———
I like to write especially about things that are not usually spoken of but really should be. You’d think with so very many women’s magazines telling us every little beauty thing monthly that they would not leave out the really important stuff. For example, this is my version of what they should tell women about the Hair Waxing experience:

Waxing is one way to remove unwanted body hair (well, except for the times when you actually did want the hair – like the other half of my eyebrow) that so damages the follicle that the only thing that can grow back is a baby fine peach fuzz….at least that is the way it’s working on my body.

No more razors, jells, razor burn, lotions, weird chemicals, cuts, toting the stuff while traveling and having it confiscated out of your carry on but the airport ‘authorities’… that’s right, like your going to high jack a plane with a Venus razor or some Nair. Perhaps, per the Venus advertisement, they imagine you might ‘release the goddess within’ and that goddess might be Medusa or something evil and take over the plane. Who knows? No doubt there is a whole separate rant about airline carry-on searches brewing within me. I travel a lot.

Anyway, I’ve been gifted with a trip to a day spa and will experience my first ever waxing… which seems like I will ultimately save a lot of money by NOT needing a variety of product to deal with hair removal. I think ‘hmmmm – waxing, let’s try it’. So what was there to lose besides a bunch of unwanted hair? Right?

The spa is beautiful. They bring you citrusy water or a fruit smoothie. There are plates of sweet or savory munchies to tempt you. Large overstuffed furniture to lounge in while waiting or afterward while recovering and preparing yourself to leave this alcove of peace and serenity to face the busy world again. Fountains trickle and soothing music plays while you shed your clothes and don an incredibly thick, soft white terry robe. It is all soooo good!

Yup – here to be pampered -that’s me.

My name is called and I am escorted to a small room. I tell the lovely, very pretty, very young lady what I want done and yes, that I am a first timer. “No problem.” she smiles “We’ll start with the armpits first.” Grrrreeaaat.

So first goes on the cleanser to remove any unwanted body oils and residuals of other products. Makes sense and feels nice. Next there is powder to protect the skin… that a little worrisome, what are we protecting my skin from?… but feels nice and smells good. The wax – which is warm and honey smelling, glides on with a roller thingie. Kind of a nice feeling actually. Then there is a paper strip that is laid on the wax and then there is rubbing until the wax cools. All good so far. Until… I am asked to place my hand ‘here’ and help pull the skin tight. No problem. Then it happens…
RIP – in one fell swoop.

There was an instantaneous snatching of that paper strip in the opposite direction of the hair growth that left me gasping. PAIN – can you say PAIN??? Upon recovery a whole bunch of language comes streaming out of my mouth. She never even slowed – the next paper was quickly smoothed on and ripped off just as the first.

OH

MY

DEAR

LORD

And so it went. The legs were easier and didn’t bleed as much. Yup. Little dots of blood seeped from each follicle on my arm pits. I walked around for the rest of the day and all the next with my upper arms held out from my body like I was Arnold. Good thing I heal fast. The bikini line…. well, now, my oh my….. there was apparently not enough powder because I actually lost some skin. Again, good thing I heal fast. The eyebrows were nothing after all of this except that I am now missing part of one.

It was certainly an experience. I understand now that the robes are white because it is easier to bleach the blood out of them. And the lounge is there so you can recover enough to accept the idea of actually putting clothes back on over all the bright red oozing raw bits while you are getting your breath back. And yes, please, have a glass of water made all pretty and tasty with the orange and lemon slices floating to settle your nausea while, ideally, your blood pressure is coming back into the range of normal.

The effect afterwards however is oh-so-very worth it. There is no stubble. Nothing much of anything for almost 8 weeks. What hair actually survives and tries to grow back is baby fine and on me, not particularly visible. Believe it or not… I can and will continue to do this to myself. It does get easier as the roots are less and less attached somehow.

