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Love is the language of poets. It lends itself to figures of speech and flowery language. How do I love thee?

I love thee with similes. I love thee with hyperbole, and I love thee with metaphors. My favorite simile about love the answer to a riddle I learned when I was a very little girl: Love is like a hole.

Q: What gets bigger, the more you give it away?

Happy Valentine's Day, to you, to yours. I hope your day is filled with chocolates, doilies, and delight. And I hope you share the love: leave your favorite book in a coffee shop for the next java junkie, carry someone else's burden for a while, throw out the trash without grinching, be nice when you're feeling crabby. Ask yourself: could I go so far as to let my sister have the caramel-filled chocolate from the Godiva box?

However you answer that question, keep digging at the hole; keep throwing good seeds in. Good things will sprout.

Not just a rose, but a whole rose garden.

That's the dirt on love.

Love is a rose but you better not pick it
Only grows when it's on the vine
Handful of thorns and you'll know you've missed it
Lose your love when you say the word mine

I wanna see what's never been seen
I wanna live that age-old dream
Come on boy let's go together
Let's take the best right now

I wanna go to an old hoedown
Long ago in a western town
Pick me up 'cause my feet are dragging
Give me a lift and I'll hay your wagon

Love is a rose but you better not pick it
Only grows when it's on the vine
Handful of thorns and you'll know you've missed it
Lose your love when you say the word mine
~Neil Young

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Some days I feel so at peace with the world, and other days every last thing seems to make me want to put up my dukes against Unfairness, Injustice, or General Wrongheadedness.  And once I get riled up, it's amazing how the most random things become evidence of the current conspiracy.

This time, it was aprons that set me off. Aprons seem pretty non-confrontational.  In fact, aprons--be they the June Cleaver type or even the racier French maid style-- are the picture of submissive femininity. Not confrontation. 

It was the Chronicle Style Section that got me worked up. They did a nice story, dateline Shiner, Texas, about aprons. How they are so simultaneously retro-nouveau-oh-so-chic these days. And they went on to talk about Virginia Helweg, a lovely lady with a  large collection. A collection that she just started because she likes aprons, not because anyone else told her that they were cool. Then they brought in the big guns--the Apron Expert, EllynAnne.

What entitles the Apron Expert to her capital letters? Her collection and knowledge, of course, and her published book. This is when my hackles started rising up, like hungry villi after a home-cooked meal. Because experience has predisposed me to think that when the Houston paper mentions a book, quotes an expert, or has something they feel is worth mentioning either above the fold or in the back 40, chances are it's something or somebody from somewhere else.

H'town rocks. My favorite tune to sing or dance to is that this town has got  an open, can-do, creative, no-brow, deep-in-the-heart spirit that can't be found anywhere else.  It really chaps me when people who say they love this place feel they need to start out with the disclaimer: "well, its so ugly, but..."; or, "well, it's not Aspen, or the East Coast, or Paris/London/Biarritz, but...."  

But nothing. It is enough for it to be Houston. And those of us who claim to love it need to embrace it for how it is, not in spite of what it is not. We can admire other towns' windswept beaches, miracle miles and neon lights and remain non-apologetically enthusiastic about what we have right here, right now, in this fun, funky, funny, fab Bayou City.

I'm by no means advocating provincialism, jingoism, or even Houstonism. I'm patently anti-ism. I just think it's time for this awesome town to stop with the Marx Brothers "I'd never be in a club that would have me" attitude. It is time for Houston to say it rocks--in a completely straightforward, unaffected, but powerful way that would be so appropriate to its unique charm.  It is time for the Houston paper to stop thinking that all the culture news that's fit to print--be it about aprons or art shows, books or bands--comes from Somewhere Else. We're in the throes of an eat/pray/love/buy local movement, and it's not just a Central Market marketing campaign: Houston is totally worth it.

So why did an innocent, and actually interesting apron article get me up on my Houston soapbox? I felt left out, of course. We have a perfectly darling cookbook author, Marie Hejl, who happens to make beautiful aprons.  In fact, Marie  was making and selling them on little backwater shows like Martha Stewart long before aprons went mainstream chic. And there was no mention of her beautiful cookbook or her aprons in this article. And it would have been such a good fit. So local. So 2010.

If you build it, they will come. I believe that. If you publish books in Houston--instead of in standard places like New York or Boston or California--they will come. And, they have: the reception our homegrown books have received has been exciting and rewarding, for us at Bright Sky and for our wonderful authors.

But like the girl next door waiting for the phone to ring, I keep opening the hometown news, waiting for them to be excited about the books being published right here--Texas voices, H'town voices, local voices. And every time, it's the book from somewhere else that turns their eye. It's such a Taylor Swift song.

