Sunday, September 30, 2007
"A sister is a little bit of childhood that can never be lost."
It was a spectacular day yesterday. My sisters and I had a great dinner then hung around Yawkey Way until close to game time. People wearing Sox hats and shirts milled around watching the fun. I loved the two very old ladies I saw who were wearing sox hats and game shirts. One was an Ortiz fan. On the street, a man on stilts played catch with little kids, bands played and another man made hats using balloons. The whole street smelled of sausage, peppers and onions. It was a street carnival.
My sister was enthralled with the old couple sitting beside her. The wife kept asking for the stats of each player, and her husband made sure she didn't miss a replay. To my right was a little boy. He was wearing a brand new Ortiz shirt. We chatted a bit, and he kept turning to me and smiling when the crowd cheered. He was a great seat companion. We shared my sister's peanuts and sang Take me Out to the Ballgame just before the game started. At Fenway, the tradition is to sing Sweet Caroline before the Sox half of the eighth, and the crowd really gets into belting out the song with fists pumping to the lyrics.
The Sox won in dramatic fashion with an unlikely hero, J.D. Drew, and we heard Dirty Water and Tessie as we started to exit the park. What a day! What a night!
My sister was enthralled with the old couple sitting beside her. The wife kept asking for the stats of each player, and her husband made sure she didn't miss a replay. To my right was a little boy. He was wearing a brand new Ortiz shirt. We chatted a bit, and he kept turning to me and smiling when the crowd cheered. He was a great seat companion. We shared my sister's peanuts and sang Take me Out to the Ballgame just before the game started. At Fenway, the tradition is to sing Sweet Caroline before the Sox half of the eighth, and the crowd really gets into belting out the song with fists pumping to the lyrics.
The Sox won in dramatic fashion with an unlikely hero, J.D. Drew, and we heard Dirty Water and Tessie as we started to exit the park. What a day! What a night!
Saturday, September 29, 2007
"Nolan Ryan is pitching much better now that he has his curve ball straightened out."
The first time I saw Fenway Park was at the closing of a summer day, and I can still picture the field and the way it looked. The grass was greener than I ever thought summer grass could be. The seats were mostly empty. Ballplayers milled around the field playing catch or waiting for batting practice. Some players were so close I could almost touch them. The cracks of the bats echoed as ball after ball was hit into the outfield. The lights were on, and it was magical.
Tonight I'm going to a Sox game with my sisters, their birthday gift to me. We're meeting early so we can take the Fenway tour then we'll spend the rest of the day in Boston. Last night I watched the Sox win and the Yankees lose. That combination was the magic number, and my Sox are Eastern Division Champs. I'm thrilled, but I really sort of wish they could have waited one more night for me.
Baseball is easy to understand. You each get three outs per inning. Score more runs than the other guys and you win. There are no ties in baseball. It did take a while before I understood all those baseball terms like hitting for the cycle, Texas leaguer or around the horn, but now I can even talk about ribbies, the high heat, a punch out or a no no.
There is just something about baseball.
Tonight I'm going to a Sox game with my sisters, their birthday gift to me. We're meeting early so we can take the Fenway tour then we'll spend the rest of the day in Boston. Last night I watched the Sox win and the Yankees lose. That combination was the magic number, and my Sox are Eastern Division Champs. I'm thrilled, but I really sort of wish they could have waited one more night for me.
Baseball is easy to understand. You each get three outs per inning. Score more runs than the other guys and you win. There are no ties in baseball. It did take a while before I understood all those baseball terms like hitting for the cycle, Texas leaguer or around the horn, but now I can even talk about ribbies, the high heat, a punch out or a no no.
There is just something about baseball.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Softly: Gordon Lightfoot
Some days, I need to jump right to my favorites whose voices are as comfortable and familiar as those of old friends.
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MP3 File
"It seems a long time since the morning mail could be called correspondence."
The world gets smaller every day. We sit at our computers and IM people half a world away. E-mail zips from one place to another in seconds. Communication is nearly instantaneous, and I admit to feeling just a bit sad about all this.
I remember the joy of getting mail when I was young. Near my birthday I would camp out on the steps waiting for the mailman. Getting a letter or card was so special it made me feel important. When I was in Ghana, I'd send detailed letters chronicling my daily life. I'd write so much on an aerogram that you'd need a magnifying glass to read it. Those letters in my familiar hand were filled with words which drew pictures of Ghana, its people, the sights, the smells. My family could come with me to the market when I shopped and travel with me to other countries. They knew what I ate and how it tasted. They knew all about my town, my school and my house. If they had ever visited, they would have recognized people and places. They were with me everywhere I went. My mother and father wrote often. They filled their letters with news of the family, reports on the weather, especially if it had snowed, and descriptions of life while I was away. They kept me connected. My mother wrote flowery in small script, my dad straight forward in broad letters. Those pieces of my family were what kept me together early on before Ghana became my home, and I would reread them to stave off homesickness. My mother saved many of my letters too. I read a few of them recently and was reconnected with my younger self. I could read the joy and amazement.
Once in a while I print e-mails I want to save. Most times I don't. They feel impermanent to me.
I miss holding a letter in my hand. I miss handwriting and lines which sometimes rise on the page. I miss buying stationery, and I miss the box I kept filled with letters to be reread again and again. I miss real mail.
I remember the joy of getting mail when I was young. Near my birthday I would camp out on the steps waiting for the mailman. Getting a letter or card was so special it made me feel important. When I was in Ghana, I'd send detailed letters chronicling my daily life. I'd write so much on an aerogram that you'd need a magnifying glass to read it. Those letters in my familiar hand were filled with words which drew pictures of Ghana, its people, the sights, the smells. My family could come with me to the market when I shopped and travel with me to other countries. They knew what I ate and how it tasted. They knew all about my town, my school and my house. If they had ever visited, they would have recognized people and places. They were with me everywhere I went. My mother and father wrote often. They filled their letters with news of the family, reports on the weather, especially if it had snowed, and descriptions of life while I was away. They kept me connected. My mother wrote flowery in small script, my dad straight forward in broad letters. Those pieces of my family were what kept me together early on before Ghana became my home, and I would reread them to stave off homesickness. My mother saved many of my letters too. I read a few of them recently and was reconnected with my younger self. I could read the joy and amazement.
Once in a while I print e-mails I want to save. Most times I don't. They feel impermanent to me.
I miss holding a letter in my hand. I miss handwriting and lines which sometimes rise on the page. I miss buying stationery, and I miss the box I kept filled with letters to be reread again and again. I miss real mail.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Away: Kathleen Edwards
This song is from 2005's Back to Me which was nominated for a Juno. Kathleen Edwards is a Canadian who began classical violin studies when she was five that continued for the next twelve years. On Failer, her debut album, she arranged and played all the string parts.
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MP3 File
Elvis Presley Blues: Gillian Welch
This is from Time (The Revelator), Gillian Welch's third album which was released in 2001. She is backed by her partner David Rawlings who also co-wrote most of the songs.
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MP3 File
"Where there is no imagination there is no horror. "
When the first pumpkins began appearing on steps, we'd start our countdown to Halloween. My mother would tell us that it was far too early to start thinking about the big day, but we didn't listen as she had obviously forgotten how important a day that was and how preparation was the key. After all, the route had to be discussed and took great pains to map. Those houses which actually thought apples were acceptable treats had to be avoided at all costs, unless they tucked a penny or two into the skin. The popcorn houses were also low on the list but a bit higher than fruit. Tops on the list were the houses which gave nickel candy bars. We'd walk miles out of our way to hit those houses. Hershey bars were big back then. Most houses, though, just gave penny candy in small wax paper bags, an acceptable haul.
Next was planning what we'd go as. We never bought costumes: they were far too expensive. Our costumes had to be savaged from around the house. Old ladies were big. My mother always had hats and dresses. Pirates were easy. Just add an eye patch and tattered clothes. Hobos carried sticks with bundles tied and had dirty faces. Last year's pirate clothes could be this year's hobo. A cowboy hat was a prime costume piece. We would be discussing this for weeks as we walked to and from school, and we would change our minds hundreds of times before the big day.
School ended the fun times of summer, but Halloween ushered in the holiday season, every kid's favorite time of year.
Next was planning what we'd go as. We never bought costumes: they were far too expensive. Our costumes had to be savaged from around the house. Old ladies were big. My mother always had hats and dresses. Pirates were easy. Just add an eye patch and tattered clothes. Hobos carried sticks with bundles tied and had dirty faces. Last year's pirate clothes could be this year's hobo. A cowboy hat was a prime costume piece. We would be discussing this for weeks as we walked to and from school, and we would change our minds hundreds of times before the big day.
School ended the fun times of summer, but Halloween ushered in the holiday season, every kid's favorite time of year.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Try Me One More Time: David Bromberg
Today seems to be new album day.
This is the title song from David Bromberg's first studio release in what seems like eons, seventeen years to be exact. The album was released in February to not so great reviews. I listened and agreed. This song, though, I liked a lot.
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This is the title song from David Bromberg's first studio release in what seems like eons, seventeen years to be exact. The album was released in February to not so great reviews. I listened and agreed. This song, though, I liked a lot.
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Night of the Iguana: Joni Mitchell
It's happened. Shine, the new Joni Mitchell, has been released. Mostly I'm thrilled with it. It has been far too long between recordings. This is about my favorite song on the album.
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"First you forget names, then you forget faces, then you forget to pull your zipper up, then you forget to pull your zipper down."
When I think of all the stuff I learned and never used, I wish I could just delete and add free space. I know how to diagram a sentence and am quite proficient at drawing lines to make connections. We learned this skill in grammar school, and I haven't used it since. Algebra has never been any earthly use. My life is not dependent on a polynominal. The world of mathematics lost me when I traveled beyond the realms of add, subtract, multiply and divide. Geometry, I know, has practical uses, but not for me. In science, all those chemical formulas and atomic numbers are meaningless now. Protons just don't excite me, never really did. All the chemistry stuff is just taking up valuable space in my memory drawers. Delete! delete!
I took four years of Latin which I don't regret when it comes to words and their meanings. I do regret knowing that castra ponere is one of Caesar's idioms and means to pitch camp. Why my mind holds onto this with a firm grasp I'll never understand. How about the ablative case? Arma virumque cano is the first line of The Aeneid. I don't care. Delete! Delete!
