Oh, hey, just look at me, wow!

I proofed.  I proofed again.  I tweaked.  I proofed.  I reformatted (note to self:  FORMAT FIRST!) and added page numbers.  I had a headache. Proofed again.  Voila!  It's done.

"The Amazing Canine Adventures of Harry Spotter" now has volume two, "The Everyday Adventures of Harry Spotter." 

Each sale helps to support Almost Home Dog Rescue of New Jersey.  If I am contacted directly, I can offer discount pricing, free shipping, a bookmark and a magnet!  (junivolz@gmail.com) I can offer both books together for $18.

While aimed primarily at kids aged 8 and up, I have been told that adults enjoy it, too.

 

And my china doll back in old Hong Kong....

The China Man

It was always there, from my earliest memory.  My mother’s taste at the time ran to “Oriental.” That is what they called it, back in the 1950s.  We had a round coffee table and end tables finished in black lacquer.  Like Michelangelo, I used lie on my back underneath the coffee table and draw on the unfinished underside of it.  There was a mural on one wall, a scene on sepia colored wallpaper that appeared to be sketched in pen and ink.  A delicate, arched bridge over a stream with cherry blossom trees in the background.  On a low bench sat a porcelain doll in satin clothing.  The walls of the living room were gray, the carpet green and sculpted.  Looking back, it seems the colors were rather somber.  I didn’t think about it at the time.  One end table held a lamp and beside the lamp was the China Man, made of ceramic. 

I was forbidden from touching him.  Little figurine, all of five inches tall, of an Asian man carrying a basket of laundry. It was white, his clothes were white –loose appearing pants and a jacket with a Mandarin collar.  A little hat on his head, and a long, dark pony tail.  I thought that was very strange.  The “laundry” was carried in a box that had a removable lid and was topped by a golden elephant.  I touched him anyway, whenever I thought I could get away with it.  I would take that laundry lid off to see if anything was inside.  Nothing ever was.  Poor, little man, always and forever toiling with a load of laundry

. 

When we moved to Long Island, the black lacquer was stripped from the tables so the natural wood grain came through.  Walls were white and carpet a soft, light lavender. The “Oriental” theme had been abandoned, but the little China Man continued to stand on an end table, nevertheless.

As I got older, I lost my fascination with him.  He was just another thing that my mother had.  Another thing among many things that I did not find attractive or intriguing.  My tastes and occupations veered off in different directions.

We aged.  Life and people changed.  We weathered marriages and divorces, births and deaths, arguments and estrangements, long distance moves, illness, adversity, all the shocks that time and life have to offer.  Before my mother died we were exchanging letters.  I lived in another state.  She never met my child.  She never told me she was sick.  Ours was always a difficult relationship, the kind I had to steel myself from over thinking, lest I fall into despair.  My mother, the enigma.

Years later, decades, in fact, a package arrived at my door.  It was from my niece who had started communicating with me after my many years in familial “exile.”  The package was shaped like a shoebox and wrapped in brown paper.  It was rather badly beat up, so I feared for whatever might be inside.  There were pictures from the distant past, they survived the obviously bumpy ride to my stoop.  With only newspaper to protect it, I uncovered the other inhabitant of the package…the little China Man.  There he was, after all these years and accompanying heartaches.  At first I thought the lid to the laundry basket was gone or broken, but it, too, was wrapped in newspaper and miraculously entirely intact, including the golden elephant.  I was instantly back in my mother’s “Oriental” living room, surreptitiously sneaking a peek inside his basket.  My eyes blurred with uncontrollable tears.  Why was this trinket so important to her?  Had it been a gift?  Was it entwined with a sentimental memory?  He is a mystery, much like my mother herself. 

He stands safely in a china closet now.  I can’t stand him, but I love him.  Imagine that?  If I feel that I can handle it, I look at him.  No need to dare a forbidden touch anymore.  It is he that touches me.


June Volz 2016

Somewhere that's green.....

Oh, hey, I got this great tip from Facebook.  It was so easy, I had to try it.  Really simple.  Just save the water you boil your vegetables in and then water your plants with it.  Doesn’t cost a dime, so why not?

