I really liked Melvern Taylor and his Meltones from the very moment I first heard them.
They have a new album, Love Songs for Losers. I love that title. This song, though, is from an older album, Fabuloso, originally recorded in 2003 but re-released a couple of years ago.
Want more? Melvern Taylor
MP3 File
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Every Long Journey: Ann Reed
It was Greg who introduced me to the music of Ann Reed. She is from Minneapolis as is Greg. I played one of her songs a long while ago, with permission. I'm hoping she won't mind me playing another.
This is my favorite song of hers, a favorite since I first heard Bill Staines sing it, long before I knew Ann Reed existed. It is from By Request, one of the two albums of hers I own. It was released in 1992 and is on Turtlecub Productions, Ann's own label.
Want to know more? Ann Reed
MP3 File
This is my favorite song of hers, a favorite since I first heard Bill Staines sing it, long before I knew Ann Reed existed. It is from By Request, one of the two albums of hers I own. It was released in 1992 and is on Turtlecub Productions, Ann's own label.
Want to know more? Ann Reed
MP3 File
“Sharp nostalgia, infinite and terrible, for what I already possess.”
Gracie is a repeat offender. She jumped the walls again last night. I went out, flashlight in hand, and called. She came right to me and meekly followed into the house. I have a call in to my friend who does lots of handy work to have him come and figure the best solution. Hobbling her won't work.
My friend Pat unearthed a letter I had written to her in April, 1971. It spoke of how close it was getting to my going home from Ghana and all that was going through my head. I'm going to quote verbatim.
"Lately I've been thinking more and more about home. Sometimes I worry about going home and being very dissatisfied with what I find, but I guess that's the risk I have to take. Going into Peace Corps was the best thing I could have done for myself. I've learned a lot not only about Africa but the states and myself. I'm beginning to realize how damn lucky I am. This is the sort of experience that no one should or can do without. In a way it's a bit mind blowing. All of a sudden you're awake to sounds, sights and feelings that you never knew existed before. It's the sort of experience you can never forget because you've tried to absorb every particle that you can so it can all be brought back whenever it begins to dim. Already I'm getting nostalgic, and I haven't even left here yet. I guess that's a sign of getting old."
I was all of twenty three when I wrote that letter.
My friend Pat unearthed a letter I had written to her in April, 1971. It spoke of how close it was getting to my going home from Ghana and all that was going through my head. I'm going to quote verbatim.
"Lately I've been thinking more and more about home. Sometimes I worry about going home and being very dissatisfied with what I find, but I guess that's the risk I have to take. Going into Peace Corps was the best thing I could have done for myself. I've learned a lot not only about Africa but the states and myself. I'm beginning to realize how damn lucky I am. This is the sort of experience that no one should or can do without. In a way it's a bit mind blowing. All of a sudden you're awake to sounds, sights and feelings that you never knew existed before. It's the sort of experience you can never forget because you've tried to absorb every particle that you can so it can all be brought back whenever it begins to dim. Already I'm getting nostalgic, and I haven't even left here yet. I guess that's a sign of getting old."
I was all of twenty three when I wrote that letter.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
A Certain Sadness: Astrud Gilberto
This was recorded in 1966 with the Walter Wanderley Trio. The album is A Certain Smile, A Certain Sadness.
MP3 File
MP3 File
The Guy That Says Goodbye to You Is Out of His Mind: Griffin House
I always get excited when I find someone new I really like, and here he is. It was on NPR, on World Cafe, when I first heard his music. I went hunting and was able to download a few of his songs. This song is on two albums, Homecoming and Flying Upside Down.
MP3 File
MP3 File
“All happiness depends on a leisurely breakfast.”
I'm glad for the rain, but it doesn't call me outside the way a gentle spring day does. The rain is my excuse to do little. Yesterday I had a list. I have that same list today. Maybe I'll be a bit more industrious.
My neighborhood is quiet, even in the summer when the doors and windows are open. When I was a kid, the house next to ours was so close I used to be able to hear their TV from our side window. I like the quiet better. On a summer night, I can sit outside and hear the songs of birds and the chirping of crickets, katydids and cicadas. It's an orchestra with the strings the strongest of all. Today I hear only the rain.
When I first moved into my house, my mother surprised me and brought a few things from my childhood. She brought a chair which my father's uncle had made for me, and she brought hen eggs cups made of yellow ceramic, all of them missing their beaks. When we were kids, we used those egg cups for years. My mother would cook soft boiled eggs, tap off the top shell and cut the egg. She'd serve the egg cup on a saucer piled with toast strips for dipping. The sides of the hens would get yellow lines of yolk, overflows from the first dipping into the full egg. I loved that breakfast.
My neighborhood is quiet, even in the summer when the doors and windows are open. When I was a kid, the house next to ours was so close I used to be able to hear their TV from our side window. I like the quiet better. On a summer night, I can sit outside and hear the songs of birds and the chirping of crickets, katydids and cicadas. It's an orchestra with the strings the strongest of all. Today I hear only the rain.
When I first moved into my house, my mother surprised me and brought a few things from my childhood. She brought a chair which my father's uncle had made for me, and she brought hen eggs cups made of yellow ceramic, all of them missing their beaks. When we were kids, we used those egg cups for years. My mother would cook soft boiled eggs, tap off the top shell and cut the egg. She'd serve the egg cup on a saucer piled with toast strips for dipping. The sides of the hens would get yellow lines of yolk, overflows from the first dipping into the full egg. I loved that breakfast.
Monday, April 28, 2008
I Will Be in Love With You: Livingston Taylor
This is Livingston Taylor's biggest hit. The song is from Three Way Mirror, his fourth album, released in 1978. I first heard Livingston sing at the Boston Music Awards a long time ago, and I thought him a James imitation, but I know better now.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"If you want to live and thrive, let the spider run alive. "
Today is the tale of the mouse. Last night the dog and I heard scratching from behind the cellar door. I, with great bravado, went to the door first. Gracie followed and stayed close but stood to the side, away from the door. She gave me an I have your back sort of look, and I opened the door. A gray mouse was on the top step but saw us and ran for all it was worth. I watched that mouse hop down one step to another then disappear. I shut the door. This morning I went to take my shower, pulled the mat to the floor and saw what appeared to be a tail. It was. One of my cats had been busy. A gray mouse had gone to its heavenly reward. It wasn't the same gray mouse, but I figure it a close relative.
I was never one of those squeamish sort of girls. Bugs and snakes never scared me. I loved watching the praying mantis on the steps, the spider weaving its web and the garden snakes slithering in the yard. From the tall brown grass in the field below our house, grasshoppers sang and catching them was a summer afternoon adventure. We'd run and they'd jump, and, with luck, they'd jump into our cupped hands. Snakes were always too fast for us. I remember we'd wonder if any of them were poisonous. They never were. We were always a bit disappointed. Just after dark was the best time for catching fireflies. I always imagined they had little light bulbs, sort of like the ones in flashlights, on their butts. Every night our field was aglow with blinking lights here then there then here again. We'd use jars to catch our fireflies so we could sit on the stairs in the dark and watch the mini light show. We never kept them very long. They always seemed precious.
I was never one of those squeamish sort of girls. Bugs and snakes never scared me. I loved watching the praying mantis on the steps, the spider weaving its web and the garden snakes slithering in the yard. From the tall brown grass in the field below our house, grasshoppers sang and catching them was a summer afternoon adventure. We'd run and they'd jump, and, with luck, they'd jump into our cupped hands. Snakes were always too fast for us. I remember we'd wonder if any of them were poisonous. They never were. We were always a bit disappointed. Just after dark was the best time for catching fireflies. I always imagined they had little light bulbs, sort of like the ones in flashlights, on their butts. Every night our field was aglow with blinking lights here then there then here again. We'd use jars to catch our fireflies so we could sit on the stairs in the dark and watch the mini light show. We never kept them very long. They always seemed precious.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
“I am always drawn back to places where I have lived, the houses and their neighborhoods.”
Last night I went out for a burger with friends, licked my first ice cream cone of the season, mint chocolate chip in case you were wondering, and then went to hear David Mallett at First Encounter Coffeehouse. He was just great: personable and in perfect voice. I loved my evening.
The day is dark and chilly. The table light is on and gives the room a comforting glow. It's the sort of day when socks and a sweatshirt are just right. I have no plans for the day, not even my Sunday dump run. I feel like lounging in my comfiest clothes. I'll watch a few movies then take a nap in the late afternoon. Outside just isn't inviting.
When I was a kid, we had an odd assortment of neighbors. The lady in the house across the street was the one who squealed on us to our parents when my brother and I were lowering our sisters from the upstairs window to the steps. Down the street was Mrs. McGaffigan who always yelled into the phone to tell us to hang up so she could make a call. We used to listen to her conversations. Sometimes she caught us. The Truesdales down the street always spent the summer on Martha's Vineyard. I had no idea where Martha's Vineyard was, but I was jealous just the same. In the house beside us, to the right, lived a photographer and his wife and son. He once had a fight in the backyard with another neighbor. We all watched. His wife was German and people used to make comments about Nazis, it being not so far from the war for some neighbors. Up back, the Burns, were lawn freaks. Next to them were the Butlers and the Poitiers. Mr. Butler gave me my first Information Please Almanac. He had no idea what he was doing. I filled a million memory drawers with the facts from that book. My mother went to high school with Mr. Poitier. He was in the air force and our neighborhood was just a stop. The family to our left, the Roberts, were friends with my parents. I remember Mrs. Roberts got chicken pox when she was a grown up and had pox marks on her face afterwards. She once went down the slip and slide during a party. I always liked the Roberts.
The day is dark and chilly. The table light is on and gives the room a comforting glow. It's the sort of day when socks and a sweatshirt are just right. I have no plans for the day, not even my Sunday dump run. I feel like lounging in my comfiest clothes. I'll watch a few movies then take a nap in the late afternoon. Outside just isn't inviting.
