Today's post just led to favorites.
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Friday, February 29, 2008
"We do not remember days; we remember moments. "
Today I have little to say. No memories ooze from the back drawers of my mind. The day looks like most other days of late: sunny with blue skies. It is no warmer than yesterday. I woke up, let the dog out, went to get the papers in the driveway, sat down with a cup of coffee in hand and read said papers. The news hasn't changed. After I write Coffee, the second series of my daily rituals will begin: teeth, cats, bed and clothes. Maybe, just maybe, I'll wear mismatched socks.
Ralph has been sending me pictures taken during our training in Ghana. When Ralph mentioned them on his blog, he used enthralled to describe our reactions to those pictures. He was right. One picture speaks volumes. The last three he sent were taken late into our training. We had lost the deer in the headlights look we all had when training first started. We had become comfortable with Ghana, ourselves and each other. We had survived training and were ready to embark on our individual adventures. We were self-assured. Ghana felt like home.
I have a million memories, a million pictures emblazoned in my mind. The first weekend in Accra, I was the winner in an attempted purse snatching. I remember it happened on a bridge on the way to the Lido. I can still see the man's face as he struggled to steal my bag. I remember my first visit to a village market. I walked in, took a whiff and ran back outside to be sick. I remember we all walked to the chief's house in Winneba, our first training stop, to greet him. There we were, the largest parade of white people the village had ever seen. I remember riding in a Land Rover and thinking it looked like a picture from National Geographic. If I close my eyes, I can see the bar across from the school in Winneba. We had a nightly ritual of playing hearts and drinking warm cokes. I remember walking through the gates of my school for the first time and seeing the hugest baobab tree. I remember Legon and waiting for a tro tro by the university gates. I remember our swearing in ceremony.
The memories of those two years are kept close in my heart.
Ralph has been sending me pictures taken during our training in Ghana. When Ralph mentioned them on his blog, he used enthralled to describe our reactions to those pictures. He was right. One picture speaks volumes. The last three he sent were taken late into our training. We had lost the deer in the headlights look we all had when training first started. We had become comfortable with Ghana, ourselves and each other. We had survived training and were ready to embark on our individual adventures. We were self-assured. Ghana felt like home.
I have a million memories, a million pictures emblazoned in my mind. The first weekend in Accra, I was the winner in an attempted purse snatching. I remember it happened on a bridge on the way to the Lido. I can still see the man's face as he struggled to steal my bag. I remember my first visit to a village market. I walked in, took a whiff and ran back outside to be sick. I remember we all walked to the chief's house in Winneba, our first training stop, to greet him. There we were, the largest parade of white people the village had ever seen. I remember riding in a Land Rover and thinking it looked like a picture from National Geographic. If I close my eyes, I can see the bar across from the school in Winneba. We had a nightly ritual of playing hearts and drinking warm cokes. I remember walking through the gates of my school for the first time and seeing the hugest baobab tree. I remember Legon and waiting for a tro tro by the university gates. I remember our swearing in ceremony.
The memories of those two years are kept close in my heart.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Erie Canal: Bruce Springsteen
This is from We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions. This was Bruce and a bunch of musicians paying tribute to Pete Seeger by singing songs Seeger wrote and others we associate with Pete, the songs which somehow are always labeled Americana.
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From My Window: Bill Jones
Before you wonder if I misnamed this, Bill is short for Belinda. She is English which is why we probably don't hear much of her though she has toured the US. This song is from Bill's third album, Two Year Winter, released in 2003.
I really liked this song when I heard it, but I don't know a whole lot about her as I just happened on her music. I didn't go hunting figuring you will if you'd like to know more.
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I really liked this song when I heard it, but I don't know a whole lot about her as I just happened on her music. I didn't go hunting figuring you will if you'd like to know more.
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"Sooner or later we all quote our mothers."
Whether clothes matched wasn't much of an issue for me when I was young. I rooted around in my bureau drawers until I found a top and a bottom. If one happened to be striped and the other plaid, I didn't care. Clothes were just clothes, not fashion. Through no effort of mine, though, my socks always matched each other. My mother folded one sock over the other when she did laundry so we always had sock balls in our bureau drawers. That made for fine foot fashion but was tough on the socks. After so much folding, the elastic tops of the socks used to give way and the socks would bunch at the ankles. I really didn't mind, but my mother was constantly reminding us to pull up our socks. If I had known the word back then, I would have mentioned how ironic that was.
My mother always carried Kleenex in her pocketbook. Some were unused, some had lipstick marks and all had bits of tobacco from my mother's Pall Malls. She'd pull out a Kleenex, shake it, hold it to our noses and tell us to blow. Back into the bag it would go, saved for another time. If we were going somewhere like our grandparents' house, my mother would yank out a Kleenex from her bag, wet it with her tongue and clean our faces so we'd be presentable when we arrived. We'd try to pull away from her and that Kleenex, but she generally had us by the back of the neck which made for little wiggle room. She'd scrub the offending spot, let the former dirty kid loose then grab the next one of us. I think irony would have worked really well here too.
As kids, we were barraged with indignities, and sagging socks was the least of them. My mother didn't care who was around. She'd constantly remind us to wash up, brush our teeth, eat our vegetables and sit up straight. She'd yell out the back door, and all the neighborhood could hear when we needed a bath or were close to catching our death from cold. I'm sure all the neighbors sighed with relief when my mother announced our bedtime. Once we were inside the house, my mother tried to tone down our youthful enthusiasm. She'd constantly warn us to lower our voices. She'd remind us we don't want the neighbors knowing all our business.
My mother always carried Kleenex in her pocketbook. Some were unused, some had lipstick marks and all had bits of tobacco from my mother's Pall Malls. She'd pull out a Kleenex, shake it, hold it to our noses and tell us to blow. Back into the bag it would go, saved for another time. If we were going somewhere like our grandparents' house, my mother would yank out a Kleenex from her bag, wet it with her tongue and clean our faces so we'd be presentable when we arrived. We'd try to pull away from her and that Kleenex, but she generally had us by the back of the neck which made for little wiggle room. She'd scrub the offending spot, let the former dirty kid loose then grab the next one of us. I think irony would have worked really well here too.
As kids, we were barraged with indignities, and sagging socks was the least of them. My mother didn't care who was around. She'd constantly remind us to wash up, brush our teeth, eat our vegetables and sit up straight. She'd yell out the back door, and all the neighborhood could hear when we needed a bath or were close to catching our death from cold. I'm sure all the neighbors sighed with relief when my mother announced our bedtime. Once we were inside the house, my mother tried to tone down our youthful enthusiasm. She'd constantly warn us to lower our voices. She'd remind us we don't want the neighbors knowing all our business.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
We'll Meet Along the Way: Hem
That would be Sally Ellyson singing lead on this song from Hem's 2006 album Funnel Cloud. The band is from Brooklyn which might, at first glance, seem a strange breeding ground for country rock, but the group has coined its own description for their style: countrypolitan.
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New Virginia Creeper: Old Crow Medicine Show
You can thank WUMB for this song. I heard it and knew it was a perfect posting. The song livens up the day, dark as it is. The song comes from Big Iron World released in 2006.
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"Language is the dress of thought."
My car is at the garage. It has become loud and wobbly. The windshield wipers need replacing, the oil changed and the car inspected. Beyond the obvious I just mentioned, I lack knowledge about cars. If I turn the key, I expect the engine to come to life with a reassuring purr. If I hear otherwise, I call the station and make an appointment. I have the oil changed regularly, and when I do, I give the mechanic my key and tell him to have his way with my car. He usually does. My car has served me well. It has only needed regular maintenance and a few new tires. This time, however, it will need a bit more, and I'm okay with that. I want to hear that reassuring purr again.
My expertise is with words. I can mend a split infinitive or a dangling participle. I know me comes after a preposition as in he gave it to John and me. I can identify the kind of sentence, its individual parts and place each of those parts in a diagram. I care about adverbs getting the respect they deserve. I despair when I hear dialogue on television. Don't get me wrong here. I am all for creativity, for developing new words and for using old ones in different ways, but I also hold fast to the belief that language has a structure which holds it altogether, and we need to champion its cause.
Medical shows hire doctors as technical advisers. Military shows hire retired generals. Lawyers offer legal advice. Television is awash with experts. Where, then, are the experts in the English language? Where are the people who can say change that pronoun to me instead of I, the people who vengefully cross hopefully from any script, the people who recognize that objective can also be a case, not just a military action? Find them! Scour the country! Give them red pens and let them loose. We'll all be the better for it.
My expertise is with words. I can mend a split infinitive or a dangling participle. I know me comes after a preposition as in he gave it to John and me. I can identify the kind of sentence, its individual parts and place each of those parts in a diagram. I care about adverbs getting the respect they deserve. I despair when I hear dialogue on television. Don't get me wrong here. I am all for creativity, for developing new words and for using old ones in different ways, but I also hold fast to the belief that language has a structure which holds it altogether, and we need to champion its cause.
Medical shows hire doctors as technical advisers. Military shows hire retired generals. Lawyers offer legal advice. Television is awash with experts. Where, then, are the experts in the English language? Where are the people who can say change that pronoun to me instead of I, the people who vengefully cross hopefully from any script, the people who recognize that objective can also be a case, not just a military action? Find them! Scour the country! Give them red pens and let them loose. We'll all be the better for it.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Keeper of the Mountain: The Flatlanders
I had trouble choosing songs today and decided to go with THE as my keyword. It led me to The Flatlanders. This song is from their most aptly named album, More of a Legend Than a Band, recorded in 1972 and released by Rounder in 1991. It was their only album before the group disbanded and its members, Jimmie Dale Gilmore, Joe Ely, and Butch Hancock, started remarkable solo careers.
The band had a few reunion concerts and finally released their follow up album in 2002 and another a couple of years later.
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The band had a few reunion concerts and finally released their follow up album in 2002 and another a couple of years later.
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World Spins Madly On: The Weepies
Deb Talan and Steve Tannen began writing together the first night they met and soon formed THE WEEPIES. “We were fans of each other. When we met, there was an electric connection that made us both nervous. After the show, when everyone went home, we stayed up all night playing songs for each other, drinking a bottle of wine and trading an acoustic guitar back and forth in a tiny apartment,” says Talan. "That night has lasted four years so far," adds Tannen, though it's been a bit longer since that quote.
This is from Say I Am You released in 2006.
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This is from Say I Am You released in 2006.
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"Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana."
When I was young, time just kept on passing, and I seldom noticed. I saw the year as a series of events, not as a length of time. Each birthday I'd get older, but one year older never changed my life in any way. The milestones by which time is measured were far into my future. I just got taller.
When I turned thirteen, I expected a password and a secret handshake. After all, I was now a teenager and had certain responsibilities. But no rules came in the mail. I was on my own. My generation hadn't yet perfected its brand of rebellion so I had to improvise. I tried sulking and staying in my room. I complained about having to spend Sunday's with the family. I whined. I made life miserable. I was a great thirteen.
Personal milestones inched me closer and closer to adulthood. My body changed just as the films said it would, and I wasn't at all excited by most of those changes. I started wearing a bra and shaving my legs. I started high school. All of a sudden I had a future.
That we were going to college in four short years set my mind spinning. I never used to plan beyond the next day, and here I was thinking in years. But I didn't bemoan the loss of my childhood. All of a sudden I had no forced bedtime. That was my decision. Weekends meant going out on Friday and Saturday nights. I had graduated from matinées. I was learning Latin and French. My friends came from different towns. My world was expanding, and I found it a great adventure. Milestones now happened constantly. There was my first date, my first break up and my first less than innocent lip to lip kiss. I smoked my first cigarette. I peppered my speech with a few hells and damns. I was rebelling with a bit more fervor.
I went to college. I learned Spanish and barely grasped the elements of physics. I learned about guns and butter. I explored philosophy and started to refine my own. I learned how to think for myself, to question the status quo and to demand change. I learned that we all have a responsibility to make the world a better place. That lesson led me to the Peace Corps, the most tremendous milestone of my life. It was where I became most of the me I am now.
When I came home, time again took on less importance. There were few milestones. I settled into a career. The sun rose and set every day. Winters came and went. The years passed quickly, and I seldom noticed, until they brought me to now. I get to stay up as late as I want. I can go out any night of the week. I have no school clothes for the first time since 1953. I am as tall as I'll ever be.
When I turned thirteen, I expected a password and a secret handshake. After all, I was now a teenager and had certain responsibilities. But no rules came in the mail. I was on my own. My generation hadn't yet perfected its brand of rebellion so I had to improvise. I tried sulking and staying in my room. I complained about having to spend Sunday's with the family. I whined. I made life miserable. I was a great thirteen.
