Saturday, May 31, 2008
“On with the dance! Let joy be unconfined”
My friends and I used to buy the latest 45's. Mine were kept in a special case just for 45's and most were still in their paper sleeves. We'd carry our cases from house to house, bedroom to bedroom. My friend and I would sit on the floor or the bed and thumb through each other's collections then play our favorites. We'd dance with one another. Girls used to dance together back then.
I didn't attend my first dance until I was a freshman in high school. It was in the school gym. We spent the afternoon decorating with crepe paper, stringing it from rafter to rafter and across the back walls, then rushed home to get ready. We girls all wore dresses, and the boys wore suit coats and ties. The gym was dimmer but still well lit. The nuns stood off to the side, mostly to keep an eye during the slow dancing. They'd remind us to leave room for the Holy Ghost. I always assumed the Holy Ghost was huge given the room my partner and I kept between us.
I was nervous. I didn't know how to slow dance all that well and was afraid of stepping on my partner's feet. I shouldn't have worried. Most of my partners were proficient in only the box step, and that was easy to follow: forward-side, backward-side. It felt awkward at first as if we were total strangers. We moved like robots and said nothing. Both of us looked everywhere but at each other. Later, we got more comfortable and box stepped just a bit faster with a hint of rhythm. Some boys chatted as we danced. The nuns kept watch and every now and then one would go to a couple and whisper. They'd move apart.
The fast dances were easier. You didn't even need a partner. We'd stand in groups and twist and gyrate to the music. Chubby Checker and the twist were big. I remember learning to twist by pretending to dry myself with a towel.
My school had three or four dances a year. Junior year we had a semi-formal where we got our class rings. It too was in the gym, and we still kept the Holy Ghost between us.
I didn't attend my first dance until I was a freshman in high school. It was in the school gym. We spent the afternoon decorating with crepe paper, stringing it from rafter to rafter and across the back walls, then rushed home to get ready. We girls all wore dresses, and the boys wore suit coats and ties. The gym was dimmer but still well lit. The nuns stood off to the side, mostly to keep an eye during the slow dancing. They'd remind us to leave room for the Holy Ghost. I always assumed the Holy Ghost was huge given the room my partner and I kept between us.
I was nervous. I didn't know how to slow dance all that well and was afraid of stepping on my partner's feet. I shouldn't have worried. Most of my partners were proficient in only the box step, and that was easy to follow: forward-side, backward-side. It felt awkward at first as if we were total strangers. We moved like robots and said nothing. Both of us looked everywhere but at each other. Later, we got more comfortable and box stepped just a bit faster with a hint of rhythm. Some boys chatted as we danced. The nuns kept watch and every now and then one would go to a couple and whisper. They'd move apart.
The fast dances were easier. You didn't even need a partner. We'd stand in groups and twist and gyrate to the music. Chubby Checker and the twist were big. I remember learning to twist by pretending to dry myself with a towel.
My school had three or four dances a year. Junior year we had a semi-formal where we got our class rings. It too was in the gym, and we still kept the Holy Ghost between us.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Bread and Roses: Joan Baez and Mimi Farina
My choice was duets today and then I decided to go a step further and posts duets by sisters.
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"The dog was created specially for children. He is the god of frolic. "
We had a Boxer when I was a kid. His name was Duke, and he is the reason I have always had my own Boxers. Duke was just about the most stubborn of all dogs. He knew what you wanted him to do. He just didn't choose to do it. He had a variety of talents, all of which drove my parents crazy. Duke was adept at grabbing all but a small piece of bologna my mother would dangle to lure him into the house. Once my dad left Duke in the car when we went to visit relatives. He ate all the upholstery while we were gone. We could see strings of it hanging in the windows. Another time Duke leaped out the car window in downtown Reading while we were stopped at a light. A passerby grabbed him for us. Duke would start to follow kids to the East School so my dad would yell out the front door for him. Duke would stop, turn around to look then keep walking. We admired Duke for that. It took bravery to ignore my father. I was five when we got Duke and nearly nineteen when he died.
Our neighborhood when I was growing up was filled with kids and dogs. Every family had at least two kids, generally more, and one dog. The dogs had no leash law back then so they roamed freely. The kids generally played in the backyard. During the day, especially a summer day, there was the constant sound of kids yelling and playing. All the backyards faced each other and kids were everywhere. We played games on the grass like red light, green light and statues. When there were lots of us, we played red rover. We roller skated in the empty parking lot up the hill. If we were really brave, we roller skated down the hilly sidewalk. We'd play ball games in the street in front of my house. There were very few cars during the day. Most families had only one car and most dads drove them to work. In the early evening, as it was getting dark, and before the street lights came on, we played hide and seek and ghost.
At night, I'd watch some TV before bed. So did every other kid. If I stood at the back door of our house, I could see the flickering black and white lights of TV's in the living rooms of all of our neighbors. Back then, we all pretty much watched the same thing.
Our neighborhood when I was growing up was filled with kids and dogs. Every family had at least two kids, generally more, and one dog. The dogs had no leash law back then so they roamed freely. The kids generally played in the backyard. During the day, especially a summer day, there was the constant sound of kids yelling and playing. All the backyards faced each other and kids were everywhere. We played games on the grass like red light, green light and statues. When there were lots of us, we played red rover. We roller skated in the empty parking lot up the hill. If we were really brave, we roller skated down the hilly sidewalk. We'd play ball games in the street in front of my house. There were very few cars during the day. Most families had only one car and most dads drove them to work. In the early evening, as it was getting dark, and before the street lights came on, we played hide and seek and ghost.
At night, I'd watch some TV before bed. So did every other kid. If I stood at the back door of our house, I could see the flickering black and white lights of TV's in the living rooms of all of our neighbors. Back then, we all pretty much watched the same thing.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Dirty Old Town: Ewan MacColl
Ewan MacColl wrote this song in 1949. It is about the industrial city of Salford where MacColl grew up.
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I Love This Town: Nanci Griffith
This cut is from Hearts in Mind, and Jimmy Buffet is her guest vocalist. This album vies with Other Voices, Other Rooms as my favorite. It has the same sound which drew me to Other Voices. This song is about home which despite its imperfections is the place to which we always return.
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"You can never go home again, but the truth is you can never leave home, so it's all right."
I was born in my town. My parents had lived there since high school, and my father knew just about everybody. I was George's girl if someone was trying to place me. My grammar school had been built in 1910. It smelled of chalk dust and furniture polish. The windows were tall, and the cloak rooms had hooks on wood. Later the parish build a second school building, and the schools were always called the old school and the new school. I had nuns every other year. There weren't enough to go around even back then. The nuns wore rosary beads which always made noises when the nuns walked. It was a sort of early warning system for kids. Everyone I knew went to St. Pat's.
My town had three funeral homes. One was a large, white house with a porch. Viewing was downstairs, and the family lived upstairs. The house was across the street from the Dairy Queen and up the street from the bowling alley. The other two were right beside each other and around the corner from all the churches. Catholics used one and protestants the other. That was just the way it was.
My town had its own newspaper. It came out once a week and was filled with all sorts of news. The police blotter listed all the calls. Most were like Mrs. Robbins who heard noises in her yard or neighbors who complainted about dogs barking after nine. The social pages listed who from out of town was visiting whom and who had a birthday. Sometimes there were pictures of the events. I always loved to see my name in print. I was a champ at horseshoes.
You couldn't buy alcohol in my town. It was a dry town, no packies. People went next town over, and I remember going with my dad. The big restaurant in town was the China Moon, and people could bring their own alcohol. My town isn't dry any more.
I don't live in that town any more, haven't for years and years, but I still live in a small town, smaller even than the one I grew up in. My new town has no bowling alley, one funeral home, two Dunkin' Donuts, one with a drive-up, a movie theater with eight screens and several package stores. I really love my town.
My town had three funeral homes. One was a large, white house with a porch. Viewing was downstairs, and the family lived upstairs. The house was across the street from the Dairy Queen and up the street from the bowling alley. The other two were right beside each other and around the corner from all the churches. Catholics used one and protestants the other. That was just the way it was.
My town had its own newspaper. It came out once a week and was filled with all sorts of news. The police blotter listed all the calls. Most were like Mrs. Robbins who heard noises in her yard or neighbors who complainted about dogs barking after nine. The social pages listed who from out of town was visiting whom and who had a birthday. Sometimes there were pictures of the events. I always loved to see my name in print. I was a champ at horseshoes.
You couldn't buy alcohol in my town. It was a dry town, no packies. People went next town over, and I remember going with my dad. The big restaurant in town was the China Moon, and people could bring their own alcohol. My town isn't dry any more.
I don't live in that town any more, haven't for years and years, but I still live in a small town, smaller even than the one I grew up in. My new town has no bowling alley, one funeral home, two Dunkin' Donuts, one with a drive-up, a movie theater with eight screens and several package stores. I really love my town.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
"Our full hearts are swelling, our glad voices telling"
Today is a bit disjointed. My mind is all over the place, hither and yon, then and now.
The paper this morning held me enthrall. Four local men, the youngest being seventeen, were arrested in connection with about fifty break-ins of unlocked vehicles. It wasn't the crime which caught my attention but rather the comments of a friend who happened to be in the car when it was stopped and searched. "'It's not fair at all.' The practice of lifting items from unlocked cars is called "shopping" she said, and none of her friends, whom she said were as tight-knit as a family, would do such things on subsequent nights." I guess it was someone else on the other nights!
I'm figuring the parish May procession was a few weeks ago. When I was a kid, the whole of St. Patrick's Grammar School, grades one to eight, dressed in their finest, marched by grades, around the block to the grotto for the crowning. Parents lined the streets. Fathers wore suits and mothers wore fancy dresses, gloves and small hats. We girls wore flowers in our hair. Every year we sang the same songs. We used to practice a little each day for a couple of weeks before the procession, and just before the big day we practiced marching in the school yard. We were actually pretty good at marching as we lined up by grade every day to march into school. I don't remember being all that reverend during the march. I kept looking for my parents so I could wave. "O, Mary, we crown thee with blossoms today, Queen of the angels, Queen of the May," is about all I remember.
No one ever cruised in my town. There was no where to go, and few of my friends had cars. Maryalyce, though, had one, the first one. I remember it was old and had the starter on the floor. The shift was on the steering wheel, and the seats were covered in scratchy material which always made our legs sweat. She never seemed to sit still. She was always shifting and pedaling and pointing and talking. Driving with Maryalyce was always just a bit scary.
The paper this morning held me enthrall. Four local men, the youngest being seventeen, were arrested in connection with about fifty break-ins of unlocked vehicles. It wasn't the crime which caught my attention but rather the comments of a friend who happened to be in the car when it was stopped and searched. "'It's not fair at all.' The practice of lifting items from unlocked cars is called "shopping" she said, and none of her friends, whom she said were as tight-knit as a family, would do such things on subsequent nights." I guess it was someone else on the other nights!
