A Visit to Sacred Sites

Things happen for a reason. My Puerto Rican cousin Frances, was in San Antonio at a week-long psychology convention. She has a PhD in Educational Psychology and teaches at the University of Puerto Rico.

Frances (right) and me at a restaurant on the River Walk. Me in mid-sentence. You can tell we look kind of related. Same nose. :)

Hubby and I decided, almost at the last minute, to treat ourselves and spend a couple of days in the city. We haven't been to SA in a loooong time, like 15 maybe even 20 years. We decided to stay at the hotel where we spent our honeymoon 31 years ago, The Emily Morgan,which was built in 1924. Emily Morgan was taken captive by Santa Anna six weeks after the fall of the Alamo. It is believed she was "distracting" him when Sam Houston attacked which led to the Mexican army being defeated and Santa Anna being captured. (An aside here. Santa Anna made his way down to St. Thomas in the Virgin Islands and built a villa there -- which still bares his name. Great little history about it HERE.)

Hubby and me at the entrance to The Emily Morgan.



At right, her tower and flag flying.

The Emily as seen from the across street.

And across the street from The Emily is this place.

 That's right, The Alamo. It turned out to be special as February 23 through March 6th marks the 181st anniversary of the siege and fall of the Alamo. Although I didn't get any pictures, enactments and readings were/and are happening each day. Every time I walk through those doors I get covered up with goosebumps. There's a special energy inside that is tangible to those open to it. Heroes died within these wall, their blood soaked into the soil beneath the flagstone floors. 

A model of how The Alamo looked after the siege.

What was left of the actual mission building.

The back wall of The Alamo.

 

After The Alamo, we took Frances to Mission San Jose, 

the construction of which was begun in 1724.

 The mission walls enclose an area of about four acres. (Outside the wall.) The walls and the mission have undergone extensive reconstruction and restoration.

Inside the walls.

 The walls are actually rows of small rooms where the Spanish missionary monks endeavored to get the Native American peoples to live.

Mission San Jose. The dome and much of the walls has been restored or rebuilt.

Originally the entire building was plastered and painted with geometric designs that had a decidedly Moorish feel to them.  Only a small section has survived. 

The front entrance. The section of painted plaster that remains

 is on the right wall that is bathed in sunlight.

The famous Rose Window. From the National Park page: "La Ventana de Rosa, the Rose Window, is located on the south wall of the church sacristy. The window has been described as the site where the Host was shown to gathered mission celebrants during the Feast of Pentecost. The window, sculpted ca. 1775, has been the object of both legend and admiration. It is considered one of the finest examples of baroque architecture in North America. The meaning behind the name is currently unknown, but legend has it named for Rosa, the betrothed of Juan Huizar who many believe created the window."

 It was a nice visit. We couldn't have asked for better weather. 

As for Being Thankful, this is it.

***

What are you thankful for? Every been to The Alamo? Is it a place you'd like to visit? Do you enjoy visiting old churches and buildings? 

Titles to Write By, The Monday Muse, Being Thankful

"Titles" is an occasional blog post in which we play with a single word and turn it into, what else, titles! Afterwards the object is to pick one of them and write a little something.

It was Ray Bradbury, in his book ZEN IN THE ART OF WRITING, who taught me about making lists of words and turning them into titles. If you haven't read it I highly recommend it.

For no particular reason, 
today's word is:
Waffle

The Waffle House

Wet Willie the Waffle Whiffer

Waffle Misses Monkey
Waffle, Waffle, Who's Got the Waffle?
Waffling Waffles
The Awful Waffle
To Waffle or not to Waffle
Waffle Has Two Meanings

In which we dress up as one of the nine muses and pretend we're Greek.
Waffle Misses Monkey

Sometimes a long ago memory arises out of nowhere. It pops up while you're doing the dishes, searching for that lost sock, or watching TV. The thing you're doing isn't the trigger that releases the memory -- like a helium balloon rising out of the dark depths -- it's something else, something mysterious and metaphysical.

I've wondered, when it happens to me, if the person  who has suddenly come to mind isn't thinking of me.

Such was the case the other day when Monkey's face swam up from the depths. Intelligent and well read -- studying psychology -- Monkey was not a GQ model. He wasn't homely either but sat somewhere between the two extremes. He'd acquired the nickname in elementary school because his large round ears stuck out from the side of his head like a pair of  wings, and though the name was meant to be derogatory, Monkey made it his own.

