tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33307662468221306432024-03-17T15:49:31.213-04:00ON THE VERGEJODY CASELLAJody Casellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17892174349776047862noreply@blogger.comBlogger701125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3330766246822130643.post-55710103834884794732024-03-17T15:31:00.003-04:002024-03-17T15:48:59.567-04:00Point of View<p>I can't remember how to write a poem, but I am going to have to remember fast because I signed up to take an online poetry writing workshop. The class is on points of view in poems. How so much can change when you switch from I to You. From You to He to She to They. Or sometimes there's even a We thrown in there, just to keep us all on our toes. </p><p>I haven't written a poem in--(*quickly does the math)--34 years. But once upon a time I was working on an MFA in poetry. I loved it and was learning a lot. But then I panicked and quit, worried over how I would earn a living as a poet. Spoiler: you can't earn a living as a poet. Unless, <a href="https://maggiesmithpoet.com/">you are Maggie Smith</a>, </p><p>who wrote one of my favorite poems, "<a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/89897/good-bones">Good Bones</a>." But even Maggie Smith would probably tell you that she earns the bulk of her living not by writing poems but by speaking and teaching. But I digress. What I wish I could tell my twenty-two-year-old self is that it's okay not to have your entire adult life and/or your career trajectory figured out. That it's okay to play around with poems and finish your MFA program, maybe just for funsies, because how lucky are you to be able to spend your time reading and talking about words as if they matter and hanging around with people who feel the same punch in the heart when they read something like</p><p><i>For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.</i></p><p><i>For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,</i></p><p><i>sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world</i></p><p><i>is at least half terrible, and for every kind</i></p><p><i>stranger, there is one who would break you</i></p><p>Did I mention that the university was paying me to attend? They gave me a stipend to live on that was laughably small, but I made up the difference by waitressing at TGI Fridays and learned how to balance four beverage glasses in one hand and layer three large dinner plates up my outstretched arm. I pulled my long, permed hair into a bouncy side ponytail because a bouncy side ponytail seemed to earn me higher tips. </p><p>That, and the black mini skirt and the bling-y buttons pinned to my suspenders. (Who am I kidding. It was the mini skirt. This was the 90's. It was a different world.) After work I let loose the side ponytail and scrawled out my poems and imagined myself in an Emily Dickinson-style cupola, tossing gingerbread out the window to the neighborhood kids. </p><p>She was weird, that twenty-two year old. The ponytail. The precarious balancing of glass. Her naive belief in the power of words. See her hunched over her notebook, a blank page, a sharpened pencil, </p><p>remembering what she forgot, readying to begin.</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNugA5CDwvP6aiUQCbDKoCjvqoCyuELLW2PWxUM9yERymleoGIBSLLq6OH26e23g28ejZaA3bRu0q_g_A1tCjIpTauWRCBIGRrmFsbmGk0eopikfZVKcn3KmHn12F1BjmrMZ1xDERN5Axip8k5XnvNcGCXXbwMQ9ZlncoiMx3geK9Gwds2DkyywPdOdND7/s4032/IMG_0740.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="2190" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNugA5CDwvP6aiUQCbDKoCjvqoCyuELLW2PWxUM9yERymleoGIBSLLq6OH26e23g28ejZaA3bRu0q_g_A1tCjIpTauWRCBIGRrmFsbmGk0eopikfZVKcn3KmHn12F1BjmrMZ1xDERN5Axip8k5XnvNcGCXXbwMQ9ZlncoiMx3geK9Gwds2DkyywPdOdND7/s320/IMG_0740.jpg" width="174" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p>Jody Casellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17892174349776047862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3330766246822130643.post-90230730290116407412024-03-10T14:18:00.006-04:002024-03-10T14:34:20.160-04:00Wait a Minute<p>The yellow flowers catch the snow and I catch the snow on the flowers. Less than an hour later the snow has melted, the sun is out. Ohio weather. We joke about it. If you don't like it, wait a minute. At the library we have a scavenger hunt, a new theme every month. This month it's weather. </p><p>Find the pictures hidden around the youth department: the sun, rain, a snowstorm, a tornado, a rainbow. The funny thing is in real life, over a four-day period, we’ve had everything except the rainbow. The tornado was out of the blue. A blare on our phones at 5 am, a warning to TAKE COVER IN THE BASEMENT NOW! My husband and I woke up and looked out the window, saw nothing, and went back to bed. Probably not the wisest idea, but luck was with us that day. </p><p>Something unexpected: a surprise 36-hour visit from our son. He'd been having trouble buying a car in the very remote area where he lives, found a car here, bought it online, and flew in to drive it home. It was so much fun to see him, and funny too, how you can buy a car online now. Oh let me tell you that my suspicious nature was on high alert about this one. Was this a <i>real </i>car? Was this a <i>real </i>place? My husband and I drove out to pick it up, readying ourselves for whatever would be required of us to complete the transaction. Let me reenact the scene for you:</p><p><i>Salesperson at Dealership</i>: Hi, are you the prius people?</p><p><i>My husband:</i> Yes.</p><p><i>Salesperson:</i> Here's the key. </p><p>THE END</p><p>Later, it hit me that there's more security involved in checking a book out of my library. I was still laughing about this the next day during a quick trip through the grocery store. A whirl with my cart around the produce and an employee handed me a checklist. Find the fancy food samples—appetizers, dinners, desserts. </p><p>A scavenger hunt! I tracked everything down, running into the same shoppers on the same quest, all of us having more of a blast than you’d think over finding small plastic cups filled with plops of prepared food.</p><p>The time leaps forward and our son is already on his way. It is cold and gray and I am aching from the loss of him. But wait a minute. It snows. And then the sun comes out. It snows again. The yellow flowers happily flutter as I creep around outside in my pajamas to catch them. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgerJifQMRslUjpONImOy5hR241oXY2ycm0PI_ul6BZxPDoedjk-amP6X8BCo8cHjAPhZAOneHDzXZGBOfKNTExXQIEGtmv8GlvcRQUeBxnE1OXN6m4bM3OvZWAkT0rP_ioH1Xc4SKVwTuQSI0IpIKPvxrBCHx0WkYYYlLcMukhQAl1mj38kk6IGrSnp0gH/s3365/IMG_0690.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3365" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgerJifQMRslUjpONImOy5hR241oXY2ycm0PI_ul6BZxPDoedjk-amP6X8BCo8cHjAPhZAOneHDzXZGBOfKNTExXQIEGtmv8GlvcRQUeBxnE1OXN6m4bM3OvZWAkT0rP_ioH1Xc4SKVwTuQSI0IpIKPvxrBCHx0WkYYYlLcMukhQAl1mj38kk6IGrSnp0gH/s320/IMG_0690.jpg" width="288" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Jody Casellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17892174349776047862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3330766246822130643.post-26001075332140470992024-03-03T14:28:00.000-05:002024-03-03T14:28:08.222-05:00Crooked Kitchen <p>It's only slightly crooked, and you have to step back and really squint to see it. It's possible we never would have seen it, if we hadn't taken apart the countertop, pulled out the sink, and moved the dishwasher. Now, it's a bare wall. Windows. Floor. Where does the crookedness start?</p><p>It's driving my husband crazy. He's building cabinets, setting up the framework to hold the new sink, another frame to slip the dishwasher into. I'm staying out of his way, but every once in a while, he calls me to hold a board or doublecheck his measurements. In between holdings and double-checkings, I'm working on a new book. </p><p>Actually, this is an old book, something I started writing in the early months of the pandemic, one big meandery mush of a first draft that I put away in frustration and only recently pulled out again to see what I could salvage. Not much, as it turns out, but at the core, there's something there, and so I am writing the book again. </p><p>I used to freak out about this level of revision. Now I find it weirdly absorbing. It's a puzzle with all of these little moving parts and pieces, but I know that if keep moving them around they will eventually fit. And even if they don't completely fit, it's okay. </p><p>Something I am learning about a crooked kitchen is that it matters where you decide to take your measure. Are we leveling up from the floor or do we start at the window sill and find our balance on the way down? At some point you have to choose.</p><p>I've been called down again to help. The sink is in place-ish. My husband and I peer at each other through the open drain and laugh. Our house is one hundred years old. Any settling that needed to happen has happened long ago. We trust what we have and build from here. </p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjulq3HuEdIuL9s3meUv6Bo0ss82SNxPf56WyoPY58aigB3ZfCnAjH3UO9vBDjOfBseBIV6kM6x23LJC0iEbWHWGSqfeJtptjT3RvQJaIq6508SEzg7vLXkxPP5la6JSxeiSfGiBcBIIjIp_KR18Ss8oj1MEBAVYesoV8eia_uz8quo6ztSKWloUniyeRS1/s2048/F8785D59-2A98-4DE5-B9CD-258539151E72.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjulq3HuEdIuL9s3meUv6Bo0ss82SNxPf56WyoPY58aigB3ZfCnAjH3UO9vBDjOfBseBIV6kM6x23LJC0iEbWHWGSqfeJtptjT3RvQJaIq6508SEzg7vLXkxPP5la6JSxeiSfGiBcBIIjIp_KR18Ss8oj1MEBAVYesoV8eia_uz8quo6ztSKWloUniyeRS1/s320/F8785D59-2A98-4DE5-B9CD-258539151E72.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div><br /></div>Jody Casellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17892174349776047862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3330766246822130643.post-84618933496455438792024-02-25T14:21:00.005-05:002024-02-25T14:53:26.091-05:00Like-minded Friends<p>I got an email from the urban farm I donate to. An exclusive invitation to a potluck for a "small portion of their dedicated supporters." This is not a fundraiser, it said. We want to spend time with you and like-minded friends. Our only ask is that you bring a dish to share. </p><p>Immediately, I was skeptical. How did <i>I</i> make the cut? I don't give this farm a ton of money. I'm not one of their volunteers. I wasn't born yesterday! (I assume they sent this email to everyone on their donation list and only want to make it seem like it's an exclusive thing.) And were they <i>really</i> not asking for money? Everyone is asking for money. I ignored the email. </p><p>A few weeks went by, and I got a reminder that I hadn't responded, and they'd love to see me at the potluck. I can't stress enough how suspicious I am as a person. But also, I am very curious. I replied that I would attend.</p><p>In the meantime I got a phone call from a friend who reads this blog. She said, did you send out an email asking for money? </p><p>No, I said. She read the email to me. It came from Substack and basically said something along the lines of <i>Act now to upgrade your subscription to PAID and get exclusive content! </i></p><p>I don't have any exclusive content, I said. (I'm not knocking Substack. They're hosting my blog for free. I guess they want to make some money off it. But I wish they'd asked me first before sending out that email. I don't think of my blog as a money-making venture.) It's just<i> this.