Peaceful Retreat

The trip began with a rainy drive to central Florida through one-gas station towns and seedy roadside restaurants that offered a burger and food poisoning. The moonscape left from Mosaic's active and obnoxious phosphate mining operation eventually gave way to orange groves. And orange groves. And a few more orange groves.

(taken today, in the sun obviously)

It was cold, rainy and desolate at Bok Tower gardens when we arrived on Saturday. But we put on layers, armed ourselves with umbrellas, and enjoyed an adventurous tour in the rain with a senior volunteer and passionate Bok-lover named Mary.  She did her best with a small green and white umbrella that barely covered her increasingly wet coat, and insisted on plowing ahead to reveal more of the garden's secrets and history. Most enjoyable and unique--and an experience you couldn't enjoy with meek and wimpy adventurers for sure! 

What can I say about our stay at the Chalet Suzanne, five minutes from the garden?  We were a little hesitant when we first arrived at the end of the meandering drive that deposited us at a partially crooked pink house with purple and yellow doors and funky tiles. Ask me about it now, and I'll tell you I'm a convert. Everyone who's in for something unusual and fine flies into the airstrip behind the chalet and dines there at least once--certainly if you're the likes of Dina Shore, Ed McMahon or Bono. So maybe Bono wasn't there. But there was quite a collection of autographed celeb photos displayed at the reception area.

We returned to Bok Tower Gardens today under blue skies without a single cloud and enjoyed the most inviting signs of spring: flowers from camelias to witch hazel and all kinds of birds including quail, catbirds, brown thrashers, cardinals, eastern towhees, Carolina wrens, and an ovenbird.

And yes, there were two swans as well. Both males, to prevent the inevitable mating and offspring that sparks aggression with guests. I can't say the theory worked--these were intent on eating shoes and pants in an attempt to bully us into feeding them. Yes, they knew they were "hot."

The gardens were designed for the purpose of providing a haven of peace and tranquility with nature, woodland creatures and music. I was surprised to find the tower--seemingly random plopped right in the middle of a hillside in the middle of Florida--so beautiful. Carillon music rings out twice each day, and decorates the nearby neighborhoods and groves in the timed assurance of calming sound.

"gilded" front door of the tower

the very top...don't get me wrong, it's reallly high

hilltop bench overlooking orange groves
(this is on a huge lawn that also includes the tower on the opposite end)

Pines Lake Redhead is a most excellent travel companion, and the trip wouldn't have offered the same peace and renewal without her lovely company! She even knitted me a scarf, which kept Gropius warm and toasty, even in the freezing rain.

A Tale of Two Bloggers

So about a year after I started blogging, I met Pines Lake Redhead via blog. Like many of us do, I started following her after I saw a comment she left on another blog, Uncommon Blonde. I had no idea who she was, where she lived. Turns out, she worked with a friend of mine I knew through a professional association.  After a bit of guessing, the friend in the middle helped each of us figure out we shared this commonality.

We met on a blogger's first date of sorts, thinking we we could be friends. We have boys of a similar age and husbands who love fishing. We both work in PR. We love to take pictures. And, most importantly, we both have red hair. (You HAVE to stick together.)

So after our sushi/ shopping gig one Saturday night, our families went out to a Rays baseball game together. We've both been crazy busy with work and other things, but tomorrow, Pine Lakes Redhead and Gropius are enjoying a girls' weekend of our own.

We're driving over to the center of Florida to explore Bok Tower Gardens on the Lake Wales Ridge, an area that sports some unusual vegetation for Florida, since it's located on slightly elevated ridge right through the middle of the peninsula. Tomorrow night, there's a full moon concert out on the lawn there. Please pray for us--it's supposed to be cold and rainy. Chalet Suzanne, the little Restaurant & Inn, looks like a trip.

I'm sure we'll both have stories and photos for you this weekend. Let's hope we won't have pneumonia too.

We're coming equipped with Cheetos, lots to share about work, books, blogging, family, etc.  And for the record, yes, I met her on a blog.

I Knew It. The Mexican Food Would Get Me.

For the month of February, I set out to get straightened out with eating out. Yes, the dangerous trio of "outs." You see, me and the fam have gotten entirely too dependent on ordering our dinner. And I never seem to remember to bring my lunch to work with me, so I go pick something up. On weekends, there's nothing better than eating a leisurely breakfast at The Village. It's just gotten out of control.

Granted, I have a few excuses up my sleeve:  I hate to cook, I suck at cooking, I am exhausted when I get home, I love to eat out, blah blah. They're all lame.

On the last day of January, I declared that I would not eat out a single time in the month of February--for breakfast, lunch or dinner. No coffees in the Starbuck's drive-thru, no sporadic "let's go get ice cream!" after dinner runs, no ordering or eating out of any kind. You get it. The reasons?

Other than the fact that my reliance on restaurant food is a nauseating habit--wasteful and far too indulgent--it causes other gross things to happen, like:

1. I eat meals that are far too large, with far too many calories.
2. I spend way too much money on food laden with who knows what as the main and secondary ingredients--money that could be used for charitable purposes. Or clothes. Or saving. Or clothes. I'm going back to that.
3. I feel guilty hearing stepson say "What are we ordering for dinner?" instead of "What's for dinner?"