When I was a kid, we had an odd assortment of neighbors. The lady in the house across the street was the one who squealed on us to our parents when my brother and I were lowering our sisters from the upstairs window to the steps. Down the street was Mrs. McGaffigan who always yelled into the phone to tell us to hang up so she could make a call. We used to listen to her conversations. Sometimes she caught us. The Truesdales down the street always spent the summer on Martha's Vineyard. I had no idea where Martha's Vineyard was, but I was jealous just the same. In the house beside us, to the right, lived a photographer and his wife and son. He once had a fight in the backyard with another neighbor. We all watched. His wife was German and people used to make comments about Nazis, it being not so far from the war for some neighbors. Up back, the Burns, were lawn freaks. Next to them were the Butlers and the Poitiers. Mr. Butler gave me my first Information Please Almanac. He had no idea what he was doing. I filled a million memory drawers with the facts from that book. My mother went to high school with Mr. Poitier. He was in the air force and our neighborhood was just a stop. The family to our left, the Roberts, were friends with my parents. I remember Mrs. Roberts got chicken pox when she was a grown up and had pox marks on her face afterwards. She once went down the slip and slide during a party. I always liked the Roberts.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
"Weekends don't count unless you spend them doing something completely pointless. "
Gracie went missing last night. When she hadn't been in to visit for a while, I went looking. She had gotten out of the yard, and I couldn't figure how, maybe under or over the fence. I grabbed my flashlight and scoured the neighborhood. No Gracie! I called for reinforcements and they scoured. Finally I saw her looking out from a neighbor's deck. The deck is three steps up and there are two picnic benches, one on top of the other, in front of the opening to keep their little dog from roaming. Gracie was shut in and couldn't get to me. In trying to move the heavy benches, I fell and scared the neighbors who then peered out from behind their slider curtain. They had no idea Gracie was there or even how she got there. It's a mystery.
Saturday was always the best day of the week. We had all those Saturday morning programs to watch and a whole day to do whatever we wanted. We could go to the show uptown if the picture was a good one or we could just roam. We never stayed home. The day was too valuable to waste. Sometimes we'd go uptown and check out the stores. We liked looking into the Chinese laundry. The front was small with its counter just a few steps into the store and a presser machine to the right of the counter. The machine looked like an ironing board with a top. The man would lay out the shirt on the bottom, pull down the top, hold it for a bit then release. Steam came out of both sides. My dad always brought his shirts there, to the Chinaman he'd say. The pressed shirts were wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string and kept on shelves behind the counter. Our next stop was just a few stores up the street, to the barber shop. It had two chairs and a single barber. My dad went there too. We'd also stop at the drug store hoping for a free coke from my dad's friend. That was sometimes our last stop, and we'd meander our way home passed the fire station, the town barn and the junk man. We were usually starving when we got home.
Saturday was always the best day of the week. We had all those Saturday morning programs to watch and a whole day to do whatever we wanted. We could go to the show uptown if the picture was a good one or we could just roam. We never stayed home. The day was too valuable to waste. Sometimes we'd go uptown and check out the stores. We liked looking into the Chinese laundry. The front was small with its counter just a few steps into the store and a presser machine to the right of the counter. The machine looked like an ironing board with a top. The man would lay out the shirt on the bottom, pull down the top, hold it for a bit then release. Steam came out of both sides. My dad always brought his shirts there, to the Chinaman he'd say. The pressed shirts were wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string and kept on shelves behind the counter. Our next stop was just a few stores up the street, to the barber shop. It had two chairs and a single barber. My dad went there too. We'd also stop at the drug store hoping for a free coke from my dad's friend. That was sometimes our last stop, and we'd meander our way home passed the fire station, the town barn and the junk man. We were usually starving when we got home.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Heartache Boulevard: Eilen Jewell
This is from last year's Letters from Sinners and Strangers. I love this album with its folk and country and so much more.
MP3 File
MP3 File
Joy of My Life: John Fogerty
This song is from Blue Moon Swamp. The album is filled with that laid back, bluesy Fogerty I love best.
MP3 File
MP3 File
“Shopping tip: You can get shoes for 85 cents at the bowling alley”
My town had two bowling alleys and a pool hall. The pool hall was down some stairs, below a store uptown, and we never went down there. It had only guys, and it was always smoky. When I was young, I'd open the door just to listen to the banging of pool balls and the clatter of voices. I was curious but never brave enough to walk downstairs.
One bowling alley, the town favorite, was old and huge and sat on the corner of the main road. My father, who had lived right down the street, once worked there as a pin boy. It was open all day but was especially busy on Friday and Saturday nights, date nights. In those days, the bowling alley was a perfectly good date spot, second only to the movies. We'd go in a group, and none of us were very good bowlers. We learned the words gutter ball really early in our bowling careers. We'd rent our shoes and get our alley numbers and score sheets. The shoes were always leather with stripes along the sides. The shoe size was in red on the back of each shoe and the half sizes had a line under the numbers. The alley had a snack bar, and we'd drink cokes and munch fries. It was candlepins in my town. We laughed at each gutter ball, and none of us ever had high scores. A spare was a rarity. A strike was cause for jubilation. We didn't really care. We were just there to have fun.
One bowling alley, the town favorite, was old and huge and sat on the corner of the main road. My father, who had lived right down the street, once worked there as a pin boy. It was open all day but was especially busy on Friday and Saturday nights, date nights. In those days, the bowling alley was a perfectly good date spot, second only to the movies. We'd go in a group, and none of us were very good bowlers. We learned the words gutter ball really early in our bowling careers. We'd rent our shoes and get our alley numbers and score sheets. The shoes were always leather with stripes along the sides. The shoe size was in red on the back of each shoe and the half sizes had a line under the numbers. The alley had a snack bar, and we'd drink cokes and munch fries. It was candlepins in my town. We laughed at each gutter ball, and none of us ever had high scores. A spare was a rarity. A strike was cause for jubilation. We didn't really care. We were just there to have fun.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Duncan and Brady: Tom Rush
Tom Rush's version of Duncan and Brady dates from around 1965. For me, Leadbelly is the singer who usually comes to mind as his was the first version I'd heard though Wilmer Watts' version is the earliest recorded, in October 1929. The lyrics seem to change with the singer.
MP3 File
MP3 File
The Wagoner's Lad: Peggy Seeger
Thanks to Leyther who got to hear Sam Cooke again, not Peggy Seeger. Audioblog does that every now and then. This is an old English folk song with a long pedigree.
MP3 File
MP3 File
“We live in a wonderful world that is full of beauty, charm and adventure. "
This is the time of year of scheduled appointments. Tuesday was the cardiologist, today the yearly physical and in a couple of weeks the dentist. I have yet to call the eye doctor. Tuesday went well. The doctor told me all was as expected for a woman of my age. That threw me a bit as my actual and perceived ages are very far apart. I didn't want his reality.
All the signs are converging, and I'm beginning to believe that spring is finally coming to Cape Cod. The forsythias are in bloom, their bright yellow a welcome sight. The landscaper fertilized my front lawn. The kids are on school vacation. The trees in my backyard finally have visible buds. I had my first iced coffee yesterday.
The confines of my world were narrow when I was growing up. The boundaries were the square uptown, the woods and swamp and as far as we wanted to walk on the railroad tracks. It wasn't that we were forbidden to go further. It was we had no need. Uptown was the library, the movie theater, the bakery and drug store. The swamp was an all season destination with polliwogs in spring, exploring in summer and skating in winter. The woods were mostly summer when leaves could hide us from marauding pirates, the Sheriff of Nottingham and his men and evil aliens. The tracks were a Saturday morning destination. One side ended, and the other just kept going.
In high school, my world got wider. My school was in another town, and it was the jumping off spot to an even greater world. We hung around Harvard Square. We walked along the Charles. We went to Boston. We thought nothing of spending the day wandering in the city. We were explorers.
In college my world expanded even more. My friends and I went to New York City for the weekend. I felt sophisticated and could legally order a drink. I just didn't know what to order as my drinking had generally been confined to cheap wine. I went with the daiquiri.
After college my world became boundless.
All the signs are converging, and I'm beginning to believe that spring is finally coming to Cape Cod. The forsythias are in bloom, their bright yellow a welcome sight. The landscaper fertilized my front lawn. The kids are on school vacation. The trees in my backyard finally have visible buds. I had my first iced coffee yesterday.
The confines of my world were narrow when I was growing up. The boundaries were the square uptown, the woods and swamp and as far as we wanted to walk on the railroad tracks. It wasn't that we were forbidden to go further. It was we had no need. Uptown was the library, the movie theater, the bakery and drug store. The swamp was an all season destination with polliwogs in spring, exploring in summer and skating in winter. The woods were mostly summer when leaves could hide us from marauding pirates, the Sheriff of Nottingham and his men and evil aliens. The tracks were a Saturday morning destination. One side ended, and the other just kept going.
In high school, my world got wider. My school was in another town, and it was the jumping off spot to an even greater world. We hung around Harvard Square. We walked along the Charles. We went to Boston. We thought nothing of spending the day wandering in the city. We were explorers.
In college my world expanded even more. My friends and I went to New York City for the weekend. I felt sophisticated and could legally order a drink. I just didn't know what to order as my drinking had generally been confined to cheap wine. I went with the daiquiri.
After college my world became boundless.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
"We should all do what, in the long run, gives us joy, even if it is only picking grapes or sorting the laundry. "
Though the nights still get chilly, my bedroom window is open. Every morning now, I get to hear the birds. I get to smell the fresh air. I get to savor the morning.
In the backyards of houses along the T route, I saw clotheslines filled with laundry. One line had all whites. The sheets billowed. The other line had shirts hanging together connected at the bottoms. The clothespins were the wooden snap kind. They hung in a cloth bag. When we were kids, we used the other kind to make small dolls with stiff legs. I still have a few I hang on my Christmas tree. I think sheets dried by the sun smell better than just about anything.
My mother hung the laundry on the first few lines in the backyard. The back lines belonged to the family on the other side of our duplex. The lines were strung across a small square of tar. Every place else in the yard was grass. Green metal poles held the lines. They matched our shutters. We loved running in and out of the sheets as they dried. My mother always yelled at us from the back door or the kitchen window. I remember rain and my mother frantically running, laundry basket in hand, to take down the wash. She'd pull the laundry off the lines so fast sheets often ended up in the basket with clothespins still attached. She'd haul that basket into the house, fold anything dry then hang the rest up in the cellar. Her basket deserved the name. It was woven and had handles on the side.
In winter the wet clothes on the line would sometimes freeze in the cold. It always made me laugh to see shirts stiff and unmoving and pants looking as if they held legs. On really cold days, my mother would hang up the clothes in the cellar. Eventually she got a dryer. She used it mostly in the winter. On warm days, my mother still liked to hang clothes to dry in the sun.