Personal milestones inched me closer and closer to adulthood. My body changed just as the films said it would, and I wasn't at all excited by most of those changes. I started wearing a bra and shaving my legs. I started high school. All of a sudden I had a future.
That we were going to college in four short years set my mind spinning. I never used to plan beyond the next day, and here I was thinking in years. But I didn't bemoan the loss of my childhood. All of a sudden I had no forced bedtime. That was my decision. Weekends meant going out on Friday and Saturday nights. I had graduated from matinées. I was learning Latin and French. My friends came from different towns. My world was expanding, and I found it a great adventure. Milestones now happened constantly. There was my first date, my first break up and my first less than innocent lip to lip kiss. I smoked my first cigarette. I peppered my speech with a few hells and damns. I was rebelling with a bit more fervor.
I went to college. I learned Spanish and barely grasped the elements of physics. I learned about guns and butter. I explored philosophy and started to refine my own. I learned how to think for myself, to question the status quo and to demand change. I learned that we all have a responsibility to make the world a better place. That lesson led me to the Peace Corps, the most tremendous milestone of my life. It was where I became most of the me I am now.
When I came home, time again took on less importance. There were few milestones. I settled into a career. The sun rose and set every day. Winters came and went. The years passed quickly, and I seldom noticed, until they brought me to now. I get to stay up as late as I want. I can go out any night of the week. I have no school clothes for the first time since 1953. I am as tall as I'll ever be.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Houses in the Field: John Gorka
John Gorka tells stories with music, and this is one of his best. This song is the story of a changing world, one John has personalized with names. It is almost a lament.
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Carolina Pines: Kate Wolf
Kate Wolf began her musical career in the early seventies as a front person for the Wildwood Flower. She went solo, wrote most of her own songs and never had a hit. Her music is about life, about family, romance and her native Northern California. Her voice has lower than average vocals which seem to project a sense of comfort. She died in 1986 of leukemia. Her records have all been re-released. Her circle of followers continues to grow.
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“What is more agreeable than one's home?”
When I moved into my house thirty plus years ago, I had a desk, a TV, a studio couch, two pots and a frying pan. The telephone guy, here to put in two phones, looked around and asked if I wasn't living a bit primitively. I was, but I didn't mind. This was, after all, my house, and I had enough furniture to set up housekeeping. I had a TV to watch, a desk which doubled as a table and a studio couch for a bed, all conveniently placed in one room. My first dinner guests and I sat on the floor in the dining room and ate off paper plates. They didn't mind.
When I bought my house, the mortgage was half my month's salary so I bought furniture slowly, one piece at a time. A few pieces were new and a few were old, bought at auction. My guest room beds were $10.00 each, and I still have them. The table in the living room was only twenty four dollars, bought at the tail end of an all day auction, and I love it still. It is an old wooden kitchen table with two drawers in the front and a single leaf in the back. The dining room table was built by a carpenter using plans from a book of Shaker designs I had. It seemed expensive at the time. A friend's father used those same books and build a shelf and two sconces which are also in the dining room. My bed and bureau came from friends who had no place for them. I later added a rocker and a table of the same dark wood. Next to my bed is an old, very lovely table my sisters gave me as a housewarming gift. In each bedroom is a wall length shelf I had built the first year I lived here. Both are pretty well filled with books and neat stuff like old souvenirs and bells. This room still has that desk I started with way back when. It is not the right style for a computer, but I've adjusted. The kitchen has a butcher block I bought over twenty years ago when a store was closing. It was a really great buy. The rest of the furniture hasn't been here as long, and the couches seem to come and go. A new living room couch means the old one gets moved into the den. Soon, though, I may have to break down and buy new furniture for in here. That will be the first time this room has had other than hand me downs.
When I stand and look around my house, it is amazing to me that so much time has passed since I first walked into this house.
When I bought my house, the mortgage was half my month's salary so I bought furniture slowly, one piece at a time. A few pieces were new and a few were old, bought at auction. My guest room beds were $10.00 each, and I still have them. The table in the living room was only twenty four dollars, bought at the tail end of an all day auction, and I love it still. It is an old wooden kitchen table with two drawers in the front and a single leaf in the back. The dining room table was built by a carpenter using plans from a book of Shaker designs I had. It seemed expensive at the time. A friend's father used those same books and build a shelf and two sconces which are also in the dining room. My bed and bureau came from friends who had no place for them. I later added a rocker and a table of the same dark wood. Next to my bed is an old, very lovely table my sisters gave me as a housewarming gift. In each bedroom is a wall length shelf I had built the first year I lived here. Both are pretty well filled with books and neat stuff like old souvenirs and bells. This room still has that desk I started with way back when. It is not the right style for a computer, but I've adjusted. The kitchen has a butcher block I bought over twenty years ago when a store was closing. It was a really great buy. The rest of the furniture hasn't been here as long, and the couches seem to come and go. A new living room couch means the old one gets moved into the den. Soon, though, I may have to break down and buy new furniture for in here. That will be the first time this room has had other than hand me downs.
When I stand and look around my house, it is amazing to me that so much time has passed since I first walked into this house.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
I Wonder Who's Kissing Her Now: Ted Weems with Perry Como
Today's posts are the top songs in years significant to me.
1947: This was the year it all started.
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1947: This was the year it all started.
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I Got You Babe: Sonny and Cher
1965: I graduated from high school and started college.
Lots happened between this year and 1947, but I didn't think walking, talking and potty training merited their own songs. Starting school was big but I'll save that song for another day.
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Lots happened between this year and 1947, but I didn't think walking, talking and potty training merited their own songs. Starting school was big but I'll save that song for another day.
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Aquarius/Let The Sun Shine In: The Fifth Dimension
1969: I graduated from college in late May and a few weeks later was in Africa for Peace Corps training.
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Joy to the World: Three Dog Night
1971: I came home from the Peace Corps and started working at the school where I stayed for thirty three years.
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“A lively understandable spirit Once entertained you. It will come again. Be still. Wait.”
Last night was a bust. I tried just about everything to stay entertained and failed miserably. I read for a bit, but my mind wandered, and I lost track of the characters. Crossword puzzles were next, and I did no better. When the clue said chip, I racked my brain for a brand with five letters. Intel, the answer, was not one of them. My chips all went best with dips. My next amusement was the TV. I tried the guide but nothing jumped out at me so I channel surfed. Bull riding was one of the options, and I gave that my attention for four or five riders. I learned a bit about the bulls. I then switched to the scifi channel. Some vine had resurfaced from its concrete bunker to start absorbing humans. That movie didn't hold my attention either. I've seen just about every sort of human eating creature, and a vine is the most boring of all. I was desperate. I cleaned out my refrigerator, dusted a few shelves and watered my plants. I then went back to the TV hoping for a good movie. My hopes were dashed. I finally settled on a few room make-overs on HGTV and a bit of cooking on the food network. I was really excited when I started to yawn. The evening was coming to a close.
I have no plans for today, but something better come to mind. Just a minute ago I went to the kitchen to get more coffee. While there, I cleaned the counter top, the microwave and the dog's dish. It just isn't funny any more.
I have no plans for today, but something better come to mind. Just a minute ago I went to the kitchen to get more coffee. While there, I cleaned the counter top, the microwave and the dog's dish. It just isn't funny any more.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
“Know something, sugar? Stories only happen to people who can tell them”
Trying to write every day isn't easy, and it has little to do with inspiration. My cat Fern takes my writing time as an opportunity to sit on one end of the desk hoping for distracted pats as I await my muse. Because she is a bit bulky, part of her rests on my keyboard, on the part which makes the screen bigger and smaller. I get seasick watching the monitor. Gracie, the dog, sees me as her playmate. Her toy box is beside my desk, and she rummages until she finds the perfect toy then delivers it to me. I throw it down the hall. Gracie brings it back then back and back again. I finally get tired of the game and pretend not to notice her. She leans on my leg with all her weight until I pat her. That seems to be the signal for a new game. Gracie loves to pull on one end of a toy while I hold the other. Typing with two fingers is difficult enough, with one it's nigh impossible. I finally decide the animals have to go. I put a complaining Fern on the floor and let Gracie lean until she gives up and jumps on the couch for her morning nap. Finally, I get to sit and ponder.
My family doesn't have heirlooms, at least not the sort one hands down to the next generation. I do have half of my grandmother's baby bracelet. Her initials are on it, KMR, for Katherine Marie Rogers, which are my initials too so she thought I should have it. My sister has a piece which once belonged to my mother's grandmother or great-grandmother. I forget which. Its value is not money but sentiment. I have a really old grandfather's clock my aunt gave my mother, but it is some other family's heirloom. My family, though, has its own valued treasures. I know the most amazing stories. I know all about my mother's aunt, Louise, who was considered scandalous for her day. I always picture her wearing a Chinese red dress with a slit up the sides. She dangles a long, black cigarette holder from her fingers. My mother's grandfather remarried after his wife died. His second wife was always called the Mrs. I never knew her real name. My grandfather always ate burned toast because that's how his sister made it when they were growing up. He used to walk the tracks hoping to find pieces of coal to keep them warm in the winter. In my mind, he always wears knickers and has a scarf wound around his neck. When my mother's uncle was in his twenties, he fell out a window and died. My mother never knew the particulars of that fall so the story has always had a few missing parts. I know all about growing up in the city. My mother used to regale us with stories of her childhood. I still marvel that she used to catch flies with her bare hands.
My sister has three kids, all in their twenties. It is to them that she will entrust our family heirlooms. She will leave them all the stories, especially Louise, burned toast and the Mrs.
My family doesn't have heirlooms, at least not the sort one hands down to the next generation. I do have half of my grandmother's baby bracelet. Her initials are on it, KMR, for Katherine Marie Rogers, which are my initials too so she thought I should have it. My sister has a piece which once belonged to my mother's grandmother or great-grandmother. I forget which. Its value is not money but sentiment. I have a really old grandfather's clock my aunt gave my mother, but it is some other family's heirloom. My family, though, has its own valued treasures. I know the most amazing stories. I know all about my mother's aunt, Louise, who was considered scandalous for her day. I always picture her wearing a Chinese red dress with a slit up the sides. She dangles a long, black cigarette holder from her fingers. My mother's grandfather remarried after his wife died. His second wife was always called the Mrs. I never knew her real name. My grandfather always ate burned toast because that's how his sister made it when they were growing up. He used to walk the tracks hoping to find pieces of coal to keep them warm in the winter. In my mind, he always wears knickers and has a scarf wound around his neck. When my mother's uncle was in his twenties, he fell out a window and died. My mother never knew the particulars of that fall so the story has always had a few missing parts. I know all about growing up in the city. My mother used to regale us with stories of her childhood. I still marvel that she used to catch flies with her bare hands.
My sister has three kids, all in their twenties. It is to them that she will entrust our family heirlooms. She will leave them all the stories, especially Louise, burned toast and the Mrs.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Wide River to Cross: Levon Helm
Last week I played songs from albums which had been nominated for a folk Grammy but hadn't won. Now we're hearing a song from the Best Traditional Folk Album, from Helm's Dirt Farmer.
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Sparkle and Shine: Steve Earle
This is from Steve Earle's album Washington Square Serenade. It won the Grammy as Best Contemporary Folk/Americana Album.
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“When you realize how perfect everything is you will tilt your head back and laugh at the sky”
Today it's snowing. The snow falls gently, straight to the ground. The air has a hush. The sky is that light gray color snow seems to bring. My house is dark, lit by the monitor and the TV screen. I turned on the TV to check on how much snow to expect then ended up watching Red Sox spring training. Southwest Florida is warm and sunny, and the grass is green. Summer is coming. In my grubbies and slippers, I'm really comfy. I can hear Gracie snoring gently on the couch. I feel warm and cozy, even safe in a hug sort of way. It's a perfect day
One April night, I was lying in bed in a B&B in Youghal, Ireland. The room was cold. I had taken a bath in an unheated room then jumped into my bed. It was covered in thick quilts. The mattress was old and sagged to the middle where I settled. I snuggled until all but my face and the top of my head were under the covers. I got warm, took out my Dorothy Sayers' Peter Whimsy and my Cadbury chocolate bar. It was a perfect night.
I used to believe perfect couldn't happen, at least by definition. Somewhere along the line it had been blown way out of proportion so we stopped recognizing it. That's a big mistake. Perfect comes more often than you might think. Keep an eye out in case you miss it.