I know, it's bad.

So I've done pretty damn good...until now. Husband was the first to break. He bought a slice of pizza one day. I've eaten out during a couple of days at a conference (give me a break on that one, I really couldn't help but do it), a lunch date with a friend when I seriously forgot to bring the picnic food from home, a professional development luncheon, and that's about it.

Last weekend the craving for Mexican food crept over me like a gorgeous stranger singing Peter Gabriel. I had to do it. I didn't have to do much convincing to get the boys over to Pablano's for a linner (lunch + dinner), and that seemed to herald the end of the restaurant strike. Yesterday I picked up dinner for my friend who needed a little cheering up, and of course, I brought some home for the fam.

Five minutes ago, I got this call from Husband:

"Okay, I'm finally on the way home. Since we ah, um broke the, you know...Want me to pick up Chinese?"

I'm still blaming it all on the Mexican food.

Watchin' Out for Yourself: Women & Safety

So I was trying to be playful with my recent Publix Predator post, spreading the annoyance about a senior widowed grocery store bagger who was over eager for human affection from customers. Turns out, many of you didn't think it was so funny. It's very sad, but very true--we really have to be careful to avoid something terrible happening to us or to someone we love. Husband is always on my case about being more alert, and I should be more vigilent for sure.

Thought I'd post a list of links I found about various safety topics that you can use for yourself or share with your wife, daughters, sons and others in your life. They're not just for women.

1. How to protect yourself in a parking garage, from the Florida's State Attorney General's office. Some of these tips are unrealistic, like always walking with someone, but most are great reminders. You'll find other tip sheets for self-protection on this page as well.
2. Warning signs of domestic violence. This is great direction from Safe Place and Rape Crisis Center's website. They're located right here in Sarasota and provide an incredible service for so many women in crisis.
3. Tips and advice for avoiding dangerous situations outside of your home, an excellent compilation from safetyforwomen.com.
4. Identity theft face off. This is a cool quiz I found on the Federal Trade Commmission's website that tests your knowledge of identity theft. We've had presentations about this at work, and it's frightening to think of how someone can so easily ruin your credit, charge up all sorts of debt, and you can end up having to pay for it all. If you don't want to play the game, look at this FTC tip sheet for preventing identity theft.

If you have a good source of information about crime prevention as well, or a tip of your own, I hope you'll post a comment and share it!

The Publix Predator

Turns out both mom and I knew The Publix Predator on our own terms. And one day, he put two and two together, figuring out we were mother and daughter, thus multiplying his stalking power in the parking lot, aisles, and check out line. I'm sure he's just a simple old man.

So in Florida, we have a nice grocery store chain called Publix. And in most locations, Publix has friendly, helpful employees. The company makes a point of giving jobs to people with disabilities and they give a lot to charity.

At a store I used to frequent, an older gentleman who worked as a bagger used to love to help me out to the car. He was a sweet, gentle soul who loved to talk about his dog, his deceased wife and ask about my life. I really enjoyed our short conversations. But he started getting a little "extra" friendly. He started getting all up into my personal space, making a huge point to touch me on the back, on the arm, or generally move into a sphere where he didn't exactly belong.

Discussing this guy with my mother one day, she said "Oh you mean the Publix Predator?"  Apparently, she had the very same experience (as I was sure a million different women did), and had invented this little name for him for home use--you know, because he was like a "nice" stalker. Rii-iight.

It didn't matter where you were in the store, the Publix Predator would find you. I started scouting the parking lot before trying to enter the store. Once through the automatic door, I'd do a lightening scan of the check-out aisles to see if he was bagging. If he was there, literally it was as if his "spider sense" directed him to my presence.

You could move faster and faster with the carts, trying to hide yourself behind bananas, Campbell's soup displays, mountains of Halloween candy--whatever it took.And I don't mean to sound like a jerk, but sometimes you just want to get your freaking groceries. And most of the time, you don't want a strange man all over you.

So one day, mother and I were ran into the store together to pick something up. PP saw us and realized we were related. Things got a little heavier after that. "Oh, so that's your DAUGHTER?"  What a can of worms.

After that day, mom did some recon to figure out his schedule and didn't go shopping on those days if she could help it.   As for me, a move to Bradenton, just a few minutes away from Sarasota, did the trick. My parents live on the other side of the state. I have no idea what jarred my mind to think about the Publix Predator today. I'm sure he was just lonely, but there are boundaries, right? I hope he's well.

And under normal circumstances, Publix is a great place to shop.

The Good, the Bad and Perspective

Life is a real yin/yang, isn't it? Although that evil eye may always be lurking around every corner, the good prevails in most cases. I have to believe that.  It's been a mixed bag of stories and outcomes over the last day or two. Here's some of the good and the bad--I guess it's all a matter of perspective.

