The Scarf

I can write about this now because, as is the case with me frequently, I couldn't keep my big mouth shut and the cat, or rather the scarf in this case, is out of the bag - or in this case, the closet, and by closet, I mean the one where I was hiding it when he was around because it was supposed to be a present. It's a gender-neutral scarf.

The Scarf  was knitted with seven different colors of yarn. It is 800 rows long by 36 stitches wide, which makes it a little over 15 feet long and 12 inches wide or 15 square feet of scarf.

Not counting the tassels. The tassels add almost another foot of length.

I hadn't knitted for years, but I like to knit and residing somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind were some tiny fragments of rudimentary knowledge about Doctor Who and a colorful scarf so I did some Googling, as they say, and learned that in Season 12, the fourth Doctor, the Tom Baker Doctor, did indeed have a scarf. Through my extensive research (a.k.a. Googling), I also learned that The Scarf  had been studied thoroughly by knitters/Doctor Who aficionados and that exact patterns of The Scarf are available online by way of these aforementioned scarf experts.

The man I love happens to be a fan of the Doctor, so I figured a replica of The Scarf would make a nice gift.

I didn't realize what knitting The Scarf would do for me.

First of all, I remembered how to knit and in doing so, I remembered my grandmother teaching me how to knit, which is one of the only really heartwarming memories I have about my grandmother, who was not the most nurturing of women.

Secondly, knitting - creating fabric one stitch at a time is simultaneously mindless and mindful. The Scarf is knitted in garter stitch, which is just knit stitch after knit stitch for 800 rows. The only exciting break in the action is the changing of colors. It's kind of like a long road trip in which the distance to the destination is reduced by each city and landmark passed along the way. Only twelve more miles to Jefferson City and Jefferson City is halfway to Enid = only four more rows until the three rows of purple and that's halfway to the end of the scarf!

Knit stitch, knit stitch, knit stitch....  I can almost do it without looking. ALMOST. But I have to look. I have to watch every stitch in order not to make a mistake and leave a hole somewhere along the way. Mindless and mindful. Zen. There are mistakes though. I left them there as a reminder that I am not perfect.

As if anyone needs a reminder of that.

And lastly, knitting brings me peace and contentment. My hands are not idle when I knit and I can see measurable progress. Like banjo music, it's impossible to think of anything bad when I'm knitting and when I'm knitting for someone I love, I put that love into each stitch, every single time the loop moves from the left needle to the right. I wonder if he who wears The Scarf will be able to feel that love.

I'm on to other knitting for other people I love. I rarely keep anything I knit.

So I finished The Scarf, but I haven't stopped knitting.

I just had to pause long enough to write about it.



You can follow me on Twitter: @CeceliaHalbert

How Do You Know He's the One?

The easy answer is….   you don’t.

That’s what I told my daughter. You don’t know. There isn’t a litmus test.  All you have to go on is your gut feeling and there’s no guarantee, in the long run, that you’ll be right. 

If, however, you’re in the throes of that new, head-over-heels infatuation that masquerades as love and you find that even the most minuscule, seemingly innocuous tiny little things about him annoy the crap out of you already, then I caution you: DO NOT PROCEED. You and he are doomed to eventual failure. He is not the one if, in this glowing state of love-struck rosiness, you don’t find every single quality about him absolutely adorable, right down to the gas that escapes his body in what might otherwise be considered auditorily or olfactorily offensive ways.

I speak from experience. 

I know how difficult it is in that trance-like, intoxicated-by-endorphins phase of a relationship, to envision how years upon years of living under the same roof with that person might magnify to a horrific degree those seemingly minor and perhaps petty irritants. But I tell you - those tiny little annoyances will fester and aggravate you to such a point that one day, while watching him sleep in the Barcolounger in his underwear in front of an ancient episode of Who’s the Boss, his chest and belly littered with crumbled remnants of the contents of a can of Pringles, you will contemplate forever surrendering yourself to a convent of cloistered sisters just so you will never have to lay eyes on him again.

HOWEVER, 

If you find every single characteristic of this man that you profess to love to be uniquely ambrosial and captivating AND if this man feels the same way about you….   then there is hope. 

You’re also probably on the right track if he’s happy that your team won because 1 - it makes you happy (even if he hates your team) and 2 - because he believes that any baseball is better than no baseball.

He’s something special if he does what he says he’s going to to do and if he’s there when he says he’s going to be there.

And lastly - if his arms feel more like home than anywhere you’ve ever been, then they probably are. 


