WALLPAPER DELIRIUM

 

A series of essays….

CABIN OF THE CUSTOMS WATCH BY CLAUDE MONET

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

The courtroom artist’s renderings on the nightly news tonight remind me of Norman Rockwell toile (French: an illustrated fabric). Snarky me sits here wishing the background color immediately behind the judge in the drawing was just a slightly darker shade of green.

Cabin of the Customs Watch, painted by Claude Monet in 1882, contains the perfect color palette for my selected wall and reached high-ranking mural status while sporting a number one rating on my top-ten list, last week.

This week conjures up the spirit of the Hopi people of north-eastern Arizona performing ceremonial rituals while dressed in elaborate and beautiful costumes adorned with feathered headdresses. Although the spirit and colors match my ideas very well, this one might be a bit busy for my small space.

THE SPIRIT OF THE HOPI

Walking around The Detroit Institute of Arts a few weeks ago was like studying a gigantic showroom of wall covering samples with all of their fine details popping out at me: colors, periods, styles (Chinoiserie in particular). So many amazing and talented artists who have created such wonderful delights to choose from!

CHINOISERIE: A STYLE OF DECORATION
OR FINE ART BASED ON IMITATIONS OF 
CHINESE MOTIFS

Everything I see has the potential of being the perfect wallpaper! I find myself living each waking (dreaming) moment totally obsessed by potential patterns; infinite possibilities. Lately, I have been inundated, overpowered, and totally mesmerized by it!

Since I have not thought about wallpaper as a decorative option for decades, I am finding the new generation of it to be collaborating with my senses and driving me into a delusional and highly misleading effect of perception.

Similar to binge-watching television programs, it is a production by Wallpaper Direct starring Turkish Ikat and co-starring Lucious Flora in all her super abundant glory, followed by The Transylvanian Manor Toile adorned in tones of green, brown, and taupe and brought to you by Birch Lane. Switching the channel to Milton & King (perhaps a talented duo and fine stand-up comedians?), I long for a free sample of English Roses adorned in sparkling, gold stars with plum and dark green accents.

THE DETROIT INSTITUTE OF ARTS

When I pick up my laptop to write or research an idea, I inevitably find myself scrolling through wallpaper sites within a matter of seconds. I can’t help myself! Obsessive-compulsive disorder, OCD, is an anxiety disorder in which people are driven to repeat the same act, such as washing their hands (or scrolling through wallpaper Websites), over and over again, usually for many hours. 

Could the remedy to my compulsiveness come in the form of finding the perfect wall covering, literally, as soon as possible? Does the perfect wallpaper actually exist? This latter question conjures-up even more anxiety and plunges me into the abyss and I find myself clawing my way back up to the surface in order to find life sustaining oxygen and glorious light I require.

After refinishing an antique dresser (to be used as our bathroom vanity) in deep, emerald tones with gold and copper accents, the need for another design statement hit my decorating sensibilities. I decided that wallpaper was the smart approach that would add a certain je ne sais quoi and make a very personal statement in our new bath. I am, usually, a pretty precise and capable person when it comes to knowing what I want, but this wallpaper thing has, absolutely, thrown me through a loop.

MY REFURBISHED ANTIQUE DRESSER

First of all, it’s not an inexpensive endeavor. The product has been improved beyond expectations since decorating our first home in 1973. We all know that with improvements and time comes equated expense. Did you know it’s washable now? Sure, washable vinyl has been around for a very long time, but this new generation of paper is durable and reaches far beyond the stodgy Victorian wall coverings that older homes epitomized. I recall having to peel back at least five layers of paper from the walls of our Victorian home before we could paint; like peeling the layers of an onion, our home’s history unfolded before my eyes.

For now, many samples are piled-up on my oak library table with golden rays of sunlight shining on them via the bent mini-blind slats that are disliked even more than the difficult task of choosing the perfect paper. In addition, green painter’s tape secures even more samples to the wall above the new vanity. Dan accurately mentioned that if I got a few more samples, we could just cover the walls with them and enjoy an eclectic array of color and style and it would be much less expensive. He really does make a valid point.

