How old are you?

I've been reading page proofs on a collecton of profiles written by a journalist friend. In one, she writes about an older woman who was a dear friend. In her late eighties, the woman asked Mary if she knew the secret to staying young. Mary of course didn't, and the woman said, "Pick the age at which you were happy and choose to stay that age forever." She was, she said, 35, though some days she felt 40. Mary has chosen 43. But I think I choose 33--I had two children, a happy marriage, and a life that seemed to offer endless possibilities. Still, the possibilities my life offered turned out not at all to be the ones I expected, but there were some pretty good ones. And I do still feel about 33. I noticed in Austin that I felt younger and my aches and pains disappeared. Can't figure that one out. Can't believe work makes me feel older--it's supposed to keep you younger.
Today I went to the Carter Museum with a friend to see the exhibit on the Fort Worth Circle of Artists and another on snapshots. The Carter is a building that makes me anxious--steep terrazo stairs, high open balconies, the kinds of things I don't like. And the friend I was with has knee problems and walks with a cane, very slowly, so I got uncertain on my feet just trying to slow down to her pace--I need to build up a head of steam and then I can charge right along. So it all made me more than a bit uncomfortable, but I found the exhibits interesting. After a bit (four rooms), the Fort Worth Circle got repetitive, and the snapshots were interesting, mostly for what they illustrated about the change in cameras over the years. The snapshots themselves were fun for a while, but ultimately they don't mean much if you don't know the people. Apparently though it's a big deal--there's a large and impressive book from Princeton University Press to accompany the exhibit.
Back to Scotland. I've about decided to draft an article on Scots in Texas and run it by the state magazine I sometimes write for. Maybe that's a step toward a book. I'm feeling my way here. Meantime I have a list of chores--with deadheading the iris and planning the garden at the top of the list, followed by laundry and other less interesting chores.
I've ordered a book from Sisters in Crime called Breaking and Entering about breaking into the mystery market. I'm not giving up on that project.

Museums and Presbyterians

Last night I went to the signing for the Day of the Dead book at the Museum of the Americas in Weatherford. The museum is one of those undiscovered treasures that exist throughout America--and it's fun to discover it and then share it with friends. Owner Harold Lawrence gave us a little background--a retired professor of English, he's been collecting for over 50 years and his wife for over 30. Their collections complement but do not echo each other. The front half of the museum--one huge room with magnificent old wooden display cases--is "his." It showcases artifacts from all over North America, almost exclusively Native American things but not just the Southwest. All areas of the country are recognized, particuarly Harold's native Northwest. Clothing, food vessels, an amazing collection of arrowheads, too much to mention and certainly too much to absorb in one visit (this was my second visit). And all of it carefully labelled. The labelling of the large arrowhead collection most amazed me--they arrived all jumbled together in a box. Harold sorted, identified, mounted and made signage.
The back half of the former storefront displays Elizabeth's interests in Latin and South America, especially Mexico. There are four smaller areas back there, and last night one room was devoted to a wonderfully colorful and authentic Day of the Dead altar, modeled in part on one of the photographs in our book.
Ward, author of the text, gave an informal but charming and informative talk on the custom of the Day of the Dead, and then people milled, looked, drank wine and ate Elizabeth's wonderful food--and generally had a good time. (I hope they also bought books!) It was an eclectic crowd--mostly older (look who's talking) but wonderfully friendly and enthusiastic.
Afterward my neighbor Sue and I had supper at Sapristi's--she ate mussels, which I'm a little bit leery about trying but might well love, and I had a Caesar salad and a decadent chocolate mousse.
This morning I went to nearby St. Stephen's Presbyterian Church with my friend Betty. We wanted to see the Kirken O' the Tartans (Blessing of the Tartans). Eight bagpipers were accompanied by several drummers and followed by a parade of tartans--wish I knew more about identifying the various plaids, but I don't. The thunderous music was thrilling, reason enough to be there. But I found the church interesting--I know of course that the Presbyterian church traces back to Scotland, but I didn't realize how heavily they rely on Scottish creeds and prayers and how often they refer to Scotland. I've been to other Presbyterian churches--indeed grew up in one that was a combined Presbyterian/Congregational congregaton--and still don't remember that. So it may be this church and this particular service. Otherwise, the service was more formal and full of ritual than mine, although the Disciples are an offshoot of Calvinism. Still I'm used to hearing ministers pray from the heart rather than read a prescribed prayer, and I'm not used to the congregation reciting so many creeds. And then there's the issue of that focus on how sinful we are . . . . well, I won't be transferring my membership but I enjoyed the morning immensely.
The service ended with the recession of the tartans and once again, they were escorted by the pipers and drummers. Betty offered to leave early but I wouldn't hear of it. Somehow though we were the first out the door, to be greeted with the people bearing tartans on standards lining the walk away from the church--nobody followed us, so we made that long walk (I suspect there was twenty tartans displayed) by ourselves feeling a little as if we were walking the gauntlet, though all the tartan bearers smiled and greeted us happily. I sort of wanted to linger and ask each what clan they represented.
Now a quick nap and then off to a party at a friend's lake house. Quite a weekend.

A museum adventure and more on mysteries

Last night friends took me to a small, private museum in Weatherford. This couple--he a retired college English prof--had for years a private collection of artifacts, primarily from Mexico, some from Texas, others from Latin America. Six or seven years ago they opened The Museum of the Americas in an empty store near the Weatherford square. Last night was an opening reception for an astounding collection of Texas arrowheads. The owner told us they arrived, unidentified, in cardboard boxes. He had to sort, identify, mount, and do signage. And then build display cases to hold the collection. I cannot comprehend the time it took. But I can comprehend and much admire the passion he and his wife have for their collection and their museum. I love to meet people who have found their passion in life--and they certainly have. The museum has a small room devoted pretty much to Day of the Dead symbols, a miniature but large Mexican village in a case, and other artifacts--clothing, dishes, masks, jewelry, decorative objects--scattered mostly in four room. I wandered and oohed and aahed for an hour--and I'm not usually good at museums.
There's a small gift shop, and my mind was whirling with plans for our forthcoming Day of the Dead book. By the end of the evening, we had agreed to talk about plans for a reception with the author of the text present. I found lots of things in the gift shop that would be great stocking stuffers. All in all a most pleasant evening--and one out of my usual range of activities. Afterward my hosts and I had a light supper and talked endlessly about cooking and food writing--subjects dear to all of us.
We did also talk mysteries. I am reading a Martha Grimes mystery. I read one, enjoyed it, started another and couldn't get into it, and now am into this one, bored with it, but want to know the outcome. The trouble for me--and my friend Katie agreed--is that there's too much introspection on the part of the main character--along with him, we wallow in his mind--and his eccentric coterie of friendsd are too much to believe or, as Katie put it, too "cute." I'll finish it, because I want to know how it all links together and because I hate to leave a book unfinished. But I'm not frantic to find time to read it, as I often am with a good mystery. I keep going back to it so hurry and get through it.
A good friend loaned me several mysteries by Elizabeth George--I read one and liked it, couldn't get into another--and Martha Grimes. This longtime dear friend and I are polar opposites--she is, as she herself puts it, content to watch paint dry, whereas I always have to have something going on. So maybe that's why I don't like many British mysteries--reading them is akin to watching paint dry. On the other hand, Deborah Crombie's mysteries are British, but she's a Texan--does that explain why I avidly devour every one of her books? I'm going to keep pondering the subject of mysteries and readers' taste.
A day in the country tomorrow. Jeannie and I are driving down to visit my brother and sister-in-law and drink wine on the porch. We'll shop and lunch in Granbury first. I'm looking forward to it.