who creates something with yarn or fabric or fiber. Yes, I’m looking at you.

On our blogs, we tell each other about books, projects, ideas, problems, hopes, disasters. We write about obsessions and pleasures and pitfalls. With our rants and musings and silliness, we share part of ourselves.

We start to feel as if we know the person who wrote that.

In a way, we do. Sometimes we even become friends, because of the Cosmic Innernetting. There is more than one person for me to visit in Colorado now. Shiny!

In another way, we don’t. I’ve read all of Crazy Aunt Purl’s blog, and I read the book, and I even met her in person. It doesn’t mean that I know Laurie, any more than I know Terry Pratchett or Eric Idle. A writer’s work, an artist’s work, may be a glimpse into the person behind the work, but it is a distorted glimpse.

This partial imperfect connection is part of the joy and the danger of the Cosmic Innernetting. Finding someone who shares your obsessions? Awesome. Imagining a deep personal friendship where there is none? Not fabulous.

Take your zombie-loving Pollyanna here. I don’t tell ya’ll everything. I hold some things back because they are dark or embarrassing or just plain boring. That’s right. My life is even more boring than you think it is. Scary, kids.

Sometimes I email Anna-Liza to ask, “Should I post this? Is this too raw? Is this too personal?” Sometimes I write a post and it sits there as a draft for a week or a month or… well, I have one I wrote in April that is still sitting there.

And I edit things. A lot. I try to make myself sound funny, profound, together - or at least semi-coherent. I try to keep the whining to a minimum, which unfortunately I don’t always do in real life. I know, I don’t always do it on the blog either. Sorry about that.

All in the hope that ya’ll will read it in an idle moment and smile.

Not such a bad motive at that.

And while I do not know Jane, or Red, or Kelly, or KarenM, in “real life” - Marin, I’m pleased to say, I do know in real life  - I know enough to want to.

And I know enough to care about Frank.

Maybe that’s not so bad after all.

Anna-Liza here again. I really can’t do justice to my subject, but I can’t ignore it entirely, either. It doesn’t help that I completely forgot to bring the camera for Solfest. Someone else has promised me pictures of Darlin’ K firespinning in front of the stage, but he hasn’t emailed them yet. I’ll post some if he ever does—he said they were good ones. And I’ll tidy up the Wool Market loose ends later. Really! Anyway, my solstice celebration was a bit more active than Lyda’s, but every bit as pleasant.

Most of last week, I left work as close to on-the-dot-five as I could manage, made a pit stop at a fast food place, and then hustled over to the Double Rainbow Ranch for a series of four workshops with Aumrak. I’m still absorbing and processing what happened for me there, but I will say it was gentler and sweeter than I was prepared for, and yet I know I did some very deep work. In terms of forms, we did everything from formal ceremony to guided meditation to two straight hours of dancing as parts of our work, and every bit of it built on what came before. Darlin’ K was super-supportive of this whole thing, uncomplainingly taking sole charge of the kidlets for three nights in a row, listening to me talk about my process, even listening to me sing to him! Now there’s a man in a million.

I was very pleased with the workshops and very happy to get to work with Aumrak. She is very gentle in her approach, but that gentleness in no way dimishes her power. It’s an example and a lesson for me, and I hope I “got” it. My fellow “workshop-mates” and I helped her prepare the fire and mandala for the Solstice ritual at Solfest. That was also very satisfying and fun into the bargain.

The music at Solfest was every bit as good as I’d hoped. Darlin’ K did some firespinning with Lunar Fire and got a really positive response. The man really has no idea how beautiful he is when he does that. I feel like I have to beat him over the head with the positvie feedback he gets from the audience afterward! He also organized and ran the free spinjam that happened after Lunar Fire’s set, while Muse of Turiya performed. I gave up and went back to the tent to sleep after about 12:30 or 1 a.m., but Darlin’ K stayed up and drummed with the drum circle until 3-ish.