In the backyards of houses along the T route, I saw clotheslines filled with laundry. One line had all whites. The sheets billowed. The other line had shirts hanging together connected at the bottoms. The clothespins were the wooden snap kind. They hung in a cloth bag. When we were kids, we used the other kind to make small dolls with stiff legs. I still have a few I hang on my Christmas tree. I think sheets dried by the sun smell better than just about anything.
My mother hung the laundry on the first few lines in the backyard. The back lines belonged to the family on the other side of our duplex. The lines were strung across a small square of tar. Every place else in the yard was grass. Green metal poles held the lines. They matched our shutters. We loved running in and out of the sheets as they dried. My mother always yelled at us from the back door or the kitchen window. I remember rain and my mother frantically running, laundry basket in hand, to take down the wash. She'd pull the laundry off the lines so fast sheets often ended up in the basket with clothespins still attached. She'd haul that basket into the house, fold anything dry then hang the rest up in the cellar. Her basket deserved the name. It was woven and had handles on the side.
In winter the wet clothes on the line would sometimes freeze in the cold. It always made me laugh to see shirts stiff and unmoving and pants looking as if they held legs. On really cold days, my mother would hang up the clothes in the cellar. Eventually she got a dryer. She used it mostly in the winter. On warm days, my mother still liked to hang clothes to dry in the sun.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
You'll Remember: Patty Griffin
From last year's Children Running Through, this is the first song on the album. You think it can't get any better than this, but it does.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"She glances at the photo, and the pilot light of memory flickers in her eyes. "
The blank screen mocks me. I have written about seagulls targeting my mother, TV commercials where guys daintily hold and nibble sandwiches and neighbors who crouch behind locked doors and windows. I erased each start. They took me nowhere. I have stopped, often, hoping for inspiration. I got more coffee, watched a bit of a really bad movie about tornadoes and Romanian gypsies and browsed through yesterday's catalogs. I did see a few things I might order, but that is about as productive as I've been. I thought maybe I'd take a trip back in time, but I don't know where to go. I could speculate about the future, but I'm thinking it's too similar to the recent past. My days have a familiarity broken only every now and then by an event like my weekend in Cleveland or my volunteering at the marathon. I'm not complaining, but I'd like a bit more fodder for my blog.
When my upstairs was being painted last year, the bookcase in my room was finally emptied. We were then able to move it away from the wall. Behind the bookcase, wrinkled and yellowed, was my invitation to the Peace Corps. It was in an envelope stamped air mail special delivery and dated February 1, 1969. It was sent to my apartment, and I remember it was delivered on a Saturday morning. It is a single, small sheet of paper. The first paragraph says it all, "I am pleased to inform you that you are being invited to train for Peace Corps service in Ghana, as an English teacher in a secondary education and teacher training program."
I had found a piece of ephemera.
We all do it. We save bits and pieces of our lives. Some are life changing like my invitation while others are simple mementos with meanings for us, the savers, but for no one else. I have menus and tickets stubs, some old postcards, a couple of matchbooks, notepaper from hotels and souvenirs from stops along the way. I hate to throw them away. They keep family and friends close. One ticket stub reminds me of a trip to Boston to a play, our dinner in a restaurant by the water and animals in clouds on the drive home. My friend is gone now, but all those memories are kept in one small ticket stub. I have a small gift card from a Christmas present from a not so long ago Christmas . It's signed in my mother's handwriting and says, "Merry Christmas, Kat. Love, Santa." It is one of my prized possessions.
When my upstairs was being painted last year, the bookcase in my room was finally emptied. We were then able to move it away from the wall. Behind the bookcase, wrinkled and yellowed, was my invitation to the Peace Corps. It was in an envelope stamped air mail special delivery and dated February 1, 1969. It was sent to my apartment, and I remember it was delivered on a Saturday morning. It is a single, small sheet of paper. The first paragraph says it all, "I am pleased to inform you that you are being invited to train for Peace Corps service in Ghana, as an English teacher in a secondary education and teacher training program."
I had found a piece of ephemera.
We all do it. We save bits and pieces of our lives. Some are life changing like my invitation while others are simple mementos with meanings for us, the savers, but for no one else. I have menus and tickets stubs, some old postcards, a couple of matchbooks, notepaper from hotels and souvenirs from stops along the way. I hate to throw them away. They keep family and friends close. One ticket stub reminds me of a trip to Boston to a play, our dinner in a restaurant by the water and animals in clouds on the drive home. My friend is gone now, but all those memories are kept in one small ticket stub. I have a small gift card from a Christmas present from a not so long ago Christmas . It's signed in my mother's handwriting and says, "Merry Christmas, Kat. Love, Santa." It is one of my prized possessions.
Monday, April 21, 2008
"There is more refreshment and stimulation in a nap, even of the briefest, than in all the alcohol ever distilled. "
It is never this late when I post, but today just ran away from me. Let me tell you about my day.
Since I retired, I can count on one hand the number of times I've had to set the alarm, but today added to that number. I was a volunteer again for the Boston Marathon and needed to be at my station no later than nine. That meant an early rising, a quick read of the papers and only a single cup of coffee. I hit the road around 6:30. With streets closed near Copley Square, I opted to park in Quincy and take the T. It was the perfect choice. I sat on the train and people watched.
I saw those familiar iPod wires dangling from a variety of ears. Several people had cups of coffee. One man prayed from the Koran he carried, his lips moving the entire time. A few souls sat with eyes closed. Several riders were Red Sox fans headed to the early game. They wore hats and official shirts. Ortiz was the name on the backs of two of them. After each stop, the train got emptier and emptier. By my stop, few of us were left, just the Red Sox fans and me. We got off at the same station and switched to another line. I lost track of them.
I arrived at Copley Square and found my tent. This year I was assigned to lunch distribution. About twelve of us put up tables and set out the lunch for those volunteers assigned to the race finish. We offered sandwiches, chips, apples, cookies, chocolate and juice. The job was easy, far easier than the water stations I usually work. The lunch rush started early, around ten, and ended early, around 12:30. We had cleaned up as our food disappeared so we were done. I decided not to wait around and headed for the T and home.
After I had greeted Gracie and let her out, I took a nap. It wasn't too long ago I woke up.
Since I retired, I can count on one hand the number of times I've had to set the alarm, but today added to that number. I was a volunteer again for the Boston Marathon and needed to be at my station no later than nine. That meant an early rising, a quick read of the papers and only a single cup of coffee. I hit the road around 6:30. With streets closed near Copley Square, I opted to park in Quincy and take the T. It was the perfect choice. I sat on the train and people watched.
I saw those familiar iPod wires dangling from a variety of ears. Several people had cups of coffee. One man prayed from the Koran he carried, his lips moving the entire time. A few souls sat with eyes closed. Several riders were Red Sox fans headed to the early game. They wore hats and official shirts. Ortiz was the name on the backs of two of them. After each stop, the train got emptier and emptier. By my stop, few of us were left, just the Red Sox fans and me. We got off at the same station and switched to another line. I lost track of them.
I arrived at Copley Square and found my tent. This year I was assigned to lunch distribution. About twelve of us put up tables and set out the lunch for those volunteers assigned to the race finish. We offered sandwiches, chips, apples, cookies, chocolate and juice. The job was easy, far easier than the water stations I usually work. The lunch rush started early, around ten, and ended early, around 12:30. We had cleaned up as our food disappeared so we were done. I decided not to wait around and headed for the T and home.
After I had greeted Gracie and let her out, I took a nap. It wasn't too long ago I woke up.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
“It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.”
Sunday morning at nine is my standing date for breakfast at Joe's Diner. This morning Joe's was a bit busier than usual. I suspect the snow birds are returning. No matter, the home fries were perfect and the bacon crisp.
Rituals and traditions give my life depth. They add meaning and are my connections across time and space. My Sunday morning breakfast of eggs over easy and bacon always reminds me of my dad. He cooked on Sunday mornings. I'd sit on the bench in the kitchen with my back to the windows while he worked at the stove. The black cast iron pan cooked the bacon to perfection though sometimes the eggs stuck. He always apologized for a broken yolk. The toast was my responsibility. The Sunday paper would already be divided. The circulars and coupons were in one pile on the bench and the rest of the paper in another pile on the table. I read the paper methodically. My dad picked and chose. He'd sit and drink coffee while I ate breakfast. He preferred instant coffee. When I was done, I'd put my dishes in the dishwasher. My dad would wash the frying pan. He'd stand at the sink, scrub then dry the frying pan, slide open the stove drawer and put it away. He sometimes closed the drawer with his foot. I always watched my dad. It never occurred to me I was making a memory.
Rituals and traditions give my life depth. They add meaning and are my connections across time and space. My Sunday morning breakfast of eggs over easy and bacon always reminds me of my dad. He cooked on Sunday mornings. I'd sit on the bench in the kitchen with my back to the windows while he worked at the stove. The black cast iron pan cooked the bacon to perfection though sometimes the eggs stuck. He always apologized for a broken yolk. The toast was my responsibility. The Sunday paper would already be divided. The circulars and coupons were in one pile on the bench and the rest of the paper in another pile on the table. I read the paper methodically. My dad picked and chose. He'd sit and drink coffee while I ate breakfast. He preferred instant coffee. When I was done, I'd put my dishes in the dishwasher. My dad would wash the frying pan. He'd stand at the sink, scrub then dry the frying pan, slide open the stove drawer and put it away. He sometimes closed the drawer with his foot. I always watched my dad. It never occurred to me I was making a memory.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
"Autumn arrives in the early morning, but spring at the close of a winter day."
The sun was warm yesterday, and I spent the afternoon on the deck. I had a book, but the world around me was far more interesting. Birds swooped in, scooped seeds then swooped out of the different feeders. The chickadees were bold, the bright male goldfinch shy. Nuthatches were hesitant, but the seeds were too enticing. A downy woodpecker working on a pine tree provided a bit of background noise. Gracie crunched leaves as she wandered through the yard. I sat and watched and listened.
Closed windows, hissing radiators, blankets, warm pajamas and slipper socks made winter feel heavy. We never left the house without being bundled. We couldn't play outside long. Night was early. I remember waking up some mornings and finding a coating of ice on the inside of my window. Sometimes I'd use my fingernail to scratch my name. Crumbs of ice would fall on the windowsill as I wrote. My mother always had oatmeal and cocoa ready. We'd eat her hearty breakfast then layer coats atop of sweaters to brave the cold to walk to school. We'd hurry.