You can follow me on Twitter:  @CeceliaHalbert

Beautiful Death

Leaves on the trees have started to turn and the sun is lower in the sky at midday, casting a creepy sundowning glow in the early afternoon. I’d like to say I have a love-hate relationship with this time of year, but it’s mostly hate.

The bright side? For a week or two, I won’t have to turn on the furnace or the air-conditioner.

That’s about it, really. I despise the dark and the cold. I don’t even really like the magnificent colors of autumn. I’d rather be surrounded by the lush humid green of July and August than the sparse goldens and reds that are the harbingers of the the perpetual uncomfortableness of winter. 

Only four games are left in baseball’s regular season and next year’s reporting date for pitchers and catchers has yet to be determined.

Sigh.

September is almost over, yet I’m still wearing my flip-flops, hoping against hope that global warming will somehow turn Chicago into Los Angeles (albeit with a much better skyline and fewer earthquakes) and I will never have to shovel snow off of my driveway again. 

Wishful thinking. 

And also selfish thinking. Global warming of that magnitude would only benefit my little corner of the world, so I’m retracting that wish just in case there’s a magic genie reading my blog.

However, in the off-chance that such a genie is listening, I’d like to put in a request for some intestinal fortitude to appear on my doorstep in the form of cases of red wine. 

It's almost October and only four games remain, but my team is guaranteed post-season play so I have that one shred of summer left and I’m clinging to every last frayed remnant with one hand and strangling the neck of a wine bottle with my other.

What I Know

An “Aha!” moment.

The light bulb goes on.

Epiphany.

It’s not you. It’s me.

But it’s not what you think. 

I have no problem saying “I love you.” 

And I mean it when I say it.

The problem for me has always been the “being loved” part.  Aha.

I remember telling him early on that it probably wouldn’t last. I would probably do something to piss him off and then he’d be gone. That’s what I’d come to expect because that is what has always happened.

But he’s not gone. I think this time it’s different. I think this time I can get it right and here’s why:

This man knows how to do love.. He did it before. For forty years. He still loves her and he always will.

But now he loves me too and that’s a big deal, given that in the beginning of us he didn’t know if that was possible.

I’ve watched his love for me grow into what it is now and I know that when he says he loves me he means it. I know it. I know when that bridge was crossed, I remember the day when he gave me his heart, and I will never take it for granted.

The difference is that this time I am ready to be loved, and I think I'm learning how from him.
Light bulb.

There is no greater risk and there is no greater reward than love. 

That is what I know.

You can follow me on Twitter: @CeceliaHalbert

Happy New Year!

Last week was exhausting.

In a good way.

I’ve been a teacher for thirty-three years and for the seventeen years prior to being a teacher, I was a student, so my years don’t start on January 1st, they start in the middle of August, and therefore, last week was the beginning of a new year.

New beginnings make me think about past beginnings, so I was thinking about the past few beginnings and thinking this year’s beginning is the best one in a very long time. It's also not the new beginning that I expected a few short months ago.

If you’ve been following along, you know the last couple of years have been fraught with drama and despair and just in general not being sure about anything at all. The only thing I was sure of was that I wanted something entirely different. Kind of. Maybe not entirely.

I still wanted to be in love, but I wanted to be in love with someone else - someone who accepts that all the complications in my life make me who I am and loves me anyway.

I still wanted to be a teacher, but I wanted to teach somewhere else - somewhere where what I do is appreciated and I have colleagues with whom I can collaborate.

I still wanted to be a parent, but…    

You’re thinking I wanted to be the parent of someone else’s children - right?

Oh, come on. Really? 

No. 

I just wanted my children to be okay and my stress level to decrease just a tad where they are concerned. 

This year has started off with a new job - one that actually has benefits.

This year has started off with my kids being more okay than they’ve been in a long time.

And most importantly, I’m starting this year off in love with someone who knows that the job and kids are part of who I am and he’s okay with that and he loves me anyway.

So this week I started a new year. 

With a new attitude.

And sleep deprivation.

I’ll catch up eventually. 

Or not.

Whatever. 

Sleep is overrated. 

Enjoying life when it’s good is better. 

You can follow me on Twitter: @CeceliaHalbert

The Boys of Summer

I spent a lot of time reading tweets this week and not so much time posting or responding. It was a week full of difficult news. Robin Williams' death hit me like a ton of bricks and I’m still getting weepy every time I see a tribute or video or even just his picture.

Wednesday night I watched, via Twitter, the frightening live feed of police attacking peaceful protesters in Ferguson, Missouri.

I read about refugees and children in horrible circumstances all over the world. 

Every day there’s a story about violence on the streets of Chicago. 