</i> Me, writing once a week, whatever thoughts are pinballing around in my head, </p><p>how <a href="https://www.jodycasella.com/2017/11/dispatches-from-broken-world.html">the world is broken and how the world is beautiful</a>. And sometimes there's a <a href="https://jodycasella.substack.com/p/it-took-me-fifteen-years-to-try-it">recipe</a> or a <a href="https://jodycasella.substack.com/p/two-dog-week">dog </a>or a <a href="https://jodycasella.substack.com/p/all-week-i-was-reading-a-book-about">book review</a> or <a href="https://jodycasella.substack.com/p/im-only-here-to-ride-the-elevator">interesting interactions</a> I have at the library or tips and tricks about <a href="https://jodycasella.substack.com/p/early-mornings-and-i-have-been-writing">writing</a> or <a href="https://jodycasella.substack.com/p/sleep-creep-leap">gardening</a> or how does it feel to have <a href="https://jodycasella.substack.com/p/one-little-goat-has-blue-eyes">a goat jump on your back</a> and what the hell is going on with <a href="https://jodycasella.substack.com/p/this-week-it-was-very-gray">the weather.</a> (For the record it snowed two inches yesterday and tomorrow it's supposed to be 60 degrees.)</p><p>The potluck with the farm people was fun. I brought my husband along, and my potluck dish: Coconut Lentils over Rice with Roasted Sweet Potatoes. This is a recipe that my daughter-in-law shared with me, and it was a crowd favorite, nearly all of it gobbled up despite the abundant, delicious competition. </p><p>While we ate, my husband and I chatted with the other dedicated supporters, who all wanted to know how we were friends of the farm, and I got to tell them the story of the farm's<a href="https://www.jodycasella.com/2020/10/existential-crisis-with-serving-of-oreo.html"> zoom cooking class</a> I'd stumbled onto in 2020 and how it was one of the highlights of my year and even now it makes me laugh and yearn (momentarily) for that scary time, a perfect example of beauty in our broken world. </p><p>After dinner, I was gearing up for the fundraising pitch, but it never came. Instead, the farm people set out dessert and we all chatted a bit more before saying our goodbyes. The next day I filled out an application to volunteer. It's a farm! I love gardening! Why am I not out there helping them plant vegetables? </p><p>And then I ate the very small bit of leftover coconut lentils, sprinkled with fresh cilantro picked from the farm. If you’d like to know more about this lovely place (not to make a donation, but just to see all of the amazing things they’re up to lately), see <a href="https://franklintonfarms.org/">here.</a></p><p>If you're a reader of my blog, thank you! We've all got a million things competing for our attention and the fact that you're here, reading my words, whether you've popped in for today or are a regular subscriber, I am grateful for the connection. No requests for money ever, but if you're so inclined, feel free to share with a like-minded friend. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQMyX3vTRnLHwAurKUvE4v6xS7meVsucgRAqJ2j9DMK4uTY72uRhRL9BhpNdblXELCKchwXijipPeua2SpsSHPIJc9S2X5gKqX5f1KvgRnBNOuQDiwhq_omxDR28_N8KT6hOfwHqqnL0-Y8hCwIA0blkkUhnL_xlKwpyFwSFEbcbA6uBEHr0vi1XZtb-OR/s1963/IMG_9693.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1963" data-original-width="1125" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQMyX3vTRnLHwAurKUvE4v6xS7meVsucgRAqJ2j9DMK4uTY72uRhRL9BhpNdblXELCKchwXijipPeua2SpsSHPIJc9S2X5gKqX5f1KvgRnBNOuQDiwhq_omxDR28_N8KT6hOfwHqqnL0-Y8hCwIA0blkkUhnL_xlKwpyFwSFEbcbA6uBEHr0vi1XZtb-OR/s320/IMG_9693.PNG" width="183" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Jody Casellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17892174349776047862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3330766246822130643.post-51302227644550564402024-02-18T14:28:00.001-05:002024-02-18T14:32:46.710-05:00Notes on Brokenness<p>My husband is remodeling our kitchen, and yesterday he came to the part where you have to take the tile backsplash off the wall, and I thought, Hey, I can do this part. Give me the hammer. Maybe I have some latent aggression that needed to be released, because I enjoyed smashing the backsplash tile to bits. </p><p>Outside there was snow on the ground and everything was muffled. Not just from the snow but from the noise cancelling headphones I was wearing. Smashing tile is loud. It is also hard work. </p><p>Some of the tile came down with barely any effort. One tap and it split right off. But most sections took time. Strategic placement of the screwdriver-like tool I was using, angling it carefully along a crack, and then giving the hammer a nice solid whack. Sometimes I gave it too strong of a whack and broke the wall underneath. </p><p>Which seemed like a problem, but my husband said, no. It can be fixed. With my husband, anything can be fixed. This is no small thing. And I say this as a person who once believed that I was irreversibly broken. I thought I hid it pretty well. But there were cracks. I thought I hid those pretty well too. Here is something I learned: </p><p>No one is irreversibly broken. And if you want to fix something, it can be fixed. </p><p>The old tile is gone. The smashed bits already hauled off with the trash. There is no going back now. My husband is scrolling through YouTube videos on how to repair walls. I'm searching for new backsplash ideas and bookmarking the ones I like. </p><p>There are so many beautiful possibilities. Why didn't we take care of this years ago? Here is something I am learning:</p><p>It is never too late.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY_GoipVesMBILyzTzAc72UDv_ImA9H8aCXYo-PxtT5tO-RjCKcfiMO9yncXgb5_dUjWfiD5PFs-J9zaOqKVATC5t-kdy6O_6kxuh1vxI-Nsvoaak3Le1U_R7GPySQefQa_Y2ziVckoF8RpisIX9pDtGZhCLmMWIcpTLMb56g3mV5mTdj-K-AJT5ny0qVY/s392/IMG_0589.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="392" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY_GoipVesMBILyzTzAc72UDv_ImA9H8aCXYo-PxtT5tO-RjCKcfiMO9yncXgb5_dUjWfiD5PFs-J9zaOqKVATC5t-kdy6O_6kxuh1vxI-Nsvoaak3Le1U_R7GPySQefQa_Y2ziVckoF8RpisIX9pDtGZhCLmMWIcpTLMb56g3mV5mTdj-K-AJT5ny0qVY/s320/IMG_0589.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p>Jody Casellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17892174349776047862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3330766246822130643.post-10438882837034032762024-02-11T12:44:00.005-05:002024-02-11T12:54:14.415-05:00This Kind of Happiness<p>The mourning dove couple is back in their old nest on the porch. Drinking my coffee this morning, I hear them cooing and immediately feel happy--spring is here!!--before worrying that this is way too early for mourning doves, and spring should not be here. It's barely mid-February. </p><p>You said the same thing last year, my husband tells me. I go back to check my journal, and sure enough, he's right. Sort of. It was the<i> end</i> of February when the mourning dove couple returned to their nest. I feel slightly less worried now. If we are all hurtling toward some cataclysmic climate change cliff, is it wrong to be grateful that it also comes with cooing mourning doves and a few sunny warm days in February?</p><p>I read the news and despair. I stop reading the news and feel guilty. Shouldn't I know what's going on? A friend stops over spur of the moment and we walk around my neighborhood, marveling at how lovely the weather is. After she leaves, I am restless. I try to write some more in the book I'm writing. I try to read some more in the book I'm reading. I give up on both and take another walk, this time with the dog. </p><p>She trots along with her tail wagging, pausing every now and then to wriggle on her back in the grass. She loves spring. I don't have the heart to tell her it's winter. At the toddler story time, a little girl shows up early with her dad. She couldn't wait for this, the dad tells me. She's been talking about it all week. </p><p>Me too, I say, and I laugh because I realize I actually mean it. </p><p>The little girl whispers something to her father and he nods and says, She wants to know if you're going to do the Wheels on the Bus song. </p><p>We sure are! I say, and the little girl squeals and claps her hands. Later, when the room fills up with kids and their grown-ups, we all squeal and clap our hands. </p><p>How are we blessed with this kind of happiness, the kind that delights in silly songs and wriggles on its back in the sun? How did we ever lose it? </p><p>How do we remember and hold on?</p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk7UXbmJKPOhFgn46uu16Uxn8_53seR8DLxZGNiM0PjzrJwh2O7AWC7raotImcfv2UJt0fqrOUnHWvwIuJMVll9gDYmVGj0Uku2-cv94o2MjkzoT6ncAads9OOPbsRlQJy2n6TihXuBTnzanjGa5IWmgnnr5DK4J-FVWfXVfHhVKSwkcRZT9uQZ7lktImG/s2048/VTq9GWIzTNObmNHhxFmDkw.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk7UXbmJKPOhFgn46uu16Uxn8_53seR8DLxZGNiM0PjzrJwh2O7AWC7raotImcfv2UJt0fqrOUnHWvwIuJMVll9gDYmVGj0Uku2-cv94o2MjkzoT6ncAads9OOPbsRlQJy2n6TihXuBTnzanjGa5IWmgnnr5DK4J-FVWfXVfHhVKSwkcRZT9uQZ7lktImG/s320/VTq9GWIzTNObmNHhxFmDkw.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Jody Casellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17892174349776047862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3330766246822130643.post-33369965094184992002024-02-04T11:56:00.004-05:002024-02-04T12:14:35.617-05:0010 Things I Learned from Doing the Toddler Story-time at the Library<p>1. It is a full-blown workout. This is not the sit quietly on the floor with your legs crossed kind of story-time. This is singing at the top of your lungs with hand motions, rolling, bouncing, hopping, rocking in a pretend boat and driving a pretend car. When it's over, we are all ready for naptime. </p><p>2. It's a big bummer when the bubble machine breaks, but the toddlers get over the disappointment fast, happy to wave the brightly colored gauzy scarves I've passed out and/or shake the rattly egg-shaped shakers. </p><p>3. Everyone likes being greeted by the sheep puppet. Even the shyest kids, the ones hiding behind their grown-up's legs. One glimpse of the sheep puppet and they're timidly toddling over to boop the puppet's nose. </p><p>4.<i> Boop </i>by Bea Birdsong is a good book to read to two-year-olds.<i> Boop,</i> if you don't know it, is a story (and I use the word story generously here) about a dog and his nose and how it's everyone's job to give the nose a little boop-y tap. The story builds with other comically drawn dogs all wanting their noses to be booped and ends with the directive to boop your own nose. </p><p>5. I was nervous before I did this story-time, thinking about other teaching and public speaking experiences I've had (a lot), but realizing that my experience with the toddler set is zero. Unless, you count my own kids, but that was so long ago, can I even remember it? </p><p>6. I can.</p><p>7. When you're speaking to any audience, it's good to scan the crowd, pause here and there to look someone in the eye, smile. This works with toddlers too. It helps if you're sitting on the floor with them. It helps if you've got a sheep puppet on your hand. </p><p>8. The songs will stick in your head for days. (For a fun example of this, try: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WFlKUCtFmdM">"Driving in My Car."</a> You've been warned.)</p><p>9. There is a lot of planning involved in story-time. Choosing a book that can hold a small child's attention, the music and rhymes and particular fingerplays. The set up. The take down. The sanitizing of toys, which all inevitably went straight into someone's mouth. But I like this kind of planning. And I don't mind the clean up. </p><p>Gathering up scarves and eggs, I have a flashback of my young mother self, picking cheerios off the carpet and sanitizing the teething rings, the weird quiet in the house after the kids have been put to bed, knowing the noisy busy day will start again tomorrow, with the crying, the giggling, the whining, the kisses. How never-ending those days were and then, one day they ended and are gone forever-- </p><p>10. until you sign up to do the toddler story-time at the library. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ9ZXilE0D7L86z5lrOqe-z8XUUNS3Li1f-ECECvqfpi3yjHRlfWKJcU3vyvMq1KLkTmn1JBUMUOuNlkiGPjsyU1XHmGijWcn4qsiiMtymxGU837hdKgjG2hxWr9vZR1VpR0sXosxQ4VFgCRkDtMpWd0oSeLVbdkxYNthPkkREKn9fvFvgmubtorEoHCUW/s3297/IMG_0361%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3297" data-original-width="3022" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ9ZXilE0D7L86z5lrOqe-z8XUUNS3Li1f-ECECvqfpi3yjHRlfWKJcU3vyvMq1KLkTmn1JBUMUOuNlkiGPjsyU1XHmGijWcn4qsiiMtymxGU837hdKgjG2hxWr9vZR1VpR0sXosxQ4VFgCRkDtMpWd0oSeLVbdkxYNthPkkREKn9fvFvgmubtorEoHCUW/s320/IMG_0361%20(1).jpg" width="293" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>Jody Casellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17892174349776047862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3330766246822130643.post-47095816384918948302024-01-28T12:33:00.001-05:002024-01-28T12:36:28.406-05:00Rule Maker Rule Breaker<p>Last week I made a list of rules for myself and then I broke them. I don’t think I even made it a day. Who am I kidding. I didn’t make it an hour. The rules all had to do with how I use social media and consume news, and basically, how much I use my phone. (TOO MUCH!) </p><p>The rules seemed like really good rules. </p><p>What inspired me to write them was I am working my way through <i>The Artist’s Way</i> again and there’s a chapter about “blocks.” The idea is that just as we’re starting to break through, feel more creative, and play around on whatever project we’re working on, we self-sabotage and reach instinctively for a block. Drugs or drinking. Spending money. Overeating. For me, it’s the damn phone. </p><p>The task we were supposed to do in <i>Artist’s Way</i> is write a list of things we promise we will no longer do. </p><p>I had a fun time making this list.</p><p>1.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I will no longer jump on my phone in moments of boredom.</p><p>2.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I will no longer scroll through the news headlines.</p><p>3.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I will no longer check emails on my phone. </p><p>4.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I will no longer mindlessly watch videos on social media. </p><p>I made the list and promptly jumped on my phone, scrolled the news headlines, checked my emails, and mindlessly watched videos on social media. </p><p>Surely something else was going on with me. <i>The Artist’s Way</i> asks us to answer honestly: </p><p>What is your payoff in holding onto the block? </p><p>I wrote, “It confirms my worst feelings about the world and about myself. That I lack focus. That I can’t tackle a project like the one I’m working on. That I can’t follow through on anything. That I’m acting like I have all the time in the world when I know that I don’t. That it’s okay to waste my one wild precious life because who cares.” </p><p>oh. </p><p>I shut my laptop and picked up my phone. </p><p>Something strange happened. An old friend emailed me out of the blue, kind words about something I’d written. At the same time, another old friend texted me. And another. I’m not lying. Three people I haven’t seen in years, all saying absurdly nice things. </p><p>Too nice. I escaped back into the phone. </p><p>Really, what was going on with me? I had a funny flash of my fifteen-year-old self making up rules, how to act, how to talk, how to eat, how to dress, how to fix my frizzy hair. So many rules. How could I help but break them? </p><p>"Do one lovely thing each day for yourself this week" </p><p>is the next task in <i>The Artist’s Way</i> after the phone block one, and I can already feel myself making it a rule. I can already feel myself breaking it. </p><p>But here is something I want to try: What if I don’t call it a rule, a task, a promise? What if I don’t write it down or even think about it? What if I just take a moment, right now, and do it.</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8W_8jbrejY0LMtxmLgcRuId4qQwW1mcq_c19sK2yTy7099hn20AQstn4sBA70EHB5Jvnxm-stuaiMWIFdwuD5SzKVJs9IIc_doLIDWXZP0EPMTItsq76rNJ1KXvRzS1ZwUn8xq-DIMENLC-e3HYipVNiWrneW9EatDCIEkjrJZQHA6ODbdhMPXa4qbWvj/s4032/IMG_0346.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8W_8jbrejY0LMtxmLgcRuId4qQwW1mcq_c19sK2yTy7099hn20AQstn4sBA70EHB5Jvnxm-stuaiMWIFdwuD5SzKVJs9IIc_doLIDWXZP0EPMTItsq76rNJ1KXvRzS1ZwUn8xq-DIMENLC-e3HYipVNiWrneW9EatDCIEkjrJZQHA6ODbdhMPXa4qbWvj/s320/IMG_0346.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> </p><p><br /></p>Jody Casellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17892174349776047862noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3330766246822130643.post-6487138172759352792024-01-21T13:44:00.002-05:002024-01-21T13:52:36.402-05:00Lost and Found<p>Working the information desk at the library and a patron asks if there are any reading glasses in the Lost and Found. Let me check, I say, and I pull out the bin and sift through the left-behind winter hats and gloves, a dropped baby shoe, a nice pen. </p><p>I don't see any reading glasses, I say. When do you think you might've left them here?</p><p>Oh, I didn't leave them here, she says. I forgot mine at home.</p><p>It takes me a minute to process this. The patron wants to <i>use someone else's lost reading glasses? </i></p><p>Is this...allowed? It doesn't feel allowed. Regardless, there are no left-behind reading glasses in the bin. The patron is bummed, and she jokes about how blind she is without her glasses and how there's no way she can interpret the form she needs to fill out and fax. She'll have to drive home. </p><p>I'm still stuck on the part where she asked me to rummage through the Lost and Found, but I'm also sympathetic. I can't see without my reading glasses either. In fact, I keep them perched on my head, always. I slip them off my head and offer them to the patron, and she is delighted. I am delighted by her delight, while at the same time, wondering if I am a fool and what if I forget to ask for them back and when I do, should I sanitize them? </p><p>I don't know why I'm thinking about this. </p><p>It's the middle of the night, and I am sleeping on the couch downstairs with the dog who is sick. Correction: I am trying to sleep. Instead, I am writing this post in my head and listening to the dog being sick. Her stomach has the gurglies. Something she ate yesterday? Who knows. Let's just say she has a sensitive digestive system. I've already let her outside once (at 2 am), watching from the back door as she desperately raced out across the snow. It's sixteen degrees. </p><p>And then we're back inside, both warming up. The last time I slept downstairs was May 2020. I didn't get much sleep then either. Our daughter, who had been studying abroad and stuck there during the early part of the pandemic, had just flown home, and my husband and I were dutifully following all of the rules on the CDC website. Basically: Treat her as if she is teeming with a virus that could kill us all. </p><p>For the required two weeks quarantine, we gave her the upstairs--bedroom, bathroom-- and moved ourselves into the living room downstairs. I left her meals on a tray at the top of the stairs. I wore a mask and gloves when I did her laundry. During the day, we took walks or sat outside on the patio, six feet apart. On rainy days, we facetimed. The two weeks lasted forever and then it was over. We gave her long-awaited hugs and lived together in our bubble for a year. A great gift, I understand now, despite all of the fear and craziness of the time. </p><p>The patron gives me back my glasses without my having to ask, and I wipe them off with hand sanitizer, no big deal. A few weeks later, down in the Youth Department, I lose them. They must have fallen off somewhere when I was shelving. I have to pull holds and I can't read the tiny call numbers on the list. A little boy sees me crawling around looking and starts crawling around looking too. </p><p>In a few minutes another little boy joins him, and then, both of the boys' mothers, another child and their nanny, a whole silly group of us on our knees, peering between the shelves and under the furniture. </p><p>What I'm trying to say made more sense to me in the middle of the night, the dog's stomach rumbling in the dark, my worries keeping me from sleep. The large and small ways we try to help. The gifts we share with one another. All of our foolish and lovely gestures. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4qxrhrQseLVFWUv8eNZhQz2bF4ly3LtZrDanIdn6DHrQ866fnc2Q9B9P6KaFxESP45EyI-gmt10oQhlvcEiZ9NhID9Sl3s-TNSJN6rU1uOMolYAwZcr20mj9_-AYdZJIBxtf1xnGrAnK1bBhauZYSd8T0zFl7Le2CNGMYBrDiuw2eiFSkCgaDZPBz9HFX/s4032/IMG_0309.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4qxrhrQseLVFWUv8eNZhQz2bF4ly3LtZrDanIdn6DHrQ866fnc2Q9B9P6KaFxESP45EyI-gmt10oQhlvcEiZ9NhID9Sl3s-TNSJN6rU1uOMolYAwZcr20mj9_-AYdZJIBxtf1xnGrAnK1bBhauZYSd8T0zFl7Le2CNGMYBrDiuw2eiFSkCgaDZPBz9HFX/s320/IMG_0309.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> <i> </i> </p>Jody Casellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17892174349776047862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3330766246822130643.post-11211013373450670522024-01-14T11:42:00.004-05:002024-01-14T11:54:00.397-05:00Heard<p>I've been watching the TV show<i> The Bear.</i> It’s very good. If you don't know it, it's about an acclaimed master chef named Carmy who inherits his family's sandwich shop after his older brother commits suicide. He decides to come home to run the place, and it's very stressful for him (and for us, watching). The crew is skeptical about the changes Carmy wants to make. In the kitchen everyone is used to doing what they want and yelling at each other. </p><p>What I like about the show is how when they are not yelling, they are telling each other where they are and what they are doing. Behind! they will say, when they are walking behind someone. Or, Corner! when they are racing around a corner. When someone gives them an instruction, they say, Heard!</p><p>Sometimes they say Heard! when they are having an uncomfortable conversation. I like that, I say to my husband. We should try that. </p><p>Heard, he says. </p><p>This is important to me because I know I am not always a good listener. Sometimes I tune out without meaning to and burrow into my own head. Or I get distracted by what else is going on or by a thing I'd meant to do. My family will joke about how I stand up in the middle of conversations to pace around or to do a household task. </p><p>Some days I literally cannot sit still and feel like I might crawl out of my own skin. I don't know why I'm like this. Well, I do sort of know why I'm like this, but I'm starting to wonder how much <i>knowing</i> can help with potentially changing. </p><p><i>The Bear</i> isn't really about what goes on behind the scenes of a restaurant. It's about a person who is struggling with grief and loss. The long term, seemingly never-ending effects of trauma burrowing into all of the nooks and crannies of the kitchen, into Carmy, and into his family and friends. </p><p>It's a funny story too. And most episodes are heartbreakingly lovely as the people strive to do better, be better. How they begin to learn, one by one, that there might be another way to interact with each other without the yelling and the contempt and the casual cruelty. </p><p>How when they say Heard to each other, we know they are really trying to listen. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX0VsPECJswffOMVfXYdaB2Y5bD7h87ohTICiFgT1QKnbvQ0tpuFR5q18xi94ojGR91biYyNq8gaqX-H_utjxVmMLn1SvWsoS5s155AKLv8wqKcCmUjm4ORxFxME2j80T2zpFlgA698UemnWWevlmMVqH8OWZAcML-KNzTMaciSIBQtE6R4-9z0uB7ZUS0/s1742/IMG_0268.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1742" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX0VsPECJswffOMVfXYdaB2Y5bD7h87ohTICiFgT1QKnbvQ0tpuFR5q18xi94ojGR91biYyNq8gaqX-H_utjxVmMLn1SvWsoS5s155AKLv8wqKcCmUjm4ORxFxME2j80T2zpFlgA698UemnWWevlmMVqH8OWZAcML-KNzTMaciSIBQtE6R4-9z0uB7ZUS0/s320/IMG_0268.jpg" width="282" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Jody Casellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17892174349776047862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3330766246822130643.post-50350900207605392442024-01-07T11:09:00.001-05:002024-01-07T11:13:39.246-05:00A Bear, a Pillow, a Pomelo<p>The bear was a black bear and it was dead. Probably hit by a car. The body rolled a little way off the road and down into the woods. My friend and I were walking our dogs, and I stopped to take a picture of the bear, but then I said, Wait, what if it's not dead? </p><p>My friend laughed. If it's not dead, we run. </p><p>Later, we all went on a hike. There was snow on the ground and the trail went straight uphill. We were all wearing sneakers and it was slow-going. Why are we doing this? I kept thinking. But then we reached the top and I understood. The view. I don't know how to describe it. I took a picture. </p><p>This was New Year's Eve. Every year for the past twenty-four years my family has met up with the same good friends to celebrate, except for 2020, when we met up over zoom. This year my husband and I almost cancelled. He was getting over being sick. I was afraid I'd catch what he had. </p><p>But he felt better and I was okay and off we went. On the drive we talked about our health and how when you have good health, you don't think about your health. But when you have bad health, it's hard to think about anything else. It makes you wonder about time and how you want to spend it. </p><p>After the hike we browsed around thrift stores and I kept looking at pillows. I don't know why. The cushiness. The color. There was an orangey one I kept going back to and finally my husband said, just buy it. So we did. We were using cash. Long story, but we had some, and I said, let's play a game where we can't use our credit cards for anything until the cash is gone. </p><p>This meant going into gas stations to pay for gas, something I have no memory of ever doing in my life, and I had to ask the clerk how it worked. She said, you tell me how much gas you want and you pay me. </p><p>But how did I know how much gas I wanted? A tank? How much is a tank? I know she thought I was a weirdo. Also, one week into this new only-cash lifestyle, and I think our credit card company is probably worried about us. Have we been kidnapped? Are we okay? </p><p>We are doing great! </p><p>On the drive back, I am a pro with the gas. Let's mix things up, I tell my husband. Do other things differently. Just for funsies. We go grocery shopping when we get home and walk the store in the opposite direction we usually shop, ending up at the fruit and vegetables. We buy two artichokes because we have never bought fresh artichokes before. We buy something called a Pomelo because we don't know what it is and it is large and round and green and why not? </p><p>Turns out it tastes like grapefruit. I take a picture of it. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbiyLMc4pccbqXXq5wqadlG6LfPMm5f7JC_VpwA03Y4L5sgs-otxqcXjVD761CnXSmBOS7uq3Bltg1ncdcvGrONto8c1geE0k5wBpTrBts9JgOPwWF3nmlj6MsRWYjFOWmKtD-nvG20tSmnhIySZVtkNeebJjGO4N8tq0empILZ8tLiDO17TlzF8Ihv4VK/s2048/5696BEE0-EE51-4EF8-95FF-B1B11D258E07.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbiyLMc4pccbqXXq5wqadlG6LfPMm5f7JC_VpwA03Y4L5sgs-otxqcXjVD761CnXSmBOS7uq3Bltg1ncdcvGrONto8c1geE0k5wBpTrBts9JgOPwWF3nmlj6MsRWYjFOWmKtD-nvG20tSmnhIySZVtkNeebJjGO4N8tq0empILZ8tLiDO17TlzF8Ihv4VK/s320/5696BEE0-EE51-4EF8-95FF-B1B11D258E07.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Jody Casellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17892174349776047862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3330766246822130643.post-57713297416719646762023-12-31T08:57:00.000-05:002023-12-31T08:57:13.340-05:00The old year is out<p>and the new year is so new it hasn’t even started yet. </p><p>A friend says instead of making resolutions, we should choose a word for the year and her word is Wellness. I like this word. After a year of not-so-good health news, I could use more of it. Here is something I’ve learned about learning about scary health news. First, there is a gut punch. Next, a scurrying around online for more information, after which you think, Okay, I can do this, </p><p>and then you do this. (Public service announcement: if you notice a weird spot on your shoulder that was never there before and it doesn’t go away for five months, schedule an appointment with your dermatologist.) </p><p>My husband’s word is Connections and I like this word too. Over the past year I have been reconnecting with old friends and I’m making new connections with new friends. I also do the Connections puzzle in the New York Times puzzle section every day. Have you done that? It’s a puzzle with sixteen words and you have to figure out how to group them. Some days it is very tricky. Some days you can’t figure it out and you want to fling your phone across the room. It’s fun! </p><p>I’ve also been making a lot of connections in my therapy, uncovering the past and having lightbulb moments about how much I’ve carried into the present (talk about gut punches!) and working to break old, unhealthy patterns. It’s hard, but I recommend it. </p><p>(Another Public Service Announcement: It is called the Three C’s. And it refers to how to approach being in a relationship with a person who has an addiction, but I think it could also include anyone you love who has a mental illness or is struggling from dealing with their own trauma. You can’t Cure them. You didn’t Cause the problem. You can’t Control the situation.) </p><p>(I am thinking about having this tattooed on my arm so I will never forget it.)</p><p>My word for the year is Trust. One of my therapy gut punches was learning that I don’t trust people. This lack of trust extends to the world. And it extends to myself. But I would like break this pattern. Times are scary. There’s war and illness and climate emergencies and another crazy election looming, and then you add in health screenings on top of it and who knows what is going to happen in the new year. </p><p>But I trust that I—we can do this, whatever comes our way, and together, old friends and new, we will make it through.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihDZ3KGCU0rLvxDRMPctTDpexr4XQEVcZ-MFuSPAJQxO1vVlINcwHprRTkKJIVEaxpNDXBJk89Wgs5xZW-ZdYTOTAjCAVM3fc1OzAVQcXcOSg6Tl1pdqT2UENWtFehaPxfAaUpxecLDBh6na8ytaKj2VvXSDGdcS3bHiUPth30EjmmrOLhLBZhTW66MfFl/s2048/1sxcVQc9QvqTKAn7e1SVNA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihDZ3KGCU0rLvxDRMPctTDpexr4XQEVcZ-MFuSPAJQxO1vVlINcwHprRTkKJIVEaxpNDXBJk89Wgs5xZW-ZdYTOTAjCAVM3fc1OzAVQcXcOSg6Tl1pdqT2UENWtFehaPxfAaUpxecLDBh6na8ytaKj2VvXSDGdcS3bHiUPth30EjmmrOLhLBZhTW66MfFl/s320/1sxcVQc9QvqTKAn7e1SVNA.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Jody Casellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17892174349776047862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3330766246822130643.post-72741421447978918322023-12-24T08:27:00.001-05:002023-12-24T08:28:08.666-05:00It's quiet in the house<p>and for the moment, I am the only one awake. Six people, three dogs. Three kinds of coffee to be made. Food for the vegans and the carnivores. We have enough pillows but bring your own blankets. Yesterday my mother-in-law and daughter and I made multiple desserts. Here is a secret about Linda’s famous chocolate chip and m&m cookies and don’t tell her I told you. It’s the recipe on the back of the chocolate chip package. Except, after you add the package of chocolate chips, you throw in an entire bag of m&ms. Honestly, I didn’t think there was enough cookie batter to contain this much chocolate candy. But Linda proved me wrong! </p><p>We also made the longtime favorite rum cake and a new recipe, vegan chocolate truffles, which we decide taste like chocolate brownies (secret ingredient: dates). We did not make the Danish potato sausage this year, a decades old family tradition that used to halfway freak out the kids, with the special-ordered sheep intestine casings and the raw pork. I never thought I’d say this, but I kinda miss the annual stuffing of the potato sausage, the kitchen turned into a science lab, the counters a biohazard. It’s the connection, though, to the past </p><p>and to the people who passed it on, and do we really want this tradition to end with us? Maybe we will resurrect this recipe next year. For now, we have the cookies and the rum cake and vegan chocolate truffles, the familiar Christmas carols, the jigsaw puzzle in partially completed chunks on the dining room table. Home is where the hearts are</p><p>and sometimes all the hearts aren't home and there are several new hearts. I don't know what I am trying to say. It's early and I haven't had my coffee yet because the coffee machine is loud and people are sleeping in the other room. Last night the dogs arrived, one a dear friend and the other a first time guest. My own dog was not having an easy time of it, but eventually she quit anxious-drooling and greeted the company. Now everyone is friends. </p><p>More guests (people, not dogs) are coming in tonight, some who have never visited us over the holidays, so we will have to bring them up to speed. Where we keep the towels and help yourself to the variety of desserts. I can already hear the laughing and the barking, some singer from the past singing about how she's rockin' around the Christmas tree and having sentimental feelings about people telling her to be jolly. </p><p>I have never had someone tell me specifically to be jolly, but I hear her on the sentimental feelings part or whatever that feeling is where you ache so painfully over the people who aren't here and at the same time feel you might burst with gratitude and love for the ones who are.</p><p>But for now, the house is quiet except for the old house creakings, and somewhere upstairs, the soft patter of a dog. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUW3MlsN3a6j182gLF1STCWdvlehJaVAu2JuDy3fRhwFpnAV10Tv4rEGNGsGbswujTVQNGkMbpkRaPGhc-Mz1bjcl2flSQchUkG6IMfM8Rmfhc6pzg7gK8rcwaMT6GNCoT53z6iDWUza6gf07SK4AF2u7yCqG2CYiGL1ga6CIK4dxON2Q8y5FJOwznXcxo/s4032/IMG_0131.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUW3MlsN3a6j182gLF1STCWdvlehJaVAu2JuDy3fRhwFpnAV10Tv4rEGNGsGbswujTVQNGkMbpkRaPGhc-Mz1bjcl2flSQchUkG6IMfM8Rmfhc6pzg7gK8rcwaMT6GNCoT53z6iDWUza6gf07SK4AF2u7yCqG2CYiGL1ga6CIK4dxON2Q8y5FJOwznXcxo/s320/IMG_0131.