I'm figuring the parish May procession was a few weeks ago. When I was a kid, the whole of St. Patrick's Grammar School, grades one to eight, dressed in their finest, marched by grades, around the block to the grotto for the crowning. Parents lined the streets. Fathers wore suits and mothers wore fancy dresses, gloves and small hats. We girls wore flowers in our hair. Every year we sang the same songs. We used to practice a little each day for a couple of weeks before the procession, and just before the big day we practiced marching in the school yard. We were actually pretty good at marching as we lined up by grade every day to march into school. I don't remember being all that reverend during the march. I kept looking for my parents so I could wave. "O, Mary, we crown thee with blossoms today, Queen of the angels, Queen of the May," is about all I remember.
No one ever cruised in my town. There was no where to go, and few of my friends had cars. Maryalyce, though, had one, the first one. I remember it was old and had the starter on the floor. The shift was on the steering wheel, and the seats were covered in scratchy material which always made our legs sweat. She never seemed to sit still. She was always shifting and pedaling and pointing and talking. Driving with Maryalyce was always just a bit scary.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Queen of the Rails: Utah Phillips
Bruce "U. Utah" Phillips, the Grammy-nominated folk singer known for his bushy white beard, tireless tour schedule and equally tireless work for social justice, died of congestive heart failure Friday at his home in Nevada City. He was 73 and had been having health problems in recent years.
In a letter to friends nine days before he died, he wrote: "I spent a long time finding my way—couches, floors, big towns, small towns, marginal pay (folk wages). But I found that people seemed to like what I was doing. The folk music family took me in, carried me along, and taught me the value of song far beyond making a living. It taught me that I don't need wealth, I don't need power, and I don't need fame. What I need is friends, and that's what I found— everywhere—and not just among those on the stage, but among those in front of the stage as well. . . . The future? I don't know. But I have songs in a folder I've never paid attention to, and songs inside me waiting for me to bring them out. Through all of it, up and down, it's the song. It's always been the song."
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In a letter to friends nine days before he died, he wrote: "I spent a long time finding my way—couches, floors, big towns, small towns, marginal pay (folk wages). But I found that people seemed to like what I was doing. The folk music family took me in, carried me along, and taught me the value of song far beyond making a living. It taught me that I don't need wealth, I don't need power, and I don't need fame. What I need is friends, and that's what I found— everywhere—and not just among those on the stage, but among those in front of the stage as well. . . . The future? I don't know. But I have songs in a folder I've never paid attention to, and songs inside me waiting for me to bring them out. Through all of it, up and down, it's the song. It's always been the song."
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"We come, not to mourn our dead soldiers, but to praise them. "
Rain came back today. I'm glad. The sun was wonderful, but I need the rain. The dark days bring a strange comfort. The sun demands too much attention.
Memorial Day was perfect. The parade was like every Memorial Day parade. The boy scouts carried their flags draped with ribbons; the brownies laughed and waved. The veterans walked purposefully and looked only straight ahead. The school bands played and parents yelled kids' names as they marched by the small crowds. The motorcycle started the parade, and the two fire engines ended it. The parade lasted under ten minutes. That was just perfect. Memorial Day is for remembrance.
My friends invited me for a picnic on the deck. We sat in the sun all afternoon, but it got cold so we went inside for dinner. We played Kismet, and I lost. Dinner was a favorite, cheeseburgers. Nothing beats a good cheeseburger. Nothing beats an afternoon with friends.
I remember marching in my first Memorial Day parade. I was a brownie. We proudly wore our uniforms and our beanies and marched in troops. The beanies were brown wool and had a white brownie emblem on the front, a little dancing guy. I never knew he was a brownie. The girl scouts and boy scouts marched as did the little league. The ball players wore their baggy wool uniforms and marched in teams. The high school band provided the only music. Majorettes threw batons into the air and mostly caught them. There were a lot more veterans back then, and they marched by branch of service, many in their World War II uniforms. We marched to the town cemetery, walked through its huge metal gates, passed the cannon and continued to the center knoll where the town fathers were waiting. They gave speeches, none of which I heard, then a bugler played Taps.
When I got home, I was beyond proud. I told my parents everyone was out of step but me.
Memorial Day was perfect. The parade was like every Memorial Day parade. The boy scouts carried their flags draped with ribbons; the brownies laughed and waved. The veterans walked purposefully and looked only straight ahead. The school bands played and parents yelled kids' names as they marched by the small crowds. The motorcycle started the parade, and the two fire engines ended it. The parade lasted under ten minutes. That was just perfect. Memorial Day is for remembrance.
My friends invited me for a picnic on the deck. We sat in the sun all afternoon, but it got cold so we went inside for dinner. We played Kismet, and I lost. Dinner was a favorite, cheeseburgers. Nothing beats a good cheeseburger. Nothing beats an afternoon with friends.
I remember marching in my first Memorial Day parade. I was a brownie. We proudly wore our uniforms and our beanies and marched in troops. The beanies were brown wool and had a white brownie emblem on the front, a little dancing guy. I never knew he was a brownie. The girl scouts and boy scouts marched as did the little league. The ball players wore their baggy wool uniforms and marched in teams. The high school band provided the only music. Majorettes threw batons into the air and mostly caught them. There were a lot more veterans back then, and they marched by branch of service, many in their World War II uniforms. We marched to the town cemetery, walked through its huge metal gates, passed the cannon and continued to the center knoll where the town fathers were waiting. They gave speeches, none of which I heard, then a bugler played Taps.
When I got home, I was beyond proud. I told my parents everyone was out of step but me.
Monday, May 26, 2008
"On thy grave the rain shall fall from the eyes of a mighty nation!"
Today is a day of remembrance.
The Bivouac of the Dead
By Theodore O'Hara, 1847
The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo'
No more on life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few;
On Fame's eternal camping ground
Their silent tents are spread;
But Glory guards with solemn round
The bivouac of the dead.
The Bivouac of the Dead
By Theodore O'Hara, 1847
The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo'
No more on life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few;
On Fame's eternal camping ground
Their silent tents are spread;
But Glory guards with solemn round
The bivouac of the dead.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
"It's not a real barbecue until the fire department shows up."
We're outside today. I'm stationary at the table while Gracie moves from the sun to the shade, from the deck to the chaise lounge. The branches stretch out over the deck, and the birds fly in and out of the feeders behind me. It always seems a bit like living in a tree house. Mrs. Baltimore oriole was back to take the remaining mirror. I watched her try to pull up the string. The mourning doves have started to build a nest. I heard the twigs scraping on the air conditioner this morning.
July 4th is the big weekend here on the Cape, our start to summer, but I noticed a larger crowd than usual this weekend. The Pancake Man had a full lot, a sure sign of tourist bulge. With gas prices so high, I suspect the Cape will be a destination.
Barbecues were a summer staple in my family. Meat always tasted better off the grill. Adding a few ears of corn and some potato salad made it a feast. My dad was the grill man. He always used charcoal and lots of lighter fluid. The yard smelled a bit like a gas station, but he did love that first giant fire ball of flame rising from the grill. He'd pull up a chair beside the grill, keep his utensils close, bring a bit of liquid refreshment and watch the meat cook. He'd poke his head into the open kitchen window and, "Pop me," was all he'd say. My mother obliged. He set himself on fire a few times but nothing serious. We'd hear him stamping his foot and muttering, and we'd rush to make make sure he was okay. His shoe was sometimes still smoking, but he was always just fine. He'd give us a wave and go back to his chair. My dad was the best when it came to cooking on the grill. The meat was always just perfect.
July 4th is the big weekend here on the Cape, our start to summer, but I noticed a larger crowd than usual this weekend. The Pancake Man had a full lot, a sure sign of tourist bulge. With gas prices so high, I suspect the Cape will be a destination.
Barbecues were a summer staple in my family. Meat always tasted better off the grill. Adding a few ears of corn and some potato salad made it a feast. My dad was the grill man. He always used charcoal and lots of lighter fluid. The yard smelled a bit like a gas station, but he did love that first giant fire ball of flame rising from the grill. He'd pull up a chair beside the grill, keep his utensils close, bring a bit of liquid refreshment and watch the meat cook. He'd poke his head into the open kitchen window and, "Pop me," was all he'd say. My mother obliged. He set himself on fire a few times but nothing serious. We'd hear him stamping his foot and muttering, and we'd rush to make make sure he was okay. His shoe was sometimes still smoking, but he was always just fine. He'd give us a wave and go back to his chair. My dad was the best when it came to cooking on the grill. The meat was always just perfect.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
When You Wish Upon a Star: Cliff Edwards
Pinocchio was released in 1940. I thought it was magic when I was a kid. I haven't changed my mind.
This song is Disney to me more than any other.
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This song is Disney to me more than any other.
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Mrs. Robinson: Simon and Garfunkel
"Mrs. Robinson, you're trying to seduce me. Aren't you?"
I know, I know the song wasn't written orginally for the movie, but they are forever entwined in my head.
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I know, I know the song wasn't written orginally for the movie, but they are forever entwined in my head.
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Born To Be Wild: Steppenwolf
When I was in Ghana, my friend Patrick's mother sent him the Easy Rider soundtrack. He thought it a strange choice for her. I didn't see the movie until a long while after so I never really connected the music to the film. I always connect it with Pat's mother and Africa.
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As Time Goes By: Dooley Wilson
I would never have chose milquetoast Paul Henreid over Humphrey Bogart. What in the heck was Ilsa thinking?
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Putting on the Ritz: Gene Wilder and Peter Boyle
This is today's off beat extra. I just think of the monster natty in his tux belting out his part and I laugh every time.
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“Heigh ho, heigh ho! / It's off to work we go.”
Lately I've noticed my world resembles a Disney film. If music started to play in the backgrounds of my life, it wouldn't surprise me in the least. In the trees small red squirrels chase each other from branch to branch. I'm not privy to their conversation, but they yap the whole time. Two male Baltimore orioles flutter at each other, and I keep looking for ribbons in their beaks and listening for a chorus of A dress for Cinderelly. The female oriole stole the reflecting mirror from my tree so I expect she is somewhere preening herself and singing. Today two mourning doves took up residence on my air conditioner. They had been by before to check out the accommodations, but this morning they seemed a bit more intimate. I awoke to the sound of their cooing. At the foot of my bed, Fern and Gracie were sleeping back to back. Gracie is usually intimidated by the lovely Miss Fern who whacks at the dog just because. If they had begun a chorus of That's What Friends Are For, I wouldn't have been at all amazed. I keep looking for dancing elephants, seven small miners carrying buckets or an old lady selling apples door to door.
I've always envisioned my life as more of a foreign film. I'm thinking night time, myself and a handsome man walking arm and arm and laughing, our way lit only by the streetlights we pass. It's really late. The houses are dark and streets are quiet. We have a bottle of wine. He is wearing a jacket over a turtleneck and flourishing with his hand so I'm thinking a French movie with subtitles.
I've always envisioned my life as more of a foreign film. I'm thinking night time, myself and a handsome man walking arm and arm and laughing, our way lit only by the streetlights we pass. It's really late. The houses are dark and streets are quiet. We have a bottle of wine. He is wearing a jacket over a turtleneck and flourishing with his hand so I'm thinking a French movie with subtitles.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Gulf Coast Blues: Eric Von Schmidt
Both songs today come from the album The Bluesville Years Volume 7: Blues Blue, Blues White, an album of folk blues from the early and mid-'60s.
