Stars like jewels seed the sky
Blooming flowers drenching the black bed of night,
Shining above creeks and rivers and dreamers
Resurrected until the sun turns them transparent.

But you can drink them while they’re fresh
On a blanket tossed on the ground,
They pour into your mouth and eyes
Universal juice to the soul.

Night after night after night…

“Are you telling me those albums I sold for practically nothing at a garage sale several years back are now worth something? Dang, I knew I should have hung onto those.” This was a recent conversation I had with a dear friend.

Now I’m remembering everything I let go. Let’s see, I had the Doors. Remember the line from Break on Through? I found an island in your arms, a country in your eyes? Words stuffed like emotional crème puffs.

There was also Journey, and Pink Floyd, The Who, Stones, Eagles, Moody Blues and Led Zeppelin. Yes, I sold them all. I even threw in comedian Steve Martin’s album, Comedy is not Pretty. Someone pried that one out my hands. I shared the laughs. And the weird thing is, Steve still looks almost exactly the same as when I saw him on stage all those years ago…ha!

These days I’m feeling a little like classic Vinyl myself. Can anyone relate? The kids are growing up and out, yet another daughter recently spread her wings and flew on over to California, and one a couple of weeks before that to Missouri. For the first time in twenty-three years, quiet time has erupted in my world like a volcano.

I’ve had five full days to myself, and after initially feeling like crap on a cracker, I decided to soak the tiredness out of my feet after two decades of running. For the past few days, I’ve slept in, and when I wake swing around in my chair, drinking coffee and watching cardinals at the bird feeder. I’ve scrubbed floors and dusted and put the house in order and it hasn’t moved! One day I rented fantastic chick flicks and watched them in mid-afternoon, while eating extravagant Chinese takeout. In the evenings I’ve written and began to understand how one can get lost in silence, the delicious rhythm and rhyme of it. By day three, quiet slipped on me like a new dress.

Now I’m ready for noise again: family, friends, a little dirt, clutter, the messy business of life.

I miss my children like crazy, but knew full well they would grow up one day. I’m excited for their new adventures and excited for mine, too. I’m happy to still have a sweet, colorful bird in the nest for the time being.

Life is a continuous journey of change. We must learn to connect new dots, to reinvent ourselves.

Classics are superb at this!

I’ve laid my hands on black tie memories, champagne corks popping all over pages. There are also those that creak and wail under the weight of sorrow and loss. Life drags us down rutty dirt roads as well as slick glossy highways, and a diary travels them all. Capturing our feelings and writing them down; that’s why we write, to peel back layers of life and hold them up to the light.

Above is a picture of my latest diary, fancier than most, but Audrey Hepburn just spoke to me, so I couldn’t resist.

My first diary was started back in 1995, which puts me at fifteen years worth, and eighteen diaries, minus one year, 1999. That particular diary was lost six months after moving to Texas from Missouri. I’d put it on the back of my car to check the mail before heading to school to wait in the carpool line, where I sometimes made diary entries. Running behind, I jumped in the car, not remembering the diary until a mile or so down the road. We searched high and low, to no avail. Either it had fallen into a muddy ditch, or had landed in someone’s hot little hands. Girlfriends were calling every day to see if I’d found it yet, intrigued with the idea that a man might have discovered the diary and was reading about my life.

I cried.

Ye gad! Every little “for my eyes only” entry waltzed in my memory, some taking a bow, some tripping in front of me, making me cringe. But after the initial shock died down, I had the plot for my novel, The Passion Diary. What would it feel like to have your uncensored thoughts read by a man you’d never met? What would happen if he fell in love with you by your words alone? Not that anyone would after reading mine, but heck, I decided to run with it anyway. How would that woman feel if this man wooed her, keeping her diary a secret, winning her trust and love, and then the secret was exposed by someone else who made it their business to know? The diary is the frame the story hangs on.

Even after losing one, I still keep diaries. My youngest daughter is the only one intrigued by them. For awhile, she bugged me to read entries, but of course I wouldn’t. She said, “You might as well let me read them now. When you’re gone, I’ll get my hands on them!” I told her we might need to have a ceremonial burning at my passing.

But maybe not.

One day, when I’m raisin-faced, and my eyes cloudy with years, I might take those diaries out and read every young memory, the lovely, ugly , and funny, those thoughts dashing in and out of time tunnels, reminding me how much I lived, loved, lost and gained. The far will be near again, the near, nearer.

And, ahem…if someone out there did happen to find my diary, all those years ago, please just stick it in my mailbox, no questions asked.

What about you, do you keep diaries?

Trains have always fascinated many. Runaway cabooses, passenger cars filled with drowsy diners, or boxcars brimming with wild hobos, transporting all far off to fragrant destinations. Yes, there’s something mysterious about a good train ride.

A few years ago, we took the famous Colorado Narrow Gauge Railroad excursion from Durango to Silverton-fifty-two miles of the San Juan scenic byway. The choices varied on how classed up you wanted to ride, but being the hillbillies we are, we chose the cheapest way, standard class, open air gondola seating. We didn’t want to miss an ounce of scenery and certainly weren’t disappointed with that choice. I can’t say I’ve ever seen such excitement in the eyes of my children. It seems everyone relishes a good train ride.

