Jennie-on-the-spot started this type of listing some time ago. And I've enjoyed browsing other friends' lists, too. So enough, dilly dallying and on with my own.
(Here's to you, T.)
1. I absolutely cannot stand phonetically spelled things. I make it a point not to support places that advertise themselves with such gross abuse to the Engligh Language: Krazy Kuts, Xtreme Sportz....forget about it!
2. I adore good bluegrass and country music. I think Dolly Parton (among other greats) is pretty much the bee's knees. Good toe-tapping tunes and old country ballads that take you to another place and time.... pure goodness. Gimme a banjo, guitar, fiddle, and a singer that sings from the bottom of her soul. Mmm mmm mmm. That's all I have to say about that.
3. I saw a woman die once. I was winding down a hilly road on a bus in South Africa in the Draakensburg Mountains. We were winding down the mountain. The roads were very narrow and dangerous. As we turned the corner, we saw a matatu struggling up the mountain (that's what we always called the buses in Kenya...you can't imagine how many people and things can be crammed inside...like a clown car...furniture, people, chickens, spare gasoline, water). There was an African woman; she was balancing a basket of bright oranges on her head. The bus hit her. It was an accident. I don't remember how it all happened...the terrible sequence of events. I just remember little snapshots of the scene. It was very still and quiet for a minute. Our bus stopped. The people walking up and down the mountain stopped. The woman's basket of oranges spilled slowly down the mountain. They gradually picked up speed and scattered in all directions. There was wailing. A high-pitched piercing cry. It prickled my eyes. The matatu driver had his hands on his hips and looked at the steaming engine. The scenery was breathtaking. Children were carrying water up the mountain in bare feet. Our bus kept moving. I sucked in the crisp air and disappeared inside of my thoughts. I think that a little piece of my soul died that day. Why? The indifference with which everyone went about their business after the initial moment of shock.... How beautiful the scenery was there.... How hard life is short. Color became very vivid and important to me. I made a vow that day that I'd savor the life I've been given. Every succulent drop.
4. I've been told that I'm a good listener.
5. My green eyes are my most favorite feature. I get quite a few comments on them. Those and my big butt.
6. Storytelling is most important to me. It seems that I've always had a love for stories...I think my friend Twyla Wright might have something to do with this (I'm sure I'll have an entry in my list about Twinkle Toes). I go to a storytelling festival every year. i freak out over good storytelling like my sister-in-law Carey freaks out over good chocolate. Nestled in the hills of Jonesborough, TN, the International Storytelling Festival hosts a 3-day storytelling event that showcases world-renowned storytellers from many walks of life. Huge white circus tents perch on the lawns of this quaint little town and house the most intimate, magical few hours you can experience with 500 strangers east of the Mississippi. In the festival promoters' own word: "Come hear tales unfold beneath big festival tents and nighttime stars." Charming, isn't it? Read more at http://www.storytellingcenter.com/festival/history-fest.htm
7. I think the Society for Creative Anachronism is weird (haven't decided if it's weird good or weird bad). As are its members. I've worked with a few. Once I was facilitating a workshop and asked, sort of jokingly, one such individual to lead an energizer right after lunch. He took his charge quite seriously and led us all in a quick tutorial in broadsword fighting. He didn't have his proper materials at hand, so he just swiped one of the boards from the white picket fence in the front yard of the church where we were meeting. Because we were apprentices, we wielded little branches that we scrounged up from the yard. Ten minutes into it, I had had enough. I would much rather be a wench in the kitchens, fayre ones. http://www.sca.org/
8. I like to read. My mom told me once that reading came easily to Jennie when we were young. For me it was more of a struggle. But once I conquered it...my world was opened to limitless possibilities. Imagine picking up a book and being in Narnia or outerspace or in a suburb in smalltown, USA or the wild, wild west. How perfectly lovely.
9. I love cooking. Things from scratch. I spend hours upon hours cooking. And reading cookbooks. For fun.
10. My mom. Known to many as Practical Pat (after hours). Or Medical Pat (when she's on the clock). Where to begin? Once, when I was in elementary school, I came downstairs feeling rather puny. And determined that I shouldn't go to school. Greeted by a cold bowl of oatmeal and a brisk efficiency acquired after having raised five children, Practical Pat encouraged me to move much more expediently than I was in order to catch the bus in time. "I can't eat the oatmeal. I'm sick. I can't go to school today." Practical Pat, not interested in my histrionics, says, "Eat it." And then something along the lines of "you're not really sick; and don't even think about not going to school today." Undoubtedly, I ate it. And almost simultaneously puked it all up in the kitchen sink. "Well, now that that's out of your system, you ought to feel much better. Now hurry up. You're going to miss the bus." I drug myself down to the bus stop (feeling rather nauseated) at the end of the driveway (which I should mention is about a quarter of a mile from the house). A couple of hours later, the school nurse called her at home and arranged for her to collect me from school. I was very sick, after all.