• Moving Away...or New Possibilities?
  Bad: So it appears that my closest friend is moving. It's been a year, she's in her 50's, incredibly talented and well-educated, but she cannot find employment. Southwest Florida has arguably been hit the hardest with the recession, and jobs--good ones--just aren't coming back. I'm going to miss her terribly.
  
  Good: She has a sister in Arizona who can provide her with a nice place to live while she establishes herself in a new community. She has new adventures ahead of her, new people to meet, new lives to touch. I'll have a new vacation spot. And will be forced to find new friendships here to fill the void.
  
  
• Abandoned Dog...Or New Pet?
  Bad: While traveling with our friends, D-Man saw a dog--completely abandoned-- tied to a fence on the side of the highway. Honestly, I just have ZERO tolerance for people who abuse or mistreat animals. NONE!!!
  
  Good: They picked up the pooch, brought it home and now have a new member of the family. We chipped in for the food, leash and collar. Hope he's there to stay.
  
  
• Can't Sell the House...Or Modern Mother Theresa?
  Bad: Someone we used to work with at our organization called me this afternoon out of the blue. She's moving with her husband to Oregon but can't sell the house. What is she doing in meanwhile...?
  
  Good: This girl is on CraigsList all day picking people who need help finding things and using her connections to help them. Have you ever heard of something so nice? She's working on helping the mother of a 37 year old woman who was the victim of a hit-and-run. She's ready to come home--out of the rehab facility--but needs a hospital bed. She contacted me to see if I could help. Let's see if a few of my contacts can come through. 

I think this world is full of angels and full of people who are honestly just mixed up about their purpose. Sometimes it just takes a tiny bit of inspiration to steer the rest of us in the right direction.

Women In Art

Your comments about the stolen bikes, whether you're karma believers or not, are consoling for the young D-Man. He said to me last night, "This sounds weird, but I feel like someone stole a part of my life."  What an artful statement for a 13 year old.

I see the young artist in him and his way of looking at the world.

Whether musician, photographer, writer, painter, sculptor, or actor, I have such profound respect for the expression artists deliver into the world, leaving us all feeling better connected through creative daring and perspective. One might consider bloggers as the "new artists." So many of you are adept at weaving your own art into your daily postings, whether it's through the lens of fashion, photos, the playful written word, or brilliantly crafted commentary--from the very personal to the outlandishly hilarious.

A botanical illustrator friend who moved to Oregon some time ago just posted this moving video of Women in Art, and it was a 2 minute ray of sushine for me. Thought Gropius could share it with you.  The colors, the differences in times and techniques, and the similarity in great care for the subject are all characteristic of any artist's work, whether he/she's a painter or a tight rope walker.  Take a look:



Do you see yourself as an artist?

Beware, Cowardly Bicycle Thief. Karma Will Find You.

Hi Bicycle Thief! It’s me, Gropius. I live two doors down from the site of your smooth transaction. Lifting two boys’ bikes from a fenced backyard before 10 pm, eh? That’s pretty ballsy. Congratulations on pulling it off.

Whatever you manage to get for those hot items, I’ll tell you, it’s nothing compared with the payoff waiting from a mutual friend we share, Karma. You see, she’s one thing that enables me to sleep soundly at night. Although I’d love to see you get hauled into the po’po’ and have your name slathered all over the paper as the heartless bastard stealing kids’ bikes, we both know the chances of that are pretty minimal. But the chances of getting what you deserve and then some, hmm, I’d put that at about 100%.

Karma might not visit you right away, but she will visit. She’ll show up on your own pestilent turf when you least expect it…maybe even after you’ve decided to try and get your life together, if that ever happens. And she can be a real bitch too.

Don’t forget, Karma doesn’t just provide a simple exchange for taking something that’s not yours. She includes the entire kit n’ caboodle—“interest” on extras like making a whole string of neighbors feel not so safe, wondering what kind of creeps are slithering around their streets. And having two decent kids have to figure out how to get around to harmless activities too many blocks away while you’re using money from their transportation to finance whatever contemptible activities you’re involved in. Damn, that was a mouthful!

Until the two of you shall meet, my pit bull has left a bunch of you know what our un-fenced backyard. You’re welcome to come and lift that. It’s waiting for you.

Victoria’s Secret Puke-o-rama

Sweet Husband made a visit to Victoria’s Secret for Valentine’s Day last week. I imagine him walking about with the same strangeness of dazed expression as all the other husbands and boyfriends while the sales associate tried to convince them that, naturally, every girl loves to wear thong underwear that rides up her behind. I will proudly tell you I am not one of those girls and couldn’t care less who thinks it’s a deficiency.

Every now and then I’ll peruse the VS website to see if there’s anything new out there I like, either as a gift suggestion to the thankful Husband or for a short order Internet purchase on my own.

Every time I make the virtual tour, I’m guilty of not understanding the poses, facial expressions and unexplained hair phenomenon that come with those Victoria’s Secret models. Is it just me? Here are a few examples:

"I saw Abigail with the Devil. ...Plus I'm possessed. In a few moments, my eyes will roll up in my head and I will pee on the floor like the girl in The Exorcist."