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><div><br /></div>Jody Casellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17892174349776047862noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3330766246822130643.post-12676748060177364542023-12-17T14:30:00.000-05:002023-12-17T14:30:29.663-05:00Guests are coming and the house is a mess<p>with unwrapped presents piled on the dining room table, a stack of lovely Christmas cards from family and friends strewn all over the counter. Which reminds me, if I want to send out cards, I'd better get on it. Or is it too late? Time moves along in weird bursts, so that one minute it is August</p><p>and suddenly, we are heading toward Thanksgiving, and Boom</p><p>Thanksgiving is in the rearview mirror. Maybe it's the weather. Too mild and creepily sunny for Ohio and how is it December? I build a holiday playlist to get in the proper mood, the Charlie Brown Christmas and the Judy Garland song that makes me want to cry about how someday soon we all will be together, </p><p>and I want to believe this, but what does "soon" mean in this new reality of mine with the weird time bursts? Yesterday, when I was looking for where I stored the Christmas cards, I stumbled on old family photos and went down that rabbit hole for a couple of hours, the kids at various ages posing in front of various Christmas trees, a cat we once had, a dog, people we love, loved, but now they are gone from us. </p><p>A first year without them. A fifth year. A fiftieth. We had no time at all with them. We had all the time in the world. What I want </p><p>is to pin time down and pin myself in it. All of my loved ones in one place, but in every time and with every cat and dog. Until then, Judy Garland says we will have to muddle through somehow. But enough with that sad song.</p><p>This year I am amending what I want, starting today as I clear off the dining room table and wrap the presents. Send out the Christmas cards. Clean up the messy house to make room for the people who are traveling to see us. Have faith that we can check in on the ones who are celebrating elsewhere. </p><p>Here and now is all we have and I can't bear to miss a moment of it. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRwPocjETiOFssIG0BShJnnuAEfDRGzl5xwX6Io_TMjowaZhm0FxVOLkQZTFaH6rZu-zsoD8wLYqoMlGgqgQmx78N5N3hNZHpdrO-Ewzvc9I-uqTUjlM4EO53bks1oVcnlJNTahL_GBb27yfgi4U02LN8QBfvL9RCsS_BWFr9WTuGWylbEZx3qP4r58F2Z/s1262/72273204140__2EAFB997-C675-4A5F-AEDB-8425F81D3838.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1036" data-original-width="1262" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRwPocjETiOFssIG0BShJnnuAEfDRGzl5xwX6Io_TMjowaZhm0FxVOLkQZTFaH6rZu-zsoD8wLYqoMlGgqgQmx78N5N3hNZHpdrO-Ewzvc9I-uqTUjlM4EO53bks1oVcnlJNTahL_GBb27yfgi4U02LN8QBfvL9RCsS_BWFr9WTuGWylbEZx3qP4r58F2Z/s320/72273204140__2EAFB997-C675-4A5F-AEDB-8425F81D3838.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Jody Casellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17892174349776047862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3330766246822130643.post-69853952176842284022023-12-10T17:42:00.004-05:002023-12-10T17:49:19.202-05:00What did I read this year? (I don't remember)So, thank goodness I kept a list. <div><br /></div><div>Otherwise, I REALLY wouldn't have remembered, and even with the list, it's a little tricky for me. One of the books<i>, Remember: The Science of Memory and the Art of Forgetting</i> by Lisa Genova, basically says that forgetting is our default. We're not meant to remember everything. At least I think this is what the books says, and from what I can remember, I liked this book. </div><div><br /></div><div>Other books I remember liking, in no particular order: </div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Angel of Rome</i> by Jess Walter. This collection of short stories is so well written and clever. One story still stands out to me. An older couple is having an emotional discussion in a diner and realizes halfway through that a nearby customer has been writing down every word they say. Turns out he's a student who's been given an assignment to record dialogue. The story takes off from there and it's somehow both hilarious and heartbreaking. </div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Girls of a Tender Age</i>, a memoir by Mary-Ann Tirone Smith. This book came across my desk at the library and piqued my interest because the woman grew up very close to where I did. Her story centers around a little girl in her classroom who was murdered and how the neighborhood quickly and disturbingly moved on from the trauma. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Manhattan Beach</i> by Jennifer Egan. I don't typically read historical fiction, but this one, set during World War II and featuring a female diver in the navy and a mobster and how their lives intersect, quickly drew me in. I read this one because I had the opportunity to hear the author speak and everyone in the audience kept mentioning this book and how amazing it was and how did she write it, and her answer was fascinating. It took her years and most of it had to be completely rewritten and the whole time she thought she'd never be able to pull it off. But she did.</div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Demon Copperhead</i> by Barbara Kingsolver. A retelling of <i>David Copperfield,</i> set during the rise of the opioid epidemic in Appalachia. You've probably heard about this book (it won the Pulitzer Prize) and it has the look of something dense and difficult, but I promise you, it is not. Open it and read the first page and the charming voice of the main character will immediately win you over. </div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Body Work: The Radical Power of Personal Narrative</i> by Melissa Febos. I've been reading a ton of memoirs lately but this one hit me hard. Part memoir about trauma and part How to Write a Memoir about Trauma. If you're someone who happens to be interested in that topic, this is a must read.</div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Winter Recipes from the Collective,</i> poems by Louise Gluck. I don't read enough poetry anymore but once upon a time, I thought I wanted to be a poet and this book reminded me why. </div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Pineapple Street</i> by Jenny Jackson. Funny, smart and kind of absurd story about a wealthy family in our nutty society. </div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>The Guest</i> by Emma Cline. Oh my God I am still thinking about the ending of this book. What happened??!! I read some reviews (because of course I had to see what other people were saying) and one reviewer said it was the most anxiety-provoking book she'd ever read. I agree! I also was extremely annoyed by the ending, and my writer point of view is that it's a lazy cop out. But from a reader point of view...well, I'm still thinking about the damn book. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>The Postcard</i> by Anne Berest. Another book I was hesitant to pick up because of how dense-looking it is. And it's a translation from French. And it's a book about the Holocaust, and I wasn't sure I was up for it. But I'm so glad I gave it a chance. At the core, it's a mystery. A woman receives a postcard in the mail with the names of her murdered family members written on it. No return address. No idea who could've sent it or why. This book has a gut-wrenching story at the core but somehow there is hope and something beautiful at the end. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Unbroken: The Trauma Response Is Never Wrong, and Other Things You Need to Know to Take Back Your Life </i>by Catherine McDonald. This isn't that groundbreaking of a book. And it didn't tell me anything I didn't already know about trauma through all of my reading and therapy. But...there is a story the author tells at the end that broke me apart and glued me back together in a way that all of my reading and therapy hadn't quite been able to do. </div><div><br /></div><div>I will never forget it. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8mvYu_FTGVI8rvCQQ7eE8RzjJmQ8v4Gu5bx4chgKCWTHZX_INxlSwkU1BUJPKWNBI0q9taXbuPxKsIRm_6lSnMWjXqJTxn4_M-saGP-5Ubmr0cdTgLOmXjzVuvpVG0O61nc6Fo9wJwcVNhiIX6Jcqj3ZIUYUl6jo2sATydAQ-TLGaKpO51heNLGUwkvYS/s2048/B487302D-962A-442B-9D21-EDF1B31905E6.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8mvYu_FTGVI8rvCQQ7eE8RzjJmQ8v4Gu5bx4chgKCWTHZX_INxlSwkU1BUJPKWNBI0q9taXbuPxKsIRm_6lSnMWjXqJTxn4_M-saGP-5Ubmr0cdTgLOmXjzVuvpVG0O61nc6Fo9wJwcVNhiIX6Jcqj3ZIUYUl6jo2sATydAQ-TLGaKpO51heNLGUwkvYS/s320/B487302D-962A-442B-9D21-EDF1B31905E6.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Jody Casellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17892174349776047862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3330766246822130643.post-48346426125596902792023-12-03T13:57:00.001-05:002023-12-03T14:00:25.334-05:00I don't want anything<p>is something I used to say, when someone would ask me what I wanted for my birthday, for Christmas. I have everything I need, is what I was thinking. And if there was something I really wanted, I could buy it for myself. </p><p>But recognizing that other people were trying to check me off their lists, I might throw out a suggestion. Say, slippers. </p><p>And then I would get the slippers, and it would feel silly to me. Like, why are we all doing this, going through the gift motions, sending each other our suggestions, often very specific ones, with sizes and styles and helpful Amazon links? And never mind all of the waste and the rampant consumerism and who needs more stuff stuffing up their houses. So, when someone asked me what I wanted, my husband, for example, I'd say, I don't want anything, and he'd get upset, and I couldn't understand why. </p><p>We were locked in this gift-giving/no-gift-giving dance for years, some years with him throwing up his hands in weary resignation and not getting me anything. Some years with him buying the slippers and wrapping them in front of me and making a show of putting them under the tree. </p><p>But the truth is it wasn't all about my stance on waste and rampant consumerism, or how, in general, I believe we as a culture have too much stuff. There was more swirling around under the murky surface of my not-wanting. Money, being the big one, </p><p>and how in the early years of our marriage, I was stressed out by debts and bills, and why not take myself and any gifts for me off the list? Which goes even deeper into an old childhood self, who was keenly aware that there was no money, so don't bother asking, and if you are given a gift, then you must be eternally grateful for it, </p><p>and isn't it so much easier to not want anything.</p><p>What I was never taking into account, though, was how much I enjoy giving other people gifts. Last year I turned gift-buying for my husband into a mini scavenger hunt of sorts, seeing what I could find by only browsing in the shops within walking distance of our house. I had a blast putting together a cactus for him in the cactus making shop and choosing a model car kit in the hobby store and stumbling onto a set of glass beakers in a thrift store that I realized would look perfect lined up on the windowsill by his desk. My only exception to the within-walking-distance rule was the tickets I get for him every year to the Car Show, which I know he loves, and isn't that what all of this is about? </p><p>The little charge of delight as someone you love opens a gift you've picked out specially for them. </p><p>And then it suddenly occurred to me that <i>this</i> is what my husband has wanted to do for me, and here I've been denying him all these years. </p><p>All of this is to say that I really don't want anything. Except for one thing. His delight. My delight. As we choose each other's gifts. As we share them with each other. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDUCw2opvFguPsWV9c50NxZJL3e4gCwv-5sc7LERE4JyGkxlgXCCrliKvf4bySJ7STslWUqrldN_PpWuzdYdcjltd7Kil_zJ4BLrU_md-VkK94HmLpIsUcso23d_thYa-OSVFRvWqzMNLpt7MpepisLztoBsjFHcP-FeaFjzh0jDlDFy-x6p-xMIHPL7LN/s3024/2021-12-24_16-42-34_353.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1560" data-original-width="3024" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDUCw2opvFguPsWV9c50NxZJL3e4gCwv-5sc7LERE4JyGkxlgXCCrliKvf4bySJ7STslWUqrldN_PpWuzdYdcjltd7Kil_zJ4BLrU_md-VkK94HmLpIsUcso23d_thYa-OSVFRvWqzMNLpt7MpepisLztoBsjFHcP-FeaFjzh0jDlDFy-x6p-xMIHPL7LN/s320/2021-12-24_16-42-34_353.