About Krista

Krista Maurer is writing her way through life as she dives head first into her 30s, learns how to survive [read: pay the bills] without a "day job," and looks for the man of her dreams. She reads the dictionary for fun, collects globes and maps, often confuses Williams-Sonoma with Mecca, and still remembers the thrill of meeting Alex Trebek when she was 10. Oh yeah, and she's the boss/owner of this here site, so please ask permission before reposting any content (pictures included) anywhere else. Thanks mucho!

8:26 a.m.

So much of the last year was accomplished with my head down, simply plowing through. Although–the word “plow” is debatable. I suppose it was more of a “clomp.” But that’s neither here nor there.

What I wish to say is that despite the head-down-often-didn’t-brush-my-teeth-till-noon-(or later) life I led, every now and again, the world around me would stop me in my tracks. Would catch my gaze and catch my heart. In truth, they were fleeting moments. But significant bits of hope during the monotony of gray nonetheless.

It was,

the way the light glinted off the lake and settled pink upon the mountain. The way a flower popped, bold and red and open to the world. The way the wind exhaled over my skin–blowing the pulse and breath of life my direction–like a Hale Mary from Mother Nature.

Such moments never fail to render me helpless with a total intoxication of beauty. I am. Temporarily inebriated whilst my senses absorb the colors.

And this morning, as I rounded the corner on my way to the oyster-shelled stairs that lead to the ramp that points to my daily perch, one such moment occurred when the blues and the greens and the yellows of an 8:26 a.m. sun just about knocked me over.

The water was like glass, unbroken, as of yet, by the comings and goings of boats. The air was warm, yes, but with the freshness of a new day. And the birds called down from the trees, buzzing and humming with their songs of salutation.

I opened my lawn chair, happy to be early on this particular morning, and sat. So quiet and so still.

So full of color.

Totally alive and present.

Completely connected to the life around me.


Yet Before Me

I love rainy days. Which is funny, because I love sunny days too. But a wet, gray day is–so often–just the right amount of melancholy for me.

I sat on the dock today while the clouds loomed dark overhead. Occasional rain drops fell into overlapping ripples on the harbour surface–a soft patting of the sea.

I cozied into my lawn chair with my first Jane Austen. Blasphemous to some, I know, to say such a thing. And I don’t know why I’ve never read Austen–they seem like the kind of books I would’ve devoured–but I just never have. And I’m interested to see–will I like it? That, is the question.

I find it interesting to note that Jane’s first novel, Sense and Sensibility, was published when she was 36.

Only a few years older than me.

And did you know, similarly, that Louisa May Alcott, although she published two slight works in her twenties which brought modest success, her great work Little Women was published when she was thirty-six.

I don’t know why I find this interesting–perhaps because I, so often, feel as though I’ve wasted so much time and that my primest of opportunities are behind me.

But then I look at these women, and countless others like them, and I can’t help but wonder …

Is the best still yet before me?

A bell, deep within me rings–it is.

Missing

Things I Miss About Utah When I’m in South Carolina:

1. Frit

2. Sunsets over the mountains & Lake

3. My girls at Church

4. Fry Sauce

5. My super cozy bed, sheets, and pillows

6. My house

7. My space

8. My neighbors/hood

9. Driving up 800 West to get home and passing all the horse pastures & old homes

10. Kneaders fruit tarts (I want one now.)

11. Summer parades (4th of July and Pioneer Day)

Things I Miss About South Carolina When I’m in Utah

1. The ocean

2. Familia

3. The marshes

4. Spanish moss

5. y’all and the drawl

6. The feeling here…there’s a distinct feeling in the Carolina Lowcountry–a slow sweetness. And it’s palpable.

7. Our Church congregation

8. The way the humidity makes my skin so soft and wrinkle-free

9. My tan

10. The trees and greens

11. The seafood. Oh, the seafood.

12. Pop-up thunder storms

Things I Do Not Miss About Utah When I’m in South Carolina

1. Road construction

2. Rude drivers

3. The lack of diversity

Things I Do Not Miss About South Carolina When I’m in Utah

1. The way the humidity forces sweat streams into my eyes and stings them with salt

2. Bugs

3. My bed

4. Tourist traffic

5. The sound of the boat phone ring tone

Back

I was home in Utah for about ten days. It was heaven being back with with my Frit. I miss her so much when I’m away.

There’s an episode of Grey’s Anatomy where Cristina says to Meredith, “Mer, why do you care what I think?” And Meredith looks at her and says, “Because. You’re my person.”

In another episode Cristina, speaking of Meredith, says, “She’s my person. If I murdered someone, she’s the person I’d call to help me drag the corpse across the living room floor. … She’s my person.”

I get that.

I totally get that.

Cuz Frit’s my person.

She has my back. Always.

