Come with me now to experience the New York City Author’s Tea at the famed Lady Mendl’s tea salon (www.ladymendls.com) through Mara’s incredible pre-event vision which happened in just the way she imagined.
“Our guests receive our attractive email, click on “Order” and immediately enjoy a sense of anticipation and inclusion in a special event.
Other guests receive our beautiful invitation by mail, and immediately know this is something they do not want to miss. They call or email for a reservation, mark the date on their calendar and post the invitation somewhere where they will enjoy seeing it.
On the day, guests arrive at 56 Irving Place in New York City and ooh and ah at the beautiful architecture and privacy of the location. As they enter the tea salon, they widen their eyes and giggle with joy at the [elegant] décor, ambience and sense of preparation especially arranged for them.
Laurie and Mara greet the guests, introducing and welcoming, showing the lovely book display, the carefully set tables, the flickering candles, Victorian furnishings, and at each place, a gift book [a copy of Mara’s Christmas Angels]. Place cards welcome each gift and explain their gifts and the charity to which we are all donating today.As the event begins, Mara explains how the afternoon will go, and shares with them the connection between tea, women’s fiction, and generosity. Mara invites them to enjoy the exquisite afternoon tea and introduces our first speaker, Ellen Easton, who offers a unique perspective [because of her family’s multi-generational involvement in the tea industry]. As guests enjoy conversation and incomparable food, they learn more about the story of tea.
Mara introduces Marva of the Hue-Man bookstore who inspires everyone deeply with her Books-for-Kids charity. (www.huemanbookstore.com)
After the next course, Mara introduces Laurie, an accomplished multi-disciplined artist. Laurie and Mara are fellow members of Women Writing the West and both authors who write mostly for women….
Laurie gives an uplifting talk about her novel Side Canyons, which is based on a true life story. As she concludes she explains the small hand-chipped agate arrowhead at each place and invites the audience to “embrace adventure” and “explore the side canyons of their own hearts.”
As guests finish the next course, Laurie introduces Mara. Mara speaks humorously about discovering that she’s writing women’s fiction and shares her “theory” about the genre. The guests laugh and nod their heads in recognition and enjoy being swept into the story of Milford-Haven, the setting for Mara’s novel series. As Mara moves from the light-hearted description of fun reading to the deeper dimension of the space that women’s fiction opens uniquely for women, the guests enjoy even more the sense of nurturing and inspiration that is both private and shared.
As our guests applaud and finish their fifth course, they, by turns, move to the commerce table to look over Mara’s, Laurie’s, and Marva’s books. They chat with one another, making new friends and thinking of others who would enjoy receiving a book as a gift, and they think of the children who will benefit from the day’s charitable donations. As their purchases are rung up and beautifully bagged, the guests enjoy a sense of fun and excitement at making perfect gift choices. They leave the event fully satisfied. The leave inspired by new ideas and discoveries, eager to follow with interest the stories Mara and Ellen, Marva and Laurie have shared with them.”
*Seeing the city from the air surrounded by all that water
*Standing in the taxi queue at La Guardia airport
*Incredible billboards and graffiti
*The elegantly appointed Victorian Inn at Irving Place in Gramercy Park where Mara Purl and I stayed
*Walking from 17th street to Rockerfeller Center at night with Mara as my tour guide
*The thick forest of buildings and the intricate canyons of the streets and avenues
*People shoulder to shoulder along the sidewalks, the flow of humanity like a great river
*The endless holiday lights beaming cheerfully
*All the store windows and edifices exquisitely decorated
*The magic winter kingdom created at Saks Fifth Avenue
*The ghostly visage of the Empire State Building half hidden behind more modern sky scrapers
*The gigantic Christmas tree and ice rink at Rockerfeller Center
*A man giving us NYC knit caps and soliciting a donation for the homeless
*The Chrysler Building and St. Patrick’s Cathedral
*A saxophone player on the street giving a jazzy rendition of Christmas carols
*A guitar player in Grand Central Station
*The horse mounted policemen
*Watching a crew shooting a film
*Eating at small cafes and getting tea at street side kiosks
*Ordering take out food from Duke’s
*The holiday tea at Lady Mendl’s famed tea salon
*Attending a party at the Time Life Building for “Women in Publishing”
*Multiple cab rides in which life’s greatest lessons are learned
*An ocean of umbrellas on the rainy days
*Attending a video-conference at Hunter College
*Eating at Pete’s Tavern where O. Henry wrote “The Gift of the Magi”
*Seeing a demonstration in front of the United Nations building
*Watching the start of a parade of young people all dressed in white
*Visiting the Japan Society and seeing Mara Purl and ensemble play the music for Jerome Robbins “Watermill”
*Sitting in a wing back chair at the window of my third floor room where I could look out at the multi-colored brick buildings and study a winter barren tree reaching up from the small courtyard below. This became my favorite writing spot
We only go once in awhile. We go to allow ourselves a get-away day and we go to stock up on household and office supplies that are not readily available in the small town where we live. My husband drives and listens to music. I am content to be a silent companion, studying the passing landscape, searching for deer or eagles along the Llano and Pedernales Rivers, turning inward to my own majestic landscape when we reach the big interstate traffic past Bee Cave. When necessary I pull out the Austin street map or watch for signs to play the role of navigator. First stop: Sam’s Club. We roam the aisles hunting for the things we need to carry on the daily work of being writers: ink cartridges, copy paper, cushioned envelopes for mailing books. It is meticulous work. We do not linger to browse or relax and enjoy the gadzillions of products hustled out for the holiday season. Somewhere between the wine and laundry soap aisle, I stop to pull the list out of my purse. When I look up my husband, with cart, has disappeared.