John Adams and Thomas Jefferson died the same day, on July 4th no less. I still remember Adams' last words were something to the effect Thomas Jefferson lives. In my wildest imaginings, I can think of no place in time where this information would have any relevance. Delete! Delete!
Sometimes, when I come up with some useless piece of information, I'm asked how I remember. I wish I could give an answer. I keep wondering why my mind holds on to some things but forgets others. Age is part of the answer, I know, but isn't it about time to forget all that other stuff taking up valuable space? I really do want to remember why I walked to the kitchen.
I took four years of Latin which I don't regret when it comes to words and their meanings. I do regret knowing that castra ponere is one of Caesar's idioms and means to pitch camp. Why my mind holds onto this with a firm grasp I'll never understand. How about the ablative case? Arma virumque cano is the first line of The Aeneid. I don't care. Delete! Delete!
John Adams and Thomas Jefferson died the same day, on July 4th no less. I still remember Adams' last words were something to the effect Thomas Jefferson lives. In my wildest imaginings, I can think of no place in time where this information would have any relevance. Delete! Delete!
Sometimes, when I come up with some useless piece of information, I'm asked how I remember. I wish I could give an answer. I keep wondering why my mind holds on to some things but forgets others. Age is part of the answer, I know, but isn't it about time to forget all that other stuff taking up valuable space? I really do want to remember why I walked to the kitchen.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Pallet on Your Floor: Mississippi John Hurt
It's been a while since I last played Mississippi John Hurt. This is from a Smithsonian Folkways collection released in 1964 called FOTM, Friends of Old Time Music.
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This Land: The Limeliters
Thinking about more innocent times got me to reach back for this song. The Limeliters never had a big hit, but they had this amazing sound with wonderful harmonies.
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"Ours is a circle of friends united by ideals."
Yesterday I was on the road most of the day so I had no time to post. By the time I got home, it was too late, and my brain had stopped functioning some where in the middle of New Jersey.
When I was a kid, I never went on a trip without the whole family. I don't count sleeping over at my friend's up the street because being in the neighborhood is almost the same as being home. The only other times away were with the girl scouts. Our town scouts had this great camp in the woods not far from the zoo. It had been built by scouts' fathers and was up a dirt road. Camp Aleska was surrounded by tall pine trees which always made me imagine I was deep in the forest far away from civilization. Behind the camp were man-made trails covered in pine needles. The only trail I remember led to a spring of fresh, cold water. The camp had one large room with the biggest fireplace I'd ever seen, a small room for the leaders, a kitchen and bathrooms off the large room. Benches for storage lined two walls. Cots were stored in them, and one of our first duties was setting up those cots. They were the old canvas ones which folded, and opening them was a bit like solving a puzzle. Once settled, we'd prepare dinner, always the same meal every time we went: hobo stew. After dinner we'd get the fire roaring, sing songs and then get ready for bed. We'd be awake the longest time laughing and talking. We were warned to be quiet and we were, but someone would laugh, and it would start all over again. We had the best times on those overnights.
I was a girl scout for a long time, into high school. Our activities got a bit more sophisticated as we got older, but we still held on to tradition. I had my uniform, my badge sash and my green beanie. I even hung on long enough to get my ten year pin. We never thought it odd or strange that we were teenagers and still scouts. Back then no one did. Now, when I say I was a girl scout for so long, people laugh. I feel sorry that the world no longer leaves room for overnights and hobo stew.
When I was a kid, I never went on a trip without the whole family. I don't count sleeping over at my friend's up the street because being in the neighborhood is almost the same as being home. The only other times away were with the girl scouts. Our town scouts had this great camp in the woods not far from the zoo. It had been built by scouts' fathers and was up a dirt road. Camp Aleska was surrounded by tall pine trees which always made me imagine I was deep in the forest far away from civilization. Behind the camp were man-made trails covered in pine needles. The only trail I remember led to a spring of fresh, cold water. The camp had one large room with the biggest fireplace I'd ever seen, a small room for the leaders, a kitchen and bathrooms off the large room. Benches for storage lined two walls. Cots were stored in them, and one of our first duties was setting up those cots. They were the old canvas ones which folded, and opening them was a bit like solving a puzzle. Once settled, we'd prepare dinner, always the same meal every time we went: hobo stew. After dinner we'd get the fire roaring, sing songs and then get ready for bed. We'd be awake the longest time laughing and talking. We were warned to be quiet and we were, but someone would laugh, and it would start all over again. We had the best times on those overnights.
I was a girl scout for a long time, into high school. Our activities got a bit more sophisticated as we got older, but we still held on to tradition. I had my uniform, my badge sash and my green beanie. I even hung on long enough to get my ten year pin. We never thought it odd or strange that we were teenagers and still scouts. Back then no one did. Now, when I say I was a girl scout for so long, people laugh. I feel sorry that the world no longer leaves room for overnights and hobo stew.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Leader of the Pack: The Shangrilas
Today is a strange theme, but dead teen songs were big hits for a while. I found web sites filled with these amazing lists of who and how. I just had to laugh a bit.
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Patches: Dickey Lee
I don't know what I could begin to say about this one except it's about the worst dead teen song I know. Have I missed a worse one?
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MP3 File
"We are inclined that if we watch a football game or baseball game, we have taken part in it."
The best Red Sox game I ever saw was with my father. Someone had given him sky box tickets, and he invited me. It was amazing being so high above Fenway. The whole field was spread out below us, and I could see all the action. My dad and I chatted about the game, our seats and the world in general. The particulars of that night are hazy. I don't remember which team the Sox were playing or even whether they won or not. I just remember an evening with my dad.
My sister and her family in Colorado are Sox fans. They watch every game. My brother in law and I often call each other when something really exciting happens or when something really awful happens. We groan or exalt together.
My mother never liked sports. My dad watched football every fall Sunday while my mother found something else to do. On Thanksgiving, my dad wolfed down his dinner so as not to miss a single play. My mother put up with this obsession. She just couldn't understand, though, how anyone found these games at all interesting. After my dad died, my mother tolerated the rest of us watching sports when we visited her. She'd sit with us while we watched, mostly not understanding what was happening. I laugh when I think of her cheering the guys on when the other team had the ball. It didn't matter to us. We were just glad she cared enough to pretend to be involved.
For my birthday, my two sisters game me a Sox game. We're all going next Saturday. My sister from Colorado is even flying out for the weekend. I am so excited about this gift to Fenway, but I am even more excited about spending the time with my sisters. It is not often enough the three of us get together, and I can hardly wait.
This love of sports gives my family a whole new connection. We chat often on the phone during games, commiserate when our team loses and cheer together when our team wins. My mother would approve.
My sister and her family in Colorado are Sox fans. They watch every game. My brother in law and I often call each other when something really exciting happens or when something really awful happens. We groan or exalt together.
My mother never liked sports. My dad watched football every fall Sunday while my mother found something else to do. On Thanksgiving, my dad wolfed down his dinner so as not to miss a single play. My mother put up with this obsession. She just couldn't understand, though, how anyone found these games at all interesting. After my dad died, my mother tolerated the rest of us watching sports when we visited her. She'd sit with us while we watched, mostly not understanding what was happening. I laugh when I think of her cheering the guys on when the other team had the ball. It didn't matter to us. We were just glad she cared enough to pretend to be involved.
For my birthday, my two sisters game me a Sox game. We're all going next Saturday. My sister from Colorado is even flying out for the weekend. I am so excited about this gift to Fenway, but I am even more excited about spending the time with my sisters. It is not often enough the three of us get together, and I can hardly wait.
This love of sports gives my family a whole new connection. We chat often on the phone during games, commiserate when our team loses and cheer together when our team wins. My mother would approve.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
“Keep some souvenirs of your past, or how will you ever prove it wasn't all a dream?”
Visiting old friends always reminds me that years and distance never seem to matter. When I see my childhood friends, their wrinkles and grey hairs disappear. When I see the friend I walked to school with every day, I remember the two of us chatting the whole way as if we hadn't spoken in ages instead of just the day before all the way home. When I see my friend Maria, I swear she hasn't changed at all since we met in the fifth grade even though she is in her sixties and a grandmother. We never run out of conversation. We laugh so hard we cry. How wonderful that old friends always stay with us, kept close in our memories.
When I was a kid, I collected souvenirs from every vacation. From my walks on the beach, I had my collection of seashells and a few pieces of driftwood in the shapes of easily recognized animals. I saved huge pine cones. One of my bureau drawers was filled with brochures describing places we'd been or places I hoped to go. Most were collected at gas stations in the days when a station was a full purpose stop. I saved free postcards of motels. My parents also allowed us one bought souvenir each trip. I remember once I picked those Scotty dog magnets in white and black from at a small shop in Islesboro, Maine. I also bought an old book that same trip with the rest of my souvenir money. They are the only souvenirs I still remember buying.
I haven't changed all that much from those days. I have a huge pine cone from the forum in Rome and shells from Panama. I have a chunk of salt from the mine in Bolivia and a few stones from the shore at Lake Titicaca. I saved ticket stubs and brochures, and each trip is in its own plastic bag. I still buy a few souvenirs, but my taste has changed. Mostly I buy the handicrafts from each country I visit, and from here, in Delaware, I have a few small Christmas presents and an old hat from an antique store. It will go on the hat tree in the guest room. It will be as much a reminder of this trip as those Scotty dogs were of that long ago family vacation on a small island in Maine.
When I was a kid, I collected souvenirs from every vacation. From my walks on the beach, I had my collection of seashells and a few pieces of driftwood in the shapes of easily recognized animals. I saved huge pine cones. One of my bureau drawers was filled with brochures describing places we'd been or places I hoped to go. Most were collected at gas stations in the days when a station was a full purpose stop. I saved free postcards of motels. My parents also allowed us one bought souvenir each trip. I remember once I picked those Scotty dog magnets in white and black from at a small shop in Islesboro, Maine. I also bought an old book that same trip with the rest of my souvenir money. They are the only souvenirs I still remember buying.
I haven't changed all that much from those days. I have a huge pine cone from the forum in Rome and shells from Panama. I have a chunk of salt from the mine in Bolivia and a few stones from the shore at Lake Titicaca. I saved ticket stubs and brochures, and each trip is in its own plastic bag. I still buy a few souvenirs, but my taste has changed. Mostly I buy the handicrafts from each country I visit, and from here, in Delaware, I have a few small Christmas presents and an old hat from an antique store. It will go on the hat tree in the guest room. It will be as much a reminder of this trip as those Scotty dogs were of that long ago family vacation on a small island in Maine.