A pile of wallpaper samples: a proclamation of how important the design of one room can be; a sign of respect consigned to posterity. I’ll get to where I want to be—sooner or later. True perfection always takes time and patience in the making, right?

Copyright © 2022 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

THE YEARS BETWEEN

 

A series of essays….

FOR JUST A FEW MOMENTS IN TIME SHE IS FEELING INTENSELY 
AGAIN AS WHEN SHE WERE YOUNG…

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

Settling comfortably into the plush velvet chair, remarkably the exact shade of blue as his eyes, she is offered something to drink. Her playful personality wants to ask for a gin & tonic, but she settles for a glass of water and prepares for the long afternoon.

Lately, her simple pleasure has been looking back into the past and knowing that the present represents the culmination of everyone and everything she has come to know and care about. She contends that the stabilizer of life’s many chapters is the love interwoven within the interesting years between.

She has skipped, hopped, and wobbled through the early years like a flat stone tossed across the surface of a calm lake only to sink below its depths, each time, after the momentum had vanished. These are the years between, marking numerous pink, glittery birthday parties, visits to her grandparent’s farm when she helped to gather fresh eggs from the henhouse with grandma, baton and ballet lessons, and building snow forts with her cousins on blustery January afternoons.

The years between were a progression of choreographed moves from one city to another, attempting to balance school, friendships, and family life while growing-up in a time froth with discussions about when will we have to move again and coupled with the daunting possibility of nuclear war! A time when poodle skirts, saddle shoes, and choo choo bags were fashion icons along with pegged pants, copious amounts of hair gel, and going to the nearest music store to pick out a new ‘single’ to be played on the red and white, 45 rpm record player in her current rental bedroom. 

Growing into her high school days generously stretched out between post-game dances, which teachers and classes she enjoyed the most, and whether to try-out for the school play. These years, among her most vulnerable, played forward with the velocity of a high-speed train, marking summer flirtations with boys from Latvia who acquired various kinds of alcohol from mysterious sources and learning, first hand, when the fun stopped and life became, inordinately, real. These were the true learning curves she needed in order to catalog life in accurate terms while taking deep breaths and counting to ten.

As suddenly as the arrival of a pounding Floridian storm, her life changed forever. Her sophomore year at State is when their eyes met for the very first time. How simple it was to sink into their watery depths, never wanting to come-up for air or mortal sustenance. Falling in love and being loved became—breathtaking! Campus sparkled even on a cloudy day and navigating through classes and a work-study program was soothing and agreeable as long as their lives were intertwined; their nights and weekends were spent together.

The years between then and now gave both of them purpose—after all, creating a new family will do that for you. Life itself changed day-by-day with its crazy roller coaster ride of twists and turns: getting children to school on time, taking the amazing opportunity to build a new home at twenty-five years old, losing one job only to find a better one, often living paycheck to paycheck, attending dance recitals, and watching parents grow older and then passing at such early ages, and empty nesting early enough to, practically, begin it all over again, but with grandchildren this go around.

The man and the woman lived, laughed, and loved through their pain and sorrow, as many people do. She always reasoned that it is how you learn to adjust to all of those years between that makes you better, makes you stronger, and gives you the will to carry-on. Knowing that when you look into those remarkable blue eyes, day after day, year after year, and still feel their power drawing at the heartstrings while creating new music every time, you’ve lived a very special life. She never doubted this for a moment.

They had always made a good team. Growing old together was their game plan. Being well into their eighties did not seem to slow them down a bit and their strategy for the next ten years was to keep their shoulders back, maintain a steady pace, and live each day as if it were the last; until it is the last…

Now, as she sits in the soft, comfortable chair and falls under the spell of all of the years between; a melancholic trance swoops over her in which she becomes absorbed in vivid sensory details—teardrops skittering down gentle faces, tall figures dressed in dark colors swaying in the large room, small seeds from a lemon slice swirling in her water glass—briefly soaking in the complex experience of being alive. Allowing her mind to wander, she enjoys the ride, allowing herself to differentiate between the ordinary and the epic: pages pulled from The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows.*

For just a few moments in time she is feeling intensely again as when she were young; when his deep blue eyes gazed upon the young woman who was to become his wife, mother of his children, and life partner until death do they part.