Even as a kid, I loved the coming of spring. The air smelled clean, earthy. Cold nights, the last struggle of a dying winter, lost their fierceness. The muted colors disappeared, and the mornings were bright with sun and alive with birds. The grass got green. My mother put away the oatmeal. We'd pull out our spring jackets and beg to wear them to school. It was chilly most mornings, but we didn't care. We felt light, almost free. Recess was fun again.
I don't remember the flowers. I remember the buds and the new leaves. I remember colors.
Closed windows, hissing radiators, blankets, warm pajamas and slipper socks made winter feel heavy. We never left the house without being bundled. We couldn't play outside long. Night was early. I remember waking up some mornings and finding a coating of ice on the inside of my window. Sometimes I'd use my fingernail to scratch my name. Crumbs of ice would fall on the windowsill as I wrote. My mother always had oatmeal and cocoa ready. We'd eat her hearty breakfast then layer coats atop of sweaters to brave the cold to walk to school. We'd hurry.
Even as a kid, I loved the coming of spring. The air smelled clean, earthy. Cold nights, the last struggle of a dying winter, lost their fierceness. The muted colors disappeared, and the mornings were bright with sun and alive with birds. The grass got green. My mother put away the oatmeal. We'd pull out our spring jackets and beg to wear them to school. It was chilly most mornings, but we didn't care. We felt light, almost free. Recess was fun again.
I don't remember the flowers. I remember the buds and the new leaves. I remember colors.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Night Shift: Bill Morrissey
Bill Morrissey has this way with lyrics, with the verses of songs, which makes me want to listen intently so I don't miss a single word. Here is a story, a sort of Winesburg, Ohio in song.
The song is from North, released in 1986.
MP3 File
The song is from North, released in 1986.
MP3 File
Same Sad Singer: Harry Chapin
His music too tells stories. He just didn't have enough time to tell them all.
This is from 1972's Heads and Tales.
MP3 File
This is from 1972's Heads and Tales.
MP3 File
"The combination of domesticity and wildness - that's a deep expression."
I was never interested in doing girly stuff when I was little. My mother tried to teach me to crochet, but my fingers kept getting in the way. They worked perfectly well when wearing a bulky glove, and they could accurately throw a ball, but yarn was beyond them, and needles were alien. In my hands they took on lives of their own and moved in every wrong direction. Cooking never really interested me. I loved the results of my mother's cooking but wasn't interested in how food got to the table. At Christmas I'd decorate cookies but that was fun and didn't count as cooking. Domesticity just wasn't my style. Neither were dance lessons. The last thing I wanted to wear was a tutu. I was an anomaly.
I grew up and went to college. I had my first apartment my junior year, and my roommate did the cooking. I still didn't know how and didn't care to learn. I was totally disinterested in becoming a domestic goddess. Remarkably, in the tail end of my junior year, the world started to change, and I actually became stylish. Cooking was out and so were tutus and frills. The kitchen was just where we kept the corkscrew and the glasses. We wore jeans. We wore jackets with fringe. Our interests shifted, and we became political. We picketed for our causes and against theirs. We had all night sessions of sitting around drinking wine and talking about changing the world. I was no longer an anomaly.
When I started teaching and had a roommate, we switched off household jobs. Every other week I had to take my turn and cook. No more just opening a can or scrambling an egg, I had to produce an actual meal with a variety of food groups. Grousing and grumbling didn't help, but once I got started, I was taken aback. I found I really enjoyed cooking. It was fun trying new recipes and even more fun when they tasted good. I got hooked and bought my first cook book, still have it actually, but it has been joined by too many more to count. Now I'll cook all sorts of foods, domestic and foreign. I love elaborate dinners with matching music and decor. We wore sombreros for my Mexican feast and cowboy hats for Tex-Mex. I go all out.
I never learned to crochet, but I can do crewel, cross-stitch and needle point. My stitching was a much requested Christmas gift, and I used to made ornaments to attach to presents. I haven't done any in a while so maybe I should get back to it for a bit. I always enjoyed it, and my fingers worked perfectly.
Hidden from sight, a bit of domestic goddess was lurking, just biding its time.
I grew up and went to college. I had my first apartment my junior year, and my roommate did the cooking. I still didn't know how and didn't care to learn. I was totally disinterested in becoming a domestic goddess. Remarkably, in the tail end of my junior year, the world started to change, and I actually became stylish. Cooking was out and so were tutus and frills. The kitchen was just where we kept the corkscrew and the glasses. We wore jeans. We wore jackets with fringe. Our interests shifted, and we became political. We picketed for our causes and against theirs. We had all night sessions of sitting around drinking wine and talking about changing the world. I was no longer an anomaly.
When I started teaching and had a roommate, we switched off household jobs. Every other week I had to take my turn and cook. No more just opening a can or scrambling an egg, I had to produce an actual meal with a variety of food groups. Grousing and grumbling didn't help, but once I got started, I was taken aback. I found I really enjoyed cooking. It was fun trying new recipes and even more fun when they tasted good. I got hooked and bought my first cook book, still have it actually, but it has been joined by too many more to count. Now I'll cook all sorts of foods, domestic and foreign. I love elaborate dinners with matching music and decor. We wore sombreros for my Mexican feast and cowboy hats for Tex-Mex. I go all out.
I never learned to crochet, but I can do crewel, cross-stitch and needle point. My stitching was a much requested Christmas gift, and I used to made ornaments to attach to presents. I haven't done any in a while so maybe I should get back to it for a bit. I always enjoyed it, and my fingers worked perfectly.
Hidden from sight, a bit of domestic goddess was lurking, just biding its time.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Gypsy Boys: David Francey
No, it's not Saturday already; it's not theme day. Thoughts of the open road put Gypsies in mind. This is from Torn Screen Door.
MP3 File
MP3 File
The Whistling Gypsy: The Chad Mitchell Trio
The Chad Mitchell Trio was one of the big groups of the early 60's. Their first album was released in 1960 without a whole lot of fanfare. They signed with Kapp in 1961 and soon became one of the most popular folk groups of the time. The Trio sang some traditional songs but weren't afraid to be topical and a bit irreverent with songs like The John Birch Society and Draft Dodger Rag. Their song Last Night I had the Strangest Dream was a hit for Simon and Garfunkel.
Chad Mitchell left the group in 1965 and was replaced by John Denver. Soon the remaining two Mitchell Trio members, Mike Kobluk and Joe Frazier, also left. With three new members, The Chad Mitchell Trio had ceased to exist.
MP3 File
Chad Mitchell left the group in 1965 and was replaced by John Denver. Soon the remaining two Mitchell Trio members, Mike Kobluk and Joe Frazier, also left. With three new members, The Chad Mitchell Trio had ceased to exist.
MP3 File
"Our national flower is the concrete cloverleaf."
The frost is on the pumpkin, oops, correction, no pumpkin but definitely a frost, the result of temperatures in the low thirties last night. It's a windshield scraping morning. I don't know where I report its disappearance, but someone needs to look into where spring has gone.
Michelle and John do road trips, and they are my kind of travelers. They know the best places to eat and where to find the singular attractions the road offers, though the world's largest ball of twine is still on Michelle's must see list.
While we were riding on the highway last weekend, we bemoaned the homogenizing of America. The same mall is in every state; the same McDonald's is on every road. The interstates connect one boring road to another boring road. It could be a Twilight Zone episode where we travel and travel for hours and days but always end up in the same place where we started. I'd love a real road trip with only one rule: not a single highway. I'm retired, and I can take all the time I need. I have an idea of just how this trip will go.
I load up the RV, pull out my trusty map, keep my copy of Roadside America close and hit the road. A flip of a coin decides the direction. I head south to my first stop: the giant bug in Rhode Island. I snap a few pictures then get back on the road to my next destination, The Museum of Natural and Other Curiosities in Hartford. This stop will take a while. I hope they allow pictures because it isn't often I get to see albino woodland critters and a two-headed pig. I get back on the road and decide to stop in the next town for something to eat. I find a luncheonette on Main Street, plop down on a red vinyl topped stool and order the special, whatever it is.
Michelle and John do road trips, and they are my kind of travelers. They know the best places to eat and where to find the singular attractions the road offers, though the world's largest ball of twine is still on Michelle's must see list.
While we were riding on the highway last weekend, we bemoaned the homogenizing of America. The same mall is in every state; the same McDonald's is on every road. The interstates connect one boring road to another boring road. It could be a Twilight Zone episode where we travel and travel for hours and days but always end up in the same place where we started. I'd love a real road trip with only one rule: not a single highway. I'm retired, and I can take all the time I need. I have an idea of just how this trip will go.
I load up the RV, pull out my trusty map, keep my copy of Roadside America close and hit the road. A flip of a coin decides the direction. I head south to my first stop: the giant bug in Rhode Island. I snap a few pictures then get back on the road to my next destination, The Museum of Natural and Other Curiosities in Hartford. This stop will take a while. I hope they allow pictures because it isn't often I get to see albino woodland critters and a two-headed pig. I get back on the road and decide to stop in the next town for something to eat. I find a luncheonette on Main Street, plop down on a red vinyl topped stool and order the special, whatever it is.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Help Me: Joni Mitchell
I'm home and decided today is comfort music day. This is from Court and Spark, released in 1974.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"You're gonna need a bigger boat."
My flight was canceled yesterday. My original flight was due in Boston at 1:15, but I didn't end up leaving Cleveland until 3:15. I arrived in Boston just in time to sit in rush hour traffic. I'm now doing a bit of laundry and just lounging. I have no plans for the day.
I'm a movie fan, and some movies I can watch over and over and never tire of seeing them. Independence Day is on right now. I noticed it was available through On Demand and decided to watch it for the umpteenth time. This movie has everything I learned about aliens, all the stuff I gleaned from watching 50's B movies when I was growing up. I'm happy to share.
Aliens are a bit unsocial. They have no thoughts of getting to know us over a cup or two of coffee. They already don't like us. Most aliens look pretty much the same despite their origins. They all have fingers of a sort, long ones usually. Their eyes are huge. That, I suspect, comes from all the better to see you with, my dear. Their bodies appear lizard like or scaly. They're more advanced than we are. They did get here after all. They, however, are not smarter than we are. They don't seem to realize that humans will always be triumphant. We'll find a way. That was all the assurance I needed when I was a kid.