So the apron article just hit a nerve. You want aprons? Cutting edge social media? Nationally renown wellness experts? Baseball heroes? More barbecue than you ever dreamed of? Look no further. It's all in H'town. Right here, right now.

And chances are, if it's here, we're publishing a book about it. We'd be happy to tell you about it, or introduce you to the author, or send you a review copy.

Just give us a call.

Too many people overvalue what they are not and undervalue what they are.
~Malcolm Forbes

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*

My daughter asked me yesterday if I were getting her a present for graduation. "From fourth grade?" I asked, aghast.  Was this child raised by wolves? Visions of Veruca Salt went through my head as I tried to calmly explain that no, in our house, finishing fourth grade was just considered a normal obligation.  Her sister, who had just finished elementary school, would not be getting a present for that, either. I went on to say that their daddy and I were quite proud of how hard they had worked in school this year, and we were glad that it had been a good year, and all that proper parenting stuff that is really important but sometimes sounds canned when it comes out of my mouth.

But it got me thinking about graduation and gifts.  I do think that it is important to commemorate big accomplishments with gifts--birthdays, weddings, significant wedding anniversaries, babies, the usual.  And the way my brain works, I always want those presents to be really symbolic, something that will forever commemorate the occasion and be passed down and cherished for generations: Look honey, this is the watch that Aunt Mamie gave Uncle Dwight for winning World War II. It was under his watch...you get the picture.

But insisting on this additional layer of meaning to a gift just bogs me down to no end, and the number of gifts I am meaning to give that are lodged somewhere between procrastination and burning shame in my life is growing like impetigo on an unwashed little boy at summer camp.  It's pretty gross.

Since it is always easier to tell others what to do than to actually make improvements in our own lives, I have two thoughts for those of you looking to give presents during this graduation season.  One is for the graduate, and the other is for the graduate's mother, who may be acting proud, happy, eager to send Junior on to higher education, but who in actual fact is probably more than a little broken up about the end of an era.

For the graduate, anything you get will probably be deigned not cool, not the right color, not  conceivably useful or will be a duplicate of an offering from some other well meaning friend or relation.  I suggest providing a "flat present" as we call them at our house: a little something green and folding.  And tuck this poem into it.  I wish somebody had drilled this concept into my head when I graduated from high school.

Advice to My Son

The trick is, to live your days
as if each one may be your last
(for they go fast, and young men lose their lives
in strange and unimaginable ways)
but at the same time, plan long range
(for they go slow: if you survive
the shattered windshield and the bursting shell
you will arrive
at our approximation here below
of heaven or hell).

To be specific, between the peony and the rose
plant squash and spinach, turnips and tomatoes;
beauty is nectar
and nectar, in a desert, saves--
but the stomach craves stronger sustenance
than the honied vine.
Therefore, marry a pretty girl
after seeing her mother;
speak truth to one man,
work with another,
and always serve bread with your wine.

But, son,
always serve wine.

Peter Meinke, excerpted from Poetspeak.

 

And for the mother, I suggest a little empathy, a toast to her success, and a big laugh.  And I have just the book to provide it: Louise Parsley's Revelations in the Rear-view Mirror: One Mother's Hard-won and Hilarious Epiphanies on the Road to the Empty Nest. It's a collection of essays on the career life of a mother, and it brings all the bends in the road from Apgar to kindergarten entrance tests to SAT to graduation into hysterical relief.  And it will give her something to do after Junior drives off to the U.

Somehow I get the feeling that when mine make that drive, they'll be bucking for a new car. I think I'll give them a nice poem instead. 

It's so much more meaningful!

“When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much he had learned in seven years.”

~Mark Twain

* Like the photo? Down load it and send it to a friend as a postcard--another meaningful and inexpensive graduation gift, if you  happen to have an affiliation with the University of Virginia.

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 When I was a little girl, Valentine’s Day was about LOVE.  It wasn’t just the amorous kind, although there was plenty of that in the fourth grade hallways, it was about all those kinds of loves defined by the Greek words: eros, agape, Philadelphia, olive-you, words I learned around campfires in the summertimes in North Carolina and whose definitions I now need to google for clarity.

Back then, the words on the conversation hearts and the corn ball slogans on the printed paper valentines we glued messily onto doilies were about telling people how great they were, telling people how much we cared.  Sometimes it was a stretch to let someone know—if we weren’t quite sure of the reciprocity of their feelings--but usually it was a natural: Valentine, You Bowl Me Over.

In the mas-o-menos thrity years since fourth grade, the world has gotten a little more complicated...OK, a lot.  Fourteen year-old-boys can be fathers, eleven-year-olds girls dress like hot mamas, and elementary school carpool discussion revolves around America’s Next Top Model. Valentine’s Day is all too much chocolate and black lace with a back beat of desire—a relentless tune that proclaims what matters most is being a hot tamale. But as the wise C.S. Lewis shows in The Four Loves, letting love be driven purely by passion and our own desires gets us into a heap of trouble.