Yep, I save the $100 and buy a kit from the Wal-Mart. $8 every 6 months and I’m good. I do still occasionally splurge and allow a ‘professional’ to do it but all-in-all doing it myself is just fine…. Though I do need help with my armpits. If I had started doing this at 18 I’d likely not have anything to deal with at this point in my life. So, all in all it was worth the initial shock and pain but really you’d think any one of the many beauty magazines would warn a girl of the truth of the matter. I am thinking that Happy Hour might be the prefect prep for a first timer.

©2012 ... in a Bottle. All Rights Reserved.

——————

My Blue Sky has been with me in some form for many years. It would almost be plausible, if the right financing could be found – like winning a lottery.

It begins with a large piece of land – about 100 acres. Part of it would be cleared, part would be wooded. Most of it would be pretty flat, but some of it would be somewhat hilly – rolling. There would either be a small lake on it, or it would front on a lake or a fairly large river.

Somewhere in a secluded but accessible location on this land, probably in a clear area near the woods, would be a house. It would take the form of a fortified manor, taking its inspiration from some of the “castles” in the Scottish Highlands that were intended more to protect from marauding neighbours and reivers than to resist a determined attack.

But the house is not really the focus of the dream. That would occupy an area some distance from the house, and cater to a very different sort of visitors.

The dream is a summer camp, a very specialized one, with a Mediaeval theme, where boys and girls (quartered suitably far apart to protect the boys from the girls) would spend a couple of weeks engaging in the sort of activities associated with summer camp, along with a number of historically-based subject areas. There would be indoor, classroom-type instruction, indoor and semi-outdoor hands-on activities, and outdoor, hands-on activities. Each camper would have some of each, to ensure a diversity of experiences.

There would be a family session each year, where family groups would attend and take much of the instruction together, though splitting up for some of the athletics.

There would be an adult session with emphasis on the historical activities such as the various combat sports and historical equitation.

In the off season, the site would be available for SCA and other historical reenactment and re-creational events. The Great Hall would be a perfect site for feasts, the various instructional areas could be used for seminars or an SCA-style “university,” and the outdoor areas would be well-suited to SCA heavy combat, fencing, coursing (simulated hunting with dogs), and equestrian sports. The undeveloped areas could be used for SCA “wars” with large teams pitted against each other in open field, in the woods, or in scenarios representing assaults on castle gates, bridges, and the like. Siege-engine competitions and training sessions could be held also, with enough space to allow the big siege engines to achieve maximum range.

The main part of the facility would be set up as a castle, though it might be constructed largely of wood rather than stone. Around it would be a variety of activity venues: a riding stable with horses, several riding areas including jousting lists, a quintain course, and other training setups; an archery range, a javelin range, an axe-throwing range, and a siege-engine park, Inside the castle walls would be a Great Hall with its own fully equipped (modern) kitchen,
living quarters of various kinds, and examples of the workshops that might be found in a Mediæval castle: blacksmith shop, armoury, carpenter shop, leatherworking shop, and so forth. There would be some open areas for training and practice of historical martial arts, a number of classroom-type areas, and a chapel.

The facility would be close enough to the lake or river to give access to a waterfront with a swimming area and facilities for rowboats, canoes, and sailboats.

Near the structure would be an area for tent camping, with water risers available. This contributes to the secondary role of the facility as a site for SCA and similar historically-based events. The water sources would be concealed in small structures that look like wells. There would be one or more “bathhouses” with flush toilets, sinks, and showers – if more than one, placed so that everyone would have fairly easy access to them. Depending on the size of an event, porta-johns might still be needed to supplement the sanitary facilities.

Outdoor activities would include SCA-style “heavy” youth combat, historical dueling (fencing), archery, court tennis (also called “real” tennis*), historical badminton (played with wooden paddles and a heavy shuttlecock), and historical riding, including training in jousting (using targets and quintains). Historical camping skills such as building and tending fires, cooking with fire, and the like.