But then… I read about these boys of summer. Twelve and thirteen year old boys from the south side of Chicago who are doing something spectacular. 

They’re playing baseball. 

They’re playing baseball with heart and soul and amazing talent and it’s gotten them to the Little League World Series in South Williamsport, Pennsylvania and more than that, it’s gotten Chicago up on its feet, cheering them on.

I wasn’t at the huge outdoor viewing party at Jackie Robinson Field on Sunday made possible by the city along with the Chicago White Sox. I watched the game on ESPN in my living room, but I felt like I was part of the crowd anyway. Everyone, even out here in the suburbs, is talking about these boys with the same pride and enthusiasm they’d have for any of Chicago’s pro sports teams. 

Cubs fans are ready to sign Pierce Jones up now. He went four for four, hitting three home runs and a triple in their opener then talked to the press with a brilliant smile and the poise of a seasoned pro.

The next game for Jackie Robinson West, representing the Great Lakes region, is on Sunday. Want to restore your faith in humanity? Watch these kids play ball. 

You can follow me on Twitter: @CeceliaHalbert

Getting Over It

So while my um..  level 7* was away on a musical tour of the northeast the last two weeks, I had some extra time to think about things and what I thought about was how much I really love him. Just knowing he was more than forty miles away made my heart hurt.

Bear with me. This is not going to be a completely lovelorn sappy post. Promise.

I also had time to do a few things I don’t do as often as I’d like. 

Things like writing, and practicing the guitar. Not things like cleaning bathrooms or dusting. God forbid.

So what I wrote was a song about how being apart made me realize how much I loved him. 

Songs aren’t much use on paper though, and the problem, you see, is that I’m a horrible singer. “No,” you say, “you do just fine.” Well….  I don’t do just fine. I have two degrees in music and I know a bad singer when I hear one and I hear one when I hear me. Too bad I can’t just play the guitar (at which I don’t suck) and pass out the lyrics to the audience to read to themselves.

Level 7 and I go out to open mics on a regular basis where he champions great folk music and also sings lots of lovely original songs. He’s written a few with me in mind and I’ll tell you there is nothing more touching than having your love on stage singing a song he wrote for you. 

Seems like I could do the same for him but it terrifies me. So I sing the song in my living room where nobody hears my awful voice.

Also, while he was gone, I had extra time to spend with my kids. It’s summer, you know, and they wanted to go to the big water park. 

Side note: I’ve had a rather stressful year and put on some weight that I’m not terribly happy about. 

Going to the water park with them meant I would be walking around in a swimsuit all day amidst untold numbers of people in bright sunshine. 

Terrifying.

But I did it.

I spent the day with my kids and we had a blast. We went on a ride that was like being flushed down a giant toilet. 

Awesome. 

Of course there were gorgeous young girls with flat abs in bikinis and tan men with chiseled six-packs, but there were a lot of older moms and dads like me who have possibly reached the I-don’t-care-what-people-think phase of their lives. Some looked better than me and some looked worse and they were just there to have fun with their kids and I quit caring about what I looked like.  

So that's what I thought about last night when I got behind the microphone and sang the song I wrote. It started off pretty awful, but I think it got slightly better, and really there was only one person in the audience whose opinion mattered. 

Hope he liked it.

*See previous blog post: Relationship Status

You can follow me on Twitter: @CeceliaHalbert

Another Child Lost

Today one of my colleagues shared that one of her students, a bright fifteen year old boy, had succumbed to his illness. At fifteen, the pain of depression was more than he could endure and he took his own life.

Depression is real and it is excruciating, not only for the patient, but for the family and friends as well and all too often it is fatal.

A doctor cannot do an MRI or CAT-scan and diagnose the illness. Medications are a crap-shoot and it’s a long and difficult process to find out what works. Cognitive behavioral therapy helps, but it is hard work and in the meantime, the patient often loses hope.

My almost fifteen year old daughter has major depressive and generalized anxiety disorder. On the outside, she looks healthy and beautiful and it’s difficult for anyone who sees her to understand that on the inside she is using every coping skill she knows just to get through the day. Her father and I live with the constant fear that she, too, will succumb to her illness. We do everything we can to help her fight, hoping that one day the combination of medication and therapy will lessen the symptoms.

Too often, mental illness is surrounded by stigma. If that fifteen year old boy had been diagnosed with cancer, he would have been supported, cheered on, encouraged to fight, but people with depression hide their pain. They put on a mask to go out into the world and we don’t know who they are. 

A person suffering with depression cannot ‘cheer up’ or ‘snap out of it.’ You cannot tell a person with anxiety to ‘relax.’ 

What can we do? 