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"You'll Shoot Your Eye Out"
My mother, like many other mothers, had cautionary warnings. We all know about clean underwear and car accidents. My mother included ratty socks into the warning though I never saw ratty socks as offensive, still don't. Most of my socks have holes. I just turn the toe part so the holes are underneath and no toes poke through. I hate throwing socks away if they can still cover even a portion of my feet. My mother told us not to go swimming for an hour after eating. We obeyed and used that time to throw rocks at each other. My mother always yelled. Not to swallow gum was one I never really obeyed. I always swallowed my gum. I spend years waiting for the blast. She told me that cracking my knuckles would make them huge and ugly. I was never quite sure, but the last thing I wanted was ground dragging knuckles so I heeded her warning. My parents told us Chinese food was bad for kids.
Our faces might freeze if we contorted them into something wonderfully hideous. We never heeded that warning either. Making faces to harass one another is a major tool in any kid's arsenal. I had a nun who told a similar story. At one school where she taught a girl, who was not Catholic, stuck her tongue out at the blessed sacrament and it stayed out until she converted. That one none of us believed. The same nun told us, just before we were being forced to go to a retreat, about two boys who skipped their retreat and were run over by a train. We laughed at that one too.
I never swallowed watermelon seeds, and I periodically looked in the mirror to check my ears. I never once saw a potato growing. Unless my brother beat me to that spot first, I always sat too close to the TV. Neither one of us went blind. I didn't drank coffee until college so I never tested the stunt your growth possibilities.
I believed just about everything my mother told me.
Our faces might freeze if we contorted them into something wonderfully hideous. We never heeded that warning either. Making faces to harass one another is a major tool in any kid's arsenal. I had a nun who told a similar story. At one school where she taught a girl, who was not Catholic, stuck her tongue out at the blessed sacrament and it stayed out until she converted. That one none of us believed. The same nun told us, just before we were being forced to go to a retreat, about two boys who skipped their retreat and were run over by a train. We laughed at that one too.
I never swallowed watermelon seeds, and I periodically looked in the mirror to check my ears. I never once saw a potato growing. Unless my brother beat me to that spot first, I always sat too close to the TV. Neither one of us went blind. I didn't drank coffee until college so I never tested the stunt your growth possibilities.
I believed just about everything my mother told me.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
"You are as welcome as the flowers in May."
The world seems to get prettier and prettier. Flowers have arrived in earnest. Even this gray day can't disguise the yellows and reds. I have an unfamiliar urge to rout in the earth. I'm thinking it's time to do some planting: ostentatious and head turning kinds of flowers with low maintenance expectations. I am not a gardener though I appreciate gardens. Some are breathtaking in the most literal sense and amaze me with the obvious dedication of their gardeners. I wish I had one of those gardens or at least one of those gardeners.
Everywhere I look I see color. It makes even the commonplace amazing. The scrub pines in my back yard look majestic when the sun shines through their branches. The dandelion brings a bit of yellow cheer to the green of my lawn. Blue wildflowers dot the backyard. The dainty white Queen Anne's lace gives the scruffy wooded area beside my house a bit of dignity. The orange of the oriole, the red of the cardinal and the bright yellow of the goldfinch grace my backyard feeders.
From my mother's house I brought lilies of the valley and violets. They used to grow along the top of the rock wall in her backyard. They may grow there still, but I haven't been to her house in a while. It is being readied for sale. The violets are mostly in the front of my house, in the garden by the fence. My neighbors too have a few in their yard. There are always plenty enough to share. My lilies have spread. They now grow beside the driveway and in the backyard. I like them in the yard. They give the brown undergrowth a bit of color, a bit of green. The lilies near the driveway have flowers. I brought a few into the house. They sit in a glass, a small one which used to hold shrimp cocktail. My mother always had a lot of those glasses. I have a couple.
Everywhere I look I see color. It makes even the commonplace amazing. The scrub pines in my back yard look majestic when the sun shines through their branches. The dandelion brings a bit of yellow cheer to the green of my lawn. Blue wildflowers dot the backyard. The dainty white Queen Anne's lace gives the scruffy wooded area beside my house a bit of dignity. The orange of the oriole, the red of the cardinal and the bright yellow of the goldfinch grace my backyard feeders.
From my mother's house I brought lilies of the valley and violets. They used to grow along the top of the rock wall in her backyard. They may grow there still, but I haven't been to her house in a while. It is being readied for sale. The violets are mostly in the front of my house, in the garden by the fence. My neighbors too have a few in their yard. There are always plenty enough to share. My lilies have spread. They now grow beside the driveway and in the backyard. I like them in the yard. They give the brown undergrowth a bit of color, a bit of green. The lilies near the driveway have flowers. I brought a few into the house. They sit in a glass, a small one which used to hold shrimp cocktail. My mother always had a lot of those glasses. I have a couple.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Mail Order Annie: Harry Chapin
I have always had a soft spot for Harry Chapin, for the people he sings about and the stories he tells.
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"In my mind, I'm probably the biggest sex maniac you ever saw. "
We started to notice boys during the seventh grade. My friends and I would stand together at recess and discuss the merits of our male classmates. Cute was tops on our list, and we all agreed David Coleman was the cutest of all. The seventh grade, coincidentally enough, was also the year of our first school sex talk. We girls were isolated in one room while the boys were in another. It was a priest, of all people, who stood at the board and drew then explained the female reproductive system. The nun sat on her chair and said nothing. We knew and had shared a bit, information gleaned from one another and our parents, but we were still a bit sketchy on the particulars. Father explained then used a pointer to follow the route through the Fallopian tubes. We had no idea what in the heck he was talking about. He asked if we had any questions. We didn't. He next drew and explained the male reproductive organ. He never used a real name. He always called it the male reproductive organ. A few girls tittered out of pure embarrassment. We certainly had no questions.
I was a freshman in high school when next I encountered the sex talk. We sat in the gym. I remember the girl beside me was so nervous she shook. We had these connected chairs with cloth backs and seats. When someone moved, we all moved. For that sex talk, our whole row shook. We watched a film. It used real words. We learned about puberty, ours and theirs, and the changes in our bodies. We all paid attention. No one tittered. No one had any questions either.
I was a freshman in high school when next I encountered the sex talk. We sat in the gym. I remember the girl beside me was so nervous she shook. We had these connected chairs with cloth backs and seats. When someone moved, we all moved. For that sex talk, our whole row shook. We watched a film. It used real words. We learned about puberty, ours and theirs, and the changes in our bodies. We all paid attention. No one tittered. No one had any questions either.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
"I personally believe we developed language because of our deep inner need to complain. "
Sometimes I really wish Doctor Doolittle made house calls. I'd have him explain to Gracie how dangerous going over the wall could be. She made a bold daylight escape yesterday, and, as soon as I let her out this morning, she went right to the fence without the extra wire, probably planning her next escape. I went right out and put up more wire. She actually moaned and cried as I stapled. I'm going back to the hardware store to get enough wire to do the last fence panel. I'm hoping this keeps her in as I can't warm to the idea of buying a whole new fence.
When I was really young, we used to watch the test pattern on TV. Programming didn't start until late afternoon, but we'd turn on the set anyway, and we'd turn up the volume to make the snow sound in the background really loud. It drove my mother crazy. I remember being awake a couple of times when my local channel signed off for the night. They showed military jets in flight while the Star Spangled Banner played in the background.
My word retrieval skills aren't what they used to be, but I have a theory as to why. Getting older may be the reason, but I think it has more to do with overload. I have all the words my mother used stored along with the ones of my own youth and the new ones I'm learning every day. The hi-fi my mother had became the stereo I had which became the iPod we all have. Black and white TV gave way to color which gave way to hi-def. The pick up the receiver and talk phone gave way to the rotary phone which gave way to buttons and then phones went in too many different directions to describe. The slide rule was pushed aside by the adding machine which the calculator made obsolete. I could go on and on, but I suspect you get the point.
All those words are somewhere in my head. Something will just have to give.
When I was really young, we used to watch the test pattern on TV. Programming didn't start until late afternoon, but we'd turn on the set anyway, and we'd turn up the volume to make the snow sound in the background really loud. It drove my mother crazy. I remember being awake a couple of times when my local channel signed off for the night. They showed military jets in flight while the Star Spangled Banner played in the background.
My word retrieval skills aren't what they used to be, but I have a theory as to why. Getting older may be the reason, but I think it has more to do with overload. I have all the words my mother used stored along with the ones of my own youth and the new ones I'm learning every day. The hi-fi my mother had became the stereo I had which became the iPod we all have. Black and white TV gave way to color which gave way to hi-def. The pick up the receiver and talk phone gave way to the rotary phone which gave way to buttons and then phones went in too many different directions to describe. The slide rule was pushed aside by the adding machine which the calculator made obsolete. I could go on and on, but I suspect you get the point.
All those words are somewhere in my head. Something will just have to give.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Blues Run the Game: Jackson C. Frank
I played this a really long time back and felt it needed a replay. I'm just going to copy the first Frank entry I made.
Who the heck is Jackson C. Frank?
Well, he is an American folk singer who made his way to England during its 60's folk boom. It was there he cut his only album with Paul Simon as producer. The album was an immediate hit in England and Scotland, but when the album was released in the United States, it was a commercial failure.
This self-titled album was long out of print and near impossible to find, but you can now buy a remastered copy. My Name Is Carnival, Kimbie and Blues Run the Game are three of the best songs you never heard.
"The sudden fame had a paralyzing effect on Frank. Plagued by writer’s block, stage fright and depression, his talent seemed to have deserted him and within just a few years his money was all gone. He fled back to the United States to pull himself together, but just as he was getting his life and music in order, his wife left him and his son died, sending him hurtling back into a deep depression from which he would never recover. He was institutionalized, became homeless and spent most parts of the next twenty five years living as a vagrant on the streets of New York City, where he was once almost murdered. Every now and then a story would appear that he had been "saved", and rumors would start that he was planning a comeback, but nothing ever materialized and Jackson C. Frank died a sad death after a sad life with just one short highlight."
( Quote from Fuller Up)
MP3 File
Who the heck is Jackson C. Frank?
Well, he is an American folk singer who made his way to England during its 60's folk boom. It was there he cut his only album with Paul Simon as producer. The album was an immediate hit in England and Scotland, but when the album was released in the United States, it was a commercial failure.
This self-titled album was long out of print and near impossible to find, but you can now buy a remastered copy. My Name Is Carnival, Kimbie and Blues Run the Game are three of the best songs you never heard.
"The sudden fame had a paralyzing effect on Frank. Plagued by writer’s block, stage fright and depression, his talent seemed to have deserted him and within just a few years his money was all gone. He fled back to the United States to pull himself together, but just as he was getting his life and music in order, his wife left him and his son died, sending him hurtling back into a deep depression from which he would never recover. He was institutionalized, became homeless and spent most parts of the next twenty five years living as a vagrant on the streets of New York City, where he was once almost murdered. Every now and then a story would appear that he had been "saved", and rumors would start that he was planning a comeback, but nothing ever materialized and Jackson C. Frank died a sad death after a sad life with just one short highlight."
( Quote from Fuller Up)
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"Children's talent to endure stems from their ignorance of alternatives. "
The sight of the sun got me up and moving quickly, and I've already made a list of what I need to do today. Gracie will be happy. We're going to the dump.