I've found perfect is a feeling. It comes from a series of events which can't be manufactured. They just happen. Some events are grand. Some are every day events joined together in a magical way. Perfect gives me this overwhelming sense of contentment, a silly grin feeling. I love perfect days. I got one today.
One April night, I was lying in bed in a B&B in Youghal, Ireland. The room was cold. I had taken a bath in an unheated room then jumped into my bed. It was covered in thick quilts. The mattress was old and sagged to the middle where I settled. I snuggled until all but my face and the top of my head were under the covers. I got warm, took out my Dorothy Sayers' Peter Whimsy and my Cadbury chocolate bar. It was a perfect night.
I used to believe perfect couldn't happen, at least by definition. Somewhere along the line it had been blown way out of proportion so we stopped recognizing it. That's a big mistake. Perfect comes more often than you might think. Keep an eye out in case you miss it.
I've found perfect is a feeling. It comes from a series of events which can't be manufactured. They just happen. Some events are grand. Some are every day events joined together in a magical way. Perfect gives me this overwhelming sense of contentment, a silly grin feeling. I love perfect days. I got one today.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Moonlight and Roses: Cheryl Wheeler
In honor of the state of television today, I am presenting reruns. They, however, unlike television, are quality reruns.
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"The night walked down the sky with the moon in her hand."
The sky cleared in time for the eclipse last night. I could watch from inside my front door so I went back and forth to keep track of its progress. It was eerily beautiful.
The night sky entrances me. Over the ocean, the stars are so numerous the beach is alive with light. Grasses dance in the breeze and are mirrored by their shadowy counterparts hearing the same song. The waves, back lit by the moon, wash on the shore. My shadow and I plod across the sand to a dune. We sit and watch the beauty.
I had a motorcycle when I was in Ghana. It gave me the freedom to go places I couldn't otherwise. It took me to the Tongo Hills, down dirt roads leading to small villages and on night rides back and forth to town. I seldom needed my bike lights on these night rides. The road was starlit. I could see in all directions. I could see the fields spread out on both sides of the road, the buildings near town and the compounds dotting the fields. Few cars were ever on the road. My town was a place to drive through on your way somewhere else. It wasn't a destination. I used to drive with my eyes on the heavens. The sky was a masterpiece filled with light. I was awed.
When I was young, we often slept in the backyard during the summer. We'd lie on our blankets, close our eyes and then open to the sky. We were always dazzled by the view. Stars shined everywhere. We'd try to find the different constellations. First we'd look for the Big Dipper then the North Star and finally the Little Dipper. We'd point at a star and give directions from there. Look at that star on the left. Follow my finger. Now move four stars over to the right and two down. See it? That's part of the Big Dipper. I might as well have told my friend, "Second star to the right and straight on til morning."
The night sky entrances me. Over the ocean, the stars are so numerous the beach is alive with light. Grasses dance in the breeze and are mirrored by their shadowy counterparts hearing the same song. The waves, back lit by the moon, wash on the shore. My shadow and I plod across the sand to a dune. We sit and watch the beauty.
I had a motorcycle when I was in Ghana. It gave me the freedom to go places I couldn't otherwise. It took me to the Tongo Hills, down dirt roads leading to small villages and on night rides back and forth to town. I seldom needed my bike lights on these night rides. The road was starlit. I could see in all directions. I could see the fields spread out on both sides of the road, the buildings near town and the compounds dotting the fields. Few cars were ever on the road. My town was a place to drive through on your way somewhere else. It wasn't a destination. I used to drive with my eyes on the heavens. The sky was a masterpiece filled with light. I was awed.
When I was young, we often slept in the backyard during the summer. We'd lie on our blankets, close our eyes and then open to the sky. We were always dazzled by the view. Stars shined everywhere. We'd try to find the different constellations. First we'd look for the Big Dipper then the North Star and finally the Little Dipper. We'd point at a star and give directions from there. Look at that star on the left. Follow my finger. Now move four stars over to the right and two down. See it? That's part of the Big Dipper. I might as well have told my friend, "Second star to the right and straight on til morning."
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
What’s Your Smithsonian Story
I received this e-mail today, a result of my comments yesterday about Smithsonian Folkways. I thought I'd post it in case there's a great story out there about the Smithsonian.
Hi Kat,
I saw your post about Smithsonian Folkways yesterday and thought you and your readers might be interested in our “What’s Your Smithsonian Story” contest. You can check it out (and enter) at http://go.si.edu/smithsonian/smithsonianstory.
The contest runs from February 19th – 29th and the winner will get a free year-long Contributing Membership, with benefits including Smithsonian magazine and exclusive event invitations, plus a Smithsonian goody bag! Click here to view the rules.
I hope you'll enter and spread the word!
I’d be happy to answer any questions or provide additional information if you need it.
Thanks,
Vanessa Harbin
Smithsonian Focus Editor
Old Friends, Bookends: Simon and Garfunkel
I was twenty when this album appeared in 1968. Listening to the lyrics, I couldn't fathom being seventy. It was too far ahead for my imagination to conjure.
Twenty has become difficult to remember.
MP3 File
Twenty has become difficult to remember.
MP3 File
He Was a Friend of Mine: Bob Dylan
When I was researching this song, I found all kinds of information. One site credited some of the lyrics to a Mark Spolestra song, "This was played by the Grateful Dead in their early days, from 1966 to 1970. It is normally in setlists as "He Was A Friend Of Mine" but it is in fact a portion of a Mark Spoelstra song "Just A Hand To Hold." Mark Spoelstra used to perform with Bob Dylan, Dave Van Ronk, Richard and Mimi Farina et al in New York in the early 1960s. That may explain the similarities to the song "He Was A Friend Of Mine" recorded by Dylan, Dave van Ronk, the Country Gentlemen and others, which is widely credited as the origin of the song the Grateful Dead sang."
Dave Van Ronk credits Dylan who credits someone else. I stopped there.
This is from The Bootleg Series, Vol. 1, released in 1991.
MP3 File
Dave Van Ronk credits Dylan who credits someone else. I stopped there.
This is from The Bootleg Series, Vol. 1, released in 1991.
MP3 File
"A man's growth is seen in the successive choirs of his friends."
Through all of my life I have been blessed with wonderful friends.
My childhood friends and I shared a world in common. We lived on the same block in houses which looked alike. Every morning we'd meet and walk together to school. We were even in the same class and probably sat beside each other, but I don't remember that part. I know my friend Maryalyce wet her pants in the first grade, and I could remind her of that all through high school and college. We were even roommates our junior year. Michele was my closest friend from the neighborhood. She even lived in my old house. Her room used to be my room. I remember the stairs had a small landing, and we'd sit there and play. I also remember her aunt choked to death on a fish bone. That was so intriguing it has stayed in my head all these years. Michelle and I went to different high schools, and we drifted apart. I last saw her at my mother's wake. She looked the same to me.
Most of my friends went to the local high school, but I went to high school in a different town. We stayed friends but were no longer close. We didn't share gossip, listen to records in our rooms or bicker over the same guys. We had the drill team in common but not much else. My close friends from this cycle of my life were the ones I traveled back and forth with on the bus to school every day. Some had been friends in grammar school but most were new friends. We joined the same clubs, went to the movies together and met up on weekends. We celebrated Mardi Gras, sneaked food into the library and wandered Harvard Square. They were the friends with whom I had my first real adventures.
My high school friends and I, except for Maryalyce, went to different colleges and got together less and less as we went through school. By the time we were juniors, I no longer saw them; instead, I had this amazing coterie of college friends. I think of them as the friends of my hell raising years. We'd have coffee together in the morning, skip a class or two in the afternoon and party all night. We laughed together all the time. Life was fun. We stayed close all those four years, but I went to Africa and they went on with their lives.
The Peace Corps was the most amazing experience in my life, and I got to share it with equally amazing people. We groused together during training and bolstered each other during rough times. We ate, drank and traveled together for two years. They were the friends from my most critical years, the years that led me to who I am. I lost track of them all when we left Ghana and scattered across the country, but I found Ralph again and through him I've found Michelle.
The friends I have now have been around for over thirty years. What is even more amazing is that all of the past cycles of friendship have been a part of ours. We have a world in common. We worked together, live in the same neighborhood and retired together. We share the most amazing experiences and still raise hell. We laugh constantly. They watch out for me and I for them. They are my touchstones of friendship.
My childhood friends and I shared a world in common. We lived on the same block in houses which looked alike. Every morning we'd meet and walk together to school. We were even in the same class and probably sat beside each other, but I don't remember that part. I know my friend Maryalyce wet her pants in the first grade, and I could remind her of that all through high school and college. We were even roommates our junior year. Michele was my closest friend from the neighborhood. She even lived in my old house. Her room used to be my room. I remember the stairs had a small landing, and we'd sit there and play. I also remember her aunt choked to death on a fish bone. That was so intriguing it has stayed in my head all these years. Michelle and I went to different high schools, and we drifted apart. I last saw her at my mother's wake. She looked the same to me.
Most of my friends went to the local high school, but I went to high school in a different town. We stayed friends but were no longer close. We didn't share gossip, listen to records in our rooms or bicker over the same guys. We had the drill team in common but not much else. My close friends from this cycle of my life were the ones I traveled back and forth with on the bus to school every day. Some had been friends in grammar school but most were new friends. We joined the same clubs, went to the movies together and met up on weekends. We celebrated Mardi Gras, sneaked food into the library and wandered Harvard Square. They were the friends with whom I had my first real adventures.
My high school friends and I, except for Maryalyce, went to different colleges and got together less and less as we went through school. By the time we were juniors, I no longer saw them; instead, I had this amazing coterie of college friends. I think of them as the friends of my hell raising years. We'd have coffee together in the morning, skip a class or two in the afternoon and party all night. We laughed together all the time. Life was fun. We stayed close all those four years, but I went to Africa and they went on with their lives.
The Peace Corps was the most amazing experience in my life, and I got to share it with equally amazing people. We groused together during training and bolstered each other during rough times. We ate, drank and traveled together for two years. They were the friends from my most critical years, the years that led me to who I am. I lost track of them all when we left Ghana and scattered across the country, but I found Ralph again and through him I've found Michelle.
The friends I have now have been around for over thirty years. What is even more amazing is that all of the past cycles of friendship have been a part of ours. We have a world in common. We worked together, live in the same neighborhood and retired together. We share the most amazing experiences and still raise hell. We laugh constantly. They watch out for me and I for them. They are my touchstones of friendship.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
One Day More: Elaine Purkey
When I buy CD's, I am often drawn to compilation albums. On them I'll find singers I haven't heard before or unfamiliar songs from favorite singers. The best source for these, to me, is Smithsonian Folkways. They have a catalog which makes me salivate every time I browse. The oldest Folkways album are even available, and they come with xeroxed liner notes which are a treasure trove of information. My collection is filled with these unbelievable gifts of music.
This song is from Classic Labor Songs from Smithsonian Folkways. The liner notes better explain the purpose of the album. "Songs of the American labor movement over the 20th century called for just wages, dignity, and a fair shake. They voiced grievances, affirmed the value of the worker to society, and expressed hope for life in a more just world. Classic Labor Songs from Smithsonian Folkways is a collage of these voices—champions of the movement, singing songs with a passion and love for their fellow workers that rings just as true today as it did then. Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger, Joe Glazer, the Almanac Singers, and more chronicle the history of the American labor movement in stirring song."
The link to the Smithsonian Folkways site is to the right. I keep sending you there in hopes you'll be as amazed and thankful as I.
MP3 File
This song is from Classic Labor Songs from Smithsonian Folkways. The liner notes better explain the purpose of the album. "Songs of the American labor movement over the 20th century called for just wages, dignity, and a fair shake. They voiced grievances, affirmed the value of the worker to society, and expressed hope for life in a more just world. Classic Labor Songs from Smithsonian Folkways is a collage of these voices—champions of the movement, singing songs with a passion and love for their fellow workers that rings just as true today as it did then. Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger, Joe Glazer, the Almanac Singers, and more chronicle the history of the American labor movement in stirring song."
The link to the Smithsonian Folkways site is to the right. I keep sending you there in hopes you'll be as amazed and thankful as I.
MP3 File
Boats to Build: Guy Clark
Guy Clark began his music career in Houston folk clubs, where he met lifelong friends and colleagues like Townes Van Zandt whom Guy credits as being a huge influence on his life and music.
Guy Clark's song were my first introduction to Texas music.
This is the title song from a 1993 album on Nonesuch. It was Guy Clark's seventh album and, for some, one of his best albums.