"Eating my hair is really cool. It's like cool. Huh huh."

"I totally would eat my hair, except it's too crunchy. It's like stale fritos. You could break a window with it. But this look is so...beast. It's such a beast look. And all you have to do is not wash it for 19 days."

"Check out this cool sign I'm making. I can still see you through my left eye...wait is that my right eye? Anyhow it's cool. I'm gonna do it again. It's like a sign just between you and me. It means 'peace'. Or something like that."

P.S. I love Husband's gifts from VS. He's a sweet boy.

The Urge to Purge

I’ve tried to make a deal with myself this year: whenever I get something new, I have to part with something else, casting it out into the universe of new ownership a la Goodwill or a friend’s open closet.
I’ve done pretty good with this so far. The year hasn’t started on a conservative note in terms of clothes shopping (I say with a grin of enjoyment and triumph). But I’ve managed to clean some stuff out of drawers and closets that I’m obviously holding onto for no good reason. Off you go, polka dotted blouse I could fit into 10 years ago! Good riddance, nearly new dress that now looks like a teen age prom dress to me! Farewell, skirts that now constrict the waste line!

Om…there’s just one problemo. Most of the articles I am purging are being expunged from the wardrobe because I can no longer fit my size 6 largess into the size 4’s. I’m even purging old photos, and in doing so, recently discovered how much I have allowed myself to gain over the last 6 or 7 years. It’s ridiculous.

No doubt the body has changed--okay my body has changed. I used to be able to eat freaking anything and wouldn’t know the difference on a scale. I never owned a scale. Never never.

I wonder if marriage is part of the culprit too. In a way, it’s nice to know that your mate loves you and approves of you no matter what. (I’m not complaining about that…Husband is truly a kind, complimentary and appreciative partner.) In another, I realize all of the energy I once expended on remaining sharp looking for the potential Prince Charming is now used for something else. Like laundry. I simply don’t have to worry about having such a tight behind. But I really do. ...For my own sense of not feeling so “ten days older than water”-like.

So in exchange for my “new” awareness, I’m going to try and dump some bad habits and get at least somewhat closer to my original size. Purging is not and never will be a smart, healthy or self-caring way to lose excess poundage, so I’ll stick to exercising more and not eating so much shite’. Yes, even a vegetarian can have too much junk food.

I did take one step by vowing not to eat out in the month of February. I’ll let you know how I’m doing on that one soon. It’s been a truly enlightening experience.

What are you gaining & dropping this year?

Cheers to the Green Violin Goddess & Other Musical Acts of Courage

On Saturday, Husband and I attended a Sarasota Orchestra performance that was combined with the Youth Philharmonic program. A 13 year old girl who had been practicing the violin since age 4 stepped on to the stage for her solo, and we were both beside ourselves. Her mastery of control and concentration, coupled with the complicated notes in Beriot's Scene de Ballet, Op. 100 were truly something to behold! I felt proud of her as if she came from my own herd, just watching this young teen in front of a large crowd and leading the orchestra with her grace and command. Husband loved it too.


The thunder of applause and the whistles as this young wonder bowed in her green gown and sparkly headband almost brought tears to my own eyes.

I send out thanks to the young Green Violin Goddess for having the courage to follow her dreams and hope she’ll keep up with them through the trials of high school and college. It’s humbling to think of how much we owe musicians young and old, dead and alive, from every background, all around the world for enriching our lives with the power of music and the experience of live performance.

Even aside from the difficulty of making a living as an artist, it takes courage to make music your professional path. I’m glad the musical legends of today and yesterday did what they did.

As we’ve established before, I’m a supreme and loyal lover of U2 (image at left was on a poster that adorned my walls many thousands of moons ago). I’ll spare you the affectionate testimonials. But outside of U2’s exceptionally branded music and activism, I find myself enjoying a wide variety of what’s been offered in melody through the ages—folk, ska, punk, Celtic, Indian, classical (Debussey is up there for me), opera every now and then, old school rock n’ roll—even a bit of musical bling from a few choice rap legends. I recently discovered Eliza Gilkinson and find that I can listen for hours on end, and the Black Eyed Peas have finally made their way into my musical realm. (I’m so 2000-late on that one.)

Of course the Beatles, Gladys Night, the Drifters and Sam Cooke are held close to the heart, as with so many other artists that comprised 1960’s greatness. These were once new to some and were once “oldies” to others—like me. Now I am finding that music I grew up with in the 80’s is being featured on our local oldies station here. Duran Duran is really considered oldies material? Holy crap. That’s disturbing.

[…Almost as disturbing as 13-year-old stepson’s recent questions: “What’s a record?” followed by “What’s a tape?” I guess that makes me an old freaking lady.]

I’ve seen great live performances, from little known Gainesville college bands playing at the long since gone Covered Dish to Bo Diddley, Sting, Eric Clapton, Red Hot Chili Peppers, LL Cool J, Indigo Girls, Rolling Stones, Dar Williams, etc., etc. [The James Taylor/ Carol King show coming up in June is top on my list…never seen Sweet Baby James live and will love it no doubt!]