*Thoughts Inspired by The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows by John Koenig. 

Copyright © 2022 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

FIREWORKS, SHIVERS, AND A LOST CELL PHONE

 

A series of essays….

AS BEAUTIFUL AS A MONET PAINTING

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

It was definitely a ‘Shake, Rattle, and Roll’ kind of weekend! Our nine-month-old Goldendoodle, Bree, finally learned the major downfall of having fireworks set-off so close to our house when the Kalamazoo Country Club sent-up another spectacular display last Friday. We have not had to worry about what fireworks can do to the stability of our pets for the past six years. And…

Bree’s reaction to them was a sad reminder of having our previous fur babies learn how to cope with the genuine fear felt after each volley assaulted their nervous systems and basic wellbeing.

KCC must have repositioned their base for shooting off these colorful, gun-powdered artillery shells to a spot much closer to our house. The gut-bomb after effects seemed to penetrate much deeper this year due to their proximity. Pushing framed photos back from the edge of shelves was the order of the evening after the entire house shook and rattled as if we were in the middle of a war zone.

Some dogs are truly immune to the thunder of fireworks. Hard to believe, I know. Our daughter’s dog, Oreo, could care less about constant shelling and ground tremors. Bree, we quickly learned, is a more typical “Get me out of here” kind of pet complete with a major case of the shivers and the desire to hide anywhere she can even if she has to dig her way to China! That’s, of course, where these mini-bombs come from in the first place. Full circle. Holding her tight seems to do the trick, but any sharp bang or loud cracking sound since then gives her pause. While lifting her nose high into the air, she always makes certain the coast is clear.

Our little test of Bree’s reaction to fireworks was a prelude to bringing her to our friend’s house on the lake this past Sunday where there was to be a firework display based on the small island not too far offshore. We left her in her calm place, her crate and comfy bed insert, up in the house until her life was quieter and we came back upstairs for the night. When checking-up on her half way through the performance, it was determined that she was doing alright while snuggled up in her small, dark sanctuary.

PAYTON AND BREE BEING
INTRODUCED FOR THEIR PLAY DATE

After enjoying a gourmet breakfast prepared by our illustrious hosts, we decided to take Bree to the campus of Michigan State University and walk her around the Lewis Landscape Arboretum, one of the notable gardens that MSU takes much deserved pride in. The sun shone brightly, the grass was green and lush, and the flowers were in full, colorful bloom! Still feeling some anxiety and fatigue from her romp with Payton, a Chocolate Labrador and our friends’ beautiful fur baby, she was more than ready to have some dinner, a drink of water, and stretch-out in the back seat for the car trip home.

Forty-five minutes from campus I searched for my phone to look at all of the pictures taken over the weekend. Shivering as sharp pains ran down my arms and legs, I realized it was nowhere to be found. Dan called it from his cell phone and heard it ringing—but, from somewhere other than inside our vehicle. Quickly, he hung up.

THE LAST PICTURE TAKEN BEFORE
LEAVING THE PARKING LOT

Okay, I remembered taking Bree’s picture in the garden. Don’t panic… I was seated on the bench of a picnic table. Don’t panic… Did I set the phone down beside me when Dan took her for a walk after eating? Please don’t panic and think! Yes! It has to be on the end of the bench!

I felt a little bit better having tucked this knowledge in the forefront of my mind while Dan was already navigating the ramp onto I-96 Eastbound, back towards campus. It was a long, shaky, stressful ride for me. I know it’s just a cell phone and nearly all of the information on it (pictures, especially) is stored in the cloud, anyway. But there’s something very primal and unrelenting about having an object so personal out of your grasp and control.

By this time, my mantra changed from don’t panic to just stay calm— along with a few prayers thrown in for good measure. If someone did see it and picked it up, I only hoped they would have put it back down with the idea that its owner would surely return for it, eventually. 

Turning into the parking lot located off of Service Road, my heart skipped a beat as we approached the picnic area. A tiny, dark green, rectangular object occupied the end of the bench right where I sat almost an hour and a half before. Being caught between the emotions of fear and joy, I gingerly drifted over to the table to claim my phone; genuine relief was written all over my face as I slipped it into my bag and neatly zipped it into the confines of its familiar spot.