I am of the duck and cover generation. In school we learned to protect ourselves from the blast of a Russian atomic bomb. It was really simple. With the first flash, run to a place which gives some protection like next to a fence or wall, get on the ground and cover your head. We even practiced a little so we'd be ready. I thought it all sort of fun. I figured once the blast was over, I'd just get up and go on my merry way. I never understood the futility. I doubt any of us did.
In my day, being a kid meant being afraid of little things likes bumps in the night or my father if he was really mad at something I'd done. The thought of a spanking produced far more fear than a Russian bomb. My mother was of the wait until your father gets home school of child rearing. My father was a yeller. It had some effect when we were really young, but as we got older, we learned to look attentive while not really listening. He was satisfied with the screaming, and we just had to wait him out. I remember being older and being sent to my room. It was never a punishment. It was peace and quiet, a good book and maybe a nap. My father was a pointer. He'd punctuate his remarks by tapping your chest with his finger. My sisters tell a great story about my father, his pointing finger and my cousin. The three of them, my two sisters and my cousin, got caught sneaking out to the pond at night to swim. My father, who caught them, demanded they go to bed and followed them up the stairs. My sisters went first leaving my cousin last. My dad yelled at them the whole time and had to tap my cousin's back to make his point. My sisters roared laughing as they had planned it perfectly.
I am of the duck and cover generation. In school we learned to protect ourselves from the blast of a Russian atomic bomb. It was really simple. With the first flash, run to a place which gives some protection like next to a fence or wall, get on the ground and cover your head. We even practiced a little so we'd be ready. I thought it all sort of fun. I figured once the blast was over, I'd just get up and go on my merry way. I never understood the futility. I doubt any of us did.
In my day, being a kid meant being afraid of little things likes bumps in the night or my father if he was really mad at something I'd done. The thought of a spanking produced far more fear than a Russian bomb. My mother was of the wait until your father gets home school of child rearing. My father was a yeller. It had some effect when we were really young, but as we got older, we learned to look attentive while not really listening. He was satisfied with the screaming, and we just had to wait him out. I remember being older and being sent to my room. It was never a punishment. It was peace and quiet, a good book and maybe a nap. My father was a pointer. He'd punctuate his remarks by tapping your chest with his finger. My sisters tell a great story about my father, his pointing finger and my cousin. The three of them, my two sisters and my cousin, got caught sneaking out to the pond at night to swim. My father, who caught them, demanded they go to bed and followed them up the stairs. My sisters went first leaving my cousin last. My dad yelled at them the whole time and had to tap my cousin's back to make his point. My sisters roared laughing as they had planned it perfectly.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
A Sunday Kind of Love: The Harptones
We've gone way back for this one. The Harptones were formed in 1953, and this song, released in 1954, is considered one of their best numbers.
MP3 File
MP3 File
“Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week”
The morning is glorious. It is a stay outside on the deck and take in the day sort of morning. The yard is glistening in the sun. Dots of light from the mirrors skip and jump from ground to deck. The tiny leaves looks fresh, almost newly painted. The yard is alive. The oriole has been by and so have the faithful chickadees. A flicker dwarfs the suet feeder as it perches and eats. Two chattering red squirrels chase each other from branch to branch and tree to tree. Gracie runs for the joy of it.
I couldn't place the memory. I'd see glimpses and feel a sense of familiarity, but it took me a long while to remember. It seems I have returned to the Sundays of my childhood when the world slowed for just a bit and the family still sat down to a big dinner. The day starts exactly the same as I remember. I begin with the funnies though I long ago gave up lying on my stomach on the carpet to read them. I have bacon and eggs, but I go out for breakfast. I plan no chores. I can do them any other day of the week. I keep my afternoons free for reading, watching a ballgame or taking a nap. I believe a Sunday afternoon nap on the couch is as close as we get to paradise. The evenings are for dinner. My family still comes, but it's a family connected by friendship, not blood. We sit on the deck for hours. We play games and laugh loudly. If I didn't know better, I'd think I was ten.
I couldn't place the memory. I'd see glimpses and feel a sense of familiarity, but it took me a long while to remember. It seems I have returned to the Sundays of my childhood when the world slowed for just a bit and the family still sat down to a big dinner. The day starts exactly the same as I remember. I begin with the funnies though I long ago gave up lying on my stomach on the carpet to read them. I have bacon and eggs, but I go out for breakfast. I plan no chores. I can do them any other day of the week. I keep my afternoons free for reading, watching a ballgame or taking a nap. I believe a Sunday afternoon nap on the couch is as close as we get to paradise. The evenings are for dinner. My family still comes, but it's a family connected by friendship, not blood. We sit on the deck for hours. We play games and laugh loudly. If I didn't know better, I'd think I was ten.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
My Man's a Jolly Railroad Man: Moonshine Kate
"Recorded circa 1930. Rosa Lee Carson was the daughter of country music pioneer Fiddlin' John Carson. She started touring with her father at the age of fifteen, accompanying Fiddlin' John on guitar and banjo. Rosa Lee soon developed her own musical personality, Moonshine Kate, which, according to Jill McWhorter and Ben S. Austin, 'emerged out of the repartee between Carson and Rosa Lee in which he was the moonshine reprobate and she was the sassy, snuff-dipping mountain gal who usually ended up out-wisecracking her father.'"
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MP3 File
“I knew I was going to take the wrong train, so I left early.”
In my mind's eye, I can still see the hall in my grandparents' house where I used to stand to watch the trains. The hall was small, more of an entryway. It had a closet and a window. I remember the closet had a mirror on the front. The window was beside the closet but set back just a bit. It faced up the street where the trains ran. I'd hear the whistle and run to the window to catch a glimpse. Sometimes my grandmother would let me stand on the front steps to watch. The sound of that whistle and those glimpses began my enchantment with trains. Once in a while I still ride by that house and pause where the tracks used to be. The station is still there, now someone's house. I wonder if they know.
In Africa I always rode first class. It was never very expensive. Sitting in a compartment always made me feel just a bit like a character in an English novel of the 1920's. I'd shut the door, settle into my leather arm chair and watch the world whiz by my window. I never wanted to miss a single thing. At each station, women would run to the windows to sell food. I'd buy bread, maybe some bush meat, and toasted coconut balls or those donut like balls the girls always carried in a glass case with wooden slats. I remember once my pocket got picked at the station.
In Europe I traveled by train as often as I could. They were a substitute hotel in my backpack days. I seldom booked a sleeper. Chairs were just fine. I was young. I could sleep just about anywhere. Once I booked a second class couchette on a Finnish train. The compartment had six bunks, three on each side. My friend and I shared with strangers. I remember lying in my bunk and being lulled to sleep by the rhythmic sound of the train on the tracks. I still love that sound.
It has been a very long time since I last traveled by train.
In Africa I always rode first class. It was never very expensive. Sitting in a compartment always made me feel just a bit like a character in an English novel of the 1920's. I'd shut the door, settle into my leather arm chair and watch the world whiz by my window. I never wanted to miss a single thing. At each station, women would run to the windows to sell food. I'd buy bread, maybe some bush meat, and toasted coconut balls or those donut like balls the girls always carried in a glass case with wooden slats. I remember once my pocket got picked at the station.
In Europe I traveled by train as often as I could. They were a substitute hotel in my backpack days. I seldom booked a sleeper. Chairs were just fine. I was young. I could sleep just about anywhere. Once I booked a second class couchette on a Finnish train. The compartment had six bunks, three on each side. My friend and I shared with strangers. I remember lying in my bunk and being lulled to sleep by the rhythmic sound of the train on the tracks. I still love that sound.
It has been a very long time since I last traveled by train.
Friday, May 16, 2008
North Star: Jesse Winchester
This song is from Third Down 110 To Go, his second album and a 1972 release.
Jesse Winchester is too amazing to describe in a small square. Go check him out. Try Wikipedia or the Canadian Encyclopedia under music.
MP3 File
Jesse Winchester is too amazing to describe in a small square. Go check him out. Try Wikipedia or the Canadian Encyclopedia under music.
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You Can't Make Somebody Love You: Delta Moon
This song comes from their self titled album released in 2002. Gina Leigh, Mark Johnson, and Tom Gray are the original three who formed Delta Moon, and they are usually joined by percussionists, drummers, and bassists. On this album, Tommy Dean is on bass and backing vocals and Charles Wolfe and Gerry Hanson are on drums.
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MP3 File
"There's a long, long trail a-winding into the land of my dreams. "
Yesterday, another cowhand and I repaired the fence on the back forty to keep the dogie from wandering. We used chicken wire and a staple gun to extend the height of the back fence. Last night I manned the tower and swept the yard with bright lights to deter escapees. The count was accurate at the end of the night. Gracie stayed put.
I hope to do another trip sometime before Christmas. Each night I plow through travel sites and read the stories of intrepid wanderers. I want to go where I haven't been. When I was a little kid, I had dream trips. My imagination had full rein. I often went on safari. I saw myself in khaki, wearing my pith helmet and hacking my way through the jungle while porters carried my supplies on their heads. I stopped to watch the lions resting on the savanna grasslands and the animals drinking at the water hole. I slept in a tent with a mosquito net and ate dinner by candlelight. Each night I heard drums, the roars of lions and the bellowing of elephants.
I traveled by camel to the pyramids and the sphinx. I wore a loose robe, a cover over my mouth to keep the sand out and a turban on my head. The camel jounced me across the sand. We stayed the night at an oasis. I slept by the fire in a sleeping bag.
Those trips still have a hold on me. I dream of the Okavongo, of taking a boat ride into the delta to see animals. I'm not wearing a pith helmet. I see a trip down the Nile. I see pyramids and sand. I don't see a turban.
I have actually been pricing these trips. The Egypt one is within my price range; the Okavongo will have to wait a bit longer.
I hope to do another trip sometime before Christmas. Each night I plow through travel sites and read the stories of intrepid wanderers. I want to go where I haven't been. When I was a little kid, I had dream trips. My imagination had full rein. I often went on safari. I saw myself in khaki, wearing my pith helmet and hacking my way through the jungle while porters carried my supplies on their heads. I stopped to watch the lions resting on the savanna grasslands and the animals drinking at the water hole. I slept in a tent with a mosquito net and ate dinner by candlelight. Each night I heard drums, the roars of lions and the bellowing of elephants.
I traveled by camel to the pyramids and the sphinx. I wore a loose robe, a cover over my mouth to keep the sand out and a turban on my head. The camel jounced me across the sand. We stayed the night at an oasis. I slept by the fire in a sleeping bag.
Those trips still have a hold on me. I dream of the Okavongo, of taking a boat ride into the delta to see animals. I'm not wearing a pith helmet. I see a trip down the Nile. I see pyramids and sand. I don't see a turban.
I have actually been pricing these trips. The Egypt one is within my price range; the Okavongo will have to wait a bit longer.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Ashes on Your Eyes: Deb Talen
Deb Talen had classical training in the clarinet and piano and recorded two albums with a group she formed called Hummingfish. When the group disbanded in 1999, she left Oregon and moved to Boston. While there she recorded Something Burning, her first of two albums for Happyhead Music.
This is from her third album, A Bird Flies Out. Deb Talen is also one half of the Weepies.
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This is from her third album, A Bird Flies Out. Deb Talen is also one half of the Weepies.