The music started at 4 p.m. Saturday, went until 2 a.m. when the drum circle started, then started again 10:30 Sunday morning until 3:45, when we had the closing circle. And there was a big ol’ potluck brunch on Sunday in the middle of everything, too. Oh, and let us not forget Sunday morning yoga, which was about 2 hours long and very gently nearly killed me — although that was my own fault, really. I didn’t have to try to do all of the poses, or hold them for quite so long. I didn’t do any knitting, although I had some with me (of course), but I did do lots of spinning. Practicing with my hand spindle just seemed to fit the setting and the music.

The site was beautiful–a little valley in the foothills, lots of trees, a really pretty creek running through it, lots of space, actual bathrooms with running water and showers! And peacocks. Oh! and wild turkeys–real ones! (I suppose someone might have had some of the alcohol variety, too.) They gobble and look just like the cartoons. I’d heard them before, but I’d never gotten a good look at one–they’re usually just a little movement in the trees, that you’re not really sure you saw. It was all very comfortable and friendly. I overheard one woman say it was like a mini Rainbow Gathering, but without the sketchy part. I admit I spent most of my time wearing batik and tie-dye.

Oh, and I got a henna tattoo. During the opening circle at Solfest, a big yellow and black butterfly came and hovered right in front of me, just at the level of my heart. I took it as a sign of transformation, and so that’s what my henna tattoo was–a butterfly and a heart. I had Darlin’ K take a picture before the henna paste came off, because I wasn’t sure it would darken enough to be visible in a photo after. Here’s a close-up of my henna’d chest (do try to contain your excitement):

If ever I get over my needle phobia long enough to get real ink, it will most likely be something like that.

Lyda here.

George Carlin died. I had his albums ”Class Clown” and “Toledo Windowbox” (back when ”album” meant “big round record”), plus cassettes of other stuff. I had so many of his routines memorized. He challenged everything, and pissed people off. He talked about all the stuff no one ever talked about, and made us wonder why we thought it was so terrible to talk about it. He made us think.

Mostly, he made us laugh.

Here’s his 1978 update on his classic “Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television.” Enjoy (but maybe not at work…).

My seven words?

We will really miss you, George Carlin.

Lyda here.

Today I feel so calm, so peaceful. I feel soft and malleable, like a giant marshmallow melting in the sun.

Now there’s a visual.

I got some good news on the money front yesterday. And suddenly, the world is once again a soft, gentle, loving place. It always has been, but I forgot. Note to Anna-Liza: thanks for reminding me to TRUST. Note to self: listen to Anna-Liza.

This is an excellent place to be. Calm, confident, creative. All the good “c” words.

No, not that “c” word. That’s not a good “c” word. Don’t ya’ll hate it? I don’t like any of the words for the female sexual organs. They are either cold and clinical, or nasty and violent.

Why isn’t there a good word, something mystical and playful and ripe?

For that matter, why isn’t there a good word for breasts? Why don’t we have any good words for our bodies?

What words do ya’ll like?

But I digress…

Really, this whole post is a digression, and a welcome one.

And now on to the next sensation - breakfast.

Lyda here.

Yesterday, I worked in 95 degree heat - So Cal is having another heat wave, help us Al Gore! - moving and unpacking boxes in a warehouse and carrying empty boxes to the dumpster. I was filthy, covered in old dust and dirt, sweat matting my hair. My fingernails split and broke, my feet got blisters, my muscles ached, and my breathing became ragged. For nine dollars an hour.

It confirmed so many things for me. One, of course, is that I am not suited to this kind of heavy manual labor. Also, I am grateful for every skill and gift I have that will keep me from having to do this kind of work for the rest of my life.

Also, clutter and chaos is not confined to homes. This place was unpacking after a move, which is why they had us there. There were more boxes marked “Misc” than anything else. When I moved, there was one - count ’em, one - box labeled “Misc” and I knew exactly what was in it.  Packrat-ism afflicts warehouses and offices everywhere. Each place I work, I clean and organize and declutter the office while doing the work. It’s a gift and a curse, this Cleaning Obsession o’ mine. And yes, packrat-ism is an official term. Or it should be.