Friday, September 21, 2007
The Last Goodbye: Uncle Earl
Uncle Earl is bluegrass and old time string music made by four women. The band, formed in 2000, was named in honor of Earl Scruggs and Steve Earle.
This is from their newest album, Waterloo, Tennessee.
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This is from their newest album, Waterloo, Tennessee.
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Copperhead Road: Steve Earle
I couldn't begin to figure in which bin to put this album, Copperhead Road released in 1988. It's country, but it isn't. It's rock, but it isn't. Is it country rock or am I just grasping? What are those instruments I hear? They just don't seem to fit yet they do. I guess I'll just have to call it a Steve Earle and let it go at that.
I was inspired by Uncle Earl to play this one.
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I was inspired by Uncle Earl to play this one.
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"I'll tell you how the sun rose, A ribbon at a time."
Last night I sat on my bed propped by pillows. I thought I’d get a head start on writing Coffee for today, but, instead, I had eight false starts. I just couldn’t wrap my head around anything. I thought about the seven hours in the car, but the only sight of interest en route was a doe eating grass along side the highway somewhere in New Jersey. I drove four hundred and thirty miles and saw a doe.
I am in Cape May, New Jersey. It is filled with tourists looking in shop windows, carrying small bags and licking ice cream cones. I’m one of them. I gawked at the Victorian houses, did some shopping and had pizza for dinner though I’m a bit sorry now I skipped the ice cream. My room, directly across from the ocean, is filled with white wicker. I never knew that one room could hold so much wicker. This morning after breakfast I’m taking the ferry to Delaware.
Much as I like to drive, the trek here was exhausting. My knees forgot how they worked when I finally got out of the car at a gas, bathroom stop. Even my dad would have been glad to take a break after all that boring driving. The book on tape held my interest and made the drive a bit less painful. Given that kids cannot be bound and gagged, I now understand why parents buy cars with movie screens and connections for ipods.
I was up well before dawn this morning and came here to the fifth floor with my computer. From my perch, I looked out the picture window and could see a ribbon of bright red spreading across the sky. I had to stand and watch. Below the brilliant red was a warm yellow. The sky above was still dark. I watched the morning arrive. A small patch of pale red still remains. The sky is blue in spots, but the clouds are yellow with sunlight. I think this has made the whole drive worthwhile.
I am in Cape May, New Jersey. It is filled with tourists looking in shop windows, carrying small bags and licking ice cream cones. I’m one of them. I gawked at the Victorian houses, did some shopping and had pizza for dinner though I’m a bit sorry now I skipped the ice cream. My room, directly across from the ocean, is filled with white wicker. I never knew that one room could hold so much wicker. This morning after breakfast I’m taking the ferry to Delaware.
Much as I like to drive, the trek here was exhausting. My knees forgot how they worked when I finally got out of the car at a gas, bathroom stop. Even my dad would have been glad to take a break after all that boring driving. The book on tape held my interest and made the drive a bit less painful. Given that kids cannot be bound and gagged, I now understand why parents buy cars with movie screens and connections for ipods.
I was up well before dawn this morning and came here to the fifth floor with my computer. From my perch, I looked out the picture window and could see a ribbon of bright red spreading across the sky. I had to stand and watch. Below the brilliant red was a warm yellow. The sky above was still dark. I watched the morning arrive. A small patch of pale red still remains. The sky is blue in spots, but the clouds are yellow with sunlight. I think this has made the whole drive worthwhile.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Geordie: Julie Felix
I knew that Julie Felix first started recording in the mid 1960's but didn't know much else. I went hunting.
"Julie Felix arrived in England in 1964 from California after hitching through Europe with not much more than a duffel bag and her guitar. When Decca released her first album 'Julie Felix' later that year, she became first solo folk artist to be signed to a major U.K. record company. T.V appearances followed, and within a year she became the first British-based folk singer to fill The Royal Albert Hall.
In 1966 Julie became the resident singer on the amazingly popular 'Frost Report' , and quickly became a household name. By 1968 she had her own TV series, with guests including Spike Milligan, Richard Harris, Leonard Cohen, Dusty Springfield, Donovan, and Jimmy Page."
She still records and tours.
MP3 File
"Julie Felix arrived in England in 1964 from California after hitching through Europe with not much more than a duffel bag and her guitar. When Decca released her first album 'Julie Felix' later that year, she became first solo folk artist to be signed to a major U.K. record company. T.V appearances followed, and within a year she became the first British-based folk singer to fill The Royal Albert Hall.
In 1966 Julie became the resident singer on the amazingly popular 'Frost Report' , and quickly became a household name. By 1968 she had her own TV series, with guests including Spike Milligan, Richard Harris, Leonard Cohen, Dusty Springfield, Donovan, and Jimmy Page."
She still records and tours.
MP3 File
"Universal peace sounds ridiculous to the head of an average family."
Today I'll be on the road to visit friends. I have done almost everything on my to do list and have left a note for my house/pet sitter. It's a long drive, and I'm anxious to get started. I have a couple of books on tape to keep me company and some Twizzlers for sustenance. I went out to get coffee this morning, and Gracie came along for the ride. I always have this guilt thing about leaving the animals. I know they'll be well taken care of, but I still worry.
I remember family vacations. Duke, our Boxer, always came along with us, and he had to fight for room in the back seat like the rest of us. We, however, were much more tolerant of our four footed family member than with each other. For every vacation the roles were the same. My dad was the Sherpa. My mother did everything else. I can't imagine all she had to finish to get four kids, two adults and a dog ready. She also had to keep us amused in the car. I remember the license plate game, twenty questions and I spy with my little eye. The animal, vegetable or mineral part of twenty questions sometimes threw us which would then cause a bit of an argument and shouts of you cheated were not uncommon. Bathroom stops drove my dad crazy. He believed in driving straight through and found any need for a stop a personal affront.
There was always a time when the trip became sheer boredom. That was also about the time our tolerance for each other hit a wall. I still have visions of my dad trying to keep his eyes on the road and one hand on the wheel while also trying to whack us with his other hand. I keep seeing that hand waving around the back of the front seat trying to find a target. He'd threaten to stop the car and let us have it. We always knew what it was, but we also knew my dad was not likely to stop and put his continuous hours on the road record at risk.
I still have the most wonderful memories of our family vacations. It was only the comings and goings I have mostly expunged from my memories.
I remember family vacations. Duke, our Boxer, always came along with us, and he had to fight for room in the back seat like the rest of us. We, however, were much more tolerant of our four footed family member than with each other. For every vacation the roles were the same. My dad was the Sherpa. My mother did everything else. I can't imagine all she had to finish to get four kids, two adults and a dog ready. She also had to keep us amused in the car. I remember the license plate game, twenty questions and I spy with my little eye. The animal, vegetable or mineral part of twenty questions sometimes threw us which would then cause a bit of an argument and shouts of you cheated were not uncommon. Bathroom stops drove my dad crazy. He believed in driving straight through and found any need for a stop a personal affront.
There was always a time when the trip became sheer boredom. That was also about the time our tolerance for each other hit a wall. I still have visions of my dad trying to keep his eyes on the road and one hand on the wheel while also trying to whack us with his other hand. I keep seeing that hand waving around the back of the front seat trying to find a target. He'd threaten to stop the car and let us have it. We always knew what it was, but we also knew my dad was not likely to stop and put his continuous hours on the road record at risk.
I still have the most wonderful memories of our family vacations. It was only the comings and goings I have mostly expunged from my memories.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Changes: Ian and Sylvia
Yesterday Nan from Hill Farm sent me to youtube to view a clip of Ian and Sylvia and Judy Collins. It brought back wonderful memories and prompted me to check my files for an Ian and Sylvia.
This song is a perfect accompaniment for my musings today. It was written by Phil Ochs and comes off the album Ian and Sylvia, The Best of the Vanguard Years.
MP3 File
This song is a perfect accompaniment for my musings today. It was written by Phil Ochs and comes off the album Ian and Sylvia, The Best of the Vanguard Years.
MP3 File
Happy Birthday WUMB
We are just so very lucky to have folk radio WUMB. My car radio seldom moves from 91.9, and often I can be seen with hands waving and lips moving as I sing along. It is the most amazing station which just happens to be celebrating its 25th anniversary today with special programming all day. Every half-hour they will play a set of the top three folk songs from each of their twenty five years. The link is to the right. Drop by and listen.
"It's surprising how much memory is built around things unnoticed at the time."
We had a small house when I was a kid, only five rooms, three of which were bedrooms. The living room fit a desk, a couple of chairs, the couch and the TV. It had a picture window which looked out to the street and always made the room seem larger. The kitchen was narrow, and the table fit at only one end. My little sisters had to squeeze into the chairs closest to the wall. The bedrooms and bathroom were all off a tiny upstairs hall. I never noticed our house was small.
My dad always got home late. He seldom seemed to make it in time for dinner. We had this picture of my dad walking in the door from work, and it has become entangled in my memories. It is dark outside, and my dad is barely inside the house. He is wearing his top coat and fedora, standard work clothes for my dad the salesman. He has this huge grin on his face. Even though the picture is in black and white, I remember the green walls of the room, and the darker green of the inside door. My dad's hat was brown, and he always put in on the shelf in the closet near the desk then he would hang his coat in the same closet. He always wore a suit to work.
My mother had a fur stole that had been given to her. I think it was fox. She seldom wore it as there were few occasions in our lives when fur would be expected, but I still remember a color picture of my mother dressed to the nines and wearing that fur. She was standing in the living room and had on this amazing hat. It was big and round. Her dress was about as fancy a dress as I ever remember her wearing. She wore really high heels. Wrapped around her shoulders was her fur. My mother looked elegant.
My dad always got home late. He seldom seemed to make it in time for dinner. We had this picture of my dad walking in the door from work, and it has become entangled in my memories. It is dark outside, and my dad is barely inside the house. He is wearing his top coat and fedora, standard work clothes for my dad the salesman. He has this huge grin on his face. Even though the picture is in black and white, I remember the green walls of the room, and the darker green of the inside door. My dad's hat was brown, and he always put in on the shelf in the closet near the desk then he would hang his coat in the same closet. He always wore a suit to work.
