Life - grace grits and gardening

Two Degrees of Separation

March 26, 2015 By Talya Tate Boerner

Everyone knows about Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, right? The idea that everyone is six steps away from anyone else in the world. I’m convinced that as the world has continued to shrink, six degrees has dwindled to something more like two degrees of separation. It seems to me that at any moment, I appear to be connected to most every person I come into contact with, and there’s very little separation. My husband thinks this is naturally occurring as I morph more and more into my mother. I think we are all connected, we just don’t take the time to find out.

I have two recent examples to prove my theory.

Example One. This picture was taken at the most recent Hemingway-Pfeiffer Writer Retreat I attended in Piggott, Arkansas last November. I met several new (to me) writers including Ruth, the lady standing beside me.

Hemingway-Pfeiffer Writing Retreat (Why did I wear a silly poncho on picture day?)

Ruth and I chatted quite a bit throughout the week. She lived in Little Rock. I had just moved to Fayetteville from Dallas. Somehow Baylor University came up.

I graduated from Baylor, I said. My daughter graduated from Baylor, she said. We discovered our Baylor years overlapped. Small world, we agreed.

A few weeks later, Ruth called me. Her daughter read through the anthology published after our retreat and recognized my name.

My daughter, Anne, roomed with you one summer at Baylor, Ruth said. And of course then it all came back. Anne and I were roommates in Alexander Hall during the summer Lady Diana married Prince Charles.

She (Anne not Lady Di) had long blonde hair, was an English major who planned to go to law school. And she did. She’s an attorney in Little Rock. WHAT are the odds I would attend a writer retreat with my Baylor summer roommate’s mother thirty-three years later?

Example Two.

Last week, I spent a few days in Texas. (If you missed my trip, you can catch up HERE but this isn’t a sequel so don’t feel compelled, even though I always appreciate the page views.) While in Dallas, I went for my annual physical because I don’t have a new doctor in Fayetteville yet. I’ve been going to my Dallas doctor for years, and my Dallas doctor has had the same nurse for years. The odd thing about this is that after all this time, I learned that my doctor’s nurse is originally from Arkansas. When she said, Oh I’m from Arkansas and I said, yeah, where? and she said well I lived in Blytheville, went to school in Luxora and was born in Osceola but I’m sure you’ve never heard of those towns, I nearly fell off the table. Because I was born in Osceola and had friends in Luxora and know Blytheville as well as any place on earth. Before I left, we talked about friends of friends, American Greetings (where lots of people worked), Big Star (the best grocery store), Erman Lane (the street to drive to get anywhere), and Bobby George’s liquor store (ahem)—things no one except people from there would dare know about. The same doctor (Dr. Fairley) delivered both of us only a few years apart. He was THE doctor in town.

Shared from Main Street Osceola Facebook Page

So perhaps right here, right now in the comment section of this post, we should all figure out how we are connected, because we probably are. And probably by way less than six degrees of separation. It’s a crazy small world, don’t you agree?

Grace Grits and Gardening

Farm. Food. Garden. Life.

[tweetthis]Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon? I think it’s more like two degrees. We are all connected. @hpmuseum [/tweetthis]

Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon

“Life’s journey is one big path with series of events. All these events are connected.”

― Lailah Gifty Akita

52 Handwritten Letters

January 14, 2015 By Talya Tate Boerner

When did you last receive a letter? A real, handwritten letter delivered by the postman?

Last month, I received a letter from a friend who lives near Waco, Texas. Years ago when I was a Baylor college student, we worked together at a law firm in town. My job was part-time—a few afternoons each week and every Saturday morning. I typed legal documents, filed papers with the County Clerk, that sort of thing. Edith, my co-worker, was older, wiser, a full-time employee. She became my mother away from home and we became friends, exchanging Christmas cards even now. But, we haven’t seen each other in over twenty years.

Last month, I received a real, honest to goodness letter from Edith. And it wasn’t one of those Christmas newsletters. It was a letter about her family and an update on the attorneys we worked with.

I loved it.