As I’ve gotten older, my concert going days have certainly been more limited. But I think I’ll always enjoy the thick air of togetherness that shrouds you at every live show. Maybe it’s the feel of dramatically different people brought together by music, yes?

Who are your musical faves and where have you seen them perform?

The Love Inside Three Cups of Tea

Love. What does it mean to you?  Aside from the romantic love we're often led to ponder with movies and books, there is the larger love--love for humanity, for God and for the things that will last even after our temporary bodies have given way to age and eventually death.

I ponder this often. And just finishing Three Cups of Tea, the story of Greg Mortenson and his tireless quest to build schools in Pakistan and Afghanistan, I am thinking of the sacrifices families can make for "the cause."

Greg first became drawn to his life-long quest of delivering education (free from Christian, American or fundamentalist Islamic persuasion) to the children of Pakistan after a failed attempt to summit K-2, the second highest peak in the world. When he could have easily died, a family in the village of Korphe took him in and provided for him--a complete stranger--with precious resources that were scarcely used withing their own circle of need. When he became healthy enough to return to America, Greg promised to return and build a school for their children.

Without financial reserves or knowledge of fundraising, Greg spent the greater part of his time as a single man trying to raise enough awareness and interest in the cause to make his vow a reality. Eventually, he would marry and he succeeded in finding a donor who would not only pay for the school, but who would leave a $1 million legacy to fund schools all over Pakistan, leading to an slow-moving but exponential growth in education, self-sufficiency and stability in the serviced areas.

For me, Greg's story delivered the sort of cultural understanding of that part of the world I have been yearning for. And for anyone who either wants to know more about the land occupied by the Taliban or who tends to brand the entire mid-East with a cloak of terror and extremism, I highly recommend Three Cups of Tea.

Love can be seen in every part of Greg's story, but what was most striking to me is the sense of love and heroism exuded from Tara, Greg's wife. She waited patiently, faithfully and steadfastly at home with her children while her husband stayed away for months on end. She knew how great and important his work was, and she was acutely aware how the future of many rested on his effectiveness to materialize one more building that contained books, teachers and hope. Yet with every departure he made, Tara sacrificed a piece of her own life.  Only a tiny part of the book even discussed it, but I am left full of admiration for this silent but equal heroine.

I started thinking about all of the great humanitarians of our age. No matter how the "two loves" can complement one another, there is a conflict among the greatest and most active of social heroes between the love and sense of duty to help your fellow man vs. the love and sense of duty to be with and support your family. With such a dedication of time and the weight of the world on your mind even when you're not on the job, so to speak, it's hard to give yourself completely to your spouse and children.

Here's to Tara and her amazing sacrifice. Put Three Cups of Tea on your reading list. You'll be glad you did.

Visions of Love

Valentines Day. I’ve always loved it. Being a creature of inherent and deep seated romantic inclination, I view Valentines as an encouraging ticket for unexpressed love to be bold and daring in its exciting infancy and for familiar love to do something out of the ordinary to renew the spark of eternal possibility. Ahhhh….

Unfortunately, my loyal husband hates the day and considers it an abomination created by the Hallmark company.

So instead of talking about anything special we do [not] do, I thought I’d take you on two mini-Valentine journeys—journeys of crap and suck cards. What does this mean? Let me explain.

1. What a crappy Valentines. I saw a link to a story on NPR website this morning about a farmer who designed a half mile heart in the newly fallen snow for his wife. Oh how sweet! Sweet manure that is. Yes, the heart was made with manure. Don't believe me? Check out the Albert Lea Tribune for the full story, where this photo came from:

2. “You suck.” For some unknown reason, in the past Husband has twice ordered flowers for his mother from a very well-known (and substandard) national company called something like Fro Plowers (just substitute the right letters). Why do I not want to spell out the company name? The last time I blogged about them, Google Ads were generated that spewed promotions for the company on my blog for like 3 weeks afterwards.
   
   Anyway, back to the point…they screwed up so badly last time, Husband received a free flower order. This year, he tried to use it to order Valentines flowers for me with a card that read “Fro Plowers sucks.” They refused to have that recorded on the card. Oh well, it’s the thought that counts, right? If you can’t have the sweetness of thoughtful manure, at least you can have some humor.

Wishing all Gropius readers something a little special this Sunday. Happy Valentines to you.

Duckmaster

I just got back from a conference in Orlando. Anyone been to one of the three Peabody hotels in the U.S.? If you have, you know something special about them. Each employs a Duckmaster. That's right, a Duckmaster.

(Photo courtesy of Peabody Hotel)

So last night at 5 pm and again today at 11 am, I witnessed a very ducky spectacle that must be the greatest and most original PR feat of any accommodation in the business. Here's a description of the Peabody Duck March, taken right from the Peabody's website (just like the picture below...didn't bring my camera):

"Since opening its doors on November 1, 1986, The Peabody Orlando has continued, in unbroken sequence, the traditional March of The Peabody Ducks which began at its sister property, The Peabody Memphis, many, many years ago.