We can be aware. We can ask and we can make it okay to talk about depression. We can be supportive.

Suicide is preventable. 

Awareness is everything. Understanding is essential. 

For more information, please visit the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention at AFSP.org

Relationship Status

As of this writing, I am fifty-two years old. The man with whom I am in love is sixty-five. We have grown children. He has grandchildren. We currently maintain separate residences since I still have two teenagers at home. We are a couple.

Groucho Marx with imaginary cigar voice-over: “A couple of whats, I don’t know.”

According to the dictionary definition, he is my ‘boyfriend,’ but we struggle somewhat with introducing each other to our respective friends and acquaintances because saying “this is my boyfriend/girlfriend,” sounds juvenile to our aging sensibilities.

“Lady-friend” is icky and makes me sound decrepit. I don’t like that either and furthermore, there is no male equivalent. 

“Man-friend?” No. 

"Gentleman-friend?" Ewww.   NO.

My honey. My sweetheart. My love-bunny....   would you introduce anyone like that? I don't think so.

Not that I’m about to post our relationship status on Facebook (reference earlier ‘juvenile’ statement), but these are the levels of involvement Facebook offers: 

We are, by legal definition, single. We are in a relationship with one another. I am divorced. He is widowed. It IS complicated. None of these descriptors are helpful. 

I would like to propose the following levels of in-a-relationship status:

1) We are dating.

2) We are dating exclusively.

3) We are dating exclusively and have professed love for one another.

4) We have introduced each other to our families. 

5) We feel comfortable riding in the car for long distances without maintaining artificial conversation.

6) We have toothbrushes and other various toiletries in each other’s bathrooms.

7) We don’t die of embarrassment if we fart in each other’s presence. 

8) We have clothing in each other’s closets.

9) We have vaguely discussed future plans for a more permanent commitment without actually committing to said plans.
   9.5) We are each other's emergency contacts.

10) We’re making plans to move in together and have discussed finances.

11) We live together.

12) We are engaged. (This is my fiancé(e).)

13) We are married. (This is my husband/wife.) Interesting that this is number 13 on the list, isn’t it?

If this were to become a universal adopted and accepted list, we could introduce each other this way: 

“I'd like you to meet my level seven.”

So I'm putting this out there and we'll see if it catches on.

Until then, I guess he’ll just be my boyfriend unless someone has a better suggestion.

UPDATE 11/7/2014:
I have added a level 9.5: We are each other's emergency contacts. 
We are currently at level 9.5 in case anyone's keeping track of the progress. 

You can follow me on Twitter: @CeceliaHalbert

Rhubarb Cake

You may be surprised to learn that I haven't always been so cultured and refined and steeped in suburban social sophistication as I am today.

In 1985 I taught in a tiny little school in rural north central Illinois.

In 1985. Wow. It doesn't seem that long ago.



In this school there were one hundred and nine children in grades kindergarten through eighth. Most of their parents were farmers - dairy farmers. The kids rarely left town because living with cows that need to be milked twice a day doesn't allow for much time away from home.



As you might imagine, neighbors there are knit together pretty tight.  People depend on one another. Joys and sorrows are felt deeply by the entire community.

And people are remembered long after they're gone.

One morning in 1985, our school custodian, Lavaughn, brought in some rhubarb cake made from an old family recipe. Seems he'd had a bumper crop of rhubarb that spring and he wanted to share.

Now rhubarb tastes pretty horrible if you just chew on it raw, but if you add enough sugar, it's fairly tolerable and that cake was one of the most tolerable desserts I've ever eaten. I asked Lavaughn for the recipe and he scribbled it out on an index card, which I still have in my recipe box.

I made some this morning and I thought about Lavaughn, who is long gone.  Here's the recipe:


Three cups of diced rhubarb.










Stir in a half cup of sugar and let the mixture rest.

Cream together a stick of butter and a cup and a half of sugar.









Beat in an egg.










Add one and a half teaspoons vanilla.










Stir together two cups of flour,
a dash of salt,
a teaspoon of baking soda
two teaspoons cinnamon

Add those combined dry ingredients to the butter/sugar/egg mixture alternately with a cup of buttermilk.

 


Stir in the rhubarb/sugar mixture along with any liquid that formed while it was resting.









Pour the entire mixture into an oiled 13 X 9 pan and bake at 350 degrees for an hour or until the top is toasty brown and springs back just a bit to the touch.










Serve warm - it's best with vanilla ice cream or some freshly whipped cream.





I'm going to have mine out on the patio with a glass of Gewirtztraminer (reference more recent air of culture and sophistication) and I'll be remembering long-gone Lavaughn.