At the beach, when we were kids, we'd be swimming or walking along the bottom when something would tug at us. We'd jump and scream. My father would surface and laugh. It didn't matter how often he'd pull this on us. We still jumped and screamed. Jaws is the perfect movie to kick off the summer every year, and that opening scene near the buoy always reminds me of my father and those tugs.
Some of my friends have must watch movies like Beaches or Steel Magnolias. They keep the Kleenex close. My must watch movies have giant ants, evil aliens and hungry sharks. I keep the popcorn close.
I'm a movie fan, and some movies I can watch over and over and never tire of seeing them. Independence Day is on right now. I noticed it was available through On Demand and decided to watch it for the umpteenth time. This movie has everything I learned about aliens, all the stuff I gleaned from watching 50's B movies when I was growing up. I'm happy to share.
Aliens are a bit unsocial. They have no thoughts of getting to know us over a cup or two of coffee. They already don't like us. Most aliens look pretty much the same despite their origins. They all have fingers of a sort, long ones usually. Their eyes are huge. That, I suspect, comes from all the better to see you with, my dear. Their bodies appear lizard like or scaly. They're more advanced than we are. They did get here after all. They, however, are not smarter than we are. They don't seem to realize that humans will always be triumphant. We'll find a way. That was all the assurance I needed when I was a kid.
At the beach, when we were kids, we'd be swimming or walking along the bottom when something would tug at us. We'd jump and scream. My father would surface and laugh. It didn't matter how often he'd pull this on us. We still jumped and screamed. Jaws is the perfect movie to kick off the summer every year, and that opening scene near the buoy always reminds me of my father and those tugs.
Some of my friends have must watch movies like Beaches or Steel Magnolias. They keep the Kleenex close. My must watch movies have giant ants, evil aliens and hungry sharks. I keep the popcorn close.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
The Boxer: Emmylou Harris
I almost played this on Sunday, cover day, but I liked it enough to let it stand on its own.
It's from Roses in the Snow.
MP3 File
It's from Roses in the Snow.
MP3 File
"It takes a long time to grow an old friend."
Yesterday we started with the most amazing breakfast at Slyman's. The spot is so well known that it attracted both Bush and Rachael Ray. We felt in distinguished company, think tongue in cheek here. The corn beef was piled high and it was amazing. We lingered a bit over breakfast then boarded a city bus to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
Music constantly played as we wandered from one exhibit to another. The Jimi Hendrix clothes could go right into my closet. He was one fine dresser. We watched two different films, and I was captivated by the groups I remember so well. One of the films, the Monterey Pop Music festival, was extraordinary. Seeing Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix, hearing the harmony of the Mamas and Papas and watching Simon and Garfunkel together brought back all the best memories. I loved the Hall of Fame.
The baseball game last night was both exciting and body numbing cold. We had our hots dogs, one of the best parts of the park experience, and cheered our respective teams. It seemed strange to be the other guy. It mattered not as I rose and cheered my Sox. They rallied to win in the top of the ninth. I didn't thaw out for hours.
I'm here at the airport waiting to go home. The weekend went too fast. I had the best time, thoroughly enjoyed being with Michelle and John, loved the weekend they'd planned and can't wait until we get together again. I just hope the next time will be a bit warmer.
Monday, April 14, 2008
"A hot dog at the ballgame beats roast beef at the Ritz. "
Spring this is not. The snow showers yesterday were proof positive so we changed our plans and did not go a roving. We went to the Football Hall of Fame. My heart lies with the boys of summer, but the Hall was still interesting. I wandered around looking at all the exhibits, even watched a film. My favorite part was about the oldest days of football where I got to see these strange looking helmets, ratty sweaters, banners and drums. Jim Thorpe talked about football, and there were really old silent black and white newsreels. I stayed there the longest.
Today is chock full starting with breakfast and ending with hot dogs and peanuts at the Red Sox-Cleveland game. Given the cold, cold nights of late, I doubt I have near enough warm clothing to keep me from frostbite during the game, but I hope the Sox are so good they can warm the cockles of my heart.
I leave tomorrow. The weekend has gone so quickly we're already making plans for our next visit together, on the Cape, when it's warm. After I mentioned my plan to return to Ghana in 2011, John said he'd love to see Ghana after hearing about it all these years from Michelle so they're coming. We even mapped a bit of a route up one side of the country and down the other. No mammy lorries this trip, a car with a driver was our first decision.
This time tomorrow I'll be on my way to the airport.
Today is chock full starting with breakfast and ending with hot dogs and peanuts at the Red Sox-Cleveland game. Given the cold, cold nights of late, I doubt I have near enough warm clothing to keep me from frostbite during the game, but I hope the Sox are so good they can warm the cockles of my heart.
I leave tomorrow. The weekend has gone so quickly we're already making plans for our next visit together, on the Cape, when it's warm. After I mentioned my plan to return to Ghana in 2011, John said he'd love to see Ghana after hearing about it all these years from Michelle so they're coming. We even mapped a bit of a route up one side of the country and down the other. No mammy lorries this trip, a car with a driver was our first decision.
This time tomorrow I'll be on my way to the airport.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
"Ah, how good it feels! The hand of an old friend. "
It was raining yesterday when I left home for the airport, raining when I arrived in Cleveland and it's raining now. The sun is on hiatus just about everywhere.
The last time I saw Michelle was in 1971, but there she was, waiting for me when I got off the elevator yesterday. We hugged. It was a wonderful reunion. I met John, her husband, and the three of us talked non-stop though John could only listen when we rattled on and on about Ghana and the people we remembered. John knew Michelle's memories and now shared mine. We talked and talked and caught up with the time between as best we could.
Our paths crossed for only two years, two monumental life changing years, but this shared past and our shared experiences had built a connecting chain strong enough to last through time. It kept a friendship alive. How lucky I am.
As I get older, I get more nostalgic, not for lost time but for lost people. Where did Maryalyce go? What about Bobby and Jimmy? Tommy loved to sing and his mother made great pizza. Where are they? Patty popped back into my life for a while then disappeared again. I hope she's doing well. Susan shared some rough times with me, and I'm grateful, but I don't know where she is either.
I found Ralph serendipitously. He reconnected Michelle and me. It seems we have started to follow those chains. Maybe we'll be lucky and they'll lead to more old friends.
The last time I saw Michelle was in 1971, but there she was, waiting for me when I got off the elevator yesterday. We hugged. It was a wonderful reunion. I met John, her husband, and the three of us talked non-stop though John could only listen when we rattled on and on about Ghana and the people we remembered. John knew Michelle's memories and now shared mine. We talked and talked and caught up with the time between as best we could.
Our paths crossed for only two years, two monumental life changing years, but this shared past and our shared experiences had built a connecting chain strong enough to last through time. It kept a friendship alive. How lucky I am.
As I get older, I get more nostalgic, not for lost time but for lost people. Where did Maryalyce go? What about Bobby and Jimmy? Tommy loved to sing and his mother made great pizza. Where are they? Patty popped back into my life for a while then disappeared again. I hope she's doing well. Susan shared some rough times with me, and I'm grateful, but I don't know where she is either.
I found Ralph serendipitously. He reconnected Michelle and me. It seems we have started to follow those chains. Maybe we'll be lucky and they'll lead to more old friends.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
“Gravity is a contributing factor in nearly 73 percent of all accidents involving falling objects.”
When I retired, I swore I’d never get up anywhere close to five. In the last couple of weeks, I’ve done it twice. It’s far too early.
My feet are just not well coordinated. Every set of stairs is a potential disaster site. I've already managed to fall down two of the three sets in and around my house. Both times the fall knocked me out, but only once did I end up at the hospital. I slid down the stairs last summer, but as I didn't fall the entire flight and remained conscious, I'm not counting it. One time, while washing windows on the outside, I fell off a ladder, knocked myself out yet again and fractured my shoulder. I didn't count that either. Ladders are a different category. If there is something to trip on, I'll trip. If there is something to slide on, I'll slide. I take a lot of ribbing about this from my sisters. They see me as continuing the tradition my father started; however, I have a long way to go. I have yet to set myself on fire while barbecuing, saw myself out of a tree, give myself enough of an an electric shot to send me across the yard, cut my fingers in a moving fan or hook myself while fishing.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Four Strong Winds: Ian and Sylvia
I don't usually play the same singers so close together, and I try not to post a song too many times, but I just had to play this one. After the comments the other day about singing Four Strong Winds when we got together and having posted Michael, another really familiar song, only this song would do.
Think of it as sing a long day.
MP3 File
Think of it as sing a long day.
MP3 File
"A family vacation is one where you arrive with five bags, four kids and seven I thought you packed its."
Tomorrow I leave for Cleveland. Today I have errands and chores. Every trip is exciting, but every day before leaving is mundane.
Being a kid meant I never had to do much before a family vacation. My mother did all the packing, and my father fit everything into the car making sure to leave room for the six of us and one dog. My youngest sister generally sat up front between my parents. My brother and I each demanded a back seat window leaving my middle sister between us. I often got car sick. Once I remember getting sick out the window as we drove, and my father mentioned it felt like rain. I didn't dare say anything. Most times, though, I'd start yelling. My dad would pull over, and I'd run.
We seldom ate in restaurants, even on the road. My mother would pack a lunch. Sandwiches were the usual fare, but once in a while she'd pack my favorite road dish, peppers and eggs. I still make it for the Sunday night band concerts. It's still a favorite. She'd also pack chips, maybe some pickles, a bag of cookies for dessert and fruit for the in between complaints of hunger. The sandwiches were bologna, tuna and maybe egg salad, and we never got sick from the mayonnaise. The cookies were Oreos. My dad would stop at a roadside rest area with picnic benches. We'd run off a bit of energy and the dog would go about his business.
In those days, the highway was interesting. Its roadsides were lined with neat stuff. Cabins were big back then. They were tiny and white with their names sometimes painted above the doors. They were lined up in rows. Two dirt ruts in the grass led to each cabin. They were The Cozy Rest or Bill's Roadside Cabins. Restaurants were seldom chains. Long silver diners were a frequent sight. If there was a restaurant, it had a name like Lily's Family Restaurant or The Chicken Ranch. Little hot dog and ice cream stands opened each summer. Souvenir places were always a bit tacky. We'd beg my father to pull over, but he never did. My father had a timetable. He believed that every road trip was possible in a single day no matter the miles.