 

I love broccoli and green beans and peas and lima beans.  So, I found this old Tupperware pitcher type thing – actually, I think it was supposed to hold cereal, but I never eat cereal, which is why the thing sits in the cupboard empty year after year.  Well, now I have a use for it.  So, every night I take the Tupperware container out of the refrigerator and drain my veggie water into it.  Then I pop it right back in the fridge.  Easy peasy.

 

 

 

It takes about a month to fill it up.  When it is all full, that’s when I water the plants with it.  Let me warn you, it is somewhat stinky.  I mean, think broccoli combined with sewage.  Yuck.  But it dissipates in about a day or so, no big deal.  When everybody is watered, the container goes back in the fridge for the next round of veggies.

 

 

I’ve found that the plants really love this veggie water.  I used to use plant food – you, know, buy the stuff and mix it with water.  This is so much easier and so natural and conserves water, too.   After a couple of months I could see the difference.  The leaves on some of the plants were getting outrageously large.  Super large.  Larger than I ever saw them before.  And other plants were changing color, actually becoming a deeper green, quite noticeable.

Gosh, the plants are loving this veggie water so much they are taking over the windows.  I took the mini-blinds down.  Who needs them?  I have natural green shades.  It’s amazing.  I can barely see outside anymore.  These plants are really thriving.

 

 

Gee, some of them began climbing the walls.  Seriously.  They’ve grown to the ceiling and are attaching to the walls and the ceiling.  They are so totally out of control.  Giant leaves, deep color and now they are just going wherever they want to go.  One threw a piece of its’ pot at me the other night.  I’m not kidding – this rather large piece of ceramic went flying across the room, whizzing by my head.  Like it was aiming at me or something.  Haha.  It actually busted right out of its’ own pot!  I had to go right out the next day and get a really, really big pot and more dirt.  It was a big job.  Not easy.  Wow.  I see some others are getting pot bound.  I have to remember to pick up more large pots when I can.

There is one plant I call the “Monster.”  It’s really big.  Well, it was always big, but it’s really, super big now.  It keeps sending up new leaves that are larger than my head.  And it pops out roots out its’ side, and sends them down into the pot, almost like legs.  Hahaha.  You can almost picture it getting up and taking a stroll.  Snarf.  Silly.  How silly.  I know that isn’t rational. Hahaha.

 

I don’t know.  I’m thinking about investing in some doors.  Maybe I should put a door up between the sun room where the plants are and the rest of the house.  Just a thought.  They’ve taken over the whole room and I think they might want to expand into the kitchen.  I know it sounds kind of crazy, but sometimes I think I can hear them at night.  Like I can hear them growing.  Almost like they are moving around.  Of course, they can’t do that, I know that.  Silly thought.  Still, I get a little scared when I think I hear them.  I think they talk to each other, too.  Not in words, of course, that would be weird, but they seem to communicate with one another.  I know it is stupid to feel so uneasy, but I really think I need a door.  Soon.
                                                                                                                       - June Volz
                                                                                                                          March 2015
                                                                                                                         (Copyright material)

With every mistake, we must surely be learning

Still my guitar gently weeps....

I look at you all, see the love there that's sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps....

("While My Guitar Gently Weeps", G. Harrison, 1967)


You know how you get into routines.  Particularly with my recent  move, I have been cherishing certain routines to keep the rhythm of my life on course.  My morning two cups of tea.  Going to the gym.  Sitting down and popping on the computer to see the mundane or amusing posts from my friends on Facebook, read a couple of emails, blah, blah, blah........

The other day was quite different.  I had a message from my brother-in-law.  First of all, I never knew him well or his wife, who was my sister.  And, I have had no contact with him for, well, gee....almost forty years.  Thirty-five, maybe.  A long, long time.  He was contacting me to tell me my sister had passed away.  She was ten years older than I.  She had been a smoker.  She had multiple health issues including cancer.  I felt badly not only for her death, but I was sadder still for the poor excuse of a family we had.  Sporadic and awkward contact over the years and the whole sad story.  I always felt left out, forgotten and worthless as far as family matters were concerned and that is why I had to, in a sense, divorce myself from it many years ago.

You think that you move on and put things behind you.  Until you find out that all those emotions are still there, still waiting to rear their sad little heads, still causing tears to fall.