GREEN SPACE ON THE CAMPUS OF
MICHIGAN STATE UNIVERSITY 

Fortunately, Bree doesn’t seem to be bothered by a hearty thunder and lightning storm because we experienced several whoppers while attempting to sleep later that night. As I lay there watching the brilliant flashes and counting the seconds between them and the inevitable boom to follow, hearing not even the slightest whimper out of her, I reasoned that her personal fears stem from deep, primitive depths—just like my own. 

A rude introduction into the unknown became a powerful lesson in ‘we don’t know what we don’t know until we think we do.’ Bree’s nescience of human industrialisation (labeled good or bad) caused her to fear the world around her in the form of fireworks, even for a short period, and be able to recall that fear time and time again.

I would have gotten another phone, eventually, and life would proceed even after this major glitch of forgetfulness. But, deep inside, I believe both Bree and I experienced our own unique sense of loss; a belief that the world around us was, suddenly, shockingly our enemy and not the perfect world we were born into. It was as though a sliver of our soul had broken off and was being scattered into oblivion.

If shivering with sheer panic helped get us through it and into a better place, we must cope with our loss and learn to depend on ourselves and others to get us through the rough patches.

Copyright © 2022 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

NICE GUYS FINISH LAST

 

A series of essays….

ALLOW YOUR BETTER SELF TO STOKE A FIRE IN YOUR BELLY!
IT’S THE FORCE BEHIND THE ACTIONS THAT SHAPE YOUR FUTURE.

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

I wasn’t going to go here this soon since finding my happy place in writing about my childhood, grandchildren, friends, and trips taken—

Sitting here, fingers poised over the keyboard while gently directing my mind to be kind, gentle, and polite when the proverb “Nice guys always finish last,” comes to mind. People who are decent, friendly, and agreeable tend to be unsuccessful because they are outmaneuvered or overwhelmed by others who are not so decent, friendly, or agreeable. Am I ringing any bells here, people?

Being nice and decent and friendly might get us into heaven, or whatever space our souls might occupy after we discontinue walking this planet. It’s about time, politically speaking, that we ‘decent folk’ begin thinking more in terms of successfully challenging the “basket of deplorables” who have cajoled, outwitted, outmaneuvered, and overwhelmed us for years and years. Many of these deplorables happen to hold elected office in Washington D.C. and throughout the states!!

Yes, Hillary had named them properly several years ago during her presidential campaign speech and while attempting to fend off the immature creature who stalked her on the debate floor.

When a constitutional law that has set a precedence for the good of fifty percent of the population, Roe v. Wade, is overturned after a half a century of existence, it is safe to say that we, as a nation, have been successfully outmaneuvered and openly overwhelmed! Even though, the entire time he was stacking the Supreme Court with judges of a similar drumpf mind-set, he was, legitimately, telling us about his plans (the republican agenda) to take away a woman’s control over her own body!

Drumpf knew he could get away with murder and line his pockets with gold at the same time by inciting chaos while fueling the fear of Americans who feel unaccounted for, as well as those whose skin color, alone, makes them feel superior over all others. Taking his cues from oppressive dictatorships, past and present, and grasping a long-term republican plan dating back to, at least, the Reagan years, this Putin puppet continues to play his people to this very day.

Shall I bring up gerrymandering (long-term manipulation of voting districts), disallowing a sitting president to fill a vacant SCOTUS seat while having almost one year left in his term of office, or having the republican leader of the Senate literally dictate his venomous beliefs via his blatant lack of action for years? The vermin continue to skitter through the cracks in the form of nasty, gun toting women politicians, as well as seasoned male politicians who have been bought and sold so many times over the years that they are lucky to remember where their precious blood money is currently stashed.

If you feel like the stars above have not been aligning for those of us who are liberal minded and treasure the idea of helping others in as many ways as possible, you are not alone. What does it take to light that fire in our bellies? Is it possible to do so while maintaining our decency and not slipping down into the greed-slickened chutes of personal payoffs with the likes of Manchin and Sinema who refuse the ladders of hope offered to them by the current administration? 