You can follow me on Twitter: @CeceliaHalbert

World's Best Dad!

I’m seeing all kinds of wonderful posts about fathers today in preparation for Father’s Day tomorrow and it’s causing a lot of mixed feelings and I thought I’d share those feelings with you.

My father’s kind of an asshole, actually. I mean… my childhood was fine I guess but I don’t recall my dad being a big part of it even though he lived in the same house. He worked hard at keeping a roof over our head and when he got home at five or if it was the weekend, he deserved to have a glass of scotch and be left alone.

Anyway, it’s the night before Father’s Day and I’m sitting here tonight thinking that I should’ve at least sent him a card, but I’m terrible at thinking ahead that way, so I was trying to think of a nice last minute thing I could do…  I could write a poem. I could create a website full of pictures of my kids and me for him to look at since he rarely sees us and I’m not sure he’d recognize us on the street. I could order him an online gift certificate for golf stuff because I’m pretty sure he cares more about golf more than he cares about people….

I don’t have enough time to do the photo website. Once again, that would have required time and energy spent well before the day of paternal celebration. An online gift certificate is cold and impersonal and while he may be cold and impersonal, I’m not. 

So… back to the poem thing. I was trying to think of something nice to say about my dad. It wasn’t easy. The last 30 years have been trying at best. I had to go back farther than that.

I thought it might be helpful if I made a list of things for which I could thank my dad, then I could work those things into a poem. So here’s the list I made:

Dad took me to my first major league baseball game. 

       I don’t remember this as time spent with dad… just that he took me. It didn’t matter. I was in a dream-like trance from the moment I heard the first crack of a bat hitting a ball. I learned to love baseball.

Dad took me to my first guitar lesson.

      He dropped me off at age 7 at the music store and left me alone with an 18 year old boy who looked like Jesus and reeked of marijuana. I ended up majoring in guitar in college.

Dad taught me how to clean a toilet and weed flower-beds.

      This was necessary in order for him to never have to do either of those chores again but I still know how to clean a toilet thoroughly if I should ever have the desire to do so. I learned valuable life skills.

Dad would, once in a while, take my sister and brother and me to the Dairy Queen.

      This was his method of escaping arguments with my mother. When I was old enough, I got my first job at that Dairy Queen and was well on my way to becoming self-sufficient.

Dad once nicked another parked car when he opened his driver's side door. He left a note on the windshield of the other car with his contact information. He showed me the letter the owner of the other car wrote him to thank him for his honesty.
      He didn't miss an opportunity to let me know what a good person he was. I learned to take responsibility for my actions.

Dad taught me the proper way to pour beer in a glass so there was just the right amount of foam.

      He was training me to be a waitress for his parties and to be a good wife. Hmmm… That’s about it on that one.

Dad took the family to Door County, Wisconsin every year for vacation.

      I wandered around Fish Creek with my brother and sister and have no idea where my mom and dad were most of the time. I learned how to ask strangers for directions and find my way home. 

Dad told me I could marry more money in a half an hour than I could make in a lifetime.

      In other words, I should not look for someone who loves me, but someone who could take me off my dad’s hands. I learned that what I should look for in a man is someone who is, in many ways, the polar opposite of my father. I may just have found him…. finally.

So now I’m looking over the list and thinking that my dad is not really going to see things the way I do and if I wrote a poem for him he wouldn’t really appreciate it, so I guess I’ll just call him and tell him Happy Father’s Day and tell him I love him.

You can follow me on Twitter: @CeceliaHalbert

A Saturday Morning Poem

In the spirit of being present...

Saturday morning still in my robe

neighbors obscured by newly leafed out trees across the back border of my lawn

Sun on my face, cool breeze brushing my skin

Instant coffee in my red cup

Quiet dog lying at my feet on the cool cement patio 

Robin red breast hops into the yard 

Pulls a wiggly worm from the earth hidden beneath tall blades of green

Looks at us sideways to make sure we are still

Hop, hop, hop through the grass cut yesterday

He looks again 

We are still

     Hop, hop, hop

         Hop, hop, hop 

               He flies away

We are still

You can follow me on Twitter where I am somewhat less thoughtful:  @CeceliaHalbert

My Love and I

I didn’t expect to love wine this much. 

In college, I spent a lot of time with cheap beer and tequila. A lot of time. That’s what you do in college because money is scarce and fun is a priority and cheap beer and tequila are easily had. 

I liked beer and tequila a lot. I really thought we’d always be together, but eventually my tastes changed. I got tired of the hangovers, the late nights, the loud parties. I wanted more out of life and the cheap beer and tequila weren’t doing anything for me anymore.