As the world rapidly rhumbas to the rhythm of this pre-packaged sensuality on steroids, we can sit that dance out and wait for a song that speaks to our hearts.   Love is a verb; we can choose how we do it.  Skip the pumped up expectation of champagne and romance, and consider alternative valentines. There’s a Joe Ely song about St.Valentine. Joe’s Saint drives a red Continental, with a headlight out and a dent in its side.  There’s a different take on true love. No doves, no roses. Picture him cruising the shopping mall, listening to the blues.  Love takes many forms, and everybody’s talking about it this time of year. But as we say in Texas, talkin’ ain’t doin.' Or, as they translate in California, talking the talk isn’t walking the walk.

Here’s a Valentine’s Day thought that takes me back to evenings around the campfire, holding hands with little girls in a completely agape way, learning about unselfishness and love under the pine trees.  It’s called Open Hands, and it is a collection of stories by Jana Mullins, a lovely lady who has spent many years sharing her gifts with others, walking and talking.

Everybody has a different reason to write a book: some people have a story inside them that longs to be told, others feel that spinning tales is like breathing air.  Still others have a great collection of recipes, or adventure tales, or business advice that friends beg them to share.  But Jana wrote her book to say thank you for some real love that was shared with her.

When she was a young woman, she wanted to go to graduate school, but she wasn’t in a financial position to do that.  A generous friend offered to pay.  Jana resisted—bootstraps, pride, not wanting to take advantage, you name it.  Finally she opened herself to the concept that the flip side of being  generous is being willing to receive generosity.  She took that gift horse by the mane, and hopped on.  As she watched her life become changed by what she learned in graduate school, she realized it was even more changed by the circles of giving and receiving that she saw all around her.
 
She collected some of the most wonderful stories that she encountered and put them together in one volume so they could share their transformative power with others.  But she didn’t stop there.  Her stories were so moving that she got them produced pro bono (there’s another great foreign term).  Now they are being published nationally, and she is giving all her profits back to charitable organizations.  And for those of you not intimately familiar with the publishing world, that is hard work, an act of love far beyond a dozen American Beauties. But Jana doesn’t care, because she is giving back, and the circle is unbroken.

So whether you drive a red Continental or a custom one, a Smart Car or a hawg, I hope your Valentine’s Day is about real love, and I hope you are open to receiving it where ever you find it.  And to the producers of ANTM, the marketing executives at Victoria’s Secret and everyone at Godiva’s parent company (have you gotten the chicken noodle-filled chocolate yet?): bless your little corporate hearts. Whoever you are, I hope you have a Happy Valentine’s Day, too.

Because as Jana and her collected friends have show us, the world works best when we are willing to put in a little more love.
 

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I oversaw the editing of a beer book this year, and it has completely changed my outlook on the foamy stuff.  When I learned that we’d be publishing Shine On: 100 Years of Shiner Beer this fall, I was not impressed. Since an ill-conceived post-collegiate affair with gin martinis, I have been a stalwart wine girl.  Healthy, tasty, and historical, it’s packed with polyphenols and looks so pretty in the glass.  What’s more to ask of an adult beverage?

Then I told my husband, a real hop head, about the Shiner book, and he flipped.  Back when the best little brewery in Texas used to host the Shiner Bash, he’d ride his bike 100 miles from Houston to drink a cold one on the steps of the Spoetzl Brewery.  In Austin recently for a Longhorn game, he returned so excited. I asked “Horns win?” Of course they won, but the big news was the Shiner Saloon right off Congress Avenue.  A Shiner Saloon, what a manly thing.  Big screens, big chairs and big steins. Heaven.

Never wanting to be left out, I started asking for sips of his Shiner Bock when we’d be chilling and grilling, listening to Garrison Keillor on Saturday nights.  “Hey, this is tasty.”   He started educating me.  Recently we actually tuned into a history channel documentary called Beer on the 50-inch. I even stayed awake to watch it—quite an accomplishment for someone whose dog wakes her up at 5:30 every morning. I’m not ready to completely forsake my A to Z pinot noir yet, but I will state for the record that I am developing a taste for beer.
 

My sweet husband always gets excited when I get excited by things that interest him—be it biking, books, beer or whatever—so recently, in a show of marital solidarity, he brought me some Shiner Holiday Cheer.  He knows I’m a sucker for labels, and this one is really cute.  “Gross,” I said. “It’s made from peaches and pecans.  It sounds like jam.” Not to be rude (or ruder) I tried it.  Wow. Cute label, historic brewery, holiday overtones. Appealing, but could beer really add holiday cheer?