MP3 File
Guy Clark's song were my first introduction to Texas music.
This is the title song from a 1993 album on Nonesuch. It was Guy Clark's seventh album and, for some, one of his best albums.
MP3 File
"Think left and think right and think low and think high. Oh, the thinks you can think up if only you try! "
The birds were singing this morning. The air was unexpectedly warm and carried a hint of the change in seasons. Yesterday's rain had left the deck wet and the night's cold had left it a bit icy. I walked gingerly to the rail to watch the dog romp across the yard. She had a ball in her mouth and was running round and round to rid herself of the pent up energy from yesterday. I scared a small red squirrel which had settled itself inside the squirrel proof feeder hanging off the deck. It panicked at my approach but was finally able to drop to the ground and scurry to the nearest tree. Its tailed bobbed back and forth as it ran. The pot of fresh coffee waiting in the kitchen drew me back into the house. It seems a great day for a ride.
Growing up in the fifties meant great adventures. It meant make believe. We played cowboys and Indians and hide and seek. We built clubhouses. We played games which had moving parts, but we moved them ourselves. We were seldom bored. Our imaginations took hold and we were off on magic carpet rides skimming across deserts and over caravans of camels. Books took us back and forth in time. The end of the banister in our cellar was my horse. With a pillow for my saddle, I rode with the Lone Ranger and Tonto. Setting up camp was easy: a blanket over the clothesline made a perfect tent. A quick run to the kitchen got us our provisions. Bad guys beware.
Once we took a trip to Mars in a rocket ship, formerly a large cardboard box. Out of the portholes we could see the Earth far behind us. Our ship was small and had room for only two spacemen who had to move in tandem, but we didn't care. We were on our way to Mars.
My world back then was filled with mystery and wonder. The man in the moon smiled at us every night, and we still suspected he was made of cheese. If you dug enough, you'd make it to China. Monsters were big and loud and stepped on buildings. Robots were as tall as men and spoke in metallic voices. Heroes always won.
Growing up in the fifties meant great adventures. It meant make believe. We played cowboys and Indians and hide and seek. We built clubhouses. We played games which had moving parts, but we moved them ourselves. We were seldom bored. Our imaginations took hold and we were off on magic carpet rides skimming across deserts and over caravans of camels. Books took us back and forth in time. The end of the banister in our cellar was my horse. With a pillow for my saddle, I rode with the Lone Ranger and Tonto. Setting up camp was easy: a blanket over the clothesline made a perfect tent. A quick run to the kitchen got us our provisions. Bad guys beware.
Once we took a trip to Mars in a rocket ship, formerly a large cardboard box. Out of the portholes we could see the Earth far behind us. Our ship was small and had room for only two spacemen who had to move in tandem, but we didn't care. We were on our way to Mars.
My world back then was filled with mystery and wonder. The man in the moon smiled at us every night, and we still suspected he was made of cheese. If you dug enough, you'd make it to China. Monsters were big and loud and stepped on buildings. Robots were as tall as men and spoke in metallic voices. Heroes always won.
Monday, February 18, 2008
“A vacation is having nothing to do and all day to do it in.”
Today is another one of those I have no idea what to write about days. I started with ghosts, but that seemed limited by my disbelief. When I was a kid, though, I was sure they existed. Every night noise, creaking branch or banging shutter was a ghost making its presence known to me. Later, when I was older and wiser, I was sure it was the man with the hook who prowled neighborhoods, scratched windows and hunted for victims. I always hid under my bed when I heard him scratching. In hindsight I realize under the bed is the first place any crazed maniac would look, the closet being a close second.
My next topic under consideration was the weather. It's raining. Beyond that I was stumped.
It being President's Day, I thought maybe some salient facts would fill the page, but I know few offhand and didn't want to hunt. I wish, though, that it was still just Washington's birthday. I bet he wouldn't want to share. After all, he was first.
This is school vacation week here, aptly called February vacation. When I worked and every vacation was seen as a gift from God, I'd usually just loll at home. One year, though, my mother and I went to Rome. Neither one of us had an interest in Rome, but the flight was so cheap I couldn't resist. It was a great vacation, and I loved Italy. We spent hours in the forum, at the coliseum and just walking around to see what we could see. The catacombs were grisly but intriguing, the plazas lovely, and the fountains magnificent. I'd go back to Rome.
We never did much when I was a kid. My friends and I would ice skate if it was cold enough, but mostly we just hung around. My mother would get really tired of the noise and bickering and ship us outside if the weather cooperated. I remember the best part of vacation was going to bed when I wanted and sleeping late. During my last few years of work, I'd come full circle. I found the best part of the vacation was going to bed when I wanted and sleeping late. Now, where did I put those ice skates?
My next topic under consideration was the weather. It's raining. Beyond that I was stumped.
It being President's Day, I thought maybe some salient facts would fill the page, but I know few offhand and didn't want to hunt. I wish, though, that it was still just Washington's birthday. I bet he wouldn't want to share. After all, he was first.
This is school vacation week here, aptly called February vacation. When I worked and every vacation was seen as a gift from God, I'd usually just loll at home. One year, though, my mother and I went to Rome. Neither one of us had an interest in Rome, but the flight was so cheap I couldn't resist. It was a great vacation, and I loved Italy. We spent hours in the forum, at the coliseum and just walking around to see what we could see. The catacombs were grisly but intriguing, the plazas lovely, and the fountains magnificent. I'd go back to Rome.
We never did much when I was a kid. My friends and I would ice skate if it was cold enough, but mostly we just hung around. My mother would get really tired of the noise and bickering and ship us outside if the weather cooperated. I remember the best part of vacation was going to bed when I wanted and sleeping late. During my last few years of work, I'd come full circle. I found the best part of the vacation was going to bed when I wanted and sleeping late. Now, where did I put those ice skates?
Sunday, February 17, 2008
“Sunday is the core of our civilization, dedicated to thought and reverence.”
When I was growing up, Friday was grocery shopping day. Saturday was chore day: the lawns were mowed, the cars were washed and the laundry was hung on the lines. Sunday was family day. Some Sundays we'd ride to mass with my father. He was an usher, the basket passing sort of usher, at an early mass. He'd give each of us, my brother and me, a quarter for the offering. He always jiggled the basket in front of us as a sort of private signal. Sometimes, after mass, he'd take us out to eat at the diner in town. That was always a special Sunday.
Just about as soon as we'd walk in the door after breakfast, my mother would send us upstairs to change out of our good clothes, our Sunday clothes. We had three categories of clothes back then. We had school clothes, play clothes and good clothes: for holidays, parties and church. Our play clothes were mostly jerseys and dungarees. Some Sundays we'd just change and hang around the house until Sunday dinner. Other Sundays we'd do a family trip to someplace like the local zoo or one of the museums in Boston. Those were my favorite Sundays. Even now, when I walk into the Egyptian exhibit at the MFA in Boston, I remember the first time I saw those sarcophagi and was rooted in amazement. In another museum were gorilla heads on exhibition. I still remember they were in jars lined on shelves along the wall. My love of museums can be traced right back to those heads.
On the Sundays we stayed home, we never did too much. We'd watch a movie on TV, the Sunday matinée was still a novelty, and during the fall my dad watched football. He was a Giants' fan back then. My mother was usually busy in the kitchen. Most days we had lunch and evening supper, but on Sunday we had dinner, and the Sunday family dinner was a big deal. It was such a big deal it was about the only time we had roast beef, my favorite. Served with mashed potatoes, gravy and peas, the meal rose to extraordinary, to memorable. We'd even have dessert on Sunday, usually ice cream as my dad worked for an ice cream company. I remember we had family dinners even through my college years. Missing one was tantamount to rebellion.
My dad often took a nap on Sunday afternoons. He lie on the couch and snore. We stayed occupied but quietly occupied. Sundays seemed to lend themselves to soft voices or murmurs. We'd play a game at the kitchen table, and sometimes I'd read or finish my homework, if I had any.
Sunday nights we'd have sandwiches for supper then turn on the TV. It was a great night for watching Walt Disney Presents, Bonanza and the best variety show of all time, The Ed Sullivan Show. I can't even begin to list the singers and performers I saw on Ed Sullivan, to say nothing of Topo Gigio and those jugglers keeping lines of plates spinning. After Ed Sullivan, it was off to bed, and my mother took glee in reminding us, "Don't forget, tomorrow is a school day."
Just about as soon as we'd walk in the door after breakfast, my mother would send us upstairs to change out of our good clothes, our Sunday clothes. We had three categories of clothes back then. We had school clothes, play clothes and good clothes: for holidays, parties and church. Our play clothes were mostly jerseys and dungarees. Some Sundays we'd just change and hang around the house until Sunday dinner. Other Sundays we'd do a family trip to someplace like the local zoo or one of the museums in Boston. Those were my favorite Sundays. Even now, when I walk into the Egyptian exhibit at the MFA in Boston, I remember the first time I saw those sarcophagi and was rooted in amazement. In another museum were gorilla heads on exhibition. I still remember they were in jars lined on shelves along the wall. My love of museums can be traced right back to those heads.
On the Sundays we stayed home, we never did too much. We'd watch a movie on TV, the Sunday matinée was still a novelty, and during the fall my dad watched football. He was a Giants' fan back then. My mother was usually busy in the kitchen. Most days we had lunch and evening supper, but on Sunday we had dinner, and the Sunday family dinner was a big deal. It was such a big deal it was about the only time we had roast beef, my favorite. Served with mashed potatoes, gravy and peas, the meal rose to extraordinary, to memorable. We'd even have dessert on Sunday, usually ice cream as my dad worked for an ice cream company. I remember we had family dinners even through my college years. Missing one was tantamount to rebellion.
My dad often took a nap on Sunday afternoons. He lie on the couch and snore. We stayed occupied but quietly occupied. Sundays seemed to lend themselves to soft voices or murmurs. We'd play a game at the kitchen table, and sometimes I'd read or finish my homework, if I had any.
Sunday nights we'd have sandwiches for supper then turn on the TV. It was a great night for watching Walt Disney Presents, Bonanza and the best variety show of all time, The Ed Sullivan Show. I can't even begin to list the singers and performers I saw on Ed Sullivan, to say nothing of Topo Gigio and those jugglers keeping lines of plates spinning. After Ed Sullivan, it was off to bed, and my mother took glee in reminding us, "Don't forget, tomorrow is a school day."
Saturday, February 16, 2008
“It's amazing that the amount of news that happens in the world every day always just exactly fits the newspaper.”
My monitor is on its last legs, which amazes me as it has no legs.
The morning has been leisurely. When I opened my eyes, Gracie saw I was awake and her tail started wagging. It's nice to be appreciated. A few cups of coffee, a bagel and the papers were the first order of business. Reading the papers takes me a long while. Not only do I read all the news, but I do all the puzzles. The horrific news, the headlines get my attention first, but it's in the filler pieces I find solace and sometimes a little humor. A picture which may be Lizzie Borden in her younger, pre-ax days has surfaced. She is about eight or nine and wearing a straw hat. Her eyes are the proof was the contention. I suspect hindsight is at work here. They've identified remains belonging to a World War II pilot whose plane went down when he was twenty. His sister wished their mother was alive so she could finally know what had happened to her son. He will be buried in Arlington. On the sports page, the lead picture is Red Sox players doing conditioning drills. They're wearing matching red shorts and shirts. I noticed Curt Schilling has bird legs. Beagles are big news since Uno won Westminster so Bobby the beagle made the front page. He's up for adoption. In the local news, the elementary school in Ptown celebrated Black history month by making African masks and doing tribal dances. Their parents were invited on the stage to join them. It was quite the event.
When I was young, I only read the comics. Back then, characters had adventures so they had to be read day after day. Terry and the Pirates was a favorite as was The Phantom. I also followed the exploits of Prince Valiant and Steve Roper. I even sneaked peeks at Mary Worth, but I'd only admit that under duress. Dick Tracy just didn't appeal to me, and I have no idea why. Maybe his jaw was just too much. The Little King only appeared in the Sunday paper, but Jiggs and Maggie showed up every day. I loved Jiggs.
The habits of a lifetime become ingrained. Every Sunday I get three newspapers, and the very first part I grab is still the comics.