Indoor activities would be largely in the “arts-and-crafts” area, and many of them would straddle the modern/historical line, such as woodworking, leatherworking, pottery, and painting. Some crafts, like armouring and blacksmithing, would be mostly demonstration activities, to familiarize the campers with the work, though the older ones would be able to do some hands on activity. Calligraphy, illumination, embroidery, vocal and instrumental music, historical dancing, and various other forms of needlecraft would also be included..

Classroom instruction would include subjects such as formal courtesy, heraldry, traditions of the tournament, history and development of armour, clothing, and architecture.

The campers would wear historically-based clothing for much of the time: Tunics and long or short leggings for the boys, longer dresses for the girls. For activities for which such garb is not suitable, modern clothing would be worn, and changing areas would be available in those areas, Meals would be served family style, with the campers instructed in and expected to use historically-based table manners (though with allowances for modern sensibilities). After dinner on some nights, there would be time set aside for dancing (might even be mandatory). Meals would also be used as a means of teaching some Mediaeval-based practices, such as serving at table, pouring drinks (don’t worry, it would be iced tea or ‘bug juice’), carving, and the like. The campers would take turns at these tasks, including the more formal serving at the “high table,” in this case the table for senior staff and instructors. Campers would be required to use historical forms of address and courtesy.

The daily routine would be based on our best understanding of life in a castle. A bell would signal the beginning and end of activity sessions, meals, and chapel services. In keeping with the tradition of the time, there would be chapel services daily. Attendance would be mandatory, though active participation would not. Those whose faith traditions are not Christian should consider it part of the cultural experience. Campers would have one or two “better” sets of garb to wear to dinner and for court. Some sort of ceremonial court would be held several times during each session, to confer awards and to give the campers practice in court etiquette.

In all, the experience would be as close to cultural immersion as one could get, without losing the conveniences of running water and electricity. And that’s my Blue Sky dream.

* “Real” doesn’t imply that lawn tennis is ersatz. It’s a French term meaning royal.

©2012 ... in a Bottle. All Rights Reserved.

——————

My Blue Sky has been with me in some form for many years. It would almost be plausible, if the right financing could be found – like winning a lottery.

It begins with a large piece of land – about 100 acres. Part of it would be cleared, part would be wooded. Most of it would be pretty flat, but some of it would be somewhat hilly – rolling. There would either be a small lake on it, or it would front on a lake or a fairly large river.

Somewhere in a secluded but accessible location on this land, probably in a clear area near the woods, would be a house. It would take the form of a fortified manor, taking its inspiration from some of the “castles” in the Scottish Highlands that were intended more to protect from marauding neighbours and reivers than to resist a determined attack.

But the house is not really the focus of the dream. That would occupy an area some distance from the house, and cater to a very different sort of visitors.

The dream is a summer camp, a very specialized one, with a Mediaeval theme, where boys and girls (quartered suitably far apart to protect the boys from the girls) would spend a couple of weeks engaging in the sort of activities associated with summer camp, along with a number of historically-based subject areas. There would be indoor, classroom-type instruction, indoor and semi-outdoor hands-on activities, and outdoor, hands-on activities. Each camper would have some of each, to ensure a diversity of experiences.

There would be a family session each year, where family groups would attend and take much of the instruction together, though splitting up for some of the athletics.

There would be an adult session with emphasis on the historical activities such as the various combat sports and historical equitation.

In the off season, the site would be available for SCA and other historical reenactment and re-creational events. The Great Hall would be a perfect site for feasts, the various instructional areas could be used for seminars or an SCA-style “university,” and the outdoor areas would be well-suited to SCA heavy combat, fencing, coursing (simulated hunting with dogs), and equestrian sports. The undeveloped areas could be used for SCA “wars” with large teams pitted against each other in open field, in the woods, or in scenarios representing assaults on castle gates, bridges, and the like. Siege-engine competitions and training sessions could be held also, with enough space to allow the big siege engines to achieve maximum range.