"Each morning, promptly at 11 a.m., the hotel's atrium lobby is the scene of a remarkable ritual. In a special elevator, the five North American mallard ducks, four hens and one drake, comprising The Peabody Ducks, descend from their $100,000 penthouse Royal Duck Palace.

"When the elevator doors open, The Peabody Ducks...take up their positions on a plush red carpet and begin ...[to] waddle their way in formation through the hotel's marble halls, and when they reach the magnificent, orchid-crowned fountain, which takes center stage in the Atrium Lobby, the ducks mount three red-carpeted steps and splash into the fountain's waters.

"At 5 p.m., the procession is reversed, The Peabody Orlando Ducks marching back to their special elevator, then to their Royal Duck Palace for dinner and a quiet evening together."

The tradition began in the 1930's when the manager of the Peabody Memphis returned from a weekend hunting trip drunk and, as a prank, released some of their live duck decoys into the hotel fountain of the Peabody hotel. 

Here's my short conversation with Duckmaster Brooke, an adorable young man with impeccable manners and affection for feathers like no caretaker I've ever seen:

• Gropius: "So ahh, who cleans up the um, the, you know, the mess?"
• Duckmaster: "We look after the ducks all day long to make sure it's not getting on the side of the fountain, and then each night, our housekeeping staff drains the fountain and cleans it."
• Gropius: "Have you been in this position for long?"
• Duckmaster: "1 year. There were 150 other people going for this position, so it was very competitive. I had to interview with all of the executive staff of the hotel."
• Gropius: "So what happens to these ducks when they're no longer working for the Peabody?"
• Duckmaster: "They work here for 6 months at a time, and then they go back to the farm. They may enter in up to 4 cycles of work here at the hotel, after which they retire."
• Gropius: "They do retire right? No duck stew or anything."
• Duckmaster:  [Of course outraged at the idea of it, but so nicely disguised!] "No. And we don't serve anything made with duck here. We raise the ducks ourselves from ducklings on a nearby farm. They return to this farm during breaks and upon retirement."

Duckmaster was much more charming in person. He was the ideal duck caretaker. So sweet.

Apparently, the ducks travel to schools and complete all sorts of little PR excursions--even help raise money for local charities. The Duckmaster is aptly named. He has a business card, and it remains handy in the pocket of his red jacket, perfectly matching the royal carpet and steps on which the duckies make their twice daily pilgrimage.

Sweet Forgiveness

Compassionate people are blessings. And the receiver of yesterday's 3 mistake-laden e-mails was nothing but a Goddess of Forgiveness today. After calling her begging for mercy, she graciously played it as "not a big deal" and reassured me with something to the effect of "I've done this sort of thing before." 

Sometimes I get so caught up with the pooper people in life that I forget about the good folks, people who are cool enough not to relish in your faults.

The lesson for me is less of "read before sending" since I'm usually fairly articulate and decent at self-editing, but more of "who am I going to give a break today?" 

It's true, you never know what someone is dealing with when you're on the receiving end of a weird e-mail, or when you meet someone for the first time and they mix up a fact or two.  This is a good moment for me to remember this. Although I'm generally pretty forgiving, sometimes--even without meaning to--I can be quick to judge competency.

Note to Gropius: Make a point to return the favor, not just with someone, but with everyone.

BTW: I didn't do anything mean. It was a press release with a missed date, then phone number!

Please Tell Me I Didn't Do That

Did you ever hit that "send" button and then think, oh crap, oh no, please tell me I didn't just send that?  Did you ever do that three times in a ROW?

I'm sparing the details, both because what's left of my ego can't handle to have this incident immortalized and because the details are boring.  Let's just say that I sent several versions of something that had teeny tiny mistakes in it. Mistakes that were sent to someone very important.  Mistakes that I would think "What the hell is wrong with that girl?" if I was on the receiving end.  Mistakes that would never exist period if I hadn't been trying to work while still sick and while 2 other people were in my office asking me questions. Mistakes---okay you get it.

So I feel like a complete and total idiot. I'm trying to figure out how to repair the receiving party's now-tainted-forever professional opinion of me. I never make mistakes like this and now I did it not once, not twice, but three times in a freaking 15 minute time frame.

I would like to...

1. Crawl in a hole in a deep cave somewhere and hibernate until this has been forgotten (will that day come?), or
2. Move. Yes, maybe I can move. I've always wanted to live in Ireland.
3. Become a permanent resident of the space station. I have to go back to school and get my astrophysics degree. Hmmm...I need something much more immediate.

The good news: it's made me more determined than ever to triumph over The Bronchitis from Hell. I will meet it in the parking lot and kicks it's arse. I will beat it with an ugly stick, banish it from Bradentucky, feed it to the alligators at Myakka.

...Yet sadly, that will do nothing to undo the damage of today's "send" trifecta. Oh help, gods of forgiveness. Give me a pass on this one?

Myakka and the Peanut Man

I’m a nature girl. It’s my inspiration. It makes me feel alive--youthful and ancient at once--and restores my perception of abundance.