My mother had a fur stole that had been given to her. I think it was fox. She seldom wore it as there were few occasions in our lives when fur would be expected, but I still remember a color picture of my mother dressed to the nines and wearing that fur. She was standing in the living room and had on this amazing hat. It was big and round. Her dress was about as fancy a dress as I ever remember her wearing. She wore really high heels. Wrapped around her shoulders was her fur. My mother looked elegant.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
"Education is learning what you didn't even know you didn't know."
The sun is warm. Gracie and I spent the morning on the deck. She sat while I read the papers. Birds flew in and out of the feeders. The candle holders hanging from tree branches are filled with water from the last rain storm, and the chickadees found them perfect for a quick drink. I swept then washed down the deck, energized by the warmth of the sun. Too few mornings like this are left, and I won't squander even one.
I have a list of errands for today and tomorrow as I am leaving on Thursday to visit friends. Miss Gracie and the cats, Fern and Maddie, will have a pet sitter staying here. I have arranged for Gracie to be walked and have bought plenty of food and favorite treats for all three of my pampered pets. I'll leave a Gracie note so the sitter will know my dog's expectations for her humans. The list is extensive.
In grammar school we had every subject imaginable. Our days were filled with English, arithmetic, geography, history, spelling, science and religion. We also had art and music a couple of days a week. It's amazing what has stayed with me from so long ago. Music was mostly singing, but I also remember egbdf, every good boy does fine, for the lines and face for the spaces. HOMES and the Great Lakes are forever etched in my brain. I know there was a mnemonic for the planets in order but that one never stayed long in my memory drawer. We never did any science experiments. We learned book science like weather and volcanos. Every Friday was a spelling test. The nun would walk around the room pronouncing the words to be spelled. I remember in the second grade I got ribbons for spelling and religion. I still have them in an old scrapbook. We learned religion from a catechism. I remember memorizing the answers to questions like who made you and where is God, and I can still recite some of those answers perfectly. One of my favorite catechism pages was the milk bottle page. Three bottles represented sin: one was clear, one was spotty and the other all black. You were a going to hell goner if your milk bottle ever turned black.
My room smelled of years of chalk dust and furniture polish. We seldom got bored with learning. The subjects changed too quickly. Special days like Halloween and Valentine's day were celebrated with parties and food. We could talk during lunch, and that always seemed a big deal to me. The clock over the blackboard was huge. A bell was rung to announce the change of lessons. We had recess. I loved grammer school.
I have a list of errands for today and tomorrow as I am leaving on Thursday to visit friends. Miss Gracie and the cats, Fern and Maddie, will have a pet sitter staying here. I have arranged for Gracie to be walked and have bought plenty of food and favorite treats for all three of my pampered pets. I'll leave a Gracie note so the sitter will know my dog's expectations for her humans. The list is extensive.
In grammar school we had every subject imaginable. Our days were filled with English, arithmetic, geography, history, spelling, science and religion. We also had art and music a couple of days a week. It's amazing what has stayed with me from so long ago. Music was mostly singing, but I also remember egbdf, every good boy does fine, for the lines and face for the spaces. HOMES and the Great Lakes are forever etched in my brain. I know there was a mnemonic for the planets in order but that one never stayed long in my memory drawer. We never did any science experiments. We learned book science like weather and volcanos. Every Friday was a spelling test. The nun would walk around the room pronouncing the words to be spelled. I remember in the second grade I got ribbons for spelling and religion. I still have them in an old scrapbook. We learned religion from a catechism. I remember memorizing the answers to questions like who made you and where is God, and I can still recite some of those answers perfectly. One of my favorite catechism pages was the milk bottle page. Three bottles represented sin: one was clear, one was spotty and the other all black. You were a going to hell goner if your milk bottle ever turned black.
My room smelled of years of chalk dust and furniture polish. We seldom got bored with learning. The subjects changed too quickly. Special days like Halloween and Valentine's day were celebrated with parties and food. We could talk during lunch, and that always seemed a big deal to me. The clock over the blackboard was huge. A bell was rung to announce the change of lessons. We had recess. I loved grammer school.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Black Eyed Susie: The Highwaymen
One of the best parts of writing Coffee is the people I meet. This song is from one of them.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"Soup and fish explain half the emotions of human life."
It's getting on to soup weather. Soon enough a bowl of soup will be needed to warm the innards and keep the cold at bay. Chicken noodle was my kid soup, and I loved to slurp the noodles into my mouth off the spoon. Saltines were perfect for crumbling into soup and made the tastiest, soggiest mess. Some days my mother would send me off to school with soup in my thermos bottle. She'd also pack a spoon and saltines into my lunchbox. The soup was always still warm and had to be very carefully poured into the thermos cup or it plopped and made a bit of a mess. Having soup for lunch always seemed a bit special somehow.
The barbecue was stored away for the winter. Friday night was sometimes fried dough, pizza or fish sticks, and hot dogs and beans on Saturday night got brown bread added. Sunday never changed much from season to season.
Grilled cheese sandwiches were a winter Saturday lunch. They were best when the cheese had sort of melted into the bread. It made taking a bite an adventure, and an adept grilled cheese eater never lost a single strand of cheese. A side of tomato soup help raise this simple sandwich to a gourmet treat.
The seasons hold different taste treats for me now. The fall brings its own bounty, and different spices and herbs add zest and taste. Squashes will soon take center stage. The freshness of summer has made way to the heartiness of fall. It's time to put the soup on.
The barbecue was stored away for the winter. Friday night was sometimes fried dough, pizza or fish sticks, and hot dogs and beans on Saturday night got brown bread added. Sunday never changed much from season to season.
Grilled cheese sandwiches were a winter Saturday lunch. They were best when the cheese had sort of melted into the bread. It made taking a bite an adventure, and an adept grilled cheese eater never lost a single strand of cheese. A side of tomato soup help raise this simple sandwich to a gourmet treat.
The seasons hold different taste treats for me now. The fall brings its own bounty, and different spices and herbs add zest and taste. Squashes will soon take center stage. The freshness of summer has made way to the heartiness of fall. It's time to put the soup on.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
“A Sunday well-spent brings a week of content.”
Sunday makes me think of roast beef, mashed potatoes and peas. I remember sitting in church and looking around or thumbing through the missal to keep myself occupied. When I heard, "Ite, Missa est," I couldn't leave fast enough. Church and kids were never a great fit. I remember lying on the living room rug to read the funnies. It was the best spot for spreading them out full size. I think about homework and the New York Giants, my dad's team before the Patriots were born. I remember bacon and eggs and toast, and my dad at the stove. I remember a quiet day.
When I was older than a kid and younger than now, Sunday meant changing the bed, doing a wash, going food shopping, running errands and making a trip to the dump. It was correct papers day. It was a finish all the chores I couldn't get to Saturday sort of day. It was an oh no I have to work again tomorrow day. Sunday had lost its identity.
My Sunday has returned to quiet. I read the funnies first though I stopped lying on the rug a long while ago, too difficult getting back up again. Some Sunday mornings I go out for breakfast and love my eggs sunny side but once in a while I have linguica instead of bacon. If I don't go out, I stay in my pajamas until late in the morning. I watch football but this time of year switch back and forth to baseball. I often make myself a nice dinner, and I love a roast with mashed potatoes. I don't do any errands, and I never grocery shop. I'm partial to a Sunday nap on the couch. I make my bed and take a shower but those are my only exertions for the day. I love Sunday again.
When I was older than a kid and younger than now, Sunday meant changing the bed, doing a wash, going food shopping, running errands and making a trip to the dump. It was correct papers day. It was a finish all the chores I couldn't get to Saturday sort of day. It was an oh no I have to work again tomorrow day. Sunday had lost its identity.
My Sunday has returned to quiet. I read the funnies first though I stopped lying on the rug a long while ago, too difficult getting back up again. Some Sunday mornings I go out for breakfast and love my eggs sunny side but once in a while I have linguica instead of bacon. If I don't go out, I stay in my pajamas until late in the morning. I watch football but this time of year switch back and forth to baseball. I often make myself a nice dinner, and I love a roast with mashed potatoes. I don't do any errands, and I never grocery shop. I'm partial to a Sunday nap on the couch. I make my bed and take a shower but those are my only exertions for the day. I love Sunday again.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Far Away Places: Willie Nelson
Many thanks to J. R. who decided this needed to be my theme song. I hadn't heard of the song before she sent it, and it is perfect.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns."
The morning has slipped away almost unnoticed. We all, the cats, dog and I, slept late lulled into deep sleep by the soft sound of the rain outside our windows. As I sit and type, I can hear the songs of birds and the patter of drops on leaves. This room has that cozy darkness a gentle rain brings. Gracie and Fern, one of my cats, are back asleep, sprawled in their usual comfortable spots. Fern is beside me on the couch and Gracie is in her favorite chair. I suspect theirs will be a lazy day.
The fall is a time of gathering, of getting ready for the winter. I don't put up any vegetables or pack the root cellar, but I buy books, candles which smell of apples and pumpkins, hardwood for the fireplace and soft music for when I'm sitting in my rocker by the fire with wine in hand while the wind huffs and blows outside my windows.
I will miss warm summer days, but I so love the crispness of fall and the chill of the morning air. The leaves have already begun to change, more from the dryness than the cold, but they are changing none the less. Mums hold sway in the gardens. Pumpkins are appearing in the farm stands. The house is cold in the morning. Soon enough it will be slippers weather.
The fall is a time of gathering, of getting ready for the winter. I don't put up any vegetables or pack the root cellar, but I buy books, candles which smell of apples and pumpkins, hardwood for the fireplace and soft music for when I'm sitting in my rocker by the fire with wine in hand while the wind huffs and blows outside my windows.
I will miss warm summer days, but I so love the crispness of fall and the chill of the morning air. The leaves have already begun to change, more from the dryness than the cold, but they are changing none the less. Mums hold sway in the gardens. Pumpkins are appearing in the farm stands. The house is cold in the morning. Soon enough it will be slippers weather.
Friday, September 14, 2007
"Half the fun of the travel is the esthetic of lostness."