Yesterday confirmed, yet again, that I work harder at any given task than any four or five other people. There were two other temps there plus various employees of the company who wandered in and out. Nice people, but all together too inclined to stop working and talk about sports, or politics, or how hot it was.

I worked hard all day. They worked… easier. With frequent pauses. Especially after the first few hours. Their natural inclination seemed to be to mill about aimlessly. Like sheep.  My natural inclination is to take charge, and I did to some degree. That’s me, I’m a sheepdog.  The company manager thought I was the supervisor of the other two temps.

I’ve had this experience many times before - I’m working flat out, and everyone else is coasting. Sometimes it makes me angry, sometimes it amuses me, often it is frustrating. I am definitely a product of my upbringing, my sturdy peasant stock. Keep going, get the work done, don’t stop until the sun sets and it’s too dark to see. Or someone loses an eye.

When we were growing up, we worked with Dad and Mom at the theater. Dad said we were better and harder workers than any of the adult volunteers, and called us his Ant Army. Mom even had Ant Army t-shirts made for us. There was nothing we would not do. We built and painted sets, we made costumes and props, we ran sound and lights, we sold tickets and soda, we cleaned up at the end of the show, we broke the sets down at the end of the run. And we acted, sang and danced too.  We were the first to arrive and the last to leave. Just like our parents. And while we had a lot of fun, we worked flat out. Dad and Mom kept an eye on us, enforcing safety rules and calling a halt when we were exhausted, while working flat out themselves. As a family, we left everyone else in the dust. If the Ant Army had been organizing that warehouse, today it would be unpacked, organized for maximum efficiency, and clean as a whistle. As it was… not so much.

It’s a family thing, a legacy, a twist to my psyche. I work hard for the money. I work hard at quilting, at cleaning, at everything. I’m the volunteer every event needs, and the manager few subordinates want.

I didn’t start learning to take it easy until I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia. It has been hard to learn to ease up, to stop pushing myself so hard. To rest. To relax.

That’s why knitting is so good for me. It keeps the Ant Army part of my mind busy and let’s the rest of me relax.

Today, I’m taking the day off. To read. To quilt. To watch TV. To knit.

I may even take a nap.

But you can bet, tomorrow I’ll be hard at it again.

It’s a family thing.

Lyda here. I spent most of Friday going through every cabinet in my kitchen, tossing the junk and gathering things for Saturday’s garage sale. Some of it actually sold, too.

My question for clearing out the kitchen stuff: Do I use it or love it? If the answer was no, out it went.

I also went through the food, vitamins, and on. I had quite a collection of vitamins that I kept telling myself I needed to take. They all expired a couple of years ago. Into the trash. What a waste. What a relief. And I got a whole shelf clear. We now take chewable multivitamins anyway. Easier than swallowing all those huge pills, and we actually take them. 

Did you know that baking powder has an expiration date? Mine expired three years ago. Into the trash. Big bag of bread flour - bought years ago; made one loaf of bread. Tossed. Whole wheat flour - ditto. Expired spices? Tossed.  I guess I haven’t been doing a lot of baking…

I was appalled at the waste. I hereby resolve to buy small amounts of things instead of the big ole economy bag. It’s not an economy if most of it sits on the shelf for five years and then goes in the trash.

I had tons of cheap plastic cookie cutters, which we did use when my son was little. But now? Not so much. To the garage sale. But I kept the metal ones I inherited from my mom, and the other special ones. Hey, I could bake again. It could happen!

I had ten vases - I counted. Who needs ten vases? Perhaps an opera diva, or a femme fatale like Marin. Not a woman whose cat pulls a bouquet apart in ten minutes. The Dread Cat Tommy likes to eat flowers. And then we get the throwing up bit. So charming.  Out went most of the vases. I kept a few, because hope springs eternal…

I had a nice glass serving plate with an Xmas tree on it. I’ve used it three times. Out it went. It didn’t sell at the garage sale, either. I hope someone is thrilled to find it at Goodwill.

But I kept the cut-glass pickle dish my grandmother gave me when I moved into my first apartment. “Everyone needs a pickle dish, honey.”