I still like road trips but haven't taken one in a while. I always try to use the old routes, the ones with neat stuff along the sides of the road. I don't get car sick any more.
Being a kid meant I never had to do much before a family vacation. My mother did all the packing, and my father fit everything into the car making sure to leave room for the six of us and one dog. My youngest sister generally sat up front between my parents. My brother and I each demanded a back seat window leaving my middle sister between us. I often got car sick. Once I remember getting sick out the window as we drove, and my father mentioned it felt like rain. I didn't dare say anything. Most times, though, I'd start yelling. My dad would pull over, and I'd run.
We seldom ate in restaurants, even on the road. My mother would pack a lunch. Sandwiches were the usual fare, but once in a while she'd pack my favorite road dish, peppers and eggs. I still make it for the Sunday night band concerts. It's still a favorite. She'd also pack chips, maybe some pickles, a bag of cookies for dessert and fruit for the in between complaints of hunger. The sandwiches were bologna, tuna and maybe egg salad, and we never got sick from the mayonnaise. The cookies were Oreos. My dad would stop at a roadside rest area with picnic benches. We'd run off a bit of energy and the dog would go about his business.
In those days, the highway was interesting. Its roadsides were lined with neat stuff. Cabins were big back then. They were tiny and white with their names sometimes painted above the doors. They were lined up in rows. Two dirt ruts in the grass led to each cabin. They were The Cozy Rest or Bill's Roadside Cabins. Restaurants were seldom chains. Long silver diners were a frequent sight. If there was a restaurant, it had a name like Lily's Family Restaurant or The Chicken Ranch. Little hot dog and ice cream stands opened each summer. Souvenir places were always a bit tacky. We'd beg my father to pull over, but he never did. My father had a timetable. He believed that every road trip was possible in a single day no matter the miles.
I still like road trips but haven't taken one in a while. I always try to use the old routes, the ones with neat stuff along the sides of the road. I don't get car sick any more.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Winter's Come and Gone: Elizabeth Mitchell
This is from a Smithsonian Folkways album called You Are a Little Bird released in 2006. This album, like those of her earlier releases, is for children. Her choices for kids' music, though, aren't your usual. Besides this Gillian Welch/David Rawlings, you'll find Velvet Underground's "What Goes On" and Neil Young's "Little Wing."
MP3 File
MP3 File
"Science has never drummed up quite as effective a tranquilizing agent as a sunny spring day. "
I have memories upon memories whirling in my head. The wealth I've stuffed away amazes even me sometimes. I get a glimpse or a whiff, and I'm off and running through time. I close my eyes and see places as I remember them. I can take you with me to school. After all, I walked that route twice a day for eight years. I remember walks in the spring when noses, as we called them, were all over the sidewalks. We'd each pick one up, open it and put it on the bridges of our noses. We'd compete to see who could keep it there the longest. We had to walk with our chins high in the air to keep the noses from falling. I remember laughing a lot. I remember losing.
Each spring I see yellow and purple. I see branches filled with light green baby leaves. I hear birds in the morning and insects in the early evening. I smell dirt and loam and mulch. Each spring the sounds of people return. Neighbors wave from their gardens and say hello. The deck furniture cover comes off and the umbrella goes up. Lunch is outside in the sun. I love spring. It brings all of me back to life.
Each spring I see yellow and purple. I see branches filled with light green baby leaves. I hear birds in the morning and insects in the early evening. I smell dirt and loam and mulch. Each spring the sounds of people return. Neighbors wave from their gardens and say hello. The deck furniture cover comes off and the umbrella goes up. Lunch is outside in the sun. I love spring. It brings all of me back to life.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Father and Son: Cat Stevens
This is from 1970's Tea for the Tillerman, Cat Stevens' second album, and my favorite of his.
I just bought the soundtrack from Harold and Maude which has three or four songs from this album. Every year the art movie theater down the street showed Harold and Maude. I never missed it, and the music was always part of the attraction.
MP3 File
I just bought the soundtrack from Harold and Maude which has three or four songs from this album. Every year the art movie theater down the street showed Harold and Maude. I never missed it, and the music was always part of the attraction.
MP3 File
Nkebo Baaya: E.T. Mensah
This is a lagniappe, a highlife song, the music popular in Ghana when I was there.
You're hearing E.T. Mensah who pioneered the development of the highlife dance-band sound heard throughout West Africa in the 1950's and 60's.
MP3 File
You're hearing E.T. Mensah who pioneered the development of the highlife dance-band sound heard throughout West Africa in the 1950's and 60's.
MP3 File
"Leftovers in their less visible form are called memories. Stored in the refrigerator of the mind and the cupboard of the heart."
My hope is that in 2011 I will return to Ghana. It is the year Peace Corps celebrates its 50th anniversary, and it is also the fiftieth year of Peace Corps in Ghana. It will be forty years since I left Ghana.
The town where I was a teacher is much bigger. My school is now a secondary school though I suspect its bones will look much the same. I hope the baobab tree is still there. It stood with all its girth and majesty in the middle of the school compound. At night, the watchman and his dog slept on the ground beneath it. The gate to the school was locked at sunset, and the watchman had the only key. I'd arrive from a night trip to town and stand outside the gate. From there I could see the light from the watchman's lantern and his sleeping form in the shadows of the tree. I'd yell, "Watchman, Watchman," the standard greeting to get the gate opened, but the watchman slept so soundly he never heard me or his barking dog. I used to have to climb the fence to get into the school compound and walk by him to get home. He never heard that either.
The Hotel D'Bull was the only hotel in town. It had the cold room, a bar with air conditioning, but the bar was always so full and crammed with people you wouldn't know the air conditioning was on. We didn't go often to the Hotel d'Bull, but when we did, we preferred sitting outside at tables or on the roof, the best seats in the house. The hotel often showed movies, and once I saw a boxing match. The movies were awful, mostly Indian, but it was a night out so we went, sat on the roof, bought kabobs and watched the films.
I loved my town at night. The sides of the road had spots of flickering light from the lanterns of food sellers. All the chop bars were open, and the sounds of laughter and the murmurs of conversation spilled out of their windows and doors and into the street. Men sat at outside tables playing owari, a bead game, and drinking beer, Star Beer. I'd buy plantain chips from one of the sellers and wander through town. I'd fill my memory drawer.
This visit I will be a tourist. I will forego mammy lorries and buses and riding with chickens and goats. I'll go north. I'll go to Bolga where I hope to find pieces of my Ghana, snippets from those memories I made so long ago.
The town where I was a teacher is much bigger. My school is now a secondary school though I suspect its bones will look much the same. I hope the baobab tree is still there. It stood with all its girth and majesty in the middle of the school compound. At night, the watchman and his dog slept on the ground beneath it. The gate to the school was locked at sunset, and the watchman had the only key. I'd arrive from a night trip to town and stand outside the gate. From there I could see the light from the watchman's lantern and his sleeping form in the shadows of the tree. I'd yell, "Watchman, Watchman," the standard greeting to get the gate opened, but the watchman slept so soundly he never heard me or his barking dog. I used to have to climb the fence to get into the school compound and walk by him to get home. He never heard that either.
The Hotel D'Bull was the only hotel in town. It had the cold room, a bar with air conditioning, but the bar was always so full and crammed with people you wouldn't know the air conditioning was on. We didn't go often to the Hotel d'Bull, but when we did, we preferred sitting outside at tables or on the roof, the best seats in the house. The hotel often showed movies, and once I saw a boxing match. The movies were awful, mostly Indian, but it was a night out so we went, sat on the roof, bought kabobs and watched the films.
I loved my town at night. The sides of the road had spots of flickering light from the lanterns of food sellers. All the chop bars were open, and the sounds of laughter and the murmurs of conversation spilled out of their windows and doors and into the street. Men sat at outside tables playing owari, a bead game, and drinking beer, Star Beer. I'd buy plantain chips from one of the sellers and wander through town. I'd fill my memory drawer.
This visit I will be a tourist. I will forego mammy lorries and buses and riding with chickens and goats. I'll go north. I'll go to Bolga where I hope to find pieces of my Ghana, snippets from those memories I made so long ago.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Book Meme
I was tagged with a meme by Zoey and Me.
Here are the rules:
1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people and post a comment to Mickey once you have posted it. (I couldn't find where to post the comment though)
The nearest book beside me on the table is A Year in Marrakesh. It was a gift.
Page 123, beginning from the sixth sentence down: "In Europe, a picnic is a deliberate attempt to simulate the simple life, and, as a rule, there is no need to simulate the discomfort. It is clear from their miniatures that the Persians did not see things this way, and neither do the Moors, though on this occasion we had no dark-eyed maidens with us. But we did have carpets and cushions, a very complete kitchen, a huge brass tripod-brazier for the tea kettle, an 'amara and a siniya of brass to carry the mint tea and its paraphernalia, fly whisks and a musical box."
I tagged Nan at Letters from a Hill Farm and Ralph at Days of Transition.
Here are the rules:
1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people and post a comment to Mickey once you have posted it. (I couldn't find where to post the comment though)
The nearest book beside me on the table is A Year in Marrakesh. It was a gift.
Page 123, beginning from the sixth sentence down: "In Europe, a picnic is a deliberate attempt to simulate the simple life, and, as a rule, there is no need to simulate the discomfort. It is clear from their miniatures that the Persians did not see things this way, and neither do the Moors, though on this occasion we had no dark-eyed maidens with us. But we did have carpets and cushions, a very complete kitchen, a huge brass tripod-brazier for the tea kettle, an 'amara and a siniya of brass to carry the mint tea and its paraphernalia, fly whisks and a musical box."
I tagged Nan at Letters from a Hill Farm and Ralph at Days of Transition.
“When you're riding in a time machine way far into the future, don't stick your elbow out the window, or it'll turn into a fossil.”
We have sun, honest to goodness, bright ball in the heavens sun. The day still has a chill though: it is, after all, April on Cape Cod. But I'm not complaining, the sun is enough for now.
On one of my trips back in time, I would try to sneak a peek at Emily Dickinson. Her garden seems the likely spot. If given the chance, I'd introduce myself. Should the subject come up in conversation, I'd let her know I'm a long time fan. I'd also go back to hoist a few with Ernest Hemingway in Havana. We would bond over too many Papa Dobles and close up the bar together. I'd like to meet Poe.