This morning I booked a flight to Marrakech in January. I have been promising myself a trip so I took the plunge and will soon be able to cross one more place from my life list. The expectation of travels stirs my soul and going somewhere new both fascinates and scares me. My imagination is running full tilt and has already taken me shopping in the souk, and I swear I can hear the calls to prayer. I'll eat Moroccan food, wend my way through the narrow streets and stand on the roof of my hotel to watch the sun set behind the minarets. I am already excited.
It is always a source of amazement to me that I, this regular person, have been so many places. When I was a kid, I only knew one person who ever went any where, and he went to England to visit his grandmother. Maine and New Hampshire were far away, foreign places to us. I loved geography class and would pore over the pictures in my book and dream. I remember one page had a picture of Christ the Redeemer looming over Rio and another page had llamas and the Andes Mountains. I was hooked, and when I was twelve, I made a promise to myself to see the world.
My mode of travel has changed over the years. My back can't take sitting up all night on a train, and I find a sink a poor substitute for a long bath. My backpack was retired long ago. I like to eat in restaurants, but I'm still willing to try different foods. Walking has always been my favorite way to see a place, but I take more rest stops now, more coffee breaks. As with all my other trips, I'll plan and make a list of what I want to see but I'll leave time for the unexpected, for the surprises I seem to find. I'll start dreaming.
It is always a source of amazement to me that I, this regular person, have been so many places. When I was a kid, I only knew one person who ever went any where, and he went to England to visit his grandmother. Maine and New Hampshire were far away, foreign places to us. I loved geography class and would pore over the pictures in my book and dream. I remember one page had a picture of Christ the Redeemer looming over Rio and another page had llamas and the Andes Mountains. I was hooked, and when I was twelve, I made a promise to myself to see the world.
My mode of travel has changed over the years. My back can't take sitting up all night on a train, and I find a sink a poor substitute for a long bath. My backpack was retired long ago. I like to eat in restaurants, but I'm still willing to try different foods. Walking has always been my favorite way to see a place, but I take more rest stops now, more coffee breaks. As with all my other trips, I'll plan and make a list of what I want to see but I'll leave time for the unexpected, for the surprises I seem to find. I'll start dreaming.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
For What It's Worth: Buffalo Springfield
Not so strange a song for Coffee if you think of it in context. Folk music is often a reflection, and this song, written by Stephen Sills, is about a specific place in time. It reflects the feelings of so many of us who were growing up during those times, we who were learning about the world, politics and the pain of war.
MP3 File
MP3 File
Morning Glory: Tim Buckley
There is so much more to Tim Buckley than I could possible write here. He died young, of an overdose in 1975. His work had pretty much been a commercial disaster. The album from which this song comes, Goodbye and Hello, was released in 1967, received rave reviews and is considered, by many, to be his classic folk-rock album.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"A book is a garden, an orchard, a storehouse, a party, a company by the way, a counsellor, a multitude of counsellors."
I was of the Dick and Jane school of reading. I saw Dick. I saw Jane, and I saw both of them run. I saw Spot run too. Run, Spot, run. Puff was the cat, and I can't remember if Puff ran, but I suspect he did. They all ran and ran and ran. Then Dick and Jane each looked and saw Sally. She had an umbrella, but that was never one of the words. Poor Dick, Jane and Sally never did anything once. They did it several times. Jump, Sally, jump, jump, jump. While Sally did her marathon jumping, Dick and Jane got to watch. Look, Dick, see Sally jump. Look, Jane, see Sally jump. Look, look, look.
I remember when I first learned to read. I'd use my finger to guide my eyes even though there were only a few words on each page. If someone were reading out loud, my lips would follow along. We learned by sight and repetition. Those Dick and Jane books were filled with the same words used over and over again, but I never got bored. I was just too excited at learning to read. It seemed magical that all those letters put together in just the right way made words.
The first books I took out of the library were huge. It seemed the fewer the words, the bigger the book. I'd run my finger along under the words and read them aloud, as proud as can be. If I got stumped, my mother would help me figure out the word syllable by syllable. That was the start of my love affair with books.
I love touching the cover of a new book and turning the pages slowly. I never fold down a page corner. That's a sacrilege. My favorite books get read again and again. I can think of no better way to spend time than with an old friend.
I remember when I first learned to read. I'd use my finger to guide my eyes even though there were only a few words on each page. If someone were reading out loud, my lips would follow along. We learned by sight and repetition. Those Dick and Jane books were filled with the same words used over and over again, but I never got bored. I was just too excited at learning to read. It seemed magical that all those letters put together in just the right way made words.
The first books I took out of the library were huge. It seemed the fewer the words, the bigger the book. I'd run my finger along under the words and read them aloud, as proud as can be. If I got stumped, my mother would help me figure out the word syllable by syllable. That was the start of my love affair with books.
I love touching the cover of a new book and turning the pages slowly. I never fold down a page corner. That's a sacrilege. My favorite books get read again and again. I can think of no better way to spend time than with an old friend.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
"I'm not going to buy my kids an encyclopedia. Let them walk to school like I did."
This morning, on my way to a meeting, I was behind a school bus. It seemed to stop at just about every corner. Parents were standing or waiting in cars with their kids. One little girl, wearing a pink backpack, ran across the street to the bus and kept turning to wave at her mother. I was somehow reminded of being young and walking to school.
We lived about fifteen minutes from school as the crow flies. The crow, of course, didn't chat all the way, stop every now and then or just dawdle along. We all carried school bags, the kind with straps and buckles. I loved my plaid bag. When I first got it, I keep arranging and rearranging my supplies inside the bag. I also kept buckling and unbuckling. Knowing how to buckle made me feel older somehow. The bag had a strap and a handle. We all used the strap. I'd sling it across my chest and head out the door to school.
We lived on a hill, at not quite the top. There were no sidewalks all the way down the hill so we walked along the street. If I close my eyes, I can still see the houses I passed every day. One had a brick front, and I remember the boy who lived there had a great voice and sang in the boys' choir. Another house had a brown front, and there were older kids who lived there. They were never very nice to us. At the bottom of the hill was Mrs. McGaffigan's house. I always thought it was huge. The field was across the street, and the next part of the walk was mostly a straightaway. During the walk, we had to cross over the railroad tracks. In those days the trains still ran, and we'd check up and down the tracks, but we never saw one. The small station house was beside the tracks. We'd pass the back entrance of the new high school then a row of houses. One of the houses was really old and always rundown looking. It was torn down a long time ago. The people who lived there had a bakery for a short while. A friend lived in another house we passed. It was white with red shutters. It too is gone now, replaced by an apartment building. The school was on a tiny street with a couple of houses, the convent, the rectory and the church. In the back was the schoolyard. It always looked huge to me.
We walked to and from school no matter the weather. Sometimes, when it rained, at the end of the day, a neighbor might be there in a car, and we'd hope to be noticed. Most times we weren't, and we'd walk home in the rain. Those were the days we didn't dawdle. I made that same walk every school day for eight years, and when I close my eyes, I can still remember every part of my walk, all the houses and the people who lived in them.
We lived about fifteen minutes from school as the crow flies. The crow, of course, didn't chat all the way, stop every now and then or just dawdle along. We all carried school bags, the kind with straps and buckles. I loved my plaid bag. When I first got it, I keep arranging and rearranging my supplies inside the bag. I also kept buckling and unbuckling. Knowing how to buckle made me feel older somehow. The bag had a strap and a handle. We all used the strap. I'd sling it across my chest and head out the door to school.
We lived on a hill, at not quite the top. There were no sidewalks all the way down the hill so we walked along the street. If I close my eyes, I can still see the houses I passed every day. One had a brick front, and I remember the boy who lived there had a great voice and sang in the boys' choir. Another house had a brown front, and there were older kids who lived there. They were never very nice to us. At the bottom of the hill was Mrs. McGaffigan's house. I always thought it was huge. The field was across the street, and the next part of the walk was mostly a straightaway. During the walk, we had to cross over the railroad tracks. In those days the trains still ran, and we'd check up and down the tracks, but we never saw one. The small station house was beside the tracks. We'd pass the back entrance of the new high school then a row of houses. One of the houses was really old and always rundown looking. It was torn down a long time ago. The people who lived there had a bakery for a short while. A friend lived in another house we passed. It was white with red shutters. It too is gone now, replaced by an apartment building. The school was on a tiny street with a couple of houses, the convent, the rectory and the church. In the back was the schoolyard. It always looked huge to me.
We walked to and from school no matter the weather. Sometimes, when it rained, at the end of the day, a neighbor might be there in a car, and we'd hope to be noticed. Most times we weren't, and we'd walk home in the rain. Those were the days we didn't dawdle. I made that same walk every school day for eight years, and when I close my eyes, I can still remember every part of my walk, all the houses and the people who lived in them.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
I Love You So Much It Hurts: John Prine
This is one of those boy-girl sort of days. I listened to a few before I settled on John Prine, as if Prine were ever settling.
This is from 1995's Lost Dogs and Mixed Blessings.
MP3 File
This is from 1995's Lost Dogs and Mixed Blessings.
MP3 File
Cruel Mother: Cindy Mangsen
This song is from a 1984 Fast Folk Music Magazine CD. I think it a perfect Cindy Mangsen as she is a master at singing the traditional ballad. Cindy is also an amazing musician who accompanies herself on the banjo, guitar and concertina.
She has been married to Steve Gillette since the late 1980's, and they have released several albums together.
MP3 File
She has been married to Steve Gillette since the late 1980's, and they have released several albums together.
MP3 File
"The leaves fall, the wind blows, and the farm country slowly changes from the summer cottons into its winter wools."
The world just seems to slow down naturally after Labor Day. The summer frenzy to use every waking hour to its fullest is gone. The days are already getting shorter. The dryness has caused an early changing of the leaves, and the mornings seem to have a crispness. The warm days are now numbered.
It seems nature long ago figured a way to ease us into winter by slowing muting the bright colors of summer. The mums are nutmeg and cinnamon with some pots of yellow for the memory. The pumpkins are soft orange. The decorative corn is a faded yellow. The tomato plants have yielded their last and their leaves are curling and wilting so the squashes will now have their time with their funny shapes and odd colors. The gourds are a bright spot, and I love to buy a few for the table decoration.
The farm stand in fall is as much a favorite stop as it was in summer. Scarecrows stand with hay falling from their arms. Crisp apples sit in baskets and biting into one is the most wonderful sensation. Rows and rows of fall flowers make the choosing difficult as I walk up and down pulling my wagon behind me. Soon enough the wagon is overflowing. I quickly fill the trunk and hurry home to plant my garden. I know, though, I'll go back another day to fill the wagon yet again.