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Havana Midnight: Bob Neuwirth
Music has its own spot in my soul, a spot reserved for it alone. Some songs find that spot as soon as I hear them while others work their magic a bit slower. I don't know why some songs and not others. They have little in common, these songs, not the same singer or the same genre or even the same decade. They just have that spot in common. Bob Neuwirth's Havana Midnight found that spot.
http://www.bobneuwirth.com/pages/original/info.html
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http://www.bobneuwirth.com/pages/original/info.html
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"Red meat is not bad for you. Now blue-green meat, that’s bad for you! "
Gracie is a recidivist who jumped the fence again last night. I called and called, and when she didn't come, the troops were mobilized. My friends found her close to their house down at the end of the street. I find it odd that Gracie goes on the lam only at night. You'd think she'd want to see where she was jumping. About five feet of fence didn't get the chicken wire last escape so that's my chore for the day.
I am generally a fan of vegetables. My kid list of peas, potatoes and carrots has expanded as I've gotten older. Some vegetables, though, still don't make the cut. I eat spinach, broccoli and cauliflower raw, never cooked, unless you smother that broccoli in so much cheese it takes on a new persona. Beans of any sort never pass these lips. My chili has no beans. I won't eat anything named after a body part. Refried beans look like something already eaten then discarded. I love Brussels but not its sprouts. Artichokes look extraterrestrial which would generally pique my interest, but I find them far too much work. That hot dip is an exception. Radishes even if disguised as roses get cast aside. Zucchini, a fruit hiding as a vegetable, is worthwhile only in bread or muffins. I suspect my list may be controversial, especially to the refried bean lovers, but I can live with that.
Peaches are iffy at best. It's the fur. In Ghana I met up with the mango and pawpaw (papaya) for the first time. The mango tasted a little like furniture polish would, but I learned to like it. The pawpaw was an immediate hit. I don't do olives of any color. I've never seen a breadfruit, but I know it was cargo on the Bounty. I'll eat just about every other fruit.
I love seafood and eat just about every kind of fish and most shellfish. I'm a big fan of lobsters. I don't do oysters, octopus or squid and I'm not too fond of eels. I don't do sushi either.
I am a carnivore, and the list of what I don't eat is short. Liver is on it, even with onions. I once gave tongue a try. It quickly made the short list. The tongue was served on a bed of lettuce, and I kept looking for the person under the table. My sister once sneaked and served me Rocky Mountain oysters. They went on the list. That was far too up close and familiar.
I don't think there is a dessert I wouldn't eat.
I am generally a fan of vegetables. My kid list of peas, potatoes and carrots has expanded as I've gotten older. Some vegetables, though, still don't make the cut. I eat spinach, broccoli and cauliflower raw, never cooked, unless you smother that broccoli in so much cheese it takes on a new persona. Beans of any sort never pass these lips. My chili has no beans. I won't eat anything named after a body part. Refried beans look like something already eaten then discarded. I love Brussels but not its sprouts. Artichokes look extraterrestrial which would generally pique my interest, but I find them far too much work. That hot dip is an exception. Radishes even if disguised as roses get cast aside. Zucchini, a fruit hiding as a vegetable, is worthwhile only in bread or muffins. I suspect my list may be controversial, especially to the refried bean lovers, but I can live with that.
Peaches are iffy at best. It's the fur. In Ghana I met up with the mango and pawpaw (papaya) for the first time. The mango tasted a little like furniture polish would, but I learned to like it. The pawpaw was an immediate hit. I don't do olives of any color. I've never seen a breadfruit, but I know it was cargo on the Bounty. I'll eat just about every other fruit.
I love seafood and eat just about every kind of fish and most shellfish. I'm a big fan of lobsters. I don't do oysters, octopus or squid and I'm not too fond of eels. I don't do sushi either.
I am a carnivore, and the list of what I don't eat is short. Liver is on it, even with onions. I once gave tongue a try. It quickly made the short list. The tongue was served on a bed of lettuce, and I kept looking for the person under the table. My sister once sneaked and served me Rocky Mountain oysters. They went on the list. That was far too up close and familiar.
I don't think there is a dessert I wouldn't eat.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
One Morning in May: Wendy Grossman
I know little or nothing about Wendy Grossman. I must have heard her, liked her sound and gone hunting. This song is from her 1980 album Roseville Fair. It is, as far as I can figure, her only album.
I found her web page through Wikipedia: http://www.pelicancrossing.net/roseville.htm
MP3 File
I found her web page through Wikipedia: http://www.pelicancrossing.net/roseville.htm
MP3 File
“If you carry your childhood with you, you never become older.”
It's a glorious morning. When I went to get the papers from the driveway, I stayed out a bit and did a little weeding. There I was in my pajamas weeding my little herb garden. The sun did it to me, made me want to be out just a bit longer.
I get impatient around this time of year. I was okay all winter. I expected to be bundled. I expected to be cold, but it's May, and I want warm. I want lazy days in the sun. I want bare feet. I want ice cream cones and watermelon. I want the smell of meat cooking on the grill. I want breakfast, lunch and dinner on the deck. I want summer.
When I was a kid, summer meant having a whole day to do what I wanted. The choices seemed endless. My brother and I once spent an entire summer at the zoo. One of the zoo keepers had become a friend and let us go behind the cages and feed the animals. I remember carrying pails of vegetables from cage to cage. We even got to feed the elephant. We'd bring our lunches and walk the few miles to the zoo. My mother always gave us bus fare one way, and we chose going home when we were exhausted from our day. It was my favorite summer.
On Route 1 there used to be a place called Kiddy Land. When we went to visit my grandmother, I always looked for the top of the small roller coaster and harbored a hope that some day we'd go to Kitty Land, and I'd ride that coaster. I remember when we did. My parents told us to get in the car for a surprise ride. When we got close to our surprise, they told us where we were going. We shouted and laughed and made kid noises. My father said we were too loud, and he was turning around to take us home. I remember sitting in the back seat being totally devastated when he said that. My father got to the rotary, circled it and headed home. I was in tears. Just as we started to drive pass that roller coaster, my father pulled into the parking lot. Because Kiddy Land was on the going home side of the road, he had to turn around. My dad thought it was funny. I didn't. I have another memory of that day. I remember the roller coaster ride. I remember the pure joy of going down that hill. I laughed the whole way.
I get impatient around this time of year. I was okay all winter. I expected to be bundled. I expected to be cold, but it's May, and I want warm. I want lazy days in the sun. I want bare feet. I want ice cream cones and watermelon. I want the smell of meat cooking on the grill. I want breakfast, lunch and dinner on the deck. I want summer.
When I was a kid, summer meant having a whole day to do what I wanted. The choices seemed endless. My brother and I once spent an entire summer at the zoo. One of the zoo keepers had become a friend and let us go behind the cages and feed the animals. I remember carrying pails of vegetables from cage to cage. We even got to feed the elephant. We'd bring our lunches and walk the few miles to the zoo. My mother always gave us bus fare one way, and we chose going home when we were exhausted from our day. It was my favorite summer.
On Route 1 there used to be a place called Kiddy Land. When we went to visit my grandmother, I always looked for the top of the small roller coaster and harbored a hope that some day we'd go to Kitty Land, and I'd ride that coaster. I remember when we did. My parents told us to get in the car for a surprise ride. When we got close to our surprise, they told us where we were going. We shouted and laughed and made kid noises. My father said we were too loud, and he was turning around to take us home. I remember sitting in the back seat being totally devastated when he said that. My father got to the rotary, circled it and headed home. I was in tears. Just as we started to drive pass that roller coaster, my father pulled into the parking lot. Because Kiddy Land was on the going home side of the road, he had to turn around. My dad thought it was funny. I didn't. I have another memory of that day. I remember the roller coaster ride. I remember the pure joy of going down that hill. I laughed the whole way.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Freight Train Blues: Brownie McGhee
Both songs today come from my favorite label and are from the same album, Classic Railroad Songs from Smithsonian Folkways. The album is filled with root artists and, it, like many of the compilation albums Smithsonian Folkways has released, was my introduction to singers I wouldn't have known otherwise.
MP3 File
MP3 File
“If my tongue were trained to measures, I would sing a stirring song.”
My sisters used to bring my mother bouquets of flowers they'd picked themselves. The flowers were mostly dandelions. My mother would gush with surprise and thanks and put her bouquet in a glass with water in the middle of the table. I didn't understand at the time, at the jaded age of ten or eleven, why my mother made such a big fuss over dandelions. I had lost sight of the giving.
I found it again, the fun and joy of giving the perfect gift, the dandelions for the center of the table. My favorite gifts bring back memories or a smile, even a laugh. I buy gifts all year when I find them. They go into my Christmas box, and I keep a running list. So do my sisters. The anticipation still makes us giddy.
My mother and father had good voices. My sister does too. I have cousins who fancy themselves singers, and my uncle believes he can channel Bing Crosby. That's about it for talent in my family, and it's a really big family. My mother had seven siblings. No one plays a musical instrument though another uncle played around with an electric organ for a bit. My rhythm band experience doesn't count. I had been know, in my teen years, to be quite dramatic, but that had more to do with not getting what I wanted than an innate talent. I have always wanted to able to sing in public. I don't mean on a stage. I mean in a crowd at the ballgame or on a bus. Off tune takes on a whole new meaning when I sing. Even that one small scrap of family talent jumped me. I figure I must have been standing in the wrong line at the gene pool.
I found it again, the fun and joy of giving the perfect gift, the dandelions for the center of the table. My favorite gifts bring back memories or a smile, even a laugh. I buy gifts all year when I find them. They go into my Christmas box, and I keep a running list. So do my sisters. The anticipation still makes us giddy.
My mother and father had good voices. My sister does too. I have cousins who fancy themselves singers, and my uncle believes he can channel Bing Crosby. That's about it for talent in my family, and it's a really big family. My mother had seven siblings. No one plays a musical instrument though another uncle played around with an electric organ for a bit. My rhythm band experience doesn't count. I had been know, in my teen years, to be quite dramatic, but that had more to do with not getting what I wanted than an innate talent. I have always wanted to able to sing in public. I don't mean on a stage. I mean in a crowd at the ballgame or on a bus. Off tune takes on a whole new meaning when I sing. Even that one small scrap of family talent jumped me. I figure I must have been standing in the wrong line at the gene pool.
Monday, May 12, 2008
This Old Guitar: John Denver
I used to be a John Denver fan then I stopped being one, stopped listening for the longest while. I found him too syrupy. I'm back now to being a fan. I like the gentleness of his voice and his lyrics. This is from Back Home Again.
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"In memory everything seems to happen to music."
I love writing Coffee each day. It conjures memories I'd long forgotten, brings old friends back and lets me touch the child I once was. The images in my head are vivid.
I remember my brother's clunky old bike. It had front and rear bumpers, a thick middle crossbar and enough chrome to reflect light signals into space. The seat was big and black. He'd hold on to the handle bars, run along side, jump on the seat then pedal like crazy. The bike had a chain. The brakes were part of the pedals. We'd ride all over town and race from one spot to another. I don't remember who won. It wasn't all that important.
My sister broke her leg riding her tricycle down the grassy hill in front of our house. She was really little and wasn't completely potty trained. The cast bore the brunt of her training and it smelled bad. My mother used perfume and powder to disguise the odor.