Yesterday Husband swooped me out of the sick ward for a drive through Myakka River State Park. And though I still don’t have a long walk in me yet, the drive through winding roads was a fantastic reviver. It was laced with grandmotherly oaks trying to hold on to their Spanish moss in the wind and busy armadillos loving the harvest of worms from the damp earth courtesy of Friday’s rain. Even a few gators surfaced for photo ops.

Resurrection fern is brown and crinkly in times of drought or little rain, and when the water comes from the sky again, it bounces back to green lushness. I never recall seeing it so pronounced as it was on Saturday. Just look at it.

This 'dillo stopped to take his head out of the ground for a few seconds and seems to be saying, “Damn. It feels good to be alive.”

But you know what I loved almost as much as anything? The peanut man. Still there on the corner of Fruitville and Myakka Road, Peanut Man sits on the side of his pickup on Saturdays. The old dog I used to see with him as a faithful companion had passed on, and a new friend was with him.

I used to drive this road every day on my way to work running programs at a nature center near the state park. I knew I had to move on, but I sure miss the natural environment out there. It felt like a homecoming yesterday. On the way back I carried the refreshed vivid imagery I love, the feeling of wind still on my face, and peanuts on the pallet.

An Ode to Paul Wynn and an Ode to Grocery Stores on Superbowl Weekend

I have doubled my reading pleasure lately visiting Paul Wynn’s blog and started thinking “why not invent your own freaking Blog Award, Gropius?” So here we go, the Double Your Reading Pleasure award goes to…Adventures of A Grocery Store Clerk.

Of course it’s framed after a product you can find in every check out aisle. Be sure to stop on by his blog. It’s funny, always something you can relate to and many times helps you look at a common situation in a totally different way—from the clerk’s point of view.


What blog has doubled your pleasure? Give them this award and in your post, write about a subject that appears often on his/her blog.

To play, I’m sharing some grocery store tales of my own. Here’s what annoys me that other shoppers do in the grocery store, and yes, if these things haven’t happened to me at least once, they happen all the time. It drives me nuts when people…

• Reach in front of you to open the freezer and grab something out of it when you’ve been standing there for 5 seconds or less.
• Secure their place in line and then abandon the cart 14 times to go back and get things they forgot.
• Ram a shopping cart into your ankles—hard—because they just aren’t paying attention.
• Take advantage of a deli attendant with his back turned to secure an unearned advantage in line.
• Get all up on you and in your space when you’re paying for your groceries. You will have your turn at the podium, people.
• Come flying out of an aisle like a bat out of hell and look at you like you’re stopping an angel from landing when you’re just standing there, surprised…and frightened.
• Are mean or impatient with senior customers. Give them a hand for Pete’s sake!
• Walk around eating stuff that hasn’t yet been paid for…like packages they opened up or grapes from the produce section. Every now and then, Husband will do this with a bottled drink. At least when you pay for that, it doesn’t cost less because you have already consumed half of it.

Did I leave anything off the list?  THANK YOU to all the checkers in the world who put up with terrible customer behavior. What would we do without you?

Spread the Double Your Pleasure blog award liberally. I'm counting on you, Suzicate, Pines Lake Redhead, Picture Imperfect & others…

The Homestead

After three days of being stuck in the house sick as a dirty politician, I am literally going insane. I’d just like you to know that I care about you so much, if you could use an extra lung, there’s one right here I have coughed up. It may not make the flight to Russia or Sydney, but if you’re in the states, there are possibilities.

I’m feeling a lot better today, and tomorrow I might even be able to venture out in public again for a short trip.

I worked all day today remotely and was actually able to get some things done. Feeling like purging was my strong suit after exhausting nearly an entire box of Kleenex on this never ending supply of mucus, I decided to go all the way. I permanently deleted over 17,000 e-mails from my deleted box.

Yes, to our IT guys’ dismay, I was using the “delete” folder as a storage file of sorts that I could always refer to for those “see, that IS what you said” e-mails that must be sent months after the fact.

Although I felt a little sick to my stomach hitting that delete button, it was liberating as hell.

Working from home, I’ve also solved a new post-Christmas mystery. We stuck one of those window bird feeders to the office window just to the right of my computer, and each day when we got home, it had been knocked down. Probably squirrels. And confirming our suspicions today….

Flanders is justifiably pissed that I have shared this with you. She still doesn’t understand the lack of justice in a situation pitting a piece of glass and screen between her and her natural prey.

[Beyond the kayaks, you may notice that obnoxious rain barrel which is now spilling over into a new fishing hole.]

I hope you’re all healthy where you are. This strain of disgusting bronchitis is making its rounds here for sure.

The final resting place for all of my used Kleenex? I’m so glad you asked. They're in the huge bag of old bank statements I finally shredded and cleared from filing cabinets at home. You never can be too cautious about keeping thieves away from your things.

Roots

Three hundred. This is the 300th post on Gropius vs. Eddie. We've come a long way. I thought I'd go back to the roots of good 'ole Gropius, for those of you who think "What the hell kind of name is that?" or "Is this a man or a woman writing this blog?" or "Gropey? Sounds like something not so rated G."