And later in the day, I broke the small plate I was using as a soap dish in the bathroom. I grabbed the pickle dish and put the soap in it. Works perfectly, and makes me smile.

Useful and beautiful.

Shiny.

Lyda here. Ya’ll, this is a long post. You might want to pour yourself some of Anna-Liza’s sweet tea. I’m just saying… Also, it is hard typing with a cat in one’s lap. But worth it.

A while ago, we talked about the Great Closet Purge. As you purged your closet, you made a list of things you need to replace worn items you tossed, or fill in holes in your wardrobe.

I so know that all of ya’ll did this. I believe in you. Really. And if you didn’t, it’s okay. Pollyanna understands that the thought of cleaning out a closet can make a person feel faint and in need a fiber infusion. Breath in the alpaca, breath out the stress…

But I digress…

So assuming you have a list of what clothes you need, it’s time to go shopping. It’s okay; I’ll hold your hand. This is scary territory. Not as scary as this. Horrible. 

If you hate shopping, you aren’t the only one. I do too. And so does the Yarn Harlot. Her post should cheer you up a bit.

Be very careful when clothes shopping. If you aren’t sure, don’t buy it. 

Remember, people are not mannequins. Mannequins are not people. Except in the Twilight Zone. But I digress… 

Think how careful we are about the color and texture of the yarn we knit and the fabric we sew. And clothing is going to be with us all day. Actually touching our bodies. Affecting our mood. Shouting out messages to the world. Scary, kids.

First, try not to shop cranky or tired or hungry. We don’t want our Inner Toddlers throwing tantrums in the stores, do we? The same for any actual kids you have to take with you. And stop when you need a break.

Second, pick the right stores, ones that carry items in your size and to your tastes. Personally, I mostly shop at the Avenue, and occasionally Target and Ross. “Her purse is Target, her shoes are Payless.”  Explore new stores, but if you don’t see anything you like, or if they don’t carry your size, don’t go there again. And I don’t go back if the employees are rude. Life is too short.

I like to shop in this order:

• Color first
• Fabric second
• Style next
• And finally, Size

Shopping color first saves time and frustration. Why look at clothes in colors I don’t like? I can walk past entire displays and go straight to the colors I like. If they don’t have colors I like, I’m in the wrong store. Or it’s the wrong season. For most stores, spring is all about pastels, and I never wear pastels.

Next, I touch the garment. If it feels weird or scratchy or odd, I move on. If it feels soft and I like the feel of it - what Mom called “the hand” of the fabric - then I pick up the hanger.

Now, the style. Now that I’m holding the item, I can check to ensure an absence of glitter, writing, Hideous Pink-ness  (like this), and designs not for those of us with huge… tracts of land (”it’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye” - or gets hypnotized). Or other weirdness. Like this. Or this. Sorry, Target - they do have some cute stuff too, ya’ll. But you know me. I must explore the weird side.

I also check to see if the fabric is already wrinkled - because I do not iron clothes. I mostly wear knits to work, and t-shirts and jeans at home. I wore those crinkly skirts in college - loved that! Wrinkles on purpose!  I check the label - since I don’t do dry cleaning, I need to know I can wash it. Although some clothes labeled “dry clean only” can actually be washed on gentle cycle and air-dried.

Now I look for size. And I remind myself that the numbers on the tags have nothing to do with my body and no relation to my worth.

Some clothes are cut with less fabric, meaning one may need to go up to the next size. Or even the one higher than that. This is particularly true in less expensive garments. On the other hand, some clothes are cut generously, which may require you to go down a size to get the proper fit. This never happens to me. But I bet it happens to Anna-Liza. And sleeve and leg lengths are different for different manufacturers too.  See? It isn’t you!

Since I shop very seldom, and I’m on the generous size, I have learned a trick which I happily pass on to you:

I take two sizes into the dressing room. One is the size I think should fit, and the other is one size larger. And then - this is vital - I try on the bigger size first.

If it is too big, I chuckle and try on the smaller garment. If it fits - well, I didn’t have the awful experience of trying to squeeze into a too-small garment.