I believe we can make a difference; short and simple. But we have to want it badly enough and be willing to break through the stigma of nice guy and not be overwhelmed by the people leading us back into time by erasing freedom and democracy from our lives through manipulation. For far too long, we have been nice guys getting pummeled by the not so decent guys. 

Without the intention of going down the slippery slope ourselves, it’s time we make a generous tactical maneuver of our own. Let’s begin with dry kindling and graduate up to small branches until the burning of larger logs eventually ignites our desire to get things done. Only then we will allow great changes to happen. We can’t afford to dilly-dally any longer; we need to take action, now!

If we don’t let our voices be heard, loud and clear, or allow our actions to be felt and fully comprehended—consistently—we will continue to slip down the rabbit hole of disgrace without an outlet or resolution of any kind. We’ve played the nice guy card long enough. It’s about time we spread our wings and get down to business. 

Just as the abortion card began with mild restrictions until having an abortion will soon become punishable by their own conservative laws, demeaning women in so many ways, liberals must advance, step by step, until all assault weapons, including the AR-15, are eliminated for private use. Until mass murders become history and the lives of those we love become more important than the guns that can kill them, the reason for fighting to stop their sale should hit all of us long and hard. This concept alone should have given us a stronger resolve, invincible backbone, and helped to save many innocent lives. Where have our strong liberal selves been hiding all of this time? We can do anything, together!

If enough voices are raised in unison, with one mindset and goal, the strength of this action alone would change the world. There is strength in numbers. We’ve done it before; we can do it again and again. But, as I’ve mentioned before, we have to want it badly enough. That fire in our bellies must be stoked by good intentions, true, but also continue to fuel the action needed to make important changes. We must never lose sight of our freedoms. We cannot allow democracy to slide down that greed-slickened chute along with the slimy creatures willing to breach our democracy for their own ill gotten gains.

Let’s stop the forward motion of hatred and strife, ethnic and civil, and redirect this energy to do good rather than evil. Let’s concentrate on making the world a better place for all of the people instead of the few who continue to use their elected powers to brainwash those who would rather work to disrupt the Establishment instead of working with it for the betterment of all.

Without shedding the nice guy approach altogether, (after all, why would we eliminate our own innate capacity to love?), let’s find the resolve to be stronger, more organized, and highly successful this time around. As a small child actually desires structure, discipline, and love in order to survive and grow stronger, the adult versions of ourselves must approach today as a brand new opportunity to decipher right from wrong and work like hell to apply it towards keeping democracy the practice of social equality by and for the people of this great nation.

Don’t you think it’s time; before it’s too late?

Copyright © 2022 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

MY ODYSSEY AS A FIVE-YEAR-OLD: Part Two of a Series

 

A series of essays….

A LITTLE, RED-PLAID BOOK BAG VERY POPULAR IN THE 1950’S: 
MINE, I’M CERTAIN, HAD LITTLE BLACK BUCKLES!

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

The deep imprint of one of the tiny, black buckles from my red-plaid school bag burned the left side of my face. Oh, not like from a real fire, but from the constant pressure of it on my cheek while being used as a pillow for the past twenty minutes or so. 

My story began when my older brother and I were awakened for school by our Mom two hours before. Ronnie and I shared bunk beds in the second bedroom of the little, white rental house on Milburn Boulevard in Mishawaka, Indiana. The thing is, both of us attended elementary school in South Bend, right about on the line between the two communities. it was the nearest Catholic school to our house. I was baptized at Saint Matthew’s and, as a family, we attended Mass there every Sunday morning.

Because Mom didn’t have her driver’s license and Dad was away on a business trip for the week, my brother and I would wake-up especially early to get ready for school and walk the forty-five minutes or more to Saint Matthew’s in time for the first bell. Ronnie, being three and a half years older than me, was my best friend, protector, and idol throughout our early years. Believe me, there was absolutely nothing he could do wrong. 

That particular morning was different. Mom’s morning calls from the tiny kitchen failed to rouse my brother as he remained curled and twisted in his sheets on the bottom bunk. Climbing slowly down the ladder and opening our bedroom door, I ran to tell Mom that Ronnie didn’t look well. Something was wrong.