We hung our faces out open air windows and drank in wind and wild. The train whistle would bellow, black smoke blow, and the tracks twist and turn around yet another mountain, where aspen trees shimmered and rusty colored beavers flapped and swam under leafy forests without footprints of modern life. That day we walked away with soot on our faces but pure nature tattooed on our hearts.

To remember this trip,I bought a splendid watercolor of Durango Station, Engine 473, painted in watercolor by Russell Steel. Appropriate name, don’t you think? I had it framed and it now sits on the mantel, a memory of us, once upon a time, on a Colorado train. If you’re ever in that area, please don’t miss this exquisite experience.

Recently, I saw a program discussing The Chocolate Train. Please get me on that train! My mouth perked at the mention of chocolate, so I had to watch. Would you like a little chocolate with your train?

Switzerland is well loved for its scenery and chocolate. Throw in a train and you’ve got a first class experience called the Swiss Chocolate Train, which operates from June to October out of Montreux.

Running on the Montreux-Oberland-Bernois Railway, this train takes you on breathtaking views of the Swiss countryside, rolling through the medieval town of Gruyeres, also known for their fabulous cheese making.

In Gruyeres, the train stops for an excursion by bus to a local castle. Sound good so far? You’ll also get to experience a cheese factory. On board the train once again, you’ll head to Broc. The Nestle Chocolate factory is there. You can watch the production of chocolate and sample the goodies. Then buy all you want.

Nine hours later you arrive in Montreux, a sleepy resort town on Lac Leman and home to the Castle of Chillon.

Now how’s that for a train ride, eh? Let’s go, shall we? All aboard!

The Buds, yeah,I know um. You do, too. We live with them, those sweet and sour trips on the tongue. Masterpiece’s in the mouth. They are sometimes ever so sour, sour. Salty, ooh, yes that, too, and spicy. But they can be bitter. I hate it when they get like that; drives me nuts. We foodies can spin them right around, though, with crunchy sweet apples and salty pretzels. Or Peanut Butter Captain Crunch, which snaps open the ears and floods the buds with peanut-y plunge. Happy are they with combinations: sweet, salty, crunchy, munchy. “Hallelujah, brother,” they shout. “Get it, sister!”

Mine like stepping off a sidewalk occasionally into an exotic forest of knee deep pink roses, some plucked and transformed into fragrant jelly. Now that bullets the Buds back in a time machine and they tumble out, blinking into a cozy kitchen, a mom in a white apron, her soft brown hands making that wild rose jelly. And homemade wheat bread, too, slathered with salty white butter and eaten freshly popped from the oven, mouths exploding, igniting and delighting.

When Mr. and Ms. Taste E. Buds get bored they really yawn for herbs and spices like basil, dill, cumin, cilantro, sage, saffron, bay leaf, garlic, vanilla, nutmeg, cloves, ginger, rosemary. Did someone say Rosemary? Now she’s an edgy girl. I pair her up with a pork loin from time to time and she forces it to tango.

Think velvety sauces stung with white pepper. And glistening milk gravy flavored with sausage then poured over hot biscuits and fried potatoes. Have you ever had chocolate gravy? Well, I never! But the Bud’s have, courtesy of long lost Arkansas cousins.

But now we’re screaming the Buds language. And they really are easy to delight. Variety, baby, give them variety and they’ll dance a jig for you, or belt out that Marshall Tucker classic tune: “Can’t you see, can’t you see, what that woman, she’s been doin’ to me.” Yeah, that one.

I’ll tell you what, though. If we deprive them of sweets for too long, we’d best throw them a key lime pie made from scratch to appease them. And by all means jack up the crust with Ritz crackers to tease them. The salty switch up will beam them to a star and back. They will wail uncle. If that doesn’t work, give them death by chocolate. Notice how the food choices have gotten progressively worse? Can I get a woot, woot?

Actually,I do eat healthy. My thoughts are these: eating right is doable as long as we throw in those occasional, well loved treats.

Hey now,foodies, what makes your Taste Buds tingle?

Well, peeps, my job here is done. This finishes out my five senses series. Hopefully, you smell better, not you personally, although that’s a plus. And dream of touch and hear and see things you might have missed, and taste it all. If you’re begging for food after reading this post, please don’t blame me. I’m just the lowly writer, clasping my occasional bowl of Captain Crunch.

Please stay tuned for a hair raising sixth sense post, coming up.

Testing, testing, can you guys hear me? I couldn’t think of a snappier way to present sound than a recent trip to southern Louisiana.

In New Orleans the decibel levels flew off charts, right along with history, dog ugly and gorgeous as any I’ve ever heard. Even so, I relished the whole Who Dat and Zydeco music and the waitress named Nicole but pronounced Ne-cole. Her inflection piped out like a shot of New York swirled with Louisiana Creole. I kept asking her questions, well, because I’m irritating that way, and because I adored her voice.

“Why y’all don’t vee zeet more?” she finally said, grinning.

