We Are STILL Nashville

The waters are going back down below flood level, but the aftermath lingers on.

It's the kind of thing you watch on tv but never think about happening to you. It's business as usual in my community of Bellevue, but you take a wrong turn and see a lake where a soccer field used to be. You drive past a business with a hand-painted "flood cleanup help wanted, 10-15 an hour" sign. You see mountains of bottled water at the front of grocery stores, and moms with kids in tow grabbing the last of the paper plates and plastic cups and baby wipes (conserve water! conserve water!)

Traffic out toward my exit on west I-40 is ridiculous during rush hour, when it is typically easy breezy from Charlotte Pike and beyond. Every day, we see new vehicles from new states carrying heavy-duty hoses, vacuums, ladders, and strange metal pumping devices. I saw fire and water damage business vans from Illinois and Oklahoma driving around the west end of town yesterday. Seriously! Oklahoma. Either we've taken up every free repair company for a 10-hour radius, or people from other states have heard of our plight and are driving our way to do what they can to help.

Thank you!

And, as the British would say, Keep Calm and Carry On, Nashville.

Thursday Tattle / Put Down That Can!

Today's tattle is again brought to you by my incredulous husband's observant eye and insane drivers everywhere.

This one goes out to you, Mr. Chinese Fire Drill Beer Drinker. You crazy rule-bending road champion. You master of the truckbed cooler.

Somehow, when Nashville authorities asked you to conserve water, you complied by drinking beer? After getting out of your car at a stop light? And walking around behind to the passenger's side of your truckbed? And pulling out a beer from a cooler? And opening it? And drinking it?

And walking back around just before the light turned green, getting back into the driver's seat, and continuing to sip your tasty beverage of choice as you drove away?

Brilliant. Just brilliant.

In the words of that wise sage, Bill Engvall, HERE'S YOUR SIGN.

A New Song

Nashville Flood 2010 from Ben De Rienzo on Vimeo.

Nashville Needs an Ark!

We didn't float away, but our Internet connection may have.

Nobody expected the disaster from this weekend that ended up with whole streets and sub-divisions under water. For 2 1/2 days, the rains came down and the floods came up. My husband and I, thank God, are safe and sound, with only soggy shoes drying out on our doorstep, a leak in our bathroom ceiling, Facebook status addiction withdrawal from our Internet provider's lack of service (getting right on that, AT&T?), and an army of displaced refugee ants in our kitchen to show that anything happened.

We are sorry to inform the world wide web community that the ants will soon die as they have been feasting for the past 12 hours on delicious and deadly poison drops. I'm sorry. I know that is insect cruelty, but they must go.

The irony is that the floods began at the exact time we started looking around at other apartments and homes for rent in our community. The two places we visited ended up under water not even 24 hours later. I feel deeply saddened for the losses the people in those areas suffered. It's horrible. Devastating. Shocking. Numbing. And yet I can't help but feel a twinge of gladness that we did not apply at either place to rent in the future. Is that horrible? I know this is a flood of epic proportions--we met people who had lived in the Bellevue area of Nashville for nearly 50 years and had not seen anything of this magnitude. But what if it happens again? Suddenly I am shying away from any viewing any property that mentions the descriptors "Cumberland" or "Harpeth" or "River."

The day after the storms, we were able to find one road to get to work for me (and Panera to work remotely for him) on Monday when the interstates and most major secondary roads were still closed. This, after realizing that with only a quarter tank of gas in his car, we should probably get more in case we were stuck or stranded at any point on the way. So we tried. But our stations only accepted cash (and we only had $8). We went to the ATM. It was down. We went to the grocery store and tried to do cash back. Denied. We waited for the bank to open. It didn't. The vault would not open and all lines were down. A very kind teller offered to give us $5 of her own money to get gas (thank you so much, whoever you are!) We thanked her but declined. We had stocked the car with food and water in case we got stuck anywhere, but we needed gas. Fortunately we did find a bank that was open and also a gas station that accepted debit cards a little further down the one road we could take into Nashville. From that point on, the debris and caution tape that had been cut down marked where water had been across the road we took, but it was safe to travel. I made it in to work only two hours late. It was a surreal experience. Since then, our phone service has returned, but the Internet is still down and my access is limited to work hours.

Please pray for the flood victims. Daniel and I are hoping to contribute in some way. I almost feel guilty that we were spared anything more than inconveniences, when neighbors a mere 5-10 minutes down the road from us lost everything and were rescued by boat from the second stories of their homes.

Photo by: president raygun

National Poetry Month / Coffee Love

Oh Coffee! I won't 
ever quit you again. You 
are my one true love

-Kaila in Maine

(I concur.)

National Poetry Month / The right side speaks for itself.

I have a confession to make:

I bought a book of                    poetry
to share with you.
Hundreds of poems,
all unique,
all voices of the past and
present and full of what             is
cherished by English
professors                               everywhere.
But
I did not share it in time.
The month is almost over.
The only thing I have to
show for it is a new-found
appreciation for the poets
of the world.
And this post, which is a
nod to a form I saw in a
book last night. At Borders.
Called Crank.
It's about a drug user, but
I saw the two-poem in one
and fell in love.