I went for years without any sort of spirits. I had kids. A job. I focused on those those parts of my life, but something was missing…

Then one rare night out, someone introduced me to a cabernet. Seductive, rich, complicated… intoxicating. I was infatuated.

Over time, my relationship with wine deepened. Never-ending nuances to discover held my attention and, on occasion, surprised me. I fell in love with wine. 

And now, years later, I still sit down at the end of the day with a glass of wine. Some days, just looking forward to that moment when it touches my lips makes everything else bearable. 

I think you call that love. 

You can follow me on Twitter: @CeceliaHalbert

Truth

So yesterday was Easter - the holiest day of the year for Christians. 

I haven’t called myself a Christian in decades, but that doesn’t mean I don’t believe in God. It just means I don’t think that Jesus was the one and only son of a white-bearded robed white guy sitting on a cloud, but maybe I’m wrong. I could be wrong. I’m certainly open to being wrong, because how do you really know? And don’t say “because the Bible tells me so.”

I only know what I’ve seen happen in my life and I can’t deny there is a higher power at work. Take this very recent example, for instance: A few weeks ago I was laid off from my teaching job and almost immediately a way to work from home and pay my bills landed in my lap, allowing me to have the flexibility to be available for my special needs children when I need to be. This new gig also might save the life of a micro-managing school administrator bent on following Common Core to the letter of the law. One never knows, but I digress.

You might call these recent events coincidence, but I prefer divine providence. 

You can believe whatever you want to believe and I will respect you for your conviction. I have nothing but admiration for the faithful who live their life according to their convictions, particularly when those convictions involve loving other human beings regardless of perceived differences. I don’t know all of life’s answers, but I’m pretty sure love is one of them.

So yesterday was Easter - and on Easter I saw so much ugliness and intolerance in social media that I had to shut my computer off. Well…  put it to sleep, really. I rarely actually shut it off.

I saw people posting hateful things about Christians and I saw Christians posting hateful things right back and I wondered why. If you’re rejoicing about Christ rising from the dead, then rejoice. Go ahead and rejoice over the interwebs. I can’t fathom that anyone finds the phrase “He is risen” offensive, but like I said, I could be wrong and apparently I am. I don’t understand. Why can't you just let the man rejoice?

If you want to write posts about your lack of belief or your different belief, then by all means, post away. Rejoice in your own truth. 

I just don’t understand why anyone feels the need to attack someone else’s belief. No two people believe the same exact way, even among those of the same denomination. 

These are my truths: 

In my life, I have seen evidence of a higher power. 

I know your truth is different from my truth.

I love you because you are my brother or sister, no matter what your truth is.

In the words of the great prophet Paul McCartney, “Live and let live,” because “in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.” 

Go love. 

And have some wine. For God’s sake. Have some wine. He invented it for a reason.

You can follow me on Twitter: @CeceliaHalbert

A Dry Spell

There is nothing to writing.

All you do is sit down at your typewriter and bleed.

                                   Ernest Hemingway

On those rare occasions when I have more then three unscheduled minutes in a day, I think about writing and that I should be doing it. If not working on a novel, then at the very least I should be writing a blog post. 

But I don't know what to write about anymore.

For a couple of years there, every day of my life brought some new level of ridiculous drama and I had what seemed to be a never-ending supply of ideas.

Here's the interesting thing: I still have a never-ending supply of uncertainty in my life, but what I have now is someone who makes me happy in spite of the drama rather than someone who at times made me incredibly happy but was also a perpetual font of drama.

In the last 8 months since the drama-font and I split, I have dealt and will probably always be dealing with my daughter's mental illness. My divorce was final. I lost my job. My childhood home was leveled by an F-5 tornado. 

And I met someone new and wonderful who somehow makes me believe everything will be okay.

It's nauseating, really, the two of us. Two old people, kind of crazy about each other, hanging around in bars, hanging on each other in bars...  I'm sure the patrons are as grossed out by our behavior as they would be if we were their parents.

And we could be their parents. We're that old.

Maybe there's a story in there, but it'd probably induce nausea. 

Hell, what do I care? I'm old. If I want to write nauseating feel-good stories, then I will. 

But, ewww....  the thought of that even kind of makes me want to puke.

We'll see.

You can follow me on Twitter: @CeceliaHalbert

Love in the Off-Season

We met in November, post-World Series. The Cardinals, or rather some team I didn’t recognize disguised in Cardinals uniforms, had already lost the series to the Red Sox. Baseball wasn’t a real topic of conversation between us. He was a teacher. I was a teacher…   we talked about teaching. He played guitar. I play guitar. He writes good songs. I like good songs. 