Ne-cole, Ne-cole, Ne-cole. A charming sport if I ever met one.

The sounds of New Orleans were spicy crazy indeed. In the streets were drummers, harmonica players and clacky washboard renditions. People were chattering like squirrels, their shoes popping on sidewalks.

In Café Du Monde, we finally plopped down, legs worn and feet aching from traipsing every inch of the French Quarter and miles beyond. I figured I’d earned myself a beignet, snowed under with powdered sugar and washed down with a café-au lait. Spoons were clinking against glass coffee cups while sugar buzzy conversations exploded, and underneath that, the sigh of our pooped waitress, trying to keep up. A fat tip was in order, which made her smile.

So, two days later, I listened to Creedence Clearwater Revival in the car as we headed to St. Francisville, because it would have been a sin not to hear Born on a Bayou if one is going to hang out with gators and Cajuns. And because I’m a Creedence groupie.

Visiting here is like stepping on ancient, exotic soil. Did you know even history has sound? It wails and screams and laughs here in the wind, the birds and bayous.

Three times now I’ve come to this place, trying to grasp a tragic and mysterious chunk of history. Bits and pieces the land has absorbed and yet shouts through the live oak trees. But none makes sense, nor do I condone it. Meanwhile I fancy the people and appreciate the beauty of place. And I remember those without voices and try to honor them with my presence. My heartfelt interest.

The following poem is based on a cemetery we visited while staying on plantation grounds. It was only one visible record, but there are still many loud secrets. Listen for sound in silence.

Fallen Stars

They have gone silent and cold
yet I heard a woman’s voice
in a crows cackle
calling
suppertime…suppertime…suppertime

But that can’t be
sixteen souls long hushed
resting like whispers in black dirt beds
on loud property
they didn’t have time to praise

Days booming with tears and laughter have passed
no more spring afternoons, summer days
snappy fall breezes
or horizons
blazed with red

They lie silent atop a hill now
ringed by a stone wall
gray and chipped
shaggy cedar to ward off sun
and pine silt carpet for decoration

I traced their names with fingertips
when the sun was blooming
and remembered those I never knew
Marguret, Thomas, Mary, Edward, Sarah, Percival
and the others

Then when night turned to coffee
we walked through crispy grass
flashlights beaming
sky flushed with hot stars
now fallen icy atop the hill.

Bonjour Mes Amis- Good day, my friends. Listen well.

To me, being in a wild world with so many sights, sounds, odors, tastes and textures is a little like walking down dusty paths of a renaissance festival and being bombarded with the scent of apple dumplings and roasted turkey legs while my ears buzz with pan flutes and tambourines, all as I’m touching velvety lamb’s ears and then hard, exotic handcrafted jewelry. But there is more. Yes, taste, we must include that. How about fresh corn crepes smothered in cream and then chocolate doused strawberries for dessert?

Oh, enough, enough! I’m ready for a festival, how about you? Yeah, I know. It’s still too cold. Until then, I’ll attempt to warm up our rich creamy layers of writing. Each post will focus on a different sense and I might even bring in that rowdy SIXTH SENSE to round everything up. Okay lords and ladies, let’s begin with scent, shall we?

What is that smell?

What springs to mind here are Sunday suppers, pork loin dotted with rosemary, the scent of raisins and stuffing and spice exploding each time the oven door opens.

Aroma’s, rather delightful or not, invoke memories.

If you have a keen sniffer, you might also be able to detect a storm before it arrives. The earth is different then, soil sighing and humidity yelling. Did you know moisture heightens our sense of smell? It does. And were you aware women have a keener sense of smell? They do. As we age, our sense of smell weakens, though. Middle age is peek smelling season. I vote we all stay middle aged. Oh, wait, too late for me.

Did you ever notice that houses have layers of odors? I remember an old farmhouse we lived in, which smelled of plants, laundry detergent, and an undercurrent of all previous owners combined. It’s as though scent embeds itself into walls and floors.

In developing characters and their environments, we can see how smell could be a vivid way to make a story breathe. If we are writing about a house full of men, scents will be different. I’m telling you,I know these things. I have brothers. The masculinity, shall we say, does shout smoke, spice and sweat.

On the other side of the road, where mostly females reside, you’ll find the staggering scents of cinnamon, lavender oil, powder, perfume and candles. Of course there will be fruity odors mixed in and funky, too, depending on whether they keep a clean house and if they cook.

So, if we want our characters to live and remember that they have lived, scent is one worthy tool. It is exactly why, when I smell baby powder, I can be yanked back to a morning, fifteen years ago, baby on my lap. She has just finished her oatmeal and given me an open-mouthed kiss on the cheek, leaving a smear. There is sticky oatmeal in my hair, too, left from chubby fingers grabbing to draw me close. I can still hear her coo at the birds, so early my eyes are barely slit open, but yet I’m chattering to her and overwhelmed with tenderness. Yes, baby powder can snap me back that fast.

Our world is one big, smelly memory.

This week I’m taking my basket of scent and sprinkling it throughout my work. How about you? What particular scent fires up your memory?