The morning has been leisurely. When I opened my eyes, Gracie saw I was awake and her tail started wagging. It's nice to be appreciated. A few cups of coffee, a bagel and the papers were the first order of business. Reading the papers takes me a long while. Not only do I read all the news, but I do all the puzzles. The horrific news, the headlines get my attention first, but it's in the filler pieces I find solace and sometimes a little humor. A picture which may be Lizzie Borden in her younger, pre-ax days has surfaced. She is about eight or nine and wearing a straw hat. Her eyes are the proof was the contention. I suspect hindsight is at work here. They've identified remains belonging to a World War II pilot whose plane went down when he was twenty. His sister wished their mother was alive so she could finally know what had happened to her son. He will be buried in Arlington. On the sports page, the lead picture is Red Sox players doing conditioning drills. They're wearing matching red shorts and shirts. I noticed Curt Schilling has bird legs. Beagles are big news since Uno won Westminster so Bobby the beagle made the front page. He's up for adoption. In the local news, the elementary school in Ptown celebrated Black history month by making African masks and doing tribal dances. Their parents were invited on the stage to join them. It was quite the event.
When I was young, I only read the comics. Back then, characters had adventures so they had to be read day after day. Terry and the Pirates was a favorite as was The Phantom. I also followed the exploits of Prince Valiant and Steve Roper. I even sneaked peeks at Mary Worth, but I'd only admit that under duress. Dick Tracy just didn't appeal to me, and I have no idea why. Maybe his jaw was just too much. The Little King only appeared in the Sunday paper, but Jiggs and Maggie showed up every day. I loved Jiggs.
The habits of a lifetime become ingrained. Every Sunday I get three newspapers, and the very first part I grab is still the comics.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Crying Over: Patty Griffin
Both of today's songs are also from Grammy nominated albums but in the Best Contemporary Folk/Americana Album category. Neither one of these won either.
This is from Children Running Through on ATO Records.
MP3 File
This is from Children Running Through on ATO Records.
MP3 File
Walk Away: Tom Waits
From Waits' three disc album called Orphans, This song is from disc one called Brawlers. The other two discs are labeled Bawlers and Bastards. The album is on Anti Records.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"I went to a general store but they wouldn't let me buy anything specific."
I'm a shopper, but I'm pretty picky about where I shop. Malls and I have little in common. They would have to be giving merchandise away before I'd hit stores like Victoria's Secret. I can't imagine spending all that money on clothes you cover with other clothes. I still wear socks with holes in the toes because they can't be seen when I'm wearing shoes. Clothing and grocery stores too are way down on my list of preferred places, but I'm forced by necessity to shop both. Usually I hit the grocery store when I need pet food, and I last shopped for clothes before my trip to Morocco, not because I wanted to look spiffy but because I wanted enough shirts and pants for all ten days, to say nothing of enough underwear. I did run out of socks, but I thought I'd get to wear sandals a day or two while there.
I love stores which don't specialize. If there were a Woolworth's or a Grant's, I'd be wandering up and down the aisles hoping to find a treasure. There aren't any left around here, but I can imagine.
The store has that smell I remember, a pleasant smell that only Woolworth's seems to have. The wooden floors creak and moan as I wander the aisles and fill my shopping cart with stuff I need or think I might need. A kite is a great future investment. We'll always have wind. I can't pass by construction paper, colored pencils or doilies. I never have any when I need them. Finding the toy and game aisle is like hitting the mother lode: put the bead in the hole games, checkers, bubbles, tea sets, clickers, small cars, tops, fake watches, old maid and the one toy I always buy, the wooden paddle with the red rubber ball at the end of the elastic. Notions means I get to buy needles, thread and a few odd buttons, the just in case stuff every sewing basket has to have. All that shopping has made me parched and in need of a bit of refreshment; the red stools at the fountain look comfy. I'll have a vanilla coke please. Now replenished, I'll make another swing around the store. Oops, hardware, I always need small nails and assorted screws. Another flashlight wouldn't hurt either. The dish section doesn't have much I need, but I love the aluminum glasses and pitcher. Into the cart they go. Hmm, I think I'm just about done, but I have one last stop: comic books. I'll have to read through just a few before I make my choices. Okay, today I'll choose Superman and Little Lulu
At the checkout, the woman takes my stuff out of the cart, checks the prices and then hits the keys on the cash register. The bell rings when the drawer opens. I pay. My treasures are put into bags, and I head out to the street. I'm blinded just a bit by the sun, but I adjust, walk to the car then head home.
That was the best shopping trip in a long while. I'm just sorry it had to be imagined.
I love stores which don't specialize. If there were a Woolworth's or a Grant's, I'd be wandering up and down the aisles hoping to find a treasure. There aren't any left around here, but I can imagine.
The store has that smell I remember, a pleasant smell that only Woolworth's seems to have. The wooden floors creak and moan as I wander the aisles and fill my shopping cart with stuff I need or think I might need. A kite is a great future investment. We'll always have wind. I can't pass by construction paper, colored pencils or doilies. I never have any when I need them. Finding the toy and game aisle is like hitting the mother lode: put the bead in the hole games, checkers, bubbles, tea sets, clickers, small cars, tops, fake watches, old maid and the one toy I always buy, the wooden paddle with the red rubber ball at the end of the elastic. Notions means I get to buy needles, thread and a few odd buttons, the just in case stuff every sewing basket has to have. All that shopping has made me parched and in need of a bit of refreshment; the red stools at the fountain look comfy. I'll have a vanilla coke please. Now replenished, I'll make another swing around the store. Oops, hardware, I always need small nails and assorted screws. Another flashlight wouldn't hurt either. The dish section doesn't have much I need, but I love the aluminum glasses and pitcher. Into the cart they go. Hmm, I think I'm just about done, but I have one last stop: comic books. I'll have to read through just a few before I make my choices. Okay, today I'll choose Superman and Little Lulu
At the checkout, the woman takes my stuff out of the cart, checks the prices and then hits the keys on the cash register. The bell rings when the drawer opens. I pay. My treasures are put into bags, and I head out to the street. I'm blinded just a bit by the sun, but I adjust, walk to the car then head home.
That was the best shopping trip in a long while. I'm just sorry it had to be imagined.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
"Who, being loved, is poor? "
My paper asked what do singles do on Valentine's Day. I, for one, am ready to answer. First off, I took a shower, proof of my espousal to the maxim that cleanliness is next to Godliness. Next I had coffee while I read the papers. With my coffee I had a couple of valentine cookies, in honor of the day: toast lacked the impact. When I get dressed, I'll wear red. In a bit, I have to leave to stuff envelopes for the library fund raiser. It should take most of the morning so we'll do Box Lunch. This afternoon, I might do laundry, but I worry about being overwhelmed by emotion. Tonight, maybe dinner with a friend then a bit of TV.
All of the above was mostly tongue in cheek though I'll wear red, and I really need to do my laundry. I may be single, but I'm still celebrating the day. My house has a bit of red, the guest towels have hearts, my friends invited me to dinner last night, and they gave me a Valentine's Day card and gifts. My sister too send a card and a few goodies. It is absolutely the day for love and remembrance.
Happy Valentine's Day, my friends.
All of the above was mostly tongue in cheek though I'll wear red, and I really need to do my laundry. I may be single, but I'm still celebrating the day. My house has a bit of red, the guest towels have hearts, my friends invited me to dinner last night, and they gave me a Valentine's Day card and gifts. My sister too send a card and a few goodies. It is absolutely the day for love and remembrance.
Happy Valentine's Day, my friends.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Waiting for a Train: Charlie Louvin
Both of today's songs were from albums nominated for a Grammy in the Best Traditional Folk Album category. Neither won.
This is from Charlie Louvin on Tompkins Square Records.
MP3 File
This is from Charlie Louvin on Tompkins Square Records.
MP3 File
Be My Valentine
I hope you've all made your valentine boxes because tomorrow's the big day. If you haven't started yet, a shoe box, scissors, construction paper and a few crayons are all you need.
I remember Valentine's Day in elementary school, second only to Christmas for excitement. First was picking out the valentines, always a tricky proposition. I didn't want them to be mushy as some were going to boys, and I hadn't yet realized the appeal of the opposite sex, and I wanted a girl on the front or a puppy or kitty. I wanted the saying to avoid any mention of love. Usually I'd find one with Be Mine, sort of a neutral leave it up to the receiver to decide what mine is or the Let's Be Pals avoiding any mention of the true meaning of Valentine's Day. The night before, I'd take my valentines and carefully sign them with my full name: From your friend, Kathleen Ryan, which may seem formal but Kathleen was a popular name when I was a kid. I'd then write out the envelopes but leave a few blank in case I got a valentine I never expected. The morning of the big day, I'd put all my valentine's in my school bag. In my hand I'd carry my valentine box as it was far too delicate to be anything but hand carried. Sometimes I was also stuck carrying the cookies or cupcakes which made walking to school that day a juggling act.
When I got to school, the food was stored until later, and the nun always told us she didn't want to see any valentines so they too were stashed away, out of sight but never out of mind. It was always one of the slowest days of the year, a clock watching day, and English and geography were no match for the building excitement. Finally, toward the end of the day, the nun sent us for our valentines and boxes. We'd sit, fidgeting, until the nun signaled a row at a time to walk up and down the aisles putting valentines in boxes. I played nonchalant, but I was always worried. It was a huge relief when I got my first valentine. Finally, after we had delivered all our valentines, the real excitement began. First, we went and picked out cookies or a cupcake then went back to our desks where my friends and I would open our boxes, tear apart the envelopes and read our valentines. We'd pretend not to care who got the most, but we did. When the bell rang, it was one of the few times I wished school wasn't dismissed. I remember chatting all the way home then running to my mother to show her my box. I'd read and reread my valentines then place my box in a prominent spot on the bureau in my bedroom where I would admire it for days.
I don't remember when Valentine's Day became like any other school day.
I remember Valentine's Day in elementary school, second only to Christmas for excitement. First was picking out the valentines, always a tricky proposition. I didn't want them to be mushy as some were going to boys, and I hadn't yet realized the appeal of the opposite sex, and I wanted a girl on the front or a puppy or kitty. I wanted the saying to avoid any mention of love. Usually I'd find one with Be Mine, sort of a neutral leave it up to the receiver to decide what mine is or the Let's Be Pals avoiding any mention of the true meaning of Valentine's Day. The night before, I'd take my valentines and carefully sign them with my full name: From your friend, Kathleen Ryan, which may seem formal but Kathleen was a popular name when I was a kid. I'd then write out the envelopes but leave a few blank in case I got a valentine I never expected. The morning of the big day, I'd put all my valentine's in my school bag. In my hand I'd carry my valentine box as it was far too delicate to be anything but hand carried. Sometimes I was also stuck carrying the cookies or cupcakes which made walking to school that day a juggling act.
When I got to school, the food was stored until later, and the nun always told us she didn't want to see any valentines so they too were stashed away, out of sight but never out of mind. It was always one of the slowest days of the year, a clock watching day, and English and geography were no match for the building excitement. Finally, toward the end of the day, the nun sent us for our valentines and boxes. We'd sit, fidgeting, until the nun signaled a row at a time to walk up and down the aisles putting valentines in boxes. I played nonchalant, but I was always worried. It was a huge relief when I got my first valentine. Finally, after we had delivered all our valentines, the real excitement began. First, we went and picked out cookies or a cupcake then went back to our desks where my friends and I would open our boxes, tear apart the envelopes and read our valentines. We'd pretend not to care who got the most, but we did. When the bell rang, it was one of the few times I wished school wasn't dismissed. I remember chatting all the way home then running to my mother to show her my box. I'd read and reread my valentines then place my box in a prominent spot on the bureau in my bedroom where I would admire it for days.
I don't remember when Valentine's Day became like any other school day.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Smile: Madeleine Peyroux
Madeleline Peyroux gives this song written by Charlie Chaplin her touch of style. That's Till Bronner on trumpet. It is from Half the Perfect World released in 2006.
MP3 File
MP3 File
Before the World Was Made: Van Morrison
Van Morrison has always been remarkable. This is from his 1993 album Too Long in Exile. It is Van Morrison putting Yeats' poetry to music.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"There is no love sincerer than the love of food. "
I didn't learn to cook even when I had my own apartment in college. In my first apartment, my roommate cooked, and I did dishes. In my second apartment, my roommates and I, all incompetent in the kitchen, ate such delicacies as stewed tomatoes on spaghetti and every egg dish imaginable. The only time we had a good meal was when one or another of my roommates came back after a weekend home. One roommate was Polish. She'd bring back shopping bags filled with Tupperware filled with food as her mother firmly believed we were in need of sustenance only she could provide. I learned to love Polish food. Golabki became a favorite of mine as did pierogis. Another roommate's father was a butcher, and she'd bring back meats all ready for roasting. My dad was the manager for an ice cream/milk company, and he'd have milk, eggs and bread delivered and charged to him. Without these donations, we'd have lived on soup, bread, Dinty Moore and spaghettiOs.