And I have hers.

Always.

And I hate being away from her.

So. Leaving sucked.

But there are still some things for me here on the Island.

Still some things I need to figure out.

Still some things I need to unearth.

Still some things I need to dedicate myself to.

And so I’m back.

For Part II of my Island Summer.

At Home

I lifted the window shade and looked down. From the bright blue sky I could see the straight street blocks of the city below. We circled for landing and then I could see the familiar swirls of salt, algae and mud in the great lake that sits beside that very city. And off in the distance I could see the big, white “B” painted on the mountain beside my home.

Home?

Wasn’t I just there?

Yes. It’s true. Not more than 48 hours ago, I was sitting on a lawn chair while sea water slapped the dock below me, the wet air settling on my skin as subtly as the flood from a fire hose. At home.

But here I was, getting off the plane and I couldn’t find my phone fast enough. “I’M HERE!!”

She came rolling up to the curb and I couldn’t squeeze her tight enough. “Welcome home!”

We stopped for lunch and she asked, “Do you want to go in to eat or just go through the drive through?”

“Drive through please.”

I couldn’t get home fast enough.

It seemed like I’d never left, and yet I’d been gone nearly two months.

There we sat, side by side, on the blue denim couch, with our feet propped up, the blinds wide open, and the light pouring in. Sandwiches on the plates in front of us, fruit tarts in hand.

Everything smelled the same, tasted the same, felt the same.

Here at home.

Just Another Wednesday

“Who’s me next pirate?!”

That’s what I say every Wednesday and Friday morning as I walk through a line 150 long. The kids are wide-eyed with anticipation as we cloak them in their official pirate uniform–a skull & crossbone doo-rag, a felt eye-patch, and a foam sword. Then … and only then … do they get their official pirate name. And with grand flourish, a sweet little girl suddenly becomes Squidface Sarah, and that handsome young lad turns into Mad Man Max.

Once all the pirate kidz have been officially pirated (akin to being knighted), they go on the boat ride of their lives as they steal back Captain Tanner’s pirate ship from Crazy Captain Black Mark (my dad), send Stinky Trader Luke to Davy Jone’s locker, and find the buried treasure. It is quite the adventure.

(my dad in his pirate gear)

After the pirate cruise leaves, I sell tickets for the morning crabbing trip and then sit under my umbrella while I answer phones, take reservations, and sell tickets for the 11:30 and 2:00 crabbing cruises.

(our crabby captain and his crabby crew)

We finally got some good rain this afternoon and I was quite content to just sit in it and take pictures of the bubbles, drops, and ripples the raindrops made in the harbour.

The rain broke for a few minutes just before my day was to end and the sky was full of the most amazing clouds.

Now it is night. And I’m watching the most fantastic lightning storm from my bedroom window.

You know — just another Wednesday. G’night!

My Favorite Photo from Daufuskie Day

Yesterday, I wrote all about my afternoon at Daufuskie Day and posted about a gagillion pictures. But this image needed a post of its own. It’s my favorite photo from the day.

I don’t know who this woman is, and she didn’t know I was photographing her. But there is something in this picture that keeps me staring. I just keep coming back to look at it.

I wonder who she is and what she loves. I wonder what her life has been like. I wonder what makes her laugh and what makes her cry. In her, in this image, I see a strength and a determination, wisdom and elegance.

She is just so beautiful to me.

Daufuskie Day 2011

Pat Conroy described it in his book The Water is Wide. It, he wrote, “is an island off the South Carolina mainland not far from Savannah, Georgia. The island is fringed with the green, undulating marshes of the southern coast; shrimp boats ply the waters around her and fishermen cast their lines along her bountiful shores. Deer cut through her forests in small silent herds. The great southern oaks stand broodingly on her banks. The island and the waters around her team with life. There is something eternal and indestructible about the tide-eroded shores and the dark, threatening silences of the swamps in the heart of the island. [It] is beautiful because man has not yet had time to destroy this beauty.”

Daufuskie is her name. Some say it comes from the Yemassee Indians and means “land with a point.” Others say it’s Gullah for “the first key” north of Savannah. Either way, it is, in many ways, an island lost in time. There is no bridge, still, after all these years, and I doubt there ever will be. The only way to get there is by boat. The preferred mode of transportation around the island is a golf cart and most of the families living there are the descendants of African-American slaves. The Gullah language still drips from the dialect, much like the Spanish Moss that hangs from the trees.

As a child my family carried boat loads of tourists over to Daufuskie Island to ride around in “jungle buses” stopping at the old one-room school house, the 100-year-old Baptist church, the Bloody Point beach, and other sites of historical interest. The ladies who lived there would prepare a delicious South-island lunch and Miss Bertha would save me extra cornbread–which I ate, wrapped up in the folds of her lap. The highlight though, was always the deviled crabs–a divine delicacy passed on through generations of women. I still have yet to find its equal.