What he didn't have in dashing good looks he made up for with dashing chivalrous behavior. He was kind, humorous, attentive and I fell hard. Because I loved waffles he'd occasionally bring them to me at work, or made them on a Sunday morning. It's why he called me his Sweet Waffle. Our friends even introduced us as Waffle and Monkey, always a good conversation opener.

But youth, being in a constant state of flux and change, doomed our relationship from the start. Our parting had nothing to do with anything either of us did, it was just the way things were. He went on to get his doctorate, and I was left behind.

So thoughts of him took me by surprise and for a moment a sad, wistful melancholia settled around me and held me close. It was warm and comfortable. I'll always remember Monkey with fondness.

"Waffle misses Monkey," I thought, and wondered if he ever missed me.

Today I'm thankful for the rain we got, even if two inches of it came in 30 minutes!

***

What are you thankful for? Have another waffle title to add to the list? Even have a long ago memory of someone pop up that made you feel happy/sad? 

InkRipples, Genres, Being Thankful

#InkRipples is a monthly meme created by Kai Strand, Mary Waibel, and Katie L. Carroll. We post on the first Monday of every month with a new topic. We’re all authors, but you don’t have to be to participate.

The idea of #InkRipples is to toss a word, idea, image, whatever into the inkwell and see what kind of ripples it makes. We provide the topics and will be blogging about them on the first Monday of the month. You can spread your own ripples by blogging about the topic any day of the month that fits your schedule, just be sure to include links back to the three of us please (Katie, Kai, and Mary).

This month's subject is genres.

Genre: Arrived on the scene in 1770, as a "particular style of art," a French word in English (nativized from c. 1840), from French genre "kind, sort, style". Used especially in French for "independent style." In painting, as an adjective, "depicting scenes of ordinary life" (a domestic interior or village scene, as compared to landscape, historical, etc.) from 1849.

Genre is now widely used to describe all sorts of things, particularly in writing. If you want to boggle your mind, take a look at this list of genres on Wikipedia. One could get bogged down trying to decide what genre one is writing in. There's even something called Lab lit.

For myself, I don't concern myself too much with what genre I'm writing in. I write for kids. I like anthropomorphic stories (Anansi and A Lizard's Tail). But I can branch out, as with The Bowl and the Stone which is a ghost story. And my next novel, A Piece of the Sky, would be considered Historical Fantasy. 

I'm just as eclectic in my reading. It's easier to list the genres I'm not so interested in: horror, spy thrillers, mystery (though I do like me an occasional Carl Hiaasen or Tony Hillerman). Most everything else I'm up for, as well reading for all ages.

***

Being Thankful

Today I'm thankful for genres and the variety they bring to us. Imagine if only one kind of novel or non-fiction book was written? How boring would that be? 

That are you thankful for? Do you read or write in one particular genre, or do you like to explore?

Island Idylls: Yeknod and Being Thankful

Island Idylls: Stories of growing up in the Virgin Islands.

Last month I wrote about the Irascible Erasmus, a donkey with a mind of his own.

This month I'd like to introduce you Yeknod.

We had her while we lived at and ran our guest house at Lille Maho on St. John. I was in my teens. I thought of her as mine and named her Yeknod, which you may have noticed is donkey spelled backwards. In temperament, she was the opposite of Erasmus.

Yeknod was docile and friendly. See how she's looking at the person taking this picture? She was more like a dog than donkey. She brayed a greeting to the first person she saw each morning. She nuzzled and pushed her head against your hands and body looking to be scratched between the ears or searching for a treat. More than once she followed me into the house when I went to fill her water bucket or get her favorite snack of grapefruit rinds.

I had a western pony saddle which I used for long rides, but mostly I rode her bareback, often without a halter and reins, just her tether rope wrapped around her neck. Unlike Erasmus, Yeknod was born to be ridden and seemed to know when I was going to take her out.

I’d wind her tether rope around her neck, (which she didn't chew through) sling my saddle bags across her shoulders, hop up, and off we’d go.

How, you may ask, do you ride a donkey without reins and bridle? All I did was tap her neck on the left and she’d go right, tap her on the right and she’d go left. Yeknod was also unique in that she could single foot, which was wonderfully smooth. To get her up to speed I’d tickle her between her shoulder blades. She had to work her way into it. The run would start out in that stiff-legged, spine jarring trot donkeys have, but with a little more tickling she'd pick up speed and then it was smooth sailing.

