We're at the half way point, and this is a few minutes late, because I wanted to share with you part of the email I received from Alison Amis, who works for the Dallas branch of Habitat for Humanity.

First, she writes this about the houses that have been built locally:
Dallas Habitat has built over 430 homes to date and close to 15 have been all “Women Built” through our Women Build program.

Then she adds this, about donations:
As far as the donations go, there are a couple of ways you can handle your gift –
1.) Donate to Habitat for Humanity International “Women Build”. You will receive a thank you and a receipt for tax purposes.
2.) Donate directly to Dallas Area Habitat for Humanity “Women Build.” You will receive a thank you and a receipt for tax purposes. These funds will be applied to our next Women Build house. We typically seek to build 4-6 Women Build homes in the spring time, leading up to Mothers Day — this has become our annual tradition.

As you know, I've chosen to have donations go to the national fund, because I feel it's more representative of my readership that way.

By the way, Women Build recently completed a project in Mexico – this program goes beyond borders.

I've got 12 more hours to go. My mother increased her pledge to help me reach my goal of $750. If you haven't pledged already, consider following the instructions on my information page and doing so now?

Thank you!

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Our mail delivery person can always tell when I'm feeling unwell or anti-social, because when I'm in my darkest moods, I curl up with dogs and books and tea, and ignore the existance of pretty much everything and everyone, except Fuzzy. Those of you who know me know how dire this is, because I love snailmail almost as much as I love coffee, or chocolate.

There's something amazing about a written letter, especially in our instant-gratification age of IM and Email and text messaging to cell phones. On one hand, I think most of us are too accessable, on the other, I like the immediacy, but…I'd still prefer a single written page to an entire hard drive of email.

When the weather is cool, and the light is just right, I like to sit out on the porch, and write to people. I especially like blank greeting cards, with quotations or fun images, but really, any stationery will do. I sip tea, and write more slowly than I do when I'm at the keyboard, more deliberately, and I try to make it seem as if I'm capturing not just the essence of a moment, as I do here, in this blog, but the moment entire.

When I walk the dogs, I can always tell which houses are empty, because there's mail stacked up, or newspapers, but sometimes I see movement, and wonder if, perhaps, there's another person who simply has a black mood going on.

I don't pick up the mail.
I don't pick up the phone.
I don't answer the door.
I'd just soon be alone.
I don't keep this place up.
I just keep the lights down.
I don't live in these rooms.
I just rattle around.*

*”Ghost In This House,” Alison Kraus

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I was on your porch,
the smoke sank into my skin
so i came inside to be with you
and we talked all night,
about everything
We could imagine
cause come the morning ill be gone
and as our eyes start to close
i turn to you and i let you know that
i Love you*

In Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, Rebecca Wells mentions porch time with special fondness. It doesn't matter, really, if your porch is a cement stoop, or a formal patio, the time there is special.

Porch time with my grandmother happened in front of her house, on the patio. She liked to watch the neighbors come and go – I didn't realize til very recently that she must have felt very lonely much of the time, and this was the only way she knew to reach out to other people, by sitting there, a fixture of the neighborhood, with her red-painted prehensile toes, crossword puzzles, and emerald green glasses of my grandfather's iced tea. (My grandfather made the BEST iced tea, and though I use a recipe he gave me, I'm certain he left a detail or two out on purpose, as it's always CLOSE but never quite right.)

My favorite part of porch time, when I was a child, was when dusk began to settle into night, and the fireflies came out. How innocent we were, running around the neighborhood carrying old mayonnaise jars or coffee cans with holes punched in the lids, capturing the nearest thing most people ever get to faeries.

And how indulgent were our parents and grandparents, back on the porch, who examined each and every bug as if it was somehow different from the last.

*”On Your Porch,” The Format

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A little bungalow, an hour or so from anywhere
A little cozy nest, the kind that's best for two
Among the shady trees with birds and bees and lots of air
And just enough o'ground to fool around with you*

It's such an exotic word, “bungalow,” and fun to say, and yet, according to Dictionary.com the primary definition is :
A small house or cottage usually having a single story and sometimes an additional attic story.

That may be techncially true but, in my personal lexicon, a bungalow only exists in places like India and the Florida Keyes, where tropical storms abound, and houses feel almost organic. I envision sailing home from a day of fishing, or driving home in a topless jeep, and shedding sandy shoes on the front porch. I picture ceiling fans with rattan blades, and lots of mosquito netting.

That, to me, is a bungalow.

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As much as I love my brick house, I've always wanted to live in a beach cottage, one with whitewashed or weathered grey exterior walls, and crisp blue trim around the door. Of course, my version of a cottage would be more like the house in Something's Gotta Give with an office wing, a gourmet kitchen, and lots of gorgeous views of the beach.

The beach. It's been part of my life since before I was born, and it shall continue to be, though not as often as I'd like, til I die. In my house there are shells in almost every room, lined up on windowsills, or preserved in glass bottles. There are several caches of beach glass, as well. As much as possible, with help from my grandmother, my mother, and my aunt, I carry pieces of the beach with me, every place I live.

Won't you come and see me
In my little bungalow
If the door is locked
Just give a little knock
So it's you I'll know

You're always more than welcome
And you'll never, never want to go
Give a rap and a tap
On the door of my little bungalow!*

*”Bungalow Song,” by Lewis Menechino
This song suggested by Kimberly

To my readers, Suki is my assigned monitor from Blogathon.org, who makes sure I'm posting on time, and I'm posting for real. She's left some really sweet comments, too, which makes this a lot more fun. Yay Suki.

Anyway, Suki:
Just a heads up that a storm is brewing. I already had a 30-second power failure a couple hours ago, and that was before the wind and thunder. If I disappear, I may miss a half hour window, but not by much. I have backup locations and stuff.

I just wanted to give you that info.

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It's just 5:30.
We've just finished dinner, and I'm listening to the song “Not Home Yet” by Steven Curtis Chapman, who, honestly, isn't generally my cup of tea, but I begged Fuzzy for songs, and this is what he came up with.

He came up with the Petra song in that last entry, so I guess there's some use for him other than fetching coffee. Like doing dishes. He's gonna do that.

I've been at the kitchen table all day, so if you've sent me pictures, and are wondering why I haven't acknowledged them, it's because my laptop is slow, and it fell off my nightstand rather loudly the other day, which hasn't helped.

NOW, I'm at my big, fast, pretty machine, which is at a better height for typing and such. And I've had baked Ziti.

So why is this a housekeeping post?

Because I'm compiling songs, editing pictures, and taking a long break between now and six to rest my wrists and brush my teeth. Life is always better with clean teeth. :)

Thank you to all of you who've pledged, and sent songs, and pictures. You're all fabulous people, and deserve much happiness. And chocolate, but only if you LIKE chocolate. If not, well, you get the idea, I hope?

And c'mon guys – $6 more dollars????

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Standing in line for soup and bread
Hoping tonight the downtown mission has a bed
Dreaming about the home they thought they'd never lose
Sleeping on benches covered by the daily news
People who pass them by just turn their heads
Making them feel like they've been left for dead
Under the red, white and blue
Right down the street from our pew
We're not doing all we can do
To shelter the homeless few
Shelter the homeless few*

He was perhaps 30 years old, though his weathered skin might have made him look older than his years. He wore brown sweatpants, old, with holes that exposed most of the length of his thighs. I couldn't help looking at his legs – they were strong, healthy, sexy in a way that disturbed me, because they were also grey from road dust and lack of regular access to showers.

He carried a canvas pack. More than a duffel, less than a knapsack, though, I think knapsack is trully the correct word. He smiled at people who passed him on the street, but I saw his smile fade when they looked the other way, refusing to see him, refusing to acknowledge that even sunny California has homeless people wandering the street.

My friend and I paused, she watching the light, I riveted by this man who managed to smile, even while being pointedly ignored. If I'd been alone, I think I'd have flirted with him. In fact, we both did, a little, when he approached us on the corner of Haight and Paige, and asked, in perfect French, if we had spare change.

My friend and I looked at each other, and I shrugged. She turned back to him, “We don't have change,” she said, her blue eyes twinkling. “We just did laundry, but if you ask us in Italian, we'll give you a dollar.”

I glared at her, but she held firm. And he repeated the question, in Italian that was nearly as flawless as his French had been. She told me to give him a dollar, but I didn't. I slipped him a ten, and met his eyes, and smiled.

In French, I wished him luck.
In silence, I wished him warmth, safety, and a hot bath.

*”Homeless Few,” Petra
This song picked by Fuzzy.

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We're here at the 1/3 mark on Blogathon 2005 here at Scritture, and the tot. board (over in the sidebar) shows that we've got $744 in pledges. Our initial goal was $500, and our 2nd goal is $750, so we're just $6 away from that.

As Search Results from Open Diary reminded me, Habitat for Humanity can buy a LOT of nails for $6. Won't you please be the one to fund them? And if you've ALREADY pledged, hey, get a friend to do it!

Here, for convenience, are the instructions on HOW TO PLEDGE:
How to Pledge

1. Register: Go here. and register a username, name, and email address.
2. Find my Campagin: I'm listed as Melissa A. Bartell MissMeliss: Scritture / Habitat for Humanity – Women Build (Currently, I'm on page 8 of the campaign list. )
3. Sign In: Use the username and password you created in step one, and log in, using the boxes in the upper right-hand corner. After logging in, you should still be on my campagin page.
4. Make Your Pledge: If you want to pledge a certain amount per hour, just multiply by 24, and type in the total. If you don't want to be publically identified, be sure to click the box to hide your identity. (Only I will see it.) DO NOT make your donation yet. If I don't meet my commmitment to posting every 30 minutes for 24 hours, you're off the hook. Right now, just pledge.
5. Leave a Note: I don't get notified of new pledges. Please leave a note at my blog, live journal or open diary account, so I can thank you. Or send email. (You can also send email if these steps confuse you – just give me your name as you want it to be on the sponsor list, the amount of your pledge, and an email address, and I'll do the registration for you.)

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This ole house once knew his children
This ole house once knew his wife
This ole house was home and comfort
As they fought the storms of life
This old house once rang with laughter
This old house heard many shouts
Now he trembles in the darkness
When the lightnin' walks about.

He was 80 years old when the heart attacks began coming with increased frequency, when he could no longer bounce back from them, as he had from the first few, and he realized that he needed to put his house in order, because his days were dwindling.

He spent countless hours in his study, going over the books, making sure nothing was overlooked. He set up pensions and insurance plans for his wife, wrote letters to his children, and put them aside. They were long letters, full of candid thoughts. Naked emotions. He said all the things he'd always wanted to, but never found the time, or the right moment.

He found some treasures, and sent them to his grandchildren. Nothing valuable in any currency other than sentiment – pennies from several countries, favorite books, a watch, his medals, a pocket knife, his fishing rods.

When he died, at 81, he was mourned, and thereafter he was missed, but he left his house in order.

Ain't a-gonna need this house no longer
Ain't a-gonna need this house no more
Ain't got time to fix the shingles
Ain't got time to fix the floor
Ain't got time to oil the hinges
Nor to mend the windowpane
Ain't a-gonna need this house no longer
He's a-gettin' ready to meet the saints*

*”This Ole House,” as performed by Rosemary Clooney

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