It seems nature long ago figured a way to ease us into winter by slowing muting the bright colors of summer. The mums are nutmeg and cinnamon with some pots of yellow for the memory. The pumpkins are soft orange. The decorative corn is a faded yellow. The tomato plants have yielded their last and their leaves are curling and wilting so the squashes will now have their time with their funny shapes and odd colors. The gourds are a bright spot, and I love to buy a few for the table decoration.
The farm stand in fall is as much a favorite stop as it was in summer. Scarecrows stand with hay falling from their arms. Crisp apples sit in baskets and biting into one is the most wonderful sensation. Rows and rows of fall flowers make the choosing difficult as I walk up and down pulling my wagon behind me. Soon enough the wagon is overflowing. I quickly fill the trunk and hurry home to plant my garden. I know, though, I'll go back another day to fill the wagon yet again.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Last Lonesome Blues: Spider John Koerner and Willie Murphy
My friend Greg, whom I met through Coffee, sent me the most amazing book called West Bank Boogie by Cyn Collins. It celebrates forty years of music from Minneapolis artists who influenced the soul of American music. Also included with the book is this unbelievable CD with seventeen songs from the artists highlighted in the book. Today I'm playing two of those songs and more will come later. The info on the artists is directly from the book.
"Spider John has been performing in the Dinkytown and West Bank areas of Minneapolis since 1958. Instrumental in reviving the blues scene and active in the very beginning of the American folk music revival, Koerner's music has inspired many including John Lennon and the Beatles, Dylan and Bonnie Raitt. "
"Willie Murphy for more than thirty years has been fashioning a blues and R&B legacy in the Twin Cities and beyond. His 1969 collaboration with Koerner, Running, Jumping, Standing Still, is widely acclaimed as a psychedelic/folk/blues classic. "
MP3 File
"Spider John has been performing in the Dinkytown and West Bank areas of Minneapolis since 1958. Instrumental in reviving the blues scene and active in the very beginning of the American folk music revival, Koerner's music has inspired many including John Lennon and the Beatles, Dylan and Bonnie Raitt. "
"Willie Murphy for more than thirty years has been fashioning a blues and R&B legacy in the Twin Cities and beyond. His 1969 collaboration with Koerner, Running, Jumping, Standing Still, is widely acclaimed as a psychedelic/folk/blues classic. "
MP3 File
Hillbilly Swing: Dakota Dave Hull and Sean Blackburn
More from West Bank Boogie: "Dakota Dave Hull is a classic player influenced by the traditional guitar music of Doc Watson and Dave Van Ronk. After playing with violinist Peter Ostroushko for a brief period in the mid 1970's, Hull connected with Sean Blackburn with whom he teamed for nearly a decade. Blackburn and Hull performed as a duo on A Prairie Home Companion from 1975-1984. Together they toured the country and recorded three albums."
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MP3 File
"Methinks it is a token of healthy and gentle characteristics, when women of high thoughts and accomplishments love to sew..."
I grew up at exactly the right time. I wasn't expected to learn all the young lady sorts of things like cooking, sewing and needlework. I didn't have to wear dresses all the time. No umbrellas in the sun for me, I was tanned and freckled. Getting dirty was perfectly acceptable behavior. I played softball and threw horseshoes. When I was in the fifth grade, I socked a guy for making fun of my friend. There were no expectations about my behavior because I was a girl. I was free to be whatever I wanted.
I never learned to cook. It just never interested me. At Christmas I'd decorate cookies, but that was about it for my time in the kitchen. In college, I had an apartment my junior and senior years and was forced to cook, but I was uninspired and ate mostly hot dogs, Dinty Moore beef stew and lots of soup. My chief kitchen utensil was a can opener. Without it I would have starved. It was in the Peace Corps when I first positively identified a stove and divined its purpose. I decided I'd give cooking and baking a try. I actually made sugar cookies that first Christmas, and they were delicious. I was mystified as to exactly how adding all those ingredients together in just the right amounts produced something so tasty. My first pie was pawpaw, and it looked exactly the way pies are supposed to look. My first taste convinced me that this cooking and baking experiment might have a future with me.
Today I love to cook and have elaborate dinner parties where I serve recipes I've never tried before but am willing to risk on company. We've been all over the world tasting foods from different countries. I know how to needlepoint and can do crewel. My work tends to be meticulous. I still don't sew well, but I've even willingly given that a try. It seems that all the girly things I avoided as a child I learned as an adult. If you had told me that when I was a kid, I would have snorted and laughed. Strange how things turn out sometimes.
I never learned to cook. It just never interested me. At Christmas I'd decorate cookies, but that was about it for my time in the kitchen. In college, I had an apartment my junior and senior years and was forced to cook, but I was uninspired and ate mostly hot dogs, Dinty Moore beef stew and lots of soup. My chief kitchen utensil was a can opener. Without it I would have starved. It was in the Peace Corps when I first positively identified a stove and divined its purpose. I decided I'd give cooking and baking a try. I actually made sugar cookies that first Christmas, and they were delicious. I was mystified as to exactly how adding all those ingredients together in just the right amounts produced something so tasty. My first pie was pawpaw, and it looked exactly the way pies are supposed to look. My first taste convinced me that this cooking and baking experiment might have a future with me.
Today I love to cook and have elaborate dinner parties where I serve recipes I've never tried before but am willing to risk on company. We've been all over the world tasting foods from different countries. I know how to needlepoint and can do crewel. My work tends to be meticulous. I still don't sew well, but I've even willingly given that a try. It seems that all the girly things I avoided as a child I learned as an adult. If you had told me that when I was a kid, I would have snorted and laughed. Strange how things turn out sometimes.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
“Do not let Sunday be taken from you If your soul has no Sunday, it becomes an orphan.”
Nothing is moving, and the air is thick enough to cut. Even the birds seem sluggish. I woke a little early, but all three of my papers were already sitting in the driveway in their orange sleeves. Outside was so quiet I almost wanted to tip toe when I went to get them. My neighbors are asleep. Their house is in night mode with shades down and windows closed. They stay on guard against the creatures of the night. The ground is still wet from last night's sprinkler, and the grass is heavy with dew. I can smell my fresh coffee.
If I had the power, I'd return Sunday to those days of yesteryear when I was a kid.
All the stores were closed, except for the little ones on the corner, the ones where an old woman or old man sat behind the counter. Church parking lots were filled. Uptown was pretty much deserted except for families coming from church for a bit of breakfast. The mothers and the little girls, in their Sunday best, wore hats. The men wore suits and their fedoras, no matter the season. Boys wore shirts and ties. People stopped to say hello as every one in town knew each other. A chorus of good morning's greeted you when you went inside for breakfast. The restaurant was small with wooden tables and stools at the counter. The walls had cardboard signs with all the specials but no one needed to read them. The specials hadn't changed in years. You always had the same thing for breakfast. Sunday, after all, was a day of rituals.
Once home, you were directed to change into your play clothes. We had three kinds of clothes back then: good clothes, school clothes and play clothes. Most times we'd change then just hang around the yard. It was always quiet on Sunday. You never heard kids playing or lawnmowers clacking along the grass. In the summer we might go to the beach or for a Sunday drive but mostly we just stayed home. We'd read the funnies while my dad read the rest of the paper. I remember Maggie and Jiggs, Mutt and Jeff and The Phantom. We'd find stuff to do to pass the time. I remember the first Sunday afternoon TV movie ever was Lassie Come Home. We sat glued to the set and in tears at the end. My mother would then call us to eat. Sunday dinner was the last ritual of the day.
If I had the power, I'd return Sunday to those days of yesteryear when I was a kid.
All the stores were closed, except for the little ones on the corner, the ones where an old woman or old man sat behind the counter. Church parking lots were filled. Uptown was pretty much deserted except for families coming from church for a bit of breakfast. The mothers and the little girls, in their Sunday best, wore hats. The men wore suits and their fedoras, no matter the season. Boys wore shirts and ties. People stopped to say hello as every one in town knew each other. A chorus of good morning's greeted you when you went inside for breakfast. The restaurant was small with wooden tables and stools at the counter. The walls had cardboard signs with all the specials but no one needed to read them. The specials hadn't changed in years. You always had the same thing for breakfast. Sunday, after all, was a day of rituals.
Once home, you were directed to change into your play clothes. We had three kinds of clothes back then: good clothes, school clothes and play clothes. Most times we'd change then just hang around the yard. It was always quiet on Sunday. You never heard kids playing or lawnmowers clacking along the grass. In the summer we might go to the beach or for a Sunday drive but mostly we just stayed home. We'd read the funnies while my dad read the rest of the paper. I remember Maggie and Jiggs, Mutt and Jeff and The Phantom. We'd find stuff to do to pass the time. I remember the first Sunday afternoon TV movie ever was Lassie Come Home. We sat glued to the set and in tears at the end. My mother would then call us to eat. Sunday dinner was the last ritual of the day.
Saturday, September 08, 2007
“Today was good. Today was fun. Tomorrow is another one.”
When I was in Ghana, my mother sent me wonderful boxes. Included in one was the game Password. My friends and I played it so often we found we knew the cards as if we had memorized them. We'd haul out the box, give each other clues and generally list all the words on that card in the exact order. I hate to admit it, but we played other people and acted as if we were struggling to figure the word. People were amazed at our abilities. We'd just shrug it off as luck.
My mother sent one of those wooden paddles with a red ball on an elastic. We'd go outside and paddle our arms away then crown the night's champion. We started slowly with only a few in a row then kept getting better and better. I think the record was over three hundred before the elastic broke. We tied a knot but it just never worked the same.
My aunt sent me a book of origami and a set of paint by numbers. I think I folded one of those origami papers a hundred times before I could get it to look like the picture. After that, I actually got pretty good. The paint by numbers was of cats. It ended up being my only art piece and was hung in a prominent spot on my wall.
We played word games, name games and twenty questions. We wrote plays and performed them on tape to save for posterity. I remember one with drums in the background, compliments of my neighbors, and something about a wound from the corps. The Marine Corps? Nope, the Peace Corps. They were hokey but great fun.
What I learned was that having fun is as simple as a children's toy or a piece of paper and a pen. I had a cassette player so I had music, but we provided the rest of our entertainment. We never lacked for something to do and spent most evenings together just laughing and enjoying each other's company.