I'd sail in a Zeppelin across the Atlantic and take a Pan Am Clipper to China. I'd ride in a rickshaw. I'd be that lady you always see in old travel pictures, the one wearing the hat and the gloves. My dress would blow in the breeze as I boarded my seaplane for the next leg of my journey. I'd go to exotic Morocco and on safari in East Africa. I'd pose on a camel. I'd go to Singapore and Hong Kong.
My journal would be filled with black and white pictures of me everywhere. I'd save ticket stubs, menus from famous restaurants, pressed flowers and mementos. I'd write long descriptions of my travels and describe the people I'd met.
If only I could go back in time.
On one of my trips back in time, I would try to sneak a peek at Emily Dickinson. Her garden seems the likely spot. If given the chance, I'd introduce myself. Should the subject come up in conversation, I'd let her know I'm a long time fan. I'd also go back to hoist a few with Ernest Hemingway in Havana. We would bond over too many Papa Dobles and close up the bar together. I'd like to meet Poe.
I'd sail in a Zeppelin across the Atlantic and take a Pan Am Clipper to China. I'd ride in a rickshaw. I'd be that lady you always see in old travel pictures, the one wearing the hat and the gloves. My dress would blow in the breeze as I boarded my seaplane for the next leg of my journey. I'd go to exotic Morocco and on safari in East Africa. I'd pose on a camel. I'd go to Singapore and Hong Kong.
My journal would be filled with black and white pictures of me everywhere. I'd save ticket stubs, menus from famous restaurants, pressed flowers and mementos. I'd write long descriptions of my travels and describe the people I'd met.
If only I could go back in time.
Monday, April 07, 2008
Whole World Round: Gail Rundlett
This is one of those singular songs hanging around in my music file. I know it came from a Fast Folk Music Magazine, but that's all I knew until I found this: Gail plays guitar and four-string Appalachian dulcimer and draws her repertoire from both traditional and contemporary sources.
The only album I found listed is Full Circle released in 1995.
MP3 File
The only album I found listed is Full Circle released in 1995.
MP3 File
"I always thought a yard was three feet, then I started mowing the lawn. "
Today is dreary. The entire world is gray. The bare trees look so stark you'd think winter still held us in its grip. I know there is spring in other places. I know it will come here. I just have to bide my time a bit longer.
My father was never one for gardening. He was a lawn man. He always used a hand mower and mowed just about every Saturday. After he retired, he'd mow more often. He also trimmed his bushes. For a long while my dad used hand clippers, and I always liked the clicking sound they made. Trimming wasn't an art for my dad. It was just upkeep. He'd make his bushes look even, but not sculptured. Because my mother wanted them, he'd plant flowers in her window boxes. My dad always wore shorts when he mowed in the summer. I remember best his blue shorts. They became his uniform of sorts. In the coolness of morning or late afternoon, my dad with his mower would go back and forth across the front lawn. The mower would slice along and clips of grass would fly from the blades. My dad never raked after his first few mowings of the season. The grass didn't get high enough to need it. He was proud of his front lawn, and when I visited, he'd always asked if I'd noticed.
My father was never one for gardening. He was a lawn man. He always used a hand mower and mowed just about every Saturday. After he retired, he'd mow more often. He also trimmed his bushes. For a long while my dad used hand clippers, and I always liked the clicking sound they made. Trimming wasn't an art for my dad. It was just upkeep. He'd make his bushes look even, but not sculptured. Because my mother wanted them, he'd plant flowers in her window boxes. My dad always wore shorts when he mowed in the summer. I remember best his blue shorts. They became his uniform of sorts. In the coolness of morning or late afternoon, my dad with his mower would go back and forth across the front lawn. The mower would slice along and clips of grass would fly from the blades. My dad never raked after his first few mowings of the season. The grass didn't get high enough to need it. He was proud of his front lawn, and when I visited, he'd always asked if I'd noticed.
Sunday, April 06, 2008
“Popcorn [is] the sentimental good-time Charlie of American foods.”
Lying on the rug was always the best vantage point for watching TV. We'd stretch out, rest our cheeks on our hands, lean on our elbows and watch for hours. The rug was plenty big enough for all of us so pushing to make space was kept at a minimum. If we had to get up, usually to go to the bathroom, we'd yell dibs and woe betide anyone who moved into our spots. We'd eat in front of the set as often as we could get away with it. Saturday mornings and cereal were a given. Lunch was iffy. Dinner was never anywhere but the kitchen table. Snacks, though, were meant to be eaten in front of the TV.
My mother would often pop corn. In those days, it meant hauling out a big pan, pouring in lots of oil and using plenty of corn kernels. She had to hold the lid and constantly shake the pan or risk burning the kernels. My mother would divide the popped corn into bowls, drizzle it with lots of butter and add a few shakes of salt. I'm still partial to TV and popcorn.
Snacks back then were pretty limited. We had fruit, but no self-respecting kid chose fruit unless coerced. Peanut butter and jelly was okay but an Oreo was better. My mother would set a limit, one or two cookies, particularly before dinner. We'd try everything to get around her rationing, even to sneak attacks, but my mother had this amazing hearing. It didn't matter how quietly we crept into the kitchen or how soundlessly we opened the cabinet door, she always heard us.
It's funny what we carry with us. Often I get hungry and open the fridge or the cabinets looking for a snack, and sometimes I hear a voice. "Not before dinner," it reminds me.
My mother would often pop corn. In those days, it meant hauling out a big pan, pouring in lots of oil and using plenty of corn kernels. She had to hold the lid and constantly shake the pan or risk burning the kernels. My mother would divide the popped corn into bowls, drizzle it with lots of butter and add a few shakes of salt. I'm still partial to TV and popcorn.
Snacks back then were pretty limited. We had fruit, but no self-respecting kid chose fruit unless coerced. Peanut butter and jelly was okay but an Oreo was better. My mother would set a limit, one or two cookies, particularly before dinner. We'd try everything to get around her rationing, even to sneak attacks, but my mother had this amazing hearing. It didn't matter how quietly we crept into the kitchen or how soundlessly we opened the cabinet door, she always heard us.
It's funny what we carry with us. Often I get hungry and open the fridge or the cabinets looking for a snack, and sometimes I hear a voice. "Not before dinner," it reminds me.
Saturday, April 05, 2008
"Other places do seem so cramped up and smothery, but a raft don’t. You feel mighty free and easy and comfortable on a raft."
One summer my brother and I built a raft together. We used old boards and tree limbs for the base and held it together with assorted nails and pieces of rope. Nothing matched, neither the size of the wood pieces nor the lengths of the limbs. The nails were placed willy-nilly. The rope was knotted together and woven up and under the wood pieces. Our shipyard was beside the pond, and it was where we'd stack the wood we'd find. We didn't have a plan. Rafts seemed easy to build. We did agree, though, to built our raft big enough for the two of us to sail at the same time. It was more of a preventative measure meant to kept us from fighting and risking the dissolution of our partnership than a design decision. We worked the whole day and took turns with the hammer, the favorite part of construction. We finished in time for a maiden voyage late that afternoon. We each got behind the same end, pushed it into the water then climbed aboard. We used poles to propel ourselves across the shallow pond. Our raft was seaworthy, but our weight kept the top below the water. Sneakers and socks got soaked. We didn't notice.
We sailed our raft many times that summer, and we always sailed barefooted. It was the only way to keep our sneakers dry.
We sailed our raft many times that summer, and we always sailed barefooted. It was the only way to keep our sneakers dry.
Friday, April 04, 2008
“We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope.”
John has left a comment under today's post reminding us all that it was forty years ago today Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated. The day before his death Martin Luther King delivered a speech in support of the striking sanitation workers at Mason Temple in Memphis, TN. Here is an excerpt from that speech:
"Let us rise up tonight with a greater readiness. Let us stand with a greater determination. And let us move on in these powerful days, these days of challenge to make America what it ought to be. We have an opportunity to make America a better nation. And I want to thank God, once more, for allowing me to be here with you. "
John has also left a link to the speech Bobby Kennedy made when he heard of the assassination of Dr. King. Go over and read it. Go over and listen and wonder what might have been.
"Let us rise up tonight with a greater readiness. Let us stand with a greater determination. And let us move on in these powerful days, these days of challenge to make America what it ought to be. We have an opportunity to make America a better nation. And I want to thank God, once more, for allowing me to be here with you. "
John has also left a link to the speech Bobby Kennedy made when he heard of the assassination of Dr. King. Go over and read it. Go over and listen and wonder what might have been.
Stewball: Peter, Paul and Mary
It is a something old, something new day, a day for quiet music.
In the Wind was released in 1963, and I bought it right away. It joined Peter, Paul and Mary, their first album, on my record shelf and would eventually be joined by just about every album the trio made.
MP3 File
In the Wind was released in 1963, and I bought it right away. It joined Peter, Paul and Mary, their first album, on my record shelf and would eventually be joined by just about every album the trio made.
MP3 File
It Looks Like Rain: Jann Arden
I heard Jann Arden's voice and was totally blown away. When I went to learn more, I was a bit embarrassed to find she has been around a while. Her first album, Time for Mercy, was released in 1992, and she has won eight Juno Awards. This is from Living Under June, her second album, released in 1994.
Where in the heck have I been?
MP3 File
Where in the heck have I been?
MP3 File
“Rain is grace; rain is the sky condescending to the earth; without rain, there would be no life.”
The house is dark on this rainy day. Nature holds sway and chose the music. I hear staccato rain drips on the metal windowsills and on the roof. The rain on the deck has a heavier sound, almost a timpani. The birds are unusually quiet but every now and then one can't help but sing its morning song. The wind blows. The chimes gently tinkle. The dog sighs in her sleep and punctuates the tune.
It takes me a longer while to write when it rains. I stop just to listen and am often drawn to the windows. I watch the rain fall and the puddles plop into the dog's water dish. Earlier, I watched a squirrel digging in the backyard and saw a female cardinal take refuge for a bit under the deck furniture cover. I saw chickadees and nuthatches constantly flying in and out of the feeders. Only the goldfinches were missing.
My house feels warm and safe on a rainy day, and I always think of rain as an invitation to be indolent, to lie on the couch under an afghan and read. Today is a day for a sweatshirt, flannels and a cozy pair of slippers. I have errands, but they can wait for a bit while I take in the day.
It takes me a longer while to write when it rains. I stop just to listen and am often drawn to the windows. I watch the rain fall and the puddles plop into the dog's water dish. Earlier, I watched a squirrel digging in the backyard and saw a female cardinal take refuge for a bit under the deck furniture cover. I saw chickadees and nuthatches constantly flying in and out of the feeders. Only the goldfinches were missing.