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p>Jody Casellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17892174349776047862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3330766246822130643.post-4864398890116591372023-11-26T12:55:00.003-05:002024-01-14T09:58:41.780-05:00The Cows Don't Know It's Thanksgiving<p>It’s just another morning for milking and I am here for it. For the record I have never milked a cow in my life. Actually, I have never touched a cow. These cows are… soft, warm. They chew their cud and blink their pretty eyelashes and stare back at me, as if to say, you don’t know what you’re doing. </p><p>You've got that right, cow! But I am open to learning. My daughter-in-law is patient with me. She works on this farm and has kindly invited me to shadow her as she does her morning chores in the dairy barn. Here is how you milk a cow:</p><p>You wash off the udder? The teats? You do some pre-milking squirts by hand. The trick is Squeeze and Roll. (I have to try this multiple times before I can get anything out, mindful all the while that a cow might kick me in the head.) The little bit of milk from this squeezing and rolling goes into a cup and the two barn cats come running for it. (One of the cats is named Barbara and I love her.) My daughter-in-law attaches a milking machine at this point and the cow goes on chewing and staring, steam coming out of her nose. Then, it is on to milking the seventeen other cows. </p><p>It is cold out here. Patches of snow on the ground. A gray lake and white-capped mountains in the distance. It is beautiful. This is our first time visiting our son and daughter-in-law. For the past thirty-three years my husband and I have hosted Thanksgiving, cooked the entire spread, one year for nineteen people. Another year, just the two of us. This is our first time traveling. The first time being anyone's guests. </p><p>We are open to learning. Turns out it is very nice. In the afternoon we all go on a walking tour of the town, a ferry boat churning across the lake, a row of pretty houses. This place is a tourist destination in summer, but for now the streets are quiet. If not for our son, we would never even know about it. But isn't that the way with our children? </p><p>They grow up and go, and their places become our places, their people, our people. The things they do become the things we would like to try. Back in the dairy barn I am learning how to do what my daughter-in-law calls the "spa treatment." Here is how you do the spa treatment:</p><p>You rub a pepperminty lotion into your gloved hands and you carefully massage it on the cow's ... udders? flanks? backside? being mindful to avoid a kick in the head. When I'm finished, I move around to the other side of the barn to meet the cows I've previously only seen the backends of. As soon as I round the corner, one by one, they turn to look at me. Slightly wary, I imagine, wondering who this stranger is, but welcoming nonetheless. </p><p>I am learning so much today and it's not even noon. My daughter-in-law hands me a shovel and we clean up the cow poop together. Here is how you clean up cow poop:</p><p>(Just kidding. I'll leave that to your imagination.) </p><p>When we’re finished, I suddenly remember it is Thanksgiving. Time to say goodbye to the cows and head home. A delicious meal on the table. The people we love, waiting for us. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvVD1RIIoNFLYeQn6OJ9W5RkGfQCXUf1OPZ-fMYFvZDE2sG2JuqNMnRGW0jdI9w8z9oE57LW-vsiykDhdQxnn1usajq9pW5rhdhqICF_G2W_mwQLJmKCM95cguhjU0mzYUvYftHBd2BrinhUw1SvTT23Pi14VPvath_Tv-Nm2jq0QIHdPgeY_uBu7ulfCF/s4032/IMG_9918.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvVD1RIIoNFLYeQn6OJ9W5RkGfQCXUf1OPZ-fMYFvZDE2sG2JuqNMnRGW0jdI9w8z9oE57LW-vsiykDhdQxnn1usajq9pW5rhdhqICF_G2W_mwQLJmKCM95cguhjU0mzYUvYftHBd2BrinhUw1SvTT23Pi14VPvath_Tv-Nm2jq0QIHdPgeY_uBu7ulfCF/s320/IMG_9918.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Jody Casellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17892174349776047862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3330766246822130643.post-4898186919446913062023-11-19T12:27:00.000-05:002023-11-19T12:27:52.777-05:00Looking Forward Looking Back<p>I filled up a recycle bin with stuff this week, a long overdue project that I'd kept putting off until I finally ran out of excuses. The excuses were dumb things like, "I don't feel like doing this," and "What if I change my mind." </p><p>The Stuff was mostly papers. Bins of old manuscript drafts and old files from writing and teaching events. Why have I held onto these things? Okay, the files, because you never know. I might be asked to teach a particular lesson again. (But I have these lesson plans saved on my computer, and the truth is I rarely reuse lessons.) </p><p>Chucking the old manuscript drafts was a harder job. It meant sort of<i> looking</i> at them again as I tossed them. It meant thinking about all of the time spent, the work, the dreams. But guess what, the drafts are all saved on my computer too. And I have all the finished manuscripts, which is enough paper, I've decided. </p><p>As soon as I decided it and began to tear and toss, I quickly cycled through what felt like an accelerated mourning process. Dizziness to depression to acceptance. All of those stories, all of those words, and no one will ever read them. </p><p>But here is another truth: <i>I </i>didn't want to read them. Anyway, I have new stories to tell. When I finished tossing, I was drained, wrung out. But weirdly, I also felt jittery with pent up energy. I paced around the house itching to shed more things. Old books I never plan to read. A stack of old magazines. Whose dumb idea was it to hold onto that? </p><p>Still jittery, I went outside and yanked out dead plants. Raked leaves. Cut the out-of-control ivy. I didn't want to write about this, but all week it has been throbbing in my head. A story in the news about a man, my age, who was out running in a neighborhood not far from mine. Something happened, the authorities still don't know, and he was killed. It turns out that I know the man's wife, and I can't make sense of any of it. The suddenness of the loss. The brutality. How random it is and how heartbreaking. How do you go on after something like that? </p><p>But I know the answer. You just do. I went back inside and cleaned off the kitchen table. I found a box of flower bulbs that I'd meant to plant and forgotten about because they were lost under piles of clutter. All of my gardening and I have never planted spring bulbs. I had to don my reading glasses to decipher the directions on the box. Outside again, and I chose a place, dug my holes and tucked away the bulbs. </p><p>Here is what I know today: the past is gone and there is no guarantee of the future. </p><p>But if all goes well, the flowers will bloom in spring. Big showy purple ones to brighten the yard and bring whoever chances to walk by a moment of joy after the long winter. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU2l32TxI8CIUbud4PheHC6ny11wbBfmf3eU3HJALWwxbdvRIxzumCefq6uEaEGCZBPZJgCeI3PpwJ5ZMxLKr59H44tpjsAN4J49jFIkiJnDdyI6YygQSMuaW0HWosyFoigy9Yb1XTfQa0HcN_08s7qK8NEq0POwwOgAuO3I52XrsE1S9zlUcuua_DN3ax/s804/Screenshot%202023-11-19%20121024.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="706" data-original-width="804" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU2l32TxI8CIUbud4PheHC6ny11wbBfmf3eU3HJALWwxbdvRIxzumCefq6uEaEGCZBPZJgCeI3PpwJ5ZMxLKr59H44tpjsAN4J49jFIkiJnDdyI6YygQSMuaW0HWosyFoigy9Yb1XTfQa0HcN_08s7qK8NEq0POwwOgAuO3I52XrsE1S9zlUcuua_DN3ax/s320/Screenshot%202023-11-19%20121024.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Jody Casellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17892174349776047862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3330766246822130643.post-14271547904700578712023-11-12T11:59:00.000-05:002023-11-12T11:59:06.909-05:00Life slows down when you are sick, and all you want to do is burrow under the blankets with the dog, who is mystified that you won't take her for her twice-daily long walks, but otherwise, seems content to cuddle up with you. We do a lot of dozing. Whatever plans I made for the week fall off my plate. <div><br /></div><div>A baby story-time at the library I'd been looking forward to leading. A dear friend's bookstore event (Natalie D. Richards' tenth book, and her first middle grade, which I can never remember the name of so I call it "The Moose Book" because that is what we called it when she was writing it). (For the record it is actually called <i><a href="https://www.nataliedrichards.com/">Fifteen Secrets To Survival,</a></i> and it is so clever and fun and just perfect for the 8 to 12 year old in your life-- in case you want an early holiday gift idea.) </div><div><br /></div><div>Instead of doing those fun things, I was flopped out on the couch, sipping hot tea (a special recipe from my husband's co-worker in India that he swears by, a blend of turmeric, ginger, basil, honey and lemon. A word about this tea that I figured out after stupidly dumping the contents of those herbs into the cup of boiling water and then needing to sift out the mush: </div><div><br /></div><div>you can use a tea holder. I use an adorable plastic dinosaur tea holder that my daughter-in-law gave me, and there's just something about that perky little guy floating around in my tea that gives me such a happy lift.</div><div><br /></div><div>Also, I was reading a book about how to break up with your phone, called, conveniently, <i>How To Break Up with Your Phone</i> by Catherine Price. It's very funny (and scary). The funny part is how much I can relate to this particular addiction. How absurd it is that you can go from "just gonna check my email" to reading an article about the rise of fascism in America to shopping a sale at Eddie Bauer and back again, and the next thing you know another hour of your one wild and precious life has ticked by never to be experienced again.</div><div><br /></div><div>The scary thing is something I already knew, but apparently needs to be pounded into me repeatedly, which is how our phones are specifically designed to urge us to pick them up and to keep us scrolling on and on and on, like an endless dinging and pinging slot machine. (Side note: one of the most depressing things I ever witnessed was twenty-five-ish years ago at a casino, a roped off area with two slot machines that only took one hundred dollar tokens, and there was a man perched on a seat in front of one, slipping $100 dollar token after $100 dollar token into it, pulling down the lever, and losing, over and over again, his face completely blank, like he couldn't stop, wouldn't stop, until he ran out of tokens. </div><div><br /></div><div>On our phones, of course, we never run out of tokens. The feed just keeps feeding itself forever.) </div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe it is okay to do some mindless scrolling, when you are sick, for example. But I am resolving to you now that I am breaking up with my phone. Or at the very least, I am going to set some serious boundaries on our increasingly toxic relationship. While I am sick is as good a time as any. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now. When I have my snoozy dog and plenty of hot tea and good books to keep me company. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfCDi23gc603yeIS_LGudbXXHBJ0YRQSQRk1IApsW2su7WNLDGrCfg9e8TxLdCA_eWp7ygmLYbwKXGTZ-0WgNoiQe7UCsGyqw0KVKEedDhHF70A6LO7Ojcx4t4xuUzncyPZeDnFFpsNnoYM_PK5d3KmJojyQGbDtIWRrVH0IZVXiXWNprKYX078l8VIViU/s4032/IMG_9870.