Thursday Tattle / The Goat & The SUV

So Daniel was driving home from work last week, and he ended up behind a terrified goat, in a cage, on the back of an SUV. The poor thing huddled as close to the side of the SUV as it could in its wire cage.

I'd be afraid, too, if someone grabbed me, shoved me in a cage, and strapped the cage to the back of their vehicle and started down I-24. Sheesh. I mean, seriously, I-24 during rush hour is in itself scary enough!

Thursday Tattle

So, we have these new neighbors. Okay, they're not much newer than us, but for the life of me I can't figure out how many of them there are. At last count ... 2 very verbal dogs, 1 aloof cat, 3 redheads, 1 shirtless (and wordless) wanderer, 2 older men, and 1 baby. In a three bedroom apartment. We call it the clown house.

The shirtless wanderer sings meditative songs and boxes his shadow in the window at night after walking around sans shirt (and almost sans pants) with one of the dogs. He doesn't talk much.

Two of the redheads must be 60-something sisters. They have thick accents from somewhere cityish like Boston, or Milwaukee, or Brooklyn. One of them sits and feed the baby. The other one yells, "oh, shaddup!" to the vicious white ball of fur that threatens to tear our throats out every time we walk by. Yes, she says "shaddup," and that's how it's spelled. I'd say "shut up," but then, who am I to tell her how to talk?

The youngest redhead is haggard and worn out (from dealing with her clan and her baby, no doubt.) She wears loose, comfortable clothing, and I always have the impression she needs to go somewhere and is just in between places.

The two older gentlemen are chauffeurs, I think, and baby tote-ers. The baby is happily unaware.

As for the black cat? It comes and goes. Where to, nobody knows, and it's green eyes won't tell.

Monday Mood

I've been pondering, of late. I feel a bit blah; a Premium-cracker blandish, flat 7-Uppish kind of stale bread blah. It's like a million colors of inspiration have swirled around in my head, poured out through my thoughts, and bled into the empty air.

Then I realized: the wedding is over. I don't have a project anymore.

The fluster and fuss and dreaming and scheming and budget-keeping is no more. I miss it.

I've read of this, before, in one of those bazillion emails The Knot or The Nest have sent me. They call it the post-wedding blues. Women actually MISS wedding planning. I would never have believed it three months ago when I was afraid I'd lose all my hair before I had a chance to walk down the aisle. All I longed for (other than finally being the Mrs. to my beloved Mr. B) was to have a NORMAL existence again. One in which the words "escort card" or "tulle" did not exist. Especially since I had worked so hard to AVOID using tulle in the first place.

I don't miss the stress. Heavens, no; I could never miss that. I was not what you'd call the most pulled-together bride. Planning, apparently ... NOT my forte, especially when other people are involved (or at least not for this Lone Ranger kind of schoolgirl to whom the words "group project" brought fear and trembling and much gnashing of teeth.)

Now, being creative for a purpose? That, my friends, I miss with all my heart. I miss creating an environment, a dream world, a tangible emotion. I even miss being "the bride," almost as much as I'm relieved I'm not one anymore! Not so much because I want the attention, but more because I had an identity that was recognized by many. For once in my life, I had been "somebody."

It's like having been the birthday girl for seven months straight and then realizing the birthday is over and you're just another year older. You're not particularly special. You're just another young (albeit married) woman again. Well, la-dee-dah.

I feel like I need to slip into another identity. To drive another dream-project into reality.

Or do I?

Could it be this longing is just ... my soul ... waiting to seek God with the same passion I sought after reception ideas and flowers in my budget?

Hmmm.

National Poetry Month / Love That Dog

I can't get enough of this little book by Sharon Creech. You can read it in an hour, but it sticks with you.

Written in free verse, as a "diary" of an elementary school student, the story follows Jack and his experiences with poetry in class. He doesn't like poetry. Poetry is for girls. He said so in his required diary:

JACK

Room 105 — MISS STRETCHBERRY


SEPTEMBER 13


I don’t want to
because boys
don’t write poetry.


Girls do.

Yet, somehow, poetry begins to grow on Jack. At last, he stumbles on the poem "Love That Boy" by Walter Dean Meyers (see first stanza excerpt, below), and it strikes a chord deep inside him. It makes him think of his dog, who died. From that point forward, Jack learns to cope with his grief and express himself through free verse. He begins to write about how he "Loves that dog," just like Walter Dean Meyers loved "that boy."

Walter Dean Meyers


Love That Boy


Love that boy,
like a rabbit loves to run
I said I love that boy
like a rabbit loves to run
love to call him in the morning
Love to call him
"Hey there, son!"

What do YOU love?

Work in Progress

Over the next few months, my new project is to change directions with this blog and turn it into something ... more. I'm still working on the details.

If things change or don't work, don't worry; it's all part of the process. I might change my mind a million times, but eventually I will have a working model.