The main part of the facility would be set up as a castle, though it might be constructed largely of wood rather than stone. Around it would be a variety of activity venues: a riding stable with horses, several riding areas including jousting lists, a quintain course, and other training setups; an archery range, a javelin range, an axe-throwing range, and a siege-engine park, Inside the castle walls would be a Great Hall with its own fully equipped (modern) kitchen,
living quarters of various kinds, and examples of the workshops that might be found in a Mediæval castle: blacksmith shop, armoury, carpenter shop, leatherworking shop, and so forth. There would be some open areas for training and practice of historical martial arts, a number of classroom-type areas, and a chapel.

The facility would be close enough to the lake or river to give access to a waterfront with a swimming area and facilities for rowboats, canoes, and sailboats.

Near the structure would be an area for tent camping, with water risers available. This contributes to the secondary role of the facility as a site for SCA and similar historically-based events. The water sources would be concealed in small structures that look like wells. There would be one or more “bathhouses” with flush toilets, sinks, and showers – if more than one, placed so that everyone would have fairly easy access to them. Depending on the size of an event, porta-johns might still be needed to supplement the sanitary facilities.

Outdoor activities would include SCA-style “heavy” youth combat, historical dueling (fencing), archery, court tennis (also called “real” tennis*), historical badminton (played with wooden paddles and a heavy shuttlecock), and historical riding, including training in jousting (using targets and quintains). Historical camping skills such as building and tending fires, cooking with fire, and the like.

Indoor activities would be largely in the “arts-and-crafts” area, and many of them would straddle the modern/historical line, such as woodworking, leatherworking, pottery, and painting. Some crafts, like armouring and blacksmithing, would be mostly demonstration activities, to familiarize the campers with the work, though the older ones would be able to do some hands on activity. Calligraphy, illumination, embroidery, vocal and instrumental music, historical dancing, and various other forms of needlecraft would also be included..

Classroom instruction would include subjects such as formal courtesy, heraldry, traditions of the tournament, history and development of armour, clothing, and architecture.

The campers would wear historically-based clothing for much of the time: Tunics and long or short leggings for the boys, longer dresses for the girls. For activities for which such garb is not suitable, modern clothing would be worn, and changing areas would be available in those areas, Meals would be served family style, with the campers instructed in and expected to use historically-based table manners (though with allowances for modern sensibilities). After dinner on some nights, there would be time set aside for dancing (might even be mandatory). Meals would also be used as a means of teaching some Mediaeval-based practices, such as serving at table, pouring drinks (don’t worry, it would be iced tea or ‘bug juice’), carving, and the like. The campers would take turns at these tasks, including the more formal serving at the “high table,” in this case the table for senior staff and instructors. Campers would be required to use historical forms of address and courtesy.

The daily routine would be based on our best understanding of life in a castle. A bell would signal the beginning and end of activity sessions, meals, and chapel services. In keeping with the tradition of the time, there would be chapel services daily. Attendance would be mandatory, though active participation would not. Those whose faith traditions are not Christian should consider it part of the cultural experience. Campers would have one or two “better” sets of garb to wear to dinner and for court. Some sort of ceremonial court would be held several times during each session, to confer awards and to give the campers practice in court etiquette.

In all, the experience would be as close to cultural immersion as one could get, without losing the conveniences of running water and electricity. And that’s my Blue Sky dream.

* “Real” doesn’t imply that lawn tennis is ersatz. It’s a French term meaning royal.

©2012 ... in a Bottle. All Rights Reserved.

I was born Rebecca Marie—a combination of my Great Grandmother’s and Grandmother’s names. Through the years I’ve gone from being a Rebecca, to a Becca, and now to Becs with very close friends. It’s interesting—these names evolve independent of me; I still introduce myself as Rebecca—but I relish the sense of friendship and familiarity inherent in these nicknames.