This weekend I accompanied my dad to Daufuskie for the first time in years. It was the annual Daufuskie Day festival–a day to celebrate the heritage, traditions, and lifestyle of the island.

Local families were set up with their tents and tables selling their wares, fresh produce and sea island cuisine–lowcountry boil (whole crabs, shrimp, corn, potatoes, and sausage boiled up with seasonings), jerk chicken and ribs, fresh peach and blueberry pies, and deviled crab of course.

I stopped by to kiss Miss Ellamae, who I haven’t seen in some twenty-five years and she gave me an extra crab just for doing so. (Score!)

The Reverend played his saxophone for a while and then some of the girls taught everyone how to slide dance.

Despite the fact that I was the only white girl around, and despite the fact that they were dying laughing at me, I finally joined in to learn. I just could keep still any longer! (Cuz you know I’m a dancer in my heart.)

It was just my kind of event. Delicious local food. Music. Local art. And atmosphere. But the people–that’s what made it. I’ve always loved the people of Daufuskie.

At the end of the day, I bought a chunk of watermelon for a buck and sat down underneath a palmetto tree. I leaned against the trunk and started in on the sweetest melon I think I’ve ever tasted. I couldn’t help but smile as the juice dribbled down my chin, down my arms, and down my shirt as I spat the seeds into the dirt beside me.

This, is life, I thought to myself.

I looked out over the marsh through a frame of Spanish moss, beach music playing in the background and closed my eyes as the scent of boiling shrimp and bar-b-que lingered on the steamy breeze. Sweat pooled on my upper lip and dripped from my hair. Yes–this, is southern island life.

Life Was Beginning

On the bookshelves,

that line the walls,

in this old room of mine,

sits a copy of The Great Gatsby.

I read it for the first time in Mrs. Hamm’s English class. Junior year. Hilton Head Prep School. It’s worn out and marked up–just like all my books. Lined with ink marks and littered with post-its.

Side note: I came 2.25 inches away from buying a Kindle the other day but just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I felt like I was cheating on my books. How could I ever face them again?!–knowing I was a shameful, scarlet lettered adulteress. The shame!

So anyway, back to the books.

If I love a book, I can’t help but mark it. I underline, dog-ear, and bookmark with wild abandon. You know–so I can go back and re-read the bestest parts over and over. If the words fit prettily, I salivate. If an author, in his expertise, provides a particularly clever and inspiring description of a scene or a character or a place, I find myself twirling inside, applauding their genius, and soaking every. black. letter. into my cells.

Ah the written word.

So back to The Great Gatsby.

One sentence,

in that delicious book,

one that I think of every year on this date,

one that seems particularly fitting as I sit here miles away from home at home, scratching at my cocoon from the inside,

reads…

“And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees … I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.”

[sigh]

How true.

Oh, may I say,

on this first day of summer,

Hello new life!

Welcome!

May I raise my glass to the sun and toast the days that wait just down the lane with nothing but open arms.

Cheers to you!

And may you, and me, and we, embrace boldly and joyfully, the promises of this,

particular,

wonderful,

summer.

New life indeed!

—————————————

In honor of the first day of summer, I want to share my peony with you. I planted her last Fall and worried terribly about her life expectancy. She was dreadfully thin. Skin and bones, and nothing more. But when the snow of winter melted, she stretched her limbs and feathered herself with leaves. A tiny bud appeared one day, sitting royally atop her head like the Queen Mum’s crown. And as I left Utah, I frowned at the thought of leaving her. Pitiful, but true–she was on my list of reasons why I didn’t want to leave the desert.

But true to form, as resident best friend, Frit has kept me supplied with pictures of her birth. Last night we Skyped (because we miss each other so), and she carried me out to the backyard so I could peer through the digital screen, wide-eyed at the brilliance of my lovely bloom.

(I think I can officially cross #55 off the list of 101 Things to Do in 1001 Days.)

Why I Won’t Be Seeing the Book of Mormon Musical & Why I Hope You Won’t Either

I have read numerous reviews. I also forced myself to listen to the entire soundtrack, simply because I didn’t want to write this post from a place of ignorance. It was hard to listen to, the soundtrack that is. I wanted to stop numerous times. But I didn’t want to write out of sheer emotion either.

But let me back up–to the day I heard that the creators of South Park were writing a Broadway musical to be titled, “The Book of Mormon.” Upon reading this news my heart sank. And I thought, “Here we go again.”

I wasn’t enraged. I wasn’t hurt, at least not yet. But I was stupefied that my religion had become the punchline of yet another a joke. And not the funny kind. Because the thing is–there are some funny Mormon jokes. Like any other society or culture we have some quirks–funny little nuances that are unique to us. And I’ll laugh at them with the best of them.