My mother used to tell me that shaving my legs would just make the hair thicker and darker. I didn't care. Without saying anything, I started shaving my legs. I sneaked my mother's razor to do it. I still remember when she noticed. We were at a lake where we'd often go. She and I were in a row boat, just sitting and talking. She noticed and asked how long I'd been shaving my legs. I told her. She never mentioned it again.
I once got caught cheating on a test. I was a freshman in high school, and it was French class. My friend needed help, and I gave it willingly. The nun caught us. She asked me which answers I had given my friend. I told her, and the nun told me to mark them wrong. They were the only ones on the test I got wrong. I never cheated again.
Sometimes I'll be doing something and a memory will pop into my head, one I hadn't thought of in years. I get to live a bit of my life over again. I love those moments.
I remember my brother's clunky old bike. It had front and rear bumpers, a thick middle crossbar and enough chrome to reflect light signals into space. The seat was big and black. He'd hold on to the handle bars, run along side, jump on the seat then pedal like crazy. The bike had a chain. The brakes were part of the pedals. We'd ride all over town and race from one spot to another. I don't remember who won. It wasn't all that important.
My sister broke her leg riding her tricycle down the grassy hill in front of our house. She was really little and wasn't completely potty trained. The cast bore the brunt of her training and it smelled bad. My mother used perfume and powder to disguise the odor.
My mother used to tell me that shaving my legs would just make the hair thicker and darker. I didn't care. Without saying anything, I started shaving my legs. I sneaked my mother's razor to do it. I still remember when she noticed. We were at a lake where we'd often go. She and I were in a row boat, just sitting and talking. She noticed and asked how long I'd been shaving my legs. I told her. She never mentioned it again.
I once got caught cheating on a test. I was a freshman in high school, and it was French class. My friend needed help, and I gave it willingly. The nun caught us. She asked me which answers I had given my friend. I told her, and the nun told me to mark them wrong. They were the only ones on the test I got wrong. I never cheated again.
Sometimes I'll be doing something and a memory will pop into my head, one I hadn't thought of in years. I get to live a bit of my life over again. I love those moments.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Mama Said They'd Be Days Like This: The Shirelles
This song always makes me smile. I think of all the things my mother told me about eating my carrots, not swimming so soon after eating, never swallowing gum, how it's too cold to snow and on and on, and I know somewhere, sometime she must have warned me there would be days like this.
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In My Mother's Eyes: Willie Nelson
I don't usually do the same artist in posts so close together, but this perfect is for today.
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"Each day of our lives we make deposits in the memory banks of our children."
Today I celebrate my mother.
Every year I post this same entry about my mother. I figure I have thousands more memories, but these will give you a hint at how neat my mother was. She was one of a kind though I suspect we all believe that about our moms.
She favored the standards and was a Sinatra, Tony Bennett and Johnny Mathis fan. A line in a conversation or on television prompted her to burst into song. She loved to do crossword puzzles. There were always books of them around the house, and I used to try and fill in some of the spaces. My mother loved crime: before, during and after. She watched every crime program and loved Law and Order. One program was a repeat we had both seen so many times I'd call her at the beginning of the first scene and say gypsy cab. She knew exactly what I meant. We always laughed at our shared memory. She watched all those TV judges because they made her laugh. Disasters too were tops on her list of must watch programs. She watched just about every tornado touch down and hurricanes wreak havoc up and down the coast. We used to play games and games of Big Boggle at the kitchen table. She would hum to distract me. My mother loved Christmas and always found just the right presents. Our stockings were the stuff of legends. She'd buy a new ornament or decoration and comment every time that it was the last one she'd buy then she'd find another. She was generous. She spent weeks here when I was ill. That's what mothers do I was told. She took the whole family on a cruise through the Panama Canal. The laugh was if we'd misplaced her, check the slots. We played Jeopardy every night on the phone. Our last trip together was when she, my sister and I flew to Colorado as a surprise for my other sister's fiftieth birthday. We had the best time.
I thank my mother for all she taught me, all she gave me and for her endless love.
Happy Mother's Day!
Every year I post this same entry about my mother. I figure I have thousands more memories, but these will give you a hint at how neat my mother was. She was one of a kind though I suspect we all believe that about our moms.
She favored the standards and was a Sinatra, Tony Bennett and Johnny Mathis fan. A line in a conversation or on television prompted her to burst into song. She loved to do crossword puzzles. There were always books of them around the house, and I used to try and fill in some of the spaces. My mother loved crime: before, during and after. She watched every crime program and loved Law and Order. One program was a repeat we had both seen so many times I'd call her at the beginning of the first scene and say gypsy cab. She knew exactly what I meant. We always laughed at our shared memory. She watched all those TV judges because they made her laugh. Disasters too were tops on her list of must watch programs. She watched just about every tornado touch down and hurricanes wreak havoc up and down the coast. We used to play games and games of Big Boggle at the kitchen table. She would hum to distract me. My mother loved Christmas and always found just the right presents. Our stockings were the stuff of legends. She'd buy a new ornament or decoration and comment every time that it was the last one she'd buy then she'd find another. She was generous. She spent weeks here when I was ill. That's what mothers do I was told. She took the whole family on a cruise through the Panama Canal. The laugh was if we'd misplaced her, check the slots. We played Jeopardy every night on the phone. Our last trip together was when she, my sister and I flew to Colorado as a surprise for my other sister's fiftieth birthday. We had the best time.
I thank my mother for all she taught me, all she gave me and for her endless love.
Happy Mother's Day!
Saturday, May 10, 2008
"The good rain, like the bad preacher, does not know when to leave off."
It doesn't seem right that on May 10th my house would be 61 degrees. I could feel the chill as soon as I threw off the covers. It is, of course, raining for the third day in a row. From the window this morning I watched the bird feeders swinging in the wind. The poor goldfinches must have gotten seasick. The chickadees had to plan perfectly their landings in the fish feeder or risk bodily harm. The Baltimore oriole was back, and I was glad for his bright orange on this grim, rainy day.
It rained the whole ride yesterday as Gracie and I meandered down cape. I stopped at a few of my places and shopped. The cook store was the best. On the way back we took only right turns off 6A. Most times we ended at the water. Gracie got bored and went to sleep.
Today would have been perfect for sitting at the kitchen table and coloring. The crayons were usually an odd lot of associated colors and lengths. We used to keep them in a cigar box. Some were so short the paper was gone. I remember we'd put the crayons in the middle of the table and still fight over the colors. My mother was the best colorer, and I always wanted to be her. She kept within the lines and could shade her colors. Her reds were soft and beautiful.
Rainy days were also jigsaw puzzle days. We'd pull out dilapidated boxes with the pictures of the puzzles on their covers. Elastics kept the covers on and the pieces inside. My brother and I were unsophisticated puzzlers, and we'd put all the pieces on the coffee table, grab a couple and hope they'd fit together. That there was pattern in the cut was beyond our understanding. We worked color to color. I still love jigsaw puzzles. Now, of course, I start with edges.
My favorite way to spend a rainy Saturday was reading a book. I'd go to my room, turn on the headboard light, get cozy under the covers and spend the whole afternoon with Trixie, Nancy or Long John and Jim.
It rained the whole ride yesterday as Gracie and I meandered down cape. I stopped at a few of my places and shopped. The cook store was the best. On the way back we took only right turns off 6A. Most times we ended at the water. Gracie got bored and went to sleep.
Today would have been perfect for sitting at the kitchen table and coloring. The crayons were usually an odd lot of associated colors and lengths. We used to keep them in a cigar box. Some were so short the paper was gone. I remember we'd put the crayons in the middle of the table and still fight over the colors. My mother was the best colorer, and I always wanted to be her. She kept within the lines and could shade her colors. Her reds were soft and beautiful.
Rainy days were also jigsaw puzzle days. We'd pull out dilapidated boxes with the pictures of the puzzles on their covers. Elastics kept the covers on and the pieces inside. My brother and I were unsophisticated puzzlers, and we'd put all the pieces on the coffee table, grab a couple and hope they'd fit together. That there was pattern in the cut was beyond our understanding. We worked color to color. I still love jigsaw puzzles. Now, of course, I start with edges.
My favorite way to spend a rainy Saturday was reading a book. I'd go to my room, turn on the headboard light, get cozy under the covers and spend the whole afternoon with Trixie, Nancy or Long John and Jim.
Friday, May 09, 2008
Bridge Over Troubled Water: Simon and Garfunkel
From the start, I wanted every album, every song of Simon and Garfunkel's. I played them constantly and had Bookends with me in Africa. Someone sent Bridge Over Troubled Water to me when it was released in 1970. I was thrilled to have it and played it so often I had to do the Bic pen rewind.
It was their final album together.
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It was their final album together.
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On the Road to Find Out: Cat Stevens
I know I've mentioned Tea for the Tillerman was the first Cat Stevens album I ever heard, and it has always been my favorite. When I first heard Wild World on a tape sent to me in Africa, I was smitten.
This song was also used in one of my favorite films, Harold and Maude.
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This song was also used in one of my favorite films, Harold and Maude.
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"It is good to have an end to journey towards, but it is the journey that matters in the end."
Today I have designated as a fun day. It may be a stretch as I do have a few errands, but I figure they'll only take an hour or so. Gracie and I are headed first to town hall to get a new dump sticker then we'll visit the dump. Gracie would contend the fun starts there, but I don't approach dumping trash with the same enthusiasm. I need to pick up a few groceries, mostly animal food, then we're off on our fun day. Gracie would argue that my idea of fun isn't up to her standards, but I'm driving and I get to pick.
We'll head down cape. The traffic is always less the further down we go. I'll take 6A, the old King's Highway. It's tree-lined with white houses framing the road. Some were sea captain's houses. They stand in splendor with long front porches and windowed gables. We'll stop at a few little antiques shops, mostly just to look. If something catches my eye, all the more fun. The new cook store, another stop, is filled with exotic, hard to find spices and oils, and I never walk away empty handed. Next door is a small bookstore, and I can never resist a bookstore. The tile shop, another stop, makes me want to tile my whole house with all those colors and designs. We'll stop for a bite of lunch and eat in the car. Gracie always gets a hamburger with no fixings. I'll take pictures to chronicle our day.
When I was a kid, the main road to anywhere was Route 1. It was a kid's dream road filled with stuff to see and places where I always wished we'd stop. We never did. My father wasn't into stopping. He was into arriving. Many of those places are gone now, but I still remember them with great longing. I could see the Prince Leaning Tower of Pizza from way down the road. The word pizza in huge letters was on two sides of a leaning tower which looked a lot like Pisa's. Not far away on the same side of the road was the Ship Restaurant, a schooner ready to set sail. I also remember a few huge neon signs advertising Girls! Girls ! Girls. The buildings were always square and plain with lots of cars out front. I remember the trailer park. I always used to wonder how the people inside could sleep with noisy cars constantly driving by them. One place advertised an ice cream smörgåsbord. I still have dreams about stopping there.
Route 1 runs from Fort Kent, Maine at the Canadian border to Key West, Florida. Some day I'd like to go from top to bottom. If any of the rest of it is as tacky as my Route 1, I'd love the trip, and I'd stop anywhere I wanted.