My most treasured nickname, however, was bestowed upon me by my Daddy before I was a week old. Family legend states that when I came home from the hospital, my Dad immediately cradled me in his arms and exclaimed “My little cookie! You’re finally home!” From then on, in verbal or written correspondence, I was his “little cookie”.

My Dad has been battling Alzheimer’s disease for years now, and most of the time, he doesn’t know who I am. But during one recent visit, he turned to me, recognition blooming in his eyes, and said “My Little Cookie!! You have given me so much joy.” Those words are perhaps the greatest gift I’ve ever received. I’m his little cookie—then, now, and always.

©2012 ... in a Bottle. All Rights Reserved.

As a Michigander born and bred when someone asks me where I’m from I hold up my hand, thumb out and use my five-fingered map. The spot I point to is on the border between Birmingham and Troy—house in Birmingham, front yard in Troy. Back then Birmingham had a reputation of being a bunch of snooty types so my sisters and I told people we lived just outside of Troy. We grew up catching tad poles and crayfish in the pond at the end of the street and reading books as high up in the mulberry tree as we could climb. We had rail road tracks in our back yard and hid under the bridge to hear the echoing roar as the puffer bellies rolled past.

Like any native Michigander I learned to love Awreys Cookies, Saunders hot fudge sauce, Strohs ice cream and Vernor’s Ginger ale—even though the rest of the nation thought of it as carbonated kerosene. Summer meant baseball on WJR, Thanksgiving means watching the Lions lose whoever they were playing. I’ve walked the Mackinaw Bridge, watched the locks at the Sault and dipped my toes into all five of the Great Lakes.

While I’ve happily kept my claim to Michigan (Go Blue!) my professional life has moved me to Wisconsin, Illinois, Ohio and Indiana. Living in five states and changing street addresses thirteen times since leaving home I’ve seldom had time to grow deep roots so home is wherever my mother lives and my family gathers for Christmas to make a quilt for a homeless shelter and take a five-mile hike after dinner. With Mom almost 94 I wonder how long before I’m ‘homeless’.

Nostalgia is a wonderful place to visit but no place to live. My future home will be on Maui. My friends and I have gone often enough that we’re often called on to give directions and make suggestions to the malihini (tourists). When they ask “do you live here?” we smile and say “not yet”.

©2012 ... in a Bottle. All Rights Reserved.

Ever since my daughter’s new friend asked people to write a love letter to someone in their life to be posted to her blog and my daughter suggested that I do it, I have been perplexed over to whom I would write this letter and also, in a much broader sense, what really is love. If you can’t define it, how can your write about it?

Now if you had asked me as a young or middle aged woman I could have told you exactly what love was and defined it in no uncertain terms. Then again, up til about fifty-five (55) I was sure I knew exactly about a lot of things and could unequivocally explain them whenever the occasion arose. I was so sure of so many things. Now, at the age of 64 and fast approaching 65, I have found that I am unsure of most things. The irony of this is … it doesn’t seem to really matter. In fact, being ambivalent, unsure and sometimes totally clueless seems to be rather a natural way of being. Isn’t knowing “nothing” the way of Zen?

So, to whom do I write this love letter? There are so many in my life, past and present who I have felt a deep care and concern for and who have added immeasurable happiness, contentment and joy to my life.

Do I write to one of my daughters; each one of whom embodies everything promising and admirable in young and growing women. They are joyful, fun, intelligent, and provocative in their thinking and, in many ways, I still can find the little girls in them that made my life so meaningful as they were growing up. Being their mother has always been a privilege for me and a rather awesome experience. By the way, I plan to continue being their Mother even when they chaff against me being so. There is definitely a love letter here.

Do I write this letter to my parents, both now deceased, who created a safe, secure and loving environment in which I was able to grow up (with the appropriate craziness for an Italian family on my mother’s side off-set by a quiet demeanor of my Spanish father)? They were always there, somehow always showing up if and when you needed them. Even well into my adult life when I was fifty-seven (57) my then eighty-eight (88) year old Dad drove five hours over the mountains by himself to spend Christmas at my house because he felt “the girls and I may need him” to be there since it was the first Christmas we would spend without their Dad who had left months earlier. Yes, there is a love letter here.