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfCDi23gc603yeIS_LGudbXXHBJ0YRQSQRk1IApsW2su7WNLDGrCfg9e8TxLdCA_eWp7ygmLYbwKXGTZ-0WgNoiQe7UCsGyqw0KVKEedDhHF70A6LO7Ojcx4t4xuUzncyPZeDnFFpsNnoYM_PK5d3KmJojyQGbDtIWRrVH0IZVXiXWNprKYX078l8VIViU/s320/IMG_9870.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Jody Casellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17892174349776047862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3330766246822130643.post-55337433938740867482023-11-05T16:04:00.002-05:002023-11-05T16:06:52.313-05:00Falling Back<p>I early-voted the other day. There was a line, but it moved along, and my husband and I moved along with it. This is a big election in Ohio, but then, all elections feel like that lately. When it was our turn, we voted YES for the library and YES for women having the right to make decisions about their own bodies. And then we went grocery shopping. </p><p>Has it always been this way, with the world tipping further and further into a scary, unrecognizable place, and at the same time, you still need to buy peanut butter? </p><p>Meanwhile, at work I am waging a daily battle with whoever the person is who keeps stealing the Vote YES brochures. At the library we have a table for voting information. Candidates in upcoming races are allowed to place a brochure on the table. The campaigns in charge of the ballot issues may set out their brochures as well. One day I noticed that the entire stack of Vote YESes had disappeared.</p><p>I texted someone I know who is involved in that effort, and she gave me another stack. The next day that stack was gone too. This happened three days in a row, and it bugged me. </p><p>Bugged me is a mild way of putting it. Not that I think a brochure is necessarily going to convince anyone to change their mind on an issue, but it's the principle. If you believe your cause is right, why are you cheating? (This is me arguing with the person in my head.)</p><p>I know I know. Pretend-arguing with a person I don't know is a battle I can't win. And continually replenishing a stack of ballot issue brochures is right behind that on the pointless-ness scale. And yet I can't seem to stop. I am falling back. To an angrier version of an old self. To a time and place where I had to defend myself but I was powerless. </p><p>This morning I wake in the light. The clock on my phone has set itself back in the night. So much time on my hands that I sign up last minute for a yoga class at a studio in my neighborhood. On the way over I walk past YES signs and NO signs. </p><p>Before the argument can resume itself, I am inside, on my mat, clearing my mind while I stretch and balance. </p><p>Home, and I remember. I am no longer in that place. And I am not that person. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdj3JRlUfUg2LtrT_q-XD9KGNCIm5p2IYtvf6V1bPKusshOpk0wQ3XHA-IA5CS80o8w61-9l_hYDZZG2x4DYkl5_zhI7EcY0DXQFTAIYh8-keoS8H9_HUVAtn9dQWlDA01pqlIiy8ouwlryr9c45K8s_t8KCjEPAaNwLQjbybJzgHID8TtkipANMv1CvJl/s1122/IMG_9831.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1122" data-original-width="842" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdj3JRlUfUg2LtrT_q-XD9KGNCIm5p2IYtvf6V1bPKusshOpk0wQ3XHA-IA5CS80o8w61-9l_hYDZZG2x4DYkl5_zhI7EcY0DXQFTAIYh8-keoS8H9_HUVAtn9dQWlDA01pqlIiy8ouwlryr9c45K8s_t8KCjEPAaNwLQjbybJzgHID8TtkipANMv1CvJl/s320/IMG_9831.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Jody Casellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17892174349776047862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3330766246822130643.post-47178670903231088692023-10-29T11:28:00.000-04:002023-10-29T11:28:05.266-04:00I am a bulletin board<p>for Halloween, a last-minute Do-it-yourselfer costume that I find online. What you do is take a corkboard-colored shirt and hot glue a bunch of post-it notes to it. Wah Lah. Bulletin Board. The reason I had to make a costume was I was invited to a Halloween party. The people who host the Halloween party are very creative people. </p><p>I like to think of myself as a creative person, but lately, I am not feeling it. </p><p>I don't know why. It's raining. I'm listening to too many political podcasts. My husband's been out of town for the past few days and the alone-ness is getting to me. In the morning I walk down to the farmer's market and spend a distressingly long time looking at potatoes. I walk the dog in the drizzle and then I flounder around in the house, listening to more podcasts and despairing about the state of the world. </p><p>Less than two hours before the party, and I still haven't put together my costume. Last week a friend suggested we do the<i> Artist's Way</i> again. This is a 12-week course with exercises to help you unblock your creative self. I've done this course three times over the years and it has always worked for me, but this time, I'm skeptical. </p><p>One of the exercises is to write out positive affirmations, such as, <i>I am allowed to nurture my artist,</i> and <i>I am willing to create.</i> I find these affirmations kind of woo woo and weird. </p><p>Also, each week you're supposed to take yourself on what the author calls an "artist's date." The artist's date is supposed to be fun. A couple of hours where you give yourself permission to play. I always struggle with this exercise. It just seems...silly. </p><p>After I bought the potatoes at the farmer's market, I walked past a booth where a woman was selling homemade mini sweet potato pies. She had a big sign hanging behind her that said, YOU CAN BUY ONE, BUT WHY NOT BUY TWO? </p><p><i>Yeah,</i> I thought. <i>Why not buy two? </i></p><p>I turned around and went back to her booth. I eat a pie while I hot glue post-its onto my corkboard-colored shirt, and let me tell you how delicious that pie is and how very very glad I am that I bought two. At the Halloween party I feel silly walking around with all of my colorful post-its flapping. But I quickly decide to embrace the silliness. </p><p>I am surrounded by creative people.</p><p>I am creative myself. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil5rcwOZWO4J0SF8BsE9RxMc0QA0gMxDYp71VJGFcFRjzAhDWCIwTqCFFYnEihy_TV6twQYj6jKpSkbeALKTwjj5fyjHbg1j-4X_oX2MEXYsauOkSda7RyYth_aqBWcwJFKLbP7e1TdRjRB2DXwhh2VtgS98OaZXIgH0ehpFp5Uur2-u40fHtWrz79Pj5k/s690/IMG_0642.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="690" data-original-width="424" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil5rcwOZWO4J0SF8BsE9RxMc0QA0gMxDYp71VJGFcFRjzAhDWCIwTqCFFYnEihy_TV6twQYj6jKpSkbeALKTwjj5fyjHbg1j-4X_oX2MEXYsauOkSda7RyYth_aqBWcwJFKLbP7e1TdRjRB2DXwhh2VtgS98OaZXIgH0ehpFp5Uur2-u40fHtWrz79Pj5k/s320/IMG_0642.jpg" width="197" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Jody Casellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17892174349776047862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3330766246822130643.post-79322268699643747142023-10-22T12:59:00.001-04:002023-10-22T12:59:32.124-04:00In my dream I am late for work<p>I have two minutes left to get ready, and all of the clothes in my closet are unfamiliar. Shirts that don't fit. Pants with holes in the legs. Finally, I grab something and rush out the door, but almost immediately, I take a wrong turn. I'm on a strange highway, speeding in the wrong direction. Now I am farther away than when I started.</p><p>All week I've been talking to a friend about writing. Or rather, how I've been struggling with how much I am<i> not </i>writing. My old perfectionist tendencies have come back, and I find myself stuck, churning over and over again through the same passage until it feels "right." </p><p>The problem is it never feels right. At the library (in reality, I am never late for work, but I am usually cutting it close) it's my job to handle books. Check them in and check them out. Shelve entire carts of them. I have so many more not-written-yet books stuffed up inside me. But how do I get them out before it's too late? </p><p>Well, here's a solution: Sit down and write them, one sentence at a time. But KNOWING this and DOING it, I can tell you, are two different things. </p><p>Meanwhile, I am helping kids and their grown-ups in the youth department. The other day a young patron asked me where the radio books are. This is a little four or five-year-old girl I've interacted with before, but she's still shy about talking to me. "You want a book about radios?" I said, because I wasn't sure I'd heard her correctly. </p><p>"A radio book, yes," she said. </p><p>"We might have a book about radios," I said. </p><p>"Not<i> about </i>radios!" she said. She was getting frustrated. I was getting frustrated. She comes in once a week with her father who speaks another language and sets up at one of the tables and works on his laptop. When they first started coming in, she'd scurry away if I even looked at her. But eventually, I wore her down by smiling a lot and showing her how to do the scavenger hunt and where we keep the audio books--</p><p>Wait! She didn't want a radio book. She wanted an audio book! These are picture books called Vox books with an audio component that reads to you as you turn the pages. We had recently moved our collection to a different part of the youth department and here she was, trying to find them. I pointed them out, and we were both relieved. </p><p>The same day, a toddler kept giving me pizza. The library has a pretend kitchen with plates and trays and plastic food. Silently, she walked over plate after plate of pizza and set it on my desk. I had a long conversation with her that consisted entirely of me thanking her and telling her how great it tasted, and sure, I'd like another slice, while she answered the only word she knew apparently, which was Meh. </p><p>It was a surprisingly enjoyable conversation. </p><p>After work, it's getting late, but I move my imperfect sentences around on the page. Unfamiliar words and paragraphs that don't fit. Unexpected turns heading off in strange directions. One sentence. Two. Time slows and stops, how it always does when I am writing. </p><p>I might be closer than I think.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikxj3LJozbMrLrUvXvOadKutMqq-g0xge-8vjxtws2EoGux8hxj7nKZGSQGR_xfvVLtxkVKIHP3mYAvyL9Sf99Wpl8ssuc6M8yyixHs9m2oe-7_Y6-0vcORXaY_k9LZUIxJl9X8Is42ncVmApNVqC2__kuyoY3b_e7E3bb-WwD2wscGgDdSw4vOUlVyS-J/s4032/IMG_9778.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikxj3LJozbMrLrUvXvOadKutMqq-g0xge-8vjxtws2EoGux8hxj7nKZGSQGR_xfvVLtxkVKIHP3mYAvyL9Sf99Wpl8ssuc6M8yyixHs9m2oe-7_Y6-0vcORXaY_k9LZUIxJl9X8Is42ncVmApNVqC2__kuyoY3b_e7E3bb-WwD2wscGgDdSw4vOUlVyS-J/s320/IMG_9778.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><p> </p>Jody Casellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17892174349776047862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3330766246822130643.post-24970135564363257402023-10-15T12:07:00.000-04:002023-10-15T12:07:45.824-04:00There's a rumor going around about you<p>is what this guy said to me the other day. I was walking the dog and had my earbuds in. But I noticed out of the corner of my eye the guy walking up fast behind me. The dog doesn't like that, a stranger moving toward us. I don't like it either. I turned at the corner, figuring the guy would keep walking straight ahead, but instead, he cut across the grass, looking like he had something urgent to say.