We'll head down cape. The traffic is always less the further down we go. I'll take 6A, the old King's Highway. It's tree-lined with white houses framing the road. Some were sea captain's houses. They stand in splendor with long front porches and windowed gables. We'll stop at a few little antiques shops, mostly just to look. If something catches my eye, all the more fun. The new cook store, another stop, is filled with exotic, hard to find spices and oils, and I never walk away empty handed. Next door is a small bookstore, and I can never resist a bookstore. The tile shop, another stop, makes me want to tile my whole house with all those colors and designs. We'll stop for a bite of lunch and eat in the car. Gracie always gets a hamburger with no fixings. I'll take pictures to chronicle our day.
When I was a kid, the main road to anywhere was Route 1. It was a kid's dream road filled with stuff to see and places where I always wished we'd stop. We never did. My father wasn't into stopping. He was into arriving. Many of those places are gone now, but I still remember them with great longing. I could see the Prince Leaning Tower of Pizza from way down the road. The word pizza in huge letters was on two sides of a leaning tower which looked a lot like Pisa's. Not far away on the same side of the road was the Ship Restaurant, a schooner ready to set sail. I also remember a few huge neon signs advertising Girls! Girls ! Girls. The buildings were always square and plain with lots of cars out front. I remember the trailer park. I always used to wonder how the people inside could sleep with noisy cars constantly driving by them. One place advertised an ice cream smörgåsbord. I still have dreams about stopping there.
Route 1 runs from Fort Kent, Maine at the Canadian border to Key West, Florida. Some day I'd like to go from top to bottom. If any of the rest of it is as tacky as my Route 1, I'd love the trip, and I'd stop anywhere I wanted.
Thursday, May 08, 2008
I Drink Beer: Dan Reeder
Last night I watched Julio Lugo hand the game to the Tigers with another error. I screamed in frustration.
I watch almost every Sox game. I love it when the camera pans the stands and I see fans carrying trays of food and glasses of beer, just as they should at any baseball game. This song is the anthem for all those beer drinkers.
It is from Dan Reeder's second album, Sweetheart. I liked it as much as his first and got a chuckle out of the description that it comes with explicit lyrics.
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I watch almost every Sox game. I love it when the camera pans the stands and I see fans carrying trays of food and glasses of beer, just as they should at any baseball game. This song is the anthem for all those beer drinkers.
It is from Dan Reeder's second album, Sweetheart. I liked it as much as his first and got a chuckle out of the description that it comes with explicit lyrics.
MP3 File
"The great thing about getting older is that you don't lose all the other ages you've been. "
In elementary school, on rainy days like today, the classroom lights were always lit. We worked quietly, as if subdued by the rain. I'd sneak peeks at the huge windows behind us and watch the drops hit the glass. They'd turn into little rivers and trickle to the bottom of the pane.
I can hear individual drops of rain and every now and then a bird calls. Gracie, on the chair, mutters in her sleep. I like the quiet, and I really don't mind the rain.
Being a little kid had its benefits, no question, but I always wanted to be older than I was. When I was ten, I wanted to be thirteen. Being a teenager seemed the pinnacle of cool. I'd get to stay up late and go out at night. I'd graduate from matinées at the movie theater and the children's room at the library. I could rebel and have it all chalked up to age, not attitude. When I finally got to be thirteen, I wanted to be sixteen. I wanted to drive and sweet sixteen had some magic about it, but when I got to be sixteen, nothing much changed. I next placed all my hopes on eighteen and college. I saw myself on my own, partying and enjoying life. When I got to college, it was the first time my age lived up to its expectations. I had a blast. Life was wonderful, but I still wanted to be older. I wanted to be twenty one and legal. I wanted to buy alcohol. I wanted to vote. When I hit that magic number, I bought my first legal drink. It felt amazing. I got to vote in my first presidential election. My candidate lost.
Since then, I've stopped wishing to be older. I just take age as it comes.
I can hear individual drops of rain and every now and then a bird calls. Gracie, on the chair, mutters in her sleep. I like the quiet, and I really don't mind the rain.
Being a little kid had its benefits, no question, but I always wanted to be older than I was. When I was ten, I wanted to be thirteen. Being a teenager seemed the pinnacle of cool. I'd get to stay up late and go out at night. I'd graduate from matinées at the movie theater and the children's room at the library. I could rebel and have it all chalked up to age, not attitude. When I finally got to be thirteen, I wanted to be sixteen. I wanted to drive and sweet sixteen had some magic about it, but when I got to be sixteen, nothing much changed. I next placed all my hopes on eighteen and college. I saw myself on my own, partying and enjoying life. When I got to college, it was the first time my age lived up to its expectations. I had a blast. Life was wonderful, but I still wanted to be older. I wanted to be twenty one and legal. I wanted to buy alcohol. I wanted to vote. When I hit that magic number, I bought my first legal drink. It felt amazing. I got to vote in my first presidential election. My candidate lost.
Since then, I've stopped wishing to be older. I just take age as it comes.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
The First Time (Ever I Saw Your Face): The Highwaymen
It was Roberta Flack whom I first heard sing this. It was beautiful and haunting. When I learned more about the song, I went hunting for Peggy Seeger's version as the song was written in 1957 for Peggy by her husband Ewan MacColl. I posted it here a while back.
Peggy sings the song as it was written, as a simply beautiful folk song, and so do The Highwaymen. I'm not saying one version or the other is better. They're just different.
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Peggy sings the song as it was written, as a simply beautiful folk song, and so do The Highwaymen. I'm not saying one version or the other is better. They're just different.
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Monday, Monday: The Mamas and the Papas
This is from my On This Day, History Channel calendar:
1966: The Mamas and the Papas, First Coed Group Make a Hit
The Mamas and the Papas were the first chart-topping group to contain both men and women. On this day in 1966, their hit Monday, Monday soared to the top of the pop music charts. Though several male groups featured female singers, this was the first pop group to compose male-female arrangements.
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1966: The Mamas and the Papas, First Coed Group Make a Hit
The Mamas and the Papas were the first chart-topping group to contain both men and women. On this day in 1966, their hit Monday, Monday soared to the top of the pop music charts. Though several male groups featured female singers, this was the first pop group to compose male-female arrangements.
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"Life is a ticket to the greatest show on earth."
Ever the optimist, I dragged coffee, phone and newspapers to the deck this morning, sat down and started to read, but it was just too cold. As I was about to get up and go back inside, a pair of gold finches flew in and perched at the thistle feeder. The bright gold of the male's chest was so extraordinary I sat still, watched and marveled. All of a sudden, I heard the chatter of another bird. The noisiest of Baltimore orioles landed on a branch, checked out the deck then jumped to his feeder. He chowed down on grape jelly then flew off only to return a minute later for a second course. A downy woodpecker perched on the suet feeder and fed. I didn't move for the longest time.
It has been nearly four years since I retired. I have no huge accomplishments to report. The house and yard got redone, but all I did was hire people and move some furniture. I traveled near and far. The list includes Delaware, Colorado, Ohio and Morocco. They were all great trips. I've read tons of books. Most were fiction and most of those were murder and mayhem with a few spies thrown in for variety. I have sat on my deck for hours which would translate to days if I added the hours together. The dogs and I have taken rides up and down the cape. The first rides were with my dear Maggie. The last two years and a half years Gracie has been my co-pilot. I have made my bed almost every day. Most days I get dressed, but on some freezing winter days I stayed in my flannel pajamas. I have no guilt over that. Some days I never leave the house or yard. My car went only 52 miles last week. I cleaned out my kitchen cabinets a couple of times. It's about time to do it again. Things do have a way of stockpiling. I entertained friends and cooked new dishes. Most were darn tasty. I have learned that the smallest parts of life are often the most extraordinary.
It has been nearly four years since I retired. I have no huge accomplishments to report. The house and yard got redone, but all I did was hire people and move some furniture. I traveled near and far. The list includes Delaware, Colorado, Ohio and Morocco. They were all great trips. I've read tons of books. Most were fiction and most of those were murder and mayhem with a few spies thrown in for variety. I have sat on my deck for hours which would translate to days if I added the hours together. The dogs and I have taken rides up and down the cape. The first rides were with my dear Maggie. The last two years and a half years Gracie has been my co-pilot. I have made my bed almost every day. Most days I get dressed, but on some freezing winter days I stayed in my flannel pajamas. I have no guilt over that. Some days I never leave the house or yard. My car went only 52 miles last week. I cleaned out my kitchen cabinets a couple of times. It's about time to do it again. Things do have a way of stockpiling. I entertained friends and cooked new dishes. Most were darn tasty. I have learned that the smallest parts of life are often the most extraordinary.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
“It takes two hands to clap.”
If this morning had been a scene in a black and white science fiction movie, a B movie, of course, the dog would have suddenly started barking at the door. I'd hear screaming from the street, go to the window and see my neighbors with their mouths agape as they shade their eyes and point to the heavens. I'd join them out of fear and curiosity. There in the sky I'd see an orb of unknown origin, a bright orb, yellow and warm. What is it? Oh, my God! It's the sun!
Today will be in the mid-sixties which is as warm as it's gotten so far this spring. The cats are jockeying for space on the mat by the front door while Gracie is stretched out in the back yard in the sunniest spot. As soon as the sun rounds the house to the deck, I'll join her.
Jump roping was always big at recess this time of year. I lived in the single rope era and can still remember the sound of the rope, a thwack, as it hit the ground. I'd stand there and watch to get the rhythm of the swing then jump in and hope not to tangle my feet. My friends would chant as I jumped. One, I remember, started with my mother told me though I don't remember what she could have said. We did another with how many husbands will you have then you had to jump as fast as you could while everyone counted. "I love coffee. I love tea," still bounces off the walls of my memory.
Clapping games were never a strength of mine. After a while, my hands would start to sting, and I used to concentrate so much on the rhyme I'd lose track of the rhythm. I still see the girls on the play ground, standing in twos. I remember the sounds of those hands clapping and the voices singing along. Miss Mary Mack, Mack all dressed in black, black was big in my school.
We were kind of lucky. It never took much to keep us amused.
Today will be in the mid-sixties which is as warm as it's gotten so far this spring. The cats are jockeying for space on the mat by the front door while Gracie is stretched out in the back yard in the sunniest spot. As soon as the sun rounds the house to the deck, I'll join her.
Jump roping was always big at recess this time of year. I lived in the single rope era and can still remember the sound of the rope, a thwack, as it hit the ground. I'd stand there and watch to get the rhythm of the swing then jump in and hope not to tangle my feet. My friends would chant as I jumped. One, I remember, started with my mother told me though I don't remember what she could have said. We did another with how many husbands will you have then you had to jump as fast as you could while everyone counted. "I love coffee. I love tea," still bounces off the walls of my memory.
Clapping games were never a strength of mine. After a while, my hands would start to sting, and I used to concentrate so much on the rhyme I'd lose track of the rhythm. I still see the girls on the play ground, standing in twos. I remember the sounds of those hands clapping and the voices singing along. Miss Mary Mack, Mack all dressed in black, black was big in my school.
We were kind of lucky. It never took much to keep us amused.
Monday, May 05, 2008
"The art of living is more like wrestling than dancing. "
I awoke to clouds again but not rain. The yard is beginning to dry. The rivulets have stopped flowing so the mud is disappearing. April showers, though, have long outstayed their welcome.