I stand in one spot and wait. I gaze around, eyes darting for a glimpse of his tall, lean, hated figure. Minutes pass. My heart begins to pound. Am I afraid to be alone in the middle of a big box store? I move to the main aisle where I can scan all the people going by. No husband. Should I go in search of him or should I stay in one spot where he is likely to pass? I hover by the wine. I know he will not leave the store without coming through this thicket of bottles. More time passes. My heart races. Suddenly I cannot breathe. Black spots creep in from the sides of my vision threatening to overwhelm me. I have never fainted but I sense this is what is happening. My legs turn spongy soft. Like a deer in the headlights, I want to run but I have no idea which way to go. My stomach rises and I shove it back down. The lady’s room is a long way away. Then I spot my husband standing fifty feet away, leaning on the cart, looking very annoyed. I make my legs move in his direction. I hear myself say: I have to get out of here. I’m going to the truck. Then I realize I have no idea where the door is. Sheepishly, I say, “Can you help me get out of here?” He points. I leave. I have to stand in line to get out of the store. My palms sweat and my feet burn like I’m standing on a bed of live coals.
Finally I’m outside, in the fresh air. The birds are singing. People are rushing past. I feel very conspicuous. Can everyone tell what just happened to me? But no one notices. I cannot remember where we parked the truck so I begin a row-by-row search. When I finally find the truck I lean against the door to catch my breath. My hands fumble with the keys. Once inside, feeling safe again, everything calms. The world rights itself. I feel immeasurably foolish and stupid. What had just happened to me? “Panic Attack” my inner self says. I have never had one before despite being in many difficult situations, but I have heard my mother talk about them. Why? Had I eaten too much sugar, gotten too much caffeine? Did something in the store trigger the sensation? The over bright lights. The too strong scents and smells. I have no idea, but now that I know the specter lives and that I have faced faced it down and survived, I know I will be ever vigilant, always on the look out for its return.
Coffee and Chai tea with my beautiful writer friend Natalia Brothers. Running a few errands around town. A stop at my chiropractor’s to see if he can put my neck, shoulders, and spine back in line to help diminish the numbness and tingling I have in right arm and hand (too much typing for sure). Hanging around with mom and my sisters while my husband meticulously moves my writing life from the storage shed in mom’s back yard into the Uhaul: desk, chair, bookcases, boxes of books and files, printer, copier, lamps, plant stands, and even my mini-trampoline (bouncing is a perfect way to break through writer’s block). A quick sandwich out on the deck in the glorious Colorado sunshine and then we say our good-byes all around and hit the road by noon.
The miles snake beneath the truck and trailer wheels. The sounds and rhythm of the road serve as background music to random thoughts, some of which may turn into a poem or a song, or even the idea for a novel. One fast stop at a rest area and we press on, out of Colorado at Raton Pass and into northern New Mexico. My husband and I do not talk. We are tired. He listens to music. I read a bit. Rest a lot. Work a bit on my computer. Daydream. Squirm in my seat. Try to move around and stretch tight hamstrings and aching lower back. I gaze out the window and watch the brilliant colors of the lowering sun until it disappears in a gigantic splash of thin crimson streaks. Darkness brings stars and a crescent moon. I make a wish, as I did as a little girl. None of those idealistic wishes came true (no poverty or hunger, no violence, world peace, no arguing in my family, a room of my own, a horse, a piano) but still I wished on every star that appeared in my sky. Not only the first star, but all the others. I figured it couldn’t hurt and maybe it hasn’t, to keep on believing in something better.