Once upon a time, I wrote lots of letters. Letter writing was something people did. Routinely.

Back in the 1970s, my Australian pen-pal and I wrote to one another for years. It was called airmail. A cool thing when the world felt gigantic and I lived in the middle of a cotton field.

Even during summer cheerleading camp (which only lasted one week), my friends and I packed notebook paper and envelopes and stamps so we could mail letters home. We usually made it back to Mississippi County before the exciting news of our spirit stick win. We’ve got spirit, yes we do…

Momma and Nana wrote letters to me at college. I wrote back each week. Long-distance telephone calls were expensive, and those meaningful letters from home often kept me going.

Today, I have a box in my closet filled with priceless handwritten letters, letters spanning my lifetime so far—from my fourth grade classmates who wrote to me when I was in the hospital to letters my own children sent home when they were away at summer camp.

My how things have changed.

And what about love letters? I love you, do you love me? Text 1 for yes and 2 for no? Not quite the same, is it?

Since 2015 is my year to focus on writing, I’ve decided to add letter-writing to my repertoire. One letter a week. To someone. A friend. A family member. A shut-in. Anyone who might want to receive something other than bills and junk mail. A regular, handwritten letter.

I may even try my hand at those wax seals folks used back before envelops self-sealed.

I’m starting today with a hand-written letter to my Waco friend, Edith. Since I’m getting a late start (2nd week of January and all), I’ll send out another letter before the end of the week. Then one a week (that’s my goal) for 2015.

52 letters this year.

What do you think? Want to join me in my letter writing quest?

If you know someone who would like to receive old-fashioned mail, send me their name and address, and I’ll add them to my list.

Grace Grits and Gardening

Farm. Food. Garden. Life.

[tweetthis]When was the last time you received a handwritten letter?[/tweetthis]

Musical Pairing:

Please Mr. Postman – The Marvelettes

old school or simply old? (yes Keurig and I are parting ways.)

January 8, 2015 By Talya Tate Boerner

Today I’m thinking about the difference between old school and simply old. Have I reached that point where groovy new things have passed me by? Several things have me wondering. (And p.s. this is not a sponsored post.)

Yesterday my blogger friends, Laurie and Jacqueline, mentioned two different things on Facebook that stumped me. A Wacom Pen and a Kombucha drink. Huh? Never heard of either. Am I’m living beneath an Ozark rock? Please tell me you don’t know either.

Not only do I not know about this pen and drink, I don’t really care that I don’t know. Another sign of life moving on by.

Combine this unknown pen and drink with the shiny yet old school Presto percolator delivered to my doorstep yesterday, and I’m on a old fashioned, downhill slide. (I do still shop via Amazon so perhaps that’s a point on the side of still breathing.)

Old school percolator vs. Keurig.

Do NOT say you don’t know what a percolator is. Even if you don’t. Look it up.

Yes, I have a percolator. It’s electric so not completely dark ages, but sitting beside my fancy Keurig (that turned out to be not so fancy because breaking after only two years is never fancy), it looks very old school.

Keurig and I are parting ways. Yes, we can still be friends. I will be happy to see you at hotels and at the Bat Cave, but on a daily basis, not. You sort of wore me out.

I feel relieved.

Ours was a short love affair, but I take full responsibility. I changed. I came to realize the more I write, the more coffee I drink. Those annoying, expensive cups began to pile up in my garbage. Would Hemingway fiddle with those cups? I think not. Plus, if we are being honest, there was only one brand/flavor I really liked. It was easy to find in Dallas, but nearly impossible to locate in Fayetteville.

On this bright, clear 7 degree Fayetteville morning, I’m enjoying my first cup of freshly ground Arsaga coffee.

The rich aroma fills my house.

I have a steaming pot ready and waiting which is good because my downstairs is only 57 degrees. I cannot figure out the complicated thermostat that is apparently permanently programmed for chilly. (Another sign of aging, but seriously, why can’t thermostats simply have an on and off switch with a lever for temperature control? Yes, I’m rambling = another sign? Sigh.)

So. Am I a coffee snob? Maybe.