</p><p>Of course, the dog freaked out, lunging, barking. She's what they call "leash aggressive." When she's on a leash, she feels like she's an extension of me. I am her person and she's got to do what she's got to do to protect me. I love this about her. While at the same time, I don't love this. Some of those lunges have nearly pulled me off my feet. </p><p>Anyway, there was urgent-walking-guy, right in front of us. I held up my free hand like a stop sign, explaining that he should stay back because my dog is nervous. </p><p>That's when the guy said there was a rumor going around about me. </p><p>I had one earbud out and was fumbling with the other. "What?" </p><p>"That you've got your hands full." He laughed. </p><p>I laughed in the way that you laugh when you're creeped out and wanting to get the hell away from someone. He laughed again and continued up the street. </p><p>But I was unsettled for days. Replaying the conversation and trying out other possible responses that ranged from letting the dog loose on him to kindly explaining how inappropriate it is to approach women you don't know so you can say something weird. </p><p>Cut to, I ran into him again. </p><p>I was just home from work and literally had my hands full. Library books I'd checked out, my water bottle, my purse. And there he was, walking fast down the street, and almost at the sidewalk in front of my house. I decided not to make eye contact with him. </p><p>But then, just as I neared my front door, he speed-walked across my yard. The only thing that stopped him from getting in my face was the giant patch of sunflowers I've got planted.</p><p>This time he laughed and asked me if I'd seen his beer. I glared at him through the sunflowers and told him to get away from me. And then I blurted out that familiar line well known to grouchy older people everywhere. "I mean it. Get off my lawn!"</p><p>He walked off mumbling about how he was only joking.</p><p>I did a little detective work and found out from a neighbor that he lives nearby. She thinks he might have dementia. "Did he tell you there was a rumor going around about you?" she asked, and I immediately felt sad and sorry for the guy. While at the same time wishing he wouldn't walk directly toward me ever again. </p><p>I went to the farmer's market down the street. On the way back I had my hands full with bags of vegetables. One bag with two pumpkins, small ones, because that was all I could realistically carry. I hadn't paid for them yet. After I'd picked them out, the farmer said he didn't take credit cards. I told him I lived five minutes away and would run home and get my checkbook and come right back. </p><p>I could feel him sizing me up. Was I the type of person who would take pumpkins and come back to pay for them?</p><p>I was. I am. But how could he know that? </p><p>He let me take the pumpkins, and as I rushed toward home, I saw the urgent-walking-guy again, walking urgently toward me. I crossed the street and he hurried along without looking at me. Honestly, I think he may have been a little afraid of me. </p><p>But there we were, both urgently on our way, him to presumably strike up odd conversations with strangers, and me to make good on my promise. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiOOD8F9fsOj1hJrmyR1U5mM-c139NTDM710QfP6Kdpduyx1QysUxRwrz7qBIPMZI7o0IevkmE7asLmuOq52a5sxYj9_8Z4mCgjcn6QryKuoAoM7eokA-_-y5EBPH3QGuv4IsUKbekU6OuiNNB5xEyUw7rvIaRQMWPGiy94GpFldeKttbTQFJoVv1HqaUp/s4032/IMG_9770.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiOOD8F9fsOj1hJrmyR1U5mM-c139NTDM710QfP6Kdpduyx1QysUxRwrz7qBIPMZI7o0IevkmE7asLmuOq52a5sxYj9_8Z4mCgjcn6QryKuoAoM7eokA-_-y5EBPH3QGuv4IsUKbekU6OuiNNB5xEyUw7rvIaRQMWPGiy94GpFldeKttbTQFJoVv1HqaUp/s320/IMG_9770.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Jody Casellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17892174349776047862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3330766246822130643.post-56411649503003744292023-10-08T11:28:00.002-04:002023-10-08T11:41:20.702-04:00The chicks went "back to the farm"<p>and the youth department at the library where I work is completely back to normal. <i>Where did they go? </i>kids and their grown-ups ask me, and I say, "Oh, the farm has people lined up who want pet chickens for their backyards,"</p><p>which I was not 100 percent sure is true.</p><p>When the farmer came to pick them up, I asked him. We had a nice conversation, and I learned a lot about chickens. For example, the adorable fuzzy yellow chicks grow into the white stereotypical chickens we all picture when we picture a chicken. And, yes, it is true that some people want egg-laying chickens for their backyards. And, you can't tell which chickens are female egg-laying chickens and which are male roosters quite yet, and statistically, our little group is probably fifty/fifty, and most people don't want roosters or they're not allowed in suburban areas, and even if they are allowed, a coop can only have one...</p><p>and suddenly, I could see where he was going with this.</p><p>I missed a day with the chickens because I agreed to co-present at a school librarian conference with a friend of mine. The topic was Banned Books. Almost ten years ago the two of us put together a presentation for another conference on the same subject, but back then, we approached book banning as kind of a kooky, fringe thing that mostly happened in the past. </p><p>Our concern was that school librarians might soft-censor (meaning, not purchase certain books for their collections) out of a perceived fear of confrontation or controversary, but we assured them that the book banning thing was way overblown and to keep in mind how many kids in their communities really need these books.</p><p>I was stunningly naive. </p><p>For our presentation this year we focused on procedures for handling book challenges, how to find allies who are also under attack (such as <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/entertainment/theater/2023/10/05/rocky-horror-texas-drag-law/">community theaters</a>), and ways to justify and defend book purchases. After the presentation some of the librarians confessed that they've already dealt with the problem and it is time consuming and demoralizing. </p><p>I went back to work the next day. It was the last day of <a href="https://www.ala.org/advocacy/bbooks/">Banned Book Week</a> and our library had a display of banned books, something we've done every year, but this year, I had wondered if we'd still do it. And I worried about how I'd handle a complaint about a book. Except, I already know-- (see: <a href="https://www.jodycasella.com/2023/09/the-other-day-i-had-interaction-at-work.html">my unsettling interaction at the library a few weeks ago</a>). </p><p>Suddenly, I realize that I have been sorta lying to little kids about what happens to chickens. </p><p>It's not easy to face the hard truths about the world--and about ourselves. And how do we decide when it's appropriate to expose our children to what we've learned? I want to say that a three-year-old isn't ready to hear that Mr. Fancy Pants might end up in his chicken nuggets. </p><p>Mr. Fancy Pants, I suspect, may have a different opinion. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjntuLNTpHAcP-elbANooo2-wTKao83QHNReVCn0AU1yeWNg8ATyNFGykQzN4oZ3nLLUmSPAF-aLolY-xFwChGJGLpLSddWCXx1Mjyuv6c1N3VvwwDTEAo32O_vdGbLD2prlfDL6OnfK2Ym05XO0x4Sd4oUScuQMJY68OfFl_J8Tlax1a0vEnUojrEYsh-G/s4032/IMG_9734%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjntuLNTpHAcP-elbANooo2-wTKao83QHNReVCn0AU1yeWNg8ATyNFGykQzN4oZ3nLLUmSPAF-aLolY-xFwChGJGLpLSddWCXx1Mjyuv6c1N3VvwwDTEAo32O_vdGbLD2prlfDL6OnfK2Ym05XO0x4Sd4oUScuQMJY68OfFl_J8Tlax1a0vEnUojrEYsh-G/s320/IMG_9734%20(1).jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Jody Casellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17892174349776047862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3330766246822130643.post-11779542232381610502023-10-01T14:03:00.007-04:002023-10-01T14:11:34.095-04:00Six joyful things that happened this week (and one bummer)<p>1. The chicks hatched in the library and I am in love with them. This is a program we do every year called Bring the Farm to You. A local farm sends us seven eggs and we keep them in an incubator in the Youth Department until they hatch and then we put them in a big cage and they wobble around and chirp and look adorable. </p><p>2. A second bonus butternut squash grew in my garden and I didn't even know it was there because it was hidden by the windy vine and floppy leaves, but the other day when I was digging around, pulling out the spent tomato plants, I found it. I will never get over these surprise veggie gifts. </p><p>3. I reconnected with an old friend and we had such a lovely time catching up. Do you know how certain people remind you of certain times in your life and when you talk to them again, those parts of your life come back and you wonder how you ever lost touch with them (the people, the parts) in the first place? Well, it was exactly like that. </p><p>4. Friends invited my husband and me to a fundraiser dinner for <a href="https://franklintonfarms.org/">Franklinton Farms,</a> an urban farm that grows food for people in an impoverished area of the city, and one of the speakers talked about how conversations about gardens and food have led to deepening connections in the community. I've found this with my own garden, how I want to talk to people about what I've grown and give stuff away (butternut squash, anyone?) But also, how nice it is when a more knowledgeable gardener shares their wisdom with me. </p><p>5. (The bummer) I had a routine bone scan and found out that I have osteoporosis and for a day I was so distressed about it, thinking about holes in my bones and feeling weirdly fragile and then joking about how what if I fell down the stairs and broke into a bunch of pieces like at the end of that movie <i>Death Becomes Her.</i> But now, I'm mostly okay with the idea. I mean, I've been walking around like this for years and not knowing it, so what does it really change? Except, be careful around stairs. </p><p>6. Back to the chicks. We had a contest of sorts where kids could suggest chick names and we got lots of cute ideas like, Pumpkin Spice and Butterscotch and Mr. Fancy Pants. But also, one joker wrote:</p><p><b>Chick name: <i>Butt Hole</i></b></p><p><b>Your Name: <i>Your Mom</i></b></p><p>Which we didn't choose, but it still makes me laugh, and to be honest, Butterscotch does sorta give off a Butt Hole-ish-y vibe. </p><p>7. Another invite from a different friend-- (this NEVER happens to us, TWO invites out to dinner in one week!)-- to see a play she wrote (which was great, funny and moving and thought-provoking), but first, a dinner out to meet her friends, and as we were all getting to know each other, one of them asked me if I was a writer too. This is actually a hard question for me to answer because what do I say? </p><p>Um, yes?</p><p>But then the inevitable follow up is What do you write? And that is always harder for me to answer. My husband piped up and said, She writes a blog about whatever random things happen to her during the week.</p><p>One of the people said, Like tonight? Like us? My husband laughed and said, Yes! And tomorrow, you might be in it! </p><p>And here we are. </p><p>This is for you, new friends. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBdBn_WZ4IRaNhm3OHPRebBaxqIGskwIqqiKM2wFCEH6RV9wsRK-Hj2g2ytBPuGmC5KyNVqUY7Ww3J-EWydgOjiyeVoEzV4JayIPn1uqhkaxPXFLdrdeziBjbuw9nXTJxMD4MELbKMRpAb6lqtXNfXZWN9fSbV6Uuk_sEZvzz23vvC3gpLx_s7YcT8JT1y/s1288/Screenshot%202023-09-28%20at%2010.04.14%20AM%20(1).JPEG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1288" data-original-width="1170" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBdBn_WZ4IRaNhm3OHPRebBaxqIGskwIqqiKM2wFCEH6RV9wsRK-Hj2g2ytBPuGmC5KyNVqUY7Ww3J-EWydgOjiyeVoEzV4JayIPn1uqhkaxPXFLdrdeziBjbuw9nXTJxMD4MELbKMRpAb6lqtXNfXZWN9fSbV6Uuk_sEZvzz23vvC3gpLx_s7YcT8JT1y/s320/Screenshot%202023-09-28%20at%2010.04.14%20AM%20(1).JPEG" width="291" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Jody Casellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17892174349776047862noreply@blogger.com0