I learned that simple joys are great fun.
My mother sent one of those wooden paddles with a red ball on an elastic. We'd go outside and paddle our arms away then crown the night's champion. We started slowly with only a few in a row then kept getting better and better. I think the record was over three hundred before the elastic broke. We tied a knot but it just never worked the same.
My aunt sent me a book of origami and a set of paint by numbers. I think I folded one of those origami papers a hundred times before I could get it to look like the picture. After that, I actually got pretty good. The paint by numbers was of cats. It ended up being my only art piece and was hung in a prominent spot on my wall.
We played word games, name games and twenty questions. We wrote plays and performed them on tape to save for posterity. I remember one with drums in the background, compliments of my neighbors, and something about a wound from the corps. The Marine Corps? Nope, the Peace Corps. They were hokey but great fun.
What I learned was that having fun is as simple as a children's toy or a piece of paper and a pen. I had a cassette player so I had music, but we provided the rest of our entertainment. We never lacked for something to do and spent most evenings together just laughing and enjoying each other's company.
I learned that simple joys are great fun.
Friday, September 07, 2007
Rocky Road Blues: Bill Monroe & His Bluegrass Boys
This came off a Best of Country Music album I happen to have. I reiterate: I don't like country music!
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MP3 File
“I just love, I love, I love movies.”
Yesterday my friends and I went to see the Silver Screen Collection. It was an exhibit filled with movie costumes and a few great props. We were the only three in the exhibit which was a good thing as we were noisy. We were just so excited at each new gown or costume we couldn't help but ooh and ah. I peered so closely at the beadwork and stitching I nearly fell over a couple of times. The exhibit was amazing. I had seen many of the movies but hadn't heard of a few, and I wanted to run home to watch them so I could say I saw that dress. Dorothy's blue and white dress was there as was the Terminator's leather. The ten commandments were up high which seemed only right. The Maltese falcon was there as was Indiana's gold idol.
I have always been a movie fan. If I were rich, I'd have a movie theater in my house. My rules would be simple. People can speak during the movie though I wouldn't expect a conversation. The popcorn would always have butter and as much as greasy fingers can hold. All of my favorite Saturday matinee candy would be in the case though I wouldn't expect there to be a run on JuJu Beads or any other projectiles. As for me, I want fresh Good and Plenty and lots of chocolate. Vanilla cokes would be available at the soda fountain and hot dogs would be turning on the spit. The chairs would be so comfortable you'd never want to move and the rug so deep and soft that you'd just have to go shoeless. The coming attractions wouldn't advertise movies with a release date of eight to ten years in the future, and I'd always show a cartoon first. I'd bring back the old serials and leave my audience on the edges of their seats. It would be the Saturday's of my youth with a few more amenities.
No matter how many times I've seen some movies, I watch them every time they're on TV. I just can't pass up Jaws. By now I can repeat dialogue, but that never matters. I still get chills as soon as the shark music starts. Independence Day is another one. As hokey as the president's July 4th speech is, I want to cheer every time I hear it. "I'm a fighter pilot, Will." Men in Black makes me laugh, and I just watched Star Wars yet again. I'm a sucker for black and white science fiction and I love the original The Thing and Them. "Make me a sergeant in charge of the booze."
I am an unabashed lover of movies.
I have always been a movie fan. If I were rich, I'd have a movie theater in my house. My rules would be simple. People can speak during the movie though I wouldn't expect a conversation. The popcorn would always have butter and as much as greasy fingers can hold. All of my favorite Saturday matinee candy would be in the case though I wouldn't expect there to be a run on JuJu Beads or any other projectiles. As for me, I want fresh Good and Plenty and lots of chocolate. Vanilla cokes would be available at the soda fountain and hot dogs would be turning on the spit. The chairs would be so comfortable you'd never want to move and the rug so deep and soft that you'd just have to go shoeless. The coming attractions wouldn't advertise movies with a release date of eight to ten years in the future, and I'd always show a cartoon first. I'd bring back the old serials and leave my audience on the edges of their seats. It would be the Saturday's of my youth with a few more amenities.
No matter how many times I've seen some movies, I watch them every time they're on TV. I just can't pass up Jaws. By now I can repeat dialogue, but that never matters. I still get chills as soon as the shark music starts. Independence Day is another one. As hokey as the president's July 4th speech is, I want to cheer every time I hear it. "I'm a fighter pilot, Will." Men in Black makes me laugh, and I just watched Star Wars yet again. I'm a sucker for black and white science fiction and I love the original The Thing and Them. "Make me a sergeant in charge of the booze."
I am an unabashed lover of movies.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
You Can't Fail Me Now: Loudon Wainwright III
Today is new album day. This is from LWIII's newest release: Strange Weirdos: Music From and Inspired by the film Knocked Up.
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The Way I Love You: Linda Thompson
This is from Versatile Heart, Linda Thompson's newest album released last month from Rounder.
This is my favorite song from the album which is saying a lot as the album is great. Thos song is hauntingly beautiful, a simply lovely ballad with Martha Wainwright adding her voice to give even more beauty to the song.
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This is my favorite song from the album which is saying a lot as the album is great. Thos song is hauntingly beautiful, a simply lovely ballad with Martha Wainwright adding her voice to give even more beauty to the song.
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“Orange is the happiest color.”
I used to love to color. I'd pull out the ragtag box of Crayola crayons and my coloring book then lie on the living room rug or sit at the kitchen table and color. Staying within the lines was a feat of age. When I was young, my choices of colors had no resemblance to their objects in real life. I was more of the Picasso school of coloring. A head might be blue with a few jagged lines for variety, and we're talking the whole head here. Lines were of no interest. The clothes were never matching; they too were one color and could just as easily have been as blue as the head. As I got older, my coloring improved, and I stepped into my impressionist period. Critics would have called my techniques sophisticated. My colors were muted, and I stayed within the lines. The lightly applied crayon give my subjects depth. Even with the limited palette provided by the box of crayons, my creations were masterpieces. My mother always displayed them in the art gallery on the refrigerator, but I never did get the showing I hoped would announce the discovery of this new talent to the art world.
Those crayons had great names. I'd be coloring with a friend and ask for red or blue, but not just any blue or red. I'd have to point to the red or blue I meant, the only way I could distinguish the colors. Prussian blue and Indian red or orange red and blue green were all possibilities. Then there was brick red, a personal favorite of mine. It was one of the first I grabbed when I'd color my new Christmas stocking coloring book. Santa was a perfect brick red. I'd color his beard white, of course, but white was always difficult to see so I just did it for the shine.
My mother would read the color to me when I'd rush over with a crayon. "What's this color?" went on for quite a while. I loved using maize or thistle. I learned the nuances of color from Crayola, but most of all, I learned to stay in the lines, at least on paper.
Those crayons had great names. I'd be coloring with a friend and ask for red or blue, but not just any blue or red. I'd have to point to the red or blue I meant, the only way I could distinguish the colors. Prussian blue and Indian red or orange red and blue green were all possibilities. Then there was brick red, a personal favorite of mine. It was one of the first I grabbed when I'd color my new Christmas stocking coloring book. Santa was a perfect brick red. I'd color his beard white, of course, but white was always difficult to see so I just did it for the shine.
My mother would read the color to me when I'd rush over with a crayon. "What's this color?" went on for quite a while. I loved using maize or thistle. I learned the nuances of color from Crayola, but most of all, I learned to stay in the lines, at least on paper.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Hello Stranger: Norman Blake
Norman Blake is a legend. He has been singing traditional bluegrass and old-time music for the last fifty years or more.
He played guitar and dobro as a member of Cash's group. Along with country and western sessions, Norman recorded with Bob Dylan on the Nashville Skyline album. He was a member of Kris Kristofferson's first road group, playing guitar and dobro, and did a seasonal tour with Joan Baez playing mandolin, guitar, and dobro. Norman recorded with both groups. He left Kristofferson to join and record with John Hartford's Aeroplane Band. After that group dissolved, Norman toured with John Hartford as his accompanist for a year and a half. He also received a gold record for his participation on the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band's legendary Will the Circle be Unbroken album.
This is from a 1985 Rounder released album called Lighthouse on the Shore.
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He played guitar and dobro as a member of Cash's group. Along with country and western sessions, Norman recorded with Bob Dylan on the Nashville Skyline album. He was a member of Kris Kristofferson's first road group, playing guitar and dobro, and did a seasonal tour with Joan Baez playing mandolin, guitar, and dobro. Norman recorded with both groups. He left Kristofferson to join and record with John Hartford's Aeroplane Band. After that group dissolved, Norman toured with John Hartford as his accompanist for a year and a half. He also received a gold record for his participation on the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band's legendary Will the Circle be Unbroken album.
This is from a 1985 Rounder released album called Lighthouse on the Shore.
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In Heaven: Suzy Bogguss
This is from the new Suzy Bogguss album Sweet Danger. The cover has a warning which says, "This music is not what you expect! Listen with an open mind." It is Suzy in a whole new direction, and it isn't toward country.
The album has a jazzy feel to it leaning way over into more of a pop sound than I expected. I'm used to a whole different Suzy, and I suspect it will take a few listens to get familiar with this one, but I liked this song as soon as I heard it. I'm keeping the album handy for those other listens.
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The album has a jazzy feel to it leaning way over into more of a pop sound than I expected. I'm used to a whole different Suzy, and I suspect it will take a few listens to get familiar with this one, but I liked this song as soon as I heard it. I'm keeping the album handy for those other listens.
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"My test of a good novel is dreading to begin the last chapter."
My house was only 64 degrees when I came downstairs this morning. I've come outside but with the deck in shadow and a light breeze blowing, it's chilly. I'm wearing a sweatshirt. The year is growing older and soon enough the deck will no longer be my refuge. I've come to love mornings. I sit with the papers, my fresh coffee, Gracie for company, the chattering squirrels and the birds. The green leaves still make a canopy, and I sit high enough to feel a part of the trees. Soon, though, the yard will look bare, and I'll be reacquainted with my neighbors' houses, but it will be a while yet before I desert my deck, and I'll bundle up in warmer clothes until sense forces me inside for the season.