There were a couple of long flat places where I liked to get her to run; the stretch of road by Big Maho and the stretch by Cinnamon Bay. It seemed to me she knew what I wanted because she’d pick up her pace when we reached those places as if anticipating my fingers between her shoulder blades.

She was such an easy ride that I often rode with one leg hanging down, the other with knee bent resting across her shoulders in a kind of modified side saddle. I could switch legs and ride either side. She didn’t care.

Yeknod and I wandered all over St. John. Sometimes we only went out for a few hours. Sometimes we made a whole day of it (which is when I'd saddle her up). We’d go along the roads (most of which weren't yet paved) or explore the old foot trails. Usually on the way home we’d stop at Cinnamon Bay (the National Park Camp Ground), where I’d buy a ginger beer and take a dip in the ocean. I’d unwind her tether rope and tie her up in the shade somewhere. The people who ran the campground knew me and would loan me a bucket so I could give her water. She always attracted tourists and enjoyed their attentions. Occasionally I'd give kids short rides.

Maho flower. They are a
member of the Mallow
family.

Maho tree

Only once did she behave out of character. I should have known she didn’t want to be ridden when she acted skittish. Foolish me, I tried to ride her anyway. She took off with me down the hill to the beach and headed towards a maho tree with low branches. I realized immediately she intended to scrape me off her back, but I didn’t have time to fling my arms around her neck, nor I could roll off her back as there were some rocks in the way. I only had time to stretch myself across her back, legs wrapped around her neck. As it was the branch she went under was so low it scraped the bottom of my chin. As soon as we were out from under the tree and free of rocks I rolled off her back onto the sand. She trotted back up the hill toward the house and brayed at me like she was laughing or heckling me.

Not long after that incident, Yeknod died of colic and was buried at sea. I cried at her loss, feeling I had somehow failed her. I loved that donkey, and I like to think she loved me.

I still miss her.

***

Being Thankful

Today I'm thankful for... coloring books. 

Long before adult coloring books became all the rage I was given this book (published in 1979) with beautiful illustrations by Michael Green who, for me, captured the characters and essence of Middle Earth like no other.

Here are some of the pages I colored.

Arwen

 

 Bilbo

 Frodo

Gandolf

 

 And here are some (not all) of my coloring books.

 I don't color as often as I'd like to, but this is my most recent attempt (not quite finished) from the Art Nouveau book.

What are you thankful for? Do you like to color? Ever ridden a donkey?

Insecure Writer's Support Group

Posting the first Wednesday of every month, The Insecure Writer's Support Group, is  the brainchild of Alex Cavanaugh. YOU can sign up HERE to participate. 

To change things up a bit, every month, we'll announce a question that members can answer in their IWSG Day post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a personal experience or story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG post or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to say.

Let's give our co-hosts  a warm welcome! Misha Gericke, LK Hill, Juneta Key, Christy and Joylene Buter!

This month's question is: How has being a writer changed your experience as a reader?

I can remember wondering quite clearly in high school, while reading and writing book reports for the classics we had to read, why it was we had to search for hidden meanings, or for symbolism. Why, I wondered, can't I just read the story and enjoy it without all this digging around for the author's ulterior motive?

Although I still mostly read for enjoyment without looking for the "deeper meaning" I have a much better understanding of how layered writing can be.

In my book, A LIZARD'S TAIL, the naive, self-assured, and vain young hero learns the value of getting help from others and of not being so proud. But learning these lessons costs him something. That's the hidden message. However, it remains a simple adventure story, and can be read that way.

As for THE BOWL AND THE STONE, on one level it's a simple ghost story. But on another it's about deep and abiding friendship, even a friendship that can survive across time. 

Did I intentionally write these stories with those messages in mind? Not at the beginning. They evolved on their own. And, as I saw it evolving, I nurtured it. 

The trick, I've discovered, is not to be blatant. Let the story be told, let the message be like Easter eggs hidden in plain sight but not so plainly that the beautiful colors become a distraction. If you find the eggs, that's wonderful. If you don't, nothing is taken away from the story.

That's what I've learned from being an avid reader.

What about you? Has being a writer changed your experience as a reader, or has reading changed your experience as a writer?