I knew he was a Cubs fan, but it was easy enough to ignore that small detail without my daily checks of the NL Central standings. We were just kind of casually seeing each other anyway. Given my recent dating record of wins and losses, I figured he’d be gone long before opening day. 

Well… fast forward four months.

Monday is opening day. Lo and behold I find myself rather attached to this north-sider. Actually, I love him, despite his apathy towards wine and despite his predilection for losing baseball teams. 

Him: “What’re you thinking?”

Me: “That I love you.”

Him: “No, you don’t.”

Me:  *shrugs* “Ok.”

Him: “Ok. You can love me. But if you really loved me, you’d wear a Cubs hat.”

Me: “Let me rethink my previous declaration.”

And now, it’s four days until the first pitch of the season is thrown. 

I’ll keep you posted, but I’ll tell you this: we can sit at the bar and he drinks beer and I drink wine.

I’m not wearing his team’s hat nor will he wear mine.

Something about the twinkle in his eye makes me think we’ll be just fine. 

But if the Cubs should win this year….

I might just draw the line.

At least we agree on the ridiculousness of the designated hitter.

Play ball!

You can follow me on Twitter: @CeceliaHalbert

Perfect Moments

The first drops from a great bottle of wine spun with a wisp of air splashing over my tongue.

A ray of afternoon autumn sun breaking through the clouds shining down on the maple tree leaves that have nearly all turned crimson but not yet fallen.

The drowsy waking realization that the baby slept all night…   and so did I.

The exact moment when Luciano Pavarotti releases his hold on the middle syllable of the final ‘vincero’ in Nessun Dorma and the pitch falls while the orchestra rises.

Stepping outside, inhaling the first breath of warm, moist, springish, hopeful morning air after a long cold winter.

The split second between anticipation and an imminent sneeze.

The last sentence of A Farewell to Arms.

Bare feet in green grass.

and...

My gaze meeting yours.

You can follow me on Twitter: @CeceliaHalbert

Respite

(Caution - really long blog post ahead.)

Right this very minute, I’m flying over the snow-capped Sierras on my way back to the frozen tundra that is Chicago. This morning I had my coffee on the patio in the sun at the hotel in San Francisco, waiting for the airport shuttle. The weather makes me want to stay. The wine makes me want to stay, but I have good reasons to go home.

I’m distracted…  the mountains outside the window are breathtaking. Forgive the eclectic nature of today’s post. I have a lot to cover. 

Thursday night I spent the night with friends outside of Sacramento, in Folsom. Yes, near the prison. I managed to stay out of it, and on Friday morning, I woke to a lovely breakfast on the terrace: Swedish pancakes, fresh berries, bacon, coffee…  my friends, Chris and Mary, were born to own a bed and breakfast. After a bit of discussion over the breakfast, we decided to head to Amador County for the afternoon, in search of the perfect wine for dinner. 

Chris drove us on a beautiful 40-minute drive through the rolling foothills of the Sierras, and then we arrived at our first stop: Villa Toscano, which is a beautiful place. The tasting room is gorgeous, there’s a nice shop, barrel tasting, and the outside grounds are stunning. The wine is okay.  Lots of old vine zinfandels and a barbera that was pretty nice, but nothing that knocked my socks off. Good first stop for the basis of comparison.

2nd stop: Turley, which recently opened their tasting room in Amador County (the other is in Paso Robles). One wine in particular made my ‘best of the trip’ list: their Dogtown Vineyard Zinfandel from Lodi. Outstanding. I like my zins like I like my men - spicy, interesting, and complex. Dogtown was all of the above and the next best thing about the Turley tasting room was the delightful sommelier who suggested a couple of other places down the road. “Tell them the Turley girl sent you,” she said. We did.

3rd stop: Amador Cellars. Winner of “favorite winery of the whole trip.” Not only were their wines outstanding - every single one of them - but the operation is small, family-run, and all of the magic happens in one building with a cozy (and free) tasting bar in front of the barrels. The owner’s son and assistant vintner, Michael Long, who clearly takes great pride in his work, explained where they get the grapes, what kind of yeasts they use, about the aging process, the kind of oak in the barrels, on and on and on… He was delightful and informative and he makes excellent wine. We were the only people in the place for quite a while. Like many other wineries in Amador County, they discourage large drunk-fest parties by requiring limousines to make appointments and they don’t accept buses at all. Socks knocked off. 