This is the shoulder season. It's not spring, but it isn't winter any more either. The heavy coats are put away for the meantime, but blankets are still needed at night. Gracie snuggles as does Fern, the cat, and their corners of the bed seem to expand as the night grows older, grows colder. I wake up between them and move their sleeping bodies to give myself more room. If I get up, Gracie curls in the warm spot.
I'm always wet and in the shower when I realize I don't have a towel handy. Food falls only on my best clothes. After days of drought, it will rain on my parade, on my dinner party on the deck. My tooth will always hurt on a Saturday. The tickets are home on the desk. If I move from the slow line to the fast line, my new line becomes the slow one. It's the same in traffic jams. If there is one thing to trip on, I'll find it. Whatever heavy object I drop falls on my toes. Fern always throws up on furniture, never the floor. Gracie won't come inside on days I'm running late.
These are the facts of life for me. I'm okay with them. I've adjusted. I just work around them.
This is the shoulder season. It's not spring, but it isn't winter any more either. The heavy coats are put away for the meantime, but blankets are still needed at night. Gracie snuggles as does Fern, the cat, and their corners of the bed seem to expand as the night grows older, grows colder. I wake up between them and move their sleeping bodies to give myself more room. If I get up, Gracie curls in the warm spot.
I'm always wet and in the shower when I realize I don't have a towel handy. Food falls only on my best clothes. After days of drought, it will rain on my parade, on my dinner party on the deck. My tooth will always hurt on a Saturday. The tickets are home on the desk. If I move from the slow line to the fast line, my new line becomes the slow one. It's the same in traffic jams. If there is one thing to trip on, I'll find it. Whatever heavy object I drop falls on my toes. Fern always throws up on furniture, never the floor. Gracie won't come inside on days I'm running late.
These are the facts of life for me. I'm okay with them. I've adjusted. I just work around them.
Sunday, May 04, 2008
“I guess God made Boston on a wet Sunday.”
Eggs over easy and crispy bacon, saving a few pieces for the dog and alternating between rye and wheat toast is Sunday morning. The place stays the same. The time never changes. It has become ritual.
No sun again today. It is one of those it should rain days when the air is damp and the sky hung with clouds. The dog comes in and leaves muddy paw prints on the kitchen floor and down the hall. I live with the mud rather than mop every time, and that is a struggle for me.
A pillowslip of laundry sits waiting to be washed. A trash bag is filled and ready for the trunk. I have one errand. That's it for today. The rest of the day is mine. The Sox have a Sunday afternoon game. If anyone were to ask, I'd say day games need lots of sun and cold beer, not layers and hot coffee. It has been football weather here the last few days. Fans wear mittens and wool caps. My heat kicks on as I watch the boys of summer. They have white cold breath.
It's Sunday and Ed Sullivan, wearing his suit and tie, should be on tonight. I can see him standing in front of the curtain welcoming us and telling us his guests for the evening. Girls in the audience scream at the mere mention of any rock and roll guest while the camera pans up and down the rows of these screaming adolescents. Ed introduces luminaries sitting in the audience. They stand and take a bow. After the commercial, Ed introduces his first guest. Maybe it's Tupo Gigio.
No sun again today. It is one of those it should rain days when the air is damp and the sky hung with clouds. The dog comes in and leaves muddy paw prints on the kitchen floor and down the hall. I live with the mud rather than mop every time, and that is a struggle for me.
A pillowslip of laundry sits waiting to be washed. A trash bag is filled and ready for the trunk. I have one errand. That's it for today. The rest of the day is mine. The Sox have a Sunday afternoon game. If anyone were to ask, I'd say day games need lots of sun and cold beer, not layers and hot coffee. It has been football weather here the last few days. Fans wear mittens and wool caps. My heat kicks on as I watch the boys of summer. They have white cold breath.
It's Sunday and Ed Sullivan, wearing his suit and tie, should be on tonight. I can see him standing in front of the curtain welcoming us and telling us his guests for the evening. Girls in the audience scream at the mere mention of any rock and roll guest while the camera pans up and down the rows of these screaming adolescents. Ed introduces luminaries sitting in the audience. They stand and take a bow. After the commercial, Ed introduces his first guest. Maybe it's Tupo Gigio.
Saturday, May 03, 2008
“Custom is the great guide to human life”
It's another dark, rainy day. The house was cold this morning, just like yesterday morning. I donned my sweatshirt, came downstairs, brewed coffee and read my two newspapers, the same as I did yesterday, and the same as I do every morning. Strangely, I don't find the repetition boring. There is a comfort familiarity brings.
In Africa, I lived in a duplex on the school grounds. It had four small rooms inside and the kitchen, bath and toilet in separate spaces outside. The school had provided the furniture. In the living room were three chairs and two small tables. The chairs had a red material which made me sweat in the heat. The imprint of my body would be left when I got up. I added a bookcase, the college sort with wood and bricks, and I had a Peace Corps book locker made of cardboard. On the walls were posters and a tourist map of Massachusetts. In the dining area I had a table, two chairs and the refrigerator. The room had no glass windows. Instead, one wall was a screened window next to the screened door. The floor always got soaked during the rainy season. My bedroom had a bed, a vanity and an armoire. Concrete buildings don't have closets. In the other bedroom was my desk, a chair and a small cot. A little porch was just outside the front door. Every morning I'd grab my coffee and sit to watch the world. The same kids would walk pass my house to their middle school. They always stopped to wish me a good morning. I never tired of that repetition either.
In Africa, I lived in a duplex on the school grounds. It had four small rooms inside and the kitchen, bath and toilet in separate spaces outside. The school had provided the furniture. In the living room were three chairs and two small tables. The chairs had a red material which made me sweat in the heat. The imprint of my body would be left when I got up. I added a bookcase, the college sort with wood and bricks, and I had a Peace Corps book locker made of cardboard. On the walls were posters and a tourist map of Massachusetts. In the dining area I had a table, two chairs and the refrigerator. The room had no glass windows. Instead, one wall was a screened window next to the screened door. The floor always got soaked during the rainy season. My bedroom had a bed, a vanity and an armoire. Concrete buildings don't have closets. In the other bedroom was my desk, a chair and a small cot. A little porch was just outside the front door. Every morning I'd grab my coffee and sit to watch the world. The same kids would walk pass my house to their middle school. They always stopped to wish me a good morning. I never tired of that repetition either.
Friday, May 02, 2008
Mr. Tambourine Man: Bob Dylan
We go way back to 1965 and Bringing It All Back Home for this song. Dylan had already horrified fans by going electric at Newport, and this album is sort of a Dylan hybrid, his transition. Some of the songs are electric while others, like this one, are acoustic.
MP3 File
MP3 File
Diamonds and Rust: Joan Baez
The album Diamonds and Rust was released in 1975. It is still an extraordinary album, and for many, this song is her best.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"Walking through puddles is my favorite metaphor for life."
Today I'm buying a trap for mice, a Have a Heart Trap. We had another incident yesterday. It was Gracie's turn. She got my attention by her scratching noises so I went out to the living room and found her trying to unearth a poor mouse hiding behind the bookcase. The mouse was in obvious distress, and I suspect on its last legs. I have no problem with dead mice or mice in containers, but a live one just doesn't do it for me. Up the street, wearing white armor, came my friend Tony who gently removed the poor wee beastie.
The heat went on this morning. Yup, on May 2nd, my house was only 61 degrees so the heat kicked on. I let the house warm a bit then lowered the thermostat. I'm sitting here wearing a sweatshirt hoping to fend off this cold, wet day.
I don't remember ever feeling discomfort when I was a kid. I could fall asleep anywhere and in just about any position. A day at the beach might have meant sand in my shoes and grit inside my bathing suit, but I never noticed. In the summer, we'd play ball or ride our bikes. Heat was of little consequence. In winter, it was my mother who enforced the hat-mitten rule. We could have cared less. Hot or cold days seemed all the same. We were kids and kids divide the year not into seasons but into school days and weekends.
We didn't carry umbrellas or wear hats on rainy days, only old ladies did. I have in my mind's eye a picture of my grandmother walking under her opened umbrella. She's wearing see through boots over her shoes and one of those plastic rain hats on her head, the sort that tied under her chin. I think she kept it folded in its own little case in her purse, in her very large square purse of faux leather.
I loved walking home from school on a warm, rainy day. We'd stop at every puddle, and my friends and I would stomp the water at each other until the puddle was gone. My shoes would squish all the way home. My mother was always astonished at how wet we were.
The heat went on this morning. Yup, on May 2nd, my house was only 61 degrees so the heat kicked on. I let the house warm a bit then lowered the thermostat. I'm sitting here wearing a sweatshirt hoping to fend off this cold, wet day.
I don't remember ever feeling discomfort when I was a kid. I could fall asleep anywhere and in just about any position. A day at the beach might have meant sand in my shoes and grit inside my bathing suit, but I never noticed. In the summer, we'd play ball or ride our bikes. Heat was of little consequence. In winter, it was my mother who enforced the hat-mitten rule. We could have cared less. Hot or cold days seemed all the same. We were kids and kids divide the year not into seasons but into school days and weekends.
We didn't carry umbrellas or wear hats on rainy days, only old ladies did. I have in my mind's eye a picture of my grandmother walking under her opened umbrella. She's wearing see through boots over her shoes and one of those plastic rain hats on her head, the sort that tied under her chin. I think she kept it folded in its own little case in her purse, in her very large square purse of faux leather.
I loved walking home from school on a warm, rainy day. We'd stop at every puddle, and my friends and I would stomp the water at each other until the puddle was gone. My shoes would squish all the way home. My mother was always astonished at how wet we were.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Spring and All: Mary Chapin Carpenter
I like Mary Chapin Carpenter yet I haven't played her here. This, I hope, rectifies that egregious oversight.
This is from Going Driftless-An Artist's Tribute to Greg Brown.
MP3 File
This is from Going Driftless-An Artist's Tribute to Greg Brown.
MP3 File
"What potent blood hath modest May."
In medieval England, on the first day of May, people would celebrate the start of spring by going to the woods, by going a-maying. They would gather greenery and flowers. They would bring in the may. I have decided today is a day to celebrate. It's the day I will formally welcome spring. I won't wear a long, frilly white dress or carry a willow basket, and I won't be winding ribbon around a May pole, but I will celebrate nonetheless.
Because we have only the first of the spring flowers, the daffodils, tulips and hyacinths, I'm going a-maying to the local garden shop where I'll buy plants for the deck, plants in a riot of colors. Though I have no maypole in the yard, I have new banners to drape between the trees. They are yellow and red and green. Against the backdrop of the still bare branches, they are a celebration.
Today I will sit in the sun on the deck. I will pour a little wine then raise my glass to toast the arrival of the new season.
Because we have only the first of the spring flowers, the daffodils, tulips and hyacinths, I'm going a-maying to the local garden shop where I'll buy plants for the deck, plants in a riot of colors. Though I have no maypole in the yard, I have new banners to drape between the trees. They are yellow and red and green. Against the backdrop of the still bare branches, they are a celebration.
Today I will sit in the sun on the deck. I will pour a little wine then raise my glass to toast the arrival of the new season.
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