Yesterday I bought two books and spent an entire day reading one of them. It gives me such pleasure to find a book which keeps me glued to its pages and oblivious to the rest of the world. I stopped for a bit of nourishment, a bathroom break or two and peeks at the Red Sox game. The book is not destined to be a classic nor is it fodder for the cocktail circuit. No one will speak of it in hushed tones, and it won't be on a must read list. I suspect Oprah doesn't peruse the mystery section of her book store too often so she'll miss it as well. It was about a kidnapping: the before, the during and the after. It had violence and not a few dead bodies, but I couldn't wait to finish it. I sat in my quiet den until I had read the last word and then closed the cover with an audible sigh. I would have been more regretful at having read it so quickly except I have another book. Today I get to spend another day reading on the deck.
Life is just amazing filled as it is with such wonders as books.
Yesterday I bought two books and spent an entire day reading one of them. It gives me such pleasure to find a book which keeps me glued to its pages and oblivious to the rest of the world. I stopped for a bit of nourishment, a bathroom break or two and peeks at the Red Sox game. The book is not destined to be a classic nor is it fodder for the cocktail circuit. No one will speak of it in hushed tones, and it won't be on a must read list. I suspect Oprah doesn't peruse the mystery section of her book store too often so she'll miss it as well. It was about a kidnapping: the before, the during and the after. It had violence and not a few dead bodies, but I couldn't wait to finish it. I sat in my quiet den until I had read the last word and then closed the cover with an audible sigh. I would have been more regretful at having read it so quickly except I have another book. Today I get to spend another day reading on the deck.
Life is just amazing filled as it is with such wonders as books.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Brother, Can You Spare a Dime: Spanky and Our Gang
This song is from their self-titled 1967 debut album.
I remember so many great songs of theirs I am always amazed that they lasted only a couple of years together. During that time they placed five songs in the Billboard Top 40.
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I remember so many great songs of theirs I am always amazed that they lasted only a couple of years together. During that time they placed five songs in the Billboard Top 40.
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Walking Down the Line: Eilen Jewell
I heard this song on WUMB and had to wait until they published their playlist to find the singer. Eilen Jewell is Boston based which make me feel just a bit silly not knowing her.
This is from Letters from Sinners and Strangers, her national debut album released in July. Song Illinois had a posting on her I missed which is too bad as I would have found her sooner.
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This is from Letters from Sinners and Strangers, her national debut album released in July. Song Illinois had a posting on her I missed which is too bad as I would have found her sooner.
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“Remember you're a star. Never go across the alley even to dump garbage unless you are dressed to the teeth.”
I never worried about much when I was young. Clean, folded clothes magically appeared in my bureau drawers just as I was running out of socks and underwear. Tasty food made it to the table three times a day. If I opened the cabinet, I found cookies and in the fridge was milk. They never seemed to disappear. Finish a bottle of milk and another would mysteriously take its place. I'd leave for school each morning, and when I'd get home, I'd find my room a bit neater and my bed made. I had few responsibilities. My brother had to empty the trash so I would sometimes get stuck with the garbage. My mother had this plastic triangular holder with holes all over the bottom. For some reason I remember a yellow one. It was for garbage, and it sat right by the sink. When it got full, I had to empty it in the garbage pail outside. The garbage pail was in the ground right beside the steps and covered with a metal lid. The lid was hinged and you lifted it by stepping on a lip on the side. The pail itself had a handle so the garbage man could pull it out to empty. In the summer, even when the top was closed, that garbage pail always had flies landing on it or just flying around hoping to get inside. Sometimes, just before the garbage man came, there would be maggots wiggling around inside. I was never a squeamish kid so I used to watch them for a while then dump the garbage right on top of them, even to sort of aiming. The worst thing to happen was a spillover, my missing the pail. I then had to find the least offensive way to get that garbage back into the pail. I found that grosser than the maggots.
The distinction between trash and garbage seems to have disappeared. We had trashmen, and we had garbagemen, all with different, specific responsibilites. Watching the garbage man walk into the yard with that huge barrel slung over his shoulder was one of the highlights of the week. He was always filthy and wore the grubbiest gloves. He'd drop that barrel, pop open the lid, pick up the pail and empty the garbage, all without saying a word to his appreciative audience. It doesn't sound like much, but we considered it one of the better shows of summer.
The distinction between trash and garbage seems to have disappeared. We had trashmen, and we had garbagemen, all with different, specific responsibilites. Watching the garbage man walk into the yard with that huge barrel slung over his shoulder was one of the highlights of the week. He was always filthy and wore the grubbiest gloves. He'd drop that barrel, pop open the lid, pick up the pail and empty the garbage, all without saying a word to his appreciative audience. It doesn't sound like much, but we considered it one of the better shows of summer.
Monday, September 03, 2007
“Those who get lost on the way to school will never find their way through life”
My mother used to tease us and give a countdown to school. It wasn't as much to cause pain as to give her relief. It always seemed that by the time school rolled around we had done just about everything time and again all summer. We were bored. And what do kids do when they're bored? They whine and complain to their mothers. I'm just guessing here, but I suspect my mother found all that whining annoying. When she screamed for us to get out of her sight, we got the hint. We'd sit on the steps trying to figure out something to do. Nothing much piqued our interest. It was as if the coming of school had taken the shine from the world. Gladness had fled.
The night before school started was a bath night, and it wasn't even Saturday. We were even forced to bed earlier than usual. My mother laid out our new clothes as the first day of school we got to wear real clothes instead of uniforms. I would never had admitted it, but it was exciting having new clothes and new shoes. I think it was school's saving grace.
We were up early and a bit nervous. After breakfast, we'd put on our new clothes, grab our school bags, new pencil cases, meet our friends then start the long mile. We'd stand around talking in the playground until the nun rang the bell then we lined up to pass through the doors of lower level academia. Summer was a distant memory.
The night before school started was a bath night, and it wasn't even Saturday. We were even forced to bed earlier than usual. My mother laid out our new clothes as the first day of school we got to wear real clothes instead of uniforms. I would never had admitted it, but it was exciting having new clothes and new shoes. I think it was school's saving grace.
We were up early and a bit nervous. After breakfast, we'd put on our new clothes, grab our school bags, new pencil cases, meet our friends then start the long mile. We'd stand around talking in the playground until the nun rang the bell then we lined up to pass through the doors of lower level academia. Summer was a distant memory.
Sunday, September 02, 2007
When Did We Have Sauerkraut: Lou and Peter Berryman
The theme today is no theme. Nothing ties these songs together. I'm sort of cleaning up, much like in this song.
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MP3 File
"Shall I not have intelligence with the earth? Am I not partly leaves and vegetable mould myself."
We never had any sort of a garden when I was a kid. My dad planted flowers along the front of the house and that was about it. We would buy our home grown vegetables from little stands along the road. My dad could hardly wait until August and the tomatoes. He would take those luscious home grown beauties, cut them into slices, plop a little mayonnaise on the side and munch tomato after tomato. He was also a whiz at eating corn. I am still amazed at how quickly he could decimate a single ear. He always reminded me of a messy human typewriter. He'd move from row to row without even a breather.
I swear zucchini was a side dish with the loaves and fishes. Neighbors, friends and even strangers offer zucchini and dangle their first borns as bait. I see signs along the road next to mounds of zucchini which simply say "Free for the Hauling."Plant a zucchini, feed the world.
I don't eat summer squash either. I find it lacks flavor. I'm thinking no one thought enough of it to give the darn thing a name. That's like naming your eldest first kid.
I love my farm stands. They have all these fresh, beautiful vegetables, but they also have baked goods, local jams and jellies, farm cheese and pretty soon I'll find the just harvested cranberries for my chutney. Nothing is more beautiful or more colorful than a farm stand filled with fresh vegetables.
I swear zucchini was a side dish with the loaves and fishes. Neighbors, friends and even strangers offer zucchini and dangle their first borns as bait. I see signs along the road next to mounds of zucchini which simply say "Free for the Hauling."Plant a zucchini, feed the world.
I don't eat summer squash either. I find it lacks flavor. I'm thinking no one thought enough of it to give the darn thing a name. That's like naming your eldest first kid.
I love my farm stands. They have all these fresh, beautiful vegetables, but they also have baked goods, local jams and jellies, farm cheese and pretty soon I'll find the just harvested cranberries for my chutney. Nothing is more beautiful or more colorful than a farm stand filled with fresh vegetables.
Saturday, September 01, 2007
"Mumps, measles, and puppy love are terrible after twenty."
When I finally decided to tackle Coffee today, I went to the hind most parts of my memories and hunted through drawer after drawer. Being sick must have been influencing even my memories as I found plenty of runny noses and colds. It was when I hit a drawer with the big three that I was finally inspired. Here were measles, mumps and chicken pox. We all got them. If one kid in our class got one of the big three, we were all doomed to suffer. The chicken pox were the worst. Not only did our entire body itch, but we had to listen to our mothers yelling at us not to scratch. "Did we want to leave pox marks so everyone would know our mother let us scratch?"Once one kid in the family got it, all kids were expected to get it so each kid was exposed. My mother hoped to get it all over at once. If the scratching got too bad, she'd dump us into an oatmeal, baking soda bath. It was disgusting but actually stopped the itching. My sisters had to wear gloves. They were too little to fight the incessant urge to scratch. Going back to school was also a bit traumatic as we would still have a few scabs hanging around, and we all know kids aren't kind.
Having the measles was almost as bad. We had to sit or lie in a dark room with shades down doing nothing. We couldn't watch television or read. My mother warned us we'd go blind if we did. There I was sick, bored and whiny, a perfect joy. The only saving grace about measles was they looked sort of cool.
Mumps hurt and made us look like chipmunks hoarding nuts for the winter. They were another expose the whole family disease. My mother would go from room to room caring for the four of us. We were none too sympathetic. After all, we were the ones who had to suffer.
We all loved a sick day, but we preferred them on our terms. We never really expected to be sick.
Having the measles was almost as bad. We had to sit or lie in a dark room with shades down doing nothing. We couldn't watch television or read. My mother warned us we'd go blind if we did. There I was sick, bored and whiny, a perfect joy. The only saving grace about measles was they looked sort of cool.
Mumps hurt and made us look like chipmunks hoarding nuts for the winter. They were another expose the whole family disease. My mother would go from room to room caring for the four of us. We were none too sympathetic. After all, we were the ones who had to suffer.
We all loved a sick day, but we preferred them on our terms. We never really expected to be sick.
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