When I was in Ghana, I had a cook. His menus weren't varied, but he could manage to cook an entire meal on a small charcoal burner. He'd be making eggs while the toast leaned against the sides of the burner to brown. For lunch I always had fresh fruit. Supper was beef which cooked long enough to make it palatable or chicken in some sort of a sauce. I had a real stove, but the gas was not available in my town. I'd have to take a bus with gas cylinder in hand over a hundred miles each way to fill the tank. I didn't go often. On Sundays, the cook's day off, I'd use up one of my valuable stores from a care package or go into town to a chop bar to buy Ghanaian food. I loved tz, pronounced tzed, which is really tuo zaffi, a thickened porridge ball made from millet or corn flour. It has no flavor so it is served with a stew. You grab a chunk of the tzed then scoop up the stew. You do the same with fufu, another Ghanaian dish I loved, but this one is made from yam. I grew to love the different stews like okra, groundnut or palm nut.
It was in Ghana when I first tried baking. My mother sent me cookie cutters in Christmas shapes. As it was my first Christmas away, I wanted a taste of home so I made the trek to get the gas. I managed to bake batch after batch of sugar cookies which were great. I was thrilled that I could actually make something worth eating. After that, whenever I had gas, I baked, sometimes cookies, sometimes fruit breads and once even I tried bagels. They were, however, a fiasco. I found baking relaxing and great fun. I was hooked.
When I got home, my roommate and I alternated kitchen duties. I was finally forced to learn to cook and found I love it. I loved trying new recipes and experimenting to give them my own flavor. I cooked some of the foods I'd learned to love like an Indian curry I'd had in Ghana, and the fans raved. I made chicken Kiev and watched the butter spurt. I started with one cookbook, which I still have, and added more and more. I still sit and read the recipes and imagine how one recipe will fit with the other and if the foods have complementary colors. Every year I have a special dinner with a theme, and I only cook food I've never cooked before. My friends and I have eaten Indian, Chinese, Thai, French, African, Italian, Greek, Hungarian and Portuguese. We have had a seafood feast, foods from the southwest, from the east coast and from the south. I spend days figuring the theme then the menu. My friends have a regimen. They eat only that morning, are careful wolfing down the appetizers and go slowly at the table. Sometimes one or two of my guests will take a walk between courses. We have an end of the meal tradition. We discuss then vote on the favorite dish. We always argue a bit.
I can't even remember the last time I had spahettiOs.
When I was in Ghana, I had a cook. His menus weren't varied, but he could manage to cook an entire meal on a small charcoal burner. He'd be making eggs while the toast leaned against the sides of the burner to brown. For lunch I always had fresh fruit. Supper was beef which cooked long enough to make it palatable or chicken in some sort of a sauce. I had a real stove, but the gas was not available in my town. I'd have to take a bus with gas cylinder in hand over a hundred miles each way to fill the tank. I didn't go often. On Sundays, the cook's day off, I'd use up one of my valuable stores from a care package or go into town to a chop bar to buy Ghanaian food. I loved tz, pronounced tzed, which is really tuo zaffi, a thickened porridge ball made from millet or corn flour. It has no flavor so it is served with a stew. You grab a chunk of the tzed then scoop up the stew. You do the same with fufu, another Ghanaian dish I loved, but this one is made from yam. I grew to love the different stews like okra, groundnut or palm nut.
It was in Ghana when I first tried baking. My mother sent me cookie cutters in Christmas shapes. As it was my first Christmas away, I wanted a taste of home so I made the trek to get the gas. I managed to bake batch after batch of sugar cookies which were great. I was thrilled that I could actually make something worth eating. After that, whenever I had gas, I baked, sometimes cookies, sometimes fruit breads and once even I tried bagels. They were, however, a fiasco. I found baking relaxing and great fun. I was hooked.
When I got home, my roommate and I alternated kitchen duties. I was finally forced to learn to cook and found I love it. I loved trying new recipes and experimenting to give them my own flavor. I cooked some of the foods I'd learned to love like an Indian curry I'd had in Ghana, and the fans raved. I made chicken Kiev and watched the butter spurt. I started with one cookbook, which I still have, and added more and more. I still sit and read the recipes and imagine how one recipe will fit with the other and if the foods have complementary colors. Every year I have a special dinner with a theme, and I only cook food I've never cooked before. My friends and I have eaten Indian, Chinese, Thai, French, African, Italian, Greek, Hungarian and Portuguese. We have had a seafood feast, foods from the southwest, from the east coast and from the south. I spend days figuring the theme then the menu. My friends have a regimen. They eat only that morning, are careful wolfing down the appetizers and go slowly at the table. Sometimes one or two of my guests will take a walk between courses. We have an end of the meal tradition. We discuss then vote on the favorite dish. We always argue a bit.
I can't even remember the last time I had spahettiOs.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Coming into Los Angeles: Arlo Guthrie
This was the song he performed at Woodstock, but it was Alice's Restaurant which gave him fame and a forty year career in music.
MP3 File
MP3 File
“My psychiatrist told me I was crazy and I said I want a second opinion. He said okay, you're ugly too.”
I find myself talking out loud more than I ever did. In my younger days, I'd let loose a colorful metaphor or two, but their value is only appreciated if said aloud. Once in a while, I'd correct the TV. I have never been great at abiding bad grammar. I'd talk to the dog and cats, but I consider them near human most of the time, and they enjoy a good conversation. All that has changed. I've started to natter. I express indignation about the program I'm watching. I announce I'm going to get another cup of coffee, and I moan and groan about being tired. When I see something extraordinary, I wow for all the world to hear. In the movies, people who talk to themselves are considered crazy. That worried me for a bit. I had to think whether or not I was losing my grip on reality. That conversation was not out loud, given its nature. My conclusion was I was not crazy, but that too worried me. Wouldn't a crazy person think herself sane? I didn't seem movie crazy: I never mumbled. I didn't want to ask anyone. Do you think I'm crazy didn't seem to be a great conversation ice breaker. I was going in circles: crazy, not crazy, round and round until I finally couldn't take it anymore. I yelled, "Enough!"
Sunday, February 10, 2008
"Teaching was the hardest work I had ever done, and it remains the hardest work I have done to date."
If anyone had asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would have said a teacher. Back then few professions were welcoming to women, but female teachers were so common they had become stereotypical: spinsters with glasses and buns. It never occurred to me I was choosing by default. All the teachers I had had were women, including the nuns, and they were the strongest women I knew. Every day, for little money, they stood at the front of a classroom filled with thirty plus kids. They kept us interested, tolerated no inappropriate behavior and gave me a love for learning. I wanted to be just like them, minus the bun.
I love flying, not because I love being crammed in a plane seemingly too heavy to lift off or being stuck close to people I don't know or because of some odd craving for airline food. I love flying because it means I'm going somewhere. I still see a flight as an adventure. I love the hustle and bustle of boarding, and I love looking out the window. On the way to England from Morocco, I watched as we flew over the Pyrenees, and on the way to Ghana, I was mesmerized by the expanse of the Sahara Desert. A glowing city looks magical from the air, an oasis of light in the midst of all that darkness, and flying through clouds is almost like a magic carpet ride. I do get bored on a really long flight and tend to count off the hours until my arrival, but it is the anticipation which makes me impatient. When the plane lands, I can hardly wait until the line moves toward the doors. Come on, hurry up: let my adventure begin.
I love flying, not because I love being crammed in a plane seemingly too heavy to lift off or being stuck close to people I don't know or because of some odd craving for airline food. I love flying because it means I'm going somewhere. I still see a flight as an adventure. I love the hustle and bustle of boarding, and I love looking out the window. On the way to England from Morocco, I watched as we flew over the Pyrenees, and on the way to Ghana, I was mesmerized by the expanse of the Sahara Desert. A glowing city looks magical from the air, an oasis of light in the midst of all that darkness, and flying through clouds is almost like a magic carpet ride. I do get bored on a really long flight and tend to count off the hours until my arrival, but it is the anticipation which makes me impatient. When the plane lands, I can hardly wait until the line moves toward the doors. Come on, hurry up: let my adventure begin.
Saturday, February 09, 2008
“Childhood smells of perfume and brownies.”
The car windows were frosted this morning when I went to get the papers in the driveway, but I felt promise. The day will get warmer. The air hints of it. It's almost the kind of morning we get in the late spring when the nights are downright cold, but the day is sweatshirt warm and smells sweet with renewal. The sun has reappeared for the first time in days, and the world is a prettier place.
When I was growing up, we lived on one side of a duplex. Both sides, mirror images of each other, were filled with tiny rooms. Four kids made our house seem even tinier. The living room was where we spent most of our time. The TV was there. Our living room couch was lumpy and old, and slipcovers kept it looking clean. A desk stood against the back wall, and the four of us had our pictures taken on it, though you can't tell when you look at the picture. It's the only formal portrait of the four of us. The kitchen was so small it had only the table and chairs. My room had a double bed, a desk and a bureau, and I shared with my sister, Sheila. My brother slept in a room with my youngest sister, Moe. My parents were in the third bedroom. The hall was so tiny you could almost stand in one spot and touch the door of each bedroom. The bathroom was squeezed into a corner of the tiny hall. None of us really noticed how small our house was. Kids were in and out of it all the time. Both my parents were always welcoming. My mother was a den mother and a Girl Scout leader. Once I had a pajama party and far more guests arrived than even I had expected. My father just bought more donuts. My friends and I sat at the kitchen table to do our homework while my mother puttered around getting dinner ready. My brother was usually out while my sisters hung around to be annoying. We had a lot of games, and on weekends, my friends and I would lay them out on the kitchen table to play. My mother would make popcorn loaded with butter. My friends loved coming to my house.
A while back I drove by this house. It was unoccupied and looked sad. I wanted to sneak a peek but chose discretion instead, and I regret my choice. I wanted to know what color the living room is now. It was green in my day. I wanted to look through the back door window at the kitchen and see if it is exactly as I remember. I wanted to check out the garbage pail beside the steps, the clothes line which stretched across the yards of both sides and the steps we'd slide down in the winter to get into the cellar to change out of our wet and snowy clothes. I wanted a glimpse of my childhood.
When I was growing up, we lived on one side of a duplex. Both sides, mirror images of each other, were filled with tiny rooms. Four kids made our house seem even tinier. The living room was where we spent most of our time. The TV was there. Our living room couch was lumpy and old, and slipcovers kept it looking clean. A desk stood against the back wall, and the four of us had our pictures taken on it, though you can't tell when you look at the picture. It's the only formal portrait of the four of us. The kitchen was so small it had only the table and chairs. My room had a double bed, a desk and a bureau, and I shared with my sister, Sheila. My brother slept in a room with my youngest sister, Moe. My parents were in the third bedroom. The hall was so tiny you could almost stand in one spot and touch the door of each bedroom. The bathroom was squeezed into a corner of the tiny hall. None of us really noticed how small our house was. Kids were in and out of it all the time. Both my parents were always welcoming. My mother was a den mother and a Girl Scout leader. Once I had a pajama party and far more guests arrived than even I had expected. My father just bought more donuts. My friends and I sat at the kitchen table to do our homework while my mother puttered around getting dinner ready. My brother was usually out while my sisters hung around to be annoying. We had a lot of games, and on weekends, my friends and I would lay them out on the kitchen table to play. My mother would make popcorn loaded with butter. My friends loved coming to my house.
A while back I drove by this house. It was unoccupied and looked sad. I wanted to sneak a peek but chose discretion instead, and I regret my choice. I wanted to know what color the living room is now. It was green in my day. I wanted to look through the back door window at the kitchen and see if it is exactly as I remember. I wanted to check out the garbage pail beside the steps, the clothes line which stretched across the yards of both sides and the steps we'd slide down in the winter to get into the cellar to change out of our wet and snowy clothes. I wanted a glimpse of my childhood.
Friday, February 08, 2008
Come All Ye Fair and Tender Ladies: Terrea Lea
I bought the album Back By Popular Demand, Terrea Lea without having heard of her. I decided to purchase the album on trust. I wasn't disappointed.
Because I know nothing about her, I am adding a couple of links. The first reproduces the verbatim content of a typewritten Terrea Lea National Fan Club handout published circa 1964, and the second catches us up a bit as to what Terrea has done since she retired from music.
http://thegarret.info/tlbio.php
http://www.donutexpress.com/news.asp
MP3 File
Because I know nothing about her, I am adding a couple of links. The first reproduces the verbatim content of a typewritten Terrea Lea National Fan Club handout published circa 1964, and the second catches us up a bit as to what Terrea has done since she retired from music.
http://thegarret.info/tlbio.php
http://www.donutexpress.com/news.asp
MP3 File
February Morning Drive: David Francey
This is from David's second album Far End of Summer which was voted 2001 album of the year and won a Juno.