The highway gets long. The miles get longer. The hours longer still. But there is a destination in sight. A place we need to go, a place we need to be, so we push on. We reach a point where I stay awake to help my husband stay awake. We focus on making it to the next small town along the last stretch of interstate before we turn onto Highway 24 headed up into the mountains. A turn that used to mean “a half hour to reach home.” And now only means that I will arrive a visitor and leave a visitor. I can no longer call Colorado home. The day just past flits by in tiny snippets of already fading memory. Stopping at a IHOP in Roswell for breakfast (the mushroom and spinach crepes were delicious). Making a pit stop at the big truck stop at Vaughn. Stopping again at Raton Pass for a carne asada burrito for my husband and a small bag of chips for me. Always the sense of pressing on to reach Woodland Park. We were blessed with blue skies and sunshine; a balmy Indian Summer day.
Our journey momentarily ends at the Eagle Fire Lodge and Conference Center in Woodland Park www.eaglefirelodge.com As soon as the truck is unpacked and we explore our gorgeous room, I take off on a much needed walk along the pine embraced sidewalk to the Starbucks to buy myself a Chai tea and sit outside to stare at the much-beloved visage of Pikes Peak and breathe in the super fresh high country air. Woodland Park rests at 8,600 feet. Everything in my body relaxes in this much-remembered environment; every fiber of my being shouts “oh hello! Hello!” All too soon though I must rush back to the motel to get ready for a night out with my mother and sisters. My husband and our close friend Gayle intend to go out for their own social adventure at the Wines Of Colorado.
The Swiss Chalet is nearly deserted on this star-studded evening. Only one other couple sit in the restaurant’s elegant interior. Our waitress Katie attends us like a queen and her three princesses: garden salad for me, broccoli cheese soup for Mom and Eileen, escargot for Karen. Crusty Kaiser rolls and fresh butter all around. Then the entrees: the chef has prepared a special plate for me with cinnamon carrots, broccoli, mushrooms in garlic, parmesan tomato, and roasted red potatoes with saffron, Eileen and Mom have the veal snitzle and Karen has sea scallops. A fire burns bright. There is little sound except our family’s banter and laughter. We miss dad. We each try to catch up each other’s life, but especially concentrate on how mom is doing. She is glowing. So happy to have all her girls with her for this one special celebration. It isn’t everyday that a mother turns 79. We skip dessert in favor of going back to mom’s to have tea and homemade (by Karen) German Chocolate/Carrot Cream Cheese cake.
The most startling thing about Lemesa proved to be the angel who checked us into our motel late on Halloween afternoon. A true angel, a young Hispanic girl with a chin-length bob black as a raven’s wing, equally dark eyes made darker by heavy eyeliner, full sparkly silk gown with long wide sleeves, small gossamer wings, a halo and strappy silver four-inch spiked high heels. A beautiful smile, an intriguing voice spiced with the silliness of a holiday, she confessed, “My feet are killing me.” “Take off your shoes,” I said. “Must not be a real angel,” my husband said, “they don’t feel pain.” She slipped off her heels and said, “Ah…..” “She’s just trying to act human,” I said. “She’s in disguise.” “Now I’m not so close to heaven,” she said tallying up our motel charge.
She turned to a stack of papers behind her. I nudged my husband and pointed to her youthful round rump, which was clearly outlined by the clingy-thin material. A black Harley-Davidson thong peeped through the white nearly see-through dress. I loved her for her verve and then wondered if she knew her lingerie was speaking to the world on her behalf when her back was turned. Should I say anything to her? My husband shrugged and pointed at the half pumpkin full of candy. “Grab a couple of Snickers for dessert.” We walked out to our room and I said nothing, but I thought of the angel all evening and wondered how many devils she encountered during the evening. I’ll never know. When we checked out the next morning, the angel was gone. In her place stood an elderly woman with blue-gray permed hair, slacks, an ordinary blouse and flat sensible shoes.