Turning the burner off from under our boiling Quaker Oats, she gently sat down beside him on the bed and softly kissed his forehead. She was surprised by his fever; her lips tingled from the heat that radiated from his small body. Instantly I knew that we would not be walking to school together that morning. 

Placing the back of her hand on my forehead and finding it cool to the touch, she looked at me with sad eyes and proclaimed that I would be going anyway and pushed me into the bathroom in order to properly get ready. While brushing my teeth I could hear her in my dresser drawer and closet extracting clothes for the day, placing them in the bathroom for me to put on, and then dishing-up steaming oats into my bowl on the dining table. 

While I ate breakfast, alone, at our red and white, enamel table with shiny chrome legs, Mom was in the living room talking on the telephone. Sitting down at the table after her conversations, she explained what was going to happen that morning in order to get me to school on time since walking with Ronnie was not an option. I wasn’t afraid. After all, I was a five-year-old turning six in early November who had skipped kindergarten and was placed in the first grade after being tested for academic acceptability and social maturity. I was going to miss my protector that morning, that’s for sure. I sat still for now and listened to my Mom’s plan.

She told me she was speaking with a person from the City of South Bend’s public bus system. Together they coordinated the bus schedule to see if I could be picked-up in front of our house and if the route could get me to Saint Matthew’s in time for school. With a tweak or two between them, I was to be standing out front near the curb by 7:30 a.m. 

Her second call had been to my school and she spoke with Mother Superior to let her in on the plan and approximately when to expect me at school. 

Soon afterwards, she was placing me on the bus with the strap of my little plaid book bag crossed snugly over my chest and speaking with the bus driver about making certain that I got off at Saint Matthew’s Elementary on Miami Street in South Bend. With everything working like a fine-tuned instrument, tenderly she kissed my cheek and gave me a reassuring hug that indicated all would be just fine. Thanking the driver, she stepped-down from the bus as the doors gently closed between us and waved from the yard while standing near the old maple tree that graced our front lawn.

The bus driver smiled and told me to take a seat anywhere I’d like. A third of the way down the narrow aisle, I chose my seat and slid across the padded, khaki green vinyl and settled in for the ride. 

A SOUTH BEND CITY BUS CIRCA MID-1950’S

On our journey down Milburn Boulevard, crossing over S. Ironwood Drive which turned Milburn into E. Calvert Street, I felt each stop as the bus would pick-up more people going to work or shopping on a busy weekday morning. Most of them sat up front in order to get off at their stop as swiftly as possible. The landmarks Ronnie and I would point out along our walk to and from school flashed by me making me dizzy, tired, or both. 

Thirty-one city blocks later, I didn’t feel the bus turn right onto Miami Street and would have been, at that point, just four blocks away from my school. And, how could I? I was fast asleep and using my school bag as a pillow while the little, black buckle was making its imprint on my young life.

Something told me to wake-up and I did—rather quickly! I didn’t recognize one thing outside the murky window and bolted upright, much to the surprise of the poor bus driver, his balding head turning abruptly; salt and pepper mustache now facing me as he continued up Miami Street. The look on his face was one of shock and surprise as he slowly brought the huge bus to a complete stop along the curb. 

Walking back to my seat, he tried to console a frightened little girl who had tears streaming down her face. He was a kind man. He was sorry for upsetting me, but when he no longer saw my blond curls bouncing just above the chrome handle of the seat in front of me, his stop at Saint Matthew’s was lost to him as he continued his route up the busy street. 

Promising me a safe passage back down Miami, quite a few blocks from school by then, he resumed his position behind the big, round steering wheel, but with me close by his side. Mother Superior stood waiting as he came to a smooth stop in front of the church. Deviating from his assigned route, he delivered me to the welcoming arms of Sister Anne, quickly telling her what had happened with plenty of sincere apologies to go around. 

She thanked the bus driver and told us both that everything would be just fine and that it promised to be a beautiful day. Knowing that my Dad, freshly home from his trip that afternoon, would be picking me up after school, all seemed right with the world. 

This story is meant to be continued…

Copyright © 2022 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved