mud pies to medicine: Love in the Time of Cholera

Friday, February 3, 2012

Love in the Time of Cholera

The classic by Gabriel Garcia Marquez seems to be aptly named given the coming holiday, my boyfriend's pending arrival on the east coast, and well, our gastrointestinal block. I am nearly certain that the book was not named after this time in my life, but who knows. It's literature, it speaks to everyone differently. I was throwing out the very dead roses from B for my birthday and couldn't throw them away so I plucked some of the better dried up ones and thought, well that will make a great photo. Then I spotted my copy of Love in the Time of Cholera that I purchased in an old Philadelphia bookstore. This picture isn't exactly unique; it's been done. But I haven't done it. So:

#32 Love in the Time of Cholera

And I'm a little behind and the moon looked great late this afternoon so I pulled out the telephoto and the tripod (necessary to get a stead shot at 300 mm zoom).

#33 Waxing Moon
Thanks to this little website I learned that the moon is 83% full tonight and waxing (which means it will get bigger tomorrow night).

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The inspiration you ask?

I miss making mud pies. There is this huge rock in my front yard. To call it a rock really does it a dishonor. It is a boulder, brought home by my father on a huge dump truck after he blasted it out of a work site. My mom one day told me that even though it is nearly 2.5 feet high, 6 feet long, and 2.5 feet wide, that it was, in fact, only half-showing. The scientist inside of me was disbelieving and set out to get some proof. Clad in a dress, bow in my hair, and my best accessory, a shovel, I trudged outside ready to prove my mother wrong. That is when the digging began. I dug, and dug, and dug, and nearly all 3.5 feet of Danielle fit in that hole when I had reached the bottom of the rock. That became my digging spot, my mud pie kitchen. Each day it was dug, and each evening it was filled back in. Sometimes the holes were small, sometimes they were enormous, and most days the hole was turned into my mud mixing bowl with that rock as my counter. The novelty never wore off. The ebb and flow of my childhood was, in many ways, measured by the ever-changing depth of that hole in the front yard, the hole that never really disappeared even each day after it was filled in. Even though the grass has grown back in that spot, there still remains, an indentation, the scars of a childhood well lived and the disbelieving scientists I have always been.

So, you ask me why I want to be a doctor? I do not want to be a doctor. I want to open a mud pie bakery with the cash register on that rock in my front yard. But, somehow, I doubt I would stay in business long, for the world seems to have lost its taste for mud pies. I guess being a doctor will have to do.