The other surprise was that my brother-in-law asked that I contact my niece - his daughter.  Perhaps the last time I saw her she was nine years old or so.  I thought about for a bit, weighing the pros and cons and finally said to myself, "oh, what the hell."  What is everyone so afraid of?

So I  did contact her and since then, the whole world has changed.  I have been inundated and overwhelmed (in a good way) by emails, Facebook messages, conversations and old photos that have jogged the memory and squeezed my heart to an extent I didn't think possible.

There was a mystery in our family that I and the next generation are calling the Great Wall of Silence.  I believe it is solved.  When I found my father after not having seen him in 29 years, he was married to another woman, who had been the wife of his right hand man in his business, which was running three "bar and grills" in Brooklyn.  Essentially, then, my  father had been cheating on my mother and betraying his good friend for many, many years. There was a picture of my father with his "new" wife that clearly had been taken in either the late '40s or early '50s.  I could tell by how young my father looked and the style of the suits and hair.  What this told me was that he had a thing with this woman possibly or probably even before I was born. 

When my parents finally separated, the Great Wall went up.  After that, no one really knew anything because any talk was taboo.  Questions were never answered.  Facts had to be gleaned from experiences and as a result, information got garbled.  Even my older sister was perpetuating nonsense such that my parents had never actually divorced.  I went to the lawyers office with my mother.  They were divorced.  I found it odd that I actually knew some facts that my older sisters did not since I always felt so entirely out of the loop.  Shame.  Secrecy.  Silence.  As if he was the first  man in history to ever cheat on his wife.  I understand my mother's devastation.  But rather than reaching out to her children, she retreated.  She shut herself up in her own cocoon.  And a family was shattered.

Tucked into all this was my other oldest sister (twins) who had some sort of mental illness and was likely misdiagnosed at the time.  This was yet another thing we were all supposed to keep quiet about and pretend didn't really happen.  It was shameful.  People will talk.  People will blame.  Shhhh.

I have a trio of beautiful nieces, all of them smart and lovely.  We are in the process of getting to know one another, trading old memories and sharing similar reactions. We all love dogs. We all appear to be rabid liberals.  We all suffered from the Wall.  I can't change the past, but the future will surely be different from this point on. 

I have one living sister.  I am told she would like to hear from me.......

You've got a friend....

It is amazing what a profound effect it has upon me to see my old friend from high school. Having an afternoon with her sets my mind wandering for days and nights to come.  This time, as always, it was a horribly quick fly-by, and this time she was with other people.  My dear friend did not warn me that they were all Republicans as I confidently and comfortably (for how often can we left wing progressive liberals be confident and comfortable?) shot my mouth off.  Apparently it had no long lasting or ill effects.......

Yet....one of those other friends of hers did mention the "shared history."  That is the thing that, besides the fact that we still cling to the same - dare I say - liberal and democratic values we had as teens- binds us.  I have no one else.  I don't have family.  I don't have my first husband et al. My daughter only goes back about twenty years.  My friend and I - WE have HISTORY!

And then I lay awake thinking about all the amazing friends I have had the honor to have known.  Thanks to the internet I still "know" them in a way.  Not only was I reunited with two other friends from high school, but I was able to keep in touch with the astounding people I befriended in Michigan.

Yes, yes, I couldn't wait to leave Michigan. I couldn't wait to get back to the East Coast, to New York.  But I hated leaving the wonderful people who were my friends in Michigan.  They saved my life.  They supported me with actual money, with used clothes badly needed, with emotional and mental support and simple company.  They were there when I had to have a skin cancer removed from my face and put up with my nerves before and my giggles afterward (due to Valium).  They were there to help me move out of a house where I thought I would live my life, and into an apartment where I felt safe.  They were there when my autistic daughter disappeared one night and still there when she reappeared hours later with a big policeman. They were there for a birthday I didn't really want to acknowledge yet they made it not only bearable but fun. They were there at holidays to make it possible to feel that I was not alone and abandoned. And they were still there to help me make the major move back to New York.  I cannot find words to adequately thank them or have them know how much I carry them around in my heart and mind each day.  I've said for decades that I think god has a lousy sense of humor.  The irony that it took me fourteen years to finally make dear and wonderful friends in the alien world of Michigan (alien to me) and then have the one and only chance to leave them bears that out.

