Harvesting Pearls

 

“All art is autobiographical. The pearl is the oyster's autobiography.”                          —  Federico Fellini

 

Well, here we are at the end of another year. The jury is still out on 2022 quality-wise, but my verdict: better than 2021, MUCH better than 2020, not as good as 2019 (though my memory of anything pre-COVID is rather vague). This is the moment when I always wish that I was Dave Barry (he of the famous and hilarious Year in Review for The Miami Herald, syndicated everywhere). Alas, I am a mere Elise Seyfried, and so I once again scrounge for material for this final December post. Sorry, gang!

 

I came upon the Fellini quote recently, and found it very reassuring. For you see, I have an advanced case of Fiction Writer Envy. How can these gifted folks create entire fanciful worlds on paper (from Narnia to Hogwarts)? It is (truly) all I can do to mine my every day, actual experiences for a few giggles and/or insights. But my buddy Federico reminds me that even fiction masters are really using their own lives as a filter for their writing. Me too!

And I also love the image of the pearl, which is a by-product of the oyster’s irritation! I am irritated 24/7 these days, and I had thought this uncomfortable emotion was for naught. But no! I am royally annoyed by everything from lines at the Shop N Bag checkout (even at 7:30 AM), to the mind-numbing repetitive- ness of morning cable TV show hosts (“Wow, Joe! Let’s play that clip from last night’s rally for the 10^th time! Then we’ll bring on our crew of pundits who will also say: 'Wow, Joe!' ") Now I understand that what irks me, leads to writing treasure! 

 

The corollary is the reassuring idea that travel mishaps/failures/ outright disasters are actually the GOOD STORIES. Who wants to read about the perfect, but ho-hum experiences, when the problematic ones are so much more entertaining? Mind you, I don’t want to LIVE these catastrophes, and I am hopeful that my skills as a scribe will someday render a flawless evening in Vienna as a riveting read. But deep down I know that the harrowing tale of being abandoned at JFK by our shuttle driver, beats the story of our delectable Austrian schnitzel.

Now THAT was a story

During the past several late Decembers, I have taken inventory of my writing submissions/acceptances/rejections. This year, I am tickled to discover that I had 42 accepted pieces out of 71 submissions (62%!) And the majority of these essays/articles had something to do with my real life. The other necessary part of this exercise, of course, is Goals For 2023, and I have some doozies, including The New Yorker, The New York Times and The Paris Review. Dream big, I say!

 

Will next year’s literary pearls be harvested from grand adventures, or irritating treks to the grocery store?

 

Probably a combination. But I look forward to living my 67^th year (!) and thank you all for joining me on the journey.

What Do You See From Your Window?

"Oatmeal" Sheridan's first bear

Shortly after the pandemic began, a new Facebook group was created, with the simple idea of inviting members to post photos of what they saw from their windows (with remarks about where they were posting from). I really enjoyed logging on daily, and seeing gorgeous pictures of Romania, Austria, Cornwall, Iceland. It was armchair travel, so welcome when none of us could travel anywhere. 

 

Over the past few years, the group grew in size to an amazing 600,000 people. Unlike so many other online groups that devolved into division and sniping, “What Do You See from Your Window?" remained a reliable oasis of friendliness and warmth. Even now, with the world opening up again, the group is still going strong.

 

While any member is allowed to post, some folks are more frequent contributors—and a few of them share consistently delightful snapshots and reflections. There’s Angelika in France, who photographs, and concocts adorably fanciful tales about, the squirrels who visit her “Sunflower Watch Sill.” There’s Pascal, who gorgeously photographs his town of Sorrento, Italy, and posts regular reflections about life and love, especially his love for his wife Monica. 

 

But most of all, there has been the moderator, Layne, who originally hailed from the UK but lived in Cyprus. She posted nearly every day. Over time, the group got to know and love her, her visiting family, her singing group of expats, the teddy bears she whimsically posed and gave personalities, even the colorful laundry drying on her balcony. I looked forward to Layne’s quirky, funny and affectionate takes on life and, like thousands of others, came to regard her as a friend.

 

In March, Layne first mentioned being sick. She never dwelled on her health, and usually posted about almost anything else. She began feeling weak, and went out for what she called “wobbles,” instead of walks. Unfailingly upbeat through lots of pain and treatments, it seemed inconceivable that Layne wouldn’t find a way to beat her cancer. 

 

Layne’s last post was on December 11. Days of silence, then her sister Lynn posted that she was traveling to Cyprus to be with Layne. And, Sunday morning: “Layne is flying with the angels.” This special woman, who loved showing us her beloved island in the Mediterranean from her window, is now mourned by more than half a million people. Including me. 

 

Every one of Layne’s posts ended the same way: “Tell someone you love them. Keep it kind. See you tomorrow. Love and light from Cyprus.” Layne, and the group’s creator Arik, grew an incredible online community at a time when the world had shut down. I hope that the group will continue now, without dear Layne. That’s what she would want, I am sure.

 

Since her death, I’ve been more grateful for the world views I’ve glimpsed, through so many windows. I thank God I can still see through mine, and I will do my best to share love, every day I’m given to live. And to keep it kind. 