I started looking into it.  For those who consume the 35 billion gallons of beer produced each year, there are recommendations galore for holiday beers including brews with names as laden with yuletide flavor as Samichlaus. There are 75th anniversary Budweiser holiday steins with Clydesdales commemorating the first beer delivered to the US Capitol to celebrate the end of Prohibition.  And, for the recession, there are beer can safes, where we can hide what money we have left. 

Besides Shine On, there are barrels of beer books about Beer Fun, Beer History, and Home Brew How to from The Beer book Store, as well as the cleverly titled Beer for Pete’s sake, which tells the story of another tasty brew, Pete’s Wicked Ale.  If that’s not enough to make you think beer has ultimate holiday appeal, there is a beer spa in the Czech town of Chodova Plana, where people soak their stress away in hot dark lager.  As Michael Jackson says in Ultimate Beer, “like the grape, the grain has it’s flavored moods and moments, including the right beer for every occasion.” And he does mean every occasion:  the Wyncoop Brewing Company in Denver has released a most politically correct quaff for these heady days of change, the Obamanator.

 

So, as the bleak mid-winter economic forecast whistles around us and we wait for post-inaugural springtime to arrive, I think I’ll pull a few Mr. Lincoln’s out of my beer can safe, and head to the Whole Foods for a  little Holiday Cheer. A little poorer, a little wiser, and thanks to Kosmos Spoetzl and the long line of talented brew meisters that followed him, a little less wine-y. Maybe if I’m good, somebody will get me that stein with the cute Clydesdales.

I wish you a Merry Christmas
And a Happy New Year
A pocket full of money
And a cellar full of beer!
-Irish blessing
 

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Behind my desk, overshadowed by Mount Mac and eighty unanswered emails twinkling out over snowy mounds of paper, I peer down at the shoppers rushing around the garland-bedecked shops of Rice Village, I just feel Grinchy. Christmas. No time, no money, no motivation. Looking down at Who-ville, I think about not giving any presents. We’ve all been over-saturated with material goods for the last decade, why don’t we just go cold-turkey?

And then a little Cindy-Lou voice pipes up in my head: “But why, Santy Claus, why?”

Since I was just a little bigger than Cindy-Lou, I have always been the keeper of the holiday flame. We dressed up like pilgrims on Thanksgiving and made spider sandwiches for Halloween.  As a mom, I have broken the bank every year providing properly festive holidays with tinsel, bows, and plenty of candy-land colored lights to accompany the best-gifts-ever. Why this grinchyness now?

I’d like to say, “it’s the economy, stupid,” but it’s more than that. I’m just stuffed with stuff.  Bling, blang, blung, we’ve been exposed to excess for so long, that the gift of a fresh orange and a peppermint stick Mr. Edwards forded a raging river to deliver to Laura Ingalls  is now an every day nothing, a garnish. My family says let’s draw for names, my church says let’s do alternate giving, and the stores all play Nearer My God to Thee  as they lower the prices on their remaining stock down into the freezing depths.   I grumble, and put off the inevitable.

Then, a voice in the wilderness  comes through.  A friend emails: “Roy Bount, Jr. says 'Give books for Christmas." Give books! Mount a book-buying splurge. This idea speaks to me. My inner Cindy Lou finds her voice, throws that drink of water in the Grinch’s face, and up the chimney he goes.  I start thinking of all the time we’ll have for reading now that skiing is out this winter , and reading just seems down right cozy.  Giving books is even more Christmas-classic than Old Blue Eyes.
 

I pull my head out of the anti-giving funk it has been in since Black Friday, and I begin to notice that this idea of giving books is everywhere. Rob Neufeld in the Asheville Citizen Times says that like George Bailey we can escape the reality of our bleak times…not by jumping off a bridge, but by giving books. Do you hear the bell ring?

I think about how easy it is to wrap a book perfectly, pulling bright paper so tautly under the book’s cover.  I think about how fun it is to give a beloved volume to a friend or a child.  And I think about giving books about giving.  Jana Mullins’s beautiful collection, Open Hands  shares heartwarming true stories about people who have been affected by the kindness of others .  Even the Dalai Lama has written a book about the joys of giving. Deepak Chopra says that “to receive love, we must give it…the reciprocal action keeps the flow of love alive. Does that sound like an economic stimulus package, or a formula for holiday happiness?  I’ll vote for the latter.

So, if my ability to celebrate the season in a flurry of lavish gifts has been diminished, I will take heart. There’s hope this season.  I’m heading down from Mount Crumpit to buy books—to stimulate my mind, to stimulate the economy, and most importantly, to stimulate the circle of giving.  Let’s carve the roast beast!

 

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