Clothes that are too small make a person look fat. Remember, no one will ever know what size the label says. You can always cut the label out if it bums you out.

And for shoes - they should be comfortable the moment you put them on. And get your feet measured. Foot size changes over time. It’s bad for your feet, your back, and your temper to wear shoes that don’t fit right. No one cares whether you wear a size six or a size nine or a size twelve. Except your podiatrist. And she already has a lovely summer home, so she doesn’t need you to ruin your feet. But I digress again…

Once I have the garment on, I look in the mirror - Is this going to work for me? Does it flatter me? Will it go with anything else I have? I mostly wear black slacks to work and jeans off work; almost any top is going to work with both. There is no economy in buying a top that’s marked down 50% if you then have to buy a skirt, shoes, and accessories to match. If you love the top, okay, but don’t tell yourself that you are saving money.

If the garment doesn’t do it for you - blame the garment, not your body! Many clothes are not created with actual human beings in mind, and few are created with YOUR body and coloring and style in mind.

Laugh at the silly designer, and move on.

When clothes shopping, take along a trusted friend with fabulous taste if at all possible. Ideally, I would import Anna-Liza for this.

Or Younger Brother, who has amazing taste. Any fabulous clothes I had in my college days were totally due to the influence of these two. Or the Irish Beauty, who not only has fabulous taste but is also a great partner in Hideous Garment Mocking (see #8 on that link for a cautionary garment-mocking tale).

Since I can’t afford to fly any of them in for a shopping trip, I imagine conversations with them, and with my mom (who had fantastic taste), and with my Inner Diva. But not out loud…

Your shopping companion will tell you if that shade of green brings out your eyes or just makes you look billious. If you try on something and your friend says, “Perfect!” - you should probably buy it.

However, and this is very important, do not let yourself get talked into anything that you dislike or that is uncomfortable. Itchiness does not wash out. Waistbands do not magically become comfortable. That odd color does not go from making you feel like a stupid lettuce (to quote Terry Pratchett) to making you feel divine.

AND IT SHOWS. When you wear clothes you don’t like, clothes that are uncomfortable, clothes that don’t fit, you look miserable. You lose your sparkle. It’s not worth it. No, not even if it’s marked down from $500 to $5.

When you wear clothes you love, you feel prettier, more confident, more sexy - and it shows! Whether it’s a t-shirt or a designer suit or a purple sequin dress - it should make you feel fabulous, or you should not buy it. Just for the record, I’m not going to be wearing the purple sequin dress anytime soon, but if you love it, wear it! Maybe not to a job interview, but why not for a night on the town?

Trying something on is like flirting. Be Mae West for a bit. Flirt outrageously with anything and everything in the store without taking it seriously. Feel free to merrily discard anything the moment it doesn’t measure up. If it doesn’t click, move on.

Taking something home is serious. Don’t buy something that is kind of okay. We are going for fabulous here.

But if you come to the next day with something horrible, you can always take it back. I have been known to return tops I got on sale for $5, despite sneering salesgirls. Because $5 is still five dollars, ya’ll.

Returning clothing is less embarassing than extricating oneself from other one-night stands…

But that’s a digression for another time…

Hi, Anna-Liza here.

You know, one reason for starting this blog was to get in the habit of writing at least a few times a week, if not every single day. Of course, with a two-headed blog like this, if we both wrote every single day it would get … cluttered. Confusing. Wordy. All of those. But still, I think I’m taking the restraint thing a bit too far when it comes to blogging.

You have probably noticed that Lyda writes far more frequently than I do. Might could be she’s the more disciplined and practiced writer of the two of us. Might could be she has more ideas. Might could be she just has a lot more time on her hands. (For whatever reason, the Texasism “might could be” has been in my head all day, so I’m hoping this will exorcise it. Might could be.)

Anyway, that’s not to say that I don’t have lots of ideas, I just keep on not writing about them. “Oh, no one wants to hear about that. That’s too boring/offensive/in-jokish. Whatever.”

I have no problem telling stories in person. In fact, the problem in that case might be that I enjoy telling stories a little bit too much. Might could be.