 

 

 

 

So now I am entering a new world.  I am making friends again, just as I did so many times before in my life.  It is uncertain, it is awkward, it is a slow and cautious process.  But, it is happening.  How strange.  How weird to feel like a kid again in some social situations as I feel my way around, as I try to reciprocate, as I try to be available, as I try to put my best self forward and yet not be untrue to the self I have fought all these years to find.

 

Nevertheless, I am eternally grateful to the wonderful friends - those beautiful girl friends I had in my teens who were there when my family fell apart and still did not reject me- and those open hearted amazing people in Michigan - who quite literally made my life possible, even if they don't know it. 

 



 

 

 

 

 

 

We're all carried along by the river of dreams....

I keep having bad, bad work dreams.  And I haven't been to work now for over three months.  Crazy.  I've never had this much time where I didn't have to report to a job.  And instead of feeling wonderful, I feel.....guilty.  I have horrible dreams.

A friend of mine just left the same workplace and we saw each other over the weekend.  As we vented, both of our spouses said, "It's over."  Yes, we know. But part of the healing will come from venting and sharing our similar unfair and miserable experiences. And, quite frankly, seeing her socially, away from the confines of the workplace or a restricted lunch hour, I realized that it was the first time in years that I had heard anything positive out of her mouth. I warned her about dreams and how very long they can go on.

I will need a new computer of my very own.  My husband monopolizes the main one and my daughter's is not salvageable.  She dropped it and we tried to have it put back in working order, but it isn't worth spending more money on.  So, I have decided that I will get a new laptop in September.

I have also made the momentous decision that I an going to pull down "Astoria Story" and rewrite it. I have been told I am "too concise" and don't "elaborate" enough.  And, I think that is fair and constructive criticism.  In my defense, I felt that I was in a rush to complete it or it just would never get done.  I had time constraints because of my job and classes, so I hurried.  Looking back, I feel I wrote it in a way that sounded more like how I would have spoken to a therapist rather than writing to an audience.  It is actually a little exciting to go back and have a re-do.  I will just hate taking the old one down, though.  However, I have another project in the works and hope to release two books - the new one and the new "Story" - at the same time!

This really feels like a step forward in my reinvention.

(Joel, B.  "River of Dreams" 1993)

It Only Takes a Moment

A "liminal" moment. I learned what that meant on the night of my graduation ceremony at Alice Tully Hall in Lincoln Center. Still learning.  Missing the process.  Wishing for the opportunity to do it more.

The word "subliminal" refers to information we process unconsciously.  Therefore, a "liminal" moment is one we seek out consciously, an occasion, if you will, to commemorate a passage.  Weddings, graduations and funerals are all "liminal" moments. 

I was able to meet people that I had interacted with via the class discussion boards but had never met in person.  I was able, I believe, to make a friend -- a person with whom I shared class time, discussion boards and several group projects.  After a couple of disastrous group projects, this person was a breath of fresh air. A team player who kept up her part of the bargain, did the work, did it on time and did it well and kept in touch throughout.  A gem. I am so glad we met in real life and will continue to know one another.  I consider it such an honor.

There was a gap between when I actually finished my studies (December 2012) and the commencement ceremony (June 2013).  And I went back and forth about the business of actually attending. Why?  I'm not in my twenties anymore. What does it matter? Well, it turns out that it does
matter. Three years of online work, which I personally found more intense and demanding than any other college courses I ever attended in actual classrooms, along with all years of cutting and pasting classroom experience from C.W. Post, to Hunter College to the University of Michigan all the way back to C.U.N.Y.  All of it mattered.  All of it, even if some of the credits weren't transferred.  The knowledge mattered.

So, today, I am the first one of my parent's children to obtain a college degree. Today I am on equal educational footing with my husband. Today I can die in New Jersey and the death certificate will say I obtained a B.A. degree. Today I am no longer a secretary. Today I join the 25% of Americans (a stunningly low number) who have a college degree.  Today I am an indie author.  I am an author.

Funny what one little liminal moment can do.