Kind of like that movie, “My Big Fat Greek Wedding.” I found it to be a funny, light commentary on the cultural quirks that make Greek Orthodoxy so wonderful and colorful. But at no point did the movie aim to deride the belief system upon which they hang their hat.

But you see, we Mormons get it all the time. The derision. And few defend us. Sometimes I wonder if we even know how to defend ourselves. We never have been a “fight back” kind of people. And at that, I can’t help but wonder about the level of public outcry if some of the prejudice pointed at us were to happen to any other religion.

One example. In the 2002 race for Arizona governor, Matt Salmon (a Mormon) lost to Janet Napolitano. Now losing is fine. He just didn’t get the votes. Okay. But one can’t help but wonder if the independent television ads about Salmon and polygamy (a practice no longer observed by Mormons) contributed to his loss. Or the posters that were put up underneath his campaign signs that said, “Don’t Vote Mormon.”

I often wonder what the public sentiment would have been had Salmon been Jewish and had the sign read “Don’t Vote Jew.”

But back to the musical. Newsweek said that it “may be the most obscene show ever brought to a Broadway stage.” Entertainment Weekly called it “irreverent” and that “the show is jam-packed with foul language … sexually explicit jokes, and enough blasphemy to knock your church-going grandma right out of her seat.”

Just to clarify, you can spend $487 (the going rate for a ticket to the show that’s now sold out through the year according to Bloomberg News) for irreverence, obscenity, sexually explicit jokes, blasphemy, and 49 f-words (+ additional expletives, calculated from the show’s script and score books). And yes, I do realize that that could be a list of descriptors for any random cross section from today’s American pop culture. But I’m not writing this from a place of judgment. I have my own vices and what one chooses to view, listen to, and spend money on is up to each of us.

My point is, I won’t be spending $487 to see this show and I hope you won’t either. But why?

Well. To begin, it’s because though touted as “parody” and “satire” I, instead, found the soundtrack derisive with an underlying hint of prejudice. “Satire” and “parody” are, in my opinion, simply intelligent words used to gloss over what is essentially at the core.

Please know, I am not opposed to satire, but “A reasonable definition of satire … is ‘a literary manner which blends a critical attitude with humor and wit to the end that human institutions or humanity may be improved. The true satirist is conscious of the frailty of institutions of man’s devising and attempts through laughter not so much to tear them down as to inspire a remodeling.’ The best satire does not seek to do harm or damage by its ridicule.” (source)

At the risk of appearing thin-skinned, after listening through the CD, I felt torn down, hurt, and set apart by ridicule.

But even that–my apparent thin skin–isn’t why I hope you won’t see it.

I hope you won’t see the Book of Mormon musical because I found that many of our beliefs were misrepresented, made fun of, or taken out of context which only further propagates the misunderstanding people have about us. Most people don’t know what we believe. And by and large, what I listened to only digs a deeper gulf between who Mormons really are and what the rest of the country thinks we are. I can’t help but wonder how many people, after seeing this show, will be able to separate the parody from reality. If that’s not damage under a guise of “satire,” I’m not sure what is.

And yet the audiences are flocking to see it, to hoot, holler, and applaud. And then bestow awards and accolades upon it. In doing so, they are rewarding irreverence and blasphemy directed toward a people who essentially are just trying their best to live good lives, raise good families, serve God, and love their fellowmen.

Is that who we are as a nation? As a human race? A people okay with entertainment that belittles and derides? That takes the things one group holds sacred and smears them underfoot?

And again, why did they choose the Mormons? What would be the result had they chosen Jews, or the Amish, or Muslims? Would people still think it’s as funny?

No. I won’t be seeing the Book of Mormon musical. And I hope you won’t either. Because in going, you’re saying that what they’re doing is ok. And it’s not.

Your thoughts?

***

Additional thoughts from the Washington Post (a non-Mormon’s perspective)

And another perspective (from a Mormon)

On A Night Like Tonight

The warm yellow light of the table lamp sent a hushed glow from the corner of her room, casting long gray shadows against the walls. The ceiling fan spun slowly round, finding only slight success in cooling the thick Southern air. Love songs streamed from the radio, soft and amorously melancholy. The shutters on her windows rattled outside as the distant thunder crawled closer. She stretched, long and deep, lifting her brown legs to rest on top of the bed–the bed she’d slept in as a child–and sank deeper under an afghan her grandmother had crocheted years before. By no means cold on this balmy summer night, she simply liked the weight of it against her body–heavy and comforting, like a cocoon . She leaned her head against the back of the plump, pink chair that sat next to the wall of shelves lined with books, and closed her eyes.

And the rain began to fall.