My house feels warm and safe on a rainy day, and I always think of rain as an invitation to be indolent, to lie on the couch under an afghan and read. Today is a day for a sweatshirt, flannels and a cozy pair of slippers. I have errands, but they can wait for a bit while I take in the day.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Me and This City: Grant Lee Phillips
Grant Lee Phillips is exactly the reason I buy compilation albums. If I hadn't bought The I-10 Chronicles Vol.2: One More For The Road, I would never have heard of him.
I know nothing about him so I did a bit of wandering. I easily found his web site so I'll just let you do the work. http://www.grantleephillips.com/index2.html
MP3 File
I know nothing about him so I did a bit of wandering. I easily found his web site so I'll just let you do the work. http://www.grantleephillips.com/index2.html
MP3 File
Joshua Gone Barbados: Eric von Schmidt
Eric Von Schmidt who died in February, released his first album, The Folk Blues of Eric von Schmidt, in 1963. This is one of his better known songs.
I decided to find out more about the subject of this song. What I found was a wonderful blog entry which is all about this song and the incident which inspired it. I'm sending you right along:
http://svgblog.blogspot.com/2007/03/joshua-gone-barbados-eric-gone-toov2.html
MP3 File
I decided to find out more about the subject of this song. What I found was a wonderful blog entry which is all about this song and the incident which inspired it. I'm sending you right along:
http://svgblog.blogspot.com/2007/03/joshua-gone-barbados-eric-gone-toov2.html
MP3 File
"My wife's jealousy is getting ridiculous. The other day she looked at my calendar and wanted to know who May was. "
Scraps of paper, torn articles from the newspaper, stickies with numbers, old calendar pages with reminders and note pads with scrawls are in piles all over my desk and table. They aren't messy as I arrange them by size to keep them neat. Every now and then, though, I get tired of looking at them and go through to cull. This morning was one such time.
I found a reminder that said March 25th, 5 AM. I know that was the first Japan game for the Red Sox and was reminding me of the start of the pre-game. Another scrap was cut from a magazine and tells me I'll get a bonus bag of custom printed M&M's if I order before May 18th. I can think of no upcoming momentous occasion warranting its own M&M's. That goes. One sticky has two series of numbers, and I have no idea what they are. I figure at one point they were important and may still be for all I know, but it's being tossed any way. Another sticky has just the words Thorn Tree Travel. That has been hanging around since before my trip to Morocco when I was doing research. It's already in the discard pile. Another is an unevenly torn scrap from the newspaper with a list of web sites offering recipes for edible Christmas gifts you can make yourself. I'm saving that one though the sites are probably long gone. The paper has actually begun to yellow. When I get some time, I'll check to see if the recipes are still there so I can bookmark them. Another recipe from the newspaper is for pumpkin whoopie pies. This was neatly cut out, not torn. It mentions the recipe is from the website for the Pumpkin Festival in Keene NH. I checked it out, and the festival was October 20th. We love whoopie pies so I'm saving this scrap.
One note pad has a page filled with a couple of phone numbers, a few names of singers I want to check out, a book I keep meaning to buy, some web sites that caught my eye and a birthday reminder. The book, Blood on the Tracks, is about a murdered man named Bob Dorian who had been hailed a poet, a prophet and the voice of a generation. Sounded familiar. I always want to call the phone numbers but never do. I just toss them. I figure whoever will probably call back.
A magnetic notepad sticks to my metal table. It is filled with web addresses I read about in the paper or hear about on TV. After I check out the addresses, I usually cross them off the list. The sheet is full. Not a single address has been crossed out. I guess it's time for a reminder sticky.
I found a reminder that said March 25th, 5 AM. I know that was the first Japan game for the Red Sox and was reminding me of the start of the pre-game. Another scrap was cut from a magazine and tells me I'll get a bonus bag of custom printed M&M's if I order before May 18th. I can think of no upcoming momentous occasion warranting its own M&M's. That goes. One sticky has two series of numbers, and I have no idea what they are. I figure at one point they were important and may still be for all I know, but it's being tossed any way. Another sticky has just the words Thorn Tree Travel. That has been hanging around since before my trip to Morocco when I was doing research. It's already in the discard pile. Another is an unevenly torn scrap from the newspaper with a list of web sites offering recipes for edible Christmas gifts you can make yourself. I'm saving that one though the sites are probably long gone. The paper has actually begun to yellow. When I get some time, I'll check to see if the recipes are still there so I can bookmark them. Another recipe from the newspaper is for pumpkin whoopie pies. This was neatly cut out, not torn. It mentions the recipe is from the website for the Pumpkin Festival in Keene NH. I checked it out, and the festival was October 20th. We love whoopie pies so I'm saving this scrap.
One note pad has a page filled with a couple of phone numbers, a few names of singers I want to check out, a book I keep meaning to buy, some web sites that caught my eye and a birthday reminder. The book, Blood on the Tracks, is about a murdered man named Bob Dorian who had been hailed a poet, a prophet and the voice of a generation. Sounded familiar. I always want to call the phone numbers but never do. I just toss them. I figure whoever will probably call back.
A magnetic notepad sticks to my metal table. It is filled with web addresses I read about in the paper or hear about on TV. After I check out the addresses, I usually cross them off the list. The sheet is full. Not a single address has been crossed out. I guess it's time for a reminder sticky.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Sweet Baby James: James Taylor
It's not just this, the title song, but the whole album I remember so well. I remember James Taylor with that amazing head of hair and that low key voice singing songs filled with striking imagery.
This album, his second, was released in 1970.
MP3 File
This album, his second, was released in 1970.
MP3 File
That's the Way: Led Zeppelin
It must be a 1970 day, a year of music I totally missed as I was in Ghana listening to highlife music. I did play catch-up when I got home, and this is one of the albums I was thrilled to find. The album is Led Zeppelin III, decidedly underrated, and Led Zeppelin at its most acoustic.
MP3 File
MP3 File
“One of the most important days of my life was when I learned to ride a bicycle.”
I am running so late today I think I just lapped myself going around the track. Blame it on the Red Sox. I started watching the game at ten, got hooked, watched the entire game and stayed up even later after that. I love spring for a slew of reasons, not the least of which is baseball. I welcome it back with hoots, hollers and cheers.
The first signs of spring got me begging to ride my bike to school. At the back of the schoolyard was a wooden bike rack, and on days like today, it would be filled. Our bikes were big and clunky and had foot brakes. Mine was blue. It had a silver handle bar and fenders with a white stripe on each side of the blue. I thought them fancy and beautiful. I loved riding down my street, a giant hill. I always imagined I was flying. From the bottom of the hill, it was a straightaway to school, and we'd ride at breakneck speeds just for the fun of it. We'd park our bikes and play until the bell rang. We never had locks and our bikes never got stolen.
On spring days, the last place any of us wanted to be was inside. The last thing any of us wanted to be doing was homework. Most days I had some. Spelling words were big. We learned a few new words each day for a test on Friday. Arithmetic was also big. I'd usually bring home a sheet of problems which had to be finished. I remember learning coins, and the sheets had pictures of pennies, nickels and dimes. Quarters must have been more advanced. Most of our books never came home with us. They stayed at school. We thought that the perfect arrangement.
Once my homework was done, I was free. I'd play outside until dinner, come in and eat, watch a bit of television, get washed, put on my pajamas and watch one last show before bedtime. It was always just about then my brother remembered he had homework.
The first signs of spring got me begging to ride my bike to school. At the back of the schoolyard was a wooden bike rack, and on days like today, it would be filled. Our bikes were big and clunky and had foot brakes. Mine was blue. It had a silver handle bar and fenders with a white stripe on each side of the blue. I thought them fancy and beautiful. I loved riding down my street, a giant hill. I always imagined I was flying. From the bottom of the hill, it was a straightaway to school, and we'd ride at breakneck speeds just for the fun of it. We'd park our bikes and play until the bell rang. We never had locks and our bikes never got stolen.
On spring days, the last place any of us wanted to be was inside. The last thing any of us wanted to be doing was homework. Most days I had some. Spelling words were big. We learned a few new words each day for a test on Friday. Arithmetic was also big. I'd usually bring home a sheet of problems which had to be finished. I remember learning coins, and the sheets had pictures of pennies, nickels and dimes. Quarters must have been more advanced. Most of our books never came home with us. They stayed at school. We thought that the perfect arrangement.
Once my homework was done, I was free. I'd play outside until dinner, come in and eat, watch a bit of television, get washed, put on my pajamas and watch one last show before bedtime. It was always just about then my brother remembered he had homework.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
"Even the gods love jokes."
Today reminds me of my mother. Every year on April Fool's Day she'd bait her hook and call my sister. Sometimes it was a simple ruse, simple enough to be believed. Other times it was so elaborate it could only be the truth. It never was. My sister generally took the bait.
When I was young, we'd pull jokes on each other then yell April Fool's with great glee. I remember once we put a kick me sign on the back of someone's jacket then stood back and watched. We ended up laughing so hard we gave the joke away. Another time we told a friend the principal was looking for her. She went to the office. We thought it much funnier than she did. We also thought ourselves quite clever. April Fool's jokes had to be funny and harmless; clever was a bonus.
Today was one of those days clouded in mystery for me. I understood where most holidays and observances came from but not this one. It was never explained. It just was. I figure it all started with our mother who pulled a few fast ones on us when we were little. We learned to spread the joy as did our friends from their mothers. Cries of April Fool's could be heard everywhere, and they were always followed by laughter, even from the victim. You got me was always the best part.
When I was young, we'd pull jokes on each other then yell April Fool's with great glee. I remember once we put a kick me sign on the back of someone's jacket then stood back and watched. We ended up laughing so hard we gave the joke away. Another time we told a friend the principal was looking for her. She went to the office. We thought it much funnier than she did. We also thought ourselves quite clever. April Fool's jokes had to be funny and harmless; clever was a bonus.
Today was one of those days clouded in mystery for me. I understood where most holidays and observances came from but not this one. It was never explained. It just was. I figure it all started with our mother who pulled a few fast ones on us when we were little. We learned to spread the joy as did our friends from their mothers. Cries of April Fool's could be heard everywhere, and they were always followed by laughter, even from the victim. You got me was always the best part.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