So screw it. I’ll start telling more stories. A friend of mine, who is a Burner, a yoga teacher, and a mom, thinks there’s some kind of problem with my throat chakra. Me, I know there’s a problem with my throat chakra, I’ve known it for years, but I’ve never known what to do about it. It’s not that I don’t talk, believe me. Just ask Lyda, or Marin, or Ms. English Hotcar (who has not graced this blog page for many moons, but I’m sure she’ll come up again sometime). Writing, having my words out there where they can be read, reread, and substantially criticized, might free something up. Or maybe shut something down.

One thing I am planning on doing (still not finalized) is taking a series of evening workshops with a shaman named Aumrak. She lives in Guatamala, is nothing at all like what most people picture when they hear the word “shaman”, and is entirely a delightful person. I had a very powerful moment with her in conversation last year, and feel very strongly pulled to do some kind of work with her. She’ll be here in mid-June, and will lead the Solstice ritual at SolFest. (Darlin’ K and I plan to go to SolFest, too.)

It’s weird, I have had a damned interesting life so far, and I’m not entirely sure why I think it won’t continue to be interesting, but I keep saying stuff like “I’m not very interesting myself, but I know a lot of interesting people.” I’ve been through earthquakes, hurricanes, tornados and blizzards, and never had any serious injuries or losses as a result of them. (I even have cousins who live near Mt. Pinatubo and were there when it erupted. I don’t feel any need to have the “erupting volcano in my backyard” experience myself, though.) I have given birth and attended to dying friends, had just about every kind of sex I’ve ever wanted to have, been onstage and backstage and in the audience.

And there are still things I haven’t done that I want to do. And I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. I just know that, whatever it turns out to be (or they turn out to be) I want to be as purely me as I can manage, moment by moment. And that throat chakra thing is just possibly the next thing I need to clear out of my way. Might could be. Yup.

Lyda here. Ramblings and musings today…

My father bucked public opinion all his life. He joined the Marines at 17 and served in the Pacific in WWII. When he returned, it was expected that he would become a doctor like his father. Dad chose theater instead. Then he divorced his first wife to marry my mother. This was a huge scandal - it was the fifties. His parents never really approved of, nor understood, my father’s choices.

Mom was salutatorian of her high school class, and went to college on full scholarship. She took twice as many credits every semester as she was supposed to - each time, she had to convince the Dean of Women to give permission. Mom would say, “It won’t set a precedent, because I’m on scholarship and it probably won’t be renewed, and I have to get in as much as I can now. I won’t be here long enough to graduate.” But she did graduate, with very high marks, with a degree in English - it was her worst subject, so she kept taking more English classes to improve. Like Vimes, she wore her hair shirt on the inside.  She took math classes for fun, but could not major in it because the head of the mathmatics department did not think that women could do math. In one of her math classes, the professor told her to sit in the back of the class and to keep quiet, and then ignored her - for the entire semester. She received a B++++, because he refused to give a woman an A. Yeah, the fifties. We’ve come a long way baby. But not far enough.

My mother sang in the church choir growing up - she had a voice of great range and beauty. She shocked her parents when she stopped going to church - she had discovered that she violently disagreed with everything the preacher was saying. And then while she was in college, she went off to summer stock and brought home “that theater boy.” They married the day after she graduated. And then drove off to do more summer stock.

Dad and Mom worked shows together, and raised a family. Dad built sets, taught, directed plays, and wrote plays. And got his Ph.D. Mom taught, sewed costumes, did makeup, and whatever else was needed. And when we were lucky, she performed.

On stage, she could sing like an angel, shriek like a banshee, and do any accent or vocal trick she’d ever heard. She was a powerful dramatic actor and a gifted comedianne. She could play a dangerously sexy vixen, a virtuous heroine, or an aged crone. On opening night of one melodrama, when she begged for alms, the audience threw her money. Without missing a beat, she said, “Throw the big ones, dearies, my old eyes can see them better.” And they did.  She brought audiences to their knees, and to their feet. She stopped the show.

My parents ignored what was expected of them. They reached for their dreams.

And that has made all the difference.