The goal, just so you know, is to host the blog on our server and to park it under its own name. Which will probably change from Ruby Red Said to something more descriptive of my creative life and also something which will connect with more readers. I'd like to expand the blog into a site that has the capacity to showcase any products I'm working on, display tidbits of writing, and also explore the beautiful things that God has put all around us but we don't notice as much on a daily basis.

Stay tuned.

Stay tuned.

A Month In Celebration of Poetry!

This is Emily Dickinson. She's my favorite.

There is something pure about an Emily poem. Something unadulterated and poignant. Something that tugs at the thing with feathers that perches in my soul.

I stole this picture from a link at Poets.org. They, in turn,got it from Amherst College Library. I hope the good folks at Amherst won't mind me using it to promote a dear poet.


So why am I writing about Emily Dickinson? Simply, because it is April ... or National Poetry Month. My dear friend Joy and I decided to collaborate and each blog through the month by sharing our favorite poems, poets, and some of our own poetic works. We hope you will enjoy the endeavor, and perhaps discover a new favorite!


So hello, Joy's readers, and welcome! For my own faithful few ... you will love Living Life in the Shades of Gray, her blog, and her Wordless Wednesdays. (I want to see her somehow tie in photography and poetry!)

In parting, for now, I will leave you with the words that I have shared before, but will repost again, because of their timeliness and closeness to my dreamer's heart ... words Emily spoke nearly 170 years ago:

 

 

I ’M nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there ’s a pair of us—don’t tell!
They ’d banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!	5
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

Sleeptalking Husband Barks and Chases Vampires!

I stretched, rolled over, repositioned myself, pummeled the pillow a few times for good measure, and was about to fall back asleep when Daniel began to bark.

Yes, I said BARK.

"Aaaarr rraaa raaa rraaa grrrrrr mmmb ah aaa baaaarrrrr."

Ummmm, what? I asked for clarification, which he gladly, mumbling, gave, "stop following me." What do you say to that? I just smiled to myself and let it be. I went back to sleep.

Only to be woken from a very deep sleep by this alarming sentence: "put Zoe down!"

What? What was wrong with my dog? I asked for more details. He mumbled something about pieces of her being carried away by vampires. He was apparently chasing them. Awwww. Good husband. Taking care of my poor, dismembered, doggy. How brave.

Have I mentioned I love this man? Endless entertainment. If ... a bit ... macabre this time around.

New Crave

Candy colored accents, or gray and yellow graphical elements.

Lately, I can't get enough of these!

(Bird print from my wish list at Etsy, sold by seller mysunshinevintage and cool re-purposed vintage plates from Ninainvorm:)

Frenetic Caffeinated Irish Typing

Filling orders at the job, listening to Riverdance (as played by the Boston Pops) and fueled by a Grande Caramel Latte from Starbucks. I keep typing faster and faster ... my fingers are doing a little step dance of their own.

I blame coffee and my Irish heritage. Haha!

Nashville, 7:43 a.m.

Misty city morning.
Sleepy buses lumber
up drowsy streets.
Blushing light spills
over a hillside zenith
and steam rises above
lavender glass,
silver metal,
and shadowed brick and concrete
stained by passing hands;
a lone guitar is tuned.
Twang.
Coffee brews.
Footsteps hasten.
Batman gleams, and
Nashville wakens.

Amish Vampires?

Two things I don't understand:

1) The popularity of vampire characters in teenage fiction. Perhaps it is the lure of danger and the forbidden?
2) The popularity of Amish characters in Christian fiction. Perhaps it is the lure of safety and the forgotten?

Dust off your Polaroid camera!

I was blog hopping this evening and kept running into people mentioning the Impossible Project. I finally had to know what they were talking about and almost literally caught my breath in delight: they have created a new film for Polaroid cameras! Now I have an excuse to beg, borrow, or steal the camera that I wanted for years and years but never bought because right when I was about to do so ... Polaroid went out of business, and their film expired just in the past few months. Polaroid photography is back, friends! Yay!

Ditch Digging at The House, Circa 1997

Red clay.
HOURS of digging.

Rotten *stinky* vegetation

(gag-worthy)

from \where\ the trees

and overgrowth

were plowed                under.

Wet.

SQUOOSHY.

                                STICKY.

                                                HEAVY.

Resistant. Hard.

        You can imagine ...

NEVER

( )

AGAIN.

(Formatting provided by MelindaJ.)

Pink / Purple / Blue. Sun / Wind / Rain. Trucks / Highway / Me. Storm / Rainbow / Books.

I drove to book club last night after it had just stormed and journeyed through an array of brilliantly lit canvases of city life from stark, modern imagery soaked in light and shadows, to soft, pastel impressionistic strokes subdued by mist from the passing trucks. God painted. I drove and stared in awe.

Pebble sized hail had ricocheted off my sliding glass doors and then plummeted to the ground. Wind had wrapped around my townhome building. Driving rain had drenched the ground and turned my walkway into a lake.

After the worst, I scurried to my car, carefully cradling a glass casserole dish that contained my grandmother's famous chocolate cake. Then I drove south, to Brentwood. A rainbow spanned the city of Nashville.

I savored my place in this momentary and idyllic urban pastoral scene.