Last stop of the day - Terre Rouge/Easton, also recommended by the “Turley-girl.” We drank more lovely zins and enjoyed the company of a great winery dog, Willow. Tasting room manager, Doug Bellamy was knowledgable and entertaining and again, the tasting was free and there was only one other couple there, so we really got to know the wines up close and personal. 

My friends treated me to a fantastic dinner of filet mignon, haricorts verts with mushrooms and a family-protected secret sauce, whipped potatoes, all paired with the Dogtown Zin. We played music together and I went to sleep under a big fluffy duvet, tired and happy. 

The next morning I was picked up by, Gillian, who, if you read Up the Hill before it was pulled for editing, is one and the same, and we headed out for Napa Valley.Traffic was slow and it took us a while to get there, but the conversation was good and the scenery was pretty. Even though it was cloudy and overcast, it was warm enough for flip flops and all was well.

Napa and Amador are two entirely different animals. The Napa wineries are huge tourist destinations and have gigantic, fancy buildings and grounds and huge parking lots to accomodate all of the tourists, birthday and wedding parties, buses, etc. It was good to see both, but as beautiful as Napa is, I’d much rather spend my day in Amador. 

I digress.

First stop in Napa Valley - Domaine Chandon. In Napa, there is a hefty tasting fee at each winery, but most include the brand-etched tasting glass. There’s currently a bagful of wine glasses under my feet on the airplane. 

Squirrel.

Oh yeah. Chandon. Gillian had the bubbly stuff. I had the red wines. Their pinot noir is okay. The pinot meunier is blah. It’s a big brand with big money behind it and not enough character if you ask me. Onward.

Stop number two: Rombauer. Lovely grounds. Beautiful, really. Crowded tasting room and again, boring but passable wines. Lots of time and money spent on being tourist-friendly and not enough on the production of their wines. 

Last winery stop of the trip: Clos Pegase. You want to talk gorgeous setting? Beautiful building? Yes, and yes. Also, the wines are pretty wonderful. I really loved their cabernet sauvignon and their Origami red blend. Very wonderful. Again, you pay for tasting, but they were healthy pours and we took our time with our new friend, Brian, who took lots of time telling us about what we were drinking. 

And then it was time for dinner.

We drove to St. Helena and had dinner at the Culinary Institute at Greystone. Oh. My. Spectacular. That’s a whole essay in itself, but if you have the chance to go… DO. 

After dinner we headed for Calistoga and a bar called Hydro Grill. It's a kitschy place with some character, but they were supposed to have a band and the band canceled before we got there and after waiting 15 minutes for the bartender to bring us the drinks we ordered and watching him wash glasses and talk to other customers without pouring the wine and Diet Pepsi (really - how much time and effort does that take?) we left. 

Gillian and I decided to head back to San Francisco so I’d be close to the airport for my morning flight. We made a reservation at Doubletree through Hotels.com and arrived shortly after midnight after a very rainy, dark and winding… nay - altogether frightening, drive, only to find a lobby FULL of people who had been promised rooms that were unavailable. I have work ahead of me to recoup the $189 that was charged to my card for that, but the more immediate issue was finding somewhere to sleep.

We sat outside in Gillian’s two-seater Lexus and called Hotels.com back, were on hold for (and I kid you not) an hour and twenty-two minutes before they hung up on us. We drove to no fewer than a dozen hotels on Airport Boulevard and there was not a room to be had. 

3:30 a.m.

I call the central reservation number for Hilton. They tell me there’s a room at the Hampton Inn. We happen to be in their parking lot. I go in and beg for the room only to be told they sold it five minutes earlier. I ask, in desperation, if the clerk knows anywhere there might be a room for a night, contemplating telling him that my wife, Mary is about to deliver a child.

He makes a few calls and says that the Hotel Dylan has one room with a no-show. We go back to the car and call and talk to Mike, who says yes, but that he can’t release it until 4 a.m. Gillian begs him to hold it for us, telling him that we’re on our way. She gives him her phone number and then Mike gets snippy with Gillian, who is British and doesn’t suffer such attitudes well, and now we have lost this room.

Except….

I do not have a British accent, so we pull up outside the Hotel Dylan at 3:56 a.m. and I go inside and ask if there’s a room. Mike tells me there’s a no-show and he can give me this room and asks me if I just called. I look at him quizzically and say, “No… why?” He answers that it must be serendipity and after 15 minutes of paperwork, I have hotel key-cards in my hand and we finally go up to bed and I go off to sleep for the 3 hours I have before I have to get up to catch the shuttle to the airport.

And here I am, with some sparkling wine on my tray table and the end of my story. 

You can follow me on Twitter: @CeceliaHalbert.