I have become a huge David Francey fan. I love the simplicity of his music, its amazing harmony and beautiful lyrics.
MP3 File
I have become a huge David Francey fan. I love the simplicity of his music, its amazing harmony and beautiful lyrics.
MP3 File
“The confession of our failings is a thankless office.
Today is true confessions day. Here I will reveal my innermost secrets, those sordid parts of my life I keep hidden from the light of day.
Though I am not a violent person, I have punched two people in my life. The first was when I was in the fifth grade and the second was during my senior year in high school. The first one was deliberate while the second was pure impulse. Both were warranted and in retrospect quite satisfying.
We used to go to every college hockey game. Not that we were great fans, but we'd party a bit before each game then smuggle a wineskin under our coats into the stands. When the crowd got up to cheer, we'd stay seated and pass the wineskin in honor of whatever was happening on the ice. We called it our tribute to ice hockey. I still remember the wineskin had suede on the outside and cheap wine inside.
A car in which I was a passenger was stopped by a state trooper. It was in the 1970's, and the driver of my car had the look of the times: long hair, a woven shirt and ragged bottom jeans. The officer took offense at first view. He had stopped us because the tail light had a chip, but he treated us as if we were master criminals. I had a dog in the back with me, and the officer wanted to know if the dog had a license. I politely told him the dog had not been driving. The officer then demanded to know my name. I told him, "Ryan, why?" From that point on the officer lectured me about respect and kept calling me Miss Why. During the whole time, the front seat shook from silent laughter.
I admit I occasionally threw a Good and Plenty at the Saturday matinées, but only after I had been targeted and hit. My move was purely defensive, a foreshadowing of the cold war to come.
When I was young, I'd sometimes smuggle in a real book to Sunday mass. I'd hide it in my pocket then slip it between the covers of my missal. I'd read it during the mass. A cursory look would have given the impression of devotion.
Okay, I have bared my soul, and I feel all the better for having done so.
Though I am not a violent person, I have punched two people in my life. The first was when I was in the fifth grade and the second was during my senior year in high school. The first one was deliberate while the second was pure impulse. Both were warranted and in retrospect quite satisfying.
We used to go to every college hockey game. Not that we were great fans, but we'd party a bit before each game then smuggle a wineskin under our coats into the stands. When the crowd got up to cheer, we'd stay seated and pass the wineskin in honor of whatever was happening on the ice. We called it our tribute to ice hockey. I still remember the wineskin had suede on the outside and cheap wine inside.
A car in which I was a passenger was stopped by a state trooper. It was in the 1970's, and the driver of my car had the look of the times: long hair, a woven shirt and ragged bottom jeans. The officer took offense at first view. He had stopped us because the tail light had a chip, but he treated us as if we were master criminals. I had a dog in the back with me, and the officer wanted to know if the dog had a license. I politely told him the dog had not been driving. The officer then demanded to know my name. I told him, "Ryan, why?" From that point on the officer lectured me about respect and kept calling me Miss Why. During the whole time, the front seat shook from silent laughter.
I admit I occasionally threw a Good and Plenty at the Saturday matinées, but only after I had been targeted and hit. My move was purely defensive, a foreshadowing of the cold war to come.
When I was young, I'd sometimes smuggle in a real book to Sunday mass. I'd hide it in my pocket then slip it between the covers of my missal. I'd read it during the mass. A cursory look would have given the impression of devotion.
Okay, I have bared my soul, and I feel all the better for having done so.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
"Ambition is a poor excuse for not having sense enough to be lazy."
Lately, I've been lazy. I shower and make my bed, but that is about the extent of my exertion. I make no apologies for this; in fact, I'm even bragging a bit. It has taken me a long while to rid myself of the guilt I amassed from ignoring the Puritan work ethic. Many of us born in New England were cursed with this at birth, but my generation, luckily, has finally learned to withstand the virtues of industry. At first I rationalized my sloth. Reading is improving my mind I'd say, but I was hard pressed to prove intellectual advancement when I was reading a murder mystery with bodies appearing on every other page. Sitting on the deck and claiming I was an ornithologist intent on watching chickadees seemed, at best, a stretch. Even I had trouble with that one. I quickly realized I needed to stop rationalizing and accept that I like sitting and reading. I like staying in the warm house. I like the luxury of having nowhere to go and nothing important to do. I like being an idler.
In my family, we are all huge fans of The Amazing Race. We each pick our favorite teams and harass each other when our teams are eliminated. Every time I watch, I wish I were wealthy because I'd plan an amazing race for my family and friends. I'd be Phil waiting at every pit stop with the news. In my race, though, eliminated teams would get to follow along and go from country to country; they are family after all. The tasks would not be too strenuous. Many of us are on the older side now. Some tasks would be messy, and I'd add a strange food or two. I'm thinking a bit of mud, a taste of eel and a goat to milk might be just the ticket. Best of all, I'd get to watch.
In my family, we are all huge fans of The Amazing Race. We each pick our favorite teams and harass each other when our teams are eliminated. Every time I watch, I wish I were wealthy because I'd plan an amazing race for my family and friends. I'd be Phil waiting at every pit stop with the news. In my race, though, eliminated teams would get to follow along and go from country to country; they are family after all. The tasks would not be too strenuous. Many of us are on the older side now. Some tasks would be messy, and I'd add a strange food or two. I'm thinking a bit of mud, a taste of eel and a goat to milk might be just the ticket. Best of all, I'd get to watch.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Eyes on the Prize: Mavis Staples
This song is from Mavis Staples' latest album, We'll Never Turn Back, a collection of freedom songs, gospel-fueled anthems of the civil rights movement of the 50's and 60's. The producer of the album is Ry Cooder, and the SNCC Freedom Singers and Ladysmith Black Mambazo provide the back up voices though I hate to use that term for these amazing singers.
MP3 File
MP3 File
If I Had My Way: Rev. Gary Davis
This song is from a new release from Smithsonian Folkways called Classic African American Gospel. From the liner notes: "The singer, Rev. Gary Davis, became one of the most widely known guitarists of the folk revival of the 1950s. As a finger-picking guitarist Rev. Gary Davis influenced artists as diverse as Ry Cooder, Jerry Garcia, Dave Van Ronk and Stefan Grossman."
This version was recorded in 1953.
MP3 File
This version was recorded in 1953.
MP3 File
"Are they made from real Girl Scouts? "
The first group I ever joined was the Brownies. We got to wear great uniforms with matching brown tams. We could accessorize, and for Christmas one year I got a small Brownie purse. I was thrilled. It attached to my belt, and I'd keep my money in it, that stray nickel or dime I'd sometimes have. Being a Brownie meant I could wear my Brownie uniform the day my troop met, and I didn't have to wear my regular school uniform. I remember we sold cookies door to door, but I can't for the life of me remember anything else we did. I just remember we had meetings every week, and we looked great. I forget how old I was for the fly-up ceremony, when Brownies become Girl Scouts. I remember getting my wings and attaching them on my very first Girl Scout sash. I was a scout for a lot of years.
My parish had a drill team which had been in existence since the late 1940's. My aunt had marched in it, and I joined when I was in the fifth grade. I still remember all those Saturday mornings at the local armory. We practiced in the room upstairs which was cavernous and had a great old wooden floor which creaked when we marched across it. I remember it always felt cold no matter the season. Flags hung from the rafters, and windows lined both side walls. We were there to learn all the maneuvers hoping to get good enough to be part of the senior drill team which competed all summer. I remember I made the senior drill team when I was eleven, but I think it was more they needed the body than that I had mastered the maneuvers. During the winter we, the senior drill team, practiced to learn our maneuver for the summer competitions. The drill team occupied my whole summer for years with twice a week practices, an occasional one on Sunday mornings and competitions every weekend, sometimes on both a Saturday night and Sunday afternoon. When we didn't have a competition, we went to one anyway. It was through the drill team I met most of my friends, and I still stay in touch with some of them. We're talking going on fifty years now.
After all these years, bits and pieces have stayed with me. If need be, I can still make an oven from a can, and I can probably rustle up some campfire stew. I know the right way to fold a flag. I still remember most of those maneuvers, and I can do a half step to play the fifty yard line. If you need some first aid, call me. I can still do a mean splint.
My parish had a drill team which had been in existence since the late 1940's. My aunt had marched in it, and I joined when I was in the fifth grade. I still remember all those Saturday mornings at the local armory. We practiced in the room upstairs which was cavernous and had a great old wooden floor which creaked when we marched across it. I remember it always felt cold no matter the season. Flags hung from the rafters, and windows lined both side walls. We were there to learn all the maneuvers hoping to get good enough to be part of the senior drill team which competed all summer. I remember I made the senior drill team when I was eleven, but I think it was more they needed the body than that I had mastered the maneuvers. During the winter we, the senior drill team, practiced to learn our maneuver for the summer competitions. The drill team occupied my whole summer for years with twice a week practices, an occasional one on Sunday mornings and competitions every weekend, sometimes on both a Saturday night and Sunday afternoon. When we didn't have a competition, we went to one anyway. It was through the drill team I met most of my friends, and I still stay in touch with some of them. We're talking going on fifty years now.
After all these years, bits and pieces have stayed with me. If need be, I can still make an oven from a can, and I can probably rustle up some campfire stew. I know the right way to fold a flag. I still remember most of those maneuvers, and I can do a half step to play the fifty yard line. If you need some first aid, call me. I can still do a mean splint.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Mardi Gras Mambo: The Hawketts
Mardi Gras or fat Tuesday is a boisterous celebration held annually on Shrove Tuesday, the day before the season of Lent begins in the Western Christian liturgical calendar. The actual date varies from year to year since it depends on the date of Easter.
Mardi Gras is the culmination of a long carnival season which begins on January 6, the Twelfth Night of Christmas. The custom was brought to the United States by the French who had paraded a fat ox through Paris. The honor of the oldest Mardi Gras celebration in the United States belongs to Mobile, Alabama which first observed the holiday in 1703. However, the city most associated with Mardi Gras is New Orleans, Louisiana.
MP3 File
Mardi Gras is the culmination of a long carnival season which begins on January 6, the Twelfth Night of Christmas. The custom was brought to the United States by the French who had paraded a fat ox through Paris. The honor of the oldest Mardi Gras celebration in the United States belongs to Mobile, Alabama which first observed the holiday in 1703. However, the city most associated with Mardi Gras is New Orleans, Louisiana.
MP3 File
"Peculiar travel suggestions are dancing lessons from God."
Rain is in the air. It's so dark the dog triggered the lights in the yard and my palm tree is aglow. The air is damp and the day feels much colder than it is. The room is dark except for the monitor. Just enough light shines on the keyboard. I'm still not dressed. I figure there's time enough later.
I find it amazing that a couple of weeks ago I was in Morocco. I miss Marrakesh or maybe I just miss waking up in a place foreign, a place filled with unfamiliar sights and smells. I miss the hubbub of voices speaking a language I don't understand. I miss being somewhere different. Here I am back in the groove of my life as if I've not been away, but that trip has reawaken my appetite for travel.
I have no money, but I pore over e-mails describing wonderfully cheap last minute fares as if I could leave tomorrow. I imagine my next trip. It will be somewhere I've never been. I'll need to bring an English to whatever language book so I can point at words I don't know how to pronounce. I'll eat strange foods and won't ask what I'm eating. I learned that lesson a long time ago. Food always tastes better when you don't know what it is. I'll walk along the street watching life unfold in front of me. I'll probably get lost, but I find the neatest treasures in unexpected places. My sister Moe can rest assured I'll shop. It's in my blood, inherited from my mother, and I love buying Christmas presents from my travels. I'm thinking Asia, but I'm open to just about anywhere.
I do have a trip planned in April. It's meets just one of my criteria. I've never been there. I'm going to Cleveland. That may seem just a bit pedestrian after Marrakesh, but I'm meeting a friend I haven't seen since Ghana, and that raises the trip to a whole new level. Michele was stationed in the same city as Ralph, and I used to visit her on my way through town. I'm really excited about seeing her. We have great plans. A Cleveland Indians' game is part of those plans, and they just happen to be playing the Red Sox. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is on the list, and I expect Michelle has more ideas. My sister Moe can rest assured I'll shop.