The most startling thing about Lovington, New Mexico, was the dedicated effort local citizens have put into their Lea County Museum under the directorship of Jim Harris. After a brief stop in Hobbs, NM, to visit my husband’s sister, Dianne, and her family, we all went out to dinner at Tia Juana’s (fabulous posole, guacamole, and hand patted fresh made tortillas!). By six we were in Lovington where my husband was slated to speak about the Guadalupe Mountains, a place he has loved since he was a boy and to which he has gone at least 77 times in his life. He has written two books about the Guadalupes: Guadalupe Mountains: Island in the Desert and Legend and Lore of the Guadalupe Mountains. A showing of B. Bullard’s exquisite photos of the Guadalupes graced the museum walls. The Lea County Museum is housed in a well-preserved historic building with many small rooms off a main hallway (I’m guessing it may have been a hotel at one time). Each room is set up with a different historic focus related to life in the county, including ranch life, and the oil and gas industry. There is a room full of lovely hand-made quilts, a book store handling new releases from the museum publisher, and a very special room dedicated to and housing the work and memorabilia of our friend and fine western writer Max Evans. Folding chairs filled a room set up for the event, coffee perked and several of the ladies brought cakes to share. The evening unwound with poetry, stories, songs, and finally questions and answers. Just the kind of gig my husband loves the best: low key, intimate, getting to know local folk, a chance to have real conversations, sell a few books and CDs, and still get to bed by 11 o’clock. Jim Harris and his wife Mary hosted our stay by giving us their guest cottage for the night. A delightful change from the usual motel room. I loved sitting outside under the sparkling lights of the ramada while the guys drank wine and told a few more stories and the “affection hound” Missy came around seeking head pats and ear scratches. I loved waking before dawn and wandering outside under a sky chock-full of stars and hearing the first rooster crow and the neighborhood dogs answer. I sat alone for some time bundled up in my hooded sweatshirt just watching day come while sipping a cup of herb tea. What better way is there to begin a day?
September 26, 2008
Since I was, by choice, without a vehicle (see my article “Just Wondering About Life Without a Car) and I needed to get to Nazareth, Texas, for a Terri Hendrix concert on September 27th to do an interview and article for Women Out West magazine, I looked into taking a bus from Llano to Lubbock. Not impossible, but certainly not convenient. No one answered the phone at the bus station in Brady and all I got was the answering machine at the Kerrville Bus Company that runs the route part way. Greyhound picks up the route from Big Spring on into Lubbock. Plus the buses left and arrived at awkward times to ask someone to drive me to the bus station in Brady (an hour away). I turned to my next best option: renting a car.
Lucky for me, a very nice woman named Kay Tribble runs Courtesy Car Rentals right here in Llano (kay7864@yahoo.com). Scheduling a small car was easy to do and the rate was good ($22/day). My husband dropped me off early Friday morning the 26th and I had the Dodge packed and on the road by 9. Six hours later, by sticking to the lovely back roads (Highway 71 to Brady and Highway 87 on into Lubbock) I arrived without incident at my friend Melinda’s home in Lubbock. Melinda and I met twelve years ago at the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Elko, Nevada, when she was president of Grey Horse Press. Besides being a great girl friend and the most amazing editor (she goes by the name “The Grammar Nazi”) Melinda is an incredible writer and photographer. See her work at www.wherethespiritleft.com and
We spent Friday night catching up on news and Saturday morning doing the same thing while shopping and baking brownies and researching Terri Hendrix on the internet (www.terrihendrix.com) Terri has one of the most inviting and engaging web sites I’ve ever seen and it easily captures her joyous, quirky, and independent spirit. Noontime found us at Melinda’s favorite lunch spot, Steins, for a scrumptious sandwich and cold drink before heading north on the narrow two-lane Farm to Market Road 168. We passed through many small towns: Anton, Spade, Hart Camp, Olton, Hart, Nazareth and Umbarger. Because we had plenty of time to enjoy the landscape and any interesting “catch the eye” historic or cultural aspects of the rural communities, Melinda stopped often to take photographs. I, in turn, took photos of Melinda taking photos, and also of anything that I saw that I felt worthy of capturing on film. I began to see the entire world we passed through with new eyes because of Melinda’s keen observation skills. In addition the whole nature of crops in the field fascinated me. I’m from ranch country in the West so things like milo, corn, and cotton held instant intrigue for me. The cotton is nearly ready to pick and Melinda was kind enough to stop and pick me a cotton boll to study. I delighted in pulling out the soft white stuff from the hard, prickly shell to examine the tough seeds inside. Now I have intimate knowledge of where my jeans and T-shirts come from!