So sit back while I share the fairy tale of Gropius with you.

Once upon a time, a little homeless kitty found its way to a friend of mine who seems to be a perpetual bachelor. I believe he has a fear of commitment, though he might argue on this point. It was so pronounced, this fear of commitment, that after having the kitty for three weeks, knowing he would keep it, he still hadn't named it. Because, you know, once you name a pet, it's yours baby.

The two of us were enjoying an architecture exhibit at a local museum, where we were introduced to the work of Walter Gropius. A German architect who taught at Harvard and founded the Bauhaus school and style of modern architecture, he was an interesting character.

• Me: "Aha! Gropius. It's the perfect name for your cat. It's different. No one can accuse you of being run of the mill. It will spark conversation for sure. And it will force you to do what you know you are doing anyway-keeping him!"
• Fear-Of-Commitment-Man: "Hmm."

This idea, this "Gropius" idea, went on for another few weeks. All the while a set of mutual friends went about trying to convince him that Eddie would be a better name. "You don't want to be calling this cat Gropey when some chick is over at your house," they argued. "They will think you're perverted."

But for me, it's a real question about whether you want to be unique and exciting or regular and boring. You know? Gropius vs. Eddie. So this blog was birthed partly as a joke. The whole idea was that if I could put this much time and effort trying to convince him to name the cat Gropius, I should win for sure.

It's been a while. The cat is now a man (minus the parts that neutering took care of). His name is Gropius. He's odd, but not too odd. He's not your average gentleman. And here we are at post 300.

I've always been more of a dog person so find it odd that, of my own creation, I refer to myself with the same name as Fear-Of-Commitment-Man's cat. Yes, strange indeed. And there you have it.

Your mamma said so

I just learned today that a friend literally poked a hole in her eardrum with a Q-tip.

Aside from my obvious concern for her, I am deeply disturbed. For there is nothing Gropius enjoys more than a good 'ole Q-tipped ear. The warnings are clearly marked on the packaging, plus it's one of those things your mother always told you...not to do.

I'm afraid this could also mean that listening to too much very loud music at one time in my life could account for at least some of the ringing in my ears. And that reading too often in poor light because reading in dim light is just more calming may--just may--have something to do with my ongoing denial of an eye exam for some sort of spectacles. I'm too young for that!! 

The fact that I have now come down with the full blown crud being shared across offices, towns and states is no doubt a direct result of not doing the right self-care things. Yep. Mother called it a couple days ago.  My sinus cavities are clogged with virusly mucous, the type of cough you never want to hear from someone next to you interrupts otherwise calm moments, and I can't even taste the brownies I am foolishly continuing to eat.

One of these days, Gropius and all the other grown kiddies out there will learn to listen to their mammas. Meanwhile, will someone pass me that Q-tip?

A funny quote in closing...

“Let us rise up and be thankful, for if we didn't learn a lot today, at least we learned a little, and if we didn't learn a little, at least we didn't get sick, and if we got sick, at least we didn't die; so, let us all be thankful.”

The Story of Robert Wallace Howard

Ninety five years ago on this very day, Robert Wallace Howard was born in Louisville, Kentucky. Though he would spend many years of his life in North Carolina, the plane he piloted would carry him to many places. And his ambition, shrewdness and knack for making life-long friends would land him tens of starring roles.

Mom tells me that during the spring and summer of 09, Wally's favorite quote (which he thought reflected his life) came from Shakespeare’s play “As You Like It.”

“All the world’s a stage
And all the men and women merely players
They have their exits and entrances
And one man in his time plays many parts”

Some of my fondest memories of Wally are contained here. But there was so much more to this man, who in this life, played many parts. One of them I gratefully consider to be the greatest of accomplishments:  producing the greatest of human beings on Earth--my mother.

In his "wordly" life, Wally enlisted in the United States Army and served as a pilot in the Army Air Corps in the European Theatre during World War II. His military commendations included the Bronze Star Medal and EAME Theatre Ribbon with five Battle Stars.

During a distinguished banking career, he served as Senior Vice President of Wachovia's eastern region of NC. He was a community leader, serving in leadership positions with the Salvation Army, the East Carolina University Foundation, the Greenville Boys Club and the Pitt Greenville Airport Authority. He was even named Citizen of the Year by the Greenville Chamber of Commerce.

After death, we become particularly attuned to "what's left." What remains of a lifetime of relationships, doing good, making friends, making money, annoying a few scattered enemies, building a house with everything personally selected it contains?  In the case of Robert Wallace Howard, I take several things to heart which he imparted on me and everyone he knew:

1. When things seem bad, remember that the trifles of life are but small pieces of nothing in the Grand Scheme of Things.  Keep the big picture in mind.
2. Move on. There's always more beyond your current and past circumstances. When there's nothing left, well, it may be time for your next journey.
3. A good pipe, Baileys in your morning coffee and a view from your deck are more than enough. Always be grateful for the opportunities afforded to you in life.

Happy Birthday, Robert Wallace. I do miss you but know you must be bringing a touch of class and lots of color to that next role in the journey beyond.