I'm going to get dressed and go vote.
I find it amazing that a couple of weeks ago I was in Morocco. I miss Marrakesh or maybe I just miss waking up in a place foreign, a place filled with unfamiliar sights and smells. I miss the hubbub of voices speaking a language I don't understand. I miss being somewhere different. Here I am back in the groove of my life as if I've not been away, but that trip has reawaken my appetite for travel.
I have no money, but I pore over e-mails describing wonderfully cheap last minute fares as if I could leave tomorrow. I imagine my next trip. It will be somewhere I've never been. I'll need to bring an English to whatever language book so I can point at words I don't know how to pronounce. I'll eat strange foods and won't ask what I'm eating. I learned that lesson a long time ago. Food always tastes better when you don't know what it is. I'll walk along the street watching life unfold in front of me. I'll probably get lost, but I find the neatest treasures in unexpected places. My sister Moe can rest assured I'll shop. It's in my blood, inherited from my mother, and I love buying Christmas presents from my travels. I'm thinking Asia, but I'm open to just about anywhere.
I do have a trip planned in April. It's meets just one of my criteria. I've never been there. I'm going to Cleveland. That may seem just a bit pedestrian after Marrakesh, but I'm meeting a friend I haven't seen since Ghana, and that raises the trip to a whole new level. Michele was stationed in the same city as Ralph, and I used to visit her on my way through town. I'm really excited about seeing her. We have great plans. A Cleveland Indians' game is part of those plans, and they just happen to be playing the Red Sox. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is on the list, and I expect Michelle has more ideas. My sister Moe can rest assured I'll shop.
I'm going to get dressed and go vote.
Monday, February 04, 2008
Bird on the Wire: Leonard Cohen
I first found Leonard Cohen in 1968 and pretty much wore out the album The Songs of Leonard Cohen. I had heard his songs covered by Judy Collins and a few others, but this was the first time I'd heard him. That is still a favorite album.
This song comes from Songs from a Room, his second album.
MP3 File
This song comes from Songs from a Room, his second album.
MP3 File
Hard Times Are here Again: Tom Paxton
This is from The Silverwolf Homeless Project. As I bought this song on line, I don't have a lot of information. The album is billed as a "Homeless-specific song-cycle."
The Silverwolf Homeless Project seeks to raise money and consciousness for homelessness and poverty housing causes.
MP3 File
The Silverwolf Homeless Project seeks to raise money and consciousness for homelessness and poverty housing causes.
MP3 File
"If you think you are too small to be effective, you have never been in bed with a mosquito. "
There is no joy in Mudville.
Bugs, spiders and snakes never scared me when I was a kid. We used to catch grasshoppers in our bare hands from the field below our house. We'd run after them as they jumped in and out of the tall brown grass in front of us. At night, with jars in hand, we go to the same field and catch fireflies. We always let them go. A slithering green and yellow garter snake was an event. We'd yell as we chased it through the bushes and herded it toward one or the other of us. Once captured, the poor snake would be passed hand to hand for a closer look. Sometimes we'd hold the snake by its head and chase the less fearless who'd run in fright. I don't even want to think about the number of nightmares we caused. The praying mantis was my favorite bug. With those neat front legs and beady eyes, a praying mantis held us enthralled for hours. We never saw too many critters. My neighborhood just had the usual squirrels, chipmunks and a field mouse or two. A dog baying had us swearing there were coyotes, but it was more a hope than a reality, and a skunk sighting had us all running for the hills.
It wasn't until I got to Ghana that I saw a few critters which had me on the run. A scorpion was felled by my shoe as it crawled across my floor. One day my students were pelting rocks into the brush near my classroom block. They were trying to kill a poisonous snake. Cockroaches were everywhere. I'd turn on the light in my kitchen, a room off my house, and would hear them running for cover. That grossed me out. My flour was littered with insects, but we just took them as part of the experience and sifted out as many as we could. Geckos were all around, but they never scared me. They'd just skitter away when I got close. When I first saw them, I thought it was so cool to have lizards running around, so foreign and exotic.
I still don't mind bugs or the field mice which always seem to find their way into my house. My cats used to hunt the mice, and I've used a have a heart trap to capture a few of them. I haven't seen one in a while, and my cats have been less attentive than usual. I know, though, that a few are somewhere in the house enjoying my reluctant hospitality.
Bugs, spiders and snakes never scared me when I was a kid. We used to catch grasshoppers in our bare hands from the field below our house. We'd run after them as they jumped in and out of the tall brown grass in front of us. At night, with jars in hand, we go to the same field and catch fireflies. We always let them go. A slithering green and yellow garter snake was an event. We'd yell as we chased it through the bushes and herded it toward one or the other of us. Once captured, the poor snake would be passed hand to hand for a closer look. Sometimes we'd hold the snake by its head and chase the less fearless who'd run in fright. I don't even want to think about the number of nightmares we caused. The praying mantis was my favorite bug. With those neat front legs and beady eyes, a praying mantis held us enthralled for hours. We never saw too many critters. My neighborhood just had the usual squirrels, chipmunks and a field mouse or two. A dog baying had us swearing there were coyotes, but it was more a hope than a reality, and a skunk sighting had us all running for the hills.
It wasn't until I got to Ghana that I saw a few critters which had me on the run. A scorpion was felled by my shoe as it crawled across my floor. One day my students were pelting rocks into the brush near my classroom block. They were trying to kill a poisonous snake. Cockroaches were everywhere. I'd turn on the light in my kitchen, a room off my house, and would hear them running for cover. That grossed me out. My flour was littered with insects, but we just took them as part of the experience and sifted out as many as we could. Geckos were all around, but they never scared me. They'd just skitter away when I got close. When I first saw them, I thought it was so cool to have lizards running around, so foreign and exotic.
I still don't mind bugs or the field mice which always seem to find their way into my house. My cats used to hunt the mice, and I've used a have a heart trap to capture a few of them. I haven't seen one in a while, and my cats have been less attentive than usual. I know, though, that a few are somewhere in the house enjoying my reluctant hospitality.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
"If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant."
Tonight I'll be watching the Super Bowl. The sausage cacciatore is all made; I've the fixings for chili con queso; wings are in the fridge, and I bought a few sweets to finish off the munching. I'm rooting for the Patriots to win. I am a Patriots fan, have been for years, even all the lean years. I don't watch any other football games, but I always watch the Pats play. Though the nuances of football totally escape me, I understand the basics. Who does what when is not something I totally understand, but I'm okay with that. It makes the game no less fun for me. I know rooting for the underdog is as American as apple pie but not for me tonight.
The last few days have been winter warm and made me ache just a bit for spring. I long to be outside sitting on my deck. I want air which wafts of flowers. I want the bright yellow of daffodils. I want green grass. I want buds adorning the branches of trees. I want new growth sprouting in my garden. I want to open my windows to the fresh air. I want winter to make a hasty departure. But, as my mother often told me, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
The last few days have been winter warm and made me ache just a bit for spring. I long to be outside sitting on my deck. I want air which wafts of flowers. I want the bright yellow of daffodils. I want green grass. I want buds adorning the branches of trees. I want new growth sprouting in my garden. I want to open my windows to the fresh air. I want winter to make a hasty departure. But, as my mother often told me, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Groundhog Day Tribute: Pennsylvania Polka
It's Groundhog Day and old Punxsutawney Phil is ready to strut his stuff, but I'm sticking with a local. Here in Massachusetts we have the lovely and amazing Ms. G. Here's hoping no clouds mar her entrance!
MP3 File
MP3 File
"What time is it , kids?"
It's Saturday, the best TV day of the week. My brother and I turn on the set and keep the sound low so as not to wake up our parents. We move only to get our cereal. My brother likes his Cheerios while I'm a Rice Krispie fan. We share that space beside the chair which is so close to the TV it's like sitting in row one at the movies. I think we even have to crane our necks. We stay in pajamas and slipper socks though we put on robes if the house is chilly. My two little sisters sit on the couch together. We get them breakfast just to keep them quiet. The morning is filled with all the best programs. The earliest show is Crusader Rabbit with his sidekick Rags the Tiger. Andy's Gang is next, and I love Midnight the cat. Froggy the gremlin is scary with an evil sounding voice. When he laughs, I know something bad is going to happen to poor Andy who always gets conned. My favorite part of the show is the jungle adventure. Howdy Doody is next. My mother and father are up and dressed, and my father is having his coffee in the kitchen. We can smell his cigarette and hear the rustle of pages being turned. He and my mother are talking, but we tune them out to get back to Howdy. Dilly Dally is a favorite, and I'm a fan of Princess Summerfall Winterspring. My brother is into Chief Thunderthud, but both of us agree on Phineas T. Bluster being our least favorite Doodyville resident. Sky King and Penny are on soon. Penny is amazing. She is a pilot and even gets to fly the Songbird. We sit quietly hoping to hang on until Fury is over, but my mother usually has other plans. She shoos us upstairs to get dressed. We're actually okay with that as we have a plan. Today we're walking the tracks in the other direction.
Friday, February 01, 2008
Trouble in Mind: Snooks Eaglin
Snooks Eaglin was born in 1936 and raised in New Orleans. When he was a year and a half, surgery for a brain tumor left him blind. Eaglin's father, a harmonica player, gave him a guitar at the age of five, and young Snooks taught himself to play by replicating songs off the radio and phonograph. Eaglin's first regular gig was with the Flamingoes in 1952, a seven-piece horn combo started by 13-year-old Allen Toussaint on piano. Snooks recorded for Folkways in 1958 then for Imperial. He still lives in New Orleans and still plays a great guitar.
This is a cut from the Smithsonian Folkways album Snooks Eaglin New Orleans Street Singer originally released in 1959 but now in re-release.
MP3 File
This is a cut from the Smithsonian Folkways album Snooks Eaglin New Orleans Street Singer originally released in 1959 but now in re-release.
MP3 File
"Food is an important part of a balanced diet."
It's a blogger block day. After sitting here for about twenty minutes, I got so bored I went file exploring and ended up removing duplicate songs, cleaning up old programs and thinking of absolutely nothing to say. I got up, went to the kitchen for coffee, decided to wet mop the floor and forgot to pour myself another cup. On my next trip to the kitchen for that coffee, I looked around the house hoping to be inspired; instead, I dusted a table and the small bureau in the hall. The bathroom sink got a few quick swipes, and I cleaned the books in this room with my sweat shirt sleeve. If this keeps up, my house will be immaculate.
Why we survived into adulthood remains a mystery. I don't even think they sold bicycle helmets when I was a kid. We never gave thought to a diet with all the food groups. I have no memories of a salad for its own sake being served or veggies for a dip. The thought of raw broccoli, with or without ranch dressing, would have sent me running. My mother did demand we eat our vegetables, but she was smart and usually served ones we liked anyway. I got sweaty and dirty playing outside and suffered no ill effects. I remember walking the railroad tracks and stopping to drink out of a small creek we found. I never did get cooties from sharing a drink with my friends or licks from an ice cream cone with my dog. If I dropped food on the ground, the five second rule was in effect, and with candy, those five seconds could be extended indefinitely. We suck down colored sugar from a penny candy straw and ate wax bottles. My mother told us when she and my aunt were kids, the streets got so hot in the summer the tar got soft. They'd grab a piece, roll it into a ball and chew on it.
I have a theory about the effects of today's sterilized living. In The War of the Worlds, the Martian invaders were defeated because they had no immunity against even the least innocuous of Earth's germs. I figure we are getting a lot like those Martians.
Why we survived into adulthood remains a mystery. I don't even think they sold bicycle helmets when I was a kid. We never gave thought to a diet with all the food groups. I have no memories of a salad for its own sake being served or veggies for a dip. The thought of raw broccoli, with or without ranch dressing, would have sent me running. My mother did demand we eat our vegetables, but she was smart and usually served ones we liked anyway. I got sweaty and dirty playing outside and suffered no ill effects. I remember walking the railroad tracks and stopping to drink out of a small creek we found. I never did get cooties from sharing a drink with my friends or licks from an ice cream cone with my dog. If I dropped food on the ground, the five second rule was in effect, and with candy, those five seconds could be extended indefinitely. We suck down colored sugar from a penny candy straw and ate wax bottles. My mother told us when she and my aunt were kids, the streets got so hot in the summer the tar got soft. They'd grab a piece, roll it into a ball and chew on it.
I have a theory about the effects of today's sterilized living. In The War of the Worlds, the Martian invaders were defeated because they had no immunity against even the least innocuous of Earth's germs. I figure we are getting a lot like those Martians.
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