We drove on through Nazareth because we were too early for our appointed dinner at Casa de Entereza. We drove on north to the Buffalo Lake National Wildlife Preserve and Tierra Blanca Creek. The preserve is created by the creek and a playa lake, which is a natural depression in the clay-based landscape that holds rainfall. When I asked Melinda if she ever worried about stopping alongside the road to snap photos, she replied, “I carry my poetic license with me wherever I go.” I thought that immensely profound.
Nazareth, population 356, harbors the Home Mercantile. An old store that has more recently been turned into a music and art venue for the community. Ten years ago when the Home Merc celebrated its opening Terri Hendrix played there. At that time there was no stage, no lighting, no interior finish work, no air conditioning. Things have really changed. Donations and foundation support have allowed the local citizens to create a homey and magical place for performers and artists. Darryl Birkenfeld has been the driving force behind the project, along with a very dedicated board of directors. (For more information and a list of upcoming events, email Darryl at darrylb@amaonline.com)
Before the concert, however, Melinda and I had been invited to a special dinner at Casa de Entereza, the home of Darryl and his wife Joanne. There is no easy way to describe the great beauty and grace of their place, nor the fine comraderie and delicious food we found there, including salad made from their own garden, organically grown beef for the lasagne, hot garlic bread, and homemade apricot cobbler. During the dinner I had the chance to meet Terri Hendrix and her performance partner and producer, Lloyd Maines for the second time (the first was last spring at the River City Grill in Marble Falls). Melinda was an old friend of both Terri and Lloyd, as well as Darryl and Joanne, and Tim Walter, the CEO of the Association of Small Foundations in Washington,DC (www.smallfoundations.org). A dozen other people, mostly members of the Home Merc board were also in attendance.
When we arrived at the Home Merc in “downtown” Nazareth a group of young people from the community were setting up to open for Terri. What a fine ensemble of kids. Many of them gave short piano recitals and a trio of boys played several songs on the fiddle, guitar and drums. Best of all was Terri’s fine enthusiasm for their talent and their efforts. It was great fun to see her interacting joyously with the youngsters, as well as the seventy-some adults in attendance. Terri’s two-hour show (with a brief intermission in-between acts to enjoy coffee, lemonade, and cookies) can only be described as spellbinding and memorable. She and Lloyd Maines exhibit the exquisite interaction of skilled musicians who have worked together for a long time as they swapped guitar and mandolin licks. Lloyd also played dobro and Terri played harmonica with great enthusiasm. Terri’s lyrics run the gambit from fun and frolicking to serious and haunting. Many of her songs are written to include audience participation and we were fortunate to have children of all ages participate. You can hear Terri by checking into her website, her myspace page, or on youtube. Better yet, buy a couple of her fabulous CDs to enjoy at home or in your car for constant inspiration and entertainment.
After the show Terri signed CDs and T-shirts and caps for over an hour as Lloyd and friends packed up their sound equipment. More than one young person was sad to see Terri go but she and Lloyd had to get back on the road once more. Melinda and I, however, were in no particular rush to get back to Lubbock, so we went back to Darryl and Joanne for more visiting, Melinda’s fabulous Mexican Chocolate brownies, and tea. By the time we were on the road for home it was after midnight. The Farm to Market road was deserted and somewhat eerie in the sweep of our headlights as we watched for deer and other nighttime wanderers.
Sunday found Melinda and me headed out to the American Wind Power Center (www.windmill.com) on Canyon Lake Drive in Lubbock. We picked up Melinda’s dad, Chester, on the way. Chester is on the board of the Wind Power Center and he wanted us to see the gigantic mural being painted on the inside of the building that houses over ninety historic windmills, some with wheels twenty-five feet in diameter. The twenty-eight acre windmill park outside is dominated by a Vestas Wind Turbine, which stands on a 164-foot steel tower and generates electrical power for the museum. I had no idea I could be so captivated by the many different models of windmills that represent so much of America’s farming and ranching history. That evening we shared a lip-smacking supper of grilled chicken fajitas, black beans, and homemade rice pudding with Melinda’s son, Nathan, his wife, Kaycee, and their adorable daughter, Hannah.
Early Monday morning found me back on the road retracing my earlier route. Audio CDs kept me entertained and I never tired of the beautiful Texas landscape rushing past my rental car. I can heartily recommend “White on White: Selections from the works of E.B. White” read by his son Joel White (www.audioadventures.com) and Lisa Wingate’s “The Language of Sycamores” (www.timberwolfpress.com)
Almost exactly six hours later I pulled into the driveway of our little stone house in Llano. My husband, ever the perfect romantic, greeted me with these words, “Get out of that car and come kiss me!”