Sunny December morning from my window

Rage Against the Machines

We do NOT own one of these

In the race to the bottom that is the rapid decline of our body parts, my sweet hubby and I are tied at the moment. Equally creaky joints, although my knee replacement will probably happen first. Steve’s vision definitely trumps mine (he doesn’t even wear his glasses much these days), but I can out-hear him by a country mile.   

That good hearing of mine, though? It’s a mixed blessing. I am noticing that certain types of sounds are grating on my aural nerves more than they used to, sounds largely made by some other denizens of our fair suburb. Children at play? Dogs barking? No problem! But for some reason, motorized yard tidiers are driving me nuts.

As a little kid, I fell asleep to the lullaby of horns, sirens and occasional bursts of gunfire in Manhattan. When I re-settled out of the city, I breathed a sigh of relief: no more loud noises after bedtime!! And, generally, that’s true. Post midnight, it’s pretty darned quiet here in Oreland.   

But during the daylight/early evening hours, it’s a whole ‘nother story. For that is when some of my fellow Orelanders emerge from their houses, armed to the teeth with massive and ear-splitting ammo. Lawn mowers!! Weed whackers!! Leaf and snow blowers!! It’s a veritable symphony of industrious but annoying sounds! At times, I can focus on my writing, or cooking dinner, and ignore the cacophony for a while. But it’s always irritatingly THERE, right outside, the uninvited guest at our backyard barbeques, stealing our serenity, making normal conversation nearly impossible.   

We are far from house-and-garden proud; if our yard ever made it onto a map of beautiful properties, it would be a mistake—or a blooming miracle. But at least we have this going for us: we don’t make a lot of extraneous noise outdoors. Not for us the driveway screaming matches of my youth (in Atlanta we lived next door to Gone With The Wind author Margaret Mitchell’s cousin. Luckily, Willis himself was not a writer; otherwise, the Cunningham dramas might well have been chronicled for all the world to read). You can ask our sainted neighbor Annemarie—for a family with five children, we Seyfrieds really weren’t too bad. Over the years, I’ve enjoyed greeting her without always having to apologize because of a ruckus.  

It’s mid-December. This should be the lull, right? It’s not snowing yet, and the leaves are down and out. Nothing, I gather, is growing much. So what’s with all the loud electric garden implements NOW? Why are weeds still being whacked and lawns still being manicured? I can imagine a few meticulous homeowners, even after every last blade of grass has been cut down below a nub, still hauling out their machines and running over the bare dirt.    

And I’ll go ahead and say it—it’s overwhelmingly men, out there revving their motors. So guys, it’s break time! And good news! Santa’s bringing you all rotary mowers, snow shovels and rakes! Ho ho ho!  

     

             

All I Want For Christmas Is...I Have No Idea

Evan will be home for Christmas! Gift enough for me!

It’s that time of year again—time to wrack my brain and come up with a couple of items my family can “surprise” me with on Christmas morning. I’m not (remotely) an inspired gift-giver; it’s even worse when the Christmas stocking is on the other foot, so to speak. But I do have to try and think of something for under the tree on December 25th.

Rose has posted a “Draw Names” page for us. “Draw Names” is a higher-tech online version of the hat we used to pull slips of paper from on Thanksgiving evening for Secret Santa. The hat was always problematic, because A) rarely were we all together on Thanksgiving and B) I would invariably lose my slip of paper by bedtime, and forget who my lucky recipient was. In any event, we’re all matched up now, and several folks have posted their wish lists. Others, including me, have not yet committed to sharing any Yuletide heart’s desires. 

 

So what the heck DO I want?

 

Well, there are no gift cards redeemable for world peace, alas. Nor is it feasible to ask my family for a positive response from The New Yorker regarding my latest humor essay. And while I would just adore a little beachfront cottage in Lewes, I’m afraid my Secret Santa would have a ho-ho-heart attack over the astronomical price tag. 

 

Otherwise? I’m all set for clothes, especially since I no longer work at church. My typical “office attire” these days is jeans and whichever sweater I bump into first when I open my dresser drawer. I wear almost zero makeup, and I can make one bottle of cologne last a year. I have enough earrings to open a jewelry store. As for the spare bedroom I’ve fixed up at home as my writer’s space, I have plenty of plants and wall hangings and desk doodads. Moving to the kitchen, I would definitely enjoy an ice cream maker, but we have no room for one (and I have no business eating any more ice cream than I already do.)

 

Our family room looks rather spiffy these days, which makes our living room’s “shabby chic” décor appear infinitely more shabby than chic. I floated the idea of requesting a new sofa and armchairs, but then we examined the budget and I floated it right back down. 

 

I guess buying me a knee replacement is unrealistic too.

 

I know I’m a pain to shop for, in the grand tradition of older people everywhere. Our wants do diminish as we age. Even so, I know I will love whatever is in the package sporting my name, from whichever dear one picked me. Aiden and Peter just went to the elementary school holiday shop with a few bucks from Mama, and Aiden was super excited to reveal that he bought me something for Christmas. That’s so sweet, and I can’t wait to find out what he selected.

 

Does the Jarrettown Holiday Shop stock new knees, I wonder?

All I need is love--truly!