But, who do I write this love letter to? Do I write it to the man with whom I shared the majority of my life? From the age of 18 to the age of 57 this man was a constant in my life. Then I could say how love was suppose to look….I knew unequivocally that through all the tough times that LOVE would prevail and underneath all the problems, the heartaches, the betrayals, that there was something so deep that it could not be diminished. So, was that really love? What is odd or maybe not so odd, that after being with this man for forty (40) years and now being without this man for nine (9) years; after the sadness, the hurt, the disappointment, the anger, the shock there is still something that makes me not hate this person nor love this person in the way I once defined love. Instead there remains a regrettable feeling and sadness to know that we could not be happy together. Is there a love here or is it something different, something I can not yet describe? This, in itself, brings up an even bigger question! If you loved someone once can you stop loving them? Truly just stop loving them? Somehow I don’t think that you can reverse loving someone. Once you have loved them, the love remains….perhaps tempered, perhaps different, perhaps without such fervor or without the unrealistic hopes and dreams that we attach to the word love. But then, if it is truly gone (that feeling of love, whatever it is) perhaps it was never really there. There is a letter here, not sure if it is a love letter.

Who? Do I write this letter to so many totally kind, generous and committed friends who have shared my joys and my heartbreaks without judgment and with reservation. I have been most blessed in this area of my life. Do I write this letter to my sister who is so much more than a sister to me? She is a friend, a buddy, a role-model who also turns to me for help and support. She is a remarkable hiking, biking Grandma pedaling up the high mountains of Colorado who has for years has been my hero. Yes, there are many love letters here.

So, who do I write this love letter to? Is it all the wonderful animals that have graced my life? To the warm little wiggly bodies of my dogs over the years from my Star, Star 2 (collies) to Angus, Bonnie, McNeil and Angel (Westies and Scotties) and my beloved Chloe (my soul greyhound), Lakota and now Shyla. They have given me so much love, attention, support and pure joy in my lifetime. Do I write the letter to the wonderful warm, sometimes smelly, 1200 pounds of horseflesh that have given me the opportunity to be my total complete self as we cantered through the fields, who have been my constant and unending friends since I was a teenager. They (Sundance, Champion, Silly, Don’t Pretend and, my dream horse, Hellas who has been with me unfaltering for 18 years) have never let me down (well, they dumped me more than a few times but it was nothing personal) and have always there, never judging, never questioning and always nickering. Yes, there is definitely a love letter here.

So, perhaps I write this love letter to the quirky, fun-loving, caring and gentle-hearted man with whom I now share my life? How lucky am I to have found someone who is so easy-going and generous of heart and spirit, who makes me laugh more times in a day than I use to laugh in a week, who makes me feel like a woman always, who holds my hand even as I fall asleep, who never complains and who walks my dog, shovels out my horse’s stall, cuts up boxes and builds things with my grandkids and shows me each day how to “fall through life”. Actually we don’t use a word as loaded as love in this relationship so I really could not write a Love letter it would have to be a “Like” letter. So, yet another question. Is it more important to hear these words or see them in action on a daily basis? Is it more important to be treated and to be allowed to treat another in a respectful, joyful, caring and loving manner or hear the words? One thing for certain…there is most definitely a Love/Like letter here.

So, here is my dilemma. How do I write a love letter to only one person when my life has been touched by so many, in so many different ways? How do I choose and what really is love? Perhaps it is something that you don’t define. Maybe the lesson I learned first, from my Father and now from the man with whom I share my life, is that you don’t have to define it, you just have to live it in whatever way you know to live it, even if the other person can’t return it to you. As my hairdresser says, “It is all good! Share the love” whatever and whoever it is to you.

Liz Ribas

©2012 ... in a Bottle. All Rights Reserved.